Peace Love Rock n Roll

I was away in the mountains, for a while. When I came back, I had an engaging conversation with my mentor. We realized the importance of making a little money as we were behind on all our bills. It was a motivational conversation. I prepared myself. But then I became sick and ended up watching House of Cards and Homeland. I still got two episodes of Homeland remaining. But that’s beside the point.

I realized, ‘One never enjoys doing things they ain’t fond of.’ So here I am, writing. No longer do I feel sick, nor do I feel the need of watching a thriller.

Tough days always fall. Life’s a ride, there’s always this thrill for a small while, followed by a mundane, lousy, disciplined spin. But tough days do make you miss childhood. Life was simpler during those good old days. Most of us fancy kids. (Few of us hate too. But I won’t talk about them as I have been requested by my editor to stop the Neo-noir bullshit and do a little, toned down, commercial writing.)  We fancy pets too. Do you know why? Let me tell you. The one and only plausible explanation behind wishing a kid/pet are to be around someone whose emotional energy is overwhelmingly powerful.

Your wife is having an affair. Your Boss just fired you, just now, a few minutes ago. Radio says the prices would go up. The weather forecast is storm and war.

You come home to your kid/pet and yell, ‘I am fucked, dude. Totally fucked!’ The kid/pet stares at you calmly and asks –

‘My question to you is, are we going to play ball in the park or not?’

And there it is. All your worries go away for a second. Then you beat the pulp out of that kid/pet. Drink whiskey! And sleep like a baby.

There you go. It’s always good to have something like this around. I guess that would be it for this afternoon. May God bless you this Ramadan. May God bless you. He no longer blesses me but I surely pray for you. And Google is reviewing my website so no talks about sex till next weekend. I apologize. We changed our theme from –

Sex  Drugs  Rock n Roll

to

Sex  Green-Tea  Rock n Roll.

 

Delhi – The Rape Capital

It’s 07:45 am. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning in the capital town of India, New Delhi. New Delhi is the capital of India. India is a great country. Though it is a ‘bit’ overpopulated, where ‘bit’ is being used as an understatement inducing agent.  India is also a very just nation.

Because Delhi is world’s worst places and natives of this place are really evil, Indians decided not to outcast Delhi but reward it with the title – Capital. Being a capital city is a great responsibility. You need to make sure you are overpopulated and scarce of resources. This in turn would hike prices and people would work hard and earn less. The city would get costly and to an outsider would glitter ‘RICH’.

A Rich place is a good place. Lights should always stay on. You should never sleep. Delhi never sleeps. It works 24/7. In between naps it robs, kills, scams, whores and rapes too. Delhi likes raping. India enjoys rape. India makes rape a frequent activity. Indians believe every women has a secret desire to get raped. The world also shares a similar belief.

India rapes in Delhi, Noida, Gurgaon, Surat, U.P and before you tell me to stop stating that you know this and you choose to ignore because things like these are depressing. I would like to state the real fact. Yes every women has a desire to get raped. And that is not at all a secret. And as shocking as it would hit you, every man also has a desire to get raped. The entire human consciousness has a desire to get raped, wherein rape stands for losing control over self and let the universe run it’s own course. Rape means not to try and control anything because it’s a futile attempt. Rape doesn’t always mean a sexual crime, you depraved society! That would be it for today. Have a nice day.

It’s A Long Way To The Top If You Wanna’ Rock & Roll!

 

It’s a long way to the top if you wanna Rock&Roll!

 

What the fuck is wrong with you people? I am asking this assuming, some of you might know.

Don’t you have something better to do?

 

How about television? Common, don’t be shy. It is your favorite pastime.

Not today.

Did no one make plans with you? Go to some movie or a little shopping, a little clubbing maybe. No?

That bad. Hmmm.

You can play some games, they are pretty involving. You can listen to those stupid tracks saved in your phone, you call it music. Check your FB, maybe post a selfie on INSTA. These things matter.

Isn’t that right?

You can always color your hair. Try that new shampoo you bought after seeing that commercial. Groom yourself a little. Get those yellow stained teeth cleaned. You not going to look any younger or any better. But try.

You can always sleep. I am an insomniac since the age of 14: The day I first saw a pair of titties. A 40-year-old milf neighbor showed me the doors to heaven. You call it child sex abuse. At my time, it was called fun.  Haven’t had any sleep since that day. But you love sleeping. Don’t you?

If you are hell bent on reading this, I must warn you. Nothing would change. You would read this, appreciate, get enlightened. And then the very next evening, you would go and buy something more entertaining. Who reads books? You do not get laid by reading books. Be honest.

They call me Goat-boy. I am a musician. No, no!

They call me Goat-boy. I am an artist. Oh, shit, no!

My name is Goat-boy. I am a recovering sex addict. Fuck this shit!

Okay, so my name is Goat-boy. I am diagnosed with chronic Insomnia. I am also a recovering sex addict. I play guitar. Shit man!

My name is Jack. I am an artist. Maybe. Maybe not.

But I like calling myself one. I create music, at least try to. I am not too good at what I do but seeing the current logistics, who is? Is Trump a good president?

You only need to be good to do great things: To make money, mediocrity does the trick. Look at you, you make money and good is a very distant expression for you. You are shitty and clumsy but still, you make good money. Don’t you?

I never wanted to be a musician but an interesting mix of life events landed me the trade.

 I won’t admit that it was easy but yes it wasn’t so tough either. My doctor asked me to channelize my sexual energy into something more meaningful than watching porn and wanking. He suggested me to try writing, painting, dancing… I thought a lot. None of these people get laid, a lot.

Writers, they are fucking sex starved delusional.

Painters, they are fucking sex starved crazies.

Dancers, they got no energy left to fuck.

Rock stars, You know the glamour. You would get laid, why won’t you? You are a Rock- star!

So I thought to try my hands on creating some original rock music. Apart from playing music, I also enjoy burning shit.

“Burn It To The Ground”

I was listening to the Radio. Nickelback was playing. Music always pleases me. It makes the voices in my head go away. You should also listen to music. But just wanted to advise you that, “Char bottle Vodka, Kaam uska roz ka” (Four bottles of Rum, Bitch drinks every day…. Please show me how she pukes and shits d pain away.) is not music. These lyrics are not thoughtful. If you listen to this kind of music, I am sure your God would save you. The same God whose idols you purchase for $50 at your nearest place of religious communion – A shopping mall!

I focused on the lyrics.

Well it’s midnight, damn right, we’re wound up too tight
I’ve got a fist full of whiskey, the bottle just bit me
Oh
That shit makes me bat shit crazy
We’ve got no fear, no doubt, all in balls out

We’re going off tonight
To kick out every light
Take anything we want
Drink everything in sight
We’re going till the world stops turning
While we burn it to the ground tonight

Suddenly doctor “UD” came. So, our doctor, an unattractive male in his 40’s, never got married. He got laid the first time when he was 28 years old and got his first job. That too because the nurse had a bad breakup and wanted a rebound. A decent doctor worked for her.

Now, he always had an issue with nervous ticks.

For the STUPID: Nervous ticks, are involuntary muscle movements caused by stress and anxiety.

Doc: Goat-boy, You know why you here?

Me: Yes sir.

Doc: Then you also know that if you do not stop lighting fire to financial institutions, they would send you to a prison. They are only acting patient with you because of your fan following.

Me: No problem. I would light the prison on fire. Lighting fire is my passion. I like it.

Doc: No. It’s a medical condition. You are a delusional and an Arsonist. You need medical attention.

Me: Okay Sir. As you say. But did you ever think why I only burn Financial institutions?

UD: Tell me!

Me: Financial institutions make money. Money is historically an emergent market phenomenon establishing a commodity money, but nearly all contemporary money systems are based on fiat money.[4] Fiat money, like any check or note of debt, is without use value as a physical commodity. It derives its value by being declared by a government to be legal tender; that is, it must be accepted as a form of payment within the boundaries of the country, for “all debts, public and private”. (For the stupid – Money is just a piece of paper and it has no value because it has no great saying or quote written over it. It’s abso-fuckin-lutely of no value.)

UD: Got it. Now make sure you buy your prescription from the shop outside. And also book the next week’s visit by paying $250 advance. Get well soon, Goatboy. We love you! 😊

Let’s get naked and run through the Jungle!

Let’s get naked and run through the Jungle!

 

A thought just came to my mind. A minute ago. Let’s get naked and run through the Jungle. I know what you are thinking, “Aa gaya pagla phir se.” (Here comes the crazy again.) But then in my defense, I have all the facts with me. Please hear me out for two minutes. I won’t rob you off your wealth. Corporations and religions are for that purpose. I just need two minutes, please. And also, “Insanity is just a state of mind like sanity. Who knows who’s what? I certainly don’t (#mostdef)”

My question to you is, “Why not?” We are clothed and civilized because we are supposedly social beings. But are we? I don’t see many social things being done around. I just see few people making money and others buying the goods made and sold by them. Then I also see Television, (fuck Television – the kind you watch. I watch RT.com), which has a propaganda content airing 24/7*365. Everywhere they teach you how to buy things and how to make money to buy em. No one teaches you to achieve freedom and not to willingly submit to slavery. A wise man said –

Don’t let the ones that want to steal your dreams 
They’ll steal your dreams away 
Just laugh and let it go 

So you’ve tried to pass along your doubt 
Oh you need somebody’s ears to hear you shout 
All your wasted and days and twisted ways are up 
So now it’s time to see the cards you dealt 

Don’t let the ones that want to steal your dreams 
They’ll steal your dreams away 
Just laugh and let it go 

A wise one said. Not me. I am the crazy one. So, the point being made is, “What’s the point of a consumerist society?” Why fight for it’s thriving? Let it perish and rot away in oblivion. Let’s just orchestrate a Phoenix event. (In the historical record, the Phoenix could symbolize renewal in general as well as the sun, time, the Empiremetempsychosisconsecrationresurrection, life in the heavenly ParadiseChristMaryvirginity, the exceptional man, and certain aspects of Christian life”.[3]). We no longer need to buy things. All of us who want things to change and pave way for a better tomorrow, Let’s just sell our possessions. Buy a ton of books. Buy a backpack. Burn our identifications. Become no one. Because “It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.”

“Let’s be a part of the great Rainbow Family. Let’s get naked and run through the Jungle!”

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A Word About Child ‘Gender Identity’ – The Child Is Fine, You’re Confused.

I was reading the newspaper sometime back and came across an article about a 16 year old boy’s struggle with gender identity ‘confusion’ and how he initially thought he was gay and how he finally embraced the fact that he’s actually a girl , and how he’s going to have a sex change operation after his class 12 exams. His family & peers are supportive and his NRI mother bought him his first dress even and thinks he has pretty legs!
The story, of course, doesn’t end here. The mother goes on to narrate how she felt he might be gay initially as he always insisted on playing with dolls and wigs and even though he was ‘encouraged’ to play with tanks and guns, he never conformed! Also, by the time he was 12 years old, he was already going in for counseling sessions as he felt he was gay and wanted help with this ‘confusion’.

Now I’ve seen 12 year olds and I’ve been a 12 year old myself. I’m sure everyone has. When I think of my childhood, I remember having a little chapter dedicated to intercourse in my science textbook and that’s about it as far as my generation’s exposure to sexual knowledge went. As a child that young, I recall being curious, but since there were so many things around to keep us distracted, like sports, debates,books,and.meaningful time spent with the family where we.learnt some values,that there was hardly any space for sexual craziness.
Also,there was nothing much on TV that depicted overt sexual imagery or homosexuality as even a concept, there was no burden on most children from my generation, to come to terms with or identify with.
What’s also interesting is,the fact that I recall not being a very stereotypical ‘girly girly’ myself in fact, I played basketball, baseball, loved wrestling and hated cooking!
But back then, this was not defined as ANYTHING really, just kids being kids and doing what they wanted without a care in the world. There was no burden of gender identity or any definitions at all.
As matter of fact ,every child goes through a phase of confusion where he or she is unable to decide what they want to become. Back then,it was about choosing a career, nowadays it’s about choosing a sexual orientation and a gender!
So what’s changed?
Nothing much, I’d say. Children are still children, but it’s the parents and culture that’s changed.
The mother in this story states, that when he discarded the guns he was ‘encouraged to play with ” she was afraid that he might be gay!!!
Wow!
THAT is very telling.
The mother,the school,the counselors managed to play havoc with this child’s absolutely NORMAL phase of exploration and led him to believe that he’s confused. What kind of a parent sends her 12 year old for counselling because her son likes to play with dolls and what kind of counselors end up convincing the child that he’s actually a boy trapped in a woman’s body? This is borderline child abuse if you ask me!

Also, where is the FATHER in all of this? I can’t help but notice the absence of a ‘father figure’ in the child’s life. Did he even get to give masculinity a chance? And I refuse to count ‘offering him guns & toy tanks’ as a fair introduction to his true, natural , masculine instinct. 
Of course,children are struggling with a lot today as their lives are full of violent and sexual imagery thrown at them through pop culture and movies and then there’s this huge LGBTQ movement to reckon with, that’s creating a turmoil in their tender minds. At an age when the knowledge of heterosexuality can be shocking enough for the child, imagine a daily dose of homosexuality, transgender-ism, androgyny, gender fluidity etc thrown at them!
No wonder they’re turning out like this.
In the end I’d like to say just one thing

“God is not the author of confusion but of peace “

Good Touch, Bad Touch : Explaining The Difference To Grandma In Heaven

Dear Grandma,

How are things up there? I am going to assume it’s heaven because I liked you, as a child. You were mostly good to me, though a bit strict & particular about things I didn’t fancy giving importance to back then. I remember how you would oil my hair every Sunday then let it rest in for about an hour, rub oil into my skin to make it softer than it was because it was never soft enough, never firm enough, never smooth enough. Then you would draw a bath for me & tell me stories while working up a lather in my hair. As if that ritual was not enough, you would then rub in dollops of moisturizer into my skin because, it was never soft enough…

You made sure that I was always well dressed. I had the neatest appearance as a child because you ensured that my dress was changed the minute there would be a stain or even a wrinkle.

You loved cooking my favorite meals. I recall how I loved minced mutton with a boiled egg in the center prepared in your own choice of spices. I relished the chocolate pudding you made me & you were a hit among my friends because you loved offering them food too! It was a good life. It really was.

They say that childhood is the golden phase of a person’s life.  Everything is larger than life when you’re a child. Every experience leaves a mark on you & makes you who you are in your adult life. A nostalgic trip down the lanes of childhood mostly bring back delightful recollections of fond moments spent with family. Mostly.

You must be wondering, why am I writing this letter to you? Especially now, that you would not be able to read it because you are no longer among us. But you see that’s the whole point. I feel your perception about people in this lifetime was extremely flawed. And if there is an after life, I don’t want you to misjudge people the way you did back here.

I remember all too well, the gatherings Grandpa was fond of hosting. He had his own circle of friends, acquaintances, admirers & followers, some genuine others, not quite. Of all his friends, most of whom I have forgotten, I do remember Mr…. let’s just call him Mr because I do not remember his name , what he looked like or any details about his appearance whatsoever because I was just about 6 years old when he did what I am about to tell you. I only recall ‘what he did‘. I also recall what it made me feel back then & what I feel about it now. It was one of Grandpa’s gatherings. I don’t recall many details , I was too young, my apologies. All I can think of now, is my powder pink dress, the one you had lovingly picked out for me, the way it flared above my knees each time I took a twirl & the laughter that ensued between you and Mama when I tried to show her the dress & my twirl & the flair it caused, over the phone as she was away somewhere with Papa for some time.  I recall the sheer joy I felt upon strutting around in my pink dress. Then I remember greeting the guests with a well taught ‘Good evening’ & then sliding away to sit quietly in the corner or running off toward the kitchen to see what ‘Victor’ , our cook was up to. Every time I entered the kitchen, Victor rewarded me with something scrumptious to eat. I liked Victor. He made me smile.

After one such trip to the kitchen, I was called upon to greet Mr. He was an old man. He was my grand father’s friend. A regular visitor in our household. He was somebody of absolutely no consequence to me. I greeted him & he petted me on my shoulder with a loud laugh. I ran away to the kitchen, where I knew Victor would be ready with a treat. The kitchen had an entrance from the drawing area & an exit toward the back that led into the kitchen garden. From the kitchen garden, I would sometimes sneak out towards the main entrance of the house to play hide & seek with the neighbor’s children, children of our household help, puppies. Basically whoever I could find. It was dark, as I made way into the kitchen garden & then ran outside to where the guest cars were parked. I had given Victor a warning that I would be running out to hide & that he was supposed to come look for me. I heard Victors voice fade away as he said he was busy & that I shouldn’t head out as it was dark. But when did I ever listen to Victor?

I found a little puppy I could play around with. I had played with him before & named him Fido. Because he liked to be fed a lot. I assumed he will come looking for me when I hid behind a car parked in the freeway. I noticed Mr not far away, with something in his hand that he brought to his lips on occasion only to take it away again. It was lit up & he breathed out smoke. I understand now that he was out for a smoke, something I hadn’t witnessed anybody in my house indulge in. I sat squatted on the ground, trying to hide from Fido. Mr casually looked in my direction & said “What are you up to?” while sporting an annoying grin. “I am hiding from Fido” . This was the end of the conversation as far as I was concerned, so I started looking behind my shoulder, trying to spot Fido somewhere. That’s when I felt his hand upon my thigh, quickly reaching beneath my pink dress. “Do you know what this is?” he asked while he touched me in a way that nobody ever had. I don’t know if it was the question that made me wiggle away or the touch of his hand. Whatever it was, it was the single most disgusting experience I had ever undergone. As I moved away from him, he got even closer but to my relief, I heard Victor. “Come back inside, you shouldn’t be out here. Can’t you see it’s dark? It’s not safe for little children”. Mr hastily withdrew his repulsive hand away from me & I ran towards Victor like I had never before. He picked me up & casually carried me back inside while I held on to him like he was dear life. Even inside the safety of my home, I held onto Victor tightly because I just couldn’t feel…safe…anymore. Much to your annoyance. You never liked Victor picking me up or holding my hand while bringing me back from the bus stop as I returned from school. You reprimanded him each time I held on to him, or pinched his trouser for a treat I couldn’t reach. “She is a child, but you must know better than to touch you master’s grand daughter inappropriately”! But with Victor, it was never that. His touch was unintentional. It was always I who had a purpose behind tugging at him. A treat. A sneak outside. A cover up job in the basement after I smeared it with poster colors. Quite unlike Mr. His touch was sinister. Repulsive. Lingering. Intentional. And he was back into the drawing room now. He headed straight toward me, picked me up without hesitation & said “What an adorable little sweetheart…I think  I am going to bite your cheeks!” Which he did as you laughed & looked on without the slightest of objection or hesitation. I shrieked in pain & disgust, both inside & out, as I struggled to let myself free of his grasp. The harder I tried to push him away, the harder the two of you laughed. I ask you this. Were you deaf? That you couldn’t hear my pain? Were you blind? That you couldn’t see my obvious discomfort? How could you be so insensitive? As you laughed away while I cried, struggling to break free. And yet, It was Victor who unnerved you. But that’s the thing. Victor NEVER made me feel so repulsed in my own skin. Mr was like a serpent lingering inside my gut. I just couldn’t get it. After he had his way with me, as much as he could in your presence, he finally let go. I ran towards my room. Shut the door behind me as hard as I could & I sobbed. I had never missed Mom so much. Ever. I felt she would have understood. She would have done something to stop that monster from gnawing at my flesh the way he did, right in front of your eyes.

I still feel violated, to tell you the truth. Not as much by the thought of Mr’s hands on me, but by the very fact, that he was able to get away with it, in your presence. You let him inside our house. You didn’t come looking for me. You didn’t save me. You let him violate me & humiliate me even more inside our home, where I thought the ordeal was supposed to be over. Victor was my only source of comfort. He looked out for me. He saved me. His embrace was reassuring. And yet you despised him, but absolutely adored Mr.

I understand now that it was the outer appearance that mattered to you most. Not what a person was made up of inside. Mr was rich. Of the same class as you. Wore fancy clothes. Spoke the way you did. Ate the same food. So he had to be good. For you, his was the good touch.

Victor on the other hand was poor. Your servant. From a lowly caste. Couldn’t afford the luxuries you could. Ate left overs. Spoke a broken language you couldn’t comprehend. He was bad. For you, His was the bad touch.

But that’s not how it really is, Grandma. You were wrong about this, all your life & I couldn’t tell you because you wouldn’t believe me. And it’s a shame too because, you have no idea your prejudice made your judgement so clouded, I often wonder what kind of people you surrounded yourself with. No wonder you cried alone at times. But that’s another story.

It’s not how someone appears, but who they are inside that matters. And that’s what makes their touch, good or bad.

That’s all for this letter. Will write to you if I feel you need to learn more about life from my experiences.

Much Love,

Your Grand Daughter.

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