The Inferno

Remember kids, Santa Claus doesn’t exist, and neither do any of the other fairy tale figures everyone tells you to believe in.

Time for some self-deprecating humour. You know you’ve made it big when IKEA carries products with your name. And here they are, in all their polypropylene glory.

The Viren toilet brush and holder

The Viren 7 piece bathroom set, for only $ 7.99, what a steal!

Followed by the Viren wastebasket, not a bad looking item, if I do say so myself.

And finally, the crowning glory of nomenclature, the Viren toilet seat.

All, I can say is, “Thanks a lot, IKEA!”.

All products taken from here.

I’ve gotten back into chess. About time!

I used to play every day as a kid, then I got a life and stopped and now it’s back, not that I don’t have a life, what with school and relationships and work and everything. But chess über alles. So play me on Yahoo! Chess, my handle is sunhate.

I saw Freddy Kempf at the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra on Monday, the 19th. It was a memorable introduction to some new music.

Pechenyuk’s Parallax started off with some chicanery, but evolved into something meaningful by the end. Pechenyuk himself came out to bow at the end, which was a bit surprising for some of the patrons who hadn’t been paying attention to Tovey earlier.

Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor was masterfully done. 3 movements of exhilarating grace, accompanied by Kempf’s Jerry lee Lewis-like hair bobbing head movements! Definitely the highlight of the evening.

Finally finishing off with Tchaikovsky’s Manfred Symphony in B minor, a piece that was a bit tedious at times, but achieved its climax with much fanfare and brass gnashing, we left the confines of the Orpheum and made our way home. What can I say? A great night and definitely a must-see for all you fans of the Russian Romantics.

Was this a good idea for a date with a new girlfriend? It seemed like it, despite the barrage of yawns at the end. Next stop: Cryptopsy!

00:00 Solefald: i wish i didnt have a care in the world, god, it would be so nice
00:01 Lynner: perhaps some day
00:01 Solefald: this will sound crazy, but all i wanna do is get a good job, make money for like 10 yrs or so, save up like mad
00:01 Solefald: see, right now i live on 7000/yr which is like nothing
00:02 Solefald: so if i start to make 50,000/yr but maintain this lifestyle, i can save tons, right?
00:02 Solefald: the trouble is i’ll wanna go nuts and buy a car and fancy clothes and all that shit
00:02 Lynner: makes sense
00:02 Lynner: yuhuh
00:02 Solefald: and after saving like mad for a decade, just disappear in South America, thats my plan
00:03 Lynner: shweet
00:03 Solefald: no credit cards, no SIN numbers, nothing
00:03 Solefald: is it crazy? am i a total weirdo? lol
00:03 Lynner: ya, a little
00:03 Lynner: sounds cool tho
00:03 Lynner:
00:04 Solefald: hehe k, if you get an unsigned postcard from venezuela, you know whom to thank
00:04 Lynner: can’t wait
00:04 Lynner: but wait, since your “off the map” i can’t visit.
00:05 Lynner: thats not cool
00:05 Solefald: not unless you wanna parachute out over the Amazon
00:05 Lynner: ya man… that’d rock!
00:05 Solefald:
00:06 Solefald: anyway, thats my dream
00:06 Solefald: until that comes true, university and cubicle hell await
00:07 Lynner: :S

I don’t know about you, but when I get sick, especially with any kind of respiratory illness, my olfactory sensitivity skyrockets!

Just yesterday, stricken by the flu/cold epidemic making the rounds at my glorious school (sic), I boarded the bus and sat on one of the many seats. As soon as I sat down, I felt like Jean-Baptiste Grenouille in Perfume.

First, this slightly obese lady waddled on. Oh sure, the fat person smell, you say. No, this was something fruitier, perhaps the stink of the rolls of cheesy flesh packed together. Then come a guy with a strange cologne, one that was fruity, perhaps grapes and mangoes mixed together in a macedoine of garish odours. He was followed by the guy who works in the Koya restaurant, and predictably, he smelt like the cooking from that restaurant, but underneath, I smelt a patina of hair oil.

He was followed by an attractive young couple. The girl smelt nice, of oleander and evergreen promises. He smelt nothing like her, which wasn’t odd considering the Old Spice lathered all over his person. They made up the token decent smelling couple at the front of the bus. Right behind them was the dreaded sweaty athlete. Fresh off the tracks, sweat stains and all, reveling in the sheer endorphin high of his recent exercises, this guy stood proudly at the front, puffing out noxious clouds of sweat-laden carbon dioxide. As for me, I could smell it all, the glorious rush of hormones, the lactic acid creeping up the calf muscles, the brain slowly coming down from the high, the inevitable inching death in the recently exercised muscles. But, I digress.

Next came the lady with the baby carriage. The terrible reek of the baby assailed my nostrils at the same time as its woeful cries filled the bus. All the seats were full by now and there was nowhere to move to. I cringed as the mother pushed the baby right up to me and sat down, beaming with maternal pride. I could smell the buried lust for compliments oozing out of every pore. Ignoring her with all my might, I focused on the new smell from behind me. Here was a hungry student, perhaps someone who woke up late and grabbed a snack. The meal had carrots in it, and some sort of Asian gravy, along with potatoes. It was good and took my mind off the wretched baby in front of me.

Finally, the old man got on. He had been waiting for everyone else to get on and he smelt like any old man should. Pre-war clothes with the smell of the Blitz fresh on them, socks that were darned by his Victorian great aunt in the days of Rothschild, and a hat that would make Charlemagne look young. He got on the bus and came right at the baby. Surprisingly enough, the old codger wasn’t cantankerous. Instead, he billed and cooed over the baby, while the mother fussed like a mother hen over her hideous spawn.

The bus started moving, a draught of cold February air through the windows dissipated the odours and we were off.

This is funny, and so well executed!

I’ll try to sum up a funny story that happened a few years ago:

I got a vasectomy.

I met a girl soon afterwards. She was nice and attractive but with a selfish streak that raised a big red flag. She was 32 at the time and I could practically HEAR her biological clock ticking. Regardless, she was a good lay, easy on the eyes, and reasonably good company.

I did NOT tell her about my vasectomy and I always used a condom with her to protect against STDs. She assumed, obviously, that the condom was only used for birth control. Silly girl.

We date for a few months. I never made any move towards commitment but she brought it up ocassionally. For me, this was a casual but pleasant relationship. For her – as I was to find out – it was part of life-changing series of events that she was planning very carefully.

Four months into dating, I get the “I’m pregnant” talk. She’s going on and on about how the condom must have broke and now we really need to think about getting married “for the baby”. She’s positively giddy. She has a baby in her and she thinks she’s gonna have a good meal ticket (me) to go along with her new 7lb annuity.

At this point, I’m just as giddy. I get to pull the reverse “oops” on her. I figured that she slept with some bad boy and got knocked up. Good thing I was using condoms! Better still that I have a serious mistrust of women who can’t think beyond their own uteri.

So I wait a couple of days to “think about all this.” I meet her again. I say I don’t want kids and that she should have an abortion. I know where this is going and sure enough it goes there. She goes completely batshit insane on me. There were the usual insults about my manhood. There were threats of legal action. It was all very ugly and I was loving every minute of it.

Well, I let her stew for a few days. She leaves me nasty messages on my phone. She sends awful emails. I’m laughing hysterically.

It was time to drop the hammer. While she was stewing I was busy. First I get a notarized copy from the urologist who performed the vasectomy. Next I get a notarized copy of the TWO test results indicating a “negative test result for sperm” to show I’m sterile and shooting blanks. Finally, I get a letter from a shark attorney stating he has seen the other documents and is prepared to litigate against this woman if she continues to communicate with me in such an unpleasant manner. Also, the letter states that we will insist on DNA testing to show that the baby is not mine. I’m ready.

I meet with this woman at her place. I bring flowers and a small bit of jewelry to show I am willing to reconcile and assume my responsibilities as a new father. I also have stuck in my pocket the documents I have prepared.

She’s all giddy again. Her plan is going perfectly – or so she thinks. We talk about our future. We have some pretty good sex. Then, as I am about to walk out the door, I ask her the $64,000 question. “Are you sure that this baby is mine?”

Well, she goes batshit insane again. Hell, she ought to. Her plan could completely unravel if there is ANY question about my paternity. Oh, she’s really screaming now. How dare I question her morals. Do I think she’s a slut. I’m just trying to weasel out of my responsibilities… blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I’m not really mad. I’m kind of embarrassed for her. But since she won’t shut up and the neighbors can hear all of this, I ask her to step back inside and sit down. She sits on the sofa and calms down a bit. She is glaring at me with all the moral self-righteousness that only a woman can muster up. She thinks she has me trapped. She is 100% convinced her plan has worked. Oh, the tangled web of lies and deceit she has wrought around herself and I am about to hack through them with a few pieces of paper.

I reach into my pocket slowly. I extract the three pieces of paper and unfold them slowly and deliberately.

I tell her simply, “You’re screwed”.

Her look doesn’t change. There is no way she can fathom what I have prepared.

I continue. “I am sterile”

Her look changes just a bit. Something is beginning to sink in. Naturally, she reverts to women’s logic. “You’re full of shit. You’re trapped and you know it.”

I hold up the letter and the test results. “Three months before we met, I had a vasectomy. Here is a notarized letter from him stating what I had done. Here are two test results showing that I tested negative for the presence of sperm. Blanks. I am shooting blanks. That baby inside you is simply not mine.”

This woman is not to be swayed by logic and clear documentation. “Bullshit, those are fakes.”

I was ready for that. “No, they are real. This last piece of paper is from my attorney. It’s a simple letter to you that states if you pursue any kind of legal action against me for child support that I will insist on a DNA test to prove paternity, that is, to prove that your baby is not mine.”

I give the woman all the documents. She reads them slowly, deliberately. With each passing second she can feel in her soul that she has made a very bad mistake. With denial swept away, she started to cry. It’s a small cry at first. Then it becomes deeper and more painful. By the time she gets to the letter from the lawyer she is sobbing.

I had no sympathy for her. I turned and walked out the door. Even after I closed the door I could still hear her sobbing.

Epilogue -

I never heard directly from this woman again. I did hear through my friends that she did indeed have the baby. I also heard that the real father was some guy in a band she had met. I assumed that after 30, women stopped going after musicians, bikers, criminals, and thugs. Silly me for thinking the best of American women.

The Moral of the Story -

Get a vasectomy but keep it a secret.

Taken from here.

I’ve finished yet another of Rushdie’s novels, and he simply gets better with time. Not just for Indian diaspora, his novels display breathtaking command of multiple languages, vernacular or otherwise. My absolute favorite is Midnight’s Children, but it edges out his other works by a cat’s whisker.

Rushdie is a real master of prose, I recommend him to all of you. Surreal at times, oddly disjointed, but always engaging. These are the books I’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed:

Midnight’s Children
The Moor’s Last Sigh
The Ground Beneath Her Feet
The Satanic Verses
East West
Haroun and the Sea of Stories.

Read them all, stranger.

So how exactly does one transition from angst to happiness, seemingly at the flick of a switch? Is it that easy? Or is it meant to be slow and torturous? Ah, you’ve just been reading too much Pekar, you say. But seriously! Is it possible to be truly weightless? Isn’t this akin to switching from gas to hydrogen overnight, and not just for a few vehicles, but an entire economy?!

Is this the end of the mordant polemics? Will I become a scribe of all things shallow? Only time will tell. I feel like Vonnegut when he says, “Love may fail but courtesy will prevail”. After all, who knows where the tracks will lead us when the milk of human kindness runs low…

Ordinary life can be pretty complex too. That’s what Harvey Pekar tells us, and he has a hit movie to prove it. Well, I’d never heard of him until the movie came out, but Heather showed me his stuff and I’ve been hooked ever since.

So I’ve been reading a bunch of his stuff from the library and am very impressed. Right now, I’m reading

And, also, of late all my current music is boring me like a four hour movie I’ve already seen. Providentially, the endpages of this book list the movie score and all the jazz greats, greats Pekar loves and is very knowledgeable about. So, here is a list of the new music I’m in the process of acquiring:

Movie Score

Dion and the Belmonts ( late 50s non fake rock n roll performers, according to Pekar)
Joe Maneri
Jay McShann
Robert Crumb and his Cheap Suit Serenaders
Lester Young
Count Basie
Billie Holiday
Marvin Gaye
John Coltrane
Dizzy Gillespie
Mark Suozzo

Jazz Greats

B. B. King
Clifton Chenier
Willa Mae Buckner
Preston Fulp
Ornette Coleman
Albert Ayler
Joe Lovano
King Oliver
Henry “Red” Allen
Jimmy Scott

Rock Music

Elvis Presley (certainly not jazz, but Pekar says the early stuff is unrivalled)
Sockmonkeys

Harvey’s blog can be found here. Keep the existential angst and neurotic vituperations coming, Harvey! I know what it’s like to walk around all day in a haze of disbelieving anger, muttering in wonder at how such a sham of a world can even exist, much less let humans derive joy from it.