...huh...

Well, I guess I screwed the pooch on that one. I really did intend to write a series of thoughtful pieces about my trip to India, little journal-like bits which would catalogue the emotional highlights of this trip and try to evoke, for the American reader, the complex experience of a young NRI as he tries to understand himself in the context of the ancient culture and complicated family he was born into.

This, of course, begs the question: "What American reader?" Who the fuck did I want to write all this for? Probably me. Also, I've been to India before. This was only one of many trips I've taken in the last ten years, so why did I expect this one to bear literary fruit? Well I dunno. In any case, maybe next time I go I'll write a fuckin' book.

My dad is listening to some weepy love song by Gordon Lightfoot. That kind of stuff always makes me a little maudlin. Gordon Lightfoot confuses me, he seems too talented to be so mediocre. Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about.

I wonder if I should publish this post. It doesn't seem to be going anywhere, really, and I think I'm only writing it because I haven't updated in a while, and I stubbornly refuse to let go of this blog. The act of writing stuff down and throwing it up on the internet for all the world to see is really the kind of high narcissism which I find addictive. In the months I've had this thing, I don't think I've attracted a single foreign reader. At least judging by the comments, the only fools who've peeped the hectic steez on this rantpage have been people I know. Which is nice, because it means that I have some friends who care enough to check this thing from time to time and read what I write. But, and I'll own up to this, I think at bottom I'm really writing this to get laid. This shouldn't surprise anyone, really. I do lot's of stuff to get laid. Like shower, try to look okay, try to be reasonably functional, I mean, really, almost everything I do is done to either get play, stave off death or unhappiness, or both. This is most likely true of most people.

Okay, cool, so now I'm waxing philosophical. See you never know where these things will go when you start them.

Another quick thing about Lightfoot. I really like that song "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald". Many people who know it, don't. It has been variously reamed out by the likes of Seinfeld and Dave Barry, but why? It's not a bad song, and anyway growling out "folk" songs with campy old-time pioneer and maritime imagery is kind of his gig, and so what? More power to him!

Anyhow, on a totally unrelated note, I've been hearing some rumbling to the effect that Barack Obama is too skinny to be President. Now, this could very well be true for all I know. I mean, we all know how much brute strength and sheer physical stamina is neccesary to adequately dispatch the duties of Commander in Chief. For example, when, inevitably, Barack Obama finds that his country needs him to defeat Lex Luthor and Fu Manchu in hand to hand combat or intercept an incoming ICBM in midair and pitch it into the sun, well, then we'll probably all wish we'd elected a more hale and hearty president like the septaugenarian John McCain.

But, yeah, I mean I don't really like Obama that much. I'll vote for him because I actively dislike the opposition, but I'm not a huge fan. I will say this, though: It seems like Obama has been the victim of more fierce mudslinging than I remember ever seeing. It would seem that Obama is a runty, elitist slum lord who hates America and the working man, has a black militant wife, attends a black supremacist church, and wants to piss all over the second amendment so that his friends in Hamas and the Weather Underground can come in and fuck us all up. Huh.

Well friends, I'm sure you're all tired of this bit by now, tune in next time when I'll piss and moan about my job, talk about pears, and try to tie both in with the kennedy assassination or something. Cheers!