The Sanctum

Welcome, traveller. This be the realm of Jay Niner, where everything be possible, and nothing ever happens. If, perchance, thou wisheth to tarry, then find thou a page from the Grimoire and read. For we are here in eternity, and we are in medias res.


Another untitled

Having nothing to say is one of the ecstacies of the modern world. If you have nothing to say, nobody bothers you. And life is beautiful.
But this.. blogging.. is supposed to allow us to say something. What if the problem is that I can't think of anything to say? Well, maybe I should stop mindfucking you and fuck off. Maybe that I'll think of something. Nah, who am I kidding. I can write and write nonsense for days and not come to an end. Meandering is an art, a genteel art that must be mastered. So is mindfucking, and the two sometimes go hand in hand.
Let's have at a poem.

There was once a mighty institution
Full of knowledge and miscommunication.
The professors loomed almighty in their power
While all the students try to look innocent, and cower.
And so the whole situation screw'd sour.

The mornings were toast, the afternoons a mess.
The evenings passed by in clearing the cess.
And by night we nursed muscles exceedingly sore,
And tried to catch up on our assignments which were a bore.

And did it get anywhere, I can bloody well ask.
If I didn't like to in boredom bask,
And so I decided to fuck everything and at last, opened up of the pure a cask.
And decided to take my un-inebriation to task.

Again the cycle begins and inspiration runs out;
Like a stomach suffering from dysentry and our skin's got a deadly pall.
There's no energy, none at all; all we do is live,
And at night, we fall.

Not very cheerful. So you see, in so many lines, I actually never reached anywhere.
But you should be proud, y'know you've reached somewhere. At last, I'm sure.
You've seen the light.
You've reached the end. C'est fin.


Who's Confucius?

This old man's a chinese philosopher. One of the most famous, for all the wrong reasons. He dealt with issues of morality, philosophy, relationships and so on. Like Chuck Norris, the man's famous, incredibly so.
But unfortunately the poor guy is known for all the wrong reasons. For that matter, I'm pretty sure the last few were pretty well received, so here's some more. Found from both my imagination and from the internet.

"A bird in hand make it hard to blow nose."

"Man who fall into molten glass make spectacle of self."

"Man who jump off cliff jump to conclusion."

"Man who smoke pot choke on handle."

"Man who read woman like book fluent in braille."

""Man who drive like hell bound to get there!"

"Man who drop watch in whisky is wasting time."

"A man with his hands in pockets feels foolish, but a man with holes in pockets feels nuts."

"Man who drop watch in toilet, bound to have shitty time."

"Man who take sleeping pill and laxative on the same night will wake up in deep shit."

"Man who cut self while shaving, lose face."

"Man who walk through airport turnstile sideways going to Bangkok.

"Man who have hand in pocket feel foolish, but man who have hole in pocket feel nuts."

"Man with hole in pocket feel cocky."

"Man who put head in open window feel pane on neck."

And now a few uncensored ones.

"Passionate kiss like spiders web - soon lead to undoing of fly."

"Man with hand in bush not always trimming shrub."

"Man who masturbate only screwing self."

"Man kicked in testicles left holding bag."

"Man wanting pretty nurse must be patient."

"Man who stick cock in engine get hod rod."

"Man bouncing woman on bedspring getting offspring soon."

"Girl douche with vinegar, walks off with sour puss."

"Man who buy drowned cat pay for wet pussy."

"Girl should not marry basketball player; he dribbles before he shoots."

"Man who sleep with sex problems wake with solution in hand."

"Hooker with bike, pedal ass all over town."


It's the new style

Is there a way I can go back? I don't know. I was looking back today, taking a stroll down a virtual memory lane. My first few blogs. So odd.
If ye like. The first blog I put up. There's such a difference in style, in mentality, that I almost wonder why the hell I decided to come to pune. When I'd first begun blogging, I remember, I didn't have a single follower, and part of me wanted to keep it that way. I didn't endorse it to anyone, not even my cousin. She found out from my sister.
The fact being, why is there such a difference? My ma read my novels both then and now, and she was, in a word, pretty disappointed with the change in style. There was too much smoke and drink, she said, peering suspiciously at me, and hints at worse things. "Dare I partake in unholy sin?" was the question in her eyes. I quickly replied, "It makes things more realistic."
Poor excuse. Of course things like that are going to make an appearance. They'd begun to make an appearance in my eleventh, when I decided to write erotica out of no particular reason. A secretary goes to office and gets fucked (she is the office slut, after all). Then she sues the company after a manager abuses her more than she gives him license to. Then she goes to a lawyer, fucks him, pays him, and gets him to sue the company. The judge's crooked, so she fucks him too, and gets a pile from the lawsuit. Then she searches for a new job, and instead finds an investor who's quite interested in her ideas and brings along his buddies to be persuaded to part with their money. At the end of it all, the secretary sits in her own office, looking out from the fifth floor down into the street below, rich, single and happy, and then she calls a promising young clerk for some more fun.
I put it up on some erotica site... literotica or SSP, I don't remember... but in any case it was one of the better pieces I'd written, four parts of roughly fifteen pages each. Interestingly, it still gives me a hard-on.
I'm like one of those guys who writes down everything he's experienced, just to relive it some other time. Perhaps this was a result of the first few months of solid sex that hit me during that time. Ah, well.
Besides which, I'm still putting up stories on all the wrong sites. You can't call it soft porn, it just isn't. Maybe a bit too.. graphic. I put up warped images of P.D. as well, dressed up and made up in her suit. Hahaha, artistic expression, poetic justice, call it what you will.

I'm not giving you the links. No, sir. That's private territory, I have my own followers up there. Maybe I'll put up some of the more... softer.. versions up on the tome, but I have my qualms.

Anyway, that's what this post is about. Degeneration, or regeneration, of a style that's kept changing. Sarcastic to silly, narcissistic to nascent, nuts to guts, guts to glory, stupidity and serendipity, seduction and sedition, and so on and so forth. Never stopping and everchanging. Bah, if only I know where it'll take me one day, to the pinnacle of achievement or to a lawsuit, life would be so much easier. But until then, experimentation galore, eh?


Burning a hole in my purse.

It's 2.15. On any other day I'd have been fucking running, trying not to get late. Which I would, of course; denizens of the institute would understand my feeling and my feeling to fuck something up when I found a shut door to welcome me.
What the hell. I'm seven assignments late and mindfucked so bad that I can barely remember my name. The last time I left Viman Nagar? Can't remember. See?
That, my dear reader, is a genuinely fucked up mind. And being a student, I'm just begging for more.
This morning we saw a film called.. shit, what was it? The Grapes of Wrath. I'm sure to people endowed with more common sense who've seen the bloody tranquillizer would be able to figure out the connection between that and the theme. But sorry, I didn't. It might have been selected by the Library of Congress or some motherfucker who thought it worth preserving. But this is India. People like that get their asses kicked, and bad.
Generally drifters like that end up in some slum, raise their kids through menial work and then their kids turn to crime, and provide for their family, odd as it seems. Land sharks are everywhere even in these enlightened times, so no one's a stranger to moving out. And then, of course, keeping in mind the Ethnic day that came up; What the fuck?
An ethnic day? Really. What do you have to be ethnic about? It's been over fifty-five years since the british left India. By all rights we should've been far better than the americans. The problem is with India's inherent streak of laziness. No, on further reflection, it's not laziness; it's uncaring. When someone gets hit by a car, the public rushes- oh yes, they drop everything and rush- and then they fucking beat up the driver. Pothhole in the road? Fuck the guy who fell. Somebody does take him to the hospital because they get money for it.
After the German bakery blast, I overheard a couple of auto drivers who'd helped around. They didn't get mentioned in the paper, or maybe they did, but their selfless help came at a cost; those fuckers were actually paid up later, for their selfless help.
A sort of monetary thank you that made me suspect the autovias would have gone on strike if they hadn't got it.
Oh yes, money does make the world spin.
There was an old adage; money can't buy you sleep, can't buy you hearth, can't buy you love.
Sorry, that's wrong. Money can get you the best sedatives that'll guarentee you a 24-hour respite from the world's problems. Can't buy you a hearth? Who're they fucking. It'll buy you a beachhouse. Can't buy you love?
Really. Everyone wants money, and most of the CnC's will just chase men and women who're loaded and give them so much love they'll be dizzy. Yahoo, money does make the world go around.

And that's it. You want a fucking life, you show the fucking green.
And you might just ask why the hell I got this far from nowhere. Well, it's because I've got barely 20 rupees in my purse.


Profane and loving it.

Profanity, as you may have seen, is alive and well in my posts. Recently it was brought to my attention that such matter may be deemed too delicate for tentative ears. Well, fine.
I'll just shift over the adult filter from the Tome to Unusually Untitled, although I doubt it'll filter out any sort of attention. If you can't read my posts without thinking, why this motherfucking cocksucking sonofabitch thinks he's so clever, then for gods' sake, don't.
It's that simple, really. And if you think that you don't want to have to read my posts where profanity is prevalent, then:
Not so profane as it seems, but there's meaning in it.
So go, do yourself.

But my posts will continue, and you can bet your arse that I've barely scratched the surface of my twisted being. Ready for seconds? Then don't forget to read up on my upcoming posts.


Mistress of her trade

Mindfucking galore.

There are no other words to describe the anarchy that plagues life everyfuckingday at a shitfucked institute for the mentally challenged. I thought it couldn't get worse, well I was so dead fucking wrong. Following a session of brainwashing by our own college hypnotist, very well the best the world can see in years to come- those attending indesign classes will know who I'm talking about. I'm not even going to take her name. She is "You-know-ho", someone to intimidate even Voldemort or Sauron, maybe even Chuck Norris.
Chuck Norris can throw a roundhouse kick that destroys your universe. But one word, just one syllable from You-know-ho, will destroy your sanity irreparably.

How can this happen, how does a wonderful morning go to absolute fucking shit? Because.
And the test this morning. Zow, it went so stupidly I'm actually, for the first fucking time, amazed that my G.K., fuck current affairs is so weak. Weaker than shit. Mucho problemo.
And stercus tauri, bullshit, for those who don't check latin.
You know what? I'm gonna end here. Words cannot explain it. Pictures cannot show it. Voices cannot define it; thoughts cannot describe it. Mindfucking is an art, a genteel art, one that You-know-ho has perfected beyond comprehension. I can only bow to her expertise even as I am brainwashed by it.
"Ave caeser, morituri te salutant."


Hats off

Hats off?
We have 007, and his stylized gun, we have Superman and his symbol of justice or Batman with his bat, the Green Hornet had his cane and The Spirit and his mask, Darkman and his bandages, Spawn and his cape, Green Lantern and his... well, lantern.., then Daredevil and the horns, Bullseye, who needs no symbol, he is a symbol; the Joker and his grin, the Mask and his mask, the Grim Reaper and his scythe.
Then who, or more importantly, is this post for? Well, it’s for the quintessential model of bad luck, the man who always pulls out in the end, though... Indiana Jones! And his hat. At every twist and turn Nazis fall around him in Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Last Crusade. Amrish Puri and his accented “INDY-ANNA JOANES” is a different matter, but in essence every film has that one single piece of unchanging fabric that bonds all four episodes in the saga of Indiana Jones- his hat. Never has Indiana Jones been complete without his hat, which accompanies him everywhere he goes.
Here we see Henry Jones Jr., played by River Phoenix who, unfortunately, died sometime after his role in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Henry receives the hat from a stranger, who tells him: ‘You lost today kid, but doesn’t mean you’ve got to like it.’ That keeps him going, until he grows up, where we see that flame of adventuring develop into full-fledged Indy, grinning inspite of the odds and the blood on his chin.

Of course, the hat at that point becomes more of a family tradition, and when Indiana Jones goes off to rescue his father, the original Henry Jones, we see both Harrison Ford and Sean Connery in one of the best Hollywood team-ups so far.
Both in hats.

Ain’t it just amazing. And the best part is, there is such a rapport between two seasoned actors.
Both are made-men. Sean Connery, a few decades earlier, hailed as one of the best James Bonds in history, “Shaken, not stirred,” and Harrison Ford, “Hans Solo,” with an ever-sardonic grin, wishing Luke Skywalker, “May the force be with you.” Both of them are in the Top 100 famous Hollywood movie lines.
Ah, yes, I’m wandering from the topic. This post is about Indiana Jones’s hat.

All weather, non-bulletproof, imbued with Indiana Jones’s legendary endurance. Never a wet rag.

Whaddya know.. it attracts the girls, too... Karen Allen in her role as Marion Ravenwood.
Where’s my hat? Indiana Jones without his hat in Temple of Doom.

That’s no Lone Ranger- that’s old Indy!

He’s evil- you can just tell. Maybe it’s the bald pate, but there’s something unsavoury about this character.

Indiana Jones and the Lost Hat.

“Go back to school, son. Adventuring’s my job description.” Shia Labeuf and Harrison Ford, in a moment of hat-snatching. Who will win?

No hat. Sorry, dude, you're not in Indiana Jones's league.

"Gods, I've had enough of this blatant posturing."

“Women don’t need hats.” Karen Allen, back in her role as Marion Ravenwood, older, and more experienced at the genteel art of confusing poor Indy beyond any hope of salvation.
And so it goes on, and on, and on.

Although the real sequence of events is that Indiana Jones first hit theatres with Raiders of the Lost Ark, then Temple of Doom, followed by The Last Crusade and finally Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Harrison Ford, Karen Allen, Sean Connery, Denholm Eliot as the absent-minded Marcus Brody, John Rhys-Davies, Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and countless others who advertised the simple, yet efficient, super-strong, ultra-enduring, tough-as-nails Hat.

What a hat, ladies and gentlemen, what a hat.
The Hat has become a symbol of Indiana Jones. Although Indiana Jones in himself was quite a character, the villains gradually grew stale, the action sequences near-predictable, and almost reminiscent of Bond (must be the girls in each movie), something remains in the franchise that’s still worth something, and it’s not the flesh and blood of all of Lucas’s and Spielberg’s underlings or the acting skills of above mentioned actors, but a small, yet immensely useful swatch of fabric stitched together to keep a cool head.

The Phantom

Dedicated to Lee Falk, who doesn't write from beyond the grave.

The Phantom is one of the best heroes I've come across, and ardent fans of the fellow will agree. In his time, the bestsellers were Mandrake, Flash Gordon, and so on, in February 1939. Lee Falk's demise in 99 took its toll on the comic world, but now The Phantom is coming over from DC comics, although I doubt it'll carry the same bite it used to under Falk's expert handling.
A few things I unearthed; the Phantom's trademark skin-tight costume and his eye-hiding mask were all new to that time, where most heroes wore trenchcoats and in case of Flash Gordon, there wasn't enough to particularize. The Spirit was the same, in typical Detective garb, and The Clock, in business attire, Mandrake in his suit and cape and top hat. What made the Phantom so special, so different? The man hailed from Bengalla in Africa, surrounded by what people thought were savages (the Bandar), assisted by a Bandar chief, Guran. Mandrake, The Spirit, and so on were all typical characters, but on the other hand, The Phantom hailed from a line of heroes, and moreover, he was seemingly immortal. Each Phantom, 20 of them to date (as the series is focused mostly on the 21st, exceptions notwithstanding) took the helm and carried out his duty.
Of course, the sexy lady was just an addendum, mostly eye candy. A few kids to establish the family man, a few animals to establish the animal man, and a lot of exercise getting around the jungle got him a cast-iron shape almost beyond human ability- but not superhuman. Why is it that he could take on mutants, gangsters, ruskies, new yorkers, smugglers, pirates, and still manage to keep control of the Jungle Patrol?
And of course, even after marriage, run into another few sexy girls at the end of the day, although his gentlemanly behaviour took him back to Diana Palmer every evening.
And his rings. Oh, god for those rings. I remember once at a circus of sorts those things were for sale, heavy bronze or steel things that had some ink smeared on them that dried in a few hours after exposure. Much like a tattoo. The Phantom's evil mark; "You are condemned".
And all the mystique that surrounded Africa at the time. And the ensemble of colourful characters that the whole series enjoyed; kings, queens, ministers, presidents, Col. Weeks. and his pipe. The treasure rooms at the cave, especially the differentiation between the "small" room and the "large". And the Phantom-head peak.
Even now, India has one of the best audiences. My resident paper at Amravati, the Hitvada, prints the Phantom daily, and let me tell you, nearly all of my friends there read it. That's the sort of popularity he enjoys.
Ah, yes, the Phantom paved the way for so many others. Now DC comics has taken over, who knows what'll come, but I know for sure, after nearly a decade of obsessing with the Phantom and his phenotypes, nothing'll match Lee Falk.
Yet to be mentioned, the Defenders of the Earth, with a 26th generation Phantom, and Phantom 2049, in New York with "Aunt Heloise".

On the other hand, Billy Zane, in the film version of The Phantom, was hardly that good. I mean, the guy may have fitted the role physically, there's a lot more to the Phantom than a skin-tight suit. Every jack-in-a-box wears one of those, look at Shekhar Suman. And a blonde Diana. The movie was pretty much a comedy of errors. The worst part was actually having to see The Phantom disrobe, take off his trenchcoat and fedora and strap on his pistols. How bad can it get? Very bad. And to top it off, there's an upcoming film tentatively titled, "The Phantom Legacy". Eminent actors such as Sam Worthington have been cast for the role. Sorry, Sammy, but the Phantom doesn't have an american accent. Last I heard, Bandar don't say "Gawd save us." 
Pity. But perhaps, just perhaps the ashes of the last film can be laid to rest. Well, I'll be waiting, and so will any other Phantom fan.


Getting a life.

My parents are at home, and as such the place is more toxic than Roswell in a rat's ass. Any excuse will do to get out. Don't take me wrong, it's not that I don't love 'em, but the fact being, it's because of the reciprocation of such that I got into so many messes. No, let me rephrase that; it's because of that love that I got caught. And if you're smart, you never get caught.
Hell, once I skipped tuition to go have sex. And I was caught. Not only did I have to deal with my parents, who didn't like me skipping tuition without a valid reason (if I'd told them why, then they'd flip, went without saying) but I also had to deal with the firebrand of a girl whom I'd kept waiting. Love's a wicked dastardly whore was my only thought at the time.
Somethings you just don't forget, they stick to you like barnacles on a whale. And the more you try to get them off, the more they itch.
Which puts me in mind for a good joke.
"A man goes to a diner, and when he finishes, he takes a dump. Now, there ain't no toilet paper in the latrine, but a sign that reads: 'wipe your arse with your fingers and stick them in the hole, they'll be licked clean,' pointing to a hole in the wall. With no other choice the guy complied, and after wiping his arse clean, sticks his fingers in the hole.
All of a sudden a guy smashes his fingers with two bricks. The guy in the latrine yelped in pain and licked his fingers."
Nice. I like such jokes. Another one, about a friend of mine who once brought a dog home, and his dad didn't like dogs.
"I once brought a dog home. Cocky, black and white, nice feller. My dad didn't like dogs.
Well, when he was in the house, he licked me until I couldn't sit down.
My dad, I mean, not the dog."
Puts things in a nasty perspective.
Another? How about a few good proverbs this time, original Confucius say style.
"It take many nails to build crib, but one screw to fill it."

"Man who stand on toilet high on pot."

"Man who fight with wife all day get no piece at night."

"Secretary not a permanent fixture until screwed on desk."

"Virginity like bubble; one prick and all gone."

"Foolish man give wife grand piano, wise man give wife upright organ."

More to be had. Collected from across the net and from my imagination. Laugh out loud.


The Urge

Almost everytime I feel I've weaned myself off the laptop, my fingers stray toward it once more. The stupid thing being most of the time I just switch it on and look around, not even playing a game or writing a novel or watching a film. Just opening a file, closing it, opening a folder, closing it, startup, shut down, reboot, restart, hibernate in no particular order. Why the urge to waste electricity and time and energy?
It's the curse of the age. We're so used to these things that spending time without them has become almost unimaginable for us. We need it to that extent. And to quote now-cliched Woody Allen: "mental masturbation."
Nothing more, nothing else. And the stupid part being that we know it's bad, and we'll still do it!
I know smoking's bad for my health, and my parents know it, so I hide it from them. I knew dope was bad when I turned up for a 11th class exam high, and failed it. I know getting TNGs is bad.
But this is far more addictive. The concept of nothing to do has a lot to do with this condition. We've even stopped thinking.
I wrote this blog because of that addiction, and it's for the same reason, right now, you're reading it.