Anime & Bollywood?!!! *the fk!
So what do Japanese Animation and Bollywood have in common?
Last week I realized something strange. I actually knew it forever but never really contemplated on it –like un-questionably everything else in my life.
Probably it’s what most of Asian cultures have in common and what western society can not pull off. Now don’t go falling off chairs. Everyone probably has nuclear weapons (my neighbor-kid is actually building something in his yard I am fearing might blow up one of these days) and stuff but that’s not what I’ll try to point out today.
I am talking about having utterly moronic dialogues with the most awesome combination of cursing words incorporated in them. If you don’t know what Anime (Japanese Animation) is, I’ll tell you right here without having any right: you suck ass… heavy ass… big, big, deep ass.
But that’s okay. Imagine Bumblebee telling Optimus to shut his *god damn* trap and go mind his own *god damn* business ‘cause he doesn’t care about some *god damn* Decepticon douche bag. No? You’re right. I can not either. I mean, I can… but it doesn’t feel right. Even if the cursing was used… it would look so impossibly stupid. Stupid as in Sonny Corleone taking anger-management classes while maintaining his crown of most shot-up movie character. It simply is not the way it was meant to be.
But this Bollywood can pull it off. Behave like morons for at least two hours. And get away with it. Hell, I my god-damn self, think it’s funny.
The accents, the cursing, the hand gestures, the “being-mad-as-hell-but-never-really-meaning-it” is gorgeous. Chi-Chi beating the living daylights out of Goku and wishing each other gruesome death and horrors no one could ever imagine with a bit of Bollywood-bravado is so beautiful.
Now try to put this all versus a German guy, telling his baby he loves the shit out of it, and to me it still sounds as if I am hearing a Nazi general ranting to the Wehrmacht.
Ja? Nein? Danke.
I am feeling incredibly uncomfortable because we have just picked up the flaming red Toyota Aygo from a place you won’t see pictures of when you type ‘Madrid’ onto Google Pictures because it was so desolated I felt like we were about to get picked up by two gorgeous women, who’d get us drunk and then take us to their boss who would sell us to have us cut open like lambs for the slaughter. A la part of the Eli Roth slasher film ‘Hostel’; Mediterranean Senorita-version.
When my chicken ass grabbed itself together we were first going to hook up with our friend living in Madrid. After we have finally arrived downtown Madrid… everything looked beautiful from behind the car window, I couldn’t enjoy any of it without a window separating us from the road-air enveloping us. Yes, Google ‘Madrid’ onto Pictures and you will no doubt see beautiful things. One of the things you will not see is the smog air that rules the roads relentlessly. But it comes as no surprise, the war of the roads is obvious here. It’s like Paris around Arc de Triomphe… a goddamn menace; kill or be killed.
NOW… FINALLY… MY SWEET SWEET BAR with SWEET SWEET SENORITAS IN IT. Or… where are the senoritas? Yes… No… Is this another sign we should head straight back to the Netherlands because something horrible is going down this trip… I’ve been waiting all day long for my Madrilen-women fetish to be developed and we arrive at an awesome club that is remarkably OPEN (we would later find out this is indeed remarkable) at a time… these people like to call… SIESTA.
Day 1 summarized; the closest I got to talking to Madrilen bombshells was when I was scared of being kidnapped by them somewhere in outer Madrid. Christ…
After we took our own siesta at the hotel. We went back to midtown at night. HooWee, I have read about the street-drinking culture here… but seeing the real thing is even more fabulous. Incredible amount of street-crowd till up to 4AM on a midweek day… And don’t worry about the occasional drunk ludacris bothering you. The Spanish Guardia Civil will smash your fucking teeth in and ask questions later when you can’t even pronounce shit after your entire denture is stuck in your throat. In the Netherlands these people only come out when there is above average civil unrest. Here in Madrid? They are strolling down the streets like they are Tony Montana himself. I have seen, with my own goddamn eyes, terrified like hell, how a man disturbed two pretty ladies and got introduced to their friend, mister Civil Guard and HIS friend; called: long, metal, tubish, police-stick that will leave you crippled and begging for mercy. Nope, out here… you don’t shout “FUCK DA PO-LICE!” in the PoPo’s face and get away with it.
After we have waited for almost two hours or so to get into a club only Italian Mafia, Spanish models and Frank Sinatra seem to get in effortlessly, we were surprised it isn’t even that big of a deal. It’s marketing. The line in front of the club is marketing. Everything is marketing. (Doh, that’s what they try to teach me at Communications.) The club really wasn’t all that… probably because the Mafia would have shot my ass if I as much as looked at a woman that could have belonged to them.
After two out of us three got a bit drunk, still had fun with some people we met at the hotel we drove back to the hotel. No, no… drinking and driving is bad. Good thing we had my sober cousin with us. This is when the real action started.
Play the YouTube video and read along to get a better vibe. Red, Red Wine – Bob Marley
This is kind of exactly how it went down.
Drunk friend: “Red, red, wiiiiiiiiinee.”
Drunk me + Drunk friend: “Gooooes to my heeeaadddd.”
Sober cousin + Drunk me + Drunk friend: “Make me forget tha-–”
Sober me: “WATCH OOOUT!”
IIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
*car screeching and spinning*
………………………
………………………
………………………
No, this is not a (wannabe-)thriller/cliffhanger/what-the-fuck-ever.
………………………
*car stops*
Seeing your life flash by in a second when you are about to go to jail for manslaughter is not what I saw. What you DO see is the life of the guy you’re just about to hit flashing before HIS eyes. While the guy is seeing his life flash by, we are shocked, thinking if we hit him or if it was one god-intervened-him*frikkin*self close call?
Sober cousin: “What?” Me and our friend look him dead-panned in the face, “he’s still standing. And what? You only live once!” as if he now could add ‘nearly killing a man’ to his list of achievements, my cousin adds.
Sober me: “I DON’T! MY HINDU-ASS IS COMING BACK REINCARNATED!”
Drunk friend: “And boooyy is karma gonna have a field day with you!”
Drunk and happy-strange-man-is-not-dead me: “Should we go say sorry?”
Drunk friend: “Yeah. Good idea.” And just when our friend wants to open his door, my cousin locks it from the driver-seat.
Sober cousin: “WHAT ARE YOU? CRAZY? What if he pulls out his gun and shoots us to death for nearly running him over?” he says, realizing his mistake we had all missed, because just as he pushes the pedal to the floor and blazes away, he is turning back onto the street. Yes, you read that correctly, ‘turning BACK onto the street.’ We were indeed driving on the sidewalk that was meant for the god, damn, PEDESTRIANS.
Man, I swear to god. We are going to drivers-license hell.
The Toyota Aygo in the corner for punishment of his wreckless behaviour, but good thing he’s red; blood-stains don’t stand out.
After that we actually drove back peacefully, having thanked god in our minds, and (too bad) sober again, getting back to Bob’s Red, Red, Wine which didn’t seem so red anymore. We were in aftershock. Boring aftershock.
The next day all was forgotten and none of it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. Because today, we are going to the Real Madrid Champions League football game. And FYI, the game is called “FOOTBALL”, not frikkin’ “SOCCER” for Christ’ sake. How on earth can one call a game FOOTball if you RUN along while the ball MOST of the time resides in, your HANDS. Now in REAL football. True to the earth European/South-American FOOTBALL (the game played by the ATHLETE OF THE CENTURY, no… not Babe Ruth or MJ… but Pele .) The ball is allowed to touch every part of your body EXCEPT the hands (save for the keeper.) The only way to move the ball is mostly through your feet. Hence the name of the game: Football. So please, for love of the game… call it football.
Although I am a Barcelona fan through heart and soul, it was a most beautiful of nights, Madrid won with four goals and the atmosphere was immensely riveting. It had one hundred times the effect of a very good movie, you NEVER know what to expect, NEVER know how it could end and the instant joy and screaming it out together with an entire stadium filled with 80.000 people in it. It was a night filled with collective euphoria. It is a thing of beauty. The entire city went nuts.
After all the city euphoria we went back to the stadium 5 o clock in the morning. I wanted to see how it felt when I was alone there. It was peaceful… much like heaven I imagine…
-To be continued…
The Girl from Ipanema
So I saw this thingy on Wendy’s (WhyMeSweetie!) blog and she would kick my ass if I didn’t play this game as well.
Cliche enough, some things strangely connect to the question. Even stranger that some are correct. But that would be grasping for straws here. So, doing this, afraid of Wendy’s wrath, it’s actually kind of supremely useless (like everything on this blog really…) but still fun… I think..
Here is what you need to do:
1. Put your MP3 player/ iPod/ itunes library on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS.
So, I put my iPod on shuffle and this is what I got;
IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY” John Tejada – Sweat(On The Walls)
HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF? Gym Class Heroes – Guilty As Charged
WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL? Rolling Stones – Sympathy for the Devil
HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY? Velvet Revolver – Gravedancer
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE? Eric Clapton – Can’t Find My Way Home
WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO? Amazonics – Let’s Spend The Night Together *Ahaha, I kid you not! Actually Wendy sent me this song =P Hellooooo! ^^
WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU? Marcus Miller (ft. Corinne Bailey Rae) – Free
WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU? Coldplay – Clocks
WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN? The Verve – Bittersweet Symphony
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE? Red Hot Chili Peppers – Under The Bridge
WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY? Sia - Buttons (Jimmy Vallance remix)
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP? Rolling Stones – Satisfaction
WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE? AC DC – Back in Black
WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING? Rolling Stones – Gimme Shelter
WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL? James Brown – Get on the Good Foot
WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST? Debussy – Clair de Lune
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR? Jamiroquai – Seven Days in Sunny June
WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET? The Verve – She’s A Superstar
WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS? Velvet Revolver – Fall to Pieces
WHAT WILL YOU POST THIS AS? Olivia – The Girl From Ipanema
Now go on, judge me (you extremely few people that will read this =P)!
A few months ago I went to Madrid with some friends. Dear God it was awesome. It’s probably a big cliché but somehow the things you didn’t expect or plan to do, make up most of the stories you tell back home.
This trip had been in the planning stages for way too long before we actually went. We never knew we would go to Madrid until a week before we booked the whole gig. First we had our mind set on Barcelona but we had all been there already and suddenly an old friend from Madrid contacted us. So, it was easy, the decision had been made; we were gonna live la vida loca in Madrid.
Because we booked a Ryanair flight and Air, R. boycotts the large airport of Holland (that’s the spirit! Goddamn money-grabbing thieves these large airports are) that’s located in the centre of our country, we had to travel way down to the corner of orange land to catch a flight. Took us 3 hours in the train without any heating and thus freezing our asses off at 5AM. This is a good start. Luckily we hadn’t gone searching for the sun. After the surprisingly few, but thorough, security checks (that’s a good idea, why not have a few dozen small airports like this one instead of one big ass tax-sucking-thieving-sons-of-bitching-whore-100%bodycheck-prone to bomb threat- airport?) we were on the plane full of annoying little children whining their asses off. Jesus Christ, you are on holiday with your parents! TAKE GODDAMN ROYAL DUTCH AIRLINES OR SOMETHING. RYANAIR IS FOR US, LOW-BUDGET STUDENTS -and young people like us-! Damn cheap ass parents with their cheap ass kids stealing our cheap ass tickets, making cheap ass us search for other cheap ass tax-free dates to fly on, I HATE CHEAP ASS YOU!
1,5 hours, Dr. Kawashima’s Brain Training, Philip Roth’s Deception and some stupid little kid with ADD laughing his ass off when I fell forward asleep making my head bump to the chair in front of me (low-price = limited seat space,) instantly scaring me awake, already praying to God we didn’t crash, later, we finally arrived at Aeropuerto de Madrid-Barajas.
”So,” I say while walking out of the building where we picked up our luggage, “what’s next?” First up, look up our rental Peugeot 206.
When we get to the Hertz-car-rental-counter at the airport we are slapped in the face by their negligence. The damn bitches don’t have any compact but roomy cars left, while we had reserved a nice 206 for ourselves! Some vacation this should be.
“So what do you have?” my calm, trying-to-be-charming, cousin asks the lady behind the counter.
Hertz-woman: “We have an Opel Vectra.”
My cousin: “What?” YEAH, WHAT?!! We don’t need a big frikkin family car dammit!
Hertz-woman: “We have BMW’s and a few Mercedes’ lined up too.”
My cousin: ”Those gas-slurping monsters?” Like Peugeot is that much better?
Hertz-woman: “I’m sorry sir.” Sorry doesn’t help us park that space-shuttle in Gran Via, you stupid twat!
My cousin: “Could you give us another Hertz-address someplace nearby. Then we’ll take the car, ride there, get us the kind of car we had reserved and leave the family-car there.”
First the woman looked stunned. Like she hadn’t got a suggestion like this one before! While I let my responsible cousin take care of the legal stuff I turn my phone on. Three voice-mails already? Jesus Christ. I immediately regretted turning the goddamn thing on. Was it my boss? My parents? My driving-instructor with whom I was supposed meet up for lessons right about now? Fuck it, I turned the thing back off. I need booze.
While I am thinking about finding us an awesome bar with sweet senoritas in it (yeah, at noon,) the Hertz-lady accepted my cousin’s offer after searching her computer-database-crap and finding us a nice red, compact yet spacious and very low-on-gas Toyota Aygo at another Hertz-office somewhere in the outskirts of Madrid. Gran Via and the café-bistro-wherever-it’s-hot will have to wait a bit.
PART 2 PREVIEW:
- 3AM in the morning, stopping for a STOP-sign and suddenly “Hola” in the most fast-paced, slutty yet extremely sophisticated, Hollywood-stripper way of voices is what we hear. Are we drunk? No… right next to our car there’s four drop-dead-gorgeous Spanish supermodels getting out of a cab. We -or rather, my cousin- return the favor, “Hola“. We’re definitely not in the Netherlands now. I LOVE MADRILEN WOMEN! – To be continued…
But also:
-Again, with my non-drinking cousin behind the wheel driving back to the hotel at 5.30AM
Drunk friend: “Red, red, wiiiiiiiiinee.”
Drunk me + Drunk friend: “Gooooes to my heeeaadddd.”
Sober cousin + Drunk me + Drunk friend: ”Make me forget tha-–” -
Slumdog Millionaire
I heard the question, “what do the kids from the slums actually get from being the subject of this film?” Whoever had asked this question was a moron. Why? Because this has been happening for all eternity, it’s called “one man’s prize is another man’s demise”. You probably are the same moron that suddenly got caught in the Chinese human-rights hype while the Olympics were held there, you MORON.
Alright. The film. Slumdog Millionaire. Definitely NOT worth 8 Oscars. Definitely NOT the best film. That honor clearly SHOULD have gone to The Dark Knight -coming from someone who thinks the earlier batman films were all a clown’s guide to the world. But of course, the Academy deems itself a group of intellectual elitists that think that a film based on a comic should not win their “prestigious” award for Best Film.
Alright, now really. Slumdog Millionaire, the film. It’s funny. The first part is funny. The children play far better than the adult actors who are obviously acting while the kids were playing. And that playing was wonderful to see. It was the first film in 2009 (the film premiered February 2009 in the Netherlands) which actually made me laugh. Even though I myself had never dropped into a lake of human-droppings because a famous actor visited the village and I got trapped in the crap-hole, it seemed so horribly familiar -which represents the success of this film. I had never experienced any of the stuff that happened in the film, yet it all felt as if I was taking a stroll down memory lane. We follow the struggle the kids have for a while and we witness the splendidness with which they act out on their street-smarts.
The second part of the film, which follows the lives of the aforementioned kids in later life, failed miserably. It ruined the film while making me yawn and kept me waiting for the next hilarious scene to come by. Sadly, it never came. The film by now has turned into a Hollywood cliché-machine. The focus of the film should have stayed on the bright side of a dark life. Instead it tried to show both, which never worked out.
Maybe the Oscar for best soundtrack was the correct one. Still a must-see, the first part of the film makes it worth it. Feel fine tuning out after the kids of the film have grown up.
But of course, the best steersmen are ashore.
-yes, it’s so wrong, i know-
Here a not-so regular simplified or overanalyzed and hopefully completely out-of-context review of some book you should or shouldn’t read. Or to read about some flick you hate and everyone around you loves.
Oh, and I try to keep it short.
Clichés & Horseracebetting
So I know I haven’t entered the blogosphere for almost two months now and I’ve committed some serious blog-blasphemy by doing so, but inspiration has been running low because of the immense shitload of schoolprojects they now have quadrupled -the people who have invented this new weapon of mass destruction are most definetely going to university hell where they will be forced to relive their highschool-childtrauma’s (which cause them to punish US when they got the power) for all eternity. So according to the motto: “minimum input, maximum output” I’m trying to manouvre towards that degree while escaping the wrath of the competition-based-schoolsystem.
Anyways, what happend in the meantime? Good Lord, a black man became president… or did he? No, he did not… as South-Americans like to point out, he is a halfblack president. Eitherway, as numerous great speakers have already concluded, this is certainly not a victory belonging to “the black man” but it is a victory belonging to mankind. Yes, we are all very big fans of the very big cliché and this very big one I also could not let pass.
Another disturbing phenomena has sucked me in; horserace-betting. I’ve been introduced to it by people who haven’t got the slightest idea of how susceptive to addiction I am to one of these wonders of irrationality called gambling. I made myself believe this kind of betting is good because you yourself decide whether you win or lose -like in sports matches. Apply a little bit of statistics to your decision and voila, you are a rich man -are you? The reality of things is different however, and as addicted as I got… I have no fucking idea WHY!
I never stood a chance. The first time I remember seeing a picture of this old man with weird cheeks and a rose inside his suit’s jacket-pocket was when I was attending pre-school and was in love with my blonde, blue-eyed prototype Scandinavian goddess-teacher. Inevitably, the first time I actually saw The Godfather I was not even 10 years old. No.. I never had a chance at seeing the world as a normal un-influenced presence of innocence.
Just before I went to high school, the first thing I really took to heart was (part II’s) Don Michael Corleone’s ‘one of many things his father -the man with the weird cheeks- taught him’ in what used to be his father’s office, ”keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.” It was the one thing that served me most during my 5 years of seeing naïve young girls evolving in drop-dead gorgeous women; watching bitches turn into ladies and ladies into bitches; watching so called *best-friends* outgrow and ignore each other… yes, I kept my friends close, my enemies closer and it kept me from: ever falling in love and subsequently never getting my heart broken; ever feeling a dagger in my back (or front if it were *true* friends according to Mr. Wilde); not knowing where I stand or having even the slightest doubt of manipulating the next ‘one’. Yes… Don Corleone sure had my back.
I still have to pay this decade’s protection money, so next time I’m gonna pay my respects, remastered blu-ray style.
Thank you, Mario Puzo.
Thank you, Francis Ford Coppola.
Thank you, Marlon Brando.
Thank you, Al Pacino.
Which side are YOU on?
AGAIN, with the fucking Sarah Palin news items. For you peoples living in the US of A it might be good to know you-know-who did you-know-what etc. etc.. Obama is gonna rock anyway (and if he don’t.. the whole world will watch and look how America is more fascist than Mussolini’s Italy –AGAIN.) But please, for all of us outside of the US, who can’t vote ANYWAY, please… every non-american-self respecting-newsbringer, PLEASE stop with the Sarah Palin Spamming! Because who actually cares? Who.. truly, sincerely, gives, a fuck?!
If you are part of the large X percentage of Mother Earth’s inhabitants that do, then I urge you to reconsider what side you are on. Chances are: you people go to work or school every day; you do what ur teacher or boss commands you to do; weekends you go out drinking beer, fucking around -whatever; soon enough ur gonna marry, have kids and go to work… still; you save up all year long to sit your lazy ass down on some caribbean beach for three weeks -and brag about it to your sad, sad network who do the sad same thing. You continue this godforsaken cycle through your life till you retire when you perhaps enjoy the youthfulness of your grandchildren, regretting the things you did not do before you were 65. Ain’t the old man looking at the grass that’s greener on the other side?
Life is not complicated, people MAKE life complicated. So what if you drink cocktails for breakfast?… So what if you screw around until ’the one’ passes by and jails your little bird?… I know we are the puppets and there are some strange men pulling the strings. I know there are some strange men plotting behind the throne which the king or queen sits that royal ass on (or just some little guy pushing some buttons).. I scam and manipulate my way through life, I know karma has the all-seeing-eye (that’s right! karma also sees me helping old ladies cross the street trying to avoid some final destination wrath karma has precision-planned for my sins.) So please… kiss your momma goodnight when you can, pay 1000 dollars and actually see the country (not the country’s beach), and although one man can’t change anything (no, the Dude, FUCKING.. can NOT –unless your are like.. filthy, disgustingly rich and Grand Master of the Illuminati) be aware of the power you wield on your contemporaries and use it for good (uhuh…) (no, the dark side doesn’t have sweeter cookies). From this side, our side, wave gently to the old man staring at your green, green perfect suburbanly cut-grass… and please.. for christ’ sake… SPARE US THE SARAH PALIN SOAP OPERA!
Politics and Women? Wtf!
Well, politics is not only “Why America is ready for a black president”. Politics is everything. Yes, everything. And women, well.. they are the reason we bother anyway.
Women… the first woman I ever met was, indeed, my mother. The one and only woman who knows when I lie to her face, and who knows when I’ve been out drinking all night -she got that freaky uterusconnection with my mind. Whilst threatening me with horrible torture and death if I ever hurt the feelings of a girl, there are only so many things she can catch me lying about -and “girls” is not one of them although she sometimes randomly asks if I got a girl pregnant (she really lives for the surprise-sneak-attack.) The first and last time she ever asked me why I do not bring a nice girl with me back home and if she should search me a nice girl I answered, “sure… if you could also make sure she leaves in the morning, we all good!” That’s now my standard comeback line when my aunts stalk me with questions about getting married on the wedding day of one of the members of my big ass family. Almost (just) 20 and getting harrassed with marriage, where is the world coming to?!
The other side of my sweet mother encourages me to never get married, and just make a career of which only she (and not some strange woman who I will call “Wifey”) can reap benefits from. And if that is out of the question, she even told me she’d have no problem if I ”become part of the Gay Man society” so she’ll never have to worry about some incompetent daughter-in-law… a sweet woman indeed. Rebellious young man (boy) that I am, I have bode farewell to “I am never getting married.” With the sole reason being that I’d like to have children in some far, distant future who I can completely terrorize into never having children themselves (which they will have -as social security or financial investments.) And well, I don’t want no bastards calling my offspring bastards… so marriage is kinda not out-of-the-question… goddamn politics!
