Tiny Little Fractures

A philosophical hobbit, but I’m just better looking…much better looking (from here)

Well dogfight detagged me, but RD, indyana and Pissu tagged me (I think that was it). So umm…here goes. Of course seven facts barely make up the convoluted individual that I am, so feel free to judge or even condemn.

1. I appear to have this knack of making people laugh, mostly girls. Don’t ask me why but I’m not blowing my own horn here (that would be one-handed as opposed to two handed) but its something I constantly get told. It’s also strange because my humour is, well, fairly offensive. I reckon its because I tend to talk more to random girls than guys (though after our last session at Bob’s diner R may digress with me on this fact). I do love those moments though when something happens and the perfect comment comes out of my mouth and the results have everybody rolling around on the floor, even the subject of the joke.
2. I detest people who think that their worldviews are somehow better than mine. Now don’t get me wrong, if I have a notion that is wrong and someone points this out to me and provides me with supporting evidence I have no problem admitting my mistake. Hey every day’s a learning experience isn’t it? Let me provide an example to make it easier, if someone doesn’t believe in pre-marital sex that’s fine, I respect that. I believe in it and attempt to engage in it at every opportunity presented (which to be honest is not saying much). If someone however thinks that they are superior to me just because they don’t engage in it then that’s a load of bollocks. Personal belief vs. arrogance. 
3. Everyday I wonder what I missed out in life by not having a father, seeing my mother a handful of times in nine years and my sister once in the same time period. I might be a different person now and I just wish I knew how I would have been different.
4. I’m a pretty calm person, I rarely panic or get angry (I bitch and get loud, but not angry). I’ve fallen into rapids and kept my nerve, I’ve had a car crash at 80mph and kept my nerve, last night there was a 4.5 Richter earthquake here. I made sure my Lanting print didn’t fall off the wall onto my head and then went back to sleep. If you do piss me off though don’t be surprised if I try and stomp on your head until it splits or crack you over the head with the nearest bottle (two things incidently, that I have done).
5. I love to read and (this is rather eerily similar to Pissu) I have a love for South Asian authors, especially Romesh Gunasekera who’s Reef is probably my all time favourite book. I’m not sure what it is but there is something hauntingly familiar in a good South Asian’s writing. It’s sometimes difficult to see that we have meaning in our lives and reading stories like Reef lets us to look into ourselves in way I guess. That said I also love Tolkien, maybe I’m just a philosophical hobbit in denial. 
6. I’m still trying to figure out whether I’m doing the right thing by not moving to Sri Lanka right now. I know what my dream is but either I’m scared of following it or I’m slowly working my way to it. I’m not really sure, I guess time will tell.
7. I’m an island boy at heart. There’s nothing more enjoyable to me than sitting by a warm tropical Indian ocean with a cold Reserve and coke in one hand, Bounty scratching his bald head and sweating copiously, R adjusting himself and pouring huge drinks, CP mumbling unclearly, Evil being Evil and R akki saying something silly to entertain me. Also a nice, slim, dark, brown baduwa would be nice to put line to as well. Oh yeah and a spectacular sunset. And a camera, to take lovely candids of the aforementioned brown girl. That would be nice. 

So yeah that’s seven random, somewhat deep, somewhat irreverent things about me. I didn’t dwell on my flaws because…well…if you read this blog then you know them already.

Hmm…there’s really noone left to tag is there? Well lets see, Darwin, Evil, Spectral, Cerno, drac (hehe…I couldn’t resist), Manshark and Nirmal.

I’m open minded, not sure I’m this open minded though

Thankfully this statement, generally delivered in a disapproving tone is rarely directed at me. Well it may well be directed at me when I’m not around but I sincerely hope not. The statement with its disapproving tone is generally uttered by a female friend or family member. What’s surprising when it’s uttered by the family members is that my family is internationalized to say the least, there are French, Welsh, English, Black, American members of the family as well as someone who I think is a Czechoslovakian, though I could be mistaken with religions ranging from Buddhist, Catholic, Protestant, Born Again (my personal favourites because of the utter craziness exhibited) and even a Muslim. 

But for all this UN-like multiculturalism, there appears one thing the ladies in the family have an aversion to and that’s Sri Lankan guys. This is especially true for the Sri Lankan girls who were born in Sri Lanka but have lived here for some time. And the aversion is also shared by a number of female acquaintances I have of Sri Lankan origin. I think it’s almost subconscious on some of their parts because they start bitching out the species in front of me and appear quite surprised when I, naturally, put my hand up and protest.

The sad truth is though, the reasons they give for their dislike seem to be true, that they are insecure and controlling. I personally have my doubts that this is a solely Sri Lankan attribute but I have seen a number of Sri Lankan guys who do fit the bill of controlling. They don’t like their girls dressing nice, going out by themselves, working, making more money than them or on some memorable occasions they attempt to hit you over the head with a pool cue for talking to them.

I’m a bit peeved with this though, both the generalization and the behaviour of the said chaps. For one thing the former means that a lot of brown girls simply dismiss me out of hand because I’m brown. Sure tell me to fuck off because I’m arrogant, cocky and have an inappropriate sense of humour (though this list is far from exhaustive) but at least let me piss you off with my attitude as opposed to the colour of my skin and the expectations that arise from it. 

Also I’m pissed with the guys, they need to chill out for one. I personally like an independent woman, one who works, has friends to hang out with and does her own thing. Primarily because I have so much crap going on in my life and don’t foresee that changing for the next couple of decades that I don’t have a lot of time to devote to a relationship. Also if she goes out with her mates then I can go out with my friends and I don’t really mind the gf flirting a bit, because then I can. 

The key element in a relationship is trust, she has to know that even though I may flirt (lets be honest, sometimes it helps getting stuff done, from getting tickets changed to real estate records recorded) I would never, ever do anything more (unless I run into Jessica Alba, then all bets are off), and I would expect the same for her. Else I wouldn’t be (hypothetically speaking) in the relationship. Also I prefer the girls I’m with looking sexy, for one thing I’m easily bored and the better she dresses the less I have to drink (I’m kidding, no I really am) and she can dance, flirt with anyone she wants, because at the end of the day she’d be coming home with me, while all the poor sods who thought they were getting some have to go home to their cold, lonely beds. The best part of course is that while she dances with some other guys that leaves me to have a chat with the buddies and try and deplete the national reserves of Reserve.

So in short I have two appeals, one is to the anal retentive guys (Sri Lankan and others), chill out…you’re giving guys like me a bad name and reducing my chances of getting hitched (or laid for that matter) to a nice brown girl. And to the girls, give a brown guy a break, I’m chill, I really am. Also I have absolutely, absolutely no problem with you making more money than I do…if you’re worried about that.

I used to be a party starter, as R put it once I was the kind of person who could start a party in Antarctica, just needed some vodka and a couple of cans of RedBull. And the boy was my partner in crime, the ultimate wingman. We used to be good, roll into Clancy’s, pour ourselves some 75’s and head out on the hunt, him with his killer smile, me with my humour. A plethora of girls passed before us, most of them I can’t remember, just nicknames like Dead Fish, White Top, etc (well actually I can only remember one, N, who’s actually a good mate now despite her irrational want for me to walk on the beach after I’ve consumed 10 pounds of seafood and two bottles of wine…yeah, never gonna happen!).  Even when not on the hunt, we still enjoyed ourselves, a bottle of Blavod and we were on the tables at Glo, rocking until the early hours of the morning. We didn’t leave anybody behind either, K, Chinky Pinky, the Akkis all enjoyed themselves, Evil started smoking again, Bounty used to have to find himself a new job every time we came down and rebuild his reputation every time we left. But from the beach , to the Blue, to Glo, Holiday Inn and the early morning drives on Galle Road it was a blast…

But somewhere along the line we lost it, going out became more escapism than enjoyment. Pouring a drink is more pressing the button of self destruction, not that either of us are alcoholics since we don’t drink alone or all the time. But for me personally partying is not about having fun anymore, it’s about forgetting what sucks in life for a brief moment. Case in point, my penultimate night at home, my issues were 20% girl, 60% illness in the family and the rest the prospect of leaving what makes me, me behind on a 10,000 mile trip in couple of days. It was supposed to be quiet drinks at Buba, mostly because I was trying to sort the girl out, but that didn’t happen. 

So I pressed the self-destruct button, a couple of quick texts to Akki to find out how Hikka was and to do some discreet convincing calls to P and Bounty. I tried to get Evil involved but apparently he was too busy entertaining his harem. One hour, some insane driving, a fruitless search for an open hotel for P to pee in (apparently because he can’t leak on the road) and Poot’s rather endearing incredulity about the fact that we were actually going to Hikka and we were walking into Mambo’s.

Money handed to P 

Get me a vodka red bull

Gulp, gulp 

Another please?

Machang chill 

Don’t worry dude, it’s under control

What followed was pure escapism, I forgot the girl, the family, dealing with issues from 10,000 miles away and impending exile. All I was aware of was the alcohol sparkling in my bloodstream, Akki grinning away, Loo pulling on my hair, kupadi grin at a hot girl in a red top, gal look back, Indian girl in a skirt, Maldivian girl drunk off her head, etc.

Three hours or so of vodka, white rum and Old Reserve straight from the bottle and I ended up on the roof of P’s car being handfed onion rotti by Akki, almost killing Poot over a chocolate rotti, getting stuck in the window of the car trying to crawl in and then passing out on the way back on S’s shoulder. 

It was a night that will probably go down in the annals of the crew as being one that was completely off the hook, but to me there will always be something wrong about that night. I fuelled the fire and was as Bounty put it when I asked him whether the night was entertaining, I was the ‘entertainment.’ But it wasn’t about fun for me, it was about self-destructing, escaping. Even now when I laugh about what I got up to that night, my laugh echoes hollow.

I have to stop pressing that button and learn to deal, somehow. The first step I took in Sri Lanka last year, for better or worse. This year I deleted all the girls I don’t want to know anything about, remember who they, don’t give a shit about from my phonebook (I didn’t really delete the girl’s number because I doubt that chapter is closed, well I don’t want to close it just yet I guess).

It’s time to get real I guess.

                                                                                    

That gripe aside, Vodka, RedBull and cold medication when mixed produced a very odd kind of buzz for both me and R. I was a bit better than him and considering our other companion A, my flatmate has a fair inability to chat up (read, no balls) I was pretty much flying solo. Hooking up in clubs is not a game I really like playing anymore, mostly because of the fact I’m on the run down to 30 now and my SL mind-fuck has made me want to at least attempt to behave. I try it on and off here simply because there really is no alternative. We never seem to meet cool people who are our ‘dial’ to hang out with, much less attractive, fun girls to profess our undying affection to (or something to that effect). So trying the hook/chat-up game is usually the only option left this side of the Indian Ocean to at least keep ourselves entertained on a night out.

Now the ‘game’ is essentially a numbers one, both in terms of volume of girls approached and dialing digits obtained. Getting numbers is actually pretty easy (or used to be at least) as my overstuffed contact list on my phone will attest to. The problem is actually remembering who the hell the numbers belong to visually. Was it the big brown eyed girl or the horrendous fugly friend is an eternal question I face the next morning? Thus I actually rarely call girls back when I get their numbers, its usually more entertaining to go out and get some new ones. Getting laid is a whole other equation and this is where volume really comes into it, I figure a hit rate of about 5% for the first step in hooking up assuming you are somewhat picky. If you are willing to stick your tongue down the throat of the nearest rhino regardless of the chance of catching herpes then your batting average will be significantly better, but assuming you have some vestige of self respect this really shouldn’t come into the equation, OK, occasionally you can take one for the team, but only once in a blue moon! 

Anyways back to the numbers, so for every 100 attractive girls you approach, five should give you some kind of action on first contact. Around 50-75 will give you their number/email address of which maybe 10 will return your call. I figure this is because when they sober up they really can’t remember which one of the umpteen guys who hit on them you are. The numbers aren’t pretty, I’m assuming having a Ferrari, a bank account the size of Sri Lanka’s GNP or looking like Brad Pitt helps, but I’m just an average guy and it can get frustrating.  You just have to first grow some monster sized balls, learn the gift of the gab, know what shots to order and get ready to deal with rejection. Trust me it never gets truely easy, but getting shot down always makes for some good laughs the next morning, while the opposite, well is quite nice.

Here’s the thing though, I used to be fairly decent at this enterprise but recently my mojo seems to have deserted me. I approach, engage the gift of the gab and get good responses but for some odd reason I actually FORGET to get a number. Last night I chatted up around three, one of whom seemed to reciprocate interest, one looked straight through me and the other giggled shyly and averted her gaze (this being an Indian party I figured I’d give that one a wide berth). With the one who was interested I vaguely remember a confused look sweep across her face when I begged her leave to head back to my mates. Now if this was a one-off I wouldn’t be too worried, but I’ve been doing this consistently for the last few months and I’ve just realized today that I’ve seen that look of confusion all too often. All in all not a good trend to forget something so BASIC in the game, even if it is on some level done consciously. I think I’m going to make getting Sasha’s (I’m really hoping that’s her name) number my number one priority for next weekend, Sip here I come, to find my mojo.

P.S. The Lovefest event itself rocked, await pictures on Flickr when I go pro, hopefully this week.

Just read this article titled ‘Cinema goers continue to be duped by cheap sex films’ by Jatila Karawita in the Weekend Standard and I’m so peeved! The main gist of the article is that the author bemoans the prevalence of cheap, adults only movies in Sri Lanka and ‘tries’ to make the case for what she calls “quality big screen entertainment”. Now the main reason I’m so pissed of by this bloody article is that towards the end of it she singles out “Sulanga Enu Pinisa” for criticism due to graphic sex scenes and other sinhala films which ‘gasp’ have “full frontal nude scenes”. Now I haven’t seen this movie yet cos it’s banned here but I’m assuming it should qualify as ‘quality’ because it won Camera d’Or.

It’s evident from this that the author equates “quality movies” with squeaky clean no sex movies. This Victorian attitude towards sex is one of the qualities of Sri Lankans that really pisses me off. What could have been an eloquent case for improving the lot of cinema goers in this country instead is simply a rehashing of the bloody conservative mindset that pervades this country. No mention is made against the censorship imposed on “Sulanga Enu Pinisa” despite the NFC chairman being quoted as saying he wants to “urge film importers to bring down award-winning pictures from reputable movie markets.” So I’m assuming Monsters Ball, Boys Don’t Cry, etc would not qualify as quality, sex is natural, yes what they show in cinemas these days is crude and exploitative but I don’t see the point of condemning films just because they have sex in them, stupid bastards.