Monky D. Luffy

Here is something you might find interesting, if you’re a fan of One Piece.

A few days ago, my son asked who I liked more -- Monkey D. Luffy or Roronoa Zoro.

Instinctively, I said Roronoa Zoro, because he’s cool, and he’s sort of a badass with three (not two) swords. But, almost immediately, I thought about it, and my answer changed. I liked Luffy a lot more, really.

This isn't the kind of thing you need to hear in this newsletter. But I have nothing to write about this month, and this seems like a perfectly acceptable thing to talk about when you have nothing to talk about.

Anyway…

Monkey D. Luffy.

I’m not a fan of One Piece.

I know people who have read all the manga and watched all the anime, have now also watched the Netflix shows, and have probably read all the One Piece slash fan fiction available online.

Sadly, I am not one of these people.

I have not watched the anime, nor read the manga, nor have I consumed one piece in any shape or form. I have watched only the Netflix show and I have absolutely loved it.

Coming back to what my son asked me – I liked Luffy more because, of late, I’ve started to like optimistic characters.

Luffy is optimistic. He tackles his problems with a brightness that’s enviable. He’s earnestness. He’s happy.

Zorro, on the other hand, is serious. He’s bad ass. He’s a damn good swords man, yeah, but he’s quite. He’s, somewhat intimidating.

Luffy is someone you can have a drink with.

Zorro is someone you want by your side, if a fight ever breaks out.

It’s the same with Batman and Superman.

For a very long time, I’ve really, really liked Batman. I suspect I still do.

He’s dark, he’s brooding, he’s an excellent combatant, has plans upon plans for every scenario you can think of, he’s cunning, he’s calculating, and underneath it all, he’s a good man.

Superman, on the other hand, is optimistic (yeah, I know, he can afford to be). He’s noble. He’s a bright beacon of hope.

For a few years now, I’ve started to like Superman a little more than Batman.

I like the Flash as well, because of all the science fiction adventures he has, sure, but, also because of all the optimism that’s bursting out of all the Flash comics. At least, when he’s married to Linda Park.

And I think I know why this has happened.

I’m maturing. I’m growing up and appreciating things that aren’t cool, but things that are actually valuable, things that you appreciate when you think about human relationships.

Or, maybe overtime, I’ve grown senile and think all people are essentially good and all life is bright and optimistic and things usually work out for everyone.

But, life isn’t all good for almost everyone.

Life is horrible.

It’s dark, it’s twisted, it’s completely screwed up, and I hope we don’t get lost in the darkness that is sure to come, but I can’t do anything about it.

Because, essentially, we’re all fucked.

Life, Death, and the Things in Between

A close relative passed away quite recently and that got me thinking about death.

When we die, there’s no ‘soul’ that emerges and heads up to heaven, from where we sit on chairs (chairs in heaven, do you know how ridiculous that sounds? Are there carpenters there who sit and make chairs and tables for people? Or do you snap your fingers and a chair just appears? If so, can you snap and make anything appear, like a shirt, and pants, and can it just snap a new soul into existence?), looking down at the people who are still alive, and cheer them on.

We’re not sent to hell either, where a demon stabs you in the eye if you aren’t complying with their punishments.

We die, and that’s that.

Your kids, your partner, perhaps close friends, they’ll remember you from time to time. They’ll continue living their lives, remembering you occasionally, but they’ll move on, eventually forgetting you entirely.

You may think you’re special, and perhaps you are. But, in two, perhaps three generations, you’ll be forgotten.

You’ll have amounted to nothing.

And, for all intents and purposes, you are nothing.

That’s a depressing thought.

Perhaps that is why people need religion, to continue living normally. The idea of a god, of your own soul existing beyond death, that comforts people and lets them continue living lives, lets them continue making money, having kids, having their kids deal with existential questions, and then retiring, and eventually dying.

I, thankfully, am not one of these people. I do not believe our ‘souls’ continue living, I do not believe in god, and I’m too dead inside to really notice how depressing life really is. Hey, I’m listening to Rose and Bruno Mars belt out APT (which is a drinking game, by the way) as I’m typing this thought out. If there was ever any evidence required to illustrate this point…

My point is, life is meaningless.

Truly, entirely, meaningless.

Nothing you do matters.

So, don’t burn the place down, because others live here too, but throw bottles at the wall, pick your nose and wipe the boogers on the underside of that sofa in your boss’ office, make art, make science (wait, do you make science, or does science make you?), make love, make a face, make do with what you have, and try to help people along, if you can.

Otherwise, just, take care of yourselves.

Infinite Space

 

Since the 1960s, about 55 missions have been launched to the planet of Mars. Of which, only half have successfully landed. That's a mission every year, very roughly.

Just goes to show how horrendous space travel is right now.

Imagine how much more work needs to go in to actually map all of our solar system, and manage to do it quickly. After that, we can probably work on getting out of our solar system. Then travel many, many solar systems, until we encounter alien life.

Once we encounter these alien life forms, we get to know if they’re good to us, or if they’re hostile, or completely uninterested in forming any sort of bond with us.

I don’t think any of this will happen in our lifetimes. Or even our great, great, great, great, grand children’s lifetimes.

For the little people like you and me, it’s probably best to just continue fighting over imaginary slights like religion, and land, and hurt sentiments.

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Published originally in the newsletter that I send out monthly. If you wish to subscribe to it, here's a link.

Space Missions and Everyday Problems

Since the 1960s, about 55 missions have been launched to the planet of Mars. Of which, only half have successfully landed. That's a mission every year, very roughly.

Just goes to show how horrendous space travel is right now.

Imagine how much more work needs to go in to actually map all of our solar system, and manage to do it quickly. After that, we can probably work on getting out of our solar system. Then travel many, many solar systems, until we encounter alien life.

Once we encounter these alien life forms, we get to know if they’re good to us, or if they’re hostile, or completely uninterested in forming any sort of bond with us.

I don’t think any of this will happen in our lifetimes. Or even our great, great, great, great, grand children’s lifetimes.

For the little people like you and me, it’s probably best to just continue fighting over imaginary slights like religion, and land, and hurt sentiments.

The People Who Shaped Rock

 

I was young. It was the 90s, and I’d just gotten into college, and the most interesting thing going on in my life was the women I was talking to.

 

Ugh!

 

That’s a lie.

 

I didn’t talk to girls.

 

I didn’t have any interesting stories.

 

I was an idiot, and I barely did anything interesting with myself.

 

But there was this one girl I’d talked to. She was the bassist of a band, and she asked me what music I listened to.

 

“Rock music,” I blurted out. “Metallica”.

 

She gave me a look.

 

I didn't even like Metallica.

 

That night I rummaged through my tape stash and found seven tapes, two of which were rock albums -- Metallica and Bryan Adams. I didn’t really liked the Metallica album, and I’d just bought Bryan Adams because everyone else had bought it. Nice collection of rock music.

 

It’s also advisable to forget what the other five tapes were.

 

My next run in with rock music was in the most unusual of places – a cousin’s house in South India. Unusual, because I don’t think of my family and, by extension, my native place as cool.

 

My cousin had a butt load of tapes, but only two of them were rock albums -- Def Leppard's Vault and Iron Maiden’s The X-Factor.

 

I spent hours listening to both of them on my walkman. Vault was nice, but what really caught my attention was Iron Maiden’s The Sign of the Cross. I was floored. Chanting, guitars screaming in rage, Blaze Bayley singing a really haunting tune. So good!

 

At the time, the rest of the tracks on the tape didn’t impress me as much. As I grew up I appreciated them, but back then Sign of the Cross was the best god damn thing I’d ever heard.

 

I returned home determined to save money and buy more tapes. According to my calculations, I could buy three tapes in two months if I saved all my allowance.

 

I, of course, had the self control and patience of a three year old. The money went out as quickly as it came in. No, quicker. I’d buy Ninja Turtles stickers, or chocolates or I’d push it down the arcade and play side scrollers and fighting games.

 

According to my new calculations, I could afford three tapes in a year.

 

That's when Vicky, a boy from the society complex I lived in, decided he wanted to get rid of all the tapes he owned. It was a huge plastic bag filled with goodies like Megadeth, Iron Maiden, Slaughter, Metallica, Pantera, Guns and Roses, and a bunch of other bands.

 

This was one of those epic moments in your life, one of those moments that changes your life completely, a turning point in your life, music-wise.

 

I don’t know what would have happened, had I not stumbled upon that huge ass collection of tapes, had Vicky decided not to give up his collection. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been listening to Rock Music almost twenty tears since. Or maybe I would. Maybe I would find a way to it eventually. But that’s when I began to love music.

 

I heard Bruce Dickinson, the Voice of Iron Maiden, scream. He screamed like there was no tomorrow. It was haunting, and it was probably the best voice I'd ever heard till date.

 

And he laughed like the Devil would.

 

Over the years, I moved on from Iron Maiden and Megadeth to Motley Crue, Static X, Papa Roach, Blink 182, Rob Zombie, and the bizarre Frankenstein Drag Queens From Planet 13 (which is a very good band I might add). But I always kept coming back to Maiden, and Megadeth. For me, these were the classics, the ones that introduced and named Rock music for me.

 

Twenty years later, I'm sitting in a bus, ear phones stuck so far into my ears, I can barely hear what the streets sound like. I have a smile on me, and I think people might be giving me weird looks.

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

What matters was the song.

 

I'm humming to myself, barely able to stop myself from screaming out loud.

 

It's Herculean task.