actuality.log

… after the Oasis gig.

Clearly, the concert was one of the more intense experiences of my life. Like I said, I’d surprisingly easily made my way to Manchester. The concert was at this huge stadium (where football games and such usually take place), and leaving the station, I had absolutely no difficulty finding it—just followed the path littered with ticket scalpers.

I made it there by 4:30, the gates having opened by 3:00 or so. It was about 20-30% full at that time, and all sorts of no-name (and semi-named) bands were busy keeping the audience awake. The most notable ones being the Coral, who, though cool, are seriously overrated. In a little while, I met James and Stewart—a totally inappropriate story, for a later time.

Now moving along, as the no-name bands got more recognizable, crowds started filling the arena. Tens… hundred? of thousands, lost in this sea of Oasis fandom goodness. By 9 or so in the evening, it was beyond packed.

People EVERYWHERE. All (drunk and smoking) and/or (doing drugs). (You need to parse the Boolean algebra on that sentence carefully). The mood was insanely… passionate. Things started with people throwing these big colourful beach balls, then empty beer cups, then cups full of beer, then shirts, then PEOPLE.

It was intense, and Oasis hadn’t even come on yet.

<sidetrack>
I was sitting close to one of the hottest woman I’ve seen, in a figure hugging one piece dress that barely came down to her upper thigh. And it kept riding up even higher as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. Anyway, in these few hours, she’s been sitting all calm and ridiculously gorgeous, continuously drinking and smoking, while her boyfriend (?) is all over her, constantly kissing her knees and thighs in between sips of beer. And then, it happens—she pukes like 4 pints of beer and passes out. He ends up embarrassed and has to carry her out of there.

She didn’t look too pretty then. And Oasis hadn’t even come on yet.
</sidetrack>

Around 9, Oasis comes on, and the crowd goes fucking insane—and the sea of thronging fans flow toward the stage, only a steel, concrete and bouncer barricade separating them from the band. And then, it happens—the teeming masses break down the barricade and Oasis, who’d barely started playing stopped in the interest of crowd safety.

“If one of you gets injured, it’ll show up on a T-shirt on your way out.”

While things were paused waiting for the stewards to fix the barricade, Liam suggests the crowd keeps itself entertained by singing Oasis songs to themselves—but the crowd has other ideas. For the next half an hour, pretty women were desperately climbing anyone’s shoulder they could get on, so the camera (which was hovering over and through the crowds) would catch them, and they could flash their breasts.

This, ladies and gents, is entertainment. Half an hour of young, pretty women (and eeek, some old ones and SOME MEN) screaming hysterically and going topless.

Anyway 9:30, everything’s fixed and the band begins to play. The crowd goes to a new level of insane, me included. Jumping wildly, stripping, dancing, screaming lyrics and generally going berserk. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody died in a stampede or two. They played many old favourites, and a few tracks from their new album “Don’t believe the truth”.

I thought it was all awesome, but an objective observer I am not.

Much later, close to midnight, they were done and as the huge-ass speakers and strobe lights calmed down, people flowed out of the stadium. I then ended back at the station (the details of which are elaborated in a separate story) to find the last train to London was long gone. I decided to, like a 1000 or other so people, camp out at the station for 8 or whatever hours until the first train next morning.

I’m writing this up instead of going to sleep.

Because it was fucking awesome, and I’m not sleepy.

There is much confusion in London, but I am fine (not like you care).

And I’m not in London. Updates will follow when I get access to the internet, as in properly. For now, delineate is your best option, as I’ve uploaded pictures there, which will show up over the next 10-12 days or so.

Here is where I am now, in case you’re curious.

It’s freaking awesome. Enjoy.

I know you’re all eager to hear about the gig, but that’s still being typed up. Also, these posts have been “posted” at some arbitrary point when I have had access to the internet, and will appear once-a-day to once-in-few-days, automatically. If, at some point, it looks like I’m being rude by continuing to post without responding to your comments—you know why.

One of the other perks of being delayed a day was to get to spend another day with mum. This gave us the chance to talk (some more), and the kinds of topics that eventually arose were absolutely hilarious. Now, brace yourselves for this (swallow that liquid you’re tasting and re-tasting, NOW!), and don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Apparently, (really) random people have been getting in touch with her—wanting to know what plans she has for her “nice” son, now that he is of “marriageable age”.

(Apparently, once the word’s out that you’ve crossed puberty, anything’s game. On a side note, I still haven’t found my Adam’s apple after much searching.)

No seriously, I could be a serial psychopath or an axe murderer for all they know. Just how the hell do they come to the conclusion I’m “nice”? Better yet, even if I am “nice”, why would that imply I would be ready for, or even want to, marry their daughters? It doesn’t stop there, they’re apparently eager with numerous details—starting with the usual ones like “how qualified they are” down to the more abstruse “check out my daughter’s complexion”.

Apart from the obvious “stop stalking my son”, slamming phones and so on, my calm demeanor resulted in being asked, “Oh, so H, what should I do about these calls?”. I contemplated the most obnoxiously humourous answer I could pull off; you know the one going something like, “Only innies, no outies, no flat-filed nails, only tapered…” and much much more.

My real answer however, I leave to your imagination to conjure up.

I’m still quite amazed at how easy it’s all been so far. I think I’ve handled things rather nicely. Me, the sheltered kid who’s had his bed made for him for over 20 years of his life.

A SNAFU resulting in having nowhere to go from the airport, I figured out and reserved a room at a B&B in central London—one that I could actually afford—and made my way to it (with luggage) using public transport. I later caught up with “friends of friends” (much more on this later), borrowed keys to a friends place to crash at, and picked up tickets to Oasis’ gig at Manchester.

I am now (again, with no help from anyone) on my way to Manchester Piccadilly, huge self-satisfied grin on my face, tickets for the show in my hands.

Now I can see what the Indian train system is modelled after and hopes to emulate. It feels just about the same—the way the tracks are laid, the demarcation of stations, the sounds and smells, the stalls—only the view’s different. Replace vivid browns with lush greens, cows and pigs with cows and horses …

I’m going to use a slightly different system since I don’t have regular access to the internet over here. What is essentially a basic necessity (like power or air) and is available EVERYWHERE back home—even in that green park—is supposedly some ultra-speciality here.

Since I don’t have access to it as a result, I’ve decided to (and do) maintain a full travel log on paper, and through pictures. When (and this is rather rare, as is obvious) I have access to the internet, I will upload some bits (offset in time by a few days).

So what you’re reading below really isn’t fresh. But as far as you’re concerned, it might as well be, so that is one less reason to stop reading.

And I’m here.

Either my display of anger, or the fact that they felt sorry for me as “I’d missed my friend’s wedding” (yes, I lied), resulted in me travelling first class from Chicago to London.

Not business class, first class.

Now that’s nearly a 7 hour long flight, and having people wait on me hand and foot, to sleep with me, and most importantly, having LEG ROOM made the journey most pleasant. The after-effect of this was being “fast tracked” through immigration, baggage claim and customs as well. I was out out in less than 10 minutes after we’d landed. Nothing’s lost, nothing’s delayed, more than the ACTUAL DAY ADDED, of course.

But it’s all cool, and though I have nowhere specific to go (like I said, nothing’s sure), or crash, I’m well, and happy. (I’m proceeding to figure out a plan. 5 or so pounds spent on calls and not-really-having-spoken-to-anyone later, I’m beginning to realize the genius of the business plan that is the “minimum connection fee”).

<Begin Racism^*>
» I can’t help but notice the number of Indians (technically, of Indian origin) around. 1 in 3 or 4 or something. Particularly the number doing “menial” work. EVERY person manning a stall, cab driver, … TRASH PICKER is Indian. (That’s definitely something I haven’t seen before—the midwest has its redneckey-trashiest whitetrashey folk, the east and west coasts have their African-Americans, and most places have their fair share of neighbouring country illegal hispanics.)

Was this the idea of the “better life” their parents dreamt for them when they immigrated? What’s the point?

At least, STOP TALKING IN FUCKING HINDI.

» I don’t know how else to say this, but people are just less beautiful here. If, in an average large city here, good looking people average an 8, here it’s a 6.5. If you don’t believe me, think Camila.
</End Racism^*>

Much more on this later, but now moving onto less flameworthy topics—the music playing everywhere around here (coffee shops, lounges, radio and such) is just stellar. If there’s one good reason to move here, it’s that.

^*Reading this section implies you’ve read, understood and agreed with the terms in the disclaimer.

Due to “weather trouble” (read god damn incompetence at United Airways), my holiday begins tomorrow, and not today as planned.

Thank you for your patience, not turning homicidal, and have a pleasant day…

But this time it’s supposed to be fun.

I’m heading off for the UK tomorrow. Plans have been screwed with and rescrewed with over and over—and now I haven’t a clue as to what’s going to go on once there. But that doesn’t in anyway mean it cannot be fun. My camera is still not OK, as in the pesky little dust particles on the sensor causing odd blotches on the final images, so I don’t plan to take it on my trip. I will take my old, trusty one.

Of course, haven’t packed. Hell, I don’t even have the appropriate size bag. I don’t know what I plan on carrying with me. I don’t know what I should, and will probably need.

I just hope I’ve done the right amount of paperwork to be able to enter the countries, and more importantly enough to get back into this country once I’m done.

In a remarkably odd sequence of events, I ran into a math teacher of mine from undergrad at the conference I was just at. I thought I saw someone who looked vaguely familiar a day before, and the next day I walked up to her, clarified who she was, and re-introduced myself to her.

We ended up talking for a while about the going-ons.

Apparently, she’d taken a break from teaching for a couple of years and was pursuing some post doctoral research work, publishing at some mad rate and working for a guy nominated for a Nobel prize. I didn’t get to see her present her work because I left Vail before she was scheduled to give her talk. We were, I later found out, the first batch she’d taught, and yet she had little idea who I was. She referred to Pauk (apparently he discussed some “high level fluid mechanics” – oh yeah, Pauk, HAH!), Sandhya, and Sushanth of all people, but hello, I’m standing right here.

I’m a genius.

She was happy to find out people from our humble origins are making it big, financially and intellectually over here, and back home. I was irritated to find out a teacher can actually forget me. And then go on to refer to me as, “Oh, that guy in Sandhya’s batch.”

I mean, come on, they all love me.

I’m in Vail, Colorado at the moment. I want to find something horrid (and funny) to say about this place, but I can’t. It’s just ridiculously gorgeous. If you’ve seen Dumb and Dumber (set in Aspen I think), imagine something similar, but in the summer, complete with non-operational ski-lifts. Even though it’s warm, there are snow-capped peaks, lush green mountain sides, cool streams, and so much more. Even sunrise (at 4:30 AM or whatever) was just so pretty.

I’ve travelled a lot, and have been to other more (superlatively cool) mountainous areas, like the Himalayas, but this is, dare I say it?, comparable.

I’m taking some time now to take in the sights, and getting some much needed R&R in, but sequences of events leading upto this point weren’t always so pleasant or pleasurable. For starters, our flight out of home was delayed by a lot (due to mysterious reasons) and we ended up missing the connection to Vail. Now the next flight to Vail was at the same time, next day, so that would mean I would have missed my talk. So it was decided the people who were presenting carry on any-way-they-can, and the others turn back home, and we somehow got into another place a few hours away, Denver. This was at 1-2, early early morning. All rent-a-car places closed and hotels full, we end up taking a cab (for 240+ dollars) to Vail. Reach there at 4-5 in the morning. My talk being incomplete as usual, required me to stay awake from that point on until I actually spoke (some 11 in the morning). I finished it and spoke without passing out or being groggy. The room was huge, and packed. It went well.

Then I got back to my room, and crashed. Today I take in the sights. I deserve it.

Update: Where I’m at.

My face has been, oh, what’s the technical term for it?, breakoutey since just before MIT, and it hasn’t gotten any better since then. There have been no substantial changes in my diet, sleep patterns, exposure to dust, … . I’m beginning to think it’s me responding to stress. On the surface of course, I am never excited or even the least bit tense, but I think my inner self is getting crushed under quite a bit of intense pressure. The pressure to keep going up in front of large crowds, the pressure to not screw up, and the pressure to keep doing things at a rate I am not comfortable with, just to have something worth talking about.

And many unsuccessful scrubs, face masks, cleansers, patches and such later… nipplenose.

Now’s as good a time to get comfy with a concealer as any other.

I don’t want to think, I don’t want to work, I don’t want to prepare, I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to synchronize my trips to maximize time with family, I don’t want to feel guilty about not doing a good job at that, I don’t want to feel anything, I don’t want to travel, I don’t even want to plan my holiday — I just want to curl up, and sleep.

I know what you’re wondering. Just what is this guy doing with his life? Why does his web log suck so much? Has he lost the ability to be funny? Should I stop showing up and wasting my time?

Fear not, inquisitive one. All I do, is work.

And prepare for talks.

I leave for the next one day after. <sarcasm>Wopeee!</sarcasm>

Thank you for your E-mail.

Your Visa will cover the UK, i.e. England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, the Channel Islands and the Isle of Man, but you may need a seperate[sic] Visa for the Republic of Ireland.

I would suggest you check with your nearest Irish Mission.

Great, now you tell me. There will be consequent reductions of some portions of my trip, or a rushed (less than a working week) attempt at obtaining said Republic of Ireland visa.

God damn it.

And oh, seperate is spelt separate. You’re mailing me from the UK consulate for crying out loud.