Ab Bus!

How do you spell a sound?


That was the first question I asked myself this evening as I boarded an air conditioned bus- Vayu Vajra -loosely (and badly) translated as 'Throne of the Wind'- at the Bangalore Airport. Clutching Cool Blue- a drink I'd long coveted but never got down to having, I settled myself in a window seat and wondered. Words like tch, humph, duh, tut- tut, eh- all sounds we make to express ourselves- are perfectly captured in the spellings of those words. I remember marvelling at tch in particular- whoever came up with that spelling did a wonderful job in adding the t. There must be a method to coming up with these spellings one would think.


No one has yet managed to spell the sound one makes while sucking the last drops of liquid from a glass of crushed ice. A sound that never fails to annoy and frequently infuriate, for people of my ilk who love that sound, we do not have a properly spelt word for it. And that was the task I set myself aboard BIAS 11.


One never really gets used to buses I think. Being cooped up in an enclosed space with utter strangers and sharing a common destiny until you or they disembark, or the bus blows up, or has an accident where either all live or all die or some live and some don't, never quite weighs easily on anyone- no matter how nonchalant they are. And especially if it is air conditioned and comfortable, one's thoughts invariably turn to different things.


Shhh! could be a possible sound for it I propose to myself. Eh. It does not accurately depict the gurgling noise water makes when it is pulled by vacuum through a straw into one's mouth. Besides it is an exhaled word which could not possibly capture inhalation.


I watch as an interesting mix of people tumble into the bus. First up is a girl with someone who is presumably her boyfriend. They have the hesitancy of a new romance- not without charm in its naivete. As there are no other seats, the guy sits down next to me and the girl in front of him.


Now to most guys- barring the ones who have attained sexual sainthood at 24- the sight of a couple stirs up a curious mixture of thought. There is a moment of wistfulness- memories of past glories, flashes of what could have been, what should have been - all pass by in a blur of images- a moment of weakness we hastily chastise ourselves for. This then gives way to scorn and superiority- pretending we have more important things going on in our life and that women are naught but a waste of time right now. All this while we know that deep down we want what they have with a girl we'll never get. That last sentence is a betrayal of my race- by acknowledging that guys too are privy to flashes of envy when it has nothing to do with our careers. Because NEVER do we acknowledge this feeling- not even to ourselves.


Swiiissshhh? Tch! That does not seem to work either. At all. Too disconnected from the spirit of the thing. Besides it is a word that already exists, so it will not be recognised (by whom is a question that we won't ask right now).


There is a cacophony of sounds in the bus. A middle aged gentleman has just discovered the joy there is in rhythmically slapping one's hand against one's thigh while listening to music. Either that or he is practising some masochistic ritual listening to adult erotica. I really hope it is the former. From behind comes a loud snore- like an elephant with its trunk blocked with mucus. There is the beep-beep of someone getting a message. It goes in an astonishing rhythm- Snore-clap-msg-snore-clap-msg-snore-clap-msg. On and on till the regularity is broken by the sudden cutting of of a snore- like when you realise in your sleep that you're snoring and try to stop suddenly.


An air hostess sits with perfect posture in one of the seats- her eyes full of nothingness.


The bus conductor comes to collect ticket fare. The guy next to me knows only Hindi and in a hesitant low tone asks for a ticket to Sadashivnagar. The conductor's eyebrows disappear into his hair and with a faint curl of the lip he answers. What I wonder must go through his mind when he has to use Hindi or English. Does he inwardly laugh at the pitiful tourists lost in the maze of another tongue twisting South Indian language? Does he shake his (figurative) head at how Kannadigas are being depleted from this great state of his? And does he plot that one day he will reclaim his state from the invaders?


By which time he has moved on to a nice old man in a beige shirt talking on the phone. I'm cringing listenting because he is valiantly ploughing thorough 'the Hindi', in the process conforming to the worst South Indian stereotype there is- the Southie who speaks bad Hindi. Through endless maine bukaar ta and maine jaldi aaya, he finally ends with a triumphant humma gar ko jara hoo and puts me out of my misery and my clandestine South Indian hating self breathes a sigh of relief.



Sheeesshh? Tut-Tut. Pitiful. There has to be a 'c' somewhere I think. The spelling does not work without a 'c'.


Particle physics is being discussed at length by two guys right in the front. They seem to be good friends.

In the reflection in the window to my left I see my neighbour leaning forward and whispering something in his girlfriend's ears. She throws her head back and laughs. A twinge of envy notwithstanding, I force myself to read my book- Orhan Pamuk's The White Castle.


Finally my stop arrives. The particle physics blokes and I get off the bus. As I get off and the bus passes me, I see the girl's face in profile- in my vacated seat. She's laughing again with her head thrown back- with the guy's hand around her shoulder. And next to me, the particle physics blokes have reached some sort of agreement to the problem they were discussing. Raising a mock toast, 'To Hari and Ehsaan, best friends forever!' they shout in corny fashion.


And I realise- to my self loathing embarassment- that even in an unremarkable, soon-to-be-forgotten bus trip, some things strangely never change. That even in today's cynical, modernist times, the same old love and friendship are merry flags on the arctic wilderness of our calendars.



Schwirrsch. I think that's it.

Idol-atry

Let me state for the record- I absolutely loathe American Idol. Except for Kelly Clarkson. And I absolutely detest Britain's Got Talent except for the one moment where Susan Boyle was discovered.

The very word 'Idol' is a little insulting. To christen someone 'Indian Idol' or 'American Idol' smacks a little of a smug belief that we have no other choice but to accept these people as our 'idols'. Because if the TV honchos had their way, we wouldn't want idols who weren't from the mess of Reality TV.

Yes- that does sound like commie propoganda. And I was just being nasty- I don't even mean it. So I'll stop that.

Clarkson's Addicted from her in my opinion soon-to-be-iconic Breakaway album reconfirmed what I'd long believed- that real music is good old ROCK. Dark, addictive and thrilling. And although the-well 'chick' song Breakaway is obscenely popular, it is Addicted where you here the full vocal range of Ms. Clarkson. And it is stunning.

To any fan of Retro rock - and we seem to be a dying breed- shows like American Idol are like being force fed Norbit or Ram Gopal Varma ki Aag. Nauseatingly sweet with cherubic people converting all genres into bland imitations of Whitney Houston or Celine Dion- this monstrously popular show goes above our heads. 'Where's character?' we snobbishly ask, revelling in the halo of the (insufferable) know-it-alls that we think we are. 'Why isnt there more emphasis on vocals rather than making it into a fashion show where everyone has to look good?'

Reality TV is- in the words of Simon Cowell- complete and utter rubbish. Any self respecting person methinks would find something else to see, or smoke.

Note- the word 'methinks'. If only 90% of the TV viewing public thought so too. Ah the joy....

Anyway- all these problems I have with what is REALLY wrong with the world notwithstanding, I caught the repeat telecast of the top 12 of American Idol Season 9 today. And if you're wondering how I know such details despite claiming to hate Idol and never follow it- well I did read up a little for this post so I'm going to pretend I'm the only authority on music I know and say what I think. Not about everyone, but some which I'll remember.

Why you may ask. Why did I see it? The answer is quite simple really- The Rolling Stones.

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards may be overhyped to the point of hysteria, but there is no denying that they were probably one of the greatest (although such sweeping statements make little sense) if not the greatest rock bands ever. And I read somewhere online about it being 'ROLLING STONES NIGHT' instead of just 'Rolling Stones Night' and I thought- How bad could it really get?

Turned out- it could and it did. They murdered The Rolling Stones. Except for two of them.

Michael Lynch- the 'Big Mike' of reality (cf The Blind Side) Sang Miss You. But not before we had a mandatory faux emotional clip- easily one of the most detestable things about Idol. I mean come on. There is no need to concoct a 'story' about every participant- in a pompous cynical attempt to sell the American dream. I mean isn't it remotely possible that every singer does not have some tale of woe and unbearable struggle behind him? And from what I hear from people who are devoted Idol followers, he was auditioning when his wife was in labour. Now how that is admirable escapes me, it really does. I just don't get it.

Anyway- He actually began Miss You pretty decently with the almost falsetto tone- and then it ended up being some amateurish copy of Jagger. He made it into an R&B song. WHY? And not in a nice way. And the dancing- oh the dancing. It was so bad that you actually wanted to put him out of his misery. Or in a Medical College Hostel to rag.

It went on and on- an endless parade of mediocrity with the cold murders of classics like Play With Fire, It's All Over Now, Ruby Tuesday, and Gimme Shelter. I know it is a reality show- but these guys are so shudderingly mediocre I don't think I would buy an album of theirs even if they paid me to do it. And one among these is supposed to be the next big thing in music? Well- figures. If Taylor Swift can sweep the Grammys, anything's possible.

But then came this girl Siobhan Magnus with Paint it Black. One of those songs I can fall down and worship you know. And that girl did something with it that was truly stunning. An incredible performance- with the drama, the acting and an incredible voice with the kind of vocal acrobatics only great singers can do. I think I can actually see her doing any type of song with the range she has. Including the scream. While not perfect, it was still pretty darned impressive. Hers is an album I might actually buy.

Wild Horses was blah, Under my Thumb- grotesque as a reggae number (again- WHY?).

Angie was interestingly good. Almost achingly so. Aaron Kelly was spot on with this song.

You Can't Always Get What You Want was actually pretty solid. That's all. No more, no less.

Oh and the judges. Randy Jackson seems to have precisely three words in his oh-so-proud-of-it-it's-ghetto!! vocabulary- Dawg, Hot, Pitchy. And he seems to use them with grating regularity.

I mean this in the nicest possible way- Kara Dioguardi should be given to Sauron or Lord Voldemort as a chew toy. The woman's crazy. No two ways about it. Talking about 'feeling' the song and 'You are too young to know what the Vietnam war's about'. It's a song for crying out loud. She cannot judge it on its merits- she's always looking for subtext. Which even if the singer has, she is too dense to detect. All you get is a condescending nod. Somebody fix her antennas and put her out to pasture.

To be fair, Ellen Degeneres was hilarious. Her 'People like me- Blondes- don't like good looking guys' bit was really funny if only in an obvious kind of way.

Simon and Siobhan Magnus were the only good things about the show. You get a sneaky feeling that Simon is really a 70's rock person too. And he didn't like this death march of that genre.

I do not mention Ryan Seacrest because we talk only of people who count. Not those lucky people who earn millions being silly and forgettable.

Fear and Lust

A look of disgust invariably crosses my face when I stand in front of the entrance. What with a glass door, subtly lit veneer walls, the depressingly dull blue stripes on the seat covers and frosted glass in the distance-all signs that scream SUCCESS- the first thought that crosses my mind is Dude this guy must be rich! And not you-and-me rich. More of the fancy car driving, spoiling-the-child kind of rich achiever that makes me sick with the way people have commercialised their talents. No- that isn't right, there's a simpler, altogether more descriptive word for it- sick with ENVY.

Well, I snobbishly think to myself- Atleast I'm an intellectual. I have Nobel Laureate Orhan Pamuk's celebrated novel My Name is Red in my hand- holding it casually with my finger inside making sure everyone can see the title printed in big red letters. To hell with the air conditioning, the pretty-(actually radiant)- secretary biting her pencil trying to figure out the supremely difficult task of who goes in next, all the time blissfully unaware of the fact that her blouse is too tight and things are playing peek-a-boo. It's then- in the midst of this hide and seek that I wonder why she's playing these devious sexual games with me here of all the places. And it's then that I hear a disapproving cough coming from the toady mouth of an overdressed, overweight high society type who gives me the head to toe look. Cool, I think- maybe she's a cougar checking me out- and then her upper lip curls in disdain when she sees that I'm wearing fading, ancient jeans, a dirty grey T shirt and Woodland footwear so discoloured that it's original colour is unrecognizable.

I sit down between my would be cougar lover and the secretary who's obviously so into me that she knows her top button's open and the- well- twins seem to be much bigger than when I last saw them. She's had a boob job done just for me! If that isn't true love, if that isn't the sweet, innocent love that lit doyen Keats- or was it Playboy- wrote about, then I don't know what is.

Well I think- maybe this visit isn't going to be so bad. I've found someone who's ready to enhance herself for me- that can never be a bad thing.

Absolute power is terrible. There are places where you are so completely under someone's control- and this I don't mean in a wink-wink way- that you just can't do a fucking thing. All you can do is to lie down and take it. Even the Queen of England has to submit body and soul to this man once a year. He enjoys men, women, children, virgins- there's no end to his escapades. And what's worse, even in these days of laws and civilization, this ancient profession exists. And thrives.

And then the moment of truth arrives. It's time for me to get mine. The frosted door opens and there he stands- a balding, short paunchy man- the same man who just had a session with my sister the previous day- and he points to me and beckons. The secretary gets up. My eyes travel down to discover to my horror that she's pregnant. And that I'd been ogling a pregnant much married woman.

Fear. That's what it is. Fear of the unthinkable. Fear- that makes you think all kinds of stuff.

And I go in. And the door closes.

And it is then that the dentist hands me a glass of water and says Rinse.

Humping Her Highness

I am Thomas Cromwell, Ist Earl of Essex- advisor to that oversexed lump of a man called Henry VIII. It is 1535 and sitting in front of me is that androgynous daughter of his- Cate Blanchett- oops- Elizabeth.

'Tis a furious arguement that hath ramifications so vast that they shattereth the most profound Shakespearean monolgue.

Liz/Cate- Tom, I cannot say I care for your technique. You don't lift your leg at the right time and it comes banging me in the midlands.

Thomas Cromwell/Me- Midlands?

Liz- You know, the foliage.

Tom- Your Highness, I fail to comprehend.

Liz- You fool- down there. The south pole, the netherworld, the antarctic- you pleibians have so many unsavoury words for it, I never know which one to use.

Tom- Ah, your Highness I understand. But all that is too complicated. It is a new age now. An age of sophistication and discovery. Now we call it- dramatic pause- 'the pussy'.

Liz- A cat? Why?? -long pause- Well my cat doesn't like the way you ram your lollipop into it. You need to learn how to lift your leg when you feed the cat. Let me show you how to hump the hostess.

And she lifted up a stubby leg to demonstrate- and it was unusually short, disgustingly hairy, with blue veins all over it- which was strange because Cate Blanchett- who is also Elizabeth- shaves her legs and armpits.

Ah- there is that John Webster dude behind the Queen- He points at her and whispers- Mine eyes dazzle she died young...- which is peculiar because he was born in 1612 and wrote The Duchess of Malfi in 1623....

Now I see KD standing there shaking his head in disgust. And this girl's smile over and over again, which is decidedly odd because the Queen of Hearts had thundered Off with her head! long ago. Ah yes. I remember now- the Parisian guillotine still had Marie Antoinette's hair sticking to it- what with the slow drip drip of blood falling to the wooden planks below, it aimed wrong and cut off this other girl's head above the smile.

But that smile- haunting, beautiful and forever real- doesn't leave my head. It keeps bothering me again and again.

And now I'm on the floor of the bathroom- violently vomiting into the toilet- there's undigested food, bile and blood. And all the while that smile in front of me...

Then there's a vibrating noise. Which is odd 'coz my sex toy cabinet doesn't have a vibrator. Duh- only women and Bobby Darling use them.

It's a phone.

And then there was light. It came flooding back to me. An explanation even Freud couldn't have given. I know what this is.

A dream I had on 24-02-2010 at 11:00am.

Of Medical School and Role Models

The whole role model question has always been a little strange and frankly embarrassing to me. Strange because I've never aspired to be like anyone. Ever. And embarrassing because my answer to the dreaded question- Don't you look up to your dad or grand-dad? (both of whom by the way are super achievers)- has always been a nervous, fidgety silence- with me hoping to flee or die before I admit 'no'.

Joining medicine didn't help matters- medicine is a minefield waiting to explode and kill you almost every step of the way. To add to it the whole perception of doctors as serious boring individuals is- and I hate to admit it- largely true. I mean sure there are nice people and gifted students as there are in any profession, but to come across people with definite character and balls (pun unintended) is a bit like searching for a needle in a haystack. And this is particularly in medicine because on the whole- we're geeks, let's face it. Geeks conditioned to plough through book after book and soon you go on cruise control. There are those inevitable times when people marvel at the size of your textbook and you show off with it- but when the studying part begins it's no big deal. And that's not boasting- it's just how it is. You flip pages and whatever sticks, sticks. Obviously whatever doesn't stick is the only thing that's asked but then you are beyond caring- you become fatalistic.

And this attitude soon rubs off on character as well. Which is why it takes something special- some special kick in your arse (which you have to administer to yourself ) to be different- to maintain individuality.

I guess its easier to say this now that I'm done with the first stage of my education- a sort of retrospective look back. And curiously the two role models I at last have are two of my classmates. Not the great doctors I've known nor the Nobel laureates I'm fortunate to have met, just two 24 year olds who've taught me more about life that all the super talented docs couldn't.

Is it unethical to take names and divulge details on a public forum? It is. But what the hell- I can write what I want here right? So here goes..

The first time I saw E- now Dr. EP, it was outside the loo on the first day of med school when we were having the somewhat grandiosely named orientation session. Tall, lissome and undeniably beautiful, the real surprise came when she spoke- with classy English and great confidence.

It went without saying that most guys at some point or the other nursed a crush for her- it wasn't possible not to! And she did have her share of flings- who doesn't in college? Well most people don't actually, but that's besides the point.

We were friends- at one point good enough friends to go out for Shakespeare and stuff together. And because of some insufferably stupid and juvenile tiff, that went to hell.

She soon became one of the most hated people in class. Which is a little weird- because with great looks and sharp outspoken intelligence, you'd think that would have made her popular. But her personal life generated so much buzz- which was none of anybody's bloody business, but you know how college kids are- that somehow she was almost universally disliked.

How you may ask did such a diva become an example? She who after an idiotic tiff about some exam didn't give me a second look nor me her?

It was precisely because of that.

Not once did I see her wilt. In that quagmire of snide remarks, rude glances and almost total isolation from the class she stood tall and unashamed. Never once did she give any of the haters the satisfaction that they'd got to her- and she didn't change her lifestyle at all. She remained true to herself and unapologetic about her choices which is more than I could say for many other judgemental cribbing people that were.

She and I were the class valedictorians at our graduation and on the day, she was grace personified- talking with pride about a class that had rejected her for so very long- praising the very people that she surely must have felt nothing but contempt for. But not once did the mask slip, not even at the end.

It may sound a trivial reason to admire someone for. After all she hadn't discovered the cure for HIV or the common cold. It wasn't even related to medicine- just the fact that one needs to stand up for oneself and be who one is without thinking of what others may say. As for the so called moral police- oh yes, that's what most people are even if they aren't Pramod Muthalik- one only understands how idiotic and meaningless they are when one starts seeing someone. Then one realises that having a girlfriend is cool but doesn't define you and it definitely isn't the end of the world if you don't have one. And that it doesn't remotely have anything to do with who you inherently are as a person. Which sounds utterly simplistic and obvious, but I think somewhere, until you have that first date and stuff you never really understand it, despite the fact you're always pretending to do so and looking with disdain at the people who are together, airily claiming that 'I have no time for this crap and those who do are dumb and slutty'. Which is Bullshit. And although they would never admit it- Envy. With a capital E. And this sounds like the bad embarrassing confessions of a teenage drama queen- but most doctors, both men and women, atleast initially are just that.

The other guy is KD. Now his is a story so dramatic it would be fit to be featured in a lifetime special. He lost his father at a young age, lost his faith, descended into an incubus of smoking, terrible relatives, terrible company and profanity. But lightening struck and suddenly- just like that, he gave up smoking, concentrated on- what else- studies and has honestly blossomed into someone I honestly believe will be a great doctor. And I'm not using the word 'great' the way we use to praise food or a Sean Penn performance- in this case I actually mean it. And I've been fortunate to have been really good friends with him until weird circumstances increased the distance somewhat, but even now he's the picture of joie de vivre. It isn't the story of rags to riches- it's better- the story of picking oneself up and getting the best out of oneself that's so admirable. Even more so because I actually saw him do it.

Well- medical school is long over. The last webs of memory...Bah- that's stupid pretentious language and I won't complete that sentence! But there's a yearbook where all my classmates now live and each one has a particular story, a memory attached. But it is these two that even today I miss. That even today I wish things had ended differently with. It is these two who I think I'll always in a way look up to. Because life's hard as it is. And they've shown me that you can't be- shouldn't be- weak.

And its those two- those two above all else that I wish would someday read this blog.

It's cool to be free

Anonymity is a convienient mask- one which I've desperately sought since I can remember. There's a reassuarance in it that's hard to shake aside- this belief that you can just be there in the background observing. And contrary to popular belief, it doesn't make you a follower.


Opinions matter. Even if they are mine. Even if they are in an anonymous blog which will be read by some, commented upon by none and then forgotten.


There are some actions that infuriate you into action. One was a police officer smiling mockingly when he walked out of court having escaped punishment for abetting in a young girl's suicide.
The other was tonight when I watched Uddhav Thackeray eloquently shrug his shoulders on NDTV's 9'O Clock news- in response to a question as to whether the release of My Name is Khan would pass unhindered.


It was an action that repeated tales that I want to believe that my generation has moved on from- the chasm of regionalism.


I'd be lying if I said I didn't find the Shiv Sena's rhetoric preposterous. I do- not only is it utterly reprehensible but also it strikes me as extremely lazy politics. Which is exactly why the Sena is in the state they are in today. Gone are the days when people were taken in by proclamations of nationalism and pride- it has been almost 63 years of independence- and let's face it- to me and my generation, freedom means a good deal more than empty words. Which is exactly why it is lazy. A true opposition would have taken advantage of the woeful apology of a government that is Maharashtra's and swept into power. On real issues which would've made more sense than stopping the screening of a film or calling Chidambaram the Home Minister of Pakistan- a statement so laughably juvenile that you wouldn't hear it even in a school level debate.


Even that is fine- everyone can say what they want. But when you use muscle power to stop the screening of a movie because it's actor has said something to annoy you, you need to take a good look at yourself. And coming from me and my ilk that really is something- we- who are so used to being steeped in cynicism that ideals are far from our thoughts. But even in a generation of cynics, this marks a new low. Open threats on national TV aren't my idea of democracy. Actually they shouldn't be anyone's idea of democracy.


Of course 'Bollywood' (I hate the term, hence the quote marks) has notoriously pandered to the whims of the Shiv Sena and Bal Thackeray since- well forever. For some reason they've had a curious hold over the film business. Which in itself is disturbing, not to mention downright wrong. What riles me even more is not that they're against Valentine's Day or lesbianism (read Fire)- but the fact that they take it upon themselves to force that down everyone's throat. And tonight I sat watching amused, but mostly infuriated when the legal chief of the Shiv Sena says that the campaign against the movie is a 'movement' started by the 'people' and he could not guarantee what the 'people' would do when the movie released.


That's such a load of crap.


And they know it. They must be knowing it. Surely they aren't that self deluded to think that 'all people of the country' feel this way. And they're milking the issue for all it is worth. Which would be completely fine as long as they kept their hands in their pockets instead of on lathis and guns, and not calling up theatre owners threatening them with 'dire consequences' if the movie was screened.

I've been accused of looking too much into history before- maybe it's a disease- but all this rhetoric about 'people's movement' and 'people's anger' was exactly how Herr Adolf began. Or Mugabe. Or any other dictator.


I'm no admirer of Shah Rukh Khan. But I must say that what he's said is admirable. Even if it is a ploy to sell his film. Even if all he wants to do is to be on the news garnering publicity and even if it is the 'in thing' to hate him- despite all those things, what he's said is admirable. I'm glad he's not going to apologize. I do not want an apology from the Thackerays either. They can say what they like- anyone can- but coercion is just not done. And the self styled Tiger of the Sena Bal Thackeray needs to realise he's really being a mouse. This is the behaviour of cowards not leaders. Cowards who want to cling on to something rather than face political obscurity. Real Tigers would have constructively pointed out the missteps of the government, of which there is no dearth. It comes as no surprise that they aren't in power if this is the kind of crass, degrading politics they want to play.


The whole question of identity is curious. I am from Karnataka, born in Andhra Pradesh, schooled in Maharahtra, now in Karnataka. And I'm a Hindu and it has been so incidental. I've had-er- have wonderful friends who are Christians, a rather special half Muslim friend and it's never made one bit of difference. And yes I've loathed certain people who happen to be Muslim but not because of it- they were just gutter rats who happened to be Muslim. And at the risk of sounding too in-your-face, I'm proud to be Indian- which is what I am first and last. That's the only identity that really matters.


Which is why I don't get the Sena appeasement by the likes of even Amitabh Bachchan what with him organising private screenings for the self proclaimed 'Tiger'. Shouldn't he have taken a stand against this war mongering? And when asked as much by Barkha Dutt, a visibly squirming Jaya Bachchan said 'the film industry stands together in a national crisis.' Which implies of course that this isn't one. (More on that here http://blogs.widescreenjournal.org/?p=1806)


And yes, I've been called too liberal although I'm not sure I understand that. It is like saying 'too free'- one is either free or not. Can you be free one day and enslaved the next? One is either liberal or one is not- you cannot grade freedom or liberalism. But the difference is that liberalism is a choice I've made.

Freedom isn't- we ARE a free country whether you like it or not.

M2K

I don't have to apologize.

No one HAS to apologize.