Define Fanboy. Here you go.
I have spent quite some time trying to figure out why on earth do I exhibit selective fanboy behavior. Simply put, there are things, people who I admire and/or love with the ferocity of a LoTR fan who surgically gets his ears lengthened. The question in my mind was: WHY? I have always attributed fanboyism to the inability to deal with life by oneself. The way to deal with situations in life is quite simple: Where you have experience, use it. Where you don’t; be as honest, clear and rational as possible. Wonder how often I have actually followed this.
The point is, if there is one, that I am a fan of a few things. They include:
- Radiohead: An alternative-experimental-electronic-lush-soft-hard-medium rare- jazz-classical-(…)-band from Oxforshire, UK.
- Douglas Noel Adams: Born in Cambridge, UK in 1952; he was an author, radio show producer, orator, spokesperson for Apple, wildlife enthusiast, Pink Floyd fan etc etc. Wrote things like ‘The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy’, ‘Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency’ and ‘Last Chance To See’.
- JRR Tolkein: Author of the Middle Earth series of fantasy novels such as ‘The Lord of The Rings’ trilogy, ‘The Hobbit’ and ‘The Silmarillion’.
- Monty Python’s Flying Circus: A sketch-based absurdist comedy show that aired in the early 1970s. Known for pushing the boundaries of what was then regarded as acceptable and sketches where the comedy lay in the sheer randomness of what was happening.
So… WHY dost thou admir’st these men so much, Harish?
Because Radiohead have songs where the music resonates with the sounds buzzing through my brain. I can actually discern the meaning behind every note of every instrument in almost every song and they all resonate in my mind. The lyrics seem as if Thom Yorke has been following me around and somehow listening to my thoughts. Some are quite straightforward:
Limb by limb and tooth by tooth
Tearing up inside of me
Every day every hour
I wish that I was bullet proof
Whereas others are more subtle and actually resemble the chaotic yet tranquil bullshit ringing through my ears:
There are two colours in my head
There are two colours in my head
What, what is that you try to say?
What, what was that you tried to say?
Tried to say.. tried to say..
Tried to say.. tried to say.. tried to say…
Everything, everything, everything..
Everything in its right place
It’s not irony. It’s much, much deeper.
Douglas Adams has been criticized as someone who writes one-liners and then fillers in between to make a book. Whatever the truth behind that, he has come up with lines which, when I read them, I feel as if an invisible hand has reached into my skull and pulled this thought and left it on the page of the book I’m reading.
- “My capacity for happiness,” he added, “you could fit into a matchbox without taking out the matches first.”
- The regular early morning yell of horror was the sound of Arthur Dent waking up and suddenly remembering where he was.
- “If I ever meet myself,” said Zaphod, “I’ll hit myself so hard I won’t know what’s hit me.”
- “Life,” said Marvin dolefully, “loathe it or ignore it, you can’t like it.”
As for Tolkein, the Pythons and other people I’m a fan of… sometime later. I’m not in the mood.
Life, it seems, is getting fucked over. I haven’t experienced even the slightest tinge of happiness for more than two weeks.
Is it worth it? I mean, honestly? When absolutely nothing goes your way and everything and everyone decides to kick you square in the nuts? This is when people usually turn to something (religion, alcohol, drugs) or someone (friends, family etc). Me? I turn around. Hence the title. I guess I shouldn’t expect to find someone or something to comfort me in times of seething pain, hatred, disappointment and doubt.
This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, but it affected me in a very layered manner. ‘Twas merely the act of opening Pandora’s Box. I seem to be shrouded in a haze of confusion, disappointment and frustration and as a consequence, I can’t see very clearly.
There always comes a time when one must choose between contemplation and action. This is called becoming a man. ~ Albert Camus