Ars Archerica

September is the month in which Festember is held. Ignoring the oh-not-so-clever portmanteau and all the snide comments that surface, I'd prefer concentrating on Festember's gallant efforts at equipping our students with state of the art technology and pseudosciences and holding mundane workshops for said purpose. The two workshops that stand out this year are the archery and hypnotism workshops, but not the alchemy workshop which was planned initially, as the world-renown alchemist Nicholas Flamel was not available on that date due to the fact that he went kaput five hundred years ago when he foolishly drank copper sulphate solution mixed with rat poison thinking it was the elixir of life. Apparently he was spotted hanging upside down from a streetlamp, stark naked, singing " Found a Peanut" at the top of his voice, a few minutes before he snuffed it. Bereft of the alchemy workshop they had planned, they resorted to the next weird sounding word in the dictionary, Archery; the word Astrology was consciously ignored as it was mistaken to be Astronomy, a real science which apparently is frowned upon. Unlike hypnotism, people have actually witnessed the effects of an arrow jutting out of a loon's spleen and hence I have a soft corner for this tried and tested, albeit completely pointless art. The poor lambs failed to realise Archery wasn't fictitious. Therefore, on behalf of the clowns from the archery workshop that is to be conducted in lieu of better things to do this Festember, I would like to brush you up with some tips on how to shoot people in the most inappropriate of places in hours of dire need for said target's scarcity. The first step in shooting projectiles into mid-air is the acquisition of a target. A target can be anything from a dartboard to the dire rear of the sore-headed loser with a sense of smug superiority, strutting about you getting under your skin. It can also be the poor unfortunate chap at a distance doing nothing to annoy you but you want to shoot him anyway. So, with the target set, our next move is to equip ourselves with a shooting instrument. It can range from snipers and crossbows to blunt pencils and maliciously shaped stones. We cover all these tools and the techniques and how to use them and inflict the maximum damage with special emphasis on day to day objects like the crossbow.

• Choose your target with utmost wisdom. Remember, your ammunition is limited but the number of people you'd like to shoot is not. Therefore, discrimination is required to prioritise your targets from the most annoying to the least.
• With target sighted, your next task is to position yourself in the most prudent of poses. One would not like to lose the element of surprise. An arrow coming out of nowhere is our desired result, while propping yourself up on a bow larger than you and jumping around making an ass out of yourself is not. Remember not to look too obviously stupid with any weapon mentioned previously.
• If your weapon of choice is the notorious cross-bow, do not forget that you're wielding one of the coolest objects ever invented and using one without the characteristic evil grin will yield undesirable results. For best efficiency, smiling like the devil will help, on grounds of intimidating your enemy and rendering him helpless in the face of such evil and maniacal laughter.
• Get yourself an arrow, preferably not very sharp, to make sure the target experiences hilarious disfigurement. Why do a clean job while you can bludgeon his bones spilling pools of blood all over? So, with such an arrow acquired, position it on the cross bow and pull back until you hear the wood creaking uncomfortably under the stress. Do not pull too much as that would render the weapon useless even though, it is extremely satisfying to break something with your own bare hands.
• Now release the tension, and no, we do not mean going to the loo, stop sniggering at smutty toilet humour, and observe as the arrow darts forward lodging itself onto the target's posterior. Watch how the target writhes in agony trying to relieve his colon of the arrow. The aforementioned maniacal laughter would be prudent at this point.
• To improve upon the outlined technique, dress up in green tights, wear a funny nancy looking hat with a feather on top and speak with a comic sounding Shakespearean accent. Not only will this make you look cool, it'll also give you an excuse to steal your target's wallet and enjoy yourself at the food stall, calling it stealing from the rich and feeding the poor (yourself).
• Try the usual apple on the target's head routine. This will improve concentration as you will be faced by heavy distractions in the form of brightly coloured apples trying to catch your eye as you try to shoot the target's desired organ. Moreover, an apple next to a bleeding person is sure to keep doctors away ensuring said target's slow painful death in the absence of medical assistance.
• Remember, improvisation is the key, so try using poisoned arrows for enhanced malice, or one could even use longbows if one so much feels inclined to do so. They have brilliant range and ideal for shooting that poor unfortunate chap at a distance who did nothing to annoy you but you want to shoot him anyway.

P.S: Do not try this at home. Doing so will seriously hamper your prospects of mastering long distance shooting. Try it where you have free access to vast open spaces and plenty of morons to practise with.

P.P.S: The title Ars Archerica was inspired from Ars Poetica, a moderately, nay, extremely hypocritical treatise in verse by a certain Archibald MacLeish, written when he got sloshed after his girlfriend left him saying he was not manly enough for her. I just thought I'd mention his name and credit to keep those damn copyright harpies at bay.
-Tsfu

Great Expectations

I recently read a book, a good book, finally. Dickens can never disappoint, as it turns out, and as far as I'm concerned, he's the finest novelist of all time, in terms of plot, style, character and structure, and so many parameters that judge a good book. Although, he tended to be very autobiographical, he never failed to deliver, and he was at his best when he penned down The Great Expectations, a literary masterpiece that flows out of the pages and into your mind, woven into it the entire fabric of Victorian society, with all its hypocrisy and sham, to expose the vulnerable underbelly of the most industrious empire of its time. Dickens has always been keenly critical of his society, something that made him very unsociable, but also a piquant genius who saw through the veil of the Victorian elite. He brings out the human in every character of his, who are real people, with real emotions. The plot revolves around Philip Pirrip, or Pip, who, as a child, loses his parents and is brought up by Joe, his elder brother, and his odious wife, who, for all her bitterness, actually loves her family with all her heart. Orphaned at a very young age, he yearns for a sense of identity, characteristic of Dickens' own reflective and introspective proclivity. With a bit of Dickens himself and a lot others of note in him, Pip begins his journey as an apprentice in the workshop of his brother, a blacksmith, a job he despises. At the age of seven, he is interrupted rather rudely in the middle of his ruminations in front of his parents' graves, by a coarse convict, bound by shackles but seemingly not by the norms of civility. Pip is scared into stealing food, leaving a scarred sense of lingering guilt in the child's mind. He is constantly worked to conformity by his sister-in-law, and a noxious uncle, a Mr.Pumblechook, and his sense of guilt stems only from the fact that he stole some food, an act of wrongdoing by Pumblechook's standards, while Dickens consciously umbrages the act of giving food to a hungry man, in social criticism of the values held by Victorian society that chooses to overlook acts of charity in favour of idealistic forthrightness. This little act of forced charity sees Pip's life turned upside down, with the burden of Great Expectations on his shoulders, a cold, lifeless and yet stunningly beautiful Estella, and her disturbed guardian, Miss Havisham, who invites Pip as a boy to humour Estella, leading him to form a close bond with them, and later believing her to be the cause of his fortunes, well or ill. Plot stretches into the bowels of London from Dartmoor, a conspiracy to smuggle a convict out of Great Britain is also thrown in, and finally crashes with a twist only Dickens can pull off. It is a milieu of emotions, stark realism and social critique in Pip's quest of maturity when he finally understands who really matter in his life, and the evanescence of good fortunes are not to be ridden along, when he climbs up the social ladder leaving loved ones behind. Even when Pip takes Joe's gratuitous affections for granted, even when Estella cruelly breaks Pip's heart, even when Miss Havisham heartlessly manipulates Pip's desires holding a grudge as old as herself, they remain very sympathetic, with their vulnerabilities and passions, deep character and most of all, a very human side being the impetus for all their actions. On the whole, the book is a very deep treatise of human nature, a podium portraying Dickens' genius, and a literary machination that preserves the very essence of Victorian society that funnily takes place, actually, in the Georgian era. Great Expectations is a living fossil, that brings puffy shirts and pantaloons, and with it, the whole smoggy dank and derelict London, with its snooty elite and parallel indigence back to life.

Opium to Lithium: Epic Fail

Afghanistan is a pitiful place. It is the Kurukshetra where miffed world powers play the game of suicide checkers. Be it the good ol' US of A, or the Rumbling Russian bear, Afghanistan has been a worthy quagmire for all superpowers, present and past, if in doubt, wiki the First Anglo-Afghan War. For many years, this landlocked swamp of a desert (please note the oxymoron) has lived in abject penury, the economy buoyed by the sales of opium and the rigid tenets of pseudo-Islam, which abhors and eschews all necessities of life, leading to a country that has nothing and is seemingly happy about it, for if I suffer through my whole life, ploughing across miles for a drop of water, bleed through the nose for a square meal throughout my sorry existence, I shall be rewarded by Allah with seventy two virgins in heaven. It's morbidly funny, really, to see a country that's knee deep in the manure they created for themselves, woken up everyday with a suicide blast, only to spend the rest of the day fervently hoping for the virgins; and to make through the day without losing a limb. History has not been kind either, mainly due to its strategic location, leading to its status as a buffer state between the Russian and the British empires, which really means, if any country has a problem, they say, "Alright! You and me! Afghanistan! Now!". Their main export has been opium, for nothing else grows there, and their second largest export is prime battleground real estate. Recently, however, Americans have discovered $1trillion buried under the countless landmines and children's limbs in the form of mineral deposits. If this saves the Afghans from misery, it'll be another middle-east success story, to the likes of Dubai and Saudi Arabia. But lets face it, minerals are not oil; who's heard of the mineral wars, at least their previous export had the honour of world powers fighting over it (see Opium Wars). Most of the metals are recycled, and we're reducing the amount mined every year, unlike oil, which keeps skyrocketing by the minute. Even if minerals could save the swamp of a nation from its impending doom, Afghanistan, at this point boasts of more Western troops stationed in it than its population. With a ghost of sovereignty and economic freedom, there's little the Afghan government can do make money out of it. BP has recently said, quite emphatically, the it stands for Beyond Petroleum, and not British Petroleum, as everyone else thought, and minerals could be the next pie BP sticks its dirty fingers into. If the East India Company of the twenty first century decides to enter Afghanistan, even Uncle Sam could do little to stop that, they've only now realised what BP can do when crossed, with the oil spill and all. In the era of aggressive globalisation, the penniless miner who lost his left hand in the blast that killed no one stands no chance against capital leviathans of the West, he has more to gain by kissing the numerous landmines that dot the derelict landscape. If the mineral deposits could save this little nation, pigs can fly and horse feathers can be used as quills.

Holmes v2.0

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I hardly ever have the patience to sit through an entire film alone. I need company to watch movies, or I just quit and do something else, like watching TV shows, which are shorter than two hours. I don't know, it's just me; but the real thing I wanted to say was, I actually got around to watching Sherlock Holmes, the movie that came out in 2009, only now. Yes, only now, for all the fans out there who can't live without movies, I haven't even watched Avatar yet, (gasp now, you scum-bags) so it's something you can't live with, but I can, because I'm way cooler and I have a life. Anyway, enough with the abrasive abuse,
(Hyde: just one more, please,please,please,please, pleeeez!
Dr.Jekyll: Fine, just one more, after that, you need to pack up and leave.
Hyde: Sod off! cool, I'm done now)
I just wanted to pen down my experiences, like the dear diligent Watson, who meticulously documented every twitch and tick on Holmes' face. Sherlock Holmes is, as far as I'm concerned, the second best detective in the world, the first being, quite obviously, M. Hercule Poirot, nest ces pas? Poirot is not as serious as Holmes, he's a jolly bumbling chap who is like Jacques Clouseau, but uses order and method, a dear phrase of his, in catching the criminal. He's like a lovable grandfather who's funny not by his own design, and is a delight to have around. Holmes, on the other hand, is a more intense character, someone with an obvious astuteness about him, he's to be admired from afar, up close, only Watson could tolerate his OCD. Both are vain, and lovably so, but Holmes' vanity is more intimidating than endearing. Poirot, on the other hand, is more than sociable, just quirky, and his remarks are taken generally in good humour, till the end, where the criminal is outed rather dramatically by Poirot, and that is when the killer realises that this funny old man meant what he said. My impression of Holmes stems solely from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's works, not the ensuing fan-fiction, I have no respect for people who try to fill his shoes. The latest movie, however, seems to have crossed the line between Holmes and Poirot, Holmes is far more amusing, and Watson far cleverer than Sir Arthur's character. It was frequently quoted, by Directors of the West End theatres, "If there was a mop bucket on the crime scene, Watson's leg would be in it, and if he spots a clue by serendipity, all Watson would do was to blow his nose in it, and move along."
Watson, of Guy Ritchie's craft is infinitely more resourceful, I guess a century and a half of kithship with Holmes has finally rubbed off on him. Jude Law, by far, is the cleverest Watson of them all, their relationship being more balanced in friendship, than just a dewy eyed simpleton who's easily amazed by a cocaine addict's sorcery. It is quite enjoyable to watch two men, of camparable intellect, each displaying expertise in different branches of crime solving: forensics and medicine. Holmes here is more emotionally dependent on Watson than ever and Watson cheerfully let's Holmes manipulate him even though he knows what's going on, it was like watching a Victorian movie of House. A grisly,gruff brazen man who, for all his rationality, like a perfectly cooked christmas turkey: crusty on the outside, but soft on the inside, leans on a more emotionally stable man for pegs, who inexplicably supports this seeming parasite. Closer inspection reveals Watson needs Holmes as much as the other way round. Watson is a compulsive supporter as Holmes is a supportee. Watson needs someone waiting back at home who needs his care and support. Conan Doyle cleverly made him a doctor precisely for this reason and Guy Ritchie capitalised on this fact to create a more believable Watson, a man who is more of a deserving sidekick who does more than just make Holmes seem more of a wizard than he actually is. Instead of accentuating Holmes' intellect by using a dud of a Watson, like Conan Doyle did in his later works, Guy Ritchie created a man who made the duo look good, rather than just Holmes. Batman and Robin took a backseat in an equally Gothic Victorian London, more like Gotham city, than New York could ever be, the city DC comics actually modelled Gotham City after. Their on-screen presence was the best thing in the movie, but the story could have been more Holmes-ish. It was larger than life, more like a Victorian Bond movie. Guy Ritchie brought Victorian England to life, the only person to do so previously was Dickens, but Ritchie had the aid of images, while Dickens only had imagery, still, Ritchie is not as great as Dickens, but did a splendid job. As far as the plot was concerned, it was, quite frankly more James Bond than Sherlock Holmes, but the characters were most human, where they, especially Holmes and the specious Irene Adler, expose their vulnerability alongside their prowess, making them more realistic. As good as it was as a stand alone movie, it was not a Sherlock Holmes, it really wasn't.