City Of Electric Light

Somethings are hard to change. Like every now and again when I go to a store or the like, I ask for a 'polythene' bag, instead of a 'plastic' bag.

Sometimes, like last night, I get a funny right back at me.

Store clerk: "That's a lot of alcohol. Big Party tonight?"
Me: "No, just me."
Store clerk: "hmm ok"
Me: "Can I have a Polythene bag to take that?"
Store clerk: "A who?"
Me: "A Polythene bag".
Store clerk: "Wow, sure fella, but why do you have to get all chemical on me"

But then again, when I almost start to get used to calling things the 'plastic' bag way, I make a trip back to the mothership.

I'm beaming there this tuesday and yes, I'm planning to go all chemical.

Where's The Pleasure

And open orchestra.

I saw a drink and travel show. Sunday actually. And apart from being jealous, I learnt things. Jealous of the host. Learnt of the alcohol (Poetic license for you grammarians).

The show claimed there are 150 master sommeliers in the world. Only 150 they said. More people have gone to space than there are master sommeliers. I think.
Will verify later, will philosophise now.

But more importantly, people everywhere drink alcohol. Everywhere. Even in places where religion hasn’t grabbed. And they almost always clink their glasses, say a word and drink some more.
Cheers, Prost, Salut, Sante, Kampai...

Isn’t that a wonderful thing. Although there's nothing to equal that in Hindi. No word to say before a drink.
I'm going to invent one.
Soon.

And close orchestra.

You know, I think bonus season’s started. People, at least in my office, have got the scent. They’re out there, behind corners, near coffee machines, in the alley near the loo, waiting, ready to pounce on any one of the big bosses.

It’s shameful really the length they go to. Sucking up was an art form. Now with everyone doing it, at this time of the year, you’re bound to get some amateur work.

I’d tell you stories about it, but it’s nothing new. The usual bores me.

A friend asked me "How're you doing?"
I replied "I'm doing mundane". And then I realised I loved what I said. So I smiled. Which threw him off. He winced. Mundane and smiles don't mix.

I'd talk more about normal people, but there's nothing new. The normal also, it appears, bores me.

So feed me a waltz of your abnormal.

And open rock symphony.

Raincoat Song

I do not understand the legacy thing.
Ambition also I don’t. Nor the need to break one’s back to prove to the world that you’re worth the salt.

I’m not saying that since everything boils to nothing at the end and that you’re always invariably going to be forgotten, why bother with life.

No, that’s not what I’m saying.

Even if it does all boil down to nothing, and no one will care about you or what you did after a while (which they really won’t), you’ve still got this time to fill right?
Between the cradle and the grave.

I’d rather fill it with something fun than existential angst. We live very short temporal lives. Relative to a butterfly we might live long, but not relative to much else. So chill I say. And chill well.

I mean if you’re doing it for recognition in this lifetime and pure adulation or the comforts that the money buys, then you’re thinking like me. But morals and virtues. And you’re fooling with it all then.

It’s not a selfish thing.

The comforts, are after all subjective. You could be comforted by helping others and that’s all good. Or comforted with a new golf set that only you use. That’s all good too.

Why should altruism get more than it’s worth?

Yankee Bayonet

Now I really want to do them justice. So I’ll try and do this well.

This weekend I get an email from a friend saying he’s going to see a band play and since I’m of the musically inclined variety, would I be interested?

And if I was constrained to use but one sentence, that is probably how I would let you know I came about to see a band that goes with the name of “The Decemberists”. Live ofcourse.

That was the first I’d seen or heard of them (I know, it hurt me to realise I was so out of it. Especially in the music side of life. Celebrity gossip, TV serial knowledge, movies etc I don’t give fuck all about. But this hit where it hurt. Sigh.)

Now I’m in love with them. The unconditional variety. They’re mindblowingly good live. And that just might be me making an understatement.

You know, they didn’t have a set prepared. The first words the lead singer uttered was “this time we’re leaving it to fate”. Then they brought out this master-of-ceremony guy who rolled a big lottery drum and choose songs out of it. He did have a strangely put on british accent, but the Decemberists obliged every time. No set. Just fate apparently, albeit through the mouth of a fake british accent.

It was such a different experience. And New York laps different. Hell even I lapped it up.

On one particular roll, the master of ceremony said “Fuckin 'ell. All this ball here says, is that Colin is to make up a song right now." So Colin, got up to the mic and sang a song - about new york city and how when he’d come here the first time he stole something from the empire state building's gift shop. And he’s not returning it back.

Oh and you know what else he did. During the song “Culling of the fold”, he jumped into the crowd, while doing the hand touching thing with the front row he took someone’s cell phone, went up to the stage, dialed a number from the phonebook and kept singing loudly into the phone. If you know the lyrics to that song, you'll know that that someone on the other side of the phone lived through a lot.

He did return the phone back. Most likely since it had nothing to do with the empire state building.

And he wore suspenders. Fuck I really want suspenders now.

Where The Wild Roses Grow

Well then, I survived the psychological experiment fine and ok. Boss didn't notice. Maybe I should be worried. bah...Although, please don't be trying this at wherever it is you call work. Only trained artists please.

On other fronts, this city has been besieged by rain clouds. They’re nice though. Just stick around, drizzle on you and make you happy. Well one person's version of happy at least. I love rain clouds man. They’re like the official flag of the hill stations in India. The light chill, the mist everywhere, the view from your window when rolled up in a blanket near the fireplace. I love hill stations man.

One side effect of the rain clouds though is that they’ve rendered me a hopeless romantic. It’s like a chemical reaction. And I just saw someone’s holiday pics on facebook, from Greece and Puerto Rico, and now I’m a jealous hopeless romantic. That’s not a chemical reaction. I hate facebook.

Talking about weekends, I did a house movie night where we saw Watchmen, followed by poker. I love that book man. Perhaps the only thing that stayed with me from the movie though, was that I’m definitely going to make out to the song hallelujah playing in the background. But the Leonard Cohen version. He does it so much better.

Went home and saw Wall Street, again. Now I really want to wear suspenders.

Fiction affecting reality. But ofcourse.

Stir It Up

So I did a naughty thing.

I did two days of golf in a golf resort this Friday and Saturday. 3 friends; 4 rounds of that old picturesque, beautiful and yet frustrating game; blissful dinner with tired hands that could barely lift the cutlery and a countryside that probably inspired poems and sketches (that most likely hang on banker walls).

This country has it easy man. The fertile soil, the sun tanned climate, the frolicking wildlife. My development economics teacher always touted the golden rule of these developed economies as “Location Location Location”. So he stole it, but he used it well he did.

And then as I hit Manhattan, the ugly smell of perfume, deodorant, high heels and concrete brought the dream crumbling down...

But wait, naughty thing. That being I bunked work for it. I just plain didn’t show up for work on friday. No leave, no notice. Something like this is very alien to the american psyche, what with their work worshipping way of life.

So what we’ve got here, is a psychological experiment. I’m assuming my boss, never having any experience in this kind of behaviour, either:

1. Renders me insane and doesn’t confront me.
2. Confronts me but stalls for words to form a respectable question regarding my behaviour.
3. Shrugs his shoulders at me when he sees me on Tuesday, sighs and gives me more work. Essentially ignoring the whole absence.

Really, I doubt if he has any other options. It’s that far removed from their way of thinking.

I’m rooting for option 1. I’ve never been labeled insane and it’s been a dream. Wish me luck.

Donna And Blitzen

I’ve just woken up from a dream filled sleep and it’s raining on the streets right below my window. I have Tiny Dancer streaming from the speakers in the room. It makes the rain drops dance.

There’s an old samurai saying “Rain is only a problem if you don’t want to get wet”. The Samurais and the Russians, for some reason, seem(ed) to have a way with aphorisms. But it's too early in the morning to wonder why.

I’d ideally have liked to put on the radio instead. Cause deep down inside, I feel music coming from a playlist or the like sounds, for lack of a better word, stale. Like in a bar or a club.
With no radio jockey talking between the songs, about the songs, about the band, filling you in with what little trivia he/she knows, the music doesn’t sound - how do I say it? - fun.
But they play shitty stuff these days on radio. Hip Hop is not conducive to anecdotal radio jockey stories. There is no story behind the lyrics anymore.

Video might have killed the radio star, but hip hop’s dancing on his grave.

The title song is from Badly Drawn Boy. Isn’t that a cool name? It's from a character in a children's show. If you had to choose a stage name, what would it be?

A friend of mine recently got married and she walked down the aisle to this song.

Badly Drawn Boy’s originally from the UK, came to america, stayed a while, played a while, got homesick and went back home. He claims to be happier now.

I feel like a homesick badly drawn boy.