Sometimes these vacations start ever too slowly - sometimes even painfully. You’d be in the middle of one and it wouldn’t even feel like it. Going even so far, as to be quite the opposite of what it intended out to be.
Sometimes they hiccup, threatening to stall but coming through at the very last moment. Like old yet faithful cars. Or unplanned for Visa issues. It's really the same thing, no? :)
Then there are the vanilla vacations. Neither here nor there, but good for the soul. Nothing more.
And then, then there are those that start way before. Way before the actual holiday would. As the days narrow to the flight date, the tingling in your spine becomes both, unbearable and a new found love. The scent alone drives you mad. And there's also the constant stupid smile on your face you have to deal with.
I have to go to work on Monday and then I leave for the actual holiday on Tuesday. If my boss manages to get any work out of me on Monday, I’ll readily buy him a bottle of the choicest scotch and mysteriously put it on his desk. The impossible deserves costly gifts.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Like Dylan In The Movies
So, in case I haven’t mentioned, I've recently moved to a highly gay concentrated neighbourhood in the city (It does have some great coffee shops but a bit too many gyms, if you know what I mean). And no, I’m not homophobic. Far from it. I mingle and have gay friends.
I am what the intelligentsia likes to call “liberal” and my mother “why??”, followed by a “I don’t get you. Befriend all this, but please marry a girl.”
So yes, I do befriend all "this".
But then, there are days...
Friday night.
Party 1. Bar near my hood. I think it was a birthday party. And I wear what are my straightest clothes possible. You know, regular fit jeans, black boots, grey polo and a light blue sweater.
(Come to think of it, my wardrobe's become very boringly straight off late - I think it’s my subconscious defense mechanism lighting up to the gayness around me).
Gay boy singles me out in the party and hits on me.
Party 2. Barhopped to another birthday party (don’t too many people get born around this time!). Now with previous incident in mind, along with my straight clothes I wear what is my straightest attitude possible.
But no, not enough. Another gay boy wants my number.
Saturday night.
House party near Soho. By now I’ve had enough and am leching at girls just to prove a point. But like a bad bollywood movie you know what's coming next. Right?
Sigh.
Now, as you know, I’m not homophobic. Far from it. But not far enough to like the extra attention in every party. It belittles my self chosen sexual orientation. And that just won't do.
Which is why now, I'm paying my female friends some serious money to hit on gay men. Give them a taste of their own medicine, so to speak, or rather, do.
Also, girls, if a boy's being the lecherous kinds, don’t jump so quickly and be so harsh. He might need pity more than the usual routine you throw his way.
I am what the intelligentsia likes to call “liberal” and my mother “why??”, followed by a “I don’t get you. Befriend all this, but please marry a girl.”
So yes, I do befriend all "this".
But then, there are days...
Friday night.
Party 1. Bar near my hood. I think it was a birthday party. And I wear what are my straightest clothes possible. You know, regular fit jeans, black boots, grey polo and a light blue sweater.
(Come to think of it, my wardrobe's become very boringly straight off late - I think it’s my subconscious defense mechanism lighting up to the gayness around me).
Gay boy singles me out in the party and hits on me.
Party 2. Barhopped to another birthday party (don’t too many people get born around this time!). Now with previous incident in mind, along with my straight clothes I wear what is my straightest attitude possible.
But no, not enough. Another gay boy wants my number.
Saturday night.
House party near Soho. By now I’ve had enough and am leching at girls just to prove a point. But like a bad bollywood movie you know what's coming next. Right?
Sigh.
Now, as you know, I’m not homophobic. Far from it. But not far enough to like the extra attention in every party. It belittles my self chosen sexual orientation. And that just won't do.
Which is why now, I'm paying my female friends some serious money to hit on gay men. Give them a taste of their own medicine, so to speak, or rather, do.
Also, girls, if a boy's being the lecherous kinds, don’t jump so quickly and be so harsh. He might need pity more than the usual routine you throw his way.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Ma Rewa
You know what - writing insightful, soul bearing, prioritised desires in single succinct lines should be all the rage. No one can escape it I say. No one.
And if you’re strong enough to, then shame on you.
But seriously though, isn't there this charm that a list bears? Cathartic, binding, freeing, screaming, unchanging, constraining but dynamic if you have an eraser. Not entirely explainable but not entirely unexplainable also. It’s like the twilight zone.
Or, to bring things more in perspective and ask what is perhaps a much more valid and penetrating question - is it just the wine?
Yes, I’ve been drinking and here's my 20 prioritised desires before 35 list.
Cause 20’s daunting enough and 35’s a ripe old age.
001 Travel for 6 months, at a stretch. Anywhere remote.
002 Publish a book of poems.
003 Speak French fluently.
004 Buy a roadster.
005 See the grand prix in Monaco, the carnival in Rio and a polo match in Argentina.
006 Learn to cook. The fantastic kind.
007 Spend a weekend in Venice with the love of my life.
008 Spend a month in Tuscany with the love of my life.
009 Get married.
010 Bungee jump.
011 Master the tango.
012 Adopt a Labrador and buy a horse.
013 See Machu Picchu, the Pampas and the Aurora Borealis.
014 Shave my head.
015 Learn how to make wine and actually make it.
016 Start a band and record three songs. And then disband.
017 Have washboard abs.
018 Learn the nuances of photography.
019 Get a tattoo.
020 Always have an eraser.
And if you’re strong enough to, then shame on you.
But seriously though, isn't there this charm that a list bears? Cathartic, binding, freeing, screaming, unchanging, constraining but dynamic if you have an eraser. Not entirely explainable but not entirely unexplainable also. It’s like the twilight zone.
Or, to bring things more in perspective and ask what is perhaps a much more valid and penetrating question - is it just the wine?
Yes, I’ve been drinking and here's my 20 prioritised desires before 35 list.
Cause 20’s daunting enough and 35’s a ripe old age.
001 Travel for 6 months, at a stretch. Anywhere remote.
002 Publish a book of poems.
003 Speak French fluently.
004 Buy a roadster.
005 See the grand prix in Monaco, the carnival in Rio and a polo match in Argentina.
006 Learn to cook. The fantastic kind.
007 Spend a weekend in Venice with the love of my life.
008 Spend a month in Tuscany with the love of my life.
009 Get married.
010 Bungee jump.
011 Master the tango.
012 Adopt a Labrador and buy a horse.
013 See Machu Picchu, the Pampas and the Aurora Borealis.
014 Shave my head.
015 Learn how to make wine and actually make it.
016 Start a band and record three songs. And then disband.
017 Have washboard abs.
018 Learn the nuances of photography.
019 Get a tattoo.
020 Always have an eraser.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Subterranean Homesick Blues
There is no denying that homesickness is real. But even though it lurks, it does so, wearing different masks.
For when I was in boarding school, it mostly broke loose when my tummy grumbled or on still, bright, weekend afternoons, when you could free your thoughts and imagine what home would be like.
But never when the seniors ragged or the teachers scolded. Never when the sports injuries bled all day long. That was just the nature of the beast.
Now, in a foreign culture, much like a boarding school, only worse at times but never better, the sickness brandishes an uglier mask. Yes, the tummy's been grumbling for Ma’s food, the thoughts trail on most afternoons, but having lived through that before, what troubles most is the lack of an anchor.
The alien sports culture, the strange accents, the school or college stories that office colleagues laugh at, to which I can’t relate.
No one to talk to about cricket victories, or break into hinglish every second minute or to laugh at exaggerated stories about that road trip to Dharamshala/Goa. No one to joke about how we survived college or floundered school rules that seem trivial now but made us heroes then.
I miss the raucous parties, the huge deal a simple event such as a rock show was, the hunting for food late at night, tons of people no matter what.
Booked tickets for Delhi. As you can see, can’t wait.
For when I was in boarding school, it mostly broke loose when my tummy grumbled or on still, bright, weekend afternoons, when you could free your thoughts and imagine what home would be like.
But never when the seniors ragged or the teachers scolded. Never when the sports injuries bled all day long. That was just the nature of the beast.
Now, in a foreign culture, much like a boarding school, only worse at times but never better, the sickness brandishes an uglier mask. Yes, the tummy's been grumbling for Ma’s food, the thoughts trail on most afternoons, but having lived through that before, what troubles most is the lack of an anchor.
The alien sports culture, the strange accents, the school or college stories that office colleagues laugh at, to which I can’t relate.
No one to talk to about cricket victories, or break into hinglish every second minute or to laugh at exaggerated stories about that road trip to Dharamshala/Goa. No one to joke about how we survived college or floundered school rules that seem trivial now but made us heroes then.
I miss the raucous parties, the huge deal a simple event such as a rock show was, the hunting for food late at night, tons of people no matter what.
Booked tickets for Delhi. As you can see, can’t wait.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The Joke Isn't Funny Anymore
Oh my fucking lord.
Yes.
The whole fucking deal.
I need that. I do. The venting. You know what I mean. And if you don't, I need to impress upon you the whole fucking deal.
I've lived a whole nine yards in the last 4 days. It's been that harrowing.
Why am I ventilating so? Why am I in these throes?
Ah well...explanations. Fucking explanations .
(The author is currently amid frustrations and might display cranky behaviour. This is not an apology. It's just what it is).
So on friday last, chicken little was to fly to Londres. There was some work to be done, but it was mostly pleasure. It was highly anticipated, it was going to be the best holidays ever. I swear, ever. Then the sky fell. Fucking chicken little and her philosophies.
I hate the British, people. I love London. But I hate the british. See, no capitals. No respect. None. I hate the british. Bastards. See, capital there.
They didn't give me the visa in time!
I had to miss my flight, rebook, wait, wait some more, bite nails, wait for nails to grow, bite some more, and then finally I get it today.
Sigh.
My dad suggests I should have applied earlier. Yes yes, ofcourse now.
But why couldn't the british have seen my flight dates on the visa application. Why couldn't they have read that? Been more reasonable. Bastards. I'd even given them the suggested 10 working days. Slackers. Wankers.
Pardon my French (on which I'm just getting started).
I'm going to learn French now, just to piss them off. So if the next time you come here and see posts only in French, don't be alarmed now. It's only revenge.
Ok, flying off in a few hours. It's going to be the best holidays ever.
Yes.
The whole fucking deal.
I need that. I do. The venting. You know what I mean. And if you don't, I need to impress upon you the whole fucking deal.
I've lived a whole nine yards in the last 4 days. It's been that harrowing.
Why am I ventilating so? Why am I in these throes?
Ah well...explanations. Fucking explanations .
(The author is currently amid frustrations and might display cranky behaviour. This is not an apology. It's just what it is).
So on friday last, chicken little was to fly to Londres. There was some work to be done, but it was mostly pleasure. It was highly anticipated, it was going to be the best holidays ever. I swear, ever. Then the sky fell. Fucking chicken little and her philosophies.
I hate the British, people. I love London. But I hate the british. See, no capitals. No respect. None. I hate the british. Bastards. See, capital there.
They didn't give me the visa in time!
I had to miss my flight, rebook, wait, wait some more, bite nails, wait for nails to grow, bite some more, and then finally I get it today.
Sigh.
My dad suggests I should have applied earlier. Yes yes, ofcourse now.
But why couldn't the british have seen my flight dates on the visa application. Why couldn't they have read that? Been more reasonable. Bastards. I'd even given them the suggested 10 working days. Slackers. Wankers.
Pardon my French (on which I'm just getting started).
I'm going to learn French now, just to piss them off. So if the next time you come here and see posts only in French, don't be alarmed now. It's only revenge.
Ok, flying off in a few hours. It's going to be the best holidays ever.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Where Do The Children Play?
So financial crisis 101.
Things happen in cycles. What must go up must come down. Newton discovered it, with some help from an apple. We’re discovering it with some help from a street named after a wall.
This time though, it’s gone a bit more helter skelter. It’s as if the bloody apple’s not happy with just stopping at the ground, it’s barreling it’s way to the core.
There. There’s so much of that being written around, I thought I’d comply and put in my two paragraphs. I'll rebel another day.
On other fronts, I’m going to Londres next week. Oh yeah, London baby London. And yes, going again. Would you believe me if I told you this time it’s different?
My boss tells me I treat London as my backyard. Going there every few months. That I’m so this and so that. That perhaps he pays me too much.
This, after the bugger just went to Chile and to Costa Rica before that. Alaska too. I told him, “You go to such exotic places on your vacation days, whereas I land up in ‘normal’ places like London and India. Want my backyard for yours?”
He said “ heh ‘normal’ places - that’s perspective for you.”
Man’s got a point. So apparently he thinks India is exotic and I think Chile is. He also apparently thinks I should come to work earlier. Ah bosses.
Though to be honest, he’s very cool. And if I was a girl, I’d sleep my way to the top without blinking an eye.
Sexist you say. But you haven’t even seen him.
Things happen in cycles. What must go up must come down. Newton discovered it, with some help from an apple. We’re discovering it with some help from a street named after a wall.
This time though, it’s gone a bit more helter skelter. It’s as if the bloody apple’s not happy with just stopping at the ground, it’s barreling it’s way to the core.
There. There’s so much of that being written around, I thought I’d comply and put in my two paragraphs. I'll rebel another day.
On other fronts, I’m going to Londres next week. Oh yeah, London baby London. And yes, going again. Would you believe me if I told you this time it’s different?
My boss tells me I treat London as my backyard. Going there every few months. That I’m so this and so that. That perhaps he pays me too much.
This, after the bugger just went to Chile and to Costa Rica before that. Alaska too. I told him, “You go to such exotic places on your vacation days, whereas I land up in ‘normal’ places like London and India. Want my backyard for yours?”
He said “ heh ‘normal’ places - that’s perspective for you.”
Man’s got a point. So apparently he thinks India is exotic and I think Chile is. He also apparently thinks I should come to work earlier. Ah bosses.
Though to be honest, he’s very cool. And if I was a girl, I’d sleep my way to the top without blinking an eye.
Sexist you say. But you haven’t even seen him.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Bohemian Rhapsody
It's been a while now, hasn't it? This thing, it's been gathering dust. But I've been a victim of time. A lack of it.
So since I posted last
- I've moved apartments. It's a right pain in the ass to search and move homes in this city, man. There are mostly shitty apartments in shitty areas out here. And when that holy grail of a perfect place at a great price comes along, you're always a day late.
But I think I got a decent grail - it's not holy, but it shines.
- The markets sighed, screamed, bucked and then tanked. Friends I know lost jobs. The US govt became socialistic, saved the rich people, and helped plunge the economy deeper. Things like this happen in an emotionally charged country like America. And so time got involved in it all too.
- India became "smoke free". I don't smoke like smokers do, but this overarching control of the government doesn't go down well with me. Free will is dying. A slow silent death at that too. Governments are taking over the way to live everywhere.
- A wong kar wai fan recommended Chungking express. She said she began to believe in love after seeing it. She also said the end is what makes the movie great. I saw the movie. I loved it. But I slept off before the end. By next morning my friend had returned the movie back to the movie shop. So I never got to see the end.
But then, I'd begun to believe in love before the movie began.
So, what did you do?
So since I posted last
- I've moved apartments. It's a right pain in the ass to search and move homes in this city, man. There are mostly shitty apartments in shitty areas out here. And when that holy grail of a perfect place at a great price comes along, you're always a day late.
But I think I got a decent grail - it's not holy, but it shines.
- The markets sighed, screamed, bucked and then tanked. Friends I know lost jobs. The US govt became socialistic, saved the rich people, and helped plunge the economy deeper. Things like this happen in an emotionally charged country like America. And so time got involved in it all too.
- India became "smoke free". I don't smoke like smokers do, but this overarching control of the government doesn't go down well with me. Free will is dying. A slow silent death at that too. Governments are taking over the way to live everywhere.
- A wong kar wai fan recommended Chungking express. She said she began to believe in love after seeing it. She also said the end is what makes the movie great. I saw the movie. I loved it. But I slept off before the end. By next morning my friend had returned the movie back to the movie shop. So I never got to see the end.
But then, I'd begun to believe in love before the movie began.
So, what did you do?
Monday, September 22, 2008
Hush Little Baby
Girl and Boy
She’s all alone
Says she’s not a watering hole
Been trying all possible alleys
And love just whistles on
He’s within himself
Basking in the loneliness
But that’s not what he calls it
And love just whistles on
She’s all alone
Says she’s not a watering hole
Been trying all possible alleys
And love just whistles on
He’s within himself
Basking in the loneliness
But that’s not what he calls it
And love just whistles on
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Wonderwall
If they aren't always good, why call them "goodbyes"?
If they aren't always hellish, why call them "hello's"?
When will english stop being a funny language?
The irony hurts at times.
If they aren't always hellish, why call them "hello's"?
When will english stop being a funny language?
The irony hurts at times.
Papa Loves Mambo
Alright, she's going to hate this.
Maybe I should have asked for permission before. I mean she's threatened me with a libel suit in the past and even though I doubt she'd pull it off (the libel that is), you can only push someone so far. Especially someone with a french disposal to life (and that too, only because I feel they hate the attention obsessed, chihuahua totting americans. And that's a good thing)
But this is me falling prey, to the pimping way of the blogging life.
So click here for the Indian In Paris blog. It's funnier than it sounds and highly intriguing in places.
And honestly, this doesn't come easy. No, not really. This is probably being impulsive and adulatory, but to be fair, if a blog is funny (or silly) enough to make us impulsive it shall be pimped.
That's the law. To which I comply only but rarely.
And you have to pay the bribe. That's also the law. Corruption and pimping is what this government is about.
But please be nice, quiet and discreet. She's going to hate the attention, even though she has a blog stat counter right plomp in the middle.
Maybe I should have asked for permission before. I mean she's threatened me with a libel suit in the past and even though I doubt she'd pull it off (the libel that is), you can only push someone so far. Especially someone with a french disposal to life (and that too, only because I feel they hate the attention obsessed, chihuahua totting americans. And that's a good thing)
But this is me falling prey, to the pimping way of the blogging life.
So click here for the Indian In Paris blog. It's funnier than it sounds and highly intriguing in places.
And honestly, this doesn't come easy. No, not really. This is probably being impulsive and adulatory, but to be fair, if a blog is funny (or silly) enough to make us impulsive it shall be pimped.
That's the law. To which I comply only but rarely.
And you have to pay the bribe. That's also the law. Corruption and pimping is what this government is about.
But please be nice, quiet and discreet. She's going to hate the attention, even though she has a blog stat counter right plomp in the middle.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Handbags And Gladrags
These are lean days in the blogging world. The economy's not doing too well either. Not that they're related but I thought I'd just put it out there.
Actually, come to think of it, companies and bloggers are shutting down alike - so maybe they are related.
Does it matter? In the long run, not at all. In the short run, bah who cares. They're all the same. Capitalists and bloggers. Who'd have known, eh?
So I had this post created for the longest time. Like 2 months back or something. It's been sitting in the post list and weeping to get out. It was hilarious at the time. A list of a few of the gtalk chats I've had with my insane gtalk friends. I swear they're insane. And it's too late also. They think they have a good thing going. The insane bit that is.
But things are getting a bit dry, so why not let it out. It's been weeping after all.
And you might not find them funny the way I do, but hey, at least I'm not cribbing about a relationship this that, or preaching insightful ways to live life.
Or putting up a shut down notice. Which, though fun they are, is against our religion. I'd rather walk away sneakily. Hate goodbyes. Sniff.
------
CD: "How's it going, BFF?"
Guy1: "What does BFF stand for? b^ttf$%king fantasies?Pardon my french"
CD: "It's up for debate really. It could be anything as random as bum fum foo's. But why blame the French?"Actually, come to think of it, companies and bloggers are shutting down alike - so maybe they are related.
Does it matter? In the long run, not at all. In the short run, bah who cares. They're all the same. Capitalists and bloggers. Who'd have known, eh?
So I had this post created for the longest time. Like 2 months back or something. It's been sitting in the post list and weeping to get out. It was hilarious at the time. A list of a few of the gtalk chats I've had with my insane gtalk friends. I swear they're insane. And it's too late also. They think they have a good thing going. The insane bit that is.
But things are getting a bit dry, so why not let it out. It's been weeping after all.
And you might not find them funny the way I do, but hey, at least I'm not cribbing about a relationship this that, or preaching insightful ways to live life.
Or putting up a shut down notice. Which, though fun they are, is against our religion. I'd rather walk away sneakily. Hate goodbyes. Sniff.
------
CD: "How's it going, BFF?"
Guy1: "What does BFF stand for? b^ttf$%king fantasies?Pardon my french"
Guy1: "Because the french are f$!^kng cu£$%ts. Pardon my french."
CD: "hehe"
Guy1: "Did BFF mean Best Friends Forever? If it did, remind me to beat you up when we meet."------
Girl1: "I got an iPod as a gift"CD: "Dammit"
Girl1: "And a donkey in a happy meal"
CD: "I hate you"
Girl1: "my life is complete"
CD: "I made a voodoo doll of you"
Girl1: "show me"
CD: "There - did it hurt on your left arm"
Girl1: "nope but it made me want to get a glass of wine"------
Girl2 : heheCD : hehe
CD : How come you laugh like me.
CD : "hehe" and not "haha"
Girl2 : haha is stupid. Too much effort.
CD : too much.
Girl2 : hehe is much more easy, comes naturally. Hoo hoo is the hardest. So is hee hee.
Girl2: yeah, so hehe it is.
CD : Fuck, you’re crazy
Girl2: you’re fadacked.------
Guy2 : oh btw, just between us
CD : shit, gay moment
Guy2: Whatever dude. So, * insert serious love interest's name * has had a lesbian experience
CD : nice. So?
Guy2: She wanted to take the girl home and the girl said no.
CD : Maybe she’s lesbian. No sex for you, ever for life.
Guy2: ok..so much for telling you. That’s my fear.
CD : Maybe she’s bisexual.
Guy2: Maybe
CD : I highly doubt it. Once they go there, they never come back.
CD : No sex for you. Ever for life.
Guy2: ok so much for telling you.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Tweeter And The Monkeyman
I want to write a happysad post.
You know the kind...
It’ll make you whimper, sniff a little, then slowly (but surely) make you open those ducts and let the tears unwillingly drop out...sob by sob.
...and almost at the same time, your lips will be curling, that smile would be creeping up, your stomach would be doing flip flops, and you’ll burst a happy smile.
Oh, it’ll mess you up so much.
And if you’re sitting in something public like a subway, you’ll suddenly look up and blind people with those blushing red cheeks.
A crazy brilliant smile and tears running constantly.
People might even take a step away from you.
...just you wait.
You know the kind...
It’ll make you whimper, sniff a little, then slowly (but surely) make you open those ducts and let the tears unwillingly drop out...sob by sob.
...and almost at the same time, your lips will be curling, that smile would be creeping up, your stomach would be doing flip flops, and you’ll burst a happy smile.
Oh, it’ll mess you up so much.
And if you’re sitting in something public like a subway, you’ll suddenly look up and blind people with those blushing red cheeks.
A crazy brilliant smile and tears running constantly.
People might even take a step away from you.
...just you wait.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Float On
Would I do it again? Ofcourse I would. I don't remember that much of it anyway. Only the good parts.
I'm pretty sure the gut is the emotional bank of the body. All, each and every moment of your historical adventures and misadventures, are soaked dry for emotions, spunged out of their society-induced-behaviours, and deposited in a safe vault deep in the gut, sometimes for more than their worth.
Which is why, if you feel it from the gut, it probably triggered something. Something with more substance than a heart flutter or a parchness of the throat. I'd listen to it.
Pourquoi? Because magic is rare. When it happens, or for that matter happens again, nothing else matters.
So go on, bash on regardless...
I'm pretty sure the gut is the emotional bank of the body. All, each and every moment of your historical adventures and misadventures, are soaked dry for emotions, spunged out of their society-induced-behaviours, and deposited in a safe vault deep in the gut, sometimes for more than their worth.
Which is why, if you feel it from the gut, it probably triggered something. Something with more substance than a heart flutter or a parchness of the throat. I'd listen to it.
Pourquoi? Because magic is rare. When it happens, or for that matter happens again, nothing else matters.
So go on, bash on regardless...
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Blower's Daughter
The origin of the word "Pub" is from the English concept of a "Public House".
Every village in Victorian England would have a public house, usually in the village square or centre; where the villagers would gather, mostly in the evenings after work, for a pint of the lager and to talk life out. (There would always, of course, be the hope that it transpires into more than just a pint, and more than just a talk).
So why this history lesson then? Just to break into, in a manner of the formal essayist way, of the culmination of a recent search of mine. To find one pub in many.
And yes, I think may have found a good one after all. Or changed loyalties at least for the time being. It’s a pub, a bar in the american way, 2 blocks from where I live. It’s small and it’s dark. It’s got a pool table, chatty customers, an irish bartender who gives free shots if he likes you and great, no make that fantastic, music. It’s perfect. It’s the rare kind where you can as easily read a book on a Saturday afternoon in as you can walk out tottering and yelling at 4 am from.
It’s also highly pretentious, calls itself the Dead Poet and has quotes from poets scattered all over the place. Quotes like:
May you be in heaven
not a profession
- Robert Frost
Every village in Victorian England would have a public house, usually in the village square or centre; where the villagers would gather, mostly in the evenings after work, for a pint of the lager and to talk life out. (There would always, of course, be the hope that it transpires into more than just a pint, and more than just a talk).
So why this history lesson then? Just to break into, in a manner of the formal essayist way, of the culmination of a recent search of mine. To find one pub in many.
And yes, I think may have found a good one after all. Or changed loyalties at least for the time being. It’s a pub, a bar in the american way, 2 blocks from where I live. It’s small and it’s dark. It’s got a pool table, chatty customers, an irish bartender who gives free shots if he likes you and great, no make that fantastic, music. It’s perfect. It’s the rare kind where you can as easily read a book on a Saturday afternoon in as you can walk out tottering and yelling at 4 am from.
It’s also highly pretentious, calls itself the Dead Poet and has quotes from poets scattered all over the place. Quotes like:
May you be in heaven
Half an hour before the
Devil knows you're dead
- an Irish drinking toast
Man, being reasonable
Must get drunk;
The best of life Is but intoxication
- Lord Byron
There can't be good living
where there is not good drinking
- Benjamin Franlin
- Benjamin Franlin
Why do I drink?
So that I can write poetry.
- Jim Morrison
To be a poet is a condition,- Jim Morrison
not a profession
- Robert Frost
Work is the curse
of the drinking classes
- Oscar Wilde
Also, if you share your birthday with a famous literary figure, you get to drink free that whole day. Google tells me I might have Jack Kerouac to thank for free drinks some months from now.
And as Damien Rice said:
“I can’t take my mind off you…till I find someone new"...
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The Youth
Let's start it off with a question. Maybe that might help. Ease the flow; open the faucet - that kind of thing you know. Or maybe you don't. Or maybe it doesn't matter. Or maybe it does.
So yes, the question.
How do you...no…How do you realise...No. That's not it either.
It's tough, it is. Getting the right words. And even then, there are so many facets that could never be captured in these...these words. On a blog. You'll never know what I'm emphasising, how I raise my eyebrow at the third word and bring my tone down just enough on the penultimate word, only to stress the last word.
So why try?
Why not?
Now who can argue with that? Actually I can. Argue with it that is, but no inclination really. None. And it runs deeper than that.
So then...where were we.
…How do you know when, how do you know how, things have changed?
There. That's what I was looking for. More or less.
42.
Perhaps.
So yes, the question.
How do you...no…How do you realise...No. That's not it either.
It's tough, it is. Getting the right words. And even then, there are so many facets that could never be captured in these...these words. On a blog. You'll never know what I'm emphasising, how I raise my eyebrow at the third word and bring my tone down just enough on the penultimate word, only to stress the last word.
So why try?
Why not?
Now who can argue with that? Actually I can. Argue with it that is, but no inclination really. None. And it runs deeper than that.
So then...where were we.
…How do you know when, how do you know how, things have changed?
There. That's what I was looking for. More or less.
42.
Perhaps.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Wishlist
9:15 pm The Meadows
9:15 pm Hartford, Connecticut
9:15 pm The USA
9:15 pm The who cares
9:15 pm The as individuals we’re good people, but as a collective something weird happens to us. Evil weird.
Never mind the rhetoric, at 9:15 pm in The Meadows, Eddie Vedder said “Good Evening Hartford!”.
9:15 pm I was there, soaking it all in.
It had been ages since I’d intentionally played a pearl jam song on my itunes. I’d hear them in the bars that I’d hang out, or sing along to one at a party - but I was exploring other music. In short, I’d moved on.
Like the boy who keeps going back to his ex, today, after what was a great time, I intentionally played a pearl jam song on my itunes. I played Wishlist. In short, I’m back in love.
Most bands are altogether different when they’re live in concert. Most love it and come into their groove...the attention, the pressure, the voices. Some crumble and fall. Pearl Jam were not great, no, they weren’t mindblowing either, but they sang to the crowd, they talked to the crowed, they danced with the crowd. When we all lighted our lighters to “betterman”, Vedder said “that looks beautiful in black”. When “Daughter” morphed into “Another brick in the wall”, Vedder pointed the mic to the crowd and sang with us the whole time.
That, in short, was my justification for being back in love with the band that named themselves after their aunt pearl’s lip smacking jam.
9:15 pm Hartford, Connecticut
9:15 pm The USA
9:15 pm The who cares
9:15 pm The as individuals we’re good people, but as a collective something weird happens to us. Evil weird.
Never mind the rhetoric, at 9:15 pm in The Meadows, Eddie Vedder said “Good Evening Hartford!”.
9:15 pm I was there, soaking it all in.
It had been ages since I’d intentionally played a pearl jam song on my itunes. I’d hear them in the bars that I’d hang out, or sing along to one at a party - but I was exploring other music. In short, I’d moved on.
Like the boy who keeps going back to his ex, today, after what was a great time, I intentionally played a pearl jam song on my itunes. I played Wishlist. In short, I’m back in love.
Most bands are altogether different when they’re live in concert. Most love it and come into their groove...the attention, the pressure, the voices. Some crumble and fall. Pearl Jam were not great, no, they weren’t mindblowing either, but they sang to the crowd, they talked to the crowed, they danced with the crowd. When we all lighted our lighters to “betterman”, Vedder said “that looks beautiful in black”. When “Daughter” morphed into “Another brick in the wall”, Vedder pointed the mic to the crowd and sang with us the whole time.
That, in short, was my justification for being back in love with the band that named themselves after their aunt pearl’s lip smacking jam.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Death Or Glory
Every now and again, when you least expect it, when you’re down with your defenses, when basically, you’re piss bored…the universe throws an interesting person your way.
It’s probably all part of a big cruel joke.
Probably much like golf - that game suckers you into self-confidence by a few decent shots; and then the next day, you can't hit the fairway if it were the size of Alaska.
But it is what it is.
So let me tell you of the time the universe threw the manager of The Clash my way.
well, if you don't know who they are, wiki fucking pedia it.
...
...
if you did indeed wikipedia The Clash, chances are that you're most likely a spawn of satan. And yes, you should just go back to daddy.
Let’s start from the beginning. So, I work in the boring ass field that is the corporate world. Nothing remotely related to the music industry. Nada.
But last week, while on a conference trip to somewhere in suburban America, I met a colleague.
It was at a bar after our conference.
He said howdy. I said hi.
We bought beers. We sighed. We looked at the tele for the match of the day.
… it was going to be the usual boring stuff..
He asked how things were in NYC. I told him I couldn’t wait to get back, just in time to catch Pearl Jam in concert (I also went ahead and air fisted at this time - it's involuntary I say).
I waited. I waited for some sort of reaction from him.
I waited some more.
He took a sip of the draught, and very slowly, very purposefully, said:
“Eddie Vedder’s so fake man. He sings sad songs but leads a glorious life.”
“How's that?"
“Song writing’s very difficult, man. Not the removed pop variety. The words of my life variety, where when people hear they go “aah, I know what that guy was feeling when he wrote that”.
“Isn’t that from the wedding singer”.
“It still applies”
“Fair enough”
“And really, nothing against that, just that it's not real, man. These bands, of your time, they don't have anything to sing for. There's no cause to rebel against, nothing to fight for. They’ve grown with AC homes, washing machines and exotic cuisines. They make flimsy causes in a desperate attempt to relate. They don’t make bands the way they used to, man. I saw real bands, the 80's were it. It’s been downhill ever since.”
I was going to groan.
And then he said...
“Did I ever tell you the time I managed The Clash? Only for a month really, but it was what it was”.
Oh he was there man. He was there when Husker Du signed up. He pronounced bands to me that have by now overdosed to their death, or just faded from memory. Yes, he's old school and that might explain his cynicism of "Bands, of your time".
He was there when Bill Graham was there. Bill was a bastard, he said. Bill was also the biggest promoter of the biggest bands in the whole world. The whole fucking world man, he said. He had Hendrix, Grateful Dead, Joplin...he had the best venues under his fist - Fillmore west, the Fillmore east...
I managed a small band that opened for Led Zeppelin one time at a Bill Graham venue. Bill was well known to swindle with the fees.
Now, the venue would take 5000 people, be packed to capacity but Bill would be at the back door, letting another 1000 through at $20 an entry. That would all ofcourse, be pocketed by the Graham.
So after this particular concert, our friend and the Led Zep manager, a huge huge English bloke, go to Bill Graham for their fair share of the booty. Bill says it was a bad show with not enough sales. The Led Zep manager, without blinking an eye, takes out a pistol and says “Bill let’s close the door and discuss this. I had counters at the back door”. Bill takes out 2 pistols and says sure. My colleague, who doesn't really have the demeanour for this type of charade, politely asks for what is due him, all the while concentrating real hard to stop that shivering. Get's the hell out he does.
I was pretty disappointed when he wasn't able to tell me what went down between Bill and Led Zep manager that night. "2 crazy guys, one room. There was no room in there for me man".
As for The Clash - they happened to him by pure luck. Being in the right place at the right time, you know. He said he got The Clash job cause he was American. The Clash being an English band had an English manger. For their US tour, they decided they wanted a manager that didn’t take the money and put it up his nose. The british were notorious for that. An American country boy with little experience seemed to fit what they wanted.
He was an American country boy with little experience.
He had a million other stories. Ok, maybe 10 odd stories. Unfortunately they came with "real" band preaching. But they were what they were.
...and that's for a later time. Maybe when you're sitting next to me sipping beers and looking at the tele.
It’s probably all part of a big cruel joke.
Probably much like golf - that game suckers you into self-confidence by a few decent shots; and then the next day, you can't hit the fairway if it were the size of Alaska.
But it is what it is.
So let me tell you of the time the universe threw the manager of The Clash my way.
well, if you don't know who they are, wiki fucking pedia it.
...
...
if you did indeed wikipedia The Clash, chances are that you're most likely a spawn of satan. And yes, you should just go back to daddy.
Let’s start from the beginning. So, I work in the boring ass field that is the corporate world. Nothing remotely related to the music industry. Nada.
But last week, while on a conference trip to somewhere in suburban America, I met a colleague.
It was at a bar after our conference.
He said howdy. I said hi.
We bought beers. We sighed. We looked at the tele for the match of the day.
… it was going to be the usual boring stuff..
He asked how things were in NYC. I told him I couldn’t wait to get back, just in time to catch Pearl Jam in concert (I also went ahead and air fisted at this time - it's involuntary I say).
I waited. I waited for some sort of reaction from him.
I waited some more.
He took a sip of the draught, and very slowly, very purposefully, said:
“Eddie Vedder’s so fake man. He sings sad songs but leads a glorious life.”
“How's that?"
“Song writing’s very difficult, man. Not the removed pop variety. The words of my life variety, where when people hear they go “aah, I know what that guy was feeling when he wrote that”.
“Isn’t that from the wedding singer”.
“It still applies”
“Fair enough”
“And really, nothing against that, just that it's not real, man. These bands, of your time, they don't have anything to sing for. There's no cause to rebel against, nothing to fight for. They’ve grown with AC homes, washing machines and exotic cuisines. They make flimsy causes in a desperate attempt to relate. They don’t make bands the way they used to, man. I saw real bands, the 80's were it. It’s been downhill ever since.”
I was going to groan.
And then he said...
“Did I ever tell you the time I managed The Clash? Only for a month really, but it was what it was”.
Oh he was there man. He was there when Husker Du signed up. He pronounced bands to me that have by now overdosed to their death, or just faded from memory. Yes, he's old school and that might explain his cynicism of "Bands, of your time".
He was there when Bill Graham was there. Bill was a bastard, he said. Bill was also the biggest promoter of the biggest bands in the whole world. The whole fucking world man, he said. He had Hendrix, Grateful Dead, Joplin...he had the best venues under his fist - Fillmore west, the Fillmore east...
I managed a small band that opened for Led Zeppelin one time at a Bill Graham venue. Bill was well known to swindle with the fees.
Now, the venue would take 5000 people, be packed to capacity but Bill would be at the back door, letting another 1000 through at $20 an entry. That would all ofcourse, be pocketed by the Graham.
So after this particular concert, our friend and the Led Zep manager, a huge huge English bloke, go to Bill Graham for their fair share of the booty. Bill says it was a bad show with not enough sales. The Led Zep manager, without blinking an eye, takes out a pistol and says “Bill let’s close the door and discuss this. I had counters at the back door”. Bill takes out 2 pistols and says sure. My colleague, who doesn't really have the demeanour for this type of charade, politely asks for what is due him, all the while concentrating real hard to stop that shivering. Get's the hell out he does.
I was pretty disappointed when he wasn't able to tell me what went down between Bill and Led Zep manager that night. "2 crazy guys, one room. There was no room in there for me man".
As for The Clash - they happened to him by pure luck. Being in the right place at the right time, you know. He said he got The Clash job cause he was American. The Clash being an English band had an English manger. For their US tour, they decided they wanted a manager that didn’t take the money and put it up his nose. The british were notorious for that. An American country boy with little experience seemed to fit what they wanted.
He was an American country boy with little experience.
He had a million other stories. Ok, maybe 10 odd stories. Unfortunately they came with "real" band preaching. But they were what they were.
...and that's for a later time. Maybe when you're sitting next to me sipping beers and looking at the tele.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Heretics
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Two thousand words...
Artist: Banksy.
(Banksy for president, Hell yeah!)
Two thousand words...
Artist: Banksy.
(Banksy for president, Hell yeah!)
Monday, June 9, 2008
Turn Blue
It should all really be simple...
so why then does it have to be more like rocket science?
"I guess what I just want to know
when,
at what point, you see,
does all this
begin, or really start, to make sense?"
so why then does it have to be more like rocket science?
"I guess what I just want to know
when,
at what point, you see,
does all this
begin, or really start, to make sense?"
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Here Come's the Sun
This is not a review things blog. Not even close. Except existential angst, we don't review any thing. And even then that is mentioned in a can't-do-fuckall-about-it way.
It's the difference between cookbook authors and fiction writers. This blog doesn't cook.
But then again, they say, the best reviews are written by someone with an outside eye. We've been known to agree with "they" every now and again... and since it's already a habit...
Delhi is the topic at hand. South Delhi to be exact. It's not the Delhi of my youth for much has changed. It's also the Delhi of my youth for much is still the same.
Turquoise Cottage has closed down. That's a pity. It's obviously not irreplaceable, for even now, Opus in Vasant Vihar claims to be a TC from the past. I beg to differ though. But at least they're trying. They're also currently debating the question - is it better to have tried and lost or not to have tried at all?
Of the new lot of yuppie favoured places - there's Smokehouse Grill, in GK2, for one. It's highly wanna be, with it's policy of couples only at the bar (even when it's empty). If you tell them that you'll be sitting at the restaurant upstairs, they're fine though. The passively aired music's a pain, but there are rock nights and DJ nights. So there might be hope yet. The ambiance I like, with it's pop art walls. But the real cracker were the starters. I loved the chorizo I ordered. The cocktails , with their smoked range, were ok. Trying too much they were.
TGIF is still TGIF. The Vasant Vihar one. It's not the special place to meet in - I don't think it ever wanted to be. But it's the harmless, after work, watch the IPL match of the day place. That's still an enviable spot to be in. The music's become pissful though. The cocktails are still fantastic.
Urban Pind (like the name btw), in GK1, is a tad bit different. The Khajurao art replicated on the walls, is very in your face and very much needed to break the two faced conservatism that is Delhi. I really like the cocktails here.
The crowd though, was much better in Smokehouse and TGIF.
Shalom, GK1, is a sham. I'd stay away and rather sit in a coffee shop. Which by the way are open till 2-3 am on a weekday! There's a no alcohol after 12:30am regulation in delhi. Caffeine, often claimed to be more addictive in certain circles, is as yet not regulated. Wait till the left takes over. Hopefully their idiotic brains haven't visited Urban Pind as yet.
On that the best coffee shop is still Yellow Brick Road, in the Ambassador. My college days came streaming back when I went a revisiting.
Five stars still rule the after midnight market. And after getting an earful of bad music and sometimes bad company, we'd often end up in the sterile environment of a five star's coffee shop. Debating, contemplating and just being there.
So those were my five nights in Delhi.
But bear in mind. This is not a review blog. Judge us as you must, for that is your prerogative, but know, sticks and stones....
It's the difference between cookbook authors and fiction writers. This blog doesn't cook.
But then again, they say, the best reviews are written by someone with an outside eye. We've been known to agree with "they" every now and again... and since it's already a habit...
Delhi is the topic at hand. South Delhi to be exact. It's not the Delhi of my youth for much has changed. It's also the Delhi of my youth for much is still the same.
Turquoise Cottage has closed down. That's a pity. It's obviously not irreplaceable, for even now, Opus in Vasant Vihar claims to be a TC from the past. I beg to differ though. But at least they're trying. They're also currently debating the question - is it better to have tried and lost or not to have tried at all?
Of the new lot of yuppie favoured places - there's Smokehouse Grill, in GK2, for one. It's highly wanna be, with it's policy of couples only at the bar (even when it's empty). If you tell them that you'll be sitting at the restaurant upstairs, they're fine though. The passively aired music's a pain, but there are rock nights and DJ nights. So there might be hope yet. The ambiance I like, with it's pop art walls. But the real cracker were the starters. I loved the chorizo I ordered. The cocktails , with their smoked range, were ok. Trying too much they were.
TGIF is still TGIF. The Vasant Vihar one. It's not the special place to meet in - I don't think it ever wanted to be. But it's the harmless, after work, watch the IPL match of the day place. That's still an enviable spot to be in. The music's become pissful though. The cocktails are still fantastic.
Urban Pind (like the name btw), in GK1, is a tad bit different. The Khajurao art replicated on the walls, is very in your face and very much needed to break the two faced conservatism that is Delhi. I really like the cocktails here.
The crowd though, was much better in Smokehouse and TGIF.
Shalom, GK1, is a sham. I'd stay away and rather sit in a coffee shop. Which by the way are open till 2-3 am on a weekday! There's a no alcohol after 12:30am regulation in delhi. Caffeine, often claimed to be more addictive in certain circles, is as yet not regulated. Wait till the left takes over. Hopefully their idiotic brains haven't visited Urban Pind as yet.
On that the best coffee shop is still Yellow Brick Road, in the Ambassador. My college days came streaming back when I went a revisiting.
Five stars still rule the after midnight market. And after getting an earful of bad music and sometimes bad company, we'd often end up in the sterile environment of a five star's coffee shop. Debating, contemplating and just being there.
So those were my five nights in Delhi.
But bear in mind. This is not a review blog. Judge us as you must, for that is your prerogative, but know, sticks and stones....
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
The Cutter
It's been a while and I itch. No, not in the wrong places. It's the metaphor I'm looking for.
I itch intellectually. I itch for answers. I itch for good company. I also itch on my nose. It could be related. Like the butterfly effect?
I don't like the word "itch" now.
In Delhi at the mo. Vacationing I am. Liking it? - maybe.
Actually, in 2 years, I am going to be based and working out of Delhi. I have thought this through and through. It's happening. Decided? - definitely
But 2 years is an infinity.
oh Murphy, why did you have to have a law. I know you said what you had said, in jest most likely. I know you meant well. I know it. But it's messing with me at the present. Treating me as a guinea pig. Empirical evidence I understand.
Why would she ignore me now? Is it because now, I like her?
Same rant, you say.
I would have an answer for you, but I need to scratch my nose.
I itch intellectually. I itch for answers. I itch for good company. I also itch on my nose. It could be related. Like the butterfly effect?
I don't like the word "itch" now.
In Delhi at the mo. Vacationing I am. Liking it? - maybe.
Actually, in 2 years, I am going to be based and working out of Delhi. I have thought this through and through. It's happening. Decided? - definitely
But 2 years is an infinity.
oh Murphy, why did you have to have a law. I know you said what you had said, in jest most likely. I know you meant well. I know it. But it's messing with me at the present. Treating me as a guinea pig. Empirical evidence I understand.
Why would she ignore me now? Is it because now, I like her?
Same rant, you say.
I would have an answer for you, but I need to scratch my nose.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Civil War
Yes, I have one going on and like the song "I don't need one more war".
Vegas tomorrow; again; company award this time - the suckers are paying for it. "Highest individual bullshit blah blah want-to-work-you-to-the-bone but-still-have-to-entice-you award". Despite the cynicism, I'm taking it. It's Vegas and I fucking deserve it. Corporate America is finally conquered. So anyway, Vegas tomorrow.
Having one of those brilliant weekends - feels strange that it's been that long that I had one this nice. Despite the apprehension, I'm enjoying it.
So kiss me and smile for me.
Vegas tomorrow; again; company award this time - the suckers are paying for it. "Highest individual bullshit blah blah want-to-work-you-to-the-bone but-still-have-to-entice-you award". Despite the cynicism, I'm taking it. It's Vegas and I fucking deserve it. Corporate America is finally conquered. So anyway, Vegas tomorrow.
Having one of those brilliant weekends - feels strange that it's been that long that I had one this nice. Despite the apprehension, I'm enjoying it.
So kiss me and smile for me.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
In My Life
She told me to look at London with goodbye eyes. I did. And then I realised I was her London as well.
Manhattan has a big green mass, Central Park, that cuts right through its middle. It also has the East Side and the West Side. If you’re on the east of Central Park, you’re on the East Side and if you’re on the west of it, you’re on the West Side. No, the American’s aren’t very creative with these sort of things.
It’s funny how now, we both live on the same street, but the exact opposite sides of the island. Exactly different directions. A sign? Of how it was never meant to be? Bah!
I don’t venture to the east side much. It’s a planet all on its own to me. Not a friendly one. No. Everyone looks like her. Every corner I turn I almost bump into her. Every boy there is going to flirt with her. Every coffee shop has her caffe latte order placed, the one with soy milk. My pace is always quickened and my gaze furtive when I’m there. It’s plain bizarre.
All based on a green swathe some people call Central Park.
Do humans mark their territory too?
Manhattan has a big green mass, Central Park, that cuts right through its middle. It also has the East Side and the West Side. If you’re on the east of Central Park, you’re on the East Side and if you’re on the west of it, you’re on the West Side. No, the American’s aren’t very creative with these sort of things.
It’s funny how now, we both live on the same street, but the exact opposite sides of the island. Exactly different directions. A sign? Of how it was never meant to be? Bah!
I don’t venture to the east side much. It’s a planet all on its own to me. Not a friendly one. No. Everyone looks like her. Every corner I turn I almost bump into her. Every boy there is going to flirt with her. Every coffee shop has her caffe latte order placed, the one with soy milk. My pace is always quickened and my gaze furtive when I’m there. It’s plain bizarre.
All based on a green swathe some people call Central Park.
Do humans mark their territory too?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Irish Blood, English Heart
“Simply press the button, wait for the beep, blow into the unit, and within seconds the LCD displays a precise digital percentile readout of your Blood Alcohol Content (BAC). An entire test takes less than 10 seconds.”
Saturday night. 2 guys. 1 bar. Copious amounts of alcohol. 1 Breath analyser to bring it all together.
Guy1: “It says here level 0.02 means you’re beyond the drinking & driving limit and I know level 0.12 is when you get into coma.”
Guy2: “ Well then, I think 0.08 is a good limit to aim for”
Guy1: “Perfect. Bartender, we’ll start with 2 Irish Carbombs, followed by 2 large Glenn on the rocks and then we’ll think of something.”
Guy2: “You know, I think I read a book once where this guy had a wicked experience with a breath analyser once.”
Guy1: “Man, you read way too much. People who write about breath analyser’s are obviously retarded...ah here come the irish.”
1 hour later. After attempting many BAC counts and sharing breath analyser with anyone who would talk to us (surprisingly, a breath analyser can make you friends with many people in a bar - unfortunately it is mostly the unwanted jock kinds. It’s the price you pay for ingenuity.)
Guy1: “I’m at 0.07.”
Guy2: “Damn, I swear I was level 0.07 and then after the last jagerbomb shot, this effing unit says I’m a 0.06. I know a girl who swears by jagerbombs. I need to let her know its not alcohol, in fact its an alcohol killer.”
Guy1: “Hmm...I swear by Jagerbombs too. Maybe the units had its fair share of activity. These things were designed for the police to check random drivers, not hell bent drunkards, man. Have Glenn, this shit is nasty.”
Whether level 0.08 was reached is a matter of much speculation. The unit has since been acting drunk and refuses to wake up. We fear it beat us to level 0.12.
Disclaimer:- Identities of people have been changed to protect them from society by using generic terms such as guy, bartender and friends.
Saturday night. 2 guys. 1 bar. Copious amounts of alcohol. 1 Breath analyser to bring it all together.
Guy1: “It says here level 0.02 means you’re beyond the drinking & driving limit and I know level 0.12 is when you get into coma.”
Guy2: “ Well then, I think 0.08 is a good limit to aim for”
Guy1: “Perfect. Bartender, we’ll start with 2 Irish Carbombs, followed by 2 large Glenn on the rocks and then we’ll think of something.”
Guy2: “You know, I think I read a book once where this guy had a wicked experience with a breath analyser once.”
Guy1: “Man, you read way too much. People who write about breath analyser’s are obviously retarded...ah here come the irish.”
1 hour later. After attempting many BAC counts and sharing breath analyser with anyone who would talk to us (surprisingly, a breath analyser can make you friends with many people in a bar - unfortunately it is mostly the unwanted jock kinds. It’s the price you pay for ingenuity.)
Guy1: “I’m at 0.07.”
Guy2: “Damn, I swear I was level 0.07 and then after the last jagerbomb shot, this effing unit says I’m a 0.06. I know a girl who swears by jagerbombs. I need to let her know its not alcohol, in fact its an alcohol killer.”
Guy1: “Hmm...I swear by Jagerbombs too. Maybe the units had its fair share of activity. These things were designed for the police to check random drivers, not hell bent drunkards, man. Have Glenn, this shit is nasty.”
Whether level 0.08 was reached is a matter of much speculation. The unit has since been acting drunk and refuses to wake up. We fear it beat us to level 0.12.
Disclaimer:- Identities of people have been changed to protect them from society by using generic terms such as guy, bartender and friends.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Panic
Write dammit...write it in as many words and as little sentences it takes...whatever needs to be done, don’t shy away. No more lies. It’s only words and words are all you have...ha!...
So much these words can do...create, destroy, humiliate, infatuate, betray...every verb at their control. Humans are the most vocal of all the animals. That is both boon and bane...which is higher in the hierarchy is anyone’s blame game.
Kill the dj, the blessed fucking dj...oh that Morrissey meant well.
Stay sharp man. It’s the drugs...I can’t control my fingers. They type like there’s no tomorrow...but you know what I can do, I can put these dots. Notice the dots...always three in a row...they’re mine. I did them.
There is no point really, just like life. No point, no real point that is. The preachers preach fiction.
You have to watch the details. You have to have somewhere to hang your heart on at the end of the day. Don’t wear it on a sleeve. It’s way too risky that way. Start or follow a band which sings sad songs...now we’re talking.
Tattoos and skinny ties are done. So is the preppy look. Something’s replacing them and I don’t know what just yet. It’s still taking shape. Fashion the fickle art.
Books are my shoes. I have to fight the urge to buy one every week. Every week of every month. That’s a lot. I do judge them by their cover though.There are a lot of bad books out there. Much more than good books. An awful lot of people think they can be writers.
What is the purpose of this madness? What is the purpose of this life?
No more lies please. And less words.
So much these words can do...create, destroy, humiliate, infatuate, betray...every verb at their control. Humans are the most vocal of all the animals. That is both boon and bane...which is higher in the hierarchy is anyone’s blame game.
Kill the dj, the blessed fucking dj...oh that Morrissey meant well.
Stay sharp man. It’s the drugs...I can’t control my fingers. They type like there’s no tomorrow...but you know what I can do, I can put these dots. Notice the dots...always three in a row...they’re mine. I did them.
There is no point really, just like life. No point, no real point that is. The preachers preach fiction.
You have to watch the details. You have to have somewhere to hang your heart on at the end of the day. Don’t wear it on a sleeve. It’s way too risky that way. Start or follow a band which sings sad songs...now we’re talking.
Tattoos and skinny ties are done. So is the preppy look. Something’s replacing them and I don’t know what just yet. It’s still taking shape. Fashion the fickle art.
Books are my shoes. I have to fight the urge to buy one every week. Every week of every month. That’s a lot. I do judge them by their cover though.There are a lot of bad books out there. Much more than good books. An awful lot of people think they can be writers.
What is the purpose of this madness? What is the purpose of this life?
No more lies please. And less words.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Gin Soaked Boy
Its a me, myself, Irene post. Its a gin in the gin soaked boy post.
-- I am still having a love affair with Ice Cream.
-- I hate pastries. I’ll eat them if you get them and I’ll buy them for you too. But inside, I’m squirming when I’m eating.
-- If you dress grunge or have short hair, my look will linger when it falls on you. In that linger, I will even have imagined a life with you, complete with smiles, cries, Parisian cafes, Tuscan vineyards and long conversations (I think I fall in love easily...which is also to say that I flit...unless I cling).
-- If you dress pretty, I’ll give you only the customary look.
-- I think you can make out a lot about a person by the music they listen to. I am undecided about making anything out on a first meeting though.
-- I am also undecided about photographs.
-- I open up 60% of myself very fast, 20% after a little prodding, alcohol and trust, the other 15% if I love you. The remaining 5% nobody has known. I wish that were not so (Those numbers are approximate).
-- I don’t know where I want to be when I’m 39. I also take great solace and pride in that fact.
-- I’m afraid of spiders, watching horror movies alone and losing my parents.
-- I get nervous every time I talk in front of a group of people, even though I get over that nervousness in the first minute itself.
-- I want more vacation days.
-- I am still having a love affair with Ice Cream.
-- I hate pastries. I’ll eat them if you get them and I’ll buy them for you too. But inside, I’m squirming when I’m eating.
-- If you dress grunge or have short hair, my look will linger when it falls on you. In that linger, I will even have imagined a life with you, complete with smiles, cries, Parisian cafes, Tuscan vineyards and long conversations (I think I fall in love easily...which is also to say that I flit...unless I cling).
-- If you dress pretty, I’ll give you only the customary look.
-- I think you can make out a lot about a person by the music they listen to. I am undecided about making anything out on a first meeting though.
-- I am also undecided about photographs.
-- I open up 60% of myself very fast, 20% after a little prodding, alcohol and trust, the other 15% if I love you. The remaining 5% nobody has known. I wish that were not so (Those numbers are approximate).
-- I don’t know where I want to be when I’m 39. I also take great solace and pride in that fact.
-- I’m afraid of spiders, watching horror movies alone and losing my parents.
-- I get nervous every time I talk in front of a group of people, even though I get over that nervousness in the first minute itself.
-- I want more vacation days.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
The Birthday Song
Plus 1.
Another day and they told me it added a whole year. Cause sometimes, you need a reason to party.
Another day and they told me it added a whole year. Cause sometimes, you need a reason to party.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Black Hole Sun
You’ve been walking to the same beat so many times, the monotony comforts more than it hurts. Like a cocaine addiction, it charmed you in first, then made you want to fight it and now you’re too afraid to move away. For you know for a fact that if you move out into the light, it’ll turn you into flesh and bones. Reality will pierce you through the retina.
You enter the bar where you get your daily drink. There's a girl sitting alone, short black dress and red, very red, lipstick on. She looks at you. Her look lingers. She catches a glimpse of the guy she’s waiting for in you. She waits for you to get your hand stamped from the doorman and turn, realises you’re not him, sighs and turns to her Caipirinha.
You walk straight to the loo. Look at yourself in the mirror. Your look lingers. You catch a glimpse of the guy you’ve been waiting for, in you. Then you sigh and turn.
*fiction of the mad science genre*
You enter the bar where you get your daily drink. There's a girl sitting alone, short black dress and red, very red, lipstick on. She looks at you. Her look lingers. She catches a glimpse of the guy she’s waiting for in you. She waits for you to get your hand stamped from the doorman and turn, realises you’re not him, sighs and turns to her Caipirinha.
You walk straight to the loo. Look at yourself in the mirror. Your look lingers. You catch a glimpse of the guy you’ve been waiting for, in you. Then you sigh and turn.
*fiction of the mad science genre*
Thursday, February 28, 2008
This Ain't A Love Song
Promise me one thing.
What?
Promise me that you won’t ever try and show me your poems.
(Laughs). Yes I won’t. So are you flirting with me?
Hmmm...I’m flirting with the idea of flirting with you.
*from two different movies*
What?
Promise me that you won’t ever try and show me your poems.
(Laughs). Yes I won’t. So are you flirting with me?
Hmmm...I’m flirting with the idea of flirting with you.
*from two different movies*
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Bullet With Butterfly Wings
Fiction is not me. I gave being Ellis/Gaiman a chance, tried to steal a look at Borge's words and even wrote under influence. The best case conclusion would be that I'm still raw, but just between you and me, I'm not really in the being-patient market for me to "mature". And also, writer's are a dime a dozen and bloggers wanting to be writers cheaper than that. But you know what, till there’s money in the game, I will stay.
And anyway, like those HSBC ads all over Heathrow, its all perspective (innit?). Which is not to say that perspective doesn't change. For like loyalty, it is very much for sale. Like a microwaved bag of popping popcorn, very much unstable. And with enough butter, easy to swallow but hard to digest. Ah perspective. Pop me one.
Although, at the moment, the popcorn bag is a tad bit empty. Cause I can't talk about existential woes and relationship problems and having fun on dates or fights in clubs. About music, drugs and wine. About how Valentine has a day, how I miss not having her here, how I’m not sure...of most things.
Why. Cause I'm still anti - social at best.
So, hope you get your daily dose of random nonsense from some other blog. Happy window blogging.
And anyway, like those HSBC ads all over Heathrow, its all perspective (innit?). Which is not to say that perspective doesn't change. For like loyalty, it is very much for sale. Like a microwaved bag of popping popcorn, very much unstable. And with enough butter, easy to swallow but hard to digest. Ah perspective. Pop me one.
Although, at the moment, the popcorn bag is a tad bit empty. Cause I can't talk about existential woes and relationship problems and having fun on dates or fights in clubs. About music, drugs and wine. About how Valentine has a day, how I miss not having her here, how I’m not sure...of most things.
Why. Cause I'm still anti - social at best.
So, hope you get your daily dose of random nonsense from some other blog. Happy window blogging.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Dogs
Now, I'm a dog lover. The worst kind, cause I have nothing but contempt for the enemy. The cat that is.
There's a cat lover in my office. She's a girl. They usually are. The worst kind as well.
We try and trip each other in the hallway, throw darts at the others thumbnail pic, snarl and float rumours in office about each other. Anything that can pass HR's radar really. As you can see, somewhere down the line it moved away from the dog cat argument.
Today though, she sent this. I think she's trying to get back to the old ways.
But that means I need to have a wittier response ready. Fuck. Just when I was getting really good at tripping her.
-----------
DOG DIARY
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 PM - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 PM - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 PM - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 PM - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 PM - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 PM - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 PM - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
CAT DIARY
Day 983 of MY CAPTIVITY.
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards!
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow --but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.
The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.
---------
There's a cat lover in my office. She's a girl. They usually are. The worst kind as well.
We try and trip each other in the hallway, throw darts at the others thumbnail pic, snarl and float rumours in office about each other. Anything that can pass HR's radar really. As you can see, somewhere down the line it moved away from the dog cat argument.
Today though, she sent this. I think she's trying to get back to the old ways.
But that means I need to have a wittier response ready. Fuck. Just when I was getting really good at tripping her.
-----------
DOG DIARY
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 PM - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 PM - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 PM - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 PM - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 PM - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 PM - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 PM - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
CAT DIARY
Day 983 of MY CAPTIVITY.
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards!
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow --but at the top of the stairs. I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.
The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.
---------
Monday, February 11, 2008
Vaseline
He:
All these years, I’ve lived in the shadows, stalking you under the persona of a friend, harmless and partner in crime to smiles and cries. The guise suited me fine and I could like you the way you wanted to be liked.
But today, when for the thousandth time you asked me for the thousandth drink, another chance to be partner in crime, something finally gave in. Life is a series of moments, that weigh dense in the mind, until one of them, gets ready to burst like a fabulous yellow roman candle. And when that happens, helpless, you can only pray that it was the right one that burst.
This time, under the influence of the thousandth drink, the harmless persona burst.
Her:
Deep. Pretty deep. I’ve known all along, you know. I’ve even waited, with patient breath, for the shadows to part. And now, this, this is your coming out, proposing love from the shadows speech.
Sigh.
Why doesn’t anyone ever give it to me straight? Can we please stick to “ I love you’s and keep you happy forever's” and holding hands with kisses near a bonfire?
I am looking for a Shakespeare, but they give me Sartre.
All these years, I’ve lived in the shadows, stalking you under the persona of a friend, harmless and partner in crime to smiles and cries. The guise suited me fine and I could like you the way you wanted to be liked.
But today, when for the thousandth time you asked me for the thousandth drink, another chance to be partner in crime, something finally gave in. Life is a series of moments, that weigh dense in the mind, until one of them, gets ready to burst like a fabulous yellow roman candle. And when that happens, helpless, you can only pray that it was the right one that burst.
This time, under the influence of the thousandth drink, the harmless persona burst.
Her:
Deep. Pretty deep. I’ve known all along, you know. I’ve even waited, with patient breath, for the shadows to part. And now, this, this is your coming out, proposing love from the shadows speech.
Sigh.
Why doesn’t anyone ever give it to me straight? Can we please stick to “ I love you’s and keep you happy forever's” and holding hands with kisses near a bonfire?
I am looking for a Shakespeare, but they give me Sartre.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Title And Registration
She: “The music’s sad here.”
He: “Yeah. There’s no dearth of sad songs about rainy days and lovers who don’t bring flowers. Here though, they play songs that truly pain - songs so despairing they can make you wonder why you even bother.”
She: “I like it.”
He: “I had a feeling you would.”
She: “No, I like what you said. I don’t care two hoots for the music. Champagne?”
He: “ummm..No, Champagne’s for celebrating. I’ll have a martini. Stirred like crazy”
She laughed. She liked beginnings.
He: “Yeah. There’s no dearth of sad songs about rainy days and lovers who don’t bring flowers. Here though, they play songs that truly pain - songs so despairing they can make you wonder why you even bother.”
She: “I like it.”
He: “I had a feeling you would.”
She: “No, I like what you said. I don’t care two hoots for the music. Champagne?”
He: “ummm..No, Champagne’s for celebrating. I’ll have a martini. Stirred like crazy”
She laughed. She liked beginnings.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Have A Cigar
I love cities. I like the countryside too, and visit it often enough and say “aah”, “wah”, “sigh” and other versions of the same. But I like the countryside in the same sense as my mum is ok with gay people - ”I am fine with it as long as you’re not gay”. And so to translate “ I am fine with the burbs as long as I’m not living in one”.
But lately, most weekend trips out of NYC have been to the countryside or some version thereof. Things were getting very close to one becoming soft, nice or vegan. Imagine that (*shivers unrestraint*).This weekend though, Boston beckons. Its going to be really cold, so I’m checking out places where I can stay warm, namely bars, morning hangover brunch places and the like.
Today I took a sick day from office. Damn tonsilitis again. Had hot milk, lots of cereal and after that, for the last 7 hours, its been a bottle of Spanish merlot and once that finished, a bottle of Australian port (always thought port was something that came only from Portugal). The merlot is muy bien, but the port is what really got me done, even though I didn't give it enough respect as a dessert wine. I love sick days.
Today I also blew up a months rent on this trading account. Am playing it cool though. Did scream and hired a voodoo guy to bankrupt the trading account company. He says it’ll take some time, its only magic. So yes, as you can see, using humour as defense against stupid decisions. Won’t be the first.
Today, I read a gahzillion blogs and saw a gahzillion funnies on the boob tube. I think Turk has funnier lines than JD in Scrubs. Also, I realise, having lived in NYC for a while, I find Seinfeld funnier than I did and can sooo relate to it (Ironically enough, they were showing “the stock tip” episode. There’s a line in there somewhere that Jerry says - “I know the Dow fluctuates. I just got fluctuated out of four thousand dollars”. I laughed and then sighed. You know those moments). And I also realised that Friends has now become lame. It has its funny moments, but enough with the re-runs already.
Today was just a thursday.
Today, normal people in the UK learnt that they could potentially earn more money than film school graduates. Here. Alright Youtube!...you tell them that education is useless when it comes to pop culture.
Ok then. I need to finish the Californian Pinot Noir now. Its been a hell of a global ride this has.
But lately, most weekend trips out of NYC have been to the countryside or some version thereof. Things were getting very close to one becoming soft, nice or vegan. Imagine that (*shivers unrestraint*).This weekend though, Boston beckons. Its going to be really cold, so I’m checking out places where I can stay warm, namely bars, morning hangover brunch places and the like.
Today I took a sick day from office. Damn tonsilitis again. Had hot milk, lots of cereal and after that, for the last 7 hours, its been a bottle of Spanish merlot and once that finished, a bottle of Australian port (always thought port was something that came only from Portugal). The merlot is muy bien, but the port is what really got me done, even though I didn't give it enough respect as a dessert wine. I love sick days.
Today I also blew up a months rent on this trading account. Am playing it cool though. Did scream and hired a voodoo guy to bankrupt the trading account company. He says it’ll take some time, its only magic. So yes, as you can see, using humour as defense against stupid decisions. Won’t be the first.
Today, I read a gahzillion blogs and saw a gahzillion funnies on the boob tube. I think Turk has funnier lines than JD in Scrubs. Also, I realise, having lived in NYC for a while, I find Seinfeld funnier than I did and can sooo relate to it (Ironically enough, they were showing “the stock tip” episode. There’s a line in there somewhere that Jerry says - “I know the Dow fluctuates. I just got fluctuated out of four thousand dollars”. I laughed and then sighed. You know those moments). And I also realised that Friends has now become lame. It has its funny moments, but enough with the re-runs already.
Today was just a thursday.
Today, normal people in the UK learnt that they could potentially earn more money than film school graduates. Here. Alright Youtube!...you tell them that education is useless when it comes to pop culture.
Ok then. I need to finish the Californian Pinot Noir now. Its been a hell of a global ride this has.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
New Slang
I want biting wit. The sharp kind. Not like the one they’d sell at an IKEA for $10 and under $5 in a sale. More like the kind that you’d find being auctioned in a Sotheby’s (or Christie’s, they both price fix equally well), filled with mysterious, unknown, mostly overseas buyers.
I want fleeting time. Not the kind that is the Roadrunner cartoon, which is always tearing across. More like Sonic the Hedgehog, walking, enjoying one moment and then zipping by another, all at the press of a button (or for the need of a better time).
I want dreams. Not the sit at home kinds. But the ones with balls, big enough, to cross the border and become plans.
I want love. Not of the Romeo and Juliet variety, oh so fickle, so sudden, naive and so short.
I want fleeting time. Not the kind that is the Roadrunner cartoon, which is always tearing across. More like Sonic the Hedgehog, walking, enjoying one moment and then zipping by another, all at the press of a button (or for the need of a better time).
I want dreams. Not the sit at home kinds. But the ones with balls, big enough, to cross the border and become plans.
I want love. Not of the Romeo and Juliet variety, oh so fickle, so sudden, naive and so short.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Easy Lucky Free
Writers block could perhaps attempt to capture it. After all there’s the writer’s strike going on and the hamster-on-a-treadmill in my brain thinks its entitled to one too. Him and me are still negotiating. So justifiably, I was afraid to venture forth alone. Also, Jon Stewart’s disastrous attempt is not helping one’s confidence. One needs hamsters, one does.
But, maybe just this once. Just this one post without the bloody hamster. We’re in uncharted territory here people. I can feel the hamster shiver.
Also, carrying on with the elaborate excuses (to whom I am not sure), my erstwhile mucho free time seems to have disappeared. Poof!…just walked away and was gone. And, I need sleep. Even if it comes in little installments, I’ll take it. But its disappeared too. Poof!..like in those Archie comics, leaving a white cloud behind.
I read somewhere that instead of sleeping 8 hours at a stretch, some scientists reckon, the optimal sleeping habit would be to sleep 30 seconds and then be awake the next 1 minute and then sleep the next 30 seconds and so on.
This reeks of a mad scientist theorising on the days when there is no lightning in the skies, and so obviously, poor chap has nothing “mad scientisty” to do. And faithful Igor’s catching up on his golf. But still....muy absurdo this theory is...and my mother wanted me to be a scientist!
Why can’t these fukkers concentrate instead on getting a teleportation device going (yes yes, its the long distance relationship (LDR) that makes me wish for that evermore, but c’mon, its a win win for everyone, unless, parents or unwanted friends can visit unannounced. Hmm...ok, maybe there’s a reason after all).
It would be a disaster dating someone who was on the wrong 30-second schedule though. Right?
Lover1: “oh, the ways in which I love thee are so many, walking on a naples beach, I’d squeeze...”
Lover2 popping back to life after 30-second “optimal” nap
Lover2: “...and like I was saying, I was so brilliant at work today, worked till 10 in the night, wrapped the deal and my boss is going to shower me with money ”
Lover1: “dammit lover2! this is crazy. You never get me, you don’t listen to what I say and are so self absorbed”
Lover2:”Look who’s talking, cause....wait wait, don’t sleep, not when I was...ah hell!”
Hmm...maybe, its not hard to conceive that there are indeed people on different 30-second schedules.
Here’s hoping you find the right 30-second schedule person.
(Ah, that could so be a South Park moment there, complete with serious soundtrack in the end).
But, maybe just this once. Just this one post without the bloody hamster. We’re in uncharted territory here people. I can feel the hamster shiver.
Also, carrying on with the elaborate excuses (to whom I am not sure), my erstwhile mucho free time seems to have disappeared. Poof!…just walked away and was gone. And, I need sleep. Even if it comes in little installments, I’ll take it. But its disappeared too. Poof!..like in those Archie comics, leaving a white cloud behind.
I read somewhere that instead of sleeping 8 hours at a stretch, some scientists reckon, the optimal sleeping habit would be to sleep 30 seconds and then be awake the next 1 minute and then sleep the next 30 seconds and so on.
This reeks of a mad scientist theorising on the days when there is no lightning in the skies, and so obviously, poor chap has nothing “mad scientisty” to do. And faithful Igor’s catching up on his golf. But still....muy absurdo this theory is...and my mother wanted me to be a scientist!
Why can’t these fukkers concentrate instead on getting a teleportation device going (yes yes, its the long distance relationship (LDR) that makes me wish for that evermore, but c’mon, its a win win for everyone, unless, parents or unwanted friends can visit unannounced. Hmm...ok, maybe there’s a reason after all).
It would be a disaster dating someone who was on the wrong 30-second schedule though. Right?
Lover1: “oh, the ways in which I love thee are so many, walking on a naples beach, I’d squeeze...”
Lover2 popping back to life after 30-second “optimal” nap
Lover2: “...and like I was saying, I was so brilliant at work today, worked till 10 in the night, wrapped the deal and my boss is going to shower me with money ”
Lover1: “dammit lover2! this is crazy. You never get me, you don’t listen to what I say and are so self absorbed”
Lover2:”Look who’s talking, cause....wait wait, don’t sleep, not when I was...ah hell!”
Hmm...maybe, its not hard to conceive that there are indeed people on different 30-second schedules.
Here’s hoping you find the right 30-second schedule person.
(Ah, that could so be a South Park moment there, complete with serious soundtrack in the end).
Monday, January 7, 2008
A Story About A Girl
Well well well. With all the anti social-ness that I try portray and further... one jumped the virtual barrier and the cocoon it offered...and met a fellow blogger. In the flesh. Yup.
It turns out its not that scary a proposition really.
She came for a visit to NYC (from a place she won’t mention for the last 5 years) and she made a promise that she wasn’t an axe yielding psycho before we met. But then again, bigger promises have been made and I had to tag along a friend (to be fair, he just happened to be there really and not for my safety...just clarifying...I took along a bottle of mace for my safety :)... I mean it could be a 60 year old fat fart looking for “fun” you know...its been known to happen.
So having survived all that, Aurora, we’re a fan. That girl is a bundle of fun, all spunk, wit and laughter rolled into one. She really is.
We met only for a few and had a couple of drinks, and wished it was more. The fun part was connecting all the dots that each others blogs have been about. The vicarious life made real...well almost. And getting drunk. She’s a great drunk.
It was fun.
Her brother was most amused and so was tag-a-long friend. Honestly, so was I.
Disclaimer :- The author would like to caution innocent young uns that “ a lot of nice things turn bad out there and that its still a bad world,”. So please be taking big brothers, bottle of mace or other weapons before meeting bloggers. It could be 60 year old fat farts looking for “fun”.
It turns out its not that scary a proposition really.
She came for a visit to NYC (from a place she won’t mention for the last 5 years) and she made a promise that she wasn’t an axe yielding psycho before we met. But then again, bigger promises have been made and I had to tag along a friend (to be fair, he just happened to be there really and not for my safety...just clarifying...I took along a bottle of mace for my safety :)... I mean it could be a 60 year old fat fart looking for “fun” you know...its been known to happen.
So having survived all that, Aurora, we’re a fan. That girl is a bundle of fun, all spunk, wit and laughter rolled into one. She really is.
We met only for a few and had a couple of drinks, and wished it was more. The fun part was connecting all the dots that each others blogs have been about. The vicarious life made real...well almost. And getting drunk. She’s a great drunk.
It was fun.
Her brother was most amused and so was tag-a-long friend. Honestly, so was I.
Disclaimer :- The author would like to caution innocent young uns that “ a lot of nice things turn bad out there and that its still a bad world,”. So please be taking big brothers, bottle of mace or other weapons before meeting bloggers. It could be 60 year old fat farts looking for “fun”.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Piece Of Me
Not a britney fan, no no no...even though I learnt the lyrics of “hit me baby” with a couple of friends and sang it out loud in a party in high school once...no no no.. but that song title is so fitting. What to do.
So new years day...its a strange one no? In look and appearance its like any other day, and yet it demands a celebration of sorts, stock taking of the previous 365 and irrational exuberance in the next 365. Irrational maybe not, but nonetheless...cause the problem with the future is that it turns into the present.
Hmmm...average year really. Saves me the trouble of trying to recollect most of what went by. And anyway, I tried and realised these new year end thingies are not my cuppa, so refraining we are. No piece of me to shine a spotlight on. Very shy still. Horribly so.
No resolutions, except perhaps to have washboard abs. I was laughed on at that one even before the new year began, so I start with daunting odds already. Sigh, non believers everywhere.
Also, to travel. Am traveling this year peoples. Like crazy. So much so, that I have decided to redefine crazy. In an irrational exuberance kind of way. There’s a list, but spontaneity is on the top currently.
So new years day...its a strange one no? In look and appearance its like any other day, and yet it demands a celebration of sorts, stock taking of the previous 365 and irrational exuberance in the next 365. Irrational maybe not, but nonetheless...cause the problem with the future is that it turns into the present.
Hmmm...average year really. Saves me the trouble of trying to recollect most of what went by. And anyway, I tried and realised these new year end thingies are not my cuppa, so refraining we are. No piece of me to shine a spotlight on. Very shy still. Horribly so.
No resolutions, except perhaps to have washboard abs. I was laughed on at that one even before the new year began, so I start with daunting odds already. Sigh, non believers everywhere.
Also, to travel. Am traveling this year peoples. Like crazy. So much so, that I have decided to redefine crazy. In an irrational exuberance kind of way. There’s a list, but spontaneity is on the top currently.
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