if i was a colour, it would be a mottled purple

What the fuck is the difference between house and trance and techno?

No dude, don’t get me wrong. I like the stuff. You can stomp your feet and bob your head like crazy. But it all sounds the same. Slightly trippy, and always surprising to hear lyrics.

What the fuck is an ecopolitical spiritual mentor?

Yup, he sent me a mail. And I don’t know how to reply. Do I address him as Cosmic President. Or Leader of the Union Territory of the Universe.

What the fuck is with sports?

They fine the Sri Lankans for not letting Sehwag make his hundred. What should they start doing now? Overthrowing as soon as a batsman reaches 70. And then the Chelsea team have their underwear getting cut on a regular basis. Not by lingerie models, but by a prankster. Really, can you support a team that’s racing around in holey undies?

What the fuck is with these idiots?

Today we see two snakes getting jiggy with it in the park. And there are twenty autos, and 6 school kids, and at least fifteen sundry people craning their necks to watch because it’s a good omen. Dude, you try having sex while being watched by thirty devout people.

The only good omen here is that the snakes didn’t come racing out to bite everyone’s head off.

What the fuck is with you and me?

Yes you. Are we good? Or are you avoiding me? And in case there’s any confusion, I’m talking about you A.

And finally what the fuck is with blogger meets?

90% population came because they they could meet some chicks. Or are hoping to make money off their blogs. Or get a job. Or because they probably have their parents pickled in a jam jar in their fridge. Or then because they “just love writing. It is my passion.”

Barf. What the fuck is with this week i'm having.

sick

You call my name.

I toss restlessly in my sleep.

I’m sick.

I think it’s a dream.

But you stay in my head through the day

I want to ban you

To remove you.

To turn stone deaf.

To your pleading. To your calling.

But I’m sick.

And I don’t have the strength.

And the brownies in the fridge win again.

picture credit: deviantart.com

bloody fool

I cut my hair. Snipped the length and the curls out.

And realised two things. I feel compelled to be cool at the salon. I also feel compelled to be cool at the doctor/dentist/tattoo parlour. Anything that involves pain or doubt or scares me, I behave strangely masochistic.

Dentist: “ I’m gonna need to extract two teeth.”

Me (tonsils shivering): “ha, ha, extract four.”

Doctor: “You will now be wheeled into the OT”

Me (head spinning): “ Sure. No worries, just knock me out cold.”

Hairperson (should it be barber/hairsylist/hair dresser/hair manager): I’m going to cut about 5 inches off.

Me (cold, nervous palpitations): Yeah, yeah, just chop it all off.

And so on and so forth. As you probably realise this leads to alarming consequences. Like I’ve been visiting the dentist for over three years regularly. And he’s probably changed all my teeth, and I don’t know, because I’m in a spell.

So my haircut is also a result of this moronic behaviour. It’s the worst length ever. Just about covering my neck with a few stray curls at the bottom. Sort of like those male Kathak dancers.

I hate it.

PS: if you are a male Kathak dancer who’s reading my blog, well, big cherry hello, how are you and that sort of thing.

you got me singing

To my big bum,

Apologies. For years I hated you. You reminded me of nimmi masi, baby masi, jojo aunty. Nimkis and nankhatais for tea.

Florid salwaar kameezs. Shopping for lizzy bizzy material at elko market in the hot summer.

You also reminded me of uncles. Called Bobby and Jolly. And cousins called Sonu and Monu.

I was always worried. You would give away my genes. My love for yellow daal. Palak mutton. Methi alu. And parathas with amul butter.

I know I probably hurt you by deliberately wearing stuff that concealed you.

And loudly proclaiming that my dream was to be like those boys whose jeans hung off their backsides.

But now, that’ll never happen again.

Yes, THE dress opened my eyes.

So please forgive me.

Yours thrilled to bits with you,

Agentgreenglass

picture @ deviantart

nicotine high

You know it just struck me. After a conversation i was having.

Probably the reason I hate flying now is because I don’t smoke anymore.

Revelation. Rock fell on my head.

See, it was like this. I had a job where I flew a lot. Lot of international flights as well. Okay, mostly to Singapore, but that’s international too okay.

Anyway, so I’d catch the Singapore Airlines flight that departs at an unearthly hour of 11.50 or something. But more than the wine on board, or the movies, or even Singapore, it was that cab ride to the airport that did it for me.

I’d rush home from work. My red suitcase (bought especially when I took the job!) would always be out. And by then I pretty much had a readymade list of things to shove into it. Packing would take fifteen minutes. Then I’d have a 10 minute shower, change into my most comfortable jeans and top. Wear a jacket (the flight can get freaking cold, and those inadequate blankets are like tissue paper), my soft red converse shoes, spray perfume (always Issey Miyake those days).

Kiss the boy. Kiss the dog, and wheel my bag out.

I’d usually find a cab down the street. It would be raining, wipers waving in all directions. Settle in and sink back.

Watch headlights, bright lights, hoarding lights flash by. Take out a cigarette. Goldflake. Light it.

The first drag. Windows down. Crisp night air. My perfume mingling with the breeze. Wet hair flapping.

Nothing. But me and the night.

Me about to embark on a journey. Adventurous. Mysterious. To a land where no one knows me (And yeah, at least twice with no dollars in my wallet, because I left them in my office bag)

And the night. Warm, barmy, and in cahoots with me.

It always felt like a movie that was about to start.

That’s it then. Next time I have a flight to catch, I’m gonna smoke myself a honey dew.

PS: greygrasshopper and i are talking. And we lapse into bong. Pagol na pajama is a phrase used. And i laugh as i write it. So descriptive. Are you mad or are you a pajama? it's funny.

japs, ocd's, monkey men - just another friday

The Japs to the rescue.

My ‘have I shut the front door and locked it’ OCD was reaching Al Burj heights.

Everyday I’d leave home and then start to fret. Is the door open? Did I close it? Maybe it’s open? Of course it’s open!

I was worried, either I’m becoming senile or Parsee.

Then my friend Bangkok Chic told me the Japs have a cure for it.

You shut the door. And then repeat thrice - I’ve shut the door. I’ve shut the door. I’ve shut the door.

It’s working just fine.

Except this morning, when I was at my second I’ve shut the door, I noticed my neighbour. I smiled and repeated the third, “I’ve shut the door” and she rushed into her house. With unnecessary haste I must add.

That apart, we have to take some clients out for dinner tonight. Two of them are okay. The third is an insufferable ass. He’s supposed to be the in-house creative guy at the client’s office, and the only thing creative about him is the way his hair grows out of his shirt and wraps itself around his neck like the clingy arm of a baby monkey.

Yesh.

Drinking with an enemy monkey. The things you have to do to make money.

Today is Friday, it is my day to live a simple life

Put on my make-up, dress up in colour

Maybe you might see me down here

Could you come along, bring me in

Could you come along, bring me in

Bring me in...

Friday by Goldspot hits the sweet spot always.

insole heel lifts = man's best friend

I knew what I was getting into.

Big Hollywood blockbuster. Big Hollywood stars. Adventure rom com.

But still when the goo splatters all over the room, you’re so unprepared for it.

And it was crap. Knight and Day.

You know Hollywood just has to stop copying Bollywood. It’s getting too much. I might just have been watching Hrithik Roshan and Priyanka Chopra in some mindless stunt filled movie.

And that too without any songs. Dude, whoever made the movie, yeah dude, you, I’m talking to you. Why didn’t you add a few songs? Like one in a nightclub. Right after they dodge bullets, would have fit perfect. And one when she needed to distract the bad boys. A nice item number there would have been super cool.

Anyway, Tom Cruise looks smoking hot. Though when he took off his shirt, I was repulsed. It looked totally plastic. I think I now know how it would feel to touch silicone boobs. Or something like that. That’s how his chest felt. Like you’d bounce off it if you went to snuggle up there.

And Cameron. She needs botox. Or gummy tape. Or whatever the procedure is to tape her saggy face skin in. She’s got a good body, there’s no doubt about that. But yeah, the fine lines are not fine anymore. They are like marker pens.

And in case you think I’m being a bitch, remember I blew up 1300 bucks for four of us. And that’s not including the popcorn, the hotdogs, the frankies, the sev puri, the dahi puri, the ice cream and the soda.

In case you are a glutton for punishment and insist on going for it, here’s the most enjoyable part of the movie. Watching how cleverly they’ve made Tom Cruise stand on a bar stool every time he’s in a shot next to Cameron Dias. Either it’s that or really low angle shots.

Egos are entertaining.

And I’m not going to tell you the story, coz there really is no story. Pah!