Music in my head: Anathema - Hindsight
Today's weather: Back to normal, after two anomalous, pleasant days.
For a guy who has nothing to do, I've been doing quite a lot lately. I went to another party, at an Asian themed restaurant- complete with Karaoke, except that they'd hired two people to Karaoke for the guests. There has been talk of hiring super-sophisticated French-Italian-Gourmet trained 'Eaters' for guests. It's all hush-hush now, but the little birds say that the illustrious wait-list includes such rich and famous people as Lalit Modi who're looking to spend their shady money in every way possible.
So I sat there listening to an insipid version of 'I want to break free', sipping on a glass of beer, watching my dad shoot nervous glances at his now 'grown-up' son, and all of a sudden, I was treated to a dire spectacle. I had seen an old lady sitting at a table across the restaurant. Now, it is not my habit to notice old ladies, but this particular woman was about a hundred feet around the equator (I'm allowed to crack fat jokes, because I'm fat). I had dismissed her as a venerable old cat. But, lo and behold! There she was, pumping her fists and gyrating to the Karaoke, the quintessential cheesy-comedy-restaurant-fat-lady-dancing scene. Thus, the emasculating Karaoke came with a groovy fist-pump in the nuts of your eyes (forgive the crude metaphor).
The food wasn't particularly good, but then buffets rarely are. I don't eat fish, and half the table was sushi. I drank my beer, ate some chicken and tried to picture my safe place in my head- a lush meadow with cows grazing beside an arena where thousands of metalheads are banging their heads to such demi-gods as Dethklok, Opeth and Meshuggah. It didn't work, of course.
Result: No more pseudo-karaoke parties.
.
Showing posts with label party. Show all posts
Showing posts with label party. Show all posts
June 09, 2010
June 03, 2010
Party Poop
Music in my head: Simon and Garfunkel - Scarborough Fair Canticle
Today's weather: Dustbowl
Yesterday, I had to go to a party. Not the cool kind, like the once we used to have back in the day. Yeah, I can use the expression 'back in the day' now. I just got my final CGPA. But I digress. I had to go to a party, with my folks, at an Army mess, dressed up in ironed clothes and polished shoes. The bane of the existence of every self-respecting Army brat. Yes, you get as many (soft) drinks as you want, and you can eat as many pieces of Chicken-65 as you want, but that's not the end of the story.
This is what usually happens at such an occasion- I enter the Drawing room with my folks. Everyone exchanges pleasantries. They ask me which class I was in. I smile a big fake smile and explain to them that I have, in fact, completed my B.Tech. They proceed to explain to me how I don't look my age, and sometimes add an anecdote which proves that looks can be deceptive. This is all acceptable. Yes, I have a very high tolerance level for extremely irritating, mind-numbingly boring conversation.
Next, they beam at me and tell me- "Accha, bete, bacche log TV room mein baithe hain. Tum vahi jaake baith jao. Hum pepsi udhar bhijwa denge. (Ok son, the kids are in the TV room. You can go join them. We'll send you some pepsi.)" I look at them with a quizzical expression. I just told you that I am twenty one years old, you age-ist old person. Isn't that clever? That's like discrimination based on age, like racist is discrimination based on race. In that awkward silence, I think up clever things like that. And then, of course, the big grown ups get their grown-up drinks and form their little grown up conversation circles. And that's freedom.
The window of opportunity to escape from the Drawing Room without having to be escorted to the TV room is very small. So I usually just get the hell out at the first chance. I go hang around at the garden or something. This time, when I walked out, I saw a metallic staircase. It was as if a spotlight from heaven had lit it up. I walked up these stairs, very slowly, immersing myself in the anticipation. It led up to the roof. There was some construction work in progress. I had found my spot.
It was magic. I was transported back to Trichy. There was this ugly structure coming up right in front of the main gate. For months we couldn't even figure out what it was. Then we realised that it was a flyover. We figured out a way to get on top of it. And then after braving a mercilessly sweltering Trichy day, we would go up there at night. We would sit there, listen to music and watch the headlamps of the cars, buses and trucks flicker as they passed by in the distance. And we would talk about the EPL, the sucky Profs, how the Project was a pain in the rear, how the lights look like they're dancing to the music that's playing, of cabbages and kings. And the cool breeze would refresh us, and the guards would give us suspicious looks. But at that moment we hadn't a care in the world.
And two months later and two thousand kilometers away, I felt like I was back. I felt the buzz of passing traffic. I played the music in my head. Headlamps of speeding cars danced in the distance. I narrowed my eyes to slits until the lights were a blur. I could hear stuff in the background- "Dude, Torres is God", "Dude that Prof can't even spell redundant", "Dude I've left my lip-marks on my Prof's rear. I hope I get an A", "Dude Steven Wilson is genius".
Then suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. As my eyes came back into focus, I half expected myself to be greeted by the Guard anna. "Bhaiyya, khana lag gaya", he said. I was back from my sojourn in time. I went to the dining room, picked up some dinner, pretended to be interested in the dinner conversation. They could've been talking about cabbages and kings, for all I care.
The next time I'm caught in a tedious conversation, I'll just excuse myself, find the roof and sit there, looking at traffic, in my happy place, with my friends.
"Did you ever imagine the last thing you'd hear as you're fading out was a song?....
... Arriving somewhere, not here..."
Today's weather: Dustbowl
Yesterday, I had to go to a party. Not the cool kind, like the once we used to have back in the day. Yeah, I can use the expression 'back in the day' now. I just got my final CGPA. But I digress. I had to go to a party, with my folks, at an Army mess, dressed up in ironed clothes and polished shoes. The bane of the existence of every self-respecting Army brat. Yes, you get as many (soft) drinks as you want, and you can eat as many pieces of Chicken-65 as you want, but that's not the end of the story.
This is what usually happens at such an occasion- I enter the Drawing room with my folks. Everyone exchanges pleasantries. They ask me which class I was in. I smile a big fake smile and explain to them that I have, in fact, completed my B.Tech. They proceed to explain to me how I don't look my age, and sometimes add an anecdote which proves that looks can be deceptive. This is all acceptable. Yes, I have a very high tolerance level for extremely irritating, mind-numbingly boring conversation.
Next, they beam at me and tell me- "Accha, bete, bacche log TV room mein baithe hain. Tum vahi jaake baith jao. Hum pepsi udhar bhijwa denge. (Ok son, the kids are in the TV room. You can go join them. We'll send you some pepsi.)" I look at them with a quizzical expression. I just told you that I am twenty one years old, you age-ist old person. Isn't that clever? That's like discrimination based on age, like racist is discrimination based on race. In that awkward silence, I think up clever things like that. And then, of course, the big grown ups get their grown-up drinks and form their little grown up conversation circles. And that's freedom.
The window of opportunity to escape from the Drawing Room without having to be escorted to the TV room is very small. So I usually just get the hell out at the first chance. I go hang around at the garden or something. This time, when I walked out, I saw a metallic staircase. It was as if a spotlight from heaven had lit it up. I walked up these stairs, very slowly, immersing myself in the anticipation. It led up to the roof. There was some construction work in progress. I had found my spot.
It was magic. I was transported back to Trichy. There was this ugly structure coming up right in front of the main gate. For months we couldn't even figure out what it was. Then we realised that it was a flyover. We figured out a way to get on top of it. And then after braving a mercilessly sweltering Trichy day, we would go up there at night. We would sit there, listen to music and watch the headlamps of the cars, buses and trucks flicker as they passed by in the distance. And we would talk about the EPL, the sucky Profs, how the Project was a pain in the rear, how the lights look like they're dancing to the music that's playing, of cabbages and kings. And the cool breeze would refresh us, and the guards would give us suspicious looks. But at that moment we hadn't a care in the world.
And two months later and two thousand kilometers away, I felt like I was back. I felt the buzz of passing traffic. I played the music in my head. Headlamps of speeding cars danced in the distance. I narrowed my eyes to slits until the lights were a blur. I could hear stuff in the background- "Dude, Torres is God", "Dude that Prof can't even spell redundant", "Dude I've left my lip-marks on my Prof's rear. I hope I get an A", "Dude Steven Wilson is genius".
Then suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. As my eyes came back into focus, I half expected myself to be greeted by the Guard anna. "Bhaiyya, khana lag gaya", he said. I was back from my sojourn in time. I went to the dining room, picked up some dinner, pretended to be interested in the dinner conversation. They could've been talking about cabbages and kings, for all I care.
The next time I'm caught in a tedious conversation, I'll just excuse myself, find the roof and sit there, looking at traffic, in my happy place, with my friends.
"Did you ever imagine the last thing you'd hear as you're fading out was a song?....
... Arriving somewhere, not here..."
July 05, 2009
Beedi Irukka?
Music in my head: Steve Von Til- The Grave is a Grim Horse
Today's weather: Melancholy
It was, to say the least, a grim affair. A black armband would have been the final touch. A party, my prof had called it.
I have to explain to you a few things about my prof before I proceed. He is around 25, has long hair, wears ripped jeans, chain-smokes and listens to 70s prog. He would've been me except for the smoking, the hair colour and the missing love handles. That's why I was so taken with him right from first sight- don't mistake this for anything else, it was just pure macho guy love. I had to stay at his mum's place at Nantes overnight after missing the last train to Saint-Nazaire. In the midst of a long and awkward silence, which I am quite used to now that I've been here so long, in an attempt to make some conversation, I asked her if her son lives alone. I did this because I had to spend a night at his place as well- I was getting there on a public holiday. She answered, and I quote- "He live alone. He live with Francesca (name changed), but she go away. Now he sad."
He was, indeed, living alone when I got here. But somewhere down the line, I don't exactly know when, he met another girl. I had seen her once, when she came to pick him up from the lab. I, of course, said my bonjours and tres biens. And I was quite taken with her too. So when he mentioned the party to me, I secretly jumped for joy, all the while maintaining a nonchalantly cool demeanor. Party means eye candy, and at his house, it also means ear candy- he also has a record player and among others, an In the Court of the Crimson King 1983 reissue LP.
And then the slap across the face. I fond myself at a restaurant near his house, sitting at a table with an average diner age of about 60. Needless to say, only one person in ten, conforming to the ratio here in Saint-Nazaire, knew enough English to conduct a primitive conversation. Thankfully, I was seated between two such people, my prof and another old prof.
I went around shaking hands and saying bonjour for a while and retired to my chair. A couple of minutes later the old prof (OP) joins me. I smile my fake French smile and start thinking of things to say. He initiates the conversation.
OP: Salut! Comment ca va?
Me: Oui, tres bien. Ca va?
OP: Oui, Oui, bien. (beaming) You speak ze goot Francaise.
Me: (polite smile) That's all the French I know. Je parle pas francaise.
OP: Ha ha ha! You are from India?
Me: Yes.
(Some tedious conversation about where in India I am from, and how one of his friends found Delhi beautiful, hot and polluted.)
OP: You know ze beedi?
Me: Pardon?
OP: Ze beedi, you smoke, like so (mimes smoking).
Me: Ah! Yes, yes.
OP: Is very goot. My friend bring back beedi from India.
Me: Okay. I don't smoke, so I don't know.
OP: (Regards me curiously) Beedi is a very... ah... very... (defeated smile) goot.
Me: Okay.
OP: It is, how you say, illegal here.
Me: Oh!
OP: But my friend bring some, and it goot. You can buy in ze Nantes and Paris, but is ze expensive.
Me: Okay.
(The conversation switched to other mundane things.)
The food was not exactly my cup of tea. I hate seafood, Saint- Nazaire is primarily a fishing port. So I had the chicken salad and a weird Greek dish with a chicken leg wrapped in a leaf. The dessert was decent, chocolate mousse and lemon souffle. And the wine was, apparently, excellent. I had a glass, but I lack previous wine-tasting experience, and hence I am not a qualified judge.
Anyway, on the bus on my way back, I started pondering, as I usually do, about how the Europeans are so weird (OP might be pondering about how Indians are so weird at this very instant). Beedis are in high demand here. A single beedi costs more than a meal. And they buy it, just because it is illegal. I'm no expert here, but I always thought that beedis were bought for want of resources to buy cigarettes, and yet, this anomaly, this abomination.
I think I'll be glad to be rid of these little abnormalitites and finally return to our own desi idiosyncrasies.
Today's weather: Melancholy
It was, to say the least, a grim affair. A black armband would have been the final touch. A party, my prof had called it.
I have to explain to you a few things about my prof before I proceed. He is around 25, has long hair, wears ripped jeans, chain-smokes and listens to 70s prog. He would've been me except for the smoking, the hair colour and the missing love handles. That's why I was so taken with him right from first sight- don't mistake this for anything else, it was just pure macho guy love. I had to stay at his mum's place at Nantes overnight after missing the last train to Saint-Nazaire. In the midst of a long and awkward silence, which I am quite used to now that I've been here so long, in an attempt to make some conversation, I asked her if her son lives alone. I did this because I had to spend a night at his place as well- I was getting there on a public holiday. She answered, and I quote- "He live alone. He live with Francesca (name changed), but she go away. Now he sad."
He was, indeed, living alone when I got here. But somewhere down the line, I don't exactly know when, he met another girl. I had seen her once, when she came to pick him up from the lab. I, of course, said my bonjours and tres biens. And I was quite taken with her too. So when he mentioned the party to me, I secretly jumped for joy, all the while maintaining a nonchalantly cool demeanor. Party means eye candy, and at his house, it also means ear candy- he also has a record player and among others, an In the Court of the Crimson King 1983 reissue LP.
And then the slap across the face. I fond myself at a restaurant near his house, sitting at a table with an average diner age of about 60. Needless to say, only one person in ten, conforming to the ratio here in Saint-Nazaire, knew enough English to conduct a primitive conversation. Thankfully, I was seated between two such people, my prof and another old prof.
I went around shaking hands and saying bonjour for a while and retired to my chair. A couple of minutes later the old prof (OP) joins me. I smile my fake French smile and start thinking of things to say. He initiates the conversation.
OP: Salut! Comment ca va?
Me: Oui, tres bien. Ca va?
OP: Oui, Oui, bien. (beaming) You speak ze goot Francaise.
Me: (polite smile) That's all the French I know. Je parle pas francaise.
OP: Ha ha ha! You are from India?
Me: Yes.
(Some tedious conversation about where in India I am from, and how one of his friends found Delhi beautiful, hot and polluted.)
OP: You know ze beedi?
Me: Pardon?
OP: Ze beedi, you smoke, like so (mimes smoking).
Me: Ah! Yes, yes.
OP: Is very goot. My friend bring back beedi from India.
Me: Okay. I don't smoke, so I don't know.
OP: (Regards me curiously) Beedi is a very... ah... very... (defeated smile) goot.
Me: Okay.
OP: It is, how you say, illegal here.
Me: Oh!
OP: But my friend bring some, and it goot. You can buy in ze Nantes and Paris, but is ze expensive.
Me: Okay.
(The conversation switched to other mundane things.)
The food was not exactly my cup of tea. I hate seafood, Saint- Nazaire is primarily a fishing port. So I had the chicken salad and a weird Greek dish with a chicken leg wrapped in a leaf. The dessert was decent, chocolate mousse and lemon souffle. And the wine was, apparently, excellent. I had a glass, but I lack previous wine-tasting experience, and hence I am not a qualified judge.
Anyway, on the bus on my way back, I started pondering, as I usually do, about how the Europeans are so weird (OP might be pondering about how Indians are so weird at this very instant). Beedis are in high demand here. A single beedi costs more than a meal. And they buy it, just because it is illegal. I'm no expert here, but I always thought that beedis were bought for want of resources to buy cigarettes, and yet, this anomaly, this abomination.
I think I'll be glad to be rid of these little abnormalitites and finally return to our own desi idiosyncrasies.
June 15, 2009
Son of a Beach
Music in my head: Rush- YYZ
Today's weather: A real bitch.
Don't ever get your hopes up about a beach party. Especially if a Frenchman tells you that in broken English. Because
1. Frenchmen think that 'at the beach' and 'near the beach' are interchangeable phrases.
2. Frenchmen wear black ties to said beach parties.
3. Frenchmen love seafood and serve almost nothing but seafood.
4. Frenchmen talk only in French, leaving you feeling like you are the novelty fish on the wall.
5. Frenchmen hang novelty fish on their walls.
6. The above applies to Frenchwomen too.
7. You cannot converse with the other novelty fish, including the ones on the wall.
The only positive feeling that a novelty fish can have during the whole rotten experience is one of profound thankfulness. Profound thankfulness for French fries and for the fact that he did not turn up in boxers and flip flops like he had originally planned to.
Beach party, my novelty a**.
Today's weather: A real bitch.
Don't ever get your hopes up about a beach party. Especially if a Frenchman tells you that in broken English. Because
1. Frenchmen think that 'at the beach' and 'near the beach' are interchangeable phrases.
2. Frenchmen wear black ties to said beach parties.
3. Frenchmen love seafood and serve almost nothing but seafood.
4. Frenchmen talk only in French, leaving you feeling like you are the novelty fish on the wall.
5. Frenchmen hang novelty fish on their walls.
6. The above applies to Frenchwomen too.
7. You cannot converse with the other novelty fish, including the ones on the wall.
The only positive feeling that a novelty fish can have during the whole rotten experience is one of profound thankfulness. Profound thankfulness for French fries and for the fact that he did not turn up in boxers and flip flops like he had originally planned to.
Beach party, my novelty a**.
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