Music in my head: Anathema- Transacoustic
Today's weather: Gloomy
I've been going through all time classic comedies the last few days like a hot knife through butter. It all started after I watched 'Angels and Demons', or rather 'Langdonji ke arbit funde'. I knew that I needed some comic relief, and I googled for half an hour, made a list of classic comedies and started downloading them one by one and watching them.
It started with 'Airplane!' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0080339/). It's a brilliant comedy, sarcastic at times, slapstick at times, but classic all the way through. For all you kinky bastards out there, there are a couple of seconds of nudity, so have fun while you're laughing.
I went on to 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071853/). Again, exceptionally humourous and way ahead of its time. It's a satire on how King Arthur his knights try to scour England on a shoestring, looking for the holy grail. The credits at the start of the movie are worth reading, so don't skip them.
Next came 'National Lampoon's Animal House' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0077975/). Some people may argue that it shouldn't be included in a list of classics, but you have to agree that it was a pioneer in its category, inspiring hundreds and hundreds of teenage comic flicks in the future, including movies like American Pie and Van Wilder, which, despite what the so called 'cultured' people would find, perhaps, disgusting, are extremely good ways to kill time. There's quite a bit for the kinky bastards too, so have fun.
Moving on now to 'Some like it Hot' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0053291/). The original gender-bender, on which so much of our modern day bollywood crap with Govinda and the like is probably based. The classic movie is on one hand typical of its time, and at the same time is light years ahead of it. With references to homosexuality, and of course cross-dressing, the movie is probably what put the wheels in motion for some of the brilliant movies of today which may not have been received so well in a more narrow minded world.
The last one, and probably the best one I saw was 'Dr Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb' (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0057012/). Surely one of the best movies I have ever seen. I watched some scenes up to three times and got three different meanings each time. It is packed with euphemisms and double entendres, and halfway through tongue in cheek quite well becomes tongue through cheek. Peter Sellers plays three roles in the movie, which is about a group of politicians trying to stop a mad general from enveloping the world in a nuclear holocaust. What I loved most about the movie, was the names of the characters. The mad general was named John D Ripper. The Russian premier is called Dimitry Kissoff (not sure about the spelling). But the award for the best name goes to one of the generals who is in the discussion with the politicians. General Buck Turgidson. Take out the 's' and you have a hard on, which is aptly illustrated by the fact that he is sleeping with his luscious secretary.
If you want to watch any of these movies and can't find links, tell me and I'll mail them to you. I don't want to post the links on the blog and make this and arbit links blog.
June 08, 2009
June 06, 2009
Afro-Asian Games
Music in my head: Opeth- Deliverance
Today's weather: Don't know, don't care.
It’s five thirty in the evening. I’m not completely hungry yet, but on close examination I could hear my stomach rumble. I decide, what the heck, I’ll just make dinner before the chinks come and crowd the kitchen.
I grab my bread, cheese, salami, ketchup and mayo and reach the kitchen, and I literally take a step back. There was this huge black guy with an afro about half his height, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of boxer shorts. I try to hide the look of surprise, mixed with a hint of fear, as I place the ingredients for my sandwich on the counter, waiting for him to finish using the grill.
Then I make a big, big, mistake. I smile, nod and say “Bonjour!”
It is customary in France to greet complete strangers when you see them. Even out on the street. Although I find this custom very useful when I pass by the ladies, I’ve never been quite comfortable with it, after having spent the last three years of my life looking the other way when certain people pass by. That’s normal if you are Indian. I’m sure there are people who look the other way when I pass by. But here, you have to bring out you great big fake smile and say your Bonjour before you can pass. It’s like the password to any building or street in France.
So I give him the password and smile my big fake smile. He looks at me for a while, as if to check if it was safe to let me near him. He narrows his eyes for a moment and looks me right in the eye. Then suddenly, he lightens and up, smiles and says “Bonjour!” As far as I’m concerned, that should be the end of the conversation. I stand silently, looking out the window, making sure that I don’t make eye contact with him again.
I had noticed that his oven timer showed ten minutes, so I start listening to some music. After a while, I start nodding to the music, slightly, leaning against the wall, looking out the window. Then I hear him say “Hello!”.
I turn around and my face is inches from his hairless chest. Startled, I pull back a little, and mutter a lukewarm hello back. This is the conversation that ensued:
Afro: “You like it za music?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Afro: “I like it za music too. What do you listening to za now?”
Me: “Camel, yeah.”
Afro: “Is zat like a za fiffaty cent? I like za fiffaty cent. You call it a za Gangesata.”
Me: (Just about understanding him) “No. Not really.”
Afro gives me a big, weird smile, turns and looks out the window. He proceeds to move his right hand to the small of his back and thrust his pelvis backward, causing his rear end to stick out, barely covered by the thin fabric of the boxers. I stand there, aghast, speechless and disgusted. I start contemplating leaving the kitchen and coming back later, when:
Afro : “Ze wezzer is a za good today.”
Me: “Yeah, yeah.”
Afro: “How are you?”
Me: (Incredulous at the misplaced timing of the question) “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”
Afro: “Se bien, bien. I good, like a za wezzer. I am a za shining like a za sun.”
I am horrified at this juncture. What with the ‘shining like the sun’, the lack of clothes, the arm placement and the butt projection, I’m getting really, really freaked out. “That’s it,” I decided. “I’m running out.”
And then, like a godsend, the oven starts to beep. The ten minutes were up. He was going to leave.
He takes his food out the oven. I don’t see what it is. I don’t even look at him. My gaze is fixed on a tiny stain on the floor. “Bye,” he says. I bid him farewell without looking at him, looking down at my phone, pretending that I’m going to make a call.
I hear him leave. I wait for a few seconds just to be certain. He was gone.
I make my sandwich, get the hell back to my room, eat it as quick as I could, and listen to Master’s Apprentices at full blast.
I still can’t get that friggin image out of my head.
Today's weather: Don't know, don't care.
It’s five thirty in the evening. I’m not completely hungry yet, but on close examination I could hear my stomach rumble. I decide, what the heck, I’ll just make dinner before the chinks come and crowd the kitchen.
I grab my bread, cheese, salami, ketchup and mayo and reach the kitchen, and I literally take a step back. There was this huge black guy with an afro about half his height, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of boxer shorts. I try to hide the look of surprise, mixed with a hint of fear, as I place the ingredients for my sandwich on the counter, waiting for him to finish using the grill.
Then I make a big, big, mistake. I smile, nod and say “Bonjour!”
It is customary in France to greet complete strangers when you see them. Even out on the street. Although I find this custom very useful when I pass by the ladies, I’ve never been quite comfortable with it, after having spent the last three years of my life looking the other way when certain people pass by. That’s normal if you are Indian. I’m sure there are people who look the other way when I pass by. But here, you have to bring out you great big fake smile and say your Bonjour before you can pass. It’s like the password to any building or street in France.
So I give him the password and smile my big fake smile. He looks at me for a while, as if to check if it was safe to let me near him. He narrows his eyes for a moment and looks me right in the eye. Then suddenly, he lightens and up, smiles and says “Bonjour!” As far as I’m concerned, that should be the end of the conversation. I stand silently, looking out the window, making sure that I don’t make eye contact with him again.
I had noticed that his oven timer showed ten minutes, so I start listening to some music. After a while, I start nodding to the music, slightly, leaning against the wall, looking out the window. Then I hear him say “Hello!”.
I turn around and my face is inches from his hairless chest. Startled, I pull back a little, and mutter a lukewarm hello back. This is the conversation that ensued:
Afro: “You like it za music?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Afro: “I like it za music too. What do you listening to za now?”
Me: “Camel, yeah.”
Afro: “Is zat like a za fiffaty cent? I like za fiffaty cent. You call it a za Gangesata.”
Me: (Just about understanding him) “No. Not really.”
Afro gives me a big, weird smile, turns and looks out the window. He proceeds to move his right hand to the small of his back and thrust his pelvis backward, causing his rear end to stick out, barely covered by the thin fabric of the boxers. I stand there, aghast, speechless and disgusted. I start contemplating leaving the kitchen and coming back later, when:
Afro : “Ze wezzer is a za good today.”
Me: “Yeah, yeah.”
Afro: “How are you?”
Me: (Incredulous at the misplaced timing of the question) “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”
Afro: “Se bien, bien. I good, like a za wezzer. I am a za shining like a za sun.”
I am horrified at this juncture. What with the ‘shining like the sun’, the lack of clothes, the arm placement and the butt projection, I’m getting really, really freaked out. “That’s it,” I decided. “I’m running out.”
And then, like a godsend, the oven starts to beep. The ten minutes were up. He was going to leave.
He takes his food out the oven. I don’t see what it is. I don’t even look at him. My gaze is fixed on a tiny stain on the floor. “Bye,” he says. I bid him farewell without looking at him, looking down at my phone, pretending that I’m going to make a call.
I hear him leave. I wait for a few seconds just to be certain. He was gone.
I make my sandwich, get the hell back to my room, eat it as quick as I could, and listen to Master’s Apprentices at full blast.
I still can’t get that friggin image out of my head.
One day...
Music in my head: Parkway Drive- Romance is Dead
Today's weather: Rain
One day for power. One day for raw, untrammeled, uninhibited, unfettered, power.
One day for mesmerising brutality, for all-consuming hatred, for awe-inspiring evil.
One day for melting strings, for burning fretboards, for shattered keys, for broken drums.
One day for weak knees, for ruptured eardrums.
One day for banging heads.
One day for the rise of the machine, for the fall of civilisation as we know it.
One day in Mordor with the Nazgul of modern entertainment.
One day. Sunday, 21 June. Look for me on the DVDs.
One day in Hell.
Today's weather: Rain
One day for power. One day for raw, untrammeled, uninhibited, unfettered, power.
One day for mesmerising brutality, for all-consuming hatred, for awe-inspiring evil.
One day for melting strings, for burning fretboards, for shattered keys, for broken drums.
One day for weak knees, for ruptured eardrums.
One day for banging heads.
One day for the rise of the machine, for the fall of civilisation as we know it.
One day in Mordor with the Nazgul of modern entertainment.
One day. Sunday, 21 June. Look for me on the DVDs.
One day in Hell.
June 03, 2009
Do naat do it, ji...
Music in my head: Radiohead- Sulk
Today's weather: Getting Cloudy
Cars wait for you to cross the road, so you don't have to dart through the traffic praying furiously.
Trains arrive exactly on time, to the second, so you don't have to hurl curses at random politicians.
People respect FCFS, queues are maintained, so you don't have to stand so close to the fat lady in front of you that you have to rotate your pelvis slightly.
Girls in the prime of life show skin, a lot of skin, so you don't have to make up mental pictures.
Public displays of affection are fairly commonplace, so you don't have to look too far to feel infinitesimally small.
People love seafood, so you don't have to have a keen sense of smell to feel nauseous.
Food is expensive, so you don't have to eat like a glutton any more.
Hardly anyone understands English, so you don't have to talk too much.
You have to use so many hand signals for communication that your arms ache, so you don't have to do the curls any more.
You walk so much that there's a new boil under your foot everyday, so you don't have to jog every morning.
Internet speeds are out of this world, so you don't have to keep your computer on overnight any more.
The bases of the walls are not moist here, so you don't have to cover your nose near fences.
There's no cow dung on the streets, so you don't have to watch your step.
It's not terribly warm, so you don't have to shower everyday.
Finally, there are thambi restaurants here, so you don't have to feel homesick.
Today's weather: Getting Cloudy
Cars wait for you to cross the road, so you don't have to dart through the traffic praying furiously.
Trains arrive exactly on time, to the second, so you don't have to hurl curses at random politicians.
People respect FCFS, queues are maintained, so you don't have to stand so close to the fat lady in front of you that you have to rotate your pelvis slightly.
Girls in the prime of life show skin, a lot of skin, so you don't have to make up mental pictures.
Public displays of affection are fairly commonplace, so you don't have to look too far to feel infinitesimally small.
People love seafood, so you don't have to have a keen sense of smell to feel nauseous.
Food is expensive, so you don't have to eat like a glutton any more.
Hardly anyone understands English, so you don't have to talk too much.
You have to use so many hand signals for communication that your arms ache, so you don't have to do the curls any more.
You walk so much that there's a new boil under your foot everyday, so you don't have to jog every morning.
Internet speeds are out of this world, so you don't have to keep your computer on overnight any more.
The bases of the walls are not moist here, so you don't have to cover your nose near fences.
There's no cow dung on the streets, so you don't have to watch your step.
It's not terribly warm, so you don't have to shower everyday.
Finally, there are thambi restaurants here, so you don't have to feel homesick.
Soup
Music in my head: Sigur Ros- Von
Today's weather: Sunny
It is not very entertaining to listen to a conversation in Chinese, contrary to what everyone might think. All I can hear is a nasal drone and the occasional really loud syllable. It's disturbing me from my work, which is all set to break a lot of ground. It's sad, really, considering that this is about as far away from China as it possibly gets (I'm in France. In your face.).
Now, lamenting gently about the dearth of Frenchmen in a small French town on the Atlantic Coast, my thoughts meander to a little trip I made to its even more Mongoloid dense centre, the pride of France, Paris. But this is not about the Mongoloids, not even about the Frenchmen. My thoughts go back to a quaint little bistro on a busy corner in the north of Paris. Cafe Foresta, they called it. It served Italian food and drink. And it was run by, wait for it, a thambi anna, forgive the oxymoron.
We did realise a strange familiarity about the waiter's face as soon as we entered. There was the weird French hairdo with lots of gel on, and the puffy French shirt and the pointy French shoes. But there was also the tropical complexion and an expression of what we thought was slight joy at seeing us that led us to believe that he was Indian. Of course, his perfect French belied our inferences, so we had to wait for a sign.
Oh yes, he did give us a sign. He wrote down our order, walked calmly over to the counter and shouted- " Anney, Oru Isabella, Oru Reims, Oru Vegitarienne, sighram!" We could just look at each other and smile. It's a small world.
The old tamil songs started playing and we were transported to a much warmer, more polluted place densely packed with sweaty people, although only the music was a common factor here. In that little instant, we went from Cafe Foresta to Motel Bamboos, and were back with a resounding crash when they brought our pizzas, and were slapped even harder right across the face with a sixteen euro per person cheque.
Sometimes home is the best place on earth.
Today's weather: Sunny
It is not very entertaining to listen to a conversation in Chinese, contrary to what everyone might think. All I can hear is a nasal drone and the occasional really loud syllable. It's disturbing me from my work, which is all set to break a lot of ground. It's sad, really, considering that this is about as far away from China as it possibly gets (I'm in France. In your face.).
Now, lamenting gently about the dearth of Frenchmen in a small French town on the Atlantic Coast, my thoughts meander to a little trip I made to its even more Mongoloid dense centre, the pride of France, Paris. But this is not about the Mongoloids, not even about the Frenchmen. My thoughts go back to a quaint little bistro on a busy corner in the north of Paris. Cafe Foresta, they called it. It served Italian food and drink. And it was run by, wait for it, a thambi anna, forgive the oxymoron.
We did realise a strange familiarity about the waiter's face as soon as we entered. There was the weird French hairdo with lots of gel on, and the puffy French shirt and the pointy French shoes. But there was also the tropical complexion and an expression of what we thought was slight joy at seeing us that led us to believe that he was Indian. Of course, his perfect French belied our inferences, so we had to wait for a sign.
Oh yes, he did give us a sign. He wrote down our order, walked calmly over to the counter and shouted- " Anney, Oru Isabella, Oru Reims, Oru Vegitarienne, sighram!" We could just look at each other and smile. It's a small world.
The old tamil songs started playing and we were transported to a much warmer, more polluted place densely packed with sweaty people, although only the music was a common factor here. In that little instant, we went from Cafe Foresta to Motel Bamboos, and were back with a resounding crash when they brought our pizzas, and were slapped even harder right across the face with a sixteen euro per person cheque.
Sometimes home is the best place on earth.
April 12, 2009
Colour me
Music in my head: King Crimson- In the Wake of Poseidon
Today's weather: Rainy
I sleep, dreaming of a macho me, when the pink walls of my room, covered, in vain, by posters of sporting heroes and heavy metal rockers slap me effeminately every time the power cut wakes me up. My vision is a multi-coloured blur for a while, before my eyes get accustomed to the blushing walls.
A dreary yellow walk through the brown of a small dust storm stirred up by a passing truck deodorizes my deodorant and coats me with faintest shade of beige. I enter a chaotic building painted a shade of green that can only be described as pungent. I sit among a horde of beige faces with colourless expressions, as we anticipate the arrival of Darkness.
A Black cloud enters the room, and all the beige is drained out of the faces. The words droning in the background bring back the multi-coloured haze. Colours slip in and out of focus. The green walls turn lighter, and lighter and lighter, until the cloud is finally lifted. The colours that were swirling around in front of our eyes return to our weary faces.
Now the skies seem less blue and the trees less green as I plod back wearily. Tomorrow is not a new day. A potpourri of pink, yellow, brown, beige, green and black is brewing up somewhere to take me through tomorrow, but all colours turn pale in the presence of the laminated light brown of Observation.
And as I write in blue ink, the skies turn darker and darker, a red moon rises and sets, and the light of the stars fail to penetrate my veil of discomfort, until I finally sleep.
I sleep, dreaming of a macho me, when the pink walls of my room, covered, in vain, by posters of sporting heroes and heavy metal rockers slap me effeminately every time the power cut wakes me up. My vision is a multi-coloured blur for a while, before my eyes get accustomed to the blushing walls…
Today's weather: Rainy
I sleep, dreaming of a macho me, when the pink walls of my room, covered, in vain, by posters of sporting heroes and heavy metal rockers slap me effeminately every time the power cut wakes me up. My vision is a multi-coloured blur for a while, before my eyes get accustomed to the blushing walls.
A dreary yellow walk through the brown of a small dust storm stirred up by a passing truck deodorizes my deodorant and coats me with faintest shade of beige. I enter a chaotic building painted a shade of green that can only be described as pungent. I sit among a horde of beige faces with colourless expressions, as we anticipate the arrival of Darkness.
A Black cloud enters the room, and all the beige is drained out of the faces. The words droning in the background bring back the multi-coloured haze. Colours slip in and out of focus. The green walls turn lighter, and lighter and lighter, until the cloud is finally lifted. The colours that were swirling around in front of our eyes return to our weary faces.
Now the skies seem less blue and the trees less green as I plod back wearily. Tomorrow is not a new day. A potpourri of pink, yellow, brown, beige, green and black is brewing up somewhere to take me through tomorrow, but all colours turn pale in the presence of the laminated light brown of Observation.
And as I write in blue ink, the skies turn darker and darker, a red moon rises and sets, and the light of the stars fail to penetrate my veil of discomfort, until I finally sleep.
I sleep, dreaming of a macho me, when the pink walls of my room, covered, in vain, by posters of sporting heroes and heavy metal rockers slap me effeminately every time the power cut wakes me up. My vision is a multi-coloured blur for a while, before my eyes get accustomed to the blushing walls…
March 07, 2009
Of a Pair of Pairs
Music in my head: Garmarna- Herr Mannelig
Today's weather: Cool
Some people have the weirdest habit of socializing with complete strangers. It maybe commonplace in the 'west', but in India, you have to have a pair to go and make arbitrary small talk with a complete stranger.
My encounters with such 'paired' people had been few and far between, at least till today morning. Everything changed today morning.
Instance 1:
I board a bus to go to Chennai from Trichy, from where I'd catch a flight to Delhi. A strange man comes and sits next me, and is surprisingly warm right from the word go.
Man: (Nod of the head)
Me: (nod back)
Man: Hello paa! Madras going you?
Me: Yes anna.
Man: Madras good place. Trichy very haat.
Me: Yes anna.
Man: (Wide smile)
Me: (Smile back)
Man: (after a while) Small help paa.
Me: What anna?
Man: You have twenty rupees?
Me: (bewildered pause)
Man: Urgent need paa, bus ticket naat full money.
Me: (Mellowing a little) Ok anna, let the conductor come, I'll pay.
Man: No! Give money now. Me other bus, not this bus.
Me: Anna, I don't have change.
Man: How much you have?
Me: Only 500 anna.
Man: Give me 500, I bringing change.
Me: (totally bewildered) I cannot do that anna!
Man: Small help paa, only 50 rupees.
Me: You said 20 earlier.
Man: Ok 20, give.
Me: I can't give you anna, I'm a college student, going home, I have only little money.
Man: Please pa!
Me: No anna, please, I cannot.
Man: (Dirty look) Wokay, wokay, I going.
And then he was gone. What a pair on him, I imagine.
Instance 2:
I reach the airport, buy a cappuccino that cost 80 bucks, and sat down determined to enjoy it, when today's second pair walks towards me, smiles and assumes a seat next to me.
Man: Hello, you going where?
Me: Delhi.
Man: Good, good. Delhi very nice place. I been in Delhi once.
Me: Ok.
Man: You from delhi.
Me: Yes, I live there.
Man: Ok. What you doing here?
Me: I'm studying at Trichy.
Man: Engineeringaa?
Me: Yes.
Man: Wokay, wokay. College leave aa?
Me: Yes anna.
Man: How long paa?
Me: One week anna.
Man: Wokay, you going to see your fathers and mothers aa?
Me: (In my mind: What!!?)(Stifling laughter) Yes anna.
Man: (big smile)
Me: (Big smile) ok anna, my flight is about to depart.
Man: Wokay wokay.
I grab what's left of my coffee and get the hell out of the area. What a pair on that guy, I imagine.
I've got five more hours to wait at the airport and I don't need any crystal balls to tell me that I have to watch out for more pairs flung at me.
Today's weather: Cool
Some people have the weirdest habit of socializing with complete strangers. It maybe commonplace in the 'west', but in India, you have to have a pair to go and make arbitrary small talk with a complete stranger.
My encounters with such 'paired' people had been few and far between, at least till today morning. Everything changed today morning.
Instance 1:
I board a bus to go to Chennai from Trichy, from where I'd catch a flight to Delhi. A strange man comes and sits next me, and is surprisingly warm right from the word go.
Man: (Nod of the head)
Me: (nod back)
Man: Hello paa! Madras going you?
Me: Yes anna.
Man: Madras good place. Trichy very haat.
Me: Yes anna.
Man: (Wide smile)
Me: (Smile back)
Man: (after a while) Small help paa.
Me: What anna?
Man: You have twenty rupees?
Me: (bewildered pause)
Man: Urgent need paa, bus ticket naat full money.
Me: (Mellowing a little) Ok anna, let the conductor come, I'll pay.
Man: No! Give money now. Me other bus, not this bus.
Me: Anna, I don't have change.
Man: How much you have?
Me: Only 500 anna.
Man: Give me 500, I bringing change.
Me: (totally bewildered) I cannot do that anna!
Man: Small help paa, only 50 rupees.
Me: You said 20 earlier.
Man: Ok 20, give.
Me: I can't give you anna, I'm a college student, going home, I have only little money.
Man: Please pa!
Me: No anna, please, I cannot.
Man: (Dirty look) Wokay, wokay, I going.
And then he was gone. What a pair on him, I imagine.
Instance 2:
I reach the airport, buy a cappuccino that cost 80 bucks, and sat down determined to enjoy it, when today's second pair walks towards me, smiles and assumes a seat next to me.
Man: Hello, you going where?
Me: Delhi.
Man: Good, good. Delhi very nice place. I been in Delhi once.
Me: Ok.
Man: You from delhi.
Me: Yes, I live there.
Man: Ok. What you doing here?
Me: I'm studying at Trichy.
Man: Engineeringaa?
Me: Yes.
Man: Wokay, wokay. College leave aa?
Me: Yes anna.
Man: How long paa?
Me: One week anna.
Man: Wokay, you going to see your fathers and mothers aa?
Me: (In my mind: What!!?)(Stifling laughter) Yes anna.
Man: (big smile)
Me: (Big smile) ok anna, my flight is about to depart.
Man: Wokay wokay.
I grab what's left of my coffee and get the hell out of the area. What a pair on that guy, I imagine.
I've got five more hours to wait at the airport and I don't need any crystal balls to tell me that I have to watch out for more pairs flung at me.
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