Dear White Fella...

The Gay Extra-Marital Affairs of Langda Tyagi

Whoever did this, has a brilliant sense of humour.

What I'll Remember About Jaipur, 20 Years From Now...

...sitting around and laughing.

Laughing at good jokes. Laughing harder, at the bad ones. Laughing at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Over drinks. After drinks. In the car. In the room. At photographs. At each other. At other people. At the world. At old stories. And new ones.

As a holiday, it was a classic. The rare, old-fashioned kind.

Where what you come home with, is not what you bought. Or what you saw. Or what you photographed. Or just a bag-full of dirty laundry.

What you come home with, is the kind of well-being that only comes from good times spent with your favourite people.

Thank you bro, smritz and chica, for a truly brilliant holiday.

Of Saints And Singers

If you're one of those pseudo-intellectuals who don't just watch films, but decode them looking for the hidden message/joke/perspective that's being intimately shared between the director, the writer, you, and a few billion other people, don't watch The Boondock Saints.

If, like me, you enjoy the occasional bout of gratuitous violence, cussing and off-colour humour, please do.

If you're not sure, watch the flick up until the cat scene (you'll know what I mean). If you don't find yourself laughing helplessly, turn it off and watch The Boat That Rocked, instead.

Many of us wish we were living in the '60s, for many reasons. This film about a fictitious pirate radio station (although there were actually radio stations that operated just like this) just made that list of reasons a little longer. Plus it has a kick ass soundtrack and some seriously slick editing.

Here Comes Another Bubble v1.1 - The Richter Scales

Yes, I will blog about it.

Mad Avenue Blues

Drown

Just finished Drown, by Junot Diaz.

He writes the way Mondays feel.

There's the feeling on the surface, that all this ass-kicking is happening to someone else. But deep down you know it's happening to you. The way it feels when you wake up with the sickeningly comforting taste of too many cigarettes the night before, that makes your mouth smell the way unwashed scrotum does.

I assume most of the tales Diaz tells in Drown, are autobiographical in nature. (If not, the man's more of a master than I thought.) And if they are, I'm sure the literati constantly patronise him for his achievement at having raised himself from barrio pusher, to professor of teaching creative writing at MIT. (And of course, the Pulitzer.)

But having read this book, what I really admire him for, is having survived, and never once in the entire book making the reader conscious of this accomplishment (unlike the Angela's Ashes of the world, where the pathos of the author's situation, is constantly reinforced by the author himself.)

Courtesy The Onion

Study: Children Exposed To Pornography May Expect Sex To Be Enjoyable

Green Eyed Monster

It took me an hour and a half, last week, to read One Life To Ride, by Ajit Harisinghani. It's taking me a hell of a lot longer, to get over it.

Not that the book is about to win the next Booker or Man or whatever, for the author. It's no literary heavyweight. And has no such pretensions. Matter of fact, this travelogue detours, every now and then, into metaphysical bylanes that you can easily skim (or skip) without missing out on too much of the flavour.

No, the reason I can't quite get this book out of my head, is simply that I'm suffering from a good, old fashioned envy. 

After all, here I am at 33, my liver at its prime, spending more time writing copy and riding my fucking desk, than in the saddle. And, in stark contrast, is this 50-something gent - Ajit - a practising speech pathologist, who manges to take his Bullet on month long ride from Pune to Ladakh. 

In this era of salad freaks and pg. 3 gymnasiums, I admire his acknowledgement of the restorative properties of rum. In these poIitically correct times, I admire his honesty about stopping for a coffin nail every now and the. And naturally, I admire the man's grit - it's not an easy ride for anyone, of any age. 

But what I'm envious of, is the fact that he has the wisdom to sort out work/life so he can make the ride in the first place. 

I mean he's a medical professional. Someone who actually contributes something worthwhile, to the human race. In comparison, given that all I'm doing with my life is something as pointless and inconsequential as advertising, I should have ridden up to Ladakh and back, 9 times, by now. 

Instead, all I ever manage to come up with, are excuses. Feeble ones at that. Shit like: There's a lot of work. I don't have enough money. I don't have enough leave. My colleagues are counting on me. I'm involved with a start-up. There's a recession. We've just got a new client. Blah-di-fucking-blah. 

One would think, given all the creative liberties with the truth that I take on behalf of assorted clients on a daily basis, I would at least be more imaginative with my excuses. But until such time as I begin successfully deluding myself, or muster up the cojones to take month off (come hell or high water) and make the ride to Ladakh, I suppose I'll have to console myself by at least emulating the man as far as the rum is concerned. 

Observations And Results Of Sustained Exposure To Steven Seagal Movies

Corrupt Cops: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Corrupt Politicians: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Corrupt CIA Types: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Terrorists: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

The Mafia: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Gangstas: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

The Posse: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Assorted Thugs: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Sadistic Henchmen: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Criminal Masterminds: 0
Steven Seagal: 1

Conclusion: While it appears that even a low yield nuclear weapon will NOT stop him from kicking ass and taking names, this researcher still maintains that Steven Seagal runs like a PANSY.

Tata to the turtles?

Backstage with Bob Dylan

Be Prepared

The biggest problem with trying to get authorised service personnel to actually arrive at your door step, are the idiots in the call centre masquerading as customer care executives (or whatever the nomenclature is these days). After years of trial and tribulation, I've finally figured out an effective way to deal with these morons, and actually get things done: 

Step 1

Call in and log your complaint/request, politely. Make sure to write down the reference number assigned to your call. 

Step 2

Irrespective of whether you've been promised problem resolution in 4 hours, 24 hours, or 48 hours, call back precisely 5 minutes (or one beer) later, demanding resolution. Be firm, but polite.

Step 3

Repeat step 2, after 5 more minutes (or another beer) interval. Vary only in going from firm, to authoritative. 

Step 4

Repeat. (Cheers!) This time, scream.

Step 5.

Repeat. Chug. Exercise your four, ten and 15 letter vocabulary.

Step 6

60 seconds later, call again. Regress to screaming mode. Demand technician's number. You will receive his boss's number.

Step 7

Call technician's boss. Humbly request his invaluable assistance, while roundly abusing those idiots at the call centre. Say thank you, when he gives you the technician's number.

Step 8

Call technician. Drop his boss's name. Explain your problem patiently, in detail. Fix a time for him to arrive. Take half a day off (account for 2 hours on either side of the appointment) and cool your heels. Grab a beer. Grab six. Put on some Stevie Ray Vaughn (or music of your choice). Ensure you're nice and mellow. When technician arrives, greet him with a smile, a handshake, and mild complaint about customer care call centre jerks. 

Step 9

Imitate a good nurse - be polite, attentive, but stay out of his way. Occupying yourself with a beer, is recommended.

Step 10

Bakhsish. Offer technician a beer too.

Step 11 (Optional)

Call and inform spouse (at spouse's office) that work has been done. The thingamajig or whatchamacallit has been fixed/replaced/beaten/threatened/cajoled into performing, again. This may irritate spouse, but you can claim the moral high ground, for having had to deal with all this inconvenience, so you're safe. Grab another beer. Put on some JJ Cale (or music of your choice).

Emotional Atyachar - X rated version

Calling Mr. Tata