Monday, December 20, 2010

I need to get a life. And soup. Soon. Maybe Lanba was right. Maybe I'm at times a  retard who's more concerned with caring about how random people would react to me shouting BURP at their faces than sorting out what I really need to do. The irony of the whole thing is Lanba never said it in the first place. He did tell me to get a life, but he's been doing that for years now. I hope his preserverence pays. At least for my sake. My own, freaking sake. Does that make selfish? I don't know. Retarded? Maybe. Right now , I need to finish making that video. I need ideas, and very clearly, I'm not helping myself. Until I do get a brainwave, which better be soon, "ahoy,( I sooo want to spell out "good bye" in Spanish, but I forgot.)''.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

The south asian band festival.

Apparently there is a rock band in Nepal. And they can play too. Some music. But I still don't get the rock part. And the old grandpa singing is so unnerving. His moves are disturbing. And totally out of sync with any remote trace of music. i'm afraid he'll end up impaling his spine in his own rib cage. He keeps shreiking out "and the next number is?..."....I guess the demented old man is hallucinating that he is in line for a liver transplant. Very cold gig. And all the momo makers seem to love it. Pretty sure delhi is having a momo-drought tonight. I have a cold, dry cough and I still manage to shreik better than him. The guitar is good, but the old man is killing that too. Finally, after a little more eons of incomprehensible music that was aping bollywood in the worst possible way and tagging itself rock, the anchor decides that maybe its time the majority of the crowd got back to making momos. Finally, the grandpa's band were gone for food, sorry; good, Thermal and A Quarter (and KANDISA, kailash kher's band)waiting to get and stage and the smell of momos back in the delhi airspace. What an evening.

Monday, December 13, 2010


Momentary insomnia. Ironic I came up with that word in a book shop. Book shops have started to get depressing. Directly proportional to the size of the indian fiction shelf. If its fiction, why categorise it indian and if non-fiction, why rub into my face my own life!. Sadness. We Indians are weird. We talk about liberty and yet every minor moral scratch hurts our supermassive egos. We dictate claims of free speech and then put a moral cap on it. As if we don't notice the inherent absurdity, but very comfortable ignore it. For eg, a 21 year old, I repeat, a 21 year old mallu I knew, who started this amity mallu(read:malayalee) forum on facebook got offended when a bunch of people, in the chat room, started fooling around with humour that incedentally concerned the conversation with porn and sex. Now, when was the last time a sex joke got anybody pregnant? I haven't heard of any. And on moral grounds, assuming that it should be even considered a case on those grounds, what gives you the right to dictate the morality or immorality of an event that you weren't even a party in? Tradition, culture, stuff set in by people long dead. In a country that still boasts of the freakishly growing population count. Funny. Guess being down with sickness makes me too critical. Supercritical. Anyway, blahs and blahs and blahs. Back to the bookstore. A bunch of girls, probably 2nd year college, look at a shelf and comment : " I have read mostly all of these. Now I want something more fm them". Mills and Boons section. Something more? Hmmm. Porn? Guess thats why most guys go directly for porn without all those erotic litreary foreplay. We'll just have a pint of "more", neat, 3 ice cubes maybe. Hmmm. Sickness is so drastic. Especially when your nose has gone on a leave. The world moves a lot slower. Wondering how smell is responsible for that. Being fart immune slows down time. Maybe thats what E=mc2 actually meant.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

I have a cold. And a grandiose temporal mis-approximation about all cerebral outrages. I have been wanting to write a full on non-sense line and I just did. Good for me. I love certain words for no reason. Like "capiche". But before I knew it as "capiche" was spelled c-a-p-i-c-h-e, I loved it in amar chitra katha, as "kapish". The long tail did freak me out. But then x-men came and then on, mutation was the in-thing. The cold is making me feel dry. dead dry. dry like the jokes that shwetank, julie(90%) and every other AITTM(Amity Institute of Telecom and Timepass Management) guy cracks. Mom says my hair looks weird and so I need to oil my hair once in a while, not because my hair needs it, but because south indians are supposed to do it. The last time Reliance found oil anywhere near my hair was before the winter of my 1st year college. One particular incident made me give up on it totally. Oil, freezes in winter. So one fine morning, my brain at its best possible wtf-ness, decided to exclude every other activity in the universe and singularly focus on the activity I was carrying out and catalog it the way 12th std chemistry labs are cataloged.
  • EXPERIMENTAL SET-UP : a parachute bottle, a pair of hands, head with hair ( rest of the body, if possible)
  • PROCEDURE: hold parachute bottle in one hand and shake, coax white stuff to come out.              
  • INFERENCE: pervert!!!                                                                                                               
    I wasn't a big fan of chemistry ever, so this was it. I love the irony though. I say I have a cold and at that, even the cold ones act concerned. act, but concerned. Nice. Nice(the nICE, actually) reminds me, family doctors crack the worst possible jokes. I say I have a cold and he says "well, that's good. Ask your mom to switch off the refrigerator, save electricity." Its easy for me to figure out which jokes are the worst ones. They all would probably sound like something an AITTM guy would say and keep repeating it until you fake a laughter. so, the sailor says
    " ahoy, in the seas, a thousand bouys,
      alone, under vast seagull skies,
      a kiddo, writing horrible blogging lines,
      in the pangs of cold, he dreams of day the pain flies away."

    N.B: DONOT try to make sense of the sailor's song. all sailor songs are cursed with a "you think you're too fu*king smart, try this" curse. call it a night. sleep sweet.

    ** is it a pair of hands...or a pair of hand......or is it just me?. a friend of mine would expertly say in the most philosophical tone, WHATEVER!