25 June 2007

Paper Plates

Since time long forgotten, the staple snacks for an attendee in any Indian party/gathering is a Samosa, a small piece of cake with part of a yellow flower or half a pink alphabet, some mixture, potato chips heaped over all this, and a plastic glass (the kind that rickshaw-pullers drink out of in wine shops) with half-cold and stale Pepsi/Coke, Fanta/Mirinda or Sprite/7up. All this, obviously with the exception of the plastic glass, they stuff onto a really flimsy-looking paper plate which is on the brink of collapse under strain.

This easily has to be the most disgusting food-assortment you can possibly put together on a plate. The samosa, standing high like a mountain, drips oil, the cake, deciding to be the Leaning Tower of Pisa, leans at an angle of 5.5 degrees, while a few of it's fragments are smeared all over the plate, and the mixture runs freely when the plate is held in hand, a few of them sticking onto the cake as and when detained during it's expeditions. But the worst thing about this assortment has to be the chips, which, when heaped all over the plate, get stuck to and pierce through the cake, and you have to pick them out of the cake in order to eat them. Eating chips covered with a bit of cake can be one of the most depressing things you can do to yourself.

But more depressing it is for the paper plate, which, even before the party, probably nurtures an inferiority complex because of the cheap paper it is made of and the kind of wussy floral patterns it has on it. The poor thing not only has to deal with it's inner demons and a shattered self-respect, but also with an oil-dripping samosa, a cake which smears parts of itself all over the place, mixture running helter-skelter like mad children, and chips which jump onto all the other three like soldiers storming a hideout of unsuspecting terrorists, or like one of those annoying school classmates who still surprise you, 20 years after school, with a 'Boo!'

It is therefore no wonder that the paper plate is always nerve-wrecked, on the verge of a breakdown, and when it's resistance finally breaks, it dies a gory death, destroying not only itself but also it's tormentors.

I probably sound crazy when I say this, but paper plates remind me of the students, the 'misfits', who, unable to take it anymore, take a gun to school, massacre everyone before turning the gun upon themselves.

21 June 2007

Ugly Jeans

Today, a guy in our office wore the ugliest pair of jeans there ever was. Till I set my eyes on this pair, first prize was for the one worn by a plumber in our building. The plumber's jeans were dull blue in color, caked with dirt and grease, were artificially faded (the fading done in the jeans factory, where the back and front of your thighs are bleached white to give it a faded look, while the rest is blue in color), and it had a lot of ball-point-pen graffiti written all over, even on the back of his thigh and on his butt pockets. You name it, and that guy had written it on his jeans... "I Love ____"s, a million heart shapes, someone's name and mobile number, etc.. Hell, he even had scribbled down measurements. I strongly suspect he's the guy who scribbles "I Love You Pooja" all over the walls of our apartment lift.

Anyway, like I said, this guy in our office today elevated ugliness to an art form. His pair of jeans was...

Lemme stroll towards him, shoot the crap with him for a minute and soak in the details...


His jeans are also blue in color, an ugly blue, and had tiny irregular patterns all over like TV-white-noise, and had this unreal whitish-yellow (pus-colored) artificial fading.

It was a close call deciding the winner, because, even though they were more or less equally matched and the plumber had a slight advantage because of the graffiti, the colleague won because his ticket and butt pockets were made of rexine, resembling cheap leather, and were light-brown in color!!!

You just have to see these pair of jeans to believe what I'm saying! Rexine pockets stitched over a pair of jeans, and artificial fading the color of pus... how can he NOT win??

Anyway, I can almost imagine some designer spending time on designing this goddam thing, and showing it to the jeans factory boss. The boss would've been thrilled with it and would've approved it, and then they'd have manufactured these jeans by getting rexine from somewhere. And when they distributed these jeans to the shops, the shop keeper must have been blind enough to accept this monstrosity. And then comes along my colleague to the shop, looking to buy a pair of jeans, looking at different ones before choosing this, of all things. He must have looked at it, tried it on, even worried a little about whether it fit him well or not, then deciding that it fit him just fine, would have bargained for this. Bargaining for the ugliest pair of jeans in the world has gotta be the most depressing thing in the world. Anyway, I wonder if the shopkeeper had secretly smirked at him when packing it, glad that one more of these ugly jeans were gone.

And what would've happened when he went home to show it to his wife or kids, i.e., if he was married or something? Would the wife and kids disown him because of this? Or whenever they go out, would they kind of shy away, embarassed, whenever someone they knew approached them? Or was it the wife or kids who had actually suggested this pair of jeans out of revenge for something he had done, like not buying the kids chocolate or something?

Anyway, I'd probably go on and on about this, so I'll stop.

If any of you have seen an uglier pair of jeans and want to prove me wrong, please leave a comment.

Anyway, I'll try taking a photo of his jeans secretly, so that I can put it up here.

19 June 2007

Music-Band Movies, or Why do fat guys always have to be drummer?

I've seen a million movies about music bands, and it's always the same story. The band members start off in their garage, being a pain in the ass to their parents and neighbors. They then show us how they compose their first song (which usually ends up being their biggest hit), which is usually like this: they're all feeling pretty low because they aren't able to compose shit, and then the guitarist 'accidentally' plays a riff while practising, and the songwriter 'accidentally' notices the riff, gets all excited about it, and then proceeds to add lyrics, and so on. This is probably one of the most depressing parts of the movie, because the song they've just composed usually sucks, and it's always depressing seeing people improvise on a song that already sounds awful. It's like putting in a lot of effort for something while going in the wrong direction.

Anyway, while at the pinnacle of their cacophony, their future manager 'accidentally stumbles' upon them, and, very impressed with their music, arranges for them to play a gig in some cheap club. They end up playing like shit, thanks to their nervousness and all, and they're booed like hell by the crowd. The manager, worried, calls them backstage, and gives them an inspiring speech full of assorted crap. So they let go, inspired, and give it their all, playing with all their heart and all, and lo! they're an instant hit!!

We then get to see how their song made it to #1 in the local radio, how they go to a recording studio and record their first album, which again goes on to climb all the charts, and we see rotating newspapers with blow-ups of the bands, more gigs, and so on. They also show some happy cigar-smoking record label boss patting the band members with cigar in hand, big grin and all, obviously impressed with their talent and the sales of these albums. If there's one thing I hate the most in the world, it's cigar-smoking record label bosses. They never fail to piss me off.

Anyway, after a few years of all this popularity, these guys are big shots, and act like pricey bastards. Then comes this big ego fight resulting in the band splitting. The fans are distraught. They send like 20 million letters urging the band to get together, but since the band members are egoistic bastards, they don't.

Many years later, they happen to meet in a gathering (probably the band manager's death), and they kinda make up with each other. And then they decide to play together once again, "for -band-manager-" or 'because -band-manager- had always wanted this". Someone always has to die for these fuckers to come together again. That's why the movies have characters like band managers. Normally, they're about as useful as a fork is when drinking soup, and their only purpose is to die and get the band members together again.

Anyway, these guys decide to play together ,and as you've guessed by now, the gig is sold out. The movie ends when the band, after singing a few of their numbers, decide to sing their first hit, the crap song. They exchange glances, grin at each other (which is shown in close-up), and then break into song, and when the crowd hears that familiar riff, they go mad.

What I hate the most in such movies, apart from the music, is that if there's a drummer in the band, it always has to be a fat guy, who almost always is nothing more than a part of the background. He doesn't even get to put on any starry airs, even during the scenes of the band splitting. Hell... the poor bastard doesn't even get a chick!

I do agree that the drums are important in a band and all, but then, you don't need great skills in order to play drums in a movie. The only proper skill you need for playing a drummer in a movie is your goddam stomach. And the bigger it is, the better your drumming is supposed to be. I can almost imagine the director, when casting, thinking "Ok... now the drummer. What we need is a fat guy with a lot of hair, who'll gel with the background. No... not this guy. We need a real mean drummer, and this guy isn't heavy enough to look like a good drummer." That always depresses me.

If I ever made a movie on a music band, I'll make sure the fat guy either sings or plays the guitar or does both, apart from getting all the chicks he wants. Those poor bastards deserve a break, you know.

18 June 2007

Eye check-up

There's something seriously wrong with my eyes. I've been cutting onions quite frequently in the past one week, and I realised that of late, my eyes have not been watering while cutting them. I realized only yesterday, when I cut 5 giant onions and my eyes didn't even drip a drop.

Gotta go get them checked at a doctor's one of these days...

14 June 2007

Jhoom Barabar Jhoom Barabar Jhoom Barabar....

Jhoom Barabar Jhoom has gotta be the most aired trailer in TV history or something. It's probably come 30 million times on TV already, and god knows how long it'll keep coming (I hope the movie dies a quick death). All the 30 million times, it's the same goddam thing. You see a weird Amitabh Bachchan trying to look like Jack Sparrow, Medusa-haired Bobby Deol, Lara Dutta looking like a Pekingese (don't know why, but I always associate her with the dog... probably because the way 'pekingese' sounds when pronounced is funny in the same way as how she looks), Abhishek Bachchan with that Neanderthal Man stubble that he has been maintaining since the Jurassic Era, and Preity Zinta, another funny-looking thing with dimples. While our eyes get assaulted at the sight of these people, there's this irritating theme song that keeps going on and on and on...

That song has gotta be the most annoying thing in the trailer. The lyrics, a stroke of genius and original thought by the lyricist, contain only two words: Jhoom and Barabar; and they keep repeating these words again and again. The song kinda mindfucks you when you try singing it, because when you say the last Jhoom in the phrase "Jhoom Barabar Jhoom", you don't actually end the first phrase, but in fact, you're actually beginning the next "Jhoom Barabar Jhoom". It's like this endless, vicious cycle, which, if represented in Set Theory (yeah.. the stuff we studied way back in school), would probably consists of like a million sets of something, each having the value "Jhoom Barabar Jhoom". When you do a union of the first two sets A & B, it becomes "Jhoom Barabar Jhoom Barabar Jhoom", and when you do a A union B union C, it becomes "Jhoom Barabar Jhoom Barabar Jhoom Barabar Jhoom", and so on. Imagine doing this a hundred million times, and you'll see what this song can do to your sanity.

Anyway, I'm pretty tired and pissed-off with anything even remotely related to Jhoom Barabar Jhoom. I hear that bloody infinite-loop song another time and my internal organs will probably go into convulsions and I'll probably end up with multiple haemorrhages or something.

PS: I know the Set Theory explanation above is full of crap. Mathematically-correct morons need not point it out.

13 June 2007


Bunked office on my birthday as planned. Had slept at around 3 the previous night, thanks to the cake that my room-mates surprised me with, and phone calls from friends, romans, and countrymen. Woke up all groggy at 8 AM, thanks to relatives, and vegetated at home till around 11, watching TV.

Had planned to go to Brigade Road, and so I went there. The day was hot as hell, and I sought shelter from the intense heat at Peco's, where I quenched thirst with beer while listening to Led Zeppelin. I was probably the only guy in the pub, and I shot the crap for a while with Nagesh, the bartender. I was getting a little bored, and so I called a few colleagues and incurred their wrath by asking them what they were doing in office, telling them with a devilish laugh where I was, what I was doing, and asking them to continue rotting at office.

A couple of hours and beers later, it was 1:30, and I went out, only to find that the sun hadn't relented, and was doing it's job with the same enthusiasm as a software engineer who has just got a 50% pay hike. I then went to a few second-hand bookshops and hung out there will about 4, getting, apart from a very bad sinus headache, the following books:

Something Happened – Joseph Heller
Picture This – Joseph Heller
The Hobbit - J R R Tolkein
Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring - J R R Tolkein
Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers - J R R Tolkein
Lord of the Rings: Return of the King - J R R Tolkein
To Have and Have Not – Ernest Hemingway
The Short Reign of Pippin IV – John Steinbeck
Return of the Native – Thomas Hardy
The Call of the Wild / White Fang - Jack London
Nine Stories - J D Salinger
Captain Courageous – Rudyard Kipling

Was totally zonked out and very hungry by the time I came out, and so I went to Pizza Corner and had one of them Sandwizzas or whatever you call them. The damn thing was hard as hell, and so you had to chew it a million times before you swallowed, and because I had the kind of headache that you can feel throbbing between your jaw and forehead when you chew, I was pretty much gone when I finally came out of Pizza Corner. Those guys can really kill you if they want to.

All I wanted to do was go home and crash, but then, I first wanted to pick up a few DVDs, and so I went to this DVD shop, and bought the following movies:

Volver (Spanish, directed by Pedro Almodovar)
Flags of our Fathers (English, directed by Clint Eastwood)
Letters from Iwo Jima (English/Japanese, directed by Clint Eastwood)
An Inconvenient Truth (the Global Warming documentary)
Pan's Labyrinth (Spanish, directed by Guillermo del Toro)
A Scene at the Sea (Japanese, directed by Takeshi Kitano)

Anyway, while I was picking up these movies, some dumb moron in the shop decided that the only way to find out if the music DVD he was buying worked properly was to play the damn thing really loudly while people like me were sitting right next to the speaker, looking at the DVDs. I almost killed the guy because my headache went up a notch higher after all that noise.

I finally came out with DVDs and a more intense headache, and finally decided I had had enough and took an auto to go home and crash. Spoke to my sis-in-law, and told her I probably wouldn't be visiting them (brother, her and their dogs) that evening because of my headache. I went home and had hardly laid down when my brother called up and told me that he'd pick me up in an hour, and so I got up, went to a barber's near my place and got myself a good head-massage which kinda knocked out (literally) most of my headache. I got back home, got ready, got picked up, and went to my brother's place, where I spent the next few hours drinking, watching some cheap tamil movie on TV while commenting on it non-stop (a pastime I have developed an affinity to, of late), having dinner, and playing with his dogs Charlie and Butch (probably the best part of the day). Whoever the quote was attributed to was right when s/he said "There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face". By the time I left, I felt much better, the headache now completely gone.

I went home, slept, woke up at 8 the next morning, and went back to office. :-(

08 June 2007

Random Post #2

Girls who've done eyebrow jobs by thinning them and all seem like they're very inquisitive, very suspicious, and don't believe a word of what you're saying. Probably because their eyebrows are always raised.

Random Post #1

The shape of the 'head' hole of a V-necked T-shirt, the one where you put your head in, reminds me of the logo on Superman's chest.

07 June 2007

Weddings & Invitations

2007 seems to be not only the Year of the Boar, but also the Year of Marriages. Four of my friends tied the noose... oops... knot in February alone, all these weddings happening in a span of 10 days, and I've been getting atleast 5 or 6 wedding invitations a month from people I either know or work with. I don't attend most of these weddings. Attending weddings can be one of the most depressing things you can do to yourself. All these people come there, reeking perfume, dressed up with lots of jewellery, resembling intricately-designed victorian chandeliers, their jewels reflecting light so that you have to squint while looking at them, all the time acting humble and all, being very friendly with people they don't give a shit about, and doing a million other phony things. The worst thing is that you know they dressed up specifically for the wedding and all, wearing clothes that they have reserved only for special occasions, and that when they go back, they'll have to remove all that crap and get back to their shitty existence, and their clothes go back to the closet, rotting there till the next special occasion comes by. Thinking of all that stuff depresses me.

However, one good thing about weddings are the invitations. I always love reading the crap they write in the cards, with clichéd words like 'gracious presence', 'blesssings', etc. This girl I work with gave me an invitation to her wedding yesterday, and the card read:

A moment of joy needs someone
with where you can Share & Feel
Glorious would be those moments when
you make your presence on
the occasion of my marriage with
-Bridegroom's name-
-wedding date & time-

The poor girl probably had to go around the whole office, giving out this invitation card, oblivious of the grammatical mistake, worrying about whether she had missed out anyone while people were reading the invitation card in front of her, noticing the mistake and suppressing a smirk. One more thing she must have gone through was to answer all these questions that these people ask. I don't know if you've noticed, but all these people ask the same goddam banal questions, and you often end up having to answer the same question more than 50 or 100 times or something, while being patient as hell and smiling all the time. You had to feel sad for the girl.

01 June 2007

Birthday Plans

If there's one thing I've grown to hate in the world, it's going to office on my birthday. A million people, half of whom you don't even like, come and wish you for your birthday, and you'll have to put up a big fake smile and say thanks. The next thing they'll ask is "So Guru, today evening... Bageecha(the haunt of the office booze-hounds), eh?" . while laughing as if they're saying something really funny.

The reason I'm worrying about all this is because my birthday's just around the corner, and I plan to take leave on the day. One good thing about my workplace is that they give you leave on your birthday and wedding anniversary. Anyway, like I said, I plan to bunk office, wake up late, go to Brigade Road sometime in the afternoon, loiter around for a while, go to Blossom's (the second-hand bookstore), buy tonnes of books, walk to Peco's, tired n all, and then drink beer and come back to life while listening to great music. Sounds like a good plan, except that I'm 99% sure it won't happen, thanks to project pressure. Your project needs you only when you decide to take leave or have a nice time.