C_Hr_I_st_M_As The shops. The stars. The smiles. So fake. The songs. The tree. The gifts. The cake. The calls. The cards. The friends. The cheer. Thank Yorke its only once A year.
---Ondu Shabda A Day Keeps The Constable Away---
Today's word of the day is quite simply, the ultimate putdown/dismissal. It ranks up there with fuck as the most ubiquitous insult known to laymen in good ol' Bengaluru. Considering I put it on the picture, you people pretty much need to know... Wait for it.... Shaata! Literally meaning pubic hair, as in, nim ajji shaata! Your granny's pubes! Now that's an insult! There's even a blog with that name, incidentally! I can thank Bharat and Shikha for turning me on to the word, and I've been spouting off to people ever since.
Cock: Brian, let me sit in the corner today no? Me: Shaata! For what joy? Cock: It's Christmas! Me: My shaata I'll let you sit for Christmas. Cock: So mean! You've ruined Christmas! Me: Tell that to Santa and Hallmark. Shaata bastards!
Damn, I hate Christmas. I'm going to go out and strangle random carol singers in front of their children. Later.
*rotates head from side to side, up and down, round and round*
It's been a while. And so much has happened in so little time.
My mood is, after a long, long, time, actually better. I'm in a genuinely good mood. Not happy, I wouldn't stretch it that far, but I'm not depressed.
It sucks not taking my pills, but I hate what they do to me. I can't write when I'm under medication. My mind seems one-dimensional, and I'm not used to that. You know, being all there. I've gone 21 years half-concentrating on 2 things or more at the same time, so popping those blasted things is the equivalent of emptying a magnum into my imagination point-blank. I feel dull, lifeless, suppressed. Like my mind's in a straitjacket. I need that creativity, I need that constant fluttering from one topic to another while nameless faces talk to mine in the hazy foreground. Which is why I never take my pills before a quiz, I need my fragmented mind for those Stage 2s and LVCs. On the other hand, if I do stop taking them, my erratic mood swings come back. And for the past few weeks, they've been back with a vengeance. And that familiar feeling of wanting to kill myself every time I walked into college returned. So, I took some time off. I wish everybody was antisocial so I wouldn't have to keep explaining myself.
Anyhoo, it's passed. On to the blog post.
THIS IS WHY I WATCH TV
VH1 has dramatically revamped their video playlists. Sure, they still play crap for 80% of the time that I happen to flick past it, but I have noticed they're developing an inclination towards, dare I say it, an indie vibe. And they actually started playing good music. There's this show called Left of Centre or something like that that plays some bloody brilliant tracks. And today was the clincher. They played Thom Yorke's Harrowdown Hill. A week before, they had played the greatest music video ever, Radiohead's Just. Whoever is responsible for this paradigm shift, I salute you for your impeccable taste in music. While we're on the subject of VH1, did anyone else chortle when Beyonce's new song came on? It's called If I Were a Boy, from her new album, I Am... Sasha Fierce. Based on what I could gather from her screaming, she was basically belting men (Ah, we're all jerks, deal with it, honey). But that's not the funny part. You know how VH1 obliges us with a title card at the start and ending of every video? This is how it read.
Beyonce Knowles If I were a Boy I am...
Muahahaha! They didn't include the Sasha Fierce bit! I wonder when they're gonna catch that.
And speaking of catch that, (you see how my mind flutters?) does anyone even listen to a Pussycat Dolls song anymore? I mean, when an outrageously hot woman surrounded by 4 skanky hos starts to sing, it's hard to keep track of the track. Wait. Ah, yes, that makes sense. Yes, it's hard to keep track of the track. But their latest song, (insert latest PCD song title here) has these, erm, lyrics. I'm not shitting you, I swear this is what it sounds like.
When I grow up I wanna be famous I wanna be a star I wanna be in movies When I grow up I wanna see the world Drive nice cars I wanna have boobies
Yes, they sing boobies! While this is gonna do wonders for the silicon industry in Beverly Hills, (I proofed a Dr 90210 episode last week at work) it's unfortunately also teaching a whole new generation of teenyboppers that big boobs = beautiful famous star. That's just the last str.... Wait. Why am I against this? I like boobies! I like big boobies! Sing, Nicole, keep singing! Sing till you're blue in the face! And doesn't she have small breasts? Now I'm just confused! Speaking of confused! I was left staggered, stunned and discombobulated all in one go, thanks to the crappiest show to ever grace our Indian airwaves. I don't know the name of the show, all I know is, it's in hindi, it comes on some regional channel, and it only airs at some unearthly hour like 3 or 4 am in the morning. (Bad insomnia, don't ask) I was idly surfing channels, and just happened to come across it. There was this obese, scary looking lady, showing off an obscene amount of cleavage, with about a zillion kilos of powder and makeup on, and she was pleading to the camera! In hindi! Now, my hindi sucks, but this was the gist of it.
Please friends, please call no? Just call the number on your screen, and you might be our lucky winner! One thousand rupees! (And just in case we didn't believe her, she brandished the promised ek hazaar rupiya like a Geisha's fan across the screen, and slowly at that, for added emphasis) Just look at the nine panels (there were nine pictures behind her) and tell us which is an animal. (There was only one. A fricking royal bengal tiger. The very first bloody picture. The rest had shit like boats and chairs and vegetables) Just call us with your answer, friends, and you can win one thousand rupees! Call the number on your screen now!
*pause (dead silence. She stares imploringly at the camera)
Pleeeease friends! Call no? At least for me you'll call no? For my sake? (Err.. wtf?) Please call, don't make me wait. See, no one has called yet! No one will win the one thousand rupees! (Geisha fan brandish) Just see, no, which panel behind me has an animal and call, no? Please friends! Do it for me!
*pause while she tosses her hair and shakes her tits, in a desperate attempt to work with what her mama gave her. (I bet her mom has four stomachs) (Incidentally, ladies, on behalf of my gender, I'd like to clarify. We stare at your breasts because we don't have any. And if you're attractive, we dutifully ignore your breasts and converse with your face instead. )
(What? We're men!You want me to lie to you instead?)
Anyway, this sorry scene dragged on for what seemed like an eternity, until some saint decided to spare the 3 people who were watching the show any more torture, and called up. You should have seen her face light up with joy. It was like seeing a 12 year old get her first period. He (unsurprisingly) was able to locate the tiger, and was rather gruff in his dismissal of her fervent thanks for calling up the show. Here's why it made it to my blog. The dude hung up, while she was in mid-sentence. BAHAHAHAHAHA! He didn't want the money! He wanted her to STFU! Oh, shite, I laughed till my stomach made funny noises! She sheepishly (still brandishing her geisha fan) wound up the show, and walked, shaking, out of shot, leaving a full 30 seconds of dead air+empty set until the credits started to roll.
Honey, my advice to you? Never, ever, host anything in your life again. You're ugly, stupid, fat and inarticulate. The only thing you have going for you is your optimistic ambition to actually be something in life, which I sincerely applaud. No, sincerely, I'm not being mean, your burning desire to improve your station in life is truly commendable. That said, other than a career in Indian porn, you really have nowhere else to go. And take note, I said Indian porn. Not regular porn, which is what the rest of the world watches and enjoys. See, for that, you'd actually have to be attractive.
---Ondu shabda a day keeps the constable away---
New kannada datas!! Takeit twice!
Today's phrase is so popular, it's the new black. No, seriously, you can use this phrase absolutely anywhere in Bangalore, I mean, Bengaluru! (I'm learning!) Our chosen phrase of the day is Swalpa Adjust Maadi! Meaning, kindly adjust. When you see 4 giggling classmates who have purposely occupied your customary seat on the bench, simply swoop in from the rear, elbowing the corner girl onto the others, bellowing, swalpa adjust maadi! (Sorry if I hurt you that time, Cock) When you see 25 people frantically waving their hands in front of cheta-of-the-court's stall, all eager to get their nourishment before you do, merely wade through them, murmuring, swalpa adjust maadi, swalpa adjust maadi... Then, when you have triumphantly reached the counter, leaving evil glares and crushed toes in your wake, deposit your crisp ten rupee note in cheta-of-the-court's hand, and intone.... Cheta, oru oxyrich bottle.
It started innocently enough. DoM and Thurman were talking in class about Thurman's inability to find a boyfriend, and thus be truly happy. We were in accord that she was asexual, which she seemed to vehemently deny. It was overuled, and we, the jury of her peers found her guilty of Not Getting Any. Now, I'm not doing any beanspilling here, but she's not. The past few days made for some startling changes in Thurman's life, and let's just say I'll never look at her the same way again. *Seriously, with him? Bejeezus!* But I dye grass. I, being the perv that I am, and best-friendly-neighbourhood-sidekick suggested she find the c. As in, find her C. Still didn't get it? It rhymes with Dolores. Haven't you seen that Seinfeld episode? "Ohhhh, that C!" Yes, that C, Vos Savant. I'm talking about the clitoris, ladies and genitals. Thurman, colouring slightly at the suggestion, defiantly declared that she knew where it was, thank you very much. *And you'd better have a pistol, fucker, because we are about to duel!* Ah, so, the phrase was born. Like the importunate beggar who lurks in the shadows of restaurant awnings, I pestered and pounded the dreaded phrase into their heads. FTC. FTC. FTC. But even I didn't realise its larger implications till much, much later. The epiphany hit me like... well, an epiphany. Somewhere between episode 4 of Gossip Girl on Satan's iPod and a gulp of Oxyrich procured from the obliging cheta-of-the-court. Now, my splintered mind often wanders, drifts, and meanders its way hand-in-hand with imagination, sprackle and logic in the dark, vast and unknown cavern of Brianshead, leaving my feeble consciousness to hold the fort till they get back. It was on their many travels that they came upon this vital nugget of information. EVERYTHING THAT MAKES WOMEN HAPPY STARTS WITH A "C." Think about it. Absorb it. Imbibe it. Digest it. Gaze at its beauty, bask in its simplicity, and ponder over its truthiness. (Thank you, Mr. Colbert) Of course, I had my scoffers. But then, I asked them to name 10 things which made them happy. Atleast one started with "C", whether they liked to admit it or not. Even the things that didn't could be connected with a "C" word. For example, one girl said her Boyfriend made her happy. Now, if you reduce it down to the core elements of their relationship, you'd get Crush, Comfort, Cash, Company, Chemistry, Care, Companionship, Coitus, Cock(slang, but who cares? Put your hand down, Priyanka!), the list could go on and on... You see? Every woman needs to find her C! It could be Credit Cards, it could be Coffee, it could be Chick-lit, it could be Candy, it could be Cocaine, it could be Clothes, it could be Cults, it could be Cars, it could be Cartoons, it could be Cigarettes, it could be Cosmetics, it could be Children, it doesn't matter... Somewhere out there, there's a C-word for every unhappy woman on the planet... I hope to Yorke they all find it someday. *Confucius say, Hope is dope.* So, remember, FTC. ...Ondu Shabda a Day Keeps the Constable Away... Owing to my pathetic Kannada skills (not pronounced Canada, my venerable grand auntie informs me, whilst clipping me on the back of the head for being such a dufus) I often find myself at the mercy of the police when they stop my firangi self, careening from A to B on The Deathtrap. Hence, I have resolved and purposefully made a resolution to have a determination to unwaveringly learn, by steadfastness and concentration, a new kannada word for every blog post of mine. Hopefully, not only will I learn, but others in the same boat as me (Return of the Natives, are you reading this?) can also glean some useful bits to practice on the Dastardly-Bastards-in-Fat-suits-in-Cops-Clothing. So, let's start with the title. Ondu means one, (I hope! If not, the title gets some blessed irony.) And Shabda means word. Not the Ebonics variety, but the actual, literal term. Hopefully, I can learn some proper Kannada this time around, and not leave listeners in splits with my weird amalgam of English/Hindi/Warlpiri/Morse Code... Thats enough for a first post I suppose. See ya next week. *Beep*
I recently deleted all the posts of my previous blog, The Cult of I. Maybe I should've saved my posts, but screw posterity, they can start with this one instead. I suppose now that it's gone, I can actually talk about it. The Cult of I was my secret journal, where I painstakingly recorded, with unerring accuracy, the-week-that-was for an hour every weekend. To ensure that I published my frank, unedited opinions, I used nicknames and developed my own specifc argot for it. But then, much like a boy on the 27th of december, I got tired of my new toy, and found myself something better to do. Months passed with nary an entry, and in a fit of fassion (atl),
I deleted it all. So now that you're up to speed, welcome to my new blog. *checks watch* Gtg. Leave a comment or bugger off, mmmkay?