15 layer meal

Some popular ingredients.
Some obscure references.

All intentional.
So epic it scared me.

If you read it one way, it's heartbreaking.
If you read it another way, it's something else all together.
And it goes on.

Tone, rhythm and structure have all been toyed with.
Mercilessly.

How many layers can you eat? Let alone digest?

Bon appetit.

Sorry, regular diners. Dessert illa.
________________________________________________________________

Blood is the Brave New Black
(rewriting His story)

black faces in white squares
Unhinge
Again
And look at me.
Ineffabliss.

Enough of this
Opiate of the masses.
You forget so easy, Mr. Blair.
I just might Chuckmate you.
But what's the fun of that?

A crucifixion is nothing without a good audience
And a great PR agent.

If you keep castling
We'll always know where the king is hiding.

Say, fellow droogs.

Let's pay the queen
a
nice
quiet visit.


In God we trust to save the Queen.
And yet Freddie says, relax.
The world still turns.

Run, Lassie, run.
Go and tell the king that the sky is falling in.

See the Wall?
i
t
t
e
e
ters e.


Take a long bread th.

:{ There is SO MUCH to say :'(

.
.
.

_
_
_

.
.
.

Why Samuel, how dashing.
That said it all.


Call me Ishmael.


Knock Knock

Who's there

Doubt

Doubt who?

Nevermind.

Nevermind?

Nirvana.


I laugh until my head comes off.


Ashtunalee.
Do you know any other words?
Just read my lips.
Did she just say br*tney on live TV?
Oops. Do the chicken dance.
(Did you see that Cock's reaction? )

Now
Dance little tin goddess, dance.
Then
Shamble, dahling, shamble.
The sun will set very, very soon
And Cinderella has to be home before twelve.

Time never passes.
It always gives us the right answer.

And yet.
It's still there, isn't it?
Do you know any other words?


I'm left holding my breath till A'm-a-gettin

Bluesy.

Yes.

It moves me.

Then I'm grey.

As if by chance.



Yet.
It still merits the question


Do.
Or do you not
know any other words?

And all that jazz

?

Finally.
After much histrionics in a glass house.
A quavering note stumbles past the threshold.

_
.

.
_

I thought so.

Onward, brave Ulysses!
We ride tonight on ghost horses!
Soon, your sunflower seeds will Bloom
If you catch that erudite Zero
Shouting binary in the street.

But.
If I go crazy,
Will they still call me Superman?

Peace, beaver.
Unshackle yourself
From your chafing ego
And heal thyself
In 15 easy steps.

And so, discarding his baby blues
and his size 12 shoes,
Kal-El trudged south, to the Trojan king's lair,
where Frank and Edward share a common wall
paper, unlike Mondrian
and almost-Joaquin
on two wise men
engaged in an animated discussion.

“Who you Carlin a Zero, boy?
Me?
I just sleep here.
I dream of paranoid androids
dreaming of electric sheep.
Christ. You must sleep here.”

And so,
Casting caution and his briefcase to a nearby urchin in the corner
with no arms,
he settled in with a wad of 20s.
I've got 99 problems too, J
Yeah? Well, there's a brother on the corner
selling cyanide and happiness...

Yet.
He wanted answers.
Time was being quite unlike his punctual self.

In the back of his mind,
If you can make it out through the smoke
You will see how the pieces fit
(because you watched them tumble down)

STFU, u 700l, and
Start digging, Lincoln...

We're out! We've lost them!
Oh, holy Roman Empire.
Caesar, before Dorothy escapes
to the dark side of the rainbow
and ruins it for them all.

"Since it's too late
to ruin the ending
I'll just tell you
what it means instead.
(The glint in the ice gave it away.)
In 42 different ways."

Et tu, Glute?

He sometimes dreamed
That the XVIth Santa in the sky
would call him a good little boy
for keeping secrets
and perhaps,
repent
and perhaps,
relent
and send him condoms that winter solstice.


Rome was spawned in a day.

The eldest children played with fire
and built feeble walls and solid roads
For the younguns to trample over
Just as a new day broke
Thus damning Rome forever to proverbial hell.

Yes, they recorded it all in their books and Ledgers.
Mirthlessly.

There's been a hole in my pocket
for 8 long years now,
dear Lycra, dear Lycra.

"Has it?
In that brief case then,
Light a candle,
I want to see how good you look."


Oh, how Frank and Edward laughed
when the barbarian invaders
took a leaf out of the Good book
and had a paper plane war.

As it were

A plane crashed into two hedges
And their unlawful guardian, the bush
rained down an ungodly firestorm upon the poor sunflower seeds.
From a great height. A great high I ight.

"Oh, if only my irony detector worked.

Let me guess.
It detects everything but irony.

You read that thing too, huh?"

He seemed to say.
He forgot to dot his I lid.
And if he misses his 6:00 tea,
he's a kicking, squealing, higglety-pigglety.

“Quite a bit of work, Mr. Blair.
Titillate my nipples
while you make your pretty speeches.

Spare me the fancies, Nancy.
I can handle the truth.
And Sally can wait.
Dorothy was punctually late.

Well, of course
I'd like to sit around and chat.
But you were busy
being
Unconscience. “


How long exactly
has that bush been burning in the attic?
Can't you hear your babies crying?

The world needed
A spoken word hero

Whose roots

were far away
from the

bush

that he often beat around.

Meanwhile, back at the Hall of Justice!
Things were just heating up.

As the Iceberg,
he pleads and the icecube, she begs,

Now see the little piggies run.
See them scream.

See them scald their pretty pink skin.

Oh, I love the smell of death in the morning.

It puts the lotion on its skin,
Or else it gets the holy ghost again.

We're not scaremongering.
This is really happening.

!
!
!
!
!

But wait ... there's a wall?
No dark sarcasm in the classroom.

Apparently.

Roger that.

Hey, little urchin in the corner!
The world must know you have no arms!
Gather some bands to give you a hand.
And we'll sing a little ditty and maybe some pretty
young financially secure star
will whisk you far
away.

Hey, little urchin in the corner!
Stop dreaming!

Get me a pack of cards, some water and a pot.
Before
You go and tell the king that the queen is deathly flushed
When she's not.
Surely you jest, Mr. Ledger!
Actually, forget the pot.
I'm Rick James, bitch.

Still.

There's an unsubtle twist in the tale
if you read
this.

It will take you an entire lifetime
to choose an eternal life.

We've lost Zion! We've lost contact!
Peace, beaver!
The ego has landed.
Huge tonne, we have a problem.
Washington, we have a solution.

Let he who is not stoned
Be the first to sin.

“You think that's air you're breathing?
Once it registers in the ledger, it's not.
And even if you dare try it one more time,
Oops, my cheeky, cheeky Cinderella . . .
You are not the One.
Again.”

Your wisdom precedes you
Uurgh!
Right through your spine!
And as you fall,
Whilst Acknowledging Defeat
You pray to all your frakking fairygodmothers
to rewrite a future they never wrote
in the first dhaze.

Someone call Oliver Stone!
Dial 9/11!

"Paranoid Android speaking, When is your emergency?
You were right.
You were always right.
No.
I was selfish.
And hopelessly Erudite."

Klaatu barada nikto.
All your brains are belong to us.
Bow down.
Lone baby britney.
The proud Baby lon.

I'll be ready
and waiting
when you come up with an answer
Cinderella.

Spare me the fans
and don't write songs
about my songs
when I die.

As for now.
Play it again, Samuel.
I just love it when you sing.


The exit music played.
As the electric sheep walked out
and fell into
their warm, cozy beds,
and a deep, deep sleep
dreaming of dreams inside a dream.

And thus it came to be.

That when the sun had set over Troy
And the dawn would not break for another 8 years.
That the Greek gladiators ran out like fillies.
All in favor, say nay.

And swaggering
In,
still making their pretty, wheezy speeches,
they collapsed
on their precious match-winning noses
a mere rapture short of the thin red line.

Thought It. Jotted. #1

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Tis the Season to be Jolly (Obey your corporate masters, Proles)

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.

::Sample conversation::

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.

*beep*

Why the fuck are guns so bloody expensive?

Hmmm.

*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 pays to be bilingual.

Polson, out.

*beep*

FTC...

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*