If a girl ever has this song in her ‘make out playlist’, judge her right then and there and abandon her.

But at the same time, if you have had one too many drinks, and your apparatus doesn’t function the way it is supposed to, and this song starts playing, and she laughs and starts singing along pointing at your flabby apparatus, marry her.

Everything I've Learned About Life, I've Learned From Movies… 1.)  Jerry Maguire from Jerry Maguire taught me how to deal with stressful work sitch's when he said:  "Don't worry, I'm not gonna do what you all think I'm gonna do, which is, you know, FLIP OUT!" 2.)  Llyod Dobler from Say Anything taught me what kind of guy I should hold out for when he said:  "What I really want to do with my life – what I want to do for a living – is I want to b … Read More

via Sarah Smiles Awhile

It’s quite amazing how you would have adorned the Khaki Dress more number of times than an actual policeman. Or a watchman. Even though you are professionally none of the two.

I am sure both Nagarjuna and Sunny Deol would agree that your contribution to the safeguarding of Indian borders and taking out anti-social elements from our society is far more important and significant than theirs. And that they would both agree that you are deservingly the torch bearer of India’s post-independence fight for independence.

What beats my comprehension is your unparalleled love for the land. Who else would put their life on the line in every movie that they act in to fight for protecting India? Till date, you have fought against the Pakistanis, Pakistani terrorists, Tamil Nadu Dacoits, Peta Rowdies, Drug Lords, Politicians and even a few outlaws disguised as domesticated cows.

You are so proud that you won’t be tortured by others. Instead, you’d rather torture yourself. Remember the time when you bit your nails off? And the time when you took revenge on electricity for electrocuting you?

When you are shot and you are gushing blood like a metro water tanker on its way to Raheja Apartments in KK Nagar, you don’t go to a hospital or call for an ambulance. You just take a fistful of soil and apply it on the wound. Lo and behold, you are cured. It’s not a medical miracle. It is just another manifestation of your love for our land. For you, the thaaimannu is not just mannu. It is marundhu.

Talking about medical miracles and medicines, the entire medical fraternity is still baffled as to how you cured a sudden cardiac arrest patient with something as cost-effective as Balli Mittai. What a stellar display of presence of mind, sir! I, for one, have started carrying a pack of the indispensible Balli Mittai with me every time I go on the train.

Your grasp of economies and demographics and the link between the two is also mind boggling. I am told that Eminem tried rapping the same in his new album Recover and failed miserably. Amartya Sen even offered to give his Nobel Prize to you. But you, being the benevolent soul that you are, gave him also a pack of Balli Mittai to keep heart attacks away.

But let not all these acts of selflessness give you a tag of an Amul Baby. No sir. You are very much the ladies man who sweeps the good looking, fair and lovely using, thunder thigh’ed, wobbly bellied women with your enchanting smile and the enamouring charm. With such powerful hypnotic tools to captivate anyone standing in front of you, I wonder why you would ever use a gun to floor someone. But who am I to judge you?

People think only James Bond has secret weapons. I am going to clear that misconception now. Your eyes, they are like red hot charcoals ready to spit fire. Your double chin, it’s a secret compartment where you store extra ammunition. So is your paunch where you store supplies for an entire unit to last for a month. Your elbows are like jackhammers. And your own specialised version of the roundhouse kick has won you many a duels. And your face, it turns in to that of a tiger when you pounce on your enemies after you run out of the ammo stored in your double chin. What a man.

I can go on and on about you and your adventures. But words won’t do justice to who you are. Or your contribution towards defending India against its enemies. As part of the Navy, Army, Airforce, Special Task Force, Anti Terrorism Force, Tamil Nadu Police, CBI, Interpol, KGB, IFB (yes, as a washing machine mechanic), FBI, Milkman, Postman, Fireman, The Man, Common Man… whatever you are, you will always serve our country and earn the title, Captain.

Salut!

Nothing to do with how my life is turning out to be. But in general, a year with not many 3-day-weekends where most of the Government declared holidays fall on either Saturdays or Sundays cannot be called great.

Not even when you have sex 17 times a day all year long.

After waiting for nearly 8 months for a really long weekend, you expect to do something worthwhile laze around like a walrus when it finally shows up. But no. Life’s designs always catch you by surprise.

Rakhi happened to be on the first day of the 3 day weekend. So I travel 17 kilometres across Bangalore to my cousin’s place. I didn’t mind that. Strike one. I had 2 more days.

The next day happed to be a day out for everyone except me and my 22 years old cousin. Now I had to baby sit him. Day 2. Strike 2.

But then, finally, as Day 2 came to a close, I decided to leave my family to its own ways of seeking pleasure and decided to bounce back to my pad to do a few illegal addictive smoking substances.

Day 3 looked good from where I was.

378 metres. Exactly. That’s how far my bike went before a rusted corner of my petrol tank gave away making the petrol in the tank gush out like as if it was hit by a bullet or something.

Strike 3. Out.

One more day with family as my bike gets ready at an unknown mechanic’s shop.

Long weekend. My foot.

It was at the same time that people stopped respecting what I wrote.

It wasn’t honest anymore. It was filled with clichés. It was caustic. And I was beginning to not like myself.

The realisation came today because of something very unrelated to the aforementioned revelation.

I have been in touch with a girl the past few months. It’s amazing how we haven’t even met once, been talking to each other only through late night phone conversations and incessant texts. And yet, it is termed being ‘in touch’.

What happened was, we had a fall out. And being the guy I have become, I asked her to go fuck herself.

I don’t know for sure if she did exactly that, but turns out she did stop talking to me. She tried messaging me twice to try and squeeze a few comforting words out of me. But I was in the mood to act all self-righteous and holier than thou and never bothered to reply back.

It took me about a day to realise that no one except a few e-commerce sites and Vodafone’s recorded sales pitches bothered to ring my number. Or send me texts.

Made me realise what I started this blog with.

Don’t ask me how I made that connection.

P.S.: I think that girl is a figment of my imagination. Much like Tyler Durden. Only with boobs and a lot more cooler.

The trouble with my flatmate watching a movie is, he repeats dialogues. Out loud. So even before I get to watch the movie, I hear the dialogues. It’s irritating. Not because I get to hear the dialogues. But because he delivers them.

Also, it would be a while before I get to watch this movie as I don’t watch them in camera prints. This is my logic. Film makers spend a lot of money to make a movie. So if you aren’t decent enough to go watch the movie in a theatre, at least watch a DVDRip of the damn thing.

Moving on, one of the days last week, depression set in. And I hit rock bottom.

What does a man do when he hits rock bottom? The same thing he does even otherwise. Drink.

So I fixed myself a peg of Old Monk and Pepsi, took my cigarettes and went to the balcony. Needless to say, it was around 1 in the night and I was already some 5 drinks down.

And like they show in movies, I leaned against the balcony, sipped on my drink, lit my cigarette and gazed at nothing in particular. I just looked at something imaginary at infinity and made a face like I was deep in thought. I wasn’t. It just felt like the right thing to do then.

Finished one cigarette. Checked my phone for messages. Nothing. Lit another smoke. Sipped on my rum. Kept looking at that imaginary object at infinity.

Then it hit me like a speeding freight train (The American ones. The goods trains we have in India travel really slow. I am amazed how they manage to kill cows when they hit them).

The epiphany? I was bored.

No, I wasn’t bored in life. I was just bored standing there on the balcony, smoking, drinking rum, standing in silence, with a phone that never buzzes and looking at the imaginary object at infinity.

It’s all cool when they show stuff like this in movies. The hero doing the same nonsense when he’s depressed. Or is looking for answers.

But then the fact of the matter is, the hero only has to do this for about 30 seconds and then the director immediately cuts to the next day where he’s on his way to work, or to meet the man who fathered him and left him to die in a dingy brothel, or to kill someone who raped his step sister’s maid’s cousin’s husband’s second wife. Whatever be the case, he is still off.

But here in real life, you are just standing there.

My frustration is, these movies don’t even tell you how long you are supposed to put on that pensive face and stand there doing nothing. Honestly, I couldn’t do it for over 5 minutes.

Also, the hero of the movie has a background score to keep him company. But all you get in real life are dogs barking on the street.

Isn’t it just fucked up?

My clock shows 3:06 in the morning. Sleep evades me even after 4 pegs of Old Monk and a really long conversation with a girl I really like.

Well, that’s not the reason I am here. The reason I am here is because I read a blogpost that reminded me that I blog too. Thank you for reminding me that, dear blogger.

It’s been a while since I blogged. So this post is going to be all over the place. Bear with me. My rusty fingers need a little time to get back to their nimble self.

I watched the Indian version of the original Pakistani Coke Studio the other day. If you need to know what Coke Studio is, I won’t judge you. It only says that you should, if you like music and you are open to listening to new stuff, youtube Coke Studio and give it a listen. I’m sure you’ll like it.

Just to familiarise you with the concept of Coke Studio, here’s a prose.

Coke Studio was first devised in Pakistan, our sister nation. I say sister nation because evidently our nations do not have brotherly sentiments flowing. No matter what the popular media says. And it was devised because Pepsi had whooped Coke’s ass left, right and center. ‘Dildo violated’ as my dear friend would put it. At times, he’d vary that with ‘Strap-on violation’ but that’s another thing for another time. Anyway, you get the picture, right?

I don’t know if Coke’s market share increased after the Coke Studio thingy, but one thing was for sure: the effort was a raging success. It was so successful that people posted the episodes on youtube and shared it on facebook to such an extent that it became a ‘hit’ among Indian youtubers.

That’s when MTV India decided to cash in on its popularity and decided to make a quick buck with an Indian version.

That’s when the soul stirring Coke Studio took the shape of the vomit inducing Cock Studio.

Believe me, the Indian version of it is abysmally bad. It’s so bad that it’s bad on Biblical proportions. Give it a listen. And if you go deaf, don’t hold me responsible.

The whole exercise is very forced. I call it an exercise because it is a physical revolt. It has a sense of irresponsibility to it. Also, the fact that someone decided to ignore the original brief that gave birth to Coke Studio. The soul of it is lost. There is a sense of irreverence to it. The kind that makes you want to take back the faith and respect you put in when you first heard that there was going to be an Indian Version of it.

When the Pakistanis did it, I could sense honesty in it. I could sense the joy and the energy that one derives out of sheer happiness of doing something they like. It fueled the singers’ voices. They stopped living up to the name they had created for themselves and rose above it.

But in the Indian Version, the artists, the musicians and more importantly, the producers and the programmers have collectively reduced something substantial into utter bum wash. Coke Studio, the Indian Version, according to me is at the most a frivolous joke. The kind that even a hormonally charged teenager would shy away from.

It is so bad that I was reminded of the inane, boring and utterly mundane Doordarshan programming of yesteryears. This one is better because it gives me the option of at least switching over to 300 other channels that I didn’t have when I was subjected to the rubbish on DD. In fact, I think if I had paused a couple of seconds on the DD channel while surfing when MTV Cock Studio India was being broadcast, I would have found something more interesting.

But as DD’s reputation precedes its programming, I didn’t.

May be the next few episodes of MTV Cock Studio India would be better than its first installment. But I would never know about it until someone shares a youtube link of the same on facebook or twitter.

Why this rant? Because we live in a country where no one ever takes the pain to harbour an opinion of their own. Unless someone tells them something is wrong, they wouldn’t realise it. If you remember a story called ‘The King’s Clothes’ or something like it, you’ll know what I mean. Our collective society works that way. Our society should be the only one without a voice of its own.

Anyway, like my grand dad used to say, ‘Never advise anyone on 5 things. Books, music, movies, food and women.’ Everyone has a taste. And does have the right to have one.

On that note, I’ll let you decide what you think of MTV Cock Studio.

Peace out.

I moved in to an apartment where two people were already staying. A guy who calls the apartment Sparta (ironically, one of my girlfriends called my cock ‘Spartan’ which makes my boxers ‘Sparta’ too) and a French national.

Yes, the French national, is a girl. And a really sexy one at that. (Feel jealous. NOW.)

I won’t go too much into describing what the French Flatmate looks like (smoking hot!) or the size of her boobies (massive!) or her ass (tight!). Because all that and more is there on this podcast.

My first podcast.Alternatively, you can download the audio file here, download it on to your iPod or Mobile Phone and listen to it in the loo. Trust me, it is so funny that you will shit.

After listening to it you will understand how two guys, a French girl and many bottles of rum can co-exist in a sexually charged up apartment.

So that’s it for now.

Now listen to that shit. And comment.

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