Bye. Bye.

Okay. If not evident already, I am tired, exhausted and bored of myself. Hence. No more self indulgence. So no more posting till I have something that doesnt include whining. Okthxbai.

Till further notice.

Spektor's "Edit" at 5 in the morning is about as insanely trippy as Lounge Piranha doing their Uni-Queue "Another Brick in the Wall/ Dum Maro Dum". I'm not even going to judge which is better. Except considering I'm heterosexual and all, I'm going with Lounge. But only just.

Since visits to new places requires creation of an opinion about them.

So Bombay.

The thing is. I've always known I would love it. And in more than one way, I knew it even before I actually got to know it. Unlike Pink, I did not really do a Bambai parikrama. And whatever I did, is quite a blur. That city is a blur. Correction. That island is a blur. A very pretty one at that. The part I remember quite clearly is getting on a local train. And discovering that women aren't nice, accommodating or pleasant when it comes to public transport. Especially the elderly. Their vocabulary is also quite rich--laden with the choicest expletives. I now know that a bullet is all one needs to become firang/tourist haven. I've found an Oly too. It looks exactly the same. A dingy alleyway leading up a tunnel-like flight of stairs, the carpet withering away with age and relentless tolerating of the degenerate. And cheap alcohol, of course. I didn't bother to find out whether there was beef steak on the menu although. Also, Marine Drive is not the place to exhibit your vocal talents or lack thereof. I've learnt that the most profound conversations can take place over sucky coffee in places with horribly misspelt items on the menu.
Quite surreal then it was, to discover that Porcupine Tree concerts are meant to stop human communication for quite a while afterward and can be felt completely without any substance in your system.
That bargaining with Pink is the shit. All we do is walk away.

There's also the fact that Juhu beach at 2 30 is the coldest thing in Bombay in December.

Added to my list now is the following wisdom "it just takes a set of car keys to start a relationship".

And apparently it just takes 3 days to want to fall in love. With a blur. This blur they call an island. This island they call a blur.

If you were walking back to the VIT Girls' Hostel at around six thirty today (or were dropping your better halves/to-be better halves/could-be better halves) you would have noticed as what can only be referred to as bizarre. You would have seen four girls screaming their head off at the trees and plant that line the entire stretch of the pathway back to the hostel. If you paid attention, you could have heard them scream, "You, Intervenal Chlorosis, You", or "Necrotic, you" or the friendlier "Die, Motherfucker, Die". You may have dismissed this as another case of Vellorititis or you may have possibly wondered why.

The answer is this. All these girls were suffering from a nearly terminal illness. And today at five they had found their cure for this cancer.

In other cultures this cure is also known as "The Aftermath of the Plant Physiology Examination".

Lessons learnt about "The Changing New Face of the Indian Woman" from Savita Bhabhi

1. She is always ready for experimentation. Always open to new experiences and challenges--- Old/New, Male/Female and even Global Recession(refer Volume 8)

2. She does not discriminate. Every man or woman is equal irrespective of cast, creed, social standing, occupation and age.

3. The Rolling Stones song "Satisfaction" was originally written for Savita Bhabhi. She just cant get no. Doesn't mean she stops trying.

4. Servicing the community is literally all she lives for. That is what provides her with a purpose--an identity.

5. Oh, and Whatever Happens, its never her fault. Yes, Yes, her conscience always intervenes, but not for long! A hard-on is all it takes to switch it off.

And the Indian Government bans this. Tsk tsk. Whatta violation of women's rights, I say.

I discovered/re-discovered The Kinks tonight.

If I was ever a musician, I just know this would be exactly the kind of music I'd make. Not the kind of music I wish I had made, because THAT list is practically inexhaustible for anyone with a Facebook profile.
It is the kind of music I would make. If I was a musician, that is. Somewhere in a parallel universe they would call me The British Invasion. I'd wear leather capes and boots on stage and try not looking like an ad for a BDSM website. And I'd make happy-crazy-audacious and always, always oddly satisfying music.

And then I'd put on my slippers, and sit by the fire. Cause I'd know I've reached my top and I couldnt get any higher. I'd be in my place and I'd know where I was. In my Shangri-La.

“This,” he says. “This is why The Beatles got it.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following…”

“Other bands, it’s about sex. Or pain. Or some fantasy. But The Beatles, they knew what they were doing. You know the reason The Beatles made it so big?”
“What?”
“‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most fucking brilliant song ever written. Because they nailed it. That’s what everyone wants. Not 24-7 hot wet sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche or a blow job or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling that they can’t hide. Every single successful love song of the past fifty years can be traced back to ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding. Trust me. I’ve thought a lot about this.”
“‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand,’” I repeat.
“And so you are, my friend. So you are.”