This weekend I took a ‘chill pill’. This mostly comprised savouring life’s simple complexities – reading a book, listening to the pitter patter of the raindrops, making pancakes, watching TV, sipping wine, de-cluttering and indulging in ’me’ time.
Singing was cancelled, because it was a dry day (courtesy festival celebrations). I watched The Firm, for the 100th time. It’s a good film, way sharper than the book.
I was bulldozed into watching a hideous, gimmicky thriller called Unwanted, the other day. I don’t recommend it to anyone, except to those who love action for action’s sake. Anjolina Jolie looks hot, but who cares? The premise is flimsy, Morgan Freeman gets repetitive, many of the scenes are grotesque (animal carcass flies all over the place), et al. And the ticket cost Rs 260!
We also watched Righteous Kill, another gimmicky thriller with Al Pacino and Robert De Niro. It was very ordinary, the only benefits being a few laughs to be savoured in the moment. As Simon says, it was a forgettable performance. Another Rs 200 down the drain.
Post the film, we went to Tigg’s, a pub, which plays pounding music aka a nightclub. You cannot hear yourself think. And you can’t even dance, because there’s no dance floor, and everyone just guzzles a lot of beer.
Today, I watched Corporate (VCD), a tacky depiction of the corporate world. Most of the acting is fairly unbelievable and the treatment is very in-your-face. Kay Kay was delight and Raj Babbar was good, though.
Now, I am off to whip up pancakes.
So, there’s this chap I know, a good-looking, yuppie type, with smoking biceps but not too much depth, who can be chatty and does possess a sense of humour, and who got even better looking post a snazzy new haircut from one of the crew, of a top-notch hairstylist in the country.
It’s the kind of cut that alters your look, exponentially, accentuates your best features and makes your worst flaws, diminish. It has jaw-dropping, stop-dead-in-your tracks-to-drool potential.
I walked up to this yuppie specimen and popped a very relevant question (for my own academic interest),” So, have more people hit on you post your haircut?” I managed to catch the attention of everyone in his cubicle, instantly.
”No…except for you,” he declared, flashing his pearly whites. I was in a tearing hurry, so continued on my way to the restroom. “Where are you running off to?” he called out.
“To powder my nose,” I yelled back.
Hmmm. Not bad for a pick-up line.
A good friend who’s been seriously plastered, quite a few times in her life (sometimes in an undignified manner), has never walked into a wine shop and bought her own poison. So, one fine day when she wanted to gift a guy friend, a bottle of Absolut, her reaction was akin to that shy guy who just can’t muster the courage to look the pharmacy salesperson in the eye and ask for a condom.
Her “ex ex” boyfriend collects vodka and so, she requested him for a bottle, which she would, of course, pay for. But boys will be boys (read get jealous) and his first question was: who is it for? When he was told that it was for this particular guy friend, this was his very emphatic response: No!
She asked me for help. “Er…shall we walk into a wine shop and get it?” I suggested. “Have you done it, before?” she asked with rapt amazement. I responded in the affirmative.
The first store we entered, was owned by a Parsi gentleman. A cop was standing next to me and observed us curiously as I asked the owner with supreme confidence (oblivious to the opinions and mindsets of any mere cop) for some Absolut. It turns out he did not have any flavours, and directed us to another wine shop.
We bid goodbye and as we slipped into a cab, she spoke about the cop’s presence unnerving her. Why I asked? Who cares what he thinks. She agreed. So, we went to wine shop no 2. They were well-stocked and my friend was suddenly like a kid in a candystore. A fancy-looking pink bottle , displayed very prominently, caught my eye. It contained vodka and went by the brand name Pinky! It has the following tagline: The World’s Most Beautiful Vodka.
My friend finally settled for the Mandarin flavour and had it placed in a dressy white paper bag with golden polka dots. I joked about taking a picture and tagging it on Facebook to commemorate her virgin alcohol shopping expedition. Now, she was ready to party.
Last Sunday, we had a young politico in our midst, a guy who has been celebrated a wee bit too prematurely, I fear. A little birdie mentioned that this young gun hangs frequents the place, a lot, mostly because most quests are affluent, rich or snooty (sometimes all three), to really hobnob, ask for autographs, et al.
He wore a pair of jeans, T-shirt with collar and casual shoes, and though he does posses quintessential good looks as deemed by Indian standards (fair, not fat), he does not have a presence or a charisma that hits you, as did his father, as did John F Kennedy, as we does Senator Mcallister of Brothers & Sisters.
A staff member candidly told me that presence of any high-profile politico is a double-edged sword. On one hand it’s a good thing. On the other what if there’s dynamite inside that pretty bouquet pf orchids, which are coming the politico’s way?
He made no effort to mingle and he did not wax eloquent. He entered, ate, responded politely to those who spoke to him and then left. On the other hand, the security personnel, who we discovered is a colonel, was impressive with his poised countenance and swift movements, ensuring that the political party proceeded without a hitch.
Post his exit, one of the quests, this chap who sports a diamond in his ear and speaks pristine English, broke into a gig, with one of the girls in the gang. There was lots of jiving, and suddenly they were joined by another member of their party, this quaint-looking fellow who sports a white suit and brown leather boots and his quite a funky vision, as he scrunching his facial features, whilst doing a vigourous jitterbug-eqse dance. He’s agile and swoops all over the place, which leads one to believe that he must be the kinky type, in the sack.
The ABBA song, which seems made to lift sagging spirits, is Dancing Queen. Men or women, straight or queer, pre-pubescent or crochety, all dig the dancing queen.
Dell India managed to redeem themselves in my eyes, to some extent.
My last post relived the events of my tumultuous shopping experience in April.
Of course, they only took action once I e-mailed the India head. I received a response within two minutes and then over the next two weeks we came to an ‘agreement’.
I now have a two-year complete care warranty. My pal Altaf suggested this strategy. Thank Ollie!
My new favourite drama series is Big Love, which revolves around one hubby (Bill Paxton), one legal wife Barb (Jeanne Tripplehorn), two ‘sister’ wives, three legitimate children, four illegitimate ones (two from each sister wife), all living together in a modern day America, in three houses located next to each other that share a backyard. Phew!
Their polygamous lifestyle does not afford them the luxury of socialising with the neighbours, and they must treading carefully with colleagues and other people, for fear of being exposed. The acting and character sketches, are smooth and well-etched, respectively.
I love Ginnifer Goodwin’s (Mona Lisa Smile) portrayal of a 23-year old sister wife, who really wants to ‘belong’ somewhere, and her new way of life is the obvious choice. But at the same time, she is rebellious, yet impressionable. I like Sarah, Barb’s teenage daughter who lives the life, yet despises the polygamous tradition.
I like Chloe Sevigny’s (Hillary Swank’s girlfriend in Boys Don’t Cry) portrayal of a prudish, sourpuss sister wife, who seems to consider it her duty to don the role of moral compass. She annoyingly loyal and often, mechanical in her thoughts and deeds. She is easily detestable, which goes to prove that her performance is rather effective.
And watch out for Bill’s willful mom, with her pinched face, Southern accent and weird sense of humour.
The glue that binds the family together is Barb, the independent, empathetic first wife, who stays with the tradition because she loves her hubby. But if given a chance, she would opt to break away from it in a heartbeat, though post settling the rest of her mammoth-sized family (genetically related and otherwise). Personally, I don’t find Bill Paxton too hot, but he cuts a hardworking, sincere, generous and affectionate figure, and I can understand why many women will fall of that ‘type’.
The show seems to deliver an unbiased view of this lifestyle; charmingly depicting the good, the bad and the ugly. Despite the fact that I disagree with this style of living, with it’s restrictions, bizarre boundaries and expectation of women (some of whom sport gowns and petticoats and French braids, in this day and age), the characters, situations and the dialogues are so endearing, as well as addictive. Personally, I also don’t like the fact that they live a life shrouded in secrecy and they do not fight against the system, to live a lifestyle they believe in. If you cannot live your life on your terms and openly, why bring a child into this world, expecting them to lie and live two lives?
BL has not managed to usurp my interest and involvement with the quirky, mule-headed Walkers of Brothers & Sisters, which I think is more creative, comforting and brutally comic in both concept and execution.
However, Big Love does feed my voyeuristic sensibilities. So, they each have a special place on my couch.
The show airs on HBO at 11 pm every Monday night, post the 9 pm movie.
There were less frills and twirls than expected and more emphasis on the music, at the most-recent The Stop-Gaps concert, we attended this weekend.
Everyone seemed to want to reach the concert late. Apparently, the first half was a piano recital. I was half thinking the pianist would be terrible. Truth is Marialuisa Pappalardo, delivered a superior and dexterous performance, the only lows being that the piano seemed slightly out of tune, thus making the lower notes sound muffled and somewhat, accompanied by a drone.
Post the interval, TS walked onto the stage, the ladies demurely dressed in saris with shimmering borders and the chaps in jackets and high-waisted trousers (could have been a few notches lower).
Such demureness did not suit the very breezy, cool theme of This, That & The Other (which has a nice ring to it).
Besides, most ‘mac types’
cannot carry off a sari to save their life! This goes for many us
Sari-wearer mac types in the Paranjothi Academy Chorus, too.
Amongst the performances by TS, I preferred a capella pieces, because something seemed amiss with the accompaniment on the piano and the pipe organ (a majestic looking specimen lying bang in the middle of the stage, apparently, a gift by Max Mueller Bhavan to the NCPA).
The bass line was strong and pleasant and I really wished we could have heard more of them. My friend J is a bass, and I thought I heard his voice (which is often considered a bad thing in choral music).
There was a 12-year old soloist who sang like an angel. However, as a friend of mine observed, it’s not a good idea for a child to be singing a piece, which is meant to be sung by adults.
And the moment everyone was waiting for: a wee bit of twirling finally happened in the last two songs. One was a gospel piece and the other, a cute love song made even more endearing by Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald (Let’s call the whole thing off).
Post, we all headed to (after some name-calling) to this restaurant called Ankur (scroll down to read Chandra’s review, don’t be lazy, now). Even though it’s located in the most dirty, dubious looking back alleys of Fountain, we got some quality South Indian stuff, neer dosas, spicy, coconut flavours and the like. We stuffed ourselves, dosa after dosa and then headed to Haji Ali,to drown in desserts bowls of rich cream with mixed fruit, sitaphal, and the like. The next morning, I felt terribly fat and vowed to give up food, forever.
On this particular concert
+ dinner occasion, I wore a very fetching, green skirt made of raw
silk, sporting the face of a cow that had been creatively embroidered
onto it by rehabilitated prostitutes. It cost me Rs 100, a good
value-for-money buy, which also makes a statement. The only time I feel
queasy wearing it, is when I spot overzealous cow-worshipers. Luckily,
many people (like my good friend Yael) can’t make out the design. A
skirt is a skirt is a skirt (that sort of thing).
I had a sweet little encounter in the cafe, today. I said hello to an acquaintance, this chap I know from work and noticed that he was staring rather intently at me.
After a few seconds he said,” You look very good.” I wasn’t too sure I heard right, so I stooped a wee but closer and he said, “You have a glow on your face.”
Post his candid declaration, he seemed little embarrassed. I began explaining to him that it must be my new fitness regime (brisk morning walk of 35 minutes, three times a week), when he scuttled off, feigning a phone call.
Smile. THIS IS WORKING.
On a different note, I was asking a friend if she had met any interesting men, of late. “No,” she said. “Women?” I asked, raising a quizzical brow. “I wish I was attracted to women. They are so much easier to deal with,” she proclaimed.
So, I recommended the principle, “Bi now, gay later.” She cracked up just as I did when Kevin, that hot, brutally funny, drool-worthy gay lawyer on Brothers & Sisters said it.
Apparently Spanish is the new French (when it comes to picking up a new language).
There are some hot statistics on the Internet to prove it: Spanish is the second world language as a vehicle of international communication and the third as an international language of politics, economics and culture. And it’s the first language in 21 countries, also the hot language for business.
Besides, I could whisper sweet nothings in Spanish in Portugal and Brazil, too, not to mention a number of South American countries, the south of France, the Philippines, et al.
So, in my quest to find a good instructor (the type who won’t speak it with an Maharashtrian accent!), I got a slew of numbers from Just Dial. I called some of them to make an inquiry. I had the unpleasant experience of talking to this woman from who was intrusive, rude and presumptuous. She interrupted me before I could finish my sentences. The last straw was when she asked me ‘are you fishing for a good price?’! I was ticked off and told very irritatedly that she was very rude, and then disconnected. Imagine being subjected to her babble three times a week?
Finally, I chatted with this guy who manages his own translation company, and he recommended the Instituto Hispanica. He mentioned that that some people who have lived for many years in Spain (and this goes for other destinations, too) have jumped onto the language teaching bandwagon. But merely knowing a colloquial version of a language doesn’t qualify you to teach it (there will be exceptions, of course).
I have a feeling that half the people I spoke to this morning are a bunch of quacks. Shivers!
