Perfunctory Hug...

You know I try to maintain an active social life and try to take out as much as time as I can out of my schedule to keep up with my friends... now one gets introduced to new people every now and then.. and this is a time of extreme dilemma for me. I never do know when to shake hands or to hug a person or go in for that extremely irritating kiss that's given on the cheek wherein somehow the lips end up smacking only the air...

You see, I am a person who would rather shake hands with someone whom I just got introduced to, the hugs are left for people whom I like and am close to. And that hug, like in the case of a beer having full body lather, is a big hug that has the grip of a boa constrictor, albeit with a lot of love and no intent of killing and / or swallowing the prey. So here's the trouble, when an acquaintance happens to come across and makes a faint attempt at hugging, my instincts kick in and the vice - like grip kicks in... and most of the times I can actually feel the victim of my affection shirk away (read mostly women!!) which makes me end up feeling like a pervert who was just caught cupping a feel. In my defense, I like to give a hearty hug, if I ever do give one.

This is not all that there is to it, just what in the name of God do you call that feeble attempt when you press cheeks with a perfect stranger, at these so called social dos and peck the air?? Why would anyone do that, if the person means so much so, I would rather kiss the cheeks and if not then just a "Hey.. wassup?" or a handshake or a just a wave of my hand with a "Howdy.." would do. But apparently not.. the complexities of interacting with fellow human beings just tends to make me feeling uneasy quite a few times...

Santa with a new perspective..

Sometimes I wonder if Santa is related to Santa (Bunta’s friend). But what if he is related…the old man in white would anyways visit only once a year.

I somehow like Santa’s idea of visiting all only once a year – keeps them yearning for more. The good thing is, Santa leaves before the presents are opened.

What I don’t understand is his entry through the chimney. Why not the front gate? What about all those houses that don’t have a chimney? Perhaps this is why, as a child I never got presents from the Santa…we used to live in an apartment in the 3rd floor.

Did you know that Santa gifts us so much…but in his life has only had two pair of clothes? His first one was a brown overall…and now it is red. No connection with Coke, though there are some business stories that Coke was instrumental in give Santa the new red-and-white outfit.

New clothes or old…he is quite happy and gay. Perhaps that is why he has special interest in South Africa – the country where same-sex marriages were legalized ten years back. No, just kidding!

Maybe, he is a straight guy who has the addresses of all the bad girls in town …in his address book. With no wife to censure him…he would be having a roll. I have a feeling he keeps thinking of these bad girls….'coz whenever I see him anywhere he goes: Ho! Ho! Ho!

A cousin of mine got a pet as a gift from Santa. Unfortunately…the Santa left it in one of my cousin’s dirty socks…and the pet died before it could be discovered. Now, my 10-year old cousin wants a pet lizard…just like the one Santa brought.

Santa didn’t come to my house. Wonder if I had been a bad boy the whole of last year….or there was some problem back home for Santa. But then…why would a bunch of elfs create problem…when they have to work only one day in a year? Elfs with low (s)elf-esteem!

Caffeine Addiction..

It owns you like smack owns a junkie. You want it. You need it. You suffer thru all the symptoms of withdrawal without it. It's invigorating and eye-opening effect has you hooked. "It's not the coffee, it's the caffeine fool." Well, a Pepsi might be refreshing, but it doesn't cast the same spell as our percolated friend. Plus, it has a multi-functionality as it provides an energy boost, antioxidants (coffee represents one of the largest sources of antioxidants), and, most importantly, an all-business type of regularity to your day.


It is its' routine-forming side effect that gives it a direct correlation between giving a completeness thru subtraction and a satisfying conclusion of what can be a daily process. Truly making it the driver of the mother ship called Necessary Process.

Medium with cream, no sugar please..

Office Bitch..

I have come to a conclusion, coming to the office in a stupendously good mood is the sign of an ill omen, a sign of impending doom if one can put it that way.

Like take today for example, I came to the office in a kick ass mood, the weather was really good but unfortunately everything else turned out to be quite the other way. My normally understanding boss, called me 20 mins after i hit my desk and blasted at me.. i believe the poor guy was stuck in traffic and had to go to a meeting so for the day i was to be his scape goat. Then as the day trudged on, we has about 3 arguments, a sure shot sign of a day not headed the way i thought it would. Work just kept on piling up more and more so, till it became a whirlpool that tried to suck me to the dark side. The comp has been crashing for the past 2 hrs now, and i have a annoyingly small file that otherwise would be completed in 15 mins, but no, since its a conspiracy of cosmic proportions, i have a jack ass of an Art Director (yeah rite!) who just cant seem to get it right! And you know just how bad this day (more like evening now) is... the coffee machine is out of coffee.. well now its 9.45 in the evening, I have been at work for more than 12 hrs, slaving in front of the screen and typing away non stop (no, you boobs, not on my blog, but reports and briefs) and as luck would have it, i still have no idea when i will be done... plus now i am feeling hungry as well......

The Bucketlist...

Before one starts jumping to conclusions, no i am not a 60 year old - just diagnosed with a fatal disease - frustrated - counting his days man... I am talking about the wish list that I am sure each and everyone of has or had at one point of life, but its been shelved in a far recess of the mind, gradually collecting dust till its nothing but fanciful thinking of a wistful mind.

Well I do have a bucket list as well, and I have taken a firm standing on ticking off the check boxes as soon an opportunity presents itself.

So as luck would have it, work's been going good, slowly am settling into a regime of my own and finding out bits of time post work (even if post work means 11 pm!). Hence, my latest endeavor... just brought myself a sweet 6 String Archtop Guitar with an inbuilt pick up (am i showing off already, my limited knowledge??). So now the mission at hand is looking for a good guitar tutor to help me start off and downloading as much info I can off the net to give a boost to the ugly sounds that my unfortunate parents are going to be subject to for the next few months...

Typos..

Chat is my primary means of communication with friends, colleagues, family and annoying cousins, and its something i firmly defend by way of excuses like "Market research, finding out effectiveness of electronic media in communication..". What can i say, I seem to have taken the art of making excuses to a new level..

There are downsides to chatting all day, apart from Carpal-Tunnel Syndrome (for my un-enlightened friends, its when your wrist pains like a bitch cause you have spent too much time chatting with me). I tend to make typos. Some typos are innocuous. But some promote profound misunderstanding of my character, along with drawing a few laughs. I was fortunate enough to save some of the biggest typos I did (so that I can use them on a lazy monday, when i realize that I havent posted a blog for quite some time).

I would like to vindicate myself of some of the unflattering impressions I may have created.

• I may have rooted for a specific body part of yours (go tit), but I just meant to say I got it.

• I may have accidentally made sexist comments about random women, (I like her butt), but it was a simple case of an extra “t”. I meant to say “I like her, but….”

• I may have insulted popular people (He is retarded as an authority), I just have regard for them

• I may have sounded like I was bagging quickies in the middle of the afternoon at work, (back in a sex) but I was just taking a break for a “sec” (without sex, of course)

• I may have spread vile office rumors about my superiors (he has 20 people blow him). I meant to say that guy has 20 people below him.

• Just because the PCI port seems to take anything in it, I might have sounded like I was insulting it (stick it in the PCI slut), but I just meant slot

• I may have asked you to do nasty things to your monitor (Did you tryc licking on the icon). I hope you didn’t try that. Just click on the icon.

• I may have sounded like I was asking for sexual favors (Can you do me). I was not. At least, not in this instance. It was just an eager-enter syndrome. I pressed enter before typing “a favor”

Mallu!!

This isn't an original post, but a forward that i received on my mail, yet another one of those long winding tales i thought judging by the length of the matter, however reading through it I just couldn't help but maintain a silly grin throughout. It might not make sense to a lot of people, but to the few who are acquainted with the land down south (and I don't mean Australia over here!!), they will relate to all of it, and for my mallu friends.... guys I really feel for you!!

“The Travails of Single South Indian men of conservative upbringing” or

“Why we don’t get any…”

Yet another action packed weekend in Mumbai, full of fun, frolic and introspection. I have learnt many things. For example having money when none of your friends have any is as good as not having any. And after spending much time in movie theatres, cafes and restaurants I have gathered many insights into the endless monotony that is the love life of south Indian men. What I have unearthed is most disheartening. Disheartening because comprehension of these truths will not change our status anytime soon. However there is also cause for joy. We never stood a chance anyway. What loads the dice against virile, gallant, well educated, good looking, sincere mallus and tams? (Kandus were once among us, but Bangalore has changed all that.)

Our futures are shot to hell as soon as our parents bestow upon us names that are anything but alluring. I cannot imagine a more foolproof way of making sure the child remains single till classified advertisements or that maternal uncle in San Francisco thinks otherwise. Name him “Parthasarathy Venkatachalapthy” and his inherent capability to combat celibacy is obliterated before he could even talk. He will grow to be known as Partha. Before he knows, his smart, seductively named northy classmates start calling him Paratha. No woman in their right minds will go anyway near poor Parthasarathy. His investment banking job doesn’t help either. His employer loves him though. He has no personal life you see. By this time the Sanjay Singhs and Bobby Khans from his class have small businesses of their own and spend 60% of their lives in discos and pubs. The remaining 40% is spent coochicooing with leather and denim clad muses in their penthouse flats on Nepean Sea Road. Business is safely in the hands of the Mallu manager. After all with a name like Blossom Babykutty he cant use his 30000 salary anywhere. Blossom gave up on society when in school they automatically enrolled him for Cookery Classes. Along with all the girls.

Yes my dear reader, nomenclature is the first nail in a coffin of neglect and hormonal pandemonium. In a kinder world they would just name the poor southern male child and throw him off the balcony. “Yes appa we have named him Goundamani…” THUD. Life would have been less kinder to him anyway.

If all the women the Upadhyays, Kumars, Pintos and, god forbid, the Sens and Roys in the world have met were distributed amongst the Arunkumars, Vadukuts and Chandramogans we would all be merry casanovas with 3 to 4 pretty things at each arm. But alas it is not to be. Of course the south Indian women have no such issues. They have names which are like sweet poetry to the ravenous northie hormone tanks. Picture this: “Welcome, and this is my family. This is my daughter Poorni (what a sweet name!!) and my son Ponnalagusamy (er.. hello..)..” Cyanide would not be fast enough for poor Samy. Nothing Samy does will help him. He can pump iron, drive fast cars and wear snazzy clothes, but against a braindead dude called Arjun Singhania he has as much chance of getting any as a Benedictine Monk in a Saharan Seminary.

Couple this with the other failures that have plagued our existence. Any attempt at spiking hair with gel fails miserably. In an hour I have a crown of greasy, smelly fibrous mush. My night ends there. However the northy just has to scream “Wakaw!!!” and you have to peel the women off him to let him breathe. In a disco while we can manage the medium hip shake with neck curls, once the Bhangra starts pumping we are as fluid as cement and gravel in a mixer. Karan Kapoor or Jatin Thapar in the low cut jeans with chaddi strap showing and see through shirt throws his elbows perfectly, the cynosure of all attention. The women love a man who digs pasta and fondue. But why do they not see the simple pleasures of curd rice and coconut chutney? When poor Senthilnathan opens his tiffin box in the office lunch room his female coworkers just dissappear when they see the tamarind rice and poppadums. The have all rematerialised around Bobby Singh who has ordered in Pizza and Garlic bread. (And they have the gall to talk of foreign origin.)

How can a man like me brought up in roomy lungis and oversized polyester shirts ever walk the walk in painted on jeans (that makes a big impression) and neon yellow rib hugging t shirts? All I can do is don my worn “comfort fit” jeans and floral shirt. Which is pretty low on the “Look at me lady” scale, just above fig leaf skirt and feather headgear a la caveman, and a mite below Khakhi Shirt over a red t shirt and baggy khakhi pants and white trainers a la Rajni in “Badsha”.

Sociologically too the tam or mallu man is severely sidelined. An average tam stud stays in a house with, on average, three grandparents, three sets of uncles and aunts, and over 10 children. Not the ideal atmosphere for some intimacy and some full throated “WHOSE YOUR DADDY!!!” at the 3 in the morning. The mallu guy of course is almost always in the gulf working alone on some onshore oil rig in the desert. Rheumatic elbows me thinks.

Alas dear friends we are not just meant to set the nights on fire. We are just not built to be “The Ladies Man”. The black man has hip hop, the white man has rock, the southie guy only has idlis and tomato rasam or an NRI account in South Indian Bank Ernakulam Branch. Alas as our destiny was determined in one fell swoop by our nomenclature, so will our future be. A nice arranged little love story. But the agony of course does not end there. On the first night, as the stud sits on his bed finally within touching distance and whispers his sweet desires into her delectable ear, she blushes, turns around and whispers back “But amma has said only on second saturdays…”

What more can u do…????

Spot out the mallu...hehehehehe!! (sorry bro!)