Monday, 24 November 2008

I've got F***ing ripped apart

They say 'Ask and you shall receive' and so I asked them to review my blog and tear me apart and boy they did just that!

Shawn, Jesus Christ.

Your blog, Empty Sea, is atrocious. Typically, when one delivers bad news such as this, the messenger feels the need to spare the recipient’s feelings, adding a jaunty 'sorry', perhaps, or some vague allusion to 'fighting the good fight', like 'you’ll get ‘em next time' or 'keep that eye of the tiger, champ'. I am not saying that here, Shawn. I am saying, flat-out, with no reservations or regrets, that your blog is awful.

White text on a standard black blogger-template? Half-written in a tongue I can’t understand? Look, imagine me, ol’ Nutjobber, your friendly neighbourhood lily-white suburban Canadian boy, reading this scintillating exchange between you and 'Vicky':

Vicky: 'Theek hai. Lekin kal sab kuch karte hai ha.'
Shawn: 'Ya dude 100%'

I guess I missed the punchline? I fucking hate missing the punchline, Shawn, but do you honestly think I’m going to go try and translate this for my own edification? No, no I’m not. In fact, for the same reason I haven’t yet submitted my own blog to that Japanese blog-review site I Will Be Your Co-Pilot, Have Plans For Sparkling Summer* is the same reason I don’t understand why you would submit this painful, grammarless, forethought-free blog to us. Is it because you tried to warn your readers beforehand?

I am really not good at writing and my thoughts are quite incoherent and never logically arranged (and ya i do make a lot of typos too) so please bear with me.But till then, happy reading!

Until when, Shawn? 'Happy reading' until that monstrous landslide of typos drags me into an abyss of teeth-chattering madness? 'Happy reading' until the abysmal combination of emoticons and improper comma-usage forces me to hang myself with an electrical-cord?

If I invited you over to my house for dinner, Shawn, and as you sat in my kitchen twitching your fingers nervously in response to the black plume of smoke hanging over the stove and the grotesque smear of peanut-butter and fish-entrails congealing on the windows, I proceeded to regale you with stories of how rare I like my chicken cooked, of how I consider the recent anti-bacterial hysteria a product of liberal-government brainwashing, of how my proper hand-washing technique involves frequent bathroom-breaks, well, how would I, as a rational, understanding human being, end this horrifying conversation?

I would say, 'run for your life, I’m a food-murderer'; you would say, 'happy eating'.

Shawn, from his 'About Me' [sic]: Don't stereotype me! I wont fit into any of those boxes of your's!

Nutjobber: I disagree.

Wednesday, 19 November 2008

Deja Vu

My attempt at short story writing. Hope you like it.

Lovely golden hair, striking features and an even better figure, she had everything a man could ask for, thought Steve as he greedily eyed the woman standing in the reception. Her stilettos made up for her lack of height, perhaps the only thing bereft in an otherwise perfectly curved body. But what was a blond doing in a hotel predominantly occupied by us blacks? Probably she wasn’t aware of this fact and it was just a matter of time before she checked out, he thought. Steve’s job brought him to all sorts of places and today he had a rather important consignment to deliver. A small mistake and the police would be on his heels. He brushed away all thoughts of the woman and proceeded surreptitiously to meet his client.

A few minutes later, Steve returned, a hefty roll of bills replacing the packet of cocaine, stashed in the lining of his shirt. As he waited for the elevator, he saw her again, lost in thought, walking towards him. The elevator took an eternity to reach the fifth floor. Steve entered, pushed the button to hold the doors open and waited for her. She stepped inside and looking at him, her eyes widened in fear. Immediately, she walked out, hastily and abruptly. Doesn’t want to step in with a black man eh? I will teach her a lesson, thought Steve. He followed her as she made her way towards her room and just before she could shut the door, he shoved and entered the room.

Smack! He felt an iron rod crash into his skull and then all he could see was darkness. When Steve awoke, he found himself fastened to a chair, his shirt ripped off and his money missing. She was right there, sitting on the bed, applying to her slender fingers, the final touches of nail paint. And then suddenly everything made sense. Sitting a few feet from him was Marissa. A few days before, she had made the front page of the morning papers. A serial killer on the loose, drug dealers were her prime target. How foolishly he had tossed the paper away and remarked to his buddy that a 5’3” girl was no match for a monster like him. Now he very well knew what was to follow. His body would be chopped into a million pieces and thrown down the hotel chute. After two days, all that would remain of him would be ashes.

Marissa carefully locked the door and headed towards the elevator with her newly landed booty. Just as she entered, her eyes veered toward the shirt of the man standing inside. Suddenly, she remembered that Steve’s shirt was still lying in her room. Her eyes widened in fear and she immediately stepped out, abruptly and hastily.

Tuesday, 18 November 2008

Her knight in shining armour

Girls, all around the world, have their "ideal match" belonging to one of these four categories. And if you don't, then you are either one of those rare ones or you are simply not honest enough!

Type 1: Mr. Goody Two Shoes

He is this selfless guy, who is supposedly the most caring person in the entire world. The one who would go out of his way to help others. Understanding, genuine, likable and everything else. Someone who would put others in front of himself and all that jazz.

Type 2: The alpha male, Mr. Adonis

He wears a leather jacket, has a pony tail, rides those really huge bikes, has Popeye like forearms with hair curling on them and pumps iron religiously. Did you notice the stubble and his newly acquired accent? Spike bands, wrist bands, studs he wears them all!

Type 3: Mr. Call Center

Girls describe him as "the guy I can spend three entire days with chatting and still not get bored!" Apparently, this guy is someone you can go on talking to and yet not run out of topics. You can tell him everything and he still won't judge you. You can speak to him without the fear of feeling foolish, ashamed or embarrassed.

On a more personal note, I don't such a guy exists! Show me Mr. Call Center and I will show you a unicorn. Promise!

Type 4: Mr. Money Bag

As an honest girl would put it, "I like my guys rich! The richer, the better." And I genuinely feel most of you lasses would like him rich, very rich, but are just not frank enough to admit the fact.
And if I were a girl (which I wish I was! As to why? That is for some other time), my knight's shining armour would certainly be made of gold and platinum with jewels encrusted in it ;)

Saturday, 15 November 2008

Drat that CAT

I am so thrilled that CAT is finally here and is getting over tomorrow. Not that I have been preparing for this exam a great deal or anything and want to get it off my back. But the hype surrounding CAT is absolutely ridiculous and over the top. Since the last two months, whenever I visit rediff it offers me 'tips' and 'tricks' to crack CAT. Initially it was a two month strategy, then a month long one and today the link today said 'Haven't yet prepared for CAT. Don't worry. Here is our 24 hour plan' !!!!!! And the newspapers aren't far behind. One paper goes so far as saying that if the present rate of growth in CAT aspirants sustains, then by 2087 the entire India will be giving CAT and by 2110 something, the entire world! But I am happy. By Monday CAT will be history and the print and electronic media will return to more serious issues like the cold war between Hansika Motwani and Celina Jaitley.

P.S. : Just happened to watch a song of the much publicized Ghajni. It is so refreshing to see a song with a semi clad actor and a fully dressed actress (oops, female actor). Role reversal, I must say!

Sunday, 9 November 2008

Oh captain, my captain!

"I don't think he saw the ball properly. He seemed to have tears in his eyes"

This is what Eric Collies had to say after castling the Don for a duck in his final innings. I am not sure as to whether Dada had tears in his eyes when he went out to bat for the final time in international cricket, but I am sure that the eyes of his plentiful fans certainly were moist. Before I start showering the plaudits on Ganguly, I want to put a few things straight. Let me make it abundantly clear that I’m not a Dada fan. Never was, never will be. I find him clumsy, arrogant and to an extent stubborn headed. I am a Sehwag fan and a Dhoni fan. I don't think Ganguly is the best batsman India has produced, Dravid or Sachin is. The most talented? No, Yuvraj is. The best captain? I would have said yes two days backs, but now I am not quite sure.

But time and again during his 13 year international career, he has made me stand up and take note of him and now if I had to list cricketers whom I respect the most, Dada would top that list. No second thoughts about that! Whether it was fighting fire with fire, when it came to the Australians or if it was stepping down the order in the best interest of the team, so that record craving midgets were not dissatisfied, he won my respect. I can only imagine the ignominy he had to go through when asked to play Ranji cricket under Deep Das Gupta. But yet again, he showed tremendous mental fortitude and staged a fairy tale comeback. His grit and mental strength is according to me his biggest asset. And as write this article I happen to have a lump down my throat and that I think is biggest tribute I can pay to our Dada!