Monday, 21 December 2009

& Meanwhile the Sheriff

is also John Brown (not the same), as we all know very well.

& yes, I have only heard Clapton sing that one.

I don't care much for either the song, or for the dead Sheriff (killer identified), or the dead deputy (killer not necessarily clearly identified). But we did have some good moments in our long forgotten college-hood listening to Clapton tell us about his badge and momma and the dead Sheriff called John Brown who always hated him.

After I wrote my last post, I was thinking for a long while that the name sounded awfully familiar. Knowing me, it could not have been any real person who achieved anything because, you know, of my disconnect with reality and humanity. It clicked fairly immediately, don't fear, just did not have the time to remind you, my loyal readers, about it.

Next on Davey Moore, for sure.

Friday, 18 December 2009

John Brown

Being musically challenged, I know very little about this song. I only know the one version (how shocking!), which, of course, in consideration of my current trip, is Bob Dylan's from the album MTV Unplugged (I think). But these words, every-single-time I hear it, I get goosebumps.

"Don't you remember, Ma, when I went off to war
You thought it was the best thing I could do?
I was on the battleground, you were home . . . acting proud.
You wasn't there standing in my shoes."

"Oh, and I thought when I was there, God, what am I doing here?
I'm a-tryin' to kill somebody or die tryin'.
But the thing that scared me most was when my enemy came close
And I saw that his face looked just like mine."

Oh! Lord! Just like mine!

Yeah, just like mine. I am not at war. I am no soldier (I could have been, its one of those things I say with regret, now, at 35 and 8 years in the work-force at the other end of the spectrum, safe and cuddly). But still, its so very appropriate for me to think of.

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

Thought you would never hear me say this?

The day dawns, cool and gray and wet. I snooze. Its uncharacteristic, I know. I snooze some more. I snuggle a bit into my sheet. Its uncharacteristic, its true, but then did I not recently visit a jewelry store? How much more uncharacteristic can it get than that? I esk you. Anyhow, my husband wakes up. He signals to me to get up, get off my ass, and just go. Obviously, the very fact that he opened both eyes at that hour of the morning means that in the Kenny Household, something has gone awry. Stars have lined up differently. The moon is circling the sun, which is circling the earth, which is rotating in ulta direction, and has stopped leaning on its axis, and stuff like that.

A few years ago, I was visiting Chennai in this season. My mother in law was all over some lamp lighting details. I racked my brains and figured it was Karthikai. You know, the time we light lamps and diyas and so on all over and the curtains billow and you live in mortal fear of curtains catching fire and you in your new silk paavadai are darting in and out and eating sweets of some nature and staring intently at the curtains and that spectacular brass lamp belonging to my aunt which has subsequently disappeared I don't dare ask mum about it she may foist it on me. The lamps usually go out in half a second on this festival day because its unnaturally windy and rainy. Wait, its naturally windy and rainy. Its winter in the tropics (usually lasts a day), for heavens sake. That day, the lamps were tenacious. They hung on. My mil was impressed, she said, wow you brought luck.

I remember walking around with a big head for a day or two, thinking, boss, I have such control over cosmic phenomena and not to mention weather. All the way from Mumbai to Chennai to put my reins on the weather and make sure the lamps remained lit for a long time into the night.

Its that type of season again. But yesterday, which I started to talk about earlier here, was great fun. I finally swung down my legs and scooted out and started running. Since I have not changed my music for years now, it was the same old stuff. I put it on unshuffle mode, just for variation. I ran. It rained. I continued to run. It was great fun. I was glad I was wearing black dry-fit, because, you know, I got a bit wet from the pouring skies. And, you know, this is Chennai. I enjoyed it immensely, and was on an endorphin high all day.

But the thing is, all this running, its making me even smaller. I don't mean in a "Wowza! You have lost so much weight babe! Good for you! Looking good, girl!" type of way. But in a "Hey! What happened to you? Stuff some socks or something already now" type of situation. If you know what I mean. So that was my excuse for not getting out there and running today. There, the negative aspect of running. Possibly the only one I can think of. You heard it here first, ladies...

Tuesday, 15 December 2009

Its OK; Go Read It

I must say, I have read worse. And at least, this one seems to come from the heart unlike those two terrible ones - the one about the Call Center blah, further made annoying by having a movie made out of the Clan of Salman Khan; and the other one which, in my opinion, trivialises everything including cricket. Of course I am not feeling objective enough to comment on Five Point Someone. I give it points for opening doors and creating a genre.

In short. "2 States"

Normally, I would never admit to reading a book that had that title. It has to be 'Two' not '2' I would insist. I mean, not that I am Queen Elizabeth, perhaps its not even right, but that, would be my preference.

I was surely not going to pay even the <100 bucks for it. At least, that was what I told my friend just a month ago. "Naah. Not even worth that" I believe I said.

But mum bought the book in Mysore. And brought it all the way over. She asked me to read it before she leaves so she can take it back to my aunt, who apparently wants to read it. As a family we are like that. We read anything that dares to cross our paths. My mum has been known to read the newspaper which used to wrap the Chilli Bondas that Kaveramma in I Main Road (right next to the gutter. eww) used to make. Not to mention the old Star of Mysore in which the Churmuri used to show up in. I don't read greasy papers for sure, but I do read any novel that I happen to see.

But yeah, back to Mr.Bhagat, whom I love to hate. I even called him Chetan Sharma once. Which is another person I love to hate. He used to play in those long ago days when I was a big cricket fan. Those crazy days when I used to like Ravi Shastri (Ewww).

As I was saying, there has been enough dope about this book. They say its autobiographical. Probably is. He paints the wife in such fantastically rosy colours that even if it is obviously autobiographical (she ought to be the best judge of that), he needn't worry. He is not going to be in the dog-house, sleeping on the couch, denied of basic human needs, because of his book.

What am I saying? Poor guy, probably nice at heart and so forth.

I read it in a rush. I ignored the obvious mis-spelling of suspicious. I let the very IITian 'in life' appearing at the end of several sentences. I skimmed over a couple of other such minor transgressions. I laughed at the Punjabi caricatures. I nodded at the boring South Indian wedding. I totally realised he was playing to the gallery with the mickey mouse undies thing. I admired their tenacity in hanging on to their dream. In short, not bad at all.

I can now safely move on to Grimus, which I am reading slowly and methodically. And cracking all the anagrams this time around. Endimions indeed!!

Sunday, 13 December 2009

Here and there

Been around.
In the country.
But not in town.
Working hard for a change.
Meeting up with old friends and making some new ones.
But now its back to routine.
Mum is here.
Am *actually* reading Chetan Bhagat.
& Yes, no tantrums.
The head is clear.

Wednesday, 2 December 2009

I been having a temper tantrum

Its one of those days. I set off thinking its all going to be good. i went to bed early. with the intention of waking early and getting my daily kick.

First the rain. It poured down all over my clothes that I had left outside optimistically hoping that it wont rain overnight.

Next the bike ride. Cancelled due to rain. I totally hate to miss my exercise, whatever little of it I get.

Next the car. Wouldn't start.

Then the husband's car. Not his own but a work thing. It seemed obvious that I should use it considering our own car was dead. And the guy just lolls around all day. And the husband being prim and proper that he is, will charge it personal.

But it smelled.

The driver hated me on sight.

He could not be assed to take a child to school, because, clearly, he is destined for greater things, such as driving from meeting to meeting. And fucking drinking tea.

I want to hate the driver so much, I want to get in this face and say, Bitch, take this, and give it to him. I want to. Seriously. The thing is, I could, and he would be in hospital (So what if I am 5 ft tall and weigh in at 52 kilos? have you met desi middle aged men recently, they are total pansy asses, I swear) and his wife would be all mad and I would have a law-suit on my hands, and his children's education to take care of, and so on. So I fret. I fume. I read all morning hoping the feeling goes away.

But come afternoon and time to pick up my monster from school; and guess what, its parent teacher meeting day, and I am just a little bit stressed out because of the Bears project she had to make last week (I think we kicked ass; but what do I know; I teach huge monstrous boys and an occasional girl, they wake up at 5 pm most days, my students). What if she had claimed Stage Fright again. Should I feel proud that she can spell fright or just sad that she has an affliction I never imagined a child of mine would have.

I am wondering this stuff and this bitch-ass driver gives me more lip. Because, guess what, he cannot be assed to pick children up from school less than he can be assed to drop them off at it.

I learnt one thing in grad school, I swear. Its called the swear-word package deal. You NEVER say. Fuck that. You say Fuck that Shit. Get the drift. Like that. More compound the sentence structure, better it is, for your soul. Yeah ladies and gents, take notes, Thats what grad school is for, to help you swear your way out of situations. No shit.

So take that you. I know his name too. So I can cuss him out well and good.

Whatever. I am done with him. And the entire company he represents. I declare, here and now. I am
(a) Buying a new car of my own. I am done with the beast. While suggestions are most welcome, I am definitely thinking of overcoming of my aversion for Hyundai well-honed from my years in the US, to be able to look an I20 in the eye without sniggering.
(b) I am calling a cab company of my very own, just now. In case I have not said this before, I HATE depending on people, and I loathe having to deal with stuff through someone else, even if that someone else IS the love of my life and husband of 12 years.

Toodles Kids/ I am sworn out now/ And able to talk in normal human language and not in Cuss-Word Diads/ This is why I love this blog, its serious catharsis/

Tuesday, 1 December 2009

Two Peas In a Pod

While on the whole matter of men vs. women (Yeah I know, its not a fight or anything, y'all; am just saying. I swear its fucking Chennai that makes me think like this. Like I must keep my eyes down and na-ah no way I can claim equality and waltz into an evil Tasmac to buy me a quarter). So, anyway, where were we before being interrupted by brackets? Yes. Men. Women.

Last night, in one of those rare occurrences, we found ourselves watching TV together. And the child getting herself to sleep upstairs. I feel vaguely guilty watching anything on TV when she is around. She, of course, has no such compulsions and has been known to drive people out of the house entirely by OD-ing on Perman. Anyway, this is not about her, my monster child.

Its about her father. Not as monstrous, you say? Maybe, maybe, maybe.

So last night, the choice was between some Jet Li type stuff filled to the brim with Chinese looking martial artistes in black tuxedos. And Coyote Ugly. I mean, come on now. Coyote Ugly! A classic, if there was any. "Do we serve water in this bar?" "Hell No H2O Hell No H2O". I know, I know, I should hide my head in shame, but whatever, I prefer it to invincible Steven Seagal type stuff. I have said this a hundred times but my favourite movie scene is the one which in S.S. falls out of a plane and dies in the first two minutes after opening. I think my husband cries at that point, because, imagine, who will be all Buddhist and Balding and break off arms now in the rest of the movie while looking perfectly pan-faced? Who?

So after about 14 seconds when I said, hey you can change the channel, I have already watched this movie (ha! several times, so take that you!), the man breathed this HUGE sigh of relief and quickly figured out two channels which would cater to his esoteric, well-evolved, manly, tastes. Complaining only slightly that Pint bottles made him want to drink more (this I agree with. I am LOVING the green kingfisher pints the Evil Tasmac sold us recently; but its leaving me vaguely dissatisfied occasionally as well).

& This morning- I woke up 5:10 am. Changed. Stepped outside. Still a bit dark. Fuck it. I can take anyone who tries to mess with me. Its simple, just a matter of being aware of your surroundings. I ran. I did a bit of uphill (just the flyover near home). Returned home. Abs. Kitchen duties. Shower.

"Kenny I feel like going back to sleep"
"Dude dont be absurd. Just get out of the house, go to the gym"
"Na. I want to sleep"
"Hey! I rushed back from my run and ran up and down the stairs inside the house so you could gym"
"I know! You are like such a stud, I swear. Don't know how you do this"
"What do you mean, just GO, You dont even look sleepy"
"My knee is hurting"

Two peas in a pod, we are not, that is for sure. But which of us is the more sensible, normal one is still very much under contention.