Monday, January 29, 2007

drink me a river, smoke me a song

Long over due for one, Thursday past was the crazy night out on town. The Denizens of the Dungeon, the folks who work with me, gathered at the erotic pub with the naked statues for a round of beer and 'team building'.
Half a pre-ingested munakka followed by all that beer, no food and distinctly remember tequila shots too before saying nighty-night to the OnesfromtheOrifice and heading off to Jack's Library for Sketchman's booklaunch.
No personal recollection exists after leaving the erotic pub. Everything else was filled in later by the accompanying Satriani and DJChick.
The swaying began righ about when the munakka kicked in, a good hour later than usual. What's absolutely potent about this shit, especially when you add beer, tequila and now whiskey to the equation is that you lose complete control of your tongue and your legs.
Satriana says he had to grab the collar to stop self from launching into available laps.
Didn't finish my drink, so walked out half-conscious with the glass in my hand, finished it in the car on the way to the Norse gig at the Garden Inn.
Walked in with the glass stuck in the inner jacket pocket, fell on a few more people, met Ma Cherie, whacked my head on the door coming out the loo and walked out again.
We were leaving and DJChick's hiding her unfinished stem of vino under her shawl.
We step past the breaking wall of bouncers and in her drunk, Aussie twang says, "I hope no one catches me with this glass!"
A hand reaches out from the wall of black shirts and collars me, "We need to check you sir!" "Why me? She's the one with the big mouth and the glass!"
They feel me up and down anyway and find the whiskey holder from the previous place.
"Oh ho," steps in Satriani, "This is our glass, we got itt from home.."
There's a ripple of confusion on the black shirt wall now, as one of them steps back to call the F&B chappie, who takes one look at the cause of concern and shakes his head, "That's not our glass, " he says!
We head back to the car, they remain, cast out of granite.

Woke the next day with a cut and a cigarette burn on my forhead, a bleeding gash on my shin, bruised knees, a throbbing head with a lump at the back and absolutely no idea where my glasses were.
Searched the house, got the maid and the Sister to do the same. No luck. No debris, nothing.
Checked with Satriani who unloaded me home and he said they were hanging onto my face last he saw.
Oh well.
Went by the optician near the Dungeon (the Dungeon and the Orifice are the same place, if you're wondering) to check out contact lenses.
Spent the better part of two hours with some strange-smelling man pulling my eyelids apart and trying to stick his fingernail in my eye before figuring out I couldn't do this to myself everyday. So it's back to spectacles of the blinker variety.
At least they'll help me focus!

Thursday, January 18, 2007

here and about

Love the mace!


wordjugglers' getogether


DVDs with Drish


edit meeting!


personal road


backbreaker

Friday, January 12, 2007

PAN the Pied Piper

What is it with bizarre behaviour and why does it follow me around?

Self doesn't exist according to the Indian government. No PAN number, no passport, no driver's license, no voter's I-card. Nothing to prove who I am. Ha!
All this was forced to change recently.
A few months ago, the accounts guys here insisted on a PAN number since they have to provide it to some chap at the income tax or so they say. So began the long procedure of getting a PAN. (Going to the site, opening the relevant page, getting a phone call and instantly forgetting everything PAN-related, right till when salary day came around and Mr Accounts Man would send reminder email to everyone above me in the food chain including self.
The problem with getting or even applying for the PAN, was that I needed a 'proof of identity' to hand in with the form. And since I didn't have one...
Finally in December, they stopped my salary till at least a receipt of application was provided. So self clung around to colleagues with connections who called people, suspicious chartered accountants, who said a company's identity card would hold.
Two weeks later, emails me back saying I sent him the wrong bank statement as proof of address and needed to send a current statement.
Another week passes and no sign of him or PAN number.
Self took the last week of the year off and strolled into the Dungeon on the 2nd with the accounts guy holding on the extension-line.
"Do you mind coming upstairs?" he asks.
"Why whassamatter?"
"What's your father's name?"
"Whaaa..?"
"What's your father's name?"
"Whaaa..? Whoo..?"
"What's your father's name?"
"Aah.." I give it.. There's a long pause and then he asks again, "Do you mind coming upstairs?"

Trudge up to the second floor and he waves a printout in my face.
"Do you know what this is?"
"Umm .. my PAN number?"
"Do you know you've had a PAN number for three and a half years?"

Well, I didn't actually.
So all that time I thought no one knew who the hell I was, they did! Dammit!!

the bizarreness never ends

Ever since New Year's eve, self can feel the new year! It's not the weather, the cold or the snot sticking to your face in the auto.

Were bored in office the other day so fucked off to NehruStadium with Satriani, AD and the Kids for a spot of bungee jumping. Initial excitement wore off when faced with neck-straining height, sudden stoppage of bungee due to disappearance of some 'wire' and standing with crotch strapped into testicle-squeezing harness for fifteen minutes.
My first time, unlike sex, scuttled back before diving off.

Highly recommended! Inspite of that initial gut reaction that tells you you're going to flatten your face on the concrete sidewalk some 30 metres below.
Random EmceePerson, the chick who's always dressed up at events like this, strutted up to bungee too, tight top, pencil heels notwithstanding.
Took about a half hour to work up the courage to leave the security of the cage and promptly popped a boob out on the first jerk down. Ensured the bungee spot had maximum viewership for the next few dangling minutes!

The magazine's spoofing metrosexuality and self signed up for the pampering (and pain). So woke one bright morning (yesterday) and rickshawed to the Aigner store to pick up spiffy threads. Felt real nice to wander in, ripped jeans, mud-caked soles, unshaven and tattered sweater to pick up that shit. Walked out the same way hopped in another auto and headed off to the Shangri-la for an afternoon of shampoo, facial, pedicure, manicure, shave and trimming. Just the manicure didn't seem to work too well, still have claws for thumbs, but all else gets a thumbs up...including new straightened (ironed) hair.
Makes me look like a chick though. Two of them followed a bathrobed self into the gents changing room, giggling imbecilicly when they saw the beard. No snake thank God!

Back at the Dungeon, changed into spiffy new threads and did our final shots, before changing back and heading off to MolarMan for a biter-check. Half-an-hour's worth of electric whining, some pain and blood and lots of open mouth, self has new tooth where disgusting black fang used to be. MolarMan's a pretty cool dentist for ... well.. a dentist. He's getting us clip-on fangs made for free and if that isn't cool what is?!

Mary's wended her way back into my life, we have cable at home, I got paid on time and all's well with the world!

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

the madness of the family fernandes

In retrospect, this was the different Christmas break. Not as expected though.

Went back to folks' for Yuletide. Woke 24th morn to the old man losing his lid at the electricity guys. Latter had arrived to disconnect the electricity, claiming power theft as reason.
Folks had shifted the meter to a different part of the boundary wall the previous evening as it was shorting out and these johnnies landed up, conveniently on a Sunday, to make some noise and get their Xmas 'gift'.

One enterprising dickhead tried to force his way through the main gate, supposedly to check power usage within the house and was promptly relieved of his right nut by a rampaging OdiousOdie. The blood on the mud pretty much got them out, but they took the electriciy with them forcing folks to shell out close to 40 grand just to get them back.

A lot happened on the 24th... went by PV to toke up with Puffy and SadGirl. Hammar and Farha, also in town after a while came by for a spot of Fifa on Xbox.
Midnight mass was surreal as always.
Apart from the M family (and ours of course), everyone else seemed mutated from Toad of Toad Hall. Bug-eyed, shawl-wrapped, round-faced and scowling visages crucifying what self has always considered angelic melodies. Imagine Silent Night being sung by the muppets on speed.
Or maybe that was just the beer and smoke before Church.

Day of Christ was at folks' place with the Junpura Junta landing up armed with gifts and Breezers and bread. Astraman and BrotherBear lost their way, within sight of the farm, of course.

Much of the past week was spent dragging self out of bed by noon, crawling down and across to the theka for 3 lagers. Come back, pull out the new giant orange beanbag (Thank you Meg!), rolling bowl, Mary and malt. Balmy winter sunshine and a ton of new books for entertainment.

The 29th rolled around and self's initial euphoria over road trip to UdiGirl's place high up in the Garhwal mountains over New Year's was nixed thanks to lazy people and oceans of fog.
New Year's eve was an anti-social affair, ending up at home with a burning table for company.
The best part?
Embedding a nail halfway into finger, right on the bony part, while trying to rip apart table with bare hands.
Note to self: Never attempt to rip apart anything with bare hands unless it's fried chicken.
Dropped sliding contraption that holds keyboard on ankle.
Sat on and dismembered spectacles at least three times...
and joy of joy! am plumb out of Mary!
Bah!
Need a vacation from the vacation.

practice at the jungle pad


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