ENTROPY - Design of Decadence: August 2007

Thursday, August 30, 2007

People Everyday.

Iss vaale mein size 7 dena.
Hmm.
Yeh chhota lag raha hai. Size 8 hai?
Hmmm.
Yeh bhi chhota rahega, shayad. Size 9?
Dada, size 9 ka ladies nahi aata hai.

*******************************************************************************

Sir, you are looking for yourself or for wife?
Wife?
You walked in with that lady?

Points at a random woman, blatantly.

What? No! She’s not my wife!
No? Oh. Then your wife?
Um, I’m not married.
Oh.
Can I test this one?
But that is for gents.
Well, I’m a man, in case you hadn’t noticed.
But you said for lady.
I didn’t, you assumed.
So not for lady?
No, for both … myself and the lady.
Same fragrance?
No, of course not. Listen …

I look around for help, anyone to save me from the moron salesman. A confident looking type woman walks up to us and speaks to the moron.

I will handle. Sir wants for himself or lady?
Lady.

She turns to me.

So, Sir. Is the lady a girl?

*******************************************************************************

May I switch off the reading light, Sir?
Yes please, thank you.

She starts to walk away, then stops.

If you don’t mind me asking, sir. Which fragrance are you wearing?

I think for a split second.

Um, Miracle by Lancome.
It’s nice.
Thanks.

Since she's leaning forward, I get a whiff of hers.

And which one are you wearing … Amberleen?

She was short, attractive, and had a twinkle in her smile.

Its called Ultra Violet by P .. a .. c .. c …
Paco Rabanne.
Yes, that’s him.

She smiles sheepishly.

I’m not much into perfumes. I bought this because its subtle.

She squats in the aisle, resting on her calves. Leans forward and whispers.

Doesn't make sense to wear a strong fragrance that'll attract too much attention on a night flight.

She smiles. I agree.

Subtle fragrances are better, you know, the ones that just leave a whiff in the air.
Like yours.
Heh. And yours.
So, tell me another nice fragrance? For night flights?
Hmm. Maybe L’eau D’Issey. Or Bvlgari Jasmine. Anais Anais, if you’re old fashioned. Tea Rose, if you don't want to spend a bomb.

Moron passenger butts in with a pen and a paper.

Please can you repeat?

I repeat.

For Mrs.
Of course.

I look at her, she's still squatting on her calves.

Are you comfortable like that?
Yes, I’m fine. And ... Can you suggest a fragrance for guys?

I smile at her. She blushes.

Well, you can give him L’eau ParKenzo. Or CK One. Ferrari’s nice too.

Ahem … when you’re done, can you give us a hand?

The other air hostess walks away after the careful sarcasm spew.
Amberleen laughs it off, and notices my book.

Haruki Murakami? Is … he? … he … any good?
Yes, quite good.
You picked this one up randomly?
No, my girlfriend gave it to me.
Oh. Ok sir, it’s been nice chatting. Goodbye.

She ups and walks away.

posted by n.g. at 23:02 (1) Peg(s) of Whisky

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

a lack of colour.

the colour of night is gray compared to the darkness inside. he tries, in vain, to shake off the sub consciousness. he looks around to see dim shadows of whatever remains in his room and distinct silhouettes of whatever doesn’t. it feels like he’s in a guy ritchie film and everything is moving with a lazy nervous energy at a thousand frames per second. ash drops on his hand as the stub betrays his fingers and stagnant smoke illuminates the music. the story of his life lies beside him face-buried in the pillow. radiohead want him to cry for them but he can only laugh at their words of wisdom. for a minute there, I lost myself. in-fucking-deed. how can you lose something you never had? the black suddenly begins to break the smoke into little myriad dancing memories that make him smile. there he’s peeing into the arabian sea at juhu beach. there he got bitten by his best friend. there she’s walking home with him. there he’s on top of the water tank and he’s looking at worli village and his head’s spinning like his favourite shot from the exorcist. there he’s being scolded because the spoon is clinking against his plate. there he’s helping her with her homework. there his sweat is stinging his eyes as he serves and volleys like a man possessed. there his smile taunts the bowler as he forward defends the 73rd ball he faces. there he’s soaking wet and she’s nowhere. there he’s frantically looking under the bed, in the bathroom, in the kitchen. there’s faces around and everyone’s panicking and he’s holding her hand and she’s crying helplessly. there he’s hitching a ride. there she wants him to return the favour. there he’s been promoted. there it’s his third night and twenty-eighth cigarette at the studio. there he’s sitting on the stairs nursing a cup of tea. there he’s throwing cigarettes into the sea. there he’s looking at his amplifier because he can’t listen to it. there he’s been stabbed again. there he’s requested to understand because he can. there he’s running at speed 10. there she’s breathlessly telling him about her home in korea. there the ultra violet is deafening. there she’s drunk and dizzying up to him. there she’s cooked broccoli in olive oil. there they’re lying on orchard road staring at the orange sky waiting for the trains to start. there’s blonde hair, pixie laughs and a purple rubberband. there’s kuala lumpur. there’s emptiness. there she exchanges hands. there he’s spilling his heart through his pen again. there she’s in his face and she says he’s mosaic. there he’s thinking she’s prozac. there he’s rolling. there’s jack. there’s junk. right turn. wrong turn. rizla. pot. faith in chaos. hope in dope.

the cackling of excited kids in the pool below hits him like a sumo wrestler on extasy. an invisible focus puller takes his own sweet time to do his job when he opens his eyes. the smoke has dissolved into morning. radiohead have slept. a lone lucky strike awaits its last fight. the jack is dry. he reaches out for the lighter and finds a memory lying on the table, right next to his ticket. he’s flying this afternoon and he’s flying now. he lights up and presses play. you used to say that there’s a time we all deserve to lose our minds. so I’ve lost my mind now I’m ready to find my way back home.

posted by n.g. at 23:38 (0) Peg(s) of Whisky

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Diary of a Madman.

And since i've been reminded of the old bastard Doc (who couldn't spell the word 'stocks' even if you wrote it and gave it to him) on a couple of occasions this week, here's a song especially for him by a fellow and favourite madman.

times have changed and times are strange
here I come, but I aint the same
mama, i'm coming home
times gone by seem to be
you could have been a better friend to me
mama, i'm coming home

you took me in and you drove me out
yeah, you had me hypnotized
lost and found and turned around
by the fire in your eyes

you made me cry, you told me lies
but I can't stand to say goodbye
mama, i'm coming home
i could be right, i could be wrong
it hurts so bad, its been so long
mama, i'm coming home

selfish love yeah we're both alone
the ride before the fall
but i'm gonna take this heart of stone
i just got to have it all

i've seen your face a hundred times
everyday we've been apart
i dont care about the sunshine, yeah
cause mama, mama, i'm coming home

mama i'm coming home - ozzy osbourne

posted by n.g. at 16:33 (2) Peg(s) of Whisky

Spin The Black Circle.

In my professional life of 13 years, I have switched twice inter-industry and five times intra-industry. After freewheeling for 3 years, I’m now in my sixth intra-industry switch, picking up from where my last consultancy left off. And it is heartening to know that there is the possibility of a third inter-industry switch shaping up.

Financial consultancy and investment banking. The thing is, I love researching industries and companies. There’s a website where I sometimes spend hours looking up companies, their quarterly results, their businesses, how much floating stock, earnings, assets and liabilities, directors, historic prices, corporate dynamics, performance-dependence on currencies, commodities and other global tangible and intangible factors, Fibonacci patterns … the whole nine yards. It fascinates me. Earnings per share, Price to earnings ratio, book value, enterprise value, earnings before Interest+Depreciation+Tax, bottom-up and top-down investing, bullion futures and BRIC funds … terms that are Czechoslovakian to most people are practically as interesting to me as rock music.

And no one sat me down and explained this stuff to me – I just got interested, picked it up as I went along and before I knew it I was hooked. I can’t help it. Like the boss says, it’s in my DNA. It’s not my fault that I know as much about the 07-08 projected earnings of Ranbaxy as I do about the music of Radiohead. In fact, I would think it’s an advantage that I do. The girlfriend, however, gives the silent treatment to my ramblings about an exciting new investment opportunity (even yawns when she deems necessary) and is all attention the very next second when I shift focus to music and/or movies. Earlier she would nod politely and semi- understandingly; now she just flashes her cutest ‘Oh, you’re done talking about boring stuff?’ smile once I finish.

Anyway, I’ve been advising some friends about their investment plans. Rather, formulating investment plans for them because the average Joe and Jane are clueless. I’ve spent most of this morning explaining trading and investing fundas and company research details to the boss, who seems to be picking it all up pretty well. Girlfriendji suggested in jest a couple of days ago that I should start an investment consultancy for dummies, and so did the boss this morning – he reckons that I’m clearer in my explanation than the relationship manager at his bank, who didn’t know a mutual fund from a Unit linked insurance plan and kept glancing down at a glossary every time he was asked what an abbreviation stood for.

If my love for stocks outgrows my love for Sabbath and Soderbergh, who knows.

posted by n.g. at 15:22 (0) Peg(s) of Whisky

Monday, August 06, 2007

East Coast Beach December 2002.

Doc: You know what your problem is?
Me: I didn’t know I had a problem.
Doc: That’s one of your problems. Your other problem is, you don’t drop E.

He passed me the joint. We were sitting on East Coast Beach, far away from the family affair side, drinking from our JD-Coke cans.

Doc: See, our lives are like a Tarkovsky film. Everything seems unnecessary but ultimately you realize that it happened for a reason. Basically, you have to drop E to make everything burn brighter and understand the significance of events when they happen.
Me: You know we could get hung for smoking this?

I pulled at the stub and winced. It was really good shit.

Doc: That’s another problem. Albert Pinto jitna sochta hai madarchod.
Me: Albert Einstein chutiye. And If I was doing something I could get killed for I’d think about it, gaandu.
Doc: Yeah, whatever. Nothing ever happened to Kurdt Cobain for doing exactly that.

Jaag utha insaan.

Me: Dude, for all you know Kurdt Cobain is living on his own personal island in New Zealand, banging Kiwi women and listening to his own music, away from the spotlight. I mean I like his music and all, but this whole ‘I’m such a loser please love me I can’t handle my success’ angle is a bit hard for me to swallow. And anyone who buys into it gets my vote for the wannabe fuckwit moron of the millennium. Sure, he may even actually have killed himself because he was so depressed and alone, and I respect that. Self destruction is human. All I’m saying is, you can’t just believe what they tell you without thinking of what-ifs. That’s just being blind. All information is spoon-fed to us anyway, man. You know? Give me Axl Rose anyday. Unapologetic rock and roll renegader. No qualms, no showbaazi, no put ons, no pretentions, no self pity, no i'm so behcara please love me.

I hadn’t noticed his outstretched fingers wanting the joint.

Doc: De na bhosadike.

I passed it to him.

Doc: That’s another of your problems. I don’t fucking care about Kurdt Cobain. Or capitalism. Or global warming. Or … fucking … where the Brazillian Nikkei was in 1990 before it crashed.

Me: Tokyo Nikkei.

Doc: Maa ki chut, Nallasopara Nikkei. Mere lund se. Know your audience, chutiya. Is this what you talk about to your girlfriend before nailing her?

Me: Bhenchod, I’m not nailing her.
Doc: I’m not surprised, if you look deep into her eyes and tell her that the lenses she’s wearing were made by child labourers in Chechnya, she’ll never let you.

He passed me the joint.

Doc: Tere priorities sab galat hain. That redhead at Liquid last night?
Me: She was redhead?
Doc: She wanted me.

I rolled my eyes as he rolled another joint.

Me: Like every girl on the planet does.
Doc: Okay, maybe she wanted you.
Me: Whatever.
Doc: Tujhe freelance maarne mein problem hai kya?
Me: Haan hai. I don’t understand, how can you nail tail just coz SHE wants you to? Don’t YOU have to want it too? Bachpan mein yaad hai, building mein Anand Mela hota tha? Vahaan har saal wo chutiya game stall lagta tha … if you win, your money back and nothing more. Nailing tail just coz she wants you to is like that. Why should I play unless I want to, and not just because the other party wants me to, because she stands to gain more than I do. Next you'll be serving breakfast in bed to her, just because she wants you to. It's like being an unpaid gigolo.
Doc: I need E to make this whole funda burn brighter kyunki tere funde mujhe samajh nahi aate.
Me: Kyun?
Doc: Kyunki teri gaand.
Me: Ek din tu samjhega aur yaad karega mujhe.

I took the joint.
He guffawed.
We smoked and drank in silence for awhile.

Doc: Actually, our lives are like a Fellini film.

He pulled long before he passed it to me.

Doc: It looks good, but I don’t get it.

posted by n.g. at 17:40 (1) Peg(s) of Whisky

Friday, August 03, 2007

Open Window.

There’s got to be something symbolic about windows. I remember once in Singapore, my lens had come off and I was frantically trying to place it back in, and Ganesan popped his head in and asked me why I was retina-wrestling. ‘Your eyes are windows to your soul, man. Don’t fuck with them’, he had said. I knew they were, but what he said still struck me as words of wisdom. But what if the soul is at unrest? Would you then want anyone to look into the window at all?

I sometimes wish that there was no window to look into the past. That somehow, our minds could be programmed to not be aware of a thing called memory, so that a window to the past didn’t exist at all. Not my past, not anyone else’s. I wouldn’t be able to look out the window and remember things that happened, whether good or bad. I wouldn’t be able to look out the window and try to piece together a puzzle about something that bothers me sometimes; something I can do nothing about; something I can’t change; something devoid of any soul or purpose or meaning, something that is so irrelevant that it’s ludicrous that I’m even looking out the window at it. But I am. And although my practical side has told me that it doesn’t really matter, the fact that it’s there to be looked at that bothers my emotional side.

I have a ton of work and I can’t focus. I’m looking out the window at the rain pouring down on the brown waves sometimes idling, sometimes angry. Much like a past whose repercussions leave my practical and emotional side estranged from each other. Maybe I’m not strong enough. Maybe I’m thinking too much. Maybe I’m ungrateful for all the love in my life. Maybe I’m not counting my blessings.

Or maybe I just need a lot more Green Day in my life.

here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are

as my memory rests
but never forgets what i lost
wake me up
when september ends

posted by n.g. at 14:07 (0) Peg(s) of Whisky

Name: n. g.

Home: Bombay, India

About Me: this fire is burning and its outta control its not a problem you can stop its rock and roll.

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