I have a choice: Ignore my very badly inflamed throat and tonsils and head out with the boys to have a rocking New Year, not worrying too much about what will happen thereafter, or, stay at home and let my mother take good care of me so that I am fit and fine tomorrow and the day after when all the fun is over.

Hmmm .... I really don't know.

***

2010. A year in which so may people I know found the love of their lives and have tied the knot (or have picked up their crosses ... haha!), it's actually quite depressing. Well - for the rest of us becharas there's always next year. That's tomorrow.

It is also the end of a decade - one I remember was brought in with a big party on Fats' terrace where after about an hour decibel levels reached such a high it took a van full of policemen and a thousand bucks cash to bring things down to normal again. And I remember looking up at the night sky thinking how awesome it is to be alive at the turn of the millennium and hoping that from then on things would be different. I would get my life back on track, forget about the girl who broke my heart and basically just make things work. Have I succeeded? Funny thing is now, ten years later, I really don't care or even think about it that much. Life is what it is - like my friend Lü always says in his Swiss-German accent -- "It izz what it izz" and you just gotta go with it.

I often wonder what it must be like though to live the life of someone else - to be in their shoes and socks and pants and shirts (no, never in their underwear, in case you're wondering). Like I think about people I know, mostly fellow bloggers whom I have never met, and imagine what it's like being a single mother who has just released a book I hope will make her famous, or this other guy in advertising married to this really hot dame (whoa, he must have a life, the lucky sumbich!), stuff like that. Would life have been different for me were I in a different line of work ? Or if I had lived in a different city maybe? Would a career in advertising in Bombay have landed me a hot dame and a flat in Bandra or would I still have been plain ol' me in this boring city? I wonder.

Anyway, not too much to fret about. You never know how things change in the course of a year. Close it with Josh Ritter whose music I've been listening to a lot lately.

For all of you for whom 2010 didn't deliver, here's to 2011!



Peace, love, and fresh promises.

Pam Anderson on Bigg Boss 4 ... apparently to push up the ratings! Indian television really has reached new lows. Or new highs depending on how you look at it.

As for Big B and KBC, what's with all these people acting like they've been granted an audience with God? I should be on that damn show, -- yeah yeah nice wig, now lets get on with it! And no, I don't wanna listen to any of your old man's bludy poems!

The Social Network. Good movie. Reaffirms my belief that sometimes all you need is that one big idea. Or someone else's big idea. I heard some guy in front of me say, -- Shit, he stole the idea!! Can't help thinking that if he hadn't, Facebook as we know it today might never existed. Also I'm wondering: If I steal a hundred bucks from you and turn it into a million, how much do I owe you back?

What I like about Facebook is how it's constantly evolving. What started as a I wanna check out your hot fotos.com is now so much more. Last week, believe it or not, I got invited to a wedding on Facebook. Which can't be good news for establishments such as these. Took a while to sink in - a wedding! Not some party at a restaurant or a pub, but a wedding with a bride and a groom and all the nonsense that goes with it. Unbelievable! Soon to launch is Facebook email from what I hear. Facemail. What next? One can only guess.

***

Two awards in as many weeks at work. One a big-ass one ... which'll look really good on my resume. But I'm beyond that now. I want something else. Timing is everything - the difference between win and lose. This man more than anyone will testify to that.

The Grateful Dead with a song I love. Loser!

Love is ...

having someone to hold

It's funny how we Indians, or should I say just I, struggle with what should be the simplest of things when we travel abroad. Like automatically flushing toilets - the kind made by Kohler. Now you'd expect manufacturers such as them to have thought of everything, but with their automatically flushing toilets I daresay they haven't. They will flush just fine if you have your bum firmly down on the seat for some stretch of time and then get up. But if you're a guy just taking a leak (or perhaps a girl doing the helicopter thing ... with your helicopter hovering a little too high) nothing happens. And this I have experienced at least three times now, in three different places, the last being yesterday at the Borders store in downtown Boston. I tried everything to get the damn thing to flush - from waving my hand (and later my foot) in front of the sensor a couple of times, to putting my ass right there in front of it thinking the bludy thing is programmed only to recognize the shape of the human behind. But no would do - our friend just refused to co-operate. So I had to exit the stall leaving things the way they were because some not-so-gentle man outside was making sounds indicating that all hell was about to break loose. Needless to say I didn't wait to see, or hear rather, his reaction on not having a clean toilet to drop his load. And lest he come out and say to someone, -- Look, that's the mothafcuker who didn't flush! giving me and my race a bad name, I beat a hasty retreat from said bookstore.

Damned automation! Always making things more complicated than we can handle.

***

Boston, MA. My second time here and I am loving it. Actually I feel that to really enjoy a city you must visit it the second time. Because the first time is more exploratory; the second time around you know exactly what you want. Like the Berklee BeanTown Jazz Festival starting Sept 15 that I am hoping I can catch. Also on the cards is a quick dash to the Big Apple and New Jersey.

Oh and did I mention I had my little bit of fun with Indian co-passenger before flight to Amsterdam? Barely had he sat his ass down on the seat next to me at the airport waiting lounge when he introduced himself and started, -- So are you working in Amsterdam?

No.

So you are going on holiday?

No.

(Now slightly confused because his IT brain can only think the flowchart way: If Yes, then... If No, so and so. )

So what are you going for?

Sex.

As you can imagine nothing further was said.

Peace, love, and a handle on things.

I couldn't help laughing watching Fake IPL Player reveal himself today. Poor sod. Nobody was giving him any attention after all that shit he wrote two years ago. And I'm sure the book that followed didn't do too well either. And after Twitter and Facebook failed in their respective jobs he was left with no option but to reveal himself or see the brand he created with such a bang die a quick death. So what now? Will we see him emerge as the Real Fake IPL player?

***

Even better than Beijing says Moneybags Kalmadi. I wouldn't go making statements like that if I were him. Because then you have to live up to them. See nobody really expects Beijing, or Manchester or Mogadishu even. They're expecting New Delhi, and New Delhi is what we'll give them. Whether they like it or not.

Which is why I get slightly confused when people talk about the nations image taking a beating and start using words like prestige and reputation. Do we have a reputation? For what? Someone please enlighten me.

Steph Rice isn't coming. Bollocks! I'd have gone all the way to that rotten city just to see Steph do her stuff. The woman is amazing. Though something tells me she'd have spent more time around the Taj and other such touristy places than in the pool. Which might be the case with a lot of other athletes, I reckon. Which will leave us Indians to win all the medals! Who says the games will be a flop?

***

I leave for the United States in a couple of weeks (just on a holiday). Something I am very excited about. Of course I hate travelling in a plane full of my countrymen, but hey, you can't choose your countrymen, can you? So you should do what I do - have fun with them. I'm telling you there's nobody you can have more fun with than us Indians. Oh yeah, we rock. And if I wasn't flying to the United States I'd be wearing my kuffiah looking like a bludy Taliban. You should see the looks I get when I go about unshaven with that thing wrapped around my head - priceless! Can't go to the US with that though. Or maybe I should, see what happens. You know what, I will. I am just slightly terrified of getting someones hand up my bum. Those Americans have big hands.

What if I use that very famous Indian escape line -- Do you know who I am?

-- Yeah, yeah, the last guy said he was Shah-rookh Khan or something. Now bend over quietly buddy!

Why is it so hard for some people to believe you want nothing from them. Nothing at all.

***

The end of August. Good things have been happening. At work I finally get my license to kick ass. Like that guy sitting in the dugout waiting for his chance to make centerfield. Waiting waiting waiting. Until one day the coach decides, -- Ok you, Blues, get in there! Behenc#@d ab mein dikhaunga, is the first thing that comes to mind as you're walking out, bat in hand, so sure you're gonna hit a home run the very first time you make contact with that sweet apple. But I'm too old and too hammered to do that, ain't I? Of course. Just take it cool brother, take it cool. Your success in battle depends not on how much ammo you have or how sophisticated your weapon, but on how well you keep your eyes and ears open. The best of men get killed because they try to be heroes. No, I would rather be the coward who lives to fight another day than the hero who gets it in the chest.

***

So I don't get this thing with some people: They actually think they're worth the attention they demand. Well I hate to break it to you pal, you're not. It's like someone once said: One of the most important things you can do for yourself is take a good hard look in the mirror from time to time.

We had a session the other day where we had to come up with answers to the question, Who am I? One guy said he's James Bond. Yeah, and I'm Lady Gaga!

A tough question to answer though if you really think about it -- Who am I?

Don Henley and the lads call themselves The Eagles. From Long Road out of Eden, Waiting in the weeds. Nice weekend.

"It’s not till sex has died out between a man and a woman that they can really love. And now I mean affection. Now I mean to be fond of (as one is fond of oneself)— to hope, to be disappointed, to live inside the other heart. When I look back on the pain of sex, the love like a wild fox so ready to bite, the antagonism that sits like a twin beside love, and contrast it with affection, so deeply unrepeatable, of two people who have lived a life together (and of whom one must die) it’s the affection I find richer. It’s that I would have again. Not all those doubtful rainbow colours."

-- Enid Bagnold (1889–1981), British novelist, playwright. Autobiography, ch. 6 (1969).

***

Dan Seals with a song I used to listen to when I was in college - Still a little bit of love.

Perhaps it makes more sense to live for the day. And love for the day. Ignore the larger picture, because sometimes the larger picture is so damn large you can't see the ends of it.

More and more people I know are doing that these days. And you know what - the little joys, the temporary thrills, the highs that wear out in a day or hours, they can be as satisfying as the long lasting ones. And if you think about it even the long lasting ones don't last forever. Though many would argue they do.

And so in our search for that thing, that one thing that we want, we miss out on all those things we don't really want but are there for the taking. I don't know if I'm making much sense here but the more I think about it the more I'm convinced that the world is going to hell and we better grab what we can before it's too late.

Unfortunately we are programmed to think long term. But like someone said -- many short terms make the long term. It's not easy of course to change that way of thinking, but if you think about it practically, given the times we live in, maybe it's the smartest thing to do. It's like how when you're in an airplane all you care about is making it through that one flight, life and limb intact -- Lord please don't let this baby be struck by lightning! (And if you're flying Air India your prayer will be a little longer). You don't really think about every flight you'll be taking after that, do you? No, it's just get me back safe on the ground from this one. Perhaps that is how we should be living our lives.

***

So yeah - that's what has been on my mind lately. Too much to post on Facebook. And no, I won't ever let Facebook (or that stupid thing called Twitter) take what belongs here.

For all of you who kept coming and keep coming (it was 7 years a few weeks ago) this is for you -- one of those few Bob Dylan songs where I hate the way he sings. So instead here's Van "the man" Morrison with his rendition of It's all over now Baby Blue. It ain't all over yet, but who knows how long we got?

What do you do when it's a tussle between the head and the heart and neither one is winning?

... And now I understand exactly what they mean when they say, 'It's not you, it's me'.

***

Jack Johnson on a Monday morning. It's good to be back.

Sania - Shoaib. Will they, won't they? Turns out our man was duped into doing a telephonic whateveritscalled marriage thing with the other woman - something he blames entirely on his youth and not "knowing better". See, there are two things that happen when one is young: either you are very stupid or very eager. The fact that he went through with it simply by looking at photographs of some buxom beauty, which as it turns out were not that of the woman he did the telephonic thing with, indicates more the latter than the former, I think.

But Inshallah they will, and Inhsallah she will still play tennis for India, and Inshallah (and this is a BIG Inshallah!) her fans will still get to see those aspects of her that have made her famous ;)

But why an Indian girl? What does an Indian girl have that her Pakistani counterpart is missing? Though with Sania we may be looking at an exception.

The guardians of all that is Indian* are of course not happy. Someone even suggested that the couple's first act of love be treated as an 'infiltration' and dealt with accordingly!

*Sometimes Indian, sometimes Marathi - they really must make up their minds.

***

Easter Monday. A holiday in many parts of the world. No such luxury here.

From 1972, the Doobie Brothers - Listen to the music.

After a while you can tell if the other guy has a fight in him or not. Sometimes you see it in the eyes, sometimes you don't. Some eyes will burn bright with rage while others will be cold and calculating. Sometimes they come at you fast and furious, thrashing away; at other times they will wait to see your first move - wait to see which part of your body you're keen to protect and hit you there - quick and decisive.

But the most difficult opponents were the ones who knew no fear, the ones that had nothing to lose, the ones who'd always keep you guessing. Something always told me they were the ones who would survive - not just the fights, life.

***

What do we fear, really, when the world comes at us with everything its got? Why do we seek solace in tears and words that comfort? Why do we want to run away, hide, disappear, grieve silently over what might have been? Because the world can tell if we have a fight in us or not.

And sometimes all you need to do is stand your ground and keep them guessing. Even if you are really scared.

Jack Johnson.

The snooty bastard from work who had so much free time on his hands he would spend hours in the office gym building big muscles that he would show off on Fridays wearing a tight red T-shirt looking like bludy Daniel Craig, came down with a slipped disc.

My grandmother wasn't kidding when she talked of the power of the evil eye :)

***

She said she wanted a song, so here it is - a late birthday dedication for Parul. From his best selling album Still got the Blues, Gary Moore - All your love.

When in Dubai you get the feeling that one of the things people (the expatriates I'm talking about) fear most is going 'inside', second only I think to deportation. At first I didn't quite get what this inside business was, but then they explained -- Inside as in andar ... the slammer, prison, jail, lock-up, whatever you want to call it.

And from what I was given to understand, what could get you inside is everything from breaking smelly wind in the Metro to credit card default to driving your car onto the pavement after one too many or even not walking straight after one too many, to laughing loudly at this big illuminated billboard on Sheikh Zayed Road that reads www.OurFatherZayed.ae. Actually it was not the billboard itself but the joke that went with it which sounds like the Lord's Prayer: Our Father Zayed, we art in debt ...

To, as we learn today - sending suggestive text messages to a member of the opposite sex. Hmmm...

Therefore I'm sure the question most Dubai residents are now asking is what can and can we not text? But not wanting to take any chances I reckon people will start to cleverly disguise their messages henceforth. Like one to the paramour with whom its been a while -- Baby you game for a few rounds of tiki puka puka** this evening!

Oh and lookie what we have here, also in Dubai -- I bet these two tried everything possible to keep it indoors till sheer frustration forced one of them to say - Let's go outside!



**Those of you Gulfie folk never tried a Tiki Puka Puka head over to the nearest Trader Vic's and do so. Not a big rum drinker myself, but I have to say the 151º Jamaican stuff they put in it can get you quite excited!

Up in the Air is such a brilliant movie. At the end of it you realize life is like playing on a see-saw: By yourself all you get is the lows ... the highs come only with company. Even if it's the bottle.

Simon & Garfunkel.

So it's like this -- I ride a 16 year old Yamaha which I love very much, but if someone offered me a quickie on a 2010 Ducati, wouldn't I be tempted? Which is pretty much what the guys at Emotional Atyachaar are doing. You send a hot little number to work her charms on some poor sod and he will not just fall into the trap, he will jump right into it.

Most of the time it's just about sex. Ask any of the guys who got caught why they did it and I bet their answer will be only to get some. After the act they'd be only too happy to go back to their girlfriends of three years or five years or even ten years as was the case with one couple.

Compare that with the American show Cheaters on which the desi version is based and there is one very important difference -- the other women/men there are not planted by the shows production team; they are people the suspected cheaters are actually involved/having affairs with.

So is Emotional Atyachaar being fair? I don't think so. Just because I want to ride that big blazing Ducati doesn't make me love my Yamaha any less. Because the key to remember is that right now I know I can never own that monster.

And what this will do is put the fear of hidden cameras and hot booty in most men with girlfriends/wives. Which is why the show in this case won't go on for very long. Because now if approached by a beautiful woman there are only two possibilities: either she is very desperate, or, you are going to star in the next episode of EA! And there is no way to tell the difference. Better safe than screwed, they will all say. (pun intended of course)

***

I could really feel the heat today ... with summer approaching I mean. Looks like we're in for a scorcher.

Some of the old timers here may know this one. From 1989, a band that used to call themselves Heart -- All I wanna do is make love to you.

Some hearts can never be given - like a song you can listen to anytime but cannot download.

But they can still be broken.

1411?

Now that is bound to upset some people. Because the correct figure should be 1414. Yes, how could they leave out the three that rule the city of Mumbai - the three that have been roaring very loudly in recent times, making every outsider who has encroached on their territory well aware of who's boss.

But jokes apart, how did they arrive at the number? Because from what I know you'd have more luck catching Katrina Kaif scratching her rear in public than spotting a tiger in the wild. I could say there are just 156 left and they'd have a hard time disproving me.

And what is this Join the Roar nonsense? Something some over-creative adwalla came up with after seven or eight Old Monks I reckon. Because how is joining the roar going to save the tiger? As if some poacher in Ranthambore is going to think twice before he lays his next trap, -- you know what, there are 75380 people "roaring" on some website ... maybe I should just let this one go and find myself a 'real' job. I don't think so.

A better idea would be, you know, to 'Adopt a Tiger'. Now there's something that'll have plenty of takers ... among the rich and lamous of course, these being what you might call collectors items. Pay a certain amount every month or every year and receive regular updates on how your tiger is doing. You could even have the option of naming the beast and visiting him when he's feeling friendly. Before you know it, it will become the new status symbol and a topic of socialite conversation -- Ohh my Sheroo is doing so well ... I'm paying extra so that he gets only prime rib. -- Mine is vegetarian, we being Jain and all ... but I make sure he gets twice the amount of soya!

Surely better than spending all that money buying some outfit you're only going to wear once, or a handbag designed by some French cross-dresser.

I know. I really am in the wrong line of work.

***

From All the Roadrunning, Mark Knopfler and Emmylou Harris -- I dug up a diamond. For Deb.

I may not be his biggest fan but for this I give him a thumbs up. His buddy Johar I'm sure would have wasted no time apologizing and might even have gone a step further to prove his love for the Marathi Manoos by offering to rename his next project to My name is Karandikar.

And why is it still being called Bollywood? Shouldn't it be Mollywood now that Bombay is Mumbai and has been for so long? Something the supremos at the SS and MNS might want to take up.

I think the only way to teach the blighters a lesson would be for every non-Maharashtrian in Mumbai to pack his bags and leave the city for some time. It would be fun to see what will become, or rather what will be left, of the Mumbai the self-appointed torchbearers of Marathi pride so vehemently claim is 'theirs'. Even more fun would be to see the local IPL team, the Mumbai Indians, playing on a new home ground somewhere in Gujarat.

***

The Everly Brothers from way back when -- When will I be loved. Which I suspect is the lament of most Biharis, Bhaiyyas, and what have you in the great city of Bombay.

Love used to be a whisky on the rocks; now it is a complicated cocktail very few of us know how to mix.

The Hollies with a song from a time when life was simple and love simpler -- The air that I breathe.

For T. Thank you for a wonderful day.

The fact is when a soldier goes into battle he thinks more about coming out alive than how many men he's going to kill.

And all those medals you show off proudly on your chest in peacetime won't make any difference the next time you step into the line of fire. Each battle is its own - each victory; each defeat. Each life; each death.

***

The Gypsy Kings with a song I absolutely love. Makes me want to get up an dance (if only I could). For a very awesome 36 year old. Fight on soldier.

It used to be something we could call our own. For the boys only. Until one day they changed their logo and started making panties. And bras and camisoles. Jockey for Her they called it. Which was kinda like saying Victoria's Secret for Him.

At the time the reaction from most Jockey loyalists (myself included) was, -- What the...! This is Jockey we're talking about dude - they invented the Y-Front for cryin' out loud! Hell, we might as well call them panties from now on instead of jocks.

So why did Jockey go girlie? To push up sales, given what they say that wimmen buy upto three times more underwear than men? (Which I will believe because they even have separate underwear drawers, whereas we just stuff ours into a corner behind our socks). Or was there an ingenious marketing idea behind the whole decision?

I always thought it was the first, but now I think it's both. After I saw this girl in the cafeteria the other day whose very low jeans revealed her knickers with JOCKEY printed in big bold letters on the waistband. One look and it all made sense -- there is something very sexy about a woman in jocks.

And you know what the sad part is -- they look sexier on them than on us!

But how do you think the idea was born? Could be anything, but the odds lean strongly in favour of the possibility that some woman somewhere wore our underwear! Shame on y'all.

***

Which is why when they say, what is your big idea? I say no, -- what is your small idea? ;)

For Rakhi. Bono and the lovely ladies from The Corrs -- When the stars go blue.

When you decide to take charge of your own destiny you better be damn sure you're up to the job.

***

But first it's important to know what it is you really want -- What is the 'real thing', as Syl has so beautifully put it in her New Year post. Because unless you do that you'd find yourself struggling to get behind the wheel of a Maserati when a Honda would do just fine.

First Monday of 2010. Kick it off with Kid Rock -- For Syl and all you guys been reading the Blues for years and years. Roll on!