> To paraphrase a professor,
FGM* isn't restricted to a particular section of women in Africa. FGM cuts across religious, social and ethnic boundaries.
No pun intended, it goes without saying.
*What is FGM, you ask? Why, it's Female Genital Mutilation! Also goes without saying, it would seem.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
kitty at my foot, i wanna touch it
While the blog lists the post from the 18th of February, I heard of this initiative by the Pink Chaddi Campaign only a couple of days back.
Basically, they’ve gone Web 2.0 on our collective asses (arses?), and are soliciting videos from people doing ‘something we love, something we think is definitely a part of Indian culture (and let no one dare disagree) – therefore allowing anything to fly. Further strength is added when stating ‘… shared culture. Not the fake, monolith, imaginary culture….. it is messy, complicated, wonderful. Each of us define Indian culture differently. No one is wrong, no one is more right.’
‘Hey, it’s my culture, and being Indian, it would be Indian culture.’
Just imagine the possibilities of deadpanning…
Take 1:
‘I live near a railway station, and often loiter around the area. People always seem to have change in their pockets, and when extracting their tickets or whatever from there, invariably drop change on the floor. Some notice, most don’t. I pick up the change on the floor and look towards the person, but I’ve never returned the change, unless they happen to finally notice and then ask.
But, I can’t spend it, or I just never have. I stare at the money, the not-quite-ill-gotten yet not honest gains, and feel guilty about it. I have a roll upon roll of lost change, a shrine to the cracks of the economy through which loose change slips through and vanishes.
This is Indian Culture!’
Take 2:
‘I have a goldfish bowl just enough to fit my head, and I dunk my head in it, which causes all the water to flush out, leaving the goldfish slapping themselves against my cheeks as they expire.
This is Indian culture!’
Take 3:
‘I work at a hospital morgue, and during autopsies, after everything is done and nobody’s looking, I gut the cadaver, remove the small and large intestines and squeeze out all the undigested food that was in the body when the person died.
This is Indian culture!’
Take 4:
‘I throw puppies from my balcony, just to see if they bounce.
They never do.
This is Indian Culture!’
Take 5:
‘I lick condom rims.
This is Indian Culture!’
… and so on, not even to mention things that could be out of Tom Green flick.
Basically, they’ve gone Web 2.0 on our collective asses (arses?), and are soliciting videos from people doing ‘something we love, something we think is definitely a part of Indian culture (and let no one dare disagree) – therefore allowing anything to fly. Further strength is added when stating ‘… shared culture. Not the fake, monolith, imaginary culture….. it is messy, complicated, wonderful. Each of us define Indian culture differently. No one is wrong, no one is more right.’
‘Hey, it’s my culture, and being Indian, it would be Indian culture.’
Just imagine the possibilities of deadpanning…
Take 1:
‘I live near a railway station, and often loiter around the area. People always seem to have change in their pockets, and when extracting their tickets or whatever from there, invariably drop change on the floor. Some notice, most don’t. I pick up the change on the floor and look towards the person, but I’ve never returned the change, unless they happen to finally notice and then ask.
But, I can’t spend it, or I just never have. I stare at the money, the not-quite-ill-gotten yet not honest gains, and feel guilty about it. I have a roll upon roll of lost change, a shrine to the cracks of the economy through which loose change slips through and vanishes.
This is Indian Culture!’
Take 2:
‘I have a goldfish bowl just enough to fit my head, and I dunk my head in it, which causes all the water to flush out, leaving the goldfish slapping themselves against my cheeks as they expire.
This is Indian culture!’
Take 3:
‘I work at a hospital morgue, and during autopsies, after everything is done and nobody’s looking, I gut the cadaver, remove the small and large intestines and squeeze out all the undigested food that was in the body when the person died.
This is Indian culture!’
Take 4:
‘I throw puppies from my balcony, just to see if they bounce.
They never do.
This is Indian Culture!’
Take 5:
‘I lick condom rims.
This is Indian Culture!’
… and so on, not even to mention things that could be out of Tom Green flick.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
projection. projectile?
> A, B and BullShitter in an auto. A and B discussing books, and turns to Big Brother.
BS: Big Brother? Where’s that from?
A: Er… 1984?
BS: 1984? That’s a book? Who’s it by?
A: Er… George Orwell?
BS: Oh, George Orwell is one of my favourite writers. I’ve read all his books. My favourite is Animal Farm. But I haven’t heard of this one… is it famous?
> I've just acquired a new toothbrush.
It’s not that I didn’t have one before, but now I have two.
I’ve decided that the best way to go about brushing my teeth twice a day is by having two separate brushes - one for the morning, and one for the night, rather than have the same brush wear out twice as fast, from being used twice a day.
However, seeing as how the night brush would be for a shorter time frame (something like 7-8 hrs of sleep) and also involve no ingestion of food, the night brush is a cheaper model than what the morning brush, which while on the face of it may seem like cutting corners, a rationalization for having two brushes instead of one.
But, should the night brush be the better one? While it’s for the night and the teeth will be brushed again in the morning, it is the night brush in fact which would be scrubbing at the oral waste accumulated over the course of the day, with the morning brush serving as ancillary to it, rather than the other way around…
Hm.
I have two different types of toothpaste too.
BS: Big Brother? Where’s that from?
A: Er… 1984?
BS: 1984? That’s a book? Who’s it by?
A: Er… George Orwell?
BS: Oh, George Orwell is one of my favourite writers. I’ve read all his books. My favourite is Animal Farm. But I haven’t heard of this one… is it famous?
> I've just acquired a new toothbrush.
It’s not that I didn’t have one before, but now I have two.
I’ve decided that the best way to go about brushing my teeth twice a day is by having two separate brushes - one for the morning, and one for the night, rather than have the same brush wear out twice as fast, from being used twice a day.
However, seeing as how the night brush would be for a shorter time frame (something like 7-8 hrs of sleep) and also involve no ingestion of food, the night brush is a cheaper model than what the morning brush, which while on the face of it may seem like cutting corners, a rationalization for having two brushes instead of one.
But, should the night brush be the better one? While it’s for the night and the teeth will be brushed again in the morning, it is the night brush in fact which would be scrubbing at the oral waste accumulated over the course of the day, with the morning brush serving as ancillary to it, rather than the other way around…
Hm.
I have two different types of toothpaste too.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
an evening with mouse on mars
Mouse on Mars to me is like the first Iron Maiden concert to the metal-heads of the city. Having such a band come to an accessible city was a first for me (sorry, Rolling Stones, but I got into you after going for the concert). Maybe one and a half, after Opeth. But still.
Unfortunately, while I was bouncing about in college after the news broke, surrounding reactions were muted, to put it mildly, when I breathlessly went ‘OMGOMGOMG MOUSE ON MARS ARE PLAYING. HERE!!’ – almost universally met with a ‘Eh? Huh? Who?’, or some variation thereof, which also dimmed my excitement a bit. Still, even with the show being scheduled right before my paper submissions, there was no way I was going to miss this show…
… which was exactly what I almost did when the person I was supposed to go with cancelled because of a prior engagement at a pizza place, after having waited for a bit to see if the dinner would end, eating into precious transport time. Standing on the pavement (with Lou Reed piped into my ears) and looking up and through the transparent glass, seeing him at the table with an animated American sharing Obama stories with them, I just had a horrible feeling about how the night was going to progress.
Further, Mysore Road was blocked because of some huge Hindu festival that had lots of people on the road even at midnight, causing a further diversion. This though was mitigated by a friendly Tamil-speaking auto driver who also had an honest metre installed.
Having missed the opening act (who were supposedly quite good), I went up the steps of Max Mueller Bhavan (a tinge of marijuana smoke in the air) to try and locate a couple of other people who I was supposed to meet at the venue, groping my way through the darkness of the hall (and unfortunately and unintentionally kind of brushing the bum of the same guy twice) which was waiting for the main act to take the stage.
Soon, the house lights came on. A remarkable (not surprising) number of Germans around – the only vaguely familiar faces I could make out were the drummer and guitarist of Lounge Piranha(s). I did briefly dally with going up to the drummer and introducing myself (I’d once called him cute in a rapist sort of way in some post; he emailed), but. It did make me wonder what they were up to, though. I miss watching them at Maya; live music ban be damned.
I found a friend/something I hadn’t seen for some time, and while chatting her up the other two people I was to locate also arrived, just in time for the band to take the stage. It may have been something in the air (and I could smell it), but I was slightly regretting that I was neither inebriated nor otherwise under the influence for the performance – which when told to the f/s, was met with ‘I am soooooo stoned.’ Knickers with yellow beer cans littered about.
And then the band came on.
They kicked off with a song (not sure of the title) which set the tone and the rhythm. Their drummer is a god. I was feeling all awkward and inadequate with a stuttering sway with hands in pockets, even as others danced around me. But, well, I was getting into it (sadly though, the other two weren’t quite getting into this kind of music, which dulled it slightly).
As I'm wont to do though, it was more fun watching the other people there. Lots and lots of Germans singing along, heavily (overheard - A: We're going out to smoke. B: Ok. A: And I don't mean cigs) drugged/slushed, frenetically swaying along. Up front, there were also a bunch of similarly clad women (strappy top, billowy coloured bottom, trinket-embroidered bag) swaying like hypnotic lemmings teetering on the edge, eyes closed in spiritual fervour, SLR camera in one hand with both paws held up. Most excellent noise, augmented by scrolling messages on the background that noone seemed to pay much attention to, and absolutely epilepsy-inducing lighting.
The sound was ear-shreddingly loud. I don’t mean intensity – the speakers were just so damn loud (up, up and way beyond 11) that pretty much every person was clutching their exposed ear halfway through the first song.
Once they started tearing through ‘Actionist Respoke’ (the vocals on that one always tickle me), and this is a song and a half in, mind you, the three of us were already feeling a little worn out, and retreated to the back – where the packed swayers give way to more spatially secure loose-limbed gyrations – before retreating downstairs at the end of the song.
The majority of the concert was spent on the steps leading up to the entrance, tickling a really cute brown dog (with completely soft skin). And we could still here the music clearly, if shorn of a little nuance. We headed back up in time for a ‘you’re a great audience’, but ducked out again after a few minutes to address practical considerations like beating the wave of auto-seeking people.
Even though I spent a substantial portion of the concert out of the hall, I can still fairly confidenly state that it was a really good concert - such was the volume. Yes, I admit that I'm probably not at all hardcore and this is what such a gig is about and all that. Please.
The band kicked absolute holistic ass, but it was a little peculiar that the ideal spot to experience the sound was probably on the landing halfway between the ground and first floor.
And, alas, they didn't play Subsequence.
Unfortunately, while I was bouncing about in college after the news broke, surrounding reactions were muted, to put it mildly, when I breathlessly went ‘OMGOMGOMG MOUSE ON MARS ARE PLAYING. HERE!!’ – almost universally met with a ‘Eh? Huh? Who?’, or some variation thereof, which also dimmed my excitement a bit. Still, even with the show being scheduled right before my paper submissions, there was no way I was going to miss this show…
… which was exactly what I almost did when the person I was supposed to go with cancelled because of a prior engagement at a pizza place, after having waited for a bit to see if the dinner would end, eating into precious transport time. Standing on the pavement (with Lou Reed piped into my ears) and looking up and through the transparent glass, seeing him at the table with an animated American sharing Obama stories with them, I just had a horrible feeling about how the night was going to progress.
Further, Mysore Road was blocked because of some huge Hindu festival that had lots of people on the road even at midnight, causing a further diversion. This though was mitigated by a friendly Tamil-speaking auto driver who also had an honest metre installed.
Having missed the opening act (who were supposedly quite good), I went up the steps of Max Mueller Bhavan (a tinge of marijuana smoke in the air) to try and locate a couple of other people who I was supposed to meet at the venue, groping my way through the darkness of the hall (and unfortunately and unintentionally kind of brushing the bum of the same guy twice) which was waiting for the main act to take the stage.
Soon, the house lights came on. A remarkable (not surprising) number of Germans around – the only vaguely familiar faces I could make out were the drummer and guitarist of Lounge Piranha(s). I did briefly dally with going up to the drummer and introducing myself (I’d once called him cute in a rapist sort of way in some post; he emailed), but. It did make me wonder what they were up to, though. I miss watching them at Maya; live music ban be damned.
I found a friend/something I hadn’t seen for some time, and while chatting her up the other two people I was to locate also arrived, just in time for the band to take the stage. It may have been something in the air (and I could smell it), but I was slightly regretting that I was neither inebriated nor otherwise under the influence for the performance – which when told to the f/s, was met with ‘I am soooooo stoned.’ Knickers with yellow beer cans littered about.
And then the band came on.
They kicked off with a song (not sure of the title) which set the tone and the rhythm. Their drummer is a god. I was feeling all awkward and inadequate with a stuttering sway with hands in pockets, even as others danced around me. But, well, I was getting into it (sadly though, the other two weren’t quite getting into this kind of music, which dulled it slightly).
As I'm wont to do though, it was more fun watching the other people there. Lots and lots of Germans singing along, heavily (overheard - A: We're going out to smoke. B: Ok. A: And I don't mean cigs) drugged/slushed, frenetically swaying along. Up front, there were also a bunch of similarly clad women (strappy top, billowy coloured bottom, trinket-embroidered bag) swaying like hypnotic lemmings teetering on the edge, eyes closed in spiritual fervour, SLR camera in one hand with both paws held up. Most excellent noise, augmented by scrolling messages on the background that noone seemed to pay much attention to, and absolutely epilepsy-inducing lighting.
The sound was ear-shreddingly loud. I don’t mean intensity – the speakers were just so damn loud (up, up and way beyond 11) that pretty much every person was clutching their exposed ear halfway through the first song.
Once they started tearing through ‘Actionist Respoke’ (the vocals on that one always tickle me), and this is a song and a half in, mind you, the three of us were already feeling a little worn out, and retreated to the back – where the packed swayers give way to more spatially secure loose-limbed gyrations – before retreating downstairs at the end of the song.
The majority of the concert was spent on the steps leading up to the entrance, tickling a really cute brown dog (with completely soft skin). And we could still here the music clearly, if shorn of a little nuance. We headed back up in time for a ‘you’re a great audience’, but ducked out again after a few minutes to address practical considerations like beating the wave of auto-seeking people.
Even though I spent a substantial portion of the concert out of the hall, I can still fairly confidenly state that it was a really good concert - such was the volume. Yes, I admit that I'm probably not at all hardcore and this is what such a gig is about and all that. Please.
The band kicked absolute holistic ass, but it was a little peculiar that the ideal spot to experience the sound was probably on the landing halfway between the ground and first floor.
And, alas, they didn't play Subsequence.
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