Sunday, August 31, 2008

What I talk about when I talk about being bed-ridden

Yes, you got it- I'm reading Murakami's What I talk about when I talk about running. Very inspiring, but can't even bend down to tie up sneaker-laces. The irony is I'm bed-ridden - yet again! This is the 9th time in my life that my back has packed up.

The first 7 times, I had to spend a couple of months in bed every damn year. Not so wonderful, I can assure you. Lots of chocolates have to be consumed to get a happy feeling, and calories only get burnt when you turn from this side to that. So say 5000 calories of chocs (hey, I was bloody miserable, I needed a massive dopamine high!) a day minus 3 or 4 calories from turning. Also, I was working then and all my leave was frittered away staring at the damn ceiling fan and wishing I were dead instead of just being dead bored. What's even worse is this- with all that time to do nothing, you think. And even if you become enlightened by all that thinking, all you really discover is that life stinks and nirvana is a damn good concept and hope it happens (to me) super fast!

The 8th time it happened, I went to yet another doc and discovered that, hello, the second coming has already come. This man, Dr. Vijay Sheel Kumar, is Jesus! He put me back on my feet within 48 hours- he made a bed-ridden woman walk again!!!!

Sadly, 5 years later, the problem is back (cheap pun) and Dr. Kumar's in Delhi, I'm in Mumbai, but Alexander Graham Bell has brought us together again. Medicines and physio precribed over the phone. Within 72 hours I'm going to be doing a Murakami- or else it's the ceiling fan again. Not staring at it but hanging from it. If I can stand up unaided, that is.
Only silver lining in my cloud of gloom: physiotherapist plays rock.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Ern Goon & Peter Griffin

Peter Griffin's organizing a godawful poetry fortnight, so if any of you want to participate or read godawful poetry (to feel better about your own outpourings) go to:
My humble contribution (below) is not my own work, though. It's by the best worst poet in the world: Ern Goon. Five Find-Outers & Dog- ring a bell?
This is the opening line of my fave pome by Ern: 'How sad to see thee, pore dead pig...'
For more of Ern's profound thoughts, go to:

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Wanna be a rock star

Heard Nickleback's I wanna be a rockstar. Enjoyed the lyrics, damn good fun, but the music stank. Not rock star enough! Then a few days later, I saw a promo for a film called Rock On, which I'm NEVER EVER EVER EVER going to see- unless someone in my family is kidnapped and that's the ransom price. It's by Farhan Akhtar- I've seen one of his movies (Dil Chahta Hai) and that's one too many. My extra large bag of popcorn doubled up as a barf bag. It wasn't even half-baked cool, more like a little less than quarter baked. I continue to hurl invectives at the person who dragged me to that @#$! movie, promising that it was super fun.
And while on the subject of movies, saw Miss Pettigrew Lives For A Day last night- way too many holes in the plot, but sweet nonetheless.

A little less over the top, puhleez!

Sheesh. Those news guys are giving us a bad name. Bold headlines and flashing breaking news alerts screaming 'India wins its biggest haul of medals at the Olympics!' Get real. we got three. Only 3. Commendable but nothing to shout about. Now the rest of the world probably thinks we're beyond belief pathetic, making a huge song and dance over a minor achievement. Why do we do this to ourselves?

One guy becomes CEO of Citibank, and then the papers are crammed with pictures of him as a baby, as a toddler, as a gawky, gangly, zit-infested teen, getting married, his first car, and his mummy and daddy smiling proudly (but of course). Man, I even know what his favourite dish is now!

Can't we learn to take success in our stride? I like sharp-shooter Abhinav Bindra for that reason alone. He's so laid-back about his gold medal- that's so damn cool! I only wish that the anecdote about him doing a William Tell on his maid when he was six was apocryphal. That sucks. Now if he'd placed an apple on a doting, willing grandparent's head for target practise, I'd have ruffled his hair. Goddammit, the TOI reporter put that dreadful politically and socially incorrect incident in the papers too- in a yucky, gushing, aw-wasn't-he-cute manner at that. Madness. Utter madness.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Aw Mush!

So Musharraf has finally, finally, finally quit. And he's off to Saudi Arabia, ha ha ha. Wonder if Mush will rent the very same house Sharif lived in during his years in exile. Too early to ask Nawaz Sharif for comments, I assume- he must have fainted with joy! But in his opinion, this has just got to be Nemesis. Sharon Stone would say it's karma- that is, if she has the courage to use that word again, after the howls of outrage over her dumb and insensitive remarks about the earthquake in China. Ah well, I'll miss Mush- he gave me so much comic material to work with.