The man with the toupee

...

He came to us, the excited man with the toupee. He came with his schemes and we snickered, he turned the other way and walked off like he'd heard nothing. He hung around for sometime, telling other people about his business plans. They laughed at him and he laughed with them. As it grew dark, he picked up his umbrella and slowly walked towards the nearest bus stop. After an hour of waiting he finally boarded bus no. 33 which took him to his tiny apartment. He climbed the stairs slowly, his legs protesting. He pushed open his apartment door to find that some water had seeped in through the cracked window and had soaked his couch which was right under it. He shuffled to the wet couch and sat down. It was the only form of bedding he could afford. His stomach growled but all the fridge had was a three month old apple. His walls were bare, like the hollow promises of visits. The paint peeling, like the withered dry skin of his hands holding the eviction notice. 

He got up, shuffled to the drawer, took out a revolver and pointed it to his head. He closed his eyes, his fingers shaking. He stood there for an hour willing his fingers to press the trigger, but they wouldn't. A tear rolled down his face as he lowered the gun. He tore off the toupee in disgust, his bald patch shining with sweat. The toupee lay there in despair, illuminated by the moonlight from the crack in the window. What had he done! He rushed to it and cradled it lovingly, apologising, to his only best friend.

Maybe tomorrow, somebody would listen to him and his brilliant plans.

Listen to the man with the toupee....

To family and increasing waistlines!

...

Now, we've never been one of those health conscious, athletic families. We like our food. And we like it wrapped in multiple slices of cheese.

 When my sister bought her boyfriend (now fiance) home, my parents weren't really concerned with the whole bringing home a boy aspect, what they were really concerned with was- if he was a vegetarian *oh shudder*? What exotic preparation of chicken will he like the best? Will he be effectively smothered by ten different kinds of vegetables? Will twenty blocks of butter be enough for five people!!?!!. So when he came, he understandably thought that they didn't like him very much, what with the trying to kill him by piling his plate with all that food with maniacal gleams in their eyes!.

We were never huggers or talkers. Whenever I or my sister were in the weepy, mopey moods, my mom would make endless cups of tea and dad would awkwardly wring his hands and then run away to the kitchen to whip up some kebabs. Hence we were conditioned into being happy eaters. When in doubt, eat.

Family functions would comprise of tables and tables groaning under platters and platters of food enough to feed a couple of third world countries and a cow. Even the most serious conversations are punctuated by "where are the samosas!". Each one of us is scrutinized by beady eyes ready to pounce if we looked like we'd lost some weight. My dad, when in a different country, would still make time to skype/call and tell  mom what he had to eat through the day. And then my mother would lovingly describe in detail what she was planning to make for the next meal.

Even now, when we've started cutting down on the fat, they've taken it as a challenge to break our diets. We would suspiciously find a plate of aloo ka paranthas dripping in butter next to our weakass looking health food. 

"Tea would arrive,

the cakes squatting on cushions of cream,

toast in a melting shawl of butter,

cups agleam and a faint wisp of steam rising from the teapot shawl."

— Gerald Durrell (My Family and Other Animals)

It.

...

So there we were.

I and IT. Like old times.
It had done it again and was devastated about it.
I snickered to myself.
It's tears diluted my drink in an appalling way.
I  refilled.
It looked for comfort.
I had smart alecky unfunny comments.
It asked why again?
I shrugged.
It shattered it's glass. Like it was itself.
I picked up a piece and killed it.
It slept, in peace now.
I woke up.

Parts

Written words which mess with my head

Elegant fingers on the fretboard

Uncalculated gestures

Possessive consciousness

Perfect harmonies

Exhilarated laughter

Inebriated clarity

Familiar scents

Easy smiles

I love in parts and fragments,

it's comfortable.

and frustrating.

We've all been there!

...                                                                           



All my near and dear ones (and most of the human population, four legged animals, rocks)  know that I love Alex Band and spend an unnatural amount of time obsessing about him. Even when he suddenly disappears from the scene now and then to marry random women and make bad vampire videos. If the family allows, I would paint the ceiling with that beautiful face of his. But more on the crazy stalker obsession later.

I almost cried when I heard his new album today. One, because it was like coming home. Two, because man. Just because.

But apart from that, the album is...so Alex. It's a peek into his life, with each song taking you through everything he's been through. Each telling a story of the love lost, found, the personal and professional struggle. Which is understandable as he's put everything in this album- passion, house, cars, shitloads of money.

 The song which stands out in We've all been there, has to be Please. The Melody, harmonies, everything hits you individually. He is the same brilliant Alex that crooned wherever you will go.

Another one of my favorites is Without you. So here's the thing, his lyrics, though horribly cliched, still work beautifully! His voice, with those lovely guitars can still work the old magic.

Will not back down, starts with a lovely piano piece and continues throughout the song. The lyrics are strong and make an impact.

Never let you go, holding on, love, are all absolutely beautiful, calming songs. I love how he's not tried to be something more than he is. A pop rock love songs singer. Nothing more, nothing less.

I can hear you
Call my name
Sitting beside me
Like a burning flame...

Leave (Today is the day), is one the most touching songs in the album. It's so much more than just a goodbye song. It's where he cuts of all the strings of his past and starts anew. Probably with his old Record Label. Er.

I didn't like Cruel (feat. chantal) very much. It sounds very clubby, like it's just put in for commercial reasons. Seems like something Enrique would do.

The album ends with Start over again, it begins with soft arpeggios, his voice washes over you and then slowly builds up with violins in the background, explodes towards the middle and then ends just as it started. A perfect end to the album.  

It's his comeback album as a solo artist and it sounds like him asking for another chance after that terribly long hiatus.

But then,

We've all been there...

  

Beautifully Tangled...

  ...     

     

Flynn: Alright blondie.

Rapunzel: Rapunzel.

Flynn : Gesundheit.

There are good movies, and then there are the absolute wonders that are them Disney movies. Though admittedly, I was pretty disappointed with Tangled at first because of the shoddy random end. Or so I very critically arty fartily thought. But then like all other Disney movies, it grew on me and just when I was least expecting it, it hit me, as they always do, in all it's happy technicolor glory.


Rapunzel: Who's that?

Flynn: They don't like me.

Rapunzel: Who's that?

Flynn: They don't like me either.

Rapunzel: And who's that?

Flynn: Let's just assume for the moment that everyone in here doesn't like me!

Tangled is the updated  Rapunzel story. Instead of a prince, there's a self obsessed, obnoxious thief. I presume Disney's finally taking a shot at being realistic. Sappy princes so don't work anymore man. Give us bad, sarcastic, rude with a 5 o' clock shadow and we're a puddle of drool. I'm pretty sure the Disney wives were involved in the making.

Rapunzel: Who are you, and how did you find me?

Flynn: [clears throat] I know not who you are, nor how I came to find you, but may I just say... Hi. [cocky grin] How you doin'?

I really don't understand the flak that it's been getting. So Disney's been on this twisted fairy tales spree (Also read, Princess and the frog), but so what?! They're still those lovely Disney movies which envelop you in a bubble and leave you smiling for days after. A happy bubble which floats above all the mopeyness and the brokeness and the angstyness. I chose Tangled over equally, probably awesomer, 127 hours, but I'm glad I did. Because sometimes, when all else fails, all you need is some Disney to get by.

Flynn: I didn't want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. Here comes the smolder.

So here's to the frying pan, which does everything but fry.

Yesterday...

I wrote a song after 6 months. I could tell my baby was happy, seemed like it was playing itself.

I was happy and then I was not.

The cat killed Mr. Beanbag and Mr. left sneaker. Pity mr beanbag, but mr left sneaker's demise means shopping. I hate shopping. I'm usually the pile of bags trailing behind the mother and the sister.

But I like shoes, so maybe I will go. And bags. And second hand books.

I like second hand books because they all have a different musty smell. It gives them a personality.

Suchi was right. The beach was theraputic. But it's so much more.

Sometimes, I shouldn't be allowed to talk to people. It's just a lot of self destruction and them destruction. Most of the time.

No matter how much I try, I can never be a cappuccino person. I will always be the expresso person, who puts too much of sugar for it to be anything else but liquid sugar.

And then it was today. I was happy again.

It comes in waves...

Random life ramblings are my blogright and hence, I shall ramble

...

I am in dire need of a plan.

A plan with which I can hit the dejected me on the head. And also from time to time, throw at my ever so inquisitive old and withering relatives. A goggles wearing, one liners hitting, leather jacket and hat wearing plan. A plan so monumental that it makes all the minute seemingly inconsequential things come together and for friggin once, fit. A plan which in all it's Dalai Lameness, makes sense.

Surprise me Mr. Davis, has surprisingly manage to surprise.

What an absolutely refreshing band that. Their music doesn't sound like the imperfectly orchestrated, edited, reedited, misplaced effects filled music that the world's subjected to these days. It just sounds like the bunch of them came together one wintry evening and started jamming over some beers and pot. It's been six years since their formation and they still don't give a chipmunk's behind about fitting in with the rest of the music community or carving a niche for themselves and all that jazzy bull.

Why isn't Alex Band coming up with something awesome anymore?

I mean, it HAS been a whole gaping YEAR since Alex goodness. That Twilight inspired vampire video has ruined the remaining last vestiges of his career which his ex wife and ex guitarist hadn't managed to rip apart, castrate (read wife), destroy. Anyway, how can he expect us t-shirt ripping, maniacally giggly, stalker fans to still rip t shirts, giggle and stalk if he doesn't hit us with anything new and awesome. Those charity bracelets don't count. If charity made us swoon we'd have pictures of Mother Teresa (may she RIP) in our rooms instead of his bare chested ones. Absolutely inconsiderate, I say.

Such ripping hunks in Grey's Anatomy!

If my parents, during their early years of trying to persuade me into choosing between Doctor and engineer, had introduced me to Grey's Anatomy, it would've been easier for them to get me to become a neurosurgeon or something and I wouldn't have had to refer to spell check while trying to spell Neurosurgeon. But no, they introduced me to gory pictures and unpronounceable words and ended up with a daughter who has no idea what to do with life and such.

If Maneka Gandhi and her animal rights association would visit us, they would probably arrest the cat.

Life was less painful when I was a dog person. And I mean literally less painful. She bites, she scratches, tries to gauge our eyes out. There are scratches in places where there just shouldn't be scratches or ANYTHING else. This new years eve when the world hugged and kissed and what not their near and dear ones, I was out on the streets CHASING the bloody cat, who had decided that 12 am on the New year's eve was an opportune moment to run away. And it so happens that she's named Brandy. So there I was, at midnight, screaming BRANDY and running around in circles. Yes, not very ladylike at all. One of these days...

More to come.

Happy new year peeps :)