To glam rock.

Spandex so tight.

Like the solos and the girls

the lead guitarist dreams of.

Cream.

Profound.

She laughed gleefully as he bled out,

Redder than the lipstick mark on his flannel

Screaming, writhing, dying in agony

I changed the channel. 

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 :)

Into the moonlight he staggers 

In drunken haze                        

A dagger through his breast

            To her.

                                 

                                                She sits by the window
                                                Dreaming of tomorrow
                                                Happy chandeliers in her ears

                                                         He promised.

Amidst autumn leaves

He kissed her feverishly

Caressing worries away

     Wait for me.           

                                                                                        His hand found hers

                                                                                        In the crowd           

                                                                                        Shy stolen glances     

                                                                                                 Love...                                                                                     

                                             

       Rustle of skirts

       He turned to see her

       pretty hair swinging

           He smiled

                                                                             An enigmatic smile

                                                                             Through searing eyes

                                                                             Passionate soundless music

                                                                                 She blushed...

                   

Hatful of rain

Ok firstly, I'm so psyched about Kartik discovering them that I actually have goosebumps everywhere. There is no other way I can describe how awesome they are. A week ago, he sent me Always the last to know. I heard and liked it and that was it. But today I downloaded the whole Hatful of rain album and I'm so friggin, friggin blown away!. They're a scottish pop rock eighties band, and I'm sure half the teeny boppy population's heard it. But I still want to write about them, because that's how awesome they are...to be re-written about through years.

It's everything you want an album to be, whenever you want it to be. A rainy day album, a love album, a break up album, a nostalgic album, a how you doin' album, and so much more. Every song is not just a song, it's an experience. Currie (lead vocals, bass), with his smooth voice and Iain Harvie (lead guitar), form a brilliant team.

The Hatful of rain starts with 'Cry to be found'. Now when I first heard this one, I didn't particularly like it. But after the third time I heard it, I liked it. It's simple, it's cliched and yet, it works.

The album picks up with the second track,  Roll to me. It's one of my favorites and I'm pretty sure that we've all heard it at some point of our lives. It's a happy dancy song, and such a cheer up-er, even when you're not depressed.

Next is another of my favorites, Kiss this thing goodbye. Now this is apparently a break-up song, but also a funny one. I love the way they've used the instruments in this song. The music is so...scottish and bagpipey. Iain is, as always, quite awesome.

'It seems like weeks since you looked at me baby

without that look of distaste...'

 Driving with the brakes on, a hauntingly beautiful song, strikes a chord. For me it's about how there are somethings you can never move on from. Relationships, incidents, some seemingly offhand remarks, loss. No matter how ok and over it you say you are, you're still driving with the brakes on.

Tell her this is a beautiful, beautiful song. Though I can't make up my mind if it's love song or an apology song. But it's one of the most beautiful songs you will ever hear. It'll touch you right where it's meant to and make you wish all apologies were just as beautiful as this. Also, the lovely acoustic guitar in the background makes it perfect.

The album ends with Don't come home too soon, which was incidently written by Justin Currie as Scotland's World Cup '98 Theme. And a perfect theme it is. It inspires you, in the fear of sounding corny, to chase your dreams and to be yourself. But sometimes, corny, is what you need to be inspired.

So long, go on and do your best,

Let all France have whiskey on it's breath,

The world may not be shaking yet

but you might prove them wrong,

Even long shots make it...

Hatful of rain is not a good album. It's a great album. Go ahead, give it a listen.

Writing on the bench...

You know how you used to doodle stuff on your bench during those soporific lectures, where you would try to stab yourself in the eye with a pen just to make things more interesting?...Yeah, those. The scribbles ranged from the initials of your crush to the lyrics of some random emo song which you thought described your love life the best then. A couple of days back I stumbled upon the bench which I had sat on last year and found my doodles along with hundreds of other people's. There was my name (obviously) amongst a million of others, a line from open your eyes, which somebody had cut and written "jagya rulessss" on (....eeeyeah..), then there was a head, which looked like cross between the hulk and C3PO, but I guess that was the beauty of that head, it's non resemblance to any sort of living being, which gave people the license (creative of course) to label it as whichever professor/ girl/boy/backstreet boy they disliked the most. Then there were those doodles which were a constant fixture at every table, like the summer of 69' lyrics (always, always that one), a lot of ansty f***k yous and f***k off (for no apparent reason), a group of names with 'we rule/ rock' written all around them, a something which at a certain angle looks like a hand giving the finger, the sprinking of 'Zzzzzzzzzs' all over the bench, and names and more names, squeezed in everywhere.

It made me realize those scribbles on the benches are probably the best documentation of our growing up memories. Not the pretty pictures or grainy videos, not the drawing books filled with crayon scribbles, not the dusty Enid Blytons and Nancy Drews lying forgotten among the crisp Asimovs and Sheldons...It's those absent minded doodles...

Of zig zags and spirals,

and little stars and birds.

Of tiny hearts and sad songs,

and disconnected words...

Them hormones...

Cupid’s stuck that pointy thing of his, laced with dollops of love, lust and stupidity, in your rear end, yet again. Hell that’s what you attended college for. You float around like an albatross on a summer cloud, with the name of your current love stuck in your head like the omnipresent winter phlegm. That’s where reason deserts you, while you in turn desert classes.

The corridors swarm with more hopefuls like you, hoping to catch a glance of their prospective love interest. Animal Planet says that most animals groom themselves to stand out when they go mate hunting. Male peacocks ruffle up their pretty plumes; felines lick themselves to swanky shininess. The brightest and the shiniest one gets the prize!.Colleges are no different from any African forests. Females dress themselves in bright yellow and oranges, and splash on dollops of perfume, smelling sickly sweet and flick and swish their newly straightened hair, to catch the correct light, which will dazzle the opposite sex to fatal attraction or blindness, whatever comes first.

Males, the hypothetically superior sex, are not far behind. Oh no. They come with pointy shoes; they come with full wallets, even if it means they have to go without their usual liver massacring dose of cigarettes for a whole month, just so that they can take their lady friends to the places which overcharge for fancy lighting. They come with purpose and overconfidence bordering of irritating cockiness, throwing age old pick up lines like there’s no tomorrow.

All in all, its another a normal day at college, which is nothing less than a battle. The fittest shall survive, while the weak ones are forced to retreat into the confines of the classes.

Two different lives...

                                    

I've always wanted to lead multiple lives, not like Hannah Montana multiple, but something like Bruce Wayne multiple. But then of course, that’s not going to happen soon. However, I realized that I, in a weird way, AM leading two lives. One in Mumbai, with the college, and the people. And the other on the weekends, in Pune, with good food and mum and dad and the old friends. Though it might not be the superhero costume, dismembering bad guys, flying off buildings two lives. But in a way, it’s as...contrasting as that.

Mumbai, with its anticipation of what new crap is going to hit you the next day. Actually looking forward to the same. The taste of sweet success...bitter failure. The anticipation. The wonderment of surviving another day. Having to do your own dishes. Realizing that mum and dad had made cooking look so easy, when it actually is the most difficult thing in the world. Meeting completely different kind of people who have completely different tastes and ways from the kind you're used to. Being friends with them. Playing my baby in the wee hours of the morning, thinking that maybe...just maybe, I'll make it.

It's different in Pune. The tranquility, the serious life discussions with my food obsessed family amongst the clatter of dishes...

"Where are you planning to do your summer internship from?...chicken in dinner?......I hope you're studying enough...needs some more salt no?....which colleges are you applying for?... eat! you've stopped eating after moving out....I hope you're being safe in Mumbai....there was this new recipe on T.V with cashews and..."

The reminiscing of the old days with old friends, about how we never thought that we'd be like the way we turned out, doing things we never thought we will, but somehow knew we would. Planning endless trips which we know that are never going to happen anytime soon. Swapping stories of the most recent guy / girl interest. Eventually ending up at someone's place with a bowl of Maggi and that lovely warm feeling spreading to the tips of your toes, knowing that whatever happens they'll always be there with a shoulder and a steaming cups of tea and Maggi.

"I'm livin' two different lives, dividin' my time..."

Oh sweet lord! He can hammer-on!

Sometime back, this friend of mine sent me this video by the College humor guys, who by the by make the funniest videos ever, in which this guy was explaining that how playing or teaching guitar can help you score girls. I saw, I laughed and then disagreed hotly and fed my friend all that crap about how we girls aren't that shallow and how it's the personality we actually go for yada yada. But the fact of matter is that the ugliest of men with a guitar in their hands, get more girls than any college jock with a six pack body can. Sure they can gym and gym and get all those rippling muscles. But a puny guy with a simple strum and a hammer-on can send every girl in the vicinity in a frenzy which no amount of steroid induced packs will. Not drummers, not keyboardists, it's just the guitarists.

Every girl has a type of man she prefers, tall/ short, skinny/ fat, dark/ fair etc. But there's a universal type of men which no girl can resist, the long haired, tattooed, guitar playing type. The type who sit in dark corners of the campus strumming away, seemingly uninterested in what the rest of the world's upto. The type who roam around unshaven, with uncombed and messy hair, in clothes which seem like they've been through a holocaust or two. The type who make you toes curl when they play and sing and still manage to look manly. The type who make you wish that you were the guitar their hands that they're so into. The type who speak though their music and wouldn't even look at you.

One would think that knowing how to play yourself would make you immune to all these things. But sadly, the world doesn't work that way. It's in our genes. The way chocolates and chick flicks makes us go weak, it's an inbuilt primal thing, like bees and honey or kids and poops jokes or superman and kryptonite. But then...who's complaining eh?

Below are the links for the videos. They'll crack you up.

Vol. 1

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5QCs3PnQBc

Vol. 2

http://www.youtube.com/user/collegehumor#p/u/3/Q0Frja3_q3E

My In between...

My shifting to Mumbai and leaving the dentist behind in Pune, inevitably makes me travel to Pune and back almost twice a month. Now, I really don't like traveling, but in a weird way I have come to look forward to my fortnightly journeys. They are the one thing that is constant in my life. I mean, I know that I will hate the movie they show, I know that I will judge the person sitting next to me by the book he or she's reading, I know that the view WILL take my breath away even though I see it every month, I know that the bus will invariably be late. And that for some reason comforts me.

Somewhere between Mumbai and Pune is a dingy Neeta volvo inn where my bus always stops. It's like any other random Inn, Nobody talks to anybody, they eat and pee and go their own way. It is at that inn I sit with a bottle of pulpy orange, listening to the hardly ever played music on my phone and contemplate on things bothering me the most. The other day as I was telling a friend about it, it struck me about how important the place was for me. It's my in between transition place, where I'm neither in Mumbai nor in Pune, one of those places where there's no cell phone network, one of those places where I'm truly alone without Mumbai or Pune calling me. It's where I've taken the most life altering decisions. Every time I leave that place, I leave as a more collected and happier person. When I went there this time, I had a lot of things bothering me, but as soon as I sat on one of those rickety plastic chairs with my pulpy orange I knew exactly what to do. It's the place where I get my shit back together and that's what makes it awesome.

P.S – Yes, the picture IS of the inn. No, I don't know why I took it.

.

I love rock n' roll...And also, chick songs.

                                   

A couple of days ago while browsing through my music, I stumbled upon my long forgotten Chick Songs folder wedged in between Nirvana and Creed. Joan Jett, Britney spears, Avril Lavigne, Rihanna, Kelly Clarkson, Shakira, the works. So my week was spent on Piece of me, Complicated, underneath your clothes et all and I have to say...I was pretty psyched. It reminded of the days when I wanted get that trippy tattoo Joan has (still do), or write clinically depressed songs like Avril and thought I was at the height of cooldom cause I could sing I love rock and roll word to word. Albeit off key, yes, but the point is I grew up on them (along with the boy band association of course) and they've all influenced me in some twisted way or other. Musical finesse was never an issue back then, the trashier the better.

Anyway, I played them all back to back, over and over again and now I can't stand them anymore. It's like you sit next to a cute guy and you're happy and shit, but then you fall asleep and drool all over him. Yeah I know, it's quite a bad simile, but hell it sure is true. They're fun for sometime, you bop around, be happy, but then after a while you feel like throwing babies and kittens off cliffs and watching the Saw series. But I am pretty fond of them. I also have no idea as to why I call them Chick songs, considering I too am, well...a chick. However, you can never really say that you're over chick songs. They're always with you. One moment you're worshiping them, and then suddenly they became lame you're dissing them and then after a time comes a point when you're bored with good music and you put them on and dance along like a crazy octopus.

Oh Lurve!

"I think I'm falling in love with him" she said, in the midst of bopping around to some chick song.

"Eh?" I said. 'Eh?' I thought.

That made me think. A lot.

What is this love all about?

So I wrote a trashy song,

and played it all night long.

How do they know if it's love or plain ol' infatuation?

Why put yourselves in such a sticky situation?

It's all sad poetry and depression,

or just a way to get some action.

I know I can't rhyme for nuts,

cold cuts, huts and walnuts.

Sue me if you dare

And see if I care.

I know people who fall in love twice a week

Their future does look a little bleak.

They thrive on it like centipedes in my drain

Oh lord! Will they ever use their brains!

They mope and dope during fights and break-ups,

but wouldn't have it any other way.

Just some minor hiccups,

with unfailing confidence they say.

It's like food and water to them

Like that omnipresent winter phlegm

Rippling muscles and pretty pouts

What is all that hype about?.

I know people, who love multiple others,

One wonders if they need blinkers.

Desperation?. I think not.

All they need is to smoke some pot.

Without love their hearts are barren,

I'm sure it has its perks.

Here's when I quote Woody Allen,

and say whatever works.

Of the heaving bosoms and enigmatic sheikhs...

                                       

...

I've been dying to write this one, but hadn't written it yet in the fear of losing the pathetically small number of readers that I have. But you know what? Screw it.

My tryst with these books originally started by me ridiculing every aspect of them. I still do. However, curiosity won over too much sappiness induced nausea, and I read a couple of them. Next thing I knew was that the curiosity had turned into a grudging liking. Now, I won't claim to be a romantic, because I'm really not. I'm actually quite a bumbling baboon when it comes to the matters of heart. But that doesn't mean that I do not indulge in an occasional fantasy about running away to Florence and meeting a great guy who will wax endless poetry on my bushy hair and equally bushy eyebrows. But that's another story for another random post.

Harlequin, silhouette, they all have the same basic idea. The heroine, aged 18-20, is somewhat clever, almost always an orphan, which lends sympathy (and frees the woman from family obligations), thin (lithe, petite, athletic, you pick), never has bad hair days, even in extreme humidity, and is possessed with the ability to look stunning in any situation. The hero is significantly older, aged 30-40, enigmatic, 'with cool, soul searing eyes' (for some reason, the hero's eyes are always described in degrees of temperature, cool, warm, cold, you get the idea.), 'strong, rough hands' (to grope effectively? to snap the female's neck if she gets too clingy? break rocks?), he is often the heroine's employer. The couple marry or, if already husband and wife, settle their differences and make a better start.

Also, they have the cheesiest lines ever invented. For example,

"Oh Mitch! Devour me!" Maggi (2 minutes noodles) to Mitch

"I will...only if you promise to devour me first" Mitch to Maggi (noodles? no?)

teehee!

You see my point. They seem like characters from the third world countries, who haven't had a good square meal in days.

But, even with the most horrifying pick lines, hilarious titles (Forcefully married, Ruthlessly bedded...it really exists, no shit) and soporific, predictable plots, they still manage to hook you. You know what's going to happen in the end, but you still can't put them down. You know why?.

It's those happy endings.

Everybody loves happy endings because they seldom occur in real life. Real life's ugly, escapism, good. We read mills n boons and co. not for the story, but for that last page when the hero draws the heroine into his arms and tells her that they're going to be ok. We all want someone to tell us that it's going to be ok, to have our problems solved, to basically have that happy ending.

So yeah, I still read them occasionally, smuggling them inside some critically acclaimed bestseller. You know you do too.