Eh?

Live

2008-01-10T16:38:00.001+05:30

I wrote this a year ago after attending my first (and hopefully not my last) Pearl Jam concert. For some reason, I forgot to post it. What can I say? My short term memory sucks.

Here goes:

It took five months of meticulous planning, thirteen hours on a plane watching ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ three times (Gaah!), and an unmentionable amount of whining to get my ass here, outside the Sydney Acer Arena. In just a few minutes, the greatest live rock band in the world is going to blow my mind. Bring it on, I say.

We hurry inside, wading through the endless sea of Pearl Jam fans. The opening act, Kings of Leon are playing to a half empty stadium. Don’t get me wrong, they’re quite good. In food terms, I would say they’re kind of like banana fritters. Yummy when had alone. But not when followed by a big, fat, juicy steak, you know what I’m saying?
So they politely sing to a bunch of empty chairs and insist we’re the best crowd they’ve ever played for. Hello? Were you playing inside an elevator till now?

Suddenly, Eddie Vedder (gasp!) shows up during their last song and bangs two tambourines together. After which, the Kings of Leon make a hasty exit. Finally!
The lights come on, and during the next fifteen minutes, the stadium gets PACKED with all kinds of people. Right from the ten year olds to the 30 year olds to the white hair year olds.

And after an uncountable amount of Mexican waves (which was fun) and a couple of beach balls thrown around the stadium (which was funnier) the lights finally go off.
A scowling Vedder, armed with his guitar, makes his way on stage. (Ahhh that trademark scowl) He slowly begins to strum the first few chords of Better Man. And 20,000 voices start singing the first lines hopelessly out of tune, while he, you know, scowls.

“Waiting. Watching the clock it’s four o’clock it’s got to stop….”

And then, THE voice fills the stadium. While Jeff Ament, Stone Gossard, Mike McCready and Matt Cameron seamlessly join in.

The power packed Animal and Worldwide Suicide (my favourite song on the new album) heat things up, and perfectly sane people begin to thrash around like lobsters in a boiling pot. Corduroy gives way to Severed Hand (undoubtedly my favourite song on the new album) Given To Fly, Green Disease and I Am Mine are next.
By now, the crowd is insane. It doesn’t really help that everyone’s smashed. Especially Mr. Vedder. Who takes time out to make out with his wine bottle every now and then. (This might be a good time to point out that the Acer Arena is well equipped with 11 bars. And I’m not talking about the ones you can hum.)

In between sips, Vedder starts talking about a homeless man named Ben. An earthquake erupts at the word ‘homeless’. It’s time for Even Flow.

‘Freezing. Rests his head on a pillow made of concrete.’

The entire crowd is head banging so hard, it’s a wonder there aren’t any decapitated skulls rolling around. Towards the middle of the song, Matt Cameron launches into this brilliant, brilliant drum solo. You can hardly see his hands move. I’m still shocked an arm didn’t fly off and land on a hysterical fan’s lap.
Meanwhile, Vedder decides the crowd isn’t drunk enough for his liking and proceeds to top up the glasses in the front row with his wine bottle.

The solo ends to a thundering applause and Vedder takes over again, furiously belting out the last chorus to end the song. I don’t know what that man is on, but I sure want some of it.
They play Marker in the Sand and Gone (definitely my fav songs on the new album) And after that…

‘You guys ready…
Alone… Listless... Breakfast table in an otherwise empty room…’

…It’s time for Daughter. Which ends with an unexpected chorus of Midnight Oil’s Beds are burning.

Griveance, Comatose (my favourite song on the new album) and the classic Rearviewmirror are up next. I think I just died and went to rock heaven. Ahhhh….what a way to go.

The lights come on as the band staggers off stage. Followed by the longest five minutes of my life. Come back quick, you guys, am not getting any younger.

It’s time for the first encore. A visibly drunk Vedder is back. This time, he introduces us to his good friend, Luke the Ukulele. I don’t know how high you have to be to say ‘Hey Luke, how’s it hanging?’ But the bunch of fans behind me were up to the mark.

The first encore line up is as follows. Soon Forget, Inside Job (fav song. New album. You know the drill)

Hearts and thoughts they fade away… ah yes, the superb Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A Small Town begins.

And then they play Last Kiss. Mmmmmmm….gimme a minute….mmmmmm…what wouldn’t I give to spread him on a cracker…

The song ends. And then it happens. Fifty nuclear bombs explode. 10,000 lightening bolts strike. 20,000 voices reach all time high pitch. The first chords to Alive are played.

“Son….she said….Have I got a little story for you…what you thought was your daddy…was nothing but a…”

Poor Vedder doesn’t stand a chance, as the crowd screams its drunken little heart out. There are no words to define the experience of listening to Alive live. Mike McCready and Stone Gossard were frigging fantastic on the guitars! As for bassist Jeff Ament and Matt Cameron, really, I bow before thee…oh Gods of rock.

Time for another break. Me thinks they’re off to get energy injections up their butts. No way can a bunch of 40 year olds touring since April jump around on stage like that.

‘At home…drawing pictures of mountain tops…with him on top’

Jeremy has spoken. As the band plays, a bunch of drunken boys are sobbing their eyes out as they hold on to each other for dear life…down boys, relax, it’s only a song…will console you once I stop having this epilepsy fit, ok?

The turbo charged Lukin and Do the evolution follows. As the man howls away, I wonder if he was born with an extra set of vocal chords by any chance? Mine, by now, are irreversibly damaged. Ah hell, don’t think I’ll really need them after tonight.

In true Vedder style, he does take time out occasionally to preach a little about his political ideology. Well, he could read out the yellow pages loudly and I’ll still be vigorously nodding my head in full support.

I Got You and Smile are up next. With Vedder on the harmonica (oh lucky, lucky harmonica)…hey you know…I play one too…well, I own one…wait, I think I lost it. But I still have the box it came in, does that count?

Suddenly, all the lights come on…and the band does a phenomenal cover of Neil Young’s Rocking in the free world.

Vedder even calls a 12 year old-ish boy on stage and gives him one of the tambourines to pound on. The poor boy barely has time to register the fact that he’s on stage when Vedder scoops him up, puts him on his shoulders and maniacally runs around on stage for a good two minutes. Listen carefully little boy, after this, everything in life will be a disappointment. EVERYTHING.

The beautiful Yellow Ledbetter is the last and final song. It’s over. The band does one last bow and they’re off.

I quietly bury my vocal chords under my seat and limp back home.

Wait a minute, did I just see Pearl Jam Live?????

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Not with 'it' anymore

2007-02-24T15:29:00.000+05:30

I don’t wear make-up these days. I scratch my chin and eyes way too many times.

My moisturizer is for practical purposes only. You know, to avoid the cracks in my heels from widening.

I hate nightclubs that play loud and annoying thumping music. And the very thought of fitting my ass into a two-sizes-too-small skirt and my feet into a Chinese torture device some insist on calling stilettos is Freddy Krueger-ripping-your-heart-while-he’s-making-those-weird-noises scary.

Plus I’d rather read a good book.

These ‘kids today’ listen to what can only be called electronically manufactured crap. Why in my time, we listened to real music. Sigh. I miss grunge.

Come to think of it, I listen to bands where the collective age of all members is too embarrassing to reveal.

Fashion for me is something that's loose, airy and doesn't make me scratch myself in weird places.

I don’t understand Ashton Kutcher. I feel like walking up to him and saying, “Hey kid, get a haircut.”

I like going to bed at a respectable hour. Or around the time I pass out watching TV. Which ever comes first.

Big capitalistic corporations no longer aim all their advertising at me.

I'm just two beers away from shaking my fist at 19-year-olds and shouting 'You stupid kids...get out of my way'.

Seriously, I think the younger generation is going to the dogs. Why in my time…

Exercising was never this tough. Every time I reach down to touch my toes, I realize it’s really not worth coming all the way up since I’ll be back down here anyways.

So I’ve made my peace with all my body parts that are having a torrid affair with gravity.

The sad bit is, I’m only 27 years old.

Oops got to go. It’s bingo night at the community centre.

I'm it?

2006-12-14T08:18:00.000+05:30

Iz has tagged me, and well, I don’t have the heart to tell her we’re not 3 anymore (or are we???…I get so confused) so will play along.

Here are 5 things most people don’t know about me.

5) I am mortally scared of paperwork. If I’m ever captured by an enemy spy and they place a 20 page government form in triplicate before me…it’ll be enough to make me go “Ok I’ll talk, I’ll talk. I’ll do anything just get that thing away from me…AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH”

4) I’m terrified of drowning. Sometimes, I have this recurring nightmare about tidal waves. Even the pool of water collecting below my shower is enough to give me the heebie jeebies. Look, I’m bloody short, ok?

3) I’ve got the laziest bowels in the world. The bastards just won’t move. I’ve tried buying them flowers, singing hopelessly off key, promising not to eat refined carbohydrates (Ha ha gotcha!)…anything that helps me do time in the bathroom.

2) This next bit isn’t a secret anymore thanks to a certain Mr. Dias, but I’m going to come clean. It’s true I wash my toothbrush with soap before using it. Hey, things could’ve crawled on it at night. Things could’ve emptied their bowels on it at night. Hell, things could be sleeping on it WHILE I’m brushing my teeth. I’m not taking any chances.

1) My weight is…oh right, like I’m really going to give that number out. Dream on.

Tagging everyone in my links list. Get to work people. Chop chop.

In Sydney, I:

2006-12-02T09:59:00.000+05:30

1) Shamelessly drooled outside restaurants that sold crab claws.

2) Feverishly muttered the words ‘crab claws’ in my sleep.

3) Ate a lot of crab claws. (You knew that was coming, right?)

4) Prayed I’d never get full.

5) Discovered the joys of a sushi train. Where unlimited sushi is passed around on a conveyer belt. However, I skipped the belt and grabbed the sushi directly out of the chef’s hands. Poor bastard never saw me coming.

6) Made a lot of Chinese mothers very nervous. In my defense, all I did was say, ‘Cute baby. How much?’

7) Tried to smuggle out a Koala bear but the guards realized I wasn’t pregnant when I first entered the zoo. Hey, in my defense, they looked a lot like Chinese babies with excess fur.

8) Got a ball of paper thrown at me by a bunch of fans during the Pearl Jam concert. Just because I distracted them by shrieking and jumping around like a woman possessed. Yeah sure, if Eddie Vedder does it, he gets paid.

9) Almost drowned in the ocean. You see, I was hit by a giant wave. Ok, it wasn’t all that enormous. Wasn’t really big either. Fine, it was all of two feet. Are you happy now?

10) Walked and walked for miles without ever saying the words, ‘Are we there yet?’

11) Had a frigging blast! (Thank you, Deepa and Michael.)

It is time

2006-11-14T11:26:00.000+05:30

Bags packed. Legs waxed. Swimsuit bought. Tickets confirmed. Bags unpacked. Eye liner missing. Books bought. Ipod loaded. Nails bitten. Nerves frazzled. Back of closet cleaned (Ooooh found eye liner). Bags lying wide open. Hair dryer packed. Hair dryer unpacked (Husbands can be so cruel). Last minute butt crunches left half way. Goodbyes exchanged. Mothers hugged. Bags locked for good this time.

Am off to see the Rock Gods in Oz.

Be still my thumping heart.

Humph

2006-11-02T11:53:00.000+05:30

There’s this old, Gujarati gentleman who insists on sneaking up behind me when I’m huffing and puffing my heart out in the gym, and gently whispers in my ear, ‘You’ve put on 2 more kilos.’

Listen up old man, I've got a weighing scale with a huge dent, half a dozen skirts with broken zips and a dustbin full of empty chocolate wrappers to tell me that. So the next time we meet, just keep walking, ok? Don’t even make eye contact. Or I’ll put those extra 2 kilos to good use.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s something deep fried in butter that’s got my name all over it.

Help

2006-10-30T12:19:00.000+05:30

He dresses like a gay biker boy from the 1970s. He spouts enough annoying, inane clichés about ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ to cure any seasoned insomniac. Oh, and if you look closely you can see the exact line where his foundation ends and his neck begins.

So what’s the deal with Shaktiman? Did someone wake up after years in cold storage and said, “Hey, you know what? Kids are stupid.”

I caught an episode the other day. Get this. Bad guy with bad wig (that might as well be a placard saying ‘Note: this is bad guy’) is doing something bad to someone.
Shaktiman comes to the rescue. Oh damn. There’s still fifteen minutes on the clock before the next programme starts. Never mind, Shaktibaby looks like he got a plan. He stands there in front of the villain, hands firmly placed on his hips. I’m thinking, maybe he’s going to start shaking to ‘Shake your groove thing’.

Instead, he starts rambling for fourteen minutes about how the villain is evil and how he is here to stop him. Yup. One line and fourteen minutes worth of different interpretations. Oh lucky, lucky me.

Oh and the best part is, the villain stands right there and LISTENS quietly. Hey dumb ass, Shaktiman’s a bit busy right now, run for it, you ninny.

Then Shaktiman throws some bad special effects at villain. Villain dodges. Laughs wicked laugh (So if you had any doubts, now you KNOW he’s the bad guy). Shaktiman throws another poorly designed special effect at him. Shaktiman wins.

Is it over? Ha! You wish. Shaktiman has another ‘important’ message to give. This time to the viewers (huh?). So he begins delivering another monotonous boring speech, while staring deeply into the camera, looking as if his toilet hasn’t been flushed in a while. It’s a wonder his jaw hasn’t dislocated with all that yapping.

Someone just informed me that apparently a kid somewhere decided to ape Shaktiman and jumped off a building in an attempt to fly. An excellent idea. The next time the show airs, I think I'll follow suit.

Reality Check

2006-10-30T11:43:00.000+05:30

The government has banned child labour. Bravo. Problem solved. Now the lives of underaged exploited kids will miraculously improve and they’ll all hold hands and merrily skip together over a rainbow, right? Well, our government seems to think so.

I’m not condoning child labour. But I am condemning the way we chose to eradicate it. Now, forcing an innocent small child to slave in a bottle factory or zari workshop is deplorable. And those children need to be rescued. But what about the helpless tea boy whose family of nine back home in Bihar desperately depend on his pitiful income for survival? And who cares about those shy, well mannered little boys on Worli sea face who sell packaged water and biscuits to pay for their school fees?

Quite a few households keep young children off the street by employing them to run errands. And educate them too. I take it this is wrong?

So what is to become of all these child laborers now that they’re free from the shackles of employment? I suppose the government thinks they can kiss away their boo-boos?
By stopping them from working, their problems only increase further. The tea boy and the domestic workers are now homeless. And penniless too. Good job, politicians. You’ve definitely got my vote now.

If a child is beaten, abused, overworked, underpaid, stopped from going to school, take action immediately. But if a healthy teenager wants to pay his school fees by earning a little extra income doing odd jobs, let him.

This topic is highly complex. And considering the background I come from, maybe I’m not sensitive enough to fully understand it. If anyone wants to add their two cents in, please do.

Misunderstood

2006-10-17T13:28:00.000+05:30

I speak on behalf of my people. We Parsis, have a serious axe to grind. (After disinfecting it first, of course.)

For some unfathomably strange reason, we’ve been falsely accused of being ‘eccentric’.

Sigh. The world couldn’t be more misinformed. We’re perfectly normal, thank you very much. We just like things to be very, very, very clean. And just because an average sized bottle of Dettol has practically become an honorary part of our anatomy, we’re labelled ‘bizarre’.

Sure we whip it out every so often and meticulously clean the seats in a long distance, moving train using Bisleri water. And sometimes even the people sitting on those seats. But come on, is it so unnatural to want to improve the world by cleaning it up first?

Oh, contrary to popular belief, we certainly do not sterilise plastic spoons in boiling water before throwing them away. Chuhh. We simply wipe it with a cotton swap lightly dipped in a combination of one part ammonia, two parts water.

All this nonsense about us suffering from bouts of obsessive compulsive disorders is truly laughable. What’s so obsessive about aligning all straight objects so that they are placed perpendicular or parallel to the next object in ascending or descending order? Doesn’t everybody?

Here’s another thing. We certainly are not over obsessed with our vehicles. Just because someone lovingly nicknames his 1988 Honda motorbike, ‘Russi’ is no cause for concern. Especially since his neighbour named her 1976 Fiat, ‘Lord Louis Carrington Bradford III’.

And just because ‘Russi’s’ birthday is celebrated with much pomp, and his ‘father’ tucks him into bed every night in their third floor living room after singing him a lullaby, it doesn’t make him ‘eccentric’ in anyway.

Also, the rumour that a certain Mrs Talati throws rose water at everybody who visits her, to avoid bad auras from entering her home, is definitely untrue. What actually happens is she waves an egg over their heads in counter clockwise motion. See, don’t you feel silly now?

Well, there you go. I think I’ve firmly established the notion that we’re just ordinary people like you. We just happen to have quaint little quirks that are quite endearing, really.

And if we weren’t around, who’d make you laugh, eh?

Anyone for takeout?

2006-10-14T07:16:00.000+05:30

I must confess, the joys of cooking remain a mystery to me. The kitchen is an unknown, virgin territory that I’m almost afraid to explore. The extent of my ignorance is reflected in the considerable amount of time it would take me to confidently identify a spatula from a back scratcher. Come to think of it, I’m impressed I even know the word, ‘spatula’.

To make matters worse, I’m married.

Needless to say, my lack of culinary skills, have earned me quite a reputation. The shudders, the sighs and even the occasional gasps continue to haunt me regularly at family reunions and dinner parties.

From the outright, ‘But beta, what do you feed your husband?’ to the more subtle, ‘Oh, you like this dish? All you have to do is, mix one teaspoon of oil, chopped up some onions, add a tablespoon of…wait, why aren’t you taking this down?’

My husband, on the other hand, is at the receiving end of countless sympathies, back pats and ‘there there’s’. Never mind, that unlike me, the man actually knows where the kitchen is.

It almost seems like I’ve betrayed my sex. Given women, especially married women, a bad name. I am cursed. With Kitchen phobia, if you please.

I’m told cooking is a woman’s art. The kitchen, her domain. One is incomplete without the other. I might try and argue that the greatest chefs in the world belong to the masculine gender. But I might as well place one arm on my waist and sing ‘I is a big, old teapot’, before I can get someone to agree.

So what does one do? Do I sell out and sheepishly take cooking lessons in my bid to feed my supposedly starving husband? Or do I stand firm and refuse to be a stereotypical wife?

Before you answer that, allow me to elaborate on my one and only cooking experience.

Heat up some oil in the frying pan. Oh wait, not hair oil. The other kind. Phew, olive oil works both ways. Now, gently crack an egg. Oh and next time, crack the shell outside the pan. What the heck, maybe crunchy eggs taste good.

Oops. Forgot the milk. Can I add it now? Can I be a little exotic and add a few cashew nuts, instead? How about strips of coconut? Do eggs turn black before they turn soft, honey yellow? Do I now scrape it off the pan with a ‘spatula’ (AHA!)? Why is there smoke everywhere?

Hmmmm. Anyone wants to order idlis, instead?

Some people are born to cook. Others serve as ready and willing eaters. I belong to the latter half.

My husband, bless him, wouldn’t want it any other way.

No Assembly Required

2006-10-13T17:43:00.000+05:30

It started out like any ordinary day. When suddenly, my brain began to furiously pound against my skull. Desperately seeking a hole (ooohhhh found it) and ran off screaming hysterically.

My boss just called a meeting.

Doom. Dooooooooooooom. There go three hours of my life. Three hours that, at the end of it, will seem more like three decades worth of hour glasses have been flipped over. Damn. I didn’t even bring my nail file to work today. Guess that means I’m stuck counting my toe nails again.

And so it starts. Blah blah blah…point number 1….(hehehehehe he said number one)…..we need to move on to the next level…take the creative leap….blah blah number two (hehehehehe stoppit you’re killing me) paradigm shift…macro vision….micro vision…x-ray vision…

We’ve heard it all before. But anal boss insists on repeating it just one more time. Possibly to see how long he can drone on for till someone finally cracks, jumps up on the table and tries to drown himself in a glass of water. And we have a winnnahhh…..

I mean, how brutally teased and abused as a child do you have to be, to subject six perfectly innocent copywriters (If you don’t count us sexually violating Myrtle the stuffed penguin with Bruce the inflated whale and filming it all on tape) to such a perverse kind of torture.

How blind do you have to be to not see the dull, glazed eyes and growing puddles of drool on the floor?

My brain deprived boss, however is oblivious. He animatedly launches into a tirade of forceful gestures and a passionately dull (yes, yes, there is such a thing) speech.

Oh crap…why is he looking at me…look somewhere else…quick no no …don’t make eye contact…yikes…too late.

“Yes, Diana...what do you think?”

Quick…think of a suitably safe answer….

Er…pink nail polish should be abolished? Someday sushi will replace sex? I was a tea pot in my previous life which explains my rather generous behind?

What in God’s name is he talking about?

Dear God, kindly grant me the power to surreptitiously evaporate into thin air and sneak out through a crack in the door. That’ll be all. Thank you. Oh and throw in a nice golden tan too while you’re at it.

His head is bobbing up and down violently….maybe I should just say yes before I get hypnotized and start singing hymns laden with sexual innuendos.

‘Er…yyyyyes?’

BAAM. He violently slams the table in ecstasy. “There you go…that’s the spirit…blah blah blah”

Oh goody…does this mean I get a raise…or better still…a nail file?