Thursday 30 November, 2006

Second Fiddle and Other Stories

1. In an orchestra, the position of second violinist (fiddle) is not as glamorous as that of first violinist. The poor bastard. I empathise.

2. When my sister and I were younger, we would celebrate Boris Becker's birthday, every year, for many years. One year, we even baked a cake. When Becker lost to Michael Stich in the 1991 Wimbledon finals, I broke a part of a door. Like my sister (Potato) said, those were simpler times, but we still had to write exams.

3. I cry every time a salesman knocks on my door. Last afternoon, I got home early. A salesman knocked on my door. I asked him to please leave, and cried for 40 minutes. I think something's wrong with me.

4. Nobody knows you when you're down and out. Actually, that's not entirely true, but I want to complain and exaggerate, do you mind.

5. A blog is a Boomsa's best friend. It doesn't judge me, I can talk to it whenever I want and it's only mean if I want it to be. I can't imagine why I ever stopped writing.

6. All I want for Christmas is to sleep at night. And socks that do not end annoyingly just below my ankle. What is that. And why did I ever buy so many of those. I want normal socks that know their job and want to keep you warm at night. Not just till where it thinks your ankles begin. Socks need anatomy training. I want warm intelligent sensible socks. In red and orange and purple, and preferably with flying cows on them.

7. I wrote a letter in reply to my brother-in-law's postcard a couple of weeks back. I still haven't sent it. Since then, I've received another postcard from him. This is an apology in public to you, Pink. I will post it today.

8. I wish you weren't leaving, Jakes. I really wanted to talk to you. Have a great trip. Kissy.

9. Please visit She is my best friend. And so like the perfect pair of socks. See the horses galloping galloping down the country lane!

10. Language is leaving me.

Wednesday 29 November, 2006

Note to self

Big Shot
Billy Joel

Well, you went uptown ridin' in your limousine
With your fine Park Avenue clothes
You had the Dom Perignon in your hand
And the spoon up your nose
Ooh, and when you wake up in the mornin'
With your head on fire
And your eyes too bloody to see
Go on and cry in your coffee
But don't come bitchin' to me

Because you had to be a big shot, didn't cha
You had to open up your mouth
You had to be a big shot, didn't cha
All your friends were so knocked out
You had to have the last word, last night
You know what everything's about
You had to have a white hot spotlight
You had to be a big shot last night

And they were all impressed with your Halston dress
And the people that you knew at Elaine's
And the story of your latest success
You kept 'em so entertained
But now you just don't remember
All the things you said
And you're not sure that you want to know
I'll give you one hint, honey
You sure did put on a show

Yes, yes, you had to be a big shot, didn't cha
You had to prove it to the crowd
You had to be a big shot, didn't cha
All your friends were so knocked out
You had to have the last word, last night
You're so much fun to be around
You had to have the front page, bold type
You had to be a big shot last night, Oh oh

Monday 27 November, 2006


Meanwhile, here is an assortment of pictures I took on my scintillating trip to Manipal.

Random Sky

Puppy Eating Pizza

Movie Poster at Manipal

Bang in the middle of the blue

Sometimes I don't know if I say too much or too little, but I suspect it's the former. So I tried the latter. Apparently, that doesn't work too well for me either. I just want to make a big hole in the ground and hide in it.

I am so tired.

Sunday 19 November, 2006

Easy like Sunday morning

I was beginning to forget what it is like to have a weekend at home. Thankfully, after the past couple of days, I am in no fear of such a lapse of memory. Weekends from my past are very much with me, as I remember exactly how I got this fat over the past 25 years. The scientific name for this, I believe, is 'Mother'. She cooked up a couple of storms, and I ate them.

The rest of the weekend has been a breathtaking spectacle involving:
1. A great book. One of my favourites from my childhood. I was fortunate enough to find a copy at Mr. Shanbag's after years of searching. I can't find a nice enough review, but if you haven't already read How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn, you should.

2. Sleep. I have slept a total of 14.5 hours since last evening. And if my Cat and the lovely Jakes had not kidnapped me at 2 am under the false pretext of the latter's broken heart, I might have sleep 16 hours. But I'm not complaining. Not a bit.

3. Food. No, I'm not talking about it. I am in great fear of turning into another Huw Morgan in this respect. (Again, I urge you to read How Green... failing which, you will not understand a bunch of things I'll talk about. There is wonderful it is.) But let it be known that I will dearly miss the smells of this house for the next week, most of which I will be spending in a pokey lodge near Mangalore. Business, not pleasure, I assure you. I will be begrudging when I order that Tandoori Chicken pizza and pretend it is a vegetarian meal.

While we're on the topic of food, I also regret having missed a Ladies' Afternoon at my own house. # 202 was abuzz with cooking, chopping, screaming ladies when I reluctantly left to spend the weekend with aforementioned mother and it's little husband, my father. I also hope a certain 15-year-old managed to sink his teeth into some fine food.

4. Music. My friend Carlton has just outdone himself earlier this afternoon, having played some outstanding jazz and, err, non-jazz on his radio show. It gets confusing when you find yourself listening to Lenny Kravitz on a jazz show, but you're not complaining if you're anything like me. I'd love to advertise his show further and I will find a way of doing that without having to mention the radio channel. (Unfortunately, we at DOGFORADAY have no signed contract with said channel. As Julia Roberts once said, "Big mistake...big huge mistake".)

Now, some shopping for provisions and back to #202.

Friday 17 November, 2006

Tonight, predictably

Tonight, predictably,

there is yellow light and tea.

Tonight, melancholy,

is on the clock and smiling,

miserable in timing and grace.

Like an acquaintance visiting unannounced.

Reluctant to hug,

but eyeing the wine tucked under his arm,

his overture isn't renounced.

Tonight, predictably,

the movie they're showing

is black & white and sad.

Like the dog I left behind

and wish I never had.


(For my lovely Cat)

We'll never remember
how we kissed
in our thousand follies of youth.

Now forever
on the nape of your neck,
the triangle of my tooth.


(For Mark)

There's a big fat lady singing the blues.
She'll buy you a beer
when you're feeling low, dear.
And when you're looking pale
she's your ticket to a darker ale.
And when a black cat crosses the street,
it's you she'll run to greet.

There's a big fat lady singing the blues
and she's taking her cues
from you.

Orange Fantasy Room

I like black magic
just a little too much:
look how I find solace
in ugly dolls.
Look how the broom finds
the corners of my
orange fantasy room.

I like power games
just a little too much,
but I don't have the strength
to hold your hand.
So I don't tear my eyes away
from this faltering
out-of-tune band.

And you sigh so sadly.
And your shadow flies softly
far away, far far away
from me.

I like loving you
just a little too much:
look how I display this heart
upon my sleeve.
Look how you coat hangs around
and nods and smiles at my
orange fantasy room.

And you sigh so sadly.

Dog for a Day

Last week, The Cat and I went on a little holiday. And on the road, our car ran over a dog. I was talking, and I remember thinking, what a strange speedbreaker. But I don't remember much else. Instead, I tried to shut it out of my thoughts and my conscience. And I had a great weekend, and nightmares. I came back and had a normal week, with nightmares. At night I sleep peacefully, with nightmares. Always at the back of my head, is the sound of a strange speedbreaker followed by the image of a writhing dog. Black and white and red all over.

Of course I'll never forgive myself. And as a lame attempt to redeem the horror the horror the horror, I dedicate this blog to a dead dog.

Black and white and red all over, if I could have been a dog for a day, I'd choose to be you on that day.