Daggering: Let's do it for the children

I had to google 'daggering' to find out what it means, but that's only because I'm old. It's what all the kids are doing these days. As with most teenage fads, daggering has been given the "this is EVIL" treatment, most recently by the Office of the Children's Commissioner in the UK. That's when I decided to look up what the kids have been up to these days.   

Here's what I found: daggering is a 2-partner style of dancing popular in dancehall clubs, that consists chiefly of simulating various sexual positions to music. In other words, kids these days may score higher on their SATs, but they haven't deviated much from what my generation used to do at their age. We just used to call it dry-humping. 

                           

                                              "I think she likes me bro. "

Jamaica -where daggering originated- reportedly witnessed a spike in incidents of fractured penises since it went billboard. I first assumed that a lot of Jamaican men mistake walls for women after consuming alcohol. But on further research, it turns out they've just been daggering without the consent of the women involved. Err, that's just called rape isn't it? 

In fairness to Jamaican men, the ol' dagger-on-impulse move has for long been the mating call for feckless men like me. Oh, don't you judge me! You know how it is - you're at the bar, miserable, drinking on your own, and some drunken woman takes the gamble that you're not a complete sociopath and sort of dances around you. 

You do that awkward dance-nod in return, and if there's reasonable eye contact, you do a little impromptu daggering. I'm not talking about full-blown air-rape; just a little prod to make sure you're not hallucinating. Because you can't really ask, can you, you wouldn't be in this situation if you had conversation skills. It's not even sexual to be honest because you're acutely aware at that moment of just how pathetic you are. It's really a cry for help. So to Jamaican rogue daggerers fracturing their penises, I say: if you're going to dagger without consent, do it in moderation.

Women are remarkably civil about this too. I have never once had a woman get mad due to my misguided daggering. They're drunk and lonely too, they know why they're dancing around the only guy drinking alone at the bar. It's an accepted mating ritual for lonely people. It usually takes them about a second to decide if they're interested, and they always leave politely if they're not. Some laugh, but they mean well really.

Besides, women do it too. If you hang around late enough, some lonely soul will come around and grind her bottom against your crotch. Again, nothing invasive, just an inquisitive little twitch that says: "do you want to?"  

I've always imagined my face must look particularly uncomfortable when I dagger; definitely not my best look. You're basically using your penis as an everyday implement - like using it to stir pasta, or sticking it under someone's armpit to take their temperature. You can't put on a come-hither face when you're doing that. I'm told by a reliable source that my face is a mixture of apology and self-loathing, with just the lightest sprinkling of hope on top. Which is basically my bedroom-face. 

A couple of days ago in the UK, Sainsburys was forced to issue a public apology because the pamphlets for their Active Kids Scheme contained photographs of brand ambassador David Beckham, on whose arm is clearly tattooed a lingerie-clad Victoria Beckham. I dare say I'm not alone in applauding British schools on this one - no human being, let alone kids, should have to endure the torture of seeing Victoria in her undies. 

But to take away dry-humping? That's a rite of passage, you tossers! Why don't you tell them the Easter Bunny isn't real while you're at it? Unless, those wily Brits are being their usual liberal-minded selves, and intentionally upping the cool-factor by having the adults frown upon daggering. Yeah, that'll sell it to the kids. More air-rape for the young 'uns, and some cultural enlightenment too while they're at it.

                      

                         "Fuck you Dad, you just don't GET daggering!"

I can just imagine Prime Minister David Cameron sitting young Arthur Elwen on his lap and saying: "I saw you earlier, you know, with that Marcy Montgomery from first grade. No need to be embarrassed, wee man, it's perfectly natural. And, did you know when a man does that to a woman in Jamaica, it means he loves her?" 

Still, funny term, this daggering, eh? Sounds a bit vicious, like knifing, or war-mongering. Frankly, I'm thrilled with all the attention it's been getting. Now that Black men are doing it (and I think we can all agree that no demographic looks more at home in a nightclub than the 20-something Black male), we can all rest assured that it's not just for people with low self-esteem. White men can't dance, Asian men feel indignant that they're even expected to dance and no straight man in my acquaintance actually enjoys dancing. So if the Black guys are daggering, it must be alright.

               
 If you ask me, any mating ritual that takes conversation out of the equation should be whole-heartedly promoted. I can honestly say that every time I make small talk just to avoid sleeping on my own, I die a little inside. Is that what you want for your kids? Ha, I didn't think so. Let's make this the norm, shall we. A bit of daggering on the side, and save the children's souls in the process. Game on.                

  

Dirty Picture

I wake up and swear. The clock on my wall tells me it's 11am. I'm in breach of the Third Rule of Living With Parents: No breakfast after 9am. I decide I may as well go downstairs and check if it's worth brushing my teeth.

Dad's in his chair, reading the paper. Strangely, the TV is on. The Fifth Rule of Living With Parents is No TV till three. "Dad", I whisper, "do we have any coffee?" From behind the paper, he says: "no, but there's wine."

I realize I'm still asleep, dreaming. I play along. "Where's Mom?" The paper is lowered. Dad looks flushed. "She's taken Grammy to your sister's," he grins. His joy is palpable, the sense of liberation almost physical. It's real. I look again, and sure enough, there's a half empty bottle of Red by his chair.

I pull up a chair and help myself to a swig. He reaches for the bottle and misses. And laughs. "Dad," I say, "are you drunk?" Dad is a notorious lightweight. He once set fire to his hair after two slices of rum cake. "Have you got anything stronger?" he says.

A few G-and-Ts later, Dad is suddenly morose. We're on the veranda, watching the gardener chat up the neighbor's maid. Nobody works when Mom's not about. Not even the neighbors. "I'm sorry, son," he says, "I screwed up." I look at him. "You shouldn't blame yourself," he says, "you screwed up because I was never there."

I'm unsure how to react. My Dad has just declared I'm a failure, and taken the blame for it. I may never have to work again! Still, I think, it's also kind of insulting. I should be mad. "It's alright," I say, "I'm fine really." "No, you're not," he says sadly. I decide Daddy knows best. "I want to make it up to you," he says, "what can I do?"

"Can you get us some ice?" I ask. "No," he says, "but I can tell you about life. See son, when a man loves a woman." He's giggling. My Dad wants to tell me about the birds and the bees, but he can't because he's having a laughing fit. "Oh, you're never going to believe this," he gives up. He looks me over, then: "probably no use anyway."

We're out of booze. Dad has brought out his records, and is belting out the lyrics to Sweet Caroline. I'm hungry. "DAD," I yell, "DO YOU WANT ANYTHING TO EAT?" He kills the song, and says, "WHAT?" Then he says, "do you want to watch a dirty picture?"

                     "Dirty Picture" (2010): official trailer

Turns out he meant the Dirty Picture, the Silk Smitha biopic that sent Indian testosterone levels sky-high in 2010/'11. Silk Smitha was the first bondafide South Indian cine-vamp. Sadly, she committed suicide in 1996 but not before accruing considerable interest in the collective wankbank of an entire generation. Reportedly, Vidya Balan, the actress who played Silk in the movie, was all kinds of sexy.

The matinee is predictably filled with male drunks and perverts. It's exactly what you'd expect in a town where the majority of women are forced to cover their heads and their faces in public. Our father-son jaunt to a porno is in keeping with the dysfunction of the place. There's a rickshaw driver getting head from a hooker two rows in front of us. His friend appears to be cheering her on. This is where terminally ill self-respect crawls in to die.

Dad wades cautiously into the fog of their frustrations, then joins in with all the enthusiasm of a voyeur-turned-participant at his first bar-fight. He hoots, jeers, attempts a wolf-whistle, and looks to me for approval. He's trying out my skin, imagining what I must have been like as a younger man. He's heard the stories, he's read the pamphlets; this is how addicts and reprobates behave.

I've been clean six years. I don't remember a lot of what happened in the years that immediately preceded that period, but I'm pretty sure they didn't involve soft porn at the cinema. Smackheads on student budgets can't afford the cinema. "Dad," I say, "Dad, the guy next to me is ... errr... cashing his cheque."

Later, back on the veranda, I watch the stars in silence. The night sky and the light breeze would lend themselves to serious contemplation if they weren't soundtracked by my Dad snoring in his easychair next to me. I desist from waking him, and swat gently at a mosquito hovering over his arm. He's had a long day.

                 "Sweet Caroline" - Neil Diamond (1969)



          
  

Potty Mouth

My parents are about as liberal and open-minded as you can reasonably expect Indian parents to be. While this is a blessing in most scenarios, you can't sometimes help wishing they were just a little repressed. Privacy, for instance, is a concept as alien in our household as democracy is in (insert whatever dictatorship is currently trendy to deplore). If my Dad were Osama Bin Laden (and alive), he would send out easily influenced youth to crowded malls and national landmarks in the developed world with huge quantities of Too Much Information strapped to their chests.

So the other day, we were just settling in to watch the video of Cousin Chaz's wedding. I fired up the Home Theatre system, set the surround speakers to optimum, made sure Grammy had her glasses and her Tweety Bird comforter, dimmed the lights and hit play. Being a Catholic wedding, it was considerably shorter than your average Bollywood 3-day affair, but I still couldn't share in my family's enthusiasm for watching videos of wedding ceremonies we had just attened a week ago. About fifteen restless minutes in, I decided I'd better sneak a cigarette now if I wanted to catch the hilarious drunken-Dad-dancing footage at the end.

I stood up as quietly as I could and made to leave.
"Where are you going?" came my Dad's voice, eyes still glued to the screen.
"Oh, just to the toilet," I said, in what I hoped was a dismissive tone.

Before I could take another step, the speakers died. The video paused in an ungainly close-up of the priest's jaws that reminded me of Teeth, the movie directly responsible for my irrational nervousness around lady-parts. There were audible groans and airs of discontent from Grammy, Mom, Cousin Chaz, his newly-wife Flora, her nerdy younger sister Fauna and their mother Florence. After much fumbling, the lights came on. Suddenly, I was awash in interrogative, zero-watt incandescence.

Dad swivelled around in his chair. "Why," he said- fatherly, predatorly, "what's wrong?"
I looked around the room. The newly-weds hastily re-arranged clothing and posture, while Mom looked away, eyes hinting at equal measures of indulgence and disgust. Grammy appeared to be cleaning her nails with a biro. Fauna typed furiously on her phone, while Aunt Florence quietly chastized her for her anti-social tendency to social-network in society.
"Nothing's wrong, just need the toilet," I said, fully aware that things didn't get much wrong-er than a fully grown man being asked to justify his ablutions. "Didn't we agree Fauna would stop live-tweeting everything once the wedding's over?"

"The site's gove viral," said Dad, "people want to know how the family's doing post-wedding. It's a human interest story now. Do we like the in-laws, do they like us, does Chaz's mother resent Flora, etc. She has 11,000 followers. But what I'm concerned about is," he paused and looked around the room, playing to the gallery, "are you feeling a little viral?" There was a tectonic shift in attention. I was now the centre, the core, the black hole, sucking it all in.

That familiar flush of embarassment under my collar, the bane of my teenage existence. Hello, Darkness.

"Wh-what do you mean?"
"Well, we all had a heavy meal. Now you're rushing to the toilet. Are you feeling a little... unwell?"
"I wasn't rushing. I just needed to freshen up. It's no big deal."
"Yes, but did you intend to freshen up with a Number 1 or Number 2?"

The room spun. Time slowed to a dizzying crawl. My eyes fixed themselves on Fauna's fingers, ready to telecast temporary teenage trauma to the Twitterverse. Inside, I wept. And just as suddenly, I snapped. I had contact! I could feel something, furious and molten. There was anger there, there was indignance, there was life! My testicles came plunging back, and re-established themselves in their rightful sockets for I was once again a Man!

"Dad," I said.
Do it man, be an adult, tell him it's none of his business, tell him you're going for a smoke.
"I think it might be Number 2."

Flora smirked. Chaz guffawed. Mom and Grammy looked down, let down. Aunt Florence studied the hem of her top. Dad just nodded; the nod of the all-knowing, almighty Shit Detector.

And then there was Fauna. Nerdy, bespectacled, pig-tailed, unrequited-crush-on-me, vindictive Fauna. Fauna tweeted. Merde, she wrote.


      

The dude abides not

Icyhighs and Fatboy, back in the day

Two weeks of being back at my parents' house, and I've already fallen down the rabbit hole and straight into my teenage garb somehow. I have to constantly remind myself that I'm now an adult, that I can probably look my Dad in the eye and speak as I would to another adult, that I don't have to tiptoe around the house to avoid getting in trouble. Being here has somehow reversed time and cast me back in the role of Awkward Teenager. Take last night for instance.

It's a little past midnight, I'm down a few, and bored out of my skull in my room, and I suddenly remember Fatboy has a friend-who-smokes somewhere in this area. If you smoke, you'll know that a friend-who-smokes is a generic term that can apply to just about anybody-who-smokes whose existence you're vaguely aware of. If you're a smoker and you're new in town, or if you don't know where you can score some quality pot, you're within your rights to call the friend-who-smokes. The friend-who-smokes WILL comply. It's a thing.

I call Fatboy. But Fatboy doesn't want to hook me up. He has Stuff on his mind. Girl-stuff. It's boring, and we've gone over this a hundred times but I will comply. It's a bro thing.

"I swear nothing happened. I met her for like five hours. She took a shower, we had a drink in her room and she hurried back to the airport for her flight."
"It's not that I don't trust you. You know that, yeah? I don't trust her. I know she was into you."
"She was not into me. She was seeing you for fuck's sake. Besides, who cares, you dumped her ages ago."
"Yeah but you know what it's like. Imagine if-"
"Lalalallalalalalallalalala don't want to hear it."
"What?"
"I don't want to hear it. I forbid you from completing that sentence."
"What do you think I'm going to say?"
"I know what you're going to say. Don't say it."
"It's not what you think I'm going to say."
"How do you know what I think you're going to say?"

CLICK!


"What the hell was that?"
"Dad? Dad, I'm on the phone, if you're there. Just give me two minutes ok?"
"He's not on the phone, man. What are you, twelve?"
"Yeah, he wouldn't do that right? I'm almost thirty."
"Of course not. He'd probably think we're being a bit silly if he did hear us though."
"I guess. Anyway, nothing happened between us, you've got nothing to worry about-"
"But IMAGINEIFISLEPTWITH-"
"Oh my God, why the hell would you say that? Great, I can't get the image out of my head now. FUCK!"
"You broke up three years ago. Let it go. But now you understand yeah, why I keep asking you about-"
"FUCK you man, I fucked her, I fucked your chick you fat fuck."
"I knew it. That bitch. You bitch."
"Oh relax, I'm only messing."
"Oh. I knew....what the fuck? Did you just hear someone giggle?"
"What? It's Dad! DAD! Can you please get off the phone? Come on!"
"Mr. Highs.
WE.CAN.STILL.HEAR.YOU.GIGGLING.PLEASE.STEP.AWAY.FROM.THE.PHONE.SIR"
"Why're you doing that?"
"What?"
"The funny voice. He's my Dad, not a bank robber. Dad, can you please get off.... I think he's gone."
"Good. Listen, how do you know she wasn't into you? I don't care, I just want to know why you think that."
"Jesus, Fatboy. I don't know man, there was this invisible signboard: no sexual attraction lives in this town."
"This is what freaks me out. You think everybody wants to sleep with you. You said Sam's gran gave you a vibe! And you're telling me my absolute fucking whore of an ex didn't? You slept with her didn't you?"
"Oh, look, not this again. She had ZERO interest in me. I swear. It's something she said, that's how I know."
"What? What did she say?"
"It's embarassing. Not something she said exactly, something she called me."
"What? What did she call you?"
"It's embarassing. She said it ok? She said the word, so I know there was nothing going on."
"Oh my God, she didn't?"
"What?"
"She called you-"
"She called me 'dude' ok? She kept calling me 'dude'. Lke five times a minute. And we both know, 'dude' is just a less-brutal version of 'bro'. Girls don't call you 'dude' if they're planning on sleeping with you. Chicks get stoned with dudes. They don't fuck dudes."

That's when it happened. Have you ever jumped out of your skin because somebody just started talking behind you when you thought you were all alone? Something like that.

"Both of you," boomed my Dad's voice, "are idiots. I have never heard a more vaginal conversation, EVER. Your mother and sister speak about more interesting things than you two. And you have no respect for women. Stop running up the phone bill, and go to bed. Icy, you're going jogging with me tomorrow."
CLICK.

"Dude, I can't believe your Dad just did that. My Dad would never do that."
"Oh fuck off, your Dad is gay."
"Your Dad is gay. My Dad would kick your Dad's ass if he didn't enjoy it so much."

"GOTHEHELLTOSLEEP!"

"Sorry Dad, bye man."
"Bye man, bye Mr. Highs."

Rent Boy

(This post made Éditor's Pick' on Open Salon on 21 March, 2012. Don't believe me? See for yourself!)

"I'll just hang my PhD next to Black Sabbath." 

Seems I'm not the only late-20-something moving back in with parents. Most of them have reasons more logical than mine - redundancy, or a bad divorce, or cancer- but it's happening. It's a thing. More 28-year olds than ever are moving back home. As always, I'm at the cusp of something borrowed, something new. So contemporary and with it, me.

In other news, my parents still don't know I've moved back in. I suspect they suspect that something's afoot -I should never have bought that bedside lamp- but I think they think I'm just gathering up enough courage to make some sort of life-changing Announcement, and then leave.

I first got this impression when I overheard Dad's side of a phone conversation with Uncle Psy. They almost always compare notes on their offspring, because you know how women in prison supposedly synchronize their menstrual cycles? Well, Uncle Psy's boy and I almost always get in trouble at the same time. It's a thing.

We always outdo each other too. He gets caught with porn, I get caught with pot. He flunks a year, I crash a car. He joins a Satanic church, I quit my job and move back in with my parents at the grand old age of 28. So Uncle Psy is now justifiably worried if my showing up at home after seven long years spells some sort of repercussion at his end.

Uncle Psy isn't thrilled about the Church of St. Ronnie Dio.

"He just sits around," says Dad into the phone.
"Yesterday, I was reading the paper and he came down and sat across from me for two hours. No, didn't say anything."
"I'm telling you, he just sits. When I look at him, he smiles this dopey smile. Even makes conversation."
"Oh, who knows? Probably wants some money or something. Yeah, call the terrible twin, he'll know."

Then, there was this little vignette from Mom, on the phone to my sister: "I don't know, honey. Honest. We don't think it's drugs or anything, he's way too lucid to be on anything serious. Your father thinks it might be a ... you know ... sexual ... thing." (That's when my jaw dropped and shattered on the floor. Luckily, that doesn't make as much noise as you'd think.)

I didn't stay to hear the rest of that conversation. It was clear what I had to: man up, and allay my parent's fears. I would have to lie. I've decided to make a Big Announcement, it's just the kind of thing my family would do. We actually have a code of conduct too: if any of us is suspected of carrying an announcement-baby, everybody shuts the hell up and makes nice and gives him/her all the time and convenience in the world.    

They once waited seven days for me to announce that I had indeed failed to wean my goldfish off water. Poor Goldie's earthly remains waited three days in my drawer for a respectful burial, before they were carted away by a team of rowdy red ants. Watching their unholy procession over my chair and across the floor to their lair under my bed, I cried my hear out. But I couldn't tell my family yet, I wasn't ready. And they respect that where I come from.

My mom nearly cracked on the fifth day. She handed me Goldie's daily ration of fish food pellets, and seeing something broken in my face, lunged forward to fix me. She was about to burst, tell me it was over, that they knew, that I could mourn in peace. But Dad salvaged status quo, rushing to her rescue. "Here, let me get that for you buddy," he said and calmly took Mom in his hands. My sister started a slow clap, quickly joined in by Grammy. It was family drama gold.

All of which leads me to conclude I better be gay or terminally ill. After supporting me through addiction and depression and -most traumatically- an emo phase, no other announcement will be quite Big enough. I'm tempted to go with the man-love because Dad will probably want to see medical reports if I claim illness. But Uncle Psy's boy points out the danger of Dad calling my bluff - he may want proof that I'm gay.

Knowing my family, I may well end up playing out the charade of bringing home my 'boyfriend', pretending to be madly in love, never taking my eyes off Dad, both of us waiting for the other to blink. I'll have to cuddle with a man on my childhood couch, or fly a spoon-aeroplane loaded with Mom's apple custard pie into his mouth just to fool my Dad into thinking I'm gay. *Shudder*

Dad will no doubt raise the stakes, ask to meet the poor man's parents. And so on and so forth till I impale  myself on a strange man's cock on the living room floor, to the careful scrutiny of my Dad and rapturous applause from Grammy, all just to weasel free lodging and food out of my parents. I can just imagine my Dad consulting some sort of manual to make sure we're doing it right, and Grammy retrieving her dentures to congratulate us on a job well done.

The other option would be to saw off a toe, and announce I've caught a bout of leprosy.
Hmm.

Dear Twinky, I kind of have an Announcement to make....  

 

It didn't help that Twinky was also stinky. 

Neon Lights - Black Sabbath (The Ronnie James Dio years)

How Virat Kohli can spare a few blushes, and (possibly) save the world

Time was when a nation was judged by it's heroes. Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Aung San Suu Kyi all did just as much for national image as they did for their people. Then the navel-gazing, oil-paranoid Nineties happened, and most countries lost the right to claim any kind of heroism at all. The Noughties have somehow brought things full circle, and in these consumerist times, a country is often judged by the brands it's idols endorse. Just as brands are judged by the celebrities that endorse them. So for every retired punk rocker doing serious damage to his credibility by selling insurance on the telly, there's a Gillette or Nike distancing themselves from a philandering Tiger Woods. And just as national heroes once upon a time rebelled against injustice or stood up for those trampled upon, they now kick balls great distances, or compose angsty guitar lullabies. The times they are a-changing, indeed.

Whether or not heroism is a quality attributed too easily today is a debate for another day. I spent much of my day -as did at least a few million other Indians, I suspect- in front of the telly, watching the national cricket team pull off an astounding victory over sworn enemy and perpetual rival, Pakistan. The pace was set by a typically robust start from Sachin Tendulkar, a man who has long been elevated to the status of a cricketing God (is there any other kind?), and sustained marvelously by Virat Kohli, the most promising batsman India has produced since the Fab Four. The 23-year old Kohli is a bonafide youth icon, who has backed up the millions he earns in endorsements with stellar performances for his team(s) time and again.

As the Indian innings was approaching the final quarter, the commentator made an observation about young Kohli that would have made a great riff if he were comically inclined. Looking back on Kohli's celebration on scoring a century, the commentator remarked: "why does he look so angry?" His question sounded so genuine I nearly choked, laughing. It's true, the talented Mr. Kohli does have a fist-pumping, war-waging, thandav-evoking quality to his century celebration, and I have wondered on more than one occasion where he gets all that energy from after batting for so long. I've just never had the energy to contemplate it long enough to arrive at an answer.

The commentator delved a little deeper into Kohli's psyche, musing aloud that it was perhaps a means of staying focused on the team's goal after surpassing a considerable personal milestone, or indicative of the desire and hunger of the younger generation or some such psychobabble. Maybe his parents didn't love him enough, I don't care. I did notice he contrasted Kohli's celebrations to Tendulkar's, a man who has scaled practically every statistical peak that populates the game, and goes about it in muted, dignified fashion. I didn't think it was fair to compare two individuals on what is essentially a personal expression of joy, and I'm still not convinced his theory goes any deeper than "to each his own".

A few minutes after his comment however, an ad came on featuring the man of the moment, Mr. Kohli himself. It was for Fair and Lovely, a much-maligned and much-in-use cosmetic product that promises to lighten the complexion of one's skin. India has long debated the morality (or lack of it) in promoting ''fairness'' of skin   as a (key) determinant of beauty in a country where the majority of the population is dark-skinned. Questions have been raised about whether it is ethical for celebrities to endorse fairness products, and whether these products even work, but the cosmetic industry lobby has always teacupped such storms with a minimum of difficulty.

I wouldn't fault somebody for having a distinctive preference for a sexual partner of a particular complexion (it's as straightforward as preferring blonde to brunette, or tall women to midgets, whatever), but I do feel strongly against establishing one common standard of beauty for a billion people. If nine year olds today feel towards Kohli anything similar to the fanatic devotion I felt towards a then-20-year-old Tendulkar, they're investing a lot on this talented young man - hopes, dreams, aspirations, even life lessons. Tendulkar was the perfect role model - the Doogie Houser of cricket- with his prodigious talent, and his impeccable behavior on and off the field. And in almost twenty two years of professional cricket -and hundreds of advertisements- never have I seen him endorse a product of questionable character.

Tendulkar seems like one of those kids you wouldn't really want to hang out with in school simply because he was too determined and too focused to be fun company. (Would you really want to hang out with Doogie Houser?) Frankly, he's missed out on more than he will ever realize if his squeaky-clean image is entirely true. Kohli on the other hand has- or used to have- a bit of a reputation as a partying type, and I hope he gets his share. I'd never put pants on during off-season if I were him. I do hope however that he chooses wisely when he lends his name and his credibility to consumer goods. The current generation of adolescents don't have to wait for a game or concert to catch their heroes in action - they're constantly hanging on to their every word and action on social networks and cable TV. It'd be a shame if the only lesson a 9-year old fan takes away from someone as successful and driven as Virat Kohli is how far he or she is from the ideal colour spectrum.  Maybe Kohli could bottle his excess anger and offer the world an alternative source of energy instead.

Image sources: V. Kohli, S. R. Tendulkar

The Expac

Shit! The little green blob next to my username says I'm still online. She's seen me, I know she's seen me and I can't sign off now without congratulating her. That would break our Ex-lover Pact of Civility A.K.A The Expac. I thought it would be less pathetic if it sounded like the name of a wrestler at Royal Rumble circa 1998. She thought it was ironically just the kind of thing that led her to break up with me.

"Hello, you bride-to-be-you, you!" I type in.
"Hello Mr. lost-in-translation" she types back.
"I saw the FB update. Congratulations."
"Thanks, he's a doctor."
"Oh that's a relief, I thought his name actually ended with M.D. I was wondering if it's pronounced how it's spelled."

G-talk says she's typing. And deleting what she typed apparently. And starting over. This is giving me too much time to think. Stop thinking! 

"What do you mean  "hello mr. lost-in-translation" ?"
"Well, you know..."
"Not really, no."
"Coz you're never really here nor there."

G-talk probably told her I was typing. And sputtering indignantly. And deleting. And starting over.

"Meaning what exactly?"
"Well you say you want to be a writer. Then you join uni to study Economics. You work for a few years and quit coz you want to be a writer. Then you go off and work in China for a few months. Now you're back and you want to go to uni again? That's neither here nor there."
"I'd have taken the short answer."
"Well, there ya go."

"So everybody should be a doctor? Do we even have that many diseases?"
"This is not about Him, M.D. It's about you not knowing what you want to do with your life."
"I don't want to do anything! Why dont ppl get that? I want 2 do NOTHING. Why do v all have to do stuff?"
"Seven years ago, I'd have thought that was troubled and sexy. Now I just feel sorry for your parents."
"Oh fuck you."
"Very mature. Bye."

"Ok, ok I'm sorry. Wait, you started this."
"I didn't. You realize our fights are all fights you pick with yourself?"
"That's kind of a hot thing to say. What're u wearing?"
"You're pathetic."
"C'mon, you never think about me anymore?"
"Only if I'm trying not to cum."
"That's something, isn't it?"
"No, bye. I have a deadline to hit, and you have an ocean of self pity to wallow in, I'm sure."
"Oh yeah the waves are fantastic this time of the year. You should visit."

G-talk says she's signed out. But what does G-talk know? She's probably hiding out, typing me a lengthy, apologetic email. It's all laid out clearly in the Expac.

You can read more excerpts from my novel Exes and Sevens here . And here.  And here. 

Bringing up parents

Some of you may know I sort of moved back to India from Singapore recently. 'Sort of' because it's very much an experimental situation - I really hate Singapore and I want to go back to Uni to study english literature or shadow puppetry or invisible dog walking, something that cannot possibly spawn gainful employment (because work is Death)- so I packed all my stuff and hopped a flight to the ol' parental residence. But they don't know I've moved because they're kind of on probation - I'm in the process of determining if I can cope with living with them again, after eleven grand years, at the ripe old age of almost-28. I need to find out if their views have changed on midnight curfews, on coming home drunk, on coming home at all. If not, hey I haven't even unpacked - I'll hop a flight right back to stupid Singapore.

Over the last few days, I couldn't help feeling a little like a private detective or a spy or an investigative reporter at the least. I've been walking around taking notes: "hmm..Dad still doesn't tip, and his dinner conversation skills may actually bore me into finding a job" or "ooh, Mom just dumps any clothes I leave lying around in the washing machine - with other peoples' stuff. Not cool." Sometimes, I ask them hypothetical-sounding questions to guage their responses: "so Dad, if I suddenly quit my job and decided to go to uni and moved in with you guys and needed a monthly allowance, that'd be pretty fun huh?" Dad looks up from his paper and says: "No." Mom just nods.

Sometimes I lull them into a false sense of security:"Dad, this may be the last time we sleep under one roof."
Dad: "Hope springs eternal, son."
Sometimes I just lie: "Dad, you know how you're kind of my hero? I mean I'd like to think I remind people of you." 
Dad: "That's right, give your father a heart attack before you go back. Please go back. And don't tell the paramedics we're related."

So far, it's not looking good. I'll probably have to go back to work, bloody hell. So I made a pros and cons (if I stay).

Pros
No bills, no rent, no work, no wearing a suit, fun times at uni (probably), no pressure to get married, have babies, be normal etc because "he's still studying".

Cons
Dad will list every single vitamin and the diseases those vitamins cure every time I eat a fruit.
Mom will keep washing my shirts with my little niece's poo-and-piss-covered underthings.
Dad will keep stealing up behind me while I use the comp (go away pop, yes I know you're there right now.)
Mom will end sentences with variants of "if our son ever settles down". Like today: "I'm just saying the chicken's a little undercooked. The new maid's not settled in yet. Bit like our only son, who'll never settle down."
Dad will also list all the things that can go wrong every time I eat a fruit: "I hear they inject pig ejaculate into oranges to give them their sheen". (seriously Dad, I can hear you giggling behind me, just go away.)

I'm still undecided. They'll probably hold my old job for me for another week, max. God, if you're listening, send me a Sign. In varsity colours. Something obvious. Like a recently divorced, picking-up-the-pieces-by-joining-uni woman who needs a live-in rebound. Please.  

Good vibrations

It's been a long time coming, but I've finally decided to go back to University. I've always wanted to pursue writing in some seriousness and I figure if I can't find an agent, then the next best thing is undoubtedly to become an academic. Those who can't do, teach. Right?

So MA English Literature, here I come. Cue: beer bongs, road trips and poverty, all set to the delicious stylings of Classic Rock FM (which is probably not what the kids are listening to these days). Over the next few weeks, I will therefore embark on an arduous journey to find out what's in, what's not, and how to effectively fake it. Any advice on this front would be greatly appreciated.

I will no doubt be the oldest bloke in class but hey it just means I'm fair game for both the students and teachers. That can't be a bad thing. I hope they don't still haze freshers. I may have to go back to rolling my cigarettes. Maybe I'll grow my hair back long. Maybe I'll dust off my Converses.

I may even be able to get over my crippling fear of public toilets. Volunteer, get involved in stuff, write for free publications, entrap myself in a meaningful relationship, do new things, attend lectures, try and remember what happens in Uni this time. I have a good feeling about this. Never too old to learn, as my granddad used to say.          

            Good vibrations - The Beach Boys 

When a woman loves a woman

My boss does not like me. That's not a bad thing, nobody likes everybody. But my boss goes out of her way to demonstrate just how much she dislikes me. Every day. Once at Christmas, she wandered around the office, distributing cookies to everybody and went to every desk but mine. She keeps leaving me out of group email invitations to company dinners or nights-out or whatever. This tends to take its toll, after a while. Again, I won't judge. Her company, her rules.

What amuses the hell out of me is why she doesn't like me. At the risk of sounding like every disgruntled male employee ever, my boss doesn't like me because she's a big sodding dyke. I shit you not. Before I came along, the company had a workforce of 50, and about 5 male employees, all of them in Sales. Sales is run by my boss's girlfriend, who would appear to be the bottom in their relationship.

She's also pretty hot. Which means I automatically check her out every time she shimmies past my desk and into my boss's office. Which means I dish out a few compliments at the water cooler. None of which would have happened if I had known they were lovers, of course. I'm a professional, after all. I knew my boss was gay, I just didn't imagine she was tapping hottie from Sales.

Anyway, my boss starts giving me the cold shoulder about three weeks into my joining the company. I'm doing well, I'm making them money, I cannot get my head around why she's being so publicly rude to me. Till three weeks ago when I meet a former employee, and she tells me the whole sordid tale. My boss does not hire men because she doesn't trust men. These were her exact words. Apparently, the last employee who hit on her girlfriend left in an ambulance. That was a chick.

On the one hand, I'm kind of flattered that she would be threatened by me. Her company is worth at least a couple of million. Besides, it's her girlfriend, she's GAY. I really am no competition. On the other hand, this does not a healthy environment create. My balls are all bruised from all the man-handling. I'm just not sure what to put under 'Reason for Resignation.'. Hell, what would I tell a potential employer at an interview?