When Crowley runs to catch up with the sun…

Shalom.

I know, I’ve been unusually silent here for a bit, as well as on the fiction blog (which will be updated very soon, I promise), but I’ve been down with an eye infection and then with a week-long dose of viral fever, and have spent these past 5/6 days catching up with pending work.

Since I have a slight case of antibiotic-induced writer’s block, I’m just going to write about some random stuff I’ve run into over the past few weeks.

Weird cops: Whiskey Bar’s apartment in Lajpat Nagar is a great place for a quiet drink, for her excellent veggie pasta and pesto sauce, and for chats about life, the universe and everything. I usually end up leaving around midnight, and am usually stopped by cops while leaving the locality. The U.P. plates on my car make me a prime suspect (for what exactly, I’ve yet to find out), and I’ve got the whole license- registration papers-pollution certificate routine down to a science. Most of the times my lawyer parking-sticker gets me off the hook. The night I came down with viral, however, I wasn’t so lucky. Pollution certificate couldn’t be found, and the duty cop pounced on a good op to make a quick buck. Normally, I would’ve told him to cut me a ticket, and I’d pay it in court, but I was dying to crawl into bed that night, so I asked him how much he wanted. “Sir, jo aapko uchit lage, dedijiye” (Whatever you feel is adequate). Such was my delirium that I told him I had 350 bucks, and he could have 300 of those, because I needed money to pay the DND toll-booth. He pulled a face and took the 300, but came running back a minute later, held out a 100 note and said “Sir, agar paise kam pad rahein hain to yeh bhi rakh lo” (If you’re running short, keep this 100 bucks).

It’s been a long fucking time since someone left me speechless (after my boss announced he was buying 9 dogs).

Weird movies: Actually, one movie, and not so much weird as entertaining. If you like the Tarantino brand of mayhem, then Shoot ‘Em Up is a good buy. The story and script aren’t a match for Tarantino’s twisted genius, and although it is, in effect, a B-movie, I’d be hard-pressed to rate it so. Clive Owen (protagonist; cynical, SAS-type killing machine), Monica Belucci (Owen’s sidekick, love-interest and a lactating hooker) and Paul Giamatti (Bad Guy; psychotic, hen-pecked hired gun for an arms manufacturer) make up the meat of the cast, and do a neat job of it, considering the storyline has the punch of a geriatric turtle. I’m not into putting up spoiler warnings like Wikipedia, so I won’t give out the plot details, but I will say this – Owen kills people with fresh carrots (while spouting lines like, “What’s up, doc?” and “Carrots are good for your eyes”), and does stuff which makes Rajinikanth saar look like a kid in dirty diapers. The action is brilliant, Belucci is drool-maal, as always (and has finally discovered the secret of effective dialogue delivery – screw English, do it in Italian), and Giamatti does a kick-ass job as the resident psycho-killer. Buy it, steal it, whatever. It’s worth it.

Weird news: Did you know that a prohibition on wearing underwear is a violation of your human rights? The Kerala Human Rights Commission feels so. Apparently, the famous Sabrimala shrine in Kerala doesn’t allow temple staff to wear the bare necessities allegedly for fear that they’d try and sneak out cash and jewelry offered by devotees. This brings disgusting images to mind. And speaking of Sabrimala, for those who’re not aware of this little factoid, if you’re a devotee, then you’re required to not bathe/shave for weeks/months before visiting the temple. You’re also required to wear only black, and supposedly abstain from sex, meat and alcohol. Of course, after weeks of no bathing, I’d be surprised if you’d want to wank yourself off in the first place, much rather someone else.

Three cheers for atheism, I say!

Weird animals: I have 10 dogs in my office. That’s right, ten. Nimpipi has seen and photographed them (and blogged about them), so there’s proof that I’m not bluffing. They’re of various breeds, shapes and sizes…and sexual preferences. The eldest of the lot, a dachshund, is gay. He keeps trying to, er, force himself on the smaller dogs, and would be a perfect candidate for offences under Section 377 of the IPC, were it not for Honey the Rottweiler playing bouncer and peacekeeper.

That’s all for now, folks. I need to get back into the groove and do my wascally wabbit thingie.