It's the end of days.

Okay, so it was the end of days. The end of all sorts of thingummies, really, this year and a half since I left home and hearth and moved to Stinkytown-by-the-Sea. So, yeah, it's been a while since I've banged out shit on this here page (and am pleasantly surprised that (i) this blog of mine hasn't atrophied; and (ii) people still have me on their feeds - huzzah).

Lots of muddy water has flown under the bridge these past several months, including:

(i) end of celibacy - I got married a couple of months back to Firefly (fellow blogger and havoc creator) - would love to put up pictures, but there's some truly grotesque topless ones of me (the wedding ceremony required me to be shirtless. A clothing mishap nearly ensured that I was bottomless too, but that's a story best left for a drunken night).

(ii) end of the 28 year wait - India won the Cricket World Cup - and a rocking final it was too. But had to miss out on the post game celebrations, since I had a bad case of the runs.

(iii) end of having to tell people I looked heavier 'cause I had heavy bones - I now have the flab to support the heavyweight title. Need to hit that jogging track pronto (Firefly is guffawing in the background. So is mu conscience. Shut up.)

(iv) End of using crappy phones. Now I have me a Blackberry (corporate whore) and an iPad (Mac-tard...ok, not just yet - I still love Windows, bugs n all). Though I must say, while the Pad is a brilliant device, I don't think it's ready for the heavy duty blogger just yet. Maybe for semi-blind Twits, er, Twitter users.

Anything else? Not really. Can't say much about work, because you never know when Big Momma, er, Big Brother, might be watching. Suffice it to say that it brings in lots of money, but leaves me drained and terribly unsatisfied at the end of the day. My kingdom for a life filled with stuffy courtrooms.

Time I hit the sack. Been a long day and a longer night on the job. See y'round folks.

On an aside - is 'end of days' grammatically correct?

Also- Twitterati, glitterati, chatterati, and causerati.....you're all just long ass words, wankers.

1,2,3...foxtrot, uncle, charlie, kilo...


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Hello World.
Crowley's back.
Armed with an iPad. This means I can blog on the fly. Allegedly.
Anyhow. Watch this space.
Live long and propagate.
Mr. C

3AM: Dude, do we qualify as 'harried'?
Crow: Nope. We qualify as 'suicidal'.

"Would you like to request a song?"

"Nah. They can't sing the ones I want to hear".

In fine, and yet, ab initio.

Dixi.

No, not the Kiefer Sutherland show. 24 is the number of text messages I’ve been getting everyday for the past 2 weeks from random lawyers, asking me to vote for them in the upcoming Bar Association elections. Said messages are irritating, to say the least, and pop up at the oddest of hours (mostly at 2 a.m.), and are corny as hell. A few choice examples:

“Each of us r angels with one wing & we can fly only by embracing each other. KINDLY SUPPORT XYZ FOR VICE PRESIDENT…” (Considering most lawyers out here are men, this little pearl of wisdom brings hideous images to mind.)

“SMILE is like a SIM CARD and Life is like a CELL PHONE. Whenever U insert the Sim Card of a Smile, a beautiful day is activated. XYZ FOR JOINT SECRETARY…” (So, will you pay my cell phone bills if I vote for you?)

“Best Friends Listen 2 each other. XYZ CONVEYS HIGH REGARDS 2 U; CONTESTING FOR MEMBER EXECUTIVE…” (U’re my best fren since wen?)

“Soul of Democracy lies in effective participation. Please Bless, Vote and Support XYZ for MEMBER EXECUTIVE” (A constitutional theorist! SO KEWL!)

“To know ones ignorance is the best part of knowledge. XYZ FOR JOINT SECRETARY…” (I know I’m ignoring this message, and am thoroughly enjoying the sudden influx of knowledge.)

“Those who joyfully leave everything in God’s hand will eventually see God’s hand in everything. XYZ FOR JOINT SECY.” (Has this guy ever heard of Sigmund Freud?)

Clearly, lawyers need to be kept far, far away from bulk messaging sevices.

Axl Rose wasn’t kidding when he wailed about everybody needing ‘some time on their own’. All I seem to be hearing these days is, “Give me some time”. “Am I going to get paid this month?”, ask I. “Give me some time”, says the office accountant. “Are you going to fix my laptop?”, I ask my AMC guy. “Give me some time”. “Can you gas up my car please?”. “Give me some time”. The list is endless, keeps becoming longer each day (and sometimes late at night), and is beginning to get on my nerves.

Anyway, this is a chicken and the egg debate, so I’m only venting for the time being. Post 1^st November, the more grating of these questions will (hopefully) be answered by, “Right Away”.

In other news – my move to Bombay is now imminent, and, since life seems to be coming full circle as usual, I’m going back to my corporate whoring days. Call me a sellout, I don’t care anymore. I’ll have to justify time spent on the job (or not spent) to a higher God (boss-to-be), but at least I’m going to be paid well, and won’t have to constantly chase clients to pay up. I'll be away from the family, will have people to hang out with, won't have to worry about power cuts....and so on.

The move also means a drastic lifestyle change. No more spinning music at the local pub. No more watching movies alone (with the induction of Ms. Firefly into self’s life). No more zipping along the roads at high speeds, because, well, it’s BOMBAY. The only zipping around one can do is in the wee hours of the morning, slaloming through all the potholes.

Also, no more blogging. Yes, that’s true. I won’t get that sort of time, plus the new firm has a strict policy about free speech, and unfortunately, they already knew I had a blog (just wait till I find the snitch). So, till I figure some way around this little obstacle, this post, and the few to follow, will be the last you lot will hear from me in a while.

Since this page may have to be shut down shortly, here’s some shameless promotion for a band of lads who truly deserve it. For people who love rock n roll, the new band on the block to tune in to, is The Circus. I’ve known these kids for a while now, and have jammed with one of them. They’ve ripped across the Indian gig circuit over the past two years, have featured on Channel [V]’s LaunchPad, and will soon be releasing their first record, From Space. Do give them a listen, kind people, because their music is really a lot of fun. Oh, and also, take a gander at The Constellation Project.

Stop.

DISNEY BUYS OUT MARVEL FOR $4 BN

DR. FINKELSTEIN TAKES OVER ACADEMY

Logan devastated – claims will shave sideburns in depression

“X????? Goddamnit!!!!”

I’m a fundamentally healthy person, except for my bad back, and that I sometimes wake up in the morning dearly regretting what I had for dinner the night before. And, since many members of my clan are doctors of one sort or the other, hospital visits and the like are things that happen to other people. For me, proper medical advice is but a phone call away (or has been until now at any rate – who knows what’ll happen when I move to Bombay?). My ailments are sorted out over the phone, or the kindly uncle/aunt/cousin drops by for a visit.

I’ve now done roughly ten years of unhealthy (and sometimes semi-cooked) food from roadside stalls, pizza outlets, and the pots and pans of assorted roommates and single friends, who think they can cook. I’ve done many nights of cheap and not-so-cheap alcohol, and far too many nights of secondhand smoke. I’ve done too many 5-meal-a-day days, and have gone hungry for 2, sometimes 3 days in a row. Exercise has been limited to walking from hostel to the classroom block/library, and the odd game of volleyball (in lawschool) and walking from my office to court and back (now).

Not a particularly healthy lifestyle, as you can see. But y’know what? However ill I may have been in all these years, there’s nothing that couldn’t be solved by the 3 As – analgesics, antacids, and antihistamines. Ergo, there was never any need for me to look up what problems my body may have been going through, or was at risk of going through.

But hang out with women on a regular basis, and it’s a whole new world of pharmacopeia. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been duly instructed on the following:

- Pap smears;

- Rhinitis – allergic and otherwise;

- Deep vein thrombosis;

- Cellulitis;

- Vitamin B-12 deficiency;

- Ectopic pregnancies (!!); and

- Assorted allergies and antibodies.

All of this with detailed verbal ‘memos’ on symptoms, cures, tests etc. Informative, I’m sure, but I’m still trying to figure out where a lot of the above fits into my (i.e. the male) health chart.

Oh well, information can’t really hurt, can it?

Also, I do not take kindly to people calling me up at odd hours and demanding from me names of morning-after pills. I don’t run a frikkin pharmacy, capisce!!!!?

Delhi’s always been my one true home (and despite what follows in this post, that will always remain true). Not a four-walls-one-roof-we’re-all-a-happy-family-within sort of home, but someplace where I can walk blindfolded, secure in the knowledge that I’ll always get to where I want. The city of my birth, my childhood, my adolescence and my adult life (well, most of it); where I’ve seen beauty queens parade down main roads on the tops of decked-up minivans, and where I’ve seen people being burnt alive inside public transport. Where I’ve traveled in a Mercedes, a DTC bus packed with seventy human bodies, redolent of sweat, fear, happiness and sorrow, and an air-conditioned subway train, all in the space of a few hours. Where I’ve died many lives, just to be reborn the next morning with the milkman ringing my doorbell. No matter where I may live, or may have lived, my soul will always roam within the walls of Jahanpanah, Khan Market, India Gate and Connaught Circus.

On the other hand, I have my home within my home, which is not a particularly endearing place at the moment. Le Corbusier, architect and planner, once said that a house is a machine to live in. I agree with the man, at this point in time. I’ve been feeling like a worn out cog in this machine, and I need a refurbishment.

Melancholy thoughts, indeed, since I’m faced with the prospect of leaving it all behind, and not knowing when I’ll return to take my place in this city’s destiny (though I certainly hope it will be soon). On the other hand, the new city brings freedom, friends, love and certain other things sorely missing in my life, so, yeah, bully for that.

As for me, I hocked my brains, packed my bags and headed west – Dave Mustaine

Victoria watches and thoughtfully smiles. She’s taking me to my home – Mike Portnoy.

Amen

"Oh, you're back in Bombay, is it?"

"Yup"

"You've decided to visit Firefly once a month till you're together, is it?"

"Well, at least once a month, yes"

"Once a month? You're like her period, man!!!"

Sigh. How do you respond to something like this? Am I a bloody, annoying monthly occurrence, or am I a bloody annoying monthly occurrence. This requires some interpretation, My Lady Leonie.

That's what I say to myself pretty much every fucking Friday morning, when I'm sitting at my desk at 7:30 a.m., with yet another 300-page brief to read in under an hour, despite knowing that the judge will take all of 5 seconds to say, "Sorry. Case dismissed."

So, this Friday I said to the Bossman, "Sir, I'd like to be excused on Monday". "Of course, enjoy yourself" said the man. And, a few hours later, I found myself in the city I hate the most, Bombay (and before people start the Delhi vs. Bombay debate, I'd like to clarify that I quite like the people of Bombay. I just hate the city. It's like New York with incessant rains and more potholes than roads).

But it's good to be back with Firefly, even if it's only for the weekend before I head back to more 20-hour workdays. Rain thunders down outside Firefly's window. Firelfy, her flatmate and I are aimlessly watching Lipstick Jungle on the tube. Well, I'm aimlessly watching, the other two show rapt attention. Despite the fact that I think Candace Bushnell is an idiot, I find myself chuckling at the show.

I think it's the 2 large glasses of cheap port wine I've got inside me. Say what you want, this port crap is potent. And at Rs. 120, it's worth every pennt...epnny....PENNY. Fuck, there's a rubber duck singing on TV.

Bliog say Hello to first ever drunk blog. Have a good weekend, y'all. I certainly fucking am. Ha.

“In its simplest form, dividend stripping is a bit like bed and breakfasting a share-cum-dividend.”

“Shares in a company were sold pregnant with dividend to a share dealer, who bought them for Rs. X…”

“It was tax avoidance, naked and unshamed…”

“It can be seen that the forward strip is not very different from the backward strip except, really, for the period for which the stripper held the shares…”

“…a business activity or an investment without a profit motive is not any more than a pickle is candy.”

You’ve got to love a verbose Income Tax Assessment Officer. Ha.

So much for Workaholics Anonymous and getting used to not being a quasi tenant at the office. Summer hols are done with, the Supreme Court has reopened, and the torture begins. I don’t hate my job, or my profession, but somehow the prospect of turning up for work at 7:30 am for days on end isn’t particularly savoury. Certainly not when you’re supposed to have read about 600-700 pages of badly drafted legalese in the dying hours of the day before. And certainly not when you’ve got to run around in three layers of clothing from 10 in the morning till 3 in the afternoon.

Plus, everyone seems to be unavailable for a drink these days. This sucks. After being a lone drinker for a couple of years, I’ve now gotten used to having some company at the pub, even the irritating sort (hey, you can tell them to STFU). So, a drink is out too. Which, I suppose, is a good thing - saving money and saving my liver.

And no Firefly around with her brilliant tea, her supercommonsensical approach to most things, and her ability to soothe the savage etc. etc. That’s the worst thing to be amiss.

(Yes, I sound pathetically besotted, because I AM pathetically besotted. It has its advantages.)

Why can’t my lord and master take up more out of town litigation, and leave us idiots in peace? Why must he insist on moving the office? It’s really quite nice in this present hole, walking distance from court, dogs in the backyard, ample parking space. Sigh. Why the fuck am I whining so much?

This past week I tried out a small lifestyle change, which I’m sort of beginning to like. I didn’t go to office at all. Ok, maybe I stepped in once or twice to pick up my mail, bills etc., but I’m proud to say that my visits were sans laptop, files, and briefcase, and didn’t last beyond a few minutes - something I haven’t done in the five-odd years since I graduated from law school.

This isn’t exactly Workaholics Anonymous, but it was fun spending a week doing nothing except eating (lots), sleeping (very little), watching movies (including, regrettably, Bride Wars - don’t judge me on that, folks, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse), and driving around town in my jalopy. Oh, and being interviewed by BBC Radio on how to deal with the heat wave in Delhi. Stay indoors and get laid, say I.

So, except that fact that Delhi’s currently like the inside of a blast furnace, this summer vacation went off rather splendidly. My intended (but poorly planned) trip to Singapore would’ve been the strawberries in the cream, but clearly, a visa and my good looks aren’t enough to get me there, I need dough for tickets, which I seem to be a bit short of at the moment.

And since we’re on the subject of money, I hereby curse clients who volunteer to pay up long-pending legal bills, and then renege at the very last minute. You know who you are, and I hope you remember the consequences of fucking around with a lawyer’s fee.

Also, since we’re on the subject of changing lifestyles, some of you asked me (tacitly and explicitly) in my last post, whether I was getting married. Of course I am! I have no intentions of spending the rest of my life being Cranky Crowley on this blog. I need to bounce this shit off a real person at some point. To quote a close friend (upon being asked why he wasn’t on Facebook) – “Sorry, I have real friends. Don’t need Facebook”. So, yes, I am trotting down the aisle (in my case around the fire), though when that might happen is a moot point (the fact that it will happen, is not).

So, boys and girls, if someone ever gifts you one of these:

DO remember to take off the plastic covering before trying to open the damn can; it opens a LOT easier thataway. Or else you can be total retards like Crowley (giftee) and Firefly (gifter) who tried opening the thing using a hammer and a knife, before the bottom fell out with a soft ‘plop’ and the bottle was sitting pretty in Crowley’s lap. It was all very cute and kitschy, sitting on Firefly’s bedroom floor and laughing over it, but you don’t want this sort of thing popping up on YouTube. Beware.

I was away to Mumbai, but now I’m back. For how long though, I’m not too sure, given recent turns of circumstances and destiny. But fret not I won’t be away again for much longer. Just keep in mind that the secret to a fun time can well lie in little things like Cuba Libres, cheese omelettes, masala chai, and watching Crank and Crank 2 back to back on a humid afternoon.

Reflections on furlough to Mumbai:

1. J. J. Abrams is a class act, Cupcake.

2. Cinema goers in Mumbai are required to stand up and sing the national anthem before the movie starts. The screen displays a large Indian flag during the recital. This is touchingly patriotic, but very, very odd.

3. I’m now able to cook and make myself useful in a domestic environment. This is good news for some, though perhaps not for the cleaning lady.

4. I want a home with thousands of neatly catalogued comic books, every gaming console known to man, and maybe a Dali print or two on the walls.

5. Tea with ginger and black pepper is a fantastic aphrodisiac. Try it sometime.

I’ve finally realised how ridiculous I look air-drumming at the pub.



Screw you, I still love doing it.

Although I’ve put up a few posts earlier on the stupid things people say to me when I’m dj-ing, I’ve never actually made a list. I discovered today that a bunch of bright sparks on Facebook started a whole group on the subject. It’s called ‘Things you should never say to a DJ’. If you’re on Facebook (and I know most of you are), this group’s page is worth a visit. Makes for some great laughs.

Anyhow, this is a list which these guys put up (apologies for pinching it) with some not-so-witty replies cooked up by yours truly:

1. Play something good, something we can dance to!
(How about ‘The Gravedigger’? You ignorant bastards ever heard of Franz Schubert?)

2. Would you play something with a "beat"!
(Wot, wot? Chris Adler hammering away at a gazillion BPM is not a ‘beat’?)

3. I don't know who sings it and I don't know the name of the song
(Pity. How about a kiss then, missus?)

4. Everybody wants to hear this!
(Did you see a board outside that said this was a democracy?)

5. Nobody wants to hear this!
(Well, plug yer ears. That’s what all that parsley on your salad is for)

6. Everybody will dance if you play it!
(Tell you what? If you let me give you an enema with this beer bong, I’ll play it. Deal?)

7. I can get laid if you play it!
(Can we film it? The guy who owns this place wants to branch out into the porn biz)

8. I want to hear it next!
(You’ll have to get your head out of your arse for that, midget)

9. What do you have?
(Two knuckle dusters and a short temper)

10. Hey, nobody can dance to this!
(That’s the general idea)

11. Play it soon because we're leaving!
(Oh, don’t let me detain you (said Vetinari-style))

12. Please play "**********", it’s my birthday
(SILENCE. I KILL YOU!!!!!!)

13. When will you play it?
(Read de leeps, cabrón. Feck off.)

14. My dad/roommate/ex wife/stepson owns the club, please play
(Can you get a signed affidavit on that one? Notarised, too, if you don’t mind?)

15. Can I DJ?
(Can I be the President of the United States?)

16. I’m a DJ also, you should play ***** and mix it with *****
(Damn. Hope you don’t charge for that kind of advice)

17. I'm the owner’s girlfriend and he wants you to play this song...
(HEY ALONSO. DOES YOUR WIFE KNOW YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?)

18. Can you please play it again?
(Can you please go away?)

19. Is it gonna be this music all night?
(Nope. You’re gonna be doing a pole dance after this. With a naked wire.)

20. Can you play song no "**" on the disc "*" of "Random unheard of compilation" CD
(Do I look like your personal CD rack?)

21. Hey! Where can I buy dr**s"?
(Police station. Just around the corner, mate)

22. Can I leave my coat in here?
(It might get eaten, though)

23. Where is the cloakroom/toilets/bar/exit??
(Close your eyes. Turn right. And RUN)

24. Can you make an announcement that it’s my Birthday
(What?! You again?!?! I KEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLL YEEWWW)

25. How much should I pay you to play "**********"
(How much should I pay you to shove your head down the toilet?)

(This has actually happened to me. No kidding. 100-buck note stuffed into my shirt pocket)

26. Did you see the girl/boy I came in with ??????
(Oh, so that wasn’t your schnauzer?)

27. Do you have a pen?
(is? Haha. Oh, never mind. Fuck off)

28. Are you the DJ????
(Nope. Undercover cop. Is that a baggie in your pocket?)

29. 'Can I plug my ipod in so you can play MY music'
(Try plugging it in your arse, you won’t need headphones)

30. You Should play (insert name of the current biggest track here) and see how eveybody will dance.
(No. Response. Mind has given up.)

31. Hey! This is a good track! Can I take your cd home???
(Oo. What pretty hair. Can I take your wife home?)

32. Can you play something faster?
(Depends. Can you outrun this cleaver?)

33. Do you have a microphone to shout out my birthday ?
(Right. That’s it. Where’s my chainsaw. You’re shredded wheat, birthday boy)

34. You got any R+B and Hip Hop ? (When playing house) & Vice Versa.
(No. Check the sewage pit out back, though. You might find some homies taking a dip)

35. Can I look thru your music/cds/records
(Sure. 1000 bucks please. Can’t risk the merchandise)

36. Hey, what happens if I pull out this ?
(Oh, not much. I call the bouncer and tell him you were calling his mother names)

37. Can I play with the knobs ?
(MY KNOB? You sick faggot. I KILL YOU)

“I don’t wanna rock, DJ”. Really? Well, I do, so fuck off.

I love an innovative product line.

Needless to say, my kids, if I ever have any, will get the full treatment. I mean, being a Metallibanger is a large part of being a Crowley.

I have a scalpel in my desk drawer, a relic from my junior high biology class. Most people don’t know it, but it’s one of my pet possessions. Small and a wee bit rusty, it’s still razor sharp, and has a duct tape covered handle.

Three times over the past month, I’ve reverently taken it out. Put it on my bed-side table and stared at it for long stretches. Once through the entire night. Wondering what it would be like to run that shiny blade through the veins in my wrists. Or a slight nick on my carotid.

Stress does this to me sometimes. Not suicidal thoughts (this would be a first), but certainly random behavior. Including not posting regularly and putting on weight while food consumption goes down. The past month has been especially rough. The days grow hotter, the pile of pending files and memos grows higher and larger, and the bank balance shrinks in a maelstrom of overdue payments. Friends walk away pissed because I missed dinner/drink dates, missed engagements, missed weddings, missed baby-fucking-naming ceremonies. Yargh.

Love life? Oh, I used to love life. Right now, all I want to do is go at it with a riot shotgun.

Anyway, I’ve been MIA for a while, and thought I’d make up for my absence by putting up an EP (that’s Extended Play for the uninitiated) of a post, explaining my whereabouts.

I’ve been snowed under with work (as always).

I attended a couple of Upper-Class-Twit launch parties (a book launch and a theater company launch), which I thoroughly enjoyed, regardless of being a meddlesome interloper (“Oh, I thought you were in the movie biz. A lawyer? Ew!”)

Felt depressed as shit after watching what everyone thought was the movie of the year. Seriously, this movie can make anybody over the age of 26 feel like an asshole. Watch it.

Also fell in love with one of the female leads in aforementioned movie. Woof. Not that any of these starlet-types would give poor Crow the time of day, but still. WOOF!!!

Met fellow bloggers Chandu and her Boy, over drinks and hunks of delicious meat. Moonshine, can I expect another invite? Soon?

Ran to the hills over Easter weekend for a small music fest. Frigid winds, a nine-cornered lake as a backdrop for the bands, and an audience that was too stuffed with either of food, beer or hash to do little else besides sing along. Perfect little vacation, produced and directed by Happily Unmarried. OST by Parikrama, Ankur Tewari & The Ghalat Family, and Teddy Boy Kill. Go here for pictures.

Oh, and I appeared on a TV talk show too. Was ‘invited’ to allegedly talk about blogging and invasion of privacy. Ended up ranting for a couple of minutes on the need for TV channels to show good taste. Mildly entertaining.

Thanks to the very lovely Pigeon Pie, I spent a few nights trudging through Alexander Pope instead of this, this, and this, as I had originally planned to. Coo, you are an evil wench for making me read poetry. I do hope we meet in the near future so that I can spank your kundi. But only after you’ve handed over that bottle of becherovka you’ve been hiding.

In short, I’ve been a busy, stressed little pirate, and I will totally understand if this blog has been unceremoniously booted off your blogrolls. (Kidding. I won’t understand, actually. Wankers.)

But I do have a story to tell. Something from my past. Which you won’t read about it in this post, no. I still have shit to wade through before this miserable day ends.

Next post it’ll have to be. Wait for it.