What's in a name, you might ask? A melon collie by any other name would sound as depressing. And what's with the whole 'yacketayakking screaming vomitting screaming' deal, eh? Is vomitting even spelt that way? When have you ever lived upto the name? All you are is a whiner. A smooth-talking whiner, I'll give you that, but a whiner nonetheless.
So you threw up all through last week. Vomited, with the single T. Retched. Regurgitated. Digression, if you please. Note that I didn't use 'barf', or 'puke'. I know how you hate four lettered nouns with the emphatic first syllable. They're all so uncultured, I agree. Like 'fuck'. Or 'crap'. If there's one thing we share, it's our liking for the apposite, refined word. In true Flaubert fashion .The facade of nobility, when we truly belong to Le petite bourgeoisie.
Yes, vomited. On the very day you are to meet the star? Ha. I always suspected that you lacked the stomach for it. Or just going a little down south, the testicular fortitude. What's your story, buddy? Performance anxiety? Oh, it was the noodles you had last night? I'm sure. Quite the online stud, and little else, it would seem. What's that? You're ok with being unimpressive, you sleep better? Ripping off Zach Braff a lot nowadays, aren't we?
Of course, as with every passing week, you've learnt your fair share.Life is metaphor. Eternity is a perfume by Calvin Klein, and not, as you are previously informed, Gucci. Kafka is the Czech word for Crow. On embedded systems, static memory allocation works more efficiently as compared to dynamic allocation. In dreams lie responsibilities. A lot of Beatle covers are better than the originals. Sarah McLachlan's 'Blackbird'. Joe Cocker's 'With a little help from my friends'. Dare you say Beck's 'A Day in the Life'?
And you're going to 'so totally', to borrow from the teen parlance that you so abhor, suffer from premature ejaculation. Yeah, it's a hard life, I know. Deal with it.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Sunday, May 14, 2006
dirty linen
Four months pass, sometimes slowly, sometimes in a hurry. Home. Again. The concept of eternal return. Nietzche smiles. "I told you so".
Home, where the heart is? Zach Braff, Garden State, "You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore.. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know."
For whatever its worth, and for the lack of a better word, home. The curtains are drawn. The actors take the stage. The make up artist has done a great job with the mother. She looks so old now. So old, it scares you. Do people really change this much in a few months?
"How could you possibly become so thin ?" The delivery, as ever, strikes exactly the right note. Just the perfect mix of worried concern and playful ribbing. And unquestionably sincere. A Dame Judi Dench in the making, you wonder.
The father sizes you up, the top-to-down all encompassing glare that is now a trademark. A grunt ensues, and the moment passes. Method acting at its finest. Think Marlon Brando, A Streetcar Named Desire, exuding raw power from every pore. And clad in a vest, to boot.
The sister, as is her wont, sleeps through the opening act. Bless Shirley Temple's soul.
***
The first weekend. The honeymoon period. The mother showcases her not inconsiderable cooking abilities. Everything's perfect with the world. Picture postcard material, even. Think The Wonder Years, with the running voiceover. That's you.
Monday, manic monday. The internship commences. Air conditioned cubicles, and super-cool bosses. Work from eight to eight, well beyond office hours, and enjoy it. Think of the potful of gold at the end. Call yourself a masochistic whore. And wonder if that's an oxymoron.
Same story, different day. The week moves like a playlist stuck on repeat.Again and Again and Again and Again. Four times, for Tuesday to Friday.
****
The second weekend. The roles are getting blurry, and the masks are slipping. Pleasantries are still exchanged. What's the good word honey, perfunctory?
The battle lines, erased in honour of the return of the prodigal son, are redrawn. The conch, in true mythological fashion, is blown. The father, Stanley Kowalski reborn, launches into the mother, a vicious, vitriolic verbal assault designed to break down and disintegrate. The mother, armchair feminist and delicate soul, duly crumbles. There are tears. Plenty of them. You, the eldest son, and the sister watch quietly. As you have all these years. Nothing ever changes. One day, perhaps all of the pent-up emotion will be released, in blind, unadulterated fury. Like in the movies.
And what's a play without the concluding monologue? You just want to say you are sorry. For emanating an air of such disinterest. Perhaps, growing up as an idealistic kid in a dysfunctional family has affected you more than you can imagine. This is why you are so wary of people, and so untrusting, and so reserved. You cannot speak to anyone anymore without being acutely self-conscious, and not everyone is going to be very patient with you. You know you've got to get your game on, son, before it is too late.
Exit stage left. Curtains fall.
Home, where the heart is? Zach Braff, Garden State, "You know that point in your life when you realize that the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore.. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know."
For whatever its worth, and for the lack of a better word, home. The curtains are drawn. The actors take the stage. The make up artist has done a great job with the mother. She looks so old now. So old, it scares you. Do people really change this much in a few months?
"How could you possibly become so thin ?" The delivery, as ever, strikes exactly the right note. Just the perfect mix of worried concern and playful ribbing. And unquestionably sincere. A Dame Judi Dench in the making, you wonder.
The father sizes you up, the top-to-down all encompassing glare that is now a trademark. A grunt ensues, and the moment passes. Method acting at its finest. Think Marlon Brando, A Streetcar Named Desire, exuding raw power from every pore. And clad in a vest, to boot.
The sister, as is her wont, sleeps through the opening act. Bless Shirley Temple's soul.
***
The first weekend. The honeymoon period. The mother showcases her not inconsiderable cooking abilities. Everything's perfect with the world. Picture postcard material, even. Think The Wonder Years, with the running voiceover. That's you.
Monday, manic monday. The internship commences. Air conditioned cubicles, and super-cool bosses. Work from eight to eight, well beyond office hours, and enjoy it. Think of the potful of gold at the end. Call yourself a masochistic whore. And wonder if that's an oxymoron.
Same story, different day. The week moves like a playlist stuck on repeat.Again and Again and Again and Again. Four times, for Tuesday to Friday.
****
The second weekend. The roles are getting blurry, and the masks are slipping. Pleasantries are still exchanged. What's the good word honey, perfunctory?
The battle lines, erased in honour of the return of the prodigal son, are redrawn. The conch, in true mythological fashion, is blown. The father, Stanley Kowalski reborn, launches into the mother, a vicious, vitriolic verbal assault designed to break down and disintegrate. The mother, armchair feminist and delicate soul, duly crumbles. There are tears. Plenty of them. You, the eldest son, and the sister watch quietly. As you have all these years. Nothing ever changes. One day, perhaps all of the pent-up emotion will be released, in blind, unadulterated fury. Like in the movies.
And what's a play without the concluding monologue? You just want to say you are sorry. For emanating an air of such disinterest. Perhaps, growing up as an idealistic kid in a dysfunctional family has affected you more than you can imagine. This is why you are so wary of people, and so untrusting, and so reserved. You cannot speak to anyone anymore without being acutely self-conscious, and not everyone is going to be very patient with you. You know you've got to get your game on, son, before it is too late.
Exit stage left. Curtains fall.
Friday, May 05, 2006
How Melon Collie Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life (appended)
For Teah
Here's to a lifetime of juju and goo and ish and sitch, and all the other strange words that you will doubtless inherit from mommy, and proceed to befuddle me with.
***
You will appreciate that unlike the unfortunate Kaavya, I derive my inspiration, or must I say, "unconsciously internalize", from rather more esteemed sources than an ex-Cosmopolitan editor. Not that being a Cosmo-editor is something I look down upon, of course. I fully realize that it takes more than just a little talent, and ahem, experience, to come up with a cover story on "The Full-Body Orgasm". Yeah, baby. Total head-to-toe fireworks guaranteed.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the spring semester of 2006.
If there's this one thing that I've learnt to appreciate this semester, sunscreen would be it. Trust me on this, especially in the 40 degrees (celsius) temperature and 80 percent humidity. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of this discourse has no basis other than my own meandering experience.
Read.Intellectual snobbery, if you are suitably well-qualified, is, if little else, atleast enlightening. Indulge. Read The Virgin Suicides, and convince yourself of the depravity of this age. Imagine Louisa May Alcott doing this to her Little Women.(Or her Little Men, for that matter. I'm curious about the latter though. Do the Little Men procreate with the Little Women and have Little Children ?)
Love.Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours. You'll soon see that she's not The One. Walk away before you are disposed of. And, cliched as it may be, there are plenty of fish in the sea (and honey-bees in the hive). Swim. If you don't know how to, nevermind. There's a kiss of life waiting round the corner.
Let go.Once every week. May your erstwhile unfashionable room transform into the epicenter of all bohemian activities on campus. Mine certainly did. Ask B and A.
Explore.Art-house cinema. When you can have Japanese, French, Mexican and Polish, why stay put in Hollywood? Reserve your opinion on the greatest film of all time till you see Kurasawa's 'Shinchinin no Samurai', Truffat's 'Jules et Jim', Kieselowski's 'Trois Coluers:Rouge' and Bresson's 'Au Hasard Balthazar'.If you still contend that 'Titanic rules, man', don't act too surprised when you are branded a philistine. And don't be sorry, the world needs some of those too.
Cry. No matter what they think. It's the most cathartic thing there is.
Smile.A wide, thirty-two-teeth brandishing one. Or like Aaki. All lip, and no white. Any way you do it, rest assured that it will brighten someone's life, if only for a moment. And that is perhaps more important than anything else you'll do today.
Learn. You've only got a few years before Mr.Alzheimer pays a visit. Think on your feet. Do not copy that nice Mr Ottino's work for that fluid-mixing term paper. It builds character, and a certain mental fortitude you could use.
And Live. Only for the cheap thrills, if you must look for a reason. Thank you, Anna Z, for not dying on me.
Here's to a lifetime of juju and goo and ish and sitch, and all the other strange words that you will doubtless inherit from mommy, and proceed to befuddle me with.
***
You will appreciate that unlike the unfortunate Kaavya, I derive my inspiration, or must I say, "unconsciously internalize", from rather more esteemed sources than an ex-Cosmopolitan editor. Not that being a Cosmo-editor is something I look down upon, of course. I fully realize that it takes more than just a little talent, and ahem, experience, to come up with a cover story on "The Full-Body Orgasm". Yeah, baby. Total head-to-toe fireworks guaranteed.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the spring semester of 2006.
If there's this one thing that I've learnt to appreciate this semester, sunscreen would be it. Trust me on this, especially in the 40 degrees (celsius) temperature and 80 percent humidity. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of this discourse has no basis other than my own meandering experience.
Read.Intellectual snobbery, if you are suitably well-qualified, is, if little else, atleast enlightening. Indulge. Read The Virgin Suicides, and convince yourself of the depravity of this age. Imagine Louisa May Alcott doing this to her Little Women.(Or her Little Men, for that matter. I'm curious about the latter though. Do the Little Men procreate with the Little Women and have Little Children ?)
Love.Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours. You'll soon see that she's not The One. Walk away before you are disposed of. And, cliched as it may be, there are plenty of fish in the sea (and honey-bees in the hive). Swim. If you don't know how to, nevermind. There's a kiss of life waiting round the corner.
Let go.Once every week. May your erstwhile unfashionable room transform into the epicenter of all bohemian activities on campus. Mine certainly did. Ask B and A.
Explore.Art-house cinema. When you can have Japanese, French, Mexican and Polish, why stay put in Hollywood? Reserve your opinion on the greatest film of all time till you see Kurasawa's 'Shinchinin no Samurai', Truffat's 'Jules et Jim', Kieselowski's 'Trois Coluers:Rouge' and Bresson's 'Au Hasard Balthazar'.If you still contend that 'Titanic rules, man', don't act too surprised when you are branded a philistine. And don't be sorry, the world needs some of those too.
Cry. No matter what they think. It's the most cathartic thing there is.
Smile.A wide, thirty-two-teeth brandishing one. Or like Aaki. All lip, and no white. Any way you do it, rest assured that it will brighten someone's life, if only for a moment. And that is perhaps more important than anything else you'll do today.
Learn. You've only got a few years before Mr.Alzheimer pays a visit. Think on your feet. Do not copy that nice Mr Ottino's work for that fluid-mixing term paper. It builds character, and a certain mental fortitude you could use.
And Live. Only for the cheap thrills, if you must look for a reason. Thank you, Anna Z, for not dying on me.
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About Me
- melon collie
- a recluse waiting for salvation