Consideration- Money, attractiveness, intelligence. In that order.
Umm...I don't think we should see each other for a while. It would be a good idea for us to take a break.
Time spent being a shoulder to cry on. Lying through your teeth about why it's not her fault, and about how she's as beautiful as she was. Being bitched about, slimed by, and the victim of dirty glares thrown by her and her faithful friends, who are secretly happy that she's come down to the level of singledom they have been inhabiting for such an insufferably long time.
More on the depressingly contractual nature of life. Coming soon.
No. Its not about the movie. Too much's been written about it already.
Remember the days before VCDs and DVDs, and how hard it was to get hold of a good print of English movies? Well, it was much harder to get your hands on an adult movie. And if you were fresh into your teens, forget about it. As much chance of it as Shakeela making a comeback.
The year 2001. So, there we were. About 40 of us. From the 8th standard of a boys' school in the, conservatively speaking, very conservative city of Trivandrum. On our very first long trip. Ooty, if I remember correctly. Now, don't get the wrong ideas in your head. I know your type. Bottles of raging hormones as we were, we kept our hands to ourselves. And ourselves only. God knows we needed it.
Unlike in the coming years of excursions, we had no portable VCD player and neither had we made arrangements for our very-exciting-watching-porn-together sessions. Come to think of it, I wonder why we did that. It's not exactly what you'd call normal, is it? Kind of like group therapy for desperate young boys.
Anyway, steering back onto the road of the narrative, we had no means for entertainment, save for a television, with cable, in our hotel room. An enterprising friend of mine quickly zeroed in on...wait for it....FTV! Yes, our very own peek into things we could've had if we weren't born in India to middle class parents. That world of perfect bodies, and presumably willing minds. After all, they were in the fashion industry, weren't they?
So, the scene is this. A group of 8 adolescents gawking at a model wearing the ideal skirt. Short enough to arouse, but long enough to conceal. One among them loudly proclaims, "Man, I want to see more", and goes next to the TV, bends down next to the base and starts peering up.
You know those incidents which are best recounted by animatedly acting out the scene? Somehow, I get the feeling this is one of those. There's only so much humour the written word can carry on its back. And this post definitely seems to have a broken back
Hi there, my-figment-of-imagination reader. Long time its been. Hope you've been running well, and with regular water-breaks, the marathon of life. Yes? Well, then. The pleasantries being over, let's move on to the good things.
After almost two years of waiting with bated breath, the man's back. THE MAN. The perfect fitting blazer, the crisp white shirt and a studly looking gun in his hand. The uncanny ability to come out of a fight, dirty and grimy and still make girls go weak at the knees. It's really not fair. Bond..James Bond. Anyone else saying his name the way Bond does is on his way to inventing a one-step method to becoming a pariah. But not Bond, no. Every pore of Bond cries out metrosexuality, but "Ooooh...He's so manly!!" The man waxes, uses an undisclosed number of hair products, is always impeccably groomed and yet remains if not the epitome, a climber very near the peak of masculinity. And, boy oh boy, don't get me started on his sex life! Who else could get laid with a pick-up line which goes, "I can't seem to find the stationery in my hotel room. Would you like to help me look for it?".
But this post is not about Bond and his masculinity. It's the lack thereof of someone else.
Scene witnessed outside the cinema: Car no.1 inadvertently bangs into car no.2. Driver of car no.2 gets out and shouts, while car no.1 driver sits in his car and shouts. Driver 2 gets back in his car, reverses and bangs into driver 1's car. Driver 1's turn to get out and shout. Goes back into his car, and bangs again into driver 2's car. Both get out and start shouting. Something about, "..you don't know who I am. I can fuck your happiness..."
I mean, what?? Don't get me wrong. I whole-heartedly reject the notion that manliness lies in being aggressive. In fact, it takes much more balls to admit that one is wrong. An apology just drips with so much more testosterone than a curled fist, don't you think?
It's become fashionable again to end things with words of wisdom. After years of groping about in the blindness of believing only in the virtues of disbelief, morals have once again been accepted as being an essential part of mankind's entertainment.
So what's the moral of the story, my dear children? Yes, you're right. It's to stop trying to show the world that you are a man. When you stop trying, you actually become a man.
That's it for now. Time to go. My gym calls. Have to get a six-pack and bulging biceps. Wouldn't want to look like a sissy, now, would I?