for all you smokers that are getting fucked by the smoking ban in public places all over India…
bhen chod…ma chod…sutta na mila..
for all you smokers that are getting fucked by the smoking ban in public places all over India…
bhen chod…ma chod…sutta na mila..
I don’t know what to say! The adage “don’t shit where you eat” doesn’t seem to impress our govt. Nope. They just spray their own shit with cologne and keep on munching. Talk about a nation stuck in the anal phase! We’re so delighted with our economic development that we happily throw shit out of the window, knowing that some poor naked human at the bottom of the rubbish heap will find a use for our grotty old toothbrush not to mention our used tampons. That’s some disgusting trickle-down. No one feels the least bit of shame for leaving traces of their waste about like a snail trail. People spit on the walls, shit on the street, blow snot into the bushes. At least this stuff washes eventually down the drain. But what disturbs me is how this idea of “outside” the home is seen as one gigantic rubbish bin, while inside the home people fastidiously take off their shoes and take great care not to trash things.
But its typical of the Indian psyche to have a total lack of civic concern. People worry about their own family and what happens in their living vicinity. What happens down the road matters only in so far as it is something new to talk about. This is how it is possible for crowds of people to hang about with their hands in their pockets while watching someone being stabbed or raped. Once the corpse is dragged away by the police they will whip out a can of air freshener while a sweeper is called over to wipe up the “mess” of blood and ooze left behind. People simply do not grow up with a sense of accountability for shared spaces. Its every man for himself.
And our waste habits seem to exhibit some almost primitive urge to mark territory and assert dominance using our fecal waste mixed in with our other more high tech refuse. Of course we leave our tom cat piss in the areas where we can- in the places where only the weakest of the human pack reside…and if any of them came to shit on our doorstep we’d lock them up or worse?
Authorities in Mumbai have begun spraying the city’s two biggest rubbish dumps with perfume to lessen the increasingly foul smell. “We’ve had lots of infant death and there is a high incidence of respiratory infections,” said Dr Rane.
India has found itself ill-equipped to deal with the mountains of plastic bags, electronic waste and even food that have found their way into the nation’s rubbish bins as a result of two decades of economic growth.
In Mumbai, formerly known as Bombay, the population produces close to 8,500 metric tonnes of rubbish a day, most of which makes its way to the two sites.
“Being a largely rural economy most of our waste used to be bio-degradable,” said Prashant Pastore, an expert on waste management at Toxics Link, an environmental advocacy organisation based in New Delhi.
“The problem is our consumption habits have changed but our dumping habits have not.”
story from thenational
WEll ROTD is officially, mind-numbingly, batter my head against a brick wall bored…and don’t go giving me that “only boring people get bored crap” because from the minute before and after I’m in this insipid landscape the world is a kaleidoscopic tunnel of brilliant insanity…
such is office life. So here’s a random list of things to do if you’re in need of some distraction from the insufferable torture of having nothing to do and still being confined to the inside of a hellish box of capitalist tedium…the best options I could find while attempting to browse my boredom away…
Bored things to do list…best options off the web (hey I’m bored…too bored to come up with stuff myself)
1. Stack items in cabinets so that they fall out on people when opened.
2. Move specific items to specific places everyday. (I.e. move the boss’ favorite pen from his desk to the floor every day if asked about it blame it on ghosts.)
3. See how many bathrooms you can defile in one day.
4. Make blow darts out of the plastic tips of your shoelaces a straight pin and a Bic pen.
5. Search e-Bay for illegal substances
6.Work on coming up with really good scams or practical jokes.
7. Go through people’s desks to see if you can find liquor in any of them. (drink what you find)
8. Digitally edit photos of monkeys to hold knives/swords
9. Create a fictional background of said photos including names and upbringings of said monkeys.
10. Create large scale fantastic delusions of grandeur.
11. Check for porn in the internet cache of people who leave their systems logged in.
12. Take revenge against people who you don’t like. For instance, tape an anchovy (or bombay duck) under their desk. Their office will smell like ass.
13.Try to make the longest paperclip chain, or largest rubber band ball.
14. Put a bootable Linux CD in your boss’ drive and watch him freak out the next morning.
15. Leave random voicemails for random people.
16.Come up with a plan of world domination.
17. Shoot down your own plans of world domination.
18. Try to find someplace where you can take a nap
19. Stick a thumb tack into the eraser on a pencil stand it on your desk, attempt to shoot rubber bands off of the ceiling and down around the pencil.
20. Super glue random objects together, use your imagination.
21. Change the speed dial on other peoples phones
22. Think about how fucked up you are going to get tonight.
23.Write a ridiculously long list of things to do while bored at work and post it online.
24. take an inane online quiz
25. Plan an ideal suicide.
ok. all I want to know is this…why are so many people who land on my site searching the web for “Desi Pissing Aunties”. This phrase has come up hundreds of times as the search engine terms that led people here…I suspect the “Agony Aunty” section is what lures them…
image from link
now I’m not moralizing or anything…but I don’t get the whole “pee on me” fetish…but hey…to each his or her own…and I can certainly think of a few guys who wouldn’t exactly stop Angelina Jolie from taking on a leak on them if she asked them nicely…..and I think its cute that some guys have a thing for the desperate housewife “MILF” sort of thing but Indian aunties don’t exactly look like Bree or Gabrielle from “Desperate Housewives”…they look like Simi Garewal…and if there’s one thing that makes me want to vomit into my bowl of cornflakes…its the idea of Simi Garewal naked and peeing on anyone whomsoever….
if anyone can explain this strange cyber quest for “Desi Pissing Aunties” I would be most grateful. And in the mean time here’s a cringeworthy clip of Simi Garewal topless in the tastelessly pretentious 1972 flick “Siddhartha” where Shashi Kapoor seduces her by pointing at birds, praying to her, and pretending to french kiss her while striking temple sculpture poses as they attempt to disguise a very badly made soft porn sequence as some kind of aesthetic tribute to India’s “Rich” erotic cultural history….the only thing “rich” or “historical” about the clip is Simi Garewaal, who has managed to evolve from a dim witted Bollywood tartlet into an aging Anglophile troll, who insists on wearing white, singing her own talk show theme tune, and thinks that just because she has “propah” English diction and got some major personalities to shed tears on her show, they’ll forget she let Shashi Kapoor see her tits on camera. Now if he had PEED on her…perhaps we could have been spared the abomination that was her candles-and-flowers tribute to classist circle jerking….
I’ve been meaning to put these clips up for a while….so get out your barf bags…
Simi Garewal and Shashi Kapoor in 1972 “Siddartha”
Simi Garewal Singing her theme song to Rendezvous with Simi Garewal. “Speak to me so I can see (EAT) your Soul”
So I went to the closing party for an art exhibit in Bombay that was curated by a close friend of mine. The paintings had all been moved to the interior of a swanky night club, and the lighting was perfect…tables of stone floating between miniature rivers filled with rose petals…all the bohemians were out…flashing their butch hair cuts, their tribal hand bags, their 70’s beards, and the cameras flashed on cheshire-cat grins of hopeful artists and their cutting edge productions….in one painting there were some startling giant bananas painted with tiny dancing disembodied female legs….this was my favorite. It was priced way over my head but at least I got the brochure with mini photos inside. So all is going perfectly….wine is flowing….and so is the rather expensive beer…and its the right moment to grab someone who is a worse dancer than I am…and use them as a disguise while I jump around like a woman posessed…..hmmmm…..only one problem…..some idiotic fucker from France has been hired to play some gormet music….
it basically sounded like computers having surrepetitious abortions…only really really loudly. I said to the guy next to me…”how the hell am I supposed to dance to this music.” He raised an eyebrow. “Well its “minimal techno” darling” he tells me. I look at another Frenchman that seems like a nice guy. He’s absorbed by the sounds of the clunk clunk beep. I feel I must be getting old if this is really supposed to be the new “music.” Whatever. Enough beer and the computers sound like they are commiting suicide….another beer and I really don’t care…..me and my friends have resolved to jump up and down on the spot and another friend has gotten so drunk that he’s convinced he’s a Bolshevik and has been invented some kind of obsolete russian folk dance and is scaring all the nearby women away by clapping his hands at them and going “ahhhh”
I grab a gay friend of mine and twirl him around….all is well….all is good vibes….except….out of the corner of my eye I spy a little sleeeeaze…..He looks kind of like a wolf….only I actually like werewolves and this guy looks like the kind of werewolf that doesn’t want to bite anyone…he wants to hump everyone..more like a weasel……..his poofy 80’s haircut is bobbing up and down….I can’t tell if he is European or American…whoever he is…..he is looking around with an expression that worries me….because somehow the sound of computers having abortions has made him want to breed….
The evening draws to a close and I am, luckily not introduced to him….
The next day, bleary-eyed and hidden behind my shades I go to say goodbye to a friend who is leaving town…the one who curated the exhibit…Suddenly the weasel arrives… I am introduced to him…the weasel says in a swaggering voice “I never forget a pretty face.” I cross my fingers and display my wedding ring to its best advantage while he continues to ask me questions in that “DO YOU FANCY ME? WANNA FUCK?” sort of voice….ugh…soon he is asking me where to get a nice massage….I answer politely…but soon I gather that it isn’t “THAT KIND” of massage he is looking for. He is also considering visiting the Osho Ashram and has even called them up to enquire after their “orgies.” They told him they couldn’t promise anything. The evening progresses….he lingers in our little group….I am getting unnerved….I try not to be rude….he seems like he must be a kid….just out of his BA probably…. first time in India? ….yes…try to be nice to the little turd….. after a number of uncomfortable exchanges that are really too pathetic to mention, he caps off the evening by leaning over to my husband and asking him if “YOU HAVE ANY WOMEN FOR ME?”
He leaves, finally…..after trying to seduce me, enquire after orgies with Osho and places to get “massage” and of course inviting my husband to pimp some women for him. And the whole thing just left me with this irritated feeling that I had when I was in London studying and ran into some Indian lads, fresh off the boat for their degrees “abraaad”.
Anyway I know its completely typical but I find it really disgusting when horny little boys go travelling to foreign countries and treat all the native women like a garden of all-you-can-eat “I love you long time” desperate deep-throating tarts…
During my first week in London my husband (then fiance) had taken me to some university pot luck where he came accross another Punju who leaned over slyly, oggling all the white chicks, and spat “oye…gori patayi?” And when white boys come looking for a piece of ass in India they have the same expression. Testosterone poisoning turns boys into semen zombies…..I mean, what the hell is wrong with these guys? If they can’t get laid in their own countries (East and West) why do they think the female species is suddenly going to part their legs in a foreign country?
In the end, the fantasy of the exotic foreign punani is not what it appears to be. These guys aren’t really looking for women…they are trying desperately to reimagine themselves as potent sexual beings, which they obviously are not in their own countries. They are trying, in the sleaziest way possible, to “find” themselves, that is- to create a myth of debauchery and “hard core” experience for themselves. The real problem for these insects is that in their own countries there is social accountability, which, for all our post-feminist rhetoric, means that yes— there are men who will find it uncool in your own community if you start treating their women friends, sisters, girlfriends like sidewalk hookers. But hey— in other countries, among other ethnicities and even classes….women are fair game…this kind of attitude belies the fact that these are the kinds of men who respect women only through virtue of the fact that they are property of/ or protected by male social codes that deny random jerks access to them. In their own country a male gaze follows them, a gaze that censures, a gaze they accept as legitimate prohibition, a gaze that they imagine will not follow them to foreign locales.
THe moment they arrive in a foreign country their eyes grow wide and hungry….centuries of “rape and pillage” programing stirs in their cosmopolitan DNA….They go out and have brief, unsatisfying sexual encounters with women who they often do not even like very much….still…they have to….so that they can have that brief, even more satisfying, post-coital ciggarette and make a phone call “back home” to report….”hey bro……I just screwed a russian…” This is the moment where the hunt becomes worth while….where the young tribesman reports back to just one or two members of his clan that yes, he, has tasted the forbidden fruit, has marked himself a real man, and will safely be able to reconcile himself years later to a life of unhappy sexless marriage with the knowlege that one day, while sipping his scotch whisky, he might reminisce with his geriatric comrades about a foolhardy youth full of booze, prostitues, and minimal techno.
Here’s some minimal techno for ya. If you like it you are a sad little monkey. Ok it might sound good if Yoko ono were using it for some avante garde art installation involving albino bats and hanging forks but in a night club…its absurd. Besides if the French like it…well…you know the French… 🙂
image from ladygator.com
well as the last trickle of rains falls down in Bombay, we are enjoying the annoying house guests of the season; mosquitos. Some people are coming down with Dengue fever…or “Dengu” as our cook back home likes to call it. I guess too much of a good thing can get a bit pissing off. Having missed out on the Bombay rains for two years I was completely taken in with the sound of the tides of water falling off the window shutters in this lumbering old house of ours. I would sit back and play classical music and get all misty-eyed and write bad poetry. But rain is, I guess, a lot like a favorite house guest. When they first arrive you can’t get enough of them. But after a while their irritating habits start getting to you…with rain…I guess its that contrary to what water should bring to mind…it brings forth tides of filth. Instead of wiping things clean it makes the sewers overflow and when you’re walking in the street your toenails get filled with the grime of mud mixed together in all probability with spit and piss and what have you….In most homes in the city water becomes a scarcity, a rare commodity and a thing to bicker about. So most showers I’ve been taking have been under a very narrow trickle of luke warm water, which just about manages to saturate my hair for long enough so that it gets out the shampoo. In the unlucky parts of the city, it makes it impossible for people living in slums to get clean drinking water and everyone comes down with serious illnesses. The humidity makes people more prone to skin infections and mold grows on all leather and organic materials overnight. Generally everyone comes down with disgusting flu viruses and then passes them around so that every other person is shivering through fever sweats and developing whooping cough. But it should be over soon.
Looking back at the soul-scorching summer heat that inspired some of my former posts on welcome monsoons, I thought I’d put up one last “Rain Dance” song, if for no other reason than just to annoy myself, watching Aishwarya Rai pretend to be an innocent village belle, gyrating her hips on a rural rock and singing “rain rain clouds clouds” with her irritatingly adorable expressions. She kind of reminds me of the “world’s cutest kitten”, Nermal, that Garfield is always trying to do away with…maybe its her great big eyes…or maybe its her fluffy tail…or maybe its that, like Nermal, I’d like to chain her to a scratching post, rub her belly and feed her sewer rats…anyway…here’s “Barso Re” from “Guru”.
So I’m walking to work today from the train station and it starts to rain. Of course I forgot my umbrella. So I put one hand over my eyes so that my mascara wont come dripping down my cheeks like Courtney Love. I’m walking along, by the side of the highway, muttering “whatever” to the raindrops accepting the fact that I’m going to look like Swamp Thing by the time I get to the office. Suddenly the raindrops stop. “Huh?” I look up and there’s an umbrella covering me. Apparently chivalry is not dead; this knight in shining armour, clean shaven with a gleaming smile in a clean tucked in white shirt has suddenly covered me with his big umbrella. I’m like “uh…hey, thanks”. I eye him suspiciously but he looks like a nice “up-standing” member of society. And it really was pouring down. I kept my distance but truthfully, when a guy does something old fashioned like offer you his umbrella during a rain storm, you almost want to believe there’s no hidden agenda. He’s being polite. Keeping a formal distance and I’m thinking to myself “maybe he’s not a complete creep.” In any case the rain is likely to stop any second. And its possible he’s just being a good Samaritan. I shouldn’t tell him to bugger off just yet.
So I quicken my pace and attempt to ignore him- but he’s not giving up- and he’s yammering on like a nervous kid, talking about his sister who’s in advertising and how he’s a manager for a telephone sales company and how he’s also an event manager and he’s just bumbling on an on, chasing me with this massive umbrella. Then with a sudden grin he extends his right hand in an attempt to shake mine and says the fateful words I have heard so many many many times before,“So? Can I make a FRIENDSHIP with you?” Ugh. I do not shake his hand. Goodness only knows what he’s been doing with it. This guy wants to make something and its definitely not a “friendship.” I mutter impatiently, “uh…” and I show him my wedding finger, “I’m married.” He’s asks “to who?” to which I rather sardonically retort, “to my husband.” And get this- he says with vocal inflection, “WHERE” is “HE?” I raise an eyebrow, thinking to myself “Nice one. Serves you right for hitching a ride under some random umbrella. Now ditch this guy before he tries to convince you to check into a sleazy motel on the pretext of introducing you to his “other sister,” the one who does circus tricks naked.
For a moment there I thought that I was experiencing some anachronistic gallantry. But I have to hand it to the guy; it took guts to use a line that’s been used more often than a shanghai masseuse- and using an umbrella as a prop. Nice touch. And you know, I have nothing against creativity. There’s a whole artform attached to good pick up lines. How about my classic favorite, “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?” The ever tasteful, “Baby if you were a booger I’d have picked you first,” and “Fuck me if I’m wrong, but haven’t we met before?” I think I’d actually pay for some guy’s drink just to listen to a string of these classics. But if I hear the “be my friend?” line one more time…I’m going to…well, there’s no doubting I’m going to hear it again. Old is gold. And so is the creepy technique of disguising a come-on in a chivalrous gesture with pretences at brotherly sentiment.
He can tell I’m trying to get away from him so he says he only asked me to be his “friend” because he could be in some way “useful” in managing some kind of random P.R. event for me or something. He’s really casting about in desperation at this point, looking for something clever to say, having realized his “be my friend” line has failed. A light bulb flashes above his head. A stroke of genius. “Are you on orkut?” he asks me, with a worryingly excitable gleam in his eye, “ You can make lots of FRIENDS there.” The rain has stopped and his unfoldable umbrella wilts back to its usual size. I am beginning to walk away. He whines suddenly, “But don’t you want to make a friendship?” I’m feeling kind of sorry for him actually. “No.” I half smile, “ But thanks for the umbrella.” I walk off making a mental note to buy a new umbrella and possibly a rain jacket with the words “I’m not on orkut and I don’t want to be your friend.” printed on it.