On a nippy Friday night with surprisingly no drinking to do I was dozing off to some random made-for-TV movie when out of the blue this voice started shrieking at me “You want to know what I want in a girl?” If it were a friend I would’ve instinctively colorfully abused him and his lineage and went back to the TV. It was my alter ego, so it was more like a call of duty, if you will. Considering He feeds me, clothes me and lets me watch our beloved Lakers in his humongous 50” Plasma TV I thought, “Hmmm… Why the #$%^ not?”
And so for the next 30 minutes, ladies and gentlemen I watched my other self, the freewheeling enigmatic 30 yrd old contraption rattle like a runaway train on what sets him off on a girl, what ticks him and bugs the hell out of him about them. So if any of this is your cup of tea, join me. Else… I don’t know… Go back to doing whatever the $%^& it is you were doing in the first place.
Peace be with y’all!
Driven to excel…
Agreed no one’s splitting the atom at work everyday. But then they’re not twiddling their thumbs and just updating Excel sheets either! Fact is, people do love their work and you’ve got to atleast act like it means something to you. I’m looking for a self-reliant, confident and career oriented woman who can stand up for herself at all times.
(Laughs) All right! I am not looking for Revolver Rita either!
Truth be told, it’s a colossal mistake throwing away years of study and hard work in exchange for becoming a vegetating homemaker in charge of cooking, cleaning etc. That’s a total turnoff man! I would never allow that to happen.
Nobody’s ambition is to just get married and settle down. That’s the stuff you read about only in Mills & Boon novels. Instead, everyone wants to excel in their chosen career paths, which is predominantly what I’m looking for in Ms. Right as well. She can be a florist, dabbling in IT, or even a neurosurgeon, but what’s going to get her ratings up is her passion to succeed.
(Laughs) “You think that’s never going to happen, do you?”
I just smiled wistfully and pretended to take notes…
The core…
Let’s face it man. Life’s not a recurring Sun TV episode. So mom’s don’t have an acerbic tongue, which means wives don’t have to be at their scheming and conniving best. Which really means you don’t have to put on any act 24x7 to get through. Stay true to yourself, put your best straightforward honest foot forward and you’ll find life’s in fact a cakewalk after all. For you and the man walking next to you.
Talk it out whatever it is that’s eating you. I’m not a mind reader by any stretch of imagination and for the life of me cannot fathom what’s running through your mind. No means No and Yes means Yes in my dictionary. And if there’s a book called “Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus” I haven’t heard about it!
Say you have a sense of humor and I’ll award you a star right away.
On the Outside…
Let me clarify this. I am not searching for Ms. drop-dead gorgeous. I’m better of googling or Youtubing Victoria Secret models instead. What turns me on instinctively is a cute smile. Nothing brightens up the face (and another man’s spirit) with a smile that says “I’m so ravishing. Want to get to know me?” Have one of that and I’m ready to listen even if she’s just reciting alphabets or singing bhajans.
Contrary to what most guys think, no she doesn’t have to look like the color of milk. Almost every white person I know wants to get a tan to become more brown! I like to think dusky is what’s in these days.
And please tell me she’ll keep her hair long for eternity. There’s nothing sexier than a girl dancing her hair in the breeze or experimenting with myriad styles and colors. I mean, just ask Madhuri Dixit. Seriously, let’s leave them “bob cuts” or “boy cuts” (or whatever it is called) to Demi Moore.
Respect the figure…
I’m a straight jacketed red blooded guy who’s been brought on the notion that “Nacchhu Figure” refers to a woman who has her contours well defined, doesn’t have to shop in the L/XL/XXL section of the store and doesn’t have a heart attack whenever she steps on the scales. Yes, I need a girl who realizes that her body’s her biggest asset and works every day to keep it in shape. I mean, no one’s training for the Iron Man here, but you know, do whatever it is that keeps you slim. Maybe it’s running helter-skelter on the treadmill, aerobics or even pretending to do some yoga on a bed sheet J
Well… I’m not chomping on chips and packing on the pounds when I’m saying these. Thanks to 24Hr Fitness I can stand shirtless in front of my mirror and not have to suck in my paunch all the way. Though the pecs need some work…
30 minutes into this and I had a sinking feeling that it was petering into “Manal Kayiru: Part II”. Finding his philosophy psychobabble too much to handle I decided to take leave. But I couldn’t resist asking one more question,
Hey man! You’ve been yakking away about this Ms. Right all along. If you do find her what would you do to her?
(Pauses for a minute or two)
Well… Nothing much. Just treat her like the queen she is for the rest of her life.
Amen brother!
Atmarajan
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Hairdressing!
I’ve got to admit I’m not a square-jawed six-pack-abs hulk who wears his metrosexuality on his sleeve flaunting Prada and Calvin Klein. I’m just your boy next door who loves his sports, beer and his share of action movies and skin flicks. Quite naturally when Average Joes like me need to get their hair cut it’s an half an hour affair at our local barber shop. Not a half a day expensive extravaganza at an unisex beauty parlor-cum-spa in Beverly Hills.
Guess, living in a small beach town like El Segundo means more often than not it’s a “Main Street” that houses everything of note. The cop and fire stations, couple of coffee shops, the pharmacy, pizza place, including the ubiquitous liquor store. Almost straight out of the set of Sweet Home Alabama, if you will. Sometimes making me wonder if these darn shops need them billboards after all. I mean no wife’s going to point to the mom-and-pop vide store and say,
“Sweetie… Wait here a sec. Let me grab some veggies tonight for dinner”. Right? Ummm… Maybe that wasn't funny, but cut me some slack will you? I'm just getting warmed up here! :)
But I digress. Wedged between the fire station and a café that’s whimsically open only till noon everyday, is my pet grooming studio a.k.a the barber shop. Run by a rotund cheerful lady in her 40s along with her band of two assistants. And every time I visit her its business as usual. A few minutes into my first coffee, she starts work on my distorted mop of hair, while I blissfully immerse myself in a “Vogue” or “Glamour”. I know! I know! What am I doing? Honest truth, I’m never going to pick these off the shelves of a bookstore, so what better place to figure out what those glamorous supermodels have to say, huh? Besides, a man’s got no choice you see. No “Time” or “Sports Illustrated”. Not even a small TV for me to say, "Martha, do you mind if I change it to the Santa Ana Derby? I'm hoping PurpleGold wins tonight" :)
"Experimenting with hair styles" and my name cam never be confused together. So it's always the Plain Jane “Short on the sides and back and medium on the front” for me. Two coffees and half a dozen cookies later we’re done. Unflinchingly after every session I’m asked,
“Honey… Would you like to try the new shampoo and hair gel?”
“Ummm… Not now. Maybe next time for sure”.
Same reply every darn time. I wouldn’t blame me. I’ve just convinced myself that Dial’s the answer to both body and hair. So we still have a long way to go! Walking back home and lighting one of 'em bad boys I wondered how impassionate my whole experience had been. I mean I could have just shoved my head under a robot and emerged $20 and half a pound lighter.
I like to keep dishing out life truths at the drop of a hat and here’s one more from my stable. One of the few places where stoic silence is an absolute no-no are bars and barber shops. We aren’t talking heavy-duty stuff like “Daddy was never around when I grew up…” blah blah blah! but light hearted banter like “What the $%^& are the Lakers going to do this year?” or “Why Kobe isn’t a ball hog after all!”.
Seriously, haircuts in India were always an enjoyable experience for me. “Excellent Hair Dressers” ensured it remained so every time. Yessir! The sanctum sanctorum where three distinct species of Jay’s dutifully (and cheerfully) surrendered their hair every month. The setting itself is undeniably picturesque. Nowhere else would you find a bunch of middle aged to old men outside in their lungis squatting and smoking beedis, all the while appearing to solve the world’s problems. Step in, the owner personally greets you escorting you to a bench, where you can either bide the next 15 minutes browsing through local Tamil dailies or ogle at ugly buxom women in them seedy magazines. Depends on what you’re in the mood for that morning.
Wait time over, the fun begins once I am perched on the high throne, ready to be serviced. And for the next ½ hour my barber goes ballistic about the $%^&ups of the ruling party in TamilNadu, what ails the Indian cricket team and of course, juicy Kollywood gossips and tidbits. Punctuating every revelation with,
“K…Itha pathi enna nenakkare?” (What do you think about this?)
“Correct thaan… (That’s right!)
I have a blast with my barber man. Even if it means sometimes listening to lengthy monologues. Which is why whenever I go back home I arrive with atleast three weeks worth of beard and a shaggy mane that would put even a caveman to shame. Next step? Haircut with my barber over a cup of tea and catching up like long lost buddies.
All right! I think I’ll stop here lest I ramble away like a runaway train. I'm sure whoever's reading this (other than me) ought to be thinking "Such a waste of words for something as inane as a haircut. Christ! Why can't you just say 'I got my hair cut today'?" And maybe even ready to tear their hair out. No wait! Go to my barber for that! :)
Guess, living in a small beach town like El Segundo means more often than not it’s a “Main Street” that houses everything of note. The cop and fire stations, couple of coffee shops, the pharmacy, pizza place, including the ubiquitous liquor store. Almost straight out of the set of Sweet Home Alabama, if you will. Sometimes making me wonder if these darn shops need them billboards after all. I mean no wife’s going to point to the mom-and-pop vide store and say,
“Sweetie… Wait here a sec. Let me grab some veggies tonight for dinner”. Right? Ummm… Maybe that wasn't funny, but cut me some slack will you? I'm just getting warmed up here! :)
But I digress. Wedged between the fire station and a café that’s whimsically open only till noon everyday, is my pet grooming studio a.k.a the barber shop. Run by a rotund cheerful lady in her 40s along with her band of two assistants. And every time I visit her its business as usual. A few minutes into my first coffee, she starts work on my distorted mop of hair, while I blissfully immerse myself in a “Vogue” or “Glamour”. I know! I know! What am I doing? Honest truth, I’m never going to pick these off the shelves of a bookstore, so what better place to figure out what those glamorous supermodels have to say, huh? Besides, a man’s got no choice you see. No “Time” or “Sports Illustrated”. Not even a small TV for me to say, "Martha, do you mind if I change it to the Santa Ana Derby? I'm hoping PurpleGold wins tonight" :)
"Experimenting with hair styles" and my name cam never be confused together. So it's always the Plain Jane “Short on the sides and back and medium on the front” for me. Two coffees and half a dozen cookies later we’re done. Unflinchingly after every session I’m asked,
“Honey… Would you like to try the new shampoo and hair gel?”
“Ummm… Not now. Maybe next time for sure”.
Same reply every darn time. I wouldn’t blame me. I’ve just convinced myself that Dial’s the answer to both body and hair. So we still have a long way to go! Walking back home and lighting one of 'em bad boys I wondered how impassionate my whole experience had been. I mean I could have just shoved my head under a robot and emerged $20 and half a pound lighter.
I like to keep dishing out life truths at the drop of a hat and here’s one more from my stable. One of the few places where stoic silence is an absolute no-no are bars and barber shops. We aren’t talking heavy-duty stuff like “Daddy was never around when I grew up…” blah blah blah! but light hearted banter like “What the $%^& are the Lakers going to do this year?” or “Why Kobe isn’t a ball hog after all!”.
Seriously, haircuts in India were always an enjoyable experience for me. “Excellent Hair Dressers” ensured it remained so every time. Yessir! The sanctum sanctorum where three distinct species of Jay’s dutifully (and cheerfully) surrendered their hair every month. The setting itself is undeniably picturesque. Nowhere else would you find a bunch of middle aged to old men outside in their lungis squatting and smoking beedis, all the while appearing to solve the world’s problems. Step in, the owner personally greets you escorting you to a bench, where you can either bide the next 15 minutes browsing through local Tamil dailies or ogle at ugly buxom women in them seedy magazines. Depends on what you’re in the mood for that morning.
Wait time over, the fun begins once I am perched on the high throne, ready to be serviced. And for the next ½ hour my barber goes ballistic about the $%^&ups of the ruling party in TamilNadu, what ails the Indian cricket team and of course, juicy Kollywood gossips and tidbits. Punctuating every revelation with,
“K…Itha pathi enna nenakkare?” (What do you think about this?)
“Correct thaan… (That’s right!)
I have a blast with my barber man. Even if it means sometimes listening to lengthy monologues. Which is why whenever I go back home I arrive with atleast three weeks worth of beard and a shaggy mane that would put even a caveman to shame. Next step? Haircut with my barber over a cup of tea and catching up like long lost buddies.
All right! I think I’ll stop here lest I ramble away like a runaway train. I'm sure whoever's reading this (other than me) ought to be thinking "Such a waste of words for something as inane as a haircut. Christ! Why can't you just say 'I got my hair cut today'?" And maybe even ready to tear their hair out. No wait! Go to my barber for that! :)
(Pausing for 30 secs)
Holy Christ! Look at my nails. I type like a madman for all these hours and they seem to have grown an inch already. Now what am I supposed to, huh? Setup an appointment with a nail stylist OR chew them off myself?
Option (b) folks. Attaboy Karthik!
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Genesis
Unable to take it no more my friend called me up last night and hollered, “Why don’t you start a #$%^in’ blog?” “But… I don’t know… I’m not sure anyone would care”, I stammered, unsure of where this was coming from (and going). Seemingly not done yet, he shot back “Doesn’t #$%^in’ matter. Atleast I won’t be forced to read your s**t every time I open my inbox” Touche!
A few years ago I had an epiphany, started imagining myself as the second coming of Dave Barry (my humor columnist idol) and've been whipping out “articles” (gulp!) ever since about anything that catches my fancy. Lakers win a playoff series/Bought a new car/Breakup with my girlfriend? No problem. Every damn thing gets it's own 1000 word essay that’s dutifully emailed to friends and family for their immediate consumption. Silver lining? They aren’t like something that a 3rd grade kid would write. Thankfully they’re something that’ll atleast make Dave Barry raise an eyebrow and say, “Hmmm! Not bad at all”
“The proof of a pudding is in its eating”
And thus is born in a moment of vanity, “What the #$%^ is Atmarajan thinking?” Officially open for business to anyone and everyone who cares to trespass.
A blog isn’t a blog unless the outside world critiques it. Bouquets and Brickbats are both welcome from all and sundry. Oh! If by happenstance you’re a pretty damsel who found this funny (and intriguing too) your contact details are most appreciated :)
Be well!
A few years ago I had an epiphany, started imagining myself as the second coming of Dave Barry (my humor columnist idol) and've been whipping out “articles” (gulp!) ever since about anything that catches my fancy. Lakers win a playoff series/Bought a new car/Breakup with my girlfriend? No problem. Every damn thing gets it's own 1000 word essay that’s dutifully emailed to friends and family for their immediate consumption. Silver lining? They aren’t like something that a 3rd grade kid would write. Thankfully they’re something that’ll atleast make Dave Barry raise an eyebrow and say, “Hmmm! Not bad at all”
“The proof of a pudding is in its eating”
And thus is born in a moment of vanity, “What the #$%^ is Atmarajan thinking?” Officially open for business to anyone and everyone who cares to trespass.
A blog isn’t a blog unless the outside world critiques it. Bouquets and Brickbats are both welcome from all and sundry. Oh! If by happenstance you’re a pretty damsel who found this funny (and intriguing too) your contact details are most appreciated :)
Be well!
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