Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Parental Skype

The Maternal One: You will not believe what your father did!
Snake Anthony: What did he do now?
TMA: We went grocery shopping at that new high end grocery store and I put a lemon into the shopping cart and your father bought it!
SA: And why wouldn't he?
TMA: I was in a rush so I didn't notice but it cost Rs. 130! A single lemon!
SA: Wow, why did he buy it then?
TMA: Ask your father!
Father (from the side): My wife wanted a lemon that cost Rs. 130 so I bought it.
TMA: But he won't buy me what I really want.
SA: What do you really want?
TMA: An emerald ring.
Father: I'd much rather buy your mother a Rs. 130 lemon than an emerald ring.
TMA: So much for 35 years of marriage. Hmpf!

Monday, July 30, 2012

Bar Nibbles

Sauteed asparagus with pepper
Brie served on a stone slab
Popcorn with truffle oil
Steamed sea bass with lime and chili
Garden fresh organic carrots tossed in butter
Crisp soft tofu rolls with ginger floss

(And a bartender just as charming.)

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

"I'd agree with you but then we'd both be f***ing wrong"

I am both horrified and impressed by this at the same time. 

Monday, April 16, 2012

The Lord's Plans

K: This day has not been as productive as I wanted.
G: The Lord wanted you to have some rest.
K: The Lord also wanted me to party a lot.
G: The Lord has some strange plans for MBA students.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Slow Assholes

G: Maybe they're just assholes? Or slow.
SA: Or worse - slow assholes.

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

The Spoils of War

The spoils of war must be shared.

He wanted his Maus books back. The series was hard to get his hands on. She placed them in her blue Snoopy bag that she planned to give to him. He had often said he thought it was endearing that despite her love for diamonds and that one specific Argentinian malbec, that she insisted on transporting overnight things in a four year old's bag. She gave him the look of death the first time he made the remark. Nothing that couldn't be repaired with a dash of his charm though.

His Criterion Collection film shelf was missing three DVDs. These she also placed in the bag with the Al Di Meola World Sinfonia CD. Then she paused for a moment and thoughtfully slipped it into her music system (also selected by him). Almost instinctively, she went straight to Track 4, Tango Suite, Pt. 3. The sharp guitar, the seriousness of Piazolla when he composed the number, the strength of the legs that dance to this piece came to mind. Nope, she thought, this one I'll keep. She applied similar logic to a book of interviews with jazz artists (she was keen to one day have the same encyclopedic knowledge of jazz as he did). Even though she was calling the arrangement off, he was still irrepressibly cool.

Somewhere else in the same city, he set aside her Chatwin books, a belt meant specifically for a summer linen dress and black shirt she kept there just in case they had to go out for a fancy dinner. What he didn't return were a pair of delicate jade earrings she loved to wear lying on her bedside table. The peek of green through her long straight hair when she nodded her head excitedly, her slender neck when she threw her head back and laughed - he knew painfully that he'd have to make do with those thoughts now.

The talk
The sex
Somebody to trust
The comfy Eames chair
The good copper pans
The '54 Strat
These are the things I miss the most

Some spoils of war can be shared. But most of them are memories. What do you do with those?

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Here, Monkey Monkey Monkey

I have long suspected there is a monkey in my soul. And not just because Donald Fagen said I was wrong to interrupt his song.

My monkey makes rare appearances but he's deeply deviant. He will mess with you in the ophthalmologist's waiting room if you commit a faux pas. Let it be known that he is not a teenager. Don't be fooled by the sneakers, the college sweatshirt and the sulky demeanor. Yesterday, he frightened a seventeen year old kid for sport. The threat of glaucoma past the age of forty was suddenly immediate and dangerous.

He thought nothing of giving the asshole demented by road rage in the car behind the finger. This incited a rabid fury that my friend had to contend with. 'No! She did NOT give you the finger!' he yelled, putting his physical safety at risk to protect mine. The monkey made a swift exit over the boundary wall of the parking lot, leaving me horrified.

He sends pithy, provocative texts, without my permission. My fingers glide over the screen as though guided by a loving hand. Hurt and offended replies arrive promptly and remain unseen in my inbox. The phone rings and I strew casual and hateful remarks, acutely aware of and yet acutely indifferent to their impact.

My monkey makes me grit my teeth and look at you demonically. He makes me loathe you and shove you around. I can do it with my most radiant smile. I can do it with tears streaming down my cheeks. Secretly, I love him, his intense commitment, his willful strength, his extreme dominance and his gleeful disregard for you and for me.

The few who have been present for his performances have tried to exorcise him. And failed, naturally. I imagine they expect remorse but all I can provide is a quiet apology because while I dread his return, I also look at his trail of destruction in awe.