Nose Dose - My Fatal Attraction

My love affair with perfumes has been around for many years now.

It all started when I, all of five / six, would sniff like an eager beaver at the exquisitely beautiful sea-green bottle of French perfume that sat prettily on my Mum’s dressing table. Evenings, when she would take her customary shower, she would sometimes spritz some of its divine contents onto her wrists, and since I would invariably be looking wistfully at her, she, the generous soul that she is, would spritz some on my wrists too. I would smile gloriously at her, the rush of the fumes reaching my nose in one long, magical moment.

Cleopatra herself had fallen victim to this addictive, heady rush.

How can you blame me, a mere child?

Now I no longer am one – a child, I mean. And the undeniable charm of stepping into a fragrance boutique is too good to defy - the heady scent enveloping me in that fatal embrace – I stall all resistance – hold out my wrists – let the whiff that came out from the glass stopper settle down, and then purse my lips into a defeated smile.

The rest is all a blur - before you can say ‘Jack Robinson’ - out come the currency notes or the plastic, in goes the sleek bottle into the bag. Once home, a grinning me promptly displays it on my already groaning-from-the-weight-of-twenty-bottles-and-still-counting dressing table. Leaving TOOMA in a state of mild despair / exasperation - his hand clapped to his forehead.

The prices are a dampener though, this flamboyant passion is anything but cheap - a good fume setting you back by a few grand, but ensuring you smell like a dream.

You'd think the cost would deter me?

Ha! Fat chance!

Certainly not me, for whom it sure is one ‘Happy’ day, full of ‘Joy,’ call it ‘Euphoria’ or ‘Rapture,’ and ‘Intense Pleasure’ when she gets a ‘Chance’ to espy a ‘Lovely,’ ‘Very Irresistible’ ‘Bright Crystal,’ bottle with maybe a ‘Touch of Pink’ to it. The feeling is akin to being at the receiving end of some very potent ‘Hypnotic Poison,’ while downing some exquisitely wonderful ‘Champagne’ in the deep throes of passionate ‘Romance,’ and it would be a ‘Miracle’ if I were to pass it up like an ‘Addict’ who is off ‘Opium,’ ‘cos frankly fumes have become a bit of an ‘Obsession,’ for me and their ‘Magnetism’ is overpowering.

Of course, that you are the ‘Envy’ when you enter a room, is enough of a headrush too!

Doesn't hurt one wee bit...

In Memoriam: Michael Jackson (August 29, 1958 - June 25, 2009)

Since the time he burst on the music scene, he had people tapping to his chartbusters, trying to replicate his inimitable moonwalking and robot technique, doing a karaoke to his high-pitched tenor.

His popularity index spanned generations – I should know – my Mum and I would both karaoke with equal gusto to his tenor (I must confess that my Mum was better).

Last night, Michael Jackson – virtuoso unparalleled, breathed his last in LA because of a fatal cardiac arrest. All attempts to resuscitate him failed.

While people loved and loathed him in equal measure, his death has no doubt dealt a crippling blow to the music industry, more so, since millions of fans were eagerly awaiting his 50 concert performances – a musical extravaganza called This Is It, scheduled to begin from July 13, '09, continuing well into March 2010, at London’s hip O2 arena.

Many called him Jacko the Wacko, troubled crooner, bizarre, creepy paedophilic, one who was at constant loggerheads with his roots (many cosmetic surgeons from LA would vouch for this), and a celebrated ‘success’ at ‘failed’ marriages and relationships.

While opinions may vary, one fact remains though - Michael Jackson was, and will remain forever - the undisputed King of Pop.

R.I.P.

We will mss you.

Kissing a much-loved TGI Friday's Good-Bye

My first memories of TGIF are of my skipping along Connaught Place’s Inner Circle, playing with the columns, and standing to stare outside a bar (at that time, we were unfamiliar with the words pub / watering holes / lounge), painted in red and white stripes.

Music wafted from the inside, as did a delicious aroma of what were probably potatoes in melted cheese. Slurrrrrrp! A steady stream of tourists kept stepping in, affording me a better look into the interiors – a fascinating place with wooden floors, red and white table cloths, bartenders with cocky hats taking orders merrily, colourful posters on the walls and very exciting-looking drinks.

The notice outside the bar which stated sternly that minors weren’t allowed, and the admonishments by my parents to get my nose (which was pressed against the bar’s tinted windows) away, were two primary reasons that accounted for my melancholic face, a face that continued to droop till the time we entered the more ‘tame’ Nirulas, and the pull of the Hot Chocolate Fudge took over, overruling my initial resentment at being whisked away from the object of my Peeping Tom-ism.

However, I didn’t forget TGIF.

Not for once.

Circa – first year of college -1998. Four girls walked jauntily into TGIF, CP, well remembering to carry their college IDs lest the bartenders or the management wanted to check their eligibility to enter the pub. Smart move! As they did check. Thankfully, all of us had already celebrated our respective 18th birthdays. And we weren't turned away, as was the similar-aged group which tried to enter around the same time, but their lack of IDs turned out to be the dampener. Too bad for 'em!

As we took in the interiors and the customary hats and boots, wide-eyed, one thing caught our eye – the shiny, whacky buttons that the bartenders wore on their uniforms. The friendly bartender guessed it was our first time there - we looked the average college-goers who didn't have too much money to spare, and for him we were probably just a group of hood-rich teenagers.

He very kindly suggested we wouldn’t be disappointed if we tried the Mozzarella Sticks. We weren’t. And I also suspect he put in a few extra pieces for us (God bless his soul), as the bloke who ordered for the same at the next table, got a smaller serving than us. Our very first Screwdrivers didn't let us down either, though they did reinstate our having scraped our pocket allowances to be able to afford our treat’ there.

From that day, we were hooked!

Of course the regular visits began only when we started earning, and didn’t have to pinch pennies to down a drink there.

The memories are the sorts that one cannot forget in a hurry.

Like the time I celebrated a birthday there once, and it became lovelier, thanks to the FREE FREE FREE finger-licous chocolate cake by the management (they did check my ID to verify it really was my birthday). And the merry song-and-dance routine by the bartenders that accompanied the cake.

Or the time when a totally-sloshed me, knelt in front of a hugely-embarrassed bartender at TGIF, Basant Lok, begging him for one of his badges. (I’d like to think it was my persistence that paid off, as he handed me not one, but two of ‘em – my friends begged to disagree though, citing various reasons for his having done so, the most frequently-cited one being his unwillingness to grapple with a half-crazed, high-on-energy (read drowned in Long Island Iced Tea) chick.

Or the time when a friend, much to my horror, spilled the last of the ‘Buy-One-Ger-One-Free’ Happy Hours tequilas, and we couldn’t spend on more. Fingers were pointed, scowls were exchanged, and the management – taking pity on us, gave us a free one.

Or the time when yet another friend decided to notch up his experimenting quotient by ditching his customary scotch on the rocks for an Everclear cocktail, a move that let’s just say, ended on a sour note, my clothes being soaked in puke that would make a skunk proud. Oh, and did I mention that fine detail that it was winter?

Or the time when a good friend, very very partial to her Strawberry Daiquiri, kept giggling throughout the course of our hour-and-a-half time there, much to the curiosity (and then amusement) of the patrons sitting nearby.

Or the time when my friends and I would wait outside patiently for the clock to strike 5pm, and then step inside to be able to get one-on-one Mojitos. Hey, we are smart, not cheap! Grrrr!

And now, I hear that the TGIF in Basant Lok looks ready to follow in the footsteps of the CP one, which closed sometime back. It is downing its shutters this Monday - June 22, to reopen in one of ‘em dime-a-dozen malls in Vasant Kunj.

While this may not exactly be in the nature of a national calamity or bring the roof crashing down on my head, it does move me.

Quite a bit.

Since I associate TGIF, especially the one in Basant Lok, with very very fond, sloshed memories.

So while many people, including hubby dear, call it a commercially-hyped establishment, one where there is no VFM (Value For Money), where the red and white stripes only induce a dizzying effect (and the dim lights don’t help much either), and flagging a bartender makes flagging a cab down in a congested area a cakewalk – I still remain a staunch loyalist.

After all, how can I forget, among other things, it was TGIF that invented the Long Island Iced Tea and Loaded Potato Skins.

Besides coining that word which brings a smile to our lips – ‘Happy Hours!’

'Dream' On!

Most of us might have dreams.

(Barring perhaps stray cases like my best friend who swears that he does not dream while sleeping. But then, he has been known to stretch the truth sometimes, so uhmmm...)

To make it simpler, let's just say that a majority of people DO dream. Hell, some of us even daydream, don't we?

The ones blessed with acute memories recollect vivid details, some remember in bits and pieces, while the rest come up blank, having absolutely no recall of their dreams whatsoever.

That most people dream – that is a given.

However, there is a question that would probably make people split into two, hoarsely-shouting, on-the-warpath, clearly-demarcated groups.

Dreams. And which colour they appear to us in.

Now Calvin (from Calvin and Hobbes) - that precocious, sardonic, black-humoured, reality-shifting, time-travelling six-year old, describes his dreams and the monsters who appear in them, graphically to his stuffed tiger, Hobbes – with all the energy that only he can muster up. Most often than not, his dreams are in different shades of slime-green.

Then you have hubby darlin', who claims that he dreams purely in blacks, white and shades of grey.

And then you have me. Whose dreams vary from sprays of multi-colours to their faded green-greyish counterparts.

Despite my notoriously sad memory, I have an enormous affinity for recalling dreams.

Much to everyone’s amusement and / or astonishment.

And to the exasperation of all those who have to hear my faithful narration of that time when the tribals were busily stirring some herbs into a cauldron, above which they had trussed me like a sardine on two barbeque grills, smacking their lips thinking of the treat that lay ahead.

What about you?

As Sidney Sheldon says, 'Tell Me your Dreams.'

The Dr. Do-littles

It probably began when we were kids. Your neighborhood playmate was the same age as you - the ripe, impressionable age of 5. Vacay time, the sun was yet to give way to the moon; he / she came to you and piped-up, ‘What do you wanna play?’

To which you, bored stiff with playing with the regular dolls, kitchen sets, tanks, what say you, replied, ‘Doctor Doctor khelein?’ (Should we play Doctor Doctor?)

His / her nod was all the encouragement you needed.

Lo and Behold!

Your clean white bed sheet turned into a make-shift lab coat, your father’s or grandfather’s (as the case may be) spectacles were pinched from their brown case and perched loosely on your twitching-with-excitement nose, the plastic stethoscope made its way out from your toy medical kit, the mini-torch was wiped clean (so as to look deep down someone’s tonsils), ‘syringes’ and ‘injections’ were improvised, some eclairs came out as if by magic from pockets - to serve as 'medicines,' out came the pens and freshly-sharpened pencils, and of course the crucial writing pad, a la doctor’s prescription booklet.

The next few minutes were spent in ‘diagnosing’ the problem and checking the symptoms - thumping on your friend’s chest with gusto, trying to locate (and count) that elusive pulse, knitting your eyebrows in a half-frown, opening the notepad with a loud ‘Phew’ escaping your lips, a customary scribble on a page, tearing the page off, and handing it to a completely-in-the-act ‘patient,’ who for your 'services,' handed you some 'currency notes' (read Monopoly currency). He subsequent trots off to the ‘chemist’ – who turns out to be yet another of your under-7 aged pals, and if the situation is that of a ‘limited’ medical outfit – to your second ‘leading’ role / avatar (Talk about versatility).

Now while our childhood days crept away quite some time back, leaving us nostalgic but progressive; there are some who are yet to be weaned of their ‘doctor’ impulses.

They may be working as engineers, reporters, architects, designers, sales reps, bank officials, executives in backend offices, reporters – everything except in the field of medicine, and yet, their ingrained ‘aptitude’ continues.

So, if you are to mouth that you are suffering from X trouble of the stomach, several solutions will come your way, from these self-professed ‘doctors.’

It doesn’t just stop at recommending so-and-so doctor at such-and-such hospital.

Some (God bless these well-meaning souls) will spout names of OTC pills, urging you to pick them up on your way back home, or worse rummage in their bags / desk-drawers and hand a yellowed pill to you to swallow, much to your alarm / scepticism.

There are others who pour a eulogy into your ears about a ‘ka-zeen’ (cousin) who suffered from (boasted of?) a similar health problem, and was now in the pink of health, thanks to the ‘Godman’ they visited / the contortionistic, blessed with washboard-abs Yoga master on TV who could twist his body into unnatural, serpentine coils and who rid your relative of his ailments (Babaji ki Jai Ho!)

There are the ones who swear by home remedies. Take a twig of mint, put in some ‘tulsi,’ mix it with some turmeric, cloves, cinnamon powder, bay leaves, alovera, fenugreek seeds, add a little bit of curd, grind some ginger into paste, and glug this horrible concoction. And voila! You are brand new (That is if you don’t die by then, thanks to the horrid taste). That you will have dragon-breath for the next three days - now that's another story, innit? And obviously a small price to pay for your 'mint' condition.

And who can forget the ones who shake their heads gravely, look at you miserably as if you are accursed with the dreaded plague, and then expound that this was nature’s way of ‘cur(s)ing’ the sinners. And as you look at him in horror, he clucks his tongue sympathetically, muttering something about how the average life-span is dipping, and those who don’t embrace Homeopathy, are doomed. And dropping those ominous words, he shuffles away, leaving you a little dazed, but alarmed nevertheless).

It gets better.

Though we might have nodded our heads in consent to knowing specimens like the ones above, we ourselves are not averse to dabbling a little in it too.

Sample this:

Have a headache and fever, do you?

Hey, try this medicine called 'Nice.'

(Sigh) Old habits seldom die.

I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I didn't have a lil (failed) doc too inside me.

Do you too?

Who's Bad?

They could probably put Michael Jackson and his moon walking out of business, the way they can immortalize those words, ‘I’m Bad.’

The Joker. Voldemort. Hannibal Lecter. Darth Vader. Count Dracula. Agent Smith. The Terminator. Goldfinger.

Closer home – Gabbar Singh, Mogambo, Langda Tyagi, Dr. Dang, Shakaal, Kesariya Vilayti, Prem (ironically).

The list is endless.

They make viewers sit up - wide-eyed and quivering - despite the still-warm bucket of popcorn sitting snug in your lap.

Their cold stealth, bizarre acts of creepiness, ominous facial expressions, and the sinister, dastardly acts they perpetrate upon their victims, frankly sicken you to the very stomach. You recoil and shiver, despite the scorching heat outside. Mean, murderous – they smirk, rubbing their hands and smacking their lips in pure glee when they find that yet another opponent is out of the villainous path they tread unheedingly.

Scarcely an hour into the move, you want to get hold of your new soccer shoes, and make them scream – but not in sadistic delight as is their wont. But in agonized terror, as they richly deserve.

They lay gruesome traps, wield (and use) shiny revolvers / chainsaws / butcher knives / ninja blades – you name it - to unleash a trail of terror, stomp on victims – diabolical grin in place, and sneer contemptuously when a potential victim flinches in alarm.

However said than done – I think villains have more fun than heroes. While you may not exactly find the idea of cosying up to them particularly appealing, they often are more intriguing than their living-by-the-straight-and-narrow, tightrope-routined counterparts (read ‘heroes.’)

After all, how interesting can it be to play yet another role of the perfect (read ‘boring’) hero when you can create mayhem with a few quick bullets? And talk about identifying – it’s been more than a few times that I haven’t been able to identify a shred with the so-called ‘hero.’

Which probably explains why many A-listers are turning to purely-evil, villainous, malevolent roles – and all at the peak of their careers.

Who am I to complain – with hotties like Jude Law, Christian Bale, and Matt Damon, doing a volte-face and turning into baddies, I daresay it doesn’t hurt one wee bit.

Does it?

The Battle of the 'Arch'-rivals

The eternal love triangle looks all set to give away one of its corners.

Archie Andrews, he of the trademark carrot-hair and ample freckles dotting his impish face, is all prepped to pop the question. And it’s gonna happen as soon as this August / September.

While he has long dithered from doing so, keeping his readers guessing for over 60 years, this time the iconic teen cartoon feels he is ready to go down on his knees, complete with a rock.

The last time there was such sensationalism in these Bob Montana creations, was when in the ‘90s, the comely, auburn-haired Cheryl Blossom pipped rivals-in-love Veronica and Betty, and was picked by Archie as his lady love, much to the chagrin of the two sometimes-best-friends-sometimes-sworn-foes gurls. .

However, the affair was short-lived. Living for even shorter in the memory of readers.

This time though, there’s no looking back for our hero, who, after years of speculation, waltzing, pondering with his best friend - the partial-to-his-hamburger Jughead, and weighing the odds, has decided that he wants the raven-haired heiress, Veronica Lodge, to ride into the sunset in his weather-beaten, (un)trusty flaming red jalopy.

People are up in arms, claiming this piece of news as yet another evidence of how good girls finish last (the reference being obviously to sunny-tempered, of-modest-means, Betty Cooper – who has always shone a candle to Archie). While people take up cudgels for this girl-next-door, calling Archie myopic and a fool (in that order), and screaming from the rooftops that the swollen-deaded Veronica had her match in the equally conceited Reggie Mantle, there are those who subscribe to the other side.

They call Betty the archetypal, lamenting dumb blonde, who makes both gooey marshmallow for and gooey eyes at Archie with equal elan, but is a total rookie when it comes to making Archie eating out of her hands – a fact not altogether lost on her more vivavious, if vixenish Veronica. They say that in the dating jungle, all’s fair in love and war.

Betty’s squeaky-clean image goes against her - it is probably her bland Humpty-Dumptyish, Plain-Janish, Miss-goody-too-shoes act that makes the more assertive, I-want-and-I-will-go-out-and-get-what-I-want Veronica more appealing and desirable in Archie’s eyes.

While some assert that the best woman wins, and that Betty is a sore loser, someone who refuses to accept defeat gracefully; there are those who opine that Veronica must have hatched a devious plot to tempt Archie in moving up the social ladder by marrying her.

Petty Betty?
Or Ron the Con?

You decide.