Hardly had his body had time to turn cold, than the question was put forth. Who will be the next King of Pop? although the verdict isn't in, countless opinions have been aired.
For some reason, Justin Timberlake is a name that crops up quite often but, as The Root points out, Timberlake is more of an amalgamation of various greats, the most easily visible influence ofcourse being Michael Jackson. . The title of King, it has been decided, carries with it a pre-requisite of originality and cultural influence, be it in the form of changing the way the world views African-Americans (Frank Sinatra's treatment of Sammy to Michael Jackson) to a greater perspective of the world we live in (think Elvis and the draft). Also, Kings seem to need to be able to touch people (pardon the pun) in a deeply emotional way - Timberlake's music is nice and fun enough to listen to, but you can hardly picture people being 'moved' by Sexyback, sitting in their rooms.
But then I suppose music has become more of a background occurrence now with mp3 players and computers. There is no real need to listen intently to the radio to catch a new song or wait for hours for a favourite to come up and then clumsily record it. Or have to save up for the album and then hope the lyrics were included. If I hear about a new song, YouTube is only a click away. If I feel like listening to a favourite song offline as well, download. Album art etc is also downloadable, as is the entire sleeve for that matter. There is something to be said for holding a CD in your hands, and I was tempted by Amazon and a free afternoon a while back to buy the entire Aerosmith discography (from cassettes to LPs to whatever) from assorted sellers (there's a sort of thrill buying used anything I feel). I would have done it too, had the boy not asked me in a voice reserved for mentally challenged dogs, " Honey, all you have is a CD player on your laptop over here... how are you going to play the other formats?" I could have bought an old school boombox but before my imagination and credit card could run free, I was brought harshly back to earth by a lecture on how much 'rubbish' i have in my room (I'm a bit of a pack rat. I'm also spending a small fortune on storage this summer). My point is, for a musician to be successful in a popular culture setting today it's more about a beat you can live your life against as opposed to soulful and heartfelt riffs. I'm talking about pop do note, Michael Jackson's realm. There was more need for originality in your voice and musical stylings than in your choice of leotard. When thinking about what has popsters bopping along to today (and boy, should I know), Katy Perry and Lady GaGa whom I love doing crazy wine induced dances to in clubs, bars and unsuspecting supermarkets, can hardly be compared to music of yesteryear (in the metaphoric rather than literal sense). I don't know why. I think the lyrics are decent enough, and I adore Katy Perry (Lady GaGa is just not very likable, is she? although her attitude on Jonathan Ross was hilarious). I suppose the thing with 'yesteryear' is that it has that lovely romantic veil of 'the good ol days' to hide behind. Maybe my kids will listen to them on whatever new fangled format they have them (assuming the world lasts til then ofcourse. My generation doesn't seem to give a damn about the resources we're using up), look up at me in awe and envy at the fact that I lived in the times of such greats. Maybe.
Now, as I've contradicted myself enough, I shall move on to what I was hoping would be the sole focus of the post. Kings of Pop. The Root also gives in its two cents and 'cheekily' suggests that the new King might be a Queen... dum dum DUMM. Which would have been a revelation had Madonna not reigned supreme over the pop world in her Gaultier bra and rhinestone cross earrings. Forgetting Queen Madge for a moment, they suggest Beyonce. I suppose so, but then anyone's as good as anybody else I suppose. Maybe Amy Winehouse will get back 'on track' (whatever that's supposed to mean) and topple 'curvy' Beyonce. I'm feeling Beth Ditto for some reason, if she shakes of the presumption among the cattier of us that a larger (ok, fat) person is the latest must-have accessory for the world's thin elite (I'm not making this up. I honestly read an article propounding this, based on a series of photographs of the lovely Miss Moss out on the town with the quirkily lovable Ditto. Because Fat and Thin Cannot be friends apparently. Although how many thin people do you know with fat friends? I'm hoping it's Katy Perry for some reason (I think it's the Lolita thing). I Kissed a Girl and Waking Up in Vegas are the angsty chick offerings of today I feel, sort of along the lines of having it all but not quite. I'm fairly certain that Mariah Carey's name will be thrown into the fray soon enough. The story of GaGa is the same as Perry's : if they can sustain the music, they're in with a fighting chance. And as long as we don't tire of GaGa's endless supply of 'different' clothes and Perry's 60s inspired coyness.
Getting back to the men for a moment, I'm REALLY hoping Adam Lambert comes up with something sensational to become the new King. Although unlike the Rockstar series, the contestant's songwriting skills on American Idol are never tested. So I'm sort of hoping he doesn't end up like my fave Dilana, who could put on one hell of a show and belt out a tune, but who could barely string two lyrical lines together for a song. Pity.
Hm, I'm completely premature, but I'm gunning for Katy Perry and Adam Lambert. Because in my world (fell free to visit. Call first) that would be perfect.
ps- Based on the assumption that us, the shallow hordes of popular culture addicts need a King and/or Queen.
pps- Please also note how I refrained from making the joke that if Adam Lambert is completely awesome, we have both. A King and Queen
Monday, 13 July 2009
Akon
I cannot actually remember the last time I was so physically alone, without the net, in a place where my nearest friend was in another city altogether and also about 4 hours by car (although she does it in less). Having been thoroughly spoilt by the 20mb net we enjoy in notts,with enviable download speeds and wonderful wi-fi (not to mention the fact that my name used to be the password), having to use a cable to connect to a not half as fast internet is sheer torture. As is the complete lack of human company outside work. It's exhausting and took its toll on me about 3 days in, so the fact that anyone has yet to utter the magic words, ' Care for a pint?' often leaves me with a very confused look on my otherwise clued-up face.
So, when these factors come together, the mind starts doing something it doesn't normally. It starts to think. Back at Notts the future is what we talk about the most. What we want to do, see, feel... those hard-hitting stories about the past, about what we did, saw and felt only come up after a glass of wine when the night has a melancholy tinge to it. It's not that we don't talk about the past, it's just that over dinner or random liming, talking about one's sense of insignificance upon seeing the Taj Mahal would receive bemused stares and whispers of ' has she started drinking already?'. Hm, maybe I need new friends. But truth is, apart from when I shower, there are precious few times when I am ALONE in notts, practically cut off from everyone else. Precious little time when I can reflect and recollect, cry for no reason and laugh like a hyena to the mirror. I don't think I mind it terribly, I love waking up and seeing him there, I love studying with everyone and furiously getting ready as everyone tut-tuts and makes to finish the wine before I get a chance to have a taste (being tipsy while putting mascara on or deciding whether the neon blue liner looks funky or retarded , is not the best of ideas). Oh, I love every minute of the time I spend with them.
But here, in Mumbai, that all is basically a memory. I never did realise how much I enjoyed all this time spending before, until I actually started thinking about it. And as always, a long conversation with Meenakshi spurred me on to thinking about school. Not the bricks and mortar and the obvious, but of the nuances, of diary monitors and crushes on teachers (hahaha) and being squeezed into a room so tiny it would have sent the elf and safety brigade in the UK into quite a tizzy.
This conversation had started innocently enough, with her awe and apparent surprise that one day she woke up and her sister was in the 11th.
'And Commerce, Lem. She took Commerce. She prefers the free time to Lab Coats'
In horror and despair at Aditi's reasoning (Lab Coats are the single coolest things in the world. However, even the nicest of lab coats could have been destroyed with Scubaesque goggles. In retrospect, the fact that we didn't have a serious accident all year is quite commendable and well surprising)behind her choice of subject and her general generation (us oldies like to do things like that) little bits of school previously forgotten came flooding back and I ominously heralded this tidal wave with ' I feel a blog coming along'. So here's the blog. By now I've almost forgotten all we'd spoken about, but I'm fairly certain it would have involved many instances of euphorically manic laughter at the most banal of occurrences, laughter that would have us paralysed for entire hours and would later be referred to as ' the time meenakshi cried... no, the other one. Nope, before that. Yeahh!' And we'd all fall about laughing again as we remembered what happened that morning.
The innocence we possessed, before university slightly cynicised our souls was beautiful. We weren't big on innuendo, it was more about the funny. Sex, drugs an alcohol, now commonplace were things we never really spoke about apart from how we didn't want to do the latter two. I had absolutely no idea how big a part alcohol would play in my university and subsequent home life. Not even in a (completely atleast) off my face, 'how the hell did I get here' sort of way (though those are always fun). From the gulps in between heated foosball games, to sipping my staro while surveying the pool table, to an absolutely ill thought out night instigated by Sainsbury's own brand vodka (just don't), to wine induced belly dancing by the lake (punctuated ofcourse by screams of 'Lamia!!!') I wouldn't say alcohol is a lubricant, it doesn't make me get along with my friends any easier, it's a sort of. Hm. I don't know. It's not even the frosting on the cake. It's well.
Ok, maybe we don't need it.
Need.
But, we do want it.
So, when these factors come together, the mind starts doing something it doesn't normally. It starts to think. Back at Notts the future is what we talk about the most. What we want to do, see, feel... those hard-hitting stories about the past, about what we did, saw and felt only come up after a glass of wine when the night has a melancholy tinge to it. It's not that we don't talk about the past, it's just that over dinner or random liming, talking about one's sense of insignificance upon seeing the Taj Mahal would receive bemused stares and whispers of ' has she started drinking already?'. Hm, maybe I need new friends. But truth is, apart from when I shower, there are precious few times when I am ALONE in notts, practically cut off from everyone else. Precious little time when I can reflect and recollect, cry for no reason and laugh like a hyena to the mirror. I don't think I mind it terribly, I love waking up and seeing him there, I love studying with everyone and furiously getting ready as everyone tut-tuts and makes to finish the wine before I get a chance to have a taste (being tipsy while putting mascara on or deciding whether the neon blue liner looks funky or retarded , is not the best of ideas). Oh, I love every minute of the time I spend with them.
But here, in Mumbai, that all is basically a memory. I never did realise how much I enjoyed all this time spending before, until I actually started thinking about it. And as always, a long conversation with Meenakshi spurred me on to thinking about school. Not the bricks and mortar and the obvious, but of the nuances, of diary monitors and crushes on teachers (hahaha) and being squeezed into a room so tiny it would have sent the elf and safety brigade in the UK into quite a tizzy.
This conversation had started innocently enough, with her awe and apparent surprise that one day she woke up and her sister was in the 11th.
'And Commerce, Lem. She took Commerce. She prefers the free time to Lab Coats'
In horror and despair at Aditi's reasoning (Lab Coats are the single coolest things in the world. However, even the nicest of lab coats could have been destroyed with Scubaesque goggles. In retrospect, the fact that we didn't have a serious accident all year is quite commendable and well surprising)behind her choice of subject and her general generation (us oldies like to do things like that) little bits of school previously forgotten came flooding back and I ominously heralded this tidal wave with ' I feel a blog coming along'. So here's the blog. By now I've almost forgotten all we'd spoken about, but I'm fairly certain it would have involved many instances of euphorically manic laughter at the most banal of occurrences, laughter that would have us paralysed for entire hours and would later be referred to as ' the time meenakshi cried... no, the other one. Nope, before that. Yeahh!' And we'd all fall about laughing again as we remembered what happened that morning.
The innocence we possessed, before university slightly cynicised our souls was beautiful. We weren't big on innuendo, it was more about the funny. Sex, drugs an alcohol, now commonplace were things we never really spoke about apart from how we didn't want to do the latter two. I had absolutely no idea how big a part alcohol would play in my university and subsequent home life. Not even in a (completely atleast) off my face, 'how the hell did I get here' sort of way (though those are always fun). From the gulps in between heated foosball games, to sipping my staro while surveying the pool table, to an absolutely ill thought out night instigated by Sainsbury's own brand vodka (just don't), to wine induced belly dancing by the lake (punctuated ofcourse by screams of 'Lamia!!!') I wouldn't say alcohol is a lubricant, it doesn't make me get along with my friends any easier, it's a sort of. Hm. I don't know. It's not even the frosting on the cake. It's well.
Ok, maybe we don't need it.
Need.
But, we do want it.
If I only had a Tan
It's a pity when good things get wasted on bad things. When the billionaire wins the lottery, when Louboutins you've been lusting after get worn by someone who asks if she can 'get a pair without the red sole', when the rich kid gets a summer job while you're thin soled feet get sore from trekking up and down high streets, when an absolutely brilliant idea isn't executed properly. That bites. Stings. Makes you want to kick something.
Needless to say I had such a moment a few days ago when I chanced upon a television advertisement for some sort of fairness cream (Fair and Lovely?). Normally I love the ads on tv in India – the Vodafone (previously Hutch) ones with the pug will always remain a favourite – and this is a really nice ad. But how I would have loved to read about this in a book or in a romance flick of sorts!
The ad goes about like this : young artist is painting a portrait of a 'dusky' woman. Woman poses for him and initial portrait seen by viewer shows woman slightly dark (more muddy to be honest) with spots etc. As the days roll on, we see the artist make changes to her face along the lines of painting over the spots, lightening her skin and making it all glowy, accompanied by a voiceover talking us through the miracles of the cream. On the final day when her portrait is ready, she goes behind the canvas and sees herself looking all wonderful... and with a piece of jewellery not on the real-life counterpart. A diamond wedding ring.
It would have made for such a wonderful love story! Artist commissioned to paint picture of woman. Back when everyone had their portraits painted ofcourse, now it wouldn't go as well. Although it could easily be made into one of those timeless classics, ahh, my story is already a classic in my mind (well, the cream's story atleast). Think of a snooty, indifferent artist, and a plain jane (at first) sort of client. As the days roll on, and the artist and client begin to open themselves up to each other, or maybe the artist learns more about her somehow from the person who drops her, to a scar on her neck, her manner on the phone, or how she reacts to the most banal of things (hidden emotional scars perhaps?) As he learns more about her she seems more attractive... her eyes sparklier, her smile brighter...sort of a Shallow Hal type of view. And at the end, he falls in love with her, and asks her to marry him by painting a ring on her finger. Or maybe (and I wish I knew what the cinematographic term for this is) you have this man who gradually falls in love with a woman, and their relationship is mapped by clips of him as an artist painting her from ugly duckling to swan. Or something along the lines of ostensibly 'poor' people, slums and rags and what not, and the narration is punctuated by the artist and his objet d'amour in a regal setting. I can see this so clearly in my head.It would work as a book as well I suppose.
But it's wasted on a fairness cream. I totally don't get that.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Mumbai Calling
“Is it your first time? Don't worry, I'll help you. Be careful. It might be tough at first, but you'll love it. Oh, it gets sticky and wet. Dress appropriately”
I have been spoken to more about Mumbai than sex, drugs and alcohol (and not the very conveniently left out cigarettes). Instructionally ofcourse, I come from a rather open family where the cringe-induceability of its members is directly proportional to the information shared. Everyone seemed to think Mumbai wasn't my place.
“You're too used to another life honey” Read: You're spoilt and if you carry on like this I'm gonna be broke. Courtesy-the boy.
“People aren't very nice there” Read: You're a pussy. Courtesy-dad
“Wear open shoes! Mosquito repellant! Do you have zyrtec? Paracetamol? I have a fifth cousin in pune, I'll give you their number!” Read: You're doomed, serves you right for taking my lipstick. Courtesy-mom.“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” Read: I need new friends.
So, armed with encouraging words and for some strange (yet stellar, I'm sure) reason sans raincoat or umberella (my bikery chick jacket looks sort of waterproofy I suppose) I reached. I landed. I held back a cough as they scanned my Swine Flu card (yes I've experienced all the symptoms. But I don't get interesting newsworthy ailments. I get the common cold caused by too much wine by a lake in the rain. I know. I checked. WebMD might as well me my homepage and Boots my living room. I'm allergic to dust though, if you're interested. Dust.)
Everyone I've met in Mumbai asks me the same question, “what do you think?” as though Mumbai was a work of art only the discerning could enjoy*. Seeing as this was my second day there and I had only really spent about 12 hours in the city at that point, the bulk of it in a delightfully tantraic lounge bar restaurant type establishment with class and less of the sticky tables and suspect beds and more lovely sushi and retro music and 'domestic' wine to everyone's horror; as well as in one of dad's oldtime friend's apartment. It was in this context that it was decided that I needed to go to a street to shop and get completely ripped off by the locals who would instantly realise that I know as much Hindi as Obama. With less of the whole POTUS thing going on. (being 'Lakshmy' I'm more of the Lotus persuasion. HAHAHAHA!). The only place I could actually remember was Colaba Causeway, maybe because of 26/7 or word of mouth or because Colaba just sounds nice. A few cheap H&M tops later, the likes of which I have never seen back in Notts or London, bags and impulse buys later I began to understand why people go places to shop. There's nothing like being able to convert things back into pounds. A very irate brother of a friend who had only spent a year in the UK seethed, “Just because it's nothing in pounds doesn't mean it's nothing in Rupees!” as we gleefully giggled over how cheap everything was.
Another lovely dinner later heralded my last day in luxury, and despite “You're not staying here? Why not? You should, one of the drivers will take you up and down for work and shopping and everything” I (for some insane and uncharacteristic reason) made my way to the corporate guesthouse near the company I'd be working for. It's no smoking. It's no alcohol. The internet says 100Mbps but it can't possibly be more than 0.5. And mom says hostels are worse. I almost think back longingly to my room during the first week, in (of all halls) Rutland. After a few heavy sighs and temporary euphoria at the fact that the TV has decent English channels I decided to stop feeling like a deprived yet spoilt brat. Five minutes later I went back to being me.
But enough about me (I doubt it). It's humid here. And alive. Inspiring and depressing and frustrating and uplifting all at the same time. Three days here, and although I still haven't made up my mind about this place it's crystalastically easy to see why some people hate Mumbai with every fibre of their being, and some don't ever want to leave.
*In retrospect, I think it is.
I have been spoken to more about Mumbai than sex, drugs and alcohol (and not the very conveniently left out cigarettes). Instructionally ofcourse, I come from a rather open family where the cringe-induceability of its members is directly proportional to the information shared. Everyone seemed to think Mumbai wasn't my place.
“You're too used to another life honey” Read: You're spoilt and if you carry on like this I'm gonna be broke. Courtesy-the boy.
“People aren't very nice there” Read: You're a pussy. Courtesy-dad
“Wear open shoes! Mosquito repellant! Do you have zyrtec? Paracetamol? I have a fifth cousin in pune, I'll give you their number!” Read: You're doomed, serves you right for taking my lipstick. Courtesy-mom.“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” Read: I need new friends.
So, armed with encouraging words and for some strange (yet stellar, I'm sure) reason sans raincoat or umberella (my bikery chick jacket looks sort of waterproofy I suppose) I reached. I landed. I held back a cough as they scanned my Swine Flu card (yes I've experienced all the symptoms. But I don't get interesting newsworthy ailments. I get the common cold caused by too much wine by a lake in the rain. I know. I checked. WebMD might as well me my homepage and Boots my living room. I'm allergic to dust though, if you're interested. Dust.)
Everyone I've met in Mumbai asks me the same question, “what do you think?” as though Mumbai was a work of art only the discerning could enjoy*. Seeing as this was my second day there and I had only really spent about 12 hours in the city at that point, the bulk of it in a delightfully tantraic lounge bar restaurant type establishment with class and less of the sticky tables and suspect beds and more lovely sushi and retro music and 'domestic' wine to everyone's horror; as well as in one of dad's oldtime friend's apartment. It was in this context that it was decided that I needed to go to a street to shop and get completely ripped off by the locals who would instantly realise that I know as much Hindi as Obama. With less of the whole POTUS thing going on. (being 'Lakshmy' I'm more of the Lotus persuasion. HAHAHAHA!). The only place I could actually remember was Colaba Causeway, maybe because of 26/7 or word of mouth or because Colaba just sounds nice. A few cheap H&M tops later, the likes of which I have never seen back in Notts or London, bags and impulse buys later I began to understand why people go places to shop. There's nothing like being able to convert things back into pounds. A very irate brother of a friend who had only spent a year in the UK seethed, “Just because it's nothing in pounds doesn't mean it's nothing in Rupees!” as we gleefully giggled over how cheap everything was.
Another lovely dinner later heralded my last day in luxury, and despite “You're not staying here? Why not? You should, one of the drivers will take you up and down for work and shopping and everything” I (for some insane and uncharacteristic reason) made my way to the corporate guesthouse near the company I'd be working for. It's no smoking. It's no alcohol. The internet says 100Mbps but it can't possibly be more than 0.5. And mom says hostels are worse. I almost think back longingly to my room during the first week, in (of all halls) Rutland. After a few heavy sighs and temporary euphoria at the fact that the TV has decent English channels I decided to stop feeling like a deprived yet spoilt brat. Five minutes later I went back to being me.
But enough about me (I doubt it). It's humid here. And alive. Inspiring and depressing and frustrating and uplifting all at the same time. Three days here, and although I still haven't made up my mind about this place it's crystalastically easy to see why some people hate Mumbai with every fibre of their being, and some don't ever want to leave.
*In retrospect, I think it is.
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Onesentence
If I had to describe my life in one sentence, just one, that sentence would probably be : My cat's on antidepressants.
He's an adorable cat though (I've repeated this story many a time, so those lucky few that have been fortunate enough to have heard a live version of this tale will be forgiven for moving on to the rest of this fabulously exciting post). He came into my parents' lives last September, two days after I had left for University (pain of separation and all that. *smug grin at younger still-living-at-home brother*) from an Emirates air hostess who had found him wandering the streets and proceeded to spend 45 minutes on a Bur Dubai pavement deep in conversation with him ("The languages spoken by the cabin crew today are English, Arabic, French, Hindi and Feline").
After putting up posters in several of the buildings in the area in vain, she contacted Feline Friends who promptly put her on to us. We had been looking for a cat for about two weeks at this point, but every one we saw needed a garden unless we were prepared to let our rather nice living room fall to pieces (we live in a flat). A British Shorthair (he resembles them the most) with a crushed skull (to be honest we can't tell if it's impaired his mental health in any way), most teeth broken and short stubby legs made up the newest addition to the family. He was taken to the vet for appropriate vaccinations and castrations and then christened Randolph (which always struck me as a dog's name). However, he decided to relieve himself in the corridor on his first night with us, and the family decided 'Randolph' was a bit too pretentious for this street cat.
A few days later the name 'Bouzov' was settled upon (Bouzov ofcourse being a tiny place in Czech famous for it's rather pointless castle that while being quite lovely on the inside seemed to have served no real purpose).
When I first met him about 3 months later at four in the morning he looked at me with some wonder before treating me as though we'd known each other all our lives. The cat treats and toy I had immediately unpacked for him may have had something to do with it. Over the next few days I noticed something, infact it was hard to miss. Booze (as I affectionately call him) lorded over the house. The much bandied about quote, or fact and veritable truism demonstrates this : Thousands of years ago cats were worshipped as Gods. Cats have never forgotten this. Wherever he went was his kingdom. Dad's wingchair where he has sat, to the exclusion of all others, every morning reading the paper and drinking his tea was claimed by our cat, and now my rather large dad shares it with him. Despite the cat hair. Ditto for the white cushions on a dining table chair. Bedroom doors are left open at night should he wish to grace one with his presence. His litter tray is in my bathroom. His mat is my baby blanket. He spends his evenings on the kitchen table, on my blanket, pillow under his head watching the world go by (much of our family activity takes place in the kitchen).
Recently, as of this summer, he has taken to whining outside my bedroom door at 7am (after waking my parents up at 4 and despite my many sermons on how I am not an early riser) until someone opens it (i keep my door closed since the bathroom is right opposite my door, and since it has his litter tray in it, the door is permanently open. So why don't I keep it open? What Lies Beneath, It and all that). After someone opens it, he rushes in, whines until I move up, then jumps in next to me, head on pillow, whines until I put the blanket on him and proceeds to hold court from there until 5.
Yet despite all this, Booze has a delicate medical condition. Condition atleast. He stresses himself out. A lot. If he naps and awakes to an empty room he'll start his whining until someone makes their presence known to him, if he feels guests have stayed too long he'll start getting restless and make it quite clear he doesn't approve, I leave without informing him of my flight number and ETD atleast a week in advance he'll start crying outside my room and stare at the lifts, probably in a 'Oh woe is me' way. Infact, sometimes it seems that if he has no reason to complain and the family has been behaving well he'll sit for hours staring at a wall or table with a mournful look on his face contemplating his life. Like many a male I know, I imagine he had pictured himself sunning by a pool or something surrounded by pussy. He also used to have a habit of standing infront of closed doors and cupboards miaowing away until they were opened, although after getting 'accidentally' locked in one his curiousity seems to have abated somewhat.
And we love him. We hug, kiss and cuddle this cat. We go at all hours to shops for his favourite tinned food if it's run out, and apologise profusely for the delay.
So yes, this is why that sentence sums up my life. It's perfect. It's so inherently derailed and crazy (my life. the sentence seems grammatically sound) . Artificial substances play such a part in it. And at 19 years old, my one goal in life at the moment is to own a lot of cats. And shoes.
But mainly cats.
He's an adorable cat though (I've repeated this story many a time, so those lucky few that have been fortunate enough to have heard a live version of this tale will be forgiven for moving on to the rest of this fabulously exciting post). He came into my parents' lives last September, two days after I had left for University (pain of separation and all that. *smug grin at younger still-living-at-home brother*) from an Emirates air hostess who had found him wandering the streets and proceeded to spend 45 minutes on a Bur Dubai pavement deep in conversation with him ("The languages spoken by the cabin crew today are English, Arabic, French, Hindi and Feline").
After putting up posters in several of the buildings in the area in vain, she contacted Feline Friends who promptly put her on to us. We had been looking for a cat for about two weeks at this point, but every one we saw needed a garden unless we were prepared to let our rather nice living room fall to pieces (we live in a flat). A British Shorthair (he resembles them the most) with a crushed skull (to be honest we can't tell if it's impaired his mental health in any way), most teeth broken and short stubby legs made up the newest addition to the family. He was taken to the vet for appropriate vaccinations and castrations and then christened Randolph (which always struck me as a dog's name). However, he decided to relieve himself in the corridor on his first night with us, and the family decided 'Randolph' was a bit too pretentious for this street cat.
A few days later the name 'Bouzov' was settled upon (Bouzov ofcourse being a tiny place in Czech famous for it's rather pointless castle that while being quite lovely on the inside seemed to have served no real purpose).
When I first met him about 3 months later at four in the morning he looked at me with some wonder before treating me as though we'd known each other all our lives. The cat treats and toy I had immediately unpacked for him may have had something to do with it. Over the next few days I noticed something, infact it was hard to miss. Booze (as I affectionately call him) lorded over the house. The much bandied about quote, or fact and veritable truism demonstrates this : Thousands of years ago cats were worshipped as Gods. Cats have never forgotten this. Wherever he went was his kingdom. Dad's wingchair where he has sat, to the exclusion of all others, every morning reading the paper and drinking his tea was claimed by our cat, and now my rather large dad shares it with him. Despite the cat hair. Ditto for the white cushions on a dining table chair. Bedroom doors are left open at night should he wish to grace one with his presence. His litter tray is in my bathroom. His mat is my baby blanket. He spends his evenings on the kitchen table, on my blanket, pillow under his head watching the world go by (much of our family activity takes place in the kitchen).
Recently, as of this summer, he has taken to whining outside my bedroom door at 7am (after waking my parents up at 4 and despite my many sermons on how I am not an early riser) until someone opens it (i keep my door closed since the bathroom is right opposite my door, and since it has his litter tray in it, the door is permanently open. So why don't I keep it open? What Lies Beneath, It and all that). After someone opens it, he rushes in, whines until I move up, then jumps in next to me, head on pillow, whines until I put the blanket on him and proceeds to hold court from there until 5.
Yet despite all this, Booze has a delicate medical condition. Condition atleast. He stresses himself out. A lot. If he naps and awakes to an empty room he'll start his whining until someone makes their presence known to him, if he feels guests have stayed too long he'll start getting restless and make it quite clear he doesn't approve, I leave without informing him of my flight number and ETD atleast a week in advance he'll start crying outside my room and stare at the lifts, probably in a 'Oh woe is me' way. Infact, sometimes it seems that if he has no reason to complain and the family has been behaving well he'll sit for hours staring at a wall or table with a mournful look on his face contemplating his life. Like many a male I know, I imagine he had pictured himself sunning by a pool or something surrounded by pussy. He also used to have a habit of standing infront of closed doors and cupboards miaowing away until they were opened, although after getting 'accidentally' locked in one his curiousity seems to have abated somewhat.
And we love him. We hug, kiss and cuddle this cat. We go at all hours to shops for his favourite tinned food if it's run out, and apologise profusely for the delay.
So yes, this is why that sentence sums up my life. It's perfect. It's so inherently derailed and crazy (my life. the sentence seems grammatically sound) . Artificial substances play such a part in it. And at 19 years old, my one goal in life at the moment is to own a lot of cats. And shoes.
But mainly cats.
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