On the right kind of day, CCR is the only rock band worth listening to! Apocryphal, perhaps, but so true. There's something about how the deep bass lines, tinny-lilting lead riffs and the strained, gravelly vocals all come together that creates music that's quite unlike anything else.
Today's one of those days and all morning has been a long, unbroken chain of
SuziQFortunateSonHeardItThroughTheGrapevine
PutASpellOnYouBadMoonRisingLodiGreenRiver
DownOnTheCornerHeyTonightSweetHitchHiker
And, on the right kind of day, I shouldn't have to say any more than this. Do I hear the crowd say Aye? Do I?
So we went clubbing the other night.
Just the four of us- Aby, Om, Ben and me. Saturday nights are usually complete write-offs for stags in Delhi but there are times when you just have to get right down and jiggy with it. This was one of those times.
Earlier in the evening we'd done The Village Cafe- good place for metalheads and classic rock fans, and, one of the few places in Delhi where they'll still let you smoke away to glory, or death- as the case may be, and we'd slummed it out at Al Bake and stuffed our faces on some of the best schwarma this side of the Yamuna. The point being- we were four very satiated beings on the long drive back to Noida, looking forward to a night of Beer-ing and Weed-ing, until Meeoow happened! Meeoow being the sole reason we still, occasionally, tune in to FM in Delhi.
Methinks its hard not to sing along when the theme for the night is cheesy-singalong-songs-from-the-80s-and-90s. So sing along we did. All the way. From New Friends Colony to Southex and up and down the numerous flyovers and over the DND in to Noida. By the time we got off the DND we had this irresistible, almost primal, urge to go dancing to cheesy numbers all night!
So we went clubbing that night.
But, as I said, Saturday nights are usually complete write-offs for stags in Delhi. So mission one turned out to be hunting down a club that would let in four delirious stags singing cheesy 90s numbers at the top of their voices. We finally found one. It had a dance floor the size of an average Mumbai bathroom and a DJ called Harkirat-Singh-something-or-the-other. But, and these are the good bits, it was packed to the rafters (something like that, anyway) with nubile bodies of the female persuasion all writhing to the cheesiest, desiest dance numbers ever, and they threw in bottles of beer into the bargain!
So we went clubbing that night.
We got right down and jiggied with it. Just like that. Thanks to the Molotov Cocktail of 90s pop, writhing women and good old spontaneity the night turned out legen - wait for it - dary!
Just the four of us- Aby, Om, Ben and me. Saturday nights are usually complete write-offs for stags in Delhi but there are times when you just have to get right down and jiggy with it. This was one of those times.
Earlier in the evening we'd done The Village Cafe- good place for metalheads and classic rock fans, and, one of the few places in Delhi where they'll still let you smoke away to glory, or death- as the case may be, and we'd slummed it out at Al Bake and stuffed our faces on some of the best schwarma this side of the Yamuna. The point being- we were four very satiated beings on the long drive back to Noida, looking forward to a night of Beer-ing and Weed-ing, until Meeoow happened! Meeoow being the sole reason we still, occasionally, tune in to FM in Delhi.
Methinks its hard not to sing along when the theme for the night is cheesy-singalong-songs-from-the-80s-and-90s. So sing along we did. All the way. From New Friends Colony to Southex and up and down the numerous flyovers and over the DND in to Noida. By the time we got off the DND we had this irresistible, almost primal, urge to go dancing to cheesy numbers all night!
So we went clubbing that night.
But, as I said, Saturday nights are usually complete write-offs for stags in Delhi. So mission one turned out to be hunting down a club that would let in four delirious stags singing cheesy 90s numbers at the top of their voices. We finally found one. It had a dance floor the size of an average Mumbai bathroom and a DJ called Harkirat-Singh-something-or-the-other. But, and these are the good bits, it was packed to the rafters (something like that, anyway) with nubile bodies of the female persuasion all writhing to the cheesiest, desiest dance numbers ever, and they threw in bottles of beer into the bargain!
So we went clubbing that night.
We got right down and jiggied with it. Just like that. Thanks to the Molotov Cocktail of 90s pop, writhing women and good old spontaneity the night turned out legen - wait for it - dary!
Posted by
Sahil
at
12:02 AM
Labels:
Al Bake,
being inspired,
clubbing,
dancing,
life as sahil,
Meeoow,
Tantra,
The Village Cafe
A schoolboy crush on a 20 something film star, if it hits you when you're touching 30 and over a decade out of school, can be quite discomfiting!
I remember watching an extremely sanitised version of Blue Lagoon as a schoolkid and falling head-over-heels in love with the then nubile Brooke Shields (yeah well, we all have moments in our past that underscore our dodgy taste, don't we?). I had a huge poster of the love of my life (a rather flattering black and white affair from Archie's that I had to wait a month to receive after I had paid in full) put up in my room and wrote her mushy poems in a tattered, but lovingly maintained, diary that, happily, has not survived the ravages of the succeeding years. My parents were scandalised but rationalised it as a rebellious display of raging hormones and new found sexuality.
Now, of course, things are much easier. I don't have to wait a month for gratification. I have google images, imdb, facebook and orkut fan pages and scores of celebrity tracker websites- all vying for my time, and the opportunity to satiate my prurient longing (sic).
What I don't have, however, is rationale. My constant rebellion has found other, more fruitful avenues to express itself. My raging hormones have settled down into an efficient, harmonious rhythm and my sexuality is hardly new found anymore!
And yet, despite the hilarity of the situation, I find myself succumbing to this deep, urgent need to do a quick google. I haven't seen if she photographs well against white backgrounds or in swimsuits or in natural light or without cans and cans of matte effect make up. Perhaps I'll strike lucky this time? Maybe her phone number will turn up on the 69th page? There could be a contest, lurking somewhere on page 101, that gets me a dinner date with her? Sure it's a chance in a million, but with a billion people in this country alone those've got be great odds, right?
I will, probably, have to hit the gym and get my very own set of six packs, just in case the date thingie does happen (don't even think about saying it!). I'll have to hire a stylist. I'll have to get myself a PR person, just in case the date thingie doesn't happen, to get me to all the dos she frequents. A few dance lessons won't hurt either, methinks.
I'm told her current boyfriend has a substantial fan following in his own right so I'll probably need to start and fund a few fan clubs of my own (suitably financed through proxy off-shore accounts and untraceable, looped back wire transfers). Ah, what the hell, while I'm at it I may as well buy myself a couple of pre-emptive cosmetic enhancements courtesy the marvels of modern medical science and technology.
I wonder if my family will be as understanding this time around. I mean, its a sordid tale underneath all this hilarity. But love hurts, right?
Sigh...
I remember watching an extremely sanitised version of Blue Lagoon as a schoolkid and falling head-over-heels in love with the then nubile Brooke Shields (yeah well, we all have moments in our past that underscore our dodgy taste, don't we?). I had a huge poster of the love of my life (a rather flattering black and white affair from Archie's that I had to wait a month to receive after I had paid in full) put up in my room and wrote her mushy poems in a tattered, but lovingly maintained, diary that, happily, has not survived the ravages of the succeeding years. My parents were scandalised but rationalised it as a rebellious display of raging hormones and new found sexuality.
Now, of course, things are much easier. I don't have to wait a month for gratification. I have google images, imdb, facebook and orkut fan pages and scores of celebrity tracker websites- all vying for my time, and the opportunity to satiate my prurient longing (sic).
What I don't have, however, is rationale. My constant rebellion has found other, more fruitful avenues to express itself. My raging hormones have settled down into an efficient, harmonious rhythm and my sexuality is hardly new found anymore!
And yet, despite the hilarity of the situation, I find myself succumbing to this deep, urgent need to do a quick google. I haven't seen if she photographs well against white backgrounds or in swimsuits or in natural light or without cans and cans of matte effect make up. Perhaps I'll strike lucky this time? Maybe her phone number will turn up on the 69th page? There could be a contest, lurking somewhere on page 101, that gets me a dinner date with her? Sure it's a chance in a million, but with a billion people in this country alone those've got be great odds, right?
I will, probably, have to hit the gym and get my very own set of six packs, just in case the date thingie does happen (don't even think about saying it!). I'll have to hire a stylist. I'll have to get myself a PR person, just in case the date thingie doesn't happen, to get me to all the dos she frequents. A few dance lessons won't hurt either, methinks.
I'm told her current boyfriend has a substantial fan following in his own right so I'll probably need to start and fund a few fan clubs of my own (suitably financed through proxy off-shore accounts and untraceable, looped back wire transfers). Ah, what the hell, while I'm at it I may as well buy myself a couple of pre-emptive cosmetic enhancements courtesy the marvels of modern medical science and technology.
I wonder if my family will be as understanding this time around. I mean, its a sordid tale underneath all this hilarity. But love hurts, right?
Sigh...
"Sahil, you're such a nice guy!"
She delivered those words with all the vehemence of a well directed expletive. It's an art- to take a sunshine-sweet word like nice and turn it into a cuss word. And she's an artist.
The conversation started, like so many conversations between single friends of opposite genders do, with the fragile nature of relationships, touched upon sex, or the lack of it, off late, in our respective lives and ended, for her at least, on that slap-in-the-face note. She'd shot it out of her system the way I'd have shot out a frustrated Fuck! or a despondent Behenchod! and that was, as far as she was concerned, that.
And I was left alone with my thoughts, to ponder over what she had just said. Or rather, over what I thought I had just heard.
I think her outburst stemmed from what I said in response to her observation that I needed to get laid. I don't think she meant 'with her' because that would be quite unlike her. I think she meant it like she'd have meant 'You need a glass of water', not necessarily implying that I should drink from her glass, just that I should call for my own. And I said that perhaps this was true but I couldn't jump into bed with the first attractive and willing woman I found.
Sex is about physicality, yes. But sex without a certain emotional and intellectual connection is, for me, about as exciting, and appealing, as a cup of tepid chai. I mean, it's still chai but it's not CHAI!
She reckons sex is, at the end of the day, just sex. I reckon I know how to jack off, and that works fine when the physical release is all I need, but it's dashed impossible to make love to a hand! She reckons I'm being too nice about the whole deal, which is probably her way of saying I need to be more of a prick.
So here's the thing- Wham bam, thank you ma'am doesn't work for me. I've tried. I need sex to be everything that it can be, and has been, for me. Even one night stands need to be emotionally and intellectually more involving than glorified hand-jobs. I can't settle for less because it's not good enough.
How does that make me a nice guy? And, if it does, why is that such a bad thing?
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