How to create a perfect controversy

(Image courtesy:zazzle.com)

I present to you the world's shortest and most accurate instruction manual.

1. Get on Twitter

2. Hang around for a while.

3. Unleash a bold tweet. (Preferably involving a celeb)

*****

     Because Shashi Tharoor had one, Rajeev Masand had one, and even li'l Sonam Kapoor had one, I also wanted a controversy of my own.  So, on one fine Twitter day, I woke up and expressed my desire thus: "Wants to 'jackass' someone and create a Twitter outrage. Are you game? Are you a celebrity?" [For those who are completely at a loss for context, film journo Rajeev Masand called Akshay Kumar a 'jackass' and faced the film fraternity's wrath].

     But since I am no Angelina Jolie with people lining up to fulfill every desire of mine, no outrages occurred. 
     So I hung around and observed and revised those textbooks on 'No Publicity is Bad Publicity' and 'How to Copy-Paste Self to Page 3'. Every lesson in the science of eyeball grabbing ended with one axiom: If you want to be famous, create a controversy'. Thanks to Twitter, it is now as easy as 1-2-3 (read manual above).

     Unless you're the kind who wears a suit in his shower or protects his tweets, your thoughts are as naked on Twitter as any web baby. And thanks to the power of retweets, rallying and bullying come nice and easy.

    I took my third bold step on a Friday, which happened to be the birth anniversary of our freedom fighter Chandrashekhar Azad. I noticed a few tweets about how shameful it was that our media wasn't dedicating any airtime to him and how disgraceful it was that the media should be interested in Shah Rukh Khan's moves. Scold. Scold. Scold.

     Because it struck me as purist and childish, I ventured to boldly say what no one has said before. "Do only textbook heroes deserve worship? Why is Azad greater than, say SRK?"

     And then came the fireworks! Before I knew what was happening, my philo-logical question snowballed (shitballed is more like it) in to a miniature hate campaign. 

     "How can you compare the two? This is a shock!" said one.

     "Are you insane? How could you compare a great freedom fighter to a film star?", said another.

     "Shah Rukh Khan is a pornstar and dances at weddings for cash. How can you compare him to Azad?" said a particularly malicious one.

     "You are pathetic! You can't compare the two. Take back your words, now!" said yet another, seething with rage.

     From doubt to shock to malice to anger to condescension to patronising pity to insults to virtual blows, I saw it all in a matter of minutes. And because my genda-skin hasn't bloomed completely yet, I recoiled. I mumbled an apology of sorts and ran as far as my tweets could carry me. And I learned one thing. Twitter is no place for the profound. 140 characters are too little to make big philosophical propositions. The treatises are best kept for blogs. And so I will make mine here (and remember, this is MY blog. We play by MY rules). I will answer those bitter Twitter questions the way I meant to.

     The biggest objection of them purists was my comparison. I said, in essence, that Shah Rukh Khan is like Chandrashekhar Azad. Before you scream 'How???' in disbelief, I'll interject, 'How not?' 
      Let's dissect your shock to shreds with some pure reasoning. With all due respect to the martyr, let's keep emotions - patriotic and otherwise - aside. Let's discuss fundamentals. Let's throw your faux morality into the dustbin for a while.  
     Every era has a right to worship its heroes; and if more people in India care about SRK's toilet habits than what Azad did in the yellow pages of history, it makes perfect sense. We've all learnt that in our standard five textbooks anyway.    
     Shah Rukh Khan (SRK) is a movie superstar. We live in the age of TRPs. So, if you think the media should 'waste' its precious airtime on Azad, you're effing stupid. Just as nationalist newspapers back then wouldn't waste column space on a movie star. You may be a nationalist, idealist, purist and all that jazz, but wake up to the way the world whirls. It all boils down to the money, honey.
    OK, if money is too shallow for you, how about purpose? SRK works in the movies for fame and (pardon the redundancy) money. Azad worked to free his country. Both act/ed in ways that pleased their soul; that met the purpose of their life. We all live and die for what pleases us most. It could be fame or it could be freedom. To each his own, right?
    Now, for the question of contributions. Azad did a lot for his country. SRK is doing a lot for his country too - only the domains are different. We all play the parts we are destined for.
     What about means, you may ask. Azad died fighting for the freedom of his nation. SRK dances in weddings for money. Yes. True. Also, we all try to earn our keep. Only the denominations differ.
    They are both human beings, I say. The comparison is fair. "Hah! Tomorrow you may compare Azad to Kasab on that scale, then!" you smirk. "I totally will," I say. They are the same; if a government and the law of a land are made judges. Azad, pretty much, committed the same crimes against the British Indian government as Kasab did against the Indian government. They both committed murder. They both killed human beings. They both were motivated by passions justified to them. The end result is the same: a death sentence.       
     You can call Kasab a murderer, Azad a martyr and SRK a money mongering male whore, whatever. Your tags only depend on which side of the story you are on. Who are you and I to decide whether the use of this temporary shell of human flesh in this way or that, is good or bad? Nothing is absolute. Time and context changes all definitions. It makes a hero of a villain and a villain of a hero. 
     I rest my case.  
     
    

A prayer for the ordinary

(Image source:www.clker.com)

     

     

     Empathy is not for real. There is no way you can really know where and how bad the wearer's shoe is pinching him. But if you've had your share of bites, you might just recognise the pain. And when another's pain drives you to tears, you can be sure, a bite has left a mark somewhere...

*****

     I've always been pro-adoption. Supporting 'nurture' over 'nature', I've always believed in the virtue of giving an orphan a home. But I would have to admit that a certain Angelina Jolie-like glamour was part of the fine print. Also, the idea of having a perfect, ready-made, toilet-trained child fit my definition of 'easy'.

     Then I hit upon this blog ( I can't believe I didn't save the link)... An impossibly chubby Chinese baby's picture caught my eye and as I read one post after another, I realised how she was the centre of the universe for one American couple. Living in an orphanage in far-off China, this baby already had her parents-to-be wrapped around her little finger. The earnestness of every waiting moment of the 'expectant' mother makes you want to push the clock forth too.   

     Joanna (the blog's author) is a simple, beautiful and strong woman, who is spending every waking moment of her life counting down to the day her adopted daughter Mackenzie will come home to her.

     Mackenzie is a Chinese orphan with a butterball face, a complicated medical condition of the heart and one missing ear. 

     So much for my perfect, ready-made baby's idea. Why would someone choose a child with problems? I suppose you learn to be magnanimous when you've been through your share of problems and more.

     Joanna has been through the agony of not being able to have a child of her own. I have too, albeit for six short (and unimaginably long) months. When my body refused to do its duties, my world and my identity came crumbling down. For all my fancy life and style, I could not overcome my biological purpose. My self-worth plunged at the thought of being 'barren'. What was the point of being a woman? The thought pushed me into the shadow of depression and threatened to swallow every joy I'd ever known. No consolations or distractions helped. Thankfully, medications did, and Jishnu happened.

     But Joanna wasn't blessed that way. Through days and months and years of trying to conceive and failing, she must have grappled with the worst kind of pain a woman can feel. A sense of betrayal by destiny, God and her own body may have darkened her days. But the desire to be a mother kept the love in her heart alive. She and her husband decided to adopt a baby who would finally complete their lives. 

      Joanna's blog paints a pretty picture of her hopes for a new beginning. She's now lovingly laying out each brick of her dream of motherhood. She will make a great mother because she knows what it is worth.

     Biological mothers, by that scale, may always fall behind. Yes, I rejoiced and I thanked God for the best gift ever when I conceived; but it became a thing for granted, as all things do. It is difficult to keep counting the blessings when you live in a country of teeming millions, have a huge belly and its discomforts and subsequently spend endless, sleepless nights marching along the feed-pee-poop parade.

     But each time you come across a story of someone's naught, you say a silent prayer for being ordinary. You thank God for a child of your own, who is in perfect health and whose place in your life is not subject to others' permissions. After all, it isn't your shoe that's a misfit and it isn't you who is getting bitten.

From a biased, paranoid Hindu's perspective

(Image courtesy: http://monado.files.wordpress.com)

    

      I see beard, I think terrorist. 

      That is the truth of the matter, and the crux of all that follows.

      Perhaps beginning with a disclaimer would have been wiser. But hey, better late than never. All ideas and opinions expressed in this blog are my own and represent no other - living or dead...or maybe they do. But just as a point, this is just a rant, no offence  meant. (And please remind me NOT to apply for any jobs for the post of disclaimer writer)

      Mumbai, my new home, has a lot of things I don't like. Monsoons and Muslims lead the race. Why monsoons? Because they suck. And why Muslims? Uh...they suck too. For starters, the mosque joined at the hip with the building I live in is the bane of my life. That mullah/maulvi/maulana, or whatever it is that they are called, screeching azaans five friggin times in a day beginning at 5 effing 'O clock! (Are you guys sure Mr Allah wakes up that early?)

     Secondly, a huge procession of them topiwalas, with their band-baajas, is passing from right under my house just when I'm trying to put baby to sleep. Aaaaaargh!

     'So what?', you may ask. 'Don't you know Ganeshotsav's right around the corner.'   Sigh. I know, I know. When I point a finger at them, the other three point right back at me. Yet, a biased Hindu that I am, I will leave no chance to find fault with them Greens - however flimsy the grounds. 

     Yes, I have an MA, I am liberal enough to smoke before my in-laws, I broke rules and married a Christian, but I cannot get myself to behave 'normally' with a Muslim colleague - just because he sports a beard. If I didn't look at him, or looked only neck down, he could be a buddy. He wears jeans, he talks cool, he even brings French toast for dabba! But he will never be my friend because he is an Ansari and not an Adhikari.

     Frankly, I don't know much about Muslims. My GK about that huge part of the world community is restricted to the Khans of Bollywood, Mughal history, Biryani, the Taj Mahal, and some stray words like Mecca, Haji, Talaaq and what have you. But sadly, the stronger repertoire consists of words like terrorist, Al-Qaeda, Osama, Sharia, stoning, bombing, killing, many wives, many-er kids, uneducated and dangerously provocative. 

     With any newspaper on any given day throwing up names like Javed and Farid and Aslam and Mohammad in almost all crime stories, my beliefs only get stronger. This, with years of hate conditioning, a separatist, collective consciousness and lack of exposure has left me with little choice of perspective. Funny, how I've learnt to not learn the lessons in secularism.

     But I've tried. I've tried to read and understand, in vain, about Islam, reveled in the exquisite arts that Muslims are masters of, gorged on the most delectable of Mughlai cuisines, but the prejudice refuses to budge. One white skull cap or one black burkha is all it takes for me to clench my jaw, cringe my nose and generally get all worked up. My personal walls go right up.

     I'll probably never be able to accept a Muslim as a normal, living, breathing human being. To me, they'll always remain 'they', 'the others', 'the minority'. (Heaven help me if I ever have to live out of India.) 

     It must be difficult to unbelong, thus. It must be one heck of a curse to live with preconceived and wrong notions about yourself. It must be extraordinarily tough to have to prove yourself at every step of the way, just because you are not what most others are. Viren (my Catholic husband) says I'll never understand what it feels like to be a 'minority'. Perhaps I won't. Perhaps I will. Jishnu is supposed to be raised as a Catholic. The thought scares me to no end. It terrifies me to think of all the unfair burdens he may have to live with...

     May the world have fewer people like me. :(

    

Vitamin T and other needs

     
     OK, so I am officially part of the world of twitwits (my term), or the twitterers or the tweeples or the twitterati; call them what you will.
     Am I ashamed of it? Yes.
     Am I doing it anyway? Yes.
     From the last time I looked, I am 18 days, 55 tweets, 26 followers, 83 followings and 18 direct messages old on Twitter and the handle that is used to carry all this senselessness is Urmi_Chanda_Vaz. Not bad, I'd say. At the going rate of more than one new follower per day, my vanity is being fed by the mouthfuls and my ego looks nice and curvy (oh dear, I can already hear the borderline obesity warning go beep-beep-beep!). Celebs must think similarly when their follower numbers hitch up by a few thousands per day.
     Twitter has taken the vain world by storm and anyone who is someone (and even no ones like yours truly) has something significant to say to the world...or at least they think so.
     And why not, I ask? When you have hundreds lapping up highly important facts like Salman Khan craving for a pizza or Gordon Ramsay cooking bull balls or OMG, Amitabh Bachchan taking a bucket bath, why shouldn't they tweet? Sample this: "Oh, you're my hero, my God, Amit ji sir ji...use balderdash soap for your divine skin and RT please." Now is there anything even remotely insane about this tweet? No. Because if Mr. Bachchan can tell you he's gracing the bathroom, Mr. Fan can tell him to retweet this gorgeous piece of literature.
     The inanity of the Tweetosphere is scary, sometimes funny and sometimes plain maddening.  That is why I had kept off Twitter for so long. That's what allowed me to indulge in some glorious derision. Oh, what fun it is to look down upon something that's so large.
     But then Social Wavelength happened. I opened a Twitter account as part of my job description, stooped low to see what happens down there and got sucked into that inimitable vanity trap that is Twitter.
     It is easy to fall prey to flattery. Yeah, it's no rocket science. It's man in all his 'social animal' glory that seeks acknowledgement, approval, acceptance and adulation from his fellow animals. My greatest victories are won when I speak and you nod. I say, you listen. I lead, you follow. Imagine the rush one feels, then, when others find you worthy enough to 'follow' you. When even the likes of Sachin Tendulkar have succumbed to the need for affirmation, what chance do us mere mortals have? We hate to follow the herd, but do it all the same, 'coz that's where the grass is.
     The need to be better than Tom, Dick and even Harry never abates. It just keeps getting bigger and stronger every time there's a DM, or an RT or a reply to your tweet. We try harder, we tweet smarter and we wait longer for just one more nod. Our selves have become dependent on Vitamin T and we need larger doses everyday to keep our fragile egos from collapsing. In the end, we all end up virtual wayfarers dropping in cheesy 140 characters hoping someone...anyone will notice us and follow us; our insecurities hashtagged forever.  
    

An overweight Bong

(Image:zcache.com)

     Inspiration comes from the strangest places. Sometimes a small phrase leads to a big insight and out comes a blog...

*****

     Trudging through my first lonely weeks at the new company Social Wavelength, I happened to get into one of those inane conversations with one of my new colleagues (a Bengali, incidentally). After a work-related query was resolved on G-talk, he asked me if I had had lunch. It was just past lunchtime. How nice of him. Hoping I'd be offered some company, I answered, "Yes, thank you. Anyway, it's a one-chapati, eat alone affair...gets done in 5 minutes..." But a Bong that he was, the picked the food cue! "One chapati!? But you are a Bong..."

     "I am an overweight Bong!" I interjected.

     "LOL...but you must have Rui maacher jhol with bhaat and begoon bhaja..." he trailed off. He was clearly interested in food. But I was interested in my little joke. But wait, it isn't really a joke...

*****

     Or maybe it is. Sadly the joke is on us Bongs...as a race. The adjective 'overweight' pretty much sits 'unprettily' on most of us. Only those plagued by the showbiz or genetics are exceptions. Sure enough the likes of Bipasha Basu and Koena Mitra and Raima Sen make up the league of Bong bombshells. But the rest of us are more like bomb-swells. 

     The love of food is definitely part of a Bong's DNA. There can be no other explanation for this insane obsession we have for food. With five meals on a regular day and even more on jonmodins, beyays, annoprashons, pujos, and even shraddhos, an average Bengali lives to eat.

     Perhaps the probashis will beg to differ, but a typical meshomoshai will begin a typical day by going to a typical baajaar, wearing a typical shaart-paanjaabi, carrying a typical tholay in his hand. The shopping list, then the bag, then the kitchen and finally the meal will consist of two bhaajaas, one dal, one shukto, two torkaris, one maacher jhol (and definitely mangsho on a Sunday or an occasion), one chaatni, and then some doi or mishti. Phew! The subsequent between-meal meals may consist of shingara, kochuri, chop, porota, roll, muri-maakha or the many other delights roadside kiosks and sweet shops have to offer. And the day ends with a dinner that must compete with the lunch on all counts. Honest!

     The probashi that I am, I had forgotten that this is the norm and hence the expectation of a typical Bong when he is invited for a meal. So when I offered a 3-course lunch I had laboured over all day to a relative from Kolkata, I was met with some palpable disapproval about the lack of variety. I think I would have died of shame had I accepted my MIL's very well meaning advice of serving a one-dish meal!

     But I'm alive here and the relatives are back in the heartland of the feisty foodies who spend most of their time, money and energy on food. No wonder there's only one Subroto Roy (bet he doesn't fancy food very much). How can Bongs succeed in business if all they do is eat, eat (No, Bongs don't waste money on liquids) and make merry? But with precious little left after 'foodorgies', merry-making for most moddhobittos is restricted to an annual trip to Puri or Digha...

It's a pity their famous brains fall behind their famous-er appetites.

2 States by Chetan Bhagat: Impressions

     I've been a self-confessed Chetan Bhagat loather all this while. Nothing against him or what he writes or how he writes it - I choose to not like him just because so many people like him. What to do? I am like that only. Ever since his 5 Point Someone days, his popularity pisses me off. I have a thing against everybody like everything and live happily ever after. So buying his books and reading them has been out of the question. But when my bhai-bhabhi thought my shelf needed a Chetan Bhagat (for a lack of my judgement or theirs) and gifted me his latest novel, I decided to give 2 States: A story of my marriage a chance. And anyways, since my marriage is stalemating, courtesy Jishnu and Mumbai, I thought I might as well read about other peoples' marriages and amuse myself.
      I'm not sure what his previous books are like, but 2 States is a fairly readable book. More than the story, what is to be savoured is his style of writing. It is refreshingly casual and may well have been snatches from our everyday conversations. His similes are rib-tickling, his insights fair and his characters real. His observations of prejudices are very good, perhaps because he has been subject to them. 
    Five days with Bhagat and I have to admit that I liked it while it lasted. You have to hand it to the guy for writing about life nice and easy with a good measure of humour thrown in. He really is someone who'd make for a good conversation starter with a random stranger or people you can't otherwise have meaningful conversations with. Bhagat's work is appealing in a way weather conversations are. They're safe and they're for everybody despite him being quite honest about the way the young operate. Anyway, uncles in their 40s and 50s are likely to not have read him.
     He may not make it to the annals of great literature, but Bhagat makes for a good companion of chai, coffee or cola.

First fright

     There's nothing more terrifying for a parent than to watch his child suffer. The pain is sheer and the helplessness penultimate. Before you can summon a doctor or even summon the idea of summoning one, panic grabs you by the throat and squeezes out every last ounce of reason from your head. The frantic heart takes over and reels with so many emotions, you don't know what to do with them. Your child cries, you cry. You child suffers, you die. You fear. You pray. Pray that there be one way that will let you take your child's pain away.
     ...All seemed hunky-dory on a regular day of our regular lives - stamped with that regularity which is taken for granted till one of the cogs of the wheel fall out. Jishnu was the model of a happy, healthy baby all eight months of his little life before that horrible retching began. There were no signs of discomfort and like any other day, Viren took Jishnu inside to put him to sleep at about 8.30 in the night. I was in the kitchen readying dinner when Vir started shouting and asked me to come in right away.
     I ran into the bedroom and to my horror saw Jishnu vomiting desperately and Viren looking desperate. I stood there transfixed at the door watching helplessly as my poor baby's body spasmed violently with the effort of throwing up. I stood there paralysed with fear facing something I'd never faced before. I stood there with all sorts of terrible thoughts crowding my mind even as Jishnu wailed in pain and discomfort. My reverie was broken only when Viren yelled, "What are you doing there? Help!"
     The next few minutes were pure hysteria and a frenzy of activity. Jishnu threw up, cried. We cleaned him up and the sheets and the floor and the bathroom and waited. Jishnu threw up again, we cleaned up all again; and Jishnu threw up for a third time. Somewhere in between I found my sense, my cell phone and my voice and called up Jishnu's pediatrician in Nagpur. A few assurances and a prescription later did I feel a wee bit 'regular' again. I cradled my baby in my arms, hushed him, soothed him and cried with him. In the next minute, I turned into a merciless model of practicality as I had Viren pinch his little nose while I forced the medicine down his throat. A few more tears and a phew!
     The medicine and exhaustion soon put Jishnu and our fears to sleep. We spent a partially sleepless night monitoring him, kissing him, caressing him even as he slept between us, blissfully unaware. Morning came and all was well again.
      So, what was the big deal one may ask. It was only a vomiting child for crying out loud (yep, right!). Yes, nothing was earth shattering in retrospect and storytelling. Yet, only a first-time parent may able to identify with this first experience of illness in the most precious part of you. Your world really can fall apart at even the thought of something 'bad' happening to your child. And like all things first, facing this fear as regards your baby is forever etched in your heart.

The Calcutta Chromosome by Amitav Ghosh: Impressions

     Ghosh ne mere hosh uda diye! Gosh!
     Good. My tribute couldn't possibly get cornier than this. Why? Because the book is so deliciously mind effing that trying to say anything intelligent might end up being corny.
     When I picked up the book from a roadside vendor, all I saw was the Elish maach and the word Calcutta on the cover. I thought it would lead me through the narrow golis of Kolkata in yellow taxis on a ride that would connect me to my roots. Thank God, my expectations weren't met. Thank God, The Calcutta Chromosome is another thing entirely!
     Why, Mr Ghosh, you are so cool, so crazy and so out of this world in TCC!! What a read! I'm so excited I cannot help but key in exclamation marks after every sentence! Bravo!
     Finally a book with no answers; a book with a plot so fantastic, so surreal it refuses to let its loose ends be tied; a book that sucks the reader into the dangerous alleys that could be its end. Few authors dare leave the labours of their love into the hands of readers that may not be half as appreciative as yours truly. Thank you, Mr G for letting it be.
     Thank you too for the indomitable L Murugan, the inquisitive Antar, the Rosses and the Farleys and the Urmilas and the Sonalis on missions - all trying to fit into a world where sciences and seances blend. Thank you for blurring the line between the real and the unreal, the mathematical and the magical, the truths and the lies. Thank you for reminding readers that no matter how far we get with our test tubes and gadgets, the only thing we are really looking for is immortality and that the only way about it is leaving behind a book like this. 

A Prisoner of Birth by Jeffrey Archer: Impressions

Dear Lord Archer,

Sorry, but you're not quite making the mark anymore. Perhaps inspirations are drying up but because your fan following isn't, you are being held a prisoner to publisher demands. You seem to be losing your charisma from your Not a Penny More...days. That chart buster was as riveting as it was real; its plot - gripping; its characters unforgettable. But you may have milked the revenge-plan-that-works a little too much. And what a reader is left with is a been there-done that, mish-mash of a repackaged story in the form of A Prisoner of Birth.

Sure A Prisoner of Birth is a page turner although there are no prizes for guessing what happens in the end. Sure there are some brilliant microplots in the story, but it doesn't make up for the same old poor defeat rich saga and it's unforgivably Hindi cinema like in its courtroom masala. Even the characterisations seem so forced at times, one almost feels sad about the lack of imagination thereof. Which modern author, in his right mind writes, 'Think like Danny, act like Nick' over and over to remind readers with supposed intelligence of what is going through the protagonist's head? And for the formidable bulk of the book, not one character comes out strongly and threatens to stay with you for at least some time. 

And what about the title dear Lord? Sorry, but it's as pointless as the rest of these pages that you call a novel.

Another day, another grey

"Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Please tell me there's no grey at all..."

"pffffbht"

I remember my mom telling me to get regular facials done after 25. I was maybe 16 then. Twenty-five seemed centuries away and blessed with good skin as I am, facials seemed like the thing for 'aunties scared of growing old. as if...'.

Cut to a decade after. Today. That’s me at 26, tagged as an 'auntie' by colony ka bachchas who see me with a bachcha, scared of growing old. Suddenly mom’s advice rings scarily true.

Well, the good news is that the good skin is still holding up and I may have another couple of years before I start making a beeline for the beauty parlour asking for a Shahnaz Hussain ka Herbal facial (yes, salons are still an unjustified luxury as a result of my dad’s commie influences).  

But there’s bad news too. Actually it’s more sad than bad. Every morning as I stand close to the mirror brushing my hair, another strand of grey peeks out, mocking me in all its silver glory. I heave a big sigh, pick up a scissor or if I’m too pissed with it, a pair of tweezers to put in as great a distance between ‘it’ and me as I can. But before I can get happy about having gotten rid of one does another spring right up. "Na, na, na, na, na"....it says and I pick up the scissor again. I'm clearly losing this battle. What chances do I really have? Nature vs. Tweezers.

It wasn't so long ago when I'd noticed the first grey hair on my mother's youthful head and was very upset about it. "How can MY mommy have grey hair? How can SHE grow old?" I remember thinking. All of 8, the universal reality of decay hit me. It made me uncomfortable, but I was cushioned in the comfort of time - time that seemed would never end, would never come.

But time did come. Cut to age 16. A time when I began to think grey was sexy. You know them - that tall, grey and handsome kind - those with slight grey at the temples or a full head of grey and a s**tload of confidence. Sexy, yes, but still meant for the others.

And time did come again. A little too early for me I guess. Damn those genes. But before I let myself wallow in some premature middle age crisis-induced depression, I'll squeeze into some tight tees, some short shorts and dye another day.