Father, please may I be excused??

The......... Ravenous Bugblatter beast of Traal!! There has not been a single day in the last ohsomany months when I haven't thought about the BBoT. For those who don't know who/what it is, here's a little bit on it

"Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal
The Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal is a creature that hails from the planet of Traal, and will eat anything. If you are to encounter one, the Guide tells you that it's impossible to slay, so you should wrap a towel around your head. This creature is so mind-bogglingly stupid that it assumes that if you can't see it, then it can't see you. Despite this, the guide did state, erroneously, that "ravenous Bugblatter beasts often make a very good meal for visiting tourists" in its article on the planet Traal. This led to deaths of those who took it literally. The guide's editors avoided lawsuit by summoning a poet to testify under oath that beauty was truth, truth beauty, and therefore prove that their claim, the nicer one, must be true. This led to life itself being held in contempt of court for being neither beautiful or true, and subsequently being removed from all those present at the trial."

Ain't it pretty? I mean firstly, the name itself is gorgeous. Deliciously fullfilling mouthful of a name. The Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal. Say it. Smile. And marvel at the enjoyable satedness. Sigh....
And if that is not enough to keep you going for a good decade, think with a towel wrapped around your head. Cos if you can't see it then it can't see you. Whenever the need for inconspicuousness is felt, just wrap a towel around your head. Poignantly convenient. Delightfully convoluted. And other such high-sounding, seemingly oxymoronic phrases that occur. In fact when you have a towel wrapped on your head, you can think of many more.

And so easy to administer. No need anymore for us to dig holes to jump into. Or pray for alien abduction. Just carry that handy saviour of a towel. And be the klutz that you are. Merrily hop skip jump over emotions, bad vocabulary and political incorrectness in the confidence that you have your faithful towel. The la da da ticket to eternal forgiveness. You don’t need to be cool anymore. Oooooh… sigh, where’s my towel now?

P. S.: Please to be excusing logic leaps, grammatical errors and unnecessary words. No, wait, I don’t mean that. Cos I got me towel. Ha!

Of cluttered vacuum and Warhol

Jyenagar Jalajamba is back.. without a bang, but then who cares... grand entries are over rated.

Today she bought bags. Just out of the blue. And its kitsch.. kitschhhhh... kitt-shhhhh... kishhhhh... such a pretty word. A failed attempt at edgy curtness. Like you're sliding out of control. I wonder how the word came about. I'm sure it happened in a new york penthouse... in a late night house party.. with anorexic pretentious women.. russian ones.. with harsh flat pronunciation... in a minimalist setting with synthetic electricity and long cigarillos stuck onto silver pipes.. only they weren't breakfastattiffany's. they were ceramic vaccuum.

Anyway, one must not stray so much from the topic at hand... no... wait... i have more to say.... just remembered that I never took to the word 'bling'. I'm sure it was invented so it can be the new 'with it' word. Convenient tickets to acceptance. But something about the word is so bland. So 'tchain'... like a bunch of useless keys falling onto a plate. But then I digress.

So yea, Jyenagar Jalajamba spent a bomb on poor quality over sized embarassingly loud kitsch. How comforting a feeling. Almost like you're wild enough to be cool. Mind you, where I come from... big fat over priced kitsch bags ARE wild.. especially if the most unpredictability in a tambram's life is the consistency of their daily cups of curd. And even THAT we know how to tame.

Right so the bags are basically big and have huge prints on them. But I love them. My bags are rexine meets Andy Warhol in asymmetric poor stitching. And the fabric is not tweed coarse... its rexine coarse... not natural coarse.

And it can hold my entire world in it. All the comfort goods that a woman needs. Her own portable weaponry - face wash, tissue, comb, deo, chap stick, kajal, another comb with thinner teeth, another wad of tissue, old bills, dirty wallet, pens, pencils, pretentious reading, random keys, lacto calamine, everything. It hangs right under her shoulder and hangs pretty... and loud.

To measure one's days by the coffee cups. Such prettiness. Such vacuum.