It’s the little things. The call at 2 p.m saying you’ve reached home. The scent of your CK One in a stuffed room filled with books. A hint of garlic in my pickle, and the polka dotted bow on that retro high heel at The Shoe Garage. It’s the ‘Hot Deal’ I search for in every cosmopolitan, the fine wine list at every pub, the shift dress I eyed so much at that tiny store, the diamante sandals that Reese Witherspoon wore before the trial in Legally Blonde. Maybe it’s the tiny twinkle in your eyes when you see my new shoes, or the drops of rain on my awning. The most smallest most starved most cute black-and-white-with-frizzled-fur puppy I saw outside a kirana store in Kalkaji and the spaghetti top with eyelet work I got for 50 bucks in Sarojini Market. Well, it's also the Darling girl song by Mark Knofler you sang and taught me on that night. I am all of these little things.
-Blue Roses
Friday, June 15, 2007
Sing me a Baz Luhrmann song!
Ladies and Gentlemen belonging to the class of ’07
Apply enough moisturizer
If I could offer you only one cover-up for the future, moisturizer would be it. The spectacular mind-blowing benefits of moisturizer have been constantly tested and approved by cosmetologists whereas the rest of my advice is ultra-cool, without boundaries and waiting to get more reliable by my own meandering experience…
Gimme a minute I say…and let me dump that advice on you.
Enjoy page three parties, hot ribbed six pack-abbed hunks, halter necked blouses, lip gloss and high heels right now, or whatever. Later when you’re old and can’t move a muscle, you will look at orkut pictures of you and crib. Trust me, you had a lot of charm and sex appeal and you gave it away to Fabindia and that’s not fair. You will also know then that the power and the beauty of youth and the fabulousness that is your cleavage was a big possibility.
And if you think you’re fat, join a gym. If not, stay away from diets.
Worrying about future only makes you an aunty. And trying to know your future or trying save up for the same, can be a huge mistake. Worrying in my case is as whiney as Enrique Iglesias trying to sing while crying. Or doing sudoku on a moving bus that’s headed to Chennapatna. The unrealized worries are those that wake you up from your wet dream, the kind that shake you up like Shakira on a cloudy Mumbai evening.
Do one thing that makes you smile. Infact, do anything that makes you stay calm.
Sing. Badly. Bathroom-door-creaking decibels on a rampage kind of singing. Try to copy Sanjay Malakar.
Stop taking people for granted. Don’t try to play with someone’s feelings and think that you can get away with sleeping around. It comes to bite you back, with vengence.
And one more thing, stop taking shit from relationships. However close someone is, or however long you have been friends, or lovers if they don’t respect your life, times, likes and loathes and differences, they’re just going to be passé. Soon.
If he thinks you’re just for a good hickey, dump him. You deserve more than that. And if he thinks walking out on you suddenly one fine day is only HIS call. Then, refer him to your psychiatrist. Relationships, acknowleged or unacknowledged, need two hands to clap. And he must be really dumb to think, he can get away with anything. Without an apology or an explanation.
Add gloss to your lips. Always.
Stop thinking you’re not good enough. And stop thinking someone’s better than you. That can lead to a mammoth waste of time. You’re your best bet, you’re your only competition.
Compliment your boss, insult your ex-boyfriend. Wink at that cute boy next door and visit St. Tropez on vacation. If you don’t know how to. Let me know.
Delete old mails from assholes. Keep funny chats on gmail. Make space for new trendy clothes in your wardrobe and invest in Franklin Templeton shares. Store kinky smses from many a nice midnight, and don’t bank with HDFC.
Stretch your mind. Stay non-judgemental.
Stop graveyard shifts, pampering your editors, bitching about your collegues and wasting time on the net.
Don’t feel bad if you’re boss complained that you didn’t stay over after 11 pm. You had to party at Elevate and that’s still a valid excuse. The job is just a job. It’s not your entire life.
So, you’re into digital art, music, mystery shopping and part-time styling. That’s good as long as you indulge in all of them and end up doing a good job of all of them. Specialising in just one thing is a big no-no. So, if you’re dad says you gotta be an Engineer, tell him you also need to practise football to make it to the star team in Infosys.
It’s nice to know what you want to do with your life even if it’s not in synchrony with the traditional ways of going about things. This minute, this month, this weekend, next year at Hollywood. All others who don’t know what they want out of life at 40, will stay that way till 60, until one day they realize they’re wasted on weed and cheap booze and spoilt their chances of cheering the FIFA World Cup 2010 at South Africa.
Eat fruits. Get plenty of support. Stop pissing everyone off.
Do the Himalayan trek. Do the jiggy this birthday. Be kind to your stamina, you’ll miss it when it’s gone.
Maybe you’ve found that man of your dreams, or maybe you didn’t. Take my word, it’s all about how you want your life to be. Maybe you don’t want children, or maybe you’ll do a rainbow family a la Angelina Jolie-Pitt, stop looking at others lives to justify yours. You’re the star and you have made great decisions. Your choices bear luck, and others rear bad memories. But always remember to do the right thing. The thing that you need to make your life better.
Dress sexy. Wear leggings. Try to save up for a Manolo or a Jimmy Choo. Take care of how you treat your body. Life is a gift, however clichéd that might sound. Abusing your body is only going to cut your life by half and not let you enjoy everything that life has to offer you. So, make a tidy bundle out of your energy.
Don’t dance if all you’re aiming for is my left leg. Just so you know I’ll be wearing a stiletto and you wouldn’t want to go over what karma is, all over again.
Ask for directions. Even if it means you have to speak chaste hindi to some cheap bugger on the road. Calculate distances beforehand, Making me walk a good 5 kms in the guise of finding a CCD at Motibagh is not done.
Invest in beauty products. And compulsively read Beauty Magazines. They tell you that polka looks good only on minis, not on sarees. And they make you understand the importance of not wearing blue eye-liner on a brown outfit. You’ll save a lot of people eye ache.
Bear with your parents but stop taking them for granted. Dad too needs to invest in himself and mom too needs a day off cooking. If you’re married, visit them on weekends, shop for them, take them out but stop depending on them for everything. And if you’re unmarried and above 25 and still relying on folks for money, you need a birch bath.
Buy good things for your siblings. They love you anyways. But also make sure, you make it very clear to them that Kill Bill is playing at 9 pm on Star Movies and you need the remote by then.
Know that men come and go, but girlfriends stay on. And as long as no one takes you for granted, you’re on track in friendship. And also understand that when someone is getting close to you suddenly, you need to know why. And when someone at 25 has no friends, there must be some reason. Though, you certainly cannot tell this objectively.
Come back from Illinois and London when you’ve turned 60. No amount of AC, Cheetos and Nutella, can buy you love in your homeland. Make sure you stay connected to your roots and occasionally help out your village in India.
Live in Mumbai once, but leave before it makes you hard; live
in Chennai once, but leave before it makes you soft.
Travel. By train. No amount of early morning flights can get you into the joy of traveling other than a good all-nighter in Shatabdi express.
Accept certain inalienable truths, Nike’s swoosh will stay , Advani will play the saffron card, America will try to secure the global police badge and philander every country unless we Asians get together and bash it’s balls, and you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young Nike was reasonable, politicians were noble, a cinema ticket costed 10 bucks and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders. Period.
Don’t think that theres something called a free lunch. Stop depending, lending and borrowing. Maybe you have a Citibank savings account, maybe you have a wealthy aunt; but you never know when either one might run out.
Stop colouring your hair a bleachy no-money-to-buy-coconut oil colour. By the time you're 40, it will be a bald patch. Instead, try Sapna Bhavnani and stop using a scrunchie.
Be careful of whose socks you borrow, and whose experiences you imbibe. Also stay patient with those who give you gyan. Once the 16 seconds are over, feel free to hit them with your black bag.
Advice is like Chocolate cake. Good as long as its being eaten, but once it’s over, you have a stomach problem at hand. And loosies early morning. Advice is a form of energy, dispensing it is a way of
digging into your soul, picking up points where your ass was kicked, learning from it and passing it on in as much of a boring manner as your yoga teacher and dumping it on any one with a listening ear.
But trust me on the moisturizer…
P.S The original Baz Luhrmann song, I parodied. Click here
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/gary.hart/lyricsl/luhrmann.html
-Blue Roses
Apply enough moisturizer
If I could offer you only one cover-up for the future, moisturizer would be it. The spectacular mind-blowing benefits of moisturizer have been constantly tested and approved by cosmetologists whereas the rest of my advice is ultra-cool, without boundaries and waiting to get more reliable by my own meandering experience…
Gimme a minute I say…and let me dump that advice on you.
Enjoy page three parties, hot ribbed six pack-abbed hunks, halter necked blouses, lip gloss and high heels right now, or whatever. Later when you’re old and can’t move a muscle, you will look at orkut pictures of you and crib. Trust me, you had a lot of charm and sex appeal and you gave it away to Fabindia and that’s not fair. You will also know then that the power and the beauty of youth and the fabulousness that is your cleavage was a big possibility.
And if you think you’re fat, join a gym. If not, stay away from diets.
Worrying about future only makes you an aunty. And trying to know your future or trying save up for the same, can be a huge mistake. Worrying in my case is as whiney as Enrique Iglesias trying to sing while crying. Or doing sudoku on a moving bus that’s headed to Chennapatna. The unrealized worries are those that wake you up from your wet dream, the kind that shake you up like Shakira on a cloudy Mumbai evening.
Do one thing that makes you smile. Infact, do anything that makes you stay calm.
Sing. Badly. Bathroom-door-creaking decibels on a rampage kind of singing. Try to copy Sanjay Malakar.
Stop taking people for granted. Don’t try to play with someone’s feelings and think that you can get away with sleeping around. It comes to bite you back, with vengence.
And one more thing, stop taking shit from relationships. However close someone is, or however long you have been friends, or lovers if they don’t respect your life, times, likes and loathes and differences, they’re just going to be passé. Soon.
If he thinks you’re just for a good hickey, dump him. You deserve more than that. And if he thinks walking out on you suddenly one fine day is only HIS call. Then, refer him to your psychiatrist. Relationships, acknowleged or unacknowledged, need two hands to clap. And he must be really dumb to think, he can get away with anything. Without an apology or an explanation.
Add gloss to your lips. Always.
Stop thinking you’re not good enough. And stop thinking someone’s better than you. That can lead to a mammoth waste of time. You’re your best bet, you’re your only competition.
Compliment your boss, insult your ex-boyfriend. Wink at that cute boy next door and visit St. Tropez on vacation. If you don’t know how to. Let me know.
Delete old mails from assholes. Keep funny chats on gmail. Make space for new trendy clothes in your wardrobe and invest in Franklin Templeton shares. Store kinky smses from many a nice midnight, and don’t bank with HDFC.
Stretch your mind. Stay non-judgemental.
Stop graveyard shifts, pampering your editors, bitching about your collegues and wasting time on the net.
Don’t feel bad if you’re boss complained that you didn’t stay over after 11 pm. You had to party at Elevate and that’s still a valid excuse. The job is just a job. It’s not your entire life.
So, you’re into digital art, music, mystery shopping and part-time styling. That’s good as long as you indulge in all of them and end up doing a good job of all of them. Specialising in just one thing is a big no-no. So, if you’re dad says you gotta be an Engineer, tell him you also need to practise football to make it to the star team in Infosys.
It’s nice to know what you want to do with your life even if it’s not in synchrony with the traditional ways of going about things. This minute, this month, this weekend, next year at Hollywood. All others who don’t know what they want out of life at 40, will stay that way till 60, until one day they realize they’re wasted on weed and cheap booze and spoilt their chances of cheering the FIFA World Cup 2010 at South Africa.
Eat fruits. Get plenty of support. Stop pissing everyone off.
Do the Himalayan trek. Do the jiggy this birthday. Be kind to your stamina, you’ll miss it when it’s gone.
Maybe you’ve found that man of your dreams, or maybe you didn’t. Take my word, it’s all about how you want your life to be. Maybe you don’t want children, or maybe you’ll do a rainbow family a la Angelina Jolie-Pitt, stop looking at others lives to justify yours. You’re the star and you have made great decisions. Your choices bear luck, and others rear bad memories. But always remember to do the right thing. The thing that you need to make your life better.
Dress sexy. Wear leggings. Try to save up for a Manolo or a Jimmy Choo. Take care of how you treat your body. Life is a gift, however clichéd that might sound. Abusing your body is only going to cut your life by half and not let you enjoy everything that life has to offer you. So, make a tidy bundle out of your energy.
Don’t dance if all you’re aiming for is my left leg. Just so you know I’ll be wearing a stiletto and you wouldn’t want to go over what karma is, all over again.
Ask for directions. Even if it means you have to speak chaste hindi to some cheap bugger on the road. Calculate distances beforehand, Making me walk a good 5 kms in the guise of finding a CCD at Motibagh is not done.
Invest in beauty products. And compulsively read Beauty Magazines. They tell you that polka looks good only on minis, not on sarees. And they make you understand the importance of not wearing blue eye-liner on a brown outfit. You’ll save a lot of people eye ache.
Bear with your parents but stop taking them for granted. Dad too needs to invest in himself and mom too needs a day off cooking. If you’re married, visit them on weekends, shop for them, take them out but stop depending on them for everything. And if you’re unmarried and above 25 and still relying on folks for money, you need a birch bath.
Buy good things for your siblings. They love you anyways. But also make sure, you make it very clear to them that Kill Bill is playing at 9 pm on Star Movies and you need the remote by then.
Know that men come and go, but girlfriends stay on. And as long as no one takes you for granted, you’re on track in friendship. And also understand that when someone is getting close to you suddenly, you need to know why. And when someone at 25 has no friends, there must be some reason. Though, you certainly cannot tell this objectively.
Come back from Illinois and London when you’ve turned 60. No amount of AC, Cheetos and Nutella, can buy you love in your homeland. Make sure you stay connected to your roots and occasionally help out your village in India.
Live in Mumbai once, but leave before it makes you hard; live
in Chennai once, but leave before it makes you soft.
Travel. By train. No amount of early morning flights can get you into the joy of traveling other than a good all-nighter in Shatabdi express.
Accept certain inalienable truths, Nike’s swoosh will stay , Advani will play the saffron card, America will try to secure the global police badge and philander every country unless we Asians get together and bash it’s balls, and you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were young Nike was reasonable, politicians were noble, a cinema ticket costed 10 bucks and children respected their elders.
Respect your elders. Period.
Don’t think that theres something called a free lunch. Stop depending, lending and borrowing. Maybe you have a Citibank savings account, maybe you have a wealthy aunt; but you never know when either one might run out.
Stop colouring your hair a bleachy no-money-to-buy-coconut oil colour. By the time you're 40, it will be a bald patch. Instead, try Sapna Bhavnani and stop using a scrunchie.
Be careful of whose socks you borrow, and whose experiences you imbibe. Also stay patient with those who give you gyan. Once the 16 seconds are over, feel free to hit them with your black bag.
Advice is like Chocolate cake. Good as long as its being eaten, but once it’s over, you have a stomach problem at hand. And loosies early morning. Advice is a form of energy, dispensing it is a way of
digging into your soul, picking up points where your ass was kicked, learning from it and passing it on in as much of a boring manner as your yoga teacher and dumping it on any one with a listening ear.
But trust me on the moisturizer…
P.S The original Baz Luhrmann song, I parodied. Click here
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/gary.hart/lyricsl/luhrmann.html
-Blue Roses
Friday, June 8, 2007
When your cookie doesn't quite crumble...
Have you ever been in a phase where everyone around you is madly busy, trying hard to balance work and social commitments while you seem to be the only one who has all the time in the world? It’s that time when everyone you meet says “My God! You are so lucky to be working from home” or “I am so jealous of you! You have all the free time in the world”. But all along you have this niggling feeling that you seem to be the one missing out on something here. It’s like arriving in the middle of the movie when everyone seems to know something that you don’t. Of course you do get to read a few pages of a novel during a break or watch movies while you eat lunch. But do people ever think about what cabin fever can do to a sane, socially active person?
I now can empathise with women who take time off work for a year or so to have a baby. It’s the same kind of back-to-being-busy nerves that one has to fight when you are entrenched in the working-from-home mode or if you have taken a long break from work, and are then suddenly faced with a deluge of work and responsibilties. You are suddenly at sea. The feeling is no more as familiar as it used to be.
I know what it is now to be struck by a crippling sense of inadequacy or low confidence. This has nothing to do with lack of experience or anything like that. You have already been in high-pressure and highly demanding jobs. You have also handled the crazy deadlines and done the graveyard shifts. But after this lull, will your ship weather the storm? Do you have it in you to go back after a break and get back into the groove or will you fail?
-Relentlessly Restless
I now can empathise with women who take time off work for a year or so to have a baby. It’s the same kind of back-to-being-busy nerves that one has to fight when you are entrenched in the working-from-home mode or if you have taken a long break from work, and are then suddenly faced with a deluge of work and responsibilties. You are suddenly at sea. The feeling is no more as familiar as it used to be.
I know what it is now to be struck by a crippling sense of inadequacy or low confidence. This has nothing to do with lack of experience or anything like that. You have already been in high-pressure and highly demanding jobs. You have also handled the crazy deadlines and done the graveyard shifts. But after this lull, will your ship weather the storm? Do you have it in you to go back after a break and get back into the groove or will you fail?
-Relentlessly Restless
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Big Yellow Taxi meets Dhoom Machale
Today’s hot topic deals with another common species, we all know about, have met a couple of times, but cannot place him any category. Yes, ladies and not so gentlemen, put your hands up for the “Music Snob”.
Long long ago, in a land infested with musicians, wannabe musicians and music experts, not necessarily in that order, I have had the privilege to meet many Music Snobs. They are proud, effervescent and a little clogged up in the brain. And of course, with the weed that forms a major part of the life in there, the clogging demanded that music meant English music only.
But that apart, music that is to be loved by all, has been subjected to some judgement and scrutiny these days by this category of snobs. So they judge you? On the basis of the music that you listen. If you’re into Iron Maiden. Megadeth – you’re so cool. With all that kajal, that dirty T-shirt which has not been washed since 1914 and an attitude that can give Ozzy a run for the money. And if you’re pink – take your pick of Britney, Christina, Pussy cat dolls…..! If it’s hip-hop you’re into dancing, but you must have the ability to shake your ass well, otherwise you’re just another dumb ho. Or feel free to strip to then, to be accepted into the royal hip-hop sisterhood. Alternative? Others? Mind you, all of you are judged. No one dare escape the eyes of the music snob.
Let it be, I say. But what bothers me, is the attitude of certain rockers. They believe they are the be all and the end all of music. They claim people judge them, but actually it’s them judging the world. On the very basis of music. And what do they have in store? Nothing. No back-ups. After all that condescending attitude towards other music lovers, they have nothing to show the world. Not a gig, not an album, not even a performance. And they judge. Well, that’s how they live off music I am guessing. And now a word to all those rockers who play their own music in their little closeted rooms: Nothing can be more selfish than judging others people's choices with you having nothing but your own little room to show for it. And the least the other guy did, was to meet the right people and get his music out, however bad that might be. And yeah, we're leaving music critics out of this.
Yesterday, I had a chance to meet someone special. And that inspired today’s topic. It was a certain mister Gregg Bissonette and my, how he took me from a mere spectator to an interested one, it was simply amazing. The drum clinic was the first that I had ever been to, and when my fiancé dragged me there, I was totally zapped. I am into music, not obessessed, but am more into pop culture. Not the Britney and Paris variety. I have my share of rock in my computers, my share of new bands like Death Cab for cutie, my love for any new sound, which explains the Idan Rachaiel concert I loved, Coldplay and U2 – the eternal favourites and a few popular songs here and there. I don’t necessarily belong to any concentrated music zone or category.
And I know zilch about drumming. I mean the drumming I know is the one you do, when you are waiting outside the women’s loo in my office. Just to pass time with my restless fingers, I drum on the walls. Jokes aside, the Drum Clinic was really informative. Greg was funny, raved about Mapex drums and their superior quality, and even played numbers from The Police. But when he played Dhoom Machale, I was astounded. An all round Drummer with a resume full of Joe Satriani, Santana, Don Henley and Steve Vai actually listened to something from Bollywood. That altered the way I looked at mainstream musicians. Music is all about experimenting. And as he played, I could see a group of well-informed wannabees sitting and joking around crinkling their noses in disgust at the number being played. By well-informed, I mean those who know their western music but are way too proud to acknowledge anything remotely Indian. Music is only rock, weed and a bad ass attitude. Not experimenting. Well, whatever….so that’s where the post ends. I would have loved to smack their faces with a chair, but lets say, I walked away from my own judgement.
I have only one thing to say, may the music world flourish. May more musicians live to spread good music and not judge! And those who think Indian music makes you bawl out, I’m sorry but you’re skin’s as brown as mine and you damn well learn to love what the country has got in store for you. Or go overseas and never complain about not having your mom’s dal rice or butter chicken. Shoo…go away! That said, we’ll leave Himesh Reshammiya to his own fate too. Amen.
P.S I got a signed autograph from Greg who actually fumbled to write my name for a bit, but well, I enjoyed myself thoroughly.
-Blue Roses
Long long ago, in a land infested with musicians, wannabe musicians and music experts, not necessarily in that order, I have had the privilege to meet many Music Snobs. They are proud, effervescent and a little clogged up in the brain. And of course, with the weed that forms a major part of the life in there, the clogging demanded that music meant English music only.
But that apart, music that is to be loved by all, has been subjected to some judgement and scrutiny these days by this category of snobs. So they judge you? On the basis of the music that you listen. If you’re into Iron Maiden. Megadeth – you’re so cool. With all that kajal, that dirty T-shirt which has not been washed since 1914 and an attitude that can give Ozzy a run for the money. And if you’re pink – take your pick of Britney, Christina, Pussy cat dolls…..! If it’s hip-hop you’re into dancing, but you must have the ability to shake your ass well, otherwise you’re just another dumb ho. Or feel free to strip to then, to be accepted into the royal hip-hop sisterhood. Alternative? Others? Mind you, all of you are judged. No one dare escape the eyes of the music snob.
Let it be, I say. But what bothers me, is the attitude of certain rockers. They believe they are the be all and the end all of music. They claim people judge them, but actually it’s them judging the world. On the very basis of music. And what do they have in store? Nothing. No back-ups. After all that condescending attitude towards other music lovers, they have nothing to show the world. Not a gig, not an album, not even a performance. And they judge. Well, that’s how they live off music I am guessing. And now a word to all those rockers who play their own music in their little closeted rooms: Nothing can be more selfish than judging others people's choices with you having nothing but your own little room to show for it. And the least the other guy did, was to meet the right people and get his music out, however bad that might be. And yeah, we're leaving music critics out of this.
Yesterday, I had a chance to meet someone special. And that inspired today’s topic. It was a certain mister Gregg Bissonette and my, how he took me from a mere spectator to an interested one, it was simply amazing. The drum clinic was the first that I had ever been to, and when my fiancé dragged me there, I was totally zapped. I am into music, not obessessed, but am more into pop culture. Not the Britney and Paris variety. I have my share of rock in my computers, my share of new bands like Death Cab for cutie, my love for any new sound, which explains the Idan Rachaiel concert I loved, Coldplay and U2 – the eternal favourites and a few popular songs here and there. I don’t necessarily belong to any concentrated music zone or category.
And I know zilch about drumming. I mean the drumming I know is the one you do, when you are waiting outside the women’s loo in my office. Just to pass time with my restless fingers, I drum on the walls. Jokes aside, the Drum Clinic was really informative. Greg was funny, raved about Mapex drums and their superior quality, and even played numbers from The Police. But when he played Dhoom Machale, I was astounded. An all round Drummer with a resume full of Joe Satriani, Santana, Don Henley and Steve Vai actually listened to something from Bollywood. That altered the way I looked at mainstream musicians. Music is all about experimenting. And as he played, I could see a group of well-informed wannabees sitting and joking around crinkling their noses in disgust at the number being played. By well-informed, I mean those who know their western music but are way too proud to acknowledge anything remotely Indian. Music is only rock, weed and a bad ass attitude. Not experimenting. Well, whatever….so that’s where the post ends. I would have loved to smack their faces with a chair, but lets say, I walked away from my own judgement.
I have only one thing to say, may the music world flourish. May more musicians live to spread good music and not judge! And those who think Indian music makes you bawl out, I’m sorry but you’re skin’s as brown as mine and you damn well learn to love what the country has got in store for you. Or go overseas and never complain about not having your mom’s dal rice or butter chicken. Shoo…go away! That said, we’ll leave Himesh Reshammiya to his own fate too. Amen.
P.S I got a signed autograph from Greg who actually fumbled to write my name for a bit, but well, I enjoyed myself thoroughly.
-Blue Roses
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
What is Spring-Summer? Is it a season? a collection? or a bad bad word?
Mel: What the hell is that?
Cher: A dress.
Mel: Says who?
Cher: Calvin Klein.
-From the movie Clueless
We’ve all met the specimens. Those kinds that snowball your eyes early in the morning when all you want to do is to have your regular sugar-free coffee. More dreaded than a Monday morning meeting, the fashion victims as they are publicly called, are my undoing. They roam around freely causing hallucinations in the next cabin, give fashion advice to poor innocent bystanders on how fluroscent yellow is the next black, make fun of well-dressed clean cuts often interrupting conversations to call them boring, offer to shop for your wardrobes, weddings and funerals and generally spill your blood to the last drop. So much so, that one line on the vintage wear collection they tell you at meal times has you crying out in pain. Repeat after me ten times, “I will not go near a fashion victim…”
In fact every office I know has one, and if your unlucky, two-three. They own the big bucks, ride the latest set of wheels, can hire wardrobe consultants even. But they don’t. They like to think they are clever with ensembles, some go far, stating that they are adventurous even. But at the end of the day, you got to deal with it. The lack of good taste is everywhere. In creative fields and blue-collar jobs. Some can even go mighty wrong with a white shirt. A simple white shirt, I tell you. Leopard prints on sultry afternoons, clutches in bright orange that are teamed with a fuchsia tunic, bright red shoes on bright prints causing a carefully designed chaos and a hell of a lot more wardrobe malfunctions that could call Nipslips, common. Here I give you a profile of the very common fashion prototypes that make our office hours and parties a living hell.
The A-lister victims: I had a boss once who actually wore leopard prints in all their glory to work. Tight pants, in fact too tight for sitting down, forget doing anything else, teamed with a leopard print tunic, shoes, belt, yada yada. But no, the saving grace was a bright orange beaded necklace on those leopard prints. And my eye would pop everytime I hit the door of her room. Now, this jarring ensembled boss would constantly rave about the time she sang at a pub in New York, saw Debbie Harry, moved around with A-listers etc etc that would cause more chaos in our brains. To think she hung out at celeb-infested areas in this outfit, was a bit much to take. But well, she did. Now, that explains a lot about the kind of patience even celebs have.
The paranoid dressers: And yes, there are others, who think they’re cool and chilled out in their dirty jeans and their super filthy t-shirts. Pray why? Because they are not the pink-wearing, high-heel trotting teenage drama queens. Like really? So does that mean all kind of fashion sense flies out of the window for you, only because you wouldn’t want to be named, Miss Hello Kitty. They drink like fish, swim like one and smoke many cigarettes and officially call themselves, the creatives. Well. So you see, the theory of exclusion works here. All those who are not in pink, are banished to the kingdom of filth. I met those when I was working in a company that needed creative inputs, and all you could see is a sea of t-shirts in no more than three basic colours – black and Pantera-Iron Maiden type blacks, white, make that dirty white – the ones that get dog-eared at the sleeves laced with a good amount of dirt, and blues of all shades – from royal blue to navy, excluding the super-duper turquoise. And they wouldnt wear jewellery and make fun of those who do. Well, dirty is the new classy, they think.
The try-hard wardrobes: So, they watch a lot of TV. A lot more than any normal person can handle. And they want to be like Ayesha Takia and Bipasha Basu. Well, it’s good as long as they wish, but no, they can’t afford Rocky S but have to look like their idols. So what do they do? Some flea-market shopping and some Mall cocktail later, we see shredded skirts, and ribbon-cutted/ribbed blouses along with jangly earrings on a size Extra Large body and we hope we ran the 1000 km marathon than come to work. And not to forget the perfect body mass index that died a slow violent death in this bargain.
The vintage valley: what do you do with your aunts old tablecloth? Stitch a pretty blouse and team it with contemporary eyelet voile blouses and accessories. But the killer? The patchwork effect that keeps everyone around you distracted. Or perhaps, your moms vintage gold earrings in that jarring goldy hue that have nothing to do with your decent Westside top….and the list goes on and on.
The confused party: If only intentions are actions. These victims try to look good, I swear, but they fail. And we don’t want to tell them, for fear they would lay themselves on the rails the next moment over a miserable failure like not teaming their Mango sheer with neutrals. They try and try, and make our eyes give up on the world. So, to make matters lighter, we laugh, and hope to god, the mirror talks to them.
The Harajuku clan: Last season’s Prada has nothing to do with them. They are the latest from the ramps. Louis Vuitton, Lanvin, Miu Miu..you name it and they have it. And what they don’t have is the ability to pick the right thing from a good collection. They always end up paying more and gaining less and less fashion dues. They even try out Harajuku style in Khar, Mumbai and wonder why there isn’t any applause. Of course, fall/winter is over, but spring-summer they choose is disastrous that we hope its winter all over again. Mismatched accessories, big labels and a potpourri of brands – that’s a fashion mess we don’t want to watch.
So yeah, that’s how it all is. Someone said, show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are. Thank God, they didn’t think of colleagues. So, yes, behenjis who dress up in Dior can take a hike, I want my sore eyes to rest for a bit.
-Blue Roses
Cher: A dress.
Mel: Says who?
Cher: Calvin Klein.
-From the movie Clueless
We’ve all met the specimens. Those kinds that snowball your eyes early in the morning when all you want to do is to have your regular sugar-free coffee. More dreaded than a Monday morning meeting, the fashion victims as they are publicly called, are my undoing. They roam around freely causing hallucinations in the next cabin, give fashion advice to poor innocent bystanders on how fluroscent yellow is the next black, make fun of well-dressed clean cuts often interrupting conversations to call them boring, offer to shop for your wardrobes, weddings and funerals and generally spill your blood to the last drop. So much so, that one line on the vintage wear collection they tell you at meal times has you crying out in pain. Repeat after me ten times, “I will not go near a fashion victim…”
In fact every office I know has one, and if your unlucky, two-three. They own the big bucks, ride the latest set of wheels, can hire wardrobe consultants even. But they don’t. They like to think they are clever with ensembles, some go far, stating that they are adventurous even. But at the end of the day, you got to deal with it. The lack of good taste is everywhere. In creative fields and blue-collar jobs. Some can even go mighty wrong with a white shirt. A simple white shirt, I tell you. Leopard prints on sultry afternoons, clutches in bright orange that are teamed with a fuchsia tunic, bright red shoes on bright prints causing a carefully designed chaos and a hell of a lot more wardrobe malfunctions that could call Nipslips, common. Here I give you a profile of the very common fashion prototypes that make our office hours and parties a living hell.
The A-lister victims: I had a boss once who actually wore leopard prints in all their glory to work. Tight pants, in fact too tight for sitting down, forget doing anything else, teamed with a leopard print tunic, shoes, belt, yada yada. But no, the saving grace was a bright orange beaded necklace on those leopard prints. And my eye would pop everytime I hit the door of her room. Now, this jarring ensembled boss would constantly rave about the time she sang at a pub in New York, saw Debbie Harry, moved around with A-listers etc etc that would cause more chaos in our brains. To think she hung out at celeb-infested areas in this outfit, was a bit much to take. But well, she did. Now, that explains a lot about the kind of patience even celebs have.
The paranoid dressers: And yes, there are others, who think they’re cool and chilled out in their dirty jeans and their super filthy t-shirts. Pray why? Because they are not the pink-wearing, high-heel trotting teenage drama queens. Like really? So does that mean all kind of fashion sense flies out of the window for you, only because you wouldn’t want to be named, Miss Hello Kitty. They drink like fish, swim like one and smoke many cigarettes and officially call themselves, the creatives. Well. So you see, the theory of exclusion works here. All those who are not in pink, are banished to the kingdom of filth. I met those when I was working in a company that needed creative inputs, and all you could see is a sea of t-shirts in no more than three basic colours – black and Pantera-Iron Maiden type blacks, white, make that dirty white – the ones that get dog-eared at the sleeves laced with a good amount of dirt, and blues of all shades – from royal blue to navy, excluding the super-duper turquoise. And they wouldnt wear jewellery and make fun of those who do. Well, dirty is the new classy, they think.
The try-hard wardrobes: So, they watch a lot of TV. A lot more than any normal person can handle. And they want to be like Ayesha Takia and Bipasha Basu. Well, it’s good as long as they wish, but no, they can’t afford Rocky S but have to look like their idols. So what do they do? Some flea-market shopping and some Mall cocktail later, we see shredded skirts, and ribbon-cutted/ribbed blouses along with jangly earrings on a size Extra Large body and we hope we ran the 1000 km marathon than come to work. And not to forget the perfect body mass index that died a slow violent death in this bargain.
The vintage valley: what do you do with your aunts old tablecloth? Stitch a pretty blouse and team it with contemporary eyelet voile blouses and accessories. But the killer? The patchwork effect that keeps everyone around you distracted. Or perhaps, your moms vintage gold earrings in that jarring goldy hue that have nothing to do with your decent Westside top….and the list goes on and on.
The confused party: If only intentions are actions. These victims try to look good, I swear, but they fail. And we don’t want to tell them, for fear they would lay themselves on the rails the next moment over a miserable failure like not teaming their Mango sheer with neutrals. They try and try, and make our eyes give up on the world. So, to make matters lighter, we laugh, and hope to god, the mirror talks to them.
The Harajuku clan: Last season’s Prada has nothing to do with them. They are the latest from the ramps. Louis Vuitton, Lanvin, Miu Miu..you name it and they have it. And what they don’t have is the ability to pick the right thing from a good collection. They always end up paying more and gaining less and less fashion dues. They even try out Harajuku style in Khar, Mumbai and wonder why there isn’t any applause. Of course, fall/winter is over, but spring-summer they choose is disastrous that we hope its winter all over again. Mismatched accessories, big labels and a potpourri of brands – that’s a fashion mess we don’t want to watch.
So yeah, that’s how it all is. Someone said, show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are. Thank God, they didn’t think of colleagues. So, yes, behenjis who dress up in Dior can take a hike, I want my sore eyes to rest for a bit.
-Blue Roses
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