Thursday, October 04, 2007

JUST THE CUSTOMARY FIRST DAY AT THE NEW JOB POST

Now, I cannot stop hating myself for having ignored the joys of house music for these past years. I want to kick myself for watching three thousand zombied bodies jump in unison, two years ago, to the hooks and whims of a certain god that goes by the name Sasha, and yawning. Of course, I have made up for the lost time, by jumping to all that trance, anywhere and everywhere, so much so that I am no longer allowed to sit in the front seat by my Sony Xplod owning friends, for the fear of being subjected to the sounds of San Francisco unto death. So, this dead bureaucratic city, that insists on sending cops and prematurely interrupting my jumping session, has defeated self-righteous moral guardians, vis-a-vis five star hotels, who have a license to kill, entertain intoxicated souls and feed the Hilton off springs. Sometimes, I wish anxious parents, burly cops, and horny men realised, its not the vulgar, south Delhi spoilt brat syndrome, but simply, a bunch of neurons finally bursting through a blast of colours, moving the body along to an intensely gratifying stimuli, called music. Oh yea, the post, well television is the next pit-stop, and the horrors of journalism shall never be re-visited. Of course, mixed emotions are being experienced at the new place, liquid spewed by nine different buttons on the coffee machine are being sampled, smoke breaks in solitary company are being lamented, and driving all the way to Gurgaon has increased my carbon footprint to a staggering 57 tons per year. Still, it has the making of an electrifying new script, till this girl decides to move on to the next big thing. Of course, by twenty-five, I would have run out of every known form of mass media, given that only advertising remains to be tasted and Bollywood still does not qualify as an industry in the girl's eyes. So, awaited roles include an ad hoc college instructor, assistant to a counsellor, song-writer sporting the pseudonym Maxlet, Italian chef, hair stylist, unwed mother shunned by the society, or the boho who gets to switch on the applause sign. Oh, and be sure to wear some flowers in your hair, if you go to San Francisco.