Thursday, April 15, 2010

Fatso:Your Possible Pasts

Your Possible Pasts
-------------------
Fat Henry asked me one night,"were you fat as a kid?".

Now Fat Henry was just like his name suggested...three feet wide and four feet tall. A hairless obese hobbit.

Fat Henry's claim to fame was that a few years ago he had won second place in a costume ball dressed as an infant in diapers suckling onto a very large milk bottle.(a beer bottle with a rubber teat over it's mouth)
Most judges had agreed that he looked like a bonny baby.
                                         
                             A freakishly scary thirty year old bonny baby.


          But the  first place went to a man who was dressed as a half man-half woman.
He won partly because of his effort and attention to detail,that is, most of it was real- on the woman's side the long hair was real and on the man's side the moustache was real, (and Fat Henry claims that the breast on the woman's side was realistically soft and bouncy- something Fat Henry discovered when he was being breast fed by this hermaphrodite),and partly because he looked really pretty as a woman and really handsome as a man, which had an eerily disconcerting effect on most of the people who apart from not having seen a woman for quite a few months, were also in various states of inebriation.

To one Indian officer, the faux hermaphrodite looked like Ardhanareeshwara, the Indian god who is half man-half woman.


Was I fat as a kid? Fat Henry wanted to know.
This was an exciting prospect for me- a chance to recreate my past, and possibly help someone make the right choice.

Sure! Why not!

Just like how my current girlfriend is a Maxim supermodel,I as a kid, was grossly overweight.
I weighed 100 kilos, and looked like a vertical zeppelin.Only I didn't float.I lumbered.
But when I turned eighteen I had a mild heart attack, which left me worried about the direction in which I was going with my health.

I made a firm decision about gaining control over my health issues.This was the time I joined my training for merchant navy.
It was training where my total transformation took place.
                   All the trainees had to undergo a brutal regimen of hardships and studies all day, everyday in the training camp.Most trainers were ex-navy personnel who were the majority stock holders for your ass.
Yes...they made it clear on the first day - Your ass belonged to them.They had the majority of stocks.

Five miles of jogging at five in the morning followed by calisthenics and a half hour of marching under the sun.
The food supplies were meagre, there were no snacks available anywhere in the vicinity, and one wasn't allowed to keep contraband food items in his cabin.
                     I dropped 30 kilos like a sack of greased hot potato bricks- yeah, that quick! 
(Somebody call the Metaphor Police.There's a guy run amok with his metaphors here)

And when I joined the ship, I worked on an old rust bucket (whose name I'm not privileged to disclose), and the living and work conditions were so brutal that I lost 20 more kilos- but this time it was slow and brutally painful- like trying to disembowel a sumo with a wooden spoon- and no fun either(unless you happen to be a chubby chaser & a serial killer who likes sumos).

Once I lost my weight, I promised myself that I'd never gain it back.
I learnt all about healthy eating and healthy living and exercise...and experimented with all the knowledge I had accumulated over the years.
I still do.

And now, people no longer remember the old me...it's as if the fat old version of me never existed...And I no longer associate myself with my past or its crippling effects on my health and self-esteem.

Hallelujah ! I'm healed!

So , to sum it all up, I said to Fat Henry; If a lard bucket like me can lose weight, anyone can lose weight, implying that he too could lose weight, if one has the drive, and the zeal (and brutally harsh conditions that force you) to lose weight.

That story was my DC Elseworlds, one of all my possible pasts...some that have existed or might have existed, and others that can't, or couldn't or shouldn't...this is one of those stories...


By the way, How did you come to the conclusion that I was a fat kid? I asked Fat Henry.
Oh, that's easy...you get folds of skin that bunch up when you bend your neck.

Fatso : The day I got called a Fatso!

Fatso
-----
What's your BMI? asks dad urgently.
Why,I ask.
Son,dad advises me over the telephone,it's time you lost some weight,now that you've become fat!
 
But dad!,you haven't even seen me for the last eight months! How can you possibly know that I'm fat...does my voice sound thick over the telephone? Are my words too heavy? Does it weigh heavily on your mind when you think about me? 
Huh? 
Huh?

Well...I heard people talk...

Dad,Dad...I'm 176 cm tall and weigh 68 kilos.Now You calculate my BMI!

Son, denial is not just a river in egypt...it's natural for the mind to refuse to acknowledge reality,
particularly if it so distasteful as obesity.The first step is to accept that you have a problem.

No,No! I'm not fat...end of discussion.

Ok(sighs)...Just be careful with what you eat and exercise once in a while or so...we're going to have a serious discussion on this when you come back.
Bye (click)

Was it true? Am I in denial?
Had I become a Fatso?

Fatso! FATSO! fatso! FATso! fatSO! fATso! FatSO!

Fatso: Fat Men Weigh Less!

Fat Men Weigh Less
------------------
In a twist to the classic Milgram experiments which studied the concept of ethics and morality, researchers devised two hypothetical situations.

The subjects had to choose between letting a bunch of people on a rollercoaster plunge to their deaths or pull a lever and divert the rollercoaster onto another track and save their lives,but at the expense of a person who was tied to these set of tracks.

After much deliberation and hesitation,people of different ages and diverse backgrounds repeatedly chose the lesser of the two evils and saved the bunch of  people on the rollercoaster by pulling the lever and diverting the rollercoaster to safety and thereby killing the man who was tied to the tracks.

The scenarios were repeated with different parameters:criminals on the rollercoaster;nuns on the track,your loved ones on the track, your neighbours on the rollercoaster etc.
But for the purposes of this essay,I'd like to highlight what the researchers found about ethics, morality in relation to bodyweight.

Whenever there was an obese person tied to the tracks,people were far less hesitant, far less reluctant to take the decision to kill him (i.e save the people on the rollercoaster),than when there was a person of normal bodyweight.
One can draw the conclusion that fat men did not carry the same value as normal men.
Fat men did not weigh heavily in the minds of the people who pulled the lever.

Ironically one weighs less on the mind when he is fat.
Or to propound our premise ; Fat Men Weigh Less!

Fatso : Girly Jokes

Girly Jokes
------------

The jokes that men laugh at and women laugh at are in many ways different.

Some jokes won't work with either men or women,like "It was so funny, that it wasn't even funny"

(BOOOOOO!)

Here's a joke that's guaranteed to make women laugh...

It's all in the delivery...say it in a serious 'Believe It or Not' frame of mind.

Say "I can get any girl I want"

See her go Bwahahahahaha!
She'll thank you later for the best laugh she's had in a long time.

Obviously it will not work if it is true...So if you are a serial seducer,a superstar,rockstar,celebrity of any degree,or a natural chick magnet -DONT USE THIS.

But since you are here, reading this, you probably aren't any of those.
So feel free to use this joke.

But in any case, follow the basic rule of thumb "Don't spoil the joke for the sake of the punchline"

That is, naturally occuring jokes in a conversation don't need a punchline or over the top theatrics.

You'll get it when you get it.
Until then, patience my young grasshopper!

Here's another.

I'm a picky eater.I get called out a lot for being so.

So what do I do?

'Hey, why aren't you eating?'

'I'm on a diet.
I'm trying to lose weight...
see how fat my ass has become!'


The delivery is deadpan serious.

But she already knows I'm joking.

But this is a very girly joke...in the sense I wouldn't get caught dead trying this if a guy asks it.
But guys don't care if you eat or not...and if they do,they rarely ask.
They go'Hmm ...must not like biryani or something'

Finally ALWAYS REMEMBER,follow the basic rule of thumb
"Don't spoil the joke for the sake of the punchline"

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

It's Not About You! (An experiment in song writing)

It's not about you-Jazz Version (Sung in the tune of 'Is that All there is?)
------------------
It was a long time ago that he first saw her.
She was eight.
And it was late in the afternoon.The shadows were long and the breezes were warm.
He saw many grownups, but all from the waist down.
They were that big and he was that small.
But there she was, in front of him, eye to eye, and he just ran away.
She was in tears.
His dad said to her,'It's not about you my dear, he's just shy'.

It's not about you
It's not about you
But if you think it is true 
Then let's keep on fightin,
Let's throw hurtin' words all around,till truth be found, it's not you...


Then she left, never to come back again.And the ten year old boy forgot all about her.He soon got busy playing cops and robbers and catchin' tadpoles.And for the next few years, it was as if she did not exist at all for him,and he for her.
All those years growing up...It's not about you, my dear, he did it to himself.

It's not about you
It's not about you
But if you think it is true
Then let's keep  fightin,
Let's throw hurtin' words all around,till truth be found, it's not you...

Then fate met them when he was troubled by growth spurts,pimples and puberty.
At the height of immaturity,in a sea of strangers there she was again,an island of beauty, an oasis of sanity, and she tried to talk to him.
He went mute, sometimes he stuttered,looked at the floor and babbled.He shook his head hot in shame and locked himself up in the bathroom.
I remember his mom telling her, 'It's not you my dear,he's never seen a real girl before'.

It's not about you
It's not about you
But if you think if it is true
Then let's keep  fightin,
Let's throw hurtin' words all around,till truth be found, it's not you...

But she had other plans it seems.
Although she didn't have fate on her side, patience was her best friend.
She opened him up gently.
She made an omlette without breaking the egg.
All she got in return was a lovesick puppy,slobbering all over & barely housebroken.Men fall in and out of love quickly, but for him it took almost a lifetime.
It's not about you my dear,but no one had ever shown any interest in him before.

It's not about you
It's not about you
But if you think it is true
Then let's keep fightin,
Let's throw hurtin' words all around,till truth be found, it's not you...

BUt when you don't understand the nature of love, it sours quickly often.It turns into intolerable cruelty.
Mistakes were made.
Accusations flew.
False stories grew like weeds.
What followed was a muted thunderclap that no one understood.The deafening silence hurt them both.
It was clear that he was angry.But at whom? 
It's not about you my dear, he was angry at himself.

It's not about you
It's not about you
But if you think it is true
Then lets keep on fightin,
Let's throw hurtin' words all around,till truth be found, it's not you...

BUt soon he realised all the lies he'd been telling himself.Even his anger was fueled by pettiness and lofty expectations.
He tried to fall out of love.He tried to hate, but failed.
It took a lifetime to fall in love.How could one fall out of it in mere days?
The more important question was...Now what?
How can he forgive himself and forget?
It's not about you my dear,he has yet to learn about forgiving himself.

It's not about you
It's not about you
But if you think it is true 
Then lets keep fightin,
Let's throw hurtin' words all around,till truth be found, it's not you...it's me.



The Songwriter's Bible (Yours for $24.99 only) says that the more personal the pain, the more universal the story and that Art is an imitation of life and not the other way around.

It's Not About You! (Pop Version)

It's Not About You (Pop Version)
------------------

Verse 1
E                     A
It's not about you,baby its true
E                     A
not about you , everything-all about you
D                                 E
but for all that you know, it might be all true

Chorus
F#m
But  my baby...(sugah baby)
D
My sweet baby (sugah baby)
E                        A
I still maintain that...(I still maintain that)
E         A           C   D    E
It's not about...you-ooo-hooo-hooo

And Sometimes I rue,for chewin' you up
for hurtin you bad,but I see tears they fall and
they be hurtin' me too, its true, (so true)

Verse 2
I don't mean to cruel and
I don't take you for a fool,
I'm just a tool tryin' to be cool,(such a fool,such a fool)

Chorus
But  my baby...
My sweet baby
I still maintain that...
It's not about...you-ooo-hooo-hooo

Verse 3
Baby don't you know its true
that whenever I'm so blue,(so blue)
that all I think is'bout you (its true)


Bridge
I keep lyin' bout me and you
but I ain't fool-ing anyone any-more
least of all me myself,coz 
every-one knows that you're the one for-me-ee-ee-ee

Chorus
But  my baby...
My sweet baby
I still maintain that...
It's not about...you-ooo-hoo-hoo

Outro
Yeah baby,my sweet baby,It's not about You-ooooooooo-hooo-hooooooo...(repeat and fade out)



(Will the real boy band please stand up, please stand up?
All right y'all, I've gotta brand new-spankin-cool-hip-wicked-suu-weeeet-rockin'-kickass-jazzy-totally screwed up-awesomely amazing-dopey-da real shit-genuine imitation leather-20% extra-offer valid till stocks last-da bomb-teeny-bopper-snap-crackle-pop song for you.

Sung with the right music synthesizer and a good voice modulator, you'll have underaged girls throwing their undergarments at you in no time.
Don't blame me if you're blinded by their dental retainers.

All I need is a decent music composer (in the music industry they are commonly referred to as music collaborators) and a hefty royalty check.On second thought, I'd rather have a percentage of the profits.I'm that sure that it will be a hit song.Maybe even Billboard Top 250!

And after that I'll retire to obscurity, forever known in the annals of history as a 'One hit wonder' 
Amen)

p.s. Why does 'Annals of History' sound so dirty ?
     Sounds like they were written on toilet paper.

Friday, April 9, 2010

On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl

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One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku
neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her
clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep.
She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly
speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me.
The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a
desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or
big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their
time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant
I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of
her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type.
Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can
remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or
the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell
her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate
that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April
morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an
antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a
hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little
conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the
neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to
buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for
me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry,
she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for
me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces.
I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all
about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt
is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a
white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a
stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to
judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's
ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long
speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up
with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you
think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl

sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They
were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they
believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100%
perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And
that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe
this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured
you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour.
They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect
other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other.
It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts:
Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the
girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers,
then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens,
and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do
you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never
have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers,
and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know
this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them
unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza,
and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier
years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's
piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their
unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that
qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they
became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to
another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office.
Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85%
love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was
walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was
walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku
neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The
faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their
hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the
clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing
into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.