Kallu shoppu!

Mallus have a predisposition towards alcohol. I can't tell what it is about the race that makes them make a beeline for the 'kallu shop', come 6 o clock. Combine that with the genetic predisposition towards humour and tragedy, and you have a heady cocktail that makes you want to laugh and cry.

Take for example, local arrack. Made with dates, battery acid, watered down poison and probably even a biological waste, this deadly dram packs a punch. Often enough to send you straight to your maker or at best, leave you blind.

But in the spirit of Mallu humour, the locals have given them names. Not lukewarm stuff like 'Narangi' (Orange), or Godfather like the country liquor you find up north. These are named with tongues firmly planted in the cheek. Here are a few examples, with the translation. Judge for yourself:

Madal Chari (Lean against the wall): You'll need a wall to prop you up after one drink
Manavati (Bride): You'll be shy and quiet after one drink
Poste Keri (Climb up the post): You'll feel like you've climbed up a lamp post after one drink
Pulla Nakki (Lick Grass) You'll be on the ground licking the grass after one drink
Jet Airways: It's difficult to get down after one drink

and the one that takes the cake

Yesh Christu (Jesus Christ): You'll only wake up after three days

The Itchy and Scratchy Show

My baby

That's my darling Sophie. Sophie with white socks on all four feet. Sophie with the perfect diamond on her back. Sophie of the 'wow wow wow' song. Sophie of the kidneybean dance(You have to own a Boxer to get that one). Sigh! I miss her so.

Presenting the Panipuri Principle

The Panipuri principle states that "The second plate of Panipuri is never as tasty as the first".

This principle actually extends to everything in life but I call it that because the realization came to me when I was on my second plate of Panipuri.

Hum Log

I wish love was like Doordarshan. The old Doordarshan.

Back when you had to wake up early to see the colour bars beeping at you on the cathode tube which took a minute to come on. And then sit through a lifetime of silence, only to see the the 'Vertigo'-inspired opening sequence logo, morph into the Doordarshan logo, come to whet your appetite for the drama that was scheduled, loosely, to unfold on the colour TV.

You had to sit through 'Guru Sachi Bani' to get to the good stuff. Like 'Jamie and the magic torch' and 'He-man' (Admit it, you drooled over Teela's tits, didn't you?). Just to get to the 'Mickey and Donald Show' and the crowning glory "Spiderman". And then, in the evening, you came home from play early enough to see the credits of 'Krishi Drashan' and watch the 'Nirma' commercials before the 'Feature Film' began.

Back when you made do with the only one channel you had. Back when you climbed terraces and braved vertigo to turn the Ariel a quarter inch so the reception was less snowy. Back when the whole family was nothing but a relay for 'Not yet' turn it clockwise' or 'STOP STOP! Awww! Go back it was better a second ago'.

Back when, like your folks, you made do with one. Partner or channel. For better or for worse.

Now you've got a remote-full of channels. One to satisfy every whim. There's one for every religion and sexual inclination. Two for every musical choice. Three for every language and four movie channels shovelling every sort of international drivel into your home.

Love's like than now too. With a number of women you can flick through without feeling that commitment towards. Just press the 'Next' button to let the new one through.

But think about it.

With all this choice, do you really have a choice?

Dead Beat

I think we spend the first 28 years of our lives collecting ghosts, only to lay them to rest in the latter half. You collect experiences that when re-lived turn out to be duds. And that thing you once held sacred, dies a mortal death, coughing its last breath in your head.

Take for instance Kovalam. I first came to kovalam when I was 24, out of work and directionless. I had just chucked two lucrative careers, one as a Manangement guy and another as a Software Engineer because it didn't do anything to me. I was broke and knew only this that I didn't want to see the new century dawn in Delhi, where I lived. So me and another equally directionless friend decided to watch the year 2000 dawn in Kovalam. I don't recall why we chose the place but we did. So I freelanced and wrote a script for a Management Institute, shot it, pocketed the 10k and pushed for Kovalam in the December of 1999.

It was a scene right out of a dream. A lighthouse completed the picture with its presence at the end of a pristine, crescent shaped beach. The shacks were lean-tos put together by tying logs of wood together with a thatched roof of plaited palm leaves. There was always fresh seafood and Rum with fresh coconut water.

I had the time of my life. Went snorkeling, boogie boarding, lay about in the sun doing nothing. I found love and lust in the arms of an older woman. In just 4 weeks, I became a beach bum, surfer, gigolo, artist, photographer and writer. I found my calling in this land with no calling.

I went back last year. After I quit my post at Grey. It had a concrete walkway. The shacks sported brick walls. The water was dirty. You could get a Fillet Mignon in one of the shacks. It was a disaster. I buried Kovalam in my head that night.

And now Aerosmith.

I first heard Aerosmith when a friend bought the album 'Pump'. Back when I was in school. 'Love in an elevator' and 'Janie's got a gun' made it to the top of my charts the moment I heard them. Then came 'Get a Grip'. I loved it so much, I begged my uncle in the US to send me an original Geffen tape, along with the Peart Jam '10'. I knew every song by heart. The foreign tapes even had lyrics in the covers. I covered them with scotch tape and pasted them up on my wall. The intro to 'Eat the rich', I even now consider unparalleled. This album cover the gamut of emotions i traversed in my college years. 'Crying', 'Crazy' and 'Amazing' were my best friends.

So with much expectations I went to see them perform, just last week in Bangalore.

I was left cold. This was the first time I left a concert with my voice intact.

I buried Aerosmith in my head that night.

The SWAT team

They’re in all the shops. Even the corner provision store has it. The malls are stocking it like it’s the hottest thing since sliced bread. You can’t cross a traffic light without setting eyes on someone selling it to people in cars. I walked into a friend’s house and was accosted by one lying on the table. Why do people want to buy it? I don’t understand.

You can buy an ‘All-Out’ or a ‘Good-Night’ mosquito repelling machine for 120 Rs. And these things can work all night, night after night for over 60 days, keeping the swarms at bay.

Then why should someone spend 75 Rs. and buy an electric mosquito swatter? These Chinese made, electric swatters look like badminton racquets and carry enough electricity in the mesh to instantly fry any insect to a crisp. Swipe it at a healthy mosquito, and with a loud snap, it’s a late mosquito. Just like that.

If it was efficient mosquito extermination you wanted, this surely isn’t what you would buy. Imagine the time and energy you’ll have to spend chasing down every mosquito in the house.

I believe people buy it only for the perverse pleasure of watching the mosquitoes fry. Like playing god to a world of smaller creatures, you decide which one shall escape and which shall perish. One friend I asked claimed it was “therapeutic, like bursting bubble-wrap”.

Really? Then why stop at mosquitoes? Move on to squirrels. And with a larger surface area to inflict pain upon, you should feel even more relaxed when you’re done torturing it.

Friend flinches. But I plod on. “Why not rabbits? And after you’re done torturing it, it’ll even make a good dish.”

I went home perplexed. It’s ok to zap insects and ants and mosquitoes but things higher up in the order are taboo? So guilt about killing a being is directly proportionate to the size of the creature? You’ll stomp an ant and swat a fly in a heartbeat, whack a rat with a hint of hesitation, think a little before kicking a dog, avoid having to bludgeon a monkey and say no to shooting a tiger?

Seems rather cockeyed to me.

Hmm! How much did you say they cost?

Counter-feat

Last weekend, I had installed a stat counter on my blog. This nifty little piece of code helps me keep a track of the number of people reading my blog.

The maximum number of comments I’ve ever had to a post is 6. And that too since a friend linked her blog to mine. So imagine my surprise when the counter tells me that since last week, 197 people have visited my blog. Damn! And I thought I was as alone out here as Jonah in the Whale’s stomach.

And though I’m elated, something doesn’t quite add up. 197 visitors and just 1 comment? That is really appalling.

Why do these voyeurs not leave even a vowel behind as a sign of their visit?

Most movies have the often hackneyed scene where a parent walks into a child’s room at night and upon seeing the child asleep, gazes at him/her with adoration and then tiptoes out after either planting a kiss on the sleeping body, or covering it with a sheet that’s been flung aside.

My ego will love to believe that this is the case here too.

But I’m not an angel by any stretch of the imagination. And considering the nature of my posts, it’ll be more like walking into my room and silently watching me play with myself. A very unsettling experience, to say the least.

No wonder I don’t get any comments.

Culture Vulture

This is a short story I began writing but I didn't know how to finish it until a very dear friend told me I'd already finished. Thank you Karan Manveer Singh. You're the coolest. Bro! Rock on.

Carry on Carrion!

A Vulture sat with a bad taste in his mouth. He’d picked it up from a dead buffalo down at the slaughterhouse. The thought must have troubled the buffalo for quite a while for it to have permeated through to its liver. For it was the liver that the Vulture had feasted on for Brunch.

Buffalos are anyway given to long periods of contemplation. They’ll chance upon a newly grown thought and then chew on it for an eternity. That’s why they are considered the thinkers of the four-legged kingdom.

And since the languages of flyers differ from that of non-fliers, the Vulture was only able to make out that the thought was a bad one. And it was beginning to give him a stomach ache. He sauntered over to his best friend who was sitting on the top branch, eyeing the discarded eyes of a calf.

“What do you do about a bad taste in your mouth?” asked the first Vulture to his friend. “You neutralize it with a good one. Everybody knows that” replied his friend. “Serves you right for eating liver anyway.” You should leave it for the thick-skinned Pariah Kites. Us sensitive kinds must lay off the violent victuals. Didn’t your parents teach you that?”

“The guts of the cat
The udders of the cow
The spleen of the thing
That goes ‘Bow Bow’

The gizzard of the lizard
The camel’s hump
The nuts of the squirrel
These all shall you dump

The buffalo’s liver
Is a strict no no
As are the heart of a man
And a monkey’s toe.”

Don’t you remember?” said his friend launching into the famous violent-victuals lecture.

“We have been eaters of dead animals for millions of years, unlike the Kites who began just a few thousand years ago. We’ve developed very sensitive taste-buds. That is why the elders have listed down the things we should eat and those we shouldn’t. Junk thoughts can kill you. You must be more careful in future.”

“But we used to eat every part of the animals earlier” said the Vulture “We never cared about the carrion’s delicate parts.”

“Those were better times” said his friend. “The animals mostly died of natural causes. Not the violent deaths common today. It’s difficult to know how a body died nowadays. And by the time you find out, it’s often too late. Look at ‘Suicide Sam’. He flies at those iron birds every time they come screeching down. Just because he ate the heart of a human who jumped off a cliff. These are dangerous times. And if we want carry on eating carrion, we’ll have to learn to adapt.”

“But I’ve been nibbling the so-called violent victuals every once in a while” Said the Vulture. “It gives an interesting layer to lunch. I’d grown used to it. A dash of despair and a glob of greed goes down very well with a meal sometimes. It’s just this particular buffalo that seems to be troubling me. I can’t seem to put my beak on the emotion.”

“I’d stay away from them if I were you” said his friend before he launched his large ungainly frame down towards the eyes he had been eyeing.

But the Vulture could now feel the effects of the buffalo’s thoughts wearing off. And there came upon his person, the urge to feel that exotic thought again. It had begun with a tingling in his tongue and had run down his rather long neck until it had covered his entire body. The texture of the thought had been close to that of greed, without the taste of adipose. It also had the lingering flavour of longing without the bitter-sweet undercurrent of love.

Without a pause, he flew back to the slaughterhouse.

Beat this

A poem by Gregory Corso, one of the writers of the Beat Generation. I list this poem among the foremost in my list of 100 best poems. Also, you just have to love a generation that made blue jeans cool and spawned the likes of Kerouac and Ginsberg. Or did they spawn the generation?

The Whole Mess... Almost

I ran up six flights of stairs
to my small furnished room
opened the window
and began throwing out
those things most important in life

First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink;
"Don't! I'll tell awful things about you!"
"Oh yeah? Well, I've nothing to hide... OUT!"
Then went God, glowering and whimpering in amazement:
"It's not my fault! I'm not the cause of it all!" "OUT!"
Then Love, cooing bribes: "You'll never know impotency!
All the girls of Vogue covers, all yours!"
I pushed her fat ass out and screamed:
"You always end up a bummer!"
I picked up Faith Hope Charity
all three clinging together:
"Without us you'll surely die!"
"With you I'm going nuts! Goodbye!"

Then Beauty...ah, Beauty-
As I led her to the window
I told her: "You I loved best in life
...but you're a killer; Beauty kills!"
Not really meaning to drop her
I immediately ran downstairs
getting there just in time to catch her
"You saved me!" she cried
I put her down and told her: "Move on."

Went back up those six flights
went to the money
there was no money to throw out
The only thing left in the room was Death
hiding behind the kitchen sink:
"I'm not real!" It cried
"I'm just a rumour spread by life..."
Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all
and suddenly realized Humour
was all that was left-
All I could do with Humour was to say:
"Out the window with the window!"

Heaven and Hell

A quote I came up with last night. Forgive me if it sounds corny but I love playing with words.

"Heaven is where the right are left alone. And Hell where the ones left are set right"

Hmmm! I don't know what I think of this one. Slept over it and in the morning didn't feel too bad about it. Comments and suggestions are welcome.

I R connoisseur

If I’m given a book, any book, written by one of my favorite writers without a cover, I should, in eight out of ten tries, guess the author. The knack to doing this lies in knowing the writer and his style. If you depend on the story line or the plot, you might be led astray. For all writers take a break from their genre every once in a while.

You have to delve into the sentences. For it is here that the fabric of the writer’s style is woven. First you spot one use of a term or phrase that seems to ring a bell, albeit faint. Then as you move along, the sentences unravel to give you clues to his unique writing style. And soon, a paragraph or a page later, it strikes you.

I love architecture, though I know nothing about it. But like a good artist, and here I use the term liberally, I can tell a monstrosity from a work of art. No matter what the medium.

I passed one not 15 minutes ago. Driving down the Vidhan Saudha road, at the crossing I beheld what looked like a series of tall periscopes towering over the surrounding landscape. The traffic light let me dally enough to assess the building. Made with concrete slabs, this series of seemingly different periscopes, on closer inspection, turned out to be one building. I marvelled at the fragmented windows that covered the front façade of the building. I was taken in by the almost careless way the concrete slabs came together.

Corbusier came to mind. The series of windows, seamlessly guided the eye to the top of the building without giving away the point of union between two floors.

But this building had none of the socialistic trimmings that Corbusier reveals in his buildings. It had a more somber, almost evolved feel. Like a Corbusier who had realized the frivolity of frills, and left the soul intact.

Corbusier ruled out, I looked to see if it was a wannabe. There are buildings I have seen in Chandigarh that have been made post Corbusier, aping his style. And very badly, may I add. They seem to have skirted the little bursts of genius that Corbusier added to the otherwise somber ensemble that his buildings make.

Consequently, though you can’t find anything fundamentally wrong with the building, you refuse to find anything right with it either.

This building, on close scrutiny, divulged no ugly secrets. It was well thought of. And well executed. It seemed the making of another mind altogether. But in my head, I fancied they were bound by ideology.

And So I headed to the office on a Saturday to research this genius. I struck gold on the 5th Google. Charles Correa, one of India’s greatest architects. And someone who’s work I marveled at every week when I visited the British Council Library in Delhi.

And so while I write this post, my chest swells with pride. Knowing that I spotted a work of art hidden among other concrete monstrosities. Like a true connoisseur. And each time I pass it, I will wink at it and smile. Secure in the knowledge that I at least, know it’s true worth.

Write for your life

The words have been swirling around in my head for some time now. But refuse to get flushed down into my bloodstream. Refuse to find their way to my fingertips and spill over onto this blog. They're probably clogging up somehwere.

I can feel an alliteration arrested near an artery. An idiom idling in my adam's apple. And if I hold my breath, I can hear my heart steadily thumping out an SOS. "WRITE" it says. "Write for your life".

What else is a writer's worth but a few well chosen words strung together with a string of logic to keep them from falling off? If that be the truth, and currency the measure, I would have to declare myself bankrupt.

And so, like a person who's just seen his cholesterol test report, I step out gingerly to jog my self back to a more acceptable shape. As a wordsmith.

I have been writing. But meaningless stuff like advertisements. For that is my trade. I am a pimp of attractive headlines. A seller of a voluptious bodies of sentences of high-falutin words made up to sound interesting. I'm the guy who writes gibberish like "We bring good things to life", and "Impossible is nothing". And I haven't even written anything that interesting.

I'm the 'Beena Mausi' who parades Lata, Neena, Ritu and the rest of the dirty dozen before podgy business men, not the slick Russian tout with a harem of 4 digit damsels.

Like junk food, junk writing can kill you. And I've been stuffing myself with it for 4 months. Now it's time to turn back to healthy writing. The sort that lets you sleep without reaching for the leftover Old Monk.

And so I find my feet again. Slowly but surely.

Bangalore pangs

My beautiful city is under seige. Held at ransom by an invisible army. An army of committed communal conscripts. Of religious renegades looking for retribution.

The shadow of a man rides a charred excuse for a rickshaw in front of me. Tears streaming down his face. His hennaed beard blown from side to side by the wind coming through a windshieldless void in front of him. The seats at the back are still smoldering as is the anger and helplessness inside him. He brushes his emotions aside with a swipe of his dirty sleeve, leaving his face smudged.

I ride on past the remains of another 4 rickshaws that lie smoking. Belly-up in total subjugation, even in death. Like crushed cockroaches on the roadside.

A little futher I come upon a bus. Or what once used to be. Glass lies everywhere. Small fragments littering the road. Symbolising the shattered spirit of the city.

What is it that makes these maurading madmen pick on public transportation to vent their venom? Glance through photographs of any riot in India. The first casuality is often a Public transport bus. The Emergency, the Mandal Commission, the Indira Gandhi riots, the Mumbai riots. In each case, you can see a burning bus in every photograph.

I turn a corner and am face to face with the devil in camouflage. He wears the garb of the ordinary man. You'd have passed him on the way to work everyday with not a glance. But today you dare not ignore him or the very large crudgel in his hands. This is his time. He shall speak and you will listen.

"Ellie Hogtaidira?" a surprisingly nasal, almost squeaky voice asks me. I would have expected death to ask me where I'm going in a baritone instead of a shaky soprano. My kannada is sparse and unconvincing so I pretend to have a toothache. "Doctor ge hogbeko!" I answer.

Suddenly I'm kin. We're brothers, tied together with the umbellical cord of discomfort. I've touched a chord. Or a nerve more likely. He winces, and waves me onwards. Anger condensed into concern in the distilling pot of pain.

I ride on home thinking O Henry was right. Pain does make the world kin.

Keeping it real with B.I.G.

Fuck the luck, shit, strictly aim,
no aspirations to quit the game.

Spit your game,
talk your shit,
grab your gat,
call your click,
squeeze your clip, hit the right one.
Pass thatweed, I gotstalight one.
All them niggas, I gotsta fight one.
All them hoes,Igotsta like one.
Our situation is a tight one.
What youwanna do: fight or run?

Seems to me that you'll takeB,
Bone and B.I.G., nigga, die slowly.
I'm a tellyoulike a nigga told me,
cash rules everything 'round me.

One more Matinee

Here's why Mark Knopfler rules.

One more matinee!

Here's One Of The Two Of Us
In 1954
Don't LaughI Keep All Of The Pictures
Are You Going To Take A Photograph
Here's Something Nice For You
A Dear Old Thing Came To A Show
Last Time Here We Did
An Interview On Local Radio
Make Yourself At Home My Darling
Come On In
Hand Me Down That Jar Love
Can I Offer You A Gin

We're Proud To Be The Oldest
Ugly Sisters In Variety
There's Not The Glamour Now
You SeeWhat Happened To Society
There's Another Light Bulb Gone
They Don't All Answer To The Switch
I Don't Know How We Carry On
And Her She Couldn't Care The Bitch
But In A Whi E The Old BoysIn The Band
Begin To Play
And In A While The HouselightsAnd The Curtains Slide Away

And Something's Going To Happen
To Make Your Whole Life Better
Your Whole Life Better One Day
Something's Going To Happen
To Make Your Whole Life Better
Your Whole Life Better One Day

Now The Landlady's All Squared Away
It's Just A Temporary Deal
I'm Afraid Tonight It's Take-Away
You See There Is No Evening Meal
Don't Worry Dear You Shall Go
To The BallI Think The Fairy Said
These Suitcases Have Seen It All
From Under Someone Else's Bed

You Want To Smile Those Tears Away
Now Don't You Cry
You Want To Know What I Say
I Say Never Say Die'

Cos Something's Going To Happen
To Make Your Whole Life Better
Your Whole Life Better One Day
Something's Going To Happen
To Make Your Whole Life Better
Your Whole Life Better One Day

One Short

I'm one star short of dusk
I'm one ray short of morn
I'm one stitch short of complete
I'm one rip short of torn

I'm one smile short of happy
I'm one tear short of sad
I'm one sense short of sane
I'm one quirk short of mad

I'm one straw short of breaking
but I'm just too tired to tell
If I'm one deed short of Heaven
or just one devil short of Hell

Shani's song

I'm bored out of my wits, can't somebody find
someone wretched, so I can apply my mind
to ruining someone's pointless life
by adding to pain, troubles and strife.

Let me glance around, maybe I'll spy
a one eyed man, so I can take away his eye
or a man with just one leg, so I'll have fun
watching him lose to gangerene, the other one.

For I'm Shani, the god with the power to change
people's fortunes a little, and help them exchange
pain for more pain, trouble for more trouble
If it can be halved, it must be made double.

I'm the little god who can't do miracles, and so I must
justify my existence by making a poor man go bust
And so by making a sad man spill more tears,
get some respect for at least Seven years.

Seven years shall he appease me, fall at my feet
lest he should small misfortunes meet
like an unforseen expense, when the rent's to be paid
a broken leg, when a job appointment is made

Seven years shall he give alms, but not just to the poor
but to the blind and the lame, those that I hold dear
And after the seven, he shall be free,
while another poor wretch, falls prey to me.

Designated Dolt

There's nothing a biker likes most than taking a good turn on the road, unhindered, at the perfect angle and the perfect speed. There is God to be found in every bend of the Macadamised. A perfect turn, perfectly executed is Zen itself.

And similarly, there is nothing more frustrating than a turn rendered wrong. Mostly because some slop in his sad excuse for a car decides not to apply his brains, and extends the application instead to his brakes.

You see crimson as you pull out of a turn, into a screeching halt, a swear on your lips and murder in your eye. You glance the glance of a thousand knives as you overtake the slob only to realize that he doesn't look like the sort who would ordinarily make a mistake like that.

Are all motorists on the road dolts? Can't be. Or are all motorists around you dolts? Cant be either. That's a generalization. I've sat in cabs and autorickshaws and the drivers, barring a few exceptions, have been competent, if not good. And this phenomena I have observed across many cities across India.

Where then, does one find the errant driver?

Let me propose a theory.

Consider the 'Designated Driver' at a party. He's the one to be found wistfully nursing his Virgin Mary, while his friends endeavour to test the limits of their Livers. On any other day, he's to be found partaking of the brewed and the distilled in quantities that would kill an elephant. But on this day, he is a timid teetotler who'll pass the -OH group for the H2O.

So on this day, he assumes the personality of someone who he's usually not, for a brief period of time. A personality that has been thrust upon him by his peer, for a designated time.

And so it is with the 'Dolts' on the road. Maybe they too are perfectly normal drivers but for the duration of some fleeting moments, they assume the mantle of the 'Designated Dolt' and can't help but act 'in character'. And then the moment passes to another who in turn causes his share of chaos.

I can almost bet that if you look closely enough at the people in the traffic, you can almost spot the 'Designated Dolt' of the moment, and watch the designation move across the length of the road.

Haven't you caught yourself doing something foolish on the road. Forgetting a turn, stalling your car, cutting someone off. Was it the real, rational, intelligent you that did that? No it was your 'Designated Dolt' self.

So on a bad day, you may just be unlucky enough to have many people around you, pass the mantle. On a good day, you may encounter only one.

I like the theory. Beats coming to terms with your bad driving. Or for that matter, your girlfriend's.

The Reason

Sorry Mates, long time no write..



The reason? This ----------------------------------------------->

Yes I'm talking about the Flickr link on the right hand side...

Since I got my new camera, I've been letting my pictures do the talking. Give me a month more and I shall get back to writing again.

I'm leaving for Delhi on the 13. Dillllleeeeeeeeeee meri Jaan. And then to Leh on the 16th. I'm touring Leh with my Dad. (It's not as bad as it seems, in fact it's great)

He's the coolest. I promise lots of posts and lots of photos... Check out my Flicker to know where all I've been since the last month.

One weekend in Mysore and Gopalswamibetta, an obscure but beautiful temple atop a hill near Bandipur.
Another weekend in Coorg
2 weekends in Chennai
a few days in Bombay
a weekend in Hogennakal (That's the waterfall where Roja was shot. Pretty as hell but also crowded as hell.)

All this in the last 1 month. I'm beginning to feel proud about my travels...

And also, I've bought myself a motorcycle. She's called Elizabeth, Liz for short, and she's a babe. The best sounding, best looking girl on the road..

Look forward for more action adventures next week with your friendly neighbourhood copywriter, right here on bosedk.blogspot

Ciao