Incidentally
Year #5 begins for Selective Amnesia. I was supposed to debut a new design and new other stuff today. But we all know how that turned out.
Somethings I wonder about
Whatever happened to ‘Unconference – the book’? Kiruba?
Who the fuck came up with the latest TVS Apache ad? McCann-Erickson Bangalore – what shit does Newton’s law have to do with the bike? What are you even trying to say?
How long are we going to be talking of ‘America in a post 9/11 world…’? It’s been 6 years, goddamit. Move on.
A spade is not a spade when it’s the 200 million strong Middle-class India we’re talking of.
That’s right. Nothing is what it seems, when it comes to India. There are uncomfortable truths lurking behind every piece of good news, and scary details are swept under the carpet. India is Schrödinger’s cat when it comes to its shining-ness. That’s right. Everything is a conspiracy by evil, white multi-national corporations to sell us – stupid, gullible Indians – more products and kick us deeper into the pit of consumerism.
Movies are but carefully crafted advertising that widens the gap between the rich and the poor and between the socialists and the free-market fundamentalists. Our roads haven’t improved over the last 10 years, only more villages have been eaten up by the hungry, rampaging cities. People haven’t bettered their lives at all. Our ancient way of living, our culture has been corrupted and we should immediately stop international trade, which, we all know, is just a conspiracy to sell us stuff. Our software prowess is but an illusion and we are all cyber coolies. In short, nothing good is happening in India, and we should all just close our doors and let the government take care of us.
FM radio in Dubai is as asinine as it is in Madras
There are a lot of FM radio channels here in Dubai. Some of them are good. Some of them are not. Let’s get the good one out of the way first. A morning show, called ‘English breakfast, desi ma’am.’ (Pronounced mayem) by RJ Kritika. Her voice. And her laugh.
Now to the bad one.
An afternoon show. I have no idea what it is called. And don’t want to. The entire show is, apparently, about mushy, feely love songs. In Hindi. Which is enough to condemn the show forever to the fourth level of hell. But what follows is even, um, better.
There’s an RJ, obviously. He believes in speaking in a deep, manly voice. Except, it’s very hard to be manly when one’s speaking through one’s hat. And, if that weren’t enough, there are the callers.
Here’s how the show works. People send in mails/letters with their love/relationship issues. And this letter is read out to the whole world. Or, well, the part of the world that’s tuned in. With the sender’s name. Sparing no details.
Then the callers come in. The RJ asks each caller what the sender of the mail should do.
That’s right. Some arbit dude puts fundaes on some other arbit dude’s love life. And the RJ prompts him. And goads him/her. MTV Loveline, minus Malaika and Cyrus, multiplied by loads of stupidity.
Enough to make me puke my lunch out. Which’s a pity. They make good malai-koftas here.
Even insurance agents don’t spawn this much.
Dubai proves, once again, the only organism that can pose a serious challenge to air-borne virus is the PSBBian.
A month back, I thought I was hallucinating. Not only did I imagine I saw somebody from PSBB, I thought the person was actually a friend. It didn’t help the apparition disappeared as soon as it came – and didn’t respond to the secret PSBB call. (Aska lakadi gala gala). For a moment I thought of going easy on the brilliant Irish Coffee Messrs Shakespeare & Co. had served up. Just a moment. But, the nagging thought remained. Did I really see a PSBBian, or was it a figment of my imagination. (And a large figment, considering who I thought I saw…)
Which was where things stood till a few weeks ago, when I ran into (and, almost literally) him. A senior. And a good friend. And through him, I discover a coven of PSBBians from KKNagar. Reminiscence was put. As was old kadi jokes. Hamsa Ramadass and Rani Chandran and Rajagopal saar were discussed, and Anand Bakery showed head.
At this rate, you might even see a PSBBian in Madras. Now, that would be a feat.
Aishwarya Rai may not get sexy. But this blog just might
Since we are not, can not, may not or ahem ‘able not’ to write in a way that is both entertaining and insightful (we must point out we have been both, and at times in the same post) enough to keep this little labour of blade, Selective Amnesia, alive and kicking, we invite you to do so. Or, using fewer words, ‘Do you want to Guest Blog at Selective Amnesia?’
Basic qualifications we look for in a potential guest blogger(or even, bloggeri. One must not be a misogynist)
- Write. Often, long and competently
- Distinguish between SelAm and Salem
- Swear eternal allegiance to the Man. (Where Man = Chandrachoodan)
- Disrespect all rules, including this one
- Know how to count beyond 5
The question might arise – ‘What’s in it for Uncle Sam, heh?’ We are not sure of Uncle Sam’s stand in this issue, but what you’ll get in return is the fame, popularity and did I mention fame? that comes from writing on a blog where google search referrals far outnumber referrals from other blogs. You also get to balance a chip on your shoulder.
If you can handle the gruelling deadlines (what?) and the large number of comments (well, yes, spam comments. But the operating word is comment) leave one here. Or mail us at the email id given to the right.
About
Chandrachoodan Gopalakrishnan is a copywriter, photographer and goofball from Chennai. He is also an archaeologist, historian and a city lover. He is currently a documentary film-maker and desk-monkey for a film production house.
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