Sex. (Do I gotten your attention now?)

This evening I watched tiny toy cars, electronic scarabs, tooling down the road in front of my nose (I live in my dada's 12^th floor ‘penthouse’ opposite the now famous Worli sealink in Bombay that connects one part of the island to the other).  With a baby nudge from beer and dope, I clambered onto this train of thought: How much of their pathetic little lives did they squander to acquire something – a hunk of rolling metal - that came off an assembly line? And how much of ours do we, in the daily pursuit of Things?

And each one of these passengers thinks he or she is different, somehow exalted, because of a difference in brand, shape and size of a mobile box? The same creatures that are now mere fleshy extensions of the product. Despite its attempts at anthropomorphism (Herbie was my favourite machine when I was growing up), I know that Hollywood, and the world at large, cannot replace flesh with metal. Or can it?

And that guy with a small glass cylinder on the roof of his car, what did he give up – how many man-years did he file away in a little cabinet marked Files - to be able to flash a revolving yellow light at the world as he sputters down the road in his middling middle-class ride?

On a soft tangent, I ask you this: the few years we have left, yes, you included – once you’ve subtracted the hours expended in consumerism, sleep, daytime TV serials and talk shows, bragging about your state-of-the-art IKEA bedspreads, and watching cars from an ivory tower – can this time be stretched by smoking some of the good stuff? I don’t know the answer but I can say with a measure of confidence that it – the same demonised, overpublicised, desanctified plant we all know of as a guilty pleasure, whether we actually partake or not  – successfully keeps the demons at bay. And we all know that the demons, like your bionic forearms, are an insuperable, indissoluble part of you.

And we also know that I just wanted to use both those words in a sentence, so here I am, all chuffed about it. Yes we all have our drugs, but are yours better than mine because everyone else is on the same?

Doubt.

But enough about me, what do you think about the new Samsung Touchphone ad? Touch people. Yes, all through that LCD screen nestling in your pocket. Talk about doublethink. But who am I to rail against technology and desensitisation via the extremely warm, personal medium of the internet?

My joke of the day (inspired by 28 Weeks Later):

Army guy: How do you know your mother was one of the zombies?

Kid: She was screaming and her eyes were bleeding and she was coming to kill us.

Army guy: (a beat) Again, how do you know she was one of them?

And then we have the worst (or the best) kind of ignorant, sycophantic journalism. Case in point: In an article (on the front page of the frickin Times of frickin India) about the richest Indians in the world – the clan Ambani - and their freshly carved nexus with Spielberg and Co., the lady scribe called Michael Bay ‘a cult director’. If only I could stop laughing, I’d try and get her autograph. A sagacious editor would’ve transformed the ‘l’ in that word to an ‘n’.

Speaking of cunts, can one get more cuntilicious than an American commentator during the US Open? Take this masturbating cuntophile, prime candidate for cuntocracy of the free world, Sam Gore. During the match between Melanie Oudin and Nadia Petrova, the former’s teenage antics so excited him that he tripped over his own pantyhose and referred to the latter as Maria Sharapova. To his credit he corrected himself instantly, but get this - this is how he justified his faux pas: “Sorry, I meant Nadia Petrova. There’s just so many ovas here…”

 It's a bird, it's a plane...it's the former number one ova

His ova-bearing counterpart in the commentator's box, Kathy Rinaldi, and the man himself, merely tittered, yes, tittered at the fact of the matter and neither of them got his accidental, imbecilic, supremely sexist little pun. Mr Gore, please take your testes out of your hand when you say that, thank you. Play may now resume.