Kid Book Habits, Deviation and Danger Mouse

JP's post on parents' lean on reading habits brought back the ghost of a kind of west wind. If recommendations of a the childhood literary kind were to be left to my dad - it would have been and was Galsworthy, Ben Johnson, Plato, Digital Circuits and Microprocessors. Get real right? So recommendations were not left to him and a sense of humor meant he consented to the KG syllabus book reccos instead. He also dutifully plopped his clueless squirells at the Brit Lib on some evenings a week and gave us a free hand in picking our fancy by leaving us alone and picking us up an hour or two later. Being seminally unoriginal and unable to pick anything other than the carpet knoblets, i toed the sisters' selection line. I also showed more interest in the dashing Pakistani librarian and sought to be the one to arrive at his table heaving the checkout books that I had nothing to do with. My sisters only gave me withering looks and knotted my chaddi as soon as we were on the pebbles outside. Now, to get back to the books.
My mom was a notoriously voracious but slightly despairing reader. One thing she was very sure of was what books/authors she regarded absolutely - Tolstoy (specially Anna K), Hardy, Shaw (she absolutely delighted in this theospohist) Old Shakes (slight ambivalence), George Eliot. If anyone asks her for her best in yards, it's Lost Horizon - she still talks about it, leaving paradise. But this whole influence thing went the other way: most of these authors we kids had snatched from the school or brit lib, raved about them, and while we physically horsed about biting and bleeding on our raucous real imagination games, she tore through these books end-to-end (bravo) for her own little game and peace. Here it must be known - that awl sisters and mum are supafast readers, while dad and I languish at 'slow', me more so and additionally flamboyantly dyslexic. (I think it really is that we torture ourselves with the details and then question them to worsen things.)
We always enjoyed any good narrated yarn mom or dad could spin, a few comix, televised animation, and as kids our top satisfier: DANGER MOUSE.

Now Reading

Possession A S Byatt
Motorcar Handbook H Sorabjee (parts)

Is it my imgination or bizarrely true that a lot of men in pondicherry have bruised fingers. I've been seeing all these shopkeepers handing me change with queer bruises on their index or other digit. Nearly nauseated when the juice man handed me change with a tip of his index almost hanging out and bloody (bgggg - he made my frigging juice - gagbgaga). What - do their empowered women peck them at night or what?
Also now I'm suffering from partial visual impairment thanks to L'eglise de Notre Dame des Anges. The Church opens out onto the beach with a little patch before with a single high-traffic tennis court behind a marble statue of Joan of Arc. ok.
Now more than a few ppl have been badgering me with: what on earth are u doing in pondi on a holiday with just yourself, sticking to the city, your feet, and going to bed by 10? So this whole trip was never meant to be about fun but being on my own and listening and thinking and some fresh air. Pondi doesnt have a nightlife anyway except the kind you want to make with you partner in your nest, and even if it did - would never be a part of it thanks. Possibly the most exciting public nightlife has been happening in the bar below the room I stayed in - it even called for police a few days back.
Back in my room, I've had some great moments with The Economist and Hesse. For the last few days, I've decided to treat myself to Shanti guesthouse. Enough of the dingy bar life.

Children can be delightful minds and perfect flowers.

Just when I was going to say how sorry I felt for all pondi's bookslaves if there are any, walking down rue ange for sapad I see a book sale peeping out of a hall. O pogleee - it seemed to be some kind of SF parade for some reason - but on the whole in other genres and less botheration, quite a paradis of things. I picked up an Art&Design and really wanted to pick up another one (Art and cultural difference: hybrids and clusters) which had an article by Victor Anant - 'Kunjamma and the hooded camera'. Instead I read that article in the hall and made did with the other one. Victor Anant, I need to find out a little more about him.
In other news, eggpot is fine with the advise that tropical climates arent recommended for gout. Ireland, Iceland - soots well.

You know this whole firang thing when it's played up or played down is really about money. No one would be half as bent back if the irangs didnt seem to have some relative wealth that worked in a market economy. Money talks. People balk.
On the whole, the locals here are pretty unaffected by the jazz. Though not entirely - particularly the younger ones who wish to enquire into the tv angle showing whites enjoying more athletic sex; conversely, sun tv is all raucous foreplay and no action - so theyre made to think that's their condemnation. Could it be that this strict line has bolstrd female empowermnent here?
***
Tamil women should top the index of most empowered women on earth. I mean it, I've seen every single one holding their own in town and before men. I guess having a woman CM like JL, however autocratic, did something. But more than that the political and social history of the state particularly the most reformative struggle of the Dravidian movement - gave the vital click.
***

Politician, politician, 1-2-3.

So ha ha. One influential politician caused me to lose one hour of sleep last night. So there I am spreadeagled on my bed after a flatout evening, cooling under the spinning chocolate disc of a fan when someone outside the door on the long balcony for the 9 other rooms as well, starts this really engaging conversation for my benefit, in nasal high-pitched Tamil (at this point in the cyber cafe I just knocked over my bottle of water - eeks). On the easy chair right outside my room. ok so what the fuck was this deal about. some second day gift? After kicking on the door and stamping around to no effect on the noise, I decided I'd had it. I put on a shirt and summoned my tamil with anger on-demand: "Enna pa - romba noise varradh". After seeing that he cringed diplomatically and stopped the noise, I close the door. I imagined though that some other noise went on like he was some insomniac and he paced in the balcony aisle a good hour after that. But I figured later those were the papers in my room shuffling on the floor.
So today morning on the way out I had to tell the manager - 'Who was that man?' Which man? 'He was talking loudly on his mobile' 'I had to tell him to keep quite' O Oh. That euh? He is a very important Congress politician-lawyer of this area - makes some important alliances. He prefers to have his drinks on top.
'O' I say. So I say to myself: Therefore, you intend to do nothing about it. grate.
Very important, he repeats.
'He makes a lot of noise'
We'll tell him to move to the other side.
U better, i say.
Ofcourse - i plan to move to another place by Sunday, dear young gun.

Paandi meanwhile is doing very fucking well for itself - with the insidious creep of mainlanders (TN state) with their impunitas, mainland ways and wanton rabblerousing (not being raci here - have enough to say about mallus if that makes it ok). I suppose the beach is doing its job - even though its 10 feet from my place, I avoid it like it's an avoidable. O and a ginger cat prowls the stairwell at night caterwauling like on desperate heat. In this roundclock heat - how does the love cycle work - anyone would be on heat all the time. Even the poor animals - it has to mean only one thing that I dont see very many big families here: downright contraceptive discipline. What else?

Ok - now I have to go eat something and change my clothes before that - could swear I heard a prig of a mother walking her clownish kid say 'clown' when I passed down the road this morning (ok so I was wearing clowny pants). Well some ppl thinking theyre on higher moral ground just because they wear a garish sari and bandy the accessory of reluctant child. Fish balls i say. Once more? Fish balls.

Here I am

I'm staying in a hotel (next to the beach) called Hotel Qualite that is better known for its rather casual cuban-like neighborhood bar than females who chose to stay there. The toilet is right out of a cinematic rep of Dutch Middle Ages with chequered tiles and there's running water. And actually the bar can give many blore ones a personality crisis - but I dont have the pleasure of using it. The water has long since run me by. And for crying out, when I search for tamil words now - I'm coming out with some distinguished kannada - dont want to begin to understand why this is happening. In other words I'm communicating only with a few ppl which suits me fine.
Meanwhile the balcony opens out to the pleasant Children's park right next to a book fair of some kind I havent visited yet. It's pretty warm.

Muriel Spark

February 1, 1918 – April 13, 2006

Yasmine

I don't believe it guys. Yasmine has finally got a blog.

Hormone Rock (an extract)

Rock’n’roll is the musical embodiment of maleness. It’s one of the reasons women get penis envy — it looks a lot of fun. It’s about vanity, anger and nihilism (unless you’re Bono); it’s ugly things like a gas-guzzling car, a pub fight, a one-track mind. Women who play rock’n’roll are often sexy and aggressive, but, ultimately, are not representative of their sex in general. Is Courtney Love like your sister? Is Patti Smith like your mum?

Hormone rock is rock with the cock taken out, and it’s what a lot of women want to listen to right now. Women left alone with their more tormenting attributes don’t start wars. They moan, cry, bitch, go shopping; they’re anxious, neurotic, put-upon, argumentative, manipulative, analytical and brooding. These are all aspects to femaleness that none of us feels enamoured of, but they are unquestionably an essential aspect of ourselves. Rachael Yamagata’s Worn Me Down inspires thoughts of yellow rubber gloves and tired women with hollow eyes, let down again by a feckless man, on their knees scrubbing the kitchen floor of their minds. Beth Orton sings, “I’ve been reeling home, A broken shopping trolley” and Amy Winehouse, on What Is It About Men, casts herself as the passive victim: “I’m nurturing, I just wanna do my thing and I’ll take the wrong man as naturally as I sing.”
Full article

Haylo - Iggy is going awayyy for a bolly holidayyy.
Come to the lizard party.

A talk with Yas has set me on gymming again!
And she gave some niche advice too about bouncing and ankle weights.
I'm really convinced about ankle weights.

Can't miss mentioning that you can never know where and when your highs are going to come from. Today it came to Iggy in the morning auto on st. johns road. Since longer than I can remember my young automan went for the signal in the greatest acceleration of all time. Loved it, looked up from the fluttering magazine in stunned amazement and squealed. beautiful. amazing. i'll be in speed for some time now.