Note To Self

It's alright to accept that you're not all that. That the things you write about are neither very exciting nor relevant. That you're not as skilled with language as you'd like. That you make horrendous mistakes in grammar & spelling. That your blog is just a blog and not a stepping stone to anything more meaningful like a book or a script. It's alright if you can do this calmly, without self-pity, without loud proclamations of "I will never write again!" It's fantastic if you decide, in the face of all this, that you must never stop doing what you enjoy so much. That nothing can stop you from writing that book or script or from correcting your spellings.

When a story needs to be told, it will compel you to do the needful. Till then, go finish reading all those books you promised you'd finish. There's more than enough grammar to be learnt from those things.

I'd Avoid This One If I Were You

I started blogging at a point in my professional life, which one might politely describe as a 'pregnant pause'. I was hoping that the result of the seemingly never-ending gestation period would be a spectacularly well paying writing job. Instead, what popped out after hours of yelling, screaming and bloody mayhem, was this blog.

The momentum was brisk, the writing came fast & fluid. The mind, numbed by hours of watching television, was ready to indulge in creative pursuits. It was unselfconscious, it was honest, it was fun. Quality standards met most of the specifications of its sole reader, who coincidentally happened to be its writer.

It seems now that the blog has reached that point in its life when it wants to stick its head in the oven: not necessarily to annihilate itself, but perhaps to see how it'll all turn out. It's not the best way to go about business, hoping a sexy firefighter (the kind that only exists in American sitcoms) comes and rescues it, but its the most fun thing this blog has done in a while.

Yeeeeaaaaah. So. Like. Whatdja wanna do? I don't know, whaddooyou wanna do? I don't know.

Ok, my television is dying on me. Let me get up off this bed and go slap it on its side.

She Came In Through The Bathroom Window...

Over the last few days The Beatles have popped up in the most interesting of ways. On Twitter through random folk, on a fantastic art website called Across The Universe that I am absolutely in love with, then there was the American Idol Beatles week and a crazy episode in a sound studio.

Apparently, it was all a way to get me to start a new blog. So...tadaaaaa....presenting And Your Bird Can Sing (http://aquaticstaticsings.wordpress.com/). It's a music blog about all things that make me go hummmm in the night. It's only 2 posts old (yup, one of them's about the Beatles) but I'm very excited.

So do drop by...

(Also, if you could suggest some music blogs that you like, let me know. Will add them to my blogroll on the site.)

Crikey!

I may have scared Billu the Blog Burglar away...

So an Ode.

Twas a shorte yet sweete affaire
When ye did venture into mine laire
Withe stealthe ye hastened
To steal, not complacent
To write thine own trash, eh?

And so do accept mine thanks overmany
I pray, thou dost not returneth
But if ye should come
Tis a promise, I'll hum
A merry tune, whilst in Purgatory ye burneth

In Defense of Shit Writing

The post below is unmitigated shit. I know it. I knew it as I was writing it. It felt wrong but I couldn't stop...sort of like when you eat that slightly off mayo sandwich on a hot summer day. You repent after it's done but that doesn't prevent you from spending a significant part of the next day on the crapper.

Why don't I delete it?

Because there's no shame in being mediocre. At least not when I'm mediocre. I want the post to remain online, in the public domain so that I can maintain perspective. To remind myself that sometimes I'm a bit crazy and all over the place. That sometimes I do things without caring too much. That I'm only blogging, not curing cancer or building cryogenic engines.

That I spend too much time explaining myself after.
My therapist is on holiday. That might be it.

And might I add...Dey-AM, Sendhil Ramamurthy is smokin' hot.

Turn Left At The Improv Blog

Ladies and Gentlemen!...
She's come all the way from Couch-In-Front-Of-TV...She's fresh, she's eager, she's a SHE! For the first time EVER on this, or any other, stage, please give a warm welcome to....Mizzz Aquatic Static....

(...cough...cough...)

(Big swig) Wow. This is such a dream come true. I've spent so many years watching stand up on SNL, Leno and Lok Sabha TV but I never imagined I'd be up here, attempting to perform a standup blog. In fact, if it weren't for a lethargic download at home tying up my bandwidth, I wouldn't have made it out here at all. So special thanks to Airtel as well.

It's pretty intimidating being up here actually. Especially since I have no jokes. Also my segueways are pretty crap. No "Speaking of all those unexplained infernos lately, what's up with that Modi huh? (Narendra, not Lalit)..." or "A rabbi and Modi walked into a bar...(Lalit, not Narendra)"
I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say and mostly came up with rants.
So I compiled my list and here's what I've gotten so far: PMS, menstrual cramps, Shaadi.com, Ranbir Kapoor's career choices and my mother.


Ummm...Miss Static? The gentlemen are walking out...

O no! Er...lemme see...BREASTS, farts, beer, God of War....wait TENDULKAR! That's right...back to your seats guys. I would've let you go but in this great country of ours, when the men leave, they take the car and the ladies with them. God forbid, should the women just walk into a club alone...
So as I was saying, Tendulkar. Yeeeeah... don't know much about him so back to me...

Besides being unfunny, another reason why I've shied away from stand-up blogging for so long is because I can't deal with the heckling. I'd like to give you a live demonstration right now. Any haters out there in the audience?

You suck!

I understand, sir, that you expected to see the live telecast of KKR vs. Mumbai Indians on a giant screen and got stuck, instead, with me. But there's no need to hurt my feelings. And more importantly: Why can't you LOVE me? What's wrong with me?? I try so hard!
(And that's a heckler I rehearsed with before getting on stage.)

Why then madam, you ask, are you up here in the first place?
It has come to to pass recently that I have become loved by a fairly large group of unknowns on the internet. This can be as gratifying as being loved by one or two close friends or relatives. A retweet on Twitter or a 'Like' on Facebook can gladden my heart almost as much as a phone call from a school buddy or a Get Well Soon card from a neighbour. Being loved by an unknown is also less stressful. There's very little one needs to do to receive validation. Mostly, just logging in will do it.

Yes, you cannot fall asleep in the arms of an unknown Twitter Follower or open joint bank accounts with a blog commenter but what really matters is staying in the spotlight. Lovers will leave, family will disown and friends will either betray or move to another city.
Only FB friends and Twitter followers will remain. And even if they don't, there's plenty more where they came from.

(Mizz Static...the bar shut down a while ago. The guests have all left. We're pulling down the shutters now.)

Finally, there's the freedom to spew nonsense. I once thought of writing a book but the publishers wanted it to have a point. Catch up with the times, editors. Nonsensical self-indulgence is where it's at. Today I tweeted about how my toe was turning purple and 3 new people started following me. That's a best-seller right there.

(Madam, please)

Fine. I'll wrap it up. You've been a great audience. Just don't throw stuff at me.

____________

And since I've suffered blog theft recently, I must say that the Modi references may seem similar to other RESPECTED bloggers' tweets but I swear, I wrote mine before I read yours, youknowwhoyouare.

Yeah YOU

To the Gentleman stealing ideas from my blog: Trust me, sir, there are far better writers in the blogosphere to pilfer from. Having said that,
I'm on to you.

I'm watching.
I'm everywhere.
So be afraid.








(What's tragic is that you get more traffic on your blog than I do...why then?)

WTF?!?!?

Where are my comments?
Are people deleting comments off this blog?
Is that even possible?
So many questions.
Call the cops.

Reveal yourself, mysterious blog-appreciator

I'm tormented by a single anonymous comment on my blog.

What if it's a secret admirer (of my feminine charms and not just the writing)? What if it's a rich & powerful publishing tycoon who could potentially secure me a book deal? What if it's the boy I've set my heart on but who remains elusive? What if it's my first celebrity co-worker, who googled my name and stumbled upon this blog; and who knows a rich & powerful publishing tycoon who could potentially secure me a book deal? What if it is a friend whose birthday I forgot and who deleted his profile from facebook so that I couldn't message him (as opposed to calling him which I didn't have the energy to)?
What if it's my sister - the only one I have, the one who lives on the opposite side of the globe but somehow manages to make me feel loved when I need it the most.
She's the only one I know whose smileys are =) instead of :)
Perhaps my work here is done.
------------------------
24 hrs later: I was wrong. My work here is not done. Oooooh, this is driving me stark raving, cross-eyed batty....

Are they hiring on Grey's Anatomy?

Because, I swear I have what it takes to write for them.
Sample their dialogues:

Alex: You son's crying because his nervous system is shot. Your son's crying because his kidneys are failing. Your son's crying because you operated a meth lab from your home, you son of a bitch.

Dr. Bailey: You let a known drug peddler get away with a baby. You let a convicted felon escape with a child. I know you know better than that. I know because I taught you better than that.

Meredith: It's over. It's over. It's so over.

If anyone cares to read back on some of my blogs they will find that I can just as easily come up with repetitive, sing song sentences that I'm sure no one uses in real life.

But then nothing on Grey's is like real life. Least of all McSteamy.


I am not happy working for the Spawns of Satan.

Alright then

Fine. I'll admit it. I wish SOMEONE other than me would read this damned blog.
Or perhaps it is a metaphor for my life: wanting to be saved yet not letting on that I'm drowning.
But I don't always feel like I'm drowning or that I need saving.
And I don't always want anyone to read this blog.
Crap.

First, dip your toes...

I have hovered, for a little under a decade, around the idea of blogging. Once, I even started a blog and posted the mandatory 'I have started this blog but have nothing of any consequence to say...' post.

Then, things fizzled out.

Now, at age 30, I realise that my inability to keep up with this activity has to do with my rather warped notions of blogs being linked to narcissism and an inflated sense of self-importance. It's time I grew up. Which for me means - Chill Out Yo and Write! So if I want to blog, I will. Even if I have nothing to say. Or even if the things I have to say interest no one. Or even if the language skills I display make me cringe from time to time (no, not all sentences turn the way we'd like them to).

It doesn't have to be anything, it doesn't have to mean anything. I'm coming out of a decade of writing where every sentence had to have meaning and purpose (for the 'masses'). Or else - cut. I'm emerging from a profession where words have images attached and images need words. Baki sab? Cut. I'm coming from a world where everything must have rhythm. Nothing can be bumpy or skip a beat. Or else - cut.

But that is, obviously, not how I think or feel. I scratch around language, I love words but am not always fast enough to catch them. Rhythm? Those things I leave to unforeseen forces. Sometimes it comes, sometimes I can see it stick its tongue out at me and scamper away naughtily.

At least I don't have an evil producer giving me the stink-eye and telling me that what I've written in 'banal'....or worse still - 'yaar, mazaa nahi aa raha hai.' I'm sick of being told that I'm an 'angrezi ki khiladi...do ghante me 30 minutes ki script likh dogi na?' This is a no-entry zone for nincompoops. Go poop your nincoms somewhere else.

And let me take my first dip...