Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas - Part Deux

They are back! After a hiatus of almost a year - older, but hardly any wiser, ArSENik and Sambaman pack like the Wolfman and a woman, respectively. Sambaman explains he needs a specific brand of shampoo for his thick hair, rubbing salt into ArSENik's receding hairline, and that they don't make them in little airline packs. ArSENik cooks up a controversy between the shampoo manufacturers and airline baggage companies.

With the foreplay out of the way, they are off to Vegas, again. But this time everything is planned, or so they think, but is anything ever really planned? They are staying at the MGM Grand. ArSENik is thrilled by the prospect of waking up to giant, visages of green lions out of their hopefully high vantage point every morning at 7:45 PM, when they turn the lights on. These bastards have objectives, unlike your average Vegas-goer. Sambaman's is more defined. He needs money to pay tuition for his final semester of college. So, he doesn't get a job waiting tables at a Brazilian Steakhouse in LA, like any average guy would, but goes to Vegas to make money with money. It is this sense of daring that endears Sambaman to the ladies, while ArSENik is more conservative. He needs to get LA out of his system and what better way than to drown in Rio Juevo Cuervo that flows through Vegas.

Chapter 1: Turbulence

They are soaring on the schoolbus airline - Southwest, where there are no seat numbers, which greatly distresses Sambaman - used to the lush comfort of first class on every airline. ArSENik cooks up a communist insurgency - "think about it, man. No, first class, no seat numbers. The Cubans, man, the cubans, they are coming for America's capital - Las Vegas!" This red scenario, as bloody as Sambaman's virgin Bloody Mary mix, serves up the long haired big comedian Penn (the one with a show in Vegas) in the exit row in front of the duo. Sambaman doesn't dig his humor. ArSENik suspects this is because of Penn's little cameo in Sambaman's favorite 'Friends' when he cons Joey into giving him $50 for an encyclopedia.

The air hostess charges ArSENik's credit card twice even though Sambaman only gets a virgin drink. ArSENik gets the Screwdriver - "need the Vitamin C, man". The hostess holds onto the card, supposedly to fix the "error", but doing gawd knows what with it. Horrible realities begin to dawn on ArSENik's fertile mind - what do they call the cocaine version of the mile high club?, should he really accept the card back knowing where it might have been on slidable little airline toilet tables, thrust by the dexterous hands of a nymphomaniac pilot.

He is shaken out of his reverie by a different air hostess - more motherly, or so it seems. "We'll be landing soon, sir. You need to finish your drink NOW". ArSENik stands up stiff and salutes her, but is forced to sit down and fasten his seatbelt. He chugs the screwdriver down with appreciative tourists cheering him on as if he were a well endowed midget performing at the Circus Circus. And then, there is contact, between ArSENik's lecherous eyes and the most formidable chin he has ever laid his eyes on. Now, anyone who knows the maniac well, is well aware of his extreme chin fetish. It's love at first bite, but alas, there is no bite, because ArSENik is bound to his seat by his seat belt as the world begins to swerve around him, like in that 'Inception' trailer. The little lights below are on top one second and then they are on his left.

Sambaman mumbles something about the higher potency of alcohol at altitudes of airline travel. When ArSENik scoffs at this conspiratorial statement, he recounts the saga of his hot sister-in-law wanting to go skinny-dipping in her little glass of airline vodka one stormy evening somewhere between the steely skies of Rio and Sao Paulo. ArSENik pictures this in his head, but the Chin has hypnotized him by now and he explains in great, graphic detail what he would do to that little beauty to Sambaman, much to the horror of the neighboring tourists.

Chapter 2: Lost Baggage?

As they wait for Sambaman's cosmetics bag to arrive at baggage claim, the Chin walks up next to them to wait for hers. Sambaman scoffs at her general ugliness. ArSENik agrees but still can't take his eyes off that stellar curve, protruding just enough to be not witchy. As usual, everyone gets their bags first and leaves. It's down to the Chin and Sambaman now. Sambaman is frustrated and walks over to yell at the baggage people, leaving ArSENik as lookout.

Sambaman comes back three minutes later to find a single bag - his, doing the rounds on the baggage carousel in slow motion, as ArSENik is salivating, staring at the Chin in profile. The Chin meanwhile is obviously trying to ignore this brown lecher with zero motor skills at this point. It's really quite romantic if you think about it, but Sambaman doesn't think so. He shatters the slow mo myth and drags his bag and ArSENik with each hand to the MGM Grand.

Chapter 3: The Green Lions - Pixie Saliva and the Wheels of Fortune

ArSENik again scoffs at honeymooning tourists photographing themselves in the ugly flashes of their little point and shoot cameras in front of the 'Welcome to Las Vegas' sign. They eat at the Rainforest Cafe, waited on by a pink haired Pixie. ArSENik doesn't appreciate her chin. She forgets to bring Sambaman's appetizer and the entrees take forever, landing the duo in a unique league. Ask Guinness. They are the only people to sit through four rainforest 'storms', which occur every 30 minutes. You do the math.

They are as stuffed as turkeys during Thankgiving, but gluttony kicks in, and a skewed sense of justice, somewhere in the annals of Sambaman's twisted economic head, and he stares the Pixie down, ordering one of those humongous chocolate cakes, that also has whipped cream, and ice-cream, and a thousand other things, probably Pixian saliva too, who knows, but it's very very tasty. The Pixie does a little dance for Sambaman, obviously fishing for tips, but Sambaman makes ArSENik run on a full stomach, after paying the bill, because there is zero tip for the Pixie. ArSENik feels a little bad - I guess he liked the little dance.

However, ArSENik soon gets over his low point as he sees all the free alcohol brought out on trays by overworked waitresses in ugly oversized red jackets. Suddenly, Sambaman pulls ArSENik down! They are hiding - sandwiched between rows of penny slot machines - "I'll explain later. Just play along". One of CCR's high energy songs comes on in the overhead speakers. "This is not Casino music", thinks ArSENik. He realizes he must be hallucinating on Pixie saliva. He is being dragged on the smoke stained carpet of the MGM and is brought to a $5 slot machine with a little Wheel of Fortune machine attached to the top.

There is a new green gleam in Sambaman's eyes. It could be the lighting. Sambaman looks like Michael Jackson at Chucky Cheese. "What's with the stealth?", "Let's just say the floor managers here don't see my genius (pause for dramatic effect), yet."And so it begins - Sambaman inserting a couple of Ben Franklins into the machine, like it was a Vegas vending machine for condoms. "Jesus, where did you get that kinda money?", "Get a drink". ArSENik goes on a binge and orders every kind of cocktail known to the Vegas bartenders since the Vegas Long Island Tea Party. Tips flow like tears in a Lifetime movie. Sambaman has the Midas touch tonight and can't fail. ArSENik looses $20 very quickly on a neighboring machine. This madness goes on till morning. And then, sleep lulled by the Aphrodites of alcohol and money.

Chapter 4: Natural Meat & Divine Intervention

Sambaman sticks to character and sleeps most of the morning. ArSENik - hungry and miraculously not hung over, prowls around quietly on the hallways of the thirteenth floor of the MGM Grand, stopping especially in front of the room numbers with little red dots. Flashback to Sambaman telling him those are celebrity suits, when they check in earlier. What is he hoping to find? Left over caviar stuck to the underside of silver spoons? We'll never know because he bumps into a snack machine next to the ice-maker, and gives up a dollar for an expired cereal bar. It is delicious.

Late afternoon. Sambaman wakes up. They get ArSENik's general quota of naturally raised steak cut into little pieces at Chipotle. Only in Vegas, folks! Sambaman: "I have some gift points at the Aria. Let's go play there." The Aria is the newest kid on the block of Vegas hotels. It is as flashy as its name promises. Sambaman says a good hotel is one which smells good in the lobby. The Aria doesn't disappoint him. ArSENik is grateful for the cool artificial air on this terribly torrid afternoon.

Sambaman seeks out the wheel of fortune machines like a Hollywood shark sniffing out young, naked teenage legs. ArSENik reminds him - "don't you have free points or something here?" "Oh yeah". Anticipation - that same gleam back in Sambaman's eyes, as he walks up to the counter lady to collect his free points - the gifts of a hedonistic lifestyle. "I wanna play the Wheel of Fortune", "I wanna play the Wheel of Fortune" - and this man isn't even drunk, not on alcohol anyway. "I'm sorry, sir, but the free points only apply to the non-progressive machines." "Poha! I wanna speak to the manager." "Alright, sir." The cop lady leaves, takes a moment and returns. "I am the manager, sir. Can I help you?". Sambaman assumes the Kung Fu Panda stance, but ArSENik, sober for once, drags the Panda away.

The duo find themselves in front of some sort of slot machines with believe it or not, Thor on the cover - completely with axe and leather strips sundry. Hmm, must be a section of the casino reserved for pilgrims, thinks ArSENik. The last player - Jane Dorothy has left her gambling card in there. The startling figure of the balance is staring at ArSENik and Sambaman - $2361.00. ArSENik can picture her - a senile old widow down from Nowehereiwannago, Illinois, gambling away her dead husband's money. Before, Sambaman can lay his sleazy hands on the card, ArSENik, probably overcome by a somewhat misplaced sense of morality in that religious section of the casino, grabs the card and runs to the cop lady. She is shocked as he returns it. A senseless moment of pure Gandhism in this sinful sinful weekend.

"C'mon let's get this over with", proclaims Sambaman and puts his card in for Thor to bless. But Sambaman and slot machines are like Jedis and Lightsabers. The bastard can do no wrong. He starts winning as usual and the mood lightens up. There is no logic to the game, at least not one discernible to the bumbling duo, but who cares about logic when you are on top. A cute, waitress - one of those rarities at a Vegas Casino, probably a child of interracial coupling, catches ArSENik's eye. Her hair is as straight as Cupid's little arrows and her skin as as smooth as black marble, her smile has the brilliance of a hot lake on a summer day. She comes over. ArSENik orders something, but doesn't remember what. She returns after what seems like an eternity to ArSENik with the drink. Meanwhile, Sambaman's pockets continue tinkling, metaphorically speaking of course - all deals in Vegas today are conducted on credit. She hangs around to celebrate their victories, till duty separates her from ArSENik.

Love, alcohol and the smell of success makes ArSENik gamble $50. He starts slowly like a Midwestern housewife on holiday and then his Brutus right index finger hits the 'Bet Max' button and he looses $45 in 3 seconds. He is upset, but c'est la vie! Sambaman freaks out though - "What the fuck, man? Why you gotta bring me all this negative energy, dude?" He cashes out and without a sign of his waitress, ArSENik joins him in splitting from the Aria. On their way out, they pass by a series of randomly placed surreal photos of Christopher Walken - expressively expressionless. Sambaman's vast knowledge of pop culture comes to the rescue - "Aria is Walken's middle name". In his drunken stupor, ArSENik doesn't question the logic of this profoundly existential statement.

They are hungry. In a calculated move, ArSENik whips out Sambaman's iPhone and does some heavy online research, right there in the glass waiting tomb of the Aria as they wait for their car. He is pleasantly shocked to find In N' Out is all for Happy Cows, always has been, even before, ArSENik decided to start championing the cause himself, more than two years back. Like Harold and Kumar, they race down to the drive through of the California Fast Food chain, but there are cones, orange little cones, standing in their way, like leprechauns guarding buried gold in some exotic mountain underpass. ArSENik, showing novel agility, jumps out of the car, and kicks them out of the way, but before he can get back in, a voice yells at him - "Goddamn tourists! Call the cops, Whore-Hey". "Holy shit, haven't you learned anything from Dr. Thompson, man - don't piss off the natives!" - ArSENik rebukes himself, while jumping into the car. Sambaman drives like a young Asian woman, high on duck soup, to get out of there. It won't be natural meat tonight, folks, only a bout of our fresh cool summer air of the Vegas Highway on two empty stomachs.

Chapter 5: All Coked Up - The Spiral Down

The next day starts brilliantly with a cheap sumptuous, and according to ArSENik pretty authentic Indian buffet at Tamba. Sambaman, built with a zero tolerance to spice, almost passes out from most of the dishes. He loves the dessert dishes. Tamba is too snotty to keep any Thumbs Up - the new elixir in Sambaman's life, after ArSENik has described it to him as divine Indian cola. Then there is a sudden spark, cutting sharply through the food comma that is apparent in Sambaman's honeymead eyes. Just like Captain America to Billy the Kid more than 40 years before them - "Let's go outside".

The duo find themselves in the shade of the monstrous signboard of the Coke museum - the personification of excessive consumption, if there ever was one. But if you bought the ticket, you gotta get on the ride, man. They go inside. ArSENik has never seen more Coke signs in his life. Coke on everything from little keychains to Coke tattoos you can plant on your lady's sunburned arms. "Let's see if they have your Thumbs Up".

They trek up to what looks like a miniature cafeteria and ArSENik camps at a table for his surprise. Sambaman keeps him waiting and then arrives with two trays of liquids of psychedelic colors. "No Thumbs Up here" he says with the showman smile of Lucifer, "but there's plenty more", he adds softly. What is this, man? Consumption and globalization, summed up in twelve cups on two trays - on the house of course. ArSENik doesn't know what to believe anymore - he has never heard of the fruity little concoction this Vegas showhouse claims is a delicacy from India. Later, after getting back to LA, he checks with his fellow Milan fanatic about the ghastly tasting Beverly from Italy. The Signora has never heard of the foul fluid, or maybe she is just ashamed and therefore denies its existence. We'll never know.

With such a terrible taste in his mouth, ArSENik can't believe what he has just heard Sambaman utter, "Let's go to Texas De Brazil. I am starving for some Brazilian meat". "That's what she said". Sambaman goes wild at the restaurant. ArSENik has no appetite and just wants to get rid of the bitter taste. He orders a Caipirnha - Brazilian sugar cane alcohol, something he has never heard of in his ten days in Rio the previous year. Its sweet as nectar. Maybe too sweet under normal circumstances, but these circumstances are hardly, normal, wouldn't you agree? It's perfect.

The weekend threatens to end with a whimper - some laidback gambling at the resident hotel by Sambaman and more drinking by ArSENik, when suddenly, on an impulse, ArSENik spots an unmanned five card blackjack machine. Something clicks somewhere. He makes a quick $30. Sambaman asks him to raise the stakes and play with a human dealer. ArSENik is adamant about his affinity to the cold mechanics of the computer than the cold contact of a human dealer's eyes. More drinking. He puts his $30 on the higher thirds in a nearby roulette table. The ball spins and ultimately there is joy for ArSENik - Lady Luck, along with the ladies of the bar are smiling on him finally. He punches the air as if he has just found the cure of leprosy, and then there is unusual stillness in the air. Then an evil smirk from somewhere. Panda hands grab the man and drag him away as his eyes land on the ball - 27. Ho shit, bad arithmetic. That's not higher thirds, man. A mocking smile in the eyes of the floor manager - an undercover cop, a veritable villain of the masses. Sambaman gambles and lo and behold, looses, OK not all of it, but a sizable portion. The house always wins, man, in the sum total of all dealings.

The hangover morning - always the last one, spent mostly at the Vegas airport, that last flytrap for unsuspecting tourists, hanging onto that threadbare rope of hope. But, this is Sambaman. You don't fuck with a Brazilian on a roll, man. He emerges from the muck with some salvation money - about a month's rent or so, as the duo head back to LA, sipping a virgin Bloody Mary mix and an OJ.

Poached Gondolas on Tibetan Curry

I got up this morning and wanted to write - not try to be coherent and check myself on turning points and character descriptions, but just write. So, here I am - shirking away from all the responsibilities that come with a glorious Friday morning. Have to make a million calls, coordinate schedules, complete my ugly storyboards, send random faxes to people in undoubted positions of authority, but all that can wait, because I am throwing up in a literal sense here.

I am not being judgmental here, but wouldn't you agree it's better than most vices? I mean, it's not like I am taking three swigs out of my whiskey flask first thing this Friday morning and then trying to be coherent and productive the rest of the day, though, now that I think about it, that sounds delicious. Talking of delicious, I had forgotten how good ketchup and black pepper can taste - on an omelet of course. It's the right amount of sweet and spicy that seduces my tongue (sorry, that sounds a little dirty when I read it back!). Aah - the simple pleasures of life - the gifts of an urbane, middle-class upbringing!

You know a writer is loosing it when he uses too many exclamation marks, or 'bangs', as they call it in the South! This taking for granted of his audience, that they wouldn't get the subtext, so let's bombard them with miniature surreal imagery after every sentence - aah the insecurities of today's writer. The exclamation mark is the literal version of a sex scene in a film. Oh, ah, the audience isn't getting it, let's put in a sex scene, light it beautifully, and they'll forgive all story issues.

Wow, I sound angrier than I though I was. It's that weird kind of anger, that has no specific cause. Maybe, it's angst?! Hmm, we'll never know, because there aren't too many exclamation marks in this post. I remember reading Hunter S. Thompson somewhere where he said writing is only good and enjoyable when no one is binding you to do it. I am paraphrasing in shittier language of course. He was talking about his angst at waking up and writing articles as a journalist, sometimes on things he didn't care about.

How did we get here? Weren't we talking about ketchup and pepper on eggs right now? Are you still reading this? Are you? Why? I mean I appreciate it and all, but seriously, why? If I had three choices, I would wish for a neverending supply of toner ink for my dry printer without having to leave home, and for a fax machine at home. Gawd, why are we still using these? Didn't we evolve enough to telepathise with one another? We are humans for christssake, not wild animals, like Fantastic Mr. Fox and his friends. Good movie by the way. I liked it. If I had a kid, I would make the little bastard watch it. It would be an interesting experiment to see if he/she could sit through it. How out of touch with pediatrics am I?

I am not even going to read what I started writing now. It's veered off its path so much that going back there could cause fear and paranoia of the worst kind. But isn't that the point? The whole shazam about the journey and not the destination. I was recently told I have too much ambition to be a hippy and it broke my heart. So, I bared it out with the only living grandfather and he simply said if you don't have a destination, you cannot start on your journey. OK fine, he used more pedestrian language, but that's essentially what he said, or I think he did. But I want my critic to see my now - in this morning of weakness and still tell me I have too much ambition.

Sweet Sixteen

The clock ticked ahead shyly for eternity

And I feel a new prickle under my arms.

Daddy, I need a mic for my sweet sixteen!

I wanna sing to all my friends about Tony.

Tony is pink and hairy and jumps on troubles

Like they were three mice stealing from me

As if I were a Nazi dairy running very dry,

Forever after Peter and Michael, before him.

Oh, Daddy, Tony is sick and I need a mic

To tell my friends if he'll make it through.

I need them to sing back that it'll be okay,

That he'll pull through like Peter and Michael.

All my friends sing into mics and I can't.

Why don't I have a mic when I have Tony?

You promised me a mic this warm winter

To play with Peter and Michael, and Tony.

Hurry up, Daddy, Tony is almost blue now

All the pink has rubbed onto the three mice

Who are dancing like the poor in December,

Drinking my milk, eating my Camembert.

Oh Daddy, what have you done?

Tony has left - grown wings and flown away

Unlike Peter and Michael, before him

Who continue to run like headless mice.

No I don't want Peter and Michael

They are dirty now, like the Camembert.

I want a mic, damnit; gimme a mic

I wanna sing my troubles to the world.

Screw you, Daddy, I don't want your mic.

I can shout and scream to my good people.

I am sure they can hear me without a mic.

Lemme sing why you won't give me a mic.

Arachnophobia at 2:14 AM

Another sleepless night. Another forced technological intervention. Facebook at 2:14 am, hoping to fall asleep on the banalities of others' lives, when suddenly - a spider - black, but subtly back lit by the spill from the laptop monitor against a dull, yet rough white wall. Jesus! Arachnophobia past mid-night. Surely, there must be a law against this kind of behavior somewhere, but not here, heck no, this is Hollywood, man. We snack on spider tissue because we are cool and need to tell everyone how much. The desk lamp is turned on and renders a little orange warmth to the cold blue light of the laptop.

What are you doing, man? You are not Peter Fuckin' Parker. Run around, make some noise, wake the neighbors, call the super. Sanity versus Exhibitionism. Front row tickets. I fight the urge to let the battle ensue in that brilliant light. Meanwhile, the poor bastard is running towards Lennon and his lyrics of Imagine on the wall. Light doesn't affect his motion I noticed. Maybe the sucker is blind. Maybe it's a blind spider. Or maybe, all spiders are blind. They are supposed to be. Not evolved enough. If this was taking place centuries later and I were just telekinesising the fuck outta this blog post, maybe the spider would stop, do a steamy little number for me, sing in a deep Kathleen Turner voice and take a bow, but not tonight - this is just a post-modern saga, not some futuristic Phillip F. Dick novel.

The ten count is over. Exhibitionism is lying face down in a pool of its own blood somewhere in my subconsciousness. I walk over to the bathroom, trying not to shake for my companion, but once out of sight, my dirty little shaking hands tear a piece of TP off - a clinical move, reeking with mercenary efficiency. I walk back - an epitome of Nihilistic Buddhism, TP in one hand, silence hovering over my lips like a mistress at a funeral and nothing but the creature's reflections in my two eyes. It's almost over now I tell myself. We look at one another. It stops, for what can only be melodramatic effect. "Breathe, muthafucka. Enjoy the last five seconds of your miserable, mountaineering domestic life." Strong words for a monster-slayer. Pulp! It's done. Just like adolescent sex - anticipation far outweighing the act. I crush it between my thumb and forefinger a couple of times, just to be sure.

I bury the fucker in my trashcan, where rest countless other household bugs. If these goddamn animals have afterlives, they are bitching about me right now over some dirty Tecates and mouthfuls of crunchy pork tacos. Ouch! That must have hurt. Sanity is suddenly coughing blood as Exhibitionism punches him under the belt while I type this out for other insomniacs awake at this hour. As they say, it ain't over till the fat lady squeals and we all know Exhibitionism is one large bitch.

Ladies and Gentleman, please fasten your seatbelts - tonight's meal - BBQ-ed medulla oblongata

I am a blind pilot, passing over some ice-topped mountains in Greenland. I can't see anything of course, but if I could, it would be like a dessert cooked in a household of Irish-English heritage, if such a thing is at all discernible. But there lies the quandary, because the smell at the time would just be stale, metallic, reproduced oxygen - your staple fare at 3000 feet above air. And what good can descriptions by unimaginative over-traveled heavily mustached colleagues paint.

It's not like I'll loosen my thin tie and wipe my broad forehead between adjustments of the sexy, sleek pilot's hat when we cruise over the vast chromeness of the Sahara, dotted with occasional black olives of royal guards. Sounds like Colin Firth in A Serious, no sorry, Single Man, innit? Fidgeting around the autopilot controls and seeing the black sheen of a .38 caliber flashing the finality of death. For that one tenth of a second, the urge to be engulfed in the dull chromeness, ostensibly in an effort to pick out and eat the olives, french-kisses the hell out of me.

As the mustaches demand an urban detour, the blindness whisks away like a particularly persistent cloud cover, leaving me in the realm of the .38 caliber's ugliness, to sculpt the patron's unpleasant wife or the neighbor's leprous maid. I choose Khartoum with its beautifully carved chess pieces for us to tamper with. The mustaches are happy. They can cover themselves in white rags of comforting cotton while their bosses slug it out over games of chess between puffs of mint flavored hookah.

And so to Awadh, which would be modern day... , wait lemme Google, aah Lucknow, my initial hunch was right - the land of kababs and shayari, though right now, it's probably festered with terribly accented call centers and smoggy dark gray traffic. Fuck, I would kill for a kabab right now, which is ironic, because, if you don't kill, you can't produce a kabab. Why do some people spell kabab with an e? It might be a Turkish conspiracy to recapture the world in the name of commoditizing world peace. I have a hunch - personal interaction with modern-day Ottomans I tell you, not the kind you put your feet on, well I suppose you could, but they tend to be bony and fuck with your ankles. If only I had a pig like the Queen of Hearts, but the stink, oh the stink. Haha... irony alert again - pigs taking over Ottoman jobs!

Maybe I'm just hungry. BBQ pork chops would never taste better, I promise. But something tells me the magic is in the BBQ sauce and not the meet. Can you imagine tasteless crap like veggies, that your mama gets you to eat every living hour, with BBQ sauce? This is bigger than world peace, man. This is the Food Network on acid. Just dab the damn thing in BBQ sauce and voila, you have solved world hunger. Why are we dropping food concentrates in African wastelands? Let's shower them with BBQ sauce. Take that UN!

Aren't some African societies cannibalistic? Would they try to eat each other then - dabbed in BBQ sauce? If only Hannibal Lector were more white-trash than such a cultured prick, we would know what BBQ sauce on human meat tasted like. None of that 'I fried his liver with some flava beans and had it with a nice cianti' crap, I'm talkin' about downright BBQ-ed medulla oblongata here. Is 'cannibalistic society' an oxymoron? Is 'oxymoron' an oxymoron?

Short Film 'Six Women'

Please check out the website for my thesis short 'Six Women'.
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1631757069/funding-for-production-of-short-dramedy-six-women

Thanks

Stolen Moments

A mouthful of overheard gibberish water cooler Arabic, those indecipherable yet beautiful conversations in the barbershop, the imperfect tip of a McDonald's $1 vanilla ice-cream cone, drive-through desserts on three full stomachs, liquid body soap, revolting against this to maternal authority, the magnificence of Cirque Du Soleil's "Love" in Vegas, clandestine "Please Please Me" on the black double deck stereo system during Geography homework, watching The Graduate in Directing Class, Simon and Garfunkel listening for the sounds of silence on that very first CD, speeding tickets, the impotent little electronic screams of the new Cressida when driven over 120 kmph, two whole CD's of Kishor's sadness, the orphan gray cassette that turned up in WNJ 6666, advanced cinematography, the Alipore Zoo pictures of a 1988 early morning on that first Kodak, girlfriends, ICQ, Godfather II on the Xbox 360 on a black futon, Xcite Bike on Super Ninetendo on a grayish pink sofa set, momentary bursts of singing in the shower when the mind suddenly soars for no apparent reason, a year of tabla classes to get the basics down, ugly storyboards, a pair of comical ears on a bird flying by, Hulu, the Crystal Maze, Pandora in IMAX 3D, Indy's last few hops and skips on an invisible bridge, the overworked community treadmill, the first Oedipal chess victory, this impulsiveness, the dull chrome of Sunshine.

Your Inheritance

You like to wear your hair short

And your mother is in full cohort,

Having forgotten our matted days

Of picketing for Rosa through the haze.

Your little girl wears tight jeans today

As blue as the free misty ocean spray

Which wet the hems of our bell bottoms

Before the man jailed us and got 'em.

You shout against animals and ozone

And while I may not have an iPhone

Count me in when you sign your petition

To bring my voice - that invisibly loud gun.

Sapphire

Originally published at PFC: http://passionforcinema.com/sapphire/

Claudia

It was a usual hungry chilly morning

When you waltzed in through the window

Wading through the specks of sunlit dirt

With pure lyrical Felliniesque fluidity.

Then you changed into something rich

Red like the torn petal of a discarded rose

And we made love in one another's sweat

Scared to close our eyes lest we woke up.

And then the moon appeared in a starless sky

And pulled you away from my tight embrace

To take you through a different open window

Into another pair of welcoming arms.

Rain

I love it when it rains. And no, it's not just the smell of the wet earth, because I live in a concrete jungle. Like most recent things, it is aesthetic in nature. And not just any damn drizzle, but I am talking about mother pouring rains like the kind Maharashtrian farmers pray for. The roads are wet, throwing back at us our very own luminance - the red, amber, green of the traffic signals, mixed on this black shiny canvas, with the different neon signs of the curbside shops.

It's better late at night when you don't have to share the canvas with the other voyeurs, creeping on the veins of the highway to death with their little signals of red paint, to stop and stare. You creep on, like a newly transmitted virus into the veins of a busy lawyer's body, taking in more and infecting more with your illuminating gaze. The wipers disturb you with their loud whirring with the sustained punctuality of a Chinese factory worker.

But if you happen to step out earlier, as the pink and transparent umbrellas vie for the uniform grayness of the rainy sky, you catch that smile that escapes the creased zipper of a pair of tight thin painted lips, as her beau steps into a puddle and gets his boring white socks wet, while she shows off her new furry boots to him. But he ignores her fur and only curses at his wetness, knowing little that he would revisit this scene later all by himself and wonder why he hadn't clung to her instead of his shoes.

Then there is the whole menagerie of shiny colors composed with the pink and the transparent through your windshield, through the whirring Chinese wipers. And when you turn the wipers off and let the cascade of the pureness of the rainwater wash your vessel down, your pupils open up welcomingly at the brilliant fluidity of the oil painting that looks like it's still in progress and is the product of the creativity of some artist's under-worked hand using some musty water colors.

Classic Ménage á Trois – Jules et Jim

Originally published at PFC here: http://passionforcinema.com/classic-menage-a-trois-jules-et-jim/

Thank You Dear Amnesia

"too many locations", "too little money", "not enough time", "too many characters", "too many scenes"! Self doubt raised its ugly head in the midst of all the nay sayers, and hung around for a couple of days. Consecutive winter afternoons of searching for that elusive self-confidence in vain, resulting self-loathing and that sinking, helpless feeling that you aren't good enough to swim with the baby sharks. The commitment was shaken off my rocker.

A child was born to combat the depression. A little girl in a red dress craving some ice-cream on a park bench from her miserly grandfather. An accordion playing street musician offered himself to me, but refused to jam with a fellow street guitarist. The red and yellow and blue of the park sky helped me weed out the gray musicians, but deep down it still hurt. Friendly advice, like good alcohol taken on a full stomach, took its time being potent.

Cut to the last critical studies class this afternoon. "We'll watch something weird today". I had watched Eternal Sunshine before and let myself sprawl on the black, wooden yet cold desk. Sometimes amnesia can be a wonderful thing. It had been a while and the sheer brilliance of the film had evaporated from the cauldron of my conscious memory. As I sat there in the uncomfortable black plastic chair, causing what I am pretty sure is long term damage to my spinal cord, the resolve returned gradually as the film progressed, culminating in the nontarnishable white clarity I find myself in at the moment, the same white that Jim Carrey and Kate Winslett playing together like little children on a misty beach in the last shot of the film dissolve to. The girl in the red dress died and the story with the "too many locations, characters and scenes" and with "too little time and money" to make, about forgetting the past returned, for good, I think. Thank you Dear Sweet Amnesia.

A Social Experiment

A fun little social experiment conducted in LA's busy Hollywood Boulevard.

A Vignette

As he inhaled, the quiet of the corn field let him hear the little searing of his joint, introducing a little dash of vermillion into his otherwise hibernating subconscious. The sound brought back nostalgia-dripped memories to his otherwise arid existence. He remembered the first time he was here, back when hair had first sprouted on his upper lip, led by the obese, experienced hand of the Russian maid. It must have not lasted more than a couple of minutes but on that lazy afternoon, as the sun bore down harshly on the maid's bare back, coloring it with its inimitable red, he had finally become what he had dreamed of – a content and peaceful but sweating warrior.

Anna Karina in B&W

The search was unsuccessful. Even something as vast as the world wide web was unable to throw me the face I was seeking for my desktop. I wasn't asking for too much, was I? - just the right sized image of Anna Karina's sad mascaraed eyes in her expressionless face encased by her short hair in B&W in the just watched Godard film 'Vivre Sa Vie'. Sometimes I wonder if I can ever write a single post about a single thing without flying off on intangible tangents (for an answer, read the last paragraph), but what if that thing is absolutely the most beautiful imperfect thing in the world. Of course there is no such thing, since beauty, much like love, is too subjective to discuss anywhere other than in personal blogs.

If you look into those delicate dark honey colored eyes, you will realize, She isn't a traditional beauty by any means. There is a certain melancholy in those eyes, or even, a harshness that can unleash terrible genocide on the world, that She hides as she rocks back her head and laughs with apparent abandon and reduces my lifespan by just a petite bit. Watch Her use Her eyes seductively while rolling them to American rock 'n roll. Or when she wears her longer hair up in other films - that cruel invention by French women, to reveal that slender, sensuous nape of her neck.

A friend of mine recently told me that one of his ex-girlfriend's once told him that life is best in slow motion and black and white. And now I am telling you, or maybe just rambling silently, but the latter isn't the point. And I remember an uncle putting in words that I had felt for a while but couldn't express, probably a terrible thing for a writer - B&W is so soothing on the eyes. He couldn't have been more right. Visualize it - no extra hue and cry over over-saturated reds and blues projected on the gentle unsuspecting white of your retinas, a binary concept for the most part - the presence of light and the lack of it. The eyes even forgive the nondescript grays from time to time as long as there is a fair amount of black and white that they regard. And the poetry, oh the silent poetry, of high contrast B&W.

Graffiti

Her slender artistic fingers clutching that last cigarette,

His unlined palms.

Her bouncing love handles as she laughs her infectious laugh,

His skinny jeaned legs.

The enviable straightness of her long blond flowing hair,

His receding hairline.

The slender nape of her neck when she wears her hair up,

His jutting Adam's apple.

Her color changing eyes depending on where you stand,

His Lennon glasses.

Her parentheses as she smiles her faint smile in recognition,

His luscious lower lip.

Her bunny rabbit-like slightly chipped happy buck teeth,

His ying yang molars.

Her uncleft chin protruding just enough to be bitten twice,

His bony collar bones.

The loose yet unobtrusive almost cutish fat on her triceps,

His apex cheek bones.

The virginal innocent curiosity of her pointy pink nipples,

His curly black chest.

The secret little hidden mole high on her inner left thigh,

The lint in his navel.

Her red toe nails synchronized like small Russian dancers,

His turtle shell elbows.

Her broad Viking shoulders that can carry all his weight,

His Frank Zappa that makes her smile.

Delicatessen – How to Tell a Story through Sound

Originally published at PFC: http://passionforcinema.com/delicatessen-how-to-tell-a-story-through-sound/

The Cutting of 'The 400 Blows'

Originially published at PFC: http://passionforcinema.com/the-cutting-of-the-400-blows

A Day in the Life of Two Farm Animals

The sky has suddenly gone dark, depriving us one of those Californian sureties - a sunset, as if a housewife in Victorian garb in an anti-Liliputian world has mistaken our sun for a poached egg and served it to her farmer husband for breakfast. Maybe he belches a little, and even farts as an afterthought, resonating the crowing of the hen as it yawns and turns off its alarm clock - one of those retro pieces whose rude unfiltered ringing always gives you a headache the first thing in the morning. Maybe there is a system, and every day of the week a different hen crows at approximately the same time, but in a different note, and during their leisure time, the seven hens make music with their respective notes, and the farmer, or his wife for that matter, can't stop them because they are protected by severe labor laws, like in Italy.

Maybe the wife envies the labor laws and wishes she had something like that to accentuate her nagging as a defense mechanism. After all, who likes to wake up and serve breakfast to an uncouth man lacking Victorian manners. I wonder what she does when all the housework is over and she's had her fourteen hour bath, say at 11 am, when her husband is off in the farm, buttering up the hens. She can't be thinking of sex, can she? I mean she doesn't really have a frame of reference, does she? A few minutes of pain under Victorian layers and navy blue overalls can't be much fun. And that's all she's ever had. Now, she has no poster of blue-eyed Paul Newman on the rickety walls of her bathroom to touch herself in the bath, does she? Maybe she thinks about how the hens do it, but then she falsely realizes that they are asexual beings.

The man gets drunk on milk after he returns home from the farm. Stop being so cynical! It's hen's milk. You can reach an intoxicated existence if you have enough of it. Plus, it works slowly, like arsenic, and builds up an involuntary craving in its users over years, much like an arcane piece of art or music that grows itself on you gradually, like a Parisian parasitic virus. Maybe he starts talking in guttural French after he is completely inebriated. He puts on an invisible tutu and puts on a little dance for his wife, singing in an Edith Piaf voice during the performance. She laughs, throwing her arms around and brushing the tears off the corners of her squinty little hen-like eyes, rocking back dangerously in her wooden chair, that she is anyway spilling out of. She knows he does back flips for the hens on the farm that she will never see, and yet, she is happy for a few minutes, to sample this cultured little departure, before they both fall asleep in their respective perches, not really ready, but still thankful, to be woken up by a different note.