This is Amortya Ray’s personal blog. He is passionate about technology, all things Apple, New York, Dunkin Donuts and of course Scarlett Johansson. Amongst others.
Last night, after getting home from an exhausting 4 hour drive from Virginia (and, no I didn’t drive. I can’t drive. *GASP* But sleeping in the back seat of a sedan that’s stuffed with 2 comforters, 2 pillows and a gazillion coats is a tough job, so youbettershutthefuckup), I unpack (read: drop two dirty boxers and shorts into the hamper), shower, shave and hop on the train into the city.
I meet my friends at Tramonti in the Theatre District and after pigging out on some super delicious fried calamari, I start ordering the main course. Except that I couldn’t. Because the menu looked like it was written in Aramaic. I’m trying figure out what the hell on the menu was penne with marinara sauce. The entire menu blurs into a haze of disorganized gibberish and I start to get a migrane and all I want is some food and WHY CAN”T ALL MENU’S BE AS EASY AS OLIVE GARDEN’S?! Seriously, Olive Garden has to be God’s gift to mankind. Or Mussolini’s. Or whoever invented Olive Garden. What are people like me, who are Italiano illiterate, supposed to eat? Which makes me wonder, WHY DON’T I KNOW THIS ALREADY!? Why isn’t stuff like this taught in colleges? Skills like how to read the menu at a fancy-schmancy Italian ristorante are so crucial to one’s wholesome development and to adapt successfully to real life in the real world and to not get a smirk from the cocky waiter as he judges you for struggling to pronounce Capellini Mare e Monti. And what in fucks name even does Capellini Mare e Monti even mean?! Why can’t you call it what it is: spaghetti, beans, mushrooms and tomatoes. Except that it wasn’t spaghetti, but something called angel hair pasta. Which reinforces my point about why important information like the gazillion types of pasta and the subtle differences between spaghetti and angel hair pasta be made a part of core college curriculum. Young impressionable adults need to prepare themselves cope with the pressures that await them in the real world of fine Italian dining that goes well beyond Ray’s Pizza.
But all’s not lost. I did meet a guy who has Jack Bauer’s job. And I go, “Yeah right! The fuck you do.” But he does. Almost. He works as an interrogator for a international organization. The moment he said that, my brains were blown away. Like icky, sticky brain matter splattered on the wall after a game of Russian roulette, blown away. Of course, this guy played it down largely, saying all he did was question officials to detect fraud and corruption. But still, to think that he sits in a dimly lit room having a single light hanging from the ceiling swinging back and forth, in front of a man chained to the floor, having drips inserted in his arm injecting him with whatever-the-hell-it-is truth serum is called, calmly asking for cooperation, breaking a few fingers, threatening him with more violence, and offering immunity deals when required, gave me like a teeny-tiny orgasm! But then again, I also think that Hiro Nakamura is the coolest character on television, so that’s not saying much about me. I know, I watch wayy too much television.
Few things in life are better than getting wasted on a Wednesday evening. Very few things.
So I attended a charity event this evening in New York. It was a fundraiser for an organization called SAYA that is devoted to benefiting South Asian kids from New York City. It was hosted at a club called Greenhouse. All through the week, my friends and me kept discussing over email whether this event was worth our totally precious time, because we’re like all so awesome and like all so busy and oh did I mention that we’re all so awesome that our time is worth like a gigaazzilion bullions of platinum. One of the reasons, we did decide to attend the event was that Greenhouse is an extremely exclusive club and most regular people don’t ever manage to get in. So that being decided, we grab a platter from the dude on 53rd and 6th and hop onto the E train downtown.
The mandatory image that, I realize, adds no value to my writing
The place was exactly how I imagined it would be. Very sleek, excellent ambience and the most ridiculously expensive half priced drinks that made me feel like I was selling my soul to pay for. The crowd was primarily Indian, because, well it was a South Asian Youth event. So yah. Now the reason I have a dismal record at talking to women at bars/clubs is because I feel the need to have a lot of quiet around me to hold a meaningful conversation. Or even to exchange a word. Or two. Now the DJ at the club was real good, but too goddamn loud for a networking event. I mean COME ON! If I’m supposed to mingle with people, AT LEAST LET ME HEAR THEM SPEAK! So I manage to introduce myself after having gotten close enough to make out with the fungus that grows on the wax in her ears, I go like, “What do you think of this place?” and she’s yells, “Vodka and cranberry juice”, and I go, “Hmm.. Okay.” WTF.
After that I’m like, “Screw it. Where’s my drink?” And that is when the awesomeness got cranked up to the max. Because after my Long Island, most of the evening flew by in a wonderful haze that I can barely recall. Except the part when I’m talking to a friend and I’m all, “Hey! Why are you wearing pants?” YES! I’m the undisputed champion of awkward moments.
My wonderful parents, who have been blissfully married for 26 years, celebrated their anniversary today. And I, as the dutiful, financially independent, first-born, decided to take them to dinner. So we drive down to this really fancy Chinese restaurant in Bombay called Mainland China. And whilst waiting the appetizers to be served, Mommy decides to regale the crowd with some scintillating tales from their younger days. Now be warned, Momma Ray is a fabulous storyteller. Her educational background in literature and history, along with her innate talent for the gab, makes her one heck of a conversationalist. So as I wait for my pan fried dumplings, Ma tells the story of her’s and Baba’s wedding anniversary in Bangalore. Yes, the one where an overfed, 3-year old me decided to be a rather gracious guest at the restaurant and throw up all over the floor. In excruciatingly graphic detail. Now, as I have no recollection of the aforementioned incident ever taking place, it’s my word against her’s. Oh and yes, my parents were charged extra for the ‘cleaning up’ of the toddler’s puke. This story, however, pales in comparison to the next one where I pooped under the table at a restaurant. YES I DID! My childhood is full of such lovely anecdotes about shit and vomit. And about making a mess on the menu card when a daring stunt with chopsticks and oriental cabbage salad goes woefully wrong. YES I DID!
From stinky turds to the greatest dessert ever created, gentlemen, I give you, the sizzling brownie. And a shout out to Lil’ m, yes- it does sizzle!
Today my Mum was asked to be judge for a dance competition at the local Saraswati Pujo in Lokhandwala Complex, Bombay. And for some reason, she had been insisting all day that I accompany her to the event. And as much as I didn’t want to go, I decided to be a good son for once, and tag along. BIG MISTAKE!
Really? I don't think so!
It was only after I got to the ground that I realized the devious ways my Mum’s mind works in. Well, I shouldn’t have been surprised. She is after all MY mother! Mommy was totally pimping me out for all the eligible girls present there. Here’s how it worked. I was standing with my Dad on one side of the ground checking out the food stalls (obviously!). Ma goes about socializing and networking like she’s one of the girls from SATC. But truth be told, her hawk eyes were scouting for nubile, young women to pitch to me. And after she’s done with her recon mission, she calls me over and introduces me to her friends AND their daughters. She’s goes like, “Here is my son. Engineer. NRI. And doesn’t he look like Abhishek Bachchan?”. Obviously, she couldn’t tell me anything straight up, but one look in her eyes and I knew what her end game was. She’s cute na? She’s well educated, has a good job, comes from a good family and can cook! Why don’t you call her sometime? Of course, if she had it her way, she would have probably had me engaged then and there. Thankfully though, I managed to drag her by the hand away from all the madness. She was quiet, but her body language was yelling, “I AM NOT GETTING ANY YOUNGER. I WANT GRANDCHILDREN! AND I WANT THEM NOW! THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT, EVEN IF I HAVE TO KNOCK YOUR ASS UNCONSCIOUS AND MAKE YOU TAKE THE GODDAMN PHERAS”
The central truth of my existence is that I am at my creative best when I’m fast asleep. Unfortunately, I’m not the best when it comes to retaining that information. I have it vividly clear when I’m in bed and gloriously snoring, but can never remember the juicy bits as soon as I open my eyes. Whats with that? So yeah, the idea for this one came to me as a thought in my dream. And I’m all, “Wow, that would make for a very interesting post on the blog”. And my dream self, who happens to be a whole lot smarter than me, suggests that it would be a good idea if we make a mental note of it. My physical subconscious self wholeheartedly agrees. So my slumberland manifestation decides to jot it down. Yep, in retrospect that was a total dumbass decision. Because dream Morty is after all just a dream. And as soon as I open my eyes, he’s all POOF! Vanishes right in front of me. And leaves me to collect the remnants of what would have been a kickass post if only I could remember what it was all about.
So the thought that popped up in my dream this morning, I think, is one of the things that I find extremely annoying and inappropriate and completely wrong with the universe. Guys who use the word ‘dear‘ in conversation with other guys. And not in a grandfatherly ‘my dear‘ kind of way. More like in a ‘yes dear‘ sort of ridiculously schmoozingly castrating way. Every time I hear a guy use ‘dear‘ in written English, or even worse spoken out loud, my respect for them plummets to the depths of the nether world. Nothing is worse than a guy chopping his own balls off and serving them with bolognese sauce.
On other more delicious thoughts, I was recently introduced to the orgasmic pleasures of eating sushi. It was lil’ m’s birthday last week, and big M, lil’ m, Mixie and me celebrated it at Komegashi, a rather fancy joint in Jersey City. I’ve always been a little skeptical about sushi, well, because it’s RAW FUCKING FISH! But lil’ m did a fabulous job of introducing me to the cuisine. Maybe it was hormones or maybe she’s just getting all maternal on my ass, but she’s like, “Try this Morty. It has cream cheese. It’ll mask the taste of the fish. Or try this one- it has avacados in it. A little high on calories, but that’s alright.” And I was all but salivating with my puppy dog eyes wide open. Almost like when I was learning to ride a bike. Or when Dr. Bhonsle, the sex-ed consultant in 9th grade showed Mrs. Sanghamitra’s class of 40 curious, overly enthusiastic and horny boys a diagram of a vagina.
A few hours ago I tried importing all the posts from my old Blogger blog (all 66 of them) into this one. And as I was painstakingly rearranging the newly imported posts, categories and tags, I realized that a majority of those articles were from a past life. A life that has long left me behind. A life I’ve tried hard to leave and only partially succeeded. And as I gave cursory reads to some of the posts, I kept going back to that place that I’m desperately trying to forget. And on an impulse to do something wild, I hit delete. JUST LIKE THAT. I clicked delete. BOOM! And did it make me feel better? I don’t know. I can’t tell yet.
I suddenly remembered a promise I made to a coworker to bestow on her pseudo Internet celebrity status. So Shonan, as you enjoy the delicious tiramisu from Hot & Crusty flanked by your birthday presents- the hunky Edward and Jacob, I hope that someday my blog hits superstardom and you shall thereby be immortalized in the annals of the Internets.
Shonan with Edward and Jacob
My New Year celebrations were surprisingly fabulous. After spending the last few hours of 2009 at my pal D’s apartment, I bounced to another house party where I barely knew more than 3 people. The roads were slushy. I wasn’t dressed appropriately enough for a party. And that last shot of patron was starting to kick in. Oh and not to mention, this was my FIRST EVER party that was busted by cops! Kinda lame, I know, since I’m like all of 25. But fuck you.
For the clueless, the title of this post refers to the ubiquitous line every train traveler in Bombay should have uttered at least once in their lifetime. Roughly translated it means, “Dude, on what side of the train is the platform gonna be?”.
Yes, I’m visiting my parents, sister and grandmum in Bombay, India after nearly 2 years. And the experience has been, well, mixed. As I exited the airport after haggling with the customs officer, a ferocious blast of heat hits me. Ah! The advantages of living in a tropical country. I went from subzero temperatures to absolute sweltering heat. On the bright side, I had some delicious butter chicken awaiting me as I got home! Yum!
A few thoughts on my first day in the motherland.
A massive infrastructure project in the city has pretty much resulted in all of the suburb roads being dug up. Yes, ALL OF IT! A direct consequence of it is that it quadruples the time taken to travel any distance. The ride from my parents’ home to the train station, which typically takes less than half an hour, yesterday, took over an hour.
Which brings me to my second observation. Whoever thought that it was a brilliant idea to put LCD screens in the mass transit buses, needs to be strung up upside down and flogged to death. I was holding my throbbing head to stop the unbearable pain. And the producer who came up with the ridiculous programs/commercials that are aired, needs to be buried. Alive.
The general population seems to have a complete disregard for any kind of nasal hygiene. People simply stuck their index fingers into their noses and shagged it with the joy akin to jerking off.
I also visited the home of my most favorite person in the whole world. My drama teacher from when I was a kid. Unfortunately, she was out. So I had to contend with leaving a hastily scribbled note with my Mum’s telephone number, because as ridiculous as it sounds, I couldn’t remember my own phone number.
I have also started immunizing my body with a variety of scrumptious delicacies from the streets of Bombay. Nimbu pani, chicken frankie, samosa, vada pav, dabeli, roadside chinese food, topped with maaza. Slurp!
This was just day 1. Stay tuned for more of my India shenanigans.
I was meeting a friend for dinner yesterday and it was the one thing I was looking forward to in an otherwise mundane day. Said friend leaves me a voicemail message confirming the appointment and Google Voice picks it up for me. I get an email with the message transcribed. Here’s what the email said:
Google avoid Bailey. Okay, so I am on the train heading out of I. D and she gave me about 25 minutes to get you want and if it’s good and maybe another month rent. Another thing, and 130 minutes of each show, you can just so kind of speculate about an hour from now. I need to get to follow up with the okay, so I’ll give me a call when I get out of the subway. Alright, see you there. Bye.
So I’m all what the fuck? Google screwed up? What am I going to do now? I thought they knew everything about my life? Now I have to figure out where to go ALL BY MYSELF!? I start attempting to decode the message. No dice. I finally give up and just walk down to Trader Joes, where my friend was planning to go. Why, really? Cause cheap wine is awesome. Not as awesome as Bailey’s. Because Bailey’s is fucking awesome.
So we hop on to the green line and head to Ravagh and our lovely waitress tells us that they didn’t have any lamb shank. And I’m like get out of my face already lady!? What did you just say? No lamb shank? What do I do now? I HAVE NO REASON TO LIVE. I was devastated. So after settling for some kebobs, and an appetizer and some non-shanky lamb stew, both of which had the word bademjan in it and contained inordinately large amounts of eggplant, we got done with the meal. But I’m still upset that we didn’t get the lamb shank. And especially mad because my friend didn’t get to try it since I’d been raving about it for the longest time.
Later last night, it hits me that I can listen to the message. That’s right, lissssennn to the message. After the unnecessarily long period when I felt like a total dumbass for not knowing this, I play the message. Here’s what she REALLY said:
Google Voice, really? Okay, so I’m on the train heading out of White Plains and it will take me about 25 minutes to get to 125th street and another 30 minutes maybe to reach Union Square, so kind of calculate about an hour from now for me to get to 14th street. Okay? I’ll give you a call when I get out of the subway. Alright, see you there. Bye.
Google, as awesome as you really are, and as much as I blindly trust you with pretty much every itsy-bitsy bit of information about life (not like I have a choice), its about time you got your shit together and transcribe my voicemails correctly. I’m at a point in life where machines help me make most of my decisions, and NO ONE TAKES THAT AWAY FROM ME!
