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.
Earlier this week, I decided to be volunteer patient for a Lil’ M’s dentist sister Dr. Hottie. She’s taking her final licensing exams in a few days, and needed someone to practice her toothy sciences on. Now normally, I have plenty of productive things to on a Monday evening, but instead I decide to head to the NYU College of Dentistry and spend the evening with Dr. Hottie working on my oral hygiene. Now the main reason I decided to do this is because I was led to believe that Lil’ M would be playing the role of Dr. Hottie’s assistant. And obviously, I couldn’t let go of the chance to see her in a slutty nurse outfit. Sadly, I was mistaken. I KNOW I KNOW that I need to spend more time watching Grey’s Anatomy and less watching porn so I have a better idea of what the average dentist’s assistant wears at work.
Dr. Hottie and her business-suit-wearing fake assistant
So there I am, sitting on the awesome robotic dental chair. Lil’ M’s having an awesome time playing with the suction tube thingy stuck in my mouth. And Dr. Hottie is looking at my teeth with that judge-y in her eyes. And I yell back, “STOP JUDGING ME! IT’S NOT MY FAULT I HAVE HORRIBLE TEETH! IT’S INHERITED!” The maternal side of my family must be part British because we have the worst teeth ever. Discolored teeth, tooth decay, bleeding gums, cavities, worn or broken teeth- we have them all. And my father’s side of the family. They’re the Brangelina’s of a community of people that’s been cursed with bad teeth. My Dad though has got a phenomenal set of teeth AND he hasn’t been to a dentist a single day in his life. Sadly, natural selection doesn’t work the way I want it to or else, today, I’d be a heart-throbby rocket scientist working for NASA with a million dollar smile and an equally awesome paycheck. Instead I’m a lowly code monkey with no lateral incisors, an ugly nose zit thingy and a gift for digital stalking. Which is one of the reasons why I have had such long lasting relationships with my dentists. Yes, plural. My first ever dentist was a vision of ethereal, jaw-dropping beauty. Her stunning features, flawless face, and that killer smile melted my heart instantly. And when my mother saw that infatuated look in my eyes, she decided that nip the fledging romance and my evolving player status in the bud. And sent me to an all-boys school. And moved the family television to her bedroom. Because of, well, Sonali Bendre. Also, all of my subsequent dentists were dudes, even the dumbass ones that extracted the wrong teeth or filled the one that didn’t have a cavity. You hear that Ma? THAT IS THE REASON I’M STILL SINGLE AND YOU DON’T HAVE ANY GRANDCHILDREN YET!
So this morning while I’m having breakfast and staying up-to-date on my Facebook stalkees (don’t act like you don’t do it), I come across pictures of this girl I knew a long time ago. She was the girl I had my first ever crush on. We met when we were 10 and I knew her for five long years before my family moved to the suburbs and that broke my fragile adolescent heart. Sigh. Fortunately for the creep in me, she hadn’t changed the settings on her albums, making my job as stalker extraordinaire´, a cakewalk. I saw that she had posted her wedding pictures online. And after giving them a cursory glance, the first thought that came to my mind was, “Ugh! That’s the d-bag you’re married to!? Dooood, you should have totally married me. In addition to the perks that being Mrs. Ray can fetch, our kids would look unbelievably awesome since we’re both, well, TOTAL FUCKING KNOCKOUTS. They’d be blessed with superior intellect given that our combined IQ is like twenty-two thousand. This world is in desperate need of first-rate genetic material that only you and I can provide. WE OWE THAT MUCH TO THE WORLD.” Except that it wasn’t the first thought that came to my mind. I was all, “Hmm, he looks like he’s a nice guy and you guys look TOTALLY in love and the pictures look super awesome and you two look insanely cute together and if he ever breaks your heart, I’m going to hunt him down and whoop his sorry Sindhi ass all the way back to Ulhasnagar.”
And then at work, I’m talking to Lil’ m about the gazillion weddings, engagements, hookups and one night stands taking place around me and I suddenly start freaking out. I go like, “Yo m, what if I end up spending the rest of my fucking life completely alone! What if I never find someone? What if I’m the creepy 65 year old with a grey ponytail and cheap sunglasses that buys your kids candy floss, lives with 3 cats and shows up in pictures like this? Sure I could also be a badass oldie like Gandalf or one of these guys. But lets face it, the odds are slim.” And then I decide to take matters in my own hands. BOOM. Just like that. I know that Lil’ m has a boyfriend so, OBVIOUSLY, I decide to make her my plan B. You know plan B? The one where if neither of us are married by the time we’re 30 (or 35 or 40), we marry each other.
But I was still in panic mode. I needed a plan A. Like yesterday. So I decide to con(vince) Big M into marrying me. Except that it wasn’t going to work. Because she works out like every fucking day, and the last time I stepped into a gym was back when MSFT traded at nearly 60 bucks. I wasn’t always like this though. Back in the day, my prowess at tomato racing was rather legendary. Tomato race no comprende? The one where your hands are tied behind your back and you race to the middle of the track, grab the tomato with JUST your mouth (twss!) and sprint to the finish line. However, my moment in the spotlight came to a crashing halt a few years later. I was participating in a 400m relay and comfortably cruising to the finish line. And in true Bollywood fashion, the world around me slows down. Everything and everyone begins moving in super-slow motion. I can hear people chanting my name! And I’m thinking, “Wow! People just love me. I’m quite the superstar here. The crowd just can’t get enough of me.” Except that it wasn’t the crowd yelling my name. It was another runner hollering and swearing and cursing at me because I was in his fucking lane. And as I stealthily move to my own lane, he promptly overtakes me and subsequently wins the race. Yes. Not my proudest moment on the track. And that fall from grace was directly responsible for the end of my career as an athlete and resulted in me embarking on a new career as a crackerjack slouch.
I thought of putting this up on the blog as I was walking back towards Grand Central Station this evening. But I was rudely interrupted by my coworker N who yells out loud that SOMETHING in her bag is vibrating. This would have been funnier AND infinitely more awkward for her had I not known apriori that she was carrying her boyfriend’s electric razor in her bag.
So I was checking out this site and here’s what the test gave me as the cologne that matches my personality. Now I’m wondering why the hell would the perfume guys with their advanced degrees in the alchemy of scents even make something that smells like cardamom, coriander AND cedar. If I wanted to smell like 2 herbs and a coniferous tree, I would probably just open my kitchen cabinet and rub some on my self and then hop on a flight to the Himalayas and DRY HUMP A CEDAR TREE. I had had enough and decided to debunk the bullshit perfume that this clearly shady survey assigned to my sparkling personality.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Now in an effort to give y’all an optimum blog-reading (bleading?) experience, I decided to conduct some stellar research and saw that cardamom is often used as a masticatory. Except that I didn’t know what a masticatory is and Firefox clearly agreed with me as is evident with the dotted-red-underline-thingy.
And since Wikipedia is editable by pretty much anyone, I was convinced that I was a victim of Wikipedia vandalism (it IS A REAL word, look it up), and that word is actually masturbatory, which kind of makes more sense, since this cologne is expected to seduce ANY woman, and hence its ingredients would have such prurient uses. Also the more I tried to imagine the use of cardamom in any sort of multi-person conjugal act, the more my brain spun out of control and the smarties at Google image search couldn’t help me out with this one either.
And then I took another quiz that concluded that was an alcoholic and in desperately need of help which is totally bullshit because all I got was like 3 questions right out of 20. And another that said that I look 62% like Ludacris which is a bucketload of crap because I don’t even have a moustache. And then I took another quiz that would tell me what Twilight character I am but before the goddamn site would give me the answer, it made me fill out like a gazzillion forms and subscribe to another gazzillion newsletters and even then it wouldn’t tell me what I was and then I was so FRUSTRATED THAT I WANTED TO KILL SOMEONE but I didn’t. Instead I finished my drink, closed the computer, drifted to sleep in my wine induced haze, and dreamt about innovative and slightly disturbing uses of cardamom as a masturbatory device.
I’m running to the Path station. All groggy and wishing and hoping that I make my 10 o’clock meeting. I’m listening to Steven Tyler singing about some chick called Janie who has a gun and wants to shoot someone and I’m this close to embarking on a similar carnage of my own not with a gun because I don’t own one and DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE I CAN GET ONE! Instead I’m going to use my index finger and poke people in the eye. Because I’ve had the suckiest morning ever. Like ever.
3 hours ago: 9 am this morning
The oh-so-familiar iPhone ringtone wakes me up and I’m greeted with D’s pretty face on the caller id. As I barely manage to mumble a hello, she’s all, “Uh, you still sleeping? Why aren’t you at work already?”. I ask her the time, and she goes, “Umm.. 9 o’clock.” And then all I remember is scurrying out of bed, connecting my gazzillion portable devices to their respective chargers, all the while listening to D yell at me for something I still have no clue about, gulping down milk that expired like 20 years ago coz it tastes like horse piss, I hop into the shower.
5 hours ago: 7 am this morning
I’m in deep sleep and surprisingly not dreaming about getting shot by gangsters or cops (you’d be surprised how often I have dreams where I get killed). And deep down in my subconscious, I wonder why my alarm isn’t ringing. Because it’s a goddamn bitch when I get up before my alarm rings and realize that I could have slept for another half hour and then realize that I can’t fall asleep because the sunlight seeping through the blinds is at the perfect angle to keep my eyes from closing and turning the other way wouldn’t help because my brain’s already seen the light! It’s like a tiger that’s tasted blood for the first time ever or that saying about going black. You just can’t go back. But I rationalize the thought by telling myself that since I can’t feel any sunlight falling on my eyes, the sun hasn’t risen yet, and hence I have plenty of time before I need to get up!
13 hours ago: 11 pm last night
After an interesting conversation with KB about love, life and other random crap, I go to bed all pleased with myself for being all awesomely productive through the day and having grabbed Boost by its testicles and taming the shit out of it. And I’m all, “Wait! The sun rises sooner now. I need to sleep properly. I should probably wear my eye patch sleep thingy before I go to bed.” So that’s exactly what I did.
26 hours ago: 6.45 am yesterday
WHY DOESN’T THIS ALARM STOP SNOOZING! WHY WON’T IT JUST LET ME SLEEP IN PEACE. And then I do what any awesome guy would do in my place. I turn the alarm off. No. Not just the snooze. Because that’s not enough awesome. I UNLOCK MY PHONE, NAVIGATE TO THE CLOCK MENU, AND DELETE THE DAILY ALARM FROM MY PHONE.
And since I’m not much of a praying guy, I’m putting this out here. On the interwebs. Because the universe will OBVIOUSLY Facebook stalk me when it finds out all the negative energy I’ve let out in the span of 3 hours today, and it’ll be all, “Who is this dude that’s been trash talking me?” And when it finds my blog, it’ll come visit and read this post, feel sorry and do all sorts of universy magic to make my life better like banning snooze buttons from alarm clocks and those eye patch sleep thingies that keep the damn sunlight out of my eyes and mislead me into mistaking day for night.
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.
