I started this blog because I was in the habit of writing poetry on bits of paper and then, not surprisingly, losing them. Then I started emailing them to myself, then losing them in the inbox. The idea of a blog was long overdue by the time it actually started, but at the outset it was supposed to be co-hosted by myself & Arundhati – mostly centred around our mis-capades in Bangalore (read: struggles with devious auto drivers). So, we might have been OD-ing on SATC at the time, and/or Gilmore Girls – we were young and naive and had recently discovered a pirated DVD shop with interesting deals. Don’t worry, we don’t buy those anymore (on pain of bad print, and advent of ACT Broadband connection with 10mbps speed). Our blog might have been called Autorickshaw & The City for all we know. Yeah, we were those girls. We also listened to Michael Bolton and knew all the Nicole Scherzinger songs. Get over it. So, anyway, I did start eventually and now I think it serves the higher purposes of being able to write out whatever you are thinking and leaving it as a draft till you are ready to delete it (after having simmered down) – similar to writing out texts you really mean to and then write over – but with less repercussions like the possibility of hitting “send” instead of “discard”. “Way to get repressed feelings out, Priyadarshini!” – I can hear Mishali screaming out to me. Why do people full name you when they want to show displeasure. Are we more receptive when full named? Beats me. *shrugs shoulder* It’s a good thing I didn’t pursue psychology or my poor patients would have been trained as my elite corps of mal-adjusted, misguided citizens, and not the types that fit the MI6 profile either, which reminds me, when is the next Bond film out? When DC is 80? – Ah, who are we kidding, he would still be hot 😀 <people, who know me – stop rolling your eyes> But despite not being a professional advice giver, friends and acquaintances get the occasional and somewhat terrible idea of asking me for opinions even after I have been known to give bad advice knowingly & periodically to people who piss me off in the hope that when my not-so-bright idea fails, they will blame me and stop coming back to me. (And then, of course, they come back for more. I mean if you are an awesome person, you’ll know what this feels like, but this is what you do – you give them two contradicting equally bad options and keep a journal on which option they use and use that as fodder for further bad advice formulations – if you’ve ever got shrunk by me unwittingly or not, you need to go seek proper help pronto.) In my meager defense, aside from being an openly insidiously villainous person, when you try to make people see sense about 20 odd times, and they still do something stupid instead and proclaim they are following your footsteps, you would rather tell them what they want to hear than what they need to. Especially when they are mental health professionals themselves. (Maybe this bit ought to have been left behind in the “draft” section of things.) Yeah, I am a healthy, responsible individual, as you can see, but, hey, at least some people think I am the most sorted person they know. (Really, if you hear about their family stories, you would be nominating them for an Oprah sponsored villa or use them as material for an interesting short story you plan to write and not give them credit for). But enough about me (before I lose the precious few readers), more about Jeff Bingham. He is one of the most interesting and honest characters I have ever watched on a show – and by interesting I mean in the anthropological psychology sense which helps us divine the mental machinations of men and by honest I mean truthful and without the artifice of being the love(male)child of Nicholas Sparks and Nora Roberts. Cue in sappy music, chocolate hearts and practice your Heimlichs, ladies & gents.
I have had an insistent niggling suspicion that most male characters on shows and films (not the indie ones, obviously, cause there everyone is laid out bare, sometimes, too bare :P) are either exaggerated (flirtatious and witty – the smart, checks all boxes but is deviously exciting male) or downright farcical (romantic & goofy – take home to the family, caring & sensitive male). Men are more like Bertie Wooster, the simplistic, slightly slow but well meaning geek, and before you panic, Jeff Bingham, the simplistic, slightly slow but well meaning jock. These are the two types of men there are so far, or a mix of both (go, figure) and neither are the above mentioned often misrepresented types :D. In these scenarios, Jeeves is what a man would like to think he is actually like and Russell is what all women think men are prone to becoming if not taken under their wing – false on both accounts, methinks. There, now you know it, thank me later.
If you are at this point befuddled as to what I am going on about, you need to watch Rules of Engagement and catch up on your P.G. Wodehouse. My favourite Wodehouse character is the ingenious Psmith. He knows it all, does it all and escapes almost any situation, troublesome nosy matchmaking aunts et al without a scratch, and minimal emotional trauma. Psmith in the City and Leave it to Psmith – those are the two books you are looking to read – especially if you have an easy planter’s chair on a verandah (if you don’t know what this looks like you need to look them up) to loll about on a rainy afternoon in Assam, say mid monsoon around 2 p.m with the requisite steaming mug of tea. I was quite obsessed with Psmith for a while, drove my mother wild – not as wild as my Ipsita Roy Chakraverti, Terminator 2: Judgment Day or Mask of Zorro fixation, but still it was something.
Cue in video of baby villain I was likened to not two weeks back.