I was thinking about writing a post titled The Slacker Ethic but I just couldn't be bothered.

I know I should probably write something myself, but how do you compete with this?

Rock Paper Seizure



One recent Saturday, I left the house at one in the pm even though I'd planned to stay home and do jack all day. Riddhi had called asking if I wanted to go to school with her and seeing as I hadn't been to good ol' Jamnabai Narsee since the reuinion three years ago, I figured I'd go do some lines off the principal's desk, or at least pee in the staff room.

We parked in the middle of the street and walked in authoritatively. Riddhi teaches speech and drama there and I was "with her". Pale-faced six-year-olds ran after us tugging at her skirt as I tried to stare them off. Riddhi went to teach her class while I loafed around the premises marveling at the changes.

The chem lab's been poshed up. That is to say that there is now an illustrated set of 16 rules by the doors. The one at the bottom left says "no smoking" and the picture shows a bearded kid setting fire to an experiment with a lit ciggie in his mouth. What is this, Hippie High? No wonder they call it Jamnabai Charasi. I really don't see what the school's problem is with smoking anyway. The fucker who started it made all his money flogging lung cancer. The inscription on his bust on the ground floor says something along the lines of "a self made man who started Golden Tobacco and Golden Chemicals. His ideals live on in the service of society".

Between the first and second floor in the west wing, some enthu cutlet had put up a big collage about climate change. At each one of the four corners was a black and white print-out -– artily burnt around the edges –- of Ralph Wiggum with his finger up his nose. It read, in two million point comic sans, GLOBAL WARMING IS REAL.

But I digress. I went up the IB wing on the new fifth and sixth floors, was duly impressed by our school's ability to con parents into paying many lakhs for the illusion of their kids getting a "better" education, and then duly fucked off. First stop, beer at Sea View with Ghosalkar. Next, monthly visit to Janine's folks.

I rang the doorbell and Janine's mum said, "You've come just in time to take the kittens." Then she told me an achingly sad story about an ill kitten who had fallen down a crack behind the cupboard on which the litter lived. Janine's mum took her to be put down but she gave one feeble little kick, which convinced the vet she had the will to live. They put her on a drip, wrapped her in a blanket and watched. She promptly died.

Janine's dad said he was very depressed because he'd been asked to be in a play that wasn't happening anymore. When I laughed at the idea of Darius in a musical, he looked up from his computer, glared at me and asked what I though was so damn funny.

Fuck, I didn't know the guy was serious.

"Serious? I used to be in musicals all the time before you jokers were born. I remember, I used to come home late from rehearsal and sit on this chair –- this very chair -– and eat my dinner. Janine was only a year or so and she'd sit in my lap and I'd ask her 'why do you love your daddy?' and she'd say 'I lub your hair' and now I have no fucking hair."

Her mum said Kazan, Janine's brother, was born all hairy. "He was a green baby!" Then they both reminisced about going to some Worli disco called Hell in the old days. She went with her boyfriend, said uncle. He wasn't my boyfriend, I just had a massive crush on him, said aunty. And I had a massive crush on you, said uncle.

Anyway, so aunty and her crush were standing outside Hell, smoking a cigarette when some goon came up to them and asked the guy if his name was Chickoo. "Chickoo?" said the crush incredulously. "I'm not Chickoo."

"You're not Chickoo?" repeated the thug.

"I'm not Chickoo," said aunty's beau.

The thug obviously wasn't the sort to take a man at his word because he pulled out a knife and slashed the crush's stomach to ribbons.

"Can you imagine?" said uncle. "Here I am, with a huge crush on Sonja, and I have to take her and her huge crush to hospital and on top of that, he was bleeding all over the back of my car. I had to get it washed."

Aunty asked if I wanted a beer. "Yes, please," I said, like the well-mannered boy I've been brought up to be.

"NO! You're not giving him beer at four in the afternoon. Not in my house. Over my dead body! Give him tea." Later, after the episode, both uncle and aunty asked if that's what happens when I have tea instead of beer.

After a long discussion about whether to give me brewed tea or boiled tea, I finally got my chai, ate some biscuits aunty's mum had made and made like a tree. ("Was it the biscuits? Did you eat too many biscuits?")



Later that evening, I met Riddhi again and we went off to Razz. This was this first time in many years I'd been to Razz. Independence Rock elims were on and Riddhi was one of the judges. The previous night had been a fucking disaster. Hard Rock Café, 1000-buck cover, full of chuts of every description. That's not I-Rock: that's watered down, commercialised, sold out to the man, New India bullshit man. A little
beer costs 150, people have stupid emo haircuts and wear trendy, pre-faded t-shirts and you can't drink in their stupid souvenir shop. It's a fucking bar. Why can't you drink in the goddamn shop? And why the fuck can't I get a bill when I ask for it? Madarchod.

Razz was different. Here it was 150-rupee cover (which bought you a big beer), it was full of ugly, sweaty, hairy kids and the smell of pot hung heavy. The gig was great. I'm not a fan of metal, but the two bands I saw kicked ass. They had energy, they got the crowd going and they were pretty tight outfits. Now this was the I-Rock we all know and love: some kid broke a couple of ribs in the moshpit, some guy got so drunk he fell down and had to be carried to his car and some schmuck had a seizure and landed up in hospital.

That schmuck was me.

Here's how it feels to have a seizure: "What the fuck?" and "My head hurts."

This is followed by "I can't see."

Okay, enough with the single sentence paras.

Now here's what really happened. The guitarist of the last (and best) band, Scribe, was cutting a birthday cake. I was leaning against the bonnet of his car waiting for the festivities to end so that I could head with Riddhi and Mane. I think the plan was to get some beers and go sit in Janine's garden (next door).

As we stood there, the guy who'd had too much to drink fell down in the distance. I didn't see him because he was flat on the ground and surrounded by people. A little later, I caught a glimpse of him as he was being carried to a car and all of the sudden my stomach fell out of my body, the world started going black and I desperately needed air. I walked four steps up and down. This did not help. I had an
inexplicable feeling that that guy could have been me. The reason this is inexplicable is because not only can I handle my booze really well, I'd also only consumed four beers over a period of ten hours that day. I leaned against the bonnet of the car again.

The next thing I remember is vague black outlines, a lot of yelling and feeling like I was falling. Not falling like I falling to the ground, but falling like falling down a deep, deep hole. I remember feeling like I was trying, unsuccessfully, to wake up from a nightmare and realising it wasn't a nightmare, it was real. So this is how it feels to be dying, I thought.

The outlines began to take shape. Somebody put something white in my mouth. Like in a movie, where people crowd the frame from above, I saw a circle of heads hovering over me. Mane later described the look on my face upon my return to consciousness as a "typical Leo expression".

"What's going on man?" I had no idea why I was on the floor, why there was a handkerchief in my mouth and why I was surrounded by people. I felt sheepish, embarrassed even, until I realised I hadn't had enough to drink to pass out.



Mane helped me up and the world went black again. Riddhi, who'd been peeing and still regrets missing all the action, returned from the loo and unlocked her car, into which I was deposited. Some guy asked if I'd been drinking and then nearly put a pill in mouth until I told him I had. I later found out that this guy was the guitarist's friend, a
doctor, and he was the one who told Riddhi and Mane that an inaugural seizure at age 24 is definitely not a good sign. Sweating like a fucking Englishman in The Poonjab, I said I was fine and apologized for causing a scene. Obviously, I wasn't fine. To begin with, I still couldn't see a damn thing.

Riddhi started the car and asked if I wanted to go home. Of course not, I mumbled, always ready for an afterparty or, at the very least, a chance to regain my sight. We drove for a bit until we came to the gate of what appeared to be a beautiful hospital building fronted by a gigantic quadrangle of flowers, divided into four by two pathways. (It later turned out the building is concrete and hideous and the garden is a tiny circle of weeds.) Mane and his friend Tara spoke in hushed tones in the back seat and then ran off somewhere. "Um, is something wrong?" I asked Riddhi.

"Yes," she said, turning melodramatically towards me. "You."

Fuck, am I bleeding? Am I dying? What the fuck, man?

So she checked and I wasn't bleeding, which worried me even more. Once they finally coerced me into going in for "just a quick checkup", I relaxed. Until the night resident said, "If it's happened once it's going to happen again. We need to keep him under observation overnight."

No chance boss. I'm not staying here.

Half an hour later, some nurse very melodramatically ripped rakhis off my wrist so she could stick a fucking IV in me. So much melodrama. This whole thing was beginning to get damn filmy. My mum arrived and gave me a big hug, doing her best not to cry. My dad stood beside her, stoic as dads are wont to be. I said, "Dudes, I just fell down and bonked my head: it happens." As I spoke, I already knew that my life as I knew it was over. Glucose, B-complex, Epsolin, intra-muscular somethingortheother in my ass, a pillow made of solid granite and a couple of very worried parents later, I was out like a fucking light.

The next morning, I was woken up by a neurologist in jogging shorts. I don't know if it was just the drugs but I could have sworn he was warming down while asking my mum what the problem was. Anyway, he said I needed an EEG and an MRI (I don't know what the three-letter acronyms stand for either, I just do what I'm told) and since it was Sunday, I'd have to spend another day in hospital. Fuck. What a rip-off.

Being in hospital is great once you resign yourself to it. Every now and then somebody pokes their head through the door and offers to serve you in some manner or the other. Tea? Breakfast? Shave? Sponge bath? (No thanks, you hairy fuck. Where are the hot nurses? This isn't what I signed up for.) There's a bell by the bed and every time you press it, some chickie comes running up and asks what's wrong. Man, hotels don't have such great service.

The other fun thing about being in hospital was calling my boss on Sunday evening.

"Er, boss, I won't be coming in for the next few days on account of I'm in hospital."

"What!? Why!?"

"I dunno. I had a seizure."

"What!? Why!?"

"I dunno."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Who can say? I'm heavily sedated."



There are, of course, the downsides. I was supposed to get an EEG, for which they need a freshly washed head. Mum and I figured that instead of bathing and messing about with the IV and all that rubbish, I might as well go next door to her hairdresser's and get a nice shampoo. When she suggested it to the doc on duty, the doc looked at my mum like she was insane. "Ma'am, this is a hospital." Yeah man, but it's not a fucking prison. Later, I tried to pop down for a stroll and a smoke. A nurse caught me by the collar and threw me back into my room. Then she stuck another needle in my ass, just so I get the message. Jeez.

Talking about needles, my arms still hurt from the clotting around where they put the IVs. The veins have gone all hard and black. I hope I don't get fucking gangrene. That would be a real tragedy.

Riddhi and Mane came by later and cheered me up with tea, nachos, an apple and bad jokes about the Seizure Sisters, Seizure's Palace and Julius Seizure. There was also something about being a good fit but I missed the set-up on that one. Then they went for "a walk". Fuck you, I said. I have better drugs.

I lied of course. My drugs sucked. Even Valium, which I had such high hopes for, was rubbish. Not only was it not fun, it didn't even fucking knock me out. Why are none of the drugs they give you in hospital any fun? Why can't they at least add some fun side effects to cheer you up and make you forget the fact that you're in hospital? No
fucking consideration, man.

I slept a lot throughout all this, so I'm not sure when the EEG guy came by but that was a regular riot. He showed up, attached a bunch of wires to my head with silly putty and then looked at my brainwaves on a laptop. It was like the Nutty Professor meets Frankenstein. I mean seriously, who the hell sticks electrodes on someone's scalp as a serious medical procedure? Fortunately the MRI was a little more modern. They stuck me in a big plasticy tunnel and played trance loops without the music. Only the random ching ching beats. The results were great: you can see my eyes and optic nerves. On the downside, the neurologist said my cerebellum has atrophied. Stupid brain.

Nobody can figure out why the hell this thing happened. The quack at the hospital said it was a case of alcohol withdrawal. Dude, I'd had FOUR beers –- pay attention. The neurologist said that if it happens again it might be epilepsy but that's unlikely and anyway, the tests were all clear. Apparently, it was idiopathic, which is doctorese for "we don't have a fucking clue". Janine said, "They're fucking idiopathic, man."

I'm back home now and I've changed my lifestyle dramatically. In the words of riddhi's ex, Akshay, who's a doctor, I should "just chill on the chilling man", which is a helluva lot more painful than the seizure, falling on my head or being in hospital. I liked drinking and smoking very much, I really did. Having to cut down is like having my favourite activity taken away from me. But I find I have a fuckload of spare time on my hands (hence this long post), which is good I suppose. Also, I've discovered that I'm now saving a whole load of money so maybe I can pay off all my debts and go traveling again. Man, who knew drinking and smoking was so bad for you.

First, apologies.

No, fuck that. If you don't like this shit, fuck off.

Right, getting on with it then, I've been damn lazy. I wanted to write about having a garden in Bombay. Three friends do, two who live close by but they're abroad and one who lives here but halfway to fucking Poona, man (Chembur). Never got around to that and now the moment's gone.

Then, I went to Delhi, figured out what I want to do when I retire and wanted to write about that. This basically involved a lot of bumming around at the India International Centre, talking walks in the garden, working on my memoirs and other assorted faggy shit in the same kidney (look it up, that's a real phrase). I couldn't be fucked to write that either. I reason that if I'm too bored to write something, nobody's going to want to read it.

Then I contemplated writing some deep shit about the human condition and the essential pointlessness of it all. But I figured it was futile.

Which brings me to the psuedo-apology above. This post consists of three emails exchanged between Charis Charalambous Jason Louca the Second and myself in all their (mostly) unedited glory. Backgound: CCJL2 came to Bombay and stayed with Janine over the new year. In the course of his visit, he attended parties, got drunk with Janine, Riddhi, me and other people who happened to drop by J's place, and gave Rs 500 to a beggar. That last incident led to a minor chase, much running, jumping into a taxi, more running (think Terminator 2), and finally, Janine bonking Charis over the head for spoiling our beggars. Then we all went and got drunk somewhere.

I've had the letters vetted by an outside observer. Her opinion is that they're funny even if you don't know the characters. At some point, I shall ask ol' CCJL2 if he minds that they're now in the public domain.

If you find yourself getting bored, skip directly to the third one and then comeback for context.

Okay, enough chit chat, Chet.

----------------------------------------------------------

On Tuesday, January 23, 2007, at 04:23AM, xxxxxxx@aol.com wrote:
Leo 'Boss',

This is just a quick email for you 'my friend' just to say a big thankyou for showing me and the other 'ferengis' around whilst i was in india (i include janine as a 'ferengi' in this statement as she seemed to know as much about sight-seeing as Steve Wonder did, she has unfortunately been well and truly anglicised) but anyway many thanks again for all your time and effort in showing us the interesting and not so interesting parts of mumbaii.

I have to say that i enjoyed my time immensely in india, and that i shall miss the dives and the eunuchs the most as we don't seem to have as many in London. And of course Leo 'Boss' i shall miss you 'my friend' and all your idiosyncrasies. Janine told me that you were very much lacking a 'role-model' or someone 'to look up to' in life, and i'm very glad that i could be the one to fill that void for you. And despite the fact that i may never see you or india again, i hope that i have very much left my impression on you both, in the same way as American Airlines left it's 'impression' on the Twin Towers. In leaving i say to you that im still on the lookout for a 'bling' pair of earrings and a brightly coloured jacket for you, so that you may one day look as cool i do. And also if you could pass on my thanks onto rhiddi as well i would be most grateful, and that i shall remember her for her occasional 'mal' smoking and careful driving, and that she was well and truly a 'cool-chick' (don't worry leo i think your cool too). And that i wish her good luck in her 'true calling' which i believed was writing children's books, or obtaining her own marijuana plantation. till the next time Leo 'dude', which may never be.
My gratitude.

Charis Charalambous Jason Louca the Second.

--------------------------------------------------------

From: xxxxxxxxx@mac.com
To: xxxxxxx@aol.com
Sent: Fri, 3 Aug 2007 1.22pm
Subject: Re: (no subject)

charris the two,

i was most gratified to recieve your email, for it is in your kind words that the beauty of humanity lies. had i know what a huge impact you would make upon mineself and mine lifeness, mine very lifeforce, i wouldst no doubt have strived/strove/striven to meet you in the few short months that i and you and j and 7 million other people shared a common physical construct known to world's wider populace as london, but known to us, the residents (whether permanent, temporary or transient), simply as "that ol' shithole".

you can imagine my joy then, when you visited mine very own shithole, this sinking island of 18m people we lovingly refer to as 'the dump'. it was, of course, entirely my pleasure to be honoured such and to be given that once in a lifetime opportunity to take you on a mind-numblingly dull tour of old colonial architecture - the sort you have in spades. i must apologise, however, for the barbaric acts of mine countrymen and citywomen, who, having seen in you and in your lavender/peachish jacket and your profoundly shiny earrings, and your oversize cross - that tribute to your faith - an aura, the sign of a true messiah, flung themselves upon you and your mercy, to the extent of chasing your chariot down one colaba backstreet, babe in arms and all that.

I can only hope and wish and pray that one day our little burg will be so privileged, so lucky, so honoured, as to receive Your Charrisness once more, and to be given the chance to shower upon the Charalambous, all our love and human excrement once again.

i remain, as ever, yours faithfully,
Leo
Oh, and about the earrings and jacket you wish to present to me, all i can say is a humble "bling it on, baby".

-------------------------------------------------------

Leo my friend,

You had sent this message to me previously and i had always been meaning to reply to it. But due to unforeseen and unfortunate circumstances my computer managed to befall a rather ill-fated end (I kicked the shit out of it). And hence i was unable to reply to your email. And since there is no time like the present, i decided to wait three weeks before getting round to replying to this one.

I hope this email does find you exceptionally well and that you have maintained your reputation as the young stalwart of bombays timeout magazine. I can assure you that all is well in the 'Britain the Great', and that the english people march the streets with great impunity, with only the constant barrage of rape, murder and terrorist attacks to occupy their trouble-free minds.

The greeks on the other hand are not thriving as we once did. Since the english are all fundamentally racist, they now seem to find it impossible to differentiate between us (the greeks) and any other race that inhabits this island (on a recent trip to a soccer match i was called a 'paki' and told to 'fuck off back to where i came from')

Tragically humous and olive sales are down, and the pitta bread industry is expericing a real low (against 'raised' expectation, 'half-baked' ideas, lack of 'dough', and any other bread joke you care to mention)

This of course has caused real consternation in the greek community, with numerous attempts by community 'elders' (old guys with moustaches) to improve matters. The fear being that if 'the english' start to tire of bread,olives and humous our need for being in the country will be made obsolete and we shall have to return back to our island in the sun, which ironically will be full of english people.

The most exciting thing that has happened since my returning from Mumbaii is i grew a ponytail; which i believed to be the absolute height of fashion. Unfortunately Janine in particular had other ideas and continuously mocked my appearance wherever i went. To the point that i could take the mental torture no more and had the pony-tail i.e 'the extension of my soul' removed forever.

I miss india and its inhabitants greatly and i swear to return again one day (though i fear that there will be many with fingers and toes crossed hopeing i do not) and the true gravity of my desire to return only hit the moment the jet airways plane landed at heathrow airport . I now realise how unfulfilling london truly is, where the girls are not as pretty and the eunuchs are conspicuous by their absence. So leo my friend i hope you realise how great bombay actually is.

I finish this email by saying i wish you well, and that you may one day attain a 'level of cool' that would make you acceptable in cyprus. Also could you also send my kindest regards to Rhiddi and also to janine's parents (the likelihood is that they may not remember me, or more to the point that they wish not to, so could you remind them of 'the hairy greek with earrings and mulitcoloured jackets that imposed himself on their lovely home, wishes them very well) and leo 'boss' i promise to send a 'care' package to you with janine on her return home, which will be filled with all manner of 'bling' and other hideous shiny things. Take care my friend.

Respectfully yours
charis Charalambous Jason Louca the second.




And now, if you could all rise for the Greek national anthem:

Σὲ γνωρίζω ἀπὸ τὴν κόψι
τοῦ σπαθιοῦ τὴν τρομερή,
σὲ γνωρίζω ἀπὸ τὴν ὄψι
ποὺ μὲ βία μετράει τὴ γῆ.
Ἀπ’ τὰ κόκκαλα βγαλμένη
τῶν Ἑλλήνων τὰ ἱερά,
καὶ σὰν πρῶτα ἀνδρειωμένη,
χαῖρε, ὦ χαῖρε, Ἐλευθεριά!

which is to say

Se gnorízo apó tin kópsi
tu spathiú tin tromerí,
se gnorízo apó tin ópsi,
pu me vía metrái ti yi.
Ap' ta kókkala vgalméni
ton Ellínon ta ierá,
ke san próta andhrioméni,
khére, o khére, Eleftheriá!

I’m bummed out.

Last night, I went for dinner with four very smart people. Not rocket scientist smart or maths wiz smart but knowing what the score is, making the connections and understanding shit smart.

I barely said a word all evening. Occasionally I thought of a feeble pun or insightful observation of the sort that I could pull off it was just me and one of them, but with an audience of four, there was no chance I was going to say a damn thing unless I was absolutely certain it wasn’t entirely daft. Very intimidating this stuff.

An example:
Smart dude 1: Wasn’t MN Roy in Mexico with Trotsky?
Smart dude 2: No, no, wayyy before Trotsky. He founded the Mexican Communist Party.
Smart dude 1: Oh yeah, Then he had a falling out with Lenin.

Whaddafux? How the hell do you people know all this stuff, man?

If it sounds lame, that’s only because I haven’t given any context, so don’t get all self-righteous and begin feeling good about yourself. You pale in comparison to these fellows as well dude.

As I heard them go on, all the while spooning what I thought was good ol’ aloo but turned out be fucking baingan, I toyed with the idea of never reading non-fiction again. Or the papers. Or anything apart from pulp, really. What’s the point? These guys, none of whom burn brain cells on as regular basis as I do -– or at all -– know far more than I ever will. So why bother?

In the course of writing this, I looked up this MN Roy fellow –- nothing elaborate, just wikipedia -– and landed up reading the entire thing and wondering how and why I’ve never heard of him before. I encourage you to go to the site and check it out. It’s quite fascinating.

Suddenly all the cynicism has gone away. Man, this is not how this post was supposed to end.

How fucking left-liberal/agnostic (wishy-washy) of me.

For the record, I nicked the image from some chick's MySpace page. The image originally linked to something called Dia


UPDATE: It has been brought to my attention that we studied MN Roy in school. Pretty much everyone I have related this story to has said "You don't know MN Roy?"(right after they expressed astonishment at my inability to differentiate between two completely different vegetables). Look, I'm sorry, I don't. Get over it.

“Will we fly? Will we swim? Will we get richer? Will we find space? The 1990s are upon us and a new decade must mean new trends, new people, new happenings. The ’80s seemed like years of indefinite change, years without a proper description, but it could be that we are still too close to them to tell. The ’90s surely will be different […] Here, we take a look –- sometimes irreverent, sometimes serious –- at what the coming decade might offer.”

So begins Bombay magazine’s January 1990 cover story. Predictions included “The mega boom at the stock exchange will have more shares spiraling upwards”, the political heavyweights were predicted to be Sharad Pawar and Bal Thackeray, cinema was meant to get more sophisticated, the media business was set to explode (but it was also optimistically hoped that it would “become more serious and committed”), and Hafeez Contractor was forecast to be “building his futuristic monoliths by the dozens”.

Shirley Bassey's "History repeating" just came up on iTunes. Creepy.

At a symposium called “Bombay –- the next 150 years” organised by the Times of India, RK Laxman said “the sewage, the flooded railway tracks, the uprooted telephone cables will still be there” in the next 40 years. That was 17 years ago.

I was at the Times of India archive last year researching some shit about the early 1990s and everything in the papers then sounded exactly like it does today. We were all whining about precisely the same things, Bush was president, there was a war in Iraq, Bombay was a mess, people were bemoaning the trivialisation of the media. I don’t get it. I realise the French came up with all that Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose bullshit, but it’s still pretty hard to come to terms with the fact that nothing really changes. We have the external indications of progress -- more money, greater choice for consumers, a large middle class, a thriving economy -- but at the most basic levels, things haven’t changed at all. We still have poverty and malnutrition and overburdened, crumbling even, civic infrastructure. What the fuck man? What's the fucking point? It's been nearly two decades -- 16 years of an open economy and much cashflow, but what does that all mean?

It means you now pay five times as much as you used to to watch a film, it means you're treated like a terrorist every time you attempt to step into a cinema hall, it means that India has finally figured out what makes the west the west and has gone full-throttle towards a culture of consuming. The way the capitalist system works is growth. Companies can't continue to make the same amount of money year after year. If their profit projections don't go up, their stock falls. So every day, every company is trying to convince us that we don't have enough. We need to buy more. We need to consume more. We need to help their growth, spur the economy, keep money flowing. We need to do our national fucking duty by going out to giant steel and glass boxes and buying clothes and groceries and pre-packaged food so that India can be like the countries we try so desperately to emulate. Go shopping. Do it for India.

My job

People at my office clearly have nothing to do with their time. The lovely and charming Jana spent her week making a South Park-based comic strip about the office, which I present here with her blessing.

By the by, if you think it's self-indulgent to post something about my job, which most of you probably don't care about and might not find the humour in, may I point you towards Janine's hugely entertaining blog, which is solely about her art school critiques and her love for her tutor(s?).


































































































<---(That's me.)