Archive for December, 2010


Christmas & Club-Noir

First of all, Merry Christmas everyone! Hope you find the time to reflect on things in the middle of your wasteful frenzy of purchasing. If you did, good going 🙂

The end of the year brings many things to many people. Presents, Resolutions, New Beginnings, Hope, Good Cheer and a lot of other things, like Herpes, being foremost on the list of things people get, whether they want it or not. One thing everyone gets around to eventually is parties. Well, most people. My social networking inbox was inundated by notices of parties ranging from beaches to back yards and it has been the highlight of my day today gleefully individually deleting them.

I’m not that big on clubbing. Let me rephrase; I would rather have my legs run over by a herd of hippos and then stand on the footboard of a local bus, than go dance at some party. Back when I was in school it was the “in-thing” to go clubbing and we were giddy as little boys clutching t-rexes under the Christmas tree when we found a place that would let us in. Now that I’m significantly older and smarte- After spending many nights with the following scene playing itself out, I kinda grew out of it.

We stepped into the establishment. People called it a night club, but I call it trouble. Losing sight of my companions in the crowd, I head to the bar. The surface looks old, it’s seen its share of skinny teenagers slamming their fists down on it, droplets of their hair product slowly arching towards the bartender with his back turned towards them as they nod their heads to music that would make a mob-boss scowl. Unthinkingly, I bring my glass to my maw, and take a sip. It feels like I was hit in the gut by a baseball bat. Like ol’ Billy had me tied to a chair and was trying to get a girl’s number outta me.

After a while I make my way to the dance floor, just drunk enough to not care. Thirty minutes later I’m left wondering if I should have just stayed home. Home was bed. It wasn’t a good bed, but it was better than my bones feeling like it was hit by the 9:15 to Chicago. I tipped my hat at the rest, and stepped out into the alley. The stones crunched under my feet like the teeth of a loan shark’s ex-customer. I lit my cigar. It started raining. The city fell into gloom once more.

It’s just that I really suck at dancing. Dancing creepily by myself in my room with music playing in my head is fine, I like Just Dance(Gaga) as much as the next guy, but on a dance floor, it’s a battle between my brain and my limbs. I mean, I can stay relatively vertical while standing in a bus that’s seemingly been driven by an Epileptic wearing a disco light ball for a helmet but on the floor, my body decides to make like a Possum and play dead. It would help if there were a least a few members of the opposite sex who were even remotely the same age. Online polls indicate that 90% of teen girls sneak into clubs. The other 10% are actually girls methinks*.

Sometimes I go along with people anyway. I give in to peer pressure easily like that, and just do my own thing and hope people aren’t running away screaming in two minutes. If they aren’t, rejoice, for the rest of the people on the floor are just as bad. I’m still not sure what this 31st will bring, maybe I can escape to some hill in Badulla and watch the sunrise with Now We Are Free playing in my ears. I don’t know.

*statistics pulled out of that place where most people tour their stats from.


December, O December

The house is starting to smell of fruit cake again.

You know what that means, don’t you?

As I type, I’m so full of all kinds of eatables from brownies to marshmallows to condensed milk that I can barely kick the cat trying to curl up at my feet. It’s sufficiently cold outside that a fat man on the roof in a santa suit wouldn’t look out of place.

It feels like December. Christmas!

The year’s been a mixed bag, as usual. I doubt you get metaphorical bags full of only one kind when describing a year. Unless you live in the middle of the desert or something. Even then, you might suddenly stumble across a magic scorpion that’ll grant you three wishes, like unlimited scorpion concubines and all the Minute Maid you can shower in. But I digress.

January, I can’t really remember January. Through February it was mostly the same. Come March, I found myself employed again. Then in April I blah blah blah December.

December. Two days ago we celebrated by father’s 60th birthday. It was nice. My dad isn’t exactly the emotional type, and this was probably the first time I saw him actually touched by something.

Tomorrow I must go around the city looking for Chrismas gifts, apparently. Anybody have gift ideas? I’m very cheap. I have been known to gift things like cabbages. Wholesome and useful around the house at the same time. Treasured in homes from Sri Lanka to France to Lapland.

Have you noticed how strange the Scottish accent is? Imagine a local bus conductor, or your own parents using that accent.

“Jerrayh, go outside and chawp dahn the trees in the back yahhd will yah?”

“Save the planet, it’s Christmas”

“Stawp being a smahrt-arse if yew wante anythinghh tew yeat this Christtmass.”


As my posts get more disjointed, I’m not sure I’m capable of writing a proper post again. It just doesn’t feel right. Went off to Mannar last Saturday eve. Will post to SinhalayaTravels soon. Keep eyes peeled.


Do I Write or do I Write?

In an ideal world, that title would have emphasis in the right place. Sadly, I will have to keep eying those words up there warily while willing italics into existence.

So, do I write or do I Write? This was the terrible question tearing away at my mind last Saturday eve. Do I just write in the sense that people write grocery lists and ransom notes, or do I actually “write” write, in the way that people who do it for a living do?

This bout of more thought than I like being put into something inconsequential was brought on by a TNL Radio… dude, asking me if I can’t write, whether I failed my English, and if I suck at writing when I was less than enthusiastic about filling out a form that was being distributed at the lobby at Majestic City on Saturday night. I’m sure that experiment in “Aggressive Marketing” has a bright future in public relations.

In other news, Christmas is coming again. I’m starting to dread it because I will be broke by then and won’t be able to bribe Santa into throwing a few presents this way. I don’t even feel like jotting down my usual Christmastime post or even the whiny post about how it doesn’t feel like Christmas. Troubling times, these are. My parents think I’m crazy because I sit in front of the computer laughing at it. Then I switch it on and come here to write down a post and link to it on twitter. It’s so cold out that I grew a beard to combat it, but shaved it off when I started feeling chain-mail on my chin whenever I rested it on my pillow. To top it off I’m not getting tagged in any Christmas pics on Facebook. If it weren’t for the Penguins of Madagascar life would be quite dull these days.



Recently watched “Who Turned the Lights Off?”, another FT from BeyondBorders in association with the Roteract Club of… Some place. It was pretty great. They might perform it again so keep your eyes open of you missed it. Even better than the play was a certain Mr. Kotalawela dancing to…

wait for itt…

Justin Beiber

when we went out after the play. I apologize for not taking pictures.