Hola peeps!

Hello world!

First post on my brand new, shiny blog. Pardon the appearance, we are still figuring out how things work around here and technology is not our (neither Maxine's nor Vidhya's) strong suit. So, let me start things off by posting something random I wrote several months ago. Let's just call it a One shot.
All persons in this tale are entirely fictitious, of course. (Well, one of 'em is me, but I'm partially fictitious, so what the heck!)

Bee and M go to a concert

The smell of unwashed hair, lots and lots of unwashed hair was the first thing that hit her when the room filled up. She was perched up on a ledge in a relatively small room, and had an excellent view of the stage. It didn’t help that a man with waist length dreadlocks stood in front of her and kept brushing his hair up against her legs. That, mixed with the smell of cigarette smoke, and stale beer made her slightly queasy.

“I guess there’s a reason they call it death metal, huh? If the music doesn’t kill you, the stench will?” she turned to M.

“Don’t be a baby Bee. You wanted to do this. Besides, it’s going to be awesome. You’ll like it.” Said M.

“You shouldn’t have cut your hair so short.” Said Bee abruptly.

“I thought you liked it?” asked M.

“I do. But you can’t head bang effectively if your hair won’t fall over your face. I don’t think your bangs falling into your eyes count.”

“Bitch.”

“Cheap shot. Sorry” Bee muttered.

The stage lights went out and the crowd went slightly crazy. “I think Katatonia is coming out.” whispered M.

“Wooohhooooooo” screamed Bee along with the rest of the crowd.

Then it began. Within about 2 seconds of the song beginning, a bunch of guys began bumping into each other on purpose. Bee watched, wide-eyed. They would run around randomly, then bang into one and other. It was like watching Brownian motion happen. Live. Then one of them took his shirt off. There was one chap wearing corpse paint. He seemed really energetic. Another guy was lurching around like a zombie. She watched them for a few minutes, not paying any attention to the music. It was fascinating. When the shirtless guy started playing “phugdi” with painted face dude, she couldn’t take it anymore. She giggled. This was hilarious. A bunch of grown men, some of them shirtless, running around, banging into one  another on purpose. In America. The land where a male hand draped across the shoulder of another was considered gay. Where men didn’t wear pink shirts ‘cos it was considered gay. Plenty of body contact (much of it shirtless) was happening here and it seemed culturally acceptable. Weird, thought Bee. Her inner sociologist was curious as hell.

She shot a glance at M. She was focused on the music. Eyes fixed on the stage. Keeping time to the music. She looked kind of intense. “OK Bee. Focus on the music. That’s what you are here for. Screw the inner sociologist.” She tried to listen to Katatonia. Every song seemed the same to her. Even the rhythm seemed the same. Everyone seemed to be shaking their head with exactly the same tempo for every song. “I guess I’m not evolved enough for this.” She shrugged. “Either that, or I’m too old.” A lowering thought. “Not. Too. Old. Will. Enjoy. Grit. Teeth. Enjoy. “ she muttered.

Katatonia walked off to enthusiastic applause. Bee was equally enthusiastic in her applause. For different reasons. She thought Katatonia couldn’t spell but had chosen their name wisely.

“So, didja like it?” asked M

“Uh-huh. Sure. Not too loud at all. I couldn’t understand what he was saying though.” Said Bee, not perjuring herself completely. “What about you?”

“They weren’t bad at all.” Said M.

Bee thought to herself. “I’m old. I’m too old to recognize cool. Face it Bee. You. Are. Old.”

M giggled suddenly. “Want to read something funny?” She handed her her Blackberry. There was a word document open entitled “Prabhu brief write-up” She scanned it quickly. Apparently Prabhu was a giant among eligible, male, Tam Brahm Iyers, sub-caste: Vadama. He had the body of Hercules and the brain of Einstein coupled with Gandhi’s moral turpitude and was more self-actualized than Swami Vivekananda. A paragon who hiked the Appalachian trail, practiced Kriya Yoga, was rooted in Indian culture and sang Carnatic music at par with Balamurali Krishna. Also, his parents’ idea of brevity ran to 3 pages.

“Nope. He won’t do for you.” Said Bee. Handing the BB back to M.

“Duh. I know.” Said M.

“No. It’s not because you’re at a Death Metal concert while he sings “Kurai onrum illai” every day. It’s because they forgot to mention the most important thing.” Said Bee.

“Which is?”

“They didn’t say if his swimmers swim. I mean, they went to the trouble of telling you which mediocre community college he went to, they were also sufficiently verbose on how he was “all Indian”, excuse me, “all Tamizhan”, which trails he hikes frequently, and how he likes his avial more than pasta, but they forgot to say if his junk works. All this “superior physical strength” stuff is OK. He may have the stamina for several go-arounds in bed. But since they didn’t say that his swimmers swim, I think you should be wary. Otherwise, he’s perfect for you.” Bee laughed.

“Bee, I hope you die single. You are a she-devil.”

“I think there is no doubt that I will die single.” Said Bee wryly.

Opeth chose that moment to come out. And Bee sat through the next hour and a half quietly. The music seemed to flow gently. Alternately melodious and loud. The lead vocalist was cute. He had hair the right length of long. And the right kind of disarranged. Sense of humor was in place. Voice of an angel. Well, a sexy angel. “If only he was Tam Brahm and his horoscope matched mine, I’d marry him in a jiffy.” She mused. “Only amma wouldn’t like a musician. What kind of a career is that, she would ask. Nalla engineer, doctor andha madiri edhavadhu padichirrundha seri.” She laughed quietly and went back to Hex Omega.

At the end of the evening, as they walked to the car M asked Bee, ”What did you think?”

“I thought Opeth was better than Katatonia.” Said Bee.

M shot her an incredulous look. “Yes. Yes. They were. They are a much better band.” She said. 

“What’s that called, that thing they do when all run into each other on purpose?”

“Its called a mosh pit. It’s kind of a release of energy for those guys.”

“Hmm. It was slightly funny. Did you see the girl who was stripped down to her bra and shaking her head so hard I thought it might come off?”

“No. I must’ve missed that.” Said M. “I was listening to the music!”

“Touché!”

“Well, it was good fun M. I’m glad I went. Goodnight.” Said Bee.

That night, like a good scientist, Bee diligently googled Mosh Pit, Head banging, and crowd-surfing. She also learned about the wall of Death and the clinical consequences of severe hand banging. And the incidence of deafness in rock musicians. Her last thought before falling asleep was “I wonder if Vasu also possesses superior skill in performing all 34 Kama-sutra positions?”