Duuuuuuuude.
posted by The Cydonian @ 12:24 am
0 comments
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
The McMansions of Our Minds - Prelude.
It was sheer serendipity that made me notice the quetzal CD lying on my computer table.
Actually, it isn't the quetzal CD; it is, in fact, the _Quipukamak_ CD. Quipukamak Vol 4, to be precise. From Ecuador, the CD politely, but firmly, announces in English, before cheerfully adding, that it is, in fact, Latin music. I was just lazy to reach for the CD when I wrote the earlier sentence, so I abbreviated its full pronto-Spanish name to 'quetzal'. You may mispronounce 'nuclear', but you can't choke on this one.
Now, you have to understand: even on the best of days, my computer table is merely overflowing with stuff. It's mostly very helpful stuff, mind you, (computer) mice, keyboards, an opened CPU, my work IC, wallet, my lucky Parker pen that dad gave me and other useful stuff too numerous to list. Today morning, though, there were also a few books; a friend had left his dog-eared National Geographic collection with me while moving to the US, and I had taken to carefully analyzing them on my daily morning commutes. The National Geographics have now taken to stretching themselves on that computer table; I suppose the room is as good a place as any for them to get a yellow tan.
That is to say, I'm fairly certain Quetzal simply willed itself into positioning itself on top of that opened CPU.
Not the first time this has happened, mind you; as recently as two weeks back, it mysteriously, but suggestively, apparated itself in my sling-on bag in a Banjara Hills mall. A friend and I were visiting one of those new-fangled all-you-can-gawk-at malls in Hyderabad on my holiday there. Lumbini, like 911, had changed everything; my friend and I opened our bags for inspection as soon as we saw that lone security guard sitting blankly, next to a beeping metal detector. The guard was as bewildered as anyone else was, I suppose, with all these new security arrangements; he was eyeing us in askance when he saw us open our bags.
He was, however, professional; putting on the best serious face he could muster, he proceeded to examine whatever we were stretching out for him. What is this, he asked, picking up a USB bluetooth adapter that fell out of my bag. I decided to be open with him; I began to explain its utility at length. Say you have your mobile, I said, picking his mobile up. Say you have your friend's mobile number on this. Now say you want to enter the number on a computer. A computer sir, he asked. Yes, a computer, I said, you want to enter the number in a computer, perhaps to save his phone number on Orkut or something. How would you do that?, I asked rhetorically, pausing for a second for some drama. Why, using this of course!, I said, holding the adapter victoriously.
I don't think he believed me. He continued to stare at me vaccously, before picking up the Quetzal CD.
What is this?, he asked. I'm sure he knew what it was. Uhhh, a CD?, I said, unsure of why he was asking this. Yes, what CD is this?, he asked.
I stared at the Quetzal CD deeply. There was, in addition to the PowerPoint-ed font salad on its front cover, a slightly disturbing charcoal drawing of a balding, almost skeletal, guitar player holding a banjo, and showing his bone-thin phalanges off. That is, it _was_ a charcoal drawing, before it was scanned, photoshopped, and greyscaled to a dark olive-green texture. It was disturbing, because one of the hands playing the guitar-like-banjo-ed rugby ball seemingly came from nowhere. Almost like a hungry Chinese ghost would touch you for some favours in the seventh month, you could say. QUIPUKAMAK, it finally summarized, in two colours, neither matching each other, nor with the dark-olive-green background.
I, uh, don't know how it came here, I said finally, deciding to stick to the truth.
An uncomfortable silence was threatening to ensue. My friend quickly interjected, however; : eedho music CD saar, he tried to sardufy, asking us let us go inside. The guard finally relented, insisting that I pass under the metal detector with the CD in tow. Just in case, I'm sure he thought.
Just what was it, then, my friend later asked, just as he was tucking into a plate of Thai yellow curry. I held it for him. He stared at the diseased guitar player, read the double appellation. Unsatisfied, he turned it over, and read the track list. Pop?, he asked, reading the track list. No, Spanish I'm sure, I replied, Latin in fact, Latin music from Ecuador. Then why is track three called "In the Middle of the Road"?, he asked, trying to challenge me for the scene earlier at the metal detector. I snatched the CD, and read the title of the sixth track there. Mountain of Happiness, it announced, followed by Por Una Gota De Tu Voz and Pituco after that.
I had specifically asked for this, of course. Many many moons ago.
(To be continued)
Actually, it isn't the quetzal CD; it is, in fact, the _Quipukamak_ CD. Quipukamak Vol 4, to be precise. From Ecuador, the CD politely, but firmly, announces in English, before cheerfully adding, that it is, in fact, Latin music. I was just lazy to reach for the CD when I wrote the earlier sentence, so I abbreviated its full pronto-Spanish name to 'quetzal'. You may mispronounce 'nuclear', but you can't choke on this one.
Now, you have to understand: even on the best of days, my computer table is merely overflowing with stuff. It's mostly very helpful stuff, mind you, (computer) mice, keyboards, an opened CPU, my work IC, wallet, my lucky Parker pen that dad gave me and other useful stuff too numerous to list. Today morning, though, there were also a few books; a friend had left his dog-eared National Geographic collection with me while moving to the US, and I had taken to carefully analyzing them on my daily morning commutes. The National Geographics have now taken to stretching themselves on that computer table; I suppose the room is as good a place as any for them to get a yellow tan.
That is to say, I'm fairly certain Quetzal simply willed itself into positioning itself on top of that opened CPU.
Not the first time this has happened, mind you; as recently as two weeks back, it mysteriously, but suggestively, apparated itself in my sling-on bag in a Banjara Hills mall. A friend and I were visiting one of those new-fangled all-you-can-gawk-at malls in Hyderabad on my holiday there. Lumbini, like 911, had changed everything; my friend and I opened our bags for inspection as soon as we saw that lone security guard sitting blankly, next to a beeping metal detector. The guard was as bewildered as anyone else was, I suppose, with all these new security arrangements; he was eyeing us in askance when he saw us open our bags.
He was, however, professional; putting on the best serious face he could muster, he proceeded to examine whatever we were stretching out for him. What is this, he asked, picking up a USB bluetooth adapter that fell out of my bag. I decided to be open with him; I began to explain its utility at length. Say you have your mobile, I said, picking his mobile up. Say you have your friend's mobile number on this. Now say you want to enter the number on a computer. A computer sir, he asked. Yes, a computer, I said, you want to enter the number in a computer, perhaps to save his phone number on Orkut or something. How would you do that?, I asked rhetorically, pausing for a second for some drama. Why, using this of course!, I said, holding the adapter victoriously.
I don't think he believed me. He continued to stare at me vaccously, before picking up the Quetzal CD.
What is this?, he asked. I'm sure he knew what it was. Uhhh, a CD?, I said, unsure of why he was asking this. Yes, what CD is this?, he asked.
I stared at the Quetzal CD deeply. There was, in addition to the PowerPoint-ed font salad on its front cover, a slightly disturbing charcoal drawing of a balding, almost skeletal, guitar player holding a banjo, and showing his bone-thin phalanges off. That is, it _was_ a charcoal drawing, before it was scanned, photoshopped, and greyscaled to a dark olive-green texture. It was disturbing, because one of the hands playing the guitar-like-banjo-ed rugby ball seemingly came from nowhere. Almost like a hungry Chinese ghost would touch you for some favours in the seventh month, you could say. QUIPUKAMAK, it finally summarized, in two colours, neither matching each other, nor with the dark-olive-green background.
I, uh, don't know how it came here, I said finally, deciding to stick to the truth.
An uncomfortable silence was threatening to ensue. My friend quickly interjected, however; : eedho music CD saar, he tried to sardufy, asking us let us go inside. The guard finally relented, insisting that I pass under the metal detector with the CD in tow. Just in case, I'm sure he thought.
Just what was it, then, my friend later asked, just as he was tucking into a plate of Thai yellow curry. I held it for him. He stared at the diseased guitar player, read the double appellation. Unsatisfied, he turned it over, and read the track list. Pop?, he asked, reading the track list. No, Spanish I'm sure, I replied, Latin in fact, Latin music from Ecuador. Then why is track three called "In the Middle of the Road"?, he asked, trying to challenge me for the scene earlier at the metal detector. I snatched the CD, and read the title of the sixth track there. Mountain of Happiness, it announced, followed by Por Una Gota De Tu Voz and Pituco after that.
I had specifically asked for this, of course. Many many moons ago.
(To be continued)
Labels: globalization, hyderabad, music, singapore, spanish
posted by The Cydonian @ 12:17 am
4 comments
