Old is (G)old

Growing old has varied coping mechanisms. In fact some of the strangest ones fall in this cadre. Some react with strong defenses, consoling themselves of its inevitability and being supremely cocky with people half their age, passing them off as amateurs who haven't seen enough in life while they themselves struggle with the MAC book pro, take time out once a month to find that burgundy to mix with the brown and brush it with impeccable strokes to cover all grey and have to be reminded to check their email, as efficiency as a concept died when they turned 35. Others start dawning the beach blues and the converse chappals, the lingo they opt for amuses a thirteen year old and at times they scare the blatantly young  at pubs with the mustache parade, guzzling neat whiskey and jiving to Ma Baker. And some others turn into freaks who haunt the gyms, jogging tracks, Shiamak Davar classes and Pilate sessions- this lot is still respectable without their yellow bandanas and tiny neon shorts.

The truth is when the sheets are off the grace, the salt n peppered hair, the finesse and the wisdom. Old age breeds-- cynics who snarl at seeing others get things early in life compared to them; inflexible, over-opinionated idiots who insist on doing things exactly the same way-like butter on toast but not everything can be classically good, some can bore you to death. Shackled at the core and devoid of all passion from having lost a large part of their life without an ounce of doing anything close to following their dreams, they vent out their frustration on food, employees or wives. How can some-one so one-tracked then be called to lecture a bunch of self-motivated aspirants on how to do things differently and keep the fire alive...

What they have a problem getting through a dense (or sparse..lol) head is that there is no use crying hoarse just so you secure for yourself some respect, your time is now gone...you now also have to give some to get some.

If when Adams wrote, Lichtenstein illustrated

My life..or even other people's, in my mind, has the possibility of becoming two things when cliches are reinforced: one- A classic high-on-drama movie, two- a ben-day dots version with speech blurbs. Hopeless sighs are lettered in yellow and damsel tears are glittering pools of blue outlined in charcoal from the corner of an eye under an arched brow.

On the other hand, my aversion for stereotypes is at times so severe,that I wish I could send the self-proclaimed dutiful wives on a vacation to the nearby asteroid with a special tube of sunscreen or  use the infinite improbability drive before I start whining on my way to work on a Tuesday.


If I were to nominate someone to intercept pre-defined action and events in life with unusual turns of events justified as perfectly logical, it would be Douglas Adams. He would of course take his own time toying with the idea or doing nothing about it. But then again, putting deadlines to something like this would be ironic, since we can't really predict what happens next.

Who would I commission to selectively illustrate the 'at the onset-seemingly flippant and impersonal outlook'  with which Adams introduces outlandish situations and characters-Without a doubt there: Roy Lichtenstein. It would be a sight to see Lichtenstein create a cliche out of inter-galactic travellers who carry their towel around  or girls like me falling for the uncanny Beeblebrox-types ; a pleasure to see him carve a different reality for people who want to believe in it.

P.S: Not many know that the master of convention, as Roy was called, was also a master par excellence in creating a cliche of those elements that originally distinguished many a genius like Picasso and Monet. Their paintings, he reproduced in his own style, with thick black lines, bold and flat colours and of-course the famous 'Ben-day dots'.