Lunghi, dhoti, paratha, roti...

Yeah, well Subcontinental Madness continues to hold us in its vise-like grip.
I'm still well enjoying the read of that Shambalambahoopdehoop book, or whatever the fuck it's called.
I can see where Count Von Pillowbiter got put off, the guy does have a tendency every couple of pages to launch into these incredibly flaky passages where he analogises on what's going on, in the dopiest hamhanded fashion.
Rank shite like:

There's a truth deeper than experience. It's beyond what we see, or even what we feel. It's an order of truth that separates the profound from the merely clever, and the reality from the perception. We're helpless, usually, in the face of it; and the cost of knowing it, like the cost of knowing love, is sometimes greater than any heart would willingly pay. It doesn't always help us to love the world, but it does prevent us from hating the world. And the only way to know that truth is to share it, from heart to heart, just as Prabhakar told it to me, just as I'm telling it to you now.

Uhhhhh, sorry???
But the parts where he's describing his experiences are still pretty engaging.
Unfortunately, even though he continually paints himself as a tidy cunt, as my friends from the North would say, and even though there are piccies of him out there like this:

I still can't picture him as anything other than a twee little elfin knout thanks to that other piccie, the one on the book jacket:

To quote Kevin Nealon in Weeds:

"No grown man has blonde hair!"

I especially enjoyed the account of Blondie's time spent up north in the home village of his buddy.
He tends to neither lionize nor vilify the Indian folks, despite his deep affection, so I'm still with it.
Unfortunately, as I have mentioned about 18 times to The Wee Irish Fella just this morning, I'm jonesing

like fuck

for some fuckin Indian food.

Which isn't good, considering I'm in the one place on earth where there's no dependable supply of decent affordable Indian chow (as well as being the only place on the planet with no Hebrew jewelers, if you can feature that).

SPEAKING of wood, we've covered the Vanessa Redgrave thing, and mentioned the Diana Rigg issue.

But it occurred to me over the weekend that it's been years since I thought of one of my all time favourite First Fatso Providers.

 

Yeah, I'm talking about none other than Patricia "Pat" Savage.
I'm not sure why the idea of her garnered Mucho Madera almost any time I thought of her, especially since she was mostly famous for being a female version of her cousin Doc (who, by the way, is looking pretty fucked up in this picture...there's a certain point at which a 6-pack starts looking like you're going Trick or Treating as Michelangelo from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, you know what I mean?).

Anyways, Pat would never fail to get me all fired up, and I'd start to lose the thread of the story, and then I'd have to put the book down and go to the bathroom, etc.

Not like now.

Ahhh, I'll be right back...

Oh yeah, FWIW, I always wanted a whole gang of colourful geniuses to back me up in my adventures, like Doc had...

So far I've had to make do with The Wee Irish Fella.

Oh, and just in case, if you ever have the opportunity to watch the 1975 movie Doc Savage: The Man of Bronze, RUN do not WALK away.
Even though it does have my favourite all time Tarzan in it as Doc, it's just a colossal crapfest, it's hard to believe it ever stuck to videotape.
And no, it doesn't deserve an image.