"For the last time, my name is not fucking Moonman"
It’s a dingy nameless underground bar on the outskirts of Bangalore, and palpable misery hangs in the air. A Kingfisher sits on most of the knife-scarred tables, as patrons stare suspiciously at one another with rheumy eyes out from underneath heavy, weathered lids. The sun has never touched the dank dirt floor, and a mop isn’t a regular tourist in the john. The bartender keeps a cricket bat wrapped in barbed wire within arm’s reach at all times. He has a tattoo on his forearm that just says “Screw face,” but in Kannada it’s much prettier. The lights, already low enough to develop pictures by, sink even further toward the pitch. A busted upright piano which looks to have been around since well before British occupation is wheeled out with squeaks and groans, and a shadowy figure takes his seat behind it.
“Hello there, Bangalore!” he shouts. There is no response. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he adds, voice gargling sarcasm, “Bengaluru. I’m sorry, I was here before it was fucking Bengaluru, so I call it Bangalore. If you’ve got a problem with ‘Bangalore’, don’t let your ass get struck by the door! On your way out, I mean, it just doesn’t fit with the rhyme.”
Then he launches into one of his notable songs, a jingle that sold millions of all beef patties with special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, and onions on sesame seed buns.
- “When the clock strikes half past 6, babe
- Time to head for golden lights
- It’s a good time for the great taste — dinner!
- At McDonald’s, it’s Mac Tonight
- Come on, make it Mac Tonight!” Continue reading
Knowingly Undersold 