A Goose Egg

Where I discover that I have a uvula

2011-02-24T10:07:00.006-05:00

As happens on almost every other morning, I woke up today to the screaming of my cellphone alarm, regretting the alcoholic excesses of the previous night and hoping against hope that I had not reapplied the Mariah Carey theme to my Chrome browser while in a state of inebriation.

I turned off the alarm and switched sides in order to continue snoozing till such a time as any additional delay in waking up would put my job in jeopardy, when I noticed the unpleasant sensation peculiar to having something lodged inside your throat. Understandably so, I assumed it to be morning snot which I tried to swallow. It wouldn't go down. I put more effort into it. It just wouldn't budge. Concerned now, I sat up and tried to determine what was preventing the smooth execution of what is usually a relatively elementary bodily function. After a couple more tries and the object continuing its stubborn refusal to be flushed down the gullet, I finally decided that more drastic measures would be required. I shoved my finger inside my mouth and attempted to extricate whatever it was that was lodged inside my throat.

I came up with a mass of my own flesh.

Terrified, I ran to the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror and opened my mouth wide in an attempt to determine the nature of the calamity that appeared to have befallen me during the night.

You know that tiny dangly thing that hangs in front of your tonsils and hovers non-intrusively in the background that you only notice as you check out your teeth for pearliness and spinach? It was FUCKING HUGE. GIGANTIC.

HOOOOLYYY FUUUCCKKKK I screamed to myself, not loudly because I did not wish to wake up Ganesha (I had already named it after the Hindu God that it resembled in both size and physical appearance) and ran downstairs looking for my iPod touch. This was no time to be waiting for Windows Vista to boot up.

As I fired up the iPod browser in order to determine what was wrong with me, I realized that I had no idea what Ganesha was even known as in the medical community. So I typed in "dangly thing in front of throat" and sweet sweet Google ( BTW dear Google, if you're reading this and if you ever wish to use my house as a repository for hiding human remains and shit, CALL ME) immediately supplied me with its biological term. The UVULA.

Now I had something to go on. Still panicking sufficiently so as not to be able to appreciate the humor contained in the word "uvula", I typed "swollen uvula" into Google. And the very first link to appear was this blogpost.

"If you've woken up this morning with a swollen uvula then the best thing to do is eat lots of ice cream and just calm down" began the blogpost.

I immediately failed to calm down due to the realization that I was entirely out of icecream. But I continued to read on.

"Perhaps you were drinking lots of alcohol last night and may have been smoking too. You fell into bed, flat out unconscious and snored the night away motionless and unrousable. You were so knocked out you didn't realise that you were snoring like a pig and profoundly irritating your throat."

YES I said. I had indeed been drinking a lot and probably been snoring like a pig. Go on, said I to the Blogpost.

"You woke this morning with an incredibly dry and sore throat. So dry that no matter how much saliva you tried to swallow it still felt like sandpaper in the mojave desert. You had a drink of water... no relief. Oooh that sore throat, ouch! You looked in the bathroom mirror and opened your mouth wide and looked in. To your horror you noticed that wiggly little thing that hangs down at the back of your mouth was huge! Oh my God! It's all swollen up and you can actually feel it lying on your tongue! Shock! Horror! "What can I do?"

It was almost as if the Blogpost was reading my mind. Except it used the word "wiggly" instead of my preferred "dangly". Anyways, let's go with wiggly.

"First thing is.... DON'T PANIC! ...... calm down, relax, it's not just you, lots of people have this problem. Often due to dehydration the morning after too much booze and much more common in smokers. So just chill for a moment."

Finally, I stopped panicking. I chilled down and relaxed (or as assholes like to call it, chillaxed). And then I continued to read on.

Apparently this thing wasn't too bad. It was the result of a combination of post-binge-drinking-dehydration + pig-snoring. It would gradually subside in 8-12 hours. Ice-cream application and rehydration was recommended. And donations to the blog were welcomed.

I donated.

So anyways, I have a uvula. And so do you. And you need to take care of it.

Interview with blogadda

2010-11-11T10:06:00.001-05:00

Here is blogadda's interview with me. Apparently I am known outside of my cubicle. Warning : The post contains partial frontal nudity.

A Traveler's guide to Philadelphia

2010-04-18T16:00:00.452-04:00

I often receive emails from distant acquaintances who have decided to travel to Philadelphia on vacation and have come to know, probably from another distant acquaintance, that I live there. The email will usually be very effusive. More effusive than this person ever was in real life with me. And it will usually go something like, "Hiiiiiii!!!! gawker, do you remember me, we were cellmates in prison, I was the one who snitched on you and let the warden know about your plan to escape through the washbasin. Anyways, I am traveling to Philadelphia this summer. If I were visiting you in Philadelphia, which I'm not, where in Philadelphia would you take me to?"

The problem is, it is somewhat difficult to come up with a Philly itinerary on the spur of the moment. Some have chosen the production of tourist brochures as a career choice and I am not one of them. However, since Philadelphia appears to be quite a popular destination among Indians and since I happen to live in its vicinity, I took it upon myself to compile a list of what Philadelphia has to offer. Let us begin in the suburbs.

Valley Forge Historic Park

About 10 to 15 miles north-west of Philadelphia lies Valley Forge National Historic Park. Here is where General George Washington camped out with his troops in the winter of 1777 while pondering an attack on Philadelphia, which had been captured by the British and whose residents were now being forced to "smoke fags" and spell color with a "u".

The highlight of your tour of the park will be the hundred or so revolutionary era huts scattered about the park in which the miserable continental army camped out in horrible conditions, all the while, no doubt blaming Mexican immigrants for their plight. Another feature of this park are the massive herds of free-roaming deer who, due to the no-hunting policy instituted within the park, have reciprocated by utilizing every free moment to reproduce.

Of course, the reason the good general and his army had to camp out in this hellhole, however pristine, was something that took place a couple of years before in the city of Philadelphia, specifically, in Independence Hall.

Independence Hall

If you are aware of the existence of Philadelphia without having actually lived here, then the following is probably the extent of your knowledge of this city. Here is where the declaration of Independence was signed in 1776, which propelled the American colonists into a revolutionary war against Great Britain. In this brick building, you will visit the great hall where the actual Declaration of Independence was signed. Here, you will also discover that the great hall that you are standing in might not actually have been the place where the Declaration of Independence was signed. And, the furniture on display in the hall might not have been the furniture from that time. Even the windows you see from inside cannot be seen from outside, which means that even the fucking windows are fake. And the guide providing you with all this information is probably not a guide either but just some homeless guy who wandered inside with the intention of stealing wallets, but after finding out it was full of Indians, abandoned his plan.

Basically, apart from a general GPS proximity to the area, the current Independence Hall probably has no resemblance to the original Independence Hall. Heck, who the fuck knows if there even was an Independence Hall?

But you should go there regardless, because that's Independence Hall, bitches. It's not the building but what it stands for that's important, namely, Big Macs and Walmart. Also, it's got great public restrooms which by itself makes it an excellent tourist destination in Philly. It is also very close to the Liberty Bell.

The Liberty Bell

If Philadelphia were a burger franchise, it would distribute its bell-shaped burgers in a container shaped like a bell by a person wearing a bell for a cap, ringing a bell to let you know your order's ready. So, what is this famous bell that everybody keeps talking about?

The Liberty Bell is a unique relic from the revolutionary era. Its primary claim to fame is the giant crack that festers upon one of its sides. It's secondary claim to fame is that it was rung on July 8 1776 to summon the good citizens of Philadelphia for the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Of course, like every other piece of Philadelphia history, historians doubt that this actually happened. But that doesn't matter. For this bell has The Crack.

The Liberty Bell is the proud owner of the second-most famous crack in the world, the first belonging to Jennifer Lopez. It was a product of amazing 18th century American workmanship that caused it to crack during its very first test-ringing. Even after this debacle, people kept ringing the bell on festive occasions such as George Washington's birthday, Lafayette's return to Philadelphia and Alexander Hamilton's death. Ultimately, the growth of the crack caused the bell to become unusable, after which the primary purpose it served was in drawing tourist money to Philadelphia.

While visiting the Liberty Bell, you need to make sure that you are standing on the crack side of the bell. You see, the crack is only visible from one side. This is very important. If you visit the Liberty Bell but do not get to see its famous crack, it would be akin to traveling to New York and failing to get a blow job from a crack whore under the Brooklyn Bridge. Why, if you fail to see the fucking crack, you might as well not visit the damn thing at all, and merely get drunk at the Triumph Brewery instead.

The Triumph Brewery

Regardless of whether you visit the Liberty Bell or not, you should still visit the Triumph Brewery in Old City. Here, on the banks of the Delaware river (which you cannot see from the brewery per se) you will be able to sample the best of Philadelphia's microbrews. However, if you are planning to eat here, it would help if you are a person of small appetite. While I would not say that the portions have been specifically designed to fit comfortably inside a 5 year old's belly, well, why not, I would indeed say that. But the good news is, this area is well-endowed with other eating joints that are sure to satisfy the palate of every ethnicity. So drink your fill here and for lunch, go someplace else, say, the Reading Terminal Market.

The Reading Terminal Market

If the city of Philadelphia were a brothel, the Reading Terminal Market would be its flagship whore. The Reading Terminal Market is located right next door to the Market East train station in Central Philly.The history of this market can be traced back to mid-19th century Philadelphia when there used to be a number of open-air markets serving the city. After these open-air markets became dirty and unhygienic, city officials decided to bring all that dirt and lack of hygiene indoors and that is how the Reading Terminal Market came into existence.

The market has a number of shops selling all kinds of stuff, from produce to books to hippy alternative medicine to pigs feet to bluefish collars and parrotfish cheeks. While browsing through the market, the slightly depressing thought might pass through your mind that somewhere in the ocean, collarless bluefish are pointing and laughing at cheekless parrotfish. Dismiss it. Remind yourself of all those brainless humans who have it worse. The market is also chock-full of eating joints that offer the cuisine of a multitude of nationalities and ethnicities. Be aware that being violently hungry is a necessary condition for visiting the Reading Terminal Market. Going there on a full stomach would be akin to watching a pornographic movie after masturbating twice in rapid succession. It simply serves no purpose.

Since this place is usually packed to the brim, following a few simple rules of navigation would make your life a lot easier. Most importantly, if you're in a crowd of people that appears not to have moved at all within the last ten minutes, it is highly likely that you're standing in a line of some sort. It is then time to gently start nudging people aside, accompanied, if necessary with the threat of physical violence and move along.

Also, when you are moving from point A to point B, forget about the crow and how it prefers to fly in a straight line. A crow faces very little traffic in the air. You, on the other hand, will. So another rule of navigation in Reading Market is, always travel the perimeter route, which is usually less trafficked. The reason for that being the occasional garbage piles and the stink of death. But if you are from India, you should have little trouble dealing with it.

There are a number of such pockets of death scattered about the market where you might suddenly experience an overwhelming desire to faint. Just keep moving, and it will be replaced by pleasanter smells. The key is to keep moving.

Now, since I am a paranoid Indian from a country where being paranoid is necessary for staying alive and in good financial health, every time I am in a crowd, I keep checking my wallet. In Reading Terminal Market, despite the crowd, there is very little need to do so. Most of the people here are hungry and are searching for food. They have no use for wallets. However, if you are carrying a sandwich in your pocket, it might be worthwhile to check up on it periodically.

And as far as possible, try not to carry a frying pan with you. The temptation to hit people with it will be too strong to overcome.

Although the Reading Market gives you a large number of eating options, one of the best ones is the Rib Stand that sells fully cooked baby back and beef short ribs. Here, you will find heaven in the short term. And for adult beverages, you may check out the beer garden in the center of the market.

Note : The Rib stand does not have a place to sit and eat. Therefore, you will have to hijack the seating space of some other eating establishment. To avoid finding yourself in an awkward situation with the management of said establishment, make sure that it has a sufficiently eclectic menu so that your foreign foodstuffs may blend in.

In the unlikely event that nothing in Reading Terminal Market appeals to the gourmet in you, you have a final option to fall back on. The mighty South Philly cheesesteak.

The Mighty South Philly Cheesesteak

The mighty South Philly Cheesesteak inhabits the southern end of the city of Philadelphia. It may also be found hanging around in various other pockets of the city, but in order to experience the racially pure version, you will have to travel to South Philly.

You have a couple of choices : Pat's King of Steaks or Geno's steaks. These two restaurants are located on the same street, facing each other. Rumor is, they have a long history of rivalry that includes steak fights where foot-soldiers from each establishment battle each other with hunks of raw rib-eye and survivors feast on the spoils of victory all night until the breaking light of dawn.

I recommend you try both. Like this guy did.

The fact of the matter is, until you've tasted a Philly cheesesteak, you haven't really experienced Philadelphia. Or a clogged artery.

Bhakshak

2010-03-25T08:23:00.017-04:00

Standing on the pavement outside the Bank of Maharashtra, I was gazing at a shack on the opposite side of the road, called "Narasimha snacks and real estate" and trying to imagine what the payroll at this establishment would look like - Cook, realtor, waiter, appraiser, tableboy, mortgage agent - when one of those Pune Municipal Corporation tow trucks pulled up to the curb and began loading up two-wheelers that had violated the perimeter of the two meter wide strip on the pavement allocated for parking purposes.

Immediately, bank customers started to fly out of the building, most of them women, most of whom were already zipping open their purses for the expeditious disbursal of bribe money. The truck driver watched the moneyed mob approach with a look of open disapproval on his face, shook his head to frantic pleadings for mercy in a glorious display of honesty and impeccable work ethic and drove off. Drove off slowly. Very slowly. Slow enough for the delinquent two-wheeler rider with the amplest of proportions to be able to keep up with him comfortably by trotting alongside. After reaching the other end of the strip mall, he stopped. I was not able to see what was transpiring but apparently business was conducted that was deemed satisfactory by all parties involved. Two wheelers were unloaded from the truck, purses were no doubt made lighter to the tune of a couple hundred rupees and everybody disappeared from the premises including the honesty and the impeccable work ethic.

A little old man with two teeth, wearing a Sherlock Holmes cap, who'd been observing the scene at my side, spoke up.

"Sala police, why do they have to do that, why do they have to keep troubling the public with their nonsense?", he said.

"They're just doing their job, uncle", I said.

"What job? When there is a crime, they take thirty minutes to arrive and thirty days to tell you they cannot do anything. But for taking our two-wheelers, they are always ready", said the old man.

"Mmmhm", I said.

"They are here to save, but all they do now is eat our money. Instead of Rakshak, they have become Bhakshak", continued the old man.

"Bhakshak instead of Rakshak", he repeated, obviously liking his idiomatic creation.

"Yes", I said.

"They are very naughty fellows, very naughty", said the old man, switching to English. From the expression on his face, it was clear that he had very little patience with naughtiness.

"You are correct, uncle", I replied.

The old man then took out a pouch of tobacco, a vial of lime and began mixing together the contents of both in his palm in a pensive manner.

"No one does farming anymore", he said, abruptly changing the topic. "Who is going to farm now?"

The old man continued to till the field of tobacco in his palm. Finally, gathering up the tobacco-lime mixture, he stuffed it into his mouth. The puzzle of the two teeth was finally solved.

"My bus is here", he said.

And then, he was gone.

Adventures in Pune traffic and clubbing

2010-03-22T15:35:00.005-04:00

A friend called me up. Let's go clubbing, he said. Thousand Oaks? Thousand Oaks it was.

I would drive to his house, from where we would take his car to the pub. It was time to bring out the old two-wheeler.

The last time I rode a two-wheeler in Pune was six years ago. My dad was therefore concerned about my ability to stay upright in Pune traffic.

"Why don't you take a rickshaw, instead?", dad suggested. "Our old Kinetic Honda is very unstable, as it is".

"Dad, what are you talking about", I said. "There's a brand new Kinetic Zoom in our driveway".

"That's actually the Kinetic Honda", replied my dad. "I gave it a fresh coat of paint and attached a Kinetic Zoom sticker to it".

"What? That's our old scooter?" I was unconvinced. To verify my dad's claim, I climbed onto it and tried to kick back the stand. It was fucking stiff. Stiff as dead guy boner. Definitely 20 year old Kinetic Honda stiff.

But I had decided that I needed wheels of my own for the duration of my trip, so my dad finally handed over the keys.

Our Kinetic Honda is a masterpiece of Japanese engineering. At least, it was that 20 years ago when it was manufactured. Now, it is a great example of how a bunch of free-floating automobile parts can stay together purely through Newtonian forces of attraction.

Problem one was apparent the moment I turned on the headlights. Through some weird optical calisthenics, the light from the bulb, instead of illuminating the path ahead of me, was shining back at me through the speedometer dial.

The second problem was petrol consumption. This particular scooter burns a whopping one percent of petrol it consumes and releases the rest back into the care of Mother Nature.

The third problem was Pune traffic. Now, I know from old experience that the correct way to drive in Pune is to bid adieu to common sense and every natural reflex you possess and drive not IN, but directly AT traffic. When you do that, like the Red Sea at Moses' command, it shall part. That is, as long as you keep ignoring that tiny little terrified voice inside your head, requesting you to kindly not do that please. However, a decade in the US appears to have corrupted my Pune-traffic navigation skillset.

Although the traffic in Pune has increased, to be fair, a number of new roads have also been built. Where previously stood irrigation canals and wilderness, there are now roads that were built on top of those canals. The problem is, the trees that grew on the banks of those canals continue to exist. So as you are driving your two-wheeler on one of these roads, you should not be surprised if you suddenly find yourself clasped in a tight embrace with the trunk of one of these buggers. Growing, not in the middle of the road on the divider, but in the middle of the fucking left lane. The good news is, as you look up into the branches of the tree, you will discover that you are part of an entire community of Pune tree-dwellers who have arrived at the conclusion that life on a tree is far less hazardous than that on a two-wheeler.

Then, there are the newly built paths designated "bicycle cum homeless" that have been built to accommodate either bicyclists or the homeless, depending on who stakes claim to the path first.

Another huge improvement is the disappearance of pig-horns. These were powerful road-clearing devices popular in the 90s, devised for emergencies whereby the deployment of one would not only cause the two-wheeler rider in front of you to offer you the right of way, but also get him to crash into the sidewalk through the pure terror of being pursued by a feral beast. These now appear to have been replaced by the "baby-cry" horn which replicates the sound of a baby as it howls for food. These are however no less disconcerting because they make you fear for your safety, followed as you are, by a hungry baby on a Hero Honda who may or may not be conversant with traffic rules.

However, the biggest issue with Pune traffic now is the pollution, which is especially problematic if you're riding a two-wheeler. I do not know how two-wheeler riders manage to not get asphyxiated as they wait at traffic signals. Hitler would have adored Pune traffic (/end of tasteless Holocaust gas chamber joke).

An interesting aspect of Pune traffic are the confrontations. They usually occur at traffic signals, when the aggrieved party pulls up to the allegedly guilty party from behind and proceeds to inquire as to the legitimacy of one of his prior actions. The funny thing is, as long as the traffic light is red, the argument is quite peaceful, convivial even.

"Hello sir, do you realize that you did not have the right to cut me off back there?", says the miffed scooter rider.

"Oh hello, I'm sorry, but I own a car and as you can see, it outweighs your scooter by as many as 500 kilos, so quite obviously, I shall always have the right of way with you", explains the car driver quite patiently.

But after the light turns green and the threat of violent physical altercation has passed, that is when vocal belligerence begins.

"Gandu, I will hit your face so hard, you will bleed out of your anus", says the car driver as he speeds ahead.

"I will fucking rape your mother and tell the police your dad did it, madarchod", yells the scooter rider as he waves his fist at the car while simultaneously utilizing it as a shield against cross traffic.

That is Pune traffic.

Braving all this and more, I drove to my friend's place, from where we drove to Thousand Oaks in his car.

We appeared to be early. The place was virtually empty and we got two good seats near the bar, right in front of the TV playing the Mumbai-Bangalore IPL match.

Thousand Oaks has these small circular barstools, kind of like humongous mushrooms that barely accommodate one of your buttocks at a time. And they are so low that when you sit on one, you have to make sure you don't bump your knee into your jaw.

I ordered a bottle of Kingfisher beer, which seems to be pretty much the only beer available in Pune pubs. Seriously, I've had it with Kingfisher. A girl next to us was drinking something from a pitcher that looked kind of interesting. I decided to try and find out what it was.

As the saying goes, the way to a woman's pitcher is through her heart. My wife's voice inside my head said to me, "Okay, you may proceed. But make it fast".

I smiled at the girl. She smiled back.

"What is that stuff that you're drinking?", I asked her.

"Long Island iced tea", she replied.

"Oh okay, so am I", I said.

"No, you're not", said my wife's voice. "We're done here".

So I turned back to my beer.

On the other side, there was a guy entertaining a couple of ladies. Every 5 minutes, he would get a call on his cellphone and scamper out to take it. I've made this general observation in Pune that people never seem to reject cellphone calls. Doesn't matter how pressing the business they are currently attending to, a cellphone call HAS to be accepted.

For example, I'll be in my therapist's office (yes, my Pune guy) telling him, "So Doctor, I have all these heads that I..", and then he receives a phone call. He says to me, "Hold that thought", proceeds to accept it and tells the person on the line, "No, sister, that's the chilli pickle. The lime pickle is in the jar next to it", without being unduly concerned about the heads I'm referring to.

I have been informed by a number of people that pubs in Pune appear to be stuck in a musical time warp. Thousand Oaks was no exception. The DJ began with a Guns n Roses song. Following that up with a Pink Floyd number. Then, another Guns n Roses number, that was then followed by something from Metallica's black album. As the musical timeline progressed from 1996 to 1997, the crowd got even wilder till finally at 1998, they were partying like it was 1999. From my conversation with one such reveller, I came to know that he was celebrating because "who knows what's gonna happen when the clock strikes 2000".

At 11:30 the party ended, as is mandated by Pune Municipal Corporation decree and we all filed out.

But that night, I couldn't sleep because I couldn't stop worrying about the upcoming Y2K problem.

Hiking up Mt. Whatsitsface

2010-03-16T23:27:00.015-04:00

I woke up at 4:30 AM yesterday. Partly because my body continues to be unaware of its exact whereabouts, whether it's the US, India or the mid-Atlantic ridge. Also, in part because I was planning on hiking up Mt Whatsitsface that morning.

I was in Girivan, a private hill station near Pune with my family where my sister has built a bungalow at the base of Mt. Whatsitsface, a mountain that rises up above the rest of the village to a height of, let's say, a thousand feet, give or take five hundred. Historically, it was named Mt. Whatsitsface in the 2010s after numerous inquiries with regard to its name yielded no answers.

So there I was, standing outside the house at 6:00 in the morning, waiting for the caretaker Prabhakar, who was also going to be my guide, to show up. Apparently I needed a guide because otherwise I would fall off the mountain and die. It was still dark and I waited patiently, listening to morning sounds. And smelling morning smells. I decided to perform a few push-ups to kill time. I managed to do 30, give or take 25. Then it was back to waiting. Just then, I heard somebody running hard. Really hard. I guessed it was Prabhakar, really really eager to take me up the mountain of his ancestors.

It turned out to be a little brown dog, who appeared to be running for his life. After making a sharp right and squatting underneath the gate, he entered our garden and stood there with terror in his eyes. I could empathize because once, I used to be little and brown. And on occasion, I've had to run for my life. Thinking quickly, I gestured towards the back of the garden where I knew was a secret exit into the woods. Without pausing to bark his thanks at me, the dog ran out back.

After about 10 seconds, I heard some more running and three large white dogs appeared with the demeanor of people looking for a little brown dog. I stood there with a look on my face that said I hadn't seen a little brown dog and even if I had, you are too big to fit underneath the gate anyways, so eat me. They left, still looking.

I continued to wait. Finally, I saw Prabhakar in the distance, carrying what appeared to be an immensely long bamboo pole. It appeared that the plan was to pole-vault me onto the top of the mountain. As he opened the gate, I said to him, "Good morning Prabhakar, not to rain on your parade here, but I forgot to bring my blow-absorbent clothing and helmet."

"What?", he said.

"You know", I said and pointed at the bamboo pole.

"That's for the Gudi", said Prabhakar. "It's Gudi Padva today".

"Ah, yes", I said, realizing that today was indeed the Maharashtrian new year.

"Let me just get the Gudi up and then we'll leave", said Prabhakar.

"Okay", I said, hoping he wouldn't ask for help, thereby exposing the fraudulence of my Hindu affiliations.

Luckily, he was an expert at Gudi installation and did not require any assistance. After putting up the Gudi (which kind of resembles a broom all dressed up to be married to a mop from a wealthy family) and banging out milk from a coconut, he offered me a piece of its flesh as prasad which I gratefully accepted since I hadn't had any dinner the previous night. We then set off on our expedition.

The road up the mountain passed by Prabhakar's house, where he picked up his cellphone, no doubt to be able to phone in an emergency response team after I were to disappear off the side of the mountain. The road then turned into a footpath, began its ascent up the mountainside and got much steeper. Prabhakar, who is a wiry little guy, was making good time. Actually, much better time than I was because I was basically standing still, having propped myself against a tree and wiping my forehead.

"Hoy, Prabhakar", I yelled. "Can we go a bit slower?"

"Okay", he yelled back. I couldn't even see him.

"You know, it's just that I'm doing this for the first time in my life", I lied, hoping God wouldn't exact vengeance upon my mendacity by deleting all my hiking blog posts.

As I caught up with him, I asked him the question that had been constantly preying upon my mind.

"By the way Prabhakar, what is the name of this mountain that we are climbing?", I said.

"The mountain itself has no name, but this gap that we are climbing up to is called 'Waghjaichi Khinda'", he replied.

Waghjai can be loosely translated into Marathi as "Tiger goes".

"Why Waghjai?", I asked him, hoping to hear it's because tigers never went there.

"It's called that after the temple of Goddess Waghjai on top of the mountain", replied Prabhakar.

"Ah", I said. So that was that.

The path then grew even steeper, with leaves and small stones appearing on it, causing me to slip quite a bit. In addition, I was carrying a water bottle that was grossly impeding my efforts to grab on to the ground as I fell.

"Very dangerous section, this is", I said to Prabhakar, who, it appeared, was texting on his cellphone as he climbed.

"Here, give me that water bottle", he said, astutely realizing the issue.

I gratefully handed it over to him.

"Thanks", I said. "It's just that my shoes, you know, they aren't really meant for hiking", I said, pointing to my Timberland hiking boots. "They don't grip the ground as well as your....err....leather dress shoes".

After continuing to climb some more, we finally reached the flat top of Waghjai gap. There was a rather splendid view of the Mulshi valley with tiny hamlets clustered near the bottom of the mountain and Mulshi lake and dam farther along to the right. I could also see Sinhagad fort dimly outlined against the sky on the left. And on the other side, the twin forts of Lohagad-Visapur.

As I was wandering around, I saw a path going up the side of the mountain. I squinted at it because it was really hard to make out in the distance. What was worse was that I was standing five feet away from it.

"Is that the way up?", I asked Prabhakar.

"Yes", he replied.

"Okay then, I think we've climbed enough for today", I said. "Splendid view here, really splendid", I added and made to turn back.

"What's the matter? Don't you wish to visit the temple of the Goddess and offer your prayers?", said Prabhakar, visibly surprised.

"Well, it's just that I have problems with that path", I said, pointing at the thin, barely visible line on the mountainside. "It looks kind of slippery and there's very little to hang on to. Also, it's a direct fall to the bottom of the valley. And, I have height sickness", I added, just to round everything up nicely.

Prabhakar seemed unconvinced. "You know, a lot of 60 year olds have hiked that path".

"Well, I am almost 60", I replied. I am indeed closer to 60 than I am to 0.

"60 year old women", he added.

"Oh", I said. There really was nothing I could say to that.

"But I guess we can turn back if you want", said Prabhakar.

"I would like that", I said.

So, we turned back.

The hike back down was much more difficult than the hike up. I asked Prabhakar to let me go first. "Just so if I fall, I don't take you with me and you can save your own life", I explained. He seemed to appreciate my concern for his safety.

When we reached the section with leaves and stones, Prabhakar offered me the use of his stick. I declined.

"When I fall, I usually like to grab on to air and I won't be able to do that if I'm holding a stick", I explained.

As we were climbing down, I asked Prabhakar, "Has anybody ever fallen off this path"? It seemed unlikely that no one had because it wasn't a very easy hiking trail.

"No", he replied. "Not to my knowledge. In fact, even 60 year old women have made this hike with relative comfort", he added.

"Yes, you told me about the 60 year old women", I said to him, "but thanks for reminding me".

After fifteen more minutes of easier descending, we were back in the village. After paying him for his services, I told him that I'd be back and this time, we would go right up to the top and the temple of the Goddess. What I didn't tell him was that I'd also be bringing a 60 year old woman with me.

You know, because I'm really skeptical about that whole 60 year old woman business.

The Flight

2010-03-13T20:29:00.014-05:00

So here I am, back in the mother country after a hiatus of four years. I was told by a number of people to look forward to a lot of change. Lord, there were changes, and how. The most important change for me was, no more free booze on trans-Atlantic flights. What? This doesn't make any sense! I know a number of people who keep flying across the Atlantic just for the free booze. Me, for one. In this depressed economy, why would airlines risk losing this valuable segment of their clientele for some trivial savings in alcohol?

So since I knew I would be paying for booze anyways, I decided to start imbibing in the airport itself. Newark airport is an alcoholic's paradise. From the security check-in right up to the gates, I passed a number of fine drinking establishments, beginning with the Heineken lounge, which was full of people graphically demonstrating their enthusiasm for this rather ordinary beverage in outlandish ways irritating to the average person, and culminating in the Sam Adams lounge, where people were drinking Sam Adams. And lounging. This way of life looked good to me, so I jumped right into it.

The barmaid turned out to be very friendly. I ordered a Boston Lager, paid her in cash and began looking for a seat near a power outlet. The barmaid yelled after me.

"Are you in loaf?"

She had a pronounced Spanish accent.

"Excuse me?", I said, stopping in my tracks.

"I said, are you in loaf?", she repeated.

"What? Why are you asking me that?", I said.

While she disappeared momentarily to tend to another customer, I gave the guy at the next seat a puzzled glance.

"Has she asked you if you're in love?", I said.

"No", he replied.

"Why's she asking me that, then?", I said.

"Maybe she wants to lay you right here on the counter", he replied.

I started thinking, perhaps it would be a good time to be running for my life. Before I could do that, the lady returned.

"Hey, come on, are you in loaf?", she said.

"Why do you keep asking me that?", I said.

"Here, you gave me an extra twenty dollar bill", she said. "You got to be in loaf".

I grabbed the cash and found a seat.

For the next three hours, I proceeded to do Jim Koch proud. In fact, I'm pretty sure I did his father, grandfather and two uncles on his wife's side proud as well. With the entire line of heavenly Kochs bestowing upon me the golden shower of their pride, I went to the gate and boarded the plane.

I had a window seat and sure enough, it turned out to be right slam bang in the geometric center of the wing. There was no way I would be seeing any scenery unless, cross your fingers, the wing were to fall off. But I'd heard disturbing stories about people having faced some difficulty in flying a trans-Atlantic jumbo jetliner with only one intact wing so I uncrossed my fingers.

Continental Airlines has some bizarre food on its Newark-Mumbai flights. It's almost as if the company has no Indian employees and none of its employees have any Indian acquaintances. So when it came to creating a menu for, let's say at a conservative guess, a half-planeful of Indian people, Continental Airlines was nonplussed. So they turned to the Great Gazoogle for advice. Searched for the term "Indian food", randomly paired each search result with an item of American food and voila, there was the menu.

The main course was chicken biryani. With chicken prepared Italian style. There was also salad. With two green chillies that had about as much spice content as a cotton blanket. And there was moong dal. Which appeared to have been sauted in butter with breadcrumbs. And for dessert, there was shrikhand. Followed by fat free plain yogurt. All in all, a strange exotic dinner. No doubt prepared by someone with the head of an Indian, the body of an American and the breasts of Angelina Jolie. I don't know, it's just that studies have concluded that every male thinks about Angelina Jolie's breasts about once every 5 seconds.

I don't know what it is about Indians that makes it extremely difficult for them to stay seated on flights. It's like they are just aching to be liberated from the shackles of relaxed buttock and pain-free lower back. And it's always the guy in front of you. He's either getting up from his seat and looking around, trying to gauge the probability of success of inciting a mass uprising against the pilot's fascist diktat of remaining seated until the fasten seat-belts sign's been turned off, or jabbing his fingers at the LCD, trying to get it to work, even though everybody else's is clearly also showing the same start-up screen. That is why when you have to fart in the plane (and let us not pretend that you don't because that would contradict the very laws of physics), it's a good idea to direct the jet right at the person in front of you. See, you don't know the guy behind you. For all you know, he might be a decent fellow, perhaps even a philanthropist, trying to save the world from AIDS and hunger. He certainly deserves the benefit of doubt. On the other hand, the guy in front of you is definitely a douchebag. He's probably responsible for half the world's AIDS and hunger. So fuck him and let the methane fly.

Despite the unorthodox and slightly nauseating food, I had a great flight. Hey, how could you go wrong with non-stop? Plus, my entire row of seats was unoccupied so I had a considerable amount of leg room to indulge my restless legs syndrome in. And soon, in what appeared to be practically no time whatsoever, the plane was preparing for its final descent, the pilot had turned the fasten seat-belts sign back on and the asshole in front of me was again looking for people to accompany him in playing catch in the aisles.

Mumbai airport was a pleasant surprise. Somebody appears to have finally come to a realization that even though the airport is government property, that in itself does not mandate its resemblance to a government office in appearance. The walls seemed to have been freshly painted, the corridors were lush with carpeting and even the signs requesting travelers not to jump into a cab with a random stranger offering to accompany you to a hotel were far more persuasive, affiliated as they were with an institute of considerably less decrepitude than before.

The other thing I noticed about Mumbai airport is that in order to get to the Baggage Claim from Immigration, everybody and their uncle has to pass through the duty-free store. I guess somebody's been taking lessons from Vegas, eh? This is where sales people accost you and gently explain why, if you were to refrain from purchasing a liter-sized bottle of Chivas Regal for your father, you would be a terrible son and your father would be so ashamed of you as not to include a single item of fakery in his narratives of your exploits to the neighbors. So heck, you purchase two bottles, because the excruciating banality of your life certainly demands fakery in its recounting, plus, they are on sale and come with a free DVD. This DVD contains hilarious real-life footage of people being convinced into purchasing two bottles of Chivas Regal instead of one. Who, for crying out loud, could pass up this offer?

Not you.

And neither could I.

Haiti

2010-01-14T21:27:00.002-05:00

CNN is calling Port-au-Prince "a mess of bodies, rebar and concrete". Please don't add to the problem by not doing anything. Please help your fellow human. Go here. Donate.

Thank you.

My Indibloggie winners (in short)

2009-12-16T13:30:00.013-05:00

On this momentous occasion of the 2008 or 2009 (who the hell knows or cares) Indibloggie winners being declared, I have compiled my own list of winners in categories I have created myself because they make more sense. To me. I shall be curt because I'm in a hurry and I'm doing this now because I haven't posted anything for a while and this would be a good way to write something without having to spend a lot of time thinking about it.

So here are your winners:

1.> Most useful blog : Patrix. Also very useful, his twitter feed. Always learn something new from him. He is always the first one to answer any technical question you might throw out in the twitterverse. Go forth and drink deeply from the fount of his wisdom.

2.> Most honest blog : TGFI. She is not trying to impress anybody. She is honest. She is all of you. Except of course, those among you who are dishonest.

3.> Blog most likely to make you an alcoholic : Bongopondit. He will most likely make you an alcoholic. Worse, he will utilize a wide variety of liquors towards that endeavour, thereby making you a destitute for life. If you don't already drink, save yourself and stay away.

4.> Blog most likely to force you to revise your opinion of yourself as being master of the English language and other fine stuff : J. Alfred Prufrock. He will force you to revise your opinion of yourself as being master of the English language and other fine stuff by the simple process of out-mastering you.

5.> Funniest blog : Neo Indian. This is humor done right. And, according to reputable sources namely him, he is also good looking. Something else that is as funny, his twitter feed.

6.> Most cutting edge Indian political commentary blog with a bite: Overrated Outcaste. His skewering skills are second to none.

7.> Lifetime achievement award : The Acorn. India is serious business. And nobody's been at it longer and better than has Nitin Pai.

And those are your winners. Congratulations to everybody. Good night folks, and have a safe drive.

Fashion and religion

2009-11-02T09:15:00.007-05:00

It is interesting how organized religions came up with different ways of using religious attire to make a fashion statement. Today, we study the cultural origins of the attire of two such religions.

Hinduism

Ancient Hindu priests initially used to wear jet black apparel in the temples. They were a fashionable bunch. They were aware that the best way to defeat the competition was to look chilled out so as to attract the hip crowd.

However, there was a problem. The temples had dark interiors and after repeatedly bumping into each other with their lamps and dropping hot oil on each others' naked bellies, the head priest had had enough.

"Fuck this shit", said the head priest. "Something needs to change. My girlfriend keeps making fun of my hairless patches."

"Girlfriend?", replied his deputy. "Aren't you married?"

"I'm sorry, did I say girlfriend, I meant the village blacksmith", said the head priest, looking sheepish. "He makes fun of my patches. Anyways, the point is, we need better visibility in here."

"I have an idea", said the deputy. "Let us remove our dark sunglasses. Maybe that will help."

"Yes, it does help, but not quite", said the head priest after testing this hypothesis. "We need something else".

"I know what to do", said a young priest. He was no.5 in the priestly hierarchy but was brash enough for a no. 3. "Let's install light bulbs on the ceiling and the walls".

"Fool!", said the head priest. "Electricity won't be invented till the late 19th century. What do you propose we do till then?"

No.5 quietly slunk away to his corner, miffed. Only temporarily, though. You couldn't keep no.5 down for long.

Suddenly, the head priest squinted into the distance. "What is it that your wife is wearing", said the head priest to his deputy. "She is two kilometers away, yet I can see her from here. What gives?"

"It is my own invention", replied no.2, not immodestly. "I call this color 'saffron', or the color of fire. I make her wear it so I can spot her from afar, which allows me to carry out any necessary evasive maneuvers."

It was then that a light bulb suddenly switched on inside the head priest's brain

"That's it!", he exclaimed. "That's what we need in here. Fucking fluorescent saffron clothing. You're a genius. Just for that, I shall ask my "blacksmith" if he has any "friends" who will be willing to "forge" your "hot iron" for you", said the head priest, giggling at his cleverness.

And that's how Hindu clergy adopted saffron into their garb.

Sikhism

When prominent Sikh saint Guru Gobind Singh was discussing religious attire with his favorite disciple, he went to the crux of the matter.

"Look", he said, "Life is complicated as it is, what with the Mughals trying to fry us in giant pans and all. Let us keep it simple. How about we mount a few, fairly easy to obtain items onto our bodies and call it a day?"

"Certainly, it is a good idea, Sirjee", said the disciple. "Please continue".

"Before we go any further, let me just comment on your hair. Wow! I mean, wow!", said the guru with admiration writ large upon his face.

"Thank you, Sirjee", said the disciple, flattered.

"It is long, flowing, very few split ends and it glitters with a healthy radiance. It makes a very good first impression during all our sales presentations. Everybody should have your hair. In fact, let us make it a mandatory requirement. "

"Okay, Sirjee", said the beaming disciple. He was indeed, proud of his hair. "Rule 1 : Everybody should have 'Kesh'".

"But if you don't mind me asking, how do you manage to keep your hair in such a state of salubrity?", asked the Guru.

"I use goat saliva", replied the disciple.

"Goat saliva, eh?", said the Guru in a meditative voice. That could potentially hamper the spread of the religion to goatless lands. He tried another approach.

"My son", said the guru. "Goat saliva does indeed give your hair that distinguished, slicked back look, but how do you manage to stack it up in a geometrically perfect manner?"

"Oh, that", said the disciple. "I use a comb".

"Excellent", said the Guru. "Add the comb, or 'Kanga' to the list. By the way, you need to wear pants. Why are you not wearing any pants?"

"I was wearing pants, Sirjee", said the disciple. "They were stolen when I removed them in order to trim my fingernails".

"What?", said the Guru. "How....why did you....okay, nevermind. Here is the thing my son. We lose credibility when we go around preaching virtue with our junk hanging out", said the Guru. "Let us make pants, or 'Kacheras' compulsory. And here's a 'Kirpan' to help you fend off potential pant bandits."

"Thank you, my Guru", said the disciple. "That brings it to four items".

"Hmm.....Let's make it five,", said the Guru. "Something utterly useless, just for kicks, just so we stand out in a crowd. How about this ugly old metal bangle to wear on your hand?"

"The 'Kara' is a great idea, my Lord", cried the disciple. "As the saying goes, 'With your hands and feet, do all your work, but let your consciousness remain with the Immaculate Lord'. Perhaps this bangle will be a symbol of this reminder."

"Okay, whatever", said the Guru. All he really wanted was for his disciples to be clearly audible to his naked ears if they approached him while he was engaged in, let us say, activities of a delicate and private nature.

And thus were the Five Ks of Sikhism born.

Picture?

2009-11-02T09:00:00.003-05:00

I appear to have lost the farm picture on the top. Why did you have to shut down, Geocities, why? Where will all those homeless gifs and jpgs go now?

Anyways, I guess it was time for a change. That farm is probably not even in business anymore.

Horse-riding

2009-09-28T15:00:00.012-04:00

I was hiking the other day along the Skippack creek and suddenly found myself face to face with a horse. Actually, it was face to giant dong and testicles, but I digress. The person atop the horse smiled at me. I smiled and waved at him until I realized that his smile was actually an invitation for me to get the fuck off the trail and let him pass. So I did.

But as he was passing me by on the trail, the horse gave me a look filled with such pathos and horsey misery that I went ahead and connected with him telepathically to find out what was wrong.

"What do you mean, what's wrong", said the horse, "I've got a fucking asshole on my back. Get him the fuck off me".

"I would if I could, my equine friend", said I, "For I commiserate with your plight. But the asshole you refer to has some sort of leather-bound weapon of mass destruction in his hands that I fear he won't hesitate to use on me."

"So what you're saying is, you're a pussy", said the horse. "Here, pussy, should I set out a bowl of Purina pussy-food for you, little pussy?"

I felt wounded. "Look, it's not just that I'm a pussy", I said. "I also respect the strategic height advantage that the asshole enjoys by virtue of being aboard your back. One doesn't fight a war one knows one can't win. Sorry dude, hope you have a pleasant life."

And then I continued on my way. It was mighty callous of me, I realized. So I repented. And as I was repenting, I began to think about horses, assholes and why assholes continue to ride horses even in this day and age.

Seriously, what is with horse-riders? I can understand children riding a horse. Children like to do a lot of weird lame shit. Like sit on a vertically oscillating wooden platform. Or climb up a ladder, only to slide back down. Or excavate massive amounts of sand from a beach without first developing a viable business plan to extract valuable minerals from it. Or ride on dad's back.

Riding on dad's back. That's when the seeds of this insanity are first sown. From the back of a dad as a child to the back of a horse as an adult to the backs of random strangers in the mall as a senile old fuck are but logical steps of progression.

My neighborhood is rife with horse-owners. Everywhere you drive you see signs saying, "Caution : horse-crossing", depicting an asshole on a horse crossing a road without first checking to see if a vehicle is approaching. Fucking guy, did you already forget your road-crossing lessons from elementary school? Let me refresh your memory :
1.> Look to the fucking left
2.> Look to the fucking right
3.> Cross the fucking road
4.> Follow these same fucking instructions even if you're on a fucking horse.

Even deer aren't this goddamn stupid and they didn't even go to school. What's your excuse, asshole?

But returning to my original point, why are people still riding horses anyways?

Some people might say, why are you so bloody concerned about horses when you stuff your face with cow every day? Trust me, when the day arrives that they manage to create cow from cardboard, I will happily stuff my face with that. Because as of now, I do not have an alternative. But in your case, hey, it's already been 80 years since the internal combustion engine was invented. Can we upgrade already? And don't talk to me about riding a bicycle. Bicycles burn calories. That's their purpose. What does horse-riding burn, except your inner thigh, and that too, only if you're doing it naked? (Which, for the record, I am all for. Not the thigh-burning but the naked riding. Because it serves a purpose)

Some people pretend to look at it from the horse's point of view. They say horses like to be ridden. Fuck you. Your horse hates you. If it could speak, it would recite a little haiku for you. It would go like this :

Fuck you,
Asshole.
Ride me?
I'll ride
You
To death.

What the fuck does a horse know about haiku?

Look, I can understand horse-racing. For it is a sport. The world has all kinds of weird sports that don't necessarily have to make any sense. Like cock-fighting. And basketball. Even as we speak, somebody somewhere is inventing a sport where you slide a rock along an icy surface towards a target as you run behind it with broom in hand. What's that, it's already been invented? Just serves to illustrate my point.

I can also understand descending into the Grand Canyon on the back of a horse. Okay, a mule, if you want to be an anal SOB. Because the fact is, you're too much of a wimp to do it on foot, and yet you harbor a desire to immerse yourself in the cooling waterfalls of the Havasu. A mule is your only option. And it breaks your fall if you lose your footing and crash into the abyss.

But I just cannot understand the need or the desire to ride a horse into the woods. Why are you not walking? Were you born without knee-caps? Why are you wearing that stupid cap? And is that a cup of tea in your hands? You disgust me. On multiple levels. As a human being, and as someone who wears a stupid cap while drinking tea.

Stop riding horses, Mankind. It is time to quit this barbaric practice.

Morality

2009-09-15T10:00:00.005-04:00

I really hate you. But I won't kill you because :

Hindu gawker : I'll be born as a rat in my next incarnation, which would suck because I am lactose intolerant and claustrophobic. Oh, if I could only digest dairy products and tolerate closed spaces!

Christian gawker : Much as I would love to, I do not have the authority. I would rather wait for our Lord, the Christ, to return to earth on judgment day and have his way with your sorry ass. I hope spiked dildos are involved. It should be fun.

Muslim gawker : It's Ramadan today and I am not allowed to kill you on Ramadan. Oh, I so wish it weren't Ramadan today. Could you meet me here again tomorrow, you think?

Buddhist gawker : Killing you would give me great pleasure, but since pleasure only leads to suffering, it would hamper my quest for a permanent state of enlightenment or Nirvana, even though I believe Soundgarden was in fact the best 90s Seattle-based band.

Jain gawker : My religion forbids me from harming living beings. You are alive, aren't you? Maybe if you pretended you weren't breathing for a second so I could tell people I didn't know you were alive and then I could jump up and down on your face.....Godamnit, you're breathing again. Ah well, I'll just go shoot a pillow instead. Oh wait, I can't, there's probably a bacterial colony living on it. Motherfuck!

Atheist gawker : I won't kill you because a> it wouldn't be a nice thing to do, b> It's against the law and c> Maintaining the integrity of this law is essential to my own survival.

God is not a She

2009-08-31T10:23:00.012-04:00

I don't understand these so-called progressive women who like to refer to God as a She. Or the men who do it in order to get to know these women better. Ladies, I understand that you wish to rebel against this society of patriarchs by implying that the person who created this world is a woman and gents, I understand your deepest desire to get laid, but come on, by referring to God as a woman, aren't you really putting down the entire female gender?

For God is an asshole. The biggest asshole ever. Look at God's record. Doesn't matter which resume you are looking at, be it Christianity, Islam, Hinduism or Judaism, they all conclude that God is definitely a very shady character, prone to senseless acts of violence, has anger management issues, is needy, jealous and lacks any sense of personal responsibility. God even thinks menstruation is a curse and forbids you from appearing in God's presence for the entirety of its duration. Wtf is with that? By implying that God is a woman, what you're saying in essence is that these Godly character flaws are all feminine traits. Why would you do that? That will only re-empower the misogynists and the sexists and defeat the very purpose of conferring Supreme divinity on your gender.

To conclude, there are better ways of fostering a sense of feminine self-worth than cultivating the belief that God is a woman. Cultivating the counter-belief that God is a man would be a good first step. Men are assholes. Men wage wars and engage in wanton bloodshed. Men like to create stuff and then blow it to smithereens. Men don't have a green thumb and can never be left alone with any living organism in need of loving care. Men are afraid of menstruating women.

Just like God.

I rest my case.

Following Bryson II : The Pinnacle

2009-08-19T12:00:00.012-04:00

(continued from here)

As I re-entered the woods on my way to the Pinnacle, the only thing on my mind was big rattlesnakes that moved through leaves. The trail was covered with leaves that were moving. It could have been the wind or it could have been rattlesnakes. Or it could have been rattlesnakes breaking wind. Fuck you, hiker guy, for your well-meaning warnings.

The problem with keeping an eye out for anything while hiking the AT in Pennsylvania is that it is virtually impossible to do so without inflicting grievous bodily injury upon your person. This trail is a fucking rocky mess. It demands intense concentration from you, the hiker, at all times. You cannot withdraw your gaze from the path immediately preceding you even for a split second, because by doing so, you are inviting permanent disability upon your ankles and any other body part that embarks upon a collision course with the ground as a result. Therefore, while you're on the trail, you may not admire the scenery. You may not observe the serene verdancy of the surrounding foliage. You may not even turn around to check if that grunting growling sound that has been following you in close proximity for the past fifteen minutes is an harbinger of doom or merely a benevolent fellow-organism desirous of initiating contact with you with the benign intent of accompanying you in your adventures.

The end result is, on the trail, you turn into a quivering bundle of nerves. Anything your peripheral vision makes out to be an object of even a remotely reptilian nature, be it a twig or your own forearm, spooks you out. Finally, after being startled by a log for the twentieth fucking time, I realized that I needed to have a talk with myself.

"Listen up", I said. "No matter how many times you shit your pants at the sight of a log, if it has been written in the stars, the snakes will still get you. Look up, do you see any stars? No? It means you're safe. So get back to work, chickenshit". I even tried to shame myself by doing the chicken dance. It worked.

"Yes Sir", I said to myself and began to walk again, feeling less terror-stricken.

This feeling lasted until I reached the boulders. Again, those fucking boulders, as far as the eye could see. I thought I was done with the boulders but here they fucking were again. This time it was even worse because snakes in crevices had gone from being just an old wives tale to cold hard reality. Well, there was nothing to do but keep forging ahead. So I forged ahead.

For about twenty minutes or so, I never touched the ground, flying over the tops of boulders like a hovercraft. Finally, I stepped over the last boulder and was back on level ground. I saw a guy approach me on the trail from the opposite direction. He looked like a good old country boy in very unhiker-like clothes. In fact, he looked like he had just finished painting someone's house and having extramarital sex with the home-owner's wife. He accosted me from afar.

"Go Phillies", he cried out to me in a very cheery, fraternal manner.

I realized that I had my bright red Phillies cap on. So I replied with equal enthusiasm saying, "Yeah, Phillies" or something similar, although I might also have said "Yeahhohey". I think all that boulder jumping had caused me to displace my tongue.

On seeing me up-close, he stopped and gave me a curious look. I had seen that look before. In bars during Eagles games, me with my Eagles cap on and my Eagles jersey on, screaming E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES with the rest of the bar crowd, with everybody giving me that same look, thinking, hello, what have we here, an ethnic looking guy cheering for our beloved sports team? Where's he from? He looks like somebody who should be following "soccer" and not football.

It was that very same look.

Still continuing to subject me to close scrutiny, the guy said, "So gonna be a good game today huh? Who are the Phillies playing, the.....", and trailed off. I got his drift. He was giving me a test. A test to prove I really was a Phillies fan. A test to prove I was authorized to wear official Philadelphia Phillies team apparel on my head. But I was ready for him. Bring it on, homie, I said to myself.

"I think they are playing the Marlins today", I said confidently.

"Yeah, yeah, the Marlins", he said pensively. "I wonder who's gonna start today. Probably the new guy, right, Pedro........". He trailed off again.

"Pedro Martinez? Yeah, probab.....", I said and then paused. Hold on. This was a trick question. I mulled it over for a bit.

"Nah, I said. "I don't think they'll start Pedro today", I said.

"And why's that?", asked the guy, feigning ignorance.

I took a deep breath.

"Because before they allow him to start a game, the Phillies will probably need Pedro to pitch a couple of bullpen innings first with an existing good lead. You know, just to get his confidence up before throwing him into the high pressure situation of a starter. Besides, Cole Hamels is due because his last start was five games ago. So no, I don't think Pedro's gonna start today. It's most likely gonna be Hamels"

I had nailed it. I could see it in his eyes. I had passed the legitimacy test. Wishing me a good hike, he waved goodbye and I continued on the trail.

The trail climbed some more along the side of the ridge, until I finally reached Hiker's Mound which my friend from Pulpit Rock had told me about. This is a large mound of rocks on the trail that has been created by hikers. Apparently every time you reach this point on the trail, it is customary for a hiker to add another rock to it. I wished to make my contribution to this structure but no matter how diligently I combed the area, I just could not find a single rock. Hikers before me had swept it clean. I decided to continue on to the Pinnacle and import a rock from there.

To get to the Pinnacle from Hiker's Mound, you need to follow the blue trail (Another blue trail?? Sure, why not.) This isn't really a trail at all and involves more bouncing along more boulders for another fifty feet till you reach the Pinnacle.

The Pinnacle is a bunch of large rocks resting upon the edge of the cliff, standing on top of which allows you to partake some excellent views of the surrounding countryside. Churches, farmhouses, distant hillocks and even a cemetery. Although it was a bit hazy, the view was as pretty as the reviews had made it out to be.

After spending a few minutes enjoying the view, battling the wind, enduring some egregiously sappy love talk from the couples canoodling on the rocks and spotting (what seemed to be) a freshly moulted snake skin on the ground, I decided to embark upon my return trip. I was gonna continue on the AT, which does a sharp hairpin turn at Hiker's mound, and then make a left onto the Furnace Creek Trail (The Blue Trail, yes, another blue trail) that would take me back to the reservoir and the parking lot.

I returned back to Hiker's Mound, added my own rock to it and after spending some time searching for white blazes, began the descent back. This section of the trail was quite broad and ideal for normal walking. On the way, I met a group of hikers who asked me, "Do you know how to get to the yellow trail?"

This time, to be more accurate, I replied, "Yes, it's over there", waving my hands vaguely over my head through an angle of 360 degrees. After conferring amongst themselves, the group chose an arc sector of 15 degrees out of my 360 and started walking in that direction.

The Furnace Creek Trail diverges from the AT at, what my Pulpit Rock friend had called, "The Helipad". The "Helipad" turned out to be a misnomer. It's not like I had expected a fully functional runway, air traffic control tower with a brewpub restaurant at its base with fifty different beers available on draft and pretty barmaids eager to pour you a long cold one, accompanying it with small talk, oh to heck with you, so what if I did?

Anyways, there was no such thing there. The "Helipad" turned out to be an unkempt grassy meadow that suddenly appeared in the middle of the forest. To show my displeasure at being bamboozled, I emptied my bladder right there in the center of the meadow where the "helicopters" would be landing.

The Furnace Creek Trail ran alongside a mountain spring called, I'm assuming, the Furnace Creek, because if not, it would have been a shitty choice of name for the trail. It was lined with gigantic rhododendron bushes and was in general, the perfect trail for a nice leisurely walk. At one point where the trail crossed over the creek, I filled my bottle with fresh spring water, having being informed by online reviewers that the water was perfectly potable and 99% hanta-virus-free. And so it was, and quite delicious too. I realized that it was the first time I had suckled from mother earth's untreated teat.

The trail led down to Hamburg Reservoir, a small artificial lake created by damming the Furnace Creek. A sign on the side of the lake said "No animals allowed in the lake", which was very impressive to me because for the past year and a half, I've been trying to teach the deer in my backyard how to read English, but they still have problems differentiating "dessert" from "desert". The wildlife in this area must have evolved from a different gene pool.

Finally, I walked down the reservoir road to the parking lot and my car. My stats according to my newly acquired pedometer were :

distance walked : 7.2 miles
calories consumed : 950
steps walked : 18,000
survival rate : 100%

All in all, I would call it a successful hike.

Following Bryson II : Pulpit Rock

2009-08-17T12:57:00.007-04:00

So there I was, once again at the base of the Blue Mountain Ridge, this time about thirty miles west of Palmerton, near a small lake called Hamburg Reservoir. I was going to hike up the mountain on the Appalachian Trail to a place called "Pulpit Rock" and then push on to "The Pinnacle".

View Pinnacle Hike in a larger map

The Pinnacle is a scenic outlook on the Appalachian Trail that is said to possess some of the finest views the trail has to offer in the state of Pennsylvania. Through careful online research, I managed to uncover the following salient facts with regard to this particular hike.

1.> It usually takes about 3.5 to 4.5 hours to complete the 8.5 mile round trip.
2.> You may encounter copperhead snakes on the trail.
3.> You definitely need lots of water.
4.> You may encounter rattlesnakes on the trail.
5.> If you fail to follow the trail map posted in the parking lot with adequate discipline, you may get lost and find yourself in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
6.> The rattlesnakes that consider this trail their home are of exceptional quality, if what you look for in a rattlesnake is girth and bloodcurdling ferocity.

Armed with these helpful facts, two bottles of water, brand new leather hiking boots and a camera, I drove up to Hamburg Reservoir near the small town of Hamburg, PA, where you can hop on to the AT. To get to the AT from the parking lot, you have to walk uphill along a service road that leads to the reservoir. The AT intersects this road about a half mile up the hill and enters some woods after crossing a stream on a wooden bridge. Heeding the advice of online hiking reviews, I looked for copperheads sunning themselves on the creek stones but I saw none, which wasn't a disaster because I really fucking hate snakes.

I had decided to hike up the AT to the Pinnacle, then descend back down along the Furnace Creek (Blue) trail, which forms a loop to the parking lot. About half a mile into the woods, the Blue trail branched off the AT. Immediately thereafter, the AT began a steep climb up the side of the mountain. After an initial shock to my cardio-pulmonary system during which I aged twenty years within the span of twenty seconds, I settled into a nice rhythm.

About a mile into the hike, I ran across my first fellow hiker. She was twenty yards ahead of me, an amply proportioned woman, also climbing up the trail. As I caught up to her, I saw that she was arguing with somebody on the phone. Just as I passed her, she turned to me and asked me, "Do you know where we are?"

"We are on the Appalachian Trail", I replied, not hugely surprised by her question because she looked like somebody who had just stepped outside to get a cup of coffee and somehow inadvertently managed to end up on the Appalachian Trail.

"I need to get to the blue trail", she replied. "I've been walking all morning, trying to get to the white trail that leads to the blue trail".

"This IS the white trail", I said. "But why are you climbing up? To get to the blue trail, you would have to climb down".

"I climbed up the blue trail and I made a left on to the white trail and now I need to reach the blue trail to climb down to my campground, so I'm climbing up again", she said. "Do you see now?"

"I see", I replied, not seeing at all. "The blue trail meets the white trail at two different locations, the closest of which is a mile down this trail."

"Oh damn", she exclaimed in disgust. "Alright, thanks", she said, turned around and began to walk down.

After marveling for a moment at how anyone could get lost on such a clearly marked trail, I walked on.

A few minutes later, I came to a blue blazed trail branching off the AT to the right. Another blue trail? Perhaps the mysterious, mythical blue trail the woman was looking for?

Now here's my problem and it is a very general problem that I have faced many times in my life. I have a pathological desire to assist mankind through the generous dissemination of my knowledge. The problem is that frequently, I lack knowledge of any kind. In such a situation, I manufacture knowledge through the process of theorizing and deduction and in my defense, there have been numerous occasions when this method of knowledge manufacture has served me well and earned me accolades.

Apparently this wasn't one of those times.

"Fuck", I muttered under my breath because I had just been hit by a severe pang of hiker's conscience. Quickly, I did an about-turn and jogged back down the trail to see if I could find the woman and inform her that I had discovered a blue trail that might be the one she was looking for, but she had disappeared. I never saw her again. They say her spirit still wanders these woods at night, giving unwary hikers false directions in a fake Indian accent.

As I continued to hike up the AT, it continued to get rockier, with more and more boulders appearing on the path. As I mentioned in my previous post, Bill Bryson has called the PA Appalachian Trail a place where hiking boots go to die. After reading his description, my initial impression was that the AT in PA was probably akin to an old age home for footwear, where already decrepit boots would be allowed to die quietly with dignity, catheters being disengaged at regular intervals, culminating with the final unplugging of the dialysis machine.

And my experience on the Delaware Water Gap section of the AT had only served to confirm my hypothesis. After I returned from the hike, my old shoes which were already well past their expiration date, called it a day and kicked the bucket.

But this trail was different. In fact, for this particular section of the AT, a more apt comparison would be to Vietnam. Young, healthy shoes being sent off to battle for a lost cause and be slaughtered like sheep. I felt a deep sadness for my new Timberlands. They were not having the best of times. I could sense their muted suffering through my Dr. Scholl's insole.

It began with the appearance of a few rocks on the path. I snapped a picture, thinking hey, that's cool, so this was what Bryson was talking about. A few steps ahead, these turned into boulders. I snapped another picture, thinking sweet, I am THE MAN for doing this trail alone. And then, the path disappeared entirely, turning into a field of giant rocks, climbing up the side of the mountain like a stairway to hell and identifiable as the Appalachian Trail only by the white blazes painted on trees surrounding them.

My problem wasn't merely with regard to the technical issues involved in climbing up a rocky mountainside. I also knew (again, from online research), that the rattlesnakes of this region, displaying uncommon enterprise, often occupy the empty space between two rocks, staying still for prolonged periods of time and awaiting rodentia or human limb to succumb to gravity and fall in. Therefore, as I jumped from rock to rock, I could almost hear hollow fangs clicking away in anticipation all around my feet.

As I was standing on one of these rocks, trying to catch my breath, my cellphone rang. It was my dad.

"Why are you sending us money?", my dad wanted to know.

"Who else will I send money to?", I replied.

"We don't need your money, we are relatively well-off", replied my dad.

"Dad, I already sent you the money, so donate it to the poor or something", I said.

"Okay, I will send it back to you, then", said my dad.

"Dad, I have money now, I am no longer poor", I said, "But anyways, I'm standing on a rock surrounded by snakes right now so I gotta go, I will call you later, bye" and hung up.

After carefully leaping from rock to rock and making my way up the ridge for another twenty minutes or so, I finally emerged onto a flat area on the edge of a cliff with a nice view of the surrounding countryside. This was probably Pulpit Rock. I confirmed my suspicion by asking two women lounging around on a couple of flat rocks at the edge of the precipice. One of them was lying on her stomach, peering through binoculars at the birds of prey circling the cliffs around us.

"Is this Pulpit Rock?", I asked.

"Yes, it is", the non-birdwatcher replied. I walked up to the edge of the cliff to take pictures. Down in the valley at a distance, I could vaguely make out the "Blue Rocks", a boulder field supposedly deposited there by glaciers during the last ice age.

The woman who had replied to my question got up from her roost and at the same time, a skinny guy in well-worn hiking attire emerged from the trail. He immediately walked up to the rock the woman had been sitting on, carefully scrutinized it and then broke out in smiles as if he had just spotted an old friend.

"There it is", he said, "There's usually at least one in there".

"Where is what?", I asked him, puzzled.

"A copperhead", he replied. "It's coiled up inside the crack between these rocks you ladies are sitting on."

This revelation caused the birdwatching lady to temporarily suspend her ornithological activities in favor of leaping to her feet and saying, "AaaaA. Where?" I have never seen anyone transfer body weight from belly to foot with such agility.

The man pointed to the crevice between the two rocks. I stepped onto the ledge at the very edge of the cliff to spot the serpent. A sudden attack of vertigo hit me. Carefully, I backed off and tried to get to it from another angle. As I raised my camera and moved my hand towards the crevice to take a picture, I asked the guy, "Where is it"?

"Stop right there", he said. I froze.

"What?", I said.

"There's one right underneath your hand", he said.

I looked closely at the crevice my hand was passing over and sure enough, right there among the leaves was a curled up copperhead. It was quite difficult to spot due to its amazingly camouflaged skin. There were two of these snakes, in the very same crevice.

"Sometimes there are so many in there that they get stacked up on each other", said the guy. He had obviously made a career out of studying the relaxing habits of Appalachian Trail copperheads.

"That's nice", I said, thinking otherwise. "Are they venomous?".

"Yeah", he replied. "Also, the babies are more dangerous because they keep biting and inject more venom than the adults."

I decided never to hand-feed a baby copperhead. Sure they are all cute and scaly and all, but on the whole, it's just not worth the risk.

"We've been sitting here for a while now", said one of the women. "We never knew it was in there."

"You were lucky you didn't drop anything into the crack and try to retrieve it", I said.

"I know", said the woman, "My water bottle was right there".

After taking a number of copperhead pictures, I put my camera away.

"Anyone going to the Pinnacle?", asked Hiker Guy.

"Yeah, I am", I replied, "Why?"

"Watch out for rattlesnakes", he said. "People have seen big ones among the rocks there".

"B...B?", I said.

"Excuse me?", he said.

"I said B...B", I explained. "I was actually trying to say 'B..B..Big?' in a terrified voice."

"Yeah", he replied, "You might also run across them on the trail. I saw one the other day, moving through the leaves. Just make sure you keep an eye out for them."

And so, after taking some more pictures of the view from Pulpit Rock, I took my leave of these good folks and headed out towards the Pinnacle.

(continued here)

DMV

2009-08-09T01:28:00.024-04:00

Today I did my once-every-five years pilgrimage to the DMV. I already had a license and merely needed to renew it. Therefore, the paperwork I needed to take along with me caused the destruction of a smaller swathe of the Amazonian rain forest than usual. Along with my passport, H1B documentation and I-485 receipt, I merely included my mother's birth certificate, my dad's fourth grade essay competition gold medal and my great grandfather's 1920 tax returns from his goat-herding business. I was ready to renew.

When i entered the DMV office, I saw that there were a mere ten people ahead of me, praise the Lord. After taking a number, I busied myself with attempting to discover a free wi-fi connection for my phone to climb on to. After "HMP500" and "TestyTestMan" both failed to provide me with unsecured internet access, I decided to go with the tried and tested method of staring at the floor. I wondered if there was any paint drying in the vicinity.

Finally, when my number was up, they called me to the photography chamber where the lady behind the counter gave me a computerized questionnaire consisting merely of (a), if I wished to answer (b) in Spanish and (b), if I wished to be an organ donor. After I had answered yes to both questions, the lady, in a tone implying her belief that I had misunderstood the second question, asked me, "You've stated that you want to be an organ donor, is that correct?"

I replied yes, accompanying it with a look that I hoped would communicate to her my view that if people wished to help themselves to the much abused and heavily shredded cables of my mortal coil, hey, more power to them. I really hope she got that look because I put considerable effort into its manufacture.

With all formalities completed, I settled down into the chair for my picture to be taken.

"You may smile if you wish", said the lady, "Please look at the camera".

Since smiling in photos makes me look sheepishly apologetic about my presence on the planet and not smiling in photos announces to people my intention of invading their house while they're asleep and raping their pillows, I offered her my standard "fuck all government issued documents" glare. The camera clicked.

But something appeared to be amiss. The lady called one of her coworkers to her desk. I could hear them whispering and I thought I saw her point to my picture on her screen and say, "Does his (inaudible) look tiny to you?"

I looked down to check if I was wearing pants, which I was, so it had to be something else that had violated the good lady's sense of proportion. I listened more closely in order to make out their conversation. This time, I heard the words shiny and nose.

"Excuse me", I said, "What's wrong?"

"Your nose looks too shiny in the picture", she said to me. "Is it too shiny for a license photo?", she asked her coworker.

"Hold on, my nose is too shiny?" I said. I wanted to be sure that I had an exact understanding of the problem.

The room laughed. I realized that I had been too loud. Reflexively, I wiped my nose on my shirt sleeve. "Shit", I said to myself, realizing too late that wiping it would only serve to augment its reflective properties.

The coworker finally came to my rescue.

"It's okay, his nose is fine", she said.

"Yeah, i guess so", said the picture lady. "I think i was too picky about your nose", she said,turning to me.

"That's okay", I said. I guess it is a good thing that the world contains people willing to burden themselves with the task of maintaining societal nose glitter within manageable limits.

I seated myself beside another Indian guy who had yet to have his photo taken and waited for the production of my new license card to be completed. I noticed that the guy next in line after me had already received his card. The lady behind the counter explained to the Indian guy sitting next to me, "It's because your card needs to be reprinted." Seeing his puzzled look, I explained, "She's speaking to you, but she's actually talking to me." We were both brown so I can understand her confusion.

Finally, my card was done. I walked to the counter to retrieve it. I wished to check on the shininess of my nose first-hand. Well, I couldn't see anything because I was blinded by the light emanating from my nose in the picture. My license picture looked like a miniature solar system with my nose providing life-giving light and warmth to my eyes, ears, forehead and chin that were revolving in elliptical orbits around it. My chin appeared to be simultaneously rotating about its own inclined axis, thereby leading to perfect conditions for the birth of hair. I named my eyes Klaxon and Zorn and drove home humming the Star Trek theme song.

I wonder why no one's ever mentioned anything to me about my shiny nose before. Are you people blind?

Following Bryson

2009-07-31T16:00:00.018-04:00

A couple of months ago, I read Bill Bryson's awesomely funny book "A walk in the woods" for the very first time, in which he describes his attempt to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail. The Appalachian Trail, or, as lazy folks like to call it, the "AT", is a 2200 mile long north-south hiking trail that runs throughout the length of the Appalachian Mountains of the eastern United States. The AT, along with the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) of the Western Mountains and the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) of the Rockies form the Holy Trinity (HTNT) for long-distance hikers (people who have way too much time on their hands, or SOBs).

After reading this book, I made the spontaneous life-changing decision of dedicating the remainder of my time on earth to hiking the AT and retracing Mr Bryson's journey along this trail. That decision turned out to have a very limited lifespan, the end of which, curiously enough, coincided with my wife coming to know about it. Only after changing it through the addition of various legal amendments such as, "only on weekends when nothing else is planned" and "subject to absolute spousal veto that may not be appealed" was I able to revive it and get it approved.

A significant chunk of the AT passes through Pennsylvania. Bryson has not been too kind to Pennsylvania in his book. As he describes it (or cites someone else describing it, I forget which), the Pennsylvanian portion of the Appalachian trail is where hiking boots go to die. And I realized the truth of this statement when I did the Delaware Water Gap section of the AT some weeks ago. My right shoe passed away soon after, leaving behind a widowed left shoe, a couple of orphaned shoelaces and a large credit card debt that I'm still paying off. I had no idea the fucker was living beyond his means.

So last week, continuing on my mission, I decided to do a section of the AT that lay closest to me. Through a Google maps research session, I discovered that there was an AT trail-head with parking facilities about 60 miles from here where it crosses PA Highway 309 on the summit of the Blue Mountain Ridge.

View Larger Map

As we were pulling into the trail-head parking lot, I spotted the white blazed trail entering the woods from the highway. I showed it to my wife.

"Look, there's the trail", I said.

My wife, after observing it through the window, replied, "That's the trail?"

"Yes, there it is", I replied.

"But it's going into the woods", said my wife. "You didn't tell me we would be hiking in the woods. They look scary".

I realized that I had been somewhat secretive about the exact location of our hiking trip. I also realized that I had made a good call.

"What's wrong with hiking in the woods", I said. "Where else would you hike?"

"I don't know, a mall?" said my wife. I observed her closely to detect any signs of intended humor. I found none.

"Ah, don't worry", I said. "It's just trees. Luckily for us, the woods in this part of America lack any major predatory species, other than the black bear".

My wife, who was just about to place a foot outside the car, pulled it back in. "Bears?"

"Oh come on, the possibility of us happening upon a bear is extremely small", I said. I tried to mentally wish away the sign I had seen by the side of the highway at the base of the mountain that said "Bear crossing, next two miles". There, no more sign. It wasn't there anymore.

I had actually decided to hike the AT in the opposite direction, going towards Hawk Mountain, so we drove around, looking for the other trail-head. At the top of Blue Mountain Ridge, just across the AT trail-head lies the Blue Mountain Summit restaurant. I decided that I would have a beer there after the hike. Perhaps watch the Phillies game. It was then that I spotted white blazes descending down the mountainside on the other side of the highway.

"There, that's the side of the trail I want to do", I said to my wife.

"But we'll have to climb back up. How about we do the other section across the road that doesn't involve any climbing?", said my wife in a tone that seemed to suggest a distaste for gravity-opposing activities.

"Okay", I said. "Hey, look, an apple tree". We appeared to be parked right under an apple tree. "Do you want to pick a few apples?", I said, knowing through scholarly research that apple-picking is an activity women seem to harbor an inexplicable fondness for.

"Sure, why not", she replied, "The bear's gonna be hungry, right?"

We drove to the trail head parking lot without picking any apples. Finally managing to leave the car before sunset, we entered the woods. It was a nice day, not too hot, not too cold and not wet at all. The trail, in its initial section, was very narrow and I was a bit apprehensive because I had come to know from this guy on the internet that this section of the trail was pretty well-stocked with rattlesnakes. "Large" ones, he gushes on his website with considerable enthusiasm. Luckily, there were very few rocks on the trail, which rattlers are known to hide under. Nevertheless, I was happy when the narrow trail joined another larger, better maintained trail.

The AT travels along the top of Blue Mountain Ridge through dense woods. Even though you are about 1200 feet above sea level, there are no scenic views of the valley below simply because you are constantly surrounded by trees. Nevertheless, it was a great hike with the woods smelling flowery fresh and the air slightly muggy but replete with summer fragrance.

The trail was heavily populated with mushrooms. Lots of different varieties and a whole lot of different colors. My wife was mesmerized by them. Often, she would walk all the way back just to take another look at one of her favorite mushrooms that she had passed on the trail. Sometimes she couldn't find it, in which case we would spend a few minutes looking for it. Blueberry bushes were abundant as well, although blessed with very few berries. However, we did manage to snag a few. Even though I was pretty sure the animals that left those berries untouched had a very good reason for doing so.

We passed a number of places on the trail where thru-hikers had obviously camped and enjoyed a roaring campfire, although AT rules strictly forbid it. Bill Bryson never mentions starting any campfires in his book, although he did use a propane stove for cooking his noodles that were a dinner staple during his hike.

After the initial anti-bear remarks, my wife did not appear to be showing any significant bear-anxiety on the trail. I was pretty impressed. She had either lost all of her fear or was doing a good job of hiding it from me, both of which I found to be accomplishments of a highly commendable nature.

"Aren't you afraid of bears anymore?", I asked her as we walked along the path.

"Actually, I'm terrified. But this stick is providing me with a little bit of confidence", she replied.

I looked at the stick she was holding. During ancient times, in the absence of warming massage gels and edible lingerie, our forefathers would have used a comparable sized stick to tickle our foremothers as an act of foreplay. But I did my part in urging her confidence skyward.

"Good, I'll stay behind you then", I said, also expressing a hope that if a bear should happen upon us at the same time as an attractive mushroom, first preference kindly be given to bear destruction rather than mushroom inspection. I then pulled back, now wishing I had eyes in the back of my head. On the way back, we passed a dung-covered stone on the trail. I expertly analyzed it to be of ursine origin. Look, berries, I said. It means a bear did this. We spent about five minutes staring at and marveling over supposed bear shit. Then, we moved on.

On the way back, we passed a female hiker impressively equipped with hiking poles, correct hiking attire and humongous backpack. As she passed us, I asked her, "Hiking thru?" She stopped, looked back, smiled and confirmed my suspicion by saying yes. I said all the best, hope you make it to the end. She laughed, thanked me and moved on. Apparently less than 25% of thru-hikers complete the 2200 mile long trail. I'm hoping I did my bit to add to that number.

After we made it back to the parking lot, I decided to cross highway 309 in order to check out the southbound side of the trail. It turned out to be a highly dangerous place to test your road-crossing skills. For one, I don't think anyone's even aware that the AT crosses the highway at that spot. Also, because it's on the summit of a mountain ridge, cars in both directions, having made the slow climb up the ridge, are now looking forward to speeding all the way down. Nevertheless, having made it to the opposite side of the road in one piece, I looked down at the southbound trail. This section appeared to have more possibilities with regard to scenic views and so, I decided that I would return someday soon and do this section of the trail as well.

Bill Bryson recounts an amusing anecdote during his Pennsylvania AT hike. He traveled to a city called Palmerton, which is just off the trail, more famous for being a US government superfund site, which appears to be code for "ecologically super-devastated". Apparently an old zinc smelting facility, located at the base of the mountain has fucked up the area soil to such a horrible extent that the entire north-facing slope of the mountain is now defoliated, allowing nothing to grow there anymore. And considering how lushly forested the rest of the ridge is, I can see why Bryson would have believed such a place to be worth taking a gander at.

So Bryson appears to have walked onto the property of this zinc facility, and just as he was gazing up at the devastated mountain, a guard walked up to him and asked him what he thought he was doing, trespassing on the property. Bryson's reply of being out of zinc appeared to have infuriated him and after some more humorous back and forth, was just about to arrest him when Bryson was saved by the guard's supervisor appearing on the scene and directing him to the nearest AT trail-head.

Since I was intent upon retracing Bryson's steps, I thought we should drive the 14 miles to Palmerton as well and take a look at the famous treeless slopes of Blue Mountain. It turned out to be a gorgeous drive along PA Route 4024 West along the southern base of the ridge. The road passes through woods, farms, meadows and tiny villages while the dark green mass of Blue Mountain Ridge looms constantly to your left.

Palmerton is an average American town with a wide main street that is mostly devoid of humanity and lined with shops that, from the outside, offer very few hints as to the possibility of being occupied by humans on the inside.

As I drove down the main street, I was looking for this famous barren mountain slope Bryson speaks of, but I just couldn't see it. To the left I could see some strange shaped rock formations on top of a hill, which I pointed out to my wife.

"Look, rocks. Over on that hill", I said.

"Why are you showing me rocks?", she replied.

"I don't know, this could be the barren hillside Bryson was talking about so I don't want you to miss it", I said.

"Alright then, I see them, thank you", she said.

I was still skeptical that those rocks were what Bryson was talking about so I drove on some more. Finally, a large shabby evil-looking factory building came up to our right and a signpost indeed confirmed that it was a zinc recycling plant.

But there was no barren mountain slope. Bryson traveled here in 1996 or so. During the ensuing decade and a half, the mountain soil appears to have shedded all its zinc and tourist potential in favor of luscious green grass. It certainly wasn't wooded like the rest of the ridge, but it didn't look substantially toxic either. I have a feeling that the factory guard today would be much less averse to letting people gawk at his mountain than he had been in the 1990s. But anyways, I wasn't interested in finding out. Disappointed at all the greenery, I turned around and began the long drive home.

Coming up next on the "Following Bryson" tour, Centralia, PA.

The Green Ribbon Trail 1

2009-07-18T01:34:00.037-04:00

The first time I became aware of the existence of the mighty Wissahickon was during a massive rainstorm in the winter of 2003. It had snowed heavily a few days ago and it was now raining heavily and as I stood on my apartment balcony contemplating the overabundance of water in this country, I noticed something curious. A pool of water was slowly creeping towards me. Some indeterminate body of water that had previously occupied the space at the end of the parking lot was now advancing towards my building at the speed of, say, a frightened turtle. Holy fuck, I said to myself, what is this indeterminate body of water that threatens to engulf me and my rental property on this sad morning? It turned out that this water body was the Wissahickon Creek, in a state of flood due to the lethal combination of snow-melt and rainfall. It appeared that all this time, I had been dwelling on the banks of the famous Wissahickon Creek of Southeastern Pennsylvania.

The Wissahickon is legendary. It is lusciously pretty and an aquatic heavyweight in these parts. Before it enters the city of Philadelphia through the steep ravines of Fairmount Park, it meanders along the rural countryside of Montgomery county, forming a ribbon of green running through Philadelphia's northern suburbs. Poets have admired it, authors have written about it and old colonialists from the 1700s and post-revolutionaries from the 1800s have forged iron by harnessing its hydro power. Native Indians, impressed with the yellowish tinge of its water, named it "stream of yellowish color", or "Wissahickon". That was before they stopped urinating in it.

When we purchased a home in this area last year, we did so after being hugely impressed by its natural beauty. Also, the close proximity of an Indian grocery store. And, a beer distribution outlet. Plus, a Burger King. A mall. And an Indian restaurant. But mostly its natural beauty. And little did I know at that time that this place had an additional treat in store for me. A treat in the form of the Green Ribbon Trail.

The Green Ribbon Trail is a hiking path that follows the wooded banks of the Wissahickon Creek for twenty miles as it commutes through the suburbs, originating in the burrough of North Wales and forging right into the city of Philadelphia. Imagine, a trail with historic implications beginning virtually in our own backyard. Well, I don't really have to imagine it, do I?

After a year of being aware of this trail's existence, I finally decided to hike it this summer. I realized that I would have to do it in sections because of all the sore feet involved. I began my hike in the North Wales burrough park where the trail starts, armed with a water bottle and legs of steel.

The trail began quite innocuously, with a paved, tarred path, running beside a residential neighborhood. Notice the chimney in the distance.

The trail then turned left into a powerline right-of way. So far, so good. The trail was marked with green blazes throughout, so it was quite easy to follow.

To the right was the immense industrial complex of the Merck pharmaceutical company, to which the aforementioned chimney belonged. I could feel my arteries being drained of cholesterol and my prostate reducing in size, just by breathing in that lovely fresh Mercky air.

The trail then turned left and took its leave from the powerline right-of-way. It turned into a tunnel through the bushes. Things began to get interesting.

Here's where the trail actually came in contact with the Wissahickon creek for the very first time.

Soon, I came to my first wet stream crossing. The Green Ribbon Trail is liberally endowed with these. Either due to a lack of funds or a desire to keep the trail environmentally as less intrusive as possible, there are no pure pedestrian bridges on the trail. Whenever the Green Ribbon, for no rhyme or reason, decides to leap to the opposite bank of the creek, the hiker needs to either wade through the water, or as in this case, walk over some very unstable-looking stepping stones.

After crossing the creek, I paused to take a picture of some strange but pretty flowers that begged me to. I heard them sing. And so will you, if you stop texting and twittering for a moment.

I had barely overcome the trauma of my first wet stream crossing when, after crossing North Wales Road, another, wetter crossing presented itself to me. Here, not only was the stream wider, but the stones were also farther apart and partially submerged in water. Additionally, the creek appeared to be swift and I could also see faces of dead people on its bottom.

Then, I came across something strange. A random concrete bridge across the creek. No road, just a bridge. A bridge to nowhere. I crossed the bridge to see what nowhere looked like in order to describe it to my grandchildren.

Tiny blue wildflowers on the side of a wooden boardwalk on the trail. Somebody had thrown a plastic bottle onto them. You will die, son. And you'll come back as a tunafish in your next life, swallow a plastic bottle and die again. You'll keep dying through various plastic bottle-related mishaps and keep coming back. And I would feel sorry for you, were it not for the fact that you threw a plastic bottle into the woods.

Soon, I came to a crossroads. Apparently, the trail had decided to turn right. I followed it without questioning its motives. The trail knows best.

Here, I came across my first fellow hiker, a running woman. I wondered why she was running. But once the undergrowth began closing in on my feet and nipping at my knees, I began to run too.

After outrunning the shrubbery, I came to the third wet stream crossing on the trail. Pthooey. I did this one with my eyes closed.

I finally opened them after falling into the water for the third time.

Much of the Wissahickon's passage through Philadelphia city is through a deep narrow gorge. Here's where it gives you just a slight hint of what it will be doing to the landscape later on in its route.

As I was walking through a section of the path enclosed on all sides by high bushes, one of them suddenly groaned. It sounded like a cow that would really have liked to moo, but was just too tired.

"Groan", said the bush.

After I had descended back to mother earth, I addressed the situation. I peered into the bush.

"What?" I said.

"Groan", the bush replied.

"I'm sorry, I did not wish to disturb you, I shall be on my way soon", I said to the bush.

"Groan", said the bush, apparently satisfied with my explanation.

I fled. I did not wish to partake of groaning bushes.

But then, I crossed a sweet idyllic meadow and all my fears soon left me.

Here's where somebody had planted trees on the trail and encircled them with wire so they would be protected from the deer (I assume). I don't know any hikers who like to gnaw on trees.

Here is where my other great fear, that of snakes left me. I saw this small dead mouse lying on the ground. If a dead mouse could lie unclaimed on the trail, it meant that there were no mouse-eating predators around. No snakes. Alright, high five.

A great blue heron roosting in the creek flapped its wings mightily and flew away.

Here's where the heron was. Right there. It was right there, I tell ya.

Finally, I emerged from the wilderness onto Swedesford Road. An elderly couple in an SUV gave me a puzzled look as I emerged from the bushes and drove away.

After inspecting the Satan's maw-like entrance of the trail on the other side of Swedesford road and inspecting my watch, I decided to turn back for now and come back another day.

The groaning bush awaited me. I wanted to tackle it before nightfall.

Mannequins

2009-06-30T10:35:00.015-04:00

I wonder if mannequin makers feel suffocated under the weight of censorship. Mannequins are strange beings. Highly detailed in face, expression and muscular tone, yet curiously smooth in crotch and breast. To our religious leaders, mannequins probably represent the ideal human form : Uniform in nature, obedient to the point of subservience and a refreshing lack of pretty orifices or projections that could be used for ungodly pleasure-seeking purposes.

I pity the young mannequin builder, fresh out of mannequin-building school, who's been itching for a chance to showcase his skills to an appreciative world. But just as he is about to sculpt a voluptuous nipple onto the breast of his work, his manager rushes in and though bent and clutching his knees in exhaustion, manages to blurt out the words, "What.....the....fuck.....are...you...doing? Don't make her look so realistic."

Most mannequin makers, I am sure, will learn to squash their artistic impulse through the passage of time and the slow demise of creative brilliance that usually occurs at a 9 to 5 job. But surely there must still be a few out there, rebels who ache to let their fingers flow free, to breathe life into their work, to be true to their inner perfectionist by adding a labial fold here, a scrotal wrinkle there.

I hope they exist. And I hope they bring their yearnings to fruition. My dream is that someday, there will be a moment when a slight whiff of breeze lifts the skirts of a mannequin in a department store, causing a collective gasp of horror from everybody present. But as for me, I will stand up and clap. I will applaud the courage of the renegade artist who refused to let his art wither and die in the face of squeamish society.

I will applaud you, sir. And I will continue to applaud till they escort me out.

Trash thief

2009-06-17T09:31:00.000-04:00

Each day at work, I see my trashcan has moved a bit closer to the door of my cubicle than it was the previous day. I think somebody is trying to steal it an inch at a time. I noticed because lately, I haven't been having as much success with my paperball 3-point dunks. And they say one gets better with practice and human growth hormones.

I suspect it's John. John with all those banana skins and candy wrappers lying around on his desk. How many bananas does one eat in a day? Should have noticed it at the time. Although I'm not exactly sure what his exit strategy is. How it's gonna work when he makes the trashcan disappear entirely. Theoretically, it might be possible not to notice something move an inch a day but surely one would notice it's total disappearance?

Right now I'm toying with the thief. Pretending I suspect nothing and letting the charade continue. But just when the trashcan is almost out the door, I'm gonna bring it back in. All the way in. Make him wish he could get back all those wasted minutes of his life. Gonna make him realize crime don't pay. Gonna get John back on the straight and narrow.

Clearing brush

2009-06-12T13:49:00.014-04:00

I cleared brush the other day. It might seem like a strange thing to do for somebody who owns two patches of land that measure a mere five feet by two, but clear brush is indeed what I did. It was a necessity. Mother Nature had taken over my property and was bent upon pushing me and my house out of her life. I have never ever seen twenty square feet of such tightly packed vegetation. It was fucking ridiculous. You know how it is in spring, when you see tiny little green shoots making their way up through the soil and you're so happy to see life returning to the cold parched earth. And then those shoots begin to grow and turn into stems and leaves. And then they grow some more and they keep growing and they just don't stop growing and then you realize you are the modern day version of Jack with the bean stalk. Except Jack climbed the beanstalk in search of better career opportunities and you continue to be grounded because you value job stability.

Apparently in my case, the previous owner had decided to throw all condo-living etiquette to the wind and recreate a miniature tropical rain forest in her front yard, which is an area, the size you wouldn't even be able to park a hatchback in. This place was a botanical Dharavi. Plants were living on top of other plants, other plants were trying to crawl underneath still other plants, all engaged in the business of trying to squeeze every drop of sustenance out of the land. In between were the illegal squatters : weeds that had somehow escaped everyone's notice, grown to a monstrous height and were now pretending to be rose bushes. When I purchased this house, I remember the previous owner telling me how she had been desirous of importing and planting the 59,500 sq. feet spanning giant banyan tree of Chennai in her flower bed. Luckily for me, while she was there, she incurred the wrath of Rajnikanth fans by being openly skeptical about his bullet-catching abilities and had to fly back in a hurry.

Also, my wife brought up the snake issue. I am only slightly terrified by snakes. If I see a snake, I feel only a mild urge to curl up into a ball and roll downhill. My wife has considerably less reptile tolerance. According to her, every inch of soil on our property not visible for inspection due to its foliage cover could potentially turn into a snake sanctuary. So she assigned me the task of getting rid of the jungle and using my famed people skills, gently coax any angry snake that I happened upon to depart from my property.

So I began to clear brush.

The one thing that aided me in drumming up the required enthusiasm for this brush-clearing project was the knowledge that our last president spent so much time doing it. It's a well-known fact that President Bush liked to have his fun. If this guy spent six months of every year clearing brush, surely there had to be something enjoyable about it. But then as I plunged deeper into the project and realized how thoroughly unpleasant and soul-crushing this activity really was, I realized something. If President Bush chose brush-clearing over his job as leader of the free world, boy, he must have really really hated his job. Well, good for him for surviving his eight years in office. I developed a gnawing sympathy for the poor guy. That's when I realized I was either getting dehydrated or the sun was doing something terrible to my brain. So I went and put on my cap and drank some water.

My first order of business was to trim the peonies. Peonies are to flowerbeds what the African elephant is to a bathtub. They are huge monstrous organisms that start out in life as cute little baby plants, which then sprout out roots that run all the way to your neighbor's medicine closet where they find and suck down all the human growth hormones they can find, marry Maria Shriver Kennedy, get elected Governor of California and then grow up all the way to your chimney. Just like you wouldn't raise an African elephant in a bathtub (if you are, more power to you, sir), you should not plant peonies in a flower bed.

Two days out of three hundred and sixty five, the peony "plant" bears flowers. These flowers are ginormous. Sure, they are reasonably good looking. Not pretty like the rose, but they do have petals that are not transparent. These flowers are heavy and the plant is unable to bear their weight. So it bends under the load and onto your driveway. There they remain in a drooping position for two days. On the third day, it rains, causing each and every petal of those flowers to fall to the earth where they turn into a rotting brown mush, are discovered by your local ant colony which, in light of this wonderful find, relocates in its entirety to your driveway. Trust me, you do not want to plant peonies in your garden.

I did not want those peonies in my garden next year. In fact, next year, I did not want to see in my garden a single thing that was growing there right now. I wished to start afresh with a clean slate. So I began the scorch and burn process. After I trimmed the peonies, I tried to pull them out by the root. I had very little success, although at one point, it did feel like I had pulled my shoulder out by the root. So I retrieved the pickaxe from my garage that I appear to have purchased at some unidentifiable time for some unidentifiable reason and haven't yet put to any use. After punching the peony plant in its nutsack a few hundred times, I realized that I was going nowhere. As, apparently, did my neighbor, who walked out of her garage to check where all that cursing was coming from.

"Here, you probably need this", she said, throwing some kind of large dark metallic object at my face. It turned out to be a shovel. I put aside my pickaxe and started pounding on the peonies with the shovel.

"Is this the first time you've used a shovel?", she asked me. "But I remember your dad telling me you have a large garden back in India."

"Yes, we do", I replied with some shame. "But I came here when I was a little boy so I didn't have much gardening experience from back then."

"Really?" she said. "How old were you when you came here?"

"Let me see", I said, doing some quick math. "I was....uh.....23".

She looked at me without comment.

"Okay, here's how you do this. The key is to push, not pull. Insert the shovel into the soil. Push down on it hard with your feet, then press the handle sideways, using it as a lever."

Lever, yes, that sounded familiar. I had studied levers in college. I wished I hadn't bunked all those "Theory of Machines" classes. Anyways, too late to do anything about it now. So I followed her instructions and after a bit of strenuous pushing, out came the peonies, roots and all.

"Alright", she said, "I think you've got it. Throw the shovel back into my garage when you're done."

There was a lot of crap to get rid of. Another bunch of peonies, two hydrangeas, some vague creeper with red flowers that appeared to be called a "chlamydia" although that doesn't sound right, a bunch of gigantic lilies, two enormous weeds that had turned into trees through the passage of time and a large bush that appears to have acted as a meeting-place for a number of shady members of the local wildlife club who scurried out when I pulled it up by the roots. It took me two hours to strip my garden of all that chlorophyll, but I was finally done.

I spent the next few days repopulating that space with small proportionate things. I purchased some day-lilies, a blue shrubby thing that they claim will last through winter and a number of petunias. My neighbor visited me again in order to monitor my progress. She remarked that the blue shrubby thing will be growing up and in due time, will be taking over my entire garden. She held her arms in front of her, trying to give me an idea of the future hugeness of the blue shrubby thing by air-sculpting its size and I tried to help her by eyebrowing her ample waistline to use as a measuring benchmark but she didn't get the message. I said fuck no, really, oh man. So I guess I'll be clearing brush next year too.

But at least it will keep me off the streets.

Deer and rabbit

2009-06-11T08:59:00.017-04:00

Here are deer and rabbit. Deer and rabbit are seen sweetly entwined in the symbiotic harmony of harvesting my neighbor's crops. As seen in this exclusive surveillance camera footage, rabbit cautiously makes his way to the day lilies as deer watches out for the long arm of the law. Later, rabbit will stand guard as deer forages on the tulips. In my role as an embedded journalist who refuses on principle to interfere with their garden consumption activity, I receive unfettered access to all the inside scoop. Here is their story.

Deer and rabbit have come a long way from their troubled past. There was a point when each time deer applied snout to vegetation for grazing purposes, deer would come up with a mouthful of bunnies and had to spit them out like you would spit out goat bones from the mutton masala at Sunny-da-Dhaba on the Mumbai Pune highway. It resulted in a poor dining experience for the deer and led to a frustrated deer introducing the phrase "breeding like a rabbit" into the English vernacular. This, in turn, pissed off rabbit who, under the glare of the public eye, was forced into using protection during sexy-time. It was tiresome for someone unendowed with opposable thumbs to have to spend time fiddling around with condom wrappers at such a delicate, fleeting moment.

But then, just when it seemed that a deer-rabbit final confrontation would be inevitable, Man stepped in. Man cleared away all the brush and planted short grass everywhere, so deer could spot bunnies more easily and rabbit could continue with his baby-making efforts without fear of criticism. In fact, Man made it safe and even desirable for deer and rabbit to co-exist peacefully. Man planted pretty, tasty stuff in his backyard with easy access to deer and rabbit. Stuff bearing colors of such vividity that they might as well have been neon signs proclaiming, "I am delicious...Eat me". Now, deer and rabbit live together in a mutually beneficial partnership, the serenity of which is only occasionally interrupted by the sight of my wildly gesticulating neighbor running out of her basement with chainsaw in hand and murder in her heart. It is not without irony that Man, who was responsible for the deer-rabbit collaboration, turned out to be the worst affected by it.

But regardless, deer and rabbit are now happy. Deer and rabbit, friends forever.

Rednecks and hillbillies

2009-06-10T13:19:00.010-04:00

So Bill approached me at work today.

"Yo, K-Man", said Bill.

That's what Bill calls me. By the time I had developed a dislike for this nick, it was too late.

"Yo, K-Man. I'm going to this bluegrass festival in the Poconos this weekend. Wanna go?"

"Isn't that like a redneck thing?", I said. "Tell me the name of the town, so I know where to stay away from."

"Why?", said Bill. "You know, you should really go, you might like it."

"Nah man, I said. "Most of you might not have seen an Indian guy before. I am afraid I'll be hunted for my skin or something. Maybe captured and locked up in a cage for observation. Declared a new species and pickled in formaldehyde."

"And if you're lucky, that's all they'll do to you", said another colleague who happened to be passing by. He left, laughing at his own joke.

"You know what I realized", said Bill, "I think you're confusing rednecks with hillbillies."

"What's the difference?", I said.

"Rednecks are racist of their own volition", replied Bill. "Hillbillies are racist because they know no better."

"Ah, I see", I said. "So you rednecks are well-informed racists. You haven't taken the decision to be racist lightly. You've given it considerable thought, mulled it over. Weighed the pros and cons, done your research."

"Exactly", said Bill. "Whereas a hillbilly is born into racism. Kind of like how one is born into a religion. Rednecks, on the other hand, are the free-thinkers of racism."

"That's a great way to put it", I said. "Nobody's explained it to me in those terms before. But still, how does this affect me? Regardless of the nature of your racism, I'll still be in danger, right?"

"Rednecks are harmless", said Bill, "The nature of our racist tendency implies that we are capable of making a conscious effort not to harm you. Whereas hillbillies will come at you like a bear after honey. It's a primal urge."

"And you're saying there will be more rednecks at this gig than hillbillies?" I asked.

"Yes, very few hillbillies in Southeastern PA", said Bill." So will you go?"

"Doesn't bluegrass involve those tiny guitar-like things that sound like someone strumming on his pubes?"

"Yes", said Bill. "Banjos".

"Sorry, I like my guitar heavy", I said. "But have fun. You gonna take your livestock along with you?".

"That's hillbilly", said Bill. "I take dead flesh".

"Oops, gotcha".

Raccoon

2009-06-05T09:12:00.039-04:00

So somebody's been stealing the fruit from the strawberry plants on my deck. It looks like a clean professional job. No crumbs lying around. My wife says it could be the squirrels who've have been loitering around in a suspicious manner lately but my money is on the asshole grackle. He's a shady character.

The grackle has devised a great workaround for getting to the contents of the bird-feeder for those times when I'm on the deck. This is what he does. When I'm not around, he violently waggles the feeder back and forth, causing all the birdseed to fall on the ground where he can later browse it at his own leisure. What the grackle doesn't realize or is callously insensitive to is the fact that through his actions, he is spoiling the dining experience for the rest of my patron base. If you're a bird and planning to go out for a nice romantic dinner with your lady friend where you'll be popping her the ultimate question, whose establishment are you gonna visit, the guy who keeps a full feeder or the one who forces you to eat off the ground? The answer is obvious. Each day the grackle finds new ways of getting under my skin. Wars have been waged due to far less provocation. The sad part is, I am sure the grackle would be a much more productive member of society, were he to apply his powers of deductive reasoning to its betterment rather than its downfall. But he chooses to follow the dark side and that is a pity.

A raccoon now trespasses on to my deck every night. He climbs up using a ladder that one of his raccoon buddies or perhaps a mercenary deer has got to be holding down for him because unless he was bitten by a radioactive spider during his stint at the Daily Bugle, there's no way a raccoon would be able to climb up the ten foot post, crawl upside down on the underside of the deck, then make his way up the railing and onto my flowerpots. I have asked around for advice on how to keep him away. An American colleague suggested that I use a BB gun on him. I asked him, what's a BB gun, is it the one that shoots water and is popular among Holi revelers who lack access to a faucet for balloon-filling purposes? He asked me, what is Holi? I replied, it is a Hindu festival celebrating the fortuitous escape of young Prahlad from an assassination attempt by the demoness Holika who carried him into a raging fire on behalf of her brother, the demon Hiranyakashipu. I see, said the colleague, who's this Prahlad, is he an ex-President of India or something? Well no, I replied, India being a parliamentary democracy, the president of India is a mere figurehead. For his escape from a demon attack to be met with such rambunctious delight, it would have to be at least the prime-minister, who happens to be the working head of the executive branch. All in all, it was a highly productive discussion.

Since my colleague turned out to be useless, I turned to my next-door neighbor for help. She informed me that another home-owner up the street also currently had a raccoon visiting him. I said, "Really, does he have any idea why it's doing that"? She replied that apparently it was after the bird seed in his feeder.

"Goddamn you GRACKLEEEEEE", I yelled, raising my face up to the heavens. "The grackle keeps spilling my birdseed onto the lawn", I translated for her, "which must be what attracted the raccoon to my deck in the first place". "Here's what you do", she replied, "Add hot pepper flakes to your birdseed, that should keep the raccoon away".

So that's what I'm gonna do now. Hopefully the raccoon doesn't have any Indian ancestry in his blood. If he does, I'm gonna have to use plan B which involves playing heavy metal music loudly at all times. It might cost me friends and family but every war has its sacrifices.

Dying happy

2009-06-02T15:03:00.014-04:00

When celebrity professionals pass away while at work, it's very common for people to comment, "Well, at least he died doing something he loved the most". Surely these people had at least one thing in their life they loved more than their work? How about sex? Or snorting coke? I wonder how many celebrities died on their toilet seat, reading a pornographic magazine and had the media go, "Well at least he died doing what he loved the most."

And why's that a good thing anyways? If you were doing something you really loved, wouldn't you be pissed as heck if you were to suddenly pop off? It's like, you're sitting in your studio, painting a masterpiece that Bill Gates has agreed to purchase from you in return for half a share in Windows 7 profits and you're so goddamn happy, you're loving every minute of it and just as you're about to put the finishing touches on your work by painting the head on that sweet innocent moose calf, BAM, your palette turns into an urn of nectar, your paintbrush into a harp and you feel something fluttering on your back which, as it turns out, are wings. You feel like you've died and gone to heaven and you really have. You're an angel.

And then you remember your unfinished masterpiece with the now permanently headless moose calf and you go looking for God to get some answers. You ask Him, "Why God, why me?" And God replies, "Well son, you looked like you were deriving so much enjoyment out of what you were doing right there, I felt that it was a great time for you to die". And you're all like, "What the fuck God, are you a complete idiot, why would you do something like that?" And God, doing His thundering Christopher Lee impression that he performs at parties nowadays to considerable critical acclaim, replies, "Silence fool, it is my world to fuck around with, now go play that harp like your life depended on it". Here, God would probably laugh his stupid face off because God is a fan of his own funny. Asshole.

Me, I want to die doing something I really really hate. Nothing would give me more satisfaction. Could be I'm shoveling someone else's shit, giving a cow a colonoscopy or trying to fix a memory leak in somebody else's software code, if I were to die at that moment, it would be with a fucking smile on my face. And really Society, I want you to be happy for me. I want you to look back at my life and say, "Boy, that guy's lucky, he died doing something that he really really hated. Good for him."

Sub

2009-05-28T13:22:00.005-04:00

Indian guy at Subway : I will have the foot-long veggie patty sub.

Indian guy behind Subway counter : Do you want bacon on it?

Und

2009-05-26T09:24:00.031-04:00

I found myself in the mall yesterday and saw a sign in a store that said "flirty underwear for ladies". Somebody please tell me, what good is flirty underwear? If you're already wearing underwear in a guy's presence, there's a good chance that you two are well past the flirting stage. Flirty underwear makes as much sense as a birth control pill bearing instructions on what to do on a first date. Timing fail.

How can underwear be made flirty anyways? Flirting is a shy or coquettish way of showing sexual interest. The only way underwear can be made coquettish is by creating uncertainty about its prospective removal. Technically, it could be done by sewing a large symbolic lock into the fabric. Or imprinting a warning label specifying, "Under section 505(a)(2), penalty of removal to be 15 years of imprisonment or a $ 5000 fine." That would make it very flirty because the fact that you are in your underwear would convey your interest in hooking up, but the accompanying threat of federal incarceration would simultaneously convey your shyness.

I hadn't been to the mall in a while and it appears that while I was asleep, they made a few adjustments to contemporary male fashion. I was looking for pajamas and yes, I did make sure I was in the "men and boys who think they are men" section but nevertheless, I stumbled upon a number of items of sleepwear that have traditionally been observed adorning the female of the species rather than the male. Weird black slinky stuff. Stuff that looks like it would cling to your groin and inner thighs from static electricity and create a perpetual groping sensation. Also, I noticed quite a few garment samples suffering from a severe case of transparency. See-through pajamas for men? Dude, really?

Men do not like transparent fabric on their bodies. That is a fundamental difference between the male body and The Female Body. The Female Body has a massive ego and a tremendous God complex. The Female Body is always going, Me, Me, Me, yayyyy!! The Female Body believes that it is a sin for such a glorious Entity such as It to stay hidden from view but since you're so fucking unworthy to be laying your eyes on It, will agree to do so, but only with tremendous reluctance. And because secretly, It really really wishes to be seen and worshiped, It will deliberately create a number of viewing loopholes you can take advantage of such as necklines, hemlines, slits, slinks and semi-transparency.

Men have a totally opposite view of their bodies and clothing. If a man were to find himself wearing a transparent garment, his first thought would be, hmm, I am definitely wearing clothes, but I can still see my body. What the fuck gives? To men, clothes are a handy tool for destroying the idea of having a body. When a man wears clothes, his body ceases to exist in mind or matter and he can then move on to other pressing stuff. Men are still waiting for NASA to invent invisibility, but till then, we are okay with using clothes as a temporary alternative. In conclusion, slinky and semi-transparent clothing for men is an ill-conceived idea and it is ideas like these that have led to the current economic downturn.

That and the desire to own a home without having the ability to pay for it.

Deck Garden

2009-05-25T03:58:00.002-04:00

Deck garden is ready. Here is deck garden. This year I win the deck garden competition against my neighbor. Clearly visible in the background are neighbour's two flowers. Last year, I got my ass kicked in the deck garden competition but this year I win. Champagne in everybody's hair.

Send me money. I am broke due to the deck garden competition.

Clown car

2009-05-22T09:55:00.005-04:00

Sometimes it takes me a while to get American pop culture references. Today, in the parking lot, a colleague asked me, hey, how's your clown car doing. I said, what clown car? Are you calling me a clown? That's funny, he he. No, you aren't? Why clown car then? No, I don't know what a clown car is. Okay...go on. I see. Uhuh. So what you are saying is, when you asked me how my clown car was doing, you were, in fact, referring to the tiny car frequently featured in old-style American comedy flicks and cartoons that pulls up to the curb, followed by a heavy exodus of clowns from its interior, the sheer number of which, when compared to the disproportionately small size of the car, provides the humorous effect.

Oh okay, I get it now. I own a small car.

Alright then, I am glad we resolved this issue. Shall we go on inside now?

Being on the go

2009-05-13T09:19:00.031-04:00

Goddamn my back hurts. I've had lower back problems ever since I began working out but something happened yesterday to make it hurt really bad. It all began when I was watching that AAMCO commercial on TV with this cool rockstar dude wearing a cowboy hat who was singing, "My life is crazy, I'm on the go, I can't stop and take it slow". And I said to myself, boy, I wish my life would be as fulfilling and jam-packed with crazy as this guy's, but I'm never on the go and I'm taking it awfully slow with my evening naps, baseball games, music and beer. I realized that if I wanted to be an asshole wearing a cowboy hat who sings to people how busy he is with all the important stuff he's currently involved in, my first order of business should be to stop taking it so fucking slow.

So yesterday evening, after coming home from work, I shifted into high gear. First, I cleared my driveway of all grass clippings that were a result of my weekend lawn mowing activities. Then, I watered my deck plants. Yeah man, I was on the freakin' go. After that, I vacuumed the first floor of my house and cleaned out my bird feeder. And finally, just as I was thinking my life couldn't get any crazier, I went out into my backyard and added fertilizer to my lawn. With weed killer!! I was certainly not taking it slow.

That's when my back gave out. It was puzzling because the cowboy's song hadn't mentioned anything about back ailments. And then I started thinking, you know, when he was talking about his life being crazy, he might not have been referring to vacuuming, watering or fertilizing. Perhaps it was something more interesting. Like going camping with his girlfriend in Alaska and killing a grizzly bear with his guitar. But I'm not sure I would be up to such craziness in my life. Also, I own an acoustic guitar that wouldn't kill a fly. I would probably cut myself with a guitar string and be the laughing stock of the entire animal kingdom.

So I went back to my comfortable sofa, baseball game and beer. I'm done with being on the go. Next time the commercial plays, I'll just change the channel. Or watch the Kingsford charcoal commercial with those lazy fuckers hanging out on the highway who advise you, screw that AAMCO guy, just "slow down and grill".

School

2009-05-06T09:31:00.015-04:00

We did a lot of essay-writing in school during English language class, for which one of the items on the agenda was to pretend you were a tree or a dog or something non-human and write your autobiography. I remember the teachers instructing us clearly and repeatedly that an autobiography should never contain the statement "and then I died". This was because dead things are incapable of communicating their life story from beyond the grave. Apparently a tree or a dog writing its own autobiography was quite believable but a dead tree or a dog doing it? No fucking way. Just too unrealistic.

Some other stuff I learnt in this school :
1.> Eskimos prefer to live in an igloo rather than a brick house because bricks have tiny holes in them through which the cold wind can blow through whereas ice blocks do not.
2.> It was called the Underground Railroad because the slaves used to travel by subway (or, as it was known in the 1800s when it didn't actually exist, the underground railroad)

The deck

2009-05-03T08:42:00.003-04:00

Mules and stuff

2009-05-01T08:09:00.002-04:00

Some news stories are just so picture perfect, you thank your lucky stars that you had the privilege of bearing witness as they were reported. Here's one about a Georgia candidate for governor who admitted to having sex with a mule. His name? Neal Horsley. You couldn't ask for anything more. You could try, but you really shouldn't. Leave the powers that be in peace for a while.

Apparently, Mr. Horsley even justified his mule intimacy. “When you grow up on a farm in Georgia, your first girlfriend is a mule,” he said, adding, “You experiment with anything that moves when you are growing up sexually.” I'm guessing that whenever Neal showed up in town, everything would come to a screeching stop. Public alerts would be issued. "Nobody move, Motion Sensor Neal is on the prowl".

What's also funny is that Mr Horsley also made a statement saying that he would be willing to kill his son in the cause of overturning Roe vs Wade. But that's not ha ha funny, so we won't discuss it any further.

Hither, fox

2009-04-30T09:54:00.019-04:00

Lately, I've been seeing a fox hanging around in my neighborhood. The other day it was loitering around the creek and today I saw it in a neighbor's yard. It's a largish animal and I don't know, it could quite possibly even be a wolf. Sure, the idea of a wolf lurking around these parts appears to be somewhat implausible, but so was the idea of a black man in the White House. But I'm hoping it's not a wolf. See, I know foxes. I am relatively well-versed in human-fox interaction protocol. If I were to encounter a fox while traveling through the countryside, I'm relatively sure how the rendezvous would go. Probably like this.

Human sees fox, is pleasantly surprised. Fox sees human, is mildly disgusted.

Human : What a gorgeous animal, what a perfectly marvelous example of God's brilliant craftsmanship skills.
Fox : What an ugly hideous creature, either God doesn't exist, or He was trying to make his ten year old niece laugh.
Human : He hasn't spotted me yet. Boy, I really should have pursued a career in the undercover arts.
Fox : Hello assface I see you, you are not invisible. Quit hiding behind that tree, you haven't got the physique for it.
Human : I wonder if the cute little bugger will allow me to touch him.
Fox : Why is the creature looking at me all creepy-like and...wait... oh no you don't, don't you even think about it.
Human : Here doggy doggy doggy, I have a bone for you.
Fox : Are you fucking kidding me? You ain't got no bone in your pants, nor are you happy to see me. Plus, what makes you think I'm hankering for some shitty old bone? Go try your lame-ass shtick on a stupid deer.
Human : Yes, I think he finally trusts me, I shall attempt to initiate contact.
Fox : I knew it motherfucker, this bastard wants to get inside my skin. Time to skedaddle. Good bye you ugly fuck, I hope you lose your way and starve to death.

And the fox bolts.

I can't see a wolf following a similar train of thought. I'm also not sure whether a wolf would tolerate an intrusion on his privacy in the same good-natured spirit as a fox would. Wolves are unpredictable. I wouldn't know whether to approach a wolf, back off or throw out a casual "Whatup, fox" to try and confuse him into an identity crisis. So I hope it's a fox and not a wolf.

I wonder how these animals breed though. You don't see many of them around. When they're in the mood, lady vixens must be finding it hard to locate a mate. I guess that's why they leave their scent on trees and stuff. It's the vulpine equivalent of writing your phone number on the back of a card. Fox goes sniff sniff, alright, my gal's asking me to meet her at Lover's Rock. Son of a bitch, I'm gonna get lucky tonight.

With human females, the situation is the exact opposite. Too many goddamn men around. Why would you even want to attach your scent to things when all you gotta do is say, "Excuse me, it is now time for me to breed, perhaps one of you kind gentlemen would be willing to offer some assistance"? In fact, that's why women use deodorant. To hide their scent and keep the men away when they're not needed.

So as I was saying, I'm gonna go read up on wolves because that thing is just too fucking huge to be a fox.

We had more bloodthirsty Gods

2009-04-29T11:11:00.030-04:00

So it seems that somebody, let's call him "Genius" with air quotes, decided to go ahead and create an online computer game, involving Jesus and Mohammed slugging it out in hand-to-hand combat. Now, following an outcry from the "Islamophobia Observatory of the Organisation of the Islamic Conference" (try saying that fast while getting beheaded), the Italian company that developed the game is now withdrawing it.

It's actually a pity because the game itself is quite good fun. Along with a scrawny Jesus and a scrappy Mohammed, you can also fight as generic Old Man God, Buddha (which is historically inaccurate since he was an adherent of non-violence), or Lord Ganesha. Now speaking as a fundamentalist Hindu computer gamer, that last part really pissed me off. With the entire pantheon of one billion Hindu Gods at their disposal, why did this company choose Lord Ganesha to represent us Hindus in combat? That's like sending fucking Corporal Radar O'Reilly to represent the M*A*S*H 4077 in a drinking competition.

Look, I'm a Ganesha devotee. Huge, huge devotee. But let's be honest, the Guy's obviously ill-equipped for battle. True, a few of His biographers do claim that He's vanquished numerous demons in his lifetime, for example, the twin brothers Narantak and Devantak, and the hideously ruddy Sindoora (What, forgot your sunscreen? Again?). But you've got to take anything that comes out of His PR department with a grain of salt. Look at the evidence on the ground. Every picture of Ganesha in the press has him holding a lotus and a golden axe, which, by the way appears to be more endowed with aesthetic appeal than utilitarian value. In the age of the atom, what kinds of weapons are these? He might as well be holding a white flag. And in some highly incriminating photographs obtained through secret back channels, He is actually seen to be holding a plateful of fucking sweets and administering benevolence with His remaining hand. What kind of message does this send to enemy combatants? That ain't neither proper combat attire nor attitude, Homeslice.

But in my opinion, where Ganesha's battle-readiness suffers the most is in the area of transportation. When you are at war, your ability to mobilize quickly and reliably is paramount. That requirement goes largely unfulfilled if your preferred mode of transportation is on ratback. Come on now, how can My Man possibly compete in this area? You have Jesus, who can fucking walk on water, Mohammed, who surely owns a horse, or at least a mule, that's in all likelihood equipped with winged feet, Buddha who can fucking levitate in mid-air and then there's our Man Ganesha, crouching beside the hole in his wall with a piece of cheese in his hand, waiting for his battle-rat to get hungry and come out.

This is what bugs me. We have one billion Gods, out of which probably nine hundred and ninety-nine million are experienced demon-war-veterans with a well-documented history of bloodshed and violence. Why choose someone out of the remaining one million? You have Goddess Durga on her ferocious lion. Indra, the bloodthirsty redneck with his flying eight-trunked elephant. Or how about Kali? The mere sight of Kali, and those demon skulls flopping around on her neck and arms would have Jesus calling out his own name and Mohammed peeing vapor into the hot desert air. Buddha would stay calm, though. That's why he's the Buddha.

Look, our ancient Hindu holy-book writers had tremendous foresight. They designed most of our Gods, bearing in mind that at some point in the distant future, They would be called upon by the geeks of the world to duke it out in online fighting competitions and smartly, equipped Them with the requisite skills and gadgetry towards that purpose.

But Lord Ganesha wasn't one of them. He just wasn't.

We are finally online...er

2009-04-28T08:40:00.020-04:00

Great news, folks! We are now available on Amazon.com . I'm not really sure how it all works, but apparently, you pay 1.99 USD a month (or 20,000 Canadian dollars) and then you can read this blog all day long. Even when you are in the bathtub and I know you're a clean freak so that's like most of your day. The alternative, of course, is to read this blog for free, but you wouldn't want to be taking food out my baby's mouth now, would you? No, I don't have a baby, why do you ask?

It seems you need something called a "Kindle" to read the paid version of this blog. My literary agent (and manager) asked me to try and get people to purchase it, because that will help him feed his own baby, which also currently doesn't exist. I said to him, "But bhad, it don't feel right, asking people I don't really know to purchase things I don't really know". Bhad means pimp or fucker or something similar in Marathi. You're probably saying, what the...is that how you treat your agent? But it's okay because he is also my best friend. Also, he does some pimping in his spare time. But anyways, he replied, "Look, these people who read your blog, they've been following the painfully mundane narratives of a complete stranger for a while now, so there is a significant possibility that they will also make a purchase based on his recommendation." That made a lot of sense to me even though it didn't answer my question.

So let me give you a little insight about Kindle and you can be sure this is an unbiased review because I don't own, nor have I ever used one.

1.> A Kindle is very light and as thin as a magazine. If you've ever screamed out in a dentist's waiting room, "God, this magazine is so fucking heavy it's making my wrists fall off my arm", you should probably be visiting a different doctor.

2.> It has a crisp display, reads like paper and has 16 shades of grey. It's like they made this product specifically for you! You adore grey, remember how you were telling me it is the color of your life? And how you said no you weren't crying, those were tears of happiness and wails of joy?

3.> If you are blind, illiterate or somehow managed to superglue your eyelids together, this thing can read out loud to you. It's got a bit of a Southern accent, so as long as you manage to suppress your laughter, your relationship with your Kindle should be free of all awkwardness.

4.> 20% faster page turns! Remember that one time when you were taking forever to turn that page and we waited and waited and finally we took you to the ER and it turned out you had just suffered a massive coronary? You never paid me for the cab ride.

5.> Check out how pretty you look, using a Kindle. You could use the extra help, really.

(Above : You, using a Kindle to look pretty)

So folks, get an expensive Kindle and follow this blog from wherever you are for $ 1.99 a month. In fact, I have been informed that the subscription might even drop down to $ 0.99 in case someone at Amazon were to find the time to read this blog and correctly determine that it is way overpriced. On the other hand, you could also pay nothing and "log on" to your "computer" everyday in order to read this blog. But that would be so January 2009. It's already April now.

Your lawn sucks. But there is hope.

2009-04-23T12:15:00.017-04:00

In the single year that I have been a home-owner, I have come to realize that an American home-owner's life is basically one characterized by constant suckerhood. After purchasing a home, at some point, you correctly determine that the human race at a molecular level can be classified into two fundamental categories : a> Home-owners and b> People who make money off home-owners. In fact, if you take a close look at all the major US stock indices, you will notice that for the most part, they are comprised of companies engaged solely in the business of trying to separate a home-owner from his cash. Initially, when the recession made its presence felt in this country, I was surprised to know that it was caused by home-owners. Now that I am aware of the huge role my fellow home-owners and I play in propping up the American economy, it all finally makes sense.

A prime player in the home-owner-milking industry is Scotts. Scotts, of course, is the company most renowned for its lawn maintenance products. Now if you are of Indian origin and used to a life bereft of anything green within a 20 km radius around your house, you'll probably say to me, but gawker, I am Indian and therefore, quite used to a life bereft of anything green within a 20 km radius around my house. Why would I even consider buying a Scotts lawncare product? I am quite satisfied with the Saharan ecosystem currently flourishing in my backyard. My wife and kids have already managed to evolve camel-like humps, padded feet and flapped nostrils in order to cope with the parched sandy environment. I don't need Scotts, gawker, please go away.

I will go away, but let me say this, don't underestimate Scotts, my friend. Scotts has a widespread network of undercover lawn spies. The moment they track down a Desi brown-thumbed lawn anarchist such as you, Scotts will quickly purchase the home next to yours and landscape the holy heck out of it. Soon, you will be spending long mournful hours comparing your terrible weed infested yard to the dazzling state-of-the-art lushness that is your neighbor's property. Don't forget, a large part of being Indian involves coveting your neighbor's lungi, his wife and yes, also his yard. It won't be long before you find yourself loitering around in Home Depot or Lowes and buying up everything that has the word "lawn" or "garden" on it.

And Scotts will be more than happy to help. Scotts has a hundred different types of lawn-care products and you are mandated by law to purchase each and every one of them. In early Spring, you will need to use Scott's fertilizer with Halts. It gets rid of something called crabgrass. Crabgrass is not as delicious as it sounds so you need to remove it as soon as possible. This will give you adequate time to prepare yourself for the next tragedy that is about to befall your lawn, which is weeds. Late spring is weed season. This is when you need to use Scotts fertilizer with Plus-2 weed control. That will get rid of dandelions and thistles. Sometimes it also gets rid of the lawn. But hey, don't worry, Scotts is already on it. Here my friend, meet Scotts grass seed. It will grow you a new lawn. But don't forget, grass seed is quite useless by itself. To grow a new lawn in an ISO 9001 certified manner, you also need Scotts starter fertilizer. You see, grass seeds are like babies. They need water, love and their own expensive baby food. They don't cry and keep you awake all night, but not to worry, Scotts is already working on it.

Alright, so your lawn is back up and running but what d'ya know, it is now summer. Summertime has its own problems. Summer is apparently when grubs take over our planet. As always, Scotts is by your side, eager to provide moral and chemical support. Which is in the form of Scotts fertilizer with Summerguard. You don't know what a grub is or what it looks like or why it shouldn't be on your lawn, but isn't it reassuring to know that Scotts is protecting you from that sucker? It sure is!

Finally, when September comes around, you allow yourself to breathe a sigh of relief. You're probably thinking okay, it will soon be winter, my lawn will stop growing and get covered with snow and I can finally quit the second job I had to take in order to pay for all that fertilizer. But you sigh too soon. For fall is the perfect time to make plans for a lush spring lawn. Hey, you can't be too careful, right? It just makes no sense at all, not to use Scotts Winterguard with Plus-2 weed control. It protects your lawn from spring weeds. Yes indeed, Scotts has invented a fertilizer that is so powerful, it will even kill weeds that don't yet exist. If that doesn't qualify for Alfred Nobel's inheritance, I don't know what does. Also, please don't confuse it with regular Scotts fertilizer with Plus-2 weed control. They are totally different. One has the word Winterguard in it, and the other doesn't.

Sometimes, when I have some time to myself between two fertilizer applications, I sit down and ponder. Ask myself questions. Like, why doesn't Scotts add weed killer, crabgrass killer and grub killer to the same fertilizer? Is it because Scotts weed killer is actually an army of grubs that march forth and devour the weeds? Also questions like, how did grass manage to grow before there was Scotts? Why crabgrass? And why do they call pubic lice "crabs"?

But before I can answer any of these questions, it's already time for the next fertilization.

Happy birthday, John

2009-04-21T08:39:00.018-04:00

Bill celebrates his birthday today. As is the custom in my office, first thing in the morning, they passed a birthday card around that everybody was supposed to sign. Ross gave me the card, telling me it was Bill's birthday. I wrote "Happy Birthday" and signed my name underneath. Then, I gave the card to Jim to sign. I did not tell Jim that it was Bill's birthday because making casual conversation with Jim at 8:00 am is a surefire way to develop a brain aneurysm at 9:00 am.

But Jim is an inquisitive type. He fancies himself to be quite a sleuth. Jim scanned the birthday card for clues as to whose birthday it was. He saw the words "Happy Birthday" and underneath it, the underlined name, John. John always underlines his name when he signs it on a birthday card. Jim did not know that. So Jim, having no sleuthing abilities whatsoever, naturally opted to believe that it read "Happy Birthday, John". He added his own wishes to the card by writing "Happy Birthday, John". Then, he passed on the card to Ronny, helpfully informing him that it was John's birthday. Ronny signed the card as well, adding his hope that John would experience an abundance of joy on this wonderful day. And so, like a tragic rolling stone, the card continued to make its way downhill, gathering birthday wishes for John.

At some point today, Bill will be signing his own birthday card, wishing John the very best and quite possibly, also adding a humorous side-note because he is that kind of a guy. Bill will feel just a hint of bemusement over the fact that this is the first time in all these years that he has shared his birthday with John. Bill will also wonder whether John is a closet Hindu and has been following the lunar calendar. And later on in the afternoon, we will be having a surprise birthday party for John. John will be really really surprised, seeing that it isn't his birthday. Also, John is seventy. I don't think he would like a premature birthday or a surprise.

But there will be cake. And that's all that matters.

RIP Harry

2009-04-13T14:06:00.004-04:00

Philadelphia Phillies broadcaster Harry Kalas has passed away. If you ever watched HBO's (and later Showtime's) "Inside the NFL" series, Harry was also the voice behind the game highlights. I, personally, will miss him as I am sure will countless Philly fans.

Why are birds such assholes?

2009-04-13T09:51:00.058-04:00

You may not have realized this, probably due to the sheltered nature of your lifestyle, but not every asshole who's ever descended to earth from Planet Asshole was human. In fact, there are quite a few birds whose assholistic tendencies can rival even the finest mankind has to offer.

Take for instance, the Canadian goose. What an asshole. It's not just that this dipshit is an illegal immigrant from Canada, but also that it regularly fails to realize that it is a bird and would get its ass handed back to it, were it to ever engage in hand-to-hand combat with a human foe. Regardless of that fact, when this asshole is not shitting gigantic human-sized turds all over the path leading from your office building to your car, it is standing over them with the menacing demeanor of a mother guarding her newborn babies, prepared to fight to the death anybody who would dare crush them en route to home and hearth. Get over it, asshole. To you, they might be priceless nuggets of your body and soul, but the rest of us don't give a birdshit. And if I'm walking towards my car, better get the fuck out of my face because you're a goddamn bird and I don't know if you watch Animal Planet but you're supposed to be instinctively apprehensive (read scared shitless) of my species.

And what's with all the road-crossings? Watching these fuckers jay-walk all over our major arteries during rush hour would make one wonder, where are all these wankers off to? Meetings? Presentations? You're probably saying to yourself, "Dear God, am I doing as much with my life as these geese are with theirs"? To which the answer is, yes, because they are just being assholes. Only an asshole would deliberately cross a road on foot during rush hour despite being endowed with actual working wings.

Now you probably wouldn't believe a sparrow to be a bird subscribing to the asshole mindset. After all, it's just a tiny soul, keeps to itself and gets bullied by the larger birds. But then, you don't know assholes. Assholes come in all sizes and innocence. And the sparrow is a tiny asshole, but an asshole nevertheless. Look, you purchased a bird feeder for thirty bucks. You've been keeping it well-stocked with bird feed, spending about fifteen bucks twice every month. It is food fit for a king, delicious and you know that for a fact because you've taste-tested it yourself. So when it is time to patch the bare spots in your lawn with grass seed, it would be perfectly reasonable for you to assume that the sweet innocent sparrow that regularly dines in your feeder would leave your grass seed alone and in peace. But you would be wrong because the sweet innocent sparrow is an asshole. A human would say, I have eaten this man's salt, perhaps I should keep my grubby paws off his lawn. But not the sparrow. The sparrow will eat your salt, have your grass seed for dessert and then return it back to your deck in dropping form. That's how big an asshole the sparrow is.

But there is a feathered asshole that puts all other assholes to shame. Even human asshole heavyweights such as Axl Rose, Bill O'Reilly and Terrell Owens' agent. This is an asshole extraordinaire, one who reigns uncontested at the top of the asshole pyramid. Meet the common grackle. It is not a crow and it is not a blackbird. It is a grackle. Let's call it for what it is, a grackhole.

The grackhole loves to dine at your feeder. That's not necessarily a bad thing since that was the precise intent behind your purchase of the feeder, namely, to allow destitute birds access to adequate nutrition, while maintaining their dignity. But the grackhole is an asshole. The grackhole will keep other birds out of the feeder. And you know why other birds hate it and keep out of its way? Because apparently, the grackhole is in the habit of devouring the other birds that eat at your feeder. Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of an asshole does that? Let's say, you're at a restaurant and you decide there's nothing you like on the menu. Do you then say to the waiter, "Hey, I'll have the guy sitting at that table over there, grilled medium rare with mashed potatoes on the side. By the way, what's the soup of the day?" Not even Dick Cheney would commit such an act of blatant assholery. At least not until you're done with dinner and you go back home and wake up in the middle of the night to find Dick Cheney squatting on his haunches at your bedside, gnawing on your exposed fibula. But at least Dick Cheney will let you eat in peace. Not the grackhole, however. Because the grackhole is an asshole.

A few facts appear to support the hypothesis that the grackle is a world-class asshole. For example, the Cornell Lab of Ornithology says that the grackle has actually benefited from deforestation. Yes, you heard me right. How fucked up does a bird have to be in the head to actually hate trees and rejoice in their destruction? Another fun fact about the grackle is that it allows ants to crawl onto its body in order to destroy the rest of the parasites that live there. I do not even wish to know what it is that the ants are supposedly destroying. Hopefully it is not cancer. I would like cancer to remain on the grackle's body.

But the grackle is not just an asshole to its own kind. It's also an asshole to you. You, who installed the bird feeder on your deck in the first place. You, who are responsible for the healthy radiant rainbow-colored penumbra around the grackle's neck. Yes, you. The grackle doesn't care about you. For the grackle, you are nothing but a pair of hands hovering in mid-air that refill the feeder every couple of weeks. As far as the grackle is concerned, when you're not replenishing its food supply, you are just a fat lazy slob who lolls around on the deck wasting his life, gaping at the scenery and more importantly, keeping the mighty grackle away from its food and preventing it from achieving its daily masticatory goals.

And so, realizing that you are not going to budge from your seat without some external encouragement, the grackle alights on a nearby tree branch along with a couple of its thuggish buddies and kicks things up a notch by firing up the karaoke machine. The grackle's grating "chack chack" is the avian equivalent of fingernails dragging across a chalkboard. In the beginning, you are loathe to admit defeat because by God, you purchased this townhouse in large part due to its wonderful deck and the nice view it has of the woods and the stream and there is no way you're gonna let this filthy cockatoo keep you from getting your money's worth. But after ten minutes of nonstop chacking, you finally admit defeat and make a dignified retreat into the keep, whenceforth you watch as the gleeful little fuck leaps onto your feeder and celebrates its victory by defecating into the flower basket you've just populated today with fresh pansies.

What. An. Asshole.

Shirtless Stupid

2009-04-09T10:09:00.023-04:00

I am considerably gladdened by the realization that criminals in my neighborhood appear to be mental midgets. Apparently there was this guy who robbed and assaulted a cab driver and then, in order to elude the cops, fled into an apartment building where he was arrested in about an hour. Evidence of his sub-par mental faculties:

1.> The building he ran into was unoccupied. Thus making him the sole occupant of that building.

2.> The building he ran into was less than 100 yards from the scene of the crime. Really, criminal? You couldn't be bothered to run, say, 200 yards? You did have an hour to kill before the police showed up. So in the meantime, couldn't you have run to the train station? Where you could have caught the Septa R5 to 30th street? Where you could have boarded the Amtrak to Whitefish, Montana? Instead, you chose to run 100 yards. Good call, man.

3.> Finally, in a brilliant move whereby he clinched the 2009 "Evasive maneuver least likely to succeed but mad props for trying" award, the guy removed his shirt in an attempt to fool the cops. I suppose he was thinking, "Hey, if no one could tell Clark Kent was actually Superman merely because of his glasses, I'm sure I'll be made virtually unrecognizable by the sheer lack of garment on my upper torso". I'm sure he even called up his own mother in order to test his disguise and said, "Hey mom, I'm not wearing any clothes, can you tell it's me on the phone?"

So to recap, in order to escape the long arm of the law, this guy ran into an unoccupied empty apartment building within a stone's throw of where he knew cops would be arriving, stayed there for an hour and removed his shirt in 30 degree weather, hoping to meld into the crowd, of which there was none.

The cops explained how they caught the guy. "He was not dressed for the weather".

With geniuses of such outstanding cerebral caliber trying to rob me, I can now sleep soundly at night. All I have to do is post a sign on my door that reads, "After picking lock, please pull to open" when it actually needs to be pushed.

Aftershock

2009-04-07T15:03:00.007-04:00

Don't you think calling a second earthquake an "aftershock" kind of absolves the Earth of all responsibility? Why this euphemism? Just call 'em like they are, earthquake 1 and earthquake 2. Calling it an aftershock is like saying, alright Earth, you fucked our shit up with an earthquake but guess what, you get to do it again without additional penalty or infamy. We will just call it an aftershock. Don't do that, man, don't spoil her. You give Mama Earth an inch and she will take a mile.

It's like allowing someone to get away with a second murder as long as the guy commits it within a day or two of the first one. We would just call it an aftermurder. No one gets prosecuted for an aftermurder. After all, it's just a part of the entire murder experience.

Link(s) of the day

2009-04-03T09:58:00.002-04:00

Human : Fuck you, animal.

Animal : Fuck me? No, fuck you, loser.

Parenting

2009-04-02T09:45:00.005-04:00

Last fall, I was driving my parents through Vermont on a foliage-hunting trip, and during a conversation initiated by the sheer overpowering beauty of the place, I randomly mentioned that someday I would like to hang up my keyboard and mouse, buy a house in Vermont and run a bed and breakfast.

The moment I said that, my mom began to look at every subsequent house that we passed on the road in a new light, as the future dwelling and business establishment of her beloved son. She would quickly analyze its advantages and shortcomings with regard to structural integrity, aesthetic appeal, picturesque location, proximity to essential services and the condition of its indoor plumbing fixtures. This was all achieved through a cursory half second inspection of the passing blur. Then, following a fifteen second conference with my dad, she would tender her final recommendation on a possible purchase. She carried on in this vein until finally I had to tell her, mom, I don't know if this will ever happen, I have no money, no green card, I can barely afford my current mortgage and I don't know diddly squat about the hospitality sector. She replied, okay then, we'll do this again later when you're ready. My mom's funny.

I am not sure if I will ever be such a devoted parent to my kids. I can picture my son or daughter telling me that he or she would like to buy a house in Vermont and me replying, "Excellent, I'll come visit you when you're done. Make sure there's beer in the fridge." Are there any good parenting courses one can take online?

Tip of the day

2009-04-02T08:43:00.003-04:00

I learnt this one way back during my graduate school days. If all your friends hail from a particular region in India and insist on conversing in their native dialect while in your presence, keep yelling out in a sporadic manner, "Hey quit talking about my mother", till conversation either dies out completely or transitions into a more comprehensible format.

Breaking in

2009-04-01T09:19:00.015-04:00

We have a new guy in our office who's been temporarily assigned to us from India. He will be with us for the next four months. He's Maharashtrian and coincidentally, from Pune. My American colleague G is in charge of supervising the new guy. G wandered into my cubicle yesterday.

gawker : What's up G? How's the new guy doing?

G : Habeeb is in training class.

gawker : Habeeb?

(The new guy isn't Muslim and his name isn't Habeeb.)

gawker : Listen G, don't try your "all brown people are terrorists" jokes on the new guy just yet, okay?

G : What brown terrorist jokes?

gawker : You remember, when I didn't shave for a month and when I finally did, you asked me if I had graduated from terror camp?

G : Oh, that.

gawker : And when we were in the Indian restaurant, you complained they weren't playing your favorite song, and when asked which one, you put your palm on your mouth and yelled "ulululululululu"?

G : So when can I start making terrorist jokes?

gawker : I will break him in gradually. Start him off on some mild Mahashtrian mother-sister stuff. Gauge his reaction. I will let you know if and when he is ready for your overtly racist material.

G : Alright then, you do that. And don't cross any borders illegally in the meantime.

gawker : Oh, and no "Mexicans, Indians, what's the difference" jokes either.

G : You're running a pretty tight ship, Osama.

gawker : Just trying to keep the office safe from suicide bombings.

How to

2009-03-31T16:47:00.011-04:00

So this Bosnian guy tried unsuccessfully to kill his mother-in-law using an anti-tank missile. He probably doesn't play Call of Duty a lot because as an expert in the field, I could have told him that it is very difficult to kill infantry-in-law using an anti-tank missile. You have to aim really hard and cannot rely on the splash effect of the explosion like you would in case of a common grenade.

The best way to carry out the kill would have depended on the circumstances. If his target were to be running from room to room, a submachine gun like the mini-Uzi or the MP5 would have been perfect for the purpose. If he were to be at a longish distance, say encamped in her neighbor's garden or high atop a tree, an M16A4 rifle would have been great because it gives you both the range as well as the accuracy. If he had lots of time on his hands and wished the endeavor to be totally bereft of any danger, he could have used a Barrett .50 cal sniper rifle from, half a mile away. This rifle does make a loud noise, but that should be drowned out by the sound of your neighbor trying to kill his mother-in-law with an anti-tank missile.

As an aside, I like how the reporter sympathetically explains how "She cannot be killed be (sic) conventional weapons".

Disclaimer : This blog does not condone the actual killing of real human beings.

Emasculinity

2009-03-31T15:52:00.006-04:00

Black guy ahead of gawker at the Subway : "I'll have the nine inch sub please".

Indian sandwich maker guy : "You mean the six inch sub?"

Black guy : "Yeah okay, the six inch one".

gawker (to himself) : "Quit showing off, bastarguy".

Cooking show

2009-03-30T08:52:00.023-04:00

I came up with a great idea for a television cooking show. I will be pitching it to Food Network, Fine Living Network, Black Entertainment Television or any private citizen with a transponder who will answer my phone call. I don't think this idea has ever been implemented in the entire history of cooking shows. In my show, I would give my audience a step by step demonstration on how to cook all my favorite dishes. The twist is that this would provide people with a list of steps on how not to cook that particular dish. Every dish I have ever tried to cook has turned into a federal disaster and this would be a good way for me to capitalize on my failcooking. For example, if I were to add chopped tomatoes to something, that would let you know that you would be better off adding grated apples instead. At the end of my show, I would have the studio audience come over, taste my dish and show their appropriately disgusted facial expressions to the camera in order to demonstrate to all of you sitting out there just how bad my food turned out to be.

For now, I'm trying to come up with a recipe for the pilot episode that would perfectly capture the worst of my cooking instincts. I'm thinking the first omelet I ever produced as a graduate student in the US. In my recipe, I used two onions and only one egg, chopped the onions lengthwise and added onions and egg separately to the frying pan. If you refuse to follow those steps to the letter, you should end up with a perfectly delicious omelet.

I will be calling my show "The Opposite of Bad Cooking". I will let you know when to turn on the TV.

PS : A commenter correctly pointed out that the show should be named "The Opposite of Good Cooking". Turns out I also suck at naming food shows about cooking that sucks.

Pretty

2009-03-30T08:36:00.005-04:00

I've been styling my own hair for the past eight years. When I say styling, I mean cutting and when I say cutting, I mean shaving it off. I do this to myself every three months. As a result, I look like a human only about 30 days a year. Today is one of those days that happen to be at the end of every shaving cycle. In about a week I will voluntarily re-inflict baldness upon me and turn into a cue ball. But during these next seven days, I will be pretty, oh so pretty. Enjoy my beauty while you can, world.

Extraordinarily Funny

2009-03-26T09:44:00.002-04:00

If you are into Hindi film music, you need to check this out.

No more a failure

2009-03-25T10:48:00.015-04:00

Are you like me, someone who periodically turns around and flashes a beam on the receding outline of his life to realize that he's accomplished nothing of significant worth in his thirty odd years on this planet? Do you often feel that your life turned out to be, if not a lemon, at least a nectarine and wonder whether you should ask for your money back? If so, boy, do I have a solution for you.

All you have to do is find one trivial thing you do successfully every day, add the number of times you've been doing it over the years and there you go, you ain't a failure any more. In my case, it's walking up and down stairs. I have been doing this continuously without falling down for the past eight years of my life. Let's do the math.

Each day at work, I climb thirty-five stairs four times a day.

35 x 4 = 140 stairs a day.

I do this five days a week.

140 x 5 = 700 stairs a week.

Let's say fifty weeks a year.

700 x 50 = 35,000 stairs a year.

For the past eight years.

35,000 x 8 = 2,80,000 stairs.

So to recap, I have climbed 2,80,000 stairs without falling down even once. Wow. Just, wow. I'm blown away. Seriously, that is quite an achievement. To give you some perspective on how huge this is, consider that in England, every year, over a 100,000 people are treated for injuries caused by falling down stairs. Have you ever listened to 100,000 people falling down stairs? It's quite a racket. And these are only the folks who were man (or woman) enough to admit that they fell down stairs and drove themselves to the hospital. If you consider that the difference between the number of people who masturbate and those who admit to it is a factor of five and apply that factor to this case, it turns out that over 500,000 Brits fall down stairs every year. And these are all fine, upstanding, successful people who you once thought were better than you.

But I have successfully navigated 2,80,000 stairs without taking a single tumble. I'm proud of this feat. More so because I'm a stair-runner, not a stair-walker. My mother was right. I am indeed special.

So off you go, all you special people out there and start crunching those numbers. Whether it is your ability to sit on the same chair an umpteen number of times without breaking its legs or opening a door without pulling it off its hinges or tying your shoelaces without snapping them in half (something which I suck at), go find something you are very successful at and be happy.

Historic aerial PA

2009-03-24T15:32:00.006-04:00

I've often wondered what my neighborhood might have looked like, say, 50 or 100 years ago and this website answered my question. It's got aerial pictures of Pennsylvania from the 40s and 70s, arranged by grid on the map. Amazing. I wonder if other states have such a website as well.

PETA makes a funny

2009-03-24T11:47:00.012-04:00

PETA is pissed at Call of Duty : World @ War. PETA doesn't like the fact that players are forced to kill attack dogs that can be unleashed by their opponent once he or she achieves a killing streak of 7. In the interest of avoiding a cliched response, I will forego the act of wondering aloud what PETA's opinion is with regard to the brutal murder of human beings in the game. So now that's foregone, let us relish PETA's deliciously demented alternative vision of the concept, preferably to be implemented in the next Call of Duty sequel.

To help the folks at Activision Blizzard learn about the ethical treatment of animals (something we're sorta experts on) we're offering to let them take PETA's "Developing Empathy for Animals" seminar free of charge, and we're sending a package of dog-friendly Nintendogs games to their office.
With a little Nintendogs influence, perhaps the next Call of Duty game will have you unlock achievements for petting the dogs you encounter and going on walks or playing Frisbee with them.

The moment I read this, I knew it was a winner. Who wouldn't buy a war game where you could unleash a pack of vicious rottweilers on your enemy who, by rule, would be forced to place his gun aside for the moment and braving claws, fangs and the certain onset of rabies, pet those brutes and take them on a frisbee slinging walk while you take your time deciding which part of his anatomy you want to blow clean off his body? Heck, I sure would.

At this time, I would also like to offer my pre-emptive approval to the UN Human Rights Commision's future request that every subsequent war-based video game give the player an option to either stab his opponent in the back or cuddle with him while feeding him spoonfuls of warm scrumptious apple pie.

QOTD

2009-03-23T12:07:00.002-04:00

Colleague1 on Colleague2 :

"If this guy came upon a wall, instead of climbing it, he would probably run left and right trying to find out where it ended."

?

2009-03-23T11:59:00.003-04:00

A sudden influx of people to this blog from ~~IIT~~ IIIT Hyderabad leads me to ask the question : Am I on the syllabus?

For Dummies

2009-03-23T10:28:00.012-04:00

This weekend, as I was foraging in Borders, I saw this book called "Forensics for Dummies". It made me question whether there really are a lot of people hovering around a dead body, thinking, "Fuck 911, I'm gonna investigate this one on my own".

One more thing about the "For Dummies" series of books. Most people who buy these books believe they are not really dummies. And that the reason they are buying this book is because they just want to be taught that topic as if they were a dummy. Well my friend, I hate to burst your bubble, but if you need to be taught like you were a dummy, chances are you actually are a dummy. So rest your mind in ease because you are indeed getting value for your money.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that I am currently reading the book "Mutual Funds for Dummies". After reading this book, I feel there should be a special series of books for people like me called "For Dummies who are also afflicted by ADD". These books should go slow enough for one to grasp the subject matter, but also not so slow that one reaches for the TV remote.

One book that I really don't want to see in a bookstore is "Commercial Airline Piloting for Dummies". I hope they don't publish that one. Now I know that we live in a politically correct world where everything is supposedly possible for everybody regardless of gender, sexual orientation and mental capacity, but honestly, I would strongly discourage dummies from wanting to assume control of a commercial airliner. Not just dummies, but even people unsure about their dummy status, people who might buy this book just to be on the safe side. When I fly, I want somebody in control of the plane who is absolutely 100% sure that he is not a dummy. While landing the plane, I don't want the pilot going, "Hmmmm...My instructions were to land on runway 2, but I might be a dummy and reading those instructions wrong so maybe I should land on runway 3". The end result might be a landing on runway 2.5. Definitely not a good idea to publish this book.

Fortune

2009-03-23T09:24:00.007-04:00

So apparently, my folks consulted an astrologer, who concluded that my planets would (finally) begin to align starting in June. I'm not sure whether to believe the astrologer or the fortune cookie that informed me, "You have a curious smile and a mysterious nature".

Dreams

2009-03-20T14:20:00.004-04:00

My latest thing is to wake up in a panic about five times a night, believing that my house is on fire. My previous thing was to wake up in a panic about five times a night, believing that my roof is leaking. I wish I could somehow find a way to combine these two dreams and finally get some sleep.

Things that suck : Volume XXXVIII

2009-03-20T10:26:00.004-04:00

During the course of a conversation, you draw a rather funny analogy which gets lots of laughs and then somebody takes it a step further and extends your analogy, but now it's not funny anymore and you have to laugh at it regardless because the person who did it laughed at your original analogy.

Drawing blood

2009-03-13T15:36:00.008-04:00

I got my blood drawn today. The last time I got my blood drawn was for our I-485 immigration applications which was two years ago. If you are getting your blood drawn, here's some advice. Try not to eat at a Mexican restaurant right before you get it done. My second recommendation is, if you are hell-bent upon disregarding my advice and intend to go right ahead and order a burrito, please do not order a side of rice and beans. Otherwise, you will make it a day to remember and blog about.

My wife had her blood drawn first. She emerged from the room, rubbing her arm. "They couldn't find a vein so they had to repeatedly stick their needle into me", she complained. Ha ha, I said callously, for I found the situation not lacking in humor. "Now watch how a man gets his blood drawn". I walked inside very casually as if to show those folks that I get blood drawn everyday for one reason or another. No big deal for the man.

They sat me down and stuck it to me. They began to siphon out my blood. And as the tubes started to fill up with red, I got the distinct sense that my life was being sucked out of my body. I could feel the blood supply to my brain being diverted into the test tube. And then, I had to vomit. I informed the attendant of my wish. I also told her that after vomiting, I would probably die and that I had not yet written my will and would she make sure that my wife got everything, except for my Wodehouse collection which should go to my sister? She said okay and gave me a bag. And then I let it all out. Burrito, side of rice, side of beans and two kinds of hot sauces, chipotle and habanero.

As I walked out, my wife took one look at my pale face and foam-flecked lips and asked me, "So is this how all men get their blood drawn?" Humbled, I accepted her sarcasm and begged her to teach me everything she knew about vomit-free blood-letting.

As a result of my last experience, I was somewhat apprehensive at today's blood-drawing. I said to the nurse, "Heh heh, you better get a bag ready because I've been known to throw up". She replied, "Oh don't worry, we will make it quick and painless". She stuck the needle into me and asked me, "Are you okay hon?" I said, "Yes, I'm okay, but it is when I see red that I begin to see white". She replied, "In that case, why don't you look over to your left. Look at those pictures of puppies and pandas and the baby bear".

I turned my head and indeed, there were baby animals on the wall. "Don't worry", said the puppy's sad eyes. "It's not blood, it's honey". "Give me that honey, shithead", yelled the baby bear. "Quit fighting you two ass-jockeys or I'll smack you both upside down", said the panda. Oh, those silly animals. They saved me from being humiliated again. I didn't puke this time.

Submarines

2009-03-13T09:09:00.009-04:00

I wonder why more people in the US don't own a submarine. Americans like to be around water, in water, on water and aboard vehicles that travel through water. Most everybody in the US owns a boat. Why not own a submarine? It is way cooler than a boat. A boat can sink and it will be bye bye and off to the depths. And the people going bye bye will be the ones cruising around in the sub and waving.

What's the point of owning a boat? All it does is stay afloat. What's the big deal in staying afloat? I can't swim and I can still stay afloat. Just give me one a them parachute swim trunks. Diving is so much more difficult. I don't know how people can hold their breath underwater and still manage to fight each other in the movies. If I am underwater and merely think about the fact that I am underwater, I immediately go ahead and gulp down large amounts of swimming pool.

I think the point of owning a boat is more to do with the public display of free time and money than the actual enjoyment thereof. You can navigate your boat to another boat and chat it up with your boat-owner friend, both of you deriving satisfaction from the fact that the other knows that you own a boat. Difficult to do that in a submarine. "Hey Jack, haven't pinged you in a long time, where you been, over." "Yeah, had to surface for a while, had some stuff to do, over." "Well, it's good to see your blip on my sonar, how's the weather over there, over". "Weather's great, climate control holding up, CO2 scrubber working overtime if you know what I mean he he, over." "He he of course, well, gotta scoot, catch your wake later, over and out."

Email joke

2009-03-12T11:15:00.004-04:00

So I emailed this joke to a couple of American colleagues. Didn't get a response. So I went off to their cubicle to get their response in person.

gawker : Hey guys, so what did you think of the joke I sent you?

colleague1 : I hated it. So much that I printed it out just so I could shred it.

colleague2 : Yeah, and then I burnt the shreddings.

gawker : Come on, it wasn't too bad. Anyways, it wasn't mine.

colleague1 : Really? It had gawker written all over it.

gawker : Well, we Indians are all pretty much alike.

colleague2 : Yeah, you all stink.

gawker : Sure, sure. So are we doing Indian for lunch?

colleague1 : Yeah.

colleague2 : Thirty minutes.

heydagoodagadi

2009-03-10T14:29:00.006-04:00

Our office building has an evening janitor whom I bump into every single day as I'm running downstairs after the day's work is done. Very friendly elderly fellow and always greets me when I meet him. The only problem is, I still don't know what he's been saying to me as a greeting. This is because when I see him and I say "Hey, how you doing", he doesn't wait for the closing notes of my "doing" to die down before he commences his own greeting. In fact, he carefully times his own greeting to begin at the precise moment when I say my "Hey". As a result, what I've been hearing till now as a combined cacophony of our two greetings can be phonetically described as "heydagoodagadi". I'm still trying to figure out which part is mine and, thereby, isolate his vocal frequencies from the mix. For all I know, he might have been asking me to go fuck myself. I hope not because I've given this guy considerable love over the years.

Pakistan

2009-03-09T11:08:00.004-04:00

A simple way to make Pakistan a democracy would be to make the Army Chief an elected official and the President a chihuahua (or any other non-threatening dog).

M80

2009-03-06T08:14:00.004-05:00

I saw an M80 today. A Bajaj M80 on a Pennsylvania road. Okay, it might not have been a Bajaj M80, possibly a Ford M80 or a Goldman Sachs M80 but it was definitely an M80. It had the same vertical mini wingettes straddling the fuel tank and the same bespectacled Indian sitting on it. I couldn't believe my fucking eyes. Actually, I could. If not my eyes, what else am I gonna believe? My ears? Hey, what's that I hear, isn't that an M80? Or nose? Yargh, that smells like an M80. No, I trust my eyes. But I wonder how this thing got here. Does Bajaj have a showroom in the US? Perhaps they have a black market M80 outlet on Oaktree road.

I wonder if they would sell me an Atlas Goldline Super bicycle.

step ex lesb

2009-03-05T10:50:00.008-05:00

Last weekend, my colleague had to drive four hours to his step-sister's daughter's birthday party which was being celebrated at his step-sister's ex-husband's house where he watched her ex-husband have a fight with his step-sister's lesbian ex-lover over the custody of the kid.

So quit complaining about your life.

Animals

2009-03-04T14:37:00.012-05:00

I remember the exact point in my life when I became an animal lover. It was back in India and I was around 8 years old, maybe 10. A construction lorry had pulled up alongside our house. Without warning, the driver backed up into our garden fence and damaged one of the fence posts. He then took off without bothering to wait for justice to be meted unto him. I was furious. I ran behind the lorry driver, following him from inside my garden, screaming little child epithets. Even at that young age, I was well versed in the art. When I reached the end of our domain, I had to quit, my progress being thwarted by a neighbor's fence. That is when my attention wandered to the property across the road and I saw a dog, who had also been chasing the lorry from inside his garden and had been similarly foiled by his own fence. I marveled at how the dog had correctly determined that a crime had been committed and had taken it upon himself to extract justice for his human neighbor.

As the two of us watched the receding silhouette of the miscreant vehicle, it dawned upon me that animals have as great a sense of moral outrage against society's evildoers as do humans, if not greater.

Even today, when I go back home and look at the bent fence post (which still stands bent), I think of that dog and our joint crusade against injustice.

Stupid post

2009-03-03T14:19:00.004-05:00

You know what I hate? When I write a stupid post and make the mistake of linking to CNN in my post and then my stupid post shows up as linking to the CNN article on the CNN website and then a ton of people from all over the world come to my blog from CNN and read my stupid post. Really hate when that happens. A man should be able to write stupid posts in peace without having people from all over the world come and read it. What's that you say, a man should quit writing stupid posts instead? Now you're just being stupid.

Stripes

2009-03-03T11:55:00.007-05:00

When I was young, my mom forbade me from wearing anything with vertical stripes because she believed it made me look longer and skinnier than I was and I was already quite long and skinny. Consequently, I had a shitload of horizontal stripes and not a single vertical stripe during my mid to late childhood.

I think now would be a good time for me to test if my mom's Vertical Stripes Theory does indeed hold water.

Sad Day

2009-03-03T10:05:00.005-05:00

When terrorists shoot a cricketer, they call it a sad day for cricket. When I get shot, I wonder if it will be a sad day for software development.

PS : I actually think it will be a happy day just because of my horrific programming techniques.

Boot

2009-03-03T08:08:00.005-05:00

I keep forgetting which word Americans don't understand, "boot" or "trunk" of a car. By the time I figure that out, the conversation has already ended. Due to this peculiar handicap of mine, I have been unable to participate in the last twenty or so boot or trunk related conversations I have been witness to. And the most vexing part is that I have a lot to contribute to this topic. I might not have a PhD in boot theory or trunk mechanics but I do know my automobile storage compartments.

Presidential Address

2009-02-25T11:10:00.008-05:00

My facial muscles are gradually uncringing themselves. They suffered severe trauma through the past 8 years from watching Ex-President Dufus try to speak in public. Some doctors said the damage was permanent and that I would not be able to appear in photographs any more. Some said to try cheek yoga. Others suggested nuzzling an elephant. Nothing seemed to work. And a baby elephant in the Philadelphia zoo will probably turn into a man-eater when he grows up.

But after watching yesterday's presidential address, I could feel my muscles beginning to relax. They are still a long ways off from assuming a normal expression, though. For now, everybody needs to stop getting offended. I'm not cringing at you. I have just forgotten how it feels not to be disgusted.

Shorter Oscar Awards Message

2009-02-23T08:58:00.004-05:00

"Please go see Slumdog Millionaire. It is an awesome movie on India. India is a country in Asia. Don't worry, it was produced by a Brit so you will understand what the actors are saying."

Disclaimer : I have not seen the movie. I did, however, watch the Oscar Awards.

Individual Climate Control

2009-02-20T10:12:00.009-05:00

People who purchase cars with individual climate control should just stay single. I mean, if you cannot even agree on what temperature to maintain your car cabin at, your marriage is already doomed. How the heck are you gonna decide on anything, ever? When you adopt a pet, are you gonna get a vertically split half pitbull half chihuahua? Teach your kid to play piano with one hand and strum the guitar with another? And what about those romantic moments? If you're drinking out of the same glass with two straws, will one of you insist on drinking coke from your side of the glass and the other a milkshake?

Does this thing even work? When hot air mixes with cold air, it turns into lukewarm air. Trying to have hot air and cold air in a single confined micro space is physically impossible. As impossible as having hot water and cold water in the same bathtub.

It is simple, really. You're the husband, you lose the fucking jacket because you get hot easily. You're the wife, you put on a fucking jacket because you get cold easily. That is what marriage is about, people, it is about compromise. Maybe if you followed this advice, it would save you a shitload of money on alimony payments. And save some for your mortgage payments. Perhaps bring the economy out of the shitter so that the rest of us can live our lives in peace.

McNuggetini

2009-02-20T08:36:00.006-05:00

The McNuggetini

A McDonald’s chocolate milkshake with vanilla vodka, rimmed with BBQ sauce and garnished with a chicken McNugget. (via (via)).

I call it McWhatTheFc.

PS : How about the Disgustini?

Any more ideas?

Cock and Balls

2009-02-19T12:53:00.010-05:00

I have a colleague who likes to say "cock and balls". He regularly uses this phrase as a substitute for the word "nonsense". Each time he says it, I have a vision of him scooping up somebody's cock and balls in his hand, kind of like how a good Indian housewife scoops up a lamp for the purpose of gratefully celebrating the awesomeness of her husband with it.

He is also a fan of dropping into my cubicle every f-fucking-ive minutes and just going on and on about shit. He sits in the next cubicle so due to his repeated invasions, I think I have developed this seventh sense on when he's gonna do it next. My sixth sense is actually my paranormal ability to turn on any television channel that is playing Seinfeld at any given instant. So anyways, due to the power of this seventh sense, never, not even once, has he caught me surfing the internet. I think I'm gonna use this sense for other non-office related activities, for example, when I'm in the Chandrapur jungle and a tiger's about to pounce on me from behind because I devoured the goat originally left as its bait, I can take appropriate evasive measures because I knew he would be coming.

This same colleague that I was referring to, had, in the past, developed this highly irritating habit. Whenever I was confronted with a problem of any sort, his advice to me would be "You know what we need in our software? A (problem) button." For example, if I was looking for my stapler, he would say to me, "You know what we need in our software? A "Find the Stapler" button."

Now he has moved on to a different approach. His latest solution to any problem is for me to go to www.(problem).com. So he will now say, "You know what you should do, you should log on to www.findmystapler.com". Oh he is a riot.

So anyways, like I was saying, this guy likes to say "cock and balls" a lot. That's all I really wanted to say.

Tripe and tendon

2009-02-19T08:23:00.009-05:00

I tried the Vietnamese beef tripe and tendon noodle soup. Contrary to what I was hoping, tripe and tendon weren't code words for "tenderest cut of filet mignon" and "most succulent and juicy ribeye steak". They actually stood for tripe and tendon respectively. Tripe is apparently cow stomach, which would be okay if you needed a stomach transplant and by a happy coincidence, happened to be in a Vietnamese restaurant. And also happened to be a cow. Tripe was fairly disgusting. Tripe had the texture of a chopped up and sauted bicycle tire tube. It was also bereft of taste. Tripe was the stuff you usually find, pick and throw out of whatever meat-based dish you are eating. So bye bye tripe, it was nice seeing you and have a great life.

Tendon was better. Tendon, which is the connective tissue between bone and muscle and sounds as disgusting as tripe, is actually quite tasty. It is collagen which turns into a melt-in-your-mouth gelatinous mass when slow-cooked and can be tolerated without much difficulty.

Anyways, the point of this exercize was to get to know tripe and tendon and explore the possibility of a long term relationship with these two folks. But as I mentioned, tripe and I turned out to be on totally different wavelengths. Tendon and I, well, we might have something going on. There was definitely some sexual chemistry happening in that bowl. We'll just have to wait and see.

QOTD

2009-02-18T11:42:00.000-05:00

"Smokers should quit. If they can't, they should learn to be sexy smokers."

Best smoking post ever.

13 inch TV

2009-02-18T09:36:00.008-05:00

Colleague1 : That guy who just passed us. He had a head like a 13 inch TV.

gawker : Where?

Colleague1 : There, that guy in the Hyundai.

Colleague2, still trying to process Colleague1's initial statement : What? Why did you compare his head to a 13 inch TV?

Colleague1 : He had a huge head. I couldn't see his neck.

Colleague2 : But why a 13 inch TV? Who compares a head to a TV? Why not say he had a head like a basketball?

Colleague1 : He had a square head, like a TV.

Colleague2 : You could have said he had a large head. Christ, John.

Colleague1 : Look, I didn't want to send any homosexual overtones. You know what they say about guys with large heads.

Colleague2 : What....that they have big remotes?

Colleague1 : Forget it. Anyways, I made gawker laugh. That's something.

gawker : Actually, I am quite easily amused.

The Stupid Shuffle

2009-02-17T16:47:00.002-05:00

Here is something stupid people do in nightclubs. I seen it with my very own two eyes. The night is moving along nicely and the beautiful people are busy laying the groundwork for a possible crotch-to-buttock application scenario and then suddenly, there is a lull in the music and the DJ puts on this song they call the "Cupid Shuffle". And what happens? The Stupid takes over. Takes over everybody. Don't matter if you're a salesgirl from Macys or a professor of advanced thermodynamics from Princeton with tenure. When the song comes on, if at that moment you find yourself on the dance floor, you are obligated to and will have to perform the Cupid Shuffle. It begins with everybody filing into a military type formation in multiple rows. At this point it would be wise to steal a quick glance at the person beside you in order to gauge the degrees of freedom you will be afforded during the shuffle. And then the shuffle begins.

The song consists of a series of instructions to the audience on how and where to position their bodies for the next few minutes. It goes like this :

“To the right, to the right, to the right, to the right”. Here, Mr Cupid expects you to slide your body to the right. You can do the bare minimum, as in just walk over to the right. Or if you are a humongous fan of the song, you could perform some kind of elaborate hand-leg routine while doing it.

Next, the song goes :

“To the left, to the left, to the left, to the left”. Now you have to go walk to the left. If you hate walking, too late, pal.

“Now kick, now kick, now kick, now kick”. Here it is mandated that you kick your feet in front you, making sure you only kick one foot at a time. You may laugh now but when you are in that room, the stupid can get to you.

“Now walk it by yourself, now walk it by yourself”. This is probably the most difficult move in the song because you are being asked to walk it by yourself while being in the midst of a human limb porridge. But don't lose heart, just do your best. Think of yourself as being in a vast meadow with no one in sight and just the blue sky reaching out to the horizon. As far as you are concerned, you are now walking it by yourself. By the way, don't you wish you were actually in that meadow instead of in this shithole, walking left and right and kicking at stuff?

Now granted, I have no first hand experience of how it feels to do the Cupid Shuffle, having contented myself with watching other people doing it (kind of a common theme of my life), but regardless, I still have a really hard time trying to fathom the source of pleasure these people experience while doing the shuffle. Or is it that Americans will obey any set of asinine instructions as long as they have been delivered in rap form? Case in point, even in today's dire economy with the banks tumbling and the jobs disappearing and stock market crashing, if a rapper asks us to wave our hands in the air as if we just don't care, will we tell him to kindly fuck off? No, we will stop caring and start waving. Why? Because he's got the full authority of a beat behind him. And if you don't, well, as a wise lady once said, "the Rhythm's gonna get you."

New

2009-02-17T13:11:00.002-05:00

Out in the parking lot, I unlocked my car but tried to open the door of a different car. It's because I am currently driving a rental. I wonder if this kind of thing also happens to newly married people.

Disturbing search engine query of the day

2009-02-17T12:12:00.005-05:00

Somebody came here searching for "teabagging the corpse".

Even more disturbing, he / she stayed on for 5 minutes.

I think I'm gonna go hide all my corpses.

Twitter

2009-02-17T10:44:00.000-05:00

Fuckit I'm on twitter.

Bought

2009-02-10T11:58:00.004-05:00

I just purchased my first stock. It has already gone up by 0.3 points. I am now officially "dabbling in the stock market". I am an investor. I shall attend board meetings and clap like a maniac as Michael Douglas preaches the virtues of being greedy. I will also have live streaming quotes on my computer and install a second monitor on my desk. I shall use this one for doing work. Soon I will be rich, at least, till somebody flies something into something else or a large number of somebodies buy a large number of somethings they can't afford and then have to pay for them.

But that time is not today. Today we shall feast on the finest foods and wine, the best that, let's see, a 100 dollars can buy. No wait, 90 dollars. Actually, it's 80 now. You know what, let's just postpone this celebration for later.

Google auto-suggest for Indians

2009-02-10T09:08:00.011-05:00

Link of the day

2009-02-09T12:36:00.019-05:00

If, like me, you are prone to frequent bouts of depression due to the existence of religion and its horrible all-pervasive stench that clings to everything that accidentally ventures into its sphere of crapulence, then here is a link for you that will remind you that religion is also the reason why we laugh at all in the first place. It is the fine folks at the Hindu Janajagruti Samiti (which appears to be an organization that thinks of itself as a global complaint desk for Hindus), registering their disapproval of the movie Slumdog millionaire. Not to worry, you do not need to have seen the movie (I haven't) in order to fully enjoy this web-based manifestation of their disapproval. By the way, this link is being brought to you via this blog which is also the Exceptional Blog Find of the Day. (via).

In case you are gainfully employed or an employee of the Hindu Janajagruti Samiti, I will quickly lay out for you the more humorous portions of said disapproval.

1.> Quoted from site : "The film shows that Hindus attacks Muslim area shouting 'They're Muslims, get them'. Jamal's mother was killed by a Hindu after she was hit by a rod on the head. Jamal and his brother Salim ran away after seeing their mother killed. While running they reach a street in which they see a child dressed like Lord Rama. Jamal watches him carefully and sees a bow in his right hand and thinking that he will be killed by the person dressed as Lord Ram, he goes by a different route."

Complaint : This child is guilty of looking "horrible" and has "skeptical facial expressions" that are "denigrating to the religious sentiments of Hindus".

2.> The film shows Hindus killing and burning Muslims.

Complaint : This gives the message that Hindus kill Muslims now and then by attacking in mobs. As we all know, this has never happened in the entire history of Hindu-Muslim violence.

3.> In this film Jamal, a Muslim boy shows kindness to a Hindu girl.

Complaint : Apparently, someone who is vaguely described as "The News", is a confident proponent of the theory that Muslim boys are exclusively in the habit of getting paid to lure Hindu girls and not a single Muslim boy has ever existed, who has shown kindness to a Hindu girl.

4.> The blind beggar character in the movie is a Hindu.

Complaint : Why inflict blindness specifically on a Hindu? Also, why is that Muslim over there shown to have good teeth? And this other Hindu shown to have a bad taste in clothes? And that Muslim to have a pretty smile? And this Hindu to be balding? It's all a giant conspiracy.

5.> The child dressed like Lord Rama is giving blessings with his left hand.

Complaint : Gods never give blessings with their left hands. The reason behind that is Hindu Gods, like Hindu mortals, wash their hindquarters with their left hand and therefore, to give blessings with the same hand would be impolite in the Divine Rulebook of Etiquette. Implying that a Hindu God would show such impropriety as to give blessings with his left hand, especially Lord Rama, who we already know was so well-mannered as to throw his own wife to the dogs at society's behest, would be blasphemy.

By the way, the Hindu Janajagruti website is chock-full of such stuff so I recommend you go peruse it at leisure. For example, this page, where somebody with an old woman / dead poet fetish complains about the painter M F Husain drawing the Hindu Goddesses Laxmi, Saraswati and Durga naked while drawing mother Teresa, mother Husain and the poets Ghalib and Faiz fully clothed.

(Above : Obelix the Gaul and Dogmatix the canine, casting aspersions on the mental acuity of the folks at the Hindu Janajagruti Samiti)

Gated

2009-02-05T13:37:00.006-05:00

Apparently Bill Gates unleashed a swarm of biting mosquitoes at a technology conference, in order to create awareness about the deadly nature of malaria in third world countries.

This gives me a great idea on how to spread AIDS awareness in the next technology conference. Why yes, it does involve a swarm of prostitutes armed with used hypodermic needles.

Also, just to clarify, I consider the perpetuation of "Bill Gates released more bugs into the world" or "the conference being abuzz" jokes to be beneath the dignity of this office.

Irony?

2009-02-04T13:14:00.004-05:00

The Times of India :

"In a string of tragedies where ironically those hailing from AP met a violent end in the US in the last 15 months, software engineer N Akshay Vishal working with fraud-hit Satyam Computers was shot dead by unidentified assailants in Arkansas on January 13 last."

I don't understand. What's the irony here? Do you ever get the feeling nowadays that people are using "irony" for just about anything they can't remember the correct word for?

Behold

2009-01-23T09:15:00.012-05:00

I finally had enough of computer speakers, headphones, graduate era discount stereo systems and movie-based home theater systems. It was time to move on. Time to splurge a bit and experience music as it should be. Behold the purveyor of aural bliss or as I call it, "He that comes in your ear and makes you come too".

(Native Indian warrior Chief Snorting Horse shown for scale, also coming in somebody's ear)

Fashion : You can't just walk it off.

2009-01-22T09:26:00.027-05:00

You know, there are a number of things in this life that we take for granted. For example, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Let's consider life itself. What if you weren't alive? Have you ever considered that? Aren't you glad to be alive? You might not remember this, but a lot of stuff went into keeping you alive. When you were born, you had to be fed, clothed and kept from eating your own poop. It was a lot of work and goddamn did it suck. But someone did it and now you are alive. Treasure that fact. Do not take it for granted.

And liberty, how about that liberty? What if you were a caged bird? Can you imagine how much your life would suck? Or if you were water in a glass. Wouldn't you miss the time you went babbling through that brook until you were accosted by that dam and siphoned down those pipes?

Or the pursuit of Happiness. Have you considered how fortuitous it is that you are pursuing happiness and not the other way around? You can't run for shit and Happiness would catch up to you mighty quick. I hear she is into leather and spiked stuff.

So, along with life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, I have stopped taking many other things for granted. I treasure most things. Most but not all. One thing I was still taking for granted was the ability to walk. You'd probably say to me, but gawker, what's the big deal about walking, I do it all the time with little or no trouble. And you would say that because you wouldn't have seen the Hindi movie "Fashion". This movie transformed my life. It changed my opinion about walking.

Fashion is about a girl who is a very talented walker. She walks like nobody's business. She is such a good walker that people routinely come up to her and exclaim my, oh my, where did you learn to walk like that? And she says, why, it came to me naturally when I was a baby. She was terrible at crawling. But boy, that baby girl could walk.

So this girl gets recruited by a modeling agency where she puts her walking abilities to good use on the fashion ramp and earns bunches of money. She turns into a supermodel. Her walking makes her famous. Her fame develops walking, nay running abilities of its own and spreads far and wide. People attempt to walk like her but they fail. You can't compete with the expert. No, it takes a tremendous amount of talent to put foot before foot without falling down. Trust me, I tried it myself and within two days, I was clutching at the walls trying to stay awake and upright.

But here's where the movie gets poignant. Here's the part that made me cry. This simple happy girl begins to get arrogant. Her walking goes to her head. She begins to feel she is the greatest walker the world has ever known. She spurns her family, her friends, her co-walkers. She even spurns walking itself and takes to driving. And to cap it all, drinks while she is doing it. Her walking career begins to falter. Her assignments begin to dry up and pretty soon, she turns into what each of us have nightmares about turning into. Just an ordinary person who can walk. This is disastrous to her psyche and she spirals into depression. To drown her sorrow, she starts doing all kinds of crazy stuff like black guys and cocaine until finally, one day, she wakes up, sees herself in the mirror, looks at her heavily mascaraed eyes and says to herself, Lord oh Lord, what have I become? Where are my eyes? No amount of tissue-rubbing can bring her eyes back. And then she realizes it's not just her eyes that she's lost, but her entire perspective on life. She decides to turn into a new leaf.

So she goes back to her family and her friends. The people she should not have discarded like a pair of worn-out socks in the first place. She loses her arrogance. She replaces it with compassion and a tremendous fear of walking. Her friends are extremely supportive. They try to rebuild her walking career by giving her ramp assignments. The very first day of her rejuvenated walking career, she is faced with a dilemma. Should she drown herself into the memory of her failed past or should she welcome the future and walk? Bright spotlights are shining on her. She can hear the audience in the crowd snicker. Too many doubters and too few well-wishers. Will she able to walk? Well, the movie is still a long way off from ending so you are guessing, no. And you are right. She fails in her attempt to walk. She has the pluck to walk, the will to walk, the bones, muscles, tendons and the primal instinct inherited from our hungry foraging ape-like ancestors to walk, but for this troubled woman, that is still not enough. She fails. And that's when you realize you should never take walking for granted.

But our girl, she will not give up. She is a survivor. She plugs on. She accepts another walking assignment and this time, she is going to be the star of the show, what they (supposedly) call in the business, a show-stopper. Expectations are even higher this time. Not only will she have to walk, but do an exceptional job of it. It is crunch time. And then, it is showtime.

It's her time to shine. She is up next. But she still has her doubts. "Can I walk?" she asks herself. After all, I did walk around all day today. And yesterday. And every day of the past twenty or so years. I walked to the grocery, to the laundry, to the bathroom. Once, I even ran, she muses with pride. It's not like I can't walk. But why can't I transfer my walking abilities onto this ramp? She is about to give it a try and then.... and then, disaster strikes. A telephone call. She is notified that one of her friends is dead of a drug overdose. Her legs go limp. And to add to that, it is now time for her to walk onto the ramp. Dimly, through her tears, she hears her friends, colleagues and gay philanthropic fashion designers exhort her to walk. How can they ask of her something so difficult at a traumatic time like this? Whoever's heard of such a thing? Time's running out. She needs to walk now or her walking career is over. She can almost see her legs in an ordinary salwar kameez instead of a micro-mini.

But it is darkest just before the dawn. Just before time runs out, she grits her teeth, pushes the sad away and walks out onstage. The crowd draws a sharp breath. This is the finest act of perambulation that they have ever been witness to. She turns to the camera, poses for it and smiles. She continues to pose and smile. She has walked this far. Now she has to walk back. Will she able to do it?

Of course she will. It's just walking, for fuck's sake. She turns and walks back, turns again, looks at the camera, re assumes her pose, smiles and waits for the other supermodels to join her onstage for the finale. She has done it. She has walked. Her life is finally back on track. She breaks down from exhaustion. She weeps and sways. Her fashion designer holds her close to keep her from falling. And the credits roll.

Walking. It's not just something people do when they have to go somewhere not far enough to use a vehicle. It is difficult and something not to be taken for granted. The next time someone asks you to just walk something off, just reply to them, why don't you just go fuck yourself?

What? II

2009-01-21T12:50:00.006-05:00

The NY Post reports (via) that "A US citizen was booted from a Turkish Airlines flight from Istanbul to New York after he complained there were "Arab types" on board".

Three questions spring to mind. Did this guy know that he was on a Turkish Airlines flight? Did he know that he was in Turkey? And did he travel to Turkey for a corneal transplant operation, receive his transplant in the Istanbul airport just before he boarded his plane and then realize, goshdarnit, Turkey was full of Arab types?

This reminds me of the time a friend of mine from India stepped off the plane in New York for the first time in his life and exclaimed, wow there are a lot of foreigners in this country. Actually he didn't really say that but this is a good way to illustrate my point. Also, if he had actually said that, I would probably not have divulged it in a public forum like this for fear of embarrassing him. So since he didn't actually say that, I am comfortable with saying that he did.

What?

2009-01-16T13:11:00.003-05:00

God was certainly looking out for all of us.

Actually no, jackass. God's the asshole who convinced that goose to fly into your plane engine. It was the pilot who was looking out for all of you.

HNY

2009-01-05T09:38:00.022-05:00

May your new year be filled with happiness and joy and most of it be triggered by good things that happened to you and not somebody else.
May your fridges overflow with and kitchen utensils be forever dipped in leftover food.
May the erroneous payment of a ten dollar bill instead of a dollar bill continue to not bother you all that much.
May your flexible health plan benefits go underutilized.
May your home dwindle in value due to the real estate bust and not because cardboard got cheaper.
May your indoor plants continue to prosper and grow in spite of your presence in their life.
May your doors continue to keep out visitors and windows continue to drown out their cries.
May you age only in body and not in mind if you're a man and do the exact opposite if you're a woman.
May your children continue to disappoint you only to the extent that you've disappointed your own parents.
May your unhealthy self loathing turn into a healthy loathing of another person.
May you continue to find copious amounts of evidence that you are the most important person to have ever dwelled upon this planet.
May your better half and significant other continue to be that in name only.
May your frowns turn upside down, yet your head stay attached to your torso.
May all your bullets find vital organs and your vital organs continue to elude bullets.
May all your friends continue to find the inner strength to suffer your interminable bitching and moaning in silence.
May your hair reverse its lifelong trend of southward migration.
May your hopes and dreams be sufficiently unrealistic for their dashing to cause too much heartache.
May you finally discover your soulmate or at the very least, a credible, constantly refreshed password hack site.

HNY.

Shoe throwing

2008-12-15T12:42:00.011-05:00

As an unbiased observer and avid shoe-throwing connoisseur, I have the following advice for participants on both sides of all future shoe-throwing events.

Advice to shoe-throwee : The next time you are at a press conference, somebody throws a shoe at you and you are able to dodge it, plan your next couple of seconds while taking into account the fact that most humans are bipeds and that another shoe will surely be forthcoming.

Advice to shoe-thrower : The next time you throw a shoe at someone, first do a pump fake. That will cause your target's head to dodge reflexively. When it bobs back up, that's when you actually throw your shoe. Also, try not to let your overwhelming hatred for the guy impair your shoe-throwing aim.

That is all.

Video game taunting

2008-12-12T09:34:00.030-05:00

There is currently an interesting discussion going on in the amazon.com video gaming forum on the best way to taunt someone whom you've just killed in an online gaming session. Taunting has always been an integral part of sports and gaming both offline and online and methods for doing so have varied. In real life, it is easy to taunt someone. You can just tell the guy that he sucks. Or you could pretend to hold him up in your arms and gently lower him onto your hips in an act of conjugation. Forcing a fellow member of your own gender to envision the scenario of sexual congress with yourself has traditionally been a pretty effective taunting tool for male competitors, both juvenile or otherwise.

However, taunting is much more complicated when you are playing online. I remember when I was an Unreal Tournament fanatic in my youth, I used to derive a lot more satisfaction from the celebration that accompanied the demise of my opponent than his death itself. In UT, taunting was easy. You had a fixed number of pre-programmed verbal taunts that could be applied at the click of a button. Many people favored the "You like that?" taunt, which I personally found a bit grating. Imagine the nerve, asking someone you've just killed if he liked it. Very discourteous. Some people were more blatant with the "Die Bitch" taunt. Again, that was not my style. Too primitive for a thinking man. The only time I employed it myself was when somebody killed me eight times in a row and then finally, I managed to kill him back. It was a good way to release all that pent-up homicidal fury. My favorite taunt in UT was "Neeeext". Now that is an intelligent taunt. Not only does it inform the deceased that a celebration of his demise is under way but that killing him was so bereft of any challenge whatsoever that I was immediately ready for my next victim with no need for respite. In UT, you could also do celebratory dance moves that were similarly pre-programmed into the keyboard. I seldom used them because for one, I suck at dancing even when I am in pixel form and the move is pre-programmed and two, I have been killed too many times while dancing and it is quite a humiliating way to go down.

So what I learnt from the forum discussion is that taunting is a big part of the Call of Duty 4 online experience, which I am currently addicted to. I have never indulged in any taunting in COD4 until now simply because I never knew how to do it and COD4 doesn't have any pre-programmed verbal taunts or dance moves. But apparently it can be done. A popular taunt in COD4 is what's known as "tea-bagging". Now I know what tea-bagging means in real life but I wasn't sure what it entailed in an online pseudo-environment. Fortunately, I was saved from the embarrassment of asking this question by someone else who asked it before I did. The reply was quite detailed and graphically informative.

"There are variations ... but its basically kneeling on top of a corpse's head so your genitals are obviously on his forehead. You can do one long kneel or a quick kneel-stand up motion a couple times to emphasis the tea-bag. I prefer the quick up and down motion ... I get better results. Sometimes it helps to say 'tea-bag - tea-bag - tea- bag' for each kneel down."

A less informative reply that was too cliched to be humorous was, "You fill a cup with hot water then pull out a bag of your favorite bag of tea, then commence on t-bagging." I could "groan" at this reply but that would be cliched as well.

A subsequent poster elaborated on a variation on tea-bagging that he claims to have developed himself in his spare time, which he calls "tuck and twist". It involves "T-Bagging the person whilst spinning in a 360 degree circle". It is an interesting approach and I can see how that would work with the tea-bagger and tea-baggee both spinning together in sweet harmony. I would have tried that one out but spinning makes me dizzy. A third poster brought up the point that he prefers his taunting to be pre-mortem in that he sneaks up on snipers and first humps them in their back before killing them, the advantage of this method being that the deceased is able to replay the entire sequence during the killcam clip (the short animation that plays back the player's death for his benefit).

Now that I've reviewed a bunch of people's taunt sequences, I've come up with one of my own. This is what it's gonna look like. I'm gonna do it to a sniper because I hate snipers and I think it is my duty to periodically remind them of how much they suck. So I sneak up behind a sniper and I sit beside him. Perform a few pushups. Then, when I am ready to see him die, I knife him. Then, I pick up the weapon he just dropped, shoot his corpse with it, fire it in the air till it runs out of bullets, throw it back onto the corpse and finally, yes, I'm gonna go with the flow here, tea-bag the corpse till it weeps in heaven.

I do no favors online.

Commercials

2008-12-08T09:00:00.007-05:00

I love that television commercial. The one where the squirrel runs out onto the road chasing a nut and a car is driving up and the squirrel sees it bearing down on it and lets out a panicked human-like yell and then other animals in the vicinity, fearing for the squirrel's well-being start yelling as well, including raccoons, mice, deer, owls and so forth, even a grasshopper whose yell is in the form of a mild buzzing, which is conceptually quite funny. Then the woman in the car, who has a funny face on her begins to scream as well and now everybody is yelling or screaming, except the guy who is driving the car, who looks at his screaming female with some amusement and with a deft turn of the wheel, drives around the screaming squirrel. Apparently, that particular make of car has amazing handling. I effing love that commercial. It is very funny. The problem is, even after watching this commercial a hundred times, I still do not know what brand of car it is promoting. Commercial Win or FAIL?

And then there's the Head-on commercial. It simply consists of a female voice repeating the following sentence three times in quick succession, "Head-on : apply directly to the forehead". On the screen is a picture of a woman applying Head-on directly to her forehead. While she is thus engaged, the caption next to her reads, "Head-on : apply directly to the forehead." The message is unmistakably clear. The product is called Head-on and it should be applied directly to the forehead. Aesthetically, probably the absolute worst commercial of all-time. But as to effectiveness, look at me, I'm writing about Head-on. Definitely commercial Win.

Theory refuted

2008-12-05T15:55:00.009-05:00

Researchers in Harvard and UCSD appear to have refuted my law of "conservation of happiness". This theory of mine was a pretty solid one as seen by the fact that it lasted for about two years and required the combined resources of these two academic behemoths for its refutation. What these researchers have now concluded is that contrary to my theory, happiness is not a finite resource and that there exists a perpetual happiness machine which has the ability to generate this emotion continuously without requiring any additional input. This happens through a chain reaction of happiness initiated in one person and subsequently transmitted to other people without any loss of happiness in the emotion-initiator. Although I am a bit miffed that my theory has been invalidated, I am also happy about the fact that happiness is a renewable resource and that mankind need not fear running out of it. And that this happiness of mine will, in turn, generate happiness in other people around me and leave the happiness in me untouched.

In spite of the failure of my theory to withstand scientific scrutiny, in the interests of fairness and good science, I demand that my theory continue to be taught in schools alongside this newer theory in order to allow students to hear both sides of the argument and make up their own minds.

Rusty Gears

2008-12-05T10:53:00.009-05:00

gawker : So did you interview the new guy?

colleague : Yes, I did. He's smart.

gawker : Really? What are his qualifications?

colleague : He has a masters degree from UPenn.

gawker : Cool. Masters in what?

colleague : Bayesian.

gawker : Bayesian?

colleague : Bayesian.

gawker : Bayesian probability?

colleague : Yes, Bayesian.

gawker : How will that help him in tech support? Are you sure about this? That he has a masters in......

colleague : Bayesian. Yes.

gawker : Hmmm....Bayesian....strange.

colleague : Yes. Bayesian.

gawker : Masters. In Bayesian. Hmmm.

colleague : Yes...?

gawker (sound of rusty gears creaking into motion) : Oh.....

colleague (waiting) : Yeeees........?

gawker : Goddamn you.

colleague : LOL.

gawker : Thank you for your patience.

colleague : You're welcome.