I have come across a new law of nature and I will call it gawker's law, assuming that no one else has had the free time on their hands to postulate it yet. It goes as follows :
"No matter how many different routes you take to work, they will all consume approximately equal amounts of time, all of which exceed the amount of time that you think they ideally should."
I have tried 4 different ways of going to work and they all cost me 30 minutes. Having performed all kinds of complex traffic, speed and school-zone restricted speed limit-based calculations, I believe that it should rightfully take me a mere 25 minutes to go to work. Therefore, the search for that elusive 25 minute work-route continues. Some day when it is a government holiday, I shall find it.
Showing posts with label driving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label driving. Show all posts
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Tires
Fall is over and done with. Most people like the peak fall season when the leaves are all red, yellow and orange. I like late fall when most leaves have fallen and ball-freeze has begun. Somehow leaves look better on the ground. Plus, during this time, the sun is mostly invisible, it is misty, rainy and the rural Pennsylvanian countryside looks like something out of a Sherlock Holmes movie with the big dog.
We had a minor ice-storm the other day. I had to go change the tires on my car. I don't believe the car people when they tell me it's time to change my tires. I always feel like they are trying to fool me. That's because tire-changing time is so vague. Theoretically, any time could be tire changing time, or rather, tire-non-changing time, because the tire never runs out of rubber. Of course, there exists some rule of thumb, involving the insertion of a coin inside your tire treads and checking to see if Lincoln's face can be seen or some such nonsense. I don't follow that protocol because I think using Lincoln's face as a car maintenance tool is disrespectful to his head on the mountain. Instead, I change my tires when my car begins to hydroplane on a dry road, which I call aeroplaning because I am so clever.
So I drove to the car dealership, deposited the car and walked back home. I realized then that I have totally forgotten how to cross a road as a pedestrian (someone who walks, in case you live in America and have forgotten what it means). I kept looking in the wrong direction, kept hitting the wrong traffic buttons and the wrong vehicles kept stopping for me which wasn't even me, it was the wrong person. Finally, someone in a Honda took pity on me and waited for me, allowing me to cross the road. He probably thought that I was walking in the ice because I was a homeless person without a car and because he was a Honda owner, he had probably been a homeless person too at some point in his life, and I felt guilty that I was taking undeserved advantage of his kindness because I did actually own a car. I had a similar feeling of guilt the other day during my eye doctor's appointment when I went there to get fitted for contact lenses. The doctor was all like "Oh, you are so smart, usually people take a long time to learn how to wear and remove contacts" and I was all like yeah, thanks, but what I didn't mention to her was that I already knew how to wear contacts because years ago, I used to wear contacts. I felt like I was a bad person and I am pretty sure that Santa's gonna be shoving charred monkey corpses down my chimney this year.
But the reason I went to buy new tires is because they had a tire sale (4 tires for the price of 3) and it was the final day of the sale. Since I am an avid environmentalist, I like to conserve money just like I conserve electricity and I try not to burn it. So even though it was snowing jagged little pellets of ice, I went to change my tires, even though I knew I would have to walk back and forth from the store. When I went back to retrieve my car, I received a bill for more than 4 tires. Now I don't like to be rude to the car guys because that would probably result in someone spitting in my radiator, so I didn't gape in an amazed way at the bill in front of them. Instead, I walked out into the snow and spent the next five minutes gaping amazedly at my bill there. And through all the snow and ice, I saw something called "road hazard warranty" that had been tacked on to the bill, which was equal to the cost of one tire and a higher end Russian bride.
So then I went back inside and asked them what the hell this "road hazard warranty" business was and they replied in a nonchalant manner, Oh that, yes, if you want that 4 for 3 tires deal you also have to purchase this warranty. And so I took my notebook out and added another star to the galaxy of times that I have been conned. Seriously, I am so easy to fool that if you came up to me, walked up to me right this very minute and put a finger on my chest, telling me I have a spot on my shirt, I guarantee you that I would immediately look below and then you could smack me on my chin and steal my wallet. Yes, I am that stupid.
We had a minor ice-storm the other day. I had to go change the tires on my car. I don't believe the car people when they tell me it's time to change my tires. I always feel like they are trying to fool me. That's because tire-changing time is so vague. Theoretically, any time could be tire changing time, or rather, tire-non-changing time, because the tire never runs out of rubber. Of course, there exists some rule of thumb, involving the insertion of a coin inside your tire treads and checking to see if Lincoln's face can be seen or some such nonsense. I don't follow that protocol because I think using Lincoln's face as a car maintenance tool is disrespectful to his head on the mountain. Instead, I change my tires when my car begins to hydroplane on a dry road, which I call aeroplaning because I am so clever.
So I drove to the car dealership, deposited the car and walked back home. I realized then that I have totally forgotten how to cross a road as a pedestrian (someone who walks, in case you live in America and have forgotten what it means). I kept looking in the wrong direction, kept hitting the wrong traffic buttons and the wrong vehicles kept stopping for me which wasn't even me, it was the wrong person. Finally, someone in a Honda took pity on me and waited for me, allowing me to cross the road. He probably thought that I was walking in the ice because I was a homeless person without a car and because he was a Honda owner, he had probably been a homeless person too at some point in his life, and I felt guilty that I was taking undeserved advantage of his kindness because I did actually own a car. I had a similar feeling of guilt the other day during my eye doctor's appointment when I went there to get fitted for contact lenses. The doctor was all like "Oh, you are so smart, usually people take a long time to learn how to wear and remove contacts" and I was all like yeah, thanks, but what I didn't mention to her was that I already knew how to wear contacts because years ago, I used to wear contacts. I felt like I was a bad person and I am pretty sure that Santa's gonna be shoving charred monkey corpses down my chimney this year.
But the reason I went to buy new tires is because they had a tire sale (4 tires for the price of 3) and it was the final day of the sale. Since I am an avid environmentalist, I like to conserve money just like I conserve electricity and I try not to burn it. So even though it was snowing jagged little pellets of ice, I went to change my tires, even though I knew I would have to walk back and forth from the store. When I went back to retrieve my car, I received a bill for more than 4 tires. Now I don't like to be rude to the car guys because that would probably result in someone spitting in my radiator, so I didn't gape in an amazed way at the bill in front of them. Instead, I walked out into the snow and spent the next five minutes gaping amazedly at my bill there. And through all the snow and ice, I saw something called "road hazard warranty" that had been tacked on to the bill, which was equal to the cost of one tire and a higher end Russian bride.
So then I went back inside and asked them what the hell this "road hazard warranty" business was and they replied in a nonchalant manner, Oh that, yes, if you want that 4 for 3 tires deal you also have to purchase this warranty. And so I took my notebook out and added another star to the galaxy of times that I have been conned. Seriously, I am so easy to fool that if you came up to me, walked up to me right this very minute and put a finger on my chest, telling me I have a spot on my shirt, I guarantee you that I would immediately look below and then you could smack me on my chin and steal my wallet. Yes, I am that stupid.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Priceless
Oil Change : $ 65
Wheel alignment : $ 60
Inspection and Emissions test : $ 75
Front Brake Rotors replacement : $ 350
Front Shocks replacement : $ 450
Front Shocks bearings replacement : $ 550
Ability to breathe through the mouth while paying through the nose : Priceless
Wheel alignment : $ 60
Inspection and Emissions test : $ 75
Front Brake Rotors replacement : $ 350
Front Shocks replacement : $ 450
Front Shocks bearings replacement : $ 550
Ability to breathe through the mouth while paying through the nose : Priceless
Friday, March 23, 2007
I want this job
Everyday I pass this guy on the turnpike. It is the ramp from I-76 onto I-276 where they are constructing some potholes and narrowness. Everyday it is the same guy, a black guy holding a donut in one hand and a "SLOW" sign in the other. And as far as I can tell, his duties appear to comprise solely of holding the "SLOW" sign upright and preventing it from falling to the ground. I would like to have his job.
Of course, I am not claiming that this is all that his job involves. He also has to hold himself up and not fall to the ground which could be difficult if your center of gravity were to be skewed by a donut. Plus, I don't know if his job description also includes looking out for blind drivers who cannot read road signs and running behind them, yelling at them to slow down. But honestly, how many blind drivers do you encounter on the road in Pennsylvania, with most of them not venturing outside their home base in Pune, MH.
The reason I would like to have this job is because I feel I could do it better justice than the black guy. I would use the professional skills I developed through four years of undergraduate study and two years of graduate study and apply them to this particular career. If I were to be employed as a black guy holding a donut and a SLOW sign, and trust me, right now it's just a dream with no sign of ever coming true, I would first construct what we mechanical engineers call, "a stand", and mount the "SLOW" sign on it using what we software engineers call, hands. Then, after receiving a commendation and a salary increase from my supervisor for my out-of-the-box thinking on my first day at work, I would go home and consume the donut. That would leave me with fourteen hours to kill before I would have to go back to work and check for any termite damage to the stand.
Yes, I am pretty sure that I would like to apply for this job. Are these jobs on monster.com? Someone please let me know.
Of course, I am not claiming that this is all that his job involves. He also has to hold himself up and not fall to the ground which could be difficult if your center of gravity were to be skewed by a donut. Plus, I don't know if his job description also includes looking out for blind drivers who cannot read road signs and running behind them, yelling at them to slow down. But honestly, how many blind drivers do you encounter on the road in Pennsylvania, with most of them not venturing outside their home base in Pune, MH.
The reason I would like to have this job is because I feel I could do it better justice than the black guy. I would use the professional skills I developed through four years of undergraduate study and two years of graduate study and apply them to this particular career. If I were to be employed as a black guy holding a donut and a SLOW sign, and trust me, right now it's just a dream with no sign of ever coming true, I would first construct what we mechanical engineers call, "a stand", and mount the "SLOW" sign on it using what we software engineers call, hands. Then, after receiving a commendation and a salary increase from my supervisor for my out-of-the-box thinking on my first day at work, I would go home and consume the donut. That would leave me with fourteen hours to kill before I would have to go back to work and check for any termite damage to the stand.
Yes, I am pretty sure that I would like to apply for this job. Are these jobs on monster.com? Someone please let me know.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Misunderalignment
A couple of weeks ago, we had a major snowstorm.
Now I have to confess, I have never experienced a major shitstorm. And based on first-hand accounts of people who have been in one, I know that it can get pretty nasty out there with all those flying flaky turds being driven into your bare skin by gale-force flatulence, as you wonder to yourself, where, oh where could all that shit be coming from. But on the other hand, I have experienced a major snowstorm. And therefore, this much I can say with confidence : I would rather take a major shitstorm over a snowstorm of equal proportions any day of the week.
The thing is, once the shitstorm has passed out of your neighbourhood and the colo-rectal clouds have parted, making way for the sun to shine through, all you have to do is wait for the shit collectors to come by and delicately scoop up the soft piles of precipitation amassed at your front door for processing in the manure factory. On the other hand, once a snowstorm is done, that is when your problems begin. Snow has no takers because snow has no industrial or horticultural applications. Therefore, in the event of a snowstorm, it is up to you to dispose of all that snow in front of your apartment and more importantly, around your car.
I have already spoken about the proper methodology to adopt in shoveling your car out of the snow. If I remember correctly, I scoffed at people who use snow shovels and if my memory serves me right, I advocated the use of a technique involving locking into a tight embrace with your car and moving back and forth along her length in order to free her of all that snow. I said this would be enough. Well, it isn't. Sometimes, more drastic methods are required.
So coming back to this major snowstorm which culminated in sleet, ice, freezing rain and every other kind of rock-like substance that water can possibly turn into, it resulted in my car getting mired in the muck. No matter how much snow and ice I shoveled, it was not enough. My frozen hands began to ascend to heaven, leaving the rest of my body behind, my chest hurt with my heart screaming to be let outside to join my hands in their journey and my nose froze shut. Finally, it got so bad that I couldn't make out if the water dribbling down my face was melted snow, sweat or tears and I was hoping it would be melted snow or sweat because I had never cried before while shoveling snow and my parents wouldn't be proud to see me reduced to this sorry state. Men who work out in a gym everyday are not supposed to cry.
Finally, after shoveling for about half an hour, I managed to grind my car out of the quagmire. But it appeared that my car had suffered severe injuries in the process. She had begun to vibrate in several places. And the moment I touched 50 mph, my steering wheel began to bounce up and down like a fetus inside a pregnant woman running a marathon. I guess I had misaligned my wheels.
According to my limited knowledge of misaligned wheels, the misalignment is a direct result of the wheels of your car ceasing to agree on major issues of the day such as geometry, vehicular direction, world politics and the role of women in modern society. Hence the vibration.
It meant that I had to drive to work at 50 miles per hour which I have never ever done, and it made me feel ashamed to drive this slow on the turnpike. More so because I had a long line of cars behind me. So in order to explain to them that I really had no choice in the matter, I turned on my slow blinkers.
And that was when the car behind me flashed its headlights at me. What the fuck? I had turned on my blinkers out of consideration and I get flashed? It's like if you yell at someone in your office and you keep yelling and the other guy listens in silence and then you go home, come back the next day, apologize to the guy and then he screams at you, what the fuck are you yelling at me for. So I slowed down some more in the true American (Indian) spirit.
Coming back home, I stopped at the post office in my apartment complex. They call it a post office, it looks like a post office, it's got an American flag flying outside and it is called a post office. But it is not a post office. It is a building containing our mailboxes. So I parked in front of the post office, went inside, retrieved my mail and got back inside the car. And then as I tried to pull out of the parking spot, the wheels began to slip and slide on the icy ground and the car began to spin about its own axis, kinda like the earth, which was also spinning around me. Fuck, I said. Fuck, I said again. I kept saying fuck for a while. It was either that or shoveling some more and I chose the former.
After a while I stopped saying fuck and began to gun the car. I gunned it some more and I rotated my steering wheel left and right to try and get a grip on the road surface and gradually it began to move very very slowly. But the moment I stopped gunning it, it came back to a halt. And it began to beep. Now what, I thought to myself. Again I gunned, again it came to a halt and beeped again. It was as if it was trying to tell me something. It was then that I observed that my hand-brake was in the engage position. That, in all probability, was the reason behind the reluctance of the car to move, and not the ice.
Yes, it hadn't been a good day for my car. First the ice and then me. But the next day turned out to be better. It had so happened that my twisting and turning at the post office had re-misaligned the wheels into perfect alignment. The vibration was gone and the car was as good as new.
Sometimes it does take two wrongs to make one right.
Now I have to confess, I have never experienced a major shitstorm. And based on first-hand accounts of people who have been in one, I know that it can get pretty nasty out there with all those flying flaky turds being driven into your bare skin by gale-force flatulence, as you wonder to yourself, where, oh where could all that shit be coming from. But on the other hand, I have experienced a major snowstorm. And therefore, this much I can say with confidence : I would rather take a major shitstorm over a snowstorm of equal proportions any day of the week.
The thing is, once the shitstorm has passed out of your neighbourhood and the colo-rectal clouds have parted, making way for the sun to shine through, all you have to do is wait for the shit collectors to come by and delicately scoop up the soft piles of precipitation amassed at your front door for processing in the manure factory. On the other hand, once a snowstorm is done, that is when your problems begin. Snow has no takers because snow has no industrial or horticultural applications. Therefore, in the event of a snowstorm, it is up to you to dispose of all that snow in front of your apartment and more importantly, around your car.
I have already spoken about the proper methodology to adopt in shoveling your car out of the snow. If I remember correctly, I scoffed at people who use snow shovels and if my memory serves me right, I advocated the use of a technique involving locking into a tight embrace with your car and moving back and forth along her length in order to free her of all that snow. I said this would be enough. Well, it isn't. Sometimes, more drastic methods are required.
So coming back to this major snowstorm which culminated in sleet, ice, freezing rain and every other kind of rock-like substance that water can possibly turn into, it resulted in my car getting mired in the muck. No matter how much snow and ice I shoveled, it was not enough. My frozen hands began to ascend to heaven, leaving the rest of my body behind, my chest hurt with my heart screaming to be let outside to join my hands in their journey and my nose froze shut. Finally, it got so bad that I couldn't make out if the water dribbling down my face was melted snow, sweat or tears and I was hoping it would be melted snow or sweat because I had never cried before while shoveling snow and my parents wouldn't be proud to see me reduced to this sorry state. Men who work out in a gym everyday are not supposed to cry.
Finally, after shoveling for about half an hour, I managed to grind my car out of the quagmire. But it appeared that my car had suffered severe injuries in the process. She had begun to vibrate in several places. And the moment I touched 50 mph, my steering wheel began to bounce up and down like a fetus inside a pregnant woman running a marathon. I guess I had misaligned my wheels.
According to my limited knowledge of misaligned wheels, the misalignment is a direct result of the wheels of your car ceasing to agree on major issues of the day such as geometry, vehicular direction, world politics and the role of women in modern society. Hence the vibration.
It meant that I had to drive to work at 50 miles per hour which I have never ever done, and it made me feel ashamed to drive this slow on the turnpike. More so because I had a long line of cars behind me. So in order to explain to them that I really had no choice in the matter, I turned on my slow blinkers.
And that was when the car behind me flashed its headlights at me. What the fuck? I had turned on my blinkers out of consideration and I get flashed? It's like if you yell at someone in your office and you keep yelling and the other guy listens in silence and then you go home, come back the next day, apologize to the guy and then he screams at you, what the fuck are you yelling at me for. So I slowed down some more in the true American (Indian) spirit.
Coming back home, I stopped at the post office in my apartment complex. They call it a post office, it looks like a post office, it's got an American flag flying outside and it is called a post office. But it is not a post office. It is a building containing our mailboxes. So I parked in front of the post office, went inside, retrieved my mail and got back inside the car. And then as I tried to pull out of the parking spot, the wheels began to slip and slide on the icy ground and the car began to spin about its own axis, kinda like the earth, which was also spinning around me. Fuck, I said. Fuck, I said again. I kept saying fuck for a while. It was either that or shoveling some more and I chose the former.
After a while I stopped saying fuck and began to gun the car. I gunned it some more and I rotated my steering wheel left and right to try and get a grip on the road surface and gradually it began to move very very slowly. But the moment I stopped gunning it, it came back to a halt. And it began to beep. Now what, I thought to myself. Again I gunned, again it came to a halt and beeped again. It was as if it was trying to tell me something. It was then that I observed that my hand-brake was in the engage position. That, in all probability, was the reason behind the reluctance of the car to move, and not the ice.
Yes, it hadn't been a good day for my car. First the ice and then me. But the next day turned out to be better. It had so happened that my twisting and turning at the post office had re-misaligned the wheels into perfect alignment. The vibration was gone and the car was as good as new.
Sometimes it does take two wrongs to make one right.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Ice
We didn't get that inch of snow after all. What we got instead was about a quarter inch of ice. As they say, when God gives, he tears away the roof and gives in bucketfuls (and God doesn't scrimp on bucket size). But today was not that day of roof-tearing and bucketful-giving. And it was lucky that today wasn't that day because even with the meager amount of ice God gave us, it was a fucking mess.
The commute to work was littered with the broken corpses of cars and trucks who were suffering the consequences of having made passionate love to each other's bumpers and mufflers. Especially on the ramps and bridges which, supposedly, are the first to ice over. Funnily enough, most of these accidents involved SUVs, you know, the kind that are supposed to be immune to snow and are able to drive through forests and cross rivers and climb mountains, or, if you're a Toyota truck, withstand attacks by the Loch Ness monster. The thing is, most SUV and truck owners believe that their all-wheel drive allows them to speed at will through rain and snow without crashing and sliding. But that's like an NBA player believing that he can safely walk on red hot coals. Sure, he's big and strong and can dunk a fantastic basket but that doesn't make the soles of his feet invulnerable to heat. Similarly, all-wheel drive holds absolutely no value when the time comes to brake the vehicle. If anything, the extra weight of the SUV makes it more of an uncontrollable missile than anything else on the road.
Still, it is quite hilarious to watch these SUVs nestling in the ditch as you drive past. Most SUV drivers have this incredulous, disbelieving expression on their face and you can actually hear the progression of their thoughts.
"Hello, where am I?"
"I'm still on the road right?"
"Where are all the other cars?"
"Am I in a ditch?"
"No way, I'm pretty sure I'm on the road."
"Why am I not moving?"
"Could I actually have...crashed? Is it possible?
"No, I'm still driving. I own an SUV."
"If I'm driving, why am I still in the same place?"
And then, gradually, comes the horrible realization.
"Hmm. looks like I crashed after all. Damn it, PennDot, what will it take you to salt the fucking roads?
That is when I wave at them and give them a thumbs up sign but sadly, it's not my thumb. Like they say, it's unacceptable to kick a man when he's down, except when he's an SUV owner.
The commute to work was littered with the broken corpses of cars and trucks who were suffering the consequences of having made passionate love to each other's bumpers and mufflers. Especially on the ramps and bridges which, supposedly, are the first to ice over. Funnily enough, most of these accidents involved SUVs, you know, the kind that are supposed to be immune to snow and are able to drive through forests and cross rivers and climb mountains, or, if you're a Toyota truck, withstand attacks by the Loch Ness monster. The thing is, most SUV and truck owners believe that their all-wheel drive allows them to speed at will through rain and snow without crashing and sliding. But that's like an NBA player believing that he can safely walk on red hot coals. Sure, he's big and strong and can dunk a fantastic basket but that doesn't make the soles of his feet invulnerable to heat. Similarly, all-wheel drive holds absolutely no value when the time comes to brake the vehicle. If anything, the extra weight of the SUV makes it more of an uncontrollable missile than anything else on the road.
Still, it is quite hilarious to watch these SUVs nestling in the ditch as you drive past. Most SUV drivers have this incredulous, disbelieving expression on their face and you can actually hear the progression of their thoughts.
"Hello, where am I?"
"I'm still on the road right?"
"Where are all the other cars?"
"Am I in a ditch?"
"No way, I'm pretty sure I'm on the road."
"Why am I not moving?"
"Could I actually have...crashed? Is it possible?
"No, I'm still driving. I own an SUV."
"If I'm driving, why am I still in the same place?"
And then, gradually, comes the horrible realization.
"Hmm. looks like I crashed after all. Damn it, PennDot, what will it take you to salt the fucking roads?
That is when I wave at them and give them a thumbs up sign but sadly, it's not my thumb. Like they say, it's unacceptable to kick a man when he's down, except when he's an SUV owner.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Bad Idea
The road to the Subway is horrible. Apart from all the 90 degree turns, it is ridden with potholes. Especially one particular spot where the car's left wheels go into a pothole, and then the right wheels, then the steering wheel comes off and you have to guide the car using brain waves. They haven't fixed this road up for the past year. This is what I think happened, and it is an educated guess on my part, that the PennDot, the Pennsylvania department of transportation, dug up the road while constructing a highway bridge over it and then did a sad job of filling it back up. And then the local township said to itself, hell, the potholes weren't our doing, so why in the name of sweet Jesus should we rebuild it? At least, this is the conversation I would have had with myself if I had been a government employee.
So no one filled up those potholes for a year and in the meantime the pile of steering wheels on the pavement grew and grew. And it was especially hard on me because as you know the Subway is the only eating joint in the vicinity and so I have to navigate this road every single day. Finally, one day, I decided that I had had enough of coffee cups falling off the roof of my car. So I went on the internet and looked for the website of this township and found that their website actually had a pothole reporting form on it, how about that? So I filled up this form and added my own biting invective in the text box where it said "Other Comments". I love it when websites have an "Other Comments" box because that is like the owner bending over, unbuttoning his pants, handing you a wooden rod and asking you to whack away. And so I did, and it unburdened my heart and it felt like an elephant had just removed his foot from the wooden chest of my happiness and walked away.
And it worked man, it worked. A week later, there were repair crews all over, whistling at women and shoveling gravel into those potholes. And although I felt a bit sad while saying goodbye, I knew that filling those babies up was the right thing to do.
Soon, cars, which previously had to slow down to navigate that section of the road were racing past and breaking the speed limit. And now, everyday, I have to spend hours on end waiting for a break in the speeding traffic that could allow me to get the hell out of the Subway parking lot and back onto the street. So all in all, sending that email appears to have been a mediocre idea. The only glimmer of hope in all this is the near-certainty that Penndot will be along soon to dig up the road again. After all, Pennsylvania IS the state having the worst roads in the USA.
Update : Apparently PA only has the 2nd worst roads in the country.
So no one filled up those potholes for a year and in the meantime the pile of steering wheels on the pavement grew and grew. And it was especially hard on me because as you know the Subway is the only eating joint in the vicinity and so I have to navigate this road every single day. Finally, one day, I decided that I had had enough of coffee cups falling off the roof of my car. So I went on the internet and looked for the website of this township and found that their website actually had a pothole reporting form on it, how about that? So I filled up this form and added my own biting invective in the text box where it said "Other Comments". I love it when websites have an "Other Comments" box because that is like the owner bending over, unbuttoning his pants, handing you a wooden rod and asking you to whack away. And so I did, and it unburdened my heart and it felt like an elephant had just removed his foot from the wooden chest of my happiness and walked away.
And it worked man, it worked. A week later, there were repair crews all over, whistling at women and shoveling gravel into those potholes. And although I felt a bit sad while saying goodbye, I knew that filling those babies up was the right thing to do.
Soon, cars, which previously had to slow down to navigate that section of the road were racing past and breaking the speed limit. And now, everyday, I have to spend hours on end waiting for a break in the speeding traffic that could allow me to get the hell out of the Subway parking lot and back onto the street. So all in all, sending that email appears to have been a mediocre idea. The only glimmer of hope in all this is the near-certainty that Penndot will be along soon to dig up the road again. After all, Pennsylvania IS the state having the worst roads in the USA.
Update : Apparently PA only has the 2nd worst roads in the country.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Spit
I was sitting in traffic today and as I was sitting and pondering, the car door in front of me opened and the driver bent over and released a globule of spit onto the tarmac.
When traffic started moving again, I just could not get myself to drive my car over this ball of spit. So I changed lanes, in heavy traffic mind you, in order to avoid the spit, thereby creating a minor traffic backup behind me in the process.
I am not sure why I didn't want to drive over the spit. I have driven over other nasty stuff such as dead squirrels, deer body parts, horse manure and so on. But I just didn't feel like getting that spit on my wheels.
When traffic started moving again, I just could not get myself to drive my car over this ball of spit. So I changed lanes, in heavy traffic mind you, in order to avoid the spit, thereby creating a minor traffic backup behind me in the process.
I am not sure why I didn't want to drive over the spit. I have driven over other nasty stuff such as dead squirrels, deer body parts, horse manure and so on. But I just didn't feel like getting that spit on my wheels.
Friday, August 18, 2006
I am not dead yet but it was close
My inner voice , the one that is a plush baritone, sings in A minor and doesn't crack after a single yell, instructed me to write this post in order to inform any interested parties that I am still alive, well and gainfully employed.
Although I did almost perish today. The story goes that I woke up today morning and drove to work, and even though I had promised myself that I would not try and read any more car bumper stickers on the way, I relapsed and indulged in my addiction. Usually, reading the bumper sticker on the car you are tailgating is a fairly uneventful activity. You read the sticker and either smile at the "Don't blame me I voted for Kerry" sticker or frown at the "Bush Cheney 2004" sticker thinking goddamn not only are Republicans jackasses, they are also lazy sons of bitches, how about taking down that fucking thing already and I'm sure you still haven't dismantled your Christmas tree from last year, and then you go tailgate the next vehicle that is adequately bumper stickered to your taste.
However, the problem arises when it's a car occupied by one of those Christian religious fundamentalist guys. These people have so much pent-up emotion and a desire to slather their faith upon the world like butter on toast that their stickers always fail to exhibit the terseness and brevity which politically activist stickers are known for. The religious ones almost always are essays of at least 50 words or so, crammed into an area of about eighty square inches. And so, the font is always tiny and reading them becomes a chore, especially for one whose eyes were deflowered during early childhood due to an overindulgence in Hardy Boys adventures.
So I was trying to read this guy's bumper sticker and bloody hell, I couldn't get past the "I am your Creator" part but I persisted in my mission of deciphering the substance of that message when I realized that I was probably half an inch away from meeting my Creator in the form of the concrete divider. And then I wondered if the microscopic font was actually an elaborate ploy by the religious cartel to systematically annihilate members of the atheist community, at least those who suffer from poor vision, by distracting them while driving by offering up tantalizingly hackneyed and hard-to-read nuggets of wisdom on the backs of their cars. You might say it's a relatively futile endeavour, but I guess every bit counts.
Although I did almost perish today. The story goes that I woke up today morning and drove to work, and even though I had promised myself that I would not try and read any more car bumper stickers on the way, I relapsed and indulged in my addiction. Usually, reading the bumper sticker on the car you are tailgating is a fairly uneventful activity. You read the sticker and either smile at the "Don't blame me I voted for Kerry" sticker or frown at the "Bush Cheney 2004" sticker thinking goddamn not only are Republicans jackasses, they are also lazy sons of bitches, how about taking down that fucking thing already and I'm sure you still haven't dismantled your Christmas tree from last year, and then you go tailgate the next vehicle that is adequately bumper stickered to your taste.
However, the problem arises when it's a car occupied by one of those Christian religious fundamentalist guys. These people have so much pent-up emotion and a desire to slather their faith upon the world like butter on toast that their stickers always fail to exhibit the terseness and brevity which politically activist stickers are known for. The religious ones almost always are essays of at least 50 words or so, crammed into an area of about eighty square inches. And so, the font is always tiny and reading them becomes a chore, especially for one whose eyes were deflowered during early childhood due to an overindulgence in Hardy Boys adventures.
So I was trying to read this guy's bumper sticker and bloody hell, I couldn't get past the "I am your Creator" part but I persisted in my mission of deciphering the substance of that message when I realized that I was probably half an inch away from meeting my Creator in the form of the concrete divider. And then I wondered if the microscopic font was actually an elaborate ploy by the religious cartel to systematically annihilate members of the atheist community, at least those who suffer from poor vision, by distracting them while driving by offering up tantalizingly hackneyed and hard-to-read nuggets of wisdom on the backs of their cars. You might say it's a relatively futile endeavour, but I guess every bit counts.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Up and away
After spending most of this week wreathed in a miasma of depression (miasma being the word of the week, courtesy this very succinct review of Tom Friedman's "The world is flat"), the morning of today held some promise towards the relaxation of its vise-like grip on my neck. Why depression? Well why not? The nerve-wracking, gut-punching heat. The relentless attack of search engine queries on this blog relating to the dal shortage, reminding one that yes, the world is still reeling from the effects of that catastrophe. Reading sentences like this in a film review : "It is safe to assume that it will take some time for Shyamalan to dry his clothes in the marketplace". The extraordinarily grim prospects of seeing India in the finals of the next FIFA world cup. And finally, the overwhelming, skin-melting, brain-roasting heat.
But as I was driving to work, things seemed to be picking up. But then, abruptly, they began to go downhill again. First, a motorcycle rider sped past me in the fast lane. Ah to own a motorcycle and be young again, I said to myself. Then, another went by, equally fast, this one with tattoos on his bare legs. I couldn't remember the last time I had a tattoo. Oh wait, I did remember. I was a beautiful young transvestite hooker in Greenwich village. Greenwich village doesn't have any transvestite hookers, you say? You haven't seen any you say? Look closer. They're the ones with the tattoos on their legs.
And just as I was settling comfortably inside the familiar groove formed by my self-pitying wallowing, I saw a black cop car whiz by faster than the wind broken by Carl Lewis' flatulence gland. Hallelujah, I prayed, please let him be pursuing the biker. And so he was, my friends, so he was. Soon the road started to contain people pulled over by the cop, namely the biker. But wait a second, what about the other guy, the tattooless one? He appeared to have escaped. In the distance, I could see him fleeing towards the sunset, changing lanes, weaving through traffic, no doubt heaving a sigh of happiness as the beads of relieved perspiration from his forehead drifted past me on the morning breeze. I began to sink into despondency again.
But fate wasn't done with me yet. Armed with wailing sirens and gnashing teeth, another cop car sped by in the fast lane. Could it really be? Could it? Would the other biker be pulled over as well? Wrestling depression to the ground, shoving my foot in her mouth, thereby removing her grip on my neck, I craned it in order to look beyond the next car. The cop certainly appeared to be aiming for relieved biker no.2. And then, he was pulled over. Merry Christmas. Santa had arrived early this year.
It didn't matter if I didn't own a motorcycle or a tattoo. At least I wasn't being pulled over by cops. No matter how many tattoos you have, you still look stupid being pulled over by a cop.
I am ok now. Plus, it's almost friday.
But as I was driving to work, things seemed to be picking up. But then, abruptly, they began to go downhill again. First, a motorcycle rider sped past me in the fast lane. Ah to own a motorcycle and be young again, I said to myself. Then, another went by, equally fast, this one with tattoos on his bare legs. I couldn't remember the last time I had a tattoo. Oh wait, I did remember. I was a beautiful young transvestite hooker in Greenwich village. Greenwich village doesn't have any transvestite hookers, you say? You haven't seen any you say? Look closer. They're the ones with the tattoos on their legs.
And just as I was settling comfortably inside the familiar groove formed by my self-pitying wallowing, I saw a black cop car whiz by faster than the wind broken by Carl Lewis' flatulence gland. Hallelujah, I prayed, please let him be pursuing the biker. And so he was, my friends, so he was. Soon the road started to contain people pulled over by the cop, namely the biker. But wait a second, what about the other guy, the tattooless one? He appeared to have escaped. In the distance, I could see him fleeing towards the sunset, changing lanes, weaving through traffic, no doubt heaving a sigh of happiness as the beads of relieved perspiration from his forehead drifted past me on the morning breeze. I began to sink into despondency again.
But fate wasn't done with me yet. Armed with wailing sirens and gnashing teeth, another cop car sped by in the fast lane. Could it really be? Could it? Would the other biker be pulled over as well? Wrestling depression to the ground, shoving my foot in her mouth, thereby removing her grip on my neck, I craned it in order to look beyond the next car. The cop certainly appeared to be aiming for relieved biker no.2. And then, he was pulled over. Merry Christmas. Santa had arrived early this year.
It didn't matter if I didn't own a motorcycle or a tattoo. At least I wasn't being pulled over by cops. No matter how many tattoos you have, you still look stupid being pulled over by a cop.
I am ok now. Plus, it's almost friday.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Friday morning disappointment
Every friday they give me my paycheck, I open the envelope and check the amount, hoping to see that they raised my salary and forgot to let me know. Every friday I am disappointed.
This is one of the major reasons responsible for my weekend alcoholism.
They should stop adding more lanes to the interstate. They add one more lane, the traffic's just gonna shift one lane over to the left, giving the rightmost lane back to nature and cows and deer. Americans don't like to drive in the slow lane. It gives them a feeling of impotence. The solution is to allow people to force each other out of the road. If you are weak, you don't deserve to drive anyways.
This is one of the major reasons responsible for my weekend alcoholism.
They should stop adding more lanes to the interstate. They add one more lane, the traffic's just gonna shift one lane over to the left, giving the rightmost lane back to nature and cows and deer. Americans don't like to drive in the slow lane. It gives them a feeling of impotence. The solution is to allow people to force each other out of the road. If you are weak, you don't deserve to drive anyways.
Friday, May 26, 2006
An investigation into whether blasting music through your car window is productive
In theory, driving around with your car windows open, blaring Himesh Reshammiya's latest number through your speakers would appear to be a pretty intelligent and fulfilling activity for you to indulge in. But is it useful? Does it have any tangible benefits? Let's examine this issue closely. Let's lay out all the facts, subject them to scrutiny and verify if your theory would hold up against the cold hard light of reason or be exposed as an exercize in futility.
The question that needs to be asked first and foremost is, why do you drive around blasting music from an open car window? The answer is simple. It's a window into your life, an opportunity for the rest of the world to get to know you better through the choice of music you listen to. Basically, when you pull up next to me at a traffic light, lower your windows and start gyrating your head to "Who let the dogs out", taking care that you lip sync the "woof woof" part and carry out an accurate enactment of a dog clawing the face off its owner, you are, in your own way, letting me know how much you contribute to the overall hipness of the joint by getting me to notice your impeccable taste in music.
And all this looks pretty good on paper, yes, in fact, you would believe that you've got it all figured out. But is this really true? Is your plan practical? Let's take a look at your target audience.
There are two kinds of road-residents you would wish to cater to : pedestrians and car drivers. Now I have seen very few pedestrians walking around on American streets. Most citizens of this car-crazy nation only pull their vehicles off their bodies right before they jump into bed and that too 'cause they don't want nocturnal emissions spoiling that expensive leather upholstery. So let's take pedestrians off the list of people whose lives you could possibly touch through the medium of your Monsoon sound system.
How about car drivers? There are a number of different categories. For example, those who keep their windows closed while driving. These people would obviously be deaf to everything other than what they are playing inside the car or their own heavy breathing, assuming they are suburban white men pleasuring themselves to Rush Limbaugh's oxycontin drawl. Let us then take those guys off that list as well.
Well, now we have the open window drivers. There are again two types here; The ones who play their own music, and the ones who don't. Those who play their own music wouldn't be able to hear you anyways since their own stuff would drown out whatever it is that you are playing. Trust me, I have conducted research on test cases and that's my definitive conclusion. Secondly, we have people whose windows are open but are not playing any music. These guys would have been prime candidates for delivering their musical approval to you, except that the very fact that they are not playing any music means they are not musically inclined and so, wouldn't be able to gauge the depth of your character and the decency of your heart based on your fanatical headbanging to "I want it that way".
So who's left? Nobody, really. We have thus proved that all that window-open-music-blasting business accomplishes nothing. So pull up those windows, lower that volume and try a different approach. Here's what you really need to do if you wish to broadcast your musical preferences to the general public.
Be direct. Whenever you overtake another vehicle, catch the driver's attention by first flipping him off, then ask him to lower his window and when you are sure that he's within earshot, yell out that you are currently playing Marilyn Manson and that this makes you a rebellious heretic who will not succumb to societal pressures of conformation.
Or just put up a sign in your window boldly stating that your brutish Hummer is actually resonating with the sensitive yet assertive feministic sonnets of Shania Twain. And then laugh as people try to force you off the road and fail miserably. Those idiots wouldn't know a good thing if it rode up to them on a horse wearing a cowboy hat and sang into their ears.
Of course, none of this applies to you if you're a black guy in LA playing rap music in your 64 Chevy. I can hear you from here and you're a cool dude.
The question that needs to be asked first and foremost is, why do you drive around blasting music from an open car window? The answer is simple. It's a window into your life, an opportunity for the rest of the world to get to know you better through the choice of music you listen to. Basically, when you pull up next to me at a traffic light, lower your windows and start gyrating your head to "Who let the dogs out", taking care that you lip sync the "woof woof" part and carry out an accurate enactment of a dog clawing the face off its owner, you are, in your own way, letting me know how much you contribute to the overall hipness of the joint by getting me to notice your impeccable taste in music.
And all this looks pretty good on paper, yes, in fact, you would believe that you've got it all figured out. But is this really true? Is your plan practical? Let's take a look at your target audience.
There are two kinds of road-residents you would wish to cater to : pedestrians and car drivers. Now I have seen very few pedestrians walking around on American streets. Most citizens of this car-crazy nation only pull their vehicles off their bodies right before they jump into bed and that too 'cause they don't want nocturnal emissions spoiling that expensive leather upholstery. So let's take pedestrians off the list of people whose lives you could possibly touch through the medium of your Monsoon sound system.
How about car drivers? There are a number of different categories. For example, those who keep their windows closed while driving. These people would obviously be deaf to everything other than what they are playing inside the car or their own heavy breathing, assuming they are suburban white men pleasuring themselves to Rush Limbaugh's oxycontin drawl. Let us then take those guys off that list as well.
Well, now we have the open window drivers. There are again two types here; The ones who play their own music, and the ones who don't. Those who play their own music wouldn't be able to hear you anyways since their own stuff would drown out whatever it is that you are playing. Trust me, I have conducted research on test cases and that's my definitive conclusion. Secondly, we have people whose windows are open but are not playing any music. These guys would have been prime candidates for delivering their musical approval to you, except that the very fact that they are not playing any music means they are not musically inclined and so, wouldn't be able to gauge the depth of your character and the decency of your heart based on your fanatical headbanging to "I want it that way".
So who's left? Nobody, really. We have thus proved that all that window-open-music-blasting business accomplishes nothing. So pull up those windows, lower that volume and try a different approach. Here's what you really need to do if you wish to broadcast your musical preferences to the general public.
Be direct. Whenever you overtake another vehicle, catch the driver's attention by first flipping him off, then ask him to lower his window and when you are sure that he's within earshot, yell out that you are currently playing Marilyn Manson and that this makes you a rebellious heretic who will not succumb to societal pressures of conformation.
Or just put up a sign in your window boldly stating that your brutish Hummer is actually resonating with the sensitive yet assertive feministic sonnets of Shania Twain. And then laugh as people try to force you off the road and fail miserably. Those idiots wouldn't know a good thing if it rode up to them on a horse wearing a cowboy hat and sang into their ears.
Of course, none of this applies to you if you're a black guy in LA playing rap music in your 64 Chevy. I can hear you from here and you're a cool dude.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Three Days in the Life of the PA Turnpike
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
I was gonna add a couple more pictures where George W. Bush comes up to me and gives me a tax cut and I use those wads of cash to fill up the pothole, but I didn't because Christianity recently came out with a law forbidding the depiction of its prophets on paper and I didn't want Pat Robertson issuing a fatwa on my head.
Friday, March 17, 2006
The bike rack
It's getting kinda warmer so I guess it's time to take my bike rack out of the trunk of my car and put it back on. It's only been there a few weeks. See, I'm a lazy person. The last time I went biking was back in September. But the bike rack stayed on the car for 5 more months. I didn't take it off my car till late february and now it's time to put it back on. As I said, I'm a lazy person.
Laziness frequently has its advantages. For example, it helps you make social acquaintances. Like the time I was too lazy to take out my trash and kept it in my balcony for ten days and it started to stink up the entire neighbourhood and my neighbour who lived in the apartment next to mine banged on my door and asked me to throw it out before she called the apartment people. It wasn't really a conversation dripping with benevolence and amity but we did come to know who the fuck lived next door. It was an angry old woman who was fussy about garbage.
And then there's always the surge of happiness you experience when you accidentally brush against a glass on the coffee table, and it falls onto the carpet and you groan, looking forward to an evening of cleaning out whatever it is that was inside that glass from the carpet, but nothing happens since it's empty because it's been there for who knows how long since you've been too lazy to throw it into the dishwasher and so it makes your day because there's nothing to clean up.
However, being lazy about removing the bike rack has very few advantages, if any. For one, a bike rack isn't very aerodynamic. It slows the car down. And the strap keeps banging against the car creating a slap slap slapping sound that reminds you of the first adult film you ever saw that featured actual fornication. Secondly, it makes your car stand out on the road. There aren't too many black Volkswagen Jettas with yellow bike racks in the greater Philadelphia area. And that, in itself, wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for the fact that that I'm not a very friendly driver. I demand the highest standards of driving excellence from my fellow travelers on the Pennsylvania turnpike. If their performance ever falls to sub-expectation levels, I get cranky. I tailgate. I flash my headlights. Sometimes I raise my finger to the high heavens. And the person I am making my presence felt to never fails to note that the fucker in the car behind him who's giving him grief is driving a black Volkswagen Jetta with a yellow cycle rack.
I take the same route to work the same time every day. And so do most people. So it happens that I meet the same cars frequently on the road during my work commute. And the black Volkswagen Jetta with the yellow bike rack does not enjoy a whole lot of popularity among those cars. Even if there's a tremendous amount of hostility being directed towards me by the guy in the car next to me, I am blissfully unaware of it till he gives me the finger and then cuts me off at the next opportunity he gets. I am left wondering what the fuck did I do to him till suddenly it dawns on me, hey, that's Silver SUV Guy I tailgated for half an hour last week from Norristown to Valley Forge 'cause he just wouldn't get off the fast lane.
And this has happened to me a number of times. Hey that's Jesus Fish Mazda Guy who I almost ran into. Aww Green Neon With Broken Bumper Guy, you still remember our unfortunate tryst at the tolls. And how you've grown Yellow Nissan Kid, you were a mere baby when I yelled at your mom 'cause she was going too slow.
And now it's gonna start again. The bike rack's back on. I will be seen and heard and detested. But it will be good. It will make me feel wanted. I will battle it out with the best of the best and I will become the stuff legends are made of.
Laziness frequently has its advantages. For example, it helps you make social acquaintances. Like the time I was too lazy to take out my trash and kept it in my balcony for ten days and it started to stink up the entire neighbourhood and my neighbour who lived in the apartment next to mine banged on my door and asked me to throw it out before she called the apartment people. It wasn't really a conversation dripping with benevolence and amity but we did come to know who the fuck lived next door. It was an angry old woman who was fussy about garbage.
And then there's always the surge of happiness you experience when you accidentally brush against a glass on the coffee table, and it falls onto the carpet and you groan, looking forward to an evening of cleaning out whatever it is that was inside that glass from the carpet, but nothing happens since it's empty because it's been there for who knows how long since you've been too lazy to throw it into the dishwasher and so it makes your day because there's nothing to clean up.
However, being lazy about removing the bike rack has very few advantages, if any. For one, a bike rack isn't very aerodynamic. It slows the car down. And the strap keeps banging against the car creating a slap slap slapping sound that reminds you of the first adult film you ever saw that featured actual fornication. Secondly, it makes your car stand out on the road. There aren't too many black Volkswagen Jettas with yellow bike racks in the greater Philadelphia area. And that, in itself, wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for the fact that that I'm not a very friendly driver. I demand the highest standards of driving excellence from my fellow travelers on the Pennsylvania turnpike. If their performance ever falls to sub-expectation levels, I get cranky. I tailgate. I flash my headlights. Sometimes I raise my finger to the high heavens. And the person I am making my presence felt to never fails to note that the fucker in the car behind him who's giving him grief is driving a black Volkswagen Jetta with a yellow cycle rack.
I take the same route to work the same time every day. And so do most people. So it happens that I meet the same cars frequently on the road during my work commute. And the black Volkswagen Jetta with the yellow bike rack does not enjoy a whole lot of popularity among those cars. Even if there's a tremendous amount of hostility being directed towards me by the guy in the car next to me, I am blissfully unaware of it till he gives me the finger and then cuts me off at the next opportunity he gets. I am left wondering what the fuck did I do to him till suddenly it dawns on me, hey, that's Silver SUV Guy I tailgated for half an hour last week from Norristown to Valley Forge 'cause he just wouldn't get off the fast lane.
And this has happened to me a number of times. Hey that's Jesus Fish Mazda Guy who I almost ran into. Aww Green Neon With Broken Bumper Guy, you still remember our unfortunate tryst at the tolls. And how you've grown Yellow Nissan Kid, you were a mere baby when I yelled at your mom 'cause she was going too slow.
And now it's gonna start again. The bike rack's back on. I will be seen and heard and detested. But it will be good. It will make me feel wanted. I will battle it out with the best of the best and I will become the stuff legends are made of.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Chocolate and keys
Chocolate has never been my friend. Maybe a passing aquaintance, but there never existed a bond between us strong enough that I would mourn its absence from my life for prolonged periods of time. In fact, even as I sit at my desk and eat this chocolate covered donut, it is to be noted that I am tolerating the chocolate coating only in order to get to the swiss pudding part which, I have been told, lies at the center.
And chocolate hasn't been good to me either. I remember once during a trip to India, I bought some chocolate in the duty-free store at Amsterdam. 'Cause I think there's a rule somewhere in my Indian passport that states that NRIs wont be admitted into India unless they purchase those triangular Toublerone chocolates for every Indian they are linked to either by blood or by marriage. So I bought the damn things, paid for them and was leaving the store when the electronic beeping gadget at the entrance went mad. I was stopped, asked if I had paid for whatever it is that I had purchased. Even after I showed them the receipt, I was forced to open up my rucksack, lay out its contents on the floor for perusal and only allowed to go after it was clear that I had committed no felony. A public rectal exam would have been less humiliating. Ever since then, I haven't bought any consumer products that have been crafted out of chocolate.
That is, till a couple of weekends ago when I went to the grocery to buy some stuff. I was starving and needed to get some carbs into my system. So I bought a snickers chocolate bar, ate half of it and stuffed the other half into my pocket.
Later that night, as I was drinking and watching television with the wife, I heard the tell-tale sounds of a moving truck outside my apartment. Hey the new neighbours are here, I said to the wife. Our old neighbours had cleared out a few days ago. I went to the window and saw some moving activity occurring. A husband, wife and a couple of black movers were milling around on the street. I noticed that my car was strategically parked in such a way as to cause maximum hindrance to any moving taking place in the vicinity. It was also parked in such a way that there was an inordinately high probability of it getting struck by items of furniture as they made their way out of the moving truck. So, out of the goodness of my heart and concern for my car, I decided to play the part of a good neighbour and extend a friendly greeting to the new folks by moving my car out of the way.
"I'm going out", I said to the wife. "My car's in their way."
"You are drunk", said the wife. "Don't drive too far."
I opened the door and stepped outside, smiling in a manner befitting an amiable inebriate.
"Hi, I live here", I said, pointing to the door I had just emerged from, trying to dispell any doubts that might have existed in their minds about me being someone who walks out of other people's homes.
The guy extended his hand. Before he could greet me, I added, "Do you want me to move my car? So you get some space."
"Sure, thank you very much. I'm....", fuck I don't remember his name. Anyways, I said cool, walked to my car and got in.
A word about my car key. It belongs to the kind that is enclosed within a rectangular casing, popping out when a button on that casing is pressed. So I got into the car and pressed the button. Nothing happened. What the hell, I said to myself. I looked at the key closely. I couldn't see anything, so I switched on the light.
The entire thing was covered in chocolate. Chocolate had permeated into every orifice of that key. Fuck, I said, stupid snickers bar. Apparently, chocolate and keys had engaged in sexual congress inside my pocket, forming a homogenous object that had become incapable of starting cars. Chocolate had also gotten lodged into the space between the casing and the key, thus disallowing the key from coming out. I banged the key around, expecting something to happen. Nothing happened. I knew what I had to do.
I began to suck on the key. I sucked it long and hard, displaying a command over the technique any professional fornicator would be proud of. I sucked it horizontally, vertically and sideways. I flicked my tongue lovingly into all its crevices in order to get rid of the chocolate that was impeding the movement of the key. The chocolate was doing good things to my alcohol-soured mouth. My utter enjoyment of its sweetness added passion to the proceedings. I closed my eyes and kept sucking.
After a while, I opened my eyes in order to test whether the key was ready to pop out. Sure enough, it did, and I was back in business. Sliding it into the car I turned on the ignition and drove away to the other end of the street. As I was pulling away, I happened to look in the mirror. Husband, wife, black mover no.1 and black mover no.2 were all staring in my direction transfixed. I had forgotten to turn off the car light during the sucking. Fuck.
After parking the car, I walked back and with as much dignity as I could muster up, said good night to those good citizens and went back into the apartment. Hopefully they would still be my neighbours in the morning.
And chocolate hasn't been good to me either. I remember once during a trip to India, I bought some chocolate in the duty-free store at Amsterdam. 'Cause I think there's a rule somewhere in my Indian passport that states that NRIs wont be admitted into India unless they purchase those triangular Toublerone chocolates for every Indian they are linked to either by blood or by marriage. So I bought the damn things, paid for them and was leaving the store when the electronic beeping gadget at the entrance went mad. I was stopped, asked if I had paid for whatever it is that I had purchased. Even after I showed them the receipt, I was forced to open up my rucksack, lay out its contents on the floor for perusal and only allowed to go after it was clear that I had committed no felony. A public rectal exam would have been less humiliating. Ever since then, I haven't bought any consumer products that have been crafted out of chocolate.
That is, till a couple of weekends ago when I went to the grocery to buy some stuff. I was starving and needed to get some carbs into my system. So I bought a snickers chocolate bar, ate half of it and stuffed the other half into my pocket.
Later that night, as I was drinking and watching television with the wife, I heard the tell-tale sounds of a moving truck outside my apartment. Hey the new neighbours are here, I said to the wife. Our old neighbours had cleared out a few days ago. I went to the window and saw some moving activity occurring. A husband, wife and a couple of black movers were milling around on the street. I noticed that my car was strategically parked in such a way as to cause maximum hindrance to any moving taking place in the vicinity. It was also parked in such a way that there was an inordinately high probability of it getting struck by items of furniture as they made their way out of the moving truck. So, out of the goodness of my heart and concern for my car, I decided to play the part of a good neighbour and extend a friendly greeting to the new folks by moving my car out of the way.
"I'm going out", I said to the wife. "My car's in their way."
"You are drunk", said the wife. "Don't drive too far."
I opened the door and stepped outside, smiling in a manner befitting an amiable inebriate.
"Hi, I live here", I said, pointing to the door I had just emerged from, trying to dispell any doubts that might have existed in their minds about me being someone who walks out of other people's homes.
The guy extended his hand. Before he could greet me, I added, "Do you want me to move my car? So you get some space."
"Sure, thank you very much. I'm....", fuck I don't remember his name. Anyways, I said cool, walked to my car and got in.
A word about my car key. It belongs to the kind that is enclosed within a rectangular casing, popping out when a button on that casing is pressed. So I got into the car and pressed the button. Nothing happened. What the hell, I said to myself. I looked at the key closely. I couldn't see anything, so I switched on the light.
The entire thing was covered in chocolate. Chocolate had permeated into every orifice of that key. Fuck, I said, stupid snickers bar. Apparently, chocolate and keys had engaged in sexual congress inside my pocket, forming a homogenous object that had become incapable of starting cars. Chocolate had also gotten lodged into the space between the casing and the key, thus disallowing the key from coming out. I banged the key around, expecting something to happen. Nothing happened. I knew what I had to do.
I began to suck on the key. I sucked it long and hard, displaying a command over the technique any professional fornicator would be proud of. I sucked it horizontally, vertically and sideways. I flicked my tongue lovingly into all its crevices in order to get rid of the chocolate that was impeding the movement of the key. The chocolate was doing good things to my alcohol-soured mouth. My utter enjoyment of its sweetness added passion to the proceedings. I closed my eyes and kept sucking.
After a while, I opened my eyes in order to test whether the key was ready to pop out. Sure enough, it did, and I was back in business. Sliding it into the car I turned on the ignition and drove away to the other end of the street. As I was pulling away, I happened to look in the mirror. Husband, wife, black mover no.1 and black mover no.2 were all staring in my direction transfixed. I had forgotten to turn off the car light during the sucking. Fuck.
After parking the car, I walked back and with as much dignity as I could muster up, said good night to those good citizens and went back into the apartment. Hopefully they would still be my neighbours in the morning.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Cigarette flickers and road scrapers
Usually I'm a very tolerant person on the road while I drive. Since I am a very aggressive driver myself, I respond to other people's driving aggression with a cordial empathy without getting unduly incensed in the process.
But there is one act of such unusual flippancy and carelessness performed by many drivers that it vexes me to no end. The casual cigarette-toss out of the window. I have accused many a good mother or sister of carrying on an incestuous relationship with her son or brother respectively, solely on the basis of his habit of flicking a lighted cigarette out of his car while he is driving in front of me. I have no problems with people smoking in their cars. I do have problems with people smoking my car.
This is what I think a smoking driver should do when he is done with his dose of cancer. He should pull into the highway shoulder. He should place the cigarette on the ground. He should stub it with his shoe, making sure it has been extinguished. And then he should pull out. Or, if that's asking for too much, he should at least open the car door while driving, bend down and release the lighted cigarette at ground level so that it does not bounce up into the car behind him.
But it is just inconsiderate of the driver to flick the cigarette deliberately at such an angle that it bounces up on the road and disappears into the space between your bonnet and the road. And that's what happened to me the other day. What if the cigarette's gone into my engine, I wondered. Would it set something ablaze? I tried to think of the various components of my car that are likely to catch on fire and realized that most of them probably were. I also wondered if my insurance would cover me in case there was a fire. Why would they, though? In fact, I realized, I should probably take down the license plate number of the guy who was going to be responsible for my car being burnt to a crisp.
I searched for a pen in the glove compartment. I couldn't find one. Then, I remembered that my keychain had a smallish pen attached to it. Problem was, it was in my jeans pocket. Anyone who has tried to zip up their jeans while driving with their seatbelt on might be able to imagine how difficult it would be to retrieve a keychain out of a jeans pocket. It wasn't easy. I swerved all over the place, most probably causing the guy behind me to search for his own pen in order to write down my license plate number.
Finally, I was successful. I tried writing down the number on my palm. After stabbing myself in the palm a few times, I gave up and instead, used an envelope I found on the seat beside me. After it was done, I looked at what I had written and couldn't make it out. By then the guy had disappeared, and I had to speed up in order to catch up with him. Again, I noted down his number, trying to recall the calligraphy class I had taken in primary school. This time I did a better job.
It was then that I asked myself exactly what the point of writing down the number was. The guy could always deny it. But then, maybe if I proved that he usually can be found at that spot on the highway at that time, I could prove my case to the authorities. For that I would need to find out where he worked and his work-hours. Who would tell me that? His friends wouldn't give him up. Would I have to seduce his wife in order for her to be a corroborative witness? Fuck, this was too much work. It's good I didn't go to Law College. It all looks nice and good on tv but it's a lot of work in practice.
Then, just as I was done with my scheming, I saw a truck in front of me. And the goddamn thing had sparks coming out from under it. Apparently some part of the truck was brushing aginst the tarmac. And the sparks were flying right into my car. With a sigh, I again reached for my jeans pocket. Rinse and repeat.
Luckily, though, my car didn't catch on fire and I didn't have to carry out my scheme. But at least now I know what I would have to do in case it's necessary in the future.
But there is one act of such unusual flippancy and carelessness performed by many drivers that it vexes me to no end. The casual cigarette-toss out of the window. I have accused many a good mother or sister of carrying on an incestuous relationship with her son or brother respectively, solely on the basis of his habit of flicking a lighted cigarette out of his car while he is driving in front of me. I have no problems with people smoking in their cars. I do have problems with people smoking my car.
This is what I think a smoking driver should do when he is done with his dose of cancer. He should pull into the highway shoulder. He should place the cigarette on the ground. He should stub it with his shoe, making sure it has been extinguished. And then he should pull out. Or, if that's asking for too much, he should at least open the car door while driving, bend down and release the lighted cigarette at ground level so that it does not bounce up into the car behind him.
But it is just inconsiderate of the driver to flick the cigarette deliberately at such an angle that it bounces up on the road and disappears into the space between your bonnet and the road. And that's what happened to me the other day. What if the cigarette's gone into my engine, I wondered. Would it set something ablaze? I tried to think of the various components of my car that are likely to catch on fire and realized that most of them probably were. I also wondered if my insurance would cover me in case there was a fire. Why would they, though? In fact, I realized, I should probably take down the license plate number of the guy who was going to be responsible for my car being burnt to a crisp.
I searched for a pen in the glove compartment. I couldn't find one. Then, I remembered that my keychain had a smallish pen attached to it. Problem was, it was in my jeans pocket. Anyone who has tried to zip up their jeans while driving with their seatbelt on might be able to imagine how difficult it would be to retrieve a keychain out of a jeans pocket. It wasn't easy. I swerved all over the place, most probably causing the guy behind me to search for his own pen in order to write down my license plate number.
Finally, I was successful. I tried writing down the number on my palm. After stabbing myself in the palm a few times, I gave up and instead, used an envelope I found on the seat beside me. After it was done, I looked at what I had written and couldn't make it out. By then the guy had disappeared, and I had to speed up in order to catch up with him. Again, I noted down his number, trying to recall the calligraphy class I had taken in primary school. This time I did a better job.
It was then that I asked myself exactly what the point of writing down the number was. The guy could always deny it. But then, maybe if I proved that he usually can be found at that spot on the highway at that time, I could prove my case to the authorities. For that I would need to find out where he worked and his work-hours. Who would tell me that? His friends wouldn't give him up. Would I have to seduce his wife in order for her to be a corroborative witness? Fuck, this was too much work. It's good I didn't go to Law College. It all looks nice and good on tv but it's a lot of work in practice.
Then, just as I was done with my scheming, I saw a truck in front of me. And the goddamn thing had sparks coming out from under it. Apparently some part of the truck was brushing aginst the tarmac. And the sparks were flying right into my car. With a sigh, I again reached for my jeans pocket. Rinse and repeat.
Luckily, though, my car didn't catch on fire and I didn't have to carry out my scheme. But at least now I know what I would have to do in case it's necessary in the future.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Why I need to buy a really crappy car
You either own a crappy car or you own a decent car. People who own decent cars have a problem with parking lots. The problem is that people who own crappy cars park near their car. Since people with crappy cars don't care about their cars or other people's cars, they are not very careful about backing out of their parking spot and end up bashing into the decent car.
So people with decent cars try to park in a remote parking spot, a spot that has no cars near it. Especially no crappy cars. But this doesn't work in principle, and this is why. People with semi-decent cars that are neither crappy nor decent come and park near their car. They do this deliberately because they know that people with decent cars are careful while backing out, and you always want to park near someone who is careful while backing out. That is why people with decent cars lose on either end of the bargain.
My car got bashed in my parking lot and I don't know who did it. That's why I'm gonna get a crappy car to be able to park in peace without worrying who is gonna be the next person to bash my decent car.
So people with decent cars try to park in a remote parking spot, a spot that has no cars near it. Especially no crappy cars. But this doesn't work in principle, and this is why. People with semi-decent cars that are neither crappy nor decent come and park near their car. They do this deliberately because they know that people with decent cars are careful while backing out, and you always want to park near someone who is careful while backing out. That is why people with decent cars lose on either end of the bargain.
My car got bashed in my parking lot and I don't know who did it. That's why I'm gonna get a crappy car to be able to park in peace without worrying who is gonna be the next person to bash my decent car.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
My worst driving fear
I think my worst fear while driving is that one of the wheels on my car is somehow gonna detach itself from it's parent vehicle and roll off into the horizon. And like every other phobia and mental dysfunction I possess, I can clearly trace it back to my childhood.
It was a time when my dad used to commute to work in a company tempo, and one day he returned home and told us this amazing story, quite possibly fabricated in its entirety, of how that day he had been relaxing during his work commute, looking out through the window at the countryside passing by when suddenly he observed something that seemed to be strangely out of place. He saw a wheel with no car attached to it racing by, making pretty good speed for something without an engine. And then, with horror, he realized that it was the rear wheel of his own vehicle which was moving along at a pretty fast gallop.
Sadly, I cannot remember the rest of the story. For example, I don't remember how, with only three serviceable wheels the tempo came to a halt without causing bodily harm to it's occupants. Also, no matter how hard I tax my imagination, I just cannot envision a tempo losing a wheel and still cruising along at the same speed without crashing, with the only physical reminder of its handicapped status being the visual spectacle of a wheel racing along by its side.
So as I said, looking back, I now tend to believe that my dad fabricated this story, but still, no matter how much I try to convince myself of that possibility, every time I drive on the interstate, I still keep a sharp lookout for any orphan wheels in the lane next to mine.
It was a time when my dad used to commute to work in a company tempo, and one day he returned home and told us this amazing story, quite possibly fabricated in its entirety, of how that day he had been relaxing during his work commute, looking out through the window at the countryside passing by when suddenly he observed something that seemed to be strangely out of place. He saw a wheel with no car attached to it racing by, making pretty good speed for something without an engine. And then, with horror, he realized that it was the rear wheel of his own vehicle which was moving along at a pretty fast gallop.
Sadly, I cannot remember the rest of the story. For example, I don't remember how, with only three serviceable wheels the tempo came to a halt without causing bodily harm to it's occupants. Also, no matter how hard I tax my imagination, I just cannot envision a tempo losing a wheel and still cruising along at the same speed without crashing, with the only physical reminder of its handicapped status being the visual spectacle of a wheel racing along by its side.
So as I said, looking back, I now tend to believe that my dad fabricated this story, but still, no matter how much I try to convince myself of that possibility, every time I drive on the interstate, I still keep a sharp lookout for any orphan wheels in the lane next to mine.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Car died today, got pissed off at a truck and going to India
This post is about the three things mentioned in the subject line.
1.> My car died today. She is in the garage. I had to get her towed. I had to rent a car. I was late for work. I had to withdraw money from an ATM not from my bank. I had to pay a surcharge of 3 dollars. It made me mad.
2.> Millions of UPS trucks were on the highway. They were all in the fast lane. They were also in the slow lane. They were driving at low speeds. They were'nt letting anyone by. It made me mad. Then they disappeared. I was then stuck behind a truck with ProFish written on it. It made me mad too. I was mad because I was late for work and my car is in the garage and I was driving a rental car and I was stuck behind Profishguy.
3.> I am off to India. I will take the train to the airport. I will take a train because there are no limo services operating on Christmas day. I am not happy. The reason I am not happy is before I bought my ticket to India I called up the limo operator and asked him if they operate on Christmas day. He said, "We operate 24 hours a day 365 days a year." I asked him but do you operate on Christmas. He said "We operate 24 hours a day 365 days a year." This time he said it with a hint of impatience. I called them up yesterday to book my limo. They said we do not operate on Christmas. I said "But you operate 24 hours a day 365 days a year." They said no, we do not operate on Christmas. I repeated with a hint of impatience, "But you operate 24 hours a day 365 days a year." They hung up on me.
4.> Bonus topic not mentioned in the subject line : My office had a Christmas party last night. I found out that people in my office prefer my company to that of our receptionist. It made me feel warm inside. But that could also have been the alcohol.
5.> Another bonus topic : I might blog from India. It depends on how many moments of sobriety occur during the trip. Hopefully not many. In case I don't, happy holidays and have a happy new year.
1.> My car died today. She is in the garage. I had to get her towed. I had to rent a car. I was late for work. I had to withdraw money from an ATM not from my bank. I had to pay a surcharge of 3 dollars. It made me mad.
2.> Millions of UPS trucks were on the highway. They were all in the fast lane. They were also in the slow lane. They were driving at low speeds. They were'nt letting anyone by. It made me mad. Then they disappeared. I was then stuck behind a truck with ProFish written on it. It made me mad too. I was mad because I was late for work and my car is in the garage and I was driving a rental car and I was stuck behind Profishguy.
3.> I am off to India. I will take the train to the airport. I will take a train because there are no limo services operating on Christmas day. I am not happy. The reason I am not happy is before I bought my ticket to India I called up the limo operator and asked him if they operate on Christmas day. He said, "We operate 24 hours a day 365 days a year." I asked him but do you operate on Christmas. He said "We operate 24 hours a day 365 days a year." This time he said it with a hint of impatience. I called them up yesterday to book my limo. They said we do not operate on Christmas. I said "But you operate 24 hours a day 365 days a year." They said no, we do not operate on Christmas. I repeated with a hint of impatience, "But you operate 24 hours a day 365 days a year." They hung up on me.
4.> Bonus topic not mentioned in the subject line : My office had a Christmas party last night. I found out that people in my office prefer my company to that of our receptionist. It made me feel warm inside. But that could also have been the alcohol.
5.> Another bonus topic : I might blog from India. It depends on how many moments of sobriety occur during the trip. Hopefully not many. In case I don't, happy holidays and have a happy new year.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Mopeds
This post at Dog Journals reminded me of those cool one-step-above-the-cycle-in-the-vehicular-food-chain mopeds that could be seen, and probably are still seen scurrying about the Indian cityscape in a most industrious manner. I think every family in India has boasted the possession of at least one moped during it's entire lifetime. And why not, in a society of fuel conservation and high gas prices, what could make more sense than a motored vehicle that can magically turn into a bicycle on command once it's fuel runs out.
But one thing the moped isn't famous for is its speed. In fact I remember once I was riding double-seat with a friend on his moped, trying to climb up a hill. It wasn't even a real hill, just an upslope. And then, as we began the climb, a stray dog, a number of which populated the roads and lanes of my city, in fact sometimes outnumbering it's human populace, no doubt, attracted by the sight of an easy target, decided to chase us. The only problem was, and surprisingly, it turned out to be a problem he had to deal with, not us, that the moped just couldn't make it up the hill. And so the chasing dog would miscalculate our speed and wind up ahead of us, where, he would then wait with an expression of utter disgust while we apologetically huffed and puffed up to where he was, where he would again resume his chase, and the cycle would repeat. Finally, he decided we were too pathetic to be preyed upon and left us alone, no doubt, with the mental dissatisfaction of time ill-spent.
But a moped is also unique in that you can pile an extraordinary amount of humanity on it and it will still battle inertia to assume some form of motion. I remember during high school, four of us once piled upon a moped and went for a ride. And the driver, just to be a douchebag, began to swerve it from side to side. And being a douchebag that he was, he miscalculated the swerve, the moped began to wobble and pretty soon we found ourselves sprawled on to the tarmac groaning and bleeding. God that was painful, probably the most painful fall I've ever had in my life. Although the moped itself, apparently untraumatized by the experience, got up, dusted itself and cycled off without us. It was a gutsy son of a bitch.
Mopeds still exist in India. And nothing showcases India's inherent contradictions better than a skinny guy on a moped, holding the handlebar with one hand while speaking on a state-of-the-art cellphone held in the other. 21st century glamor and 19th century guts going hand in hand in apparent technological harmony as does the rest of India. And that, my friends, is what drives this great country.
But one thing the moped isn't famous for is its speed. In fact I remember once I was riding double-seat with a friend on his moped, trying to climb up a hill. It wasn't even a real hill, just an upslope. And then, as we began the climb, a stray dog, a number of which populated the roads and lanes of my city, in fact sometimes outnumbering it's human populace, no doubt, attracted by the sight of an easy target, decided to chase us. The only problem was, and surprisingly, it turned out to be a problem he had to deal with, not us, that the moped just couldn't make it up the hill. And so the chasing dog would miscalculate our speed and wind up ahead of us, where, he would then wait with an expression of utter disgust while we apologetically huffed and puffed up to where he was, where he would again resume his chase, and the cycle would repeat. Finally, he decided we were too pathetic to be preyed upon and left us alone, no doubt, with the mental dissatisfaction of time ill-spent.But a moped is also unique in that you can pile an extraordinary amount of humanity on it and it will still battle inertia to assume some form of motion. I remember during high school, four of us once piled upon a moped and went for a ride. And the driver, just to be a douchebag, began to swerve it from side to side. And being a douchebag that he was, he miscalculated the swerve, the moped began to wobble and pretty soon we found ourselves sprawled on to the tarmac groaning and bleeding. God that was painful, probably the most painful fall I've ever had in my life. Although the moped itself, apparently untraumatized by the experience, got up, dusted itself and cycled off without us. It was a gutsy son of a bitch.
Mopeds still exist in India. And nothing showcases India's inherent contradictions better than a skinny guy on a moped, holding the handlebar with one hand while speaking on a state-of-the-art cellphone held in the other. 21st century glamor and 19th century guts going hand in hand in apparent technological harmony as does the rest of India. And that, my friends, is what drives this great country.
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