Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Tip of the day
I learnt this one way back during my graduate school days. If all your friends hail from a particular region in India and insist on conversing in their native dialect while in your presence, keep yelling out in a sporadic manner, "Hey quit talking about my mother", till conversation either dies out completely or transitions into a more comprehensible format.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
The Skippack Trail
Biking began last weekend. This is an annotated mapelogue™ of my bike ride with zambezi on the Skippack-Perkiomen Trail.
View Larger Map
View Larger Map
Saturday, December 15, 2007
RPM's Leverett
Once upon a time, I was still studying in UMass and I was sitting in the passenger's seat of my friend's car while we were driving along MA state highway 63 north towards New Hampshire. See, Massachusetts doesn't sell beer on sundays and if you live in Massachusetts and you run out of beer on a sad sunday, you have to drive north to New Hampshire where they sell beer on sundays just to piss Massachusetts off. Middle finger. So basically, we had run out of beer on a sunday and that is what we were doing and the guy who was sitting in the back seat of the car said, "Hello my name is RPM". Actually he didn't really say that, it's how I am introducing him. I called him RPM. He was the first guy I came in contact with after I landed here in the US.
When I was in India and I found out that UMass would be paying for my graduate education, I rummaged through the tubes of the internet and found my man RPM in the UMass directory. Immediately I emailed him and told him that I was arriving in UMass this fall and would it be alright if I stayed with him until I found a permanent home for the next two years. He said what, who, where, what, who the heck are you? I replied that I was an alumnus of his engineering college in Pune and that I used to be in his batch and the reason he didn't know me was because I hadn't attended college all that much, instead preferring to spend most of my time in the college auditorium practicing with my band.
But RPM was ultimately fine with it because of the code of the Indians which specifies that a fresh off the boat (FOB) Desi graduate student may take up temporary residence with a pre-existing Indian graduate student with or without his approval and so RPM said yes, and that he would pick me up at the Amherst train station when I arrived after determining if Amherst had a train station. For some reason, no one in Amherst, MA is aware of the fact that Amherst, MA has a train station.
RPM took me under his wing. For the first few days, until I found my own apartment, I stayed with RPM and he taught me a number of important things. For example, why it is a bad idea to run after the little striped creatures called "skunks" that wander around Puffton Village like it is their dad's goods. When I asked him why, RPM invited me to his closet and the moment he opened the door, I collapsed and died and when I woke up, he told me that one of those striped creatures had sprayed its scent all over one of his pants and the reason I had died was that this skunk spray was funky and when I say funky, I mean Jesus Christ, foul foul odour. Foul.The moral of the story was do not run behind skunks, people, they will fuck you up for good and even bathing once a week won't get rid of that evil stench.
So anyways, back to RPM. He did not have a vacancy in his apartment because he was already staying with a firang (a white roommate whose guitar RPM pretended to be a master of) and since they did not possess a television set, he hooked me up with someone in his apartment complex who had a television set, thus allowing himself access to it. Smart move RPM. Okay, now why RPM? RPM was a pornographic movie connoisseur. Every friday and saturday night, the moment the clock struck 10:59, RPM was knocking at our door, ready to enjoy late night cinemax.
Thus the name, RPM : "R", the "P"ondy "M"an. This man RPM, he was on a first name basis with all the leading ladies of late night cinemax. Make-up and clothing did not fool his astute sensibilities. Hey, this babe, she was in that one movie that played that night, wow, she really looks old in this one. Oh, I know this one, this is the movie where she keeps weeping every time she has sex because even though she enjoys it, she feels guilty because she is doing it for money and that's a great example of the clash in our culture between morality and fiscal responsibility. Man, I hate this one, I'm off. On second thoughts, I'll stay. RPM always stayed.
So that, in a nutshell, was RPM. The guy in the back seat during the drive to New Hampshire. He was reading the road signs and then he read this one aloud, "Leverett Center". "You know, I went to Leverett once and it was the prettiest town I have ever been to in the US", said RPM. And he sighed in order to support his statement. A prolonged, emotional sigh. And I was impressed by his sigh and I said "Really?" and I decided then and there that I would visit Leverett someday soon.
That day would not arrive soon. I left Amherst to make my own life. I went to New Hampshire, where I could buy beer on a sunday, and lived there for a couple of years. After that, I went to Pennsylvania where I earned enough money to be able to afford to buy beer all week so I would never run out of beer on a sunday.
But my dream of visiting Leverett remained what it was, just a dream. Till last year when I revisited Amherst on a whim. What the hell, just to see how it was doing. I visited all the usual places, the Montague Book Mill, the Amherst Brewing Company, Mt Sugarloaf. And then I decided, once and for all, to check out the fabulous town of Leverett which RPM had so enthusiastically endorsed. I took Leverett Ctr Road 1 and followed it to the end. Unfortunately, I did not find a town. I discovered a couple of houses by the side of a lake. Maybe it was a town, maybe it wasn't. What the fuck, RPM? I write this entire humongous post based on you and you make up a town that does not exist? Were you talking about Montague? Because I've been there and it is a very pretty town, yes. But was that the one you were talking about? Was it?
RPM, by the way, is now a very accomplished person who will probably win a Nobel prize very soon as long as he stays off the porn. In fact, even as we speak, he is employed at the very company that is allowing you to read the shit that I type unless you're a Mac user, in which case you owe another friend of mine called GSB. But that story isn't quite as interesting.
When I was in India and I found out that UMass would be paying for my graduate education, I rummaged through the tubes of the internet and found my man RPM in the UMass directory. Immediately I emailed him and told him that I was arriving in UMass this fall and would it be alright if I stayed with him until I found a permanent home for the next two years. He said what, who, where, what, who the heck are you? I replied that I was an alumnus of his engineering college in Pune and that I used to be in his batch and the reason he didn't know me was because I hadn't attended college all that much, instead preferring to spend most of my time in the college auditorium practicing with my band.
But RPM was ultimately fine with it because of the code of the Indians which specifies that a fresh off the boat (FOB) Desi graduate student may take up temporary residence with a pre-existing Indian graduate student with or without his approval and so RPM said yes, and that he would pick me up at the Amherst train station when I arrived after determining if Amherst had a train station. For some reason, no one in Amherst, MA is aware of the fact that Amherst, MA has a train station.
RPM took me under his wing. For the first few days, until I found my own apartment, I stayed with RPM and he taught me a number of important things. For example, why it is a bad idea to run after the little striped creatures called "skunks" that wander around Puffton Village like it is their dad's goods. When I asked him why, RPM invited me to his closet and the moment he opened the door, I collapsed and died and when I woke up, he told me that one of those striped creatures had sprayed its scent all over one of his pants and the reason I had died was that this skunk spray was funky and when I say funky, I mean Jesus Christ, foul foul odour. Foul.The moral of the story was do not run behind skunks, people, they will fuck you up for good and even bathing once a week won't get rid of that evil stench.
So anyways, back to RPM. He did not have a vacancy in his apartment because he was already staying with a firang (a white roommate whose guitar RPM pretended to be a master of) and since they did not possess a television set, he hooked me up with someone in his apartment complex who had a television set, thus allowing himself access to it. Smart move RPM. Okay, now why RPM? RPM was a pornographic movie connoisseur. Every friday and saturday night, the moment the clock struck 10:59, RPM was knocking at our door, ready to enjoy late night cinemax.
Thus the name, RPM : "R", the "P"ondy "M"an. This man RPM, he was on a first name basis with all the leading ladies of late night cinemax. Make-up and clothing did not fool his astute sensibilities. Hey, this babe, she was in that one movie that played that night, wow, she really looks old in this one. Oh, I know this one, this is the movie where she keeps weeping every time she has sex because even though she enjoys it, she feels guilty because she is doing it for money and that's a great example of the clash in our culture between morality and fiscal responsibility. Man, I hate this one, I'm off. On second thoughts, I'll stay. RPM always stayed.
So that, in a nutshell, was RPM. The guy in the back seat during the drive to New Hampshire. He was reading the road signs and then he read this one aloud, "Leverett Center". "You know, I went to Leverett once and it was the prettiest town I have ever been to in the US", said RPM. And he sighed in order to support his statement. A prolonged, emotional sigh. And I was impressed by his sigh and I said "Really?" and I decided then and there that I would visit Leverett someday soon.
That day would not arrive soon. I left Amherst to make my own life. I went to New Hampshire, where I could buy beer on a sunday, and lived there for a couple of years. After that, I went to Pennsylvania where I earned enough money to be able to afford to buy beer all week so I would never run out of beer on a sunday.
But my dream of visiting Leverett remained what it was, just a dream. Till last year when I revisited Amherst on a whim. What the hell, just to see how it was doing. I visited all the usual places, the Montague Book Mill, the Amherst Brewing Company, Mt Sugarloaf. And then I decided, once and for all, to check out the fabulous town of Leverett which RPM had so enthusiastically endorsed. I took Leverett Ctr Road 1 and followed it to the end. Unfortunately, I did not find a town. I discovered a couple of houses by the side of a lake. Maybe it was a town, maybe it wasn't. What the fuck, RPM? I write this entire humongous post based on you and you make up a town that does not exist? Were you talking about Montague? Because I've been there and it is a very pretty town, yes. But was that the one you were talking about? Was it?
RPM, by the way, is now a very accomplished person who will probably win a Nobel prize very soon as long as he stays off the porn. In fact, even as we speak, he is employed at the very company that is allowing you to read the shit that I type unless you're a Mac user, in which case you owe another friend of mine called GSB. But that story isn't quite as interesting.
Friday, September 28, 2007
An account
Here is the account of last weekend's biking trip down the Schuylkill Trail as seen from zambezi's eyes. It was pretty much the same as seen from my eyes, except our eyes were on different bicycles and his were behind Govinda shades which he had mistakenly purchased thinking they were biking goggles whereas mine were behind spectacles worn by normal people who are not Govinda.
So it happened that after an entire summer of lethargy, apple-picking and meadow-strolling, zambezi finally managed to get convinced to go biking with me. Actually, to be fair, he was the one who approached me because his wife was out of town and he wanted to deal with the loss through physical exertion. As expected, he got lost on the way from New Jersey to Pennsylvania and would have made his way to Pittsburgh if I hadn't called him up and asked him to get off the next exit on the turnpike. I was not sure if zambezi would last through the bike ride so I administered a dose of creatine to him before we started.
He did good. We did good. The weather was mild and cloudy and it had just rained before we started. We made it to Manayunk in just under an hour where we had a couple of beers at the Manayunk Brewery on the bank of the Schuylkill. And then we continued on to the Museum of Art. Because the Independence Brew Pub has closed down, to partake of our celebratory brews, we had to do a west to east traversal of the entire Center City of Philadelphia in order to reach the Triumph Brewing Company on the Delaware River side. I ordered the fish and chips which they served in a conical contraption like the one in which they serve bhelpuri on Chowpatty beach. Zambezi ordered the chicken but unfortunately it was one that had been stunted from birth. Don't order the chicken if you are there. And if you do, ask them to bring it out to you before they cook it so you can give it a complete medical checkup. I had the scotch ale after a long time, one of my favorite beers with 7% ABV.
After the food and the beer, we biked back to Market East station where we caught the train to Norristown. Zambezi stretched out on the seat and fell fast asleep. During the ride, I checked his breathing once or twice just to make sure. Back in Manayunk, zambezi had commented to me that he didn't feel fatigued at all and in most countries, that would be an acceptable testament to his awesome physical shape. And I repeat what I told him then, that it is the final two or three miles that are the hardest, when the only thing that keeps you from admitting your leg muscles into the emergency room is sheer willpower and an overwhelming fear of being ridiculed on your friend's blog.
All in all, a commendable feat (33 miles) by a first time biker such as zambezi. Since then, zambezi has been calling me up once every two days and insisting that I compile a celebratory post about our outing and his accomplishment, making his case by declaring that if he had failed in the endeavor, I would probably have started typing even before we reached home. Which is probably true but only because of our warped media culture which tends to revel more in the story of an athlete's downfall rather than his glory.
So it happened that after an entire summer of lethargy, apple-picking and meadow-strolling, zambezi finally managed to get convinced to go biking with me. Actually, to be fair, he was the one who approached me because his wife was out of town and he wanted to deal with the loss through physical exertion. As expected, he got lost on the way from New Jersey to Pennsylvania and would have made his way to Pittsburgh if I hadn't called him up and asked him to get off the next exit on the turnpike. I was not sure if zambezi would last through the bike ride so I administered a dose of creatine to him before we started.
He did good. We did good. The weather was mild and cloudy and it had just rained before we started. We made it to Manayunk in just under an hour where we had a couple of beers at the Manayunk Brewery on the bank of the Schuylkill. And then we continued on to the Museum of Art. Because the Independence Brew Pub has closed down, to partake of our celebratory brews, we had to do a west to east traversal of the entire Center City of Philadelphia in order to reach the Triumph Brewing Company on the Delaware River side. I ordered the fish and chips which they served in a conical contraption like the one in which they serve bhelpuri on Chowpatty beach. Zambezi ordered the chicken but unfortunately it was one that had been stunted from birth. Don't order the chicken if you are there. And if you do, ask them to bring it out to you before they cook it so you can give it a complete medical checkup. I had the scotch ale after a long time, one of my favorite beers with 7% ABV.
After the food and the beer, we biked back to Market East station where we caught the train to Norristown. Zambezi stretched out on the seat and fell fast asleep. During the ride, I checked his breathing once or twice just to make sure. Back in Manayunk, zambezi had commented to me that he didn't feel fatigued at all and in most countries, that would be an acceptable testament to his awesome physical shape. And I repeat what I told him then, that it is the final two or three miles that are the hardest, when the only thing that keeps you from admitting your leg muscles into the emergency room is sheer willpower and an overwhelming fear of being ridiculed on your friend's blog.
All in all, a commendable feat (33 miles) by a first time biker such as zambezi. Since then, zambezi has been calling me up once every two days and insisting that I compile a celebratory post about our outing and his accomplishment, making his case by declaring that if he had failed in the endeavor, I would probably have started typing even before we reached home. Which is probably true but only because of our warped media culture which tends to revel more in the story of an athlete's downfall rather than his glory.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Open
So I called up zambezi on saturday to see what he was up to. He picked up the phone and muttered in what was a conspiratorial whisper, "My window's open".
"What?", I said. "I can't hear you."
Again, he whispered, "My window's open, man".
"Oh okay", I said. "What does that mean?"
"I'll call you up later", he whispered.
I began to wonder if he had discovered an intruder in his house and whether I should call 911.
After a couple of minutes, my phone rang. It was zambezi.
"So is your window closed now?", I inquired, in a suitably concerned voice.
"What are you talking about?" he replied.
"What were you saying earlier about your window being open?"
"No man, I said I'm at the US Open. I couldn't talk", he replied.
Enlightenment dawned upon me.
"Oh okay, Are you at the game?", I asked him.
"No, I'm at the US Open", he said.
"Yes, yes, I said, are you at the game?", I asked testily.
"No man, I'm not at the gym, I'm at the US Open", he said, still with remarkable patience, considering the fact that I was interrupting him at the game.
"Okay, listen, I will call you up later tonight once I get out of here", he finally said.
"Alright. Have a good work-out", I said and hung up before he could respond.
"What?", I said. "I can't hear you."
Again, he whispered, "My window's open, man".
"Oh okay", I said. "What does that mean?"
"I'll call you up later", he whispered.
I began to wonder if he had discovered an intruder in his house and whether I should call 911.
After a couple of minutes, my phone rang. It was zambezi.
"So is your window closed now?", I inquired, in a suitably concerned voice.
"What are you talking about?" he replied.
"What were you saying earlier about your window being open?"
"No man, I said I'm at the US Open. I couldn't talk", he replied.
Enlightenment dawned upon me.
"Oh okay, Are you at the game?", I asked him.
"No, I'm at the US Open", he said.
"Yes, yes, I said, are you at the game?", I asked testily.
"No man, I'm not at the gym, I'm at the US Open", he said, still with remarkable patience, considering the fact that I was interrupting him at the game.
"Okay, listen, I will call you up later tonight once I get out of here", he finally said.
"Alright. Have a good work-out", I said and hung up before he could respond.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Today
This is a public service announcement. Today is Friday the 13th.
I hope you got out of your bed today left foot first. Now go walk under a ladder while wearing your shirt inside out and throw a mirror at the black cat that crosses your path. If you cut yourself, spill salt on the wound. Don't be distracted by the moon shining over your left shoulder or the insomniac rooster who insists on crowing at night.
Thank you.
Also, just so I can finally get this out of the way, two saturdays ago, I went to Jim Thorpe with Mrs Gawker, Zambezi and Mrs Zambezi where we had wings and beer in an Irish bar. The wings were too hot for a South Indian and zambezi started sweating like a pig on a spit in summer with the air conditioning turned off. The concerned waitress asked him if he was having problems, if the wings were too spicy and he said yes, also assuring her that the considerable spice content of the wings would soon necessitate a sprint into the high hills for defecatory purposes. The waitress accepted his scatological confidences politely, in the proper spirit, with an ambivalent "ah".
And that was that.
The interesting thing about this particular picture is that it used to be a place where railroad cars going in opposite directions used to pass each other. It looked like this.
Spitting on the car underneath was out of bounds for everyone except the very highest of high society. Also notice how there is virtually no forestation in the old picture as compared to the new one. Immigration of trees to the US began in earnest only after the rain forests of the world began to face persecution in the early 20th century for their wood, their land and their bark, oh that sweet sweet bark.
I guess that's all for now. I had something else to say but I don't remember what it was.
I hope you got out of your bed today left foot first. Now go walk under a ladder while wearing your shirt inside out and throw a mirror at the black cat that crosses your path. If you cut yourself, spill salt on the wound. Don't be distracted by the moon shining over your left shoulder or the insomniac rooster who insists on crowing at night.
Thank you.
Also, just so I can finally get this out of the way, two saturdays ago, I went to Jim Thorpe with Mrs Gawker, Zambezi and Mrs Zambezi where we had wings and beer in an Irish bar. The wings were too hot for a South Indian and zambezi started sweating like a pig on a spit in summer with the air conditioning turned off. The concerned waitress asked him if he was having problems, if the wings were too spicy and he said yes, also assuring her that the considerable spice content of the wings would soon necessitate a sprint into the high hills for defecatory purposes. The waitress accepted his scatological confidences politely, in the proper spirit, with an ambivalent "ah".
And that was that.
Speaking of Jim Thorpe, here's a picture of the Switchback trail we "trekked" on, if you can call walking on a flat surface trekking. It's called the Five Mile Tree.
The interesting thing about this particular picture is that it used to be a place where railroad cars going in opposite directions used to pass each other. It looked like this.
Spitting on the car underneath was out of bounds for everyone except the very highest of high society. Also notice how there is virtually no forestation in the old picture as compared to the new one. Immigration of trees to the US began in earnest only after the rain forests of the world began to face persecution in the early 20th century for their wood, their land and their bark, oh that sweet sweet bark.
I guess that's all for now. I had something else to say but I don't remember what it was.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Bar Leeches
For the past couple of weeks, I've been doing a lot of bar hopping because the wife has been away on vacation in India and a guy's gotta eat and food doesn't just grow on trees and even if it did I would have to go and pluck it and since I am a late riser, all the short people would already have been there and cleaned out all the low-hanging branches and I would have to go find a ladder, etc, so fuck all that, I just went to a bar.
Also, it's football playoff season and when you are watching your team play, it is a much more enjoyable experience with other people around you just so you can share the joy when a player on the other team breaks a leg or gets paralyzed from the waist down, nah I'm just kidding, what am I, a savage? No, we like it when they can get off the field without a cart.
But usually the give and take of fan happiness merely includes group slogan shouting, high fiving, or in the worst case scenario, helping other people off the floor after they've fallen from their chairs in ecstasy. There's always one guy who keeps doing that. Always one. But apart from these humanitarian exchanges, usually when I go to a bar, I keep my distance away from my fellow barflies because the thing about bars is that they serve alcohol and when people get alcohol inside them, they turn quite garrulous and excessively chummy and then the natural reaction for them is to grab the coat collar (or the spaghetti strap) of the person next to them and chew his or her ear off. That is why when I'm in a bar I like to pretend that I'm a foreigner and cannot speak English and I do a great job pulling it off because as it turns out I am a foreigner.
But, sometimes, the percentage alcohol by volume of the person is so high that it pierces through his, I won't say xenophobia, let's call it xenoreluctance, and when that happens, you're in trouble. For example, last weekend, as I was sitting in a sports bar watching the Cowboys game, wearing my brand new Eagles Jersey, this guy walked up to me and yelled in my ear, "You guys are gonna LOSE tomorrow". The capitalization of the word "Lose" was intentional and meant to convey the additional increase in decibel level for that word. And then he unzipped his jacket and showed me what was inside and underneath was a New York Giants jersey. Since I was also mildly buzzed from the beer and thus, more prone to expletive release, I yelled at him, "No Fucking Way, buddy".
He looked confused because I guess he wasn't used to foreigners swearing at him and walked away, apparently miffed. I felt a bit bad because I didn't know whether I had hurt his feelings or not. Miss Manners says Giants fans are also people, after all.
Which is why when I found myself sitting next to him at the bar after a few minutes, I took the uncharacteristic step of voluntarily starting a conversation with him because, you know, I'm getting old and I do not derive as much pleasure from hurting people's feelings as I used to.
"So what do you think about tomorrow's game?", I asked him.
I wasn't sure if he would recognize me through his beer goggles.
"Gonna be a tough one", he replied. Apparently he did.
"What's the deal with Eli", I asked him, instantly regretting my decision.
He launched on a detailed explanation of what the deal was with Eli. I listened patiently and then after convincing myself that I had paid off my dues, went back inside my shell and to my chicken wings.
"You guys are gonna LOSE tomorrow", he continued.
Goddamn, I thought we'd already gone over this, I said to myself. I began my nodding routine, the precursor for complete ignoring. In the meantime, I had also realized, to my dismay, that the guy was a shower head, one of those people who are quite generous with their saliva during a conversation. And I was eating.
"I like that ad", he said dreamily. That horrible car commercial with the people dancing and singing to that Sound of Music song. I opened my mouth to say something.
"Fuck Duke", the guy suddenly yelled.
"What?"
Apparently a Duke basketball game was on.
"You got something against Duke?", I asked.
"Yeah, I'm from Seton Hall and those bastards at Duke never gave us respect."
"Hey, I have a friend...", I began, but got cut off.
"They never gave us respect. They come up to you and they do not give you any respect. You've got to give people respect, you know what I mean?", he asked me.
I did not know what he meant. I still don't know what giving respect means. I'm sure it means something because people here seem to be big on getting respect from other people.
"Look at that guy, he looks like a woman", he said, in a tone of considerable loathing. Evidently, he was having a hard time coming to terms with the long hair of a Duke player.
It was at this point, fortunately, that food appeared in front of him. It was a plate containing four slices of cake, a strange thing to order in a sports bar, but maybe it's a Seton Hall thing. He began to eat, thereby putting his saliva to better use.
Just as I was beginning to think he was done for the day, he again jumped up and pointed at the screen.
"Dammit what is with the long hair? Hey buddy, why don't you get a haircut?"
I noticed that the channel had switched to a women's basketball game. Regardless, I let him continue with his rant. Then, a stroke of luck.
"I gotta go to the bathroom", he said and left. There was still a slice of cake remaining in his plate.
"Is this seat taken?", someone asked me.
"Nope, it's all yours", I replied.
The bartender walked up and cleared away the cake. The leech was gone.
Somehow every time I sit at a bar, I am accosted by a leech. A couple of weeks ago, I was enjoying a quiet evening with zambezi in a bar in Jersey and a leech attached itself to us. This time it was a Jamaican woman and I won't say it was zambezi's fault, but it really was his fault because he began talking to her about what was wrong with the New York Knicks and about the problem lying with upper management and the Knicks having too many people playing the same position and all that talk was like showing a lettuce farmer a cartload of fresh manure and it made her spread out her roots like a banyan tree and then she made herself comfortable among us. She had one of the most irritating habits I've ever observed in any human being, basically after every sentence, she would stop and look very amazed at what she had just said and it was as if she was trying to transmit that amazement from her face to yours through sheer facial muscle exertion and honestly, what she was saying wasn't really very amazement-inducing at all. But basically, I had not driven 200 miles to spend my Friday night listening to a Jamaican woman babble on and on about the New York Knicks and look amazed so it was making me extremely frustrated. I don't know what zambezi was thinking at that point.
But the final camel that broke it's own back was when we finally extricated ourselves from the conversation and went outside in order to smoke, she goddamn followed us there and that was when zambezi finally told her, hey it's been great talking to you, bye bye. And we went back inside and took her drink and placed it ten blocks away from us. Sometimes you have to be cruel in order to move on with your own life. Oh and by a strange coincidence, this woman was from Seton Hall as well. And so is zambezi. Goddamn Seton Hall people.
But I think my worst experience with a leech was when I was accosted by a Jesus freak in a TGIF back when I was in New Hampshire, and it wasn't even a friday. For about two hours, yes, two hours this guy tried to convert me to Christianity. Only after I had promised him that I would at least try to attend church this sunday would he let me leave. Obviously that event had a lot to do with my eventual conversion to sado-masotheism. Sorry Jesus freak, no wings for you this lifetime.
Also, it's football playoff season and when you are watching your team play, it is a much more enjoyable experience with other people around you just so you can share the joy when a player on the other team breaks a leg or gets paralyzed from the waist down, nah I'm just kidding, what am I, a savage? No, we like it when they can get off the field without a cart.
But usually the give and take of fan happiness merely includes group slogan shouting, high fiving, or in the worst case scenario, helping other people off the floor after they've fallen from their chairs in ecstasy. There's always one guy who keeps doing that. Always one. But apart from these humanitarian exchanges, usually when I go to a bar, I keep my distance away from my fellow barflies because the thing about bars is that they serve alcohol and when people get alcohol inside them, they turn quite garrulous and excessively chummy and then the natural reaction for them is to grab the coat collar (or the spaghetti strap) of the person next to them and chew his or her ear off. That is why when I'm in a bar I like to pretend that I'm a foreigner and cannot speak English and I do a great job pulling it off because as it turns out I am a foreigner.
But, sometimes, the percentage alcohol by volume of the person is so high that it pierces through his, I won't say xenophobia, let's call it xenoreluctance, and when that happens, you're in trouble. For example, last weekend, as I was sitting in a sports bar watching the Cowboys game, wearing my brand new Eagles Jersey, this guy walked up to me and yelled in my ear, "You guys are gonna LOSE tomorrow". The capitalization of the word "Lose" was intentional and meant to convey the additional increase in decibel level for that word. And then he unzipped his jacket and showed me what was inside and underneath was a New York Giants jersey. Since I was also mildly buzzed from the beer and thus, more prone to expletive release, I yelled at him, "No Fucking Way, buddy".
He looked confused because I guess he wasn't used to foreigners swearing at him and walked away, apparently miffed. I felt a bit bad because I didn't know whether I had hurt his feelings or not. Miss Manners says Giants fans are also people, after all.
Which is why when I found myself sitting next to him at the bar after a few minutes, I took the uncharacteristic step of voluntarily starting a conversation with him because, you know, I'm getting old and I do not derive as much pleasure from hurting people's feelings as I used to.
"So what do you think about tomorrow's game?", I asked him.
I wasn't sure if he would recognize me through his beer goggles.
"Gonna be a tough one", he replied. Apparently he did.
"What's the deal with Eli", I asked him, instantly regretting my decision.
He launched on a detailed explanation of what the deal was with Eli. I listened patiently and then after convincing myself that I had paid off my dues, went back inside my shell and to my chicken wings.
"You guys are gonna LOSE tomorrow", he continued.
Goddamn, I thought we'd already gone over this, I said to myself. I began my nodding routine, the precursor for complete ignoring. In the meantime, I had also realized, to my dismay, that the guy was a shower head, one of those people who are quite generous with their saliva during a conversation. And I was eating.
"I like that ad", he said dreamily. That horrible car commercial with the people dancing and singing to that Sound of Music song. I opened my mouth to say something.
"Fuck Duke", the guy suddenly yelled.
"What?"
Apparently a Duke basketball game was on.
"You got something against Duke?", I asked.
"Yeah, I'm from Seton Hall and those bastards at Duke never gave us respect."
"Hey, I have a friend...", I began, but got cut off.
"They never gave us respect. They come up to you and they do not give you any respect. You've got to give people respect, you know what I mean?", he asked me.
I did not know what he meant. I still don't know what giving respect means. I'm sure it means something because people here seem to be big on getting respect from other people.
"Look at that guy, he looks like a woman", he said, in a tone of considerable loathing. Evidently, he was having a hard time coming to terms with the long hair of a Duke player.
It was at this point, fortunately, that food appeared in front of him. It was a plate containing four slices of cake, a strange thing to order in a sports bar, but maybe it's a Seton Hall thing. He began to eat, thereby putting his saliva to better use.
Just as I was beginning to think he was done for the day, he again jumped up and pointed at the screen.
"Dammit what is with the long hair? Hey buddy, why don't you get a haircut?"
I noticed that the channel had switched to a women's basketball game. Regardless, I let him continue with his rant. Then, a stroke of luck.
"I gotta go to the bathroom", he said and left. There was still a slice of cake remaining in his plate.
"Is this seat taken?", someone asked me.
"Nope, it's all yours", I replied.
The bartender walked up and cleared away the cake. The leech was gone.
Somehow every time I sit at a bar, I am accosted by a leech. A couple of weeks ago, I was enjoying a quiet evening with zambezi in a bar in Jersey and a leech attached itself to us. This time it was a Jamaican woman and I won't say it was zambezi's fault, but it really was his fault because he began talking to her about what was wrong with the New York Knicks and about the problem lying with upper management and the Knicks having too many people playing the same position and all that talk was like showing a lettuce farmer a cartload of fresh manure and it made her spread out her roots like a banyan tree and then she made herself comfortable among us. She had one of the most irritating habits I've ever observed in any human being, basically after every sentence, she would stop and look very amazed at what she had just said and it was as if she was trying to transmit that amazement from her face to yours through sheer facial muscle exertion and honestly, what she was saying wasn't really very amazement-inducing at all. But basically, I had not driven 200 miles to spend my Friday night listening to a Jamaican woman babble on and on about the New York Knicks and look amazed so it was making me extremely frustrated. I don't know what zambezi was thinking at that point.
But the final camel that broke it's own back was when we finally extricated ourselves from the conversation and went outside in order to smoke, she goddamn followed us there and that was when zambezi finally told her, hey it's been great talking to you, bye bye. And we went back inside and took her drink and placed it ten blocks away from us. Sometimes you have to be cruel in order to move on with your own life. Oh and by a strange coincidence, this woman was from Seton Hall as well. And so is zambezi. Goddamn Seton Hall people.
But I think my worst experience with a leech was when I was accosted by a Jesus freak in a TGIF back when I was in New Hampshire, and it wasn't even a friday. For about two hours, yes, two hours this guy tried to convert me to Christianity. Only after I had promised him that I would at least try to attend church this sunday would he let me leave. Obviously that event had a lot to do with my eventual conversion to sado-masotheism. Sorry Jesus freak, no wings for you this lifetime.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
I was a good friend in my dreams
Last night I helped a very good friend of mine exhume a corpse. It was surprising to me because under normal circumstances I would have expected him to request my assistance in burying a corpse, not digging one up. I was squeamish at first because I have seen exhumed corpses on tv and they are not pretty or maybe it was that I have only seen the ugly ones. And they smell because they haven't showered for several days.
And I wanted to tell my friend that it had been nice knowing him all this while but digging up corpses was not something I had ever envisioned myself doing even in my dreams and that now it was time for us to go our separate ways. But then I remembered how he had put up with me and my wife for over a month after I had lost my job and I had no money, nowhere to live and nothing to drink and my heart melted.
So I walked back to him standing forlorn over the hole that wasn't yet there. "Give me that shovel", I said to him gently and began digging up the asphalt, for strangely enough, it was in the middle of a parking lot that my friend had hidden his bounty. He was always a bizarre one.
And I wanted to tell my friend that it had been nice knowing him all this while but digging up corpses was not something I had ever envisioned myself doing even in my dreams and that now it was time for us to go our separate ways. But then I remembered how he had put up with me and my wife for over a month after I had lost my job and I had no money, nowhere to live and nothing to drink and my heart melted.
So I walked back to him standing forlorn over the hole that wasn't yet there. "Give me that shovel", I said to him gently and began digging up the asphalt, for strangely enough, it was in the middle of a parking lot that my friend had hidden his bounty. He was always a bizarre one.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
The long weekend
A 5 hour spontaneously planned drive from Philly to Massachusetts pretty much for no specific purpose at all.
Lunatic drivers in New Jersey, extreme gasoline-fume-fueled heat in New York City and strategically positioned traffic delays on I-95 in Connecticut. All part of the fun of driving from the Mid-Atlantic to New England.
Tea halt in Rocky Hill, Connecticut. Observed old cranky man in Denny's yelling at the waitress for cutting his turkey club sandwich the wrong way. On being told it was how they did it for seniors, claimed not to be a senior.
The old Alma Mater. Looking older. Looking a bit run-down. But still looking great.
Puffer's Pond. Robert Frost's alleged haunt. For me, the site of countless hours spent in idle daydreaming. No poetry did result.
Was informed at every motel that I visited that it's graduation 2006. Everything's booked up. No place to sleep.
The Holiday Inn Express at Hadley, Massachusetts. Where the teenaged receptionists had halos around their heads and worked in pairs, calling up everyone in the neighbourhood, trying to find me a bed out of the sheer goodness of their hearts. That's how they do things in New England.
Stood and waved at this live webcam outside Antonio's pizza. The last time I did it I was in a position to run back to my apartment and run the archived video of my waving.
Sushi dinner in a great new Japanese restaurant in Amherst that hadn't existed during my time. Pity.
Amherst Brewing Company (ABC). The old watering hole. The site of numerous good times. Today, it would be the Two Sisters Imperial Stout and the Graduation Ale. Both awesome brews.Then, Massatucky Brown. Fuckallness of the beer compensated by the immensely nostalgic nature of it's name.
BBC Steel Rail Pale Ale on the motel bed watching Glengarry Glen Ross.
Loss of consciousness.
Coffee at Cumberland Farms in North Amherst. Lost count of how many cigarettes were smoked, standing outside the joint, drinking coffee at 3.00 am with friends. The place also has a large collection of coffee mugs which I succeeded, to a large degree, in appropriating for myself. Legally, of course. After graduation, I donated my collection of Cumberland Farms coffee mugs to charity.
Lunch at the only Indian restaurant in downtown Amherst, wondering why I'd never gone there during my student days. We always used to frequent the one in Northampton, about 15 miles away.
Lunch over, I realized why not. Blech.
The Mystery Train Record Store. Haven for starving young music nuts. One of the few places in the world where you will find a used cd for a buck. Enter the store and you will hear the low mumblings of a man over gently plucked guitar tones. It turns out that's the ambient music. The kind of music you wish you were hip enough to appreciate. When I was a student, come paycheck time, half of it used to disappear promptly down the maw of this beast. No regrets, though.
Mt Sugarloaf in Sunderland. Bird's eye view of the Connecticut River.
The Montague Book Mill. Motto : "Books you don't need in a place you can't find". Found it through a stroke of serendipity while biking the rural country roads of Western Massachusetts with a friend long long ago. Fell in love with it then and think about it all the time now. Could time be better spent than lounging in a window seat with a view of the gushing river, poring through a book? Well, yeah, lounging in a window seat with a view of the gushing river, poring through a book, swigging Alagash White on tap, of course.
Came to know a schoolmate was visiting Amherst at the same time I was there. Spent a couple of hours with him and his wife criticizing American immigration policy. A couple of pints of Honey Pilsner accompanied.
Another mate called up from Connecticut, asking me to come visit him and his folks, meaning his landlords. An hour and a half later, found myself drinking Steel Rail Pale Ale with him and the insane landlord couple on the deck of a house in the middle of a forest on the banks of a rushing stream. Flaming torches were scattered throughout the grounds, occupying the space between the house and the stream. A human-sized barbeque pit was positioned strategically near the stream, presumably for the convenient disposal of incinerated remains. I inquired whether virginal sacrifices were a common occurrence in this household. I was assured not to worry since tonight wasn't the time of the full moon.
Dinner took place under a canopy erected on the grounds in virtual darkness. Feeling my way around my plate, I could make out that the delicious smelling mountain of flesh lying therein was an entire uncarved bird of some sort, hopefully a chicken. Morsels of another unidentifiable animal accompanied the main course. Landlord couple talked about the time they had a blizzard party where everybody stripped down to their underwear and jumped into the snow.
Left New England at 12:00 a.m, intending to drive through the night.
Drove four hours back to Philly, trying to stay awake by yawning loud enough to dispel my own sleep.
An aimless, entirely enjoyable long weekend.
Lunatic drivers in New Jersey, extreme gasoline-fume-fueled heat in New York City and strategically positioned traffic delays on I-95 in Connecticut. All part of the fun of driving from the Mid-Atlantic to New England.
Tea halt in Rocky Hill, Connecticut. Observed old cranky man in Denny's yelling at the waitress for cutting his turkey club sandwich the wrong way. On being told it was how they did it for seniors, claimed not to be a senior.
The old Alma Mater. Looking older. Looking a bit run-down. But still looking great.
Puffer's Pond. Robert Frost's alleged haunt. For me, the site of countless hours spent in idle daydreaming. No poetry did result.
Was informed at every motel that I visited that it's graduation 2006. Everything's booked up. No place to sleep.
The Holiday Inn Express at Hadley, Massachusetts. Where the teenaged receptionists had halos around their heads and worked in pairs, calling up everyone in the neighbourhood, trying to find me a bed out of the sheer goodness of their hearts. That's how they do things in New England.
Stood and waved at this live webcam outside Antonio's pizza. The last time I did it I was in a position to run back to my apartment and run the archived video of my waving.
Sushi dinner in a great new Japanese restaurant in Amherst that hadn't existed during my time. Pity.
Amherst Brewing Company (ABC). The old watering hole. The site of numerous good times. Today, it would be the Two Sisters Imperial Stout and the Graduation Ale. Both awesome brews.Then, Massatucky Brown. Fuckallness of the beer compensated by the immensely nostalgic nature of it's name.
BBC Steel Rail Pale Ale on the motel bed watching Glengarry Glen Ross.
Loss of consciousness.
Coffee at Cumberland Farms in North Amherst. Lost count of how many cigarettes were smoked, standing outside the joint, drinking coffee at 3.00 am with friends. The place also has a large collection of coffee mugs which I succeeded, to a large degree, in appropriating for myself. Legally, of course. After graduation, I donated my collection of Cumberland Farms coffee mugs to charity.
Lunch at the only Indian restaurant in downtown Amherst, wondering why I'd never gone there during my student days. We always used to frequent the one in Northampton, about 15 miles away.
Lunch over, I realized why not. Blech.
The Mystery Train Record Store. Haven for starving young music nuts. One of the few places in the world where you will find a used cd for a buck. Enter the store and you will hear the low mumblings of a man over gently plucked guitar tones. It turns out that's the ambient music. The kind of music you wish you were hip enough to appreciate. When I was a student, come paycheck time, half of it used to disappear promptly down the maw of this beast. No regrets, though.
Mt Sugarloaf in Sunderland. Bird's eye view of the Connecticut River.
The Montague Book Mill. Motto : "Books you don't need in a place you can't find". Found it through a stroke of serendipity while biking the rural country roads of Western Massachusetts with a friend long long ago. Fell in love with it then and think about it all the time now. Could time be better spent than lounging in a window seat with a view of the gushing river, poring through a book? Well, yeah, lounging in a window seat with a view of the gushing river, poring through a book, swigging Alagash White on tap, of course.
Came to know a schoolmate was visiting Amherst at the same time I was there. Spent a couple of hours with him and his wife criticizing American immigration policy. A couple of pints of Honey Pilsner accompanied.
Another mate called up from Connecticut, asking me to come visit him and his folks, meaning his landlords. An hour and a half later, found myself drinking Steel Rail Pale Ale with him and the insane landlord couple on the deck of a house in the middle of a forest on the banks of a rushing stream. Flaming torches were scattered throughout the grounds, occupying the space between the house and the stream. A human-sized barbeque pit was positioned strategically near the stream, presumably for the convenient disposal of incinerated remains. I inquired whether virginal sacrifices were a common occurrence in this household. I was assured not to worry since tonight wasn't the time of the full moon.
Dinner took place under a canopy erected on the grounds in virtual darkness. Feeling my way around my plate, I could make out that the delicious smelling mountain of flesh lying therein was an entire uncarved bird of some sort, hopefully a chicken. Morsels of another unidentifiable animal accompanied the main course. Landlord couple talked about the time they had a blizzard party where everybody stripped down to their underwear and jumped into the snow.
Left New England at 12:00 a.m, intending to drive through the night.
Drove four hours back to Philly, trying to stay awake by yawning loud enough to dispel my own sleep.
An aimless, entirely enjoyable long weekend.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
The hunt for Alice
The University of Pune is a much respected institute of higher learning. Nestled in a lush verdant campus that is almost entirely covered by a canopy of trees, it is also dotted with occasional meadows and stone buildings from the colonial era. Furthermore, it is also generously endowed with a number of those nooks and crannies that are indispensable to student lovers who prefer to engage in canoodling activities away from the public eye. A note to male canoodlers : Before embarking upon your canoodling expedition, please make sure you have 500 rupees in your wallet. That is the going rate, at least it was about 10 years ago, for being discovered in the act of canoodling by a university watchman, who, after the appropriate remuneration has been made, will reciprocate your philanthropy by refraining from reporting you to your canoodlee's parents.
However, the night this particular narrative begins, very little canoodling was going on in the university campus due to the lateness of the hour. There were more serious activities afoot. Ghost hunting. It was examination time and I, along with a few of my buddies, was sitting in a car by the side of the road in an isolated wooded section of the campus on the lookout for a ghost.
During the years I attended engineering college in Pune, examination time has always been the period during every academic year that has been spent indulging in activities of the least academic nature. For one, the onset of exams allows you to spend more time with your friends under the guise of overnight study sessions. And if you have been blessed with friends such as the ones I have, study sessions have always had less to do with textbooks and more to do with making tea, scrambling eggs, cooking up homemade methods of stealing the neighbour's cable tv and inventing newer and more efficient ways of travelling to the future by murdering time in the present.
However, this study night was different. Tomorrow was the math exam. The difficulty and extreme incomprehensibility of the study material cried out for a different approach to the problem. Going ghost hunting would be a perfect solution. So we piled into the car, drove to the university and made ourselves comfortable for the long night to follow.
One of the most famous and poignant ghosts in all of Pune has to be that of Alice Richman whose mortal remains lie buried on the university campus. Alice was a British / Australian woman who lived in Pune during the colonial era. She died of cholera and was buried in the exact spot of her death and has lain there ever since. Hers is a solitary grave at the end of a clearing in the woods that has always been popular among the more studious of the university's denizens who come there to meditate upon life, love and organic chemistry. But apparently Alice's material demise wasn't immediately followed by the demise of her soul, which, as legend goes, still prowls around her grave in a gown made of the customary translucent white fabric popular among members of the spirit community, terrifying hidden lovers into premature ejaculation.
So the night crept along as we sat in our car and gazed at the exact spot inside the forest where we knew Alice's grave was. There was no sign of ghosts or apparitions. It was dark and the road was illuminated by a single lamp which suddenly died out. Far ahead along the same road we could see the characteristic bobbing light of a drunken caretaker's torch. But we weren't interested in caretakers. We continued to stare.
After a lot of staring and fruitless vigilance, our patience gave out. "Let's walk upto the grave", someone said. "Maybe she's feeling lazy tonight and isn't gonna wander". "I'll do it if one of you comes with me", said M, a member of our troupe. A word about M. If you are planning to go on a ghost hunting trip, M shouldn't be your first choice as a partner in your endeavour. He has this very disagreeable trait of of accompanying you to the spot in question, then screaming aloud, feigning terror and running away, leaving you yammering wha? who? where? as you follow his fleeing silhouette. A few weeks ago, we had been to the other supposedly haunted location in Pune called the Napier hotel, a ruined structure that sits within dilapidated grounds in the cantonment area. Our objective, no doubt to bolster our budding manhoods, was to enter the hotel premises surreptitiously and urinate on the walls of the building.
So we had walked through the brush and overgrown weeds in the hotel yard, climbed into the darkened building over its crumbling walls and realized that we were too late. Like Captain Scott in his failed bid to capture the South Pole, we had been beaten to our destination by bovine intruders. The place was covered with a whole lot of cow faeces. But hey, if nothing else, we would at least leave our own mark on this hallowed ground. Collective urination began in earnest.
That was the perfect time for M to do his thing. After waiting for the strategically opportune moment of peak urinary discharge, he emitted a loud shriek and ran out of the building. Terrified by this sudden development, struggling with our zippers, the rest of us ran around like beheaded chickens, traipsing through all the cow dung, finally making it outside the building and onto the road where M was enjoying a bout of hysterics.
So that was the reason why none of us were individually agreeing to take M up on his challenge. After a prolonged deliberation, it was agreed upon by mutual consensus that we would all go into the woods. It was also made very clear that if M were to even consider repeating a Napier, the iron fist of retribution would fall upon him with deadly consequences.
We got out of the car and made our way through the woods. We had a single torch that was used by the person first in line to choose the path least conducive for the hike, thus leading to constant demands from people further behind in the line to give them the fucking torch if he didn't know what he was doing. We wandered around but we just couldn't find the grave. We had lost our bearings. It's very easy to do that in the dark. We continued to search for it. Suddenly, the torchlight shone on marble and fencing. We realized that we were actually standing on the grave. Alice was beneath us. This realization led to confusion, terror and a mass exodus. We ran through the woods in the direction opposite to which we had entered.
Suddenly, the woods ended and we stumbled into a clearing containing a pond with lotus leaves floating on top. Behind the pond was a square stone building that shone in the moonlight. And I couldn't help asking myself where the fuck had I seen this building before? Then I realized that the oil painting that hung above my bed back in my room portrayed this very structure. I also remembered that when we had purchased the painting, the artist had informed us that the subject of his art was located in the university campus.
So we went back to the car after finding the path back to the road. We drove home, my friends not very happy due to the failure of our mission to get aquainted with Alice. I, however, found myself musing with a strange contentment. The night had been productive for me.
However, the night this particular narrative begins, very little canoodling was going on in the university campus due to the lateness of the hour. There were more serious activities afoot. Ghost hunting. It was examination time and I, along with a few of my buddies, was sitting in a car by the side of the road in an isolated wooded section of the campus on the lookout for a ghost.
During the years I attended engineering college in Pune, examination time has always been the period during every academic year that has been spent indulging in activities of the least academic nature. For one, the onset of exams allows you to spend more time with your friends under the guise of overnight study sessions. And if you have been blessed with friends such as the ones I have, study sessions have always had less to do with textbooks and more to do with making tea, scrambling eggs, cooking up homemade methods of stealing the neighbour's cable tv and inventing newer and more efficient ways of travelling to the future by murdering time in the present.
However, this study night was different. Tomorrow was the math exam. The difficulty and extreme incomprehensibility of the study material cried out for a different approach to the problem. Going ghost hunting would be a perfect solution. So we piled into the car, drove to the university and made ourselves comfortable for the long night to follow.
One of the most famous and poignant ghosts in all of Pune has to be that of Alice Richman whose mortal remains lie buried on the university campus. Alice was a British / Australian woman who lived in Pune during the colonial era. She died of cholera and was buried in the exact spot of her death and has lain there ever since. Hers is a solitary grave at the end of a clearing in the woods that has always been popular among the more studious of the university's denizens who come there to meditate upon life, love and organic chemistry. But apparently Alice's material demise wasn't immediately followed by the demise of her soul, which, as legend goes, still prowls around her grave in a gown made of the customary translucent white fabric popular among members of the spirit community, terrifying hidden lovers into premature ejaculation.
So the night crept along as we sat in our car and gazed at the exact spot inside the forest where we knew Alice's grave was. There was no sign of ghosts or apparitions. It was dark and the road was illuminated by a single lamp which suddenly died out. Far ahead along the same road we could see the characteristic bobbing light of a drunken caretaker's torch. But we weren't interested in caretakers. We continued to stare.
After a lot of staring and fruitless vigilance, our patience gave out. "Let's walk upto the grave", someone said. "Maybe she's feeling lazy tonight and isn't gonna wander". "I'll do it if one of you comes with me", said M, a member of our troupe. A word about M. If you are planning to go on a ghost hunting trip, M shouldn't be your first choice as a partner in your endeavour. He has this very disagreeable trait of of accompanying you to the spot in question, then screaming aloud, feigning terror and running away, leaving you yammering wha? who? where? as you follow his fleeing silhouette. A few weeks ago, we had been to the other supposedly haunted location in Pune called the Napier hotel, a ruined structure that sits within dilapidated grounds in the cantonment area. Our objective, no doubt to bolster our budding manhoods, was to enter the hotel premises surreptitiously and urinate on the walls of the building.
So we had walked through the brush and overgrown weeds in the hotel yard, climbed into the darkened building over its crumbling walls and realized that we were too late. Like Captain Scott in his failed bid to capture the South Pole, we had been beaten to our destination by bovine intruders. The place was covered with a whole lot of cow faeces. But hey, if nothing else, we would at least leave our own mark on this hallowed ground. Collective urination began in earnest.
That was the perfect time for M to do his thing. After waiting for the strategically opportune moment of peak urinary discharge, he emitted a loud shriek and ran out of the building. Terrified by this sudden development, struggling with our zippers, the rest of us ran around like beheaded chickens, traipsing through all the cow dung, finally making it outside the building and onto the road where M was enjoying a bout of hysterics.
So that was the reason why none of us were individually agreeing to take M up on his challenge. After a prolonged deliberation, it was agreed upon by mutual consensus that we would all go into the woods. It was also made very clear that if M were to even consider repeating a Napier, the iron fist of retribution would fall upon him with deadly consequences.
We got out of the car and made our way through the woods. We had a single torch that was used by the person first in line to choose the path least conducive for the hike, thus leading to constant demands from people further behind in the line to give them the fucking torch if he didn't know what he was doing. We wandered around but we just couldn't find the grave. We had lost our bearings. It's very easy to do that in the dark. We continued to search for it. Suddenly, the torchlight shone on marble and fencing. We realized that we were actually standing on the grave. Alice was beneath us. This realization led to confusion, terror and a mass exodus. We ran through the woods in the direction opposite to which we had entered.
Suddenly, the woods ended and we stumbled into a clearing containing a pond with lotus leaves floating on top. Behind the pond was a square stone building that shone in the moonlight. And I couldn't help asking myself where the fuck had I seen this building before? Then I realized that the oil painting that hung above my bed back in my room portrayed this very structure. I also remembered that when we had purchased the painting, the artist had informed us that the subject of his art was located in the university campus.
So we went back to the car after finding the path back to the road. We drove home, my friends not very happy due to the failure of our mission to get aquainted with Alice. I, however, found myself musing with a strange contentment. The night had been productive for me.
Friday, March 03, 2006
An ode to zambezi
I was listening to Jagjit Singh yesterday. Everytime I listen to Jagjit Singh or ghazals in general, it reminds me of my friend zambezi who has been pretty active in the comments section lately but hasn't commented for a while now because he is sick. This post will be an ode to zambezi. We go back a long time, almost seven years now. Zambezi is a guy who lives in New Jersey. He is very good looking for a Kannadiga and not ashamed to let you know about it. The first time I met him he looked like a hippy DJ from Manhattan. He had a ring in his ear then. I don't know what happened to that ring and if he now wears it in his nose or somewhere else inside his pants which would be a painful place for a ring to be in. Zambezi had travelled from New Jersey to Massachusetts to meet me, where I was doing my masters degree.
I think the first time that we met we spent most of our time drinking all throughout the weekend because drinking was the only way friends spent time together in those days. We visited the Quabbin reservoir in central Massachusetts which is a pretty nice spot. The dam at Quabbin has a sign which bizarrely informs people that "Rolling down the side of the dam is prohibited". Quabbin is apparently the number one tourist destination for dam-side-rolling which sounds like an interesting hobby. After zambezi visited me, I then visited him in Jersey and was surprised and terrified to find that he lived in a ghetto. We had some adventures, which mostly consisted of driving around in the ghetto blasting rap music and acting like idiots. But it was a good time.
We went to Atlantic City and gambled with a couple of other friends. Zambezi did some strange things during that trip including assaulting one of our friends in the group for some vague reason. I think the friend kept touching and pushing zambezi around in a friendly fashion and zambezi didn't like it. It put a damper on the night. Zambezi is a big fellow and fighting him is kind of difficult. I tried once and ended up losing my virginity. We did Atlantic City once more. The second time it was just me and him and we had to drive around in Southern New Jersey for an hour in a drunken state to find a place to sleep. Finally, we found refuge in a Desi motel and shared a bed containing a visible infestation of bed bugs. We asked the motel manager where Wharton State forest was because we had seen it on a map and we desired to visit it. The guy said he didn't know. The next morning we came to know that we had stayed the night in Wharton state forest. I wonder if the manager was even aware that he was in the US.
Zambezi then came back to Massachusetts to visit me once more. I had just bought a new car then. Zambezi was enamored by the dashboard lighting of my car which, as one internet reviewer says, "Has a feel similar to the cockpit of a plane without the bother of fighting hijackers". This trip led to him buying a Volkswagen for himself a few years later, which was then stolen by someone else who had a similar fascination for Volkswagen dashboards. We drove up Mt Washington, the highest peak in New England. I barely knew how to drive then and I think I was an arrogant young prick because I wouldn't do it now even if you paid me to. I accept all payments through Paypal. It was summer and we were wearing shorts. At the foot of the mountain, it was a warm 75 degrees. When we reached the top of the mountain, the temperature was sub zero and ball freeze occurred within minutes. Back then we were smokers. After we scaled the summit, we had a smoke in celebration. And then our lungs gave out, we suddenly couldn't breathe and had to sit down because of the thin air. As I said, we were arrogant young pricks.
I think returning back from Mt Washington was one of the best drives I've ever had. We were driving through the green farmland of Vermont as seen in the title picture of this blog and dotted with those picturesque grain silos and farmhouses. Dusk was falling and there was no traffic so I put the car in cruise control, and then we put on some Ghulam Ali and spent a quiet two hours together. Ghulam Ali while cruising through the dusk in Vermont. Nothing quite like it.
Zambezi got married recently and he still lives in Jersey. If he put his mind to it, I think he could even run for Governor. He has a good personality and people seem to like him. I don't know why I compiled a post on zambezi. Probably because I don't have anything else to say today. I will probably compile a post on my other friend, Slime next.
I think the first time that we met we spent most of our time drinking all throughout the weekend because drinking was the only way friends spent time together in those days. We visited the Quabbin reservoir in central Massachusetts which is a pretty nice spot. The dam at Quabbin has a sign which bizarrely informs people that "Rolling down the side of the dam is prohibited". Quabbin is apparently the number one tourist destination for dam-side-rolling which sounds like an interesting hobby. After zambezi visited me, I then visited him in Jersey and was surprised and terrified to find that he lived in a ghetto. We had some adventures, which mostly consisted of driving around in the ghetto blasting rap music and acting like idiots. But it was a good time.
We went to Atlantic City and gambled with a couple of other friends. Zambezi did some strange things during that trip including assaulting one of our friends in the group for some vague reason. I think the friend kept touching and pushing zambezi around in a friendly fashion and zambezi didn't like it. It put a damper on the night. Zambezi is a big fellow and fighting him is kind of difficult. I tried once and ended up losing my virginity. We did Atlantic City once more. The second time it was just me and him and we had to drive around in Southern New Jersey for an hour in a drunken state to find a place to sleep. Finally, we found refuge in a Desi motel and shared a bed containing a visible infestation of bed bugs. We asked the motel manager where Wharton State forest was because we had seen it on a map and we desired to visit it. The guy said he didn't know. The next morning we came to know that we had stayed the night in Wharton state forest. I wonder if the manager was even aware that he was in the US.
Zambezi then came back to Massachusetts to visit me once more. I had just bought a new car then. Zambezi was enamored by the dashboard lighting of my car which, as one internet reviewer says, "Has a feel similar to the cockpit of a plane without the bother of fighting hijackers". This trip led to him buying a Volkswagen for himself a few years later, which was then stolen by someone else who had a similar fascination for Volkswagen dashboards. We drove up Mt Washington, the highest peak in New England. I barely knew how to drive then and I think I was an arrogant young prick because I wouldn't do it now even if you paid me to. I accept all payments through Paypal. It was summer and we were wearing shorts. At the foot of the mountain, it was a warm 75 degrees. When we reached the top of the mountain, the temperature was sub zero and ball freeze occurred within minutes. Back then we were smokers. After we scaled the summit, we had a smoke in celebration. And then our lungs gave out, we suddenly couldn't breathe and had to sit down because of the thin air. As I said, we were arrogant young pricks.
I think returning back from Mt Washington was one of the best drives I've ever had. We were driving through the green farmland of Vermont as seen in the title picture of this blog and dotted with those picturesque grain silos and farmhouses. Dusk was falling and there was no traffic so I put the car in cruise control, and then we put on some Ghulam Ali and spent a quiet two hours together. Ghulam Ali while cruising through the dusk in Vermont. Nothing quite like it.
Zambezi got married recently and he still lives in Jersey. If he put his mind to it, I think he could even run for Governor. He has a good personality and people seem to like him. I don't know why I compiled a post on zambezi. Probably because I don't have anything else to say today. I will probably compile a post on my other friend, Slime next.
Friday, January 20, 2006
How technology has revolutionized drunken debating
There was a time as recent as a couple of years ago that chronically inebriated people didn't have a lot of say in geopolitical matters. What used to happen was when chronically inebriated people, who, for the sake of convenience, I'll call "drunks", used to meet together to discuss current affairs, pretty soon alcohol containers would make their appearance, would be cracked open and the discussion would be carried out accompanied by heavy drinking. The problem was that even if the political wisdom of the debaters exceeded that of the common man, once the increased blood alcohol level of the drunk began to derail his train of thought, he would be reduced to a babbling coot.
So old-time drinkbates would look something like this :
"The country did tremendously well during the BJP reign. I would give you concrete examples if I weren't so shitfaced."
"But what about everyone who is not a software engineer? Are they doing as well too? No. And the reason I know that is because ..... I can't remember, but I'm sure I had a darn good reason."
"It takes time for the money to trickle down. Trickling down is slow. Imagine a traffic jam. I forgot what I was gonna say."
"We need more investment in the rural sector. The Congress would do it. We need more investment in the rural sector. The Congress would do it."
"The Congress is just Sonia Gandhi's bitch. You know what?"
"Who?"
"What?"
"What were you saying?"
"Forget it."
"I need to pee."
But that was before blogging arose as the medium of choice for every average Joe to put his political opinions into writing. So now, during the short periods of sobriety that dot every political drunk's day, he is free to ruminate on the affairs of the day and write his thesis on them while he is still clear headed. And afterwards, when the coterie of drunks meets again for their debate, it goes like this :
"The country did tremendously well during the BJP reign. I wrote a post on my blog on this topic yesterday which illustrates that point extremely well. You should read it."
"But what about everyone who is not a software engineer? Are they doing as well too? No. Refer to my post from a couple of days ago where I make that point abundantly clear."
"It takes time for the economy to trickle down. Trickling is slow. For an apt analogy, visit my blog and read today's post."
And so on and so forth. And instead of getting bogged down in a morass of undelivered viewpoints and unemptied bladders, the debate continues on to its logical conclusion. In fact, this technique works so well that I used it in practice while I was in India and can attest to it's effectiveness. The only problem is, since there is no computer nearby to verify whether the debater actually has written a post of which he speaks so proudly, it is possible for fake debaters to enter the argument and do pretty well too. But I guess every technological innovation has it's loopholes.
So old-time drinkbates would look something like this :
"The country did tremendously well during the BJP reign. I would give you concrete examples if I weren't so shitfaced."
"But what about everyone who is not a software engineer? Are they doing as well too? No. And the reason I know that is because ..... I can't remember, but I'm sure I had a darn good reason."
"It takes time for the money to trickle down. Trickling down is slow. Imagine a traffic jam. I forgot what I was gonna say."
"We need more investment in the rural sector. The Congress would do it. We need more investment in the rural sector. The Congress would do it."
"The Congress is just Sonia Gandhi's bitch. You know what?"
"Who?"
"What?"
"What were you saying?"
"Forget it."
"I need to pee."
But that was before blogging arose as the medium of choice for every average Joe to put his political opinions into writing. So now, during the short periods of sobriety that dot every political drunk's day, he is free to ruminate on the affairs of the day and write his thesis on them while he is still clear headed. And afterwards, when the coterie of drunks meets again for their debate, it goes like this :
"The country did tremendously well during the BJP reign. I wrote a post on my blog on this topic yesterday which illustrates that point extremely well. You should read it."
"But what about everyone who is not a software engineer? Are they doing as well too? No. Refer to my post from a couple of days ago where I make that point abundantly clear."
"It takes time for the economy to trickle down. Trickling is slow. For an apt analogy, visit my blog and read today's post."
And so on and so forth. And instead of getting bogged down in a morass of undelivered viewpoints and unemptied bladders, the debate continues on to its logical conclusion. In fact, this technique works so well that I used it in practice while I was in India and can attest to it's effectiveness. The only problem is, since there is no computer nearby to verify whether the debater actually has written a post of which he speaks so proudly, it is possible for fake debaters to enter the argument and do pretty well too. But I guess every technological innovation has it's loopholes.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
The starving people of Africa
So I'm sitting in Barista with my friends in India and eating a smoked chicken sandwich which costs 45 rupees or so. Thats one dollar. It's kinda funny that when I first came to the US, I used to convert everything into rupees. Now I do the opposite in India.
Anyways, I eat the sandwich but leave the hard edges uneaten. 'Cause I guess I've become Americanized and that's what Americans apparently do. Just like they leave the hard crust of a pizza untouched and uneaten while an Indian (apparently) will eat the whole thing wrapper and all. I have it on very good authority.
My friend D who is observing me closely with a hungry look on his face, frowns at me. D didn't order anything to eat. The reason he didn't order anything is because he was pissed off at the manager. D had wanted an iced coffee or some shit that had ice in it. And he had been told that they do not have ice. That made D mad because according to D, everytime he went to any Barista, they always told him that he couldn't have the iced shit because they were out of ice. So, D gave the Barista manager a piece of his mind, advising him that if they didn't have any ice they should just take down the fucking menu that contained any references to ice, for God's sake. And that just because they did not have any ice, he would not be ordering anything at all. They had just lost his business, D raged.
So now, as D watches me discarding the hard sandwich crust, he says, "What are you doing man? There are people starving in Africa and you are discarding food? Shame on you." And D opens a packet of ketchup lying on the table, spreads it all over my uneaten crusts and starts belting them.
And I say "But D, I don't understand. How are the starving people of Africa going to be benefited by you eating my bread crusts with ketchup?"
And far off in the distance, I hear a pin drop.
Anyways, I eat the sandwich but leave the hard edges uneaten. 'Cause I guess I've become Americanized and that's what Americans apparently do. Just like they leave the hard crust of a pizza untouched and uneaten while an Indian (apparently) will eat the whole thing wrapper and all. I have it on very good authority.
My friend D who is observing me closely with a hungry look on his face, frowns at me. D didn't order anything to eat. The reason he didn't order anything is because he was pissed off at the manager. D had wanted an iced coffee or some shit that had ice in it. And he had been told that they do not have ice. That made D mad because according to D, everytime he went to any Barista, they always told him that he couldn't have the iced shit because they were out of ice. So, D gave the Barista manager a piece of his mind, advising him that if they didn't have any ice they should just take down the fucking menu that contained any references to ice, for God's sake. And that just because they did not have any ice, he would not be ordering anything at all. They had just lost his business, D raged.
So now, as D watches me discarding the hard sandwich crust, he says, "What are you doing man? There are people starving in Africa and you are discarding food? Shame on you." And D opens a packet of ketchup lying on the table, spreads it all over my uneaten crusts and starts belting them.
And I say "But D, I don't understand. How are the starving people of Africa going to be benefited by you eating my bread crusts with ketchup?"
And far off in the distance, I hear a pin drop.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
How abbreviations hide uncoolness
There was a time long long ago when I used to chat on an internet chatroom along with this guy called zambezi who nowadays makes it a point to visit my blog and call me an idiot in my comments. We were a superb pair, quite funny and people used to laugh at us. The great thing was, since both of us are attention whores, we love being in the spotlight and so, that added chemistry to our comic routine.
But one day, like mold on a perfectly delicious loaf of bread, there arrived on the scene a guy. He was a nice guy. He was also a cute guy. He was both nice and cute, and how can I be so certain of that? Because his nick was nicecuteguy, and fuck, if you can't trust someone's chat nick then what can you trust? So anyways, he took the chatroom by storm. Being both nice and cute, he was a worthy opponent to our duo. By and by, because being nice and cute also sometimes makes people think you are funny, people began to laugh at his jokes as well. He became popular, as popular as a guy named nicecuteguy can be.
Now I'll be honest. When I see nicks like nicecuteguy, or cutecuddlyguy or lovelyfunnywellhungguy and so on, I feel nauseous. I feel like I just downed a bottle of vodka neat and followed it up by smoking the wrong end of a cigarette. You should try that by the way. It's a secret known only to tobacco companies and Dennis Leary; Namely that the best part of a cigarette is in its filter.
So anyways, nicecuteguy was giving me an attack of indigestion by his sheer presence. However, being the non-nicked nice cute guy that I am, I didn't allow it to interfere in my interaction with him. By and by, nicecuteguy, probably through dialog and dicussion with people who shared my viewpoint of his nick but not of his guts, abbreviated his nick to ncg. And after some more time, people forgot what that ncg used to stand for.
Except me. So one day, when I was in a particularly foul mood, I picked a fight with nicecuteguy. 'Cause to me, he was still nicecuteguy. The fight was over golf. I said to no one in particular that I thought golf was a pretty lame-ass sport. Now nicecuteguy turned out to be a golf enthusiast. He had probably lost his tv remote pretty early on in his childhood and been forced to watch the golf channel throughout his teen and adult years, thus leading to a fascination with the sport. 'Cause apart from that somewhat plausible reason, I can think of nothing that would ever incite a feeling within me any warmer than a casual dislike for the game.
So nicecuteguy threw a tantrum. He started babbling about the merits of the game. I said to him, "Listen nicecuteguy, I don't like the sport so save your breath." And then there was a pregnant pause in the conversation.
"What did you call me?", said nicecuteguy, seething behind his keyboard.
"I called you nicecuteguy, nicecuteguy", I said.
"Can you not read, my nick is ncg", said nicecuteguy.
"But ncg stands for nicecuteguy does it not?", I queried.
"Fuck you", said nicecuteguy, realizing that being an oldtimer, there were no truths that could be hidden from me.
"Ok nicecuteguy", I said, not willing to give up. He stopped responding. He had tried to hide behind an abbreviation and failed.
But the point of this story, apart from being a vehicle to highlight my ready wit and vindictiveness is also that frequently, seemingly cool abbreviations hide some totally uncool names. Like say, for instance, BEST. I bet most people living in Bombay today don't even know what BEST stands for, especially the younger generation which has no interest in history or how the world works and are just interested in being nice and cute. We have the BEST buses, they say. Oh yeah, Bombay's buses are the BEST. No, that's not how it works. BEST stands for "Bombay Electricity Supply and Transport". So Bombay buses are not the BEST. They might be the best, but not because they are the BEST.
Or take TELCO. When I was young, I thought fuck, my dad works in such a cool-sounding company. And then the cool-sounding abbreviation turned out to stand for Tata Engineering and Locomotive Company. What the fuck, I thought, that sounds so uncool.
Or here, in the US, we have this entity called NAMBLA. Is that a government run super secret anti-terrorist-pro-space-exploration organization, you might ask. Well, yes and no. Yes as in it's an organization but no, as in, it stands for the "North American Man Boy Love Association". They are a group lobbying for increased space exploration between men and boys. You may go throw up now.
But the best part about abbreviations is they can be used to make a fool out of the government. The company I used to work for earlier in my career, lets call it the Amitabh Bacchan Corporation. Just for kicks. So it existed as the Amitabh Bachhan Corporation. And then it went out of business. It owed, lets say a crore rupees to someone. The way it got out of this debt was astounding to say the least. It filed for bankruptcy and closed down so that the Amitabh Bacchan Corporation existed no more. Then it reopened as ABC with a clean sheet and no debt. And fuck, it was in business once more. Ah the joy of abbreviations. You gotta love em.
But if nicecuteguy is reading this piece, then I have one question for him. If you are nice and if you are cute, what's the need to hide under an abbreviation? Shout out to the world that you are nice and cute. And let the whole world drink in your niceness and your cuteness.
But one day, like mold on a perfectly delicious loaf of bread, there arrived on the scene a guy. He was a nice guy. He was also a cute guy. He was both nice and cute, and how can I be so certain of that? Because his nick was nicecuteguy, and fuck, if you can't trust someone's chat nick then what can you trust? So anyways, he took the chatroom by storm. Being both nice and cute, he was a worthy opponent to our duo. By and by, because being nice and cute also sometimes makes people think you are funny, people began to laugh at his jokes as well. He became popular, as popular as a guy named nicecuteguy can be.
Now I'll be honest. When I see nicks like nicecuteguy, or cutecuddlyguy or lovelyfunnywellhungguy and so on, I feel nauseous. I feel like I just downed a bottle of vodka neat and followed it up by smoking the wrong end of a cigarette. You should try that by the way. It's a secret known only to tobacco companies and Dennis Leary; Namely that the best part of a cigarette is in its filter.
So anyways, nicecuteguy was giving me an attack of indigestion by his sheer presence. However, being the non-nicked nice cute guy that I am, I didn't allow it to interfere in my interaction with him. By and by, nicecuteguy, probably through dialog and dicussion with people who shared my viewpoint of his nick but not of his guts, abbreviated his nick to ncg. And after some more time, people forgot what that ncg used to stand for.
Except me. So one day, when I was in a particularly foul mood, I picked a fight with nicecuteguy. 'Cause to me, he was still nicecuteguy. The fight was over golf. I said to no one in particular that I thought golf was a pretty lame-ass sport. Now nicecuteguy turned out to be a golf enthusiast. He had probably lost his tv remote pretty early on in his childhood and been forced to watch the golf channel throughout his teen and adult years, thus leading to a fascination with the sport. 'Cause apart from that somewhat plausible reason, I can think of nothing that would ever incite a feeling within me any warmer than a casual dislike for the game.
So nicecuteguy threw a tantrum. He started babbling about the merits of the game. I said to him, "Listen nicecuteguy, I don't like the sport so save your breath." And then there was a pregnant pause in the conversation.
"What did you call me?", said nicecuteguy, seething behind his keyboard.
"I called you nicecuteguy, nicecuteguy", I said.
"Can you not read, my nick is ncg", said nicecuteguy.
"But ncg stands for nicecuteguy does it not?", I queried.
"Fuck you", said nicecuteguy, realizing that being an oldtimer, there were no truths that could be hidden from me.
"Ok nicecuteguy", I said, not willing to give up. He stopped responding. He had tried to hide behind an abbreviation and failed.
But the point of this story, apart from being a vehicle to highlight my ready wit and vindictiveness is also that frequently, seemingly cool abbreviations hide some totally uncool names. Like say, for instance, BEST. I bet most people living in Bombay today don't even know what BEST stands for, especially the younger generation which has no interest in history or how the world works and are just interested in being nice and cute. We have the BEST buses, they say. Oh yeah, Bombay's buses are the BEST. No, that's not how it works. BEST stands for "Bombay Electricity Supply and Transport". So Bombay buses are not the BEST. They might be the best, but not because they are the BEST.
Or take TELCO. When I was young, I thought fuck, my dad works in such a cool-sounding company. And then the cool-sounding abbreviation turned out to stand for Tata Engineering and Locomotive Company. What the fuck, I thought, that sounds so uncool.
Or here, in the US, we have this entity called NAMBLA. Is that a government run super secret anti-terrorist-pro-space-exploration organization, you might ask. Well, yes and no. Yes as in it's an organization but no, as in, it stands for the "North American Man Boy Love Association". They are a group lobbying for increased space exploration between men and boys. You may go throw up now.
But the best part about abbreviations is they can be used to make a fool out of the government. The company I used to work for earlier in my career, lets call it the Amitabh Bacchan Corporation. Just for kicks. So it existed as the Amitabh Bachhan Corporation. And then it went out of business. It owed, lets say a crore rupees to someone. The way it got out of this debt was astounding to say the least. It filed for bankruptcy and closed down so that the Amitabh Bacchan Corporation existed no more. Then it reopened as ABC with a clean sheet and no debt. And fuck, it was in business once more. Ah the joy of abbreviations. You gotta love em.
But if nicecuteguy is reading this piece, then I have one question for him. If you are nice and if you are cute, what's the need to hide under an abbreviation? Shout out to the world that you are nice and cute. And let the whole world drink in your niceness and your cuteness.
Monday, January 09, 2006
The Last Day
Today is my last day for this year in my home country. Tomorrow, I leave for my foster nation. It is the same drill every year. I go out to meet my friends. I tell my folks I will be back by 12:00 am. I drive around with my friends, searching for liquor outlets, 'cause, you know, every year they close the liquor outlets an hour earlier. We try the usual suspects : Hotel Blue Diamond, Hotel Aurora Towers, the Pride, the Le Meridien. Only the Le Meridien serves alcohol past 12:00. But since we have been to Le Meridien just 2 days ago, and 'cause it's as expensive as a hooker on Mardi Gras, we decide on the alternate cheaper way : to go to Paud road to the Police sanctioned illegal liquor outlet that is always awake come hell or high water, till 2:00 am.
And that is where we get 6 bottles of Kingfisher beer extra strong, after which, we retire to my friend's outhouse to debate on Indian politics and drink Kingfisher Extra strong beer till 5:00 am. Then, the unfortunate friend, whose outhouse we have been infesting till now, offers to drive us non-vehicle owners home. I am left standing at the corner of my house and the lamppost. Since I am drunk and leaving for the US the next day, I squeeze my driver friend's hand a bit longer than usual, hug my friend sitting next to me on the backseat a bit harder than usual. I ring the bell.
My folks, who have been camping out on the living room sofa, turn the lights on even before I get out of the car. They have been waiting and listening for a car engine all night long. I am the son who is departing for the US. I am scolded as I go inside. "Dad's got to drive all the way to Bombay tomorrow", says my mom. I mumble something even I don't comprehend. I go upstairs to my bedroom, intending to fall asleep right away.
I don't fall asleep. I open the door to the balcony and go outside. I look down at our garden. I see our cat sitting on our porch. Our cat will save me.
Every year I come here for a vacation, my last night here is hell. The only way I salvage my sanity and keep myself from running home from the airport is to do the following : I let our cat back in. Our cat is a selfish bitch. Before I let her in, she is all appreciative and purring. After I let her in, she goes to her dish in the kitchen and eats the cat food left in it. And then, without even a look or a meow, she fucks off. And I close the door. I needed that so I wouldn't feel so bad about leaving. I needed some animal cynicism. So I let her in.
She purred about for a bit and ate her food. Loud cracking noises filled the house. Things were going according to plan. Then, she came to me and looked at me. I told her to get out of the house. Instead, she leapt on my lap. She made herself comfortable. I stroked her head, crying to myself. Things weren't going the way I had hoped they would.
I told her to get up. She refused. I picked her up and opened the door. I kept her outside on the porch. I kissed her stupid head and said "Goodbye sweetheart till next year. Hope you are still here then", and I let her go. She ran away into the darkness. I went back inside.
Tomorrow I leave. I won't be back for at least a year. I hope things won't change a lot by the time I come back. I hope my folks won't look older. I hope my cat is still alive. I hope my house is still in good shape. I hope I can still make out the entrance to our driveway.
I hope I come back next year.
And that is where we get 6 bottles of Kingfisher beer extra strong, after which, we retire to my friend's outhouse to debate on Indian politics and drink Kingfisher Extra strong beer till 5:00 am. Then, the unfortunate friend, whose outhouse we have been infesting till now, offers to drive us non-vehicle owners home. I am left standing at the corner of my house and the lamppost. Since I am drunk and leaving for the US the next day, I squeeze my driver friend's hand a bit longer than usual, hug my friend sitting next to me on the backseat a bit harder than usual. I ring the bell.
My folks, who have been camping out on the living room sofa, turn the lights on even before I get out of the car. They have been waiting and listening for a car engine all night long. I am the son who is departing for the US. I am scolded as I go inside. "Dad's got to drive all the way to Bombay tomorrow", says my mom. I mumble something even I don't comprehend. I go upstairs to my bedroom, intending to fall asleep right away.
I don't fall asleep. I open the door to the balcony and go outside. I look down at our garden. I see our cat sitting on our porch. Our cat will save me.
Every year I come here for a vacation, my last night here is hell. The only way I salvage my sanity and keep myself from running home from the airport is to do the following : I let our cat back in. Our cat is a selfish bitch. Before I let her in, she is all appreciative and purring. After I let her in, she goes to her dish in the kitchen and eats the cat food left in it. And then, without even a look or a meow, she fucks off. And I close the door. I needed that so I wouldn't feel so bad about leaving. I needed some animal cynicism. So I let her in.
She purred about for a bit and ate her food. Loud cracking noises filled the house. Things were going according to plan. Then, she came to me and looked at me. I told her to get out of the house. Instead, she leapt on my lap. She made herself comfortable. I stroked her head, crying to myself. Things weren't going the way I had hoped they would.
I told her to get up. She refused. I picked her up and opened the door. I kept her outside on the porch. I kissed her stupid head and said "Goodbye sweetheart till next year. Hope you are still here then", and I let her go. She ran away into the darkness. I went back inside.
Tomorrow I leave. I won't be back for at least a year. I hope things won't change a lot by the time I come back. I hope my folks won't look older. I hope my cat is still alive. I hope my house is still in good shape. I hope I can still make out the entrance to our driveway.
I hope I come back next year.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Plastic surgery
Yesterday, on Anderson Cooper, CNN was showing a segment on plastic surgery and people who had undergone it. The ones who got it done to improve their looks that is, not the ones who had it to replace a nose bitten off by a stray dog. So they showed a "before" and "after" picture of this woman who had supposedly undergone the operation and you know what, the only difference in her appearance, as far as I could tell was that the "before" picture had her scowling like a truck driver with hemorrhoids, while the "after" picture had her beaming like an 82 year old virgin who just got laid.
In short, the only way plastic surgery helps you is in making you think you look good. 'Cause a self-satisfied smirk can make the ugliest person look somewhat less hideous.
And after the picture parade, CNN had Dr Sanjay Gupta on to ask him about precautions that should be taken after having had plastic surgery. You know, usually I have the utmost respect for fellow desis in the doctoring business, especially those who appear on American television without reminding Americans of Apu, but goddamn, check out his post-surgery rules :
1.> Try not to talk with your face clenched.
How the fuck do you clench your face?
2.> Try not to pull your face down.
Here he enters somewhat weird and creepy territory. The first thing that popped into my mind on seeing this rule was that god-awful scene in Poltergeist where the guy stands in front of the basin mirror and starts picking and pulling his face apart, pieces of which fall into the basin, till he's left with nothing but a bare skull. Scary-ass scene that was.
But since I was dissatisfied with the good doctor's rules, I came up with my own ones on what not to do after having had plastic surgery.
3.> Do not stick pins into your cheeks.
4.> Do not slap yourself repeatedly while wearing heavy workman's gloves.
5.> Do not hammer nails into your face.
6.> Try not to get mauled by a bear. If mauling appears inevitable, take precautions to restrict the mauling to your lower body area.
7.> Try not to fall face down on the floor for no particular reason.
8.> Do not step on a pitchfork, causing it to rise up and wallop you in the face.
9.> Do not jump headfirst into a pit of boiling lava.
10.> Do not attempt a Babushka. A Babushka being that cute Russian ritual where you take a small amount of vodka in a shot glass, set it aflame and pop it into your mouth while it's still on fire. Although I think the Russian version of the ritual involves firearms and striped baggy pants. A friend of mine from college tried out the non-Russian version once, but instead of popping it into his mouth, he threw it all over his face and clothes, turning into a ball of flame which we then had to put out using blankets. So anyways, don't try a Babushka right after plastic surgery. In case trying it out is absolutely essential, do it before surgery so that you get your money's worth.
11.> And finally, try not to smile too broadly, regardless of how pleased you are with your new appearance. Remember, if your smile is too broad, it might meet at the back of your head, causing it to fall off.
Update : Disclaimer.
Update 2 : The following sequence depicts a close approximation of a Babushka gone haywire. This is pretty close to what happened to my friend. Except he didn't belch flames from his mouth, simply because the fiery liquid didn't have a chance to enter his mouth.
In short, the only way plastic surgery helps you is in making you think you look good. 'Cause a self-satisfied smirk can make the ugliest person look somewhat less hideous.
And after the picture parade, CNN had Dr Sanjay Gupta on to ask him about precautions that should be taken after having had plastic surgery. You know, usually I have the utmost respect for fellow desis in the doctoring business, especially those who appear on American television without reminding Americans of Apu, but goddamn, check out his post-surgery rules :
1.> Try not to talk with your face clenched.
How the fuck do you clench your face?
2.> Try not to pull your face down.
Here he enters somewhat weird and creepy territory. The first thing that popped into my mind on seeing this rule was that god-awful scene in Poltergeist where the guy stands in front of the basin mirror and starts picking and pulling his face apart, pieces of which fall into the basin, till he's left with nothing but a bare skull. Scary-ass scene that was.
But since I was dissatisfied with the good doctor's rules, I came up with my own ones on what not to do after having had plastic surgery.
3.> Do not stick pins into your cheeks.
4.> Do not slap yourself repeatedly while wearing heavy workman's gloves.
5.> Do not hammer nails into your face.
6.> Try not to get mauled by a bear. If mauling appears inevitable, take precautions to restrict the mauling to your lower body area.
7.> Try not to fall face down on the floor for no particular reason.
8.> Do not step on a pitchfork, causing it to rise up and wallop you in the face.
9.> Do not jump headfirst into a pit of boiling lava.
10.> Do not attempt a Babushka. A Babushka being that cute Russian ritual where you take a small amount of vodka in a shot glass, set it aflame and pop it into your mouth while it's still on fire. Although I think the Russian version of the ritual involves firearms and striped baggy pants. A friend of mine from college tried out the non-Russian version once, but instead of popping it into his mouth, he threw it all over his face and clothes, turning into a ball of flame which we then had to put out using blankets. So anyways, don't try a Babushka right after plastic surgery. In case trying it out is absolutely essential, do it before surgery so that you get your money's worth.
11.> And finally, try not to smile too broadly, regardless of how pleased you are with your new appearance. Remember, if your smile is too broad, it might meet at the back of your head, causing it to fall off.
Update : Disclaimer.
Update 2 : The following sequence depicts a close approximation of a Babushka gone haywire. This is pretty close to what happened to my friend. Except he didn't belch flames from his mouth, simply because the fiery liquid didn't have a chance to enter his mouth.
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