Goddamn my back hurts. I've had lower back problems ever since I began working out but something happened yesterday to make it hurt really bad. It all began when I was watching that AAMCO commercial on TV with this cool rockstar dude wearing a cowboy hat who was singing, "My life is crazy, I'm on the go, I can't stop and take it slow". And I said to myself, boy, I wish my life would be as fulfilling and jam-packed with crazy as this guy's, but I'm never on the go and I'm taking it awfully slow with my evening naps, baseball games, music and beer. I realized that if I wanted to be an asshole wearing a cowboy hat who sings to people how busy he is with all the important stuff he's currently involved in, my first order of business should be to stop taking it so fucking slow.
So yesterday evening, after coming home from work, I shifted into high gear. First, I cleared my driveway of all grass clippings that were a result of my weekend lawn mowing activities. Then, I watered my deck plants. Yeah man, I was on the freakin' go. After that, I vacuumed the first floor of my house and cleaned out my bird feeder. And finally, just as I was thinking my life couldn't get any crazier, I went out into my backyard and added fertilizer to my lawn. With weed killer!! I was certainly not taking it slow.
That's when my back gave out. It was puzzling because the cowboy's song hadn't mentioned anything about back ailments. And then I started thinking, you know, when he was talking about his life being crazy, he might not have been referring to vacuuming, watering or fertilizing. Perhaps it was something more interesting. Like going camping with his girlfriend in Alaska and killing a grizzly bear with his guitar. But I'm not sure I would be up to such craziness in my life. Also, I own an acoustic guitar that wouldn't kill a fly. I would probably cut myself with a guitar string and be the laughing stock of the entire animal kingdom.
So I went back to my comfortable sofa, baseball game and beer. I'm done with being on the go. Next time the commercial plays, I'll just change the channel. Or watch the Kingsford charcoal commercial with those lazy fuckers hanging out on the highway who advise you, screw that AAMCO guy, just "slow down and grill".
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Parenting
Last fall, I was driving my parents through Vermont on a foliage-hunting trip, and during a conversation initiated by the sheer overpowering beauty of the place, I randomly mentioned that someday I would like to hang up my keyboard and mouse, buy a house in Vermont and run a bed and breakfast.
The moment I said that, my mom began to look at every subsequent house that we passed on the road in a new light, as the future dwelling and business establishment of her beloved son. She would quickly analyze its advantages and shortcomings with regard to structural integrity, aesthetic appeal, picturesque location, proximity to essential services and the condition of its indoor plumbing fixtures. This was all achieved through a cursory half second inspection of the passing blur. Then, following a fifteen second conference with my dad, she would tender her final recommendation on a possible purchase. She carried on in this vein until finally I had to tell her, mom, I don't know if this will ever happen, I have no money, no green card, I can barely afford my current mortgage and I don't know diddly squat about the hospitality sector. She replied, okay then, we'll do this again later when you're ready. My mom's funny.
I am not sure if I will ever be such a devoted parent to my kids. I can picture my son or daughter telling me that he or she would like to buy a house in Vermont and me replying, "Excellent, I'll come visit you when you're done. Make sure there's beer in the fridge." Are there any good parenting courses one can take online?
The moment I said that, my mom began to look at every subsequent house that we passed on the road in a new light, as the future dwelling and business establishment of her beloved son. She would quickly analyze its advantages and shortcomings with regard to structural integrity, aesthetic appeal, picturesque location, proximity to essential services and the condition of its indoor plumbing fixtures. This was all achieved through a cursory half second inspection of the passing blur. Then, following a fifteen second conference with my dad, she would tender her final recommendation on a possible purchase. She carried on in this vein until finally I had to tell her, mom, I don't know if this will ever happen, I have no money, no green card, I can barely afford my current mortgage and I don't know diddly squat about the hospitality sector. She replied, okay then, we'll do this again later when you're ready. My mom's funny.
I am not sure if I will ever be such a devoted parent to my kids. I can picture my son or daughter telling me that he or she would like to buy a house in Vermont and me replying, "Excellent, I'll come visit you when you're done. Make sure there's beer in the fridge." Are there any good parenting courses one can take online?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Pretty
I've been styling my own hair for the past eight years. When I say styling, I mean cutting and when I say cutting, I mean shaving it off. I do this to myself every three months. As a result, I look like a human only about 30 days a year. Today is one of those days that happen to be at the end of every shaving cycle. In about a week I will voluntarily re-inflict baldness upon me and turn into a cue ball. But during these next seven days, I will be pretty, oh so pretty. Enjoy my beauty while you can, world.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Dreams
My latest thing is to wake up in a panic about five times a night, believing that my house is on fire. My previous thing was to wake up in a panic about five times a night, believing that my roof is leaking. I wish I could somehow find a way to combine these two dreams and finally get some sleep.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Stripes
When I was young, my mom forbade me from wearing anything with vertical stripes because she believed it made me look longer and skinnier than I was and I was already quite long and skinny. Consequently, I had a shitload of horizontal stripes and not a single vertical stripe during my mid to late childhood.
I think now would be a good time for me to test if my mom's Vertical Stripes Theory does indeed hold water.
I think now would be a good time for me to test if my mom's Vertical Stripes Theory does indeed hold water.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Tu
Back home in Pune when I was still "studying" engineering, there used to be an intercollegiate orchestra competition called "Kalyani". One of the items in the competition was that a couple of days before the actual competition, the organizers would give each college band that was participating a poem written by some random guy. This poem was in marathi. The band had to set this poem to music and play it on stage during the competition, along with every other song they had practiced.
During the second year (in a row) that my band won the Kalyani Cup for our college, the poem that they gave us was called "tu astas tar". It basically means "If you were here...". The poem outlines a series of environmental changes that would transpire, were the object of the poet's affection to suddenly appear in the immediate vicinity. For example, it goes on to say that he / she would immediately have converted the harsh sunlight into gentle starlight and silence into sweet song and so on and so forth. We Maharashtrians hate sunlight with a passion that is rivaled only by our hatred for silence. I don't know what we're gonna do if this global warming thing turns out to be true. Or if those Bose sound-canceling headphones actually turn out to work.
But getting back to the point, for the second year in a row, it was up to me to set this poem to music. And now, about ten years later, I have finally managed to reconstitute that sophomore effort on my home synthesizer and make it available to the music industry executives who frequent my blog. Now although the original musical performance included a drummer, a guitarist, a bass guitarist, a tabla player, two keyboardists and a dedicated sound mixer, unfortunately I did not have any of these in my apartment and so I had to play every instrument myself on the synth. Also, since I have a hideous voice, please imagine that the trumpety thing playing throughout the song is actually the voice of a marathi lass singing marathi lyrics.
So, here's the song :
(link)
During the second year (in a row) that my band won the Kalyani Cup for our college, the poem that they gave us was called "tu astas tar". It basically means "If you were here...". The poem outlines a series of environmental changes that would transpire, were the object of the poet's affection to suddenly appear in the immediate vicinity. For example, it goes on to say that he / she would immediately have converted the harsh sunlight into gentle starlight and silence into sweet song and so on and so forth. We Maharashtrians hate sunlight with a passion that is rivaled only by our hatred for silence. I don't know what we're gonna do if this global warming thing turns out to be true. Or if those Bose sound-canceling headphones actually turn out to work.
But getting back to the point, for the second year in a row, it was up to me to set this poem to music. And now, about ten years later, I have finally managed to reconstitute that sophomore effort on my home synthesizer and make it available to the music industry executives who frequent my blog. Now although the original musical performance included a drummer, a guitarist, a bass guitarist, a tabla player, two keyboardists and a dedicated sound mixer, unfortunately I did not have any of these in my apartment and so I had to play every instrument myself on the synth. Also, since I have a hideous voice, please imagine that the trumpety thing playing throughout the song is actually the voice of a marathi lass singing marathi lyrics.
So, here's the song :
(link)
sick
Well, my immune system, she fell asleep at the wheel and no doubt lately she's had a few sleepless nights of overwork due to battling other people's sweat from the gym but I still think she could've done more than just handed me over to the virii (viruses?). Which she did. Didn't even put up a fight. So no more soup for you. Come back...one year.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Answers
Namrata Shirodkar, the 1993 Miss India winner and sixth place Miss Universe had the following statement to make during the 1993 Miss India contest:
"I would not want to live forever because I don't believe that one can live forever. And so, I don't think I would want to live forever."
It is indeed, a small world.
Although to be fair, Namrata's quote was only the 21st dumbest in VH1's list of dumb celebrity quotes. Dumber than Al Gore's "A zebra does not change its spots" and less dumb than Brooke Shield's "Smoking kills. If you"re killed, you've lost a very important part of your life." So it's not too bad.
Anyways, the point is, apparently me and Namrata, we are related by blood, semen, pollen dust or suchlike. That explains quite a bit about what's happening on this blog.
Update : Bonus dumb quote by Jason Kidd of the NJ Nets : "We're gonna turn this team around 360 degrees"
"I would not want to live forever because I don't believe that one can live forever. And so, I don't think I would want to live forever."
It is indeed, a small world.
Although to be fair, Namrata's quote was only the 21st dumbest in VH1's list of dumb celebrity quotes. Dumber than Al Gore's "A zebra does not change its spots" and less dumb than Brooke Shield's "Smoking kills. If you"re killed, you've lost a very important part of your life." So it's not too bad.
Anyways, the point is, apparently me and Namrata, we are related by blood, semen, pollen dust or suchlike. That explains quite a bit about what's happening on this blog.
Update : Bonus dumb quote by Jason Kidd of the NJ Nets : "We're gonna turn this team around 360 degrees"
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Fire
I remember when I was a little boy in India, we used to regularly set our neighborhood garbage bin on fire. I don't know what prompted us to do it, perhaps it was just the sight of humongous quantities of flammable material in the bin that were currently not aflame. So whenever the garbage in this bin rose up above eye level, which was always because no one ever came to pick up this garbage, we applied matches to it and hey ho, a great fire was had by all. It was very enjoyable.
Enjoyable only to us kids, of course. This fire resulted in a lot of foul-smelling smoke. Especially in the evenings after the cool air set in and the smoke refused to move to a higher altitude. Practically every dwelling in the neighborhood turned into a smokehouse and everybody's dad and mom cursed at us for setting off the fire. But we didn't give a fuck. Matches were freely available. And in our youthful wisdom, it was God's will to set shit alight otherwise He wouldn't have bestowed upon us so much pleasure in the aftermath.
But the point of this flashback is, today my fucking neighbor across the woods decided to start a fire in his backyard. Gathering twigs and leaves and what not. I saw the industrious bastard spend all his afternoon walking all over the woods gathering stuff and putting it on his fire. The smoke drove away all the birds and it blew right into my home and onto my deck where I was trying to watch some birds. How times have changed for me. This is what it must mean to be an adult. To have all the goddamn senseless acts you did in your childhood to be perpetrated on you in return. Being an adult sucks big time. But not just because somebody started a fire and blew smoke into my house. It sucks because I totally lost the ability to enjoy that fire.
Enjoyable only to us kids, of course. This fire resulted in a lot of foul-smelling smoke. Especially in the evenings after the cool air set in and the smoke refused to move to a higher altitude. Practically every dwelling in the neighborhood turned into a smokehouse and everybody's dad and mom cursed at us for setting off the fire. But we didn't give a fuck. Matches were freely available. And in our youthful wisdom, it was God's will to set shit alight otherwise He wouldn't have bestowed upon us so much pleasure in the aftermath.
But the point of this flashback is, today my fucking neighbor across the woods decided to start a fire in his backyard. Gathering twigs and leaves and what not. I saw the industrious bastard spend all his afternoon walking all over the woods gathering stuff and putting it on his fire. The smoke drove away all the birds and it blew right into my home and onto my deck where I was trying to watch some birds. How times have changed for me. This is what it must mean to be an adult. To have all the goddamn senseless acts you did in your childhood to be perpetrated on you in return. Being an adult sucks big time. But not just because somebody started a fire and blew smoke into my house. It sucks because I totally lost the ability to enjoy that fire.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Giants no more
Ever since I first entered this world, they used to periodically measure my height by making me stand up against a wall and placing a ruler on my head. Later on, when I grew taller, they gave up this method of height measurement because placing a ruler on top of a tall person is demeaning both to the tall person as well as the ruler. Instead, a new measure of height was invented, namely, how much taller I was than my dad, through approximate visual inspection.
Now my dad knew for a fact that he was six feet tall. So consequently, I became six feet half an inch, then one inch and finally, six feet two, where I've been ever since. It has been a pleasure and a luxury to be six feet two because my exceptional height allows me to reach and grab things that even six feet one people cannot, as long as that thing is no more than an inch above where they can reach. Do the math, it is simple.
But then yesterday I went to the doctor and being doctors, they assume that they have the license to do all kinds of demeaning things to you and one of those was to put me against a wall and place a ruler on my head. I told the doctor, you know, you don't have to put me up against the wall and place a ruler on my head because I can tell you myself what my height is. But no, they wouldn't listen because apparently it is against the Hippocratic oath to trust your patients. And so they put and placed.
And surprise, surprise, I was only five feet ten inches and 3/4ths. What? How could this happen? Have I really been this short all my life?
And then I began to wonder whether my dad had padded on to his own height when he passed the mantle of six footer on to me. And then I wondered some more about whether he himself had been a victim of his own father's padding. And then, I went and wondered even more about how deep inside my family tree this web of deception went. Someone at the beginning of time, perhaps my great-great-great-grand ape must have thought to himself, fuck and goddamn, I am so short and people have been making fun of me all my life, but maybe I can help my son not go through all the hardships I myself had to endure. So may the sacred banana tree forgive me, but my son, he will be taller. And so it began, this line of fake giants, each one wandering around this world thinking he was taller than he actually was.
But it is time to end this deception now. Instead of being a seven footer and perhaps getting into his school's basketball team, my son will be his true height. He will have to be content with possessing the ability to wipe the top of the refrigerator and no more. Because in my opinion, what is more important than passing on the gift of height to your offspring is the gift of honesty.
Now my dad knew for a fact that he was six feet tall. So consequently, I became six feet half an inch, then one inch and finally, six feet two, where I've been ever since. It has been a pleasure and a luxury to be six feet two because my exceptional height allows me to reach and grab things that even six feet one people cannot, as long as that thing is no more than an inch above where they can reach. Do the math, it is simple.
But then yesterday I went to the doctor and being doctors, they assume that they have the license to do all kinds of demeaning things to you and one of those was to put me against a wall and place a ruler on my head. I told the doctor, you know, you don't have to put me up against the wall and place a ruler on my head because I can tell you myself what my height is. But no, they wouldn't listen because apparently it is against the Hippocratic oath to trust your patients. And so they put and placed.
And surprise, surprise, I was only five feet ten inches and 3/4ths. What? How could this happen? Have I really been this short all my life?
And then I began to wonder whether my dad had padded on to his own height when he passed the mantle of six footer on to me. And then I wondered some more about whether he himself had been a victim of his own father's padding. And then, I went and wondered even more about how deep inside my family tree this web of deception went. Someone at the beginning of time, perhaps my great-great-great-grand ape must have thought to himself, fuck and goddamn, I am so short and people have been making fun of me all my life, but maybe I can help my son not go through all the hardships I myself had to endure. So may the sacred banana tree forgive me, but my son, he will be taller. And so it began, this line of fake giants, each one wandering around this world thinking he was taller than he actually was.
But it is time to end this deception now. Instead of being a seven footer and perhaps getting into his school's basketball team, my son will be his true height. He will have to be content with possessing the ability to wipe the top of the refrigerator and no more. Because in my opinion, what is more important than passing on the gift of height to your offspring is the gift of honesty.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Sadeness
This one takes me back to the age of school friends and engineering exams and all-night-outs, ostentatiously for the purpose of studying, that were actually spent listening to music, scrambling eggs, drinking out of friend's dad's whiskey bottle and replacing consumed whiskey with tapwater, getting acquainted with the writings of Ms. Nancy Friday, manufacturing a home-made Ouija board for the purpose of carrying out a seance, carrying out the seance and getting convinced that a spirit had actually been summoned because everyone swore that they hadn't touched the triangle, seriously, they weren't kidding, it had moved and they had not touched it. Basically spending time doing everything, literally everything in the entire fucking world except studying. And ultimately, concluding with the breaking of the dawn to be enjoyed on the terrace with a steaming hot cup of tea in the hand. Goddamn I hated tea but in that situation, it had to be tea or the entire thing would have been meaningless. Good times. Life needs a rewind button.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Homeowner
Now that I have a home, I am beginning to get a good understanding of how a home owner's life is different from, say, an apartment renter's. Most of it is good in that you have your own place which allows you to stomp around upstairs and the person downstairs will not yell at you. And for all the useless crap that you acquired but never had any use for and had to stuff below your bed for want of space, you now have a garage. You no longer have to rent out closet space from your wife. Instead, you can use the closet in the guest bedroom after filling out all the necessary paperwork. And also, now you are free to increase the volume on your television and stereo to a certain extent, that extent being more than the previous extent you could have raised it to, when you were living in an apartment.
But most importantly, each time you slide the rent check into the box, the thought that you might as well have sauted it with onions, stuffed it between two slices of bread and eaten it for lunch doesn't cross your mind anymore. So that's all good stuff. Good stuff.
But here comes the bad stuff. You go down to the basement, you know, just to check out your water heater and furnace and what not and you see all the plumbing and cables and all those pipes and levers and you think to yourself, oh heck, what do I care, I don't have to worry about all that nonsense, the apartment people will handle it for me if something goes wrong. But then you realize, what apartment people man, you're the apartment people, it's all yours now, so go on, touch it, don't be afraid. And then you touch it but you are, in fact, afraid and you don't really know what the heck you are touching and if it deserves to be touched like that and whether it even likes being touched. So you panic and pull your hand back and hope you didn't break anything and hope that nothing ever breaks or goes wrong with the water heater and the furnace and the water main and basically everything in the house that has a lever or a pipe or a switch attached to it. Yeah, you wish, buddy. That's like saying you hope your newborn's never gonna soil his diaper.
Then there's the lawn. I don't know what the mowable height for grass is. I guess if it transpires that one moment you're standing on your back patio watching the sunset and the next moment you're on the ground wrestling with a tiger because you didn't see him creeping up on you through the grass, that's when it is time to mow your lawn. That's my guess and I could be wrong.
A patch has miraculously appeared on my living room ceiling. I say miraculously because it kinda looks like David Letterman. I am not sure if it is really David Letterman communicating to me from beyond, commanding me to let people into my living room and worship his image for a small fee, but I think it is more likely that somewhere in this house, there is a leaky something. The mystery is that the patch doesn't appear to be wet. But nevertheless it is there and it happens to be right below my laundry room. So no more clean clothes for us. And no mother, it's not just an excuse to live like a slob.
It is currently the height of winter and it is so goddamn cold outside that apparently even the cold air from outside wants to come inside for the warmth. It is a wind so cunning that it has managed to discover the tiny gap between the window pane and the window. So in order to fix this, yesterday I planned and completed my first ever home-improvement project. I went to Home Depot and purchased caulk. This caulk stuff, where the "l" isn't silent contrary to what you might believe and which could possibly land you in trouble were you to tender a request for it unequipped with that knowledge, is a white paste you apply to something in order to seal it. I purchased the pull-off variety which, as the name suggests, allows you to pull it off once the need for sealage is over. I applied it to my windows and what do you know, no more cold draughts. I think I'm beginning to get the hang of this home owner business. Before you know it, I'll be pulling down dry-walls, installing breakfast bars with granite top counters and constructing in-home waterfalls, please do not feed the fish.
But before I do all that, let me first start out with all the easy stuff. Curtains, picture frames, everything that goes on a wall. Let me mow the lawn. Perhaps even clean and water-treat the deck. Paint this. Polish that.
And in the meantime, please join your hands in prayer for the continued well-being of my pipes, switches and levers. Thank you.
But most importantly, each time you slide the rent check into the box, the thought that you might as well have sauted it with onions, stuffed it between two slices of bread and eaten it for lunch doesn't cross your mind anymore. So that's all good stuff. Good stuff.
But here comes the bad stuff. You go down to the basement, you know, just to check out your water heater and furnace and what not and you see all the plumbing and cables and all those pipes and levers and you think to yourself, oh heck, what do I care, I don't have to worry about all that nonsense, the apartment people will handle it for me if something goes wrong. But then you realize, what apartment people man, you're the apartment people, it's all yours now, so go on, touch it, don't be afraid. And then you touch it but you are, in fact, afraid and you don't really know what the heck you are touching and if it deserves to be touched like that and whether it even likes being touched. So you panic and pull your hand back and hope you didn't break anything and hope that nothing ever breaks or goes wrong with the water heater and the furnace and the water main and basically everything in the house that has a lever or a pipe or a switch attached to it. Yeah, you wish, buddy. That's like saying you hope your newborn's never gonna soil his diaper.
Then there's the lawn. I don't know what the mowable height for grass is. I guess if it transpires that one moment you're standing on your back patio watching the sunset and the next moment you're on the ground wrestling with a tiger because you didn't see him creeping up on you through the grass, that's when it is time to mow your lawn. That's my guess and I could be wrong.
A patch has miraculously appeared on my living room ceiling. I say miraculously because it kinda looks like David Letterman. I am not sure if it is really David Letterman communicating to me from beyond, commanding me to let people into my living room and worship his image for a small fee, but I think it is more likely that somewhere in this house, there is a leaky something. The mystery is that the patch doesn't appear to be wet. But nevertheless it is there and it happens to be right below my laundry room. So no more clean clothes for us. And no mother, it's not just an excuse to live like a slob.
It is currently the height of winter and it is so goddamn cold outside that apparently even the cold air from outside wants to come inside for the warmth. It is a wind so cunning that it has managed to discover the tiny gap between the window pane and the window. So in order to fix this, yesterday I planned and completed my first ever home-improvement project. I went to Home Depot and purchased caulk. This caulk stuff, where the "l" isn't silent contrary to what you might believe and which could possibly land you in trouble were you to tender a request for it unequipped with that knowledge, is a white paste you apply to something in order to seal it. I purchased the pull-off variety which, as the name suggests, allows you to pull it off once the need for sealage is over. I applied it to my windows and what do you know, no more cold draughts. I think I'm beginning to get the hang of this home owner business. Before you know it, I'll be pulling down dry-walls, installing breakfast bars with granite top counters and constructing in-home waterfalls, please do not feed the fish.
But before I do all that, let me first start out with all the easy stuff. Curtains, picture frames, everything that goes on a wall. Let me mow the lawn. Perhaps even clean and water-treat the deck. Paint this. Polish that.
And in the meantime, please join your hands in prayer for the continued well-being of my pipes, switches and levers. Thank you.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Moving
I hired movers to move. I have a bad back, no friends either able-bodied or disable-bodied and way too much furniture for someone living in a 2 bedroom apartment. The moving company says it will cost about 112 dollars an hour with a minimum of 4 hours for a 3 man crew. Alright, I says, and what is this flat travel rate business? Oh that, they say, we attach an additional flat hour's rate for travel time. Wokay, says I, come, move.
Now these three guys comprised of the following three guys : One large hardworking guy, one equally large guy but less hardworking who not only happened to be prone to gastro-intestinal attacks that resulted in him spending about an hour in my bathroom but was also in his free time, hopelessly addicted to cellphone use. So you would ask, wokay, but did the third guy not make up for the lack of performance of the second guy, come on, did he not? and I would reply, yes, maybe in a perfect world that would have been the case. Maybe in a world where more than half of America wouldn't have voted for George W. Bush, sure, why not. But not in this world. In this world, the third guy would be an old guy barely able to get up and walk about without assistance. Yes, that would be the third guy in this world.
So to recap, I am paying 112 bucks an hour for three guys where at any given point of time only one guy is working while the second guy is either resting in my restroom or speaking on the cellphone and the third guy is resting in the truck. My calculations had gone the following way : 112 * 4 hours + 112 for travel time = $560. And as much as it pained me to give anyone $560 of my money for using my restroom, it had to be done.
It turns out that we own a lot of crap. I mean, material possessions were appearing out of thin air. Closets turned out to contain blankets which were covering pillows which were hiding lamps sitting on top of suitcases containing rocks. Blankets, pillows and lamps were all stuffed into garbage bags and loaded in the truck. It took 3 hours just to load the truck. And then we were off to the new home.
It took the movers two hours to cover the distance a one-legged walrus with a pebble in his shoe would have covered in an hour at the most. I don't know, maybe they stopped for a burger, took a nap, caught a Broadway play, read Vikram Seth's "A Suitable Boy" cover to cover, who the hell knows. But I didn't really care because of the flat hourly travel rate.
So when they showed up at my home to unpack, I was of a mild temperament. I even helped them unpack. I laughed at their jokes and when the dresser fell on their feet. The air was full of positive energy. As a result, it took them only two hours to unload the truck. Okay, so it would be six hours of moving = 6 * 112 = 672. Well, nope. Turned out that the flat rate thing which I should have checked out more thoroughly, was just the flat rate for the travel of the empty truck and did not include the two fucking hours spent in traveling from the old apartment to the new home. So that added about 2 hours more to the moving time. Plus the tip. So in all, it cost us a thousand dollars, or what the kids like to call it nowadays, "a cool grand" to move. That got me to thinking, man, I really got to get me some more able-bodied friends.
So anyways, I still have to move some leftover crap. We'll move that this weekend. Bye Bye Exton, PA, you were a good host for the past three years. Especially you, you, you and you. And you. And although you did try to kill me numerous times through your ridiculously blazing hot Schezuan pepper-laced food, goddamn, I would have died with a smile on my tortured lips. Hopefully we will meet again on the battlefield sans any hard feelings. Only stomach ulcers.
Now these three guys comprised of the following three guys : One large hardworking guy, one equally large guy but less hardworking who not only happened to be prone to gastro-intestinal attacks that resulted in him spending about an hour in my bathroom but was also in his free time, hopelessly addicted to cellphone use. So you would ask, wokay, but did the third guy not make up for the lack of performance of the second guy, come on, did he not? and I would reply, yes, maybe in a perfect world that would have been the case. Maybe in a world where more than half of America wouldn't have voted for George W. Bush, sure, why not. But not in this world. In this world, the third guy would be an old guy barely able to get up and walk about without assistance. Yes, that would be the third guy in this world.
So to recap, I am paying 112 bucks an hour for three guys where at any given point of time only one guy is working while the second guy is either resting in my restroom or speaking on the cellphone and the third guy is resting in the truck. My calculations had gone the following way : 112 * 4 hours + 112 for travel time = $560. And as much as it pained me to give anyone $560 of my money for using my restroom, it had to be done.
It turns out that we own a lot of crap. I mean, material possessions were appearing out of thin air. Closets turned out to contain blankets which were covering pillows which were hiding lamps sitting on top of suitcases containing rocks. Blankets, pillows and lamps were all stuffed into garbage bags and loaded in the truck. It took 3 hours just to load the truck. And then we were off to the new home.
It took the movers two hours to cover the distance a one-legged walrus with a pebble in his shoe would have covered in an hour at the most. I don't know, maybe they stopped for a burger, took a nap, caught a Broadway play, read Vikram Seth's "A Suitable Boy" cover to cover, who the hell knows. But I didn't really care because of the flat hourly travel rate.
So when they showed up at my home to unpack, I was of a mild temperament. I even helped them unpack. I laughed at their jokes and when the dresser fell on their feet. The air was full of positive energy. As a result, it took them only two hours to unload the truck. Okay, so it would be six hours of moving = 6 * 112 = 672. Well, nope. Turned out that the flat rate thing which I should have checked out more thoroughly, was just the flat rate for the travel of the empty truck and did not include the two fucking hours spent in traveling from the old apartment to the new home. So that added about 2 hours more to the moving time. Plus the tip. So in all, it cost us a thousand dollars, or what the kids like to call it nowadays, "a cool grand" to move. That got me to thinking, man, I really got to get me some more able-bodied friends.
So anyways, I still have to move some leftover crap. We'll move that this weekend. Bye Bye Exton, PA, you were a good host for the past three years. Especially you, you, you and you. And you. And although you did try to kill me numerous times through your ridiculously blazing hot Schezuan pepper-laced food, goddamn, I would have died with a smile on my tortured lips. Hopefully we will meet again on the battlefield sans any hard feelings. Only stomach ulcers.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
And so I bought a house, or as they call it in the US, a condo.
On the day of the closing, there was a walk-through. We walked through the condo to check if everything was where we had left it. The taps were fine and so were the toilet flushes. Our realtor had asked us to check on the taps and toilet flushes because apparently previous owners of condos are known to sabotage taps and toilet flushes before abandoning their properties. The taps and flushes were fine, I checked them myself after using them. The carpet was also okay. One place on the carpet showcased a yellow stain but it was far to the north to be urine-based so I was not worried. Oxy-something would solve it and urine is better than semen anyways.
But I had more important fish to fry. I walked outside to the woods and the stream for which I would be paying most of my money. I spotted a tree hanging halfway down to the ground. The wood had only a few trees so naturally, I was concerned. The last time I was here, the tree had been proudly erect. Hey, what's with that tree, I asked the owner of the property. She replied that the tree had submitted to the last winter storm. I said okay, but I also warned her that she was treading on thin ice. Very thin ice in a warmish winter. No more halfway trees, warned I. Please rectify the situation. The owner went and tried to push the tree back up, up towards the sky, in an upright position. She tried her best and I appreciated her efforts.
But apart from that, everything else was fine. Maybe the tree would grow back up. Plus the owner had given me a lawnmower and a grill free of charge. Plus a lawn to mow with the lawnmower. Okay, I approved the walk-through.
It was on to the closing. The closing took place in a dark conference room. We were all there. Me, my wife, the seller, her husband, my realtor, their realtor, my realtor's husband, my mortgage agent, the title lady, the title lady's imaginary friend, it was about ten people and it didn't take me long to realize that I was paying all their salaries. And so I did, I gave them a check for half a hundred thousand dollars. It was weird because I did not know that I possessed half a hundred thousand dollars and I celebrated on that knowledge before grieving on the loss. The closing went well and I was the only person from whose pocket money was departing. Therefore I was the star. I had to sign twenty thousand documents. My wife had to sign ten thousand documents. We had to memorize the dates because we also had to date the documents. The problem was that it was 2008 and I was still in 2007 mode. Hopefully I signed something as 2007 and I will get back my half a hundred thousand. No? Okay then.
I tried to make the most of my stardom from being the person who was paying the ten people's salary. I asked questions. What is this two dollars beside the half a hundred thousand dollars, asked I. Oh, that, why do you care, you have already given us half a hundred thousand dollars, was the answer. Okay, forget it, said I, just give me the keys.
I was given the keys to the house. 5 copies. Why the heck 5, asked I. We locked ourselves out, said the husband. Multiple times. Thus the copies. Empty your pockets please, said I in a stern manner. Out came a garage door opener. Thank you, said I. I was wondering what that garage shaped thing beside the condo was.
Finally we were done. I had signed a lot of papers. I had my keys. I was broke. I was ecstatic. I owned a home. Home prices were falling. What could be better? My realtor had a Christmas present for us. It was a packet of gift cards. Please tell everyone about us, said my realtor. Sure I will, said I. After all, you gave us a home.
A home is what we have now. We will move completely in a couple of weeks. I am a history buff and I already know the history of this place. The Liberty Bell passed by our doorstep about 200 years ago as it made the journey back to Philadelphia. It's a historical place. Every road here was laid down in the 1700s. We have an Indian store, a Chinese restaurant, a mall, a pub, a biking trail and a creek. Everything you need to live in harmony with the world and nature. I think we will be fine.
On the day of the closing, there was a walk-through. We walked through the condo to check if everything was where we had left it. The taps were fine and so were the toilet flushes. Our realtor had asked us to check on the taps and toilet flushes because apparently previous owners of condos are known to sabotage taps and toilet flushes before abandoning their properties. The taps and flushes were fine, I checked them myself after using them. The carpet was also okay. One place on the carpet showcased a yellow stain but it was far to the north to be urine-based so I was not worried. Oxy-something would solve it and urine is better than semen anyways.
But I had more important fish to fry. I walked outside to the woods and the stream for which I would be paying most of my money. I spotted a tree hanging halfway down to the ground. The wood had only a few trees so naturally, I was concerned. The last time I was here, the tree had been proudly erect. Hey, what's with that tree, I asked the owner of the property. She replied that the tree had submitted to the last winter storm. I said okay, but I also warned her that she was treading on thin ice. Very thin ice in a warmish winter. No more halfway trees, warned I. Please rectify the situation. The owner went and tried to push the tree back up, up towards the sky, in an upright position. She tried her best and I appreciated her efforts.
But apart from that, everything else was fine. Maybe the tree would grow back up. Plus the owner had given me a lawnmower and a grill free of charge. Plus a lawn to mow with the lawnmower. Okay, I approved the walk-through.
It was on to the closing. The closing took place in a dark conference room. We were all there. Me, my wife, the seller, her husband, my realtor, their realtor, my realtor's husband, my mortgage agent, the title lady, the title lady's imaginary friend, it was about ten people and it didn't take me long to realize that I was paying all their salaries. And so I did, I gave them a check for half a hundred thousand dollars. It was weird because I did not know that I possessed half a hundred thousand dollars and I celebrated on that knowledge before grieving on the loss. The closing went well and I was the only person from whose pocket money was departing. Therefore I was the star. I had to sign twenty thousand documents. My wife had to sign ten thousand documents. We had to memorize the dates because we also had to date the documents. The problem was that it was 2008 and I was still in 2007 mode. Hopefully I signed something as 2007 and I will get back my half a hundred thousand. No? Okay then.
I tried to make the most of my stardom from being the person who was paying the ten people's salary. I asked questions. What is this two dollars beside the half a hundred thousand dollars, asked I. Oh, that, why do you care, you have already given us half a hundred thousand dollars, was the answer. Okay, forget it, said I, just give me the keys.
I was given the keys to the house. 5 copies. Why the heck 5, asked I. We locked ourselves out, said the husband. Multiple times. Thus the copies. Empty your pockets please, said I in a stern manner. Out came a garage door opener. Thank you, said I. I was wondering what that garage shaped thing beside the condo was.
Finally we were done. I had signed a lot of papers. I had my keys. I was broke. I was ecstatic. I owned a home. Home prices were falling. What could be better? My realtor had a Christmas present for us. It was a packet of gift cards. Please tell everyone about us, said my realtor. Sure I will, said I. After all, you gave us a home.
A home is what we have now. We will move completely in a couple of weeks. I am a history buff and I already know the history of this place. The Liberty Bell passed by our doorstep about 200 years ago as it made the journey back to Philadelphia. It's a historical place. Every road here was laid down in the 1700s. We have an Indian store, a Chinese restaurant, a mall, a pub, a biking trail and a creek. Everything you need to live in harmony with the world and nature. I think we will be fine.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Home. This is it.
Woods, streams, deer, tigers, a noticeable absence of maximum security prison facilities, it's all there. This is home.
By popular demand, here's the full frontal.
By popular demand, here's the full frontal.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Tagged
I was tagged here a few years ago, or so it seems after the green card fracas / fiasco / fuckfest. I will therefore present 8 random facts about myself.
0.> I cannot cook Indian food at all. I have no idea how to put those flavors into a curry. I have tried and failed miserably. Every time I cook anything, I get the distinct impression that the ingredients of my dish are unhappy about being used in my creation.
1.> If I am walking on a tiled pavement, I deliberately avoid stepping on the boundary between two consecutive tiles. If an uneven gait in the manner of a three-legged dog with an alcohol problem is required for the achievement of this objective, I have no qualms about doing so, amused onlooking be damned.
2.> There has been one time in my life when I was literally terrified for my life to such a degree that my brain was called upon to choose between two different forms of death, based on the relative terror caused by each. It happened while I was walking with a couple of friends in the Tadoba Tiger Reserve in India on the banks of the Tadoba lake. To our left were a bunch of Bison a hundred feet away in the jungle. To our right was the lake with a number of loitering crocodiles in the water (A sign on the lake proudly stated "Swimming is prohibited, survivors will be prosecuted"). We were standing and staring at the bison and every passing second of nothingness that followed was augmenting the nervous tension in the air and that was a good time for one of the bison to snort loudly and lunge towards us. That was when all hell broke loose and as my mind went blank and my youthful life flashed before my eyes, I actually remember thinking that I was going to die in the next few minutes. And then we were all running mindlessly towards the lake where the crocodiles lay and the few seconds that separated us from the crocodiles allowed my mind to estimate the amount of pain that would be caused by a raging bison as compared to that caused by a crocodile and I chose the latter. And so I continued running towards the lake. And just before I plunged into the water, I allowed myself the luxury of looking back to see how many seconds I had before I turned into mortal remains and I saw that the fucker had not moved from his previous position. Then I saw his neighbor say to him, "Bless you" and he replied, "Why, thank you kind sir", and the courteous exchange of pleasantries between the two bovines made me realize that the entire episode had been a mere sneeze.
3.> I am an extravagant tipper. I calculate the tip by dividing the bill by 4 and adding a dollar. I use this tip-calculation formula even if I receive exceptionally bad service or if the waiter throws a glass of water in my face after spitting into it. That's because I know how it is to be a college student living in the US on a meagre allowance and sometimes, you really need to spit into a glass and throw it at somebody's face.
4.> I love trains and railway tracks. If I see an abandoned railway line, I feel an urge to follow the tracks on foot just to see where they lead. Sometimes I pretend I am an engine and whistle at people. I possess the extraordinary ability to whistle continuously for long periods of time without having to pause for breath. The key is to alternately breath in and out through the whistle.
5.>The most fun thing I ever did in my life was during my engineering days when the entire mechanical department took an "educational" trip down to South India. During the train ride from Pune to Bangalore, me and a friend, we dressed up as beggars (torn banians and lungis), with myself as the musically (dis)inclined one and he as the blind one wearing black sunglasses. We roamed the entire length of the train at night, with me banging on an Indian drum I just happened to have with me and singing in a high octave as is the custom for Indian Railways alms-gatherers, requesting cash donations from our fellow passengers. We even managed to fool one of our professors into coughing up money. Some amount of blunt-fingered coat-tail scratching was required, fortunately, all of which was handled by the blind guy.
6.> I am a night person. There was a period of two months during the graduate winter of 1999 when I did not see the sun at all. I love how the night air smells. Sometimes I stand on my balcony at night, just sniffing the air for long periods of time. People accuse me of being deranged for doing this.
7.> I have not purchased a single new item of underclothing in the past five years. I am bewildered by the ability of the male undergarment manufacturing industry to stay financially solvent in spite of customers like me. I attribute this to most of them now having switched from male undergarments to feminine intimatewear as their main line of business (For example, Hanes, who now has television commercials showing women wearing their product with the tag line "look who we got our Hanes on now", where "who", stands for women.)
Apparently I have to tag 8 other people. I don't know is there anyone left who has not yet been tagged by this meme? Ok then, you're it. Go, have fun typing. Also, it appears to be incumbent upon me to add the following rules to this post.
Here are the rules:
1. Players start with 8 random facts about themselves.
2. Those who are tagged should post these rules and their 8 random facts.
3. Players should tag 8 other people and notify them they have been tagged.
0.> I cannot cook Indian food at all. I have no idea how to put those flavors into a curry. I have tried and failed miserably. Every time I cook anything, I get the distinct impression that the ingredients of my dish are unhappy about being used in my creation.
1.> If I am walking on a tiled pavement, I deliberately avoid stepping on the boundary between two consecutive tiles. If an uneven gait in the manner of a three-legged dog with an alcohol problem is required for the achievement of this objective, I have no qualms about doing so, amused onlooking be damned.
2.> There has been one time in my life when I was literally terrified for my life to such a degree that my brain was called upon to choose between two different forms of death, based on the relative terror caused by each. It happened while I was walking with a couple of friends in the Tadoba Tiger Reserve in India on the banks of the Tadoba lake. To our left were a bunch of Bison a hundred feet away in the jungle. To our right was the lake with a number of loitering crocodiles in the water (A sign on the lake proudly stated "Swimming is prohibited, survivors will be prosecuted"). We were standing and staring at the bison and every passing second of nothingness that followed was augmenting the nervous tension in the air and that was a good time for one of the bison to snort loudly and lunge towards us. That was when all hell broke loose and as my mind went blank and my youthful life flashed before my eyes, I actually remember thinking that I was going to die in the next few minutes. And then we were all running mindlessly towards the lake where the crocodiles lay and the few seconds that separated us from the crocodiles allowed my mind to estimate the amount of pain that would be caused by a raging bison as compared to that caused by a crocodile and I chose the latter. And so I continued running towards the lake. And just before I plunged into the water, I allowed myself the luxury of looking back to see how many seconds I had before I turned into mortal remains and I saw that the fucker had not moved from his previous position. Then I saw his neighbor say to him, "Bless you" and he replied, "Why, thank you kind sir", and the courteous exchange of pleasantries between the two bovines made me realize that the entire episode had been a mere sneeze.
3.> I am an extravagant tipper. I calculate the tip by dividing the bill by 4 and adding a dollar. I use this tip-calculation formula even if I receive exceptionally bad service or if the waiter throws a glass of water in my face after spitting into it. That's because I know how it is to be a college student living in the US on a meagre allowance and sometimes, you really need to spit into a glass and throw it at somebody's face.
4.> I love trains and railway tracks. If I see an abandoned railway line, I feel an urge to follow the tracks on foot just to see where they lead. Sometimes I pretend I am an engine and whistle at people. I possess the extraordinary ability to whistle continuously for long periods of time without having to pause for breath. The key is to alternately breath in and out through the whistle.
5.>The most fun thing I ever did in my life was during my engineering days when the entire mechanical department took an "educational" trip down to South India. During the train ride from Pune to Bangalore, me and a friend, we dressed up as beggars (torn banians and lungis), with myself as the musically (dis)inclined one and he as the blind one wearing black sunglasses. We roamed the entire length of the train at night, with me banging on an Indian drum I just happened to have with me and singing in a high octave as is the custom for Indian Railways alms-gatherers, requesting cash donations from our fellow passengers. We even managed to fool one of our professors into coughing up money. Some amount of blunt-fingered coat-tail scratching was required, fortunately, all of which was handled by the blind guy.
6.> I am a night person. There was a period of two months during the graduate winter of 1999 when I did not see the sun at all. I love how the night air smells. Sometimes I stand on my balcony at night, just sniffing the air for long periods of time. People accuse me of being deranged for doing this.
7.> I have not purchased a single new item of underclothing in the past five years. I am bewildered by the ability of the male undergarment manufacturing industry to stay financially solvent in spite of customers like me. I attribute this to most of them now having switched from male undergarments to feminine intimatewear as their main line of business (For example, Hanes, who now has television commercials showing women wearing their product with the tag line "look who we got our Hanes on now", where "who", stands for women.)
Apparently I have to tag 8 other people. I don't know is there anyone left who has not yet been tagged by this meme? Ok then, you're it. Go, have fun typing. Also, it appears to be incumbent upon me to add the following rules to this post.
Here are the rules:
1. Players start with 8 random facts about themselves.
2. Those who are tagged should post these rules and their 8 random facts.
3. Players should tag 8 other people and notify them they have been tagged.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
60
This guy, he will turn 60 next month. I called him up 11:30 PM my time. I needed my birth certificate for filing my I-485. I was worried because I believed that I had lost my birth certificate at birth. I was wondering if, by any chance, he had a copy.
I don't have it here with me in Bangalore, he said, where he currently lives with my mom, helping to take care of my baby nephew while my sister tries to make the world a better and more utilitarian place for cellphone users. But I am sure there's a copy lying around somewhere back in the old homestead in Pune, he said.
I see, I replied, do you know someone who would be willing to break into the old homestead, steal the damn thing and mail it to me? Do any of our neighbors back in Pune have a history of criminal behavior?
We don't need any criminals, son, said the old man, I will go get your birth certificate for you, when do you need it?
I have a month to file the I-485, I said. Anything within that time frame would be fine.
By the way, Pune is about 12 hours from Bangalore by road, I think. It could be more, depending upon how many farmers decide to thresh their crops by leaving them on the highway and waiting for vehicles to run them over.
You will have it within the next couple of weeks, said the old man. Don't worry. Do you want me to send you some money along with the birth certificate?
Dad, I don't need money, I am working now and have been working for the past seven years.
(By the way, thanks for sending me the 1500 dollars five years ago when I was laid off, they saved my life.)
Are you sure?
Yes, I was sure. This time.
Fast forward 18 hours. I got a call from my dad.
"Do you want the birth certificate, school leaving certificate, nationality certificate or domicile certificate or all of the above? I have them all in front of me."
What? How? Where are you?
I caught the next bus to Pune, said the old man. Do you want me to mail them to you, scan and email them to you or both? Wait, don't bother, I will do both.
Now bear in mind, it is 4:30 AM dad time and dad has just stepped off the Bangalore-Pune bus. At 4:30 AM dad time, dad is on the phone, describing to me the scannability of various 20 and 30 year old documents, based upon their relative raggedness.
Fast forward one hour. I have my birth certificate in my inbox. And it's not even been a day since the last hair was torn off my scalp in a fit of birth-certificateless frenzy.
When I am 60, I hope to have at least half the energy and vitality as does my dad.
Also dad, I love you. You are the man.
I don't have it here with me in Bangalore, he said, where he currently lives with my mom, helping to take care of my baby nephew while my sister tries to make the world a better and more utilitarian place for cellphone users. But I am sure there's a copy lying around somewhere back in the old homestead in Pune, he said.
I see, I replied, do you know someone who would be willing to break into the old homestead, steal the damn thing and mail it to me? Do any of our neighbors back in Pune have a history of criminal behavior?
We don't need any criminals, son, said the old man, I will go get your birth certificate for you, when do you need it?
I have a month to file the I-485, I said. Anything within that time frame would be fine.
By the way, Pune is about 12 hours from Bangalore by road, I think. It could be more, depending upon how many farmers decide to thresh their crops by leaving them on the highway and waiting for vehicles to run them over.
You will have it within the next couple of weeks, said the old man. Don't worry. Do you want me to send you some money along with the birth certificate?
Dad, I don't need money, I am working now and have been working for the past seven years.
(By the way, thanks for sending me the 1500 dollars five years ago when I was laid off, they saved my life.)
Are you sure?
Yes, I was sure. This time.
Fast forward 18 hours. I got a call from my dad.
"Do you want the birth certificate, school leaving certificate, nationality certificate or domicile certificate or all of the above? I have them all in front of me."
What? How? Where are you?
I caught the next bus to Pune, said the old man. Do you want me to mail them to you, scan and email them to you or both? Wait, don't bother, I will do both.
Now bear in mind, it is 4:30 AM dad time and dad has just stepped off the Bangalore-Pune bus. At 4:30 AM dad time, dad is on the phone, describing to me the scannability of various 20 and 30 year old documents, based upon their relative raggedness.
Fast forward one hour. I have my birth certificate in my inbox. And it's not even been a day since the last hair was torn off my scalp in a fit of birth-certificateless frenzy.
When I am 60, I hope to have at least half the energy and vitality as does my dad.
Also dad, I love you. You are the man.
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