So me and the wife were standing on the 11th Street Subway Station in Philadelphia, waiting for the Market-Frankford Line to take us to to 2nd Street, where the angels lay in waiting with food and drink (the Spice Cafe and the Triumph Brewing Company ). I was standing as close to the yellow line as I could, looking out for the train, as close to the subway tracks as was possible, without being one with them.
The Market Frankford line is the second seediest subway line in Philadelphia, the first being the Broad Street Line, there being only two Subway lines in the Philadelphia subway system. So as we were standing there in broad daylight, the daylight being obscured by the roof over our heads, us being below ground, two black punks entered the station from the left wing of the stage.
There was happiness all around as these two punks entered, them being happy and cracking jokes and laughing and all. And as we stood there, waiting for our transportation to appear, they started a-rappin', rap-a-tap-a-tappin', gettin' down wit' it dawg, crackin' out those rhymes with the world a-watchin'.
And I was watching and enjoying the rapping and they were going "wit an empty pocket" as the chorus to their rap song, and they were laughing and rapping and I was enjoying with them and then they called out, hey you, with the empty pocket.
And the station contained only four people out of which I was the only one with the empty pocket, but it couldn't be me because my pocket was full of my wallet and it was a big huge wallet and it was so big that it was showing through my pants and it couldn't possibly be an empty pocket, but wait a minute, maybe those punks were being satirical and making fun of my full pocket by calling it an empty pocket.
So the black punk called out, yes, you there with the empty pocket, do you have change for a 100 dollars?
I had 20 dollars in my full pocket but that was not the point, so I looked at the punk, and it seemed like he was, in fact, looking at me, and although I still had not come to terms with the fact that I had a satirically empty pocket, I knew he was talking to me.
Hey man, do you have change for a fifty dollars?
Ok, I get it, I have a fat wallet, but trust me, it is mostly full of health insurance cards and stamps and Indian driving licenses and no, I do not have change for fifty dollars, that wallet-fatness, that is but an illusion, and I wish I could have slipped an arm over his shoulder and walked with him to a park bench to explain that to him but he was with punk accompaniment and I was with wife so I had very little recourse.
And because he was black and I was brown and I was with wife and with very little humanity on the station, I pretended that he was speaking to someone else on the other platform, on the other side of the tracks, directly collinear with me. I smiled at him because he was not speaking to me. He was speaking to the guy on the other platform collinear with me.
Mrs Gawker said to me, let us go stand with the rest of the civilized world to our left. The civilized world consisted of a woman speaking on a cellphone. But I was defiant. I had worked out in the fucking gym for the past three months and in the absence of a pistol-shaped bulge in those pants, I was going to defend my turf. No, I said, If we move, they win. And fuck it, I do not have an empty pocket or a full pocket.
I kept my ground. With my empty / fat wallet. And soon, the punks quit making fun of my pocket and moved on. And there was a lesson there for all you punks. Do not mess with a married Indian. He will beat your ass. He will beat your ass with his Indian driving license if need be. Do not mess with him. And please forgive his massive wallet. It is an Indian thing. Where else can he keep his Indian driving license?
Saturday, April 14, 2007
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, April 03, 2007
Fraud
I finally reached home yesterday late in the evening following a two hour journey by train because as I said earlier, the train follows a route from my workplace to my home that goes through Mexico (God how I love that joke as do you, I hope, because I promise to use it often). I had to use the train because my car was in the dealership.
And when I reached home I saw that I had a voicemail from Discovercard, asking me to give them a call because my recent credit card activity showed that there might be a strong possibility of fraud. I called up immediately because the voicemail was left by someone who sounded as if his dog had just died after swallowing a fraudulently used credit card.
I was connected to a guy who seemed remarkably chirpy for someone whose job was to inform people that somewhere in the world, their credit cards were being used to purchase silk underwear for somebody else's wife. My heart was atwitter and I desperately needed to know how much money I had lost and if I could get it back. After answering numerous questions in order to prove my identity such as name, social security number, home phone number, work phone number, date of birth, mother's maiden name, name father lovingly called mother when he wanted an omlet for breakfast and sister's favorite Johnny Depp movie, the topic finally turned to credit card fraud.
"Would you like to receive future notifications of fraud on your cell phone in text message form?" asked the tech support guy, obviously tickled by his role as Unveiler of Text Messaging Technology to the heathen masses.
"Fuck future text notifications, why don't you first give me my current notification of fraud in human voice form", is what I would have liked to tell him but instead, I just said "Sure" and regretted it in the next instant.
"Who is your cellphone provider", asked the TSG.
"Yargh Cingular", I said. Get on with it already, I said to myself. I could picture fake gawker ordering filet mignons and a round of beers for his criminal associates. "Hey everybody, drinks are on me", he was probably yelling at this very moment, waving my card in the air and getting a round of applause from the drunk freeloaders at the bar.
"Hmm let's see....Ceeeeengular......C e e e e e ngular", sang the tech support guy in a low melodious baritone, I couldn't help thinking, despite my predicament. "Ok here we go, Cingular, yes you're all set for receiving text messages now", said TSG.
Okay, maybe we could talk about the fraudulent charges now?
"Would you like to purchase fraud protection for only 2.99 a month?", continued the TSG.
"No, thank you, I already have fraud protection. Speaking of fraud ...."
"So did you receive a call from us regarding possible fraudulent activity on your credit card?", asked the TSG finally coming to the point.
"Yes, yes."
"Our records show a charge for $ 1780.00 at a Volkswagen dealership. Is that correct?"
Good Lord it sounded even worse from the TSG's mouth. An acute twinge of pain passed through my nose in remembrance.
"Yes, that was me", I said with sadness. Nothing fraudulent about that. At least nothing I could do anything about. But on the bright side, at least I wasn't paying for someone else's silk underwear and filet mignon.
And when I reached home I saw that I had a voicemail from Discovercard, asking me to give them a call because my recent credit card activity showed that there might be a strong possibility of fraud. I called up immediately because the voicemail was left by someone who sounded as if his dog had just died after swallowing a fraudulently used credit card.
I was connected to a guy who seemed remarkably chirpy for someone whose job was to inform people that somewhere in the world, their credit cards were being used to purchase silk underwear for somebody else's wife. My heart was atwitter and I desperately needed to know how much money I had lost and if I could get it back. After answering numerous questions in order to prove my identity such as name, social security number, home phone number, work phone number, date of birth, mother's maiden name, name father lovingly called mother when he wanted an omlet for breakfast and sister's favorite Johnny Depp movie, the topic finally turned to credit card fraud.
"Would you like to receive future notifications of fraud on your cell phone in text message form?" asked the tech support guy, obviously tickled by his role as Unveiler of Text Messaging Technology to the heathen masses.
"Fuck future text notifications, why don't you first give me my current notification of fraud in human voice form", is what I would have liked to tell him but instead, I just said "Sure" and regretted it in the next instant.
"Who is your cellphone provider", asked the TSG.
"Yargh Cingular", I said. Get on with it already, I said to myself. I could picture fake gawker ordering filet mignons and a round of beers for his criminal associates. "Hey everybody, drinks are on me", he was probably yelling at this very moment, waving my card in the air and getting a round of applause from the drunk freeloaders at the bar.
"Hmm let's see....Ceeeeengular......C e e e e e ngular", sang the tech support guy in a low melodious baritone, I couldn't help thinking, despite my predicament. "Ok here we go, Cingular, yes you're all set for receiving text messages now", said TSG.
Okay, maybe we could talk about the fraudulent charges now?
"Would you like to purchase fraud protection for only 2.99 a month?", continued the TSG.
"No, thank you, I already have fraud protection. Speaking of fraud ...."
"So did you receive a call from us regarding possible fraudulent activity on your credit card?", asked the TSG finally coming to the point.
"Yes, yes."
"Our records show a charge for $ 1780.00 at a Volkswagen dealership. Is that correct?"
Good Lord it sounded even worse from the TSG's mouth. An acute twinge of pain passed through my nose in remembrance.
"Yes, that was me", I said with sadness. Nothing fraudulent about that. At least nothing I could do anything about. But on the bright side, at least I wasn't paying for someone else's silk underwear and filet mignon.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Priceless
Oil Change : $ 65
Wheel alignment : $ 60
Inspection and Emissions test : $ 75
Front Brake Rotors replacement : $ 350
Front Shocks replacement : $ 450
Front Shocks bearings replacement : $ 550
Ability to breathe through the mouth while paying through the nose : Priceless
Wheel alignment : $ 60
Inspection and Emissions test : $ 75
Front Brake Rotors replacement : $ 350
Front Shocks replacement : $ 450
Front Shocks bearings replacement : $ 550
Ability to breathe through the mouth while paying through the nose : Priceless
Friday, March 30, 2007
Friday Photo Blogging : The Schuylkill River Trail
Don't look now and correct me if I'm wrong, but I think spring is here. Okay what the heck, go on, look. Too late, it's back to freezing again. Look again tomorrow. It's expected to be nice and sunny and warm. But don't look on sunday because it's supposed to be cold and rainy. Monday is expected to be like saturday, tuesday like monday and fuck wednesday because no one cares about wednesday. So coming back to spring, I expect cycling activities to commence this weekend. Luckily, Philly, if not the biking capital of the US, is at least the biking capital of Philly with a number of decent biking trails within stone-throwing distance, although if you are going to throw a stone, make sure you aim for the speed-cyclists and not the leisure bikers. The biking trail that I patronize the most out of sheer laziness due to its close proximity to me is the Schuylkill River Trail from Valley Forge to the Philadelphia Art Museum along the banks of the Schuylkill River, a distance of about 25 miles.
The trail begins in Valley Forge Historic Park where George Washington amassed his troops during the revolutionary war while preparing to attack Philadelphia, which had been captured by the British and whose residents were now being forced to spell color with a "u".
On its way to Philly, the trail passes through Manayunk, a semi-pretentious neighbourhood which apparently is the place to be in if you're a young puppy, or, as it's known nowadays, a yuppy.
But to be fair, the trail also has sections like this one where the buildings get momentarily obscured by foliage.
Finally, the trail breaks out onto Kelly Drive, where the beautiful people of the city hang out to showcase their beauty and also to stay beautiful by engaging in various activities of physical exertion such as roller blading, biking and canoing. The following is the spot on the trail where the highly anticipated Philadelphia skyline makes its first appearance.
Further along the way, you pass this sculpture of a man shielding his eyes from the sun while humping an eagle, a testament to willpower and physical exertion.
Finally, the trail ends at the Philadelphia Art Museum which is a great place to spend a day in. One of the best exhibits in the museum is an entire authentic South Indian temple which was moved here and reconstructed one naked sculptured breast at a time.
Of course, you don't have to stop biking once you are at the Museum of Art. You could continue on into downtown Philly along this avenue lined with the flags of all countries except India, which the New Jerseyites keep stealing come every Independence Day to hang outside their own homes.
On the way, you pass City Hall with the statue of William Penn on top, who is famous for having his statue on top of City Hall.
Just behind this marvellous No Stopping sign which I really did mean to include in the picture, you can see a flock of people who've just exited a theater on Broad Street after watching a play.
This is the Kimmel Center, cultural center of the city. I am not sure what happens in there but some day I mean to find out. Maybe this guy knows, in fact, I am pretty sure that he does, so why don't you just ask him instead.
As for me, my ultimate destination is almost always South Philly, Heavenly Abode of the Cheesesteak Deity.
I hope this travelogue will inspire some of you to travel to Philadelphia for taking its sights and sounds in and Mayor John Street out with you when you leave. If so, may the spirit of the Lizard riding a Chicken aid and abet you in your endeavours.
Related post : The Delaware Canal Biking Trail.
People travel to Manayunk to bike on a very small section of the trail along the Manayunk canal which makes perfect sense because that section of the trail is generously endowed with crumbling factory buildings like this one which makes for a very scenic ride.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Please go ahead
Yesterday as I came in to work, I saw a couple of cop cars parked in front of the building. Okay, something to look forward to, maybe a burglary, or oh man, dare I dream, could it be...arson, I thought to myself as I carefully parked my car in such a way that my blown headlight would be hidden from the long viewing proboscis of the Law.
Inside was a blaring alarm and a police officer interrogating a woman who, it seems, had set the burglar alarm off by letting herself into the building but omitting to enter the code for its disarmament. So it looked like it was going to be a normal day after all, at least for me. I moved on.
Today as I drove in to work and got out of my car, I saw the same woman standing outside the building with her keys in her hand. Obviously, she was going to make a reattempt at entering the building without setting the alarm off. She looked at me with hope in her eyes as a knight who would rescue her damsel ass from the alarm dragon. But I didn't feel like being interrogated by cops so I decided that this would be a great time to do the dime check on my tire treads. I knelt down. After waiting in vain for me to materialize, she resigned herself to her fate. Keys in hand, she walked into the bowels of the building.
I guess I took the coward's way out but what to do, frequently that is the only way not lined with thorns, loud blaring noises and prison cells.
Inside was a blaring alarm and a police officer interrogating a woman who, it seems, had set the burglar alarm off by letting herself into the building but omitting to enter the code for its disarmament. So it looked like it was going to be a normal day after all, at least for me. I moved on.
Today as I drove in to work and got out of my car, I saw the same woman standing outside the building with her keys in her hand. Obviously, she was going to make a reattempt at entering the building without setting the alarm off. She looked at me with hope in her eyes as a knight who would rescue her damsel ass from the alarm dragon. But I didn't feel like being interrogated by cops so I decided that this would be a great time to do the dime check on my tire treads. I knelt down. After waiting in vain for me to materialize, she resigned herself to her fate. Keys in hand, she walked into the bowels of the building.
I guess I took the coward's way out but what to do, frequently that is the only way not lined with thorns, loud blaring noises and prison cells.
Friday, March 23, 2007
I want this job
Everyday I pass this guy on the turnpike. It is the ramp from I-76 onto I-276 where they are constructing some potholes and narrowness. Everyday it is the same guy, a black guy holding a donut in one hand and a "SLOW" sign in the other. And as far as I can tell, his duties appear to comprise solely of holding the "SLOW" sign upright and preventing it from falling to the ground. I would like to have his job.
Of course, I am not claiming that this is all that his job involves. He also has to hold himself up and not fall to the ground which could be difficult if your center of gravity were to be skewed by a donut. Plus, I don't know if his job description also includes looking out for blind drivers who cannot read road signs and running behind them, yelling at them to slow down. But honestly, how many blind drivers do you encounter on the road in Pennsylvania, with most of them not venturing outside their home base in Pune, MH.
The reason I would like to have this job is because I feel I could do it better justice than the black guy. I would use the professional skills I developed through four years of undergraduate study and two years of graduate study and apply them to this particular career. If I were to be employed as a black guy holding a donut and a SLOW sign, and trust me, right now it's just a dream with no sign of ever coming true, I would first construct what we mechanical engineers call, "a stand", and mount the "SLOW" sign on it using what we software engineers call, hands. Then, after receiving a commendation and a salary increase from my supervisor for my out-of-the-box thinking on my first day at work, I would go home and consume the donut. That would leave me with fourteen hours to kill before I would have to go back to work and check for any termite damage to the stand.
Yes, I am pretty sure that I would like to apply for this job. Are these jobs on monster.com? Someone please let me know.
Of course, I am not claiming that this is all that his job involves. He also has to hold himself up and not fall to the ground which could be difficult if your center of gravity were to be skewed by a donut. Plus, I don't know if his job description also includes looking out for blind drivers who cannot read road signs and running behind them, yelling at them to slow down. But honestly, how many blind drivers do you encounter on the road in Pennsylvania, with most of them not venturing outside their home base in Pune, MH.
The reason I would like to have this job is because I feel I could do it better justice than the black guy. I would use the professional skills I developed through four years of undergraduate study and two years of graduate study and apply them to this particular career. If I were to be employed as a black guy holding a donut and a SLOW sign, and trust me, right now it's just a dream with no sign of ever coming true, I would first construct what we mechanical engineers call, "a stand", and mount the "SLOW" sign on it using what we software engineers call, hands. Then, after receiving a commendation and a salary increase from my supervisor for my out-of-the-box thinking on my first day at work, I would go home and consume the donut. That would leave me with fourteen hours to kill before I would have to go back to work and check for any termite damage to the stand.
Yes, I am pretty sure that I would like to apply for this job. Are these jobs on monster.com? Someone please let me know.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Breast feeding
Every once in a while here in Pennsylvania, there erupts a controversy over breastfeeding. Someone breastfeeds someone else, oftentimes a baby, in a public establishment, and then gets ejected from said establishment for doing so. This is then followed by extensive media coverage of the incident which is entirely devoid of pictorial coverage, which in turn is then followed by a pro-breastfeeding rally by area women who try to force the public establishment to change its titular policy.
And so it happened again a couple of weeks ago. This time I was paying attention to the teevee and they said that the offending establishment was a mall and the rallying women had a statement to make. The statement said that people should not get offended by breastfeeding because of the asexual nature of the act due to the presence of the baby.
I disagree with this reasoning on multiple levels. But before I do so, I would like to clarify my position so that I don't have hordes of feminists descending upon me like libertarians upon feminists, or demonic fire-breathing asp-tongued locusts upon libertarians (just so we give those libertarians something to think about). In short, personally, I have no problems with women breastfeeding their babies in public either conceptually, visually or in principle (since I am not lactose intolerant).
But here's the thing. Anti-breast-display laws were created for people who get offended by the sight of breasts. And when these people see an uncovered breast, why should we expect its offensiveness to them to be mitigated by the presence of an attached baby? If you say that certain people should not be offended by breasts in certain circumstances, then shouldn't you actually be laying the onus of not being offended on all people in all circumstances without being selective about it? In other words, all aboard the naked train.
Secondly, isn't a baby like the very epitome of human sexuality? When you see a young couple with a baby, isn't your first thought "Hmm... goddamn, these people had sex".
Now for the solution. Instead of asking people to not be offended by breasts or asexual babies, how about we study the problem in purely legal terms. The only time a breast is considered to have crossed legal bounds of propriety is when it has let the areolus escape through heavy security and into the scorching glare of the public eye. In fact, if there's anything that repeated exposure to E! TV has taught us, it is that the legal system is actually pretty permissive in its view towards breast-display, even allowing women to lay it all out there as long as the critical area is covered by some form of opaque material. But when a woman is breastfeeding her baby, the area in question would always be covered by the baby's mouth, with the baby in most situations being opaque unless it was sired by the Invisible Man and thus, in legal terms, a breastfeeding woman would not be crossing the limits of decency.
I wish breastfeeding advocates would put forth their legal argument in support of public breastfeeding instead of trying to appeal to human emotions using the "inoffensive" and "asexual" arguments. After all, emotions can vary from person to person. But the application of the Law is universal.
And so it happened again a couple of weeks ago. This time I was paying attention to the teevee and they said that the offending establishment was a mall and the rallying women had a statement to make. The statement said that people should not get offended by breastfeeding because of the asexual nature of the act due to the presence of the baby.
I disagree with this reasoning on multiple levels. But before I do so, I would like to clarify my position so that I don't have hordes of feminists descending upon me like libertarians upon feminists, or demonic fire-breathing asp-tongued locusts upon libertarians (just so we give those libertarians something to think about). In short, personally, I have no problems with women breastfeeding their babies in public either conceptually, visually or in principle (since I am not lactose intolerant).
But here's the thing. Anti-breast-display laws were created for people who get offended by the sight of breasts. And when these people see an uncovered breast, why should we expect its offensiveness to them to be mitigated by the presence of an attached baby? If you say that certain people should not be offended by breasts in certain circumstances, then shouldn't you actually be laying the onus of not being offended on all people in all circumstances without being selective about it? In other words, all aboard the naked train.
Secondly, isn't a baby like the very epitome of human sexuality? When you see a young couple with a baby, isn't your first thought "Hmm... goddamn, these people had sex".
Now for the solution. Instead of asking people to not be offended by breasts or asexual babies, how about we study the problem in purely legal terms. The only time a breast is considered to have crossed legal bounds of propriety is when it has let the areolus escape through heavy security and into the scorching glare of the public eye. In fact, if there's anything that repeated exposure to E! TV has taught us, it is that the legal system is actually pretty permissive in its view towards breast-display, even allowing women to lay it all out there as long as the critical area is covered by some form of opaque material. But when a woman is breastfeeding her baby, the area in question would always be covered by the baby's mouth, with the baby in most situations being opaque unless it was sired by the Invisible Man and thus, in legal terms, a breastfeeding woman would not be crossing the limits of decency.
I wish breastfeeding advocates would put forth their legal argument in support of public breastfeeding instead of trying to appeal to human emotions using the "inoffensive" and "asexual" arguments. After all, emotions can vary from person to person. But the application of the Law is universal.
Back of the menu
Ever so often when you go to a restaurant and begin to flip through the menu, you find that either you do not wish to partake of the items of food advertized within or would have liked to, but cannot afford their purchase. So you continue to flip and you flip some more till you reach the end of the menu. And then, in a final burst of optimism, you turn it over and look at its backside, space usually reserved for business hours and spilt food, even though bitter experience reminds you of the extremely low probability of menus in pamphlet form possessing a secret affordable / delectable food section spirited away on their backsides.
Ever since this blog was nominated for the Indibloggies, its readership and feed circulation has doubled in volume. I have a gut feeling that for most of you people who just tuned in, this blog is kinda like the back of the menu. I applaud your persistence in continuing to scour the web for reading material and optimism in hoping that this blog might have whatever it is that you are looking for, and even though I seriously doubt it, I hope you find it here and welcome you with both arms wide open, a carrot in one and a stick in the other, don't ask, it's a long story.
But for those millions of you who came here looking for sympathy and advice on "how to keep hair from falling out" and found flippancy instead, I can only hope that laughter being the best medicine and all, it helped your hair grow back (the lack of it causing you to pull at your hair, h/t S in the comments).
Ever since this blog was nominated for the Indibloggies, its readership and feed circulation has doubled in volume. I have a gut feeling that for most of you people who just tuned in, this blog is kinda like the back of the menu. I applaud your persistence in continuing to scour the web for reading material and optimism in hoping that this blog might have whatever it is that you are looking for, and even though I seriously doubt it, I hope you find it here and welcome you with both arms wide open, a carrot in one and a stick in the other, don't ask, it's a long story.
But for those millions of you who came here looking for sympathy and advice on "how to keep hair from falling out" and found flippancy instead, I can only hope that laughter being the best medicine and all, it helped your hair grow back (the lack of it causing you to pull at your hair, h/t S in the comments).
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Phone call
In the past, I have had people I know, casual acquaintances back in India, who, after coming to the US for a visit, would send me a mail saying "I am in the US, call me".
I don't understand why someone's being here in the US should be a bigger incentive for me to call him than when he's back in India. The telephone rates are about the same. If I didn't call you when you were in India, chances are that it wasn't because of the seven seas separating us. The reduction in physical distance doesn't make a whole lot of difference when you are speaking to someone on the phone. Current technology still does not allow you to shake someone's hand or slap his back or make obscene gestures at him through the phone line. And it's not like being in the same country makes your voice sound more melodious or your personality more agreeable on the phone.
I think the only difference between talking to someone in India and the same guy after he's landed in the US is that you have more flight-related material to sustain your conversation, leading to less awkward pauses than usual, thus making it a social opportunity to jump at. So when did you land here, I landed today, how was your flight, it was long, was it 16 hours, yes excluding the 5 hour stopover, did you fly through London, no I flew through Paris, oh really, I thought you flew through Frankfurt, no, I flew through London, did you fly Lufthansa, no I flew British Airways, oh, I thought you said you flew through Rome, no, I flew through London, so how do you like it here, I've only been here a couple of days, so did you watch the weather channel yet, you don't get it in India, no I don't have a tv, which is why I'm talking to you right now.
And so it goes, this conversation between two virtual strangers, the only bond between them being their simultaneous presence in the same country which is not their homeland. And when it is done and receivers have been replaced back on the hook, both begin to realize why they never called each other up as often back in India in the first place.
I don't understand why someone's being here in the US should be a bigger incentive for me to call him than when he's back in India. The telephone rates are about the same. If I didn't call you when you were in India, chances are that it wasn't because of the seven seas separating us. The reduction in physical distance doesn't make a whole lot of difference when you are speaking to someone on the phone. Current technology still does not allow you to shake someone's hand or slap his back or make obscene gestures at him through the phone line. And it's not like being in the same country makes your voice sound more melodious or your personality more agreeable on the phone.
I think the only difference between talking to someone in India and the same guy after he's landed in the US is that you have more flight-related material to sustain your conversation, leading to less awkward pauses than usual, thus making it a social opportunity to jump at. So when did you land here, I landed today, how was your flight, it was long, was it 16 hours, yes excluding the 5 hour stopover, did you fly through London, no I flew through Paris, oh really, I thought you flew through Frankfurt, no, I flew through London, did you fly Lufthansa, no I flew British Airways, oh, I thought you said you flew through Rome, no, I flew through London, so how do you like it here, I've only been here a couple of days, so did you watch the weather channel yet, you don't get it in India, no I don't have a tv, which is why I'm talking to you right now.
And so it goes, this conversation between two virtual strangers, the only bond between them being their simultaneous presence in the same country which is not their homeland. And when it is done and receivers have been replaced back on the hook, both begin to realize why they never called each other up as often back in India in the first place.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Never begin on a high note
So yesterday the wife and I went to this bar that has an after 9:00 half priced appetizer and drink special. Goddamn it was a nightmare, keeping ourselves hungry till nine. Well, no one said that being a cheapskate would be easy. So anyways, as we pulled into the parking lot, the male half of an elderly couple whom we had just avoided running over, began to walk towards me. I thought he was about to beat me with his over sized fedora hat but the fault was mine so I got ready for the thrashing.
But he had other things on his mind.
"One of your headlights is out", he said pointing to my car.
I was kind of relieved because I did say it was an over sized hat, didn't I?
"Oh yeah, I know, I was gonna get it fixed this weekend, thanks for telling me", I said to him.
"No problem", he said and walked away with a friendly smile.
"Look at that", I said to my wife, "How friendly these Americans are. If we had been in India, the guy would have said to me, hey since one of your headlights is out, can I have the other one?"
My wife found my observation funny. She complimented me on my sense of humor. I felt ecstatic.
Now here's the problem with your wife complimenting you on your sense of humor. After that point in time, every other joke, to her, looks like a lame attempt to live up to her compliment. Plus, it sets the humor bar too high for the rest of the evening.
And so it happened that when we were changing bar seats after we realized that the lights were too bright where we were and the wife had to make a couple of trips to move all her stuff and I asked her, "Do you want me to hire a moving van", it failed to spark any mirth. And when she had trouble finishing her spinach dip and flat bread and I asked her, "Are you okay, is the spinach dip eating you, after all there are four of those flatbreads and just one of you", she said "You know, you don't seem as funny anymore."
Moral of the story : The showcasing of your sense of humor should occur at the very end of the evening. Or, as George C explained it to us, "Always leave on a high note".
Or, alternatively, you could quit cracking jokes at your wife's expense.
But he had other things on his mind.
"One of your headlights is out", he said pointing to my car.
I was kind of relieved because I did say it was an over sized hat, didn't I?
"Oh yeah, I know, I was gonna get it fixed this weekend, thanks for telling me", I said to him.
"No problem", he said and walked away with a friendly smile.
"Look at that", I said to my wife, "How friendly these Americans are. If we had been in India, the guy would have said to me, hey since one of your headlights is out, can I have the other one?"
My wife found my observation funny. She complimented me on my sense of humor. I felt ecstatic.
Now here's the problem with your wife complimenting you on your sense of humor. After that point in time, every other joke, to her, looks like a lame attempt to live up to her compliment. Plus, it sets the humor bar too high for the rest of the evening.
And so it happened that when we were changing bar seats after we realized that the lights were too bright where we were and the wife had to make a couple of trips to move all her stuff and I asked her, "Do you want me to hire a moving van", it failed to spark any mirth. And when she had trouble finishing her spinach dip and flat bread and I asked her, "Are you okay, is the spinach dip eating you, after all there are four of those flatbreads and just one of you", she said "You know, you don't seem as funny anymore."
Moral of the story : The showcasing of your sense of humor should occur at the very end of the evening. Or, as George C explained it to us, "Always leave on a high note".
Or, alternatively, you could quit cracking jokes at your wife's expense.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Sell-out
I remember the day as well as the exact time of the day when I realized that I had turned into a sell-out. It was yesterday afternoon 3:00 pm and I was just about to write a blogpost on why I am not crazy about cricket anymore and why, when you think about it in an unbiased manner, the game kinda sucks.
And then luckily, a couple of seconds later, I realized that it would be a very foolish thing to do because I would get lynched in the blogosphere, ostracized in society and probably lose half my readership, 100% of which is, in all likelihood, a raving demented fan of the game, and then, in a delicious irony, the blog would fill with the chirping of crickets. Not to mention the fact that I would also lose my Indian citizenship and have to move to Antarctica because the US doesn't seem to particularly want me either. So out of these concerns, I scrapped my plan. And then a further couple of seconds later, I realized that I had become a sell-out. And now if anyone is interested, I have a kidney to sell as well and how about you abuse me as you're ripping it out of my body cavity because I have no more dignity or self-worth anymore.
And then luckily, a couple of seconds later, I realized that it would be a very foolish thing to do because I would get lynched in the blogosphere, ostracized in society and probably lose half my readership, 100% of which is, in all likelihood, a raving demented fan of the game, and then, in a delicious irony, the blog would fill with the chirping of crickets. Not to mention the fact that I would also lose my Indian citizenship and have to move to Antarctica because the US doesn't seem to particularly want me either. So out of these concerns, I scrapped my plan. And then a further couple of seconds later, I realized that I had become a sell-out. And now if anyone is interested, I have a kidney to sell as well and how about you abuse me as you're ripping it out of my body cavity because I have no more dignity or self-worth anymore.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Flugufrelsarinn
Sigur Ros : Flugufrelsarinn.
These guys are from Iceland and they sing in Hopelandic, which is a mixture of Icelandic, English and Piglatin. They strum their guitars with a violin bow, creating waves of sound that are vividly reminiscent of the icy volcanic landscape they arose from. Simply gorgeous.
These guys are from Iceland and they sing in Hopelandic, which is a mixture of Icelandic, English and Piglatin. They strum their guitars with a violin bow, creating waves of sound that are vividly reminiscent of the icy volcanic landscape they arose from. Simply gorgeous.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Misunderalignment
A couple of weeks ago, we had a major snowstorm.
Now I have to confess, I have never experienced a major shitstorm. And based on first-hand accounts of people who have been in one, I know that it can get pretty nasty out there with all those flying flaky turds being driven into your bare skin by gale-force flatulence, as you wonder to yourself, where, oh where could all that shit be coming from. But on the other hand, I have experienced a major snowstorm. And therefore, this much I can say with confidence : I would rather take a major shitstorm over a snowstorm of equal proportions any day of the week.
The thing is, once the shitstorm has passed out of your neighbourhood and the colo-rectal clouds have parted, making way for the sun to shine through, all you have to do is wait for the shit collectors to come by and delicately scoop up the soft piles of precipitation amassed at your front door for processing in the manure factory. On the other hand, once a snowstorm is done, that is when your problems begin. Snow has no takers because snow has no industrial or horticultural applications. Therefore, in the event of a snowstorm, it is up to you to dispose of all that snow in front of your apartment and more importantly, around your car.
I have already spoken about the proper methodology to adopt in shoveling your car out of the snow. If I remember correctly, I scoffed at people who use snow shovels and if my memory serves me right, I advocated the use of a technique involving locking into a tight embrace with your car and moving back and forth along her length in order to free her of all that snow. I said this would be enough. Well, it isn't. Sometimes, more drastic methods are required.
So coming back to this major snowstorm which culminated in sleet, ice, freezing rain and every other kind of rock-like substance that water can possibly turn into, it resulted in my car getting mired in the muck. No matter how much snow and ice I shoveled, it was not enough. My frozen hands began to ascend to heaven, leaving the rest of my body behind, my chest hurt with my heart screaming to be let outside to join my hands in their journey and my nose froze shut. Finally, it got so bad that I couldn't make out if the water dribbling down my face was melted snow, sweat or tears and I was hoping it would be melted snow or sweat because I had never cried before while shoveling snow and my parents wouldn't be proud to see me reduced to this sorry state. Men who work out in a gym everyday are not supposed to cry.
Finally, after shoveling for about half an hour, I managed to grind my car out of the quagmire. But it appeared that my car had suffered severe injuries in the process. She had begun to vibrate in several places. And the moment I touched 50 mph, my steering wheel began to bounce up and down like a fetus inside a pregnant woman running a marathon. I guess I had misaligned my wheels.
According to my limited knowledge of misaligned wheels, the misalignment is a direct result of the wheels of your car ceasing to agree on major issues of the day such as geometry, vehicular direction, world politics and the role of women in modern society. Hence the vibration.
It meant that I had to drive to work at 50 miles per hour which I have never ever done, and it made me feel ashamed to drive this slow on the turnpike. More so because I had a long line of cars behind me. So in order to explain to them that I really had no choice in the matter, I turned on my slow blinkers.
And that was when the car behind me flashed its headlights at me. What the fuck? I had turned on my blinkers out of consideration and I get flashed? It's like if you yell at someone in your office and you keep yelling and the other guy listens in silence and then you go home, come back the next day, apologize to the guy and then he screams at you, what the fuck are you yelling at me for. So I slowed down some more in the true American (Indian) spirit.
Coming back home, I stopped at the post office in my apartment complex. They call it a post office, it looks like a post office, it's got an American flag flying outside and it is called a post office. But it is not a post office. It is a building containing our mailboxes. So I parked in front of the post office, went inside, retrieved my mail and got back inside the car. And then as I tried to pull out of the parking spot, the wheels began to slip and slide on the icy ground and the car began to spin about its own axis, kinda like the earth, which was also spinning around me. Fuck, I said. Fuck, I said again. I kept saying fuck for a while. It was either that or shoveling some more and I chose the former.
After a while I stopped saying fuck and began to gun the car. I gunned it some more and I rotated my steering wheel left and right to try and get a grip on the road surface and gradually it began to move very very slowly. But the moment I stopped gunning it, it came back to a halt. And it began to beep. Now what, I thought to myself. Again I gunned, again it came to a halt and beeped again. It was as if it was trying to tell me something. It was then that I observed that my hand-brake was in the engage position. That, in all probability, was the reason behind the reluctance of the car to move, and not the ice.
Yes, it hadn't been a good day for my car. First the ice and then me. But the next day turned out to be better. It had so happened that my twisting and turning at the post office had re-misaligned the wheels into perfect alignment. The vibration was gone and the car was as good as new.
Sometimes it does take two wrongs to make one right.
Now I have to confess, I have never experienced a major shitstorm. And based on first-hand accounts of people who have been in one, I know that it can get pretty nasty out there with all those flying flaky turds being driven into your bare skin by gale-force flatulence, as you wonder to yourself, where, oh where could all that shit be coming from. But on the other hand, I have experienced a major snowstorm. And therefore, this much I can say with confidence : I would rather take a major shitstorm over a snowstorm of equal proportions any day of the week.
The thing is, once the shitstorm has passed out of your neighbourhood and the colo-rectal clouds have parted, making way for the sun to shine through, all you have to do is wait for the shit collectors to come by and delicately scoop up the soft piles of precipitation amassed at your front door for processing in the manure factory. On the other hand, once a snowstorm is done, that is when your problems begin. Snow has no takers because snow has no industrial or horticultural applications. Therefore, in the event of a snowstorm, it is up to you to dispose of all that snow in front of your apartment and more importantly, around your car.
I have already spoken about the proper methodology to adopt in shoveling your car out of the snow. If I remember correctly, I scoffed at people who use snow shovels and if my memory serves me right, I advocated the use of a technique involving locking into a tight embrace with your car and moving back and forth along her length in order to free her of all that snow. I said this would be enough. Well, it isn't. Sometimes, more drastic methods are required.
So coming back to this major snowstorm which culminated in sleet, ice, freezing rain and every other kind of rock-like substance that water can possibly turn into, it resulted in my car getting mired in the muck. No matter how much snow and ice I shoveled, it was not enough. My frozen hands began to ascend to heaven, leaving the rest of my body behind, my chest hurt with my heart screaming to be let outside to join my hands in their journey and my nose froze shut. Finally, it got so bad that I couldn't make out if the water dribbling down my face was melted snow, sweat or tears and I was hoping it would be melted snow or sweat because I had never cried before while shoveling snow and my parents wouldn't be proud to see me reduced to this sorry state. Men who work out in a gym everyday are not supposed to cry.
Finally, after shoveling for about half an hour, I managed to grind my car out of the quagmire. But it appeared that my car had suffered severe injuries in the process. She had begun to vibrate in several places. And the moment I touched 50 mph, my steering wheel began to bounce up and down like a fetus inside a pregnant woman running a marathon. I guess I had misaligned my wheels.
According to my limited knowledge of misaligned wheels, the misalignment is a direct result of the wheels of your car ceasing to agree on major issues of the day such as geometry, vehicular direction, world politics and the role of women in modern society. Hence the vibration.
It meant that I had to drive to work at 50 miles per hour which I have never ever done, and it made me feel ashamed to drive this slow on the turnpike. More so because I had a long line of cars behind me. So in order to explain to them that I really had no choice in the matter, I turned on my slow blinkers.
And that was when the car behind me flashed its headlights at me. What the fuck? I had turned on my blinkers out of consideration and I get flashed? It's like if you yell at someone in your office and you keep yelling and the other guy listens in silence and then you go home, come back the next day, apologize to the guy and then he screams at you, what the fuck are you yelling at me for. So I slowed down some more in the true American (Indian) spirit.
Coming back home, I stopped at the post office in my apartment complex. They call it a post office, it looks like a post office, it's got an American flag flying outside and it is called a post office. But it is not a post office. It is a building containing our mailboxes. So I parked in front of the post office, went inside, retrieved my mail and got back inside the car. And then as I tried to pull out of the parking spot, the wheels began to slip and slide on the icy ground and the car began to spin about its own axis, kinda like the earth, which was also spinning around me. Fuck, I said. Fuck, I said again. I kept saying fuck for a while. It was either that or shoveling some more and I chose the former.
After a while I stopped saying fuck and began to gun the car. I gunned it some more and I rotated my steering wheel left and right to try and get a grip on the road surface and gradually it began to move very very slowly. But the moment I stopped gunning it, it came back to a halt. And it began to beep. Now what, I thought to myself. Again I gunned, again it came to a halt and beeped again. It was as if it was trying to tell me something. It was then that I observed that my hand-brake was in the engage position. That, in all probability, was the reason behind the reluctance of the car to move, and not the ice.
Yes, it hadn't been a good day for my car. First the ice and then me. But the next day turned out to be better. It had so happened that my twisting and turning at the post office had re-misaligned the wheels into perfect alignment. The vibration was gone and the car was as good as new.
Sometimes it does take two wrongs to make one right.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Baldie
There are a number of advantages to shaving your head. Number one, as my friend Slime noted earlier in the comments, it eases the burden of maintaining your hair in sync with contemporary societal fashion sensibilities, day after day after day. That is a very important advantage for those of the working class, such as I. Secondly, like me, if you are in the habit of shaving (your chin) only once a week, maintaining your cranial hair to about the same length makes your face look symmetrical about the horizontal axis that passes through your nose. But the third and most important advantage is the beneficial effects it has on your social life.
A newly shaven head is a great conversation starter. Especially for introverts like me to whom speaking to other people does not come naturally. For me, it is a constant bother even to come up with new topics to broach while passing coworkers on the way to the bathroom. As an aside, nowadays I run to the bathroom. If you're running to the bathroom, people you encounter on the way think it's an emergency and don't bother with the formalities of courtesy. But anyways, if you do not wish to run to the bathroom everyday, things will now be easier for you. With a freshly bald pate, the onus of responsibility for starting a conversation will rest with the other guy, who will be more than happy to take it up and tender a request for information regarding the history of your hair removal. Why did you do it, when did you do it, is it going to be a permanent look for you, do you feel cold, etc will be the questions you can expect to be asked in the aftermath.
In fact, in some extreme cases, the naked vulnerability of your head might tug at the heartstrings of your fellow men with such ferocity that guys who previously would never have parted with their own facial hair will offer you its temporary use ("Do you need my beard to keep yourself warm, ha ha" : coworker). Some will offer you the facial hair of others in order to alleviate your own hairless condition ("You should borrow his fumanchu, he's not using it" : guy in gym, pointing to his french bearded exercycling buddy) .
So as you can see, when you shave your head, conversation will flow like Parachute coconut hair oil. The only problem now is that you have to be prepared in advance and come up with a list of reasons for why you did it. And there have to be two sets of reasons. One, the humorous ones, for people who are convinced that there HAS to be a goddamn funny rationale behind your apparent madness and two, serious reasons to explain to your superiors at work. I used the following. I am not sure which, if any, are the funny ones. I am about to be drafted as a US marine. I am making myself more aerodynamic for when I buy a new convertible. I'm celebrating the return of daylight savings. I'm getting ready for summer. I was shaving and went a bit higher than usual. Keep all these reasons in your rolodex, ready to be whipped out at the first sign of inquiry.
But like all protein-based lifeforms, a shaven head will fast lose its luster and your popularity will bottom out again. The key is to be unpredictable and keep things exciting. Next week, I'm planning to come to work with, say, a missing arm or leg. That should give me enough fodder for striking up conversations again for, say, about a week or two.
A newly shaven head is a great conversation starter. Especially for introverts like me to whom speaking to other people does not come naturally. For me, it is a constant bother even to come up with new topics to broach while passing coworkers on the way to the bathroom. As an aside, nowadays I run to the bathroom. If you're running to the bathroom, people you encounter on the way think it's an emergency and don't bother with the formalities of courtesy. But anyways, if you do not wish to run to the bathroom everyday, things will now be easier for you. With a freshly bald pate, the onus of responsibility for starting a conversation will rest with the other guy, who will be more than happy to take it up and tender a request for information regarding the history of your hair removal. Why did you do it, when did you do it, is it going to be a permanent look for you, do you feel cold, etc will be the questions you can expect to be asked in the aftermath.
In fact, in some extreme cases, the naked vulnerability of your head might tug at the heartstrings of your fellow men with such ferocity that guys who previously would never have parted with their own facial hair will offer you its temporary use ("Do you need my beard to keep yourself warm, ha ha" : coworker). Some will offer you the facial hair of others in order to alleviate your own hairless condition ("You should borrow his fumanchu, he's not using it" : guy in gym, pointing to his french bearded exercycling buddy) .
So as you can see, when you shave your head, conversation will flow like Parachute coconut hair oil. The only problem now is that you have to be prepared in advance and come up with a list of reasons for why you did it. And there have to be two sets of reasons. One, the humorous ones, for people who are convinced that there HAS to be a goddamn funny rationale behind your apparent madness and two, serious reasons to explain to your superiors at work. I used the following. I am not sure which, if any, are the funny ones. I am about to be drafted as a US marine. I am making myself more aerodynamic for when I buy a new convertible. I'm celebrating the return of daylight savings. I'm getting ready for summer. I was shaving and went a bit higher than usual. Keep all these reasons in your rolodex, ready to be whipped out at the first sign of inquiry.
But like all protein-based lifeforms, a shaven head will fast lose its luster and your popularity will bottom out again. The key is to be unpredictable and keep things exciting. Next week, I'm planning to come to work with, say, a missing arm or leg. That should give me enough fodder for striking up conversations again for, say, about a week or two.
Amerimacka
Been busy, very very busy. It's that time in a typist's life when all the work he was supposed to be doing throughout the year has to be completed in a few days and then bequeathed (bequoth?) to the masses as a new software release.
It's fried my brain, I can tell you that. Yesterday in a meeting, a conversation went as follows:
Boss : So was this done for B-4?
Me : Before?
Boss : Yes, version B-4.
Me : Before what?
Boss : Was this done for version B-4?
Me (mentally trying to get my boss to stop quitting mid-sentence and complete the damn thing : Yes...version before.....?
Boss : ?
Me : Oh, B-4. Version B-4. Ok. Yes, version B-4. Yes, yes.
Boss : You shouldn't have shaved your head. You lost something else in the process.
And to revisit the punchline, I shaved my head the other day. I would recommend it to everyone at anytime, except anyone at the present time, the weather being so fucking cold and when you step outside, icicles growing on the places where your hair used to be. You begin to understand the purpose of life and hair in those short seconds between the time you open your door and the flow of blood to your brain ends.
So to make a long story short, I will be back soon. Maybe even tomorrow. Or the day after. And maybe my hair will grow back and intelligence will return. I can't wait to start blogging again.
==================================
Thievery Corporation : Amerimacka
It's fried my brain, I can tell you that. Yesterday in a meeting, a conversation went as follows:
Boss : So was this done for B-4?
Me : Before?
Boss : Yes, version B-4.
Me : Before what?
Boss : Was this done for version B-4?
Me (mentally trying to get my boss to stop quitting mid-sentence and complete the damn thing : Yes...version before.....?
Boss : ?
Me : Oh, B-4. Version B-4. Ok. Yes, version B-4. Yes, yes.
Boss : You shouldn't have shaved your head. You lost something else in the process.
And to revisit the punchline, I shaved my head the other day. I would recommend it to everyone at anytime, except anyone at the present time, the weather being so fucking cold and when you step outside, icicles growing on the places where your hair used to be. You begin to understand the purpose of life and hair in those short seconds between the time you open your door and the flow of blood to your brain ends.
So to make a long story short, I will be back soon. Maybe even tomorrow. Or the day after. And maybe my hair will grow back and intelligence will return. I can't wait to start blogging again.
==================================
Thievery Corporation : Amerimacka
Friday, February 16, 2007
Why Americans need to learn geography
So this morning, an American colleague of mine circulated this email joke where a Canadian farmer, an American engineer and Osama Bin Laden are hanging out and they find a bottle containing a genie. So they each get a wish and the Canadian asks for fertile soil for Canada and Bin Laden asks for a giant wall to be built around Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq and Iran to keep the infidels out and the American engineer asks for this giant wall to be filled with water.
So I replied to this email saying, good job American engineer, you just solved India's perpetual drought problem.
The colleague replied back saying, but Bin Laden didn't include India because he hates India too.
It was then that I realized that my colleague was probably unaware that India and Pakistan were neighbours. So I replied back, saying yes, Bin Laden hated India, but he did create a giant swimming pool adjacent to India.
American colleague replied, so what are you saying, Bin Laden's a good person?
Good God, no, I replied, I was merely pointing out that India would be in a great position to take advantage of the giant body of water created by Bin Laden's walling off plan due to its geographical proximity to the nations being walled off and that the real credit for creating this water reservoir would still lie with the the American engineer whose ingenuity, if I remembered correctly, I had already complimented earlier in the email conversation.
Oh, he replied.
And that, fortunately, was that.
So I replied to this email saying, good job American engineer, you just solved India's perpetual drought problem.
The colleague replied back saying, but Bin Laden didn't include India because he hates India too.
It was then that I realized that my colleague was probably unaware that India and Pakistan were neighbours. So I replied back, saying yes, Bin Laden hated India, but he did create a giant swimming pool adjacent to India.
American colleague replied, so what are you saying, Bin Laden's a good person?
Good God, no, I replied, I was merely pointing out that India would be in a great position to take advantage of the giant body of water created by Bin Laden's walling off plan due to its geographical proximity to the nations being walled off and that the real credit for creating this water reservoir would still lie with the the American engineer whose ingenuity, if I remembered correctly, I had already complimented earlier in the email conversation.
Oh, he replied.
And that, fortunately, was that.
Monday, February 12, 2007
What? II
It appears that sometime between my last linker error on friday evening and my first unhandled software exception on monday morning, I was nominated for an IndiBloggie award in the humor category. Both my blogs, as a matter of fact. I guess the jurors didn't want to cause sibling rivalry and bloodshed. (Which is pretty fortunate for you, goose egg, since the renegade of junk would have smacked your ass and then handed it back to you.)
These nominations, like well-designed enemas, give me great pleasure as well as simultaneous excruciating pain. The pain will follow from my sure shot miserable performance in this contest. And the Indiebloggies have this habit of rubbing it into the losers of the competition by providing extensive numerical information on how badly they got whipped. Like, they will say, blogger A won the category with 95 percent of the votes. Sometimes, they will even add an "LOL" or a "ROTFLMAO", depending on the extent of humiliation. And therein lies the source of the rectal pain.
Secondly, the other nominees for this category include the great bong. Now if you've been a follower of the Indian blogosphere, you will know greatbong as he who, if he had been blogging then and had decided to run for president in 2000, might have taken Florida away from both Bush and Gore. Resistance is, therefore, futile. Furthermore, after doing some quick blog-traffic-based calculation, it would be clear even to someone, say, from Texas, that it wouldn't matter even if all of my readers voted for this blog (which they probably won't), as long as all of greatbong's readers vote for his blog (which they probably will).
My only recourse, therefore, is to ask all my readers to vote for greatbong. Not only might this gesture have a microscopically slim chance of inspiring greatbong to reciprocate in kind, but it would save the votes of my readers from being wasted. And wasting your vote is the worst thing you can do in a democracy, as my mother let me know in no uncertain terms ten years ago, when I participated in my first ever election and decided to vote for that obscure candidate no one knew just because I felt sorry for him.
Thirdly, I was saving my campaign finances for the upcoming Nobel prize competition because the Indiebloggies are all well and good, but they don't put food on the table for your family, whereas the Nobels not only provide food, but also a table to put it on, a house to put the table in and an island to build the house on. And I do have a couple of great ideas this year.
Fourthly, the Indiebloggies caught me at a bad time. I should have been nominated when I was at the peak of my blogging career, which was that day about a few months ago when I wrote that really great post and got all those comments. Now, I feel like a pajama-clad housewife with acne and a fever with all her clothes in the washer who just got a call from her husband that he is bringing all his office friends over for a party in twenty minutes. I do not have any clothes to wear, and no time to put on make-up. That was just an analogy, by the way. I am still a man.
So basically in conclusion, I would encourage all of you to go vote for greatbong and maybe if I don't get a single vote, when the contest is over, they might be compassionate enough to not put up the trouncing figures for this category. Thank you in advance, jurors.
Also, if you are one of those undecided voters and would like additional clarification on why you should vote for greatbong and not me, here are some of my favorite posts from my blog. And now you know why.
By the way, just to be serious for a second, whoever nominated my blogs, I appreciate the gesture deeply. It is nice to know that you have readers who would actually spare the time and effort to do something like that.
Thank you. Really.
These nominations, like well-designed enemas, give me great pleasure as well as simultaneous excruciating pain. The pain will follow from my sure shot miserable performance in this contest. And the Indiebloggies have this habit of rubbing it into the losers of the competition by providing extensive numerical information on how badly they got whipped. Like, they will say, blogger A won the category with 95 percent of the votes. Sometimes, they will even add an "LOL" or a "ROTFLMAO", depending on the extent of humiliation. And therein lies the source of the rectal pain.
Secondly, the other nominees for this category include the great bong. Now if you've been a follower of the Indian blogosphere, you will know greatbong as he who, if he had been blogging then and had decided to run for president in 2000, might have taken Florida away from both Bush and Gore. Resistance is, therefore, futile. Furthermore, after doing some quick blog-traffic-based calculation, it would be clear even to someone, say, from Texas, that it wouldn't matter even if all of my readers voted for this blog (which they probably won't), as long as all of greatbong's readers vote for his blog (which they probably will).
My only recourse, therefore, is to ask all my readers to vote for greatbong. Not only might this gesture have a microscopically slim chance of inspiring greatbong to reciprocate in kind, but it would save the votes of my readers from being wasted. And wasting your vote is the worst thing you can do in a democracy, as my mother let me know in no uncertain terms ten years ago, when I participated in my first ever election and decided to vote for that obscure candidate no one knew just because I felt sorry for him.
Thirdly, I was saving my campaign finances for the upcoming Nobel prize competition because the Indiebloggies are all well and good, but they don't put food on the table for your family, whereas the Nobels not only provide food, but also a table to put it on, a house to put the table in and an island to build the house on. And I do have a couple of great ideas this year.
Fourthly, the Indiebloggies caught me at a bad time. I should have been nominated when I was at the peak of my blogging career, which was that day about a few months ago when I wrote that really great post and got all those comments. Now, I feel like a pajama-clad housewife with acne and a fever with all her clothes in the washer who just got a call from her husband that he is bringing all his office friends over for a party in twenty minutes. I do not have any clothes to wear, and no time to put on make-up. That was just an analogy, by the way. I am still a man.
So basically in conclusion, I would encourage all of you to go vote for greatbong and maybe if I don't get a single vote, when the contest is over, they might be compassionate enough to not put up the trouncing figures for this category. Thank you in advance, jurors.
Also, if you are one of those undecided voters and would like additional clarification on why you should vote for greatbong and not me, here are some of my favorite posts from my blog. And now you know why.
By the way, just to be serious for a second, whoever nominated my blogs, I appreciate the gesture deeply. It is nice to know that you have readers who would actually spare the time and effort to do something like that.
Thank you. Really.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Rigor Mortis
We bought a new carpet for our apartment. So we rolled up our old carpet and left it in the dining room. The problem is that the rolled up carpet looks a lot like a rolled up corpse. And so, every time it twitches, it feels like the corpse inside the carpet is coming to life. I can't go on living in fear like this. I need to throw it into the dumpster and wipe my fingerprints off it. But it's too cold outside, it's freezing. On the other hand, if I continue to procrastinate, rigor mortis might set in and it will become more difficult for me to dispose of the body. You know what, fuck it, it may be 2:00 am and I may be drunk from Sam Daniels, but I think I'm gonna go throw out my carpet. I can't live with a dead body in my apartment.
My new carpet looks gorgeous. Good job, wife.
I went to an Irish bar today.
Half and half : Guinness with Harp Lager
Black and tan : Guinness with Bass Ale
Blacksmith : Guinness with Smithwick Ale
Car Bomb : Guinness with Baileys Irish Cream and Jameson's Whiskey
Being a card-carrying member of the IRA, I ordered the car bomb.
They brought me the Guinness in a glass and the bomb in a shot glass. This was perplexing because unlike the other concoctions, they brought this one in two separate glasses. It raised questions as to the proper method of its consumption. I had no idea what the fuck to do. Should I drink the shot and then drink the Guinness? Should I throw the shot glass in the Guinness? Should I pour the shot glass in the Guinness and drink the mixture?
I decided on option three. And the cream from the Baileys coagulated and formed blobs of shit on top of the Guinness and Ireland began to laugh. Fuck you Ireland, said I, and drank it all up. It's all going to the liver anyways.
I think Option one was the correct option to follow.
By the way, Sam Daniels = Sam Adams (1 bottle) + Jack Daniels (1 shot glass). All rights reserved.
My new carpet looks gorgeous. Good job, wife.
I went to an Irish bar today.
Half and half : Guinness with Harp Lager
Black and tan : Guinness with Bass Ale
Blacksmith : Guinness with Smithwick Ale
Car Bomb : Guinness with Baileys Irish Cream and Jameson's Whiskey
Being a card-carrying member of the IRA, I ordered the car bomb.
They brought me the Guinness in a glass and the bomb in a shot glass. This was perplexing because unlike the other concoctions, they brought this one in two separate glasses. It raised questions as to the proper method of its consumption. I had no idea what the fuck to do. Should I drink the shot and then drink the Guinness? Should I throw the shot glass in the Guinness? Should I pour the shot glass in the Guinness and drink the mixture?
I decided on option three. And the cream from the Baileys coagulated and formed blobs of shit on top of the Guinness and Ireland began to laugh. Fuck you Ireland, said I, and drank it all up. It's all going to the liver anyways.
I think Option one was the correct option to follow.
By the way, Sam Daniels = Sam Adams (1 bottle) + Jack Daniels (1 shot glass). All rights reserved.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
What
I don't know what to write about. I have a couple of posts I only wrote halfway through because it was becoming apparent that I was taking too long to get to the punchline. But then I remembered that there was no punchline. In fact, I am on the verge of leaving this one written halfway through as well.
I wish I could drink at work. I'm sure I would be twice as productive. That's because I would have to take twice as many bathroom breaks and I do my best thinking in the bathroom. I don't know why I keep calling it a bathroom. I guess it's just a euphemism for a toilet and the word toilet seems vulgar for some reason. Which is why it's puzzling why they call it an "eu de toilette". I would have called it an "eu de bathroomme".
I am currently swamped with the boxes my new work computer arrived in. But it's good that I didn't get rid of them because I already destroyed my new monitor and might have to use one of these boxes to send it back. There was a power surge and everything went black but just before it did, my monitor captured the screen image it was showing, or what is known as an "LCD burn", and now this is what it displays perpetually. And sadly, I was web surfing at the time and the screen capture clearly shows that I was about to click on a hyperlink, lets just say that it was not a hyperlink a decent self-respecting developer would add to his software help file.
I am not much of a tea guy. I usually drink coffee with lots of sugar because it is the sugar I am after, not the coffee. But then I found that coffee makes the colon go whaa? so I started drinking tea for a while. You know, I wasn't aware that you actually have to jiggle the teabags inside the water for it to turn into tea? You learn something new everyday.
I had a very strange conversation with a COMCAST tech support guy the other day. During the fag end of the call, did I say fag, I meant gay end of the call, after all problems had been solved and it was time to hug each other good bye, we both forgot to adhere to the standard tech support goodbye script. This script should usually go as follows :
TS guy : Is there anything else you need assistance with today?
Me : No, thank you.
TS guy : You are welcome. Thank you for calling COMCAST and have a good day.
Me : You too.
Instead, it went :
TS guy : Is there anything else you need assistance with today?
Me : No.
TS guy : You are welcome. Thank you for calling COMCAST.
Me : You too.
It was probably my fault because my not giving him a "thank you" made him keep that "good day" for himself, thus leading to a collapse of civilized society. Next time I'm getting a teleprompter and just to be safe, so should you, Tech support guy.
I wish I could drink at work. I'm sure I would be twice as productive. That's because I would have to take twice as many bathroom breaks and I do my best thinking in the bathroom. I don't know why I keep calling it a bathroom. I guess it's just a euphemism for a toilet and the word toilet seems vulgar for some reason. Which is why it's puzzling why they call it an "eu de toilette". I would have called it an "eu de bathroomme".
I am currently swamped with the boxes my new work computer arrived in. But it's good that I didn't get rid of them because I already destroyed my new monitor and might have to use one of these boxes to send it back. There was a power surge and everything went black but just before it did, my monitor captured the screen image it was showing, or what is known as an "LCD burn", and now this is what it displays perpetually. And sadly, I was web surfing at the time and the screen capture clearly shows that I was about to click on a hyperlink, lets just say that it was not a hyperlink a decent self-respecting developer would add to his software help file.
I am not much of a tea guy. I usually drink coffee with lots of sugar because it is the sugar I am after, not the coffee. But then I found that coffee makes the colon go whaa? so I started drinking tea for a while. You know, I wasn't aware that you actually have to jiggle the teabags inside the water for it to turn into tea? You learn something new everyday.
I had a very strange conversation with a COMCAST tech support guy the other day. During the fag end of the call, did I say fag, I meant gay end of the call, after all problems had been solved and it was time to hug each other good bye, we both forgot to adhere to the standard tech support goodbye script. This script should usually go as follows :
TS guy : Is there anything else you need assistance with today?
Me : No, thank you.
TS guy : You are welcome. Thank you for calling COMCAST and have a good day.
Me : You too.
Instead, it went :
TS guy : Is there anything else you need assistance with today?
Me : No.
TS guy : You are welcome. Thank you for calling COMCAST.
Me : You too.
It was probably my fault because my not giving him a "thank you" made him keep that "good day" for himself, thus leading to a collapse of civilized society. Next time I'm getting a teleprompter and just to be safe, so should you, Tech support guy.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Drinking and wallpaper
I want to drink tequila out of tequila barrels in Tequila, Mexico. Land of the blue Agave and the Jose Cuervo.
I want to drink the Gringo Killer in Costa Rica. White man supposed to die within 15 minutes of drinking this shit. Brown man not expected to fare any better.
I want to drink Viper rum in Belize that is manufactured by drowning a viper in a rum bottle.
I want to do 10 imperial pints in one hour in Mumbles, Wales. Record is one hour 15 minutes.
However, I can't do all this because I am on an H1B and I have to get a visa stamp in the Mumbai consulate before I can venture outside the USA. How life sucks for the H1B software engineer.
Yes, I've been watching the Three Sheets marathon after the tremendous sucking of the Superbowl.
Here's a nice little anecdote. I was drinking in the John Harvard brewpub with my sister and my brother-in-law about two years ago. I ordered the Belgian beer. The bartender served it to me in what looked like a wine glass. I asked him, "Is beer usually served in a wine glass?" I had a mischievous glint in my eye which should have informed him that I was kidding in the spirit of being drunk. Unfortunately, he snapped at me, "It's not a wine glass, Belgian beers are served in what is called a goblet". And even though he didn't air quote me, he might as well have with his livid tone and gestures. Ever since, I have stayed away from Belgian beers, even in the privacy of my own kitchen.
By the way, I didn't post last week because I got a new work computer and I had to search for a new wallpaper.
I will post this week because I found my wallpaper (via Selva). It features a penguin and its baby standing on an ice floe in the middle of a thirsty desert. It is a statement against global warming and I hope my office colleagues will heed my message and quit using the microwave to heat their horrible smelling lunches. Jeez, just get a sandwich.
I want to drink the Gringo Killer in Costa Rica. White man supposed to die within 15 minutes of drinking this shit. Brown man not expected to fare any better.
I want to drink Viper rum in Belize that is manufactured by drowning a viper in a rum bottle.
I want to do 10 imperial pints in one hour in Mumbles, Wales. Record is one hour 15 minutes.
However, I can't do all this because I am on an H1B and I have to get a visa stamp in the Mumbai consulate before I can venture outside the USA. How life sucks for the H1B software engineer.
Yes, I've been watching the Three Sheets marathon after the tremendous sucking of the Superbowl.
Here's a nice little anecdote. I was drinking in the John Harvard brewpub with my sister and my brother-in-law about two years ago. I ordered the Belgian beer. The bartender served it to me in what looked like a wine glass. I asked him, "Is beer usually served in a wine glass?" I had a mischievous glint in my eye which should have informed him that I was kidding in the spirit of being drunk. Unfortunately, he snapped at me, "It's not a wine glass, Belgian beers are served in what is called a goblet". And even though he didn't air quote me, he might as well have with his livid tone and gestures. Ever since, I have stayed away from Belgian beers, even in the privacy of my own kitchen.
By the way, I didn't post last week because I got a new work computer and I had to search for a new wallpaper.
I will post this week because I found my wallpaper (via Selva). It features a penguin and its baby standing on an ice floe in the middle of a thirsty desert. It is a statement against global warming and I hope my office colleagues will heed my message and quit using the microwave to heat their horrible smelling lunches. Jeez, just get a sandwich.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Two experiments
Today, I will have you try out a couple of science experiments for me, it being a weekend and all and you having some time off from your crime-fighting schedule. In the first experiment, we will, as the old dame said, do it with mirrors.
Basically, I want you to watch all your regularly scheduled television programs. But I want you to do it using a mirror. Hold a mirror up to your television screen and look at the mirror instead of looking at the screen. I guarantee that you will have a hard time recognizing your favorite soap actor, actress or home-breaker.
See, most humans are asymmetrical. For example, look at you. Your nose curves to the right, you have that mole on your left cheek with all that hair growing out of it and your right ear is kinda droopy. And everybody is used to seeing you that way. But if you look at yourself in a mirror, which I'm sure you usually don't, for obvious reasons, your nose will curve to the left, your mole will have migrated to your right cheek and the droopiness will be an attribute of your left ear. You will be an entirely new person in the mirror. Not particularly better off looks-wise, but different, nevertheless.
Studies have proven that people we consider to be beautiful almost always happen to be more symmetrical than the average human eyesore. In fact, it has also been observed that babies spend more time looking at symmetrical people than asymmetrical ones. Who the hell knew that when you were gazing at them with your adoring eyes, those tiny little crafty brains were busy estimating and comparing the eye-to-nose distances on each side of your face to determine your affection-worthiness?
But returning to the experiment, that is why, as you watch your television screen through the mirror, all the people in the box will look different. It will add some spice to your tv-viewing life and since the premiere of "Lost" is still a month away, I know how much you need it.
Secondly, I want you to watch this video : (link)
Now, check your own body for any physical changes. Did you just turn into a Mommy Tiger? I thought so. Please stop playing with your tail when I'm speaking to you. Also watch this video : (link)
Notice how the baby tiger flails his limbs around as he drinks from the milk bottle. That's because he is genetically programmed to kick away his siblings as they all try and compete for the privilege of suckling from their mother's teat. At least, that's what the inner scientist in me thinks and he could be wrong, just as he was wrong about orange juice being a great substitute for blood transfusions. But I will let the inner scientist within you make the decision for you.
Basically, I want you to watch all your regularly scheduled television programs. But I want you to do it using a mirror. Hold a mirror up to your television screen and look at the mirror instead of looking at the screen. I guarantee that you will have a hard time recognizing your favorite soap actor, actress or home-breaker.
See, most humans are asymmetrical. For example, look at you. Your nose curves to the right, you have that mole on your left cheek with all that hair growing out of it and your right ear is kinda droopy. And everybody is used to seeing you that way. But if you look at yourself in a mirror, which I'm sure you usually don't, for obvious reasons, your nose will curve to the left, your mole will have migrated to your right cheek and the droopiness will be an attribute of your left ear. You will be an entirely new person in the mirror. Not particularly better off looks-wise, but different, nevertheless.
Studies have proven that people we consider to be beautiful almost always happen to be more symmetrical than the average human eyesore. In fact, it has also been observed that babies spend more time looking at symmetrical people than asymmetrical ones. Who the hell knew that when you were gazing at them with your adoring eyes, those tiny little crafty brains were busy estimating and comparing the eye-to-nose distances on each side of your face to determine your affection-worthiness?
But returning to the experiment, that is why, as you watch your television screen through the mirror, all the people in the box will look different. It will add some spice to your tv-viewing life and since the premiere of "Lost" is still a month away, I know how much you need it.
Secondly, I want you to watch this video : (link)
Now, check your own body for any physical changes. Did you just turn into a Mommy Tiger? I thought so. Please stop playing with your tail when I'm speaking to you. Also watch this video : (link)
Notice how the baby tiger flails his limbs around as he drinks from the milk bottle. That's because he is genetically programmed to kick away his siblings as they all try and compete for the privilege of suckling from their mother's teat. At least, that's what the inner scientist in me thinks and he could be wrong, just as he was wrong about orange juice being a great substitute for blood transfusions. But I will let the inner scientist within you make the decision for you.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Twitching eyelid
My right eyelid has begun to twitch in an uncontrollable and repetitive manner. It feels like a mosquito couple having violent but tender sex between the silky linen of my eyelashes. This is very distracting for me because for one, there are some things you just do not want to visualize, such as a pair of fornicating mosquitoes, plus the concern whether they are practicing safe sex, but primarily, it is a problem because it causes disruptions in my field of vision.
Since I consider myself to be an average person, living an average person's diseased life, I assumed that there would be hundreds, if not millions of people in this world who would be similarly afflicted by this malady of mine. And so, I climbed on to The Google to search for these folks and cry on their shoulder. Alas, I found merely one blog post. This guy. What was funny about this blog post is that some time in the distant past, the guy had written a blog post somewhat like mine, where he had complained about his eyelid twitching. And then after The Google found his post, he got a large number of hits from people who wished to learn more on the topic. But sadly for these people, the post contained not an iota of useful information either on eyelids or their twitching other than the author's documented history of eyelid twitching.
So then, compassionate person that he was, he decided to compile a post on eyelid twitching that would actually provide some rudimentary information on the condition. Kind of like the time I wrote an exhaustive post meant for the dissemination of goose-related knowledge to the throngs of goose-knowledge seekers that happen upon this blog everyday. But the guy's post appears to be a huge success, as seeing by the five hundred comments he subsequently received, all from people saying "wow I thought I was the only person who had a twitching eyelid". Talk about the ego on these guys.To be fair, there were also some people in the comments section expressing disappointment because as it turns out they actually had a twitching eyeball, which, again, is not something one would want to visualize if given a choice, but these were few and far between.
But coming back to the topic in question, it appears that eyelid twitching is called myokymia and it is a common condition caused due to excessive caffeine, lack of sleep, lack of vitamins or mosquitoes having violent sex amidst your eyelashes. I am not a coffee person, I take vitamins everyday, I slather myself with mosquito repellent and I sleep a solid seven hours every day. And seven more at night. So what could account for these twitches?
Then, compassionate guy goes on to tell me that my twitching could also be due to brainstem neoplasms, the treatment of which involves "lumbar puncture with examination of cerebrospinal fluid". I like the sound of that even though it sounds terrifying.
So anyways, I have decided to take two vitamins a day now. I don't think I will puncture my lumbar because frankly, I did a cost-benefit analysis and the results concluded that at this point in my life, a twitching eyelid would be preferable to a punctured lumbar.
Since I consider myself to be an average person, living an average person's diseased life, I assumed that there would be hundreds, if not millions of people in this world who would be similarly afflicted by this malady of mine. And so, I climbed on to The Google to search for these folks and cry on their shoulder. Alas, I found merely one blog post. This guy. What was funny about this blog post is that some time in the distant past, the guy had written a blog post somewhat like mine, where he had complained about his eyelid twitching. And then after The Google found his post, he got a large number of hits from people who wished to learn more on the topic. But sadly for these people, the post contained not an iota of useful information either on eyelids or their twitching other than the author's documented history of eyelid twitching.
So then, compassionate person that he was, he decided to compile a post on eyelid twitching that would actually provide some rudimentary information on the condition. Kind of like the time I wrote an exhaustive post meant for the dissemination of goose-related knowledge to the throngs of goose-knowledge seekers that happen upon this blog everyday. But the guy's post appears to be a huge success, as seeing by the five hundred comments he subsequently received, all from people saying "wow I thought I was the only person who had a twitching eyelid". Talk about the ego on these guys.To be fair, there were also some people in the comments section expressing disappointment because as it turns out they actually had a twitching eyeball, which, again, is not something one would want to visualize if given a choice, but these were few and far between.
But coming back to the topic in question, it appears that eyelid twitching is called myokymia and it is a common condition caused due to excessive caffeine, lack of sleep, lack of vitamins or mosquitoes having violent sex amidst your eyelashes. I am not a coffee person, I take vitamins everyday, I slather myself with mosquito repellent and I sleep a solid seven hours every day. And seven more at night. So what could account for these twitches?
Then, compassionate guy goes on to tell me that my twitching could also be due to brainstem neoplasms, the treatment of which involves "lumbar puncture with examination of cerebrospinal fluid". I like the sound of that even though it sounds terrifying.
So anyways, I have decided to take two vitamins a day now. I don't think I will puncture my lumbar because frankly, I did a cost-benefit analysis and the results concluded that at this point in my life, a twitching eyelid would be preferable to a punctured lumbar.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Ice
We didn't get that inch of snow after all. What we got instead was about a quarter inch of ice. As they say, when God gives, he tears away the roof and gives in bucketfuls (and God doesn't scrimp on bucket size). But today was not that day of roof-tearing and bucketful-giving. And it was lucky that today wasn't that day because even with the meager amount of ice God gave us, it was a fucking mess.
The commute to work was littered with the broken corpses of cars and trucks who were suffering the consequences of having made passionate love to each other's bumpers and mufflers. Especially on the ramps and bridges which, supposedly, are the first to ice over. Funnily enough, most of these accidents involved SUVs, you know, the kind that are supposed to be immune to snow and are able to drive through forests and cross rivers and climb mountains, or, if you're a Toyota truck, withstand attacks by the Loch Ness monster. The thing is, most SUV and truck owners believe that their all-wheel drive allows them to speed at will through rain and snow without crashing and sliding. But that's like an NBA player believing that he can safely walk on red hot coals. Sure, he's big and strong and can dunk a fantastic basket but that doesn't make the soles of his feet invulnerable to heat. Similarly, all-wheel drive holds absolutely no value when the time comes to brake the vehicle. If anything, the extra weight of the SUV makes it more of an uncontrollable missile than anything else on the road.
Still, it is quite hilarious to watch these SUVs nestling in the ditch as you drive past. Most SUV drivers have this incredulous, disbelieving expression on their face and you can actually hear the progression of their thoughts.
"Hello, where am I?"
"I'm still on the road right?"
"Where are all the other cars?"
"Am I in a ditch?"
"No way, I'm pretty sure I'm on the road."
"Why am I not moving?"
"Could I actually have...crashed? Is it possible?
"No, I'm still driving. I own an SUV."
"If I'm driving, why am I still in the same place?"
And then, gradually, comes the horrible realization.
"Hmm. looks like I crashed after all. Damn it, PennDot, what will it take you to salt the fucking roads?
That is when I wave at them and give them a thumbs up sign but sadly, it's not my thumb. Like they say, it's unacceptable to kick a man when he's down, except when he's an SUV owner.
The commute to work was littered with the broken corpses of cars and trucks who were suffering the consequences of having made passionate love to each other's bumpers and mufflers. Especially on the ramps and bridges which, supposedly, are the first to ice over. Funnily enough, most of these accidents involved SUVs, you know, the kind that are supposed to be immune to snow and are able to drive through forests and cross rivers and climb mountains, or, if you're a Toyota truck, withstand attacks by the Loch Ness monster. The thing is, most SUV and truck owners believe that their all-wheel drive allows them to speed at will through rain and snow without crashing and sliding. But that's like an NBA player believing that he can safely walk on red hot coals. Sure, he's big and strong and can dunk a fantastic basket but that doesn't make the soles of his feet invulnerable to heat. Similarly, all-wheel drive holds absolutely no value when the time comes to brake the vehicle. If anything, the extra weight of the SUV makes it more of an uncontrollable missile than anything else on the road.
Still, it is quite hilarious to watch these SUVs nestling in the ditch as you drive past. Most SUV drivers have this incredulous, disbelieving expression on their face and you can actually hear the progression of their thoughts.
"Hello, where am I?"
"I'm still on the road right?"
"Where are all the other cars?"
"Am I in a ditch?"
"No way, I'm pretty sure I'm on the road."
"Why am I not moving?"
"Could I actually have...crashed? Is it possible?
"No, I'm still driving. I own an SUV."
"If I'm driving, why am I still in the same place?"
And then, gradually, comes the horrible realization.
"Hmm. looks like I crashed after all. Damn it, PennDot, what will it take you to salt the fucking roads?
That is when I wave at them and give them a thumbs up sign but sadly, it's not my thumb. Like they say, it's unacceptable to kick a man when he's down, except when he's an SUV owner.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Snow
I cannot be entirely sure, and correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought I just saw a snowflake fall from the sky. If you are from the Midwest or the Northwest or Kilimanjaro, you're probably going, "Duly noted Sir, will that be all?" in that haughty high-society inflection of yours that I hate so fucking much. However, I would like to remind you that by this time last year, I already had a couple of pre-snowstorm blog posts, a couple of post-snowstorm blog posts and one nostalgic blog post about my near-fatal car-crash during my first ever snowstorm. And this year? Zilch. So this snowflake that I think I saw, well, that's a big deal now, don't you think?
And there are other people bemoaning the paucity of snow on the ground this year. Recently, I had a number of search engine queries asking me "why isn't it snowing in Pennsylvania" and "Why isn't it snowing in New England" and so on and so forth. I wish I knew, my friend. I also wish I could blame it on global warming and trust me, if I could come up with a theory convincing enough I would in a heartbeat, but the farthest I got is to where global warming melted the ice at the poles, thereby exposing the black pillared entrance to Jehannum which, as any theologian will tell you, sucks in all those life-giving storm clouds like a dessicated black hole.
I think I've been reading too much sci-fi today.
A couple of hours later....
It turns out that it is, indeed, snow. The weather channel opines that, "by tomorrow morning, it is not out of the question that there could be a slushy snowfall accumulation upto an inch."
It's as if the weather channel were gently placing its hand on your distraught snow-starved head and telling you, "You know, I really wish I could forecast more snow for you today but I am ethically obliged not to give you more hope than science allows me to, (sound of snow-lover gently weeping in the background), ok, there, there, how does this sound, by tomorrow morning's commute, let's say there's one chance in a million that you'll be seeing snow outside your window, (weeping intensifies in volume), oh damnit, what have I done, ok how about this, by tomorrow morning, it is not out of the question that there could be a slushy snowfall accumulation upto an inch."
See what the weather channel did right there, it added a double negative so it could pretty much have said anything it wanted to without being dishonest, for example, it is not out of the question that you'll be getting such humongous quantities of snow that you'll get snowed in and have to eat your own family to stay alive. After all, nothing is out of the question.
And there are other people bemoaning the paucity of snow on the ground this year. Recently, I had a number of search engine queries asking me "why isn't it snowing in Pennsylvania" and "Why isn't it snowing in New England" and so on and so forth. I wish I knew, my friend. I also wish I could blame it on global warming and trust me, if I could come up with a theory convincing enough I would in a heartbeat, but the farthest I got is to where global warming melted the ice at the poles, thereby exposing the black pillared entrance to Jehannum which, as any theologian will tell you, sucks in all those life-giving storm clouds like a dessicated black hole.
I think I've been reading too much sci-fi today.
A couple of hours later....
It turns out that it is, indeed, snow. The weather channel opines that, "by tomorrow morning, it is not out of the question that there could be a slushy snowfall accumulation upto an inch."
It's as if the weather channel were gently placing its hand on your distraught snow-starved head and telling you, "You know, I really wish I could forecast more snow for you today but I am ethically obliged not to give you more hope than science allows me to, (sound of snow-lover gently weeping in the background), ok, there, there, how does this sound, by tomorrow morning's commute, let's say there's one chance in a million that you'll be seeing snow outside your window, (weeping intensifies in volume), oh damnit, what have I done, ok how about this, by tomorrow morning, it is not out of the question that there could be a slushy snowfall accumulation upto an inch."
See what the weather channel did right there, it added a double negative so it could pretty much have said anything it wanted to without being dishonest, for example, it is not out of the question that you'll be getting such humongous quantities of snow that you'll get snowed in and have to eat your own family to stay alive. After all, nothing is out of the question.
If you like Sci-fi..
Go here and give it up for RobRoy, who's penned a damn good first chapter of his forthcoming (?) book. For the more discerning of my audience, yes, it also contains violence and brief nudity so go ahead and enjoy. This is RobRoy's entry for a writing contest where the winner gets a book contract and gets to live in a lonely house near a lake (no outboard motors please, thank you). Despite my not being a gigantic fan of sci-fi, RobRoy's writing grabbed me to the point where I am thinking of including more violence and brief nudity in my blog posts to make them more exciting. In case you do not have the time to read it right now, you can also print it out and read it while driving to work. Just remember one thing : do not drink and drive. And also, give his entry 10 stars because I would really love to swim in that lake.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
The Saints
Yes we lost. And it is heartbreaking. And I did wish Reggie Bush would break a few ribs on his first contact with Sheldon Brown. But now that the Eagles did lose, I am all for the Saints going all the way. They are a gutsy team. And New Orleans is a gutsy city. So go Saints. I am behind you. Eat those Bears / Seahawks next weekend. And I will provide the Sriracha sauce.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Bad Idea
The road to the Subway is horrible. Apart from all the 90 degree turns, it is ridden with potholes. Especially one particular spot where the car's left wheels go into a pothole, and then the right wheels, then the steering wheel comes off and you have to guide the car using brain waves. They haven't fixed this road up for the past year. This is what I think happened, and it is an educated guess on my part, that the PennDot, the Pennsylvania department of transportation, dug up the road while constructing a highway bridge over it and then did a sad job of filling it back up. And then the local township said to itself, hell, the potholes weren't our doing, so why in the name of sweet Jesus should we rebuild it? At least, this is the conversation I would have had with myself if I had been a government employee.
So no one filled up those potholes for a year and in the meantime the pile of steering wheels on the pavement grew and grew. And it was especially hard on me because as you know the Subway is the only eating joint in the vicinity and so I have to navigate this road every single day. Finally, one day, I decided that I had had enough of coffee cups falling off the roof of my car. So I went on the internet and looked for the website of this township and found that their website actually had a pothole reporting form on it, how about that? So I filled up this form and added my own biting invective in the text box where it said "Other Comments". I love it when websites have an "Other Comments" box because that is like the owner bending over, unbuttoning his pants, handing you a wooden rod and asking you to whack away. And so I did, and it unburdened my heart and it felt like an elephant had just removed his foot from the wooden chest of my happiness and walked away.
And it worked man, it worked. A week later, there were repair crews all over, whistling at women and shoveling gravel into those potholes. And although I felt a bit sad while saying goodbye, I knew that filling those babies up was the right thing to do.
Soon, cars, which previously had to slow down to navigate that section of the road were racing past and breaking the speed limit. And now, everyday, I have to spend hours on end waiting for a break in the speeding traffic that could allow me to get the hell out of the Subway parking lot and back onto the street. So all in all, sending that email appears to have been a mediocre idea. The only glimmer of hope in all this is the near-certainty that Penndot will be along soon to dig up the road again. After all, Pennsylvania IS the state having the worst roads in the USA.
Update : Apparently PA only has the 2nd worst roads in the country.
So no one filled up those potholes for a year and in the meantime the pile of steering wheels on the pavement grew and grew. And it was especially hard on me because as you know the Subway is the only eating joint in the vicinity and so I have to navigate this road every single day. Finally, one day, I decided that I had had enough of coffee cups falling off the roof of my car. So I went on the internet and looked for the website of this township and found that their website actually had a pothole reporting form on it, how about that? So I filled up this form and added my own biting invective in the text box where it said "Other Comments". I love it when websites have an "Other Comments" box because that is like the owner bending over, unbuttoning his pants, handing you a wooden rod and asking you to whack away. And so I did, and it unburdened my heart and it felt like an elephant had just removed his foot from the wooden chest of my happiness and walked away.
And it worked man, it worked. A week later, there were repair crews all over, whistling at women and shoveling gravel into those potholes. And although I felt a bit sad while saying goodbye, I knew that filling those babies up was the right thing to do.
Soon, cars, which previously had to slow down to navigate that section of the road were racing past and breaking the speed limit. And now, everyday, I have to spend hours on end waiting for a break in the speeding traffic that could allow me to get the hell out of the Subway parking lot and back onto the street. So all in all, sending that email appears to have been a mediocre idea. The only glimmer of hope in all this is the near-certainty that Penndot will be along soon to dig up the road again. After all, Pennsylvania IS the state having the worst roads in the USA.
Update : Apparently PA only has the 2nd worst roads in the country.
Tuesday, 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.
The Odor
They now think that the foul odor detected in Manhattan yesterday might have originated from New Jersey. Who would have guessed? Here's what you've got to do from now on, New York. Turn your air conditioners so they face towards Jersey. Got it? Towards. Not away from.
And New York, if you are really interested in finding out what the fuck that odor was, this is what you need to do : Cruise along the section of the New Jersey Turnpike that lies between New Brunswick and Kearny, keeping your car windows open. Not only will you manage to find your odor in the odor cocktail that accompanies this stretch of highway, but in case of a future odor attack, you will be able to tell your friends exactly where it originated from.
You are welcome.
And New York, if you are really interested in finding out what the fuck that odor was, this is what you need to do : Cruise along the section of the New Jersey Turnpike that lies between New Brunswick and Kearny, keeping your car windows open. Not only will you manage to find your odor in the odor cocktail that accompanies this stretch of highway, but in case of a future odor attack, you will be able to tell your friends exactly where it originated from.
You are welcome.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Sunday, January 07, 2007
The Dallas Cowboys suck but then you already knew it
It wasn't just that the Dallas Cowboys lost today against the Seattle Seahawks in a wild-card playoff. It wasn't that they lost inside the final two minutes of the game due to a fumbled field goal snap that would otherwise have given them a victory. What was so special about this loss was that Terrell Owens had a mediocre 2 receptions for 26 yards. Terrell Owens, as you know, was responsible for the massive chutyagiri that happened last year which fucked up the Philadelphia Eagles 2005 season. And what was even more enjoyable was Terrell Owens coming forth in the post-game press conference and talking about returning to Dallas next year and moving forward and hello Owens, my son, let me tell you a story. There was a little boy who grew up to be Terrell Owens and he played for the Philadelphia Eagles for a year and then he fucked them over and went to Dallas and played for the Dallas Cowboys for a year and then he was canned. And they all lived happily ever after. My God, how I love that story.
Although I did feel bad for Dallas quarterback Tony Romo who fumbled the snap. Regardless of how passionately I hate the cowboys, I do have a soft spot for Romo. And he was so very humble during the press conference and took all responsibility for the loss and he cried and so sweet were his tears from an Eagles perspective but if you were to look at him as a human being, you had to feel some sympathy.
Tomorrow the Philadelphia Eagles play the New York Giants in a wild-card playoff. Hopefully tomorrow will bring as much joy and ejaculation to Philadelphia sports fans as today did. I will be in Chickie's and Pete's, the same place that is so friendly to messy-eaters and I will be sporting a brand new Eagles jersey. This jersey has some amazing winning properties, as proved by today's Cowboys loss.
Fly Eagles Fly
On the road to victory
Fly Eagles Fly
Score a touchdown one two three
Hit 'em low
Hit 'em high
And we'll watch our Eagles fly
Fly Eagles Fly
On the road to victory
E A G L E S Eagles
Although I did feel bad for Dallas quarterback Tony Romo who fumbled the snap. Regardless of how passionately I hate the cowboys, I do have a soft spot for Romo. And he was so very humble during the press conference and took all responsibility for the loss and he cried and so sweet were his tears from an Eagles perspective but if you were to look at him as a human being, you had to feel some sympathy.
Tomorrow the Philadelphia Eagles play the New York Giants in a wild-card playoff. Hopefully tomorrow will bring as much joy and ejaculation to Philadelphia sports fans as today did. I will be in Chickie's and Pete's, the same place that is so friendly to messy-eaters and I will be sporting a brand new Eagles jersey. This jersey has some amazing winning properties, as proved by today's Cowboys loss.
Fly Eagles Fly
On the road to victory
Fly Eagles Fly
Score a touchdown one two three
Hit 'em low
Hit 'em high
And we'll watch our Eagles fly
Fly Eagles Fly
On the road to victory
E A G L E S Eagles
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Google query of the day
"so I remember enjoying it when I quit, that makes it even worse now, A, remembering how mental I was to throw that away and like doing it. "
Wtf?
Anyways, I hope you found what you were looking for.
PS : By the way, this refers to the fact that someone typed in the above sentence into Google, got this blog in the search results and came here. You know, just for those who are not aware of what a google search query of the day means.
Wtf?
Anyways, I hope you found what you were looking for.
PS : By the way, this refers to the fact that someone typed in the above sentence into Google, got this blog in the search results and came here. You know, just for those who are not aware of what a google search query of the day means.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Messy Eaters
There is a bar in downtown Philly I visited last Sunday, called "Chickie's and Pete's", that boasts of having "a washbasin in the center of the room for messy eaters". I don't see any benefit in having such a washbasin for messy eaters. And my opinion on this topic was vindicated by the fact that during my entire time there, I did not see a single messy eater avail himself of this opportunity to wash himself up at this basin. After all, if someone were a messy eater, would this person actually get up from his table and use that washbasin, in the process, broadcasting to the world his inability to transfer food safely from the plate to the mouth? I think not.
Or for that matter, if a bar proudly advertised itself as having "special window seats for people with a flatulence problem", would you openly patronize these flatulent-friendly seats?
Actually I'm not so sure, knowing you, you probably would, if you were really gassy.
Or for that matter, if a bar proudly advertised itself as having "special window seats for people with a flatulence problem", would you openly patronize these flatulent-friendly seats?
Actually I'm not so sure, knowing you, you probably would, if you were really gassy.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
The fat envelope
When I crawled into my cubicle on 2nd January 2007, also known as that day in history when the three wise men finally left Bethlehem, leaving behind a manger strewn with empty beer bottles and burger wrappers, after all the birthday presents had been opened, detested and regifted and after Mary and Joseph had realized that the picnic was over and now it was time to change baby Jesus' diaper again for the twentieth time inside the goddamned freakin' hour, I thought I knew exactly what those good folks had gone through during that hallowed period. It was Back to Work time.
It was then that I saw a fat envelope lying comfortably on my chair, addressed to me from the company. Hallelujah, I expostulated, raising my face to the heavens and giving the baby Jesus a look of gratitude as he lay on the miniature manger scene I had recreated on my desk out of toilet paper and nail clippings. It was Christmas bonus time! Maybe it would still be possible for me to accomplish my fourth quarter earnings goal of not owning fewer liquid assets than I had in the third quarter.
Fingers working feverishly, their dexterity seasoned by numerous encounters with their owner's bursting bladder, the envelope was opened and the contents of the envelope retrieved. Strange and bizarre non-monetary things appeared to be nestling inside. Things made of plastic that looked incredibly like a pair of cash-strapped hand-cuffs. There was a long rectangular slip and two circular ring-type things. Also, a piece of paper containing instructions in English, Spanish and the language of the fair croissant.
I followed the instructions carefully, exercising that same exemplary work ethic that makes me an outstanding employee. Rolling the rectangular slip and joining it together, I then attached the two circular lids at its two ends and presto, I had myself a plastic pen stand. Hey, a do-it-your-own-goddamned-self pen stand, just what I had needed for this holiday season, what with all my homeless pens and all. Into this newly assembled pen stand I now proceeded to stuff my broken dreams. Then, I took the baby Jesus out of his manger and finger-flicked him into the trash. He will, in all likelihood, grow up to be a troubled young man, quite possibly turning into a Marilyn Manson fan.
Where is this society headed, you ask yourself, when you cannot even trust fat envelopes placed on your chair during Christmas to bring you holiday warmth and cheer?
Update : No actual babies or Saviors of all mankind were harmed during the compilation of this blogpost.
It was then that I saw a fat envelope lying comfortably on my chair, addressed to me from the company. Hallelujah, I expostulated, raising my face to the heavens and giving the baby Jesus a look of gratitude as he lay on the miniature manger scene I had recreated on my desk out of toilet paper and nail clippings. It was Christmas bonus time! Maybe it would still be possible for me to accomplish my fourth quarter earnings goal of not owning fewer liquid assets than I had in the third quarter.
Fingers working feverishly, their dexterity seasoned by numerous encounters with their owner's bursting bladder, the envelope was opened and the contents of the envelope retrieved. Strange and bizarre non-monetary things appeared to be nestling inside. Things made of plastic that looked incredibly like a pair of cash-strapped hand-cuffs. There was a long rectangular slip and two circular ring-type things. Also, a piece of paper containing instructions in English, Spanish and the language of the fair croissant.
I followed the instructions carefully, exercising that same exemplary work ethic that makes me an outstanding employee. Rolling the rectangular slip and joining it together, I then attached the two circular lids at its two ends and presto, I had myself a plastic pen stand. Hey, a do-it-your-own-goddamned-self pen stand, just what I had needed for this holiday season, what with all my homeless pens and all. Into this newly assembled pen stand I now proceeded to stuff my broken dreams. Then, I took the baby Jesus out of his manger and finger-flicked him into the trash. He will, in all likelihood, grow up to be a troubled young man, quite possibly turning into a Marilyn Manson fan.
Where is this society headed, you ask yourself, when you cannot even trust fat envelopes placed on your chair during Christmas to bring you holiday warmth and cheer?
Update : No actual babies or Saviors of all mankind were harmed during the compilation of this blogpost.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Happy Back to Work Day
Wishing You and Your's a warm and merry Back To Work Day. Here's hoping that this week will see you want to kill fewer people than the same time last year.
Next year, before you embark upon your holidays, always remember to freeze your bank accounts, change your ATM password and swallow it. Tie that ribbon around your thumb right now so that you will not forget.
Hello New Jersey, I think I know you a little better now. Although I still am not a huge fan, I have begun to see what other people see in you. You are akin to that dense unshaven armpit, providing, like only you can, all the comfort and warmth the lice clinging to your curly locks so fervently desire. Shave off all that hair and the lice will have nothing to hang on to. Now it is difficult for me, a self-avowed hermit to appreciate the mental safety-net of life in a tightly knit louse society, but I realize that there are other people who do. Someday, dear Jersey, when I am tired of my lonesome suburban existence, I will come crawling to your fetid streets for company and solace. You will accept me now, won't you?
Next year, before you embark upon your holidays, always remember to freeze your bank accounts, change your ATM password and swallow it. Tie that ribbon around your thumb right now so that you will not forget.
Hello New Jersey, I think I know you a little better now. Although I still am not a huge fan, I have begun to see what other people see in you. You are akin to that dense unshaven armpit, providing, like only you can, all the comfort and warmth the lice clinging to your curly locks so fervently desire. Shave off all that hair and the lice will have nothing to hang on to. Now it is difficult for me, a self-avowed hermit to appreciate the mental safety-net of life in a tightly knit louse society, but I realize that there are other people who do. Someday, dear Jersey, when I am tired of my lonesome suburban existence, I will come crawling to your fetid streets for company and solace. You will accept me now, won't you?
Thursday, December 28, 2006
If it isn't snowing, it must be Christmas
The title refers to global warming and the fact that it was 70 degrees during Christmas and there was no snow, so please, people, listen to Al Gore and stop creating carbon dioxide. Carbon monoxide is fine. You there, with the sulphur dioxide, quit it.
There was a time about two weeks ago when I realized that I was burnt out. The burn was due to work and everything else. It was about the same time that I discovered that being a "self-referential" blogger was apparently not a good thing to be and the fact that I had been called one in the past (that too, by an IISc professor) made it even worse. Plus, add to that the wife being gone to India for a two week long vacation and that I couldn't be with her because of the vagaries of that American institution formerly known as the INS, later known as the BCIS and presently known to no one except their own selves as the USCIS, not that it matters.
So it was that a nervous wreck took over the reins of my holidays and that was me. I took the Christmas week off, not knowing what to do except in the short term, consume as much alcohol as was humanly possible and try not to think about that constant ache in my head. The ache began one day when I was lifting weights with my legs. I have observed that people who lift weights do so using every muscle in their body except the ones in their legs. Apparently the fact that the lower half of the male body is perpetually covered with fabric dissuades most health-conscious men from exercising their legs. But not me because I am a non-conformist.
So as I was lifting this extremely heavy weight with my legs, doing what they call a squat, I experienced a sudden twinge of pain somewhere in my brain between the second and third ligaments, speaking as a professional. And ever since, my head has been hurting. Apart from the vague realization that I might be dying due to a burst cerebral blood vessel, there was also that irritating perpetual headache. All in all, these factors made life very unpleasant during Christmas week. Plus, no one to complain to, wife being in India and no contact with my graduate advisor for the past 6 years.
When faced with adversity, most men face it. Some run away from it. Since I am a twentieth century adversity guy, I drive away from it.
I decided to take a long drive. To New England. Every few months in my life, there is this itch that builds up in me with regards to New England, where I first landed on the Mayflower in the form of the Amtrak Vermonter. New England will forever be my ideal place to live in the US. In large part, it's because I spent my graduate life there. Also, since it's the very first place in the US that I found myself in, now, even after seeing the rest of the country, my subconscious still associates everything that is magical and beautiful about the US with New England.
So, a few times every year, this irrational itch drives me to visit Massachusetts and my university, UMass Amherst, and haunt the surroundings for a day or two. And now, since I had a weeks worth of spare solitary time, I decided to indulge the itch.
Renting a car, I drove north. Why rent a car? Well, my own car is a stick shift. And to travel from Philly to Massachusetts, you have to pass through New York City. Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty. Also, where there are miles of traffic backup where you have to keep clutching and de-clutching if you have a stick shift. No, I needed an automatic. Plus, I was planning on covering some heavy mileage.
After catching some heavy traffic on the NJTP, I wondered whether I should visit my friend zambezi who lives in New Jersey. If they call it living, that is. I called him at 3:30 in the afternoon to see if he was in the mood for a few beers. But I got no response. He was in a meeting or something, busy driving the economy for the rest of us blue collar workers (he has people working under him *awe*). When he finally called back, I was well past the George Washington Bridge (that bright young thing that connects New Jersey with New York City) after having spent the better part of an hour on the bridge, clutching and de-clutching in my mind because the car was a sweet automatic. Zambezi asked me to turn back and come see him because his wife was out for the weekend as well, and he needed a drinking buddy. But seeing the traffic on the other side of the road, I refused. I had had enough of George Washington, with all due respect to the bridge guy.
I reached Amherst at 8:30 in the evening. I decided to bunk in the Quality Inn at Hadley, about a mile away from the university. The receptionist made it a point of telling me that they had an indoor swimming pool. The temperature was 30 degrees Fahrenheit, or -1 degrees Celcius. Yes, the time was ripe for a swim.
I went to what used to be my favorite haunt in Amherst, the Amherst Brewing Company. If you are ever there, order the stuffed chipotle chicken jalapeno poppers. They are jalapeno peppers, stuffed with cheese and chicken, an unusual situation for a bird to find itself in, inside a vegetable. Usually it's the other way around.
Hey, if any of you live in Massachusetts or surroundings, this is what I would like you to do. Drive to Amherst. If you are in Boston, take the Masspike W to 91 N, then the Northampton exit and route 9 E to Amherst. If you are in Connecticut, take 95 N to 91 N. If you're in Vermont, first build yourself a road that goes south. After you reach Massachusetts, drive on 91S and take the Northampton exit. If you're in New Hampshire, drive north away from Massachusetts because c'mon, we all know how you feel about Massachusetts.
But anyways, coming back to the point, when you reach Amherst, visit this pizza joint called Antonio's in downtown Amherst village. It has the best pizza in the whole wide world. And I'm not just saying it because I invested in it, which I haven't. Basically it is gourmet pizza. For example, spicy chicken with blue cheese. Or barbequed chicken bacon with ranch dressing. Steak and mushrooms. Who the fuck makes pizzas like these? No one. Also, you will be immortalized on film. They have a live webcam on the premises. By the way, I just found out that they also serve other university campuses like Texas A&M and Brown University. So instead of doing the Hajj this year, travel to Antonio's Pizza in Amherst, MA instead. Not getting killed in a pilgrim stampede will be an additional bonus.
(To be continued)
There was a time about two weeks ago when I realized that I was burnt out. The burn was due to work and everything else. It was about the same time that I discovered that being a "self-referential" blogger was apparently not a good thing to be and the fact that I had been called one in the past (that too, by an IISc professor) made it even worse. Plus, add to that the wife being gone to India for a two week long vacation and that I couldn't be with her because of the vagaries of that American institution formerly known as the INS, later known as the BCIS and presently known to no one except their own selves as the USCIS, not that it matters.
So it was that a nervous wreck took over the reins of my holidays and that was me. I took the Christmas week off, not knowing what to do except in the short term, consume as much alcohol as was humanly possible and try not to think about that constant ache in my head. The ache began one day when I was lifting weights with my legs. I have observed that people who lift weights do so using every muscle in their body except the ones in their legs. Apparently the fact that the lower half of the male body is perpetually covered with fabric dissuades most health-conscious men from exercising their legs. But not me because I am a non-conformist.
So as I was lifting this extremely heavy weight with my legs, doing what they call a squat, I experienced a sudden twinge of pain somewhere in my brain between the second and third ligaments, speaking as a professional. And ever since, my head has been hurting. Apart from the vague realization that I might be dying due to a burst cerebral blood vessel, there was also that irritating perpetual headache. All in all, these factors made life very unpleasant during Christmas week. Plus, no one to complain to, wife being in India and no contact with my graduate advisor for the past 6 years.
When faced with adversity, most men face it. Some run away from it. Since I am a twentieth century adversity guy, I drive away from it.
I decided to take a long drive. To New England. Every few months in my life, there is this itch that builds up in me with regards to New England, where I first landed on the Mayflower in the form of the Amtrak Vermonter. New England will forever be my ideal place to live in the US. In large part, it's because I spent my graduate life there. Also, since it's the very first place in the US that I found myself in, now, even after seeing the rest of the country, my subconscious still associates everything that is magical and beautiful about the US with New England.
So, a few times every year, this irrational itch drives me to visit Massachusetts and my university, UMass Amherst, and haunt the surroundings for a day or two. And now, since I had a weeks worth of spare solitary time, I decided to indulge the itch.
Renting a car, I drove north. Why rent a car? Well, my own car is a stick shift. And to travel from Philly to Massachusetts, you have to pass through New York City. Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty. Also, where there are miles of traffic backup where you have to keep clutching and de-clutching if you have a stick shift. No, I needed an automatic. Plus, I was planning on covering some heavy mileage.
After catching some heavy traffic on the NJTP, I wondered whether I should visit my friend zambezi who lives in New Jersey. If they call it living, that is. I called him at 3:30 in the afternoon to see if he was in the mood for a few beers. But I got no response. He was in a meeting or something, busy driving the economy for the rest of us blue collar workers (he has people working under him *awe*). When he finally called back, I was well past the George Washington Bridge (that bright young thing that connects New Jersey with New York City) after having spent the better part of an hour on the bridge, clutching and de-clutching in my mind because the car was a sweet automatic. Zambezi asked me to turn back and come see him because his wife was out for the weekend as well, and he needed a drinking buddy. But seeing the traffic on the other side of the road, I refused. I had had enough of George Washington, with all due respect to the bridge guy.
I reached Amherst at 8:30 in the evening. I decided to bunk in the Quality Inn at Hadley, about a mile away from the university. The receptionist made it a point of telling me that they had an indoor swimming pool. The temperature was 30 degrees Fahrenheit, or -1 degrees Celcius. Yes, the time was ripe for a swim.
I went to what used to be my favorite haunt in Amherst, the Amherst Brewing Company. If you are ever there, order the stuffed chipotle chicken jalapeno poppers. They are jalapeno peppers, stuffed with cheese and chicken, an unusual situation for a bird to find itself in, inside a vegetable. Usually it's the other way around.
Hey, if any of you live in Massachusetts or surroundings, this is what I would like you to do. Drive to Amherst. If you are in Boston, take the Masspike W to 91 N, then the Northampton exit and route 9 E to Amherst. If you are in Connecticut, take 95 N to 91 N. If you're in Vermont, first build yourself a road that goes south. After you reach Massachusetts, drive on 91S and take the Northampton exit. If you're in New Hampshire, drive north away from Massachusetts because c'mon, we all know how you feel about Massachusetts.
But anyways, coming back to the point, when you reach Amherst, visit this pizza joint called Antonio's in downtown Amherst village. It has the best pizza in the whole wide world. And I'm not just saying it because I invested in it, which I haven't. Basically it is gourmet pizza. For example, spicy chicken with blue cheese. Or barbequed chicken bacon with ranch dressing. Steak and mushrooms. Who the fuck makes pizzas like these? No one. Also, you will be immortalized on film. They have a live webcam on the premises. By the way, I just found out that they also serve other university campuses like Texas A&M and Brown University. So instead of doing the Hajj this year, travel to Antonio's Pizza in Amherst, MA instead. Not getting killed in a pilgrim stampede will be an additional bonus.
(To be continued)
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Christmas gift
Haven't yet decided on a Christmas gift for that special African-American in your life who yearns to be a white superhero? Here, bling. Bling bling. You're welcome.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Waving to strangers
The thing I like the most about this country is the extraordinary friendliness of its natives. Virtual strangers will hi and hello you at every opportunity they get. Sometimes it can be a problem for social outcastes like me who are not used to this level of camaraderie from their fellow inmates. It is therefore second nature for me in such cases to react with a precise amount of witlessness that is calculated to curdle the milk of this human kindness and turn it into the yogurt of hostility.
I was sitting in my car at the train station waiting for the Amtrak to roll in. I saw a woman running along in order to cross the tracks and reach the train on the other side. As I stared in her direction trying to gauge whether she would make the trip in time, she smiled and waved in my direction.
Perplexed, I pointed to my own face inquiringly because my intense inferiority complex disallows me from assuming that when anyone is waving in my direction, they are, in fact, waving at me. The woman pointed back, yes you.
It was then that I turned my neck in order to enact that well documented move where you look behind to check the presence of someone behind you who could be the target of somebody's attention and not you. This appeared to be the final straw. The woman slapped away an annoyed never mind and continued to race to her train. That will probably be the last time she is friendly to a stranger. Too much red tape involved.
And needless to say, this will continue to happen to me time and time again as single-handedly I continue to make Americans more xenophobic.
I was sitting in my car at the train station waiting for the Amtrak to roll in. I saw a woman running along in order to cross the tracks and reach the train on the other side. As I stared in her direction trying to gauge whether she would make the trip in time, she smiled and waved in my direction.
Perplexed, I pointed to my own face inquiringly because my intense inferiority complex disallows me from assuming that when anyone is waving in my direction, they are, in fact, waving at me. The woman pointed back, yes you.
It was then that I turned my neck in order to enact that well documented move where you look behind to check the presence of someone behind you who could be the target of somebody's attention and not you. This appeared to be the final straw. The woman slapped away an annoyed never mind and continued to race to her train. That will probably be the last time she is friendly to a stranger. Too much red tape involved.
And needless to say, this will continue to happen to me time and time again as single-handedly I continue to make Americans more xenophobic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)