Garden Update

My deck gave birth to a litter of cilantro plants yesterday. I must tell you, cilantro babies don't look like cilantro adults at all. When they come into this world, they are all like two tiny leaves and one tiny stem and they are barely green and so helpless, they don't even wave when you blow wind in their face. But when you pluck off those tiny leaves and taste them, you can feel the cilantro spirit not yet surging, but definitely germinating inside them.

They took a long time waking up. I first planted them in an old pot, a pot full of dirt left over from the previous owner. I called up my mother and told her, "Hello mother, prepare, for once, to be proud of your son for he is now helping the world meet its food-production needs."

My mother said, "what are you food-producing?"

I said, "Cilantro, mother, cilantro." I come from a family of cilantro fanboys. "Are you excited for me?"

My mother replied, "Yes, yes, I am excited. Did you break the seeds before planting them?"

I allowed a stunned silence to elapse for about a minute and a half.

"Break the seeds? Why?"

"Well, you have to kind of break coriander seeds before you plant them in the dirt."

"Okay mother, I will talk to you later." I had not broken the seeds.

I went and prepared an additional pot for cilantro-planting. Again, an old existing pot. This time I broke the seeds. Alright, that should appease the fussy Cilantro Deity.

But it didn't. I waited and waited some more. It didn't help that the weather suddenly turned cold. A week went by. Not a lot happened. I did improve my COD4 rank from 41 to 51 but that's another story which I could narrate again if you were to so desire.

I decided that it was the old dirt that was the root of the infertility. So I went and bought a fresh bag of dirt from the grocery. My suspicions were confirmed. The dirt manual told me that dirt only lasts for three months or so. Dirt comes with a manual. Long live Western Society. So I went and prepared a third pot for cilantro plantation with all the new dirt I had just purchased. I broke the seeds, used new dirt and watered the pot. Conditions couldn't get any more perfect than this. And then I waited.

And waited some more.

And finally, just as I was about to give up my agricultural dreams, two of my pots went into labor. It happened while I was at work so I couldn't share in the joyous moment but when I came home in the evening, I saw the cilantro babies and it was one of my proudest moments since the time I achieved rank 52 in COD4, but that's a different story.

The funny thing is, the two pots that first gave birth were full of old dirt, including the one with the unbroken seeds. I appear to be breaking new ground in cilantro cultivation technology.

Secondly, I have also planted tomatoes. No progress there. Tomatoes fussier than cilantro. Also, experience has now taught me that a farmer needs to be patient with his crop.

The other day, an Indian kid, claiming to be one of my neighbors, came by and offered to mow my lawn. "Really, does it need mowing," I asked him. I could barely see him through the grass so I asked him to shoot a flare so I could find him.

He answered yes, that in his professional opinion, my grass did indeed require mowing. I haven't been able to start my mower yet. I think it needs gas and I am waiting for the war to end for gas to become affordable again. So I said wokay, son, please do the needful. As I was watching him work on my lawn, he noticed that I was looking at my plants with pride and said to me," You know those are all weeds, don't you?", and he pointed towards basically everything in my garden.

The news stunned me. For a number of days, I had been watering those plants with love and water. I felt betrayed, like a prison guard who's discovered that the convict he took under his wing was actually stealing money from him. I was unconvinced.

"Are you sure? Is this a weed?", I asked, pointing to a small pretty yellow flower, a lot of which were scattered throughout my lawn.

"Yes", said the kid.

"What about this one", I said, indicating the tall thing with the crown of white things that disintegrate and blow away when you blow on it.

"Yes, that one is the worst", replied Dr. Greenthumb.

"Okay", I said with resignation. I had weeds.

The kid offered to rip them up for me but I declined the offer. They were my weeds. I had raised them and I would put them to sleep. So I bent down, began to uproot those ungrateful suckers and arranged them in a big pile.

"That is not a weed. It's actually a tulip", said the kid who was still hanging around like some kind of tomato fungus. I handed him the tulip root I had just pulled out of the ground and told him, "Okay, YOU do the weeds. I will be inside playing COD4."

I am ranked 53 now, but that is another story.

General

On the PS3 manual as well as on the manual of its six-axis controller, there is a warning which basically cautions you that while you are playing, if your hands begin to hurt, eyes begin to itch and turn red, if you feel dizzy, start vomiting, have blurry vision, begin to think that Mariah Carey's music doesn't suck or experience similar bizarre symptoms, to immediately place the controller down or, if your hands have formed a claw-like grip around it, to immediately summon a loved one or an emergency first responder of your choice and request them to pry it out with a plier or a similar tool.

And stop playing the PS3 till such a time as these symptoms disappear.

When I read this particular instruction, my first reaction was, "Really? Do people actually get so addicted to video games that it actually turns into a health issue?"

I had this amused reaction well before this weekend when heavy uncontrolled PS3 gaming was something that happened to other people and thus, was something to be ridiculed. And then, this weekend, Call of Duty 4 released 4 new maps and declared that all weekend long, players would earn double the experience while playing online.

About this experience business. Each time you play COD4 online, you gain XP or experience points that allow you to rise in rank. You start as a private, moving on to sergeant, captain, lieutenant, general and finally, at rank 55, you become a commander. As your rank increases, you get better weapons, upgrades for your existing weapons, camouflages, etc. XP is the currency of online COD4 play.

On friday night, I downloaded the new maps and that was the beginning of my dark XP-addled journey to hell. Honestly, I cannot remember what I did all weekend that did not involve holding a PS3 controller or a beer can. I do remember that I started out with rank 41 and by the time the weekend was over, I was 51. I was a 4 star General. Although I didn't vomit or have blurry vision and despite my continuing hatred of all things Mariah Carey, my eyes did blossom forth into a variety of multicolored hues. It is only today morning that they went back to being boring white.

But fuck your eyes, get a PS3 anyways.

One Month later

Having owned the PS3 for a month, I have discovered the following.

I appear to be what is known as a PS3fanboy. Although this term is derogatory in nature when applied by members of the general public towards PS3fanboys, when applied by PS3fanboys towards each other, it is a symbol of the brotherhood created through a common goal of defending our 400 dollar investments into PS3 consoles against the enemy of wallet regret.

The code of the PS3fanboys declares, in no uncertain terms that it behooves me to prowl the interwebtubenets and the various forums contained within in search of postings by rival XBox360fanboys and, in the event of encountering a single word against the PS3, spoken, breathed or thought even, return the favor by hurling a generous amount of choice invective against the XBox 360. Various talking points and items of polemic have been made available for my use such as the fact that the XBox cannot and will not ever have the requisite firepower necessary for the really great forthcoming next-generation state-of-the-art games to call it a home, that the XBox 360 is already so far behind the times that the XBox 720 is rumored to be in the works, that the PS3 has won the HD format war nya nya nya nya nya nya and that 2008 is the year for the PS3 to finally break through due to the release of some huge-ass games that will be exclusively available on the PS3. And my personal favorite : XBoxes have a 16% failure rate whereas the PS3 has a 1% failure rate. So there.

I can say with a fair amount of confidence that playing Call of Duty 4 online is more addictive than crack cocaine. And if that is not the case, then goddamn, I've got to try this crack cocaine shit.

n00b tube : Apparently, this is a grenade launcher attachment for a gun used by online n00bs playing Call of Duty 4 for firing grenades at opponents. It is called a n00b tube because it allows a player to inflict maximum amount of damage while exposing his ass to a minimum amount of danger, thus making it compatible with n00b philosophy. The code of the PS3fanboys and also the XBox360fanboys states that using a n00b tube should be frowned upon, discouraged and vilified. It is perhaps the one single thing that unites these two warring nerd factions. I am glad to report that I have coasted through my n00b stage without so much as giving a passing glance to a n00b tube. For this, I deserve special credit which I will now give myself and accept it on my own behalf.

And that is what I've learnt in my one month of PS3 ownership.

Medical announcement of the day

It's probably a bit late to call it breaking news, but here it is. This goes out to all men. Offered without comment.

Woo-freaking-hoo. I mean, achoo. I have a bad cold.

Okay, no comment, starting NOW.

By the way, the article is from 2003, so I don't know if there's been any new research that contradicts the findings in that one. I am guessing not. Research doesn't carry itself out and I am sure the team did not have a lot of time in the period between 2003 and 2008 to do it.

Perkiomen Railroad

This one's for me so feel free to look away and count blue cars, photograph coconut trees, eat sunflower seeds or whatever it is you do when someone asks you to look away.

I found this amazing website on the Perkiomen branch of the Reading Railroad. This is the long abandoned railroad line on which the current Perkiomen Trail (one of my favorite biking trails) was built upon. This guy, who calls himself a ferro-equinologist (a railroad archaeologist), appears to have traveled over and retraced the entire route of the original railroad line which is no longer there, houses, weeds, the trail and the 21st century having crept up over it. He even created a mapelogue of it, just like I partially did. This ferro-equinologying stuff, by the way, is something that I've often dreamt of doing, and probably will do sometime in the near future.

He's also discovered and photographed various hard-to-notice artifacts of the original railway line that are still standing on or near the trail, such as old rails, rusty signs, signals, old stations, coal feeder trestles, etc. What's funny is that I have often passed and spotted many of these structures on the trail and always wondered about them.

Here's something else he's done on the website. He has some old pictures of the railroad line and based on those, he tries to figure out the locations of the train stations (long gone) in the current landscape. For example, here's a portion of the trail I was biking this saturday. It's in a village called Salford. He has this old black and white picture of the station in the village and a new current picture of the location, and matching the buildings in the background, he figured out where the station building used to stand. This is all very interesting stuff for me, a huge fan and a frequent user of this trail and also a certified railroad lunatic.

Probably not that interesting for you, though. Look at you, all wrapped up in your sunflower seeds and coconut trees.

Farming

Winter is gone and it is time for farmers like me to start planning for the growing season. As you might remember I have a brand new deck to do my farming on and the previous owners of my townhouse kindly left their flower pots scattered all over the place in various states of neglect. I'm not a farmer, I lied. This will be my first foray into agriculture.

This year I am planning to grow my own food. Towards that end, I took the first steps yesterday. It was a warm day and when I had to turn on the AC in my car for the first time in seven months, I realized that it was spring and time to begin planting. So I went home, took a fork from the drawer, moved the dirt around in one of the flowerpots and filled it up with coriander seeds. I also watered it. Soon, I hope the seeds will wake up with a boner, have sex with their neighboring seed and give birth to seedlings which, in turn, will grow up to be at least 99 cents worth of cilantro.

I am starting out with cilantro because I have a lot of cilantro experience. Back in India, I used to grow cilantro in our garden and I had a lot of success. Lesser success was achieved with plants like lady finger (okra) and beans. I remember harvesting one okra pod and one green bean at a time and giving it to my mother to cook for dinner, basking in the warm glow that comes to men who've managed to put food on the table for their family.

So I am starting out with cilantro and I hope to move up to mint, maybe a green chilli here and there. In a mad fit of optimism, I purchased a packet of tomato seeds two years ago and it still lies unopened. Perhaps this will be its year of emancipation. And with a little bit of help from the grocery in the form of onions, hopefully this year my family will be well supplied with salsa.

The Skippack Trail

Biking began last weekend. This is an annotated mapelogue™ of my bike ride with zambezi on the Skippack-Perkiomen Trail.


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Fusen Gum

I don't know if anyone remembers this stuff called Fusen gum we used to get in India during the 80s when we were kids. Maybe you still get it, I don't know. But I had totally forgotten about it. The other day I was in this Korean supergrocery and I saw this packet of Chinese looking gum on the counter and I said why the heck not and bought it. And when I opened the package and saw the words "Fusen Gum", it was like someone had lit a bulb in my brain after leaving the gas on. My mind exploded. And the memories rushed in.

Fusen Gum was this expensive bubble gum, costing about 1.50 rupees when the average gum used to cost 50 paise. But it was fucking worth it. For one, there was a rumor that this gum never lost its taste, no matter how long you chewed on it. And I think it was true. Secondly, it was soft gum, even luxuriously so. It did not harden during 10th hour chewage like most other gums. Also, it did not taste like every other gum either. It was kind of fruity without being effeminate. Thirdly, this bubble gum compensated in performance what it lacked in size. You could blow some amazing bubbles that would cover your entire face. Fourthly, these bubbles never stuck to your skin and hair. And fifthly, the back of the wrapper was a tattoo applicator so with a little bit of spit, you could give yourself a temporary tattoo. This tattoo even smelt great. I'm telling you, this thing was way ahead of its time.

I feel that in order to do adequate justice to the glory of this gum, it is imperative that I link to this random guy I found on the webtubes who appears to have penned a loving tribute to the Fusen Gum which includes a detailed step by step fully illustrated tutorial for beginners on how to enjoy this gum.

Wiffleball

The 2008 wiffleball season officially kicked off yesterday in my company. Before you bombard me with emails (assuming you hire a private investigator to find out my email address, but you didn't have to do that, you could just have asked me) saying "uh...wiffle what?", rest assured that I am already on the case. I asked my colleague to explain wiffleball to me in immigrant terms. He replied, "It is baseball, but with a plastic bat and a ball with holes." And to make doubly sure that I understood, without a hint of of irony, added, "It's like cricket but not so fucking weird".

Wiffleball games are played on weekdays during the lunch hour between two teams comprising of company employees who still retain adequate control of their motor faculties and hand-to-eye coordination since these are basic prerequisites for playing wiffleball. This narrows it down to four people. Lets call these people Me, Irritating Guy, Bagel Guy and Russian Guy.

Irritating Guy is so named due to him being a non-stop irritant in my otherwise contented professional life. Here he is, bugging me to use the fake wax phone in my office to make a phone call to my boss. Here he is, preying on my not-unlimited stock of chewing gum. And here he is asking me questions to which there can be no possible answers. There are other undocumented, yet equally egregious irritants attached to his persona such as his frequent sneezing "Achoooo" which is unfailingly followed by a long-drawn-out "Aaaaah" which brings up unnecessary visions of various bodily fluids exiting his various bodily orifices. And then, his worst trait, which is the act of being startled each time anyone enters his cubicle and speaks to him, the manifestation of which takes the form of a yell "WOAAH....Woooaah...woooaah......wo....you startled me". So let's just call him Irritating Guy and be done with it.

Bagel Guy is so named because there was a time when Bagel Guy, out of his good nature and curiously, of his own free will, used to bring us a bagful of bagels and cream cheese on fridays. After buying a house, having two babies and adopting a dog, he gradually ceased to engage in this admirable practice. But we still call him Bagel Guy in order to shame him, remind him of his previous philanthropy, hoping that the pressure of this honorary title will encourage him to resume bagel delivery operations.

Russian Guy is an enigma. He is Russian and hence the name. He is rumored to pledge allegiance to the Russian mafia, which, in turn, is rumored to exist. Russian Guy is good looking and an avid skier. He is the heart-throb of numerous ladies and especially well-beloved in upstate New York, specifically the Finger Lakes region. Russian Guy eats a lot of bananas at work.

So these were the chief wiffleball participants. Two teams were formed and assumed playing positions on the field. The wiffleball triangle was our parking lot, which is bounded by our office building on one side and two creeks on two sides. To my disgust, I was paired with Irritating Guy, which meant that today would not be my chance to finally vent out years of pent-up hostility towards Irritating Guy by hurling a plastic ball with holes at him. But hey, there would always be tomorrow.

My team pitched first. I decided to pitch, being fairly confident in my pitching abilities. In India, I used to be a crafty fast bowler in cricket, having a long run-up, a vigorous tossing action and when the batsman was quaking in fear, I would throw his timing off-kilter with an extremely slow ball. That was my technique and I stuck to it, every ball, every game.

I used the same time-tested technique to try and dispatch my wiffleball opponents. I don't know if my colleagues had made a trip to the local library and studied archival footage of my old cricket games but they all appeared to be pretty well-equipped to deal with my crafty balls. I got dispatched mercilessly. Two runs were scored in the first inning before I got them all out.

Irritating Guy batted first for our team. He appeared to have lost control over his limbs which appeared to be swinging erratically and without purpose. He got out after a mere two pitches, both of which resulted in direct hits on air. I walked in, quietly confident. Bagel Guy was the pitcher. After studying Bagel Guy's pitching, I was positively sure that I could do a lot of damage. And my confidence turned out to be well-justified. I made contact on the very first ball. I hit it hard and it went out of the stadium. I moved to second base with a double. Now, as you know, baseball is a funny game in that once you have a hit and you move on to the next base, you lose the bat and it is now up to the next batter to make something of your previous hit. In my case, since the next batter was Irritating Guy, that had virtually no chance of happening. Irritating Guy made good on his promise to do nothing by doing nothing. He hit air again a couple of times and the inning ended with no runs being scored.

Russian Guy started in the second inning. During his previous stint, Russian Guy had assumed a conventional batting stance with two hands on the bat, but had found it severely lacking. This time around, Russian Guy decided to throw convention to the wind and modified his stance. He held the bat in one hand like a club, more in the manner of someone who would not be averse to hitting the pitcher, were the ball to be out of range. Irritating Guy, who was pitching, seemed somewhat terror-struck. He pitched wildly, hitting tree branches, shrubbery and ants. When he pitched more accurately, Irritating Guy didn't fare any better. He got dispatched worse than me and suddenly I didn't feel so bad. Five runs were scored, making it 7-0 before the inning ended. We needed eight runs to win.

Irritating Guy batted first. Surprisingly, he did a good job of scoring a hit and putting me in batting position. This was my chance to make India proud.

Unfortunately, Russian Guy, who was pitching, had a craftier ball than mine. His technique was to make the ball appear slow and lethargic and it would waft up to you and you would be having a casual conversation with it and then suddenly, it was in your face and whizzing by, leaving you saying "where... what?"

To make a long story short, I hit air. It was embarassing. So much so that I did it twice. I was out. And then, I did it again during my next at-bat. Russian Guy owned me completely. We lost the game. Russia 1, India 0. I was ashamed for bringing wiffleball disgrace to my motherland.

Well, both teams get friday off in order to allow us to recuperate and enjoy what the rest of this city has to offer. The season continues on monday. I hope to practice hard through the weekend. Unless of course Irritating Guy turns out to be my opponent on monday. I am fairly confident of beating his ass blindfolded and drunk.

Stocks

I learnt today that the stock market in the US will be diving along its nose in the next three days. I heard this from a reliable source. Some Indian guy who was sitting in the table next to mine in the restaurant. He looked like a stockbroker because he had hair parted in the middle even though he was bald. That takes a devil-may care attitude which embodies a typical stockbroker. Perhaps you should heed his advice and start selling off your portfolio starting today afternoon like he was and no, I don't want any stocks. But don't do it all at once. We do not want the market to collapse. At least, not yet. I will let you know when it is the proper time. The tandoori chicken was delicious.

NCAAB

We have an office NCAA basketball sweepstake. I drew Western Kentucky (12), Villanova (12), Temple (12), San Diego (13), Mississippi Valley State (16) and Tennessee (3). All but Villanova have been eliminated. Mississippi Valley State? What the fuck is that? Anyways, the good news is that I won the prize given each year for drawing the most no. 12th ranked teams. I would like to thank my parents, God, Richard Dawkins and the number 11.

All my no. 12s except Temple made it through the first round. I sent off the following celebratory email to my colleagues. This was also a threat disguised as stupidity.

"No matter how many No. 12s get eliminated from my team, I will still have a few more left. Go No. 12."

Then the second round began and UCLA kicked out Western Kentucky (ranked no.12). But despite my respect for the number 12, the highest hopes I had were from Tennessee. Tennessee, ranked at no. 3 was my best option. But last night, against Louisville, they really ucked it up, both s and motherf. At one point, Tennessee did not score a single basket for about ten minutes. Perhaps they have bigger baskets in Tennessee. The cheerleaders continued to cheer for their team but it was like watching the orchestra continue to play on the deck as the Titanic went down. Except Tennessee was like a small fishing boat, captained by George Clooney and being savaged by the Perfect Storm of Louisville.

Today my only remaining hope, no.12th ranked Villanova will be playing someone. I think it's no.1 ranked Kansas. It might be someone else for all I know. I don't know and I don't care. As it is, I can barely stand watching basketball. But 100 dollars worth of change is involved so I am trying to keep up.

It's good that Villanova is my final hope. If they lose, I can always drive to their campus and shout obscenities in their chapel. It's a beautiful chapel. Very peaceful.

There might come a time when I say yes, but for now it is still no.
(via Sadly No).

The fake blur

There was this huge news story that broke in the Indian media over the weekend. A Belgian model was walking down the catwalk and suddenly she had a wardrobe malfunction. Her wardrobe door fell off. And then, her top slid off her shoulders, exposing her breast.

On Saturday, I spent thirty minutes watching a Star Nyuz anchor analyze, in excruciating detail, the physics, the math and the free market economics behind the sliding of the top. I was also treated to innumerable consecutive television replays of the fateful moment. Except, every time, the replay would end just before the top actually fell off and despite the absence of on-screen areola, they still blurred the screen. I can imagine the discussion that must have ensued in the Star Nyuz studio just before they aired the clip.

"Okay, so it is decided, we will show her top falling off and then we will blur her breasts."

"Excellent. Congratulations, people, good job, good show. These blurred breasts will ensure, at least for the next week or so, that there will be food on the table for our families."

But then, a sour note.

"Hold on sir, what about Bal Thackeray?"

"What about him?"

"He does not like breasts."

"We are not showing breasts. We are blurring them."

"He might gather all the pieces of the blur, match them together in Photoshop and break our windows."

"Yes, our insurance policy does not include Bal Thackeray liability. Alright, cancel the blurred breast pictures."

"But what about our viewers? We have to think of them too. If we fail to show them blurred breasts, why would they continue to watch this channel?"

"You're right. My wife just purchased a new I-Phone. I need this job. That blur needs to be broadcast."

"Alright folks. Here's what we will do. We will run the video upto a point just before when the top falls off. And then, we will blur the picture regardless. Our viewers will mentally undress this fake blur and recreate a naked breast out of thin air. And no matter how much image processing Bal Thackeray performs on the video, he will not manage to piece together any nudity and stay in a window-friendly mood."

"That was some mighty quick thinking Varma! You are hereby promoted to Chief Blur Executive."

Why Varma? I don't know, seems like the kind of name a dynamic Blur Executive might have. A Chopra might have capitulated to blur anxiety.

Tip of the day

The tip of the day is for people who complain that they never know when to stop while typing "banana".

The solution : Keep typing "na" till such a time as the word ceases to have any meaning. Then, remove the last "na".

Oh, okay, you mean you were joking, that was a joke, about not knowing when to stop when typing banana. Here, "ha ha". It's just that I've heard that one so many times that I was beginning to believe that it was a real problem in the fruit-referencing community.

Moral of the story : Invest some more time into the creation of some new fucking jokes.

Video of the day, high on daylight savings edition

If you're like me, if you are into late night drunken music sessions and at 2:00 am, suddenly notice that the clock says it's actually 3:00 am and the resulting heartache makes you drink some more and listen to some more music, here is what you need. Sigur Ros, Svefn g englar. Notice the violin rod on guitar string action. Also, the singing into the guitar mic action.



(link)

Koko

It had been a long saturday. What with the monster rainstorm and the creek graduating to raging river status and lapping at my basement door and the roof starting to leak and then the windows joining the club and me doing a balancing act on my roof beams, trying to find the source of the leak in my attic amidst a garden of shredded cotton and glass wool insulation and then my neighbor's heavy glass patio table with umbrella, blowing clean across his deck and almost onto my deck but narrowly missing it and instead crashing down onto my lawn and breaking into a million shards and my flower pots flying off my deck and deflowering my patio and the DirecTV guy climbing onto my roof and fixing my Indian programming satellite dish and five minutes after his departure, the wind blowing the dish back into a state of inoperability and then, to cap it all, my inability, for the second consecutive day, to kill a single fucking terrorist on my new PS3, I was in no mood to cook. So I decided to go to the Korean barbecue joint I had been thinking of visiting for a long time.

"Bring your own bottle", the sign on the door said. The only bottle I had was an empty bottle of windshield washer fluid. Fortunately, there was a beer store next door. I parked in the 2 hour "customer only" parking next to the restaurant and tolerating a dirty look from the Korean-American waiter standing smoking outside, walked next door. I knew I would be back before the waiter called Seoul and got someone to tow my car. I purchased a case of Stella Artois beer. I have a message for the makers of Stella Artois. Get rid of the Artois, man. People usually only ask for a Stella. The Artois portion is suffering from severe disuse. But Artois is a nice word, lets not waste it. Why don't you come out with a new beer or a brand of mens undergarments and call it Artois. Artwa.

As I walked into the Korean barbecue joint, I was overwhelmed by the smell. It was a nice smell. Most of it was garlic, some of it was onion and the rest was whatever Koreans eat. It was a nice smell and it helped me forget my sorrows and made me hungry. The place was full of Koreans and only Koreans. Most of the diners were seated with big steel vessels in front of them. I decided that I also wanted to eat whatever was in those steel vessels.

They gave me a seat and a menu. It was written in Korean and translated into English. Most of the words translated into English did not light my tube. But I saw the word beef here and there. I know beef. It is cow meat and I like how it tastes. So I called the waitress and asked for "seasoned beef ribs". Instead of saying "Excuse me" and waiting for me to repeat "seasoned beef ribs" in my horrible Indian accent, the Korean waitress immediately opened the menu and said, "Show". Here, this is what I want, I said, pointing to "Seasoned beef ribs". Wokay, only one? she asked. I looked around and finding only me, said yes, wonly one.

There were two strange looking bottles on my table. I picked up the tall bottle, hoping to find out what was inside it. The explanation on the bottle said in these very words, "The seasoning in this sauce bottle will give you a delicious taste of food". I picked up the second bottle. It had the same explanation. I decided not to taste whatever was in those bottles. I did not want those bottles merely giving me a feeling that the food was delicious instead of actually making the food delicious.

Before bringing out my seasoned beef ribs, the waitress brought out 6 dishes of what looked like random accompaniment and laid them out in front of me. I inspected them with a critical eye. I could recognize a few of them. This was clearly sauted bok choy in garlic. That was kimchee for sure. This here looked like some sort of seasoned rice noodles with mushrooms. And that one over there looked like raw shredded cabbage salad with thousand island dressing. But I didn't know what that red stuff was and holy shit, that stuff over there actually looked like...could it be...?

"What is this", I asked the waitress, showing all signs of being extremely turned on. Please God, let it be fried pig's stomach, I prayed. "Seaweed", said the waitress brightly, drowning my dreams in a bathtub. Okay, I said sadly, thank you. I started belting the food. The dried seaweed was actually quite tasty. If some American megacorporation were to produce and market it through a multi-billion dollar ad campaign, I would surely buy it.

A few minutes later, my beef ribs arrived. Sadly, they turned out not to be the stuff in the steel vessel as I had hoped. Also, they did not look like ribs. In my expert opinion,the dish looked like a plate of thinly sliced beef rib-eye sauted with mushrooms and scallions. Basically, it was Philly steak without the cheese. Hell, good enough for me. I grabbed my chopsticks and prepared for battle.

"Do you need a fuck?" said the waitress, with concern in her eyes.

"What?" I said.

"A fuck. Do you need it?"

"No, thanks, I am okay", I replied.

What the fork man, why would she assume that I could not handle a chopstick? To me, it seemed like racial stereotyping. I was still steaming as I began to eat, holding my chopsticks upside down.

The beef was tasty. Not spicy. A bit sweet. But tasty. It tasted Korean. I liked it. I would definitely come here again. I polished off five of the six bowls of random accompaniment and then I polished off the beef. I was content. In between, the owner came by to ask me how I was doing. Fortunately, he did not tell me about his Indian friend like an American would have.

As I walked out of the restaurant, I walked into a group of Korean guys hanging out with a lone American guy. The Koreans were all speaking in Korean. It reminded me of my UMass days when I was the only Marathi guy hanging out with a bunch of Tamilians, trying to make sense of what the fuck they were saying.

That was when I knew what it meant to be American.

A decision has been made

PS3.

Prepare to die.

Classically mild

(link)

We likes. We thinks it's brilliant. And not just because we's had a long and fruitful relationship with Raaga Des right through our childhood. We likes even though it contains shirtless Sonu Nigam dressed like a naked warrior.

We also listened to the rest of the album on raaga.com. The rest of the album is okay. It's like, you can see that the intention to blow your mind is there in the album, but actual mind-blowing only happens in this particular song. It's a great concept, fusion of Hindustani classical music with the discordant chords of jazz, previously adopted by Sushila Raman and maybe others. But the discordance, the vocal gyrations of classical music, combined with the frenetic pace of jazz only occur in this song. The rest of the album is less jazzy and more mainstream Indian pop.

I don't know, perhaps with repeated listens, it will grow on me like a french beard.

Tu

Back home in Pune when I was still "studying" engineering, there used to be an intercollegiate orchestra competition called "Kalyani". One of the items in the competition was that a couple of days before the actual competition, the organizers would give each college band that was participating a poem written by some random guy. This poem was in marathi. The band had to set this poem to music and play it on stage during the competition, along with every other song they had practiced.

During the second year (in a row) that my band won the Kalyani Cup for our college, the poem that they gave us was called "tu astas tar". It basically means "If you were here...". The poem outlines a series of environmental changes that would transpire, were the object of the poet's affection to suddenly appear in the immediate vicinity. For example, it goes on to say that he / she would immediately have converted the harsh sunlight into gentle starlight and silence into sweet song and so on and so forth. We Maharashtrians hate sunlight with a passion that is rivaled only by our hatred for silence. I don't know what we're gonna do if this global warming thing turns out to be true. Or if those Bose sound-canceling headphones actually turn out to work.

But getting back to the point, for the second year in a row, it was up to me to set this poem to music. And now, about ten years later, I have finally managed to reconstitute that sophomore effort on my home synthesizer and make it available to the music industry executives who frequent my blog. Now although the original musical performance included a drummer, a guitarist, a bass guitarist, a tabla player, two keyboardists and a dedicated sound mixer, unfortunately I did not have any of these in my apartment and so I had to play every instrument myself on the synth. Also, since I have a hideous voice, please imagine that the trumpety thing playing throughout the song is actually the voice of a marathi lass singing marathi lyrics.

So, here's the song :



(link)

Seinfeld

Some day I hope to elevate myself to that highest of existential levels where every thought, desire or complaint I have will be expressed purely through the usage of appropriate Seinfeldian quotes. That day is not too far.

sick

Well, my immune system, she fell asleep at the wheel and no doubt lately she's had a few sleepless nights of overwork due to battling other people's sweat from the gym but I still think she could've done more than just handed me over to the virii (viruses?). Which she did. Didn't even put up a fight. So no more soup for you. Come back...one year.

Oscars

Review in short :

Bare bones show, refreshingly low-key and devoid of its usual self-indulgent pomp and pageantry which allowed the peasant class to watch it without becoming aware of our own grime and unworthiness.

Glowing women. Glowing Daniel Day Lewis. Somewhere inside that painstakingly crafted sculpture lies a man, or so the story goes.

Javier Bardem. You are not as scary in person. In fact, you look like you could be trusted with a newborn puppy.

The Coen Brothers. Joel Coen, least interested multiple-Oscar winner. Ethan Coen, achiever of highest laughter to words ratio.

Walkway to the podium : problematic.

Helen Mirren's deliberate invocation of the word "cojones" : priceless.

Jon Stewart : extremely funny but more importantly, classy and kind.

3

When I came to the US, these are the three music cds I purchased with the first paycheck of my graduate assistantship. And they continue to be the top three favorites in my collection.

Antichrist Superstar
Aenima
Mezzanine

Roo

I went to this bar today, the Silver Ostrich Pub, just to see what people looked like since I haven't seen people for a while. I was just gonna get a beer and fuck off since the Weather Channel told me that everything that was made of water was supposedly going to turn into ice by 10:00 pm including the road and the rodentia. So I quickly ordered a beer and they asked me, Sir, do you need a menu, and I said sure, because, hey why not look at the menu while I was drinking. So I looked at the menu for a while and the waitress came over and asked me if I was ready to order and I was about to say no, I did not wish for food, but that is when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw this phrase on the menu that said, "Sauted Kangaroo in Dijon sauce" and I said to myself, listen Mac, let's be honest, with your fast fading age and the relatively low life expectancy of people who drink and drive on PA highway 309, do you really think you're gonna find yourself down under at any point in the future?

And predictably, the answer was no. So, I grabbed this opportunity to taste the roo. Yes yes, I am ready to order, said I, I want the roo, the roo with the dijon. However, I have a question : Is this actually the roo or just imitation roo, you know, like the flesh of the muskrat infused with roo pheromones? No, I was assured, it was indeed authentic roo. Bring it on, I said. Let us feast.

Eventually the roo came out smothered in brown dijon and shredded lettuce. I severed one of the roo pieces with the aid of a steak knife that I was provided and hauled into it. Let me say this right off the bat. The roo did not guide me to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The roo was okay. It was deftly cooked and was bereft of gut and gristle. However, that was the only kind thing that could be said about it. It had a gamy fishy taste that was more smell than taste. Perhaps it was the culinary crew of the Silver Ostrich pub that was more to blame than the deliciousness of the roo. But basically what I am saying is this : If you have a choice between tasting the roo on PA 309 or traveling to Australia, please choose the latter. I am sure the roo is tastier down under.

Answers

Namrata Shirodkar, the 1993 Miss India winner and sixth place Miss Universe had the following statement to make during the 1993 Miss India contest:

"I would not want to live forever because I don't believe that one can live forever. And so, I don't think I would want to live forever."

It is indeed, a small world.

Although to be fair, Namrata's quote was only the 21st dumbest in VH1's list of dumb celebrity quotes. Dumber than Al Gore's "A zebra does not change its spots" and less dumb than Brooke Shield's "Smoking kills. If you"re killed, you've lost a very important part of your life." So it's not too bad.

Anyways, the point is, apparently me and Namrata, we are related by blood, semen, pollen dust or suchlike. That explains quite a bit about what's happening on this blog.

Update : Bonus dumb quote by Jason Kidd of the NJ Nets : "We're gonna turn this team around 360 degrees"

Snowed in

The backyard.

Dear Mitt Romney

If I were you, I would delete this photo from my album.

Also, whatever it is that you are planning, count me in. My talents include squeezing through barbed wire fences and unlocking toilet doors from the outside.

via Raw.

Results of poll#1

The question was "Would you like this blog to poll you with regard to stuff?"

87% of you asked if you would get paid.

Only 12% said "yes". That 12% was one person.

I seem to be hosting a very materialistic crowd here.

Somehow the poll lost track of the remaining 1% of voters which, if you calculate it correctly, would make it somebody's little finger or maybe part of an earlobe. I am sorry for your loss sir and assure you that the next poll will be better equipped with finger and earlobe protecting safety devices.

Routes

I have come across a new law of nature and I will call it gawker's law, assuming that no one else has had the free time on their hands to postulate it yet. It goes as follows :

"No matter how many different routes you take to work, they will all consume approximately equal amounts of time, all of which exceed the amount of time that you think they ideally should."

I have tried 4 different ways of going to work and they all cost me 30 minutes. Having performed all kinds of complex traffic, speed and school-zone restricted speed limit-based calculations, I believe that it should rightfully take me a mere 25 minutes to go to work. Therefore, the search for that elusive 25 minute work-route continues. Some day when it is a government holiday, I shall find it.

TDS

Jon Stewart is killing on Larry King right now. If you're not watching it, you're missing something beautiful and delicious. Watch it again at 12:00 am EST in case you're too busy right now having dinner or wiping dust off the fake plastic tree in your bedroom.

Onion headline of the day

Onion headline of the day.

And while we are there, this is pretty much an accurate description of me.

Lunar dried shrimp noodles with oyster mushrooms eclipse

Today at 8:45 pm, I went outside on my deck. I was afraid it would be cloudy, but it wasn't. I bundled up in my UMass jacket, the only thing that can keep me warm at the bottom of the ocean. I took plastic garbage bags with me because it had rained. I placed those garbage bags carefully on my deck chair. I took a bottle of Smirnoff vodka to accompany me because it was cold. I made myself comfortable. I cleaned my binoculars, adjusted their focus and called up zambezi to find out if he was also on his deck. Oh I forgot, he doesn't have a deck haha. Zambezi didn't answer the phone. He probably has caller ID. I sat on my chair and waited. The moon was bright and full.

At 9:00 pm, the moon was still bright and full. I went inside and logged on to my computer. I reread this blogpost. Alright, it was on Wednesday and not tonight. So, instead of stabbing myself in the chest with the vodka bottle, I went and cooked dinner. I made dried shrimp and oyster mushroom noodles.

Ingredients:
1/2 bag of dried shrimp
1 pack of oyster mushrooms
Chinese chilli paste, 2 tablespoons
4 green chillies
1 pack of one minute Chinese egg noodles
1 cup chopped cilantro
2 cups chopped scallions, hold the rap
1/2 cup soy sauce
1 tablespoon sesame oil
2 cloves garlic

Heat a cup of water in the microwave till it boils. Pour it in a bowl. Add dried shrimp to the bowl. Soak for ten minutes.

Put some water on the boil in a pasta pot. Let's say 4 cups. Let's also say that I am probably guessing because who the hell measures water?

Chop garlic. Chop scallions. Chop cilantro. Chop green chillies. Quick. Chop chop.

Heat sesame oil in a wok on medium heat. Try to keep yourself from repeating the word "wok" just because you are intrigued by how it sounds.

Add garlic, one cup of scallions, oyster mushrooms, green chillies to the oil. Stir fry for a couple of minutes. Add dried shrimp. Stir fry for about 5 more minutes, give or take 10.

Add soy sauce and two tablespoons of red chilli paste. Stir it into the mix.

If the pasta pot is boiling, pour Chinese noodles into it. Wait for a couple of minutes, then drain them. Pour them into the wok.

Stir everything together so intimately that the mushrooms and shrimp have a baby with the noodles and call it Ling. Top everything off with the remaining cup of scallions and cilantro.

Delicious noodles for two are ready for consumption by one because it is only me here. Enjoy with Tsingtao beer.

Watch the eclipse on Wednesday.

Fire

I remember when I was a little boy in India, we used to regularly set our neighborhood garbage bin on fire. I don't know what prompted us to do it, perhaps it was just the sight of humongous quantities of flammable material in the bin that were currently not aflame. So whenever the garbage in this bin rose up above eye level, which was always because no one ever came to pick up this garbage, we applied matches to it and hey ho, a great fire was had by all. It was very enjoyable.

Enjoyable only to us kids, of course. This fire resulted in a lot of foul-smelling smoke. Especially in the evenings after the cool air set in and the smoke refused to move to a higher altitude. Practically every dwelling in the neighborhood turned into a smokehouse and everybody's dad and mom cursed at us for setting off the fire. But we didn't give a fuck. Matches were freely available. And in our youthful wisdom, it was God's will to set shit alight otherwise He wouldn't have bestowed upon us so much pleasure in the aftermath.

But the point of this flashback is, today my fucking neighbor across the woods decided to start a fire in his backyard. Gathering twigs and leaves and what not. I saw the industrious bastard spend all his afternoon walking all over the woods gathering stuff and putting it on his fire. The smoke drove away all the birds and it blew right into my home and onto my deck where I was trying to watch some birds. How times have changed for me. This is what it must mean to be an adult. To have all the goddamn senseless acts you did in your childhood to be perpetrated on you in return. Being an adult sucks big time. But not just because somebody started a fire and blew smoke into my house. It sucks because I totally lost the ability to enjoy that fire.

Amazing photograph

I just took an amazing photograph. It is of my grilling thermometer lying inside a flower pot on my deck. The flower pot is full of ice and half the thermometer is embedded inside the ice and half outside. I didn't actually take the photograph because my camera battery is dead and even if it weren't, my camera cannot take night pictures. But imagine the magnificence of the photograph, were I to have taken it. Imagine it conceptually : a thermometer lying inside ice. It is irony worth a Nobel photography prize. I trust you understand. Fuck it's cold tonight.

What is this ya

When I left my India, we were saying stuff like "what's up yaar" and "I don't know yaar" and "Come on yaar" and etc statements such like. Yaar, of course, standing for "friend" in Hindi. Now when I turn on Indian MTV, I see Indians and especially women, saying the same sentences, except using the word "ya" instead. "Come on ya" and "I don't know ya" and so on and so forth. What is this "ya", my fellow Indians? Sometimes I even catch Indian men doing it, although not very often and only when they are in the company of women. It is as if Indian women need to be spoken to in their own special "ya" language. So again, I ask you, my fellow Indians on television, what the fuck is this "ya" business and when did it take over the Indian language? Much obliged. Thank you please.

Rebicycling

Just so you know, I am still carrying 3 plastic trash bags full of plastic grocery bags from my previous apartment that I accumulated over the past three years and was too lazy to recycle but too conscientious to throw in the trash. Carrying in my car which I drive to work everyday. I drive 3 trash bags full of plastic bags to work everyday because I don't know what the fuck to do with them. Just so you know. Hello plastics industry, are you in need of bags please?

Secondly, watch this movie.

Thirdly, it is beginning to feel like home instead of some house I am living in as a guest. I am no longer afraid that my closets contain a dead body that I haven't discovered yet. And today when I used my toilet, it didn't feel like I was using the previous owners' toilet. At that moment, I would have gone down on my knees and embraced the toilet bowl. I will do that this weekend after I clean the toilet bowl.

Fourthly, dear SnowGod, I asked for snow and not ice. The difference is in texture. Please consult your handbook.

My hood

The very same evening of the day we moved, we were sitting in the Iron Hill Brewery, a neighborhood bar, having a couple of beers to celebrate our move and also because why can't a guy just have a beer if he wants to? We weren't sitting per se because there were no seats available at the bar so we did the next best thing, which is standing. As we were standing, we were waiting for someone at the bar to leave. We scouted out all the people sitting at the bar and sorted them in descending order of probabilities of imminent departure. People who had the table buzzer and were just sitting at the bar waiting to be buzzed when their table would become available were the highest on the list. Then came those who were eating but had a nearly empty plate. So after a quick discussion, we decided to choose a couple who had a table buzzer and kept gazing frequently in the direction of the foyer as if they were expecting to be called soon because it meant that they had been waiting for a while. And so, as is the protocol, we planted ourselves behind the couple and I began humming to myself, a low irritating hum in order to hasten their departure. I also ordered a beer, a light lager if you must know.

About five minutes later, another couple entered the bar area. They observed the lack of bar seats. Then, they looked around, walked over to our couple, tapped them on their shoulder and spoke to them. I wasn't worried. They probably knew each other, were probably double dating and would be sharing the same table after they left the bar area.

But my wife, with her keener powers of observation and hearing, believed otherwise.

"The woman just asked the guy to place his hand on the barstool", hissed my wife.

It was then that I realized what had just happened. In a display of nonchalant brazenness, the newer couple had calmly walked in, asked the sitting couple if they were leaving and on being told yes, were preparing to assume control of the barstools.

Now usually, I am not a very pro-confrontation kind of guy. If challenged, my favorite response, like that of the armadillo, is to curl up in a ball, pretend I am dead and let the threat pass me by, relying on my hard overlapping epidermal scales called "scutes" to protect me from predators. These scutes are mainly composed of bone with a covering of horn.

But that day was different. I had just moved into my new home. I was a home owner. And I was hanging out in my own fucking brand new hood which I had taken a vow to serve and to protect. I would be damned if I let somebody push me around in my own hood. It wouldn't be a good start to a new citizenship.

"Apun ke ilake mein aake apun se hi panga?", I asked my wife with puzzled amusement. "Why are you speaking in Hindi", she asked me. I don't know, it just felt like Hindi time.

Soon, the couple who were seated began to make preparations to leave. The new arrival's grasp on the barstool became tighter. He must have become aware of my intentions. This guy was tall, well-muscled and wearing a cap, which is always a reliable forbearer of an aggressive demeanor. And he was with a girl. Again, not a good sign. And to make matters worse, I was Indian. If you're a white dude with a chick and you lose a philosophical battle with an Indian guy wearing glasses, chances of you getting some tonight would probably be slim to none. Just too emasculating.

But I wasn't daunted. I had already decided. I wasn't gonna go quietly into the night. I wasn't gonna vanish without a fight. I was going to live on. I was going to survive. Today, I would be celebrating my independence day.

As the seated couple got up to leave, two things happened. One, they got up from my opponent's side. And two, this forced him to release his grip on the barstool to give them the right of way. Grabbing my opportunity, I pushed my wife into the vacated area in the form of an initial invasion.

The guy looked dumbfounded.

"What are you doing", he asked me.

I replied, "Taking our seats. Why?"

"What? What are you talking about? These are our seats", he said.

"Sorry buddy, I was here before you. These are our seats", I responded.

"Well, those guys gave us their seats before they left", he said.

"Well, they can't do that. These aren't their seats to give". The balls on this guy.

"Well, whose seats are they then?", he asked me, confident that he had trapped me in a corner.

"These seats belong to the restaurant", I said. Also, fire is hot and water is wet.

"Buddy, these seats belonged to those people. Then, when they left, they gave them to us". He was certainly making a good attempt at an argument.

In order to calm down and keep myself from jumping up and down screaming "Goddamnit are you a fucking idiot", I tried to imagine that I was explaining this to a little child. "Okay, when those people left their seats, they returned those seats that they had temporarily borrowed back to restaurant ownership. Once that happens, the next person in line gets those seats. Which is us."

"Well, how do I know that you were next in line? Maybe you just came in."

"Well, how about we ask the guy who's been serving me beer for the past 15 minutes?" I was bluffing because I doubted that the bartender serving me beer for the past 15 minutes would recognize me. Also, I had only been there for 5 minutes. But the bluff succeeded nevertheless. The guy looked at the glass of beer in my hand and conceded defeat.

"Alright, how about we let each of the ladies have a seat?" I couldn't believe it. I had won. I had actually confronted someone and won. Well, maybe it wasn't a complete victory but at least I hadn't lost.

So we sat there some more and I drank some more beer and my wife drank tea and then just as we were getting up to leave, a guy who had just entered the bar asked me, "Hey are you guys leaving?" Yeah, I said. "What amazing luck", said the guy. "Thanks for the seats".

Giants no more

Ever since I first entered this world, they used to periodically measure my height by making me stand up against a wall and placing a ruler on my head. Later on, when I grew taller, they gave up this method of height measurement because placing a ruler on top of a tall person is demeaning both to the tall person as well as the ruler. Instead, a new measure of height was invented, namely, how much taller I was than my dad, through approximate visual inspection.

Now my dad knew for a fact that he was six feet tall. So consequently, I became six feet half an inch, then one inch and finally, six feet two, where I've been ever since. It has been a pleasure and a luxury to be six feet two because my exceptional height allows me to reach and grab things that even six feet one people cannot, as long as that thing is no more than an inch above where they can reach. Do the math, it is simple.

But then yesterday I went to the doctor and being doctors, they assume that they have the license to do all kinds of demeaning things to you and one of those was to put me against a wall and place a ruler on my head. I told the doctor, you know, you don't have to put me up against the wall and place a ruler on my head because I can tell you myself what my height is. But no, they wouldn't listen because apparently it is against the Hippocratic oath to trust your patients. And so they put and placed.

And surprise, surprise, I was only five feet ten inches and 3/4ths. What? How could this happen? Have I really been this short all my life?

And then I began to wonder whether my dad had padded on to his own height when he passed the mantle of six footer on to me. And then I wondered some more about whether he himself had been a victim of his own father's padding. And then, I went and wondered even more about how deep inside my family tree this web of deception went. Someone at the beginning of time, perhaps my great-great-great-grand ape must have thought to himself, fuck and goddamn, I am so short and people have been making fun of me all my life, but maybe I can help my son not go through all the hardships I myself had to endure. So may the sacred banana tree forgive me, but my son, he will be taller. And so it began, this line of fake giants, each one wandering around this world thinking he was taller than he actually was.

But it is time to end this deception now. Instead of being a seven footer and perhaps getting into his school's basketball team, my son will be his true height. He will have to be content with possessing the ability to wipe the top of the refrigerator and no more. Because in my opinion, what is more important than passing on the gift of height to your offspring is the gift of honesty.

Patch

So I finally determined the origin of the David Letterman-shaped patch on my living room ceiling. Turns out that the pipe connecting my drier to the vent that transports steam from the drier to the outside world had come off. This led to my laundry room filling up with steam whenever the drier was operated. This steam then condensed on the pipes inside the dry-wall that bring cold water into my washer. The condensate then dripped off the pipes and onto my ceiling. How did I discover this? Through the creation of another patch. So basically I am now on step two of the homeowner experience, namely, I'm finding out all the things I shouldn't do by doing them.

Search

To the person who came here through the Google search phrase "why does microsoft word capitalize mohamed and not jesus", great find. Applause. Now go get a fucking life.

Sadeness

This one takes me back to the age of school friends and engineering exams and all-night-outs, ostentatiously for the purpose of studying, that were actually spent listening to music, scrambling eggs, drinking out of friend's dad's whiskey bottle and replacing consumed whiskey with tapwater, getting acquainted with the writings of Ms. Nancy Friday, manufacturing a home-made Ouija board for the purpose of carrying out a seance, carrying out the seance and getting convinced that a spirit had actually been summoned because everyone swore that they hadn't touched the triangle, seriously, they weren't kidding, it had moved and they had not touched it. Basically spending time doing everything, literally everything in the entire fucking world except studying. And ultimately, concluding with the breaking of the dawn to be enjoyed on the terrace with a steaming hot cup of tea in the hand. Goddamn I hated tea but in that situation, it had to be tea or the entire thing would have been meaningless. Good times. Life needs a rewind button.

Alone

Yesterday I spent my first night alone in this house. It feels strange and I don't know how people in the US can be single and live alone in a house. The woods were calling from outside but they couldn't get in because my windows were closed and drapes drawn. As my friend zambezi explained when he purchased his condo, it is a novel experience to familiarize yourself and get used to the night sounds of your new home.

The fact of the matter is, American houses tend to be somewhat noisier than Indian ones at night. This is mainly due to their wooden construction but also perhaps because of the greater amount of sexual activity occurring within. All that wood and sex causes these houses to creak a lot during nighttime. Hence the popular proverb that goes, "If the house is a-rocking, don't come a-knocking". As opposed to a similar Indian proverb which goes, "If the house is a-rocking, you're probably in the middle of an earthquake and it would be best if you found a safe place to hide".

In the case of my house, it is not so much a noisy house as it is an abruptly noisy house. It will stay quiet for prolonged periods of time and you will be like, "ah what a wonderful quiet peaceful poltergeist-free place this is" and then one of the water pipes will clang for no apparent reason and after you pick yourself up off the floor where the floor meets the bed, it will quit clanging and go back to its dormant state.

Yesterday I had fallen asleep in the living room and at 4:00 am, I woke up to discover that there was a party going on in my kitchen and somebody had forgotten to invite me. As I became a little more awake and a little more aware, I realized that it was less of a party and more of something falling over something else. As I grew awaker, I concluded that I had purchased a house with a rodent problem because that could be the only possible source of those tap-tapping sounds emanating from the kitchen.

I fleet-footed to the kitchen, assuming that fleet-footed means walking silently like a fleet of cats. There was no one in there. I checked the sink and it was empty. The tapping had ceased. I checked the cabinets which were also empty. Then the tapping started again. It appeared to be coming from the fridge. I opened the fridge compassionately, expecting to find a frozen mouse signaling for help. However, there was nothing inside. The sound appeared to be coming from the freezer. I knelt down to check what the fuck was happening. This is what I found.

My freezer appears to have a rectangular opening in its back. This opening was periodically emitting a tapping sound. At the same time, water was falling from above the rectangular opening into the bottom of the rectangular opening. I confess, I am not as well-versed in refrigeration technology as I am with blogging technology and so I must request you to tell me what the fuck is with this tapping and falling water? Is that water? Is it going somewhere it shouldn't? Is my basement turning into a swimming pool? Where is the water coming from anyways? And why the tapping? Because it's tap-water? How many more years till we run out of Middle-Eastern oil? Answers to these questions would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.

Book Shelf

Yesterday, at the Berwyn train station, I saw an empty shelf on the wall with a sign saying, "Take a book, Keep a book".

When I see a book on it, I will let you know.

R

Football is officially over. What to do with sundays now? Sure, there's the pro-bowl this sunday but who the heck watches the pro-bowl except people in Hawaii hoping to see their relatives in the stadium? My sundays are open now. I need to come up with a plan. Plus, the wife has left me for another guy called India.

You know what I realized recently is that having nature and woods behind your home is all well and good in theory but these things get kinda scary at night. The other day I thought I heard a whistling sound coming from outside. I was concerned that it was coming from my gas heater so I walked down to my basement, out onto my patio and inspected my steam vent. In the distance, something howled. It was a very short distance, somewhere near my right elbow. I jumped back into my basement, ran back up and walked out onto my deck which is above ground level and luckily, way way above ground level. I peered into the dark. The howling was strange. It was a combination of a dog with tuberculosis, a baby choking on sand and a cat drowning in a well. This cat-dog-baby thing appeared to be loose in the woods and was probably hunting for mouse-bone-toy things which are its natural prey. Occasional splashing sounds in the creek appeared to confirm my hypothesis. To this day, namely, the day after that day, I do not know what that thing was. Maybe the nature of teeth-marks on that corpse will confirm its identity.

But during the day these woods are great. They are a bird-watcher's wet dream. By the time this article went to press, I had already seen a family of cardinals, a group of blue jays, a happily married purple finch couple, a nuthatch, a red bellied woodpecker, a hairy woodpecker and something that looked like a hawk with a yellow chest. Deer yes, they've been around too and they appear to be well fed and healthy. The only thing I haven't seen yet is a fox and by God, those things are awesome. I still remember the sight of a red fox running around in the snow as I watched it from my bedroom window in New Hampshire. Foxes, whew, they are beautiful creatures.

By the way, for anyone who was feeling sympathetic towards me for living next door to a band, that issue has been solved. I had a talk with the guy the other day and I asked him, hey man, are you in a band, and he said, yeah, sorry about all that noise, and I said, oh come on, it wasn't that bad, in fact I worry more that my television might be disturbing you, and he said, okay then. Uh, I said, okay then, keep playing. Did I just tell him to continue playing? Sure I did. So to recap, I am okay with people who live next door to me and play loud music in their basement as long as they come to me and apologize for it. I would make a bad president.

Hey Iran, I heard you were making nuclear weapons.

Oh yes, Mr President we were meaning to tell you about it, we apologize.

Oh okay then Iran, I guess I will see you around.

So basically don't bother voting for me in the primary.

Indian television

We took this opportunity of our move to switch to DirecTV. Not just because Comcast was stealing my pants and was asking for my shirt after I ran out of pants, but also because my wife wished to partake of Indian programming. So now we have two satellite dishes on our roof which allows the aliens to transmit their mind-controlling signals into our brains in 1080i high definition. Apart from alien mind-controlling signals, we now also receive Star Plus, Star One, Doordarshan, NDTV, Star Nyuz (which is how they write it in Hindi) and something called Cricket Plus which allows me the luxury of watching live cricket matches between the Dominican Republic and The British Virgin Islands, yes, I said live. I don't know about you but I don't think I could wait till tomorrow to find out the Dominican Republic - British Virgin Islands score, hell no.

It's been a while since I watched Indian television and everything feels very different. For one, I could not help but be surprised at how young everybody on Indian airwaves is. Here in the US, most television anchors, reporters, etc are on an average, about forty - fifty years old and the only people who are younger are on Comedy Central. On the other hand, the average age on Indian television has to be about eighteen. It's amazing. It's like someone threw all those broadcasting jobs up in the air and said okay, whoever catches 'em can keep 'em. And while the old veteran broadcasters were looking around searching for their canes and eyeglasses, the young people, being nimble of ankle, supple of thigh and perky of breast, and who could jump higher and faster than those older guys, were successful in capturing all those broadcasting positions.

It is very disconcerting to watch a news channel where everybody appears to be younger than you, especially when you're not that old. How can that little girl know more about weather than I, you think. After all, you've been surfing weather.com from before she was born. It feels like a media being run by children. Which is actually not a bad thing when you come to think of it. Hopefully these kids still have the baby fat of idealism under their lovely smooth skins. And although I am fairly positive that someday they will grow up and sell their souls to whatever evil force it is that controls Rupert Murdoch's cortex, today is hopefully not that day.

It is also strange the way India does reality TV. Now by definition, reality TV needs to be real and devoid of any kind of outside interference. But Indian producers do not appear to be aware of that fact. Let me give you an example. On Star Voice of India (the twentieth different Indian offshoot of American Idol), whenever a singer falters or loses his or her voice or forgets the lyrics, the producer behind the scene adds the sound of explosive thunder to the proceedings. It's as if we viewers cannot be adequately trusted to grasp the drama of the situation due to our feeble intellect and therefore, have to be made aware of it and guided to it through the use of external audio stimulii like explosive thunder.

I am also concerned by the widespread abuse of slow motion imagery in Indian television. It so happened that somebody in the industry came upon a button, a magical button that could play video back at a slower frame-rate. And then in no time, this button became the hot technology of our generation. It made a lot of sense to utilize this technology to the hilt in reality TV, even though reality does not actually move in slow motion. After carrying out a considerable amount of research on this topic, it was concluded that the image of a person clapping his hands in slow motion is infinitely more dramatic than that of the same person clapping his hands in real time. And the act of someone walking to the podium to accept an award needs to be savored more fully by reducing the speed of that person's gait through the use of this button. Even the simple nondescript act of someone blinking in order to hydrate their eyeball, it was discovered, could be made acutely electrifying by chronicling the travel of the eyelid in minute detail as it descended towards who knows what fate, perhaps a collision with the upper cheek?

I think that the problem here is that we Indians, through regular doses of Bollywood slapstick and over-acting administered to us throughout our lifetimes, have become so inured and desensitized to drama that we literally need someone to slap us with a stick before we can grasp any kind of subtlety in a situation. Or, at least, that is the opinion Indian television bigwigs have of us. And I guess it's probably accurate.

Garbage

This was the first garbage truck visitation in my new home. I stood there while the guy emptied my trash can. I had a lot of cardboard I wanted to recycle. I would like to save those trees. I asked him hello sir can I recycle all this cardboard? Sure, the garbage guy said. He took the cardboard from my hands and threw it into the back of the truck along with the rest of the trash.

This anecdote has been offered unaccompanied by additional commentary.

Not good

Not good, not good at all. The guy living next door to me, it turns out that he is in a band. And not only that, he likes to indulge in jamming sessions with his fellow band members in his basement. Sadly, they aren't one of those boy bands because a bunch of pretty men doing aerobics and lip syncing to a boom box, that wouldn't have been so bad, in fact, it would have been kinda relaxing for no particular reason. But these guys that I have here, man, they are the real deal. They have drums and they use guitars, one of which is the bass guitar. Anyone who has played a bass guitar in a confined space is probably aware that when a bass guitar is played in a confined space, it does not remain confined within that space but also leaks into and fills up the space adjacent to it. That space would be my space.

And so it went down sunday afternoon. It started out with a dull thud thudding. At first, I thought that my neighbor was banging on my wall to ask me to turn my television down because historically, that is what that thud thudding sound has usually meant wherever I have lived. So I turned down the volume on my tv. But the thudding got worse and it turned out to be drumming and not just drumming but actual arrhythmic drumming on a drum and I would know, being a pretty arrhythmic drummer myself. It was then that the bass guitar began its introductory riff and I don't remember the rest of what I was thinking because I couldn't hear my thoughts. I had a hushed conference with my wife. We were actually yelling, but it was hushed compared to the bass guitar. I asked my wife for confirmation. "Can you hear me think?", I asked her. She couldn't, so obviously it wasn't just me. Those fuckers were really very loud.

Thing is, the previous owners told me that my next door neighbor was a carpenter and if I ever had any issues with wood, of which I have a lot because let's just say, me and fucking wood, we have a lot of unresolved animosities to work out, to go ask him for help. No one said anything about heavy metal. Well maybe this would be a good time to request him to build me some wooden earmuffs. And a wooden hammer to hit myself on the head with when the bass guitar starts to riff. And a wooden plow would be nice too because I am planning to grow tomatoes in the spring. And someday maybe he could chop me up some wood for my fireplace. Ah a warm crackling fireplace. Just the thing you need to get drunk with when a bass guitar is wiping the floor with your brain.

But hopefully it's just a sunday thing and and maybe, with that arrhythmic drummer that they have, they won't be tasting any major commercial success anytime soon. Or maybe, on the other hand, I could join their band as a backup drummer and help them achieve stardom. I have a choice to make here.

PSA

Just so you don't panic this weekend, there will be no football on sunday. I repeat, if you turn on your television set on sunday and you do not see any football players playing football, please do not bang on the side of your tv because there is no football this sunday. There are trees outside and if you are in Miami or San Diego, avail yourself of this opportunity to sit underneath them and read books and such. If you are in the northeastern part of the US, drink.

Count to ten and if that doesn't help, count to twenty. Keep counting till you run out of numbers.

But bear in mind that there is no football this sunday.

This is a public service announcement. Brought to you by Barnes & Noble and Stolichnaya.

Making fun of women the right way

I have observed this in many men. If they wish to make fun of a woman they know by impersonating her, instinctively, the very first thing they do is pretend they have breasts by cupping their hands around their chest and strutting around with chest held high. Speaking as a man and also as a connoisseur of comedy, I've gotta ask this, come on man, is this the best you could come up with? Are we men suffering from such a severe bankruptcy of comical talent? Go ahead, make fun of the lady's mannerisms, gait, chewing habits, educational qualifications, choice of spouse, quality of offspring and if you are that adventurous, perhaps even her taste in clothes. But if the very first thing you do when called upon to caricaturize her in her absence is to try and match her physical appearance, well, that just makes it obvious to your audience that you've pretty much run out of ideas.

Not to mention the fact that there aren't many women that you see nowadays walking around cupping their breasts in their hands. Yes, ever since the brassiere was invented, the need for women to physically carry the burden of their own bosom has vanished entirely. I am guessing many men are not yet aware of that fact. Mama fell short in the education of her little boy.

I think the real problem here is breast envy. After all, thou wilst make fun of that which thou desires the most. Men still can't get over the fact that they have one of something which women don't while women have two of something that men don't. And this only covers everything neck down because neck up, that puts women another point ahead. And unlike a big screen television or a BMW, it is not something that can be acquired by simply shelling out money. And so, when it is the right time, breast envy comes out in full force. When men make fun of a woman by walking around with with an elevated chest, they are actually grabbing the opportunity to pretend to have breasts. Just like those men who wear women's clothes in secret. Or like in that one extreme case, the guy who liked to wear women's skins.

Oh yes, we are a conflicted, creepy gender. Best stay away from us.

Name

I hate introducing myself to Americans. I have a weird name, quite normal by Indian standards but weird by American standards.

Let's say my name is Amit which it is not but let's just say it is. The problem arises when I am introducing myself to someone and I shake their hand and say, "I'm Amit". Ten times out of eleven, the other guy responds with "How you doing Amamit?" They think the "I'm" is a part of my name. How could it not be? The rest of my name is weird so what the hell, the I'm doesn't add much weirdness to it. It's got to be a part of my name. It's all Chinese to them anyways.

Does this happen to anyone else? It's become quite irritating. I have come to loathe having to introduce myself to people. I have to prepare myself before every introduction. I tell myself to quit prefacing my name with "I'm" but sometimes, if my guard is down, someone will quickly take advantage by walking up to me and holding out their hand and because I am not mentally prepared and concentrating more on having a good strong handshake, I forget about not adding "I'm" and then the other guy says, "Hey how you doing, Amamit", and I reply, "No goddamnit I'm Amit you fucking jackass" and then the other guy says, "How you doing goddamnitamamityoufuckingjackass. By the way, you have a weird name." and then I go home and apply something cold to my head.

I really love my refrigerator.

Homeowner

Now that I have a home, I am beginning to get a good understanding of how a home owner's life is different from, say, an apartment renter's. Most of it is good in that you have your own place which allows you to stomp around upstairs and the person downstairs will not yell at you. And for all the useless crap that you acquired but never had any use for and had to stuff below your bed for want of space, you now have a garage. You no longer have to rent out closet space from your wife. Instead, you can use the closet in the guest bedroom after filling out all the necessary paperwork. And also, now you are free to increase the volume on your television and stereo to a certain extent, that extent being more than the previous extent you could have raised it to, when you were living in an apartment.

But most importantly, each time you slide the rent check into the box, the thought that you might as well have sauted it with onions, stuffed it between two slices of bread and eaten it for lunch doesn't cross your mind anymore. So that's all good stuff. Good stuff.

But here comes the bad stuff. You go down to the basement, you know, just to check out your water heater and furnace and what not and you see all the plumbing and cables and all those pipes and levers and you think to yourself, oh heck, what do I care, I don't have to worry about all that nonsense, the apartment people will handle it for me if something goes wrong. But then you realize, what apartment people man, you're the apartment people, it's all yours now, so go on, touch it, don't be afraid. And then you touch it but you are, in fact, afraid and you don't really know what the heck you are touching and if it deserves to be touched like that and whether it even likes being touched. So you panic and pull your hand back and hope you didn't break anything and hope that nothing ever breaks or goes wrong with the water heater and the furnace and the water main and basically everything in the house that has a lever or a pipe or a switch attached to it. Yeah, you wish, buddy. That's like saying you hope your newborn's never gonna soil his diaper.

Then there's the lawn. I don't know what the mowable height for grass is. I guess if it transpires that one moment you're standing on your back patio watching the sunset and the next moment you're on the ground wrestling with a tiger because you didn't see him creeping up on you through the grass, that's when it is time to mow your lawn. That's my guess and I could be wrong.

A patch has miraculously appeared on my living room ceiling. I say miraculously because it kinda looks like David Letterman. I am not sure if it is really David Letterman communicating to me from beyond, commanding me to let people into my living room and worship his image for a small fee, but I think it is more likely that somewhere in this house, there is a leaky something. The mystery is that the patch doesn't appear to be wet. But nevertheless it is there and it happens to be right below my laundry room. So no more clean clothes for us. And no mother, it's not just an excuse to live like a slob.

It is currently the height of winter and it is so goddamn cold outside that apparently even the cold air from outside wants to come inside for the warmth. It is a wind so cunning that it has managed to discover the tiny gap between the window pane and the window. So in order to fix this, yesterday I planned and completed my first ever home-improvement project. I went to Home Depot and purchased caulk. This caulk stuff, where the "l" isn't silent contrary to what you might believe and which could possibly land you in trouble were you to tender a request for it unequipped with that knowledge, is a white paste you apply to something in order to seal it. I purchased the pull-off variety which, as the name suggests, allows you to pull it off once the need for sealage is over. I applied it to my windows and what do you know, no more cold draughts. I think I'm beginning to get the hang of this home owner business. Before you know it, I'll be pulling down dry-walls, installing breakfast bars with granite top counters and constructing in-home waterfalls, please do not feed the fish.

But before I do all that, let me first start out with all the easy stuff. Curtains, picture frames, everything that goes on a wall. Let me mow the lawn. Perhaps even clean and water-treat the deck. Paint this. Polish that.

And in the meantime, please join your hands in prayer for the continued well-being of my pipes, switches and levers. Thank you.

Moving

I hired movers to move. I have a bad back, no friends either able-bodied or disable-bodied and way too much furniture for someone living in a 2 bedroom apartment. The moving company says it will cost about 112 dollars an hour with a minimum of 4 hours for a 3 man crew. Alright, I says, and what is this flat travel rate business? Oh that, they say, we attach an additional flat hour's rate for travel time. Wokay, says I, come, move.

Now these three guys comprised of the following three guys : One large hardworking guy, one equally large guy but less hardworking who not only happened to be prone to gastro-intestinal attacks that resulted in him spending about an hour in my bathroom but was also in his free time, hopelessly addicted to cellphone use. So you would ask, wokay, but did the third guy not make up for the lack of performance of the second guy, come on, did he not? and I would reply, yes, maybe in a perfect world that would have been the case. Maybe in a world where more than half of America wouldn't have voted for George W. Bush, sure, why not. But not in this world. In this world, the third guy would be an old guy barely able to get up and walk about without assistance. Yes, that would be the third guy in this world.

So to recap, I am paying 112 bucks an hour for three guys where at any given point of time only one guy is working while the second guy is either resting in my restroom or speaking on the cellphone and the third guy is resting in the truck. My calculations had gone the following way : 112 * 4 hours + 112 for travel time = $560. And as much as it pained me to give anyone $560 of my money for using my restroom, it had to be done.

It turns out that we own a lot of crap. I mean, material possessions were appearing out of thin air. Closets turned out to contain blankets which were covering pillows which were hiding lamps sitting on top of suitcases containing rocks. Blankets, pillows and lamps were all stuffed into garbage bags and loaded in the truck. It took 3 hours just to load the truck. And then we were off to the new home.

It took the movers two hours to cover the distance a one-legged walrus with a pebble in his shoe would have covered in an hour at the most. I don't know, maybe they stopped for a burger, took a nap, caught a Broadway play, read Vikram Seth's "A Suitable Boy" cover to cover, who the hell knows. But I didn't really care because of the flat hourly travel rate.

So when they showed up at my home to unpack, I was of a mild temperament. I even helped them unpack. I laughed at their jokes and when the dresser fell on their feet. The air was full of positive energy. As a result, it took them only two hours to unload the truck. Okay, so it would be six hours of moving = 6 * 112 = 672. Well, nope. Turned out that the flat rate thing which I should have checked out more thoroughly, was just the flat rate for the travel of the empty truck and did not include the two fucking hours spent in traveling from the old apartment to the new home. So that added about 2 hours more to the moving time. Plus the tip. So in all, it cost us a thousand dollars, or what the kids like to call it nowadays, "a cool grand" to move. That got me to thinking, man, I really got to get me some more able-bodied friends.

So anyways, I still have to move some leftover crap. We'll move that this weekend. Bye Bye Exton, PA, you were a good host for the past three years. Especially you, you, you and you. And you. And although you did try to kill me numerous times through your ridiculously blazing hot Schezuan pepper-laced food, goddamn, I would have died with a smile on my tortured lips. Hopefully we will meet again on the battlefield sans any hard feelings. Only stomach ulcers.

Go Giants

That is all.

Cigarette Smoke Filter

The other day I was watching the Jaguars Patriots divisional playoff game in a smoky little bar near my new home, called the Silver Ostrich Pub, color and phylum class changed to protect privacy. I was watching this very important game in a smoky little bar and not in my new home because I did not have a television connection in my new home yet. And although it is possible to view the game on the big screen television in my neighbour's house if I use binoculars, the view is partially obstructed by my neighbour waving at me through his window to quit watching him through binoculars and I am someone who likes a crystal clear picture for his football games.

So I was in this bar and it was a hell of a lot of smoky for such a tiny bar. And then a guy came and sat beside me and he began to add a generous contribution to the smokiness that had already existed before his arrival. His uninhaled smoke began to enter my nostrils, and I don't know if cigarette smoke has some brainstorming properties, but I suddenly had a brainstorm. I came up with a cool gadget that would filter cigarette smoke out of the air you breathe when you are in a smoky little bar sitting beside a chain smoker.

This gadget consists of a funnel with a strap-on which straps on to your nose. It is kind of large but not big enough to obscure your vision of the football game. The gadget is painted a bright red with large legible fluorescent yellow letters on it which say "cigarette smoke filter". There are also a skull and crossbones painted on it with flashing LEDs for the eyes of the skull.

Finally, we jump into the technical nitty gritty of the contraption. Now I don't want to overwhelm you with all the complex architectural and operational details, but let's just say it is empty. The way it works is this :

Step 1 : Cigarette smoke emanating from the smoker next to you enters the outer end of the funnel, pausing just enough to admire the flashing LEDs in the skull eye which were a nice touch by the inventor.

Step 2 : Cigarette smoke exits out of the inner end of the funnel unmolested (due to the emptiness inside the funnel) and into your nose, proceeding to your lungs where it deposits a large amount of carcinogens on your lung linings where they will remain till the day you die, assisting you therein.

Step 3 : Those flashing LEDs on that grotesque thing you have attached to your face capture the attention of the smoker sitting next to you who then reads the words on the funnel that say "cigarette smoke filter".

Step 4 : The smoker experiences multiple twinges of guilt and after experiencing one twinge too many, retires to a position in the bar that is not adjacent to someone with a grotesque funnel shaped thing attached to his face.

Step 5 : Air containing considerably less cigarette smoke by volume enters the funnel and proceeds to your lungs where it deposits less cancer than it would have if it weren't for the flashing LEDs and the humongous funnel shape.

So that was my invention. I am filing a patent for it and will soon be rich. If I were you and if you had lots of idle cash and knew something about stocks such as how the fuck do you buy stocks and what the fuck are stocks anyways, I would go out and buy my stock right now.

But thank God I am not you. You probably don't work out and smoke two packs a day.