When I heard about Warren Buffet's $ 37 billion donation to charity, after the initial long-winded moment of heartbreak during which I finally came to terms with the fact that I wasn't a charity, I went and asked myself a question; Am I also someday going to part with my billions without getting anything in return?
See, the reason why I'm asking myself this question right now is because someday, hopefully soon, I will finally be embarking upon my goal of becoming a multibillionaire. I do not know what achieving this goal would entail, definitely a lot of hard work, maybe a stroke or two of luck, quite possibly some arson, homicide and hey, let's not forget securities fraud. The question is, would going through all this pain and backbreaking labor be worth my time and effort if ultimately I would be giving away all the fruits of my life to someone else who probably won't even be hanging my photograph on their wall?
Also, think about all that time I spend in the grocery store trying to find the cheapest possible crap I can buy that would serve its purpose without causing death or diarrhea in the process. Or all those hours I waste in the mall running from one department store to another, trying to find the same brand of jeans at a lower price in order to save some cash. Does wasting all that time and effort make any sense if someday I would be parting voluntarily with an amount with the purchasing power to buy everybody in the entire continent of Africa a pair of Levi's straight fits?
I wonder if Warren Buffet now looks back and feels wistful about those four minutes of his youth that he spent trying to decide whether to tip the Dominos delivery guy 4 dollars or 3. Or that time when he purchased the piece of steak with the yellow stain on it because it was on sale and then spent all evening retching it up. Or when he decided not to go with alloy wheels for his private jet 'cause that would cost him a million dollars more. But more importantly, I wonder if there is an entire chunk of his life that he now wishes he could have back which he spent trying to earn all that money, all of which he was destined not to possess in the end anyways.
And that is why it is necessary to ask yourself right now : Are you a philanthropist at heart? Do you dream about making the world a better place for other people? Do you indulge in a lot of role-playing sessions with your friends where you ask them to dress up like beggars and stand outside chanting beggar songs and then you let them all inside and serve them soup and they act grateful? And more importantly, is there even the slightest chance of you striking it rich?
Then my advice to you would be to quit trying to get rich, man. Go on, slack off at work. Don't worry about the billions you still have to earn. 'Cause once you get those big bucks you've been dreaming about, you'd be giving 'em away anyways. And then you'll be sorry you wasted all that time earning stuff you never got to spend. All that shit you went through would have been for nothing. God, you're so fucking lucky you have me to advise you on these matters. I just gave you your life back.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
The Great Flood of June 2006
This is a picture I snapped from my helicopter as I was flying to work today. As is obvious from the picture, due to all that water surrounding my office building, which happens to be the one at seven o' clock, there was no space for me to land. So I had to fly back home without doing a single minute of work. Oh, the horror.
They say all the rivers in this area are gonna continue to rise through tonight and tomorrow. Let us hope Noah didn't forget to pack the camels. We will be needing them once all this is over. Camel meat is delicious or so they say.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Pepsi One
Here is something I do not quite understand. What is with that one calorie in Pepsi One? A regular can of Pepsi contains 150 calories. Pepsi One contains 1 calorie. So are the folks in Pepsi claiming that they managed to remove 149 of those pesky calories, but just gave up on that final remaining one? Was it a stubborn calorie, trying to cling to the can and not letting go, infused with a passion to live that was, in part, reinforced by its knowledge of being the only remaining survivor of its species?
Or was it that the scientist, who was busy trying to decarb the beakerful of Pepsi in his research lab, disposed of the final calorie and then just as he was about to call it a day, observed that a fly had fallen into the liquid and since he was just too tired to fish it out, decided to add it to the formula? Is that where the single calorie came from?
But in any event, shouldn't Pepsi have tried to find out what the deal was with this one very tenacious calorie and put in some extra efforts behind eliminating it? It kinda looks very sloppy and unprofessional on the part of Pepsi that not only did they not succeed in removing that calorie, they even named the final product Pepsi One as if to highlight their singular lack of interest in being perfectionists.
Imagine if Microsoft were to release an operating system called "Windows One", the explanation being "We removed pretty much all the bugs in the previous version except one. We know what it is and we would have fixed it but we really couldn't be bothered."
Or was it that the scientist, who was busy trying to decarb the beakerful of Pepsi in his research lab, disposed of the final calorie and then just as he was about to call it a day, observed that a fly had fallen into the liquid and since he was just too tired to fish it out, decided to add it to the formula? Is that where the single calorie came from?
But in any event, shouldn't Pepsi have tried to find out what the deal was with this one very tenacious calorie and put in some extra efforts behind eliminating it? It kinda looks very sloppy and unprofessional on the part of Pepsi that not only did they not succeed in removing that calorie, they even named the final product Pepsi One as if to highlight their singular lack of interest in being perfectionists.
Imagine if Microsoft were to release an operating system called "Windows One", the explanation being "We removed pretty much all the bugs in the previous version except one. We know what it is and we would have fixed it but we really couldn't be bothered."
Monday, June 26, 2006
Rain
Suffice it to say that if it had rained cats and dogs, there would be a lot of drowned cats and dogs on the streets today.
Friday, June 23, 2006
In defense of camels
So an American colleague of mine sent me this list of photos via email of signs hanging outside this restaurant in the Pittsburgh area, called Casa D'Ice. These signs contain a number of profound nuggets of wisdom, for example this one, which says
The restaurant appears to be quite proud of its signs, as seen by the fact that they also sell t-shirts with these signs printed on them. But I agree with them when they claim that the very fact that they have these signs hanging outside proves their open-mindedness, 'cause c'mon, that could be the only possible explanation behind the bizarre disappearance of their brains, which appear to have fallen right through the yawning gap in their minds.
Secondly, I am happy to see racist white Americans transfer their prejudice from blacks to Arabs. I was really scared there for a moment. Scared for America, I mean. See, if you want to be racist, you should try not to pick a race, the average member of which would have very little trouble pinning your ass to the wall in case of a barfight. And in that respect, African Americans were a bad choice. Oh America, surely you could have utilized some common sense in that regard? It's like shedding a life of vegetarianism for meat and picking the saw-scaled viper as the very first animal to prey upon. It just doesn't make any sense. Bully the Buddhists first, then move on to the blacks.
If I had to be racist, I guess I would choose the Chinese. They are kinda short in stature and I am sure, with all the weight training and stuff I've been doing lately, I wouldn't have any problem in kicking some major butt if it ever came to that. But I am not sure what to do about the martial arts crap. If the guy suddenly took out a pair of numbchucks from his robe and began to wave them around, I would probably have to reconsider my choice. All that whirring n shit makes me dizzy.
Secondly, since when did the term "camel jockey" become derogatory? C'mon, Mr Racist Guy, if you call someone a camel jockey, aren't you basically leaving yourself open to being called a horse jockey? And in my book that would be a far worse term of non-endearment than being called a camel jockey. 'Cause I think, and this is just my opinion, that camels are a far nobler species than horses. Horses are the fucking anorexic supermodels of the animal kingdom. All they do is run around and look pretty in a homosexual kind of way. Whereas camels are the John Waynes of the pack animal community.
Think about it for a second. In the hot arid desert where the dainty horse would finally have to resort to sucking itself off for liquid sustenance, the camel would be hanging out on a hammock wearing a sombrero and sucking out the liquid from its hump through a straw. Oh yeah, that's some mighty tasty stuff in there, he would say before ambling away for the next ten years without having to stop for water.
Secondly, there is a reason why it's called a cameltoe and not a horse-hoof. Horse hoofs are not sexy.
Thirdly you've got to respect the haughty disdainful look camels perpetually carry around on their faces. It's like they are saying to you, "Why don't you get on my fucking back so I can carry you around like a baby since you are too weak to survive in this inhospitable climate on your own? How I would like to spit on your face even though it goes against everything my mother taught me", although some of them do forget what their mother taught them and spit on people, most notable the llama of South America, which is kind of a bonsai camel. If camels were to be racist, that's the guy everyone would pick on so I guess it justifies all that spitting.
A camel's got to do whatever it takes to survive in a society of racist camels.
It's time to bomb the hell out of Iraq, Make it a giant litter box, take the damn oil, bring our soldiers home, and outsource the waror this one
This is America, Why must we press 1 to proceed in Englishor my personal favorite
Dear Mr President, Piss on the camel jockeys, Bring home the troops, Leave behind plenty of bombs, They will kill themselves, That's their way of life
The restaurant appears to be quite proud of its signs, as seen by the fact that they also sell t-shirts with these signs printed on them. But I agree with them when they claim that the very fact that they have these signs hanging outside proves their open-mindedness, 'cause c'mon, that could be the only possible explanation behind the bizarre disappearance of their brains, which appear to have fallen right through the yawning gap in their minds.
Secondly, I am happy to see racist white Americans transfer their prejudice from blacks to Arabs. I was really scared there for a moment. Scared for America, I mean. See, if you want to be racist, you should try not to pick a race, the average member of which would have very little trouble pinning your ass to the wall in case of a barfight. And in that respect, African Americans were a bad choice. Oh America, surely you could have utilized some common sense in that regard? It's like shedding a life of vegetarianism for meat and picking the saw-scaled viper as the very first animal to prey upon. It just doesn't make any sense. Bully the Buddhists first, then move on to the blacks.
If I had to be racist, I guess I would choose the Chinese. They are kinda short in stature and I am sure, with all the weight training and stuff I've been doing lately, I wouldn't have any problem in kicking some major butt if it ever came to that. But I am not sure what to do about the martial arts crap. If the guy suddenly took out a pair of numbchucks from his robe and began to wave them around, I would probably have to reconsider my choice. All that whirring n shit makes me dizzy.
Secondly, since when did the term "camel jockey" become derogatory? C'mon, Mr Racist Guy, if you call someone a camel jockey, aren't you basically leaving yourself open to being called a horse jockey? And in my book that would be a far worse term of non-endearment than being called a camel jockey. 'Cause I think, and this is just my opinion, that camels are a far nobler species than horses. Horses are the fucking anorexic supermodels of the animal kingdom. All they do is run around and look pretty in a homosexual kind of way. Whereas camels are the John Waynes of the pack animal community.
Think about it for a second. In the hot arid desert where the dainty horse would finally have to resort to sucking itself off for liquid sustenance, the camel would be hanging out on a hammock wearing a sombrero and sucking out the liquid from its hump through a straw. Oh yeah, that's some mighty tasty stuff in there, he would say before ambling away for the next ten years without having to stop for water.
Secondly, there is a reason why it's called a cameltoe and not a horse-hoof. Horse hoofs are not sexy.
Thirdly you've got to respect the haughty disdainful look camels perpetually carry around on their faces. It's like they are saying to you, "Why don't you get on my fucking back so I can carry you around like a baby since you are too weak to survive in this inhospitable climate on your own? How I would like to spit on your face even though it goes against everything my mother taught me", although some of them do forget what their mother taught them and spit on people, most notable the llama of South America, which is kind of a bonsai camel. If camels were to be racist, that's the guy everyone would pick on so I guess it justifies all that spitting.
A camel's got to do whatever it takes to survive in a society of racist camels.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Slow week
It's been a slow week for blogging. I'm not getting the requisite 6 hours of sleep I need every night to keep my muse in a state of good health. Also it's too hot to write. My colleague starts to sneeze everytime I turn on the A/C.
Let's see if I can come up with anything on the fly. Ok, so they showed a number of those alien invasion movies on sunday. TNT had Mel Gibson protecting man-meat Joaquin Phoenix and his kids from poison gas spraying aliens in Signs and HBO was showing War of the worlds where Tom Cruise, for some unidentifiable reason, was trying to protect his daughter, irritating bitchy-ass snotball Dakota Fanning from the alien tripods. At first I didn't notice the significance. Then, I realized it was Father's Day. Ah, so that is how America honors its fathers on Father's day; by recognizing and showcasing their achievements in the field of intergalactic warfare. Was this funny? Probably not. Lets try something else.
Along with the religious leaders and the friendly savages at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, I sincerely believe that we are giving a lot of leeway to the waitering and the cooking staff of this planet. No, you can't afford to get the waiters mad, they say, after all they are in charge of the food, your food. Heck, doesn't matter if the waiter screams obscenities at you, or punches you in the face or dances barefoot on your naked belly as you lie writhing on the floor. You've just got to get up, dust yourself off and ask him if he enjoyed the dance and if he would like to dance on your back now, this time wearing high heels. You cannot even dream of criticizing his actions, because he might spit in your food. I am not aware of any other profession that has the power to hold mankind hostage in this fashion.
Imagine you're in a bus and you would really like to give the bus driver a piece of your mind but you hold yourself back because you say to yourself, heck, I gotta be nice to this guy or he might run me over after I get off. Would you think that? Fuck, no. Why, then, have the waiters and the cooks been given free reign to take the law into their own hands and deal with hostile customers by hockin' up the food? The situation has gotten so bad that it is now common wisdom now that if you displease the waiter, you have to leave the restaurant. What the fuck, man? When did we restaurant patrons get so soft and accepting? We need to take back our God-given right to a spit-free existence. There needs to be a grassroots movement. Waiters need to be made accountable for their actions. Is that too much to ask?
Any good? Probably not. I still need sleep.
Let's see if I can come up with anything on the fly. Ok, so they showed a number of those alien invasion movies on sunday. TNT had Mel Gibson protecting man-meat Joaquin Phoenix and his kids from poison gas spraying aliens in Signs and HBO was showing War of the worlds where Tom Cruise, for some unidentifiable reason, was trying to protect his daughter, irritating bitchy-ass snotball Dakota Fanning from the alien tripods. At first I didn't notice the significance. Then, I realized it was Father's Day. Ah, so that is how America honors its fathers on Father's day; by recognizing and showcasing their achievements in the field of intergalactic warfare. Was this funny? Probably not. Lets try something else.
Along with the religious leaders and the friendly savages at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, I sincerely believe that we are giving a lot of leeway to the waitering and the cooking staff of this planet. No, you can't afford to get the waiters mad, they say, after all they are in charge of the food, your food. Heck, doesn't matter if the waiter screams obscenities at you, or punches you in the face or dances barefoot on your naked belly as you lie writhing on the floor. You've just got to get up, dust yourself off and ask him if he enjoyed the dance and if he would like to dance on your back now, this time wearing high heels. You cannot even dream of criticizing his actions, because he might spit in your food. I am not aware of any other profession that has the power to hold mankind hostage in this fashion.
Imagine you're in a bus and you would really like to give the bus driver a piece of your mind but you hold yourself back because you say to yourself, heck, I gotta be nice to this guy or he might run me over after I get off. Would you think that? Fuck, no. Why, then, have the waiters and the cooks been given free reign to take the law into their own hands and deal with hostile customers by hockin' up the food? The situation has gotten so bad that it is now common wisdom now that if you displease the waiter, you have to leave the restaurant. What the fuck, man? When did we restaurant patrons get so soft and accepting? We need to take back our God-given right to a spit-free existence. There needs to be a grassroots movement. Waiters need to be made accountable for their actions. Is that too much to ask?
Any good? Probably not. I still need sleep.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Vibrate mode
If you realize your cellphone is ringing when it is in vibrate mode, is it the vibration you notice or the sound of the vibration? And if it is the sound, why isn't there simply a ring tone called vibrate instead of, you know, an entire mode? Asking these kinds of questions is what separates us from the apes.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
I was a good friend in my dreams
Last night I helped a very good friend of mine exhume a corpse. It was surprising to me because under normal circumstances I would have expected him to request my assistance in burying a corpse, not digging one up. I was squeamish at first because I have seen exhumed corpses on tv and they are not pretty or maybe it was that I have only seen the ugly ones. And they smell because they haven't showered for several days.
And I wanted to tell my friend that it had been nice knowing him all this while but digging up corpses was not something I had ever envisioned myself doing even in my dreams and that now it was time for us to go our separate ways. But then I remembered how he had put up with me and my wife for over a month after I had lost my job and I had no money, nowhere to live and nothing to drink and my heart melted.
So I walked back to him standing forlorn over the hole that wasn't yet there. "Give me that shovel", I said to him gently and began digging up the asphalt, for strangely enough, it was in the middle of a parking lot that my friend had hidden his bounty. He was always a bizarre one.
And I wanted to tell my friend that it had been nice knowing him all this while but digging up corpses was not something I had ever envisioned myself doing even in my dreams and that now it was time for us to go our separate ways. But then I remembered how he had put up with me and my wife for over a month after I had lost my job and I had no money, nowhere to live and nothing to drink and my heart melted.
So I walked back to him standing forlorn over the hole that wasn't yet there. "Give me that shovel", I said to him gently and began digging up the asphalt, for strangely enough, it was in the middle of a parking lot that my friend had hidden his bounty. He was always a bizarre one.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
PZ Myers agrees with my Martian analysis
Stephen Hawking, the brief historian of space and time, today proposed that humans really need to quit watching all those reality shows on television and instead, focus on coming up with a way of blasting themselves out into deep space in order to colonize other planets. Hawking says that our planet, i.e : earth, for those who were busy text messaging during science class, faces global warming, pollution, imminent nuclear holocaust and the rapid proliferation of Ipods, which, if things continue at their current pace, especially the proliferation of Ipods, would soon make the planet uninhabitable for its teeming billions.
In response, PZ Myers, the renowned science blogger of Pharyngula fame, lists his objections to Mr Hawking's proposal. Funnily enough, many of his grievances mirror the ones I myself laid out on this blog a few weeks ago regarding humans establishing colonies on Mars. Here's what PZ says :
and
"naked mole apes" is the scientific term used to describe Indian graduate students, which is the species of mutants I predicted we would turn into once we successfully colonized Mars. These Indian graduate students, I predicted, would soon begin to think of us earthly inhabitants as lesser mortals and ultimately, after a particularly bad episode of genocidal frustration brought about by a lack of sambar powder in the apartment, proceed to annihilate us with their psychedelic neutron propelled plasma rays.
PZ, however, elaborates further on the horrors that would ensue on Mars once our race turns into naked mole apes. He says :
Good God. That sounds almost like .... life in 21st century India. So basically, 30th century Martian society would be exactly similar to the one currently underway in 21st century India. And they call us a third world country. What a crock of crap.
In response, PZ Myers, the renowned science blogger of Pharyngula fame, lists his objections to Mr Hawking's proposal. Funnily enough, many of his grievances mirror the ones I myself laid out on this blog a few weeks ago regarding humans establishing colonies on Mars. Here's what PZ says :
In the long run, I don't think that any of our progeny that we spin off into space will be human for long, and I don't think we can predict what a post-human race would want, or how it would interact with us.
and
Sure, our many times great grandchildren could get a foothold off of planet Earth. But do we really want to create a competing race of naked mole apes?
"naked mole apes" is the scientific term used to describe Indian graduate students, which is the species of mutants I predicted we would turn into once we successfully colonized Mars. These Indian graduate students, I predicted, would soon begin to think of us earthly inhabitants as lesser mortals and ultimately, after a particularly bad episode of genocidal frustration brought about by a lack of sambar powder in the apartment, proceed to annihilate us with their psychedelic neutron propelled plasma rays.
PZ, however, elaborates further on the horrors that would ensue on Mars once our race turns into naked mole apes. He says :
I think the priorities in an environment as hostile as, for instance, the surface of Mars would be conformity, control, and specialization—social concerns to maintain safety and stability in a very nasty place. Individualism would be discouraged, since loners don't survive in a situation requiring communal dedication. Humans in a space colony could be more like naked mole rats, with reproduction regulated tightly and in the hands of a few, caste-like arrangements of workers, and social mechanisms to make sure no one individual could put the community at hazard.
Good God. That sounds almost like .... life in 21st century India. So basically, 30th century Martian society would be exactly similar to the one currently underway in 21st century India. And they call us a third world country. What a crock of crap.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Buy your own gum
I chew gum. Lots of it. Gum frequently lies on my desk. Apparently a colleague mistook this to mean that I am a free gum dispensing machine. Just like a skimpily dressed woman isn't always a slut, someone with lots of gum in his possession isn't always a benevolent gum distributing philanthropist.
But this colleague, he keeps coming to my cubicle every few minutes, asking for gum. Now it's true that I have lots of gum in my possession. But by God, I have worked my ass off to acquire it. Gum is not easily obtainable in this neighbourhood. I have to drive 2 miles through heavy construction and 4 traffic lights to get gum. So I don't buy gum everyday. I buy a weeks worth and chew it in stages. I have designated fixed gum chewing times during the day when I indulge in this activity. Once when I enter the office in the morning and once after lunch. None in between. You hear that? NONE IN BETWEEN.
And now I am supposed to cater to this undisciplined gum chewing habit of this colleague of mine? That's ridiculous! Now, I have to make two trips to the gum store instead of once every week. I have to re-arrange my entire life around his gum addiction. Sometimes, gumboy asks me if I want soda from the fridge, that he will get me a can since he's going there anyways. What are you doing, I say to myself, no, I don't want soda, don't try to buy my gum with your soda, I will get my own soda, thank you very much. I would walk to the soda even if both my legs were broken or if I were blind and the only way I could get to the soda were to accidentally fall into the ladies room and be escorted out firmly with womanly compassion and dignity destroyed. No, no soda for me, gumboy.
So now, because of this colleague, I have stopped being openly gum-crazy. I hide my gum in my desk drawers now. Whenever gumboy comes to my cubicle, I tell him I am out of gum. He looks at me unconvinced, but what can he do? There's no gum on my desk.
When it is time to chew gum, I unwrap my gum quietly. He sits in the next cubicle so I have to be very careful. Even the slightest sound of rustling paper will have him snapping at my heels in a ferocious gum-induced rage. When I talk to him with my mouth full of gum, I have to make sure he doesn't see it. I have had to hollow out the fleshy part of my cheek from inside with a knife so I can keep my gum in its own nook, safe, secure and invisible.
And I cannot throw away my gum wrappers in the trashcan willy nilly. When he's prowling around my cubicle after I leave in the evening, he will spot my wrappers and the jig will be up. He's a nosy fucker. I think he used to be in the CIA. So I have to take precautions. Every time I throw my wrappers in the trash I have to rearrange the trash to keep them out of sight. Sometimes I swallow them. They taste like gum without the taste.
Once he caught me chewing and accused me of not being truthful to him about not having gum. I lied that I had just purchased some when I had gone to lunch. It is true that lying, just like murder, is easier the second time around. He stared at me with accusing eyes but I continued to chew with confidence. Truth might not be on my side but justice surely was.
I think every man deserves the freedom to chew gum in peace without having to worry about being discovered in the act by his gum-borrowing colleague. I hope things will change for me soon.
But this colleague, he keeps coming to my cubicle every few minutes, asking for gum. Now it's true that I have lots of gum in my possession. But by God, I have worked my ass off to acquire it. Gum is not easily obtainable in this neighbourhood. I have to drive 2 miles through heavy construction and 4 traffic lights to get gum. So I don't buy gum everyday. I buy a weeks worth and chew it in stages. I have designated fixed gum chewing times during the day when I indulge in this activity. Once when I enter the office in the morning and once after lunch. None in between. You hear that? NONE IN BETWEEN.
And now I am supposed to cater to this undisciplined gum chewing habit of this colleague of mine? That's ridiculous! Now, I have to make two trips to the gum store instead of once every week. I have to re-arrange my entire life around his gum addiction. Sometimes, gumboy asks me if I want soda from the fridge, that he will get me a can since he's going there anyways. What are you doing, I say to myself, no, I don't want soda, don't try to buy my gum with your soda, I will get my own soda, thank you very much. I would walk to the soda even if both my legs were broken or if I were blind and the only way I could get to the soda were to accidentally fall into the ladies room and be escorted out firmly with womanly compassion and dignity destroyed. No, no soda for me, gumboy.
So now, because of this colleague, I have stopped being openly gum-crazy. I hide my gum in my desk drawers now. Whenever gumboy comes to my cubicle, I tell him I am out of gum. He looks at me unconvinced, but what can he do? There's no gum on my desk.
When it is time to chew gum, I unwrap my gum quietly. He sits in the next cubicle so I have to be very careful. Even the slightest sound of rustling paper will have him snapping at my heels in a ferocious gum-induced rage. When I talk to him with my mouth full of gum, I have to make sure he doesn't see it. I have had to hollow out the fleshy part of my cheek from inside with a knife so I can keep my gum in its own nook, safe, secure and invisible.
And I cannot throw away my gum wrappers in the trashcan willy nilly. When he's prowling around my cubicle after I leave in the evening, he will spot my wrappers and the jig will be up. He's a nosy fucker. I think he used to be in the CIA. So I have to take precautions. Every time I throw my wrappers in the trash I have to rearrange the trash to keep them out of sight. Sometimes I swallow them. They taste like gum without the taste.
Once he caught me chewing and accused me of not being truthful to him about not having gum. I lied that I had just purchased some when I had gone to lunch. It is true that lying, just like murder, is easier the second time around. He stared at me with accusing eyes but I continued to chew with confidence. Truth might not be on my side but justice surely was.
I think every man deserves the freedom to chew gum in peace without having to worry about being discovered in the act by his gum-borrowing colleague. I hope things will change for me soon.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Great poor joke and a greater poorer corollary
From Zoo Station :
From the comments section :
Q. What do you get when you cross Lee Iacocca with Dracula?
A. Autoexec.bat
From the comments section :
I wonder if anybody pointed out the math flaw in the joke?
Technically if you CROSS the two you should get a sine(theta) ie |autoexec||bat|sine(theta). Thus you want the answer to have a DOT in it ie |autoexec||bat|cos(theta) then you have to multiply by tan(theta) so that the cosines cancel.
Thus the mathematically correct answer to the riddle is AUTOEXEC.BAT tan(theta)
Friday, June 09, 2006
Friday morning disappointment
Every friday they give me my paycheck, I open the envelope and check the amount, hoping to see that they raised my salary and forgot to let me know. Every friday I am disappointed.
This is one of the major reasons responsible for my weekend alcoholism.
They should stop adding more lanes to the interstate. They add one more lane, the traffic's just gonna shift one lane over to the left, giving the rightmost lane back to nature and cows and deer. Americans don't like to drive in the slow lane. It gives them a feeling of impotence. The solution is to allow people to force each other out of the road. If you are weak, you don't deserve to drive anyways.
This is one of the major reasons responsible for my weekend alcoholism.
They should stop adding more lanes to the interstate. They add one more lane, the traffic's just gonna shift one lane over to the left, giving the rightmost lane back to nature and cows and deer. Americans don't like to drive in the slow lane. It gives them a feeling of impotence. The solution is to allow people to force each other out of the road. If you are weak, you don't deserve to drive anyways.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Melon collie
I got this cool bottle opener keychain yesterday from the newly opened Indian restaurant in my neighbourhood. That's great because now I can start drinking from the moment I unlock the door to my apartment.
In general, I have no problems with the current pace of technological progress. I am happy with the way my socks no longer mysteriously develop holes in them like they used to when I was a kid. Underwear lasts longer too. Soon people will have to buy underwear only once or twice in their entire lifetime, thus giving Chinese sweatshop workers an opportunity to take a bathroom break. But it would definitely be useful if my toothpaste tube would give me some indication of when it is empty. You know, you squeeze it till it's flat but still you keep on squeezing it because you're hoping, like any normal human being would, that surely there is some more in there, at least enough for today's brushing. But what I would like to see is a tube that starts to scream and vomit blood when it is out of paste and needs to communicate that fact to the squeezer. This would save many people a lot of time in the morning, I'm sure. Another good idea, a ketchup bottle that would begin to cough violently, invoking the Lord's name when there's no more ketchup to be banged out of it.
Toyota Yaris has a couple of grisly ads out. A car comes wandering by and stops in front of a piggy bank, one of them small cute pink pig-shaped things. The car and pig blink at each other. Then the hood of the car opens and an electric saw appears, cutting the pig horizontally in half. Then, the saw cuts the pig vertically. The pig continues to blink at the car, distraught at this violent behavior exhibited by someone claiming to be as planet-friendly as Toyota. Then the hood again opens and out comes a hammer which strikes the pig and breaks it into two. Inside is a coin which the car picks up and goes off. Very heartbreaking if you're a pig-lover like I am. Bacon is one of my favorite foods.
Then, in a different ad, the car comes across a robotic spider and runs over it. Then, it sucks up all the fluid dribbling out of the crushed spider and goes off. Another blow to the planetary robotic ecosystem. I ain't buyin' a Yaris anytime soon.
And speaking of cars, I saw this clip from the new Disney movie "Cars" yesterday. A couple of cars are standing around in a courtroom and a Porsche rolls in. "Holy Porsche", says one car. What, says I. And then it goes on and blah blah blah and says, "You know there are some people in this courtroom who aren't firing on all four cylinders, if you know what I mean". Yargh, the pun made me pull off the newly discovered silver hair on my head in frustration.
Salespeople will say anything to get you to buy stuff, regardless of how preposterous it sounds. So I went into GNC, the store that sells protein shakes and things of that nature. I wanted to buy some Creatine and this guy wanted to sell me the high end expensive stuff. Said that it is the most potent of his products and would have an instantanous effect on my physique. So I told him that working out is just a hobby of mine and that it was okay with me if I didn't turn into the Michelin tire guy overnight. To which he replied, "Well, it really doesn't work that fast anyways, sometimes it takes years to get your body in shape. Fucking guy said the exact opposite of what he'd just said a moment ago.
Then, he began to sell me some nitric oxide or nitrous oxide or whatever. Said that it would dilate my blood vessels when I work out, thus allowing me to work out for longer periods of time. "Sometimes, I work out for four hours and still don't feel tired", he said. Four hours? Mmmkay. Then, I asked him if this stuff is safe and he told me, "It is so safe that sometimes people with high blood pressure take it as medication." I think it was around that time that I started doubting the veracity of his claims.
Then, he tried to sell me some more crap. He asked me, "Since you work out, do you take any extra vitamin supplements?" I said, "No, but I eat food". He asked what is that? I said "food" is what people who live in the natural universe eat to get their vitamins. He wasn't convinced. He probably donates to the "Vitamin supplements for Somalia" fund.
In general, I have no problems with the current pace of technological progress. I am happy with the way my socks no longer mysteriously develop holes in them like they used to when I was a kid. Underwear lasts longer too. Soon people will have to buy underwear only once or twice in their entire lifetime, thus giving Chinese sweatshop workers an opportunity to take a bathroom break. But it would definitely be useful if my toothpaste tube would give me some indication of when it is empty. You know, you squeeze it till it's flat but still you keep on squeezing it because you're hoping, like any normal human being would, that surely there is some more in there, at least enough for today's brushing. But what I would like to see is a tube that starts to scream and vomit blood when it is out of paste and needs to communicate that fact to the squeezer. This would save many people a lot of time in the morning, I'm sure. Another good idea, a ketchup bottle that would begin to cough violently, invoking the Lord's name when there's no more ketchup to be banged out of it.
Toyota Yaris has a couple of grisly ads out. A car comes wandering by and stops in front of a piggy bank, one of them small cute pink pig-shaped things. The car and pig blink at each other. Then the hood of the car opens and an electric saw appears, cutting the pig horizontally in half. Then, the saw cuts the pig vertically. The pig continues to blink at the car, distraught at this violent behavior exhibited by someone claiming to be as planet-friendly as Toyota. Then the hood again opens and out comes a hammer which strikes the pig and breaks it into two. Inside is a coin which the car picks up and goes off. Very heartbreaking if you're a pig-lover like I am. Bacon is one of my favorite foods.
Then, in a different ad, the car comes across a robotic spider and runs over it. Then, it sucks up all the fluid dribbling out of the crushed spider and goes off. Another blow to the planetary robotic ecosystem. I ain't buyin' a Yaris anytime soon.
And speaking of cars, I saw this clip from the new Disney movie "Cars" yesterday. A couple of cars are standing around in a courtroom and a Porsche rolls in. "Holy Porsche", says one car. What, says I. And then it goes on and blah blah blah and says, "You know there are some people in this courtroom who aren't firing on all four cylinders, if you know what I mean". Yargh, the pun made me pull off the newly discovered silver hair on my head in frustration.
Salespeople will say anything to get you to buy stuff, regardless of how preposterous it sounds. So I went into GNC, the store that sells protein shakes and things of that nature. I wanted to buy some Creatine and this guy wanted to sell me the high end expensive stuff. Said that it is the most potent of his products and would have an instantanous effect on my physique. So I told him that working out is just a hobby of mine and that it was okay with me if I didn't turn into the Michelin tire guy overnight. To which he replied, "Well, it really doesn't work that fast anyways, sometimes it takes years to get your body in shape. Fucking guy said the exact opposite of what he'd just said a moment ago.
Then, he began to sell me some nitric oxide or nitrous oxide or whatever. Said that it would dilate my blood vessels when I work out, thus allowing me to work out for longer periods of time. "Sometimes, I work out for four hours and still don't feel tired", he said. Four hours? Mmmkay. Then, I asked him if this stuff is safe and he told me, "It is so safe that sometimes people with high blood pressure take it as medication." I think it was around that time that I started doubting the veracity of his claims.
Then, he tried to sell me some more crap. He asked me, "Since you work out, do you take any extra vitamin supplements?" I said, "No, but I eat food". He asked what is that? I said "food" is what people who live in the natural universe eat to get their vitamins. He wasn't convinced. He probably donates to the "Vitamin supplements for Somalia" fund.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Monday, June 05, 2006
Two black men on two cellphones
Scene : Train station, agitated black guy, animatedly yelling at another black guy with a cellphone.
Black guy 1 : Yo, where's the train, man? It's 6:00.
Black guy 2, speaking on his cellphone presumably with his lady, in a heart-warming display of profane intimacy.
Black guy 2 : C'mon, baby, you heard me now, stop bitchin' at me.
Black guy 1 : It ain't never this late, man, something's wrong.
Black guy 2, still talking to his lady.
Black guy 2 : Oh c'mon, I ain't bullshittin' you, baby, I'm standing on the train station here, waiting for the train.
Black guy 1 : Hey, maybe we should be waiting on the other side.
Black guy 2 continues to speak on his cellphone using some extremely softspoken invective to make his case.
Black guy 1 : Yo let me call up Kiwi, he should already be on the train. Maybe we missed it.
Makes a call on his cellphone and speaks into it.
Black guy 1 : Kiwi. Yo Kiwi, can you hear me? KIWI. YO KIWI. KIWI.
Walks around the station yelling Kiwi for about an eternity and a half. Finally, concedes that the call has been dropped.
Black guy 1 : Yo, we missed the train man, it's never this late. We should wait till 6:10 and then walk over to the other side.
Black guy 2 continues to shovel his way into his lady's heart one shitload at a time.
Black guy 2 : Baby, baby, listen to me now, I ain't a motherfucker. You know that right. C'mon now, don't give me that shit.
Black guy 1 redials his friend on the train.
Black guy 1 : Kiwi. Hello, KIWI, you there? KIWI. YO, KIWI.
Kiwi appears to answer.
Black guy 1 : Hey man, what up, where you at? We've been waitin' for the train, what station you at now?
Pregnant pause.
Black guy 1 : What? You in Mexico? Ok man, talk to you later.
A few minutes later, a Kiwiless train rolls into the station, picking up Black guy 1 and Black guy 2 and restoring sanity back to the surroundings.
Black guy 1 : Yo, where's the train, man? It's 6:00.
Black guy 2, speaking on his cellphone presumably with his lady, in a heart-warming display of profane intimacy.
Black guy 2 : C'mon, baby, you heard me now, stop bitchin' at me.
Black guy 1 : It ain't never this late, man, something's wrong.
Black guy 2, still talking to his lady.
Black guy 2 : Oh c'mon, I ain't bullshittin' you, baby, I'm standing on the train station here, waiting for the train.
Black guy 1 : Hey, maybe we should be waiting on the other side.
Black guy 2 continues to speak on his cellphone using some extremely softspoken invective to make his case.
Black guy 1 : Yo let me call up Kiwi, he should already be on the train. Maybe we missed it.
Makes a call on his cellphone and speaks into it.
Black guy 1 : Kiwi. Yo Kiwi, can you hear me? KIWI. YO KIWI. KIWI.
Walks around the station yelling Kiwi for about an eternity and a half. Finally, concedes that the call has been dropped.
Black guy 1 : Yo, we missed the train man, it's never this late. We should wait till 6:10 and then walk over to the other side.
Black guy 2 continues to shovel his way into his lady's heart one shitload at a time.
Black guy 2 : Baby, baby, listen to me now, I ain't a motherfucker. You know that right. C'mon now, don't give me that shit.
Black guy 1 redials his friend on the train.
Black guy 1 : Kiwi. Hello, KIWI, you there? KIWI. YO, KIWI.
Kiwi appears to answer.
Black guy 1 : Hey man, what up, where you at? We've been waitin' for the train, what station you at now?
Pregnant pause.
Black guy 1 : What? You in Mexico? Ok man, talk to you later.
A few minutes later, a Kiwiless train rolls into the station, picking up Black guy 1 and Black guy 2 and restoring sanity back to the surroundings.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
I created a Disney animated movie making machine
There's a reason why I'm not blogging as much as I used to. I've been working hard and trying to come up with a revolutionary new invention. And it's done now. I call it the "Disney animated movie making machine". Actually, it was very easy to make and you can make one too. In fact, let's make one right now. There's just one thing you need. An idiot. So go, catch an idiot wandering around the streets, any idiot will do, the only prerequisite being, he shouldn't be deaf or dumb. In other words, he should be able to hear as well as speak.
Ok, so you've got an idiot. Now, think of anything, living or non-living, that could exist in a colony of co-existers. For example, bugs, toys, fish, cars, anything, just think. Then, come up with an activity humans might engage in and think of the corresponding activity that animal, vegetable or mineral would also engage in and add a pun. Do it a few more times and set it to an orchestra score. And presto, you've got yourself a Disney blockbuster. Sounds complicated? Not really. Here, let me explain.
For example, take the new animated Disney film "Cars". In the movie, they show an old doped up Volkswagen van saying "Organic fuel, man, that's the way to go". And the spiffy new sports car standing next to it snaps, "Get a carwash, hippy". *Laughter*. See what I mean? Just as humans would snap at the organic "food" eating hippies in their midst and order 'em to take a bath, cars would hypothetically ask the organic "fuel" guzzling hippies in their midst to take a carwash. Oh goddamn, it is so fucking funny it's not even funny. Ha ha. And the beauty of it is that even an idiot could have come up with that line.
And that's basically the purpose of the idiot in your possession who is trying to escape from you even as we speak. Don't let him go, he is your ticket to the big money.
So now let's try this machine for ourselves, let's say we decide to make a movie about, say footwear. Why not. It's as good an idea as any. And let's say we decide to call it "Shoes". An animated motion picture about shoes. That's hot. A community of shoes and sandals and slippers living in the shoe rack in a big house and the shoes live with each other and run around with feet on their back and say amusing things to each other which is funny because they are shoes saying things to each other. Shoes usually don't speak.
So then there's this shoe who is walking around in a kinda preoccupied listless manner and he is asked by this other shoe, "hey what's wrong with you, you look like a...." and this is where you whisper into the idiot's ear and ask him what the shoe's gonna say. And the idiot replies "lost sole". He looks like a lost sole. Get it? The shoe. Looking like a lost sole.
This is where the audience will double up with laughter at the pun just like you did the day after you had too much sushi for dinner.
Ok, so we move on. Then the other shoe replies, "....", and back you go to the idiot for advice. The idiot says, "Ah put a 'sock' in it". The shoe says to the other shoe, "Put a sock in it."
*drum roll and laughter*.
God, this machine works just fine.
And then we could have a slipper as the love interest, you know, she would be flirtin' with the leading shoe and sayin' things like "......" Yo idiot, what's she gonna say? And the idiot replies, "Hey baby, let me slip into something ....lacy"
*drum roll and laughter again*
Haha lacy ... 'cause it's a shoe and it would be wearing shoelaces, fuck idiot, you're just killing me. That's half a movie right there. I'm gonna make a mint of money from this idea, to be sure.
So there. Now you know how to make a Disney animated movie. Go on, there's lots of avenues to be explored. A movie about birds, I wonder, it's kinda funny why they haven't come up with that one yet, then you could have a movie about say a grocery aisle and its residents and someone buys the soup and the ketchup goes on a mission to bring it back, or you could have a drawerful of cutlery and the couple living in the house has a fight and the husband kills the wife with the steak knife and the steak knife gets so traumatized by the experience that it goes into therapy and .. fuck it, fuck it all.
Disney should quit making any more animated movies. Disney should die and go away. Die Disney. Die and be trampled by a shoe. And "Hey", the shoe should say, "I Walt right over you". Walt. Get it?
Ok, so you've got an idiot. Now, think of anything, living or non-living, that could exist in a colony of co-existers. For example, bugs, toys, fish, cars, anything, just think. Then, come up with an activity humans might engage in and think of the corresponding activity that animal, vegetable or mineral would also engage in and add a pun. Do it a few more times and set it to an orchestra score. And presto, you've got yourself a Disney blockbuster. Sounds complicated? Not really. Here, let me explain.
For example, take the new animated Disney film "Cars". In the movie, they show an old doped up Volkswagen van saying "Organic fuel, man, that's the way to go". And the spiffy new sports car standing next to it snaps, "Get a carwash, hippy". *Laughter*. See what I mean? Just as humans would snap at the organic "food" eating hippies in their midst and order 'em to take a bath, cars would hypothetically ask the organic "fuel" guzzling hippies in their midst to take a carwash. Oh goddamn, it is so fucking funny it's not even funny. Ha ha. And the beauty of it is that even an idiot could have come up with that line.
And that's basically the purpose of the idiot in your possession who is trying to escape from you even as we speak. Don't let him go, he is your ticket to the big money.
So now let's try this machine for ourselves, let's say we decide to make a movie about, say footwear. Why not. It's as good an idea as any. And let's say we decide to call it "Shoes". An animated motion picture about shoes. That's hot. A community of shoes and sandals and slippers living in the shoe rack in a big house and the shoes live with each other and run around with feet on their back and say amusing things to each other which is funny because they are shoes saying things to each other. Shoes usually don't speak.
So then there's this shoe who is walking around in a kinda preoccupied listless manner and he is asked by this other shoe, "hey what's wrong with you, you look like a...." and this is where you whisper into the idiot's ear and ask him what the shoe's gonna say. And the idiot replies "lost sole". He looks like a lost sole. Get it? The shoe. Looking like a lost sole.
This is where the audience will double up with laughter at the pun just like you did the day after you had too much sushi for dinner.
Ok, so we move on. Then the other shoe replies, "....", and back you go to the idiot for advice. The idiot says, "Ah put a 'sock' in it". The shoe says to the other shoe, "Put a sock in it."
*drum roll and laughter*.
God, this machine works just fine.
And then we could have a slipper as the love interest, you know, she would be flirtin' with the leading shoe and sayin' things like "......" Yo idiot, what's she gonna say? And the idiot replies, "Hey baby, let me slip into something ....lacy"
*drum roll and laughter again*
Haha lacy ... 'cause it's a shoe and it would be wearing shoelaces, fuck idiot, you're just killing me. That's half a movie right there. I'm gonna make a mint of money from this idea, to be sure.
So there. Now you know how to make a Disney animated movie. Go on, there's lots of avenues to be explored. A movie about birds, I wonder, it's kinda funny why they haven't come up with that one yet, then you could have a movie about say a grocery aisle and its residents and someone buys the soup and the ketchup goes on a mission to bring it back, or you could have a drawerful of cutlery and the couple living in the house has a fight and the husband kills the wife with the steak knife and the steak knife gets so traumatized by the experience that it goes into therapy and .. fuck it, fuck it all.
Disney should quit making any more animated movies. Disney should die and go away. Die Disney. Die and be trampled by a shoe. And "Hey", the shoe should say, "I Walt right over you". Walt. Get it?
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
The long weekend
A 5 hour spontaneously planned drive from Philly to Massachusetts pretty much for no specific purpose at all.
Lunatic drivers in New Jersey, extreme gasoline-fume-fueled heat in New York City and strategically positioned traffic delays on I-95 in Connecticut. All part of the fun of driving from the Mid-Atlantic to New England.
Tea halt in Rocky Hill, Connecticut. Observed old cranky man in Denny's yelling at the waitress for cutting his turkey club sandwich the wrong way. On being told it was how they did it for seniors, claimed not to be a senior.
The old Alma Mater. Looking older. Looking a bit run-down. But still looking great.
Puffer's Pond. Robert Frost's alleged haunt. For me, the site of countless hours spent in idle daydreaming. No poetry did result.
Was informed at every motel that I visited that it's graduation 2006. Everything's booked up. No place to sleep.
The Holiday Inn Express at Hadley, Massachusetts. Where the teenaged receptionists had halos around their heads and worked in pairs, calling up everyone in the neighbourhood, trying to find me a bed out of the sheer goodness of their hearts. That's how they do things in New England.
Stood and waved at this live webcam outside Antonio's pizza. The last time I did it I was in a position to run back to my apartment and run the archived video of my waving.
Sushi dinner in a great new Japanese restaurant in Amherst that hadn't existed during my time. Pity.
Amherst Brewing Company (ABC). The old watering hole. The site of numerous good times. Today, it would be the Two Sisters Imperial Stout and the Graduation Ale. Both awesome brews.Then, Massatucky Brown. Fuckallness of the beer compensated by the immensely nostalgic nature of it's name.
BBC Steel Rail Pale Ale on the motel bed watching Glengarry Glen Ross.
Loss of consciousness.
Coffee at Cumberland Farms in North Amherst. Lost count of how many cigarettes were smoked, standing outside the joint, drinking coffee at 3.00 am with friends. The place also has a large collection of coffee mugs which I succeeded, to a large degree, in appropriating for myself. Legally, of course. After graduation, I donated my collection of Cumberland Farms coffee mugs to charity.
Lunch at the only Indian restaurant in downtown Amherst, wondering why I'd never gone there during my student days. We always used to frequent the one in Northampton, about 15 miles away.
Lunch over, I realized why not. Blech.
The Mystery Train Record Store. Haven for starving young music nuts. One of the few places in the world where you will find a used cd for a buck. Enter the store and you will hear the low mumblings of a man over gently plucked guitar tones. It turns out that's the ambient music. The kind of music you wish you were hip enough to appreciate. When I was a student, come paycheck time, half of it used to disappear promptly down the maw of this beast. No regrets, though.
Mt Sugarloaf in Sunderland. Bird's eye view of the Connecticut River.
The Montague Book Mill. Motto : "Books you don't need in a place you can't find". Found it through a stroke of serendipity while biking the rural country roads of Western Massachusetts with a friend long long ago. Fell in love with it then and think about it all the time now. Could time be better spent than lounging in a window seat with a view of the gushing river, poring through a book? Well, yeah, lounging in a window seat with a view of the gushing river, poring through a book, swigging Alagash White on tap, of course.
Came to know a schoolmate was visiting Amherst at the same time I was there. Spent a couple of hours with him and his wife criticizing American immigration policy. A couple of pints of Honey Pilsner accompanied.
Another mate called up from Connecticut, asking me to come visit him and his folks, meaning his landlords. An hour and a half later, found myself drinking Steel Rail Pale Ale with him and the insane landlord couple on the deck of a house in the middle of a forest on the banks of a rushing stream. Flaming torches were scattered throughout the grounds, occupying the space between the house and the stream. A human-sized barbeque pit was positioned strategically near the stream, presumably for the convenient disposal of incinerated remains. I inquired whether virginal sacrifices were a common occurrence in this household. I was assured not to worry since tonight wasn't the time of the full moon.
Dinner took place under a canopy erected on the grounds in virtual darkness. Feeling my way around my plate, I could make out that the delicious smelling mountain of flesh lying therein was an entire uncarved bird of some sort, hopefully a chicken. Morsels of another unidentifiable animal accompanied the main course. Landlord couple talked about the time they had a blizzard party where everybody stripped down to their underwear and jumped into the snow.
Left New England at 12:00 a.m, intending to drive through the night.
Drove four hours back to Philly, trying to stay awake by yawning loud enough to dispel my own sleep.
An aimless, entirely enjoyable long weekend.
Lunatic drivers in New Jersey, extreme gasoline-fume-fueled heat in New York City and strategically positioned traffic delays on I-95 in Connecticut. All part of the fun of driving from the Mid-Atlantic to New England.
Tea halt in Rocky Hill, Connecticut. Observed old cranky man in Denny's yelling at the waitress for cutting his turkey club sandwich the wrong way. On being told it was how they did it for seniors, claimed not to be a senior.
The old Alma Mater. Looking older. Looking a bit run-down. But still looking great.
Puffer's Pond. Robert Frost's alleged haunt. For me, the site of countless hours spent in idle daydreaming. No poetry did result.
Was informed at every motel that I visited that it's graduation 2006. Everything's booked up. No place to sleep.
The Holiday Inn Express at Hadley, Massachusetts. Where the teenaged receptionists had halos around their heads and worked in pairs, calling up everyone in the neighbourhood, trying to find me a bed out of the sheer goodness of their hearts. That's how they do things in New England.
Stood and waved at this live webcam outside Antonio's pizza. The last time I did it I was in a position to run back to my apartment and run the archived video of my waving.
Sushi dinner in a great new Japanese restaurant in Amherst that hadn't existed during my time. Pity.
Amherst Brewing Company (ABC). The old watering hole. The site of numerous good times. Today, it would be the Two Sisters Imperial Stout and the Graduation Ale. Both awesome brews.Then, Massatucky Brown. Fuckallness of the beer compensated by the immensely nostalgic nature of it's name.
BBC Steel Rail Pale Ale on the motel bed watching Glengarry Glen Ross.
Loss of consciousness.
Coffee at Cumberland Farms in North Amherst. Lost count of how many cigarettes were smoked, standing outside the joint, drinking coffee at 3.00 am with friends. The place also has a large collection of coffee mugs which I succeeded, to a large degree, in appropriating for myself. Legally, of course. After graduation, I donated my collection of Cumberland Farms coffee mugs to charity.
Lunch at the only Indian restaurant in downtown Amherst, wondering why I'd never gone there during my student days. We always used to frequent the one in Northampton, about 15 miles away.
Lunch over, I realized why not. Blech.
The Mystery Train Record Store. Haven for starving young music nuts. One of the few places in the world where you will find a used cd for a buck. Enter the store and you will hear the low mumblings of a man over gently plucked guitar tones. It turns out that's the ambient music. The kind of music you wish you were hip enough to appreciate. When I was a student, come paycheck time, half of it used to disappear promptly down the maw of this beast. No regrets, though.
Mt Sugarloaf in Sunderland. Bird's eye view of the Connecticut River.
The Montague Book Mill. Motto : "Books you don't need in a place you can't find". Found it through a stroke of serendipity while biking the rural country roads of Western Massachusetts with a friend long long ago. Fell in love with it then and think about it all the time now. Could time be better spent than lounging in a window seat with a view of the gushing river, poring through a book? Well, yeah, lounging in a window seat with a view of the gushing river, poring through a book, swigging Alagash White on tap, of course.
Came to know a schoolmate was visiting Amherst at the same time I was there. Spent a couple of hours with him and his wife criticizing American immigration policy. A couple of pints of Honey Pilsner accompanied.
Another mate called up from Connecticut, asking me to come visit him and his folks, meaning his landlords. An hour and a half later, found myself drinking Steel Rail Pale Ale with him and the insane landlord couple on the deck of a house in the middle of a forest on the banks of a rushing stream. Flaming torches were scattered throughout the grounds, occupying the space between the house and the stream. A human-sized barbeque pit was positioned strategically near the stream, presumably for the convenient disposal of incinerated remains. I inquired whether virginal sacrifices were a common occurrence in this household. I was assured not to worry since tonight wasn't the time of the full moon.
Dinner took place under a canopy erected on the grounds in virtual darkness. Feeling my way around my plate, I could make out that the delicious smelling mountain of flesh lying therein was an entire uncarved bird of some sort, hopefully a chicken. Morsels of another unidentifiable animal accompanied the main course. Landlord couple talked about the time they had a blizzard party where everybody stripped down to their underwear and jumped into the snow.
Left New England at 12:00 a.m, intending to drive through the night.
Drove four hours back to Philly, trying to stay awake by yawning loud enough to dispel my own sleep.
An aimless, entirely enjoyable long weekend.
Friday, May 26, 2006
An investigation into whether blasting music through your car window is productive
In theory, driving around with your car windows open, blaring Himesh Reshammiya's latest number through your speakers would appear to be a pretty intelligent and fulfilling activity for you to indulge in. But is it useful? Does it have any tangible benefits? Let's examine this issue closely. Let's lay out all the facts, subject them to scrutiny and verify if your theory would hold up against the cold hard light of reason or be exposed as an exercize in futility.
The question that needs to be asked first and foremost is, why do you drive around blasting music from an open car window? The answer is simple. It's a window into your life, an opportunity for the rest of the world to get to know you better through the choice of music you listen to. Basically, when you pull up next to me at a traffic light, lower your windows and start gyrating your head to "Who let the dogs out", taking care that you lip sync the "woof woof" part and carry out an accurate enactment of a dog clawing the face off its owner, you are, in your own way, letting me know how much you contribute to the overall hipness of the joint by getting me to notice your impeccable taste in music.
And all this looks pretty good on paper, yes, in fact, you would believe that you've got it all figured out. But is this really true? Is your plan practical? Let's take a look at your target audience.
There are two kinds of road-residents you would wish to cater to : pedestrians and car drivers. Now I have seen very few pedestrians walking around on American streets. Most citizens of this car-crazy nation only pull their vehicles off their bodies right before they jump into bed and that too 'cause they don't want nocturnal emissions spoiling that expensive leather upholstery. So let's take pedestrians off the list of people whose lives you could possibly touch through the medium of your Monsoon sound system.
How about car drivers? There are a number of different categories. For example, those who keep their windows closed while driving. These people would obviously be deaf to everything other than what they are playing inside the car or their own heavy breathing, assuming they are suburban white men pleasuring themselves to Rush Limbaugh's oxycontin drawl. Let us then take those guys off that list as well.
Well, now we have the open window drivers. There are again two types here; The ones who play their own music, and the ones who don't. Those who play their own music wouldn't be able to hear you anyways since their own stuff would drown out whatever it is that you are playing. Trust me, I have conducted research on test cases and that's my definitive conclusion. Secondly, we have people whose windows are open but are not playing any music. These guys would have been prime candidates for delivering their musical approval to you, except that the very fact that they are not playing any music means they are not musically inclined and so, wouldn't be able to gauge the depth of your character and the decency of your heart based on your fanatical headbanging to "I want it that way".
So who's left? Nobody, really. We have thus proved that all that window-open-music-blasting business accomplishes nothing. So pull up those windows, lower that volume and try a different approach. Here's what you really need to do if you wish to broadcast your musical preferences to the general public.
Be direct. Whenever you overtake another vehicle, catch the driver's attention by first flipping him off, then ask him to lower his window and when you are sure that he's within earshot, yell out that you are currently playing Marilyn Manson and that this makes you a rebellious heretic who will not succumb to societal pressures of conformation.
Or just put up a sign in your window boldly stating that your brutish Hummer is actually resonating with the sensitive yet assertive feministic sonnets of Shania Twain. And then laugh as people try to force you off the road and fail miserably. Those idiots wouldn't know a good thing if it rode up to them on a horse wearing a cowboy hat and sang into their ears.
Of course, none of this applies to you if you're a black guy in LA playing rap music in your 64 Chevy. I can hear you from here and you're a cool dude.
The question that needs to be asked first and foremost is, why do you drive around blasting music from an open car window? The answer is simple. It's a window into your life, an opportunity for the rest of the world to get to know you better through the choice of music you listen to. Basically, when you pull up next to me at a traffic light, lower your windows and start gyrating your head to "Who let the dogs out", taking care that you lip sync the "woof woof" part and carry out an accurate enactment of a dog clawing the face off its owner, you are, in your own way, letting me know how much you contribute to the overall hipness of the joint by getting me to notice your impeccable taste in music.
And all this looks pretty good on paper, yes, in fact, you would believe that you've got it all figured out. But is this really true? Is your plan practical? Let's take a look at your target audience.
There are two kinds of road-residents you would wish to cater to : pedestrians and car drivers. Now I have seen very few pedestrians walking around on American streets. Most citizens of this car-crazy nation only pull their vehicles off their bodies right before they jump into bed and that too 'cause they don't want nocturnal emissions spoiling that expensive leather upholstery. So let's take pedestrians off the list of people whose lives you could possibly touch through the medium of your Monsoon sound system.
How about car drivers? There are a number of different categories. For example, those who keep their windows closed while driving. These people would obviously be deaf to everything other than what they are playing inside the car or their own heavy breathing, assuming they are suburban white men pleasuring themselves to Rush Limbaugh's oxycontin drawl. Let us then take those guys off that list as well.
Well, now we have the open window drivers. There are again two types here; The ones who play their own music, and the ones who don't. Those who play their own music wouldn't be able to hear you anyways since their own stuff would drown out whatever it is that you are playing. Trust me, I have conducted research on test cases and that's my definitive conclusion. Secondly, we have people whose windows are open but are not playing any music. These guys would have been prime candidates for delivering their musical approval to you, except that the very fact that they are not playing any music means they are not musically inclined and so, wouldn't be able to gauge the depth of your character and the decency of your heart based on your fanatical headbanging to "I want it that way".
So who's left? Nobody, really. We have thus proved that all that window-open-music-blasting business accomplishes nothing. So pull up those windows, lower that volume and try a different approach. Here's what you really need to do if you wish to broadcast your musical preferences to the general public.
Be direct. Whenever you overtake another vehicle, catch the driver's attention by first flipping him off, then ask him to lower his window and when you are sure that he's within earshot, yell out that you are currently playing Marilyn Manson and that this makes you a rebellious heretic who will not succumb to societal pressures of conformation.
Or just put up a sign in your window boldly stating that your brutish Hummer is actually resonating with the sensitive yet assertive feministic sonnets of Shania Twain. And then laugh as people try to force you off the road and fail miserably. Those idiots wouldn't know a good thing if it rode up to them on a horse wearing a cowboy hat and sang into their ears.
Of course, none of this applies to you if you're a black guy in LA playing rap music in your 64 Chevy. I can hear you from here and you're a cool dude.
Favorite letters
You can tell which your favorite letters of the alphabet are by looking at your keyboard and observing which keys are the shiniest. Those are the keys you've been punching in the most.
Apart from Alt Tab, my favorite keys appear to be "a s h i t e o l n".
Yes, shitanole is one of my favorite words.
Apart from Alt Tab, my favorite keys appear to be "a s h i t e o l n".
Yes, shitanole is one of my favorite words.
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