I came back from work around 6:30 last evening, and after trying to figure out my new Internet connection which was not what I had bought (it is fixed now though), I went off to sleep. Woke up about 3 hours later, had some food and then prepared to head out to catch sight of the Geminids showering down the horizon in the east. Not that I prepared much actually, and not that the sight actually resembles how one would usually picture a typical shower, but all the same, what a night! Fuck the naysayers who spoke of a cloud cover over Delhi. In fact, some newspaper quoted someone who said something to the effect that the shower will be visible everywhere in India and the world except Delhi!
The drive itself was quite nice, to start with. Living in the city, not everyday do you get to average upwards of 60-70 kmph. Reached a high of 118 but I think my co-passenger was less than amused. So anyway, when I saw the end of street lights finally, I felt a sense of great delight, stopped the car briefly and looked up at the sky where the stars were already quite visible. Nice change from the usual patch of dust and city lights, where the luminosity of the stars is lost in various forms of pollution.
We finally reached a spot we figured was remote enough. Three local men, who were sitting by a fire a little way off the road and had noticed the car's lights die down near them, decided to come around with torches and asked if our car was alright. I explained to them why we were there, and while I was at it, saw my first meteor of the night. The locals were quite taken in but I guess the cold was enough incentive for them to go back to their fire. Plus, I guess they see shooting stars often enough anyway. Either way, we changed our own spot a couple of times before we properly started to strain our necks upwards. Two hours later, give or take a few, counting the small ones and the big, we must have seen about 50-60 meteors. Some streaking across the sky, some falling downwards, some going in semi-circular paths, and almost all interestingly coloured in hues of orange, yellow, green, blue and white.
About 2 hours later, it was close to 3:00am and the cold ground was getting to out feet even through our shoes. After waiting for another 5 minutes in the hope of catching another big one to end the night, we started on our way back. I had to be back at work in 5 hours. But it was surely the best night I have had in a very long time. Oh stars, even those that don't exist any more but still continue to shine upon our planet, thank you.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
A Common Face?
Has a total stranger ever mistaken you for someone else? Have you had a difficult time convincing the said stranger that you are, in fact, you and not the "Abhijeet or Abhinav from the drag in Noida"? What the fuck is the drag in Noida, you may ask. Well, I certainly did.
Increasingly, I have been faced with such situations. Random people in random places think I am someone else equally random. The guy at a property dealer's office who wanted my entire life history just to figure out where he knew me from. I finally told him he must have seen me on TV. The girl at a film studio who swore she met me the previous night at a party in Oshiwara when I hadn't been there in at least half a year. I blamed it on her beer goggles from the previous night, making some hobo look as sexy as me. This guy in the pub last night who got really annoyed at me not being a part of the Noida drag, whatever that is. Sounds like a bunch of half-witted trolls, at best. Anyway, it ended on a mutual fuck-you note, topped with stupid laughter.
Anyhow, these and other such instance have caused some thinking about why this could be happening.
One, my face is rather commonplace. Given the laws of probability and the human populace and my baseless estimates, I guess there could be about 10000 or so other people on this planet with the same face as me. I mean, I have seen strangers I have thought looked a lot like some friend or acquaintance of mine, and on one occasion, I also asked a guy if he was Shiv. But that was based more on similarity of mannerisms than anything else. Anyhow, so yeah, this is a likely possibility. I would be more convinced though if I ever saw one of my lookalikes with my own two eyes.
Two, people are blind as dicks. They can't tell their own elbows from their someone else's arse. So they think they get more arse than they actually do. Same way, wishful thinking. Everyone wants to know the good-looking smart funny guy who is the life of the room. This is more probable than the first possibility.
Three, I have a doppelganger. One of my many secret enemies (if they exist) or god (if it exists) or maybe the spawn of those earthworms I ate as a kid, but someone somewhere made this person to trail me and play me, giving me a bad name. After all, who doesn't love the good old fashioned total annihilation of the Ubermensch? This possibility, is of course, very highly likely.
If I see one of these fake masked bastards around, I will try my best to do a face off. I mean, come on. First my face, then my identity and sperm, then my sanity which is precarious enough already. Nip it in the bud, I say!
Increasingly, I have been faced with such situations. Random people in random places think I am someone else equally random. The guy at a property dealer's office who wanted my entire life history just to figure out where he knew me from. I finally told him he must have seen me on TV. The girl at a film studio who swore she met me the previous night at a party in Oshiwara when I hadn't been there in at least half a year. I blamed it on her beer goggles from the previous night, making some hobo look as sexy as me. This guy in the pub last night who got really annoyed at me not being a part of the Noida drag, whatever that is. Sounds like a bunch of half-witted trolls, at best. Anyway, it ended on a mutual fuck-you note, topped with stupid laughter.
Anyhow, these and other such instance have caused some thinking about why this could be happening.
One, my face is rather commonplace. Given the laws of probability and the human populace and my baseless estimates, I guess there could be about 10000 or so other people on this planet with the same face as me. I mean, I have seen strangers I have thought looked a lot like some friend or acquaintance of mine, and on one occasion, I also asked a guy if he was Shiv. But that was based more on similarity of mannerisms than anything else. Anyhow, so yeah, this is a likely possibility. I would be more convinced though if I ever saw one of my lookalikes with my own two eyes.
Two, people are blind as dicks. They can't tell their own elbows from their someone else's arse. So they think they get more arse than they actually do. Same way, wishful thinking. Everyone wants to know the good-looking smart funny guy who is the life of the room. This is more probable than the first possibility.
Three, I have a doppelganger. One of my many secret enemies (if they exist) or god (if it exists) or maybe the spawn of those earthworms I ate as a kid, but someone somewhere made this person to trail me and play me, giving me a bad name. After all, who doesn't love the good old fashioned total annihilation of the Ubermensch? This possibility, is of course, very highly likely.
If I see one of these fake masked bastards around, I will try my best to do a face off. I mean, come on. First my face, then my identity and sperm, then my sanity which is precarious enough already. Nip it in the bud, I say!
Friday, October 08, 2010
A Hair In My Opulence
Not necessarily like Neo from the Matrix, but every now and then, I feel like I am singled out. Not by god or dog, or by the Machine, and certainly not for liberation of something or someone. If anything, it is frustrating. Let me elaborate.
During my latter half of stay in London, often times when the beauty living with us two beasts cooked Indian food, she would use whole green chillies to flavour the food. She would usually remove them but sometimes, some got left in. And when we were eating, all those whole chillies would somehow always make their way to ladle just when it was pouring contents in my plate. And I would usually discover them when I tasted fire in my mouth.
Chillies are still alright, at the end of the day. At least they are food. But I don't feel quite the same way about hair. Especially hair that is not mine or of someone whose hair I wouldn't mind having in my mouth even otherwise. And it rankles all the more when it turns up in places otherwise impeccable, such as the Oberoi UdaiVilas where I spent 3 magnificent days soaking in the opulence.
Before that though, we went for lunch at a restaurant called 1559 AD. We had dined there the previous evening and besides the great food, we were also very pleased with the friendliness of the staff. So our expectations were as such, and when I pointed out the hair in my food to the waiter, I was told that the hair must be my own! Of course, being comparatively used to, as I am, to hair in my food, I put aside the strand and continued eating, only to be interrupted by another waiter who quickly whisked the hair away, and suddenly, the incident never happened!
That is perhaps precisely why I kept laughing in indignant disbelief when I found yet another strand, this time during breakfast at the Oberoi, and inside a block of butter at that. In the middle of those lush, luxurious, beautiful, serene, almost unreal surroundings, it was a harsh reminder of the omnipresence of both human folly and human hair, and of course, also a fresh gust of feeling singled out.
But the holiday itself was superb. I was slightly apprehensive about how it would turn out, but it turned out really well. And I can't thank her enough for it. Even with her faults, she is still the best and will always occupy that spot bang in the centre of my atria and ventricles. It is a pity that this was the last vacation I will have with her. No one is more fun. But I am glad we did this together.
During my latter half of stay in London, often times when the beauty living with us two beasts cooked Indian food, she would use whole green chillies to flavour the food. She would usually remove them but sometimes, some got left in. And when we were eating, all those whole chillies would somehow always make their way to ladle just when it was pouring contents in my plate. And I would usually discover them when I tasted fire in my mouth.
Chillies are still alright, at the end of the day. At least they are food. But I don't feel quite the same way about hair. Especially hair that is not mine or of someone whose hair I wouldn't mind having in my mouth even otherwise. And it rankles all the more when it turns up in places otherwise impeccable, such as the Oberoi UdaiVilas where I spent 3 magnificent days soaking in the opulence.
Before that though, we went for lunch at a restaurant called 1559 AD. We had dined there the previous evening and besides the great food, we were also very pleased with the friendliness of the staff. So our expectations were as such, and when I pointed out the hair in my food to the waiter, I was told that the hair must be my own! Of course, being comparatively used to, as I am, to hair in my food, I put aside the strand and continued eating, only to be interrupted by another waiter who quickly whisked the hair away, and suddenly, the incident never happened!
That is perhaps precisely why I kept laughing in indignant disbelief when I found yet another strand, this time during breakfast at the Oberoi, and inside a block of butter at that. In the middle of those lush, luxurious, beautiful, serene, almost unreal surroundings, it was a harsh reminder of the omnipresence of both human folly and human hair, and of course, also a fresh gust of feeling singled out.
But the holiday itself was superb. I was slightly apprehensive about how it would turn out, but it turned out really well. And I can't thank her enough for it. Even with her faults, she is still the best and will always occupy that spot bang in the centre of my atria and ventricles. It is a pity that this was the last vacation I will have with her. No one is more fun. But I am glad we did this together.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Pollution as Religion
Today is the biggest religious festival this city celebrates, among the hundred others. Statues of Ganesh are carried around on trucks and lorries, accompanied by many many people of all ages, shapes and sizes, many barefoot, throwing colour around and dancing with abandon to entirely non-devotional music blaring from speakers adjacent to their idol of worship. Any excuse to party, eh?
I am not too bothered by the fact that someone threw colour on me, specifically on me, before I had finished walking the 600-700 metres from my office to the station. I don't want to be a part of the celebration, but that is my problem, and I will deal with it.
But I can't be not bothered by the fallout. As if its not choking with filth already, all this city needs is another fucking excuse to pollute itself even more. There was not a spot on the road that was not littered with discarded plastic glasses and plates. Those came from the free give-away of edibles every 500 metres or so by a bunch of religiously fanatical do-gooders. And no one had the sense to even leave a token dustbin anywhere near. Not that they would have been used, since civic sense is a rather alien concept around these parts. But the city corporation is taking a very tough line with people throwing cigarette butts on the fucking sidewalk. Good thing I don't feel bad about unfairness from life.
Update, the morning after: On my way to the station, I noticed every single drain mouth at least half clogged with remnants of revelry. And no one seemed to care. To be fair though, there is a clean-up operation on at the beaches where volunteers are mopping it up. But to be fair, its only the beach... what about the damn roads?
I am not too bothered by the fact that someone threw colour on me, specifically on me, before I had finished walking the 600-700 metres from my office to the station. I don't want to be a part of the celebration, but that is my problem, and I will deal with it.
But I can't be not bothered by the fallout. As if its not choking with filth already, all this city needs is another fucking excuse to pollute itself even more. There was not a spot on the road that was not littered with discarded plastic glasses and plates. Those came from the free give-away of edibles every 500 metres or so by a bunch of religiously fanatical do-gooders. And no one had the sense to even leave a token dustbin anywhere near. Not that they would have been used, since civic sense is a rather alien concept around these parts. But the city corporation is taking a very tough line with people throwing cigarette butts on the fucking sidewalk. Good thing I don't feel bad about unfairness from life.
Update, the morning after: On my way to the station, I noticed every single drain mouth at least half clogged with remnants of revelry. And no one seemed to care. To be fair though, there is a clean-up operation on at the beaches where volunteers are mopping it up. But to be fair, its only the beach... what about the damn roads?
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Hard to Convince
Time and again, someone or other, usually someone who doesn't live here any more will hear the fact that I don't like the city (if they are impatient) or will listen to me rant against the city (if they are patient), and will then try to convince me about how I will begin to like this city soon enough. How at first, they all hated it and by the time they left, were extremely fond of it. And every time I hear that, I want to dunk them in the sewer that calls itself Mumbai.
But it could still be good for your health. Last night, I got back from Bangalore where I had gone for three days. On the way to my house from the airport, which is a 20 minute drive at most, I did all sorts of respiratory exercises. Well, to be fair, the bulk of it involved simply holding my breath on account of the stench all around. And I am hoping it was good for the lungs. I am glad I will be out of this shithole soon enough.
Shithole is hardly an exaggeration. Not that I tried keeping a tab, but I would have lost count even if I had tried to count the number of people I have seen shitting along the local train tracks every morning on my way to work. Not exactly the best wake-up call, so to speak. And since this is not angel shit but quite human instead, it smells as such. It also makes for funny sights sometimes. Like the 5-year old shitting on the sidewalk while god pissed down from the sky in great fury and his 7-year old sister holding an umbrella over them both.
And I used to think once upon a time that the rain cleanses everything it touches...
But it could still be good for your health. Last night, I got back from Bangalore where I had gone for three days. On the way to my house from the airport, which is a 20 minute drive at most, I did all sorts of respiratory exercises. Well, to be fair, the bulk of it involved simply holding my breath on account of the stench all around. And I am hoping it was good for the lungs. I am glad I will be out of this shithole soon enough.
Shithole is hardly an exaggeration. Not that I tried keeping a tab, but I would have lost count even if I had tried to count the number of people I have seen shitting along the local train tracks every morning on my way to work. Not exactly the best wake-up call, so to speak. And since this is not angel shit but quite human instead, it smells as such. It also makes for funny sights sometimes. Like the 5-year old shitting on the sidewalk while god pissed down from the sky in great fury and his 7-year old sister holding an umbrella over them both.
And I used to think once upon a time that the rain cleanses everything it touches...
Friday, September 03, 2010
Brain Damage, or, The Return of The Zombie
You know the urban legend about ganja killing the brain cells? Or maybe you have seen the Family Guy episode where Peter's drinking brings his brain cells down to one? I don't think that intoxication results in the direct death of brain cells but there is some damage done to the brain for sure. Not for everyone necessarily, but surely for me.
Night before, after a long gap, I once again suffered from memory loss as a result of what I consider not-heavy drinking. Five, at most six, drinks of whisky doesn't count as heavy, does it? Either way, I don't remember the last hour or so in the hotel, I don't remember my boss giving me a ride part-way, I don't remember changing course from a friend's house for his birthday party to my own house, and I sure as hell don't remember what I assume was a fall that left a cut on my forehead and my clothes in a mess. Good thing I didn't wear a suit.
I woke up in the morning at 9 or so to relieve the bladder, and saw dried blood on my forehead. My room looked like a small tornado had gone through it and I just went back to sleep. I awoke again after noon some time, and my first thought was that my office still hadn't called me even though I was meant to be at work by 9:00. Anyway, then I went about my business, cleaning up, sorting stuff, getting food, figuring out events from the previous night, blah blah. No morbid details this time though. :)
Point being this... another memory loss that I am not proud to have. Since it had last happened about a year and a half back, I thought I had been living a more disciplined life when it came to intoxicants. Maybe I am, and maybe its just the residual concentration in my body that has gone up, bringing down the tolerance. Fuck knows. I can't decide now if I should just stop drinking completely or moderate it down to what is called "social drinking" levels. Frankly, the former is infinitely more appealing than the latter half-way bullshit. Then again, I could still drink like a fish so long as I stay indoors instead of being out on the town. As it is, being out and about holds ridiculously low charm for me.
Food for thought for the zombied brain. Food!! May be that is the missing ingredient in my alcohol recipe that is leading to immemorable events!
Night before, after a long gap, I once again suffered from memory loss as a result of what I consider not-heavy drinking. Five, at most six, drinks of whisky doesn't count as heavy, does it? Either way, I don't remember the last hour or so in the hotel, I don't remember my boss giving me a ride part-way, I don't remember changing course from a friend's house for his birthday party to my own house, and I sure as hell don't remember what I assume was a fall that left a cut on my forehead and my clothes in a mess. Good thing I didn't wear a suit.
I woke up in the morning at 9 or so to relieve the bladder, and saw dried blood on my forehead. My room looked like a small tornado had gone through it and I just went back to sleep. I awoke again after noon some time, and my first thought was that my office still hadn't called me even though I was meant to be at work by 9:00. Anyway, then I went about my business, cleaning up, sorting stuff, getting food, figuring out events from the previous night, blah blah. No morbid details this time though. :)
Point being this... another memory loss that I am not proud to have. Since it had last happened about a year and a half back, I thought I had been living a more disciplined life when it came to intoxicants. Maybe I am, and maybe its just the residual concentration in my body that has gone up, bringing down the tolerance. Fuck knows. I can't decide now if I should just stop drinking completely or moderate it down to what is called "social drinking" levels. Frankly, the former is infinitely more appealing than the latter half-way bullshit. Then again, I could still drink like a fish so long as I stay indoors instead of being out on the town. As it is, being out and about holds ridiculously low charm for me.
Food for thought for the zombied brain. Food!! May be that is the missing ingredient in my alcohol recipe that is leading to immemorable events!
Thursday, August 05, 2010
Telling a Tall Tale
But before I tell it, here is a bit of hilarious trivia. Well, not so trivial for me actually. For all my "hard work and commitment", my office has given me a "Best Performer of the Month" award for the month gone by. When I got the email about it, I laughed so hard, my head hurt. Anyway, what it means is that I get 3 additional days of leave, free stay at an Oberoi of my choice anywhere in the country to spend those 3 days in, and the return air fare. As I said, not so trivial for me... Now, if they only let me take those 3 days off...
On Monday morning, I couldn't be bothered to go to work. A dear friend of mine had been in town and had spent the night at mine and I had been up all night and blah blah. So I called in sick. I try come up with different excuses, just to keep the creative juices flowing, you know.
So I told them that I had gone to donate blood, didn't sleep enough or eat anything before I did, and so passed out a minute or so after they pulled the needle out of my arm. I figured I would have to furnish more details when I went to work the next day. So I utilised the help of my maid's deceased husband who happily agreed to go through a by-pass surgery and to have his blood group as A+ve. I also invented a conversation with the doctor who told me about facts of blood donation and drug consumption, specifically marijuana. It was actually quite good I did that, since it also served the noble purpose of dispelling the surrounding myths among my colleagues.
In case you are delusional too, here are facts. it doesn't matter whether you smoke pot or not. Donate all the blood you want so long as you are not stoned at the time of donating. And even that concern is for your health, not the recipient's. THC is a fat-soluble substance and leaves the bloodstream in less than a week on its own. So nothing to worry about, you tree-hugging hippies. You can still save the world with your good intentions, stupid plans and stoned blood.
But yes, the point is that my excuse was very well received. No one even bothered to look for the tell-tale puncture marks on my arms which I couldn't be bothered to paint on. Now I hope that someone from work will see this.
On Monday morning, I couldn't be bothered to go to work. A dear friend of mine had been in town and had spent the night at mine and I had been up all night and blah blah. So I called in sick. I try come up with different excuses, just to keep the creative juices flowing, you know.
So I told them that I had gone to donate blood, didn't sleep enough or eat anything before I did, and so passed out a minute or so after they pulled the needle out of my arm. I figured I would have to furnish more details when I went to work the next day. So I utilised the help of my maid's deceased husband who happily agreed to go through a by-pass surgery and to have his blood group as A+ve. I also invented a conversation with the doctor who told me about facts of blood donation and drug consumption, specifically marijuana. It was actually quite good I did that, since it also served the noble purpose of dispelling the surrounding myths among my colleagues.
In case you are delusional too, here are facts. it doesn't matter whether you smoke pot or not. Donate all the blood you want so long as you are not stoned at the time of donating. And even that concern is for your health, not the recipient's. THC is a fat-soluble substance and leaves the bloodstream in less than a week on its own. So nothing to worry about, you tree-hugging hippies. You can still save the world with your good intentions, stupid plans and stoned blood.
But yes, the point is that my excuse was very well received. No one even bothered to look for the tell-tale puncture marks on my arms which I couldn't be bothered to paint on. Now I hope that someone from work will see this.
Monday, August 02, 2010
March of the Dust Biters
I spent most of last month out of town. A week spent in Delhi, a life-changing one. Then another between Mirzapur and Varanasi for my first cousin's (on one side of the family) wedding, a very unusual affair insofar as family weddings go. Then another 2 days in Calcutta for another first cousin's (the other side of the family) wedding, a more or less typical affair with aunts desperate to seem me tying the knot too.
A common streak in both the weddings I attended though was my extended family's general reaction to my appearance which attached itself to the word 'hippie'. My well-crafted moustache was sacrificed to escape the interminable conversations it was being made the centre of, quite literally even. Many would have been the faces that would have lit up had I also shortened my hair.
But its all good. I have secured invitations to and places to stay at in at least 10 different countries and made my favourite younger cousin try charas as per her wish. Plus, it gave me a much needed break from work.
But before any of this, while still in Delhi, I took what is perhaps the biggest step in my life so far. So I am going to be one woman's man from now on. Give it a serious shot, if nothing else. No reason why I shouldn't be able to do it, eh? In the end, it better fucking turn out real swell, damnit!. Ah, the long march towards uncertain times... :P
A common streak in both the weddings I attended though was my extended family's general reaction to my appearance which attached itself to the word 'hippie'. My well-crafted moustache was sacrificed to escape the interminable conversations it was being made the centre of, quite literally even. Many would have been the faces that would have lit up had I also shortened my hair.
But its all good. I have secured invitations to and places to stay at in at least 10 different countries and made my favourite younger cousin try charas as per her wish. Plus, it gave me a much needed break from work.
But before any of this, while still in Delhi, I took what is perhaps the biggest step in my life so far. So I am going to be one woman's man from now on. Give it a serious shot, if nothing else. No reason why I shouldn't be able to do it, eh? In the end, it better fucking turn out real swell, damnit!. Ah, the long march towards uncertain times... :P
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
How Cheap!
As I had written in the earlier post, the office had handed me a German jersey. Well, it wasn't exactly an original official one, but one bought on the cheap from the street-side. Of course, that gives me no reason to complain. After all, they did let me keep it, even though it was not a part of my salary.
So then, I go to work the other day, 2 weeks after the day I received the jersey. And I was wearing it to work. As I was having breakfast, the moron who has been assigned production duties for our football bits comes up to me and stands around gawking. When I asked him if there was something he wanted, he said they needed the jersey back! I said I wasn't particularly keen on being bare-top in office and then asked why it was needed back. Turns out they needed it for another shoot that was happening in the Delhi office.
So they had gone around, collecting all the 8 t-shirts they had handed out. Based on personal ideas of principle, I refused. And based on personal ideas of prudence, I put it down to the t-shirt in question being involved an accident involving a bit of fire. Someone thought my reason sounded a bit fishy (hardly surprising, given the fact that I was wearing the very same garment on my person), so I had to explain how small accidents involving fire are not exactly uncommon in the process of getting stoned.
Of course, I put this down on official email. I guess that it being written word and all, on office mail to boot, counted as enough evidence of the sad accident which would now lead them to spend another huge amount of Rs 150 on buying another street side t-shirt. Fucking idiots would have probably spent as much on sending the t-shirt from here to Delhi in the first place.
So then, I go to work the other day, 2 weeks after the day I received the jersey. And I was wearing it to work. As I was having breakfast, the moron who has been assigned production duties for our football bits comes up to me and stands around gawking. When I asked him if there was something he wanted, he said they needed the jersey back! I said I wasn't particularly keen on being bare-top in office and then asked why it was needed back. Turns out they needed it for another shoot that was happening in the Delhi office.
So they had gone around, collecting all the 8 t-shirts they had handed out. Based on personal ideas of principle, I refused. And based on personal ideas of prudence, I put it down to the t-shirt in question being involved an accident involving a bit of fire. Someone thought my reason sounded a bit fishy (hardly surprising, given the fact that I was wearing the very same garment on my person), so I had to explain how small accidents involving fire are not exactly uncommon in the process of getting stoned.
Of course, I put this down on official email. I guess that it being written word and all, on office mail to boot, counted as enough evidence of the sad accident which would now lead them to spend another huge amount of Rs 150 on buying another street side t-shirt. Fucking idiots would have probably spent as much on sending the t-shirt from here to Delhi in the first place.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
On the Ball Again
Toni Braxton sang the 2006 world cup song, and Shakira is singing this time around. Which one do you prefer? Ricky Martin, even though Shakira probably has a better posterior. That was my answer.
Friday morning, I reach office at the usual unearthly hour of 6:00 AM. Around 8:30, I am told that in honour of the world cup starting, we will be doing football segments on our channel through the day, one of which would involve the anchor walking around the newsfloor, asking us random questions to do with football. So they gave me a German jersey and asked me what they did.
Got my hands (and feet too) on the Jabulani ball. The anchor didn't want us putting our dirty feet on it because she has to carry the ball in her hands often while doing the football segments. But of course, its a football, its got to be played with. Shame that there are so many computers in the office though, they greatly restricted our playing area.
Saw bits of the opening ceremony and then the first match at some supposedly fancy place called Blue Frog. Still don't know why it should be so bizarrely expensive, but I ain't complaining since it was all free for the TV 'crew', a fact I sadly learnt as we were about to leave. As per our crew duties, I smoked a spliff and had a few beers, took a piss, and left the moment the match was over. Couldn't stand the pretentious sorts talking about absolute fuck-all in most atrociously affected accents.
So long then. A month of footballing goodness. The world, with all its daily bullshit, seems easier to take.
Friday morning, I reach office at the usual unearthly hour of 6:00 AM. Around 8:30, I am told that in honour of the world cup starting, we will be doing football segments on our channel through the day, one of which would involve the anchor walking around the newsfloor, asking us random questions to do with football. So they gave me a German jersey and asked me what they did.
Got my hands (and feet too) on the Jabulani ball. The anchor didn't want us putting our dirty feet on it because she has to carry the ball in her hands often while doing the football segments. But of course, its a football, its got to be played with. Shame that there are so many computers in the office though, they greatly restricted our playing area.
Saw bits of the opening ceremony and then the first match at some supposedly fancy place called Blue Frog. Still don't know why it should be so bizarrely expensive, but I ain't complaining since it was all free for the TV 'crew', a fact I sadly learnt as we were about to leave. As per our crew duties, I smoked a spliff and had a few beers, took a piss, and left the moment the match was over. Couldn't stand the pretentious sorts talking about absolute fuck-all in most atrociously affected accents.
So long then. A month of footballing goodness. The world, with all its daily bullshit, seems easier to take.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
More Than a Modicum of Mediocrity
Argh. Bleugh. Bhrhalh. The bile wants to rise and fly, to cover everything around me in this office where I sit and waste my life on most weekdays, and some weekends too. If I had to narrow down my few and sparse fears to the biggest one, I would say it is being infected by stupidity. And the second would be the slide in to medicority. This place offers high risk levels of both.
People, workers, colleagues, bosses, interns, almost everyone here seems to be in love with the job, bitches about it non-stop, but only in the most inoffensive fashion, and is entirely content with doing the bare minimum. Strange 'systems' are put in place that serve to complicate procedures needlessly, especially when there are many who can't tell their mouths from the posteriors of their superiors. Small surprise that, though, considering they spend most of their time so far deep inside someone else's arsehole that the darkness makes them feel nocturnal. Which also gives them a reason to say something like "I am so tired because I was up all night" and then use that as an excuse for doing even less work than they do.
Beginning of this month, the company handed out appraisal letters. Well, letters certainly, but appraisal, not that certain. Personally, I am not complaining since I have spent only a few months here. But it was easy to see the disparity between those who do their work and go home, and those who come to work and climb up someone's bumhole for the day.
Anyway, there was a lot of grievance relating to this farcical assessment of employees' performance, and as such, there has been a few resignations already, with some more on the way. What it means for me is that my workload increases, since there seems to be no move to hire any replacements. Which means dealing with, and coming to terms with, a lot more mediocrity and stupidity on a daily basis.
People, workers, colleagues, bosses, interns, almost everyone here seems to be in love with the job, bitches about it non-stop, but only in the most inoffensive fashion, and is entirely content with doing the bare minimum. Strange 'systems' are put in place that serve to complicate procedures needlessly, especially when there are many who can't tell their mouths from the posteriors of their superiors. Small surprise that, though, considering they spend most of their time so far deep inside someone else's arsehole that the darkness makes them feel nocturnal. Which also gives them a reason to say something like "I am so tired because I was up all night" and then use that as an excuse for doing even less work than they do.
Beginning of this month, the company handed out appraisal letters. Well, letters certainly, but appraisal, not that certain. Personally, I am not complaining since I have spent only a few months here. But it was easy to see the disparity between those who do their work and go home, and those who come to work and climb up someone's bumhole for the day.
Anyway, there was a lot of grievance relating to this farcical assessment of employees' performance, and as such, there has been a few resignations already, with some more on the way. What it means for me is that my workload increases, since there seems to be no move to hire any replacements. Which means dealing with, and coming to terms with, a lot more mediocrity and stupidity on a daily basis.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Fucking gods
Going through this and that, I came across an interesting poem by James Kirkup. It's called 'The Love That Dares Speak' and you can read it at http://torturebyroses.gydja.com/tbrkirkup.html if you like.
Very amusing, though it should be hardly surprising, that some guy writes a poem, in first person, posing as a Centurion who fucks Jesus, or just the body, after he has been crucified. You are free to make your own judgement, but to me, the poem hardly reads like some sick necrophiliac fantasy. It speaks of much love, devotion and perhaps shame even. Or so I think. Maybe the writer was just taking the piss, who knows?
Anyhow, it reminded me of Mirabai. Back in the 16th century, she was devoting her mind, body, soul to her eternal husband, Krishna, who she adored more than anything else, definitely more than her real-life husband who anyway died in battle. She composed many many bhajans, or hymns, eulogies to her beloved master. Even her writings often crossed that line where erotic began.
What is this phenomenon? Abandoning the self wholly, down to your basic needs like the carnal, to the ethereal, the divine. How does that work? Do these people know things that we ordinary mortals don't? Do they have mind orgasms? You know how they say that the brain is the largest sexual organ we have, right? But surely, this is not what they mean, do they? No touch needed, not even visual stimulus, in fact, no stimulus other than that in your head. WOW.
Maybe this is the kind of stuff that led certain religions to impose celibacy on its preachers? You know, maybe all padres are meant to be fantasising about Jesus Christ's 'tough lean' body, triggering intense orgasms that leave the entire church soaking? And not relieving themselves with kids instead?
On that note, was Jesus gay? A debate for another day.
Very amusing, though it should be hardly surprising, that some guy writes a poem, in first person, posing as a Centurion who fucks Jesus, or just the body, after he has been crucified. You are free to make your own judgement, but to me, the poem hardly reads like some sick necrophiliac fantasy. It speaks of much love, devotion and perhaps shame even. Or so I think. Maybe the writer was just taking the piss, who knows?
Anyhow, it reminded me of Mirabai. Back in the 16th century, she was devoting her mind, body, soul to her eternal husband, Krishna, who she adored more than anything else, definitely more than her real-life husband who anyway died in battle. She composed many many bhajans, or hymns, eulogies to her beloved master. Even her writings often crossed that line where erotic began.
What is this phenomenon? Abandoning the self wholly, down to your basic needs like the carnal, to the ethereal, the divine. How does that work? Do these people know things that we ordinary mortals don't? Do they have mind orgasms? You know how they say that the brain is the largest sexual organ we have, right? But surely, this is not what they mean, do they? No touch needed, not even visual stimulus, in fact, no stimulus other than that in your head. WOW.
Maybe this is the kind of stuff that led certain religions to impose celibacy on its preachers? You know, maybe all padres are meant to be fantasising about Jesus Christ's 'tough lean' body, triggering intense orgasms that leave the entire church soaking? And not relieving themselves with kids instead?
On that note, was Jesus gay? A debate for another day.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
PYTs
The Indian Premier League is in its final stages and has seen far more action off the field than on it. Of course, the off-field politico-legal action is far from over, and its ramifications could very well endanger the very fabric of this lame game's newest avatar. As should be already evident, I don't give two hoots about the game or its fabric or whatever else. But I did come across something in some rag of a newspaper the other day that piqued my interest, so as to say, a something that referred to IPL, aka, Indian Party League. Apparently, these after-match parties are all the rage and entry charges for non-player and non-celeb plebeians range around 40,000 rupees.
I take it that these sad lifeless losers with too much money must be really desperate either to get laid or to just get seen by those who presumably get laid often enough. Anyway, how the hell those morons decide to spend their parents' hard earned money is hardly my concern. What actually caught my eye was the photographs of some totally random women collectively called "non-celeb PYTs".
Now this PYT phenomenon, there is an interesting one. Pretty Young Thing, it stands for. What I haven't figured is, is that supposed to be 'pretty young' thing, as in, quite young? Or is it 'pretty AND young' thing, like an 18-year old babe? Or is it pretty young 'thing', like a pimple-faced nerd version of the Marvel character? What, what, what?
I mean, it certainly can't mean just 'pretty young thing'. Not one of those women in the photograph fit the simple definition. They were certainly not pretty, they were hardly young, but I guess you could call them things safely, without insulting the word "things". And judging by their actions, that would be about right, it seems. Fucking retards, the whole bunch of them.
Pathetic Yucky Twats.
I take it that these sad lifeless losers with too much money must be really desperate either to get laid or to just get seen by those who presumably get laid often enough. Anyway, how the hell those morons decide to spend their parents' hard earned money is hardly my concern. What actually caught my eye was the photographs of some totally random women collectively called "non-celeb PYTs".
Now this PYT phenomenon, there is an interesting one. Pretty Young Thing, it stands for. What I haven't figured is, is that supposed to be 'pretty young' thing, as in, quite young? Or is it 'pretty AND young' thing, like an 18-year old babe? Or is it pretty young 'thing', like a pimple-faced nerd version of the Marvel character? What, what, what?
I mean, it certainly can't mean just 'pretty young thing'. Not one of those women in the photograph fit the simple definition. They were certainly not pretty, they were hardly young, but I guess you could call them things safely, without insulting the word "things". And judging by their actions, that would be about right, it seems. Fucking retards, the whole bunch of them.
Pathetic Yucky Twats.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Raped by the Vatican
Joseph Ratzinger. With an erstwhile rodentish name like that, Pope Benedict XVI sure has holes in the past he would like to see filled up, covered and forgotten. Before being elevated to papacy, his holiness (holiness! hahaha! definitely pun intended) used to be in charge of something called the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, a modern day avatar of what was the Inquisition. And for the all the controversy the man may have birthed while being pope by, for instance, talking against condom usage to prevent AIDS in Africa, his time as the 'chief inquisitor' seems to me far more scandalous.
His office oversaw, among other things, cases of sexual abuse by the clergy. And there seems to be quite a storm of these cases suddenly brewing in many countries across the world, made stormier not by the fact that there are so fucking many of them, but more because Ratzinger, or his office, back in the day apparently not just encouraged covering up these cases, but also did little to nothing to remove the abusing priests from contact with potential victims.
Of course, generous and bountiful like the love of god, these priests seem to spare no one. 200 deaf kids fucked by one priest alone? And then, there was a Vatican investigation going on against him at the insistence of his local parish, but it was halted after the poor old paedophile wrote to Ratzinger's office, saying he had repented for his past transgressions and that he simply wanted to live out the rest of his life in the dignity of his priesthood. Wow, this guy had some serious issues with the meaning of the word 'dignity', I am guessing. And yes, obviously, repenting returned to those kids all their collective ass cherries that he popped with all due priestly dignity.
Ratzinger has also been busy issuing letters of apology to the Irish public, saying sorry for all the cover-up activity his office indulged in when it came to the numerous sexual violations by members of the clergy in Ireland. And he has yet to talk about matters much closer home, matters from Munich where he spent considerable time before he went on to the Holy Office, matters that once more dealt with holes best not interfered with, especially if you are a follower of a religious creed that denounces homosexuality as a cardinal sin. Or hang on... cardinal sin... a sin fit for a cardinal? Maybe that's why all these priests love to bum-fuck so many kids?!
To read an account of such things, one wouldn't be blamed for mistaking it for the works of Marquis de Sade, who at least to his credit, was bluntly honest about it. Imagining a black mass from one of his works, complete with the naked underage virgin boys and girls and the dirty old priests salivating and drooling, not just from their mouths, is not that difficult to set under the dome of the Vatican suddenly.
His office oversaw, among other things, cases of sexual abuse by the clergy. And there seems to be quite a storm of these cases suddenly brewing in many countries across the world, made stormier not by the fact that there are so fucking many of them, but more because Ratzinger, or his office, back in the day apparently not just encouraged covering up these cases, but also did little to nothing to remove the abusing priests from contact with potential victims.
Of course, generous and bountiful like the love of god, these priests seem to spare no one. 200 deaf kids fucked by one priest alone? And then, there was a Vatican investigation going on against him at the insistence of his local parish, but it was halted after the poor old paedophile wrote to Ratzinger's office, saying he had repented for his past transgressions and that he simply wanted to live out the rest of his life in the dignity of his priesthood. Wow, this guy had some serious issues with the meaning of the word 'dignity', I am guessing. And yes, obviously, repenting returned to those kids all their collective ass cherries that he popped with all due priestly dignity.
Ratzinger has also been busy issuing letters of apology to the Irish public, saying sorry for all the cover-up activity his office indulged in when it came to the numerous sexual violations by members of the clergy in Ireland. And he has yet to talk about matters much closer home, matters from Munich where he spent considerable time before he went on to the Holy Office, matters that once more dealt with holes best not interfered with, especially if you are a follower of a religious creed that denounces homosexuality as a cardinal sin. Or hang on... cardinal sin... a sin fit for a cardinal? Maybe that's why all these priests love to bum-fuck so many kids?!
To read an account of such things, one wouldn't be blamed for mistaking it for the works of Marquis de Sade, who at least to his credit, was bluntly honest about it. Imagining a black mass from one of his works, complete with the naked underage virgin boys and girls and the dirty old priests salivating and drooling, not just from their mouths, is not that difficult to set under the dome of the Vatican suddenly.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Stop, eat, sleep, swim
Got to Bangalore yesterday morning. A week off from work which has become infinitely more anal ever since my CEO asked me to stop wearing t-shirts to work. Fucking arseholes, I wonder why they are so fucking stuck up about how other people dress. I mean, if I were showing on telly every now and then, I could understand his desire to have me "look good" by wearing a stiff collar and things, but I am never on camera, unless it is lounging somewhere in the far background or some such, unintentionally at that. And there are plenty other t-shirt clad people in my office doing exactly that. Or am I being singled out only because I sit right outside the CEO's cabin and spend a lot of time joking, laughing and cursing?
The plan was to eat a lot, sleep a lot, swim a lot, and perhaps smoke a ton of weed too. I have already covered ground with the first two objectives. Went swimming a while ago, but the water was so fucking cold, I got a headache and had to leave the pool after some 4 measly laps. Will make sure I go to the pool in the afternoons from tomorrow. As for the last part of the so-called plan, only 2 joints smoked last night but I ain't complaining at all about that. Getting high is not high on my priority list right now, given the amount of alcohol my system has ingested in the last couple of weeks. But I might still go tour a vineyard on the city's outskirts.
Now I need to procure shirts so that the CEO's white arse doesn't try to shit over me again. How exactly the fuck does wearing a shirt make one more professional is beyond me. I mean, there are retards in my office who wear shirts, sure enough, but do little else that would contribute to the profession the company is engaged in. Fucking appearances fuck. It really pisses me off. Maybe I will go find the gaudiest shirts I can bear to wear, some Hawaiian beach prints, some orange Om-covered, and whatever else. It would be interesting to see that old white fart's reaction to those, seeing as they will still be shirts.
Anyway, enough office talk already poisoning this holiday. So another post on another subject soon!
The plan was to eat a lot, sleep a lot, swim a lot, and perhaps smoke a ton of weed too. I have already covered ground with the first two objectives. Went swimming a while ago, but the water was so fucking cold, I got a headache and had to leave the pool after some 4 measly laps. Will make sure I go to the pool in the afternoons from tomorrow. As for the last part of the so-called plan, only 2 joints smoked last night but I ain't complaining at all about that. Getting high is not high on my priority list right now, given the amount of alcohol my system has ingested in the last couple of weeks. But I might still go tour a vineyard on the city's outskirts.
Now I need to procure shirts so that the CEO's white arse doesn't try to shit over me again. How exactly the fuck does wearing a shirt make one more professional is beyond me. I mean, there are retards in my office who wear shirts, sure enough, but do little else that would contribute to the profession the company is engaged in. Fucking appearances fuck. It really pisses me off. Maybe I will go find the gaudiest shirts I can bear to wear, some Hawaiian beach prints, some orange Om-covered, and whatever else. It would be interesting to see that old white fart's reaction to those, seeing as they will still be shirts.
Anyway, enough office talk already poisoning this holiday. So another post on another subject soon!
Friday, March 05, 2010
The Creed of Tolerancy
When we went for that vacation to Tarkarli, we had been warned by her dad to be careful, to be wary of the Shiv Sainiks and other fundamentalist Hindu groups who have been harassing yougsters in many parts of the country. The reason for harassment could be anything from celebrating Valentine's Day (which I personally find quite stupid, but no reason to harass anyone for) to getting 'intimate' in public (warped as their insanely narrow definition of 'intimate' may be), or even standing in too much proximity if the twosome in question happen to not be entangled in the ties of matrimony. The fact that the weekend we went on holiday also happened to accommodate Valentine's Day only heightened her dad's concerns.
So it was no surprise when a cop we were asking for directions started questioning me as to why I was driving topless. The aircon in the car was on, I was shirt-less and yet, I was sweating. And I pointed out as much to the cop, who to my mild surprise, looked us over once, said to himself more than to us that we were on holiday and pointed us on our way.
Anyway, some days back, MF Husain was trying to decide whether to give up his Indian citizenship and become a national of Qatar instead, the country he has been living in ever since his self-imposed exile triggered by the many threats issued against him. These threats, not very different from the fatwa issued by the Ayotallah against Salman Rushdie, were set out by fundamentalist Hindu groups whose fanaticism led them to proclaim his paintings of Hindu goddesses and Mother India as obscene and hence making him worthy of premature death.
This is not about raking up the issue however. I saw this bit on one of the gazillion TV screens in the office and casually remarked to a colleague about how I thought it was fucked up. The response was "It's a good thing only, that fucker should stay out". At my "What the...?!", the response changed. It went "Actually, no, he should come back. Else, how will we ever beat up the mother-fucker?"
When I argued about artistic freedom to interpret and the subjectivity of obscenity, I was told that I should respect other peoples' opinions, and to live and let live. Now that's rich, don't you think? I mean, how often do you get an intolerant cunt asking you to respect others' opinions? And this particular individual talking of obscenity? I mean, he is the kind of creep who stands on the office balcony looking down at women exercising a few floors below just so he can see some jiggling boobs. People like him brandishing intolerance for obscenity really takes the cake.
And oh, I also have a word for anyone talking about the zodiac. This arse-wipe and me share the same birthdate. And if anyone tells me (in person) that he and me are alike, be ready for a nice punch on the face. After all, a display of intolerance will only be fair, won't it?
So it was no surprise when a cop we were asking for directions started questioning me as to why I was driving topless. The aircon in the car was on, I was shirt-less and yet, I was sweating. And I pointed out as much to the cop, who to my mild surprise, looked us over once, said to himself more than to us that we were on holiday and pointed us on our way.
Anyway, some days back, MF Husain was trying to decide whether to give up his Indian citizenship and become a national of Qatar instead, the country he has been living in ever since his self-imposed exile triggered by the many threats issued against him. These threats, not very different from the fatwa issued by the Ayotallah against Salman Rushdie, were set out by fundamentalist Hindu groups whose fanaticism led them to proclaim his paintings of Hindu goddesses and Mother India as obscene and hence making him worthy of premature death.
This is not about raking up the issue however. I saw this bit on one of the gazillion TV screens in the office and casually remarked to a colleague about how I thought it was fucked up. The response was "It's a good thing only, that fucker should stay out". At my "What the...?!", the response changed. It went "Actually, no, he should come back. Else, how will we ever beat up the mother-fucker?"
When I argued about artistic freedom to interpret and the subjectivity of obscenity, I was told that I should respect other peoples' opinions, and to live and let live. Now that's rich, don't you think? I mean, how often do you get an intolerant cunt asking you to respect others' opinions? And this particular individual talking of obscenity? I mean, he is the kind of creep who stands on the office balcony looking down at women exercising a few floors below just so he can see some jiggling boobs. People like him brandishing intolerance for obscenity really takes the cake.
And oh, I also have a word for anyone talking about the zodiac. This arse-wipe and me share the same birthdate. And if anyone tells me (in person) that he and me are alike, be ready for a nice punch on the face. After all, a display of intolerance will only be fair, won't it?
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Seeing Dolphins - Check
Yes, I took that photograph, without looking at the viewfinder at that, since that could have meant getting neither the photograph or a unobstructed free view of the dolphin itself. And after sitting in the boat for over half an hour, doing nothing but waiting and listening to the largely one-sided conversation between the two boatmen on opposite ends of our boat, and speculating about all the possible scenarios for a letdown (from a total no-show to some guy in a dolphin suit fooling around), I really didn't want to miss it. Not just that, I did some snorkelling too, seeing (and touching, with a great temptation to take away a piece) corals, among other marine flora and fauna.
The place is called Tarkarli, down the coastline of Maharashtra. It is small, quiet, clean, paradise for sea-food lovers (I am not one of them, but she is), with a calm shallow sea whose clear water is most inviting for a swim. And the beach, I am certain I have never seen one emptier. Not even the private beach of the resort I stayed in at Goa. You could commit a murder in broad daylight with a high chance of getting away with it. But will you be holidaying with someone you want to murder? Actually, one never knows... I sort of have!
The drive from Mumbai was arduous. I sat in the car at 0600 hours and with a few, largely necessary, stops, we reached our hotel at 0200 hours the following morning. The one big detour, 4-5 hours worth, was a stopover at Murud-Janjira to see a 900 year old castle about a kilometre off the coast, made by some African trader-rulers back in the day. Anyhow, it was still 20 hours on the damn road, driving through the ghat sections too, at night, on the highway, all of it a first for me. But I guess I don't bullshit when I say I learn quick. The drive back was completed in less than 12 hours, and that includes the insane traffic in this stinky shithole of a city that I live in. Despite the detour, that is at least 3 hours, or 20%, less time. And much to the relief of my cousin who had generously lent me the car, the vehicle came back as it had left.
So take my tip and go there, or somewhere in the vicinity, if and when you can. A true delight.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Last 2-3 weeks
A sudden downpour of visiting friends meant I spent much time meeting them, and doing what friends do when they catch up after a long time. It led to relative sleep deprivation, which would be made up for on the weekends. Plus, of course, there is all the anime to catch up on and zombies to kill, all packed in to miserably short weekends.
There was also a weekend where some office colleagues were trying to get one of the brethren started down love lane, which is simply another way of saying, they were trying to set him up with someone. The fact that the chosen night was to celebrate someone else's birthday, and the fact that the girl in question had certain sentiments towards the birthday boy (wrote him an excellent poem in Hindi), made matters, well, complicated. Anyway, surprisingly, that story turned out better than anyone expected. Only now, the new stroller down the lane has been packed off to Delhi by the office and he can't complain enough.
I tired of my French beard and now sport a handle-bar that has evoked many varied reactions, ranging from "stupid" to "scary" to "Mexican drug lord". The last one, though still quite off the mark, led me to coin a new word: Druggler. The meaning should be self evident, and for those for who it is not, it's just a combination of a drug & smuggler. Now I am contemplating whether I should let the lower ends grow in to an Oriental style long droopy moustache, coming down to my Adam's apple, which I will then tie pink and blue rubber-bands on. Ah, but the wait...
Another solar eclipse came and went, this one the first AND the longest of this century, or was it the millennium? Don't know how many of you were in the viewing path, and more specifically, how many were in the path of totality. There was quite a mixed crowd here in my office, where I heard things about how pregnant women shouldn't watch it even on TV, how one can't eat anything for the entire duration it is in the region (read, about 7 hours) and other nonsense I don't care to remember. For my part, I had arranged for an x-ray plate that I used to both watch it and to initiate some first-timers. Good deed for the year done and over with. Of course, my office people need to get some life anyway. I heard a rumour doing the rounds claiming I have a "soft corner" for married women. I promptly put the record straight, saying if I had a soft corner for some woman, her marital status was most certainly her problem, not mine.
Oh, to my own surprise, rather pleasant at that, I won some money playing poker on new year's night. And I had the good sense to quit while I was ahead. And now, I am even more interested in what the next month will bring, seeing as it is the time the astrologer spoke of!
There was also a weekend where some office colleagues were trying to get one of the brethren started down love lane, which is simply another way of saying, they were trying to set him up with someone. The fact that the chosen night was to celebrate someone else's birthday, and the fact that the girl in question had certain sentiments towards the birthday boy (wrote him an excellent poem in Hindi), made matters, well, complicated. Anyway, surprisingly, that story turned out better than anyone expected. Only now, the new stroller down the lane has been packed off to Delhi by the office and he can't complain enough.
I tired of my French beard and now sport a handle-bar that has evoked many varied reactions, ranging from "stupid" to "scary" to "Mexican drug lord". The last one, though still quite off the mark, led me to coin a new word: Druggler. The meaning should be self evident, and for those for who it is not, it's just a combination of a drug & smuggler. Now I am contemplating whether I should let the lower ends grow in to an Oriental style long droopy moustache, coming down to my Adam's apple, which I will then tie pink and blue rubber-bands on. Ah, but the wait...
Another solar eclipse came and went, this one the first AND the longest of this century, or was it the millennium? Don't know how many of you were in the viewing path, and more specifically, how many were in the path of totality. There was quite a mixed crowd here in my office, where I heard things about how pregnant women shouldn't watch it even on TV, how one can't eat anything for the entire duration it is in the region (read, about 7 hours) and other nonsense I don't care to remember. For my part, I had arranged for an x-ray plate that I used to both watch it and to initiate some first-timers. Good deed for the year done and over with. Of course, my office people need to get some life anyway. I heard a rumour doing the rounds claiming I have a "soft corner" for married women. I promptly put the record straight, saying if I had a soft corner for some woman, her marital status was most certainly her problem, not mine.
Oh, to my own surprise, rather pleasant at that, I won some money playing poker on new year's night. And I had the good sense to quit while I was ahead. And now, I am even more interested in what the next month will bring, seeing as it is the time the astrologer spoke of!
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