Amy and The Fifth Beatle

What Time Will You Be Home Tonight, Honey?

2011-03-24T16:27:00.004+05:30

There's also point on the X-axis (that's the horizontal one, people) beyond which the official "time you spend at work" is not really the "time you spend at work", if you know what I mean. Things start to get rather messy at that point onward.

When You Have Nothing To Say...

2011-03-14T16:41:00.003+05:30

I'm trying to figure out where "ohk" slots in. Any others that you personally hate?

To Look or Not to Look?

2011-02-22T20:45:00.008+05:30

Sometimes people are going to ask you questions. You're going to have to answer them. However, here's the catch—in some cases you must absolutely not "look" before answering. And in other cases, it's extremely important that you do look.

To help you out, here are some examples.

If you need a very broad thumb rule, it would be this. If the questioner is a girl, you're better off not looking. If it's a guy, you probably should look.

The final example actually happened to me the other day, and true enough, the guy did look. Unfortunately, it was at the girl and not my teeth.

Is There Anybody Out There?

2010-12-17T21:15:00.003+05:30

Hey guys (and lovely women too)! Does anyone still watch this space? Signing into Blogger after more than a year sort of gives me the creeps. But I do want to start blogging again!

I hate to say it but it feels like the creativity (and boy there was some insanely crazy made-up fantasy in a lot of the early posts on this blog) has all been sucked out of me. I feel jaded. However, I do have some ideas and reading some of the old posts makes me want to start again.

I just might. Fingers crossed etc.

New DUI Test for Girls

2009-11-15T15:31:00.000+05:30

Anyone heard about the new sobriety test that they've come up with for girls? The policeman stops the car, asks the girl driving to come out and then plays a random song from 10 years ago for her. If she doesn't scream, "Hey! I love that song!" she's probably not drunk.

Oh, they play three songs to avoid the possibility of a false arrest because she actually likes the song.

Click, Send, Goddammit!

2009-05-04T21:10:00.003+05:30

Gmail now has a setting that allows you to "undo" sending an e-mail for up to a few seconds after you click "Send". At first I thought, "Just a few seconds? What difference is that ever going to make!" But as you can see from this chart, that's all you really need. No?

(P.S.: Same applies for blog posts really, but at least I can always click "Edit" with those!)

Headlight Rant

2009-04-22T21:12:00.000+05:30

I'm not sure why people drive with their headlights on full beam even in the city? Surely this cannot be because they don't realize what a pain this is to oncoming traffic. They have oncoming traffic that is coming right on to them! And the first thing they ought to notice is that they cannot see anything because of the headlights of others! And that, I would tend to believe, ought to be their cue to dim their own lights.

But this just does not happen.

Hence I can only conclude that people have NO idea that there even are two levels for their headlights.

So in public interest, let me inform all of you who drive cars that your lovely automobile comes with the option of selecting between not just one, but TWO levels, for your headlights when driving. There's "High" and then there's "Low". And when you are driving in areas (like most parts of the city) where there are street lights and other sources of surrounding illumination, you do NOT need the "High". Yes, this may come as a complete shock to you, but it is possible to see quite well without it!

When you drive on "High", you are not only signaling to the rest of the world that you are an Asshole but are also likely to be the cause of trouble to someone else who cannot even see the freaking road because you have blinded them and hence drives straight into some idiot who just happens to be cycling right in the middle of the street. (For the record, this did NOT happen to me.)

Of course, it is quite possible that people actually know that they have the option of the dipper, but don't give a rat's ass either way about anyone else. These people definitely exist, and they're the same kinds that break queues or yell on their cell phones in public places. But I would like to believe that ignorance is the reason behind this particular failure of humanity rather than sheer apathy. The first can possibly be cured, the second, unlikely.

This Is Not A Good Sign

2009-04-20T18:46:00.002+05:30

When the line between reality and satire gets this thin, it's time to start running for the hills. You have been warned.

Like, Doood, Really....

2009-04-13T11:04:00.003+05:30

The "Dude" Count is also affected by one other unrelated factor—Goa. It increases drastically when the speaker happens to be in Goa. I suppose it is theoretically possible for someone who is very stoned and in Goa, to narrate an entire story solely with the use of the word "Dude".

Best Line I've Read Today...

2009-03-22T13:10:00.005+05:30

"To be clear about the rules that apply: extortion is illegal everywhere, except when it is construed as taxation; the payment of extortion, however, is legal, unless it is construed as bribery."

This is from an article on the Somali pirates here. I've become a big fan of Vanity Fair. Their articles are brilliant—both in terms of style of writing and in the amount of information they convey.

Some other interesting ones:
1. Bernie Madoff and his victims.
2. Christopher Hitchens and waterboarding.

There are tons more, if you have the time that is.

Stop Staring Already!

2009-03-19T21:44:00.004+05:30

Ok, I've just returned from a[nother] trip there and this totally needs saying.

Signing off with promises to update more now that I'm back.

Stare

2009-01-30T14:15:00.001+05:30

I got a 10-second stare this morning. I wonder what that meant.

Paris Hilton

2009-01-26T03:33:00.000+05:30

What are you complaining about?

2009-01-20T16:56:00.000+05:30

A significant amount of the flak that Mr. George Bush copped during (at least the latter half of) his tenure was pointed at rising oil prices. But just like any good boy would do, he seems to have ensured that as he leaves the playground today, oil prices are all back in almost the exact same places that he found them in on entry. Irony.

Bonding

2009-01-20T16:49:00.001+05:30

Co-Passengers

2009-01-12T16:32:00.001+05:30

The best you can hope for, of course, is an empty seat.

Security

2009-01-08T11:53:00.002+05:30

Most of them couldn't tell a Bomb from a Bombshell!

New Girl

2009-01-07T12:42:00.000+05:30

Books

2008-12-30T13:22:00.002+05:30

Don't Drink and Dance

2008-12-26T15:54:00.000+05:30

Questions

2008-12-25T15:50:00.001+05:30

...and then there are the ones that you just know you shouldn't answer but do anyway.

Things I Don't Like

2008-12-25T15:48:00.002+05:30

Wishing you a Merry Whatever.

You Would Think They Would Stop

2008-12-24T14:10:00.002+05:30

This Blog Is Still Alive

2008-12-23T14:45:00.005+05:30

Like any other self-respecting, jaded artist, this blogger is now faced with a decision about the future – what should he do! There’s the easy option of just letting this blog die but I can’t let that happen. There’s the frightening option of releasing a compilation album type “Best Of…” series of posts for your re-perusal, but that’s even worse a notion than the first. And then, finally, there’s the thought of just dragging myself to somehow squeeze out a few paragraphs that seem post-worthy – which, if you’re sharp enough, you might notice is what I’m trying to do now.

I have, however, decided to go with Secret Option no. 4 – cheap-ass, low-budget, easy-to-draw comics which will be based on styles and themes that already exist around the internet. To begin with, I shall attempt some graph comics – influenced by Indexed. (FYI – xkcd is still slightly beyond my graphical abilities – who would have thought stick figures would be so hard to draw)

Here’s today’s. More in the days coming up. The plan is to keep the comics going until I summon up the inclination to start writing again. Thanks for the patience.

Wanted: Sperm Donors

2008-11-19T13:40:00.001+05:30

This is one such story that makes me sit back and thoughtfully scratch the stubble on my chin. Apparently there are far too few sperm donors in Britain. What is going wrong here? I really cannot believe that this is possible. I base my conclusion on a sophisticated and water-tight argument that goes as follows:

1 There are men in England.
2. Men are always willing to jerk off.
3. Jerking off produces sperm.

Are they trying to suggest that it’s almost impossible to find an English bloke who’s willing to lubricate the old axle for free? How about this? Rent a room and put up a sign that says “Free Porn”. I’m sure that will be enough!

I think one of the problems might be the way the whole donation process is currently being carried out. I’m sure they’d be a lot more willing donors if the sperm was to be deposited directly into the, ummm, vaginal orifice of the intended beneficiary. I know I’d sign up for sure! If the woman is clever enough, perhaps she could even get the guy to pay her at the end of the session!

For the record though, I hereby officially proclaim that I am willing to donate sperm if need be, preferably without the quite unnecessary intermediate inconvenience of the cup. If there are any ladies out there desperately seeking sperm—and you know you’re going to be getting the best genes with me—please feel free to get in touch. If you wish, you may also give me a hand with the job (sorry, couldn’t resist the pun)!

I’m not sick—I’m just doing my bit to help improve the world!

Economic Terms Put Simply

2008-10-13T15:08:00.000+05:30

The best line I’ve heard this week:

A recession is when you have to tighten your belt; a depression is when you have no belt to tighten; but if you have no pants to hold up in the first place, then it’s all out panic!

There you go – you need no longer be confused.

Overpopulation: Boon or Bane?

2008-09-27T13:45:00.002+05:30

This article that I stumbled upon some weeks ago is now over 10 years old. It doesn't contain any brand new information, but it is pretty insightful and informative in it's own way.

Those who fear overpopulation share a simple insight: People use resources. They eat food, drive cars, and take up space. Because resources are scarce, the only way to improve living standards, Malthusians argue, is to limit the number of people with whom we have to share these resources.

The rebuttal to this argument is equally simple: People create resources. They bring into the world their time, effort, and ingenuity. Before deciding whether world population growth is a curse or a blessing, we have to ask ourselves whether an extra person added to the planet uses more or less resources than he or she creates.

Do read the entire thing. It's rather pertinent to us living in India, at least, with all the "let's blame all our country's woes on the population".

Drinking Problems

2008-09-23T16:23:00.000+05:30

I think the biggest problem I have with people getting drunk is their infernal need to announce it to everyone around! It seems like whenever someone has had a little bit too much to drink, their most important priority in life is suddenly to grab someone by the ass and go, “Look at me. I’m drunk!” But they won’t stop there. Nah huh. They need to spread that information on to everyone in the world who is within communicable range.

Now, some years ago, “communicable range” used to be confined to people within hollering distance of the subject. That was good. Today, thanks to cell phones and the internet, this has now been broadened to include just about everyone on the planet. I have actually received text messages on my phone (or messages via Instant Messaging), from people I haven’t spoken to in months, telling me that they’re plastered. Really, it’s happened.

I think that is one reason we have so many words for it to begin with – drunk, intoxicated, inebriated, hammered, wasted, smashed, sozzled, tipsy, buzzed, plastered, tanked, loaded, blitzed, trashed, wrecked, bombed or even, if you wish, shit-faced. The list could go on and on. The only reason people keep inventing new words for this is so that they can tell someone they’re drunk. In about three hundred different ways.

Drunk dialing, though, does have its plus points. I can’t count the number of relationships that have been born out of one of the people getting drunk, calling up the other and saying, “You know what? I lurrrve you.” I like it for that.

Stuff like that was so much harder in the old days. If you’ve ever tried calling the love-of-your-life’s house at one in the morning after having gotten smashed only to have her Mom answer the phone, you’d know what I mean. (On the other hand, all these cell phones have completely wiped out the entire “Blank Calling” industry. That used to be big when I was a kid, I remember. Fun times.)

The irony of the whole situation, though, is this – they keep yelling out that they’re drunk, but if you actually ask them, they’ll deny it.

Girl (on two sniffs of Vodka): Oh boy, I’m so drunk. You have no idea how drunk I am. Drunk. Drunk. Drunk!
Me (two minutes hence): Are you drunk?
Girl: Of course not! Don’t be stupid!

True conversation.

And forgive the ramblingness of this post. Apologies to all.

Filed under “Yet To Understand”

2008-09-16T15:43:00.000+05:30

Everywhere I go in this country, there are more men than women. And yet in these same places, the men’s washroom is practically deserted while the ladies’ washroom has a longer waiting period than the local country club.

Awesomely Cool Transaction for the Week

2008-09-14T19:33:00.000+05:30

A friend parks his car near M. G. Road and is asked for Rs. 5 by the parking attendant on duty. The smallest note he has is a twenty and the attendant doesn’t have change. Meanwhile, there’s a beggar pestering him for alms on the side.

My friend, turns to the beggar and tells him he’ll trade him the twenty for a ten and a five, completes the deal with the more-than-bemused beggar, hands the attendant the five bucks, pockets the ten and walks away leaving everyone happy.

Change from a beggar—who would have thought of it!

The Universal Theorem of Download Speed…

2008-09-08T19:47:00.000+05:30

“Any download speed will invariably enter a monotonically decreasing function the moment the ‘Downloads’ window falls under the gaze of a human eye or any other similar observational means. This monotonic decrease will continue for as long as the observation exists. The behavior of the speed once the means of observation have been removed is undefined. (However, should the window be observed once again at some point in the future it is often noted that the speed is considerably higher than what it was when the observation was ceased. This would obviously lead one to conclude that this characteristic decrease is only present when the window is under observation and not otherwise.)”

I might also like to add that despite the overwhelming empirical evidence that lends support to this theory, no rigid proof has been devised as yet. Thus, it is prudent to note that this is not a ‘theorem’ in the rigorous mathematical sense of the term but rather, merely a conjecture. A handsome—though unspecified—prize is on offer for the first person to either offer solid proof of the argument mentioned in the theorem above or provide a clear demonstration of the inverse. (At the risk of repeating myself, the latter is considered, by the scientific community worldwide, to be, for all intents and purposes, impossible.)

Cooking and Me

2008-09-04T16:22:00.001+05:30

I am a relatively decent cook. Most of the feedback that I’ve received on my cooking tends to be fairly upbeat. This would, in large part, be due to the fact that the audience I cater to is quite lenient a judge, has no fancy tastes and is rather partial toward me. In other words, I’m the only one who eats what I cook.

I don’t really like cooking for others. I feel there’s too much pressure to get it right. This is why I like to put up a disclaimer before I start to cook anything, saying “This will not taste anything like what you expect it to. If you are still okay with eating it, let me know now, otherwise I am counting you out.” Most people wisely choose to abstain. Besides no one can ever be really sure exactly what someone like me might slip into the dish, and since most people I know avoid—almost religiously—some item of food or the other, they wouldn’t want to risk eating anything coming from my hands. All this, of course, suits me just fine. I cook, I eat.

I find cooking to be somewhat boring. I cook almost exclusively because I have to eat and am too broke or too lazy to order in or go out. So if I have to cook, here’s what I do—I pretend like I’m hosting my own little cook show. I imagine there’s a studio audience in front of me, three or four cameras around the place, a nice little hat on my head (still imagining, I don’t wear one for real!) and maybe even a surprise guest every so often. Sometimes I’ll pretend like I’m the guest on someone else’s show.

So as I’m throwing in the ingredients, I’ll look up and speak to the audience. I’ll try to do different accents on different days, just to make things a little more interesting. I like to toss the stuff in the pan up in the air every now and then. These days, it often falls right back in too! (Who says I can’t learn!)

Then, when it’s all ready and over I’ll sample it. It normally tastes worse than dog turds in mud, but I’ll somehow manage to put a brave, almost satisfied, expression on my face and go, “Wow! That is just simply dee-li-cious!”

I figure I’m a good showman but a bad cook. Heck, isn’t that exactly what they need for these shows? Maybe, I should apply for one. Hmmm.

Girls and Ordering Food

2008-09-01T22:11:00.000+05:30

There are, to be precise, three kinds of girls in this world when it comes to classification based on their food ordering styles.

There are those girls who will order a dish, take two bites and a nibble and then push it away. The reason given is either “I’m too full! How was I supposed to know they served this much?” or “Eww, this doesn’t taste like what I thought it did at all!” Apparently, in the bizarre world that women come from, servings are two forkfuls—three if you order the jumbo-size—and you’re allowed to call for a sample taste of the dish before ordering it. Of course, it’s not surprising then that they consider the enter restaurant industry on this planet an injustice to the customer!

The second type of girls are those who will not order anything at all—and then proceed to polish off half of your food! And the casual shamelessness that they will do it with! Like it was ordered and brought there especially for them, sent with love from the cook with flowers all around and their name on a nice little card on the top! Her eyes fixed right into yours as if you’re stupid enough to get mesmerized by that and not notice that thieving little hand slide across the table and right into your fries!

Now, I harbor a slight dislike for the first kind and can just about tolerate the second kind, but the third kind I could just shoot dead there at the table itself. Those are the girls that both leave their food almost untouched and attack yours! This must surely rank as at least as grave a sin as any mentioned in the Bible. I don’t care what you do the remainder of your life, if you’re the kind of girl who fits into the third category, you’re going to hell. Period.

I’m sure there’s an exception out there somewhere—a girl who is actually capable of ordering what she wants and nothing more or less than that. And if I find her, I’ll marry her.

“Ask the Sexpert”

2008-08-25T11:48:00.001+05:30

The questions in the “Sex Advice” columns of the daily newspapers (especially The Mirror) always scare me. I’m just worried that people this stupid are even having sex at all. Darwin would NOT be happy.

One the one hand, the couples always seem just so perfect for each other—each one as dumb as the other. Just don’t procreate, that’s all I’m asking of them. Let your stupidity die out with you. Thank you.

WTF Moment of the Week

2008-08-22T16:57:00.000+05:30

One of my colleagues at work, A, threw a small party for the team in the cafeteria today. She’d ordered lunch from outside and it was delivered by a guy on his bicycle. After he’d unloaded the food from the bicycle, she paid him. He asked for extra money stating “rickshaw fare” as the reason. All of us could see that he had come on a bicycle, so this request seemed out of place to say the least.

However, A felt that it would be simpler to pay him than to argue about it. Besides, he could have come by an auto-rickshaw if he wanted, but had chosen to make the effort of cycling so as to save a little money. It seemed okay.

She wasn’t sure how much to pay him though. So she asked him, “How much is the fare from the caterers to here?”

His reply?

“I don’t know! I came by cycle now, didn’t I?”

These are times when you really aren’t sure just how loudly you are supposed to laugh.

Dressage

2008-08-21T18:32:00.002+05:30

So the Olympics are on—everyone’s the sports expert for these two weeks. People, who didn’t know that an event called “Dressage” existed a month ago, are now providing play-by-play commentary as they watch it on television. I would know—my Mom happens to be one of those types.

Dressage amazes me. Just the very fact that it exists. I mean it just has to be the most boring sports event in the world? Are we five-year-old children to sit and look at a bunch of horses dancing around? At least with ballet, you can sit and watch the girls. But horses? This is an Olympic event? I suggest we add nail-clipping, nose-picking and ear-scratching too. They’re about the same level of interesting as dressage—at the very least!

And since it’s called the ‘dress’age – have you seen the way the participants dress? Eighteenth century European style clothing! What’s with that? I’m no fashion expert but if there’s anything I would describe as G-A-Y, this would be it. (Looking at it that way, it goes nicely with the rest of the “sport” though!) The ancient Greeks would have cringed in disgust if they knew that, two-and-a-half millennia later, their hallowed Olympic Games were going to contain an event like the dressage.¹

The commentators try to make the sport a little more interesting. They seem to get excited at the smallest things. I can’t blame them. If you had a job once every four years—you’d be pretty excited about it too! Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone else on the planet shares that enthusiasm except the riders. Oh, and my Mom. I’m sure the horses don’t. Back at the stable later in the evening they probably get ridiculed by the show jumping horses.

Super Stud: So, hey Queenie, what did you do today?
Queenie: Ummm. Nothing much really. Don’t want to talk about it.
Super Stud: Oh! Come on! You can tell me. What’s the big deal?
Queenie: Okay. But listen you mustn’t judge me. Remember, I had no choice. I was forced to do it!
Super Stud: Okay. Okay.
Queenie (quietly): Dressage.
Super Stud (to fellow show jumper): Gaaayyyyyyy.

Queenie bursts into tears.

More on the Olympics later.

¹ Addendum: The ancient Olympics in Greece were very gay. Completely nude men participating and no women allowed to even watch? Can’t get worse that that! They might actually have been proud of the dressage.

A Lot of—What’s That Again?

2008-08-19T20:08:00.001+05:30

I refuse to believe that the use of the term “bull” to denote a Papal decree could be mere coincidence.

I’m Puzzled

2008-08-12T23:52:00.001+05:30

Chinese guys are weird—can’t grow a decent beard and yet I’ve never seen a bald one! It’s almost like the inability to get hair on one part of the face is compensated by the immunity to losing it on another.

Does anyone have an explanation?

Gay Dates

2008-08-12T19:44:00.001+05:30

I’ve been asked out, on occasion, by guys and I have to say that it’s not the most flattering thing in the world. The first thing that you do is start to wonder to yourself what it could be about you that made him think you might be gay (or at least bi enough). You look down to see what you’re wearing. “Could it be these shoes? Is this shirt a little too ‘out there’? Never mind! I’m just going to burn the whole lot!”

You begin think back to everything you’ve said before that. Could you have said something that gave out the wrong impression? Or what about something that you might have written on your blog? Maybe it’s your laugh. Could it be that? You spend of the entire rest of the day thinking about this incident. You’re constantly asking all your friends, “Do I come off as gay to you? Is my laugh too girlish? Come on! Tell me. Tell me, please!”

I, of course, turn down such proposals because I just don’t want it to get awkward later on. Let me assure you that I have nothing against homosexuals; it’s just that I’m not one. I don’t have a problem with a gay person—but I sure as heck have one with his hand sliding up my leg during dinner. That’s one place I just do not want to go.

I sometimes feel, “Hey, why not? I get a free dinner and nothing has to really happen. Might be a good deal.” The problem is that I just can’t. Girls seem to find it real easy to go out with a guy whom they’re not remotely interested in, enjoy a free meal, order the most expensive wine, and at the end of the night, say, “Thank you and good night.” As a guy, I’d find it impossible to do that—even given the opportunity. And plus, going a gay date is bad enough; but going as the girl on a gay date—that’s a little too much.

And yes, folks, for the record—I’m straight.

News Flash

2008-08-12T16:43:00.000+05:30

Yes, I'm lazy.

Interesting Shop-Boy

2008-08-08T18:45:00.001+05:30

Today’s post isn’t funny or anything—it’s just something amusing that happened to me a couple of nights ago. I stopped, after work, at a store to pick up a half-liter bottle of Coke. I paid for the bottle and was in the process of putting it into my bag. The plastic bottle—being refrigerated—was obviously slightly wet on the outside and I was mentally debating whether I should just put it in like that or ask for a plastic bag. I decided that there weren’t any papers in the bag and so it could just go in.

The guy behind the counter was a young boy of about fifteen. He had pulled out a plastic bag from under the counter and was offering it to me—aware that I might not want to place the wet bottle inside my bag uncovered. I shook my head at him and waved a polite, “No, thanks.” I then began to put the bottle in, moving some stuff around.

At that point I heard him say, in English, “Thank you for your co-operation.”

I looked up at the guy—my surprise clearly evident on my face. There were two reasons for the surprise—the fact that he spoke in English (not that he could speak English, but that he did speak English—slight difference there) and the fact that he practiced some form of environmental awareness. Neither of these would feature among the attributes of the average Indian shopkeeper.

I didn’t say anything for a second, while these two thoughts were going through my mind. He saw my silence as a reason to explain. He continued in Hindi, “Well, there was a guy who had come here earlier who bought a small packet of Parle-G biscuits and demanded a bag to carry it in. I tried to tell him that we were running out of bags but he didn’t listen. He was one those goonda types anyway. So I had to give him. It’s nice that you didn’t need one”

I smiled. “No problem.”

Stand Up - 2

2008-07-31T14:29:00.000+05:30

The girl I ate lunch with today was complaining that I was too busy looking around all the time. Well, let me tell you something – guys are always looking. I’ve yet to meet the guy who wasn’t “looking”. In fact, guys are born looking. They come out into the world, see a cute looking mid-wife, they go – “Hey there, sugar. Leave me your name and number. I’ll get back to you. In about twenty years.”

The Difference Between Guys and Girls

2008-07-28T12:13:00.001+05:30

I think the following anecdote goes a long way to describe the difference between the way guys and girls behave. I have these two friends – a guy and a girl – who live in another country. One of their common friends, A (a girl), was supposed to come down to India for a while.

This is how the two friends convey the information to me.

The girl spends half an hour on the phone describing just how amazing A is and how much fun I would have with her around.

The guy catches me on Google Talk and says, “A is coming. Check your mail. Sent you two pics.”

Doctors

2008-07-23T18:23:00.002+05:30

There’s a medical camp at work this week — blood pressure, blood sugar, heart problems, general check up etc. I, of course, haven’t gone. That’s because I’m scared of doctors. For one thing, I don’t want to hear the bad news — “You’re not going to live to be forty.” I already know that, I don’t need someone else to tell that me. Even if it’s for free.

More importantly though, I’m scared of doctors. The biggest problem is that their word is so final. It’s almost like living in a dictatorship. Once you enter that room, anything that doctor says is the law. He tells you to “take off all your clothes and make yourself comfortable” and you have to do it. You can’t say no — he’s a doctor! If she tells you to “hold steady while I insert this long, pointy thing up your rectum”, the best you can hope for is that it’s well lubricated. That’s about it.

I think that’s how hypnotism came about. That’s nothing but a bunch of doctors who realized that their patients will do anything they tell them. And they thought to themselves, “Hey! This is a good way to have some fun, make some money and also appear like magicians at the same time.” Let’s call an audience, charge them to watch and for subjects we can just pick people from there itself.

To me that’s a hypnotist — an opportunistic doctor who graduated bottom of his class in medical school and decided that he can’t really cure anything but that it’s a lot of fun to get people to act like a monkey.

Blind Dates

2008-07-20T02:18:00.003+05:30

I don’t really understand the concept of the “blind date”. I mean you obviously know that the other person has got to be some sort of loser. Just the very fact that they’ve got to resort to the blind date means that they’re not very ‘dateable’. Whom are you expecting? Alicia Silverstone? How desperate do you have to be to say, “Okay, that’s it. I don’t care what you’ve got, I’ll take it.”

Girls, for some reason, love setting people up. Guys don’t. Guys classify all (single) girls they know into four broad categories. There’s the “not dateable”, the “I’ve already dated”, the “I’m currently dating”, and the “I would like to date sometime in the future”. It’s easy to see why a guy wouldn’t want to set any of their friends up with someone from one of the above categories. Girls, on the other hand, just love the concept of fixing someone up. I think girls have only two real motives in life – first to get themselves fixed up and then to fix up everyone else they know. Because it’s never the single girls who are fixing you up, it’s always the girls who are already going out with someone. When they were single, they would never have considered dating you. But now that they’re not, they suddenly seem to think you’re the most eligible bachelor in town – for their friends!

I’ve lost track of the number of times a girl has said to me, “Oh, you’re single right? You should meet my friend X.” It’s like they’re getting money out of it. And X has always got “a great personality”, that’s the other thing. Just once, I’d like to be set up with someone who’s got no personality but looks like a supermodel. Yeah, set me up with a Playmate who’s got the personality of Attila the Hun. That would do just fine, thank you very much.

That’s why I don’t understand arranged marriages either. Because that’s like the biggest blind date of your life. You haven’t met her, you haven’t seen her, you know nothing about her other than the fact that she’s got a great personality.

How utterly desperate have you to be to settle for that?

Stand Up - 1

2008-07-20T02:03:00.000+05:30

I saw two guys, the other day, walking down the street in the hot sun carrying a big, wooden door on their heads. I don’t get it. Wouldn’t it just be simpler just to carry an umbrella?

Free Hugs

2008-07-08T12:30:00.006+05:30

I did the “Free Hugs” thing this past Saturday evening on M.G. Road here in Pune. For those of you who aren’t quite aware of what this involves check out the videos on Youtube or this Wikipedia article. This is the Free Hugs Campaign website.

I will be soon posting more stuff on my experiences in the coming days. I also plan to keep doing this. For now though, here’s an article that I wrote for the Pune Mirror regarding the my adventure.

Stay tuned.

The following piece appeared in the Pune Mirror on Monday, 7th July 2008.

How would you react to someone standing at a street corner with a sign saying “Free Hugs”? Would you be willing to give someone you hadn’t met before a hug if they asked you for one? Why is it so hard to get a hug from someone you don’t know? These are some of the questions I wanted to find answers to when I decided to conduct my “Free Hugs” social experiment.

The idea, of course, wasn’t an original. The concept was started by a person called Juan Mann (One Man) in Sydney in 2004. Since then it’s been carried out in many cities across around the world—and popularized thanks to the online video sharing site youtube.com. When I mentioned trying it out in India to some friends, the responses I got leaned heavily toward “It won’t work in India.” I disagreed but thought it was worth finding out.

I picked M.G. Road because I had expected it to be a Walking Plaza and also because I thought it would have a fairly distributed demographic set. (At the last minute, I found out that the Walking Plaza had been put off for two months because of the rains, so that was a bit of a disappointment.) I could have tried a mall or a multiplex—but in that case I would only come in contact with a certain type of people. I wanted a slightly more varied sample set.

After just one run of the experiment, I would have to say that it was a success. I received a fair share of hugs yesterday and only a couple of really negative responses. Most people who declined, either did so with a smile or just refused to look in my direction at all. That’s okay—everyone has the right to make their own choices. No one told me to get out and go home. So experiment part – success.

There is another side to the whole story though. I actually do believe in the power of the hug. I’m sure every one of us has at some point in their lives felt like that they needed a hug real bad but there was no one around who would offer them one! It shouldn’t be so hard to get one from someone you don’t know. When I stand on the street with a board saying “Free Hugs”, the statement I’m making is that irrespective of who you are—young, old, rich, poor, clean, dirty, anything—if you want a hug, I’m willing to give you one. I think that’s a powerful statement to make.

I plan to continue doing this in the future. Not for the experiment bit—okay, not just for the experiment—but for the sheer fun of it. At the end of the day, each single hug I got, more than made up for all the hugs that were turned down. Hug someone around you now and see if you don’t feel better!

Unsuccessful Ways to Impress Girls at Parties - I

2008-07-02T13:15:00.004+05:30

She: What’s your name?
He: Can’t tell you.
She: What do you do?
He: Can’t tell you.
She: Where are you from?
He: Can’t tell you.
She: Ummm. Is there anything you can tell me?
He: Your breasts are too big, you wear too much make-up, and yea – word of advice – try wearing a bra.

PC Gone Wrong

2008-05-28T12:14:00.001+05:30

Political Correctness can be hard at achieve at times. For example, last week in Goa I saw a sign in the government bus that I was traveling in saying something like the following – “Differently Abled Passengers will travel free of cost...” So far so good. But then it continues on to say – “… on display of their Government Issued Disability Card.” (Emphasis at both places is mine.)

Ummm. Are they “differently”-abled or “dis”-abled? Make up your minds. And if they’re differently abled then why do they have disability cards?

“Couples Only”

2008-05-05T10:57:00.003+05:30

I was at Apache last evening, a local pub, and I ran into what seemed to me (at least initially) to be some pretty strange behavior. Let me explain.

Firstly, I’d gone there with a girl. (No, that isn’t the strange thing!)

Now, the upper floor at Apache has two sections, which I shall refer to as the Outside and the Inside. For some unfathomable reason, the management running the place has decided to reserve the Inside strictly for couples. There’s a board saying “Couples Only” at the entrance to this section. (Okay, that’s strange all right, but it still isn’t what I’m talking about.)

So the two of us have just climbed up the stairs, onto the upper floor, and are looking for a place to sit – in the Outside section – when the waiter tries to usher us into the Inside. “Sir, couples ka andar hai. (Couple seating is inside)”. But Inside looked a little too gaudy and the music was too loud, so we decided to ignore the waiter’s “recommendation” and found ourselves a table on the Outside. A table for four; it was the smallest one available.

Soon the waiter attending to our table arrives and repeats what the earlier one had said, “Andar baito, couples bahar allowed nahin. (Sit inside, couples are not allowed outside.)” Not allowed? This seemed like a little too much. As far as I understood, the board “Couples Only” implied “Only couples can sit here” and not “Couples can sit only here”.

I tried to explain this to the waiter, but he didn’t really seem to get the difference. I was half-tempted to tell him, “We’re NOT a couple. We’re just friends!” But I have a feeling that would have been a waste too. However, I have a penchant for stubbornness, so I finally managed to convince him that the music inside was too loud and thus we would be sitting outside, thank you very much and if he had a problem with it he could go complain to his grandfather.

After he left, I thought about how strange this all was. But within seconds I realized that there was a simple reason that the management had ordered the waiters to ensure that all couples sit inside. A very rational one at that.

The clientèle of the place were mainly male. Consequently, the Inside was almost empty – only one or two tables occupied – and the Outside almost full. The two of us had plopped ourselves down at a table for four. Thus, by sitting Outside, we had denied place to some other group of stags, who could not sit Inside anyway. Assuming that the situation remains like this – Outside full, Inside empty – we had effectively taken up six seats!

You don’t have to be an Economics Major to figure out that that isn’t the best outcome for the pub.

Weddings: Suddenly Less Fun

2008-05-03T01:01:00.000+05:30

It’s like an epidemic and an extremely contagious one at that. Everyone I know - my age, a little older, a little younger - seems to be either getting engaged or married. Literally everyone.

When I was younger, I used to believe that I would NEVER want to get married. I’d picture myself as a single bachelor (pardon the tautology) - the person all my friends would complain to about their wives at parties and other such occasions. A single bachelor accompanied a different girl each time. Or maybe the same one might stick around for a few months, or even a year, but certainly no such bond or commitment as frightening as “marriage”.

In my fantasy little world, I’d imagine them casting lustful glances at the girl I’m with, followed by sleisha fearful ones in the direction of their wives to see if they’ve noticed. “Why does this fool get to enjoy his life as he pleases,” they’d think, “while I’m stuck here with this ol’ hen!” I have a vivid imagination and it’s biased toward me.

Yes, that was the stupid old me.

I think it all started to change about a year or so ago. I can’t put my finger on exactly what triggered it - in fact, it probably wasn’t anything in particular - but I do know that slowly weddings seemed to be going from just happy events to happy events tinged with a bit of sadness and jealousy. I had reached “that” age and I realized that I DID want to get married - and how!

These days, when I hear of an upcoming wedding, I’ll still be happy for the couple - especially if I know one or both of them well. But I’d be lying to myself if I said that deep down - real deep maybe - I didn’t wish it was me instead. Not with that bride, of course, but well, you know.

Basically, I think I’ve had enough of the chicks, I want the hen - and I want her for life.

If you’re getting married and I know you, invite me. But if I appear a wee bit sad at the wedding, you know why.

White Dancers

2008-04-04T18:10:00.000+05:30

(Like I mentioned earlier, I’m currently in Germany and having the time of my life because the clubbing scene over here is wicked. Nothing like the Mediterranean or something, obviously, but a million times better than where I’m coming from. However, there is just one small, little thing… )

White people are just the worst club dancers ever. White guys, especially. If you’ve seen one white guy dance, you’ve seen them all. To be more precise, if you’ve seen one white guy dance for 30 seconds, you’ve probably seen every white dance move ever invented. Twice over.

I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m no great dancer. But even I am far better a dancer than 99% of the Europeans I see on the dance floor. That’s saying something! Put me in the midst of a group of white guys and you could easily mistake me for a professional.

White guys have exactly two moves. The more commonly used move is to hold one arm out in front of you, slightly above head level, palm open and facing down and then to pretend like you’re pressing down on some imaginary invisible object in front you in rhythm with (what you think is) the beat. You’ll see this move everywhere – sometimes two or more people doing it together as a group. When doing this move, it is apparently best to either look down with a very serious expression on your face or look straight ahead with a goofy grin. I guess it depends on how sozzled you are at that point. The only variation possible with this move is to, well, use your other hand. (Old masturbatory joke comes to mind here.)

The second move is used for music with a slightly lighter beat. It involves holding your arms to your sides, bent at the elbows so that your forehands are pointing forward, fists closed lightly, and pretending like you’re jogging in one place and not getting anywhere. Fortunately, no variations are possible here.

White girls tend to move their entire body randomly and vigorously in all directions. This is normally quite pleasing to the eye – since most of them are rather good-looking – but all it takes just ONE somewhat overweight, inappropriately dressed enthusiastic dancer to ruin your entire night. I don’t care how many hot chicas you see on the dance floor, the sight of an ungainly belly – almost unhindered by the clothing over it – heaving itself like a blob of Jello on steroids is going to stamp itself over all of them in your mind. There’s no way you can even try to enjoy the night after that.

This is one reason why I like to dance with my eyes closed.

Germany, Ich Komme Zurück!

2008-03-01T12:58:00.001+05:30

I am scheduled to fly back to Germany on the 10th of March for about 6 weeks. I will be staying in Frankfurt, like the last time. Weekdays will be hectic at work, but I ought to have the weekends to myself. Any suggestions on which cities or towns within the European mainland (within the Schengen Agreement member countries, preferably) are worth a visit?

I visited Paris (hated it, except for Jim Morrison’s grave) and Rome (loved everything about it) the last time I was in Europe, so those two are out. I’m thinking Amsterdam and Prague this time. What do you’ll say?

How Not to Order Food

2008-02-27T19:10:00.001+05:30

Ordering food at a restaurant or café always gives me the heebie-jeebies. I have strict requirements, you see. No, they're not vegetarian or heath related requirements. I always like to leave the place feeling “exactly full”. That means a state where even a single morsel after that would provide a negative utility value. Also, I don’t like food being left behind on the plate when I’m done. So every time I visit a restaurant, I need to pick a set of dishes, comprising of the various courses, so that they all total up, in volume, to exactly the amount of space in my stomach. That is, apparently, something known as an NP-Complete problem. It’s not MY fault I can’t always solve it.

To add to my woes, there are other people sitting at the table to be considered. They’re going to eat some of my food, and surely, I’ll dig into some of theirs. The variables just begin to pile up. And it's really hard to do all these calculations because, let's not forget, the odds are that I'm really hungry!

Then there are the unknowns -- unless it’s a place I eat at often, I can’t really be sure exactly how large the portions are going to be. So I don't even have all the information required to tackle the problem. The best I can so is take calculated guesses regarding the various amounts and hope that my errors turn out to be cancellatory rather than cumulative. Often, I'll get it all wrong.

Whenever we go out to eat, most of the group will be scanning the menu to see what sounds delicious. I'm desperately trying to do triple integration in my mind. My thoughts might go something like this. "Hmmm. I think I'll start with a bowl of tomato soup and then have some of the chicken tikka. But then, I'll need three rotis and if I call for the rice after that, well, let's see. The square root of this is so much, and so blah blah blah [...] blah and then after factoring in Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle and Hofstadter's Law, we get so and so. Damn! Overshot it! Okay, time to backtrack and try another alternative." Soon my circuits will overheat and there'll be sparks coming out of me. After that happens a couple of times, restaurants tend not to allow you to go back there any more.

The point I'm trying to make is that it's okay to have weird idiosyncrasies, but it's probably a good thing to ensure that they don't get the better of you. Also, please ask me out to dinner sometime. No one ever does any more!

Advantages of Being Gay

2008-02-26T13:55:00.004+05:30

I was pondering on and wondering about homosexuality the other day, and I realized that there are quite a few advantages to being gay. Firstly, allow me to state that I believe most people are “bi-sexual”. By this I mean, if 0 is completely straight and 1 is completely homosexual, then most people would lie somewhere in between. A large majority of people are close to 0, but they’re not exactly 0. Most things in this fuzzy world are gray (as opposed to black or white) and so I would assume that it should be no different for one’s sexual orientation. I would define true “bi-sexuality” as somewhere between 0.4 and 0.6, but that’s open to interpretation.

Getting back to the advantages. To begin with, homosexuals operate in a perfectly balanced demand-supply market. There are as many gay men as there are, well, gay men. D = S. If you think demand and supply don’t really matter much you were obviously never an engineering student. As a straight guy in India, I’m swimming against the demand-supply tide. There are more single straight men around than single straight women. Of course, quality will always come out on top and if you’re either rich or have a lot of money (the only two things chicks look for), you’ll get plenty of constant poontang anyway. But it’s a lot harder because you’re in the majority and so you’re devalued that much. Strike one for gays!

Then, as Jerry Seinfeld once sagaciously pointed out, if you’re gay and you’re dating someone with roughly the same build, you automatically double your entire wardrobe. For a guy, this may only mean four pairs of shoes instead of two, but for a girl the numbers are staggering. A gazillion times two pairs of jeans and a squintillion (that’s where you have to squint just to see all the zeroes) times two pairs of shoes. I can’t even do the math. But it’s definitely another plus point in favor of homosexuality.

But the final, and most important, advantage I see to being gay is what I call the “what’s your point?” retort. Let me explain how it works. Normally, when you do something stupid someone else will be quick to poke fun at you saying, “That’s so GAY!” Now, if you are in reality gay, then you can come back with a “What’s your point?” Let me give you an example.

Big Stud: Hey, look at you, calling for the menu at the bar. That’s just so goddamned gay!
Cool Gay: And what was your point again?

Admittedly, this last advantage is only applicable to male homosexuals but I have a feeling it’s slightly made up for by the fact that lesbian have an entire porn industry for their pleasure while gays have practically nothing on the internet that would interest them.

Okay, so on the flip side, being gay means that you can’t visit Iran without losing your head or Israel without shaking the place up (link from here) and in the small eventuality of the Bible actually being true you’re likely to get rogered in hell for all eternity when you die. But to me it seems like it’s totally worth the deal.

What advantages can you think of?

So Cute! (Or Not.)

2008-01-24T12:13:00.000+05:30

One of the biggest advantages, I think, girls have over guys is what I like to call the “So Cute” safety net. If a girl does something well, that’s great – she comes off a winner. If she does something badly, she always has the option, if skilled, to come off looking “So Cute”! Guys don’t have that. They can either pull something off or appear like a loser.

For example, karaoke. A girl who sings a karaoke song well is loved by everyone. So is a guy. But what if they fuck it up? How often have you seen a girl go on stage, rape a song, do a little hip dance and almost everyone in the audience thought that was just “Sooo Cute”! Quite often, I’ll bet, and probably more than that. Now when was the last time you saw a guy manage to do that? Never, right? Imagine a guy who messes his song up. There’s nothing he can do, except maybe find the back door and make as quiet and quick an exit as possible. Same thing with reality shows on T.V. Sanjaya Malakar was not “So Cute”, he was “So Gay”.

Or consider a party. A girl can go up to the guy she likes and botch her opening line up as much as she wants and chances are he’ll still think that was just “So Cute”. Or she could go up to him and ask him for a light, light her cigarette, take a puff and end up coughing – “So Cute”. If a guy did that, it’s plain gay.

Girls can cry while watching a movie or get scared of the dark, and get away with it because someone somewhere will think that’s just the cutest thing they ever saw. Girls who like driving fast are cool, girls who don’t are just being “cute”. Why aren’t guys allowed to get away with that?

You just can’t lose when you’re a girl, I tell you. Us guys have it tough all the way. We have no choice but to be the very best at what we do. There’s no “So Cute” net to catch us if we fall. Who wants voting rights! Bah!

Virgin Problems

2008-01-23T15:59:00.000+05:30

I am often asked rather embarrassing questions by kids around me. They always bring back memories about embarrassing questions I used to ask when I was a kid.

For example, once when I must have been about 6, I realized that we refer to the mother of Jesus as the “Blessed Virgin Mary”. I could figure out what “blessed” meant and “Mary” was obviously her name – but what the heck was “virgin”? I used to attend Sunday School as a kid – yes, a very “Catholic” upbringing – and that’s where I was when I realized this.

So I picked the nearest adult around – one of my Sunday School teachers – and fired it at her. “Why do we refer to Mother Mary as ‘Virgin’. What does that mean?”

For those of you’ll who have never been to Sunday School, let me try to describe the average Sunday School teacher in one line – “Be-spectacled, old prude who never quite managed to get any in her time.” (Ironic that my question dealt with the meaning of the term “virgin”, when you think about it! Who better to answer!) And being the type that they are, Sunday School teachers embarrass easily. As soon as she heard my question she sucked in a sharp breath and turned as red as a monkey’s bum. I knew I had hit a winner.

Looking back at it now, I just appreciate the difficulty of the situation I had just put her in. How in the world does someone explain “virginity” to a kid without first explaining “sex” to them. (Actually how do you even explain “sex” to someone when you haven’t ever done it in your life? But let’s not get into that.)

“Well son, you see,” she started off gamely after recovering from her initial shock, “Joseph and Mary weren’t married. And yet, and yet Mary gave birth to a son.”

“You mean like Hollywood!” I was eager to show that even though I was just a 6-year-old, I was right up there when it came to following celebrity gossip. “Ma’am, is Hollywood full of virgins?”

“No. No. Not at all. You see, son, this birth was special. Mary and Joseph weren’t staying with each other as yet.”

“I see.” It was plainly clear that I didn’t quite see. But she wasn’t going to take any chances. “Class is up for today. Remember to do your homework for next week kids. Have a nice day!”

Can you blame me for believing then, until I was about 10, that children were born when two people – man and woman (whether married or not) – just happened to be living together?

“Need To Change Your Balls!”

2008-01-14T17:32:00.000+05:30

Most of us hate going to the mechanic because we know we’re going to get screwed and there’s nothing we can do about it. That’s because most of us don’t know squat about our cars or motorcycles and when we take them to the mechanic we’re as much of a sitting duck as anything. He’ll throw fancy terms at you -- “fan belt”, “radiator hose”, “bevel gears”, “Gossamer sheets”, “monkey piss”, etc. To be very frank, these sound like nothing that could possibly be in my car -- but what the hell do I know? I’m not the mechanic now, am I?

So I reluctantly agree that “Yes, my wanker shaft does need to be replaced” and “Yes, it is indeed a wise option to be ‘on the safer side’ and put in a new set of lubricated balls”. All the while I’m trying to add up in my mind what this is going to cost me and I wind up with my mental calculator displaying the words “You’re fucked!” Then I ask the mechanic, “How much is this going to cost me?” and get a reply that’s about twice my mentally calculated estimate. (Double fucked!)

But I’m a poor (even poorer by the end of the day), ignorant idiot who has no clue what’s causing that irritating noise somewhere in the trunk and if the mechanic says he’s got to put in new headlights to get rid of it, then I really have no choice but to agree with him. And if fitting a new rear-view mirror can help avoid the grinding sound that comes whenever I shift from third to fourth, then yea - I want that done too!

The point I’m trying to get at is actually this -- how is a mechanic any different from a doctor? I personally hate going to a doctor because I don’t know much more about (the internal functionings of) my body than I know about my vehicle. And if my mechanic can screw me over with a smile on his face, then so can my doctor! When I go to him with a certain problem or just for a general physical (the equivalent of servicing your car), he throws weird medical student terminology at me. Prescribes enough medication to keep the entire population of Colombia high for a month and sends me on my way with a huge hole in my pocket. Just like my mechanic does.

In fact I suspect they probably even use the same words (what would poor, ignorant me know!).

“Your wanker shaft needs changing and you’ll have to lubricate your balls! That should get rid of that headache!”
“Right on, Doc!”

Most people never understand why I hate seeing a doctor. Now I’ve stopped going altogether. (Sometimes I’ll break an ankle or something and the pain will so bad that I have to attach a pair of crocodile clips to my nipples just to take the focus of it, but even then I’ll staunchly refuse to pay the doctor a visit!) Hopefully, after this post people will understand why I’m so scared of going to the doctor. (And also, why I sometimes have two weird protrusions sticking out from under my T-shirt.)

Near-Death Experiences in Bombay

2007-12-10T15:37:00.000+05:30

I was in Bombay this past weekend and being the “when in Bombay, do as the Bombayites do” types, Friday evening found me at Dadar railway station trying to board a local suburban train in the direction of the evening returning-from-work rush. I’m not new to Bombay or the experience of traveling in such trains -- which incidentally can almost be considered an X-treme sport. But this time I not only had the disadvantage of having to fight the evening crowd but was also handicapped by a rather cumbersome travel bag that I was lugging around.

The train comes in, I grab onto the pole in the middle of the doorway with my right hand and try to squeeze myself into the compartment (already occupied by about a gazillion sweaty individuals). My bag is in my left hand trailing behind me.

There’s an old Spanish saying, “Donde comen seis, comen siete”. (Or something like that.) It translates to “Where six can eat, seven can eat.” This might seem like good logic. But I found out that evening, that “where a gazillion can fit, a gazillion plus one can’t always”! So the train starts moving, and I find that my only physical contact with it is my outstretched hand holding onto the bar in the middle of the doorway and about three toes of my right foot that have managed to find about three square inches of free space somewhere on the foot board. (I always knew real estate in Bombay was ridiculously hard to come by, but I was finding out just how bad it really was!)

“This won’t do,” I think to myself. “I’ll just take the next train. And if that’s too crowded, then the one after that, or the one after that...” Death by falling out of a train was never on my list of “Cool Ways to Die”. So I crane my neck around and what do you know -- suburban trains in Bombay can accelerate! And how! We were already moving too fast for me to get off under the best of conditions, and certainly not jumping backwards and with a heavy bag in hand. So much for Plan A.

That’s when exactly two thoughts hit my mind.

The first was -- “Think of something clever to say to these people around you. Last words are always important.”

The second was -- “Ummm, one hand’s keeping you alive and the other is holding onto your [very important] bag! What if someone reaches into your pocket right in front of your eyes, removes your wallet, takes out all the cash and the cards, waves them in front of you, stuffs them in his pocket and then puts your wallet back in! Which hand do you use to punch him?”

The people of Bombay are a good lot though. The guy in front me yells out to some people in front of him, something about “the person behind him being as good as off the train” and “what the hell were they doing not moving forward and giving us some space?” and were they “waiting for him to fall and die before they moved?” It was an impressive display from him, I must admit and people did inch forward and I managed to move from my three square inch hovel to a relatively decent one room house -- enough space to keep both my feet and somehow rest the bag on top of them. I was still by no means safe -- too close to the door, but at least not outside it any more). I had no idea when the next station even came (the platform was on the other side).

The station after that one, however, was on my side of the train. I got pushed out and then pushed back in again and was now living in a (comparatively) luxurious one bedroom apartment! I was just planning my house warming party when I realized it was time for me to alight. I used the good old “float-and-drift-with-the-tide” algorithm there and managed to escape alive, carried more by the crowd than by my own feet.

That is Bombay. And I love it.

At Least He Was Honest

2007-12-04T14:42:00.000+05:30

It’s time to get back to blogging -- even if all I have to offer you today is a small snippet.

The other day, a bunch of us had gone to one of these small dhabas next to our office. The food in our office cafeteria is unworthy even to puke out -- so such places run a thriving business. We sat down at an empty (and surprisingly clean) table and tried to decide on what to order. (This, most of you’ll will agree, is an NP-Complete problem.)

Finally we settled on an order and summoned one of the waiters -- a young lad of about 12. He hurried to our table, pen and pad in hand, looking ready to jot down anything we could throw at him. One of us started calling out our order, one dish after the other. He didn’t put any of it to paper but instead, I could see each name was adding a further ounce of confusion and befuddlement to his face. After about four dishes he was completely lost.

“See,” I started kindly. “You have a pen and paper. Why don’t you just write down the order? There’s no way you’ll retain the entire thing in your mind.”

He just gives me a shyish smile.

“What’s the matter?”, I asked.

“Sir, I don’t know how to write!”

The mystery of why he was toting a pen and paper around may never be solved.

Best “Not Real” Sony Ad Ever

2007-07-17T21:50:00.000+05:30

This evening, after work, I’m in the Sony showroom--looking around in a perfect blend of awe, excitement and lust at all the “cool” gadgets they have on offer.

Behind me a salesman is giving a family--just a mother and two kids, actually--a demo of one of those Surround Sound Home Theater systems. He’s playing the video of ‘Punjab’ by Karunesh on the huge Flatscreen and the audio is blaring from a multitude of speakers spread all around the place. It’s actually quite realistic--and deafening.

Just then, I receive a call on my phone from R. I’m in conversation with a salesman, so I receive the call and tell her, “I’m busy. I’ll speak with you later.”

For a second, I believed she might think I’m at a party or something. But then she sends me a text message, a few minutes later to the tune of this: “Are you watching a movie? I swear I’ll whack you if you’re in a theater watching a movie!”

(By way of an explanation, I’d should probably tell you that I’m not a big movie fan, and I almost never watch a movie at the theater. Numerous attempts by R to get me to go see a film have met with mostly [but not quite absolutely] no success.)

And then I’m thinking, “Is this just the BEST ad for Sony or what?” I’m in the showroom, there’s a Home Theater system playing in the background, someone calls up and actually thinks I’M (of all people) in an actual theater!

Germany

2007-07-13T20:02:00.000+05:30

I will be traveling to Germany next Saturday—21st July, where I shall be for the next two months, approximately. Blogging from Germany ought to be good—but I cannot guarantee anything.

Cheers and hoping for the best.

Addendum: It is precisely stories like this that tickle me in just the right spots and ensure that I can barely wait for Saturday! (HT: Lara)

BarCampPune3 - A Snippet

2007-07-08T03:09:00.000+05:30

I attended BarCampPune3 [blog link] today - well, technically yesterday since it’s 3 in the morning now. It was interesting, due in larger part to the people I met than to the knowledge I gained from the sessions/discussions. Meeting people is always fun - and I didn’t really network as much as I should have.

Here’s the highlight of the day though.

It’s about 4.30 in the afternoon, and we go to the cafeteria to have tea. We grab our cheese sandwiches from the guy handing them out and pour ourselves a cup of tea each. Then Salil notices this huge vessel of thick red liquid lying next to the tea.

“What’s this?” he asks me.

“Tomato soup,” I reply. Saying “I don’t know” doesn’t come easily to me and that’s exactly what it looked like - tomato soup. Why anyone would serve tomato soup at tea was beyond me, but BarCamps are strange places and funny things do happen there.

“I like tomato soup,” Salil says and proceeds to pour himself a cup.

We carry our stuff to a table and sit down to talk. Midway through the discussion, Salil looks takes a couple of sips of his soup and tells me, “This soup is terrible! It tastes like ketchup!”

We don’t pay any attention at that point. When we’re done talking and eating and drinking, we go to place our cups and plates in the dirty dishes tray. That’s when I noticed at all the plates kept there had a thick red liquid in them. I glance around. Yup, everyone’s got the red stuff in their plates and they’re eating it along with their cheese sandwiches!

“Dude,” I look at Salil. “That WAS ketchup!”

Heh!

One of the Great Mysteries Possibly Solved

2007-07-04T12:17:00.001+05:30

I have written before about my not being able to understand or appreciate poetry. I’ve often wondered exactly how poets could make a living—no one I know (certainly not myself, for sure) would consider paying money for “poetry”. Or maybe that wasn’t true—because didn’t some really famous poets exist at various points in the past? Maybe the problem was within me. Maybe only I couldn’t understand poetry, while everyone else could. That could be a possible solution.

I have a new theory—one that actually came about because of something a certain female friend told me recently. Here’s the theory:

Your ability to understand, and more importantly appreciate, poetry is inversely proportional to the speed at which you normally read.

Here when I talk about “speed”, I refer to it on an extremely low level—words and sentences. I don’t care about how many novels you read a year or how long it took you to finish The Lord of the Rings. I’m talking about how fast you read your words and sentences. How many seconds (or milliseconds) did it take you to read this paragraph?

When it comes to reading speed, I’m on the faster side. I speak fast and I read fast. Poetry demands a slow reader. One who can let the words sink in—one, two, three, four at a time. One who gives each line the time it demands, to convey the deeper meaning it holds, instead of rushing hurriedly on to the next one, as a prose reader might do. And that’s where I fail.

Today, I tried reading some poetry slowly—painfully slowly, it seemed to me—and it worked. I understood more than I ever had. It actually seemed beautiful—almost as much so as a Michelangelo fresco or a Michael Jordan fade-away. Or Alicia Silverstone.

So here’s the thing—if you think you can’t appreciate poetry, just try carefully observing how fast you read it. I’ll bet you my cat, it’s probably because you’re reading it way too fast!

As a corollary, I’m guessing guys are naturally faster readers than girls. Proving it is left as an exercise to the reader.

The Washroom Measure

2007-07-03T15:00:00.000+05:30

There’s a lot to be learned inside a washroom. For example, I have a theory that goes as follows:

The smaller the separating partitions between the urinals in the washroom, the posher the place is.

That’s my theory.

For example, a public washroom on the street will have partitions the size of Shivaji’s fort walls. You couldn’t get through them with an army tank if you wanted to. They measure about seven feet by three feet by six inches. Superman would struggle to see through them and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar couldn’t peer over one.

A decent restaurant will have urinal separators about half that size. If you’re an extremely tall guy with flexible neck muscles you might catch an unwanted sight of your neighbor’s sausage and meatballs. But for most of us average folks, not suffering from pituitary abnormalities, they suffice. At least here—unlike public washrooms—you don’t end up feeling claustrophobic.

An upscale restaurant, or a really posh office, will have separators that are “separators” in name only. Two feet by one foot. I think the primary aim here is to avoid getting sprayed unnecessarily by the guy peeing next to you. Really, that’s about all the separator can hope to achieve. No consideration at all is given to visual barricading or interception.

And finally, at the extreme other end of the spectrum we have the best hotels and the really big offices. Here there’s no separation at all. ‘What’s mine is yours and suchlike’ seems to be the motto. Or ‘let our dongles dangle together’. There’s literally just a line of urinals fixed along one wall or sometimes not even that. I love the sheer “naturalness” that such an arrangement offers.

So my point it this—whenever you want to judge how upscale a restaurant or hotel might be, just check out the men’s washroom.

My Biggest Coincidence

2007-06-27T17:14:00.000+05:30

I’ve never experienced any earth-shattering coincidences in my life—at least none that I remember. I keep wishing for the day I run into this guy who looks exactly like me and claims to be my long-lost twin brother who was separated from me at birth. It would be even better if he turns out to be a prince of somewhere. With each passing day, the chances of that happening are falling and by now I’ve almost given up hope.

If you ask me to pick—of the top of my head—the biggest coincidence I’ve come across so far, I’d say it’s the Rachel-Playtah one. Here’s the story.

There’s this blogger named Rachel, who lives somewhere in the States—West Michigan—to be more precise. I’m not sure how, but one day she happens to come across my blog. She starts leaving comments—the odd one here and there. Nothing extraordinary about that.

Now another day, sometime later, I was reading one of Scott Adam’s posts. I can’t find it now because it looks like he’s decided to archive only the previous four months on his blog, but it was the one about women and horses. If you’ve read it, you know which one I’m talking about. Otherwise, too bad. Either way, it doesn’t matter!

I decided to leave a comment, so I did that, and then scroll through the existing comments. There must have been like about 200 of them by that time. I find a comment—somewhere in the middle—by a certain “Playtah”, whose link I follow and land up on her blog here. Again, nothing very extraordinary.

EXCEPT…

Playtah—also known as Funny Girl—just happens to be Rachel’s best friend! I realize this about a month later, but when I did, it struck me just how big a coincidence this was.

Remember, these aren’t very high profile bloggers or anything. Just two average (okay, above average, but still) American bloggers. One randomly happens to come across my blog, the other I just happen to come across by clicking on a random link in Scott’s comments. And not only do they know each other, they’re best friends.

Maybe there’s some REALLY simple explanation in all this that I’m overlooking, but I seriously doubt that.

What’s your favorite coincidence?

Vote Taj. Or Not.

2007-06-26T12:39:00.000+05:30

There’s an online poll on to vote in the “New 7 Wonders of the World”. Twenty-one contenders to vote for, and the top seven get selected. Apparently, the Pyramids in Egypt were given an honorary entry into this “elite” club and so only six remaining spots are up for grabs. You vote by either going to the website or sending a text message from your cell phone to a particular number.

The Taj Mahal, of course, is India’s entry. I’m reminded of this almost everyday—by mail, text message or some other form. The message is simple—“Vote for the Taj!”

“Ummm. Why?”

“Because,” said one of the people I asked this question to, “it’s INDIA’s representative!”

“Yeah, so? What if India sent a lump of rock—about the size of a football and with absolutely nothing ‘wonderful’ about it—as its entry for this ‘contest’. Would you vote for that?”

“But this is the TAJ! Don’t you know the history of the Taj! And it’s from India.”

That seems to be the party line really. “Vote for the Taj BECAUSE it’s from India.”

“Why should I vote for the Taj?” I asked another guy who ask me to.

He gave me a look that one might throw at someone whose mental faculties one considers to be slightly suspect. “It’s Indian.”

“But I don’t see how voting for it helps me,” I argued. Yes, I’m selfish.

“It’ll only cost you a couple of minutes and three rupees [for the text message].”

“So would a cigarette, but you wouldn’t advocate that, would you?”

“But it’s India’s representative!”

So’s a beedi.

Of course, as long as there are idiots like this, the Taj needn’t worry. It’ll certainly make it into the top six places—probably even win. The only other entry situated in a country with a comparable population is the Great Wall of China. China’s probably got more internet connections and cell phones but I’m positive they fall short on the idiot count. The Chinese have more important things to busy themselves with—like manufacturing cheap cell phones and modems to sell in India so that more people can vote for the TAJ.

We Indians are a funny people. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s etched the following into the walls of the Taj itself—“Vote for the Taj Mahal as one of the 7 New Wonders! SMS XXXX!” Shah Jehan would be a proud man.

In related news, the Statues of Easter Island are screwed. No one lives there and I’m sure the tortoises and other creatures inhabiting the island are lacking in silly jingoism—if not a cell phone or an internet connection. Besides, I was born Catholic and would feel offended if you didn’t vote for a Wonder that had the word “Easter” in it. Please vote for the Statues of Easter Island. Thank you.

The Curious Incident of the Graveyard Visit in the Nighttime

2007-06-19T10:17:00.000+05:30

Last night at about 1.30, a bunch of five of us decided to go for a drive. We were all sober, so no, this story does not end with all of us dying in a spectacular albeit tragic DUI accident. No, it’s funnier than that.

After driving around for about 15 minutes, we came to a cemetery. We’d been there before in the night--even gotten inside a couple of times. We parked the car at the side of the road and debated whether it was worth going in. Yours truly thought not. It wasn’t the “ghosts” or the “ghouls” that I feared, but instead, the slightly more tangible batons of any policemen who might happen to pass by. (Yes, I have a soft tush and it can’t afford to take a beating.)

However, I was comprehensively out-voted by the other four--three of whom just happened to be girls! Well, if not my derrière, then at least my self-esteem and masculine ego were certainly taking a hit.

Hmmph! I’d show them! If we’re all going in anyway, I’d lead the way. At least once I was inside, there was a lesser chance of getting caught by a cop--and to me that sounded like a good deal. We walked along the wall of the cemetery--which was about three-and-a-half feet high--until we came to the gate, which was about the same height. I proceeded to get in first, by the simple expedient of jump-sitting onto the end of the wall, just next to the gate, then drawing my legs up close to me, swiveling around, and jumping off lightly onto the other side.

I beckoned to the others to follow suit--as quickly as possible. The other guy standing outside starting making a weird hand gesture pointing to a spot on the side of the gate on my side of the wall. I assumed that to mean, “Someone’s coming. Get behind the wall and crouch down.” I skipped to the side.

That’s when it happened!

It’s hard to tell who was more surprised but I know for sure who was more scared! First he yelled. Then he screamed--this low pitched guttural scream that he repeated again, again and yet again. And he flailed his arms about. I’m not sure what happened after that because by then I had vaulted the gate and wall (with the seat of my pants touching anything but thin air this time), and overtaken the others as we sprinted back to the car! I thought I heard a tinkling sound, like something metallic fall down, but I didn’t even care at that point.

Yes, I’d stepped right onto the sleeping guy that my friend was trying to warn me about. Those hand signals weren’t “get down and hide”, they were “dude! there’s someone sleeping just next to you, don’t move!” He was pointing at the guy, not at a nice hidey-hole for me. As it turned out, I wasn’t too skilled at interpreting sign language, and I gave the tramp sleeping there the WORST nightmare of his life. Imagine you’re sleeping in a frickin’ graveyard! Now, imagine you suddenly feel something fall on you. Then you open your eyes and see this ghastly, wild-haired creature. It can’t be the most pleasant experience in the world.

We reached the car, jumped in and took off.

Two minutes later. “You know, I think I heard something fall as I jumped over the wall. Let me just check my keys,” I said. “Hmmm, yup. They’re there--safely in my pocket. Phew!”

“Thank God for that!”

“But I’m sure something fell. I distinctly heard a metallic sound,” I continue. “Maybe it was just a coin or something.” We were playing this coin game just before we left for the drive, and this was a likely explanation.

“Wait,” said one of the girls. “You probably dropped MY key.” She’d given me her key as we left the house, and I’d put in my breast-pocket! Of course! That’s the easiest place for something to fall out off (especially when you’re hurdling cemetery walls at super-top speed).

“Yeah,” I checked. “That’s it. That’s what’s fallen out. Turn the car around, we need to go get it.”

“No way. My third roommate (the first two were in the car with us) has her key and she’s probably back home by now. Let’s just leave it. We can change the lock. Let’s not go back to get the key!”

I didn’t care about them getting back into the house that night or about changing locks or anything of the sort. All I cared about was doing some damage control to my pride. I’d shown a cleaner pair of heels than anyone else earlier and now I had to prove there was still some man left in me. “We’re going back. I know exactly where the key’s fallen. It’s just outside the gate. Our Charlie’s probably gone back to sleep by now. I’ll just dash out of the car pick it up and scoot back in.”

So we turned the car around and drove back to the cemetery. We crossed the gate, going very slowly, ten eyes peering at the street in the headlights trying to catch the gleam of metal. We were on the wrong side of the road, so a little farther down we turned around and drove back up. One of us thought she saw it but wasn’t very sure.

We saw an old man walking toward the gate--our sleeping beauty, of course. He didn’t look too scary at all--old, white hair, unshaven face. He’d apparently gone to take a walk (or leak, or dump) after the scare we gave him and was now returning to his cozy corner. We turned the car around and took one more round. He stared in at us, not a word on his lips but cursing us mentally, no doubt. By the time we finished another up-down in the car, still not sure whether anyone could see the key or not, he’d packed up his bedding (for an old man he could climb over that wall pretty easily), and was preparing to leave. Obviously, he desired to finish his sleep in a place where there was slightly smaller risk of getting trampled upon by young boys. I don’t blame him.

We stopped the car and I climbed out. “I’m coming with you,” my friend said as he opened the driver’s door and stepped out. We walked back to the gate. I looked at the guy as he was leaving and said, “Aamchi chaavi padlee. (Our key fell.)” I don’t know why I said it in Marathi or even why I said it for that matter, but I did. It seemed fair to let him know we weren’t there to kill him; he looked really frightened.

We found the key. Actually I didn’t, the other guy did. We got back to the car and debated whether it might be worth it to go in now, since the old man, we knew, had left. But people came out with all sorts of bad omens that said we shouldn’t go in. Eyes were fluttering, the position of the moon wasn’t right, a black cat had crossed someone’s path three weeks earlier, etc etc. So we decided not to.

We did go for a long drive though and almost got lost. And yes, from now on, I’m wearing only yellow pants. Just so that no one quite knows when it happens. Except for the smell maybe.

Bombs (and other Fun Stories)

2007-06-15T16:21:00.000+05:30

There was a bomb scare at work last night. At about 7.45 p.m., I notice office security people running all around the place and hear people talking about ‘a bomb call’. I was planning to leave at 8.00 p.m. anyway, so I quickly pick up my laptop, stuff my stuff into my drawer and walk out of the building. (I did stop to take a leak and wash my face on the way. No bomb threat was going to stop that!) Surprisingly, there was no evacuation in progress or even people rushing toward the exit.

When I reach outside, I find the lawn—which lies in the space inside the ‘L’ formed by the two office buildings—filled with people from the other building. It seemed like they had only evacuated that one. Huh! I like that. Our lives, it looked like, were worth diddly-squat. And who evacuates people from a building and then lets them to stand right next to it? That’s what I’d like to know!

I found out—from as reliable sources as I could find—that an anonymous call had been received saying that there was a bomb in the other building. Obviously, the call was considered serious enough, because the police were there, along with a complete “bomb disposal squad”—which comprised of two seedy looking characters and one rather lethargic, uninterested mutt.

I didn’t hang around to watch the fireworks (note: do not joke about “fireworks” when there are nervous people around immediately after a bomb scare). Not that I wasn’t interested in staying behind. The entire place seemed to have the atmosphere of a mela. Everyone was happy to have the unexpected break—especially the people working the night shift, I guess. The arrival of the first of the police was actually met with a loud raucous cheer—one filled with more amusement than relief. But I had places to go and things to do. So I marched out of there.

The buildings were both still standing when I got here this morning, so I’m pretty certain there wasn’t bomb after all. Nothing in the morning papers about it either.

Here are my theories:-

a. Someone wanted to leave work early and had a late night video conference with some client in Europe, or

b. Someone was REALLY pissed with the annual raise this year, which are being handed out this week.

I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the option b.! The raises were so bad this year that when I walk in to discuss mine with my manager, he looks at me and says, “How would you like them—roasted or salted?”

If inflation pushes its nose just a wee bit higher, I might actually be earning less than I did last year.

Bah!

My Horrorful Tales of Bad Luck and Other Such

2007-06-15T12:05:00.000+05:30

I’m probably the unluckiest guy in the world. I mean if a plane I’m on ever crashes, don’t bother checking the list of survivors for my name. Don’t even bother looking for my body. While we’re at it don’t even board a flight if you see me on it or my name on the passenger list. Don’t even board it if you see me anywhere NEAR the boarding gate or in the same airport or even in the same city, if you want to be really careful! Sometimes I, myself, am too scared to board a flight I’m on. It’s that bad. It really is.

I’m sitting at German Bakery, a couple of nights ago, talking on the phone. If you know me, you probably know that I spend an average of about 3 minutes a year on the phone. So the chances aren’t really all that great, but it happened. A girl enters alone, looks around, smiles at a few tables and approaches mine. She looks at the vacant seat across the table from me, looks at me, hesitates a second, realizes I’m on the phone and wanders off to another table, one which was empty. She sits down there and pulls out a cigarette. She lights it, starts smoking and looks around bemusedly.

By this time, I’ve narrated the incident--as you might expect--to the person on the other of the call. She tells me to cut the call and go up to her table.

“And what do I say,” I ask.

“Tell her you noticed that she came up to your table as if meaning to sit down and you were wondering whether there was something she wanted.”

“That’s cornier than a maize field in southern Kentucky,” I argue. “And lamer than centipede that’s had all its legs chopped off!”

“No it isn’t. If you’re sure she came up to your table intending to sit down.”

“Besides, everyone will see me get up from a perfectly good table, walk over to her table and sit down there. It’s just weird.”

“You’re at German Bakery! Everything’s weird there! It wouldn’t make a difference at all!”

“Okay. Okay. Maybe I just should. But no, wait! Now she’s on the phone! I’ll just wait for her to finish.”

Two minutes later, while I’m still on the phone, she ended the call and walked her way out of the place. And she was a looker too!

I leave about 30 minutes after that. As I step out onto the street, it starts to pour.

Being Bad

2007-06-08T21:06:00.000+05:30

I’ve always believed that if you’re going to be bad at something you have to be SO bad at it that you’re famous. Being somewhere in the middle just sucks. If something’s bad enough, it can often turn out to be good.

For example, being short, hairy or having an undersized willy, are all bad things when it comes to attracting (or in the last case, keeping) chicks. However, I’d be willing to bet the following guys all have REALLY hot girlfriends/wives:

1. The shortest guy in the world.
2. The hairiest guy in the world.
3. The guy with the smallest sausage in the world.

Being second worst has got to stink pretty badly though. It’s a case of “so near but yet so frickin’ far”! If you’re the second best guy in the world at doing something you’re probably pretty rich. But I wonder what the guy with the second smallest peter in the world has for the love life. I’m guessing it involves a lot of tiny midgety palm action.

Being bad at something is also probably a lot easier than being good at something.

My advice for getting chicks, find something you’re already bad at and work really hard to worsen your game. When you’re worse than anyone else in the world, give Guinness a call and you’re well on your way!

To prove I believe what I say, this post is a giant step in the right direction when it comes to new lows for blogging. Who says I’m all fart, no shit!? Pah.

Windows Live Writer

2007-06-08T20:16:00.001+05:30

I downloaded Windows Live Writer and any new software deserves a test run. Hence this post.

The plan is to hope that looking at a slightly different blog editor will induce me to "make" the time to post more often. Even if it's mainly horse shit served with extra large fries.

Hmmm.... This looks good.

Sense and Senility

2007-05-21T13:22:00.000+05:30

Now that I’m back to my senses after a week’s holiday in Goa, maybe I can actually write a post for a change. One week of doing little but eating, drinking, making merry and learning how to say, “Do you do it doggy-doggy?” in thirteen languages. In other words, quite a fun time. Especially if you happen to be a [cunni] lingual enthusiast.

I returned by the overnight bus. Like most guys, when traveling single, I always hope that I am seated next to a pretty, young female. Well, as it turned out, I WAS seated next to a pretty female, it’s just that I got there about six decades too late! She looked about a gazillion years old, and moved like it too.

A lot is said about the horrors of sitting next to an overweight person on a flight/bus. But I think sitting next to an overaged person is almost as bad. (You get a 320-pound octogenarian next to you on a 6+ hour flight, and I wouldn’t even bet a potato on your chances of surviving it.)

To start off with, old people don’t trust young people very much. This lady looked at me as if I were a serial-killing rapist with a degrees in pickpocketing and thuggery. I could almost hear her say, “Oh dear God! Why did they have to put me next to this frightful piece of half-man half-monster?” I know for a fact that she kept one of her bags on her lap the entire night and used two more to build a fort-like wall between us, which kept falling on me all the time. If her plan was to suffocate me to death, it nearly worked. More than an asphyxiated demise though, what I was really scared of was that she might lose a shoe or something and that I’d get lynched for it.

Old people also don’t like to move too much. I’m the type who needs to stretch my legs when I get a chance. So every time the bus stops, I need to hop off. This meant a regular routine of first bringing down the fort wall, then seven minutes for her to stand up and then by the time I was off the bus, it was already time to get back in again. I’d crawl back into the corner and the ramparts would be slowly reconstructed once more.

And what if she just happened to pop it during the night? She’s old; old people die. I’m sure there was a non-zero chance of her passing away in that bus. I spent half the night with my ear pressed up against the wall of luggage to see if I could hear her breathing. I did NOT want to wake up in the morning with a dead body beside me!

Okay, okay! Don’t get all mad at me for saying such bad things about dear old ladies. I like old people, okay. Just not in the seat next to mine!

(Still, it was better than this.)

Bush and the Queen

2007-05-09T11:46:00.000+05:30

Queen Elizabeth visiting the United States was always going to be the perfect set up for a comedy show on T.V. I’m surprised no one’s decided to come up with one as yet. Of course, being President, George Bush felt he had to take the initiative.

His ‘tongue of slip’ on Monday is funny on so many levels that you struggle to figure out which part’s the best! Let’s see. First, he started to say “1776” and just about managed to stop and correct himself on the edge of the precipice. Now, ordinarily this wouldn’t be too funny. We all slip up during speeches sometimes and it’s okay. But remember, the woman he was referring to looks old enough to be Mick Jagger’s great-grand-mother’s nanny. Women don’t like people making fun of their age. George Bush almost added 200 years to hers. Funny.

After correcting himself, the wisest thing you’d think would be to -- uhm, I don’t know -- CARRY ON WITH HIS SPEECH? But of course, you and I are not two-time reigning champions of that elite competition -- The Presidency of the USA. These President types tend to think slightly differently. So what does Bush do? He stops, turns, gives the Queen a John Wayne like look and a WINK! Funny, funny, funny! And stupid.

The Queen then says something in the background. The microphones caught it but not very clearly. I couldn’t make out whether it was “Oh, dear!”, “Oh, yea!” or “Oh, Blighty! How frightfully daft can this bally Texan get?”, but it really could’ve been any one.

And that isn’t even the end. He turns back from the wink, grins impishly at the audience and says, “She gave me a look that only a mother could give a child.” Whoopsie. Is he trying to say she’s like his Mom? So he finally DID manage to insult her age. Well done! I bet she wanted to turn him over on her knee right then and give his little ass a nice spanking.

A lot people were fretting about getting the “protocol” right for the Queen’s visit. I’m not a big fan of protocol myself, except in cases where it makes things simpler for both parties. For example, I’d always stand in favor of a protocol for tipping. Figuring out how much I need to tip someone is just too darned hard otherwise. However, I can live without rules for how to pass someone the hookah pipe or how many times a minute I can breathe when I’m in the presence of royalty. That’s just stupid.

I’d like to see the Queen visit India. It would be even more fun. I bet some government official would do ALL of the following before shaking her hand.

1. Scratch his crotch.
2. Sneeze into his hands.
3. Pick his nose.

Anyone putting money on which who the lucky guy would be?

Traffic Rants

2007-04-18T11:58:00.000+05:30

I hate traffic. We all do. It’s one of those universally hated things -- like a smelly fart, terrorism or Sanjaya Malakar. The thought of going to work everyday scares me more for the commute and for the job, and when you realize what my job really is like, you’ll know just how bad the traffic must be.

What makes the traffic worse, carrying it from the regions of “quite terrible” into the realms of “unbearably horrendous” is the heat and dust that one must do battle with when on the street. Okay, so a few of you reading this probably drive around (or get driven around by a driver) in air-conditioned luxury cars and are snickering at my woes. But let me tell you, even a 15-minute ride on a motorcycle in this heat and dust will leave you, well for the want of better adjectives, quite heated and dusty. The problem with combating these two evils is that their solutions are mutually exclusive. To fight the heat I want to wear as little as possible; to save myself from the dust, I need to do the opposite. Attack one, and the other rears up from behind you and smites you hard in the back.

Then there are traffic signals. Every Indian driver makes it his personal goal to remind you about 15 seconds before the light turns green. The means of communication, of course, is his or her vehicle’s horn. These people are quite skilled you know. The other day, the guy in the car behind me, started playing the national anthem on his car horn. I was impressed.

And I haven’t even gotten to the pollution factor yet. Try getting stuck next to a PMT bus at a traffic light. There’s the smoke and the heat from the bus’ exhaust, and before you know it someone’s spit on you from the bus window! You’d be lucky if it’s only saliva, too. Phlegm or paan are not uncommon either. I don’t blame the person spitting out for being so callous. It’s often hard to notice the person below in the cloud of exhaust.

Sometimes, I’m just pleasantly surprised to reach work at all.

(Note to self: Do not hug everyone in sight when you are pleasantly surprised to get to work. More importantly, do NOT tell them you were spit on after you’ve hugged them.)

Me on the Dance Floor

2007-04-11T12:45:00.000+05:30

I’m not a great dancer. Some people can Belly Dance; I can BARELY dance. I can’t move my ass to Punjabi Hip Hop or jive without stamping on the feet of not just my partner but everyone else within a three-foot radius. (I call that my Deadly Dance Circle of Death.) The less said about my other fancy-schmancy dances, the better.

This fact might have troubled me since I’m normally not too pleased by things I can’t do well. But my only cause for consolation is that I’ve noticed MOST people aren’t great dancers. About 5% of the crowd on the dance floor at any party or disco will be good dancers. Another 10% will be so terrible, that they’ll look like they’re trying to swat a pesky mosquito sitting on their back while rotating an imaginary hula hoop around their waists. The remaining 85% are just about average, run-of-the-mill, you-wouldn’t-notice-them-unless-you-looked-twice types. And I’m one of them.

When I’m dancing I like to follow an algorithm of sorts. Move B comes after Move A, and is then followed by Move C. Something like that. Improvising is dangerous, for the simple reason that I’m bad at it! When I try to get too creative on the dance floor I’m likely to spill someone’s drink or gouge someone’s eye out. After you do that a few times, people kind of stop letting you into parties anymore.

In the beginning of the party, I like to sit near one corner of the dance floor and observe for a while. I then pick someone who’s pulling what looks -- to my amateur eyes, at least -- like a few “groovy moves” and mentally rehearse them until I feel I’m confident. (I normally select the guy getting the most attention from the prettiest ladies.) Sometimes I’ll also lock myself in the washroom for a while so I can practice them for real. I then saunter over to the other end of the dance floor, where I “introduce” my “new” cool moves. Pretty soon everyone around me is copying them and I’m the hero.

That’s when I grab myself a drink and go console the person who’s nursing that eye I poked.

Working Out

2007-04-10T17:00:00.000+05:30

I’ve never “worked out” in my life. I mean I haven’t spent more than a few seconds in a gym, I’ve never owned a set of weights and the most exercise I’ve indulged in at a stretch (forgive the pun) would be reaching for the TV-remote from under the couch. Somehow, this would always surprise people who knew me -- or at least thought they did.

“You?” they’d say, incredulity writ large upon their disbelieving countenances, while quietly sucking in their over-flowing bellies. “You’ve NEVER worked out?”

The cause for wonderment lies mainly in the fact that I’m as thin as a rake. I have a body-fat figure that’s well below the national average and I’m about 8 kilos under the weight range for my height. Besides, I have -- and I say this will all the modesty in the world -- a fairly decent upper body. Okay, so there aren’t muscles overflowing in all directions, but I think that just looks plain ugly. But for a skinny guy, it’s pretty damned neat.

Cut to last week. I decided to join the gym at work. These were the some of the side-advantages I saw:

1. It’s free.
2. It would force me to stop work at a fixed time everyday.
3. There are some cute chicks there.

I’m a big fan of side-advantages and so it seemed like a good deal to me.

This morning I had my “check up”. I enter the gym and there’s only a single instructor on duty. She hands me a sheaf of forms to fill in. The first page seems okay -- name, employee number, phone number, etc. The second page asks me about my medical history. Apparently, they want to know whether I’m liable to drop dead on the treadmill or collapse under a set of dumbbells. I answer “no” to everything. Wouldn’t be wise to let this chica think I’m a weakling of some sort.

After the forms, she takes my pulse and blood pressure.

“Hmmm,” she notices. “They’re a little higher than they should be. Not too much, but slightly on the higher side.”

“Yup,” I mutter to myself. “They’d probably be okay if you weren’t holding my hand while measuring them.”

She asks me to remove my shoes. I’m a bit surprised but I figure, “Yea. Okay.” She does a little height and weight check with this fancy machine of hers and informs me that my fat percentage is too low as is my BMI. Yea! Like I didn’t know. Thanks for rubbing it in.

She then asks me to lift up my shirt. “Uh, uh. I can see where this is heading. First my shoes, now my shirt.” I raise it a little, tentatively. “Higher,” she says. “I need to be able to see your navel.”

“Huh?” It’s just a normal navel, I want to tell her. I raise my shirt. She does a little more measuring with a tape. My hips, waist, etc. Scribbles down some figures and tells me she’s done.

She carefully studies all the stuff she’s written down and lets me know that I need three days of weights and one day of cardio per week.

I start tomorrow.

Season Three

2007-04-09T19:04:00.000+05:30

I’m back.

Many people have asked me why I haven’t posted for so long. Two reasons, really.

1. It’s good to give up something during Lent, and
2. I’m terribly lazy.

Let’s face it. Writing’s hard. Writing stuff that people are interested in reading is even harder. Writing stuff that people are interested in reading and doing so regularly, when you have nothing to say and you know that all that your laboring has brought you is the occasional smidgen of appreciation from a chimney sweep in Minsk (Hey, Gustav!) is about as downright difficult as, well -- I’ve forgotten how to analogize cleverly.

But nevertheless, at the cost of repeating myself, I’m back.

How has my life been over the past few weeks? Nothing exciting really. Just the odd late-night, rave party bust up, followed by a harried police interrogation, some third degree, a quick appearance in court and then back home for chai and biscuits in the evening. In other words, boring. (That’s just one word, actually.)

I don’t see this post going any place in a hurry, so I’ll just wind it up. For the final time, in case you didn’t catch it before, I’m back.

PS: Genuine appreciation can be manifested in the following ways:

1. Cash, if you can meet me.
2. Checks, if you can’t, but know my postal address.
3. Proposals via e-mail for a hot, steamy one night stand, if you know nothing about me but are a relatively good-looking female.
4. If none of the above are possible, just a leaving a comment will be fine.

Thank You.

LIHABF

2007-02-24T23:51:00.000+05:30

Everyone likes winning arguments with good, sparkly-clean logic. Like a beautiful Paul Morphy chess game, it’s something that pleases you not only as you execute the victory, but also brings a smile to your face every time you think about it later. Indeed, there’s nothing like a fine logical victory. Nothing, that is, except for one other thing -- an fine ILLOGICAL victory!

“Trust me”, fighting logic with illogic is the funnest thing in the world! You can watch the other person try to reason, convince, argue, yank-hair-out-in-frustration, beat-head-against-wall, and then finally gnaw-arm-off-and-club-self-to-death-with-it, while you sputter forth one illogical riposte after another. And then you experience a warm feeling of tingly pleasure spreading all over your body, because you’ve not only won, but you’ve won by knockout! (A recently conducted survey concluded that 96.43% of the people who love to argue using illogic are also sadists.)

Of course, you can’t just throw in any illogic. It has to be good quality, exasperatingly frustrating, mind-fugging illogic. For that you have to be an illogical expert. You need plenty of experience in this field. You need to hone your skills and master your craft for many years, until you can finally make your opponents try to suffocate themselves to death in exasperation.

To help all you folks get started, I shall present here some gems of illogic that I’ve been blessed to hear about in the past year. No doubt, the purveyor of each of them is an expert in the art -- a veritable pundit, if you may. We can only bow down to such brilliance and try to pick up a few pointers for ourselves.

So without further ado:-

CLASSIC STATEMENTS OF ILLOGIC FOR 2006

1. “Who's to say that one month is a short time and 10 years is a long
time? Who's to say?? Who's to say???”

2. “I choose not to tell you!”

3. “Things change, people change, I changed...”

4. “Why take the first step when the tenth step is not desirable?”

5. “Everything doesn’t have a reason.”

6. “You can’t argue some things with logic.”

Okay, fine. The last one actually makes sense. A LOT of sense.

(The post above is filled with in-jokes and probably didn’t make any sense to you. If you even understand any of it, you have my utmost sympathies. The list was compiled by a friend. I take no credit in its making. [Ir]Regular blogging will resume from tomorrow. Thank you and good night!)

Lenten Abstinences

2007-02-22T21:24:00.000+05:30

Apparently, yesterday was Ash Wednesday. I say “apparently” because I’m not even very sure about whether it was or wasn’t, and I’m really too lazy to check. In other words, we’re currently in the season of Lent. (In case you didn’t know, it comes from the Old English word for “length”, because it was felt that it just SO darned long!)

Now, I’m fairly nonreligious. I’d call myself an atheist, but frankly I’m too lazy to bother. No points for guessing that I don’t go to church, and I don’t plan to indulge myself in any pious acts of abstinence either over the coming few weeks. Good reasons for giving up something I like, for a month, might include the following:

1. I get paid handsomely to do it
2. I get smothered to death by a REALLY fat lady sitting on me if I don’t do it
3. The cool kids around the block are already doing it.

I do not rank “some guy with a beard in the sky, who may or may not exist, will be pleased” as sufficient reason for abstinence from something that I derive pleasure out of. Neither does “the Bible says so” count. The thought of going to hell for not following such stuff scared me for a while until I realized that hell can’t be much worse than driving home from work in the evening traffic. And I’ve managed to survive that thus far.

I guess there are two things you need to keep in mind when you’re selecting something to abstain from. Firstly, it needs to be something you like doing. Promising to abstain from doing the dishes isn’t going to win you brownie points with any God, I’d tend to believe. Secondly, it’s got to be something that you do fairly regularly during the rest of the year. Thus, saying “I’m going to abstain from having sex with all blonde, West Indian females named Fufou” would be equally useless.

I think Lenten abstinences are actually quite like New Year’s resolutions only the term’s shorter. Forty days instead of the rest of your life. Unless you’re a diabetic octagenarian, with a weak heart and cancer of the lungs, or a civilian in Baghdad, in either which case “the rest of your life” can probably be measured in minutes, forty days is probably the shorter period. In fact, I’m pretty sure most New Year’s resolutions are already broken by the time Lent comes around, and are then just recycled as Lenten abstinences. It saves people the trouble of having to think of a new “resolution” to break.

What are you going to staying away from this Lent?

Customary Annual Rant

2007-02-14T12:13:00.000+05:30

Happy Valentwhine’s Day.

Con Jobs That Are Good For You

2007-02-13T20:50:00.000+05:30

I’ve always been a big fan of fooling people for their own good. Deciding exactly what is “good” for someone is a tricky issue at best. I might think eating snails for breakfast everyday is good for you. You might disagree. And I’m pretty sure the World Committee for the Welfare of Snails would mind too, but it’d probably take them a couple of years to decide.

Ultimately, most people like making their decisions themselves. Most of the time I think this is a good idea. There are times, though, when I feel more can be achieved by fooling people. For example, like this. Here’s another idea.

You know how they have battery indicators on electronic devices? My cell phone, for example, has a line of bars on the side of the screen. When it’s completely charged there are six bars, and as it discharges, the bars keep disappearing. Zero bars left means that the battery’s done. IPods and other devices have similar indicators.

Now I’ve noticed that I tend to ignore charging the phone if there are at least three bars left. If there are two bars present, I tend to look for a socket somewhere. If there’s one bar remaining, I’d probably shove the damned cord up a passer-by’s ass and hope for a miracle. In other words, I only think about charging the phone when the battery’s on its last legs.

My point is that the indicator should not reduce linearly. The first four bars to vanish on my phone should represent less than four-sixths of the battery life. About 50% seems like a good figure. By assigning roughly half the battery life to the last two bars, the chances of my phone going dead when I don’t expect it are considerably reduced.

A similar job could be done on the fuel indicators in cars. I suppose I could just force myself to fill my motor-cycle tank before the needle actually hits “E”, but I know I’m not going to. I sometimes need people to con me for my own good.

I’m fairly certain this is already being done, at least with charging devices. The only reason it’s kept a secret is so that it actually works!

False Alarms at Work

2007-01-25T13:12:00.000+05:30

About once a week, normally on a dull, lackluster afternoon, we’ll all be interrupted in the office by a loud jangling and clanging noise. Much like a fire alarm. In fact exactly like a fire alarm, for that is indeed what it is. It’s a loud irritating sound; one that might easily get on your nerves and make you want throttle your cubicle mates. Or one that might cause you to stick that yellow pencil lying on your desk right into your ear (and I don’t mean the soft eraser end) -- anything to make the noise stop. The only reason one might actually tolerate such a cacophonous auditory abomination is that it’s there to save our lives. Supposedly.

One might, not unnaturally, expect such an intimation to be the cause of much panic among the denizens of the office, none of whom are fire-resistant. It would therefore, if one were to be present within the confines of the building when the alarm goes off, come as quite a surprise to see employees display no greater concern toward it than a slight frown and a vigorous shake of the head (to get the noise out of their brains). But no wild dashing toward the exits, no mad grabbing for the fire-extinguishers, no crazy leaping out of the windows, no insane “Osama’s decided to target Poona now!” yelling. Not even the calm, single file exodus that one might expect during a fire-drill. Just frowning and shaking. And some pencils bending and some necks choking.

The alarm generally lasts about 30 seconds. Our puzzled observer might spend about another fifteen-twenty minutes in a state of amused bewilderment, before a loud voice is heard on the Public Address System.

“Excuse me, may I have your attention please. This is the ______ Access Control Speaking. The alarm that you just heard was a false alarm. I repeat, the alarm that you just heard was a false alarm. We are all safe at work. Thank you.”

Yes, folks. Every single time. (I’ve seen about 4306 false alarms since I’ve started work here. As for real fires, I haven’t even seen a candle flame.)

Now, I don’t really have a gripe against the false alarms. I know Rob (imaginary co-worker I make up to protect real identities) likes to go for the odd cigarette or two in the closet next to the washroom, especially on dull, lackluster afternoons, when there’s little else to do. I just have this niggling suspicion that he might in some complex way, which I am too ignorant to ever fully comprehend, be responsible for setting off the alarm.

But here’s what I DO have a grudge against -- it takes FIFTEEN minutes to announce the alarm’s bogus? If the alarm’s legit I want to be screaming like a little girl and running for my life as soon as I possibly can. Not after I’ve waited fifteen minutes. Not after the flames start to make my chair painfully hot to sit on. Not after my hair catches fire. What frightens me is that we’ve all got so used to this regular false alarm crap that no one even moves from their place any more. And one day those fifteen minutes might just be too late.

Remember, I’m not talking about planned fire-drills over here. We’ve never had a fire-drill. I guess when (okay, “if”) the actual fire does happen we’ll all just use that two-step process I mentioned above.

Step 1: Scream like little girl. (If you are already a “little girl”, just scream. Then file lawsuit against company for “Exploitation of Child Labor”.)
Step 2: Run for your life.

(All this AFTER you’ve been burned to a toast in those fifteen minutes.)

And finally, it’s interesting to note the last line in the announcement: “We are all safe at work.” Last time I heard the announcement, I stood up and looked around. Sure, everyone was “safe”. But the only living creature “at work” was a mouse in the corner. (Oh, and Rob in the closet.)

Me For President

2007-01-24T15:55:00.000+05:30

“Ladies and gentlemen, and all you other people reading this too, I hereby solemnly declare my intention to run for President in the 2008 American presidential elections. Thank you.”

Yes, that’s it. I’ve “thrown my hat in the ring” and “jumped in the fray” or whatever other overused media cliché takes your fancy. It seems to be the “in thing” right now, and why should I be left behind?

Okay, let’s face it -- I’m Indian. That seems to bear heavily against my chances. Common logic would suggest that a retarded beaver has more chance of getting elected to the White House than an (Eeww!) Indian. (Some people might even say one beaver’s already proven that. Twice.) But let’s not forget that these are times of extreme out-sourcing. Isn’t the Presidency just a job after all? And aren’t all American jobs being sent to India? If I can answer your calls about why that paper plate you put in your microwave seems to have yellowish flames emanating from it, then I’m guessing I can decide on your national budget too. (It’s almost the same thing. Really.)

My next “problem” would be that I’m unheard of to the average Joe on the American streets. I believe this is a good thing. It seems to me that most voters vote “against” rather than vote “for”.

“Well, Joshua’s gay. But’s Harry’s a gay pedophile who’s likes to strangle little boys once he’s done with them. I know whom I’m voting for!”

“Hmmm... John’s is an incompetent idiot but his opponent’s a woman. Go John!”

If the voters haven’t heard of a particular candidate, they don’t have an “against” against him. This is totally in my favor. Right now the Americans seems so cheesed off about both the Republicans and the Democrats that I believe a “weird, brown guy with a slightly tacky accent” might just stand a chance.

Of course, as the old theory goes, the taller guy with the better hair normally wins. I’m reasonably tall and I’ll get a haircut. Put all that together and this ought to be a cinch.

Policy making might prove tricky at first -- assuming I do get elected -- especially since I am not aware of the nitty-gritty of American politics and don’t really understand the basic needs of the American populace. However, I think I’ll be able to manage pretty well with a coin to flip and a couple of dice to roll. I’m sure I won’t do any worse than the current administration, at least. As far as foreign policy is concerned, that’s pretty simple. Don’t go to war in/against any country where the general population likes to use car-bombs. (Also, become good friends with Jon Stewart and Jay Leno. But that’s not as important.)

Nominations for my “running mate” are now welcome, as are cool campaign slogans.

I Don't Like This Ad (Okay, Maybe Just a Little Bit)

2007-01-23T15:37:00.000+05:30

Here’s an advertisment I came across today.

The small print at the bottom corner reads, “Don’t Abort The Girl Child”.

The advertisement’s pretty neatly designed and it gets the message across. I’m not guru on the subject of advertisement and I shall refrain from making any further comments on its style, color scheme etc, but suffice it to say I think all of that’s good. But... .

I have a problem with the advertisement on two issues. Well, it’s really just one issue when you think about it, but I’ll put it across as two. Sue me for that if you want.

1. By drawing a comparison with Kalpana’s brother -- who “runs a small business in Karnal” -- the advertisement assumes an extremely stereotypical (and in my opinion, wrong) definition of “success”. What is it trying to say? Does it imply that Kalpana was “more successful” than her brother? Or that I shouldn’t abort a female foetus BECAUSE it (she) may turn out to be an astronaut at NASA unlike its (her) brother who MAY only end up as a small scale businessman? That doesn’t seem to make much sense to me.

Let’s look at things objectively -- for argument’s sake. Are they trying to say that Kalpana Chawla’s life was “worth” more than her brother’s? Economists have their way of applying a value metric to human life, and according to their measure I believe Kalpana’s life may well have been worth more than Mr. Chawla’s is back home in Punjab. But again, that doesn’t prove anything. (At least, he’s still alive.)

2. More importantly, if abortion of the girl child (or any child for that matter) is wrong [1], then it is wrong for reasons based purely on principle and NOT because of what that child may or may not achieve. Assuming that the Chawla family could only raise one child of the two (I don’t know how many children they actually have, but it doesn’t matter) and assuming that Kalpana’s life is worth more than some unheard of businessman in Punjab, does that mean it would have been okay for them to abort the son in favor of the girl? (We’re also assuming they knew what each would end up as.) Probably not.

I guess at the end of the day, all the advertisement is trying to say is “Give your unborn daughters a shot at life because they’ve as much of a chance of flying into space (and then being done in by a faulty piece of foam) as your sons”. In that case, I just wasted a lot of breath over here. But what the heck! I had nothing better to write about today anyway.

[1]: I’m not saying that abortion is wrong -- that’s a matter that’s open to debate as far as I’m concerned, with strong, valid reasons both “for” and “against”. I’m saying IF it were wrong, THEN... .

My New Ambition In Life

2007-01-22T18:04:00.000+05:30

(Alternatively titled -- "Why I Wish I Was Named Zystemimes Zestyis")

I guess it would be fun to be the “Most Famous Person in the World” with a particular name. I’ve always been a fame-seeking kind of chap. Given a choice between wealth or fame, I know I’d pick fame. I’m assuming, of course, I’m in a hypothetical world where I couldn’t use my money to buy fame or my fame to make money. In other words, if I could have one, and only one, of the two, I’d pick fame.

Some [last] names are common. For example, who would you say is the Most Famous Smith in the World? I don’t know. I know the Most Famous Clinton in the World is a lying, intern-bedding, former president whom most of us hate and yet most of us love. (The only person who could have beaten him to it was probably aborted sometime early 1998 or is a grade-schooler living in anonymity somewhere.) Either way, we all know who the Most Famous Lewinsky in the World is.

The winners for Jordan (Michael over Peter André’s wife), Hemmingway, Gates, etc are easy to pick. Who wins Johnson? Or Williams?

It’s easy to see that your chances are pretty negligible unless:

1. You’ve got a name that isn’t very common, and
2. There isn’t already a VERY famous person with the same name.

Considering that let’s where I stand. Arnold’s not too common, but unfortunately for me someone’s already nabbed it. I’d have to assassinate a President using only a water-pistol and with my eyes closed and follow that up by making love to his wife while letting his children watch, to have any hope of winning that category. I don’t see myself attacking people with water-pistols just to achieve my silly ambition, though I might be willing to sleep around after that. Bottom line, I’ll have to satisfy myself with second place in the “Arnold” list.

There is, however, some good news. I don’t know any VERY famous people whose last names are D’Souza. (I’ve checked and Google doesn’t seem to either.) There are a few enterprising individuals with this name scattered here and there, but it’s safe to say there’s no Clinton. So that’s my current plan -- to become the Most Famous D’Souza in the World. Now, all I need to think about is how. I’m guessing drinking 23 cans of beer in 2 hours should about do it, but I’ll give it some more thought.

This is my new ambition in life (until the next one comes along, at least).

My Book and Other Short Stories

2007-01-18T18:36:00.000+05:30

I’d like to write a book someday. It seems like one of those cool things to do and more significantly it satisfies the following two important criteria:

1. It will earn me some money, and
2. [I think] I can do it.

There are plenty of little problems along the way though. For example, I haven’t a darned clue what I’m going to write the book about or even, for that matter, which genre of literature it should belong to. My Experiences With Women seemed like a good idea for a while, but like I’ve said before somewhere, I’m not a big fan of fantasy fiction. A Dull and Boring Teenage Life, on the other hand, is very writable, but I’m not sure I could even convince my own wife to spend her money on buying something like that. (And let’s not forget that we’re talking about a lady who’d buy a pair of shoes just because they’ll “look nice next to that other pair in her wardrobe”.)

Humor sounds doable. I could possibly write something funny. Well, funny to me at least. And therein lies my next problem. Most of the things that crack me up rarely have much effect on too many other people. I guess if it’s EXTREMELY funny, I might be able to con myself into buying 853,000 copies of the book. But that would make me the first penniless person to be famous since -- ummm, K-Fed. And I don’t want to go there.

I need a sure-shot plan for getting rich by writing, and that too one that doesn’t call for too much talent. If you think that’s impossible, I have one name for you -- Sidney Sheldon. Anyway, here’s my plan. I’m going to write a suspense novel. It’ll have a long, winding plot. There’ll be plenty of sex, lies, scandal, murder, smashing-in-of-skulls-using-crowbars, and maybe even some violent crime. There’ll be hot, rich bombshells, and dirty scallywags and the occasional hooker thrown in. Someone might die somewhere along the way (though I’m not promising you anything just yet), and some new characters may be born. Everything that you can think of will be there in the book.

Now here’s the REALLY brilliant part of the plan. I end the book right in the MIDDLE of the suspense. Then a year later, a release another book -- one that promises to put an end the suspense created by the first one. Everyone who’s bought the first book will just HAVE to buy this one. And those who want to buy this one will have to buy the first. (Double profits! Yippee!) Once again there’ll be everything in it! Everything, that is, except the ending. That I shall save for the third book of the series, where I’ll shall reveal that I’m actually saving it for the fourth book. I’m not sure I can fool an entire population of stupid, book-buying idiots any more than that, so there won’t actually be a fifth book. People might start to get a little cheesed off with me after this, but by then I’m hoping to be rich enough to buy the planet Mars, where I’ll be safe from the suspense-charged masses crying for my blood.

Now I crawl into a little thinking-hole to conjure up a good name for the hooker.

Little White Lies on Your Dashboard

2007-01-17T11:16:00.000+05:30

If I were a car manufacturer, I’d just make every speedometer display a speed that’s about 15-20% more than the actual speed of the vehicle.

Speed, as I see it, is more about the number than anything else. I can’t prove this in any way, but I’m fairly certain that someone who loves high-speed driving would be happier if he were driving at 120 but thought it was 150 than if he were actually driving at 150 but thought it was only 120. Like so many other things, it’s all in the mind.

Of course, this is only true if the error in the reading isn’t large enough to be noticed. For example, you couldn’t show a 30 as a 90 and expect to fool too many people other than maybe George Bush or Britney Spears. And even they’d start to suspect something after a while. But call an 80 a 90 and it would take an Ayrton Senna to tell the difference.

So basically I could now advertise my vehicle as having a top speed of 200 instead of a plain, boring Gramma-driving speed of say 170 and I’m sure that would get more people to buy my car. More importantly, this is probably the most efficient method to keep people within the speed limit since Edward II decreed that all carriage-drawing horses must have only three legs. If the street sign shows a limit of 80, you know you’re going to be doing 85 at least. But now that that 85 is merely a 75, no police radar gun’s going to stop you. (Assuming the guns measure the right speed.)

It also becomes far easier to impress chicks sitting in the passenger or rear seats. For them -- more than anybody -- speed’s DEFINITELY just a number.

“Hey! Check this out, babe! We’re doing 190!”
“Whoa! If I blow you right now, would you PLEASE slow down?”

If I were girl, I think I’d pretend to be impressed no matter what speed the guy’s driving at. Call me chicken if you may, but I’m not sure I want to die just yet, and I believe “Slow down, I’m impressed” is a slightly better option than “130? Pfft! My mentally challenged cousin drives faster than that!”

I think car manufacturers already DO ensure that your car shows you a higher speed than you’re really at, but just in case they haven’t already thought of it, I’m going to suggest it the next time I meet someone from the automobile industry.

Jobs That Really Should Exist (But Don’t)

2007-01-16T13:12:00.000+05:30

I think creating unnecessary jobs may not be the worst thing in the world. It keeps more people occupied, and that means there are less people who are looking to cause trouble. This all works on the “an idle mind is the devil’s workshop” principle – one that you have to admit does have its merit. As long as I’m occupied with something, I can stay out of trouble fairly easily. But if I’m REALLY bored, I probably wouldn’t mind chopping the danglers off a passer-by just “for the hack of it”.

So toward this cause, I hereby propose the following new jobs at any office (preferably one that operates like mine):

1. Blank-page photocopier:-
Anytime you want like 5 blank sheets of paper and all you have is ONE blank sheet of paper (God forbid), you can always call on trusty Ol’ Jim – The Blank-page Photocopier guy. Of course, you can have cool code commands like “Run me a 505x69 on this A4”, just to make his job a little more interesting.

2. American English – British English Translator:-
For someone who was brought up on a healthy diet of pure, unadulterated Queen’s English, these danged Yankee coots with their funny accents and their corrupted ‘English’ can be quite a nuisance. In steps your ever-ready American-British Translator, Mike, to insert the necessary ‘u’s’, change the ‘er’s’ into ‘re’s’ and call a ‘cookie’ what it REALLY is – a BISCUIT!

3. Human Temperature Regulators:-
These are the chaps who are brought into the office and positioned in regions where the temperature is too low. As we’re all aware, the temperature regulation at most offices is in shambles and people are regularly complaining about the place being either “hot enough to poach an egg” or “colder than a polar bear’s tits”. Now you can regulate the temperature in your cubicle yourself, by placing the necessary amount of these Human Temperature Regulators around you so that the body warmth they generate provides the exact amount of heating you require. (If the place is already too hot, just bring in one person and ask him/her to fan you. Also stop working, switch off your computer and reason with your boss that it was generating more heat than it was worth.)

4. Scapegoats:-
I really think people should be hired just to perform this, and only this, task. How nice it would be to muck something up and then just go, “Oh, it was all Matt the Scapegoat’s fault!” Then the boss just fires Matt from that module, moves him to another one, and brings in a fresh, new Scapegoat into the first module to take the blame for the next FUBAR. The Scapegoat’s “done his thing” and everyone’s happy.

I’m off to think of new ways to save the world now.

Bad Ankle Turns Good

2007-01-15T19:20:00.000+05:30

I broke my ankle yesterday. It hurts a lot and it isn’t much fun not being able to ride a motor-cycle or walk around without hobbling like a senile, octogenarian. But for all its curses, I’d have to say it’s probably the surest way to an easy lay.

To start off with, all the hobbling and limping (with some grimacing and teeth-clenching thrown in) attracts the attention – and more importantly, the sympathy – of all sorts of chicks. So normally, females who’s just pass me by with a smile or maybe a nod-hallo, are now stopping to inquire how my “poor little cutie sweetie-weetie ankle” is doing. I must admit this feels nicer than it sounds.

Of course, conversation then slips to inquiring how this so unfortunate a tragedy happened to come about. That’s when I mention I hurt it playing basketball (okay, so it was “human basketball” to be scrupulously precise, but no one’s heard of that anyway). That’s the magic word really – “Basketball”. After that, there are so many chicks queuing up with the express intention of humping you that one actually needs a coupon-system if one is to avoid complete and utter chaos.

If my ankle never heals, it would be too soon.

(Oh, I’m not sure if this is relevant, but the doctor tells me the pain-killers I’m on may cause delusional hallucinations. Oh, wait! Damn!)

The Seven Colors of a Straight Man

2007-01-10T23:41:00.000+05:30

I’ve always wondered what an easy way to spot gay men is. Some possible methods off the top of my head would be:

1. Does he sleep with other men?
2. Does he prefer man-on-man porn to regular?
3. Does he own a George Michael album?

However, it’s fair to say that none of these could be reasonably described as “easy”. They would necessitate access to either his bedroom/computer/album shelf, and I have neither the time nor the inclination for any of that. And yet, I think I’d like to avoid the embarrassment I faced the last time I set up a friend with a girl and found out he was “that way”. (Not that there’s anything wrong with it.)

I think I’ve finally come up with a decent solution to this problem. Ask the guy to identify the color of something that’s lying nearby. It works best if you choose an article of clothing. Your shirt, for example. His answer ought to clue you in to his sexual orientation.

It’s a pretty well known fact that most straight guys can recognize about 7 colors -- red, blue, green, yellow, black, white and brown. Gray is “a bit of blackish-white (or whitish-black, depending on how dark it is)”, maroon is “just another red” and orange is “that color which is also a fruit”. Simply put, men don’t care too much about different shades.

So if Tim describes your shirt as one of the above 7 colors, you know he’s straight. If he uses a word that you haven’t heard before, that’s where you start to suspect all might not be as it appears. For example, if he calls it “beige”, “ocher”, “peach”, “lilac”, “aquamarine” or something like that he definitely drives on the wrong side of the road. No straight man knows that these shades even exist. (If he describes your shirt as “pink” or “lavender”, the two of you would make an excellent couple.)

Elton John apparently uses the term “pastel shades” in everyday conversation.

(Just for the record, all the colors mentioned on this page -- except the seven safe ones -- were obtained by Googling “colors and shades no straight man would be aware of”. I did not know they existed until 7 minutes ago. Not that there’s anything wrong with it.)

Saddam Joke of The Day

2007-01-02T15:04:00.000+05:30

Q - "What do you say to Saddam just before you yank the trapdoor open?"
A - "Shi'ite Happens!"

You Won’t Get Me!

2006-11-30T01:40:00.000+05:30

With the number of Hidden Camera shows around -- and four-five new ones cropping up every week -- I figure my chances of inadvertently appearing on one of them to be significant enough to be worth pondering upon. I’d hate to end up looking like one of those confused folks I’m always seeing on such shows. My current plan is to be a constant lookout for hidden cameras everywhere. However, this slows my day down considerably. You know, get up, look around bedroom for camera, brush teeth, look behind bathroom mirror for camera, take a dump, look around behind flush for camera... . Get the picture?

Also -- despite the fact that I wouldn’t hold the intelligence of the people making these shows in too high regard -- I’d have to believe that they aren’t COMPLETE idiots either. I’m guessing they’ll be able to hide the camera well enough to avoid detection -- even though I’m looking for it. That’s their job, after all.

Fortunately, I have a supplemental plan to go along with my Constant Hidden Camera Detect Mode. I try to pretend, at all times, as if I’m on camera. This way when they finally do catch me, I figure I’ll have already acted as necessary. If things get even slightly out-of-tune, my senses switch to high alert.

For example, if my burger at McDonald’s looks even the slightest bit rubbery, I immediately glance all around for a suspicious looking guy standing near me with an attaché case that may or may not be concealing a camera within. I then push him to the ground, yelling, “Get away from me, you perverted reality-TV freak!” I also stomp on the case he’s carrying and throw the burger in the face of the guy serving it to me. By this time, I can normally make out from the way things are going, whether my suspicions were right or not. (Surprisingly, I’ve never been correct as yet, but you can’t take chances, you know.)

If I see someone standing beside a lake yelling that their friend/sister/father/child has fallen in and can’t swim, I sweetly smile back and say, “Hah! Nice try. Almost got me there!” I then stick my tongue out at the person thrashing about wildly in the water and continue on my way. I figure one life is worth the cost of avoiding coming out of the water looking like a drowned rat, only to be told, “Haha! Gotcha!” (So far three people have drowned because of this policy of mine. However, I haven’t heard any of those three complain.)

Of course, none of this is going to make me very popular. But given a choice between being slightly disliked by half of humanity or looking like a chump on national television, I know which of the two evils I’d rather choose.

(I wrote this post fully clothed for once. You never know where the cameras might be.)

Why I Can’t Stand to Be Around Some Funny People

2006-11-11T22:57:00.000+05:30

Someone once said, “In every group there’s always one guy who’s the the idiot that everyone hates. Look around and if you don’t see that person, you know it’s you.”

Okay, this post has nothing to do with either idiots, group-related properties or even pithy sayings for that matter. I just thought I’d say the above sentence in the beginning itself and get that out of the way. Now to get down to the meat of the matter at hand.

Have you ever noticed how there are some people who are consistently trying to say something humorous? It’s like a disease or something. No matter what the situation is, they’re trying to come up with a wisecrack. I’m talking about the guy who whispers to you at a funeral, “I’m not surprised they aren’t cremating him. Considering where he’s going, why bother?” Or the kind of sky-diving partner, who when he realizes -- midway through the jump -- that you can’t get either your parachute or safety chute open, says, “Hey! That’s what I call jumping to conclusions!” Well, you get the picture.

The other thing about these people is that whenever you say something funny, they’re always trying to top it. You crack a joke, and they’ll contrive to come up with a witty extension to it. Or an even funnier joke. Like it’s a competition of some sort. Because that’s the way they are -- they just HAVE to be funny! All the frickin’ time!

I hate these kind of people. I can really stand to be around them too much. And I’ll tell you why -- it’s because I AM one of them! And when two people from this God-forsaken race meet or are in the same room, it’s usually one crazy never-ending ping-pong game of wisecracks and repartee. Now that may be all fine and merry with the people standing around and watching, but I don’t enjoy it at all. When I say something funny, I’m looking for a little appreciation and a few laughs, not someone trying to jump on it and squish it with an even funnier line, sometimes even before I’m done speaking. Hell! That’s MY job!

For some strange reason, every group usually has one of these people, too. So these days, I’m always looking around. (If you see me suspiciously casting surreptitious glances at you, you now know why that is.) And as long I don’t see anyone fitting the description, I’m one happy camper.

Why You REALLY Want to Eat That Thing That Your Doctor Warned You Not To

2006-11-08T22:42:00.000+05:30

I’ve heard a lot of people complain about how “everything that is bad for your health always tastes good”. Or conversely, most of the foods that are healthy taste like dog turds sprinkled with dried shrubs. It’s true, of course. But aren’t the reasons quite obvious?

Let’s look at the why a human being might eat something on fairly regular basis:

1. It’s healthy
2. It’s tasty, or
3. It’s both healthy and tasty.

In other words, if something’s both unhealthy and doesn’t taste good, we WOULD NEVER EAT IT! Or to put it in yet another way, unhealthy food that isn’t tasty, is -- well -- not food. So we don’t even stop to consider it in any such argument. For example, arsenic. Terrible for your well-being and tastes worse than spoonful from hell. But that’s exactly why it isn’t food. I’m sure if arsenic tasted good enough, there’d be at least a bunch of people who’d be dying to have a swig at it. (Pun intended.) You’d hear stuff like, “Oh sure, it might kill us -- but what a swell way to go!”

So basically, the more unhealthy an item is, the better it has to taste for humans to have incentive enough to call it food.

Similarly, the more healthy an item is, the less necessary it is for it to taste good. Hence, a lot of health foods taste terrible. It’s all so obvious, I wonder why people still complain!

Thinking Win-Win

2006-11-02T22:57:00.000+05:30

I’m a big fan of Win-Win situations. Or rather Win-Win outcomes to situations, since the same situation may have multiple outcomes, not all of which are Win-Win.

Now, I’m not referring specifically to monetary Win-Win situations. I’m not really sure if these even exist in the first place, or whether -- quite like energy -- a monetary gain somewhere necessarily implies a monetary loss somewhere else. For example, two people could stumble across a bag of cash on the street, which they then decide to split among themselves. Win-Win. For those two guys, at least. But I suppose it’s a Lose outcome to the person who dropped the bag there in the first place. Of course, the guy who lost the bag may have had some incentive for doing so, and hence ends up winning too. But we shall not bother ourselves with such situations.

What I’m trying to focus on over here are emotional Win-Win situations. Interactions where all parties concerned walk away “feeling happy”. These, of course, are not only quite possible but actually pretty commonplace. I’ve used the vague term “feeling happy”, and since different people have different causes of -- and even definitions for -- “happiness”, it’s not too difficult for many people to all feel happy with their role in the interaction.

I’ll describe one such kind of Win-Win situation, which I’ve sometimes come across. Imagine person A who speaks only English and French and person B who speaks only English and Hindi. Now for normal conversation, the two will use English. Let’s say at one point, A’s a little bit cheesed off about something B’s done. So he swears at him in French. B, obviously, doesn’t get a word A is trying to say. But from A’s tone he realizes that he’s being cursed. So he curses back at A in Hindi. And back and forth for a little while. Finally, they both decide to stop each feeling that he’s got the better of the situation. Win-Win.

Moral:- Next time you’re angry at someone, hurl invectives at the person in a language he or she doesn’t understand.

My Pet Snake

2006-10-31T22:48:00.000+05:30

I’m not big on the idea of keeping a pet. I believe that if you really want to get a dog or a cat or a monkey or something like that, then you might as well have a kid. Kids only a little more difficult to take care of and you know your dog isn’t going to be able to drive you to the hospital when you’re 63 and feel that heart attack coming. Besides, I think the clincher is that having sex is a lot more fun than a trip down to the pet store.

However, if I HAD to keep a pet, I think I’d keep a snake. I know it isn’t a very conventional choice, but I believe there are certain plus points to it.

To start off with, I’m an attention seeker. I’ll admit it -- I thrive on attention. I’d rather be walking down the street and have thirty people go, “Hey! Who’s that weirdo with the big huge snake around his neck?” than have two people smile and say, “Hey! Nice dog. What’s her name?” That’s just the way I am.

There’s also the fact that snakes don’t really require to be fed that often. An odd rodent every few weeks should do the trick. You won’t have to ruin your two-week holiday to the beach because you’re worried sick about whether your neighbor is feeding that hamster of yours or not. With a snake, you just leave him in a big box and wake him up when you get back.

Of course, there are advantages like the numerous opportunities for dirty puns that become available once you get a snake into the picture. For example, the next time I ask a girl whether she’d like to “play with my snake”, I actually wouldn’t be talking in metaphor. I guess a pet monkey would be cool for the same reason.

You can’t teach a snake to fetch the newspaper every morning, I’ll admit. But you can’t teach your dog how to fetch that pesky pen that’s fallen between your desk and the wall. With a snake, retrieving that pen is a cinch.

All this reminds me of the time when I’d caught a snake outside a friend’s house one evening some months ago. I brought it home in a cloth bag he gave me and left it next to my bed. That night, before going to sleep, I moved the bag and found it to be a little too light for my liking. So I felt it from the outside, and sure enough, it was empty! Now, 3.00 a.m. in the morning isn’t the best time to go looking for a missing snake in your apartment, and I was too tired to do the same anyway.

So I went to sleep, leaving the snake to cozy up wherever it had escaped to. The next morning I woke up and opened the bag. I found only the snake’s skin inside. (It had been shedding when I caught it.) I also found a small hole in the corner of the bag, where the stitching had opened out slightly. The snake had used the few open stitches to force its way out of the bag, increasing the hole in the process and leaving it’s skin behind. There I was with bag, skin and no snake -- looking quite foolish.

To end the story though, I finally found the snake in my parent’s bedroom, curled up behind one of the cupboards. Quite a fun time, all in all.

Why I Really Like My Job

2006-10-30T21:55:00.000+05:30

I often try to imagine what the Best Job in the World (BJITW) must be like. Okay, you can’t choose something like lying on a sunny beach all day, with scantily clad, bronze-colored ladies flitting around you, getting you drinks and pleasuring you in ways you didn’t imagine were possible. That’s NOT a job! What I’m looking for is something that is both:

1. Sufficiently feasible to actually exist, and
2. Pays you money for it.

The above described scenario misses out on both points, and so fails to qualify.

I have a desk-job myself. I’m pretty sure the BJITW can’t be a desk job. A desk job is rarely very interesting, and I’d have to think “interesting” plays a crucial role in picking any possible contender for the BJITW crown. But let’s take a little timeout to imagine what the best desk-job in the world would be like. (Or in other words, I’ll just describe an average day at the office for me!)

Here’s what it looks like:

11.00 am - Get to the office.
11.15 am - Check mail.
11.45 am - Get coffee with cute chick from neighboring cubicle. (Flirt shamelessly while doing so.)
12.15 pm - Tidy up desk a little.
12.45 pm - Call an early, extended lunch. (If possible, find another chick and flirt some more.)
2.00 pm - Sit through a couple of meetings while pretending to be awake. (Sleep will come easy thanks to the excess carbohydrates consumed during lunch.)
4.00 pm - Break for tea. (Yes, you get it by now -- more flirting.)
4.30 pm - Start deciding what work is to be done today.
5.30 pm - Decide it’s too late to start now.
5.45 pm - Check mail.
6.00 pm - Leave.

I have to think this is a pretty good deal. I know for sure that the above job exists and you get paid for it. You’ll notice, I could have suggested carrying a pillow and blanket in for the meetings or shortening the working hours a little bit. But I know that’s crossing over the line, and the job will no longer satisfy the two necessary conditions to qualify as a “job”.

What’s your job like? And what do you think the BJITW is?

Bad Fashion in the Name of Religion

2006-10-29T06:32:00.000+05:30

When you normally see some with a bad haircut, your first thought normally is, “What joke can I make here?” At least that’s always MY first thought. Especially if I see someone with a clean-shaven head. Needless to say, the number of wisecracks possible in such a scenario are almost limitless. Off late, though, I’ve decided to rope myself in a little bit in such situations.

The reason for this is that more often than not -- in this country, at least -- the reasons for the “no hair” look are seldom funny. For example, it’s common among Hindus for male members to shave their heads clean when someone in the family passes away. You can easily see how making a smart ass comment like “I’m sorry, the Hare Krishna Convention is at the other end of town” is not likely to draw too many laughs in such a case. The last time I tried it the guy began to cry. I tried to console by telling him that this isn’t Bombay and over here the trip across town only takes about 20 minutes, but that only brought out more tears.

The other occasion that calls for one to go Full Monty on one’s scalp is a visit to several Hindu temples, especially the important ones in South India. Again, not exactly a situation that’s very conducive to leg-pulling. Poor guy’s gone through a long, sweaty, day-and-a-half journey across the dusty plains of the country, to some temple in the South, in a rumbling, noisy train. He’s stood in a long, serpentine line for what must have been a few hours but seemed like a few weeks, eaten the terrible vegetarian food available over there [1], performed his excretal routines in the open, or even worse in a shit-filled public washroom, and all for a mere two-and-a-half second glimpse of the “idol” or whatever he’s gone to worship. And he’s gotten rid of all his hair. The last thing he wants is to be laughed at. It’s a sure-fire way to get a fat lip if you try it. Trust me, I have. Hence no more jokes about such people.

And then there are Muslims and their funny beards. Okay, I know it’s politically incorrect and all that in today’s world to say such a thing, but let’s face it -- a beard without the mustache looks quite RIDICULOUS! You’re not Amish or something for Chrissakes! What the fug’s the deal behind the “I’ll grow a beard but I’ll shave my mustache” ideology? Too much trouble to do the entire thing? Skip the mustache as well then, I say. Or wait, maybe this a will of Allah. Who am I to argue with that? My only rant is that I can’t make jokes about such things. Sheesh!

[1] - I know there exists such a concept as GOOD vegetarian food and that food need not be terrible just because it’s vegetarian, but I also know that such food doesn’t exist at such temples.

Beauty Tax

2006-10-19T21:19:00.000+05:30

I believe beautiful people should pay more tax. In this world, “being beautiful” equals “potential money making opportunities” and I don’t think this is fair to the -- ummm -- “physically” challenged souls of this Earth.

I’m not saying that ugly people don’t, or can’t, make it big in this world. I’m just saying they have to try much harder. A girl who’s exceedingly beautiful is likely to be guaranteed a good life even with very little effort put in on her part. If she tries a little, she could probably end up really rich and famous. If she works really hard, she might even become queen of her own kingdom with her own personal poop-picker. It’s a lot harder for someone with a misshapen nose to achieve all this.

How many beautiful people do you see asking for alms on the streets? Okay, it’s hard to look really “hot” when you don’t have money to spend on cosmetics or afternoons in the salon, but I’m sure you can’t hide natural beauty. Take an actress and make her live on the street for a while and something tells me she’ll still be significantly more beautiful that the people around her.

Of course, in order to tax people, one would have to come up with a metric for measuring one’s beauty. Here’s what I propose. Have each person go up to 100 random people of the opposite sex and ask for charity. It’s a known fact that people are more likely to donate money if the person asking for it is good-looking. According to the amount of money collected, one’s taxes can be measured.

That’s my Stupid Law For The Day (SLFTD).