I used to be a happy member of a networking community called Orkut. I logged on once every week or so, bade friends hello, pointedly ignored any slimes who had oozed out of the woodwork and wished to 'make friendship' me, exchanged snippets of gossip and oohed over photos of wrinkly newborn babies. It was a nice, relaxed lifestyle. Then blew the winds of change. Friends and acquaintances alike starting dropping off the edge of Orkut. There even appeared to be an unprecedented dearth of slimes on the horizon. The mails started to make an appearance, first a trickle, then a deluge, rapidly swelling to an ocean - all requesting one to make oneself available on Facebook. The party had moved. Bother, I thought. How annoying. Annoying it may have been, but one tires of talking to oneself in cyberspace, even though one's company is rather scintillating. So off to Facebook-land I went. I may or may not have been tripping merrily along at this point, but that is neither here nor there.
All merriness soon went its merry way down the toilet. Facebook turned out to a bewildering and belligerent. It was the rave party response to Orkuts English high tea. I had been tagged in photos, I was informed. People were considering poking me, some of them who not above a week ago would have politely offered me a muffin. Someone had sent me a 'how kinky are you' request! I was not sure I wanted to explore what that meant. Did I wish to calculate my bmi? Would a grammar test interest me? A vampire had bitten me. I was encouraged to join someones entourage. Werewolves tempted me to join their pack. Someone threw a sheep at me. One sympathizes with the poor, woolly nitwit. At this point, I felt like its dumber cousin. Had I ever considered becoming a pirate? Did I wonder if friends and neighbours nursed secret, stalker style crushes? Now was the time to figure out my 'true name'. And my personality type (I already know the answer to this one - the type that prefers having their toenails pulled out rather than spend time in Facebook). And the kind of drink I am. Also the kind of dog I am. And would I like some flowers? Or a drink? Was I suddenly possessed by an urge to impersonate Santa Claus?
I fled. I sneak in, every couple of months, dodge the sheep and leave hurried and somewhat incoherent scribbles on people's Walls. I never go at night. The vampires scare me.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Dantes Inferno
I'm being very good about blogging now. You know that old saw - strike when the guilt is hot. Good wisdom, that.
I have decided that I am going to be very good from now on, angelic even. What brought on this determination to turn over a new leaf, nay an entire tree, you ask. I glimpsed hell. And I don't want to go back. Hell is a twenty two hour economy class flight replete with screeching babies and seats that stubbornly pretend that the concept of angles other than ninety degrees is alien to them. Hell is being infernally sleepy but unable to drop off because you might just miss your next meal and the good Lord knows when more food is to be had. Hell is dying to go to the rest room but feeling so terribly awkward about discussing this pressing, personal need with the sleeping stranger next to you who is playing the role of the boatman when your bladder is filled with the Styx. When you do finally battle your way to said restroom, you will be charmed to discover that it was designed for the Lilliputs and you, in fact, are Gulliver's cousin on steroids.
Abolish hard labour, I say. Just sentence those hardened criminals to a lifetime of coach travel. God help me, if I have to do this again anytime soon, I will turn into a hardened criminal with the blood of a smug business class traveler on my hands. And no, I will not feel guilty. There is just so much we can be called upon to bear and my middle name isn't Job.
I have decided that I am going to be very good from now on, angelic even. What brought on this determination to turn over a new leaf, nay an entire tree, you ask. I glimpsed hell. And I don't want to go back. Hell is a twenty two hour economy class flight replete with screeching babies and seats that stubbornly pretend that the concept of angles other than ninety degrees is alien to them. Hell is being infernally sleepy but unable to drop off because you might just miss your next meal and the good Lord knows when more food is to be had. Hell is dying to go to the rest room but feeling so terribly awkward about discussing this pressing, personal need with the sleeping stranger next to you who is playing the role of the boatman when your bladder is filled with the Styx. When you do finally battle your way to said restroom, you will be charmed to discover that it was designed for the Lilliputs and you, in fact, are Gulliver's cousin on steroids.
Abolish hard labour, I say. Just sentence those hardened criminals to a lifetime of coach travel. God help me, if I have to do this again anytime soon, I will turn into a hardened criminal with the blood of a smug business class traveler on my hands. And no, I will not feel guilty. There is just so much we can be called upon to bear and my middle name isn't Job.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
All my bags are packed
Yes, I know. Its been months. I have a brilliant excuse though, this time around. I have been consumed by the logistics of moving from one country to another. You have to admit that thats a good one. Worth being consumed by.
Lets start at the very beginning, I've been told that thats a very good place to start. Visa stamped, it was time to get organized about the Big Move. I started by doing my world renowned headless chicken impersonation. The next step was to make a List. This started out well enough. When the list started to run longer than the begats in the Bible, I reverted to said headless chicken impersonation. This time around I went for the grander production - 6 headless chickens lashed together smashed out of their scrawny, spouting necks.
Eventually I calmed down enough to start to frantically do things - crack-addict-like I lived for my next hit, a nice, juicy tick mark on the List. Days sped by in a blur of happy ticks. Miraculously though, the list of things stubbornly unticked got no shorter. The only possible theory was that every time I turned my head the lascivious items on my list went at it like bunnies and produced millions of baby unchecked list items.
Oh and lets not forget the packing. It seemed simple enough. Pick up an item (or stare at, if said item is large and you are not unduly prejudiced towards hernias) and decide if parting with item will cause you cry a salty lake. If so, add to pile 'a'. If not, reject to unloved pile 'b'. An excellent formula. Right up until the time that I found this little black plastic rectangle encased in a little white plastic case. I had no idea what it was. It looked important. Smug, even. I created the I have no idea what to do with you pile (aka 'c') and moved on, rapidly discovering that his black smugness had brothers, sisters, second cousins and grouchy aunts.
So, my bags were packed (with pile 'a', now fondly called mountain 'a' and pile 'c', not so fondly called the what the f*** are you pile) and I was ready to go.
And so, following in the shoes of Marvin K Mooney, I went.
Lets start at the very beginning, I've been told that thats a very good place to start. Visa stamped, it was time to get organized about the Big Move. I started by doing my world renowned headless chicken impersonation. The next step was to make a List. This started out well enough. When the list started to run longer than the begats in the Bible, I reverted to said headless chicken impersonation. This time around I went for the grander production - 6 headless chickens lashed together smashed out of their scrawny, spouting necks.
Eventually I calmed down enough to start to frantically do things - crack-addict-like I lived for my next hit, a nice, juicy tick mark on the List. Days sped by in a blur of happy ticks. Miraculously though, the list of things stubbornly unticked got no shorter. The only possible theory was that every time I turned my head the lascivious items on my list went at it like bunnies and produced millions of baby unchecked list items.
Oh and lets not forget the packing. It seemed simple enough. Pick up an item (or stare at, if said item is large and you are not unduly prejudiced towards hernias) and decide if parting with item will cause you cry a salty lake. If so, add to pile 'a'. If not, reject to unloved pile 'b'. An excellent formula. Right up until the time that I found this little black plastic rectangle encased in a little white plastic case. I had no idea what it was. It looked important. Smug, even. I created the I have no idea what to do with you pile (aka 'c') and moved on, rapidly discovering that his black smugness had brothers, sisters, second cousins and grouchy aunts.
So, my bags were packed (with pile 'a', now fondly called mountain 'a' and pile 'c', not so fondly called the what the f*** are you pile) and I was ready to go.
And so, following in the shoes of Marvin K Mooney, I went.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
I smell dead things
It was a Monday evening and time to head home. I tripped merrily to my car which was parked in the basement of the building that houses my office. Actually, I have never tripped merrily anywhere, the only tripping I have done is the kind that ends with my nose touching terra firma firmly, but I have always wanted to trip merrily, so in this story I shall. My merry tripping came to an abrupt halt some distance from the aforesaid vehicle. The ghastly smell of decay was in the air. I peered around the dim crevices of the basement trying to spot the carcass. My investigation was brief as by now I was holding my breath and was not keen to risk keeling over. Secure in my car, I turned on the air conditioner as high as it could go and high tailed it home.
Cut to early Tuesday morning. I approached my four wheeled friend again, this time with the object of getting to work. Needless to say, I tripped along merrily. And there it was again. The stench of gruesome murders too long undiscovered. Let me tell you that few things put a kibosh on merry tripping as effectively as an assault on your nose by things long dead, but dreadfully unburied. While I reeled in disgust, I also did some quick thinking. The result of the quick thinking was this: it was mightily suspicious that both parking lots - home and office - smelt so disgustingly alike. I therefore proceeded to feel mightily suspicious and set off to work with a cloud of distrust above my head. The wheels kept turning, Sherlock-like. What were the common factors between Monday and Tuesday? The car and me. And I was pretty darn sure that I wasn't a zombie nor was I wont to carefully preserve dead rats in my pockets. That left a single prime accused.
On Tuesday evening when the evil odour persisted and all merry tripping was out of the question, I knew I needed help. I called a friend and said a sentence I never imagined I would be called upon to say, "I think there's something dead in my car". Later that night, armed with torches, we strip searched the car and found a big fat nothing. In the face of the snickering disbelief of my so-called friend I stuck to my guns. We decided to explore the engine. We stuck the light hither and non, in places were no light was meant to be stuck and then, suddenly, my light lit upon a staring eye. I shrieked, outdoing eight women in simultaneous labour.
Here is what we discovered, nestled cozily in my engine - the head of a fish, a tiny bone (but not that of a fish), and en empty packet that used to contain bread in days bygone. This is going to be one of the great mysteries of my life.
Cut to early Tuesday morning. I approached my four wheeled friend again, this time with the object of getting to work. Needless to say, I tripped along merrily. And there it was again. The stench of gruesome murders too long undiscovered. Let me tell you that few things put a kibosh on merry tripping as effectively as an assault on your nose by things long dead, but dreadfully unburied. While I reeled in disgust, I also did some quick thinking. The result of the quick thinking was this: it was mightily suspicious that both parking lots - home and office - smelt so disgustingly alike. I therefore proceeded to feel mightily suspicious and set off to work with a cloud of distrust above my head. The wheels kept turning, Sherlock-like. What were the common factors between Monday and Tuesday? The car and me. And I was pretty darn sure that I wasn't a zombie nor was I wont to carefully preserve dead rats in my pockets. That left a single prime accused.
On Tuesday evening when the evil odour persisted and all merry tripping was out of the question, I knew I needed help. I called a friend and said a sentence I never imagined I would be called upon to say, "I think there's something dead in my car". Later that night, armed with torches, we strip searched the car and found a big fat nothing. In the face of the snickering disbelief of my so-called friend I stuck to my guns. We decided to explore the engine. We stuck the light hither and non, in places were no light was meant to be stuck and then, suddenly, my light lit upon a staring eye. I shrieked, outdoing eight women in simultaneous labour.
Here is what we discovered, nestled cozily in my engine - the head of a fish, a tiny bone (but not that of a fish), and en empty packet that used to contain bread in days bygone. This is going to be one of the great mysteries of my life.
Why I smiled today
I drove out of my front gate this morning and this is what I saw. Sometimes the universe conspires so that you have to start your day with a smile.
And since the picture is in the running for being the tiniest in the history of mankind, perhaps a small explanation would not be out of place. There's a supermarket opposite the gate of my house and the picture shows a cow halfway up the stairs to the store, peering inside with decided curiosity and more than a glimmer of hope.
Rules of the lap
I recently heard about a friend of a friend who was mugged. It was a traumatic experience for her and one that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Well, thats probably not really true. The detail that stuck in my mind though, was this - the mugger sat on her lap.
It was past ten in the night. Accompanied by a friend, sated post dinner, she sauntered to their car. As they got in, they were beset by a pair of villains who held knives to their respective necks. Villain1 poked the driver in the neck, insisted that the door be opened and valuables of every description be handed over to him. Villian2, not wanting to be outdone, replicated the rude thrust of his compatriot against the neck of our heroine. This is where things get strange. Once Villian2 had convinced our heroine that opening her door post haste was the wise thing to do, all considered, he then proceeded to get into the car and sit on her lap. Having done so, he did not attempt any lewd behaviour - well nothing lewder than the act of sitting on a stranger's lap. He just sat on her lap and robbed her blind. Having relieved her of all things that he considered valuable, Villian2, duly accompanied by his faithful companion Villian1, melted into the night to be heard from nevermore.
But he sat on her lap. I can't get over this teensy detail. Sitting on someone's lap is normally accompanied by a sense of surrender. The sitter is clearly less powerful, less in control, than the sittee. Here are activities not compatible with sitting on someones lap:
a. You can't shout at them
b. You can't ooze sarcasm and
c. You definitely should not steal from them, at knife point no less
Apart from being a tad evil, Villian2 was just plain rude.
It was past ten in the night. Accompanied by a friend, sated post dinner, she sauntered to their car. As they got in, they were beset by a pair of villains who held knives to their respective necks. Villain1 poked the driver in the neck, insisted that the door be opened and valuables of every description be handed over to him. Villian2, not wanting to be outdone, replicated the rude thrust of his compatriot against the neck of our heroine. This is where things get strange. Once Villian2 had convinced our heroine that opening her door post haste was the wise thing to do, all considered, he then proceeded to get into the car and sit on her lap. Having done so, he did not attempt any lewd behaviour - well nothing lewder than the act of sitting on a stranger's lap. He just sat on her lap and robbed her blind. Having relieved her of all things that he considered valuable, Villian2, duly accompanied by his faithful companion Villian1, melted into the night to be heard from nevermore.
But he sat on her lap. I can't get over this teensy detail. Sitting on someone's lap is normally accompanied by a sense of surrender. The sitter is clearly less powerful, less in control, than the sittee. Here are activities not compatible with sitting on someones lap:
a. You can't shout at them
b. You can't ooze sarcasm and
c. You definitely should not steal from them, at knife point no less
Apart from being a tad evil, Villian2 was just plain rude.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
My brief romance with the IPL
I don't watch cricket. This is not because I have anything against this particular game, I ignore all sports in equal measure. Recently though, with the unholy hysteria of the IPL gripping the nation, I was suckered into going for an IPL match. Initially, I resisted. In a minute I could think of eight more fun ways to spend my hard earned money. Strong as the famed rock of G. I withstood all peer pressure till some sly soul said, 'Its practically a party'. Party? Hmm. I could party. So off we went on the designated day, with our illegally procured tickets. We were paying a kings ransom for the privilege of squishing ourselves into the cheapest seats the stadium had to offer. Borne by the largely smelly crowd through multiple security checks, innumerable gates and passageways suited to moles, finally, there was the light at the end of the tunnel. When I first burst into the stadium I felt a thrill of excitement. The crowd was simmering with excitement. Floodlights the size of the moon lit the stadium. Raucous music rent the air. It certainly felt like a party. We seated ourselves like sardines on the concrete stairs juggling our supplies of various fizzy drinks and chips. The males of the species all around me were thrilled to bits to discover that a posse of cheerleaders were stationed in front of our stand. They shook and jiggled and the crowd was in a state of drooling hysteria. The game began. In the distance, tiny figures ran back and forth. The ones closest to us were the size of ants. The others, who were practically playing in the neighbouring country, were like dimples on the pimples on the backsides of said ants. I was filled with panic. How would I ever figure out what was going on? At any given time one had to study the ever changing field of microscopic creatures and determine:
a. Who the two batsmen were
b. Who the bowler was
c. Which fielder stood where so that when a brilliant catch was taken one had a chance of knowing who took it or curse and spit when butterfingers let one through
I accomplished these tasks by asking a few million questions. Then the over was done, and I had to ask all of my questions all over again. Every now and again, in response to some event that occured in the galaxy neighbouring ours, the crowd would roar onto its feet and some of its more exuberant members would also dance like chickens in their death throes. It was exhausting. The mexican waves were fun though. At least the first seven were. It got a bit old then, having bits of popcorn in my hair and coke sloshed down my back. As the first half drew to a close, the honeymoon was done. My bum hurt. My eyes hurt. And thanks to the uncontrolled gyrations of the man next to me, the upper left quadrant of my head hurt too. Battle weary, I slunk out to the closest pub and back into my comfortably sport less life.
a. Who the two batsmen were
b. Who the bowler was
c. Which fielder stood where so that when a brilliant catch was taken one had a chance of knowing who took it or curse and spit when butterfingers let one through
I accomplished these tasks by asking a few million questions. Then the over was done, and I had to ask all of my questions all over again. Every now and again, in response to some event that occured in the galaxy neighbouring ours, the crowd would roar onto its feet and some of its more exuberant members would also dance like chickens in their death throes. It was exhausting. The mexican waves were fun though. At least the first seven were. It got a bit old then, having bits of popcorn in my hair and coke sloshed down my back. As the first half drew to a close, the honeymoon was done. My bum hurt. My eyes hurt. And thanks to the uncontrolled gyrations of the man next to me, the upper left quadrant of my head hurt too. Battle weary, I slunk out to the closest pub and back into my comfortably sport less life.
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