tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-205891142024-03-13T23:46:11.066+09:00More arbit ramblingWhy would you want to do this to yourself?Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-69985737209260897232021-04-22T02:48:00.000+09:002021-04-22T02:48:32.317+09:00Sup<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This feels a bit like ringing the bell at a house, except it's my house that I'd
left quietly and sheepishly a long decade ago and there's no one to answer. The
front lawn's been overrun with weeds and vermin (Google warns me that this site
may be compromised, so please don't leave your credit card details around. Email
them to me instead). The neighborhood's moved on to nicer templates and to
Twitter. Them old neighbors would be right to cluck and smirk too - I haven't
written a lick since the last post, and am painfully aware of how hard this is
now. </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> 28 year old me would be hushed in horror at the state of it all, but he can
kindly go fuck off. There are the obvious changes - The temples have grayed, the
beer gut has grown stubborn even as beer consumption </span>plummeted<span style="font-family: inherit;"> sharply and the
ankles and knees protest vigorously. My inkwell of angst and despair now draws
from annual health checkups, tax liabilities and middle management hell, instead
of the crap you waded through in pages past. I need new material - life has not
been as moan-worthy.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> It started with a lovely girl who decided she liked me. I
was befuddled then, and still am, but was not going to disabuse her of her silly
ideas. We got married in a year, lived and travelled in the US for another two.
We had to get back to India rather hurriedly (I may have procrastinated a tad
much on renewing my visa) and settled in Bangalore. We then had a son who's now
5 and growing up way too quickly, and we've all survived each other thus far. I
keep </span>marveling<span style="font-family: inherit;"> on how closely we resemble Calvin's family at this point - He is
obsessed with space, dinosaurs and dipping frequently into a very vivid
imagination. I don't know how long the magic will last, but I'm going to try my
damndest to keep it so. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Currently playing : Roar like a dinosaur, Bounce Patrol
</span></div>Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-76294058368247193372011-04-25T04:33:00.000+09:002011-04-25T04:33:11.408+09:00HiI've been meaning for a triumphant return. A post that would justify the length of absence and the indulgent self pitying I've wallowed in since. The curtains would part, the lights dimmed, and the symphony below would strike up something majestic.<br />
<br />
Only there's nothing to say. Nothing new, I mean. The requisite glass is at my side, I'm writing at an hour that I should be sleeping at, and I've just realised that life hasnt changed one damn tootle since 2007. <br />
<br />
I dont know whether that calms me or terrifies me. This time should be the epoch of reckoning, when I figure out the self, the woman, the career, the city...even the next playlist. When the alter ego finally mans up and grabs you by the collar, and shakes you awake. <br />
<br />
There isnt such a guy. It's you, and how your world knows or perceives you. And how you want to wake up each morning and deal with that. You're not going to be a footballer and part time super spy, with a Ferrari and a Playboy centerfold. <br />
You're going to be the guy who you've always inwardly denied being. It's now a question of whether you're at peace with him and where he is headed presently, or whether you're going to do anything about him.<br />
<br />
Never mind. Lets go chug that pitcher.<br />
<br />
<br />
Currently listening : <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eq2Q1A_QNwM">I feel fine, Darker my love</a>Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-25415915620093873802010-10-20T09:15:00.000+09:002010-10-20T09:15:24.348+09:00SoliloquyEvery once in a while, the random guy perched precariously on the barstool next to you would lean / lurch over and say something in the nature of advice completely unsolicited. It would apply exclusively to his life and how he’s muddled it up. It would take a couple of iterations of his increasingly vehement slurring for you to glean its gist. And it would take the most beatific patience to not smirk or roll your eyes.<br />
<br />
Then again, he’s been quiet for disquietingly too long, even by his standards… so indulge the man his rant. Or fuckoffplisthx.<br />
<br />
What I’m trying to say, basically, is that you better be prepared for the realization that you’re the same chomu you always were….even before you changed cities. That shifting the job setting, pub setting and life setting, cant really help you with the quintessential fuckups of your life that you wreak on yourselves. Your life experiences (pfft!) are going to be as abysmally non starter as ever, you’re going to get the same appraisal feedback from your new boss, your folks are going to sound just as exasperated over the phone and your love life would still be a cruel joke.<br />
<br />
What just might pull you through is the gradual realization, albeit belated, of the above. You may even pledge to learn the lesson this time. <br />
<br />
Or get another mug. Even if it’s bloody Fosters now.<br />
<br />
<br />
Currently listening : 15 Step, RadioheadDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-84472308855054543002010-05-24T05:42:00.009+09:002010-05-24T06:34:56.660+09:00Reimagined<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDENNIS%7E1.ALE%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDENNIS%7E1.ALE%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDENNIS%7E1.ALE%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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</style> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The mailman awoke with faint puzzlement, wondering why the slumber was so quiet and unbroken. There was none of the blanket tugging Olympics tonight, and he looked across the bed to see if she was okay. But she wasn’t there, and her side of the bed looked unslept in.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He called her name out and waited, but only the howling blizzard outside seemed inclined to reply. The first instinct was to assume she’d sneaked down for a midnight snack, and dive back into the covers…but something seemed wrong. He scanned the room and finally saw the emptied cupboards, and his clothes heaped in a pile at the bottom. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Only they looked piled up after being cut through. With a pair of very effective scissors, and the vengeance of a seamstress scorned.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This seemed now like waking from one of his hangover nights gone wrong, except he hadn’t done those in a long time now. He called out her name more frantically, but with rapidly fading hope. Her clothes and shoes were missing from the wardrobe, as were the suitcases. His clothes were strewn around the room in an assortment of little pieces and colors, like a macabre playpen. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He raced downstairs, hitting every light switch in every room, trying to will her presence somewhere in the house. Everything else still seemed in picture perfect order…with a sense of purpose and placement that unnerved him most times. Which is probably why he stopped to stare at the overcoat she’d now left draped over his chair. With a one word note perched on top. Goodbye.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u5:p></u5:p><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He’d bought it as a joke. They’d been exchanging lovely and yet useful gifts for a score of seasons now, and he’d gotten weary of racking his head about this yet again. And he’d seen this coat beckon from the toy shop window everytime he’d pass it on his mail rounds. Well, it belonged to nowhere but a toy shop….a ridiculous fat suit draped in bright red velvet and complete with poofy tassels and a dunce cap. One that never failed to make him chuckle. So today, our man had a drink too many, chuckled again, thought to himself; ‘Fuck it’…walked in and bought the coat. Cap and all. Then hopped along home, kissed his lovely wife, and handed this over. It was a bit early for the gift giving, but she’d sneak a peek and get him something stupid too….he hoped. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">They hadn’t acted stupid for too long a while.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She’d been thrilled. Or her version of thrilled. The husband was never one to get anything done on time, let alone in advance. And yes, he smelt of rum…but his cheerfulness was infectious, the affection genuine. The fewer these moments of spontaneity, the more welcome each were. He knew she’d sneak back to try the coat out once he was asleep. He knew she’d come charging back in mock indignation and hit him with a pillow. Or douse him in water. Or laugh. Loud and clear and like the girl he’d once fallen in love with.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Not this. What the fuck was this about?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u5:p></u5:p><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He peered out the window, and blinked at the blizzard. She couldn’t have gone far…not in this weather, and not with all that luggage. Maybe to the neighbors, or her bridge club friends. Better sense would prevail the next morning…he’d profusely apologise…they’d burn the coat together, and they’d gift each other books or something. He checked the house for any of his clothes that were unshredded, but the woman never did miss much. And he now found himself dolefully staring back at the coat. Joke’s on me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He fixed himself a drink, and then put the coat on. Surprisingly warm and comfy…but gay as hell. And it came with a pair of pants, for which he was much relieved. The prospect of walking into town, in only a gay fatsuit, in the middle of the night & in a blizzard to find and pacify his irate wife sounded a tad more agreeable if one had pants unexpectedly coming alongwith the fatsuit. So he slipped the pants on, and stepped to the mirror .</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He could see why she might be miffed. The sight may have seemed hilarious to anyone but the wearer, but the wearer himself was now flinching. He should have bought this in a more sober moment. It was a badly made piece…the padding was scrunched up towards the bottom, and there was just too much of it. He looked more pregnant than obese. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And that dawning comprehension turned his veins to ice. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">They’d been trying to conceive for years, until the doctors told them she never could. It seemed to bring her life crumpling down, but she wouldn’t let them adopt, and she wouldn’t let her pain show. Her unshakeable belief in God’s will seemed reinforced , instead of being questioned. He held her close, and he let her come to terms with this in her way…but they suffered in silence. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And he then spent his life protecting her in that silence. Shielding her from pity and unsolicited advice and innocent questions and religious doctrine and sympathy. It was a fragile bubble that could be burst by anyone…a clucking relative, an inquisitive stranger, an idiot child.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or a fool ass drunken husband.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u5:p></u5:p><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He turned heel swiftly, and ran outside. The blizzard struck him with a pent up, frozen fury, punishing him for the cozy warmth he’d been mulling in at home. Five uncertain steps…and then he realized that he had forgotten his boots.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He knew he wouldn’t step out again, if he went back home for them. And that she hadn’t flinched in this same storm. It slowed her, maybe…but her resolve was always monumental. She’d be walking now to the train station, to the last train of the night. Footwear, weather, home, town and husband be damned. It was the way of her rage.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He swore at himself and trudged on. The storm now seemed to bristle at his defiance, and the wind grew sharper…the snow nearly blinding him. He ducked into the shed for respite, and then remembered his mail van. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The van was loaded with the season’s mails. And coaxing it out into this beast of a snowstorm would be a hellish task. And he hated the way it handled, even on a sober day. But she was currently disappearing into the night, with no intent of coming back. He sobbed at his despair, the cold, her fate… and charged the van blind into the blizzard.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><u5:p></u5:p><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A blizzard that already had many a youngster awake and staring through their windows in awestruck wonder. Now add in a gaily dressed & comically obese man, sobbing away in a mailvan that lurched unsteadily <i>into</i> the storm…and they should all be fishing frantically for their cellphones…racing to turn this into the next viral video sensation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Except that this particular scene played out a thousand years too early for cellphones.This was back in the times when mail vans in Scandinavia were reindeer drawn sleds. And the youngsters would have to make do with drawing on postcards, the slightly embellished versions of what they saw, and mailing their hapless relatives and friends the world over.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Currently playing :</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kings of Convenience - Riot on an empty street</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-25887438843426443532009-08-22T05:06:00.003+09:002009-08-22T05:38:23.729+09:00hehThis pal of mine was once in a bike accident...where he and his friend had a few more drinks than warranted for the road, then clambered onto the Bullet enroute to point B. Only to be speedily unclambered because they hit something...he still doesnt remember what...and to find each other chuckling at the side of the road. Chuckling while the bike was still somersaulting to a rude halt by random compound wall.<br /><br />I've heard better stories. I've unwittingly been part of some of them. But if I were to thoda detach oneself from one's life since college ended, the bike would be my plans, or even my expectations of the suburban life I'd chalked out. And I'm the one chuckling in the dust.<br /><br />I wont go into the details of how things went awry...or even if they went awry. It's been somewhere between getting what you wished for...and being careful about what you wished for. One beautifully delivered curveball..this life as yet. Sometime soon...I may stop alleging in allegories and actually tell you what the fuck did happen...but not in a blog. Life's good times are just too precious to be poured out here and left to a hyperlink footnote. I'm thinking...a maxed out tape, a glass of the cold stuff, a plate of the hot stuff and a very superb bartender.<br /><br />There is no point here. I'm okay. I've learnt to chuckle. Quite drily, too.<br /><br /><br />Currently listening : Paint it black , The Rolling StonesDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-5499036312512237532008-09-02T05:12:00.002+09:002008-09-02T05:52:52.893+09:00Dancing in the darkIt's probably the beer. Or the prolonged lack of sleep. Maybe the solitude, or the emotional stasis. I may not especially be wanting to be in time for work tomorrow. Could even be the rush of belated epiphanies, that have hit me again, as ever, on a non descript little pub lane in Pali Hill. Or the fact that I just spent about 3 minutes alone staring at a kaleidoscopic dance of blinking lights on my street...my city preparing for Ganesh Chaturthi...at 2 am.<br /><br />Maybe it's that epiphany that this wasnt supposed to be a space to impress you. Or to believe that the ladies would be flinging their panties at me any moment now. This is not the venue for a processed catharsis of everything I cant say in real life, it's not what I have to do when I'm sloshed and alone, and it's not an essay competition. I'm not telling you all this. I have to make sure I read it myself.<br /><br />And I dont know how many other posts I've attributed to beer from the first line. Or how many blog posts about the blog you've already suffered. I do know how to shrug, though.<br /><br />Yeah well. Cheers.<br /><br /><br />Currently listening : Beck - ChemtrailsDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-70317867857416509092008-01-13T16:35:00.000+09:002008-01-13T16:45:57.316+09:00Yonder<p>He finished combing his hair, let himself share a slight half-smile with the mirror, and smoothened his sweater rather unnecessarily.<br /><br />The silence in the room was overwhelming. There was an expectant air about his reflection that he’d change his mind, or wait for tomorrow’s game show episode, or that he’d want to wait for his grand daughter’s next call. He let his mind dwell on these thoughts almost indulgently, and he snuffed them out in patience.<br /><br />The sheets were in place…the wardrobe arranged…the last book placed by the bedside lamp, bookmark et al. There was even an After Eight kept under the pillow. If she ever could return, she’d be home.<br /><br />He walked with solemn purpose upto the various cabinets in the house, picking up the things he wanted. The family picture from happier times. The jokebook he’d read out to his kids. The chewing gum he’d kept secret from his doc. The money. The letters. And the medals.<br /><br />Medals he’d won for long distance running many years ago. They no longer shone, and the inscriptions seemed like hieroglyphics now…but they were a testament, all the same.<br />They’d all been forgotten until a month back, when he was desperately rustling the cupboards for every memory she’d have left him. Those races now seemed to be so many lifetimes ago.<br /><br />Those races were starting again. Tonight.<br /><br />He slipped them into his pockets, rapped the wooden table twice, necessarily, and strode out. Mumbled what was supposed to be a prayer at the foot of his door, wiped the nameplate clean, and stepped gingerly onto the stairs….<br /><br />The plan was to drop the letters and the cellphone at the post box, and to catch a cup of chai at the station. The plan was to walk to Panvel, steadily and yet at his pace, and to avoid the noisy roads enroute. If and when he did reach…the plan was to catch his breath, have another cup of chai, and check the schedule board for the first train out of the city.<br /><br />The plan was chai in clay cups and the fourth seat in the sleeper berth. The plan was<br />to sit in the luggage room and wait for another train to another direction, if he did not like the people or the place he was with. The plan was to send postcards every week to the Sewree cemetery in Mumbai, where a dear old friend would quietly direct them to the correct address.<br /><br />Beyond that, he was incapable of planning. He may just step out of the station and visit a town or a dozen. He may just take up a job at a Wheeler book store in some quaint Dom Moraes town. And he may just get beaten or robbed or sent to some home.<br /><br />But he’d reached a point where nothing truly mattered. He’d lived a full life. He’d live again.</p><p><br /><br />Now listening – Wanderlust, Mark Knopfler</p>Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-57857896317045530892007-10-14T06:13:00.000+09:002007-10-14T19:44:31.621+09:00Wonderland<div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">When men on the chessboard<br />Get up and tell you where to go<br />And you've just had some kind of mushroom<br />And your mind is moving low<br />Go ask Alice<br />I think she'll know</span></em></div><p>Most nights it was a little niggle. Something that drowned easily in beer, that got outshouted by the playlist of the night, or that gave up and watched Leno with him. </p><p>There had been others like this one. They usually lived under the surface for a couple of months, peaked feverishly on a random, ranting trip to Hangoverland, and petered out quietly after. Status quo. So it goes.</p><p>The one haunting him today seemed to be of a deadly new strain. One that had sneaked past his usual daily antibiotics; and had waited till the lights in the house were out. And had chosen a sober night to attack. And attack it did....with a vengeance for all it's deceased earlier versions that had been thwarted.</p><p>The hapless author tossed and turned in his sleep for a while, and realised he'd been wide awake all along. Staring at the ceiling was not the answer now. Forced yawning or counting sheep were never the answer. He'd usually switch on something soothing on his walkman at this stage, but no song seemed to have the answer.</p><p>Dude rose wearily to wash his face. This is to be one of those nights. Denial was not the answer.</p><p></p><p>He switched on the low yellow bulb in the washroom, splashed his face measuredly a couple of times, and straightened up slowly to stare back at his reflection.It seemed a routine he'd been practising for a while now. Like say, a decade.</p><p>Work was so not the answer. This was something he'd figured out at the time of switching career interests (again, abt a decade back)...so the failure of this hypothesis wasnt breaking his heart especially now.</p><p>Workaholism wasnt the answer. Shirking work wasnt. Having a job description that sounded awesome wasnt. Cribbing wasnt. And comparing paychecks threw up more questions that the act alone would answer. And it didnt. Workmates werent the answer. Areas of interest werent. Certifications werent. Prospects elsewhere werent.</p><p>Music promised to be the answer for a good while. The act of listening, not playing. Both werent. There were some guitar riffs around that could make him orgasm involuntarily, but they'd been playing for a good while now, and the dude's niggles continued to bubble. And there were lyrics he'd probably copy paste into his wedding vows, or his "birds and bees" talk to his kids. But nope, guitar riffs and lyrics werent the answer.</p><p>Books werent the answer. He'd been reading them a million a year once, but more to avoid having to talk to people, than anything else. And he liked reading books for what they had to offer, and not for what he'd been trying to wrangle out of them. Fiction, thankfully, never pretended to be the answer. Non fiction usually fell into Paulo Coelho, self help, spirituality or textbooks. And all 4 categories could sincerely fuck off.</p><p><br />Religion promised way too many answers. He'd been born way too cynical to actually believe anybody or anything. Especially when they all insist that the really good stuff gets you sent straight to hell. It's almost as if he'd rather stay ignorant of this answer, than put away his beer. </p><p>Sex wasnt the answer. Not that he actually knew this one. But there was something incongrous about the idea that a mutually assisted emission of body fluids by 2 sweaty, frantic characters hopping about manically under the covers, would answer his usual questions. He'd love to be personally proved wrong by a rather fetching member of the opposite gender...but part of him knows that he'd find himself staring again at some unfortunate mirror that night. Before rushing back to his senses and the bed.</p><p><br />Love...tough one this. He'd been convinced this was the Holy Grail....so it takes a while to let this one pass. But he probably wouldnt fall into this unless it's with some1 who's asking the same questions. Some like minded one who'd rather ask the questions, than get them answered. That puts two peas in a pod. That does not necessarily solve or silence the question. Then again...I wouldnt know. Never have been in a relationship. Abortive or otherwise. Wouldnt mind being proved wrong at this one either.</p><p>Football probably was the answer during boyhood...but those days are done. Hobbies are more like distractions away from the questions, rather than a path to the answer and I'd prefer keeping it that way. So that saves beer from ever getting questioned. </p><p><br />Travel may just be. Cooking may. Biking may. But I have friends who are champs at all 3, and they've got questions plaguing them as well. And there are a zillion things I could pick up and mull over in this way, but they just wouldnt be the answer. Or there was no way of knowing if they would. </p><p><br />The guy's reflection now looked like he'd forgotten his wallet someplace.<br />Usually he wore this quiet, demanding, searching look that wouldnt waver or blink....but would stare right back at the dude, until the latter turned away with a muttered FU. Not today. Today he looked like the prosecutor, who'd been struck with amnesia. The dude had no clue about the question. </p><p></p><p>Which was what started this fucked up niggle in the first place. This wasn't a case of Dennis not going where he promised himself he would. The dude didnt know where to go from here.</p><p> The 'Now What?' syndrome, ladies and gentlemen, has finally landed.</p><p><br /><em>Currently listening : White Rabbit - Jefferson Airplane</em></p>Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-66162536013761261362007-09-12T03:43:00.000+09:002007-09-12T03:45:20.059+09:00Writer’s block.I swear.<br /><br />It’s like some fucked up mental thing. Blog posts pop into my head at random hours and totally unbloggable times….and they keep gnawing away, nagging to be written. Then when the broadband finally arrives…I’m left staring at a blank screen, wondering why the fuck…?<br /><br />Recommends : The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid – Bill Bryson.<br /><br />Current music : On every street – Dire Straits.Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-74221983442591480462007-08-05T04:47:00.000+09:002007-08-05T04:49:50.029+09:00Oh well.What the hellThere are now two of us writing this post.<br /><br />The first guy keeps wondering about just what part of his 6 day week, Sundays-are-for-church existence would be worth blog space. He’s quasi resigned himself to a lame ass dialup connection, to keeping the music low at home, to a TV that hiccups every 5 minutes and to the fucking rains. Way too much sober time, too many roll-your-eyes-&-sigh quietly moments, just frigging too much of what yours’ and my parents happily subject themselves to.<br /><br />The second guy is the absolute bastard. The absolute, absolute bastard.<br /><br />He’s barely 2 years old now. Was born during some merry confluence between Bacchus and Knopfler in the ethereally slothful and filthy confines of Room 452, one of several identically fashioned and inhabited rooms on campus. Rocked his house for two glorious years, and took an inordinate amount of glee in clucking sympathy for seniors and friends who moaned about how sucky life is outside college.<br /><br />And he’s been watching his own descent into an ordinary life with this sideways, knowing, infuriating smile…and he hums some sardonic Dylan or Cobain to this new schmuck in the mirror. Bugger watches me agonize over lost gym hours and tax planning and how sober I look before I ring the doorbell, and he’s always humming something in the background.<br /><br />To be true, there are times when he gets to get back to form. Those “Roll up your sleeves boys, we’re getting haaappy” times. Difference being…those times are now suddenly affordable…but they need to be scheduled. Both for day of week and time of day.And you can never really have them twice in the same week.<br /><br /><br />Currently listening : Things have changed – Bob Dylan.Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-85564844395011857982007-06-10T04:57:00.001+09:002007-06-10T04:59:04.051+09:00The aah fuck moment<em>“Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Has it been five years? Six? It seems like a lifetime, the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. But no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant ”<br /><br /> - Johnny Depp, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas<br /></em><br /><br />These posts are always the most fucked up ones to write.<br /><br />The ones where you want to pen down your feelings. When you need to choose between letting yourself loose and being unapologetic about it, and between the usual analyzing, postulating and self counseling crap you’re wont to find here. When you realize that writing about it doesn’t help you deal with the shit…it just dilutes whatever precious little you do feel about anything anymore.<br /><br />I’ve packed the rest of my stuff from the room…and will be handing in the keys tomorrow. There were visions of being the last rebel here…blaring the music louder than ever, breaking the rest of the champagne glass set, stocking up on booze and cigarettes and pot and movies and porn…just for that one last frigging day. It’s a cliché I can’t bear to recreate anymore.<br /><br />This be the moment where one wishes he hadn’t forgotten how to cry. The booze could do the trick…but 2 hours later, he’d wake up and feel the same way abt stuff. So all he’s left with is a half filled Word doc, and the mess in his head.<br /><br /><br />Currently listening : Time to take her home - The stone temple pilots.Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-16945113643437199492007-06-10T04:57:00.000+09:002007-06-10T05:08:13.337+09:00Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-68020439138808727032007-05-19T16:08:00.000+09:002007-05-19T16:11:50.198+09:00If heaven spoke“The question here is not of whether you are drunk or not. The question is…are you drunk enough?”<br /><br />“Test msg. Plz do not reply”<br /><br />“The quality of the students has been going down every year…but yours is the worst I have ever seen.”<br /><br />“Dude.Beer.”<br />“Dude.Krishna Bar”<br />“Dude. Happy hours”<br />“Dude. Tunga buffet”<br />“Dude… “Fuck off, I’m broke”<br /><br />“Rush to the audi now..whatshisface company has come and there’s nobody present. Pundir is taking attendance”<br /><br />“Football in the bbal court at 6.30”<br /><br />“Susie, if you say another word, I’m going to drop this bottle out of the rickshaw”<br />“Dude…”<br />* The agonizing scream of a broken beer bottle. And a very panicked rickshaw driver *<br /><br />“CR / Acad secy please help”<br />“Lol”<br /><br />“Okaaay. Shikha and..?”<br /><br />“Kuch BIG karma hai yaar”<br /><br />“I’ll climb into her room through the window. Do you know where the plumbing pipes are?”<br /><br />“Doooood!! You spilled vodka on the floor”<br />10 seconds later…<br />“Hey, you think this will burn?”<br /><br />“NFS hosted on 10.4.4.3…join up in 5 minutes”<br /><br />“Hey dude…do you ever sleep? It’s the middle of the day out here”<br /><br />“Haan, you can take how much ever from his room. The funda is that, you have to replace the bottles tomorrow”<br /><br />“Knopfler is God. He’s just..he’s just…God, man”<br /><br />“You brought nothing from Goa?”<br />“He he he. Lock the door, dude…and get 3 glasses”<br /><br /><br /><br />And this is probably my last weekend on campus.<br />Listening to : Brand new day - Sting<br /><br /><br />Who am I kidding?Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-12103488307750075762007-04-25T00:01:00.000+09:002007-04-25T00:08:37.544+09:00Atticus<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">How should a guy react to digging out his only baby rattle from the family archives of junk, lovingly dumped into some random box under a supersized table?<br /><br />I live at home now…home being a matchbox sized 1BHK, with a miraculous balcony. A home currently occupied by 5 people, so space needs to be fought for. And I’d waged a war against the balcony…throwing away everything we didn’t need…and dumping into more boxes, the stuff we apparently did.<br /><br />And we happen to be a family of hopeless stashers, so the aforementioned task…is a huge one. Boxes and cabinets and cupboards are brimming with the arcane and the useless….relics of the 3 generations that called it home. Stuff from work, school, the children, the grandparents, the Gulf, the malluland, the weddings and the funerals. Just stuff, man….Monica would have an orgasm just listing the categories they could be organized into.<br /><br />My dad has this thing for restoring ancient electronics. He’d bring stuff from the office that’s probably been discarded after 3 lifetimes of use, and tinker away until it got running again. It used to drive Mom mad at times….we’d have the most massive of audio systems (one entire cake sized box for the radio, another such box for the tape recorder, and even another for the amplifier). Stuff with dials for indicators…and knobs for everything else. Crackly sound and horrible reception too, but those things never were the point. And this museum also had sections for the ancient wood paneled TVs, the 286s PCs, and dinky air heaters with exposed red hot copper coiling.<br /><br />Some of those have made their way here. Add to that a cornucopia of nursing manuals (Mom), draughtsman’s instruments (Uncle), banking newsletters, Old Spice shaving kits and ornate lighters (Grandpa,), an assortment of textbooks used and handed over by the grandkids here, and the (Tom & Jerry / wildlife/wrestling) cassettes, and discarded / recycled toys left here by the dozen odd grandkids…and it’s a bewildering personal museum…that balcony.<br /><br />And it’s here that I’ve now dug up my beloved rattle, my swaddling cloth, the earliest family photos (Dad must have been 14 in some), the sexy little gold lighters, my grandmother’s wedding sari…and a plastic pouch containing too many openers to belong to a family of teetotalers. And there’s still a ton to sift through. My new daily habit.<br /><br />It started off as a dumping drive…so that I could fit in a hammock, a bitching PC, some very phancy speakers, a book rack a lamp & a bed. Nothing too ambitious. Now I’ve got frigging sentimentality tooth marks all over my heiney.<br /><br />Current music: Window in the skies, U2. </span>Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-86477207839341448182007-04-14T14:52:00.000+09:002007-04-14T15:07:52.466+09:00nothing much yetI was hoping to post the next one from a spanking new broadband connection at home. Buggers have taken my money, and havent installed anything yet...so am resorting back to free campus Net.<br /><br />It's this stupid feeling swimming around...when you know you've got posts swimming around in your head waiting to be typed down, but you feel too guilty to spend an hour or two indulging your blog instincts. And these blokes have been swimming for about a fortnight now.<br /><br />The damn CFA. Applied too soon, and when in a frame of mind when I wanted a break from the books. Need to grit my teeth and finish it off now.<br /><br />Random incident from 3 days back :<br /><br />I'm lounging in front of the TV with my folks when this celebrity lookalike gets on the screen and does his thing. He's short, with gray hair, stupid french beard, and an emphasised slur.<br /><br />Mom : "It's Amitabh Bacchan"<br /><br />Bro : "Nope, it's Chandrababu Naidu"<br /><br />Sis : "No wait, it's Rajnikanth"<br /><br />An appropriate silence. then yours truly pipes up "It's Ron Jeremy".<br />Bro wrinkles his brow trying to figure if (where?) he'd heard that name before. Sis and Mom nod thoughtfully at the screen.<br /><br />Lets thank the good Lord for not giving parents the "Let's google it" impulse.<br /><br /><br />Listening to : The wheels are turning - SpringsteenDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-46937264070547596502007-04-01T06:08:00.000+09:002007-04-01T06:42:18.078+09:00apologies and allIt's a conundrum, mate. One spends 5 days at office and home, swearing at the dialup, waiting for his turn on the computer, and generally being too frustrated to do anything beyond playing some music and some Counterstrike. One tells himself he'd get out of that neurotic mess come the weekend.<br /><br />And he does succeed at that. A bit too well. I know I've blogged unsober in the past, but c'mon...in these hard times...between a pint and an empty Word doc staring back at you...what would you do for 2 days?<br /><br />But umm, I did want to blog some announcements today. There's a will to take writing a bit more seriously now. I'll try and pimp this space with some eye candy too. And I'd try and go anonymous...allow myself some serious bloodletting, both creatively and personally.<br />I cant decide yet on whether to start another url now, a la lifebeyondnitie.com, or to archive the older stuff in a password protected section on the site, or just leave the shit the way it is. Opinions pliss<br /><br />I've been spending too much time <a href="http://www.desipundit.com">here</a>. I've also been spending too much time in the bar, but I'd vehemently protest (hic), that's it more to do with the former.<br /><br />Song in my head : Roadtripping, RHCPDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-1166655070012802982006-12-21T07:07:00.000+09:002006-12-21T07:51:10.080+09:00And then there were threeOne comes up with the most arcane mental exercises for the sake of reminiscing, when that is the last frigging thing that one should be preoccupied with. Me and a pal counted up all the school and college held exams ( discounting the class tests / surprise tests / preliminary exams / quizzes / and test series that you went and signed yourself up for (cos well...one was a hapless sheep herded into the ratrace)) and you would have 419 papers that an engineer plus MBA would have written from KG - 1 upto his last trimester here. <br /><br />Lets ignore a certain paper that a certain dude hotfooted from in 15 minutes during his first Sem in the days of yore...and he may proceed with his calculations too.<br /><br />I have 1 paper coming up in 5 hours...and another 2 on Friday. There will be beer, there will be merrymaking to the much...but I will never again get the guilty thrill of writing a blog and watching sitcoms when I should be recharging my sleep batteries in order to be in wholesome mental state for the exam. Or atleast opening the damn book and reading something.<br /><br />A total of 419 bumboos. Almost makes one want to flunk one of them papers here, reappear in it and reach the magic figure. Or maybe that was the ulterior motive behind opening this window up now.<br /><br />Currently listening<br /><br />Fade to black - MetallicaDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-1163154658851177492006-11-10T17:12:00.000+09:002006-11-10T19:30:58.953+09:00Stepping out to Angellucci's709 visitors.<br /><br />Old friends. Classmates. People who click on your blog when it flashes for half a second on blogger.com after you’ve updated it. People who click on the link from your Orkut profile. Guys who’ve stumbled onto the blog from links embedded in other’s blogs. About 7 to 9 of them a day. I used to try and track each visitor to his location and IP address….for fear that it might be some relative who still thinks I’m the clueless idiot innocent nerd of 10 years back.<br /><br />Well….he’s got the clueless idiot part still right. But if there’s family checking in here already, I must commend you guys for the restraint you’ve shown in not disowning me yet. Or maybe you have blogs that I’ve got no clue about.<br /><br />But I digress. There have been 709 visits to this page since I installed the first counter. It took just 1 of them to turn a rather humbug life upside down, in the best way I’ve known yet. 1 teeny tiny visitor, out on her browsing rounds, starts off with the 1 blog she knew at that time, and went through a chain of 4 before landing up on idlipaav.<br /><br />It did start off as something totally innocent. Even the most ardent blogger and bachelor knows that there’s no previous record of meeting a girl through this portal, so I kept the roving instincts firmly in check the first time. Given the crap I’ve posted before…well, you’d know why they were so firmly in check.<br /><br />More than a month has passed. There are times when I look skyward and wonder why the dude’s being so good to me. It could be a way of reaffirming the faith amongst his prodigal sons…I can’t remember the last time I’ve had so much to pray about. Or fight about. Or sing about.<br /><br />Fingers crossed.<br />Fervent prayers on lips.<br />And maybe a song or two as well.<br /><br />Song of the moment<br /><br />Steady as we go – Dave Mathews BandDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-1161906978170281042006-10-27T08:51:00.000+09:002006-10-27T08:56:18.183+09:00Of boys and menThis post has been swirling in my head for some time now…and it’s Ashish’s baby. I’ve been wanting to pen it down, but for the thought that it might reveal too much. But it seems every son’s going through the same thoughts these days…and I don’t know if I’ll ever have them again. So this again seems to be destined as a post for posterity…something my blockhead son can go through when he makes a list of how he won’t be like his Dad.<br /><br />And the list does exist. We guys probably started scrawling into them from the first time we were denied the 5 Star chocolates and the Police cars with flashing lights and sidey alarms…and we still jot down stuff when they go ballistic over the latest love marriage in the family, or the expense accounts, or the latest mark sheets. The whole list of ‘this-is-how-we-wont-act-with-our-kids’. And you may be 1 of those folks who claim your Dad is your true hero and your role model and what not….but dude…the minute he whooped your ass for something…I know what you did. It’s time to own up now. Just take comfort in the fact that, well…it’s a fact of life. A common folly.<br /><br />And it’s been going on for a while, I suspect. My grand dad and my dad are polar opposites, so I’m guessing Pops too came up with a list in his time and stuck to it. And I’ve been sticking to mine so well that there were comparisons that the baton’s gone full circle….that I resemble my grand dad in not a few respects.<br /><br />Then again…my younger brother has turned out pretty different from my dad. And from me. Do younger siblings have more than 1 list? I haven’t been able to gather enough intelligence on this…but would love to know. Davis does think I’m a blooming idiot…but then, so do most. Is the influence really strong enough to want to make him consciously change?<br /><br />And why can I talk of this now? Cause well, it just hit me that the list is immaterial. That you do invent your own flaws, even if u think you’ve taken care of those of the previous prototype. Cause the father and son in this family finally seemed to have made their peace with each other. He (and you too, I guess) would opine that I’ve reached a long delayed adulthood. I’d rebut that he reached his too only now.<br /><br />Dad isn’t the verbose, emotional type…and neither am I in real life…so there’s no chance of any overt changes in what happens between us. And given that this is probably the last vacation we spend together before the family moves to the US,…it’s happened just in time. We’d probably still be at each other’s throats at the end of these 40 days…but it’s cool in the long run. Buddy types now.<br /><br />Bro too turned into a mini man somewhere in the last year when I was in the hostel…the dude's changed from a dumb cretin who did nothing to a dumb cretin who is an IT whiz and plays the guitar. He’s in between the stage where I could wrestle him, and where I can…wrestle him. Any brighter ideas abt what to do with a younger brother…do drop them in at the comments section.<br /><br />I think we’d prefer going back to the stage where we would fight over first batting and over police cars with flashing lights and broken alarms. With Dad around the corner with a fresh can of whoop ass.<br /><br />This adulthood business throws up wayy too many questions. How the teetotalers survive it is beyond me. And I’m in no hurry to find out.<br /><br />Currently listening<br /><br />Night swimming - REMDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-1161013090601807902006-10-17T00:34:00.000+09:002006-10-17T00:38:10.613+09:00We be pimpingThe latest post is on another pet project, y'all.....well..not as much as a pet project, than a "vaada raha" statement by 2 sozzled idiots, but here you go anyway.<br /><br />Check out 18tillidye.blogspot.com. And pheedback is the bhaery bhelcum.Dionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-1160772776731200872006-10-14T04:48:00.000+09:002006-10-14T05:52:56.796+09:00holaCampus has split into two kinds of people over the last few weeks….those who have taken placements very seriously, and are slogging their asses through paper presentations, certifications and competitions…and talking about stuff that I still have no idea about.<br /><br />And there are those who’ve cocked a snoot to it all…..those of us who’ve vowed to get sloshed thrice a week, finances be damned. Those of us who truly live like it’s the last 2 months of our lives, not just the last 2 months in college. All that bull crap I wrote about us waiting for placements day turned out to be that….bull crap. It seems we wouldn’t mind another Thursday morning where one wakes up, switches on the music, hollers across people through IM multicasts, grabs a massive bag of crisps and grins at the fact that you wouldn’t have to move your ass an inch all day.<br /><br />And then again, there are those of us in the middle. Too way past being the guy who worked his butt off for his 10th Grade, and not yet the bohemian with a stash of 100 plus beer cans in his room. There’s the music for company, and there’s sycorax, (God bless the girl), but the rest of the day’s this constant question mark about what I should do.<br />The worst part is, others have found their answers…there’s a group of 25 year olds playing Monopoly everyday. And another bunch who’ve huffed and puffed through every rat fart school’s annual day fests, winning whatever they can. The people with the “do everything to the very max” credo…<br /><br />Moi?<br /><br />Thoda reading, thoda beering, mostly lazing around in a way that cannot be adequately explained. To each, his own method of madness. And happiness.<br />I shall meet new people. I shall pretend to be interested in GD topics. Maybe I will find whatever it is I am really searching for. But these days, joy comes packed in the shape of a laptop screen, a 2.1 Creative speaker system and a pint of Mallya’s finest.<br /><br />To give you a clearer idea, I’m posting the contents of the Post It’s I’ve written on my desktop (nifty software, but only if you actually plan to do anything on the list)<br /><br />To read:<br />Damodaran – (Investment Valuation) – By month end.<br />Wiley – (Modern Banking) – By month end<br />Hull – (Options, Futures and a WHOLE BUNCH OF MINDNUMBING CRAP) - 1st 10 chapters – by 20th<br />Chopra Meindl – Supply Chain Management- Mid Nov.<br /><br />Learn Excel, SAS and Powerpoint.<br />Enter atleast 1 BSchool competition. Present 1 paper in your shameless life.<br />Exercise. Footballing once in 10 days does not count.<br />Spend weekend getting the time of your life. Alcohol is optional, but is found to help.<br />Write that Knopfler post again.<br />Get phone display fixed.<br />Spend weekend with family before they pack up and leave again.<br />Start reading fiction again.<br />Enroll for bike learning license<br /><br />I think I’ve written this more for myself…so that I can look back at this post 8, 10, 20 years later and smile.<br /><br />Currently listening<br /><br />Lithium - NirvanaDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-1157847093361359932006-09-10T09:05:00.000+09:002006-09-10T09:17:26.290+09:00how u doing?Am upto my neck in crap you wouldnt want to hear about...so cant really write anything. But I just had to post this within 5 minutes of finding it online. It's a rant, it's a pickup line, it's a personals ad, its...genius.<br />............................................<br />YOU: GIRL BY YOUR POOL IN MANHATTAN BEACH. I WAS ON THE 747 THAT FLEW OVER - m4w<br /><br />I was on the 747 that flew over your house today around 3:30pm. You probably didn't notice me in particular, but you might have remembered the plane...a big United 747. You did look up for a minute, but then turned over and gave me a view of what I can only describe as a very perfect, nicely-rounded, well-toned posterior. When you looked up- if you did happen to see me I was the white guy with sunglasses on right in front of the left wing. i kind of raised my eyebrows in a gesture that I instantly regretted as pretty sleazy, but hopefully you didn't notice. You had on a blue shiny swimsuit. We should hang out. I wanted to make contact with you, but it was basically impossible from my seat in the plane. I think you live in Manhattan Beach or something, but it was really hard to tell exactly what "city" we were over. You have brown shoulder-length hair. and it looked like you were reading one of those celebrity magazines, because it had lots of colors like pink on the cover and I think I saw Brad Pitt on there but can't be entirely sure. Obviously I'm not going on personality here, because for all I know you could be kind of bitchy, full of issues, only partially sane, or like one of those girls who only wants me because I produce a TV show, drive a brand-new fully-loaded BMW convertible, and have nearly perfect teeth. Or at least they will be nearly perfect after I finally get this one crown finished this week. It has been a real pain... I had to get a root canal that lasted 4 hours just because I can't catch a damn baseball when the sun's in my eye. So yeah- you might have a terrible personality, or a really annoying nasal laugh, or a psychotic ex-boyfriend. But I'm willing to overlook all that to possibly have a "date" with you. Maybe you can wear that swimsuit on our date? Of course, if you are only 17 or something please do not respond. I am only interested in women over 18 years old, thank you very much. But, say you are like 17 years and 6 months old? Then save this and send me an email right after you turn 18. We can go out for drinks. (non-alcoholic for you of course) Also- since it was hard to tell from the plane--- if you are OVER say 35 then maybe we shouldn't do this. But if it's any consolation you have a very nicely toned body for someone over 35. You obviously must work out. And apparently you don't eat like many of the women I know in their mid-30's, who just CANNOT seem to keep their faces out of a pint of Haagen Daz or a bag of oreos EVERY night. Also please don't expect this to be more than just a one or two-time sexual encounter. If you are incrediblly needy or carry excessive baggage then please just try to keep the drama to a minimum during our "dates" together. I won't mention my overbearing mother or my dog's apparent inability to understand that the appropriate time & place to do his business is NOT right when we are walking by a beautiful woman at the beach. Not right next to her towel. He absolutely HAS to stop doing this. Does he do this to spite me? I won't tell you these type of horror stories if you can keep your drama to a minimum. Also if you are really into numerology, astrology, yoga, veganism, raw foods, or any of those other california lifestyle choices... please just keep it to yourself. I eat meat, smoke, drink too much, smoke pot (not much any more though, as recently it has made me somewhat paranoid. It's much stronger these days than the crappy Mexican stuff we smoked in college. It's like doing acid now. I mean, one puff and you are basically on a different planet) and don't like when self-righteous California do-gooders try to change my life. I don't need the frustration. For my part if the smoking bothers you I will only do it outside, after sex or a satisfying meal. If you are unbearably releigious, like Catholic or born-again Christian or something then PLEASE keep all of that to yourself. I will still be happy to please you sexually, but I don't want to hear about how Jesus has changed your life. I will give you a MUCH more religious experience than your church ever can. If you are Catholic: My experience with Catholic girls is that they ARE incredibly fun in bed once you can convince them to have a few drinks, so if you are Catholic and have repressed sexual desires then I am your guy. But please realize that religion is something made up to control the minds of the weak... and that it is also truly the root of all evil. More people have been killed in the name of Jesus than just about any other cause, so PLEASE get off your horse on this whole thing. And that goes for devout Jews and Muslims too. Your bullshit "god" is not better or bigger than theirs, and you will NOT end up in paradise with a bunch of virgins if you choose to blow yourself up in a mall. Also if you are incredibly conservative and think that George Bush is a great guy then you should definitely keep that to yourself because I will without a doubt have to give you a verbal lashing that will make you regret you ever even heard of Crawford, Texas... A place where this moron we call a president takes month-long vacations and gets into mountain bike accidents while our countrymen die in a poorly-planned and poorly-executed war that has helped plunge the nation into a record national debt of over $500 billion. (And that was a budget SURPLUS of over $250 Billion when Bill Clinton left office!) And don't get me started on gas. You would think there would be at least ONE benefit to having a President who sucks at the teats of the Oil Industry: Cheap Gas! So why the fuck is gas so expensive when Bush has so many cronies in Big Oil and Saudi Arabia? Please, don't get me started. So that's about it. if you are that girl who I flew over in United Flight 120 from New York then please let me know. this is in or around los angeles .<br />...................................<br /><br />Current favorite<br />On every street - Dire StraitsDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-1157153248731235592006-09-02T08:22:00.000+09:002006-09-02T08:27:28.743+09:00DohI used to think all my problems stem from a healthy mix of cynicism, laziness and a well nurtured inferiority complex. But then I had 1 of these epiphanic moments the dude gets when the dude’s locked in his room with a ton load of work that he has no plans of starting on, and I thought I should put this one down.<br /><br />The reason for my life being filled with sheepish moments (some1 commented that I use the word sheepish too many times in the blog. Hmm) has to do with an acute lack of being able to do 4 different things with 4 different limbs at a time. I mean, mentally juggling half a dozen thought streams in parallel, no issues…but asking me to pay attention to what my left hand AND my right hand are to do at the same time…that’s a bit too much.<br /><br />My engg friends have no problems recounting the absolute cluelessness of my being during those carpentry workshop days when I’d be asked to turn a block of wood into some not so random shape. You were expected to keep a foot on the pedal to regulate the machine speed, you were to keep both hands on the chisel to dig into the wood, now turning at speeds of bout 100 rpm, and you were to keep an eye out for the emergency stop button. Also dodge incidental wood chips. Keep in mind that you don’t cut too much or too little. Ignore the carpentry prof sneering at his new village idiot.<br /><br />Got worse during 2nd year, when we had full blown 8 hour slog sessions on the lathe. The lathe is a high precision machine used for turning raw steel blocks into cylindrical components of exacting dimensions. They come in the average size of a small car, and they’ve got a zillion things to align and tighten and rotate and control with both hands while the steel’s being ripped into by sharp cutting tools, at speeds of bout 400 rpm. Steel chips are hot and sharp and they fly off without warning. The liquid coolant has to be fed constantly and in the right amount. There’s a set of wheels for moving the tool into the steel, and another for moving it along the steel. Both have to be co-ordinated manually and continuously, to get the cut you would want. All this while you’re wearing heavy protective overalls in a place that is muggy at the best of times.<br /><br />Of course, once you get the hang of it, people need to physically hoist you off the machine to get you to stop and go home. But until that happened…it was hell. There were guys (and well…girls too) who worked as if they were born to do that machine. I was the uncoordinated Yeti who’d get a good ear twist from the supervisor every 5 minutes. There’s always something I forget to do, or something I could do in isolation, but not alongwith another 7 things.<br /><br />This pattern resurfaces when trying to learn the bike too. Gears, clutch, front and rear brakes, accelerator, indicator lights, other idiot motorists, idiot pedestrians, traffic lights…too much to look out for. I know…you smug folks have done it already. My co-ordination levels just aren’t upto it. Notice I play football, not cricket. Combining footwork with balance, ball length, pace, swing, spin and field positions….please. Give me random running and thumping the football any day.<br /><br />The Yeti does see a new spatio-kinetic problem appearing on the distant horizon. All his life he’s been hoping it wouldn’t be as distant as it were, but he could use the time now to sort this out.<br /><br />Women. Them and their seven erogenous zones. You see, what triggered this epiphany was the Friends scene where Monica does the whole female body mapping scene for Chandler on how to get Joey’s ex gf (the short haired brunette girl) all pleasured up…the scene where she goes a 3, a 4 and a 6,a 3 and a 1 , a 5 and a 2….all the way upto 7! 7!! 7!!!.<br /><br />My money says the girl’s going to give me the village idiot sneer before 10 minutes.<br /><br />Current favorite :<br /><br />Carry on my wayward son<br />KansasDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-1156864313072473712006-08-30T00:10:00.000+09:002006-08-30T00:11:53.090+09:00The drumroll’s begun.It’s not too loud or insistent….but we’ve been waiting for this beat since the day we heard about the obscene salaries those wholly undeserving and ordinary people got when they landed a good college through the CAT (course, I wasn’t in yet). It’s been getting stronger with each stage…the preparation, the application, the initial rejection, the IIMs rejection…and we’re on the last lap now.<br /><br />Especially since yesterday, when 4 guys from the ISEM (Industrial Safety and Environment)course were the 1st bunch to formally accept job offers from the 2007 batch. Me not mentioning the company…but the offer’s been hiked to 9 L..a cool 1L jump from last year by the same folks. These heroes now get to smirk at us as we run around pondering about the pending marks…the stuff to prepare for…the resumes that need to be refined...the whole ant running deal right up to Jan 07.<br /><br />It also marks the end of my Peter Pan phase on campus. The last 12 months were a seriously awesome time…for all the moaning I did about the lack of girls in my batch ( 5 of them..against 83 guys. 4 of those 5 are committed.)…it did release a whole Lord of the Flies world…one where I’ve played, read, slept, watched movies, discovered music and lazed around to a degree of which Calvin would approve. This, after 4 years of poking around full imperial drawing sheets and lathe machines. After 6 subsequent months of hell at work. And there’s really no adequate way in which a Mumbaikar who’s been fighting for breathing space in the local trains for the past 7 years would be able to describe 65 acres of green campus (with all it’s rats and snakes, yes) half an hour from his flat.<br /><br />But yeah…Neverland’s drawing to a close. The stakes are high. The competition is really smart..and already far more accomplished. Even us junta who want to chill get psyched looking at previous drinking buddies suiting up and planning careers. My only regret through it all has been that I wasn’t a full fledged reckless fool…nor a fully sober serious types. I’ve been sitting on the fence and smiling wryly at both sides. Typical.<br /><br />This sobering up to a schedule business of mine prolly goes the same way as my previous studying to a schedule attempts. I now make the standard disclaimers about self being a useless bugger with no regard for his own word. But the dude’s got to get serious…this is what it’s all about, after all.<br /><br />Havent had beer in 2 weeks though.<br /><br />Song of the moment<br /><br />Thick as a brick<br />Jethro TullDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20589114.post-1156058341203246562006-08-20T16:03:00.000+09:002006-08-20T16:19:01.226+09:00randomThinking's supposed to clear stuff up in your head, not muddy them further. I've lost faith in my thought processes recently.<br /><br />I'm in the process of shifting rooms. I've had the keys to another room for a month now...this one has better access to sunlight, but the bathroom's shabbier looking. Plus the accoustics of the place are somehow better.<br /><br />I've wasted ALL of the time since my last post about how much work I had. With a vengeance. Self administered studies on self indicate that I'm a wee bit more productive when the room door's left wide open. I'm guessing it's about maintaining some appearance of responsibility or respectability.<br /><br />Here's what :<br /><br />I’ve got nothing on my mind: nothing to remember,<br />Nothing to forget. and I’ve got nothing to regret,<br />But I’m all tied up on the inside,<br />No one knows quite what I’ve got;<br />And I know that on the outside<br />What I used to be, I’m not anymore.<br /><br />You know I’ve heard about people like me,<br />But I never made the connection.<br />They walk one road to set them free<br />And find they’ve gone the wrong direction.<br /><br />But there’s no need for turning back<br />`cause all roads lead to where I stand.<br />And I believe I’ll walk them all<br />No matter what I may have planned.<br /><br />Crossroads - Don McLeanDionysushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05714572252855621043noreply@blogger.com1