Tuesday, December 27, 2005


You know who you are.

Thursday, December 15, 2005


It’s 23 degrees (Fahren-fuckin-heit). I’m at the train station at 4 am waiting for the train to Newark Airport. Since it is four in the morning the waiting room is shut and I’m out on the platform, at the mercy of the elements.

I have dressed in layers. An overcoat, a blazer, shirt and a T-shirt. Well layers on the top, where I am uncomfortably warm and beginning to sweat. The rest of me feels like your average Naked Person Stuck At The North Pole In Winter.

So…If we average it out, I am actually quite comfortable.

Side note: Me, Gym Shorts and Shakira having an Orgasm on the Gym Television screens. The potential for embarrassment looms large. (Yes I did mean that double-entendre.).

I vote that Shakira get the award for Best Televised Orgasm. She can win the sub-categories too, Best Orgasm with a Sports Car, Best Orgasm with a Sand Dune, Best Orgasm with a Can of Black Paint, Best Orgasm with a Rolled Up Newspaper, Best Orgasm With a Non-Rolled Up Newspaper. And the critics award, Best Moan in A-Minor.

I dislike most music videos. I truly do.

I do like the New Victoria’s secret advertisement. According to it, there are mind bogglingly gorgeous women who lounge about in their underwear and moan suggestively. They are a more evolved form of humanity that has gone beyond the need for any clothes which cover more that a square inch of skin. Their purpose isn’t quite clear yet, but I’m sure that with time enlightenment will come (This one was completely unintentional). Personally, I believe that they are here to solve world hunger and end human conflict. Perhaps by making out with each other. However, making any conclusions now would be premature (Freudian slip).

I will now end abruptly and leave you hanging (Gah!).

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Peace out

Looking at the kitchen at my office, I see that we are out of any kind of tea that I may drink. The only teas left there are the Hippy teas, teas that would wear goofy jeans and talk about flower power and Marx. Teas with chamomile, and jasmine and essence of orange rinds and apple extract. Teas in bright yellow boxes, and teas in gently blushing cardboard cartons.


Those are not the kinds of teas that I drink. I want a tea that could run an empire, teas that would suitably subdue the natives and decimate the local ecology.

Guess I’m going to have to settle for tea’s mutated pirate half brother. Evil icky black coffee.

Monday, November 21, 2005

'Tis a many splendored thing

I like the chain supermarket near my house. No really I do. It is large, carries my favorite brand of cereal and has copious amounts of dead animals(Aisles and aisles of frozen corpses, as far as the eye can see.). Most importantly, it is open round the clock.

I have no reason to complain.

None what so ever.


Except for one.

Their slogan, catch phrase, national anthem, whatever you may call it is, well, fucked up.

They have signs with it all over the store. Sign that boldly declaim, “I love this store.”

Now, there are two interpretations to this statement. Perhaps unsurprisingly I have a problem with both of them.

The first is that the supermarket is being narcissistic and is brimming with admiration at the supermarket’s beauty and wide display of… stuff. Unable to contain itself, the supermarket loudly proclaims its self love from the roof tops and other high places (Including but not limited to telephone and electrical poles, the top of basketball players heads and the radio antenna behind the supermarket).

Now, being the peaceable, easy going person that I am, I can live with this. As long as I can get the aforementioned cereal, I have no problems.

But, the second interpretation is far, far more sinister. It could be that the supermarket is proclaiming my love for the supermarket. And that scares me. I like the supermarket, one could say that I feel mild affection for it, but I do not love it. I would not donate a kidney to the supermarket if it needed one. I would allow it to borrow my vacuum cleaner, but I would not take a bullet for it. If tomorrow, this supermarket went up to that great big strip mall in the sky, I might shed a quiet tear, and then I’d go back to wasting my time.

The thing is I haven’t been going to this supermarket for all that long, and I do not think we have yet reached that stage in our relationship where we can bandy about words such as "Love". Things are going too fast. I know that this place looks good, but there may be something new around the corner. I think that I should see other super markets. Perhaps ones with longer aisles, or more rounded checkout counters, or maybe ones with shopping carts that did not infernally squeak. And only then make my decision.

I guess the point I am making, (The tumbleweed that blows through this blog faints with surprise. A point in this blog? Tis not possible.) is that no customers fucking love chain supermarkets. They are as interchangeable as things that are easily interchangeable and are often used in sentences as similes for things that are interchangeable. Please for heavens sake, come up with a slogan that is a little less inane. Here is a suggestion: “Rajneesh’s favorite cereal and aisles and aisles of frozen corpses.”


Addiction is a beautiful thing.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Writer's[sic] block

So turn the volume up and click here.

Monday, October 31, 2005

BBC America...

...makes the cable bill bearable.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Why'd he stop dammit?

I hate telephonic customer service. Well the human part of it usually is fine. The reps are almost invariably polite and helpful. Their service may suck, but they’ll sure be polite about screwing you over. However, getting to them is an ordeal by itself. For that you need to run the gauntlet of the Interactive Voice Response System (made and distributed by the agents of Hell).

There used to be a time when these systems used to be helpful. They would say “Press one to talk to Sales”, “Press two for customer service”, “Press three to talk to Sexy Single Women In Your Area Who Want To Have A Good Time”(Option three might have just been for numbers that I dialed, but I could be wrong. It is quite possible that no matter what the number is that you call; option three will always connect you Sexy Single Women In Your Area Who Want To Have A Good Time. Stranger things have been known to happen).

But someone couldn’t let well enough alone and they decided to make the experience more interactive. Perhaps the powers that be labor under the fond delusion that their customers will believe that a real live human being is talking to them. Let me disabuse them of that notion. NO WE DO NOT. And now we have systems that need you to talk to them. They claim to be more intuitive and able to handle simple responses like “yes” or “no” or “antidisestablishmentarianism”. I wouldn’t mind these systems if only they worked. But they do not. Actually they do work…as instruments of fine torture.

Interactive Voice Response System (hitherto known as The Spawn of Hell): Welcome to We Will Happily Screw You Over Ltd. How may I be of assistance today? Please state the service that you need and I will direct you to the concerned department.

Me (I’m my normal cheerful self at this time, a song on my face and a smile in my heart.): Customer Service.

The Spawn of Hell: Sorry, I did not under stand that. Please repeat what you said.

Me: Customer Service.

The Spawn of Hell: Sorry, I did not under stand that. Please repeat what you said.

Me: Customer Service!

The Spawn of Hell: Okay, I think you said you want to listen to our Long And Torturous Spiel Trying To Sell You Useless Yet Ridiculously Services That Nobody Will Ever Need? Say yes to confirm or no to um…unconfirm.

Me: No!

The Spawn of Hell: Thank you for confirming that.

Me: Oh Fuck me!

The Devils: Sure, bend over.

Me: What?

The Spawn of Hell: I said one moment please.

Me: No you did not! You asked me to bend over! In a nasty perverted voice!

The Spawn of Hell: I said one moment please. The spiel will now begin. Disconnecting during the spiel will require you to listen to it thrice when you call up again. Twice in English and once in Latin.

Thirty minutes later, I have listened to every possible service that they have, their enthusiastic bubbling at having a functional website and their pride in serving the community. All the while with the most irritating possible muzak in the background. And I’ve made the mistake of calling them up on my cell phone. During peak hours. Goodbye minutes.

And finally I get through to customer service.

Me: Hi! (edge of desperation in my voice)

Bored Voice At The Other End: Heylo.

Me: Um…I’m trying to track down a package.

Bored Voice At The Other End: Tracking number please.

Me: 1Z 38E W19 03 6569 372 0

Bored Voice At The Other End: Was that a Z 38E or βΏΘΨ?

Me: (With admirable restraint) Z 38E!

Bored Voice At The Other End: Ah yes. I see it here in the system.

Me: Excellent. What’s up with it? I’ve been waiting all day for it and it’s kinda important.

Bored Voice At The Other End: Hrmppph. Ah yes. We did not feel like delivering it.

Me: Huh?

Bored Voice At The Other End: Yeah, we know we’re UPS, the United Parcel bloddy service, but not so much. We may get around to it tomorrow.

Me: Huh?

Bored Voice At The Other End: Have a nice day and all that shit.

Me: Get back here dammit!

The Spawn of Hell:: Welcome back presciousssssssss!

Me: (Muffled Sobbing)

However, they did deliver the package the next day and I am happy since this is now sitting on a shelf next to my desk.

Friday, October 14, 2005

One, two, three...

So I now have my own apartment, and that is a good thing.

(When I say now, I mean since the evening of the nineteenth of September.)

However I have to set up the apartment and go buy those little luxuries which make life worth living.

Like furniture.

The apartment is currently Spartan. Austere. Barren. Like the surface of the moon; after a particularly boisterous (and apparently directionally challenged) windstorm has scoured all traces of life from it. Heck, the storm has fucking scoured all traces of rock from it.

Well, you get the point. My currently consists of three rolls of toilet paper, a toaster and a vast expanse of carpet. Carpet as far as the eye can bloody well see. Carpet, carpet everywhere and not a drop to drink; except for the orange juice in the fridge.

(That sentence contains the second semicolon that I have used in this post. I really have no clue where a semi colon goes. I used those to stop the ugly green squiggly lines from appearing in Word. My screen informs me that I had counted my punctuation marks before they had hatched. The green line has reappeared. I am currently flipping it the bird. It does not respond. I consider it subdued by my superior intellect. And while I’m at it, I’m changing tense from narrated past to present fucking active something.)

But today the even surface of my carpet was broken, and broken pleasantly I might add, with the appearance of a cable modem, a set-top box (for HBO which I wont ever have time to watch) and a rather wet cable guy. Fucking Comcast was finally here! But again I had counted my punctuation marks before they had hatched. The cable guy proceeded to rip the carpet up from its mooring with distressing alacrity (To run the wires to the cable outlet I had told him I would be using). And once the wires were laid out he re-laid the carpet…by professionally stamping on it firmly and tapping it in.

I looked on bemused silence (Bemused because I was in fact bemused and silence because I’m a strong, silent kind of chap. Much like Bertie Wooster) as the dude went ahead and busily connected wires and disconnected others, and then disconnected ones that were just connected. And then he turned the television on…and there were pictures. Moving ones! And Sounds! It was a miracle. I now had cable. All I needed now was the Internet part of the package and I could head off to work a moderately satisfied person. (And did I mention that I had asked my boss permission to come in late because the Comcast guy was finally installing the shit?).

Cable guy marched over to the wall, and yanked at the outlet. And then he said, and I kid you not, he said, “Oops!”

A chorus of little imps went, “Your FUCKED!” in my head.

“Oops?” I queried.

Well, to cut a long story short, and to stave of the symptoms of carpal tunnel syndrome that I feel in my left hand, the cable guy’s supervisor now needs to come in and dismantle part of the outer wall and replace the outlet. I envision this happening sometime in late November. Late November 2525. When Pigs fucking fly and we have Jet cars and all that fancy crap.

Friday, October 07, 2005

I'm hoping there's a pattern here.

A LARGER executive jet, a SMALLER limousine and dinner at a NICER restaurant. Once again, I have been assured that this is a very atypical day.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Tired as hell...

Too tired to rant.

I like jelly donuts.



Tuesday, September 27, 2005

I'm not sensing a pattern here.

An executive jet, a limousine and dinner at a French restaurant. Unfortunately, I have been assured that this is a very atypical day.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Orientation programs for the Under-represented

This post is for that under-represented community in the entertainment industry (movies, books, music videos, the backs of cereal boxes etc) wiz Monsters. It is partially inspired by these dudes and partially by this really bad movie that is on HBO right now.

I shall be playing the role of a business/management counselor (You know, one of those boring ass MBA mo-fos (sorry Chilli) who conduct those orientation sessions on the first day of work and have you engage in dumb ass games and meaningless team work “fucking kill me now” building exercises. No, I do not think that desert survival games will help me code better. Any refugees from WIPRO recognize that? Nor do I think that holding impromptu plays is a less traumatic experience than being shoved head first into a fucking food processor. The only dickheads who actually enjoy these atrocities, both the participation in and the formulation of are people who have gone to business fucking school.

Interesting, I don’t think I have ranted in braces before. But that rant is for some other time) and will be giving the monster career advice for a fulfilling job environment, rich with upward opportunities and an excellent growth path.

Here is my advisc to the “Monsters”. For the purpose of this exercise I shall call them Junior Level Executive in charge of Localized Mayhem and Fear or to shorten that, Scary Ass Mo-fo.
Remember, your goal is to a) Survive and b) Destroy the “bad” guys (The “bad” guys are conventionally known as the good guys, but to build self esteem and pride in the JLEICOLMAF we shall call them “bad”guys.).

Here goes.

1. Office Demeanor.

Enough with the roaring. It is counterproductive. It lets the bad guys know where you are and you spend valuable brain time trying to come up for an aesthetically pleasing roar. A side effect is that the bad case of halitosis that you suffer from alerts the aforementioned bad guys.

If your species tends towards a slimy exterior carry a box of tissues to wipe up after you. Thus eliminating traces of your passage.

2. Situational Awareness.

Look everywhere. I cannot stress this enough. The bad guys are always hiding in that small box/locker/cabinet which seems to be too small to be holding anyone but actually possesses dimensions worthy of a TARDIS (Those of you who aren’t Doctor Who fans, a TARDIS is larger on the inside than the outside ). Pay particular attentions to roofs. They like to perch there acrobatically, in physically improbable poses.

3. Enemy Grooming and Appearance.

Go for the good looking ones. The sexy ones usually are the most dangerous. It has been statistically proven that the better looking the bad guy/girl is, the greater their chances of … well surviving you. Particular attention must be paid at this juncture. The female in the slutty (weird, apparently Word refuses to believe that slutty is a valid word) attire is not a threat. She is a red herring and will later die in a way that she deserves. Probably in a manner that would not have occurred if she was chaster. Look for the woman who is sexy and strong but vulnerable. She will be showing some skin, maybe some cleavage, but not too much. Similarly, the outrageously good looking man will have feet of clay. He will panic further along and will reveal himself to you and/or your colleagues and you will have ample opportunity to dispose of him. Look for the other man, the strong silent one. If he has stubble you’ve found the main threat.

4.Minority Race relations.

People who are not white are not a threat. Races are easy to pigeonhole.

Asians will either be scientists or hold menial positions. Scientists wear white coats. (That is a universal rule irrespective of the race of the scientist.) Asians who know martial arts are not a threat unless they are the “lead” as described in the previous point. Further along, they will sacrifice themselves for the greater good of the group. This will involve them assuming a martial arts pose and doing their best Bruce Lee Imitation.

My race unfortunately is an uncool minority. We will die early on or will make comments with an outrageously thick accent until you put us out of our misery.

Europeans with British or French accents are guaranteed to be on our side. Do not worry about them. However, the women have sometimes been known to be attracted to the male “lead” so do not trust them. If there is a lot of sighing or lip licking on their parts during the observations of the male “lead” on the standard close circuit cameras, eliminate them immediately.

Other races (I’m being politically correct here. Draw your own conclusions) are usually along only for comic relief. If they aren’t, they will die suitably heroically in sight of escape. They can be problematic but can be handled with a little caution. Usually by placing the ”leads” in danger at which point they will sacrifice themselves gladly.

5. Upper management.

They cannot be trusted. The evil mastermind/boss/scientist does not care about you. All he cares about is the formula/specimen/suitcase full of bonds that is currently held by the bad guys/in the secure locker or will be his payment on successful execution of his agenda. It is worse if you are employed by a Corporation. They will do anything to look good at a shareholders' meeting.

6. Your colleagues and You.

Remember, you need to work as a team. At least until all the bad guys are disposed of. Fighting over the remains of the lesser cast members is counter productive. Your task is to eliminate the "leads". Then you may fight over the remains.

This is the end of session one. There will be more next week or when I’m bored enough.

Thursday, September 22, 2005


A brief message from our sponsor…

Let me begin by blessing all those who choose to leave their wireless networks unprotected. They are the salt of the earth, the wind below my wings, my gateway to a whole new world, a new exciting place… (Insert rest of Alladin theme here).

I resisted this urge for days, this urge to roam the apartment complex searching for a vulnerable network that I could exploit. Until today, when desperation and boredom defeated me.

Unfortunately the only place I can pick this signal up is in the parking lot. So currently I am in the parking lot, sitting on the sidewalk, typing away furiously with an eye on my battery levels. For some strange reason the powers that be decided that having power outlets in the parking lot was a bad idea. If only the bastards whose networks I can pick up in the apartment had chosen to be as open and as giving as this wonderful Samaritan.

…thus endeth the brief message.

(I’d write more but it is getting a bit chilly out here. So good night all.)

And the weekly molestation of my blog by the spammers has started. Well I’ve certainly foiled them. No more will they leave comments saying that I have an excellent blog, but that from its contents it seems clear that I have a weight problems, real estate dilemmas, stock market opportunities, mortgage lenders beating at my door, chances to buy stock, ever popular erectile dysfunctions, chances to pick up degrees based on real life experience, painkillers at bargain basement prices and so forth.

(It's really getting cold now. As "the devil" would say if he was french, "Adios".)

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Sunday, September 18, 2005

Saturday, September 17, 2005


Now you can use Blogger right within Microsoft® Word. Just download and install the Blogger for Word add-in and a Blogger toolbar will be added to Word allowing you to:
Publish to your blog
Save drafts
Edit posts


Requires Windows XP or 2000


Tuesday, September 13, 2005

My word!

“Are those the pants you’re wearing to your first job interview?”
My uncle Joe (former Marine, newspaperman, sharp dresser) clearly disapproved.
“Just a minute,” he said. He left the room, reappeared shortly with a pair of these. “Served me well in the Corps. Never got a gig.”
A gig?
“A demerit. Passed every inspection with the Gunny. He could spot an Irish pennant a mile away.”
Irish pennant?
“Wear the pants, John.”
No-Gig Pants (No. 1599). Trim-cut legs. Precise buttonflap
[sic] rear pockets and vertical side-seam pockets. Full dresspants [sic] construction. Threeseason [sic] weight, non-scratchy wool that holds a crisp crease. Save a trip to the Quantico PX.
Men’s even sizes: 32 through 46. Hemming (max: 37”) or cuffing (max: 34”), add $2 per pair.
Color: Marine Corps Green.
Price: $148.

Go here for that...

Literary party at a London townhouse. South American Nobel laureate and two Booker Prize winners in attendance.
Good thing there are no sharp knives on the hors d’oeuvre trays.
I step out into the private garden during a discussion of magic realism. She’s already there, inspecting peonies in the twilight.
Our conversation is of merciful inconsequence. The latest Tate show, our favorite cheese shops.
I like the one on Moxon Street, she says.
Gaslights flicker on, making her velvet dress glow.
I like that one too, I say. I like it very much.
Belgravia Dress (No. 1590). Lush, glowing rayon/silk cut velvet, lined in pure silk. Wraps down from V-neck to asymmetrical tie-closure at waist, continues to low-calf length. Flattering princess seams.
For special occasions, parties, romantic dinners, assignations in the garden (with the right planting, in the right light, you and the garden merge). Price: $248.
Sizes: 4 through 16. Color: Crimson and Green floral on rich Taupe.

... and go here for that.

All from the J.Peterman catalog. Apparently Elaine's boss from Seinfeld is not wholly fictional. The mind boggles.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

Look Ma, no hands!

Everybody loves having speakers stuffed in their ears at all times. While I do encourage my roommates to use headphones to prevent their atrocious taste in music from contaminating me I do not understand the need some people have to stuff those uncomfortable devices in their ears at all the time. Everywhere I look there are these cyborgs roaming about completely disconnected from the world around them. I can only hope that they get run over by a car whose frantic honking was drowned by whatever crap it was that they were listening to.

And now, everybody’s using hands free kits with their cell phones. I do not like them. Not just because I find it strange that people feel the need to have speakers stuffed in their ears every second of the day. Yes, they might be convenient and crap, and maybe drivers do not drive into trees when they’re using them. But they have had one unfortunate side effect. You cannot tell who the crazy people are any more.

There used to be a time when you could look at a person carrying on an enthusiastic conversation with…well with nobody and say to yourself, “That person clearly is not sound of mind. I should perhaps cross the street and pretend to examine that fascinating wall.” But those halcyon days are gone forever. Now a person talking to himself could just be talking to customer service or to a client or to the purple voice in his head that is telling him that sautéed human is yummy. (The purple voice, not the fuchsia one, because everyone knows that axe murderers always hear purple voices. The fuchsia voice is the one that tells you that you need to write a blog about the purple voice.)

So for pity’s sake make the hand free-kits larger or have glowing lights on them or something…so that I can separate the sociopaths from the sheep.

One problem. What if the friendly neighborhood psychopath is talking to the purple voice using his hands-free kit?

EDIT: A new record, this post got comment spammed in less than thirteen seconds. I feel so special.

EDIT EDIT: It's one in the morning and I'm in a Beatles mood.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005


What is the point of aftershave anyway? A masochistic rite of passage? One that occurs every day instead of once in a lifetime?

Or in my case, once that occurs once a week instead of once of a day. I dallied with the idea of shaving regularly for a few months a couple of years ago. But I decided against it. For two reasons, the first being that I am lazy but I cannot bear an uneven shave or the least hint of stubble after a shave. This means that I will scrape and scrape and then scrape some more, until my epidermis begs for mercy and my facial hair crouch petrified in their follicular fortresses. And as a result of this “obsession”, all my shaves end up being twenty minute imprecation-laden marathons. The second reason is that I do not like the pain (Quelling the epidermis and forcing the hair to crouch petrified in their follicular fortresses can be done only when I use scorched earth tactics on my skin. I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations).

So, now I have the stubbled look. Some people can carry off this look. Unfortunately I am not one of them. Instead of looking good, I look vaguely like a guilty criminal with a bad hangover and a touch of dyspepsia. And not a even cool criminal, one worth emulating, like Don Corleone or this guy. But more like the criminal who comically knocks himself out by walking into a door when on the run from the cops.

However, I’m lazy and I mislike pain and so I shall continue to keep the stubbled look. But I shall add an eye patch and pirate hat to look more sinister and less ineffective

I just realized that I haven’t said anything about aftershave. If you have never put yourself through this torture, let me describe it to you. Imagine scraping off a layer of skin and lightly dusting it with pepper. Multiply that by a hundred and divide by π. That’s how painful it is.

I now realize that this is nothing but a thinly masked diatribe against my arch nemesis the razor blades.

In other news, coincidence is a bitch.

That’s all folks.

Friday, September 02, 2005

Apartment wanted. No fucking amenities please.


This is a good cause. Please chip in.

The Rest:

I’m looking for a new apartment. I’ve been searching online and I’ve found a lot of nice places. Unfortunately they all offer “amenities” which I don’t want or can’t use, and these amenities push the rent up.

Amenities like these:

Tennis Court
I do not play Tennis. I do not particularly enjoy watching it either. The only things I like about tennis are the Russian blondes and their short skirts.

Picnic areas
Eat outside. In New Jersey in the fall and winter, when I’m going to be there? Hello hypothermia, meet my old friend frostbite.

Scenic walking trails
I do not have the time to scenically walk. For that matter I do not have the time to unscenically walk.

Park-like landscaping
Nice, but I do not give a fuck. I would not mind a concrete wasteland.

Business Center
Interpret this as two ancient Pentium two computers with a dial up connection and a dot matrix printer. I’ll pass thank you.

Heated outdoor Jacuzzi
Won’t be using it.

Indoor Basketball Court
Refer previous comment.

Large playing field

Fitness Center
Two barbells and a treadmill. I’d rather pay for a gym membership.

The urge to burst out into obscenities here is nearly overwhelming.

BBQ/Picnic Area
Repeat. I’m reasonably sure that they intend people to BBQ in the picnic areas. For the record, I dislike barbeques.

Business Center
Another one? Well fuck me and call me overjoyed.

New Building
I haven’t a fucking clue. Is there a building on the grounds that is new, and its newness causes astonishment among the residents. Is it a paragon of newness worthy of my admiration, and worth an extra fifty dollars in the rent?

Tot Lot
The only tots I know are this guy, and this guy. And they’re both in Bangalore.

Can’t swim. Will drown.

Cats Allowed
Whoop-de-doo-dah. I do not have a pet. And I like dogs.

Spa/Hot Tub/Sauna
I certainly hope my apartment has a tub, and I’m not forced to share a common one with the rest of the residents. And I don’t care much for sweating in steam filled atmosphere.

Walk to NY City Bus
4 mi. to NY City Train

Haven’t a clue how they’re passing off accidents of location as community amenities (Notice I did not say fucking clue).

One of the nicer places goes by the name “Hidden Lake Town & Country Apartments”. Again the glory of the English language makes me pause and think, are the apartments hidden, or is the lake hidden? Enquiring minds demand to know.

The Last:

And finally, more power to you if you recognize the picture below.

Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Stuff to see

Catch this if you can. I did, and it was well worth it. I did not have time for this, but I hope to the next time I'm in DC.

Driving is fun.

However I have a small problem. The moment I sit behind the wheel, I begin to feel drowsy. I harbor this paranoid suspicion that the wheel is covered with a potent brand of chloroform.

Black coffee helps. Not much, but a bit. At least the sixth cup does. So does chocolate…and pizza. This means that I have to work out for sixteen days to get over the harmful effects of a five-hour drive.

The radio helps the most. However when traffic is crawling, do not tap your foot on the brake in time to the beat of the song. It seems to annoy the other drivers. But that would be interesting, wouldn’t it? If the traffic moved to the beat of Paint it black or Imagine.

The drive from northern Virginia to State College is incredibly beautiful. Rolling hills and dense woods and a gloomily beautiful, slightly overcast day with just a hint of an early morning fog.

Now something not as pleasant. My cell phone has decided that the backlight is a luxury, and so in effect my screen has died. Well, not exactly. The backlight occasionally does come on when the phone is flipped half open and then promptly shuts down the moment it is fully open. But just to make things interesting, it sometimes comes on only when the top is at an angle of fifteen degrees to the bottom. So I need to hold the phone up to my eye and peek at the screen to figure out whom I am calling.

I think I’ll get a new phone, but in the spirit of minimalism, I think I’ll just have it be a phone. Nothing but a phone. Actually I think I’ll just carry one of those old, black, rotary dial phones in my pocket and get myself a really long extension cord.

Bah. I’m in a good mood, and nothing has pissed me off enough recently for me to rant about. I need someone to say “buh bye” to me while sitting in a kiosk. That might work.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Buh fucking bye

Add this to kiosk.

I fucking hate it when people say “buh-bye”. I need to physically restrain myself from throwing a heavy, jagged object at them.

I get the point when you say “bye”; The “buh” does not help in any fashion. It either makes you sound like you have a bad stammering problem or it makes you sound like you have the intelligence of a retarded slug.

Note to you children out there, it might not be wise to call a person interviewing you old and boring, but sometimes it is.

Sunday, August 28, 2005


I'm too lazy to go to sleep, and this chair is so comfortable. Been on the road most of today and the car hasn't caught fire yet. I am as surprised as you. I'm tired as hell and I feel good.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Read the book

Starship Troopers the movie is utter crap.

Starship Troopers the book is excellent.

I haven't finished it yet. But you have to give credit to an author who manages to do combine a fascinating grunt's eye perspective of a space war with his views on civilization, government and the individual’s responsibilities to the two.
(Long sentences are good. Avoid commas, they are evil.)

Stranger in a Strange Land is now next on my list of books to read.

I drive to New Jersey on Thursday. I hope to avoid a repeat of this, this and this.


Tuesday, August 23, 2005

We're number 13. Yay!

The Princeton Review's top party schools:
1. University of Wisconsin-Madison
2. Ohio University-Athens
3. Lehigh University
4. University of California-Santa Barbara
5. State University of New York at Albany
6. Indiana University-Bloomington
7. University of Mississippi
8. University of Iowa
9. University of Massachusetts-Amherst
10. Loyola University New Orleans
11. Tulane University
12. University of Georgia
13. Penn State University
14. West Virginia University
15. The University of Texas-Austin
16. University of Tennessee-Knoxville
17. University of New Hampshire
18. University of Florida
19. Louisiana State University
20. University of Maryland-College Park

I saw that here.

And from an online ad:
"Welcome to Cameron Brook, where home is in the details. You will find the service superior, the interiors specious and the amenities first-class!"

I’m too lazy to write today so I felt the need to share this email that got through my spam filters
Strong erection
Long lasting effects
No prescription needed

2 popular medicines:
CIALIS - http://www.lovepills.biz/sv/
VIAGRA - http://www.lovepills.biz/vt/

Discreet packaging

"Discreet packaging"? As opposed to having packaging that had CURE FOR ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION printed on it with a ridiculously large font? Not that I would know. Really.

A few more vignettes.

Arrested Development is still the funniest show on TV, but Starved comes close.

A gin Manhattan was a figment of my diseased imagination.

And I just noticed that Bangalore now has its very own Craigslist.

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Monstrous Regiment

…but Ankh-Morpork had overtaken cunning a thousand years ago, had sped past devious, had left artful far behind, and had now, by a roundabout route, arrived at straightforward.

-Monstrous Regiment by Terry Pratchett

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Airplanes, computers and strip clubs.

Airplanes, computers and strip clubs. Not necessarily in that order.

So I needed to fly to Atlanta for a job interview. And unfortunately flying meant that I had to take an airplane, flying did not mean that I could strap on a pair of wings, make like Icarus and flap my way across five states. Flying meant that I had to sit down in a plane and feel my stomach and the rest of my body part ways whenever we hit an air pocket. I really, really hate that feeling. But that is nothing compared to the view from the window. For some unfathomable reason, I always seem to have an excellent view of the wings. And the wings….they vibrate. Like tuning forks with Parkinson’s disease. Like a guitar string after a particularly energetic riff. Like a…well you get the idea.

Matters aren’t helped by the fact that deep down I am not convinced that planes should be able to fly. It seems to me that they fly simple because everyone has been tricked into believing that they are able to fly. Talk to anybody who builds planes and they’ll say “Um…air pressure and lift and drag and you know mumblemumblemumble”, and then at this juncture they’ll get a really shifty look in their eyes and they’ll say, “Voila!” and point to a huge plane streaking thought the air.

They’re just like computers, which also work because people are deluded into believing that they should work. THEY SHOULDN’T. Nobody knows how computers work. Not even the people who build them. You have transistors and thingummybobs and stuff and when you turn around, you have sixteen billion circuits on a chip the size of a thumbnail. And if you ask them how they did it, they’ll get that same shifty look in their eyes, and say, “Voila”, and point to a supercomputer streaking through the air.

This is how chips are made. A bunch of hardware engineers get together with a whole bunch of electronic components, and they dance with wild abandon around the parts to call upon the Voodoo. And when the dance is done and the virgins have been sacrificed, “Voila”, a supercomputer streaks through the air.

To summarize, airplanes and computers do not work because of science. They are held together by the Voodoo, black magic and mass delusions.

Anyway, I caught my flight to Atlanta from Pittsburgh, so I drove to Pittsburgh on Monday. It is a very scenic drive, farms and rolling hills and countryside and stuff like that. And then the occasional strip club. Well, not occasional…not even intermittent, it would be more accurate to say frequent. Yup, the frequent strip club. Establishments with names like Divaz and Streekers[sic]. Doesn’t leave much to the imagination, what? It is quite possible that Divaz was actually a school for budding altos, but somehow I doubt that.

Well I have nothing against these establishments, and if I wasn’t in such a hurry to catch my flight I may have dropped by to further investigate, purely in the spirit of scientific curiosity. Really. Honest. However, one such place advertised itself as being or having a drive through peep show. Let me repeat that. A drive through peep show. Now I haven’t a clue how that could even be physically possible. Peep shows by their very nature compel you to peep as the …um show occurs, and driving works out well only if you are actually looking at what is in front of the vehicle. So unless the ahem “show-er” is actually perched on your hood as the show goes on I think they might be advertising under false pretenses.

Airplanes. Check.
Computers. Check.
Strip clubs. Check.

And I learnt about this thing called rephotography. It is really quite fascinating and gets my seal of approval.

I'm back...

..and if you did not notice, I was away. In Atlanta. I just got back(ergo the title). I'm sleepy, but expect a post on planes, computers and strip clubs when I get around to it. :D

G'nite all.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Of people prancing about in Khaki shorts

As I had promised, this post will be about indpride.com, a site which by its name ostensibly claims to be about Indian Pride (a good thing) but is actually a chauvinistic Hindu Pride site spewing hate-filled nonsense (a bad thing). As a secular Hindu,(something that the creators of this site do not like) this pisses me off no end. I’d like to limit my views about this blot on the internet to a single post, but I doubt that I can. The sheer amount of crap on this website is mind boggling, and the creators of this website, or as I prefer to call them, jackasses, have done a fiendishly perfect job of mixing truth with half truth with fecal matter.

I will start at the “Did you know” page. These pages are usually fun, because they contain stuff that I usually do not know and knowledge is a good thing. But this “Did you know” page, like the rest of the page contains crap of epic proportions. The dissection of the crap follows:

India gave to the world the days of the week and their names. The names prevalent in India like Ravivaar, Somvaar, Mangalvaar, etc. were adopted by the west in the same sequence and were directly translated to other languages like English where you have Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, etc. 

Sunday The name comes from the Latin dies solis, meaning "sun's day": the name of a pagan Roman holiday.
The name comes from the Anglo-Saxon monandaeg, "the moon's day". This second day was sacred to the goddess of the moon.
This day was named after the Norse god Tyr.

Go here for the rest.

Pandit Onkar Nath, the great musician, appealed to all Gujarati young men as far back as 1949 to join RSS. When RSS workers needed some money to liberate Dadra and Nagar Haveli, Lata Mangeshkar gladly gave a charity performance for them in Pune.

Fascinating? Um no. Interesting? Uh, not quite. I have no clue why this is up here. Here however is what I do know about the RSS, they wear dorky Khaki shorts and march around with sticks and stuff, they have way too much political influence and they object to Valentine’s day (The last is due to envy at other people having better social skills than them, I suppose).

Christmas is not the celebration of the birth date of Christ. Different researchers place different dates for the birth of Christ but there is virtual agreement among scholars that December 25th is not the birth date of Jesus Christ, but an annual pagan festival celebrated in honor of the sun which was too deeply entrenched in popular custom to be set aside by Christian influence. The pagan festival with it's [sic] riot and merrymaking was so popular that Christians were glad of an excuse to continue its celebration with little change in spirit and in manner. During the first three centuries we find no trace of any feast for the birth of Christ.

Again, what is this doing on indianpride.com? They decided that they’d have a party on the twenty fifth of December. You have a problem with it why?

An intensive research conducted by Zenab Banu of Gujarat on the cause and effect of communal riots since 18th century (which was a topic of her Ph.D. thesis), wherein she had analyzed and documented major Hindu-Muslim riots spread over 250 years, shows that in over 95 % cases the riots were initiated by Muslims. Her thesis has been published in a book entitled 'Politics of Communalism' (1978). 

There are fifty-seven nations in the Organisation of the Islamic Conference (OIC). Not one is yet a democracy.

Well I suppose that having dissed Christianity, the natural segue was to start dissing Islam. And since this is a right wing Hindutva site, Islam certainly has them getting their panties all in a bunch.

St. Francis Xavier, after whom many educational institutions are named in India, feverishly declared, “When I have finished baptising the people, I order them to destory [sic] the huts in which they keep their idols; and I have them break the statues of their idols into tiny pieces, since they are now Christians. I could never come to an end describing to you the great consolation which fills my soul when I see idols being destroyed by the hands of those who had been idolaters,” (from The Letters and Instructions of Francis Xavier, 1993, pp 117-8).

What does this teach us boys and girls? Religious extremism is bad. Unless it’s us. In that case it is right and good.

After partition, when the Maharaja of Kashmir was harbouring the idea of retaining Kashmir as an independent kingdom, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel had sent Guru Golwalkar of the RSS to convince the Maharaja to join India. After discussions with Guruji, the Maharaja was convinced and agreed to sign the Instrument of Accession to India. 

This certainly rings true. I’m sure the fact that the Pakistani army was invading had nothing to do with the ruler’s willingness to sign. It was the sight of Whatshisname prancing about in his shorts that convinced the poor Maharaja.

When the Europeans newly arrived in America in 1492, they took the natives to be devils and for about forty years it was legal to hunt down the natives like animals. It was only in 1530 A.D. that the Pope relented and declared that American Indians were human!

Just to keep with the theme of Indian Pride I suppose. I guess that others’ acts of inhumanity make us more humane. ”We’re bad but they’re nasty.”

In 1895, eight years before the Wright brothers flew their first plane, Shivkar Bapuji Talpade and his wife gave a thrilling demonstration flight on the Chowpatty beach in Mumbai. Mr. Talpade, an erudite Sanskrit scholar, constructed his aeroplane named 'Marutsakha' based on the description of Vimanas available in the Vedas.

The theory of the Ion Engine has been credited to Robert Goddard, long recognized as the father of Liquid-fuel Rocketry. It is claimed that in 1906, long before Goddard launched his first modern rocket, his imagination had conceived the idea of an Ion rocket. However, Shivkar Bapuji Talpade used an Ion Engine to take his plane to a height of 1500 ft. in 1895, many years before Goddard. 

(In my best Darth Vader voice) Impressive. I’d just like, you know, that little thing they call PROOF. Incidentally I have teleporter made from a cereal bar and a pair of dirty socks that I’m looking to sell. Email me.

Only a few years ago, the Chinese discovered some Sanskrit documents in Lhasa, Tibet and sent them to the University of Chandigarh to be translated. Dr. Ruth Reyna of the university said that the documents contain directions for building interstellar spaceships! The Chinese announced that they were including certain parts of the documents for study in their space program.

Um waiter, I’d like to have what that dude over there is smoking.

When the city of Mohenjodaro was excavated by archaeologists, they found skeletons just lying in the streets, some of them holding hands, as if some great doom had suddenly overtaken them. These skeletons are among the most radioactive ever found, on a par with those found at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Ancient cities whose brick and stonewalls have literally been vitrified, that is-fused together, can be found in India, Ireland, Scotland, France, Turkey and other places. There is no logical explanation for the vitrification of stone forts and cities, except from an atomic blast.

A double order. That there chemical is good stuff.
Honestly even if this were true, do you really feel the need to be proud of the fact that we might have invented the Nuclear Holocaust? “Huzzah, we learnt to blow up our planet three millennia before the Americans and Russians.”

The shrouded Qaabaa at Mecca, the holiest shrine for all Muslims of the world, was once a temple containing 360 different deities which were the object of reverence and worship. Acting upon the orders of Allah, the almighty, Prophet Mohammed waged a jihad or holy war against the worshippers of these deities to gain control over Mecca, after which he destroyed the icons and slaughtered the idolaters. 

Refer comments about looking good by contrast.

Those communities among the Hindus who are called Bhangi, Mehtar, Chookad, Hela, Valmik or Halaal Khor, etc. are actually descendants of brave Kshatriyas, who, inspite of many atrocities by tyrannical Muslim rulers, had refused to accept conversion to Islam. The Muslim tyrants, with a view to humiliate them to such an extent that they would forsake their faith and accept Islam, forced them into the work of carrying the night soil of the begums, keeps, relations, courtiers, etc. 

The horror! Making descendents of the proud “upper” castes do the work reserved for the true “lower” castes. Woohoo, hypocrisy makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

When the World Parliament of Religions passed a resolution a few years ago proclaiming that all religions were various pathways to One Ultimate Reality and called for unity and brotherhood of all religions, the Vatican came out with a prompt rejection of the view and emphatically proclaimed that Roman Catholicism was the only true religion and others could not be accepted to be true.

Yeah dudes, you convinced me way back that Christians aren’t nice folks. You’re now preaching to the choir.

In a recent report, UNESCO pointed out that out of 128 countries where Jews lived before Israel was created in 1948, only one, India, did not persecute them and allowed them to prosper and practice Judaism in peace.

True, probably because there are probably a hundred Jews in the country and you couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm in your shorts-clad hooligans to assault them.

Islam is the fastest growing religion in the world and also in North America. 

Again, and this pisses you off why?

Christianity always associated bathing with vulgarity, lascivious thoughts and bathing in public baths, rivers and lakes, even during summer months, as sinful. St. Agnes never took a bath. St. Marget never washed herself. Pope Clement III issued an edict forbidding bathing or even wetting once [sic] face on Sunday. Since 18th century nuns were asked to take bath with their robes on. In 1736, in Baden, Germany the authorities issued a warning to students against the vulgar, dangerous and shocking practice of bathing.

Yup, youve convinced me, Christians are nasty…AND stinky. And if I read this correctly, um...are you endorsing pubic nudity? So we're decided then, YES to public nudity, NO to Valentine's day.

This was quite an effort. Some of the points I do not discuss because they are correct or at least I think they are (What that means is that I’m too lazy to hunt further for contradictions).

I’ll come back to this glorious bit of the internet in the near future. But expect my next post to rant about people who do not FUCKING flush after they finish using the toilet.

Monday, August 08, 2005

Mirror, mirror on every fucking wall.(Yes I said fuck. I will not be censored.)

I’m temporarily crashing with my former roommates until I move out of town. They’ve moved to another apartment. It is a very nice apartment, large and with a wonderful patio. A very nice apartment indeed, except for the funky ass floor length mirrors all over the apartment.

One would think that the landlords would have shown a little restraint, but that isn’t the case. There are mirrors on all the bedroom closets. That is acceptable if not exactly desirable. I do keep expecting them to crack from end to end when they catch a glimpse of me in the morning.

But that is beside the point. Those mirrors are to some extent acceptable. However, the landlord felt the need to put a floor length mirror on the shoe closet, so that you can peer dreamily into your reflection as you enter the house…Or as in my case give a nervous start as you wonder who the fuck that is standing next to you as you stagger sleepily to the laundry room in the middle of the night.

And then there’s the floor length mirror on the utility closet, which serves absolutely no purpose apart from confirming to you, the fact that you are walking down the corridor when you are actually walking down the corridor. I can see the landlords saying to one another, “Clearly, this house is going to be occupied by people who might be beset by doubts that they are not walking down the corridor, when they are in fact walking down the corridor. We must do our best to help them, but what should we do?” They ponder this question for a while and then the most narcissistic among them chimes, “Let's put mirrors all over the apartment. That’ll help them”. And the landlords chime in unison, “Make it so.” And it was made so.

I am surprised that they stopped where they did. Any day now I expect to return to the apartment, (an apartment where I am now only a guest) to find that all the surfaces are covered with mirrors, mirrors in the refrigerator, and in the oven, mirrors in the dishwasher and in those little cabinets above the stove. Mirrors on the ceiling, like in some bachelor pad from a sixties’ Bond movie. A veritable cornucopia of mirrors, an orgy of reflections! (Unlike most others, I use exclamation marks only when appropriate. Has anyone else noticed that the characters in Archie comics used only one of two punctuation marks when they were speaking, either a question mark or an exclamation mark. So even the most innocuous statement, such as “Let's get a bite.” would become “Let's get a bite!” a statement that is vaguely sinister. One would begin to wonder, what was it that they were going to bite? Was it illegal? Were they biting That Which Shouldn’t Be Bitten?)

And this bit of frothing-at-the-mouth chauvinistic insanity deserves a post all by itself. I will be mocking it in my next post. Until then enjoy it in all it’s hair brained glory.

Sunday, August 07, 2005

Clicky clicky click click

Um, yeah...click here.

Edit: this is my hundredth post. Go out and get drunk. I do not care if it is ten in the morning where you live. Go out and get smashed.

Friday, August 05, 2005

Boil and bubble...

I was trying to think up of a post that wasn't in the least bit mean, sarcastic or cynical. All I could come up with was, “I like cookies, in spite of the fact that they are loaded with calories and fat and have no nutritional value at all”. And for some reason, I think I failed in my attempt.

But, speaking of liquids that we pour into our bodies (Smooth segue there, what?), has anybody seen the list of ingredients o a can of Diet Pepsi. There are a whole bunch of chemicals listed in little black letters, acids and bases and other exotic compounds that only Electric Man is familiar with.

But what worried me was that the last two chemicals were listed boldly in red. And I do mean boldly. A larger font, richer color and very prominently located on the valuable real estate that is the surface of a can. That cannot be a good sign can it? One wonders, are the chemicals so bad that even the giant capitalistic conglomerate that is Pepsi felt so guilty that it decided to list them in red? I can imagine the executives in the boardroom asking the executive in charge of cans, “Avast good sire, forsooth hast thou listed the chemicals on yonder can?” and the executive saying “Forsooth I have, and for thine consciences’ sake and mine yonder chemical hast been in red listed.” That incidentally is a scene from that little known play, The Taming of the Brew.

And still speaking of liquids we pour into our bodies, I had a cup of coffee. Well, it was decaf coffee, with non-dairy creamer and sugar substitute. So you can pretty much say I had pretend coffee. Or that I pretended to have coffee. Maybe next time, I’ll mime having coffee and won’t have to actually go through the energy sapping motions of actually drinking that fluid.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Adventures of Electric Man - Part 3(the musical interlude)

My humble contribution to the greatness of Electric man. Part 1 can be found here, and Part 2 here. I apologize for the atrocious choice of song, but I just moved and I'm in a foul mood. And it was so easy.

Electric Man, yeah
Rig that circuit, yeah
Electric Man, yeah
Rig that circuit right
BunsenBoy's back, alright

Hey, yeah
Oh my God, we're back again
Professors, students, everybody sing
Gonna bring the chemicals, show you how
Gotta question for you better answer now,(Notice how his tendencies show over here.)

Am I original(research)?
Am I the only one(who can build a electron microscope from 3 op amps and a string)?
Am I sexual(orgies with transistors)?
Am I everything you need(Chemically and electronically I mean)?
You better Rig that circuit now

Electric Man, yeah
Rig that circuit, yeah
Electric Man, yeah
Rig that circuit right
BunsenBoy's back, alright

Now throw your organic chemicals up in the air
Wave them around like you just don't care(This line cannot be improved)
If you wanna research let me hear you yell “DioxychloronitrobnzoicJappoChunkyDevioxy ParaMonosodiumglutamateicacidsomewierdoricess

Cuz we got it formulatin’ on again

Electric Man, yeah
Rig that circuit, yeah
Electric Man, yeah
Rig that circuit right
BunsenBoy's back, alright

Electric Man, yeah
Rig that circuit, yeah
Electric Man, yeah
Rig that circuit right
BunsenBoy's back, alright

So everybody, everywhere
Don't be afraid, don't have no fear(I am the light of knowledge in the dark)
I'm gonna tell the world, make you understand(I’m a professor at heart)
As long as there'll be chemicals, we'll be researchin’ back again

Electric Man, yeah
Rig that circuit, yeah
Electric Man, yeah
Rig that circuit right(Rig that circuit right)
BunsenBoy's back, alright

Electric Man (Electric Man)
Yeah (Rig that circuit)
Rig that circuit (Electric Man)
Yeah (Electric Man, Rig that circuit)
Electric Man (Electric Man, Rig that circuit)
Rig that circuit right (everybody)
BunsenBoy's back, alright



Really really sucks. More on that later.

Monday, August 01, 2005

Smile...or not. I don't give a *bleep*.

I’m channeling my inner Lewis Black, so here goes.

Photography. Well, not really. More photographs. Unless I know you and the other people in the photographs, I really am not interested in looking at them. The last thing I want to do is waste fifteen minutes of my time, fifteen minutes could have been wasted playing Snood, looking at those visual records and going, “Um, and what are you doing here” and “That’s interesting.”

Because they aren’t interesting. The sappy grins and the glassy stares begin to get on my nerves. Years later your grandchildren will stumble upon them and one look at you grinning at them will cause them to forever lose any trace of respect that they ever had for you. I would appreciate it if in future the mindless hordes would cease and desist. Or if they really felt the need to share, they would limit themselves to one photograph. Preferably one that does not have me regretting that wrap I had for lunch.

And I’ve never understood the reason for people deciding to be in their photographs. Are they presenting it as evidence that they were present at the scene of the crime? If they say that they were in Manhattan on the fifteenth of February 2004, I believe them. They do not have to present me with exhibit A- sixteen billion photographs of them in Manhattan. Let them show me photographs of the island without them in it. I rather like the architecture there and I will appreciate it.

The reason for this rant is because people always complain that I rarely show up in any of my photographs. I reply that they should consider this a blessing. I have seen me and I am not a pleasant sight. Apart from that I know what I look like. I see myself in the mirror daily. I do not vary much from day to day, apart from the steady beard growth. I see no reason to mar a perfectly good photograph by inserting me in it.

Say cheese. Now go jump off a cliff.

Sunday, July 31, 2005

80s - What's On TV???

Does anyone remember The Old Fox or the other programmes on DurDarshan before the glorious advent of cable?

If you feel the need to refresh your memory, go here.

Glug glug

I was watching the Discovery channel earlier tonight, and they had this documentary on, about the sinking of the Titanic. They have on occasion had a Titanic week, a Titanic weekend and a Titanic Live Television Special. I hear they have plans to make a Titanic Musical Documentary and a Titanic Documentary Told Through Interpretive Dance.

Now my views.

The fucking ship sank. Get over it.

Most of the world, or at least your audience knows that it sank. The iceberg is no longer a secret either. We know about that big hunk of ice. Yes, it was a tragedy of monumental proportions, but honestly do people have to keep going back to the ship again and again and again and again?

And even if you keep going back to the ship do you feel the need to inflict your murky underwater videos upon your hapless audiences? Go down to the ship if you want to, but respect the dead and do not fucking film their tomb any more.

Cut the program short. Here, I’ll do it for you, “Ship. Iceberg. Collision. Tragedy. Parasitic Filmmakers. Cut and that’s a wrap.”

However, if any one of you happens to be eaten by a shark, an octopus or a large aquatic modern dancer, do film it. I’d like to see that.

And for those of you who do insist on seeing those programs, I reiterate, the fucking ship sank. Get over it.

A final note, to last night’s town drunk, I still plan on blogging about your, what I shall for lack of a better word, call, shenanigans.

Friday, July 29, 2005


I hate the word "kiosk". I really truly do.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

"The plane! The plane!"

A friend is advising me to get a tattoo around my left upper arm. I do not think it is a good idea.

A tattoo on a Computer Science graduate student is as incongruous as a sheep getting up on its hind legs and offering to go three rounds with the wolf. No holds barred. Hitting below the belt allowed.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

0.25 > 1

I live in twisted universe. Here, the rules of physics and science and the fancy strings that hold the universe together are on permanent hiatus. Getting drunk and stoned and thoroughly embarrassing the more sober patrons of …um wherever they are. Up is Down, Down is Blue and Green is hung over and wondering who that mime in bed with it is.

So, to sum things up, the universe around me is fucked up.

Now you may wonder why I have come to this conclusion. It’s quite possible that you aren’t wondering. Well, then in the words of the talking hamster, “Go jump off a cliff”. Actually what the hamster said was nothing so PG, and prominently featured the words fuck, telephone pole and an anatomically improbable manouver that might even be illegal.

Must concentrate. Focus on the general fucked-upness of the universe.

When is 0.25 greater than one?

The answer is when the 0.25 is a quarter and I need to do my laundry at the washing machine in my basement that accepts only quarters. And as expected I do not have any quarters and the supermarket around the corner does not have any quarters and the Laundromat next to the supermarket has decided to shut down early. Just because I need the quarters. At that point standing in the rain (Oh it started raining when I reached the supermarket), I would have gladly traded each dollar bill in my wallet for a quarter. Not four quarters, or three or two but one. Just a lone, solitary quarter. (Slight change in tense and many grammatical errors. Be nice and ignore them.)

(In my best 8th standard voice, emulating the second Kid (A subtle dig there, my friend)) Hence, from the previous paragraph, we have proven that when the universe is seriously fucked up, and trust me the universe is seriously fucked up, 0.25>1.

On what some people would call a happier note, two extremely attractive women moved into the apartment below mine. On what I would call a much, much sadder note, my lease ends in five days and I will be moving out of this apartment. Shoot me now. Aim for the head. Make it quick.

And this is creepy. Turn on your speakers. Enjoy. Or not. I don't care. I still need a couple of quarters.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Sunday, July 24, 2005


I figured out how to upload pictures to the blog.

I'm now a moderately satisifed and mildly sleepy camper.

Chocolate can be a bad idea.

Stay with me on this one. If you aren’t a graduate student living away from home, visiting maybe once every year or every couple of years it might be tough to do so. But do try. I’ll give you a cookie if you are sincere about it.

Visiting home is always wonderful. But there is a slight problem. What do you buy for the folks back home? If you aren’t an experienced shopper like me, it can be rather traumatic. I treat my shopping like a hostage rescue operation. Get in. Liberate the hostages. And get out as fast as possible. I usually can mange to escape without too many things attaching themselves to my person. Occasionally, I might have to run the gauntlet of over eager sales people trying to unload on me, but I usually manage to escape with some very adroit maneuvering. Only once have I been caught when a lady sprayed what I think was mace into my face and paralyzed me.

However, that is beside the point. I’m talking about a particular subset of shopping, “The week before I leave for India” shopping. When I visited I got lucky. I managed to have my folks give me a list of what they wanted and I did not mess that up too badly. However, everything I bought out of my own initiative was pretty much a disaster. I won’t go into the details. Let’s just say that my parents were very amused. And rather insultingly, not in the least bit surprised.

One thing that used to be a sure shot were chocolates. Under our previous socialist regime, Indians were denied the horrible capitalist influence of imported chocolates. So if you brought home chocolates by the gallon/kilogram/bushel, you were welcomed home with open arms. Relatives would drop by and you could dump chocolates upon them as you polished your halo of “Ability to shop well.”

Knowing this, I bought chocolates by the gallon/kilogram/bushel when I visited last year. A smart move I thought to myself. You can’t go wrong with chocolates. “Huzzah”, I cheered in the silence of my head. (My head is mostly filled with assorted people from an Elizabethan Black Adder episode. But that is a story for some other time).

Unfortunately I had huzzahed too soon. The universe in its infinite wisdom had decided that fucking me over was a good idea and so proceeded to do so with distasteful alacrity and an enthusiasm that horrified me.

The government had decided that imported chocolates were no longer a menace. (The Swiss had stopped their misadventures on our southern borders. No longer was cheese thrown at unsuspecting fishermen out at sea, and no longer were…that’s all I know about the Swiss. So let assume that the Swiss had stopped doing that typical annoying Swiss thing which I’m too lazy to look up.) The aisles of the supermarkets were bursting with chocolate of all races, brown, black and white. Some of them had nuts and…Must resist urge to make dirty joke…and some were triangular. So when I landed at home with my proud consignment, people took one look at it and said “Pshaw”. They turned their noses up at my bourgeoisie chocolates and mocked me in public. (Yodeling!!! The Swiss had stopped yodeling in the south). So that was bad. And I have a bit of a sweet tooth. So I ate most of the chocolates instead of giving them to the people who hadn’t mocked me. (Sorry grandma. Really.)

Well, the point of all this is that, I still haven’t figured out why a certain person is taking home two packets of Doritos. Two LARGE packets of Doritos. You know who you are.
(Told you I was going to blog about it. [Insert Evil laughter here])

Friday, July 22, 2005

Victory is mine!

I couldn't look at my PC interface anymore without retching. So I followed the instructions given by these nice people, and now my desktop looks enough like my powerbook interface that the urge to burn my eyes out has abated.

Now all I need to do is find a Safari port for XP and I'll be good to go.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

Yay, blogs are cool.

I just saw a program on how influential blogs are and how they are shaping political opinion.

However, when people stop talking about how influential blogs are and how they are shaping political opinion, that’s when I'll know that blogs have become truly influential in shaping opinion.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

It was TEH HAXORZ!!!

Sex, sex and more reproductive activity in GTA:San Andreas, so clicky clicky click click.

Stop squeaking you filthy bastard

Why is it that I always end up with a shopping cart with squeaky wheels? I pick one out at random, from the group hanging out in front of the super market, and I invariably end up with the one that does has a stand-up act and whose finisher is its famous imitation of a mouse squeaking his love for life and the spring and the glory that is nature.

Not all shopping carts squeak the same. There’s the timid squeaker. This agreeable shopping cart will squeak occasionally. Just a timid, little squeak to let me know that it is alive and that it is contemplating the state of my sneakers.

Then there’s the continuous, but considerate squeaker. This one will squeak without a pause, but not too loudly. It’ll let you carry out a conversation while it provides the background sound effect. Nothing too obtrusive, just a hum, you know, like every spaceship has on a sci-fi show. Except that it isn’t a hum but is a “squeakysquakysqueaksqueakysqueak.”

Then there’s the loud obnoxious squeaker. It’ll squeak at the top of its mechanical lungs without a break. Like a bullfrog in the springtime, except that it does not croak but goes “SQUEAKYSQUEAKYSQUEAKYSQUEAK.” It takes savage pride in the fact that every one in the supermarket can hear it. Heck everyone in the supermarket in the next town can hear it.

Finally, there is the shopping cart that is the essence of pure evil. This villain bides its time until the moment is right. Lurking in the shadows pretending to be that rarity, a completely silent shopping cart. It bides its time until you notice that hot woman who strides the aisles with an admirable disdain for restrictive clothing, and gather up the courage to smile at her. And as you make eye contact it hollers “SQUEAKAFUCKINGSQUEAKEDYOURASS
BANGSQUEAKTADAAH” with every bit of energy in its metallic body. And as you try to slink away unnoticed it laughs at the top of its voice, “SQUEAKHAHASQUEAKHAHAHA.”

Incidentally, I did have a completely silent shopping cart today. It was wonderfully mute and picking out my eggs, milk and cereal was a pleasure.

...Until the left front wheel fell off in the parking lot.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Reality TV pisses me off

Somebody please stop the reality television. There seem to be six hundred reality shows on television today, each with their version of reality. There’s one with Hulk Hogan and his family, there’s one with a fat actor from Predator 2 trying to lose weight, there’s one where a bunch of hicks are un-hickified by a rich lady, whose only claim to fame is that her daughter is a dirty ho and there's one where teenagers get plastic surgery.

I'd like a channel where they aren't looking for the next big pop star, and aren't interested in the reactions of attractive people to the knowledge that they are going to be eating maggots. A channel where I do not have to see the inner lives of drunk and stoned celebrities, their spouse(s), their mutated spawn and their disgusting pets. A channel where reality TV means the News.

One exception. FX is running 30 days with Morgan Spurlock, a reasonably good fish out of water series. It takes people out of their normal milieu, dumps them into a lifestyle far removed from that and lets them squirm for my vicarious pleasure. I’ve seen a couple of episodes so far, one with a homophobe living with a gay roommate in San Francisco and another with a conservative heartland Christian living with a Muslim Family in Dearborn.

Predictably, both the subjects undergo sea changes in their attitudes at the end of their respective months.
Were the changes genuine or were they hammed up for the camera? I haven't a clue. However, it's good entertainment. I suppose that that is all that matters.


The wrong definition of atheist from Dictionary.com:
One who disbelieves or denies the existence of God or gods.

The correct definiton of atheist from Miriam-Webster.com:
One who believes that there is no deity.

Monday, July 18, 2005

Just a roll of quarters please.

To the people in charge of the Uni-mart at the corner of Atherton and Allen, when I ask for a roll of quarters I want a roll of quarters. I do not want a packet of Trojans.

If I did want a packet of condoms (yeah right!), I would say, “Ahem ahem er um can you give me that latex anti-reproductive device.”

I do agree that it is a bit strange to have someone pop by at four in the morning and ask for a packet of chips and a roll of quarters. However, I was hungry, I needed to do my laundry and I keep odd hours. Perfectly reasonable isn’t it?

To recap, in future, when I ask for a roll of quarters do not hand me a packet of condoms.

Clarification: I was sober and unfortunately was returning from my lab, and not from a hard night of partying.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Good Vibrations

A summary of events so far.

December 2003, the Dept. of Computer Science and The school of Information Science and Technology move into this building, variously refered to as "That architectural marvel", "A landmark building" and "A concrete vision of the future" by the establishment, and referred to as "That functionally useless pile" by yours truly.

But I digress. That was not the point of this post. Onto today’s episode.

The point of this post is that the building vibrates. It vibrates like a humming bird on caffeine, like the string of a guitar, like California during a little one. As you may imagine, the denizens of the building, phlegmatic though they may be, do notlike this. Especially graduate students, who are delicate wonders of nature and will wilt in an environment which is in the least bit harsh. So they complained and so did a few others I guess.

The response, Linda M. Hanagan, PhD, PE states, “it is recommended that the occupants be assured that the vibration levels observed are in no way an indication that the floor structure was insufficiently designed for strength. In fact, the amplitude of motion observed is so small it is nearly insignificant from a structural strength point of view. It should also be noted that it is unlikely that a cost effective alteration to alleviate the problem can be found. In the beauty of soaring cantilevers is also flexibility that can result in perceptible vibration levels.”

A dissection of this response.(I'm resisting the urge to put in bullets here)
"L**** * ********, PhD, PE".
Translation: I'm smart and you are not, so shut the fuck up. kthxbye.

“It is recommended that the occupants be assured that the vibration levels observed are in no way an indication that the floor structure was insufficiently designed for strength.”
Translation: Vibration is good.

“In fact, the amplitude of motion observed is so small it is nearly insignificant from a structural strength point of view.”
Translation: Vibration is still good.

“It should also be noted that it is unlikely that a cost effective alteration to alleviate the problem can be found.”
Translation: Well, it really isn’t all that good, but after spending sixty million on this building, we’re fucking broke.

“In the beauty of soaring cantilevers is also flexibility that can result in perceptible vibration levels.”
Translation: Vibration is still good. In fact it is better than good. Vibration has been known to cure the common cold, short sightedness, baldness and even erectile dysfunction. It isn’t a coincidence that Vibration and Viagra both start with “vi”.

I’m pickin’ up good vibrations
She’s giving me excitations
I’m pickin’ up good vibrations
(oom bop bop good vibrations)
She’s giving me excitations
(oom bop bop excitations)
Good good good good vibrations
(oom bop bop)
She’s giving me excitations
(oom bop bop excitations)
Good good good good vibrations
(oom bop bop)
She’s giving me excitations
(oom bop bop excitations)


Deleted- because blogging when your code decides to bend you over, and treat you like an Ottoman soldier interrogating Sir Lawrence is a bad idea.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Book Tag?

Chilli has apparently decided to book tag me. So here goes.

I read the back of cereal boxes. Sometimes I read captions for advertisements.

That's it.

Fine, I'll complete the tag later. "grumble grumble".

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Substitute Thesis for Paperback

Paperback writer

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
Based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.

It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand.
His son is working for the Daily Mail,
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.

Paperback writer

It's a thousand pages, give or take a few,
I'll be writing more in a week or two.
I can make it longer if you like the style,
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.

If you really like it you can have the rights,
It could make a million for you overnight.
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.

Paperback writer

Paperback writer - paperback writer
Paperback writer - paperback writer

Saturday, July 02, 2005


Sweeping generalizations and ill informed assumptions used to justify absurd conclusions.

I am occasionally guilty of this sin. Bite me.

Absurdity…I’m too polite to call it stupidity. I’m being diplomatic. It’s one of the many things that I’m good at. One of the other things I’m good at is plugging someone’s unsuspecting ass with a crossbow in the Stalkyard.

I’m too tired to sleep. I’m stretched out on this couch with a boneless languor that only a grad student who has no time to stretch out can achieve. The apartment is a mess. I would blame my roommates but…Oh what the hell I’ll blame them. It’s entirely their fault. Execute them.


I really did yawn. And I decided to share that with you.

Small gripe. Code that works on one browser should fucking work on another.

Good night.

Thursday, June 30, 2005

Title to be decided

I've been a tad busy lately and so no updates. So, gentle reader, here is an incomplete post to keep you diverted. I'll get around to finishing it sometime in the future.

In no particular order ellipsis abuse, razor blades and people who are chipper in the mornings.

Ellipsis abuse. You know what I'm talking about. The urge to use those innocuous periods, "..." with gay abandon in any and all sentences. I know that I am guilty of it and ergo my apologies. And you gentle reader, you do know that you are guilty of it too. So the next time you feel the need to use ellipses, ask yourself, "Are these dots really necessary? Would I use them if I was talking to someone? Would I say, “But Dot Dot Dot" or "I disagree Dot Dot Dot"?” It will not be any easy change to make, but with time and effort we will be able to fight the problem.

And now onto my pet hate (With props to Dave Barry and apologies for any unconscious plagiarism).

Razor blades have proven to me once and for all that the human race is still evolving. A brief history of the razor blade and the reasons for my conclusions follow. In the distant past when dinosaurs roamed the earth and the average human ancestor resembled a hamster, razor blades had but one blade. A single solitary blade, one that could make the hamsters presentable before they set out for work in the morning. Fast forward a few million years and someone at Gillette or Boeing or IBM decided to add an extra blade. I can imagine the shrill cries of excitement at corporate head quarters when the research boffins came up with this idea. “Two Blades! Why, that’s brilliant. Brilliant I tell you, brilliant.”

But they were soon faced with the daunting task of selling this idea to the stubbled masses. And then the geniuses at the ad agencies came up with the modern razor blade advertisement. An animation showing the first blade merrily chopping off a hair, but doing so imperfectly and leaving behind a sizeable chunk. At this point in the ad, the wise men would whisper to themselves “It was now that the focus group said that they felt the most amount of despair.” But just when you think that all was lost, along would come the second blade which would decapitate the remaining hair and quell any other follicular rebellion.

Well okay, that ad wasn’t too bad. But then they needed to sell the razor with three blades. So the ads would now show blade two waging a valiant battle but being ultimately defeated by the evil forces of H.A.I.R. And just when you thought the battle was lost, along would come blade three, which would neatly swoop in and save the day. And then they would switch to a close-up of a model stroking his cheek with a goofy smile on his face. Sometimes there would be a female model with the male model and she would stroke his cheek, and they both would have goofy smile on their faces. I think the subliminal message here is that if you use their razor blades models will stroke your face in the morning. Now think about that. That is a bit creepy. You wake up, you shave and out of nowhere, a model pops up strokes your cheeks and disappears down the drain.

And then just when we, the stubbled masses, thought that we had reached the pinnacle of shaving progress we were presented with the four blade razor. But the ads stayed the same. Blade one bad job, blade two some progress but not enough, blade three would valiantly struggle but falter at the threshold of victory and then finally blade four would swoop in and save the day. This would be followed by the obligatory goofy looks and metaphors of smoothness, the metaphors of smoothness being illustrated by visuals showing an abnormally cute baby’s whose cheeks would be rubbed against the freshly shaven. It must be pretty traumatic for the kid to be used as some kind of smoothness gauge. I can imagine him growing up and going on a murderous rampage because of that trauma. His weapon of choice would of course be the razors, which by this time would have forty six blades. And they no longer would be called razors, but would be called shaving systems, because that makes them more impressive. I know I’m impressed. I truly am.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

And as the French say...


I had nearly forgotten this. :D

Not creative enough to come up with a title...

Scott Mccloud has this concept called the twenty-four hour comic. You’re supposed to pencil, ink and letter a twenty-four-page comic, each page having nine panels, in twenty-four hours. You are allowed to think about the story before actually drawing the comic, but actually putting it down on paper has to take place in one contiguous twenty-four hour window.

I would do this, except I’m not in the least bit creative and I cannot draw for nuts.

Just to clarify, I cannot drink draw for any amount greater than nuts.(Freudian slip there, the effects of prolonged sobriety).

And on a different track, what’s the deal with women and pottery? Here in town there’s an establishment going by the ambiguous name “Paint Your Own Pottery Studio”. What is the ambiguity you ask? Well, because of the lack of hyphenation it could either be a studio where you bring your pottery to paint, or it could a place where you can paint your own pottery studio. I suspect it is the former, because pottery studios are a bit unwieldy and lugging them downtown to be painted can be hard work.

Well whatever their business model, people whom I have posed this question to on occasion (every time we’ve passed it on our way to lunch) have asked me to shut the fuck up and leave them in peace.(Ah the simple pleasures of life…Painting the pottery studio $20, Lunch $4, Exasperating people to the point of sparking a murderous frenzy…priceless) .

After that digression let me guide you back, o gentle reader, to the matter at hand wiz what’s the deal with women and pottery? What is this all-consuming urge to create pottery and then paint it? Is it some deep-seated evolutionary imperative? Did cave-women hunt down prehistoric pottery on the plains of Africa and then paint it, while the male primate pondered deep questions (Is it Paint “Your Own Pottery” Studio or is it Paint “Your Own Pottery Studio”? And Great Taste or Less Filling?). Whatever the case may be, let me make it clear that I have not the least intention to ever paint pottery. I do not feel the lack of a pottery-painting outlet in my life. There isn’t a part of my soul that screams out aloud to paint pottery and end the misery. I can say without a shade of doubt that when I die, and I look back upon my life (Yes there’s a contradiction there. Deal with it.) I will not feel regret that ne’er was there was a pot that I did paint.

(And with props to the Daily Show) Please stop interviewing the Jackson trial jurors and analyzing the trial and discussing the freak. Please. The first couple of hours were excusable but now I’d really like to see the news. Please. Really. I’ll paint a pottery studio if you stop. Honest.

Monday, June 13, 2005

Withdrawal symptoms...

..can be painful.

And take a look at VGCats take on Episode 3. Yes I do know that the link does not belong in this post. Let it go.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005


Chocolate cake and coffee ice cream.

Nothing profound to see here. Move on.

Monday, June 06, 2005

The only thing that's...

…worse than not being able to put your contact lenses on...is not being able to remove them.

Words of wisdom, courtesy yours truly.

More words of wisdom.

Not really, just a long extended rant.

Why are most advertisements so goddamn stupid? Why is it, that an advertisement for razor blades shows titanium blades cutting a car in half? I can assure you that I will not use anything on my face that could conceivably rip through metal.

And while we are on the subject of advertisements, why does McDonalds have cartoons pimping their new products? It is my personal belief that the actors they hired to be in the ad, had coronaries when they saw one of the grease burgers.

Infomercials. Please for the love of all that is good, hire somebody, anybody, to do your voiceover, who does not sound like a two bit crook trying to sell me shares in Enron. Try Kermit, Jabba or the lead singer of the Beegees .The sound of that voice telling me to call 1800-SCAM-ME-NOW makes me want to buy a gun (which is illegal for me) and stay up at night guarding my wallet.

Movie Trailers. DO NOT SHOW ME ANY MORE EXPLOSIONS. I get it. You can blow stuff up. Stuff includes cars, trucks, buildings, birthday cakes, bridges, and vacuum cleaners. Let me share a secret with you, the quality and the quanitity of your explosions does not sway me. They mostly serve to annoy me. Next time do not waste money on the explosions. Take a page out of that Batman series and flash the word “BOOM” on the screen. Take a few liberties with the word. Color it green or pink or fuschia. Change the font. Try Arial or Times New Roman. Use punctuation or italicize it. Surprise me. Add a disclaimer if you want to. Frame it something like this ”We could have blown stuff up (Stuff includes cars, trucks, buildings, birthday cakes, bridges, and vacuum cleaners.), but we didn’t feel like wasting time, money and explosives. Deal with it”. I assure you that the audience will approve of your candour. If you really feel like you have to blow stuff up, go ahead and show me a firecracker exploding. Try to pass it off as an experiment in minimalism. We will go along with the charade.

Alcohol commercials. Um…nothing wrong there. Gorgeous women wearing very few clothes getting drunk…always good.

Television Serials. There is no such thing as a “Must see” episode. There are “Might be interesting to watch” episodes, “Nothing out of ordinary” episodes, and “Totally Sucky” episodes. The “Must Have” operation exists, as does the “Must Attend” meeting. The “Must See Episode”, no, not so much.

Shampoo ads. That hair waving across the screen like a pack of anorexic octopi in a mating frenzy freaks me out. Please cease right now. (Disclaimer: I have no idea what the collective for octopuses is. It could be a pack, a village, a bakers dozen or a bunch. If you figure it out, gentle reader, let me know.) Let me explain that line about the anorexic octopi. Anorexic octopi, which means small bodies and prominent tentacles ala hair. Aw screw it...I’m keeping that line. Imagine it as you will.

And automobile commercials. Well considering my past record, I should probably shut up but I’m on a roll. If I ever see anyone with a broad smile on his or her face jumping in through the window of their intermediate, economy car I will buy your car. No questions asked. I won’t give a damn whether it gives me a half-mile to the gallon, or whether it can be driven only on days which have the letters ‘B’ and ‘∆’ in them. However if they do jump in through the window they should not impale themselves on the gear stick.

House-bloody-hold cleaning-bloody-products. No one smiles when they clean the toilet bowl or scrub behind the throne. Trust me, I speak from painful experience. Even if I was masochistic enough to enjoy the act, the fumes from your odious chemicals ensure that my nostrils feel like a meteor ripped through them. A particularly jagged meteor with rusty nails sticking out of it. Your attitude in these commercials only ensures that one day your executives will one day be found dead in their offices with a plunger boldly shoved up where no plunger has been shoved up before.

Cell phones. No they do not make you sexy. It can have a screen that can show movies (with explosions) and have the ability to control weather satellites and translate from English to Klingon. It could double as a foldable bed and be smaller than your average bear. It could be all these things and more, but it will not make you any sexier. Again I speak from painful personal experience.

I’m about done.

Sing GNR’s “Welcome to the jungle” but sing it as Sinatra would. Croon it. Enunciate every word clearly and feel better about it.

Finally, I have been invited to godhood in Singularism. I have regretfully had to decline. The reason is that I am an atheist. So if I were a God and an atheist I would have to believe that I do not exist. So I would either cease to exist or I would get a really bad headache. Neither sounds very appealing. So I shall stay mortal.


Sunday, June 05, 2005

Inder just informed me...

...that he was visitor 666 to the blog. I find that unusually apt, in light of the fact that he seems to have single handedly crushed one of Singularism's deities. Aroo Aroo, much howling and gnashing of teeth.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

I gotta get me one of these...

Clicky clicky. If you didn't get it, I'm not going to bother to explain.

And GRRM is finally done with book four of his series A Song of Ice and Fire. However, since A Feast for Crows was apparently too long it has been split into two books, the other being A Dance with Dragons. The author says that the books will be complete in themselves, in that each book will cover different story arcs. However, this means that the two characters I like the most will probably be shipped off to the second book.

Well, I guess I'll just have to keep waiting.

Edited: Cause my dog ate the URL.

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

And yet again...

You the perceptive reader, (Not that miserable worm, the vapid and gadfly-esque reader who skims through these blogs with nary a moment to stop and smell the blogs) might have noticed that the name has changed yet again.

What would a blog smell like if a blog in fact did have a smell?

Endless repeats of Frasier and Friends have numbing effect on the brain. The laugh tracks seem to merge into one another, the jokes good, bad and mediocre all seem funny. A stream of endless one liners and comebacks. High humor and low emotion. Low humor and low emotion. Slapstick and farce. Throw an episode of Raymond in there and what we are left with is a comedic goulash.

I have never eaten goulash. I doubt I ever will. The word goulash scares me. I does not promise one a satisfying gustatory experience. It's bad PR is what it is. Goulash needs to find itself an agent and get a new brand name, something for the new millenium.

Well I suppose that this post made less sense than most of my other posts and that's saying something. I'm too sleepy to proofread this tonight, I'll do that tomorrow.

R-chivist out.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Redemption of the Sith...?

Edit: I suppose this post should contain a spoiler warning, so consider yourself warned gentle reader.

Yup. I did enjoy the movie and it was far superior to those travesties, episodes one and two.

Corny dialog? By the bucketful.

Bad acting? Painfully large amounts.

I like Natalie Portman. She is a very, very attractive brunette and I have a weakness for brunettes. However she was fucking bad in the movie. Really, really fucking bad. Her main purpose seemed to be decorative and to engage in a competition for worst performer with Hayden Christensen. He was excruciatingly bad in those scenes where he had to appear with the aforementioned brunette. They weren’t helped by the lousy dialog in the scenes involving the two of them.

Doesn’t quite sound like redemption, does it? Well it was.

Christensen did a reasonably good job of portraying Anakin’s slide to the Darth side. Perversely the more evil Anakin became the better was Christensen’s performance (He went from rip-out-your finger-nails-and-shove-lit-matches-up-your-arse painful to a mild throat pain painful. And that is a good thing. ). However he did redeem himself. The scene where Vader lies burning, crippled by Kenobi, screaming out his hatred of the friend and the order he betrayed was perfect.

The others did a bang-up job. McGregor/Kenobi was just right. A mentor and a truly noble person betrayed utterly by his best friend. Forced to stop Vader and beating him in spite of Vader’s superiority. The fight with the android General Grievous was decent. I did seriously object to the mutant oversized chameleon/iguana that he rode for a good part of the movie.

Yoda’s “performance” was pretty good too (If a CGI rendering can be called a performance.). Who doesn’t like a hyperkinetic green furball whose lightsaber antics look like a tube-light in a violent mating ritual. Ian McDiarmid as Palaptine was perfect. Gleefully oozing evil and subtle corruption. Tugging ever so gently on a mildly moronic Skywalker, pulling him inch by inch to the dark side. Masterfully orchestrating the betrayal of the Jedi. A scene that was heart breaking for someone as immersed in the lore as I am.

The movie was not just enjoyable. It was a relief. Having my memory of the original three irrevocably tainted by the Phantom Menace and the Attack of the Clones, I was prepared for crap of gargantuan proportions. I was very pleasantly proven wrong. While not as good as the original three this more than made up for the disappointment of the last two. I should state here that the original three were seen by a different person. And the impressions I made then have been set in stone. I could not change them even if I wished to do so. It is possible that this movie is superior to some or all of the movies in the original trilogy, but for me the original trilogy will remain superior. In spite of the fact that storm trooper armor offers no defense against anything harder than cotton candy, or that the storm troopers who are the Empire’s elite couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, or the fact that Luke and Leia made out, or that…well you get my point. The original trilogy is not something that I can logically dissect. I see its flaws and they just do not matter to me.

End note: "If you're not with me, you're my enemy," Anakin Skywalker, tells Obi-Wan Kenobi. Does that sound familiar? Well apparently conservative groups like Pabaah thought so, and called for a boycott of the movie. I have a sneaking suspicion that the boycott failed. And um…if your groups name is Pabaah, it is a wee bit tough to take you seriously.