Sunday, February 26, 2006

Objects in the rear view mirror

I love long drives.

Alone.

Just me and my thoughts and (cliché time) the open road. Thoughts like “Is it paint “your own pottery” studio? Or is it paint your own “pottery studio””. And thoughts like, “The new Pepsi slogan “Brown and Bubbly”, Dumb or Really Fucking Dumb?” (I’m not kidding here. That is their new slogan. “Brown and bubbly.”… That’s just too easy. I’ll leave it alone.)

Back to the subject at hand. Or in my case, at keyboard.


I like the long drives. The four hour ones, when I’m driving to State College, or DC, or back. And I like the middle parts of the drive the most. When I know I have miles to go (…Before I sleep. Because falling asleep at the wheel is a bad, bad idea. I know from painful experience. I’d use a smiley here, but I refuse to use emoticons in posts, and so imagine if you will a wry grin here.) and the end is far, far away.

I dislike the last bit of the drive, because it’s the last bit of the drive. It brings with it a mild sense of disappointment. That four hour block where nothing else existed apart from me and the music from the radio is ending. I need to enter society again and interact with (shudder) people! I can’t make faces at myself in the rear view mirror, or talk back to the radio.

I love talking back to the radio, because of all the stupidity that it spouts out between songs. The DJ’s who think they’re being funny. The smarmy voices trying to sell me stuff. The warm voices convincing me that this product is better than others or that I should enter this contest because I can win junk. Yelling at them, loudly declaiming their stupidity is immensely gratifying.

I love making faces at myself in the rear view mirror. Because…well everybody likes that. You see a mirror and nobody else is around, you stick your tongue out at it, or do your best Darth Vader impression. (I glare magnificently at my reflection and say “Impressive” in my best Darth Vader voice.)

No I’m not strange.

Really.

Okay, maybe just a little.

I’m flipping through radio stations, looking for classic rock. The Beatles always put me in a good mood. And so do the Stones. But flipping through the channels is fraught with danger or at the very least fraught with the possibility of crappiness. You may take your hands off the dial, perhaps to avoid that tractor-trailer that you were about to so blithely rear end…and before you know it your ears are being molested by a boy band, or a gangsta’ or a girl band (and since this is the radio, the girl band does not come with the compensation of semi-nudity. (By semi I mean almost total. By nudity I mean gratuitous nakedness.)).

But once in a great while a paragon of crappiness comes through, something so crappy that you need to hear it again and again. Have it roam wild and free through your head as you are in a meeting or doing your groceries. One such pearl is the Black Eyed Peas’ lyrical masterpiece, My Humps.

what you gonna do with all that junk
all that junk inside that trunk?


The guy’s singing that bit and clearly he is referring to the fact that she has a ton of stuff in the trunk of her car. I don’t see why that is relevant to him but I let that pass.

And then the chick,(Who is mind bogglingly hot. I saw her on Conan!) goes…

...Get you love drunk off my hump.
My hump,
My hump,
My hump,
My hump,

My hump,
My hump,
My hump,
My hump,


This clears things up. Apparently the song is from a Disney movie, and this “ballad” is being sung between two camels (And both of them are dromedary because only a single hump was mentioned (eight times!). Or maybe we can choose to be broadminded and choose to believe that the male is a Bactrian, unnatural though that may seem.). Or maybe it is an artist’s impression of what the dialog might be between post pubescent camel couples during the camel mating season. This should be on Animal Planet!

But now the first part of the song makes no sense. Because camels do not drive cars!

…My lovely lady lumps,..
See. Lyrical Masterpiece! The camel has goiter? I only ask this because this is an awfully graceless way of referring to a camel’s hump.

...Assorted atrocious lyrics and worse music...

…I mix your milk wit my cocoa puff,
Milky, milky cocoa,
Mix your milk with my cocoa puff, milky, milky riiiiiiight…


Now the dude seems to be getting more than a little excited at what seems to be a Kellogg’s product placement in the camels’ love ballad. Or maybe the singer really, really likes milk with his cocoa puffs and his passionate love for them is coming through in the song. But his passion is a bit unseemly, and because of him I now feel a little bit dirty when I have my breakfast cereal.

There’s probably more to that song, but at that point I decided that I needed silence, to decide whether it is “Paint “your own pottery” studio or whether it is “Paint your own “pottery studio””.

So, yeah, Long drives are good.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Small print

I called home a couple of nights ago. My parents hung up on me. Ouch!

Most of my friends send me emails from their work accounts, convenience and all that stuff. I used to do the same before I got sucked into grad school.

Now, most of their emails have the following disclaimer, or something very similar inserted in them:

“The information contained in this electronic message and any attachments to this message are intended for the exclusive use of the addressee(s) and may contain proprietary, confidential or privileged information. If you are not the intended recipient, you should not disseminate, distribute or copy this e-mail. Please notify the sender immediately and destroy all copies of this message and any attachments.”

No shit! Do they seriously expect me to jump through these hoops if I receive a wrongly addressed email? Your firm’s fuck up, you fix it.

Heck, if the email contains the attachment Maria_Sharapova.jpg, I’m going to disseminate all over the place. And then I will distribute it and ensure that it is not destroyed. Preferably by setting it as my wallpaper, my screensaver, my startup screen.

(I promise that one of these days, I’ll try to write something without obscenities or references to bodily functions.)

(Note the emphasis on the word try.)

UPS takes the cake (Cheesecake! Mmmmm cheesecake. Evil diet destroying cheesecake.) with the disclaimer on their Package Tracking Page.

“UPS authorizes you to use UPS tracking systems solely to track shipments tendered by or for you to UPS for delivery and for no other purpose. Any other use of UPS tracking systems and information is strictly prohibited.”

Now, maybe I’m criminally naïve but I cannot think of any way in which I could abuse that page. I could perhaps put in an invalid tracking number and take unwholesome pleasure in the fact that the servers have to spit out an “Invalid tracking number” message, but that seems harmless. So, yeah…suggestions welcome. I’d love to abuse that page.

Now, what was that bit about logic again?

Monday, February 13, 2006

The person who coined the term...

..."Winter Wonderland", should be fucking drawn and quartered.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Fear me!





You Are a Snarky Blogger!



You've got a razor sharp wit that bloggers are secretly scared of.
And that's why they read your posts as often as they can!




(From the image it appears that I am also a hot anime chick.)

Monday, February 06, 2006

Mamma Mia

So, it’s late Saturday afternoon, and I find myself in Edison, NJ. For those of you who do not know, Edison is little India. That’s where a hungry expatriate goes to find some decent Indian Food. (There’s this place at the corner of Oak Tree Road and Middlesex Avenue that has the Best Pav Bhaji ever!). Actually I was there trying to hunt down some Indian Beer (Apparently people like Kingfisher!) for a party the next day.

So there’s your back story and the scene. Rajneesh, semi-seedy Indian restaurant, excellent Pav Bhaji and the stereo blaring out loud, fairly up to date Hindi Film music. Now, I am not a big fan of Hindi Music. (That is an understatement. Saying that would be akin to saying that Hitler was a misunderstood chap with a few unpleasant eccentricities.) Well, one of the songs had this bit in English, “It’s the time to Disco.”

And I ponder, "Is it? "

Really? Is it the time to Disco? The singer of the song seemed giddy at the thought of imminent Discoing. I did not share her misguided enthusiasm.

I continue to ponder, “Am I in the seventies?”

I look around. Nope, no bell-bots or funky sideburns. Granted, the folks at the next table were a nice Indian family, but still.

Well that’s cleared up. It isn’t the seventies. Ergo it isn’t the time to disco. (And judging from the funky hairstyles and bad, bad clothes from that decade, I’m pretty sure that the people from that decade regret the fact they ever discoed.)

I demolished the food and left. Without once succumbing to the singer’s earnest pleas to disco! I got into the car and turned on the radio.

“…Mambo Number Five
Jump up and down
And move it all around…”


Fuck.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

A back! A back! My kingdom for a back.

I need to wear a suit and a tie at work. I do not mind that (I think I look spiffy in a suit. Leave me to my delusions.), because I have excellent taste in ties and I can sometimes tie a really nice Half-Windsor.

However, (You knew that however was coming) I do obsess about the length of the tie once it has been knotted. The tie needs to come down to my front belt buckle and not go past it by even a fraction of an inch. It should be neither too long, nor too short.

In an ideal world this would not be a problem. I would be able to perform this sartorial duty in no time and could be merrily on my way to work. Unfortunately, this is not an ideal world. The ties refuse to behave themselves. They are either too long or too short, or the knot is completely and utterly fucked up. (I will never figure out how a knot manages to look like a dead chicken). The knot is easily fixed. The length is not. I end up with a tie that goes half way to my knees or one which ends up around my third shirt button.

I could go on for pages and pages about this. But I won’t. Because I came in to work late after spending a half hour trying to get my bloody tie just right. And because yesterday, I sprained my entire left side at the gym.

(Um…Yes, a piece of advice. Attempting single arm chin-ups to impress the hot chick in the tiny shorts at the gym, is not exactly a sensible move. A man must endeavor to think with his brain and not with his genitalia.)

Now, after hearing my views about ties and suits and working out, the question on all your minds has to be, “Rajneesh are you a metrosexual?”(Maybe you do not actually have this question on your minds, but I think the following bit will work.). My answer to that is, “No. I’m not as much a metro sexual as much as I am a small-town-sexual or a village-sexual.”

(That bit sounded better in the silence of my head. Honest!)

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Dammit!

I have Shania Twain’s “You're Still The One” stuck in my head.

Shoot me now.

Please!