The best way…

…to get over a bad mood is to take a long drive, late at night.

I’ve realized that all my drives, the ones to get over my bad moods, have a certain pattern to them.

And here is the pattern.

At some point I will have to decide whether to go left or right, and I will not make my mind up until the last second.

At some point I will turn the radio off.

At some point I will pull into a gas station. (If the gas station is in New Jersey, the guy who pumps the gas will probably be Indian and will insist on talking to me in Hindi. At that point I will gleefully practice my atrocious Hindi on him.)

At some point I will turn the heater up all the way for no good reason.

At some point I will kick my shoes off and drive barefoot.

At some point I will begin to miss Bangalore terribly.

At some point I will see a funny road name.

At some point I will have to swerve to avoid a cute, furry animal that is doing its damndest to become roadkill.

At some point I will start thinking about my next blog post.

At some point I will be doing thirty in a fifty five zone.

At some point I will pull over to let the guy behind me, the one getting increasingly pissy about me doing thirty, pass me.

At some point I will turn the heater off,

At some point I will whistle or hum a tune under my breath.

At some point my bad mood will dissipate.

At that point I will find a place to take a U-turn to get back to my apartment.

At that point I will realize that I am thirty five miles from my apartment.

At that point I will realize that the place I am in is very dark and very, very, very creepy.

At that point I will check my rear view mirror for angry mummies, hungry zombie, large carnivorous dinosaurs and rabid toasters.

At that point I will begin to think about vampires and that one movie where the serial killer was hidden away in the back seat of the victim’s car.

At that point I will twist in my seat and examine my back seat.

At that point I will turn the radio on.

At some point after that I will be doing sixty in a thirty zone.

At some point I will have to swerve to avoid a cute, furry animal that is doing its damndest to become roadkill.

At some point I will wonder if I will be late to work tomorrow.

At some point I’ll reach home.

Pa-kching

When I moved into this apartment last September, I decided that I needed a toaster. A toaster that could toast both bread and bagels (Not simultaneously. Well simultaneously if you’d prefer the bagel barely toasted or the bread slice done to a nice burnt crisp.). And this toaster that would allow me to have a moderately civilized breakfast. It would rescue me from the cereal that I have had nearly every single fucking weekday morning that I have been in this country. (Post Cranberry Almond Crunch…Positively Cranberrifically Almondy and Crunchalicious)

Well, that did not happen. The toaster sits on the countertop gathering dust and slowly, but oh so steadily going insane. Even toasters have feelings, you know. And this toaster is more emotional than most. It sits there on the countertop thinking evil thoughts and planning my demise. It scares me.

And it has an accomplice. A sandwich maker. Equally neglected and unused.

Neither of the two has been able to make me give up my cereal addiction. And now they wait for their moment. Perhaps one bright morning they will pop up and ambush me…

Yeah, I still have nothing to write about. My excuse for those previous paragraphs could be that I’m high. But I do not do mind-altering drugs, (I’m high on Life. Say no to drugs kids. Life: the anti drug.) And I have been sadly sober for so many months. But seriously, doesn’t a toaster not performing its function cause some kind of Karmic Stress in the Universe? A rip in the fabric of space time through which the legions of Hell could come pouring through. (Wouldn’t it be nice if the legions of Hell sauntered through, or walked through at a steady pace? But no, they’re mean and ugly and they pour. It is what they do. And they do not even wipe their feet on the doormat. Rude fuckers)

That incidentally is the premise of Doom. Doom, the game and not Doom, the state of Rajneesh’s social life. Rip in the fabric of space time. Big bad monsters come through (with muddy feet); Neanderthal-ic hero blows holes in them. Huzzah. (And Gadzooks!). The premise works for a game.

Not so fucking much for a movie. Yes, Doom the movie does exist. And in a stroke of cinematic brilliance (And by brilliance, I mean asinine stupidity), the movie tries to preserve the first person perspective of the game, which consists of a gun shooting stuff at stuff (Insert phallic/reproductive reference here). I don’t suppose that it could be much worse than a movie about the Da Vinvi Crap. (Which should have been shot in the same way, first person perspective, but instead of a gun we have um… a soduku puzzle book, and instead of monsters we have Eccentric English Noblemen. And if you care that I gave away the wafer thin plot of that “book” go fuck your self with a rusty fork. Or go fork yourself with a rusty fuck. Whatever tickles your cutlery!)

I’ve decided that I’ll be producing movies based on games too. My first one will be about Minesweeper. Explosions. Sex. Mines. Explosive Sex in Mines. Tons of gratuitous nudity. (Women only! Yes I’m sexist. Go fuck off!)

Clever dialog:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Boom!”

“Of all the mines in the world why did she have walk into mine?”

“Frankly my dear, I don’t sweep a mine!”

“I’m the king of the mine. Boom!”

“Luke, I am your Boom!”

“Andy came to Mineshank in NineteeenBoomityBoom.”

“Boom T go home!” (Okay I cried during ET. I was five for pity’s sake, and ET was so sick and “ET go home”. If you did not cry you were a heartless monster.)

Catchy tag lines:

“Part Man, Part Mine. All Boom.”

“A Boom sixty five million years in the making.”

And I’ll follow it up with a movie about Pac Man. A touching family movie about how a yellow circle with a mouth ate ghosts. On second thoughts screw the family movie part. It can be the new movie in the Ghost Buster series. Ghost Busters 3: Lots of Naked women.

Yeah, so my toaster wants to kill me.

Vegetarian Vegetables

In a fit of quite possibly misguided enthusiasm, I decided that I would work today. The original plan was that I would wake up bright and early, at the crack of dawn (on the west coast, so nine thirty here in the east.) work until three and then perhaps meet a friend later in the day.

Because of a few beers and some moderately pleasant (Moderately might be stretching it. Mildly? Vaguely? Peripherally? Tangentially? Insurmountably? Lackadaisically? Unintentionally? Weightily? Sixteen Elephants of Pleasant Company?) company during the imbibing of the beers, I got home late last night and woke up at twelve today.

Now, on the menu at that bar, (Or “on the menu in that bar’ or “Bar the menu in that on?”…Coherence has never been my strong suit. Get over it. I like my stories to meander a bit. Like a river or a drunk toaster salesman. Or a drunken toaster sails-man. Toaster sailing isn’t a very well known nautical pass time, mostly because most participants get electrocuted in short order. “Splash…bzzzt “, ah the smell of freshly toasted… (Bah! Sails-man isn’t even a word. I needed to hyphenate it so that I could do the toaster sails-man bit.)) , was a list of food that you could get at that bar. It in fact, was the menu and was doing what menus have been doing since the middle ages, which is doing the whole listing of food and drink bit (Before the great menu reformation of the sixteen hundreds, menus were a wanton lot, doing body shots with squirrels, robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. They used to dress up in awfully uncomfortable green tights and say stuff like “Yoiks, my merry men”, and “Can I take a look at your bow, good Sir.” (If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m facing a minor case of blogger’s block. I am randomly putting stuff together hoping to come up with something. Anything. I fully expect that by the time I’m done typing there will be three more digressions one of which deals with my obsession with cheesecakes and brun…Um yeah, never mind.) (I think I’ve closed all the brackets that I’ve opened, but I’m not sure. I suppose I could copy this text into a programmer’s editor to look for matching brackets but I’m far too lazy.)

One of the items on the menu at that bar, (Or “on the menu in that bar”), was a Vegetarian Dosa. Yeah a fucking Vegetarian Dosa. Now I do not even like it when North Indian restaurants serve Dosas (Because they ruin them, not because I’m biased against North Indians or anything.) . And a Vegetarian Dosa? With a cilantro chutney? It’s enough to make a strong man cry. Vegetarian? Does that really need to be said? Isn’t that a given? Unless somewhere, someone has committed the atrocity of stuffing a Dosa with Chicken Tikka? ...Actually that wouldn’t be a half bad idea. Or a Tandoor Dosa. Hell, that isn’t a bad idea either. (As promised, now our regularly scheduled digression. Cheesecake and brun…um yeah never mind.)

So, yeah work. Didn’t get any of that shit done.

The lone wolf from the Jungle Book

Earlier today I had decided that for once I would write something serious. Something relevant, something that resonated with my readers, something that they would be able take away and think about and perhaps not forget.

And then at the Indian Store I saw that the title of a new Hindi movie was, the Banana Brothers. It’s like the universe is saying, “Fuck that. You know you cannot be serious so why even try. So go make some sophomoric joke about bananas.” (Nudge, nudge wink, wink say no more.)

Well, Banana Brothers. I imagine the story is about two bananas that were separated at birth. One banana was adopted by a rich Mango and went on to become a PoliceBanana, and the other was adopted by a Vegetative Fagin and eventually rose to become the head of the UnderFruitworld. And they both fell in love with the same Apple. ( I should have made them fall in love with a Cherry, but then the opportunity for absolutely fucking inappropriate humor would have been far too overwhelming for me to resist. Or should that be absolutely inappropriate fucking humor.)

There is a banana from the Middle East for comedic relief, Sheikh Banana or as he prefers to be called, Banana Sheikh. (I apologize. I truly do.), and the gangster’s moll played by an over-ripe Plum. (I have no clue where I’m going with this. Reminds me of the charts with fruits names that we had in school.) And so they’re in a crowded bus, squashed together, (I now know where I’m going with this. I’m going to fit in as many lame as fruit puns as I can.) and stuck in a traffic Jam (I’ve capitalized the jam, so that you do not miss the pun).

Um yeah so fuck that. I can’t do this to myself any longer. Make up your own puns and do not send them to me. Unless they’re good. Then send them. With money. And domin…Never mind.

So where was I? Ah yes. Sadly I’ve turned into one of those people who turns over a packet of food to see the nutritional facts listed on it. Twenty five percent of my daily allocation of hydrogenated long chained poly nucleotide ribosomal gobbledygook, three hundred calories. No way am I eating that. No, I’ll survive on cereal bars and yoghurt.

I hate yoghurt.

I really, really do.

Especially mixed fruit yoghurt. I think the yoghurt I had for lunch today had in it most of the cast of Banana Brothers.

For a few magazines more.

Yesterday, at twelve I had an appointment with a doctor, and she kept me waiting in the reception area until a quarter to one. There I was getting quietly bored, examining my fingernails, admiring the inside of my eyelids, counting the number of hair on the second joint of my left ring finger (two). You know, fun stuff.

Now, you may say, “Rajneesh, weren’t there magazines for you to read?”

And I would, with a sad smile on my face reply, “Yes there were.” And then I would shake my head and stare off into the distance, an expression of muted sadness on my face, the face of a strong silent man who has seen horrors that he cannot, will not talk about.

The look that the Lone Gunslinger gives in every western, as he contemplates the time, when as an innocent kid he out drew the Lone Gunslinger and became the Lone Gunslinger.

So that’s the look I’m giving you. Squinting off into the distance, desperately hoping that my contact lenses do not pop out of my eyes. I tip my ten gallon hat back, draw my trusty six gun and dive to the left. And then we cut to bullet vision, like the Matrix, or Max Payne, and I shoot the toaster.

Um…Yes. So the reception had magazines. Tons of them, a veritable cornucopia of magazine-osity. It was like the magazine fairy had, in an orgasm of generosity spread her bounty all over the office (Ick!). What I am trying to say is that there were tons of magazines.

Let there be no grounds for ambiguity. Magazines were profusely present. Magazines were profoundly present. Magazines were doing the horizontal mambo with nary a care.Magazines peeped at me from under the chairs; they waved at me from the racks. Some of the more adventurous ones were hanging out near the end tables, doing body shots and playing drinking games. Verily, ‘twas like the reception area that launched a hundred thousand magazines.

And.

They were all women’s magazines.

Specifically, Women’s Health and Healthy Pregnancy. Every fucking issue from the beginning of time. When people hadn’t thought up of pregnancy. When stuff used to reproduce by splitting itself across a diagonal. (One of the halves would go off to sleep and the other half would fume because the sleeping half did not want to talk about its feelings.)

There also was a book of nursery rhymes. It informed me about Jack and Jill, who apparently went up a hill. To fetch a pail of water. (No indoor plumbing). Jack fell down and broke his crown (tiara?), and Jill came tumbling after (Clearly a follower and not a leader. This will reflect badly upon here during her semi-annual review)

In sheer desperation I picked up Women’s Health, and made an astounding discovery. A happy astounding discovery. Women’s Health has more hot semi-naked women in it than Maxim does. Do women enjoy looking at hot semi-naked women? (I hope so!). Does this make them healthy? Is this why the name of the magazine is Women’s Health and not Hot Semi-Naked Women Monthly?

Um, yeah so, don’t judge a magazine by its title.

Do, a deer.

I’m wasting time while I should be doing something important. Like typing up this important document that I need to submit tomorrow.

And this is what I come across on um a place where people give themselves stupid taglines.

…And smile a lot it Cost Nothing (FREE)…

Now I suppose I should be charitable and give the person who came up with that the benefit of the doubt. But, I’m not a nice person and hell, that all uppercase free absolutely slays me. …It Cost Nothing, (FREE)… the uppercases fill me with joy. It brought a smile to my face. And the smile cost me nothing! (FREE!)

...The hills are alive with the sound of FREEEEE (It Cost Nothing),
The definitions they have sung for a thousand years.
The hills fill my heart with the sound of FREEEEE (It Cost Nothing)...

(To the person whose website had those lyrics. Embedded fucking MIDI music is not a good fucking idea. It was a bad idea when Hotmail was an innovation. You know, the early nineteenth century. Hunting through multiple Firefox tabs, looking for that one page with the tiny little pause button to stop that atrocious rendering of the hills are alive with the sound of FREEEEE (It Cost Nothing), is not pleasant)

I’m a bad person, and if a hell existed I would go to it. To be tormented by devils who would insist on making me read the Da Vinci Crap, or would use z instead of s in plural forms. (You know who you are, you evil degenerate person you.).

(I like brackets)

Or maybe they would recruit me. I could be sadistic to the bad folk. “Paint your “own pottery” studio” or “Paint your “own pottery studio””, I would ask them, and no matter what the answer, I’d force them to do nasty things. Like watch soccer.

Unless they like watching soccer. In which case I’d sadly shake my head, and give them up to someone vastly more qualified at torture than me. Perhaps one of those twisted researchers at Gillette who have come up with a razor that now has sixteen blades.

I’m not exaggerating. It has sixteen blades. However, to avoid ripping a hole in the fabric of space time, only four of them will appear in this reality at any instant of time. The rest are stored in a pocket reality inaccessible to normal humans. The one that has wayward socks and all the contact lenses that I ever lost. And contact lenses Cost Something (NOT FREE).

And no, the title does not suggest that you do a deer, unless of course you are a stag, in which case whatever rocks your boat man. It is pronounced Doh a deer. From that little-known Simpsons episode, where Homer saw a deer and exclaimed, “Gadzooks, a deer. Come Watson, the hunt is on.”

The truth.

I forget.

This week's issue of Time magazine has an article about the Freedom of the Seas, a cruise liner. The title of the article is, A Whale of a Boat. And so as you may imagine, the article is all about how large the boat is.

They compare it to the Statue of Liberty. (Twice as high!)

The Titanic. (Twice as wide! Nothing about sinkability, but twice as many life boats.)

A Large Chocolate Cake. (Twice as Tasty! And creamier)

Fine, I made that last one up, but it does not come close in sheer stupidity to the next comparison that the writer used. A comparison that was so breathtakingly idiotic that it, well took my breath away.

Are you ready for it?

He stated without the slightest trace of irony or sarcasm, “…the ship is heavier than 12500 Elephants.”

No one could have up with that comparison without being seriously high on some chemicals. Or being seriously idiotic.

Honestly, when did the elephant become a unit of weight? Even a pound is more logical than one metric Elephant. Do people go into stores and ask for one hundredth of an Elephant of potatoes? Or do you go on a diet to lose that one twenty fifth of an Elephant that you have around your waist?

And when was the Elephant standardized? Are all elephants now the same size? Where was the international conference on standardizing the Elephant held? Were there representatives from both the Asian and the African sub-species? Did they get along? Was there alcohol at the after-party? Did a temple elephant get drunk and disgrace itself by dancing on the table and waking up naked and sore the next morning…With a post-it note stuck to its trunk, saying, “You were fantastic. Call me xxx-xxx-0843.”

Will thin elephants be forced to eat a high calorie diet to pack on those um…not pounds…but sub-Elephants? Will overweight elephants have to go to aerobic classes? Jazzercise? TaiBo? Run on the treadmill? Get up at six in the morning to go running? Will teenage female elephants have to starve themselves to conform to the media’s portrayal of the ideal female elephant?

Who did frame Roger Rabbit? Where in the world is Carmen San Diego? What’s the good word? One small step for man, one large leap for mankind? Is there a Santa Claus in Viginia? Who the fuck is Alice? “Paint “your own pottery” studio” or “Paint your own “pottery studio””? How many chucks could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? I before E except after C? Will these questions ever end? No? Yes? Maybe?

Will we have more inappropriate comparisons and/or units of measurement?

As long as Three Hundred Bottles of Wine? ( This amount varies depending on whether the bottles are full or empty.)

As bright as Sixteen Sixty Six Fireflies swinging the Salsa in Spring ? (Quantitative, poetic, and alliterative.)

As young as one fifteen millionth of Mount Everest? (Quantitative and poetic, but not alliterative.)

Will this post end abruptly?

So...getting lost and stuff

The problem with living in a place for any extended period of time is that you cannot get lost anymore.

I moved to New Jersey eight months ago, and three months after that I acquired my car. (And a huge ass debt to the evil capitalist bankers. Vive La’ Revolucion. You can call me Comrade Rajneesh. I’ll be communist like Psmith, who believed that practical communism involved grabbing as much as a person could and then sitting on it.

I could be a good communist. Not the riff-raff proletariat, but a member of the politburo. One of those who defend the masses from the corrupting influence of capitalism, using their bodies to insulate the proletariat from luxury and decadence.

And it would allow me to do one of the things that I have longed for ages to do. Kick a door in. I’ve always wanted to kick a door in. I dream at night of doors that I could kick in.

I’m not quite sure what one does after kicking in a door. I fear I would probably be embarrassed and apologize to the people on the other side of the door. Or I might whistle nonchalantly and point unobtrusively to my dicey looking sidekick.

You need to have sidekick if you are kicking in doors. I do believe that not having one would cause a rip in the fabric of space time. They have to be dicey looking. You cannot have a sidekick who looks like a fine upstanding member of the community. We do not want Dr. Jeykll, we want Mr. Hyde.

I’d prefer a silent sidekick, not the one picked for comic relief. I’d rather have a grim brooding one. One who looks like his wife just ran away with a randy toaster. No quick quips or amusing eccentricities from my sidekick. I’ll be doing all the quipping and the eccentricity-ing.

We’d be a dynamic duo. Just no tights, and no homo-erotic undertones.

Maybe a female sidekick. Naturally hot. Because I’m a sexist pig. She’d still have to be silent (Desperately stifles urge to make incredibly sexist joke), because I insist on doing the quipping and taking care of the banter. She can do the whipping of the bad guys or the re-education of the proletariat (Though the proletariat may like being whipped by a hot sidekick. I know I woul…Never mind.)

(Boy, this is a long ass digression.))

So...getting lost and stuff. Good Shit.