Sunday, December 30

Mihi quoque

Son of a mountain goat. I didn't think it was possible to pull an abdominal muscle. It is, sweet mother of Jesus's great aunt, it is. Blame the retard who decided to test if his leftover former endurance extended to his abs as well. Three (+ 3) sets of 30 reps on day one of abs was a bad idea.

Last Thursday was a bit of a strange day. I had turned Ralph off for the majority of the day as we were in the middle of a rather rushed couple of shoots; the semester's about done, and now everyone realizes that they have about seven pending assignments to get done. We took a quick break around 5:30 to get some food, soon after which I got a text from a former colleague telling me there was a rumor that Benazir Bhutto had been shot. Very, very soon after, it was all over the news, and from snatches of conversation all over Saket, Bhutto's name was audible. A few other people called seeking either confirmation, or to share the news, though in no ones' tone could I detect too much surprise or shock, and it seemed everyone had the same thoughts on the matter as I did; It was a matter of when, not if. The world has lost a brilliant leader, a strong woman, and a symbol of hope. I have nothing but respect and admiration for Bhutto, a woman who accomplished so much, and overcame immense adversity. While Pakistan's history hasn't exactly assigned a crystal clear plaque to Bhutto's reputation, it can't deny that she had the power to change her country, and had wielded that power in the past, and would have wielded it well in the future.

Christmas was a different experience as compared to the routine of finding myself cuddling someone gorgeous I had been following for the last couple of years, and it involved a Greek dinner the night before with an ex who resembled Shannyn Sossamon, a bit of a weakness of mine, and a big festive lunch at the house of my mother's jilted friend(her son-of-a-bitch husband left her for some Italian chick, leaving her to care for a three year old alone) where I met a Stephens professor who studied there with my Dad in the 60s, and had a lot of memories, and a lot of respect for him. Rather ironically, this fellow was the father of a kid who graduated the year after I did at my old (eleventh) school, and was the jilted husband of my French teacher at the school before it (tenth). He was running a part-time media course and was rather interested to know how we went about ours, and I just happened to have a mini-dv POS seated on Aurelia's back seat, and a tape I had taken a dump on(technical term, not what you think) the night before. Also, during a discussion with my sister about her inability to make sense of logic (the subject), he revealed that he had had trouble teaching a fellow I know well as the fat hairy music guy who called me 'Boy Band' for some reason and perpetually needed his workstation AND chair, no matter what I was working on, the same subject. Looking back to the times that guy made me get up and give him his chair in the middle of a busy day prior to an endless night shift, I'm not surprised at this fellow's lack of logic. We won't name this fellow, but this hint ought to help; he has an almost girl's name. And he's hairy and fat. And he does music stories. And I can't stand him, but I keep running into him at bars, and always shake his hand warmly, remembering a former colleague.

This new years, I deserve my ideal new years eve, one I've been attempting for the last six. It involves me, a water bottle, a locked door, and my six-and-a-half foot by six-and-a-half foot bed, with my room's landline disconnected, and Ralph off, having already sent new years messages out. Somehow, every year, those plans get screwed over. This year, when I told my roomies about it, they came to the conclusion that I was depressed, and have informed me that they're all going to be back in town by the 31st morning with a big carton of Guiness with my name on it, and enough of their piss-poor kingfisher to last them as well. Some of them were roared at the other day for not picking up the slack, and not having any basil on hand for a sandstorm, and are apprehensive about violating my new years eve plans, so there's the slight chance I'll get away with it this year after all.

You know how they say that the way you spend your new years is going to be the way the rest of your year goes? I want a peaceful year where I accomplish a lot. I'm going to try to kick it off by accomplishing a whole lot of sleep 31st night.

My sincerest well wishes to all you faithful readers, perusers and lurkers, and even you, strange anonymous stalker-guy-who-knows-way-too-much-about-me. Have a great year ahead.

Friday, December 21

Racquet (almost) breaks modem. Causes Racket.

I found a badminton racquet, and decided to practice my smash. I momentarily forgot that racquet + my smash + modem = bad. It has something to do with the kinetic energy of a tall man through a light badminton racquet onto a stationary blinking modem.

Today's top story, an orgy was reported in the southern district of New Delhi. Images follow.

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I don't know about you guys, but I'm really tempted to tuck into that voluptuous little tart on the left.

Although fairly new to the blogspace, and tending not to be particularly inclined (or maybe the chance hadn't arisen) to meet all you loving readers and perusers of my little slice of google's god's given cyberspace deigned blogger, we decided to meet the lovely Scoutypoo on her recent visit down to Delhi.

First of all, the girl isn't fond of sleep. She called me to see her at four in the afternoon the first day, pulling me out of an exhaustion-induced coma. I met her, wet hair and all, at a possible future location of my murderous belly dance scene for my latest planned fiction film along with her friend, a quiet, sadistic coffee-butcher(this one added milk AND sugar to the helpless java), and most endearing sister, who spared no time at all getting acquainted. Gun to my head, completely honest, the little sister-thing had me at 'bye freak'. Scoutypoo also texted me about Shahrukh uncle after I'd entered my sleep countdown. I did get back at her though, oh yes I did, I replied to it when I woke up at six the next morning before workout. :D
At this point I must mention that I love Scoutypoo to death for the sheer fact that she correctly types out and punctuates all her texts, so my inbox didn't get another bunch of useless messages 'dat luk lyk dis', the kind 'ppl' know not to send me, lest I refuse to reply. I only accept 'dose' messages in times of extreme emergency, and my boys know well that at those times, a simple 'fn kar' will suffice. I say my boys know that because excluding my dear sister (I think I'm number 4 on her speed dial), none of the other lovely ladies in my life type like punju boys.
Scoutypoo also loves to point out how very muskle-y I am, and sits very meekly and appreciatively(as regards my driving) by my side when Aurelia's getting us around town. She also smoked and drank nigh incessantly while in my company, and is exceptionally good at picking up on when I'm being sarcastic, to the point that I never have to tell her when I'm doing as much. No love, that wasn't sarcasm at all.
Our Scoutypoo's a pleasantly plump, TINY little punju lady, although she takes certain umbrage to being called so(the plump part). As far as I'm concerned, Curvy would just have to be the world's sexiest body type. In fact, all models need more curves, and so do you, dear. That's right, I mean you. Not you dude, that paunch isn't flattering, I mean the girl next to you. Bingo. Scoutypoo's also rather quick about dressing appropriately. Just shy of new year's, and the girl's walking about in a very large shirt which she cleverly turned into a dress, along with stockings she tells me her aunt's dog tore while hugging her leg. I still maintain the dog was humping her. Being as brave as she was, I didn't feel the need to hand her my trenchcoat (yes, I got my trenchcoat out of where it was hiding), for fear it would drag behind her about a foot and a half, giving Priya a spring cleaning. I also didn't pull my extra coat out of Aurelia's back seat, for similar reasons. I just wanted breakfast.
Which brings me to my final point. Scoutypoo has an abysmal appetite. Who ever heard of not finishing four pancakes? Why post-gym I had a banana, two oranges and an apple, my usual post-workout snack, which we'll deem 'former breakfast'. At college I had two cups of coffee and an aloo paratha, midbreakfasten, then at the bloody pretentious place we landed upon for what Scoutypoo called a late breakfast, which between you guys and me, we'll refer to as 'latter breakfast', I had this little concoction called 'Eggstravaganza', that involved two massive slices of (non sweet, thank you Jesus, our waiter, pronounced like Jose, mind you) french toast, topped with two poached eggs (Jesus was mighty reluctant to poach the poor eggs, he said something along the lines of poaching being illegal), two slices of bacon (cooked just right) and some (I'll assume two, since everything else was in pairs) chopped and something-ed potatoes, lots of poor potatoes put through some deranged bake/fry torture by a masochistic chef in the open kitchen behind me. I even had Scoutypoo's fourth pancake with very diluted maple syrup that refused to sink into the damn non-porous pancake, followed by coffee.
Ah now the coffee. Scoutypoo was barged in on while relieving her tiny bladder for the thirty-fourth time. This by a married man with a kid. I had a front row seat to that spectacle. He walked past the door, giving it a tiny nudge, finding it loose, pushed harder, to which an outraged, albeit not really visible Scoutypoo slammed the door crushing his hand in his face.
To conclude, I'll mention that the silly girl forgot to demand I cook something for her. Silly, silly girl.

Sunday, December 16

The Big Pick

There comes a time in one's life when they're faced with a big decision. A decision that, for starters, would change a lot, and that would affect the outcome of future events. A decision that could change who you see looking back when you look into a mirror, and in effect, cause the taking of further decisions which would in turn lead you further into that direction.
Every now and then, that being very rarely over the passing years, we're all faced with such a decision, and we spend time thinking about it, mulling over the possibilities, weighing the consequences, dreading the results. The only answer is to look the decision square in the face, take a step in the right direction, and deal with the consequences as they come, no matter what varying degree of inconsolable.
When that time comes one day at the crack of a chilly dawn, the time to make a big, bad choice, a choice that could possibly change one's life altogether, all that is needed is the strength to pick.

Mushroom and Cheese Sandwich Spread, or Nutella?