A perfect night

Nine o'clock, gtalk was signed out of, the twisty-top of the stack of films was opened, and movie titles were being mulled over. Seven Samurai, Foreign Correspondent, and The King of Comedy, a Kurosawa, a Hitchcock, and a Scorsese. The perfect way to spend a quiet night at home. A glance at the clock, ten past nine, a quick grin, all alone tonight. Ralph buzzes, a mental note to turn him off, message from a new years eve plans threatener, 'cum 2 da blcny'. A flash of white-hot rage, followed by a near-orgasm at the sight in the parking lot. A black and red 1968 Mustang, with yellow racing stripes down the bonnet. Two lovely ladies with shiny hair and tiny skirts, and a tall man leaning against the vehicle. One of the ladies shouts out You can drive it if you come to Raghav's. How can one resist.
Twenty minutes, a shower and much hair product later, we're on the road. Stifling the pangs of guilt at abandoning Aurelia, we truly get down to testing this rugged vehicle. Ren, we need to name this, just finished restoring her. HIM. Him? It's not that manly. HIM. ANASTASIO. What was said next was incoherent as it was a cacophony of squealing and complaining as Anastasio went from 40 to 150 in about five seconds. For the record, Anastasio is an Italian form of the Latin 'Anastacius', Resurrection.
At Raghav's, deep in the bowels of Noida, was a motley collection of some rather close friends of mine who I don't see often enough, mostly due to the fact that they live and work in Noida. After a round of hugs and introductions to some of the unknown faces, I was being led to the bar, when I heard a deep, throaty, sexy laugh. When I turned to find the source of the laughter, I was flashed with one of the widest, most genuine smiles I'd seen in a while, and those same lips moved to say something. I moved a little closer as I'd missed what she said, taking in what I was seeing. Long, naturally straight, shiny hair, one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen, and the most perfect curves on a five foot eleven inch tall frame. I like your ear ring, said that throaty voice, with a bit of an accent like mine. My name's Seher.
It isn't often that I'm at a loss for words, but this encounter was one of those rare occasions. Seher came across immediately as hugely confident, witty in a deep, thought-inducing way that wasn't immediately apparent to people not familiar with that sort of wit, and an overall awareness of all of her traits. In essence, in a very immodest sense, a female version of me. She had also been blindsided by love on numerous occasions, including a very recent, massive heartbreak caused by the object of her affection suddenly walling her off, and yet retained faith in love, and believed that her soul mate was out there. While a majority of men over the years, and evidenced at the party itself, had found her height intimidating, I found myself increasingly referring to her height, a mere five inches less than my own as 'cute', which would cause her to flash one of those unforgettable smiles my way each time.
As the night wore on, we shared more of ourselves, finding a common love for cooking (and eating), merengue, and white roses, and she did at one point mention how she wanted to learn to belly dance, my single most favorite form of dance in the civilized world. We both sucked, quite terribly, at any form of non-coupley dance we attempted, and appreciated the same beer, Guiness, but drink very little of it, drink very little at all. Also, as I had formerly (quite incorrectly) assumed, I was the only person left who hadn't ever smoked a puff of anything in my life, she was right there with me, for the exact same reasons; never saw the point.
At around ten to twelve, the two of us decided to get some fresh air, and went up to the roof. As it was approaching midnight, and subsequently, new years, we decided to stay upstairs and share the moment alone. Contrary to what popular culture would leave you believing, we had a far more fulfilling new years moment; an amazingly long hug. Oblivious to the world, all phones calls, all shouting out of our names from below, we held each other for a good twenty minutes, before going back downstairs to continue the night.
As I've neglected to mention, she was the cousin of one of the guys there, a fellow whose decisions I haven't always agreed with, but have gotten along famously with his parents. Seher had just finished her undergrad in Denver and was spending a few months in town, considering looking for a year's worth of work experience here. She was to spend another month and a half at the very least anyway, a month and a half over which I would no doubt get to spend more time with her, so she said. Unfortunately, fate tends to have plans contrary to your own.
Around three in the morning, her dad called in from Denver, to tell her that his dad had died sometime in the last few hours, and that she had to get back there by an 8:30AM flight. Her cousin was far too drunk to take her home, so I offered to, another chance to give Anastasio a spin. We spent about half an hour there, while Seher packed, and I pretty much ignored her aunt and uncle, who later told me, when I went back there to apologize the next day, that they had considered introducing Seher to me at some point, as they thought we'd get along well. Leaving the house, the two of us stopped by at the Grand for an overpriced breakfast, as it was the coffee shop closest to the airport open at this time, and we were both pretty famished. We had also pretty much stopped saying much by this point, though I can imagine we both still had a lot to say.
Finally, at the airport, she refused to go in, choosing to stay at the separator bars at departure, holding my hands until about the last possible minute, when she gave me another perfect hug, a light peck on my cheek, and another of those smiles of hers, that reached well into her eyes.
I'm probably not going to see her again before July, from her email, but she did send me this little South Park character of me, knowing how much I love the show.

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.

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.



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.

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?

My own blondi-ness

This was inspired by Keshi's latest post. I'm going to assume that you all know the Delhi area, and know what I'm talking about here. Also, beware the technical opinions thrown in, don't drift off too much when I get into my take on car modifying as I do return to the story on hand.

I'm quite crazy about driving, and driving fast at that, albeit maturely (all women in my life beg to differ). Upstanding Religious One started up this club for fellow car enthusiasts, with me a fairly administrative and public relations leaning co-founder, entitled 'Street Devils'. The members consist of 18-25 year olds, all of who've pimped out their cars with at least a giant exhaust and racing stripes, along with a few other engine and car body modifications. For the record, if you're looking to do something to your car, a two tone paint job looks absolutely horrid if you decide to add racing stripes to it. Don't do it. Really. The only color that goes well with black racing stripes is yellow on a sedan or hatchback, and red if you're driving a coupé. Also, gigantic exhausts are utterly punju if not coupled with a k&n (or equivalent) air filter, platinum spark plugs and exhaust tubing starting at the manifold to reduce the emissions and other crap the exhaust spews out. This also improves the mileage to about 16ish in Delhi traffic, up to a speculated 20 on highways.
My own beautiful Zen Aurelia being the only completely raw car, which still manages to keep up with the rest, is known by the other members, who sometimes misinterpret my decision to park her away from the others as aloofness, despite the fact that I always get out and join them, rather than the fact that I'm merely avoiding a worst case scenario of someone showing up and attempting to come coming to an abrupt stop in the midst of the rest, subsequently losing control and ramming one of the other cars. We usually meet up at a well known part of the city either at the crack of dawn or late night, and then drive down to the place we want to get to (often an empty strip of smooth road that can be used for drag racing, or 180s, by the more ambitious) in a long convoy of thirty or so cars with their hazards on and their engines screaming, a scene right out of the fast and the furious, or at the very least, the desi remake.

Last Sunday, we assembled outside the Moti Bag petrol pump around 6AM. We had acquired a gang of large surds in Civics and Santros, and while a large group of them attempted to get an Esteem with a weak battery and engine thingies too power-hungry for said battery going again(a vtec or something, I don't know anything about engines except how to disconnect and reconnect the acceleration), I grabbed a hold of one of the few fellows I knew by name, and decided to explore the immediate vicinity for food. Now being on a main road just shy of NH8, and a large Gurudwara nearby, there was no food to be found, except for the few Fererro Rocher I keep in my dash. Soon enough, we were off, to a cacophony of roaring engines and screechy tyres.
Now the rules state that everyone moves in a straight line, and I used to keep right at the back as I wasn't sure just how well my car would keep up with the rest, but our new members failed to pick up on this. As soon as we were off, they started overtaking each other, and the convoy became a jumble of cars, heading into highway traffic, albeit 6:45AM highway traffic. Not in a mood to get left behind or god forbid, lost, I bolted into the middle of the pack, and kept right behind a red Getz. At a red light, the Getz made it across, but this truck decided to cut the rest of us off. As soon as it turned green, I let two Esteems move on past as I wasn't entirely sure of the route to our final destination. Staying right behind those two, and with the remainder of the pack behind me, I spotted the red Getz a little ahead, and hit the gas to catch up with it, with the same two Esteems on my tail. For a few flyovers, the Esteems and some of the other cars were alternating my spot at the head of the pack, until at the end of a last flyover, the Getz took a left turn at the base of what I recognized as the 'Ship Building', in a wholly other region of NCR.
Taking a look in my rear-view, found the Getz I was initially following right behind me, along with the two Esteems, with a dozen other cars behind them, all distinguishable by blinking hazards and obnoxious carbon fiber skirting. Stopping on the side of the road, I inquired as to how we wound up in Gurgaon, when I was following the two Esteems. To my chagrin, the rest of the pack informed me that they had been following me, and had assumed I knew where I was going as I'm usually at the back of the pack. The newbies collectively turned tail and vanished without a word, leaving the rest of freezing our butts off, with the brilliance that is yours truly in naught but a white cotton shirt with three buttons open, and jeans.
A few phone calls later, a true 'Street Devils' convoy of eight cars set off, with the Beautiful Silver 2002 Zen that is known as Aurelia at the lead. The aforementioned Esteem with a weak battery broke off mid-way with a horrid green Matiz that was slowing down the pack in tow, wishing for the rest of us to fare well by cellphone, and four of the remainder took what they assumed was a shortcut. Reports claim they found themselves in Mayapuri, wherever the hell that is. One sole Esteem, blue and silver with horrid mismatched navy racing stripes remained behind me, true to my leadership, as I wound my way through a largely abandoned Dwarka, until I successfully reached the club's point of continuation, Sector 12. Upon arrival, we were to discover that the rest of the club had dispersed minutes before, as a bit of a tiff broke out when one of the Sardars attempted to wash the cars of some of the Street Devil vets as a sign of assumed goodwill, while the owners of said cars were doing the bhangra with our new members in the middle of a circle of cars in a bonding ceremony. It is assumed that one of the vets didn't take too kindly to said Sardar's kindness.
The esteemed Esteem owner that had remained under my leadership and I parked on the side of the road, and began our own bonding ceremony, one that involved a ceremonial driving of each others' cars, and much over appreciation of the handling and acceleration. We then sat in Aurelia's cockpit, chilling to the acoustic hits of Dave Matthews and Alanis and imbibing great quantities of banta we had managed to acquire off a fellow in a stall on one of our rounds in a foreign car. When we finally got the phone call marking the end of the meet, the two of us weaved through Dwarka-Dhaula Kuan-Ring Road-Saket traffic, very nearly avoiding accidents with the same cars in the process. Now that's bonding I say.
Finally, we made it to the 24-7 in PVR, where we, with the remainder of the Street Devils gang, attacked their hot dogs and freshly baked croissants with gusto. I also finally got my music system's rear speakers' bass and treble properly configured.

Now here's the fun part. Here's where you get to join in. I know there's more of you who just like me love a good, fast, smooth drive. Send me a mail at renovatio@streetdevils.co.in, and I'll let you in on the fun. I know Street Devils is a horrid name, but it is (slightly) better than the last club he founded. I'm in the club more out of support for my buddy than any true need to drag race. At the very least, you'll be able to get very lost with me, and we can bond over banta and Alanis Morisette.

Goal! (Dhun Dhuna Dhun)

Dear fucking lord. I don't know what possessed me to agree to go for the bloody film, in fact I was forced into it. The tickets were bought and I was informed I was going to be watching. The fact that the sister's boyfriend who on every visit to my house prompts intense flashes of rage, requiring much self control to not injure him, was at my house for dinner did contribute to my desire to not be home. My first movie in a considerably long time, and to sum up my feelings for the complete bullcrap I sat through for over three hours, I came up with a bit of a jingle.

It's the scripting it's the acting and the camerawork is bloody poo
The editing leaves you wondering what the fuck just happened dude
The story's so clee-shay, and the footballers, oh they can't play
and oh my god John Abraham just hug your dad it's not that gay.

Granted my skill with jingles isn't extraordinary, but you get the gist. Let's break it down to some of the key elements. Doctor Bipasha Basu's primary job is to stand around in every shot holding something arbitrary, alternating with extreme close ups of her face looking distressed, or in some cases, constipated. The one time she gets to play doctor, she spends flirting with our man John, and ends his nose reconstruction with hand cream and a piece of surgical tape. Granted that's gotta be one of the best acting jobs anyone's ever had, to just stand around and do nothing, and get paid a whole bunch.
Arshad Warsi, an excellent comedian's mostly dead serious in this movie, and treats his wife like a puppy when he finds her perched on the edge of their tub crying. It turns our that she's pregnant, and has the uncanny ability of making the kid in there alternate between being eight months into development, and four months, all in a span of a week of learning that she's actually pregnant.
There's this brilliant South Indian or Bangladeshi, I can't tell which, fellow, with an amazing 'one-pack', who manages to constantly and continuously break down in tears. Especially when he got the very necessary Bollywood slap, when the only Sardar I've ever seen unable to hold his drink consoles him. This Sardar who spends the majority of the movie flirting with women suddenly acquires a wife when John ditches the team, who spills all manner of state secrets involving sacrifice, which leave the team and John largely unaffected, for that scene at least. Though Arshad bhai manages to remember the sacrifice later in the changing room, before a crucial match that the team inevitably loses..
There was also the fact that they couldn't have any fight scenes in a sporty movie such as this, so at one point, when Arshad Warsi's running after Boman Irani to get him to coach the team, they play fight music anyway, to a very odd long wide shot, largely empty, with Boman Sahib standing in the middle in a position I see most men against walls peeing in. That isn't to say Boman Irani did a bad job. He's a brilliant actor, and the scenes with him were only slightly bearable.
Not to mention the big John-Bips kiss. She gives him a cute and rather endearing peck to his lips and runs, at which point he grabs her, brings her into a stranglehold, and proceeds to indulge in what I can only describe as a devouring of her face. She keeps her eyes tightly shut and her lips puckered, and he goes to town on her lips, which is to say he sucks on them like a freaking popsicle. It was the only time I've ever seen two people kiss and be unsure of whether to turn my head and retch, or else to step in and teach them how to do it right.
Then there were the team itself. The entire team somehow, a depressing bunch at large, went from a joint hatred of the Johnman to intense love and bonding. There was also the scene where John Abraham and Arshad Warsi were on the verge of spooning, when the effects of their alcohol had managed to wear off, even though I couldn't see an IV on either of them. While the scene and dialog was one of the few (read almost only) that inspired any sense of emotional depth to the characters, it was promptly forgotten the next day, when John got picked up by a superior club, with a Porsche dangled in front of him that he only knows how to drive in a straight line, constantly increasing the volume of the radio.
Finally, the technical. This movie was bad enough for the casual movie-goer, hell I've never seen an entire cinema hall in splits from non-tapori jokes. For a media student who's shot and edited a few short films and sequences, this movie was torture. The cameraman had some strange notions, and the editor(s) had me wanting to offer to re-edit the entire film, free of charge.
All shots of someone sitting in a car had the camera locked at some weird angle where the entire front pillar and a large chunk of the windshield were also visible, leading to an under/over/under/over-water effect, there were some strange empty shots with a football in the foreground and two exhausted characters tucked away in a corner far back with a lot of rainy empty space, shaky shots, which I suppose were intended to follow the actor's steps but only yielded a sense of vertigo, and a lot of shots that were completely off focus.
Message to the director: I can even understand trying out new spot boys and focus boys for your movie, thanks for giving the next generation of camera assistants jobs man, I appreciate it already, just please make sure you reshoot the scenes where the lighting's skewered, and where they didn't quite grasp the concept of aperture when it comes to depth of field.
The editor(s) decided the film needed endless quick cuts, and when the training montage came up, they decided to put a few random man-boobs lifting (and pulling) weights in the wrong way. They also seemed to feel that the audio tracks didn't need to match the video, as when Bipasha screamed out Sun-ny, rather than run out and check on him herself, being the team doctor, I could've sworn her lips were saying Dooood-man.

I would be really pissed right now if I had paid for the ticket, and I hadn't been consoled during the interval with three hot dogs and a giant tub of popcorn with extra butter. I'm also getting a butter chicken meal at my beloved Krips tomorrow to make up for this god damn abysmal movie.

Intermediate

In the intervening days since investing in the time to indulge in an inspection of this here blog-of-mine, I've become inexorably indisposed and inexcusably incapacitated.

Bear with me. Regular posting will resume shortly.

And in answer to Pri's latest comment which seemed to remind me that I actually have a blog:
"Not by the hair of my chin-ny chin chin." Which in my current unshaved state, is a lot.