Shaman's Blues

I'm going to the left

2011-07-18T16:10:00.003-06:00

Its everywhere. All around me, you, and everyone else we share this rock with. It can be reassuring, keep you company, give you something to think about. I think of life as being a sine wave - ups, downs, ups and you know what's coming next. But it never wanes.The chatter, the sound, the noise of "social media". Information, opinions, facts, debates. People have so much to say, precious little patience to listen.

Have I had nothing to say because I've been listening? I doubt it. That life got in the way is too easy of an excuse. That I got swept in the flood of others' words can't be my escape. Reading is not the only exercise my mind needs, I need to string a few words together.

Hello world.

Yes! I am A Long Way From Home

2010-12-15T10:14:00.001-07:00

I'm an army brat. Almost everyone disagrees. I can see why. I saw unit life only for 10 years or so. I never went to "Army" school. I don't posses the brash, cocky self-confidence that characterizes my peers. Heck, I don't even speak Hindi. A lot of people hate me for talking about myself as an army brat, some don't even like the "community" in general.

What most people won't understand is that identifying oneself as an army brat/airforce kid is only an attempt to find kinship. To find a meaning for enormous social pressures we faced growing up. Years of being knocked on the knuckles for not knowing which fork, spoon and knife to use when. Horrific bullying by thugs whose fathers were your father's superiors - it added an extra element of helplessness. Being asked not to mingle with kids whose dads weren't officers. Parties, gymkhanas, club events where every "uncle" and "auntie" had to be greeted before eating a tenth of how much a 7 year old would really want to eat. It's not a patch on the smug superiority exhibited by Dubai raised NRI kids.

Was life harsh and cruel? Sometimes. Was it abusive, and do we seek to form a support group by labeling ourselves? Not in the least. All my family has of our life from 15 years ago is a canteen card and a rank my dad carries. I don't miss a whole lot from my childhood in some remote army base in a fucking jungle. But when I'm down half a bottle of that Irish poison, don't roll your eyes if I want a label to belong to. You wouldn't know - you weren't there.

Frozen Twilight

2010-11-24T12:01:00.000-07:00

I have been getting some exercise lately, and while it hasn't yet made a difference to my bulging waistline, it keeps me happy. I'm doing something worthwhile, I tell myself, while massaging my sore muscles.

I'm not too concerned about my blog being read and commented on, but I do like commenting on some of the blogs I frequent. I get the feeling some see it as a chore, or even a visiting card, often not saying anything more than "lol! so true!" and I find that rather appalling. But I have an important message today. It appears that blogger has more than 1 comment form template available. One particular template doesn't play well with the combination of my firefox+adblock plus + filters at work. I can read the comments, but there's no room for me to chip in with my bedazzling insight. Most of the blogs on my reader seem to be switching to that form, and so guys, if you see this - know that I'm reading and liking your stuff, just not getting to express it. I can use my linux box of course, but I've stripped down the browser there for performance and use it to stay on the company intranet. And what is now getting to be a regular feature in my life, I don't have the mental bandwidth to figure out a solution for my windows box.

Winter is upon us, the air's colder and the wind cuts like a knife. We haven't seen too much snow yet, but all that can change in 1 afternoon. I have reasonably new tires and all the kinks in my car sorted out, so I'm not very concerned about losing control. Still, after a minor bump on the kerb turned into an ordeal that lasted several months and cost me hundreds of dollars, I'm going to be a bit wary about driving on a snowy/icy road. Hope all goes well.

Colorado Sunrise

2010-11-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

Me : So guess what, that tooth aching and all, I was looking for dentists

Kid : Yeah?

Me : (about to launch into details about insurance SNAFUs, x-ray BS, worries about dental hygiene)

Kid : Hey, can you see the sun from where you are?

Me : Umm, no?

Kid : Oooh, there's this rainbow like thing below it. It's so cool

Me : ....

Kid : Let me a take a picture and call you back

Me : ....

Rhinoceros

2010-11-09T11:24:00.000-07:00

I feel fat. Lumpy. Slow. Did I just say "Lumpy"?

I was never thin. Or fit. I have a good throwing arm, and am a pretty good quarterback for our annual touch football gathering. I've never been a good runner, and have the world convinced that it's due to my flat feet. I began training late last year for a Bolder Boulder. It's only 10k, so it was the perfect low hanging fruit to chase. I was also getting in shape for my first visit to India in two years and had more than a few pounds I could afford to lose.

Getting into a "fitness routine" is like getting into a new relationship. There's uncertainty "do I have what it takes? Is it worth it?" But it's also a lot of fun. You try new things, and while some of it is painful, you sleep well at night. And the experts recommend protection. Anyhow, once I got into a routine, I lost the pounds rapidly at first, and then hit a plateau. This is normal, I'm told, and a month with a personal trainer meant that I was the thinnest I'd ever been all my life. Of course, I still sported a beer belly, but damn, I had a two pack without sucking my gut in. I could run 6 miles in an hour with no fuss, and damn was I happy with myself.

Cut to the present, and I've worked out precisely 4 times in the last 3 months. And in showing the lady the deep fried delicacies this land has to offer, I've packed on more pounds than a rack of dumbbells. The final nail in the coffin came last week, when I realized I could barely fit in my jeans, and didn't need a belt anymore. The very same belt I needed new holes punched in, to hold my pants up - not more than 3 months ago.

Fuck me, I'm running an hour today.

Have a Drink on Me

2010-11-02T13:28:00.002-06:00

Back home, since every religious group seeks validation by having days in the calendar marked in their honor, I'm used to at least 1 religious holiday a month. Someone died for our sins? Chug, chug, chug! A demon was slayed viciously on an angry lady's tongue? Bottoms up! Life in a secular nation is fun.

Holidays in the American calendar are few and far flung. They're conveniently tooled to give the salaried class extended weekends, and I'm down with that. A certain holiday gives ladies an excuse to wear very little in public, and is one of my favorite days in the year. I don't care about dressing up, but certainly don't miss out on the parties. Halloween this year was a general dud, as the women were covered up more than a 50 year old Saudi in a prince's harem. I didn't let that affect me, and highlights of the night include

- one of the guys in our group felt up a dozen women and came this close to being beaten up. I hit him a few times just to be sure
- said despo wandered away from us, and lacking a cell and wallet, was near impossible to track
- I pushed the group to drink on anyway and shots after shots were poured.
- complimented a lesbo bar tender that Bird (her jersey) was better than Magic and got free drinks for the night
- got everyone else wasted
- picked up a fight with random first gen American
- picked up a fight with random Indian dude about computer security
- campaigned to legalize it
- spoke to 4 different cops and tried to get their opinion on "illegal occupation of US in Iraq"
- offered random Indian dude a position in my team (the fuck I get to decide)

Most of the night is a blur, and I woke up near naked next to my lady and she wasn't even that mad at me. I take it the night was a success.

How Blue Can You Get?

2010-10-20T13:25:00.005-06:00

Moving from Bangalore to Boulder was almost easy. The allure of women in bikinis, people following the lane system, high speed internet and the opportunity to see some great bands live in concert was too much to resist. Sadly, the mountains here leave no space for beaches, and so I've had to settle for a life without bikinis.

I missed Iron Maiden by 2 days in July 05, but made up for it recently. Little had I known 5 years ago that I'd go from "I'll piss on your crappy double-bass lacking mp3" to "man I like this record so much I'm going to buy it - even if it is inspired by Sesame street". Metal, rock, rock'n'roll, ambient/electronica and finally, the blues. As my musical tastes widened, my interest in B.B King grew. Long solos, crazy improvisations, incredible collaborations - there's nothing this man hadn't done. At one time, Lucille played in my headphones all day and night. I figured of all the concerts on my list - this would be my Shangri-La. He's been old for the last 10 years now, has retired multiple times, why would he strum his guitar in our vanilla state?

I was wrong. A week from my due return to the States after a month's vacation, King would play at the Red Rocks amphitheater. There was no way I could afford it, much less take someone else - but the kid said I should do what I wanted. It didn't take much after that, I had two seats bang in the center. I told my friends - it's an outdoor amphitheater, there's nothing but mountains behind the stage. And when the moon rises, the night resembles a Van Gough painting coming to life. I think I was spat on.

So come Aug. 25th, we were there. We missed a good bit of the concert, thanks to the kid's second day of classes, but made it. Buddy Guy was on stage, cheerful as usual. Al Green followed amidst much fanfare. I knew nothing of the two, and felt a little disconnected for most part. It didn't help that we were the youngest as far as the eye could see. Finally, after numerous sound checks and intros, the legend was wheeled in.

Wait, what? Yeah. Except for a few steps to his seat on the stage, King can't really walk that much. He hasn't lost any of his snark though, and there were plenty of jokes at the expense of his band. The familiar tunes and melodies started and the event I'd been waiting for, for so long, was finally underway. But it wasn't smooth sailing. King fumbled with his guitar, sounded scratchy and at one time completely missed the strings while strumming. The band covered for him admirably, but it was evident the night wasn't going as I'd anticipated.

He had the ladies in the amphitheater sing "Please don't take my sunshine away" for nearly 10 minutes out of the 20 minutes he was on stage. He finished off with "Thrill is gone" and there was no solo to be heard. We were out of the venue before he had ambled off-stage.

So what do I make out of all this? It's hard not be disappointed. Disappointed that the legend I'd heard from my music collection wasn't the same man on stage. But then again, I wasn't born when that man was in his prime. I was disappointed I didn't know enough of the genre to enjoy the concert as much as the folks around us did. The thrill sure is gone, Lucille.

It doesn't change my opinion of how great King is, but does make me wonder about fading away. We like Morrison, Joplin and Hendrix as the gods of Rock and roll - handsome, young, mysterious, explosive, unchanging. We grow older, but they stay young. They sound the same any day of the week, any time of the night. When musicians who don't retire stay in the limelight, they prove they're human just like the rest of us. It's just a sad drive back home.

Cars Hiss by my Window

2010-10-13T16:56:00.002-06:00

Ever lingered in the shallow end of a crowded swimming pool? I haven't, since my disgust for human proximity set in, but I remember how it was learning swimming in Bangalore. I didn't like the way the water smelled, and was worried I'd cannonball into someone who was as out of control as I was. Anyway, I'd squat in the corner sometimes just to get away from it all, but not quite leave the pool. Dad had paid for my time there - couldn't waste it now, could I?

If you stand still in a pool for sometime, you get the distinct feeling the world is passing you by. Fresh faces jump in, lap around and exit stage left. Soon, you're the only one you can recognize in the mass of flailing limbs and twisting bodies. I'm feeling like that all over again.

I saw a few of my college buddies when I was visiting home a couple of months ago. I couldn't spend too much time with them, but sent them an email with a nod to good times in the past. Guess everyone's busy now, I got no replies to my effusive thoughts. The kid has a lot of good ideas about being nice to people and has convinced me to give it a shot. I called a lot of friends after I got back, and most of them spoke to me at length. Not much has changed in the year that we haven't spoken. But we haven't spoken.

Texting and calling belong to the last decade. Letter writing is a lost art, but when did we stop communicating? What happened to social networking? Twitter, facebook, blogger - weren't they meant to draw us closer? My twitter timelines are flooded with inane observations and retweets. I've blocked nearly everyone after farmville infected facebook. All the blogs I used to read are near dead or comatose. Where is everyone?

I find myself standing waist deep in a stiff current trying not to drift. I haven't read a good book lately, seen movies or partied. I didn't camp all summer.

Where am I?

No Time to Cry

2010-10-07T12:17:00.000-06:00

I don't have the time for anything these days. That's almost a shameful admission considering how well I used to be "connected" thanks to my smartphone, high-speed internet and general nerdiness. I'm insanely busy at work, and going to sleep absolutely exhausted, knowing that I couldn't move anymore keeps me happy. But I'm uncomfortable. I'm living my life now - my job, my career, my lady, our evenings, our weekends, groceries, cooking, driving. And it's keeping others out - friends, family, video games, Sasha Grey, poker, Rocky Mountains national park... I don't feel guilty about it. I've done enough so far to be a "social animal" and it's a great time to be a recluse - just a new feeling having to say "sorry, didn't have the time". Two years I've spent looking at 2-D images of my little lady, and I'm going to spend every second now with my face pressed to hers. The world can wait.

But I do get moments away from the madness. I have another 12 minutes before a status meeting, and a day filled with coding and testing. And I decided to listen to a little gospel. That led me to the "I have a dream" speech. It's easy to admire the man, and it's a frightful past to think about. I would be lying if I didn't understand how a section of society can be trampled upon. It's disgraceful, but is easy to be blind to the plight of others' when you've been told all your life that you were superior just because your parents were. Casteism, racism, they're all the same. It's another thing that breathing for more than 12 years should erase that feeling, but society can be weird like that. Anyhow, I typed "Martin L" in the search bar on youtube. The comments section are the cesspool of internet intelligence, but the auto-suggest feature does tell you a story. In this case, I learned that people typing "Martin" were more interested in Martin Lawrence stand up than a preacher who changed civil rights in this nation. Ah, the travesty.

In other news, I saw an article that said "Poor Countries Ignore the mentally Ill". And the ill. And the sane. And the healthy. It's the definition of a poor country WHO, get used to it. The article goes on to say "$2 a day can drastically change all this". Really? How? Does it take into account that the $2 (is that a million Ethiopian dollars?) would rather be used by the "poor nation" to save the sane/physically ill? To feed starving kids/corrupt bureaucrats/motivated drug lords? The developed side of the globe never fails to amuse me.

Demon Alcohol

2010-09-22T09:49:00.000-06:00

A lot can happen in a month.

Picking up from here, I spent a crazy day at work to wrap up three dozen loose ends, at least half of which legitimately required a day's effort. As my flight time approached the skies opened up and sent things (and traffic) into a tailspin. I made it to the airport on time, and S delivered my last minute gift purchases which I'd left in his car. There were nearly twenty French students catching the same flight, and as pretty as the girls were, I grew tired of their incessant babble. But, motherland beckoned, right? I dismissed the cellophane wrapper guy like a pesky mosquito and checked my bags well ahead of time. I was underweight by several pounds, and that's a first in more ways than one. Security was a breeze, I didn't even get "randomly selected" for a pat-down.

Since I had so much time to make my flight, I decided to get a few drinks in. I'm sure drinking heavily on an empty stomach before a trans-continental flight is a great idea and I found the bar closest to the gate. "Double shot Jameson on the rocks, easy on the ice", I bellowed as I set my incredibly heavy backpack down. For some reason that drew attention from at least 3 blondes around me, and that was another first. "Nice", a lady of a slightly older persuasion muttered with a smile, and a significantly younger 'un said "I shoulda ordered that". The ladies have never been kind to me, and I'm sure looking like a creepy foreigner doesn't help. Since I haven't been single for a couple of years, I feel no pressure while making conversation at bars these days. I even had a choice this time so I picked the younger one to clink glasses with. Another lady was was asking her questions about a Dallas flight but she was dismissed quickly in my favor and I felt like an engineer on the verge of... something geeky.

At this point, I was aware that

1) I wasn't going to meet her again, I could say whatever the fuck I wanted
2) I was drinking on an empty stomach, things would sound interesting to me no matter what.
3) she had the look of a "closet Republican" on her and this would indeed be *lot* of fun.

We spoke about her destination, her travel plans - visiting an ailing relative. I told her mine - travel to India. Sure, there was more to it, but why get there so soon? I was wrong about the closet Republican part - she was pretty liberal, so dang, no fun there. I did try to stir shit up about white folk having to be overtly politically correct, but no dice there. Alcohol fueled time acceleration got us talking about a lot of interesting things, and soon I had an offer to visit her place in CO, a few miles North of my home. No, it wasn't for anything carnal, but see what no pressure on a guy does? In any case, I didn't want things to get awkward so I told her about my good lady and my intentions to propose. This must have eased the pressure on her too (yaay, creepy foreigner doesn't want to copulate with me), and she opened up about her love life.

I find it amazing how most people around me are so candid about their lives. Makes me wonder, is it because they're honest, or because they feel they won't see me again? Why is it that strangers can talk about finances, family and lost love but clam up when it comes to politics? Anyway, my new friend gave me her contact info. which I promptly lost in a week. Heck, I'm not even sure what her name is anymore.

Thoroughly buzzed, I sauntered off to the gate just in time for boarding. Good thing they don't let you make calls during take off, I was so ready to drunk dial everyone I know. First question I was asked when we were airborne? "Do you need a drink, sir?" Why, I certainly do.

Goodbye Lenin!

2010-08-31T12:06:00.000-06:00

Overload, overload, overload
Comin' up to the

Oh Stylo...
Go forth, blossom in your soul

Mmm, pump that bass, bare your soul Womack - I got a letter to write.

Dear Skype,

You've been around for a while now. You were there when I was in college, racking up huge bills with dial up (for entirely legal reasons). You helped me crank call tech support when the yanks manned the controls. You were my first option after that worthless excuse for a communicator, Y! Messenger began blocking calls. When I moved stateside, my roommies made gratuitous use of your free 60-minutes-on-sign-up to make a year's worth of calls.

Your webcam support helped me stay in touch with loved ones, even if it meant them sighing in resignation over my piercing. As time dragged on, you got ambitious. Like a man going through midlife crisis, you tried a fancy toupee and a corvette. By that I mean shiny graphics and pointless "hints" and "features". And like every 50 year old man accustomed to going through 6 packs of Bud lite, you got fatter, slower and stank of excess. I let you stay, like a burnt out hippie uncle crashing in the basement, laughing or crying for no reason at all (in your case, just crashing). I was somewhat grateful, you did help me see my lady love twice a day, and wake her up every morning for the low low rate of 9 cents a minute.

But off late, it's just not working out. You try on new updates oh so often and need my intervention all the time. You always want your friends Y! toolbar and the FF extension to hang out with you. When you're not looking, they totally cup my balls and that gets me all riled up about spyware and shit. Like a creepy racist grandpa who could never come to terms with inter-ethnic marriage, you simply can't handle Windows 7's new hotness. You stick around in the toolbar no matter how many times I close you, and the old trick of using compatibility mode to fool you doesn't work anymore. You started as an IM program, and even chat on your bloated interface sucks these days.

So, even though we go back to way back when, I must ask you to pack your bags and head to the shelter. I heard they serve pea soup on Mondays. My uninstaller will help you move out tonight.

Love,
T

-----------------

4 Weeks, and I'm back. With stories. And a lady :)

Break on Through

2010-08-09T14:51:00.000-06:00

Over three years ago, there was friendship. Emails were a good start. Then lyrics. I don't know how, or when, but the phone calls happened. Minutes grew into hours. If Bangalore is a city of one-way streets, it was fitting that an expat was alone in his emotions. Things changed, life chugged along and the feelings were mutual.

Two years. The distance. The heartbreak. The unbridled joy. All that time. All the singing. The silly fights. The intense ones. Soul-searching. Happiness and some more of it. Support. Ego-boost.

The plans, the ambitions, the countdown. The culmination of every grand desire.

She said yes.

Ted the mechanic

2010-07-22T12:33:00.000-06:00

This room won't stop spinning.

Last night, my team had its first outing and I chose to finish all the beer. As is the case with any dysfunctional group trying to socialize, there was plenty of awkward silence, needless bragging and polite laughter. I chose to drink and let the boss yack, after feeding him with some potent questions (and I did want to hear his opinion, wonder how much of a kiss-ass I came off as). Later, dinner with friends meant vodka, wine and more vodka. I wasn't hungover this morning (thanks for the fruity cocktails R!), but was sleepy as hell. I can make do without caffeine on a daily basis, and I use coffee for days such as these, but I need to limit myself. I had a large cup of near black java and I've been jittery for the last 3 hours.

As a result I've been awfully cheerful, and insanely productive. I can probably slack off for an hour or two, so hello world!

I'm gearing up for a trip to Bangalore, and am sorely unprepared. I have tickets, but that's about it. My roommie moves out the day I leave, so I'm hoping he'll clean his part of the house and won't rob my place. Need to find volunteers to water the near-dead plants in my absence, clean the kitchen, wipe off all the bile from the WCs, vacuum, laundry... AAAAAAAH. It doesn't help that I'm working weekends and late nights, so I have no energy left when I get back home. That and God of War 3. Still, the flight's a week away and I need to get my act together.

Last Christmas, I lost control of my shiny-red on ice, and bumped the curb. The steering was all whacked and the bumper popped out a bit. I took it to an auto-shop who told me I needed to replace a rim and everything else was dandy. We had no luck with that, and I was told that wheels were rotated so I had another bent rim which no one had found so far. So a few more hundreds down the hole, I now had two new rims. There was still some vibration, but it was far lesser so I figured it was due to snow and shitty mountain roads. New tires, new wheel bearings, we tried everything. When I heard a weird clicking noise on left turns, I had enough and asked the mechanic to bugger off. I'm not 100% certain my dealer is honest (well, which one is, anyway?), but I had to go there. He found a bent ball joint in the wheel assembly, and the alignment was badly off. As a result I'd come close to shredding two tires, which are barely 3 months old. I had this claim backed up a third, independent mechanic, so there.

During the 5 months of trial and error, I kept asking the first mechanic if the wheel assembly and suspension was okay, I even expressed surprise that I didn't need alignment. Now, nearly $1500 down, I wondered if he is incompetent or just plain dishonest. All I wanted was $300 for the new tires. If he had bothered to align the wheels, he would have found the bent joint, and I wouldn't have shredded the tires. I bent the ball joint, I'll pay for it myself. I gave him a chance to explain his position, and he pretty much asked me to fuck off. Guess I got that cleared up. I've complained to the BBB, and am contemplating Small claims court, but some people say I don't have very good legal ground, since by driving a car that I knew had problems, I'm also responsible for the state my tires are in. Oh legal-ese, how I love thee.

What was I saying about honesty again?

Angry Chair

2010-07-08T14:30:00.000-06:00

Who's in the mood for a little geek talk? I got a new PC at work because my old setup (linux box running a VMware session) was a pile of shit. My spanking new windows box has has a soundcard and I can finally listen to music at work without worrying about when I'll drop my ipod next. Small battles, people, small battles.

Speaking of music, Nirvana never grew on me. They were big when my older brother was in college and so he identifies with them on some level. Me, on the other hand, had boy and girl bands to combat during high school/college years. You can watch it on the VH1 series, Go Fuck yourself the 00's. Anyway, I'm told popular music of an era represents the most dominant feeling of that society. Growing up in a different society creates a disconnect between the music and the reasons why we enjoy it. People in the know remarked that music of the early 90s (American rock anyway) represented the angst of youth troubled by poverty, fractured households, high divorce rates, poor education and more.

We were told to value our culture, our history, and traditions by those who'd never heard a beat of hard rock/heavy metal but despised the genre. "Heard about that blonde singer? He OD'd AND shot himself!! Respect your great aunt or you'll end up like him". "You mean with millions of dollars and hundreds of groupies?" "shut up".

So when I got here, I was pleasantly surprised that most of my American friends were pretty stable and balanced. Guess they never faced the hard times like ol' Cobain did, I told myself. But they did. I learned much later that all the Americans in my group had separated/divorced parents. One of them was even a Columbine survivor. Life's probably a lot tougher for those under the poverty line, but that's something I have absolutely no idea about, and won't insult anyone's intelligence (any more than I already have).

Back to my friends and peers. I'm sure it was pretty agonizing, and some scars will never heal, but they're here. No angst, no mood swings, no sniffling in the corner. Confident, loving, cheerful, marrying and raising children - you'd never guess dad left mom for a 20 year old maid (true story).

Wasted Years

2010-06-26T17:29:00.000-06:00

I arrived in Denver on 29th of July 2005. Turned out, I missed Iron Maiden in concert by 2 days. My host for the first few weeks had been to the show. I asked for pictures, and there was just 1 - him outside the venue. "The show was so mind blowing I couldn't take any more pictures", he said. I cursed my luck, travel agent and Thai Airlines. Iron Maiden had some old geezers who hadn't been young since the 80s, so what was the chance I'd see them again?

Years have passed, and I've gotten to see nearly everyone on my checklist, but on Monday the 14th it finally happened. Iron Maiden played in "Comfort Dental Amphitheater" to a 12,000 strong crowd. Incidentally, Comfort Dental Amphitheater has to be the worst venue name ever since Staples Center (screw you Lakers!!), so the locals call it Fiddler's Green. Me and a few friends got some drinks going. As always, in spite of being the DD I drank way more than anyone else - 6 shots of whiskey and so was in a good mood by 7 pm. Mostly. My stupid camera refused to switch on and I was pissed that I would do worse than my host from 5 years ago.

Dream Theater opened, and since I don't care about pansy ass "progressive metal" bands, I walked around the venue drinking and buying merchandise. Soon we were ejected from the seats we were squatting on and thrown all the way at the back where we really belonged. No matter, the view was still great, and had midgets in front of us. The curtains came down and after the first note I knew why it's so hard to take pictures in an Iron Maiden concert. Bruce Dickinson is a fuckin' legend. Not sure why he needs a mike, his voice is brutal. And if I'm a tenth as fit at 50, I'll go run a triathlon.

I knew most of the songs, and sang/screamed/head-banged for an exhilarating 2.5 hours. Set list

The Wicker Man
Ghost Of The Navigator
Wrathchild
El Dorado
Dance Of Death
The Reincarnation Of Benjamin Breeg
These Colours Don't Run (notice the spelling?)
Blood Brothers
Wildest Dreams
No More Lies
Brave New World
Fear Of The Dark
Iron Maiden

Encore:
The Number of the Beast
Hallowed Be Thy Name
Running Free

My neighbor was a fan putting on a Chewbacca impression. He was quite wasted, and was going "Aaaauughhh" non-stop. My voice was dead for 2 days after the concert, wonder how bad his week was. El Dorado is a new song, and sounds pretty heavy and good. He introduced the song as being "relevant" and having rap in it, to appeal to the masses. Ah never mind, fuck you record execs, he said and started yelling again.

There were jokes about the England-US worldcup game, barbs to google and apple/iphone for being the big brother, and disapproval that we weren't loud enough. After the first 3 songs, Bruce welcomed everyone to the show. It was clear that we were in his backyard. That made the difference. When I saw Metallica, they were genuinely happy to be in Denver and under the lights. Iron Maiden, on the other hand, said "you're welcome".

The debates on whether they should have played Trooper, Run to the hills, Powerslave and other oldies will go on long after the concert (and hopefully till the next one). While I don't like anything from Maiden post-Dance of the dead (and that too grew on me), this was as good as it gets. The lads at Maiden are looking ahead. They want the 20 year olds to cheer for No More Lies, sing along with Blood Brothers as their 50 year old parents stay at home to balance their checkbooks. They're talented musicians, and while Trooper would have blown my mind, I ain't complaining - that encore had my ears ringing.

Dead throat, broken neck and a grin I couldn't wipe off for the next week. Up the irons!

Drive My Car

2010-06-18T10:20:00.001-06:00

I bitch plenty about idiots on the road but it gets tiring after a while. Plus, after nearly getting t-boned at a 4 way stop due mostly my oversight, I decided I'd be nice for a change.

Driving in India is a low speed nightmare. While typical speeds are under 30 miles an hour, the roads are a clusterfuck of cars, buses, rickshaws, and motorcycles. Given that we're such a crowded country, competing for limited resources creeps into every aspect of our daily lives - including road space. Lanes are non-existent, lights are mere suggestions. We're impatient. Very impatient. I was too, when I drove there and I'm not sure what the hurry was.

While Denver is known to have shitty traffic and irate drivers ranking among the worst in the country, I find my daily commute to be a joy ride compared to my life from 5 years ago. There are several rules on American roads that are aggressively enforced and for plenty good reason too. The speeds are a lot higher, and the smallest mistake can be life threatening. And while ignoring blind spots, yacking on the cellphone and picking the wrong lane are annoying habits many people exhibit, their attention to detail tends to be rather surprising.

I always marvel at how well we manage to merge traffic from two highways, cars alternating turns. That maneuver wouldn't work in India for even half a second. I was driving from one intersection to the other when I realized I was 2 lanes off to the right and had to turn left next. I put my blinker on, and the car to the left of me stopped a few feet further into the intersection to let me pass.

Shiny-red (aka Lucy aka my bad-ass car) has enough torque to beat most cars off the line at an intersection, but I've never had to play the rev-engine-overtake-to-switch-lanes game. Unless I want to be a dick, and that's known to happen frequently.

And then there are days when I set the cruise to 5 under the limit, and watch the world roll by to my left. No honking, no angry gestures, only the occasional tailing. If you think driving 2 feet behind me will scare me into going faster, you have no idea what the drive from Banashankari II stage to Resthouse road via Vidyapeetha thru' Sajjan Rao circle is like.

And that's the difference. When I pull into the lot, wind the volume down and get out I'm ready for whatever's up next - an hour of gaming at home, 8 hours of work, or 4 hours of binge drinking - it's all good. Thinking back to Bangalore, I can distinctly remember sighs of relief that I reached my destination in one piece.

People wince when I say I travel 45 mins. one way to work, but I laugh - that's how long it takes my parents to get to the grocery store. Perspective, Denver, perspective.

Almost Honest

2010-05-03T20:20:00.005-06:00

India is brimming with corruption. A traffic violation will disappear for a bribe half the price of the ticket. House plans get approved in a day as long as a dozen bureaucrats get their kickbacks. For a low sum, I can get driving lessons, be given a cheat sheet to the written test and pass the driving test. All in a week. Numbers multiply, the circle gets bigger and things that the humble Rupee can accomplish will surprise anyone.

My brother moved to the states nearly 10 years ago. He was the first in our immediate family, and was subject to every typical question from the elders. "Are they racist*?" "Do they fornicate in the streets?" "What are black people like**?"

Soon we were talking about bribes, and my brother had this to say. "There's no corruption on a daily basis - cops, low level clerks and municipal workers are mostly honest, but the corruption at the highest levels is staggering". That was my first insight into the world of lobbyists, town hall meetings, campaign funds and the whole shebang.

So when I first moved out here, I was delighted that being stopped by a cop didn't mean that I had to bribe him, 3 constables and 2 peons. It did mean coping a massive fine and spiked insurance, but whatever. The land of the free, good, hard working people.

Living with two roommates in abysmally small apartments, shuttling back and forth from grad school, one doesn't get complete perspective on how average Americans live. I did start picking up on things when I started making major purchases.

The first was a beaten up Mazda 626. I took it to the local mechanic to have it inspected. He gave it a clean bill of health, but said it would need new tires, new cv boots, possibly a new timing belt. Soon. Just in case. I bought the car and did nothing about the alleged problems since my penury limited maintenance to oil changes. And guess what? A year of madman driving and no problems at all. I shredded a tire much later, and got them all changed then. CV boots? Only 1 needed a change, mainly because I was off on a 1000 plus mile road trip.

And so it went. Trouble breathing due to a nasty fall on the ski slope? You need to sleep it off, said the doc, but it could also be a bruised lung, ruptured diaphragm or worse. Better admit yourself, just in case. You come from India? You may have been exposed to TB, get on a 9 month course right now. As part of the "treatment", I had to avoid alcohol for those 9 months, that made the decision rather straight forward. "Are you sure you don't want it? The last patient who said no came back with a hole in his lung".

Buying a house? Sure, it looks fine, but probably needs a new furnace, new AC, vent cleaning, new windows, new doors, more insulation. I had to go through 3 damn handymen before one of them repaired my furnace without giving me a $2500 quote on a new one. Buying a TV? Yeah, you'll also need the protection plan and $50 cables.

It's the death of you otherwise. Doom, gloom and utter destruction. Not now, but soon.

I've come to realize that there is corruption in this country. Plenty of it. They don't want bribes, the good honest working class, the blue collared middle class average Americans. Oh no sir, they'll work for that dollar. To every last penny. But they lack honesty, they all do.

When a policeman in India spends 10 hours on the street with a malfunctioning rifle, and demands a bribe because he makes a tenth of what I do, I can laugh it off and part with a few hundred rupees. But when a mechanic charges twice the hourly rate I get paid at, and wants to replace every damn moving part, what's his excuse?

What does the lower middle class pat itself on the back so much for? Where are your values? If God asked you to vote for Bush, did he also ask you replace that two year old compressor for no good reason?

Before you call me an ungrateful prick, I'd like to point out that I'm eternally grateful living in a country that gives me the space and freedom to live my dreams. To be overtly sensitive about my race without me asking for it. To let me speak my mind anywhere I choose to. Like criticism, credit should be given where due.

Every system has its flaws, and if its one that gets my goat the most right now, it's the abject lacking of moral fiber from the kind of men that supposedly built this country.

* - Indians are crazy racist. Crazy, I tell you.
** - See what I mean?

Tell All The People

2010-04-20T12:44:00.001-06:00

I have a mild form of ADD, I think. Oooh look, shiny thing. Anyway. I'm somehow never around when conversations begin and lose patience to see them to the end. Saturday night - Belated birthday binge drinking, now that we're all responsibly employed. Pre-drink conversation, no idea who started it and how.

Someone : Man, I feel old.
Someone else : Me too!
Birthday chap : ....
Girl who was never into live bands : yeh, let's get away from the band, can't stand the noise! Heh, guess we're all oldies now!
Asshole who volunteers opinion irrespective of audience: You're telling me, I'm 30 and I'm the oldest in this group, this is a first!
Me : Bartender, 7 car-bombs, double shot Jameson on the rocks and some guinness.

2 hours, several drinks later

Bald guy : Have you had (some IPA)
Birthday chap : But that tastes like ass!!
Me butting in : Depends on the girl man!

Another hour passes, more people join in, and some are lying face down in the basement bathroom.

Asshole who volunteers opinion irrespective of audience: We gotta go early, me and the wife have some gardening to do tomorrow
Someone else : Dude, I gotta slow down, the room is spinning
Me : Bartender, 3 shots of red breast

At this point, I was reasonably sober, and had to drive. And why the fuck don't my wimpy friends drink whiskey? That I was pissed off would be putting it lightly. And Mr. Asshole started pontificating on how we software nerds aren't quite engineers since we don't work on a lathe. Apparently an engineer is someone who does "stuff" and makes "things" with his hands. I gestured to the birthday chap that Mr. Asshole was pleasuring himself and was due for a finish reminiscent of the Icelandic volcano. You know - slow, dusty and something most of us don't give a shit about. Caught in the act, I was glared at by Mr. A.

"What?" he bellowed.
"Your lack of job satisfaction and low productivity has no bearing on why the world calls me an engineer"

Frankly, between me and all 1.5 of you, I don't care if I'm called a pig-nipple-tickler as long as I like what I do and get paid for it. And this isn't the first time I've heard that only mechanical engineering is true engineering (ignoring the fact that the people working with cutting tools are most likely high-school dropouts). What makes it special is that Mr. A is belongs to the species of jerk-offs who opine all the time under the guise of a debate. How is it a discussion if you won't listen to others' opinion and are unwilling to change yours when presented with a compelling argument? Are you that insecure that you must interrupt 4 bachelors talking about women they'll never be in the same room as, with shit about "finding a purpose"? If I want rehashed opinion from your twitter list, I know where to look.

I can be pretty pig headed about my opinions too. I wouldn't have strong opinions if I was swayed easily. But engaging me in a conversation just to preach and ignore everything I say is just plain disrespectful and a complete waste of my time. Time I can spend on making masturbation jokes, which are far better informed than Mr. A's opinion on financial reform.

There's a place

2010-04-15T16:24:00.002-06:00

I remember seeing her turn around the corner and come into view. Long hair let down and blowing in the wind, big eyes shining with excitement. I'm not sure how the distance in between us melted so soon, but I remember her skipping down a couple of steps and yanking me close. I'm not the one for details, and several specifics escape my mind, but I doubt I'll ever forget those two minutes. And the years since.

In my mind there's no sorrow,
Don't you know that it's so.
There'll be no sad tomorrow,
Don't you know that it's so.

We like memories. In fact, we go far to cling on to them and not let go. Some of my friends won't stop talking about the "good old days" and how we should get back to them. Not me. Things could be better, and they most likely will. Alright future, let's see what you've got.

I'm not alone, and I have an excuse to smile for no reason.

Start of something beautiful

2010-04-07T13:51:00.001-06:00

It was the eve of my first full-time job after my masters. That wasn't a strong enough excuse to stay sober, so we stumbled from one bar to another, every passing hour getting groggier and murkier. Quite by chance, we happened upon the back room of an annoying bar. The cover was steep, which is unusual in a college town such as the one I was in. The music sounded intriguing and the smell of green was unmistakable. Down the rabbit hole we went.

The spectacle that greeted us was both unexpected and unbelievably rewarding. Onstage were three DJs, singers of several genres and color. If trip-hop was an art invented to take dopeheads to the next level, this was a temple of the high priests. Every so often, a DJ would disappear under his table and puff enough smoke to turn all his mates invisible. The tunes and voices were from another dimension and the only constant was the bitter drink in my hand.

My friend went to get a fresh drink, as I watched over his very, very drunk girlfriend. She was unable to stand steadily and was swaying to the music. I had my arm behind her back to help keep her balance, but an inch of air in between just to make sure no drunken mistakes were made. I was seemingly hugging an invisible layer around her. A black guy in dreadlocks smiled and asked me where I was from. "India", I said and he roared back with delight "I'm from Kenya man!". Indians, we're everywhere. All races feel some kinship with us, and we're expected to share the emotion. Ah well.

He suggested I hug and kiss her to "seal the deal". I told him that she was my best friend's lady love of ten years and I was only looking out for her. A heavy handshake and a slightly uncomfortable hug later, the Kenyan gushed "you're a good man!". The night wore on, and I was in a team meeting 8 hours later.

The couple broke up a month from then.

Idiot Prayer

2010-03-02T10:13:00.002-07:00

I don't have a profound insight into life. In fact, I have very little insight. Into anything. However, I am the eternal optimist.

I believe, I can work just as hard as anyone else. That I can be as clever as need be. That I can let go. That I can smile. That twenty-six years* weren't so bad, another fifty won't be terribly shabby either.

I'd like to imagine that humans can do good. That someone somewhere really is working on clean fuel, better cars and cheaper food.

I can hope that we'll stop going down this spiral of destruction. That 10 years from now, the place I call home won't be brimming with people, corruption, callous disregard for others' lives - as it already does now.

I can dream that outer space will someday be in our reach. That we can colonize other planets, spread out and evolve before this one home we have implodes. That one day we'll be able to make spaceflights that take us millions of miles in a few hours. That Clarke wasn't being wistful while dreaming of our future. That his entire bibliography wasn't a slap in our faces of what will never come to be.

Maybe I should just get back to work.

* - not my birthday. Yet.

The Entertainer

2010-02-22T23:49:00.006-07:00

What if I had a thought I couldn't tell you about? What if it's something I don't like thinking about? What if it's something I want to drive out of my head?

Take me up and out
Cause rainy days are all I feel
I'm walking about
I know that, there's no time
In the days of muse breaks
I had to hang on tight
Looking back I wish I had
more time for, you...

I have something to say, words aren't my friends today. How about a tune? I can't pick up a guitar and pluck away, staring into the distance.

A new song is a journey. A collection of notes, chords and words waiting to be explored. A gentle start, gathering pace, expression, notions, ideas. Slow it down for a moment, contemplate, take it forward. Pick it up, undulations, rhythms, assertions, belief. Ease up, hope for the best, fade to black.

Isolation, self-loathing, sleep deprivation, self-pity, love, rage, desire, hope.

Play. Play all night long.

Sign Language

2010-01-29T15:35:00.003-07:00

My dad studied in a Kannada medium school. In other words, the medium of instruction was Kannada and all his textbooks were in Kannada. He had to learn English and Hindi real well and real fast when he joined the army (and that's a story in itself). Mum studied English all along and due to her going to grad school for Sanskrit, English was always something she was good at.

I started talking when I was four - which is phenomenally late by any standard. I'm told I had my baby talk vocabulary for everything I wanted at the age and so couldn't be arsed about learning any "real" language. As preschool loomed over the horizon, my parents realized a couple of things

1) I needed to stop communicating like a baboon
2) We lived in a town of goat herds and schooling would do more harm than help there.

I was home-schooled for the first two years of my academic life. Considering Hindi is the lingua franca on any Army base, I was always ahead of the curve when it came to English. Hindi, not so much. I guess there was only so much room in my head for languages.

As a kid I spoke in Kannada only with my grandparents and elder relatives. And since my high school had pretty much banned all non-English languages, my knowledge of Kannada is rather formal. English is the language of choice, it's the tongue I think in, it's what the hot girls in my dreams speak.

I can speak Anglican pretty fluently, without ever using Kannada words (like everyone else, yes). But if I make the mistake of trying Hindi, I use all the non-English words I know and it's a big mess of ethnicity. Until recently, anyway.

The kid and I started communicating in English and she'd always brag that her Kannada was better than mine (NO IT AIN'T, WOMAN). We started talking in Kannada as a joke/challenge before we started seeing each other. By the time we were together, that was the only language we used. As a result, these days I find myself almost using Kannada words in an English sentence. It only happens when I hear a South Indian accent. Still, pretty weird.

I have very little faith in my mental abilities as it is, and I'm even more convinced that all this drinking and brain cell killing is starting to catch up. So if you come back next time and see worse-than-usual crap, you'll know it was a really good weekend.

Picture of Innocence

2010-01-25T12:05:00.001-07:00

I have no photography skills. I have a simple point and shoot that has some 5 auto modes, and 75% of pictures feature me and my friends making asinine faces. What's the point in smiling for a still photo I always say. I usually avoid landscape pictures and most definitely random/stranger shots. I'd like to take it all in, I tell myself.

A lot of my friends are avid shutterbugs. I find their talent amazing and their pictures striking, but it doesn't hold my interest for too long. It seems that photoshop turns everyone's flickr stream into an issue of National Geography. What's the point of a picture? Is it to capture a passing moment, a brief coalescence of people and events that must survive, or as a homage to unchanging magnificence of nature? Or is it to spend 4 hours on a flatscreen applying layers, filters and changing contrast?

Is an over-saturated, multiple exposure shot of the skyline worth fanfare? It is art, I get that. Ever plunging prices of frighteningly complicated DSLRs give weekend warriors a canvas that oil paints can't stand up against. I'm no connoisseur of arts, and I'm the man corporate America strives to squeeze every penny out of - but I can't be that clueless can I?

Every evening, hundreds gather in front of that crumbling dust arch in Utah. Of what good is a sight through a tiny viewfinder and a high res raw file when 20 mins of concentrated viewing can provide gigabytes of info (multiple angles, 3D, artistic or otherwise) that will always be stashed away in my brain? I don't need a 1024x720 picture to remind me of the 20 min hike, the 4 accents I made my friends laugh at, or that Indian dude (not me) everyone (including me) jeered at for trying to pose right before sunset.

It's an artistic medium alright, but one that's getting awfully saturated and predictable. Hummingbirds, flowers, owls, nightsky, domes, black and white stills of hobos, silhouettes, sunsets... I want to see art in what my eyes see and fill in the blanks in my head. Take my point and shoot, use it for a year. Give me 12 unaltered pictures that can blow my mind. Till then amateur photography is as much of an art as wearing a Guevara tee-shirt is anti-establishment.

Where is my mind

2010-01-14T10:57:00.002-07:00

I am generally content with myself. It may be a case of low expectations and/or being under-ambitious, but whatever - I sleep well at night. There are a few things that I'm working on, my creaking and aching joints being the most prominent.

However something I really need to put some effort into is my attention span. I can't concentrate. Not for longer than 10 minutes. I need to do at least 2 things at a time and keep my hands busy at all times. I'm not saying I have ADD, and am least interested in seeing a doctor about it, but sometimes it really does concern me.

The signs are everywhere. I make tons of typos - even for the simplest words. And that's not just being fat fingered, I suck mainly because I've never paid attention to spelling. I never read the little error messages windows so helpfully pops-up. I've never read fine print - even when I bought my house. When I sign up for trials or promotions I don't even look at opt out clauses.

The latter cost me a lot of money recently and it made me evaluate myself. I could do a lot better at work than I'm doing now. Some of the stuff that I'm good at, and have gotten accolades for, are things I concentrated for 20 mins in an hour.

I don't think it's medical condition. It's just me, I just need to focus. And as I get older, and my physical and mental abilities weaken, it'll get worse. But fuckin' A, try as I may, I can't be arsed about things around me. But the questions I keep asking myself are

1) Even if I do focus more, will I be more effective or just get tired faster?
2) What if I focus more, and realize that I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed?

When I was in my high school, we had important term exams. As can be expected from my shoddy typing, my handwriting looks someone threw up black ink. The examiner hung around my desk for a long time, peering at my answers. Out of the blue he went

So, you're left handed?
Yeah...
Always had a bad handwriting?
Yep.
Miss words in a sentence?
Yep.
Get letters jumbled up?
Uh-huh.

That's the mark of a genius!!

And here I thought he was describing dyslexia. He probably was, just didn't want me to fuck my paper up. Which I did anyway.

Happiness is a warm gun

2009-12-29T10:15:00.001-07:00

It's coming. Soon, the yanks won't sound as cool saying the year anymore (oh-eight, oh-nine... oh-ten?). We love lists, and we love year end lists even more. "Best of the decade" lists have started popping up all over the place, it feels like we've waited a lot longer than ten years for this moment to arrive. Debates on whether this really is the end of the decade will rage on. Summation is a forbidden pleasure, and a year more of lust is a tempting thought.

It's a new year. There are words, prose and poetry. People have beautiful thoughts. Lessons learned, journeys undertaken/completed, morals, memories, smiles, tears to share. Plans to attend to. Resolutions to break. Cliched jokes to make. S, my good friend, will spend the night on the phone with his long distance wife. He's happy, he says, but why does it sound like he's making a compromise?

It's a new year. I have plans. And some more. Resolutions? A few. Memories, plenty. Lessons learned, oh so many. I suppose I have a list.

It's a new year. The pale blue dot will soon take us back to the point in space we were 365.25 days ago. And back along the same path, like it has done for the last 4.5 billion years. And yet, one can hope. Politicians will change. Corporations will grow a conscience. Economies will improve. Love will blossom. Waistlines will get slimmer. Bank balances heavier.

It's a new year. It's a date on my calendar. As far as events in my life go, the first few months will mean nothing new to me. I do not wish to wish to convey unhappiness or disappointment - just express my lack of enthusiasm for the day. Still, Jan 1st is a convenient bookmark, and a good excuse to share some cheer. Gather some friends, clink some glasses together.

Wish you a happy new year. Hope you get a chance to fulfill your dreams, an opportunity to do what matters.

Halo 21*

2009-12-14T16:01:00.003-07:00

When I was in college and then grad school I had no need to be guarded with my behavior. Apart from a word or two, what could anyone do to me that I couldn't match? Call it aging bones or shackles in a corporate world, I simply can't unhinge my temper anymore. On the floor I sit, every hour of every day, two jackasses shout into their phones, and at each other oblivious to the 20 other people here. They're senior managers (kinda) and I can't give them a piece of my mind. Discretion doesn't seem to help.

So while I'm swallowing my rage and digging fresh ulcers in my stomach, I realize there's been a profound change in my behavior. I'm being nice (read : dishonest) to people. When someone tells me "my 5 year old cut his finger on the swing" I no longer say "kids are retards who get a free ride". My birthday greetings are no longer "eh? so what?". I offer to be the DD. On weekends, I play poker. The regular kind.

I hate it.

You see - when I had rage, and in copious amounts, I gave a crap about things around me. They would piss me off, I would sound away, and there was peace again. While it feels like I'm storing that temper away and may explode any moment, all that emotion is just eroding away and I feel predominantly one thing - apathy.

Exceptions apply, and those close to me (dwindling number) will still bear the brunt of my mood swings. But nearly every waking hour, I get the feeling my face is on autopilot mode. If I felt my lips move this morning, I would realize they were curling up into a smile to greet a coworker, all without the gears in my head spinning.

I don't know if it's ironic, but my concern for my "nice guy" behavior is fading fast too. Apathy for all, even for me.

Then again.

I like my job. All that chatter is just white noise. I like my car. My TV, not as much, but I don't see too much of it anyway. The girlfriend's a riot. I am the DD so that I can get my friends shit faced. I host poker nights so that I can force drinks down my friends' throats, getting wasted in the process. And oh, I love my cooking. So am I apathetic? Under-ambitious? Satisfied?

* - Reference.

Dittohead

2009-12-02T14:21:00.008-07:00

And so Thanksgiving stopped by for a short visit. It dropped off a 10lb turkey which four of us dutifully devoured in two meals. I like how Turkey day is treated with so much anticipation because it gives way for Christmas anticipation. "We can't wait for T-giving so that we can start waiting for X-mas" is the prevailing opinion. Meh, whatever, nobody gives me anything for Christmas. And no one lets me make turducken.

A bigger damp squib on the radar is New Year's Eve. Now. Just as I hate "anyways", I hate it when people say "New Years". New Years what? Anyway, new year's eve is one of the biggest let downs of the year and that's saying something considering I'm a 26 year old guy living by myself. The few people who willingly tolerate my august company all hang around in Boulder, which being a college town, empties itself during the winter break. Great.

No one will want to drive, who wants to stay sober on such an "important" night right? The unlucky SOB who drives has the onerous task of finding a spot while the revelers take off to shoot lousy specials. Why the hell does everything around me look like a ghost town when every freaking spot in a 5 mile radius around downtown is taken?

And then there's the bar hopping in the cold winter and sharing space with creepy 50 year olds (both sexes). The problem is, no party is ever good enough. There is always the other bar with the other DJ, that confused guy who knows that girl who's throwing a mean theme party and this other joint where unspeakable things happened last year. All that anticipation and peaks at 11 PM, and you already know that no matter what you do in THIS bar, it'll never be as cool as what you COULD have done in some other place. Oooh, I should have thrown a house party instead (ignore the tiny voice telling you that no one would come). And then there are the assholes who won't get wasted. "I don't want to welcome the new year with a hangover" the smug couple says. Makes me want to puke, but maybe that's just the Jager shot talking. Who drinks that shit anyway and why do I know someone who would buy me one?

Finally midnight rolls around, the DJ counts down and the entire crowd is unsure what to do. Stick my tongue at that random drunk I just met? Chug my watered down drink? WHERE THE HELL IS THE SHOT I ORDERED TWENTY MINUTES AGO THAT I WAS HOPING WOULD IMPRESS RANDOM IDIOTS?

And before you know it, it's last call. Arrogant bouncers want you out, cleaning sub-staff shake their heads at you as they wade through knee-deep dixie cup piles. Well, that's over. Now what? Super, party's over, everyone's sleepy. JUST LIKE ANY OTHER WEEKEND. Sleep, wake up at 2 PM ruing that the first holiday of the year is 3/4 gone already.

Oh great, the idiots at work will ask me what I did for "New Years". Yeah, you were in Vegas - good for you. Oh road trip to Miami? Freakin' awesome. Oddly shaped pills from shady strangers in a suspicious alley? Joy. Me? Passed out on my friend's couch and not drunk enough to sleep well. Can't wait to do it all again in 364 days. Will you drive next time?

Precious Declaration

2009-11-13T15:45:00.001-07:00

When I was around 15, my mum would visit a hairdresser in a remote corner of town, mainly because she was a friend and one of the few other "army wives" she knew. I would tag along because the hairdresser's son (A) was in my age group and was the only guy who could swear more than I did. He had lingered in unit life longer than I did and still had that edge most army brats possess. He was a little older, seemed to know everything about women, what went where and all that. We would talk about female anatomy, smoking, drinking and more female anatomy. Typical male early-teen stuff.

He had a younger brother (Z) who suffered from cerebral palsy. It seemed that their mother aged a few years between every appointment, juggling a career and a kid with special needs must have been hard. There was also vile gossip that the kid was born that way because she was adulterous/a witch and what not. A, to his credit was the most loving brother I'd ever seen. He took complete care of Z when their mother was at work, and it was really cool watching the high school "cool" kid show sensitivity.

Of course, A was no angel. On one of our visits, he was doubling up with laughter as he told me "guess what? I taught Z some cuss words, and now he says them all the time!". Z had this habit of throwing his head back and screaming random words, increasingly getting agitated until someone comforted him. Random words until recently, that is. Now, with alarming regularity, Z would start yelling "faaaakk" "baaaaastid" and so on. His parents either didn't notice on account of the bad enunciation or just ignored them - they had enough on their plate already. Somewhat inappropriate, but very funny when it happened. Like I said, typical male early teen stuff.

"Inspired" by this, I came home and taught my completely sane, yet very demented kid brother some of the nasties. The words erupted at dinner time, and it didn't take too long for boots to meet my backside.

So much so for setting an example A!

Dark Signs

2009-11-02T14:04:00.003-07:00

When there's a movie I really want to see, I usually look for movie reviews on rotten tomatoes and then go watch it anyway.

I was waiting to see Paranormal Activity for the last 3 weeks. Everyone and his sister has seen the promos by now, and this whole viral marketing is increasingly getting on my nerves. I hate it when big studios try to act all underground and "with the times". Facebook groups, scratchy trailers, websites with "clues" are so fuckin' 2006. Night vision captures of kids screaming in the theater, movie footage bearing the cloverfield effect, limited release are now the hallmark of shitty indie horror films. There's a reason studios spend millions on a professional cast.

Anyway, we saw the movie last night. Boy did it suck. Seen those shock videos which make you look at a serene picture before a popping a frame of something ghoulish with a scream in the background? Yeah, that's all this movie is about. Just a 90 minute snoozefest for a 5 second money shot at the end. "Critics" and kids in skinny jeans will tell you it's all about pacing, but punch them in the nose and go watch.. um.. fuck it, there's nothing good playing right now. The japs have horror down to a science. Learn from them, yanks. While on the subject, stop remaking jap films. Remake =/= learning from a genre.

On the other end of the spectrum lies the movie I saw earlier last weekend. Oldboy *- which is Korean for "we're going to town on your brain with a toothpick". Every scene was stunning, unpredictable and nerve wracking. Yes, the plot twist wasn't a big surprise and I saw it coming faster than a Chinese woman in a RAV4 with a cellphone, but still it was a mighty fine watch. I'm asking everyone around me to watch this movie. My only regret is I won't have the same wondrous "what's going to happen next?" feeling since I've seen it already. I'm going to miss that emotion, and doubt if there are too many movies that can have the same effect. Brrrr, what a movie.

Next weekend movie list - Ichi the killer, Suicide club, The Audition. I've seen all three, but there's a few liberal arts majors friends still unsullied by the madness that is Japan.

* - Yes, there are a lot of really good movies and books I'm only getting to now, or will get to in due time. What's the average life of expectancy of Indian males anyway? 80?

Big Empty

2009-10-27T10:28:00.001-06:00

I am in the purgatory of mental alertness. My eyes can barely stay open and yet I have a few dozen voices whispering to each other in my head. My blood is ferrying as much coffee as it is oxygen. Perhaps that's an exaggeration. But given how sparing I am with coffee use, I feel pretty buzzed with just 1 cuppa joe.

October has been a very eventful month. I bought a house, as I've been talking about forever now. I completed 2 years in my job. I made some significant decisions about my life in the near future. There's a few other things that will have major significance on life in general, but this is not the time to talk about them.

At every stage, I've been keeping friends and family abreast of my progress with every project. A common question I get asked is "Are you excited?". While October has been the month of culmination of tremendous planning and execution, I feel nothing. Not even faint happiness. I don't understand.

When I offer no answer to the "excited" question, I'm met with quizzical stares, quiet okays or just plain frustration. "How can you not feel what I would feel in your place?" is the implied question, and my state of blankness is supposed to be shameful. "Ah, it'll grow on you" or "it takes time to come to terms with" are offered - seemingly more for their benefit than mine.

Wasn't I supposed to feel pride when I held the deed to my house? Wasn't I supposed to feel spoilt when I pulled out of my heated garage on a cold snowy day? Where was that smug pleasure waking up in my own room?

Two years of work experience. What does it mean now? Pride? Joy? Excitement? Recharge of batteries, focus?

Why do I feel so disconnected from all this? Why I do I feel like I'm a spectator of events in the life of one 26 year old expat? What am I supposed to be feeling? What am I missing?

Am I missing out on these pleasures because of some nagging thought? Yes, the credit card debt is an unsettling eyesore, but can that alone take away the joys that figure in everyone's "American dream"? Should I be concerned that all I make of my life are days, years, numbers and plans?

Is this it?

Blue Jay Way

2009-10-21T09:56:00.000-06:00

A few shots, some drinks and many many beers later my friend used the bathroom.

Friend : Hey, what have you done with the bathroom?
Me : Hmm?
F : The WC you know!
Me : ...
F : The water's blue!!
Me : Well...
F (interrupting) : And when you use it, it turns green!! How do you do that man!?!?!
Me : Have another beer...

Instant Party (circles)

2009-10-19T22:27:00.000-06:00

Because when I throw a party, I expect livers to shrivel and die

Speak to Me

2009-10-12T16:42:00.001-06:00

Hello. Before we begin, I'd like you to read this word aloud.

Van.

Say that again.

Van.

Louder.

VAN.

Right. If you're from anywhere in Ameri-stan you're probably off on a tangent about soccer practice, Sarah Palin or the mess the Mexican lunch is going to make later. If you're from my nick of the woods, you're thinking of the eggshell on wheels Maruti Omni - the car that could literally break into a million little pieces on a 2mph impact.

My post has nothing to do with either of them. I found a cheap couch online, and decided to go pick it up. I usually avoid SUV owners, I don't like wasting my time on douchebags. So the only option I had was rental. I've used uhaul several times before, but considering the mileage ($0.59 per mile plus gas) involved in making a roundtrip I wasn't too thrilled with the prospect.

Turns out that home depot has a pretty sweet deal going for it. You pick up a truck/van for $20, it's yours for 75 mins and $10 for every hour after. No charges for mileage. The distance was just enough for a round trip under 75 mins. Until I hit accent-hell.

Not every home depot rents out vans, and I had to call and ask. I can pull off a pretty good mid-western accent, and a decent southern accent if I'm bored. However, there are certain words that sneak through unchanged, or worse still, badly mangled by the covered up Indian accent. Van, is one such word.

Every single conversation I had a few nights ago went like this

Home Depot, how may I help?
Yeah, I need a van.
A what?
Van...
WHAAAT?
V...A...N
Huh?
Truuuuuck! (Larry the cable guy would have been proud).
Oh ok...

Turns out us brown folk say van with a soft "v", which makes it sound "wan". The shock and surprise in some of the girls' tones makes sense now.

Next day, I asked my WASP boss to pronounce "van", and he did so wondering if he had a mental breakdown coming. When I told him about the scene from the night, he opined "well, that's understandable, there's a discernable difference. But if they didn't understand when you spelt it out, gotta say - you were dealing with retards".

Right. Anyway, the couch looks great, matches the one I had like a lost twin.

On and On

2009-10-06T11:54:00.003-06:00

And there it is. I'm finally a home owner. I closed a week ago, and moved in this weekend. The move went off spectacularly. I ferried some boxes in my car on the eve of the move. I had 3 friends help me on Sunday for the move. They'd all helped me move over the last 2 years and were probably sick of the whole process. We picked up the u-haul and started moving stuff at 1 PM. The van was all loaded by 2, and we had plenty of time for jokes in between. The last piece of furniture was in place and the bed assembled in the new place by 4 PM. By all standards, that's a phenomenal achievement. I'd like to imagine it's due to my finely tuned packing prowess. The last time I moved I put stuff from every room in 1 big box each. While this reduced the number of trips we were all dog tired by the time the van was loaded and that made unloading a big pain. This time around I split the load into nearly a dozen small boxes and I think that sped the whole process up.

I spent all day yesterday getting my address changed and having all services moved. Still need to get my license and plates updated. Hopefully, this is the last I've to deal with all this for the next 5 years. My car insurance went up by $120!! That's after a hefty discount I got when I bought insurance for my house (a sweet $300). Fuckin A, joys of home ownership.

==========================================================================

I drove into work 3 hours late yesterday. The general consensus was that I was exhausted from the move and had slept in. The last part is true, but the circumstances somewhat different. After we finished moving I took the guys out for early dinner and a few beers. Given that I was sleep deprived (the dozen boxes didn't materialize out of thin air), 2 beers had me buzzed. On the way back I picked up a bottle of the driest Chardonnay I could find to "celebrate". I downed the whole bottle in an hour all by myself. I was still drunk when I woke up at 7 am. The hangover lasted till 2 PM. So much so for a responsible home owner eh?

==========================================================================

Being a homeowner now comes with it's set of lifestyle changes. I now have a million doors to lock, re-lock, check and double check because I'm paranoid like that. There's a lot more cubic footage which makes it seem the house was build on top of a glacier. I hate keeping the heater on (old miserly habits), and am faced with the situation of having to wear clothes while at home. Not cool man, not cool. On the flip side, I can crack the garage door open and start the car 5 mins in advance and that makes for a nice warm ride to the car pool. Ah well, trade-offs trade-offs.

After the thrill is gone

2009-09-29T13:52:00.007-06:00

My circle of friends has shrunk steadily as people found jobs, made careers and families and sought out lives in different states/countries. Something we all share is our ability to get into super-long (often times long distance) relationships with unwavering commitment. The shortest relationship was a friend who broke up with a boyfriend of one year. I haven't been in enough ~~serious~~ relationships to know of a clean way to break-up. I don't intend to find out either, and am eternally grateful that the kid tolerates me.

That brings me to the other thing we all share - horrifying breakup stories. When I was studying, I knew a bunch of first generation Americans (Indian heritage). They were about 10 in number, and had revolving relationships. After 2 years of college, everyone had dated everyone else in the group and still stayed on good terms. Contrastingly, the breakups in my group were painful and always resulted in the full cycle of grief.

The current spectacle unfolding in front of my eyes involves two of my oldest buddies. They made an adorable couple - she's half-Mexican half American, he's Taiwanese. She's an all American blond who can be a loud shrieking latina in an instant and he's heavily accented and goes "ayyah" when he misses a shot on the pool table (which is nearly all the time). Her house was the first place in the states I got mad wasted and he's been a frequent partner in drunken crime. They've always been "just friends" to others' questions about their status but I'm privy to their love-life, since we go back a long way. She's ambitious but in the conventional sense - work, study and work more. He's calculating and the kind to go off the beaten track - networking, business and independence. They somehow made it work for sometime, but things grew sour over the last year. They broke-up, got back and broke-up again. He moved away, almost lost his visa, she offered him a green-card by means of marriage and it was over again. He moved back to Colorado to rekindle the flames and they promptly parted ways again. I'm told the main issue is differing opinions on having kids, but he's told me more about his reasons than I care to share here.

They tried being friends, that clearly didn't work. I'm not sure whose idea this was, but they're now in a visitation regime, wherein they hang once a week. I'm not sure how platonic this is, for we're allowed nowhere close to the troubled couple. The plan, I'm told is to keep this for 3 months, and then stop hanging out all together. If you're rolling your eyes, you're not alone. Lets forget that something as complicated as a relationship, moreso a troubled one, can never be bound by a forced plan. It just saddens me that I'm being made to choose my company. They will not be seen with each other in public anymore, or multiple times a week. This means only one of them can be around the rest of us, while the beer and jokes flow. The girls in the group have all moved on, so it's the guy who's always with us.

It's a pity because I love her company too. She's funny, intelligent and cultured. I don't want to lose her as a friend and wish I could bump their heads together until something sensible got knocked into them. But that's just me being selfish. As of now, all I can do is watch helplessly as two good people go further and further down an unpleasant spiral.

Like a Rolling Stone

2009-09-15T12:44:00.001-06:00

As much as I dislike the family on my Dad's side, they're the only relatives I'm in constant touch with. I have a couple of cousins who are a class act, but that's about it. My great grandfather migrated to Bangalore a longtime ago and brought his whole brood with him. I'm not sure what the full story is (and I'll be damned if I ask anyone), but soon the entire bloodline was living and breeding in the "big city". They came from a small town and lived a very rigid conservative life. The ideals were passed on to my grandfather's generation, and almost entirely to my dad and his siblings. A few adjustments were made to suit life in the 21st century, but nearly everyone in the family is capable of behaving like we're stuck in colonial India.

The clusterfuck of mediocrity drove my ambitious father insane and he joined the army. He cut ties with the family for a while, and rejoined the fold cautiously, and is still aloof from his folks. Mum had a big role to play in this, and you can bet she's not very popular. But everyone would like to ignore the scandals of the past and behave like nothing happened until it suits the conversation/accusation. For instance, I'm the eldest male child in my generation and that makes me heir-apparent to the position of patriarch. Yet, as a none-too subtle "fuck-you" from my parents, I wasn't given the family name. Although no one has brought it up, I get the feeling this is a bone of contention in family dinners we're ritualistically excluded from. When I grew my hair out, everyone realized that I'd been blessed with wavy hair like everyone else (and male pattern baldness, thank you very much). That actually got me pockets of affection from the high and mighty that make the rules. And yet life stumbled on, one sly insult at a time. Until last weekend.

My grandfather was the head of the family, and that meant absolutely nothing in the age of nuclear families and job postings. It was a nominal post that his brother has inherited after his passing. Although he's my "grand uncle" he prefers I call him my uncle and that's fine by me - fewer the syllables to utter, the better. Now that the "uncle" is the head of the family he's set it upon himself to "right the wrongs" in the family brought about the advent of globalization (and education, one suspects). He was visiting his kids, and decided to stop by over the weekend. On the ride back from the airport, he brought up the topic of bloodlines.

"Family's important" he said. "You're the only guy left in our family to take our clan ahead" he opined. I reminded him of a male cousin, who bears the family name. "yeah, but you'll be the head in due time", he retorted. Silence from me. Soon he went off into a tangent about other survivors from the clan, but nearly all conversation from then on revolved around glory lost from the past, and pride to be had from insignificant ancestors. He got the hint later on, and there was no more talk about the great family. I must say, I got off pretty easily. It also helped that I cook like a champion nowadays.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My grand-uncle is 78, and watching him go about his day is pretty interesting. He suffers from the usual maladies of age (frequent bathroom breaks, vision problems, discomfort with computers), but apart from that he's pretty sharp. He can walk at a brisk pace, remembers everything that happened after the 40s, is well aware of modern politics and has informed opinions, and spends all his waking time on sudoku and newspapers. I'm exactly a third of his age and I felt almost ashamed of myself. Apart from a few minor niggles, I have a sound body and stable mind. I can digest nearly all kinds of food, sleep and rise when I want to, can go without a bathroom break for almost a full day. Why do I get the feeling I'm pissing this away? It can only go downhill from here. Joints will begin to creak, fat will fill out my contours, memories will fade. I should do more with my body. I should correct some of that fat %age, add some muscle, get out more and use my body better. It's not that hard.

And yet, I know I won't. And 50 years from now, I will miss the body of today. What a bloody waste.

Black or White

2009-09-11T14:44:00.001-06:00

My non-Indian friend met an Indian girl (from Mumbai) at work. During conversation my friend mentioned that she knew me, and that she'd visit Bangalore next year. Pat came the reply "oh, he's from Bangalore? His skin must be darker than mine"*. My friend mused that my skin is in-fact a couple of shades lighter than Ms. KKK.

I hope I get to meet the wannabe Aryan soon. So much fun to be had, bring lots of popcorn.

My grandpa's brother is visiting over the weekend. It's a wonder that he is ambulant, let alone so active at his age. Unfortunately, he does not drink alcohol. I have no idea how I can entertain someone for 3 days without beer. Every day's a new challenge!

* - North Indians stereotype South Indians as having dark skin. The northies, as I like calling them, believe they're descended from "immigrating Aryans" - a theory which has been proven untrue. Read here and here.

Whiskey on the Rocks

2009-09-05T03:56:00.000-06:00

Fuck the whole debate about legalization of weed.

Screw the drug tests and the regulations and the rules about possession.

Alcohol is my drug and I am its willing victim. It makes me laugh, rage, love and laugh some more. It makes me act out of my skin and then kill memories of the night. It gives me the hangover so that I can avoid the consequences of a rough night.

Dear alcohol, whether sold to me as an expensive single blend or cheap revolting swine piss, I love you all the same. You never quit me and I'll never leave you.

Spanish Caravan

2009-09-01T14:39:00.002-06:00

I pride myself on my knowledge of the bars in Boulder, CO. In my days of being a borderline alcoholic, many bartenders knew me and even my birthday. But I digress.

"You can't start a night without car bombs at Connor's", "Aww shit, The Walrus smells like piss", "The Rio margaritas will fuck you up son!", "Goddamn hippies in Mountain Sun crowding up happy hour", "Avoid the hill at all costs, unless a night among smelly jocks, drunk overweight teens with fake IDs is your idea of fun". This advice and more, is available to anyone who wants to scar his/her liver in my presence. I know it all.

Or so I thought until last weekend. My friend's from Mexico and bought a great new casa last month. His family was here to visit (insert stereotypes here). I met his 2 brothers, only one of whom could somewhat communicate in Anglonese. Amidst drunken, accented muttering I heard the word "Oscar" being tossed around a lot, and I figured it was a new friend from way south of the border. Turns out it was bar they wanted to visit, and I went along, mainly in the disbelief that there was a watering hole I had no knowledge of. "Oscar's" as the blinking neon lights called it, is on the outskirts of the city, in the kind of area where even kindly white dreadlocked cabbies won't pick you up from. Surprisingly, the place was packed and even charged a mean $5 cover (most places in Boulder don't have a cover - $1 is an exception in Connor's on Saturdays).

Entering the bar was like walking into the set of a Three Amigos caper. I saw sweaty Mexicans in sombreros, overweight women in colorful skirts and smug lothario bartenders. By the time I had ordered the house margarita (which had more sugar than a boxful of candy), I had seen nearly every demographic you see in Boulder. The dancefloor was filled with outrageously pretty latinas doing the salsa in a hurry(how do they manage to swing their hips to reggae and still look so cool?) patrolled by hair gelled slicks. There were "college kids" in loose clothing consuming shot after shot. Muscular old men and skinny older men waited to flirt with the drunken rejects. I even saw a black couple, some Saudis and an Indian couple. Represent!

The fuckin hippies turned up, the unshaven women doing the annoying belly-dance imitation move. Anyone else seen that? Modern hippies like to believe that they imbibe something from all cultures and so they know everything. Only they confuse the middle east for South Asia, hip-swirling for belly dance, and slow irregular hand movements for response to Indian music. Goddamn hippies.

Amidst all this chaos, the brothers were supremely disappointed and insisted they wanted to go to the bars I knew about. Off we went, me wondering what they'd do in place where the DJ played MJ and JayZ. Time for shock #2. Turns out, to "pick up" girls you don't have to sober or capable of a coherent conversation. The brothers would stumble over to a group of girls mutter something and would have a woman on each arm before I could say Jignesh Ravindrabhushan. Their intentions were clear - to take the girls home (i.e. the new 2BR casa where their parents and sisters were presumably asleep). I guess that didn't make for a good pick up line and they left every bar empty handed. They even managed to pick up a girl from the streets before her boyfriend chased them away. I still have some faith in humanity left in me.

It was close to last call and I wasn't drinking that evening so I had had enough. Wished the boys good luck, rued the fact that I never had or will possess such skills, and drove home. Last I saw them, they looked like they had found a flock of cooing girls to buy drinks. Wonder how that turned out.

Sunset (Bird of Prey)

2009-08-26T09:36:00.001-06:00

House hunt is still on. I put in an offer on this townhome, 5k lesser than asking price and asked seller to cover closing (another 5k-ish). Seller came back with conditions

1) Full price, seller covers closing
2) Seller needs 10 days to find another place, if not, the deal is off.
3) Seller needs possession for 3 days after closing.

What. The. Fuck. Give me something to work with, bitch. Having to full price is a little insulting because Indians are never satisfied until they get a discount. Condition #2 is a little worrying, what if the deal falls through mid-September? I won't have time to close on my "backup" homes and that will mean additional expenses, something I don't need right now fuck you very much. Condition #3 is just BS - after we close, it's my house asshole - get the hell out.

We told the selling agent that conditions 2 and 3 were unacceptable and he pretty much asked me to fuck off. Bastard. What part of ready buyer in a dead housing market don't you understand? You, the seller - could you be any less motivated? Here I am, throwing myself at your relic, and there you are making inane demands. My final offer this morning was full price, and a "yes" to both conditions as long as the seller drops 1k into an escrow account for safety during the 3 days of occupancy after closing. I am still enormously pissed off that I'm the one making all the compromises here. I hate being in this situation, I feel like a fucking pansy. I should hear back from them later in the day.

While I'm ranting, might as well get this off my chest. I hate fat jokes. While no one has had the guts to tease me for my beer belly, I see Indians around me toss around plenty of fat jokes. Why are we as a race so fucking insecure about our bodies? We want fair skin, big eyes, good hair, perfect bodies. Everything else is an object of derision. Sure, humans are all about unrealistic expectations, but why poke and prod at something that doesn't meet an impossible standard?

If you see someone whose body you want to make fun of, stop and think.

1) Do you sport a 6 pack under that clearance sale tee-shirt?
2) Does your partner resemble a reanimated statue from a Greek temple - genitals intact?
3) Are you incapable of holding on to chain a thought longer than 5 seconds thereby unable to find a personality flaw to make fun of?

If your answer is yes to all the conditions, then you're given a 3 second head start before you're chased down by a pack of rabid stray dogs (there's plenty of them in good ol' motherland). You will be rounded up and put in an enclosure sans clothes, in the company of India's right wing moral police. Good luck, suckers.

If your answer is no to any of the questions, you don't get the headstart. After a year in the cage, you'll be made to watch all episodes of Mind of Mencia, a la A Clockwork Orange, followed by 2 months of non-stop MTV programming. Enjoy your lobotomy.

Blue Wonder Power Milk

2009-08-21T10:15:00.000-06:00

For most Americans, Bollywood films are all about synchronized dance sequences involving 20 colorfully dressed extras. Spot on old chaps, I say, monocle in eye.

Sikhs are the black people of India. No, we didn't put them to work on cotton farms, but they're probably the coolest folk in the multicolored hue of an Indian rainbow. They're well built, look very distinctive, dress and talk uniquely, and all the kids in college want to be like them. All the non-sikh guys want to get with them sikh ladies while the sikh guys, obnoxious assholes that they are, have full access to the dating pool.

Their music finds its way into most Indian parties and can make anyone want to move in a semi rhythmic fashion. However, if you're like me, you'll have no clue what to do when stuck in the middle of the dancefloor with dozens of gyrating young couples. Fear no more, I got your back.

Thanatos' guide to rockin' out on an Indian Dance floor.

Basic Rules

1) For most part, dancing with other Indians is a non-contact social activity. Sure, you can get close enough to simulate touch, and even let your shoulders meet, but anything more is asking for trouble from friends (hers and yours), jealous boyfriends/exes, family members, hidden moral police.
2) If you find a young man from the state of Punjab in your vicinity, make your way in opposite direction. He can easily be identified by musty body odor, bad breath, puffed face due to all the drinking, hairy chest on display. He's probably brought friends, it's best to exit the club altogether.
3) Don't be the first one on the dance floor.
4) Don't be the only one on the floor.
5) Be prepared to be raided by the Indian police at anytime.

Basic Dance moves for the choreographically challenged - The Shoulder pulse

We Indians like to use our shoulders. A lot. While it screams "this dude can't dance for shit", it's better than standing outside and missing out on all the simulated contact action. Rehearse this before hand, should be easy to master. Stand in front of a mirror, pull your lower lip in a curl, squint your eyes, bend your knees a little. Keep your hands along your thighs, and start shrugging slowly. Repeat till you have a rhythm. On the dance floor, move your shoulders up and down according to the beat. You can sway your torso just a little bit to add some extra flavor. There you have it - your first Indian dance move!

Intermediate Dance moves

So you think you have the shoulder move down? The ladies aren't recoiling in horror anymore? Time to step it up!

1) The light bulb - Stand straight, hold your left arm up and rotate the wrist trying to unplug an imaginary light bulb.
2) The cigarette - With your right foot, stub out an imaginary cigarette.

Place your right hand on your waist, combine steps 1 and 2, and voila - you're doing the dance as vital to Indian choreography as the 4 beat to rock music! Congrats! Spice it up by moving your hip to the left as you do the lightbulb to show you're down with the beat.

Advanced Dance moves

Lets face it. If you want to go this far, you and I shouldn't be friends. I'll be at the bar getting drunk. Asshat.

Houses of the Holy

2009-08-19T10:32:00.000-06:00

I seem to go from total self-confidence to debilitating crises of self-assurance these days. Jealousy plays a small part in the mess of emotions I find myself in. It's like being in my early teens all over again, coming up with absurd plans to go to the next base.

You see, I'm not the only one chasing the pot of gold at the other end of a sale agreement, anyone with a salary is trying to find four walls and a roof. S is a stingy bastard - no other way to put it. Actually, I can do better. He's an incredibly calculating, enterprising individual who'll juggle everyone else's money to his best benefits. The rub of green went his way and he bought a foreclosed home for half its market value. Miscommunication with the banks had him pay a hefty cash down to secure the home, but that's where his skills of using borrowed money came into play. Thanks to prodding from his princess-wife, he repainted, re-carpeted, added laminate floors and bought new appliances, and found bargains every effing where. His house now looks pretty amazing, all for a monthly payment less than most 1 bedroom apartments in the area. Cue my ulcers. What's more he's searching for roommates to further reduce operating costs. Excuse me while I throw up.

I am finding that I will hit my budget as far price goes and will come very close to my monthly EMI limit. Budgets are set for a reason, and I shouldn't crib if I stay at par with my limits, but what's wrong in wishing I could save a packet? Since I will probably not get as good of a bargain as S did (I have this silly idea that I don't want to live in a neighborhood where the front lawn is used a 4th bathroom), my house (if someone lets me get that far) will be expensive, old, and won't look as good as I want it to. Sure, there's no way I'll lose money on my investment and upgrading it over a couple years won't cost much, but that's not much of a consolation considering how tight I'll have to buckle my belt if I don't get roommates.

Yeah, even though I'm no closer to signing on the dotted line than I was a month ago, I've begun scouting for roomies in the area, and prospects are not that hot. I've blocked off horrid memories of past roomies for my own benefit.And this time, I've to find them, run background checks, come up with rental agreements and then let a stranger into my house. Spectacular.

On a good day, I have a plan. On most other days I hate the fucking world.

Light my Fire

2009-08-17T14:16:00.002-06:00

"Why pay rent when you can own?" they say. "Tax write-offs, pride of ownership, moving up in life" they preach. What happened to the grad school dream Jim? What happened to "let's drink all the 150 beers in this bar over summer and get our names on that plaque"? Where's that Mustang I promised the salesman I'd buy? Where's my Kawasaki Ninja? What happened to the 23 year old who bought 10 people shots and shouted "what's my name?" and had them all chant it? Screw all that, what happened to the "buyer's market"? Almost feels like I'm begging people to sell me their home. Home owner, here's a hint - if your stupid condo has sat there unsold for a year, while all your neighbors got theirs, maybe it's not the market it's you.

Last Thursday, my big German friend, Haans (not his real name) thundered "I'll have just 1 beer more. 2, if you guys are funny". A beer later, he must have decided we were fuckin' hilarious because he bought us margaritas, one after the other - each bigger than my skull. We were all 3 down in under half an hour. The margaritas are big enough to drown in, and the bar limits its patrons to 3 per head. How about that for a forbidden taste? Last call is the imminent threat of sobriety and knowledge of the passing time only hastens the drinking pace. Considering 2 of my friends were driving I suggested we "just get some air, lets chill".

In the next 40 minutes, we had consumed approximately 4 double shots of whiskey each. My memories of the night begin to fade after that. A creepy guy hit on one of my friends. She entertained his conversation, much to our collective shock and disgust. I argued with the bartenders about their poor scotch selection - I'm not sure who won. Haans almost picked up a fight with the creepy perv, but when you lose count of the number of drinks in your system, you tend to lose focus real quick too. Closing doors had us bounced out soon. I wasn't done with the "establishment" yet. I avoided 2 bouncers, got back in, stammered and mumbled and got some water. Only for it to be snatched away at the door because they thought it was vodka. Dumbasses.

I woke up the next day at 10 AM, still drunk. Called in sick, hoped Haans survived and went back to sleep. Woke up at 3:30 again, and my head and stomach were starting to speak up. "It's the mixing man, always fucks me up" I mumbled to myself since the kid wasn't talking to me anymore. "Never again!" I declared while feebly munching at a big burrito.

And then it was Saturday night the next day.

Gained the world

2009-08-13T11:07:00.000-06:00

The last few months have been all about new sights, sensations and smells. They told me it was a buyer's market and I bit the bullet. Lived like a hermit for the last few months (by my standards anyway), and readied myself for a 30 year old loan. The only hurdle is to find something to blow that credit on. I work well with a routine, and so I duly set myself one. Search for houses in the night, drop them into an excel sheet and list the pros and cons, the latter easily outnumbering the former. Appointments are set, and I leave work a wee bit earlier that day. As I wait for the realtor to pick me up, there's no sense of anticipation, no excitement, nothing. After a futile search for emotions I sit down to play some pinball on the jesus-phone. A white prius pulls in, and the driver is immaculately attired with a matching crisp professional smile. She's taken to me of late, and is trying hard to convince me that I should eat food that suits my blood group. "O+ve", she declares, "need meat. We need lamb, onions, and exercise. We should avoid dairy and bread. You're young now, but when you're 35 you'll thank me". I nod in agreement. I love lamb. Not as much as pork, but love it all the same. I can't live without milk, but I'm not telling her that. In fact, that's not something I should tell most people.

Yes, forget I said that. It's scotch that I can't live without. She makes it clear that she's a Church going, Greek orthodox, family woman. I couldn't care one way or the other, but if it's that important, I'll play along. On every slow ride. I do enjoy her company - she's intelligent, educated and cultured. Her heels clatter loudly over the concrete steps as we make our way into a stranger's home. They've been informed of our arrival well in advance (by her suspect dyslexic assistant), and the house is empty, left in a state of stasis. It's fascinating, like walking into a tomb. Most houses are setup with staging furniture but there's signs of life in corners and in the back of wardrobes. An empty grocery bag, a few hangers, a pair of shoes. Some houses are still occupied. They've let me into their lives for the next 20 minutes. I know what colors they see when they wake up in the morning. I know what's for dinner. I'm taking down notes. Commenting that their kitchen's small. The carpets need work. Sure, strangers are allowed to comment on your housekeeping skills. We discuss what we can use to haggle and bargain.

I will take away your loan - at the cost of your home. Not just yet. How old is the furnace? Why's the living room this tiny? How can the closet have enough space for two adults' clothing? *What were they thinking when they made the living room so small*? It's probably why I got to see this house in a market full of sharks, I reason.

Home, house, bullshit. Someday I'll find an apartment with the least set of compromises.

Rusty Cage

2009-08-10T15:46:00.002-06:00

Thanks to the car pool lane, the 37 mile drive takes just under 45 minutes. If I've been awake, or driving, us 3 Indians and a Brit will have had an animated conversation. I enjoy their company, and as much as I'm in a foul mood due to insufficient sleep, I keep the banter going. Much like the doomed king of Sparta (in the movie anyway), I toss all my accessories into the top draw. The wallet bulges too much - even though I don't carry cash. The shades dangle from my shirt and annoy me. The keys poke through my jeans - they all need to be kept aside too.

Approaching my chair, I begin to nerd-up, to prepare for all the technology I'm going to deal with. Almost simultaneously, I unlock 2 computers, check email for 3 different accounts, check the latest on my favorite gadget site. I refill my nalgene - how did I drink warm water in India? Make some tea, and settle down to save the satellite TV industry, again. It's not even 9 AM yet and I'm feeling almost smug that everything's in place. And then, it begins.

Fat man arrives, his chuckle heard from across the floor. Walks up to Skinny Jones to discuss the day's agenda. Skinny has a nasal, annoying tone, almost like he huffed helium for breakfast. Fat man breathes heavily and will always respond to skinny's questions with a "huh" before launching into a series of defensive grunts about why he didn't/can't get the work done. They sit with a cube in between and so they carry the conversation on until fat man plants himself noisily in his chair. There after they'll talk to each other like lovers on either side of a bad phone connection. Aw great, just another 8 hours of this shit.

Any time after 9, the cube neighbor S arrives, talking to his beloved wife over a douche-y bluetooth headset. S has allergies, breathing problems, and faces a constant battle of the bulge. As a result, he clears his throat now and then, all the time sounding like rotting phlegm is trying to scratch its way out of him. It's going to be a long day, I grumble, not quite to myself.

Send some mails, read the news, get the top priority stuff licked so that I can look good on those assessments. Glance around, pull up notepad.exe and begin typing. The day goes by just a little faster.

When I'm sixty four

2009-07-27T10:47:00.002-06:00

When I started this blog, some 3 years ago, I was imitating the stylings of several peers who were using blogger as an early prototype of twitter. It was also a stage in my life when I had started living independently and there was much angst I was trying to flush from the system. The snark you see in the archives from 2007 is real. And then, like anything typical of an aimless hobby, I quit. I posted the ocassional videos and non-sequitors but the purpose behind my blogging excursions dwindled with every post.

I restarted blogging because of prodding from the kid, and stuck to writing thanks to a kick in the nuts from these fellas. At the time of restarting/resuming "writing", my purpose was to chronicle my life as I lived it here. I have a reasonably active social life, things happen to/around me and my background should provide a unique perspective.

Like a pilot for Fox, it was a good premise.However, as I soldiered on, I realized I was writing a lot about the life I left behind, not the one I've adopted in the last few years. Nearly all my posts seem to be centered around incidents from childhood or my teenage. These are strong memories and emotions, and they make for good writing. However, these memories are finite, and some are personal.

I can only write about something when I feel strongly about it, and an evening with pals spent emptying a case of Heineken just doesn't cut it. Amidst the grainy black and white film, the grey haired guy with the deep Russian accent mumbles "you need a break".

While I'm no genius, and certainly not smart enough to turn an evening of bar crawling into an interesting post starring a motely bunch of foreigners, I need some time to figure this out.

Thanatos out.

PS : Update : Writing that post actually hurt, I feel like I've lost something I love dearly.

Flight of the humble bee

2009-07-20T09:53:00.005-06:00

As I write this, I am sick with food poisoning to the point of throwing up and passing out in a puddle of regurgitated bile and undigested Indian food. On the bright side, I haven't had to say a single word to anyone in the last hour and a half and I'm hoping to avoid civilization for the rest of the day.

A few years ago, dad worked for a software start up. The company had everything going for it - talented young engineers who were part time actors and musicians, curly haired nerds who thought they were playboys, minor indiscretions such as, and not limited to, the CEO boinking his secretary behind closed doors. The complete package, if you will.

Among my dad's peers was a snooty management chap who thought the fine arts had chosen him to be their savior. He wrote short stories (a pig learning to make an atomic bomb through a brain-internet interface, a Utopian society where names were replaced by numbers but havoc when the youngest citizen picked a name etc.), played the flute, violin, sang, and even critiqued this blogger's writing. I was in high school at the time, and had hosted a website that chronicled a 5 day vacation with the boys. "Promising, needs more work", was the verdict, and I had to try hard to keep my middle fingers stationary.

The company hosted it's "Annual Day" in a small party hall one evening. There were quizzes, stupid dancing, embarrassing-bordering-on-sexual-harassment-contact, and plenty of singing. The art savant then took the stage to render some classical Indian tunes on his violin. I don't remember how the performance went, guess I was busy looking for that secretary. Enter stage right, his son clutching a violin bigger than his torso. There was a hushed, almost revered silence. It was rumored that this 7 year old was the greatest gift to music on this side of the Rhine. As he sat down, with an extremely somber demeanor, the audience collectively held it's breath. The excitement was palpable and a few were convinced that this era's Paganini would emerge this evening. What would be on offer for our aural pleasure? Hindustani? Carnatic? Jazz maybe? With possibilities endless, and yet nowhere close to the hype, the kid began.

Happy (scratch) Birthday (pause)
to you (wail)
HappyBirthdayToyouuuuuuuuu
Happy (silence) BIRTHDAYYY to you (notes blitz)
assorted licks and squeals

The silence in the room, though momentary, rang louder than the cacophony we had just heard. Soon there was polite applause followed by 94 attempts to change the subject. While the kid looked nonchalant, the father was sporting a hitherto unseen shade of humble pie. Grown, brown men can blush.

Dinner was served, and the frivolities resumed.

If

2009-07-15T10:54:00.000-06:00

This is a nothing post. I'm not sure what's going on, but I have nothing to say.

Let's call this a bastard post then. I'll nick words from clever songs, italicize them, and appeal to your intellect. And hope to fake it like I have one.

If I were a train, I'd be late again.
And if I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do.

I'm way too full of me nowadays. I want to talk to people only to talk about me. If they won't listen, I don't want to hear them either.

If I were afraid, I could hide.
If I were a good man, I'd understand the spaces between friends.
If I were alone, I would cry.
And if I were with you, I'd be home and dry.
And if I go insane, will you still let me join in with the game?*

Dear world, do me a favor. Give me a chance to figure this out. Somewhere in-between books on shamans and lonely weekends in the great mountains, I'll find answers to questions I can't yet put to paper. Stay tuned, don't hit the dial, and all that.

And the night that you got locked in
Was the time to decide
Stop chasing shadows
Just enjoy the ride**

I'm not unhappy. I could tell you about my busy work hours, near perfect weekday routine, seemingly random but satisfying weekends.

Or I could just turn around and let you look at me. Not today. Not now.

* Pink Floyd - If

** Morecheeba - Enjoy the ride

Wish you were here

2009-06-29T11:25:00.013-06:00

From where I come from, the seasons can be described as very hot, not-that-hot and somewhat-hot-but-rainy. I've lived in beautiful Colorado for about 3.5 years now. In my stay here I've noticed 3 kinds of weather - scorching heat, blistering cold and surprisingly mellow "in-betweens". The "in-betweens" are transitions between winter and summer, and summer and winter. Let's pretend I don't know what the "in-betweens" are called, and that I'm using air-quotes where you see the actual quotes.

Anyway, the precipitation I've encountered for most of my life is rain in Bangalore, India and snow in Boulder, Colorado. Looks like summer finally decided to show up, reluctant and hesitant at first, non-committal and inconsistent at best. For a few weeks though, I was at distinct unease due to the seemingly random whims of Mother nature. The days would be bright, warm and sunny, and that's the last I saw clear daylight as I headed to my near window-less existence(isn't that some kind of health violation?). I'd get back out and the skies would be brimming with dark, thunderous clouds it seemed like the long drive back home was set to operatic overtures. And then with a frightening crack of thunder and an angry flash of lightening, the skies would open up, sending all age groups into dull panic.

Although I'm used to large quantities of rain, and the simultaneous joy and agony that comes with it, it's pretty surreal watching it rain down on a relatively new terrain, and watch equally bewildered population deal with it. I'm told this is what Colorado was some ten years ago, that summer's visit would be heralded by rain and hostile hail. It didn't last too long, but it was a good change from the usual. Now we can all get back to complaining about the mid nineties heat, and pine for winter again.

**************************

Our house in Bangalore had some history about it. It was at least 150 years old, and had seen nearly 3 generations from cradle to the funeral pyre. It was a tiled house, and the tiles bore the year of their manufacture - 1835. As a 10 year old, I'd try and break off parts of the edge of the roof, just because I wanted to destroy something so many times older than me. The roof went through multiple repairs and it represented my growth in a tangential way. The roof was in two stages and I'd get tennis balls, frisbees stuck on the lower level. I would also toss my broken teeth on to the roof. This was something everyone in my family had been doing, and I'd envisioned that the roof would soon be covered entirely with teeth, largely due to my doing.

Being the only boy in the compound (dad was dodging bullets at the Indo-Pak borders those days), an ambitious throw meant I'd lost a toy right away, no one to get them for me and no liberties to climb the roof. Soon, the family got bigger, dad returned, I grew taller and I was finally allowed to retrieve possessions from the roof. Only, the double edge sword of growing up meant that I was too heavy to try anything fanciful on the delicate century old roof.

**************************

Sensitivity to rain is almost in my blood. I can smell it a mile away, and it fills me with an abstract sense of joy. Since rain often brought relief to the agonizing heat, and power cuts meant that everyone in the family would actually spend time together, I'd wait for hours looking anxiously at the sky. It would begin as a steady tap on the roof. The sounds rain makes on a tiled roof, held only by wooden beams, is distinct. The steady beat invokes fear, since the roof sounds like it could give anytime, and yet gives the sensation of being in a dry bubble being splashed with water. The rhythm would pick up, my granma would mute the blasted TV, nod her head side to side and say male (rain) with a small satisfied smile. She had quite the green thumb and the knowledge that her beloved plants would thrive brought her great happiness. Mum would emerge from the kitchen, pots and pans in tow ready to organize a blitz. The roof wasn't without its faults - it had sprung numerous leaks. Being agile at the time, it was my job to run around and place a pot under every drip we knew about. Soon the sounds of the drizzle would be accompanied by steady drips as water collected in the pots one drop at a time. In no time the rain would turn into a torrent, and the loud bursting sound was the transformer down the block shorting out, and all lights would disappear. I would open our double front doors, setup a chair for granma, as mum brought out hot tea and fried finger food. While the tea cooled, she'd get out to the courtyard and catch hailstones in her mouth beckoning me to do the same. I would join her, to hear her singing in joy. Soon, we would be joined my aunt, and later my kid brother. He loved the rain. As a toddler, he wasn't allowed out in the rain, but loved standing at the windows, holding his hand out to catch passing raindrops. He grew too, and soon it was a family getting rained on. In the absence of hail, we would make little paper boats and see how far they'd float in the numerous streams forming in our courtyard. We'd return to the veranda, and while mum dried my hair, I'd sip the tea, and indulge in golden brown bondas and pakoras (onions, potatoes and spicy peppers batter-dipped and deep fried to perfection).

I like rain, love getting drenched, because somewhere around the globe a family minus one is still doing the same.

Ozone Baby

2009-06-19T10:48:00.007-06:00

I'll slack off today and post pictures.

Promised ball-cupping pics.

The next day, I had a few friends over for a cocktail party. You know it's a good night when you finish a bottle of rum in under 2 hours.

Man, it's been a while since I broke out that hookah.

Speaking of which, random story (guess I'm not that lazy after all). Me and a few friends were in god forsaken dirthole downtown Denver two summers ago. Of course, the bar we were in had this angry red, near gothic theme going for it, and us former death-goth-metal-heads quite liked the place. We Indians very quickly realize that our accent will never be considered exotic, and that our words will never make the ladies swoon or make their knees go weak. It is of great use when you want to play "make the politically correct whitey laugh at your accent", but not too much good comes out of it otherwise. Try saying "you and me, will paint this town red baby" like Apu does and you'll see what I mean. Yanks - yes, we know you find us funny.

Anyway, even if I did have an outrageously cool accent, I have zero skills to initiate conversation with the fairer sex, much less charm them with my mystical Eastern wisdom. So I generally stick with my friends and pretend I'm too cool to "play the game". Back to the story. After a few drinks, we stepped out for a smoke. I should mention that I pick up the cancer sticks only when I've had one too many, and my sparkling wit and genius spontaneity are at a bare minimum. We started talking to these ladies of shall we say, an older age group. We exchanged notes about smoking preferences and soon I had to explain that I liked my tobacco flavored, smoke cooled and delivered through an ornamental glass contraption, and indeed I wasn't interested in women who provided sexual gratification after a brief financial transaction.

The ladies were fascinated and cooed "that sounds great! where do you live?". While I've had the occasional wink, suggestive nod, subtle elbow, sensational grind, I'd never had the anvil of a super clue dropped on my head. Of course, we had no intention of taking the bony elders home and I was suddenly faced with the task of ending the conversation. My friends, as usual, had run away and I had 3 sets of crow-feet lined, expectation-filled eyes looking at me. Turning my head to the side, I pulled out my best Indian accent and said "uhhh, I don't know I am new to this city, my friends brought me here, and they live somewhere south and I have no idea how to go there". After a minute's delay, that is.

The rest of the evening was uneventful, and we did end up consuming flavored tobacco bubbled through cold vodka, sans the senior citizens.

On the Run

2009-06-15T11:04:00.001-06:00

A 45 minute commute. Home at last. The socks have to be discarded - I can't wear the same pair for over 8 hours. I postpone some. I stall some more. Finally when it looks like the internet can't distract me anymore, I fill the bottle up. Pick up keys, the all important phone, and slam the door behind me. The weather's never the same 2 days in a row, which means I have too many layers or too few. Suck it up and avoid dog poop and sprinklers on the way to the small room.

Curse, turn around and come back for the bottle still sitting by the faucet. Repeat journey. Soon I'm off. A little youtube-on-the-phone to warm up, before I switch to Pandora. Annoying Euro techno isn't nearly loud enough, my bones seem to creak louder than the rehashed tunes. The volume slider's pushed up a few notches and in a surreal moment I see the bottle and the keys come to life as my feet pound the rubbery surface.

In no time, I'm hearing from muscles like relatives lost in the folds in time. Curious, angry, tired and jaded. I need motivation, I crank the slider up. Tinnitus is only a symptom. Don't pay attention to numbers, a mile isn't far enough. If I slow down and pause for a second I can run two more. I dare my right hand to hit the arrow, and my arm seems to recoil in shame.

Flat feet, arches not rebounding, ankles complaining. I tell myself, running is natural. A little water, I grin and keep going. Those perfect bodies on TV can't be all CGI and scapels, they've been puffing and panting too.

Jogger's knee, tennis elbow, broken backbone. It's only pain. Drink some water. Keep going.

All that fat, all the indulgence over the first quarter of my life. Think of all things spiteful, all memories hateful. High school bullies, asshole mountain bikers, tight muscular bodies, lost chances, the reflection in the mirror, strategic poses in pictures, shortcomings of the body and the mind. It's the last quarter mile now. Come on, come on, come on, I scream, thankful that no one else uses this god forsaken equipment. My brand of self-motivation comes with a fistful of hatred. Drink. Some. Water.

The numbers line up and the buttons are hit. The world slows down and gets a lot quieter. Warm down, and gloat at the flashing digits.

Same time tomorrow.

Heavy Fuel

2009-06-11T10:57:00.004-06:00

Greetings Yanks.

It's me, the brown guy with the funny accent. I have studied your people, and I'm fascinated. You love your pop-culture, light beer, your smoke-free zones, parenthood, barbeque, family dinners, inter-city sports extravaganzas, reruns of those sports extravaganzas, religious holidays - sometimes all in the same day.

I do like barbeque sauce. And driving on your beautiful roads. Driving fast, that is.

Most Americans are early morning people. Or so I thought when I first got here. All "early" appointments are at dawn break, at times when any self respecting Indian is still dreaming of black Friday bargains. Turns out you guys aren't actually early morning people. You need to get home early to fight with the family so bad, you get to work early and stay juiced up on coffee all day long. We Indians like getting to work later than you chaps do (9 AM usually) but we're fuckin' ready to deliver when the minute hand ticks past '59.

Your morning routines are a travesty heaped on someone already in a foul mood thanks to no good office timings. You drive slow, real slow - 10 below the limit on a 25 mile single lane street because you're still ingesting your first cup of black magic. Let me level with you - I'm a bad planner. I do not factor traffic, indeed driving time, into my morning commute so I'm always in a fuckin' hurry.

Though I don't know why I bother, because when I do get to work, everyone else is crowded around the blasted coffee machine sharing dry witticisms. You're in an office. Work, don't chat. Warm up before you get here. Before you leave the house. The road to work is not the place for quiet contemplation/relaxation. Find a hidden mountain road for that indulgence on your own time.

Look guys, I love this country and its people. But lets make life a little easier for all of us. Sleep an hour extra everyday. Or two. It will change your life. You'll be better relaxed, tolerate your spouse and kids that much more, and get to work ready to throw punches.

If not that, please get off the road when you see an angry brown kid speeding in the school zone.

Many thanks,
T

PS : I deleted this post by accident in a spree of late night editing. I've managed to recover it, but Narco and Lil your comments are lost in the intertubes. Sorry!

Whiskey on the Rocks

2009-06-09T19:42:00.004-06:00

n the eve of my birthday the kid asked me if I was happy. I wasn't all that thrilled. I miss the folks back home, I miss her and I'm still not completely used to living alone. And that incurable itch due to credit card bills refuses to go away.

On most birthdays, I'm a happy person and the day feels rather special. Today I didn't feel any different. Perhaps because the numbskulls in my car pool forgot, or because I've been here 25 times already. I felt a little better when a friend remembered, and I was taken to lunch and made to eat dick shaped ice-cream. ~~I may get over my shyness and post some pictures of me cupping the balls.~~ I finally got hold of the pics, they're up!

Still, I was thinking about the mundane-ness of the day when it hit me as hard as a right upper hook : I was sober. Yesterday, now and potentially all day today. This is the first birthday in 5 years I haven't welcomed with shots and unrestrained drinking. Plans for me getting wasted on Saturday night were made last fortnight, but being a corporate whore has now put a dampener on weekday celebrations.

So that's it then. I'm not feeling old, fat or poor. I feel sober. And if that's still a new, uneasy feeling I don't see myself getting old anytime soon. Booya.

I think I'll fix myself a drink. No drink on weekdays/no drinking alone be damned.

The Everlasting Gaze

2009-06-02T11:46:00.003-06:00

I've written about my good buddy S before. Quick recap : he's from the subcontinent (not Indian - but more Indian than I am), tried his hand at the dating game and didn't do too well. Thanks to the wonders of arranged marriage his mom hooked him up with a rather pretty youngster and he's all "settled" now. And by that I mean he gained 50 lbs.

He first got to know the girl by an email his mom sent him with her pictures in it. He showed me the email, and I got to know her by saying "I'd hit that".

Last week, we were talking about this girl (not his wife) we knew who was to join as an intern. She isn't very likable, and her unibrow doesn't help. Our conversation

Me : Yeah, that [redacted] is coming back as an intern
S : oh, ok.
Me : Totally hate that unibrow.
S : Why?
Me : Because!
S : Slow down, what's a unibrow?

I explained, adding that it makes women look fugly. I should note here, that S being diametrically challenged, every move and word is slow and deliberate. And his sub-continent accent increases in the face of things he doesn't understand.

S : What's fugly?

At this point, I should have sensed something bad was about to happen and should have bailed, but hey, I was never known for my foresight. And so I enlightened him about that too.

S (deep, deep accent) : Why do you say that? I like unibrows!
Me : (with a contorted smile imagining the multitude of ways I could make fun of this unfortunate admission)
S : My wife has a unibrow!

It took about 2 minutes of backtracking and some unconvincing explanations as to why his wife's unibrow didn't fit my definition of fugly.

So yeah. We don't talk that much now.

Us and Them

2009-05-29T09:40:00.003-06:00

In my field of education and line of work, I've come across several brilliant minds and truly gifted students of science. I like giving credit where it's due and have told many people how much I like their way of thinking/reasoning.

Whether by upbringing or by personality, I find it hard to take compliments too seriously. I usually brush off accolades as I find them a touch embarrassing - I just don't know how to react when someone says something good about me. While I didn't take any part of my schooling for granted, peers and faculty were of the opinion that while I had the intellectual horsepower, I simply lacked the will to work hard and score points in the exam. I was always in the top 10 in the class - good but could do better - was consistent feedback me and the parents got all the time.

College just about destroyed every notion I had about myself. I was in a large group of 12 people and 9 of them would score at least 20 points more than me per paper. Music, dating, the internet were large distractions and I suddenly found myself at rungs way below what I was used to. I had a "rock-bottom" moment in a lab exam in my junior year. It was a circuits lab, and I had to first draw a circuit diagram, write a little theory and steps to get observations. I remember struggling through the writing part. We're given components to perform the experiment only if the writing's approved by the examiner, and I somehow managed to cross that hurdle. When I wired the circuit up, I realized that I had absolutely no clue what I was doing. The output was lacking, the components were hooked up wrong so they heated up, and I had no idea what the procedure was or even what test values I was supposed to procure. These were low voltage/power circuits and yet I managed to heat a transistor so bad that I singed my thumb and I bear a small scar to this day. The examiner (whom I hated, and he knew) came around to check on me and he was also shocked at my ineptitude. I had a good reputation among the faculty due to my behavior and the company I kept, which made my struggles of the morning seem even more ludicrous. He dropped a couple of none-too-subtle hints on how to fix the circuit and what the correct procedure was, and left the table disgusted.

I got 70 in that paper. I shouldn't even have passed, but goodwill from a man who hated me, got me through.

I remember coming home, tripping over the furniture, and crying. It started as a loud scream due to the pain, but soon I was bawling because I was in uncharted territory. I always thought I was better than the scum of the last benches that had no clue during exams, and showed up just to mock the education system. Glaring examples that a single form of learning cannot help everyone. And here I was, priviliged well behaved child who was just as bad as any of them. I spent that summer wondering if it was all just a big sham, if everyone in my life had just been "nice" to me about my "intelligence".

It took a lot of effort to get out of that brooding mode, and I never fell that badly again. From then on, to the point of of considering myself below-average, I've tried hard to keep myself grounded. And as they say, if you say something long enough you start believing in it. Suppression of my ego also seems to have created nagging doubts about my technical ability.

But the world's a mysterious place and things seems to be changing, yet again. I find myself capable of writing rather clever code and find mistakes in others' code. People who've been at it for longer than me seek my advice, and some people even call me the absolute authority on the things I work on. After I dispensed some advice to someone I thought to myself "did I just say all that?"

Yes, times, they're a changing. I'll never be as bright as the brilliant minds I've seen at close quarters, but once I find the right balance between my ego and self assurance, I may have all the arsenal I need to make a name for myself.

Aces High

2009-05-26T11:53:00.002-06:00

You know you're getting old when you find yourself peering at the instruction manual. I haven't gotten to that stage yet, but sometimes gadgets aren't as obvious to me as they used to be. I shudder to think what it'll be 25 years from now, when I have the spawn to replace me, who'll snap at my inability to reset the flux capacitor on the Gibson. Yeah well, I hope to kick the shit out of them when that happens. I plan to raise them in India, where child services are a joke, and all parents know kids deserve a smack on the cheek now and then.

My disturbing kid rearing plans aside, you must think "Damn Thanatos, life for you geeks is so easy. You have these jazzy little gadgets that keep you updated on everything, and your massive social ineptitude means that you'll never face any true discomfort in the real world - you know, where people and stuff exist". I'd be inclined to agree with most of that statement - except spotty internet means I'm not updated on everything all the time.

But no, life's not all that easy, precisely because there isn't a gadget for everything. For instance, I buy French bread once in 3 days. I divide it into 3 pieces so that I can make sandwiches for 3 days. Only problem is, the bread gets all rock hard after 2 days, so my 3rd sandwich is never made and I have to go to stupid walmart to buy that cheap but tasty and super unhealthy boneless BBQ fowl. So yeah, that pisses me off. I can't keep it in the fridge, since that hardens the bread too (I think - haven't tried). I've seen bread boxes - but I don't trust anything that doesn't have wires sticking out of it and lacks a 4 star rating on Amazon.

Then there are the dishes. My dishwasher was manufactured shortly after a young Winston Churchill discovered his love for tightly rolled bundles of dried and fermented tobacco from a South American country. It (not the Brit bulldog) has broken a couple of my glasses, burnt a few plastic lids to a crisp, and made enough noise to alert the neighbors. All glasses and spoons have residual stains from slow drying, and house guests wince before using my silverware. The only choice I have is to handwash them, and then wipe dry all that shit. I hate spending time on stuff like that, moreso if I'm scooping crap out of someone else's plate. I tried dumping it all in the in-sink-erator for a while, but had to stop when I shredded a shot glass.

So when I'm tossing out the garbage or cursing that the water isn't just the right temperature, I wonder how heroes in science fictions get along. Who does Neo's dishes? Does Clark Kent forget to change the TP? Do Ninjas have to shovel snow off their yards? The latter, probably not.

Anyway. Gotta go. Laundry time.

Update : Turns out my neighbors are true rockstars. I leave my garbage on our shared patio to take out later, and they've thrown it away twice. I love you guys.

The Vagabond

2009-05-22T00:35:00.004-06:00

3 summers ago, I had completed my first year in graduate school. I had gotten full funding a semester earlier and I slacked off like hell. I didn't study much, partied a lot and missed most deadlines. As a result, when summer arrived, I hadn't applied for any internships. On campus jobs were hard to come by and my visa limitations meant that I couldn't work at a gas station or starbucks.

My department gracefully offered me a part-time job. I earned half of what I was used to. My credit card debt soared, and soon I had no money to pay the rent. I survived on rice and canned beans and tomatoes for nearly a month. When I cooked, the kitchen had strong smells of Indian spices, and preservatives in the canned food. The taste was strange, unnatural and unhealthy but it was all I had.

Well, that and the first major purchase I made after I got funded. My set of 4.1 Boston Acoustic speakers. I had picked up a futon from the trash, and the bedsheets mom had sent me were a reminder of the luxuries I'd left behind less than a year ago. I set up 2 speakers at me feet, 2 at my head.

The jarring sounds of Jason's Nevin's remixes, set to weird anime as accompaniment to the rancid food I was eating are memories I find hard to let go of. I slept all day, and I'd set my laptop to play lounge music from somafm.com. Then my roomie got me hooked to Air. There was a song featuring Beck called "The Vagabond".

I'm running after time and I miss the sunshine
Summer days will come happiness will be mine
I'm lost in my words I don't know where I'm going
I do the best I can not to worry about things

I feel loose
I feel haggard
Don't know what I'm looking for
Something true
Something lovely
That will make me feel alive

I can't say that's the one song that got me through, but it's an important part of the big puddle of sights, songs and smells from the time.

When I write posts like these, it makes me wonder if I really had it that bad. Perhaps some of it was self induced, and it still wasn't as bad as some others had it. But as vivid memories are, looking back at "me" from then is like watching a biopic on someone else's life. It's surreal, slow and eerily predictable. I feel little pity and an odd sense of detachment.

I don't want to go Freud on myself (nor would appreciate anyone else doing so), but I don't think it made a difference in how I behave now. It was just...that summer.

Feel Our Love

2009-05-19T10:44:00.001-06:00

It's a good season to be a geek. There's going to be 3 new phones (new iphone, Palm Pre and the Nokia N97), and the summer's turning out to be an extended comic con. Wolverine, Star Trek, T4, Transformers 2, GI Joe - oh man, someone realized us geeks have dollars to spend in the theaters.

I saw the new "Star Trek" film last weekend. I even had female company thanks to my sacrifce from months ago in watching a chick flick. She'll figure out the Vulcan salute soon enough. If you've seen even a single episode of the old Star Trek, you'll know it's so damn cheesy it looks like they tried hamming it up in every single scene. If I find time later (and have the patience), I'll edit this post to link up some shining examples. In the meantime you can search youtube for "star trek wtf". After you read this post, that is.

The film opens with an overdramatic childbirth, and yet it has pretty cool explosions, people scampering and even a moment of comedy. In short, they nailed everything about the series in the first 10 minutes and kept it going for the next hour and a half. Kirk grows up as a bad ass rebel with no obvious reason - he's just made that way, accept it, okay? It was refreshing to see all the characters we've seen over the years getting introduced. The near-lack of wrinkles and the new found "serious treatment" in reboots seems to payoff. Speaking of wrinkles, Nimoy shows up and looks like he may drop dead any minute now. There's no Shat, and frankly it's a good thing.

The managed to weave all the cliches (set phasers to stun, live long and prosper, dammit man I'm a doctor not a phycisist) and somehow pulled it off without sounding like a Futurama parody. They even vaporize a redshirt. While the inside jokes are for fans to snigger about, the movie is quite the ride even for people looking for a solid sci-fi/action film. There's plenty of lasers, spaceships, punches to the groin, a little cleavage, samurai swords, histrionics, tragedy and all that jazz.

I was grinning ear to ear by the time the credits rolled, and I'll probably see it again. I think rebooting of every franchise kind of reflects the times we're in and the times that passed by. The people in the 60s and 70s seemed to have been so baked nothing from that era had a shred of seriousness in it. Batman anyone? Now we're all about being sensible, environmentally responsible - "serious" in general. Our superheroes are getting bad ass, sensitive and more human. It's not a trend I'm very happy about, but it's refreshing to see the doritos eating community get some respect.

Next week : T4. Super.

Rods and Cones

2009-05-14T12:02:00.002-06:00

It's funny how totally random things happen when you confine a bunch of people in small places and deprive them of natural lighting.

Someone asked me if I knew where he could find a fork. Only he had a strong Louisiana accent and it took me some 4 retries to understand. Someone else asked for a pen and it took me only 2 tries before my cube neighbor stepped in. They're working on the roof today, which means there's the overpowering stench of melting tar. The alternative is to move to temp. offices on the first floor but it's too much trouble to move all our test equipment, so I guess we'll have to brave it out. There's a bunch of network switches close to my cube and someone's setup a gigantic fan next to it, as an incredibly myopic cooling solution. The whole area's colder than usual. Can you say pokies?

I cut my finger while trying to yank some cables out of a hard drive. I didn't know blood could be that red. I made a big fuss, told my boss, 3 other people and had the cube neighbor bandage me up. All this in the first 3 hours of my day. Lunch time!

Huh. I need to cut my nails.

My Generation

2009-05-13T12:09:00.001-06:00

When I sit on the porcelain throne, a voice in my head says "I have three snipers on the roof". All. The. Time. Should I be worried?

Anyway. As I dropped my eye-phone on the concrete pavement for the 546th time, I was reminded of the long road of intelligent design these devices have taken.
Warning : Up ahead is geek reminiscence, and if you aren't into that kind of stuff (why would you know me then?) there's always Ninja Cat.

If you're still here, lets take a walk down memory lane. Binge drinking has fried most of my brain, so it'll only be a few steps. Cell phones began making their appearance in India about 10 years ago. Pagers had always been lame, and cell phones provided welcome respite to the people with tens of thousands of rupees to spend. That's like a buck fifty before VAT. They were as big as the cordless phones of today, had dinky little green screens that could display 1 line, 2 if it was spanking new. Then came the Samsung with the blue screen and someone shot a load somewhere. Those were the good times, when phones just went ring-ring, and enough assholes didn't have them to set them off in theaters. Of course, that meant that people eager to show off scream their arses into the bloody ear horns, but they were few and far flung.

Then phones started getting smaller and cheaper, reflecting everything else about their owners. Midi ringtones gave way to polyphonic tones, and kids started getting their parents' discards. Lunch breaks nation-wide were never the same. Most things in America are about style and not utilty and the yanks will gladly pay through their noses to do less as long as it's easy. No wonder Nokias never caught on here and why stupid clamshells are oh-so-popular, but I digress. Meanwhile, in the subcontinent, where things like 2 year contracts and subsidized phones are still unheard of, phones were getting smaller and yet texting was catching on to teenagers like a pastor to an altar boy.

Things truly went to the shithouse when the all the 45 news channels (breaking news - cat stuck on a parapet, exclusive 6th hour of coverage!) decided it would be a great idea if boneheads with cellphones made great audience for thought provoking questions like "Should the Death Sentence be abolished?", "Should gay marriage be legalized" and "Should Nepalis be allowed to sing in Indian Idol*?".

That was just about the time when I left the scene and came to the land of milk, honey and mail in rebates. But turns out, we haven't seen the end of brick phones yet. In the name of touchscreens, graphics and other "features", phones are getting bigger again (not any cheaper though). If I went back in time with my mini tablet, I'd be laughed at for being a dinosaur with a phone that doesn't fit that jeans inner pocket (wtf is it for anyway?). Ah well, technology.

Someday, someone in a black turtleneck will convince us that phones half a foot long that hold charge for 5 hours are the future of technology and we'll all bite. Till then, I gotta pick up my phone and hope fall #547 won't hurt it any more than the 546 ones before it did.

* - Yanks - Nepal is a country, India is a country, Indian Idol is what you think it is.

Kettle Whistle

2009-05-08T10:27:00.003-06:00

Indians can be a contemptuous lot. Especially to one another. For all out chest thumping about our ancient civilization we get incredibly polarized for all kinds of reasons. Money, looks, languages, religions - we seem to hate extremities.

I, for example, reserve great contempt for the Hindi speaking towelheads from up north. It's just a language idiots, not speaking it doesn't make me any less Indian. No, it's not our national language, and I have absolutely no use for it. In fact, if it keeps me from avoiding conversation with you coneheads, I'll continue faking ignorance of the language. In fact, considering the load your overpopulated, brain dead, lawless states impose on the regions that actually contribute to the economy (read : us), secession is a very tempting thought.

When we gained independence in 1947, and wrote all our history books to make it look like it was thanks to the greatness of the North Indians, we designated English and Hindi to be our "co-official" languages. That means the state and national governments can communicate in either English or Hindi with each other. The idea was that Hindi would be the sole operative official language after 1965, but them Tamils down south ensured that didn't come to pass. The constitution "recommends" that Hindi education should reach all shores of the land, but doesn't impose any "national" language status on Hindi. Yes, it's a "nationally recognized" language, as are some 26 others.

What it all comes down to, my friends, is that English works just fine for me, thank you very much. I won't speak in Hindi any more than you will in my language in my hometown.

This was going to be a post about accents and call centers, but dang, look at where I ended up. Towelheads.

Begonia Seduction Scene

2009-05-07T16:05:00.000-06:00

Ever wake up on a Saturday morning and realize that memories of the night before are somewhat hazy? I get that vague uneasy feeling when the topic of my behavior comes up. Me and a friend were talking after a long time.

Friend : So guess what, I've completely lost tolerance for annoying people
Me : Uh-huh.
F: Yeah, I give them a piece of my mind without holding back.
Me : Heh, results may vary.
F : Yeah, I'm rude, snappy and curt.
Me : ...
F: And I haven't gotten laid in a year.
Me : ...
F: Dude, I'm turning into you!

This morning the IT guy at work was fixing my computer. As part of a random conversation he asked me "You just like being a dick don't you?" He wasn't being very serious, but it's not the first time I've got that.

Although specific instances are hard to remember, almost anyone who knows me tells me I can be quite the prick. But therein lies the catch - I have great friends that have been with me for nearly 5 years now. I must be doing something right.

I could easily get rid my angsty scrawling from '05-07, who's ever proud of their teenage "poetry"? But it's here for a reason. While attention, site hits and comments are greatly appreciated, I love reading my own writing. The same way I like certain songs, reading posts from those off-limits, breathless years makes me smile, appreciate my life as it stands now. It gives me hope that the things that aren't going well now will just be a memory in a few years. And what do I expect readers to get from this? A picture of someone evolving, wanting to listen, and willing to share. Mirrors my efforts in real life.

There are times when my patience surprises even me, and makes me miss the edginess I was known for. The temper does get the better of me at times, but it takes very little to dissipate. Doesn't mean I'm any weaker than before, but I'm getting closer to my goal of using my anger as a tool.

"Hatred is a powerful emotion" said Jim Morrison, and boy do I know about that firsthand. Time to leanback and finish my drink. I think I've earned it.

Bring your daughter...

2009-05-06T13:35:00.001-06:00

This Summer, when Martian Vampire Clowns attack the peaceful town of Nympho-blond-urbia, humanity's fate rests on its oldest savior.

Presenting...

Alpha Team Zombie Jesus vs The Undead from Outer Space.

Starring
Stephen Colbert as Jesus
Vin Diesel as Zombie Einstein.
Megan Fox, Jessica Biel and Angelina Jolie as The Stripper Sisters
Matthew McConaughey and Zoey Deschanel as Slaughtered Couple 1
Seth Rogan, Danny McBride, John C Reily as Slaughtered potheads
That tall guy from The Office.

This time, He's got the hammer.

Fuel

2009-05-05T11:38:00.000-06:00

Hippies piss me off. Yuppies even more so, but I'm getting ahead of myself here.

Life is expensive in Boulder, CO (thank you So. Cal rich kids). Yet for some inexplicable reason hippies flock to this place. I'm guessing it has something to do with the liberal attitude to the green herbs, but I wish they'd spend a quarter of their weed money on basic hygiene.

I'm not opposed to harboring the idea of world peace, growing beards, sleeping all day, shying away from work. Whatever works. But do you mind not getting in my way as I'm trying to escape the stench you and your buddies cause in the middle of the best walkway in town? Do not jump in front of me begging "hey man slow down, I'll let you hit me in the face for a dollar?". No pubeface, I won't give you my leftovers - I plan to eat them later. The last time this happened, el beardo followed me for a block sarcastically thanking me. Suck it up asshole, I conformed to society - and I have food eat.

And no, being honest about using my dollar to but the "good stuff" won't sway my sympathies. Nice try - do you know how many sandwiches an eighth is worth? Or how many laundry cycles that is? Speaking of which, why do all of you assholes dress the same way - long sleeved shirts, thick jackets, cargoes and boots? It's fuckin 70 degrees man, give your sweat glands (and my olfactory nerves) a rest. Scratch that, I have no wish to see you shirtless, carry on.

A friend feels the same way. He's rather "compactly built", and was approached by a thin gangly hippie with the "hit me for a dollar" routine. Problem was, the friend's rather well versed with the martial arts. Mr. Free spirit soon found himself to be the owner of a broken nose.

All's well that ends well.

Lux Aeterna

2009-05-04T10:04:00.001-06:00

Munich was a great movie, even if it was somewhat biased. There's a scene in the movie when a Palestinian tells Bana how important the idea of a "home" is. He was referring to a homeland of course, and good luck to the various ethnic groups around the world trying to claim/reclaim their promised land.

While I can identify with a homeland, strongly at times, home is a near alien concept. Being an army brat, I never stayed at one place for longer than a couple of years. Not that I complained - I didn't really care that my oldest friends at anytime were acquaintances from under 2 years. The social pressures of being in an Army base are immense, but the perks are great. Even after Dad left the forces, we changed houses once every 3 years - by design or accident. We started in central Bangalore - one of the oldest communities - and moved on outwards as the city city expanded by miles every day. The last house we moved to - I didn't really stay there, owing to me starting my Masters here - has been home to my parents for nearly 5 years now. That's the longest they've stayed put during their married lives.

I seemed to have continued that trend by changing apartments every year. It's a headache to move, but I can't seem to find a way out of it. Next year, maybe. As a result, the importance of a domicile, the concept of a home being haven is lost on me. Or so I think.

I don't pay too much attention to my dreams, they're pretty insane and sometimes just plain wrong. But when I dream of being home, I'm in the house we lived in for about 4 years when I was in high school/early college. I gave it some thought, and realized it was our first house away from the massive joint family I grew up with. It was quaint, oddly colored, and a point in time when my parents and I were all fighting some of our toughest battles. Dad was just out of the Army and was trying to find his foot in the chaotic civilian world, mum took shit (as usual) from the family, faced some major surgeries and yet stayed super strong (I can write pages about how amazing this lady is). 12th grade is among the toughest and most important exams kids write, and I haven't worked as hard any other time.

So perhaps that's what it is. Home isn't just a place where cakes are cut and songs are sung. Happy memories don't have to give you a sense of belonging. Struggles, sweat and triumph for having fought it all can work just as well.

Afterthought : As I wrote this, I realized that if some of my toughest battles have been studying 15 hours a day and having to get into a good college, my parents must have done really well for me, and themselves.

Halo

2009-05-02T03:19:00.001-06:00

During most of my schooling my dad served in the "fauj". That's Indian speak for the Army. Capital A bitches. Artillery, Gunner and proud of it. If you don't get it, too bad.

He was part of the force that put an end to to the Sikh separatist movement. He had an AK-47 put to his chest because an overstressed idiot wanted 2 weeks of leave.

When I was 7 years old, me and mum moved to the-then pensioners' paradise Bangalore, India because Dad had been posted to the out of control Pakistan-India border. "Non-family station" - the posting was called.

He would call, once a week - Saturday 9 PM IST, at first to a pay phone 2 blocks down our house. Then, when our neighbor finally got a phone 9 years after the first application (fuck you Soviet inspired socialism), he would call there. Yes, that was life. I'd wait a week, to know if my Dad was alive.

In the meantime, life was about visiting temples, old sages and married couples, blessings from holy men and priests to keep the family safe. Fuck god. Fuck all that.

Do you know what its like to spend a week wondering if your father is alive? Multiply that by 5 years. That's equal to fuck god.

god didnt matter. The phone did.

So when you say fuck India, you're saying "fuck your childhood that you missed because your parents chose to protect your borders". You're implying "fuck all the hours you spent alone tossing a tennis ball in the air because we're dissing the culture based on a few blogs that are no indication of the sacrifices the nation has made".

That's me. A well educated man, living a reasonably privileged lifestyle, hailing from a country of billions - with a history older than the written word. And you choose to disrespect everything my culture, my country and my civilization has achieved because you need a passionate story about divorced parents.

Congrats for being the echelon of evolution. Hope you have blast up there.

One More Time

2009-04-30T11:09:00.000-06:00

You : Dressed up like hell, as usual.
Me : Black tee with funny graphics and blue jeans, as usual.
Us : Super awkward because you figured I was trying to hit on you the last time I saw you.
The evening : Full of mind games
Me, later in the evening : Chilling offstage with a beer
You, a little later : Dancing with random dudes trying to catch my eye - and succeeding twice.

Thank god we did the mature thing and acted like there was nothing wrong.

Quadrophenia

2009-04-27T10:43:00.002-06:00

I hate baseball. It makes test cricket look interesting (not that I mind cricket anyway - I actually follow the sport). As I found out when I went to a baseball game in Denver, the audience was rather interested in beer and hot dogs, backslapping and general banter. That there were uniformed pearl shaped "athletes" running around like headless chickens was incidental. From the time someone plays his/her first game of beer pong, life and beer get intertwined irreversibly. As a result, the enthusiasm to watch a baseball game at home or in a bar comes from the knowledge that large quantities of watery beer and overdone meat will be consumed. I understand all that, and I have that concept down.

I love (American) football. It's fast, yet there's a commercial oh-so-often, which means there's time to get more food and/or beer. The rules are simple and it can get pretty interesting as the game draws to an end. Of course, that may have something to do with the beer consumption, but I digress. To me, the rivalries are - meh. I didn't grow up in the states, and so it's amusing at best when drunk Americans get all hot and flustered when they see a rival jersey.

But why does Shyamkumaran Krishnamurthy feel so strongly about the Raiders? "I fuckin' hate them with a passion" he says with the highs, lows and tongue rolls that come with the Indian accent. "Why?" I ask, expecting a tale of deception, loss of honor and a refund lost somewhere. Mostly the latter. "Because I'm from Denver man! And we Broncos fuckin' hate them!".

No. Shyamkumaran Krishnamurthy is from a Chennai (formerly Madras, formerly Chennapattinam) suburb, a hot and humid city in South India, the people of which are proud of every achiement in their 1500 year history. They invented their own language, dance form, music - even the wheel and fire but no one gives them credit for it. Shyamkumaran Krishnamurthy spent 2 years in Denver studying his MS after which he moved to San Jose to work for a well known software firm. After which his parents had him married to a well educated girl from another Chennai suburb. He now goes by the name "Sam". Or SammyK.

So SammyK can't stand the Raiders. I guess I should have picked someone to hate by now, but I was too busy buying beer for the big game. Next season I guess.

PS : Aww, Chennai, I kid I kid. You know I love you. Kinda.

Nostalgia Factory

2009-04-22T12:52:00.001-06:00

I am about to get sappier than ever. Consider your self warned.

But I remember everything
What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end

Mum called me the other day to tell me she'd be busy for my Granma's first year rites. I don't really have a great way of expressing that in English (or my language for that matter), but it's something like praying for the departed on a year after their passing.

Everyone on mum's side is like granma - terribly affectionate, very physical, shrill laughter, quick but inconsequential temper, and a very naughty sense of humor. Granma made it impossible for anyone to dislike her. I visited her a year after coming to the US and she beamed a smile that I'll never forget. She was proud of me and my brothers. She let each one of us know, every single time. She was god fearing and would spend nearly half her time praying. It gave her respite from all the aching joints and muscles that were slowly withering away. I can recite all those prayers, in order, to this day.

When mum told me about the rites - not as much as a reminder as an FYI - I asked her to pray for granma. I had been drinking. I reasoned it was wrong to pray for someone so pious, even if I did set my white russian aside. Mum didn't say much - she doesn't approve of my binge drinking - but did say I'm an excellent grandson.

I am. But then again, I ~~don't~~ can't pray. I've been asked to pray for others, but I've never been able to do it with conviction. It's not atheism - I'm still searching for an answer. All that doubt makes it hard to appeal to an abstract entity. It makes me spell god without a capital g. I may find the answer one day, but till then I have the ones I love to think about.

Granma, I miss you. Mum, you're everything she was, but a 100 times more special. I'm glad I still have you and I'll revere you forever.

Baby blue, we have each other. I'll sing that serenade I promised, someday.

Good Golly Miss Molly

2009-04-21T08:48:00.000-06:00

I spoke with Capt. Obvious' sister (COS) yesterday.

COS : *** Dental clinic, good evening.
Thanatos : Yeah, I have pain in about 3 teeth and need a noon appointment asap.
COS : Have you been here before?
T : Yep.
COS : Name and date of birth please?
T : (large number of vowels and consonants that have no right to be so close to each other)
COS : (finding name on 3rd attempt at spelling) So Mr. [redacted] how may I help you?
T : Toothache, noon appointment?
COS : Hows Thursday?
T : Okay, I guess.
COS : So is this a general checkup or a .... (voice trails off)
T : 3 teeth. Pain. Fix. And yes, a general checkup too.

Didn't know the torture began before you got to the dentist's chair.

Here we are now, entertain us...

2009-04-16T15:29:00.001-06:00

If you've been keeping track (why would you?), most of my blogpost titles are songs. Music is important, some bands more than the other. My older brother is 8 years my senior and he was in high school/college in the early 90s. That was when GNR, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Metallica, Megadeth were setting the world on fire, one tape at a time. Contrast that with me in the late 90s - we had Backstreet Boys, NSync and Britney Spears. Thank god my brother was too busy dating to notice I was stealing his tapes.

While I have been angsty (at times) as a teen, I've never truly felt my life sucked or that the world deserved to burn. Chaos is never self sustaining, and being jaded and disorderly gets old really fast. Watching bands careers unfold as they spend year after year expressing discontent is a surreal experience. Case in point - Nirvana and Cobain. They were hailed as the creative geniuses of their times, the true voice of a troubled youth, and friends in misery for the MTV generation. Their tunes were angry, incoherent, garbled and messed up - reflecting the truly troubled times. All this no doubt makes for a great wikipedia entry, but really - it's all utter bullshit. I'm sure the African Americans in the 60s knew something about pain, and they found the Blues. I see BB King has no songs that go "Albino, mosquito".

It must be really hard to feel the anger when your records are fetching millions, and so follows the inevitable "self destruction". I'll never know what it is like growing up in a broken home, with divorced parents, gun running neighbors, drug peddlers on the street corners and all that. But somehow I find it hard to believe incomprehensible lyrics represent the struggles of suburbanite white youth.

How much did it amount to anyway? What happened to the angry young kids of the 90s who thought they'd change the world with their anger? Why don't you ask the guy in the cube next to you?

New Potato Caboose

2009-04-13T22:01:00.002-06:00

I haven't been writing for a while. My workload gives me very little time to think, let alone write. When I do get home, there are better things to do than spend more time in front of an LCD screen.

Of course, the urge to write has also been somewhat reduced, owing to reasons beyond my comprehension. I have found that I write when I'm very happy or very angry (I'm not bipolar - but these are the two emotions I usually feel). I guess I've been relatively subdued and that has translated to the occasional blip on your reader. Most of my writing comes from 15 minute free flow typing and minimal editing - translation of ideas in the early morning or late night. I suppose the quality of the content here reflects that. After all, if anything requires over 25 minutes of concentration, it can't be really worth it. Those ideas still do popup in the head, only the drive to put them to screen seems to have diminished. Oh well. Circle of life.

People take spelling and grammar seriously at quite the unusual occasions. Say, when on the losing side of an internet argument. Or perhaps when they see a colored kid with a piece of writing next to him. Last weekend, I was participating in University of Colorado's International Festival and manning the entrance when this lady said she found "grammatical errors" in the piece of paper by my side. It was the script for the evening's show, fleshed out by a very British emcee. I don't suppose she knew that, and was very surprised when I told her it wasn't my writing. She said she'd love to help point out more mistakes but didn't quite have the time. Thank you, I guess?

During English lessons in the 4th grade, we were asked to form sentences from a list of words, one of them being "forsake". A friend at the time came up with

"My mother asked me to study, and I will forsake her".

Some people like breaking big words down, and I'm guessing that attempt resulted in "for" + "sake" = forsake. Combine with bad grammar and best of intentions and mix well to get recipe for amateur school counseling. The teacher called him and lectured him thus (in front of everyone, of course) -

"In life, we are asked to do things that are unpleasant and unfavorable. We think our parents are out to get us when in reality they have our best interests in mind. Suppose your mother didn't let you play last night, she may have had a good reason to do so. Homework is important, she knows it and so should you. Nothing good will come out of thinking unpleasantly about her".

My friend returned, sat next to me, and said - "huh?"

Thank god for instant judgement. They make for long lasting memories.

Not tonight, honey...

2009-04-03T10:22:00.001-06:00

Once a 80 year old guy married a 75 year old woman. They went to the Bahamas for their honeymoon. They had this awesome cottage by the beach. They'd spend all day walking on the beach, sipping margaritas and taking in the sun. The first night, they got close together, looked deeply in each others' eyes, held hands... and went to sleep. The next night, they hugged passionately, held hands...and went to sleep. The third night, the guy held his wrinkled hand out..and the wife said "not tonight honey, I have a headache".

There's a friend of mine from the sub-continent who's a good chap but he can be a little slow on the uptake. Hey man, if you're reading this, you're a brother and there's a compliment coming your way, alright?

Anyway, I roomed with him when we were interns about 2 years ago. It was a good summer, all the interns were fun and I made some good friends. This guy, whom we'll call S, was a good cook (ding ding ding we have a compliment!!). He'd cook for some 20 chaps every weekend and we'd lap it up. There's this girl we'll call Eliza Dianne Robertson, who was rather fond of his cooking. So Eliza Dianne Robertson offered to return the favor by buying him dinner. Time was short and the date didn't quite happen. He moved back to town later that year and promptly asked her out.

Date night, S had a rather nasty headache but decided he'd go anyway. Dinner, I'm told, went well. Eliza Dianne Robertson had a great swinging time, and suggested they get drinks downtown. S replied "uh, not tonight - I have a headache, I want to crash early".

Surprise surprise, Eliza Dianne Robertson didn't return S' calls from then on. 2 months later, he met her "new boyfriend". Eliza Dianne Robertson was married 10 months later. She had a kid a month after that. Gee golly, storks in America are goddamn efficient.

Bad Horsie

2009-03-31T22:18:00.000-06:00

Man.They're all dead.

Vonnegut died. And Orwell. JFK. Hannibal. Gandhi. And Cleopatra. Christopher Reeves. My grandfather. My other grandfather. Your great grandmother. Probably.
Mick Jagger. Not yet. But Che's dead. So is Dangerfield.

I ate a burrito yesterday. Homemade. It's a great recipe, you should try it. I'm going to sleep early tonight. I'm on page 150. Hmm, or 152.

September Sun

2009-03-28T13:26:00.001-06:00

Me and a few pals were watching Knocked Up. When the kid is finally born, the hero's friends go crazy and celebrate with him. I avoid congratulating people when they/their wives are knocked up. However, at that moment I understood why people celebrate kids so much, why there's so much joy in bringing someone into the world.

These feelings may have something to do with the 4 hours of drinking that preceded it, the 16 mile drive to get fries from McD and back to back to back movies. You know a girl (Heather Graham in this case) is truly beautiful and not just sexy when a drunk chap says "I'd put her on her back, take her clothes off and make love to her".You don't "tap that ass" when the girl is beautiful, I guess.

I love drinking. I love hard liquor, and in large amounts. I didn't drink in college, but more than made up for it in grad school. I have this belief that everything's better with alcohol.Heck, I even hold entire conversations after a few beers.

I was reading about Bif Naked. Did you know she was born in India? And that she's straight edge? I've decided that after I finish this beer I have now, I'll go straight edge for a month. Who knows, even more. The longest I've gone without a drink in the past is about 10 days and I almost lost it then. Life's a lot less stressful now, lets see how this goes...

The Crystal Ship

2009-03-26T00:17:00.003-06:00

I'm not sure what I was thinking when I made my previous post. Anyway, it is written.

I'm also not sure what the fuss about The God of Small Things is all about. Reading about the plastic watch, rose colored glasses, cinemas with red carpets took me back to my childhood in India. Of noisy South Indian Hindu weddings. Of colorful silk sarees, gold and perfumes. Of rain, sweet tea and terribly small shorts. Chaddis. Of the maid who'd seen 2 generations of my family grow up. Of her alcoholic, wife beating, abusive husband. Of the smell of arrack, toddy and paan.

And despite the premise I was made to dig through a compost pit of metaphors, puns and similies. Badly rhyming poetry written in prose. A ~~Pulitzer~~ Booker (thanks Narco!) for the shrill voice of a douchebag "activist". An author trying ever so hard to stretch a short story into a cynical view of the caste barriers in India.

I've heard of sexploitation, blaxploitation, Cannibal Holocaust, and much more. And yet, I struggle to find a term to describe the whoring of the mess that is rural India. We, the Indian people, get our panties in a bunch when a movie is made about the slums of ~~Bombay~~ Mumbai. Which, incidentally, exist. And yet, when something like this comes along to pander to the tastes of crusty book clubs, we wet our pants in absolute joy.

A child need not be very clever,
To learn that "later, dear" means "never".

Yeah. Give him a prize.

Abbey Road

2009-03-25T14:30:00.001-06:00

We will return to our regularly scheduled "mature" writing soon. In the meantime, please note that the following content may be graphic and disturbing.

I hurt my back pretty badly while snowboarding last week. I have an old tailbone injury and all signs indicated that it had flared up. So I decided to go see the doc yesterday.

There comes a time in a man's life, when with half an hour to go for the doc's appointment, when he has to decide the order of events in the near future. My agenda was :

a) brush teeth
b) shower
c) shave butthole
d) breakfast.

In the end, I had to skip one of the above.

Nobody's Fault But Mine

2009-03-23T11:05:00.001-06:00

After graduating from my Masters program, I delayed joining my full time job for a month since I wanted to travel a bit. The initial plan was to hit up a few states while backpacking and living in cheap motels. I even had this fairytale notion that I'd be able to find the infamous crossroads. Lack of time and money made me scrap that plan, but I did go camp out in the rockies for a month.

It was a month that gave me lots of solitude and peace, a chance to restart reading, and near endless memories. I broke my camera, nearly blinded myself with the tentpole and caught a fever. Still, one of the best vacations ever.

Initially, I was reluctant to go "into the wild" since I'd never camped alone. Camping with my buddies, ze Germans, meant that they took care of everything with obsessive attention to detail. So for the first week, I stayed in a campsite under a mile short of Rocky Mountain National Park. It had showers, electric and sewage hookups and was 20 mins away from a small town - supermarkets, laundry and even starbucks. The idea was that I'd use the cradle of civilization to see how thorough my planning had been, and once all corrections had been applied I'd move into the national park and come out as infrequently as possible.

I was into a routine soon. I'd wake up at 7:30, get ready and have 2 sandwiches for B'fast. Fill up my camelback with gatorade (the powder is very useful - kept me going for weeks), and set off for a hike. I'd eat a granola bar midway into the hike to get some sugar into the blood and reach the summit/mid point of the trail by noon. Have another sandwich and head back. I'd be back in my camp by 4 pm. I'd read for a few hours, followed by dinner - which was random stuff well done on the crackling fire.

In the earlier days of acclimatizing, I got dinner at McDs - they had free wifi. While cursing myself at slipping up, I stood among a bunch of people waiting for their orders. I noticed a toddler playing in the arms of her grandmother. The kid was black, and was in great spirits and in absolute love with the lady holding her - who was white. There isn't a whole lot of American diversity in the few places I've lived in, and this was the first time I'd seen something like this. My mind went on this trip where I tried imagining what the kid's mother looked like, and thought of fanciful stories of why the kid was abandoned and then adopted by the white lady. I'm pretty ashamed of the thoughts I had then, but the process is like poking a painful wound. It gets worse, but you just can't stop. As I wound my way out of this reverie, I noticed that the mother/grandmother had been looking at me all this while. I'm sure my face reflected the puzzles and conjecture in my mind, and I probably only got away because I don't look and sound American.

The stark contrast of their skin colors and facial features, the unrequited love they shared in their eyes and lips make for some vivid images in my mind. You hear about change and equality a lot, but never realize how a $5 dinner can prove a clergyman's dream wasn't futile.

Get along, Get Acquainted

2009-03-18T23:46:00.005-06:00

You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you might find
You get what you need...

I'm cheerful most of the times, but I do like the occasional brooding. It's easy being the laughing, blithering idiot rather than a man with questions and no answers. I'd been in a bad mood over the last few days. The weather, which I rarely get to notice owing to my 9-5, was cold and gloomy too. Finally the clouds lifted, and I took the "shiny red" out for a spin. I set off "east" with no particular destination in mind.

You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere

I set the cruise 5 below the speed limit and let the curves of the road unfold in front of me. I turned left at a random intersection and was in the "countryside". I had a Jeep in front of me and a Mustang behind. I was in America.

A lot of Indians would fault me for loving my stay here so much. I'm like my fellow MS-graduates-coding-and-trying-to-fit-in who seem to be almost everywhere. Apart from all the financial sense moving here made, I now realize that I truly felt I'd be able to make this my home.

"There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning . . . And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave"

I grew up in the 90s reading about America in the 70s. America was not a place - it was a lifestyle. It was about muscle cars and Jack Daniels. It was about Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin. It was about a narrow road flanked by fields on either side. Where god fearing farmers wearing baseball caps drove big trucks with bales of hay in the back. It was about grain silos and barns in the middle of nowhere.

I ended up in a mess of poltically correct, wannabe Eastern hippies (hello Boulder, CO) but thankfully, it takes 20 mins of driving to find the America I've always imagined. I passed a few intersections, saw tame horses blinking in the fading daylight. I drove on and reached a huge lake in middle of nowhere. The wind felt good, lake was spotless - all I had to do was ignore the porta-potty.

On the way back, saw the blue family version of my shiny red. We were driving in the opposite directions and were both wearing shades. Our gazes met and there was a slow smile of familarity.

I like fitting in.

Ser Mejor

2009-03-16T22:16:00.002-06:00

I'm tired.
Of long conversations.
Of calculations.
Of numbers.
Of planning.
Of hours in front of a screen.
Of being sensitive to others' feelings.
Of reading expressions and understanding tones.

I just want some peace. I thought I could be a better man.
For better or for worse, I'm me.

Taking Chance

2009-03-12T16:35:00.000-06:00

Read this.

Here's to the brave men and women in the armed forces.

Hold On! I'm Comin!

2009-03-12T14:34:00.002-06:00

Left on the list of concerts

- Iron Maiden
- B.B King.

The latter, I'd willingly part with a year's savings. Even half an arm...

Como estas, tu casa mi casa. Pendejo.

2009-03-11T12:30:00.004-06:00

Me and a bunch of pals went to Mexico for our friends' wedding. The groom was my partner in crime and during our binging prime we may well have kept a few bars in business. It was also the first Christian wedding I'd been to, and the first visit to Tequila land (Guadalajara to be precise).

As an Indian I needed a visa, which surprised everyone at the Mexican consulate since I can easily pass off as Jose Carlito. The lady at the desk asked me if it was my first visit and zooked me out by saying "they say the girls there have the prettiest eyes in Mexico". Life's never the same after a 40 year old woman in heavy makeup winks at you.

I get an average of 2 "como estas" per week in Colorado, you can imagine how it was in Mexico. A rush of Spanish directed at me and my Mexican friend, then disbelief when I said "no habla espn". But I do "get" the Mexicans, in that we're pretty similar in the way we think and act. Both Indians and Mexicans don't believe in the trivialities such as queues, retail price, traffic lanes or crosswalks. We both know how far a good tip goes, how important the sub-staff is, and that no TV show can work without 25 mins of drama.

The Church wedding was amazing, and very different from anything I'd seen. Firstly, Americans (the groom was American and the bride's family is greatly Americanized) somehow manage to project opulence in a ceremony where the only colors are black and white. Second, the people are awfully quiet and actually concentrate on the wedding vows. An Indian Hindu wedding has enough colors and noise to cause an epileptic seizure, and absolutely no one gives a crap to what happens on center stage. A wedding is an awesome networking opportunity, and the couple getting hitched is only incidental. With enough food to feed a small army.

I was taking all this in, when it was time for a blessing. Folks lined up to receive a share of the ol' flesh and blood. There was an even bigger hushed silence as people joined and left the queue. My German friend, who at that time was drawing our attention to the pretty girls in the church jumped up and joined the line. If this wasn't surprising enough, he returned and even said a silent prayer. I was watching agog as he said suddenly in his deep and accented voice "hmm, Christ tastes rather bland, doesn't he?"

Yeah.
Did I tell you we also tried to pick up cougars? No? Some other time then.

Monsters vs. Aliens

2009-03-08T23:19:00.006-06:00

I've spoken about my geekness before. It's an incurable condition, but over time the symptoms get manageable. There is plenty of drama in the geekworld too, we're human after all.

So you've decided to make the move to high def television. You're confused, potentially technologically challenged or just plain lazy to find a deal online. By all means, throw your dollars at a big screen and/or blu-ray player, but when you hear any of this from the sales guy, reach for the nearest sharp object and jab it in his eye.

1) Now that you've bought a high quality TV, it's time to think of how the signals get around
2) It's just 40 bucks to make sure your TV and DVD player can display the video as it was meant to be
3) premium cables will be able to handle HD signals that are "faster"
4) the high quality will ensure "frames are not dropped" or "there are no jitters".

Bullshit. Absolute and complete bullshit. HD signals are digital, and unless the cables are frayed and broken, there's no difference between the ones that cost $75 for a foot long cable and $3 for 10 feet. Do yourself a favor. Buy cables from monoprice. Heck, even Amazon's better.

Don't believe me? Check this out - read the comments.

Further reading. Monster cables tried to sue a smaller cable company for "parent infringement". Problem was, the owner of the smaller company had been a litigation attorney for 20 years. Details and general hilarity here.

So do everyone a favor, stop feeding those litigious asshats.

Someday

2009-03-03T12:14:00.001-07:00

I'm vacillating between various emotions today. There's rage, there's sadness, there's a frustration and a general feeling of helplessness.

Nuclear bombs, TNT, nerve gas can't be our worst inventions. God must be. An institution that makes young people want to blow themselves up to spite the face of the "enemy" must be the lowliest form of organized crime.

Those butchered in Mumbai, you're all but forgotten. Those killed in Pakistan yesterday, you will soon be forgotten. Those voices silenced in Kashmir - you're already forgotten.

Rest in peace.

Pretty Tied Up

2009-03-01T21:51:00.001-07:00

I've been force feeding entertainment into my cranium all day today. From "The Hinges of Battle" to "How I met your mother" to "Shanataram" to "Californication" to Arthur C Clarke. All from the comfort of my couch, stepping out only to get a burrito, and fix my satellite TV.

Mostly from the comfort of my couch. The word decadence comes to mind, it's something the mechanic would kick my ass for. You thought I didn't read?

We're in the rat race, we're in the long line of cars stuck on the highway, we are the products of a generation that strived for a controlled life. We've come to accept that a man with a tattoo and a mysterious accent who has no idea where he'll sleep the next night is the epitome of "living a free life" and is cool. Writers, musicians, producers and directors urge us to get out, make us think about the life while selling their wares, and we lap them up. Until the ride back home. On the highway. In the car with the good mpg and 5 star crash rating.

Some of us do, anyway.

But why should life be unpredictable? Why should I let discontent drive me? Why shouldn't I do what I do because I fucking love it, and I'm good at it? Why shouldn't I aim to do better at the job because, well, I can? Why shouldn't I dream of living a life in a house that I'll pay off in 30 years? Why would I want to be clever by finding extremely circuitous ways to say something bleedingly obvious? Why should I have to put up with people who expect that of others?

Yeah, I'm not keen on adding any more scars (3 is a good number) before I die, and I'm not losing any sleep over it. When I look around, I see people that lead truly fucked up lives. Violence, drugs, bad relationships, poverty, uncertainty - there's so much shit that some of them put up with. I've made some good choices over the years, and have worked to get this order in my life. So, be as condescending as you'd like to be the next time you see me. I'll hate your guts for it, but will never want to trade lives with you. Hope you find a life you enjoy before your bones are traded for metal replacements. All the best.

Just Push Rewind

2009-02-26T15:09:00.002-07:00

There's a saying I heard once

You never regret the things you did, only the ones you didn't.

I've used this line pretty shamelessly to get people drunk and/or other things they'd otherwise be hesitant to do. But some memories can make you feel like a complete tool. Small events like a physical fight, an act of aggression or unkind words don't matter much. If one does feel badly about them, some amount of self-persuasion with a dollop of justification helps.

Ever get a small pebble stuck in your shoe on a hike? The air is getting thinner, your lungs, legs and back are all complaining, when suddenly, every step brings additional irritation. It's not so much about the pain as it is about having to deal with the dull prick amidst all the other creaking joints in your body. Soon, everything else ceases to matter until that small, insignificant pebble has to be discarded.

Wish memories could be handled as easily. I worked in Bangalore for about a year right after college. During the time I'd take food to work everyday (love you mum!) or go out for lunch. On rare occasions, the workload would give me no time to eat out. We had peons in the office who could run out to get takeaways for us. I used that "service" once. I gave the boy (term loosely used - he was at least 10 years older) 20 bucks to get me lunch. He was back soon with the food and 5 bucks change. I asked him to "keep the change". He said "no no, it's cool". I insisted, he kept refusing. I didn't understand the reluctance at all - tips are rare, and meager. His refusal went from a polite "no" to an almost helpless plea. Finally, he said "ok" with some resignation and my ego was stroked - I had been "generous".

It took me sometime to realize that he was not as much of a "worker" as I saw him to be. I'm sure he drew a monthly paycheck, just like I did, and didn't need to be tipped like some of the daily wage laborers. Must have been terribly embarrassing in a country where social standing, class differences are still very important. That, and I figure now that I must have sounded like a complete douchebag.

There was some scene in a movie I saw recently that brought this memory back, and now I can't stop thinking of it. Even if I could apologize to him, I probably wouldn't, considering he *is* a peon and I - well - I'm a dick. Still, I wish there was some way I could get rid of this annoying pebble.

Any regrets?

Mortal Kombat

2009-02-23T17:17:00.002-07:00

I've been on the internet since its early days. Back then, it was hideously expensive, frustratingly slow and mighty unreliable. There was no google, myspace or facebook, yahoo was evolving and porn wasn't free. There was no blogging and some of the few ways to communicate with strangers were IRC and usenet. The latter was occupied and aggressively maintained by angry nerds of all ages. I was 13 or 14 and was given to typing like I was texting on a cell phone (strangely enough, I didn't have one till much later). I was crucified for the first post I made, and it made me feel like shit. I still know where to find that post, but won't post it for obvious reasons. Soon, I caught up with the program was blazing away on the digital trail.

You can never take anyone seriously enough online. The anonymity that the internet provides makes for spectacular cajones and people are nasty, witty, interesting, predictable - sometimes all at once. In real life (IRL), people are almost the same. Usually civil, occasionally awkward and sometimes funny. While one may want/need the opinions of strangers (or people of online acquaintance), there's only so much thought you should give to the words of some chap with a little time to kill.

I've been on forums, slashdot, comment threads in communities and blogs long enough to somewhat understand human behavior online. Although the idea is to discuss opinions, people get into arguments. Some of them get nasty and turn into flames. Flames sometimes augur very well for traffic, but in the end they all end mundanely . It's like peeing in a crowded swimming pool - wrong but hysterically funny, until you realize that you're swimming in your own waste, and perhaps others had that idea too. Flames lose the original intent behind the argument rather quickly, and they turn into long-winding slugfests that people participate in, only because they want to have the last word, as useless as it may be. I've noticed a few patterns after having instigated and participating in plenty of flames.

Presenting, the top 5 defensive tactics and ways to deal with them -

Ad-hominem attacks.
"Oh yeah? If that's what you think about subject at hand you must be a retard". Common insult when a person has nothing much to say about the previous post since it did make sense, and cannot be countered by logical reasoning. Falls apart when goaded into sticking to the topic at hand. "Yeah, very clever, how about you focus on subject at hand and leave the Freudian shit to someone who knows better?" is known to work.

It's my blog/forum/website, I'll do whatever I want shpiel.
Web 2.0 (i.e. sites that allow and encourage interaction) presents a unique set of opportunities and problems. While your opinion may be spoken about on your site and elsewhere, it opens up the place for attacks on your thoughts. Many times, a good perspective will help quell some nastiness. However, if the perp is out to get you, taking it on the chin may be the only resort. A common mistake is present something controversial, and just dismiss it altogether in the next line (or post) by saying it's your website, a place where you don't need to justify your thoughts. Unless you can pull that opinion off without a long winded explanation, why bother maintaining it? Telling the author that's a weak line defense doesn't solve anything, but is extremely funny.

Yeah, I wasn't being too serious about it, get a life...
We write about the thoughts we subscribe to, because we like them, and want to be heard. But when one is forced into a corner thanks to numbers or strong words, some people throw water on it all by simply shrugging it off. It mattered, at some point. Admit it. How hard is it to agree with someone else? Laugh this line of defense off for maximum hit points.

Verbose posts that say nothing
You will find little ticks in every forum. Ones that don't have any real opinion, but want to be popular. They'll usually align themselves with the hip crowd and chip in with little more than "yeah, I agree" followed by a stream of wordy nothingness. Even if they disagree with the current happenings, they'll continue with the butt kissing, because everyone knows the ticks can't stick it up to the big boys. All the more interesting when the ticks are brown and the asses are white. Ignore the ticks, they'll never amount to much.

You need to get laid.
Right. Ultimate last resort from someone not getting any. Pity is an option.

Flames are great ways to build character and grow a thick skin. If you have the strength, find a forum, recognize the typical defensive reactions and kick their self righteous asses into oblivion. Always makes for good entertainement.

Why I sing the blues

2009-02-18T23:12:00.010-07:00

When I was about to graduate from college, my dad had one of his contacts help me draft my resume. After projects, work experience (zero at the time) were discussed, I was expecting questions/suggestions about "extra-curricular activities". I had won a few debate and elocution competitions, nothing earth-shattering. More than anything else, I was proud of my craze for music (mostly heavy metal at the time). She cut all that flat "You know, most kids write about song and dance in their resumes. All useless bullshit, we're skipping that". Gulp.

I was thinking of that line today, some 5 years later. Talking about my love for music may not give me an edge in an interview about compiler optimization, linked lists and sorting algorithms. But it is a big part of my life. Not just the present, but of the past. When I hear a song now, it's not just for the lyrics or the tune, but it's for some specific memory it brings. They say some indolent odors can bring back vivid memories. For me, it's the songs I listen to.

Bon Jovi - It's my life
In my first year of college, I had started swimming. I executed a dive rather badly, and hurt my neck severly. I was confined to bedrest for a week, and had to wear a collar, no pillows allowed. The TV was moved to my room for entertainment. There were 2 music channels then - MTV and Channel V. MTV played the Bon Jovi song in heavy rotation and V played some Britney Spears song. No questions which song won. I can picture what the roof of my room looked like when I hear the solo.

Air - Surfing on a Rocket
I had downloaded gigs upon gigs of legal music through a college program. I spent hours reorganizing my folders, shuffling drive capacities, tagging songs, adding artwork to the files. Every few days, the software would decide I didn't have authorization to listen to the songs. I had to start all over, and I played that song to test if it worked. The start of the song was disorienting and yet reassuring - the latter since it meant that the software was now working.

Metallica - Unforgiven II
I was in high school. 12th grade was one of the most important exams I had to write. I had studied all day, and was tired as hell. I was nodding off with the song in my earphones. When the song reached the line "but now I see the sun" I had a dream I was near dead but was standing up to greet the dawn. Later, I studied all night.

The Doors - L.A Woman
It was a crowded pub in Bangalore. Me and my friends had just got in. The group was new, and we were all finding out slowly, and to a great deal of excitement how similar we all were. Someone ordered tequila shots, someone else broke a glass. I ordered Vodka, I too broke my glass. Then the girl in the video dove into the pool naked. We hooted and high-fived, the girls glared.We're in 3 different countries now.

Nightwish - Nemo
I came home after some 2 back-to-back night outs at grad school. It was snowing, I was cold, wet and hungry. The bedroom smelt bad because it was small and my roomie was a human cockroach. I didn't want to turn the heat on since the power bill would spike up. I was hungry and in no mood to cook. I passed out on the bed, the song playing in my headphones. I fell asleep as the music reached a crescendo, trying not to feel sorry for myself.

I like the songs I like, because I love the life I've lived so far. There are several more songs, tons of other memories. Perhaps living in the past is a drag for some, not so for me.

My life, in a 4/4 beat.

How about you? Songs? Memories?

Games we all play

2009-02-16T23:03:00.001-07:00

Hello, with the state of the economy now officially downgraded from "rotting" to "gangrene", I've decided to give this whole "working hard while at office" a shot. So, expect the same quality (or lack thereof) in lower quantities.

I love gaming. I'm not a hardcore gamer, but I do enjoy the outburst of finger activity (shoo, dirty minds). Incidentally, there's a surprisingly high number of gamer chicks in the US - I personally know like, 3 of them. I've even met one in real life.

Anyway, I play a few games on a friend's xbox 360 I keep "borrowing" now and then. I used to play computer games from 2000-2003 until the world decided my PC was good only to run viruses (viri?). I'm not an off-beat gamer, I'm as mainstream as it gets. Therefore, presenting games that everyone and their sister like.

1) Soldier of Fortune - Okay, maybe not this one. Bad start, but I really do love this game. It came out in 2000 for PCs. I loved the special effects at the time. If you used the bad assed shotgun, the bad guys would lose a leg and/or arm. Headshots were freakin' awesome since their necks would have some flesh remaining. There were blood pools that would form, and the guys would wreathe in pain till they died. The game even counted how many poor sods got it in the family jewels. Hell to the yeah, I had some fun with that game.

2) Bioshock - Set in an underwater Utopia gone horribly wrong, this game actually blends suspense with morality. You're faced with the choice of saving girls with super powers and getting a small portion of the pie, or draining them of all juice. Well not exactly, but that's the gist of it. Superb graphics, shock tactics and variety of arsenal and "genetic enhancements" make it a super fun experience.

3) Call Of Duty 4 - I played part one on the PC and was bored by the time part two came out. WWII just isn't my thing. But COD4 is set in modern time. Features decent AI and great graphics. The weapons sound brilliant. Very good game if you need to switch your mind off and kill some, uh, terrorists.

4) Need For Speed Carbon - There are games that supplement great graphics with a tight storyline, superb acting and the ocassional joke. This isn't one such game. Campy overacting and a stupid plot drag this otherwise fun, simple race 'em and win cash enterprise. Times have changed since NFS parts 1 thru' 4, where all you did was pick a car, a track and race.

5) Dead Space - Sometimes, you play a game that's just so good, you dream about it. Well, sort of. This game is so fucking scary I had nightmares the first time I played it. The second time I played it, I was actually a bit queasy not knowing what to expect. A futuristic game set in a spaceship overrun by crazy aliens. Sounds old? Hardly. The creepy crawlies won't die till you hack their arms and legs off, will play dead to confuse you, will even charge at you minus their deformed heads. Look out for bloated tentacles, flying manta rays and babies with peacock-feather like snakes. The last one's hard to describe and imagine, just play the game already. Other features include 3D zero G puzzles, a superb HUD experience, and a decent storyline.

To do games #2, #3 and #5 full justice, play them with a 120 Hz HDTV with a 5.1 surround sound system at full blast. Neighbors be damned, they can sleep while driving on the highway.

Any games I may like to play?

Timeout

2009-02-14T19:52:00.001-07:00

Went snowboarding today. Didn't fall that much, so - no, didn't get an ass pounding from Mutter Earth. I'm still tired as hell anyway. Before I pass out, a comment on the idiocy I've been seeing in Copper Mountains, CO.

The last time I was there, some dick stole my snowboard. I was fortunate that the rental company didn't charge me for it. Maybe they got it back through the network (the bar codes indicate store name), who knows, I'm not reminding them. This time, I saw 2 people lose their skis. So, to the knuckleheads getting equiment mixed up (or worse - stealing), here's a kind request.

If it ain't yours, leave it the hell alone.

Thank you, have a terrific Hallmark Holiday.

I asked...and I received

2009-02-13T14:14:00.007-07:00

I submitted my blog for a review at Ask...and ye shall receive. I said in the submission form

A collection rants, embedded youtube videos and obscure references that are increasingly reeking of self indulgence. I'll try my best not to cry, but perhaps a kick to the nuts is what I deserve for all this writing.

Brilliant. Outstanding. Moving.
These were some of the words the reviewer didn't use in the review. Excerpts -

But the gray text on black background is hell on my eyes. I suspect "Thanatos" knows this and is just punishing us all, little death boy that he is.

and -

...you know what Mr. The World Is a Vampire? Go fuck yourself.

Wrapped up with a

But keep on doing what you've been doing the last couple of months only better, and post more frequently and more meaningfully, and I'll revisit this rating.

Full review here. Funnily enough, the comments section which often turn into flamefests, and are almost as funny as the review itself, indicated that some of the regulars there liked me (kinda sorta). Got this from the reviewer in the comments -

Thanatos, I may have been having flashbacks during your review. Sorry.

Oh well. All in good fun. I've applied some changes already, will work on this baby some more. Flaming finger or not, I'm still alive, yeah, I'm still alive ;)

MTV Grind

2009-02-12T12:52:00.082-07:00

If you thought the FCC was a little slow on the uptake you have no idea what the "moral police" is like in the land of the Taj Mahal. Of course, Indian ingenuity is always about working the system and so the clever fellas beaming out programming would broadcast racy stuff only later in the night. "It's 11 PM, your kids shouldn't be up anyway"...

Part of this programming was this show called MTV Grind. Wikipedia says it was called "The Grind" stateside. Whatever. The show featured people in a very fake looking disco dancing to songs I did not understand (or like). Of course, it was decent entertainment for a kid getting to know certain parts of him better, since the ladies moved in astonishing fashion. Then came baywatch, adult films, and of course porn. Plenty of it.

I was taken to a club the first weekend I got to the states. Now, I'm from Bangalore where the club scene is virtually non-existent. In the bars (we call 'em pubs ya' know), we listen mostly to rock and metal, head-bang in a circle and nearly everyone gets wasted. A typical Friday night. Dancing doesn't happen and many of us dance/move like arthritis patients practicing Tai Chi on a cold Monday morning. Anyway, here I was trying to dance with with this outrageously pretty Indian girl, and trying to forget how goofy I looked (and felt), when suddenly I heard this wild hooting sound and found myself firmly wedged in between two white girls.

I'm built like a typical Indian male which meant that these two were each a foot taller than me. Great. I wasn't prepared for anything like this, and neither were my friends judging by their bewildered expressions. What was I to do? Thankfully I kept my hands to myself (or in the air - I forget), didn't make contact on my own - I behaved. Of course, I was able to keep perv habits in check since the Amazons stank. Badly. Guess a night of dancing and groping strangers does that.

They left as suddenly as they'd arrived and I tried getting back to that pretty girl. My friends, clearly invested in my best interests, suggested I go dance with "my girls" instead. My "research" had taught me that pizza delivery, plumbing and computer repairs were the best jobs and that women in America found brown skinned foreigners exotic. So naturally, I complied. Strolled up to the girls who were now just milling about on the floor, ignored the huge Mexican chap with them, and beckoned one of them to me, asking for a dance. Naturally, she refused. Told my friends I couldn't take the stench and barged my way back to the pretty girl. She said "your dance style is unusual".

So yeah. Slept well on the futon that night.

White America

2009-02-11T11:34:00.034-07:00

As much as I hate hip-hop, I like Eminem's White America. It reminds me of this friend of mine who was playing it while driving ridiculously fast and recklessly on a crowded street. For those that don't know - crowded Indian streets have all kinds of vehicles, pedestrians, stray dogs and occasional cows.

It also reminds me of a scene I saw last week while driving on the interstate. It was crowded as fuck since it was 5 PM, but was surprisingly bright given the season. Saw a cherry red Cadillac pulled over (no fancy rims!), with 4 black guys in it. The cop (white) was standing half a foot away from the window, with 1 hand on his gun. All terribly funny, considering most of Colorado is vanilla-ville and the only color you'll see is a bad sun tan. Gotta love racial profiling.

Once an "exotic dancer" was trying to make conversation with me in a "gentlemen's club". Not that she found me attractive or anything, but my stupid buddies were tossing 5 dollar bills like they were going out of fashion. The "conversation" happened in Spanish until I got her to understand that I wasn't Latino. She then proceeded to tell me that she was glad I was Indian and not "arab" since she hates Muslims. Oh, joy. Thank god people can exercise their freedom of expression hanging upside down from a shiny pole while flinging their undergarments at strangers with dollar bills.

Mr. Man

2009-02-10T10:22:00.067-07:00

I've just been reviewed on Ask and ye shall receive. I loved the review, it's nasty and well written - true to their style. I suppose I shouldn't be laughing after getting such an ass reaming, but it's so good I can't help but like it. I want to post snippets of the review - I can't access the site through work (they have a nasty URL too), will probably do it later.

Anyway. I was driving home last night and with 1 hand I managed to retrieve and put my shades on, dish my phone out, dial a number and some digits while on the call. I was gloating about all this, since the phone has no keys and needs to be watched to access the keypad.

There's a punchline I read on Dilbert once "Everything in a man's world feels great until he tell a woman about it- it's all downhill from there". My female colleague reminded me of Aaron Ralston. His right arm was trapped under a rock while mountain climbing. After being trapped there for long enough he said "fuck it", chopped/hacked his right arm off with a blunt knife, hiked down, drove a stick shift back to civilization.

You, sir, are the alpha male of the century. You are so full of testicular awesomeness Chuck Norris facts should be called Aaron Ralston facts. I wouldn't challenge you to a fist fight if you were tied down to a chair and blindfolded. Salut.

Real Genius

2009-02-06T15:17:00.119-07:00

There's massive stereotype about nerds that many people stretch and apply to engineers. Large glasses, incompletely broken voices, pants that reach the ankles, braces, acne, awkwardness with women - the list goes on. While going to college in India for Electrical engg., I'd read a lot about the Star Wars geeks, Computer Science (CS) nerds, linux gurus and all that. Heck, any Star Wars wikipedia talk page will give you the feeling you're on a different planet. All impressions were gathered from videos, satires and jokes so I had this whole mental image of computer science brainiacs half a world away.

When I did get here, I realized that the non-engineers (and sometimes even non CS majors) held these stereotypes to be true, mainly because they'd met as many CS nerds as I had - none. It took me some time to get into that world, and boy was that a learning experience.

To a large extent, the stereotypes are true. But not so many of them in 1 person. Uh, not to many people in 1 lab anyway. Reality is like the assortment of fruity colorful sprinkles on an under baked cupcake. In the 2 projects I did with CS nerds, I found a handful of these curious cases. Funnily enough, most of them had girlfriends, and that was when I was single - didn't do a lot to the self-image.
Of course, I didn't go to MIT or summat and I'm told their computer labs are swarming with grown up McLovins, but I'll probably never find out for myself.

What I realized was that Americans in general have some pretty annoying habits, and they get massively amplified in geeks and nerds. To the "thank-you-come-again" Indian mind, the American accent is a lazy, slow drawl with not too distinct enunciation. A nerd speaks a lot slower and deliberately the rest of the yanks do, and it can get highly annoying waiting for him to finish.

Indians are a reactionary lot, so facial reactions are important in a conversation. Some nerds will keep their faces extremely devoid of expression while listening, sometimes not even making eye contact. When it's their turn to talk, the really self-absorbed ones will take about a minute to wind up and will not stop, making the victim pray for the fastest form of death, pain no factor.

Nerd jokes can be funny, if you understand science. Really well. Most of their humor is derived from the wry observational wit Americans are typically good at. It is however, extremely predictable, and rather focused about science pop culture - which can range from cult nerd movies to comics (paper or electronic). The response to a joke is usually a shy smile or a silent chuckle. And then more jokes. Getting caught in such a crossfire is perilous to health.

Nerds aren't that bad, really. They can piss you off at times but are pretty harmless as far as most things go. Not the Japanese/manga obsessed types. You guys are sick. Shoo, scat.

About missing doormats

2009-02-05T11:07:00.044-07:00

It can be pretty windy where I live, and life gets a little tough around that time. The last time it happened, I lost my doormat. Nothing special about the doormat of course, but seeing how rarely I buy things, this was pretty high on my list of shit-I-need-to-buy-first-for-my-own-apartment. That was well over a year ago, and the gaudy green fella took his share of footfalls and very, very rare dusting. Happy times I suppose. The mat wasn't replaced, I'm too lazy to drag my cheap ass even to walmart.

When I returned to my apartment 2 days ago, I noticed the said mat in front of a neighbor 2 doors down. Very curious. I haven't walked close enough to the apartment to investigate, but it looks like mine alright. What are the chances that someone was as deprived of color sense as I was, in the same block?

Why would someone pick up a doormat lying in the vicinity of his/her house and start using it? Would I be a bigger cheapskate by trying to claim it?

As a side, yes - this is as much as exciting as my life gets on weekdays. Weekends are the same, only there's beer involved.

A Day in Bangalore

2009-02-03T13:33:00.055-07:00

I'm back to Denver, all well rested and shall I daresay, sated.

As I ranted before, the questions about how I was to deal with my ever soon to end vacation did not stop. How am I supposed to respond to "boy, it sure as hell will be tough/sad/depressing to go back to living by yourself right?" What is up with Indians and melancholy? Why not cut the dramatics? If we have to make conversation, isn't it easier to ask me about happier things, such as, I don't know, things I did on this trip? Just a simple "did you have fun?" would have sufficed. Why remind me of my impending return to life in a cube?

Apart from inane questions, us Indians like to compare. I'm sure just about anyone and his sister comments on washing v/s wiping, and it's just not funny anymore. Actually, it never was. Anyhow, here's some funny things I observed on this trip -

1) McD's still has service. And in some cases, a long wait outside.
2) Tipping is terribly arbitrary. And the parents generation still don't tip. They just won't.
3) Tap water is lethal.
4) Traffic signs are mere suggestions, lanes are broken lines on roads that everyone ignores.
5) Overpasses/underpasses/flyovers have red lights. And road humps - so do some tollways.
6) The 5 second rule doesn't apply. Heck, there isn't even a 2 second rule.
7) The temperature (and appearance) of a bottled water is a very big deal.

My Indian accent's back. What fun.

Borders

2009-01-15T18:46:00.000-07:00

Flew across the borders to visit my chaotic little hometown. It's hard to believe this is just day 6, feels like I've already done so much. At the same time, I wish people would stop giving me a fucking reminder of how many days I have left.

Old Uncle who's obviously been breaking wind : "So, when did you get here?"
Me : Jan 11th.
Old Uncle... : When are you leaving?
Me : Feb 1st.
Old Uncle... : Oh, so you just have 17 days left.

And this has happened in every fucking house I've been to. Crap on toast, give me a break. Also, WTF is up with public flatulence?

Meanwhile, people who have their myspace accounts to autoplay music should be banned from the internet. Stat. I know, that's probably 99% of the user base (and 100% of a certain age group), but it's probably best for the rest of us.

I did find a silver lining. I was visiting my soon-to-be-favorite pornstar's profile (probably not NSFW) and heard of this band called "HTRK" (myspace link - what else?). Listen to Fascinator - alt mix. Who knew currently-active pornstars i.e. starlets in their 20s could listen to something more than hip-hop? Whoo.