Judging from the last few posts, it seems like my blogging instincts are best triggered when I travel. I am starting to write this on my flight to India. Just a few hours back, I stepped onto the plane in Boston and took one of the cramped seats in economy with no legroom, with armrests that wouldn't move. As I strapped my seat belt on, I had ominous visions of being strapped on to an electric chair. Why, it soon became clear.
I had developed a cold yesterday. Now, this cold was the kind that gives you a running nose: a nose that runs more copiously than the Nile. I purchased three Kleenex packs, and sure enough, by half the flight, I had run through two of them. This cold was also the kind that gives you headaches and body-aches. Add that type of thing when you are trapped in a seat and can barely move, and the results are lethal: in fact, Guantanamo would be a breeze after this. If you want your terrorist to talk, expose him to common cold, strap him onto one of the economy seats on an international flight, and let him fly for, may be, two days. See if he doesn't spill his guts out.
I started feeling feverish after a while. I feared I might have contracted the bird-flu. As I fitfully slept, I had nightmares of waking up and coughing and spraying blood and viruses all over the other passengers, and then being quarantined in Amsterdam. I also realized I had to take a crap. Blame it on my stern upbringing, or call me stuck-up (as it were), but I am one of those squeamish folks who simply can't go in an airplane. So, in addition to my already nightmarish situation, I was now constipated. Just peachy.
Flying to India is like the journey of Moses and his people to the land of Canaan. Its long, arduous, and a great test of resilience. The Jews at least had their manna from heaven. All I got was undercooked schezuan chicken. My flight schedule looked like this: 8-hr flight to Amsterdam from Boston, 3-hr stopover; an 8-hr flight from Amsterdam to Mumbai, and then a stopover for 6.5-hrs; finally, a 2-hr flight to Bangalore. That's over 26 hours in transit.
Having reached Amsterdam without actually dying, or killing other people with my bird-flu virus, I was feeling a tiny bit better. Optimistic even, that with the worst behind me, I would make it. But my heart sank to the floor as I entered the KLM flight to Mumbai. The legions of seats were even more cramped than those on my earlier flight, if that were possible. It's like KLM decided to treat people flying to India (which translates to: Indians, mostly) a bit differently on their flights. The earlier flight at least had individual TV screens. The "in-flight entertainment" on this plane, however, consisted of images beamed onto the wall in front of the first rows of seats from a projector. What are we, in the 70's? Why this disparity, I ask the airlines.
I was feeling slighted (by the conditions on the plane), and debilitated (by the cold). Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, my ear, which was acting up because of the cold, started hurting as the plane changed altitudes. This was not the dull, throbbing pain I very rarely get when I have problems with air pressure at higher altitudes. This was like someone took a screwdriver and inserted it into my right ear to see how far it would go. Within minutes, involuntary tears were running down my face. I felt this urge to unbuckle myself, and storm out of the plane. Just as I reached the limits of my tolerance to pain, the hurting stopped. I collapsed, as much as that was possible, back into my seat, and almost passed out. I then slept -- long and hard. I woke up and was deaf in the right ear. As I write this, hearing has still not returned to my right ear.
As we approached Mumbai, I suddenly started feeling a sense of camaraderie with my fellow travelers: we had made it together! Then, I realized: it was not all over yet. I had the return journey in a couple of weeks. Best not to think of it until I had to experience yet. If I have my way, I will never again fly. At least, not economy.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Oh, Canada
Its been a while since I last blogged. Not that I have a dedicated readership that's waiting with bated breath for my next post. It seems like my posting frequency has somehow found a happy equilibrium: a post a month. That suits me fine.
I am currently sitting at Boston's Logan International Airport, waiting to go to Ottawa, Canada, where I have my visa interview on Monday. The plan is to hang in Montreal, Canada over the weekend. By all accounts, Montreal is the bomb. An airline attendant at Logan said its a "Paris of sorts... except for the Eiffel Tower". Well, I'm going to find out first hand. I am looking forward to have fun in Montreal, but the weather up there is not exactly balmy. Its going to stay around -18C all through my stay.
If you have been following the news at all, you have heard about Muslims getting up in arms about cartoons that don't exactly depict the Prophet Muhammed as the Messaiah. Now, being an atheist who hates religions in general, that doesn't bother me in the slightest bit. The way I see it, free speech means exactly that: Freedom to criticize another religion. This criticism can be expressed in any manner: satire, performance art, or whatever else, as long as you don't hurt another person physically.
I read that Tony Blair (and other world readers) is (are) considering outlawing the criticism of all religions. Not only is that a kneejerk reaction, it is also plain wrong. What about people like me who are not only not religious, but also hate religion? I'd rather like to see people escape the clutches of what Karl Marx called the "opiate of the masses", what Rob Heinlein called an "outdated concept" (that's religion, for the slower ones among you). With this in mind, I fully support the Danish cartoonists' right to create those cartoons, although I might not agree with the content of those cartoons.
Religion is something I have always strongly felt about. I continue to be amazed by the irrationality of a mankind that believes in a concept that is utterly unprovable. Its quite a remarkable feat for religious institutions to have sustained, and even enhanced the power and influence of the god-machine. In my most virulent mood, I'd say that God is a weight tied around your neck, a ghost from the fog of ancient history, a bogeyman, if you will. In its existence, the burgeoning institution of religion has produced more book-burning Savonarolas 1 than Mendels; more Crusades and Inquisitions than Renaissances.
Update #1: I am at the Montreal train station, waiting to get back to Ottawa. I now realize why the airline attendant in Boston who I mentioned earlier called Montreal a "Paris of sorts". Its because everybody speaks French, and French only. Its like I was in fucking Europe. Which I don't mind so much, as the language barrier. And the Cold. Man, was it cold! After 10 min. out in -15 C, my finger tips went numb beneath the new gloves which I paid CAD $12 for. After half an hour, I couldn't feel my nose. My legs were frigid under my jeans long since.
Luckily, old Montreal had an underground "city" of sorts. There are shopping complexes, restaurants, and even a fountain that shoots up a spout of water 50 feet high, all underground. Pretty cool. I'd take any respite from the cold. The fountain was a bonus. And the girls were real pretty.
I am a bit tense about the visa interview tomorrow. Pretty much everyone I know has had no problems with it, and I have the required documentation. I even bought a pair of pants from Kenneth Cole for CAD $100. But if by any chance I don't get the visa, I can't get back to the US. I will have to return to India, book another interview, and enter the US only if that interview is successful. So, that's a bit heavy.
Update # 2: The visa interview turned out to be a fucking anticlimax. I got the visa, no problem. I am finally on my way back to the US, after what turned into a mini-vacation in Canada. While in Ottawa, I did another thing that I can add to a very short list of achievements I am proud of: I ice-skated on the world's longest ice-rink. This is an 8 km monster of an ice-rink right in the center of the city. I wanted to do some downhill skiing/snowboarding here, but with the recent snowstorm in Boston and the rest of the Northeast, I shouldn't have a problem doing it once I reach home. Yep, this weekend is for that. Come rain, snow or sunshine. Actually, sunshine would be good.
Update #3: I'm chilling at home.
The Orwellian Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld, had the balls to exhort people to use non-traditional media to fight terror. This, from a man who doesn't even use email. America, good luck with the already dubious "war" on terror, with this guy in charge.
1Regular readers note my obsession with Savonarola.
I am currently sitting at Boston's Logan International Airport, waiting to go to Ottawa, Canada, where I have my visa interview on Monday. The plan is to hang in Montreal, Canada over the weekend. By all accounts, Montreal is the bomb. An airline attendant at Logan said its a "Paris of sorts... except for the Eiffel Tower". Well, I'm going to find out first hand. I am looking forward to have fun in Montreal, but the weather up there is not exactly balmy. Its going to stay around -18C all through my stay.
If you have been following the news at all, you have heard about Muslims getting up in arms about cartoons that don't exactly depict the Prophet Muhammed as the Messaiah. Now, being an atheist who hates religions in general, that doesn't bother me in the slightest bit. The way I see it, free speech means exactly that: Freedom to criticize another religion. This criticism can be expressed in any manner: satire, performance art, or whatever else, as long as you don't hurt another person physically.
I read that Tony Blair (and other world readers) is (are) considering outlawing the criticism of all religions. Not only is that a kneejerk reaction, it is also plain wrong. What about people like me who are not only not religious, but also hate religion? I'd rather like to see people escape the clutches of what Karl Marx called the "opiate of the masses", what Rob Heinlein called an "outdated concept" (that's religion, for the slower ones among you). With this in mind, I fully support the Danish cartoonists' right to create those cartoons, although I might not agree with the content of those cartoons.
Religion is something I have always strongly felt about. I continue to be amazed by the irrationality of a mankind that believes in a concept that is utterly unprovable. Its quite a remarkable feat for religious institutions to have sustained, and even enhanced the power and influence of the god-machine. In my most virulent mood, I'd say that God is a weight tied around your neck, a ghost from the fog of ancient history, a bogeyman, if you will. In its existence, the burgeoning institution of religion has produced more book-burning Savonarolas 1 than Mendels; more Crusades and Inquisitions than Renaissances.
Update #1: I am at the Montreal train station, waiting to get back to Ottawa. I now realize why the airline attendant in Boston who I mentioned earlier called Montreal a "Paris of sorts". Its because everybody speaks French, and French only. Its like I was in fucking Europe. Which I don't mind so much, as the language barrier. And the Cold. Man, was it cold! After 10 min. out in -15 C, my finger tips went numb beneath the new gloves which I paid CAD $12 for. After half an hour, I couldn't feel my nose. My legs were frigid under my jeans long since.
Luckily, old Montreal had an underground "city" of sorts. There are shopping complexes, restaurants, and even a fountain that shoots up a spout of water 50 feet high, all underground. Pretty cool. I'd take any respite from the cold. The fountain was a bonus. And the girls were real pretty.
I am a bit tense about the visa interview tomorrow. Pretty much everyone I know has had no problems with it, and I have the required documentation. I even bought a pair of pants from Kenneth Cole for CAD $100. But if by any chance I don't get the visa, I can't get back to the US. I will have to return to India, book another interview, and enter the US only if that interview is successful. So, that's a bit heavy.
Update # 2: The visa interview turned out to be a fucking anticlimax. I got the visa, no problem. I am finally on my way back to the US, after what turned into a mini-vacation in Canada. While in Ottawa, I did another thing that I can add to a very short list of achievements I am proud of: I ice-skated on the world's longest ice-rink. This is an 8 km monster of an ice-rink right in the center of the city. I wanted to do some downhill skiing/snowboarding here, but with the recent snowstorm in Boston and the rest of the Northeast, I shouldn't have a problem doing it once I reach home. Yep, this weekend is for that. Come rain, snow or sunshine. Actually, sunshine would be good.
Update #3: I'm chilling at home.
The Orwellian Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld, had the balls to exhort people to use non-traditional media to fight terror. This, from a man who doesn't even use email. America, good luck with the already dubious "war" on terror, with this guy in charge.
1Regular readers note my obsession with Savonarola.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
On Florida. And some currents.
My words of wisdom to my cousin, who bought his first Macintosh, the 14" iBook: "Once you go Mac, you never go back".
My cousin and I are strolling down this seaside mall/entertainment center in Tampa, and we see a couple of men of Latino descent hauling a big stereo system by hand, across the road. What do we do? We get all suspicious that they stole it. And what do we call it? 'Stereo'-typing.
Later, I am waiting for my return flight to Boston from Tampa. I am pleasantly surprised to see Tampa International offer free wireless access to waiting passengers who otherwise sit in their multitudes at airports across the world, staring vacantly into space, like they're on a big hit.
But then, the homepage for Tampa International Airport opens up, and prominently displays the highly Orwellian Homeland Security threat level, which has constantly been set at Elevated -- like a pressure cooker that is on the edge of blowing up, but doesn't.
On the plane, I have the window seat. A lady from Madrid, Spain, is sitting next to me. She talks non-stop with me all through the flight -- 3 hours. By itself, this wouldn't be so bad (she was around 30, but kinda hot), if she wasn't also married, and if her husband wasn't also sitting in the middle row across the aisle. Said husband is worried I am making a move on the wife (I'd have tried to, if she wasn't married, or if the husband wasn't on the plane), so he keeps looking back at us every five minutes, making me uncomfortable. The wife is oblivious to this. Oh, and she is loud.
Our plane is flown by Captain Carlos. That cracks me up for some reason. Captain Carlos!
My cousin and I are strolling down this seaside mall/entertainment center in Tampa, and we see a couple of men of Latino descent hauling a big stereo system by hand, across the road. What do we do? We get all suspicious that they stole it. And what do we call it? 'Stereo'-typing.
Later, I am waiting for my return flight to Boston from Tampa. I am pleasantly surprised to see Tampa International offer free wireless access to waiting passengers who otherwise sit in their multitudes at airports across the world, staring vacantly into space, like they're on a big hit.
But then, the homepage for Tampa International Airport opens up, and prominently displays the highly Orwellian Homeland Security threat level, which has constantly been set at Elevated -- like a pressure cooker that is on the edge of blowing up, but doesn't.
On the plane, I have the window seat. A lady from Madrid, Spain, is sitting next to me. She talks non-stop with me all through the flight -- 3 hours. By itself, this wouldn't be so bad (she was around 30, but kinda hot), if she wasn't also married, and if her husband wasn't also sitting in the middle row across the aisle. Said husband is worried I am making a move on the wife (I'd have tried to, if she wasn't married, or if the husband wasn't on the plane), so he keeps looking back at us every five minutes, making me uncomfortable. The wife is oblivious to this. Oh, and she is loud.
Our plane is flown by Captain Carlos. That cracks me up for some reason. Captain Carlos!
| TV Shows | Scrubs (NBC), Season 1 |
|---|---|
| Entourage (HBO), Season 2 | |
| Books | Silmarillion (Tolkien) |
| Tales of Discworld (Pratchett) | |
| Songs | Hey Nineteen (Steely Dan) |
| New York, New York (Frank Sinatra) | |
| Movies | Bonnie & Clyde (1967) |
| Brokeback Mountain (2005) |
Monday, December 12, 2005
Naomi, oh Naomi!
Disclaimer: I haven't seen King Kong, nor do I want to. Will I actually see it, though? The answer is: yes, probably.
A friend from graduate school--let's call him Chris--had some of the strongest opinions of anyone I have known, about movies. And one of those opinions was his low regard for the big-studio Hollywood movie. Yet, paradoxically, he was the first guy to see the latest cliched blockbuster at the only cineplex in seedy Providence, RI. He would, admittedly, come back and diss the movie in discussions with me. However, after hearing that Naomi Watts was slated to star in King Kong, I'm sure he contemplated suicide at the betrayal. Naomi, the light of his life, sold out to the man!
Chris introduced Naomi Watts to me in graduate school; it was David Lynch's excellent 2001 cult noir thriller Mulholland Dr. I was so taken by her performance, that I still think of the real Naomi to be like her character from the movie: Betty/Diane, a delicate flower that needed to be sheltered from this cruel world, lest it break its own neck in a strong gale. Since then, I had enjoyed her performances in suitably 'weighty' dramas: We Don't Live Here Anymore, 21 Grams, and... yes, even I Heart Huckabees. I felt proud of my Naomi when the critics appreciated her in these roles.
When I first heard of the new King Kong movie, my reaction, while a little less drastic than my friend's, was an unhappy one as well. It is heartbreaking to see Naomi involved in a movie with the unlikely premise of doomed love between a gorilla and a woman. A 10-story tall gorilla, at that, for C(h)ris-sake! Sure, former horror movie-maker Peter Jackson intended it a "loving" homage to the 1933 "classic". But to call it "exalted" movie making, as the usually dependable A.O. Scott of the New York Times does, is mistaken. One should recognize it for what it is: an oversized, overpriced remake of an old movie, which will turn into a money-making franchise just in time for the holidays, aided by big marketing blitzkreig (Take cover! Here come the Kong cereal boxes (those again!), Kong the video game, Kong the candy bar (already out: Crunch'N Win Kong), Kong you-name-it). Oh, wait--I also forgot the other convenience of releasing the movie now: its Oscar-season! Wonderful.
Its "milk the cow for all its worth" all over again. What is disappointing is to see Naomi being involved in such un-inventive enterprise, which, I feel, is beneath her abilities. Here's wishing that Naomi returns to making intelligent cinema again. Now, excuse me, for I have to look for tickets to the next showing of King Kong at my local cineplex.
A friend from graduate school--let's call him Chris--had some of the strongest opinions of anyone I have known, about movies. And one of those opinions was his low regard for the big-studio Hollywood movie. Yet, paradoxically, he was the first guy to see the latest cliched blockbuster at the only cineplex in seedy Providence, RI. He would, admittedly, come back and diss the movie in discussions with me. However, after hearing that Naomi Watts was slated to star in King Kong, I'm sure he contemplated suicide at the betrayal. Naomi, the light of his life, sold out to the man!
Chris introduced Naomi Watts to me in graduate school; it was David Lynch's excellent 2001 cult noir thriller Mulholland Dr. I was so taken by her performance, that I still think of the real Naomi to be like her character from the movie: Betty/Diane, a delicate flower that needed to be sheltered from this cruel world, lest it break its own neck in a strong gale. Since then, I had enjoyed her performances in suitably 'weighty' dramas: We Don't Live Here Anymore, 21 Grams, and... yes, even I Heart Huckabees. I felt proud of my Naomi when the critics appreciated her in these roles.
When I first heard of the new King Kong movie, my reaction, while a little less drastic than my friend's, was an unhappy one as well. It is heartbreaking to see Naomi involved in a movie with the unlikely premise of doomed love between a gorilla and a woman. A 10-story tall gorilla, at that, for C(h)ris-sake! Sure, former horror movie-maker Peter Jackson intended it a "loving" homage to the 1933 "classic". But to call it "exalted" movie making, as the usually dependable A.O. Scott of the New York Times does, is mistaken. One should recognize it for what it is: an oversized, overpriced remake of an old movie, which will turn into a money-making franchise just in time for the holidays, aided by big marketing blitzkreig (Take cover! Here come the Kong cereal boxes (those again!), Kong the video game, Kong the candy bar (already out: Crunch'N Win Kong), Kong you-name-it). Oh, wait--I also forgot the other convenience of releasing the movie now: its Oscar-season! Wonderful.
Its "milk the cow for all its worth" all over again. What is disappointing is to see Naomi being involved in such un-inventive enterprise, which, I feel, is beneath her abilities. Here's wishing that Naomi returns to making intelligent cinema again. Now, excuse me, for I have to look for tickets to the next showing of King Kong at my local cineplex.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Anaconda vs. Gator
Anaconda vs. Gator (from the BBC)That python ate up an entire alligator, and promptly burst into pieces. Shite! Click here to read the BBC article.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Eulogy for Dave Chappelle
Tuesday was a sad, sad day. I read somewhere that Dave Chappelle might never again work his show on Comedy Central again. Charlie Murphy, co-star on that phenomenally brilliant show said so in an interview. Well, fuck you, Charlie - for bringing me that piece of news. I was devastated. Since then, I have fallen into a kind of gentle, private depression. I guess its going to be just reruns for me, then. Well, there's always another viewing of the Popcopy episode, or the Black Bush episode.
Have you watched that Mind of Mencia show on CC? Some people I know seem to think its great, but to me it seemed just crude, mediocre and lackluster. The Chappelle show was crude as well (e.g., the mudbutt episode, or that one, where Dave, as R Kelly, splashed doo doo around from a can), but it was almost always clever, and always funny. Inspired and incisive satire. No such thing with Mencia.
In other news, after three months of trying out Netflix, I unsubscribed -- a little unsatisfied with them. Not that you really care why, but read on anyway, motherfuckers:
Something else is bothering me. News articles about completely obvious findings from studies. Like:
Looking at these reports, I am tempted to add a few of my own scientific-sounding 'findings':
Fuck you all. And, peace.
Have you watched that Mind of Mencia show on CC? Some people I know seem to think its great, but to me it seemed just crude, mediocre and lackluster. The Chappelle show was crude as well (e.g., the mudbutt episode, or that one, where Dave, as R Kelly, splashed doo doo around from a can), but it was almost always clever, and always funny. Inspired and incisive satire. No such thing with Mencia.
In other news, after three months of trying out Netflix, I unsubscribed -- a little unsatisfied with them. Not that you really care why, but read on anyway, motherfuckers:
- The Netflix choke-hold: Initially, they were all over themselves to ship their DVD's -- movies at my door next day. For a whole month. After that, it was like someone choked their distribution. One movie actually took a week to ship.
- Having a completely inflexible missing DVD system: When a DVD they shipped didn't arrive at my place, I reported this to them. What happens next? They place it on a 'missing list'; two more such missing items, and my account is toast! That is bullshit, because I was penalized for something I had no control over.
Something else is bothering me. News articles about completely obvious findings from studies. Like:
- Youth who repeatedly watch filmstars smoke are three times more likely to pick up smoking than youth who don't. Oh shit! Really? Thanks for clearing that up. Couldn't have figured that one out.
- Hurricanes Have Gotten Stronger and Faster In the Last Decade. This completely startling discovery was reported in the respected journal Science. Scientists attribute it to increasing global warming. But they are not completely sure. I, for one, will keep my ears tuned for more news on this front.
Looking at these reports, I am tempted to add a few of my own scientific-sounding 'findings':
- 'Insert-your-favorite-endangered-species-here' Closer to Extinction, New Study Finds. Scientists Suspect Deforestation.
- World Population Set to Increase in 2006, Scientists Find.
Fuck you all. And, peace.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Katrina! Show me your titties!
So, Katrina happened. After that title (did you get it? I know its not in good taste, but heck, its funny!), I guess it is a bit pointless for me to say how horrified I am at the surrealness of the whole situation. Five days ago, it was just another hurricane with a pretty-girl name blowing in from the forever-choppy Atlantic. Now, it is the biggest natural disaster to hit the South in a long time.
I couldn't help but notice that the majority of the people affected were poor. And black. I also couldn't help but notice that for the first three or four days, the news networks on cable (CNN, Fox, MSNBC) carefully avoided mentioning that fact and acted color-blind. In today's PC world, news anchors are probably afraid of slipping up and doing a Campanis1 that could end their career. But ignoring that fact completely is akin to not acknowledging the proverbial elephant in the room. And the longer you stay in said room, the harder it becomes to miss said elephant.
Apparently, Wolf Blitzer, over at CNN, found it impossible to miss the elephant. Quoting him,
1 Al Campanis, who was at one time, the GM of the LA Dodgers, went on Nightline in 1987, and educated Ted Koppel on the absence of blacks at the higher echelons of executive-dom. According to him, blacks might not have "some of the necessities" it takes to manage a major league team or a similar high-powered position, for the same reason that they aren't "good swimmers". The reason: they "lack buoyancy". His tenure as the GM of the Dodgers ended immediately afterwards.
I couldn't help but notice that the majority of the people affected were poor. And black. I also couldn't help but notice that for the first three or four days, the news networks on cable (CNN, Fox, MSNBC) carefully avoided mentioning that fact and acted color-blind. In today's PC world, news anchors are probably afraid of slipping up and doing a Campanis1 that could end their career. But ignoring that fact completely is akin to not acknowledging the proverbial elephant in the room. And the longer you stay in said room, the harder it becomes to miss said elephant.
Apparently, Wolf Blitzer, over at CNN, found it impossible to miss the elephant. Quoting him,
... as Jack Cafferty just pointed out, so tragically, so many of these people, almost all of them that we see, are so poor and they are so black, and this is going to raise lots of questions for people who are watching this story unfold.What do you mean, Wolf..? Like, not Prince black, but Charlie Murphy black? Its like Blitzer not only decided to acknowledge the elephant, but proceeded to beat it with sticks.
1 Al Campanis, who was at one time, the GM of the LA Dodgers, went on Nightline in 1987, and educated Ted Koppel on the absence of blacks at the higher echelons of executive-dom. According to him, blacks might not have "some of the necessities" it takes to manage a major league team or a similar high-powered position, for the same reason that they aren't "good swimmers". The reason: they "lack buoyancy". His tenure as the GM of the Dodgers ended immediately afterwards.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
In my ideal world...
In general, I believe choice is a good thing. But over time, I have come to think that there are some things which ought to come without it. In my ideal world:
In other news, I just installed and started Apache on my home machine. Check out my brand new homepage. Its a sorry situation that Verizon blocks port 80 on residential connections. So, I had to resort to the horrendous 8080 figure. My photo gallery is also up. At the moment, it is empty. It should fill up in the coming days. Yet another way for you to waste some more time from your daily routines, meaningless as they are.
- There would be only one ring-tone for cell phones. And that would be a no-nonsense old-school ringtone, just like that on a landline phone. Not Vivaldi's Four Seasons, or Sir Mix-a-Lot's I like Big Butts, or any other tune.
- No one would use HTML to compose email messages. At least not to me. It makes me go jumping mad when I see multi-colored text in my email. It is irritating, distracting and makes the email less readable, defeating any purpose of using fancy fonts. I believe that if you can not put your point across in plain-text, you simply haven't given it enough thought.
- Cell phones would be made only by Nokia/Ericsson. At least there wouldn't be no flip-phones -- the clam shell design.
- Fruit juice would not come in mixed flavors. Nothing enrages me more than being disappointed in the supermarket every time I search for a carton of pineapple flavored juice. I see pine-orange-banana, pine-orange, pine-banana and many other exotic combinations, but I'll be damned if I find just pineapple. No, sir, no pinepple. I end up going nuts.
In other news, I just installed and started Apache on my home machine. Check out my brand new homepage. Its a sorry situation that Verizon blocks port 80 on residential connections. So, I had to resort to the horrendous 8080 figure. My photo gallery is also up. At the moment, it is empty. It should fill up in the coming days. Yet another way for you to waste some more time from your daily routines, meaningless as they are.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Intelligent design and `hot' yoga
This is sort of old news, but y'all probably heard our beloved Dubya speaking out in support of intelligent design being taught to kids in school. This at a (quoting from the Washington Post), freewheelin', spirited news conference with Texas paper reporters. Sounds like Dubya felt right at home. In the midst of the uproar that ensued, his science adviser (what? he had one? yeah, only I suspect he hasn't had much to do since assuming that position) tried to smooth it out by clarifying that it was in a "social context" that the president meant intelligent design to be introduced in schools. That is swell, but why not also introduce kids to alternative sexual preferences (like, homosexuality) in the very same "social context"?
After that profound reflection, its time for more pop culture whoring. And what better to gripe about than that fad of all fads... yoga! I was reading an article where some hipster mentioned that he was into the latest manifestation in this genre - hot yoga. I didn't get it at first, but then I realized that it was a mangling of the term hata yoga (the hata rhymes with butter, if you will). Now, hata is a Sanskrit term used to describe a kind of obstinate, dogged persistence, which, combined with yoga, indicates the kind of physical activity that I usually associate with some yogi up in the Himalayas. I find it hard to believe that some jetsetting, capuccino/moolatte-sipping, Wall Street Journal-reading, yuppie could practice real hata yoga. Heck, I find it mighty unlikely that any consumerist American could. But then, isn't that what fads are all about...
Oops, in my zealousness to disparage fads, I forgot to Google hot yoga, just in case I missed something. Sure enough, when I Googled the term just after I wrote the previous paragraph, I found out that it was not mistaken for hata yoga (, although that sneaking suspicion lingers...). But wait, this hot yoga is apparently a sequence of some 26 asanas (positions) supposed to be performed at a balmy 106 F. Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case.
I should have signed off on that triumphant note, but I couldn't resist adding this bit of information. I was born in this sleepy little town called Mysore in Karnataka, India. Now, after 24 years, I learn that there is also a very popular style called Mysore yoga. Wonders never cease.
After that profound reflection, its time for more pop culture whoring. And what better to gripe about than that fad of all fads... yoga! I was reading an article where some hipster mentioned that he was into the latest manifestation in this genre - hot yoga. I didn't get it at first, but then I realized that it was a mangling of the term hata yoga (the hata rhymes with butter, if you will). Now, hata is a Sanskrit term used to describe a kind of obstinate, dogged persistence, which, combined with yoga, indicates the kind of physical activity that I usually associate with some yogi up in the Himalayas. I find it hard to believe that some jetsetting, capuccino/moolatte-sipping, Wall Street Journal-reading, yuppie could practice real hata yoga. Heck, I find it mighty unlikely that any consumerist American could. But then, isn't that what fads are all about...
Oops, in my zealousness to disparage fads, I forgot to Google hot yoga, just in case I missed something. Sure enough, when I Googled the term just after I wrote the previous paragraph, I found out that it was not mistaken for hata yoga (, although that sneaking suspicion lingers...). But wait, this hot yoga is apparently a sequence of some 26 asanas (positions) supposed to be performed at a balmy 106 F. Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case.
I should have signed off on that triumphant note, but I couldn't resist adding this bit of information. I was born in this sleepy little town called Mysore in Karnataka, India. Now, after 24 years, I learn that there is also a very popular style called Mysore yoga. Wonders never cease.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
50 cent - trickster or lyrical genius?
Disclaimers:
If you think 50 Cent is a certain amount of currency, or if you think that "In Da Club" is bad spelling for In The Club, then you are possibly a hermit crab living under an impossibly large rock.
50 Cent was my rather brisk initiation into the world of hip-hop and gangsta rap. The no-nonsense, in-your-face lyrics (e.g., Sir Mix-A-Lot happily proclaiming "I like big butts", and 50 Cent crooning "I'm just a squirrel lookin' for a slut with a nice butt, to get a nut") are a refreshing change from the sappy, unlikely ballads of other genres. That is, if you can make out the lyrics. These guys keep it real. And 50 Cent is, in my opinion, the most artful exponent of this genre. Okay, may be Snoop "Doggy" Dogg is up there too, but this sort of thing is exactly what feeds the East Coast vs. West Coast rivalry. Gangsta rappers are also the cowboys of our times, who shoot each other not with guns (well, okay... not only with guns), but with stinging lyrics. Recording studios like Aftermath (Dr Dre's creation), Death Row etc. play the part of dusty alleyways. At the end of the day, a handsome paycheck awaits, too.
So, there I was, quietly enjoying my 50 Cent records, when I came across this Slate article. According to the article, 50 Cent is just a wily, scheming thug from Queens, NY, who is not especially good at rapping. Well then, how come 50 Cent is the biggest name in the manically cut-throat hip-hop world today? The article's argument: clever marketing, staged feuds (most prominently with the artist currently known as The Game), and the mystique of the "I got shot 9 times and I survived. Bitch!" routine. I beg to differ. Anyone with half a brain can make out that 50 (pronounced fi-tee) is a gifted rapper, by doing as I did: listening to Get Rich or Die Tryin', 50's platinum album, all day, for a couple weeks.
You gotta try it. 50 Cent has an inimitable style of delivering his lines with a combination of restraint and ease. It's as if he hardly opens his mouth, yet the lyrics keep coming smooth. This style is nowhere as effective as on my personal favorite, 21 Questions. If the haunting synth doesn't plant itself in your brain after a while, then the absolutely addictive beats of In Da Club will. Now, I can't wait to drop my shit, and go ghetto. 50 has given me a whole new outlook about life, where basically three things matter: guns, bitches and drugs. Wait, how could I forget: bling. If you wanna roll like a gangsta, you gotta have them spinning, flashy rims on your wheels, yo.
While the genre is still young, and is a little rough at the edges, there is no doubt in my mind that gangsta rap is the way to go. It should be played on PA systems in schools. Students will learn invaluable lessons in keepin' it real, fo' sho'. If you can't see that, you a wanksta. If you can, you in da hood, homie.
- This is yet another article written by a bewildered desi on the subject of urban/hip-hop culture in America.
- The article itself was thawed from cold storage, after I noticed the blog was dying. So, don't expect the usual high quality you have come to expect from this blog. Okay, now you know which way the rest of this post is going...
If you think 50 Cent is a certain amount of currency, or if you think that "In Da Club" is bad spelling for In The Club, then you are possibly a hermit crab living under an impossibly large rock.
50 Cent was my rather brisk initiation into the world of hip-hop and gangsta rap. The no-nonsense, in-your-face lyrics (e.g., Sir Mix-A-Lot happily proclaiming "I like big butts", and 50 Cent crooning "I'm just a squirrel lookin' for a slut with a nice butt, to get a nut") are a refreshing change from the sappy, unlikely ballads of other genres. That is, if you can make out the lyrics. These guys keep it real. And 50 Cent is, in my opinion, the most artful exponent of this genre. Okay, may be Snoop "Doggy" Dogg is up there too, but this sort of thing is exactly what feeds the East Coast vs. West Coast rivalry. Gangsta rappers are also the cowboys of our times, who shoot each other not with guns (well, okay... not only with guns), but with stinging lyrics. Recording studios like Aftermath (Dr Dre's creation), Death Row etc. play the part of dusty alleyways. At the end of the day, a handsome paycheck awaits, too.
So, there I was, quietly enjoying my 50 Cent records, when I came across this Slate article. According to the article, 50 Cent is just a wily, scheming thug from Queens, NY, who is not especially good at rapping. Well then, how come 50 Cent is the biggest name in the manically cut-throat hip-hop world today? The article's argument: clever marketing, staged feuds (most prominently with the artist currently known as The Game), and the mystique of the "I got shot 9 times and I survived. Bitch!" routine. I beg to differ. Anyone with half a brain can make out that 50 (pronounced fi-tee) is a gifted rapper, by doing as I did: listening to Get Rich or Die Tryin', 50's platinum album, all day, for a couple weeks.
You gotta try it. 50 Cent has an inimitable style of delivering his lines with a combination of restraint and ease. It's as if he hardly opens his mouth, yet the lyrics keep coming smooth. This style is nowhere as effective as on my personal favorite, 21 Questions. If the haunting synth doesn't plant itself in your brain after a while, then the absolutely addictive beats of In Da Club will. Now, I can't wait to drop my shit, and go ghetto. 50 has given me a whole new outlook about life, where basically three things matter: guns, bitches and drugs. Wait, how could I forget: bling. If you wanna roll like a gangsta, you gotta have them spinning, flashy rims on your wheels, yo.
While the genre is still young, and is a little rough at the edges, there is no doubt in my mind that gangsta rap is the way to go. It should be played on PA systems in schools. Students will learn invaluable lessons in keepin' it real, fo' sho'. If you can't see that, you a wanksta. If you can, you in da hood, homie.
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