Inanities, Bagatelles

Dawn

2009-09-21T18:16:00.005-05:00

Lying alone in a cesspool of despair
He searches for a ray of hope
A lone straw to cling on to
But all he finds is regret
And the icy claw of solitude
There are no seasons here in the abyss
No springtime ewes, nor a summer breeze
But forever a frigid winter
Black as the void within
An eternal silence envelops him
Broken only by the faint murmur of his heart
It grows fainter and fainter still
As he sinks deeper into the mire
---
But lo! Now the nightmare ends; his eyes reveal
The red glow of dawn

Hippocampus

2009-09-06T22:43:00.000-05:00

One problem with the executive lunch is that you need to strike a fine balance between holding up the conversation and stuffing your face. I found that out the hard way, when a travelling neurophysicist (no relation to the travelling salesman) visited us last week.

Lunch was taken after a rather elucidatory morning session that set me up nicely for a chicken sandwich on toasted panini bread. Having procured the said c.s. on the toasted p.b., I proceeded immediately to wolf it down in large mouthfuls, as is my wont. Our guest however, was in the mood for further discourse.

"Take for instance the hippocampus", he discoursed to the gathering around the table. "A fascinating organ, for sure. We know it is part of the limbic system, but no one knows how it stores memories. People whose hippocampi were injured in an accident have memories of before the accident, but have trouble forming new memories.

"That's because the brain maintains long-term and short-term memories differently, but even among these, names of people, places and things seem to be stored separately. What's more, the capacity to retain these different memories varies from one person to the next. For example, I could tell you the zip codes of all the places I've visited over the last three years, but wouldn't be able to address the gentleman next to me, whom I've met just today, by name."

Having the dubious distinction of being the gentleman next to him, I suddenly found the man pointing in my general direction. It seemed that he expected me to provide the missing information. However, having just chomped off a massive mouthful of the sandwich, I was in no position to provide much of anything other than half-chewed pieces of chicken sandwich on toasted panini bread. I gulped hurriedly, took a sip of water and mumbled something to the tune of "Mmmpfff Nnrarrgh".

The effort obviously didn't appease him. "I'm sorry, what was that again?" he smiled politely. I did the gulp-and-sip routine and tried again. "Growrr Mprinay".

The man just smiled. He was obviously taking some sort of perverse pleasure in watching me squirm. As precious seconds ticked by, I could feel the gaze of the entire table upon me. A lesser man might have panicked, maybe even choked; but not me. No sir. In a flash of inspiration, I reached into my wallet, pulled out my business card and plopped it neat on to the table.

Our guest was taken aback. The smug smile vanished from his lips. He stared at the card on the table. Then at me. Then at the card again. He knew he had been bested. "Ah, thank you", he finally muttered, visibly shaken. Trying his best not to appear flustered, he changed the subject to his favourite topic. "As I was saying... the hippocampus... uh-huh, the limbic system, of which the hippocampus is a part... memorizes forms... I mean, forms memories..." It was my turn to smile a subtle smile, as I quietly egged him on. He did his best, but the quiet self-assuredness had somehow left his voice. After a rather subdued remainder of the lunch, he shook a few hands and made a hurried exit. For my part, I pocketed the card still lying on the table, and slunk away back to my office. I had other, more important things on my mind. "Perhaps next time I'll try the turkey on rye instead", I remember thinking to myself.

Koan

2009-08-24T20:33:00.003-05:00

A long time ago, in a land far away, lived a dragon in his deep, dark lair. He was an impressive dragon, as dragons go. With massive wings on which he would soar high amidst the clouds. Scales that shone with the fury of the sun. His talons could split a rock asunder, his breath singe a tree to ash. Grown men would reel at the mere thought of him. The forest itself trembled when he roared.

One Spring morning, the dragon descended from his lair to roam the land. All creatures of the forest, far and wide, ran and hid in their burrows to escape the wrath of the beast. All but the wise snake, who lay quietly in the middle of the road, basking by the glow of the morning sun.

As the dragon swaggered through the forest, he came across the snake. "Are you not scared of me, to lie in my path", he bellowed, "Or do you grow tired of this life?"

"And why should I be scared of you, dragon?", asked the snake, unperturbed.

The dragon was less than amused. "Do you not know me? I am the great dragon lord. The most terrible of all the great beasts. No man can tame me, no beast can withstand me. I have conquered the land and the seas. Reduced great kingdoms to dust. Slain valiant knights in their shining armours. And never once have I lost as much as a scale. No one in all the lands dare challenge my might. You must be a fool not to fear me."

The snake remained unmoved. "Indeed you are strong and brave, dragon. But tell me this, have you truly won all your battles?"

On hearing this, the dragon hung his head in shame.

The Itch

2009-08-16T01:45:00.014-05:00

Among other self-indulgences during my sabbatical from this blog, I have been indulging myself in a bit of football (or soccer, as it is called in these parts). To be honest, I was a little apprehensive taking to the field after all these years. But to my credit, I haven't done half bad. I've rediscovered some of my dribbling skills, been pretty useful in defense, and to everyone's astonishment, have even managed to score the odd goal or two. All this while getting some much needed exercise.

If there's a downside to all of this, it has to be the bugs. Mosquitoes mostly. And other pesky, blood-sucking arthropods. The field's literally littered with them. You hardly notice them during the game itself, but then end up spending the next three days scratching yourself silly. Especially during those long, pointless meetings where the mind wanders all too readily.

All this vigorous scratching has got me thinking. What's the point of the mosquito, anyway. What grand purpose could this most noisome of species serve? Other than to disprove the theory of creationism, that is. Think about it. What twisted, spiteful god could deem it fit to create such a vile prophet of doom? How sick and demented would a grand creator have to be to spawn such an unearthly pestilence, a slubberdegullion parasite on the underbelly of helminth, presumably in its own image?

Don't bother answering that. I think it may be a rhetorical question.

So that's it, you ask. The first post in over a year, and it's some half-baked ramble on bloodsucking vermin. Is that how it is going to be?
Yes.

Shatner West '08

2008-05-31T23:18:00.003-05:00

You know it's election season in the US when you see political bumper stickers crop up on the back of cars. The 2004 election gave us a few gems -- from the racy "Flush the Johns" to the risqué "Go Brazilian, No Bush". In 2008, while McCain dwells upon the choice of his deputy and the Democrats sort out their candidate, bumper sticker manufacturers have decided to get a headstart on things.

Driving back home late last evening, I notice that the car in front of me has already chosen its candidate for the elections. "Shatner West '08" it proclaims proudly on its bumper.

At first I couldn't help but marvel at the brilliance of such a team. The sheer bravado, the flamboyant clichés, the immense spandex-coated combined girth. This pair would be undefeatable. But then something caught my attention. The sticker said "Shatner-West" and not "West-Shatner". That would imply that Adam West would be the running mate for William Shatner. Now with all due credit to Captain Kirk and his shenanigans, Batman doesn't play second fiddle to anyone. If anything, it is Shatner who should be second-in-command to West. Be the robin to his caped crusader, so to say. After all, when the phone rings at 3 a.m. in the White House, wouldn't you rather have a president who's been answering flashing red phones all his life in his secret lair? Or would you rather have a bumbling leader whose default response to a crisis is to make out with foreign chicks and wait for a pointy-eared vulcan to come and resolve the situation?

Adam West a vice-president to William Shatner? I think not.

Disturbing Mental Imagery

2008-05-30T21:48:00.000-05:00

Among other news, the most disturbing mental image of the year is brought to you by Mr. ManBearPig himself. The half man, half bear and half pig creature, otherwise known as Matthew Hayden, gives us a distressingly detailed account of his squatting habits in a recent interview with Cricinfo:

I go to the middle, I mark the crease and I squat on the wicket. I feel grounded when I do that. It's like a centring process. It's like, I'm out in this amazing place with millions across the world watching but right now I'm feeling very solid here. I don't say these things aloud but I just feel it every time I go out there. The middle of the cricket ground is the most comfortable place on earth for me.

To borrow a phrase from Frasier, I hope you'll excuse me while I go and poke out my mind's eye.

Ingrates

2008-04-19T19:48:00.003-05:00

BBC reports, rather gleefully, that Tehran's anti-vice police chief has been arrested after being found with six naked women in a house of prostitution.

Local media have reported that General Reza Zarei was found with six naked women in a house of prostitution in the Iranian capital last month.
He has been taken to jail while his case is investigated, a spokesman for Iran's judiciary said.
Gen Zarei was in charge of enforcing Iran's strict anti-vice laws, which include a ban on prostitution.

I think the general is being unfairly prosecuted. I'm sure he was just trying to keep those dirty, immoral women off the streets. Protect the impressionable youth and all that. And this is the reward he gets for his tireless efforts to eradicate vice. Tch!

Mystery Wag

2008-04-03T22:38:00.006-05:00

While browsing through some of the Cricket blogs of late, I chanced upon Paul Holden's Sideline Slogger. Holden, despite being a Kiwi cricket fan, or possibly because of it, has a rather distinctive funny side to his musings. What really caught my eye, though was Question 4 in one of his recent posts 11 Questions, Queries and Appeals

Is this a gratuitous question being used as an excuse to include a photo of the English players’ WaGs?

The question is accompanied by a rather nice picture of the English WaGs, and the answer of course is "Yes, it is actually".

But that is not what this post is about.

If you look closely at that picture of the WaGs, you'll notice a rather singular figure at the back, dressed in red, wearing a floppy hat that must have been quite fashionable in the days of David Gower. Now for the life of me, I cannot figure out whose wife/girlfriend that distinguished looking lady is. And it's a question that's been keeping me awake at night.

Could she be Kevin Pietersen's hot new girlfriend we keep hearing so much about? Or could she be the future Mrs. Sidebottom? Or maybe she's just Andrew Strauss' mum who's popped in to check if her boy's been behaving himself. If that is indeed the case, it would explain a lot.

If anyone has a clue, please let me know.

Third Time's the Charm

2008-03-16T18:20:00.034-05:00

If I have a vice - and I have a few - it is that ever so often I tend to give in to sudden fits of impulse. It was one such impulse that found me late Wednesday evening in that rarely-visited dungeon of human torture, also known as the gym in the basement.

Having made my way to the dungeon, I flailed around my limbs for a full ten minutes, before deciding that I'd had enough, and returned quietly to my quarters feeling rather pleased with my efforts. Alas, we must all pay a price for our indulgence.

I woke up next morning to a badly sprained left shoulder and a rather sore back. Normally, this wouldn't have been a cause for worry. I would simply have uttered some profanities, swore never to visit the gym again (or to get in shape, depending on the mood), and slept it off over the weekend. This however, was no ordinary weekend. This was the weekend I was supposed to attend the Somewhere Back in Time concert in New York.

I had been planning for the concert for months. Had booked tickets well in advance, made travel arrangements, had detailed contingency plans in order. I wasn't going to let a little niggle get in the way. Still, as anyone who's been to a Maiden concert will tell you, it's rather difficult to headbang with a sprained shoulder and sore back. I pointed this out to Curly as we drove towards the Continental arena.

"I don't think I'll be prancing around much during the concert. You know, with the sprained shoulder and all. This is going to have to be one of those concerts where you sit quietly and enjoy the music."
"Hmmm..." Curly replied.

Something in his tone led me to believe he wasn't quite convinced. I decided to let him know that I was serious.
"I'm serious, mate. Don't think I'll be banging any heads tonight. Besides, there is nothing wrong with behaving like a civilised being at a rock concert"
"Mm Hmmm...", Curly insisted.

We got to the Continental arena ahead of time, for a change, and proceeded to find our seats. And what seats they were - Lower level, second row. Just one row (and the mosh pit) removed from the stage. "What about these seats, eh?" I gushed. "You couldn't possibly get better seats". Technically of course, you could get better seats. You could get first row seats, right in front of us. But I let technicalities slide.

Soon it was time for the show to begin. Lauren Harris and her band entertained for a while. After a bit of a lull, Doctor, Doctor boomed across the sound system, followed by a montage of the tour to the tune of Transylvannia on the big screen. Then the lights dimmed, and the crowd roared. The bugle had sounded, and the charge had begun. The bugle in this case being an excerpt from Churchill's famous "We will fight them on the beaches" speech, and the charge a power-packed rendition of Aces High. I found myself springing to my feet along with 20,000 delirious fans screaming

"There goes the siren that warns of the air raid
There comes the sound of the guns sending flak"
Someone behind me tapped me on the shoulder. "Sir, do you mind not moving your hands so much. It's difficult to see the stage". So much for sitting quietly and enjoying the concert like civilised men. Oh, well.

As the night moved on, the hits kept rolling out one after another (complete set-list here). It's difficult to pick a single highpoint in the evening. Maybe it was the near-perfect rendition of Revelations. Or the rousing charge of The Trooper. Or perhaps it was the majestic PowerSlave with its impressive light shows. Oh, and then there was Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a fourteen-minute masterpiece that held the entire arena in thrall. The song has long been a favourite of mine, but listening to it live was quite something else.

The show maintained its feverish tempo right through to the end, concluding with the soulful Clairvoyant and the customary Hallowed be Thy Name. I was on my feet the entire time, of course, screaming at the top of my lungs. Despite the sprained shoulder, sore back et al., I did not feel spent. In fact, I was just getting warmed up. I could have gone on all night. The day after, however, would have been a different story.

The band was in great form, as usual. Bruce led from the front in style, as the crowd tried, in vain, to match his cries. I could have sworn I heard glass shatter during his scream in Run to the Hills. Janick kept up his whirlwind act, running around the stage, as the two old hands Dave and Adrian recreated their magic of old. Steve could often be seen in the corner singing aloud the words to his songs, luckily nowhere near a mike. Nicko was content just being Nicko. It's all he has to do to keep the crowd entertained. But most importantly, the band was quite clearly enjoying themselves. They seemed to be having as much fun, if not more, as the fans. There were no clashing egos here, no bitter angst. Just some plain old blokes from East London having a good time doing what they do best. It's probably the reason why they've been around so long.

All in all, it was, without a doubt, the best Maiden concert I've attended so far. The first one was special - the first time always is - but was way too short. The second one was longer, but didn't have all the big hits. This one was more satisfying. It had everything a fan could ask for - a popular set-list, elaborate stage sets, and a longer playing time (though the concert never seems long enough, if you ask me). In the end, as always, I was left craving for more.

The good news though is that Maiden aren't done quite as yet. There will surely be other shows to attend. In fact, the band will be returning to these shores again in the summer. Rest assured, I will be there cheering them on. And this time, I might just get those front row tickets.

Bull's Bottom Blamed for Stock Market Crash

2008-02-02T23:53:00.000-05:00

This week, in an unprecedented spectacle of synchronized nosediving, stock markets across the world nosedived spectacularly. Almost immediately, experts cropped up all over the place, trying to explain this catastrophic event. "It's because of the US sub-prime crisis", noted a surly man in a suit. "It's a grave portent of recession", informed a shrill-voiced Asian correspondent. None of this placated the traders however. No amount of frowning, scowling or jowl scratching from any of the reporters provided a convincing enough answer. And as the markets kept plunging, the mystery deepened.

That was till the ingenious traders at the Bombay Stock Exchange finally cracked it. The global nosedive they found out, was caused by the offensive posterior of the bull placed in front of the BSE. The newly erected statue of the bull was apparently placed in the BSE with its buttocks pointing towards the traders, which quite clearly is an inauspicious poition. And unless the bull turned around and repositioned its behind according to astrological charts, the traders forewarned, the sensex would continue to plunge downwards.

With all this talk of bull posteriors, one is tempted to slip in a pun about the excrement that egresses from the aforementioned b.p. However, I shall refrain from making any dung-related puns, and instead shall redirect you to this video of Carl Sagan on Astrology.

It's astounding how many people still believe in the pseudo-science of Astrology, despite the fact that there is not one logical argument in its defense. Like Carl Sagan says towards the end of the clip

How could it possibly work? How could the rising of Mars at the moment of my birth affect me, then or now. I was born in a closed room. Light froom Mars couldn't get in. The only influence of Mars that could affect me was its gravity. But the gravitational influence of the obstetrician was much larger than the gravitational influence of Mars. Mars is a lot more massive, but the obstetrician was a lot closer.

Indeed. To flog the already overemphasized point, let's put it in numbers. Using the formula g=GM/r², to calculate the gravitational pull of a body, we calculate the gravitational influence of Mars as

g_Mars = G × M_Mars/r_Mars²
where, G = 6.673 × 10^-11 m³/kg s²
M_Mars = Mass of Mars: 6.42 × 10²³ kg
Average distance of Mars from Earth: 230 million km

Thus, g_Mars = 8.1 × 10^-10 m/s²

The corresponding pull of an obstetrician weighing say 85 kg, standing 10 cm from the baby is g_obs = 5.65 × 10^-5 m/s². That is an order of magnitude 5 times as much as for the planet Mars. And that's not even taking into account the gravitational pull of the nurses, the operating room or even the hospital. So much for being under the influence.

Chimp Denied Personhood

2008-01-16T21:36:00.000-05:00

The Austrian Supreme Court, in its infinite wisdom, has decreed that chimpanzees, 98% shared DNA notwithstanding, cannot be deemed human. This groundbreaking ruling was passed against Matthew Hiasl Pan, a chimp of Sierra Leonese descent hoping to be adopted by an animal rights group.

As is often the case in such cases, the Matthew Hiasl Pan case revolves around certain vast sums of money. Matthew had apparently managed to procure these v. s. of m. through secret channels, and was looking forward to spending the rest of his days living in lavish opulence including, but not limited to, consuming massive quantities of musa lolodensis. The Supreme Court, however, was having none of it, and announced that only humans belonging to the genus homo sapiens can have personhood conferred upon them. Quite right too, if you ask me. Can't be going around conferring personhood on just about anyone. You make one concession today, and soon you'll have damned dirty apes running amok all over the place, forming trade unions, taking over our jobs, demanding equal representation in the parliament. That sort of thing.

The ruling has been widely hailed as a decisive victory for humankind. Especially by the section of society that takes offense at being equated to a simian.

At this point, you, the astute reader may be thinking "A-ha, I see what he's doing here". You are thinking that I'm going to use this as a segue to the monkey-gate scandal down under. That I will insinuate certain members of the Australian cricket team share more than just their first name with Matthew. Or that I will make a pass at how Darwin was convinced of the theory of evolution only after he visited the Southern continent. Perhaps even suggest that Andrew Symonds be deported to Austria.

I shall do no such thing.

You racist pig!

In Defense of Sloth

2008-01-14T00:40:00.000-05:00

Dante had it wrong. Sloth is no sin, deadly or otherwise. If anything it is a virtue. A gift. A unique trait, cultivated through centuries of evolution, that has contributed greatly towards the success of our species. Yet, for eons sloth has been looked down upon as a sign of weakness. An excuse for inertia. An evil that restrains creativity. Nothing could be further from the truth. Not only is sloth a noble pursuit, it is the driving force for all human progress.

It is often argued that technology has made us lazy. I scoff at the notion, and aver that it is not technology that induces laziness, but laziness that has given birth to technology. Almost every major invention that's ever taken place has been motivated by laziness. It was the reluctance to walk that extra mile that gave us the wheel. An aversion to physical labour that led to the industrial revolution. Just think about it. Where would you be if the remote control - that most remarkable symbol of languid indolence - were not invented. All the way across the room trying to change the channel, that's where.

Slowly but surely, people across the world are starting to give sloth its due. Last week witnessed one such celebration in Bogota, Colombia. In an unprecedented event, the museum of Bogota organized a week-long exhibit dedicated to laziness, inviting people to lie down, slouch and generally indulge in avoidance of work. Needless to say, the exhibit was a big hit. Maybe someday such museums will be commonplace, celebrating the joys of sloth all over the world. I, for one, would be first in line to get in. Or maybe not. It sounds like too much effort.

Sledge of the Month

2008-01-13T23:42:00.000-05:00

Overheard:

"Why is Michael Clarke called 'pup' by his teammates?"
"Well, you know. Because he is such a sonuvabitch"

Trippy Nostalgia

2008-01-02T18:55:00.000-05:00

While still on the 80s, I can't but help dwell upon Vishal Patel's website.

Vishal captures brilliantly the essence of growing up in India during the 80s with a series of brilliant, witty posts, whether it be lampooning Chacha Chaudhary and Sabu and their inane adventures, tripping over Champak's psychedelic stories or simply reliving childhood memories through ads in Tinkle. It takes you back to a more innocent time. And let's face it, a truly bizarre decade.

'Nuff said. Go check the site for yourself.

The Stone Roses

2007-12-24T00:40:00.000-05:00

Ah, memories! Those bittersweet remnants of a time that has been. The reminiscence of the good old days that we may never re-live, but will always cherish.

Some people remember faces. Some others recollect places. Me, I tend to associate my memories with music. Some of my fondest memories are associated with the album I was listening to at the time. Not all albums persist in memory, mind you. Only the really special ones. The ones that are as cherished as the memories themselves.

I will always associate, for instance, my first job with Judas Priest's Painkiller. The senior year in college with Animals. My trip to Chennai with Somewhere in Time. And the last couple of months of grad school - the most traumatic, soul-wrenching couple of months that anyone can experience - when I was trying to 'write-up' my dissertation shall always, in my mind, be associated with The Stone Roses.

Now there are those of you who at this point would say , "The Stone Roses! But isn't that 80s pop". To you I shall respond, "Yes, it is 80s pop. But it is bloody good 80s pop".

To be honest, categorizing an album like The Stone Roses as 80s pop would be most unfair. Sure it is Brit pop. And sure it was released in the 80s. But it is unlike anything that was released in the 80s, or any other decade for that matter. When every other record was sticking to formulaic bubblegum pop, here was an album that not only shunned the contemporary, but quite simply invented a whole new genre.

The album, the band's self-titled debut, was released in 1989 and almost immediately had cult status conferred upon it by fans and critics alike. Cleverly blending music from the London underground with 60s rock, it introduced a completely novel sound to Brit pop (the band was among the first to incorporate wah wah guitars in a mainstream album, for instance). With its haunting guitar riffs and distinctive underground feel, the album provided a template for new age groups like Oasis and Blur, and in 2006 was ranked by NME as the number 1 album in its "100 Greatest British Albums Ever" list.

Although the album is remarkably consistent, for me the standout songs would have to be Don't Stop and I am the Resurrection. That's not to say that I don't like the other songs. It's just that these two (both songs are about perseverance and overcoming adversity) seemed to appeal especially to me at the time, given the predicament I faced.

If you haven't yet heard the album, and this apology of a review doesn't convince you of its greatness, go buy the album and listen to it for yourself. If you still remain unconvinced however, then I scoff at you. Scoff, I say. At you, no less.

Bear Escapades

2007-12-21T23:10:00.000-05:00

By now you've surely heard of Gillian Gibbons and her teddy bear misadventure. It all started when Ms. Gibbons, a British teacher in Sudan, allowed one of her pupils to name his teddy bear Muhammad. Little did she realize that in a country ravaged by years of civil war; a country in the throes of severe drought and famine; a country where free speech and basic civil rights have become a luxury, people would get offended by an innocuous teddy bear.

But offended they were. To the extent that thousands took to the streets to protest against this ghastly deed. Off with her head, and all that. It got to the point where Gibbons was sentenced to 15 days in prison to pacify the crowds, before being whisked away to the UK to avoid further damage.

All's well that ends well, you say. Sure, it does. If you're Gillian Gibbons. But what about Muhammad, the teddy bear? Spare a thought for poor little Muhammad. Ever since this whole controversy erupted, he's had all sorts of clerics and imams baying for his blood (er, stuffing?). At the last count, he had at least 5 fatwas issued against him. As a result of all this, Muhammad has had to flee his home in Khartoum and has gone into hiding to protect his fur.

With his own countrymen up in arms against him, and even the National Teddy Bear Association disowning him for 'bringing the society into disrepute', Muhammad can't help feel isolated. But there are still those who defend him. After all, they argue, Muhammad didn't choose his name himself. It was given to him by those pesky schoolchildren. If anyone is to be persecuted for this blasphemy, it must be those kids, who have very deftly washed their hands off the entire issue.

The only saving grace for Muhammad in all of this is that despite all the baying and the fatwas, no one has been able to trace him thus far. This is probably because of the fact that no one really knows what he looks like. It is, after all, prohibited in Islam to publish a picture of Muhammad.

Each One is Different

2007-12-10T17:48:00.000-05:00

For more than a mile it fell, meandering its way through clouds and fog, finally coming to rest on the windshield of my car. The first snowflake of the season. The harbinger of Yule and good tidings. Of a weather whose only colour is fair. Of snowstorms and icy rain. And the bitter frost that bites through the flesh.

The snowflake lay on my windshield for the briefest of moments. Then it melted away into nothingness.

But its life was not spent in vain. Like a scouting driver ant, it had left a toxic trail along its path. Soon the others will be here. Thousands at first, then in their billions. Relentless, they'll march on, till the earth is covered with the white plague. A super-organism of immense proportions that'll lay claim to everything in its path. None shall escape the vice like grip of its icy talons. Helpless, we must lie and wait till the great yellow face arrives in all its fury and burns away the hordes. But for now, the yellow face is far away. And the hordes draw near.

Sitting in my car, I shiver just a little.

The Cure

2007-11-13T23:05:00.000-05:00

Did you hear about this new illness recently uncovered in Tamil Nadu? It is a rare but terminal disorder brought upon by throwing stones at stray dogs. Symptoms may include partial paralysis and loss of hearing in one ear. Though not congenital, the disease may be more commonly prevalent than was previously believed. The only known cure is to consult an astrologer and get married to a dog to atone for your sins.

Oh wait. There is no cure for stupidity. Sorry.

South Africa Remove Racial Quotas

2007-11-12T22:54:00.000-05:00

South Africa has dropped the racial quota system for coloured players. Making the announcement, the South African sports minister Makhenkesi Stofile admitted that the quotas actually did more harm than good and were useful "only for window dressing for international consumption". Instead of having reservations in international teams, Stofile emphasized that the focus would switch to helping black athletes at the grassroots level by investing £15m a year.

Perhaps there is a lesson in there for Indian politics. Sports is, after all, a mirror of society. Hope Messrs. Arjun Singh and co. are listening.

Douglas Adams Had it Right

2007-11-08T00:28:00.000-05:00

The answer is forty-two. That is indisputable. However, it raises an interesting question - "What exactly is the Question?"

The Question has troubled mankind since the dawn of time. Since that fateful day ten million years ago when Deep Thought awoke from his slumber, to be precise. Over the years, many different theories have been proposed to seek this elusive question. They range from the philosophical ("How many roads must a man walk down?") to the mythical ("How many gallons of beer does a barrel hold?"), to the outright abstruse ("What is the orbital period of a grazing satellite whose orbital radius, R is equal to the radius of the Earth?"). None of these, however, seem satisfactory.

The most popular theory for the Question was propounded by Douglas Adams himself. In Adams' book, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, the protagonists Arthur and Ford try to decipher the ultimate question by drawing scrabble tiles out of a bag. As a result, they come up with the perplexing query, "What do you get if you multiply six by nine?"

Now this question stumped many, since six by nine is clearly fifty-four and not forty-two. It continued to stump many with unerring regularity until someone cleverly pointed out that six multiplied by nine could indeed be forty-two, if computed in base 13, rather than base 10.

This was widely hailed as an astute observation.

However, it failed to impress the cynics. They claimed that it didn't really resolve the issue, but merely substituted one number for another. Instead of trying to find out why forty-two was the ultimate answer, now they had to figure why the number thirteen was central to the ultimate question.

Once again, several heads were scratched, and several theories bounced about, but none proved conclusive. Until that is Itzhak Bars, a theoretical physicist from USC, revealed that he had finally cracked it.

The Universe, according to Bars, consists of a total of thirteen dimensions as opposed to eleven, as was previously believed. Having a thirteen dimensional Universe would not only resolve the conflict between string theory and quantum mechanics, but would solve pretty much all known problems in Physics, providing us with the elusive "Theory of Everything".

If Bars is right, the ultimate answer, the universal question and all the mysteries of the universe have all finally been solved. All that remains to do now is to sit back, light up the proverbial pipe, and wait for the Universe to implode.

If however, you are still reading this, and the Universe shows no signs of imploding, it is very likely that someone somewhere has found a fourteenth or perhaps even a fifteenth dimension, and this entire post is moot. In which case, we apologise for the inconvenience.

Mastermind Maiden

2007-10-29T23:28:00.000-05:00

Rachel Hobbs, a school laboratory technician from Hailsham appeared on the BBC quiz show Mastermind earlier this month, answering a barrage of questions from the host John Humphrys. Her chosen subject? Iron Maiden.

Rachel did pretty well for herself, in the process dispelling the stereotype of the hormonally overcharged, anti-establishment, tattoo-wielding goth that is typically associated with the metal fan.

The questions, true to the Mastermind spirit, were quite challenging. Though some of them might have been too easy for the rabid Maiden fan (is there any other kind?) The easiest question of the night, however, was when Rachel was asked:

So what is it [that you like] about this particular band?

It is a question that has been asked of Maiden fans for well over two decades now. And the answer has always been the same. To quote Rachel:

With this particular band [Iron Maiden] it's mostly the lyrics. Obviously the music's very important, but the lyrics are so much more intelligent than you find in a lot of other music. They take things from a whole range of subjects.

Exactly. Oh, and in case you were wondering, I got 13 (out of 19) answers right. Not bad, eh? Though admittedly, not as good as Ms. Hobbs, who got 16.

So, how many did you get?

Monkey Chants

2007-10-22T20:04:00.000-05:00

Until the recent ODI series between India and Australia, I had no idea that taunting someone with monkey noises constituted racial abuse. I'd always believed that equating someone to a monkey amounted to personal insult, and little else. Why, I've been called a monkey many a time myself. And in turn, I have, on more than one occasion, called someone a damned dirty ape. Never once did either party accuse the other of racial abuse. One may, of course, at this point argue that a 'damned dirty ape' is technically speaking, an ape and not a monkey, but I shall safely ignore that for the sake of this argument.

One cannot ignore, however, the monkey chants that have been going on through this series. Unless, of course, one is the BCCI president, in which case, one can issue the following statement:

I believe this is a misunderstanding; a language issue. There are many languages spoken in India, and I don't understand many of them myself.

Which begs the question, which one of the languages spoken in India does Mr. Pawar believe to be phonetically similar to monkey noises?

Whatever the case - whether these incidents were racially motivated, or a linguistics issue, or simply a case of some spectators monkeying around - we may never know. To me, however, the case for racial abuse seems particularly strong, simply because it was Andrew Symonds who was the object of these taunts. If it were Ricky Ponting, it would have been understandable, he does look like a chimp. Or even Adam Gilchrist for that matter. But Symonds doesn't look like a monkey at all. Not a bit. In fact, he looks rather disturbingly like the alien from those Predator movies. You know what I'm talking about. and if you don't, here is photographic evidence to help you see the point. The chap on the left is Andrew Symonds.

[Yes, this is another monkey related post. And no, I don't think there have been enough of them already.]

Vogon Haiku

2007-10-13T00:28:00.000-05:00

Snotgobbler gobbling
snot, like housefly guzzling
septic oozings

Yes, I'm feeling very poetic-y this month. How could you tell?

Word Association

2007-10-10T21:36:00.000-05:00

Talking about monkeys always reminds me of diodes. You know, those little thingummies you put in a circuit to direct the flow of charge. Yup, the very same. But why this strange association, you ask? Well, allow me to explain.

A long time ago, when I was in my Freshman year (yes, that long ago), I was made to study Engineering Physics. A dastardly thing to do, one would imagine. But I was young and starry-eyed, and eager to learn. It was understandable. So, early one morning, I packed my books, picked up my bag, and trotted off to college with a spring in my step. Once in the class, I found myself a seat close to the first row, and got ready to garner all the pearls of wisdom I could lay my hands (or ears) upon.

The lecturer, a bald, portly fellow, strolled in leisurely twenty minutes late and immediately set about telling everyone how bloody brilliant he was. In fact, the only reason so many students failed in his class, we were told, was because they could not fully comprehend the man's brilliance. That, or they were plain blinded by it. After about fifteen minutes of this, he decided it was finally time to exhibit his prowess in the matters of the Physics.

What followed next, I quote verbatim. For his words are for ever indelibly engraved upon my brain. The great man opened his book, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and began:

My friends, electrons are like small monkey childs. Just like small monkey childs, they are very naughty. They keep jumping from one place to another. But, when you place a wall in front of the monkey childs, they cannot jump over the wall. Similarly, when you place a diode in front of electrons, they cannot jump from one part of the circuit to another. Therefore, just like the wall stops the monkey childs from jumping, the diode stops the electrons from getting across.

That, my friends, concludes our discussion on diodes. Next week, we will study transistors.

(Stunned silence)

To this day, I swear, whenever someone shows me a circuit diagram, all I can see are monkey childs. Naughty little monkey childs that keep jumping from one place to another.

Random Conversation #2 - Monkeys

2007-10-09T00:58:00.000-05:00

While talking to this chap at a recent gathering, the conversation touched upon a rather touchy topic. I tried to be the voice of reason, for once.

"Those could just be underwater islands, you know. Or shallow coral reefs. Or maybe the sea-level rose to submerge some parts that were above water once, giving the illusion of a submerged bridge."
"Pah! Those are just theories. Why would I believe them any more than what's in the scriptures?"
"Well, quite simply because there is irrefutable proof. There are studies performed by the geological society, photographs from NASA. All point to the fact that it is not a man-made structure."
"Of course it's not man-made. It was made by monkeys."

And Now For Something Completely Different

2007-10-02T23:34:00.000-05:00

Have you ever wondered
Lying in bed late at night
What your death would be like?
Would it come in soft whispers
Gently lulling you to sleep
Or will it be a violent affair
Tearing away the soul from your mangled remains
Would you ride out amid cries of glory
To meet the old enemy in glorious battle
Or will you surrender meekly, waiting
For the worms to ravage the spoils of victory
While you slip away beneath the folds
And into oblivion

What's that now, you haven't? Well, neither have I. What kind of psychopathic, self-hating misanthrope do you think I am anyway? Seriously.

Hallelujah, Sister

2007-09-19T19:24:00.000-05:00

I hate flying. Especially in dingy little airplanes. You know the ones I'm talking about. Those tiny twin engine twenty-seaters that flop around periliously like a trembling leaf everytime they take to the air, churning up the contents of your venter in the process. It's enough to make anyone qeausy, not least of all someone with chronic travelling sickness.

Flying aboard one such aircraft on a recent trip, I was trying hard to hold back nausea. I sat very straight with my hands folded on my lap, and threw my head back just a little. A while later, the lady on the adjoining seat nudged me. "Excuse me, sir. Are you praying?" "No, no" I replied, a bit startled. "I'm just trying very hard not to throw up. It's easy to see why you would confuse the two though".

I didn't say the last bit, of course. Maybe, I should have. Or maybe, if real life was like the internet, I should have redirected her to this Jon Stewart clip on the power of prayer.

[Link courtesy Yoism]

Lord Bhairab Likes His Mutton

2007-09-11T18:10:00.000-05:00

Nepal's national airline has confirmed that it sacrificed two goats to resolve a recurring technical problem with one of its aircrafts.

One can almost imagine the announcement over the intercom:
"Welcome to Nepal Airlines' flight RA-409, non-stop from Kathmandu to Hong Kong. We regret to announce that the flight has been delayed due to unforeseen technical problems. Please bear with us as our technicians try and fix the problem. Passengers are requested to please remain seated while we find sacrificial goats to appease Lord Bhairab."

Jokes aside, I think Nepal Airlines have stumbled upon a novel low-cost method for aircraft maintenance (the plane did manage to reach Hong Kong, after all). It's only a matter of time before other airlines catch up. The tricky bit, of course, would be to decide what animal (or plant) to sacrifice to fix a particular problem. The plethora of gods that rule the sky would only further complicate matters. Sure, Akash Bhairab in Nepal likes his mutton, but who's to say that Thor in Norway wouldn't prefer lynx meat instead? Or tinamou for that matter. An extensive study needs to be carried out on the dietary preferences of various deities to ensure that the aircraft of the future is well-stocked with flora and fauna of all kind to tackle any sort of emergency. Passenger safety is of utmost importance, after all.

Pakistan Cricket is Back to Normal

2007-09-10T23:25:00.000-05:00

It's official. The lull in Pakistan cricket is finally over.

Ever since the Bob Woolmer tragedy, things have been unusually quiet in Pakistani cricket. Sure, there have been the odd spats, controversy over the appointment of the new coach, some uproar over ICL offers, even a retirement or two. But nothing, really, to compare with the serial bedlam of 2006, when there was a new scandal virtually every week.

All that changed when Shoaib Akhthar assaulted Mohammad Asif. Details of the incident are still fuzzy but involve, in no particular order, Shoaib Akhthar, Mohammad Asif, Shahid Afridi, a discussion on respect, a stray bat, and aspersions cast upon Shoaib's ancestry.

Something in that heady mix of ingredients caused Shoaib to lose it completely, and produce a fit of inspired lunacy. It ended with Shoaib brandishing the above mentioned stray bat and swinging it at his bowling partner. Luckily, Asif escaped with nothing more than a bruised thigh.

Back home on the next available flight, Shoaib attributed the inspiration for his act to Zidane's famous head-butt (it's like the gift that keeps on giving). Now, there may be some parallel between Akhthar's bat-brandishing and Zidane's moment of madness, but it remains to be seen if Pakistan forgives Shoaib as readily as France did Zizzou.

All of this, however, is secondary. The important thing is that Pakistan cricket is finally back to normalcy. And we all have to thank Shoaib Akhthar for that.

Dhanuka Pathirana Sets New Standard for Gooch Cricket

2007-09-06T23:24:00.000-05:00

While everyone was going ga-ga over Dimitri Mascarenhas and his five sixes at the Kennington Oval, elsewhere in England, in an unheralded Twenty20 league match, a little known Sri Lankan was redefining the term murderous assault.

With the advent of the Twenty20 game, one has come to expect a bang-and-wallop mode of batsmanship. But for all the banging and walloping in the world, one wouldn't expect anyone to smash 277 runs in 72 balls. That is exactly what Dhanuka Pathirana, a relatively unknown first-class cricketer from Colombo, did in a Twenty20 match against Droylsden. Pathirana hit an incredible 29 sixes and 18 fours in his knock on what was described as 'not one of the smaller grounds in the league'. One shudders to think what he might have wrought on one of those smaller grounds.

Just to clarify matters, 277 in 72 balls translates into a strike rate of 384.72 per hundred balls. That in turn translates to almost 4 runs a ball for 12 overs straight. I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around these mind-bogglingly astronomical numbers. These numbers are so mind-bogglingly astronomical in fact, that they are boggling my mind even as I type. Even Shahid Afridi, in his most famous knock had scored at a measly strike rate of 255. And he got out for 102. Scoring 277 runs in 72 balls is well and truly stupendous.

In case you're still having trouble putting things into perspective, consider this. For years now I have been playing the 20 over format of the game on my computer, courtesy Gooch cricket (and variations thereof). However, even with tweaking the batting averages to 900-odd, and with carefully selected pie-throwers as opponents, I have never managed a score of over 200 with any batsman. And I have surely never maintained a strike rate of 384.72 for 12 overs straight. Dhanuka Pathirana has, with this most incredulous of knocks, set a new standard, not only for Twenty-20 batsmen, but also virtual cricketers worldwide.

Random Conversation #1 - Ode to Saki

2007-09-01T10:40:00.000-05:00

It was a late Friday evening. In a brightly lit room in a dimly lit part of the city, a bunch of people got together for their weekly ritual to celebrate the passing of another week. Conversations veered from topics as diverse as weather patterns and dog fighting to local politics. Sometimes it was difficult to tell them apart.

The wine was plentiful, the music mellow. Despite wearing a bored-out-of-the-skin expression, some of the guests could actually be said to be having a good time. As the night wore on and the level of blood alcohol rose in the room, so did the noise level of the party. There is something about alcohol that brings out the raconteur in even the dullest of people, while transforming others suddenly into experts on ancient Mongolian rug weaves.

Not everyone indulged in the revelry however. In the corner, on a rather comfortable looking recliner, sat a young man nursing his whiskey sour, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He had only recently moved to the city, and had been invited to the gathering by the host. "It'll be a good chance for him to get to know people in the area," the host remembered telling his wife later.

The man however showed no inclination to grow his social network, and instead focused his attention on the strip of wallpaper on the wall across from where he was sitting. It fascinated him. As far as he could see, there was no other piece of paper covering any of the other walls in the house. Why then this one strip, so conspicuously at odds with everything else. It couldn't be just for decoration; the colours were too plain and jaded for it to be considered art. It had clearly been there for some time too, as the edges had begun to fray, probably not for the first time.

He started imagining all sorts of reasons for the strip. "Perhaps it's there to conceal a shoddy self-repair job. A misaimed hammer that left a nasty little dent. Or maybe it's there to hide a secret door. A door to another room, locked away forever behind the cloak of secrecy. A door to another past. A door..., Oh hullo!"

The last two words he said out aloud, for he found himself suddenly accosted by the host of the party.

"You have been awfully quiet all evening, even by your standards"
"Well, ummm... ah"
"Yes, exactly. Now that we have that cleared up, why don't you come and join the rest of us in the lounge?"
"Ummm... No, I think I'll be fine just sitting here".
He wasn't going to give up the comfort of the recliner that easily.
"Come now, don't be such a loner"
"Oh, but I am a loner. Always have been. I'm not sure why, but I don't seem to get along well with other people. I guess for all my wit and charm, I have the emotional quotient of a grasshopper"
"Charm? You have charm? Since when did you acquire charm?"
"That is not important. The point I was trying to make was..."
"Wit, I can understand, but charm?"
"I said it was not important. What's important is to establish that I have the emotional quotient of a grasshopper"
"I'm not entirely sure about that. Some of these grasshoppers seem to be highly social insects you know. Traveling in swarms, hording food for the winter, and all that"
"Yes, but don't they also bite the heads off their children?"
"No, they don't. Those are praying mantis you are thinking of. And they don't bite heads off their children, only their mates after having sex"
"Really?"
"Yes"
"Hmmm.. Then I couldn't have been thinking of praying mantids. What kind of monster would I be going about biting heads off my mates. No, I don't think I'm a praying mantis"
"That may be so. But you sir, are no grasshopper either"

As the man reluctanty renounced the recliner to mingle with the other guests, his thoughts were still elsewhere. "Maybe the strip of wallpaper has been put up to cover up a less than flattering sketch of the host engraved on the wall by his pesky little kid".

Self-Restraint

2007-08-09T18:41:00.000-05:00

I shall not punch irritating, feather-brained dumbfucks in the mouth.
I shall not punch irritating, feather-brained dumbfucks in the mouth.
I shall not punch irritating, feather-brained dumbfucks in the mouth.
I shall not punch irritating, feather-brained dumbfucks in the mouth.
I shall not punch irritating, feather-brained dumbfucks in the mouth.
I shall not punch irritating, feather-brained dumbfucks in the mouth.
I shall not punch irritating, feather-brained dumbfucks in the mouth.
I shall not punch irritating, feather-brained dumbfucks in the mouth.
I shall not punch irritating, feather-brained dumbfucks in the mouth.
I shall not punch irritating, feather-brained dumbfucks in the mouth.

And You Must Be Whats-His-Face

2007-08-06T23:21:00.000-05:00

At a conference last week, I bumped into this guy who looked vaguely familiar. Funnily enough, he didn't seem to have too much problem placing me. Funnier still, he seemed happy to see me.

"Dr. J" he beamed, "Remember me? We met at the software symposium in Virginia last December."

I looked at the man blankly. He beamed back eagerly. I repeated the blank look, and added a squint to effect. He continued the eager beam and refused to go away. Try as I did, I just couldn't place him. Finally, having decided that I needed to acknowledge his cheery greeting, I squared him up with my best deadpan face and responded "So?"

The glint disappeared from the man's eye. He reeled a bit, mumbled something incoherent and slithered off into the distance. For some reason I didn't see much of him during the rest of the conference.

The really funny thing however is that this has happened before.

********
postscript: Yes, yes. I know this is another conference related post. I have been attending a lot of them of late.

Cosmic Truth

2007-07-22T01:30:00.000-05:00

In an episode of that truly wonderful series, Cosmos, Carl Sagan tackles the concept of the birth and death of the Universe using allegories from Hindu mythology.

Hinduism is unique, according to Sagan, in that it is the only one of the world’s great faiths dedicated to the idea that the Cosmos itself undergoes an immense, indeed an infinite number of deaths and rebirths. He elaborates:

[The Hindu religion] is the only religion in which the time scales correspond, no doubt by accident, to those of modern scientific cosmology. Its cycles run from our ordinary day and night to a day and night of Brahma, 8.64 billion years long. Longer than the age of the earth or the sun and about half of the time since the big bang. And there are much longer time scales still.

There is the deep and appealing notion that the Universe is but the dream of the god, who after a 100 Brahma years, dissolves himself into a dreamless sleep and the Universe dissolves with him. Until after another Brahma century, he stirs, recomposes himself and begins again the dream -– the great cosmic lotus dream.

Meanwhile, elsewhere there are an infinite number of other Universes. Each with its own god, dreaming the cosmic dream.

Now some of that may have sounded like gobbledygook. But the underlying philosophy is quite profound. Listening to Sagan, I found it amazing that the ancients could conceive of such intricate notions as cosmic cycles and parallel Universes; notions that modern day physicists are still trying to grapple with. I doff my hat to the imagination and insight of these early cosmologists.

But marvel as I did at this divine interpretation of the cosmos, it is the next line that truly stunned me. A line, a sentence really, that truly captures the essence of all religion:

These great ideas are tempered by another, perhaps still greater -– it is said that men may not be the dreams of the gods, but rather that the gods are the dreams of men.

Much was lost when the ancient civilizations declined. It is one of the great tragedies of our time that the one truth that should never have been lost, was forgotten by all.

Humans Better Than Chimps at Walking

2007-07-19T22:52:00.000-05:00

After extensive studies, anthropologists have decided that human beings are better at walking than chimpanzees, whether on two legs or on all fours.

Finally, something that humans are good at. Take that all you chimps! Just shows who the better primate is. What's that you say now? Swinging on trees? Bah! What good is that? Trees are overrated anyway.

Shambho and the Pious Pilgrim

2007-07-17T23:28:00.000-05:00

Shambho, the sacred bull from Carmarthenshire was reprieved by a high court ruling earlier this week. The decision has been hailed by Hindu monks throughout the country who claim that they were fighting for Shambho's cause not because he belonged to a temple, but because to them all life is sacred. This is indeed a nice sentiment. Very humane and all that. But to me, it reeks of hypocrisy.

I find it rather ironic that a community that puts such a high price on a single life has such little regard for the environment. That in a land where millions worship the elephant god everyday, no one so much as raises an eyebrow when elephants are slaughtered by the thousands in the wild. That the very same people who take to the streets and burn effigies to protest the culling of a bull don't think twice before damning an entire ecosystem to hell.

Reuters reports in a little publicized article that pilgrims to holy sites are destroying the fragile ecosystem of the Himalayas. Everyday, scores of worshippers arrive at these sites in buses, cars and even helicopters, only to leave behind tonnes of refuse. The plastic they leave behind is slowly choking the life out of the rivers, while massive deforestation and rapid human development promises to turn the Himalayan range into one massive dumping ground. The government cannot do anything about it of course; religion is above the law in India. Meanwhile, a handful of volunteers cry themselves hoarse, even as their pleas fall on deaf ears.

As the volume of devotees keeps increasing, it becomes incumbent on the pilgrims themselves to wake up to this impending doom and do something about it. That, however is not very likely. And that is what depresses me. I ask you devout Hindu pilgrims then: Is it too much to ask you to carry your own trash? And is it too much to ask you to not treat the abode of your Lord as a dump? It's not like it cannot be done. Millions of Muslims flock to Mecca every year, yet the shrine maintains its sanctity. Is your shrine any less sacred than theirs? Or is it just the stone god you worship, but not his abode.

FIFA 2006

2007-07-08T03:47:00.000-05:00

There I am. Playing FIFA 2006 on my PS2. It's Manchester United vs. Real Madrid. Midway through the second half. Scores tied at 1-1. Edwin van der Sar takes the goalkick. Neville and Zidane go up for the air ball. Zidane gets to it first and wins possession. Andy Gray remarks "Ooh! That's a great header. He really uses his head beautifully."

I double up laughing and fall off the couch.

In Conclusion

2007-07-06T18:18:00.000-05:00

The problem with drab, long-drawn conferences is that they are filled with drab, long-drawn presentations. Soul-crushingly dull presentations that seem to go on and on forever, without really getting anywhere.

For some bizarre reason, the length of these presentations is often directly proportional to the pointlessness of their content. I stumbled upon this revelation while sitting through one such remarkably pointless talk. Having missed the day’s breakfast by virtue of not waking up on time, I desperately needed a snack to keep myself alive till lunch. The import of the situation was clearly lost on the presenter however, who seemed to have wagered with someone that he couldn't use the words incentivize, leverage and synergize together in thirty-nine different slides. Whoever had put the money against him had clearly underestimated the man’s gift for platitude. Meanwhile, I squirmed in my seat.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of meaningless rambling, the speaker propped up a slide titled Conclusions. “A-ha,” I thought to myself. “We are getting to the end of this.” My plan of strategically positioning myself near the exit promised to pay off, as I prepared to make a dash for it to beat the rush to the hors d' oeuvres.

But what’s this? Just as I was about to get up, another slide popped up. Conclusions (Continued), it proclaimed. I felt cheated. I felt betrayed. This sort of skulduggery had no place in a conference, I decided. The presenter however lumbered on, unmoved. As he finally reached the end of the slide, I readied for the obligatory applause. Only to be thwarted by another slide. Summary, this one was called.

I swore under my breath. This was most unnecessary. What could he summarize now that he hadn’t already concluded? The pointlessness of all this was excruciating. Still, I put on a brave face and kept nodding intermittently, as the torment continued.

The Summary slide was followed by not one, but two slides featuring Future Work. Things were starting to get blurry now. “Gaah! does anyone honestly expect this work to be done in the future”, I wondered through clenched fists and misty eyes. The c.f. and m.e. were greeted with yet another slide, tantalizingly titled Final Thoughts. I had a few final thoughts of my own on what I wanted to do with the presenter. Without going into details, I’ll suffice to say that they didn’t involve food. I was trying to stay positive here.

My positivity got dealt a severe blow as the Acknowledgements slide made its appearance. By the time the presenter was done thanking the sixty-odd committees, faculty members, aunts, uncles, cleaning maids and the neighbour’s dog, I had taken to gnawing on my arm.

Then in a flash, it happened. A blank page popped up on the screen, with a tiny end of presentation scribbled on top. I rejoiced. Did a little jiggly dance in my head. Hope, it seemed, sprung eternal again.

The presenter wasn’t having any of it however. He wasn’t going to give in so easily. “Any questions from the audience,” he asked dour-faced as ever. A wrinkly, obviously well-fed fellow cleared his throat. “Yes, could you bring up slide four again, please.”

I hope someone else chronicled the rest of the session, because at this point I lost all consciousness.

Save the Planet – Make Others Give up Driving

2007-06-19T22:23:00.000-05:00

The only way to save the planet is to make someone else do it. Like the wise consultant Dogbert says: You can't save the Earth unless you are willing to make other people sacrifice.

[picture courtesy TreeHugger]

The Upside of Strife

2007-06-18T20:23:00.000-05:00

Conservationists this week were surprised to discover that there are hordes of wild animals thriving in Southern Sudan despite the almost decade long civil war going on there. Now this is good news, yes. Reason to celebrate and all that. But hardly what I would call 'surprising'. As I had pointed out in a previous post, it is a well-established fact that prolonged warfare promotes wildlife. In fact, the longer a war is, the better the prospects are for wildlife thriving in the region. Heaven only knows what rare and exotic breeds of fauna lay hidden in the mountains of Afghanistan. Maybe someday if when the war is over, we'll have megatheriums and nesophontes crawl out from under the rubble. Only to be shot at by poachers from the free world.

Whoever said war is a bad thing?

Striking the Right Chord

2007-06-14T22:41:00.000-05:00

We moved into a swanky new office building earlier this year. The building is going to be dedicated amidst much fanfare tomorrow. It's a nice building and all, but personally I don't care much for dedication ceremonies. You know how it is. So it was a bit awkward when I ran into one of the event's organizers in the hall.

"Are you going to be attending the dedication tomorrow?", he inquired matter-of-factly.
"Errr... I'm not quite sure...", I squirmed.
"The Commissioner's going to be there, speaking about the agency's vision for the future"
"Well, I'd love to, but I think I have some... umm... work to attend to..."
"It'll be a good opportunity to meet with people from other divisions"
"work... that'll require me to be in the lab all day"
"There'll be some very important people attending the ceremony"
"ummm... meetings... uh, teleconference...", I was cluthcing at straws here.
"And there'll be free food served after the function..."
"What time does it start, again?"

I guess what they say is true. You can take a man out of grad school, but you can never take grad school out of a man.

All Hail the Limbless God

2007-06-08T18:14:00.000-05:00

Zoologists in Orissa have recently stumbled upon a rare species of limbless lizards. This new find provides indisputable proof that gods do not have hundreds of limbs flailing all over the place. On the contrary, some of them may not have limbs at all.

I'd like to take this opportunity to say Ha! I told you so, and feel all smug about it. What is that you say now, I didn't tell you so? Well, nevermind. It is not important. What is important, however, is that we all bask in the radiant glory (or is it glorious radiance?) of the limbless lizard god.

This Week in Pakistan

2007-06-01T20:15:00.000-05:00

With the inevitable lull in Pakistani cricket following the unfortunate death of Bob Woolmer, I find myself turning to other quarters for my weekly dose of tomfoolery. Luckily, in this case, I don't have to look very far. For the Pakistani government is proving that it is more than capable of filling the void left by Inzi and his boys (or Shoaib and his boys, as it is now).

Sample this. A court sentences a same-sex couple to prison for marrying against the tenets of Islam. This in spite of the fact that one of them had had a sex change operation. Now I can understand the law not recognizing same sex marriage. I can also understand, with a stretch of credulity, the law not recognizing new-fangled surgical operations. But putting someone behind bars for an 'offence' such as this seems more than a bit extreme. Surely, the Supreme court will intervene and overturn the ruling, one imagines. Well, imagine again. For the Supreme Court is too busy issuing summons to Ibrar-ul-Haq (no relation to the great man), for penning a song about the salinity levels of a certain Parveen. It seems Dinesh Gupta has competition from across the border after all.

But while the Supreme Court takes the cake, the icing has to go to the fearless leader of the state, ~~General~~ President Musharraf himself. Musharraf last week called off an armed operation at the Lal Masjid, but made sure that the eye-for-an-eye philosophy was not lost upon the rebellious clerics.

An angry President Musharraf reacted to the mosque's threats on Monday, challenging the mosque's calls for a jihad against the government, by saying only the government can call for a jihad.

Really! Governments can call for jihads. I always thought that was the prerogative of loony religious fundamentalists. Not educated, suave politicians like the good general. I wonder if this calling for jihad rule applies to all governments or just to Mr. Musharraf and his good friends.

The Effigy Lobby Exposed

2007-05-24T22:20:00.000-05:00

I don't know if you've noticed, but there seems to be an alarming increase in the number of protests being staged in India of late. Most of these protests seem to be staged by people whose sentiments, religious or otherwise, have been offended by insensitive charlatans. As a result, we've seen protests against Big Brother for discriminating against Shilpa Shetty, Richard Gere for kissing the aforementioned Ms. Shetty, Ravi Shastri for enjoying beef, Narayana Murthy for disrespecting the national anthem, Sachin Tendulkar and Mandira Bedi for disrespecting the national flag, Chandra Mohan for painting obscure art, Gurmeet Singh for looking like Gobind Singh, the Welsh government for culling bulls, and all of this just in the last month or two.

I couldn't help but wondering if we've truly become such an intolerant society, or if there is some deeper, ulterior motive behind all these protestations. But if there indeed is a deeper, ulterior motive, what can it be? Who stands to gain of it?

The initial knee-jerk reaction, as is the wont in these situations, is to blame politicians. But that seems a bit unfair. Politicians have been around for a long time, and have been tapping public outrage for some time now. What could have led to this sudden spurt of effigy burning? As I sat there asking myself these ponderous questions, it struck me. Effigy burning! Of course. This entire bedlam has been fuelled by none other than the cabalistic effigy lobby.

The more I think about it, the more obvious it becomes. It's the one common thread that unites all these protests. No matter what part of the country, or indeed the world, the protest is taking place, you can rest assured that there would be an effigy or two burning in the foreground. So much so, that the effigy has now become almost a status symbol. No self-respecting protest can leave home without one. Even the press doesn't care for a protest unless they have an enflaming simulacrum of the offenders in tow. Pretty soon, I reckon, the success of a protest will be measured not by the number of people attending, but by how high their effigy is.

And all this burning, while not helping the cause of global warming, is doing wonders for effigy manufacturers. Profits have skyrocketed, business is booming. The hitherto unrecognized effigy artisan finally feels vilified. But feeling vilified is no longer enough for the artist. It is in his best interest that the protests stay in vogue, even if it means going out of the way to pay hired goons, instigate riots, aggrandize non-issues. Whatever it takes. I have no doubt that there'll be a steady stream of people cropping up with offended sensibilities all over the place in the not so distant future. And rest assured, they'll be well armed with a pile of effigies to burn.

So what can you, the reader, do about all of this, you ask? Well, make the most of it, of course. Get rid of all those overpriced tech stocks and invest in the up-and-coming straw manikin industry instead. Oh, and you can thank me later.

No One's Really Impressed, You Know

2007-04-29T00:32:00.000-05:00

"Oooh. Look at us. Look at us. We can win the world cup three times in a row. Ooooh. Look at us. Look at us. We are so special."

It's shameful what lengths some people will go to just to attract some attention. It's disgraceful. It really is.

(Original idea for post by King Cricket. Picture courtesy Cricinfo)

Disillusioned

2007-04-28T11:27:00.000-05:00

"I've had it with humankind", the mad scientist announced. "I have tolerated them long enough. But I shall not tolerate them anymore. Today I will unleash my Doomsday device upon them. My greatest invention. The single most exquisite implement of destruction ever built. It will be a device to end all devices. Terrible to look at, but beautiful to behold. The seas will rise to marvel at its splendor, the mountains will crumble at its roar. The Earth itself will tremble with fear. Humans will run in despair, but there will be nowhere to run, nor a place to hide. No, they won't be mocking me anymore. There will be no one left to mock. It will take care of them all..."

"Then again, maybe I'll unleash it tomorrow. There's a Mythbusters marathon on the Discovery channel tonight."

First Bananas, Now Peanut Butter

2007-04-23T11:03:00.000-05:00

It's not easy being an atheist. When not being held responsible for moral decrepitude of society or being constantly reminded of fires in the pits of hell, one is plagued by nightmares of random food products out to destroy false belief and impose the divine will of god.

Sometime back, we were informed that the banana has been designed by god to induce nightmares amongst atheists (which by implication suggested that coconuts and pineapples are satanic). For months, I was plagued by images of giant mutant musaceae chasing me with pitchforks, lining my escape route with banana peels. The only way out, I decided was to renounce all fruits and eat only processed food. One can't go wrong with processed food, I reckoned. But now we are told that peanut butter too is an atheist's nightmare. The proof is irrefutable. Unless you have little green men jumping out of peanut butter jars, there can be no grounds for evolution. And no evolution surely proves the existence of god.

I must confess, all these revelations have put me in a fix. Not only is my faith in science shaken to its core, but now I am also fast running out of things to eat. And don't even get me started on the killer mayonnaise nightmares.

Things To Do in Bombay While Awaiting Your Visa Withheld Under Section 221(g) of the INA

2007-04-22T15:17:00.000-05:00

Twiddle thumbs (see previous post on thumb twiddling).
Grow a beard.
Gang up local teens in the neighbourhood. Recount stories about the 'good old days'.
Alternately, if the local teens resist, wave fist at them angrily for having no respect for their elders.
Avoid elders.
Watch detailed analyses of Bangladesh's world cup game against Ireland on the forty-odd 'News channels' on television.
Meet with old friends. Tell them how fat they've become. Ignore all slanderous comments targetted at the nose.
Curse Section 221(g) of the INA. While at it, feel free to lavish profanities at Sections 221(a) through 221(f) as well.

Twiddle About

2007-04-21T05:01:00.000-05:00

"If twiddling the thumbs were an Olympic sport, you would surely be assured a medal", I was taunted the other day. An Olympic sport? Surely, you jest. Twiddling thumbs is no sport. No, it is no simple means of amusement. Twiddling thumbs, is high art. It is, in fact, the rarest of rare gifts, bestowed only upon a chosen few. To call it a mere sport, even an Olympic one, is to belittle this greatest of art forms.

Not everyone is born with true talent. One can, however, over time, learn the basics of the art. And while I cannot yet claim to be an expert, I have enough experience to present here, for the benefit of the uninitiated, a guide to the dark and mysterious world of thumb-twiddling:

The basic twiddle. The simplest and most common of the twiddles. In this, the hands are generally held loosely together, with the fingers intertwined, and the thumbs gently tapping against knuckles or webbing of the opposite hand. A common variation is having the thumbs tap each other at the tips.
The fingertip twiddle. The fingertip twiddle is carried out with both hands open wide, joined at the fingertips. The thumbs typically twiddle in unison.
The nervous twiddle. In the nervous twiddle, the hands are clasped tightly together, with the thumbs knocking furiously against each other. It can be easily identified during the last few minutes of a tense game.
The open palm twiddle. This twiddle is characterized by having both palms open wide and fingers stretched all the way, intertwined only at the tips. The thumbs twiddle synchronously either laterally or in a circular motion. It is usually accompanied by a long-drawn yawn.
The knuckle twiddle. Twiddling in this case is complimented by fingers rapping on knuckles. One hand is folded, while fingers on other hand are used to rap knuckles. The twiddling is usually in synch with the tapping, though it is not a strict requirement.

Remember, like all serious art forms, thumb-twiddling requires great dedication. Only through constant practice can you perfect the skill. Once you are comfortable with the moves listed here, you are encouraged to improvise. Try combining twiddling with other skills such as knuckle-cracking and finger-drumming. You are also encouraged to try and come up with your own personalized twiddle. Only once you have mastered this great dark art, you will realize, like I have, that there are few pleasures in this world as wholly satisfying as an idle twiddle of a flippant thumb.

Section ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha

2007-03-25T02:12:00.000-05:00

Imagine this. You are a tyrannical dictator of a rapidly deteriorating nation. The country is in ruins, malcontent is high, but you continue to rule with an iron fist. Your despotism and oppressive ways have drawn severe criticism from the international media who paint a grim picture of your reign, stopping just short of equating you to Adolf Hitler. What do you do to improve your image?

Answer: If you are Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe, you go ahead and grow yourself a cute little toothbrush moustache.

To borrow a phrase from Zaphod Beeblebrox in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, "ten out of ten for style, Mr. Mugabe, but minus several million for good thinking, yeah?"

Oh, The Humanities!

2007-03-22T08:22:00.000-05:00

In a Chronicle of Higher Education article, the pseudonymous Thomas Benton imparts rather stern advice to those considering grad school. Benton paints a bleak picture of graduate life, and literally spooks students into staying away from grad school. Although the article is addressed mainly to humanities majors, I think it resonates fairly well for most engineering disciplines too. There was more than one cold shiver running down my spine as I read the article. Maybe it was the AC vent acting up, but then again, maybe it was the article.

While I agreed for the most part with what Benton said in his article, there were some parts I just couldn't relate to. Especially the part where he talks about grad student depression:

I hardly know anyone who was a grad student in the last decade who is not deeply embittered. Because of my columns on this site, a few people have told me how their graduate-school years coincided with long periods of suicidal ideation.

Suicidal ideation? Really? Now, I may not be an expert, but having spent the better part of six years in grad school, I can safely aver that never once have I had a suicidal ideation. No, sir. Not one. In fact, the only ideation I've ever indulged in has been purely homicidal in nature.

Ah yes, I have fond memories of those days. Sitting through boring lectures on seemingly endless Tuesday afternoons, mentally decapitating the lecturer. Ruminating about chainsaw massacres in the midst of a conference. Drawing caricatures of obnoxious TAs being dipped in boiling tar. Wistfully slow-roasting pesky undergrads on an open fire. Perfectly normal, cheery thoughts all. There might even have been the occasional reverie that bordered on the genocidal, but for the most part, it was just pure and simple homicidal ideation. None of that depressing suicidal ideation that Benton raves about. I wonder where he gets that from. It must be a humanities thing.

Who Is Responsible?

2007-03-19T01:14:00.000-05:00

The Woolmer tragedy still has me all riled up. I am sad. I am confused. And more than anything, I am incensed. I need someone to vent all my pent-up anger at. I need to find who is responsible for this mess. This completely avoidable tragedy.

One could perhaps blame the fans. But that would mean I would partake the blame too. And I just cannot bring myself to do that. No, that can't be it. Next, I turn to the Pakistan team. Surely, the captain bears the brunt of the team's failure. But putting any more guilt on Inzamam's shoulders wouldn't be right either. He has gone through much strife the last few months, and will now have to not only take the blame for the team's dismal performance and face the wrath of irate fans, but also carry the burden of his coach's death. I just hope the media leave him alone. Inzy is famously staid, and a giant of a man, but even giants have their breaking point.

But the blame has to be affixed to someone. And as I sit down and think about it with my famous level-headed coolness (or is it cool-headed levelness?), it comes to me, as clear as day. This is all Stuart Matsikenyeri's fault. Had Matsikenyeri not missed the last ball in Zimbabwe's game against Ireland, his team would have won, Pakistan would still have the chance to qualify for the next round, and Bob Woolmer would still be alive. If you have to blame someone for this tragedy, it would have to be the irredeemable Matsikenyeri. Off with his head, I say.

Which brings us to the next question: who then is responsible for India's inexplicable loss to Bangladesh? The press, in all their haste are drawing out swords against Dravid for choosing to bat on winning the toss. But if the Matsikenyeri affair has taught us anything it is to always get to the source of the problem. In this case, the question to ask would be: Who is to blame for winning the toss in the first place? Tricky question at the face of it, but with a little investigation, it is not hard to trace the culpable. It is none other than that old rodent-riding demi-pachyderm, Ganesha at it again.

NDTV reports that there has been a special Ganesha temple established in Chennai to help the Indian team, and "[w]hile India's success in the World Cup will hinge on what Rahul Dravid and his men do on the field, visitors to the temple hope this will at least help India with the toss".

That settles it for me. I am off to my local Ganesha temple to indulge in some vandalising. You are welcome to join. But please bring your own Ganesha effigies.

A Tragic Loss

2007-03-18T23:27:00.001-05:00

It may be a sign of the times, but sports journalists tend use the term tragic loss so casually that when a real tragedy does occur, there are no words to describe the feeling anymore. Just a bagful of cliches.

Pakistan cricket has, in the recent months, been a constant source of entertainment. No matter what the circumstance, what inconceivably sticky mess the team found itself in, they somehow found a way to sink further into the mire. But through it all, they managed to plod along. Like a stumbling juggernaut on uneven wheels. A travelling circus of bumbling captains, drug scandals, ball tamperings and face slappings, to mention but a few.

The media and fans lapped it all up, of course. And why wouldn't they? There were enough scandals here, erupting at such a furious rate, to put a soap opera to shame. And every episode had with it a tinge of the ludicrous. It was tragic, yes. But in a comical sense.

It all reached a cresendo (or nadir) with the incredible loss to Ireland that scripted Pakistan's early exit from the World Cup. "The saddest day for Pakistani cricket", newspapers claimed. Surely, one reckoned, it couldn't get any worse than this. But then it did. Infinitely so. And this time, it isn't funny anymore.

No, no one's laughing this time. The juggernaut may keep rolling, but the wheels have come off. Even the world cup, with all its glitter, and years of anticipation, seems nothing more than a trifle now. It is, after all, but a game.

In Memory of the Fallen

2007-03-11T23:49:00.000-05:00

"You know, what I miss the most about being single", my married friend told me. "It's not the late night binging or freedom of speech. One learns to live without those things after a while. It's the little things one misses the most. When I was single," he said almost wistfully, "I used to eat over the sink all the the time. Saved me so much time and energy. But now... now we have to sit on the table, and eat off dinner plates like civilised people. Oh, but heaven forbid if we use the 'nice china'; oh no, that's only for special occasions. You know, I used to enjoy my dinner over the sink. Now I just try to gulp down my meals as fast as possible. Sometimes I don't even bother to chew anymore".

As I listened to my friend ramble on, I felt truly sorry for him. I tched and I tchahed, and with a heavy heart I realized just how often we take things for granted, without so much as sparing a thought for the less fortunate. Now, whenever I stuff my face over the sink because I'm too lazy to wash my week-old pile of dirty dishes, I can't help feel a pang of remorse for the underprivileged members of society. As I brush the crumbs off my three-day old stubble, my friend's anguish-ridden face flashes in front of my eyes. He was a brave one, he was. That's what makes this so sad.

Setting the (Palace) Grounds Ablaze

2007-03-04T00:50:00.000-05:00

No, that is not a picture of India's long-awaited answer to Gilbert Jessop. It is, in fact, dear old Eddie promoting Edd-Fest, the India leg of the Matter of Life and Death tour. That's right, after twenty-six years in existence, Iron Maiden are finally touring India. Steve and the boys can be seen in all their magnificence at the Bangalore Palace grounds on March 17, 2007. Rest assured, it is going to be one hell of a show. Wish I could be there to witness the historic event. For all of you in Bangalore, or anywhere else in the subcontinent for that matter, please do not miss this one. Book your tickets now.

As for Eddie's batting technique, from the looks of it, it seems to belong in the Mahendra Singh Dhoni mould. I'm a big fan of the Dhoni mould by the way.

Epimetheus

2007-02-25T00:08:00.001-05:00

Titan! who wilfully did bear
A burden so heavy upon his chest
Not even the almighty Atlas would carry
Nor Ethon rend from the flesh;
What price your compassion?
The sad, lonely gaze of the blessed beast,
Or the slander of pitiless fools
Who slight your sacrifice, but not your sin.

Titan! to whom was given the strife
The sorrow, the pain and shame;
For what? to earn us the gift of hope
When you kept none for yourself but despair;
Tricked by the knave, betrayed by your kin,
And plagued for your silent sufferance,
With the bane of eternal hindsight.

Epimetheus, the son of Iapteus and twin brother of Prometheus, is an often derided character in Greek mythology. While his brothers Prometheus and Atlas are often portrayed as heroes and have had many a paean written for them, Epimetheus is typically depicted as a dim-witted fool. Many scholars, however, believe that Epimetheus has been treated unjustly, and deserves his place in the pantheon for his sacrifice and gift to the human race.

This poem is an ode to Epimetheus, the silent benevolent titan. It's loosely inspired by Lord Byron's (admittedly far superior) poem Prometheus.

Awesome Super Exciting Man Silences Critic

2007-02-19T19:09:00.000-05:00

It's always nice chatting with old friends. More so if you haven't spoken for some time. And so it was when I spoke with Curly^[1] the other night. Amid exchanging pleasantries, reminiscing of the good ol' days, and discussing the ethics of sophistry, I decided to take a potshot at his newly acquired corpulence.

"You, old chum, are fat ", I told him.
"Oh, that's all right", he replied. "For you, mate, are boring".

This riposte, as you might very well expect, took me by surprise. I gasped. I reeled. I shook a fist in the general direction of Connecticut. Finally, I got a hold of myself, cleared my throat and registered my protest.

"What! Me, boring? How could you even insinuate such canard. Even the mere thought is preposterous. Me -- the sheer epitome of brinksmanship, the man who once single-handedly recounted the seventeen different types of grain in his diet -- boring? To claim that I am boring is like saying a quadrilateral is non-Euclidean. Like saying that a quasar is a dwarf planet. Like, ummm... who was that guy with the pot... pay-meth-something, Epimetheus, yes. It's like saying that Epimetheus was a genius. It is, in fact, the very opposite of a tautology. It is a fallacy. Yes, that's what it is. A fallacy."

Curly sounded unapologetic. "I'm sorry. You were saying something? I must have nodded off."

People can be so insensitive at times. Especially fat people.

[1] Name changed to protect Vinod’s identity.

Ugliest Dog in the World Contest

2007-02-14T23:14:00.000-05:00

Surfing through the telly last night, I came across a show titled "The Ugliest Dog in the World". No, I'm not making this up. Honest. Every year pet owners flock to Sonoma-Marin, California to proudly parade their specimen freaks of nature. Mutts from all over the US and Canada come together to pit their ugly mugs against each other (hence the title - Ugliest dog in the World).

When I first heard of the contest, I'd dismissed it as a colossal waste of time. How ugly can a dog really be, I reckoned. I tuned in to find out. And boy, was I surprised. I was more than surprised. I'd go as far as to say that I was shocked.

Now I've seen my fair share of surly pooches in my lifetime, but nothing could have prepared me for this. This was not your everyday Peter Crouch kind of ugly. These pooches were a sheer affront to nature. Some of the dogs on the show were so ugly, in fact, they almost make one believe in a higher power. Surely only a spiteful, sadomasochistic God could be responsible for such abominations. That, or years of selective inbreeding.

Oh, and just in case you have to know, here is a picture of last year's winner, Sam. Click at your own risk.

Things That Make You Go Eh

2007-02-03T13:40:00.000-05:00

I received a message from the Secretary of Health the other day, urging me to wear red on February 2^nd. February 2^nd, as I am already aware I was told, is the National Wear Red Day. Everyone is advised and encouraged to wear red on the day, to show support for women's heart disease awareness. By wearing red, it claimed, whether it is a dress, shirt, tie, or Red Dress pin - you will be sending a lifesaving message "Heart Disease doesn't care what you wear - It is the #1 Killer of Women."

Something about the missive struck me as a bit out-of-line. First of all, how does wearing red, or any other colour for that matter, lend support to the fight against heart disease in any way? Secondly, if heart disease doesn't care what you wear, then the best way to prevent it would be to not wear anything at all, wouldn't it?

I was more than a little bemused. I was outraged. "This is outrageous", I announced to express my outrage. Who is the Secretary of Health to decide what I wear on February 2^nd. As a mark of protest, I decided to boycott the National Wear Red Day altogether. "Not only shall I not wear red, but I shall wear the opposite of red," I resolved.

This resolution of mine posed a bit of a problem, however. The opposite of red, as you'll readily agree, is cyan, and I, like any self-respecting conservative dresser, do not possess an array of garments bearing a cyan hue. I decided therefore, to improvise. And so it was that on Friday, February 2^nd 2007, I showed up at work sporting a pair of blue socks with horizontal green stripes. That ought to have showed them.

National Wear Red Day. Bah, humbug!

The OSI Model Revisited

2007-01-23T00:11:00.000-05:00

As I sit in the conference room listening to a boring presentation about an integrated device communicating with hospital information systems over the seven layers of the OSI model, my mind begins to wander.

What are the seven layers of the OSI model I wonder. And then like a flash of lightening it occurs to me. In a trice I recollect the friendly mnemonic that we had come up with all those eons ago.

Please Do Not Touch Sachin Phadtare's Assignments

What a great mnemonic. Simple, yet catchy. Topical, yet pertinent. And remarkably efficient to boot. If there were awards to be awarded for the catchiest mnemonic ever, this would be among the winningest of the lot. Yes, it really is that good.

To be honest, I do not remember much about Sachin Phadtare, or why we were not allowed to touch his assignments. In fact, I haven't the foggiest idea of what he looked like (though I have a vague feeling that there was a moustache involved.) Still, he will linger on in my memory forever.

I try hard to suppress a chuckle. The presenter looks at me. I nod wisely as he rambles on.

Meaningless presentations can be such fun at times.

Where's the Base At?

2007-01-17T13:39:00.000-05:00

Over lunch the other day, I was posed the following question. Given,

24² = 554

what is the base of this equation. That is to say, what number system should be used to make the equation valid?

In between stuffing my face and scratching my head, I did manage to solve the problem, albeit not half as quickly as I would have hoped. I offered the lack of a readily available pen as my excuse. One can't really solve quadratic equations without a pen now, can one? As it turns out, there is a faster, more intuitive method that doesn’t really require a quadratic equation at all. It seemed so obvious once revealed that I had to kick myself for not thinking it.

My question to you, dear reader, is can you come up with the quick solution for this problem?

Bonus question: Now that I have you reeled in, pray tell me what the base of the following equation should be

2¹³ = 80000

(You may use a calculator for this one).

Tom Tancredo for President

2007-01-08T23:37:00.000-05:00

Republican Tom Tancredo has called for a moratorium on immigration because of the threat that illegal immigrants could spread contagious disease among Americans. Tancredo is afraid that people from foreign countries will invade in their hordes and contaminate America with deadly diseases. Just like his ancestors had done some 400 years ago, bringing cholera and tuberculosis to the continent, wiping off entire civilizations in the process. Really, one must laud Mr. Tancredo for his concern and foresight. Here is one man who really learns from his history.

And it's not just public health or illegal aliens that Tancredo is concerned about. He is also working tirelessly to protect the country against the evil cult of multiculturalism. To quote:

I have to tell you that we are facing a situation, where if we don't control immigration, legal and illegal, we will eventually reach the point where it won't be what kind of a nation we are, balkanized or united, we will actually have to face the fact that we are no longer a nation at all. That is the honest to God eventual outcome of this kind of massive immigration combined with the cult of multiculturalism that permeates our society. (source: Right Wing News)

After all, we all know the perils multiculturalism pose to society. Just imagine what might happen if we expose people from different cultures to each other. They will form nefarious cults, sacrifice souls, and Heaven forbid, even become tolerant of each other (the Horror!). But won't being insular further alienate the country and actually increase the chances of terrorist attacks, you ask. Well, fear not. For the tireless Mr. Tancredo has a plan for that too.

I must confess, I am floored by such brilliance. I had been planning to lobby for Jeb Bush for the 2008 Presidential election, but now I think I might have found a worthier contender. Do visit the (unofficial) Tom Tancredo for President website. Oh, and don't forget to donate generously.

Good Riddance!

2006-12-28T23:19:00.000-05:00

It's been a momentous week in cricket. Australia regained the Ashes, India finally won a test in South Africa, and Sreesanth gave a whole new meaning to the term dancing down the pitch. All of this however has been eclipsed by the news of Shane Warne and Glenn McGrath's retirement.

Talks are rife of a tearful farewell to the Aussie heroes at Sydney. I am sure however, that I echo the sentiments of millions when I say "Good Riddance". For a decade and a half these two tyrants have tormented batsmen the world over. And in doing so have created the aura of invincibility that so shrouds Australian cricket. Without these two in their ranks though, Australia will be crap. Sure they might still win the odd one-day tournament or two, maybe even the world cup. But no longer will they be able to brush aside the opposition with impunity or stroll through test series sweeps. In fact, very soon they'll be struggling to avoid getting thrashed by Bangladesh. By an innings. And 300 runs. Within three days. Trust me on this one.

Update: Justin Langer too has joined the retirement parade. With Gilchrist and Hayden likely to add to the list before long, it just reinforces my belief that Australia will be test cricket's new whipping boys.

Talking of Langer, one can't help but comment on his soul-piercing eyes. Right up there with Muralitharan and Damien Martyn, if you ask me. Cricket has lost an incredible pair of eyes.

Further Proof that God is a Lizard

2006-12-22T16:24:00.000-05:00

Here's further proof that I have been right all along. God really is a lizard. And Komodo dragons, being the largest lizard species are the kings (or queens, if you may) of the gods. Take that all you disbelievers and naysayers. Who's going to save you from the coming of the great sticky tongue now, huh?

The finding provides irrefutable proof that the silly immaculate-birth-of-Christ story is merely an allegory about the great lizards and their wondrous ways. The story is clearly a parable based on the life of a famous lizard, who may or may not have been called Xarkwotz.

This latest revelation has caused quite a stir among disbelievers. While some of them have finally seen the light and are reverting to the reptilian way of life, others still stay in denial, claiming that god is amorphous and can take any form. To them, I say Rubbish! There is only one form of god, and it is a lizard. God does not manifest himself as a fish, or a goat, or a wild boar. And he most definitely does not manifest himself as a podgy, baboon-faced sportsperson. So come now, mend your errant ways, and join me in genuflection, as we all hail the lizard king.

Fantastical Mythical

2006-12-22T12:15:00.000-05:00

I was recently asked who, in my opinion, is the most fantastical character in mythology (yes, I know it sounds odd, but people really do ask me these questions).

After mulling over it considerably, I've decided to cast my vote for none other than the demon of tooth decay, the demi-pachyderm known as Ganesha. Think about it. Here is a god that looks like something straight out of Dr. Moreau's island, balances a head disproportionately larger than his body, boasts of anywhere between six and six hundred limbs, and controls the fate of all humankind despite having a brain better suited for grazing. To top it off, he uses a rodent as his preferred means of conveyance. As far as I'm concerned, that alone is enough for him to clinch the prize. I mean, who rides a rat? Honestly.

Closure

2006-12-18T01:09:00.000-05:00

Lying curled up against the corpse
Of a once beautiful dream
He tries to gently sob himself to sleep
But tears too have forsaken those barren eyes
There can be no rest for the wicked tonight
No sleep for the depraved
Stumbling through the darkness he searches
For shards of pain to fill the void
Or the kiss of cold steel to put to rest
The treacherous heart that beats against his will

Inspired by a quote by Charlie Brown from Peanuts.
Oh, and bonus points for guessing what the poem is about.

Make War, Save the Wildlife

2006-12-12T22:42:00.000-05:00

According to this report, continued insurgency in Kashmir has resulted in an increase in wildlife population in the valley. Apparently people there are too too busy shooting each other to shoot at animals.

The report has generated tremendous interest among environmentalists, who have pounced upon this opportunity to call for similar studies to be undertaken on the local fauna in Somalia and Afghanistan. If results from those studies corroborate the findings in Kashmir, it could mark the beginnings of a brand new approach to conservationism -- one based on regional conflict. Already there have been rumours of civil unrest being planned for Tanzania and parts of the Amazon river basin. Religious leaders from across the globe are said to have been consulted for establishing a long-term action plan for these regions. Plans are also being drafted for a maritime war operation in the South Pacific, aimed at protecting the coral reef. There is some debate however, on whether the use of nuclear submarines should be permitted.

Funding for the proposal is yet to be approved.

Road Rage

2006-12-10T20:08:00.000-05:00

Making my way through traffic on the beltway listening to A Tout le Monde on the stereo, I was reminded of George Carlin. It was Carlin that once remarked, "In traffic, anybody going slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac."

As I overtook another lumbering idiot and shook my fist at a passing maniac, I wondered what it is about driving that makes people so aggressive. What prompts otherwise level-headed, calm people to suddenly become foul-mouthed, intolerant fiends once behind the wheel? Could it be that that they really hate their cars so much that they can't wait to get out of them? Or maybe they really love their jobs and can't wait to get behind the desk and start being productive as soon as possible. Not very likely, on either count.

Desecration Aftermath

2006-11-30T14:42:00.000-05:00

Two trains have been burnt in Maharashtra by Dalits protesting the vandalisation of an Ambedkar statue. Protestors also burnt 77 buses and damaged private vehicles. "We will do anything to defend our Babasaheb," claimed a protestor. "We are trying to be as peaceful as possible," added another. (source: NDTV)

Dear protesters,
I understand that you aspire to be an angry mob, and like all reputable angry mobs from good families, you can't be too bothered about rational logic. But surely, you ought to put a little more thought into your acts of vandalism.

To start off with, how does randomly burning trains and buses vindicate the desecration of a statue? If someone desecrates a statue of your leader, you must retaliate by desecrating statues of their leaders (or better still, desecrating their leaders), not by burning trains and buses. Statistically speaking, the rich, upper caste types you are protesting against are far more likely to be traveling by air, while the oppressed class, such as yourself, gets to travel in trains and buses. By burning these means of transport, you are causing a greater disservice to yourself and your brethren. Know who your audience is, as any successful manager will tell you. Next time, try and burn airplanes and luxury cars instead.

Secondly, while it is commendable that you are prepared to do anything to defend your leader, I would like to point to the fact that your leader is, to put it bluntly, quite dead. Realistically, you have as much chance of protecting Babasaheb as protecting an ichthyosaur (keen readers of this blog might point out that there are several degrees of deadness between Babasaheb and an ichthyosaur, but I shall safely ignore that for the sake of the current argument). I must therefore urge you not to aim for the impossible, and channel your mob fury towards more practical protestations, like moral decrepitude or the new Slayer album.

Lastly, if you do decide to have a go at it, give it your best shot. There's no point in burning just a couple of trains and stopping there because you are trying to be as peaceful as possible. It is just this sort of half-hearted attitude that inculcates self-defeatism. Many a riot has been reduced to a mere protest because someone decided they should be as peaceful as possible. This sort of misguided pacificism must not be tolerated. Every time you march in protest, try to convert it to a full-fledged riot. And every time you riot, strive for an uprising. You can only succeed by aiming high. But please, and I cannot stress this enough, please choose your battles wisely.

Mohammad Yousuf's Incredible Feat

2006-11-30T12:15:00.000-05:00

Last weekend, I partook in a heated discussion about who the best batsman in the world is, based on current form. Most people, rather predictably, supported Ricky Ponting or Brian Lara. I however cast my vote for Mohammad Yousuf (formerly Yousuf Youhana). To vindicate my stance (and clearly for no other reason), Yousuf has gone ahead and broken Vivian Richard's 30-year old record for most runs scored in a calendar year. In the process, he has also scored more centuries than anyone else in a given year.

Despite the fact that he plays in a veritable age of batsmen, and that pitches in Pakistan have been getting increasingly deader by the season^[1], Yousuf's feat must be hailed for what it is - a phenomenal streak of consistently good batting. Moreover, by scoring 1788 runs at an astounding average of 99.33, he has indisputably proven the importance of facial hair in cricket. I have no doubt that Bradman would have been a far more prolific batsman had he had a beard to match Yousuf's. Or Rikki Clarke for that matter.

Impressive though it might be, I don't think Yousuf's record is going to last as long as its predecessor. Why, this year itself Ponting's got 1058 runs in six tests, with three more to play in December. While it is unlikely that he'll overtake Yousuf, he has a realistic chance to equal the record of nine centuries in the year. For England's sake, and for the sake of bearded men worldwide, let's hope he doesn't get there.

[1] Yes, there are degrees of deadness. A dodo, for instance is deader than an auk.

The Greatest Albums of All Time

2006-11-21T22:38:00.000-05:00

My friend Puneet informs me that Time magazine has released a list of the all-time top 100 albums, and it doesn't include a single Pink Floyd album. Needless to say he was appalled. I wanted to be appalled as well, but frankly, I didn't really care. What with a new list being published every second week telling us about the greatest songs of all time, the greatest bands, the greatest rap videos featuring Pharrell Williams... you get the idea.

What I want to know is who defines the criteria for this 'greatness'. Seriously, any bunch of half-wit, self-proclaimed experts can sit on their collective butt and come up with a list of 'great' albums. I could perhaps understand if they based their opinion on tangible evidence, like number of albums sold, but there is no way you can convince me that The College Dropout is a better album than Thick as a Brick just because some snot-faced expert thought so.

In fact, even with all the hard facts and figures in the world, you wouldn't be able to convince me. For music, like most art, is intangible. What may be the truest symphony for one could be utter noise for someone else. To quantify art is futile, quite simply because everyone has their own set of aesthetics; their own notion of greatness. That's how it should be. And that is exactly what makes lists like this completely meaningless.

Just to drive in an already overdriven point, I shall now publish my very own list of the greatest albums of all time. To paraphrase Adam Savage, I shall reject their reality and substitute my own. And since I have neither the patience, nor the inclination to rate a hundred albums, I shall restrict this most exalted list to five. So, here it is. In all it's glory. The five greatest albums that were ever released:

1. Piper at the Gates of Dawn, Pink Floyd
2. Painkiller, Judas Priest
3. Piece of Mind, Iron Maiden
4. Rust in Peace, Megadeth
5. In Rock, Deep Purple

So there.

No More Endless Shrimp

2006-11-10T19:29:00.000-05:00

Had been to Jaleo's in downtown DC last weekend. As is my wont I ordered shrimp tapas and the seafood paella. Needless to say, I pigged out. I did feel a tinge of remorse at so flagrantly abusing the ocean's resources, but I stuffed myself with the lobster regardless. Surely, there are plenty of fish in the sea, to use the old expression literally.

A couple of days later, I read this report that claimed there might be no more fish in the oceans by the middle of the century. Seafood stocks have been in decline for the better part of two decades now, but apparently the situation is far more serious than anyone had imagined.

Those who know me well know how much I like my shrimp. But in light of this report, I have decided to give up, or at any rate drastically cut down on, consumption of seafood. Also, I am switching to freshwater shrimp, in particular those bred in inland fish farms.

It'll take more than a few individuals changing their dietary habits to save the oceans though. There must be a concerted effort by the governments and industry to come up with a more sustainable model for fishing. Given the lack of accordance among countries and the strong fisheries lobby, I don't see this happening any time soon.

What can be done, however, is to develop a more environment-friendly means for fishing itself. Most commercial trawlers are rather indiscriminate when fishing in the deep. They just sweep the ocean with their massive nets catching just about everything that floats. Not all fish that are caught are fit for consumption though. Close to 50% of the catch is discarded and thrown back in the ocean^[1]. This is a clearly terrible waste, and better, more eco-friendly techniques for fishing need to be put in place if we are to preserve the fragile ecosystem that is the world's oceans.

[1] Commercial trawlers are, in fact, the biggest threats to shark populations worldwide.

Good News, Everyone

2006-11-07T08:29:00.000-05:00

I got back home from work last night to find a note in my apartment. "GOOD NEWS!", it said, in big bold capital letters. "Our Maintenance Technicians were in your home today to conduct our routine Preventive Maintenance Inspection. Thank you for allowing us to serve you! Signed, The Maintenance Department."

I must confess, I was a bit stumped. I would have understood it if during inspection they had accidently stumbled upon a lump of gold behind the refrigerator. Or perhaps found the brown sock that's been conspicuously missing since September. But how does performing routine preventive maintenance constitute good news? Honestly, I didn't get it.

But I let it pass. I deemed it best not to dwell upon such imponderables, and get on with my life. Or the remainder of the evening in this case. I fixed myself dinner, watched the telly for a bit, and after a while decided to turn in for the night. Ergo, I got up from the couch, turned off the light, and walked through the hallway, dragging the door shut behind me. Only somehow, I missed.

"That's odd", I considered. "I've never missed the door before." Still, I didn't put too much thought into it, and tried again. To my surprise, I missed again. Perplexed, I flicked on the light switch to unravel the mystery. Lo and behold! The door had plain vanished. Where there used to be a fully functional door in the hallway now remained just a couple of hinges. Like the ugly stump of a once magnificent tree.

Then it struck me. "A-ha!" I thought to myself. This must be the good news that they were trying to warn me about. And by routine preventive maintenance, they must have meant uprooting the door in the hall. Surely, they must have reckoned that the door posed a safety hazard. What if I accidently walked into the door and bumped my head? Or worse still, my nose? No, but they took care of it. They had prevented any future injury by removing the offending door itself from the hallway. Yes, it all made perfect sense now. There remained, however, just one problem.

I still don't get it.

Drugs, Booze and Shoaib Akhtar's sex life

2006-11-04T21:43:00.000-05:00

There's always a crisis in Pakistani cricket. If it's not resigning captains and retiring players, it's staging walk-offs and bringing games into disrepute. The current doping controversy, however is scandalous even by Pakistani standards.

I do realize that Akhtar and Asif were in the wrong, and deserve to be reprimanded for their acts. What I do not understand, however, is why Akhtar was handed a more severe ban than Asif, for what was essentially the same offense. Both were found guilty on the charge of drug abuse, and had pretty much the same amount of nandrolene in their respective samples. Still, while Asif was handed a one year ban, Akhtar was banned for two years. Perplexed, I turned to Intikhab Alam for an explanation.

Intikhab rubbished speculations that the panel was unfairly harsher on Akhtar than Asif. "If people read our statement they will understand," Intikhab asserted. "He [Shoaib] drinks alcohol, has an active sex life and he's been part of anti-doping awareness programmes. Shoaib has been around for the last ten years and the written statement that his spokesman gave about him taking dietary supplements and not consulting a doctor, shows he was negligent."

On Asif he said: "We decided to ban him for a year because his English is not that good, he comes from a remote village where he would not have been educated on the dangers of drugs in sport and so he doesn't understand."

Whoa! Hold on a minute. Let me read that again.

I used to pride myself on my understanding of rational logic, but Mr. Alam here has completely shattered my illusion. Either that, or his reasoning is utterly specious. Now, I'm sure Mr. Alam is an honorable man, but having just attended a week-long law course, I feel compelled to challenge his argument. Let me try and address each of his allegations:

1. Shoaib drinks alcohol, and has an active sex life: And what's more, he's been noted to ride an imported bike and sing Bollywood songs on occasions. Oh, the horror! Seriously, I fail to see how Akhtar's sex life has any relevance to the doping issue. Irrevocably irrelevant (I love alliterations).

2. Shoaib's been part of anti-doping awareness programmes: For that matter, so has Mohammad Asif. Ergo, fails to explain the harsher ban on Akhtar.

The anti-doping awareness program in this case, in fact, is little more than a pamphlet that was handed out to players at the start of the tournament. Most players confessed that they had little time or inclination to study such pamphlets. In any case, it had no mention of any dietary supplements.

3. Shoaib has been around for the last ten years and was negligent: How does being more experienced qualify Akhtar as being more guilty? This is his first offense, just as Asif. Simply being around for 10 years does not automatically make him more aware of the fact that certain dietary supplements contain nandrolene. Especially if you take into account that it is the first time the aforementioned dietary supplement has been deemed to contain a banned substance.

4. Asif's English is not that good, he comes from a remote village so he doesn't understand: Ignorance does not prove innocence. Such an argument would never hold water in any court of law. Anywhere. And if it did, Akhtar could plead ignorance as well. For he surely did not know that the protein supplement he was taking was illegal. His ability to understand English, or any particular language, is immaterial.

Personally, I think Akhtar's been dealt a particularly raw deal. The whole matter reeks of the recent (disturbing) trend of the Islamization of Pakistani cricket. Akhtar's not particularly pious, drinks alcohol and leads a western lifestyle (to quote the PCB). Therefore, he must be dealt with strictly. Asif on the other hand, is a good muslim, and offers prayers five times a day along with the rest of the team, and thus warrants leniency.

If I were Shoaib Akhtar, I'd be filing a lawsuit against Intikhab Alam and the PCB.

[Inthikab Alam quote courtesy Cricinfo]

Orissa and Saltwater Crocodiles

2006-11-01T19:14:00.000-05:00

The world's largest saltwater crocodile, measuring a whopping 23 feet, has been found in the Bhitarkanika sanctuary on the Orissa coast in India. Before reading about this, I didn't even know there were saltwater crocs in Orissa. And I had almost surely never heard of Bhitarkanika.

Salties, of course, are big business in Australia. They attract hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of tourists every year to that country. Several documentaries have been made to celebrate these wonderful creatures. One of the more famous ones being SuperCroc, a two-hour special by Steve Irwin, wherein he set out to capture the largest saltwater croc in Australia, and managed to catch a 17-foot monster (17 feet, tch! We don't even bother to tag those in Bhitarkanika, S C Mohanty would say).

The point I'm trying to make here is (you just knew there was a point lurking around somewhere, didn't you) that Orissa should make use of its salties to promote tourism. When you house some of the largest and rarest reptiles in the world, you don't just sit on them. You make some noise. Advertise. Publicize. Boast about it. Invite NGC to make a documentary. That sort of thing. Orissa has one of the poorest economies in India, but is incredibly rich in natural resources. They should try and use the latter to improve the former. Ministry of Tourism, please take note. Oh, and please do something about that lousy website, too.

Scream for me, Jersey

2006-10-29T15:12:00.000-05:00

Muslims flock to Mecca. Jews revere Jerusalem. Hindus have their four dhams. And I attain salvation at an Iron Maiden concert (yes, I had seen them at Ozzfest 2005, but a person is allowed to make more than one pilgrimage, isn't he?)

On Friday, the 13th of October, 2006, I headed to Hackensack, New Jersey to attend Iron Maiden's Matter of Life and Death concert. There was no Black Sabbath this time. No Mudvayne either. What was there, however, was the added incentive of meeting long-lost friend Vinod at the concert. All right, so he wasn't exactly lost. And technically speaking, we didn't meet at the concert. But it was the first time I had met him in almost eight years. Could hardly recognize him too. He has put on a few vanity pounds, to put it mildly. Nevertheless, it was great meeting him and chatting at length about the good ol' days.

After we'd done chatting, and stuffing our faces, Vinod and I headed out to Hackensack. Getting to Hackensack, however, is trickier than it sounds. Starting off from DC, for instance, one has to take an Amtrak train to New York, get on the subway to the World Trade Center, use a Path train to get across to NewPort, and finally hop on to the NJ Light Rail to Hackensack. Now I have nothing against trains, but by the time we got to Hackensack, I was beginning to feel more than a little siderodromophobic. Once in Jersey, we caught up with Shashank and commenced our short drive to the Continental Airlines Arena.

Short drive, yes. But it took us forever to get there. Thanks to the NJ civic authorities, who decided that Friday evening was the perfect time to dig up two-thirds of the road. We crawled and cursed and reached the arena at 8:45 pm, full fifteen minutes after the scheduled start. Thankfully, Iron Maiden, in all their magnanimity, had deferred their performance till nine o' clock to compensate for the traffic. If only all bands were this understanding.

The set-list of the show had been published all over the Maiden message boards, so there was no real surprise there. The show started with an off-stage rendition of Doctor, Doctor, just as it had done in the Early Years set last year. It was followed by the band bursting on the stage and immediately breaking off into A Matter of Life and Death.

Ever since I first heard the album, I'd known it would sound great live. And the band didn't disappoint. From the racy Different World to the symphonic The Legacy, it was one hell of a ride. Bruce may have lost his high-pitched wail, but proved that he could still marshall the troops admirably. Nicko was rock solid as ever, and the three amigos continued their fine form. Steve, the backbone of the band, stood mostly in the corner, playing the gallop and mouthing words from the album. It's a good thing they don't let him near a microphone.

There weren't too many on-stage gimmicks. Just a few fireworks during Greater Good of God, and a bit of a light show towards the end of the album. Oh, and Eddie made an appearance in a tank. And shot at the crowd. With a camera! Err... it's not like the Maiden fan is an endangered species, Eddie. Oh, well. Coming to the point, I really liked the live versions of These Colours Don't Run and The Longest Day. The former may well be my new favourite song on the album.

Once through with the new album, Maiden switched to retro mode and played some of their older numbers, inducing a lot more crowd participation in the process. They started off with Fear of the Dark, which expectedly got the crowd going. That was followed by an extended version of Iron Maiden, with the twelve-foot Eddie walking on stage. As the song ended, the band suddenly disappeared and the lights dimmed. A few chants of "Iron Maiden" later, Bruce reappeared. "Nicko here tells me that we've been off for a good five minutes. I don't think it was five. It was more like two. Two Minutes ... to Midnight". "Whoa! That was cool", I thought to myself. Indeed, it was.

There have been some that have complained about Maiden playing Two Minutes to Midnight on this set. But I think it fit in wonderfully with the anti-war theme of AMoLaD. So did the wonderfully stirring The Evil That Men Do that followed. They cannot play that song live frequently enough, if you ask me. The concert ended with the ever-popular Hallowed be Thy Name, with the chorus of the crowd rivaling Bruce. I unfortunately had lost my voice by then, a full night of screaming taking its toll.

The show ended a little after eleven o' clock, and we headed back home sharing our favorite Maiden stories. All right, all right. I shared the stories, and the others put up a brave front. In any case, we avoided the trains on the way back.

The one problem, if you can call it that, with an Iron Maiden concert is that it always leaves you craving for more. I can't wait till they come back to these shores again. Next time I will be in the front row.

[Photographs courtesy Vinod]

Autumnal Introspection

2006-10-24T23:38:00.000-05:00

Crisis (Noun):
1. A condition of instability or danger, as in social, economic, political, or international affairs, leading to a decisive change.
2. A dramatic emotional or circumstantial upheaval in a person's life.

It's getting colder. The leaves of fall lie scattered on the ground. The trees are almost entirely stark. Almost, but not quite. There are still some leaves that cling on greedily to the last few tendrils. Shamelessly clinging on to dear life despite losing all their dignity. What good is dignity to the dead?

He walks past the grey buildings. "I must remember to get a warmer coat". He knows he can't afford a coat. Not this winter. He is deluding himself. He knows that, too.

Adversity (Noun):
1. A state of hardship or affliction; misfortune.
2. A calamitous event.

The rains were late this year. And much too little. The earth is chafed. Wrinkles grow ever deeper. A wisp of cloud passes by, frolicking recklessly in the wind. As if mocking the afternoon sun. Ephemeral life is often so lustful.

Soon the prey would be gone. Not that he'd be able to hunt, anyway. "That which doesn't kill me, can only make me stronger". He laughs bitterly. The last few tendrils begin to wither.

---
Abstract prose is like bit like abstract art. Few claim to understand it. Fewer still understand it for what it really is. Pure drivel.

Why was Jay Z not banned?

2006-10-11T23:59:00.000-05:00

Slayer's new album Christ Illusion has been banned in India. Not only that, all stocks of the album have been recalled and destroyed. Honestly, I never cared much for Slayer. They are much too hard for my taste. But such a reaction to a music album seems a tad extreme, doesn't it? Well, not according to a certain Mr. Joseph Dias of Mumbai's Catholic Secular Forum, who claims that the album is "offensive and in very bad taste". Well, Mr. Dias, I think calling your organization Catholic Secular Forum is offensive and in bad taste. Nobody recalled your freedom of speech when you were protesting against the Da Vinci code, did they? Well, maybe they should have.

Elsewhere in the world, Jay Z has been barred from performing in China, because his music contains "vulgar language" and sexual overtones. Good heavens! What was Jay Z thinking? Did he imagine he could just waltz into China and start singing about sex? Just think what would happen if the Chinese populace actually learnt about sex.

But that is not even the point. What really gets my goat is why Jay Z wasn't banned in India. Sure he's not performing there, but one could still ban his albums. Recall them, destroy them. That sort of thing. Surely, if they can ban Slayer, they should ban Jay Z too. Or is it just religious sentiments that need protection? No, that can't be it. After all, there is a ban on hanky-panky on tv shows, isn't there? Maybe it's just that no one understands what Jay Z is singing about in the first place.

Whatever the case may be, I think the moral police have missed a trick here. They have lapsed ever so slightly in their thankless job of protecting the country from lewd and voyeuristic influences. I suggest therefore that we, as concerned citizens, write up a petition requesting the concerned authorities to take strict measures against such profane and immoral artists. With your help, we may still impose a ban on the licentious music of Jay Z.

Note: Sorry for the acerbic posts of late. It's been that kind of a week.
Another note: Normal service to resume after the Iron Maiden concert this weekend.

Holy Cassava!

2006-10-07T23:25:00.000-05:00

I love cassava. I respect it and revere it, as any god-fearing man should. For it is written in the holy scriptures of my religion (which incidentally happens to be the only true religion) that the cassava is the egg of the Lord. Eating the holy cassava would be like eating the womb of the Lord itself.

You can understand my chagrin therefore, when I read that some godless miscreants have been indulging in desecrating the sacred cassava. These heathen not only uproot the sacred plant, but boil its roots and devour its flesh like savages. I will not stand for such nihilism. I call upon all of you to join me against these blasphemers. We will stop their trucks, burn their vehicles and destroy random property. And for good measure, we'll kill a couple of people and injure several others. That'll teach them to exercise their freedom.

Announcing the Link of the Day

2006-10-06T16:21:00.000-05:00

I am, generally speaking, averse to putting up random links on my blog. Especially, when I have nothing constructive (or otherwise) to add to the information already provided. Still, there are times when I come across a rather interesting article and have a strong urge to share it with the rest of the world. Or at least with the regular visitors to my blog (yes, all four of you).

Brij, has come up with a neat solution to the problem. He simply has a separate blog for all such links. I however, choose to take the path of least effort. Accordingly, I have added a neat little section titled 'Link of the Day' to the sidebar. All link-worthy articles, posts and commentaries shall henceforth be added here.

The word 'day' in 'Link of the Day' must, of course, be taken with a pinch of salt. I intend not to update this link daily. Only when I come across a page that captures my imagination enough. Thus, it could be several days, weeks even, before the link is refreshed. Maybe Link of the Week would have been a more appropriate title. But Link of the Day has a better ring to it.

So here it is. In all it's glory. The link to the Link of the Day.

Roger Waters, Live

2006-10-03T20:05:00.000-05:00

There's always a debate amongst Pink Floyd fans regarding who was the more influential band member -- Roger Waters or David Gilmour. Personally, I've always been a Syd Barrett man myself, but one has to give credit where credit is due. And it was the Waters-Gilmour era that produced the band's most memorable music.

Of the two, Gilmour, surely, was the more talented musician. It was Gilmour who gave the band its signature progressive sound (with a little help from Messrs. Wright and Mason), and architected some of the most famous guitar leads of the era. But it was Waters that lent the band its soul. With his plaintive lyrics and surreal imagery, Waters taught an entire generation of music lovers what it's like to feel pain without suffering.

When I heard that Waters was coming to Washington DC then, it was no surprise that I booked myself front row tickets. I had missed his show in Bangalore by a matter of weeks. There was no way I was going to miss this one.

Of course, when I say Washington DC, I really mean Nissan pavilion in Bristow, Virginia. Also known as middle of nowhere. Why they can't hold concerts in DC or Columbia, I could never understand.

So it was. On a balmy Saturday afternoon, I headed for the Nissan pavilion for the second time in two years. With me this time were Sundar, Naresh, Pratik and Sneha, friends from NC State. We braved through two hours of mind-numbingly slow traffic, cursing sundry vehicles on the road, made a frantic pit-stop to tackle an 'emergency situation' behind an abandoned warehouse, and finally reached Nissan pavilion just in time to hear Waters break into a rendition of Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun.

By the time we made it to our seats, the band was already in the middle of the epic Shine on You Crazy Diamond. It was followed by Have a Cigar and the ever popular Wish You Were Here, as the tributes to Syd kept flowing. There were no towering screens or flashy laser shows one associates with latter-day Floyd concerts, but a modest, circular screen at the back flashing vague, desperate images that somehow managed to capture the essence of the songs perfectly.

As Wish You Were Here faded, the lights dimmed, and pictures from The Final Cut album sleeve came on the screen. "Time for some mellow songs", I thought to myself. Was I ever wrong. First with Southampton Dock and then The Fletcher Memorial Home, Waters came into his own. The songs were plaintive, yes, but spell-binding. The Fletcher Memorial Home in my opinion was the high point of the evening, starting off as a requiem for lost dreams, and ending in a diatribe against the 'incurable tyrants'. The images on the screen followed the theme beautifully, leading us into an old-age home with wistful-eyed generals gazing into the sunset, panning out to the wall to reveal the insatiable hunger of the tyrants, and ending with postcards on the table with the smiling faces of George Bush and Bin Laden. Very stirring. Very anti-establishment. Very much Roger Waters.

The next couple of songs, Perfect Sense and Leaving Beirut continued the anti-war theme, with the latter openly accused Bush of war-mongering. A bit too political for my taste, but a beautiful song nevertheless. Needless to say, it was a raging hit with the mostly-liberal Washington crowd.

As the applause died down, I heard gentle strains against the faint bleating of Sheep. Immediately I leapt to my feet. In my excitement, I turned to the nearest bloke next to me. "This is my favourite Floyd song" I gushed. The bloke smiled toothingly and gave me a thumbs up sign. It was then that I noticed that this bloke was not just a bloke, but a hippie. A rather old hippie at that. He was wearing an old psychedelic shirt, a purple headband and the look of one who had been there, done all, much before I was even born. The smile was as much as that of approval, as it was of concurrence. "Yes son, I know. 'Tis one of my favourites too" it seemed to say. A beer-bellied teen somewhere behind me shouted "We want Dark Side". He didn't really get this at all. I've never wanted to be a hippie as much as I did at that moment. The song played on. I found myself singing along

What do you get for pretending the danger's not real
Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel

After a short break, the band returned for the main attraction of the evening. A live performance of The Dark Side of the Moon. Sure, everybody's heard the album scores of times, but trust me, listening to it live is quite something else. I won't even try to put it in words, for mere words cannot describe the experience. Suffice it to say that it was as close to a religious experience as I could ever have, standing there spell-bound and misty-eyed through it all.

By the time Dark Side ended, I was emotionally spent. But knew there was more to come. You can't have a Waters concert without songs from The Wall, could you. Sure enough, the band returned, and for the encore played Another Brick in the Wall, Vera and Comfortably Numb. It couldn't quite match the euphoria of Dark Side, but who was I to complain? I just sat there soaking it all in, and applauding the genius of one of the greatest songwriters and poets of our time.

All that was left to do now was to make the long trip back home. I for one, however, did not mind. Not after that performance. What a concert. What a show. And I finally got to watch Roger Waters in the flesh.

Another Long-winded and Tedious Account of a Rather Unpleasant Experience at the Barber on a Slightly Overcast Saturday Afternoon

2006-09-27T13:47:00.000-05:00

Now don't get me wrong. I don't claim that I can't get a good haircut. Just not a good haircut twice in a row. And as it were, the last haircut I'd had was one of the better ones in recent memory. Understandably, I was a bit apprehensive when I walked in at the local corner barbershop last Saturday.

Once inside the barbershop, I was asked to kindly seat myself and peruse through a pile of magazines next to a plant that looked suspiciously like a Venus fly trap. I did so duly. Halfway through the June issue of Golf Today, I noticed a rather animated game of poker going on in the backroom behind one of the counters. One of the barbers must have noticed me noticing the game, for suddenly he hollered "Yo Frank! Customer's waiting for you, man". Slight commotion ensued. Presently, Frank emerged from behind the table. Judging by his expression, he hadn't been having a particularly good game. This did not bode well.

After tucking in the white sheet and adjusting the chair, Frank asked me what kind of a haircut I would like. A tough question, no doubt, but I was well prepared. "Uh, just a medium cut, please".

Something in that response stymied Frank. He looked puzzled. "You want it short?"

"Ummm... Yes, but not too short. Just, well... about average length, you know". Frank nodded understandingly. My sense of foreboding grew stronger.

Now let me take a minute here to explain to you what I meant by a medium cut. The medium cut, as you probably are aware, is a regular haircut, with the hair being cut neither too long, nor too short; just about somewhere in-between. A simple concept really. One would expect it would be the first thing to be taught in barber school. If not, then it bloody well should be. Most barbers coming out of these new-fangled hair institutes are spoilt stupid. Can't bloody think for themselves. I bet they couldn't even cut a blade of grass without asking you ten times about the length of the grass, angle of incision, and the phase of the moon. Where's the creativity I ask you? The ingenuity? The craft?

Oh, how I miss the days of yore. When men were real men, women were real women, and barbers were true artists with self-expression and pride. Like Abdullah.

Yes sir, good old Abdullah. Here was a real barber from the old school. One that never bothered asking what kind of a coiffure you wanted. He just knew. And he was always right. Abdullah never asked you if you needed sideburns or a square finish at the back. In fact, come to think of it, Abdullah never really spoke that much at all. Not one for idle chatter, Abdullah. A true professional if there ever was one. Maybe it was his supreme mastery of the art, or perhaps it was the fact that he was the only barber in town, but not once did I hear anyone complain about their haircut. Everyone in school, irrespective of age, size, gender or race, had the same haircut. And it was just right. Abdullah had mastered the medium cut.

I snapped out of my reverie to find Frank frantically rummaging through the drawers. Presently, he pulled out an evil looking clipper. Now, I don't know about you, but I could never trust these electronic hedge-trimmers. Not that the sound of a pair of sharp scissors clipping around my ears is particularly reassuring, but there seems to be such little margin of error with these clippers. And such little time to react. Before I knew it, Frank had swiped off the left half of my scalp in a single fell swoop. I started. "Whoa! That's way too short, man".

Franked looked at me. Then blinked slowly. "You want it short?" He had this all wrong. "No, no. I don't want it short. It is too short. I'd like it to be a little longer please". Frank nodded again. Then proceeded to wipe out the right half of my scalp as well.

A few deft snips at the back, and he proclaimed "Done". Done? I opened my eyes just a little to assess the damage. What I saw startled me. He had quite nearly shaved off all the hair at the sides, but had left the front practically untouched.

Then it struck me. I saw what had happened here. I had asked for an average cut. And that's exactly what I got. As Frank saw it,
No hair at top + Clump of hair at front = Average length hair over the total surface area of the head.
Whatever I may say of Frank, at that moment, I suddenly developed a newfound respect for his Math teacher.

Still, I persevered. "Ummm... Could you cut the hair at the front please". Pat came the response, "You want it short?" It was like talking to a gramophone machine.

"No, I do not want it short. But could you just trim it a bit at the front?" "Trim?" Something in that word struck a chord. Frank's eyes lit up. He picked up the scissors this time and dug in merrily through what was left of my hair.

After a while, he decided he'd had enough. There were other, more pressing matters to attend to. Like the poker game, for instance. He brushed off a few stray strands of hair, held up a mirror against my head and asked "Eh?"

I started (again). What was meant to be a medium cut now looked like the quills upon the back of a porpentine. A rather fretful porpentine at that, if I may add. I shook my head weakly and slithered off the chair, muttering a requiem to the dearly departed locks. Frank though, clearly had other things on his mind. "That'll be fifteen dollars, please" he smiled.

Avocado Lovers of the World Unite!

2006-09-18T12:06:00.000-05:00

Cohan writes through personal experience about discrimination against avocado eaters. I can totally empathize with him on this one. For I too have been the subject of vegetable preference abuse. Sure it begins innocently enough, with taunts like guacamole lover and avocado man. But before you know it, you have people calling you weird to your face.

This is a serious issue that cannot be afforded to be taken lightly anymore. For ages, avocado eaters have been misunderstood, discriminated against, burnt at stakes and prosecuted for their dietary habits. But not anymore. I call upon the avocado-eating populace to unite! To come together as one against all those who mock us. To stand for our right to eat bland, pulpy green vegetables. Come comrades, and join me in this noblest of causes to herald in an era where the head would be held high in pride and avocados can be eaten without shame.

Oh, and please don't bring along any parsnip-eaters. Those guys are just kooky.

Revelation

2006-09-18T09:47:00.000-05:00

I wake up in the morning and introspect 'Jeez, I'm so full of myself'. Then I realize it's Sunday, and go back to sleep.

A Matter of Life and Death kills the charts worldwide

2006-09-16T13:41:00.000-05:00

Or so claims this press release. The album is currently number one worldwide, having sold over a million copies in the first week itself. It has even breached the top 10 in the US and Indian charts, a first for Iron Maiden.

So, is the album really that good? Well, yes and no. Though not a concept album per se, AMoLaD is brilliantly cohesive, with the central theme revolving around futility of war and religious zealotry. Not quite typical Maiden stuff, but very well penned by Harris and Co. It is often easy to get carried away when dealing with topical issues, but the songs on AMoLaD hold their own without taking sides or trivializing the issue. Lyrically, the album does not disappoint.

The high point of the album however is the interplay between the lead guitarists. I've often felt that the triple guitars were a bit underutilized in the last two albums. But here they gel beautifully, giving ample demonstration of what the beast is capable of. Triple leads never sounded so good. Harris' bass and Nicko's drums are reliable as ever, lending the album its distinctive heavy sound. Much heavier, in fact, than any previous Maiden album (with the possible exception of The X Factor).

The only downside of the album (and a major downside at that) is quite surprisingly Bruce Dickinson's vocals. Yes, you read it right. The air raid siren wails no more. Instead he screams in a high-pitched tone that more than belies his forty-eight years. To put it succinctly, he has lost it. And what's worse is that he doesn't seem to have noticed. Or doesn't care. In no song is this more apparent than in the intensely poignant Lord of Light, probably the highpoint in Adrian and Nicko's illustrious careers; ruined by Bruce's shrieks. In the documentary The Making of AMoLaD, Bruce claims that his Man-of-the-match award for this album would go to Nicko. That may well be case. I do not dispute that. But my Rikki-Clarke-of-the-match award would without a doubt go to Bruce.

That the album's done so well despite of Bruce is a testament to its brilliant music and production. If I were to pick a favourite song, it'd have to be The Pilgrim. Though For the Greater Good of God and Benjamin Breeg would run it close.

What's that you say? That's not much of an album review? Would it help if I gave it a rating out of 10? All right then, here it is.

A Matter of Life and Death: 8.5/10.

What's that you say now? The rating's too high? Well, what'd you expect? It is Iron Maiden after all. Jeez.

Note: For other, more objective reviews, please click here.
Highly recommended: Read Maverick's commentary on the album here.

Divide and Rule

2006-09-15T23:35:00.000-05:00

Excerpt from tonight's Bill Maher show "The world can be divided into two types of people. Those who divide the world into two types of people, and those who don't". Priceless.

And just whom do I support now?

2006-09-14T18:11:00.000-05:00

Kimi Raikkonen is leaving McLaren to join the Prancing Horse next year. Yes, it's a tactical coup for Ferrari and yes, it's a smart career move for Raikkonen. But as far as I'm concerned, it's devastating news.

For years I've been supporting the McLaren team, following their fortunes through thick and thin. I've stood by them through the glory years of Mika Hakkinen, the frustratingly inconsistent MP4-18 season and the MP4-21 resurgence. No matter what the outcome, my loyalty to the team has always been unwavering. Like all genteel folk, I denounced Ferrari and their backhanded attempts at dictating the federation. And McLaren, like the perennial good guys, have always been there as the only team to consistently challenge the Ferrari hegemony. Plus they always seem to have the coolest Finnish drivers. None cooler than Kimi Raikkonen.

Raikkonen in so many ways is the natural successor to Hakkinen. He has the nerves of steel, the funny accent, boyish charm and bucketloads of talent. Add a dash of bravado in the mix and you have the perfect racecar driver (anyone who's seen the 2005 Japanese GP can attest to that). How can one not like Kimi? He is the Freddie Flintoff of Formula-1. And surely, everybody likes Freddie.

But now Kimi's gone and joined the dark side. What am I to do now? Do I suddenly start hating Raikkonen? Or do I now support Ferrari? And what about McLaren? Do I just dump them by the roadside? Stab them in the back, so to say. Not easy questions to answer, my friend. Not for anyone.

Hit-wicket in Little Rock

2006-09-12T22:27:00.000-05:00

Was in Little Rock, Arkansas last weekend. A nice, quaint little town. I'd expected it to remind me of Raleigh, but for some reason it didn't.

As is customary in those parts, I woke up at seven o' clock on Sunday morning and trotted off to play a game of cricket. Couldn't remember when I'd last done either. To my credit, I managed to drag myself out of bed after a not unusual amount of muttering and under-the-breath-cursing.

The game was scheduled to begin at eight. Most players sleepwalked in by half past. After a brief squabble over the pitch, the ground, and the dietary habits of local geese, play commenced at nine sharp.

We won the toss, decided to bat and promptly lost a wicket in the first over. To my surprise, I found myself being volunteered to go out at number 3. Now, anyone who's ever seen me bat and not doubled over laughing their guts out can tell you that I am not particularly renowned for my batting abilities, especially that early in the morning. Still, not being one to back down, I put on a brave front and strode out to face the music.

I negotiated the first two deliveries fairly well (that is to say, I managed not to get out). What ensued next, however, would indubitably go down in the annals as the most controversial moment of the morning. Yes, even more controversial than the dietary habits of the geese.

What ensued was this.

The third delivery I faced pitched short of length and was angled down the leg. I tried to turn it through the on-side, but could only manage an inside edge onto the pads (or rather onto where the pads would have been had I been wearing any). The ball bobbed and fell at my feet. Being the kind-hearted soul that I am, I decided to do the bowler a favour and knock the ball back to him. In doing so, the bat must have inadvertently grazed the stumps and knocked the bails over. I, of course, was quite oblivious to it. The wicketkeeper obviously was not. All of a sudden, I found myself surrounded by fielders of all shapes and sizes appealing for my wicket. At this point, I quite distinctively remember saying something to the tune of 'Eh?'

It was soon brought to my attention what the appeal was about, and the matter deferred to the square-leg umpire, who thought about it, scratched his jowls, and in a moment of temporary insanity ruled me out.

The acute reader might have realized that the ball at this point was quite clearly 'dead', and any event after its demise could not have resulted in the batsman being dismissed. I considered raising the issue with the umpires, but thought better of it. After all, I didn't want to bring the game into disrepute and almost surely didn't want the umpire to demand $50,000 to resign. The cricket club probably didn't have that sort of money.

And so it was. I resigned to my fate. Cast a dirty glance at the mid-wicket fielder and trudged off back to the pavilion (or in this case, the bench). The rest of the game didn't quite match up to the excitement of dubious decision, so I'll spare you the agonizingly tepid details.

At any rate, I know now how Inzi must feel. I wish there were a post-match conference.

Waiting for Smeagol

2006-09-02T17:46:00.001-05:00

A while back, I chanced upon this wonderful link illustrating how the Lord of the Rings would have been if written by other famous authors. My favourite of the lot was the P.G. Wodehouse adaptation

"Sam, I've decided to go and overthrow the Dark Lord by tossing his jewellery into a volcano."
"Very good, sir. Should I lay out your crazy adventure garb? I presume that this will pose a delay to tea-time. I would remind your Hobbitship that your Great Aunt Lobellia Sackville-Baggins is expected for tea."
"Blast! I say, bother! How can a chap overthrow the Dark Lord? I suppose I will have to delay my campaign."
"Very good, sir. I believe you will be free in about a decade."
"I'll do it then. Make a note, Sam."

Hilarious. Some of the others were rather funny too. Here's my own contribution to the list. Lord of the Rings by Samuel Beckett

FRODO: What have you got there?
SAM: A dead coney and some taters.
FRODO: Is there no lemba bread?
SAM: No. You always overdo it with your lemba bread.
FRODO: I like lemba bread. It tingles the senses.
SAM: Then melts away into nothingness.
FRODO: Like butter.
SAM: Like dreams.
FRODO: Like butter.
(Silence)
FRODO: Let's go.
SAM: We can't.
FRODO: Why not?
SAM: We're waiting for Smeagol.
FRODO: Ah! (Pause) I sense someone coming.
SAM: It's a Nazgul. Don't you remember anything?
FRODO: I remember a fiend that stabbed me in the chest.
SAM: That was him. He wants your ring.
FRODO: It is my burden.
SAM: (Sententious) To every man his one ring. Till it's destroyed.

Such fun, this is. Other contributions are welcome.

A Pile of Work

2006-08-31T12:26:00.000-05:00

Looks like this.

You thought no one ever reads the volumes of bureaucratic files sitting on long-forgotten shelves collecting dust over the ages, didn't you? Well, you were wrong. Someone does read the volumes of bureaucratic files sitting on long-forgotten shelves collecting dust over the ages. Invariably, it's the new guy. On a totally unrelated note, I hope the office hires someone else soon.

Now back to work.

Previously Released Material

2006-08-27T23:39:00.000-05:00

In the days of my youth, I had delusions of being of a poet. Not iambically gifted necessarily, but a poet nevertheless. So I'd write up these mindless doggerels and pass them off as free verse to unsuspecting victims. Some of ~~these victims~~ my friends have now suggested that I put these doggerels on my blog. Based on the rationale, no doubt, that they shouldn't suffer alone. I, of course, am only too happy to oblige.

Selected writings from my previously released work have therefore been uploaded at my Skaldic scratchpad. A link to the site has also been added to the sidebar. Those of you already familiar with the work may ignore this post. Or you may add a scathing comment about re-opening old wounds on a permanently scarred psyche. Others are encouraged to visit.

Sanity prevails

2006-08-24T10:17:00.000-05:00

The IAU has decreed that Pluto no longer classifies as a planet. The Solar system is back to eight planets, as it was in the good old days of the early twentienth century.

All hail the IAU.

Tuesday Morning Prophecies

2006-08-23T01:04:00.000-05:00

Tuesday morning. Weekly staff meeting. Am still groggy as I drag myself to the conference room. The deputy Division Director walks in with a most solemn look on his face. Assumes his seat at the head of the table, and announces in faultless Received Pronunciation -- Gentlemen, I have some alarming news. For the first time in a hundred and twenty-nine years, a game of cricket was judged to be forfeited. This is surely the end of the world as we know it.

A couple of us in the know grin. Some look bemused. Few seem alarmed. The rest are too sleepy to care. Errr... what do we do about it, someone pipes from the back. Nothing. There's nothing to be done. This is the end of all things. Just goes to show what can happen if you don't bloody come out in time after tea.

This is where I disagree with the dep. d.d. I believe if anyone's to be held responsible for this farce, it must be Darrell Hair. Can't blame poor old Inzi. He's a gem of a batsman, no doubt. But not quite the brightest when it comes to keeping up with the rule book. Hell, he didn't even know he'd forfeited the match when he walked back on the field. I can almost hear him drawl I can't understand the rule. When we don't go on the field, we lose the match. When we go on the field, we still lose the match.

As far as the coverage of the actual event is concerned, I'm sure all the sites have done it to death already (and would continue to do so ad nauseam). The best analysis of the incident though can be found at King Cricket. Remember, you heard it here fifth.

"If Charon is a planet, I'm moving out of this solar system"

2006-08-17T23:54:00.000-05:00

That was Bill's reaction upon being told that Pluto's largest satellite could soon be a classified as a pluton. I couldn't have put it better myself. And while we're at it, I'd like to throw Ceres, Orcus and Quaoar in that sentence as well. This whole fiasco, if you ask me, is a perfect example of what happens when good science goes ~~bad~~ bonkers. This, in fact, is what happens when astronomers make decisions to appease third-graders' sensitivities.

One of the reasons the IAU has come up with its convoluted definition is because they've received thousands of letters, mostly from elementary school students, to retain Pluto's status as a planet. The problem is that if they include Pluto, they have to let a number of other asteroids in as well. As a result, we end up with twelve planets on our hands. With possibly several more to follow.

I was going to launch into a lengthy diatribe here against the IAU and how they are screwing up the solar system. But then it occurred to me. Is it possible, that the IAU are not just trying to be nice and appease everyone? Could it be, that behind this decision to have a plethora of planets lies a spiteful ulterior motive? Think about it. Who would be most affected by increasing the number of planets? Not astronomers. Not astrophysicists, surely. Not your average Joe sitting behind his desk solving temporal logic equations. No, it'll be none other than those pesky little elementary school kids. I can almost picture it now -- hordes of third-graders going into a collective fit of convolutions trying to answer the innocuous looking question Name the twenty-two planets in the solar system. Well, serves them right.

No more Black Rhinos

2006-08-16T01:20:00.000-05:00

The World Conservation Union has announced that the West African black rhinoceros might be extinct. The North African white rhino seems to be following suit, with possibly just four individuals remaining in the wild.

This news took me by surprise. Though I'm not sure why. For years conservationists have been warning me about this. I know quite well about the poaching epidemic, the habitat encroachment, the declining populations. I've read figures telling me that a hundred species become extinct everyday. This was but imminent. So why do I act so surprised, shocked even? Why do I find it difficult to believe that humans can destroy such a big, powerful beast? Is it because I see them on television all the time? Surely, if the baby rhino frolics on the telly, everything must be all right in its world, I tell myself, quietly ignoring the fact that the documentary was filmed ten years ago. Perhaps it's because the rhino is such a high-profile animal. I must subconsciously have equated their popularity with plentitude. I see fat men in shopping malls dressed in purple rhino suits and decide Nah, they can't go extinct. They are bloody everywhere.

The fact that the black rhino was such a high-profile species is what makes this even scarier. There were national parks for these animals. Whole safaris were organized to watch them graze. Hell, they were even on postage stamps. It's not like they were some obscure insect in some forgotten rainforest. Who cares if the Xerces blue moth goes extinct. So what if it was a keystone species. No one's ever heard of it. No one cares. But the rhino, that's different. That has got to hurt. At least, I sure hope so.

I can't imagine how I'll react when the tiger goes extinct.

Rhino horns

2006-08-16T01:18:00.000-05:00

Contrary to popular belief, the rhino horn is not used as an aphrodisiac. Typically, these horns are used as ornaments, daggers and traditional medicine. I don't know what is more disturbing -- the fact that we have hunted one of the most majestic species on earth to death, or that someone actually believes powdered keratin from a dead mammal can cure their typhoid.

Who is Benjamin Breeg Anyway?

2006-08-09T09:40:00.002-05:00

According to some, Benjamin Breeg was an exceptionally gifted artist. He was born in London in 1939, and brought up in an orphanage. As a child, Breeg was obsessed with the bible and plagued by terrible nightmares, which he used as inspiration for his drawings. He produced several fantastic paintings, but none of them remain, since he destroyed all of them himself. Breeg travelled widely between 1960 and 1970, visiting many different countries in the Caribbean and Eastern Europe. He returned to his native England in 1971 and wrote four books between 1971 and 1977, none of which remain in print. He disappeared from his home on June 18th, 1978. Subsequent efforts to locate him have proved unsuccessful. He is presumed dead.

On the other hand, there are those who maintain that Benjamin Breeg is a wholly fictitious character. He never painted, never visited any of those countries, and in fact, never even existed. Benjamin Breeg is nothing more than a clever marketing ploy.

And why exactly should you care? Because of this.

Note: Further insights about Benjamin Breeg can be got at the Iron Maiden Commentary.

Who Funds this Research?

2006-08-08T23:50:00.000-05:00

A recent study at the University of Wales reveals that people who believe in God tend to be superstitious. Really! What brilliant insight will they come up with next? That ducks like water, or that most people in France speak French?

Honestly, I would like to know what kind of people fund this sort of 'research'. Do you have to be a member of the International Tautological Society to even apply for a grant? Maybe it is the same people who funded this brilliant research that reveals older people have longer life expectancy.

I can think of so many ways to better disburse research grants. Using preorder checking to compare semantics of Kripke structures comes to mind. But I digress.

[Links courtesy Jesus and Mo, and Peter Rhode.]

The Shenandoah River Adventure (or What I did Last Weekend)

2006-08-03T00:57:00.000-05:00

There I was. Squatting down in a carved out log, hurtling down the mighty Shenandoah river. Cliffs to the left of me, boulders to the right. And heading straight into the mouth of a two-and-half-foot precipice, frothing at its jaws like a rabid leopard seal...

No, wait. Hold it a minute. I've gotten way ahead of myself here. You, the uninformed reader might already be scratching your head as to what’s going on. This is precisely the problem with writing an anecdotal post. One never really knows where to start. The writer has to strike just the right balance between establishing the background, and describing the interesting bits. It’s something I could never do. Well, I guess I’ll just start from the beginning.

*******

Having just moved to Washington DC from Raleigh, and by virtue of not knowing anyone in the city, I had precious little to do on the weekend except lounge on a couch in front of the telly. Now ordinarily that would have been a perfectly fine way to spend the weekend, but for the fact that I hadn't got a couch to lounge on. Indeed, things would have been very different if only I had managed to procure myself a couch [1]. But it was not to be. Fate had other plans.

It was late in the afternoon on Thursday, while I was sitting at my office desk contemplating work that Ray came by. "Say, how'd you like to go canoeing?" I must confess he took me somewhat by surprise. I had just returned after a rather satisfying lunch, and was on the brink of an afternoon siesta. "Mmm... err... what?" was the best I could manage under the circumstances. "Canoeing. Down the rapids. Shenandoah river.", Ray elaborated. It turned out that he and his Church buddies had arranged for their annual canoeing trip, but one of them had pulled out at the last moment. There was thus an open slot, which was being offered to me.

I don't know whether it was the headiness from the meal or the sheer ennui, but I heard myself blurting out "Sure, why not". Ray said something to the tune of "Great, catch you tomorrow at four then" and scuttled out the door.

Now I'm sure those of you who know me well would be as shocked at this point as I was. It is a well-known fact that I am not one for the great outdoors, preferring instead to limit my adventures to watching National Geographic on the aforementioned telly. Canoeing! River! Rapids!! What the hell was I thinking? As the gravity of the situation began to sink in, I started feeling distinctively queasy. God! I've got to learn to be less impulsive. Canoeing down a river! Jeez. What will I accede to next? BASE jumping?

I spent most of Friday avoiding human contact. But come four 'o clock Ray was there at my door. "Ready when you are" he pronounced. So I walk up to my boss' office. "Hope it's all right if I leave a little early today. Ray and I are going canoeing." "Oh sure. Go break a leg", he responded. A nasty thing to say, for sure. But I let it go.

We left for Virginia at around 4:30 in the p.m. and to avoid traffic decided to take the scenic route. A good idea, in retrospect. We circumvented the freeway and passed through scattered little villages with lush meadows and inns with quaint names like ‘The Village Idiot’ and ‘River Mermaid’. We crossed the Potomac on a ferry (something you can do only in the summer apparently), and meandered though winding hills. Kind of reminded me of the Western Ghats, although wasn’t quite the same without the smell of monsoon in the air.

We got to the campsite just before sunset and hastily set up our tent. Hastily, of course being a relative term. Venky, in his blog had equated understanding a printer to rocket science. I deem setting up a canvas tent to be quite in the same league. After about 30 minutes, innumerable juxtapositions of rods and strings, and some help from Paul, the pastor from Ray’s church, we had ourselves a glorious, unflappable tent. Taking a moment to marvel at our creation, we proceeded immediately to stuff our respective faces. The conversation at dinner revolved mostly around past camping trips. I did not partake much in the conversation however, choosing instead to marvel at the brilliance of the night sky in the absence of any ambient light. There’s something about stargazing that has always enthralled me, with its hundred billion billion stars, galaxies, pulsars, quasars et al. I did not get carried away though, with the roar of the Shenandoah in the not too distant keeping me in check.

I slept surprisingly soundly. Till about 3 a.m. that is, when I was rudely awoken by what sounded like a freight train passing by. I turned to trace the source of the ghastly din, only to find that a freight train was passing by. And no ordinary train it was either. It had more carriages than Kuan Yin had limbs, I tell you. Just when I was driven to the point of getting up to throw stones at it, the train finally passed. Lucky for the train, I’d say.

The morning brought bright sunshine, blueberry pancakes for breakfast and a sense of impending doom. At about 9 a.m. we trudged off to the river bank, donned our life jackets and set sail.

When I say ‘set sail’, I mean that figuratively, of course. There was no sail to speak of. Only a dingy little boat with two planks across it. I decided to take the front plank, while Ray steered from the back. Being a novice, so to speak, I spent the first few minutes getting the feel of the canoe, and trying hard not to tip it over. Just when I had finally figured out which side I should be facing, Ray decided it was time to take on the rapids.

We let the other, more adventurous folk take the lead. Paul (the pastor) had reassured us that he had his ‘Hail Mary’s ready to baptize anyone who takes a dip. Needless to say, his was the first boat to capsize [2]. When everyone else had gone across (or gone under), we headed for the rapids. The water seemed fairly calm till we were about 10 meters from the fall. Then it seemed to suddenly suck us in. And not in the general direction that we wanted to be heading either. “Get on your knees. Stay down”, Ray hollered from the back. I complied.

So there I was. Squatting down in a carved out log, hurtling down the mighty Shenandoah river. Cliffs to the left of me, boulders to the right. And heading straight into the mouth of a two-and-half-foot precipice, frothing at its jaws like a rabid leopard seal. I waited for my life to flash before my eyes. But there was nothing. Just the one thought -- "Must stay afloat. Must stay afloat." I don’t remember whether I had my eyes closed or not, but the next thing I knew, we were tossed up in the air and planted safely on the other side.

After a slight wobble, I made a quick assessment of my body parts, and was pleasantly surprised to find myself in one piece. HA! That wasn’t so bad after all, was it now? Bring on the next class II rapid. There weren't many more class II rapids though, just a host of pesky class Is. The rest was mostly relatively calm water, with picturesque landscape surrounding it.

For the next ten miles, we rowed and we paddled. At times we teetered. On occasion ran aground on some rocks. Bumped into a floating log. Lost a paddle and cajoled it back. But mostly we rowed. The last two miles were the toughest. By now we had negotiated all the rapids and the river had widened to a slow, shallow bed of river weed. And with the midday sun egging us on, each stroke grew increasingly laborious. But still we rowed. The light brigade would have been proud of us.

At last, after four hours of tireless rowing, we reached the landing post. We eagerly turned in our canoes and looked back at the river with a sore back, aching shoulders, and a triumphant smile. A smile that said I tamed the mighty Shenandoah river (or at least a ten mile stretch of it).

For all my pre-trip apprehension, I was really glad that Ray had brought me on this trip. I can’t remember when I had so much fun since... well, since my trip to Daytona beach earlier in the month.

*******

I know, I know. It is highly unlike a recluse like me to go about frolicking like this (that too twice in the same month). But before anyone insinuates a mid-life crisis (or a one-third-life crisis, as the case may be), let me reassure you that this sudden spurt of activity stems solely from the euphoria of finally getting out of school. Give me a couple of months, and I’ll be back to normal.

1 Some of my less-informed friends often refer to me as a couch potato. I have it from very reliable sources however, that I look less like a potato and more like Bruce Dickinson.

2 In the name of the father, the son, and the holy glug... glug... glug

Celebrity Face Match

2006-07-27T21:10:00.000-05:00

Found this link on Dhoomketu's blog. Once I got to the site, I just had to find out who I looked like, now didn't I? (Face it, there's a little Narcissus in all of us). So I uploaded a photograph, and guess what? The closest match to my face was none other than the 'air raid siren' Bruce Dickinson, with a whopping 72% match. Needless to say I was (and remain) as pleased as punch.

The other close matches were, rather more predictably, Adrian Brody (70%), David Schwimmer (67%) and Steve Vai (62%). Have been likened to each one of them before. But Bruce Dickinson! That's priceless. Take that all of you who've ever made fun of my nose.

Having said that, I wonder what heuristics they use to match the faces. I remember having a discussion with my boss a couple of years back about how the future of computing (and A.I. in particular) lay in pattern recognition algorithms. Have had lots of ideas thrown about, but I’m still not sure how it’s done. If anyone’s got a clue, do let me know.