When I set my eyes on my father’s body, the first thing I noticed was the smile he still had on. For all posterity. I had never seen someone close to me die before this. There is this period when your emotional apparatus goes on a search to seek out the appropriate body language. The proper reaction. The areas governing grief in my brain were yet to be contacted and this gave me time to respond to my daddy’s smile. I smiled back. Almost chuckled did I.
My father and I, for 23 years of knowing each other (well 22 years and 355 days to be precise) had an ongoing battle of wits. Now, people who know me well will be quick to point out that I would be unlikely to contribute much to this war. This is true. I agree with this pedantic observation of my near and dear ones. I truly do. What made this competition far more lopsided were two things. One was that my father was just too quick for anyone. Champ. Two. I was a bit too keen to go to battle sans armor and shield. Foolish orangutan (No offence meant to orangutans). Throughout my life I would offer myself as meat to this merciless God and would be taken to the cleaners with amazing regularity. Be it cricket or politics or grammar or the weather or even questioning one’s parentage, I was clobbered. I always came back for seconds. Thirds. Fourths. On Sundays even fifths. The defeats I suffered were not mere losses. They were massacres. Routs. Ruin-creating processes.
The man through his smile had left his lasting legacy apropos our tête-à-têtes like a tattoo in my cerebral cortex. You know what they say. He who laughs last, laughs best. You win dad. You got me. You got us all. Miss you.
For you, DBR. For you being you. For me.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Monday, July 30, 2007
How to eat breakfast
01. Find bowl.
02. Adopt expression of satisfaction with cleanliness of bowl.
03. Scratch head (You need to - breakfast time remember).
04. Look for cereal box.
05. Find cereal box and fill bowl with one large helping of cereal from found box.
06. Open refrigerator.
07. Locate chocolate syrup.
08. Use chocolate syrup to write your full name on cereal (the longer your name the better).
09. Look for milk.
10. Adopt expression as in 2 with respect to nature of milk.
11. Pour milk into bowl containing cereal.
12. Stop when milk turns a chocolatey brown.
13. Grunt in approval.
14. Use spoon, fork or dog-like eating practice (for best results).
15. Crunch! Crunch!
16. Do not forget to 'mmmmm' frequently (easiest step).
17. Finish cereal.
18. Look at bowl.
19. Let out exultant whoop to discover chocolate milk filling most of bowl.
20. Lift bowl with both hands.
21. Bring edge of bowl close to lips.
22. Drink.
23. Use tongue to lick off remnant chocolate milk from perioral area.
24. Rub tummy in glee.
25. Burp.
Credits: Jaximus - the master of breakfastian arts
02. Adopt expression of satisfaction with cleanliness of bowl.
03. Scratch head (You need to - breakfast time remember).
04. Look for cereal box.
05. Find cereal box and fill bowl with one large helping of cereal from found box.
06. Open refrigerator.
07. Locate chocolate syrup.
08. Use chocolate syrup to write your full name on cereal (the longer your name the better).
09. Look for milk.
10. Adopt expression as in 2 with respect to nature of milk.
11. Pour milk into bowl containing cereal.
12. Stop when milk turns a chocolatey brown.
13. Grunt in approval.
14. Use spoon, fork or dog-like eating practice (for best results).
15. Crunch! Crunch!
16. Do not forget to 'mmmmm' frequently (easiest step).
17. Finish cereal.
18. Look at bowl.
19. Let out exultant whoop to discover chocolate milk filling most of bowl.
20. Lift bowl with both hands.
21. Bring edge of bowl close to lips.
22. Drink.
23. Use tongue to lick off remnant chocolate milk from perioral area.
24. Rub tummy in glee.
25. Burp.
Credits: Jaximus - the master of breakfastian arts
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Raghavendra
The following is from my internship posting in surgery at a government hospital in India. It happens to be true.
It began. Busy busy busy unit. Before though. I inquired with the outgoer. Any burns? Burns dressings were the hope-not-in-my-times. They required much attention. Daily. With little progress usually. In a non-conducive environment for healing. Yes said she. One burn. Details. Woman fell on a stove. Whole back. Down to her thighs. But then she must be lying prone all day I commented rather foolishly. Of course said she with a tolerant expression on her face. Left.
I made the journey. Said hello. When someone lies prone. You say howdy from the head of the bed rather than the foot-end. It probably was a good thing here. It helped in some unknown way. Bandaging burns invited the use of what is known as vaseline dressing. Being in a resource-poor (resource-unpredictable actually - sometimes very rarely we were inundated with all kinds of hospital goodies) setting resulted in the vaseline and the dressing to be separate which required the intern (read me) to 'prepare' the vaseline dressing and then apply it on the burned areas. I pondered all this while I was still greeting her for the first time when I noticed what seemed to be a ball of energy on the other side of the bed. It was a boy who seemed to be armed with the most infectious smile I had seen in a while. 'Pudar enchina?' (thus betraying 50% of my Tulu vocabulary). 'Raghavendra' he said and collapsed in his own shyness. The collar of his once-white shirt seemed to bury most of his face quite effectively while his eyes still looked at me with curiosity. Being a brand-new uncle I wondered what my own nephew would come to look like at Raghavendra's age. Mulling it over I left without bothering to tell Raghavendra my own name or know his place in this big, lonely hospital. I did not ask him why he wasn't in school or splashing with his mates in puddles. Epitome of good manners was I. Sensitivity was my middle name.
Thus began a six-weeker. Experience par indelible. Raghavendra was her son. He was 9. He was her caretaker. The husband showed up once in the 42 days. She could not sit. She could not stand. She could only lie. Prone.
The plan was to finish rounds with the bosses. Then do minor things. Quickly. Then finish semi-major things. Also quickly. Then do the burns dressing. Leave the hospital. Grab some food. Study books containing multiple-choice questions so as to be in with a chance of obtaining a post-graduation seat. So that I could further my desires in the practice of medicine. Noble. My father would have disowned me. But things did not quite work out that way.
When I would go to her. Raghavendra would be there. Brimming with enthusiasm. He was my little helper. His erstwhile shyness had been packed and sent off to an undisclosed location. A chatterbox was unveiled. He would go on and on about anything under the sun. He talked about himself. He talked about me. When Sush joined us, he talked about her. He was non-stop. I started to believe that his smile had been surgically placed there. Much like a well-known villain of the flying-mammal-emulating-fictitious-city-protecting-hero of our times. He was incredible.
I changed my plan. Had to. Did rounds in the morning and reclassified my tasks. It was simple now. There were three categories. Bosses' orders, Burns dressing and others. Easy easy. Bosses' orders were done stat. No issues there. Others required some juggling and were fitted in before lunch. The evening was for her and Raghavendra. The whole of it. I told her this. She was a little apprehensive. Rightfully so. Told Raghavendra. He was thrilled to bits. As usual.
So there we were. She, Raghavendra and me. And Sush of course who joined us on many many occasions. I took off my watch just before I gloved each time. That watch had been with me for eight years. Never stopped. Never any trouble. Raghavendra liked it. He would wear it often when I dressed the wounds. And so the evening dressing became a ritual. The nurses who were suspicious at first got used to it. Inch-by-painful-inch the wounds would heal. Only to be infected again in a few days. Frustration. Helplessness. But we carried on. Raghavendra of course leading the way regaling us with his jokes and stories. He laughed loudest when someone tried to say something funny. More and more he grew fond of the watch.
I was down to my last week. Rounds. One of the bosses. Let's graft. My heart jumped with joy. New skin. Raghavendra looked at me. Pump-fist from me. He laughed. That evening. We discussed the surgery. Just the three of us. She was not too keen. I tried to explain. In my best vernac. Raghavendra. He did. Couple of sentences. Yes. Let's do it she said. That evening was to be my last time dressing her. My last time with Raghavendra. I was moving on. My intern log book said that I needed to look at some ears, noses and throats. I left without my watch.
Never had I seen the human spirit so intact. He was only 9.
Acknowledgments: Sush. For putting up with my poor attempts at humor during those days.
It began. Busy busy busy unit. Before though. I inquired with the outgoer. Any burns? Burns dressings were the hope-not-in-my-times. They required much attention. Daily. With little progress usually. In a non-conducive environment for healing. Yes said she. One burn. Details. Woman fell on a stove. Whole back. Down to her thighs. But then she must be lying prone all day I commented rather foolishly. Of course said she with a tolerant expression on her face. Left.
I made the journey. Said hello. When someone lies prone. You say howdy from the head of the bed rather than the foot-end. It probably was a good thing here. It helped in some unknown way. Bandaging burns invited the use of what is known as vaseline dressing. Being in a resource-poor (resource-unpredictable actually - sometimes very rarely we were inundated with all kinds of hospital goodies) setting resulted in the vaseline and the dressing to be separate which required the intern (read me) to 'prepare' the vaseline dressing and then apply it on the burned areas. I pondered all this while I was still greeting her for the first time when I noticed what seemed to be a ball of energy on the other side of the bed. It was a boy who seemed to be armed with the most infectious smile I had seen in a while. 'Pudar enchina?' (thus betraying 50% of my Tulu vocabulary). 'Raghavendra' he said and collapsed in his own shyness. The collar of his once-white shirt seemed to bury most of his face quite effectively while his eyes still looked at me with curiosity. Being a brand-new uncle I wondered what my own nephew would come to look like at Raghavendra's age. Mulling it over I left without bothering to tell Raghavendra my own name or know his place in this big, lonely hospital. I did not ask him why he wasn't in school or splashing with his mates in puddles. Epitome of good manners was I. Sensitivity was my middle name.
Thus began a six-weeker. Experience par indelible. Raghavendra was her son. He was 9. He was her caretaker. The husband showed up once in the 42 days. She could not sit. She could not stand. She could only lie. Prone.
The plan was to finish rounds with the bosses. Then do minor things. Quickly. Then finish semi-major things. Also quickly. Then do the burns dressing. Leave the hospital. Grab some food. Study books containing multiple-choice questions so as to be in with a chance of obtaining a post-graduation seat. So that I could further my desires in the practice of medicine. Noble. My father would have disowned me. But things did not quite work out that way.
When I would go to her. Raghavendra would be there. Brimming with enthusiasm. He was my little helper. His erstwhile shyness had been packed and sent off to an undisclosed location. A chatterbox was unveiled. He would go on and on about anything under the sun. He talked about himself. He talked about me. When Sush joined us, he talked about her. He was non-stop. I started to believe that his smile had been surgically placed there. Much like a well-known villain of the flying-mammal-emulating-fictitious-city-protecting-hero of our times. He was incredible.
I changed my plan. Had to. Did rounds in the morning and reclassified my tasks. It was simple now. There were three categories. Bosses' orders, Burns dressing and others. Easy easy. Bosses' orders were done stat. No issues there. Others required some juggling and were fitted in before lunch. The evening was for her and Raghavendra. The whole of it. I told her this. She was a little apprehensive. Rightfully so. Told Raghavendra. He was thrilled to bits. As usual.
So there we were. She, Raghavendra and me. And Sush of course who joined us on many many occasions. I took off my watch just before I gloved each time. That watch had been with me for eight years. Never stopped. Never any trouble. Raghavendra liked it. He would wear it often when I dressed the wounds. And so the evening dressing became a ritual. The nurses who were suspicious at first got used to it. Inch-by-painful-inch the wounds would heal. Only to be infected again in a few days. Frustration. Helplessness. But we carried on. Raghavendra of course leading the way regaling us with his jokes and stories. He laughed loudest when someone tried to say something funny. More and more he grew fond of the watch.
I was down to my last week. Rounds. One of the bosses. Let's graft. My heart jumped with joy. New skin. Raghavendra looked at me. Pump-fist from me. He laughed. That evening. We discussed the surgery. Just the three of us. She was not too keen. I tried to explain. In my best vernac. Raghavendra. He did. Couple of sentences. Yes. Let's do it she said. That evening was to be my last time dressing her. My last time with Raghavendra. I was moving on. My intern log book said that I needed to look at some ears, noses and throats. I left without my watch.
Never had I seen the human spirit so intact. He was only 9.
Acknowledgments: Sush. For putting up with my poor attempts at humor during those days.
A boy
He liked to know how it came to be
If only he were allowed to see
Just a little peek
But alas he was too meek
He took out his wand and said a spell
He hoped in time a tale to tell
But the magic, it did not work
The mystery just got a little more murk
He gave up and cried and ran to his mom
Could she please do for him this sum?
Thursday, July 19, 2007
the cup spilleth over......not
1983 was technically my first one. We won. Kapil's devils. Beginner's luck they scoffed. Not an iota of comprehension in my teeny weeny 18 month-old skull. Something was born for real that fateful day in India. Through the country-side she spread, through the slums she weaved, finding her place in the prayers of a nation. A state religion was established. Cricket was her name. Never before had so many been united by something as trivial as a game. Game??!! Sacrilege! Blasphemy!
1987 and the World Cup came to the sub-continent. That region of land where any strip is considered adequate to start a game of cricket. Bring it on they cried. Unison. I started knowing. Sat on my daddy's lap. Pretended to enjoy myself. Watched big mean fast bowlers deliver jaffas that threatened much more than a batsman's wicket. Saw batsmen hit balls into windshields of parked cars outside stadiums. I applauded when everyone else did. I jumped around like a scalded cat when people showed joy. Cheering toy.
1992 down-under she went. Oz and Kiwi. Pajama World Cup. Colored clothing with white balls. Played under gigantic floodlights. I was ready. I knew all their names. All their averages. What they liked to eat, where they liked to holiday, what their children were called. It was like I was there. Up at never-before-woken times. Feigned a new illness everyday. Missed tons of school. Watched my team do poorly. Grieved. The neighbors took the cup. Pain. Scar.
1996 and it was back in my yard. I was a veteran now. Offered unsolicited opinion. Advice. There was an official bubble gum. The commerce had walked in. Stayed. Cricket was money. Cash. The end of the rainbow had been located. Pillaged. All went well. Remember Bangalore and Venky Prasad. Till Eden Gardens. We cried the collective tear as a nation. Never again said we. What's the point we rationalized.
1999 and home went the cup. We were back. Cloudy, damp England. Most boring of all time IMHO. Zim did us. We fought back. Partially. Australia took it. Easy. Candy from a baby. Sorry bodies returned. Never again said we. Again.
2003 and the Cape of Good Hope. Surely this time. First cup as a college bum. The final. Bees saal baad screamed the dailies. The demographic went crazy. The housewives were convinced.
A walloping of the greatest magnitude. A clobbering of our self-esteem. We didn't say never again. But we felt it.
2007 and the cup went maan. Rum, calypso, beaches. We will win. Our time has surely come. Logic. Our young neighbors taught us a few. Love thy. The league phase was enough to dash a billion hopes. Never again said we. This time in writing.
We will be back in 2011. You, me and the neighbors. Befuddling. The cup though is dry.
1987 and the World Cup came to the sub-continent. That region of land where any strip is considered adequate to start a game of cricket. Bring it on they cried. Unison. I started knowing. Sat on my daddy's lap. Pretended to enjoy myself. Watched big mean fast bowlers deliver jaffas that threatened much more than a batsman's wicket. Saw batsmen hit balls into windshields of parked cars outside stadiums. I applauded when everyone else did. I jumped around like a scalded cat when people showed joy. Cheering toy.
1992 down-under she went. Oz and Kiwi. Pajama World Cup. Colored clothing with white balls. Played under gigantic floodlights. I was ready. I knew all their names. All their averages. What they liked to eat, where they liked to holiday, what their children were called. It was like I was there. Up at never-before-woken times. Feigned a new illness everyday. Missed tons of school. Watched my team do poorly. Grieved. The neighbors took the cup. Pain. Scar.
1996 and it was back in my yard. I was a veteran now. Offered unsolicited opinion. Advice. There was an official bubble gum. The commerce had walked in. Stayed. Cricket was money. Cash. The end of the rainbow had been located. Pillaged. All went well. Remember Bangalore and Venky Prasad. Till Eden Gardens. We cried the collective tear as a nation. Never again said we. What's the point we rationalized.
1999 and home went the cup. We were back. Cloudy, damp England. Most boring of all time IMHO. Zim did us. We fought back. Partially. Australia took it. Easy. Candy from a baby. Sorry bodies returned. Never again said we. Again.
2003 and the Cape of Good Hope. Surely this time. First cup as a college bum. The final. Bees saal baad screamed the dailies. The demographic went crazy. The housewives were convinced.
A walloping of the greatest magnitude. A clobbering of our self-esteem. We didn't say never again. But we felt it.
2007 and the cup went maan. Rum, calypso, beaches. We will win. Our time has surely come. Logic. Our young neighbors taught us a few. Love thy. The league phase was enough to dash a billion hopes. Never again said we. This time in writing.
We will be back in 2011. You, me and the neighbors. Befuddling. The cup though is dry.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Sweat er...
For the first 24 years 11 months and 13 days of my grand existence I did not own a sweater. No yo. Sudden. Four days later I owned four keep-me-warms.
The climate of my birth-and-growth geographical area did not deem it necessary for residents in its purview to possess one of these 'infernal' things. Human wearing sweater in that region would invoke a 'bahut daring tha' quote a la Munnabhai. Only if you wanted to feel the insides of a pressure cooker via your chest would you indulge. Flesh-cooking. Socially ostracizing move it be. My territory had three seasons. Hot, Very hot and pouring-cats-and-dogs. For the last of these three weather moodinesses we were armed with raincoats, umbrellas and a prayer to the Almighty. No sweater in that list. In the summer, even shirts would be a luxury. Simply to cover the unsavory nature of one's upper body. In the interest of the public's health and all that.
Take this 'ahem' young man and throw him to the vagaries of the cold. Merciless. Brrrr. That which would freeze your hands and cause you to forget your nose. So boy goes to mall in same cold and buys sweaters.
I felt equipped. Repertoire reload. Knight-in-woolly-armor.
So what does a sweater do? Other than hope to keep you warm of course.
1) It covers your much wrinkled shirts. Sell your iron on ebay and make cash.
2) It gives you an identity. "There goes red sweater with white stripes" , "I'm meeting blue and green sweater for coffee", "That beige sweater has some attitude!"
3) A walking power plant. Take it off to hear the sweet sound of electricity. Global power problem solved. Next worldly catastrophe please.
Million more. But. Why me? You list. Sweat it out. Best entry. Prize. Half a chocolate-chip cookie.
Acknowledgment: Prizzle of course. He of the talent of a thousand sweaters.
Word love: portmanteau - a new word formed by joining two others and combining their meanings; "`smog' is a blend of `smoke' and `fog'"; "`motel' is a portmanteau word made by combining `motor' and `hotel'"; "`brunch' is a well-known portmanteau"
Wait now. Stop. If you have no sweater gyaan. Create. A portmanteau. Never before seen in this universe or the next. Prize? Other half of course.
The climate of my birth-and-growth geographical area did not deem it necessary for residents in its purview to possess one of these 'infernal' things. Human wearing sweater in that region would invoke a 'bahut daring tha' quote a la Munnabhai. Only if you wanted to feel the insides of a pressure cooker via your chest would you indulge. Flesh-cooking. Socially ostracizing move it be. My territory had three seasons. Hot, Very hot and pouring-cats-and-dogs. For the last of these three weather moodinesses we were armed with raincoats, umbrellas and a prayer to the Almighty. No sweater in that list. In the summer, even shirts would be a luxury. Simply to cover the unsavory nature of one's upper body. In the interest of the public's health and all that.
Take this 'ahem' young man and throw him to the vagaries of the cold. Merciless. Brrrr. That which would freeze your hands and cause you to forget your nose. So boy goes to mall in same cold and buys sweaters.
I felt equipped. Repertoire reload. Knight-in-woolly-armor.
So what does a sweater do? Other than hope to keep you warm of course.
1) It covers your much wrinkled shirts. Sell your iron on ebay and make cash.
2) It gives you an identity. "There goes red sweater with white stripes" , "I'm meeting blue and green sweater for coffee", "That beige sweater has some attitude!"
3) A walking power plant. Take it off to hear the sweet sound of electricity. Global power problem solved. Next worldly catastrophe please.
Million more. But. Why me? You list. Sweat it out. Best entry. Prize. Half a chocolate-chip cookie.
Acknowledgment: Prizzle of course. He of the talent of a thousand sweaters.
Word love: portmanteau - a new word formed by joining two others and combining their meanings; "`smog' is a blend of `smoke' and `fog'"; "`motel' is a portmanteau word made by combining `motor' and `hotel'"; "`brunch' is a well-known portmanteau"
Wait now. Stop. If you have no sweater gyaan. Create. A portmanteau. Never before seen in this universe or the next. Prize? Other half of course.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
the pluto of it all
The smallest gets picked on. Always. Its never fair. Remember the time when you were at that elementary school quiz. 'Smallest planet?' they asked. You replied. Quick as a flash. Surely this competition is not this easy you thought. PLUTO. Yes PLUTO. 5 points.
Jump to now. Right now.As-me-blogging-this type of point-in-time. Pluto is threatened. The smallest could be the no-longer. What? Planet darling. Peepils of the scientific community are at it. The status of the tiniest hangs in the balance. Banished from the solar system. Ta Ta. Poor poor planet.
It makes me wonder. Ponder. What is the fuss? Why bother? Let things be. Imagine the effort needed to correct all those school textbooks. Not to mention encyclopedias, quiz books, etc.
Are we sure what we live on is a planet anymore? I mean look what we've done to her. Stripped her bare. Paraded her naked. Use her. Abuse her. Trample. Don't care. And we want to decide on the yes-planet not-planet tag of some poor mute mass. We burn our fuels silly. Burn burn burn. Tear down our rainforests. Trash the globe. Its like the morning after some college party. Only thing is the party never stops.
Maybe there is life on other planets. Plenty of it. Who knows? But one look at us and they don't wanna visit. Picture it. We look at all the before-and-after pictures from gyms, salons, the lot. Wonder what a before-and-after picture of Earth would look like. Before-and-after man(so far).Plastic surgery anyone.
And we want to decide on the planet tag of some poor mute mass. We must be the joke of the milky way. The laughing stock of all the universe. The target of the big bang. No wonder we don't get invited to any galaxy barbecues. Who would want us? The corrupt, morally bankrupt people so full of ourselves. Decadence central.
Acerbic you say. Apologies and an antacid. With my compliments.
Jump to now. Right now.As-me-blogging-this type of point-in-time. Pluto is threatened. The smallest could be the no-longer. What? Planet darling. Peepils of the scientific community are at it. The status of the tiniest hangs in the balance. Banished from the solar system. Ta Ta. Poor poor planet.
It makes me wonder. Ponder. What is the fuss? Why bother? Let things be. Imagine the effort needed to correct all those school textbooks. Not to mention encyclopedias, quiz books, etc.
Are we sure what we live on is a planet anymore? I mean look what we've done to her. Stripped her bare. Paraded her naked. Use her. Abuse her. Trample. Don't care. And we want to decide on the yes-planet not-planet tag of some poor mute mass. We burn our fuels silly. Burn burn burn. Tear down our rainforests. Trash the globe. Its like the morning after some college party. Only thing is the party never stops.
Maybe there is life on other planets. Plenty of it. Who knows? But one look at us and they don't wanna visit. Picture it. We look at all the before-and-after pictures from gyms, salons, the lot. Wonder what a before-and-after picture of Earth would look like. Before-and-after man(so far).Plastic surgery anyone.
And we want to decide on the planet tag of some poor mute mass. We must be the joke of the milky way. The laughing stock of all the universe. The target of the big bang. No wonder we don't get invited to any galaxy barbecues. Who would want us? The corrupt, morally bankrupt people so full of ourselves. Decadence central.
Acerbic you say. Apologies and an antacid. With my compliments.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
of waterloos and waterlessloos
Waterloo was where it ended. Perioded. Game over. Napoleon, he of the general fame(you can't deny it but the cheap humor is back). The man who told us that fighting units walk on gastric bags. He had a bad day. But in war when you have a bad day, they mean it. Dispatched to Elba. English being a language of accommodation went on to allow the liberal use of the name of this career-ending town. As a cricket-breathing, book-avoiding young man my waterloo of course was that great invention of mankind, Exams. Cloaked in misleading terms such as tests, assessments etc. Exams were(are) my waterloos. But then I had a knack. Uncanny. Vernacs were my bugbear family. Thus the term was coined apropos my allergies to language tests- waterless loos! This was India. There was water in the loos. H2O was ubiquitous with toilets. We washed our bottoms after nature-induced businesses. Paper ain't our thing. No water, no happy.
I get visa. Two tries. Board plane. Also twice. Suffer flying experience. Again twice. Go to loo. With magazine. After. Reach blind hand for faucet. For my cleansing tool. For my savior. Not there. Jeepers! Where is it? People say reality strikes this way and that and all that. But if she chooses to whack you on thy cranium in a bathroom, then you can as well train to be a professional wrestler. Alarm bells rang through my capillaries. My lungs grew tighter. Sheet of sweat across stunned body. Then I saw it. Right there. Harmlessly dangling like an innocent. White. Rolled. I used. Feared the worst. One doesn't take matters of the distal end of one's alimentary tract too lightly.
It wasn't too bad actually. Hope. I could get used to this, once I got over the mild inflammation[;-)]. This was no Kannada essay. Tempted to say easy as pie.
But then. When you need to clean something, do you paper it? Do you paper your car? Do you put your clothes into the papering machine? Why then?
People say I got it all wrong. Strong advocates for the paper and its power.
Its the change I tell you. New skill. For now, paper it is.
I get visa. Two tries. Board plane. Also twice. Suffer flying experience. Again twice. Go to loo. With magazine. After. Reach blind hand for faucet. For my cleansing tool. For my savior. Not there. Jeepers! Where is it? People say reality strikes this way and that and all that. But if she chooses to whack you on thy cranium in a bathroom, then you can as well train to be a professional wrestler. Alarm bells rang through my capillaries. My lungs grew tighter. Sheet of sweat across stunned body. Then I saw it. Right there. Harmlessly dangling like an innocent. White. Rolled. I used. Feared the worst. One doesn't take matters of the distal end of one's alimentary tract too lightly.
It wasn't too bad actually. Hope. I could get used to this, once I got over the mild inflammation[;-)]. This was no Kannada essay. Tempted to say easy as pie.
But then. When you need to clean something, do you paper it? Do you paper your car? Do you put your clothes into the papering machine? Why then?
People say I got it all wrong. Strong advocates for the paper and its power.
Its the change I tell you. New skill. For now, paper it is.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
I like
....previews before a movie
....benches
....and sitting on them
....the vastness of the sea
....Queen
....walking barefoot at home
....law-based fiction
....banana chips
....chocolate ice cream with chocolate chunks and chocolate sauce
....dining out
....good friends
....brown bags
....british accents
....Audrey Hepburn
....folding up my sleeves
....Goa
....benches
....and sitting on them
....the vastness of the sea
....Queen
....walking barefoot at home
....law-based fiction
....banana chips
....chocolate ice cream with chocolate chunks and chocolate sauce
....dining out
....good friends
....brown bags
....british accents
....Audrey Hepburn
....folding up my sleeves
....Goa
Friday, July 14, 2006
Transatlantia
Its been a while. I know. Peace reigns on the internet. Why? Simple, silly. The Thotastrical is silent. Zipped up. Shhhhhed. A month. Oh I love this self-importance talk. I relish it. Chew it to the bone even. Why? Ask, my child. Query. Just because(favorite phrase from school-days) nobody else will do it. I live in my own narcissism. My private island of one where I am king, subject and little Tony.
The above paragraph clearly depicts how rustiness can set in (faster than you can say 'Ferrous oxide') when you put the blog pen down for a bit.
And yes, as my blog post title(BPT) clearly depicts an ocean was indeed crossed. Flown over. But I didn't look. Not a peek. Not from a small window high high high up in the sky. Yes its true. I do not enjoy this thing called flying. I cringe at the thought. Shake at the knees. But there I was. A million miles away from home. Jet-lagged and clumsy.
People ask each other. What do you see first when you are landing in a new country? Junta responds variously. I'm not people. I'm abnormal. Fool(me). I saw trees. With green leaves. Huh! That's me. I see trees. That's my sixth sense. Tree-awareness. Blessed art me.
[The rustiness won't go away. Stuck in my head like a cobweb.]
This is bound to stop enquiries about blog updates and commence those for blog deletion. Be gentle.
I was this evening, the lambish victim of a visual tag. Blindingly energy-draining as it was, I managed to respond. Now as they say, 'You're it'. By mere sight. Jack and Jill time.
She: " I think we should spend more time...
He : " Damn fool woman ! You want more time? Don't you see we are already spending way too much time together!?! We are doing every single thing like we are joined at the hip ! But don't let that worry you .You just keep clinging on to me like the vine of the year and life will pass us by !Whoosh..What we NEED to do..is GET A LIFE ! Get it ?"
She: ... apart"
Above JacknJiller has been shamelessly copied from the original blog where I got tagged. [The blog that kicks this blog's ass 24/7]
And now my JacknJiller..
Jack: Lets go up the hill
Jill: Silly fool...Don't you remember the tumbling down last time?
Jack: But didn't the doctor tell us we lost our memories from the bumps on our heads
So leave your own JacknJillers
and
if you understood any section of this blog entry, kindly email me with complete explanation
The above paragraph clearly depicts how rustiness can set in (faster than you can say 'Ferrous oxide') when you put the blog pen down for a bit.
And yes, as my blog post title(BPT) clearly depicts an ocean was indeed crossed. Flown over. But I didn't look. Not a peek. Not from a small window high high high up in the sky. Yes its true. I do not enjoy this thing called flying. I cringe at the thought. Shake at the knees. But there I was. A million miles away from home. Jet-lagged and clumsy.
People ask each other. What do you see first when you are landing in a new country? Junta responds variously. I'm not people. I'm abnormal. Fool(me). I saw trees. With green leaves. Huh! That's me. I see trees. That's my sixth sense. Tree-awareness. Blessed art me.
[The rustiness won't go away. Stuck in my head like a cobweb.]
This is bound to stop enquiries about blog updates and commence those for blog deletion. Be gentle.
I was this evening, the lambish victim of a visual tag. Blindingly energy-draining as it was, I managed to respond. Now as they say, 'You're it'. By mere sight. Jack and Jill time.
She: " I think we should spend more time...
He : " Damn fool woman ! You want more time? Don't you see we are already spending way too much time together!?! We are doing every single thing like we are joined at the hip ! But don't let that worry you .You just keep clinging on to me like the vine of the year and life will pass us by !Whoosh..What we NEED to do..is GET A LIFE ! Get it ?"
She: ... apart"
Above JacknJiller has been shamelessly copied from the original blog where I got tagged. [The blog that kicks this blog's ass 24/7]
And now my JacknJiller..
Jack: Lets go up the hill
Jill: Silly fool...Don't you remember the tumbling down last time?
Jack: But didn't the doctor tell us we lost our memories from the bumps on our heads
So leave your own JacknJillers
and
if you understood any section of this blog entry, kindly email me with complete explanation
Monday, June 12, 2006
Boo!
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Saturday, June 10, 2006
SIFS
SIFS = Shopping Induced Fugue State syndrome
Shopping = what should have been the eighth deadly sin
Fugue = A pathological amnesiac condition during which one is apparently conscious of one's actions but has no recollection of them after returning to a normal state. This condition, usually resulting from severe mental stress, may persist for as long as several months.
I am a SLOB. Slow. Lazy. Obnoxious. Boy. Activity ain't my cuppa. Shopping (brrr) is activity. Work. Tedium. How can I like it? If it ended at likes and not-likes, fine. But no. Pathological it be. Fear-evoking.
I wanted stuff for a long trip. Had to end my shopping-celibacy. Lose the peace. Driven by mom. Walked (pushed) into sophisticated store. Salesman made clear his contempt for current attire. Stuck my tongue out at him. When he wasn't looking of course. Coward me be. Rubber-spine. Braced myself for worst. Worst it was.
Six hours and a buffet lunch later. There I was. Not tired. Not pooped. Not fatigued. But fugued. Zombie. No idea what just happened. Not a flicker of recollection. Maybe locked away in some deep dark recess of my brain. Pray the key is lost. Non-findable (liberties with the Queen's language).
As I slowly recover from the horrors of that fateful day, flashes manifest of what transpired. Standard wake-up-in-cold-sweats routine every night. I was their prey. Meat. They(salespeople of course) pounced. Sank claws,talons,fangs,teeth. I squealed. They didn't care. Italian threads with German technology. Latesht. Never seen before in these sh(t)ores . Monkeys 'r us. Me specifically.
How do eves do it? Ever so often. Wow. Applause. Should be a fascinating scientific paper. Really should. To all possessors of the Y chromosome. My sympathies. Undying support even. Go bravely. Fight. *Gulp* at thought.
Shopping = what should have been the eighth deadly sin
Fugue = A pathological amnesiac condition during which one is apparently conscious of one's actions but has no recollection of them after returning to a normal state. This condition, usually resulting from severe mental stress, may persist for as long as several months.
I am a SLOB. Slow. Lazy. Obnoxious. Boy. Activity ain't my cuppa. Shopping (brrr) is activity. Work. Tedium. How can I like it? If it ended at likes and not-likes, fine. But no. Pathological it be. Fear-evoking.
I wanted stuff for a long trip. Had to end my shopping-celibacy. Lose the peace. Driven by mom. Walked (pushed) into sophisticated store. Salesman made clear his contempt for current attire. Stuck my tongue out at him. When he wasn't looking of course. Coward me be. Rubber-spine. Braced myself for worst. Worst it was.
Six hours and a buffet lunch later. There I was. Not tired. Not pooped. Not fatigued. But fugued. Zombie. No idea what just happened. Not a flicker of recollection. Maybe locked away in some deep dark recess of my brain. Pray the key is lost. Non-findable (liberties with the Queen's language).
As I slowly recover from the horrors of that fateful day, flashes manifest of what transpired. Standard wake-up-in-cold-sweats routine every night. I was their prey. Meat. They(salespeople of course) pounced. Sank claws,talons,fangs,teeth. I squealed. They didn't care. Italian threads with German technology. Latesht. Never seen before in these sh(t)ores . Monkeys 'r us. Me specifically.
How do eves do it? Ever so often. Wow. Applause. Should be a fascinating scientific paper. Really should. To all possessors of the Y chromosome. My sympathies. Undying support even. Go bravely. Fight. *Gulp* at thought.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Rabbits,Headlights et al
I'm not
I've been known to (under the cover of darkness) sneak out in my red babe. Described by some jealous blokes as a jalopy. My car's got character I say. Integrity. Dedication. A drinking problem. I also possess an affection for long nocturnal journeys in mee car fostered by a constant diet of late-night jaunts in early life.
Picture this. Me driving. Midnight. Highway. Singing song (called braying by same jealous people). Suddenly I see the light. End-of-tunnelesque proportions. Panic. Sweat. Blinded. I can almost hear the angels playing their award-winning harps. Suddenly power cut. No shining. Can see again.Will live. Whoop of joy from night-time-drive-liker. But. Again comes this damned thing. Again and again. Where's the joy?
Its the midnight road salute. Bring on the high-beam. Watch the blue bullet on your display. See your innocent(read me) opponent squirm. Laugh. Gloat.Fart. Whatever. Its a fashion that will never die. A fad that will never fade.
Remember that poor rabbit. Who couldn't move. Caught in your powerful rays of unnecessity. Same one paralyzed by your luminescence. I was the bunny now. Call me Bugs.
Prophylaxis. Wore dark goggles. Dead of the night. Stepped out for rendezvous. Neighbor walking dog saw me. He laughed uncontrollably. Fell off the fourth floor. Suing me for mirth-induced damages. See. A little misdirected light.
The best combo for this madness. Driver A hits the beam. Driver B can't take this affront to ego. Beams back. Nice. Wonder why so many accidents on road? Its like countries nuking each other. One at a time. Canceling things out.
Bad habit. Lose it already.
I've been known to (under the cover of darkness) sneak out in my red babe. Described by some jealous blokes as a jalopy. My car's got character I say. Integrity. Dedication. A drinking problem. I also possess an affection for long nocturnal journeys in mee car fostered by a constant diet of late-night jaunts in early life.
Picture this. Me driving. Midnight. Highway. Singing song (called braying by same jealous people). Suddenly I see the light. End-of-tunnelesque proportions. Panic. Sweat. Blinded. I can almost hear the angels playing their award-winning harps. Suddenly power cut. No shining. Can see again.Will live. Whoop of joy from night-time-drive-liker. But. Again comes this damned thing. Again and again. Where's the joy?
Its the midnight road salute. Bring on the high-beam. Watch the blue bullet on your display. See your innocent(read me) opponent squirm. Laugh. Gloat.Fart. Whatever. Its a fashion that will never die. A fad that will never fade.
Remember that poor rabbit. Who couldn't move. Caught in your powerful rays of unnecessity. Same one paralyzed by your luminescence. I was the bunny now. Call me Bugs.
Prophylaxis. Wore dark goggles. Dead of the night. Stepped out for rendezvous. Neighbor walking dog saw me. He laughed uncontrollably. Fell off the fourth floor. Suing me for mirth-induced damages. See. A little misdirected light.
The best combo for this madness. Driver A hits the beam. Driver B can't take this affront to ego. Beams back. Nice. Wonder why so many accidents on road? Its like countries nuking each other. One at a time. Canceling things out.
Bad habit. Lose it already.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
The Fine Art of Spitting
The following piece is graphic in content. Reader discretion advised. Ilost my lunch just writing it.
It was the patterns. They got me. Morphology unlimited. Hues of red/amber/vermilion. Take your pick. Sometimes colorless. They were everywhere. Crept into the mind's eye. Indefatigable. More powerful in presence than that favorite symbol of the Indian landscape, the mosquito.
I stepped out one fine morning. Feeling nice and dandy. This chap gave me a demo. Sucked back. Smirk on face. Delivered with aplomb. Fine spray barely missing moi. Ugly stare to man. Man shrugs shoulders. Gets ready for round 2. I have limited wardrobe. Just bathed after mom petitioned High Court. I ran. Sped. Disappeared. I love to give up.
The prostate gland as is well-known is a single. No colleagues. Still most women (sorry all) will confirm that it is the most overworked gland in male humans. Same human possesses several salivary glands. Many. Meant to aid digestion and speaking and fund our favorite pastime, Spitting. Have glands will spray.
Our wonderful roads are world-famous for a myriad reasons. Among them potholes (who can resist a pothole reference) and spit patterns. One, more glorious than the other. Using the tar as an innocent canvas humans are such fine artists. Gory. Disgusting. Gut-wrenching.
Animals of the world urinate to delineate their territory. We spit. Use the saliva to mark our world. Get into a bus, spit out the window. Get out of a bus, spit. Using a lift, spit. Using the stairs, spit. See a spittoon? Spit by its side. We are the champions my friend.We'll keep on spitting till the end.
Mind you. Spitting is good for us. Otherwise we would't do it. Not us. It keeps us humble. How? Head-down while walking on road. Avoiding the red beauties. Becomes a part of behavior. A modest,non-assuming race is defined.
Agility. Yes. Evading saliva artwork. Will make a super- athletic people.
That's the logic.
Movie to watch compulsorily: My Cousin Vinny
It was the patterns. They got me. Morphology unlimited. Hues of red/amber/vermilion. Take your pick. Sometimes colorless. They were everywhere. Crept into the mind's eye. Indefatigable. More powerful in presence than that favorite symbol of the Indian landscape, the mosquito.
I stepped out one fine morning. Feeling nice and dandy. This chap gave me a demo. Sucked back. Smirk on face. Delivered with aplomb. Fine spray barely missing moi. Ugly stare to man. Man shrugs shoulders. Gets ready for round 2. I have limited wardrobe. Just bathed after mom petitioned High Court. I ran. Sped. Disappeared. I love to give up.
The prostate gland as is well-known is a single. No colleagues. Still most women (sorry all) will confirm that it is the most overworked gland in male humans. Same human possesses several salivary glands. Many. Meant to aid digestion and speaking and fund our favorite pastime, Spitting. Have glands will spray.
Our wonderful roads are world-famous for a myriad reasons. Among them potholes (who can resist a pothole reference) and spit patterns. One, more glorious than the other. Using the tar as an innocent canvas humans are such fine artists. Gory. Disgusting. Gut-wrenching.
Animals of the world urinate to delineate their territory. We spit. Use the saliva to mark our world. Get into a bus, spit out the window. Get out of a bus, spit. Using a lift, spit. Using the stairs, spit. See a spittoon? Spit by its side. We are the champions my friend.We'll keep on spitting till the end.
Mind you. Spitting is good for us. Otherwise we would't do it. Not us. It keeps us humble. How? Head-down while walking on road. Avoiding the red beauties. Becomes a part of behavior. A modest,non-assuming race is defined.
Agility. Yes. Evading saliva artwork. Will make a super- athletic people.
That's the logic.
Movie to watch compulsorily: My Cousin Vinny
Saturday, May 27, 2006
The AjjiBujjiKere(ABK) phenomenon
Things you need to know before proceeding
Ajji = old lady,grandma
Bujji = crushed,smashed - for this piece it is considered an english word and thus used in various forms like any self-respecting english word eg: bujjified, bujjifying, bujjied
Kere = snake of the rat..he he he...ratsnake i.e. snake that limits rat population
ABK = the phenomenon that was a vital part of my primary school days
It was PT period (you know...1-2-3-4 drill...the melee for the deflated footy). Little Ramu(say) went to retrieve ball from near gutter. Unbeknownst to this math-fearing, teacher-respecting, mugging-specialist there is some spillover from gutter content. Nothing mutagenic (i.e. can be washed off with apna dettol). But, its there. Ramu in his haste to pouch ball steps on yucky matter.Looks at his hawaii chappal in dismay. Tries to cover/wipeoff damage. Too late. Sham, yes, the one with the baritone voice witnesseth. Screams. AJJIBUJJIKERE rents the air.Horrifying. Ramu's spirit crumbles. Can he make it to the next tap? Can he make it in life? Ramu turns around. The till-now crowded PT field looks like the school library. Empty. Everyone has scooted. Saving themselves. Their souls. Their dignity.
But Ramu being a creature who hasn't yet encountered an entrance exam doesn't give in easy. He hunts. Like a tiger after a seven-day crash diet. Hungry. Eager. Vengeful. Finds little Frida. Cowering in fear. Attempting to hide behind the trunk of a tree. ABK he yells. More with relief. But wait a minute. What does little Frida have? Clutched in her left hand. A leaf! GREEN!! GREEN!! She dangles the savior with nonchalant ease. Ramu is crushed again. He sets off again. He must find non-green-possessing child to transfer this ABK. He must.
Well, whatever happened to Ramu I'm not sure but ABK was the phenomenon that ruled my limited-vision world as a primary school attendee. It was like the sword of Damocles that hung over our tender necks. We never knew who would be next? When would be next? Where would be next? Haunting.
Legend says (atleast the legend I have coffee with every tuesday) that ABK originated in the early 1700s. The story goes thus (if anyone disagrees then I will do karate for you).
There was this old lady. You know the type.Late 60s. Active. Kind-hearted. Betel-nut chewing.Jasmine flowers in oiled hair. On her way to the village fair. Spring in arthritic step. Folk song in heart. As she was walking, she felt that uncomfy squishy feeling under her left foot, only to look down in dismay to see a kere(ratsnake-remember) writhing in pain due to her bujjifying left foot. Hissing the choicest kere abuses he slithered away into the bushes to nurse his bujjified body back to its rat-hunting best (relax, nobody dies in my stories). This incident was observed by the Kere Gods. They obviously weren't too happy(Kere population figures were at an all-time low and acts like these certainly wouldn't help). Curse they hissed. Curse. But, wait one minute. Ajji was draped in a parrot- green saree (sent by son in phoreen). Gods were in dilemma now. Why you may wonder? Green was their patron color. Green was their gold. They couldn't punish granny now. A Kere law was passed. AJJIBUJJIKERE for any yucky steppings from now on. Possessing green will give immunity. However, an ABK individual can pass it on to some other unsuspecting non-green soul and rid himself/herself of the ABK tag. Thus, a hex was born. To terrorize thousands of school children in the years to come.
There are other fables (not true) about the origin of ABK by other 'experts' in this field. However, efforts are on to initiate a PhD position in ABK studies. One only hopes the truth (see above) will be established soon.
Acknowledgements:
Wah-Duuh girl
Choop Suri
Sujju Baba
Stanny my boy
I promise to share TV and film rights with you guys
Ajji = old lady,grandma
Bujji = crushed,smashed - for this piece it is considered an english word and thus used in various forms like any self-respecting english word eg: bujjified, bujjifying, bujjied
Kere = snake of the rat..he he he...ratsnake i.e. snake that limits rat population
ABK = the phenomenon that was a vital part of my primary school days
It was PT period (you know...1-2-3-4 drill...the melee for the deflated footy). Little Ramu(say) went to retrieve ball from near gutter. Unbeknownst to this math-fearing, teacher-respecting, mugging-specialist there is some spillover from gutter content. Nothing mutagenic (i.e. can be washed off with apna dettol). But, its there. Ramu in his haste to pouch ball steps on yucky matter.Looks at his hawaii chappal in dismay. Tries to cover/wipeoff damage. Too late. Sham, yes, the one with the baritone voice witnesseth. Screams. AJJIBUJJIKERE rents the air.Horrifying. Ramu's spirit crumbles. Can he make it to the next tap? Can he make it in life? Ramu turns around. The till-now crowded PT field looks like the school library. Empty. Everyone has scooted. Saving themselves. Their souls. Their dignity.
But Ramu being a creature who hasn't yet encountered an entrance exam doesn't give in easy. He hunts. Like a tiger after a seven-day crash diet. Hungry. Eager. Vengeful. Finds little Frida. Cowering in fear. Attempting to hide behind the trunk of a tree. ABK he yells. More with relief. But wait a minute. What does little Frida have? Clutched in her left hand. A leaf! GREEN!! GREEN!! She dangles the savior with nonchalant ease. Ramu is crushed again. He sets off again. He must find non-green-possessing child to transfer this ABK. He must.
Well, whatever happened to Ramu I'm not sure but ABK was the phenomenon that ruled my limited-vision world as a primary school attendee. It was like the sword of Damocles that hung over our tender necks. We never knew who would be next? When would be next? Where would be next? Haunting.
Legend says (atleast the legend I have coffee with every tuesday) that ABK originated in the early 1700s. The story goes thus (if anyone disagrees then I will do karate for you).
There was this old lady. You know the type.Late 60s. Active. Kind-hearted. Betel-nut chewing.Jasmine flowers in oiled hair. On her way to the village fair. Spring in arthritic step. Folk song in heart. As she was walking, she felt that uncomfy squishy feeling under her left foot, only to look down in dismay to see a kere(ratsnake-remember) writhing in pain due to her bujjifying left foot. Hissing the choicest kere abuses he slithered away into the bushes to nurse his bujjified body back to its rat-hunting best (relax, nobody dies in my stories). This incident was observed by the Kere Gods. They obviously weren't too happy(Kere population figures were at an all-time low and acts like these certainly wouldn't help). Curse they hissed. Curse. But, wait one minute. Ajji was draped in a parrot- green saree (sent by son in phoreen). Gods were in dilemma now. Why you may wonder? Green was their patron color. Green was their gold. They couldn't punish granny now. A Kere law was passed. AJJIBUJJIKERE for any yucky steppings from now on. Possessing green will give immunity. However, an ABK individual can pass it on to some other unsuspecting non-green soul and rid himself/herself of the ABK tag. Thus, a hex was born. To terrorize thousands of school children in the years to come.
There are other fables (not true) about the origin of ABK by other 'experts' in this field. However, efforts are on to initiate a PhD position in ABK studies. One only hopes the truth (see above) will be established soon.
Acknowledgements:
Wah-Duuh girl
Choop Suri
Sujju Baba
Stanny my boy
I promise to share TV and film rights with you guys
Friday, May 26, 2006
Are you a LOLaholic?
LOLaholism - Found in 'net-savvy' (lol) people of age 17-29. Common in both sexes. Insidious onset, rapid progression. Response to treatment is highly subjective.
If you have any of these symptoms, then you are afflicted by this emerging problem named LOLaholism. Do not worry. Help is available.
Call 1-800-NOLOL today
or
visit www.LOLaholicsanonymous.com
issued in public interest by,
LOLaholics Anonymous - Its no laughing matter
- Do you burst into LOLs when somebody cracks a joke?
- Do you have a LOLmeter to rate comedies?
- Do you keep telling everyone how much nicer 'November Rain' would sound with a few LOLs in it?
- Do you tell people to have a LOLy day?
- Do people call you LOLo? (and you do not resemble Karishma Kapoor)
- Do you have your comp maintenance dude on speed dial? (to replace keys L and O)
If you have any of these symptoms, then you are afflicted by this emerging problem named LOLaholism. Do not worry. Help is available.
Call 1-800-NOLOL today
or
visit www.LOLaholicsanonymous.com
issued in public interest by,
LOLaholics Anonymous - Its no laughing matter
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
just lounge it!!
The triangle had been formed. It took all of 243 seconds, not that I was counting, a mere estimate. But then, how do you evaluate bliss time? How? My lower back formed the hypotenuse of this instrument of joy. The super comfy lounge cushions made up the other two sides. Thoughts ran through my head or did they? I don't remember. It was like a flow of imagination had broken out but at a subconscious level. Ecstasy without effort.
Lounging for long has been a favourite pastime for yours truly. Whether it is in the lobby of a 'posh' hotel or the hardwood benches of the corner coffee shop I have always indulged in it with enthusiastic fervor. People would look at me and feel superior to my apparent good-for-nothing existence. I didn't care. I couldn't. I was in heaven remember. I wish they could feel what I was experiencing. They would think differently then.
It doesn't matter what you do while you lounge. You could be getting your nicotine rush, sipping your preferred beverage, reading a book, staring at the ceiling, anything. Its just the feeling of this 'activity' that takes you away to a different dimension. If I had a penny for every minute I lounged....lol
And, if your lower back still hits your choice of furniture. Slide. Before its too late. Lounge. Try.
book to lounge with : Freakonomics
Lounging for long has been a favourite pastime for yours truly. Whether it is in the lobby of a 'posh' hotel or the hardwood benches of the corner coffee shop I have always indulged in it with enthusiastic fervor. People would look at me and feel superior to my apparent good-for-nothing existence. I didn't care. I couldn't. I was in heaven remember. I wish they could feel what I was experiencing. They would think differently then.
It doesn't matter what you do while you lounge. You could be getting your nicotine rush, sipping your preferred beverage, reading a book, staring at the ceiling, anything. Its just the feeling of this 'activity' that takes you away to a different dimension. If I had a penny for every minute I lounged....lol
And, if your lower back still hits your choice of furniture. Slide. Before its too late. Lounge. Try.
book to lounge with : Freakonomics
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