Thursday, October 28, 2004

30th Street Philly Station

Just a random rambling that I want to take off my mind for a week.Not meant for public consumption as such.
I recently went to California to meet this good friend of mine when he dropped in from India for some work. He graduated from Villanova University. Our strongest point was that of sharing a weird sense of humor(That comes from looking the Philly of everyday things from a unconventional perspective). One fine day he decided that India was the right place for him, and I bade him farewell by going to his resident place called Stafford located in South Eastern Pennsylvania.

If you travel on the Northeastern corridor of Amtrak's Washington DC to New York or Boston line you might have noticed the stop for 30th Street Philadelphia station way to get to starboard is get down at that station and change to local SEPTA line towards Paoli. A noticeable difference from the rest of the country is that they have some quaint trains with human conductors punching and verifying tickets. Its almost travelling back in time.

There is a kind of unsaid camaredrie between friends who know each other for a long time thats kind of missing in other acquaintances and the social interactions that happen everyday or week. Its kind of like coming home. It rejuvenates you and flushes your memory.

After his departure, many a time I had to travel to New York for meetings,etc.There was a longing in me to get down there and meet up my old pal whenever I used to cross that path. Now I had the time and money but the person I want to see at that place is absent.(One of life's ironies like that of wanting a higher resolution monitor when all you need is some decent engaging content).It helps to know somebody so well known around your spatial co-ordinates. That kind of geological proximity allows you to take off a weekend to their place and enjoy the company. Just a wishful thinking, not that it bothers me a whole lot.

The best of my buddies are nowhere near my corridor and This last week on my way to New York, I no longer felt that longing.(Agreed that meeting him in person at a different place does make it a moot point!). Slowly I began to wonder how the transaformation took place.(A train ride does give you that luxury of thinking anything in depth). The Quarter Life Crisis as someone said.

These days the conversations mostly happen to be around marriage or plans about it. About career changes and the fear of instability otherwise.Gone was the time when we used to just idle away our days in thinking about whats the next coolest thing that can be done. Now people develop personalities.Despite all these technological advantages like instant communication there is hardly anything that you would say at length that is half-interesting as the material you were thinking of when you were young.Probably not knowing whats impossible help us entertain all kinds of possibilities.Flights of Fancy is the name given when you grow old .

Because at this time of the life people are mature enough to think whats possible and whats not.Whats good and whats not.What makes the next best step in the calculus of your career.
Some call it realism.I dont know. If it makes you happy I guess that okay.

In fact I believe I have some brilliant friends who are absolutely unique and fantastic in their own way.I kind of have a gratituous feeling for having been associated with such a kind.I should be real lucky to even have had the time to meet some many interesting people.Each one to his own path but we have some moments that we could treasure with the guarantee that things are never gonna be the same again.

The painting on my wall pretty much sums up the optimism towards all these good folks.

"I Have a Premonition that soars on Silver Wings
Its a dream of your accomplishments of many wondrous things,
I do not know beneath which sky or where you'll challenge fate,
I Only know it will be High,I Only know it will be Great!"

Tuesday, October 26, 2004


Because the circle of chaos was closing in on the realm, the hero went to the troll and, forcibly subduing him, demanded to know the secret of drawing order out of chaos. The troll replied, Give me your left eye and I'll tell you. Because the hero loved his threatened people so much, he did not hesitate. He gouged out his own left eye and gave it to the troll, who then said,
The secret of order over chaos is: Watch with both eyes.
(Excerpt from a story by John Gardner)

Monday, October 25, 2004

The Bene Gesserit Litany against Fear.

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
The Bene Gesserit are a key group from Frank Herbert's science fiction universe of Dune. They are a secretive sisterhood of women who train their bodies and minds though years of physical and mental conditioning, attaining powers and abilities that can seem almost magical. Due to their secretive nature and misunderstood abilities, outsiders often call them witches.

Saturday, October 23, 2004


Many Rains Have Come
I hope she remains there now
'cos I am thirsty

Haiku is a short poem with 17 syllables, or perhaps even short Japanese poems with 3 lines of 5, 7 and 5 syllables. Haikus were essentially poems about nature. They had to contain a seasonal word (kigo) or reference and be about a definite experience - kind of like a 'zen moment'. As they grew in popularity they produced many movements and schools of thought in Japan, though it is generally accepted that the other three great historic masters were Yosa Buson (1716-1783), Kobayashi Issa (1763-1827) and Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902). It is only during the twentieth century that these short poems have become commonly known as haiku.

The specific meaning I wanted to convey was that Hope is our greatest strength and weakness at the same time.On second reading of it I guess I was a failure but would like to post it my first memoir of this form albeit with some crudeness.

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

The Sons of Martha

The Bible tells us this story in Luke 10:38-42 :

Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus(He is best known for being raised from the grave four days after his death by Jesus), were entertaining Jesus and his disciples. Martha rushed about the kitchen and household, seeing to the cooking, bringing wash basins, changing towels, and doing the other things needful when one's home has been unexpectedly invaded by a celebrity and his entourage.Mary simply sat at Jesus feet, and heard his word.

Martha was strained and asked Jesus "Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone? Bid her therefore that she help me."Jesus supposedly said "Martha, thou are careful and troubled about many things: But one thing is needful: Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her."

Hmm..Reminded me of Milton's "They Also Serve who stand and wait.."

Can you unravel the cryptic meaning in this poem by Rudyard Kipling written in 1907.
The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.

It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.

They say to mountains ``Be ye removèd.'' They say to the lesser floods ``Be dry.''
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd---they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit---then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

They finger Death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.

To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden---under the earthline their altars are---
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.

They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not preach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's ways may be long in the land.

Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with the blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd---they know the Angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the feet---they hear the Word---they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and---the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!

Monday, October 18, 2004

Essay on Essay Writing by Paul Graham

Paul Graham's The Age of the Essay is a vivid and a remarkable essay on the nature of "essay" itself. He makes an excellent diagnosis of our school time essay writing fallacies and helps pin down some crucial elements in the art of writing an essay. The excerpt says it all

"To understand what a real essay is, we have to reach back into history again, though this time not so far. To Michel de Montaigne, who in 1580 published a book of what he called "essais." He was doing something quite different from what lawyers do, and the difference is embodied in the name. Essayer is the French verb meaning "to try" and an essai is an attempt. An essay is something you write to try to figure something out."

Alexander Pope was was using these semantics when he titled his poem "Essay on Mankind". Similarly Ralph Waldo Emerson sounded true because he was so convincing in his ideas.

Graham argues that the current day rhetoric of take a position and defend it while reaching a pre-ordained solution as the cause for the yawn that is elicited from the readers of modern day essayists. I love the "surpise" and the "disobedience" sections of this essay.Read it and you are in for a treat.

Friday, October 15, 2004

In Fond Remembrance of Ms.Annapurna

I just received the news that my grand-mother died. Her name is Annapurna.

I have a hard time placing my memories of the time spent with her.I recollect the atrium in her house where I used to spend my summers carefree.Tha ripe mango yield of the season was disbursed among all her grandkids who assembled at the ancestral place. I have fond memories of sitting on the from porch with gothic pillars and eating mangoes while a small canal used to run through the house.Eat the mangoes , throw the seed in the canal.

In fact I was born on the cement porch constructed in the atrium. I can still smell the Champak/Sampengi (Botanical Name : Michelia champaca, belongs to a family of Magnolias) flowers blossom in the courtyard. Upstairs Grandpa used to have his library and music instruments. The temple at the end of the street.

I can remember sitting by her and asking her questions on Mahabharata, our family history, how I behaved as a kid. She was never shy in details.In fact I am supposed to inherit some of her eidetic memory. She used to be skinny but string.Her patience enoromous in carrying out her daily inanities.She never could get my name properly.She used to call me "Paveen" in her usual way of dropping the "r".

She is gone and most of my immediate family/relatives should be relieved.This is because once a person grows to more than 80 one starts becoming a pain, even to his own folks.You gotta take good care medically but provide some moral,pyschological support which is a scarce thing. She lost blood recently and needed a "O-". By definition "O-" is a universal donor but not a universal acceptor.They had a little hardship in securing her the supply of blood.I do have "O-" but I am far and away to be of any use to her.

Strangely I dont feel any pain of losing her. In fact I was telling my pop that of late I am associated with my friends' grannies than my own. I might be a little "cold" but thats okay.

I could see the glow in her face when I gave the Rs.100/- which was given to me by the Govt. Of India in my high school (+2) for doing something that classified me as some kind that needed money.( They call it recognizing Merit as determined by your GPA).Mind you it is not the money nor the alleged acheivement that caused her the happiness but the 'gesture'. I think there is some kind of pleasure in small things of life as you grow old.

There are probably some other things that will come to mind when I brood over it. I am glad that I dont know her age and that i preceive her for what she is through her 'Character'.

She grew deaf as she was marking time and She had to go through surgery and had to take a ton of pills the last I remember. Last i talked to her was over the phone when she was repeatedly asking me the same questions.Senility had set in.I was told that at 2:30 Pm IST that she stopped converting oxygen to carbon-dioxide. I had half a tear in my eye.No.They werent enough to swell and overflow out of the eye.They were reabsorbed...

I dont have any Grannies or Grandpas left anymore. This is it. The end of my "grand" generation as I know it.

One More Engine in this World has been Silenced....

Thursday, October 14, 2004

This Is the Title of This Story

This is the first sentence of this story. This is the second sentence. This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. This sentence is questioning the intrinsic value of the first two sentences. This sentence is to inform you, in case you haven't already realized it, that this is a self-referential story, that is, a story containing sentences that refer to their own structure and function. This is a sentence that provides an ending to the first paragraph.

This is the first sentence of a new paragraph in a self-referential story. This sentence is introducing you to the protagonist of the story, a young boy named Billy. This sentence is telling you that Billy is blond and blue-eyed and American and twelve years old and strangling his mother. This sentence comments on the awkward nature of the self referential narrative form while recognizing the strange and playful detachment it affords the writer. As if illustrating the point made by the last sentence, this sentence reminds us, with no trace of facetiousness, that children are a precious gift from God and that the world is a better place when graced by the unique joys and delights they bring to it.

This sentence describes Billy's mother's bulging eyes and protruding tongue and makes reference to the unpleasant choking and gagging noises she's making. This sentence makes the observation that these are uncertain and difficult times, and that relationships, even seemingly deep-rooted and permanent ones, do have a tendency to break down.

Introduces, in this paragraph, the device of sentence fragments. A sentence fragment. Another. Good device. Will be used more later.

This is actually the last sentence of the story but has been placed here by mistake. This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself in his bed transformed into a gigantic insect. This sentence informs you that the preceding sentence is from another story entirely (a much better one, it must be noted) and has no place at all in this particular narrative. Despite claims of the preceding sentence, this sentence feels compelled to inform you that the story you are reading is in actuality "The Metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka, and that the sentence referred to by the preceding sentence is the only sentence which does indeed belong in this story. This sentence overrides the preceding sentence by informing the reader (poor, confused wretch) that this piece of literature is actually the Declaration of Independence, but that the author, in a show of extreme negligence (if not malicious sabotage), has so far failed to include even one single sentence from that stirring document, although he has condescended to use a small sentence fragment, namely, "When in the course of human events", embedded in quotation marks near the end of a sentence. Showing a keen awareness of the boredom and downright hostility of the average reader with regard to the pointless conceptual games indulged in by the preceding sentences, this sentence returns us at last to the scenario of the story by asking the question, "Why is Billy strangling his mother?" This sentence attempts to shed some light on the question posed by the preceding sentence but fails. This sentence, however, succeeds, in that it suggests a possible incestuous relationship between Billy and his mother and alludes to the concomitant Freudian complications any astute reader will immediately envision. Incest. The unspeakable taboo. The universal prohibition. Incest. And notice the sentence fragments? Good literary device. Will be used more later.

This is the first sentence in a new paragraph. This is the last sentence in a new paragraph.

This sentence can serve as either the beginning of the paragraph or end, depending on its placement. This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. This sentence raises a serious objection to the entire class of self-referential sentences that merely comment on their own function or placement within the story e.g., the preceding four sentences), on the grounds that they are monotonously predictable, unforgivably self indulgent, and merely serve to distract the reader from the real subject of this story, which at this point seems to concern strangulation and incest and who knows what other delightful topics. The purpose of this sentence is to point out that the preceding sentence, while not itself a member of the class of self-referential sentences it objects to, nevertheless also serves merely to distract the reader from the real subject of this story, which actually concerns Gregor Samsa's inexplicable transformation into a gigantic insect (despite the vociferous counterclaims of other well meaning although misinformed sentences). This sentence can serve as either the beginning of the paragraph or end, depending on its placement.

This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. This is almost the title of the story, which is found only once in the story itself. This sentence regretfully states that up to this point the self-referential mode of narrative has had a paralyzing effect on the actual progress of the story itself -that is, these sentences have been so concerned with analyzing themselves and their role in the story that they have failed by and large to perform their function as communicators of events and ideas that one hopes coalesce into a plot, character development, etc. -- in short, the very raisons d'etre of any respectable, hardworking sentence in the midst of a piece of compelling prose fiction. This sentence in addition points out the obvious analogy between the plight of these agonizingly self-aware sentences and similarly afflicted human beings, and it points out the analogous paralyzing effects wrought by excessive and tortured self- examination.

The purpose of this sentence (which can also serve as a paragraph) is to speculate that if the Declaration of Independence had been worded and structured as lackadaisically and incoherently as this story has been so far, there's no telling what kind of warped libertine society we'd be living in now or to what depths of decadence the inhabitants of this country might have sunk, even to the point of deranged and debased writers constructing irritatingly cumbersome and needlessly prolix sentences that sometimes possess the questionable if not downright undesirable quality of referring to themselves and they sometimes even become run-on sentences or exhibit other signs of inexcusably sloppy grammar like unneeded superfluous redundancies that almost certainly would have insidious effects on the lifestyle and morals of our impressionable youth, leading them to commit incest or even murder and maybe that's why Billy is strangling his mother, because of sentences just like this one , which have no discernible goals or perspicuous purpose and just end up anywhere, even in mid

Bizarre. A sentence fragment. Another fragment. Twelve years old. This is a sentence that. Fragmented. And strangling his mother. Sorry, sorry. Bizarre. This. More fragments. This is it. Fragments. The title of this story, which. Blond. Sorry, sorry. Fragment after fragment. Harder. This is a sentence that. Fragments. Damn good device.

The purpose of this sentence is threefold: (1) to apologize for the unfortunate and inexplicable lapse exhibited by the preceding paragraph; (2) to assure you, the reader, that it will not happen again; and (3) to reiterate the point that these are uncertain and difficult times and that aspects of language, even seemingly stable and deeply rooted ones such as syntax and meaning, do break down. This sentence adds nothing substantial to the sentiments of the preceding sentence but merely provides a concluding sentence to this paragraph, which otherwise might not have one.

This sentence, in a sudden and courageous burst of altruism, tries to abandon the self-referential mode but fails. This sentence tries again, but the attempt is doomed from the start.

This sentence, in a last-ditch attempt to infuse some iota of story line into this paralyzed prose piece, quickly alludes to Billy's frantic cover-up attempts, followed by a lyrical, touching, and beautifully written passage wherein Billy is reconciled with his father (thus resolving the subliminal Freudian conflicts obvious to any astute reader) and a final exciting police chase scene during which Billy is accidentally shot and killed by a panicky rookie policeman who is coincidentally named Billy. This sentence, although basically in complete sympathy with the laudable efforts of the preceding action-packed sentence, reminds the reader that such allusions to a story that doesn't, in fact, yet exist are no substitute for the real thing and therefore will not get the author (indolent goof-off that he is) off the proverbial hook.

Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph.

The purpose. Of this paragraph. Is to apologize. For its gratuitous use. Of. Sentence fragments. Sorry.

The purpose of this sentence is to apologize for the pointless and silly adolescent games indulged in by the preceding two paragraphs, and to express regret on the part of us, the more mature sentences, that the entire tone of this story is such that it can't seem to communicate a simple, albeit sordid, scenario.

This sentence wishes to apologize for all the needless apologies found in this story (this one included), which, although placed here ostensibly for the benefit of the more vexed readers, merely delay in a maddeningly recursive way the continuation of the by-now nearly forgotten story line.

This sentence is bursting at the punctuation marks with news of the dire import of self-reference as applied to sentences, a practice that could prove to be a veritable Pandora's box of potential havoc, for if a sentence can refer or allude to itself, why not a lowly subordinate clause, perhaps this very clause? Or this sentence fragment? Or three words? Two words? One?

Perhaps it is appropriate that this sentence gently and with no trace of condescension reminds us that these are indeed difficult and uncertain times and that in general people just aren't nice enough to each other, and perhaps we, whether sentient human beings or sentient sentences, should just try harder. I mean, there is such a thing as free will, there has to be, and this sentence is proof of it! Neither this sentence nor you, the reader, is completely helpless in the face of all the pitiless forces at work in the universe. We should stand our ground, face facts, take Mother Nature by the throat and just try harder. By the throat. Harder. Harder, harder.


This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself.

This is the last sentence of the story. This is the last sentence of the story. This is the last sentence of the story. This is.

--------------------------------------------END -----------

The author of the above article is called David Moser and he has recently written another article on Red China and Mao impersonators.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

Elevator Funkiness

The elevator at my work place has a mind of its own.I am serious.No Kidding.
BTW for geographical naming purposes it is called "Crystal park 2". Here are the reasons why I think so :

(a) Have you ever seen an elevator door half open.I mean the elevator hasnt made up its mind yet and extended its invitation by opening only the left half of the door.

(b) Its indicator light shows its going UP whereas you go in and press your floor only to realise that you are trapped and it takes you all the way down.You will be left with an insect in a Venus Flytrap feeling.

(c) Supposing you really wanted to go down and click the Lobby button it behaves nicely till the floor above the lobby and suddenly amnesia kicks in with you being transported to the Cellar.
Apparently this selective memory thing is more universal than I thought as I have confirmed reports of elevators missing their floors from all over the place.

(d) Occasionally the elevator tries to explore moving sideways out of sheer boredom when you get the shaly wiggle-woggle feeling.

(e) If you say something nasty about it, then it will sulk in the basement for the next 2 hours and refuses to come up to service requests.

I dont know whats gonna happen tommorow now that I went public with this information.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Mad Hatterr....A Tribute to Mr.G.V Desani

Please refer to this link for an introduction about Mr.G.V.Desani. In fact that is the only comprehensive link that talks about his life.Let me know if you find something better.

First of all his work is very underrated and people who read Salman Rushdie must understand that Mr.Rushdie accepts Mr.Desani's work as a signifcant influence . I have reviewed his first book called ‘All About H. Hatterr’ at Amazon and I cannot emphasize the insight and perspicacity of this man along with its comic value.It takes an erudite man with a lot of experience and adroitness with language to come up with such a literary masterpiece. To say the least it was one of the most intelligent piece of fiction I have ever read. Even T.S. Eliot had a high praise for this gentleman hailing from the sub-continent.T. S. Eliot wrote (1933) that the great philosophers of India "make most of the great European philosophers look like schoolboys"
I mention this because Mr.Desani will make Franz Kafka like a schoolboy.

If you are an Indian who like James Joyce then you are in for a big treat reading this master. You might be wondering if he was so good and such highly acclaimed Indo-Anglian Author how come you never heard of him.Partly the answer could be seen in the words of Amitav Ghosh

"G V Desani essentially silenced himself. After he wrote ‘All About H. Hatterr’ he never wrote again. That was not anybody else’s doing. He had a very popular response. Having said that we haven’t seen the last of G V Desani as yet. His journals are now going to be published and when that happens I think it’s going to be a very important event."

G.V. Desani broke his silence forty years after the appearance of his classic novel, All About H. Hatterr, with this volume of twenty-three stories and one long prose poem, only the second full-length book of his fiction ever to be published titled "Hali and Collected Stories". I havent read this one completely as I presented this one of my best friend's father who is another avid reader.

"Hali" was essentially a prose poem with no comical deftness which was so present in his earlier classic.Its deeply knitted with religion,philosophy,fatalism, destiny and other spritual domains to produce a faboulous tapestry of thoughts.

His titles alone convey his non-linear nature of Indian cultures.Consider the following titles

"Mainly concerning Kama and her Immortal Lord"
"Suta Abandoned,"
"Mephisto's Daughter,"
"The Second Mrs. Was Wed in a Nightmare,"
"Gypsy Jim Brazil to Kumari Kinshino,"
"Country Life, Country Folk, Cobras, Thok,"
"...Since Nation Must Export, Smithers,"
"The Lama Arupa."

Homage to him...RIPGVD
(BTW currently as per the lunar calendar we are following the so called "pitru pakshas" meaning you are supposed to pay tributes and rites to your ancient ancestors..The coming New Moon day called "Mahalaya Amavasya" is supposed to be the end of this fortnight ceremony to our predecessors)

Monday, October 11, 2004

Women Hackers

Caution: I risk being called "MCP" (Male Chauvinist Pig) in the following article.

I always wondered what explains the lack of female hackers(or why there are so few of them). The last one I read of, and probably the most well known one is Susan Thunders, and she is described in the book "Cyberpunk" by Katie Hafner and John Markoff. I havent met any in my personal life. Are woman put off by hacking or what?

Ironically the first ever programmer was a woman called Lady Ada Lovelace. (The daughter of the poet Lord Byron). Even the word "Computer" during the WW2 times was exclusively referred to all the women who used do the clerical duty of carrying out the computations on those gigantic valve based numerical calculators like ENIAC,EDVAC,UNIVAC,etc. They were instrumental in the cracking of the "Enigma" code.How come they got lost in their way then..

Of course LinuxChix is a good start in the traditional sense of linux hacking but whenever a cyber crime happens its almost always a young male who is behind it.Is it something the way the brains or wired or something thats the effect of the Y-chromosome?

Back in India we have this prestigious engineering/technology geekdom which can be entered upon slaying the dragon called IIT-JEE where in the last few years the top 10 ranks were almost always dominated by male and the female numbers (if any) were insignificant in the time scale of decades.Hmmm.. What Gives?

Friday, October 08, 2004

My Golf

I am on a vacation..HeeHaaw..Driving in the California Sun is such a soothing and satisfying experience.Just rented out a Mitsubishi Spyder Convertible.(My first ever drive in a convertible).Of course I miss my VW Golf.Something in the character of the car deeply resonates with me.Its like a neural machine that senses my state of mind and acts accordingly. This spyder is kind of like driving the Toyota Celica (my roomie has one). except that Celica is much better at handling than this one.

Anyways Golf has a great history of being in continous production from 1974( All good things like U2 and Unix survived from the 70s) and I own a Mark III version of it(Currently in Mark V).Here is a nice link of their recent video which is pretty awesome.Its in german but nevertheless you still get the point.In fact they were the first car to issue a hot hatch . It doesnt lose speed during turns (much akin to a F-16 not losing altitude when changing the direction). It has 6 bose speakers that makes the stay in the car entertaining.Powerful engine for such a compact car. Excellent Design..I could go on but I leave it here to wonder all the enjoyment you can have..There's no substitute for driving one...

Monday, October 04, 2004


Does Poverty of Ideas imply a Wealth of Ignorance??

Saturday, October 02, 2004

The Awful Gladness Of the Matter

Gee..I could alternatively title this "The Unbearable Lightness of Being".Randomly my roomies decided that my being born sometime around circa 1978 was something that we should celebrate. Wait a minute.. not neccesarily celebrate but numb myself and be oblivious to the fact that the record shows nothing for the continues years of existence on this planet.If I were like Abou Ben Adhem and if the Angel woke me yesterday she would put my name following all the rest.

Strangely enough the stupor induced by alcohol reminded me a lot of Wodehouse's works.His thorougly mangled characters like Bertie Wooster remind me my own life is no different.

In "Something Fishy", consider the following dialogue between Keggs the butler and Mortimer Bayless the art critic:

“You are leaving Shipley Hall, sir?”
“I am. It stinks, and I am ready to depart.”

Lytton Strachey in her book Eminent Victorians has written this couplet:

"I warmed both hands before the fire of life.
It sinks, and I am ready to depart."

Now what has this got to do with me and the occasion.Plum was so prolific because he is the master of self-derivation – what now, is termed “repurposing.”

Here's raising a toast to his health