The tooth, the whole tooth, and nothing but the tooth.

Today I rue the loss of wisdom. Am still numb. Comfortably, thankfully. And still wise. Three-quarters none the lesser.

Am still looking for the symbolism behind the molar decay. These were an early gift. At 15, these painful vestigials had already started asserting their presence, and I guess by now the guarantee period for these precious pearly-whites-of-wisdom is over. Considering the fact that I have had them forever, without them, I think I can't think anymore.

So I helplessly stretched into the chair. He peeped in - "Ha, easy one!".
He poked me, twiddled his thumbs, adjusted the light, arranged his tools. At the moment, when I was settling for which of the Gods to pray to, he spoke to me about the mystic from India with curly hair, who is supposed to have healing powers. I nodded in wide-mouthed assent. I didn't want to disagree, as he was the one with the weapons.

Then he got the drill. "High Speed", he said, reassuringly. The buzz put a brief pause in my morbid chain of thought.
Using what looked like a giant lever, he tried wedging my tooth out, with the skill of a car mechanic. The tooth refused to budge.
He quickly shuffled his feet and changed his stance - "Ah, Tough one!" and then with a deft move, fetched a pair of pliers. Not some itsy-bitsy-polka-dotted surgical types - these looked like they were industrial grade. Like the ones used for automobiles. At least from my point of view.

I think I zoned out right then....

Disgusting as it may sound, I got my tooth back in a box, just in case it was the ONE. I plan to keep it on my table, and consult it in times of need.

The whole day I have been feeling the presence of a phantom tooth.

Please don't laugh. Trust me it is not at all funny. As we all know, I am bad at writing humour, so, I am not even trying.

And the poke hurts more than the yank.
I want my mummy.

Post

Heights of MBA-dom: Inside sources reveal that a quiz comprising only of Multiple choice questions was given to students of a B-School to assess their creativity. Tears well up in my eyes thinking of what the world has come to. I will observe a moment of silence now.

Bengaloooru is stuck in war from the Viking era, also known as the Cauvery galata. Somebody please update me on the goings-on.

Meanwhile, people had barely recovered from the Ekkkta-Kkkapoor-esque drama around Shilpa-ji, and the shock bestowed on us by Abhiwarya-jis, and now Himeshji decided to create a furore by revealing to the world that he won't be singing in his nasal voice anymore. People have strong reactions, and requests - priceless gems of which I read only a few. Some have heaved a sigh of relief, some others advised him not to care. Supposedly, Hathi jab chalta hai tab kutte bhaunkte hai lekin fir bhi hathi apni hi dhun main chalta hai. Some say, he should replace cap after use.
Bad joke. And a regular (non-pensive? in-pensive?) post. The times are a-changin'.

On us...

Onus

All around me I see people falling like ninepins. Many years ago, it was just matrimony which would get people to stop questioning the need for future. Once you were married, you had nothing left to dream of and to achieve, except collecting material wealth and acquisitions, and having babies - a constant greed. Like dust, you would settle. Life from then on would take a comfortable predictable pace of alternating surprises and nightmares. But, unfortunately, it is not so any more. Like vagabonds, we look for that something else, the one point, the high that would make us stop scanning the faces in the crowd and then, then we feel bad about being the crowd. We reach a point where we sit in the chair and stop not because we are there, but because we have no choice. Its because we are tired. And we get disillusioned. That is our ultimate end, the end of discovery, the freefall down the rabbit hole of cynicism. Cynicism is fashionable, cynicism is intellectual, cynicism is cathartic, cynicism is our comfort zone.

And why not? Our circumstances don't make things any better. Everything around us is so temporary and yet has a long term impact, like the 20 second spot on tv, which has to leech out on our brain, the annoying jingle which is the earworm. You scream to get it our of your head. Those temporary things, which have no impact in the present moment, and which leave us uncomfortable long term. Inconsequential things, which were the be-all and end-all of our existence, and now we realize the lack of purpose in them. They weren't even good while they lasted.

We work like insane as kids, grow up believing that when you are there you will be happy, and you are there, and you think - now what? I am here, doesnt feel like the most happy thing. This ain't bliss, this ain't the paradise they spoke of. Where is the euphoria? I am still wandering in the desert and leave alone the oil well, I haven't even found my oasis, all around is just a mirage. I have reached a personal pinnacle, and I am too good to be doing this.

So you meet people, just like yourself. Identical in history. Bond over a few beers. Narrate stories of yesteryears. Discuss fight club, floyd, and prufrock. Blow your thoughts away in a plume of smoke. These are your buddies, your friends, the ones who will be your rocks, define the next ten years of your life. And you see them, all there, up there in their personal heaven, and yet discontent. And all you seek is temporary numbness. And would do anything to get that one moment of ecstasy. And yet feel, why are you left alone? Why are you the lone traveller in this journey?

They would call it your own journey, but there is nothing worse than traveling alone. You sit at bars, and stare at people in big groups having fun, wondering about people who could have been there with you to share a drink. You drink for drunkenness, the reduced response, the quiet senses, the paralysis. Shake your shoulders to the last song, lip sync, hoping nobody notices that you are actually lonely. Strike a conversation with a stranger. Make bonds, giggle, laugh, and shake your booty, and you recede quietly. This is not a lonely traveler, this is all of us.

So you wake up on Monday morning and go to work, and find solace in the work. The bad boss, the colleague who seeks too much attention, the annoying clients, the decisions, the weekday numbness, full of people who you calibrate yourself against. Yes, I am too good to be doing this. He is too good to be where he is, and I am not there. And how the hell did he ever get this? How do I get it? These are people you like and don't like, and you desperately look for people you could respect.

But then those you respect, are cynical too. Almost as bad as you. They are the ones who are there. Successful, smart. Intelligent as hell. Well read. With talents that would make you envious. You measure your words before you speak in front of them, just because you are afraid you will look like a fool. And these poster boys of our generation are as discontent as you are. If they slip into the comfort zone, then there is little or nothing left for you. And you feel a pang of disappointment. In yourself, of course.

It leaves me even more confused.

Despite all assurance that it is just in accordance with the phase of quarter of my life passing by. I wouldn't want the prime of youth getting over spent with the gnawing feeling of nothingness, just because I can't believe. Because I have no faith in anything around me. Because I feel nobody knows what they are doing. Because I feel doubtful of the intentions that people have. A permanent state of disbelief. But, it just seems plain wrong. It can't be a crisis.

So, you look for answers, and then pause for a second and think of the question. There is no question here. Having grown up in an exam centric system, for everything we have to say, and want to say and are wanted to say - we need a question. If it wasn't for questions we wouldn't have conversations. What do I say?

So I ask you a question, "Why are we doing this to ourselves?"

And yet, you know and I know that there are no answers, just a map for a way out of the rabbit hole. I want out. I want out of this now. The question now for you from me is simple, how do we get out of this? Think buddies, if you could tell me how to get out of this. Would do anything for the resurrection of faith. Would do anything to be able to believe.

Tell me please.

Chain of thought of a cluttered mind.

In my mind, clutter is all I find. Time for some spring cleaning. In a futile attempt to convince people that I am not slowly turning insane, I explain. If I cant convince them, maybe I should confuse them. If I land up confusing myself further, I will make a list. Seriously, there is nothing in the world a well-intended, well-indented list can't solve. Make it with bullets for added measure, and posterity. So, I am thinking -

• that missing a flight because I was too busy eating apple strudel at the lounge was a liberating experience.
• that I am too young to be thinking that a weekend spent lazing around is a good weekend.
• that I am too old to be thinking that a vacation spent in the eat-sleep-eat-sleep routine is a perfect vacation.
• that the best thing that has ever happened to me on the bloody-I-don't-need-this-first-day-of-work-after-a-lazy-vacation was to see a surprise gift waiting for me at the office.
• that to find that the package contained a book that I have been wanting for really long was a cherry on the icing on the birthday cake. (Thanks Sin-Gin, for the wish of getting older and saner and well... godbless)
  
• that the near-death-experience resulting from hypothermia for the sake of vanity was the best gift I could have given Mathur on his wedding day.
  
• that hyperthermia is called fever.
  
• that I would like to deliver a speech saying thanks to Parle for the adulterated Limca he plied me with.
  
• that I like Limca.
• that I like Appy fizz almost as much.
• that I figured that a surefire way of putting people on the defensive is to ask a question starting with "Why would anyone..."
• that the surefire way of getting miserable is to think in sentences starting with "if-only".
• that "what else could anyone ask for?" is a contorted idea of happiness.
  
• that opinions should be gift wrapped.
• that one needs to search for lack of purpose. I think search for purpose is making us miserable.
• that giving up favourite things is an easy exercise.
• that easy is not what I like, and hence I am about to give up on giving up.
  
• that there is no one else I know who needs a sabbatical more than I do.

Mobius

It was just yesterday we were sitting on that terrace,
the one at the other end of this town,
tucked in a corner,
talking about life, love and nothingness.
It was just yesterday, we were talking.
And today,
we are ready to do it all over again.
Freeriding on the Mobius.
Twisting and turning
on the same plane.
Talking of the same things,
Over and over again.
If there was something I could pray for,
it would be
for a breath of fresh conversation
to make patterns with its pitter-patter
in the empty spaces
that once lay between us.
And to rid myself
of the promise
to write pensive verses
on afterthought.

On aging...

Exactly a year back, staring into the mirror, taking stock of life for the year, I noticed my first strand of grey hair. Pleased to meet you, it said mockingly. I looked at the unwelcome guest in an already rebellious mess, and told myself in my best serious voice that I needed to do something about it. And I wondered - do I pull it out unceremoniously, or do I disguise it? The latter seemed realistic, simplistic. So, I used L'Oreal. Because I am worth it.

Somewhere then, standing in a pool of coloured water I realized either I am in denial about getting old or I suffer from the Peter Pan syndrome. You know, when you were young, the people who were as old as you are right now, seemed a lot older then. And you always thought, when you become their age, you will be like them, as mature, as focussed, as dignified. But now at this age, while you clumsily search for an iota of change within yourself, you don't think you have remotely made it. And, you dread that it would never be any different. You dread that wont be able to do what every Paul, John, George and Ringo could do. You dread that people would never take you seriously. You just dread.

I feel that today. Here I am, on the wrong side of the quarter life crisis, and heading towards the big 3-Oh at breakneck speed. I do carry the albatross of responsibility, yes, but yet, I don't feel like I am changing for the better. The same euphoria, the need for attention, the drama, the noise, the short attention span, the unnecessary rant, the nervousness, the anticipation, the love, the hatred. All like there is no tomorrow. No change. Not a sign of it. No hope either. I don't know whether it is good or bad. But, I wonder whether I could ever fulfill the duty of aging gracefully. Time is running out and I am not getting older, per se.

A crash into reality.

I think I take life too seriously.

So, I stand at the immigration counter, take off my glasses, give a pleasant smile to the officer, take a candy, and as I head to collect my baggage. I enter the shop which sells spirits. But the whiff of a new limited edition perfume drifting in the air distracts me. So, I walk into that shop instead. Perfumes make good gifts. On one shelf, I see gracefully wrapped pots of sweet-smelling stuff. Miracle waters, creams, tonics. One for each part of the body: eyes, nose, mouth, palms, arms. To increase glow, to decrease shine, to lighten scars, to reduce fine lines, to prevent wrinkles, to cheat time. A pot for everything. And, I stare at everything in the shop, with greed, and quiet contemplation. Duty free, it says. And I realize, if there is a gift I need, it would be a duty free approach to aging.

End of another year

In that split second, you go through another paroxysm of emotion.

Standing on the same broken and uneven pavement where your clumsy steps get your high heels stuck, you flag a cab. A lady sits in the corner with her big basket. She is selling her apples or tomatoes or whatever they are, arranging them once every few minutes so you see the good ones. Or only the good side of the rotten ones. The bright ones. The shiny ones. The happy ones.

She also sells emotions very cheap. And dichotomies, in pairs - Good-bad, right-wrong - not the black and white choice of the forked road, but a whole baggage full of emotion. Not to mention, a change of clothes, shoes, perfume, and a different set of accessories, for each new day.

And thought, the thoughts. Thoughts are on sale. All of two cents worth. And you buy one, you get ten free. You remember those? The ones which were given away at a contest held on top of that hill. Intense. Like the little souvenir your colleague got from his trip that sits on your table and watches you. Redundant yes, but isn't it always the thought that counts?

She sells the sorrows of life's misfortune. The happiness of it-could-have-been-worse. The gelid hyperboles. The excuses for impunity for yesteryears. The incredulous promises for tomorrow.
Words melt, flow and collect in the broken part of the pavement. They form a puddle. You reflect. Thankfully, you resist splashing in.
The end of another yearn.

A ruined tale

She waited for him at the gate. After 7 minutes and a few seconds of impatient scanning of blank faces, she spots the tilted head she was looking for. They meet in the most unlikely of places.

The moment comes, they hug. Fill their lungs with each others scents. Exchange a moment.

"Beer?" "Of Course!"

Sitting on the tall chair, she kicks her shoes. "I hate 'em"

The world takes over, people walk in and out of the conversation, loves, hates, likes and dislikes get their 15 seconds. She tries to narrate a story. She ruins the punchline.

Like she ruined this one.

Of (Re)Done Dons and Blond Bonds...

I wrote the title, and laughed for two seconds to be precise, and then tried repeating "Blond Bond" six times in my head. Try it out!

These days I am walking down the writer's block. When treading on such a path, I am left with one of the two: either I use bullets or I review. I choose the latter. Not like it matters too much. There are gin-chunke-chaar people who read this blog.

1. Casino Royale (2006)

Much has been said about the new Bond, and it wasn't all good to begin with. The media has a field day everytime there is a change in the accepted image of someone considered a public icon. Com'on media even makes a big deal out of Britney's new hair colour. I think thats what happened to the new Bond. He was analysed endlessly, so much so that even people who are immune to reviews, become quite skeptical when they walk into the theater.

So how does the new Bond compare with the old ones?
To quote good friend S, while Sean Connery was the cold cynic, Roger Moore was intelligent and fun, and Pierce Brosnan was the suave sophisticated variation, this one is the raw smouldering human variety. Different, yes. But then every Bond is.

I personally call Daniel Craig the beach bum version. Daniel Craig has got brawn, he is blonde, and he can act. The wide shoulders are a tad uncomfortable in the tux, but looked quite ok ordering the Vodka Martini. Beer would have suited him better though.

As far as the movie goes, I quite liked it. I didn't miss the double-entendres and the space lasers, which the last few had an excess of. But what I did miss is the gadgety Bond-mobile. Seriously, the car could have been given a little more air-time. This Bond runs, rarely does he drive.

The narrative, I must say, is a little unevenly paced, and there is a little too much romance. Brawny bond hopelessly in love is slightly difficult to digest for me.

With this, we come to the part where I unnecessarily rate:

Plot: 5/5
Action: 10/5 for that freeriding sequence at the beginning. 2.3 for the rest.
Daniel Craig: 3.7/5
Eva Green: 4, I guess. (I love the way she says "This lift is not big enough for me and your ego to fit together)
The other Bond girl: 1/5.
The villian: 2.3/5

Overall: 3.8/5

2. Don(2006)

The premise for my review of Don has been set in the previous review. I think we are merciless when it comes to Indian actors, and Indian icons. Far more protective, far less tolerant, borderline jingoistic. What worked with the reinvention of Bond, did it work with the reinvention of Don? I dont know, you tell me. I personally didnt mind the movie too much. In fact, it was good timepass-paisa-vasool.

Unnecessary ratings, first:

Plot:5/5 (of course - to the original Salim Javed script)
Plot variations: 4/5 (Innovative, takes guts to reinterpret)
Kahani me twist: 4.8/5 (Indeed)
Fights: 4.0/5 (Matrix meet Jet Li meet God-knows-what)
Car chases: 3.5/5 (Niiiice)
Locations: 10/5 (KL, Langkawi, will send you pics if you want. Visit Malaysia 2007. Visit Singy while you are at it)

Don the metrosexual: 3/5 (Nobbad - Don v2.0)
Don the bumpkin: -25/5 (Never seen a more unconvincing Banarasi Babu)
Priyanka chopra: 2.8/5 (Very Lara Croft)
Isha Koppikar: 1/5 (Wasted, no item number either)
Kareena kapoor: 0.002/5 (I believe in giving some marks for effort, would have stretched it to give her a 1, but fat arms. Sigh.)

Overall 2.9/5

Much has been said about Shahrukh Khan for the title role. Of course he would have never fit into Amitabh's shoes- Amitabh is a tall man. In my opinion, the movie didnt need an angsty male actor, it needed a superstar. Moreover, it was time for Don to be reinvented. Farhan Akhtar did the urban metrosexual version, and I don't think he did a bad job of it. So, cut him some slack, wouldja?

*spoiler*
The last ten minutes hold the crux of the movie. The end reflects a paradigm shift, perhaps. Seventies were different, in the noughts, the good guy doesnt have to live at the end for you to like the movie, or for the movie to sell..
* end spoiler*

Congratulations

For the angsty writer that I have become, today, I write because I am uncontrollably happy. Unadulturated happiness, this. So much so that I want to record this moment, before I grab the closest box of tissues and start sniffling. I used to be a die-hard romantic, and this is a resurrection.

Today, I came to know that the one that I thought was least likely to do so, and has rescued his fair princess and eloped.

So TG and his missus, yes, the one with the complicated name, congratulations, and here's wishing you a happy-ever-after.

And the lucky few who witnessed it, trust me, I am so jealous of you.

Once again, congratulations to you both.

Wish.

Wish
I was a
poet. Wish
I was an
artist,
No,
I wish I
was both, at the
same time. Wish I could
see poetry, in all its colours.
The landscape, pink coloured
skies, violet clouds, birds, words,
Wish I could sketch - dark, obscure
pensive moments from my every day
shades of grey, and it would take
a shape, if not a silhouette.Wish
I could paint the cornflower
blue tie, and the cataract
of memories, covering
my eyes, painted,
obliterated
verbally
dated.
Wish I could describe:
etch it on wood, use a scribe,
Movie, image, a m o v i iiinnnggggggg thing
an object in motion, a word turning, a thought running.
Wish I could imagine a rhyme. High, low, hidden in the line.

Wish
I could
make my
thoughts align.

Wish
I could
paint a poem.
ink colours.
fade out.
in time.

And so I return...

To my seat, and to the cozy comfort of old friends.
A lot happened in the past week and a little more.

Finished chapter two of a story. Strangely enough, this is probably the last chapter in this one. "Probably" because stranger things have happened. Came back to find some leftovers. Promptly deleted them remains. Will take a while, but I am sure I will heal. But will save that story for another day.

Took two seventeen hour flights. Slept through most of the journey. It wasn't that bad. Not as bad as returning to work. Also figured that melatonin prevents jet lag, it really does.

Witnessed a wedding. A perfect wedding. Blue, brown and white. White lilies perfectly in bloom, Blue Menus with brown ribbons tied on them - perfect bow-knots. A coy bride and a smitten groom. Emotional parents and proud grandparents. Almost dream-like. The getting together of two people who already seemed as married as married could be - this was supposedly ceremonial. And yet, merely after twenty minutes, the knob sort of turned. Like everything was different. Like there was still hope left in this world. It left me swamped with emotions, trying to find words poignant enough to express what I felt. Wanted to cry and tears couldn't find their way out. Wanted to wish, fell short of compliments. Weddings do have a healing touch about them.

Met old friends. Older than old. It was nice to shed all pretense and just be... like I needed to. Four years and not a thing has changed. Like time was standing still and waiting for us to come back. They still look the same, act the same, accept me as theirs - all the same. New town, new hangouts, but familiar jokes and old gags, long hugs and warm hi-s. And fighting for food. And drinking bad wine. And fall coloured leaves. And binary trees. Somewhere in our conversation I could find concerns of a normal grown-up, and yet nothing had changed about them. They said nothing has changed about me. Am happy they said that. No judgements, no accusations of not being there, no expectations. They accept me and my weaknesses. After four long years, I found my comfort zone.

Thanks, for I have healed.

My sole is worn...

Travelling down this road,
with you,
I wore my soul inside out.

On writing...

Its very rare that I explain what I wrote.
Its very rare that I feel the need to.
Its also very rare that I write without a muse. That I write selfish prose. A permanent snapshot of a stochastic thought process.
Reading my old pieces, I realize how conscious I am, of someone I know reading my pieces.
Of my subconscious need to calibrate my writing against theirs. Better writers, better poets, better thinkers, more angsty, more verbose, more literate. Maybe I subconsciously calibrate myself.
Out of the honest pieces I have written, most have never been read by anyone but me - written longhand in notebooks when I still liked my handwriting and my loyal fountain pen, now they are mostly scribbled on corners of notes taken during meetings. I use a micro-tip pen. I fold them corners so nobody can peep in. Some solitary sentences of sentience. Albeit alliterations almost always remain loyal to me, they are my favourite figures of speech.

In any case, a few days back I wrote what I consider is my most selfish piece ever. Cryptic, coarse, chaotic. Why? I know not. The words were written as they came to my mind. In sans serif, sans pretence. And I was asked why!

The thought germinated from one of my all time favourite books started with the the observation of the human obsession for "things". How our joys revolve around acquisition of things, desires revolve around what we wish to acquire, and sadnesses around what we couldn't. But maybe in the bigger picture these "things" have no relevance to the story. Our story. They hold the crux for only as long as we desire them to be. Take for instance, the story of the frog prince. The princess wanted the golden ball, she lost it, the frog retrieved it, so on and so forth, until we rolled to the happily ever after. They lived happily ever after in a huuuge palace and were driven around in a Rolls-Royce, and gave away iPods as return gifts to everyone who attended the wedding. But the Golden ball, the one was the object of princess fascination, the same one that held the story together, had become an irrelevant little object at this point of time.

Some days one can feel the same. Like the golden ball. An object of fascination. Until the fascination ends, and so does the story.
If the ball were to narrate the tale, would it be the protagonist? The ball's story would then be someone else's story.

No conclusions. No lessons learnt. And hence, no comments welcome.
Its just a thought. My thought. Call me selfish.

Understanding Human behaviour...

Why are we so obsessed with looking at water bodies? Ever found yourself taking a long drive, walking a thousand miles to see a sea, a river, a lake, a waterfall, a pond, a stream, even a puddle. And then we would stand there, pose and go click click clickity click.

Which is another thing, photos, pics. With a camera attached to everything, hidden or otherwise, we can't seem to avoid being in the eye of the lens. Being in them pictures and looking at them. We almost never look at those pics again. Sometimes we treat our friends to our little treasures, piles and piles of pixelated bits on our cellphones, and very lovingly indicating who that little blob on the screen is supposed to be.

Equally commendable is the effort that goes into making the home videos. No, not those kind. Ever noticed people taking videos of static objects? The statue of Liberty is not gonna move for God's sake. Moving the handycam up and down twenty times to give it an appearance of motion won't fool noone. Neither is anyone interested in getting all details about her wrinkles and laughter lines. So avoid those close-ups, wouldja?

And why is that if one person on the table gets a phone call, rest of the people take their phones out and start checking for sms'?

Ever noticed how conversations inevitably turn to sorry things that happened to people. Is it to ensure that the discussion follows a predictable path.

I am so cynical.

Whatever happened to the golden ball?

I am but a Pilgrim in the pursuit of life. Committed a thousand sins. Held together by incomplete threads. The thoughts. And thought some more.
And a thousand thoughts washed away.
Nothing is sacred, just divine.
Nothing exclusive, nothing mine.
And I peep into crystal balls to see the past. Past which I deny, saying its not mine.
I have tales to tell.
Strangely enough, I am not the protagonist. Not the princess.
Just the chariot in which she would go home at midnight.
Cinderella's pumpkin.
A medium, an object, a facilitator, temporary in a fairy story.
I am but a vehicle in the prince's pursuit of a princess.
So the princess met the frog, he tracked her down, she had no choice but to kiss him, and he changed into a handsome prince. Happy-ever-after.
But, whatever happened to the golden ball?

Monday morning bleus

I started with typing the title of this post as "Random insane ramblings", which I believe is every bloggers' first choice when he is too frustrated to decide. I am half tempted to call it "Long overdue crib session", because trust me this is going to be exactly that: this is a crib session and it is long overdue!

World cup is over. In case you believe it's not your style to see so many players chase after one ball, the gauls didn't defeat the romans....

I know I belong to the wrong sex to appreciate football. But when not scanning the pitch frantically to locate the cute football players, I watch the goings-on on the screen with all the required emotion. I dont hyperventilate over whether the subsitution strategy was correct, or whether the free-kick/penalty was unjust. Yes, I watch football. I enjoy it too.

So, I spent better part of last night watching the match in a place with a big screen, where it was too dark to figure which side the girl sitting next to me was supporting. Was her top green white and red, or blue white and red? Quite close indeed. And so was the match. And after the match got over, spent a good half hour looking for a cab back. Had to walk a long distance.

World cup is over. It's emptiness. What do I do? What do I bet on? How do I start a new conversation? How do I justify my insomnia? Where do I find adrenaline? What do I forward? What do I read online? And more importantly, where do I find cute football players to stare at?

My day lacks purpose. My boss won't buy us lunch. I am sleepy. My legs hurt. Work has piled up. The phone wouldnt stop ringing. And I think I will spend the rest of the day trying to figure out why Zidane would do what he did!

Amidst the french faces, somewhat long (longer than their usual long), who have made it to work till now, the sole italian colleague proudly sports the team jersey. I can also hear raised voices at the far end of this office, speaking in the typical sing-song tone. Not surprisingly, other non-francophones can clearly understand every word thanks to the high pitched rendering of the word Zidane and Henry. The TV in the pantry which hadn't been switched off for weeks on end, seems to be mourning quietly.

*shrug*
Monday morning is all blue. And the wrong shade of blue. Not Bleu, Blu.

Not all is lost. I still have some leftovers: One, this ad. I am ad-dicted to the literal dimension given to the dream team. And did someone note the smug grin of Jose's face when he exits his fantasy? Awwww. Please read Sinfully Pinstriped's post on it.

Two, this song. The world cup anthem, rather. Spent an entire day obsessively looking for it, since the tune refused to get out of my head.

*sigh*

Face Recognition Indeed

Found this from Ashwin's blog. Stress tested this using an old mug-shot of Bill Gates, which used to be a popular forward sometime back. The results are awe-inspiring to say the least.

There is a 67% Match with Kim Katrall. Been staring hard at these two for a long time to see howon earth can she ever look like Bill Gates. Just for the sake of her vanity, I hope she never never ever comes across this.
Owen Wilson? Yeah, kinda. Thats if you stare hard enough for long enough. Flattering? Perhaps!



This, in my opinion is as close a match as it can get:


For the curious, the other matches included Liza Minelli, Mick Jagger and the strangest match of them all: Jay Chou, the taiwanese pop-star.

Headlines

June 9th, 2:44 pm, thats right now.
I was configuring all my news feeds in Sage , which I think is super for it is very inobtrusive in office, and especially with Google Sync, it rocks. But that's digressing.

These are the news feeds now:

While BBC world talks about bomb blasts in Assam, Rediff focuses on the volatile Sensex, which seems to be going through, forgive the terrible analogy, but a bad case of PMS.


And TOI, takes the cake.


Which leads me to think, whats more critical/important to report? A bomb blast by separtists which in the bigger picture didn't directly affect that may lives or Sensex, which would have a much wider "direct" impact for sure.

On Random Public Obsessions

1. Spelling bee: Never understood why this creates such a big buzz. Is it just another demonstration of intellectual superiority of the indian diaspora in the US, or is it a real competition? Why is everyone so obsessed with it?

As an aside, the girl who came second stumbled on the word weltschmerz. Wait, did I spell it wrong?

2. Fanaa: Yes, its maudlin and full of improbable conicidences. Yes, the plot is full of craters. Yes, the shayari gets a little too much to bear. Yes, Kajol still looks thin and young. Yes, Aamir Khan still looks fat and old. Yes, we differ on the yakkity-yakking Bobo female. Yes, to have Lara Dutta in a blink-and-you-miss-it cameo is bad. Yes, to have Lara Dutta and not have an item-number is worse.

But then all said and done, we have to remember the premise: "Its a Yash Raj movie", and that would explain it all. We are talking about the same factory which mass-produced tearjerkers like Veer Zaara, Mohabbatein and Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham. They do this for a living. What else did you expect?

3. Vinci da Code: Err, the lesser said the better. The controversy and the sensationalization of it, in my opinion, is way past its sell out date. Read it, haven't watched the movie yet. But I wonder how they will manage to implement the trivia-in-the-storyline, a format patented and perfected by Dan Brown. Heaven forbid, if there are any car chases, I would hate for Sophie(?) to exclaim "Jesus Christ" and the Langdon fellow to give us a "crash"-course in what I call reinterpreted history in response.
(Thanks AA for the Vinci da Code bit. Apparently, thats what they would call the movie in Sadda Punjab. Sorry, I killed the joke.)

4. Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt: I pity her that despite her parents' honest effort to find the remotest corner in the world for her, that's perhaps the last bit of privacy she will ever get. They also made an honest effort to find her a name as "remote". Frankly, I pity her more for her name, for everytime she will have to stand in front of a desk and spell it out, oooof. But then, maybe she never will have to. With those set of genes, I don't think so.

5. And whats with Oriyas these days: First there was the winner Budhia Singh and his "also-ran" counterpart Dilip Rana. Then the NASA awardees and the tea-stall owner's son who made it to the IAS made us proud. Now there is a woman getting married to a snake. Suddenly Oriyas are ubercool and are commanding their own space on the news paper. I wonder if I am missing the publicity bandwagon.


I am getting mo' and mo' cynical by the minute.

*Update*: Few days after this was posted: Desipundit led me to this piece:
On Being Oriya