Category: General

Much has been said, written and heard about this movie. No movie has caught the public’s imagination the way this one has. There have been comparisons galore. “His is bigger than his” type analogies are all over the electronic space around us. Love him, hate him or ignore him. But the juggernaut that is SRK rolls on.

I will be honest. I went to the theatre wanting to hate the movie. Ra.One – clever play on words – the name is in line with the current trend of naming movies after their villains. And a very menacing villain, indeed! But truth be told, I ended up liking the movie. By default, I do not like any SRK movie. By default, I want every SRK movie to crash and burn.

Yes, the movie is a mish-mash of almost everything good that Hollywood has thrown at us. Spiderman meets Terminator 2 / 3 meets Spy Kids meets blah blah. Who cares? ‘Cause it works. It works like nothing else has worked before. I do not understand the holier than thou attitude that we Indians revel in. Originality is overrated. There is one of only four or five stories in every movie. Even the fantastic Star Wars series is basically a father-son saga narrated in the backdrop of intergalactic war.

Read More.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Billy Joel - Pianoman
Yes, there are billions out there with an appendage dangling between their legs. But the rate at which the Orlando Blooms and Robert Pattinsons are crawling out of the woodworks that very appendage will soon evolve into a vestigial organ. Something like the appendix which serves no useful purpose, yet retains the ability to put you through severe agony when it feels like it. Not that the penis does not put us through the misery of masking those untimely at-office hard-ons.

Born in the 80s, to me a man using a deodorant was as familiar a sight as a woman admitting to passing gas. While I do appreciate the good sense of using deodorants that the 90s brought, in the 00s men went completely berserk. To an extent, I can probably let slide the use of moisturisers and nail filers. But waxing? Seriously? Waxing?

I distinctly remember Akshay Kumar in a bedroom romp with Shilpa Shetty in the movie ‘Main Khiladi Tu Anadi’. He had enough hair on his chest to give a bear a run for his money. He was a man, a man’s man, the way all men had evolved over millions of years. Then he got married, probably had his masculinity taken away from him, and re-appeared topless devoid of all chest hair. There are countless scenes of Anil Kapoor in the shower in his earlier movies. He has stopped taking his shirt off. Whether it is his response to the neutering of the manly hero or due to his extreme shame at having gone the waxing way himself we will never know.

Most women would find all this talk of chest hair revolting, disturbing, may be even scandalous. That, however, would be missing the point. Chest hair, or references to it, is not nearly as disturbing as the fact that metro-sexuality seems to have become the accepted way of life. In their quest to become our equals, women have succeeded in converting men to women.

It does not end here. Married men are expected to not beer-burp or fart when their wives are around. In the unfathomable event that the unthinkable happens, lavish gifts have to be bestowed as an apology for letting their natural bodily functions occur. I see this evolving further. One day women like Renuka Chowdhury will have their way. Beer will be outlawed and all men will be required by law to have a butt-plug up their arse.

But we won’t have any men left by then. There will be women, and there will be those without a vagina. I am sure those without a vagina will have evolved mammary glands in human race’s eternal quest for gender equality.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: That don't impress me much
Recent Movies: Fast Five
Having never had the inclination or the drive to do an MBA, I have naturally not held MBAites in very high esteem. But this post is not about them. It could be about their supernatural skills with the spreadsheet application of a certain big corporation. But it is not about that either. It could be about the hullaballoo over climate change. But I have made my stand pretty clear on that issue before. In a nutshell, I pretty much have nothing to write about.

This is familiar ground. Statistically, it has been proven that my posts on 'nothingness' get more hits than other posts. This basically proves that statistics is bunkum since I have never made a post on nothingness for a post on nothingness can only exist in a formless void. Or, during orgasm. For those of us who believe that a certain yogi from Pune preached free sex (which his followers describe as the process of using sex to transcend the conscious state or some similar gobbledygook) for less than honourable intent, there is merit in his line of thought. It is only during an orgasm that our mind goes completely blank. In this state of nothingness, we can truly feel God.

Of course, it is entirely plausible that I have completely made up this void-God theory to legitimise sex addiction in which case a certain actor known for his portrayal of the protagonist in the hit paranormal TV show of the 90s would feel greatly indebted to me. In one swell swoop, I have given a positive connotation to a psychological disorder.

This could usher in a new era in Hollywood where it is as hep to be a sex addict as it is to roll in during an awards ceremony in a hybrid car manufactured by the world's largest car maker purely for reasons of environmental protection, not back-room sponsorship deals. Considering that I would be the resident yogic in this highly niche field, I shall consider it an honour and a privilege to 'show the path', as it were, to the divas of this world.

The grammar connossieurs would miss the underlying pattern in the above four paragraphs. The grammar fanatics wouldn't. Being as the fanatics are a dying breed, it would auger well for the connoisseurs to cross over the threshold and embrace fanaticism.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Tere Ghar Ke Saamne - Tere Ghar Ke Saamne
Note: This post is based on the thoughts of a friend of mine on the game of cricket. I shall call him RK for reasons of protecting his privacy. But, RK you know it is you.

It is a lovely Sunday afternoon – the kind any man would give an arm and a leg to spend curled up on a couch in front of the television. We are pretty good at this sort of thing. No, not giving up useful limbs but parking our behinds on the sofa. For some inexplicable reason, this activity is completely beyond the comprehension of the wife. And it is exactly for this reason that you find men in a shopping mall on sunday afternoons.

It is not all bad. It is not that women need men to shop. They simply need us to drive them to the mall, carry their bags, and then drive them back home. This usually leaves us with an inordinate amount of time during which the sane amoung us have nothing to do save ogle at the wives of other men. There is this other species of men who goes around playing arcade games or checking out the latest electronic gadgets but since that is a species much lower than the salmonella bacteria we will not talk about it.

Sometimes, though, there is a higher purpose for our existence in shopping malls. Imagine a scenario where a Martian lands on earth, more specifically a pub when a cricket match is on. All he hears are chants of 'Sachin! Sachin!'. The Martian is now confused. He had done his research on earth. He had come prepared. He spoke 11 languages. But he was unfamiliar with the term 'Sachin! Sachin!'. Scratching his head the Martian goes out in search of answers. This is when he conveniently bumps into you.

This is an opportunity not to be scoffed at. You could possibly be standing at the cusp of inter-planetary war. What if the Martian mistook the chant for a war cry? After all, adrenalin-fuelled chants do get quite bloody vociferous. It is upto you to usher in an era of cosmic peace. Fortunately, your wife has just gone into the trial room with five tops which leaves you with enough time to explain facts to the Martian.

The most logical place to start would be with an elaboration of the game of cricket. No other game is so self-obsessed with its rules that it infact calls them 'laws'. The easy bit first. Cricket is a game played by two teams with 11 players each. Now things get complicated. Somehow you manage to explain the intricacies of batting, bowling and fielding. Beads of perspiration appear on your forehead as you struggle to make the Martian understand the modes of dismissals.

For his part, the Martian has been quite a sport. He has listened intently and absorbed the essence of what you have said so far. Now comes the tricky bit. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice your wife has made her choice of the top. This leaves you with a window of time, yes. But a small window in which she gets the billing done.

You talk a little faster now. You try to explain to the Martian power play overs or field restrictions. During power play, there cannot be more than 2 or 3 (depending on which power play is on) fielders outside the 30 yard circle in the limited overs format. In any format, there cannot be more than 5 fielders on the leg side and not more than two between the wicket-keeper and the square leg umpire. The Martian wears an amused look. It is easier to send a man to the gallows than this. Heck, after this cricket session the Martian would gladly walk to the gallows himself.

But it is not done yet. You are still to explain the restrictions on bouncers, the wide rule, the beamer rule, the no-ball, the pitching outside leg stump LBW rule, the disinction between offering a shot and not offering one... Phew! On the bright side, your wife has been told there is a 'buy one get one free' offer on. She has gone back to trialling tops. So you still have the time.

You are finally done with making the Martian understand the game of cricket. Yes, your handkerchief is soaked in sweat. But you pulled it off. Bravo! It is now time to tell him about the phenomenon of 'Sachin! Sachin!'. Your eyes light up in glee. This was your moment. The climax that made all the cricket gyan worth it. You take a deep breath, the hint of a smile beginning to form. You are about to tell the Martian about God.

Sachin is the best cricketer on our planet, you say. He is what makes us watch a match at 4 in the morning. He is to us what atmosphere is to a Martian. You stand back and smile. You feel this sense of glow that a mother feels on the success of her child, a sense of pride that a father has on the success of his child. You breathe in your greatest possible moment – of introducing to an alien being the joys of 'Sachin! Sachin!'.

The Martian quietly muses. He is absorbed in thought. Perhaps he is coming to terms with the greatness he has been told about. After a long while he finally speaks:

“So, you are telling me that in a setting of complex rules this man is the best.”

He walks off into the proverbial sunset. That's the last you see of him. But he leaves you with more questions than answers.

If this man is the best in a setting of complex rules, then you would be best too in another setting of complex rules. Unlike a sprinter who is the fastest human or a weightlifter who is the strongest human, given the right set of complicated rules you could be the best in that environment.

The thought stays with you as you drive home. May be you could aim to be the fastest driver with a load of shopping bags in his car.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: The Eagles - On the Border

Disclaimer: This post has been guest authored by Aran. For some reason, it does not show 'Aran' as the author on the frontend even though it does on the backend. Perhaps the site admins could take a look?

I almost titled this post “My raging adolescent hormones are exploding all over the place and so I have temporarily lost the ability to think.” Actually, that could have been a pretty good title, but we just do not fish for clickability in post titles nowadays. Or do we? I am just so out of the loop here.

Anyway, what I intend to say (and will promptly say) is that wherever I look nowadays, I see people who write ‘dat’. And ‘dis’ and ‘dem’ and ‘wateva’. Etcetera. I never thought I would say this, but is this really what the wannabe cool Indian 12-to-18 year old has been reduced to? Is this what our city schools are churning out? Is this all we have to look forward to from the new generation? Where did they meet the Western street people who speak like this to adopt this kind of talk? Doesn’t it feel a little ridiculous to them when they’re saying it? Every section of society or culture has its own language, and this is simply not theirs. Don’t they see it?

Don’t get me wrong. I am fine with the evolution of language and all that. But the above problem speaks of the degeneration of mental faculties of epic proportions. If the only way you can be cool or in or with it is by mangling a language and trying so hard to look cool, then that’s a little pathetic, isn’t it? How does it show intelligence? Deccan Chronicle regularly does articles on the new cool words, for God’s sake! How can that be cool? Really. Think about it.

So… that’s that.

But there are two kinds of city-kid adolescents. Those who do ‘dat’, and those who don’t. I find I love the second kind more, but it’s my ultimate misfortune that most of my cousins are turning out to be the first sort. Just my luck. The second kind though, the ones I love, have a subsection that is much more precious. Recently, I commented to Scripto about someone, that - “He is that curious age I suppose when he is brilliant and depressed and will lash out and be self-destructive all at the same time.” Isn’t that full of promise and beauty? In my experience, teenagers like him turn out to be intelligent, interesting and worthwhile people. People you’d like to get to know. People who might not necessarily make waves in the world and might not be ‘successful’ professionally, but are definitely out of the ordinary and ones who would make great friends. Selfishly, that’s what I want more of in the world right now.

Current Mood: Non-gloomy
We like to make such a hullabaloo over doing good - following the path of rectitude, never hurting others, those sorts of things - even to the point of questioning etymological sensibilities of fellow beings. Going to bed each night with no guilt or remorse outweighs almost all, even if a part of that 'all' could be Heidi Klum. Truth be told, for the life of me I could never understand why anyone would pass up on Heidi Klum. But if that is what you truly believe in then all power to you, and not just those limited to gay rights.

Caustic though it sounds coming from me, there is inherent good in us all. And natural though it sounds coming from me, there is inherent bad in us all too. Yes, I might be biased under the weight of my prejudices but that does not mean I am wrong. It is very hard to believe that any human being (and I use the term 'human being' very loosely in that it is only indicative of the species homo sapiens) would not even for a fleeting moment wish for her wrong-doer to blow up in a car crash.

Again, it is important to note that the use of 'her' is simply a case of being gender neutral and is not suggestive of any personal references the same way 'May be what I believe is not affecting me is affecting me, or any other pseudo-psychological balderdash that could be suitably inserted in this space by self-professed psycho-analysts.' was not representative of any verbal exchange.

Finally, a day where Script Writer is issuing clarifications! And talking in the third person too. Not like he has his reputation to consider. If anything, his reputation was done no harm whatsoever by misinterpretations of his statements. But he has some morality left in him. He would rather have his succinctly worded racy statements cause upheaval. Not their adolescent misinterpretations.

It is indeed a mad world that we live in. Labelling the 'African-American' community 'black' is racist. Calling someone 'white' is merely representing heritage. The last thing we need is for people to make their own inferences of harmless statements, issued though they may be by those who normally make risqué statements. In all fairness, whenever they make such statements they at least make it very clear that these statements are suggestive.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Nelly Furtado - Maneater
I don't consider myself to be a person with a particularly non-defeatist attitude. Heck if I were in a fight, I would run away today to be alive to run away some other day. It is not without my reasons, most of which are those of self-preservation, that I consider the pen to be mightier than the sword. At the same time, I do genuinely believe that violence is never the solution. We resort to it because we want to spare ourselves the effort to thoughtfully resolve a dispute.

That said, I have not come across a more resigned proverb than 'When in Rome do as Romans do'. Succumbing to the lure of being a sheep among the herd is even too much of a thing for my plastic spine, and my spine is pretty plastic. I could bend over backwards to get a woman to sleep with me, though for the life of me I could never fathom why it is this very bending over that seems to put most women off me.

Seriously. Why would anyone with a semblance of self-esteem ever want be a part of the crowd? Had Galileo believed in the Church's doctrine we would still believe that if we travelled to the horizon then we would drop off into the abyss. Had Martin Luther King not believed in civil rights the African Americans would have no right to vote. Had the Mahatma not believed in the then alien concept of non-violence we would not have a movie like Lage Raho Munna Bhai.

Yes, it is not easy to live with the consequences of your choices if they are not in conformation with the beliefs of the time. You will be ridiculed. However, to state "A girl with a Look Or You Miss tee won't get much crowd sympathy in Hyderabad if she gets into trouble." is like saying "It is not the rapist but the victim who is the perpetrator of the crime. The rapist was just the harmless participant."

I have never been one for saving the world through blogs, nor do I believe anyone can ever do that. The world cannot be saved, really. But that is besides the point. The point is when people who are a part of the so-called thinking strata of the society we live in make blanket statements like the one above, it is saddening to put it euphemistically. I suppose that is what being a Roman in Rome does to you.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Buffalo Souljah - Too Hot Too Shii
I am a man. No, no. I don't need to constantly restate that to reaffirm my 'man'liness. I simply like emphasising the obvious. The same way I like looking down upon people. Oh well. Most people deserve being looked down upon. With the Intelligence Quotient (yes, my lowly nincompoops, that is what IQ stands for - jeez, if I had a dollar for everyone I knew who had no clue what IQ was an abbreviation for I could wipe off the fiscal deficit of India) of a doormat, there is only so much that you can do with them. They, for their part, should be thankful that I don't use them as toilet paper.

I am not cynical. Only one man has ever been able to do justice to the tag - George Bernard Shaw. I am blunt. No, not that Grammy nominated singer. And to think Grammies were once considered to be the Oscars of music! Not like the Oscars have much substance left in them, especially after the Karan-Joharesque Titanic walked away with eight of those naked statuettes. But there is hope. May be they will start dressing the figurines up now.

Anyway. I do anything for a woman when she so much as smiles at me. That no woman has ever smiled at me notwithstanding. But ladies if you are listening, you know what to do if you want me. Grrr! Twigrl did so much more. She left a comment on my post, and on a post that had been abandoned even by my dear Aran who I thought would stick with me through thick and thin. Only goes to show that you really don't know someone till you know someone. Okay, I have no idea what that means. It is a yank phrase. It is not supposed to mean anything.

Of late, I have been having performance anxiety. There is too much pressure to perform. As if the constant nudge from Aran on Travailogue was not enough there is Twigrl on this space who has instructed (read 'commanded') me to write something interesting. I can't remember ever being in a place where I was deemed boring. Well... There was this one time when this 'straight as a mild steel rod' woman walked out of the bar with a lesbian after I had spent all of four minutes talking to her. But at least that has a good image to it. Besides, to change someone's sexual preferences is the stuff that legends are made of. How many men can claim to have turned a straight woman gay? Yeah, right. Ross Gellar. And look what happenned to him. He got Rachel Green. Yippee!

I often think. Not exactly. But whenever I put some serious stress on that muscle between my ears I come to realise, as Morpheus said in The Matrix, the obviousness of the truth. I don't quite remember what it is but I am damn near certain that I conclude the same thing each time. I don't have it in me to be creative. This blog is testimony to that. I write the same thing over and over again. That I still have readers looking forward to new posts is surely an outcome of people having short memories.

That said, it felt good to have someone yearn for a post. It was a huge fillip to the vain me. How redundant! It was a huge fillip to me. Period. Whether I will continue making posts on this blog I cannot say. However, I do hope to be consistent with making posts on Travailogue. Thank you, and goodnight.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: The banging in my head
It is not often that guys like me do things, or even women for that matter. But let's just stick to the more pleasant things in life. Of course, critics may argue that nothing could be more pleasant than sticking to a woman if you are a hormonally active heterosexual male or a hormonally active homosexual female. And even if I concur with them for once, I cannot really make that stand official for those who concur with critics have no opinion of their own, at least none that can ever be a force to reckon with (What is a force to reckon with, do you ask? Stacey Valentine in Sex Commandos.).

It is often thought that my blog is laced with sex though no one has ever brought that thought out in the open, especially never in an accusatory type of way. It is easy to understand why. Sex is everywhere. It is all around us. As Agent Smith had said, "It's the smell, if there is such a thing." About 200 million couples have sex each day on this planet, which means at any given minute there are about 1400 couples having sex. And that is only the number that gets reported, though where it is to be reported and whether the number includes sex acts performed for pornographic movies or celebrity sex tapes has never been made public.

We owe our existence to sex. We aspire to have sex too someday, hopefully with someone we like. We date. We spend enough money on personal products that could otherwise be used to buy a couple of nuclear missiles (Why we should choose to not buy nukes can only be attributed to the human tendency to place sex over violence, difficult though the choice seems.), which are, for what could only be due to the scientists' expressing their desire to be allowed out more often in the only way they know, shaped like phalluses. Basically, we are willing to go through hell and back just for a few moments' pleasure. Isn't that fantastic!

A millenium of evolution has not been able to get rid of the most primitive of our carnal instints (Thank the devil for life's small favours!). No, not procreation as previously thought. There are other ways to procreate these days though, sadly from the feminist point of view, all of them still involve the union of the egg and the sperm. Not even violence, as Hollywood would have us believe. Even so, violence ranks right up there. It is the act of procreation that takes the cake, and the ale too.

Enough sex, already! Or is it? There can never be enough sex. If there ever could be, then the population growth rate would be negative. In other words, it would signal the end of civilisation as we know it. I say 'as we know it' because other beings would definitely replace us as the planet's most sexually active species. And I am not particularly interested in the sex lives of life forms other than human. So there.

Current Music: Bon Jovi - Bed of Roses
I have no business really being up at this hour making a blog entry. I had hit the sack. Was almost in a trance, floating in a dream world. And then I discovered it. I unearthed the importance of perspective, not of putting things into it for putting things into anything is not interesting. The perspective of putting them most certainly is.

For that matter, any perspective is good perspective as long as it is a perspective I have. Otherwise, it is not worth the mind it resides in. I'll tell you why it is not worth the mind it resides in. As long as a perspective resides, it is unknown. The moment you get to know what your perspective is, it comes out.

It comes out with all the force that your mind can muster, and you hit everyone who has a face with it. Since faceless people don't have ears, at least none that listen, it does not matter what you hit them with unless it is a club. So basically once a perspective is out, it resides nowhere in the mind where it should have cocooned itself if you chose to differ it from mine. Thus the worth of the mind it resides in is zero since it resides in no mind, and if something does not exist in some place that place cannot be of any intrinsic value to that thing. Thus, such a perspective is not worth the mind that it resides in.

Now, I am not sure what I was trying to say here. I have managed to entangle myself in my own web of words. That is what happens if I let my fingers type faster than I can think. Or may be they have their own mind. May be it is a part of a bigger scheme of things that fingers usually are up to at this time of the night. That does not, however, un-predicament me. But, as an ardent reader of my blog always says, I am at my most charming when I say nothing.

PS: I started reading my first Dilbert book. Scott Adams is such a Douglas Adams wannabe!

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: The sounds of the night...
I have always considered myself the absolute authority on love. After all, I do fall in love almost every day. That I fall out of it within a matter of a few hours is not the bone of contention here. Come to think of it, since we are not even remotely canine there is no bone anywhere except that funny thing near the elbow that sends a sensation that can be only described as almost but not quite entirely unlike spine-tingling every time it is so much as brushed.

But seriously. Why is that bone called 'funny bone'? What is funny about scratching fingernails on the blackboard or banging empty steel vessels? Or for that matter, having your entire life flash before your eyes the moment your funny bone rubs against cotton-wool? Again, why is it called cotton-wool? Did the Merino deserve this?

Anyway. Coming back to the point (When was the last time I did that? No, really. I am curious.). If I could count the number of women I loved (No, not made love to.) I would have the most number of fingers any being ever had during the entire evolutionary history of not only this planet but many others put together. And if I could count the number of women who loved me I would have the least number of fingers any being ever had during the entire evolutionary history of not only this planet but many others put together. Basically, that tells you I am not just large-hearted but thick-skinned too.

I have issues. No, not of the heir kind. Partly because I don't have any fortune of any size that anyone would ever want to inherit. Mostly because I have been lucky so far. Ha ha ha. Even I could not keep a straight face with that one. May be I am losing my touch. Old age is cruel. That does not mean that the women readers of this blog should take me completely off their radar. Who knows? You could be the next person my heart decides to go to. Why deny yourself that?

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Don McLean - American Pie
I consider vanity a highly undesirable trait when others around me try to be vain. The keyword here is 'try'. As Master Yoda said, "Do or do not. There is no try." Trying to be something you are not is just plain sad. There is no better way to describe that. However, being a natural at something is only praiseworthy. And that includes vanity too. Mind you, only a select handful of those of us who walk on two legs and breathe oxygen are naturally vain, which is why I am so in awe of me. Damn, it is good to be me!

Modesty I don't care a darn about. If you don't beat your own drum, no one will beat it for you. Gaah! Doesn't it just take the biscuit? Even when I least intend to, I use innuendos. Put differently, if you do not blow your own trumpet, no one will blow it for you. Believe me, every married man knows that. He he he. Don't you just love me? All this double-talk just flows out of me of its own accord.

Anyway. My vanity stems from my being great (if not the best) at whatever I do. Like I said, a window is meant for modesty to jump out of. Basically that is why I do not usually make a sojourn on anyone else's blog (Aran is an exception but since she has not been posting these days, that does not really count). What's the point? It will tell me what I already know. I am good. Period.

Once in a while, though, I do make exceptions. Even the best among us is sometimes fallible. But that is not the point. The point is that when I do, apart from my belief in me getting re-inforced further, what mostly happens is that I leave a comment - truth in its most absolute form on the blog. In other words, the writer is told in no uncertain terms what I think about their (like I have always done, non-sexist language shall be used on my posts) writing. Truth, usually is a bitter pill to swallow. Some learn, and their writings start to reflect it. Others don't.

This one writer, however, did exactly against what blogs stand for - free speech. She (purely used to make the language non-sexist) deleted my comment. Not satisfied with that, she actually replied to that comment. So that blog has a reply to a comment that is not there! The reply was something to the effect that she was trying to get a message across and I could be her guest if I thought I could do better.

Apart from mutilating free speech, the one fundamental principle of blogging that the writer failed to understand was that blogging never really was or is about getting a message across for getting a message across is an exercise in futility. As Douglas Adams had said, "Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so."

To round off, another Douglas Adams quote, "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be." No reason to use it, except for effect.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Eminem - Lose Yourself
There is something wrong with the world. Hah, my first statement laced with the obvious! Of course, the world is a wrong place. As Douglas Adams had said, "In the beginning the universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move." That I am actually quoting someone on my blog means two things - one, the man managed to say what I could not properly say for myself (and, that does not happen ever - this must be an aberration to say the least), and two, he is the absolute man for it takes something to be spoken of in exalted terms by me.

Anyway. I am the last person to be concerned about matters of the world on a wordly plain. You know, the shenanigans of globalisation, international trade, diplomatic relations, extradition treaties - that sort of thing. At any rate, the power does not vest with the powers that be - they are just a face. Again I quote Douglas Adams, "Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job." And, I was right. He is the man. Notice the usage of non-sexist language.

Worldy issues aside (which really do not affect the world that much anyway), the point of interest here, as has been so often on my blog, is Aran. We have started meeting more often than our usual once in a hundred and fifty six years routine. Being as I am the man between the two of us, I do all the right things too. Pick her up, drop her back - that sort of thing.

This one time I told her that despite being an out and out male chauvinist, I do like to be driven by a woman. Her face brightened up instantly and she said that she would make up for it the next time we were out. So, on a fine Sunday morning I was all happy and joyous (no offence to Wordsworth) waiting for her to show up. She obviously had the wrong idea when it came to making up for what she said she would make up for. She showed up in her car to pick me up! Hey, that is not what I meant when I was talking of being 'driven'. I mean, how much more succinct can you get?

That, basically, sums of the story of my life really. Enough said.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Mad TV - I am Not a Child
Most people in this world are mouldable, which translates to having the ability to listen to both sides of the argument before forming an opinion. Basically, they are completely spineless. There is a certain charm in being that oak tree that never bends in a storm - at least as long as you are standing you are held in awe. At any rate, once you fall no one really cares anyway.

I, as I have stated and restated many times over, am not anything like anyone you may ever have had the pleasure of not knowing. That does not, in any way, mean that there is not any reason for you to not know anything about anything that has to do with anyone who is in any way any thing like me. Anyone who has spent any amount of time on my blog (any of those handful who has seriously good karma) would know that I feel very strongly about my opinions. As I have always held, why have an opinion if you do not feel strongly about it?

That should not, in any way, be any reason to be crucified. Some people like tea while others prefer coffee. Now unless anyone is like me, which is highly unlikely for usually such occurrences are decently spaced out in time, she (used purely to make the language non-sexist) would not believe, at least in principle, that being opinionated, even as highly as I am, is a flog worthy or blog-boycott worthy act. And, really. If you don't believe something in principle, you don't believe in it at all.

In case anyone's cranium has yet not registered what this post is about, apart from the usual suspect 'nothing', then they (the usage is grammatically correct - refer to the non-sexist language section of your favourite dictionary) should either jump into the Hussain Sagar or read the comments made by 's' in the previous post.

And, in case anyone has not read between the lines, even those like me care about the people who read their (again, the reference is to 'those' - hence the usage is correct) blog. What is a blog without its readers? Right. A personal diary.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Guns and (fucking) Roses - November Rain
I have always laid (nope, not punning) great emphasis on sex, also known as fornication, copulation, intercourse, or plainly, if you have your priorities right, a fuck. We could have actually made that adoloscent infatuation termed 'world peace' a possibility if only people had more sex than rabbits in heat.

Whoever said 'Men are from Mars. Women are from Venus' eventually ended up making a truckload of money. If ever there was a case put forward for money being made for all the wrong reasons, this would be it. Truth be told, men and women are only as different from each other as chalk is from, well, chalk. And, I say shoot all those feminists who rise up in arms against that statement!

The fact of the matter is simply this. Men and women, from time to time, need a good humping - a good old-fashioned gamming of the boots purely for satiating their carnal desires. If ever variation is observed in the behaviour of the sexes it is in the event of their not getting any.

Women usually take to bitching or rumour-mongering for an outlet to their pent up frustrations, an activity completely harmless as long as they are not in a position of power. Men usually take to masturbation - after all, didn't some wise man say that God helps those who help themselves? Not that women don't masturbate. They do, but most of them have these feelings of guilt about it, and only indulge in it when the going gets really really tough. Besides, I have come across only four women in my life so far who have ever admitted to being in the habit of doing it. And none of these four women bitches. Go figure why!

There is this dangerous species of man, though. One who neither masturbates nor gets any. Then he just goes to war. That makes him feel man enough. Oh no. I am not talking out of my hat. Why do you think George Bush has declared war on terror? Because he could not do what Bill Clinton could do with White House interns, though his choice in women is questioning.

So, basically. Men are not from Mars. Women are not from Venus. Men and Women both stem from between a woman's legs, and around that their worlds orbit. Crudely said, but I have always called a spade a spade.

Current Mood: Gloomy
Current Music: Dire Straits - Heavy Fuel
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