My date to the JPL holiday dance bailed on me because he had to fly to Houston for work.
I'd asked him to tell Houston he had a problem.
But I guess the world really only cares about Apollo-13 sized calamities.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Eye for an I
What do you do when post scripts such as 'Sent from my iPhone' and 'Sent from my BlackBerry' at the end of perfectly inane emails, which could have done without those extra additions, which unfortunately make the innocent owners take on the appearance of smug endorsers, waving around their expensive phones in your face with smug sing-song 'nyah nyahs' start getting on your nerves?
You reply, innocently enough, and at the very end, tack on a 'Sent from my ePhone' or 'Sent from my PurpleBerry'.
You reply, innocently enough, and at the very end, tack on a 'Sent from my ePhone' or 'Sent from my PurpleBerry'.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Gmail Gags
Spamin' your inbox - nobody does it better than google.
Die On The Moon?
Find Die On The MoonHere For Sure Low Prices, Fast Shipping Till Gone
www.OhMyCrafts.com
UFO Evidence: Facts
Aliens & UFO: The Gray Area This is the Reality.
fourthkindencounters.blogspot.com
Space Flight?- Bella Gaia
"It Really felt like I was Back in Space" - NASA Astronaut
www.bellagaia.com
Been Chased By Zombies?
Shop Fun Unique Zombies Themed Gear For Yourself Or As Gifts!
www.CafePress.com
Single and Over 40?
Meet Older, Sincere Daters Everyone is Serious and Screened.
MatureSinglesOnly.com
Big Beautiful Woman
Full Encyclopedia Entry 1 Page of Information
BookRags.com
If I ever get around to clicking on any of those links (they're amusing enough without having to), I'll know I need help. Until then, at least I know I have a life.
Die On The Moon?
Find Die On The MoonHere For Sure Low Prices, Fast Shipping Till Gone
www.OhMyCrafts.com
UFO Evidence: Facts
Aliens & UFO: The Gray Area This is the Reality.
fourthkindencounters.blogspot.com
Space Flight?- Bella Gaia
"It Really felt like I was Back in Space" - NASA Astronaut
www.bellagaia.com
Been Chased By Zombies?
Shop Fun Unique Zombies Themed Gear For Yourself Or As Gifts!
www.CafePress.com
Single and Over 40?
Meet Older, Sincere Daters Everyone is Serious and Screened.
MatureSinglesOnly.com
Big Beautiful Woman
Full Encyclopedia Entry 1 Page of Information
BookRags.com
If I ever get around to clicking on any of those links (they're amusing enough without having to), I'll know I need help. Until then, at least I know I have a life.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
A Whiff of Europe
(Originally published in Nazar on July 5th, 2009)
Europe is an adult’s gingerbread house. It is made of gelato dreams and beer fantasies, made better (or worse, depending on your perspective) by movies such as A Roman Holiday and Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge.
Which does not mean that Europe is not the magical land that everyone claims it to be. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that Hansel and Gretel’s gingerbread house exists. Santa Claus exists. And magical Europe exists as well.
But if you go looking for the gingerbread house in a tour bus with, say, a dozen rowdy kids and a tour manager who was probably a prison guard in a past life, who lets you off at famous sights along the way such as the Eiffel Tower, the Rhine Falls, the Big Ben, for only 30 minutes at a time, sufficient time to hop off the bus, take a blurry photograph, grab a souvenir, do a power-walk through the surrounding areas, and hop back on the bus, you will hardly be described as being the happiest camper when you do reach the gingerbread house of your dreams.
Wisecracks for centuries have been raving about how it is the journey and not the destination that matters. And guess what, they’re actually right.
Over just 11 days, my tour group covered Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, France, and England. I made a wish at the wishing fountain in Rome, straightened up the Leaning tower of Pisa in the characteristic tourist pose, got a view of Switzerland from its highest point, and saw the famous statue of a little kid pissing in Belgium. I visited Harry Potter’s enigmatic Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station in London, I saw a man churn out a figure of gorgeous fish from molten glass in Venice’s Murano Glass factory, and I tasted the famous Black Forest cake in Germany’s original Black Forest itself.
But my Roman Holiday was mostly spent inside the bus, looking left and then right, as our tour guide pointed out Rome’s various sights. We passed right through Zurich, while everyone screamed at the driver to stop. There was no time to climb to the top of the Leaning Tower, no time to explore the vast expanse of the Vatican church, no time to go parasailing, or gondola-riding, or to sit down and have a fancy meal on the roadside in Paris.
For most of the trip, I felt like a dog on a leash, with a master who insisted on yanking me away the minute I found something amazing to sniff at.
In conclusion, to err is human, but to buy a tour package is idiotic.
(Click here for pictures!)
Europe is an adult’s gingerbread house. It is made of gelato dreams and beer fantasies, made better (or worse, depending on your perspective) by movies such as A Roman Holiday and Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jaayenge.
Which does not mean that Europe is not the magical land that everyone claims it to be. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that Hansel and Gretel’s gingerbread house exists. Santa Claus exists. And magical Europe exists as well.
But if you go looking for the gingerbread house in a tour bus with, say, a dozen rowdy kids and a tour manager who was probably a prison guard in a past life, who lets you off at famous sights along the way such as the Eiffel Tower, the Rhine Falls, the Big Ben, for only 30 minutes at a time, sufficient time to hop off the bus, take a blurry photograph, grab a souvenir, do a power-walk through the surrounding areas, and hop back on the bus, you will hardly be described as being the happiest camper when you do reach the gingerbread house of your dreams.
Wisecracks for centuries have been raving about how it is the journey and not the destination that matters. And guess what, they’re actually right.
Over just 11 days, my tour group covered Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, France, and England. I made a wish at the wishing fountain in Rome, straightened up the Leaning tower of Pisa in the characteristic tourist pose, got a view of Switzerland from its highest point, and saw the famous statue of a little kid pissing in Belgium. I visited Harry Potter’s enigmatic Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station in London, I saw a man churn out a figure of gorgeous fish from molten glass in Venice’s Murano Glass factory, and I tasted the famous Black Forest cake in Germany’s original Black Forest itself.
But my Roman Holiday was mostly spent inside the bus, looking left and then right, as our tour guide pointed out Rome’s various sights. We passed right through Zurich, while everyone screamed at the driver to stop. There was no time to climb to the top of the Leaning Tower, no time to explore the vast expanse of the Vatican church, no time to go parasailing, or gondola-riding, or to sit down and have a fancy meal on the roadside in Paris.
For most of the trip, I felt like a dog on a leash, with a master who insisted on yanking me away the minute I found something amazing to sniff at.
In conclusion, to err is human, but to buy a tour package is idiotic.
(Click here for pictures!)
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Newest Feature
Weather.com now not only gives you an hour-by-hour weather forecast of upto 10 days, allergy updates and pollen levels in your area, and information on ski resorts and holiday hotspots, but also tells you about mosquito levels.
How useful, especially if you are in India.
Or France.
How useful, especially if you are in India.
Or France.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Watery Hues - and Blues
Movie: Khuda Ke Liye
Song: Neer Bharan Kaise Jaaon
Verdict: Who'd have thought complaining about getting water from the river could sound so beautiful?
Song: Neer Bharan Kaise Jaaon
Verdict: Who'd have thought complaining about getting water from the river could sound so beautiful?
Homecoming Horrors
So how does it feel to be back home after you’ve spent the major chunk of five years out in the wild jungles of the real world, making discoveries like (1) you do not, and neither do your parents, undergo simultaneous combustion if you stay out of the house past 8:30pm, (2) not all the swimming pools in the world have green water, and (3) not all the trips you plan with friends are doomed.
The houses are just the same ,crying to be whitewashed. The bougainvillea lining the main road are just as neatly pruned as ever (because some politician or the other was recently dragged here to attend an event). The pool is still living up to its reputation as your friendly neighborhood pond (complete with algae and roaches). The campus at large is this close to taking over the Lucknow zoo (we already have beehives, monkeys, cows, dogs, cats, peacocks, neel-guys, snakes, and other wildlife of the shy-er variety).
The snakes are all right. What is really unsettling is the sea of new faces, the kids running around whom you don’t recognize, and then you see the parents and you don’t recognize them either. The 3-foot younger brother of a neighbor is a towering giant of 6 feet now. Someone waves to you, and you wave a shaky, uncertain hand back, clueless as to who the other person was. You walk your dog in the morning, and wave when you see that one uncle, some kid's father, now with grey hair and a matching beard, walking to work. He raises the same shaky, uncertain hand when he sees you.
No - what's worse is when when a ten-year-old bumps into you in the pool, she excuses herself with a muttered ‘Sorry Aunty!’
The houses are just the same ,crying to be whitewashed. The bougainvillea lining the main road are just as neatly pruned as ever (because some politician or the other was recently dragged here to attend an event). The pool is still living up to its reputation as your friendly neighborhood pond (complete with algae and roaches). The campus at large is this close to taking over the Lucknow zoo (we already have beehives, monkeys, cows, dogs, cats, peacocks, neel-guys, snakes, and other wildlife of the shy-er variety).
The snakes are all right. What is really unsettling is the sea of new faces, the kids running around whom you don’t recognize, and then you see the parents and you don’t recognize them either. The 3-foot younger brother of a neighbor is a towering giant of 6 feet now. Someone waves to you, and you wave a shaky, uncertain hand back, clueless as to who the other person was. You walk your dog in the morning, and wave when you see that one uncle, some kid's father, now with grey hair and a matching beard, walking to work. He raises the same shaky, uncertain hand when he sees you.
No - what's worse is when when a ten-year-old bumps into you in the pool, she excuses herself with a muttered ‘Sorry Aunty!’
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Unanswerable Question
People have asked me many times why I decided to be an Aerospace Engineer (glamorous term: Rocket Scientist).
There are so many questions you just don't know the answers to. But to survive, to make progress, you're supposed to come up with those answers, and repeat them until you start believing them.
The official college application answer is usually: "Even when I was a child, I loved taking things apart and seeing how they worked. I always knew I was destined to be an engineer." Yes, genius, but how does the Aerospace aspect come in? And why not become a mechanic?
The job-interview answer is usually: "I have always been fascinated by space missions." Boring, but it normally works.
The unofficial one classmate to another answer is: "My high school advisor was after my life to pick something, so I just chose the first major listed alphabetically in the college application."
The nerdy exchange usually involves Star Wars. Or Star Trek.
For the longest time, I had assumed I would never know what my inspiration was - and this became the unanswerable question. Perhaps it was the hype surrounding the NASA Mars Exploration vehicles when I was in high school. Or the Columbia Accident. Or something someone said about how great it must be to become a rocket scientist.
This afternoon, in the spirit of whiling away time, I sat down at the familiar ancient computer desk in the house, and started a game of 3-D Pinball. Ever since we acquired a computer (our first was in 1996 - and I was one of three kids in my class who had one), I had become obsessed with the game (the other two - Solitaire, and Minesweeper weren't as great). It was the game I played in secret when I should have been studying for my board exams, the game in which I competed against my own high scores, the game that I thought predicted my SAT scores even before I'd taken the tests.
As I started my space cadet training, ran through re-entry and launch missions, accumulated hyperspace bonuses, opened wormholes and gravity wells, destroyed xenographs, and repelled aliens, I suddenly knew the answer.
Who would've thought?
There are so many questions you just don't know the answers to. But to survive, to make progress, you're supposed to come up with those answers, and repeat them until you start believing them.
The official college application answer is usually: "Even when I was a child, I loved taking things apart and seeing how they worked. I always knew I was destined to be an engineer." Yes, genius, but how does the Aerospace aspect come in? And why not become a mechanic?
The job-interview answer is usually: "I have always been fascinated by space missions." Boring, but it normally works.
The unofficial one classmate to another answer is: "My high school advisor was after my life to pick something, so I just chose the first major listed alphabetically in the college application."
The nerdy exchange usually involves Star Wars. Or Star Trek.
For the longest time, I had assumed I would never know what my inspiration was - and this became the unanswerable question. Perhaps it was the hype surrounding the NASA Mars Exploration vehicles when I was in high school. Or the Columbia Accident. Or something someone said about how great it must be to become a rocket scientist.
This afternoon, in the spirit of whiling away time, I sat down at the familiar ancient computer desk in the house, and started a game of 3-D Pinball. Ever since we acquired a computer (our first was in 1996 - and I was one of three kids in my class who had one), I had become obsessed with the game (the other two - Solitaire, and Minesweeper weren't as great). It was the game I played in secret when I should have been studying for my board exams, the game in which I competed against my own high scores, the game that I thought predicted my SAT scores even before I'd taken the tests.
As I started my space cadet training, ran through re-entry and launch missions, accumulated hyperspace bonuses, opened wormholes and gravity wells, destroyed xenographs, and repelled aliens, I suddenly knew the answer.
Who would've thought?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Awkward
When you're having a conversation with two other people, and you actually FEEL the sparks flying between them.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Ballad of the East (to) West
Cleveland --> Chicago
I couldn’t stop staring at the air hostess’ legs.
They fascinated me, like other very unfascinating things, because of how plastic they looked. I felt I was looking at the lower quarter of a 5’11” Barbie.
On my way to my next terminal, I passed
1. A replica of the Abraham Lincoln statue in D.C. (note: the original was built by Daniel Chester French – a useless fact I will remember for the rest of my life)
2. A lego replica of the statue of liberty – the only difference (besides the size and location) being that the torch was replaced by a windmill. Very funny Chicago.
3. Overhead piping of colored lights which looked like the Las Vegas airport on depressants. A calming sight nevertheless.
4. Famous Ex-Olympian Chicago residents welcoming people, over the PA system, to Chicago, the new hopeful of the 2016 Olympics.
5. Announcements advising people on how to minimize the spread of germs, carefully avoiding the words ‘swine’ and ‘flu’.
Chicago --> LA
I couldn't figure out at first if the person sitting next to me on the flight was a man or a woman. The 'person' had a lot of curly blond hair, was really tall and big, and was wearing a pantsuit. (I gave up predicting someone's gender based on their hair after the first day of my freshman orientation at UT, when the woman with beautiful long blond hair sitting in front of me turned out to be a man with a mustache and a matching beard.) After a few minutes, I heard the person speak, and found that she was a she.
I tried to sleep through the rest of the unbearably long flight (4.5 hours - the longest non-stop flight I've taken from one city to another in the US).
Just before we landed, I watched the sunset over the mountains. The mountains were beautiful - breathtakingly beautiful - there was the blue sky, with a lower crimson layer, and the mountains, and then the rest of LA. It was as if an expert artist had started painting this picture at the top, in a dream-like state, and concluded the remaining part of the painting (where the human influence began) after a fight with his wife.
The drive back to the hotel was quite eventful. Sans a GPS device (the rental agency had run out), I stumbled through the traffic, going way below the speed limit, making several annoying-last-minute lane changes, running a red light accidentally at an intersection I mistook as a continuation of the streets, having a cop honk at me, having several other drivers almost run me over, ending up in Hollywood, and finally reached the hotel, only to find at the entrance that it had a slightly different name than the one I was looking for. Great. I walked up to the receptionist and confessed, and she smiled brightly, saying - no, this is it.
I never thought I'd miss public transportation so much.
I couldn’t stop staring at the air hostess’ legs.
They fascinated me, like other very unfascinating things, because of how plastic they looked. I felt I was looking at the lower quarter of a 5’11” Barbie.
On my way to my next terminal, I passed
1. A replica of the Abraham Lincoln statue in D.C. (note: the original was built by Daniel Chester French – a useless fact I will remember for the rest of my life)
2. A lego replica of the statue of liberty – the only difference (besides the size and location) being that the torch was replaced by a windmill. Very funny Chicago.
3. Overhead piping of colored lights which looked like the Las Vegas airport on depressants. A calming sight nevertheless.
4. Famous Ex-Olympian Chicago residents welcoming people, over the PA system, to Chicago, the new hopeful of the 2016 Olympics.
5. Announcements advising people on how to minimize the spread of germs, carefully avoiding the words ‘swine’ and ‘flu’.
Chicago --> LA
I couldn't figure out at first if the person sitting next to me on the flight was a man or a woman. The 'person' had a lot of curly blond hair, was really tall and big, and was wearing a pantsuit. (I gave up predicting someone's gender based on their hair after the first day of my freshman orientation at UT, when the woman with beautiful long blond hair sitting in front of me turned out to be a man with a mustache and a matching beard.) After a few minutes, I heard the person speak, and found that she was a she.
I tried to sleep through the rest of the unbearably long flight (4.5 hours - the longest non-stop flight I've taken from one city to another in the US).
Just before we landed, I watched the sunset over the mountains. The mountains were beautiful - breathtakingly beautiful - there was the blue sky, with a lower crimson layer, and the mountains, and then the rest of LA. It was as if an expert artist had started painting this picture at the top, in a dream-like state, and concluded the remaining part of the painting (where the human influence began) after a fight with his wife.
The drive back to the hotel was quite eventful. Sans a GPS device (the rental agency had run out), I stumbled through the traffic, going way below the speed limit, making several annoying-last-minute lane changes, running a red light accidentally at an intersection I mistook as a continuation of the streets, having a cop honk at me, having several other drivers almost run me over, ending up in Hollywood, and finally reached the hotel, only to find at the entrance that it had a slightly different name than the one I was looking for. Great. I walked up to the receptionist and confessed, and she smiled brightly, saying - no, this is it.
I never thought I'd miss public transportation so much.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
The Speed of Wit
The guy behind the check-out desk at the library smiled when he asked me what my last name was.
'Any relation to the steel tycoon?' he inquired when I told him, simultaneously sifting through a little box, trying to locate my card.
It wasn't the first time I was getting that question. Lakshmi Mittal, the bulti*-trillionaire, is famous in Cleveland, thanks to his many giant buildings littering the city, and several hundred side-road-signs with 'Mittal Steel' in huge lettering and the words 'Clean up for real' in much smaller print reminding people to save the environment.
'Of course,' I said. 'He's my father.'
The guy's eyes widened.
'Then you must be...,' he began
'Vanisha? No, I was kidding. My dad's a scientist.'
The guy laughed. 'You almost had me there. What kind of scientist?'
'He's a nuclear scientist.'
'Wow,' the guy said. 'Intense. What's his name? I might've heard of him.'
'Dr. Kalam. A.P.J Abdul Kalam. '
The guy froze while scanning the stack of DVDs I had placed in front of him.
'The President?'
'Ex-President,' I corrected him.
The guy stared at me.
'Hah,' he said at last. 'You're pulling my leg.'
'With a steel rope,' I said, laughing at last, as I collected my DVDs and put them away in my bag.
---
At least that was how I should have responded to his question. Instead, when he asked me if I was related to Mr. Lakshmi. Mittal, I laughed and said 'I wish'.
Alas, wit is undeniably the tortoise in the race of life.
*bulti=multi x 10^3
'Any relation to the steel tycoon?' he inquired when I told him, simultaneously sifting through a little box, trying to locate my card.
It wasn't the first time I was getting that question. Lakshmi Mittal, the bulti*-trillionaire, is famous in Cleveland, thanks to his many giant buildings littering the city, and several hundred side-road-signs with 'Mittal Steel' in huge lettering and the words 'Clean up for real' in much smaller print reminding people to save the environment.
'Of course,' I said. 'He's my father.'
The guy's eyes widened.
'Then you must be...,' he began
'Vanisha? No, I was kidding. My dad's a scientist.'
The guy laughed. 'You almost had me there. What kind of scientist?'
'He's a nuclear scientist.'
'Wow,' the guy said. 'Intense. What's his name? I might've heard of him.'
'Dr. Kalam. A.P.J Abdul Kalam. '
The guy froze while scanning the stack of DVDs I had placed in front of him.
'The President?'
'Ex-President,' I corrected him.
The guy stared at me.
'Hah,' he said at last. 'You're pulling my leg.'
'With a steel rope,' I said, laughing at last, as I collected my DVDs and put them away in my bag.
---
At least that was how I should have responded to his question. Instead, when he asked me if I was related to Mr. Lakshmi. Mittal, I laughed and said 'I wish'.
Alas, wit is undeniably the tortoise in the race of life.
*bulti=multi x 10^3
Friday, May 1, 2009
Oysters of Wisdom
"If you want to make God laugh, tell Him about your plan." - AA, friend
"Be careful of excelling at things you don't like." - JK, co-worker
"Be careful of excelling at things you don't like." - JK, co-worker
Monday, April 27, 2009
Ctrl C + Ctrl V
They are, undoubtedly, the most powerful keyboard shortcuts known to the human species.
Since that's all the engineering education I'm really using at work these days, I figured I could get some creativity out of this.
Since that's all the engineering education I'm really using at work these days, I figured I could get some creativity out of this.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Experiments in Madness...
...and the blog-source HTML.
I will not shut down this blog and put up the 'Under Maintainance' sign.
Simply because I don't know how to.
Over the next few hours/days/weeks, the page will most likely undergo several surgeries/mutations and turn out totally awkward and funny and not too (I hope) nauseating looking.
I will not shut down this blog and put up the 'Under Maintainance' sign.
Simply because I don't know how to.
Over the next few hours/days/weeks, the page will most likely undergo several surgeries/mutations and turn out totally awkward and funny and not too (I hope) nauseating looking.
Dork-hood
I am currently on an online apartment searching spree. My friends know that. When some of them enquired how it was going, I said that it was coming along, and that I had my excel sheet with at least 10 entries. I had columns for the apartment name, price, features, deposit/application requirements, address, contact info, distance from work, etc.
For some reason, they cracked up.
After some brainstorming, I thought I understood.
For some reason, they cracked up.
After some brainstorming, I thought I understood.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The Microwave Effect
It was cold this morning.
Waiting at the bus stop, bundled up in my 3 coats and jackets, I felt my body slowly disappear.
When I sat down in the blissfully warm bus, I felt like I was defrosting.
Waiting at the bus stop, bundled up in my 3 coats and jackets, I felt my body slowly disappear.
When I sat down in the blissfully warm bus, I felt like I was defrosting.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Fixations
Another thought just struck me regarding Jhumpa Lahiri.
She's like the Freud of Indian-American literature. Freud talked extensively about oral fixations, until somebody wisely pointed out the cigar he always had in his mouth. And the smartest thing he could come up with was "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar".
Referring to my previous observation (April 19th), someone could just Ms. Lahiri that sometimes, a slipper is just a slipper.
She's like the Freud of Indian-American literature. Freud talked extensively about oral fixations, until somebody wisely pointed out the cigar he always had in his mouth. And the smartest thing he could come up with was "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar".
Referring to my previous observation (April 19th), someone could just Ms. Lahiri that sometimes, a slipper is just a slipper.
Nonsense Actually
So I was right. Love Actually is a slimy, cheesy, corny, worthless movie. Except for perhaps two decent scenes.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Last one today, I promise
So when I took the GRE, they (refers to vague authority figures that manifested themselves to me in the form of official-looking terms and conditions) made me promise that I would never-ever divulge the contents of the test to anyone. I forget what the consequences are.
What I hated about that test was ... well - more than just one thing, but I'm too lazy to go back and change the beginning of the sentence to refer to plural quantities. I hated that test. It was awful. The verbal section in particular. Being tested on words that any sane engineering student (I know none of them really are, but this is a figure of speech) would never encounter in his/her life, is completely bizarre. There was one particular word, the spelling of which fascinated me, because it didn't even make sense. It seemed to defy the logic of vowels being separated by consonants in normal English words. I thought I would do something special the day I came across it - which would probably be never.
And guess what, here it was today, in one of the Gilmore Girls episodes. Used not once, twice, thrice (yes, I insist on using that word), but at least 8 times.
Am I doubting my harsh judgement about the usefulness of the GRE? Not really. Most engineers don't come across words like that. And when we do, dictionary.com is only a click away.
What I hated about that test was ... well - more than just one thing, but I'm too lazy to go back and change the beginning of the sentence to refer to plural quantities. I hated that test. It was awful. The verbal section in particular. Being tested on words that any sane engineering student (I know none of them really are, but this is a figure of speech) would never encounter in his/her life, is completely bizarre. There was one particular word, the spelling of which fascinated me, because it didn't even make sense. It seemed to defy the logic of vowels being separated by consonants in normal English words. I thought I would do something special the day I came across it - which would probably be never.
And guess what, here it was today, in one of the Gilmore Girls episodes. Used not once, twice, thrice (yes, I insist on using that word), but at least 8 times.
Am I doubting my harsh judgement about the usefulness of the GRE? Not really. Most engineers don't come across words like that. And when we do, dictionary.com is only a click away.
Unaccustomed Earth and Other Viruses the World doesn't know about
Jhumpa Lahiri. Pretty woman. No really - her picture on the back of my library copy kept me intrigued each time I shut the book, inwardly cursing her.
Actually, she's a great writer. She has poise. She has style. She looks it.
I loved the Interpreter of Maladies. I even thought the Namesake was decent, although the story had nothing to do with the name of the book, and it seemed to me like she was given an impossible deadline by her publishers to declare a name for her book, which she did, with the plot only half-formed in her head, and when she realized after 3 chapters of writing it that it was really lame, she continued writing anyway, taking the story on its rightful course, trying till the end to make the name of the book relate to the story, and failed. But it was still a good read, if I completely ignored the title. And they say what's in a name.
She has talent. But Oh My God - she's depressing.
I think I would be scared to know her as a person, knowing that she was analyzing my every move, interpreting every action as being and meaning something deeper, darker, sinister, pointing like glow-rods towards my guilt. So if I were to randomly declare that I always wear slippers, (not that I would, because that would be rather silly) she would make it seem like I was one of those girls who was trained to keep her feet clean on the cold bare floors of Indian houses, and craved the feeling of rubber against my sole even when none was required on All-American-Carpeted floors, even though the simple explanation could just be that I just wore slippers because the dogs butt-rubbed themselves all over the carpets.
Even that's all right. But really, she's running out of content. Every story reads the same now. Newly married couple from India moves to the US. They have a tough life. Then they have kids. And the kids are totally screwed up and confused ABCDs. Meanwhile, the parents think back to the lives they left behind. Their parents. Who get sick and die and/or crave their children's company, children who left them to chase fame, fortunes, and Ford-Escorts.
Okay, so I'm not pigeon-holing her. She adds variety. Sometimes, it is just one guy who moves from India (Calcutta actually) and finds an american woman and marries her. And then they have kids. And the kids are totally screwed up and confused half-ABCDs. Etc. etc.
Pain, misery, home-sickness, guilt. And that is Ms. Lahiri's range of experiences for her characters.
Somebody needs to introduce her to the AerOnion.
Actually, she's a great writer. She has poise. She has style. She looks it.
I loved the Interpreter of Maladies. I even thought the Namesake was decent, although the story had nothing to do with the name of the book, and it seemed to me like she was given an impossible deadline by her publishers to declare a name for her book, which she did, with the plot only half-formed in her head, and when she realized after 3 chapters of writing it that it was really lame, she continued writing anyway, taking the story on its rightful course, trying till the end to make the name of the book relate to the story, and failed. But it was still a good read, if I completely ignored the title. And they say what's in a name.
She has talent. But Oh My God - she's depressing.
I think I would be scared to know her as a person, knowing that she was analyzing my every move, interpreting every action as being and meaning something deeper, darker, sinister, pointing like glow-rods towards my guilt. So if I were to randomly declare that I always wear slippers, (not that I would, because that would be rather silly) she would make it seem like I was one of those girls who was trained to keep her feet clean on the cold bare floors of Indian houses, and craved the feeling of rubber against my sole even when none was required on All-American-Carpeted floors, even though the simple explanation could just be that I just wore slippers because the dogs butt-rubbed themselves all over the carpets.
Even that's all right. But really, she's running out of content. Every story reads the same now. Newly married couple from India moves to the US. They have a tough life. Then they have kids. And the kids are totally screwed up and confused ABCDs. Meanwhile, the parents think back to the lives they left behind. Their parents. Who get sick and die and/or crave their children's company, children who left them to chase fame, fortunes, and Ford-Escorts.
Okay, so I'm not pigeon-holing her. She adds variety. Sometimes, it is just one guy who moves from India (Calcutta actually) and finds an american woman and marries her. And then they have kids. And the kids are totally screwed up and confused half-ABCDs. Etc. etc.
Pain, misery, home-sickness, guilt. And that is Ms. Lahiri's range of experiences for her characters.
Somebody needs to introduce her to the AerOnion.
Belated Babblings
I have been away from my blog for too long. And I intend to make up for it, by posting a gazillion posts right now while I'm in the mood, free, procrastinating actually, high on a klondike oreo-flavored ice-cream square, I'm sorry, cuboid, oh no, it really should be parallelopiped. I wonder if that is like forgetting to drink water all day and making up for it by drinking a liter before going to bed. I do it all the time. Which makes me think that it works. Whatever.
I am finally comfortable where I am. I have discovered the perfect number of pillows to keep me propped up while I lazily sit in front of the genius-box (euphemism for a laptop, take on the idiot-box for the less-literally inclined), watching episodes of Gilmore Girls, a new found addiction, random movies from the library, such as Love Actually, a movie that I'm actually giving a second chance to, trying to find out if I have become (theoretically) less cynical about the movie, because I hated it the first time, and while I have the tissue box, my water bottle, my phone, and the light switch perfectly positioned within arm's reach so I can be a non-conformist and save up my calories. Just wonderful.
I was checked in the seventh grade for run-on sentences. So nice to not have peer evaluations of your writing on your own blog. Aha!
Too bad I'd better start planning to uproot this comfortable-ity right about now.
Yippie.
I am finally comfortable where I am. I have discovered the perfect number of pillows to keep me propped up while I lazily sit in front of the genius-box (euphemism for a laptop, take on the idiot-box for the less-literally inclined), watching episodes of Gilmore Girls, a new found addiction, random movies from the library, such as Love Actually, a movie that I'm actually giving a second chance to, trying to find out if I have become (theoretically) less cynical about the movie, because I hated it the first time, and while I have the tissue box, my water bottle, my phone, and the light switch perfectly positioned within arm's reach so I can be a non-conformist and save up my calories. Just wonderful.
I was checked in the seventh grade for run-on sentences. So nice to not have peer evaluations of your writing on your own blog. Aha!
Too bad I'd better start planning to uproot this comfortable-ity right about now.
Yippie.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
New Beginnings
This morning, I woke up, and I felt like something was missing. I thought - maybe, just maybe, the love was finally gone.
What a relief.
What a relief.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
What makes things un-funny
'I've lost my voice', I whispered hoarsely for the tenth time in the past hour. The coffee girl behind the counter laughed. A few hours ago, I would have laughed with her. However, pulling out my little notebook, I quickly jotted down my order and showed it to her. As I walked away, I had a distinct feeling that the whole thing was taking on the air of something quite unpleasant.
Earlier, at the pharmacy, a note about my condition made the pharmacist exclaim - 'There is NOTHING that can bring your voice back!' I'd given him a thumbs up and walked out.
I'm not usually very talkative. Unless I'm surrounded by people who are lower down on the talkative scale than I am, which leads me to talk 2-3 times more than I normally would to keep the silence and awkwardness at bay.
The flu seemed harmless at first. Modern, easily accessible medicine kept the symptoms under cover, and I functioned normally. Towards the end of the week, a tadpole in my throat was born, and quickly grew to take on its role as a full fledged working-frog. Alistair MacLean described this condition succinctly in one of his books, when the hero sounded like a toad or a frog with bronchitis.
Even though the prospect of taking flash cards to work on Monday seemed amusing at first, I don't think I can do it anymore.
What makes things less amusing? Fear. Fear of what? Death. What brings on fear? Old age.
Earlier, at the pharmacy, a note about my condition made the pharmacist exclaim - 'There is NOTHING that can bring your voice back!' I'd given him a thumbs up and walked out.
I'm not usually very talkative. Unless I'm surrounded by people who are lower down on the talkative scale than I am, which leads me to talk 2-3 times more than I normally would to keep the silence and awkwardness at bay.
The flu seemed harmless at first. Modern, easily accessible medicine kept the symptoms under cover, and I functioned normally. Towards the end of the week, a tadpole in my throat was born, and quickly grew to take on its role as a full fledged working-frog. Alistair MacLean described this condition succinctly in one of his books, when the hero sounded like a toad or a frog with bronchitis.
Even though the prospect of taking flash cards to work on Monday seemed amusing at first, I don't think I can do it anymore.
What makes things less amusing? Fear. Fear of what? Death. What brings on fear? Old age.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The Idle-llic Life
With the last grad school application over, and parents away, I have had too much free time, and too much free energy to boot. While singing to annoy my sister, throwing sheep, cows, and elephants at friends on facebook, and catching up with movies were fun initially, I soon made a remarkable discovery.
The idle life's not really for me.
Something stronger than superego starts eating away at my innards when I'm sitting and doing nothing. The energy I'm not using acts like a super-excited state of matter, pulsing and throwing itself at all my organs and limbs, willing them to move.
Reading helps. A little. The 3 books I'm reading right now are 'Ignited Minds' by A.P.J. Kalam, '1001 Arabian Nights' translated by Richard Burton, and 'The Curious Case of the Dog in the Night Time' by Mark Haddon. All excellent. Even though my neurons are sweating and panting their dendrons off, there was a slight problem with this activity: the sitting still part.
I decided to try something new. Something so unique that most people my age wouldn't even begin to think of it. Something that would allow me unleash my creativity and burned calories as a side effect. Finally, I hit upon the best kind of indoor exercise - cleaning.
The switch boards and switches and ceiling fans came first. Then the doors. Followed by the 50 odd bunches of artificial flowers around the house (I counted). My sister and I attacked the storeroom together. We sorted through suitcases full of clothes and papers and single, divorced socks, and bags full of bags, and random objects prized by parents for no apparent reason. We categorized items and reorganized them: Mum's clothes went in one bag, craft supplies in another, old broken electronics in yet another, and so on. I made another bag for myself - and put all the orphaned items in it. These included - a pirate patch, a set of fake nails, an old used order-form-less 3-D camera with Pepsi's baby pictures trapped in it - and my favorite... a live-mosquito trap "For the Novice Trapper. Catch them live and make your own mosquito-fur coat!".
I think we need to donate half our house to Goodwill.
The idle life's not really for me.
Something stronger than superego starts eating away at my innards when I'm sitting and doing nothing. The energy I'm not using acts like a super-excited state of matter, pulsing and throwing itself at all my organs and limbs, willing them to move.
Reading helps. A little. The 3 books I'm reading right now are 'Ignited Minds' by A.P.J. Kalam, '1001 Arabian Nights' translated by Richard Burton, and 'The Curious Case of the Dog in the Night Time' by Mark Haddon. All excellent. Even though my neurons are sweating and panting their dendrons off, there was a slight problem with this activity: the sitting still part.
I decided to try something new. Something so unique that most people my age wouldn't even begin to think of it. Something that would allow me unleash my creativity and burned calories as a side effect. Finally, I hit upon the best kind of indoor exercise - cleaning.
The switch boards and switches and ceiling fans came first. Then the doors. Followed by the 50 odd bunches of artificial flowers around the house (I counted). My sister and I attacked the storeroom together. We sorted through suitcases full of clothes and papers and single, divorced socks, and bags full of bags, and random objects prized by parents for no apparent reason. We categorized items and reorganized them: Mum's clothes went in one bag, craft supplies in another, old broken electronics in yet another, and so on. I made another bag for myself - and put all the orphaned items in it. These included - a pirate patch, a set of fake nails, an old used order-form-less 3-D camera with Pepsi's baby pictures trapped in it - and my favorite... a live-mosquito trap "For the Novice Trapper. Catch them live and make your own mosquito-fur coat!".
I think we need to donate half our house to Goodwill.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Home
Wow - it's 2009.
It's amazing how much happened since the toenail incident. Jumping off a bridge. The Great Waltz. The GRE. The FE. JPL. Raytheon. Lockheed. The drivers license test. Twice. Berkeley. And 5 other graduate schools. Las Vegas. Packing. Moving. A million times.
65 hours to reach home. And almost not making it. The luggage not making it at all.
I'm home now. And none of that matters anymore.
It's amazing how much happened since the toenail incident. Jumping off a bridge. The Great Waltz. The GRE. The FE. JPL. Raytheon. Lockheed. The drivers license test. Twice. Berkeley. And 5 other graduate schools. Las Vegas. Packing. Moving. A million times.
65 hours to reach home. And almost not making it. The luggage not making it at all.
I'm home now. And none of that matters anymore.
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