tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84599102024-03-12T21:48:59.027-07:00i am loving it ;)crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-86568559585060776282010-04-06T22:30:00.000-07:002010-04-06T22:30:12.110-07:00Hot Purple Pants!Most days of the year are unremarkable. They begin, and they end, with no lasting memories made in between.<br />
<br />
Most days have no impact on the course of a life. February 27th was a Saturday.<br />
<br />
He got up late. It was a Saturday after all plus he had put in an all nighter. No not doing that you filthy mind!<br />
<br />
He had been feeling a little spring in his step as he had decided to channel that energy into his work.<br />
<br />
He was just having his coffee when the phone rang!<br />
<br />
"You would not believe your eyes<br />
If ten million fireflies<br />
Lit up the world as I fell asleep<br />
<br />
'Cause they'd fill the open air<br />
And leave teardrops everywhere<br />
You'd think me rude<br />
But I would just stand and stare<br />
<br />
I'd like to make myself believe<br />
That planet Earth turns slowly"<br />
<br />
That is his ring tone. It was her calling.<br />
<br />
"Hello" (still a bit groggy after the all nighter yesterday) <br />
<br />
"Hi, can you come and meet me an hour or so earlier than we originally planned"<br />
<br />
"I can try and come by 4"<br />
<br />
"You don't need to look like the Jonas Brothers to meet me"<br />
<br />
"I know, but I am kind of a big deal so 4 it is"<br />
<br />
"Alright come as soon as you can"<br />
<br />
"Hold on to your pants till I get there"<br />
<br />
It was 4:30 now and he had just now reached the designated place. From here on in he had to rely on the map she had drawn for him. Given his fascination with: <br />
<br />
"This place is a huge circle so I'll start walking in the direction selected by a simple binomial experiment and eventually reach the intended destination" <br />
<br />
The map had become a necessity to speed things up.<br />
<br />
He finally reaches the place and she greets him in her now familiar nasal twang "Hi".<br />
<br />
He tried to pretend that he was not staring. Well he tried to try. <br />
<br />
Her hair was a little shorter, he thought they would be. And it was what he had always imagined chestnut brown to look like, but he could be completely off.<br />
<br />
She was dressed cutely, but not really showy. She looked like the cover of a Mango spring catalogue. She looked so damn good, he thought. It was almost as though she was doing the clothes a favor by wearing them. <br />
<br />
They talked about his recommendations to the school and he handed her the laptop to start working.<br />
<br />
She had to wear glasses. They worked.<br />
<br />
They really worked.<br />
<br />
It was as if he has just discovered what he had long suspected. The cute dork from not another teenage movie<br />
<br />
He gave her as much attention as Godzilla gave to the people of Tokyo or for that instance as much attention as Megan Fox paid in school classes.<br />
<br />
"You should at least entertain my friend while I complete this ass hatery you call your recommendations"<br />
<br />
Fair enough he thought and proceeded to entertain the hell out of her best friend. No not in that way you filthy mind!<br />
<br />
Since both of them were capri(corn(y))s they shared the same corny idea of love stories and Hollywood movie style happy endings and everything in between<br />
<br />
As is well documented here that Universe conspires against him when ever it's not taking a leak on him<br />
<br />
Just as the bill arrived he discovered that he had lost his card in a city about 2000 Km away and the threesome that they were. No not in that way you filthy mind! They didn't have enough cash to pay the bill.<br />
<br />
Frantic calls were made, a breezy auto-rickshaw ride to the PTI building and after much embarrassment tinged with amusement the bill was finally paid. <br />
<br />
When they parted ways at the metro station, the smile on her face carried the promise of another day.crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-5060597118988181612010-01-21T11:29:00.000-08:002010-01-21T11:34:55.141-08:00Letter to Future WifeMy man <a href="http://peterdewolf.wordpress.com/">PeterDeWolf</a> has been churning out letters to his future wife by the minute. Peter you scoundrel what you don't understand is that this letter writing spree of yours might cause irreconcilable differences between my future wife and me. So in order to avoid a future divorce I have decided to jump in the fray and start writing letter to future wife (mine not yours)<br />
<br />
Hey<br />
<br />
This is the first letter and understandably I am a little apprehensive, you know you are the first one who has made it this far. Congratulations?!<br />
<br />
I have to tell you a few things and I would have ideally used my favorite bullet point lists. But since this is your first time here I am going to go along with neatly spaced sentences.<br />
<br />
See how I just slipped in the fact that I am a really organized person. What No! alright I guess you still haven't got the hang of my subtlety.<br />
<br />
I am a break-a-downer. No no I don't break things neither am I employed at a junk yard. What I mean to say is that I break big things into small manageable things. I should also mention that once I have done the breaking part I promptly forget about them. This is where you come in future wife I need to be constantly incentivized, subsidized, bailed out, given TARP kisses? for finishing the above mentioned small things.<br />
<br />
I am a fashion nazi! This has been well documented as I have ahem *flogged* even bollywood actresses for their bizarre dressing sense. You my future wife must either be so cute that I want you sans any clothes as soon as I see you ;) or you really know how to dress up.Still I will critique!<br />
<br />
Future wife I may just smile and keep on smiling for 1 min 30 seconds while looking at you, please don't think I have gone loony on you. In time you will begin to appreciate this trait of mine. Also future wife I have a strong inkling that in many ways you will be like <a href="http://crackfireiamlovingit.blogspot.com/2008/06/there-is-something-about-summer.html">Summer</a> here and I would totally dig it.<br />
<br />
Do you think Aloo tikki burger better then the Veg Surprise, of course you do right ? How would wearing a "I can has burger" T shirt look at McD. Do you think people will stare at us?<br />
<br />
- Yes<br />
- No<br />
- Maybe<br />
- Who cares I likes Burgers <br />
<br />
You know this is just the first letter and I am still getting the hang of it, just know that this post was NOT first typed in MS Word then sent to a few girl- friends for copy editing (see the clever use of '-' there) and finally copy pasted. This post is a whirlwind of typing and checking facebook in between. <br />
<br />
Much Love<br />
<br />
Devcrackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-70907228281343779372009-09-04T05:22:00.000-07:002009-09-04T05:23:53.223-07:00That Red Sweater<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The year was 1996. I was 12 years old. The year when India lost to Srilanka in a tear jerking World Cup Semifinal. It was also the year when a mouse haired, red sweater wearing, blue jeans totting girl sneaked a peek into the classroom for VI B. A guy seating in the middle of second row from the door looked up from his ink stained notebook (he never got the hang of ink pens), his eyes never wavered from the door while the teacher talked to the inappropriately dressed kid. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The kid went away and the class resumed its dull pace, I always hated Hindi classes. This hate stemmed from the fact that I couldn’t wrap my head around rules of when to use the “badi matra” and when to use the “choti matra”. I still hate Hindi! I don’t know what it was but in those days and in our school especially there was a line that divided the class into girls only area and boys only area. It was much like quarantine to protect against cooties. Yours truly on the other hand has always been blessed with a strong immune system and managed to sit in any row he liked, which usually tended to be the second row: the one in the girl’s part of the class</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Afterwards as the classes resumed the aforementioned girl returned to VI B so did my heart to my mouth (or does it go to the stomach in these cases, I could never be a doctor). She was now officially a part of VI B and the Hindi classes or any other class for that matter wouldn’t be as boring as it used to be. Poets say love comes and goes in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, in high school, it goes more than it comes.....And then from somewhere, I don't know - it just came to me.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">There is nothing more terrifying than calling a 12 year old girl who you like and whose number you have flicked off from the class’s attendance register (what don’t look at me like that this was standard procedure in our school). It is at these times when you need balls of steel or a particularly mayhem happy cousin to make that first call and thrust the phone in your face. It is at these prophetic moments that one makes statements that sweep women right off their feet and into your lap, I gulped the hard lump that was forming in my throat and rose up to the occasion and asked her “What was the homework given to us in the Hindi class?”. Yes, I am fancy like that. Time rolled by and I used to call her daily, she had taken over the role of my personal homework reminder services.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Around the end of 1996 a funny thing happened: 1997. Not that anyone was paying much attention. It was February and 14</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> day of this month had lately assumed a lot of importance, it was a new fad at that time. I had secretly bought a UNESCO card! Buying one of those fancy Archies card would raise too many uncomfortable questions with my mom and let’s face it my parents were never too big on pocket money. I sat there on the second last bench of the second row while she sat on the third last one. Whole day had come and gone by with me dilly dallying the timing for the exercise of my card delivering competency. The moment came right at the end of the school day and I gave her the card or rather held it out to her while asking about the day’s homework. The rest as they say is history and she still has that red sweater.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></o:p></p>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-45551403782956454012009-08-29T23:20:00.001-07:002009-08-30T23:27:19.074-07:00D-Files Part 1<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">He wore a dark grey tweed jacket. The one that had been passes on to him by his father. The tweed had an interesting history, it had been made in Taiwan, shipped to South Korea and had been gifted to his father almost 20 years ago. Fashion has a weird sense on repeating itself after every 20 years and the old tweed had made a comeback.</span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><br /><br /><span class="apple-style-span">She was in a yellow embroidered sari. The origin of the sari was unknown to him (though he had seen similar saris at his father's establishment). She looked resplendent and brought lightness to the brooding mood that lingered around him.</span><br /><br /><span class="apple-style-span">He arrived a little late at the movie premier and sauntered into the atrium where she was waiting for him.</span><br /><br /><span class="apple-style-span">He had one look at the sari and the sarcastic, wise cracking gears that whirl into action as soon as he sees a pretty young thing started well, whirling</span><br /><br /><span class="apple-style-span">"So are we singing the yellow brick road today" (Yea I know I surprise myself sometimes). She stared at him in frustration for a moment. Then she tilted back her head to laugh. She had a good laugh, too, throaty and rich. He</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><i><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">did</span></i></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "> </span></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); ">look down at her chest when she did that, just for a second. A pure heart and mind only takes you so far-sooner or later the hormones have their say, too. He was not a teenager or anything, anymore, but he's not exactly an expert in things like this, either. Call it an overwhelming interest in his professional career, but he had never had much time for dating or the fair sex in general. And when he had, it hadn't turned out too well.</span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><br /><br /><span class="apple-style-span">They both walked into the theater where her movie was showing, given she had a very small role in it. This was her first movie and he felt obligated to watch it, he wasn't into movies much. The movie turned out to be one of the best he had seen. It had been a long time since someone had laid her head on his shoulder and the VIP seats helped too.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida sans'; font-size: 11px; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; ">To Be Continued</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><o:p> </o:p></p></span></div>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-24291450207561372132009-07-31T14:02:00.000-07:002009-07-31T21:51:46.624-07:00Love or something like it!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/SnNsuraDoRI/AAAAAAAAAO0/7tgEfkwyzsE/s1600-h/love.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 203px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/SnNsuraDoRI/AAAAAAAAAO0/7tgEfkwyzsE/s400/love.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364751130310189330" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />Some things are never meant to be together. Things like oil and water, orange juice and tooth paste.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me and Ann</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There are a thousand names for it </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">affection, devotion, fondness, infatuation. It's an incredibly complex system of interweaving thoughts and feelings that influences us and the ones around us and it all boils down to one fairly simple fact: Shit Happens!</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Apparently a good romantic Bollywood flick engenders a sense of longing that I cooperate with my heart and start thinking on the lines of What If. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We were together for what one would call a blip in my dating life, we may even have forgotten what we said, what we did but sometimes in the night after the afore said movie I remember how she made me feel. How a simple text like 'ahem' would wake me up from my slumber, even today after all this time I don't think I have received a better text.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have a habit of chewing on things after they are at least an year or two old. You see back when I was a kid I had an operation done which blocks out all the unpleasant things for a period of at least 2 years. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2 years ago.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I had built up all my defenses, a whole suit of armour if you will, so nothing could hurt me, then one stupid girl, no different from any other stupid girl, wandered into a metro station and therefore into my stupid life... I gave her a piece of me. She didn't ask for it. Then one day she did something as dumb as agreeing to go out on a date with me, she did this dumb thing a couple of more times and my life wasn't my own anymore. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As some of you may know I am not much of a talker usually I get by, by nodding my head at an interval of 1. 35 mins and saying I understand exactly 20 seconds after the nod. She on the other hand loved to talk and talk she did. I knew about the life of people I had never met, would never meet and probably never had the intention of meeting. And the truth is she totally pulled it off, the talking bit I mean. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then I ended it all for good enough sane reasons which still are good enough. As I said s</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ome things are never meant to be together. Things like oil and water, orange juice and tooth paste.</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me and Ann</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But tomorrow is another day!</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">PS: Let me know if the title is corny or not</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">PPS: The above post is a work of fiction which may be derived from some real life events.</span></span></span></div>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-43381447073422391282009-07-04T22:41:00.000-07:002009-07-05T07:41:27.822-07:00Let there be light and lets look at the past<div>As a famous guy once said "Let there be light", I am back biatches and I have a feeling I am going to be much more regular. Yes I have stories to spin and tell. </div><br /><p>Last year has been errr to say the least eventful and it will all be brought to its rightful culmination in a few more months *fingers crossed*. You shall be informed and made up to date with all the gory details,don't worry.</p><br /><p>Now that we are done with the all the niceties I shall begin the story. </p><br /><p><strong>College:</strong>You have four years to be irresponsible here. Relax. Work is for people with jobs. You'll never remember class time, but you'll remember time you wasted hanging out with your friends. So, stay out late. Go out on a Tuesday with your friends when you have a paper due Wednesday. Spend money you don't have. Drink 'til sunrise. The work never ends, but college does.</p><br /><p><strong>29th July 2003:</strong> I entered Roorkee for the very first time. I had passed this small sleepy town two years back on a school trip to Mussorie and had been teased by my friends that I might be here the next year, took me one extra year but I was finally here. </p><br /><p><em><strong>First Impressions and being late as always:</strong> I was impressed with the small colonial style department buildings and the picturesque Main Building and was looking forward to have a dekho at my Bhawan(Dorm) room but first the registration formalities had to be completed. After much asking and reading the sign boards we finally reached the Civil Auditorium and I was the last person to register for Electrical</em>.</p><br /><p><em><strong>Dorm Room and the Roomie: </strong>I had hoped for a nice room and a nicer roomie who will follow all my orders, yes I am hitlerstic like that. But all I got was F-74, the last room in the whole frigging hostel (the one beside the common bathrooms!) with a mile wide U turn to get to the department and not to mention no garden view :(. The roomie was a small town guy who had listened to a grand total of 1 English song that too by Sucky Celine Dion or whatever her name is. I rest my case.</em></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Pendulum swings a month or two</b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><b>Muvo and Avril Lavigne: </b>I was accompanied by my dearest friend Walkman to the campus and our friendship had its up and downs usually broken in by battery changes, but all relationships are not meant to last and this one breathed its last in about 2 months. I was left alone in the eerie silence for 2 days, unable to take it anymore I decided to venture forth and meet the weird specks guy in my row who happened to have a mp3 player. I know it is sad now but trust me it was the latest craze that had not caught on in India at that time. He has always been cool like that, the weird specks guy I mean.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>Pendulum Swings 4 years</b></p><br /><p><strong>23rd May 2007: </strong>College ends, Real world beckons, I can't pretend to be Peter Pan anymore. Or so I thought.</p><p><br /></p><p>PS: More to come when I feel like it.</p><br /><p> </p>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-82054160972617919212009-05-25T06:18:00.000-07:002009-05-25T07:55:49.097-07:00Writing Project No 1I know you haven't heard from me in a long time and I have fielded queries from people in the real world on the lack of posts here. The thing is I don't write here until I feel like writing here lol, yup that's how I roll. <div><br /></div><div>Today's post was filed away in my journal sometime in 07 and is oddly titled </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">20/10/07</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Writing Project No1"</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>This came to me at a time between the night and the dawn. It was the hazy world between the asleep and awake, oh fuck it I am just scribbling away in my diary right now! either way it's all sage and junk. It had been an early Monday morning and it was going to be a long day. Yet there was something to look forward to, it was something that happens at dawn and at dusk but I won't tell you what it is !</div><div><br /></div><div>The time seems to fly by.</div><div><br /></div><div>Statistics on the number of Chevrolets and Toyotas.</div><div><br /></div><div>Talks of a Bi-Dog (Yes you heard it right a BI-DOG!).</div><div><br /></div><div>and the smiles , guffaws (her), laughs, the knowing smirks (me).</div><div><br /></div><div>The sleeping crowd.</div><div><br /></div><div>The bus stop.</div><div><br /></div><div>The End with no new beginning!</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">25/05/07</span></div><div><br /></div><div>PS: I made my debut at <a href="http://ww.restrobar.com/india/new-delhi/Capitol-The-Ashok-Hotel.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Capitol</span></a> this weekend, awesome fun!</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-17987352846804437992008-11-22T01:58:00.000-08:002008-11-22T01:59:22.140-08:00Pay through Spiderpal !<p style="font-weight: bold; font-size: 14px;">Below is the complete email conversation that Adelaide man David Thorne claims he had with a utility company chasing payment of an overdue bill.</p><p> <b>From: Jane Gilles<br />Date: Wednesday 8 Oct 2008 12.19pm<br />To: David Thorne<br />Subject: Overdue account</b></p><p> Dear David,<br />Our records indicate that your account is overdue by the amount of $233.95. If you have already made this payment please contact us within the next 7 days to confirm payment has been applied to your account and is no longer outstanding. </p><p> Yours sincerely, Jane Gilles</p><p> <br /> <b>From: David Thorne<br />Date: Wednesday 8 Oct 2008 12.37pm<br />To: Jane Gilles<br />Subject: Re: Overdue account</b></p><p> Dear Jane,<br />I do not have any money so am sending you this drawing I did of a spider instead. I value the drawing at $233.95 so trust that this settles the matter. </p><p> Regards, David. </p><p> <img src="http://news.ninemsn.com.au/img/2008/national/spider.jpg" /> <br /><br /> <b>From: Jane Gilles<br />Date: Thursday 9 Oct 2008 10.07am<br />To: David Thorne<br />Subject: Overdue account</b></p><p> Dear David,<br />Thankyou for contacting us. Unfortunately we are unable to accept drawings as payment and your account remains in arrears of $233.95. Please contact us within the next 7 days to confirm payment has been applied to your account and is no longer outstanding. </p><p> Yours sincerely, Jane Gilles</p><p><br /> <b>From: David Thorne<br />Date: Thursday 9 Oct 2008 10.32am<br />To: Jane Gilles<br />Subject: Re: Overdue account</b></p><p> Dear Jane,<br />Can I have my drawing of a spider back then please. </p><p> Regards, David. </p><p><br /><b>From: Jane Gilles<br />Date: Thursday 9 Oct 2008 11.42am<br />To: David Thorne<br />Subject: Re: Re: Overdue account</b></p><p> Dear David,<br />You emailed the drawing to me. Do you want me to email it back to you? </p><p> Yours sincerely, Jane Gilles</p><p> <br /> <b>From: David Thorne<br />Date: Thursday 9 Oct 2008 11.56am<br />To: Jane Gilles<br />Subject: Re: Re: Re: Overdue account</b></p><p> Dear Jane, </p><p> Yes please. </p><p> Regards, David. </p><p> <br /> <b>From: Jane Gilles<br />Date: Thursday 9 Oct 2008 12.14pm<br />To: David Thorne<br />Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Overdue account</b></p><p> Attached <spider.gif></spider.gif></p><p> <img src="http://news.ninemsn.com.au/img/2008/national/spider.jpg" /> <br /><br /> <b>From: David Thorne<br />Date: Friday 10 Oct 2008 09.22am<br />To: Jane Gilles<br />Subject: Whose spider is that?</b></p><p> Dear Jane, Are you sure this drawing of a spider is the one I sent you? This spider only has seven legs and I do not feel I would have made such an elementary mistake when I drew it. </p><p> Regards, David. </p><p><br /><b>From: Jane Gilles<br />Date: Friday 10 Oct 2008 11.03am<br />To: David Thorne<br />Subject: Re: Whose spider is that? </b></p><p> Dear David, Yes it is the same drawing. I copied and pasted it from the email you sent me on the 8th. David your account is still overdue by the amount of $233.95. Please make this payment as soon as possible. </p><p> Yours sincerely, Jane Gilles</p><p> <br /> <b>From: David Thorne<br />Date: Friday 10 Oct 2008 11.05am<br />To: Jane Gilles<br />Subject: Automated Out of Office Response</b></p><p> Thankyou for contacting me. I am currently away on leave, traveling through time and will be returning last week. </p><p> Regards, David. </p><p> <br /> <b>From: David Thorne<br />Date: Friday 10 Oct 2008 11.08am<br />To: Jane Gilles<br />Subject: Re: Re: Whose spider is that? </b></p><p> Hello, I am back and have read through your emails and accept that despite missing a leg, that drawing of a spider may indeed be the one I sent you. I realise with hindsight that it is possible you rejected the drawing of a spider due to this obvious limb ommission but did not point it out in an effort to avoid hurting my feelings. As such, I am sending you a revised drawing with the correct number of legs as full payment for any amount outstanding. I trust this will bring the matter to a conclusion. </p><p> Regards, David. </p><p> <img src="http://news.ninemsn.com.au/img/2008/national/spider2.jpg" /> <br /><br /><b>From: Jane Gilles<br />Date: Monday 13 Oct 2008 2.51pm<br />To: David Thorne<br />Subject: Re: Re: Re: Whose spider is that? </b></p><p> Dear David, As I have stated, we do not accept drawings in lei of money for accounts outstanding. We accept cheque, bank cheque, money order or cash. Please make a payment this week to avoid incurring any additional fees. </p><p> Yours sincerely, Jane Gilles</p><p> <br /> <b>From: David Thorne<br />Date: Monday 13 Oct 2008 3.17pm<br />To: Jane Gilles<br />Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Whose spider is that? </b></p><p> I understand and will definately make a payment this week if I remember. As you have not accepted my second drawing as payment, please return the drawing to me as soon as possible. It was silly of me to assume I could provide you with something of completely no value whatsoever, waste your time and then attach such a large amount to it. </p><p> Regards, David. </p><p> <br /> <b>From: Jane Gilles<br />Date: Tuesday 14 Oct 2008 11.18am<br />To: David Thorne<br />Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Whose spider is that? </b></p><p> Attached <spider2.gif></spider2.gif></p> <img src="http://news.ninemsn.com.au/img/2008/national/spider2.jpg" />crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-37470235751463778562008-09-19T10:28:00.000-07:002008-09-19T11:30:18.287-07:00Short Open Letters<span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear Salman Khan</span><br /><br />Dude get married already, you don't have to be the "first one" for every actress I find beautiful. It's not fair on me.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear Grinch</span><br /><br />Stop being mean and weird. I can go on and on on how weird you have become since moving so please just get your act together.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear Article Boy<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span>Stop bitching behind my back<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">,</span></span></span> that's what girls do. I know I steal your thunder in front of the girls but you have to learn how to deal with it. Mkay!<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />Dear Partner in crime at the parties<br /><br /></span></span></span>Let's think the unthinkable, let's do the undoable, let's prepare to grapple with the ineffable itself, and see if we may not eff it after all.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear TV News Channels</span><br /><br />How much does it cost to get some news from you huh !<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />Dear John McCain<br /></span></span></span></span><br />Please sign more deals with India, I will vote for you :P<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />Dear Extraterrestrials<br /><br /></span></span></span></span>If you don't want us to see your spaceships, then turn the lights off. You guys are trying to sneak around up there and you're lit up like fucking Christmas trees.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />Dear Bob Dylan<br /><br /></span></span></span></span>Please come back and sing for me once more<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">.<br /><br />Dear Barrack Obama<br /><br /></span></span></span></span>If you were not black and a guy, they would be calling you anorexic. Go eat something, hell if you and your family are busy ask Hillary she'll cook something up for you.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />Dear (not) Guest Post Writer<br /></span></span></span></span><br />You are such sweet person otherwise.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span></span></span>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-74043459739476594792008-06-11T01:38:00.000-07:002008-06-11T01:52:28.809-07:00There is something about Summer !<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/SE-Q8eMBrvI/AAAAAAAAAJE/-khPTNMB9KQ/s1600-h/Adam_rachel12323.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/SE-Q8eMBrvI/AAAAAAAAAJE/-khPTNMB9KQ/s400/Adam_rachel12323.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210542662461009650" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">There is something about Summer Roberts unlike Marry she is my persona of an ideal girlfriend. It all began circa 2006, when I was non- dating A [1].<span style=""> </span>I and friends had just gotten over the anime craze that had gripped the campus in late 2005 and early 2006 and were hitherto exploring the uncharted territory of drama series and sitcoms (We would exclude FRIENDS from this genre as every Ankit, Gaurav and Nitin has watched it). The first series that we got our hands on was “The OC”. Season one starred the goofy, sarcastic and oh so familiar antics of Seth Cohen [2]. As most of the gang had had unsuccessful junior School crushes we immediately identified with Seth’s situation with Summer, what we had not expected was how her character will shape up during the course of the series and how my perception of her will change from “that girl” in junior high that I never talked to the one where she is now my ideal girlfriend. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Summer is portrayed as a stereotypical spoiled somewhat snobby rich girl with her trademark “ewww” setting the ball rolling, but as the series progressed her character grew and by the end of season three she became the ideal girlfriend. Now since I am typing this out in Word, I would take benefit of the "bullet point technology" and type out some of the reasons why Summer Roberts is the one:</p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 22.5pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -22.5pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style=""><span style="">-<span style=""> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="">When does a guy like a girl, well<span style=""> </span>when she is willing to chase him and yet you have to chase her for you two to be together</b>, I know this doesn’t make sense but Summer pulls this one with remarkable ease in season one when she affected by Seth’s hanging out with Ann and her having a fling with Danny </p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 22.5pt; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 22.5pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -22.5pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style=""><span style="">-<span style=""> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="">When a girl is intelligent yet not always reciting quotes from Shakespeare </b>or going on on about a bard from Elizabeth’s court who wrote a three hundred page poem for her majesty but was still sent to the gallows. Summer is just that with a 1600 in SATs and a drawer full of latest Vogues. Her dressing sense is an added plus; I mean if you know me you would know I am a sucker for preppy.</p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 22.5pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -22.5pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style=""><span style="">-<span style=""> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="">When a girl is there and I mean really there for friends both hers and yours. </b><span style=""> </span>Summer’s equation with Merissa and her Ryan exemplifies this.<b style=""><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><b style=""><o:p> </o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 22.5pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: -22.5pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style=""><span style="">-<span style=""> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="">The girl who’s got the spunk and the substance,</b> I mean who doesn’t love a girlfriend who does environmental work and takes care of random bunnies and yet is blonde enough to not know the sex of her pet.<b style=""><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 22.5pt; text-align: justify;"><b style=""><o:p> </o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;">The bullet lists do not matter for me either you are Summer or you might as well be a Martian sandstorm for all I care.</p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b style=""><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;">At the end I would like to request the reader who fancies herself as Summer to kindly get in touch with my good friend “Summer Hunter” [3], she will be the final judge of whether you are the real thing or not. </p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b style=""><o:p> </o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b style="">[1] The probable reason while Summer is ideal because she was all A could never be<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b style=""><o:p> </o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b style="">[2] We all fancied ourselves as Seth, but you know who the real Seth is right, the one who sends out this gibberish into Blogosphere <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b style=""><o:p> </o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; text-align: justify;"><b style="">[3] Yes that’s how we roll Summer Hunter and Seth Cohen :)<o:p></o:p></b></p>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-59424006464297393752008-05-22T21:45:00.000-07:002008-05-22T21:47:50.224-07:00So True !<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/SDZMbJNVuzI/AAAAAAAAAI8/hsz2j-i3SCQ/s1600-h/bad_timing.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/SDZMbJNVuzI/AAAAAAAAAI8/hsz2j-i3SCQ/s400/bad_timing.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203430448685234994" border="0" /></a>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-76680282454649028032008-05-16T08:53:00.000-07:002008-05-16T09:14:54.311-07:00Cellphone Etiquettes for DummiesWe’ve all heard about them from the time we were very young- manners, manners, manners. Mothers all over the globe do what they can to instill some kind of proper etiquette in their children and many succeed. However when many people use a cellphone, etiquette seems to disappear. So here's a quick fire list which will transform your image from an ape using a Motorola Dynatac to a suave sophisticated person with a fancy i phone<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Answer the phone: </span>May seem basic but hardly followed, these days people just refuse to pickup their phones. Given that you may be a lil busy at times and not able to attend calls so you must call back in these cases.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Let the other person speak: </span>Again pretty straight forward, but some people seem to be infected with verbal diarrhea and just cant stop yapping. This particular habit makes me want to simply hang up on them*.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Don't hang up abruptly: </span>Always be polite when you hang up, enough said.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4. Don't give miss calls to people and want them to call you: </span>That's just cheap.(This also includes SMSing people for calling you)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5. Call other people:</span> We know that you are broke 28 days out of 30 but still everyone appreciates if the other person also bothers to call sometimes.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">6. Call people when you have already given them a time for calling: </span>This variety is the most obnoxious according to me, either you call when you say you are going to or don't bother saying that you will call. I have hundred other things to worry about then your call.<br /><br /><br />So folks that's it according to me, you guys are most welcome to add to the list. Many people have had the experience of being nexted coz they didn't follow these etiquettes, for others I have made peace with the fact that they have a pint sized brain and would never be able to comprehend the above rules, it's enough that they have a cellphone, using it properly.... may be in the next lifetime :P.crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-12041422626451935592008-05-08T10:05:00.000-07:002008-05-08T21:12:11.119-07:00I never did say "Hi"<div style="text-align: justify;">Over the course of your lifetime you meet a whole lotta people, some of them stick with you through thick and thin and while with others you just walk a few blocks on the street called Life and then they take a different turn and you never get to see them again, there is another category of people who you have never quite walked with but they keep bumping into you on every other turn and you just wonder why haven't you said a "Hi" to this person all this while.<br /><br /><span class="sqq">Once upon a time there was a girl I knew, who </span>shared my school bus stop with me<span class="sqq">. Brown hair, brown eyes.</span> I never quite said "Hi" to her, I wish I had but we never got to that level where I could just pop around on the bus stop and say "Hi".(Yea I know I was pretty bad). Anyho time rolled along and I decided that I had a crush on her and this made the aforementioned "Hi" even more difficult to say( I know I was one of those tragedy kings meets Dram Queen kinda person, still am a lil bit).<br /><br />She was my " keeping bumping into at most inane of places". I would see her in a restaurant half way across the city. I mean what are the odds of someone choosing the same restaurant out hundreds of restaurants on the same day that you decided to go there. Then I met her at a party which I decided to attend at the last minute and viola there she is enjoying the '"Golgappas" that you too like, keep in mind I was just tagging along with someone who had been invited to this party and didn't want to show up all alone.<br /><br /><span class="sqq">Change is never easy. You fight to hold on. </span><span class="sqq">You fight to let go.</span><span class="sqq"> I moved away to college and never did see her again for a few years. I have since then moved back to the city and a</span> few days back I saw her at the same Bus Stop that we once shared, life had come full circle and I realized I still haven't said "Hi" to her, this was a different time but the same me so I just moved on , may be next time we bump into each other I would give her the link to this place.<br /><br /><br />PS: If you have been reading the blog regularly I might have referred to her as Bus Stop Girl or the elusive one before.</div>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-75788648432648316662008-04-12T09:11:00.000-07:002008-04-12T09:17:04.919-07:00Am I a Dylan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/SADga9v0GoI/AAAAAAAAAIs/-2g1FskYXGA/s1600-h/Rock-Roll-Bob-Dylan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/SADga9v0GoI/AAAAAAAAAIs/-2g1FskYXGA/s400/Rock-Roll-Bob-Dylan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188393524587141762" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br />Sometimes you think and you wonder<br />That as times are a changing<br />You too are a changing<br />From walking down a lonely road<br />You are now on a highway chocked<br />Just yesterday there was a cricket match on the street<br />and the hostel din surrounded everything<br />But come today and you wander<br />in the corridors of power and a mall<br />You too are a changing!<br /></div>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-64900025595809982312008-03-23T02:31:00.000-07:002008-03-23T02:35:09.644-07:00Aplhabets: Funny creatures<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/R-YjqHBDYBI/AAAAAAAAAH4/CEXqys1Jt4U/s1600-h/sach+mein1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/R-YjqHBDYBI/AAAAAAAAAH4/CEXqys1Jt4U/s400/sach+mein1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5180867627681275922" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I am sure God had the same thing in mind when he created English language. I think I am gonna get hold of small kid and teach him alphabets(or not). Anyways I promise to fill you in on Shillong Nothings next time, till then hold on to that mouse of yours(I think I may have intended some pun there).crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-45856977827748061182008-03-06T22:11:00.000-08:002008-03-06T22:12:41.296-08:00Dating 101<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Dating, going steady, seeing someone, hanging out, and going out. An exhaustive list of words/phrases to describe a brief exercise designed for young men and women to eventually add more leaves to the family tree. Today you are invited to a thoughtful, concise and entertaining (or so I hope) sermon on this modern phenomenon. How wise, flippant, sober or stupid, this treatment has been, it is for the reader alone to judge. However if out of curiosity, admiration or pure pity the readers detect the faint beginning of a smile on their faces than your neighborhood saint would consider his work well done.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We shall start from the basics first up the victims/perpetrators.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="">Man:</b> Four to two to three legs and boom dating, it’s as simple as that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="">Woman:</b> When the aforesaid man asks her out for a coffee. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Now usually the boy in question fully unprepared picks up the phone and calls his certain someone and talks about all the things like homework, career and even some random Bushisms he heard the other day and the girl acutely aware of the boy’s condition plays along and seeing his opportunity boy prepares for the final question, like a kamikaze pilot he takes one last breath and lunges forward. He asks the girl out to the local coffee shop.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">At the coffee shop feeling the full weight of the moment boy tries to engage in small talk only to find that there is an alien menu staring back at him asking him to choose a coffee from. The ritual continues and usually spills over to a second date. Houston we have lift off!<span style=""> </span>In some cases this cycle of dates continues till either the boy decides it is time to pop the big one “Do you wanna be my girl” [1] or the girl decides that she “just wants to be friends” [2]. And just like that the first leg of the ceremony is over leaving the newly formed couple with inflated phone bills.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The tone and tenure of the whole thing may vary from place to place, from generation to generation but remember that even Adam had to ask Eve out [3].<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">[1] I know a few Indian specimens you have used variations of the phrase “I love you” on these occasions with partial success.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">[2] This leaves you with a lot of frivolous coffee bills and possibly a broken heart</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">[3] A certain apple had its role in this story but no coffee !<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-47279209260173151282008-02-12T23:19:00.000-08:002008-02-12T23:27:11.460-08:00Singles Awareness Day14<sup>th</sup> February, a day which did not hold much significance in the years I spent growing up. Archie’s Gallery was a new fad. There were no CCDs and Barista outlets around. And just as I shipped out to the college Boom! There was a CCD near my place, a Barista opened its gates and suddenly the Espresso Coffee gave way to Cappuccinos. I guess what I am trying to say is that ‘events’ are scared lil cats they don’t come at you one by one they attack as a pack and leap out at you when you least expect them to. <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I remember very little of when I was introduced to this whole new concept, I guess it was my sister who started it. The funny thing is when you are in 9<sup>th</sup> grade; you think you are the men among 7<sup>th</sup> grade boys and as no self respecting man would I didn’t give in to the shenanigans that the ‘kids’ were engaged in. The first 14<sup>th</sup> February just came and went by. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Come next year and it was like the ghosts of Valentine Past, present and future and everything else in between had descended upon me, there I was holding a phone in my hand trying to work up the courage to call up my would be valentine, there are few things in life as terrifying as calling up a <span style=""> </span>14 year old girl and asking her to be your valentine. The easy thing would have been to just dial her number and ask her out but then again the road less traveled is less traveled for a reason, so I moved on to the next best thing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I calculated, I schemed, I bumped off a few friends, I bribed and there I was seating on a seat just behind her, trying to catch a glimpse of interest but the dork that she was, there was nothing more important than the Battles of Panipat in her life. Finally T- 10 seconds to the final bell I gave her the valentine card. The rest of the story is one of those ‘I haven’t told this to anyone’ things. Alright this may not have been the way it all went down, but this is how it should have, this is how I wanted it to happen. Reality is wrong, dreams are for real.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="">PS</b>: You know I have been thinking for some time and my espresso has already gone cold, how many guys do you reckon would be feeling like a short pudgy child has shot an arrow through their heart tomorrow. I hope that the ER rooms are ready for the Valentine day onslaught<span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="">J</span></span>.<span style=""> </span></p>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-84491478045896162652008-02-02T02:16:00.000-08:002008-02-02T02:27:30.720-08:00To whom it may concern: It is Summer time<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When I was younger I would remember everything, whether it happened or not, I much saner now and only remember what people think I would remember. I know it’s always best to look at life through the windshield rather than through the rear view mirror but then again there is a reason that rear view mirror is there. The reason for me is to look back, cock my head sideways at 45° and smile after all memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A year ends and another comes up but before it does there is a time when all things school are put on hold. This is the time of early morning cricket matches, of evenings spent cycling, of summer flings. It’s the time when nothing seems impossible, like endeavors to build a Schwarzenegger body, the hope that you will finally somehow against all the forces of the universe meet the elusive one. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This one summer break was unlike others, I was going on a school trip. Some will say that Mumbai is where dreams come true but this one summer the official dream city had moved. It was the time of possibilities, of hope, of reckless abandonment, of wild hopes and of puppy love. Love is a horrible thing, forget the age old advise of feeling something in the pit of your stomach it’s more like being a rugby ball being kicked at, thrown around for 90 minutes except in this case it lasts a little while longer. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It was an empty bus on a mountain side, we both had stayed coz of the giddy feeling that one gets while climbing mountain roads at least that was the case with her. I think my giddy feeling came from a totally unrelated phenomenon. We both sat on our seats thinking, waiting, feeling giddy and then there we were facing each other. It was the first kiss for both of us. We never really talked about it afterwards. Once back she said goodbye to me in front of my parents who knew a lil too much about her being my first crush.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">PS: I am new to this kinda writing.</p>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-11888985978732515762008-01-23T21:52:00.002-08:002008-01-24T00:24:19.854-08:00Wonder Years<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Let us deviate from the tried and tested script for a while and talk about life. You know life, the moments that you just can’t forget and the moments that you wish never did happen and everything else in between.<span style=""> </span>Just the other day you were the kid who would hop in the school bus to meet his Winnie Cooper and then you were the boy who would stand on the bus stand waiting to catch a glimpse of the elusive one across the road and now the guy sitting by a fire place and typing this post out. High school was like a spork, a crappy spoon and a crappy fork, so in the end it was just plain useless. Growing up is full of big moments. Some of them you can see coming from a mile away; and some you can't see at all.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Things never turn out the way that you thought they would, neither do you go on to become a pilot which was the first thing you wanted to be nor do you even remember what you wanted to be after the whole pilot phase fizzled out. You just wish that the best in you is still up your sleeve.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Just the other day there were only two channels that you had only two channels to choose from and today you have a dish on your roof that would bring in all but the two you want to watch. From watching the Byomokesh Bakshis a few years ago now you can’t wait to get your hands on the latest sitcom out in the US. I remember a time a place when kids use to leave the playing field for the Sunday evening movie; I remember a house like a lot of houses a locality like a lot of localities and how it felt to grow up among people and places I loved and most of all I remember how hard it was to move away for college. Sometimes I just look back and wonder.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""> </span>Life is like a scrap book. Most people have just 20 pages, but what you are looking for is the one with 50 pages with some extra magenta pages thrown in. I fancy myself as a 50 page scrap book though I have got a few missing. It’s ok though coz I got some nice olive pages at my disposal. I have a bit of a problem though in that I seem to bump into a lot of 20 pages. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation.. so when I meet someone who's an 50 pages type.. I'm like, "hey girl, magenta!" and she's like, "oh, you mean purple!" and she goes off on her purple thing, and I'm like, "no - I want magenta!"” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p> We shall resume normal transmission from next post (or not!).<br /><br />Have a lovely weekend.crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-28140249112855214272008-01-14T00:09:00.000-08:002008-01-14T00:45:45.057-08:00An Open letter to my DogI know I have been MIA for quite some time but life's been a busy b***h and I have been having too much fun to come back and post here, which doesn't mean that the fun has ended now, it's just that I love you guys too much to let you stay in peace for more than 20 days or so. So without much ado I present to "An Open letter to my Dog".<br /><br />Dear Dog<br /><br />It's me The Blog Owner, now although you rarely read this blog and may not be able to recognize who this is, let me jog your memory. Everyday at 6:30 AM when all the world is asleep in their warm and cozy rooms and it's like freezing out there, I take you out for Potty.<br /><br />Ok now wipe that self satiating smile of your face, in future try to do your stuff a lil faster so I can get in a few minutes of extra sleep. You see I have been working on a lot of BPR [1] Projects lately and thought that may you could do with a simple algorithm for pooping:<br /><br />STEP 1: Wake me up, you do not need to lick my feet or my face at this step. I repeat no licking just a low barking sound will do.<br /><br />STEP2: When I try to put the Red Leash on, that's exactly what I am doing, I am not playing fetch the ball or some such thing( Why would I effing want to play fetch at 6:30 in the morning !)<br />So behave and let me put it on.<br /><br />STEP 3: At this point we go out and you take a poop. Now as my BPR acumen tells me this is the most time consuming step in the whole process and needs re-engineering ( if it was some other project we could have done with some ICT [2] initiatives but no this is you ). So I would just say take a poop already and you would obey.<br /><br />STEP 4: On our way back we don't need to play " who walked by here " by smelling every vertical surface around. I repeat out Objective of Potty is over and now we shall retreat to our warm and cozy room. Do you copy Dear Dog ?<br /><br />Ok now that we have gotten that issue out of the way, it brings me to another incident:<br /><br />Stop hitting on Girls that I like ok! I can't believe that I am just left standing there while you become the center of attraction of a group of girls. You are supposed to be my wing (well sorta) so quit ruining my game.<br /><br />And now for the reason that you shall obey whatever has been said herein you see I have opposable thumbs. This is why I get to be in charge. I can open cans, doors, and bags of treats. . I'm also the only one with a driver's license and a car. I win. Being cute is no match for opposable thumbs.<br /><br />While I in no way wish to suppress your rightful dogginess, I feel that these very simple guidelines will allow us to continue to co-exist in peaceful harmony.<br /><br />Much thanks,<br /><br />The Blog Owner <br /><br />[1] BPR : Business Process Re-engineering<br /><br />[2] ICT : Information and Communication Technologycrackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-31342462824094664332007-12-16T07:17:00.000-08:002007-12-20T06:55:55.318-08:00"What happened to all the Nice Guys"Last post had a section on Nice Rebuttals and alluded to the Nice Guy Syndrome and while I was scuba diving in the vast ocean of intra web I came up with this lil GOLD nugget. The views presented here are not mine but I do find myself nodding to them albeit with a lil smirk and "take that" feeling thrown in. So here it is:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> What happened to all the nice guys? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> The answer is simple: you did. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He'd tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn't feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were "just friends." Besides, he totally wasn't your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn't know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you werent dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren't the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you're single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, "What happened to all the nice guys?" </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Well, once again, you did. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive "just-a-" friend. Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren't really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you're upset; or hold you when you cry. He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he'd have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Fact is, now, he's probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I'm sorry that it took the complete absence of "nice guys" in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> So, if you're looking for a nice guy, here's what you do: </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> 1.) Build a time machine. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> 2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> 3.) Take a look at what's right in front of you and grab ahold of it. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> I suppose the other possibility is that you STILL don't really want a nice guy, but you feel the social pressure to at least appear to have matured beyond your infantile taste in men. In which case, you might be in luck, because the nice guy you claim to want has, in reality, shed his nice guy mantle and is out there looking to unleash his cynicism and resentment onto someone just like you. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> If you were five years younger. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> So, please: either stop misrepresenting what you want, or own up to the fact that you've fucked yourself over. You're getting older, after all. It's time to excise the bullshit and deal with reality. You didn't want a nice guy then, and he certainly doesn't fucking want you, now. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Sincerely, </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> A Recovering Nice Guy<br /><br /></span>PS: I am listening to YMCA right now and trying to make the alphabets which should give you a hint as to why I am not in writing mood today. YMCA.....crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-86075020237992356652007-12-12T07:19:00.000-08:002007-12-12T09:14:28.241-08:00NOTHING 9 : RandomnessWell if you are expecting a cleverly crafted tale of humor with embellishments of Sarcasm and the wierdosity that is me, then my friend you have come to the wrong place 'coz we never serve that connotation at this place.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Getting Married:</span> (to her Fiance) Go home, take two slices on bread, make omelet , eat it and then go to sleep , get up tomorrow at 6:00 AM, take a morning walk......(you get the idea right !)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span><sarcasm>Why don't you open up your laptop and make him a Daily Plan using Microsoft Project, you can use the Gannt Chart view which would be so much more easier for him.</sarcasm><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Getting Married:</span> The Pandit Ji is giving me headaches with his ever expanding and completely abstruse list of Puja Samagri.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Why don't you make an excel sheet and email it over to your Pandit Ji and ask him to edit it in Track Change mode it will make life a lot easier for you and for him.<br /><br />Moving on to uncharted territories we shall hypothesize on the subject of being "Nice" (and no I am not going to give out lectures on How to avoid the nice guy routine here!).<br /><br />We will discuss how you can turn the tables with your "Nice" rebuttal. For e.g.<br /><br />1. Hey that's a nice dress you got there (Should never ever be confused with cute/sexy dress). What this actually means is that I for once would be a Chauvinist and not comment on the eye jarring color that you are wearing.<br /><br />2. Oh thats so nice of you! What this one means is whatever you did it doesn't matter much but You did something that lies somewhere between me sending you a Thankyou note or ignoring you<br /><br />3. Nice !This I use when I am at loss of words to explain the phenomenon in question<br /><br /><br /><br />So what I want to say is that the "Nice" rebuttal comes in all shapes and sizes and these are my two cents to the "Nice" scheme that many of us run. Please feel free to add to the list.<br /><br />Thus endeth the Lessoncrackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-75188024941638013922007-12-10T09:25:00.001-08:002007-12-10T09:28:27.843-08:00They say it's so me !<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/R112y8M4WLI/AAAAAAAAAGY/o2IGhT9ZGAE/s1600-h/couple.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/R112y8M4WLI/AAAAAAAAAGY/o2IGhT9ZGAE/s400/couple.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142396967052662962" border="0" /></a><br />PS: All you peeps add the Honesty Box Application on Facebook, if nothing else you could spam your friends all you wantedcrackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-82455686428217640452007-11-04T06:15:00.001-08:002007-11-06T00:38:16.505-08:00[ Untitled ]<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/Ry3UZGCC43I/AAAAAAAAAEc/s1_255bKCK4/s1600-h/untitled1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/Ry3UZGCC43I/AAAAAAAAAEc/s1_255bKCK4/s400/untitled1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128989078225871730" border="0" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal">It was the sixth time I had watched Notting Hill and though hang on this is a nice idea for a post after all I am your regular sarcastic and hopelessly romantic chump. So here is the post where I list some of the scenes from the movie with comments from yours truly and I do this at the danger of being called the guy who wouldn’t let you watch the movie with his galling comments but such are the travails associated with being a blog writer:P. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Scene 1 <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">William</b> - Would you like something to eat? Something to nibble? Apricots, soaked in honey? Quite why, no one knows, because it stops them tasting like apricots and makes them taste like honey... and if you wanted honey, you could just... buy honey. Instead of apricots. But nevertheless they're yours if you want them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I would say that was rather funny than say</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">The Guy at Barista – </b>What coffee would you like sir?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Me </b>– Ahh hmmm (Looks at the menu for what seems like an eternity), how about that one over there second row fourth column just below the espresso.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">The Guy at Barista – </b>Sir that’s a black coffee, are you sure about it?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Me</b> – Oh no no I would like a cappuccino than.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">The Guy at Barista</b> – Very well sir, do you mind Sir, the Lady [1] here has been staring at you for a rather long time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Me</b> - What Lady?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">The Lady</b> - You know I have been standing here and watching you order a coffee for like 8 mins now.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Me</b> – It’s been that long.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">The Lady</b> – Yeah!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Me</b> – Smiles like Hugh Grant and shrugs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Scene 2<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">William </b>– The film’s great, I was just wondering whether you ever thought of having more horses in it?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Anna</b> – Well, we would have liked to but it was difficult, obviously being set in space.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">William</b> – Space right yeah obviously very difficult.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><i style=""><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:10;" >(Interruption by her manager on talking about Anna’s next movie)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">William</b> – Any horses in that one or hounds for that matter, our readers are intrigued equally by both species.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Anna</b> – It takes place on a Submarine.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">No comments there I have never been hustled into interviewing a celebrity (just don’t see it happening), but what I do have for you is a totally awkward situation.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Her </b>– Do you have a girlfriend?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Me</b> - No.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Me</b> - Do you have a boyfriend.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Her</b> – No.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Me</b> – Ever had one? (Of course you daft headed prick, just look at her does she look like she wouldn’t have had a boyfriend, (God you are such a kid))</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Her</b> – Yea, I think I have told you about my ex</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><i style=""><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:10;" >(Then she goes on about how they broke up and are still in touch blah blah blah)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Me </b>– So you guys are on a break right now?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Her</b> – Yeah, it’s more like a permanent kind of thing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Me</b> – Oh so this is like a irremovable discontinuity in you love graph. (Seriously what is wrong with you!)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Her </b>– A what?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><i style=""><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:10;" >(A lecture on high school mathematics follows)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I wouldn’t go further coz it would involve some more mathematics and readers had complained about headaches in the previous post. (Alright I would have, I don’t give balls to your headache but it’s just too nerdy)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="">Scene 3 <o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s the Whoopsidaisies! Scene (go watch the movie if you haven’t seen it yet), it’s one of them classic scenes and my comments on this one are:</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Where in Delhi is such a Garden where you could just walk with your date without looking like a Hobo couple”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> PS: Dear HCE there might be some punctuation mistakes here and there, please forgive. I didn't get it edited coz you were(are) having exams.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>PPS: I am headed towards the same Barista again, hopefully this time I shall be able to decide my coffee a lil faster<br /></o:p></p>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8459910.post-81991912462919373222007-10-23T02:22:00.000-07:002007-11-03T09:23:22.235-07:00You Know Just Another Mathematical Proof !<p>Credits : Someone out there.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p> Suppose that you can go out with some number of guys, <i>n</i>. Assume that after going out with any number <i>r</i> (1 ≤ <i>r</i> ≤ <i>n</i>) of the men, you can rank them from most preferable (rank 1) to least preferable (rank <i>r</i>). At any stage, you can either stop and commit to one man, or go on to the next one. Further, assume that once a guy is rejected you can never go back. </p><p> For <i>i</i> = 1, …, <i>n</i>, let U(<i>i</i>) be the utility of selecting the guy with rank <i>i</i> among all <i>n</i> guys. We shall assume that U(1) ≥ U(2) ≥ … ≥ U(<i>n</i>). Let the random variable <i>X</i> denote the rank of the man that is selected. The goal is to find a rule with maximizes E(U(<i>X</i>)). </p><p> For <i>a</i> = 1, …, <i>r</i> and <i>r</i> = 1, …, <i>n</i>, let U<sup>*</sup>(<i>a,r</i>) denote the expected utility of the optimal continuation when <i>r</i> guys have been inspected and the <i>r<sup>th</sup></i> guy has been found to have a rank <i>a</i> among the <i>r</i>. Also, let U<sub>0</sub>(<i>a,r</i>) denote the expected utility if the <i>r<sup>th</sup></i> man is selected, and dating is terminated. Since we fixed an <i>n</i>, </p><blockquote> U<sup>*</sup>(<i>a,n</i>) = U<sub>0</sub>(<i>a,n</i>) = U(<i>a</i>) </blockquote> Now consider the probability than a man with rank <i>a</i> among the first <i>r</i> actually has rank <i>b</i> among all <i>n</i> men: <blockquote> <table> <tbody><tr> <td rowspan="2"><span style="font-size:100%;">(</span></td> <td><i>b</i> – 1</td> <td rowspan="2"><span style="font-size:100%;">)</span> × <span style="font-size:100%;">(</span></td> <td><i>n</i> – <i>b</i></td> <td rowspan="2"><span style="font-size:100%;">)</span> / <span style="font-size:100%;">(</span></td> <td style="vertical-align: top;"><br /></td><td style="vertical-align: top;"><br /></td><td style="vertical-align: top;"><br /></td><td style="vertical-align: top;"><br /></td><td><i>n</i></td> <td rowspan="2"><span style="font-size:100%;">)</span></td> </tr> <tr> <td><i>a</i> – 1</td> <td><i>r</i> – <i>a</i></td> <td style="vertical-align: top;"><br /></td><td style="vertical-align: top;"><br /></td><td style="vertical-align: top;"><br /></td><td style="vertical-align: top;"><br /></td><td><i>r</i></td> </tr> </tbody></table> </blockquote> The rank <i>b</i> must lie between the bounds <i>a</i> ≤ <i>b</i> ≤ (<i>n</i> – <i>r</i> + <i>a</i>). Therefore,<br /><blockquote> <table valign="middle" border="0"> <tbody><tr valign="bottom"> <td><br /></td> <td align="center"><span style=""><i>b</i>=<i>a</i></span></td> <td><br /></td> </tr> <tr valign="middle"> <td rowspan="2">U<sub>0</sub>(<i>a,r</i>) =</td> <td rowspan="2" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;">∑</span></td> <td rowspan="2">U(<i>b</i>) <span style="font-size:100%;">(</span></td> <td><i>b</i> – 1</td> <td rowspan="2"><span style="font-size:100%;">)</span> × <span style="font-size:100%;">(</span></td> <td><i>n</i> – <i>b</i></td> <td rowspan="2"><span style="font-size:100%;">)</span> / <span style="font-size:100%;">(</span></td> <td><i>n</i></td> <td rowspan="2"><span style="font-size:100%;">)</span></td> </tr> <tr valign="middle"> <td><i>a</i> – 1</td> <td><i>r</i> – <i>a</i></td> <td><i>r</i></td> </tr> <tr valign="top"> <td><br /></td> <td align="center"><span style=""><i>n</i>–<i>r</i>+<i>a</i></span></td> <td><br /></td> </tr> </tbody></table> </blockquote> Clearly, after inspecting <i>r</i> guys, the expected utility of inspecting one more and continuing optimally is <blockquote> <table> <tbody><tr valign="bottom"> <td><br /></td> <td><span style=""><i>b</i>=1</span></td> <td><br /></td> </tr> <tr> <td>1/(<i>r</i>+1) ×</td> <td align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;">∑</span></td> <td>U<sup>*</sup>(<i>b</i>, <i>r</i>+1)</td> </tr> <tr> <td><br /></td> <td><span style=""><i>r</i>+1</span></td> <td><br /></td> </tr> </tbody></table> </blockquote> Call this expression <i>Z</i>. From this, we can see that U<sup>*</sup>(<i>a,r</i>) = max(U<sub>0</sub>(<i>a,r</i>),<i>Z</i>). The optimal procedure is to continue if U<sup>*</sup>(<i>a,r</i>) > U<sub>0</sub>(<i>a,r</i>), and to commit when U<sup>*</sup>(<i>a,r</i>) = U<sub>0</sub>(<i>a,r</i>) <p> Now, consider the choice of utility function. Assume a spherical cow. Also, assume that U(1) = 1, and U(<i>b</i>) = 0 for <i>b</i> = 2, …, <i>n</i>. Then U<sub>0</sub>(1,<i>r</i>) = <i>r</i>/<i>n</i>, and U<sub>0</sub>(<i>a,r</i>) = 0 <i>a</i> = 2, …, <i>r</i>. Note that this is a fair approximation for the case of a soulmate. Then U<sup>*</sup>(1,<i>r</i>) = <i>r</i>/<i>n</i>, and should be continued if U<sup>*</sup>(1,<i>r</i>) > <i>r</i>/<i>n</i>. </p><p> It then follows that the optimal procedure is to go out with 1/<i>e</i> of the guys, and then select the first one thereafter which has rank 1. </p><p> Now, if <i>n</i> isn’t fixed, utility can be maximized by maximizing <i>n</i>. I’m a guy. QED. </p><p>An alternate proof can be constructed by assuming we’re both Bayesian reasoners, that disagreements about priors are irrational, and that my priors are rational. The proof is left as an exercise to the reader.</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/Rx2-ddGpzMI/AAAAAAAAAEE/WJvlxdQ9xyw/s1600-h/dating_pools.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_HHz--oWnjHM/Rx2-ddGpzMI/AAAAAAAAAEE/WJvlxdQ9xyw/s400/dating_pools.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124461364255509698" border="0" /></a> </p>crackfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15245638671391196228noreply@blogger.com3