Wednesday, February 21
Nostalgia
Inter alia
Go forth and Procreate: Reason # .55
You can buy a new car with all that lovely dough you get from tax returns *sigh*. People with kids can be so annoying sometimes!
You can buy a new car with all that lovely dough you get from tax returns *sigh*. People with kids can be so annoying sometimes!
Monday, February 19
Choices
"Amma, remember how, whenever we went to a restaurant for dinner I would always insist on chocolate mousse for dinnerdessert? Remember? And everytime you'd say, "But kanna, if you never try any other kind how can you know that this is your favourite? You have to try everything at least once, da." I never listened then. It didn't make sense. Or maybe it made too much sense. I was only 5. But amma, now I understand. Now, I think of all the tattoos I never got etched on my skin, the lost testaments to idiocy, all the clothes I never bought because they made me look fat, or they weren't my colour. Now, All the places I never visited because they were too far away, or too noisy, or too dusty.
I seized my second chance, amma. To redeem myself. A second chance for that 5 year old mousse-worshipping kid to grow into someone who isn't scared to grab opportunities by the scruff of the neck and shake the newness out of them. Someone who can order tiramasu and gulp it down without a flinch. Can you imagine, amma? This new me? I'm glad I carpe-ed the diem (see, I've even learnt foreign expressions). You would be proud of me.
Would I be less worthy of that pride if I confessed, amma? Don't despise me, but sometimes I worry. And I wish I could ask you what you think. Did I do the right thing? Because he is married. I think of the other 5 year old girl. His daughter. What would she think of me? But, no. As a far more confused man than me said, that way madness lies. I know I did the right thing. I'm experiencing life, like you always wanted me to and it's turning out to be like nothing I ever imagined. So I'm happy. I must be. Even you would say so if you saw me now.
But one thing, amma. I've tried strudels, sorbets, cointreau melts, caramelized fruits in alcoholic concoctions, meringues, pandan rice cake even. I liked them all but I still like chocolate mousse the best."
Apology: So many dashed typos! This is what happens when you type a post out in 15 minutes when you actually ought to be doing something else *hangs head in shame*.
I seized my second chance, amma. To redeem myself. A second chance for that 5 year old mousse-worshipping kid to grow into someone who isn't scared to grab opportunities by the scruff of the neck and shake the newness out of them. Someone who can order tiramasu and gulp it down without a flinch. Can you imagine, amma? This new me? I'm glad I carpe-ed the diem (see, I've even learnt foreign expressions). You would be proud of me.
Would I be less worthy of that pride if I confessed, amma? Don't despise me, but sometimes I worry. And I wish I could ask you what you think. Did I do the right thing? Because he is married. I think of the other 5 year old girl. His daughter. What would she think of me? But, no. As a far more confused man than me said, that way madness lies. I know I did the right thing. I'm experiencing life, like you always wanted me to and it's turning out to be like nothing I ever imagined. So I'm happy. I must be. Even you would say so if you saw me now.
But one thing, amma. I've tried strudels, sorbets, cointreau melts, caramelized fruits in alcoholic concoctions, meringues, pandan rice cake even. I liked them all but I still like chocolate mousse the best."
Apology: So many dashed typos! This is what happens when you type a post out in 15 minutes when you actually ought to be doing something else *hangs head in shame*.
Rhyme and Reason No.1
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
Encapsulates my mood. The reason I love Auden is because of his unexpectedness. Like most people I slot words. When I'm listening to a song, or a poem, I find my mind jumping to fill in the last word of the next line, only based on habits of rhyme and metre. But with Auden you never know what he's going to say next, what concept he'll introduce, which turn the sentence will take. For that, I adore the man (regardless of how querulous a man he was, which statement annoys me with its irrelevancy). The rest follows below.
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
Encapsulates my mood. The reason I love Auden is because of his unexpectedness. Like most people I slot words. When I'm listening to a song, or a poem, I find my mind jumping to fill in the last word of the next line, only based on habits of rhyme and metre. But with Auden you never know what he's going to say next, what concept he'll introduce, which turn the sentence will take. For that, I adore the man (regardless of how querulous a man he was, which statement annoys me with its irrelevancy). The rest follows below.
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Sunday, February 18
Anticipation
As Wiseling said, we present THE BAI CHRONICLES. Pliss to like them.
They sat in the big laundry hamper, eyes round, waiting for her next word. "And then, Bai?" they asked. She savoured the moment. The smell of fresh cotton enveloped them. She folded a shirt, Ralph Lauren. An alphabet-string. She looked up at the shining faces. She wanted to cry. They would pay with attention.
They sat in the big laundry hamper, eyes round, waiting for her next word. "And then, Bai?" they asked. She savoured the moment. The smell of fresh cotton enveloped them. She folded a shirt, Ralph Lauren. An alphabet-string. She looked up at the shining faces. She wanted to cry. They would pay with attention.
Friday, February 16
Epiphany #1
The problem isn't that there aren't any answers, the problem is in that there *are*.
(I'm still not sure if this is an epiphany or crap, but it seemed ridiculous to title it Crap #1, though I know not as ridiculous as some of the other things these pages have seen :D).
So, I was measuring stuff out (cos that's what the scummiest of the scum does* in a lab) and distributing it among various measuring cylinders all day today. That sort of activity fatally gives you time to think, and eventually your mind comes up with these dazzling flashes of intuition (or whatever the heck it is). And I figure that the whole bloody thing** is just a result of not being able to accept the answer. (It's like when a guy asks you out, and you politely say No, but Thanks, which he then interprets to mean I really truly absobluminitely wanna go out with you but I'm such a shy retarded half-wit that I can't bring myself to say Yes. And then he hounds you.) That's the problem with the world. And that's why we need god. Cos otherwise what's the answer to the question why?
*Is scum a collective noun? Should the verb be do?
**'thing' meaning all those awful 3 in the morning questions like 'What is the meaning of all of this?' and 'Why am I here?' (though that one is often caused simply by a combination of alcohol and high spirits, and can quite easily be answered by conscious bystanders) and 'If I disappeared tomorrow would it make a difference to any freaking person in the world?' (also all too often most easily answered).
Update: See the strip right on top? That is what I'm talking about. XKCD rocks!
Thursday, February 15
A Valentine Binge
So, I've been overcome by Valentine's Day. I admit it. I thought I could look it firmly in the eye, and wilt it with my withering stare. But no. I am not that strong. I have littered the blogosphere with hideous rhyme (written with sweat and grime), sentimental quotes (which haven't won me any love notes) and sighed over sappy verse (to which I was never averse). What is worse than all of that (yeah worse than the stuff in the parantheses even) however, is an unfair allegation (pliss to see the comments section) levelled against me by one who should have known better, one feels *sigh* (or at least one feels that anyone should have known better, not this one in particular, cos one doesn't really know this one, or even who this one is!). However, to keep my word (and also cos I can't stop myself from rhyming! Dang it!) I shall produce the promised Valentine here. And, before you sigh and patiently read the abominations that I shall spew forth (at least I hope you will read the said a. cos otherwise I shall be heartbroken and will sally forth to join the Vogons, who have extended a standing invitation to me btw), I promise you that this shall be my last Valentine (for this year that is). There, hope you're happy!
A Sonnet to N-with-the-exclamation-mark (but not in iambic pentameter cos i suck at it)
Shall I compare thee to a winter storm
So cold, so icy, the winds of your disdain
Your wicked jibes upon my slender form
Pelt, your cruel laughter like sleeting rain.
But yet, you add lightly, with gentle glow
That last mitigating glance, the addendum
Like winter sunshine after the drifting snow
The throwaway endorsements, I adore 'em.
Indeed what winter would melt in one instant
What blizzard vanish before an eye's blink
Then, how could I quicksilver maidens resent
Do not for a moment that, fair one, think.
Though winter's harsh beauty might justly contest
My monosyllabic lady, you are by far the cruellest.
Disclaimer: For all protests and complaints please contact Valentine, Saint at #666, Ninth Heaven, c/o God Inc.
A Sonnet to N-with-the-exclamation-mark (but not in iambic pentameter cos i suck at it)
Shall I compare thee to a winter storm
So cold, so icy, the winds of your disdain
Your wicked jibes upon my slender form
Pelt, your cruel laughter like sleeting rain.
But yet, you add lightly, with gentle glow
That last mitigating glance, the addendum
Like winter sunshine after the drifting snow
The throwaway endorsements, I adore 'em.
Indeed what winter would melt in one instant
What blizzard vanish before an eye's blink
Then, how could I quicksilver maidens resent
Do not for a moment that, fair one, think.
Though winter's harsh beauty might justly contest
My monosyllabic lady, you are by far the cruellest.
Disclaimer: For all protests and complaints please contact Valentine, Saint at #666, Ninth Heaven, c/o God Inc.
Tuesday, February 13
Perspective
She squinted in the sudden, dazzling sunshine. She had forgotten how bright her country was, how every sense seemed to go into overdrive as soon as she crossed the border. Recognition and then, an irrepressible smile. She stepped into the familiar embrace, the inimitable fragrance she had grown up with, a combination of something floral, sandalwood and talcum, enveloped her. She was welcome. For an instant she stayed in the circle of reassurance, felt all her hard won independence and strength seeping out of her. The one place she didn't feel like she had to communicate, that she had to work to be understood and to understand, that she was in a parallel universe, on one bank of a raging river shouting over the wind to the other side, trying to be heard. She sighed, her second skin shed. She belonged. Her mother stepped back from the embrace. "You have become a skeleton, papa. Skin and bones! At least I can fatten you up now that you're back". She laced her arm through her mother's as they started walking towards the car, "Amma, what are you saying? I'm fattttt!!!!!!!!" she exclaimed, thinking, for an instant, of all those mornings in the gym and all the calorie-watching that never seemed to be enough. She looked at her dangerously thin daughter. Sometimes she didn't even know who this human being was; where had the child who couldn't get enough of her cooking gone. She felt like she had to communicate, that she had to work to be understood and to understand, that she was in a parallel universe, on one bank of a raging river shouting over the wind to the other side, trying to be heard. She sighed. Her daughter had grown up. She'd have to learn to adjust, to accept her changes.
Thursday, February 8
To Cloudy (the Girl who Couldn't Like Poetry, and Who Can Blame Her)
or Oh! To Care a Monkey for the Blogger Barons
When in doubt or anything else
(or simply to impress hesitant belles)
There is no trail or avenue
So trusted as The Smackeroo
But though tempted, I won't be led
To talk of things that happen in bed.
This verse speaks only of option two
When in doubt, and what to do.
Oft the green 'un with furrowed brow
On starting a blog, overcome with woe
Wonders about fame and stuff
And also if he's done enough
"Let me insert some more pix
Of girls in drag and assorted dicks"
He even writes up serious posts
On feminism and Shakespeare's ghosts.
All of this can be eschewed
If you indulge in something shrewd
Versification might be tricky
But, for Fame, it beats a Hicky
You mightn't be another Pablo Neruda
Your poems might turn intestines to faluda
But if in your heart you want to succeed
To all your detractors (and there'll be many) pay no heed
For tis true that he won't fete you
Wocky certainly won't rush to greet you
This chap might raise a supercilious brow
And she most likely into you will plough*
Stare them down calmly and do not desist
(Though they don't even know you exist)
Cos maybe in an unmarked grave you'll lie
But you'd have Written a Poem before you die
So bloggers and blogrettes take heart and hearken
Trust me, nobody will your blogstep darken
'less you learn to find the words that rhyme
With love and dove and dust and grime
And when you've achieved this special skill
And wonder why noone visits your blog still
Remember that a special circle in Hell
Is reserved for those who can't doggerel.
So, take up your pens, and take a deep breath
To poetry and never stop (unless threat-
-ened by hapless victims who can't understand
Why you won't stop torturing them) and
While they stand around baffled, calling you an arse
And you, red-faced with effort continue to parse
I shall laugh evilly (muahahaha) internet ishtyle
Pliss to remember, Revenge is Futile.
THE END
*Especially if you rhyme about
Feminism, you ignorant lout
Cos girls are pretty and very nice
Unlike boys who stink of flies
Update: So they took my advice!!! Can you believe it? At this rate the world might come to an end, soon!
When in doubt or anything else
(or simply to impress hesitant belles)
There is no trail or avenue
So trusted as The Smackeroo
But though tempted, I won't be led
To talk of things that happen in bed.
This verse speaks only of option two
When in doubt, and what to do.
Oft the green 'un with furrowed brow
On starting a blog, overcome with woe
Wonders about fame and stuff
And also if he's done enough
"Let me insert some more pix
Of girls in drag and assorted dicks"
He even writes up serious posts
On feminism and Shakespeare's ghosts.
All of this can be eschewed
If you indulge in something shrewd
Versification might be tricky
But, for Fame, it beats a Hicky
You mightn't be another Pablo Neruda
Your poems might turn intestines to faluda
But if in your heart you want to succeed
To all your detractors (and there'll be many) pay no heed
For tis true that he won't fete you
Wocky certainly won't rush to greet you
This chap might raise a supercilious brow
And she most likely into you will plough*
Stare them down calmly and do not desist
(Though they don't even know you exist)
Cos maybe in an unmarked grave you'll lie
But you'd have Written a Poem before you die
So bloggers and blogrettes take heart and hearken
Trust me, nobody will your blogstep darken
'less you learn to find the words that rhyme
With love and dove and dust and grime
And when you've achieved this special skill
And wonder why noone visits your blog still
Remember that a special circle in Hell
Is reserved for those who can't doggerel.
So, take up your pens, and take a deep breath
To poetry and never stop (unless threat-
-ened by hapless victims who can't understand
Why you won't stop torturing them) and
While they stand around baffled, calling you an arse
And you, red-faced with effort continue to parse
I shall laugh evilly (muahahaha) internet ishtyle
Pliss to remember, Revenge is Futile.
THE END
*Especially if you rhyme about
Feminism, you ignorant lout
Cos girls are pretty and very nice
Unlike boys who stink of flies
Update: So they took my advice!!! Can you believe it? At this rate the world might come to an end, soon!
Wednesday, February 7
The Sad Story of Nemo (or The Wisdom of Naming Only Once but Naming Wisely)
Cautionary Note: Maudlin folk who cry during Hallmark commercials, be warned. Possiblity of tears ahead.
He brought home the little clown fish. The latest addition to his aquarium. He couldn't wait for his niece to see the little squirt. He hid the bag behind him as he walked in, and slipped the little fish in when his niece wasn't watching. After dinner, he was watching the news when he heard the squeal. Of delight? The patter of little feet, and his niece was standing before him. Her cheeks flushed. A worried frown creasing her face. Feet planted apart, all earnestness,"There's a new one in the tank" she confided gravely. "Really??" he responded with appropriate incredulity. "Yes, chachu. I just saw it. How dya think it got there?" He professed bafflement at its miraculous arrival (much as Mary must have to her querulous husband). They both stood in front of the tank, discussing the ramifications of the new arrival until it was time for her to go to bed. She turned back for a final glance, "Let's call him Nemo", she said. He smiled at the intrusion of pop culture into even this nook of the world, and nodded in agreement. It was a fine name.
He came home, to find her in a corner. All queries replied to with a shake of the head, and welling tears in her eyes. He thought the fish would cheer her up, and suggested they look in on Nemo. For a cup of tea and a chat, he quipped. She proceeded to burst into tears. Alarmed, he backed away. Tears frightened him. Made him feel clumsy. Helpless. His bhabhi rescued him, saying "She's been like this all day. Some fish in that tank of yours. Dead, I think." Casually, an offhand remark, of no importance but for its consequence. He went to the tank, in trepidation. Nemo was listing to one side, one of his fins ripped off. His eye looked at him, not in accusation, but in listless acceptance. As he stared, a small hand crept into his own. She was still crying.
Is it just me or do names take over the named?
Update: So, in the spirit of scientific enquiry and ratiocination and all that, I propose an experiment, brilliant in it's simplicity and general doableness. All I need are brave and noble human volunteers (but no scruples please, I can't deal with people with scruples, nuh-uh). Please step up, said b and n volunteers. Here is the plan. Sally forth (and no, Sally is not a girl) and procure some infants (or toddlers, but preferably infants). Select distinctive and characteristic names for them (these are important criteria, pliss to remember). Then, 25 years from today (please make note of date), we shall meet at the eldritch hour of 3 in the afternoon, at the haunted house in the corner of 9th and 88th (I will not tell you the specific city because in the tradition of the genre of movies to which Serendipity proudly belongs, if it's meant to be, we shall all find ourselves in that city on that date at that time), with the said 20-something year olds in tow. That shall be our finest hour when we will know for certain whether names take over the named or not. Suggestions for the names will be provided on demand - I have already thought of a few like Nietzche, Hawking, Bush (see, why I said no scruples?).
Update 2: Betcha the cuplrit's name is Danny Ocean. Any takers?
He brought home the little clown fish. The latest addition to his aquarium. He couldn't wait for his niece to see the little squirt. He hid the bag behind him as he walked in, and slipped the little fish in when his niece wasn't watching. After dinner, he was watching the news when he heard the squeal. Of delight? The patter of little feet, and his niece was standing before him. Her cheeks flushed. A worried frown creasing her face. Feet planted apart, all earnestness,"There's a new one in the tank" she confided gravely. "Really??" he responded with appropriate incredulity. "Yes, chachu. I just saw it. How dya think it got there?" He professed bafflement at its miraculous arrival (much as Mary must have to her querulous husband). They both stood in front of the tank, discussing the ramifications of the new arrival until it was time for her to go to bed. She turned back for a final glance, "Let's call him Nemo", she said. He smiled at the intrusion of pop culture into even this nook of the world, and nodded in agreement. It was a fine name.
He came home, to find her in a corner. All queries replied to with a shake of the head, and welling tears in her eyes. He thought the fish would cheer her up, and suggested they look in on Nemo. For a cup of tea and a chat, he quipped. She proceeded to burst into tears. Alarmed, he backed away. Tears frightened him. Made him feel clumsy. Helpless. His bhabhi rescued him, saying "She's been like this all day. Some fish in that tank of yours. Dead, I think." Casually, an offhand remark, of no importance but for its consequence. He went to the tank, in trepidation. Nemo was listing to one side, one of his fins ripped off. His eye looked at him, not in accusation, but in listless acceptance. As he stared, a small hand crept into his own. She was still crying.
Is it just me or do names take over the named?
Update: So, in the spirit of scientific enquiry and ratiocination and all that, I propose an experiment, brilliant in it's simplicity and general doableness. All I need are brave and noble human volunteers (but no scruples please, I can't deal with people with scruples, nuh-uh). Please step up, said b and n volunteers. Here is the plan. Sally forth (and no, Sally is not a girl) and procure some infants (or toddlers, but preferably infants). Select distinctive and characteristic names for them (these are important criteria, pliss to remember). Then, 25 years from today (please make note of date), we shall meet at the eldritch hour of 3 in the afternoon, at the haunted house in the corner of 9th and 88th (I will not tell you the specific city because in the tradition of the genre of movies to which Serendipity proudly belongs, if it's meant to be, we shall all find ourselves in that city on that date at that time), with the said 20-something year olds in tow. That shall be our finest hour when we will know for certain whether names take over the named or not. Suggestions for the names will be provided on demand - I have already thought of a few like Nietzche, Hawking, Bush (see, why I said no scruples?).
Update 2: Betcha the cuplrit's name is Danny Ocean. Any takers?
Monday, February 5
Homo sapiens (var elevatoricus)
Yeah, yeah, this is one of those cute posts. Y'know the sort that say something that the author thinks is absolutely freaking hilarious, and the reader thinks is bilge. The author knows that the eventual reader (if any) is going to think it's blige. And therein lies the irony of it, cos in the light of the comforting knowledge that the hypothetical reader has prejudged the yet-to-be-written post as bilge, the author increases the cute factor of the post with reckless abandon. Such is life.
I could write a dissertation on this pressing topic (outlined below) but time presses (even I have to work sometimes, courtesy : Dragon Lady aka Boss-Woman who is *not* N). As the more erudite of my hypothetical readers know, there are only two types of people in the world, the ones who start sentences that go 'there are only two types of people in the world' and the ones that don't (whosoever names the source of the quotation shall be named Honorary Flaffee of the week forthwith). I am unabashedly one of the former category and I present you *ta-da* A (Sorely Needed) Dissertation on The Elevator People.
A much-studied (and much-in-need-of-studying) sub-population of the Human spp, the Elevator People have recently been the subject of much controversy and heated debate. If you've missed the documentaries presented by National Geographic and Discovery (yeah, while you were sitting around watching American Idol, other people were trying to Save the World), below is a quick look at the salient characteristics and sub-groups of this sub-population.
The 'Nonchalant' Wall-propper: Easily identified by the studied casual elegance with which he/she props up the elevator walls. Normally spotted with one leg crossed behind the other (it is believed by many behavior scientists that this stance conveys added nonchalance, thereby making the particular Wall-propper uber-nonchalant; there is some discord among scientists as to whether the uber-nonchalant population can be classified as a separate Type unto itself; many petty, pedantic debates have featured this bone of contention in the haute circles of behavior scientists the world over; of course no conclusion has been reached). Some specimens have been observed pursing their lips, as if on the verge of whistling. While unconfirmed reports claim to have heard individuals of this type whistle, popular opinion holds that this is an Old-Wives' Tale. Persons who fall under this category are normally observed to be the last to leave the elevator when it reaches their designated floor. It is believed that said persons believe that this increases nonchalance of their general attitude but certain other types of The Elevator People disapprove of this character trait of the N.W.P.
The Babbler: This group of persons is characterised by their nervous Elevator-Chatter*. The population distribution of this type is believed to be largely geographic segregated. Certain urban habitats in North America and South India have an abundance of this group. However no first-hand data regarding their distribution in other parts of the globe is available (all contributions to the survey can be posted in the comments section herein). An uncanny observation is the complete lack of this species in the United Kingdom (aka Britain). It is commonly believed that the population was driven to extinction in those cold climes by the frigid stares of the Self-appointed-Elevator-Police (expounded on below).
The Self-Appointed-Elevator-Police: This group is often feared by the more timid Babblers and N.W.Ps. Identifiable even to the casual observer by the circle of empty space within which they stand, unmolested by Elevator-chatter and other associated Elevator-Awkwardness-Phenomena (E.A.P). They have on occasion been known to turn towards any offending Elevator-person (the cause for offence including, but not exclusive of, eating, chattering, looking around or sometimes just existing) and 'fix' them with their glimmering eye (not unlike the Ancient Mariner). A frigid aura pervades the elevator when one of this group enters, and hapless victims have been known to feel suffocated in their presence. Persons of this group often make irritated noises (along the lines of tch! or tsk! or sometimes even muttered imprecations) when the elevator stops at more than 2 floors en route to their own level of destination.
The Keen-Observer-of-Human-Nature: Perhaps the most disconcerting of the Elevator people, these specimens tend to critically observe all fellow occupiers of a given elevator. Unnamed sources swear that these individuals take mental notes on the behavior of all fellow-elevatorees. The author is unable to confirm these wild rumors. The members of this group tend to give each fellow-elevatoree dispassionately equal thought and consideration (unless one of the fellow-elevatorees is a certifiably hot specimen of the opposite sex). No member of this group is approachable or amenable to questions regarding their behavior (or so it is claimed by most behavioral scientists), and as such form a relatively unstudied group (in the author's personal opinion this is because of the behavioral scientists' disdain for more amateur members of their profession).
The I'm-Just-Going-to-Pretend-that-it's-not-awkward-to-be-shut-into-a-small-box-with-complete-strangers Category: The last major category on record has a name that is untypically self explanatory. They are a peculiar bunch recognizable by their fixed stares (normally glued to some inanimate part of the elevator), their slight, embarrassed smiles (though the cause for their amusement/embarrassment is hard to identify), and their crab-like sideways movements away from all other animate portions of any given elevator. They tend to hunch further and further into themselves especially in crowded elevators, sometimes to the extent of causing concern to the other temporary inhabitants of said elevator. Self-effacing in the confines of the lift, they are often confident, outspoken members of the community in the outside world. The cause for the change in their behavior pattern within the sacred boundaries of the elevator is the focus of most research in this interesting branch of elevatorology.
As mentioned earlier by the author (who is a very busy person), even a cursory mention of the more minor groups, as well as more detailed discussion of the major ones listed above, is outside the scope of this document. However, the author would like to stress the importance of this branch of psychology as a field of study. Detailed investigation might be a godsend to the Society for the Prevention of Elevator Crimes (SPEC, who are btw open to donations that will help further this research, so the author beseeches all right-minded hypothetical readers to sally forth and pour money into their coffers, you could also post cheques and any potential contributers please e-mail author for the postal address) as well as other unnamed organisations (that are believed by some erstwhile individuals from Interpol to be fronts for Al-Qaeda; this is predictably pooh-poohed by all the eminent elevatorologists who stand strangely unanimous on this subject). A public petition to Bush, GW, to increase funding for this intriguing area of bio-mechanical research will soon be appended to this site. Please watch this space (actually the space above; but also this space if the hypothetical reader so wishes).
*Elevator-chatter: A technical term used to define the inane remarks on the weather, the crops, football, work and String Theory that are indulged in by members of this group. It is believed that the chief obstacle and clumsiness of Elevator-chatter lies in the necessity of either the addresser or the addressee having to exit at varying and normally unknown time-points.
I could write a dissertation on this pressing topic (outlined below) but time presses (even I have to work sometimes, courtesy : Dragon Lady aka Boss-Woman who is *not* N). As the more erudite of my hypothetical readers know, there are only two types of people in the world, the ones who start sentences that go 'there are only two types of people in the world' and the ones that don't (whosoever names the source of the quotation shall be named Honorary Flaffee of the week forthwith). I am unabashedly one of the former category and I present you *ta-da* A (Sorely Needed) Dissertation on The Elevator People.
A much-studied (and much-in-need-of-studying) sub-population of the Human spp, the Elevator People have recently been the subject of much controversy and heated debate. If you've missed the documentaries presented by National Geographic and Discovery (yeah, while you were sitting around watching American Idol, other people were trying to Save the World), below is a quick look at the salient characteristics and sub-groups of this sub-population.
The 'Nonchalant' Wall-propper: Easily identified by the studied casual elegance with which he/she props up the elevator walls. Normally spotted with one leg crossed behind the other (it is believed by many behavior scientists that this stance conveys added nonchalance, thereby making the particular Wall-propper uber-nonchalant; there is some discord among scientists as to whether the uber-nonchalant population can be classified as a separate Type unto itself; many petty, pedantic debates have featured this bone of contention in the haute circles of behavior scientists the world over; of course no conclusion has been reached). Some specimens have been observed pursing their lips, as if on the verge of whistling. While unconfirmed reports claim to have heard individuals of this type whistle, popular opinion holds that this is an Old-Wives' Tale. Persons who fall under this category are normally observed to be the last to leave the elevator when it reaches their designated floor. It is believed that said persons believe that this increases nonchalance of their general attitude but certain other types of The Elevator People disapprove of this character trait of the N.W.P.
The Babbler: This group of persons is characterised by their nervous Elevator-Chatter*. The population distribution of this type is believed to be largely geographic segregated. Certain urban habitats in North America and South India have an abundance of this group. However no first-hand data regarding their distribution in other parts of the globe is available (all contributions to the survey can be posted in the comments section herein). An uncanny observation is the complete lack of this species in the United Kingdom (aka Britain). It is commonly believed that the population was driven to extinction in those cold climes by the frigid stares of the Self-appointed-Elevator-Police (expounded on below).
The Self-Appointed-Elevator-Police: This group is often feared by the more timid Babblers and N.W.Ps. Identifiable even to the casual observer by the circle of empty space within which they stand, unmolested by Elevator-chatter and other associated Elevator-Awkwardness-Phenomena (E.A.P). They have on occasion been known to turn towards any offending Elevator-person (the cause for offence including, but not exclusive of, eating, chattering, looking around or sometimes just existing) and 'fix' them with their glimmering eye (not unlike the Ancient Mariner). A frigid aura pervades the elevator when one of this group enters, and hapless victims have been known to feel suffocated in their presence. Persons of this group often make irritated noises (along the lines of tch! or tsk! or sometimes even muttered imprecations) when the elevator stops at more than 2 floors en route to their own level of destination.
The Keen-Observer-of-Human-Nature: Perhaps the most disconcerting of the Elevator people, these specimens tend to critically observe all fellow occupiers of a given elevator. Unnamed sources swear that these individuals take mental notes on the behavior of all fellow-elevatorees. The author is unable to confirm these wild rumors. The members of this group tend to give each fellow-elevatoree dispassionately equal thought and consideration (unless one of the fellow-elevatorees is a certifiably hot specimen of the opposite sex). No member of this group is approachable or amenable to questions regarding their behavior (or so it is claimed by most behavioral scientists), and as such form a relatively unstudied group (in the author's personal opinion this is because of the behavioral scientists' disdain for more amateur members of their profession).
The I'm-Just-Going-to-Pretend-that-it's-not-awkward-to-be-shut-into-a-small-box-with-complete-strangers Category: The last major category on record has a name that is untypically self explanatory. They are a peculiar bunch recognizable by their fixed stares (normally glued to some inanimate part of the elevator), their slight, embarrassed smiles (though the cause for their amusement/embarrassment is hard to identify), and their crab-like sideways movements away from all other animate portions of any given elevator. They tend to hunch further and further into themselves especially in crowded elevators, sometimes to the extent of causing concern to the other temporary inhabitants of said elevator. Self-effacing in the confines of the lift, they are often confident, outspoken members of the community in the outside world. The cause for the change in their behavior pattern within the sacred boundaries of the elevator is the focus of most research in this interesting branch of elevatorology.
As mentioned earlier by the author (who is a very busy person), even a cursory mention of the more minor groups, as well as more detailed discussion of the major ones listed above, is outside the scope of this document. However, the author would like to stress the importance of this branch of psychology as a field of study. Detailed investigation might be a godsend to the Society for the Prevention of Elevator Crimes (SPEC, who are btw open to donations that will help further this research, so the author beseeches all right-minded hypothetical readers to sally forth and pour money into their coffers, you could also post cheques and any potential contributers please e-mail author for the postal address) as well as other unnamed organisations (that are believed by some erstwhile individuals from Interpol to be fronts for Al-Qaeda; this is predictably pooh-poohed by all the eminent elevatorologists who stand strangely unanimous on this subject). A public petition to Bush, GW, to increase funding for this intriguing area of bio-mechanical research will soon be appended to this site. Please watch this space (actually the space above; but also this space if the hypothetical reader so wishes).
*Elevator-chatter: A technical term used to define the inane remarks on the weather, the crops, football, work and String Theory that are indulged in by members of this group. It is believed that the chief obstacle and clumsiness of Elevator-chatter lies in the necessity of either the addresser or the addressee having to exit at varying and normally unknown time-points.
Thursday, February 1
Sub: Everyone needs some time away
And that's the truth. Everybody does. I know you're angry right now, you feel slighted. I understand, I even empathize. You did the same to me once, remember? When the media girl stepped on one of your appendages (I can't remember which one at this instant but please don't get into another snit about *that*), remember? You just stopped responding. Froze on me! They had to send you away to the-place-where-such-things-are-cured-and-that-which-we-don't-ever-name. Do you remember? And when you came back, did I greet you with reproaches and sulks? I think not! Not that I'm saying I'm better than you, and I know you'll say you were physically injured and that's why you went away and I on the other hand, went away because of 'the other one' in my life. That's true, I won't deny it. But I promise you, he doesn't mean a thing. Yes, I enjoy his (yeah, yeah and her sometimes, but right now it's 'his' cos Pratchett is a 'he') company every now and again (when I'm waiting for the bus, or just before I fall asleep at night), but he means nothing to me. Honest (No, I'm not crossing my fingers behind my back, that would just be childish!). It's you I see everyday, that I come to whenever I have a question. And therein lies one of the main problems of our relationship, hun. The principal concern. The serpent in the garden, even. You always have answers. And so many of them. Has it ever occured to you that sometimes when I ask you something I'd appreciate it if you said 'Results 0 of about 0 for XXXX', instead of flooding me with reponses. I know that I've told you that one of the first things that attracted me to you was your knowledge. The breadth of it still takes my breath away (sorry about that awful play on words, I didn't intend it). But have you ever considered that it's overwhelming? And intimidating? A constant reminder of my own shocking ignorance and the impossibility of my ever acquiring familiarity with even one-millionth of it? Cos that's how I feel sometimes. No, don't sneer at me. And say you told me so (because that's disgusting when anyone does it, but from you it's just cruel). Maybe you're right. In fact I know you're right. It's not you, it's me. And my inadequacies and insecurities. But it doesn't make it any easier. Wait, though, I digress. I meant this to be a half apology and half reprimand of an e-mail. Not a whining, griping one. I really just wanted to say I love you, inspite of all your idiosyncracies (yeah, that whole freezing thing and getting stuck on me is one of them, one I particularly hate; and how you take so long to do some things sometimes), and I'm truly grateful for everything you've given me (remember our first song? Poetry in Motion I think it was. I never believed you'd have it, but of course you did! The beginning of our love affair). So let's not fight anymore. For in the time honoured tradition of women everywhere, I resist your advances only to cut off your retreat, and now both you and I are linked for eternity. I can't imagine life without you, dear one, so let us kiss and make up.
Yours etc,
Yours etc,
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