Cry Freedom

It is our pleasure to inform you folks (idle pursuers of class and excellence as you have amply revealed yourselves to be) that we are Back! Yes! No more dinosaurically long story to worry about. No more sleepless nights, spent tossing and turning, worrying about RCW and her Papa. No nightmares in which Baron F sneers at the 'Umble Authoress while JAP attempts to run Her over with his Ferrari or Bentley or Aston Martin or whatever else he's decided is the Car he Requires. No more nasty comments from Certain Unnamed Sources about how they Have Been Anupam-Kherized while they weren't looking (and I still hotly deny this accusation! This is my stand and I'm sticking by it). Stead we have Various Unnamed People prodding us on to "Now come up with something else that is not a story, for Goodness' sake!" Since, as ever, we only aim to please, we Bear our Cross Gracefully and with Stiff Upper Lips mumble "Yes, I'm on it" (very hard it is, speaking with Stiff Upper Lips. You should try it sometime. When you're at work with nothing to do. Oh wait! That was an oxymoron right there *beams triumphantly at successful spotting of clever literary devices*). So, we produces our Theory of Why Men are B-s and Why Certain Presciently Intelligent Authoresses should be Invited to Write for Broadsheet Salon.

Last weekend, sitting by the pool (suitably inspired by 7 beers downed in quick succession chased by 5 popsicles) with a bunch of goralog, I proclaimed that Men were the Same B-s they've been for the Past Oh-so-many Years, by and large (notice the qualifier). Immediately, everyone jumped down my throat (metaphorically speaking), including my roomie (et tu brute, tsk tsk), and claimed that I was generalizingly making sexist comments. So ('course) I launched into my Theory, the latest one (not completely polished yet) where I cunningly pointed out that though some things have changed, some things have not. This stumped half the crowd and while they were working it out, I sallied forth with the full force of my theory. See, here's the thing. In the most equal of societies (genderously speaking), a woman who works always feels the extra pressure of having to keep her home in order by necessity while the man experiences the gratification of having made "sacrifices" or been a "great husband/father" for contributing even the littlest bit to the upkeep of the household. All the phirangs (after they'd worked it all out) pityingly looked at me and said "Maybe that's the case in your culture, not ours". Oh-so-condescendingly.

So, here's to you, pretty boys (and the not-so-pretty-ones). I rock.

Psst. Here's a question for you guys (on a totally different random thought). Are there people in the world who get easily tired of people or are there people in the world whom people get easily tired of? Chew on that one and gimme a verdict.

If I'd had coffee I'd have thrown it in her face. Sometimes I scare myself.

She 1: If only I didn't have such a big butt, y'know what I mean? I'd be able to wear a much smaller size. Though, y'know even now it's only a size 8. So, it isn't that bad, y'know what I mean?

She 2: You don't have a big butt! It's worse being me. I have no butt to speak of.

She 1: *I* think I have a big butt. I never used to have one this big, y'know what I mean? It's only since I started dating Ian. We eat so much, y'know what I mean?

She 2: Yeah, I know how that feels. It's no use just you being on a diet if he's pigging out all the time.

She 1: Yeah, but I'm totally going to stick to this regimen, y'know what I mean? Like those ads on tv. Lose two dress sizes in 2 weeks, y'know what I mean?

She 2: Haha. Those adverts are just crazy.

She 1: They remind me of my bro. He's an exercise nazi, y'know what I mean? That's why I never work out with him. I just say leave me alone, y'know what I mean?

She 3 (standing up from her seat in the row in front of them suddenly): Yes, yes, woman!!!!! She knows what you mean!!!!! We *all* know what you mean! For pity's sake STOP SAYING THAT!!!

*exit bus right*

Some verbal habits are so annoying I feel like shaking the speaker in an attempt to make them stop talking. Especially on Monday mornings.

Sea Spilled from a Cup

Three spotlessly white steps lead up to the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center. How innocent words sound. Today dappling sunshine's making an unexpected appearance on the steps. A guest role. Not bright, cheery yellow sunbeams but mysteriously grey, convalescent sunshine. Struggling to recover from a bout of clouds.

There's always people milling around in the little green oasis that surrounds the white steps. Sometimes nurses, sometimes white-coated professionals. Doctors, lab technicians, gardeners, service men, sales men. Actually, more sales women than men. Maybe because women can be trusted to sell death machines in much softer voices. More appropriate, perhaps. Who knows these things? And then of course the patients and their assorted family members. Always a different group of patients. This part of the hospital has a lot of flux. From one reason or another. Mostly one reason, though.

One of the patients allowed out today is obviously a rebel. Disregarding any semblance of shelter, he sits in his wheelchair in the single patch of lawn with a hope of direct sunlight. Atleast he looks like a he. Sometimes it's hard to tell. All hair shaved away from the head. Because even one extra strand will obviously be too heavy a burden for what remains. Fragile skeleton that can be seen so clearly straining against the skin at the neck. Delicate features lifted up to the straggling sun rays. Even diluted sunlight shines right through the skin. Maybe that's why his knobbly wrist is tagged. In case the sun melts him completely away. The little tag atleast will be left behind. As evidence. The shapeless hospital gown flattens against a puff of wind. Macabre uniform.

He turns to his mum standing next to him and removes his oxygen mask to say something. They both smile. The mum lifts her right hand up again, rhythmically, almost automatically, rests the elbow in her left palm. Old school. Breathe in, breathe out. Puffs of smoke coiling into the air. She says something back to the kid, through the smoke. The kid nods in agreement, accepting her words as truth, cocooned in smoke and trust.

Maybe we all need a sign. A big, fat, smokin, fire-engine red 'No Stupidity' sign.

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!

No fortune...

...is better than this, one feels. Orkut greets me with the good news that "You and your wife will be happy in your life together". You'd think that they'd at least do a gender search type thing before proclaiming these fortunes. Or maybe this is truly the age of political correctness. Hehe.

Update: You know that thing when you think of something and then everywhere you look you see it? It happened to me!
You gotta check this out, you guys, the things that Orkut fortunes make you do! Its a menace to society I say!

Pearls for Swine

Yeah, that's the phrase I was looking for! Perfectly capsulates the intention of Dawkin's book (though not to him, of course).

And talking about Pearls for/before Swine , considering its origin, describing the God Delusion as such is even more delicious, huh?

PS: For some reason I felt convinced that there was a PGW by that name, somewhere in the past I hear a bell clanging, faintly and dolorously. Or is that just my hyperactive, perfectly-evolved-for-deluding-myself-brain talking?