Sirocco

so rj's dead. muthafucker. the whole of the 1990s (well practically) following the events in randland and now the creator himself has passed on. i haven't gone back to my wot series for a while now, but hearing about it... you could've FINISHED THE GODDAMN 12th BOOK!!! FUCK!!! um... i don't know how to explain what i'm feeling really, but this feels like a whole section, timeline type thing of my life has now very definitely moved into the category of the 'past'. you want to know about robert jordan, move to subsection 'yesterdays'. there are... things, events, people... that fall into this section now. stuff i'd forgotten or people i haven't been in touch with or songs i haven't heard in a while... like 'ordinary world' or hanging out with vidisha munim. it's a postcard now, not the still-tangible taste of yesterday's dessert. not that i had any, it's just a metaphor, really. and pterry has alzheimer's. oh man, oh

waves phases and guided particles beyond the outer reaches of the galaxy the light fantastic riding through the universe on a quantum horse. how much does it matter in the end? scientists screaming 'i've got it!' to an accompaniment of a cacophony of disagreement and insults and the creationists calling on their gods to bring down hellfire on this sinful world. and wars burn on, aided by the scientists' accomplices, still killing millions but only now killing the millions we want, no one else (except for a few collaterals). and soon we will burn ourselves out, in a million years or a billion sanity will be restored to the earth by the utter destruction of our form of sentient life. and then? maybe another species, another thousand million years, another holocaust ad infinitum, until this universe's 20 billion or so remaining years run out and entropy sets in. the final 'the end'.

the riders crested the hill. the scene in the little valley below confirmed what their noses had been hinting at for a while now. 'tis a bloody day's work, havalad', said the leader. 'indeed it is, ponce-a-lot.' 'ain't seed nuffin like this in years, sire.' a bundle of rags on two legs spoke. the two mounted men looked down at it - or rather, him, because the unfortunate creature was (more or less) human - with expressions of sheer disgust. 'shut up, baldrick. be quiet while your betters speak.' 'yes do put a plug in it you oaf, some of us are trying to think out here!' more tryin' than thinkin', thought the figure. but he didn't say anything out loud. baldrick nobbsson had spent 11 years as squire and occasional salami (a kind of large sausage, best enjoyed in thin slivers between two slices of white bread) for sirs ponce-a-lot and havalad and he knew when to keep his mouth shut. and when, indeed, to keep it open. his mast

as someone has posted, sanjaya gaya ! :) of course not before he managed to get himself invited to the white house journalists' dinner. i think he'd make a great bitch for condi rice. they should hook up. in other news, apparently paris hilton hooked up with my man k-fed. must see: k- fed's performance at the n ickelodeon awards. man what a grade-a looooosaarrr! he could possibly be a hip-hop aaron carter. it's so bleddy hot men... and everyone is worried about what may is going to be like. dude, worry about what the next few years are going to be like. global warming is going to take off on a never-before seen scale. so what, you cry, we've got a/c's at home and work. well, the poor don't, and say, have you heard about the whole energy crisis thingie? don't worry, even if you haven't it's coming soon to a town near you. it's truly, truly amazing how freaking myopic everybody is about the whole deal. it's all about gratification no

come on dude, he's got to go. seriously. he can't sing and he's not even good-looking. he looks like a brown version of the olsen twins. when they were still in full house. and he's as effeminate as barbie in a pink dress and garters. pink garters. it's obvious why his no.1 fans are little girls. look if you ask me (i know you're not, but it's my blog so shut up) it would actually be good for him if he got kicked out. we all know he's got no talent whatsoever. ok maybe just a little, but certainly not enough make a career out of. no charisma whatsoever - you don't look at him and say goddamn, that guy's a rockstar! all he's got is his aww gee i'm such a cutie look. it won't last him longer than one hit. even justin timberlake got over that, and he's actually going somewhere. now he's a sexy-almost-honorary-black-person-yo-homies! boy. i actually like some of his recent hits. so how would it be good for sanjaya if he got kick

yesterday duddles handed over the april issue of jetwings... with my article in it! yay! it's looking quite good actually, esp with vikrant's pics so anyone flying jet airways in the next month pick it up and check it out. the mag's theme is colours of india and i chose grey - the colour of the mountains, the monsoon, the sea off bombay's coast, the manic construction in all the cities - a canvas that no one notices, but one that lets all the other colours stand out. next month: food trails of india. any suggestions? i've got a couple of thoughts - how about pickle? like a trail of typical pickle-makers across bombay? starting, i think, with the old gujju lady who makes my mom's stuff. also, it would be nice to take a look at marwari pickle-making with deepti's grandmum. and maybe prawn pickle east indian-style. woohoo.

cotton world has some surprisingly good stuff! no seriously, i went there yesterday with deepti and it's changed quite a bit since i last went... of course i must've last gone some 5 years ago or something. and that's all the fault of shopper's stop. there's some pretty decent stuff to be bought in bbay now... but the place that really gets me everytime i pass by is boudoir london. man they have some yummy stuff there. not just lacy & frilly or y'know, crotchless (how much time does that save you anyway and it costs you anticipation, which can be a delicious feeling :D) but also really pretty which is perhaps not the first word you'd associate with lingerie. the world's most outlandish lingerie, however, is probably the stuff on hill road. there's pieces you probably wouldn't see in strange fetish movies. y'know, the ones involving several individuals all at once and quite often several individuals of several species . and defecation and

the subcontinent - well the subcontinent's biggest nations, atleast - have outdone themselves at the world cup. it's hard to tell whose collective assholes are sagging more because of all the buttfucking, india's or pakistan's. the men in green are staying back in jamaica due to important social engagements with members of the jamaican police force. inzy: bismillah-i-rahman-i-rahim. we are to beeing in troubles sirji? jamaican cop: yaa maan. you have noo idea. inzy: bismillah-i-rahman-i-rahim. we are beeing waiting in hotels. are we in arrested? jamaican cop: noo maan. you jus' bein' aksed to waait whahle wee find out what youse bin doin' wid ol' bob. inzy: bismillah-i-rahman-i-rahim. so how we are beeing in troubles sirji, if we are nots in arrested? jamaican cop: weell leftenant curtly over dere, he found dis bag in mr. mohamed yoosoof's room durin' a randome search. he was lookin' in de drawers - de room's, not mr. yoosoof's - and

some days you just want to go postal. bang, muthafucker . of course that's never going to happen, so you take it out on the people you love. okayyy . leaving the random thought behind... i crossed the road to the cigarette shop. as i passed a few rowhouses , a row erupted. no, this is not a tommy cooper joke. it actually happened. anyway, two neighbouring couples are slugging it out over something that involved the water supply. or possibly, given that this is bombay , the lack thereof. by the time i had moved not more than five steps forward, a crowd had formed. first a couple of kids who'd found something more interesting than the dead cat in the gutter. then a few of the nearby shopkeepers. and finally, the rubberneckers. it's amazing how many of them are around. i think they're attracted to loud noises or something - one crash, one loud voice, and there's fifty of the fuckers crowding around to get a look. there seem to be a few rules. if there's two guys i

here's a really fun idea that struck me when i was farting around google earth. somebody's probably already figured this out, but what the hell... how about a satnav system, with route computation, coordinates, postal addresses – based on a google earth-type application. the only difference with gps-enabled systems would be that there are no real-time updates on coordinates… but then, hell it’s free! how it works – i enter my home address into omniscope (mwahahah ya ok, it's from pratchett), the map swings around and plants a dot on my home. then i type in another address in the city/another city. omniscope computes the route, shows it to me on the map, and gives me a concise list of directions, landmarks, etc. i figure updates happen once every 3 months, not too much faster, because most city-centres etc. are pretty fixed. in case of long distance/international travel, what happens next is the real shit – omniscope then provides me an immediate update on offers/airlines/tr

67 dead on the samjhauta express. sorry, on the what express? oh, the irony. who's surprised? are you surprised? i'm not. there are a huge number of powerful people who stand to lose a great deal if peace breaks out on the subcontinent. this shit is going to continue, you can bet on it. start donating blood now. what do you do with these 'militants'? the kashmir movement did definitely start with indigenous kashimiri involvement, even though it was largely a pakistani instigation and with pakistani funding. but today, it's little more than an excuse to keep temperatures high between india and pakistan. and provide political leverage to a dipshit nation who cannot hope to compete with us on anything. it's actually pretty standard operating procedure for these guys. grant us concessions or terrorism will only shoot up. give us what we want or face the consequences. oh it won't be us doing the consequencing, it'll be the deprived and disaffected native po

what a nice, cloudy day. and there's no work, because the electricity's out at office. so. pleasantly cloudy day, no work, no office, and here i am in front of the computer. it must mean something. that i don't have much of a life, i expect. and on top of everything else, i've got a slightly guilty feeling. i should be doing something, dammit. not sitting around farting on blogspot. well i suppose it's either that or sit around fiddling with my dangly bits. which i intend on doing of course, but it's always better when there's a feeling of accomplishment. so, this blog. laa lala laa... ok, i can't hit enter after every few syllables, that's cheating. i wonder why there's so much of a hoo haa about giving yourself what is in essence, a therapeutic massage. admittedly, it's a very focused one, but in the end, you're just doing what you're programmed to do. i mean, i do it inside my head often enough. everybody does. and certainly a

the debate about homosexuality's morality will, i think, continue unceasingly. so i'm going to ask that anyone reading this set aside their personal moralistic/religious/whatever attitude - whichever side of the debate you're on. assume i'm thinking aloud, and just eavesdrop. i'm assuming here that you wouldn't be so rude as to interrupt someone you're eavesdropping on, of course. the whole thought process started when i wondered how it feels to be gay. no wait, that's not exactly it, because if you're gay you wouldn't feel it, much the way that i don't feel heterosexual sitting here at the computer. i just am, and that's all there is to it. so how do gay people... ok, it's like this. for me, being hetero at the most primal level means i'm... i'm the man . i'm the giver - i pour myself in to initiate, i pour myself in to complete. i'm being really, REALLY simplistic here because i'm just trying to describe what i

it's nice outside my window. there's a cool breeze and a warm sun. not the kind of vicious bastard that hits you over the head with a hot, hot hammer; just the right amount of warmth to cause a little dampness on your back and neck and under your arms. i can see the sun sparkling off the sea, between the two buildings and the palm tree that stand between us. the sea is, i think, the closest metaphor we have for the universe as a whole, and our place in it. little fish and big sharks and sea urchins and octopi living and eating and spawning and dying. the absolute barbaric perverseness that is the struggle to survive, to propagate the species. and barely a ripple on the surface of the universe. i mean, the sea. the occasional marlin breaks the surface, whales and dolphins breach in flagrant displays of enlightenment, of knowledge of a world outside the infinite blue. i wish i had gills. i wish i could just slip into this universe, latch on to a passing manta and cruise the depth

As usual when faced with a blank screen, i do what any good creative person would do; i procrastinate. i open another browser window and head to wikipedia. i scratch my crotch. it's enjoyable. i scratch some more. a couple of minutes later i realise i'm not just scratching anymore. i stop, and come back to the screen. it's a challenge, the blankness. it's saying fuck you, you couldn't fill this if you needed to. well fuck that shit, i've got a lot to say. have you ever walked down the road and blinked and then realised you've suddenly recieved a whole new perspective on things? no? me neither. shit doesn't happen that easily around here. me i've got to be hit in the face, kicked in the nuts and slammed against a wall with a knife to my throat before i realise how i've been so wrong all this while about stuff. there's some sort of lack of a self-correcting mechanism. and that's probably because i'm one of those people who goes through

Amazingly, my first blog ever. Don't worry, there's no bleeding. Just testing.