So what do you want? A man! Bright, articulate, emotionally aware, fit and fun to be with? Worldly wise, able to fit in with your life without trying to take it over? Happy, adventurous and practical. Knows how to behave when needed, and how not to when it doesn’t matter! Happy to talk and not hide away. A thinker, but not a vacillator. I'm 28, and what do I want? A girl! Creative, confident, positive, feminine, strong in mind, adventurous too, fit and happy to have a go! Spontaneous, loves the outdoors, boats, bikes and the sea maybe too! Animals as well! But most importantly, a partner to love and cherish, and her me! To share and care, laugh and smile, walk, talk, whatever, to enjoy life with. Simple really!
Doesn't appeal? Here we go...
28 y.o male, 6' slim, tattoos, smoker, honest, fairly easy going, solvent, honest, direct, intelligent, likes pubs, meals, coversation, animals, cinema, having a laugh, sharing seeks slimmish loyal female for good times and hopefully lasting relationship.
No? OK...
Nice guy, 33 seeks seeks someone to show him that we can win sometimes! I am someone who will buy you flowers other than on Valentines day; thoughtful and funny I've realised that life isn't about what you have; rather who you share it with; how about sharing it with me?
Tall, dark haired, brown eyed, fit, caring male in very good condition seeks soulmate for autumn lust, love and laughter.
Ummmm...! Bet, you can't beat this!
Email up the creek first time around - so do please write again. 26 yo man - lives outside Delhi with books, music, art, ideas (and mad terrier) but recently missing something.. Friends say I could talk to anyone and find something in common, although it could be because I have a grasshopper mind (Having said that, I've never eaten oysters and never will). Big black eyes, dark hair, big smile, same waist size since university and I don't work out. Totally and absolutely irreverent sense of humour. Some say I have a charismatic vulnerability and a will of iron which is a useful combination sometimes!
OK, this would surely worki
Surely in Delhi there sre exciting, attractive, funny and excititng females that I have a special chemistry with. I'm 30, own hair and teeth, able to hold a conversation and I have been known to make people laugh. A real music lover of jazzy dancey stuff and I can also cook and have interests in photography, camping, theatre and exciting escapes to far away destinations... You never know do you, fun smilley people please apply..
Or this?
Wanna kick leaves in a wood? Cycle a tow path? Eat in good pub? Fly a kite? Share a bottle of wine watching the sun set? Walking alone a beach barefoot? You do? Really? Not much fun on your own though. So,... email me. Me. A well seasoned man for all the right reasons...6'1" fit, into cycling, walking, eating, drinking, live music, the occasional roll up (not drugs I hasten to add).
How about...
I am unmarried man, india, 30 yrs old male...single male...seek female for realtionship /friendship...any age welcome...any country welcome...any age/place welcome...please contact me...I am willing to relocate to another country...please, someone, say yes, pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase!
Thursday, October 26, 2006
ALL NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED
I'm continuously getting bombarded from all sides by people asking me about the real identities of some of the women mentioned on this blog. In fact, I've been humbly asked to remove a couple of posts, which I've reluctantly done. Well, there’s no need to name and shame. I do confess to taking a certain amount of creative liberty when posting stuff. Fact is frequently sadder, weirder and more sexually incompetent than fiction. At least since most of the world defines fiction as anything written by Dan Brown or Barbara Cartland. There needs to be a certain amount of anonymity for this blog to exist. So it is essential that I protect the identities of the people I write about (God knows, I don’t protect their dignities). That way, they could be anybody. They could even be you. So watch your back.
CASE CLOSED!
(From the mouths of babes we love...)
Poor Archie. I had to let him down lightly of course, which means minimal truth-telling. It’s a pity that Archie is someone I genuinely enjoy spending time with, so it’s not easy to just brush him off and permanently relocate to London or something. Also as I mentioned, he thinks I am “nice”, which is such a great burden sometimes. My concocted little break-up routine goes something like this…
“Well, you know, we’ve been getting very close recently, and I feel like I’ve opened up a lot.” At this point, I attempt my most sincere look, and throw in a slightly quivering lip.
“But you know, I mentioned this break-up I went through. It’s very hard to talk about it…but I feel you need to know this because I like you even as a friend.” Note the liberal use of the word “friend” to imply a suitably righteous tone.
“I thought I was over it, but I’m getting anxiety attacks about moving too quickly into anything else. I’m only being so frank with you because I feel that we really get along…you know what I mean? I’m sorry I hesitated about telling you this. But I think it's just not fair to force my conflicts on you.”
It was a piece of cake. When “breaking up” (read: telling a guy you want to stop sleeping with him but still remain friends) it’s always important to give a man the chance to be magnanimous and 'walk away' with dignity. The fact that you’re a scheming human piranha scripting every scene is beside the point really. In my experience, most adults know that there’s a clear line between sex and love, but it’s difficult not to take any sort of break-up (in any form) personally. So I try to minimise ill-will all round unless he’s done something disrespectful like come inside you without any protection…then I’d blacklist him and pee in his shampoo bottle.
Poor Archie. I had to let him down lightly of course, which means minimal truth-telling. It’s a pity that Archie is someone I genuinely enjoy spending time with, so it’s not easy to just brush him off and permanently relocate to London or something. Also as I mentioned, he thinks I am “nice”, which is such a great burden sometimes. My concocted little break-up routine goes something like this…
“Well, you know, we’ve been getting very close recently, and I feel like I’ve opened up a lot.” At this point, I attempt my most sincere look, and throw in a slightly quivering lip.
“But you know, I mentioned this break-up I went through. It’s very hard to talk about it…but I feel you need to know this because I like you even as a friend.” Note the liberal use of the word “friend” to imply a suitably righteous tone.
“I thought I was over it, but I’m getting anxiety attacks about moving too quickly into anything else. I’m only being so frank with you because I feel that we really get along…you know what I mean? I’m sorry I hesitated about telling you this. But I think it's just not fair to force my conflicts on you.”
It was a piece of cake. When “breaking up” (read: telling a guy you want to stop sleeping with him but still remain friends) it’s always important to give a man the chance to be magnanimous and 'walk away' with dignity. The fact that you’re a scheming human piranha scripting every scene is beside the point really. In my experience, most adults know that there’s a clear line between sex and love, but it’s difficult not to take any sort of break-up (in any form) personally. So I try to minimise ill-will all round unless he’s done something disrespectful like come inside you without any protection…then I’d blacklist him and pee in his shampoo bottle.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Have You Ever...
…been hurt so bad it feels like dying.
No, really. This is what it must feel like to go. And actually, it is rather pleasant.
It’s more like a release. The final 'fuck-it'. A complete and utter surrender to a higher power outside your control. Like drowning in a river. You struggle at first. But then, people say there is a moment of euphoria as your lungs learn how to breathe water instead of spit air. You have reverted to man’s pre-evolutionary state and ironically, you feel more alive than you have ever felt in your entire sorry land-locked lifetime.
You float. Then you sink into oblivion.
And the best part of the transition is the peace. Nothing can touch it or take it from you – it is six feet below. Profound. Exquisite. Deep. It consumes you. And you are left with nothing but the metaphysical conviction that everything in this topsy-turvy world is now as it should be.
Finally, you have done something right.
You always knew it was coming. Death and taxes, as they say. The only thing you could never pinpoint was how or when. All you knew was that it would be too soon.
Don’t believe what anyone tells you. Nobody ever really wants to go. Even the most reckless maniac with a death-wish wants to live – even if it is by the skin of her teeth. She may flirt with her mortality but ultimately all she wants is to be pulled back from the brink. To live another five minutes. To scrape by.
So follow your own advice, manl. Don’t fall in love.
Because in doing so, you will have signed a warrant for your own execution. In effect, you will have planted a knife in your heart – so deeply and so cleanly you don’t even feel it going in. Except when someone twists and pulls it out.
You wait. A year flies by – the best year of your life. Nothing happens. You grow careless. You begin to make modest little plans and dream modest little dreams, you have a little celebration to congraulate yourself on defying the odds. But in reality, all you are doing is looking forward to a future that isn’t yours and committing yourself to a person that can never fully reciprocate.
You fool.
Yet, you continue to laugh in the face of your own destruction. You court it. You jeer at it. And when it doesn’t come, you begin to trust in the myth of your own invincibility. You believe your own lies.
You forget you are on borrowed time.
And you are in such a mood when the knife is casually drawn from you, so swiftly that you lose your breath and immediately start to fall. You feel like you should resist or retaliate, do what all others do and cry even, but there is no point. The deed is already done. It is your time to go, not with a bang, but with a forced smile and a whimper.
The house always wins.
You turn to face your killer. Her features swim into view and somehow you think you have seen that face before. Your tongue moves out of its own accord and it is your voice you recognise being discharged from your throat. Congratulations, you’re a muppet on your own show. If life wasn’t ebbing away from you, you would find it terribly amusing.
“That…hurts me,” you mutter softly, resignedly, to no one in particular. It is all a bit of an anti-climax.
After all, the culprit is no evil priestess. She is your best friend, your confidante, your protector – against whom you are utterly defenceless. She comes bearing good intentions and takes you at your least aware – when you are sitting around tittering over something superficial, feeling reasonably content with life.
A moment which for her will just be another moment.
But for you, will be an eternity.
…been hurt so bad it feels like dying.
No, really. This is what it must feel like to go. And actually, it is rather pleasant.
It’s more like a release. The final 'fuck-it'. A complete and utter surrender to a higher power outside your control. Like drowning in a river. You struggle at first. But then, people say there is a moment of euphoria as your lungs learn how to breathe water instead of spit air. You have reverted to man’s pre-evolutionary state and ironically, you feel more alive than you have ever felt in your entire sorry land-locked lifetime.
You float. Then you sink into oblivion.
And the best part of the transition is the peace. Nothing can touch it or take it from you – it is six feet below. Profound. Exquisite. Deep. It consumes you. And you are left with nothing but the metaphysical conviction that everything in this topsy-turvy world is now as it should be.
Finally, you have done something right.
You always knew it was coming. Death and taxes, as they say. The only thing you could never pinpoint was how or when. All you knew was that it would be too soon.
Don’t believe what anyone tells you. Nobody ever really wants to go. Even the most reckless maniac with a death-wish wants to live – even if it is by the skin of her teeth. She may flirt with her mortality but ultimately all she wants is to be pulled back from the brink. To live another five minutes. To scrape by.
So follow your own advice, manl. Don’t fall in love.
Because in doing so, you will have signed a warrant for your own execution. In effect, you will have planted a knife in your heart – so deeply and so cleanly you don’t even feel it going in. Except when someone twists and pulls it out.
You wait. A year flies by – the best year of your life. Nothing happens. You grow careless. You begin to make modest little plans and dream modest little dreams, you have a little celebration to congraulate yourself on defying the odds. But in reality, all you are doing is looking forward to a future that isn’t yours and committing yourself to a person that can never fully reciprocate.
You fool.
Yet, you continue to laugh in the face of your own destruction. You court it. You jeer at it. And when it doesn’t come, you begin to trust in the myth of your own invincibility. You believe your own lies.
You forget you are on borrowed time.
And you are in such a mood when the knife is casually drawn from you, so swiftly that you lose your breath and immediately start to fall. You feel like you should resist or retaliate, do what all others do and cry even, but there is no point. The deed is already done. It is your time to go, not with a bang, but with a forced smile and a whimper.
The house always wins.
You turn to face your killer. Her features swim into view and somehow you think you have seen that face before. Your tongue moves out of its own accord and it is your voice you recognise being discharged from your throat. Congratulations, you’re a muppet on your own show. If life wasn’t ebbing away from you, you would find it terribly amusing.
“That…hurts me,” you mutter softly, resignedly, to no one in particular. It is all a bit of an anti-climax.
After all, the culprit is no evil priestess. She is your best friend, your confidante, your protector – against whom you are utterly defenceless. She comes bearing good intentions and takes you at your least aware – when you are sitting around tittering over something superficial, feeling reasonably content with life.
A moment which for her will just be another moment.
But for you, will be an eternity.
ZX IN THE CITY!
Wanda Yolanda the Honda..Sprint/Zorro/Spark/Blade/Trigger/Stitch or just Rolleys...Can't call it Sylvie, though! Think, think, think. Name is important. Lovely stuck for my Hyundai Santro, but guys, must come up with something diff for the silver Honda City.
Monday, October 16, 2006
MY FIRST TIME!
How better to get in touch with your feminine side than with neatly manicured nails and creamy feet?
After soaking for a while they'd trim your toenails, muck with your cuticles, massage your feet and legs, and other things that make you realise how decadent this really is.
Man, was it cool.
I have never had a facial, a manicure, a pedicure, a hand massage, or waxing of any kind, although I let the barber mess with my top dome for a head (read scalp) massage. Also, threading under my eyes once, ten years ago. Very nasty. For no particular reason, entering a man’s salon has become as mythological for me as visiting a “massage” parlour, and I’ve never been to one of those either. For all sorts of reasons, probably connected with my upbringing at an all-boys school, and that, too, controlled by the army, I’ve been dreading my salon deflowering.
I thought about it. On the one hand, getting a manicure seemed pretty…girly. On the other hand, everyone knows that mobsters of distinction have no issues with having well-groomed nails, you got a problem with that? And there was that Bugs Bunny episode, Hair-Raising Hare, with the monster chasing him around and eventually getting a manicure. I hadn’t seen that cartoon in years…in a way, getting a “personal hand detail” was a way to reconnect with a childhood question I had never thought to ask. Plus, I always like a good sales pitch, especially when it’s in a comfortable environment.
“Ok, let’s do it.”
One thing I was sure: I didn't want to walk out smelling like a flower!
I was led into an entirely new part of the salon, a small room with pretty curtains, by the friendly nail tech. I immediately noticed a tall chair in the corner, resembling a dentist’s chair, except instead of scary arms there was a serious-looking metal basin with whirlpool jets in it.
“What’s that?” I asked excitedly.
“That’s the pedicure chair.”
“There’s massaging jets and stuff for your feet?”
“Yes!”
Very intriguing… I thought.
I was shown to a small table with a basket of nail products. The basic procedure was to soak your hands in a solution of soapy water—to soften up the cuticles. Cuticles, he explained, should be neatly trimmed back. He had a pair of sharp clippers that were used to cut off the dead flaps of skins that had accumulated, then used another rounded tool to push them back. He used two kinds of emery boards; a coarse one to shape the nails, and a finer one to buff the surface.
One surprising thing was the way he filed the nails; he worked the filing motion in such a way that the edges of the nail were rounded, almost like finishing the edges on a fine piece of furniture. The result was a very closely-fit edge that felt great. Amazing!
After the cuticles were pushed back, trimmed, and the nail surfaces were buffed, some kind of oil (scented with cherries) was applied to the nail surface and cuticles. The idea I think was to condition the surface of the nail, but I’m not sure. It smelled exactly like an almond jelly dessert I recently had at an upscale Chinese joint. This led to a discussion of interesting restaurants in the area, which is always welcome. And here was a second surprise: getting your nails worked on by a professional while chatting is really relaxing. The last time anyone cut my nails was when I was a kid. Mom would cut them, and the experience was always kind of stressful because sometimes she would cut a little too deep, or we would squirm and twist around awkwardly. This was utterly relaxing.
Totally comfortable now, I asked several followup questions:
Can you tell anything about a person by their cuticles? Not really, he said, but you see a lot of people who bite them off. Men, especially. We both agreed that this was disgusting.
Are people embarassed about their feet when they get a pedicure? Yes, all the time. But that’s why they’re getting it done, to get it taken care of in the summer. I asked why, and he said “women wear sandals in the summer.” And then I was struck by how much awareness that women must have about what’s showing and what’s not. As guys, we don’t really care or even notice these things consciously, but apparently women do. I remember once talking to a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, and I kept thinking that there was something different but I couldn’t figure it out. I mentioned this out loud and his wife laughed; he had just gotten an eyebrow wax to de-unibrow his forehead. Just a light fuzz was removed, but it made him look more alert; it indeed made a difference. The details do matter!
After the nails soaked in the oil, it was removed with some kind of alcoholic solution. I asked what it did, and he explained that this strips the oil from your nails so when they were painted with the polish, it would stick. I must have tensed up, because he immediately assured me that I wouldn’t be getting that done. Some men, though, like a clear nail polish. Shiny nails are more attractive, apparently. This was later corroborated by another friend whose father was a fighter pilot. Later in life, she discovered that he liked his nails to look neat, and got his own home manicure stuff to ensure they looked good all the time. Seeing her tough-as-nails dad splaying out his hands, thoughtfully painting them with clear nail polish…apparently, it was quite the mind-bender.
So the nails were done, but I was in for the third surprise: the moisturising hand massage. I was talking about something, and then the massage began. “Oh, I didn’t know I got a massage!” I exclaimed. “This is really….nice!” And indeed it was. When I relay this part of the story to female friends, they all cackle with conspiratorial glee. Men of Earth, this is one of their Great Secrets! Women go to the salon and get pampered with awesome massages and scented oils, and it rocks. I would never have guessed in a million years that this was the whole point…it just feels good! Sure you could cut and file your nails at home, but having a professional do it with grace and personal care is a total luxury. Why can’t visiting the doctor be like this? Total customer satisfaction! It’s also cool that this salon has a big basket of lollypops up front. They’re not stingy with them either, unlike some doctor’s offices I’ve been to. “I’m sorry, sir, but those lollypops are reserved for our…younger patients.” Bah.
Comrades! I would recommend having a personal hand detail. Now coming to the personal foot detail. I would find it a bit weird having a stranger fiddling with my feet as I must confess, it’s very-very ticklish down there. But how effeminate was I prepared to get? My pedicurist didn't altogether put me at ease when I discovered I was in full public view with a couple of girls sitting right in front smiling at my discomfort.
Anyway, here is how you get rubbed the right way! This is the pedicure routine: You sit in the cushioned chair on a stand that includes a foot-tub with jacuzzi jets right in front of you. After a few moments of soaking, the pedicurist begins rubbing and grooming your feet. For the next hour, he takes the lotions and scrubber foam all the way to your knee, massaging and rubbing. He dries your feet with a soft terry towel, scented with vanilla. Then he takes one side at a time and spends 10 minutes or more massaging lotion into your skin from knee to toes. That’s the part where you nearly melt into the water-jetting foot tub - I personally think they need seatbelts on the chairs. He cuts, trims, cleans and digs. All the while you sit in the overstuffed, leather, massaging chair watching Oprah. When I was at the salon, her programme was all about why women leave their men. I could have told her why. They have dirty, stinking feet. Those men could have saved their marriage if only they gotten a pedicure.
After soaking for a while they'd trim your toenails, muck with your cuticles, massage your feet and legs, and other things that make you realise how decadent this really is.
Man, was it cool.
I have never had a facial, a manicure, a pedicure, a hand massage, or waxing of any kind, although I let the barber mess with my top dome for a head (read scalp) massage. Also, threading under my eyes once, ten years ago. Very nasty. For no particular reason, entering a man’s salon has become as mythological for me as visiting a “massage” parlour, and I’ve never been to one of those either. For all sorts of reasons, probably connected with my upbringing at an all-boys school, and that, too, controlled by the army, I’ve been dreading my salon deflowering.
I thought about it. On the one hand, getting a manicure seemed pretty…girly. On the other hand, everyone knows that mobsters of distinction have no issues with having well-groomed nails, you got a problem with that? And there was that Bugs Bunny episode, Hair-Raising Hare, with the monster chasing him around and eventually getting a manicure. I hadn’t seen that cartoon in years…in a way, getting a “personal hand detail” was a way to reconnect with a childhood question I had never thought to ask. Plus, I always like a good sales pitch, especially when it’s in a comfortable environment.
“Ok, let’s do it.”
One thing I was sure: I didn't want to walk out smelling like a flower!
I was led into an entirely new part of the salon, a small room with pretty curtains, by the friendly nail tech. I immediately noticed a tall chair in the corner, resembling a dentist’s chair, except instead of scary arms there was a serious-looking metal basin with whirlpool jets in it.
“What’s that?” I asked excitedly.
“That’s the pedicure chair.”
“There’s massaging jets and stuff for your feet?”
“Yes!”
Very intriguing… I thought.
I was shown to a small table with a basket of nail products. The basic procedure was to soak your hands in a solution of soapy water—to soften up the cuticles. Cuticles, he explained, should be neatly trimmed back. He had a pair of sharp clippers that were used to cut off the dead flaps of skins that had accumulated, then used another rounded tool to push them back. He used two kinds of emery boards; a coarse one to shape the nails, and a finer one to buff the surface.
One surprising thing was the way he filed the nails; he worked the filing motion in such a way that the edges of the nail were rounded, almost like finishing the edges on a fine piece of furniture. The result was a very closely-fit edge that felt great. Amazing!
After the cuticles were pushed back, trimmed, and the nail surfaces were buffed, some kind of oil (scented with cherries) was applied to the nail surface and cuticles. The idea I think was to condition the surface of the nail, but I’m not sure. It smelled exactly like an almond jelly dessert I recently had at an upscale Chinese joint. This led to a discussion of interesting restaurants in the area, which is always welcome. And here was a second surprise: getting your nails worked on by a professional while chatting is really relaxing. The last time anyone cut my nails was when I was a kid. Mom would cut them, and the experience was always kind of stressful because sometimes she would cut a little too deep, or we would squirm and twist around awkwardly. This was utterly relaxing.
Totally comfortable now, I asked several followup questions:
Can you tell anything about a person by their cuticles? Not really, he said, but you see a lot of people who bite them off. Men, especially. We both agreed that this was disgusting.
Are people embarassed about their feet when they get a pedicure? Yes, all the time. But that’s why they’re getting it done, to get it taken care of in the summer. I asked why, and he said “women wear sandals in the summer.” And then I was struck by how much awareness that women must have about what’s showing and what’s not. As guys, we don’t really care or even notice these things consciously, but apparently women do. I remember once talking to a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, and I kept thinking that there was something different but I couldn’t figure it out. I mentioned this out loud and his wife laughed; he had just gotten an eyebrow wax to de-unibrow his forehead. Just a light fuzz was removed, but it made him look more alert; it indeed made a difference. The details do matter!
After the nails soaked in the oil, it was removed with some kind of alcoholic solution. I asked what it did, and he explained that this strips the oil from your nails so when they were painted with the polish, it would stick. I must have tensed up, because he immediately assured me that I wouldn’t be getting that done. Some men, though, like a clear nail polish. Shiny nails are more attractive, apparently. This was later corroborated by another friend whose father was a fighter pilot. Later in life, she discovered that he liked his nails to look neat, and got his own home manicure stuff to ensure they looked good all the time. Seeing her tough-as-nails dad splaying out his hands, thoughtfully painting them with clear nail polish…apparently, it was quite the mind-bender.
So the nails were done, but I was in for the third surprise: the moisturising hand massage. I was talking about something, and then the massage began. “Oh, I didn’t know I got a massage!” I exclaimed. “This is really….nice!” And indeed it was. When I relay this part of the story to female friends, they all cackle with conspiratorial glee. Men of Earth, this is one of their Great Secrets! Women go to the salon and get pampered with awesome massages and scented oils, and it rocks. I would never have guessed in a million years that this was the whole point…it just feels good! Sure you could cut and file your nails at home, but having a professional do it with grace and personal care is a total luxury. Why can’t visiting the doctor be like this? Total customer satisfaction! It’s also cool that this salon has a big basket of lollypops up front. They’re not stingy with them either, unlike some doctor’s offices I’ve been to. “I’m sorry, sir, but those lollypops are reserved for our…younger patients.” Bah.
Comrades! I would recommend having a personal hand detail. Now coming to the personal foot detail. I would find it a bit weird having a stranger fiddling with my feet as I must confess, it’s very-very ticklish down there. But how effeminate was I prepared to get? My pedicurist didn't altogether put me at ease when I discovered I was in full public view with a couple of girls sitting right in front smiling at my discomfort.
Anyway, here is how you get rubbed the right way! This is the pedicure routine: You sit in the cushioned chair on a stand that includes a foot-tub with jacuzzi jets right in front of you. After a few moments of soaking, the pedicurist begins rubbing and grooming your feet. For the next hour, he takes the lotions and scrubber foam all the way to your knee, massaging and rubbing. He dries your feet with a soft terry towel, scented with vanilla. Then he takes one side at a time and spends 10 minutes or more massaging lotion into your skin from knee to toes. That’s the part where you nearly melt into the water-jetting foot tub - I personally think they need seatbelts on the chairs. He cuts, trims, cleans and digs. All the while you sit in the overstuffed, leather, massaging chair watching Oprah. When I was at the salon, her programme was all about why women leave their men. I could have told her why. They have dirty, stinking feet. Those men could have saved their marriage if only they gotten a pedicure.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
THE MIDDLEMAN!
Best viewed on an iMac 24", this picture taken at the Taj Mahal Hotel, New Delhi, on Friday the 13th, October 2006, finally puts the stamp on my accidental 'straying' into a totally new field, one that I thought I wasn't cut out for. But if that's what I'm destined for, so be it. Corporate PR, here I come...Mark the smile! Already a winner, eh!
Saturday, October 07, 2006
THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE AND IT HURTS!
Having something to say is more important than guessing what people want to hear. But when the muse turns into a slave driver with her own agenda, what do you do? Leaving off the notion of fiction and identity for a bit, let's do one of those Matrix freezes and rotate the camera's point of view 180 degrees to consider the effect of audience upon performed selves.
Living in this relatively small backwater of blogdom, I am only recently becoming aware that this isn't a monologue. Not only is this a journal, it is one spotlit, with the possibility that one reading over my shoulder will tap it and ask for a point of clarification or comment.
There is an organic growth to these interconnections. The cast of characters that populate my daily reads, while still abstractions (and there's that identity thing again), are increasingly becoming personalities with distinct voices. I hear voices. They speak to me. Sometimes, literally. (Really, that pun wasn't intended).
The process of creating an entry, for me, is more akin to the process one uses for painting. Once the concept is in my head, the challenge is to craft meaning in my own manner. The words are removed and distant. Like puzzle pieces that are arranged for rhythm, cadence, and clarity.
I don't consider myself a great writer, but making clear pictures is something I strive for.
The filtering part is the last consideration. Once I've determined the topic, even if it's personal - I'm sort of committed. And like a drawing, I blur the edges and take away some of the edge, leave allusion. That's a process of distancing and abstraction. So by the end, they're arranged words spawned from meaning.
Other than that, there's been little filtering...to the surprise of my friends.
Living in this relatively small backwater of blogdom, I am only recently becoming aware that this isn't a monologue. Not only is this a journal, it is one spotlit, with the possibility that one reading over my shoulder will tap it and ask for a point of clarification or comment.
There is an organic growth to these interconnections. The cast of characters that populate my daily reads, while still abstractions (and there's that identity thing again), are increasingly becoming personalities with distinct voices. I hear voices. They speak to me. Sometimes, literally. (Really, that pun wasn't intended).
The process of creating an entry, for me, is more akin to the process one uses for painting. Once the concept is in my head, the challenge is to craft meaning in my own manner. The words are removed and distant. Like puzzle pieces that are arranged for rhythm, cadence, and clarity.
I don't consider myself a great writer, but making clear pictures is something I strive for.
The filtering part is the last consideration. Once I've determined the topic, even if it's personal - I'm sort of committed. And like a drawing, I blur the edges and take away some of the edge, leave allusion. That's a process of distancing and abstraction. So by the end, they're arranged words spawned from meaning.
Other than that, there's been little filtering...to the surprise of my friends.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
MAC OF A MAN!
One hundred times: The biiiiig iMac. Absolut Fantastic. Awesome, awesome, awesome. Man, size matters. Hands on: the 24 inches widescreen is ummmm. This is guy stuff. Hook it to the cable and it turns into a TV. Not that I watch it. Clip it to the wall, take your wireless keyboard and mouse and viola! Work from your bed. Who needs a laptop when you can have the bed to yourself? Jokes apart, this thing rocks! Talk of the wow factor. The iPod-esque remote is a thing to behold, simply because watching Gladiator lying on the bed is fun. Can't wait to get into the groove...make movies...life is so absolutely fabulous. Shall start posting stuff from my Apple now. But first, let me get a hang of it. Real men with large hands and everything else, I say, are technically challenged. But trying to change that mentality should harm nobody. The only sad part: the silver-blue Honda that I planned this week, will have to wait now for another 10 days. Sigh!
P.S. Photo courtesy: My Big Slim iMac!
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