tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26409230325027724172024-02-20T21:39:48.930-08:00The MarionetteA view, with strings.
Abhishek Madan's Blog.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-57928646812594425552008-10-06T07:05:00.000-07:002008-10-06T07:42:08.421-07:00A RequiemI could see the end so clearly, before the beginning. Lonely again with my heavy olive rucksack and a broken spirit, staring at the airport doors. Just like it was beginning. I stared blankly at the permuting arrival lounge information board. The green lights next to every flight lit up, except one. People in ties, suits, shorts stormed out of the glass doors. All looking for a familiar face.<br /><br />In a time when anyone would have a thumping heart and moist palms, I was morose. And as if the overwhelming sense of precognition that showed me the end wasn't enough, my iPod began a song I otherwise loved.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Wednesday morning at five o'clock</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">as the day begins</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Silently closing her bedroom door</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Leaving the note that she hoped would say more</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">She goes downstairs to the kitchen<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div>I could see everything. How we'd walk in through the same gate, through the same half built bridge, and dump our bags in front of the cafe. Sit together, have a sip. And before I could blink it would be time to go.<br /><br />Through the glass doors again, past the burly guards. And I peered through the glass, slowly the sorrow dawning. The misty glass blurring my last glimpses. A lump in my throat, no crying of course, grown men don't cry. What if she turned back to see me?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">She</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">is leaving </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">home </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">She's leaving home after living alone for </span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">so many years<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>The music did not matter anymore. The absence of joy was obvious, but what remained was nameless. Two years of separation punctuated by two days of bliss seemed fatal.<br /><br />Two blinking green lights pierced my sorrowful menagerie. And in the exodus I spotted straight hair and a <span style="font-style: italic;">kurta. </span>My sweaty palms groped for the flowers and the piece of card, surely my heart would explode of excitement. Springing with my seemingly weightless rucksack I ran after her.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div></div> </div></div>Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-42763316277432929042008-10-05T03:10:00.000-07:002008-10-05T03:44:57.486-07:00Reasonable RejectionsIn my quest for employment I chanced upon 14 prospective employers who innocently rejected me in the written test.<br />But there are very few souls as lucky as yours truly. There are people who have been through multiple long, torturous and most unfortunately failed interviews. That, and my interviews, cumulatively prove just one thing, interviewers depend a LOT on the gut feeling. <br /><br />It is tough to accept the fact that humans, in the form of interviewers or any other, may like or dislike WITHOUT reason. Sometimes you just can't form a good impression of something. Like potato chips in a box. I find that really stupid. Who eats potato chips out of a box? and why? You need to be either extremely dumb or American. But look around now, everyone loves potato chips in a box, and no one knows why.<br /><br />Interviewers think very similarly, being evolved mammals like us. Of course the inevitable question is- Why? Why was XYZ rejected? <br /><br />And for a period of time, the length depends on the IQ of the interviewer or how much his company pays him, he is puzzled. He finds no reason, and of course he can tell the man who heads our placement operations that he just disliked the candidate. and thence continues the long, winding and recursive process of interview, lies and fabrication.<br /><br />First our college lies to them.<br />Then they give us a presentation full of deceit, including efforts by one of the world's leading electronic chip manufacturers to prove that their "Dosti Cell" helps cure loneliness.<br />Then we tell them a truck load of bullshit in the interviews and make American Universities seem as stupid as American Presidents. We also stop short of declaring a <span style="font-style:italic;">fatwa<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span> on the GRE.<br />Then they lie to the college about why they rejected so many.<br /><br />These of course form the main layers of deceit. Their sublayer, processes and sub-processes have been avoided to conserve the lucidity of the text.<br /><br />Of course there are some really creative employers and in their excuses we find some traits in their personality exposed.<br /><br />Here are some REAL excuses.<br /><br />1. He salivated from his left side.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Everybody knows that salivating from your right side is standard business protocol. Although salivators are generally avoided since most of the world leaders have <span style="font-weight:bold;">salivaphobia.</span> Also salivators dirty keyboards and microphones.</span><br /><br />2. The Middle Earth was unhappy.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Nothing left to say. Tolkien fan I <span style="font-weight:bold;">presume.</span></span><br /><br />3. He doesn't even know that a Bangalore Electrical Engineering firm has a branch office in the Breeze Hotel on the ground floor.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">My favourite because the interviewer pointed his finger at me and said it as if branding me a heretic. I don't think winking and sticking my tongue helped, but the HR panel found it funny.</span><br /><br />4. He wore a black tie.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">What a fool! All IT companies have 2 standard advisors, the how to save Income Tax money people and Linda Goodman. And black ties are thrice as unlucky as two black cats walking anti parallely across the street. Stupid Engineer.</span><br /><br />5. I don't think you are suitable for this profile(NOT the other way round).<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Firstly, I sat for the company because I want the profile. <br />Secondly, why the fuck did you shortlist my CV?</span><br /><br />There are so many more still to be documented that I could make another blog out of it. <br />Anyway, bottom line is placements more often then not are lotteries. You can do anything without luck, apart from trip of course.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-82522749103551517822008-09-27T00:27:00.000-07:002008-09-27T00:36:25.942-07:00The BluesThe little sparrows play in the muddy puddle,<br />My stupid hair is in a bloody muddle,<br />The pages take too long to load,<br />Leaving me tired and bored,<br />For I find more joy than getting into bed with three,<br />In the art of penning shitty poetry.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-45287604269327454112008-09-23T08:38:00.000-07:002008-09-23T09:01:33.390-07:00A Dog Named Whisky (Parte1)She found us late on Friday night,<br />This furry ball of black and white,<br />Beady eyes and a rolling head,<br />Someone stop her from peeing on my friggin' bed,<br /><br />Her name was Whisky<br /><br />We stole all her milk and buried her bones,<br />Taped her mouth and stopped those groans,<br />Tied her up and put her in a sack,<br />But that stupid dog kept coming back!<br /><br />Her name was Whisky.<br /><br />So we gave her some beer and fed her some weed,<br />But that little bitch was from a different breed,<br />She lapped'em up like never before,<br />And by the end of the night she wanted more!<br /><br />Her name was Whisky.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-33335338104272329722008-07-31T20:21:00.000-07:002008-07-31T20:54:07.326-07:00PiM PoMIn on of my recent grasslandic voyages, I was bitten by the analogy bug. Quite bad, less of a sting and more of a love bite. As my mental graphic tirade journeyed from gay parades to post, I popped another trip candy in. Then came the analogy of the millenium, you know, ones that come only once in like, many months. <div><br><br /></div><div>Girls and Candy. Perfect.</div><div><br><br /></div><div>So what would make the perfect companion? </div><div><br><br /></div><div>Those little pellets of Orange candy? The dissolve quickly, permeate your senses with a distinct flavour, leave some not-so-pretty but worth a laugh residue on your tongues, and every time you bite them they deliver this, well, tangy, spine tickling citric orgasm. Certainly not a perfect companion, more like a one-night stand, or a nice quickie. A friend of mine found two pellets wrapped together, so I guess he got lucky with the twins. </div><div><br><br /></div><div>Bubblegum? Maybe, they last long for sure. But they're also shapeless, ill-flavoured, stick all over you if try blowing bubbles and are evidently messy. You can't have too many and most of all, you certainly can't swallow them. Aging, irritable, tasteless, fat, old, boring. Copulative analogies impossible. </div><div><br><br /></div><div>Then comes me trump. The one candy that defines companionship. The lollipop. Its just brilliant, the last very long, have an amazing amount of flavour, awlays have a trick up their sleeve when you reach the centre. They're visually appealing, minimalistic but beautifully dressed, cheap and stay by your side as long as they last. They're not hidden like the pellets or incessantly bitten like the gum. You can pull them out anytime you want. Admire the colours blurring together and the contours that your tongue just gave it. It fades away slowly but there is no sadness, just the unending and inevitable dollops of pleasure that overwhelm you. And whenever you feel kinky you can give it a little bite. </div><div><br><br /></div><div>An when it does end, it doesn't just disappear like the selfish orange candy. Nor does it end up dead wrapped in a piece of paper or stuck on someone's shoe like the gum. It leaves a slender reminder of how good she was, a plastic twig that you can look at and smile for a fleeting second atleast. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-27751195968297371622008-07-20T00:56:00.000-07:002008-07-20T00:57:10.301-07:00Is it just me or does sambar make everyone fart?Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-75665490604336604662008-07-10T02:10:00.000-07:002008-07-10T02:11:12.263-07:00Finally somebody has the brains to un-ban blogspot on our college server. And we're a leading engineering institute. <div>Bollocks.</div>Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-88909302717866369192008-06-29T12:13:00.000-07:002008-06-29T12:33:54.061-07:00NONAME 01It come when least expected,<br />or desired,<br />a naive eye that dwells upon a curve for a second too many,<br />or the meandering wind,<br />that throws strands of hair on a reminiscent cheek,<br />or an invading scent breeding familiarity,<br />first they trickle, glimpses, flashing little light bulbs,<br />playfully instigating the memories,<br />first comes the heat, the sweat, the entangled limbs,<br />then,<br />then a definite breach, a crumbling dam,<br />gushing through with vengeance,<br />a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,<br />rapid, but not violent, not oppressive,<br />the debt of pain,<br />the insult of gauche,<br />all victim to pleasure,<br />surrender to intimacy,<br />only to find liberation in defeat,<br />moist palms, beaded temples,<br />and a smile etched in granite,<br />then suddenly,<br />the flood recedes,<br />the breach goes from saviour to sinner,<br />the mind wanders, desperatly searching for inspiration,<br />the eyes dart, all efforts thwarted by the dam,<br />now tall and strong, cunning and elusive,<br />the heart broods, begging for a few moments more,<br />of breathless pleasure, drowning,<br />no more touch,<br />or warm breath,<br />only a shadow on the mist,<br />of a smile etched on granite.<br />And as the sun settles,<br />the shadow will die,<br />slowly,<br />unless we peek over the edge,<br />and realize the sun never goes away.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-90172701515133566202008-06-24T00:59:00.000-07:002008-12-12T18:18:53.445-08:00Real Lies Realize<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lLLNT9Qy9NOq4Q9bzUm26iMGob5QtsD_z8ueByTd8mHtDXU0tP7gaoV51BPr2mM5P_SkKtEYJZFDVw03zl_8bM8ZqqfdWY2S5Ybo6yutdvHEMgETeTcx84yPAvAzI5xGMznXDs30gXRl/s1600-h/dimebag.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215354850004417986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lLLNT9Qy9NOq4Q9bzUm26iMGob5QtsD_z8ueByTd8mHtDXU0tP7gaoV51BPr2mM5P_SkKtEYJZFDVw03zl_8bM8ZqqfdWY2S5Ybo6yutdvHEMgETeTcx84yPAvAzI5xGMznXDs30gXRl/s320/dimebag.jpg" border="0" /></a> Do you know this man? I wont be surprised if you don't.<br /><br />His name is "Dimebag Darrell" Abbott. He was one of the brothers who founded Pantera. The first time I heard Pantera, the ex-glam now thrash band seemed more trash than thrash. First it was a wannabe-Van Halen and later a wannabe-Metallica (or deth).But they were instrumental in forming the Groove Metal genre and for that they deserve full credit. Unable to completely embrace thrash but, still carrying a very heavy sound with their ex-glam rhythm really helped them.<br /><br />Dimebag was shot dead on stage by an ex-US Marine in late 2004,along with three other people on the stage. This was during a concert, this bloke stepped on stage fired more than a dozen rounds and also killed a 23 year old fan who tried to deliver CPR to Dimebag. He even had the nerve to stop, reload his firearm and continue shooting. He was stopped when an officer killed him with a shotgun.<br /><br />In an article by William Grim called Aesthetics of Hate:RIP Dimebag and Good Riddance, he sides with the shooter commending him for his efforts. Grim is called an orthodox culture maven. The expert. He in fact writes for magazines that have wide distribution networks. He adds that Dimebag was killed by a culture that he created.<br /><br />A former (elite) serviceman killing 4 people and then having his life end in the most disgraceful fashion, shot by a member of a sub-ordinate law enforcement agency. And then an intellectual praising him. Brilliant, and the United States continues to look for elements that egg high school shooters on under pillows and chairs.<br /><br />A firefox music add-on yesterday just marqueed the text "Dedicated to Dimebag" when Machine Head's Asthetics of Hate was playing on my computer. I was shocked. I did not know that the man had died, not that I was a fan. But he was good, that's true. In fact the song is supposed to be a big FU to William Grim.<br /><br />This reminds me of a certain degree of grief people feel(atleast I do) when a childhood hero has lost something.<br />Like when Hansie Cronje died. Or more recently McGrath's wife. Or the Chris Benoit tragedy, even if he was a make-believe business' mascot.<br />Anyway, RIP Dimebag.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-70594943305082710562008-06-23T10:28:00.001-07:002008-06-23T10:30:02.220-07:00Talking 'bout my generator.My "My Generator" jokes, originally hatched in class are back.<br /><br />Q) Why did the motor not allow the generator to be crowned <em>Sarkar Raj</em>?<br />A) Because power cannot be given. It has to be taken.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-13548673834872684322008-06-23T09:41:00.000-07:002008-06-23T10:03:09.105-07:00Hear HearHaving a sharp sense of hearing is a real bummer. Seriously. It has its advantages and with some Time Division Multiplexing you can eavesdrop on a number of conversations, and think at the same time. You also have the added advantage, if you can think fast enough that is, to hear things people normally say with a hope you don't hear them.<br /><br />You know, the<br /><br />"what did you say?"<br />"oh nothing... I was talking to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">myself</span>"<br />"very well then, I won't return your silver plated, diamond studded, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">platinum</span> tinged hunting knife"<br />"did YOU steal it?"<br />"are you accusing me?"<br />"how did you know I lost my silver plated, diamond studded, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">platinum</span> tinged hunting knife?"<br />"you just said you lost your silver plated, diamond studded, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">platinum</span> tinged hunting knife"<br />"how did you hear it?"<br />*<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">sniggers</span> and leaves banging the door on the way(if indoors)*<br /><br />type of conversations.<br /><br />This disadvantage of course, in my case, is something you need to live with everyday..eerrm..rather night. Night is the best time to experience stillness. If its late enough, turn off all electric devices around and just lie on the bed, soon to be drenched in sweat, but in absolute stillness. If you listen carefully you'll hear the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">bed sheet</span> crumple, the mattress very slowly bearing you wait, the plywood under letting out soft creaks of displeasure. And if your watchman's awake, his heavy footsteps on leaves, not necessarily dry. Sometimes even on grass if its crunchy enough.<br /><br />The not-so-nice part is living three storeys above the action, everything sounds a bit too..well.. misplaced. You need to listen carefully to figure where the noise is coming from.<br /><br />Another <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">grievous</span> and often disgusting habit, when you can hear real soft noises you evidently tend to speak that softly (when the time comes to speak softly, of course). Which leads to accusations of other people being hard of hearing. I've thrown that term around on a couple of people so many times I'm sure they're sick of it. I'm trying to hear less by pumping large amounts of metal into ear plugs.. doesn't seem to be working.<br /><br />Anyway, point remains that despite the bummers, listening can be great fun. And you can always tell women you're a great listener.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-71717396709875730322008-06-22T22:30:00.000-07:002008-06-22T22:50:00.694-07:00The Great American DreamAn average American gets married so many times that they made a reality show out of it. And in spite of my best efforts to avoid it, I ended up watching one. Its that mystical attraction that the disgusting has. Like how a few of my friends love "Nothing In the World" just because its a Paris Hilton song and listen to it only to criticize her vocal abilities.<br /><br />Anyway, the show is called "For Better or for Worse". Quite a rhetoric, any American show about marriage has to be for worse.<br /><br />Also seen recently is an advertisement about American Green Cards and how the country hands over 50,000 green cards in a drive to increase average IQ levels of the country.The approximate transcript says something like "Now, even you can Live,Work and Study in the USA and live the Great American Dream!!"<br /><br />Great American Dream eh? They should call it GAD. There's already a band called Gatsby's American Dream that's called GAD.<br /><br />Not so surprisingly, medical fraternities would squirm at GAD. It stands for Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Which of course means that you worry about absolutely everything and believe the world is snapping at your arse ready to snatch you state of peaceful existence drown you into cauldrons of misery. Not so surprisingly, one of the main sources of GAD could be WMD in Iraq.<br /><br />Other versions of the Great American Dream include a startling discovery by a female American Senator, made popular by a youtube video, that claims "..we have seen societies being destroyed by homosexuality, which is more dangerous than terrorism.." . There you go. Generalized Anxiety Disorder again. Really? Can two men making out cause the fall of towers? or the absolute annihilation of countries?<br /><br />I would love to change my impression about the world's foremost superpower and believe me I'm trying. Maybe I'm not smart enough.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-50572058617231836592008-06-21T13:11:00.000-07:002008-06-21T13:36:19.747-07:00NONAME00Yes the blog has a new name.<br /><br />When I was a kid I was always afraid of learning science. I had this constant fear that one day, somebody would disprove the existence of the atom. That all we studied would just be a waste of time. I figured it would take someone really smart. But that wasn't my biggest fear.<br /><br />My biggest fear was that it would be me.<br /><br />I was afraid of hammering on foundations I considered virtual. That all these castles we built in the air would all filter through as mere illusions cultivated by a string of creative storytellers. Only for me to snip their yarns and spin my own. In fact its a opinion I still harbour, however appalling it may be for a man of science and engineering.<br /><br />Increasingly these days my questions divert to the intrinsic fabric that binds together all our desires. Our wish to work in jobs that pay and our pursuits for emotional reinforcement. Its not easy tossing these queries at yourself, they are questions you would avoid in a state of sanity. I have reasons to believe that all this peeking officially defines me as nihilistic. And although I have great respects for Nietzsche and his opinions, we must be aware of the fact that betrays him, he went mad.<br /><br />Of course my philosophical positioning between bluntly Epicurean and the always-present but recently accepted Nihilism is quite a paradigm shift. One that required millions of pendulum laps, but evidently occurred much before my brain could absorb what <em>nothing</em> meant.<br /><br />Another issue that has caught my fancy very recently is a challenge: to view life without time. To actually refute the existence of a past or a future. It sounds absurd and elongated contemplations may lead to the absolute disposal of the theory, it is exactly that issue that fascinates me. In fact, the entire concept is so absurd, I'm ready to think about it.<br /><br />We are all puppets. And we all have strings, whose strings? Nobody knows. One of them could be yours itself. Only if we had the room to step back and look at everyone at the same time, we could deduce an approximate picture. Only if we had the room.<br />I'm like everyone. Just that I can see the strings. And I hope you see them too.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-77674216396180106282008-06-19T03:41:00.000-07:002008-06-19T03:43:14.667-07:00Don't you hate it when people say "don't you hate it?' and you actually <b> don't</b> hate it?Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-23187751294585194932008-06-18T23:29:00.000-07:002008-06-19T00:02:06.907-07:00Italiano? Sì prego!No I haven't been learning Italian and yes those are the only 3 words I know. 2 if you discount Italiano.<br /><br />Being a Punjabi is always satisfying. That's because even if you believe in celibacy, you always have the food, to err.. please. And when I say that last night's dinner was in Little Italy, I hope readers don't relate the foreign fixture to the equivalence explained above.<br /><br />After pulling down a place called MyLungi (or as the fancy folk call it, Melange), the Mumbai chain, Little Italy, opened up here. And all that Garfield really made me want lasagna.<br /><br />Initial impressions were sadly not so great. The place still looks a lot like Melange, although to be fair, I don't think a total makeover should've been on their list anyway. The decor was confused. It was not exactly Italian, and it certainly did not make me feel Italian. I must admit the Gujju birthday bash on the table next to us did not help.<br /><br />My least favourite part comes now though. An employee came over, poured us water and lit a candle on the table, with a <em>sadak-chap</em> plastic lighter. The one that poor <i>autowallas</i> use. The cutlery was classy and everything on the table looked rich. And then the plastic lighter. These guys really know how to ruin stuff. The ambience was decent and quite likeable. And then I heard Bryan Adams. Italian retaurant, Italian food, difficult to comprehend menu and really nice Ohm speakers. Everything was right. Then they play Alanis Morisette. Then Celine Dion.<br />AAARGHH!!! Someone tell them all these are mainstream <b>Canadian</b> artists. That means they're from <b>Canada</b>. Which is about 67million handspans from Italy. Some Italiano music would really add to the ambience. I'm not talking Opera and Pavarotti, but atleast some <i>O sole mio</i>.<br /><br />The staff was well dressed, not Milan Fashionweek stuff, but good enough. The funny part was the when I asked a bloke what he'd recommend, the answers were <i>B.13 and C.29</i>. Quite convenient, would rather have them do their homework and learn names along with the numbers. And show people that you know names.<br /><br />The food was brilliant. I absolutely loved it. And although all the pizzas being ordered tempted us, we stuck to pasta, lasagna and some farmer bread thing. Considering the prices I'd want everything to be perfect, no slip-ups. Not the case evidently. But the food was great, and the cooks deserve a pat on their backs.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-15454819696562014922008-06-11T01:54:00.000-07:002008-12-12T18:18:53.877-08:00One Wild Night<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qk_qpWk5CAbcYmTNUq6c3Iun_0ScbCt8HDeiJ7a6miaIE57SyYTm5_w5zfeOgCWHcNyt6w9PHYEMqjsdrE13tq3FvY0wuTIDInDwxfb4uT3TlEV9mYVbo57if5qOzJc24gknHeDoQWB3/s1600-h/Too-Much-Gaming.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210545826178814354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 444px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 313px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" height="329" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qk_qpWk5CAbcYmTNUq6c3Iun_0ScbCt8HDeiJ7a6miaIE57SyYTm5_w5zfeOgCWHcNyt6w9PHYEMqjsdrE13tq3FvY0wuTIDInDwxfb4uT3TlEV9mYVbo57if5qOzJc24gknHeDoQWB3/s400/Too-Much-Gaming.png" width="429" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:85%;"> <em><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">(click to enlarge)</span></em></span></div><br /><br />I could feel its chamber burn my skin through the denim. That .357 is a real devil. Turned 3 zombies into ketchup. The undead sure got the un shot off by the magnum. I'd love to call it my babe, but its too darn powerful. And all that chrome. Its a man, a full grown evil flesh gnawing man. People say they hate because its too slow. But thats a truckload of bullshit. It would be faster if you could recover from the recoil, its like hitting a wall at mach 5.<br /><br />Two more of those blood sucking leeches, I let the Beretta take them. After all, this one is the pet, the most docile, most likeable gun. It wouldn't hurt a fly, unless you shot at it of course. I know the boss is coming, I can smell it. Plus the AI is growing tired of getting its scary creatures gunned down like kids in an American school. This wont do, the machine has an ego as big as its code. Couple of more jumps and I'm in full view of a bunch of apartment windows.<br /><br /><i>Full view.</i><br /><br />It hits me like missile from Moscow. Snipers. Bloody snipers.<br /><br />My legs freeze and I can't move a muscle. The first muffled gunshot rings through the walls and ricochets of a dumpster. I lob a bunch frags and scram. Just one hit through the arm, the good one though. I hunt for a health pack and for all you know the AI might've just planted this one under my foot.<br /><br /><i>Fool! Of course they did! </i><br /><br />I rise to see the boss on me, a Benelli levelled at me. 12 gauge. I'd survive it if I were a blue whale. The air would kill me most probably though. But fact remains I'm no blue whale and thats still a 12 gauge. Dodge just one shot, just one, I keep telling myself, by the time the shotgun's back you'll have the magnum bury a bullet in his crotch.<br /><br />And then I see something else. It's not a his. Its a her. And she's smiling. Says I've done well. Stupid bot, smiling at me, 2 million lines of code and this is what they come up with. I could think of better female bosses hanging by my thumbs. But I've gotta give it to her, she's got me cornered. Quick draw it is, my end or hers.<br /><br />In a split second the gun is out of my pocket and ready to roar. She laughs, loudly. Dares me to shoot, she dint need to. Half the barrel is empty and she's still standing there, can't believe it, not in a million years. She throws me her shotgun, this time I make full use, finishing all the shells with secondary fire. And everything went through her. Every single piece of lead hits the wall behind. This time she snarls and screams, "I'm the AI stupid! And you're in my world!". Then comes the pounce, <em>coup de grace.</em><br /><br /><strong>Epilogue 1: </strong>This piece, however fictional it may seem, is a true real life dream. Not nightmare of course, because I had saved the game just before the sniper trap.<br /><br /><strong>Epilogue 2: </strong>I really need to cut down on the gaming.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVs0fjo-5eR3g0JKxAhBN7cyGgzMdL-STItcVAbY8DVssS8xVhsa2O1RhV3n2W-D5ZPdPw3onfKQSkaePj07QCRUk191ZnG37mgY9RwChavIY3-JOLR4q2RkdnnrLULVPW2UC5kSWtyRGv/s1600-h/half-life-2-orange-box-20070521060818405.jpg"></a>Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-49226819596403109112008-06-09T21:54:00.000-07:002008-12-12T18:18:54.350-08:00I shall be a bat.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizIpjKnxO_hAuEIFmjeyQlrCP094_z7iRM7i5RbqDO_QX1tWHkQkmWedjmYaN4KadbL9qd2l4_-tgrx49PotDFGpM9FacFWMLKayC-pQfRdt7aXiEJfcSy7Zd8cyBdNmsDESeruAWl1Czk/s1600-h/BatmanTDKR2-092_The_Dark_Knight_Triumphant.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210113109888190658" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizIpjKnxO_hAuEIFmjeyQlrCP094_z7iRM7i5RbqDO_QX1tWHkQkmWedjmYaN4KadbL9qd2l4_-tgrx49PotDFGpM9FacFWMLKayC-pQfRdt7aXiEJfcSy7Zd8cyBdNmsDESeruAWl1Czk/s320/BatmanTDKR2-092_The_Dark_Knight_Triumphant.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6W-BJfShbbNt0ujME_ugfXs92beMiw_4jODMyF5eS8fnKDbElE1-HA-xoopIJSN-SPWsHDRPgIwx2IrrWTuOSmtkanXfQ8AFWJk5AW8zYfz3iakhbCjD5PJK_dUObSG8t_73DInlM_jGP/s1600-h/BatmanTDKR0_000_Introduction.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210112314358341026" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6W-BJfShbbNt0ujME_ugfXs92beMiw_4jODMyF5eS8fnKDbElE1-HA-xoopIJSN-SPWsHDRPgIwx2IrrWTuOSmtkanXfQ8AFWJk5AW8zYfz3iakhbCjD5PJK_dUObSG8t_73DInlM_jGP/s320/BatmanTDKR0_000_Introduction.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCodliuKMxEt-Whu2NqZwyoZETSlnE4AUkB_do_hzafU5LQiOUvsNQ3-kCmmFD2Ah5I7ZBeQi4f2Gr_jsDhWbWAnaPe4DvGkNVA1Wv2_rFapabnhG4oXm4lg5N4qnFNfCfMQxoZP_ff3Ea/s1600-h/BatmanTDKR0_002_Introduction.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210112523092537058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCodliuKMxEt-Whu2NqZwyoZETSlnE4AUkB_do_hzafU5LQiOUvsNQ3-kCmmFD2Ah5I7ZBeQi4f2Gr_jsDhWbWAnaPe4DvGkNVA1Wv2_rFapabnhG4oXm4lg5N4qnFNfCfMQxoZP_ff3Ea/s320/BatmanTDKR0_002_Introduction.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br />It was St. aXXo who said "Blesseth is the torrent that bringeth to thee what thoust wants. And blesseth is he who hath chanced upon the blesseth torrent."</div><div>And I is the blesseth.</div><div></div><div>After running through a bunch of forums of useless hosting searches, it was a <em>blesseth torrent</em> that brought me to what I wanted. Frank Miller's work, not all of it, but most of it at least. I'm still on the look-out for The Ronin series and Elektra, minus Jennifer Garner.</div><div></div><div><br>But I believe all of the Sin City yarns should keep me busy for some. And I haven't even touched them. The first book left me stunned. It's called The Dark Knight Returns (or DKR) and Miller's work on Batman is absolutely brilliant, as you can see on the images above.</div><div></div><div><br>Batman's always been a different super hero. No super powers. No alien guises. No flying. No killing. No man of steel. No South American references. OK, a troubled past maybe, but surely you need something!</div><div><br>And DKR is about his return and final end. The story is wonderful. The human element that Batman evidently has, is so brilliantly exploited. The way he's separated as a superhero from Superman, how his belief that after all, they are all criminals is cemented. Of course there are the sceptical believers. But believer nonetheless. Its a great scenario and I most probably enjoyed it more than any Batman movie. And in case the first line was too much of a spoiler, then I may go ahead and tell you it's then end of Batman, not Bruce Wayne.</div><div></div><div><br>Also done by Miller in the Batman series is Year One. Again very nice. After DKR, Year One was fun as it had a refreshingly young Batman, still learning, still protecting. And the brand new Lieutenant on the job, Gordon.</div><div></div><div><br>I also got my hands on Miller's RoboCop, not a big RoboCop fan, but lets see what it looks like.</div><div></div><div><br>The wonderful thing about Frank Miller and all of his collaborations is the detailed style he pumps into everything he does. He turned an old retro <em>The 300 Spartans</em> into 300. Which then turned into the movie which has EXACT comic panel scenes. He created Sin City. And all this while, you can see his trademark <em>film noir</em> style that goes into everything. How the shadows play on human contours and how expressions change. And of course the silhouettes. I wish there was more Batman done by him, but the end of DKR makes that an almost impossible prospect.</div><div><br><strong><em>Sigh.</em></strong><br /></div><div></div></div>Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-23686371322730183632008-06-08T03:48:00.000-07:002008-06-08T03:52:57.909-07:00Until Death be Upon usYou know what better than mindless first-person-shooter gore?<br />Mindless first-person-shooter gore <b>with Thrash Metal in the background.</b><br />Welcome to the world of Machinehead+Quake. A world of double bass pounding rockets with plasma gun riffs.<br /><br />A world I effing live in.<br /><br />P.S: Shhhh! Don't tell anyone, I'm supposed to be writing CAT tests on the comp.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-91843000401114771602008-06-08T01:07:00.000-07:002008-06-08T01:08:59.881-07:00Its G(r)ateYou may find this hard to believe, but I actually like Vista.<br /><i> lightning</i><br />And the new Windows Media Player!<br /><i> God kills a kitten </i>Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-78402271262385258292008-06-07T02:23:00.000-07:002008-06-07T02:34:02.025-07:00...reminds me that I long to be..In flight Bhel puri.<br />Himesh Reshammiya ringtones.<br />Reliance phones.<br />A Ba on my side.<br />More reliance phones.<br />Business talk.<br />Pilot bashing.<br />Tea enquiries.<br />More Himesh Reshammiya ringtones.<br />One million Bhai/Ben per second.<br />More Tea enquiries.<br />70 year-old men in flaming red shirts.<br />70 year old women in shorts.<br />Still more Himesh Reshammiya.<br /><i>Bharuch</i> Peanuts.<br />Wannabe vegetarians.<br />Alcoholic fantasies.<br />Lots more Himesh Reshammiya.<br />Reliance petrol.<br />Reliance cornershops.<br />Reliance contraceptives.<br />Reliance lingerie.<br />Fat people.<br />Very fat people.<br />Fat people walking to the park.<br />Rich fat people driving to Talwalkars.<br />Parrots.<br />Torrents.<br />My window.<br />My bathroom.<br />My friggin TV.<br />Guess who's home, baby. Guess who's home.Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-37473502118388584512008-05-29T22:18:00.000-07:002008-05-31T08:19:23.164-07:00The Simple LifeFor once I will let something remotely related to Paris Hilton enter my blog. But it stops at remotely of course.<br /><br />A few weeks back I chanced upon an offer to eat a butter biscuit. I'm not really saying that its a big thing, but a lot like the butteryfly (no pun intended) effect, it caused extreme chaos.<br />Now circumstances were such that my wish to take another biscuit from the kind offer-er would be cruel. So I set up on a Frodo-like quest to find the original butter biscuits.<br /><br />As soon as I got back from work on that fateful day I walked into the closest bakery I found. Adyar it was. About 7 PM. This place had a decently young and seemingly active crowd (blame it on the IT). And as soon as I entered this place a whiff of virgin, just born biscuits absolutely permeated my senses. Its like the smell of someone you love, and how you'd identify it. I really never thought I love butter biscuits, till that day of course.<div> </div><div>I hurried to the man behind the counter, bought a box of cookies that were labelled butter and ran out of the shop, my preciouses tucked under the arm. And then I awaited that special moment. When the little box of biscuits is first shown the world. And although my hungry, barbaric (actually guy-ish) instincts slighlt tainted the beauty of it all, when I had my cookie it was a certain let down. Nothing happened.</div><div> </div><div>I did not regret spending the 35 Rupees. It was the anti-climax that troubled me. Quite annoying in fact. I looked around for something that would amuse or entertain me, quitely observing my exceeding self centricity. Hmm... I guess I'm growing old.</div><div> </div><div>The next door tea shop provided a peaceful retreat, and just as I finished my masterful rendition of <i> Anna, onn tea!</i> I saw them. In all their glory. In a burly glass jar that was their eye to the world. No fancy boxes. No seducing smell. I asked him how much they cost. He said a ruppee each. I got one. And even before its genuine and almost known flavour chanced upon my taste buds I knew I had found them. </div>Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-50301354948675373582008-05-29T01:28:00.000-07:002008-05-29T01:31:07.109-07:00Who's your daddy?Is it just me or does this place look good? LOL<br />I hope peoples like it nad drop in a couple of kind of words of exreme appreciation. :DAbhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-14871422367296409572008-05-25T22:13:00.000-07:002008-05-25T22:45:37.825-07:00BraveheartsMy last two bus ides have been absolutely wonderful. Not because <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">there</span> were no nagging women on the bus. That would make the bus rides heavenly. But because I came across two bands that I instantly fell in love with.<br /><br />A couple of years ago, when I first heard <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Dreamtheater</span>, I was more than impressed. They have an amazing lineup and their music is very progressive. Sadly there was one major flaw. They had a lead singer. And that thought ravaged my mind for a very long time. These guys were brilliant, they never needed a lead singer or a voice. Their music spoke truck loads.<br /><br />And on one fateful night, I came across this video of them playing in Budapest I think. No one sang. And it was absolutely brilliant. Maybe more so because I was bored. Or maybe because I was extremely high.<br /><br />But one fine day I realised a DVD of mine had their albums, as Liquid Tension Experiment. And that made my ride.<br /><br />The other accidental discovery is almost shocking. I had never come across, till that fateful day, an American band that had the balls to touch a Lennon and a Zeppelin composition and then twist and remodel each of them into dark sinister songs. Till of course, I found two covers by A Perfect Circle. Of course, if it was anyone who deserved to cover the greats, it is this alternative-progressive super group. But the covers are, conservatively put, brilliant.<br /><br />I am a huge Beatles fan and for someone to invade their musical sanctity and get away with it would be quite an achievement. And that is exactly what <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">APC</span> has done. Their cover of Imagine by Lennon replaces his mellow cheerful piano progression by sinister chords. The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">initial</span> part of the riff remains the same but the is follow up changes the entire <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">mood</span> of the song. The drums are much more progressive and their almost out-of-phase-but-in-the-beat sound adds to the creepy effect. The vocals are top notch. A lot of layering and mixing is evident and that totally gels with the guitars. Personally I love the grumbling,growling bass the builds up.<br /><br />I am also a huge Led Zeppelin fan, and although their sanctity has been penetrated like a lady of the trade by amateurs and pros alike, this cover of When The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Levee</span> Breaks is a class above. Its a song that is rarely covered. And as soon as it started playing, my first impression was, hold on, I know this bass line, and steadily the lyrics just followed. The characteristic drums are not missing, but have been converted into a sombre, unsettling version. The vocals are brilliant, including a Robert Plant like panting in the background.<br /><br />And although they've been in hiatus since 2006, I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">looking</span> forward to more materials, and this may sound <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">weird</span>, more covers!Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-25200012424294875332008-05-24T04:01:00.000-07:002008-05-24T04:28:27.314-07:00Mine's BiggerOne day, in a restaurant I have started detesting, I quite unfortunately happen to occupy a table next to a bunch of over-enthused college kids.<br />Quite apparently, they seemed to be from different colleges.<br />Do you know what is the worst part about a bunch of people from different colleges? The bragging. Its so plainly irritating. <br />Anyway, I am sure my analysis will be certainly biased. So I've decided to accurately put the up the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">conversation</span> here so that you can judge for yourself.<br /><br />CG1:College Guy 1<br />CG2:College Guy 2<br />CG3:College Guy 3<br /><br />CG1: Dude, you know in my college no one studies. Ever. Its like banned. If you study you get a year back.<br /><br />CG2: Oh <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">that's</span> nothing. My college people <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">dint</span> study and still get year backs. The there are <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">other</span> who reverse study. They lose all their knowledge before their exams. These are normally the 9 pointers.<br /><br />CG3: What? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Thats</span> nonsense. No one can lose their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">knowledge</span> of course. But that 9 pointer part makes sense. Anyway, my college is way cooler. Everyone smokes marijuana. One day, my roommate smoked 450 rupees worth of marijuana.<br /><br /><i>me:Groaning and looking at the waiter. Begging him to get my food.</i><br /><br />CG1: Oh <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">thats</span> peanuts. My roommate smoked 1500 rupees worth of <i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">maal</span>.</i> I'm not sure about this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">marrijuna</span>. What is it?<br /><i><br /></i>CG2:Its the same thing stupid We put it in our mess food. Oh it was so much fun..<i>blah blah blah<br /><br />me:Still <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">looking</span> at the waiter. Making life size B52 models with tissues.</i><br /><br />CG1: Does your hostel have LAN?<br /><br />CG3: Oh what a stupid question (!) My hostel has 10 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">kzillion</span> fourteen billion GB shared. We have all the latest songs, movies, games useless and absolutely non <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">sensical</span> photographs of rabbit couples and woodpeckers in wife swap like compromising poses.<br /><i><br /></i>CG1:<i> </i>Ha! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Thats</span> it? We have turtles and sea otters too.<br /><i><br /></i>CG2:All that is nothing compared to what you find on my LAN (O<i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">ne</span> waiter brings a plateful of food. My eyes light u</i>p) Even before movies release, they're on our LAN because the photons in our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">lan</span> move faster than light and hence they time travel. (<i>bus boy laughs. Even he knows photons can't travel faster than light</i>)<br /><br /><i>Waiter puts food on their table. My blood curdles. He looks at me and passes out.<br /><br /></i>CG2: (<i>between mouthfuls)</i> The food in our mess is so bad we found a cockroach in the <i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">pulao</span>.<br /><br /></i><i>I fantasize cockroach <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">pulao</span>. Seems <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">sumptuous</span>.<br /></i><br />CG1: OH <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">thats</span> nice. In our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">pulao</span> we have to hunt for rice in between the cockroaches.<br /><i><br /></i><i>A small spider crawls up next to CG2's plate. He instantly throws up. He accuses the spider of ignoring the fact that he is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">brahmin</span>.</i><br /><br />CG3: Oh <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">thats</span> like the scent of summer. In my college people puke such stinky stuff that....<br /><br /><i>After completing a Live Size model of Pamela Anderson and INS <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Vikraant</span> I realize my food has come. I gobble it up and make my exit.</i><i> </i><i><br /></i><i><br /></i> <i><br /></i>Some post trauma inquiries revealed that these were professionals who were actually working in a nearby company. They were <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">reminiscing</span>. Or whatever the word is.<i><br /></i><i><br /></i>Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2640923032502772417.post-2151411225626378262008-05-20T22:21:00.000-07:002008-05-20T22:47:07.447-07:00Socker Punch<i>As it often happens, my mood shifts from one level of randomness to another. And considering its love for entropy, the degree of randomness rarely decreases. Make that never.</i><br /><br /><strong>The Wet Socks Study</strong><br /><br />In the Spring of 2007, Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Vocksman</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Joure</span>, a Franco-German scientist at The Max Planck Institute of Scientific Research was washing his socks. It then struck him, that in this process his socks were obviously moistened, or as the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">layman</span> would say, we. But <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">in spite</span> of his dedicated efforts <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">they</span> refused to stink. Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Joure</span> was puzzled as whenever his socks were 'moistened' by the rain, they smelled like 5 day old cow dung after the beetles had their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">eggs</span> hatching and larvae growing.<br /><br />Being the brave scientist he is, he decided to venture into this <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">unchartered</span> territory armed with <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">nothing</span> but his razor sharp <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Swiss</span> army knife, and what he liked to call <i>intellect</i>. Later he would regret his folly and blame it on his naive ego.<br /><br />Anyway, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Joure</span> waited. Waited for summer to come. And all this time his mind was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">focused</span>. Every morning he thought about his stinky socks and how his research would change the world.<br />And soon the rains were here. The rains. They were here.<br /><br />His beacons of joy were lit, the flame of his research desire let loose its forked tongue and gasped for more <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">scientific</span> air. Oh! How they <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">smouldered</span> in his heart, his soul and mind were one. He saw nothing but the socks, he smelt nothing but the smell of wet socks and he felt nothing but euphoria and adrenaline of inching towards one of the greatest scientific marvels of the 21st century. He wept as his mind envisaged heroic welcomes and people thronging every city he entered.<br /><br />Three hours later Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Vocksman</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Joure</span> passed away due to a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">heart attack</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Apparently</span> emotional exhaustion was the cause.<br /><br /><strong>Note:</strong> In his honour, the Wet Sock Study was officially suspended. This <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">intriguing</span> subject will never be dealt with again by any scientist in the world, and anyone who dares to defy this rule will be struck by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Vocksman</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Joure</span> curse. This horrible curse causes socks to stink even after they are washed. Let us pay homage to this g<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">reat</span> man. Whatever little we know of, about this great smelly mystery is all because of him.<br /><br /><div align="justify"><div align="justify"><i><strong>"White socks are like virgin teens. They are just <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">dying</span> to get dirty. Ad you know what? Just like the teens, they will never be clean again. This is the ultimate universal truth."</strong><strong><br /></strong><div align="justify"><strong>-Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Vocksman</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Joure<br />Paris White Socks Conference, 1978<br /></span></strong><br /></div></i><br /></div></div>Abhishek Madanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938900513306351146noreply@blogger.com1