Posts
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Thursday, August 10, 2006
What's pest-ering me
There's this huge hoo-hah about MNC demons Coke and Pepsi busily poisoning us with excessive levels of pesticide in their drinks. Some states have banned sales of their products, other have even banned their manufacture.
The companies themselves have issued the usual half-page advertisements protesting their innocence and adherence to worldwide standards.
What nobody's explained to me is where this alleged pesticide is coming from. Surely no one is suggesting that the Colas add in DDT to make up the volume and cut costs. And I doubt that they are that paranoid about pest control as to over-fumigate their factory premises so that pesticides get into the bottles. And I doubt that pesticide constitutes one of the famous secret ingredients.
That leaves only one place: the water.
Yep, the pesticides have probably leached from the over-dosed soil into the ground water and most of our wells and lakes are probably chock-full of the salubrious stuff.
So if the pesticides are in the water to start with, we are drinking the damn things anyway. How come nobody's bothered to test the tap water?
No convenient scapegoat around, is that it?
Who can I sue?
And why do mosquitoes continue to feed off me?
The companies themselves have issued the usual half-page advertisements protesting their innocence and adherence to worldwide standards.
What nobody's explained to me is where this alleged pesticide is coming from. Surely no one is suggesting that the Colas add in DDT to make up the volume and cut costs. And I doubt that they are that paranoid about pest control as to over-fumigate their factory premises so that pesticides get into the bottles. And I doubt that pesticide constitutes one of the famous secret ingredients.
That leaves only one place: the water.
Yep, the pesticides have probably leached from the over-dosed soil into the ground water and most of our wells and lakes are probably chock-full of the salubrious stuff.
So if the pesticides are in the water to start with, we are drinking the damn things anyway. How come nobody's bothered to test the tap water?
No convenient scapegoat around, is that it?
Who can I sue?
And why do mosquitoes continue to feed off me?
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Tech wizards, forsooth!
Now I know our vaunted technological prowess is just a bunch of crumbly stale bread.
My blog is still blocked via one ISP (Tata - you listening, Ratan dikra?) but is accessible via another, Sify.
I'd suspected this because friends in other cities could access blogspot while I couldn't.
Today, in office I switched my router from one ISP to the other and voila!
This means:
- Tata is technically incompetent because they've blocked blogspot when they shouldn't
- Sify is technically incompetent because they haven't blocked blogspot when they should
- Neither gives a rodent's sexual congress for the customer
- All of the above
My blog is still blocked via one ISP (Tata - you listening, Ratan dikra?) but is accessible via another, Sify.
I'd suspected this because friends in other cities could access blogspot while I couldn't.
Today, in office I switched my router from one ISP to the other and voila!
This means:
- Tata is technically incompetent because they've blocked blogspot when they shouldn't
- Sify is technically incompetent because they haven't blocked blogspot when they should
- Neither gives a rodent's sexual congress for the customer
- All of the above
Monday, July 31, 2006
Premature ejaculation...
... is what my previous blog entry was.
We ain't back. Shortly after I posted that, blogspot dropped off my network again and the only way I can get to it now is via a proxy.
This sucks.
At least China has better roads even if they don't have an uncensored Net. What's our claim to fame?
We ain't back. Shortly after I posted that, blogspot dropped off my network again and the only way I can get to it now is via a proxy.
This sucks.
At least China has better roads even if they don't have an uncensored Net. What's our claim to fame?
Thursday, July 20, 2006
We're back!
Yippee and zippee and doodle and all that. Blogspot is back. Democracy wins. Or whatever.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
One more thing, Franz
Oh, I forgot - the reason I can continue to write my blog, is because the idiots have blocked blogspot.com which is where the blog resides, but not blogger.com which is where the authoring of the blog takes place.
I am tempted to break my own rule and display expletives on my blog.
I am tempted to break my own rule and display expletives on my blog.
Kafka, we need you...
This has to be the strangest blog entry I've ever done. Not that I've done many, but still.
It's strange because while I'm allowed to make this entry, I'm not allowed to read it myself.
In its infinite wisdom, the Government of India has decided to block certain blogs from public consumption in India. Fine, they want to do that, they probably have the right to.
But in their ham-handed fashion (I didn't say "typical" but you read it, right?) they've blocked the entire blogspot.com URL. So, all blogs hosted here are inaccessible in India.
Bloody daft!
I'm writing this in the hope that one day I'll be able to read it online without having to go through an anonymizer.
Oh yes, you CAN still access all these sites by going via an anonymizer site - and you can find one in about 0.28 seconds via a Google search. It works - I just saw my own blog though with the styles a bit off, but it's there. I have no doubt that there are other ways to get around this stupid block, but it irks me that I need to.
Forget about my individual rights. Whatever happened to plain commonsense?
It's strange because while I'm allowed to make this entry, I'm not allowed to read it myself.
In its infinite wisdom, the Government of India has decided to block certain blogs from public consumption in India. Fine, they want to do that, they probably have the right to.
But in their ham-handed fashion (I didn't say "typical" but you read it, right?) they've blocked the entire blogspot.com URL. So, all blogs hosted here are inaccessible in India.
Bloody daft!
I'm writing this in the hope that one day I'll be able to read it online without having to go through an anonymizer.
Oh yes, you CAN still access all these sites by going via an anonymizer site - and you can find one in about 0.28 seconds via a Google search. It works - I just saw my own blog though with the styles a bit off, but it's there. I have no doubt that there are other ways to get around this stupid block, but it irks me that I need to.
Forget about my individual rights. Whatever happened to plain commonsense?
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
The inevitable...
Well, this is the inevitable, nay, obligatory, entry post the latest round of Mumbai blasts. In this I'm probably joining thousands of bloggers who've undoubtedly all expressed their solidarity, horror, regret, pride, and so on.
It's strange how in times like this the usual platitudes and cliches are the only words that actually make sense. "Show must go on." "Pride in Mumbaikar's spirit." "Common man's courage." "Bloody but unbowed." "Business as usual." Even a cynical old sod such as yours truly is moved by the way this city bounces back and keeps on keeping on. Not that there really is such an entity as "this city" - it's you and me that does all the bouncing. And the being bounced, unfortunately.
It's close to two decades since I last regularly commuted by train, but it's an experience that is never forgotten. In fact, you don't even need to be a regular to savor that never-to-be-forgotten experience. Just one ride on Mumbai's trains and you have something to boast about. It's kind of like white-water rafting or bungee jumping: you need to do it just once during rush hour to understand the special skills and daring it requires. After that you can strut around with your chest thrown out with pride - and your spine probably mangled beyond repair, but that's another story.
In my callow youth I wooed in quick succession two Bandra girls and since I was (and still am) an avowed townie, I needed to commute on the suburban trains if I wanted to spend time with my beloved. I still have very fond memories of being crushed against the object of my desire on the journey to her house and then spending the return journey in a dreamy haze in the first class compartment actually sitting down. Ah, call me a roamantic.
Apart from the platitudes and cliches that such events (not the romantic journeys, the other events) throw up, there is also the phenomenon of the fatuous comment. This is usually delivered by a politician or bureaucrat, often with an axe to grind, but they don't have a monopoly on it. Some gems from 7/11:
Mumbai Commissioner: "This appears to be a planned event." You don't say! And here we were thinking what a horrible coincidence it was that seven trains blew up in quick succession, a few kilometers away from each other and a few minutes apart. By the way, the TV networks never made it clear which enlightened Commissioner this was.
Politician: "We need to learn from Gujarat. See how tough they are there and they don't suffer any terrorism while Mumbai is always a target." Ahem! Could that be because Mumbai is the financial capital, has over 17 million inhabitants, provides over 50% of the country's tax revenues, is a great symbol of Indian capitalism and the economy, has loads of public places with gazillions of people in them? Could you name even half a target in Gujarat that is even a quarter as attractive from a terrorist's point of view?
Misguided public advertisement (last page of today's Mumbai Mirror): "Appeal to all Terrorists! Please do not kill absolutely innocent people." Hello? It may be just me, but I always thought terrorism was all about killing innocent people. After all, if you only targeted "guilty" people such as (presumably) the armed forces and the police, where's the terror in that? And who are "absolutely" innocent people? Are there some who are not so innocent, and therefore acceptable targets? And, of course, terrorists are going to be swayed by advertising. Well, if we can be gulled by advertising into buying crap we don't need, hope could be said to spring eternal.
I guess crises do bring out the irrational side of humanity.
It's strange how in times like this the usual platitudes and cliches are the only words that actually make sense. "Show must go on." "Pride in Mumbaikar's spirit." "Common man's courage." "Bloody but unbowed." "Business as usual." Even a cynical old sod such as yours truly is moved by the way this city bounces back and keeps on keeping on. Not that there really is such an entity as "this city" - it's you and me that does all the bouncing. And the being bounced, unfortunately.
It's close to two decades since I last regularly commuted by train, but it's an experience that is never forgotten. In fact, you don't even need to be a regular to savor that never-to-be-forgotten experience. Just one ride on Mumbai's trains and you have something to boast about. It's kind of like white-water rafting or bungee jumping: you need to do it just once during rush hour to understand the special skills and daring it requires. After that you can strut around with your chest thrown out with pride - and your spine probably mangled beyond repair, but that's another story.
In my callow youth I wooed in quick succession two Bandra girls and since I was (and still am) an avowed townie, I needed to commute on the suburban trains if I wanted to spend time with my beloved. I still have very fond memories of being crushed against the object of my desire on the journey to her house and then spending the return journey in a dreamy haze in the first class compartment actually sitting down. Ah, call me a roamantic.
Apart from the platitudes and cliches that such events (not the romantic journeys, the other events) throw up, there is also the phenomenon of the fatuous comment. This is usually delivered by a politician or bureaucrat, often with an axe to grind, but they don't have a monopoly on it. Some gems from 7/11:
Mumbai Commissioner: "This appears to be a planned event." You don't say! And here we were thinking what a horrible coincidence it was that seven trains blew up in quick succession, a few kilometers away from each other and a few minutes apart. By the way, the TV networks never made it clear which enlightened Commissioner this was.
Politician: "We need to learn from Gujarat. See how tough they are there and they don't suffer any terrorism while Mumbai is always a target." Ahem! Could that be because Mumbai is the financial capital, has over 17 million inhabitants, provides over 50% of the country's tax revenues, is a great symbol of Indian capitalism and the economy, has loads of public places with gazillions of people in them? Could you name even half a target in Gujarat that is even a quarter as attractive from a terrorist's point of view?
Misguided public advertisement (last page of today's Mumbai Mirror): "Appeal to all Terrorists! Please do not kill absolutely innocent people." Hello? It may be just me, but I always thought terrorism was all about killing innocent people. After all, if you only targeted "guilty" people such as (presumably) the armed forces and the police, where's the terror in that? And who are "absolutely" innocent people? Are there some who are not so innocent, and therefore acceptable targets? And, of course, terrorists are going to be swayed by advertising. Well, if we can be gulled by advertising into buying crap we don't need, hope could be said to spring eternal.
I guess crises do bring out the irrational side of humanity.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Random post-WC thoughts
And so the month of quadrennial football frenzy has drawn to a close. Perhaps now I can get back to sleeping nights. There were moments of brilliance, of tedium, of glory, of infamy, of skill, of ineptitude, of victory, of defeat. And that was just the Brazilian team. Multiply that by 32 and you get an inkling of why this is the most watched event on the planet.
My dear friend and prolific Chiffonesque blogger, Mugsy has heaped praise on my unworthy head. I think she meant to shame me into getting back to my blog. In which case, she has succeeded, at least for now. She has bemoaned her own inability to stick to the point while writing, but that's exactly what I love about her style: an ability to let her stream of consciousness take over while still remaining coherent and in complete command of the language. And her self-deprecatory, laconic humour, strangely reminiscent of Raymond Chandler, though minus the bourbon and blondes. (There's a reason why she continues at the top of my Other Blogger Friends list.)
The New York Times informs me that there is a gender divide in many US colleges today and that therefore, "Colleges eager to attract men to increasingly female campuses have found that football teams can be a lure." I always knew American males were blockheads but it's nice to have it confirmed. You have a campus which is "increasingly female" and you need football as a lure? C'mon guys, no wonder you have a falling birth rate. Get with the program and focus on using those other round objects.
Which reminds me of that classic Yes, Minister crack. Nigel, who considers a proposal that lands up on his table to be absolute bollocks, returns it with the notation, "Round objects!" To which Humphrey responds starchily, "Who is Round and to what does he object?"
My dear friend and prolific Chiffonesque blogger, Mugsy has heaped praise on my unworthy head. I think she meant to shame me into getting back to my blog. In which case, she has succeeded, at least for now. She has bemoaned her own inability to stick to the point while writing, but that's exactly what I love about her style: an ability to let her stream of consciousness take over while still remaining coherent and in complete command of the language. And her self-deprecatory, laconic humour, strangely reminiscent of Raymond Chandler, though minus the bourbon and blondes. (There's a reason why she continues at the top of my Other Blogger Friends list.)
The New York Times informs me that there is a gender divide in many US colleges today and that therefore, "Colleges eager to attract men to increasingly female campuses have found that football teams can be a lure." I always knew American males were blockheads but it's nice to have it confirmed. You have a campus which is "increasingly female" and you need football as a lure? C'mon guys, no wonder you have a falling birth rate. Get with the program and focus on using those other round objects.
Which reminds me of that classic Yes, Minister crack. Nigel, who considers a proposal that lands up on his table to be absolute bollocks, returns it with the notation, "Round objects!" To which Humphrey responds starchily, "Who is Round and to what does he object?"
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Crossword clews
Provide sustenance, support and grub (11)
Mater mater (7)
Proof that some of the best clues are the briefest.
Mater mater (7)
Proof that some of the best clues are the briefest.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Oops, I skipped church...
I just discovered courtesy the Times Sunday Cryptic crossword that Britney Spears is an anagram of Presbyterians.
That has to be one of the supreme ironies of Christianity.
That has to be one of the supreme ironies of Christianity.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Rude? That's news?
My beloved city has just been voted the rudest city in the world. Worthy citizens have sprung to its defense claiming that Bombay/Mumbai has a heart of gold.
Well, that's as may be, but it certainly has a tongue of nettles and the patience of a viper.
Anyone who has experienced the cacophonous impatience of our roads, or the heedless viciousness of the train-boarding stampede, or the deliberate disdain for others manifested in the bhajan-singing or card-playing commuter groups, or the middle-finger-in-your-face attitude of the hawker who displaces the pedestrian and the pedestrian who encroaches on the motorist's road and the motorist who weaves into another's lane, or any of the million babus sitting in their Kafka-esque labyrinths awaiting the unsuspecting mortal who dares to enter their domain...
Heck, you know what I'm talking about. We are the rudest city in the world. And probably proud of it to boot.
That ain't news.
Well, that's as may be, but it certainly has a tongue of nettles and the patience of a viper.
Anyone who has experienced the cacophonous impatience of our roads, or the heedless viciousness of the train-boarding stampede, or the deliberate disdain for others manifested in the bhajan-singing or card-playing commuter groups, or the middle-finger-in-your-face attitude of the hawker who displaces the pedestrian and the pedestrian who encroaches on the motorist's road and the motorist who weaves into another's lane, or any of the million babus sitting in their Kafka-esque labyrinths awaiting the unsuspecting mortal who dares to enter their domain...
Heck, you know what I'm talking about. We are the rudest city in the world. And probably proud of it to boot.
That ain't news.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Colour complex
As I get older I find myself striving to simplify my life. The less mundane decisions one needs to take, the more one can focus on the things that matter. (Like food.)
I thought I had one such decision licked.
White shirts are a wonderful solution to the matutinal problem of what to wear to work. They go with anything, they suit any occasion, they can look smart or scruffy as the situation demands.
However, they are unequal to the task of coping with the rigours of the wash and iron cycle. On returning from a recent vacation I took an inventory of my white shirts and discovered that all save one of them have acquired the ugliest of spots in the unlikeliest of places. I could understand this if I made a habit of feeding my shirts while feeding myself. But the blemishes appear at the collar-tips, the cuffs, the back and other places normally inaccessible.
So, with great sadness, I have given up one simple solution in my life and have reverted to coloured shirts. And my mornings are sartorially confused.
I thought I had one such decision licked.
White shirts are a wonderful solution to the matutinal problem of what to wear to work. They go with anything, they suit any occasion, they can look smart or scruffy as the situation demands.
However, they are unequal to the task of coping with the rigours of the wash and iron cycle. On returning from a recent vacation I took an inventory of my white shirts and discovered that all save one of them have acquired the ugliest of spots in the unlikeliest of places. I could understand this if I made a habit of feeding my shirts while feeding myself. But the blemishes appear at the collar-tips, the cuffs, the back and other places normally inaccessible.
So, with great sadness, I have given up one simple solution in my life and have reverted to coloured shirts. And my mornings are sartorially confused.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Would-be poet, get thee hence!
I may trouble many with this post.
But that's small cause to yield the ghost.
A dead ear turned for months on end
To lots of those I would call a friend.
My ear is dead not deaf, I say,
It seeks to die again each day.
Maimed and killed, a hundred times,
Revived in hope of hearing rhymes.
Revived in vain by fraudulent verse,
Murdered again with a devilish curse.
It seeks for rhyme, it seeks for metre,
A phrase that would inspire St. Peter.
It needs the salt of wisdom and wit
Sprinkled on words that rhyme, that fit.
It yearns for fruity turns of phrase
That sparkle like wine in college days.
But all it's fed is mangled prose
Snorted out through someone's nose,
Devoid of rhyme, bereft of grace,
Masquerading as beauty's face.
Missing commas, misplaced ends
Are uglier when lost by friends.
And every word is friend to me,
So treat them fair, or let them be.
If you'd arrange them to a plan,
Make sure they rhyme, ensure they scan.
The metre is a veil, not shroud,
It should sound right when read out loud.
If these tests fail, perhaps you should
Abandon thoughts of writing good
Poetry, and stay with words
That don't need coralling into herds.
You cannot rhyme? You have no wit.
You cannot scan? You are not fit.
The metre's lost? Ah, woe is me,
What passes these days for poetry!
But that's small cause to yield the ghost.
A dead ear turned for months on end
To lots of those I would call a friend.
My ear is dead not deaf, I say,
It seeks to die again each day.
Maimed and killed, a hundred times,
Revived in hope of hearing rhymes.
Revived in vain by fraudulent verse,
Murdered again with a devilish curse.
It seeks for rhyme, it seeks for metre,
A phrase that would inspire St. Peter.
It needs the salt of wisdom and wit
Sprinkled on words that rhyme, that fit.
It yearns for fruity turns of phrase
That sparkle like wine in college days.
But all it's fed is mangled prose
Snorted out through someone's nose,
Devoid of rhyme, bereft of grace,
Masquerading as beauty's face.
Missing commas, misplaced ends
Are uglier when lost by friends.
And every word is friend to me,
So treat them fair, or let them be.
If you'd arrange them to a plan,
Make sure they rhyme, ensure they scan.
The metre is a veil, not shroud,
It should sound right when read out loud.
If these tests fail, perhaps you should
Abandon thoughts of writing good
Poetry, and stay with words
That don't need coralling into herds.
You cannot rhyme? You have no wit.
You cannot scan? You are not fit.
The metre's lost? Ah, woe is me,
What passes these days for poetry!
Saturday, June 17, 2006
New Love
If anyone has been wondering where I've been, the answer is: with my new love.
I have dumped Windows and embraced the Mac.
When I purchased my new MacBook Pro recently, I met a long-time Mac user who proudly welcomed me to the fold and proclaimed, "You will feel liberated!"
In many ways, he's right. It's great fun to use and most of the software I've used on the Mac so far is so infinitely superior to anything I've used on Windows that I felt the need to share my love with the world.
I'm doing that via my new Mac topics only blog, Why Mac. Pop in and see what the fuss is all about.
I have dumped Windows and embraced the Mac.
When I purchased my new MacBook Pro recently, I met a long-time Mac user who proudly welcomed me to the fold and proclaimed, "You will feel liberated!"
In many ways, he's right. It's great fun to use and most of the software I've used on the Mac so far is so infinitely superior to anything I've used on Windows that I felt the need to share my love with the world.
I'm doing that via my new Mac topics only blog, Why Mac. Pop in and see what the fuss is all about.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Hark, hist...
The crisp crunch of sneakers on gravel. The chunky clunk of a steel spoon in a mug of hot chocolate. The sizzling scorch of bacon frying to a crisp. Sounds evoke memories.
I am transported back to my callow youth each time I drive my car nowadays. The reason? I've hooked up my iPod to an FM transmitter so I can listen to my music collection on my car's FM receiver. It works fabulously, but at times there's a crackle and a hiss around the edges of a song.
Instead of making me cringe and fret, it brings a nostalgic smile to my lips. Memories arise of LPs and 45s, spinning discs of sound. Sleeves that were an art form. Learned teenage discussions on the merits of magnetic cartridges versus ceramic ones. A diamond stylus that looked nothing like Cartier.
Crackles, pops, hisses, jumps. Tears of frustration when the needle slid across a vinyl disc and refused to play "Cold Turkey", or stuck obstinately in its groove like a middle-aged banker, repeating "Can't Buy Me Love" ad nauseum until you gave it a gentle nudge. The delicate precision with which you lifted the turntable arm with a finger and guided it across the disc, letting it down gingerly on the millimeter slim groove between two songs. Repeating it, again and again, until you deciphered all the lyrics. Holding the LP sleeve in your hands as the music washed over you, poring over the enigmatic sleeve notes and the photographs, looking for magical incantations and finding meaning and significance in the most obscure places.
Cutting math classes to trot across the Oval and pop in at Rhythm House and browse through the boxes of LPs. Selecting a handful and braving the glare of the attendants who well knew you couldn't afford to buy even one, but were circumscribed by market forces from kicking you out on your rear. Taking your booty to one of the listening booths that surrounded the main floor. Safely ensconced behind the closed door, the world shut out and a new world waiting in a paper sleeve.
Slipping the LP out and popping it on the turntable. Letting the arm down to draw magic from a diamond bouncing along invisible grooves. Flailing guitars, crashing drums, delirious voices, plaintive violins, whispering beasts, singing birds, joyful saxophones. Tunes that reached into your chest and pulled your heart out and hung it on the wall to dry. Words that raced through your ears, found the grooves on your brain and skated there wildly forever. They're still skating around.
We lost so much when we went digital.
But I love my iPod-FM marriage.
I am transported back to my callow youth each time I drive my car nowadays. The reason? I've hooked up my iPod to an FM transmitter so I can listen to my music collection on my car's FM receiver. It works fabulously, but at times there's a crackle and a hiss around the edges of a song.
Instead of making me cringe and fret, it brings a nostalgic smile to my lips. Memories arise of LPs and 45s, spinning discs of sound. Sleeves that were an art form. Learned teenage discussions on the merits of magnetic cartridges versus ceramic ones. A diamond stylus that looked nothing like Cartier.
Crackles, pops, hisses, jumps. Tears of frustration when the needle slid across a vinyl disc and refused to play "Cold Turkey", or stuck obstinately in its groove like a middle-aged banker, repeating "Can't Buy Me Love" ad nauseum until you gave it a gentle nudge. The delicate precision with which you lifted the turntable arm with a finger and guided it across the disc, letting it down gingerly on the millimeter slim groove between two songs. Repeating it, again and again, until you deciphered all the lyrics. Holding the LP sleeve in your hands as the music washed over you, poring over the enigmatic sleeve notes and the photographs, looking for magical incantations and finding meaning and significance in the most obscure places.
Cutting math classes to trot across the Oval and pop in at Rhythm House and browse through the boxes of LPs. Selecting a handful and braving the glare of the attendants who well knew you couldn't afford to buy even one, but were circumscribed by market forces from kicking you out on your rear. Taking your booty to one of the listening booths that surrounded the main floor. Safely ensconced behind the closed door, the world shut out and a new world waiting in a paper sleeve.
Slipping the LP out and popping it on the turntable. Letting the arm down to draw magic from a diamond bouncing along invisible grooves. Flailing guitars, crashing drums, delirious voices, plaintive violins, whispering beasts, singing birds, joyful saxophones. Tunes that reached into your chest and pulled your heart out and hung it on the wall to dry. Words that raced through your ears, found the grooves on your brain and skated there wildly forever. They're still skating around.
We lost so much when we went digital.
But I love my iPod-FM marriage.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Did I lose the Muse?
It's been a long time, now I'm coming back home...
Well, I probably misplaced the blogging Muse, but not for nothing is this the Return of the Son of Blog with a url that reads blogusinterruptus.
I was away both physically and mentally and technologically and all of that was fun.
Well, I probably misplaced the blogging Muse, but not for nothing is this the Return of the Son of Blog with a url that reads blogusinterruptus.
I was away both physically and mentally and technologically and all of that was fun.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Mac Attack
And now, this erstwhile Windows user has joined the forces of the Appleheads and has moved to the MacBook Pro. Probably time for a MacWin blog on the virtues of the MacTel over the WinTel, learning curve notwithstanding...
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Wanderings
It's been a dozen days since I visited Blogsville. In the interim I've been musing on words and their true meaning.
For example:
Dismayed adj. - the emotion experienced when the maid quits
Metrosexual n. - 1. a person who gets turned on by trains; 2. one who likes doing it on trains (see "mile-high club" for other such junkies)
Broad gauge n. - Preferred by metrosexuals
For example:
Dismayed adj. - the emotion experienced when the maid quits
Metrosexual n. - 1. a person who gets turned on by trains; 2. one who likes doing it on trains (see "mile-high club" for other such junkies)
Broad gauge n. - Preferred by metrosexuals
Thursday, April 06, 2006
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