Kaal of Tulu*

Moving!!!

2008-08-14T17:02:00.000-07:00

http://alloallopithy.wordpress.com

Dub and Dubber

2008-08-14T13:13:00.000-07:00

I suppose everyone's heard of the blockbuster Chinese movie called "The Olympics Opening Ceremony" (note: surprisingly, the title translates as is into Mandarin and Cantonese, and is the only English phrase to hold this feature). It was full of action, people walking over tree-tops and serene music. I actually didn't watch it - must have found some other way to waste my time - but I'm fairly certain that I've got the major elements in order. Not too sure about subtitles though. Anyway, the affair that tantalised the media was a simple matter of physics: the two-body problem. Nutshellingly put, one song+two girls equals national prestige, i.e., S+G1+G2=NP. Computer scientists refer to this equation as the "NP Complete" form. The constraints are that G1 is morphologically perfect but laryngically challenged, while G2 has the opposite set of qualities. A strict requirement is that NP must never decrease else the solution algorithm (redundant!) will be fed to the shredder along with the person who had the misfortune of devising it. For more information on this class of puzzlers, be sure to refer to "Mathe-mao-ti-killers: If the problems don't kill you, we will".

The point of this post is not geek-talk because I am clearly not a geek. I was rather intrigued by the whole one-girl-for-looks-and-another-for-voice imbroglio. Brings this to mind, which has been commented on before. Being an extremely analytical guy, I thought of extending this concept to everyday conversation. Take for instance (completely random example) a hypothetical vocal interaction between a girl and myself. I shall proceed to substitute "myself" with two entities: a dashing front-end who will perform the lip-synching and a cerebral background process who will take care of the complex computations. At this stage, I'm not sure which task I'm capable of performing. One part of me thinks that I'm Adonis personified, compensating for physical perfection with mental putrefaction. The other half holds the view that my urbane humour and incisive wit are superior to anything the physique has to offer. Some more thought is required in this area.

Unfortunately, it seems like a lot of practice will be required to co-ordinate the two aspects of my/our personality/ies. Maybe someone could yell "Cut!" and have us start over in case some mix-up occurs. But what if the male and female parties have this Core-Duo thing going on at the same time? Matters might start to get fuzzy, especially if the "thinkers" fall for each other and the "lookers" do not or vice versa. Gives a whole new meaning to "two-timing". Also, would the "thinker" continuously follow the "looker" like in those Verizon ads where the anthropomorphic network is always watching the protagonist's back? Hmm...I don't suppose this dual-channel brainwave of mine is really feasible but then neither is the prospect of relying on my own natural resources. Monarchically screwed is what I am.

Innuendo

2008-08-11T13:04:00.000-07:00

My bedroom has a great view. Whenever I yearn for aesthetic solace, I gaze at the red vinyl wall and white window (shuttered) of the adjacent house. I am physically closer to my neighbour than to my own roommates. He/she/it is apparently quite religious. A couple of nights ago, I was awoken at 12:52 am by fervent chants of "Oh God! Oh God!" He/she/it had company - a her/him/it, correspondingly - over and the light was on. In fact, both of them were invoking the Lord's name very enthusiastically. Obviously, there was some intense nocturnal ritual going on and the worshippers were not afraid of thrusting proclamations of their love (for the divine) into the silent darkness outside...well, inside my unlit room.

Now, my confidantes are well aware that I am like God. Hold on, that doesn't sound right. Ah! My confidantes are well aware that I like God. So, even though I was partly comatose at 12:52 am, I couldn't help feeling insulted. I have lived beside these folks for a year and the least they could do was invite a fellow devotee to their passion play. The main purpose of religion is to bring people together before driving a bloody stake through the communal heart but that does not matter at the moment. In these troubled times, how else will we be able to penetrate interpersonal and interracial barriers? I couldn't sleep until 1:10 am because that was when the festivities reached a crescendo before plummeting into an unspoken climax. Given the volume of the prayers and bodily motion, I sincerely hope they had donned protective gear. They were clearly happy later on, which, to my scientific mind, was sufficient evidence that staunchly believing in God was indeed beneficial. From now on, I shall therefore adopt a pro-Creationist stance.

Morning Alarm

2008-08-07T07:40:00.000-07:00

It's always good to wake up early, especially when your mattress does bad things to your back and your pillow slowly but surely destroys your neck. A dreary 8 am trans-Pacific videoconference and the fantastic illumination filtered through a cumulonimbus mass are significant barriers to early-morning activities. These conferences are conducted with research collaborators in Korea. The agenda generally includes my advisor spewing stuff that needs to be done to get that damn "high-profile" publication (the next best thing after toilet paper), and equally incomprehensible presentations by both sides.

Speaking of futile presentations, they are conducted on this ridiculously testosterone-charged Samsung LCD screen in The Boss' office...in theory at least. For some reason, he hasn't been able to figure out how to load the slides from the laptop to the TV. Being an MIT professor, he naturally found the most hi-tech way to circumvent the problem: focus the videocamera on the laptop (this requires the precise spatial arrangement of the latter, which itself is supported on multiple layers of carbon-based sheets) and zoom in on its screen. Brutal, yet elegant.

One of the students in the team - J - is particularly adept at falling asleep during pointless meetings such as these. He was engaging in sleep-induced headbanging, which was not very wise since the videocamera was pointing at him. The Boss probably saw him nodding off on screen and politely jerked him out of it by gently kicking his chair. With a sleepy "Mmmm...", J woke up and started to pay closer attention to intriguingly obtuse discussions that will probably never change the world.

After the first of these meetings, we were rewarded with a sponsored breakfast and ever since have expected similar treats to flush the clots of ennui from our veins. No such luck. Now there is officially no incentive to attend these 8 am boredom fests, except maybe thinking of blogworthy material.

Stoned

2008-08-06T10:23:00.001-07:00

I have to bang this one out before I forget the juicy details.

In my line of work, coming across a decent-looking female is akin to a unanimously acceptable Israeli-Palestinian solution. Actually, it's the story of my life. Some grad students get fairly hot undergrads to do their dirty linen, experimentally speaking, of course. Since the only experimentation I do involves chemicals named "websites", a stooge is totally unnecessary.

A few weeks ago, a young Boston teacher joined the group as a summer intern. This post would have been a waste of my valuable time if she wasn't reasonably spiffy in terms of appearance. Yes she's American and no she doesn't pass my rigid 8-point test. Despite cauterising the ache-illes heel in the heart-shaped void in my chest, I can't help feeling a little awestruck in her presence. Given my brooding persona and the incisive monosyllabic answers to the rare question, I'm as certain as a weathercock that she will summon the guts to ask me out. It's plain old destiny...maybe not hers but destiny nevertheless. For God's sake, I helped her spell "glycosylate" never having heard that word before. If that feat doesn't scream "This chap's stupendous!", the world has no hope.

She only has a week of duty left in the lab so I would politely suggest that she think of excuses/pretexts to talk to me and detect a wealth of intelligence in the blather that follows. In the course of her inquiry, she will undoubtedly discover my frugality and will therefore kindly offer to shell out money for a movie ("Pineapple Express") and dinner (not East Asian). She should also strive not to buy me flowers or stuffed toys, since I am the complete man (since 1983) and hate such girly things.

After all that I haven't done for her, it's only fair, since, like L'oreal, I am worth it.

Worship

2008-08-06T07:26:00.000-07:00

It's imperative that a budding doctoral student talk in glowing terms about the sole bright spot in his/her life; a weekly session of bonding with other group members that is comparable to The View; two hours during which one can explore his/her innermost thoughts in the neon confines of that sanctum-sanctorum of an academic institution - the conference room; an intense, emo-packed seance led by the advisor during which a trance is often confused with boredom-induced sleep. Welcome to that hallowed event known as the Group Meeting. Its location is so secretive that it can only be found by following the train of people with looks of impending doom on their faces...either that or the trail of Ambien pills on the floor. In order to prevent weaker members of the cult from falling asleep during the ceremonies (due to the sheer electricity of the atmosphere in the room), some cultures introduced the concept of food. Reliable experimental evidence shows that continuous mastication prevents the odd nod - one of the few cases where science has benefitted religion.

The age-old ritual of reading the agenda sets things in motion...well, at least in relation to the furniture in the room. The advisor/priest mumbles throughout the proceedings, while the laity remain comfortably numb until some specific enchantment directed at one of them forces him/her into involuntary communication. With the vocal rigmarole dispensed with, the lights are dimmed and sacrifices to the gods of research are made in the form of diffident presentations. This is the most crucial stretch and the urge to succumb to the trance reaches a peak in the soft lighting. At the end, the reluctant pilgrims emerge from the temple wondering whether atheism holds better prospects.

Fi-Sci*

2008-08-05T12:03:00.000-07:00

Discovered that the Tata Nano could soon become the Na Na with respect to its Rs 100,000 price tag. Now I am an expert in the field of nanotechnology and the office phone has been ringing off the hook since the morning, not that the two are connected. Among other things, I deal in bonds...carbon bonds. My research over the last four years has the potential to revolutionise the way...aaargh...must control urge to bloviate about crappy thesis.

There, done. Point is that I am in a unique position to critically analyse the Nano's predicament. Well, not really but here's my spiel anyway. In pompular science, "nano" refers to a billionth of some metric, e.g., length. Heisenberg has already stated that it's impossible to simultaneously ascertain the position and momentum of particles that inhabit these tiny length scales. The instantaneous state of the Nano is defined by two variables: a) its price, and b) its velocity. Since the vehicle hasn't hit the roads yet, its velocity (and hence, its momentum) is exactly zero. By Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, the precise knowledge of the car's velocity demands that there be considerable ambiguity with regard to the first variable, the price tag. By stipulating that the Nano would be available at Rs 100,000, and hence localising its price, the Tatas were interfering with the laws of faux-sics, which is why they're paying for their transgression with the present confusion involving the cost.

My critics, and thesis committee profs, might gently rebuff this argument by calling me the blackest blotch on the face of science: "Price" is not "position", which is what the Uncertainty Principle really talks about. Such stupid semantic games can easily be slaughtered with the following retort: this post would have made no sense if the car's "position" had been used instead of its "price". Hah! Quid pro quo...I think. Doctorate please!

*This is post# 325. In the vein of the tour de force nature of this piece, I'd simply like to point out to the unfortunately unscientific audience that three plus two equals five.

Irrefutable Logic

2008-08-05T06:21:00.000-07:00

Since the fifth season of House is around the corner, I thought I'd spare a few moments from my incredibly busy morning and reveal why the show strikes a chord deep within. Gregory House, M.D. reminds me of someone close to my heart; someone I've known since birth, possibly...no, definitely since the prenatal phase; someone who is eloquent proof of the improbability of intelligent design...come to think of it, of natural selection too; someone who is me. There, I've finally said it. House is a fictional character based on me. The evidence is as clear as what passes for water in Hyderabad's River Musi (ignore the article's "Present Status" section for my own good).

- His piercing blue irises are but a mirror reflection of my own, give or take a few optical filters.
- His height (6' 2.5") is exactly the same as mine, plus or minus a few high heels.
- Undergrad/Pre-med at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Everyone worth a dollar knows that UMich is the sister-institution of Pilani.
- M.D. from Johns Hopkins, which is precisely the same as that intellectual behemoth known as the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign's chapter at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (UIUC@MIT).
- We share the same sardonic sense of humour. His is scripted while mine is encrypted.
- We are misanthropes, the feeling generally being mutual.
- His hot ex-employee had a crush on him. Umm...this one's slightly tough. Let's unanimously agree that she had a crush on me too, since he is me. QED.
- Which brings me to the last point: we are brilliant. He is adept at solving cases, while I am competent at colving sases. Let me reiterate the "brilliant" part for effect.

So the next time you watch the show, force yourself to see me in him. Coax your parochial mindset into accepting his words as mine. Rest assured that I live in House (neglect the presence of roommates).

What Women Want

2008-08-04T10:15:00.000-07:00

Came across this post that links to a much-needed study, which talks about the art of self-deprecation. Apparently, humour directed at one's own faults has to be carefully used if one is to attract women. Status plays a big role in this matter; understandable, since similar remarks by person in the lower strata of society would resemble complaints rather than feline-hunting weapons. An article in the Sunday Herald talks about Chris Martin and Hugh Grant's character in Notting Hill as fine specimens of lovable "bumblers". On reading Martin's quotes in the text, I can accept him as an example. Grant on the other hand is not so easy. The fact that he was able to net Julia Roberts isn't all that commendable. Besides, this was fiction (as opposed to Chris Martin's true-life conquest of Paltrow) and Hugh Grant was a superb ass in real life for letting Liz Hurley go.

Self-deprecation comes easily to grad students, since it forms an integral part of the standard curriculum. Of course, professor-wannabes learn to overcome this by attending classes in advanced megalomania. The question is whether the remaining bunch (self included) lie in the dung-heap of society or are the creme-de-la-creme. So far, I haven't seen any credible evidence in terms of the subject of this post to support the latter. Never mind. I shall continue insulting myself in front of the mirror every morning for practice.

Pot-Pourri

2008-08-04T06:19:00.000-07:00

I was walking towards a building on campus the other day when my eyes were drawn towards a tree in the courtyard. The bally (thank you, Bertram Wooster) thing had the arboreal audacity to permit some of its leaves to change colour. Even more ominous were the few dead orange wisps lying on the ground. This is bloody unfair! Wintry conditions lasted until freakin' May and now we're approaching Fall? This brings spectres of dual layers of clothing that my mind lacks the capacity to grapple with. Trees, you ought to exert greater control over your emotions, since you obviously wear them on your leaves.

Looks like I've played a little extra frisbee this year. Not being the most athletic of individuals, despite the lofty claims of my ego, my knees have taken quite a beating over the last couple of months. They submitted petitions to the local retirement office sometime ago but the employer continued to extract every bit of juice from them, as was his prerogative. The painful harvest is being reaped now, which leaves the organisation with 2 options: ease the pressure on the overworked staff or shut down altogether. I'm too depressed to expand on the metaphor.

I've already talked about the September wedding to which I've been invited. The bride, my groupmate, has given me special permission to wear whatever the hell I want to. In her paraphrased words, "If anyone looks at you, just give them your 'Fool Woman!' stare." That's all well and good if stuffy females look at me strangely but I don't want to demean the men by giving them the same treatment. I owe them a customised stare to deflect charges of sexism. Anyway, this bit of leniency demands that I buy her a suitable gift. The subject of "minimum acceptable price" was discussed. The matter is rather confusing for us chaps in Boston, since we're spending a bucketload to travel to Chicago for the affair. Isn't it the thought that counts...and pays for the gift? I had the brilliant idea of giving the bride the receipts for the plane tickets (worth at least $200) and magnanimously forfeiting the reimbursement. That's a worthwhile present indeed! Even better, the tickets could be recycled and everyone, including the environment, would be happy. I am amazing.

Last random snippet: my earlier concise review on "The Mummy..." was uncannily prescient (again!) given Mike McGranaghan's review in Rotten Tomatoes. Some scrolling will be needed to find his comment. If this whole doctoral thing fails to get me a job, I can at least switch to movie criticism - it just fits with my cult of cribbing.

Nomencla-tor-ture

2008-08-03T07:22:00.000-07:00

I don't like my name. No, not sepulchritude, which is the bestest creation ever despite the totally bogus "definition" provided by Urban Dictionary. That's not what I had in mind when the Word revealed itself to me in early 2004. I'm talking about my actual name in the "real" world - ******. Alright, that's not very explicit but I can make it more transparent with the following hint: it does not rhyme with "subprime mortgage", which is the phrase on everyone's lips. The person to blame for sticking me with this life-long blemish is also the person the world should be grateful to for my existence - Mother. Umm...I should tone down the Norman Batesness of the text. Mother's first choice was Ashish, which was perfectly acceptable to me 25 years ago even though I was high on amniotic fluid.

Ashish's life would have been spectacular. He would have been at the top of his class...in the attendance list, which is a foolproof metric for academic merit. He would have been a handsome sonofagun - the object of crushes, not the pathetic subject. He would have been the epitome of frugality. He would have been able to buy a guitar for $99 and successfully learn to play it instead of gifting it to his infinitely more talented roommate. He would have been competent enough to maintain his own damn blog and not be the literary version of an immigrant gardener. Any threats made by his fellow blogger after such an inflammatory statement would have been treated with disdain. He would have been able to replace "would" with some other word to avoid repetition. He would'nt (Yes! I was able to find a replacement!) have longed to be ******.

However, almost-Ashish's dreams were obliterated when the Satanic verses were whispered and he/I was stuck with ****** for the rest of his/my sordid life. I could follow the example of Chinese students in America who contort their traditional names into forms that are more suitable for the inflexible Yankee tongue. It is completely rational to slightly modify "Tsz-Mei" into "Charlotte", and gently massage"Tsun-Kwan" into the infinitely more sensible "Lambert". I legally changed (and shortened) my surname at 18 so I can appreciate the satisfactory sense of malleability. Some candidates I have for my own taxonomic transformation are "Buckminster Roderick Weatherfield III, Esq", and "Rt. Hon. Maximilian Lancaster Smithers". Wodehousian, yet in tune with the natural order of the universe.

I am certain that in some parallel dimension, Ashish is writing the exact opposite of this post, thanking his stars (or some equivalent thereof) for the divine awesomeness of his name.

Rated Aaaargh!

2008-08-02T15:00:00.000-07:00

Just came back from treating myself to "The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor". We desperately need a Rick O'Connell to slay the zombie that is this franchise so that the memory of the 1st installment will not be degraded any further - highly reminiscent of The One. That's my succinct review. I was surprised to find the hall bursting with the undesired human element and was forced to park my butt in the second row for the first time since those good old Pilani flicks. Two aspects hit me in the face, as it were: 1) Actors get more curvilinear as you approach the screen, and 2) It's not pleasant to watch each crevice and crater on their faces during those close-up shots. Here I am trying my damndest to look like Brendan Fraser and it doesn't help the cause to see his facial imperfections in high-definition.

On the way to the hall, I had the good fortune of seeing a poster for "How to Lose Friends and Alienate People". Hmm...someone's been reading Baby Kutty, my secret diary. The other day, I heard that some people were worried about being clandestinely videotaped so that their lives could be moviefied, a la "The Truman Show". I thought that this was pure poppycock but now it seems as though some jackass has either been recording my interactions with society or thumbing through Baby Kutty. This simply will not do. I will not tolerate manipulation of this order without receiving my fair share of the royalties.

Role Model

2008-08-02T10:19:00.000-07:00

I love The Office. If you think I'm referring to my current surroundings, dotted with a bunch of indentured servants, human and electronic, you should go to the nearest garbage heap and bury yourself in it. The TV series - to be more precise, pirated internet series - is so hilarious that a laughter track would do grave injustice to it. It is perfectly acceptable to "waste" quality research time on the brilliant dialogues, socially awkward moments that are immersed in a sea of caustic humour and the occasional bout of wordplay. While I generally idolise Steve Carell to almost the same extent as the rest of his old Daily Show team, John Krasinski as "Jim" is the ultimate show-stealer. The chap is everything I want to be, except for being stuck in a job where making jello casts of stationery is just about the most creative thing possible. His basketball skills, wry jokes and impeccable comic timing - though scripted - are something to aspire to, not to mention his obvious class while dealing with the ladies. Some minor changes have to be made to self in order to achieve this goal: 1) have to grow a mop of brownish-blond hair; 2) must increase height by 2 inches; 3) should develop bball acumen; 4) must learn not to clam up in female presence. There...that looks like a reasonably well thought-out, rational plan. Accomplishment of each milestone should take a couple of aeons, and that is an overestimate.

Totally unrelated snippet but here's something that caught my eye and made me feel extremely prescient.

Crashes

2008-08-01T08:08:00.000-07:00

I can't remember the last time I had a massive crush (5 years, 2 months, 17 days and counting - ballpark estimate, of course). The grandest of all in recent memory started in the winter of '96 during a quizzing contest. The questions were beautiful but the person who answered them was, in my innocent eyes, beautifuller (obviously, my grammar is as innocent as ever). There were a couple of mild cardiac arrests during the 11/12th era but certain mistresses took precedence - entrance exams. And then came Pilani. With such a segue, you would expect a story with a fantastic ending. It would behoove you to maintain those expectations so that you'd be able to derive a smidgeon of artificial satisfaction from this post.

Anyway, it took me 2.5 years to develop a liking for a chick who some of my more enterprising buddies thought had all the verve and flamboyance of a chair. This was completely uncalled for - a chair has 4 legs and 2 arms; she had the requisite 2 of each. So I did what any crush-struck moron would do under similar circumstances: lay out diabolical pretexts for conversations ("Would you be so kind as to lend me your treasured notebook so that I could transcribe the text for the class that I so thoughtlessly missed?"), attending classes in which she was registered and I wasn't...very, very complex strategies were evolved in this phase.

Once the flame fizzled out, it was time for another to rise in its place. This one was a bloody monster and to this day, I'm not sure why it was so. In my current heightened state, I can see that the female was wrong from every possible angle. My 20-year old self did not realise this and plowed into the phantom affair with absolutely no concern for his well-being. This torture lasted for a semester and that's when the dry spell began. There have been ephemeral sparks at sporadic intervals but were effectively quashed by the twin hands of irrelevance and futility. In order to insulate myself from further arrhythmias, I keep two things around at all times: a) defibrillator...hmm...perhaps "insulate" wasn't the right term to use; b) a list of attributes that a chick must possess in order to qualify for a viable crush. The parameters are as follows:

1) Her age should lie in the closed interval [N-2,N], where N equals my age at any instant.
2) Her height should lie in the open interval (5'7",6'1").
3) She must not be a slave to fashion or cosmetics.
4) Must have a well-developed sense of humour to match my own special brand.
5) Must be a fan of heavy metal, or rock at the very least.
6) Must be Indian.
7) Must definitely be a neatnik because cleanliness is next to godliness...and dirtiness is next to a swift kick in the arse.
8) Default physical status = as gorgeous as me.

This is a highly complicated optimisation problem, the solution of which deserves the conferral of a PhD. Some might naively postulate that items 4, 5 and 8 effectively preclude the discovery of such a person/freak. To that, I shall retort by saying that these people clearly lack my finely-honed sense of optimism/fatalism.

Droll Model

2008-07-31T11:40:00.000-07:00

Today has been a complete waste of a research day.

I have been getting increasingly frustrated with my advisor over the last couple of months. The man's lack of vision for his grad students is becoming all too apparent. It's a signal that's blaring the message: "Get out before Armageddon!" Ever since moving to MIT, some neuron in his brain has switched pathways with the result that every paper simply has to be worthy of Science or Nature. It doesn't matter that other faculty members in the department don't follow this crappy thought process. I seriously doubt whether his tenure process hinges on the number of high-impact publications. They will certainly help but are not the only means to academic salvation.

He's fond of putting me in these short-term dead-end programming projects that have nothing to do with my actual thesis. Although I do learn to manipulate aspects of MATLAB to my will (while having no effect on my humility), they hardly contribute to the bigger picture. A groupmate of mine - E - has been struggling for ages with a project that, for lack of a kinder description, is completely shoddy in design. The Boss' solution was to have me tag along. After all, productivity is directly proportional to the number of people working on the problem. The glitch is that I have almost no interest in the matter, since it's not my responsibility and I would have committed suicide a long time ago if I had faced the issues that E has tackled over the course of 1.5 years. It's during moments like this that I really, really want to wind up and get the hell out of here before the entire superstructure comes crashing down.

I wish he'd go through the first draft of my paper and suggest corrections. At the very least, it would give me something worthwhile to do.

Winds of Change*

2008-07-31T06:47:00.000-07:00

My fashion mantra has finally been vindicated. Some business firms have granted their long-suffering male employees the right to wear shorts in the workplace. I consider this an achievement on par with the major civil rights milestones in recent history. No longer will the male limbs be subjected to the rigours of wool under conditions of extreme heat and humidity. Of course, there are those stuffy, preening pricks who prefer to strut around in their overcoats and tuxedos, labouring under the false assumption that such sartorial nightmares confer a degree of respectability on their poor misguided selves. To such dolts I say, "Pish Posh!"

Coming back to the NYT article, there are a few opinions that I beg to differ with.

"For women, legs are a sex symbol, where for men legs are more private."

Really? Granted, I would rather stare at a pair of finely-sculpted female legs but I have no compulsions about airing my tibias and fibulas in public. This bugger is more sensible:

"I haven’t asked them, but I’m sure women like looking at a man’s calves, or if a man has them, nice ankles."

I'm sure they do. In fact, the universe demands that they conform to Newton's Third Law: Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. It's only natural for women to admire my stringy assets (ed's note: basic anatomy states that "stringy assets" refer strictly to the legs). And then comes along a zinger of a sound bite from the editor-in-chief of Out magazine:

"Men are the same as women now."

What the hell? It's alright for "Out" magazine to say such things. I doubt the day has arrived when menswear can be compared to the female counterpart. Men are NOT the same as women. Just imagine what Focus on the Family would splutter if such a statement were true!

The article also goes on to speak about those ridiculous billboards that show creatures like little Davey Beckham advertising his exercise regimen more than the million dollar Armani crotch-hugger pasted onto his...well...you can guess the approximate location. I just don't see the point of those things. Are they trying to sell male strippers or a piece of clothing? Abercrombie and Fitch ads are even more laughable. There's absolutely no evidence that the chap's wearing anything connected to A&F. Send the whole lot to hell for poor creativity, I say!

* I am NOT a Scorpions fan.
** This is post# 316. It is therefore dedicated to Stone Cold Steve Austin - an anti-establishment dresser if there ever was one, at least, on TV.

Shaadi.come

2008-07-30T13:56:00.000-07:00

An American group mate of mine is getting married in September and has apparently decided to do praayashchit by inviting me to the wedding/reception. I agreed to go because the rigmarole will be performed in Chicago where boarding and lodging will be free. I'm feeling fairly pleased with myself because I've been able to get to-and-fro air tickets for $239. Of course, I'll have to get up frightfully early to catch the plane but the sages of yore are in general agreement over the fact that sacrifice is needed to set the soul in flight at an economical price. The only problem is the whole dress code business. The frequent reader is undoubtedly aware that formals make me wither and die inside. The reception will be a more jolly affair since the venue is a bowling alley and only a highly competent moron would wear a three-piece suit for such an event. Try as I might, my skill level never crosses the "competent" bar so I'm safe in that respect. There is also the eternal question of a wedding gift. I know that modern couples have registries but I've always advocated an anti-follow-the-crowd stance except for the numerous times that I have followed the crowd. My brainchild is to give them Maureen Dowd's "Are Men Necessary?" I have not read it because I already know the answer: men are indispensable; without them the title would have simply been "Are Necessary?" and that is just stupid. Ever since this book came out, I've wanted to gift it to some marriage-enthusiast. P was the first choice but he foolishly declined to give me his mailing address despite the fact that I was willing to buy a new version as opposed to a "Used and New" Amazon copy. Some people have no class.

i on TCR

2008-07-30T09:33:00.000-07:00

Probably the best "Better Know a District" Segment to date.

Marriage of Equals

2008-07-30T06:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I rediscovered an ancient maxim: A partner is necessary in all undertakings of life. When you are surrounded by incompetence, the malaise will ultimately gnaw its way into your domain and ruin whatever skills you may possess. Being an eyewitness to your own decay makes you yearn for that special someone who can lift you out of the morass and show you what you are truly capable of. That person is a beacon in a decrepit world who reminds you of the glory of yesteryear and the finite probability of a brighter future. You gratefully realise that you are not the last of your kind and cherish the hand that has saved you from vanishing into oblivion.

I am, of course, referring to last night's game of frisbee. The first session was very, very depressing. My team mates raised blundering to a sublime art form and their lack of finesse started to rub off on me too. This is an unfair accusation, since the whole thing is supposed to be an exercise in fun and scoring/winning comes a distant tenth. Even so, competitiveness is an irrepressible n-headed monster in human beings (despite allegations to the contrary, I do consider myself a crude approximation of the latter). This is also a personal trend that I've observed over the past few years. When I'm in a uniformly bad team, there's absolutely no incentive to go out on a limb and strive for those tougher frisbee catches. As soon as one reasonably qualified player is introduced in the mix, my enthusiasm for the sport rises immeasurably and life seems worth living after all. Note that these feelings of bonding are strictly confined to the arena. Existence in the real world is unadulterated crap and nothing can mitigate that.

i on TCR

2008-07-29T09:15:00.000-07:00

Heaven help me but I'm beginning to love Colbert...gulp...m...mm...mmo...mmmmmore (blasphemer!) than Stewart. Here are two reasons why: (1) and (2). Watch out for that savagely seductive siren, Sweetness, in the second clip.

Renairssance

2008-07-29T06:22:00.000-07:00

Thought I'd give this blogging thing a shot once again, given the volume of mail that I've been receiving from fans around the world. To say that they love my sardonic style would be to downplay the phenomenon that is me. I would like to thank myself for being so awesome that people just can't help adoring my cyber persona. Anyway, as Johnny Bravo once said, "Enough about me...Let's talk about me!"

The last couple of weeks have been rather busy, oddly enough. Had to do some amma-sitting. My version of entertaining my mom was to leave her home alone from 7 am to 6 pm and then take her around Boston/Cambridge in the evening. This was a vast improvement in comparison to her Urbana visit when the only tourist hot-spot I took her to was the local Schnuck's department store. Non-Illinois folks will not be able to appreciate this magnanimous gesture on my part, since they are completely oblivious of the hold that Schnuck's has on the minds and hearts of the rural populace. Boston is a slightly more scenic city with a tad more character and history. I had no choice but to take her on a Duck Tour, get lost in the North End, tramp around my stomping grounds, and show her the crucible of East Coast preppiness/snootiness/eliteness/(insert derogatory term here)ness. All in all, quite an eventful fortnight. Oh, in the middle of all this, I chose a ridiculously humid day to whisk her by NYC, where we stopped by the high school and apartment that formed a part of her life 38 years ago. Feel free to stop shedding those sentimental tears and hail me as the greatest filial product that ever lived. In all honesty and modesty, I deserve such platitudes.

Of course, I was tied down with other stuff besides sightseeing. Strange as it may seem, the fact that I'm paid a monthly stipend requires me to carry out research for the benefit of all humanity. After all, this is MIT, the haven of goodwill and altruism. A project that I started a year ago finally came to fruition...definitely maybe*, perhaps. For some peculiar reason, my mom's presence seemed to push my brain into overdrive. Thoughts on the larger meaning of life were neglected in favour of completing programs; a paper was written and finally shoved into my advisor's overflowing plate yesterday. As mentioned before, writing a paper is the best way to end a piece of work. Unlike more ambitious people, I never aim for the so-called "high profile" journals: Science, Nature, etc. Nothing I do is "flashy". My sights are trained on the intellectual powerhouses like your friendly neighbourhood J. Chem. Phys. People who publish in such places really know their material. Notice the subtle hint that I consider myself in their league. Somehow, somewhere, this post took a turn towards unbridled megalomania...I like it.

So that's the update for my ardent followers. Stay safe so that you may keep reading my turds of wisdom.

*See Oasis

Bonus FoC

2008-07-25T15:39:00.001-07:00

Feel like a lil' FoC

2008-07-25T14:57:00.000-07:00

FYI

2008-07-21T17:03:00.000-07:00

I am now a (not so) proud owner of a Ford Faux Paux.
Don't worry.

It'll be MACified soon.

Note to self

2008-07-17T02:49:00.000-07:00

Binging on Starburst candies right before bed is not the smartest idea if you plan on catching a good night's sleep.

Mmmm ... sugar high.

FYI, TIME this week has articles on awesome dudes - Tim Gunn and Nelson Mandela.

Also check out 4chan.org (NSFW)

Gold Fish Funeral Done Right

2008-07-17T00:05:00.000-07:00

(via Pri.)

In the Fall of 2003 our wing became notorious when some of our more jobless and bored friends used, for the lack of a better word, barbaric techniques "to teach a gold fish a lesson". For details contact the dumbos who are now at top B-School and an awesome European PhD program. It is sad when we at 21 are incapable of compassion that comes easy to a 3 year old. Here's remembering gold fish that we wronged.

News

2008-07-07T08:05:00.000-07:00

Just found out that A. has finally scored an academic position at the U of C at B. This marks the culmination of a year-long quest of employment that involved a ton of shuttling from one part of the States to another, probably presenting the same set of slides ad infinitum. I’m really, really glad for her, especially since she was the star of the Chem E department at Pilani before I had even joined the place. (ed's query: Did I ever so subtly link myself to academic stardom? Kindly disregard such connotations.) God knows that U.S. academic institutions need more of us around as both students and full-time employees in order to encourage the little ones of the future to apply.

A. helped me out a lot during the application process; I’m certain that it’s due to her performance as a grad student at N.C.S.U., along with a couple of other Pilani Chem E products, which convinced the authorities to give me my very first admit and remove the spectre of joining Infosys as a drone. I then lost contact with her for the next couple of years until River Fate brought her to Urbana as a post-doc. And now, she’s a faculty member…I am still getting used to the notion that I actually know an assistant professor! Super show, A.! Keep those grants flowing in.

Processed Cheese

2008-07-06T06:48:00.000-07:00

Some snaps were shot during a frisbee game a couple of days ago. Here's the certified terror of the field. This was my first ever stab at "Photoshopping", albeit in the Ubuntu version so it would be "Gimping". I share the face with a member of Dimmu Borgir. We have a deal: I lend the human aspect to it while he contributes the demonic dimension. I would like to focus your attention on the free-flowing forehand frisbee fling that simply stands out in the picture. Notice the supremely confident pose, which is classically complemented by the artful attire. The delightful dalliance of the Tantra tee with the official athletic shorts of Illinois is a joyful juxtaposition of the ethnic and the foreign. Disappointingly daft is the person who beholds this awesome sculpted figure and does not wistfully reminisce of the disc-throwing Greek gods of antiquity.

I should probably get back to work. A fair bit of time was wasted on this endeavour.

Holy Shania Twain, Bald Man!

2008-07-03T16:10:00.000-07:00

Created by OnePlusYou

(Ed: In the words of Eric Cartman: Fuc!, F*ckety #uck Fu$k ****!)

Soft Crock

2008-07-02T12:44:00.000-07:00

I came across some earth-shattering, heartbreaking, mind-boggling, foundation-destroying, earth-shattering...err, repetition alert...news via reddit the other day. Before I let it out, I would like the reader/bot to take a seat and hold on to a sturdy object. Umm...scrap that, since you might want to hit yourself on the head with it; just sit down and try to absorb this piece of information as stoically/mechanically as possible. Remember that cute little ditty, "Summer of '69", from everybody's favourite Canadian "rockstar", Bryan Adams? I'm certain that it conjured images of some lost love from the good old days when apples were apples and tomatoes weren't salmonella-infested (ed's note: there's doubt whether they are now but let's just go with the flow). Hell, even the video indicated, albeit subtly, that this notion wasn't completely off the mark. What else would a sane person infer from the sad female face that kept popping up at random instances during the song? Now, B. Adams has stated that the title is not all that innocent as it seems. The " '69 " does not refer to the year but, oddly enough, a coital configuration that will definitely not create new life. Call me a dunce but the fact that the "69" is preceded by a single quote usually means that it's an abbreviation for a year; of course, B.A. could have been indulging in seductive wordplay. I just hope that the receiving end of this bargain wasn't his "first real six-string". My only grudge is that his revelation totally discredits my own composition, "Winter of '97", which was (para)phrased during a particularly virulent outbreak of the rustic emotion called "loww" circa 1997-98

I got tired of this song during the hostel days. Some moron or the other would play it in an infinite loop to such an extent that the beginning riff itself would induce a coma. God alone knows how many other wildly popular songs have their doppelgangers. It's time to let the imagination run free.

a) November Rain (Guns 'n Roses) - signals the end of a protracted period of male impotence during the month of - surprise, surprise - November.
b) We Will Rock You (Queen) - not a gay anthem.
c) The Unforgiven (Metallica) - prescient song about liberal sentiment concerning Florida's role in the 2000 Presidential election in America.
d) Iron Man (Black Sabbath) - predicted the effect of Viagra on the male constitution.
e) Fear of the Dark (Iron Maiden) - power cuts in Pilani during the worst summer months.
f) Child in Time (Deep Purple) - shockingly literal; about a kid stuck for years inside a grandfather clock.

etc, etc.

In celebration of lasting 300 posts ...

2008-07-01T00:27:00.000-07:00

... KoT gives you "CHESS BOXING".

Enjoy maadi.

Tunnel of Love*

2008-06-30T12:30:00.000-07:00

Stepped into the subway,
Book in hand,
Mindful of feng shui,
I made my stand.
At Central Station,
They entered, slow,
A desi sensation,
With amma in tow.
Peripheral sight,
Totally futile,
Amma's eternal fight:
Divert male guile.
My book in front,
The words, nonsense,
My mind, blunt,
In august presence.
"Approaching Harvard Square,"
Train driver intones,
Signalling end of affair,
To an orchestra of groans.
And thus did it cease,
Another matter of heart,
One stop's worth of memories,
For this shameless fart.

Ed's note 1: I just realised that the gender of the object of attention was not specified. Damned be the person who assumed that it was a male.

Ed's note 2: Totally unrelated matter - If people find you in the morning with your hair intact on your head, and are later confused to see you in a bald state on the very same day, here's a way to squeeze some fun out of the situation: Tell them that you've been bald for a week. They'll hopefully leave with a notion of how pathetically unobservant they are. Worry not, you will not be damned for this bald-faced lie.

*Ed's note 3: Due apologies to Dire Straits.

Homework Nightmares

2008-06-30T11:11:00.001-07:00

I can't believe I am 25 and still have nightmares about homework. Last night I distinctly remember dreaming being late in turning in my end term assignments. History? Hindi? VLSI Design? It has been ages since I did anything related to these. And here I was sitting in class working feverishly to finish all three of them. This was a throwback to my school days. Ducking behind the tall blokes in class to finish homework. Except I do not remember doing it. I always finished my homework on time. Then why the freaking nightmares?

Sometimes I feel we all emerge scarred from 20+ years of living on deadlines. On being graded and made to fear those B's and C's. Considering I don't have any more homework to do over the next 2-3 years in grad school, it is disconcerting that the very thought of homework still ruins a good night's sleep.

New on the blogroll

2008-06-30T11:05:00.001-07:00

I'm blogrolling my good friend E-Bunny. She's unbelievably passionate about fashion. She makes me almost care about what I wear. I'm still sticking to my unironed polos though. Hopefully, by the end of summer she'll have me look reasonably presentable.

Without further adieu :

Style Bunny

Combo Platter

2008-06-29T06:35:00.000-07:00

Rajma and fish,
Odd mash-mish,
Though red and white,
No cholesterol in sight,
My signature dish.

Wet Blanket

2008-06-27T11:16:00.000-07:00

I need to vent.

People who know me (the four who are still alive) are aware that my personality is not filled with bucket loads of joie de vivre. Very few things make me happy...wait, that's a rather optimistic statement. Let me amend it: Very few things levitate me a couple of inches from my perpetual state of existential angst. One of those things is frisbee. When the weekly events are scrapped due to stupid thunderstorms that the bloody North East has in abundance, let's just say that molten disgust wells up inside me. Tuesday's game was cancelled and it seems like today's might be as well given the impressive sound and light show that I was privileged enough to watch from my office window. It's even more gratifying to learn that a line of malignant storms is inching across Massachusetts with the sole intention of ruining my Friday plans. The very fact that I am now in a position to say the latter two words in one breath just shows how ecstatic I am at their prospective annullment.

Flymerick

2008-06-27T06:35:00.000-07:00

Stupid fly in office,
Buzzing offers no solace,
Though frickin' door's open,
It buzzes around hopin',
To find escape orifice.

Serainade

2008-06-26T12:04:00.000-07:00

Sweet Boston,
Your eyes, I'm lost in,
Grey and abstract,
A gigantic cataract,
Hue of dross tin.

Your tears are worth,
A III-class berth.
These juvenile tantrums,
Shatter my eardrums,
Sapping life's mirth.

Yes! But how the F did you know?

2008-06-25T23:47:00.000-07:00

Reason #83 to delete my facebook account.

Heroes

2008-06-25T08:21:00.001-07:00

Riley Freeman:
Attitude, Street Cred, Machismo...Knaamean?

Jason Foxtrot:
Ultra-Geek...Enough said!

While the above two stand out in their respective strips, Doonesbury has a wealth of equally classy characters. I've chosen Alex since she's at MIT, and I hope to bump into her someday. Not exactly a role model but every male engineer/scientist's dream of a cerebral counterpart who also happens to look decent.

Alex Doonesbury:
Ideal Nerdy Chick

Cloudburst

2008-06-23T14:50:00.000-07:00

Cumulonimbi,
Lurk in cerulean,
Sense prey nigh,
Reservoirs boolean.

Motion stealthy,
Toxic secretion,
Paradoxically healthy,
For prey's constitution.

Failed hunt?
Or incompetence?
Publicity stunt?
Or chronic benevolence?

Southwestward Ho!

2008-06-23T10:44:00.000-07:00

Verbosity Advisory.

An ambitious day-trip to New York City was undertaken in order to catch up with an old friend and English Press Club cohort from Pi.la.ni. Bugs is his name and he was the patriarch of the club back in the day - a veritable laughing Buddha. 4 years hence, he's a swimming, jogging, biking maniac who has lost the baby fat in deference to the East Coast athletic mindset. Coincidentally, my old roomie from the Urbana days - N - was also in the city, thus providing sufficient reason to trudge for 4.5 hours through the North Eastern wilderness. Presumably, the reader knows that "trudging" refers to parking one's ass in a Greyhound seat and whiling the hours away.

Times Square is a loony asylum. Think of Brigade Road but on a ridiculously grander scale both in terms of the number of aimless pedestrians and skin tones. I was waiting for Bugs outside an ice-cream shop, alternating between reading my book and glancing at selected passers-by when a suited-booted dude (SBD) stopped by and the following conversation (approximate) ensued:

SBD: How can you read when there are so many beautiful women passing by?
Me (rather shocked at the direct approach): Umm...because the book is better?
SBD: Blah blah blah blah (effectively, same sentiment as expressed above)
Me: Well, I read a couple of lines and then look up.
SBD: Ah! So you are normal. If it were up to me, I'd take these women home and force them to do my work, marry them, blah blah blah...
(As a result of being slightly taken aback, I wasn't able to register most of the trash spouted. At this point, he comments on the looks of a passing dame. To her credit, she moves on without paying any attention.)
SBD (motioning at another female passer-by): I slept with her.
(He follows her for a couple of steps, returns and continues with his monologue.)
SBD: Isn't it strange to see a woman you f***** pass by?
Me (bewildered, foolish smile pasted on face): Uh-huh.
SBD: She was with another guy so that's why she didn't stop.
I could have thought of a multitude of reasons explaining her lack of social etiquette starting with SBD's obvious charm and state of mind. Silence, however, seemed prudent. This line of thought paid dividends, since the buffoon decided to take my leave but not before complementing another chick in the most gentlemanly terms. I just prayed that no one would associate me with this cartoon and possibly call the police in. Thankfully, the entire exchange was over in a New York minute. In a perverse sense, I was happy that it had transpired so that I'd have something unmundane to blog about.

III

Bugs is a good host. His living situation is a bachelor's delight: 1-BR apartment with minimal, yet sufficient comforts. It made me yearn all the more for a living arrangement devoid of roommates. No hassles about monopolising the bathroom, cleaning up the place without fear of someone else tainting it, the bliss of solitude accompanying those reading sessions...you know, the works. N dropped by the next morning; we then hit a local diner and proceeded to paint the town red by visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Note for posterity: museums are not for me. It could also be that we were in a section (Greek/Roman sculpture) that really did not pique my interest. Something to do with the Middle East, Central Asia or India would have been more agreeable given my mental zeitgeist. The most striking aspect of the Met was the significant financial contributions of Jewish couples. Each magnificent hall, suffused with natural light, was named after some husband-wife pair or the other. The last stop was a reconstruction of an entire Egyptian temple. The plaques proudly proclaimed that the exhibits had been gifted to the Americans by the grateful Egyptian authorities. Yes, it does seem plausible that an entire nation would voluntarily part with a chunk of its archaeological past so that it could be displayed in its natural surroundings bang in the centre of New York City, just as the oracles prophesied.

Half-Assed Century

2008-06-21T09:31:00.000-07:00

Cranial ferment,
Leads to poesy,
As a testament,
Here's number fifty.
In boring hours,
Or hectic ones,
Rhyming powers
These verbal guns.
GRE word-list,
In the past, misty,
Anglicised grist,
Now of some utility.
Lines mediocre, undeft,
Lead me to care,
Will you be left,
None the verse for wear?

Synovial Flow

2008-06-21T07:02:00.000-07:00

Biweekly frisbee,
Murder on knee,
Creaking patella,
In young fella,
Hint of tragedy.

Think Tanked

2008-06-20T13:33:00.001-07:00

Didley doo, didley dum,
Have an empty cerebrum,
My nimble psyche,
Escaped wearing Nike,
..............................

Busted

2008-06-20T12:44:00.000-07:00

Perceptions can change in an instant. Not very profound, especially coming from the dense person who just wrote it. By the way, why is it that someone who is dense is unable to grasp even the simplest of concepts? Would it benefit him/her to be shallow? Just a passing thought...

Returning to the subject, yesterday's brilliant idea turned out to be today's brilliant dud. I was ecstatic at having derived a relationship that required a knowledge of high school maths and physics (yet, something that I wouldn't have been able to do back then!). It raised my self-esteem just a tiny notch, which, considering that it's competing with Mariana's Trench for supremacy in "below sea level" status, is commendable. This feeling of mild euphoria lasted a couple of weeks and was duly scuttled yesterday in order to return balance to the cosmos. Relationships (mathematical and physical) be damned; a new way forward will have to be forged. Sigh! My brain hurts.

Postlim

2008-06-19T18:04:00.000-07:00

Phew! Next station, defense. Of course, a lot of work has to be done to traverse those tracks but it feels encouraging to be ratified by a committee of MIT profs. That is not to say that the experience was flawless. Let me run you through the sequence of events in this tragicomedy. The major characters are the 4 professors: P1, P2, P3, P4. Let P1 be assigned the value “Advisor”. P2’s a guy from Urbana with whom I’ve collaborated in the past. He said that he’d fly over to Cambridge for this meeting and I was rather looking forward to picking his brain on matters of employment. Ps 3 and 4 are the MIT chaps. The drama unfolds…

On Sunday, 4 days before the big event, P2 emailed me to say that he’d make a conference call during the meeting instead of being there in person. Alright, a little disappointing but understandable. So a special phone was duly reserved for the moment and the number was passed on. The next 3 days rolled by uneventfully while the tension slowly reached a crescendo. More than the actual talk, the thing that frightened me the most was the thought of appearing "respectable" (bah!). The pants were religiously checked multiple times for breaches. During the inspection, I happened across a bank receipt from my NAL internship days in 2004. Wow! Anyway, on the morning of the talk, following the advice of elders, I splurged on bagels and a bucket of coffee with the intention of depriving the gurus of at least one excuse to crib. The dressing was accomplished with a good degree of mental groaning and the presentation paraphernalia were set up in the room. Five minutes before the scheduled time, P3 informed the rest of us that he’d had a flat tyre and was...umm, what’s the word…stranded. Despite this divine turn of events, he vowed to arrive before the end of the talk. I basked in the glow of celestial radiance. P4 was punctual and led me through the formalities. His amiable nature did a lot to quell my queasiness. Advisor walked in soon after and we awaited P2’s call from Urbana while some totally banal conversation floated in the ether. Impatience demanded that we try P2 instead but to no avail. With these auspicious omens, I launched into slide 1.

Around 13 slides later, P3 called us on the conference phone probably while waiting for a tow truck. He was courageous enough to listen in on the talk without having a clue about what I was referring to. 7 slides later, P2 finally buzzed in from Urbana and joined the mayhem on Advisor’s Blackberry via speakerphone. The next 23 slides crawled by in a miasmic haze, studded with the odd question. At the very end, the expectation of passing was a distant second to the relief of finishing the longest talk that I’ve ever given. P3 finally waltzed in right after the acknowledgements and even had the guts to ask me a question about my aims. He sincerely apologised for his ill-luck and was glad that he’d gotten to see my face at the bare minimum. This was heartening, since it’s very rare that people struggle through punctured tyres just to catch a glimpse of my visage. All said and done, he also seemed like a personable guy and I was glad that I had picked these 2 to be in the panel. Later, P2 said that he had overslept (not a normal event) and hence the delay in response. Man, I’m just glad that I didn’t have to reschedule the damn thing due to a lack of quorum!

Impatience

2008-06-18T14:04:00.001-07:00

Ding dong ding dong,
Listen to my plaintive song,
This waiting game stinks,
Like poop on ice rinks,
Wish H-hour would come along!

Jitters

2008-06-18T07:48:00.001-07:00

The 19th of June,
An hour before noon,
Shall state my case,
Plead for grace,
Will Salvation come soon?

Entertainment galore,
For the committee of four,
Will their scorn
Crush this greenhorn,
Rendering him obscure?

Helium Jude

2008-06-17T09:40:00.000-07:00

House has become my Vicodin. I've started devouring episodes in the same way that Friends held my fancy a couple of years ago. In the latter case, I knew the joke before it had even been uttered but still laughed at it anyway. With the former, I hope to know the litany of medical terms and prescriptions before the differential diagnosis has even begun. The point of this post is that I now adore Hugh Laurie; in fact, it's been a while since the pedestallisation started. It was a pleasant surprise to find out that he was Wooster to Stephen Fry's Jeeves. No two personalities could have fit the respective roles better. For the ignorant, this posse had a successful show named A Bit of Fry and Laurie. Here's a supreme example of one of their idiosyncratic sketches.

pRECIpiTATION

2008-06-17T06:12:00.000-07:00

Days bygone,
Overcast and forlorn,
Cold, rain-drenched,
Gaia's thirst quenched,
Verdure, the trees, adorn.

Future appears sunny,
But weather.com's funny,
"30% chance of showers"
Doubt its predictive powers,
Else suffer a nose runny.

Male Storm

2008-06-16T19:25:00.000-07:00

Eruption alert.

I really, really can’t wait to live alone. Let me start at the beginning. While looking for apartments in Boston a year ago, I was intrigued by the possibility of sharing it with a female. This being a city, Craigslist was chock-full of entries where female tenants were open to rooming (“apting”, perhaps?) with males. Before entering such a Faustian bargain, I successfully lobbied for my mom’s permission and voila! I ended up with one roomie of the opposite gender. A year later and a good deal wiser after a couple of experiences with female sub-letters, I have reversed my opinion. Living with them absolutely sucks. My official roommate is alright but the succession of temps that have passed through these halls (singular actually, and it is quite small!) have often left me fuming. I was always under the delusion that females tended to be neater than men. Blatant, putrid stream of lies. Suffice to say that I tenderly scrub the bathroom once a week only to watch its condition deteriorate soon after. Despite this public service, I am not a servant who cleans up after every Jane Doe. Get some bloody civic sense already! This leads me to a loaded question. If living with a chick is anathematic at this stage, how on earth will someone like me (note the careful delegation of responsibility) ever survive under more constricting conditions, a.k.a. marriage? I, or this doppelganger, would find the most unique conditions for divorce after a few days of coerced tolerance.

Foreplay

2008-06-13T11:06:00.000-07:00

The past week was a haze of activity, more than what my decrepit physical and mental frame is used to. Since I want to wrap up this phase of my life in a year, I have to undergo what's called a "Prelim", which is a talk outlining the hoops left to jump through before a committee of elders considers it prudent to chuck me out with a doctoral degree. In MIT-ese, this event has been gifted with an incredibly original name: the "Plan-to-finish-thesis Meeting", with hyphens and all. For an institution that has led the chemical engineering circus for almost 2 decades, one would have expected a snazzier title, say, the "Getchyo-Ass-Grilled-a-Year-Ahead-of-Schedule Congregation".

Anyway, I had to give a practice talk in front of my research group and this involved slicing slides out of a couple of old presentations and stitching them together. Some meshed in rather well, conceptually, while innovative excuses had to be concocted for the more incongruous ones. Apart from this Powerpoint orgy, a written document was required to be submitted to the committee a week before the actual talk. This was the more pressing issue, since there was a lot more text and coherence involved. Add to this volatile mixture the slightly insignificant nugget that I was rather clueless as to the final goals of my project, i.e., the stuff that would ultimately justify the PhD. Multiply my woes with the fact that a thesis title also had to be plucked out of the air. After a couple of late nights and dreary days, the document was done and handed in to The Advisor for quality control (loosely used) 144 hours before the deadline. The goal was to give him as much time as possible to peruse through the rubbish and...well...attempt to add a degree of respectability (even more loosely used) to it. But advisors being advisors, the task wasn't approached until a day before submission. Even so, I incorporated his suggestions, praying that they would be the last.

D-Day rolled around and by the afternoon, I received a host of complaints. How else could it have happened? It's a freakin' law of nature that work expands to fill the time available. Being the efficient bugger that I am, his latest laundry list was suitably dealt with and handed in for the second round of inspection. The final lap had commenced.
8 pm.
9 pm. A hesitant exploratory email was sent to estimate the status quo. "I am still going through it," came the reply (irritable?). This did not bode well, since it implied that another brutal set of corrections lay in store that would eat into my slumber hours.
10 pm.
11 pm.
11:02 pm..."Let's submit it." Total anticlimax wonly. Orders were followed precisely and several sighs of relief were dutifully heaved. Now starts the tamasha concerning the presentation. A week from today, I'll know whether the road ahead is pristinely paved or filled with the most rotten potholes. Once again, luck is being requisitioned in bucketloads.

Fever

2008-06-11T08:42:00.000-07:00

Heat wave has passed,
A sweltering 33 Celsius,
Mr. Indo Summer's aghast,
"33? Hot? Sacrilegious!"

Note to self

2008-06-09T17:56:00.000-07:00

Red Chillies and Cigars don't mix.

Testing Times

2008-06-09T13:09:00.000-07:00

Prelim in a week,
Practice tomorrow,
Kindly find this geek
Luck he can borrow.

PS: Goodbye 275. I shall await the arrival of your distant relative, 1275. Who knows if this blog will be in existence after a millenium.

Yearn

2008-06-07T08:33:00.000-07:00

Commencement has un-commenced,
Pent-up hopes finally sensed,
Visions of cap and gown,
Risking portrayal as a clown,
To escape this life fenced.

Note: This was post #275, a number that is rather close to my heart. It defined me for 4 years in Pi.la.ni. In addition to identification, it has a profound cosmic significance: 2+5 equals a staggering seven. Ever since leaving said institution, I’ve come across this figure in the most random places – sales tags, for instance – and each sighting has heightened my appreciation for it. Dorky? I beg to differ.

STFU!

2008-06-06T12:41:00.000-07:00

I'm not the cussing type, at least overtly. Once in a while, a bout of extreme frustration may release a muffled "What the fffff....!" (note: the all important "uck" almost never makes an appearance) but apart from that I am a staunch proponent of benign swearing. The title was inspired by the supremely irritating chatting habits of a couple of Chinese girls in the grad student office. One of them has been a part of the group for 3 years and was mostly silent all the while. The second arrived last Fall and has sadly catalysed the first into action. Truth be told, it's the catalyst who gets on my nerves with her nasal voice that has the classic nails-on-blackboard effect, and saps the central nervous system of its powers of concentration. Although I'm not a Cantonese/Mandarin expert, I'm quite sure that not one iota of their discussion bears any import. There's a ton of giggling and...oh man...all I can recall is that jarring voice. This chick enters the office every morning in the middle of some phone conversation or the other. Her clippety-cloppety shoes announce her arrival from a mile away. At times, possibly due to divine inspiration, she uses the cellphone in "walkie-talkie" mode. This is perfect for me, since I can eavesdrop on both sides without understanding a word AND lose all hope of intelligent thought. A few glares in her general direction were not effective cease and desist orders. I suppose she was too engrossed in tutti-frooti land to pay attention to earthlings in the vicinity. Uggggh!

PS: This post has really soothed the beast. Well, she's also left the room so I guess that's the dominating factor.

i on TDS

2008-06-03T05:20:00.000-07:00

Absolutely spectacular interview (Parts 1 and 2) of Scott McClellan by Jon Stewart. I had the opportunity to see McClellan on a couple of other talk shows during the weekend and they were pretty much cookie-cutter products. Every host seemed determined to focus on the White House's reaction to his book. Stewart homes in on the actual content, although he does play some of the clips that have become rather repetitive. I never cease to be amazed at his grasp of political hot button issues and the way he literally grills people in the eye of the storm.

Chicawent

2008-06-02T13:30:00.000-07:00

You may breathe a sigh of relief. I have returned. Oh, my absence was completely inconspicuous, eh? Awkward! Annyyywayyy, as is painfully obvious from the title, I had materially transported my sorry self to Chicago for some R&R and the small matter of my cousin's graduation. Saturday was a splendid spring day spent in the company of an old buddy from Pi.la.ni (PItiable LAnd in North India for the uninitiated). Our chats accompanied aimless ambling through the byzantine Downtown pathways and sophisticated leering at the delightfully-clad denizens. Once in a while, stuff that doesn't involve research can be quite soothing.

And so, we come to the ceremony that was held in the basketball arena of Northwestern University. The Wildcats are a part of the Big Ten but their home court pales in comparison to the Illini's Assembly Hall. I speak from experience, having religiously attended college ball games at UIUC for two years. Mention has already been made of the fact that formal wear was suggested for the graduation ceremony. I wearily donned my shirt (rumpled in protest), pants, socks (yuck!) and leather shoes (blech!). The final product could have served a comical purpose at a toddler's birthday bash. Now comes the juicy bit. Just before leaving home (side note: we were already running late), I noticed that the old fly was not shut quite yet. A private investigation into the matter revealed that the zipper had chosen this precise moment to be the clothing equivalent of a vestigeal organ. In fact, attempts to shut the gaping hole were rendered useless when the damn thing came unhinged; euphemistically put, the tracks were now bereft of a train. I was too scared (a tad embarrassed, perhaps?) to request a replacement and so I made what was possibly the most courageous decision of my life: I resolved to go in public without a firewall, as it were.

Here are some tips for people who find themselves in my enviable position: (a) Try to walk cross-legged in order to prevent the orifice from becoming too conspicuous. You might be mistaken for a fashion model (an incompetent one but is there another kind?) but that's a small price to pay considering the alternative. (b) Constant vigilance is essential. Discreet glances at the affected region (epicentre?) are highly recommended to ensure that the tectonic plates don't slide too far apart. (c) Carry a book with you at all times, preferably one that is rather voluminous. Strategic placement of this object will give you much-needed closure when you're seated. (d) Be very careful while climbing any stairs that might fall in your path, especially when there are well-dressed people sitting on both sides. You never know which malevolent soul might be muttering "Open Sesame" under his/her breath. (e) Tucking in your shirt is advisable, no matter how repulsive it may seem. This offers a second line of defense in case the fort is breached.

The sad part is that there was no need to be dressed in a stately manner. Some folks were in shorts, tees, jeans etc. In fact, my regular shabby attire would have been a lot more dignified than the things worn by several females in the audience. At least I had a partner during this period of suffering. My uncle is also a free soul who would rather be found in shorts and tees than suits. There was a bit of welcome grumbling from his end. The good news is that the absence of a dress code gave me the right to un-tuck my shirt, plug the hole and cause the feeling of imminent doom to dissipate into the void. At the end of it all, I felt like I had been baptised by fire. I deserve to be canonised for my valiant efforts to prevent the degradation of the male line. Henceforth, I shall also check the operational condition of all the zippers in my arsenal before subjecting them to the public glare.

WedDing Dong

2008-05-31T07:28:00.000-07:00

Two episodes ago, we discovered that a Korean grad student in my group was on the verge of shaadifying. A card was procured for him yesterday and people were required to write sweet nothings in it. This is what I came up with:

Love is in the air,
Springing from your left ventricle,
On this day, fair,
Try to escape The Cubicle!

After a while, I wanted to make this little modification but it was too late for improvements. Some background information is essential here. His earlier research involved sensing the presence of thionyl chloride in air at tiny concentrations.

Love is in the air,
Thicker than thionyl chloride,
On this day, fair,
Try to detect your bride.

Formal Satire

2008-05-30T07:48:00.000-07:00

My cousin's high school graduation ceremony is on Sunday, and I've agreed to attend in order to take notes and derive inspiration. I'm experiencing the blues in Boston at the moment and a short trip to Chicago will definitely be good for the constitution, especially since it involves meeting a couple of buddies from the murky past: one's a Mallu "bredher" masquerading as a physicist at the University of Chicago, while the other's a wannabe-businessman parading around as an electrician with hopes of a PhD. Oh yeah, the latter also happens to be the founder of the formidable institution known as Kaal of Tulu.

So, I was pretty hyped up about visiting my first ever grad function although it meant stepping down a couple of grades. Those dreams came crashing down when I was asked (ordered?) to attire myself formally for the occasion. My minimalistic travel paraphernalia suddenly ballooned to include a pair of leather shoes, trousers and a shirt. All these decorations for a chap who typically walks around wearing bermudas, tees and sandals/slippers (Editorial note: I do not wear multiple items of clothing at the same time. Please do not take the pluralisation literally). Adorned thus, I will still stick out like a putrefying, festering thumb among those starched suit-and-boot folks.

If you've somehow determined that I'm against the Reid and Taylors and Raymonds of the world, it would behoove you to spend a few minutes to expunge such unholy thoughts from your mind. After all, which self-respecting gent would not want to be "a complete man since 1925"? Or for that matter, who would not want to share James Bond's sartorial tastes? It is perfectly alright to spend close to a million ******* (insert currency here) on woollen(-headed?) apparel, shirts that resemble strait-jackets, shoes that go clippety-clop on the pavement, and ties that are silken suicide kits. It is the epitome of wisdom to wear such ensembles for activities in the heat of summer simply because some mammoth-chaser of yore thought that men deserved to spend quality grooming time in front of the mirror too.

Newsflash: The electrician has bailed on us. Thoo!

Heart Transplant

2008-05-28T13:03:00.000-07:00

This is an operation in progress. My ticker is being transferred from the ethanol/soybean frenzy of the Midwest to the guzzlers of the East coast. In lay terms, come June, my academic allegiance will shift from the U of I to MIT. Frankly speaking, I am being forced down the gut of the techiest of all tech institutions. They think that I have satisfied all the requirements for becoming a part of the department but little do they know of the vast quantities of air, nay, helium, filling the cavernous regions of my head. In fact, my application to the institute was rejected a couple of months ago, supposedly by mistake. That's believable only if "mistake" is the anglicised form of "karma". Some higher-up is probably in the act of committing suicide because of the addition of this miserable plankton (is that even singular?) to a great school.

In other medical news, what's with the sudden spurt in juvenile marriages? By "juvenile", I'm referring to people between 25 and 30 years of age. R. in Virginia, P. in California (already been discussed at length), S. is teetering on the edge, and now a Korean groupmate of mine is deserting the ship of singletons to drown in the maelstrom of matrimony. A couple of single Korean post-docs are slightly miffed because these guys, as a nation, are sticklers to seniority and social "correctness". Every action, physical or verbal, has its place depending on the status of the person in front of which it is performed. Anyway, these 2 chaps are probably the oldest in the HUGE batch of Koreans we have in the lab, and pretty soon will be the only bachelors left. Apparently, marital arts handily trump the deferential magic of seniority.

Plea

2008-05-23T06:09:00.000-07:00

I would like to have my research mojo back. If anyone chances upon it in the streets of Boston/Cambridge/Somerville, please get in touch with me. I'm fairly easy to locate, being the only person in MIT with a rather vacant mind. Just follow the distinct stench of failure.

Totally Unnecessary Post Written Because I Feel Like Wasting Time

2008-05-22T13:33:00.000-07:00

I really don't feel like toiling today. No surprise, since this is my third post. It's been ages since I wrote thrice on the same day...well...there was the trifecta on May 19, and another one on the 16th. As I was saying, the old work ethic has taken a bit of a beating. It might have something to do with yesterday's delightful marathon session with The Advisor in preparation for a talk he was to give today at a workshop. One-on-one interactions with The Man that last for hours on end, intimate as they may sound, always have the ability to poop my brains out. An inside joke refers to him as the Eye of Sauron. Once he zeros in on your work, only Eru will be able to deliver you from his office - the local version of Mount Doom (editorial note: I never promised to stick to the LOTR storyline).

A LOT of time was spent in trying to solve a stupid partial differential equation. I had to dredge up all those memories of Diff Eqs from the sophomore days. Don't get me wrong. I love maths and especially calculus. There's a certain joy in solving stuff in the comfort of your own desk where the internet is readily available for more futile activities. Tinkering about with pen and paper at a table directly in front of your employer is more like a Swordfish moment...without the distraction below the belt. After a ton of simplifications - technically referred to as "engineering approximations" but are really escape routes - I was finally able to get an analytically tractable solution this morning, and ever since, have been unable to confine the mind to tasks that need to be accomplished. Hence the verbosity.

Diff Eqs was one of my favourite courses in the old days. This was probably because I stopped attending the class and read our amazing textbook instead. The experience was slightly tainted by the absolute fart we had for a professor who found my stay-at-home mentality rather indigestible, which somewhat explains the earlier description of this entity. Advanced Calculus was a thoroughly unappreciated subject, especially since its effects are still resonating today. It's a darn shame that we were taught in a horrible fashion which completely stripped concepts like the divergence theorem and Green's theorem of all their innate elegance. I was lucky enough to encounter them later on and at least claim a smidgeon of familiarity. I suppose that's the entire purpose of the undergrad phase; it tells you that certain things exist and leaves it to fate to decide whether you'll be fortunate enough to renew acquaintances later in life.

The Reluctant Sensei

2008-05-22T09:22:00.000-07:00

One of my roommates has shifted base to Montreal for the summer and has sub-leased his room to a female friend. This person is extremely tickled at the prospect of sharing an apartment with me because of my fabled culinary skills. In her words, "I've told all my friends that I'll be living with a real-life Indian." Real-life Indian? I suffer from an incurable case of complexus inferiori but this sobriquet is altogether novel, serving the express purpose of making me feel like a prized (?) specimen in a zoo. Secondly, imagine the odds of finding an Indian in a city that's hyped to be the medical, IT and educational hub of America. I suppose chancing upon only one desi per block qualifies us for the endangered list.

Anyway, future-sub-lessee has already outlined the items she'd like to learn before the end of her tenure in my vicinity: Chicken Tikka Masala, Daal, Chana Masala, Butter Chicken. A self-respecting Indian should definitely know how to make nos. 2 & 3. 1 & 4 are, how shall I say it, just above my reach, with the "just" included to exaggerate my skill. I plan on cooking chicken in my own patented way and throwing in the corresponding MDH/Shaan/Badshah masalas to create the illusion of sticking to her list. All that's left after this charade is to prevent her from actually tasting the mixture. In case that fails, there's the fervent hope that her taste mechanism follows a Markov process, in that they have no memory of the previous concoction while sampling the present one.

I don't enjoy cooking as much as my previous roommate, who completely immersed himself in the task by buying cookbooks of different ethnicities. It's more of a necessary evil that promotes a healthy, frugal lifestyle, and needs to be dispensed with as efficiently as possible. Juxtaposing kitchen-related stress with the inane banter required in a coaching session is going to be quite a challenge, especially since I add powders in quantities that feel right. The total lack of scientific thought is, to put it mildly, apparent to the naked eye.

Sigh! Why does Indian food have to be so bloody fantastic?

Triple Whammy

2008-05-22T08:12:00.000-07:00

Fabulous article in that journalistic bastion known as The Onion dealing with the ideal Presidential ticket in these ridiculous times.

Quintet

2008-05-20T07:29:00.000-07:00

Been a while,
Twisted words with guile,
Inspirational dearth or indolence?
Or plain lack of poetic sense?
Well, back with inimitable style.

State of the Union

2008-05-19T19:22:00.000-07:00

PhD Comics - Your friendly neighbourbood superstore for doctoral paraphernalia.

Quaint Prose Quote

2008-05-19T12:48:00.000-07:00

Excerpt from John McCain's speech in Chicago (see The Caucus for greater coverage):

"Many Democratic voters in Illinois are especially proud of their junior senator. They believe more than ever that Barack Obama was the right choice for the Senate in 2004. I couldn’t agree more, and I promise to do everything in my power to help him finish his first term in the United States Senate."

Priceless!

Eh Tulu, Brutus?

2008-05-19T10:48:00.000-07:00

Don't believe the history books or Shakespeare. The title of this post is what Caesar actually said prior to his death on discovering Brutus' true ethnicity. You can't make this stuff up. I am in the mood for some quality Tulu-baiting. Call it feeling impish or nitwit-ish or just Monday-ish. Here are some things I came up with:

1) What do you call a person of Tulu origin who is perspiring heavily after foolishly eating a spicy item (Don't need to specify the inspiration for this one!)?
Mr./Ms./Mrs. Shweatty

2) What do you call a Tulu female who is perspiring after naughtily gyrating to a spicy item?
Shilpa Shweatty (Editorial comment: I'm not a fan of hers.)

3) What does a starving Tulu male say when presented with a piece of stale wheat bread?
I wish you were a Rye!

4) Historical Nugget# 2: Napoleon was defeated by Tulu brilliance/incompetence (depends on your point of view; inconsequential to the joke) on the battlefield. His dying words were, "Wah Tulu!"

5) What did Hamlet say when he really wanted to use the john?
To loo or not to loo.

I challenge FB to come up with Mallu-based zingers. I shall try too...lu.

Endorsement

2008-05-18T23:11:00.000-07:00

I am sweating profusely and the roof of my mouth is on fire ....

Thank you ...

Desert Pepper Trading Company's : XXX Fire Roasted Habanero

YOU ROCK!

P(appu) pass ho gaya

2008-05-16T20:33:00.000-07:00

Pilani, December 2003. The wing gets together to pen this piece about P, to be read at the CS graduation dinner.

Fondly called ________ by no one but himself, this man uncannily resembles a simian with a bad case of constipation. His amazing intelligence is matched only by his ability to make the most illogical statements most of the time. He has a wardrobe of 2 borrowed T shirts. He wears each one for a week and for variety wears them inside out occasionally. Despite this his clothes still smell better than him. Thankfully this is all that can be said about him …. Put your hands on your noses and welcome ____P_____.

And he's now (almost) married. :)

Boy! Wisconsin Madison must be some school. What else could explain this improbable transformation of our beloved P, from Pappu to a Playa?

As I type this I can imagine our P bungling through the rituals, giggling at every funny sounding mantra. I believe now that H has no where to turn he'll let loose his incredibly nasal laugh that he's held back for the last couple of years.

My fondest memories of P have to be from second year. It was the best time we had together. Just hanging, pulling pranks, stress testing condoms (it IS as bad as it sounds), playing tennis, fretting over "women", being regular 19 year olds. We saw flashes of maturity in him but nothing to suggest he'd be the first among us to take the plunge (yeah, we don't have the best things to say about marriages on this blog). Like Sep already mentioned, he is probably one of the smartest chaps we know, except he was (and I bet still is) capable of saying and doing the most inane things. Whether it was blowing his perfect GPA in a "technical writing" course or breaking common room furniture in tussles with his fellow member of the Bangalore Bi-curious (we love you S___uuuu), he was always a source of entertainment. He probably had some redeeming qualities but they were seldom apparent to us.

It was with this picture of the man that I paid him a visit last summer. Like I said, Wisc-Mad must be some school. Instead of my bungling buddy, I met a mature young fella, settled in to his happy Bay Area job, Honda-Civic and all. He seemed content. This time there were only flashes of inanity and I had to work to get those out. I met his fiancee H, a gal of some legend in Pilani (for the nerdiest of reasons :), I should add ). She sportingly put with with our juvenile "hazing" and at the end of the trip I knew my buddy had found his "lobster"(random F.R.I.E.N.D.S reference). Take it from me Sep, them make an awesome couple.

And now I join Sep in raising a toast (I actually have wine) to our beloved bro and his lovely bride. We wish we could be there, but you had to be a cheapass and not buy us tickets. We wish the two of you an incredibly happy and fulfilling married life. Hope you make many babies and may they have her brains and her good looks. We can only hope they retain your remarkably nasal laugh. Fingers crossed.

Congrats buddy. Here's hoping we can all get together and celebrate in the near future.

i on TCR

2008-05-16T09:35:00.000-07:00

Here's something that I came across in yesterday's Colbert Report. Special mention must be made of the fact that the U.S. government spends roughly $23,000 on a yearly basis for each inmate in the prison system. Hmmm...brain ticking rapidly at the coincidence. At least grad students get educational degrees after the period of confinement although laced with a different brand of social stigma.

And this is a video of a professional basketcase, Kevin James, who moonlights as a radio-show host, venting on Obama's disgusting naivite regarding talks with the "enemy". This clown reminds me of a frat boy who's on a high after a panty-raid. He is an insult to this lovable chap.

Gone With the Sindur

2008-05-16T06:19:00.000-07:00

This post is a sequel to one that was penned a year ago when P informed us - unnecessarily, I might add - that he had decided to marry H. Our association with P goes back to when we were toddlers struggling towards an engineering degree. His IQ was slightly above average on the academic front, while being borderline retarded on les affaires du coeur. The notion that he would be the first one among us to take the plunge into the grihasti phase was eminently laughable. We were a bunch of nerds who were shockingly not the coolest kids on campus, although Fellow Part-Time Blogger (yes, you have been demoted) did have a rather enviable reputation across the student populace. Now here we are...May 16, 2008...P and H are probably H&W already and are in all likelihood enduring the social banalities of the "reception". Here's wishing them all the luck in coping with matrimony, and in striving to retain their (mostly his, since I don't know H all that well) endearing qualities despite a change in circumstances.

That done, allow me to express my discomfort with the rate at which chaps I know intimately are opting for the coupled life. Marital misgivings apart, this is a signal that the kids I once played/studied with have matured, or think they have, while I seem to be stuck in the same juvenile mentality that has characterised the last 25 years of my existence. I'm not saying that the latter is a shortcoming, especially since it imparts a childlike innocence to my visage and worldly outlook. It's just that the mode of conversation, if and when it occurs, with these blokes is bound to change. In P's case, he had the audacity to suggest that I was insane for staying at home on a Friday night and replying to his email within 5 minutes. Well, I do remember those times when he preferred being buried in computer science texts to (gasp!) socialising.

P, in case you see this post and had the intellectual capacity to read this far, I'd like to make a suggestion: hold an informal get-together for your extended family in the States, preferably in Boston so that I'll be able to cut down on costs. I'm raising my empty bottle of water in your honour.

Deep, Low, Messy

2008-05-15T14:07:00.000-07:00

GWB's speech in Israel has raised a few Dem hackles. His incisive comments nudged my feeble mind into action, which is a major achievement in itself. Why would any sane political leader wish to resolve disputes by talking to the adversaries? When a ton of money is being spent on developing sophisticated armaments, it is sacrilege to leave them idling in a shed and engage the other side in a repartee instead. Any toddler will be able to convince you that all the recent wars have been overwhelming successes. Leaving aside the obvious example of Iraq, let's focus on the martial success in the neighbourhood: Israel-Palestine. Victory on the battlefied is intoxicating, which is precisely why we've seen the two sides canoodle (Thank you, Chandler Muriel Bing) each other since 1948. Need one forget the sweet summer of 2006 that was spent in the carcass called Lebanon? The very thought of supplanting the celestial joy derived in bloodshed with futile words is blasphemy. The fact that the representative party of Gaza was democratically elected (a possible fruit of the vaunted spread of democracy?) surely does not imply that they are worth wasting one's breath on. Cerebral might can never hold a candle to military intelligence ("...Two words combined that can't make sense..." - Dave Mustaine, Hangar 18).

Besides, diplomacy has three qualities that severely reduce its efficacy.
(a) The interlocutors need intimate knowledge of the local conditions - human, emotional, terrestrial - in order to hammer out some form of a compromise.
(b) A powerful nation will have to abandon its bellicose stance, stoop to the level of the affected party and...empathise with its pathetic situation! Real men do not commit such shameful acts. Evolution weeds out the weakling. The fact that these men contest Darwin is not ironic. After all, acceptable parts of the theory can be naturally selected to conform with the zeitgeist.
(c) Conducting talks requires a lot of foundational work to be carried out. This requires a person to dirty his/her hands with research on the matter - time that could very well be spent elsewhere.

Succintly put, any presidential wannabe who entertains thoughts of conversing with the "enemies" is a threat to humanity. The last 8 years have witnessed an uncharacteristic blossoming of society - a direct consequence of effective policies. We certainly wouldn't want to see all that effort go down the drain.

The Coiffure Vote

2008-05-14T15:01:00.000-07:00

One-time Veep wannabe, Sen. John "Don-of-the-Salon" Edwards has finally endorsed Barack Obama. People are surely curious as to what he'll gain from the bargain. First on the laundry list has to be a Kawasaki jet-ski, if Edwards' Colbert Report cameo is anything to go by. I'm sure a free-pass to the best barbershops in the country is in the offing. Four years worth of $400 haircuts isn't too much to ask for especially if most of the nation's defense budget could be harnessed for this charitable purpose. Speaking of charity, Hilary Clinton supposedly offered to make Edwards the "poverty czar" in exchange for his support. Now there's an oxymoron if there ever was one. Does this ridiculous designation make him the most powerful beggar or someone who is extremely proficient at inflicting penury on others? The annointed Imam of Indigence could start his own version of the DEA - Destitution Enforcement Agency. He could be the Cabinet-certified millennial version of Robin Hood.

Jackass!

2008-05-14T13:23:00.000-07:00

On TGFI's suggestion sometime ago, I investigated www.meetup.com - Boston edition. My oft-mentioned passion for frisbee was rekindled after joining a couple of like-minded groups online. On a whim, I decided to hook up with a bunch of Indians in the city. The site also serves as a social-networking hub where members can post messages on each other's boards. Once in a while, one comes across these desi desperadoes who push their pea-sized brains to the limit and ping every profile that ostensibly belongs to a female. I regret to say that the thought of doing so has occurred to me too. However, the difference between us, apart from evolution, is that I don't go through with the action. For the sake of clarity, consider one of these clueless clowns who goes by the moniker L****. His name shall be preserved for the sake of decency (mine). L joined the Indian group a couple of days ago and promptly unleashed his words of wisdom on multiple unsuspecting femmes. Now you may consider me utterly jobless for actually reading his trash but hey...I'm not the one under the gun here! Additionally, I would never pass up an opportunity for tickling my funny bone. Anyway, this bugger's modus operandi involves the acquisition of the victim's Yahoo ID so that a more intimate conversation can take place, presumably. It doesn't seem like he's met with much success, oddly enough, given that it's such a foolproof strategy: which level-headed girl would desist from conducting a private tete-a-tete with a chap whose grasp of grammar is painfully non-existent, just like his chances of scoring with her? Jokers like him who have no control over their hormones are an insult to masculinity (Editorial note: Granted, I am not the ultimate authority on the subject but being a male, albeit slightly diminished in some eyes, I do cringe at the inanities performed in its name.). These yahoos should be denied access to computers...and taught the basic rules of English too.

Random things that make me happy

2008-05-13T20:01:00.000-07:00

Somebody else's sad sad life. [link]

Bravo!

2008-05-13T12:46:00.001-07:00

The following is a result of an email conversation with a friend of mine. The topic was the quality of that bastion of journalistic talent, and the flagship of The Times Group...ladies and gentlemen...The Times of India.

"The TOI is an excellent newspaper. It has several uses like cleaning glass, lining book shelves, keeping warm in winter (if you are that sort of a person) and of course as a tissue paper if such an unfortunate occasion may arise. However, it is in its capacity as an enema to the national character that it finds its greatest use. Read TOI to get your shit right. Thats where you'll find it."

And THAT is how you satirise. Well said, D.!

Smitten

2008-05-12T13:56:00.000-07:00

By frisbee, besotted,
My research, garroted,
Those jumps and dashes,
And cuts like flashes,
Reveries The Boss thwarted!

Better Never Than Latte

2008-05-10T07:22:00.000-07:00

Event: Beverages Anonymous Meeting
Venue: http://itulu.blogspot.com/

My name is *********** ("Anonymous", remember?) and I have a confession to make. For the last 3.5 years, I have been a caffeine addict: not just a run-of-the-mill coffee-guzzling (with milk , like God intended it to be drunk) variety but an elitist latte-sipping prick. Espresso Royale, Au Bon Pain, Starbucks, Cosi, Giuliani's...I've done them all...gulp...multiple times. It was harder to control the urge in Urbana, given the relatively cheap cost of living, and hence, the availability of kaapital that could be spent on extracurricular affairs. My juice, if you will, of choice was the Spanish Latte, a deadly concoction of espresso, milk and condensed milk that was priced at $3.16 including taxes. This might very well be one cause of the considerable dental trauma I underwent during the India trip a couple of months back.

The Boston move forced the notion of thrift down my java-lined gut. The next few months saw a considerable hike in the consumption of ordinary French Roast coffee tempered with light cream and honey ($1.25 with the refill mug). The occasional splurge on specialty drinks was essential to retain my sanity. However, even with this sacrifice (!), monthly expenditures on what I like to call "greed" were rather embarrassing. Add to this the fact that I had a percolator sitting at home and all it required was an optimisation of the filter coffee-milk-sweetener ratio. But no! The thought of manually making the brew as opposed to forking out the cash at one of the Caffiend (trademarked!) outlets was just too repulsive. Now, after almost a year of philanthropic efforts aiding the East Coast chapter of Big Coffee, I decided to be more charitable towards my own dwindling reserves. The raw materials have been transported to the office and are duly made use of on a daily basis. During the last week, I visited Au Bon Pain only once and did not derive the same joy as before. It is my fervent hope that the monster (Cu-Joe?) has been dekaapitated.

Dream Girls ...

2008-05-10T06:55:00.000-07:00

... o how they haunt you, even when they are a million miles away.

On Retaliation

2008-05-08T05:47:00.000-07:00

Some have impugned my street cred. What follows is a response to such negative campaigning.

I woke up today with a tremendously positive outlook on life, choosing to ignore the drizzle and the generally gloomy weather. Instead, I spent a whole five minutes watching a potential flower turn from a bud to, well, a bud. After consuming a delightful bowl of oats with a charming smile pasted on my face, much like the Quaker bloke, I proceeded to sing "My Heart Will Go On" in the shower. Oh Celine Dion! Your music and lyrics capture my innermost thoughts with a clarity that startles this research-hardened soul. Finally, smelling fresh like Febreze-treated laundry, I started the long walk to the lab. As my feet pounded the pavement, all I could think of were furry cats and cute puppies nuzzling against each other. A couple of babies lathered with Johnson & Johnson were gamboling in their midst. Even the garbage truck that almost slammed into me during these reveries did not perturb the status quo. Ah! Another day of unmitigated pleasure derived from sitting in front of a machine, serving as the poster child for carpal tunnel syndrome. Life is absolutely precious and completely devoid of all sarcasm.

Your turn, buddy. Hope to renew the rivalry live on May 31 in Chicago. Keep your social calendar uncluttered for that day. The U of C's premier physics grad student has deigned to serve as the referee.

Enough already

2008-05-07T21:16:00.000-07:00

Bring back the smiles. No death-weath references please. You are a skinny, bald, miserly, nerdy grad student. The only thing metal about you is the frame of those cheap-ass glasses you wear.

Bah!

Dark Matter

2008-05-07T15:44:00.000-07:00

Black:
Conspicuous dearth of colour,
Or overwhelming presence?
Sign of senses growing duller,
Or awed by luminescence?

Black:
Demon of the shadows,
Or archangel, elusive?
Day's metaphorical gallows,
Or to light, conducive?

Black:
Hue of the ghouls,
Or terrestrially unappreciated?
Tint of rotten souls,
Or the perennially sated?

WGFEJITBCOTMTH: Acronym for Academics

2008-05-05T16:16:00.001-07:00

When a research group,
Gets a billion cents,
From a governmental troupe,
Expect a magnifying lens,
Judging every scrap of poop,
In a scientific sense.
The perpetual review loop,
Before knowledgeable gents,
Can land you in a soup,
Or fill you with confidence.
Thus, until you droop,
Milk Big Defense.
To self-help, never stoop,
Harness the hapless grad students!

Night's Mare

2008-05-05T04:29:00.000-07:00

Had a strange dream last night. I was assigned (?) a girlfriend and this created quite a brouhaha; so much so that I was even interviewed about it. Not sure whether it was for print, visual or audio media. Apparently, there was even some sort of bet that we wouldn’t last a certain number of days…or was it hours? I wonder if it involved public polling.

The female phantasm kept changing forms until she ended up as a Starbucks barista. Great! If this was a sign, then she could be around the block, or the next one, or the one after that. In case you’re curious, I ordered a hot chocolate because it is a true reflection of my complexion. Well, there’s nothing like being the star in your own neurotic mental reality show.

Dear Problem-Solving Aunty...

2008-05-03T13:05:00.000-07:00

...at Some Magazine Catering to Housewives,

I am a 25-year old graduate student who is facing a peculiar situation. My research advisor (a.k.a. Dr. The Advisor) is a young-ish chap who is prone to extreme bouts of paranoia, which is quite common in the ghastly occupation of “Untenured Professorship”. He took up a position at MIT last year and ever since, he’s been more fidgety than usual. A habit that I think he’s picked up is munching on peanuts and cheese-sticks during those god-awful weekly update meetings with hapless students.

Now I’ve been in contact with this organism for 4 years and I’m observing some of his characteristics sneakily manifesting themselves in my delicate, impressionable personality. For instance, a couple of months ago, I developed an absolute fetish for nuts, and this wasn’t restricted to peanuts alone. A crush on string cheese is presently ongoing. More ominously, before joining grad school, I was a social failure but people at least knew that I existed. Compared to the status quo, this was a highly desirable state of affairs. Conversations that don’t revolve around research, more specifically, mine, are in danger of extinction before even starting. Caveat: I am giving myself too much credit by assuming that a tete-a-tete based solely on my work will last more than five minutes.

Here’s an incident that occurred a few days ago. I recently shaved my head in accordance with a 2-month ritual. The Advisor bumped into me one morning and questioned the follicular massacre. This was my automatic, well-rehearsed reply: “I did it so that I could have more time for research. It also requires low-maintenance.” This caused him to enact something akin to laughter. He then did something truly shocking – he compared his own expanding bald spot to my empty scalp. A visual of the affected area was duly provided, which might have led to extended mental trauma. Luckily, only a fleeting glimpse of the fallow zone was caught. All this might seem mundane to the layperson; indeed, it might qualify as normal human interaction. Here’s the catch: In our screwed-up universe, this is, well, odd. My boss is actually trying to be friendly. Alright, he’s not a mean guy but this phenomenon is too recent for comfort. What am I supposed to do when confronted with this…umm…emotion? Should I be concerned that I am exhibiting similar traits in my own execution of life? The physical “bond” – baldness – might be temporarily temporary in my case but what about the remaining intangibles that have been sown, biding their time before erupting at the most inopportune moment?

Confoundedly yours,

Flummoxed.

Queer Central

2008-05-02T15:07:00.001-07:00

It's freakin' May,
Warmth still kept at bay,
Mercury in the forties,
Rain makes frequent sorties,
Boston: ironically gay!

i on TDS

2008-05-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

Fascinating view of the American media's vulgar obsession with the Obama-Wright hullabaloo. Stewart and Co. speak for me with their incisive take on the matter.

...and here's the sequel. Oh John Hodgman...Is there anything you don't know?

Severe Temper Alert!

2008-04-30T12:27:00.001-07:00

Wednesday generally goes down the toilet. The Advisor seeks my august company at 3 pm on this day, week after week, which means that the intervening hours are spent in preparing slides with absolutely useless information. You get what you pay for, right? My 10 minutes worth of "real" work has been faithfully reproduced below:

Mr. Wintry Blast,
Get outta my face.
7 months have passed,
Since you entered this place.

Tired of walking,
With a second layer,
So quit gawking,
Vamoose, you skin-slayer!

Overstayed your welcome,
Grudging, though it was,
Let Ms. Spring Blossom,
Loosen your frigid claws.

Ready for sun-kissed,
Green lawns and short tops.
Right now just plain pissed,
'Cos you're still busting my chops!

Erotica

2008-04-29T14:47:00.000-07:00

This post has nothing to do with the traditional meaning of erotica. The sole purpose of the title is to pimp up the actual prosaic content. From a struggling grad student's perspective, scientific material - journals, theses etc. - come under the purview of erotic literature. Well, I just thought of this connection and since it just barely meshes with the title, I shall pursue the chosen path, no matter how perverted it might seem. Allow me to elaborate. I frequently hit gigantic speed-bumps on the road to moksha, also known as freedom from the cycle of rebirths in the academic universe; in a nutshell, a kindergarten toddler is reincarnated as an elementary, middle and high school student, in that order. Next in the chain comes the rebirth as an undergrad, followed by the grad phase. Some are lucky enough to break from the loop at this point, while others opt for the post-doc en route to their nemesis as an...gulp...academician. Granted, not everyone religiously sticks to this prescription. Since my world only revolves around those who do, the outliers will be conveniently ignored. Let's just call this an engineering approximation.

Anyhoo, detours aside, many of the aforementioned speed-bumps find their satisfactory resolution in past work that has been duly recorded in the annals of scientific lore. One can gauge the quality of a university by its journal subscription. UIUC was simply spectacular in this respect. Nothing was too arcane, be it the Japanese Journal of Applied Physics or Analytical Chemistry (Anal. Chem.). Actually, the latter is rather well-cited. I just included it for its catchy (and official) abbreviation. For the info-nerds out there, there exists Anal. Instr. too. I'm sure you're savvy enough to expand that one. Now one would expect that MIT , given its reputation, provided it's in Massachusetts and not Manipal, would have a comparable, if not better, journal collection than UIUC. Such expectations may be laid to rest...no...better yet, shove them under a pile of dung. I'm lucky to be able to access UIUC's reserves at the moment but this state of affairs will not last forever. A person who can live his/her life without ever referring to the Journal of Computational Physics would have to be nuts. My advisor is now compiling a list of publications that are sorely lacking in MIT's arsenal. Don't be surprised if this dirty linen mysteriously makes its way to the New York Times...or this blog. Hmm...Did I just compare the literary standards of the two?

i on TCR

2008-04-29T09:49:00.000-07:00

Decent interview but watch out for the delicious ending.

Empathy

2008-04-29T04:48:00.000-07:00

I've never owned a cellphone. Guess I'm waiting for the right (t)one to come along. If one popped into my lap at this very moment, here's what the likely scenario would be:

Friday Night Sights

2008-04-28T18:27:00.002-07:00

Dave Mustaine's yearly metal fest, Gigantour, swung by Worcester (MA) last Friday. Historically, heavyweight metal outfits from Europe have been a highlight of this event, not to mention the presence of Megadeth itself. This year saw Children of Bodom and In Flames as the run-up to the headliner. Although I'm more or less a concert veteran now, I've never before witnessed such a large concentration of metalheads in one place. Truth be told, it was a little scary, given the mohawks, body piercings and art (?), liberal alcohol supply and the general demeanour of the blokes. There was the usual moshing around and crowd surfing but with a tiny difference: females were being hoisted above the sea of hands, no doubt felt up all over, and passed on to the rim of the stage. As ever, the waves carrying the pseudo-surfers crashed against the sturdy wall of bouncers. Their normally thankless job – dealing with sweaty, half-naked male psychos – was made a little more tolerable by the frequent occurrence of the female version. The crowning moment came at the end of Megadeth’s performance when a girl in a bra perched herself on someone’s accommodating shoulders and blew kisses at Mustaine. It was clear that he had had more than his share of such accolades over the last 20 years. The chap hardly even looked at her.

The point of this post was to focus on the music; I seem to have digressed somewhat. Anyway, CoB’s 50 minutes of fame were well received. There were many headbang-conducive moments. Rocking the old cranium back and forth in tune with those familiar notes is liberating. You can almost see your worries being jerked out of your mind. In Flames was professional, although some morons in the crowd thought otherwise and made their sentiments clear. Finally, the man of the night made his appearance with an ultra-cool swagger. Old favourites like “Sweating Bullets”, “Symphony of Destruction” and “A Tout Le Monde” were unleashed on the appreciative audience.

A huge incentive in attending metal concerts is the purchase of amazing t-shirts. My wardrobe is teetering from a Tantra-centric motif to a decidedly darker tone. Ain’t no other place where I’d rather shop! After splurging, I made my way back to the train station. At one point, I overtook three folks – guy and 2 girls – who must have been a little tipsy. As I raced past them with my 2m/s gait, one of the chicks said, “Speeding! Speeding!” Then, the other one chimed in with, “Greetings Earthling!” Unfazed, I plodded on when the patter of feet reached the auditory canals. A short female came into view and chirped, “Mind if I walk with you?” At that very moment, her foot decided to get stuck in a couple of places – her mouth (metaphorically, although she may not have realized it) and more significantly, a crack in the pavement. The resulting fall was a tad short of disgraceful…no, hindsight confirms that it was bloody awful and hilarious. I continued on my quest to the sound of thoroughly embarrassed laughter behind me. It was only later that the rusty cogs in the grey matter started turning and churning out possible witticisms that could have been said after The Debacle:

1) “Do you want me to wait for you?”
2) “Was that good for you?”
3) “You don’t have to prostrate yourself before me. I am a benevolent Greek God.”

Etcetera, etcetera.

Discworld*

2008-04-27T14:18:00.000-07:00

I've never been much of a jock...wait, this implies that a miniscule part of my constitution is "jockular", as it were. Let me rephrase: I've always sucked at sports-related activities. Apart from the occasional dabbling with hoops (basketball, not the hula variety), my extracurricular life was severly limited by the conspicuous absence of the "extra" bit. Anyway, since coming to the States, I've had the chance to expand my skills beyond the academic horizon. Granted, this opportunity occurs once a year but its advent is all the sweeter because of its rarity. I'm talking about the awesome game of Ultimate Frisbee. I realise that it sounds tremendously effete but all such misguided notions will vapourise once you witness the action on the field. My mom is one example of a convert. During our phone conversations, she would laugh whenever I mentioned this sport. Only when she saw us going at it live did she eat her harsh words. Dinner was not required on that day.

The reason I love this game is that it involves a LOT of running, and dexterity with the disc-throwing/catching aspects. Of course, one needn't be spectacular in the latter qualification but it always helps the progress of the game...and the garnering of, may I say, well-deserved platitudes. It pleased me greatly to discover my latent talent (Hey! "Talent" is an anagram of "latent"! Take a minute to ponder its philosophical implications.) with respect to disc manipulation. Additionally, since I'm not a big fan of jogging because of its sheer montony, Ultimate forces the decrepit limbs into extreme action on a weekly basis. A heavy price is paid after the first couple of games, since the pain teaches you the anatomical location of each muscle (if existent). On the flip side, the high - sometimes literal - achieved after a great game is worth the grim aftermath.

*Inspired by Terry Pratchett

Hangover

2008-04-26T09:10:00.000-07:00

Mustaine and Laiho,
Each, a shredding maestro,
Give them a pick,
And a stringed stick,
Watch the bloody riffs flow.

To put it more formally

2008-04-24T15:34:00.000-07:00

Theorem: Let L be an operator between two finite dimensional vector spaces P1 = P2 = P, the space of people. N(L) = span{sepulchritude,tobacconist}.

Proof: [1]

[1] Sepulchritude, "Wishful Thinking", Kaal of Tulu, April 2008.

Wishful Thinking

2008-04-24T13:56:00.000-07:00

Here's a thought that struck me as I was entering the men's loo, aptly enough. The eccentric male habit of denying opportunities in various arenas to women led to feminism. Equal rights for all was and is the refrain. I wonder why this sentiment doesn't percolate to the dating industry. According to my infallible sources, the onus of “asking out” always falls on the male component of the species. I don't hear females complaining about the blatant sexism inherent in this phenomenon. The fact that I hardly get to hear any females at all deserves to go unnoticed, and also serves to bolster my argument. The point is that it's not enough to demand increased responsibilities in inconsequential areas such as science, politics, business, etc. The equipartition theorem of thermodynamics states that all tasks, inane or important, should be shared equally by men and women. I am a trained chemical engineer so the reader should trust the sentence above. That said, I would like to issue a clarion call for “masculinism”. It is our birthright to be asked out by pretty women who don't resemble Julia Roberts, regardless of how nerdy or odd we might seem at first, second and umpteenth glances. To demonstrate our goodwill, we are extremely receptive to the idea of different females popping the question on separate occasions. Apart from guaranteeing a just distribution of duties among members of the opposite sex, this will also promote inter-gender harmony.