To Be or Not To Be...

Working as a pilot is one of the most enjoyable professions out there. Or so I'm told. Admittedly my flying career is still waiting to take off. Its a work in progress that I’d like to think has a happy ending somewhere not too far into the future. But all this dilly dallying has got me thinking about what I’d do for a living if say one day i develop a fear of heights or i get banned from cockpits across the world for humming 'Final Countdown' very loudly every time we lined up for takeoff!

 My engineering degree seems like a relic from the past now. I'd like to think that i have a better than average understanding of how things work and I’m not allergic to large numbers. So I guess I’d enjoy designing aircraft or cars... or toasters. I could go back to college, finish my MBA and become a financial advisor. That would work. If people ever got around to trusting big banks with their hard earned money ever again! Or I could go into television. But then I'm told that my face is more suited for radio. But that doesn’t work because I’m pretty sure my voice isn’t top dollar material either.

This leaves me with just one thing to do. Write. I love writing. Maybe for a weekly magazine. I've read the best of what my country's top publications have to offer and apart from a few respected columnists the rest are just a bunch of narcissistic pre-schoolers droning on about their 'issues'. Their writing is just so wrong. I'd love a weekly column. I don’t really care if it’s in one of those flyers you see in the bus which people only ever use to wipe that nasty piece of gum from under their shoe. I'd write under a pseudonym. Something like 'The Marauder' or 'Private Eye'. Or 'Thor'. Then I can rant about anything under the sun without having to worry about a brick flying in through my window late at night with a threatening note attached to it.

Or maybe I could write news stories. Maybe even base them on actual facts though I hear that isn’t really a pre-requisite to write for a newspaper these days. Seriously. I don’t claim to be an expert on the universe but I was appalled at all the Grade A manure that filled front pages in the days following the Mangalore Air India crash. Its offensive, the amount of garbage the 'experts' and 'top level sources' can put out there.

But my dream writing job would be to work with one of the biggies in automobile journalism. My love for anything with four wheels is beyond expression really. If I was rich enough I wouldn’t even mind paying them to do their work. I would rate being a reputed automobile journalist right up there with fighter pilots and race car drivers as far as desirable jobs go.

Hmmm... Race car driver. Maybe if I lost a couple of dozen kilos and got in on Mr. Mallya's good side. There is some serious plotting to be done here....

Gobbledygook

We've all had our moments. Those flashes of absolute stupidity when the tongue just bypasses the whole logical thinking process in an attempt to get our thoughts out there. And while the person at the other end of the conversation stares on incredulously, we have nothing to do except hope that there's a meteor headed our way; a large one at that. I don’t know about anybody else out there, but if I had it my way, life would be just as smooth and polished as a James Bond movie.  007 never had a problem with words, whether they were directed at that horribly scarred villain or to Olga Kurylenko in all her glory. Unfortunately, life's a lot more improv. Life can never be scripted like a spy movie in much the same way I can never hope to pull off a suit and tie like Roger Moore or Pierce Brosnan.

I like to think of myself as a person who's extremely careful with the words I throw out there. My whole life revolves around saying all the right things to the people around me. But even I succumb to the pressure at times. I shudder to think about the motor mouths out there. Life must be one never-ending math equation for them. You think you've got it licked when more horrors from your past claims creep out to haunt you.

Then there is the interestingly named phenomenon called gobbledygook. This is when words flowing out of your mouth form totally irrelevant and convoluted sentences. Takes me back to that speech I gave about the Indian independence struggle at an elocution contest in school. This was way back when I was just 12 and still wore my trousers right up to my belly button. This was a big event. We had judges from the student’s chapter of UNESCO! I made a complete fool of myself trying to put together a half decent speech from the notes I had crumpled up in my sweaty palm. Our brave freedom fighters must've been rolling in their graves. My history teacher never looked at me the same again. In fact he seemed like he was ready to throw me in an institution. And not the nice kind. Luckily for me most of my friends had inevitably found something better to do on a Saturday afternoon and I was spared a great deal of mental torture.

Now it’s all well and good when a 12 year old messes up on stage. But it’s a completely different story when a public figure shoots out a brain twister while trying to connect with the common man. There are a lot of hilarious examples online. Here are some,

George W Bush, a lifetime achievement award winner for gobbledygook,

"I know what I believe. I will continue to articulate what I believe and what I believe – I believe what I believe is right."

Boris Johnson,

"I could not fail to disagree with you less."
 

Naomi Campbell,

"I love England, especially the food. There's nothing I like more than a lovely bowl of pasta."

Gordon Brown in a speech,

"ideas which stress the growing importance of international co-operation and new theories of economic sovereignty across a wide range of areas, macro-economics, trade, the environment, the growth of post neo-classical endogenous growth theory and the symbiotic relationships between government and investment in people and infrastructures - a new understanding of how labour markets really work and constructive debate over the meaning and implications of competitiveness at the level of individuals, the firm or the nation and the role of government in fashioning modern industrial policies which focus on nurturing competitiveness."
 

Alicia Silverstone on her (rather aptly named) film, Clueless,

"I think that Clueless was very deep. I think it was deep in the way that it was very light. I think lightness has to come from a very deep place if it's true lightness."

I do sympathise with these people. Because in all seriousness, one can only perform to one's best in situations which tend to test one’s extent of religious and philosophical tolerances as a function of one’s acceptability to society as a whole and to one's peers who are at best locked in an attempt to eradicate one's beliefs and trusts one can only relay a vague sense of hope and optimism in the vein of friendship that one bravely tries to hold on to in these times of trials and tribulations!
Happy Gobbledygook everybody!

Present Tense, Past Perfect - A Stitch in Time

The year was 1997 and I was a far cry away from puberty. Art was a necessary evil seeing as how it comprised of fifteen percent of my final grade. Fifteen percent!! That was insane! Nonetheless I had to enrol in Art class if I wanted to move ahead with half decent grades. The school in all its wisdom offered two choices as far as "art"was concerned. One could either opt for metal embossing or move on to the more girly trade of cross stitching. Of course, I was planning to sign up for the manly trade of metal embossing. But by the time I got my lazy behind over to the workshop, all the places were taken. Which left me in the precarious situation of being the only student left to sign up. And it wasn’t like I even had much of a choice. It was cross stitching or nothing else! So I reluctantly, signed up for the aforementioned course. I proceeded with my head hung low to collect my material for the classes to follow. That’s when things really took a turn for the worse. All the nice designs like the vintage warplane and the classic automobile were already taken. Which left me with the flower and bird design. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I discovered much to my horror, that I was the only male to sign up for the stitching classes. If I had a building tall enough I might have jumped off it at that point. Fortunately for me, all our buildings were at just three storeys at the time. It didn’t seem worth the effort. So I jumped headfirst into the effort of creating a masterpiece. Stitching became my way of life. I spend hours trying to perfect my design. Hours which otherwise could have been spend playing basketball or trying to solve assorted Hardy boys mysteries. In the end, it all amounted to naught. I found out the hard way that girls are indeed much better at working a needle. My canvas ended up looking like a sheep threw up all over it. While all my friends showcased some of the best metal work I'd ever seen. I didn’t win any distinctions that year. I did however move on and vow never to try my hand at stitching again. Until my Trouser button popped off. But that’s another story for another day.

Pep Talk, Anybody?

Excess Handbag(gage)!

You know how that old saying goes. A bird in the hand is worth two in the handbag. Mainly because the ones in the handbag are suffocating under a wide assortment of feminine accessories. Apparently diamonds aren't a girl's best friend. Her handbag is (though a diamond studded strap would be well received I imagine). A second skin of sorts. A place to hide her deepest and darkest fears (and that half eaten rice krispy). A formidable black hole that seems to defy the natural laws of physics governing volume and space.

There is a reason I bring all this up. I was out with a friend at Connaught Place last weekend and she was kind enough to point out that I was a moron for carrying an empty backpack with me. This was just a pre-emptive measure on my side because I wouldn’t want to be caught dead with shopping bags in my hand in case I gave in to some of my more primal instincts and actually decided to buy something. I got right back at her by pointing out that she wasn’t carrying a large lady bag like all the other pretty faces around us. She didn’t seem to be too bothered by the accusation and started discussing the semantics of what constituted a handbag, a purse and a wallet. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that she was the exception that proved the rule about your average lady about town and the need for her to lug around her life's baggage.

Now I’m not the tidiest of individuals but even I'm taken aback by the chaos that reigns inside a handbag. How someone can retrieve something from that mess is a mystery. It must be some sort of secret mantra passed down along the ages from mother to daughter while we sons and fathers were busy watching reruns on TV. But do you really need all that stuff? How much bigger does fashion dictate these bags get before somebody dislocates a shoulder joint? And don’t even get me started on all the nice things you could have for the price of a designer bag.

 A friend once argued that in an emergency a girl would survive longer because the handbag was like a mini survival kit. Pfft! I'm no expert but I wouldn’t want to place my faith in the nutritional value of lipstick and mascara. The only things of any edible value one might find in a bag would probably be the aforementioned rice krispy, some old breath mints and that really really small bottle of mineral water. And that's not going to get you very far in the wild now, is it?

Having said all of that I do respect the sanctity of the bond between a woman and her handbag. But I have given up trying to understand the rationale behind it. Just another one of life's great mysteries I guess. Like the birth of the universe and that darned chicken who crossed the road.

The snippet below is something I saw online recently that's apparently been doing the rounds for a few years now. I had to post it sometime and it sort of validates my post. It illustrates how the simple act of withdrawing funds from a drive though ATM can be so different for the sexes. It’s funny. Y'know, because it’s true!

MALE PROCEDURE:

1.Drive up to the cash machine.
2.Put down your car window.
3.Insert card into machine and enter PIN.
4.Enter amount of cash required and withdraw.
5.Retrieve card, cash and receipt.
6.Put window up.
7.Drive off.


FEMALE PROCEDURE:

1.Drive up to cash machine.
2.Reverse and back up the required amount to align car window with the machine.
3.Set parking brake, put the window down.
4.Find handbag, remove all contents on to passenger seat to locate card.
5.Tell person on cell phone you will call them back and hang up
6.Attempt to insert card into machine.
7.Open car door to allow easier access to machine due to its excessive distance from the car.
8.Insert card.
9.Re-insert card the right way.
10.Dig through handbag to find diary with your PIN written on the inside back page.
11.Enter PIN.
12.Press cancel and re-enter correct PIN.
13.Enter amount of cash required.
14.Check makeup in rear view mirror.
15.Retrieve cash and receipt.
16.Empty handbag again to locate wallet and place cash inside.
17.Write debit amount in check register and place receipt in back of check book.
18.Re-check makeup.
19.Drive forward 2 feet.
20.Reverse back to cash machine.
21.Retrieve card.
22.Re-empty hand bag, locate card holder, and place card into the slot provided.
23.Give dirty look to irate male driver waiting behind you.
24.Restart stalled engine and pull off.
25.Redial person on cell phone.
26.Drive for 2 to 3 miles.
27.Release Parking Brake.