English, Bleeps, Water buffaloes and Keralafonia

“I know less than half of you half as well as I should like and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.” ~ Bilbo Baggins in the LOTR

Amen dude....! And that said let us begin.

The more discerning amongst you will have noticed that I have added a few gizmo's, thingys and watchoocallits to the blog, which reportedly are supposed to do a lot of things, most of which I don't understand. To me "Feedburner" suggests a large cow with an extremely effective digestive system (cattlefeed types). I think they improve the blog's look, however, and make me look incredibly techno savvy, which has been a long time dream.... sigh. What they are not supposed to do, is to direct you to any other sites, especially dirty ones. If they do, please do let me know, especially the dirty ones. Just so I can report them you understand, not because I have any interest in such sites. I know most of my vast audience would never think that of a fine cultured person such as me, but its always better to explain.

My favorite is the 'button' (prior to this I always thought they were circular thingies to make your clothes cling on) which gives my gmail ID. The smarter half of readers will notice that I have added the word 'Errrr...' above this button, and immediately realize that this is a trick button. The other half will spend a lot of frustrating time trying to click on this hoping that it would help them communicate with me. These are the In'duh'viduals as Dilbert (or rather Scott Adams) calls them. I only wish I were around to see their faces when they do this. Thus do I claim revenge on technology buffs! Ha Ha!

Which brings us to the fact that English is a beautiful language. Just by adding the word 'Errr...' I have communicated the above mentioned facts to my audience. On the other hand you could do it in a long winded way too. Consider for example the below, which could win a prize for bad English:

If such a sublime cyborg would insinuate the future as post-Fordist subject, his palpably masochistic locations as ecstatic agent of the sublime superstate need to be decoded as the now-all-but-unreadable DNA, of a fast deindustrializing Detroit, just as his Robocop-like strategy of carceral negotiation and street control remains the tirelessly American one of inflicting regeneration through violence upon the racially heteroglossic wilds and others of the inner city.

I mean, what the hell? You could just say "Man, that dude kicks ass!" or even "Dude, that man kicks ass!" and be done with it. Metaphorically and literally a precise interpretation. The problem is that there's English and there's American. Most of us don't understand American when she's spoken. My favorite example of American is the conversation Samuel L Jackson (Jules) has with this kid (Brett), while he's holding a gun over him ( Jackson's holding the gun, geddit? Tricky thing, this American....)

JULES: What country you from?

BRETT: What?

JULES: "What" ain't no country I know! Do they speak English in "What?"

BRETT: What?

JULES: English-MF-can-you-speak-it?

BRETT: Yes.

JULES: Then you understand what I'm sayin'?

BRETT: Yes.

JULES: Now describe what Marsellus Wallace looks like!

BRETT: What?

JULES: Say "What" again! C'mon, say "What" again! I dare ya, I double dare ya MF, say "What" one more goddamn time! Now describe to me what Marsellus Wallace looks like!

The audience is advised not to try this at home, unless you're sticking a big gun, or a big broomstick into the listener's face. In the absence of these two, the listener will demonstrate violent tendencies towards rearranging parts of your anatomy, or will tear your leg off and beat you to death with it. This may partly be, because Samuel Jackson does not say emmeff (MF), he substitutes with a word, which suffice to say is not 'My Friend". That's one of the inherent problems with American, see? In view of the delicate sensitivities of my audience I shall leave this line of discussion here and move on.

A deficient or even dysfunctional socializing process, has brought most of us to believe that four letter words add power to our speech. I'm sure we can communicate effectively without the 'bleeps'. For example take Wodehouse, I hear the man used to re-write each page in his book eight times before he was satisfied with the results, and he can use some mean English I tell you. Wouldn't you rather say " I say old chap, you gurgle like the death rattle of a soda water siphon" rather than "F*#@k off, moron!". See English has its uses, unless you're in a hurry of course.

The one exception to the four letter word rule is the word B-E-E-R. You have no idea how much much power it adds to my speech, or how lyrical I wax when B-E-E-R is around. How much sense I make is a debatable topic, and the subject of another post by itself. More on that later.

Then there are the delightful compositions, that rock bands come up with. Don't get me wrong, Rock is my life blood, but when I hear this guy singing: 'Oooh Life, Its bigger, Its bigger than you, and yooouuu are not meeee" I can't help getting irritated. What are you supposed to do? Say "Thank you for that brilliant piece of logical thought!" ? "You are not me"? "Life, Its bigger, Its bigger than you" ? I didn't know these things! What a clear insight! I know them now, and for the life of me, I wont understand them ever! Give me a break will ya?

Then you have the death metal bands, which purportedly sing in English. Try as hard as I can, it doesn't sound like English to me. More like a pair of flatulent water buffaloes mating in a sludgy pond, or a brace of pigs being tortured in a tin foundry. Well, zat too, is ze Eenglees.

Then there are the personal gems you come across. Was in the elevator at work, and I overheard this conversation which went "We used to collide every quarter but now we have been asked to collide every month". Now this seemed like a event which would be more prevalent in the mosh pits of the above mentioned death metal band's concerts. Images of arcane rituals of people body banging before starting a project flashed through my brain (Kind of like a Hi-Five, see?). Took me some time to realize that the guy was talking about "Collate".

I'm the kind of guy who always gets threatened by service providers, in life. Whether its my TV mechanic, or my phone banking representative. I'd called my Bank yesterday to find out if they had a SMS alert for credits to my account. He told me they didn't have one right now. "But we are adding those 'technologies' saar. We will continue to call you and 'intimidate' you, as soon as they are up".Thanks a lot, as if I wasn't intimidated enough by technology, already. I work for an IT company after all. English at work, for you.

According to urbandictionary (thats a website) an 'askhole' is a person who asks too many idiotic questions. English is getting better by the day, baby!

The last word in English of course is this song I heard yesterday called "Hotel Keralafonia". With all due apologies to everyone from God's Own Country (and to those irritating people who've heard everything before, especially when you think you have a good joke to crack), you can find it here:

http://kotinetti.suomi.net/hilja.reinikka/Audio/KeralaFoniaYC.mp3

A weekend of barrels of beer, hard rock, and humongous hangovers, beckons. Adieu, all......

Polar Bears, PAN Cards, TV's and Hysterics

“The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hillsides dew–pearled;

The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn:
God’s in His heaven,
All’s right with the world.

- From the 'Pippa Passes' by Robert Browning

I've somehow always found those lines a little irritating... a bit too optimistic, to say the least. However, that said, let us begin.

There's this cartoon character on Nickelodeon, a polar bear, called Backkom or something. The poor bugger always manages to screw up everything he does, always gets frustrated with life in general, and runs around grunting his anger like a loony. I sympathize with him. Reminds me of myself. In the sense that I can understand his feelings, not in the sense that I run around grunting with frustration. Wellll.... not too often anyway.

So I thought I'd count all the 'bright spots' in my life currently. I am now (FINALLY!!) the proud owner of a fully functional TV. Which brings up the travails of getting it fixed. Getting those guys to come and fix it was slightly more difficult than it would have been, to get Britney Spears to pass off as Einstein (intellectually I mean... not that lookwise is any easier, come to think of it. Einstein looks so much better, don't you think?) Anyway the only problem with the TV now, is that the pictures come in three bands of colors. The top one third is orange, the middle is green, and the bottom is in normal natural colors. The TV as usual functioned well until the technicians were around fixing it (it had totally gone on strike earlier and refused to function despite the several bribes we tried to offer it), and the moment they left, gave an evil burp and switched itself into the tricolor mode I've just described. It was all I could do stop myself from beating my head in, in frustration. Well initially, having your TV populated by people with green faces and orange hair and tomato ketchup that is a brilliant yellow is a novelty. But it wears off, you know. You start yearning to watch some normal people in normal colors. I understand that you can't see normal people on TV, but hell, is normal color too much to ask too? I've lodged another service complaint. I expect someone will turn up to fix it sometime, in the next two years or so.

I'd gone to get my PAN card re-issued, having lost my earlier PAN card, and my eardrums, when Mrudula heard it was lost. When she loses her temper they hear her in Delhi, in fact they hear her in North Bloody Afghanistan... whew! scary people - these wives I tell you. I mean 'wives' as in a general term. I'm strictly monogamous, I hasten to add. Anyway, after several desperate phone calls, I found a place where I could reapply for the card. This unique feat is made even more so, when you consider the fact that it was done while simultaneously listening to lectures on how a six year old would be more responsible. "Hah! I bet I can drink more beer than any six year old you know!" I didn't say. Somehow, my gut feelings told me it wouldn't improve the situation further. And while honesty forces me to admit, that it was my fault, modesty did not allow me to acknowledge it..Heheheh...(read: sheepish grin) The lady on the other side very considerately referred me to a site saar, where 'all' the details I wanted would be furnished saar. Now, I started getting a little suspicious - I mean things seemed to be going my way, which is a logical impossibility. Got onto the website, and yes!! I was on the right track.

I mean, with instructions like "submission of three documents from the Fourteen documents as mentioned below, provided one of the three documents is a photo identity document and atleast one of the three is amongst the documents indicated at (a) to (i) and a standard affidavit on non-judicial stamp paper duly attested by a Notary insofar as any of the documents refers to the address previously occupied by the applicant, along with sufficient documentation to establish the applicants current address" it couldn't have been simpler.

Got back to the dear lady and after twenty minutes of deep discussion, we arrived at what we mutually felt were the requisite documents. After spending these minutes in such highly rewarding intellectual conversation, she also very helpfully mentioned that they would remain open only for another half hour. In keeping with the situation, if I missed this days deadline I was in no position to go get it done for a week. So I bravely turned to Mrudula, told her that it would take a week for me to get it fixed, and when she didn't reply, equally bravely put on my clothes (my going-out clothes, I'm not crazy enough as yet, to walk around the house starkers. "As yet" being the operative term there) and headed to the PAN office like my ass was on fire.

After thirty minutes of travel (my goddam flat seems to be atleast thirty minutes from any goddam place in Bangalore - Some kind of space time dysfunction I think), with tension levels that resembled Indiana Jones' during the climax of 'Temple of Doom', I arrived at the place. Found out that the kind lady had been wrong about both the timings and the required documents. I still had around one and a half hours to go, but had to get two other documents. Another one hour of travel (up and down, or rather 'down hogi appu' as my auto driver put in Kannada). I was sweating badly and beaming with pride when I presented the filled up application and the documents at the counter. The man there didn't probably like my expression, or may be it was me. In fact he had the look of a person who didn't like human kind in general. With a gleeful expression, he informed me that I was two copies short of one document. Well, thats OK I thought, as I vacated the line which was of about twenty people behind me, I can get a photocopy.

Walked for about ten minutes and found a shop. "Xerox?" I asked him. He nodded and with a sigh of relief I gave him the paper and said two copies. It was when he said "No current saar, whole area, aff en hour to come back" that I lost it. I found myself in front of another photocopier shop, when I came to, took the photocopy and got the whole damn thing done five minutes before closing time. However any resemblances, between any pictures and news items about 'man loses it and runs down Old Madras Road screaming", and me are purely coincidental. I deny that it was me, under any circumstances.

Reminds me of four of my friends who had taken up a flat in Adayar ( thats in Chennai) and for no reason would suddenly go into fits of hysterics. Fine upstanding people I tell you, but one of them would arbitrarily start screaming "WTF???!!!" ( thats 'what the f*@#k" for all you politically incorrect people who think WTF means the World Trade Federation). This cry would be taken up by others until the whole flat would resound to their cries, which would have put the knights riding into the Crusades to shame ( At least in decibels, not in content. One sincerely hopes the knights didn't charge in screaming "What the f*@#k??!!" or for that matter "World Trade Federation??!!"). I can personally vouch for the fact, that being there during this bizarre expression of medieval hysterics, was not one of the more pleasant experiences of one's life. Especially for a calm composed person like me....

Sometimes I think Backkom has it easy.

How is it that all the couples in my apartment complex, all the 20 blocks, seem to be of the same age, look alike (fair, balding, middle age, IT type guys and fair, middle aged, IT type guys wife type women) and have kids of the same age ( fair, young, IT type guys kids type children) ? I suspect Mrudula and me have stumbled into some kind of huge lab where they're experimenting with all these people, using them as Guinea pigs I tell you! Mrudula of course thinks its either hysteria, after the weeks tension, or too much of Douglas Adams. I still have my own doubts.

Spent the weekend very very fruitfully. Sat at home, drank beer and watched TV. " God’s in His heaven, Beer's on the table, All’s right with the world." Yeah baby!!