Narrow your eyes!

And furrow your brows! Concentrate!! This will be very important.

The direct consequence of yet again shutting down Facebook (generally known as "FB", though not to be confused with erstwhile expansion of FuckBuddy) is that you are left with Linkedin as your only social networking option.

You might think that this would enrich my life and stanch the flow of countless links that people *think* are interesting. Actually, no - just as kings and queens have to take a dump too, even professional networks have people who simply can't stop "sharing".

Today's article to highlight was on Unitasking.

First, the irony: I came across this link on Linkedin's "Influencer posts" while I was Alt-Tab-bing through applications on my computer, and I am not quite sure what I was going to do before I found this wonderful article.

Which is written by a "A.J. J." Apparently after unitasking on conceiving the author, his (based on there being a male face shot) parents apparently forgot to give him an appealing name, or possibly any name. Note however the period after each letter (good punctuation - it means the letter is the first of a shortened word or name). Also note the space between "J." and "J." (No, I have no idea what the fuck that means).

(His name is at the bottom)

(Yay, so much fodder and I have not even read the article yet)

(No more parentheses)

The article itself is rather excellent, I must say. I really like the idea of tying myself to my chair to avoid unnecessary walking around and consequent distraction. Too bad it won't be that easy to tie up those who walk around and annoy *me* at work. He does point to other not-so-literal ways to limit oneself from straying past the task at hand, to be fair. The "Tonya Harding" strategy of "storing your worry" in one spot and picking it up after your task is about as dumb and impractical as the Tonya Harding strategy of breaking her competitor's legs. I mean, for one thing, why would you pick it back up? The third method of literally walking while working, e.g., typing a report on a treadmill is interesting, and supposedly works by releasing serotonins. So the annoying-people-who-walk-around may be on to something, but it is useless to me unless I can somehow suck the serotonin and other goodies right out of them. I do not think I will get a patent or FDA approval for that device, which only *looks* like a heavy mallet and a large syringe, but is so much more...The final method of talking to oneself, even just about what one is doing, to calm down and focus is a bit batty, but who knows!

All of this fails to answer the question - why would anyone want to Unitask in this Multitasking world? I don't know, but all men are good at Unitasking, although it is only in the area of thinking about sex. Which leads me to think, why not combine the multiple elements of AJJ's brilliant idea as follows:

Find a pliant subject of any gender or species of your liking. Tie him / her / it up to a chair or coat hanger or frankly any appliance with wheels and set up on a treadmill. Talk to yourself, chanting "I am having sex" to relax and focus. And at the same time, do that which needs Unitasking - such as your monthly audit report or math homework or that letter to the editor.

Epilogue: I tried this, chanting "This is going to be great sex" while doing the deed and typing this blog out on my portable electronic device. I decided to forgo locomotion and bondage, taking one small step for mankind. The results were not  pretty. The upshot is, I did Unitask by whimpering in the doghouse.

PS: "Narrow Your Eyes" is of course yet another quirky track from the ever popular They Might Be Giants.

More absurd than miserable

A number of you threw brickbats at me for sullying the high-art of ballet. To all of you, I virtually moon you.

Speaking of absurdities that pass for art, I also watched some time earlier a movie - nay, a musical - by the name of Les Miserables, whose pronunciation remains a mystery to me to this day.

No doubt this was a masterpiece by Victor Hugo, and I am certain it makes for gripping prose. But the minute it transcended into the musical genre, it went Twilight Zone.

Sure the acting was great, and the gaunt Hugh Jackman laid the male audience's insecurities to rest - at least initially, when he was gaunt. Russell Crowe played himself, i.e. a douchebag asshole. Anne Hathaway did some convincing numbers. 

But why must they carry to absurd lengths the setting of everything to a tune? Yes, there are some nice songs - reasonable lyrics set to good music. But why, oh why, must even the quotidian banalities be sung? Can't Cosette simply call Jean "papa" instead of singing even those two syllables? I'm sure even Beethoven took breaks from composing.

But wait, anticipating the next round of brickbats, I do grant that I am being too harsh here. On second thought, I do realize the potential for immense daily pleasure this approach to life can offer.

Scene one: a ho-hum dinner in a middle-class 4-room HDB apartment. Imagine the following exchange, both lines sung to "So long, farewell" from the Sound of Music:

Ah Boy: Mama! Mama! I want to go and play-ay!

Mother: Sit down, shut up and eat your bah kut teh-eh!!

Father: ***** (fits nicely into "Cuckoo")

Scene two: flight from Singapore to India (any city)

Drunk passenger: AIR-hostess! AIR-hostess! (sung to the opening bars of Bicycle Race by the Queen)

(entire flight thumps on its collective tray)

Drunk passenger again: I want to have vis-KEE-so-da, I want to have it when I like! (sung to the mellow second line of the same song)

And when you see me next, please call me "Caustic Yoda" (sung to the tune of "Call me maybe"). Don't be shy, numbers welcome.

Much ballet-hoo about nothing

Some time ago, I happened to go to the New York City Ballet Theater's production of Romeo and Juliet. What's worse, I actually paid for it.

It all started while, on a visit to NYC, I discovered the TKTS stand on Times Square. Now the square itself is a never-ending parade of entertaining sights and sounds (in season: a naked *black* cowboy). The best strategy to buy tickets is to go late, when the tourist flotsam has been turned away disappointed at not getting a cheap ticket to Spiderman or some Disney crapola, and try your luck with the less popular shows. Not because you are cheap, but because your tastes are eclectic and oh-so-not-mainstream. 

Bullshit. You get good discounts this way, but it teaches you that you shouldn't buy something just because it's cheap.

Anyway, managing to snag a pair of tickets to the Ballet (motto: "Early Onset Arthritis") the Company - which insisted on being called the Date - and I set off in our flip flops and jeans. 

The Lincoln Center for Performing Arts is always a wonderful thing to walk by. And there is your lesson of the day - walk by, especially if it is showing men in tights. Like lamb to the slaughter, the Date led me into a subterranean labyrinth of overdressed young yuppies and barely-ambulatory seniors, dressed as if to a debutante ball. Complete with pants that started at their chests, bow ties and other such fashion items no doubt prevalent when they actually had things like debutante balls.

Shortly, the show started. Various people scurried about on stage on their tiptoes, and that was just as well because when half the audience was asleep - either because ballet was boring, or because they were out past their bed time in their adult diapers

We were sitting way back in the first level, which I believe may have been an "orchestra pit" or something. Just as well again, because the last thing I wanted to see was men in tights up close. Seriously, that should be a public offense.

But I did get the gist of Romeo and Juliet, which much to my grandfather's consternation, I failed to finish unabridged by the time I was 9, as he and his forefathers before him all had. What can I say, the book stopped with me. 

Now Romeo is your garden variety dog, flirting about town gayly - and the way he was cavorting with his mates-in-tights, rather very gayly - when he falls in love with a girl. Fast forward: they both die, after other people die. The end. 

But not before a number of people do unnatural things on stage - walking on their toes, jumping on their toes, leaping and pirouetting on their toes and wearing tights (only applies to the men). I really do appreciate the skill here, but it is sort of like synchronized swimming - very demanding, no doubt, and hard to do, but so is being able to touch one's nose with one's tongue or armpit-farting the national anthem. So what? Art must move the uninitiated, not just allow the technically expert to snigger smugly in their exclusive club of appreciating technicalities. And let's face it, ballet is a statement - "my child learns the ballet". Not getai, that would be too gauche.

Now two things to note about Romeo & Juliet:

1. Anyone waxing eloquent about "The Bard" while also complaining of the mindless triviality behind every romance in every Indian movie can shut up. 

2. Statutory rape - it seemed from the screening that the girl was still being nannied by a... well nanny.

I really liked the villain, Tybalt - he had a little skirt which thankfully covered his crotch. Thus arrived the day when I appreciated a man in a skirt. The woman playing Juliet (who looked like a little child) was also very entertaining, with great facial expressions that lent a lot to her performance, past the no-doubt-sublime tip-toeing. 

We streamed out, the Date and I, into the open and down onto the subway stop after the show. The characters there were far more entertaining than the ballet.

Aunty-social

Our esteemed colleagues in the news industry have, yet again, showed us they are not only retards, but are really serving us "olds". They have revealed what we always knew - people with lots of friends on Facebook, constantly posting pictures, tagging themselves, etc are more likely to be anti-social narcissists. The article is here, and if you google, you get more such views. 

Wake up, news people! We already hated our friends for posting endless barrages of often self-congratulatory crap and in the process making their friends miserable. This article from some time ago noted that such "friends" accomplished this - though as a person with a decent level of self-esteem I do not buy that - by always prattling (only) about all the great things they do, places they visit, just how wonderful life is etc. 

But as I "researched" this topic I realized there are some among us (ahem!) who are way cooler and bucking all these trends. 

First, let us talk about the antisocial networker, which I was for a considerable period of time. In the early days of FB, it was hard to say no to friend requests and many of us took on too many "friends" and over time getting tired and disillusioned, did not bother to actually "network". Eventually, many, including me started pruning friends like they were overgrown poison ivy. (The actual plant, not Uma Thurman, who can grow over me as much as she wants).

The irony is that, if prolific Facebook users are anti-social, then the parsimonious are anti-anti-social. Ergo by anti-social networking, I must have become "social". Bingo!

Despite practicing anti-social networking for a while, I still was spending too much time checking status messages etc.  The main personality disorder this showed in me is that I had no life.  I was so bored that anytime I was free - say between breaths - I would whip out the smartphone and look at what was happening, only to be immediately and throughly disgusted - at myself. 

So eventually I deactivated my account. Life, unsurprisingly, goes on.

Speaking of bad networking and aunties:

One evening, during the cricket world cup in 2011, I was at a bar drinking orange juice and spending time with fellow middle-aged men. I stepped out with one to a balcony where a number of young women were sitting around. I would not say that we were inveigling ourselves into conversation with them, but we were just enjoying being near nubile youth. At one point, a girl said something funny (possibly insulting) to one of her friends and we could not help but laugh. She then turned to her friend and said "see, even the uncle is laughing". My poor friend, all the blood drained off his face. (If you don't get the reference - it was an Indian restaurant and almost all present were Subcontinentals, whose default honorific for anyone older than 21 is uncle or aunty.)

That is when I realized that at my age, the only women I am allowed to fraternize with in a lascivious manner are my counterparts. 

You've been warned.

Step 1 of 12...

Yesterday, I took my first step toward overcoming a pernicious vice that has all but destroyed my life.

Oh I see: you think I'm a wino and since I gave away all my booze I must be a struggling alcoholic. You fool. Cirrhosis pales in comparison to carpal tunnel syndrome and the dreaded internet addiction. Specifically, I am talking about Facebook.

I admit it: I am hooked to my various electronic devices which are no doubt rendering me infertile as I type, frying my crown jewels with assorted radiation of various wavelengths. I look at my Blackberry if I wake up at night, and check my iPhone for email and open the FB app several times an hour.

The worst part is - no offense dear "F(B)riend" - I don't give a shit:

- where you "checked into" ("Tyler is at the bodega with Allyson picking up a box of wine!!")

- what you do ("Kelly is chillaxing by the pool at Bali"), where Kelly is a desperate crone that is past her prime and inviting melanoma or a pear-shaped loser who just bought his first motorbike and sold his second home to pay for a divorce. I would like to pole-axe posers who say things like "I'm chill-axing".

- who you just "friended" or whose feed you "follow" ("Omar subscribed to Mark Zuckerberg")

- your utterly repugnant life events ("Jamila is curing her warts with some liquid nitro at the clinics")

- the crazy capitalizer post ("Congratulations, I am so happy about your Marriage. God loves You. I hope you have a Blessed Life.")

- about your inane hobby, photos, next Jaeger-bomb party, or a hundred other completely worthless pieces of shit.

Can you imagine where this could lead one day when they say our thoughts can be read? We'd not even have to fumble with the smart phone to update our statuses, our minds would feed in automatically:

- Pedro is having sex. (30 seconds later) Pedro just had sex.

- Martha is chillaxing. (Gets fired after 5 minutes later when her boss, at the office busting her chops, finds out this slacker is not working from home as she is supposed to)

- Rupert is out about town (Gets burglarized that evening. If you don't already know this: a great many people getting burglarized are having their Foursquare status checked to ensure they are not at home).

- Pedro likes Rupert.

- Martha has broken up with Pedro.

- Martha is waiting for Rapture.

The only reason I am on FB is because friends that I do give a shit about have begun using it as the primary medium to share information about themselves and in this case I find the site useful: someone's child's graduation, another moving town, a serious event in someone's life, pictures of something meaningful in someone's life. For this reason I do not hide feeds, because you never know who may post something that is actually of interest or even concern.

But the fact is none of that stuff happens several times an hour or even hourly. 

So I haven't opened FB even though I am at my PC now typing this out. In fact I haven't looked at FB on any device for about 3 days now. And guess what, the world has not ended.

Likewise, I shall look at my blackberry no more than twice a day this vacation-week. And I will use the phone only to answer calls and maybe check my personal mail a couple of times a day. And it is going great so far. I have so much more time to:

- enjoy time with the family. Even if it means a lot more noticing all the things that used to drive me crazy before I could escape into the infinite world of FB and the Internet through just a palm-sized device

- go out and meet people. Just as soon as I can get them to join my "offline world" so that we stop meeting at Starbucks to look at our individual iPhones for status updated, sometimes about each other, and instead look at each other and eventually drive ourselves nuts not knowing what to say and possibly commit murder.

- smell the roses. You fucking kidding me, this is Singapore. It is uber-pragmatic and there is no room for roses. Also, I do not want to get pricked by a thorn on my nose and die of septicemia.

- say "hi" to strangers. Finally, I can once again pull myself out of my engrossing iPhone and shout at strangers for blocking me on escalators or in the doorway of public transport. Ok, more like "haieee" followed by an imaginary karate chop against stupidity, but close enough to "hi".

Anthony Bourdain, Asshole.

"They make for bad travellers and bad guests...you're unwilling to try things so personally and so are proud of and so generous with. I don't understand that, and I think it's rude."

Chef Anthony Bourdain on vegetarians.

Talk about lack of perspective. It's all about "them" and "their fault".

Sign of the times

I was recently at a birthday party, where I learned an important life lesson: make sure you have a clause in your pre-nup that you will not, even under pain of death, be required to hang out with your girlfriend and her crazy friends whom you don't know, don't share an umbilical relationship going back 20 years and especially as your girlfriend's friend is unveiling a birthday present - a vibrator - on her birthday. In fact, I strongly recommend completely staying clear of anyone still in touch with their high-school friends, and indulge in "zany antics".

This was prompted by the (I assume) boyfriend of a girl, a dear friend of the birthday girl, who in turn is the dear wife of a friend. The poor bloke (the boyfriend, not the husband) was looking listless and wandering as if he was practicing to star in "Moses and the 40 days". I felt rather sorry for the him. 

Next, this was no normal vibrator, but it could somehow commune with an iPod or an iPhone. I do not know what that means, especially if you are playing "Push It" on the iPhone. But, as this gift-getter's husband lamented, it's got music and it's got mojo - where does that leave men?

I was going to let him commiserate with me, but realized the dangers of hanging out with high-school friends from 20 years ago and quickly left the building.

Warning: the gym can be hazardous to health

We have previously seen how dangerous a visit to the gym can be here, here and here. Here is one more reason: Cosmo.

That's right. In my marvelous gym today, I made the mistake of checking out the reading material. Like a moth to a flame, I was drawn to the catchy cover of a magazine, which I realized too late was Cosmopolitan.

What I learned depresses me enormously. There was a detailed, graphically vivid article on how to spice up your man's sex life: hand job. I kid you not, ladies - it apparently brings back the anticipation of one's adolescence. Frankly, as far as I am concernedand as things stand, it is more anticipation than I can handle. The ladies were warned that this is an area that guys are, ahem, familar with - duh. Therefore the educational article stressed the importance of novelty, creative hand-positioning (One hand?! Or two?!! Turn to page 131!!), speed, rhythm, soda water, safety razor, dumbbell(e)s, gerbils and goggles were all explained.

My knees went weak. It was not the weights I was lifting, I tell you. I wished someone would have given me a hand.

(That was bad, yes)

The unbearable annoyance of being

A quick trip through India and one is bombarded with way too much of the present continuous. Here is a short guide to correcting or pre-empting the most common pitfalls using the English language dedicated to my Indian friends:

1. Having: as a verb, this can only be used in the following sentences:

- I am having a migraine

- I am having sex

- I am having fun. Lots of fun.

- I am having a baby (applicable only to females - explanatory note below)

- I am having an argument (possibly involving sharing domestic chores)

- I am not at all having fun

- I am having a stroke / cardiac arrest

- I am not having you at my funeral
- No, I am, *not* having a breakdown

Note the clever chronology involved. You cannot be having anything else. Also, "We" cannot be having babies, unless "we" are a lesbian couple, and undergoing synchronized in-vitro fertility treatment. Under normal circumstance, while the women are pregnant, the men are having fun, out with the "boyz", no need to drink wine coolers or white wine or some other sissy stuff to keep you company and chomping on a stogie because you are throwing up and ill at home having a... baby.

2. Liking: do not use this as a verb. Period.

- If you are a woman, you can have a liking for me. It is entirely natural. If you are above the legal age of consent, I encourage you to immediately contact me and get it over with.

- If you are a man, you will have a liking for women, sometimes many at a time throughout your life. You must practice being untruthful.

Speaking of "being"...

3. Being: as a noun, this has many applications - e.g., every one is a lesser being than me. As a verb, the only allowable usages are:

- I am being courted by large publishing houses

- I am not being gullible - that letter looked really authentic
- You are being totally unreasonable / childish
- What do you mean I am being ridiculous?

- You're just jealous. I am being punished / persecuted for my intelligence / wit / wisdom

In addition, please stop using "yesterday night", "today morning" and do learn to pronounce "development". What's that? No, I am not being very annoying; you are.

Thank you.

Rhymes with hobo

Spoiler alert - but probably redundant

Recently I went to watch the movie that has apparently taken India by storm. The movie is called Enthiran, which is Tamil for Machine. Hence its alternate title Robot, except it is pronounced in the sophisticated French way and rhymes with "Hobo". I will therefore annoy you by referring to "Robo" for the rest of this article.

The movie starts with a hi-tech lab where the hero is putting Asimov to shame. Unfortunately, the opening scene featured a retard - who would proceed to provide an annoying "comedy track" with a fellow retard - in a shapeless pair of trousers and un-tucked, short-sleeved shirt that looked like someone had vomited Bolognaise sauce and melted Velveeta through a pasta maker on to the fabric. Even in the age of Robo your Indian family and friends, apparently, will still torture you with garish color schemes without the fall-back excuse of color-blindness. This is why I regift all items of clothing I have the misfortune of receiving as gifts from the Peeps.

The male lead warmed my cockles. At 61, he proved that men can always get to prance and carouse with women half their age. Sorry, ladies, it's unfair but so it is. Tough luck. This being a movie about a Robo, it featured the inevitable break dance bit with the "Robo" movements etc. My enthusiasm for the future sexagenarian me dipping my wick in some hot piece of ass was somewhat diminished by my fear that the hero - the star, nay, The Megastar - might at any moment keel over from hip dysplasia (for added entertainment, click on the "Canine" Wiki link). Let's just say that the actor's dance steps are more "jerky" than "smooth". Perhaps he was just slyly mocking the abysmally forgettable songs to which he was, er, "dancing".

The heroine was a sight to behold. Gratuitous shots of her in tight pants and bending over after a sprint (but in perfect makeup) were much appreciated, though the straggler fanatic-morons in the empty cinema reserved their occasional clap or catcall for the hero's utterance of signature hand gestures. I desperately wanted to catch them as they stepped out to the restroom - the movie was 3 hours long - to explain that the actors could not actually hear them.  Anyway, the heroine also could not dance, and thank god the Ms Universe finale did not involve a test in this area (she won it a decade ago).

The coup de grace of the film was that not that the Robo was created and eventually lightning-bolted into a touch of human-ness, with icky feelings etc. It was the amazing ways in which, after plugging into a power outlet for 5 minutes, the Robo could practically fly to the moon and back. It will be some time before the laws of thermodynamics can catch up with the new-found expertise in CGI graphics in the land of Indian cinema, where logic is for fools. 

Various stereotypes and retrograde, anachronistic subplots were at work. The Robo saves a bathing girl from a raging fire, and she promptly commits suicide from the shame of her nakedness - what fucking stone age are the producers living in? Indian women are bonking like rabbits and the only shame is that I am not the counterparty - or is it counterbunny? Why can't an Indian movie or soap just once show a groom demanding dowry being handed over to the police; a tortured woman walking out with a divorce in one hand and a strapping young hunk in the other; a widow or a divorcee remarrying; a man having a peg without getting theatrically drunk; or any such socially progressive idea?

An atrocious supporting cast and storyline round off this dismal movie best vaccinated against to prevent infection. This has been a public service post.

How biblical

What was that about vengeance, eye-for-an-eye and all that balderdash? I find this piece of news ironic and uplifting. Pagans of the world unite!

Dancers from Ohio strip club protest at church

Excerpt: "The owner of an Ohio strip club and some of his dancers have been protesting at a church that has done the same to them for four years."

Direct marketing

Am at my $10 barber, the ambience enhanced by a Venga Boys CD. A standing ad offers me choices that make me realize and rejoice in my free will, like no born-again evangelist ever could make me.

For $388 I could get *unlimited* sessions of underarm hair removal. Specifically it was phrased "unlimited underarm sessions".  What am I, a minor goddess? Unlimited arms and underarms...

Furthermore, I can sign up "any large body parts" for hair removal. Yes, that is plural, not my typo. Do any of you have any to spare? Is there a potential business opportunity for Jack the Ripper?

And what is a "large" body part exactly? If it is signed up, will it take a taxi to get its hair removed? Must it be clothed? Accompanied? How will potential conflicts between body parts in the waiting room be resolved? Will there be any discrimination - say of the sagging (but big) breast or the bulbous belly?

So much to contemplate. I don't even want to know what the "complimentary large body parts" could be.

Banned in Beijing

Or at the very least, missing, are the following:

- Sun. As I almost always remember Beijing, it is shrouded in haze and when the sun is visible, it appears to be a feeble orange orb. Itchy eyes, scratchy throat and rebellious sinuses. Brilliant.

- Facebook. LIverjournal. Google. Blogger - I can't read my own blog!  And of course various other websites

- Manners. You think you are at a nice 5-star hotel waiting for a cab, when pushy assholes blithely walk right past you.

Your withering look has no effect and neither will your planned, pointed, sarcastic remark in English.

There is a bonanza of other bans in the press recently.

1. Floatopia parties banned: People were boozing up off the shore of San Diego floating on inner tubes - YES, inner tubes. And it has been banned before I could even try it. I feel like I just died a virgin.

2. Islamists ban TV sets: From Somalia, which the latest issue of the Economist labels a "failed state". But I think the Islamists are on to something. I think there is only a place in the world for one thing at a time: TV sets or guns. Stuck here in Beijing, with almost nothing to watch on TV - not even FTV - I am glad guns are banned. I am this close to shooting myself. Ah, those Islamists!

3. Bull fights in Catalonia: Not yet, just maybe. Theme song: "Ai no corrida" (explanation: "Hay no corrida", pronounced the same way, would mean "There's no bullfight"). Yay. I am proud to say I *never* visited a bull fight even when I lived in Spain, not even invoking the  Cultural Exception Clause. About fucking time - Catalonia bans them. I wonder how much of this is to distinguish themselves from the Castillano-speakers and thus make the case for sovereignity stronger.

Fastholes

Is my new term for fat assholes. I have nothing against fat people, and would gladly make a pejorative for skinny assholes, but I am afraid that term, "s**nt", is even more offensive.

As I eased into my long-haul flight, I notice a disgusting couple across aisle. The female was plain, Asian and at various points in the flight was all over her chubby, effete prick of a husband / boyfriennn / significant other. You're thinking "sexy Asian with a touch of Pinkerton Syndrome". No, this one was not worth a second look.

Neither was her partner, who generated enough disdain for the entire planet when he asked the flight attendant for a soft blanket, because the one behind his seat was not "soft enough".

Sometimes it feels so good to hate people.

Manly man...NOT

I write this with a heavy heart and a drastic loss of self-esteem: I am not a real man.

I know this because "Real Men do Bikram Yoga". I don't. An anachronism in this age of synthetic life, I just do women - at least in theory.

I reach this watershed conclusion due to a large poster seen at almost everywhere in Singapore, with calm, sincere looking men from all walks of life, titled "Real Men do Bikram Yoga". No doubt shot by a sincere photographer and an impeccably honest and trustworthy advertising company. Here is the only picture I could find, though it is not the much more evocative one I have seen:

Now that I have admitted that I am not a real man, unlike the ones pictured here, I have several questions:

1. When did Bikram come out of the closet? Does Mr. Yoga Senior know, and does he have any comments?

2. Do all the real men do the same Bikram? If so, just how many times does he get done, say in the average yoga session? How does he handle the crush of real men? Is there a token system? Does Bikram serve multiple real men simultaneously?

3. Assuming there is more than one Bikram, is there a choice of Bikrams, from the Punjabi Vicky to the Bong Bikram? Could there possibly also be non-Indian Bikrams?

4. What will be the ideal number of Bikrams to satisfy all the real men in, say, Singapore, who do him for 1 hour per session, 3 times per week? A lucrative management consulting job awaits anyone who can successfully answer this case question. I promise.

As I mope, I will no doubt come up with more questions. Watch this space. Also, please help my time-machine project so I can go back to the Stone Age, where I could potentially do women, possibly multiple women, and feel good about it. Every cent counts!

In scary news today...

Please, ladies, calm down. I am still perfectly, ahem, okay and functional in every way. I am of course talking about my mean mac-and-cheese, and pay no heed to this piece of news on stud, bull and foot-and-mouth disease. Excerpt: "ONE of Japan's most prized stud bulls has been infected with foot-and-mouth disease". I do point out that I am not from Japan. I did make a recent joke about myself (the stud-bull) and dismal pickup lines (foot-in-mouth). But the world is fine, you can exhale now.

Next haven't we seen this movie somewhere? Mad scientist creates new life form, new life form goes berserk, world ends and Jesus, sadly, does not save any fucking body. Here is an excerpt: "The genome pioneer J. Craig Venter has taken another step in his quest to create synthetic life, by synthesizing an entire bacterial genome and using it to take over a cell". I am no luddite, but as we realize how layered and complex the genetic code is, thinking you have things under control because you created what you believe is a simple genome is the sort of recipe for a bad Schwarznegger movie. But then again, there are few bad Schwarznegger movies - they all go to van Damme.

Faking it

Ha! You thought I was going to write an article full of sexual innuendo and double entendres. I was, but between you and me, there is this pesky lawsuit... just a matter of weeks, now.

Anyway, I have been mind-fucked by Indian TV. Specifically, I have to admit that the commercials on TV are in a class of their own. There is this excellent one for LMN, which, given the very Indian nature of the product, is almost certainly produced domestically. Then there are the series of ads for Polo, including this one and this one, featuring animals and creativity. Best not to watch if you are vegan. Then there is this terrific one, a testament to the Indian spirit to make fun of itself - once in a while. There is another great one with a dancing grandma and her blackmailing grandson (thanks "Oana"). Anyway, in this first part of the article, I salute the creative ad men and women, and perhaps marketing professionals in general. But they are still evil! 

Unfortunately, while many ads in India abound with creativity, with and lots of tongue-in-cheek humor, almost anything with India's faux aristocracy - Bollywood actors and cricketers - sucks. I reserve comment, but here are a few: a biscuit ad, a cable TV ad (I think) and this annoying jewelry ad. And walking around a Food Bazaar - for research purposes, during work hours - I found a new toothpaste called Sach! It has famous cricketer Sachin Tendulkar's face plastered all over it. This asshole has been playing cricket since before I knew how the penis worked. A billion + people and one man takes up 9% of its cricketing capacity for 20+ years. He has a gazillion dollars and is vending toothpaste for 20 rupees a pop. And ad men are prostituting themselves for anything with a "star" in it. 

Mission: Pantyhose

The two Asian giants are fighting. I of course mean "Tiger" China and "Elephant" India. Who comes up with these monikers anyway?

Some time ago, India started banning things like Chinese toys  (lead), dairy products (melamine), mobile phones (too easy for terrorists to use and discard) and sundry other stuff (too cheap for local producers to stomach). Just a day or two ago, the Indian government banned telecom products from China, which frankly I am shocked other governments have not done. Do not get me wrong - I have nothing against the Chinese people as a nation or as a race. But the Party is evil, and it is ridiculous to believe they will not pursue any means for their strategic objectives. For heaven's sake they hacked Google and refuse to tell imprisoned foreign executives what constitutes "state secrets", the ones said executives allegedly stole.

Sheesh.

Anyway, the Indian government would be well advised to set its sights on another massive social disturbance waiting to explode (mixing many metaphors here).  Apparently, there is a global surfeit of long underwear in a variety of colors, largely in white, but also in black and other neutral colors, which has found its way into the Indian woman's wardrobe. That's right, instead of tailored or pret-a-porter "shalwars" - the pants underneath the long tunics, or "kameez", that the women prefer to wear [or maybe I am getting the two mixed up] - women, of all ages and body types, seem to have taken to wearing something that looks like pantyhose, only slightly thicker, appearing somewhat like tight long johns. And surely I cannot be accused of stereotyping when I assume these hideous abominations (the clothes, not the women) were made in China.

This *must* stop. It is the single most disturbing visual and every night it promises to strangle me in my dreams. Oh lord, save me. Bring back the decency in dressing. Fast cars, fast food, fast clothes, what next?

Baby achtung

In a moment of carelessness, I booked myself into "death row". I do not mean it in that curious American parlance, meaning inmates waiting for their death sentence to catch up with them one fine day. No, I mean the row directly behind the "hell row", also known as the "bassinet row", in an aircraft.

I am being too cruel. This time there was only one little tot, chaperoned by a rather comely (ahem) mom, the domestic help and a useless dad who wore a T-shirt that said on its back something like "Juicy hot dogs, beef jerky, tender burgers, super steaks" etc. , but was later found ordering the vegetarian meal option. Go figure.

Anyway, is it not amazing that at maybe 2 years, you are (just barely) capable of walking, make sounds that put you on par with small mammals, and yet you have three full grown adults doting on you. A full two of them women!! Not to mention the flight attendants hovering constantly - you'd think Dr. House was cutting somebody open in an emergency procedure to vent his misanthropy, but no, it's just "Is the water warm enough?", "Is the food mushy enough?", "Are the platic toys bisphenol free?" etc. I think I would be VERY embarassed if I were the mom, but this one was taking it all in stride. Unlike the bitch I have described previously, this one was nice to everyone, but, in my honorable opinion, did not show sufficient embarassment or contrition for soaking up all that attention with her little one.

Finally, the kid herself was a toothy-smiley sweetheart, so all is forgiven. This time. Growl.

Side note: I still have not settled the debate on whether Singapore Airlines stewardesses wear anything underneath their sarong-kebayas. It started with my room mate in high school insisting they do not, and continues to this day with my good friend, who insists the same. I am fascinated by how they magically produce writing implements out of their blouses.  How come the plastic holder thingy of the ballpoint pens never sticks outside? Do they have a special inner lining? Is there a row of pens hidden away in there? What else do they have? Sandwiches? A nun-chuk? A cocktail shaker? Maybe a defibrillator? Oh, so many mysteries and so short a life.

PS: Achtung of course means Attention in German.

Past imperfect

I remarked in a car full of Eastern European women that I was considering a Tintin collection as a birthday gift for an 11-year old. There were chuckles and someone said, "Do you want it to be an investment"? I suppose it is a bit weird to have an abiding affection for an asexual (does he have an umbilical cord?) creature of indeterminate age that looks like a well-shaped amoebum (or maybe paramecium) complete with  with a furry dog and filthy sailor for companions.

Then there are those dyed-in-the-wool Enid Blyton fans, including one who has been pestering me forever to write about her (Blyton that is, not about the pester-er). Where I grew up, this was de rigeur diet for the bookworm club, and even for the jocks. But the British saw blighted Blyton for what she was - George, we all know, was going to end up pregnant at 15, go through a Goth phase, briefly turn butch, like it so much and finally settle down with Ellen the Degenerate naked and hugging a tree. But the legacy is strong, and you can see Enid Blyton lined up in rows at Border Singapore. I know, I was just there today.

All this brings me to the realization that one must accept things and move on. Or else you will turn into hideous morons that I have had the misfortune of knowing. This always happens at subcontinental parties: someone is playing something nice, something from the last decade, French electro, or, god forbid, even house or Euro club. Many idiots are drinking "JD Coke" or "Red Label". Everyone is flush. Suddenly someone cries "Classic Rock"!! Next thing, it is a chorus and everyone is doing that completely stupid move where they raise their hands, with a couple of fingers sticking out, urging everyone to keep on rocking. Someone switches the music to "Scorpions", who are of course Still Loving Each Other. Peace reigns.

I meantime have vomited in disgust.

I am sorry to pontificate, but once in a while we have to move on. We need to maintain our curiosity and learn new things, to appreciate new music, literature, sexual positions and even things like fashion trends. I am talking to you, you there with a porcupine on your head - that hairstyle went out with the 70s Bollywood. We are all going to calcify after we die, figuratively speaking, for an archeologist to dig up eons from now. Why start the process now?

I think I'm gonna get the 11-year old something called "Diary of a Wimpy Kid".