The Roadster

Early in 2013, this finally happened.

(photo credit: saurabh doke)



New Boys

We were new boys in a new school, he and I.

He was the first to introduce himself. The first to fit in.
It took me a while to figure things out.

He was always first with a joke and a smile.
I was too busy reading paperbacks in class.

He was the first to figure that the knot on the school tie 
was perfect camouflage for the quiet rebellion of leaving 
undone that suffocating top button.

I caught on, a few days later.

He was the first to adorn the ubiquitous post-school 
denim jacket, with patches of bands now forgotten. 

I promptly followed suit. 

He was the first to figure out the logical intricacies 
of ICSE mathematics. 

Then, as now, I stuck to the semantical sanity of words. 

I don't recall either of us consistently coming first in class, 
but he was the first to figure out that what really mattered 
was finding something you loved doing, and being good at it. 

Took me years to catch on to that one.

He was the first to figure out how to bunk. 
And the first to visit the headmaster.

In both cases, I was half a step  behind. 

Being something of a gentleman, he never told,
but I'm pretty sure he was first to figure out girls.
(As much as any man ever can.)

The day I split my head wide open, the effects of which
are still plain to see, he was first to take me to the doc.
And stuck around till panicking parents arrived.

Thankfully, I never had cause to return the favour.

Years after graduating, and going our separate ways,
he was first to get back in touch. 

Something I never thanked him for sufficiently.

He was the first to tell my wife what I was like
as a terrible teen. 

The three of us caching up over a good drink, 
and old school stories. 

After all these years of playing catch up, 
I won't say goodbye, Kaushal. 

I'll just say see you later.


In The Unlikely Eventuality...

... of ever getting around to opening that dingy little bookshop that's been my dream ever since I saddled myself with a desk job, I intend to classify books as follows: 

Books you need to buy, borrow or steal, to read.
And books you need to lend, donate or sell (elsewhere) to get rid of.

(Commenting on a post over at city life... is what brought this one on.)



"The thought of sitting in front of a man behind a desk and telling him that I wanted a job, that I was qualified for a job, was too much for me. Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed. 

So I stayed in bed and drank. 

When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn't have you by the throat."

Factotum, Charles Bukowski


A Forensic Colonoscopy Into Post Modern Dialectical Materialism

Hypothesis: God (a fictional construct) Hates Us All

Corollary: Hank Moody (also a fictional construct) is a God

Observation: Women (thankfully NOT a fictional construct) find 
Hank Moody irresistible

Conclusion: It is theoretically possible to woo Natascha McElhone with the written word


There's Nothing To Do In Sweden

So the Swedes fuck, or kill.

It's a conclusion I've arrived at after much research and painstaking investigation. In other words, I finally read the much-touted "Millenium" series. 

What a crock of shit. 

The Girl Who Kicks Suspension Of Disbelief In The Nuts. In other words, the female protagonist, Lizzy What'sherface. Not only is she a Good-Will-Hunting level genius, she's also an awesome hacker. (With that one, single, solitary programme that let's her rip off hard disk after hard disk.) Plus she's the daughter of some sort of ex-Soviet super assassin. Plus she's at the heart of of some hard core state-sponsored conspiracy. Plus she has tattoos and piercings. Plus she's a billionaire. I mean... really?

The Guy Who Fucks Everything That Moves. A patently irresistible, crusading financial journalist. Fucks his editor. Fucks his researcher. Fucks his clients. Fucks lady cops. This guy is the Swedish Human Dildo - comes with a free side of Swedish Meatballs.

The Douchebag Husband. A guy who is so Euro-cool, all his wife has to do is call him and tell him she's spending the night with The Swedish Human Dildo, and he hikes himself off to the nearest singles bar, to pick up a bloke.

The Girl Who Can Kiss My Hairy Brown Ass. That's what the fourth installment ought to be called. Although, thankfully, there won't be one, because apparently the sheer effort of pounding out paragraph after paragraph of unadulterated crap proved too much for the author, and he has departed this veil of suckers for that big second-hand bookshop in the sky.  

In other news, Area Man to donate three practically new books to local library.


There Are At Least 50

At least 50 people, who I would rather see running the world, than the morons in power, today.

For 2 weeks now, these people have proven, day after day, that they are pretty much absolutely selfless.

Here's to the Fukushima 50.

And if one believes everything one reads on wiki, they've been joined in recent days, by another 950 like-minded folks.

That's 1,000 decent people.

Now, how do we go about putting them in charge?


Texting. Texting. 1... 2... 3...

"Surrounded by bikers. Should I tell them it's not about money, but attitude," said a friend's text, over the weekend. 

"It's not about money, or attitude, but if you have to tell them what it's all about, then they're not bikers, just guys who own bikes," was my response.

Silence ensued.

Ten minutes later, she texted again: "Don't think I'll tell them that. Might depress them. Too many mid-life crises here, already."

"Wankers," I texted back. And resumed my siesta with no further interruptions.

Sad moppets are probably going to be polishing the chrome furiously, again, this weekend, in the hopes of impressing her.


U2 - Cedars Of Lebanon

Bangalore - Mercara - Manipal

On the way up the hill to Mercara

Random thoughts from the road:

When you're suffieciently saddle-sore, any rum will do.
(And you'll even settle for Pepsi, as a mixer.)

Gotta love that Leatherman.
Somewhere along the road, the fiddly little plastic thing that switches the fuel tap from main to reserve, breaks off. The control nut, however, is very much still in place. Discover this when I run into reserve. Unsheath Leatherman. Unfold pliers. Quick twist of the wrist. Ride up to the next bunk, grinning. 

How come people you meet on a road trip, are always so pleasant?
They always have time to stop and give you directions. And ask where you're from, or where you're headed. Maybe all of us in the big city ought to find a little more time for each other.

Why do guys in small cars on the Bangalore-Mysore highway, drive like such jerks?
Guys in Swifts. Guys in Santros. Pretty much any guy in a hatchback. (Except for the old 800.) Very odd. Maybe they feel inadequate. Strangely enough, the Merc-Beemer-Audi brigade are so much better behaved. Maybe they're just better drivers. (Or have better drivers.) 

Truckers are a biker's best friend.
Going up or down a hill, or riding along a twisty, narrow country road, and sooner or later you wind up behind a truck that's just trundling along. The guy pretty much always sees you in his rear view, and let's you know when to pass. Or flags you off, when there's oncoming traffic, that you can't see. In case he hasn't noticed you, a short friendly toot on the horn gets the man's attention. And chances are you'll get a wave and a grin, as you pass.

Sooner or later, on any given road trip, you'll come across a guy with a backpack, on a Bullet.
And even if, like me, you can't be arsed to join one of the multitude of motor clubs for Enfield enthusiasts, you wind up exchanging a nod and a wave, anyway. 


The Adventures Of Double Om Seven

Double Om Seven: "Do you expect me to talk?"

Auric Goldfinger: "No, Mr. Swamy. I expect you to preach."