Oh, my deer, what the *blip* are you up to?

This deer was standing on that cliff face at 3000 m. The white stuff in the background was a snow storm brewing. Enough to give me the shivers, and not due to the cold. It pranced away merrily after a while.

Brief glimpses

Don't worry these are not swift glimpses of my briefs, but brief glimpses of Suisse.

1. Oldenhorn ~ 3200m on top of the glacier Les Diablerets. That was a long hike.

2. The town of Laguna at the Italian border at night.


3. That is the Matterhorn ~ 4500m in the background. I have mounted a mountain called Gronergrat. The great Gronergrat glacier is on the left of the picture.

(Sorry for the interruption. Normal bradcast shall return. In time.

4. Matterhorn again, but without the Sharma pollutant, and on a sunnier, warmer day.

Swiss lessons

Here are two important lessons that were learnt in Switzerland:

1. In Switzerland driving on the left is unacceptable. Thankfully, I was only charged 500 pounds for the lesson, and not an arm and a leg, a distinct possibility considering the altitude of the classroom.

2. Mont Blanc is visible from Chamonix, which is in France, and to get
into which one needs a Shengen Visa. This is a fact best realized
before crossing over the Swiss border into France.

"Ah so ze Monsieur has not ze passport"

All good things...

... just have to come to an end, don't they. For example, Peeyush's extended bacheloorhood, and, more importantly, my stroll in the Alps. I fly back in an hour to li'l old England, and to work tomorrow. But, the image of Matterhorn goes with me, in many, many forms.

For people who wonder a little about the next post, simply note that I am alive, though a little shorter on currency.

Look what I shot in the Alps

Now, now, don't go green with envy. That can wait till I show you the remaining.

Colours

White: The primary colour.
Gold: The divine colour. In combination, other colours develop a primary halo.
Blue: Obtained by mixing white with gold. A kind of a super-primary colour. Rarely sighted.
Black: A captive colour. Seldom unleashed.
Brown: Blacker than white, whiter than black. An ancient colour. Doesn't go with brown.
Yellow: A hesitant brown. Easier handling. Good for railroads. Goes well with yellow.
Red: Officially denied and concealed with diseased blankets. Often confused with brown.
Green: Colours at sea. Good for cows.
Blonde: A vacant canvas, waiting to be filled.

Got any more?

That must have hurt.

A woman was hospitalised for shooting herself in the foot. When asked why this happened she said that she wanted to kill herself by shooting herself in her head, but wanted to gauge the amount of pain first.

Me thinks that shooting herself in the head would get her no where. All evidence points to there being little of any significance up there. Nothing that will kill her anyway. On the other hand, I completely understand her need to unburden the Earth with her presence. With quality gray matter like that, I wouldn't think much of life too.

The middle path

You may be aware that Lord Buddha in some century BC put forward his celebrated theory in which he espoused the case of the middle path, i.e., everything in life should be balanced.

Well, I have decided that this needs an overhaul, or at least a slight modification, which, for the benefit of the modern reader, I have put in a suitably pithy format:

"Balance your needs, extremize your deeds"

The latter half is a short way of saying 'maximize your good and character building deeds, and minimize your misdeeds'.

Finally, if you are confused about good, you shouldn't be. It is absolute.

The One-liner

Used often to cover up for lack of a vocabulary, the absence of words with more than two syllables, the lack of ability to manipulate more than five words together, an IQ that is slightly higher than a genius afflicted with an extra X chromosome...

Often employed by purveyors of machismo, coolness, biceps, triceps, abs, leather jackets and extravagant eyeware. Think Arnie.

Bond (Connery) was of course an exception, but then he had little time between the first bullet and the next poison dart, or, as the case may be, between the first kiss and the next champagne

But whatever the reason, they are damn entertaining, to hear and to manufacture.

Close cousins are the wisecracks, and the extravagant simile. One of the best exponents of those was, of course, Philip Marlowe, Chandler's creation. The reason he got them to work so well, was because they originated as a result of strong emotion. As he said, they came from Marlowe's gut, not his brain. He didn't sit at home and polish a few to impress the leggy blondes at the local speakeasy.

All three reinforce the tough guy image, but while the one-liner is obvious to all, the latter two are a little subtle, and little separates the practitioner of these two from appearing like a 30 year old hood with the IQ of an overgrown twelve year old afflicted with Darwinism and fettered with a slightly enlarged ego.

Here is one from The Outlaw Josey Wales

"Don't piss down my back and tell me it is raining"

If you got some that I want to hear, shout 'em out. You will get a grape.

Shopping.

She preened in front of the mirror. Adjusted the position slightly and tilted her head, and set it carefully on her head, pushing it a little back, so that the forehead was exposed and the eyes had a clear field of view unhindered by tinted glass.

'Much better. And the color just brings out the black smoke trails in my hair. Lovely! But, I am not too sure about the overall shape. Its angularity wouldn't be nice if I pushed it up over my hair. How about this one? Hmmm. The color is not that good for the red in my hair, but love that shape. But, what if I do a ponytail? No, this won't do. This one? Nah, too wide over the ears, will push it down over my eyes. Maybe this one... Almost perfect, but the wide front end would leave me exposed if I wore my hair separated. Darn, there seems to be nothing here.'

Ad infinitum ad nauseam. Until finally, oh joy!

'Ah, there it is! Perfect. And the material is nice and soft too. Doesn't hurt my ears, and the nose-bridge is soft and doesn't leave ridges on my forehead. '

'Honey you have taken an hour'

'I am sorry dear. But you know how unusually shaped my skull is. Here, I will take this pair of sunglasses.'

That is the first time I saw someone buying sunglasses based on how they perch over their head. Live and learn.

Corporate America

...
Mr. Wiederhorn is a brilliant and hard-driving businessman, a financial whiz. By the age of 32, he had built up a fortune of nearly $140 million and created 800 jobs.

But then his company collapsed (costing ordinary people millions of dollars in pensions), and he re-emerged as head of Fog Cutter Capital. A year ago, facing indictment on dozens of charges that could have sent him to prison for life, Mr. Wiederhorn pleaded guilty to federal charges related to an unlawful gratuity and filing a false tax return. He was sentenced to 18 months in prison and required to pay $2 million in restitution.

That's when the Fog Cutter board displayed spine-tingling chutzpah. The board announced that it would continue to employ Mr. Wiederhorn at full salary while he is behind bars, and it even granted him a leave of absence payment of $2 million to make up for the restitution he had to pay.
...

Oooh. I love corporate America. Get the full story by punching Corporate America on its face.
Lucky bastard though. I don't think anyone is willing to pay me that kind of money even when I am out of prison. You think it is the striped shirts that make a difference? Mine tend to plain mostly.

The annals of B.: Introducing the man

Hail the arrival of B. A mythical character rooted in reality. A hero for the ages. Stout of heart, strong of legs and steely eyed. A man of his word with the delicacy of an artist, the generosity of Demeter (with a suitable bodily modifications), and the strength of an Ox.

Ok, enough bullshitting. As a hero, B. was sub-zero. The stoutness of his heart was probably a heart attack coming on. The steel in his eyes were regulation spectacles, and let's not talk about his legs. His word was slightly less reliable than his pronunciation, which peaked on the word "no". His delicate diplomacy usually left you pining for something less cloying like treacle tart, while all that is known about his strength was that he once lugged a big bag of pennies to the bank. His generosity can be gauged from the fact that he knew that there were exactly 523 pennies in the bag.

Don't let this not lull you into thinking that B. was a country bumpkin with sub-human intelligence. Oh, no ,for if ever there was a shifty-eyed, conniving, self-congratulating, pompous, condescending, womanizing little eel, then it was he. But, again he wasn't bad, just someone whose code was a little relaxed, elastic, hazy and self-serving. He would have made it to the top, but for his propensity to fool himself before he got around to fooling the World.

Nevertheless, ours is not to knock the knock-kneed. The job of the chronicler is to dispassionately gather the facts and lay them before an unadmiring audience.

But you shall have the opportunity to judge yourself as we chronicle his adventures, passions and disasters, while following him around the World.

Meanwhile, here is an artistic impression of what B. thinks he looks like to the swooning ladies: The sexy man of mystery...


Now, wait with baited breath (what do you mean you can't bait?) as the biographer muddles through editing, writing and manufacturing a few articles, before getting down to tell you how B. found Eldorado.

How to salt your croissant - part 2

As engineer Nandan from Japan points out there are several simple solutions available. His particular leanings are towards licking the top surface of the croissant. More details can be read in his comment on the previous post. However, this well illustrates the fact that once you have been through Hall 3's mess, nothing is below you, none can be messier.

Now, about the canard about the IIT's lack of vocational training, I agree, and that is why I call it a canard, a falsity. Though it is specifically true for pathetic cases like me. However, I was but extrapolating from what P.K.Das used to tell us. How pathetic we are/were, and useless, as far as the poor of Kalahandi were concerned. I think the latter might still true.

Finally, about licking. It is a good suggestion, and shows the strength of character built up over eight precious semesters. The problem I foresee is that of having to contend with taste of the crust while licking, not to mention the stress on the neck muscles while bending over to lick the croissant. The ocular obstruction during this process might also be potentially hazardous. Also, as far as dilution of the butter is concerned, I have conducted scientific experiments to determine that due to the potency of each iota of salt, the amount of drool required is minimal, so that there would be negligible amounts of dilution. Well within an engineering approximation.

But, nevertheless, an admiring public now has, what a good friend of mine used to call, "the more aaptions".

And remember dear readers, in a pinch, salty or otherwise, trust 4Bot/Hall 3/IITK to deliver.

How to salt your croissant.

You know how rumour has it that engineers are supposed to solve problems for the good of mankind, identified as "real-life" problems. And a canard doing the rounds is that IIT's don't train their wards to solve these "real-life" problems. Well this will show those misinformed maggots.

So, here is the problem. You were hungry, so you picked up a nice roll of baked product, which we can assume to be a hot buttered croissant without loss of generality. You knew that the bakers in an effort to save some currency would skimp on adding important granular ingredients like salt. It could be sugar too. So, you planned ahead and took along a salty (or sugary) pouch from the counter. Now you are walking down the street and want to salt your croissant. But, damn! Due to the glazed surface of this baked delight, no doubt a result of copious amounts of butter being utilized during its recent hot past, all those little salty granules that would lift the average croissant from being just another mundane example of baked flour to something beautiful that nations might fight over or something that Paris might have offered in exchange of Helen, all these kernels of salty delight just slide down on to the ground, causing numerous little bugs and slugs to keel over with brain haemmorage and dehydration.

Now that is a long sentence. If you get past that, do let me know.

Anyway, how in the name of Jason's mask do you get the salt to stick?
This is where your IIT training comes through. Where all thos years of solving hard problems with simple models helps on out. Don't know the answer? Well, you should have worked harder in your 12th grade, rather than chasing after girls wanting to become their "rakhi-brothers". Pervert. Of course, the obvious answer is you spit on the croissant. Deposit a nice even layer of sticky saliva on its warm glazed surface, and voila, the salt, it sticks. You feel pretty dumb now don't you. Well, not everyone is born equal...

Now the good researcher alwasy finds ways to extend the problems he solves. Here are some possible extensions along with simple fixes:
1. What happens if you run out of saliva (and your tongue tastes like carpet)?
Ask helpful strangers. Or, go play GTA Vice City to pick up helpful hints about contacting salivex.

2. What if you have forgotten take a baggy of salt along with the croissant?
Sneeze. Particularly easy if you have a good common cold (come on, it is called common cold for a reason), or picked up pepper instead of salt.

What's better than a spokesman?

A spokeswoman, with, perhaps, no knowledge of cricket.
Consider, for example, this prime slice of wisdom:

"We felt it would better suit smoother scheduling for our customers if we switched matches."
Carol Wong, a spokeswoman for telecom company PCCW in Hong Kong, explains the rationale behind the decision to cut short the final moments of the Edgbaston Test to switch to the epic between Zimbabwe and New Zealand at Harare

Ahem, I rest my case.
God, I love bureacratic spinmeisters. Though spinster maybe more appropriate in this case.

What, in the name of my third sinus, is "smoother scheduling"?

The sincerity paradox

If I say I am genuine, sincere and honest, then am I genuine, sincere and honest?

Take your pick.

Mumbai.

This is somewhate in response to MSC's post on Mumbai and revenue allocation on
http://manishchauhan.blogspot.com/

There is no comparison between Ambani's and Mumbai. Revenue is collected from people (who reside in cities, and villages) to spend on public works. If Mumbai contributes a large percentage of its wealth towards public works it should get back a significant percentage. Just as, if you pay a large amount of money towards garbage collection, you would expect the dump outside your house to get cleared. Revenue is not charity. A percentage of it may be, but I think Mumbai is being made to be far more charitable than is good for its health. I really feel for it

Limerick 2

On a lovely beach in Iona,
Lay au naturel the damsel Fiona,
Fine in face and nein too skinny,
Showing tan lines of her bikini,
Sigh, 'twas a great pity. Hard cheese!
She would be perfect in that two-piece

This was created while cresting the waves of creation caused by viewing three operas in three nights in Prague. Obviously, after such high culture I could only aim for a higher art form still.
---
This way to Limerick 1.

Hey!

Just watched Hellboy, which I warmly recommend to anyone who likes quirky characters. Forget the comic book story line, the humour in there is great. The best is, of course, saved for the last. When his lady love is unconscious, he bends over and whispers something in her ear, and she wakes up. She asks him what is it that he said, that she heard over a sea of darkness.

At this moment the hero, or the superhero, would normally mutter inanities about him having said how much he loved her, or how he would die without her, etc. Basically more of those sugar topped bromides, Hellboy's answer is absolutely stunning. He says: "I said, Hey!".

Now, that is my kind of a guy; and gal for appreciating that kind of a guy.

Limerick 1

A lovely young charmer named Jean
Was dainty and tender and clean
Her legs I adored
But I always deplored
That I never could get in between.


Not mine, Chandler's. He was around seventy then. Explains to some extent the last line. By the way, Jean was his Australian secretary, and Chandler's wife had died a few years ago. Alcoholism was having its usual dual effect of raising passion, but lowering performance.

I was once getting a job in a spot called Limerick. If a man is by his town made, that would have been a fun place.

Chandlerism 1

"Common sense always speaks too late. Common sense is the guy who tells you ought to have had your brakes relined last week before you smashed a front end this week. Common sense is the Monday morning quarterback who could have won the ball game if he had been on the team. But he never is. He's high up in the stands with a flask on his hip. Common sense is the little man in a gray suit who never makes a mistake in addition. But it's always somebody else's money he's adding up."

Ah Raymond Chandler. The best.

That is why I believe in uncommon nonsense, which, being true to its name, is available sparingly.