Cambridge Saturdays

22nd October, 4.15 pm

Walking through the bustling town centre after another hard day at office on the badminton courts, I hear the pleasing notes a guitar. I look around but cannot locate the source. The corner of my eye catches something unusual - the far end of a guitar sticking out of a garbage can. The guitarist was testing the acoustic properties of a municipal issue garbabge can's interior. I sincerely hope he has had his cholera shots.

15th October, 3.45 pm

I step out of Thornton's disappointed that they don't sell ice-cream's in Winter. Though fate's vicious manoeuvres are quickly forgotten by the sight of a three-mammal band, one man and two dogs that is. The man must be sixty odd years old. He claims to be singer, song-writer and musician all rolled into one. His songs are set to a scottish rhythm, and he uses his feet to play the drums. The most unusual contribution is from the dogs. At the correct moment break into a chorus of three barks each. That is a satisfied man, and it is a peaceful picture.

8th October, 7.30 pm

I step out of The Mitre. I had stepped in to kill some time before the Ceilidh. The evenings are becoming darker. A youngish woman accosts me and asks about my well-being. Small talk ensues for about three minutes. She casually enquires if I would like to get together. I refuse gently, but she appears crestfallen. So, I offer to buy her a pacifier instead. My attempt at humour doesn't go down too well.

Aristocratic offsprings

The Thai Princess

When I was young, and at Cornell, the Thai Princess was studying law there. She used to have a bodyguard with her. All the time. Just in case an American beefcake became interested in Thai cooking. Anyway, the bodyguard used to go to classes with her, shopping with her, driving with her, anything with her. Go wash your mouth.

Once she came to play badminton, and only the bodyguard was allowed to her partner. What if you stabbed her in the back with the badminton racquet? This broke the heart of young Hong Kong native, especially because he couldn't see what made this bodyguard so hot to handle. Perhaps his blacker than black karate belt? Anyway, I refused to play against her citing arthritic heart attacks. I had no inclination to shorten my life by accidently hitting her with a smash, or beating their team and making her sad. That bodyguard looked mean.

Another interesting thing was that she used to live in her own house fully supplied with cooks, maids, butlers, and, I am told, a legal advisor.

The Portugese Prince

When the scion of the Portugese rulers went to Oxford to improve his mind, just in case one was found at a later date, it caused great consternation at the court. "Who will befriend the Prince?" was for months a hot dinner debate. "Can't have him associating with the common English bumpkin and other foreign riff-raff." Of course, it may show the Prince in poor light; he not being the brightest bulb in the land of Spain.

After much souls searching and by employing several detective agencies, the Royal court discovered a British aristocrat's boy right there at Oxford. Amazing, I know, and here we thought they took them in on merit, not majesty. Anyway, this little British blue-blood was commandeered to keep the Prince company. When asked later to comment how royal companionship had expanded his mind, he said, "It was the most boring experience of my life. After this, watching my toenail grow is akin to a day out at the Coliseum in ancient Rome after the Lions had had a bad night following a weeks worth of fasting."
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Talking about royalty and Lions in Coliseums, Wiley's non sequitur take is wonderful:

Pop philosophy #2

Round two of new age wisdom. This way to Round 1.

On beautiful women:

"Argh, them bonnie lasses, they are like them far snowy mountains. To be admired from afar, but never mounted"
- Ian McGae, President of the Hard as Rock Climbers.

Minutes later he was thrown of a convenient cliff-top into a burning stake for probably being a gay.

On fast living:

"Living fast is like riding a bike without brakes, downhill. You get a high, but your sole gets worn out trying to avoid the inevitable pile up at the end."
-Prance Legstrong, minutes before he disappeared in a purple haze from an semi-smoked reefer.

He was later found splattered on the kitchen wall wearing a biking helmet. A fusion powered exercycle is the lone, but mute, witness to this sad episode. Two soul-less shoes were found nearby. May God have mercy on them.

On communication:

"Communication, it is the shortest way to the goal."
-Pedro Gonzales, President of the Pampas Polo Playing Pumas.

In two years he was convicted for manslaughter when he attempted to demonstrate to the Cricketing Caballero's Club that the stumps could be put to good use by the wicketkeeper while he was hanging around waiting for the bowler to bowl.

Practical suggestions for a happier life #2

You know how in theatres, concert halls and operas, they pack in all the cheap ticket holders like sardines from a country with aluminium defeciency? Really spoils the experience. You can't spread your limbs out and relax. The man on the left is fighting for elbow rights on the common armrest*. The woman on the right is whispering urgently into her beefcake of a boyfriend's ear, gesticulating at your errant right leg.

So, in order to make sure that these irritants dissapear at the earliest instant, Dr. Sharma recommends that you partake of a nice five mile run before making an appearance at the arena of the arts of your choice, making sure that you forget to take a bath. If you can lay hands on some wildly extravagant beans, so much the better.

And remember dear readers, all our suggestions are backed by Dr. Sharma's seal of guaranteed success. Each one of these suggestions have been tested by in-house experts (who seriously need to get a life).

*This is actually very funny, you both smile graciously at each other, or look nonchalantly in the middle distance, while furiously manoeuvering your elbow. A swift dart here, a firm unyielding stand there... somewhat like



Head this way for an earlier practical suggestion.

For them really bad days...

Jordan's direct notation

As anecdote from Littlewood's Miscellany:

"It was said of Jordan's writings* that if he had four things on the same footing (as a, b, c, d) they would appear as

a, M^'₃, ε₂, Π^''_1,2."

*Jordan was a famous French mathematician, most known for the Jordan Curve Theorem which proves that a closed curve drawn on a sheet of paper divides the sheet into two parts that can be suggestively called the interior and the exterior of the curve. Trust me it is a hard one to prove.

Limerick 5

Mine, for a change:
---

From Kanpur there came a lad,
Wanting to mount the Nevis real bad.
Ah, but 'twas a mighty steep push.
Made dangerous by banana skins,
Lurking slimily behind every bush.
So, to save his expanding ass,
He partook of beans,
And floated up purely on gas.
---
This way to Limerick 4.

Glimpses of Cornell

I am remembering Cornell today. So, y'all will have to suffer with me, or rather, suffer me. In retrospect the most prominent things I recall doing there are pretending to work, eating, badminton.

Pretending to work



That is my office. See all those books? Ok, so I am a little behind in my reading. My table used to have three computers: two desktops and a laptop. My research was mostly analytical, so I put the computers to very good use. The oldest one, part of which is visible, was used exculsively for emails. The newest one whose monitor backed the door was for playing games. A cunning placement in case my advisor poked a friendly head in my door. The laptop completed my image as a theoretical mechanician on the cutting edge of science in the late 1800s.

The office was meant to accommodate two people. This is where a good knowledge of Vaastushastra* can really help improve one's office experience. Note how the bookcases and the tables nearly come together in a circle, leaving only a little gap. This way, not only did I manage to seperate my space, but also made my office-mate feel that the access route to his desk was something bordering on a mini steeplechase. The enthusiasm for work in graduate students is always on the ebb, and the prospect of facing a minefield of akwardly placed table corners and overhanging bookshelves after hauling his backside from home probably made my office-mate question the worth of it all. Needless to say I saw little of him, or her, or it.

Maybe someday my office-mate(s) will forgive me. I forgive them for intruding into my office.

*Vaastushastra: The name given to the ancient Indian science of interior decoration.

Eating



I am the one who is concentrating on the important things of life; like eating. This was the Taste of Thai restaurant in downtown Ithaca, home of the best Thai food I ever had. The occasion was the farewell of my good friend Toon (face in the middle on the left).

Their Thai Iced Tea (with, of course, no ice and lots of milk) was something to kill for. If you don't believe me sample a closer look at the food. You can all thank your stars that I eat with my mouth closed. Prof. Netravali is wishing that he hadn't eaten so fast.



Badminton




Me giving pointers to Yi Liang Ho ex-grunt of the Singapore Air Force, but at that time a student of mine in Dynamics. Shows what a swollen head can make you do, for Ho was light years ahead of me in Badminton. He had a beautiful smash. It was a quite a sight. He would levitate a couple of feet, pause in mid air, and there would be an existential moment of surreal quiet followed by tremendous thwack that threatened to perforate your eardrums while the shuttle nearly took your head off.

The Daily Slimes: The World's Top Five Laxatives

We at The Daily Slimes in order to ease your entry into mornings are in the middle of compiling the World's top five laxatives. Please take a minute and either e-mail us, or leave a comment, as to what you believe is the best laxative going down. Remember a cleaner society begins from the larger of the intestines. And, starve that tapeworm!

All kinds of laxatives: natural, supernatural (e.g., ghosts), unnatural (e.g., an incorrectly aimed tampon), surreal (e.g., post-modernism), daadi-ka-nuskha* and chemical ones are accepted as potential candidates. In order to give us an inkling to the potential draining power of your entry, please compare with the flushing efficacy of a bowl of Okra** cooked in an especially oily oil on a scale of one to five, with 2.5 indicating parity.

*Grandmother's generational recipe.
** Bhindi, Ladyfingers.
---
This way to an earlier exclusive interview.

The Ballad of Desert 'Bo

The Sun beat down on Desert 'Bo. He scratched his sweaty navel, cocked his shotgun, placed a careless boot on the barrier and spat at a neighbouring lizard. The scrawny Mexican screeched his bike to a halt, his back arching as the heavy sack there wanted to go on forever.

"What's in that sack, greaser?"
"Just sand, 'Bo."
"Yeah! Take me for a fool eh? As if yore gunna lug sand 'cross a desert. Shit, even wops ain't that stupid. I knows you greasers. Always smugglin' sumpin' into the Eunited States. What's it now? Marijwana? Cocaine? Or your second cousin, Oily Pete? Lemme tell you sumpin', nothins got past me in these twenny years."

And 'Bo, true to his word, ripped open the sack. Ran the sand through sophisticated tests. Threw everything including the kitchen sink at it. But, no, the darn thing was sand; just sand. He let the Mexican go. The next day, the Mexican was back on a bike, sack, sand and all. Again, tests, kitchen sinks, sacrificial lizards, sniffing chihuahuas, all yielded nothing. Months passed. Same thing every day. Mexican on a bike with a sack of sand. Pure sand. Desert 'Bo was getting desperate. He lost interest in daily activities. His navel was caked over from the lack of a probing finger. His hobbies suffered. The neighbourhood lizard had put on weight, not having to run away from phlegm in pursuit. Or, as is commonly known, a phlegming pursuit.

Two years passed. 'Bo not being able to take it anymore, took voluntary retirement and went down South looking for this Mexican. He found him at a cantina in the Yucatan, giving the eye to a sliced salami. The local sultry dames looked on in disgust and envy.

"Ok, greaser, you gotched me. You got ole dead eye desert 'Bo. Now looky here, I swear I won't say it to no man, but you gotta tell me what you was haulin, 'cause my gut tells me yore a smugglin' sunavabitch"
"Aw, don't take it so hard 'Bo", the greaser whined.
"No you gotta tell me. What was you smugglin'?"
"Motorcycles 'Bo, jess motorcycles."

Limerick 4/ Pun 2

Here is another dose of Chandler's morning limericks, followed by one of Dr. Sharma's own concoctions.

There once was a lady of Spain,
Who regarded my advances with disdain,
Until one day high on champagne
She was feeling no pain,
And we did it again and again.

---

Q. What did the left leg say to the right one?
A. Two is a company, but three is a crowd.


---
This way to limerick 3.

KJAH - Liberty City's only dog music band*

You will require a certain taste for alternative musical styles.

Perhaps, 'taste' was not quite the appropriate word.

*If you have no idea what I am talking about, go drive a car in GTA3 and tune your radio to KJAH.

My life

When I was born I made a lot of noise, caused a lot of pain, and people have spent a lot on me ever since. Why? 'Cause I am worth it, damn it! So, when I am done, I shall go out with a bang. Just like this cannon:



Pity, they couldn't test fire me.