Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Cookie's Fortune
I was having Pho at this Vietnamese restaurant last night and I tried to open the fortune cookie. When it comes to luck, I often end up having quite a few scores to settle with my stupid stars. This time yet again my reputation (and my clumsiness) preceeded me and I dropped the misfortune cookie on the floor, shattering it. The fortune read, 'You will meet someone special at a social gathering". Now this would have been a great one if I had opened it myself. But technically it was the grimy floor that opened it. Now all I can do is to hope with a heavy heart that the floor finds a good carpet at a vacuum cleaner sale. Hmph. These people who write stuff that go inside these cookies are so unimaginative. It is disappointing each time I open a cookie with great enthusiasm, only to find some cliche like "Opportunity is knocking on your front door". I always think they should put in more peppy stuff like "You will spill your desert on your dress." "The gelatinous thing in your soup is the waiter's saliva." or maybe they should give relationship advice like "Your boyfriend is too dorky for you" "Try to get lucky with the waitress" "Cheapskate, take your girlfriend to a better restaurant" . These places serve terrible food as it is, and then they top it up with a good serving of a pungent bromide in your fortune cookie. With snappy messages, they could spice up your day at the very least. The rear side of these cookies should also be put to better use. Who ever would remember the chinese word for "Sun" that they read at a restaurant, when feeling flatulent and bloated. Rather they should teach guys to hit on girls in chinese. Now that is something guys will remember. The other reason I hate fortune cookies is because I feel disappointed when I eat them. They taste like ice-cream cones, only without the ice-cream and then I feel like eating ice-cream. But then, ice-creams at Asian restaurants invariably taste like trash. All the cheer that the prophesy inside the cookie instilled in me gets neutralized by the bad taste from the artificial flavors in the ice-cream. I suggest these people serve chocolate cakes with interesting messages inscribed on them with icing. Now that would make my day!!! Hope this ones make yours.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Am I ask????
The gravely soporific nature of my protein chemistry class is only rivalled by the instructor's brutal ability to butcher a language, which due to severe mutilation can barely be recognized as English. Until then, I was greatly convinced of the supremacy of a certain proprietor of a private engineering institution at his ability to make Wren and Martin turn in their graves. But along came our protagonist to just give them that extra turn.
Every educational institution in our country seems to have a subterranean secret Department of Linguistic Molestation. However, there is a great deal of myth and lore that fogs up real facts. Many people patriotically and vehemently lay claim over certain "Quotable quotes" which have been supposedly coined by pioneers in Linguistic Molestation from their institutions. In fact, many of these quotes have become so cliched that one has come to realize that the "Miss under standing" never stood there in the first place. In order to secure the interests and to document the efforts of our protagonist I would like to share some valuable excerpts from my active, passive and stuporous interactions with him during my course of study.
Our instructor is very aware that each student has their own distinct learning pattern, so a typical class involves many activities on the part of the students. Some students learn better when they read, so they read "Playboy". Some are visual learners, and they like to make doodles of the instructor in action. Some are aural, hence the walkmans. The kinesthetic learners involve in many activities like shooting rockets, having pen-fights. I personally write poetry.
One day when I was writing something along the lines of "Up your ass Up your ass... Nobody ever listens to your class" my rapt inattention was broken by a spark of brilliance on the part of my instructor. He had just asked one "sleeping bai" to "Face the wash and come". What ensued I guess was a ferocious battle between sleeping bai and the water faucet. I think the sleeping bai prevailed because he came back to class after a few minutes his face dripping with water and his breath smelling of Pan Parag. "Horrible water closet monster... Thou art toast!!". The sleeping bai has only the instructor to thank for inspiring such valiance in him, who in all modesty and simplicity casually continued his highly arcane talk about "Actually, that type of thing is a structure is going to resemblance that".
His clasrooms were always a disciplined environment. "Some of you, all of you, most of you.." always had to "Take it as a serious..and hope they are awareness of him" else "No matter what he will not give it as a present". Which means that you will have to pay for it. He "wants this kind of business only" other wise "you wont get sign for next week" .
He has a distinct teaching style. He veils his material in a fine cloud of mystery. He tickles our fantasies and imagination. Like this great speculation that he is also doing research in time travel. He once shared some of his concepts with us. A certain "green fellow" was told "Don't talk while I am marking in the present" I imagined if he was also marking attendance in the past and future also. I also wondered why our instructor demands us to write assignments without ever bothering to collect them. I believe that he would travel to the past and collect them later. I hope, sometime in the future he comes back to the past and does his job of teaching us something worthwhile. This also explains the time when he asked us "Why so many less absentees?" when to the contrary more than half the class was empty. Maybe these students in the future will come back and attend the class.
If only teaching was a one man show. He also expected his students to deliver the goods when put to the task. Yet another "Enna pa" was asked "Who this book? Tell Pa, who is this book?" Posed by such a difficult question, Enna pa was rather dumbfounded. After stifling a nearly insurmountable feeling of nausea, fear and possibly giggles too, Enna pa delivers. "Yes sir, I am this book". It certainly was a day to remember for Enna pa, in an instant he had become the hero, the talk to the town and he had lived up to the reputation of his instructor who was now the butt of all jokes.
It was definitely the most fruitful experience being his pupil. I, often called by him as the "What man", still live by his golden advice "Be contact with yourself" and then "You will be the king of yourself". But one nagging question still prevails "Am I ask all this? Am I ask?"
Every educational institution in our country seems to have a subterranean secret Department of Linguistic Molestation. However, there is a great deal of myth and lore that fogs up real facts. Many people patriotically and vehemently lay claim over certain "Quotable quotes" which have been supposedly coined by pioneers in Linguistic Molestation from their institutions. In fact, many of these quotes have become so cliched that one has come to realize that the "Miss under standing" never stood there in the first place. In order to secure the interests and to document the efforts of our protagonist I would like to share some valuable excerpts from my active, passive and stuporous interactions with him during my course of study.
Our instructor is very aware that each student has their own distinct learning pattern, so a typical class involves many activities on the part of the students. Some students learn better when they read, so they read "Playboy". Some are visual learners, and they like to make doodles of the instructor in action. Some are aural, hence the walkmans. The kinesthetic learners involve in many activities like shooting rockets, having pen-fights. I personally write poetry.
One day when I was writing something along the lines of "Up your ass Up your ass... Nobody ever listens to your class" my rapt inattention was broken by a spark of brilliance on the part of my instructor. He had just asked one "sleeping bai" to "Face the wash and come". What ensued I guess was a ferocious battle between sleeping bai and the water faucet. I think the sleeping bai prevailed because he came back to class after a few minutes his face dripping with water and his breath smelling of Pan Parag. "Horrible water closet monster... Thou art toast!!". The sleeping bai has only the instructor to thank for inspiring such valiance in him, who in all modesty and simplicity casually continued his highly arcane talk about "Actually, that type of thing is a structure is going to resemblance that".
His clasrooms were always a disciplined environment. "Some of you, all of you, most of you.." always had to "Take it as a serious..and hope they are awareness of him" else "No matter what he will not give it as a present". Which means that you will have to pay for it. He "wants this kind of business only" other wise "you wont get sign for next week" .
He has a distinct teaching style. He veils his material in a fine cloud of mystery. He tickles our fantasies and imagination. Like this great speculation that he is also doing research in time travel. He once shared some of his concepts with us. A certain "green fellow" was told "Don't talk while I am marking in the present" I imagined if he was also marking attendance in the past and future also. I also wondered why our instructor demands us to write assignments without ever bothering to collect them. I believe that he would travel to the past and collect them later. I hope, sometime in the future he comes back to the past and does his job of teaching us something worthwhile. This also explains the time when he asked us "Why so many less absentees?" when to the contrary more than half the class was empty. Maybe these students in the future will come back and attend the class.
If only teaching was a one man show. He also expected his students to deliver the goods when put to the task. Yet another "Enna pa" was asked "Who this book? Tell Pa, who is this book?" Posed by such a difficult question, Enna pa was rather dumbfounded. After stifling a nearly insurmountable feeling of nausea, fear and possibly giggles too, Enna pa delivers. "Yes sir, I am this book". It certainly was a day to remember for Enna pa, in an instant he had become the hero, the talk to the town and he had lived up to the reputation of his instructor who was now the butt of all jokes.
It was definitely the most fruitful experience being his pupil. I, often called by him as the "What man", still live by his golden advice "Be contact with yourself" and then "You will be the king of yourself". But one nagging question still prevails "Am I ask all this? Am I ask?"
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
As old as I am told.....
Despite my desperate cosmetic efforts to stay young atleast at heart, I am steadily being beached to the shores of what is called the "older generation". I have started losing grasp (in both senses of the word) over what the people ashore call the "younger generation". It is difficult being stranded midway and the throw-rope that connects me with the newer generation is getting frayed rather quickly. I think I am bolting towards senility.
I realized that when I was hanging out at my regular bar, a very laidback and calm place. I happened to stumble upon one of my students who took great pride in the fact that she came to that place only to use the restroom, because the other happening places were filled with the youngsters like her who can hold neither their liquor nor the excretory repercussion that follows. I was asked why I was here playing pool here among people who seemed to be drinking off their pension, when I should rather be convulsing wildly to loud hip-hop songs versed about unconventional sex and drugs. I tried to thwart further conversation about the topic with the usual “I am too old for all that” reply. Bt instead of accepting my answer at face value, she decided to probe further and asked me how old I was, especially since she felt that I didn’t look very old. I told her I was twenty two and her face skewed to an expression that was a blend of surprise, exasperation and 4 shots of tequila, as she told me that she was twenty six herself. It felt awkward to be chronologically younger than a person whom you regard as a kid. People seem to be stuck in a redundant loop after adolescence. Their growth seems to slow down to a slogged progression. I on the other hand, I think I should start looking out for a good deal to buy a pair of dentures on amazon.com. I think suffer from some mental form of “juvenile geriatricism”, where one simply feels too old.
I am also increasingly convinced that I should stop trying to relate to kids. It only gets worse every time I try. I committed one such grave mistake recently, when a 9th grade student fired up a conversation with me on one of the networking websites. I thought I would be nice for a change and humor the kid for a while. The kid, from dear old motherland, showed great interest in the accessibility of internet in the USA. He asked me if there was wireless internet access on the roads. (God this is the United States for crying out load, not Utopia!!!). Just as I had typed him a reply telling him that this generally was not the case, I had another message waiting patiently to throw me off my chair. It read “I was told you could sit on the road and watch porn.” Among other things, he actually was mighty perverted for a 9th grader. I really wondered what would become of him when his hormones swung into full action. I would never understand, why he would want to watch porn, sitting on the road. There are too many things I fail to understand. Soulja boy, Guitar Hero and low-hip undie-fundie pants (and thongbirds for girls) among others. I am only glad I am too old to understand all that.
I realized that when I was hanging out at my regular bar, a very laidback and calm place. I happened to stumble upon one of my students who took great pride in the fact that she came to that place only to use the restroom, because the other happening places were filled with the youngsters like her who can hold neither their liquor nor the excretory repercussion that follows. I was asked why I was here playing pool here among people who seemed to be drinking off their pension, when I should rather be convulsing wildly to loud hip-hop songs versed about unconventional sex and drugs. I tried to thwart further conversation about the topic with the usual “I am too old for all that” reply. Bt instead of accepting my answer at face value, she decided to probe further and asked me how old I was, especially since she felt that I didn’t look very old. I told her I was twenty two and her face skewed to an expression that was a blend of surprise, exasperation and 4 shots of tequila, as she told me that she was twenty six herself. It felt awkward to be chronologically younger than a person whom you regard as a kid. People seem to be stuck in a redundant loop after adolescence. Their growth seems to slow down to a slogged progression. I on the other hand, I think I should start looking out for a good deal to buy a pair of dentures on amazon.com. I think suffer from some mental form of “juvenile geriatricism”, where one simply feels too old.
I am also increasingly convinced that I should stop trying to relate to kids. It only gets worse every time I try. I committed one such grave mistake recently, when a 9th grade student fired up a conversation with me on one of the networking websites. I thought I would be nice for a change and humor the kid for a while. The kid, from dear old motherland, showed great interest in the accessibility of internet in the USA. He asked me if there was wireless internet access on the roads. (God this is the United States for crying out load, not Utopia!!!). Just as I had typed him a reply telling him that this generally was not the case, I had another message waiting patiently to throw me off my chair. It read “I was told you could sit on the road and watch porn.” Among other things, he actually was mighty perverted for a 9th grader. I really wondered what would become of him when his hormones swung into full action. I would never understand, why he would want to watch porn, sitting on the road. There are too many things I fail to understand. Soulja boy, Guitar Hero and low-hip undie-fundie pants (and thongbirds for girls) among others. I am only glad I am too old to understand all that.
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