actuality.log

As sick as she is—gross blood-spewing and everything—the wife is still remarkably perceptive; so she soon finds out that he’s cheating on her. And by “remarkably perceptive,” I mean that she’s not blind, and happened to see him ogling over the other chick in public at some point. She’s understandably distraught and soon becomes suicidal.

Yes, she’s suicidal. And you would feel sorry for her, if, you know, she could act. But a brief recollection of her sexually-hyperactive past with this man clears her head. She begins to see why he had no choice but to fuck another, and so she lets him off the hook to do whatever. As in “she wants him to be happy,” or something.

If that weren’t creepy enough, she soon wants to join the fun. (Not literally of course, because she can barely breathe, and isn’t nimble enough to be of any fun.) She begins to hide and observe them make love; I guess vicariously having sex with her husband as he’s screwing the real estate agent.

By this point you’re like, “Surely this must be the end. I mean, how much more downhill could they possibly go from here?” And before you can finish that thought, you realise how shockingly wrong you are as the next “twist” presents itself. Our little astrophysics friend wasn’t cheating on her with any somewhat-hot real-estate agent. Oh no. He’d carefully picked a kind and generous chick who’d (as clearly stated on her driver’s license) agreed to have her insides donated for the good of others when she passes.

Yep. Attractive. Organ-harvestable upon death. Dying wife needing organ?

(I still want you to act surprised when I reveal the ending.)

Long story short, at about 3/4ths through the movie, he uses his PhD genius (like his amazing ability to modify sound files on a computer. Huh?) to kill this other woman. Not just have her die anywhere, but conveniently, as they were procreating at a home specifically picked for its proximity to the hospital where is wife (now too sick to even hide in the closet and observe the fun) is dying.

Genius, I tell you. Genius!

Briefly. Something bad happens, real-estate agent almost dead, ends up at the hospital near his wife, dies, doctors put 2 and 2 together, rip her lungs out and drop it in the wife, and voilá! Wifey is soon back and capable of satiating him. And if it weren’t for the thick 14″-long scar running across her breasts, you’d never know anything was ever wrong with her.

OK, any somewhat rational-minded person would have ended this god-damned 4-hour-long weep-fest right about now. I mean, this is a pretty acceptable—even if evil—ending, isn’t it?

But noo, there’s even more.

On occasion, I’m overly drawn into a program on “Lifetime,” a woman’s entertainment channel. And by “overly drawn into,” I obviously mean that the remote is missing, I’m too lazy to move, and watch whatever is on; even if it’s the Lifetime channel.

Yesterday evening was one such occasion. I happened to chance upon a most ‘B’ of B-movies, whose name I’ve already forgotten; or probably never knew in the first place. It was such an experience that I must share its wonderful story with you. Enjoy! (Suckers).

This story is about a young couple who’re madly in love—and sexually hyperactive—a detail that’ll play an important role in the story’s progression. Besides, it’s some unwritten rule somewhere that no-name actors and actresses must show a lot of skin, or they don’t stand a chance. Anyway, all is well initially as the guy who’s a PhD in astrophysics (and this has no bearing on the story whatsoever) and the woman who’s a children’s book author—and relatively cute, by B-movie standards—go about their wonderful life.

But one day—cue ominous tune—it all starts going horribly wrong.

It turns out that this young woman has some seriously terminal illness, like lung cancer or something, and about a quarter way through the movie, is very ill, and is soon doing gross things like coughing up fake blood. Since I doubt that few people would want to sleep with someone who’s throwing up blood (other than the odd lazy vampire, I guess), their sex life begins to suffer.

But our poor man has needs. Of course he does. So he soon begins cheating on this wife with this other B-movie-league-attractive woman who happens to be a real-estate agent. The side perk of this being, that they then get to copulate in all different sorts of bedrooms in fancy homes she’s supposed to be selling! Meanwhile, the poor, sick wife (who’s still hot in a sort of, “you can get to be totally protective of her, and she’ll be all yours,” way) joins a support group.

A support group for people who also cough-up blood while waiting for other people to die, so that they can hopefully get the lung transplant they need to live. Yes, your typical fun-times crowd.

Riveting stuff, if any of these people could act. You’d think they’d have just ended this train-wreck right there with a message like, I don’t know, “smoking kills” or something. At least the kiddies would have learnt something.

But noooo, our writers have other plans.

The number of unanswered e-mails in my in-boxes has been steadily growing for quite a while now. At first, I chalked it down to my general unmotivated state—yes, the one that has plagued me for months now—but upon casual inspection of the pile, I reached a startling realisation: Over 90% of this unanswered e-mail was from married women!

Quoting a scene involving a most underrated actress on a most underrated sitcom:

Newly-turned-single bloke: Was that a smile, Sally? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.
Sally: Why yes, it was. I only smile at single men, you know; got to conserve [my skin's] elasticity.

And this, boys and girls, is roughly analogous to what’s going on with my reply pattern. Though I’ve not consciously thought about it, I just don’t see the point anymore with people I’ve deemed “occupied”. The effort doesn’t in the least seem justified. Yeah, it would be “nice” if I could be a part of your life as more than some arbitrary bystander, but honestly, it wouldn’t bother me if I wasn’t.

So, if you’re sitting out there all-eagerly awaiting a response and don’t receive anything, you now know why.

It’s nothing personal; it just doesn’t seem worth it.

Site note: I hope that you’re adequately satisfied by the new underage-deterrent link on top and the related modification to the site usage policy. Proceeding further implies that you’ve read, understood and agree to its terms.

One of the many things that men aren’t really open to talking about, is why they want to break up. They just do, and that’s that; deal with it. All they want is to fade away—gracefully or otherwise—without overly analysing or clarifying the situation. On the other hand, the one thing that women most definitely want to talk about—and want to “work on”—is preventing such an event. They seemingly love to discuss (in excruciating detail, no less) why things are evolving the way they are, and present their brilliant plans to fix the scenario.

Let it go; he’s just not into you. And there’s little you can do to fix that.

(Probably apropos here is something I heard a comedian say a long time ago: “I don’t know how else to tell you this honey, but it’s your face. And no matter how much you run every day, it isn’t going to get any better.”)

Not satisfied? Does “I’m not into you” not work for you? Do you still really want to pester him as to why he doesn’t call you any more? Sure, here goes; it’s only fair since you asked for it (like a trillion times).

Remember the time you asked him if the thought of making love to you excited him? Remember how he deflected the question with a joke? Now here’s the real answer: Not once in his conscious thoughts or dreams was he able to imagine being intimate with you in ways you wanted. It might have vaguely fallen under the definition of sex, but it sure wasn’t an expression of love. Sure, he enjoyed the actual physical act, but in every situation, it was almost as though all he was doing was taking. He didn’t in the least care about how happy you were, or even care that it was you. He was demeaning, insensitive, and selfish. Now, this scared him, because in other instances—when he actually liked the woman—all that mattered to him was her happiness.

There, happy? Can’t you see why he might have had a problem with a relationship with you? Wouldn’t you rather not have known that?

Men don’t have the same sorts of inkling and sensitivities when it comes to relationships. But it doesn’t mean we lack feeling. We have our own mechanisms to figure out when things aren’t fine. Now do you still not believe in breaking up to be the right path? I’m sorry you didn’t get this verbose answer the first time you asked, but these are not the sorts of things which guys talk about. You pestering and acting all super-sleuthy will get you nowhere; nowhere pleasant, anyway.

Let it go, he’s just not into you.

Warning: Oh, and in the future, retarded comments correlating entries in my journal with Hindi movies will be deleted with extreme prejudice. Do not waste your time and mine.

Alice is one fat fuck. You know the kinds; the morbidly chubby chick who’s unfortunately too “comfortable with her own body”? No matter how much people tend to avoid her, she’s always there. At every event, at every party; wanting to be the centre of attention, right in the centre of every activity—and the centre of every one of Jack‘s pictures intended to be of the beautiful people; ruining them. She’s bubbly, giggly and repugnantly confident, but no one gives a fuck; she’s just not aesthetically pleasing to be around.

No one, except Jack.

Though he too is often embarrassed by being seen out in public with her, Jack has spent a lot of time putting up with Alice. He doesn’t fancy her in the least, but he’s superficially very nice to her. He accompanies her for things when everyone else turns her down. He doesn’t laugh about her bulging body; at least not right in front of her face. He doesn’t turn away when she begins her incoherently-excited ramblings about one uninteresting topic or another. No. He plays the perfect gentleman. He’s patient, kind and treats her like she deems she deserves to be.

The only reason Jack does this, is that Alice is good friends with Jenny. You must know Jenny; the long-legged, doe-eyed, perfectly-proportioned goddess? The one with the smile so warm she could melt a glacier or three? You know, the smart, sensitive, adorable little thing who has an intelligent, thoughtful thing to say about everything? The woman whose effortless talent and creativity often leaves everyone in the room awestruck?

Yes, that Jenny.

Now, everyone is nice to Jenny. It’s not such a big deal—I mean, just her presence will make you want to win the world for her—and I’m sure she’s more than used to it. As Jack often tends to misstep, he calculated that being nice to Alice instead was a brilliant way of impressing everyone; especially Jenny. It was the perfect plan in Jack’s mind. Alice would adore him for who he was to her, and the bubbly fatty would surely keep harping about it to Jenny, wouldn’t she?

I mean, they are friends right? Isn’t that what all women always do when Jack isn’t around?

As it turns out, no. They most certainly do not.

Somewhere along this debacle, Jack begins to realise that Alice doesn’t advertise one bit of the going-ons to Jenny. She just sits there, the dumb-fuck that she is, basking in the glow of not being ignored. His calculated niceness has no bearing on Jenny’s feelings toward him. What’s worse, Jack’s now stuck with the fat fuck who genuinely believes he sees her “true inner beauty.”

Is it even remotely surprising that Jack soon breaks Alice’s heart? How many Alices will it take before Jack realises that the only path to nabbing a Jenny doesn’t involve any middle(wo)men?

I am right here, alive and well. I’ve just been remarkably unmotivated to write (or do anything else, for that matter). Over the past week, I received my new computer. It was very cool, but I managed to find things about it that annoy(ed) me, so I shipped it back to them to have it sorted out.

If I am still displeased, I will be sending it back to them, permanently.

When I first began to realise that this little incident was a microcosm of my existence, I laughed.

Now I cry. Alone, of course.

When did I get so picky?

With those objective differences out of the way, now onto the more touchy-feely issues I had. Some trivial, some not, and in no particular order. (None of which are disputable; I’m not a reasonable person.)

1. After I’d initially ordered the MBP, I spent hours of my days looking at things like this, this and this to augment my purchase. We wouldn’t want our sexual preferences to be that apparent now, would we?
2. The T60p I’ve now picked is higher spec’d in every respect, and cheaper. I disliked the thought of being treated like a “Mac fanboy” who’d happily get shafted by Apple. Getting shafted by IBM however, I can handle.
3. I get to try out the T60p for a month, and return it if I’m unsatisfied for whatever reason—no questions asked. I like the sound of that. Contrast that with Apple’s, “You buy a configured machine from us, you’re stuck with it no matter what problems you may face” policy.
4. The T60p runs much cooler, has a better battery life and the aspect ratio of its dimensions are more standard; not ungodly 17″-like wide like the MBP. I am willing to sacrifice some thickness for the reduced width, besides; it now fits in a cute bag I was eyeing.
5. The T60p doesn’t have a magnetic power cord jack like the MBP. Imagine what that could have done to my credit card, external hard drives or worse. But the real issue is, after I’d accidentally erased my card and went to the bank to replace it, I’ll have to listen to that old lady’s spiel on how women are so more careful with their stuff than men!
6. I am also quite intrigued by the possibility of wireless-broadband-everywhere that the T60p provides. Goodbye even more, social life.
7. I wasn’t ever drawn to OS X in the first place; I just wanted a fast, rugged, sleek x86 laptop to run GNU/Linux. Apple is not really free software friendly; no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise.
8. Having to replace a UNIX (Mac OS X) with another UNIX (GNU/Linux), because Apple’s Darwin kernel is less performant than linux ON THEIR OWN HARDWARE, seemed quite retarded. The least they could have done is to not require that distribution makers run through hoops (even if minor) getting their OSs booted on x86 Apple machines.
9. ThinkPads on the other hand are historically GNU/Linux friendly. Even the more esoteric things on the laptop, like the fingerprint reader, already have working linux support. I must say I am impressed.

I spent a couple of weeks using OS X a lot, and snagged and browsed every OS X (written for UNIX geeks) book I could find. Here are some UI issues I still have with Macs:

• One fucking mouse button.
• I am a very heavy Emacs user, and I need my ctrl and alt buttons where I want them.
• Even on powerful machines, in my limited experience, OS X seems a little laggy.
• There is usually only one “right way” of doing things, and it isn’t always intuitive as to what it is. I hated feeling like an idiot not knowing how to do simple things. I am not in a frame of mind to reset all that I know, well, and have to relearn redundant, even if arguably fun, information.
• It’s not really (a) UNIX (you’re used to). I mean it is, but it’s so warped, it isn’t. I hated feeling like I didn’t know where what goes and such, reiterating the last point. Don’t even get me started on sudo.
• It’s stuffy and lacks configurability. Some effects quickly go from being “Oh, so shiny” to being downright cheesy. But everything that annoys you cannot be turned off, because, well, Apple deems it so.

Mac users (at least the ones that popup in various fora across the intarweb) seem to be a bunch of whiners. I am not sure if their spoilt-bratisms arise out of being so well treated by Apple in the past, or if they’re just a bunch of whiners, period. Since the release of the MBP a couple of weeks ago, less than 1% of the user reviews I’ve read of it have been positive. Here’s a sampling of the delightful things you’re subjected to instead.

• ARRGHH, it’s making this annoying whining noise. It annoys me so much I can’t sit at it and it aggravates my migraines.
• MY SCREEN IS WARPED. I took it out of the box and my aluminium screen was clearly bent, but Apple told me that was a cosmetic defect which they don’t replace.
• I have a GROWING PATCH OF DEAD PIXELS on my screen!!! When I called Apple they said they’d replace it only if it crossed a certain number of dead pixels.
• (And, in case they do send it in for replacement.) I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY PUT ME AT THE BACK OF THE QUEUE. I have to wait for FOUR MORE WEEKS for my computer. ARGGH.
• The resolution is SO LOW FOR THIS SCREEN SIZE. Even my Powerbook had a better resolution. The fonts RENDER FUZZILY.
• The LCD brightness is INCONSISTENT. It is arbitrarily brighter in some regions and darker elsewhere.
• It runs SO HOT. After a short while, my KEYS ARE TOO HOT TO TOUCH.
• The screen ONLY OPENS TO 120^o. I need a 135^o opening angle like my PowerBook!!

You know what you bunch of whiners? STFU. Stop exaggerating. But this is not the response the more seasoned Apple devotees will give them. Instead, they go, “You bought a revision A (first generation) product, what did you expect? Every company has issues with transitions”. Umm, so, it’s OK?

1. I really assumed Mac users are generally a bit more technically aware than your standard windows counterpart. Not so. Even the simplest questions you ask them (“Oh, so where is the menu where I can turn this off?”) will result in a standard response. They will point you to a “freeware/shareware/adware” application that does it for you. Quickly followed by a “I really like it, it’s worth the 50 bucks. Get it!!!”. It’s like they haven’t heard of free software, or just DOING IT YOUR FUCKING SELF.
2. On the other hand, not one of the T60 reviewers was unhappy with their purchase. They were, in fact, ecstatic. I am not saying that makes it a better product, I am just talking about the apparent maturity of the users.
3. The existence of resources like Thinkwiki, and a vibrant GNU/Linux community.

Today’s post was fuelled by comments on the last one.

I’m currently in my fourth year[1] of graduate school “working” on my PhDs, and I’m one class short of a master’s degree in mathematics. Is that something I signed up for when I entered grad school? No. Is that something that’s immediately necessary—in the sense that it’ll greatly enhance my knowledge/capacity/chances of landing a stupendous job? No. Is it something that I’m insanely passionate about or care a great deal for? Not really. But is it something I’m going to get just-for-the-heck-of-it anyway? Hell yes!

If you’re still with me, there is a point to what I’m saying, and I’ll get to it.

Just like everybody else, I’m decent at doing a few things and suck at just about everything else. But, unlike most people who are forced out of their niche, I’ve ended up structuring my life so that I don’t (need to) deviate in the teensiest from what I believe “comes naturally” to me.

If you asked me to jot down what I’d be doing if I weren’t a science geek, I’d probably rattle off a few things—composing/performing music, partaking in a form of creative expression like advertising[2], being a pastry chef, … and that’s about it. If you’re looking for a common thread here, there isn’t one other than my belief that I could live a life doing any of these things with no real effort from my end—like how things are now with being a science geek.

But, while I’m quite OK with doing much in areas I deem trivial—even if I don’t particularly care for it, like the math master’s[3]—I am strictly opposed to the prospect of “working hard” toward achieving an end because it’s something that doesn’t come naturally to me.

Now, herein lies my predicament.

Since it has all come so easily to me in the one prominent and persistent aspect of my life—school—I’ve gotten quite spoilt and expect it all to naturally be handed to me everywhere else as well. Because I deserve it(TM). The rational part of me comprehends that this is bollocks, and that I’m screwed, but that hasn’t seemed to change my outlook toward the world.

Hypersensitive to detail as they are, women’s internal red-light warning beacons shine brightly when they get wind of this, because in their eyes, I’m just this ambiguous floater who won’t “fight for them” given the need[4]. And that I will flake out if the relationship shifts from play… to work. While I wouldn’t declare these fears unfounded, I think it’s harsh. Because I believe that when all the chips fall in place, relationships can be a breeze too.

Just like every other aspect I allow in my life[5].

[1] That’s 4 years + 4 years undergrad + 12 years school + 2 years kindergarten + 1 year preschool; for the number junkies in the audience keeping track of this sort of thing.
[2] Clearly, watching programs based on what sorts of ads run during their breaks qualifies me an expert.
[3] According to my math-averse friends, this isn’t in the least trivial. But that’s not the point; it’s still trivial to me.
[4] A remnant from cavewoman times.
[5] And that, my lovelies, is one of the non-trivial reasons I am still alone. And, it’s not that this is a point of view that is trivial to fix; so it won’t be.

Alright people, it so happens that my life has (and I have) been sort of bleh for a while now. Apart from a constant daily grind that I’m ambivalent about, I’ve also been feeling remarkably uncreative. I’ve been sleeping oddly (2–3 days without sleep, followed by a day or so entirely sleeping); and spending a good chunk of my waking moments salivating over my new not-yet-shipped computer hasn’t helped either.

Somewhere along the line (my hiatus coupled with only being active online at Mac forums), my site’s primary traffic base has shifted (so says google analytics) from being 9/10 chic women to 10/10 Mac geeks (6/10 UNIXish + 4/10 Artsy).

I am not particularly pleased by that, but I’m not in a capacity or frame of mind to reverse the trend either. Which, I must admit, sucks.

But I figure I might as well kick up some uproar by violating confidence and posting some recent communication. I’m going to snip all informative regions, highlight the sections I found most controversial, and sit back and watch the fun. I am not even going to get into whether I agree or not with the mailer.

From an e-mail to me:

I have actually moved-on to making small bags of money (more like pouches than bags I think) at a job that seems to be less real than grad school.

… snip …

The plan is to try some totally different field for a little while, to see how I like it compared to good old engineering.

… snip …

It looks like you’re getting good action down there with junior girls and what not. Desi chicks aren’t really top drawer stuff. As discussed, a downhill slope from our VM days. And everyone seems to be married/hooked up already. I wonder if the old cliche about the best one being already taken is true.

… snip …

And I just have to add this for effect. Two (and I’m limiting it to two) adjectives that women back home have brought up when the conversation steered toward women here are: Phirangi[1] slut and Caucasian bimbo. In light of what the mailer above had to say, how am I to intepret this malevolence?

>:)

[1] I don’t know Hindi, so I don’t know what phirangi means. I’ve just assumed it to be foreign. I tend to assume a lot.

Oh what’s become of this journal? We haven’t delved into the world of reality TV in so long. And for those of you joining us from a parts of the world that don’t know the joys of excessive reality TV, all I can say is that I pity you.

I cannot believe that this slipped under my radar. I was channel surfing the other day, and chanced upon an episode of this little gem.

This is a show that’s either conceived or produced or just endorsed (I’m not really sure, and I don’t care) by Ashton Kutcher, and apparently, it’s already in its second season. The premise is simple enough—pair intelligent but severely socially challenged men up with gorgeous but not-so-bright women and watch the hilarity as the “best couple wins”. The guys on the show were (for the most part) your usual suspects—generally super sweet and nice engineering grad students who were beyond socially stunted. The women were extremely attractive (the photos on the website above do not do them justice), but borderline retarded. Oh joy!

What I liked about the show was that it didn’t overtly milk either of these extremely contrasting traits for cheap laughs (though I probably would have liked it even more if it did!). The guys seem genuinely in it to learn and evolve socially while trying their best, and the women are sweet, feel sorry for them and try to get them out of their shells. The interesting thing, I thought, was the general level of self-consciousness and insecurity on both sides of the fence. You’d assume a knock-out blonde hasn’t a care in the world. You’d be wrong.

Now here’s what I didn’t like.

Gorgeous as they were, the women on average in the show were, let’s say, bartenders. The men on the other hand were senior grad students in Ivy League schools. Now that in itself isn’t a big deal. But in every single pairing, it was the woman who felt the strong need to teach the poor guy something. You know, important life skills, like the Salsa or how to pluck your eyebrows. Not once did any of the guys sit down and go, “Hmm, there’s so much she hasn’t a clue about. Why don’t we show her a thing or two and help open up her eyes as well”.

Not once.

I’m not literally suggesting rocket science tutoring for massage lessons. But I’m not not suggesting it either.

And now this brings us to our final super-general and sweeping comment that’s going to draw much fire (from you, my feisty audience, of course). Men—without thought—mate up and down the socio-economic ladder[1] as long as they find the woman “hot”. However intelligent they claim to be, the really important decisions subvert their cerebrum entirely. (As in, I’ll keep harping I need someone über-qualified, but if a random hot bartender chick crosses my path, I’ll be more than happy. Thoughts like, “But I might never be able to have a meaningful and deep conversation with her, ever” will not even cross my mind.)

Women, on the other hand, are intelligent enough to look into things like financial stability (as a function of education or job or whatever) when deciding a mate. Which is why they will probably only mate up the ladder given the chance; it clearly makes more sense than living destitute with a starving artist, doesn’t it? And this, is why I believe the show reversed, i.e. super hot bartender guys and socially stunted Nobel laureate women won’t work. There just won’t be an attraction either way, unless there’s someone like Miranda in the midst.

[1] As in for life.

In response to my earlier post on lacking companionship, I received this via e-mail; from this talented woman.

hey…i remembered this fwd when i was reading your lacking companionship post. Girls whose eyes light up when they talk to you(and the rest), may not be otherwise engaged. Half the time they’re lamenting how correct this is/seems:

1. The nice men are ugly.
2. The handsome men are not nice.
3. The handsome and nice men are gay.
4. The handsome, nice and heterosexual men are married.
5. The men who are not so handsome, but are nice men, have no money.
6. The men who are not so handsome, but are nice men with money, think we are only after their money.
7. The handsome men without money are after our money.
8. The handsome men, who are not so nice and somewhat heterosexual, don’t think we are beautiful enough.
9. The men who think we are beautiful, that are heterosexual, somewhat nice and have money, are cowards.
10. The men who are somewhat handsome, somewhat nice and have some money and, thank God, are heterosexual, are shy and NEVER MAKE THE FIRST MOVE!!!!
11. The men who never make the first move, automatically lose interest in us when we take the initiative.

NOW ….WHO IN HELL UNDERSTANDS MEN?

Men are like a fine wine. They all start out like grapes, and it’s our job to stomp on them and keep them in the dark until they mature into something you’d like to have dinner with.

It’s by the grace of God that we live!!!!

Honestly, I’m somewhere between 8 & 11, depending on my mood, and the ambient lighting.

Need more detail? Here you go:
8—Sometimes you just don’t find her attractive. It’s not a crime. What is a crime is the way men handle it. We (at least I) can never tell that straight to a woman. So we (I) will concoct numerous (even if implausible) stories and weasel our way out; somehow always breaking her heart.
9—We aren’t being cowards. Sometimes, when you are attractive, in a waaay-out-of-our-league way, we just save you the trouble of having to shoot us down by shooting ourselves down. It’s not a crime, it’s a defence mechanism.
10—Same as 9.
11—This is weird, but only because it’s partially true. If a random hot woman makes the first move on us (us, of all people), she has to have some issue. And I can do better than a woman who’d want me. (Of course?) I lose interest.

Happy?

But these admissions are not why I put this up. The reason I’m putting this up here is to get feedback from the women in the audience. Are these the sorts of things that run through your minds? Does this mean, hypothetically, that if the guy is nice, somewhat-handsome, somewhat-brave, heterosexual, somewhat-rich, thinks you’re beautiful, doesn’t think you’re after his money, won’t be threatened by you making the first move—you’ll make the first move?

Men can chime in too. But your words will be gleefully ignored.

One of my cousin’s birthdays coincides with Christmas, but that is not central to this story. I had a piece of a most delectable cheesecake on the occasion, but that isn’t technically what this post is about either.

This post deals with random preparation tips for cakes, and cheesecakes in particular, since I am your resident connoisseur of such things. (A silly little man who invites diabetes with open arms.)

In your hurry to sink your teeth into its deliciousness, DO NOT bake your cheesecake at a temperature greater than 170–200 °F. Just don’t[1]. When you’re baking a regular cake, as you know, you use a lot of flour. Now the gluten from the flour prevents the egg from coagulating, which is why it’s OK for you to bake at your usual 325–350 °F. If you do the same for your cheesecake, you’ll end up with scrambled egg interspersed in a cream-cheese matrix after baking; Not very appetising.

Now that you know, go on, impress the people around you with your newfound know-how.

While we’re at it, if you’re in the process of making a short cake dessert for your guests, why not impress them by coming up with your own homemade preserves/jams/jelly? All of these are basically the same thing with different fruit to fluid ratios, and they’re easy enough to do. Plus the women love things that are sweet!

Here’s what you do. Let’s suppose you’re making strawberry shortcake. After baking your base cake (or cheating with a bought out pound-cake), just chop up a bunch of strawberries and toss them into a bowl. Sprinkle generous amounts of sugar on them in the bowl, and leave it sit. After about half an hour, come back and toss them lightly to enjoy your juicy strawberry preserves to be poured on the cake! When poured, it will be soaked up into the cake nicely and look (not to mention taste) fabulous.

All you’re really doing is extracting water from the fruit using the sugar. Easy, and impressive!

Being the manly man that I am, I am chock-full of such useful information.

[1] Even though random sources on the web will tell you otherwise (they will adivice much higher temperatures and water baths). If you care at all about rich and smooth texture, you will listen to me.

I saw Munich earlier today[1]. It was quite awesome—moving, intense and all that. Given the attention span of the average person here though, I’d say it was pretty long, but I guess that the gratuitous violence and gorgeous women in graphic procreative acts makes amends for that. It ends up asking the difficult questions, like, “Is extreme violence against your enemies really the answer for a happy ending?”, “How late into a pregnancy can you continue to have sex and still end up with a beautiful daughter?” … stuff like that. You know, the really important questions.

But here is where I stop talking about the movie, and break off into our tangent for the day.

The thing is, I was brought up in a cultural setup that’s totally non-confrontational[2]. The sort of, you slap me, I will turn and offer you my other cheek, mentality. Eventually you’ll vent your rage and move along; I will not be provoked into behaving like the animal you are. This in no way means I’m advocating being a wuss. In fact, it’s just the opposite. It takes a much bigger man, to forgive, forget and remain peaceful than it is to pick up a gun and vow to kill all your enemies.

I mean, where does that really get us? You kill my family, I yours, and your kids me, my kids (who somehow escaped) yours and so on. Seriously, what’s the fucking point?

And it is this root concept that most people in the movie—and in life—fail to see. Violence is never the answer. But there are several instances in the movie where people feel proud they’re fighters—”If we don’t fight for our land, no one will hand it to us”—and cases where they’re made to feel like traitors if they aren’t willing to give up their lives for their country.

I don’t claim to be unpatriotic, but there’s a big leap between being proud of where I’m from and giving my life for my country. I shouldn’t be made to feel guilty for not fighting for my country. It is my choice to make, and I will help her in productive ways, not “killing our enemies” or whatever grand crusade these people are after.

After all, no one is arbitrarily violent. Nothing is really unprovoked; It is always the sign of a bigger problem. Something you’re probably a part of. So fix the real problem. Be a little less inward looking (ignorant) and aware of other cultures. Peaceably go about your own life, and all will be well.

Especially if you have a super-hot loving wife and an adorable baby[3] on the line. You’re not screwing your country by leading the happy life you’ve built for yourself.

[1] I also got to talk to relatives who were in Munich in the ’70s for the Olympics when the incidents this movie is based on really happened (who’ve also seen the movie), and that was pretty enlightening too.
[2] I said I was brought up…. I didn’t say or mean everyone from where I am from was. So keep your “But my mommy taught me differently”s to yourselves. I don’t really care.
[3] This is a reference to the movie. Since I wanted to tie it in to close.

Keeping with the sort of back-to-basics drive initiated a few days ago, this post purports to revert to our favourite topic in these here parts—the divide between men and women. Oh joy! In particular, we’re going to be concentrating on a few things that popup frequently, and lead to much hilarity; if you’re the kinds that thinks being yelled at is funny.

While men don’t usually see the difference between being neat and being clean, women clearly do. So there he is, sitting all proud that he’s kept things so tidy (stuffed out-of-sight under the bed), whilst she walks in, declaring his habitat “an uninhabitable dump”. She didn’t even have to peer under the bed; she’s referring to the substantial layer of dust atop the TV, something which our guy is entirely blind to. The trouble here is not from one such specific unpleasant incident, but stems from a basic difference in stance on just what “clean and liveable” means.

This shaky communication pathway between men and women is frequently plagued by many other such instances, when they’re probably using the same words, or superficially referencing the same concepts, but implying entirely different underlying notions. A much-celebrated illustration of this is the implication of the phrase “I have nothing to wear”. When guy says this, what he really means is “I have nothing clean (enough) to wear”, while the same words coming from woman probably mean more along the lines of “I have nothing that I’m in the mood for wearing”, or “nothing that I have the right accessories for”, or something like that.

I could’ve stopped there with this example, but again, this is just symptomatic of something bigger. While women pay careful attention to detail, men often seem to be stuck in a wishy-washy state, where only vague aspects of the grand, sweeping goals are apparent (e.g. “Bragging about this will so maximise my chances of getting into her pants, so I must keep talking.”). So while the woman has painstakingly set something up, be it subtleties in the plans for the evening or fabulously-intricate patterns on her accessory selection, men aren’t going to magically sensitise, make thoughtful observations, and come up with fitting compliments.

They’re just not equipped for this sort of thing.

Hell, we don’t even see more than a few basic colours. Biscuit, cognac, brun? No, they’re all “brown”. Try beating the subtleties over and over into our heads, and they’ll still be “brown”. Noticing that you’ve spent an entire afternoon mixing and matching these in some way, with some hidden special veiled message and deciphering it is not something you ought to expect from us. At best, after much prodding, you might get a “those brown earrings go well with that top, and you” (We fail to notice details; we just need to keep our vague goals in sight. Like, “Maybe a compliment will increase my chances with her. I must compliment her.”).

And during the course of your prodding, you’ve probably hit against another fundamental wall—men don’t want to talk. Men like to do things, like leer. Not talk. Men don’t even like to talk about things they’re obsessed with, like coition. I’ve noticed so many interesting gender-based patterns of responses that I’ve gotten (or not) on different topics via comments and e-mails over these past few years, but I will reserve those observations for another day.

What is “waaaay too much” talk for a man, barely scratches the surface in terms of what a woman decrees as a “healthy norm”. No seriously, what does she want? Does she want me to keep calling her until her cell phone minutes are exhausted (and she gets to pay those wonderful overages?) as a symbol of how lovely our relationship is? I don’t really know. This is something I don’t ever see ending well. From one end, it always feels like it’s too much and therefore something’s wrong, while at the other end, it always seems not nearly enough and therefore something’s seriously wrong! Basically, there’s no hope, and this is just another avenue for much confusion.

I could go on, but most of these things I’ve mentioned are rather deep seated, and aren’t trivial to fix. Before I begin to bring you down however, I’ve realised that the trick is to convince yourself into thinking, “fundamental incompatibilities aren’t bad, they’re just opportunities for much excitement and surprise!”

Yeah, right, if being yelled at excites you.

People usually don’t like it when I copy and paste something I wrote elsewhere. But I haven’t done this in a while, so grin and bear it. Cheers.

The following was written up in response to something written elsewhere. So you probably have to have a browse before the context is clarified.

Fact: Men often aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed. (Refer to pause or any other tell-tale sign when asked “Do I look fat?”, for an example.)

So please don’t hinge your state of mind (degree of happiness?) on and by passively mulling over everything he has to say (or doesn’t say, or things you “sense from his (in)actions”). For all your keen senses (yes, I admit they exist and try my best not to offend a radar I cannot sense), I think there are times when women forget they are primarily strong, independent, intelligent people (with their own clear opinions) and more-than-deserving of being cherished.

I know I wrote this in response to some random woman’s worry about whether some random guy fancied her. But I address it to all womankind, as a reminder of their individuality and an apology toward them for all that men (including I) have done (and preemptively, for what we will do).

Men are basically stupid. It isn’t worth over-analysing their their (lack of)words/(in)actions, and you probably won’t feel much better if you do.

On a forcibly-related note, my medical insurance providers just sent me a letter stating gender reassignment surgery is now covered under my plan! Oh joy of joys!

And just when you stop being sure what’s a joke and what’s not, you start feeling queasy on the inside.