actuality.log

I’m putting this up here because it’s a symbol of me growing up. The older I’ve gotten, the more shameless I seem to have become, and I recently did something I couldn’t even imagine doing a few years ago.

I’d bought my computer some 2 weeks before the Macbooks were released, and with the release of the Macbooks, the specifications of the Macbook Pros were bumped up a bit without any change in price. So I did what any shameless person would do, called Apple to tell them I’d like the difference (I attached a monetary value to their specification bump) back; and today, I am $300 richer! (Less poor.) Here is the rough sequence of events, slightly edited, in chronological order:

Me:

Greetings.

This is a request regarding the price protection program. My order number is: W55555555.

I noticed earlier today that the specifications of the MacBook Pro computers were updated on your store without any changes in price. In particular, a processor upgrade which costed $300 (2.0 GHz -> 2.16 GHz) is now available as part of the base specification on the corresponding MacBook Pro machine.

A similar machine I had purchased with the earlier specifications was shipped to me on the 4th of this month. I have been in touch with a couple of Apple representatives on the phone, and was informed that I could be eligible for price protection, and was asked to get in touch with you regarding the specifics.

So could you please furnish me some more detail on this?

Thanks,
Me

She:

Hi:

I am forwarding your request to Developer Relations. We will notify you when a decision is made. As you know, Developers are under a different set of policies than the consumers. Hence, you receive a substantial discount.

Have you opened and used your system?

Thanks,
She

But it’s not like I was going to give up that easy; not with my new-found shamelessness.

Me:

Hello again,

Thank you for keeping me in the loop.

I have opened my system and am getting acquainted with it. I must say that it has been delightful. I do acknowledge that I received the discount. It’s just, even under the one-time discounted pricing, it dawned on me when I noticed the upgraded specifications that I would have received this faster machine had I ordered just a few days later. The value of the upgrade being the amount indicated earlier; subtracting, I suppose, the discount it would have garnered on the basis of being a Developer Store purchase.

Thinking it best to ask about this, I called up Apple earlier today, and the (post-sales service) woman I spoke to initially indicated to me that I was eligible for a credit of the differential, but was unable to process it because it was purchased from the Developer Store. And, in turn, I was forwarded to you so I decided to ask you what your policy was.

Thanks for looking into this,
Me

Needless to say, I love them; and I am forking down a large portion of this refund for a copy of Aperture.

Along the lines parts one, two and three of this series.

At how many hours of Gilmore Girls per day does your ardent fandom slowly stray into the realm of unhealthy obsession?

Is the reason I find Jenny Shimizu so desirable because she’s so androgynous? Sigh.

Since when did, “I have serious control issues, sorry,” stop being the perfect scam to smoothly get out of a drink at a party?

If you really find it that funny, why don’t you just giggle (cutely) like I’d love you to? Why do you keep insisting on saying “that’s hilarious” or “you’re so funny” instead?

Is the only reason you work here that this is one of the remaining few places that doesn’t insist on random drug tests?

Not to come-off as some sort of snob, but ever since I moved to the ritzier part of town a couple of years ago, I’ve done all my shopping at those speciality stores which are very tailored to specific niches. I don’t care if they cost twice as much as those large chains; I absolutely adore their unhurried ambience, and the fact that the people who run the places are aware and passionate about what they’re doing. As a matter of fact, I enjoy having to choose between 72 different kinds of exotic coffee; and I don’t even drink coffee!

What began innocently-enough as evenings spent exploring varied kinds of chocolate and sniffing different cheeses, soon crept into all aspects of my shopping. Before long, even grocery-shopping morphed to adventures in hand-picking wild berries; and the large chain-stores were soon a fading memory.

But, as was made painfully apparent a few days ago, there is always some eclectic thing which these stores won’t stock—a highly specific sort of head for a European electric toothbrush, perhaps?—and then you’re forced to make a trip to the big city and enter the big (bad) chain-store to satiate those needs.

After stepping-in and picking-up an item of toiletry or three, you soon find yourself owing the big (bad) chain-store $132, and you’re at the check-out counter, where an over-worked, under-paid “Wendy” will be there to “help” you. I mean, come on, she doesn’t even know my name (or how I like to organise my lotions)! Anyway, upon reaching said cashier’s counter, I was asked to present to her my SavingsPlus+ (the additional plus sign to really emphasise how much you’re saving?) card. You know, the things which magically drop the price of a stick of gum from 80c to 68c? The things that conveniently help the big (bad) chain-store keep a track of your purchasing habits? Yes, those SavingsPlus+ cards.

Having not shopped there in a couple of years at least, I informed “Wendy” that I didn’t have one, and that I was more than willing to forego their fabulous discounts.

As it turned out, this wasn’t the smartest thing to do; it seemed to really throw “Wendy.” Apparently, this was one concept her brain wasn’t wired to comprehend. She went berserk trying to show me how much money I’m losing ($6.34, if you’re curious), and kept insisting that I apply for a discount card right then and there. Not wanting to bother myself with filling out a form, I tried telling her again that I wasn’t interested in her savings, I just wanted to get out of there. When it was apparent she wasn’t listening, I rudely presented her the $132, and walked away with my things.

I realised soon enough that I was being chased by someone. Not just anyone, but our tenacious “Wendy,” who just wouldn’t let up. She’d followed me out to tell me that if I were to rush home and return with my SavingsPlus+ card, I could have my $6.34 back.

At this point, I nearly snapped. “Cool it lady. It’s 6 bucks. It’s MY 6 BUCKS. AND I DON’T CARE. I DON’T KNOW HOW THINGS ARE IN EAST EUROPE OR WHEREVER YOU’RE FROM, BUT THESE THINGS AREN’T A BIG DEAL,” were along the lines my mind was racing, but I politely nodded and left the scene.

Needless to say, I won’t go back there ever again, and I most definitely don’t plan on letting them track my spending habits anytime soon through their SavingsPlus+ scam.

I don’t care if people looked at me funny for picking up a few years’ worth of exfoliating body wash.

The following is my first “screen-cast” on OS X! I guess it’s ironic that the little video below needed to be re-encoded on my old GNU box using mencoder. The original video I received from the screen-capture program was 400 MB huge, and could barely be opened on any other machine, let alone play correctly.

There is nothing fancy here, but enjoy! [~17 Minutes, 51 MB, FFMPEG MPEG4]

Notes: There is no sound. There are many blaring typos, one of which is me wanting to say “slides ahead of time,” or “slides before time,” and ending up with “slides before of time” instead. And I must reiterate, there is nothing interesting here, just me figuring out how to screen-cast on a new OS.

Update: 1. This video works using VLC on Mac OS X.
2. It works using mplayer on GNU/Linux.
3. It works using mplayer on Windows XP. If you want to use Windows Media Player instead:
a. Fetch and install the necessary codec.
b. Run the “Video decoder configuration” program (Start->Programs->ffdshow->Video Decoder Configuration) and make sure the decoder for the “Other MPEG4” formats is set as “libavcodec.”

People keep asking me about temperatures I experience with the MacBook Pro, and I’ve gotten tired of repeating myself. I’ve decided to document it once in for all and get it over with. All the following measurements are carried out in a pleasantly cool room (whose temperature I do not know) where the computer is placed on a flat surface; my crummy table.

First, we have it 20 minutes after booting up, just sitting idle under battery.

I then plugged it into AC, and ran it under full load[1] for the next 45 minutes.

And finally, we have the most realistic situation. After killing the load mentioned previously, I proceeded to use it under normal light load (e-mail, web browser, Emacs, …) for 20 more minutes while continuing to have it plugged into AC. It landed up somewhere in the middle.

Note that these are temperatures from the internal sensors. The outer body temperatures ought to be less, since it’s away from the source of heat. But not by much, because they use so much god-damn aluminium. You might also be interested to know that the fans barely kicked in during these tests, and the system was near silent.

[1] To effect this full load, I ran two copies of the following script, loader.py:

import math
while 1:
    for x in range(10000):
        y = math.cos(x)

with python loader.py typed out into two terminal windows.

I just got this e-mail with a subject that went something like, “Love isn’t just for the smart and talented, but even for the smallest of God’s creatures.” “Just great,” I go, thinking it is another one of those e-mails from PETA (how the fuck did they get my contact information?) or some other pseudo-religious group trying to fleece me.

It turns out that it was a penis hardening, generic Viagra ad. I should’ve known.

Remember people, and I quote verbatim, “Your hypersexuality doesn’t depend on the size of your penis, it depends on its ability to stay hard for several hours. And that’s the way to deliver the best orgasm to her!” And to think I was under the impression that hypersexuality was a word I made up.

If only I had access to more such delightful information during the more experimental phases of my college years. You know, like when I slept with Prof. Klitgaard for what SHOULD HAVE BEEN AN ‘A’. (She lies!)

Where were we before we were rudely interrupted by that post about Jack? Ah yes, we were discussing the new-found joys of spring. Where, by “discussing,” I mean little more than you putting up with my monologue. Anyway, I’ve just gotten so caught-up with the whole number-of-parts naming scheme being used lately, that it’s apparent to me that I’ve gone a little overboard. A more appropriate title for today’s post would be “The sorrows of spring,” or something. But then I wouldn’t be able to say that this is post II of II now, would I? And then where’s the fun?

Like I was saying, the town is rather deserted right now and this has resulted in a change of neighbours for me; a change that’s hopefully temporary. Granted, I acknowledge the fact that these guys sing rather well (and trust me, I’m a pretty scathing critic), but it’s just that they’re so fucking loud! I mean, come on, I’m sure I can “out-sing” you guys, but you don’t hear me broadcasting that over the apartment complex on a daily basis now, do you?

Actually, I don’t think it’s the fact that they’re loud is what is bothering me; it’s that they’re brash. They’re brash in the flashy sort of way that frat boys are to win over insecure sorority girls. Unfortunately for me—now on levels other than inaccessibility to an environment that encourages rampant promiscuity and abuse of substances—I am not a member of their target audience.

So please, shut the fuck up.

Returning to more positive material, one of the more pleasant things that spring brings is the opportunity to open my windows. Yes, the same ones that are shut for over 8 months of the year in some misguided attempt to conserve a modicum of warmth in my dwelling.

At least, this sounds pleasant, on paper.

During my first few days of owning my new computer, I was going through it with a fine-toothed comb trying to make sure there was nothing wrong with it. You know, the standard sorts of things obsessive-compulsive geeks do. During the festitivites, there was an annoying recurring chirp that annoyed the hell out of me. Beginning to get worried that there might be something seriously wrong with it, I began to run my ear all over it, trying to figure out the source of the chirp. But I couldn’t find it.

Then I had the sense to shut it off.

It turns out that the chirp was emanating from elsewhere. From my kitchen—a kitchenette if you’re going to be overly pedantic about it—to be exact. Oh joy! It turns out that the new open-window policy had resulted in being intruded upon by a family of grasshoppers. Ones who, no doubt, like to sing together too! After I finally plucked up the courage (yes, I’m a wuss; sue me) and concoted a plan, I slowly and gently showed them the way out, one at a time without hurting them (I think). Though I couldn’t help but shudder when the last one out gave me a look of utter disgust; like as if I’d killed the others and she wasn’t very happy about it or something.

We’ll deal with her wrath later. At least my computer doesn’t chirp annoyingly anymore.

Afterword: If you’re sitting there scratching your head wondering what’s going on, don’t be perturbed. I decided to go old-school and sort of reverted to a style more attuned to the original purpose of this journal—chronicling my life. And the reason I did this was this review; which reminded me of the old times.

In the end, I think this series came out more of a hybrid: Chronicling my life—with punchlines! Forget the external, objective reviewers, what say you, loyal reader?

Out of the blue, a woman approached Jack earlier today and asked him if he was doing OK. Apparently, she felt he was looking “out of sorts” and—being the good samaritan that she is—wanted to make sure nothing was up. Jack lies about everything being perfectly fine; and makes something up about just having a “very long day,” brought about by a looming deadline. She said she knew what that was like, and soon continued on her merry way.

Who is he kidding? Jack hasn’t met a single deadline in months… years? Barely existing, it’s not like Jack cares about deadlines anymore. It’s not like Jack cares about anything, anymore.

The depressing bit about crippling depression is that it’s crippling.

People seem to be under the misconception that depression has something to do with being sad. Jack knows that this is not true. The two emotions operate on such different levels, that it is as though they are entirely unrelated. Depression is a veil that cloaks Jack’s state of mind on so many levels that it sometimes feels to him like he’s being choked.

He’s always exhausted, and even forcing himself to sleep more than 10–12 hours each night makes no difference. Keeping his eyes open is a chore. Moving is a chore. Observing is a chore. Thinking is a chore. Just being is a chore. There is no scope for productive pondering, let alone getting any work done under such a situation. You just exist, should you choose to.

From the later and later starts to his days to their earlier and earlier ends, Jack barely manages to wallow along; almost struggling like a man who’s been crippled by war. Nothing matters to him. The things he was once passionate about—the ones he derived pleasure pursuing—feel insurmountably hard just to attempt. He just doesn’t want to, and doesn’t even see the point anymore.

As if this weren’t bad enough, Jack’s body soon begins to get into the act as well. In an attempt to match its state with Jack’s mannerisms, it begins to break-down and start to hurt, almost without reason. The response is sympathetic, but the pain is real. With that nagging lower back—caused by little more than thought—lasting over months, Jack is now truly crippled; intellectually, emotionally and physically. Forget fancy yoga, Jack has trouble with the laces on his shoes.

Jack has attempted numerous ways to turn the tide. He’s switched sleep hours, dietary routines, and even attempted an exercise regimen. He’s tried everything from buying karma—giving away all that he has to help poor kids—to hoarding every last penny and buying bigger and shinier stuff for himself. He’s found fun activity partners and introduced some structure into his work hours. He’s tried all of this and so much more, but they just don’t work; the resolute veil refuses to rise.

The depressing bit about crippling depression is that it’s crippling.

Looking around, you can’t help but notice the first sightings of the much-missed hemline. And with rising hemlines, you can’t help but acknowledge the onset of spring. As much fun as winter clothes are—leaving so much to the imagination—this is a very welcome change; one that makes you thank the stars you were born a guy.

And just as you’re beginning to revel in this newfound pleasant change of scenery, in comes “graduation day,” and before you can say “waxed legs,” the entire town is deserted; leaving behind only the science and engineering grad students, of course.

No, it’s not like they’re busy, but it’s just that they have nothing else happening in their lives; forcing them to hover around their natural habitat—their labs.

With this cheery weather though, and a schedule freed-up by the lack of classes, I’ve managed to effect some changes into my life. I will get into details regarding this later, but apart from becoming “mostly vegan,” I’ve begun to walk to and from work each day; a 45 minute walk each way.

And by 45 minutes, I mean 45 minutes, at my pace.

I’m the sorts who, literally, stops to smell the roses and skips stones across ponds. Anyway, a combination of changing my nutritional patterns and this daily trek has resulted in me losing about 13 pounds over the past 2 weeks. This leaves me just 3.13 kg shy of the mass I aim to be at. (The astute would have noticed the little I trick I played with units—lb and kg—in the previous sentence.)

No-effort weight-loss. Another one of the three or so reasons it’s good to be a guy. Ironically, my clothes fit worse. It’s like I feel dorky and wimpy in them now.

During some—also much-missed—time in the sun, I happened to see two Mini Coopers yesterday. This is a strange occurrence, because not too many people—everyone’s a poor student—seem to own one around here.

One of these was a cute, yellow coloured convertible with its top down. It had the license plate ‘NIMBLE.’ Both, however, were driven by elderly women; so I’m sure she was using the word NIMBLE in reference to the handling of the car.

Or, was she?

(Not to get into anything technical, but I’m writing this from a new computer. And it’s freakin’ sweet.)

By now, you’re actually beginning to have thoughts along the lines of, “Women’s entertainment? Just what sort of woman is this supposed to be entertaining? Can it even be classified as entertainment at all? Who gets paid to make this crap? Do people get paid to make this crap?” You know, that sort of thing. But you brave on; because the evasive remote is still missing.

If you’d expected that the wife’d be entirely indebted to him (and end up some sort of weird subservient slave) because he:
– found a woman with a compatible lung who was willing to donate it when she died,
– killed aforementioned woman conveniently close to his wife, and
– made sure her organ was transplanted to his wife, saving her life,
you’d be wrong.

I mean, come on. If someone went through all that trouble for me, the least I could do is satiate them sexually. But not this wife, no. She’s still harping on the one tiny detail; that he slept with the other woman (for her no less; and what of all those times she got off observing them hidden in the closet?). She resents him entirely. But she’s all operational now (as in can breathe without that huge oxygen-tank-mask-contraption thing), and has needs too. So what does she do? She runs-off and begins to sleep with random men as she’s travelling—to promote her children’s books, which have now magically become a success! (You know the writers are doing their best to get her to strip, god-awful scar and all).

By now, you’ve lost way more hours that you’ll never ever get back than you can count. And you go, “Screw the remote!!,” as you begin to flail your arms and kick your extended legs hoping you’ll knock the TV off its stand, saving you from further agony.

So the tale ends there, abrupt as it is, because that’s as much as I could take. No, I don’t need to go to the store to buy a new TV; it turns out I was sitting on the remote all along.

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.

My beef with all of this exists on so many levels, but on the most primal, selfish level: I’m almost resentful that my parents hadn’t gone through this transition, allowing me to be born and raised with a silver spoon. I know this sounds self-centred, but I’m only bringing all of this up now because of a conversation I had with my mom yesterday.

Out of nowhere, we began talking about the (now in)famous Kaavya Viswanathan, who I’d only heard-of after the plagiarism stuff popped-up on google news. Yes, I admit that chancing upon one relatively cute picture of her had something to do with me being aware of the sequence of events. Anyway, in a sort of self-congratulatory elitist statement, my mom was all, “You know, when the [good] news about her first broke out, we were all singing praises as to her Brahmin buddhi” (supposed intellect of the “Brahmin class”), “How a kid so young could be in Harvard and an established author.”

You know what? Newsflash—She isn’t particularly anything. She didn’t even need to try. Any kid in a half-decent household from that part of the world with a modicum of intelligence can achieve all this, without plagiarism, because consciously or unconsciously, Indian kids will be nudged by their parents to do well in the intellectual realm. In comparison to what’s deemed important in the average household here, Indian homes just have a different priority structure.

During all of this, I had to distract myself to keep from screaming, “Don’t you see that the stories she wrote were about a kid who’d made it into a top school but was unhappy socially? That her dad had to invent a social life and they lied on the admissions forms to get her admitted in the first place?”

That’s—unfortunately or otherwise—just the way it is. These kids aren’t confused; they’re extremely fortunate. They don’t have to be a freaking geniuses. Just freaking born here, after their parents have done all the hard work.

Postscript: Notice how, in a single article, I expressed both resentment toward my parents’ choices and jealously toward my unborn kids. Pretty daedal, if I do say so myself.

If you’re even a remotely frequent visitor to my journal, you’d have realised by now that I am perennially pissed about a lot of things. One of these that is always on the back of my mind—something that makes me feel almost sorry for myself—is the fact that I’m going to have to make it in this country (should I choose to) as a first generation immigrant. I’ve probably harped about this before, but this is not a trivial process, and is an unfair burden that no future generation will have to worry about.

Fucking freeloaders.

A term which I hadn’t heard in over two years—primarily because I don’t usually associate myself with people who use it—‘ABCDE’ cropped up recently in pleasant conversation. For those not in the know, this expands (I presume) to American Born Confused DEsi—desi being the generic term encompassing people of south-Asian origin. It refers in particular to the “unfortunate” second generation immigrant kids who’re supposedly “confused” because they’re born into and live in one culture, but the environment and values emphasised at home are remnants of a different society far, far away.

You know what? shut the fuck up.

They aren’t “confused.” They’re American and you know it. They’re culturally acclimatised since birth, mesh well into society, have no awkward accents (apart from being unable to pronounce their own names)—they’re socially, culturally and emotionally conditioned to “just fit.” Don’t feel sorry for them. They have the easy life, with their now-rich doctor parents and their consequent BMWs and super-hot blonde fiancés. What the fuck is there to be confused about?

Really, can’t the god-damned moniker ‘ABCDE’ just die already?

Instead, feel sorry for the genuinely troubled and confused first generation folk. They’re the ones who are really torn between two worlds. They’re the ones who’ll never really integrate themselves into society (if they tried to, I mean). They’re the ones who have to work extra-hard to ensure a fabulous life for their kids.

One that they can’t even hope to have.