quietlyamused.com

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  • Fwd:

    Fwd:

    So with all the criticism I’m trying to come up with something that’s not minimalist, involves that neurosurgeron face, unispired in a good way, has blood gore and a drill. Reminds me of that Dilbert and Dogbert conversation regarding stringing together the top ten words that make funny jokes. Don’t remember most of them but weasel was somewhere there. In the top 5.
    Anyway since I’ve always believed in buying time here’s a forward I got that I think is funny. According to which I’m sane, hard-working and mean. So you might want a pinch of salt.

  • Toon #2

    Toon #2

    One of the constant grouses that we let simmer in our hearts is that almost everyone we know gets to eat the 3 square meals provided by the directive principles of state policy. While this is often accepted as a part of life, it gets a tad irritating sometimes.

  • Cartoon Cartoon

    Cartoon Cartoon

    So I landed up at Staples and despite every fibre screaming at the thought of patronizing an MNC and all that jazz I went berserk on a stationery procurement spree.
    One of the few things I picked up apart from another wi fi router to replace my old Linksys (we mourn it’s sad demise and rue the day it’s circuitry was cruelly snatched from our midst by the ravages of an electric storm) was a Pilot Sign Pen. Works like a sketch pen from the local store but is about ten times as expensive and absolutely useless for anything but maybe doodling. I can’t fathom of signing off discharges with it and since no one’s pestering me for an autograph at every street corner I decided to go with the doodle.
    Here’s the first of a another bold venture – Neurosurgery ‘toons. Let’s hope it lasts longer than the blog.

    Bring it on.

  • On the days gone by

    Ok then. Been a while and all that jazz. Many things have changed since the last post and that annoying blog-in-Hindi option seems to have suddenly appeared, as has a new grammar Nazi, albeit anonymous, who’s made mincemeat of my syntax, spelling and inappropriate punctuation. While I shall try to toe the queen’s line and be as proper as I possibly can, I’ve never had the patience to edit more than once so any of the inconsistencies that crop up geographically, grammatically or ecumenically should be forgiven and forgotten.
    Life’s been revolving around work and a new found passport into the operation theater and the past few weeks have had me going medieval on many a random skull. Yeah so we’re in the 21st century and survived the Y2K crisis (which some people made out to be potentially worse than the nuclear holocaust that Nostradamus had predicted) and technology rules our lives but still medieval is what we are while getting to the brain.Yeah that’s what we use… it’s hard initially as is the skull but does wonders to shoulders and forearms.
    The average neurosurgeon therefore is lean, emaciated, unshaven, but has arms to die for… or at least a right arm to die for.
    We also apparently believe in the 24 hour validity of both a bath and brush.
    Work apart what else is news?
    Kabhi Kabhi Aditi is a trippy song. Trippy enough to have on constant repeat and begin a groove to it when it plays in the middle of surgery.
    What you say?
    Some of us like music when we work. And considering we’re all low tech (see above) we use FM. And till a little while ago that was good. Then every station barring two decided to go local. Now while I have no grouse with local music and to be honest while the melodies are catchy and some even excellent musically the lyrics I’m afraid drive me up the wall and get me to the state of wanting to grind my teeth to a fine white powder and replace whatever the man was snorting when he wrote this. So with much cunning I position the dials to Radio One 94.3 since 91.9 will be vetoed by all except the anesthetized patient and begin to scrub for the case. Only to find that some more cunning and devious lie in wait in the shadows to switch to the hottest local station – Mirchi – less than a minute after I gown up for the surgery. It’s an unerring regularity with an unerring tendency to piss me off (since this plays at hourly intervals). Anyway 94.3 plays contemporary hindi film and pop music which is how I got to hear the Aditi song in the first place and has the funniest fillers in Prof Ulfat Sultan, Chamarajpet Charles and Rajani Saar. Since it’s all accent dependent a transcription will not be attempted and neither in the near or distant future a recording and streaming of the same. Best that you should hear them for yourself.
    So that’s what’s been happening. Bad humor, worse work shifts but a good dreamless sleep after it all.
    A parting shot at new music, I shall consider reviewing Sampooran by the Mekaal Hasan Band. Think it’s got the potential to be the next good thing that’ll never make it big.

  • Nickel back?

    Nickel back?

    It recently came to my attention that Nickel Creek, a band I’ve loved for a few years now has decided to indefinitely split up and its 3 members want to pursue their own individual solo careers. While this is yet another instance of something giving me great joy disappearing in a puff of reality, this post is hopefully not yet an obituary.

    I remember reading an edition of Rave, a magazine that I will still say has some moments of good music journalism, which was about Live 8 and also had an article on Robert Corwin. Who? Photographer who specializes in music/musician photography. As they say in the IRC way JFGI for more information.
    Anyway the article on Corwin (who incidentally is related to that Animal Planet fellow Jeff) obviously had examples of his work and one picture caught my eye.
    That’s Nickel Creek.
    Three musicians, in the air. The next couple of days were spent prowling the net for information and a few torrents later (yeah yeah sue me) I discovered joy.
    It’s not often that the sheer passion and happiness of music is almost exactly reflected in a picture but this is one instance.
    Their music is traditional, folksy, bluegrass injected, acoustic, passionate and just happy.
    And after some many years of touring and making music they apparently find it’s no longer as easy and natural as it used to be…
    So they’re off on some soul searching expedition and all I can do is hope and pray that they get back sometime.
    Their last farewell (for now) tour did feature one hilarious track.
    Google “nickel creek” and “toxic” download the mp3 and listen to it.
    Then listen to Smoothie song, House of Tom Bombadil, Beauty and the Mess and the host of others and you’ll see what I mean.

    To Sean, Sara and Chris, hope you guys get back.

  • Scary

    Ok I’ve had it with abortive ideas, exhaustion, writer’s block, the lack of internet and perhaps sheer laziness. I type with renewed vigour and zest and will to complete this post and then retire in to my shell of the above mentioned for another 20 odd days before my conscience and other influences prod me on to a new post.
    So we shifted to an apartment. Whee. Apart from my dad waking up screaming in cold claustrophobic sweats once or twice a week due to a previously mentioned issue, the transition from house to flat has been smooth with less hitches than Will Smith. It’s nice, 12th floor, one less than the expensive drinking joint, overlooking a concrete jungle and a hyacinthed lake, with faint strains of bhangra and biriyani, not always mutually exclusive, occasionally wafting through the windows. But I love apartments. Life is so easy. Within minutes of shifting we had milk, water and newspaper delivered by some enterprising little man who for a tad extra offered to bring by flowers too. Valentine’s notwithstanding I had to pass that offer.
    So one day in this new abode, sleepy and disoriented due to some paradigm shift in my internal clock I was rudely woken up by a man claiming to have put in the internal gas line in the kitchen. He of course wanted to check and see if all was well and we weren’t living in some gas chamber, so to speak. Here’s my problem, the standard way to check for a leak is either by dabbing soapy water on the joints to look for bubbling, or in the absolute worst case scenario to do it inspired by a truffle hunting pig – smell. They do dope the cylinders with some sulphurous compound for that simple reason. Our intrepid little Darwin award contender proceeded to pull a matchbox out and light up under the pipe. 30 of the longest seconds in my life later he turns with a grin and proclaims all is well. I haven’t slept since then…

  • Back.

    Didn’t think it would come to a time when sitemeter and google analytics would start telling me that the number of people visiting our little patch in the woods would reduce to levels that it no longer made sense for either site to devote a bit of memory to keep count of the few who swing by. And many thousands of people egged (notice it’s egged not egg,are egging or will egg) me to continue writing despite all and reminded me of promises I had made and am not keeping.
    So here goes nothing.
    After the last run in with suicidal/homicidal/genocidal gas repairmen, we’ve settled in quite well thank you. No more telltale aromas of LPG wafting through the house. The occasional new house glitches of flushes going off on their own still exist. And only because it’s a new house can one be sure it’s the plumbing and not some poltergeist.
    This time’s funny story comes courtesy the paterfamilias. Not something he did or thought but just the usual anecdote. He’s gotten himself a Swift and yours truly managed to wrangle a spin. Nice car that. Spacious, responsive but a little tight on the gearstick. That should resolve in a while I guess. And with some cool new car stereo that reads a flash drive via USB and plays it all with scrolling text. Makes my Xplod look like some Jurassic Park hand me down (which it is, the only thing the tape slot is used for is the tape adapter for the Pod). All the cribs aside there is one more to add and that’s the fact that there’s a nasty blind spot at about 30 degrees that the designers didn’t quite take care of. So while driving and narrowly missing many a wayward motorist due to the aforementioned blind spot and cribbing about it, Dad launches into a story.
    Long, long ago when the man was globetrotting and found himself in Europe and the conversation turned to cars in India, Dad mentioned his car that was an otherwise nice drive and all that but had this blind spot problem that forced him to look out of the window every time he wanted to turn to the right. When further interrogated he mentioned that the car was a Premier Padmini (yeah that long ago) made by Fiat. Perplexed at the loud laughter that ensued my rather distraught father probed into the possible cause of such joy. Turns out the explanation was thus, “It’s obvious, isn’t it. It’s an italian car. Italians always drive with their heads sticking out of the window.”
    That episode apart, we’ve come a long way from the time that changing gears meant trying to haul the steering wheel off the assembly.
    Also been discovering more and more of Rashid Khan. And loving it…
    And since my well of ideas is running dry we’ll leave you with a few snippets.
    The first is courtesy Jay Leno who pointed out that a recent German study has shown that many adult Germans are depressed and most of them think that the best way to deal with that is a long walk. And the Poles are now worried because last time the Germans were depressed and decided to walk, they walked all the way across Poland.
    Maggi Cuppa Mania – the Chilli Chow Yo flavour is good.
    When not paying attention to what one is walking on, one must at least have that much awareness of the ground to avoid stepping on BOTH gum and cow dung. Each is bad enough, together they’re impossible to deal with.
    And finally, heard on radio – Save the earth, stop eating meat since cows produce methane by the gallon and methane after carbon dioxide is the greenhouse gas of the millennium. I’m thinking why won’t they stop drinking milk. A steak doesn’t produce half as much methane as a healthy, grass-munching heifer.
    Peace be on thee.
  • Back.

    Back.

    Ok I’ve had enough of aborted posts. Some five lie incomplete in the drafts folder and it’s beginning to look like the death of a blog and one that I swore never to let die.

    So here goes. After some many half-hearted lines on small towns, John Butler and his two friends and a bit on Rashid Khan taking Malkauns to a new level, I’ve decided to start small and wax eloquent about what I know best. And no it’s not that you sick mind, I was talking about medicine.So I had some impacted, infected molar with the roots growing all awry so it needed to be yanked out and I had to, after much procrastination, visit the local dentist. Sweet man with all the regular jazz of assistants, unprotected-thyroid-cancer-inducing X-rays and a lifetime supply of ‘Outlook’ in the waiting room. So last Saturday evening was spent in his company with him going at the old biter with an assortment of scary implements (and bending two in the process). Saturday night was spent in hungry agony. Saturday afternoon though, was spent in prayer to the Gods of blasphemy at Koshy’s consuming some incredible beef fry that they serve with beer. But that lasted only little longer than the anesthesia which explains the rest of the night. The next day happened to be apartment checking out day considering the folks have finally gotten tired of living with the fungus. No that’s not their idea of me. The old house is falling apart and the only saving grace is that it isn’t ours. So the usual house hunting saga happened with us finally settling on an apartment. Now those of you who’ve been avid readers of this space and hang on and memorize every word would remember that dad had an apartment complex… well it seems while you can’t make horses drink water, most would once led to a stream or some similar water body.
    So we found an apartment and once the interior designer has decided that the upholstery is the right shade of blood red and is finally satisfied with the cool inlaid saree on the cupboards we shall shift. Will have to remember to take the Balinese menstrual cloth that she’s put in one of the rooms as a curtain and sentence it to purgatory.
    managed to rip the sound track of Unreal tournament and put it on the pod, if I have already mentioned some technological achievement of this sort, I beg for forgiveness.
    But getting back to our medical story – what connects a tooth extraction, burning feet and high fever the next day? House would go infection. It’s not auto immune and certainly not Lupus and god forbid a tumor. But yeah the feet have been doing the hot coal routine for the past day or so and it’s driving me up the wall. Much rumination went into it’s etiology and after denying access the the zebra diagnosis of Gopalan’s Burning Foot Syndrome (yeah I know it is cool too) I’ve settled for post infectious radiculoneuropathy.
    All that’s left to do is to load up with some legal trippy meds and kick my feet up. Suggest you do the same.

    On the afterthought, to do justice to the many posts that didn’t see the light of day Rahid Khan does make Malkauns a tad more magical than it already is, John Butler Trio is trippy music, if at Madikeri or Mangalore eat at Eastend (Biryani) and Costa’s (Neer dosa and any curry you want) respectively.
    And check out the Hero 849. Cool?

  • Staying Up…

    Staying Up…

    …or how to trick the hypothalamus and make a mockery of your internal clock. After some many consecutive nights of staying up and trying to keep the drunk denizens of this fair city from eradicating themselves I’ve shifted to the day shift and all I seem to want to be doing is sleeping. As a result of such clock malfunctions I’m up at some insane hour, bathed and dressed and considering I’ve woken, washed and wasting time, I should be blogging. So here I am.

    While I shan’t tolerate any jokes about those who can’t blog, photoblog, I really like this picture. I call it Sin.

    That apart I’m finally listening to music again and sailing the high seas as a pirate of reknown. Though considering I only get to hear the first five or six songs before I drift off and somehow I never remember to start the next listen from track 6 or seven, my reviews of the music that’s caught my eye are going to be limited to the first half, Side A, you get the drift…

    The Eagles are back. I remember writing a review of their music once and at that point of time we were only stuck with Hole in the World as a taste of things to come and about six new greatest hits compilations that had the same tracks in various permutations and combinations. I remember arguing with Hypolink who used to make an occasional appearance in the comments section about how the song was still Eagles’ with it’s harmonies and I got thupped at for liking a song that his favourite band had written like it was some boy-band. So we waited and amidst rumors of another break up thanks to Don Felder playing spoilsport we silently wept at the prospect of their demise. But all is good and Long Road Out of Eden did see the light of day. I just realised the connection with the picture above but hey it wasn’t intentional. The double album takes time to grow on you and considering it’s only the first few songs that I ever hear what little I’ve heard has grown and taken root.
    How Long is the catchiest tune of the album, reminiscent of Take It Easy and Already Gone with the trademark guitar work and almost impossible harmonies. Drive to it if you will and you’ll see what I mean. I don’t remember the names of any of the other tracks due to many days of missing my multivitamins. But I did feel that some of the songs seemed like solo album material with Don Henley and Glenn Frey hogging the limelight for almost the entire track, but Timothy Schmidt has his moments and Joe Walsh while subdued on the first CD does pull off some neat work in the second album.
    Bottom line? It was worth the 13 years for a studio album.

    Matchbox 20 I remember from early college when they burst in with Bent, that featured on a Compilation of alternative rock of the same name. Then a friend bought The Mad Season Album and I managed to buy a cheap(very, very cheap) CD of Yourself or Someone like You from Nepal. More Than You Think You Are came in a Torrent as did an assortment of live and acoustic tracks. Rob Thomas’ distinctive voice and the magic that he created with Santana in Smooth and a couple of tracks (Streetcorner Symphony, being one of them) in his solo album, Something To Be, albeit guilty of being tainted with pop, had all set the scene for Exile On Mainstream. The Band finally released a Greatest Hits of sorts with 6 new tracks followed by the old hits. Which suits me, as outlined above, perfectly. The new songs, in simple terms, rock! How far we’ve come is catchy and begs to be covered sometime in life. The video’s out on VH1 apparently and all over the web so go forth and enjoy. The assortment of older tracks that form the latter half of this album are, thankfully, a good selection from 3 AM, Push, Bent to Disease, Bright Lights and Unwell. Overall, whether or not you’ve heard Matchbox Twenty, it’s a good album.

    I shall confess to have started writing this post a couple of days back and now not knowing how to finish it and running late

  • Almost Unreal

    Damn I realised that I’d forgotten I’d had an online presence. The last post was a half-eaten apple. For more reasons than one. So I’m done with my month in emergency and this time around no insensitivity towards boys with toilet brushes or auto drivers with plastic bottles or the usual assortment of patients who come my way. I’ve realised that it’s not a statistically skewed position I hold and my life is not all that left-shifted. Why? Because the net and even my textbooks have a plethora of nethers with an equally varied selection of objects within them.
    But that isn’t the point is it… Casualty is such a blissful posting. Yeah so your hypothalamus is mijooked and you can barely focus for 15 minutes when the shift is all over, there’s this wonderful instant gratification, don’t-have-to-care-about-tomorrow emotion that keeps the adrenaline going for a month. Well at least 3 weeks after which it’s no longer as cool as it’s cracked up to be.
    Instant gratification reminds me of Unreal Tournament. Which is not what you miserable little worms are thinking about. Though it can be the name of some sleazy time bound competition that could theoretically happen in the bowels of men’s hostels but that isn’t the story either.
    Unreal tournament is the ultimate instant gratification tool after internet porn. May be in moments of extreme geekdom, it occupies the same pedestal.
    An environment (sometimes just a room), a bunch of other characters, an assortment of weaponry, a set number of frags. You die, you respawn, they die they respawn, whoever gets the magic number of kills wins. And if you want you try another room.
    No story. No complex map to navigate, no secrets to unravel, no dark, long, anxiety inducing corridors a la Half-life or Doom. I remember when I got some shareware version of Doom and took three nights to finish it and had nightmares for three weeks and walked very slowly and carefully around corners for three months.
    But Unreal is the future of gaming for those who don’t want to use anything beyond maybe the midbrain. We come home, leave our frontal lobes behind and fire away at bots till the frustration of the day disappears and settle for a good night’s sleep. And the good news is that such activity improves hand eye co-ordination.
    The bad news is that I need a graphics accelerator.
    Worse is that I’m constantly told by residents of The Age of Empires that I’m a Wendol equivalent or by those Baldur’s gatekeepers that I’m of the mental capacity of a halfling.
    The plan is to get me either a Redeemer or a Flak Cannon and make the best of the five minutes.