Posts
"Think of the people who blog - it's people who like the sound of their own voice and the internet has provided them the opportunity to sound off in public. They are reminiscent of the fuddy-duddy squadron leaders living in villages outside London who'd be writing to the Times, whining about this and that."
Not my words. That's Mr Ian Anderson, founder, flautist, singer and songwriter of the delightfully idiosyncratic rock group Jethro Tull. He has more to say in an interview to the Economic Times (published on 31 January 2006).
Another bon mot: "I've absolutely no intention of listening to the tittle-tattle and nonsense that gets spouted in chatrooms by so-called fans. They know, as well as I, that they are the train-spotters, the stamp collectors. People who have this obsesson with points of detail, who had their security blankets taken away when they were too small, abandoned babies in a dust heap somewhere. Musicians should never be adversely affected by the criticism of anything less than a first-rate professional journalist who is an expert in the field."
Now, I hold no brief for or against Mr Anderson. In fact, truth be told, I quite admire his musicianship and I've been privileged to attend two of his concerts, albeit when he was not quite in his prime, but by no means past his sell-by date. Certainly not too old to rock 'n' roll. (Unfortunately, I shall be missing his third concert in Mumbai, but for reasons that have nothing to do with this interview.)
There is much truth in what he says, and some exaggeration, and perhaps a touch of unwise pique. Firstly, now that I have recently returned to Blogsville, to be told by someone whose talents I respect that I am - how did he put it? - ah, yes, a narcissistic squadron leader living in a village outside London, is a trifle discouraging.
Do I really like the sound of my own voice? Well, in a manner of speaking, certainly. Not, I hasten to add, at a karaoke night, for I cannot hold anything more than the most basic of tunes. But certainly, I enjoy my own writing, even if I am in something of a minority at the moment. And I do live outside London in what is very much a village in many ways. And, absolutely, one of the selling features of the internet is this facility it offers to all and sundry to "sound off in public".
Am I blogging to satisfy my inner muse? Absolutely. Am I blogging to make the world a better place and to save the trees? Certainly. Would I like a fervent female fan following? Duh, sure. So, score one to Mr Anderson for accuracy.
Score two to Mr Anderson for his eloquence, lucidity and ability to turn a phrase. I like that bit about "abandoned babies in a dust heap". So much more graphic and memorable than a bland comment. Only a British musician would be able to conjure up an image like that and use scathing wit to such effect. Honestly, can you imagine someone from Boyzone or Destiny's Child or any rap singer you care to name being sufficiently fluent to spin off a sentence that has over twenty words in it? (I forbear from giving the exact word count for fear of an accusation of being obsessed with detail.) Well, if they did, nineteen of those words would probably be "Like dude, I mean, fugg it dawg" and so on. About the only other contemporary musician I can think of who is as eloquent is Bono, and he's Irish.
Now Mr Anderson surely does exaggerate when he lumps all us poor bloggers into one sack and then proceeds to metaphorically kick that sack into the Bosphorus. Some of us bloggers, especially novice four-day old ones like yours truly, are really nice human beings after all. Kind to children, dogs and our favourite shoes. But I would excuse his exaggeration as hyperbole, used to make his point and intending nothing personal against me. Especially since I own a fair percentage of his albums, all legally purchased in eco-unfriendly vinyl and later in even more eco-unfriendly plastic, though now converted (legally, I hasten to add) to "green" digital copies.
I would however wonder at his comment about what criticism musicians should and should not listen to. I agree that a musician (or any other creative artist) should and must follow his muse and not allow himself to be held ransom to fickle fandom and cretinous cows who have no taste and appreciation. Having said that, however, an artist must also have a realisation that he does not live by muse alone, and that in a commercial world, he must be aware of what sells and what doesn't and what is liked enough for money to be spent on it and what isn't. And I submit that, in many cases the "professional who is expert in his field" may simply be living in too high a tower, breathing air that is too rarefied to be able to adequately feel the pulse of the populace.
After all, no one would claim that Dan Brown is an artist with words (and Mr Anderson doesn't spare him in the interview either), but it would be equally foolish to deny that his books sell. Mr Brown is probably laughing all the way to the bank, while his critics fret and fume at his incompetence. He has successfully ignored the professionals who are expert in their fields and has harnessed the purchasing power of the train-spotters, the stamp collectors. Sad, but true.
(Entirely by the way, I applaud Mr Anderson's taste in literature, for he names John Le Carre as one of his favourite authors - he's one of mine too.)
So, what I think it boils down to is, can you be creative and successful without compromising your artistic scruples and integrity? I think Mr Anderson has shown that you can; but I also think that there are many more who can't. Kudos to Mr Anderson. Long may he rock and roll.
[I just bethunk me that a blogger who genuinely enjoys the sound of his voice would now be a podcaster.]
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Matutinal Mumbai Musings (Second Movement)
First Movement was obviously adagio, dealing as it did with the cabbie bottlenecks. I've by no means exhausted that topic, but perhaps I should move on to allegro.
Zipping through the city in the pre-dawn hours you get a taste of what travel on these roads could really be like. But usually isn't.
One peculiarity of Indian city roads has always struck visitors as strange. Every visitor I've driven around in the city has commented upon it, usually in bemusement or bewilderment. I don't mean the "cows on the road" comment. That is so old hat. And to give the city its due, one rarely does see cows on the road any more, at least in South Mumbai.
No, what drives them to a full stop (terrible pun intended) is what we do to our traffic lights after 10 p.m. We switch them off. Traffic lights in other cities around the world work 24/7 and they are largely respected accordingly. However, that would be too bland for us, so we switch them off.
However, that is too bald a statement. We have numerous ways of switching them off. Strange but true. Here are some that I've encountered in all my nocturnal ramblings.
The most popular is the Amber Admonition. This is when all the lights at a crossing blink amber, admonishing you to navigate the crossing at your own peril. A variant of this is the Rhythmic Red, where the light facing the junior or less-travelled road blinks red, while its counterpart on the main road blinks amber. A kind of caste system at work here.
The blandest one is the Blankly Black, a "Look Ma, No Lights" version where all the traffic lights are simply switched off, presenting a boring dead aspect to the crossing.
Then there is the Deadpan Deadlight. This is a favourite not just at night, but often encountered during the day too. All the traffic lights in every direction are red. Simply Red. That's it: no fancy blinking or synchronization or variations. I think it is a philosophical statement on the part of the authorities, in keeping with the karmic approach to life, happiness and George Bush. Whatever is to happen, will happen; therefore, there is no use in going anywhere in any direction. So stop.
Of course, it doesn't work that way. At first, everyone comes to a respectful halt at the red light. Then after all have been waiting for a minute or so, two drivers realize that something's wrong and that Deadpan Delight is in operation. It's always two drivers who come to this simultaneous realization, and the two drivers are always at right angles to each other. Both of them take off with great enthusiasm only to encounter the other at the focal point of the intersection. If they are young and have good reflexes, there is a screeching of brakes and the refreshing tinkle of broken glass. If not, there is a delightful pile-up.
Occasionally, the two drivers who recognize the Deadpan Delight are about four cars behind the lights. In such cases, there is a fanfare of horns and a curse of oaths until the leading cars are goaded into action. Whereupon Deadpan Delight proceeds as outlined in the previous paragraph. Never fails.
However, the greatest of them all, the mother of all traffic signal configurations is the Funky Chicken. It is a variant of the Deadpan Delight mixed in with the Rhythmic Red and Amber Admonition. It's probably taken them years of computerized simulations to get it right, but they've succeeded. It works like so.
It starts off with Rhythmic Red on the main road while Amber Admonition is on the side road. Just as the cars tentatively venture forward, it slams into Deadpan Delight and everyone grinds to a halt. Now, here comes the touch of genius. Before anybody can recognize Deadpan Delight, the signals change to green. All of them in all directions. Everybody lurches forward simultaneously. Instant gridlock. The lights go back to Rhythmic Red. This is poetry in stop-motion.
On my morning drive I encountered a number of Deadpan Delights. However, being older and wiser, my foot ventured nowhere near the brake. At that hour in the morning, waiting at a red light on a Mumbai road is like George Michael wandering into a public toilet. Just begging to be rear-ended.
Zipping through the city in the pre-dawn hours you get a taste of what travel on these roads could really be like. But usually isn't.
One peculiarity of Indian city roads has always struck visitors as strange. Every visitor I've driven around in the city has commented upon it, usually in bemusement or bewilderment. I don't mean the "cows on the road" comment. That is so old hat. And to give the city its due, one rarely does see cows on the road any more, at least in South Mumbai.
No, what drives them to a full stop (terrible pun intended) is what we do to our traffic lights after 10 p.m. We switch them off. Traffic lights in other cities around the world work 24/7 and they are largely respected accordingly. However, that would be too bland for us, so we switch them off.
However, that is too bald a statement. We have numerous ways of switching them off. Strange but true. Here are some that I've encountered in all my nocturnal ramblings.
The most popular is the Amber Admonition. This is when all the lights at a crossing blink amber, admonishing you to navigate the crossing at your own peril. A variant of this is the Rhythmic Red, where the light facing the junior or less-travelled road blinks red, while its counterpart on the main road blinks amber. A kind of caste system at work here.
The blandest one is the Blankly Black, a "Look Ma, No Lights" version where all the traffic lights are simply switched off, presenting a boring dead aspect to the crossing.
Then there is the Deadpan Deadlight. This is a favourite not just at night, but often encountered during the day too. All the traffic lights in every direction are red. Simply Red. That's it: no fancy blinking or synchronization or variations. I think it is a philosophical statement on the part of the authorities, in keeping with the karmic approach to life, happiness and George Bush. Whatever is to happen, will happen; therefore, there is no use in going anywhere in any direction. So stop.
Of course, it doesn't work that way. At first, everyone comes to a respectful halt at the red light. Then after all have been waiting for a minute or so, two drivers realize that something's wrong and that Deadpan Delight is in operation. It's always two drivers who come to this simultaneous realization, and the two drivers are always at right angles to each other. Both of them take off with great enthusiasm only to encounter the other at the focal point of the intersection. If they are young and have good reflexes, there is a screeching of brakes and the refreshing tinkle of broken glass. If not, there is a delightful pile-up.
Occasionally, the two drivers who recognize the Deadpan Delight are about four cars behind the lights. In such cases, there is a fanfare of horns and a curse of oaths until the leading cars are goaded into action. Whereupon Deadpan Delight proceeds as outlined in the previous paragraph. Never fails.
However, the greatest of them all, the mother of all traffic signal configurations is the Funky Chicken. It is a variant of the Deadpan Delight mixed in with the Rhythmic Red and Amber Admonition. It's probably taken them years of computerized simulations to get it right, but they've succeeded. It works like so.
It starts off with Rhythmic Red on the main road while Amber Admonition is on the side road. Just as the cars tentatively venture forward, it slams into Deadpan Delight and everyone grinds to a halt. Now, here comes the touch of genius. Before anybody can recognize Deadpan Delight, the signals change to green. All of them in all directions. Everybody lurches forward simultaneously. Instant gridlock. The lights go back to Rhythmic Red. This is poetry in stop-motion.
On my morning drive I encountered a number of Deadpan Delights. However, being older and wiser, my foot ventured nowhere near the brake. At that hour in the morning, waiting at a red light on a Mumbai road is like George Michael wandering into a public toilet. Just begging to be rear-ended.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Backed up
Back at work after a delicious four-day weekend that saw the return of the son of Blog, and now back home after being back at work. I now need to be on my back, so I'll be back.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Matutinal Mumbai Musings (First Movement)
Well, that's better! I'm back online after a 90 minute nap and a cup of coffee. The only civilized way to spend a Sunday morning.
The round trip from my home to the airport and back is 50 kilometers. This morning it took me about 50 minutes, driving quite sedately: at no point did I cross 80 kmph. Of course, this was at 5:30 a.m. on a Sunday. On a weekday, once the sun is up, I would have taken at least 40 minutes longer for just one leg of the trip.
So, that's 50 kilometers in 50 minutes versus 25 kilometers in 90 minutes. An average of 60 kmph versus 16.67 kmph. A staggering 260% improvement in speed! (It's amazing what a cup of coffee can do. No, not the speed gain, but the facility with statistics.)
So, based on these observations and statistical analysis I can identify what ails Mumbai. Or, to put it another way, how to make Mumbai a civilized city.
Firstly, about 6 million fewer people. Face it, 12 million (official count) is a ludicrous number for a city. There are countries with fewer inhabitants than my municipal ward. Greece and New Zealand to name just two. But that ain't about to happen.
Secondly, about a million fewer cars. That's a no-brainer. And that's not happening either.
Thirdly, and most crucially, about 30,000 fewer cabs. Now, that's a workable number.
I kid you not, the number of traffic problems in Mumbai caused by obstreperous cabbies and their even more asinine country cousins, the autorickshaws, are out of all proportion to their headcount.
Even at 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, a scattering of cabs had contrived to double park and triple park at various points along my route. And the route I took is one of the least crowded parts of the city at 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning. There was no reason for them to park down the middle of the road at Worli, or 20 feet from the curb at the expressway exit, but there they were, blocking traffic.
And then there are those cabbies with delusions about their horsepower, living on remembered glory when they were the fastest things on four wheels in the city. Ah, but that was in the days before liberalization and compressed natural gas. The former has brought a bevy of modern cars that can leave a cabbie in their wake before they've even got to third gear. The latter has reduced the air pollution, which is good, but has also throttled down the pulling power of the cabbies' engines, which is probably better, if only they'd realise it.
But most of them don't. So you find them in the fast lane going up the flyover at a breakneck 30 kmph blocking traffic behind them for miles at a time. Or jockeying for position at a traffic light, and then stalling just as the lights turn green.
That train of thought opens up more entries for this blog, which is in danger of becoming a Mumbai blog rant. Blame it on Sunday morning, 5:30 a.m.
The round trip from my home to the airport and back is 50 kilometers. This morning it took me about 50 minutes, driving quite sedately: at no point did I cross 80 kmph. Of course, this was at 5:30 a.m. on a Sunday. On a weekday, once the sun is up, I would have taken at least 40 minutes longer for just one leg of the trip.
So, that's 50 kilometers in 50 minutes versus 25 kilometers in 90 minutes. An average of 60 kmph versus 16.67 kmph. A staggering 260% improvement in speed! (It's amazing what a cup of coffee can do. No, not the speed gain, but the facility with statistics.)
So, based on these observations and statistical analysis I can identify what ails Mumbai. Or, to put it another way, how to make Mumbai a civilized city.
Firstly, about 6 million fewer people. Face it, 12 million (official count) is a ludicrous number for a city. There are countries with fewer inhabitants than my municipal ward. Greece and New Zealand to name just two. But that ain't about to happen.
Secondly, about a million fewer cars. That's a no-brainer. And that's not happening either.
Thirdly, and most crucially, about 30,000 fewer cabs. Now, that's a workable number.
I kid you not, the number of traffic problems in Mumbai caused by obstreperous cabbies and their even more asinine country cousins, the autorickshaws, are out of all proportion to their headcount.
Even at 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, a scattering of cabs had contrived to double park and triple park at various points along my route. And the route I took is one of the least crowded parts of the city at 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning. There was no reason for them to park down the middle of the road at Worli, or 20 feet from the curb at the expressway exit, but there they were, blocking traffic.
And then there are those cabbies with delusions about their horsepower, living on remembered glory when they were the fastest things on four wheels in the city. Ah, but that was in the days before liberalization and compressed natural gas. The former has brought a bevy of modern cars that can leave a cabbie in their wake before they've even got to third gear. The latter has reduced the air pollution, which is good, but has also throttled down the pulling power of the cabbies' engines, which is probably better, if only they'd realise it.
But most of them don't. So you find them in the fast lane going up the flyover at a breakneck 30 kmph blocking traffic behind them for miles at a time. Or jockeying for position at a traffic light, and then stalling just as the lights turn green.
That train of thought opens up more entries for this blog, which is in danger of becoming a Mumbai blog rant. Blame it on Sunday morning, 5:30 a.m.
Matutinal Mumbai Musings (Overture)
I think that is the right word, but I'm in no mood to go look it up, even if the trip is only to the next browser window and dictionary.com.
That's what comes of going to bed on a malapropism of "frying bhelpuri" and being awoken at 3:30 a.m. to the sound of a leaking geyser. Not the Ol' Faithful kind, but the modern plumbing kind. Come to think of it, though, this geyser is a bit like Ol' Faithful given the way that it regularly breaks down. Breaks down, hence the leaks. My wit makes me cry. (You too?)
At 3:32 a.m. I tried to dismiss said leaking geyser from my thoughts and valiantly summoned sheep to be enumerated. By 4:40 a.m. the sheep had been counted, herded and shorn, the wool had been carded and knitted into cardigans that were on sale in WalMart at a ridiculous price, but Sleep, that fickle mistress, stayed stubbornly away. The geyser still leaked.
I stumbled to the kitchen and carted a footstool back into the bathroom, clambered up, groped the geyser with all the expertise and none of the enthusiasm of a dance bar patron attending to his favourite lap dancer, and finally managed to turn the tap off. The geyser still leaked.
At 5:00 a.m. when the geyser had reconciled itself to the pressures of modern life and ancient plumbing, it stopped leaking. Too little too late. I had volunteered to escort my wife to the airport where she was scheduled to catch a 6:30 a.m. flight to Bangalore. On a Sunday. Yes, I know, but these are the troubled times we live in.
Up until this time, the day had promised to be one of those where the sun pokes a bleary eye over the horizon and wonders if it could take the day off. Not that the sun had got around to any bleary-eyed poking just yet; it had better sense than that. (It is Sunday, after all.)
For want of anything more sensible to do I noted the time we left and the odometer reading. On the lonely return leg of the airport chukker, I decided it was too early to listen to Pink Floyd (I know, I know: blame it on my advancing years) and spent the time in deciding what to blog today.
That's what comes of going to bed on a malapropism of "frying bhelpuri" and being awoken at 3:30 a.m. to the sound of a leaking geyser. Not the Ol' Faithful kind, but the modern plumbing kind. Come to think of it, though, this geyser is a bit like Ol' Faithful given the way that it regularly breaks down. Breaks down, hence the leaks. My wit makes me cry. (You too?)
At 3:32 a.m. I tried to dismiss said leaking geyser from my thoughts and valiantly summoned sheep to be enumerated. By 4:40 a.m. the sheep had been counted, herded and shorn, the wool had been carded and knitted into cardigans that were on sale in WalMart at a ridiculous price, but Sleep, that fickle mistress, stayed stubbornly away. The geyser still leaked.
I stumbled to the kitchen and carted a footstool back into the bathroom, clambered up, groped the geyser with all the expertise and none of the enthusiasm of a dance bar patron attending to his favourite lap dancer, and finally managed to turn the tap off. The geyser still leaked.
At 5:00 a.m. when the geyser had reconciled itself to the pressures of modern life and ancient plumbing, it stopped leaking. Too little too late. I had volunteered to escort my wife to the airport where she was scheduled to catch a 6:30 a.m. flight to Bangalore. On a Sunday. Yes, I know, but these are the troubled times we live in.
Up until this time, the day had promised to be one of those where the sun pokes a bleary eye over the horizon and wonders if it could take the day off. Not that the sun had got around to any bleary-eyed poking just yet; it had better sense than that. (It is Sunday, after all.)
For want of anything more sensible to do I noted the time we left and the odometer reading. On the lonely return leg of the airport chukker, I decided it was too early to listen to Pink Floyd (I know, I know: blame it on my advancing years) and spent the time in deciding what to blog today.
Smells like "Indian fiction"
The latest issue of The Economist has a generous review of a new book set in Mumbai: The Space Between Us by Thrity Umrigar.
I have not read the book, but I have read the review which describes it as "a powerful social commentary on the glorious and frustrating jigsaw puzzle that is India." Quite. I have no argument with that.
A paragraph in the review refers to descriptions of the city that include "the smell of frying bhelpuri." Now, I'm not clear whether this is Ms Umrigar's phrase or that of the anonymous reviewer.
Either way, as any Mumbaikar will vouch, bhelpuri is not fried and does not emanate any odour strong enough to be discernible against the myriad other scents of this odoriferous city. The ingredients of bhelpuri, notably the puri itself, may well be fried and may indeed be fried well. In fact, the puri is crisp and crackly and quite friable.
Bhelpuri, like vengeance, is best served cold. It is assembled with dexterity and panache and seasoned with chutneys and sauces of vigorous potency, some of which have been known to fry an unwary consumer's brain.
[Though it can be consumed all week, a popular bhelpuri day is Fryday. This is so that one can recover from its effects on one's belly over the weekend.]
Inaccuracies of this kind fryghten me.
I have not read the book, but I have read the review which describes it as "a powerful social commentary on the glorious and frustrating jigsaw puzzle that is India." Quite. I have no argument with that.
A paragraph in the review refers to descriptions of the city that include "the smell of frying bhelpuri." Now, I'm not clear whether this is Ms Umrigar's phrase or that of the anonymous reviewer.
Either way, as any Mumbaikar will vouch, bhelpuri is not fried and does not emanate any odour strong enough to be discernible against the myriad other scents of this odoriferous city. The ingredients of bhelpuri, notably the puri itself, may well be fried and may indeed be fried well. In fact, the puri is crisp and crackly and quite friable.
Bhelpuri, like vengeance, is best served cold. It is assembled with dexterity and panache and seasoned with chutneys and sauces of vigorous potency, some of which have been known to fry an unwary consumer's brain.
[Though it can be consumed all week, a popular bhelpuri day is Fryday. This is so that one can recover from its effects on one's belly over the weekend.]
Inaccuracies of this kind fryghten me.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
All You Need is Caritas
I remember an interesting e-conversation I had with a friend on the sanctity and infallibility of the Bible. She had remarked that since the Bible is God's word, it necessarily must be right.
Of course, I'm not one to take that lying down so I had pointed out as gently as I could that her King James Bible was God's word originally spoken in Hebrew (or some local dialect thereof), then translated into Greek, many score years after the events, then translated from Greek into Latin, many hundred years later, then from Latin into English a millennium or so after that. Surely, something must have been lost in all these transmutations.
Today I read an article on Saint Jerome's homework assignment from Pope Damasus in the 4th century. He was asked to translate the Bible from Greek into "vulgar" Latin, that is, the Latin commonly spoken by the people. (This translation came to be known as the Vulgate.)
Apparently he got stuck when he encountered the Greek word agape which is love. But we all know that there are many kinds of love, from the erotic (from another Greek love word eros) to the familial, from the love of one's country to the love of one's pet dog, from the love of one's hobby to the love of one's work, and so on.
Latin, being an exceedingly practical and cut-and-dried kind of language, had only amor to represent any and all kinds of love. So, Jerome chose to use another Latin word, caritas, which meant "expensive", and, by extension, "esteem"; which, if you stretched a point, could mean, "affection" and thereby a chaste kind of "love".
From caritas came "charity", hence the triumvirate of "faith, hope and charity". So what did God really mean?
The Muslims have a more orthodox approach: the Koran was handed down to Muhammed in Arabic, therefore there is no other authentic version. All translations, by the very fact of their being translations, are suspect.
None of this has curbed humanity's penchant for a Humpty Dumpty approach to God's word:
'When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, `it means just what I choose it to mean -- neither more nor less.'
On a laterally related note, there is a rather tatty art-deco cinema house in downtown Mumbai that calls itself Eros. Considering the open-mouthed, passive dull-wittedness which is invoked, nay, required, by most of the movies it screens, it should perhaps have chosen the alternative Greek word for love: Agape.
Of course, I'm not one to take that lying down so I had pointed out as gently as I could that her King James Bible was God's word originally spoken in Hebrew (or some local dialect thereof), then translated into Greek, many score years after the events, then translated from Greek into Latin, many hundred years later, then from Latin into English a millennium or so after that. Surely, something must have been lost in all these transmutations.
Today I read an article on Saint Jerome's homework assignment from Pope Damasus in the 4th century. He was asked to translate the Bible from Greek into "vulgar" Latin, that is, the Latin commonly spoken by the people. (This translation came to be known as the Vulgate.)
Apparently he got stuck when he encountered the Greek word agape which is love. But we all know that there are many kinds of love, from the erotic (from another Greek love word eros) to the familial, from the love of one's country to the love of one's pet dog, from the love of one's hobby to the love of one's work, and so on.
Latin, being an exceedingly practical and cut-and-dried kind of language, had only amor to represent any and all kinds of love. So, Jerome chose to use another Latin word, caritas, which meant "expensive", and, by extension, "esteem"; which, if you stretched a point, could mean, "affection" and thereby a chaste kind of "love".
From caritas came "charity", hence the triumvirate of "faith, hope and charity". So what did God really mean?
The Muslims have a more orthodox approach: the Koran was handed down to Muhammed in Arabic, therefore there is no other authentic version. All translations, by the very fact of their being translations, are suspect.
None of this has curbed humanity's penchant for a Humpty Dumpty approach to God's word:
'When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, `it means just what I choose it to mean -- neither more nor less.'
On a laterally related note, there is a rather tatty art-deco cinema house in downtown Mumbai that calls itself Eros. Considering the open-mouthed, passive dull-wittedness which is invoked, nay, required, by most of the movies it screens, it should perhaps have chosen the alternative Greek word for love: Agape.
Reply All
You would think that the perils of the "Reply All" button would be ingrained into every email user's psyche by now, but evidently there are still some poor hasty souls out there who don't seem to get the message.
Or rather, they ensure that everyone does get the message, including those who obviously shouldn't have.
This happened yesterday on a recent mail exchange between a colleague of mine and a bunch of one customer's reps. One of the reps passed a rather snotty comment to his colleague on a report we had sent out. Unfortunately for him, yep, he hit "Reply All". So we all got to see his snotty comment which showed him up in quite a poor light.
I did like the way his colleague scrambled to send us an apology on his behalf, though. It was an impressive bit of semantic legerdemain to convert a snotty comment into an expression of profound gratitude for our work.
Or rather, they ensure that everyone does get the message, including those who obviously shouldn't have.
This happened yesterday on a recent mail exchange between a colleague of mine and a bunch of one customer's reps. One of the reps passed a rather snotty comment to his colleague on a report we had sent out. Unfortunately for him, yep, he hit "Reply All". So we all got to see his snotty comment which showed him up in quite a poor light.
I did like the way his colleague scrambled to send us an apology on his behalf, though. It was an impressive bit of semantic legerdemain to convert a snotty comment into an expression of profound gratitude for our work.
Keen as Mustard
Lunchtime musings: when you gotta go, you gotta go. So when you really gotta go, is it a case of Must-turd?
Who said this blog had to be mature?
Who said this blog had to be mature?
Chiffon Plug
After contemplating my return to Blogsville, I discovered I also needed to template my return. I had unwittingly acquired some shameless plugs by Goggle (the ruling Spider of the Web) in my right navigation column. These needed to be quickly replaced with some shamelessly self-centred advertising.
While doing so, I remembered me a forgotten blog by my young friend and erstwhile colleague, who I affectionately refer to as Mugsy, not that the nickname has anything to do with her predilections, appearance or past.
I delved through my old mails and unearthed the link to Mugsy's forgotten blog.
Well, I say "forgotten" blog, but it is obviously only me who had forgotten it, for I see from the comments on her blog, that Mugsy has a coterie of devoted Mugsyholics who obviously are hooked on her daily musings.
And no wonder, because Mugsy, you write well! As a tribute to your literary virtuosity and prolificacy I award the first (and only, so far) link in my Friends column to your Chiffonesque blog.
While doing so, I remembered me a forgotten blog by my young friend and erstwhile colleague, who I affectionately refer to as Mugsy, not that the nickname has anything to do with her predilections, appearance or past.
I delved through my old mails and unearthed the link to Mugsy's forgotten blog.
Well, I say "forgotten" blog, but it is obviously only me who had forgotten it, for I see from the comments on her blog, that Mugsy has a coterie of devoted Mugsyholics who obviously are hooked on her daily musings.
And no wonder, because Mugsy, you write well! As a tribute to your literary virtuosity and prolificacy I award the first (and only, so far) link in my Friends column to your Chiffonesque blog.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Promise of the Son of Blog
I'm back! Not that anbody missed me while I was away, but still... I'm back! This is yet another stab at blogging. My motives? Not fame and fortune, for sure. More like discipline and dedication to the Muses (see http://www.eliki.com/portals/fantasy/circle/define.html).
I promise to attempt to be more diligent and faithful in recording my abstractions and distractions on a daily diary-like basis.
I promise to attempt to be more diligent and faithful in recording my abstractions and distractions on a daily diary-like basis.
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