It's one AM. And sleep eludes me in a manner that would make Carlos, the Jackal not Santana, raise an impressed eyebrow and smirk a "You're good kid, real good. But as long as I'm around you'll still be second best." This takes me back to a 36 stanza trip I wrote once one the Mask that has disappeared along with many cherished and not so cherished things in the midst of the four or five changes of residence that used to happen in my life.
It is done, by the way. A day long assessment of three years of learning that didn't go quite as well as one may have liked. Those who've trod (treaded?) that path have attempted to console me by saying that the point of post graduate exams is to squelch all resistance that one's ego might put up while being... squelched. The end result is a blubbering, hypoglycemic idiot who ends up watching Munna Bhai Part Deux.
It's not so bad a movie. But remove Arshad Warsi and it is. Not in quite a state to give movie reviews though Sin City is relatively fresh in the mind and a take on the Movie and comic might come around some time. File that with the waiters from idiotville who despite incessantly managing to make life for all and sundry a living hell have not made it to this blog.
Back to the blubbering blathering bashibazouk... (couldn't resist that. Just discovered all of Tintin on my computer in .cbz) Strangely an unfortunate fallout of the ego bashing, rather humiliating experience is a sudden fear that treating patients may not be such a good idea. That I'm hoping should pass. On an aside I've decided that unsolicited medical advice over the phone or via the internet will not be given any more. It may be given over coffee and beer but not over the phone. The next person who calls in sick will have to first rattle off their credit card number, it's expiry date and that cool 3 digit number at the back of the card. No more Mr. Nice Guy. With the possible exceptions of Kiera Knightley, Koena Mitra and the Ku Klux Klan (the last bunch will get a prescription for Diazepam and Lasix, just to see what happens) and any thinly veiled dancing girls who decide to call.
Results of the afore-oft-mentioned exam will be declared on the blog when they're declared to me.
If random TV trolling gave rise to a distaste for Power Rangers in any avtaar, it's also gotten me thinking about reality shows. What is it about us as humans that we want to see other's misery. And other's lives. In technicolour.
I will admit that a few of those shows are good- The Amazing Race and Pimp My Ride, off the top of my head. But the rest? Disaster Videos, Best Police Chases of All Time, Ripley's (for crying out loud some moron has a tissue expander in his forehead and is obsessed with body modification), How to get a date?, The Apprentice, that stupid designer show... the Cut (I think), Survivor, Indian Idol and finally the killer - Fear Factor.
What kind of weird prostitution is Fear Factor all about? I might give you money if you eat these worms faster than her. And your mom's watching. And some statutory warning to not attempt the stunts at home. Hey, lets all get some tarantulas and jump into the tub. After that we can get the eggs of some endangered species and eat them. Ostriches. The only upside to the whole thing is this woman called Summer Papania. Don't bother googling - there are no pictures of her. If you missed the ostrich egg episode and the favourite winner episode, you aren't ever going to see her again till the reruns. Reruns of Fear Factor is the end of creative television.
But why are we so fascinated with misery being inflicted on our brethren (and sistren)? I don't have the guts or the inclination to eat a worm, as early as I may be up, and I sure as hell don't want to see someone else eating them. But the rest of the planet seems to want that kind of entertainment. It's the modern day Colosseum. An arena of pitched battle and fatal fighting with a significant section of society watching and enjoying what deep down inside they know is disgusting.
Et tu?
Couple of quips on the net that made me believe in the existence of sentient sapient beings on this planet.
A: Dude would anybody be upset if I confessed to being turned on by her drinking an ostrich egg (w.r.t. the Summer episode)
B: Nobody but the Ostrich...
Still no Sleep.
It is done, by the way. A day long assessment of three years of learning that didn't go quite as well as one may have liked. Those who've trod (treaded?) that path have attempted to console me by saying that the point of post graduate exams is to squelch all resistance that one's ego might put up while being... squelched. The end result is a blubbering, hypoglycemic idiot who ends up watching Munna Bhai Part Deux.
It's not so bad a movie. But remove Arshad Warsi and it is. Not in quite a state to give movie reviews though Sin City is relatively fresh in the mind and a take on the Movie and comic might come around some time. File that with the waiters from idiotville who despite incessantly managing to make life for all and sundry a living hell have not made it to this blog.
Back to the blubbering blathering bashibazouk... (couldn't resist that. Just discovered all of Tintin on my computer in .cbz) Strangely an unfortunate fallout of the ego bashing, rather humiliating experience is a sudden fear that treating patients may not be such a good idea. That I'm hoping should pass. On an aside I've decided that unsolicited medical advice over the phone or via the internet will not be given any more. It may be given over coffee and beer but not over the phone. The next person who calls in sick will have to first rattle off their credit card number, it's expiry date and that cool 3 digit number at the back of the card. No more Mr. Nice Guy. With the possible exceptions of Kiera Knightley, Koena Mitra and the Ku Klux Klan (the last bunch will get a prescription for Diazepam and Lasix, just to see what happens) and any thinly veiled dancing girls who decide to call.
Results of the afore-oft-mentioned exam will be declared on the blog when they're declared to me.
If random TV trolling gave rise to a distaste for Power Rangers in any avtaar, it's also gotten me thinking about reality shows. What is it about us as humans that we want to see other's misery. And other's lives. In technicolour.
I will admit that a few of those shows are good- The Amazing Race and Pimp My Ride, off the top of my head. But the rest? Disaster Videos, Best Police Chases of All Time, Ripley's (for crying out loud some moron has a tissue expander in his forehead and is obsessed with body modification), How to get a date?, The Apprentice, that stupid designer show... the Cut (I think), Survivor, Indian Idol and finally the killer - Fear Factor.
What kind of weird prostitution is Fear Factor all about? I might give you money if you eat these worms faster than her. And your mom's watching. And some statutory warning to not attempt the stunts at home. Hey, lets all get some tarantulas and jump into the tub. After that we can get the eggs of some endangered species and eat them. Ostriches. The only upside to the whole thing is this woman called Summer Papania. Don't bother googling - there are no pictures of her. If you missed the ostrich egg episode and the favourite winner episode, you aren't ever going to see her again till the reruns. Reruns of Fear Factor is the end of creative television.
But why are we so fascinated with misery being inflicted on our brethren (and sistren)? I don't have the guts or the inclination to eat a worm, as early as I may be up, and I sure as hell don't want to see someone else eating them. But the rest of the planet seems to want that kind of entertainment. It's the modern day Colosseum. An arena of pitched battle and fatal fighting with a significant section of society watching and enjoying what deep down inside they know is disgusting.
Et tu?
Couple of quips on the net that made me believe in the existence of sentient sapient beings on this planet.
A: Dude would anybody be upset if I confessed to being turned on by her drinking an ostrich egg (w.r.t. the Summer episode)
B: Nobody but the Ostrich...
Still no Sleep.
