calibrating the new year

celebrating the new year has never been as insane. except same time last year, but then it wasn't that cold and neither was it big ben's 150th. four hours in freezing fortitudes surrounded to one standing space with what they call 'people' in numbers of huge isn't easy. you have to be mental, absolute bonkers and have no understanding of the spinal chord's venerability to painful structural tension to brave that long wait only to date the fireworks fairy for 10 mere minutes.



it was cold, it was dark, and it helped bring out BBC Radio 1 wannabe bhangra gangsta DJ's best of his very worst.











yeah that's right, I stood BEHIND THE BLOODY CAMERAS EVERYONE AROUND THE WORLD SAW SHIT FROM. oh yeah.



A cleverly edited 30 second vantage-point 'countdown to 2009' preview proving the sheer veracity and geographical awesomeness of the Point of Standeth claim with relation to the big white wheel, very muchly inferior to BBC's full 10 minute coverage.



you can checkout any time you like, but you can never leave.. hundreds of drunk yetis on the first early morning of the new year seen here blocking all possible routes to basecamp.



pardon the recent shabby posting practices. it's late and I'm under the influence. new year resolutions I think include less bullshitting, more blogging, singing prouctivity and laying off the laze.

for want of a lion and a better zoom lens

visit to the zoo after years of not having been to one seemed to have brought out the wild side. a bit too much I'd say, after it reminded me of that one time when I managed chased off about half a score monkeys sitting on my backyard wall merely by the power of my high quality imitation dog bark (true story). not exactly something I'd brag about on parties, but there you go. you could say I've had a disturbed an adventurous childhood, those were the days.



didn't get to see it burying it's head, never thought meeting my role model would be a major dissapointment.













turns out Girish the mutant dog-worm might actually be a zebra derivative.












I still can't remember what these were called.




moments after a few human hand hunts.






couldn't get it to break the glass and pop out though.


so near, yet so far.

conundrum chinesse

So I've had this theory since long that If every other awesome girl is detected along a man within her personal space area, a 'brotherly-sisterly' relationship can be safely assumed while being blithely oblivious to what the bitter truth might be. Told you positive thinking works. It kind of comforts by giving some hope and sort of showers you with endless supplies of 'maybe's cushioning you on a safety net.

Sadly though, like with all good theories come the mandatory drawbacks. It all seemed to work pretty well, until a few months back. No they didn't turn around and throw dagger looks, nor were they long-haired male rock fans mistaken for girls if at all you thought that was the worse it could get to.

Get this—everywhere I looked around uni, 80 to 90% of innocent girls fell prey to appearing chinese almost instantaneously;
no literally, everyone.

Although when I say Chinese, they might well have been Koreander or Japhacheese cakes or the likes;
I couldn't possibly differentiate the taste.

It wasn't like I had stumbled upon a barrage of randomly prepositioned young chinese tourists, they were just there.
Or maybe I was doing it all wrong according to, oh I don't know, some bizarre set of Feng Shui body language rules. Their confused expressions as I looked at each one of them in sheer disbelief disturbed me even more.

It felt like something went terribly wrong somewhere in thy DNA. My innocent sight was either accidentally bestowed upon with mysterious 'racial mutation powers' of you know Huu Huangdi or the Chinese Kitchen God was frying fucking with me real bad.

You know there are times that make you think
"maybe I had too many noodles last night."
Something tells me this could easily be one of them.
and, that I need more of brazilian cuisine
sigh; talk about being beaten with a chopstick.

In other news, a mentally ill lunatic proves he is one rightly so by confusing the moon for my car.

cookless karma

Some say cooking is an art. I agree;
as long as someone does it for me, that is.

There was a certain time, when I was about to embark upon lets just say an unusual journey, where relying on my own abilities was to be of utmost importance. I had managed to learn the ancient art of creating nearly edible common indian staple food including rotis with imperfect circumference and messed up salt ratios.

Surely being 'the male' I'd be easily exempted from it?
turns out it somehow boosts your metrosexuality, apparently.

Anyway, three years went by and not practicing enough led me to forget it. The time had come for me to to add some garam masala to my unused competencies yet again.

"Sanjeev Kapoor will worship me by christmas," I bragged on for a month. Unfortunately for me, like the government's promises, it um didn't quite happen. It wasn't long before hunger led desperation started to kick in. By then, I knew how to make a half-decent sandwich. and an omelette. and maggi
Getting bored of the same old crushing white balls and playing around with bread, I started going out. Met new people, made new friends—meet Mr. Food. Junk Food. Mrs. Frozen said hi.

Immediate ancestors have had a history of blending the symphony of spices just right; Mother says I should have it in my blood. But then, she was a topper unlike the relatively average scorer yours truly is.

Some have suggested I should try and combine my passions.
Or maybe I should blog about it.. you know, with pictures and all.

As for now, lets just put it this way—cooking to me is what a good hairstyle to Himesh Reshammiya is.

Update: Man I love coincidences. The DailyMail reported yesterday a rise of the 'gastrosexual' as more men are taking up cooking to seduce women.

As much as I'd love to seduce her with my spices, being branded a 'gastrosexual' (ugh) is just wrong on so many levels.