Wives, girlfriends, bachelorettes and cops

Friends are getting married, so landing up for get-togethers makes me lament my situation. The spouse is there, so interacting with buddies like the good old days is impossib-le. But some of those new spouses have turned out to be wilder. Basically, so wild, they seem to ask their spouse: "what the hell did you do before marriage?"

The scene now moves to San Diego, where a grand gathering of college buddies took place. Everyone, with their spouses in hand, sobbed at an alone me -- and sure, forgetting my attachment, I decided to have a wild time before getting sucked back into the reality of life with a woman.

In the morning, after the first water scooters arrived, we were so excited to take for a whirl that three of us guys jumped on it. Result? The overcrowded water scooter flipped over and we were underwater for a few seconds until coming back to the surface and being rescued. It felt magical drowning into the Pacific's green for the first time.

"Were there three of you on that water scooter?" asked the rescuer.

"Yep," I said.

"And you are Indian?"

"Yep," again.

"I didn't know Indians could be that dumb," he said cheekily, flashing his triumphant smile of passing a smartass comment.

Back on the beach, the women handed out life lessons to their spouses, Sam and G, about the risk we took. "Don't you ever do that again," and "if you want to do that again, do that in a tub," the women shouted. I looked at the poor guys, feeling good to be there for myself, for once.

And someone helped us fix the water scooter, saving us $500 in damages which we spent on alcohol: Beer. Wine. Vodka. You name it. By 9:45pm the tough decision came on what to do: keep the party going or give it up and sleep. We decided to keep going.

So I sit in the car with two wives, R and S, sitting in front. On the way to San Diego's hotspots, a drunk Sam provided R with wrong directions, so we kept lane-changing, u-turning, playing wheelie until a cop put an end to R's misery by pulling us over.

The approaching cop could see two beautiful women in the front, and me, in trance, shaking my moneymaker in the backseat without any music playing.

The cop asked R for credentials, which she showed. A thorough gentleman, he asked the women if they were doing ok.

"Yes," both R and S said, in perfect union. "We are fine, we just got lost a bit," R cleared out with the cop. "How do we get here?"

After directing R, the cop approached the backseat. I opened my window.

"And how are you?" he asked, in a suspicious tone. He naturally thought I was some sort of pimp, with the two beautiful women in the frontseats.

"I didn't do anything," was my automatic alarming response. Wrong thing to tell a cop. I was basically telling him I committed no crime, indicating to the cop that I was a prime arrest candidate.

I was freaking out even more now, as I thought he was gonna me pull me out for inspection.

He looked at me with cold eyes and asked again "are you sure?"

"Yes sir, I didn't do anything." Darn, committed the same mistake.

Then he looked at the women and smiled, and the women responded with a sweet and confident smile. They were my saviors.

"You are a lucky man," the cop said. "Riding with two beautiful women," he said, trying to return my innocence.

Thanks cop, good effort, but I still feel like a pimp.

I gave the cop a cheesy smile and he moved toward his vehicle, asking the women if they'd be ok. "Yes and thank you" R and S were getting tired of him too, so they quickened his departure.

R and S couldn't stop laughing as we drove and finally got to the club. The first woman I tried to hit on was a cute woman wearing three light neon neck bands.

"I want one of these" I shouted out to her, with loud music was playing in the background.

"Follow me," she said, grabbing my hand. "Where are we going?" I asked.

"Just follow me."

Soon, we were on the dance floor.

"The neon really makes your great facial features come to life," I told her. She cooed and gave me a light hug. She put one neon band in my neck, much like a mala when a person gets married.

"Boy, this wasn't difficult," I thought.

Now I realized I could push only so far, as my better half wouldn't approve of it.

While shaking booty, we did some nonsense chatter about drinking games, vodka coolers and clubbing in Brazil. She was an anthropology student, studied at UCSD. For fun, she booed at people who went to fancy restaurants. "You're looking for the word 'Yuppies'," I told her.

"I've lost my friends, I don't know where they are," she shouted at some point during the chatter. "I hope they pass by." Soon her friends came along, a mixed bunch of gals and guys, and she asked me to follow again.

I entered a world of excessive Americana, and I missed my gang. After a goodbye to Neon, I sought mah buddies out. I wasn't in SD, no point taking Neon's digits.

My next target was a 6 foot 5 lady dancing behind my gang. The alcohol powered woman seemed hard to approach, so I simulated my boogey moves with hers. When she turned around, I did too.

Maybe she didn't notice me because I was a human barstool, or maybe she was in total trance.

Tired, I tapped her on a back. She turned around, looked down at me in the eye, gave a smile, and turned back into her own world. Flop.

Atleast she made me feel graceful in the loss.

After breaking up with my gang, I struck a random chatter with a woman sitting on a table. San Diego just wasn't for her. "They don't have bay-gels heahr," she grinned. Oh yeah, a complete NYC gal. She wasn't into boogeying, our chat hit a wall at some point, and she bailed out. I rejoined my gang.

The club obeyed SD's shutdown laws, so around 1:30 we were out, seeking Mexican chow. While sitting inside the Mexican restaurant, I noticed a woman wearing a Boston Red Sox cap. I walked across to her.

"Did the Sox win or lose today?" I asked her.

"I have a boyfriend," she said. "He's gone to pick up the food."

Huh? Apparently she conceived my innocent question as an attempt to make a pass at her. I cleared out from that table, running back to the car before her boyfriend knocked me out.

So, the daily score was 2-4, if I include the unintended pass at the Mexican chow spot. Just about an OK success rate.

After picking up the Mexican food, 'A' was the only woman who could drive us home. She also happened to be a novice driver, but we had to take our chances with the rest of us guzzling beer. A's boyfriend sat on the front seat, guiding her and pointing out driving mistakes she made.

Things were smooth till we got home; then came A's struggle to parallel park. Her boyfriend sought mathematic parking perfection, so even if A pulled back the car 1.29 inches more, she was asked to do it again. Twenty attempts later, the car started feeling like a prison. I couldn't leave as I didn't know how to get to the apt. in that huge complex.

After 24 or so attempts, she finally nailed it and we were released by A's boyfriend.

And next day, we watched Hum Tum, an OK movie. Its message? Hook up with the woman sitting next to you on the flight to San Francisco....

Bush-ism

"Just because Bush says 'nucular' doesn't mean we don't spell it 'nuclear'."

A humble reminder at work from an experienced editor to a sleep-deprived, sophomore editor.

Earlier the same day at 4:30AM, the sophomore editor accused his drunk friend of being "a dumb primate who forgets stuff."

A helmet not enough

Talking on a cell while driving is dangerous... what about talking on a cellphone when cycling? I saw one person doing that today. And she was riding on the street, without a helmet. Life is valuable, not cellphones, so take care!

Dial-a-smile and checking out women

Try this: when walking across a woman, establish eye-to-eye contact, flash your wonderful smile to her, and you might get a smile back. This happened when I was on my way to lunch, making my day and leaving me radiant.

My first thought was "she checked me out," but hey, women always smile when I give them my million-buck gleam. What was even more thrilling was her stunning smile and beautiful eyes.

I'm a modest man, what can I say. Yeah, right!

On I walked a happy man through a parking lot, but a bark broke the smile up. Scared and ready to run, I looked back and forth, and heard another bark. Stuck in a heavily tinted SUV was a poor dog, who wanted to be free like me, you, India, US, Bashkortostan and Republic of Congo. I couldn't help the unfortunate dog, so on I walked.

As I moved out of the parking lot and turned left, a beagle started sniffing my leg. At a friend's barbeque last weekend, a beagle took love for my leg and fell asleep on it, so either this beagle could smell dope, or fell for my legs. I ran, shouting to the beagle's owner that my legs had no dope, my smile degenerating into caution. Beagles have a strong sense of smell, so beware. If you really have dope, a harem of beagles will surround you.

I tried the smile stunt again on a woman rushing against time, but no feedback. She maintained the same cold attitude before and after spotting my smile. It was obvious: she needed food. Hunger can do crazy things to people.

Then a whisk of the past came to mind.

In India, a woman spotted my friend checking her out and asked: "Why are staring at me?"

"Appreciate it," he said, "it is because you are beautiful."

Then I reach the restaurant, and the woman ahead of me kept looking sideways to see who was standing behind her. She couldn't gauge my interest in her as my head moved left, right, anywhere but in her direction, though my eyes were in her direction, intent in checking out what she completely looked like. She moved behind and shouted, "Such a long time!"

There was Rach, who put the smile back on my face. And it was good seeing her after such a long time.

Spelling bee and too much ghee

Saw the spelling bee contest on TV a few days ago -- the four Indian American finalists were animated on stage, having fun, talking to each other and giving high-fives. Now that it's all over, if they only trashed that dictionary and visited India for once.

The Indian parents were also fun to watch -- they gave these nasty, bad ass looks to their on-stage kids that said "If you don't spell this word, I will lock you up in the bathroom for 25 days."

One grim women with especially bad -- she gave her kid a grave look and her eyes squinted in dangerous concentration. With those kinda women, you can say stuff about the rest of their family -- both the kid and the husband were undernourished.

On the other hand, the American moms were rejoicing when their kids misspelt. One mom was so overjoyed when her daughter misspelt a word that her reaction probably reminded the daughter of the day she was officially declared potty trained.

The Russian makeover show

You thought Mogambo was a loony? His cousin Leonid Kuchma, the ex-Ukrainian president, is an even bigger one. Even though he won the 2002 elections, this dude still had to poison losing opponent Viktor Yushchenko to ensure he never showed up again.

While traveling in Vienna, poor Viktor chowed on soup with dioxin. Dioxin is known to be lethal, but Yushchenko miraculously survived it, though he got defaced. Viktor's makeover, sponsored by Kuchma, wasn't pretty.

Here's how he looked before the poisoning:


Here's how he looks today:



After being treated, Mr. Ukraine came back to save Kiev from Kuchma. The public was already rallying in Viktor's favor, dissenting Kuchma, who was accused of rigging the Ukrainian elections. And now he was accused of poisoning Mr. Ukraine himself.

The public was really angry, even those who didn't vote. Aha, Russians. You never know what's going to happen once a few vodkas are in their system.

A court nullified the first election and Viktor won a reelection, beating Kuchma by a decent margin. This was Ukraine's call of independence from the commies (or commie-like folks who called themselves democracy supporters), known as the "Orange Revolution". Much like India's Independence Day.

But two questions persist:

1) Why didn't Kuchma poison the judge who nullified the election.

2) Why did Yushchenko even return to Ukraine from Austria. It's like going from a Madras neighborhood to Beverly Hills only to miss Madras. (just kidding! South Indians please calm down)

Either way, Ukraine Khush Hua. I can now open my bhel puri-paani puri stall in Ukraine, without signing 150 licenses and without government intervention. Those who bash up Kuchma on its Kuchma-Punch-It pad will get a free panipuri.

(Photo courtesy: Ukraine Info, Associated Press)

Who is Reena Bharadwaj?

She's the background singer with the smooth voice in Mangal Pandey's "Main Vari Vari" song.

"Main Vari Vari" is one of the more interesting Hindi songs AR Rahman has ever made. He has meshed the most number of musical styles I've seen him do: Carnatic (with the sarangi riffs), light north Indian classical or light Hindustani (the tune seems mujhra-like, with all the claps, ghungroo sounds and jhankaar beats), jazz with its strong bass, and the transition into qawwali, which was just plain disappointing to end the song. He's done better fusion in the past, so he should've known better.

Now that I hear it again, I'll minus the Carnatic style. It's three styles. The mujhra style of music was made for naach (dance) women to dance to in the court of kings during the Mughal era and it developed well under Tansen's school of music. Its pretty rare today as classical singers don't want to practice an art historically considered low class. Mujhra is still considered low-class, so this style has to be sought in the darker pockets of Indian cities. It won't come to you. I think the song in the movie "Rising: Mangal Pandey" will be based in a situation like that. Rahman does well with situational songs, but on audio, this song doesn't quite appeal.

Best transitions by Rahman: transitioning into qawwali with "Kehna Hi Kya" from "Bombay". The cut from the opening into a qawwali stanza with the harmonium playing in the background was exhilirating and something I will not forget easily. Fusing Carnatic music into what sounded like Jazz in "Jiya Jale" from "Dil Se." I've only formally studied Hindustani classical, so its hard to understand Carnatic, but the instruments -- mrudangam and what not, sound brilliant. All these songs have one common feature -- a strong bass.

As for Bharadwaj, she provides great background support to Kavita Krishnamurthy. In a few years, her name will be around Rahman's songs.

Subbing to the North Pole

The North Pole addiction reached a high in 1931 when a crazy adventurer, Hubert Wilkins, tried to become the first person to use a submarine to get there. He never made it there as his sub kept breaking down, but he proved that subs could flow under the Arctic ice cap.

His sub may have looked like Russia's toy sub (or mini-sub) that was saved outside Kamchatka last week. From images, it looks like a toy submarine, something Wilkins may have used. Damn, they still have those? What happened to the celebrated U-boat design? Wasn't that supposed to be hot stuff?

Wilkins' crazy ideas were kept alive by Americans and Soviets during the Cold War. Among the many crazy races between them, one was about being the first to get to the North Pole using a sub. What purpose did it serve? Did they wanna battle for a part of the world where only slushies were available?

Like planes traveling quicker over the Pole (a recent flight by Boeing over the Pole from San Francisco to Bombay took 16 hours), subs could too, and the Russians and Americans wanted to prove that. That may be the reason for the subs race.

As the Cold War went on, the Soviets trashed submarines in junkyards of their states which are now independent. When Soviet Union broke up, the new republics sought ammo; they picked up whatever scrapped subs they could find. "We have 5 subs, no guns" basically. The landlocked country of Kyrgyzstan perhaps has a submarine that it can toy around with in its ponds and 5-mile lakes. Say hello to Kyrgyzstan's Navy.

But the Soviet subs did well during the Cold War. No true sea battle took place, so they never had a chance to show off their true value, but they kept pushing the Americans to advance their sub technology.

In addition to developing subs and drinking vodka, Russians also like to harass American media outlets.

ABC News did an Al-Jazeera by interviewing a Chechen rebel at the end of July, which upset Russia. Russia was so miffed that they are not allowing ABC News to access or speak to Russian officials either. And when they say it, they mean it. One friend who helped out with stories had to stop writing for me because she started her thesis -- the thesis wasn't her problem, it was the thesis advisor, who worked for a Kremlin official. If they found out she wrote for an international publication, she could kiss her thesis and Master's degree goodbye. And she isn't even Russian, which makes it even worse for her. That publication has already received the wrath of the Russian government for its biased look at CIS countries.

So scared are the reporters there. The one who have guts will be given the ABC News treatment. Google is turning out to be another Russia by not speaking to CNET.

The darker side of M*A*S*H*

RoboCop was great -- it could clean the world without actually drinking beer. I've never seen that movie and never want to, but my real RoboCop would be a Parsi woman who does nonstop blabber blabber. She just has to open her mouth to clean the world.

A "cocktail drug" is the U.S. Army's way of creating its own RoboCop -- a drug administered to humans making them more resistant to chemical and biological weapons.

And more resistant to everything. Before the 1991 Gulf War, the entire U.S. Army was administered with a pill by the Pentagon pantywaves.

A few years after winning the Mother of All Wars, some war vets started complaining about hallucinations, fatigue and psychological issues. The Pentagon knew something was wrong; so to save their skin, they spinned the story that they suffered from the "Gulf War Syndrome," more like a war side-effect gained while running into certain weapons during the Gulf War, perhaps chemical or biological.

The theory was disputed by veterans who said it was caused by the "cocktail drug" administered by the army to make them RoboCops. A case was filed in the court, saying that it wasn't GWS, but a side-effect of the "anti-nerve gas tablets forcibly administered to military personnel in the Gulf region" at that time.

A British study and the medical community also refused to accept the existence of GWS.

The U.S. being the U.S., we had to compare ourselves to the French. The French never showed GWS side-effects, even though they dressed, ate and lived the same way. The only difference: they weren't administered the cocktail drug.

And they perhaps had too much wine everyday.

Essentially the Pentagon was trying another cover up. The spin doctors there are still trying to legitimize GWS theory, though people aren't buying it. Who knows what the truth is, but the "cocktail drug" is just one part of a darker side taking over US Army's medical central. Who knows what advanced biotechnological theories they are coming up with.

There is a remote chance of me ending up in a M*A*S*H*, because I prefer video-game boom-baam over fighting in a real war. MASH stands for Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. It's a watered down version of a real Army hospital.

Anyways, I'm not as brave as the U.S. Army men and women, and whatever may be the political hazzle-dazzle, when the army is doing its job we need to shed our differences and support them.

If I were a singer, I'd perform in Iraq to keep their spirits alive. They'd perhaps wrestle me down before I reach the microphone. My sound would demoralize them more.