dev2r

Via Digg:
From Osellus
From Casero

From Netflix:

See why music recommendations don’t work either.

By Brad Stone, (of the non-porn variety), a piece in the NYTimes about LMB.

I was at a Halloween party in a Chelsea bar when I met the Russian/Eastern European girl. I could always recognize one even before I’ve heard them speak. She was not dressed up in any particular costume, but her fetching white halter top was enough to attract the attentions of a pants-less Tom Cruise from ‘Risky Business’ and a plaid-shirted cowboy.

A dance circle had formed on the floor. The organizers were a couple of turtles, viz. Raphael and Donatello. I’m not sure if that’s entirely accurate, because Raphael and Donatello were blonde and were grinding their green shells in a manner that the cowabunga dudes would not have. (Yes, they were American). Meanwhile, the white halter top girl had started dancing with her group of friends. She had placed her purse – the one that women use to hold their plans for world domination – on a side table.

What I found charming was the way she kept glancing at her purse every 30 seconds to see if it was still there. I recognized this as something I did quite a bit when I first came here. I’d see backpacks strewn around the corridors at college, the owners absent, and cringe at the thought of them being stolen. But they never were stolen, and that’s one of the nice things about living in a country where poverty is comfortably out of sight. I kept smiling to myself as she actually stopped dancing a couple of times to come check if the purse was still there.

Some people get homesick from sights and smells. For me it was another FOB making sure she wasn’t looted by a drunk girl or a Winona Ryder klepto, because those were the only kind who could’ve stolen a purse in that swanky New York bar that night.

My roommate and I take bets on this whenever someone who has written a book appears on ‘The Daily Show with Jon Stewart’: If the author is even remotely Republican-leaning, Jon will not hold the book up to the camera at the end of the interview. This axiom holds true no matter how high the person is in the Conservative movement. We haven’t seen a single exception to this axiom yet.

One of the best interviews I’ve ever seen on TDS was the one with Kurt Vonnegut.

Every Friday, Death mocks me. As I walk towards the door of my apartment, I dread the presence of that yellow calling card. And yet there it is, sometimes on the welcome mat, sometimes hung on the doorknob.

My nemesis seems to be from a well-oiled organization, one that cryptically calls itself ‘Maintenance’. Their calling card contains all manner of grisly depictions of murder: on the top right, you see a hangman fixing the noose on the rafters. Next follows a professional gravedigger who not only digs holes but also provides bodies to fill the holes. On the left bottom corner, you see a mode of murder common in apartment complexes such as mine: ‘fixing the gas pipes’. To finish off a perfect full course of assassination, the last graphic depicts finishing off the job, viz. walling my mortal remains in concrete and fresh paint.

But worst of all is my… designated killer. Much in the mold of ‘The Professional’ – he is a consummate expert at what he does. And he does all that with a heart of gold. He calls himself the ‘Exterminator’ — ridding the world of pestilential creatures one at a time. Like a true hunter, he experiences remorse at what he does. Everytime I see the yellow card, two shivers run through my spine — one for my impending finis, and one in recognition of The Exterminator’s sardonic wit. Which killee would not be shaken by such words as that of The Exterminator – “Sorry I miss you!”!?

Every Friday I see the same words. I open the door of my apartment with anticipation. The door does not explode outward in a ball of flame. I am alive, and life is good… until next weekend, that is.

I got more hits today than I get in a whole year. All pointing fingers pointed to TheMaanga but I didn’t see anything untoward. At the end of the day, I tried the brilliant tactic of hitting the ‘Refresh’ button.

Mostly, I have nothing to say. The entirety of human thought could probably be encapsulated in less than 20 words. The rest is … unnecessary. But here they are anyway; the more I puked, the more I learnt.

I take the HBLR to work. If you live and work on the Jersey shore across Manhattan, it is the best commute possible. The light rail runs nearly 24 hours, quite frequent and less crowded than any other form of public transportation in New Jersey. But there’s a peculiar downside to the light rail that might be just my own imagination.

Contrary to the light rail’s simple, elegant lines and aesthetics, the doors open and close like a medieval fortress. The sliding doors of the rail are unlike any elevator doors or even the New York subway trains; they are unforgiving of tardiness. These simply won’t pull back if you put any available limb in between them to prevent them from closing. Much like Jersey Citizens’ noted surliness, they will simply stop trying to crush your arm and wait there until you give them a firm push backward. The driver, very much an extension of the light rail, will voice through the microphone in a monotone, “Please do not try to enter while the doors are closing”.

But that’s not my problem with the sliding doors. The opening starts a deep KADAK that rumbles in a deep bass tone, and then the doors slide open with a noisy whirr. And everytime there’s a KADAK, my left ear drum experience a short stabbing pain. This is not a random occurrence but happens every single day. The noise gets my left ear even if I have my mp3 player’s headphones on.

I was reading today on /. about a device that emits ultrasonic frequencies inaudible to older people but audible and annoying to teenagers. Could there be a counterpart to this frequency at the other end of the spectrum? Should I just wait for the sliding doors of the Star Trek future that open with nary a whisper?

here.

Here’s one from me:

Every morning at school, we had ‘The Assembly’. Primary school assemblies were the best. At nine in the morning we would straggle over to the far end of the playground. The ‘playground’ was enormous. Urban-schooled readers would probably not grasp how big the playground actually was. And this was just the primary school! At the other end of the playground was the huge stage with a blue backdrop. Arrayed by class numbers and sections, guys in one line and girls in another, we would stand, waiting for the music to start.

20 years have passed; but I can still remember the tunes. These were the classic British marching anthems. Of course, we never knew which classic anthem was being played. With no words, but just the recorded voice of the amplifier egging us on, we would walk from the far end of the playground to the center. This march was a sudden shift from relative coolness to the sharp morning sun. Come to think of it, the landscapers of my school’s playgrounds must have been masters of chiarascuro – all the playgrounds at my school were sharp contrasting bands of light and dark; of sun and shade.
When you’re small, distances seem huge. For some reason, we would never march up to the stage. We would stop almost in the center of the playground. The ‘Sister’ and the School Pupil Leader would be two distant white stripes – one fat and one thin – in a background of unnatural blue.
The list of events was a litany that was sacrosanct. In the most faithful imitation of the Catholic ritual, the Assembly was carefully arranged as an alternating series of the spoken word and tune. Entropy implied doubt, and change was frowned upon.
The Welcome Speech was always first. In this speech, the presenter would list earnestly what was to follow… as if it ever changed. After this welcome speech, the Prayer followed, and then the Prayer Song. After this would be a little variety thrown in – one day a talk, the other day a skit. The Sister would then give a small talk and let us know of the happenings in the school. By this time the fidgeting would start, because we knew we were getting to the end of the assembly.
The next thing to perform in the litany was the Vote of Thanks, one that would invariably contain the phrase ‘last but not least’. Some thankers would go overboard and thank Soosai for the mike arrangment, but this was OK; Soosai was cool. The School Anthem was the last rite on the litany. All of us knew the first stanza by heart, so this was no problem.
Once the school anthem was recited, the thin white stripe at the far end would bark out a ‘Class Disperse!’. And we would slowly start marching back to our classes. This was also done in an orderly fashion. The center rows would peel off first – a daily parting of the sea. The playground would gradually become bare. Unlike the playgrounds of England being emulated, our playgrounds were made of red sand and medium sized gravel. This was no fault of the management, but a cruel trick played by geography on our Anglo-Indian sisters.