Sundry

I found a new blog buddy, someone who christens himself Fez and tries to hide his blog from the world.

The last few days have been one close shave after another. I stress out, almost break down. Rinse and repeat in an unforgiving loop. Credit for keeping me from going to a dark place goes to a fitness obsessed, eternally cheerful fellar I know. You, sir, are the absolute best. None of which happened or is happening is life alteringly or irreversibly disastrous. It took a white hair on my head to put the humor back in life, to lighten me up.

Pittsburgh is beautiful, even in the blazing heat. The rivers and the bridges and the old buildings will be sorely missed. The bay area seems crass and unrefined in comparison. I will eventually move to a proper city, not a place where downtown means a half block filled with restaurants and hair salons. Move somewhere where there is still some lingering romance in the buildings, somewhere where there exists layers of memories, so that I can add mine to them.

The one thing I regret is being so caught up by graduation, that I did not take many pictures of the ceremony or my friends. Carnegie Mellon was all that I hoped for and more. Some good, bad and truly ugly times happened in those 1.5 years. But I loved it to bits. I won’t harp on the endless nights spent on assignments. It was all worth the Dunkin donuts, the discovery of Kiva Han and the teensy French crepes place; worth the last minute trips to Washington and the other well-planned ones; the student lounges and the weird street art sculptures. It was worth Tom Mitchell and the other, equally brilliant profs. I am so glad I made it there.

Ambivalence

Moving is horrid, but planning out a new house is awesome.

A new car (new to me anyway) is shockingly brilliant, but my poor bicycle is humming 'Lemon Tree' in the office garage.

Sofas, tvs and assorted furniture. Burning a hole in my not so deep pocket never felt so good.

A fridge to fill up and walls to hang with ameatuerish paintings. Shelves to fill with books.

The battle of wills with the comcast guy, the endless line at DMV.

The seemingly infinite choices for insurance policies.

Concert and musical plans. The ordeal of shopping.

Life is confusing, but in the very nicest way.

As a rite of passage, I am going to submit my head to a pair of shears on the morrow. Wish me luck.

These are a few of my favorite things

Both puppies and smiles have an infinite capability to make my day.

Some people have a lop sided smile. Makes me want to be friends but I don’t know how. Everyone will want to pick you up and hug you. And buy you nice things. Just like a pug.

The tourist paradigm

A checklist. And then some more. Running to the nearest working printer to get two copies of the measly tickets. The inevitability of the last minute packing, be it a backpack or a suitcase.

The taking of public(or almost public) transport to the airport, bus or train station. The long hours where you are in between both destination and source. A kind of Limbo. That very limbo, that disconnection, that almost ephemeral feeling which is priceless. Just like the mastercard advert, with wrinkled old ladies riding elephants and watching the sunset with their equally hoary spouses.

It feels strangely like boredom, but not quite. There is something special about it, that doesn't push one over the edge and into a dull stupor. A strange elation. The unfulfilled anticipation of new encounters with fascinating people. Never fails. As reliable as the German trains. Just the journey validates the excursion.

But touristing is a whole other world altogether. What can only be described as lust. A happiness so complete when the map is deciphered, the tiny kitschy cafe is found, the cliched photos taken. Right from the constant checking to see if the camera was left behind, whether the wallet was safe, to the annoying of passers by to take pictures of me, you, us.

The cramming of a million activities in the almost niggardly number of vacation days. The debate of which places to skip in the itenrary that exists only in my head. The irritation when you get too tired from all the adventuring, the hunger and refusal to compromise on food. Crashing and burning on the hotel bed at the end of the day. The wanting to extend it all by just one more, just one more day.

And when it's all done, turning the key in the lock, and feeling, like a stranger in your own home.

Lists, anyone?

This weekend has been a physical roller coaster.

Things which I have never paid attention to before are assuming astonishing significance, public transport for starters.

I'd like to give a thankful nod to the guys up top for -

1. Distributed Systems, especially VOIP.
2. Big Fat Red Markers.
3. Tiny Chinese take out boxes.
4. Knowing that there is someone always willing to go to Panera bread with me.
5. Old english ladies with offerings of instant coffee.

Learning is fascinating, be it about the Japanese Maple and root systems or the prospect of tennis lessons.

Roses come in many forms, some sweet, some pretty. But my favorites are those that come in a box.

Retarded, that's what I see.

People, especially the ones using those god forsaken meme creator things, have taken a crap on creativity.

Making a joke is supposed to require some skill, as is drawing a comic. Attaching a butt ugly troll face to an everyday situation does not make it funny, only goes to show that you have the brains of a slug. Not any regular slug, but a slime encrusted slug which never sees the light of day.

All artists are not funny and all comics can't draw. Take Randall Monroe, the creator of XKCD, he publishes one of the most funny web comics today, and he draws stick figures. You can't draw, you say. I say fine, I know regular people can come up with a funny joke or two and the pressure of social media these days requires them to 'publish' it. I don't want you to create professional looking drawings or even any drawings. Just don't use those horrendous internet meme faces. That's all I ask.

If it doesn't seem funny to you without those faces, then it's probably not funny at all. Just stop. Making. Those. Memes. Stop cluttering the internet with your lowest of the low art forms, if you can call it that. It frankly assaults the senses of any self respecting human being.

It just goes to show that creativity or self expression has just given up, keeled over and died.

Who is this Herp/Derp person. Why is it not moi or me, but 'le me'? Who thinks this is funny?
Why do all the faces have a squint? Why do they all look super f*ing retarded?

If I find the guy who first drew them, I'd like to give him a kick in the nuts so fast, all he'll remember is to never use Paint again.

Too big, too small, just right?

There has to be a secret, somewhere that I should know. Something that someone was telling me when I was daydreaming about my books.

That would explain why I am having an identity crisis. The only thing that made sense, that prompted a spark of recognition was something that I read this morning. "I'm now beginning to think the entire human experience is putting up that cheery front and not letting the cracks show through. I'm a bad human now."

Work, commute and an urgent need to check off things from a list is stretching me paper thin. There is a shell being built somewhere, just the right size for the Goldilocks in me.

Where's my baby bear?