As I had promised. No, not promised. (Too strong a word.) So let me try again.
As I had written. (See below.) The research carried on.
Like King Bruce, I watched the spiders, (kapil, his friends on the other side of the telephone receiver and timmy in this case) try, fail. And try again.
Experts were called in and as the situation got a little graver, everyone whose names started with an H, T, M and L were summoned. But to no avail.
So it was left to the home team to come up with the solution.
I called in a meeting. A SWOP analysis of sorts. But knowing the team and the history between members couldn't get past drawing the grid, which looks a bit like this.
----------------------------
just when i had resigned to my fate, Kapil pulled out a rabbit from the hat. HIMSELF.
the normally, reserved, brooding, pessimistic Kapil, decided to catch this opportunity with both hands and to everyone's surprise came up with the solution.
Before I divulge the details let me absolve everyone who i had cursed, vocally or beneath my breath. It was not a human problem.
My old nemesis, the firewall, has breathed up this huge obstacle that did not allow some icons to be displayed.
A privilege, enjoyed by people blessed with exemplary gifts. Not knowing what they are at this stage, I can only take a guess. Which owing to its sensitive nature shall be divulged only after evidence has been gathered.
So till then lets enjoy the fruits of Kapil’s labour.
Here are the two links. Do click. Do read.
http://www.ishikasadhukhan.blogspot.com
http://www.butkintuparantu.blogspot.com
Friday, September 22
The Missing Link
The last few days have been exasperating for me. Appu’s got 2 really nice blogs.
Wanted to share it with the rest. But haven’t been able to link the blogs.
Spoken to my ‘one-stop-blog-shop’, Sue. She said, all she does is copy the link and paste it onto her create post page and voila it’s there. I tried it. But maybe it’s got to do with ‘karma’. It wasn’t there.
Frantic calls to Sue. Try without http. Try with http. Try www. Try copy pasting from the page. Tried this. Tried that. Tried. Tried and got tired.
Sue you are a sweetheart. Thank you.
Since all this didn’t work. Tried Option B. Or should I say, Option T. Timmy, my man Monday-Friday.
He did some research, snapped his fingers, cried Eureka and ran out. Thankfully, for us, with his clothes on.
He tutored me. A little bit of copy. A little bit of paste. A little bit of html and here it was, it had become a hyperlink.
Timmy, it’s officially out, ‘you’re the man!’
Perhaps I conferred the title on him too soon. (Another Sania in the making???) I did see a spark in him. But if you click the hyperlink, you’d see for yourself, there’s no fire!!!
Timmy you are not ‘the man’ you are the ‘missing link’. Period.
Now more hours will be put in. Researchers from across the web summoned and I will crack the code.
Until then, links stink!
Wanted to share it with the rest. But haven’t been able to link the blogs.
Spoken to my ‘one-stop-blog-shop’, Sue. She said, all she does is copy the link and paste it onto her create post page and voila it’s there. I tried it. But maybe it’s got to do with ‘karma’. It wasn’t there.
Frantic calls to Sue. Try without http. Try with http. Try www. Try copy pasting from the page. Tried this. Tried that. Tried. Tried and got tired.
Sue you are a sweetheart. Thank you.
Since all this didn’t work. Tried Option B. Or should I say, Option T. Timmy, my man Monday-Friday.
He did some research, snapped his fingers, cried Eureka and ran out. Thankfully, for us, with his clothes on.
He tutored me. A little bit of copy. A little bit of paste. A little bit of html and here it was, it had become a hyperlink.
Timmy, it’s officially out, ‘you’re the man!’
Perhaps I conferred the title on him too soon. (Another Sania in the making???) I did see a spark in him. But if you click the hyperlink, you’d see for yourself, there’s no fire!!!
Timmy you are not ‘the man’ you are the ‘missing link’. Period.
Now more hours will be put in. Researchers from across the web summoned and I will crack the code.
Until then, links stink!
Wednesday, September 20
ishika's mom
i'm pretty excited about this blog of mine. and hopefully will be keep it going for a much longer time than i have for most other 'sudden' interests.
sent out a mail to some of my frens, telling them abt this new quirk of mine.
appu posted a comment. so guess i'll write abt here in this missive.
appu was in college with me. in pune.
and if u know any or rather both of us, you'd know straight away we couldn't be friends.
this calls for a quick refresher course. tick off the below.
- strong headed
- opinionated.
- vociferous
- non bengali's speaking the language
(must confess she got better command on the language)
but they say God moves in mysterious ways.
we've had are bouts of not talking. talking. ignoring. snarling and finally since we were both getting tired, settled on being where we are.
'comfortable' with each other.
read both her blogs today. superb i'd say to her personal one. ishika's is sweet.
and that's not appu...
got lots to write. donno where to start. so best visit the below.
http://www.butkintuparantu.blogspot.com
sent out a mail to some of my frens, telling them abt this new quirk of mine.
appu posted a comment. so guess i'll write abt here in this missive.
appu was in college with me. in pune.
and if u know any or rather both of us, you'd know straight away we couldn't be friends.
this calls for a quick refresher course. tick off the below.
- strong headed
- opinionated.
- vociferous
- non bengali's speaking the language
(must confess she got better command on the language)
but they say God moves in mysterious ways.
we've had are bouts of not talking. talking. ignoring. snarling and finally since we were both getting tired, settled on being where we are.
'comfortable' with each other.
read both her blogs today. superb i'd say to her personal one. ishika's is sweet.
and that's not appu...
got lots to write. donno where to start. so best visit the below.
http://www.butkintuparantu.blogspot.com
interesting read...a mail i recieved.
SYD BARRETT
Jul 20th 2006
Roger "Syd" Barrett, leader of Pink Floyd, died on July 7th, aged 60
TO THOSE who were young then, the late 1960s were the best thing since
1789. All that followed paled by comparison. This was the time of the
Paris riots, with students hurling cobbles and the FLICS hurling
tear-gas back; the first convulsions over the war in Vietnam; the
Prague spring, quickly crushed by Soviet tanks; and everywhere the
sense that the young, by sheer numbers, could overthrow the established
order and make the world again.
If they failed to remake it, this was largely because they were out of
it on one illegal substance or another. For many of them, the drug
scene was a quick, soggy spliff behind the bike sheds, or a reverential
division of a cake of greenish powder, washed down with a glass of
Liebfraumilch and covered up with burning joss sticks. Yet at the
highest levels of culture the new gods of rock music tripped on much
more dangerous stuff, and sang about it. They did not find truth
exactly, as much as yellow walruses, purple fields, kaleidoscopic skies
and melting buildings, all of which were evoked in music and light
shows so new and peculiar that the best way to appreciate them was by
being prone and stoned yourself.
Syd Barrett was the very exemplar of this wild universe. As the leader
of Pink Floyd, the highly successful psychedelic band that he
christened in 1965, he wrote and sang of "lime and limpid green", of
Dan Dare, of gingerbread men and, in the band's first hit, "Arnold
Layne", of a transvestite who stole underwear from moonlit washing
lines. His weird words and odd, simplistic melodies, sent through an
echo-machine, seemed sometimes to be coming from outer space.
Yet there was also something quintessentially English and middle class
about Mr Barrett. His songs contained the essence of Cambridge, his
home town: bicycles, golden robes, meadows and the river. Startlingly,
he sang his hallucinations in the perfect, almost prissy enunciation of
the Home Counties. He made it possible to do rock in English rather
than American, inspiring David Bowie among others. The band's first
album, "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn" (1967), made Mr Barrett
central, plaintively calling up the new age from some distant and
precarious place.
Yet the songs were already tipping over into chaos, and by January
1968 Mr Barrett was unable to compose or, almost, to function. Dope,
LSD and pills, consumed by the fistful, overwhelmed a psyche that was
already fragile and could not bear the pressures of success. At
concerts he would simply play the same note over and over, or stand
still in a trance. If he played, no one knew where he was going, least
of all himself. The band did not want to part with him, but could not
cope with him; so he was left behind, or left them, enduring drug
terrors in a cupboard under the stairs in his London flat. Casualties
of "bad trips" usually recovered, with stark warnings for the unwary.
Mr Barrett, famously, went on too many and never came back.
Friends, especially his Pink Floyd colleagues, tried to encourage him
to resurrect his career. Their attempts were heartbreaking. At various
times in 1968 and 1969 microphones were put in front of him and he was
persuaded to sing and play. Cruelly, the recordings of his solo
efforts, "The Madcap Laughs" and "Barrett" (both 1970), caught
everything: the nervous coughs, the desperate riffling of pages, the
cries of frustration ("Again? I'll do it again now?"), the numbers of
takes. The sleeve of "Madcap" showed a naked girl in attendance--there
had been any number of those--but Mr Barrett oblivious to her, his face
masked by long hair and mascara, crouched shivering on the floor.
Cambridge, where he had learned to play banjo and had proudly covered
his first guitar with mirror-discs, seemed the best place to retreat
to. He went back to live in his mother's cellar, boarding up the
windows, and returned to the painting for which he had trained at
Camberwell School of Art. Ambushing journalists were told that his head
was "irregular", and that he was "full of dust and guitars".
Mr Barrett was now the most famous recluse in British rock. Slight as
his oeuvre had been, it proved impossible to forget. His death, from
complications of diabetes, brought an outburst of regret from rock
stars and fans who were still following him. Tom Stoppard's play "Rock
'n' Roll", which was playing at the Royal Court when he died, made him
a metaphor for revolutionary music: in 1968 a Pan-figure piping
liberation, in the 1990s a tired, grey man spotted in a supermarket.
SHINING LIKE THE SUN
His band last saw him in 1975 as they recorded, in "Shine on you Crazy
Diamond", a tribute to him that sounded like yet more encouragement.
("Come on you raver, you seer of visions/Come on you painter, you
piper, you prisoner, and shine.") Mr Barrett wandered in, fat and
shaven-headed and hardly recognisable. As his friends sang "You shone
like the sun", he seemed to laugh sarcastically. He stayed a while in
the studio, and then went away.
On the recording, a guitar player drifting in space walks through a
door and finds himself in a loud cocktail party. Managers and promoters
come up and flatter him, cajole him into working for them, but at last
he escapes again. This time, nobody can catch him.
Jul 20th 2006
Roger "Syd" Barrett, leader of Pink Floyd, died on July 7th, aged 60
TO THOSE who were young then, the late 1960s were the best thing since
1789. All that followed paled by comparison. This was the time of the
Paris riots, with students hurling cobbles and the FLICS hurling
tear-gas back; the first convulsions over the war in Vietnam; the
Prague spring, quickly crushed by Soviet tanks; and everywhere the
sense that the young, by sheer numbers, could overthrow the established
order and make the world again.
If they failed to remake it, this was largely because they were out of
it on one illegal substance or another. For many of them, the drug
scene was a quick, soggy spliff behind the bike sheds, or a reverential
division of a cake of greenish powder, washed down with a glass of
Liebfraumilch and covered up with burning joss sticks. Yet at the
highest levels of culture the new gods of rock music tripped on much
more dangerous stuff, and sang about it. They did not find truth
exactly, as much as yellow walruses, purple fields, kaleidoscopic skies
and melting buildings, all of which were evoked in music and light
shows so new and peculiar that the best way to appreciate them was by
being prone and stoned yourself.
Syd Barrett was the very exemplar of this wild universe. As the leader
of Pink Floyd, the highly successful psychedelic band that he
christened in 1965, he wrote and sang of "lime and limpid green", of
Dan Dare, of gingerbread men and, in the band's first hit, "Arnold
Layne", of a transvestite who stole underwear from moonlit washing
lines. His weird words and odd, simplistic melodies, sent through an
echo-machine, seemed sometimes to be coming from outer space.
Yet there was also something quintessentially English and middle class
about Mr Barrett. His songs contained the essence of Cambridge, his
home town: bicycles, golden robes, meadows and the river. Startlingly,
he sang his hallucinations in the perfect, almost prissy enunciation of
the Home Counties. He made it possible to do rock in English rather
than American, inspiring David Bowie among others. The band's first
album, "The Piper at the Gates of Dawn" (1967), made Mr Barrett
central, plaintively calling up the new age from some distant and
precarious place.
Yet the songs were already tipping over into chaos, and by January
1968 Mr Barrett was unable to compose or, almost, to function. Dope,
LSD and pills, consumed by the fistful, overwhelmed a psyche that was
already fragile and could not bear the pressures of success. At
concerts he would simply play the same note over and over, or stand
still in a trance. If he played, no one knew where he was going, least
of all himself. The band did not want to part with him, but could not
cope with him; so he was left behind, or left them, enduring drug
terrors in a cupboard under the stairs in his London flat. Casualties
of "bad trips" usually recovered, with stark warnings for the unwary.
Mr Barrett, famously, went on too many and never came back.
Friends, especially his Pink Floyd colleagues, tried to encourage him
to resurrect his career. Their attempts were heartbreaking. At various
times in 1968 and 1969 microphones were put in front of him and he was
persuaded to sing and play. Cruelly, the recordings of his solo
efforts, "The Madcap Laughs" and "Barrett" (both 1970), caught
everything: the nervous coughs, the desperate riffling of pages, the
cries of frustration ("Again? I'll do it again now?"), the numbers of
takes. The sleeve of "Madcap" showed a naked girl in attendance--there
had been any number of those--but Mr Barrett oblivious to her, his face
masked by long hair and mascara, crouched shivering on the floor.
Cambridge, where he had learned to play banjo and had proudly covered
his first guitar with mirror-discs, seemed the best place to retreat
to. He went back to live in his mother's cellar, boarding up the
windows, and returned to the painting for which he had trained at
Camberwell School of Art. Ambushing journalists were told that his head
was "irregular", and that he was "full of dust and guitars".
Mr Barrett was now the most famous recluse in British rock. Slight as
his oeuvre had been, it proved impossible to forget. His death, from
complications of diabetes, brought an outburst of regret from rock
stars and fans who were still following him. Tom Stoppard's play "Rock
'n' Roll", which was playing at the Royal Court when he died, made him
a metaphor for revolutionary music: in 1968 a Pan-figure piping
liberation, in the 1990s a tired, grey man spotted in a supermarket.
SHINING LIKE THE SUN
His band last saw him in 1975 as they recorded, in "Shine on you Crazy
Diamond", a tribute to him that sounded like yet more encouragement.
("Come on you raver, you seer of visions/Come on you painter, you
piper, you prisoner, and shine.") Mr Barrett wandered in, fat and
shaven-headed and hardly recognisable. As his friends sang "You shone
like the sun", he seemed to laugh sarcastically. He stayed a while in
the studio, and then went away.
On the recording, a guitar player drifting in space walks through a
door and finds himself in a loud cocktail party. Managers and promoters
come up and flatter him, cajole him into working for them, but at last
he escapes again. This time, nobody can catch him.
INXs in Mumbai
INXS is scheduled to play live in Mumbai at the MMRDA grounds on October
5th.
Tickets prices at 1200 & 70 will be available at Planet M & Rhythm House
from 21st Sep.
If u r looking to bum freebies, catch friends at DNA, Kingfisher Airlines,
Akruti Nirman & VH1.
If u followed Rock Star : INXS, then u can listen to the winner JD Fortune
front the band.
5th.
Tickets prices at 1200 & 70 will be available at Planet M & Rhythm House
from 21st Sep.
If u r looking to bum freebies, catch friends at DNA, Kingfisher Airlines,
Akruti Nirman & VH1.
If u followed Rock Star : INXS, then u can listen to the winner JD Fortune
front the band.
shooters in india
had this niggling thought in my head for some time now. but since it's a niggling one, didn't come to fore front. not until yesterday.
it's a question rather. 'Why aren't there shooters in india?'
ask the film producers, diamond merchants or better still the father of krishh, you'd say vehmently.
no re. not those kinds. but come to think of it, the job profile is almost the same -- remove scum off the surface -- that's what they too claim, don't they?
mine is a more specific query. why aren't there any shooters in indian hotels?
why? why?
i can understand in firang land where they wipe and polish those places where the sun don't shine. but in good old india will prefer the situtaion watered down.
atleast the Taj's could have them. they are indian hotels after all. or since Tata ji is a parsee, it's like they do in iran? donno how they do it there? do they? i'm pressed (no pun intended)to ask.
here, tissues are for other issues. it's water we're after.
it's a question rather. 'Why aren't there shooters in india?'
ask the film producers, diamond merchants or better still the father of krishh, you'd say vehmently.
no re. not those kinds. but come to think of it, the job profile is almost the same -- remove scum off the surface -- that's what they too claim, don't they?
mine is a more specific query. why aren't there any shooters in indian hotels?
why? why?
i can understand in firang land where they wipe and polish those places where the sun don't shine. but in good old india will prefer the situtaion watered down.
atleast the Taj's could have them. they are indian hotels after all. or since Tata ji is a parsee, it's like they do in iran? donno how they do it there? do they? i'm pressed (no pun intended)to ask.
here, tissues are for other issues. it's water we're after.
Tuesday, September 19
Good morning! well, actually not so good. lots of phone calls. Lots of servicing phone calls. its getting to me. and to add to it, there's this irritating brief. No, not the one i've got on. Thankfully, when it comes to that I have the option of reliving my childhood dream. Being Commando.
But not in this case.Alas!
It's pretty complicated. It's for a car. A car that is big. but not really that 'big'. I've heard stories like these of some 'Big' guys. So the task at hand (not so 'big' for the protagonist in the stories i've heard. He!he!) is to inbibe a self of pride in owning a car that is supposed to be 'big' but not actually 'that big' when compared to the REAL 'big' boys.
wish i could find the solution in some agony aunt column. Lots of 'Big' guys wriote-in about their 'big' problems when compared to other smaller boys with a 'big' sense of pride!
been struggling with it.
Add to this the chaos in China. would be asking for too much if I'd have to ask them to open their eyes wide to reality.
why don't they do what they're best at? we do the ads. They just copy them.
Ctrl C. Ctrl V. Simple!
So i need help. Running to get another cup of coffee. Maybe the answers lie deep within the chickery sediments.
Please Pray for me my Brethern!
cheers till then.
But not in this case.Alas!
It's pretty complicated. It's for a car. A car that is big. but not really that 'big'. I've heard stories like these of some 'Big' guys. So the task at hand (not so 'big' for the protagonist in the stories i've heard. He!he!) is to inbibe a self of pride in owning a car that is supposed to be 'big' but not actually 'that big' when compared to the REAL 'big' boys.
wish i could find the solution in some agony aunt column. Lots of 'Big' guys wriote-in about their 'big' problems when compared to other smaller boys with a 'big' sense of pride!
been struggling with it.
Add to this the chaos in China. would be asking for too much if I'd have to ask them to open their eyes wide to reality.
why don't they do what they're best at? we do the ads. They just copy them.
Ctrl C. Ctrl V. Simple!
So i need help. Running to get another cup of coffee. Maybe the answers lie deep within the chickery sediments.
Please Pray for me my Brethern!
cheers till then.
Monday, September 18
orkut!
been noticing tons of people in my office logging onto this site daily. thumbnails of PYT's and some not so PYT's smeared all across screens. was kind of pissed off coz they had managed to tuck two of my main communications devices (msn & yahoo msngrs) behind some frigging firewall. Now, how is this soldier going to update satus on his whereabout to the rest of his kind out there?
why couldn't they block orkut or the Hi 5's of the world? nothing to hi-5 about, may i add, rather cornily.
but this thing is a boon. (thanks Timmy, once again) hey bugger! makes me think, are you working at all, you friggin trainee writer!
but the site rocks. so my sugesstion. if the msgnrs have left a void in your communications routine, here's the (whatever) that'll more than fill it up... www.orkut.com.
cheers till then!
been noticing tons of people in my office logging onto this site daily. thumbnails of PYT's and some not so PYT's smeared all across screens. was kind of pissed off coz they had managed to tuck two of my main communications devices (msn & yahoo msngrs) behind some frigging firewall. Now, how is this soldier going to update satus on his whereabout to the rest of his kind out there?
why couldn't they block orkut or the Hi 5's of the world? nothing to hi-5 about, may i add, rather cornily.
but this thing is a boon. (thanks Timmy, once again) hey bugger! makes me think, are you working at all, you friggin trainee writer!
but the site rocks. so my sugesstion. if the msgnrs have left a void in your communications routine, here's the (whatever) that'll more than fill it up... www.orkut.com.
cheers till then!
Greetings!
finally have got my own blog.
feels kind of cool.
although i must confess that i had created the account a couple of weeks back. (Thanks Timmy)
but have managed to scribble something only today. (Thanks Sue)
So without further ado... Let the blogging begin!
feels kind of cool.
although i must confess that i had created the account a couple of weeks back. (Thanks Timmy)
but have managed to scribble something only today. (Thanks Sue)
So without further ado... Let the blogging begin!
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