I mean, really. Don't we have enough people telling each other off these days? Look at Turkey. They are p***ed at the US House Congressional Committee for passing a (non-binding) resolution saying that Turkey committed genocide against Armenians about a hundred years ago. So Turkey, wagging its finger at the US, threatens to block access to an air base.
Then there is China. China is p***ed at the US for giving the Congressional Gold Medal to the Dalai Lama. Warning of serious retaliation, China pulled out of a six-nation meeting that something to do with the Iranian nuclear program.
Then there are the taxi drivers in DC. They are p***ed at Mayor Adrian Fenty for passing a law that requires DC cabs to have meters. I know what you are thinking. What?! DC cabs don't have meters?! You see they operate based on a quaint zone system. Regular customers who have memorized the zone boundaries can save a buck or two by hiring a cab across the street. Nuts, I say.
In any case, I am sure no DC resident - Turkish, Armenian, Chinese or American - wants DC's zone system to persist!
Showing posts with label Misc. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Misc. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
My first race!
DCRRC Larry Noël 15K and 3K
15k (9.2+ miles) in 1:22:12.
The numbers may not be anything to write about. It was my first race, after all. But, brag, I shall!
I have been running regularly for the past two months. In fact, this race comes two months to the day since I started. I could barely manage to run halfway around the lake before losing my breath. (A loop is 1.25 miles). Two months later, I ran over 9 miles at a pace less than 9 minutes per mile!
Yesterday, I rewarded myself with a book "The geometry of geodesics" and a masala dosa at Udupi Palace!
15k (9.2+ miles) in 1:22:12.
The numbers may not be anything to write about. It was my first race, after all. But, brag, I shall!
I have been running regularly for the past two months. In fact, this race comes two months to the day since I started. I could barely manage to run halfway around the lake before losing my breath. (A loop is 1.25 miles). Two months later, I ran over 9 miles at a pace less than 9 minutes per mile!
Yesterday, I rewarded myself with a book "The geometry of geodesics" and a masala dosa at Udupi Palace!
Friday, August 18, 2006
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
United 93
A couple of weeks ago, I saw the movie United 93. It chronicles UA93's flight into history books as one of the ill-fated aircrafts lost on 9/11. Supposedly headed for the White House, the flight came down in Pennsylvania, less than 200 miles from Washington.
The movie opened to mixed reactions from people debating whether we needed to be reminded of an attack that is still fresh in our minds. Just a couple of days ago, as a reminder of 9/11, a small plane was escorted safely out of the controlled DC's airspace by military jets. When incidents such as these serve as grim forget-me-nots, it is fair to ask whether United 93: the movie's time had come. At any rate, I don't have a problem with the movie's timing.
The more important question is how the movie is made, not its timing. And on that point, the moviemakers score well, I think. The movie makes the real seem very real -- the tension is palpable as events of the day unfold, the 'grip' heightens as the day progresses. The camera work, the abrupt dialogue, unrecognizable actors, real pilots as actors -- it all fits rather neatly. Though there is nothing neat about the day.
On the aviation aspect of the movie, too, it does a remarkably good job. Aviation geeks will probably spot a goof or two. Overall, though, the movie pays close attention to detail and gets it right.
The movie opened to mixed reactions from people debating whether we needed to be reminded of an attack that is still fresh in our minds. Just a couple of days ago, as a reminder of 9/11, a small plane was escorted safely out of the controlled DC's airspace by military jets. When incidents such as these serve as grim forget-me-nots, it is fair to ask whether United 93: the movie's time had come. At any rate, I don't have a problem with the movie's timing.
The more important question is how the movie is made, not its timing. And on that point, the moviemakers score well, I think. The movie makes the real seem very real -- the tension is palpable as events of the day unfold, the 'grip' heightens as the day progresses. The camera work, the abrupt dialogue, unrecognizable actors, real pilots as actors -- it all fits rather neatly. Though there is nothing neat about the day.
On the aviation aspect of the movie, too, it does a remarkably good job. Aviation geeks will probably spot a goof or two. Overall, though, the movie pays close attention to detail and gets it right.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Goodbye, tata
Its true what they say about death and taxes. There's no running from either. But what they don't tell you, what they can't tell you, what you can only know is how much it sucks. Well, death, at least. For its sheer finality. Earlier this week, on Sunday morning my 80-something grandfather passed away. Regular readers of this blog may recall him I referred to him in this entry.
To me - not that the world revolves around me - but, this was the probably the first time I was left with a vague sensation of having undergone a thoracotomy without morphine or such. Remind me to send a memo to all those new-age and old-age gurus who preach peachy optimism of the "It will always get better" variey. "Ah, not true", I say. Just when you think it can't get worse, guess what - it can.
All the comforting thoughts in the world - at least it was a quick (and hopefully painless) death, he had lived a full life, he was surrounded by his family just the day before, etc. - do little to lessen that hollow feeling. It sucks, in a very deep and profound way.
Flash back to Saturday night, when it is Sunday morning in India, thanks to the magic of time zones. I sit down to dinner. Barely two chews later, my brother calls up. In an apparent euphemistic message, he says tata is in the ICU (tata translates to grandfather in Kannada. Said with soft "t"'s). As I dial my uncle's cellphone, I cling to a moment of self-created deluded naivete that was shattered by a "Naresha, sad news" greeting. What follows is an extended period of utter helplessness and pangs of nostalgia.
Back in days when life, as I knew it, was simple, my grandparents lived in a quaint little old town Mysore (Maisuru), about 3 hours from bustling Bangalore, which we called home. About a decade ago, they moved to Bangalore, to where most of his family lived. Before that though, almost every vacation from school meant a much-anticipated trip to the town of palaces, parks and grandparents. During our stay there, thanks to tata, we were assured of treats from Shyam Rao bakery (the taste of rusku still lingers on ... ) and evening trips to Cheluvamba park. And how we enjoyed exploring the zoo with him! Or the boys' outing to the railway museum, where we hopped on and off old, rusty trains under his watchful eyes; ogled at the maharani's luxurious coaches. And ended a perfect evening with sweet coconut water.
Not that it was all a party during those days. You see, he and I had very different ideas on how to spend the first part of the day during vacations. He believed in the get-up-early routine, whereas I was in love with the back of my eyelids. Every morning he used to read Kumara Vyasa's Bharata, not too quietly, I might add. Later in the day he would quote verses, explaining the literary beauty in that book. The geeks that we were, we loved it.
One of the things that I loved most was when the two us would go down to the bus stop in the morning and watch those red buses. Sitting there beside him, sometimes on his lap, reading the numbers on the bus, I was happy. As I was when he regaled us with tales of elephants -Drona, Balarama and the like- and Dasara.
He had a way with kids. A picture that many of us who knew him will carry in our mind's eye is him sitting on his favorite chair, one leg crossed over the other knee forming a square, where one of us grandkids or greatgrandkids gleefully gooed gibberish. And he sang lullabies (for the record, my favorite: eesha ninna charaNa bhajane) or talked to the baby in baby-speak in a way, only he could.
Religion and spirituality was a big part of his life. Apart from the usual festivals, an annual Gita chanting during the winter month saw several people at my grandparents'. A couple of years ago, he was briefly hospitalized and the doctors wanted to observe his condition for another day before discharging him. But he insisted on going home to perform the rituals on the anniversary of his mother's death.
Stubborn, he sure was! Ironically her's, my great-grandmother's that is, was the first death I remember. I was all of four, old enough to prefer long pants and shun shorts, when she passed away. That evening, a bunch of us squeezed into a taxi and headed down to Mysore. I saw him in the verandah. He bent down and said with a wistful melancholy, "nammamma hogbitlu kano" (roughly translated, "my mother's passed away").
One thing that mattered very dearly to him was people. He wanted them to remain close, to be connected. May be that is why he built bridges for a living, as an engineer in the public works department. Every time we spoke, in person or over the phone, he had a come-back-to-Bangalore message. And I am sure he said that before I boarded the plane after my previous visit. It has been a little over two years since. In the past two some days, I have tried to recall what he said last. I remember the blessings and the nice things he always said. But that snapshot in time of how exactly we parted, that eludes me. Its funny. When you meet someone, you don't think its going to be the last time you are going to see them. May be then we'd remember more clearly.
At the end of our vacation in Mysore, he'd accompany us to the bus station to see us off. Invariably, he'd shed a tear as he waved to us before the bus departed. Now, his bus has departed for the last time. I wasn't there to wave goodbye. Its my turn to shed a tear.
To me - not that the world revolves around me - but, this was the probably the first time I was left with a vague sensation of having undergone a thoracotomy without morphine or such. Remind me to send a memo to all those new-age and old-age gurus who preach peachy optimism of the "It will always get better" variey. "Ah, not true", I say. Just when you think it can't get worse, guess what - it can.
All the comforting thoughts in the world - at least it was a quick (and hopefully painless) death, he had lived a full life, he was surrounded by his family just the day before, etc. - do little to lessen that hollow feeling. It sucks, in a very deep and profound way.
Flash back to Saturday night, when it is Sunday morning in India, thanks to the magic of time zones. I sit down to dinner. Barely two chews later, my brother calls up. In an apparent euphemistic message, he says tata is in the ICU (tata translates to grandfather in Kannada. Said with soft "t"'s). As I dial my uncle's cellphone, I cling to a moment of self-created deluded naivete that was shattered by a "Naresha, sad news" greeting. What follows is an extended period of utter helplessness and pangs of nostalgia.
Back in days when life, as I knew it, was simple, my grandparents lived in a quaint little old town Mysore (Maisuru), about 3 hours from bustling Bangalore, which we called home. About a decade ago, they moved to Bangalore, to where most of his family lived. Before that though, almost every vacation from school meant a much-anticipated trip to the town of palaces, parks and grandparents. During our stay there, thanks to tata, we were assured of treats from Shyam Rao bakery (the taste of rusku still lingers on ... ) and evening trips to Cheluvamba park. And how we enjoyed exploring the zoo with him! Or the boys' outing to the railway museum, where we hopped on and off old, rusty trains under his watchful eyes; ogled at the maharani's luxurious coaches. And ended a perfect evening with sweet coconut water.
Not that it was all a party during those days. You see, he and I had very different ideas on how to spend the first part of the day during vacations. He believed in the get-up-early routine, whereas I was in love with the back of my eyelids. Every morning he used to read Kumara Vyasa's Bharata, not too quietly, I might add. Later in the day he would quote verses, explaining the literary beauty in that book. The geeks that we were, we loved it.
One of the things that I loved most was when the two us would go down to the bus stop in the morning and watch those red buses. Sitting there beside him, sometimes on his lap, reading the numbers on the bus, I was happy. As I was when he regaled us with tales of elephants -Drona, Balarama and the like- and Dasara.
He had a way with kids. A picture that many of us who knew him will carry in our mind's eye is him sitting on his favorite chair, one leg crossed over the other knee forming a square, where one of us grandkids or greatgrandkids gleefully gooed gibberish. And he sang lullabies (for the record, my favorite: eesha ninna charaNa bhajane) or talked to the baby in baby-speak in a way, only he could.
Religion and spirituality was a big part of his life. Apart from the usual festivals, an annual Gita chanting during the winter month saw several people at my grandparents'. A couple of years ago, he was briefly hospitalized and the doctors wanted to observe his condition for another day before discharging him. But he insisted on going home to perform the rituals on the anniversary of his mother's death.
Stubborn, he sure was! Ironically her's, my great-grandmother's that is, was the first death I remember. I was all of four, old enough to prefer long pants and shun shorts, when she passed away. That evening, a bunch of us squeezed into a taxi and headed down to Mysore. I saw him in the verandah. He bent down and said with a wistful melancholy, "nammamma hogbitlu kano" (roughly translated, "my mother's passed away").
One thing that mattered very dearly to him was people. He wanted them to remain close, to be connected. May be that is why he built bridges for a living, as an engineer in the public works department. Every time we spoke, in person or over the phone, he had a come-back-to-Bangalore message. And I am sure he said that before I boarded the plane after my previous visit. It has been a little over two years since. In the past two some days, I have tried to recall what he said last. I remember the blessings and the nice things he always said. But that snapshot in time of how exactly we parted, that eludes me. Its funny. When you meet someone, you don't think its going to be the last time you are going to see them. May be then we'd remember more clearly.
At the end of our vacation in Mysore, he'd accompany us to the bus station to see us off. Invariably, he'd shed a tear as he waved to us before the bus departed. Now, his bus has departed for the last time. I wasn't there to wave goodbye. Its my turn to shed a tear.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Buy a plane, get cash back!
Apparently, the car salesman down the street is not the only one to offer cash back! Airbus is paying money to airlines to fly its A345/6. These airbii are designed to fly half way around the world. Singapore Air, for example, deploys A345 on SIN-LAX (Los Angeles) and SIN-EWR (Newark, NJ) routes. Boeing's answer, 777-200LR (long range) that completed flight testing a few weeks ago, is a better product, they say.
Seattle must be grinning!
Airbus to offer cash back on A340 as 777 stretches lead-24/01/2006-Flight International
Seattle must be grinning!
Airbus to offer cash back on A340 as 777 stretches lead-24/01/2006-Flight International
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Remembering Friends
It has been a while since I cyber-scribbled; chalk it up to inertia. You know how it goes. First you are busy. Then you tell yourself you are busy. And soon enough you start believing yourself – perhaps you really were so pre-occupied that you forgot to take that breath of air 1.3 seconds ago. In any case, today's newspaper provided the necessary jump potential to open the html editor, in OOo -2.0, of course. For the unitiated, that's OpenOffice.org 2.0. An alternative to MS Office. Works reasonably well but it is not immune to crashes. On the plus side, it takes far less disk space. I seem to have an obsessive need to keep as much disk space free as possible. Food for psychoanalyzing, maybe? But I digress.
Back to today's newspaper. I stumble into my office this morning after 4 hours sleep last night (for those who know me, I know it comes as a shock!). Get my “first” cup of coffee – I say “first”, because the count automagically resets itself whenever the number seems excessive! Open the front page of a couple of newspapers to get my dose of the day's news. And I find a familiar face on the front page of the Indian express! Dharmendra, a classmate from primary/high school, is celebrating a successfully completed run at the Bombay marathon. I don't mean celebrate, as in a frivolous showoff of resources or abilities. But is a poignant memorial to Manju, a friend he lost last year.
Manju was gunned down in a disgusting act of violence that cut short a promising beginning. He was an IIM, Lucknow graduate. Dharmendra, wearing a “Remembering Manju” bandana gloriously crossed the finish line. Good show, D. I never knew Manju. But how can you not admire the depth of their friendship and loyalty?
Here's the article as jpegs in two parts: part 1, part 2.
Back to today's newspaper. I stumble into my office this morning after 4 hours sleep last night (for those who know me, I know it comes as a shock!). Get my “first” cup of coffee – I say “first”, because the count automagically resets itself whenever the number seems excessive! Open the front page of a couple of newspapers to get my dose of the day's news. And I find a familiar face on the front page of the Indian express! Dharmendra, a classmate from primary/high school, is celebrating a successfully completed run at the Bombay marathon. I don't mean celebrate, as in a frivolous showoff of resources or abilities. But is a poignant memorial to Manju, a friend he lost last year.
Manju was gunned down in a disgusting act of violence that cut short a promising beginning. He was an IIM, Lucknow graduate. Dharmendra, wearing a “Remembering Manju” bandana gloriously crossed the finish line. Good show, D. I never knew Manju. But how can you not admire the depth of their friendship and loyalty?
Here's the article as jpegs in two parts: part 1, part 2.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
People are making a big deal of Tom Brokaw's departure from NBC nightly news. For example, see here and here. But Maureen Dowd's column in NYT was excellent. A bit of background - each of the 3 major broadcast networks, NBC, CBS and ABC have a half hour news every night. The news itself was a big deal in the pre-internet, pre-cable TV era. Nevertheless, the veteran news anchor trio of Tom Brokaw (NBC), Dan Rather (CBS) and Peter Jennings (ABC) command people's respect and trust (well, to some extent anyway). Brokaw stepped down after 21 years, Rather has announced he'll be signing off early next year. Some people were hoping there would be some diversity after these guys bid their adieus. Seems rather unlikely. It looks like these three white men will be followed by another three white men - Brian Williams is stepping in Brokaw's shoe, all the guys in the running for the CBS seat are white men, and by extrapolation, it is a safe bet that Jennings will be followed by a white man when he steps down (there's no talk of that yet).
Saturday, November 27, 2004
In the name of TV ratings...
Barbara Walters, the diva of broadcast TV stepped off the spotlight at ABC's news magazine 20/20. And Elizabeth Vargas waltzed onto the stage taking Ms. Walters' place. I can understand that anyone who steps into the shoes of Ms. Walters may want to prove something. Ms. Vargas, however, has sunk to outrageously low journalistic levels in putting together today's "The Matthew Shepard Story." In the days to come, the media will no doubt debunk many of Ms. Vargas' claims, some of them simply irrelevant to the heinous killing of Matthew. To those of you not familiar with the case, back in 1998 in a small town called Laramie in the state of Wyoming, two guys Henderson and McKinney savagely beat Matthew, a young gay man, and tied him to a pole in the outskirts of the town and left him to die. Matthew was found there fully covered in blood, except for the place where tears ran down his cheeks. Five days later, he died. For sure, Matthew wasn't a saint, but he did not deserve to die like that. Nobody does.
The suspects were almost immediately apprehended. When the case came to trial, they used "gay panic" as their defense. Basically, what they were saying through their attorneys was that they killed Matthew because he was gay and he made a pass at them. Friends of the duo testified in court and in the media to their homophobic instincts. To cut a long story short, they were sentenced to life in prison.
And now, six years later, they have changed their story. They claim they were strung out on drugs and lost control. At least, that is what Ms. Vargas cajoled and lead them to say on today's 20/20. The police chief of Laramie got a chance to show his homophobic side while managing to hide it in the drug use theory. Andrew Sullivan, the conservative columnist who has dances merrily to the Republican song got a chance to chime in with a "we should know the truth." ABC got a sensational story out of a shameful, terrible tragedy. Henderson got a chance to make a plea on national TV before appealing his sentence in the federal courts.
Rest in peace, Matthew.
The suspects were almost immediately apprehended. When the case came to trial, they used "gay panic" as their defense. Basically, what they were saying through their attorneys was that they killed Matthew because he was gay and he made a pass at them. Friends of the duo testified in court and in the media to their homophobic instincts. To cut a long story short, they were sentenced to life in prison.
And now, six years later, they have changed their story. They claim they were strung out on drugs and lost control. At least, that is what Ms. Vargas cajoled and lead them to say on today's 20/20. The police chief of Laramie got a chance to show his homophobic side while managing to hide it in the drug use theory. Andrew Sullivan, the conservative columnist who has dances merrily to the Republican song got a chance to chime in with a "we should know the truth." ABC got a sensational story out of a shameful, terrible tragedy. Henderson got a chance to make a plea on national TV before appealing his sentence in the federal courts.
Rest in peace, Matthew.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Lance, again!
He did it again! Not that anyone was surprised, of course. Like the duracell bunny that keeps going on and on, Lance Armstrong keeps going on and on and on. Six times now - the number of times he has won the Tour de France. Isn't that something?! His is a story that one cannot help but love. Here's a man who beat testicular cancer that had spread to his lungs and brain and went on to conquer one of the most challenging sporting events in the world - a record six times! When I hear of such great accomplishments, physical or mental, there is a part of me that whines "If only I could do something like that ..." Is that a bad thing? I wonder...
With such glory comes suspicion. There have been several allegations of illegal drug use by colleagues and peers and if I recall correctly, he tested positive once a few years ago. And people have been making the same noises yesterday and today. I say to them, give it a rest! The man has earned his place there!
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Forever yours
It takes immense generosity and a sense of equanimity to decide to donate one's body to scientific research, after death. A decision that cannot be easy for either the person himself or his family. Michael Palmore took that step, as the article in today's LA times describes. In his case, organ donation was not an option since cancer had spread to several places. He and his wife had assumed that his mortal remains would be studied to further cancer research - a selfless act indeed. However, much to her dismay, Mrs. Palmore finds out that fate and ScienceCare Anatomical Inc. had different designs for her husband's body.
Friday, May 21, 2004
Here a comma, there a comma
Today more photos from the Iraqi prison abuse scandal appeared in the Washington Post. They published some of the testimonies of the prisoners who have recounted what went on in Abu Ghraib prison during the past year or so. And then there was more fighting in Iraq. Chalabi's house was raided. Chalabi, an Iraqi in exile, living in Georgetown till a few months ago, was America's choice as the successor of Saddam Hussein. But things haven't quite worked out as any of the parties involved planned or wished for! So much happening in Iraq.
So little apparent motion in Karnataka's political situation. Its been a week since the results of the assembly elections were announced. A 'hung' assembly was the voter's 'man-date'! In other words, a 3-way tie. Looks like the political bigwigs will take more time to figure out who gets the Chair. The 12th standard kids (like my brother) are eager to see the next government in place. There's the technical university admission mess to resolve after all! Like what else is new about that?!
Politics aside, today's George Will column is sure to spark a smile. I must confess, I still can't figure out the proper way to use commas!
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