Disco For Lifesavers

I always liked the Beegees’ ‘Stayin’ Alive‘. Now it seems the song lives up to its name, or at least it can help people do so. The Gibbs brothers have now been vindicated as not only lifesavers, but possessors of a super sense of humour. And, as the rest of this post will show, Pitch and Pay has reached new depths of tastelessness.

Now if only we can mandate that any spot which has a likelihood of accidents should have this song playing all the time, if only as a safety measure. This of course means that all homes, restaurants, cars, bus stops, space shuttles, trains, playgrounds, racetracks and monster truck rallies will play this song in case someone decides to drop down and stop breathing. And as an extra security measure, all iPods cellphones will also have this tune, and when the heart rate is detected to go below a certain level, it plays. This will have the double advantage of also alerting nearby people to the situation.

Of course, emergency services will be required to have this song handy at all times. Can you imagine an emergency where a life is in the balance and the would-be-rescuer is searching for a song on his iPod? This song must be lesson 1 of CPR 101.

So, behold the new anthem of emergency services the world over, narrowly beating out the cover of the old Queen song by the Bilaspur Boys, ‘We Will Resuscitate You’. And it definitely beats out ‘Stairway To Heaven’.

I would have voted for this one, though. This wouldn’t stand a chance.

Pumping Irony

Does going to the gym make one lazier than before? This is the question that has plagued my imagination since, well, since Golu and I have started hitting the gym for the past few weeks. And the first results of stage 1 of our little experiment are in. We plan to submit this as our thesis in time for the next Nobel Prize awards ceremony (they do give out Nobels for timepass, right?). Anyway, the results of our preliminary study are as such:

1. Going to the gym every twice a week, hitting the cardio machines for half an hour, and then eating a sumptuous meal to compensate for the burnt calories and restore energy is not a good energy plan and should not be considered by a presidential candidate under any circumstance. Or then again, maybe he/she could, seeing how informed people seem to be about energy. Kinetic, potential, and solar my foot.

2. Doing weights is good and all. Just start easy if you’ve never done it before. Asking for tips from a friend might result in one picking up a pair of 55lb dumbells; an activity which, while it does quickly dispel one’s aspirations to Mr. Universe-dom and serves as a warning for such future endeavours, also has the most pleasant side-effect of making one unable to rotate one’s arms more than 15 degrees at any great speedfor a few days. Also, stretching and flexing become next-to-impossible tasks unless you enjoy twitches and spasms along the length of your arm. You know, the kind where each tissue feels like its caught in a vice. Note to self: Must try with 15lb or so. Which leads me to my next observation.

3. It is sometimes quite disturbing to be the only male using the cardio machines, which is while I never go without Golu. Also, it can be quite good for one’s self-esteem to watch perfectly sculpted bodies (male and female) walking around, running miles upon miles on the treadmill as opposed to my three minute personal best, and lifting much heavier weights than the observer can. Quite the perfect way to let the air out of one’s balloon after burning 300 calories on the elliptical machine.

4. My legs hurt, too.

5. The weighing scale at the gym. Many a poor soul has been duped by this evil scheming !@#$%^& machine. This confounded contraption has a tendency to massage and soothe 200lb+ egos by undervaluing their weights. For instance, someone I know (okay, it was me) saw his weight falling by ten pounds with each subsequent weekly measurement, which led me to believe foul play was afoot, because Golu stayed constant at a respectable sub 200 level. I could not really have lost 35 pounds in four weeks, could I?? Man, if I could, these supermodel/Hollywood types would kill for my secret. A second opinion was required, and thankfully, Rishu was on hand to volunteer his weighing scale to my need. My weight had dropped by all of three pounds. As I made my weigh (way) to the gym the next day, prepared to smite this blackguard that had mocked my efforts and dreams, I saw a sign on the scoundrel: ‘OUT OF ORDER’.

6. My legs still hurt.

I am currently therapy to get used to the fact that, sigh, I will probably be a lardass forever.

Unrelated note:
I am going to burn my guitar. And discard any pretensions of being a musician.

Of Cows And Men

I have always been lucky that, wherever I’ve lived away from home, I’ve always been blessed with great friends and roommates. That’s not to say that they aren’t sometimes weird in their own way, but they’re adorably weird, each with their own idiosyncrasies and quirks that just about keep them from being normal. Either way, I suppose many of them might say the same about me. Not without justification, I might add. But I suppose if you observe any person long enough, its impossible to consider them normal. Everyone has their little peculiarities and peccadiloes which, when averaged over any decently large number of people, has little enough variance that they are approximated normal. But I digress, and I’m only yet in the first paragraph.

So, friends. And fun times with friends. Even the not-so-fun times. The most enjoyable part of my existense for the last eight years or so. These are the people that have been my support and safety net, my shoulder to cry on (metaphorically, of course) and the audience and witness to my follies and triumphs. These are the people that helped me keep my sanity and sense of humour [citation needed] through the otherwise humdrum existence that I have had so far.

Of course, the only reason I say all this is as munkoor jaamyam for a little story that I was relating to current rooommate and friend Shake about earlier roommates and friends from college. By college, of course, I mean the better part of four years spent ’studying’ in a hot, sweaty, nondescript part of Kerala that will always retain a special place in my heart.

So, anyway, as I was telling Shake, and as I am about to regale the eager reader, this tale takes place during a class trip to Yercaud and Ooty. On a fine misty September morning in Yercaud, three of my dearest friends, Njanju, Mr Brahmachari and Chronic Bachelor (hereafter known as MB and CB) are out for a walk around the TTDC grounds and cottages. Jaskon did not play a part in these proceedings as he was busy fighting off the inebriation brought on by the previous night’s celebrations (will be covered separately, sometime later, I am sure). But our protagonists were sober and ready for the exertions of the day.

As they meandered among the grassy knolls (slight exaggeration) of the TTDC resort, one of the resort workers threw a stone at a grazing cow in order to get it to move. And boy, did it move (and mooo). Right towards our heroes. Seeing the cow cantering in their direction, Njanju, MB and CB decide that haste is not waste and decide to run lest they become roadkill (or hillkill, or whatever). So the situation is as such: three hardy, red-blooded malayali youths running for dear life, followed by a by-now truly confused cantering cow among the cottages of the Yercaud TTDC resort. Three more classmates see the three running men and decide to act first and ask questions later, and start running themselves. Thankfully, they ran in a tangential direction and (presumably) reached safety. When later asked, they only said, ‘What cow? We saw you running, so we ran.’

If this doesn’t sound like a Buster Keaton movie yet, the best is yet to come. Our running men now are presented with another challenge in the form of a cottage in their path. Ordinarily, this would not be a severe challenge, and one would just turn or strafe to a path that did not have such obstacles. But evidently, that does not always happen when a sudden flow of adrenaline, and a running cow on one’s tail, leaves one only slightly better sighted than a bat. To his credit, Njanju manages to make out a large looming stationary shape in front of him and swerves at the right time, to take cover behing the house. MB and CB are not so lucky.

CB runs right into a side of the cottage with a resounding thaak, and before he can realize what just happened to him, MB runs right into him with a more muffled poff, sandwiching CB, who was already seeing stars and counting birdies, against the cottage’s brick wall once again. The cow apparently had a better sense of direction and avoided the wall by making a right turn, and then stopping and calming down when it realized she did not have three humans running in front of her to confuse her.

MB and CB collected themselves and brushed their lightly bruised bodies and heavily bruised egos and did what anyone who has just proven themselves to have accident avoidance skills inferior to a cow would do: try and silence the witness. But Njanju, not being one to be cowed down (punintended) by such threats, dutifully reported the story to, among others, a hung over but conscious me. And though we don’t bring it up all that often, and especially not in public (we prefer to keep inside stories inside), we haven’t really let them forget it. And though I regret having to declassify and publish this incident, I am sure the minor chuckle I got recollecting and writing it has been worth it.

Notes on Nomenclature: Obviously, names have been changed to protect the innocent, ie, me. Mr Brahmachari and Chronic Bachelor are named after Mohanlal and Mammootty (respectively) movies that came out at around the same time. We feel these names best express their attitudes towards and success with women while in college. Of course, times have now changed and both have found marital bliss of their own choosing. So I guess the joke’s on me, there. And Njanju is, well, just that.