Don't Be a "Nice Guy"

I think the worst thing a guy can hear a girl say to him is -- "Oh, you're such a nice guy." Personally, I'd hate a girl telling me that. Of course, I don't really have to worry too much about it, since I am not a nice guy.

I'm not sure what the girl is actually trying to convey with the "nice guy" statement. I believe it's something on the lines of "I like you. I'm going to laden you with all my little secrets and life's woes. I'm going to call you to pick me up when I'm stranded at the station at 3 in the morning. I'm going to ask you to come take a look at my car when it has a problem. Basically, I'm going to use you like a butler, bed-servant, mechanic, cash-source, shoulder to cry on. But I'm never going to sleep with you." The guy, unfortunately, only cares about the last sentence.

Yes, there are some guys who actually believe it's good thing for a girl to call you a "nice guy". They argue that this is the first step to getting somewhere with the girl. I wouldn't listen to such guys too much -- they're normally the kind that also believe Santa Claus exists. There's a word to describe them. Let me see if I can remember it? Ah, yes -- 'Stupid'!

There are some other alternative versions to the "nice guy" routine:

1. I feel like I can tell you anything.
2. I feel really comfortable with you.
3. You are like my best friend.

Don't be fooled. All of these are just as dangerous as the original. If you hear any of them, you know you're in trouble. I suggest you run as far away from that girl as possible.

So if you're a guy reading this, don't be nice today. If you're a girl reading this, call me and tell me what a nice guy you think I am.

Went to Germany, Held Beckham's Hand.

Yesterday I had done the worst job in the world that has anything to do with football. Today I have something of the opposite.

The kids who accompany the players out onto the field just prior to the game -- where do they get them from? Because they're a pretty lucky bunch, if you ask me! Ten years old and you get to escort your favorite footballer out onto the pitch! That's the equivalent of a high school kid getting to take Paris Hilton to the prom.

It's like the ball boys and girls at Wimbledon. Except you remove all the hard work of running around gathering balls and you add the extra exciting aspect of the escorting, and then you realize just how much better this actually is!

I've only noticed boys among the kids and no girls. This could possibly be because I haven't seen too many games thus far. But I'd be really surprised if there were no girls involved in this at all. And before you start to yell out about how girls aren't really interested in sports, just think about all the preteen girls you know who would half kill to get to hold David Beckham's hand.

Beep Beep

I hate typing out text messages on my cell phone. I probably send one message in a day. And that too only if it was a really exciting day! Like if I met with the Queen. I’d send a message to my old Grandpa because he always devoutly maintained that the Queen never met with strangers. But on a normal day, it would be surprising if I sent more than half a text.

I know quite a few people who send 30-40 text messages a day and a few who even surpass those numbers regularly. This amazes and disturbs me -- in equal proportions. What are they all messaging each other about? Is there some big, secret plan for everyone under the age of 21 to take over the world? Because if that’s the case, then they’re in for a rude shock -- the world’s not such a fun place to rule.

I hate conversations that are conducted via text message -- ones with 10-15 messages being transmitted each way. I bet I could convey more in a half-minute call than in such an exchange of texts, and save my precious fingers from unnecessary calluses too.

Most guys, I believe, aren’t too fond of speaking on the phone anyway. For a guy, a phone conversation has to have a specific purpose. It’s like a Special Rescue Mission -- get in, get what you have to and get out! For a girl, a phone conversation is like a day at the beach -- the longer it is and the less you accomplish, the better! This is why a phone conversation between a boy and a girl is bound to create problems for the guy. But then again, it’s not as bad as actually having to sit next to the girl and listen to her though. At least when it’s on the phone, you can play Solitaire on the computer and respond with a few arbitrary words of approval every so often.

Girl: So then my dog ran out through the open door and my Mom rushed out after it since it had taken her favorite slipper in its mouth. So I looked up from the top I was ironing and burnt my finger. Then I heard screeching tires and next thing I knew they’d both been run over by a truck. I still can’t believe what has happened.
Boy: Hmmm... Interesting.
Girl: Are you sure you’re listening to what I’m saying?
Boy: Hmmm... Interesting. [Black five on red six. Yay!]

I think it’s safe to say that phones are probably the gadgets that men like the least. But as always, they sure beat the alternative!

Went to Germany, Saw No Football.

I'm not sure what I used to think the worst job in the world was, but a new contender has marked its arrival on the scene. The security men standing around the ground at all the football stadia for the World Cup. In case you haven't noticed, during each match there is an entire squad of security guys in bright fluorescent yellow jackets encircling the ground spaced out at regular intervals. They stand just in front of the crowd and their job is to prevent fans from running onto the ground when the game is in progress. It may actually have been quite a good deal, if they didn't have to face the wrong way the whole time! For the entire game, these guys have to stand with their backs to the players and face the crowd. Can it get worse than that?

You're standing right next to the ground on which a match is progress that is being watched by thousands around you and millions around the world, and yet you can't see a single play! You're closer to the action, in a strictly geographical sense of the word, than any one else except the players, the referee, the linesmen and the coaches; and yet the most exciting thing you can hope to sight is an excited female supporter flashing one of the players.

Okay, maybe the flashing doesn't happen -- but I'm sure most of them wish it did!

Mom or Not?

What’s the deal with girls anyway? All of them desperately want to have kids. When I last checked, having a kid entailed also becoming a Mom. So it’s fair to say that most girls want to be Moms.

And yet if you tell a girl she’s acting just like your Mom, she’s liable to pick up a blunt object and cudgel you to death with it!

(I speak from experience. I wasn’t born this stupid. You now know where the brain damage came from.)

Here We Go Again

Yippee, tally ho, cheers and all that! My computer is back among the living again. Don’t ask how -- some things are best left in the past. Of course, regular programming resumes.

The one year (that’s what it felt like to me, at least) that I was without the computer was almost like living in rehab. I’d become more addicted to it than I was conscious of. I’ve been without it for more than a week at a stretch in the past -- but that’s always been when I was out of station. And then you’re too busy to notice you don’t have a computer. So that doesn’t count.

But seriously, this was quite bad. Like I said earlier -- rehab. The first day was the hardest. Until I got to the second one. And then the third. You get the picture.

There’s almost something cool about the word “rehab”. You know, “I was in rehab.” It almost cool. I think it’s because we associate celebrities with rehab. Drew Barrymore goes to rehab. Eric Clapton goes to rehab. Courtney Love goes to rehab. Your boring, slightly over-weight neighbor Bob, on the other hand, does not go to rehab.

Rehab’s almost gotten cooler than the addiction itself! It’s like -- you do coke? Big deal! I’m in rehab! Coke shmoke! Been there, done that. And now it’s rehab for me. I’m one step ahead of you!

Meanwhile, I’m sure half of you out there don’t even know the full form of “rehab”.

Don't Worry, I'm Alive!

Epilog: I know an 'epilog' comes at the end and I'm not a fool. (Well not for this reason at least.) I wrote this part after writing the post. Okay? This post was written about a week ago, but I am only posting it now for reasons that should become clear after you read it.


Some of you may perhaps have noticed the lack of posts on this blog in the past few days. Those of you who don't really know me, may have attributed this to my final exams which have just ended. Those who actually do know me, know better than to believe in such nonsense. And they'd be right!

The actual reason why I haven't been able to post anything is because my computer's been acting up. It keeps restarting after random intervals of time -- normally ranging from about 15 to 30 seconds. Even with my super-quick typing abilities, this isn't quite enough to hack out a post-worthy post. (Unfortunately, most of that time is spent starting Windows or I might have been able to pull something off.) On the rare occasions -- namely two out of forty-three attempted -- that I did manage to get the computer running for more than a minute, I was swamped by the sheer volume of mails in my inbox and the new posts in my blog reader. (Okay, you got me. It was only the second thing -- no one likes me enough to mail me.)

Well, this time I decided to forget about checking my non-existent mail for a change and write something. I'm not sure how long it will be before my computer decides to play naughty again, so if this post suddenly ends in the middle of a sentence you know what might have happened.

A. I may have died. In which case, this post will attain unprecedented fame.
B. My computer stopped working again. In which case, it won't.

If you're interested in finding out which one of the above is true, you can always try calling me up. If I don't answer, you may safely conclude that I am busy kicking myself for having forgotten to press Ctrl-S since I started typing! In other words, Option B.

You may wonder why I haven't called up a technical help line for assistance. I can assure you it isn't because I feel I know more than the person at the other end of the phone. It's because I know I don't! A conversation with a technician (T) would normally go like this:

I: Well, you know my computer isn't working. It keeps restarting every 15 seconds.
T: Okay, maybe there's something loose somewhere. Why don't you try pressing your RAM chips in a little harder.
I: What do my RAM chips look like?
T: They're the little black rectangular chips on your motherboard.
I: Hey! Watch your tongue when you're speaking about my Mom!

I could always get a technician to come to my room and look at it or maybe take it down to their office. But from past experience I've realized that electronic gadgets with technicians are quite like kids with the doctor. The minute the healer arrives on the scene, the problem has magically disappeared. You've seen it happen, right?

You'll have a kid who's bawling his ass off claiming that everything in his body hurts. (It's mostly because he doesn't want to go to school.) But the minute you take him down to the friendly neighborhood doctor, he's suddenly fitter than Superman! It's the same thing with gadgets. They'll play all sorts of tricks with you. But you bring in a technician and suddenly that formerly recalcitrant microwave is working better than ever before. I believe they do this just to make you look stupid. It's the first step in the whole "machines taking over the world" thing. (They're not so smart though. The last time I brought in my old Uncle Willie dressed in a lab coat pretending to be a technician. Fooled my TV into working again!)

So there you have it. I'm in a bigger fix than I consider fun -- and I don't know what to do. I have no way out of it. So until my computer gets better, I'll leave you with today's useless piece of trivia: While writing this post, I restarted my computer 14 times. (I kid you not.)

Youthful Advice

Here’s some of the best advice I’ve read in recent times:

‘Advice, Like Youth, Probably Just Wasted on the Young’

Do read and all that.

[Link by: Visionunseen]

Facial Fashions Gone Wrong

I’ve never understood the need for two particular male facial hair fashions -- the mustache and the French beard.

I think some men look best clean shaven, some with varying levels of unshaved stubble and some with a nice and proper full-beard. But I can’t think of a single man who can truthfully claim he looks best with either a mustache or a French beard! Think about it. Name one celebrity hunk who sports a French beard. (Porn stars don’t count.) I bet you can’t. And even if you could, I doubt that’s his best look! You might be able to think of a couple who do sport mustaches, but again I doubt they’d be very strong cases.

So why did these two fashions come about? And why do guys still sport them? I think the mustache is a married man’s way of telling his wife he’s not looking out for someone else. It’s like saying, “Here, I’ll grow a mustache, darling. Just so that I drop below that level that girls still find attractive. You have nothing to worry about now.” The wife’s equivalent for this is putting on a few extra pounds. Just so that her husband can feel safe that she’s out of the game too. I think if you take a survey of all the married couples out there, you’ll find the ones where the husband wears a mustache and the wife is slightly overweight are generally the happiest.

What about the French beard? I find it extremely puzzling that the French lend their name, on the one hand, to something as beautiful as the French Kiss while at the same time on the other, to something as ugly as the French beard. A French beard is basically trouble for nothing. It takes effort to trim and shape it and all you get for your pains is the fact that you now look uglier than before. You’d do so much better just shaving it all off.

Why do guys wear a French beard? Anyone want to answer that?

What’s the Worst Way to Wake Up?

Waking up at 4.30 in the evening and finding your inbox filled with messages asking you why your blog is missing isn’t exactly the best way to start the day! Actually, the first part’s quite okay -- even good, actually -- it’s the second part that makes me feel a tad scared.

That’s when I remembered I was mucking around with my template in the wee hours of the morning -- never the best time to indulge in such activities. So I go check the template. And sure enough! For some reason almost my entire template was missing! Save for the odd “$” symbol!

My initial wonder soon turned to disgust when I realized that I hadn’t saved my earlier template anywhere! I could select a new template from the available choices but I’d have to make all the changes to my sidebar and everything again!

Since I didn’t have too many other choices, I selected a new template and was just about the commence on the dreary task of changing the sidebar, when I remembered the old saying -- “If you have a problem, chances are Google has the answer!” Of course! The Google Cache!

So I open my blog from their Cache, open the source code and copy the modified parts from there into my new template. It still took me about 20 minutes in all, but I’m willing to bet it would have taken a little longer had I modified the whole thing again myself!

So here it is -- back on the road again. And boy! I can do without scares like that again! (This time I’ve saved the template on my hard disk, just in case.)