Rules of the game, or games, as it were

I am a little unclear as to how this works. There was once a flow. It was called a flow of thought. It was said to exist as clearly as one follows zero and two follows one. I know that depends on how you define it, but there it is. There are set rules, they are said rules. If you were juvenile, you would now say, Rules rulez or something like that. Nevertheless, once upon a time, there was this flow of thought. It was a happy flow; it, more or less, unperturbed by commas or exclamation marks, resembled other flows. It looked like a boat chart, even. The point is, that it was.

Then came H. In the name of speaking Italian and throwing in, as a lame excuse, an iQ (like iPod) of 146, he came up with another flow. While I talked of a golden eternal braid, intertwining one post after another, just like Godel (with an umlaut), Escher and Bach and all that crummy jazz, he talked of strands of horse hair. It didn't make an ounce of horse sense; it doesn't now, but there you have it. So H took the flow that was wriggling peacefully along and combed it like the desert till the braid came unravelled in his hand. And spake he, "Let all who look upon this flow, behold me and despair!" And all the flows trembled, for there were indeed scared. And a wise sage in the form of T looked upon this scene and nodded in empathy. He looked a bit troubled owing to eating some vada pavs near ET, but he empathised nonetheless.

Why, one might ask, would a genius speak in such mundane terms? Why would one think that T, would lose faith, when a week back, he lived a none too healthy life inhaling all the smoke he could and destroying his neck muscles as a poor excuse for dancing. And one wouldn't get an answer. For H, though he believes in women dancing for him, would go straight ahead and wring that flow by the neck.

So after whining for a while, let me go ahead and return the compliments that H was really begging for. Well, H, let's see. Dramatic pause, throat cleared. H is a lousy bastard of the worst kind. He works less than I, he parties, well, as much as I do and is, all in all, much cleverer than I could possibly be. "Well, he seems to be pretty good, eh?" I hear my naive reader say to himself. Not quite. He is a lousy bastard. Why? Well sir, because of the contrarian nature of his deviant mind. He, first of all, isn't a romantic. He is has this extremely staid view of life (have you realised that we accidentally use the same words the other has in the previous post? Cool isn't it? It's called mirroring or some such. And if it isn't, then it should) except when it comes to matters of the fairer sex. Totally mixed up case, as they used to say, down south.

So there you have H for you. Or for me, for that matter. Oh yeah, he mentioned Women's day. I agree, whole lot of crap. I love women, God knows. I love women's lib as well. Suits the world fine I think that women wish to take control of their own lives. What I don't like is the implications it has on us men. It would appear that the Walter Rayleigh's of today are worthless. Look at me, I've been told I'm a sweet talker, but a horrible seducer. I apparently give the woman too much respect. Sheesh. So, I'll always be this chap the women pull the cheeks of or rub the hair of. They might even, occasionally, rub up close or dirty dance, eh? And then, poof... the rascals of world have it made, young feller me lad.

On that happy note, and the fact that Shakira is coming to Mumbai - my friends, one a girl, whom I will not name, and the second, a colleague, are extremely overjoyed by this, I shall end this post.

Cheerio and pip pip,
T