When I was working as an engineer in India many years ago, I heard a story about octroi posts. For those of you who may not know it, an octroi post collects a tax for the movement of goods across a border, either a state, district, or city. What I heard was that a truck passing through a post had to pay the sum of one rupee to the person manning the post. This was a bribe to pass the truck otherwise it would be pulled over and kept waiting. My salary was about three thousand rupees a month, a fairly good some of money in those times, so a rupee didn’t seem much to me.
I remember traversing NH4, the old Mumbai-Pune highway, and watching trucks moving along the highway, inching along the Khopoli ghats. It was a never-ending stream of colorful trucks laden with goods, covered in tarpaulin, moving across the beautiful monsoon ghats. It was so mysterious and thrilling for an engineer. Goods were moving! The whole country was on the move. I am talking about the late 1980s when India was a stagnant economy in comparison with today. It is much more impressive today. But even then I understood how much an octroi inspector could make on one afternoon from that river of trucks. My education at the famed Indian Institute of Technology (IIT) brought me a job that could hope to pay only a fraction of the money that changed hands at an octroi post. This is corruption on a small-scale, which over the hundreds of thousands of octroi posts, leads to corruption on a larger-scale. It adds a hidden tax to the daily cost of life.
Graft and corruption, the giving and taking of bribes, is endemic in this poor country of ours. We use it as a way of getting things done, even though what needs to be done is our right, for which the people who are doing the job are already paid for. Thus, corruption in India is not just about personal gain. It is about an extra cost added to facilitate processes that are already paid for. We are paying twice. We first pay through taxes, and then we pay through bribes. The former is just and fair, whereas the latter is unjust and obscene, particularly for the poor. It costs our nation dearly.
As the Indian economy has grown, so has the sheer size and scale of corruption. It now staggers the mind. But what is galling is the brazen and sometimes open way in which public officials loot public funds and resources, or make demands of ordinary citizens. The correct word to use here is “shameless”. It is a quaint word used more often in South Asia than anywhere else. I rarely hear it used in the United States. Corruption in India has reached a level of shamelessness that even the cynical and indifferent Indian stares at it breathless, and with widened eyes. There seems to be no end to it, neither in its scale nor in time.
Corruption in India, as exemplified by the actual exchange of money between interested parties, takes many forms. It falls into three areas, graded according to the scale of money involved. First is in the sale of public resources, such as mining rights, airports, and large-scale public property. Second is in the enforcement of public authority with regard to the functioning of industry, such as the issuing of environmental clearances or other licenses. Third is in the private citizen’s right to individual privileges and the right to fair punishment, such as the issuing of passports, ration cards, traffic tickets, and such. In each and every one of these areas there are vast sums of money that exchange hands, never to benefit the public, but doubling our costs.
I would never have written this piece except for two egregious and shameful examples in recent times. The first is the scandal that almost destroyed the recently concluded Commonwealth Games (CWG) held in Delhi. The second is the sale of 2G spectrum carried out in 2008 under the stewardship of the disgraced telecom minister Mr. Andimuthu Raja. He resigned recently. These scandals are not about the day-to-day corruption witnessed, endured, tolerated, and even committed by our citizens. These scandals are about a massive looting of public resources and funds by publicly appointed officials. Thus, India lives in squalor, and it is made more squalid by the minds and the attitudes of its corrupt public officials.
Of the two big scandals, the 2G scandal is much the larger. Mr. Raja simply sold off the spectrum on a first-come first-served basis using 2001 costs. He made no effort to auction the sale and get the current and therefore best prices. To make matters worse he subverted the process, in collusion with telecom ministry bureaucrats, and allowed unknown players with no prior telecom experience to gain the upper hand. The sale of 2G spectrum and the losses involved are so staggering that it has shaken urban Indians. The estimate of the loss to the exchequer is about 1.76 lakh crore rupees (about $40 billion). This amount is about six times the 2010 budget for education (0.31 lakh crore rupees) and larger than the defense budget (1.47 lakh crore rupees). So we are not talking about chump change. We are talking about a massive loss of revenue to the people of India.
The air waves of our country, the spectrum that we have to share, are a national resource, just as much as its land, its minerals, its forests, and its waters. The revenue earned from it belongs rightfully to the people. To sell it off in this cavalier manner is a sign of sheer incompetence, or stupidity, or corruption. None of these are becoming of a cabinet minister. I heard Mr. Raja state rather blandly to the media that he believes he did the right thing. His actions as he claims have apparently ensured the entry of new players in the market, caused the lowering of tariffs, and led to the enormous expansion of the cellular base that India is currently witnessing. India is the fastest growing cellular market in the world today. And in a nation of 1.2 billion people, that is saying a lot. They are adding millions of users per month.
On hearing him justifying his actions, I laughed, then I cried, and then I fixed myself a stiff drink. In the face of the numbers of rupees involved with so many zeros, in the face of bright-eyed children walking to school barefoot and denied a mid-day meal, my only solace was hysteria and alcohol. Beaten verbally and disgraced, Mr. Raja resigned and went back to his native Tamil Nadu where he was apparently greeted with much joy and decked with garlands. Regrettably, garlands of flowers, and not garlands of shoes. I am not a violent man, but I wish that Mr. Raja is forever denied a cell phone, a television, a radio, and WiFi. Neither his speeches nor his face must ever be broadcast. After what he has done, he has no right to the nation’s air waves, nor does he have any right to its spectrum. He must be condemned to that dark place where electromagnetic spectrum is unavailable. In it he must spend the rest of his life.
Let us not even go into the CWG fiasco. All of you have read so much and are no doubt pained. While the 2G scandal leaves us shamefaced, the CWG fiasco left us shamefaced before the whole world. It really took genius to mess this one up. We descended to our lowest depths yet. In squandering public money by doling out contracts to the favored, in the shoddy and poor construction of facilities, in the way we railroaded the poor out of their shanties, in the way we sacrificed quality and pride, we really hit our low. We took no pride, no care, in preparing for the games. We did work that was shameful. We were left wretched and naked before the world, explaining why it was just fine to have dogs and people defecating and urinating in the athletes housing, sometimes in the bedrooms and even in the beds, and not discreetly in the toilet as you may presume. We even had a CWG official on national TV justifying our lack of hygiene, trying to pass it off as a Western fad. It was more than shameless, it was sad.
The 2G spectrum scandal is scandalous because of the scale of the sums of money involved. But both scandals have a similar cause. It is that the average Indian public official simply does not care when it comes to the public good. He has neither pride nor does he take pride in doing his work fairly. He is unconcerned and unmoved that he is running our country into the ground. It does not cause him sleepless nights. He does not care about destroying the faith that the public has placed in him, and he does not care about the lives lost due to his corrupt actions. All he wants is personal profit, even if it means that he has to sell the country to the lowest bidder. This is our average public servant. This is the man we pay, to manage our country so that he may make our lives better.
We love to talk about India’s past, its great stories and epics, our various Gods, our heroes, occasionally our heroines if the mood takes us, and the values originating in our spirituality and humanistic philosophy. We defend them with vim and vigor, always explaining ourselves to others. And so, our sentiments, be they religious or cultural, are also hurt very easily. So, there is always some unfortunate writer or artist whose work offends, or some offending liberal Indian who speaks out about love and lust, and Valentine’s Day. This gives us the opportunity to go on a rampage and ransack and destroy public property, or molest women on their way to enjoying an evening at a bar. The simple truth is that we care more for our imagined past than our present. We defend our past vigorously, and leave the present undefended.
It is paradoxical because our rage is directed at imagined slights to our culture, whereas the real slights occur in our governance. It is here that the Indian is truly being insulted and slighted. It seems alright that we should suffer a loss that is six times our annual education budget, or to be made a laughing stock about our inability to conduct an athletic event. But it is not alright for women to wear jeans or shorts, or have a beer, nor is it alright to write about Shivaji or Lord Ram in terms that are dispassionate and less than slavish. We can talk, but we can’t walk the talk. It is little wonder that we come across as a largely uneducated lot, incapable of thoughtful opinion or action, unable to discern the important from the irrelevant.
Why do we do this? Why is it that we lecture everyone to the point of boredom about the Bhagvad Gita when we do not even pay the barest of attention to what is said in it? What is the basic message of the Gita after all? It is that we should do our duty and carry out our work without concern for its fruits. So why then are the nation and its wealth being looted so brazenly and openly? Why do we seek personal profit from our position in office, from our position as citizens? Why are we so ready to come out and burn buses and torch the homes of Dalits and Muslims in the name of religion, culture, and honor, when we honor our duty so little? There is an inconsistency in our beliefs and our actions. We seem to care so much about this great civilization and culture of ours, and yet we care so little for our nation or its future.
We are magical in our beliefs, and thoroughly medieval in our outlook. Mr. Gill our honorable minister for Youth and Sports Affairs said that the CWG would come together and work out fine. He said that it would be chaotic and disorganized like an Indian wedding, where everything will fall into place at the appointed hour. But to the rest of the world, it is not the deed that is chaotic and disturbing, nor its eventual success. What is disturbing is our magical and wishful thinking. It is chaotic, unplanned, and childish. It is a make-believe wedding played by children. We hand out contracts to our mothers and brothers, making it some kind of family affair, without any seriousness of thought or action for the greater good. Our belief being that if we govern our nation like it is a family wedding, then everyone will be happy. No one will be happy Minister! Not those of us who believe that a modern India is one that ought to be run professionally, with careful and skillful husbandry, with wise use and disposition of our resources towards the best end. In management terms it is called “best practice”.
Thus, our arrogance and pride is confined to our past deeds, and not to present action. It is a misplaced arrogance, mired in a history that is lost and gone, and not rooted to the present. The arrogance and pride of the Germans and the Swiss, for example, come from their present capabilities. Buy any Swiss mechanical watch or a Bavarian Cuckoo clock. Open it, take it apart, and take a good look at it. They are masterpieces, carefully crafted, with precision and with pride. The little gears and wheels are machined to perfection. You can’t bribe one of those craftsmen to do a lesser job. Their countries too run like clockwork, where probity is the norm rather than the exception. They take pride in what they do. The governance of India should require no less pride.
I am not condemning India or Indians, at least not unnecessarily. If you look at the business practices of Infosys, Wipro, or Tata Motors, you will find similar pride and craftsmanship. These blue-chip Indian companies are going to change the way modern companies are run. But they are private entrepreneurs, not public officials and politicians running the country. India is no longer a conglomeration of villages or minor kingdoms. Its governance requires men and women of unimpeachable integrity, who work to make it a better country.
Public officials and politicians ought to take pride in what they do, for the sake of doing it, without looking for personal profit. We are indeed a great civilization, but the brutal truth is that the past does not exist, and the past does not make us better people. The Buddha said “the past is a corpse, don’t drag it around.” What India needs is public officials who do their job. They do not even need to look to the future. All that they have to do is look at the task in hand, and do it with devotion and with utter disregard for the fruits of their action. When they do, corruption and graft will disappear, and India’s people will be well looked after.
Not all is bad, and not all the criticism is universally applied. There are public officials who have done great service to India. They form not just the hope of our generation, but the hope of those who come after us. The person most respected in India today is the architect and builder of the Delhi Metro, Mr. Sreedharan. He does his job and he does it well. He probably makes mistakes, as everyone surely does, but from what can be judged, they are not made for personal gain. He has integrity. This is all that we ask of our public officials. When you undertake your responsibilities, do so with your eye on your duty. Do so for the benefit of others and not just for the benefit of you, your family, or your biradari. And if you are capable of larger thinking, although we cannot ask this of you, do so for India and its millions of poor people. They are placing their trust in you and this is the least that they deserve.
Note: This article was written in November 2010. Since that time a number of individuals have been arrested and indicted. In the 2G scandal it includes the former Telecom minister Mr. A. Raja (mentioned in the article) and another central minister Mr. Mr. D. Maran. In the CWG scandal it includes the former head of the Indian Olympic Association Mr. S. Kalmadi. All three are members of the ruling government. Let us see how the inquiry and trial proceeds. It doesn’t look good so far. On a recent surprise visit by a judge to the prison where Mr. Kalmadi is lodged, he was astonished to find that Mr. Kalmadi was enjoying High tea with the prison superintendent. And the prison cells, where the accused in the CWG scandal are lodged, are kept unlocked. Apparently the accused roam freely within the confines of the prison, converse with each other at all times, and enjoy a fairly comfortable life.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Battlestar Peripatetica
Admiral's Starlog, Battlestar Peripatetica, Day 227, Year 3652.
Location: NGC 4414, or so we hope.
Mother! Did you have to drop the bomb?
I am the fleet commander, Supreme Grand Admiral Adam Dalgliesh. It has been two years since the holocaust. We escaped with a rag-tag fleet of survivors, numbering 117 ships, and 48,965 survivors. We are in search of the legendary colony of Capsicum located somewhere in the direction of the constellation of Coma Berenices. After two hundred and twenty jumps through hyper-space we are completely and totally lost. I think we are in the vicinity of NGC 4414 in the constellation Coma Berenices, but I am not sure. Space looks the same in every direction. I am pissed. I had Lt. Faelix Gaeta ejected into deep space as punishment. We watched his eyeballs eject from their sockets and float past the main deck. They stared sorrowfully at us as they swept past. I am remorseless.
I remember that horrific time on Earth, just before we got nuked. The Peripatetica was undergoing repairs on Mars and we watched in helpless horror, on interstellar microwave transmission, as earth was obliterated (I was bonking the chief petty officer at that time, a rather pert little thing. It was pleasure mixed with pain). And then I saw the news item, and I saw the picture of Muzzer. I was stunned! Muzzer! Responsible for the holocaust? This was hard to believe. Was she in the pay of the Cylons? Or was she a Cylon?
I had seen her just two months before in Chennai in Southern India. I stood on the neat doorstep surrounded by blooming cannas and anthuriums, and rang the bell. The door opened, "Hello Son!" she said, smiling at me. I stooped to give Muzzer a hug as she was a small woman, and she led me in. She was dressed in a silk Kanchipuram Sari, and her hair was tied up into a neat bun. She wore the traditional red bindi on her forehead, a modest sized dot. She was the epitome of the average Indian home maker. She bustled about preparing lunch. I partook of a sumptuous meal - a multi-course traditional South Indian meal, chock full of flavors. She ladled the rice and other savory dishes onto the banana leaf and watched me eat. After I had finished she made me steaming Mysore coffee. Then she picked up her brolly, called for a rickshaw and announced "I must be off for my petite-point class, and then our round of Bridge!"
Everyday, at 1 PM she would disappear for petite-point and Bridge, returning at 6 PM. I watched the news in horror. Muzzer was not indulging in petite-point or Bridge! She was a top-ranking thermonuclear weapons designer at a national laboratory. In one afternoon she could effortlessly turn out a new design for a fifty Megaton thermonuclear weapon. And just to amuse her friends over evening tiffin, she would design a 100 Kt conventional fission weapon on a napkin. It was easy for her. The rest of us had to struggle to balance our check books, but Muzzer could knock out a new hydrogen bomb design every afternoon.
I stared at the screen, my mouth wide open, my petty officer pouting at me, naked and unattended. Muzzer! Who would have thought! Apparently she had gone berserk. She had wired all the thermonuclear weapons to simultaneously detonate across earth and moon. Just as the weapons detonated her voice came through. She said one word "Wahey!" Then she died. More violently than she had pretended to live.
Now as Admiral I have to pick up the pieces and move the last remains of the human race to a safe planet that we can call home. I must find Capsicum. The fate of the human race rests on the discovery of our muzzer planet. But, Muzzer! Really! I am appalled! Did you have to drop the bomb? What am I going to tell the rest of the fleet? That my own Muzzer wiped out the planet earth and made us refugees? Thanks Mum! I owe you for this. No wonder Dad left you.
I am preparing for our 221st jump through hyper space. My crew is not terribly reliable. My petty officer is pretty good in bed, but she is awful at navigation. We could end up inside a black hole. It is time to eject another officer into the cold void of deep space as a warning. My chief petty officer? Oh well! All good things must come to an end. And I did notice that the refitting engineer is pretty hot... Nice legs.
I hope that I do not see the CPO's eyeballs drifting past the flight deck.
This is Admiral Dalgliesh signing off on behalf of the remainder of the human race.
Location: NGC 4414, or so we hope.
Mother! Did you have to drop the bomb?
I am the fleet commander, Supreme Grand Admiral Adam Dalgliesh. It has been two years since the holocaust. We escaped with a rag-tag fleet of survivors, numbering 117 ships, and 48,965 survivors. We are in search of the legendary colony of Capsicum located somewhere in the direction of the constellation of Coma Berenices. After two hundred and twenty jumps through hyper-space we are completely and totally lost. I think we are in the vicinity of NGC 4414 in the constellation Coma Berenices, but I am not sure. Space looks the same in every direction. I am pissed. I had Lt. Faelix Gaeta ejected into deep space as punishment. We watched his eyeballs eject from their sockets and float past the main deck. They stared sorrowfully at us as they swept past. I am remorseless.
I remember that horrific time on Earth, just before we got nuked. The Peripatetica was undergoing repairs on Mars and we watched in helpless horror, on interstellar microwave transmission, as earth was obliterated (I was bonking the chief petty officer at that time, a rather pert little thing. It was pleasure mixed with pain). And then I saw the news item, and I saw the picture of Muzzer. I was stunned! Muzzer! Responsible for the holocaust? This was hard to believe. Was she in the pay of the Cylons? Or was she a Cylon?
I had seen her just two months before in Chennai in Southern India. I stood on the neat doorstep surrounded by blooming cannas and anthuriums, and rang the bell. The door opened, "Hello Son!" she said, smiling at me. I stooped to give Muzzer a hug as she was a small woman, and she led me in. She was dressed in a silk Kanchipuram Sari, and her hair was tied up into a neat bun. She wore the traditional red bindi on her forehead, a modest sized dot. She was the epitome of the average Indian home maker. She bustled about preparing lunch. I partook of a sumptuous meal - a multi-course traditional South Indian meal, chock full of flavors. She ladled the rice and other savory dishes onto the banana leaf and watched me eat. After I had finished she made me steaming Mysore coffee. Then she picked up her brolly, called for a rickshaw and announced "I must be off for my petite-point class, and then our round of Bridge!"
Everyday, at 1 PM she would disappear for petite-point and Bridge, returning at 6 PM. I watched the news in horror. Muzzer was not indulging in petite-point or Bridge! She was a top-ranking thermonuclear weapons designer at a national laboratory. In one afternoon she could effortlessly turn out a new design for a fifty Megaton thermonuclear weapon. And just to amuse her friends over evening tiffin, she would design a 100 Kt conventional fission weapon on a napkin. It was easy for her. The rest of us had to struggle to balance our check books, but Muzzer could knock out a new hydrogen bomb design every afternoon.
I stared at the screen, my mouth wide open, my petty officer pouting at me, naked and unattended. Muzzer! Who would have thought! Apparently she had gone berserk. She had wired all the thermonuclear weapons to simultaneously detonate across earth and moon. Just as the weapons detonated her voice came through. She said one word "Wahey!" Then she died. More violently than she had pretended to live.
Now as Admiral I have to pick up the pieces and move the last remains of the human race to a safe planet that we can call home. I must find Capsicum. The fate of the human race rests on the discovery of our muzzer planet. But, Muzzer! Really! I am appalled! Did you have to drop the bomb? What am I going to tell the rest of the fleet? That my own Muzzer wiped out the planet earth and made us refugees? Thanks Mum! I owe you for this. No wonder Dad left you.
I am preparing for our 221st jump through hyper space. My crew is not terribly reliable. My petty officer is pretty good in bed, but she is awful at navigation. We could end up inside a black hole. It is time to eject another officer into the cold void of deep space as a warning. My chief petty officer? Oh well! All good things must come to an end. And I did notice that the refitting engineer is pretty hot... Nice legs.
I hope that I do not see the CPO's eyeballs drifting past the flight deck.
This is Admiral Dalgliesh signing off on behalf of the remainder of the human race.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Response to a date request
Dear Ms. XYZ,
I am Adam Dalgliesh, a friend of Veronica who you know quite well. She asked me to write to you hoping that we may form a suitable friendship. I hope that this missive finds you to be in reasonably robust health. You must be curious about me, and rightly so. Let me therefore describe something about myself. This is in the interest of honesty, clarity, and openness. Dating a man of my years, my hideous visage, and considerable girth, must fill you with trepidation. But I believe that baring my chest may put you at ease, although it is not an agreeable sight given the substantial and rugged male brassiere that I have to wear. It is a teutonic undergarment worn out of necessity. May I hasten to add that you should not be unnerved? I believe that it is quite the fashion.
I am a somewhat nice person. I say somewhat because some people think me nice whereas many think me not. I lean towards the opinion of the latter, believing that the opinion of the majority must carry some weight. If nothing else, I am democratic. But my personality is not of much import. More interesting are my psychosocial and pathophysiological dimensions. These are rich and varied indeed.
On the psychosocial side, I have some difficulties. These are not insurmountable but you may like to be prepared. Foremost is my tenuous grasp on reality. Let me quote my high-school counselor who wrote "It is easier for me to write about the things that Dalgliesh does not suffer from. To write about his psychological problems would take me several lifetimes." I think she was joking because I put a lab frog in her hand bag once. Just the common Rana pipiens, not the more interesting species of poison dart frogs (the family Dendrobatidae) which would have surely paralyzed her. But to be fair to her, she was not given to hyperbole. She probably spoke the truth.
Enough about my psychosocial dimensions. You must be eager to read more about my pathophysiology by now. Quivering perhaps? Quite.
My medical problems are extensive. Some have been documented in journals like Lancet and JAMA, but some are new to science and medicine. Take my Guinea worm problem for example. Every month on a Monday I have to show up at my podiatrist's where he seizes a large hemostat, and draws foot-long worms from open sores on my feet and legs. Although a foot specialist, he also has to draw worms from my buttocks. He is not quite certified to work in that region of my vast anatomy, but he does so without medical license because we have formed a pact of secrecy. He gets the fee from my insurance company so that I may rest my sore behind at night. He extracts these long worms and deposits them in large jars of formalin which he then sends to CDC for examination and histology. They occupy pride of place in his office. Please do not be horrified, for I look upon my Guinea worms with fatherly pride. I have seen beautifully stained sections of my worms. Even the micrographs of conventional Nissl stain with a eosin counterstain are works of art.
From my buttocks which is located in the posterior region, we now proceed to my other orifice at the anterior end. I refer to the oral cavity. Let me confess. I suffer from terminal halitosis. This is a mysterious and debilitating condition that guarantees early death. No cure is known to medicine. Yes, I am likely to to be the first man to die of bad breath. Suffocated by my own breath, so to speak. It was responsible for ruining three of my former marriages. My ex-wives complained that it was like sleeping next to a septic tank.
Proceeding in an antero-lateral direction on either sides let us now dive into my external ear canals. Residing within are thriving swarms of breeding mosquitoes. The fetid and moist environment of my external auditory meatus is most suitable for raising their larvae, for I rarely clean my ears. I believe the last time it was cleaned was more than two score years ago when my mother seized my head and poured peroxide into my ears. She has a video tape of this event which I will be glad to furnish. Most people complain of ringing in their ears. I am surely the first to complain of singing. Lest you think these minor pathologies are prosaic and passe, I hasten to mention that some aspects of my physiology and biology have made me famous. Among the vast and varied flora thriving on my body several new bacterial species have been discovered. Entirely and hitherto unknown to science, these bacteria have been named after me.
Be that as it may, let us proceed once more to my posterior orifice with some haste so as to elaborate, or we may delay further explanation and prolong this missive. We descend cautiously taking care to skirt my hunch back (a mere birth defect). My remaining three marriages were ruined by flatulence. Yes, I have been married six times. I hope that this does not cause you undue distress.
I will not go into many details on my fourth, fifth, and sixth marriages. Flatulence in matrimony is to be borne with grace, but if it exceeds 8 on the Richter scale there are grounds for serious concern. These later marriages were destroyed by regular nocturnal gaseous outbursts of extreme violence. Nay! They were gastronomical seismic events, uprooting tectonic plates. Entire continents have been shifted. They disrupted the sleep of #4, #5, #6, and led to night-time panic attacks. It must not have been fun sharing a bed with Mount Vesuvious, Etna, and Stromboli erupting at the same time, making the air unsuitable for the normal act of respiration. Their breathing became labored and throwing open the windows served no purpose. The gaseous plumes laced with mercaptans, monoxides, hydrocarbons, and other mysterious gases, felled those walking on the street below. They just dropped and asphyxiated. Connubial bliss it was not. My wives staggered with monotonous frequency into the ER and therapy, and were eventually diagnosed with PTSD. I signed the divorce papers with dignity and grace while they wore gas masks and biohazard suits.
We rush hither and thither, from posterior to anterior and back again. Do not be alarmed fair lady. Explanations about ourselves are rarely straightforward. The path is convoluted. Our physiology is mysterious as it is wondrous. I have alluded to the anterior and posterior ends of my anatomy, and the various maladies thereof. We now linger in the posterior regions, so as to elaborate further.
Thusly, let me now delve into my hemorrhoids. Not literally, for I fear your delicate sensibilities may be offended. But I will spare you the painful details. For they are indeed painful. I have to sit on pile rings. I usually walk around with one strapped to my buttocks. It causes people to stare. If you are not too embarrassed by it, I hope you will not mind me escorting you to dinner wearing this contraption. Once your initial discomfiture is past, you will not even notice.
There are a few other minor details. Relating to my peculiar eccentricities as noted by others. But these are piffling details that you will discover by and by. I have told you much believing that it is much the better to start out by being honest, and keep our expectations within reasonable limits.
I am excited about meeting you. I hope you do not mind the halitosis, nor will you mind the flatulence which often bursts out unprovoked in public. Please don't mind people staring at us, nor that they delicately raise their handkerchiefs to their noses whenever I pass by. It is better to be noticed than ignored.
I hope that the above introduction does not make me seem ineligible. I am indeed eligible. In fact, may I boldly hazard that I may be the last remaining eligible bachelor?
I look forward to hearing from you. Indeed, I feel a tremendous excitement when I think about it.
Your sincerely and etc.,
Adam Dalgliesh
I am Adam Dalgliesh, a friend of Veronica who you know quite well. She asked me to write to you hoping that we may form a suitable friendship. I hope that this missive finds you to be in reasonably robust health. You must be curious about me, and rightly so. Let me therefore describe something about myself. This is in the interest of honesty, clarity, and openness. Dating a man of my years, my hideous visage, and considerable girth, must fill you with trepidation. But I believe that baring my chest may put you at ease, although it is not an agreeable sight given the substantial and rugged male brassiere that I have to wear. It is a teutonic undergarment worn out of necessity. May I hasten to add that you should not be unnerved? I believe that it is quite the fashion.
I am a somewhat nice person. I say somewhat because some people think me nice whereas many think me not. I lean towards the opinion of the latter, believing that the opinion of the majority must carry some weight. If nothing else, I am democratic. But my personality is not of much import. More interesting are my psychosocial and pathophysiological dimensions. These are rich and varied indeed.
On the psychosocial side, I have some difficulties. These are not insurmountable but you may like to be prepared. Foremost is my tenuous grasp on reality. Let me quote my high-school counselor who wrote "It is easier for me to write about the things that Dalgliesh does not suffer from. To write about his psychological problems would take me several lifetimes." I think she was joking because I put a lab frog in her hand bag once. Just the common Rana pipiens, not the more interesting species of poison dart frogs (the family Dendrobatidae) which would have surely paralyzed her. But to be fair to her, she was not given to hyperbole. She probably spoke the truth.
Enough about my psychosocial dimensions. You must be eager to read more about my pathophysiology by now. Quivering perhaps? Quite.
My medical problems are extensive. Some have been documented in journals like Lancet and JAMA, but some are new to science and medicine. Take my Guinea worm problem for example. Every month on a Monday I have to show up at my podiatrist's where he seizes a large hemostat, and draws foot-long worms from open sores on my feet and legs. Although a foot specialist, he also has to draw worms from my buttocks. He is not quite certified to work in that region of my vast anatomy, but he does so without medical license because we have formed a pact of secrecy. He gets the fee from my insurance company so that I may rest my sore behind at night. He extracts these long worms and deposits them in large jars of formalin which he then sends to CDC for examination and histology. They occupy pride of place in his office. Please do not be horrified, for I look upon my Guinea worms with fatherly pride. I have seen beautifully stained sections of my worms. Even the micrographs of conventional Nissl stain with a eosin counterstain are works of art.
From my buttocks which is located in the posterior region, we now proceed to my other orifice at the anterior end. I refer to the oral cavity. Let me confess. I suffer from terminal halitosis. This is a mysterious and debilitating condition that guarantees early death. No cure is known to medicine. Yes, I am likely to to be the first man to die of bad breath. Suffocated by my own breath, so to speak. It was responsible for ruining three of my former marriages. My ex-wives complained that it was like sleeping next to a septic tank.
Proceeding in an antero-lateral direction on either sides let us now dive into my external ear canals. Residing within are thriving swarms of breeding mosquitoes. The fetid and moist environment of my external auditory meatus is most suitable for raising their larvae, for I rarely clean my ears. I believe the last time it was cleaned was more than two score years ago when my mother seized my head and poured peroxide into my ears. She has a video tape of this event which I will be glad to furnish. Most people complain of ringing in their ears. I am surely the first to complain of singing. Lest you think these minor pathologies are prosaic and passe, I hasten to mention that some aspects of my physiology and biology have made me famous. Among the vast and varied flora thriving on my body several new bacterial species have been discovered. Entirely and hitherto unknown to science, these bacteria have been named after me.
Be that as it may, let us proceed once more to my posterior orifice with some haste so as to elaborate, or we may delay further explanation and prolong this missive. We descend cautiously taking care to skirt my hunch back (a mere birth defect). My remaining three marriages were ruined by flatulence. Yes, I have been married six times. I hope that this does not cause you undue distress.
I will not go into many details on my fourth, fifth, and sixth marriages. Flatulence in matrimony is to be borne with grace, but if it exceeds 8 on the Richter scale there are grounds for serious concern. These later marriages were destroyed by regular nocturnal gaseous outbursts of extreme violence. Nay! They were gastronomical seismic events, uprooting tectonic plates. Entire continents have been shifted. They disrupted the sleep of #4, #5, #6, and led to night-time panic attacks. It must not have been fun sharing a bed with Mount Vesuvious, Etna, and Stromboli erupting at the same time, making the air unsuitable for the normal act of respiration. Their breathing became labored and throwing open the windows served no purpose. The gaseous plumes laced with mercaptans, monoxides, hydrocarbons, and other mysterious gases, felled those walking on the street below. They just dropped and asphyxiated. Connubial bliss it was not. My wives staggered with monotonous frequency into the ER and therapy, and were eventually diagnosed with PTSD. I signed the divorce papers with dignity and grace while they wore gas masks and biohazard suits.
We rush hither and thither, from posterior to anterior and back again. Do not be alarmed fair lady. Explanations about ourselves are rarely straightforward. The path is convoluted. Our physiology is mysterious as it is wondrous. I have alluded to the anterior and posterior ends of my anatomy, and the various maladies thereof. We now linger in the posterior regions, so as to elaborate further.
Thusly, let me now delve into my hemorrhoids. Not literally, for I fear your delicate sensibilities may be offended. But I will spare you the painful details. For they are indeed painful. I have to sit on pile rings. I usually walk around with one strapped to my buttocks. It causes people to stare. If you are not too embarrassed by it, I hope you will not mind me escorting you to dinner wearing this contraption. Once your initial discomfiture is past, you will not even notice.
There are a few other minor details. Relating to my peculiar eccentricities as noted by others. But these are piffling details that you will discover by and by. I have told you much believing that it is much the better to start out by being honest, and keep our expectations within reasonable limits.
I am excited about meeting you. I hope you do not mind the halitosis, nor will you mind the flatulence which often bursts out unprovoked in public. Please don't mind people staring at us, nor that they delicately raise their handkerchiefs to their noses whenever I pass by. It is better to be noticed than ignored.
I hope that the above introduction does not make me seem ineligible. I am indeed eligible. In fact, may I boldly hazard that I may be the last remaining eligible bachelor?
I look forward to hearing from you. Indeed, I feel a tremendous excitement when I think about it.
Your sincerely and etc.,
Adam Dalgliesh
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Superbowl speech
This speech is going to invite abuse and invective, but sadly it is my duty as the guardian of the phyla to write to all of you. This is my Superbowl speech. I make two other important speeches during the year: one before Christmas day decrying humbug, and the other before Valentine's day scorning love. My goal is to educate entire phyla, perhaps even bring about critical reforms.
Some days ago I heard the name "Green Bay Packers" for the first time. I thought that it was a moving company. You know, freight and such. I was surprised that Americans were so excited about a moving company. Is it because America is on the move?
Punning aside, today I know better. I know that the Green Bay Packers is the football team of the University of Wisconsin. Wisconsin? It is that small cold country to the north, bordering Canada. People there are of Viking stock I believe. They send bad weather to Texas every year. The last week was terribly cold. They shut down the highways in San Antonio and gave a day off to the students of the local public University (UTSA) where I teach. I was shocked. If we are going to cut and run every time Wisconsin launches an attack on our borders unleashing the Nordic hordes upon us, where will we be? We are not cowards. Remember the Alamo.
I will shortly be writing to the Secretary General of the UN politely asking him to remove Wisconsin from the comity of nations. Let us prepare to deal with the influx of refugees - the goths, visigoths, ostrogoths, and vikings.
(Okay! Dalgliesh! Focus! Focus!)
Anyhoo! I am rambling.
I am pondering on the barbaric violence about to be unleashed in Dallas tomorrow. Grown men slamming into one another, grunting, shoving, and howling. People cheering wildly, urging the men on to greater violence. And it is all over a pigskin ball.
Then it struck me that we can disconnect football from the Superbowl, and eliminate this unspeakable violence once and for all. How? By the simple act of introducing cricket. Yes, Superbowl should be a cricketing event! Hear me out before you start smashing the furniture.
Tomorrow, everywhere over America, living rooms will be crowded with sweaty men swilling beer, eating hot wings, belching, and breaking wind. Not to mention shouting and breaking things, and uttering vile profanities. A safer alternative is cricket. Cricket can civilize the wild beast that lurks inside man and which appears every year at this time.
With cricket you start leisurely at 9AM. Everything moves slowly with plenty of tea breaks and a lunch break. The audience is well-behaved, nodding thoughtfully at the events unfolding on the green. Events unfold gracefully in cricket. They don't explode all over the place as with football. There is only a quiet glance at your fellow man, a raised eyebrow, and the clinking of tea cups. The only words spoken are a muttered "howzzat?" and "I say!". Anything more is considered unacceptable violence.
And the men on the green move slowly, leisurely. Some of the fielders in the outfield have time to read a sonnet or a profound book. They may occasionally take a break to chase the ball, if they feel like it. The captain can only request a player to do his best with a few polite words. The game is completely absent of hormones, particularly the dreaded testosterone. The fielding side even claps politely when a batsman reaches a milestone. The umpire feels safe, and no one shouts at him or berates him.
During a leisurely five day test match (with a rest day thrown in between) women have time to give birth in the stands, and parents have plenty of time to raise their children to be proper and civilized. You can take a hour-long nap, and wake up, and not much will have changed. The score will not have moved much. I have once written a scientific paper while watching cricket, and missed out nothing on the green. An occasional glance kept me informed. So civilized.
Please consider this alternative carefully. Let us put a stop to this rude and unseemly pushing and shoving, and all that shouting. We have to show that America is a gentle and caring nation, a civilized nation. We can switch to cricket. I can hardly emphasize more. In these difficult times, we have to think of our children, and their children, and theirs. And such.
My Valentine's Day admonishment will follow in a week or so.
Some days ago I heard the name "Green Bay Packers" for the first time. I thought that it was a moving company. You know, freight and such. I was surprised that Americans were so excited about a moving company. Is it because America is on the move?
Punning aside, today I know better. I know that the Green Bay Packers is the football team of the University of Wisconsin. Wisconsin? It is that small cold country to the north, bordering Canada. People there are of Viking stock I believe. They send bad weather to Texas every year. The last week was terribly cold. They shut down the highways in San Antonio and gave a day off to the students of the local public University (UTSA) where I teach. I was shocked. If we are going to cut and run every time Wisconsin launches an attack on our borders unleashing the Nordic hordes upon us, where will we be? We are not cowards. Remember the Alamo.
I will shortly be writing to the Secretary General of the UN politely asking him to remove Wisconsin from the comity of nations. Let us prepare to deal with the influx of refugees - the goths, visigoths, ostrogoths, and vikings.
(Okay! Dalgliesh! Focus! Focus!)
Anyhoo! I am rambling.
I am pondering on the barbaric violence about to be unleashed in Dallas tomorrow. Grown men slamming into one another, grunting, shoving, and howling. People cheering wildly, urging the men on to greater violence. And it is all over a pigskin ball.
Then it struck me that we can disconnect football from the Superbowl, and eliminate this unspeakable violence once and for all. How? By the simple act of introducing cricket. Yes, Superbowl should be a cricketing event! Hear me out before you start smashing the furniture.
Tomorrow, everywhere over America, living rooms will be crowded with sweaty men swilling beer, eating hot wings, belching, and breaking wind. Not to mention shouting and breaking things, and uttering vile profanities. A safer alternative is cricket. Cricket can civilize the wild beast that lurks inside man and which appears every year at this time.
With cricket you start leisurely at 9AM. Everything moves slowly with plenty of tea breaks and a lunch break. The audience is well-behaved, nodding thoughtfully at the events unfolding on the green. Events unfold gracefully in cricket. They don't explode all over the place as with football. There is only a quiet glance at your fellow man, a raised eyebrow, and the clinking of tea cups. The only words spoken are a muttered "howzzat?" and "I say!". Anything more is considered unacceptable violence.
And the men on the green move slowly, leisurely. Some of the fielders in the outfield have time to read a sonnet or a profound book. They may occasionally take a break to chase the ball, if they feel like it. The captain can only request a player to do his best with a few polite words. The game is completely absent of hormones, particularly the dreaded testosterone. The fielding side even claps politely when a batsman reaches a milestone. The umpire feels safe, and no one shouts at him or berates him.
During a leisurely five day test match (with a rest day thrown in between) women have time to give birth in the stands, and parents have plenty of time to raise their children to be proper and civilized. You can take a hour-long nap, and wake up, and not much will have changed. The score will not have moved much. I have once written a scientific paper while watching cricket, and missed out nothing on the green. An occasional glance kept me informed. So civilized.
Please consider this alternative carefully. Let us put a stop to this rude and unseemly pushing and shoving, and all that shouting. We have to show that America is a gentle and caring nation, a civilized nation. We can switch to cricket. I can hardly emphasize more. In these difficult times, we have to think of our children, and their children, and theirs. And such.
My Valentine's Day admonishment will follow in a week or so.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Buzzing the Department of Delusion and Dementia
Dalgliesh perched precariously on the wing of the ancient World War I biplane as it soared over San Antonio. "You daft bat!" he shouted at the pilot, "this thing hasn't been flown since Biggles!". The pilot gave a thumbs-up and grinned at him. He looked at I-10 and the stream of traffic flowing over it like little ants. They were crossing Huebner Oaks and over DeZavala Road. "Aha!" shouted Dalgliesh excited as the wind whipped past him.
How on earth did he ever get up here, he asked himself rhetorically, and looked at the pilot, Ms. Aerobatics. He remembered the previous evening. They were at it again, now boringly repetitive. Once more making the beast with the two backs and four arms, amorously rubbing their bacons. Somewhere in the nadir of passion, Ms. Aerobatics had suggested the flight over DeZavala University. He had balked at the idea. "Go on! Don't be a coward!" she had said. He had clutched at the sheet and looked at her as she outlined her plan. He felt frightened and tremendously excited.
"Remember!" she had said, resuming once more the joyful rumpy-pumpy, "you have to drink at least 216 fluid ounces of beer." Once more they frolicked. And in the throes of ecstasy he had shouted "Ms. Aerobatics! I name you Virago!"
She signed with her hand, pointing downwards. He peered down and recognized the familiar campus buildings. DeZavala University! He looked down with fear, loathing, and excitement. She looped, bringing the plane down, banking and side-slipping. He gripped the arresting wires holding on lest he should be blown away. She straightened the plane and approached the Psychiatry Building. He looked down at the figure standing on the steps of the building and exulted "it is the Chair of Dementia & Delusion and the Dean of Psychiatry!" He looked at Ms. Aerobatics for reassurance and she gave a wide grin and a thumbs-up.
Ms. Aerobatics brought the plane down in a screaming dive and buzzed the Psychiatry department as his Chair gaped upwards open-mouthed, looking at Dalgliesh balanced precariously on the wing of the plane. People always have their mouths wide open when they look up. With meticulous and precise timing, Dalgliesh unzipped and urinated copiously over the Psychiatry Department.
How on earth did he ever get up here, he asked himself rhetorically, and looked at the pilot, Ms. Aerobatics. He remembered the previous evening. They were at it again, now boringly repetitive. Once more making the beast with the two backs and four arms, amorously rubbing their bacons. Somewhere in the nadir of passion, Ms. Aerobatics had suggested the flight over DeZavala University. He had balked at the idea. "Go on! Don't be a coward!" she had said. He had clutched at the sheet and looked at her as she outlined her plan. He felt frightened and tremendously excited.
"Remember!" she had said, resuming once more the joyful rumpy-pumpy, "you have to drink at least 216 fluid ounces of beer." Once more they frolicked. And in the throes of ecstasy he had shouted "Ms. Aerobatics! I name you Virago!"
She signed with her hand, pointing downwards. He peered down and recognized the familiar campus buildings. DeZavala University! He looked down with fear, loathing, and excitement. She looped, bringing the plane down, banking and side-slipping. He gripped the arresting wires holding on lest he should be blown away. She straightened the plane and approached the Psychiatry Building. He looked down at the figure standing on the steps of the building and exulted "it is the Chair of Dementia & Delusion and the Dean of Psychiatry!" He looked at Ms. Aerobatics for reassurance and she gave a wide grin and a thumbs-up.
Ms. Aerobatics brought the plane down in a screaming dive and buzzed the Psychiatry department as his Chair gaped upwards open-mouthed, looking at Dalgliesh balanced precariously on the wing of the plane. People always have their mouths wide open when they look up. With meticulous and precise timing, Dalgliesh unzipped and urinated copiously over the Psychiatry Department.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Tonsorial advice
As I get older, I ponder on the things that comfort. Some may seek solace in the early hours by secretly raiding the fridge and burying their faces in Tres Leches, while some may go shopping. I prefer the luxurious comfort of an old-fashioned Men's barber shop. My pleasures are purely tonsorial. I have long searched for the perfect barber shop in San Antonio. A place where men can be men without being abashed. Instead, I have been subject to awfulness.
I have had my head mauled about by fancy hairdressers in poncy saloons, while they seek my opinion on some actress or television star. As if I know! I pretend that I am interested, and I get a headache. But worse than the idle chatter are the solicitous questions on what size of implement I want used on my head. "Would you like a number 4 or 3 on your sides? What about a 2 on top" I almost scream out hysterically "Yes! Maybe a size three on my temporal lobes, and perhaps a five on my parietal cortical region? Could you make sure to use size five-and-quarter in the region around my superior temporal gyrus, around Brodmann's Area 41, but sparing Area 42, for which I would like you to use a size five-and-one-fifths..."
You can imagine the froth forming around my lips, and my wide staring eyes as I tried to understand what instrument she was referring to and what size. I had not the faintest idea. Why was this awful and beastly woman asking me such searching personal questions?
I was raised in India and Sri Lanka in a totally different manner. Every first Saturday of the month, my father would drag me off to the barber shop, and silently point to the chair. He would bark "short!" to the barber. My father never tipped and so the barber would fall upon the job with savage pleasure, performing the worst ever haircut imaginable. My father did not care about aesthetics. All he wanted was a substantial reduction in length. Maximum cut for the buck, so to speak. He stood glowering over my head the whole time, inspecting it like the lawns in front of India Gate, silently pointing out to the barber the bits he wanted taken off. I walked out looking like a badly plucked chicken. That is how I was raised. To take it like it was, and not let out a word of protest.
Thus, I abhor syrupy solicitousness in the barber's chair. I do not require the barber to inquire how to wield her instrument or in what manner. Nor do I wish her to talk about film actresses or television stars and their divorces. I merely wish her to tonsure. I would prefer her to be a man, but failing that I would prefer her to simply tonsure.
As compensation for the appalling haircut, which my parents admired as if it was the work of Rembrandt, I was allowed an extra cup of tea on my return before I was despatched to the bath. Traditional and conservative Indians think that a freshly shaven head is "inauspicious" and "dirty" because of all the loose bits of hair that float about. Therefore, you cannot contaminate the house upon entering after a haircut, and must rush into the bath. But my parents were very modern, very kind and loving. They allowed me a cup of tea before rudely pushing me into the bath. That cup of tea after a haircut is something that I religiously partake in, even today.
A certain etiquette must be maintained in Barber shops. Much like the etiquette in a Men's Restroom, where no one says a word to anyone, pretending that they are all alone among the expanse of urinals and stalls. If one must acknowledge one's brethren, then it may be done with a sidelong glance and a grunt. In a barber shop a little more leeway is granted. The barber may speak, but the tonsured cannot say anything other than letting out the occasional grunt. I will go so far as to say that only a monosyllabic grunt is permitted. Polysyllabic grunts would be considered as being garrulous.
Anyway, to the joyful news which I must convey. I finally discovered the perfect Men's Barber Shop in San Antonio. It is perfect, like prime numbers. Pure, unspoiled, incapable of corruption, and any sort of division. Perfect. It is located in the basement of the Sheraton Gunter Hotel in Downtown San Antonio. It boasts of being the oldest barber shop in San Antonio.
It is referred to as "The Barber Shop". No extravagant naming is necessary. Simplicity is the sign of elegance. Everything good began right away, as if my road to bliss was covered in rose petals. I drove up to the lobby of the hotel and got out of my car, and announced rather grandly to the valet "Barber shop!" and he nodded courteously and parked my car for free.
Then I walked in and saw pictures of the old barber's chairs. They were made of ceramic. Ceramic! The place smelt of various unguents, hair restoratives, shaving cream, and leather. It gave me goose bumps. I had arrived at the Vatican of Barber Shops. This was the center of Barberdom in the civilized world. And most happily, it was free of women blabbering about television stars and asking searching personal questions.
I was courteously escorted to the chair by a most soothing Barber, and seated as if I was the Emperor Shah Jahan, on the Peacock Throne. And then he stood before me in silence, waiting for orders. I looked up and remembered my mis-spent youth, and said one word, "Short!" He bowed his head deferentially and murmured "of course". After which I sat back and listened to the Barber expounding on etymology, about the primitive tribes of the world, about the history of San Antonio, the railways, atomic weapons, and so on. I like my Barber to be erudite. And he was gratifyingly so. I had to say nothing except to lean back in the chair, lift my chin while he soothingly lathered and shaved. This was as it should be. God's in His heaven, and all's right with the world.
When he showed me the mirror I grunted, and he beamed in appreciation and pleasure at my generous praise. I gave him a 50% tip. No human being on earth deserved more than he did. I had barely said a word, quite literally.
If there is heaven on earth, then I suggest that it is located in the basement of the Gunter Sheraton in Downtown San Antonio. Please do visit. Men may here luxuriate! And may I suggest? Do leave the women and children at home.
It is said that men communicate in grunts and snorts. I think that it may be a somewhat pejorative statement. I would like to offer a compromise. Men have actually a much greater vocabulary than mere grunts. They include two words "short" and "medium". These are to be employed in a Barber Shop, with the attendant benefits.
Enjoy your enhanced vocabulary men! Sit back and be pampered as only men may understand. In the Gunter Sheraton, in Downtown San Antonio.
I have had my head mauled about by fancy hairdressers in poncy saloons, while they seek my opinion on some actress or television star. As if I know! I pretend that I am interested, and I get a headache. But worse than the idle chatter are the solicitous questions on what size of implement I want used on my head. "Would you like a number 4 or 3 on your sides? What about a 2 on top" I almost scream out hysterically "Yes! Maybe a size three on my temporal lobes, and perhaps a five on my parietal cortical region? Could you make sure to use size five-and-quarter in the region around my superior temporal gyrus, around Brodmann's Area 41, but sparing Area 42, for which I would like you to use a size five-and-one-fifths..."
You can imagine the froth forming around my lips, and my wide staring eyes as I tried to understand what instrument she was referring to and what size. I had not the faintest idea. Why was this awful and beastly woman asking me such searching personal questions?
I was raised in India and Sri Lanka in a totally different manner. Every first Saturday of the month, my father would drag me off to the barber shop, and silently point to the chair. He would bark "short!" to the barber. My father never tipped and so the barber would fall upon the job with savage pleasure, performing the worst ever haircut imaginable. My father did not care about aesthetics. All he wanted was a substantial reduction in length. Maximum cut for the buck, so to speak. He stood glowering over my head the whole time, inspecting it like the lawns in front of India Gate, silently pointing out to the barber the bits he wanted taken off. I walked out looking like a badly plucked chicken. That is how I was raised. To take it like it was, and not let out a word of protest.
Thus, I abhor syrupy solicitousness in the barber's chair. I do not require the barber to inquire how to wield her instrument or in what manner. Nor do I wish her to talk about film actresses or television stars and their divorces. I merely wish her to tonsure. I would prefer her to be a man, but failing that I would prefer her to simply tonsure.
As compensation for the appalling haircut, which my parents admired as if it was the work of Rembrandt, I was allowed an extra cup of tea on my return before I was despatched to the bath. Traditional and conservative Indians think that a freshly shaven head is "inauspicious" and "dirty" because of all the loose bits of hair that float about. Therefore, you cannot contaminate the house upon entering after a haircut, and must rush into the bath. But my parents were very modern, very kind and loving. They allowed me a cup of tea before rudely pushing me into the bath. That cup of tea after a haircut is something that I religiously partake in, even today.
A certain etiquette must be maintained in Barber shops. Much like the etiquette in a Men's Restroom, where no one says a word to anyone, pretending that they are all alone among the expanse of urinals and stalls. If one must acknowledge one's brethren, then it may be done with a sidelong glance and a grunt. In a barber shop a little more leeway is granted. The barber may speak, but the tonsured cannot say anything other than letting out the occasional grunt. I will go so far as to say that only a monosyllabic grunt is permitted. Polysyllabic grunts would be considered as being garrulous.
Anyway, to the joyful news which I must convey. I finally discovered the perfect Men's Barber Shop in San Antonio. It is perfect, like prime numbers. Pure, unspoiled, incapable of corruption, and any sort of division. Perfect. It is located in the basement of the Sheraton Gunter Hotel in Downtown San Antonio. It boasts of being the oldest barber shop in San Antonio.
It is referred to as "The Barber Shop". No extravagant naming is necessary. Simplicity is the sign of elegance. Everything good began right away, as if my road to bliss was covered in rose petals. I drove up to the lobby of the hotel and got out of my car, and announced rather grandly to the valet "Barber shop!" and he nodded courteously and parked my car for free.
Then I walked in and saw pictures of the old barber's chairs. They were made of ceramic. Ceramic! The place smelt of various unguents, hair restoratives, shaving cream, and leather. It gave me goose bumps. I had arrived at the Vatican of Barber Shops. This was the center of Barberdom in the civilized world. And most happily, it was free of women blabbering about television stars and asking searching personal questions.
I was courteously escorted to the chair by a most soothing Barber, and seated as if I was the Emperor Shah Jahan, on the Peacock Throne. And then he stood before me in silence, waiting for orders. I looked up and remembered my mis-spent youth, and said one word, "Short!" He bowed his head deferentially and murmured "of course". After which I sat back and listened to the Barber expounding on etymology, about the primitive tribes of the world, about the history of San Antonio, the railways, atomic weapons, and so on. I like my Barber to be erudite. And he was gratifyingly so. I had to say nothing except to lean back in the chair, lift my chin while he soothingly lathered and shaved. This was as it should be. God's in His heaven, and all's right with the world.
When he showed me the mirror I grunted, and he beamed in appreciation and pleasure at my generous praise. I gave him a 50% tip. No human being on earth deserved more than he did. I had barely said a word, quite literally.
If there is heaven on earth, then I suggest that it is located in the basement of the Gunter Sheraton in Downtown San Antonio. Please do visit. Men may here luxuriate! And may I suggest? Do leave the women and children at home.
It is said that men communicate in grunts and snorts. I think that it may be a somewhat pejorative statement. I would like to offer a compromise. Men have actually a much greater vocabulary than mere grunts. They include two words "short" and "medium". These are to be employed in a Barber Shop, with the attendant benefits.
Enjoy your enhanced vocabulary men! Sit back and be pampered as only men may understand. In the Gunter Sheraton, in Downtown San Antonio.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Dalgliesh, Orangutan Keeper
From the Editor:
A most extraordinary thing has happened. BBC reported that Karta the Orangutan at Adelaide Zoo very cleverly short-circuited her security fence and made an escape. See: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8042705.stm.
What was concealed from the news item was that her keeper was Dalgliesh! Yes, it is he. The one with the hair radiating everywhere and eyes gleaming maniacally.
Why did she do this? There is much that is amiss with modern reporting. Few people know that Karta, long fed up with Dalgliesh throwing her the odd banana, decided to make a break for it. But why did she return to her cage after breaking out? Why?
Read on hominids. This piece of real reporting, recorded from Karta's perspective, reveals all.
Editor
Karta sat on the floor of her cage moodily chewing on a Eucalyptus twig. She was fed up with life under Dalgliesh. Fed up! She threw down the twig and picked up another. She chewed and thought about her fate. She sighed and scratched her flanks wondering what manner of thing he was. 'The guy is a primitive ape! Probably an early hominid' she thought, 'no finesse, no sophistication, just early ape!'
She moodily rolled over onto her back, and scratched her stomach. She yawned and stared at the bars of her cage. She yawned again and thought, another day of this, and she would be climbing up the bars. She lifted her leg up and grabbed a foot, and stared at her toes, dissatisfied.
She heard a sound, and rather bored, raised herself wearily. What was it now? She wondered. She rolled her eyes as she saw Dalgliesh peering at her through the bars, hair radiating in all directions, eyes gleaming maniacally. He flung her a banana, "here girl!" he said. She picked it up and flung it back at him, thinking 'eat it yourself, you monkey!' He looked rather startled and said "Karta! Come on girl! Dalgliesh is here babe! Oooo! O! Tseek! Tseek! Tseek! Ooooo!" He started to pant and hoot and scratched his flanks with bowed arms. She ignored him and rolled to her side turning her back to him. She was irritated with his primitive monkey imitation.
Then she heard the familiar sound, the flick of a cigarette lighter. She rolled over and looked at Dalgliesh with interest. He was drawing on the cigarette, and blissfully sucking in the smoke. She was dying for a smoke! She ambled over and pretended to be nice. She held on to the bars and put her face between them and puckered her lips, pouting engagingly at him. He said "Good girl!" and offered her his cigarette. She took the cigarette thinking 'Good Girl? GIRL!? Good grief! What an idiot!'
She moved back and sat on her haunches and smoked the cigarette with enjoyment, pausing to scratch and rub her ample stomach. Dalgliesh imitated her, trying to be friends, and looked around furtively. No point in getting caught offering cigarettes to Karta. His head would be on the chopping block. But she was so stand-offish that this was the only way to be friends with her.
He pressed the little button on the box outside the cage and the gate slid open. Karta watched with interest. She followed the conduits leading from the little switch outside her cage to the box that was mounted on the bars and thought that there must be something here. Dalgliesh came in making his monkey sounds and she watched him coldly. The man was clearly a fool. If it weren't for the cigarettes she would kick him out.
He hung around trying to be amiable and friendly, idiotically making his monkey noises. She smoked the cigarette and flung the butt at him, and then rolled on to her back. She grabbed her feet and started to examine her toe nails again. Something darkish there. Fungus? Probably! Dalgliesh looked at her appealingly, mouthing ingratiating phrases, but she was quite fed up with him. He hesitated knowing that she was off mood and said "Okay Karta! I am off! Just give me a holler girl, and I will come by for a chat and a smoke!" She grimaced and bared her gums at him, to show her displeasure. He grinned at her, uncertainly and inanely, and left.
It was dark when he left and she watched him leave. All those wretched humans who came by during the day, throwing her the odd peanut, a piece of fruit, or their horrid little offspring who pelted her with pebbles and made faces at her, were all gone. The little ones were worse than Dalgliesh. She watched and waited.
When it was quiet she went up to the little box on the cage. She shook it and pounded on it. But it did nothing. She grabbed it and shook it and put her ears to it, but there was nothing in there. She stared at it but nothing happened, and wondered why it opened the gate when Dalgliesh pressed the button. She ran her nimble fingers around the edges and suddenly it snapped open. She stared at the mess of odd little things inside, little ropes running hither and thither. She grabbed them and pulled. She gave a startled squeak as the thing came to life. 'It's alive' she squeaked. Bright sparkling flares of light sputtered and hissed, and smoke poured out. She fell back terrified. As she lay panting, her mouth wide open, she heard the gate open.
Quickly she got up and ambled to the gate on all fours. She paused to scratch the irritating itch in her ample stomach. If only that idiot Dalgliesh had the sense to get the fleas out of there she would think more kindly of him. She paused at the open gate and went out.
'Free! Free at last!' she thought. She burst with happiness 'no more of life under that idiot ape!' She roamed around for a little while looking at the wall on the far side. She had never been outside her cage, and had only a bare memory of her mum holding her in a wide open forest. There was only the sky, the clouds, the wind, the sun, and rain. There was only the warmth and love of her mum. She felt a little sad as she thought of her mum and wondered where she was. Then one day she had been dragged here, to face life under that bumbling fool.
She walked to the wall and looked up. She paused and then heard a sound. Those primitive hominids again! She wanted to scale the wall and beat it. As far away from Dalgliesh as possible. Then she heard that sound again. What was that! And then there was that heavenly smell, of smoke drifting through the air. She looked up at the large portly man holding the cigarette to his face saying "look! There is a fat monkey!" Karta squeaked 'Fat? Who are you calling fat you dumpling? And I am not a monkey!' She flung a stick at him. Startled the man dropped his cigarette and Karta quickly retrieved it.
She sucked on the thing feeling that strange drowsy and happy feeling. She took her time finishing it and thought 'well! It's nice for a girl to get out now and then! But at least that dolt Dalgliesh hands me a decent smoke'. She threw the butt away and ambled back to her cage. She would get another smoke from that ingratiating Dalgliesh tomorrow. She was sure of it.
(Written in May 2009)
Notorious Amateur Non-violinist
Adam Dalgliesh, hair radiating in all directions and eyes gleaming with maniacal fervour was standing with his friends PKVK and JB. Along came a rotound moustached figure who hailed JB. JB performed introductions. "Moustache! this is PKVK the famous professional violinist, and this is...". Dalgliesh interjected smoothly "Dalgliesh! Notorious amateur non-violinist!". JB nodded approvingly "that is a good description. The best one I have of you yet!"
Moustache looked at PKVK "heard of you, of course! Superb performance Thursday evening!" He turned to Dalgliesh "I must confess, I have not yet heard you not perform!" PKVK stepped in and said, "Indeed! it is hard to hear a non-performing non-violinist! Hence his notoriety! Just as Salinger never appeared in public, staying quietly in his room to never write his next book, so too is Dalgliesh." Moustache's moustache quivered, "I say! Does it pay to be a notorious amateur non-violinist?" Dalgliesh said "I work all day to not practice the violin. It is hard to earn a living selling such art. I rely on alms."
Moustache, clearly the dogged determined type continued, "yes, but surely! You must belong to some sort of non-orchestra." Dalgliesh nodded "so it is! I am second non-violinist at the non-performing non-orchestra." Moustache, teeth firmly in the ball, worrying it like a terrier, went on "you must have a non-conductor?" JB nodded "and thus, incapable of producing an electrifying performance!" PKVK chortled and Dalgliesh continued "We do! but we never meet. I hardly know who belongs to the amateur non-musicians non-orchestra. We simply announce our non-performances and never show up."
Moustache, clearly a student of Théâtre de l'Absurde and Dadaism asked shrewdly, "or do you just not announce your non-performances?" JB let out an exclamation in admiration of the penetrating question and Dalgliesh responded "You are very perceptive Moustache! Most of our non-performances are never announced. Thus we are never surprised that no one ever shows up." Moustache asked "tickets?" Dalgliesh smiled "We never announce the sale of tickets thus guaranteeing that they will never be available. People unaware of a non-performance are also unaware that there are no tickets to buy."
Moustache cogitated. As a devotee of Eugene Ionesco and Samuel Beckett, he was clearly impressed. "This is fantastic!" he murmured "you are a non-performing non-violinist, a member of a non-orchestra that never meets, never advertising non-performances for which there are no tickets, and with no audience that is aware of all this! Bravo Monsignor! You do Ionesco proud!"
Dalgliesh inclined his head with great modesty "such is art! To which we perform such great service!" Moustache said "or perhaps not?" And Dalgliesh said "and not that too!"
(Written in February 2009)
Moustache looked at PKVK "heard of you, of course! Superb performance Thursday evening!" He turned to Dalgliesh "I must confess, I have not yet heard you not perform!" PKVK stepped in and said, "Indeed! it is hard to hear a non-performing non-violinist! Hence his notoriety! Just as Salinger never appeared in public, staying quietly in his room to never write his next book, so too is Dalgliesh." Moustache's moustache quivered, "I say! Does it pay to be a notorious amateur non-violinist?" Dalgliesh said "I work all day to not practice the violin. It is hard to earn a living selling such art. I rely on alms."
Moustache, clearly the dogged determined type continued, "yes, but surely! You must belong to some sort of non-orchestra." Dalgliesh nodded "so it is! I am second non-violinist at the non-performing non-orchestra." Moustache, teeth firmly in the ball, worrying it like a terrier, went on "you must have a non-conductor?" JB nodded "and thus, incapable of producing an electrifying performance!" PKVK chortled and Dalgliesh continued "We do! but we never meet. I hardly know who belongs to the amateur non-musicians non-orchestra. We simply announce our non-performances and never show up."
Moustache, clearly a student of Théâtre de l'Absurde and Dadaism asked shrewdly, "or do you just not announce your non-performances?" JB let out an exclamation in admiration of the penetrating question and Dalgliesh responded "You are very perceptive Moustache! Most of our non-performances are never announced. Thus we are never surprised that no one ever shows up." Moustache asked "tickets?" Dalgliesh smiled "We never announce the sale of tickets thus guaranteeing that they will never be available. People unaware of a non-performance are also unaware that there are no tickets to buy."
Moustache cogitated. As a devotee of Eugene Ionesco and Samuel Beckett, he was clearly impressed. "This is fantastic!" he murmured "you are a non-performing non-violinist, a member of a non-orchestra that never meets, never advertising non-performances for which there are no tickets, and with no audience that is aware of all this! Bravo Monsignor! You do Ionesco proud!"
Dalgliesh inclined his head with great modesty "such is art! To which we perform such great service!" Moustache said "or perhaps not?" And Dalgliesh said "and not that too!"
(Written in February 2009)
From the Garlic Review of Books
Review by Brian Shaughnessey.
The Dalgliesh Ultimatum: Who Stole My DNA?
By Francis Hinojosa. 9632 pp. New York, 2007.
In this weighty tome, Adam Dalgliesh, highly trained assassin, continues his global blundering, on a chaotic and paranoid quest for his lost DNA. In Europe (traditionally the origin of all evil) he uses a barrage of techniques to eliminate mostly swarthy Arab-looking men. While many of these involve simple shooting at point-blank range or stabbing, others are more sophisticated battles involving, for instance, lengthy martial arts demonstrations using a hard-bound copy of Guyton's "Medical Physiology" as a defensive shield, and culminating in choking. A gurgling death follows. Needless to say, dead bodies litter the streets of Paris and clog the public toilets.
At one point his paranoia is so great that he single-handedly assaults the entire metro station at Champs Elysees. This, despite the CIA having taken control of the 35 video cameras that monitor the station and positioned fifty four covert operatives. They can only watch helplessly from Langley, VA, as Dalgliesh goes on a rampage kicking, chopping, slashing, cutting, shooting, stabbing anyone who goes by. Creating mayhem like a wounded water-buffalo thrashing about in the undergrowth.
But Dalgliesh does not know who he is. He simply has no idea, just vague memories of being under water and hearing strange voices and seeing blurred faces peering at him through face masks.
Readers may recall that Dalgliesh'es paranoid global search for his lost genes began simply enough in "The Dalgliesh Gametogenesis" (Milwaukee, WI, 2002, 5649 pp.) where the in-utero machinations of the evil CIA lead to a loss of Dalgliesh'es DNA. Simply put, his zygote was implanted with surrogate DNA. His paranoia is therefore embryogenic.
Then in "The Dalgliesh Identity" (Lubbock, TX, 2003, 7563 pp), we witness Adam Dalgliesh mature into a teenage assassin and develop facial hair. Around the time his rima glottidis enlarges and the thyroid cartilage becomes prominent he notches his 654th kill. He also starts to have strange dreams about being held under water. He hears voices and sees strange faces. The DSM IV indications are all there. He is prescribed clozapine and electroconvulsive therapy.
In a little known book "The Dalgliesh Gonadarche" (Podunk, NY, 2003, 235pp.) Hinojosa digresses into the physiology of the onset of puberty in Dalgliesh, and the behavioral and anatomical changes that this traumatic event manifests. It is a tedious book describing an awkward and acne ridden teenager watching television, eating pizza, and getting up only occasionally to assassinate the neighbors cats. It is a comparatively slim volume, but a favourite among Dalgliesh aficionados because it features Dalgliesh using a SIG SG550 Sniper's rifle to pot cats. A true first.
Now Dalgliesh returns to deliver his ultimatum in "Who stole my DNA?" The readers are spared any unnecessary suspense that could possibly enrich the book. We know the CIA did it. He knows the CIA did it, and the CIA knows that he knows that the CIA did it. They are terrified of Dalgliesh, the most lethal of lethal assassins. But they have created this monster. Hardly time to complain "how much sharper than a serpent's tooth" etc. (King Lear).
The fear is so great that Angela L, ruthless chief of covert operations in Manhattan commands at one point "I want this building cordoned off for 1000 blocks in all directions! No! Wait! Make that 1200 blocks!" Her deputy protests "Heck chief! There aren't that many blocks in Manhattan". She snaps "well! find them!" Then she rounds on her team "Listen up! This is a class A, National Security Directive 5. Dalgliesh is here. I want rendition protocols, and put the asset on stand-by just in case." And so it goes on, in breathless style. Who does Robert Ludlum think he is? Hinojosa?
Then the denouement. Dalgliesh crashes into the secret medical center of the CIA in Manhattan, and confronts the evil doctor Wong Min (an Asian villain, obviously). He discovers the secret of his strange dreams and hallucinations. All the water he is surrounded by? That's amniotic fluid, a soupy rich broth that is nourishing his zygote. The strange faces he keeps dreaming about are those of the evil resident Dr. Wong Min and his assistants mucking about with his DNA.
He soon sets them right. Slashing, shooting, chopping, kicking, stabbing, poking, he proceeds to demonstrate a truly vast repertoire of CIA tricks. He slays his opponents. The CIA is bested by the CIA. Dalgliesh emerges unscathed, his memory retrieved and his identity restored. He discovers he was formerly Rama Ratnam, a dull and boring scientist suffering from astigmatism, chronic borborygmia, severe psoriasis, and terminal hemorrhoids. Desperately seeking to overcome his boring existence that largely consisted of dinning the basics of human physiology into the heads of undergraduates, he sought ought an exciting career at the CIA. His predicament followed.
(Written on New Year's Day, 2008)
The Dalgliesh Ultimatum: Who Stole My DNA?
By Francis Hinojosa. 9632 pp. New York, 2007.
In this weighty tome, Adam Dalgliesh, highly trained assassin, continues his global blundering, on a chaotic and paranoid quest for his lost DNA. In Europe (traditionally the origin of all evil) he uses a barrage of techniques to eliminate mostly swarthy Arab-looking men. While many of these involve simple shooting at point-blank range or stabbing, others are more sophisticated battles involving, for instance, lengthy martial arts demonstrations using a hard-bound copy of Guyton's "Medical Physiology" as a defensive shield, and culminating in choking. A gurgling death follows. Needless to say, dead bodies litter the streets of Paris and clog the public toilets.
At one point his paranoia is so great that he single-handedly assaults the entire metro station at Champs Elysees. This, despite the CIA having taken control of the 35 video cameras that monitor the station and positioned fifty four covert operatives. They can only watch helplessly from Langley, VA, as Dalgliesh goes on a rampage kicking, chopping, slashing, cutting, shooting, stabbing anyone who goes by. Creating mayhem like a wounded water-buffalo thrashing about in the undergrowth.
But Dalgliesh does not know who he is. He simply has no idea, just vague memories of being under water and hearing strange voices and seeing blurred faces peering at him through face masks.
Readers may recall that Dalgliesh'es paranoid global search for his lost genes began simply enough in "The Dalgliesh Gametogenesis" (Milwaukee, WI, 2002, 5649 pp.) where the in-utero machinations of the evil CIA lead to a loss of Dalgliesh'es DNA. Simply put, his zygote was implanted with surrogate DNA. His paranoia is therefore embryogenic.
Then in "The Dalgliesh Identity" (Lubbock, TX, 2003, 7563 pp), we witness Adam Dalgliesh mature into a teenage assassin and develop facial hair. Around the time his rima glottidis enlarges and the thyroid cartilage becomes prominent he notches his 654th kill. He also starts to have strange dreams about being held under water. He hears voices and sees strange faces. The DSM IV indications are all there. He is prescribed clozapine and electroconvulsive therapy.
In a little known book "The Dalgliesh Gonadarche" (Podunk, NY, 2003, 235pp.) Hinojosa digresses into the physiology of the onset of puberty in Dalgliesh, and the behavioral and anatomical changes that this traumatic event manifests. It is a tedious book describing an awkward and acne ridden teenager watching television, eating pizza, and getting up only occasionally to assassinate the neighbors cats. It is a comparatively slim volume, but a favourite among Dalgliesh aficionados because it features Dalgliesh using a SIG SG550 Sniper's rifle to pot cats. A true first.
Now Dalgliesh returns to deliver his ultimatum in "Who stole my DNA?" The readers are spared any unnecessary suspense that could possibly enrich the book. We know the CIA did it. He knows the CIA did it, and the CIA knows that he knows that the CIA did it. They are terrified of Dalgliesh, the most lethal of lethal assassins. But they have created this monster. Hardly time to complain "how much sharper than a serpent's tooth" etc. (King Lear).
The fear is so great that Angela L, ruthless chief of covert operations in Manhattan commands at one point "I want this building cordoned off for 1000 blocks in all directions! No! Wait! Make that 1200 blocks!" Her deputy protests "Heck chief! There aren't that many blocks in Manhattan". She snaps "well! find them!" Then she rounds on her team "Listen up! This is a class A, National Security Directive 5. Dalgliesh is here. I want rendition protocols, and put the asset on stand-by just in case." And so it goes on, in breathless style. Who does Robert Ludlum think he is? Hinojosa?
Then the denouement. Dalgliesh crashes into the secret medical center of the CIA in Manhattan, and confronts the evil doctor Wong Min (an Asian villain, obviously). He discovers the secret of his strange dreams and hallucinations. All the water he is surrounded by? That's amniotic fluid, a soupy rich broth that is nourishing his zygote. The strange faces he keeps dreaming about are those of the evil resident Dr. Wong Min and his assistants mucking about with his DNA.
He soon sets them right. Slashing, shooting, chopping, kicking, stabbing, poking, he proceeds to demonstrate a truly vast repertoire of CIA tricks. He slays his opponents. The CIA is bested by the CIA. Dalgliesh emerges unscathed, his memory retrieved and his identity restored. He discovers he was formerly Rama Ratnam, a dull and boring scientist suffering from astigmatism, chronic borborygmia, severe psoriasis, and terminal hemorrhoids. Desperately seeking to overcome his boring existence that largely consisted of dinning the basics of human physiology into the heads of undergraduates, he sought ought an exciting career at the CIA. His predicament followed.
(Written on New Year's Day, 2008)
The Battle of the Neural Circuits
Some time ago I got a very close-cropped haircut (it is getting hotter). A day later when I was at the gym a ROTC student in the locker-room stopped me and inquired "Army? Air-force?" I looked him squarely in the eyes and said, "Neurophysiology!"
The remark was impromptu but it got me thinking. Suppose, just suppose that neurophysiology was one of the fighting arms of the military, then imagine! Do read on...
It is an incredibly hot San Antonio evening with temperatures hovering in the mid 200s. I rub my hands in front of a cold fire, the freezing flames flickering blue and white, trying to keep cold, and write ..
The Battle of the Neural Circuits.
Recounted by: Lt. Gen. Physiol. R. Ratnam (Retd.) NVIII, fMRI, EEG, ECochG, NIDCD.
Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces, Normandy, March 1944. A concrete bunker. A naked bulb at the end of a grimy wire glowed fitfully over a large table, around which stood three figures poring over a map. General Eisenhower stood in the middle, on either side stood General Sir Bernard Montgomery commander of the British Army Group, and General Omar Bradley commander of the American Army Group. The allies had finally established a bridgehead over Normandy, and the two Army groups were poised to slice through Germany executing a precise pincer movement as they raced towards Berlin. But all was not well. Silence hung heavily in the air until General Eisenhower sucked his breath in sharply, "won't do!" he said, "ask General Physiologist Sir Dalgliesh to come in, will you?" he said to his aide.
General Physiologist Sir Adam Dalgliesh, recently knighted for his heroic efforts at cutting off the German advance through the median eminence, walked in. Even General Eisenhower, battle-hardened though he was, was in awe of Sir Dalgliesh. By holding on to the median eminence, Sir Dalgliesh prevented the transection of the hypothalamus-pituitary axis, frustrating the German effort to cut off the vital gonadal hormone circulation. He was given the affectionate, albeit informal title, Sir Dalgliesh, GnRH.
Sir Dalgliesh walked in, hair radiating in all directions and eyes gleaming maniacally. He looked at his adjutant and said curtly "A Rooibos, strong and hot please!" His adjutant saluted crisply and left the tent. General Eisenhower smiled, "Ah! Adam! So pleased to see! Do come!" He looked at Sir Dalgliesh keenly, trying to discern signs of fatigue, or defeatism perhaps. But in this he was defeated. Gen. Physl. Dalgliesh was alert and vigorous, his eyes gleamed even more maniacally than usual. Gen. E was comforted, "Ah! Adam!" he said, "we are in a conundrum, of sorts..." he looked appealingly at Gen. D, "we have the Germans, sort of, but not quite... you see... its all brains from now on" At the word "brains" Gen Physl. D brightened, and his hair radiated wildly, twisting and curling, looping back, like coronal arcs in a solar flare. The surface temperature of his brain was over a million degrees Kelvin.
Quickly, Gen. E highlighted the problem. The army groups of Montgomery and Bradley were poised to move with massed infantry, artillery and armour, but what they were lacking was "brain power!" thundered Gen. E, striking his fist with force on the table. "By God! We have the square-heads where we want them! We have the troops, the artillery, the armour... but what we need most is neurophysiology!" He looked at Gen. D appealingly, "without neurophysiology, especially the tract-transection units, the GABA inhibitors, the Na+ channel blockers, we are doomed!" He struck his fist forcefully on the table "we need the neuroanatomy! We must know how the Nazi units are tracing their way along the internal capsule!"
Gen Dalgliesh was poised and cool, the Rooibos was refreshing, calming, and all future action was clear. He knew that Gen E was over-excited and so he said coolly, "The GABA inhibitory units are ready to go and we have ample supplies of Bicuculline; the tract-transection units are straining at the leash and are waiting orders; and the channel blockers ... well! What can I say! Their pico-spritzers have been tested and tried, we have huge reserves of TTX, and they are in position!" He contained his excitement and said, "they are awaiting orders!"
"Excellent!" boomed Gen. E, "how many units of the GABA inhibitors?" "Twenty!" said Gen D, "the tract-transection units?" asked Gen. E, "Fifteen, with precision surgical lasers!" said Gen D, and so on. At the end, Gen Eisenhower turned around to Montgomery and Bradley and said, "by God! Thanks to neurophysiology, we can defeat the Hun!"
He turned to Gen. Pysl. Dalgliesh and took his hand in both hands and said "Adam! By heck! Future generations will owe their freedom to neurophysiology, neuropharmacology, and neruroanatomy!" Gen. D, his hair radiating maniacally in all directions, inclined his head with modesty, and said softly "let us do battle General! I am sure that your confidence in neurophysiology will not be misplaced. We serve the cause of freedom with honour!"
[I conclude the first part of this epic encounter. Future episodes will focus on the battle of the circumventricular organs, the tragic losses in the suprachiasmatic nucleus, the heroic efforts of the allies in the basal ganglia, and finally, how the battle of the inferior colliculus set the stage for the capture of Berlin. In this final episode, we will recount how Gen. Physiol. Dalgleish succumbed to grievous wounds in the battle of the auditory efferents. - Lt. Gen. Physiol. (Retd.) Ratnam.]
(Written in April 2007)
The remark was impromptu but it got me thinking. Suppose, just suppose that neurophysiology was one of the fighting arms of the military, then imagine! Do read on...
It is an incredibly hot San Antonio evening with temperatures hovering in the mid 200s. I rub my hands in front of a cold fire, the freezing flames flickering blue and white, trying to keep cold, and write ..
The Battle of the Neural Circuits.
Recounted by: Lt. Gen. Physiol. R. Ratnam (Retd.) NVIII, fMRI, EEG, ECochG, NIDCD.
Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces, Normandy, March 1944. A concrete bunker. A naked bulb at the end of a grimy wire glowed fitfully over a large table, around which stood three figures poring over a map. General Eisenhower stood in the middle, on either side stood General Sir Bernard Montgomery commander of the British Army Group, and General Omar Bradley commander of the American Army Group. The allies had finally established a bridgehead over Normandy, and the two Army groups were poised to slice through Germany executing a precise pincer movement as they raced towards Berlin. But all was not well. Silence hung heavily in the air until General Eisenhower sucked his breath in sharply, "won't do!" he said, "ask General Physiologist Sir Dalgliesh to come in, will you?" he said to his aide.
General Physiologist Sir Adam Dalgliesh, recently knighted for his heroic efforts at cutting off the German advance through the median eminence, walked in. Even General Eisenhower, battle-hardened though he was, was in awe of Sir Dalgliesh. By holding on to the median eminence, Sir Dalgliesh prevented the transection of the hypothalamus-pituitary axis, frustrating the German effort to cut off the vital gonadal hormone circulation. He was given the affectionate, albeit informal title, Sir Dalgliesh, GnRH.
Sir Dalgliesh walked in, hair radiating in all directions and eyes gleaming maniacally. He looked at his adjutant and said curtly "A Rooibos, strong and hot please!" His adjutant saluted crisply and left the tent. General Eisenhower smiled, "Ah! Adam! So pleased to see! Do come!" He looked at Sir Dalgliesh keenly, trying to discern signs of fatigue, or defeatism perhaps. But in this he was defeated. Gen. Physl. Dalgliesh was alert and vigorous, his eyes gleamed even more maniacally than usual. Gen. E was comforted, "Ah! Adam!" he said, "we are in a conundrum, of sorts..." he looked appealingly at Gen. D, "we have the Germans, sort of, but not quite... you see... its all brains from now on" At the word "brains" Gen Physl. D brightened, and his hair radiated wildly, twisting and curling, looping back, like coronal arcs in a solar flare. The surface temperature of his brain was over a million degrees Kelvin.
Quickly, Gen. E highlighted the problem. The army groups of Montgomery and Bradley were poised to move with massed infantry, artillery and armour, but what they were lacking was "brain power!" thundered Gen. E, striking his fist with force on the table. "By God! We have the square-heads where we want them! We have the troops, the artillery, the armour... but what we need most is neurophysiology!" He looked at Gen. D appealingly, "without neurophysiology, especially the tract-transection units, the GABA inhibitors, the Na+ channel blockers, we are doomed!" He struck his fist forcefully on the table "we need the neuroanatomy! We must know how the Nazi units are tracing their way along the internal capsule!"
Gen Dalgliesh was poised and cool, the Rooibos was refreshing, calming, and all future action was clear. He knew that Gen E was over-excited and so he said coolly, "The GABA inhibitory units are ready to go and we have ample supplies of Bicuculline; the tract-transection units are straining at the leash and are waiting orders; and the channel blockers ... well! What can I say! Their pico-spritzers have been tested and tried, we have huge reserves of TTX, and they are in position!" He contained his excitement and said, "they are awaiting orders!"
"Excellent!" boomed Gen. E, "how many units of the GABA inhibitors?" "Twenty!" said Gen D, "the tract-transection units?" asked Gen. E, "Fifteen, with precision surgical lasers!" said Gen D, and so on. At the end, Gen Eisenhower turned around to Montgomery and Bradley and said, "by God! Thanks to neurophysiology, we can defeat the Hun!"
He turned to Gen. Pysl. Dalgliesh and took his hand in both hands and said "Adam! By heck! Future generations will owe their freedom to neurophysiology, neuropharmacology, and neruroanatomy!" Gen. D, his hair radiating maniacally in all directions, inclined his head with modesty, and said softly "let us do battle General! I am sure that your confidence in neurophysiology will not be misplaced. We serve the cause of freedom with honour!"
[I conclude the first part of this epic encounter. Future episodes will focus on the battle of the circumventricular organs, the tragic losses in the suprachiasmatic nucleus, the heroic efforts of the allies in the basal ganglia, and finally, how the battle of the inferior colliculus set the stage for the capture of Berlin. In this final episode, we will recount how Gen. Physiol. Dalgleish succumbed to grievous wounds in the battle of the auditory efferents. - Lt. Gen. Physiol. (Retd.) Ratnam.]
(Written in April 2007)
Drive-by Baggings
Adam Dalgliesh gazed feverishly at the vending machine. "Basic needs are there" he muttered as he glared at the selections. His hair radiated in all directions and his eyes gleamed maniacally. "Strong coffee" he said to himself as he laboriously inserted the required number of coins into the slot. Dalgliesh had simple needs. A hot cup of coffee was enough to please him. He took a sip and screwed up his face and said "Blechh!" This was not coffee. He sniffed the steaming liquid carefully, his nose twitching. Then his face broke into a delighted grin "Chicken soup!" he cried aloud. Happily he took big swallows. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Hey!" he yelled, startled and whirled around to face a big burly figure in overalls and red beard. "Sorry mate!" said the red beard, "this machine is not dispensing." Dalgliesh sucked into the cup drawing in the nourishing soup. "Whaddyamean?" he mumbled. Red beard looked at Dalgliesh indifferently as he sucked his soup noisily and said, "It’s being cleaned. I am rinsing the whole thing out with detergent." Dalgliesh blanched just as he drained the last of the detergent. "Aiyaah!" he yelled, feeling his stomach turn. Soon he was rolling on the floor clutching his stomach. Red Beard whistled happily as he opened the machine and drained out a copious quantity of coffee, mocha java, and chocolate mixed with detergent. "There you are friend!" he said briskly and quite oblivious to the twitching fetus, "it's ready to go again!"
Dalgliesh had wanted strong black coffee. He thought he had got chicken soup, but actually wound up with industrial grade detergent in his stomach. Calvinists would say "serves him right! He obviously deserved what he got!" Hindus, such as the noted philosopher Shankara, would sigh and say "such is life!" Dalgliesh hallucinated. "My friend," Shankara said, with sorrowful bulging eyes suggesting hyper-thyroidism, "in life we start off by paddling up shit creek in a leaking canoe, and continue to paddle up the very same creek thinking we know what we want, are happy and pleased that we get something else. But what we really get..." and here Shankara's eyes glowed with compassion, "... is a lot of shit slowly leaking into the canoe." Shankara sighed lugubriously, "return my friend! You have learned your lesson! Proceed with the calculations on perturbations of rotating black holes. But it does not matter. Black holes will be black holes, whether you perturb them theoretically or not."
Dalgliesh glared at the computer screen. His hair radiated in all directions and his eyes gleamed maniacally as always. "Axisymmetry... shymmetry..." he muttered to himself. The black hole was spewing X-rays, but he hated James Joyce. He hated Finnegans Wake in particular. "Psychotic ramblings" he muttered to himself deliriously. Then he had an idea. He left the computer running and went to bed, tossing all night as the idea took firm shape.
The next morning, tired and disoriented, Dalgliesh fell out of bed, and without brushing his teeth, walked out to a warm summer's day and eased himself into his car. The battered Volkswagen Beetle roared into life and backfired violently, spewing clouds of black smoke as it rocked its way unsteadily down University Street. "Bastards!" he muttered half asleep. "Incoherent, rambling bastards!" His targets were James Joyce, Gibbon, and Winston Churchill. He loathed them with a passion. He decided it was time to pay a visit to the bookstores.
University bookstores that summer witnessed an unprecedented rise in sales of three authors: Joyce (Ulysses and Finnegans Wake), Gibbon (The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, in three volumes) and Churchill (The History of the English Speaking People, in four volumes). In all, 720 volumes were sold, a total of 160 titles by Joyce and 80 each by Gibbon and Churchill. Booksellers were delighted. Never were Joyce, Gibbon or Churchill so popular with the campus populace.
Six PM, Friday evening, Crowded campus pubs. Academics, students, town-folk were all sitting out on the sidewalks, supping warm beer. The matronly librarian of the English Department was comfortably seated with a pint in front of her when a battered Volkswagen Beetle screeched to a halt, feet away from her. She ignored the beetle but looked up as the car backfired violently and spewed oily black smoke. She saw a wild face peering out the window, hair radiating in all directions. Gleaming eyes were noticeable. Dalgliesh was overjoyed, "the English librarian!" he chortled. As the unsuspecting librarian looked on, she saw the figure reach for something, and the next instant "Thwack!" a large bag hit her squarely on the head and she pitched to the ground, beer untouched. She moaned feebly and people rushed up, looking at the disappearing Beetle. One of the beer drinkers helped her back to her chair while another picked up the bag and gingerly opened it and peered inside. Puzzled, he pulled out two copies of Joyce, and the three and four volumes of Gibbon and Churchill, respectively, and passed it around. People looked and shrugged as they thumbed through the copies. "Batty" said someone.
All through that dreadful summer, people relaxing over their beer were dropping to the ground as bags of Joyce, Gibbon and Churchill smote them on the heads. "Notorious Drive-by Baggings Continue!" shrieked the excitable campus rag, "Constabulary Clueless!". Librarians, Deans, Dons, Masters, Council Members, the list totalled 67. They all went down scarce a groan. It was the day after midsummer that Dalgliesh, burping aloud after a heavy dinner of Korean packaged noodles, half-pound of Belgian chocolate and a pint of Coke, eased himself into his battered Beetle and rubbed his hands in expectant glee. He checked his bags. Yes, all nine books were in place in each bag. He drove slowly to the campus pubs. There were fewer people about now, terrorized by the notorious bagger. Suddenly Dalgliesh spied him and his eyes gleamed a little more brightly. "Constable Biggins! That lout!" he cried with joy as he sighted the portly figure wobbling along on his bicycle. The sound of the bag hitting the local authority on the head was the most satisfying thing Dalgliesh had heard. But, Dalgliesh had under estimated the doughty Biggins. In a flash Biggins was after him careening on his bicycle, in hot pursuit. Then the Beetle stalled, backfired and would not move again. "Got you!" said PC Biggins with satisfaction. Dalgliesh was bagged.
They threw the book at him. The judge eyed him grimly over his glasses "You, Sir! Are a menace to civilized society! Socially maladjusted, overly bookish, and ...", he looked at his notes, "... given to perturbing black holes". "Off with his head!" muttered the prosecutor. Defense pleaded "Milord!" he whined unctuously, "Milord! defendant is a tired, over-worked research scholar, given to, given to..." he looked desperately at an unrepentant Dalgliesh sitting there glaring, hair radiating in all directions, "... given to the occasional practical joke". The judge was unmoved, irritated with practical jokes. "68 practical jokes is too many practical jokes, Counsel!" He slammed his gavel, "One term of English tutoring!" and he looked mildly amused, "I believe they are offering Finnegans Wake next term,” he said with satisfaction. Dalgliesh was finished, he held his head in his hands and groaned.
Shankara appeared once more and looked at him sorrowfully, eyes bulging. "Friend, O! Clueless One!" he said. "In shit creek there is no rest. It is here that you must find the way to the union of the inner with the outer. There is no respite. Recognize that shit happens, and it happens all the time with leaky boats paddling along this glorious cosmic creek." He shrugged as he disappeared. "Stick to Black holes, O! Ignorant One! Joyce, Gibbon, Churchill are all here, at the bottom of the creek. There is no escape".
(Written in 1998)
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