Howdy, bluebird

Funny I had not noticed earlier, but wordpress welcomes me with a ‘Howdy’.  Now, is wordpress intelligent enough to give me a ‘howdy’ because I’m in Texas or does everyone get the same welcome?


Game day(s)

It has been a while since I watched a game on television leave alone go to a stadium, and probably would never have ventured out to buy $49 tickets to watch baseball, a game I have only recently made acquaintance of. Coming from a country where football refers to soccer and the nation’s cricket team is revered as much as any of the numerous deities, softball and baseball would definitely take a back seat in my life. That said, yesterday, I not only watched the Astros vs. Dodgers game at Minute Maid Park and immensely enjoyed it, but have been playing softball for my company and am lovin’ it!

Minute Maid Park, Houston, TX - Home of the Astros

Cricket at Wankhede stadium aeons ago having faded from my memory, I had forgotten how impressive a stadium could be… The throngs of people heading toward a single venue, the flags, the music and banners, faces of spectators painted to show their support for a favorite team, the applause and the “Boos”, and finally the green, green field.

Although the game was slower than I would have liked it to be after a long day at work, the catered food and drinks and the people I went with more than made up for it. I would recommend watching one of these games live, simply to experience the sheer energy in the stadium if not anything else.

Softball however, was a whole different “ball game”. I, being a neophyte and oblivious to the rules, had to be led through the entire game by a member of my team. And what’s worse? I learnt it “on the job”, swinging the bat and running for first base on cues of “Run, Rock Star! Run!”. The pitcher of the opposite team felt sorry and actually asked that I move two steps to position myself correctly to “bat”. I cannot help but have a sneaky feeling that I am the weakest link in the team, but I wouldn’t stop going to one of these till the season’s up. The reason? I always, always make contact with the ball! The things that does to my grinning self-esteem! Yaaay! Only now, it rains in Houston everyday with no consideration for the likes of me. And hence, I cannot help but have a sneaky feeling that the Universe conspires against me and my softball. And my free beers after the game.

Materialistic cravings and other things

I want a bike. An Aprilia Shiver 750… THE Aprilia Shiver 750. I also want to live in Manhattan and run an art store in San Fransisco. And own a 50″ HDTV, an x-Box 360 and Burnout revenge. I want to wear the Dior evening gown…all five foot-two inches of me, the one on the mannequin at the Galleria, with the metallic-Manolo Blahnik-sandals and the Armani crocodile-stamped hobo to dinner in Venice.

I want to go sky diving in Oahu and scuba diving in Mauritius. I want to kayak down east islands and explore the amazon forests. Maybe pilot a plane and live a while in the African Jungles. I want a studio with three easels, seven canvases, Kolinsky sabel brushes, and oil paints, sunlit through French windows. Perhaps a bed on the floor with a view of Manhattan’s skyline. And ofcourse, I want to try every cocktail in world.

Now, the next thing I have to have in place is a game plan.

Lands and Lads.

One of the interesting things about being an intern and having a boss who is attending school is the ‘school talk’ that you can have with her… all the bitching about professors and the overwhelming assignments, signing off two years worth of weekends and pretty much your life to grad school, and classmates who get into trouble for breaking rules. The other things you hear are snippets of stories that profs hand down to students. One of such pieces was from a professor teaching a class on real estate. In the introductory hour, he narrated how people owned and claimed land long before any kind of judicial system was in place.

Every household had a shoeful of babies, specifically sons, to carry on the family’s name in the event war, disease or other unforeseen circumstances claimed some of them. At the age of about five, the youngest son would be taken to the farthest point marking their property’s border (a tree or landmark of some sort) and beaten!… yes, whip-lashed till the memory of that landmark was etched into his mind. This was repeated ritualistically till the child could identify every detail of the landmark at the vaguest of times. Thus, this child became the ‘keeper’ of the family’s land records. When enemies invaded, they went after all the young children, killing them and consequently claiming the land as their own.

Who would have thought being born last could be such a curse?

Circa 2000, what would be the fate of parents who gave their children ‘a sound trashing’ to ‘set them straight’? They would probably be prosecuted for child abuse. It’s funny though, how back home a beating or two is considered to be part and parcel of parenting. Sometimes even essential to it.