What's before the starting line?

XYZZYSPOON "Shift+1", that was the definition for BAD MOTHERFUCKER till someone came and introduced expletives, and more importantly, Pulp Fiction to a good lot of us.

For those who didn't get the cypher at the start – sacrilege if you forgot what it is – XYZZYSPOON "Shift+1" is the cheat code with which you got NOS on Road Rash bikes. Now, NOS is the magic ingredient that made the bikes mad fast, and more often than not, helped you win the race, especially if your ride sucked.

It just happened that this movie "Dhoom" came along the same time that Road Rash was turning into a cult of sorts, at least among the bourgeoisie gamers. And yes, they used NOS in Dhoom, which was perhaps the first time we young ones from the '90s saw the ballistic effects two atoms of Nitrogen and one of oxygen; hence the chemical formula N20. And the pleasure of being able to control something similarly quick by pressing a button, on your own computer, was awesome!
But, as usual, there's always a but. Ever wished that you could go all over Pacific Highway, or Nappa Valley, and just let the remaining idiot bikers and the cops screw along the regular route? Ever felt like turning left along with the taxi that you barely missed thrashing your bike into? Or even better, ever wanted to turn the bike around and go back to the starting line, probably explore what the whole fuss was on the other side of the start-point?

The early Need For Speed games came as a welcome change to the relatively two-dimensional world of Road Rash. You could turn around, crash into the cars that were about to lap you anyway, bash into the fake taxis that moved around as part of the traffic on the tracks. Oh ya, one thing. As a kid, playing NFS II SE, I used to wonder where these taxis and buses went. When you completed a lap around the circuit, would you be running into the same brown car that you saw on your previous lap? What about the ones that you crashed into at full speed in your FZR2000? You saw the 'traffic' car flying away, toppling and tumbling. Who cleaned up the crash site before you finished another round of the circuit?
What was also a bit of a downer is that your car never bore any battle damage, at least not until NFS IV. And that means, the earlier games lacked that crucial sense of realism (Agreed, in a game that costed all of 250 bucks, that's nitpicking). However, there was one game that allowed you to go anywhere and everywhere you wanted, and smash and squash the car to smithereens. Mid-Town Madness (MTM), heck I loved the game the first time I played it at a friend's place. However, it was some time before I got hold of my own full-version CD of it. It felt like meeting a long-lost love, save for the fact that I'm neither old enough, nor experienced enough to have met a long-lost love for real.

MTM is, in all probability, the game that etched the landscape of San Francisco into our minds. Imagine, a game could do that. Anyway, in the free-drive mode, you pretty much got to drive around absolutely anywhere, in anything from a VW bug, to..... I don't know, a fire-truck or what. But again, you started out in the middle of nowhere. The game literally began with your car being gently dropped at the starting point. You could go around driving on and on, see the Bay area and the Golden Gate bridge, the China Town area, the cable cars going up and down the sloped areas, even drive your car right into waters around the Exploratorium, and drown them of course.

Mind you, I've never been to San Francisco. But. relentlessly driving around the simulated city got the better of me. I got bored of the game. The Mustang wasn't fast enough, thrashing cop cars wasn't much fun either, and the people on the footpath would just pretend that they were scared when you drove onto the curb. After you passed, they would start walking normally, as though nothing happened. But bloody hell, they had sharp reflexes.

Gaming never fascinated me after that, save for bouts of Sudoku, or an odd game of scrabble (I haven't completely figured out the ruled of the latter yet). It's been two years that I've begun earning my own money, and the to-and-fro that I grind through daily feels a bit like Road Rash. It was very much that when I started out, traveling in trains. Side blinds and all, Jogeshwari to Elphinstone Road and Elphinstone Road to Jogeshwari was an inevitable part of every day.
Then, I managed to get my grandfather's car, which allowed me a few more degrees of freedom. I didn't have to "Have to" use the same turns and same streets day after day. I could turn around, go back home, or go in the opposite direction from home when I got out of work. A bit like Need For Speed. No, actually, I kind of figured it out early on that if you go full blast into an oncoming "traffic" car, you will bear battle scars. And an eye-watering repair bill. More Mid Town Madness, then.

But, then I feel, what next? Why not a few more degrees of freedom? Why be locked within the city? No one's stopping you from taking that right turn, which heads to some place far off, someplace unfamiliar. And for that, I probably don't have to install Flight Simulator, or worse, Sims. 

Clandestine

Could you call it a bit of a drag? You're staring at a 15.5-inch screen for most of the day, leafing and scrolling through boring, familiar websites. A painfully stunning woman you've had the fortune to set your eyes on sits within three feet of you, and if you wanted – rather if you had the gall – you could stretch your hand and touch her cheeks.

Alas, I won't, because I ran out of ideas about anything with the first three seconds of sensing her near me. Every time she shuffles her hair, each time she sits cross-legged, her massive, universe-sized spectacles, her stubby little nose, that smile as wide as the Atlantic, just thinking about all of it makes me happy. A bit sad too. Because all of it is tantalizingly near, and yet, things feel like they are hovering like a flying saucer just, jusst out of reach. I'll have to throw a hook at it and pull it closer, I suppose.

There's something ballsy about the way she looks right into your eyes. It's not a quality that many people, let alone women are blessed with. And when you look right back into those deep, dark-brown eyes, it sends a current right through the centre of your being. It feels like she's gauging if you have the cojones to hold the stare. And that reassurance in knowing that you do, is absolutely elating.

If you ever get a chance, look her in the eye, preferably when she's absolutely lost her temper; I've had that privilege far too often. But you'll notice an almost endearing asymmetry of her face. In the interest of suddenly changing topics, I am a bit scared of her. Scared that she thinks I'll cause her harm, which perhaps she knows isn't possible.

But what do you do to win the heart of the girl who has been overwhelming your senses for two years straight? I've been fortunate to a massive extent for my friends who have done all the bidding that they could have on my behalf. But right now, I feel blank as a starch-white sheet of paper about what I should do next, or if I should do anything at all.

What confounds me, even more, is the fact that I find her so debilitatingly attractive. A bunch of my friends say that she isn't much in the way of beauty (Hey, blind fuckers), she wears clothing that's as simple as can be, and neither can her scent be even a smidge more subtle.
Is it her energetic walk, her bouncy 'Hallo', her round, delicate face, lush, curly hair? Bloody hell, I've run out of my capacity to observe. Are our fascinations that inexplicable that you can't put them into words? Or that's a skill I'll have to learn among a dozen others.
Maybe, just maybe, it's the things that we don't understand that draw us the most.

We might be wrong.

Lighter space-crafts are easier to launch into the heavens, it's simpler to travel light than with all your figurative and literal baggage, and – oh, I love this one – light, little hatchbacks are way easier to drive around in than big, long sedans and annoyingly popular SUVs. Even better if they have a nice, feisty motor between their front wheels.
Inspired by this whole 'lighter is better' scheme of things, a lot of us embark upon an arduous, perilous, and oftentimes pointless journey called weight-loss. Yep, I said it. The whole rant about losing weight, the slim waistline and having a super-proportionate body, yada, yada, yada is crap. In fact, a lot of it is just a gimmick to allow big conglomerates to eat into your savings. Ever seen that ghastly ad where they try to sell you the ab machine that gives you a toned six-pack in 3 months? What about that fat-loss pill ad, where they show this chubby chap transformed into a ripped Greek god? Greek god, because all of it is properly, and positively Greek.

But, none of it is their fault. We're fed the sort of hogwash we see because of a few reasons.
Number one.... We. Watch. TV.

Number two.... It's time for someone to make an application that allows us to watch Youtube videos without the ordeal of braving unskippable (and painful) ads. I hope someone's already made it. That's not just for fat-loss videos, it's just a general plea from all the horribly pissed Youtubers I suppose.

Number three.... We need to understand that weight loss does not equal fitness. I know, it's common sense, but no one is going to tell you that. You don't need to lose weight to be fitter. Yes, if you feel like you want to shed a few kilos, do that by all means. But do that because you want to do it, and not because you saw some ripped human who eats half a garlic clove for breakfast.

Another misconception. We need to lose fat. Wrong! Dead wrong. Why, you ask? Fat-loss is a consequence, not the result, for fuck's sake. The more you develop your musculature, the more you'll lose fat. The reason, too, is pretty straightforward. The more muscle you have, the more energy your body needs to maintain them. And your fatty parts become a ready source of energy for your muscley bits to gorge on. So please, do not pound your knees on that fugly treadmill, thinking you'll lose the love-handles for good. Pick up the dumbbells. Actually, you don't need a Rs 25k gymnasium membership, or dumbbells for that matter to put on muscle.

Is your office on the fifth floor? Ditch the lift, use the stairs instead. Can't climb all the way? Climb till where you can, then use the lift, maybe. However, I strongly recommend that you climb all the way and do the "Gonna fly now" dance from the movie Rocky.

Have a little free time in the evening? Get a jump-rope and do a set of 50 skips. Fifty feels easy? Bump it up to 100, then do 2-3 sets. If you're motivated enough, aim for 1000 skips in a set. The least I can say is that you feel like a superhuman when you cross 1000 and have more left in the tank. Not only is skipping quicker, more intense and more fun than the treadmill, it strengthens and sculpts your legs and shoulders.
Ah, for those who say "Skipping gives you bad knees", a word of caution. You are partly right because jumping rope is a bit taxing on your joints (even sitting on your favourite chair for long is taxing on your backbone!). But, there's a way around it. Use, a soft surface (garden grass, or a rubber mat; wear shoes when working out), stay on the balls of your feet, and maintain a slight bend in your knees.

There's easier stuff you can do too. I, like most people, rely heavily on pushups. lunges and squats when I can't do my usual routine; nothing like it if I can find a monkey-bar or a high ledge for pull-ups. No equipment, no fuss; all you need is your own bodyweight. To top it off, the heavier you are, the better it is in this case; more weight = more resistance = more strength and health gains. Simple.
Plus, you don't need to go ballistic to get results. So 2-3 sets of 10-20 repetitions each. For starters, 10 pushups and 20 squats should be easy-peasy. Build your endurance from thereon. It will be a matter of a month before you start seeing results if you're at it 4-5 times a week.

If you get bored, there are a gazillion variations of the push-up, pull-up, squat, and the lunge; the advanced kind can, and absolutely will, whoop your arse. But meh, it's all worth the health benefits you gain in the process. Mind you, you still haven't shelled a dime.

Food can save your soul too. Chuck the chips, cold-drink and biscuits, and your body will thank you. Sadly, there's no one-fits-all diet plan, from what I understand. Some of us lucky ones can gorge on ice cream and stay svelte, while others just can't. Either way, we intrinsically know what's healthy and what's not. Stick to what your gut says, and we'll all be fine.

You know what's most endearing? It's to see someone happy in their own skin. Skinny, fatty, plump, ripped, six-pack, four-pack, family-pack, cornetto, cup, who gives a flying fuck? Look at the person in the mirror. Admire the curves if you have them. And by the way, who the fuck gave you the right to be so gorgeous 24x7, eh?
Peace!

Volume down please

This is life as I know it, a constant tussle to keep ambient noises where they belong - right fucking outside. The crass shouts began the day I was born, or perhaps even before that. It hasn't stopped till date, and has only exchanged voices. The creators came first, then TV happened, some acquaintances followed, the mind too grew loud and unpleasant. Arnab Goswami and gang, a few bewilderingly noisy fellow faces, some more ear-splittingly cacophonic ones later (these are the ones who you wouldn't want to acknowledge even), I wish just one thing in earnest. Someone, please turn the bloody volume down!

Ever seen Iron Man 2, the movie in which Iron Man and War Machine fight the villain together? In the final battle, the two leads are with their back against each other, defending an impending attack by a swarm of Stark's bots gone rogue.
In this scene, Rhodey (War Machine) says "This is the kill box. It's where you go to die".
Pssst... here's the clip.

Ha, where were we? Kill box, yes. So, wherever you are, home, work, railway stations, marriages, traffic jams, temples, heck, Mount Everest, there's always going to be a gang of people blasting their lungs out at each other, and yes, you're going to be stuck in the crossfire. Needless to say, the shouting ensued in a bid to prove who's got the puniest cock. Holy mother of donkeys, you should see how ladies fight. Same reasons I suppose.
Maybe, just maybe, we should all hide a joint in our chaddis. That way, every time an argument breaks, we light ours, take a few drags, and chill the fuck out. Malana cream anyone? Idukki Gold is long dead, last I checked. But if you know someone selling the strain, my number is 8454043983. Call me. Call me even if you're just lighting a joint, the regular variety will do just fine.

Even better, shut your undoubtedly dispensible trap. Okay, this way, fewer folks will get to experience the miracles of pot, but who gives? Think of it. If mankind is this loud and becoming moreso, we are so doomed. Or maybe it's just some of us subdued ones, because honestly, noise is positively debilitating. Of course, the rest thrive, rolick even, in the mayhem. How I envy them.

My systems shut down when I hear loud voices. Well, actually they don't; some go into overdrive. Like, the fists turn into metal stampers, the breath becomes shallower, eyes pop out of rage, jaws clench and the imagination takes great pleasures in decapitating the source of agony. Thoughts, precious thoughts, how they alleviate ever so slightly the pains of the heart. But that's when Monty Python movies come to the rescue.

Because no matter how mad you are, you feel like a giggle when you hear "Biggus Dickus".