Chuck Lorre Productions, #212

I believe that the voices of fear, both from without and within, can only be dispelled by trusting the voice that comes from the heart. Be still and listen to it. If it speaks of love and compassion for others, for the world itself, it just might be the voice of God -- or a reasonable facsimile. If, however, it snarls with fear of the unknown, fear of losing what you have or of not getting what you want, then it just might be the voice of Rupert Murdoch -- or a reasonable facsimile.

The last fortnight, although unusual and mildly interesting, hasn't exactly been what most would describe as scintillating, primarily because of the prodigious amounts of surplus time I suddenly seem to have on my hands. Having much time and very little to do with it, I have, as I always do in times of intense ennui, turned to sitcoms to fill the hours that otherwise hang heavy.
Consequently, all of you who are in the rather unfortunate position of still being in Delhi, and hence being riddled frequently with my otherwise delightful company, should know that the wise-cracking, TV show-quoting Manu Saxena that you witness these days is not really all that me. The next time I compare you to a Sheldon Cooper or a Steven Hyde, or crack an obscure joke and break into raucous peals of hysterical laughter, kindly forgive me, for it is merely a passing phase.

On a slightly related note, I have a small confession to make. Of late, I've been watching Chuck Lorre sitcoms almost as much for the vanity cards that appear at the fag end of each of his shows, as for the actual humorous content in them (the shows, not the vanity cards).
You can read through all of Mr. Lorre's Vanity Cards at his Official Vanity Card Archives. They make for interesting reading, especially if you're in what can aptly be described as the dazed, disordered and tumultuous state that borders the absolute emotional pits.
That, or if you have absolutely nothing better to do.

And being...

Caught in between,
All I wish for, and all I need.

Be a Man!

A couple of days back, being in a state very aptly described by the word vella, and having nothing but time on my hands, I lay sprawled across the floor in front of the television, watching, for what must surely be the 45th time, the Russell Peters stand-up routine; desperate for something cheery that would lighten up my disposition, and disperse some of the clouds of gloom that I usually find myself surrounded with these days.
Which is when I heard, for what must surely be the 45th time, Russell Peters shrilly exclaim, in a high-pitched, what he would have us believe to be a Chinese accent, "Be a Man!", and noticed, only for the first time, how indiscriminately he followed it up with, "Do the right thing."

Which set me wondering about the rather incongruous pairing. What is it exactly about men that makes people think they will do the right thing? In fact, if my limited experience is any indication, it is exactly the opposite which is true, and I myself have to grudgingly plead guilty on this count. Men, in general, and I would like to apologize on the behalf of my gender here, do not do the right thing. In fact, given a set of circumstances, and a man, it is my solemn guarantee that the man will do the wrongest possible thing there is to do. Which probably explains why there exist in this world things such as wars, traffic and Mechanical Engineering.

If there are some of you who are reading this and thinking that I am kidding, I assure you such is not the case. I wish it were, but unfortunately it is not. And, as always, I have undeniable proof.

A few years ago, as I was randomly leafing through a magazine, or browsing the Internet (I don't really remember which), I came across this rather unconventional do-it-yourself quiz, the likes of which so overwhelmingly abound on the Internet these days, which illustrates my point rather well.
I must mention, before I present the quiz in its entirety here, that I am not, in any way, stating any untruth when I say that I did indeed come across this quiz, and that someone had actually put it up on the Internet (or in a magazine, I don't really remember which) in all seriousness, and it is not in any way a figment of my imagination or an MCQ questionnaire fabricated by me to prove my argument.
The quiz, quite lucidly and uncomplicatedly, was called, "Are you a man?"

Are You A Man?

1. You are trying to hang up a painting which you've just bought on a particular stretch of wall which is perfect for it, and your friend (For the sake of simplicity, let's assume that the name of the friend in question is Prabhpal Singh Grewal, who shall, for the benefit of brevity, be henceforth referred to as Pal) is helping you in your sincere endeavors to get the rather heavy painting up on the wall. As you stand on the foot-stool and ask Pal for the nail, he hands you one which is clearly too short to serve the purpose, and the next thing you know is that you're sprawled on the floor, one hand on the bump caused by the painting colliding with a particularly sensitive part of your scalp, looking up at Pal half-grinning, half-leering down at you in a maniacally apologetic way. What do you do?
a. You tell Pal everything is fine, and that it was as much your fault as his, and you continue to behave normally, but, deep within, you know that Pal is completely responsible for the mess, and you never forgive him for it, carrying your grudge to the grave.
b. You get up, dislodge the pieces of painting glass strategically placed somewhere in and around your posterior end, reluctantly accept Pal's apology, and start thinking about how to best effectively cover up the huge patch of cement that your wall now is.
c. You punch Pal.

2. You're out with friends watching the final in which your favorite sports team is completely clobbering the sh** out of the team they're playing against. Another few minutes, and they're sure to be crowned champions. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, the other team claws back into the game, and in the final moments of the match, snatches a victory from the dazed and confused hands of the team you're rooting for. What do you do?
a. Favorite sports team? I'm not sure I'm familiar with that concept.
b. You shrug it off; tell yourself that winning and losing is a part of all sport, and maybe your team will have better luck next time.
c. You punch Pal.

3. You're driving to a class you're particularly late for, and on the way, run into another car, leaving your car's front-end looking like something out of a scrap-yard sale. It's clearly the other driver's fault, and you emerge from your vehicle with the intention of giving the person who drove into you a piece of your mind. Then...
a. You notice her shoes, and Oh-My-God, are they gorgeous. You ask her where she got them, and she says she can take you to the store if you want, and you both go shop together for shoes and other assorted items constituting a wardrobe.
b. You get out, firmly tell the driver of the car that ran into yours whose fault it was, and demand compensation.
c. You drive to class. Later, when you next see him, you punch Pal.

Here's how you score the quiz. If you've got mostly a's, you're a woman. If you've got mostly c's, you're a man. The quiz thing didn't say what you were if you got mostly b's, but I've got a strong suspicion that if you've scored any b's whatsoever, you're bordering on abnormal and insane.

It's amazing, isn't it, the kind of quizzes they come up with these days? I think they're one of the banes of our DIY generation, these amazingly dense quizzes that so infest the media these days. Why would anyone in their right mind want to know which Desperate Housewife they are? Or, for that matter, which teletubby most resembles them. And, whatever be their demerits, those ones are still relatively tolerable. Some others I've run into are actually, as hard as it may be to imagine, even worse; like 'Which color is your heart/liver/spleen?', or 'Which animal best represents you/your girlfriend/your best friend/your neighbor/the random dude who spat paan out on you from the moving bus you were trying to catch two days ago?', or, for that matter, 'Which city should you be living in if you have sudden, powerful urges to overdose on heroin, get into a fight with a friend, bludgeon him/her to death with your thermodynamics textbook, nibble off his arm, and prance around with it attached to your own forehead?'

They are just amazingly absurd, some of these quizzes. I still haven't been able to figure out what justifiable function they serve in society. And why are they so completely pervading the world we inhabit? It's ridiculous, and it makes me so effing mad.
I think I'm going to go punch Pal.