A Pretty Good Me

I'm no cape-unfurling Superman.

Forget being an Übermensch.

A Lincoln's a far cry.

A Mahatma? Not in ten millennia.

Bullshit is Content

These are the days of content.

 

Text, audio, video, graphics, gifs, photos, JPEGs, animations, motion pictures, 2D, 3D, music, white noise, pink noise, SMS, tweets, newsfeeds, games, apps, blogs, HDTV, FM radio, pulp fiction, literary fiction, non-fiction, memos, minutes, emails, reports, excel sheets, PowerPoint presentations, and so on and so forth—things that are making the world go round.

You Win Some, You Lose Some

In

Life.

Some grow,

Some diminish.

Some work out, some don't.

Some hang on, some move on.

Some you hold on to, some fade.

Some keep standing, some wither.

Some you adopt, some you abduct.

Some you keep, some you let go of.

Some you're born with, some you acquire.

Some you achieve, some fall by the wayside.

Some change, some become more of the same.

Some fall into your lap, some you have to snatch.

You 

win some, you lose some.

The Indian Incontinent

Almost in all major metros of the hot Indian subcontinent, a cloud cover is a welcome development with distinct foreboding overtones. Especially if it is a weekday, you know it's going to be cool outside, but you dread the traffic if it so much as drizzles. It's a good thing, but it's a bummer; you want to be happy, but you're being held back -- a schizophrenic feeling, adding to the already bipolar nature of an Indian metro, where the uber-rich live alongside the uber-poor,  where a Bentley is stuck in the same jam as a Luna. Why do they have to wait for a flood to declare a public holiday? Do it when you see the clouds in the horizon; we will telecommute. I promise I'll work! The geography of India is not weird, it's our cities -- they're just tumorous now. I can't help but crack a crude joke: "Is this the Indian subcontinent or the Indian incontinent?"