A Brief Sabbatical

(WARNING: I'm in a colourful mood today.)

I'm going on holiday for fifteen days starting tomorrow.

Yes, that is great.

But that means I won't be able to post here for fifteen days.

No 'Oh, please don't go, we'll miss you!'s?

Ah. Very well.

To anyone who might miss me, or at least notice my absence: Sorry, kid. You'll have to find something else to humour yourself with for fifteen days. I know, I know. It isn't easy. But you will have to. This includes readers, stalkers, and my three marvellous followers Sirius Canis, Soumitra, and nickcarter1993.

Well, this is me signing off.

Live heavily enjoyable, cultured lives.

(I sound as if I were on my deathbed, really.)

Professional Help (Part Two)

(Confused? This will help.)

EXHIBIT F

Dear pH,

It is very simple: I am a glutton. I simply cannot stop eating. Mainly it is junk food, as you may have suspected. I fear this may be damaging my health. I'm confused. What do I do?

                                                                                                         -- Kahn Stopp

Dear Kahn,

I should put a JOB DISCLAIMER in large friendly letters at the top explaining that I'm not a dietician or therapist (really, I'm not).

        So, to avoid thrombosis, put labels on food around the house. 'I'M EVIL', 'DON"T EAT ME', and 'MONSTER INSIDE' are good examples. What about food outside the house, you ask? Lock yourself in the house for three days. See how you fare.

        On the fourth day, get out. Eat. You live only once, and are meant to die from heinous diseases.

EXHIBIT G

Dear pH,
I want to be a millionaire. I intend to do this by starting my own business after being completely self-sufficient. Then I will set up multinationals and achieve my goals by the time I'm 35.
        I'm currently twenty-three, and unable to find a job. What's wrong with my CV? Help!
                                                                                                      -- Redone Dent


Dear Redundant,
Brad Pitt wanted to be an actor, but here he is.
        Tear part your CV and make an honest one -- one that does not include 'eats 12  McDonald's burgers in seven minutes'.
        Hang out with employed friends and listen to their woes. Make yourself happy with this since it is unlikely you're going to get a job in the near future.
        Work your way up s-l-o-w-l-y. Not everyone is blessed with the inversely proportional luck and IQ of Bill Gates.
        Lastly, give me a call when you get your multinationals going. I will work as a window washer at one of your offices, and will expect reasonable -- if not considerable -- pay.


EXHIBIT H

Dear pH,

I want to be a rock star! But my parents want me to do something more 'productive'. I love playing Guitar Hero and I know I'm meant for this. I love writing songs as well. It's a perfect setup. How do I convince them?

                                                                                                               -- Skye High

Dear Skye,

What are you, eight?

        So, to humour you: Get a real guitar. Do you even know what Guitar Hero is? (I wouldn't know; I've never played. But something unpleasant, surely.) Learn how to play an actual guitar and don't whine when your fingers bleed. Don't stamp your feet for an A-class guitar either. Buy a basic one.

        Then, if your ambition still stays, write to me again.

EXHIBIT I

Dear pH,
I love your column! How do you do it?
                                                                                                            -- Egg Sighted


Dear Egg,
This, my darling, is precisely how NOT.


EXHIBIT J

Dear pH,
They call me a sloth. Now I don't believe I am that lazy. I do get a little laidback sometimes, I admit. Work stays a little pending, but I always finish it. Then what exactly is wrong with me? I even help friends with their work!
                                                                                                               -- Not a Sloth

Dear Not,
Sloths are not only lazy and perennially sleeping, they are also inept. Baby sloths sometimes clutch their own limbs instead of branches and promptly fall down. (It does make you feel sorry for them, but there's nothing you can do.)
        How pending does 'work' stay? Delegate strict timetables for work. Never put off, especially if you're 'in the mood' right now.
        When did you intend to send this? Two months ago?

Unsightly Sightings

(Note: These really happened.)

A very strange pop-up box on my desktop that used to be quite recurrent a few months ago:

A hotel we had gone to for our hill-station vacation:

Needless to say, our camera did suffer a few mild injuries.


And finally...

The window pane in my side of our car during a bout of rain:

Yes, it says 'Rhizobium'. It did sound a fascinating word at that instant.

How to Publicise

Here's my friend's take on publicising my blog. This should carry sufficient WARNING and CAUTION signs but does not, so I thought I'd add them for you:

CAUTION: Proceed at your own risk. You may be exposed to a brisk amount of flamboyance and/or noxious vapours, leading to violent spasms, plus shrieks from those allergic to a mixture of cashew nut essence, thyme, and sense of humour.

(And I do like to put a comma before my 'and', unlike whatever they say in school.)

Okay, enough drama. Without further ado:

Halt! Turbulence Ahead is truly a magnificently amazing blog. And we're not being unrealistic here.

Infinite experiments and studies show that on average, the unconscious thinking patterns of those who have read the blog are much different -- as in, randomly organised -- from those who have not.

For example, when  a 'normal' person is in an unconscious or subconscious state, advanced brain mapping equipment shows that his thoughts run somewhat this way:

Step - nice - pentagon - sentimental - exorcist - tongue - monetary - pink - denominator - is - plausible - might - twenty nine - I - song - ... (and so on...)

Whereas, a person who has read Halt! makes much more sense. Random, but sensible and well-connected:

Maybe I want water, but my mobile phone does not ring loudly. Speculation is the key to keeping unfittingly morose. Ordinary wrist watches can well be compared to rotten, but horribly sharp teeth. (And so on...)

Therefore, if you are that inclined towards keeping fit mentally -- consciously AS WELL AS unconsciously -- keep reading Halt! Turbulence Ahead. No, really.

Professional Help (Part One)

(NOTE: This is not intended to be a piece for mockery or ridicule, and is meant to be taken in completely good humour.)

I've always pitied people who write to agony 'aunts' or counsellors and expect to receive a fitting reply judging by the two-bit scrap of information exchanged.

Hence, I have composed a collection of ideal replies to typical 'problems' by the ideal agony relatives and, in today's times, their virtual counterparts.

EXHIBIT A

Dear pH (short for 'professional Help', hereby increasing its scientific and humorous value),

I have to sit in class next to a boy who smells of flies. I wonder whether he has a bath. What should I do, other than clip my nose?

                                                                                                           -- Ann Oyed

Dear Ann (name always shortened to devalue pricelessness and distinguished markedly by different font),

Write him a note. Or write in his birthday card: 'Your annual Bath Day! Love, Ann' That will wake him up. Or give him a deodorant or soap for the very occasion. He will come to you on all fours and beg for forgiveness. What more do you want?

        Alternatively, ask the teacher to change your seats.

EXHIBIT B

Dear pH,

I think I'm commitment phobic. I can't commit to long-term relationships, and shy away. Even at work, I notice I cannot stick to my guns for a particular project. Am I messing up my life?

                                                                                               -- Nocome Itment

Dear Nocome,

'Nocome' is a lovely, inviting name. All attracted to this name will invariably be turned away by your behaviour.

        Keep a pet fly, or hamster. See whether you can nurture it for three days. When it dies (I'm guessing) in that time, check whether you feel bad.

        Discuss penalties with your boss. If you fail to do your project, he whips you twice. This can be effective unless you enjoy being whipped.

        Prepare yourself to die all alone, my dear.

EXHIBIT C

Dear pH,

I'm in drama class. My problem is, the professor never selects me to lead in any play, in spite of my obvious talent. Whenever I ask him, he says I'd be better suited to so-and-so side role. How do I handle him?

                                                                                         -- Lost in Translation

Dear Lost,

Your teacher must be having very good reasons for not taking you in.

        Look at yourself and evaluate. Perhaps there is something you are missing? Ask your teacher what he thinks is not fine-tuned and how you can develop it.

        As for how to handle him, mix egg yolk and cinnamon in a less-than-equal amount of water and blend nicely. Add a few spoons of vinegar, and tomato ketchup for colour. Spread it generously all over his chair just before he comes in.

         Then, Lost, all you have to do is sit yourself down in that chair.

EXHIBIT D

Dear pH,

I am older -- well, well older -- than infantile. But I somehow can't stop myself from watching Tom and Jerry and The Simpsons. You may say they are fine and everybody does that, but Spongebob Squarepants? How do you explain that?

                                                                                                  -- Cartoon Addict

Dear Cartoon,

You're right. I can't explain that. Some would say it's better than watching Bones or Transformers, and they would be right. However:

        Step One, clear out all your Spongebob memorabilia, even your boxer shorts and armbands.  (I understand it is painful, but there is no other way to do this.) Step Two, cry a little. Step Three, pat yourself on the back in the most humane way possible. Step Four, start watching some real football.

        You can't go wrong with these.

        

EXHIBIT E

Dear pH,

My boyfriend and I are really close. But we keep arguing over one matter -- how he doesn't come shopping with me, at least enthusiastically. And I know clothing is one of man's basic needs. So why doesn't he? We start arguing in public and he brings up all these old fights -- how I don't let him watch football and play snooker as often as he'd like. What do I do?

                                                                                      -- Not a Dumb Blonde

Dear Dumb Blonde,

You should be happy he comes with you at least. Clothing is basic, but running after pricey hoops and belts and eyeliner and purses and whatnot with hysterical shrieking overshadows the sensibilities of even Stone Age man with his leaf clothing.

        So buy your boyfriend a cue on his birthday and watch him accompany you on three -- yes, three -- separate shopping trips.

        And oh, please leave the TV on.




(Read Part Two.)

Ten Great Books Parodied

1) The Hatcher in the Dye

2) The Pitchforker's Pride is a Fallacy (concocted by Eoin Colfer himself in And Another Thing)

3) The Chord of the Kings who Sing

 

4) Burning to the Centre of the Girth

5) Brushing Her

6) Tried and Fetched the Dice

7) Ta da! Will She Court?

8) The Get-Rich-Quick Capers

Stephen Leacock's. Genius.

9) James and the Giant Leech

10) Twilight (requires no parody)

Fare-Weather

[Note: The FAQs will explain why the pictures are so lame.]


I ran into someone a few weeks ago -- someone I was apparently supposed to know, but information on whom had been conveniently concealed by my wily brain, which likes such opportunities where I can embarrass myself.

So there I was, 'shopping' for books in the outlet at the mall, where this lady -- who most definitely wasn't -- came up and made my acquaintance. 

'Hey!' she squealed, 'Long time no see!'

I think she attempted to hug me, but I smartly dropped the book I had been perusing upon the floor. Muttering apologies, I bent down to retrieve it, promptly giving her a headbutt in the stomach.

The title of the book I dropped?

'Oh my, I'm so very sorry,' I said sincerely. But she merely shook her head and sat down on a nearby couch, clutching her stomach.

Here I must describe her. She had short dark hair and a mouth foaming with lipstick, and a pileful of earrings in both her ears (the latter part is important; you can never be certain these days).

Her lipstick wasn't exactly black, but, well, it looks better this way anyway.

Had I ever known her? Even if I had, I would never have expected her to reenter my life in such a dramatic fashion. I blinked rapidly as if I were in a daze, and my surroundings cleared appreciably.

'How have you been?' I asked, trying to enter the one-sided conversation.

'Great,' she said through almost clenched teeth, 'Just great.'

 

Is this what clenched teeth look like? I can never tell. Hers weren't like this, though.

Here we reached a pregnant part of the exchange. But I thought I could break the ice. For once.

'What,' I began, 'were you doing here? Looking for books?' This was difficult to say because of two reasons:

a) she was indeed looking for books and it would have to be a genial, I-really-want-to-know tone, or

b) she wasn't much of an avid reader, and wouldn't be looking for books, and it would have to be a sarcastic, I-can't-imagine-you-doing-that tone.

And since I was supposed to know her, I HAD to know whether she liked to read. So I employed a best-fit, a mix of the two.

Thankfully, she did not see through my trick (well, I am an expert), and promptly replied, 'Well, I am! Can you believe that?'

This made it easier, so I quickly flashed her a what's-wrong-with-you glance, then said, 'Not on your life! What are you searching for?'

Now I'm going to switch to a drama script (it is so much more organised that way):

Lady: Oh, Priyanka, you wouldn't believe it! You know that new job of mine?
I (vigorous nodding): Yes, of course.
Lady: Well, this teaching business is getting quite difficult.

[Ah! At least she divulged something!]

Ignore the trapezoid shape of the blackboard. It is a new design, still under construction.

I (mock despair): Oh. Why so? 
Lady: Well, to be honest, I think I'm barely qualified, don't you think? (winks)
I: Oh, come on. I'm sure you're very passiona --
Lady: And I don't even like the frigging subject!
I (desperate to change the subject): The pay is good?
Lady: It's excellent! That's why I'm doing this in the first place.
I: Well, that's great then.
Lady: Absolutely! Let's see how long I la --
I (hasty interruption): So that's why you're here? To look up something that will help you with this?
Lady (horrified): God, no! What made you think that?
I: Er --
Lady: I'm just here for the latest supplement of Vogue!

[This fit in with what I had predicted about her, so I was deathly pleased.]

I: Ah. No surprises then.
Lady (shocked): Really?!
I: Er -- I mean, um -- well, it's not, er, that much of a surprise, you see?
Lady: How did you guess?
I: Guess?
Lady: Yeah!
I: Guess what?
Lady: That I finally got over my hate of Vogue and now I read it with Elle!
I: I could just make out by -- er, the --
Lady (appraising look): You do remember a lot about me, don't you?
I: How could I forget? (nervous yet expert laugh)
Lady: Come on, now. I know we weren't exactly best mates, but wow! And look at you (shrieks) -- changed so much!
I (tries to conceal amazement): Really, now?
Lady: Of course you have. Look at yourself, When I knew you you were always concerned -- so much -- about your hairstyle. And now you've finally let yourself go! (polite laugh)
I: Eh?

She was talking as if my hair looked like this. I'm positive it was much better.

Lady (continuing unabashedly): And your clothes! Now --
I: Excuse me? (unsuccessful attempt at harsh look)
Lady: Yes! What happened to our cute skirts and shorts and frilly girly wear? You're wearing jeans!
I (looking down as if to confirm): Yes, indeed, I am.
Lady: Well, that's great, in a way.

[By now I was, again, itching to change the topic.]

I: How absolutely spiffing to see you though!
Lady: Oh! You never liked the word spiffing either!
I: You got that right.

It had become tediously clear I did not know this lady, and -- what was more -- she did not know me. At all. I was just about to wedge in a polite 'Do I really know you?' but just then she turned and shrieked yet again.

'Candles!' she enunciated. 'Pink, scented candles! Just look at this!'

Should I have been excited about this? 

Or this sign alongside?

How did she know my name, though? We couldn't have been friends when we were younger:
Keyboard class? No.
Karate class? Nope.
Drama class? Hmm...

I didn't remember befriending anyone so closely as to know their Vogue and Elle fears or their scented candle preferences. But I must have known her. Simply must have.

I decided to use the alphabet method to jog up the good old memory, as she crooned over handmade baskets (fine, yes, they were beautiful, but I had bigger fish to fry).

A: nothing
B: nothing
C: no...

I almost said 'D' out loud as she showed me an interesting interwoven piece.

But 'E' I did manage to say.
'What?' she said sharply.

'Eek,' I said, pointing to a lady behind her who seemed to have no bad fashion sense whatsoever, but still someone I felt inclined to comment on under the circumstances, especially judging by my company.
'Eek,' she agreed, 'That is such a last-season tunic.'

Tunic? Wasn't that an ancient Roman clothing garment?

E: no
F: of course not
'G' was the lifesaver. Why? Not because I got her name.

A healthy diversion arrived in the form of another lady, just as the first one was showing me something (I forget). The New Lady spread her arms out dramatically. Not another one, I thought.

But I needn't have worried.

The New Lady took the Old Lady in a hearty embrace. Now what?

'What have you been up to, you old dog?' TNL asked OL. 'Sorry, I'm late, it's already 5.30...'

And then it fit... TNL was wearing pink tights and a shiny wide rubber band that was thicker than her hair, which was tied up neatly and nicely, and a bracelet with her name -- MY name -- on it.

'Who is this, by the way?' she pointed at me, not even giving me the faintest of smiles.

OL caught my eye and smiled. 'Oh, just a fellow shopper...'

How It Came About (an Etymology)

I must explain how I managed to come across this name for my blog.

I had been thinking of having my own blog for a long time. But my board exams were on, and I couldn't. As soon as they got over, I launched into the idea enthusiastically.

What remained now was the name I would give my blog.

I struggled to come up with names, but managed to produce a few, with accompanying comments:

Suggested Name                                                  Remarks

Crooked Pastimes                                      Not fine-tuned; passable

Pi Note (Why Not?)                           Not the best way to show you're                                                                               mathematically inclined...

A Dash of Commas                                   This, maybe...

                                                                     |

                                                                     | 

                                                                     V

The outcome of a hundred-metre dash of commas, as the commas

express their emotions by flailing their green arms about accordingly.

Unannounced Forthwith                             Eh?

A Plagiarised Life                                      Trouble! Trouble!

Swirls before Wine                                    *inebriation*

So this was my sorry state.

That very night, as I was about to glide into complete sleep, the words 'Halt! Turbulence Ahead' came to me. When I say 'came', I mean they just got into my head suddenly and inexplicably.

Now this is very common, and I knew I would forget the phrase next morning. So, half-sleepy, I darted for the notebook on my bedside table and the pencil beside it and scribbled it down (and I must mention I did this in complete darkness):

Needless to say, I woke up the next day with the phrase still in my head.

I caught my brother.

'How do you like this?' I asked, thrusting the book into his face.

Not taken aback at all, he slowly inspected the page through his glasses. 'Nothing great,' he replied.

I was taken aback.

'You don't like it?' I said desperately, 'Isn't it funny?'

'No,' he smirked.

I marched to the hall and posed my mother the same question. A blank look crossed her previous pleasant face.

'What?' I demanded, 'Isn't it funny?'

She shook her head. 'I think not.'

I decided to explain to her. 'A plane, you see,' I said patiently, 'faces turbulence. And it simply cannot stop mid-air.'

'I know,' she said.

'So...' I said, 'so... Doesn't that make it funny?'

'Not to me,' she said.

Well, there it was. Both my mother and my brother, whom I relied on at times to comment painstakingly on my writing adventures, told me it wasn't funny enough. Maybe they were trying to pull my leg (not too uncommon), or maybe it was just my head filled with slush.

So what happened?

Simple.

I didn't listen to them.