Archive for November, 2010


Airtel’s Wastage

I subscribe to Derana news alerts on my phone, which you would have guessed by now, is on Airtel. Something that annoys me no end is the fact that they charge me daily instead of just charging the total once a month, like practically all other services. Something that annoys me even more is the fact that their notification message is exactly 161 characters long.

This means that, thanks to them sticking to 160 characters a message, I get the whole “blah blah blah renewed blah thank yo” in one message, and another message with just “u” in it. What kind of madness is this? Why effectively double the load on your network from these notifications while tripling the annoyance of your customers who subscribe to it?

In other news, this is my 300th post. Doesn’t feel quite as glamorous as the 100th or 200th.


Courting Rituals

I’m quite handicapped at the whole “picking up women” thing. I chalk this down to two things;

Not playing a musical instrument
This is a huge drawback if you’re male. Most musical instruments, excluding, of course, such oddities as the Triangle and That Thing You Shake With Sand Inside, exude pheromones of some sort. The sort that make the minds of womenfolk go blank with adoration and glee. It’s been like that for centuries. Kids nowadays grow up listening to Katy Perry asking a dude to “infect me with your love and fill me with your poison”. I don’t see how they can still be that swayed by music when they’re older and slightly more independent. But then again, I remember listening, and humming along to the Thong Song growing up. I didn’t have a clue what it meant though.

Need I say anything here? Poetry is to me what logic is to women. Completely incomprehensible and dangerous if exposed to in large quantities. Writing poetry, for me, is like a cat trying to climb up the sides of a gigantic washing machine it’s been put inside, with walls covered in molasses. Unfortunately, women seem to appreciate this. Even if it’s the kind of poetry that would make the paper it gets printed on turn black with its mute screams of blatant injustice.


In other news, I’m buying a camera. I initially though of getting one shipped from Amazon, but that means spending 10% of the value of the camera in shipping costs. I’ve been looking around here, and have found a few options. Let me know if anyone’s selling a DSLR.


About Me

I started writing A Sort of Beautiful, Not Quite Insane Mind back in June 2007. Back then I posted about everything from school to 3D renders to yala. I miss Mr. Nandasena the math teacher.

Anyway, I recently spoke to a reporter about an article on blogging. It ran on Wednesday and was quite depressing. The article felt late. It felt like writing about a horse race after the horses had grown old and fat and were about to be sent to the glue factory. Not that I expect any of us to be much use as an adhesive, but take a look at this post by Halik to get a feel of what I mean.

It just doesn’t feel like kottu any more. I visit kottu maybe once a month nowadays, and it feels like I went down to the local haunt and the dude serves me three day old samosas seasoned with Meerkat de Roadkill instead of yummy delicious chopped up goodness.

But I digress. What I noticed first about the article was a line about me being “silent” on the phone. This felt like a solid steel girder going through the heart of the dude next to me. I was devastated. Here I am priding myself for being as loud as a cat being dipped in fine lacquer and rubbed on the walls to paint a house, and I see that. I’m usually more coherent than a cat even.

Oh well, enough of this “reminiscing” stuff I guess. This blog shall continue to see new posts spewed in whenever I feel like writing. Which will hopefully be at least once a month. In other news, I am making a site for myself.

Till next time, stay classy, world.


Sound Effects

Never question the usefulness of simulating audio played in a Quarry.

Realtek, maker of a large percentage of computer sound cards, enabler of strange sound effects on your PC and company with a strange bunch of people working in programming.

“Hi Joe, let’s go watch a movie!”

“Hey Bob! Sure! My computer and gigantic screen are over there.”

“Hey Joe, can we make the movie sound like we’re watching it under water?”

“Why sure Bob, my Realtek sound card can do just that! Watch this!”

Somehow I find that exchange a little hard to believe possible. What conceivable use is simulating the sound properties of a padded cell? Or are they targeting the niche market of ex-mentally unstable people who miss the way their movies sounded like back when they were in a straight-jacket?



Disarray at The Grand

So me and a friend who might have been Himal walk into the Cinnamon Grand. Use the entrance from the side, go in through the parking lot and come up through Cheers. Coffee Stop. Ahh.

Coffee Stop is yet another place where people who like spending ridiculous amounts on beverages go. This particular establishment, in the lobby of a hotel, is slightly less expensive than most of it’s siblings, while still costing enough to make you question why you’re there. I order lime juice.

Verily, I live the high life.

Friend orders some coffee concoction which looks like it was designed by Picasso. And executed by someone with an epileptic fit. The waiter grins, cheshire cat like. I don’t like cats.

We are seated, and start discussing what the true nature of the Statue of Liberty is. In the distance, a doorman scowls and picks up a walkie talkie device. The lobby is full of people. It is half full of white people. And a smattering of brown people from other countries too, but who cares about them?

In the discussion, it is suggested that the Statue of Liberty was really a Trojan Horse. Dismissive laughter emanates from a mouth hole. Dismissive. Somewhere below, a manager places the earpiece of his phone back on it’s cradle. He sighs.

After a thorough inspection of his spectacles, mostly because he could see his secretary’s legs in the reflection, he gets up and heads to the stairs.

It is discussed that Lady Liberty really is a Trojan Horse. Except the French forgot to build an exit for the troops. It moves on to whether it was Idle Hands that made God create the universe.

Before blasphemy could be committed, and scripture quoted, the manager walks up to us.

“Dear Sir your shorts are below regulation length and your shoes are below regulation coverage percentage.”

I stare at The Friend. Shorts and slippers. “Sir I am very sorry but I must ask you to leave, as the guests have complained that their children have been scarred by your hairy legs”, he continues.

“I must object my dear fellow, as I am yet to notice a soul even glancing in our direction.”

“Sir the gentleman next to you is wearing a gas mask and it certainly is not because he’s preparing for the holocaust.”

I look at TF’s feet. Egad. We stand up.” The man doth protest”. Slow motion. We push the manager back. The Friend kicks him in the midriff. He shouts,


We bolt. Two guards rush through the guests, who have by now surrounded the scene and were waving and clapping in glee, like sausage dogs watching a movie about hot dogs. It was grotesque. We push through the crowd and end up in a large room with a raised section in the middle, corridor-like paths around it. There are orbs hanging from the ceiling. The orbs descend, and open up like flowers. Ninjas in white track suits step out, sharpening their blades on their teeth.

We stand there frozen like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding 138. We turn to run back the way we came, and hear the sound of something breaking through the far wall. It’s a 138. We stick our hands out as it runs over the ninjas like so many vegetarians being mowed over by the knowledge that they’re eating the very environment we’re trying to save. We get on.

We have no money. Alas, we are kicked out of the moving bus, unable to reason with the conductor due to our failure to look him in the eyes while we pleaded, thanks to his eyes burning so bright with rage it made our eyeballs see black dots everywhere. As my feet tumble off the footboard, everything goes black.

And we find ourselves on a platform, apparently on some scaffolding maybe 40 feet tall. It’s dark around, salty. Windy. The scaffolding wobbles. The Motocross. Trail bike engines. The commentator. Galle Face!

“Let’s give a big hand to the riders and their big gloves here today shall we? Come on!” goes the commentator’s voice. “We are truly honoured to have you here today”. If that’s not an inferiority complex, I don’t know what is. What is it with Sri Lankans and making our country seem like that desperate kid in school who’d be worshiping the ground his current crush walks on and says “Thank you” each time she talks to him? I am disappoint.

The platform wobbles again and we look down. The ninjas are back, and are climbing the sides of the scaffolding. Quite inefficiently, as a matter of fact. They shake it so much a rapper would be proud to call them his bitches. The tower of scaffolding starts to fall over, and we tumble into the crowd. Black again.

I wake up in my bed. Get out of bed, put on my slippers, slip on the patch of water outside the bathroom door and land on my posterior near the exit to my room. Get up again, get online. IM friend.

“Dude, I just had the weirdest dream”

“Me too!”

“You saw the same thing?! DUDE! Inception! Movie!”

“Uh, what did you see?”

“Coffee stop, ninjas, motocross”

“Oh. *phew*. It’s not dude. Like the movie. I dreamed something completely different.”


And most people would. I’m surprised Inception didn’t have the creepiest things from each person’s mind in it. I mean, last time I dreamed, I came out of it feeling like I was about to be chased by a mob of angry villagers. Brilliant movie though.


Update/Note: None of this ever happened. We didn’t even go to Coffee Stop after the motocross thing and I doubt there are ninjas there either.