R.I.P Art Buchwald
In the days of my childhood when I was given to devouring "The Hindu" newspaper (I suppose to reduce the number of words in the English opus that I had never met before), one of the many strange things my unformed mind encountered in its Madras idli-sambar English pages was the syndicated column of Art Buchwald.
Even though I still have no clue what a humor column laced with American politics was doing in the pages of an Indian newspaper, his avuncular photo, and what I thought was an absurdly funny name hooked me in. I suspect my incomprehension of the American way of life* then meant that most of Buchwald's jokes went over my head. Still many years later, when I found myself in America, I always snapped up yellowing copies of Buchwald's books whenever I saw them at sales. And these books with their Buachwald-isms have enabled me to get a quick education on the back history of contemporary American politics. I for one will miss this kind of education and hectoring.
* All I knew in my gut was that America was where Mickey Mouse lived, and from where desperately sought merchandise such as throwaway Bic pens came in the cargoes of rarely seen, and hence very, very important relatives.
My Daily Notes
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A Small Round Ball
Is the world on which we, the small people, tread on, tentatively, for a little while. While out in the first blast of northern cold last evening, to eat dinner at the Pakistani dive around the corner, I scanned a face that looked as if I had met it before, in a much younger version. So I tentatively approached the person, and realized that he too was doing the same.
The first words out of our mouths was a quizzical statement, KGP?! Yes?! Which class? 1995? Same here! It turns out that we had sat in a couple of same classes with titles such as "Structural Engineering -I", "Steel Structures" etc as he was then studying Architecture, and I, Civil Engineering. Having abandoned all vestiges of that life, with him not having designed any buildings following the holy grail of Le Corbusier, and I not having built any suspension bridges in the mode of the Golden Gate, we meet again here, across the Hudson, close to the shadows of the City of Mammon's Temple*, two semi-capitalistic strangers on the make, to eat, and talk, and share the winter solitude by burning old collegiate memories.
*See "mammon" in Ambrose Bierce's "The Devil's Dictionary"
My Daily Notes
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Typecasting
So they ran a psychological profile of my personality, and I can now be handily described using a four letter code INFP (under the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator paradigm). While we were all consoled by the facilitators that none of these codes are good and bad per se, and are merely indicators of personal preferences, some deeper research this evening led me to some disturbing revelations. Some of the highlights of what that cryptic code called INFP tells you, kind reader, about me (apart from the fact that I am delusional for I imagine folks read what I write) go as::
- "They care deeply – indeed, passionately – about a few special persons or a cause. One word that captures this type is idealistic. At times, this characteristic leaves them feeling isolated, especially since INFPs are found in only 1 percent of the general population."
(Damn! I didn't know I was such a rare egghead.)
- "They often have a subtle tragic motif running through their lives, but others seldom detect this inner minor key. The deep commitment of INFPs to the positive and the good causes them to be alert to the negative and the evil, which can take the form of a fascination with the profane."
(Ah! Life is indeed suffering mate. Here have a drinky.)
- "Their career choices may be toward the ministry, missionary work, college teaching, psychiatry, architecture, and psychology."
(Lordy! I need a shrink myself first, much less to play a shrink to others)
- "They may have difficulty in expressing affection directly, but communicate interest and affection indirectly."
(Woman, please don't ask me to bond wiff you!)
- "The INFP questor probably has more problems in mating than any other type. Let us be mindful of the relative infrequency: about 1.25 percent, say two and a half million people in the USA. Their problem lies in their primary outlook on life. “Life,” says the INFP, “is a very serious matter.”"
(Ok! This explains EVERYTHING! Mazel Tov! Also we at Buoyantville are now accepting applications from suitable women of the following types: ENTJ or ESTJ. If you need convincing why you should apply for this exciting offer RIGHT NOW, read (6) below)
- "If ever a person died for love, it was sure to have been an Apollonian (NF). Romeo and Juliet, both NFs, could not face the prospect of life without each other and so chose to die in a way which was symbolic of their single minded and eternal commitment to each other. Other famous lovers, such as Heloise and Abelard, the Brownings, Antony and Cleopatra, Beth the landlord’s daughter and her highwayman, all created a work of art in their courtships. This is not surprising, since one of the arts at which the NF is skilled is that of creating the romantic relationship. In fact, the term sex would seem somehow crude when used in discussing the NF; love better captures their appreciation of the physical relationship. Both the NF female and male respond to their mates with sympathy, tenderness, and frequent, passionate expressions of love, both verbal and nonverbal. Possessing facility with language, NFs are able too express nuances of emotions that may escape other types. NFs are not afraid of using poetry, music, and quotations to enhance their courting relationships ; the tokens of affection and dedication."
(O Juliet! Where art thou? Come quick; I need to stab myself)
My Daily Notes
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