About a Crowley

For those of you who’ve been reading BBC (Blackbeard Chronicles, i.e., not the British Broadcasting Charity, if you were wondering), and for newer inmates, there’s an “About Me” section on the right, which tells you a little bit, well, about me. I’ve been tinkering with the idea of making a few template changes and adding an About Me tab. But, since I’m illiterate in CSS/Java scripting and the like, that’ll have to wait for a bit.

So, folks who read this blog know that, among other things, I’m a grouchy lawyer; that I moonlight as a DJ; that hip-hop artists ought to be crucified (my loathing for the genre increases exponentially by the day); that I believe there’s a lot to be learnt from ex-girlfriends; and that Ozzy Osbourne is a worthy role model (for heaven’s sake, look at my NAME).

Here’s some other stuff you ought to know about me.

I’m terrible at remembering names, birthdays, and phone numbers. I’d forget my own birthday if it wasn’t on such a miserable day. On the other hand, I never forget a face or a voice, or where and when I met a certain person, or silly details like what clothes they were wearing when I met them.

I remember conversations I had with people, oh, ten, even fifteen years ago. Down to the last word. But, for some reason, these are conversations of no significance whatsoever.

I’m also a walking-talking four-leaf clover…for every one except my own self. I have an eerily high propensity of getting into what ViralFish once pithily described as “the most hilarious accident/violence scenarios” of his life (with friends like these, who the hell needs performance appraisals?).

Walking through a construction site with about twenty other people, I’m the only guy who’ll get clobbered with large chunks of waste concrete. I regularly fall into puddles that other people easily managed to jump across. People keep data backups, so that they have somewhere to go when their hard-drives go blotto. I’m the jackass who managed to get his backup music folder wiped out (52 GB. I’m still trying hard not to cry).

And to add to my list of misfortunes, I’m probably the only one in Delhi who (regularly) gets run-over by newspaper boys on their bicycles (while jogging on foggy winter mornings) and postmen on their bicycles (on shimmering, hot summer afternoons). I’ve had a mail van and a truck carrying eggs ram into my much dented hatchback on at least three separate occasions. Two nights ago I collided with a milk truck on the way back home.

I don’t get it. Why me? People get run over by cool stuff like trains, trucks carrying liquid nitrogen, sulfuric acid and highly inflammable petrochemicals. I get whacked by a hundred gallons of toned milk!

I think I ought to change my name to Wile. E. Coyote.

Phuggeee. Meep, meep!!!!! (Where’s that damn aspirin box?)

Also, I've discovered that Vanilla Syrup makes brilliant caprioska.