Variations on Ninjas

  The ninjas are out, about, and they shout, too! At least they did in our room on this calm cool evening of Friday. It all started with Isaac, our ninja addict who had gotten Mani into many reflex refining rounds of Ninja destruction.  Graham was dragged involuntarily into the fray, and by the time I came into the crowd of whizzing hands, dodging fingers, yelps, victories, tragedies, and creativity, it had turned into a chaotic kerfuffle of karate chops. Whether due to lack of oxygen flow to our brain, the pollution in the air, the sweltering heat of that day's work, of a combination of some or all of the above, we descended into spontaneous variations of this classic game.  Here are some examples.

  This was the beginning of the madness. Mani was dressing in traditional Indian garb, and the rest of us were just traditional clueless imitators of non-existent characters. 

 Here we still randomly decorated ourselves in an attempt to gain an advantage. Graham did not want to hear about it anymore I guess.

 As if it was not hard enough, we just thought we would cover our faces. I think we all procured the thinnest material available.

 I think this was supposed to be some sort of human slingshot for long range ninja attacks.

 After failing to win a round disguised as a Spartan warrior, Katie suggested I try being a Grecian urn. The challenge was accepted, though unfortunately it was a more miserable failure than the Spartan was.

Things started to get tough when Arabian tactics were employed.

We hope you all enjoyed our demostration on the disastrous nature of our demented diversion. 

DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME!!!

  The moral of the story is do not try imitating an inanimate object in a very animated arena, and while your at it get lots of fresh air, then do not forget to do it in a cool place, in addition be careful of who you play with, and just remember to have fun while you are at it. If that moral is not good enough, then you might need to find a different blog to follow, for that is about as deep as my tergiversatious philosophy permits me to be.
   Again, David the Post Host, has assaulted your computer screen with yet another attack, but this time with a flourish and flurry of blindingly polished martial art (actually no one has lost an eye yet...knock on wood). May your guardian angel be with you in these battles of life, because you never know when I might post again.

Botanical Facelift

  After recovering from our overwhelming welcome to India, and certain hapless misfortunes, we plied our energies into the reconstruction of the unrecognizably tangled hodge-podge of strangled tomatoes, overshadowed carrots, cynical cilantro, preposterous peppers, and the faithful noisome weeds.
  I do not know how it happens, but the produce that flourishes the best in this sunshine magnet happens to the dedicated antithesis of my exsistence.  Pepper! They seem to thrive more on the misery they cause me, then anything physical sustinence provided.
  On to more pleasant subjects. Ripping out weeds can be ravishingly rewarding, until you find that little pre-mammal predecessor of the porcupine.  These ground cover weeds are armed to the leaf with bristling burrs that "catch" you by surprise, but they were nonetheless bravely confronted and uprooted. Then came the fun part of staking up the survivors.

  Of a truth I prefer helping to stake up the pulchritudinous tomatoes.  It makes me "satisfied" to contemplate the happy state of a tomato accomplishing the role it was pertinently designed to do.  Of all the lovely plants in the garden seen, the loveliest of all are the ones that might have been. (contorted paraphrasing from a quote I cannot remember).

  Anytime I miss the succulent blueberries of Idaho, or when I am ready for a snack, or just passing by, or happen to find myself in its proximities, or in other words, all the time, I take advantage of these small berries. In Tamil its name incorporates that of the tomato family, and not being a naturalist or given to any sort of botanical classification, I have no idea where it comes from or what it is related to, but this much I know...it is a delectable edible fruit, and grows like a weed, but it holds a similarity to the blueberry only in color, not in taste.

  The battle for a healthy garden is never fought alone, thankfully, and we found sympathetic critters to conduct bug patrol in the vegetable foliage. Ecstatic as we were to not struggle on alone, we could not shut our eyes to the fearsome fact that are outnumbered by a landslide. However, thyme is on the side of truth!

  These are the the before and after shots of the gardens first face-lift.  Hopefully, if we can get a good ground cover on it than this could very well have been the last. With that said, the moral of the story is said to be eat and enjoy weeds and you, not the compost pile, will be forever full. I still have not gotten the hang of that one yet...do not blame me porcupine meatballs are great and all, but a porcupine salad is suicide.  I guess the moral is just pull your weeds as they come so you do not have to hire the Brothers In-tents to weed it.
  This is David the Post Host with the left green thumb, as the other thumb is still in rehabilitation. Good luck on your own gardens as they can perpetuate both love and hate.  Love them or hate them, remember you never know when I might post again.

Old Beginnings

As of 21 September 2013
    Most beginnings are unique in their own peculiar ways, but the way I started my first project, since returning to Indian soil, had an unpleasantly familiar feeling about it. Allow me to elaborate.
    Due to our chronic famine of tables, I was determined to remedy the situation and, after a short period dithering on how to begin, I set about scrounging up an the necessary material old door remnant for a tabletop and several lengths of hefty door frame boards, of a kind only known to India, to serve as legs for our improvised table.  After securing in my possession all the materials necessary I attacked the dust encrusted door with a battered broom creating a miniature duplicate of a Sahara dust storm lacerating both eye and sky. With that task taken care of I proceeded to redefine my door, with one of those long curved saber toothed tree saws, into two identical pieces.  What should have been one short dividing cut was proving to test my perishing patience.  10 minutes later my sabertooth was wheezing and rasping only halfway through.  Compared to the incomprehensible extend of eternity ten minutes becomes less than insignificance itself, but to the operator of such a incongruent instrument, eternity was glimpsed in that minuscule amount of time.  Slowly but surely, we succeeded!  Then just like I had not learned a thing from those prolonged monotonous moments of observing my struggling saw, I commenced subdividing the potential table legs in very much the same fashion.  Only a few minutes into the grueling effort, I stopped contemplating the pathetic progress I had achieved and realized I was risking long term enslavement to my primeval method.  Deserting my methodless madness I resorted to technology.  I remembered that we had recently purchased a metal grinder capable of dealing with impenetrable wood.  Delighted by my own ingenuity I gleefully retrieved my problem solver and started into that wood with all the excitement of a scientist newly discovering the obvious.  That stubborn stud’s resistance melted under my hyper-empowered hands.  A few seconds later, the first chunk clattered on the concrete.  Readjusting the wood, I flipped on, again, my problem solver.  I moved my hand in to get a better grip and unexpectedly felt some pressure on the tip of my thumb. “That was weird” I thought to myself, “Could I have touched the gyrating blade…wait a minute, if I did, it must have indubitably sliced open my thumb…that would mean it is bleeding!” a quick glance confirmed my hypothetical deductions.  A crevasse-like feature had been added to the topography to my right hand thumb.  I do not know how these things happen, but no worries, an ample application of cayenne curbed the clotting cascade, and as proven many times by my personal experience, a quick coating of cayenne always prevents infection.  So far this wound has followed implicitly in the footsteps of its cayenne treated predecessors.  I am just glad I did not extirpate my victimized thumb. That incident, coupled with the impending summons to dinner, quickly dissuaded me from any further attempts in embodying the table idea into a physical reality.  Tragic as these recurring tragedies may be, they unfortunately have almost become a part of me.
   The moral of the story would have to be if at first you do not succeed do not even consider trying to eradicate you other thumb. If that is a little too far-fetched, try this moral; hear and internalize advice from older sisters like Katie’s continued admonition to me to be more careful.  Anyone up to climbing a 100 foot coconut tree with me?
   This used to be your two-thumbed Post Host, David.  And this post took longer to write.  Have you tried typing with eight fingers and one thumb? Be grateful for the little things like thumbs while you still have them or you might be doing them honor post-“thumb”ously. Stop twiddling your thumbs because you never know when I will post again.

Mispredictabilitiness

   With the parting phrases of the previous post I little expected to ever present myself again on this blog in the capacity of your Post Host in India. However, I am pleased to announce that we are back in business for the very simple reason that business is back. In unambiguous terms, Katie and I have auspicated a new adventure in India. After a ridiculously back wrenching, brain racking, baggage searching, sanity busting 32 hour journey, in no wise facilitated by the TSA, we staggered into the sweltering existence we call our home away from the home that was home when home moved to North Carolina. It was by no means the easiest, nor had it any shadow or likeness of being the hardest trip we have undertaken.  Our short layover in Seattle was punctuated only with boredom, which was practically the precursor of the ensuing Delta flight to Amsterdam.  At this location, we were allotted only enough time to traverse the airport to our next gate, get fried by the only human grade microwave ovens on the market, and board in preparation of being bored for the next several hundred minutes until our stop in Delhi. Here we had to arouse our mental faculties in preparation for the eminent dingy dirty airport, possibly eternal custom interrogation, long lines of shoving heaving masses of humanity, and so on. Thankfully, we were disappointed. The airport was actually of good quality, clean, and well illuminated, nothing like it was ten years ago when Katie had last been to this particular airport, and definitely a cut above other Indian airports I have frequented.  Either, we were lucky, misdirected, lost, or very probably all three, we never encountered the critical countenances of the customs officials.  As for strangling serpentine lines, they somehow also disappeared.  I am glad to see improvement. On that nice note we initiated the final leg of the joggling journey with a couple more hours in the air coming at last to Coimbatore in southern India. By this time I was chair tomato (something similar to a couch potato, just more painful). We fought tooth and nail, tooth in that we kept talking and nail in that we would scratch our heads, just trying stay alert or at least awake until evening, which was only eight hours after we arrived. With the dissipation of the last sun rays we were on yet another voyage, but of a very different more soothing nature. How rejuvenating, how energizing, how transformational it is to soar into the subconscious spheres of soothing slumber. Unless you are choose cold cruel concrete for your bed! :)
   Enough of the pity party and on to the pictures. It was one of the boys birthday, and another of the boys got a hold of the camera.  This was the result.
   Cake is as essential as the candle. Someone lights it for him, and of course we sing Happy Birthday, Indian style; clap and shout "happy birthday to you!" just as off key as you can.

Then someone stuffs the cake in his mouth. After that you have to be strategically swift in order to secure the largest amount of cake. You can partially discern furtive hands snatching at it in the picture.

It is all fun and games until it turns into a war which in not uncommon among the children here.  But you will never guess who took it into their clever cerebrum to commence such a tradition.  You guessed it...Katie did!

Just when I thought I was getting a break from dog training, I wind up in association with yet another dog. This one, however, is barely two months old, and happily for me and this cute canine, I am not responsible for his upbringing...this is Mani's dog, and Mani's job. By the way, his name is Pupooh, which is the Tamil diminutive derivative of the English word puppy.
   This is again, David the Post Host, concluding the premiere of a new uncertain series of intermittent posts.  So forget everything I said about ending this blog (and you have my permission to forget everything I say in general) because you never know when I will post again.