It's a woman thing

Never thought I would end up having to defend being both a woman and a cellphone user. It took a--till now unidentified--reader of my reports on the cellphone ban imposed by Anna University to educate me on why the VC is so evangelical about banishing those pesky little gadgets from anywhere near his vicinity.
Seems now like it is all about being female: A R Rahman wasn't too far off the mark with his number in the movie Indian, me thinks.
Beats Mata Hari any day, doesn't it, this slinky little seductress that snuggles so suggestively in the small of your palm?
Small wonder then that the VC wants all such feminine wiles out of his jurisdiction. Not for nothing did he put cellphones and female attire on the same footing when he, Canute-like, pronounced his diktat...
Makes sense also as to why he would have his men go on a midnight raid in university hostels...
As for me, I sent back my well-meaning reader a one-word reply that simply said `Aargh!'
So then, brace yourself for the Eve-ing of technology.

Help! An identity crisis....

This blog has trouble figuring out what it wants to be. Two months ago, it wanted to be a personal journal, kinda tell people about what it meant to be me, about where I went, who I saw,what I had for breakfast, about whether I preferred sundal-on-the-beach to coffee-at-Amethyst.In short, whether to tell the world how simply wonderful it was to be a journalist... In retrospect, all I can say now is OUCH!
I mean, who the hell cares? After all, it is not as if, simply by being a journalist, you get to wear a kind of magic spectacles that lets you see things in three/four/five-D when the rest of the lesser-evolved world has to stick to its broken fragments of looking glass. Sure, people still do think it is glamourous to be a journalist: I can tell by a certain look in people's eyes that, even when they are speaking to poor, sandpaper-skinned me, they are thinking Salam Pax. They imagine you get to go to exotic places all the time (with some poor infructuous schmuck footing all your bills), dine with the best, break bread with the powerful...in short, be all the things which their reading of John Grisham tells them journalists are. If only they knew...
Much as I wanted to, I figured I would wait a little more to let my blog be something of a kiss`n tell smorgasboard .
Then, I thought it could be made into a find-me-if-you-can Hyde Park kind of thing: you know, make it into a bulletin board for sounding off on everything that is going wrong but shouldn't.
Finally, it got to a point where my pomposity became too difficult for even me to swallow and so the idea died a deserved death...
Then someone suggested I make into a lonely hearts meeting point, where people could get together and just crib about why they never found better wives/husbands/bosses/dogs...
And I simply said, ugh...dunno if want to end up playing Freud everytime I logged in.

And so, finally, here we are...deciding where we want to get. May take me a couple of
days to make up my mind. But when we Scorpios finally do, we are pretty gung-ho about it.
Meanwhile, I am leaving you in much better company than mine....
Hearken to Calvin and Hobbes, ye folks, and ye shall never be alone...