Spotted in town - a prancing stallion

This appears to be a Ferrari 599 California. Or maybe it is an F12 Berlinetta. I dunno. Can't tell. Not that I see these cruising past every day. So, just like the exotic that it is, then. But what we can see is that for something from Maranello, the engine is in the wrong place, ahead of the driver's knees.

Here are some pictures, regretfully not turned out too well - blame the old cellpheun.

A tale of two kittehs

A tale of two kittehs: 

Une historie dit en portraits et des legendes.

Dramatis personae:

Kitler: Three years old (methinks). Grey and white. Possessed of a dour demeanour,  almost tending toward grim. Silent to the point of being taciturn. Possibly has some Teutonic influences, this not being far from the German part of Texas and all that.

Chhotku: Seven months old. Black and white. Kitler's offspring, although long since abandoned by her mother. Brought herself up through sheer pluck, a certain amount of good fortune and the kindness of strangers. Voluble to the point of being Gallic. Also skittish.

Narrator: Our saga begins when the narrator (playing the role of designated human servant) comes home from whatever non feline activities occupy his day. He enters his dwelling and makes to take off those ridiculous things that humans wear over their feet (their feet, like the rest of them not having evolved to the perfection that cats have). This he does with scant regard to the kitteh sitting outside waiting, yes waiting in the shade for her afternoon milk. Naturally, such bad behaviour can scarcely be tolerated.

 Human. Pour me a saucer of milk. The good stuff. None of that reduced fat 2% nonsense

But.. what about me? Its been a long day sitting around and napping under the bushes. Me thirsty!
    Mine! MINE!!!!

You do know that you are not getting away with this, right?














Whatevs. Slurp. Slurp. Sluuuurrrrp!

Fine. I just thought you should know that kittehs who don't share go a very bad place. A place where they don't let you sleep in the sun. A place where you could go for years without seeing the outside. I hear it's in the Caribbean. This is all real. A dog told me.

You there! Yes, you! Where is the milk?

We Bhattacharyas have long served as butlers and majordomos to various felines. We have emmigrated across nations, suffered through a Partition (yes, that one, the big one), trekked across the homeland again and then seen other distant lands. Through all of this, we have always had an affinity for cats. Well, cats and dogs, to be honest.

My apartment in SA is sometimes visited by a B&W cat with a toothbrush moustache. Quite naturally, she is known is Kitler. Well, Kitler had a litter and the only remaining kitten was Chhotku. That means "leetil one". The other kittens were apparently collected by a family. See, the problem here is that my apartment complex frowns upon pets. So Kitler and Chhotku have what can perhaps be called a "visiting faculty" arrangement with me. They stay out of my flat and I sometimes provide them with milk. This is Chhotku, one morning perched on the stairs above my head, wanting to know why her favourite servant is leaving for work without leaving a platter of milk out. Such is the relationship dynamic. Sigh..

Spotted in town - a 1950s MG Roadster

There are few designs as wonderfully timeless as the classic British roadster. This is not to be confused with the very different American convertible. The 'Murcan is usually a giant land yacht with its roof sliced off. The Brit is usually a purpose built, body on frame, short wheelbase sculpted delight. 
MG was known for making such lovely things. What we have here is a 1950s MG Type T something or the other. Found on a Sunday evening when I was out getting some desi groceries. I honked at the nice gent. He stopped, I gawked, found my tongue, expressed my heartfelt admiration. Nice gent and his missus turned out to be good sports and allowed me to pull the old pheun out and snap a few pics. A salute to you, friend.
 

Tomorrowlight

Aah, the neon drenched future, beckoning,

Luring, seductive, with only a tiny dash of dazzle.

From the residual radiation, that is.

Toughguys mumbling into their noodlebowls

The roving eye watches you, scans you, yes, You.

Pupils,credit, pulserate, bloodglucose and your inseam.

And the nearest billboard explodes into incandescent light...

The gorgeous biethnic avatar only wants to sell you a soda.

The rain drips, endlessly from unseen clouds.

Who has seen clouds in the Sprawl anyway?

Walking past the huddled homeless, roasting a dog.

Their ponchos swirling, adverting night classes in Esperanto.

As if.
Richety-rachety bike messenger whipping past,
An old-young face, a beautiful androgyn.
She will wake up with you, or wipe the drool off(someone has to do it)
For a quick wave of barcode, or a shot of AcetylCoA.

Stepping around formless humans (posthumans?) on the sidewalk.

Wirejunkies all. Lost to everything but the milliamps.

Until onesuch wraps his arms around you,

Brings you down. Smell gutterwash and … aftershave?

And he pulls close and whispers, “I hear him”

“I hear him scream. The ghost of Wintermute”