Tiny Little Fractures

So last weekend I went on a date. A proper American style date, which for me is an extremely, extremely rare event. Funnily enough I tend to date more in Sri Lanka than anywhere else, though dating there is a totally different ball game. Over here you date a girl to get to know her, generally from the very beginning. In Lanka however you tend to meet a girl with a group of friends, get to know her a bit while in a group and then ‘thin’ her from the herd for various nefarious activities. Personally I prefer the latter experience because if a girl is annoying for one thing you have other girls you can hit on without serious damage (well most of the time) and you also have your chums you can go get drunk with to forget the craziness that is womankind.

Anyways I went on this date, the hook up which was generally thanks to the obsession with photography and the wonder that is facebook. And it was…pleasant…it wasn’t super but it wasn’t bad either. But it was an odd experience. For one thing somehow both of us talked most of the time, didn’t listen to the band but just chatted. Unfortunately it was during the conversation and dinner later on that I had a dawning of an epiphany. That I actually do know what I want in a girl, and this girl though very nice, and I mean very nice, just didn’t fit the bill. 

I like independence, attitude and a hint of naughty. Nice girls turn me off, sheltered girls turn me off and someone who doesn’t push my buttons, well isn’t as much fun. In fact what was eerie was that as the date progressed I came to realize more and more that this girl was almost a carbon copy of the ex, right down to the school. For some reason I kept hearing a voice in my head going ‘danger! Will Robinson, danger!’ and it got louder and louder as time progresses. I sincerely hope that it did not pop out of my mouth inadvertently as things have been doing recently, especially since I tend not to realize when something that was supposed to be in my head comes out of my mouth unless I cotton onto the shocked looks of the participants in the conversation.

At the end of the day the experience wasn’t a chore. Would I repeat it? I honestly don’t know. It’s hard to judge someone from those first sweaty palmed interactions and to be fair I think I may have come across as a somewhat alcoholic, nicotine addicted workaholic and I’m definitely not a workaholic. So there’s no guarantee that she would even want a second round, besides geography has raised its head again so that may indeed be a moot point. Ambiguity still reigns as choice is somewhat limited out here and the formula of intelligence, independence, brown eyes and stark raving nutter are difficult to come by these days. So much for curing the one-itis.

What a strike for the Sri Lanka Air Force, barely a few weeks after apparently their intelligence capabilities were decisively destroyed, a bunker buster was landed directly on the ‘smiling’ Tiger’s head. Of course the pro-Tiger media and the subservient sections of the Tamil Diaspora are all up in arms that a ‘moderate’ and a ‘peace negotiator’ was targeted by the Sri Lankan government. Seriously, who is dumb enough to take that in?

For one thing Tamilchelvam was never a moderate and there has never been evidence as far as I know that he was one. He was miles away from Balasingham who had to his detriment actually voiced some moderate views, Tamilchelvam was just a smooth operator monkey, trained to jump when Prabhakharan wanted him to. The people who are claiming that this one act is a ‘death to the peace process’ don’t seem to understand that there is no peace process, there has never been a peace process. Prabhakharan has never been and never will be interested in peace, negotiations and settlement. His very existence is built on blood and the spilling of more blood. Without that he loses his power and he will not any under circumstances want that. 

Killing Tamilchelvam strategically was a brilliant move. He was exceptionally dangerous with a smiling visage gave the Tigers the briefest veneer of respectability. You could almost see the naiveté of the foreign dignitaries who met him and gushed giddily about how sweet his smile was. Surely someone with shiny clackers like that could not condone the killings of thousands for one man’s twisted dream, could not be a proponent of suicide bombing? If only Osama had learnt from Tamilchelvam I’m sure he would have been more accepted in the West. He should have flossed and shaved instead of looking like a particularly deranged Father Christmas in his calls for Jihad and he would have had the Norwegians and Canadians cooing over him.

Tamilchelvam was a terrorist, short and sweet and he got what he deserved, which in the world we live in is a rare thing. Targeted assassinations are the way to go, this war can be won, this peace can be won only by eliminating the old guard in the LTTE. Prabhakharan, Pottu Amman and the others who have nursed a nascent struggle for liberation and rights and twisted it into a bloodthirsty battle for one man’s supposed divinity have to be eliminated. Hopefully a somewhat moderate leadership will arise in its place and that combined with a political package aimed towards devolution, minority rights and economic development of ALL parts of the country might stand some chance of achieving peace.

I don’t think the words Master Trainer emblazoned on the man’s back gave me any confidence in his abilities. For one thing when I spotted him I initially thought he was one of the old guys who on doctor’s orders, after years of heavy drinking has to come to the gym to try and squeeze a few more years out of a cirrhotic liver. His shambling gait across the gym floor only added to this impression and I’ll admit I was more than a bit taken aback to see that he was the cream of the crop of a personal trainer. Makes me glad I never bothered.

You see a long, long time ago, in a place called Costa Mesa, where the girls in the gym were incredibly hot and friendly I joined 24 Fitness, mostly in a bid to get rid of the excesses of the binge drinking and general lethargy of writing up a thesis that had taken a toll on my BMI. Of course the girls I saw going into the place on a regular basis weren’t too bad of an incentive either. As I signed the paperwork and paid the exorbitant fees for getting my feet through the door the person I was dealing with asked if I was interested in some ‘discount’ personal training lessons, at around $100 an hour or so.

Eyeing some of the hardbodies around I inquired as to who would be my trainer. Without batting an eyelid the guy in front of me said he would be my trainer. 

I laughed out loud, I was that surprised. I tried in the interests of political correctness and politeness to stifle the laugh and replace it with a sneeze slash cough but I’m not sure how successful I was. You see the guy who was offering me personal training at the rate of a $100 an hour, certified though he may have been weighed somewhere in the region of 300 pounds. I mean this boy was big, from one to the other he was two time zones. Now I may not have a washboard stomach (yet) or bulging biceps or 3% body fat but the ludicrousness of what he was suggesting was hard to escape. I mean would you take English lessons from George Bush? Etiquette lessons from either of the two Silvas?

I mean if you are going to pay an arm and a leg for someone to torture you into fitness levels you’ve never dreamed off, you would hope that person has some concept of how much you are suffering and empathize and inspire. Keep an eye on you to prevent injury, etc.

Not wander off to get a donut when you miss a rep and get pinned to the bench by a barbell.