The irritating part about those guitar strumming idiots one listens to on radio is that every now and then, those pullers of strings come up with a turn of phrase that hits the nail on the head.

There's this guy, decent enough singer, who's come up with "Quarter-life crisis".

Now, don't you go about believing what people tell you... it's scary, the kind of nonsense they come up with these days... but certain people have been indulging in baseless and downright tawdry gossip about how yours truly is due to turn 25 in a couple of months.

Now while that is indisputably untrue... I turn 21, actually... it does set one to thinking about what it is that one needs out of life and other such weighty stuff.

You know how it is, suddenly, the question of the hour is no longer "Dude! It's four in the morning. Where on Mother Earth are you going to get beer now?", but something more suitably appropriate.

As in say, "Dude! What am I doing with my life man?"

(And the correct answer to that, especially at four in the morning, is as follows: " Finish that beer, you little $%^&^%^&%$^#, and I'll get us another couple. Saala ^&&*^&*$%^#$$%.")

But don't you worry, dear reader. Fret not, and fume not. This is not a weighty discourse about deep philosophical issues and all that.

This is much more immediate, much more pressing, and much more urgent.

I'm single.

Which, contrary to all the bravado espoused by single guys the world over, is not to the good.

Deep in our heart, we all dream of the doe eyed wondrous maiden, who with her beguiling charms, shall make blundering drooling simpletons of the lot of us, and lead us out of the damned dungeons of bachelorhood. She'll have that wonderful mellifluous voice, that wonderful soothing touch, that wonderful curvaceous body, that wonderful soulful smile... you know the routine, no brethren?

Yus, yus... we all the dream.

And we all the search, and we all the hope, and the gape, and all that jazz.

But if those baseless (which they are) rumors (which they are) hold some water, then the sand runneth out rather rapidly.

And therefore, Kulkarni has now donned the Googlian avatar. He searches, high and low, far and wide.

He joins libraries, he polishes his bike, he scourges Orkut, he may even manage to bring up the courage to smile at his pretty neighbours one of these days. And if a miracle occurs, it might even be when she's looking at him.

But no matter the time, effort and money involved, there will be a Girlphriend For Kulkarni.

The search is on.

All manners of suggestions that will expedite the search are welcome, and if any of the aforementioned doe eyed beauties wish to sign up for the New and Improved GFK programme, membership is free.

Not necessarily for life.

P.S. On an entirely unrelated note, Tom Cruise is considering suing the undersigned for thematic infringement of a trilogy that he (Tom cruise, not the undersigned) completed recently. The undersigned refuses to comment.

A Bumper Crop of Hair

'Twas a typical Sunday afternoon.

Lazy and somnolent, laidback and staid.

Lunch was being consumed at a leisurely pace in a restaurant that had as it's motto that admirable Latin phrase, Festina Lente. Pleasant and unhurried thoughts of an afternoon spent dozing were floating at the back of the mind, and all in all, it was all as it should be. Zzzzzz types, if you know what I mean.

And in walked this beautiful lady, all wonderfully curvaceous and, well, bomb material.

And in the manner of guys the world over, GT and I glanced at her, glanced at each other and then proceeded to stare at her open mouthed until she passed out of sight.

The Holy Sabbath Special that had been dished out for our appraisal was on the wrong side of 30 by a decidedly wide margin... not that it detracted in any way from her oomph quotient... which was certainly in the blow-the-thermometer-wide-open range... but a young belle she certainly was not.

And with that reference to context firmly established, we proceed to the nub of the whole thing.

GT turns to me, quizzical smile on visage.

"Y'know, I think it's come to a stage where I prefer older women."

Me yawns, slurps down some more iced tea, and thinks of neither this nor that.

Having neither this nor that to think about, me turns to GT and asks, "When you say old, how old do you mean?"

Without thinking about it, that blasted excuse for a bag of bones says, "Ehhhh, I dunno... 25-30, I guess".

And having thought about it, this blasted excuse for a lot more than a bag of bones turns a horror stricken face towards b.e.f.a.b.o.b.

"Dude! That's not old... that's us!"

Yes, ladies and gentlemen (and by ladies and gentlemen, I mean my peers. People older than I are fuddy-duddies, and people younger than I have the curse and the wrath of Kulkarni upon them), we are now part of the quarter life crisis brigade. We have the money, and we have the job. We have the I-pods and we have the bikes. But Youth, that fair maiden of the days gone by, has broken up with us.

Age is catching up fast. Two hours of tennis looks to be a bit difficult, and you can't chug all the beer you used to. The ideal activity on a Saturday evening is a movie at home, and there are times when you end up having Dal Fry and Plain Rice for dinner.

Out of choice.

That and all that is acceptable. What is NOT are slanderous untruths.

Ashish Kulkarni, peoples, is not balding. He has a full, magnificent, wavy, sleek, black crop of hair, and anyone who suggests otherwise is a lying son of a lady dog, so there.

When... or rather, given the drought in this department, if and when Kulkarni gets a girlfriend, he'll have "thinning hair". That's right, the official party line then will be "Yeah.... getting on man... I've got a girlfriend. Oh, and I also have thinning hair."

And if the unfortunate day finally arrives when self and to be spouse traipse down the merry path of helly matrimony... then, on that day, I'll be balding.

But up and until those points in time, hear this, and hear this clearly.

I am NOT balding.

Yeah.

Part II of the Same Blog Post:

That was supposed to have been all for the day. That is where the camera pans out, the credits roll, and the dazed audience springs to it's feet and lauds yet another astonishing performance by Kulkarni in the blog writing department.

Change of plan, though.

GT's down with fever.

(Sympathetic clicking of tongues on cue, plis. Thankoo)

He's got rashes on his legs.

(More s.c.o.t.)

He's got a variant of the 'flu.

It's called Infectious Mononucleosis.

Also known as (sharp intake of breath, the rolls of the drum, and the wait for the climax)...

Also known as... "Kissing Disease"

GT's got the Kissing Disease. The fever, or the Kissing Disease, will subside in a few days, or so the doctors say. But until then, GT boy is caught up with Kissing Fever.

Ooh.

We've got our own Freddie Mercury.