When the people struggled with a keyboard and learnt dos commands, he gave us the mouse. When cell phones struggled to design a perfect keypad, he threw it out of the equation and gave us the touch screen. When laptops were growing smaller, he pulled one out of an envelope. And when the world was getting used to smart devices, he gave us one that you could TELL what you wanted it to do.
The man made a humble fruit worth $300 bn has now moved on to another world. He touched lives, he changed definitions, he made people shed a tear when he introduces a gadget that was merely plastic, metal, chips and wires, because he believed in it so much that it transformed into the one thing that you HAD to own.
Every time I have touched my phone, I have bowed down to respect this man. May he rest in peace and probably change the equipment that they use in Heaven. Give God the iPad and he will see what miracles really mean!
IReapect Steve Jobs.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Thursday, December 16, 2010
An ode to Mrs. Doshi
I don’t know why I never looked back at my own blog for three years. It’s December 2010 and I feel I have forgotten how to type long accounts of the goings-on in my life but well, one needs to try, right?
So, what all has happened in these years? To begin with, I have aged significantly. No, seriously… I feel old as a hag on temple steps. But not in a bad way though. I have changed jobs and my line of profession to a certain degree (radio to television, but I am still a writer, albeit of different things) and I have made new friends (who are fewer in number compared to those I have lost along the way); nope, no regrets there. I like losing touch with those who don’t need me or who I don’t need. It’s easier to manage things that way. More so, a possible meeting and conversation with these lost friends in a vague party, does not feel too awkward if doors are left open. Usually, the only two words that are enough to start a chat are, “Long time?” The rest takes care of itself. Anyway, I digress.
If there is any significant change that is worth a mention, is that I am now very happily married. I have had a wonderful relationship with a nice girl who I now proudly introduce to one and all as my wife, Meghana. I think we have the shortest love story and that speaks nothing of the largeness of our lives together as man and wife. We met at work. We travelled together. We fell in love with each other. We mentioned it to the respective families and bla-ba-da-boom! We got engaged and married (with blessings from everyone… no masala there). But that I think was only the beginning. What came after the wedding was truly an experience.
Our honeymoon was in Italy where we enjoyed the crisp air and crisper pizza dough, soft gentle rains like the pasta at a small cozy tavern, a quiet time that sat undisturbed in bottles of red-wine on tables and long walks on swirly roads hugging the mountain-sides like spaghetti clings to the fork. We saw passion for art and nonchalant teenagers from varied origins walking right past it. We witnessed streets filled with people and cobbled stone lanes bereft of life. Sunny days that had no trace of heat and the rain felt cold and warm all at once. We saw the country-side and the major cities and felt like aliens in a somewhat familiar land. But all in all, we fell in love with a new country and a little more in love with each other. That was really the beginning of our love story.
When I was younger, I have had my share of musings with the fairer sex. And in those experiences I had learnt how important it is to find a friend to be with rather than struggling to convince a friend to be more. In the times when I was single, I dreamt of having a wife who would be that friend… idealistic is it not? Every matured man may look for someone like that. A friend to live with and every man who has claimed to find that perfect match has ended up confessing to a “marriage” rather than that “friendship” he desired. Not me, though. I am married to my friend for almost two years now and it is an awesome ride. We are the kind of people who care not for what conventional marriages are “supposed” to be. Where couples fight over adjustments, we adjust over our disagreement to fight with each other. Of course there are arguments and then there are conclusions; very conclusive closures. And then, a sea of love follows such 30 minute discussions. Egos? Yes, of course, those do clash too but the thing that means happiness to the other, takes precedence and soon the egos give in to a kind word of forgiveness, begged and granted in an instance.
I don’t mean to harp about my wife as if she was perfect but her imperfections are what I fell in love with and I still love dearly. It makes her human. She is not pretentious, nor absurdly forthcoming. She is not clumsy (a bit forgetful but that’s OK). She loves to love and hates to hate. Demands little and provides more, speaks a lot yet listens with as much passion and most importantly, holds no emotion back. I dreamt of having a wife that had a passion to live with enthusiasm despite any odd conditions. That dream has come true for me. I love my wife for everything that she is… but I love her even more for everything that she is not. I dedicate this post to her.
Thank you Meghana, for being what I always wanted my wife to be. I love you and always will, promise!
So, what all has happened in these years? To begin with, I have aged significantly. No, seriously… I feel old as a hag on temple steps. But not in a bad way though. I have changed jobs and my line of profession to a certain degree (radio to television, but I am still a writer, albeit of different things) and I have made new friends (who are fewer in number compared to those I have lost along the way); nope, no regrets there. I like losing touch with those who don’t need me or who I don’t need. It’s easier to manage things that way. More so, a possible meeting and conversation with these lost friends in a vague party, does not feel too awkward if doors are left open. Usually, the only two words that are enough to start a chat are, “Long time?” The rest takes care of itself. Anyway, I digress.
If there is any significant change that is worth a mention, is that I am now very happily married. I have had a wonderful relationship with a nice girl who I now proudly introduce to one and all as my wife, Meghana. I think we have the shortest love story and that speaks nothing of the largeness of our lives together as man and wife. We met at work. We travelled together. We fell in love with each other. We mentioned it to the respective families and bla-ba-da-boom! We got engaged and married (with blessings from everyone… no masala there). But that I think was only the beginning. What came after the wedding was truly an experience.
Our honeymoon was in Italy where we enjoyed the crisp air and crisper pizza dough, soft gentle rains like the pasta at a small cozy tavern, a quiet time that sat undisturbed in bottles of red-wine on tables and long walks on swirly roads hugging the mountain-sides like spaghetti clings to the fork. We saw passion for art and nonchalant teenagers from varied origins walking right past it. We witnessed streets filled with people and cobbled stone lanes bereft of life. Sunny days that had no trace of heat and the rain felt cold and warm all at once. We saw the country-side and the major cities and felt like aliens in a somewhat familiar land. But all in all, we fell in love with a new country and a little more in love with each other. That was really the beginning of our love story.
When I was younger, I have had my share of musings with the fairer sex. And in those experiences I had learnt how important it is to find a friend to be with rather than struggling to convince a friend to be more. In the times when I was single, I dreamt of having a wife who would be that friend… idealistic is it not? Every matured man may look for someone like that. A friend to live with and every man who has claimed to find that perfect match has ended up confessing to a “marriage” rather than that “friendship” he desired. Not me, though. I am married to my friend for almost two years now and it is an awesome ride. We are the kind of people who care not for what conventional marriages are “supposed” to be. Where couples fight over adjustments, we adjust over our disagreement to fight with each other. Of course there are arguments and then there are conclusions; very conclusive closures. And then, a sea of love follows such 30 minute discussions. Egos? Yes, of course, those do clash too but the thing that means happiness to the other, takes precedence and soon the egos give in to a kind word of forgiveness, begged and granted in an instance.
I don’t mean to harp about my wife as if she was perfect but her imperfections are what I fell in love with and I still love dearly. It makes her human. She is not pretentious, nor absurdly forthcoming. She is not clumsy (a bit forgetful but that’s OK). She loves to love and hates to hate. Demands little and provides more, speaks a lot yet listens with as much passion and most importantly, holds no emotion back. I dreamt of having a wife that had a passion to live with enthusiasm despite any odd conditions. That dream has come true for me. I love my wife for everything that she is… but I love her even more for everything that she is not. I dedicate this post to her.
Thank you Meghana, for being what I always wanted my wife to be. I love you and always will, promise!
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Phobo-philia
I envy children; as much as I hate them. Those bratty little hooligans can take a toll on your peace and sanity but that’s the very thing I envy the most. Do what you think is right and no one is going to blame you for it. Kick people where you feel they deserve it and the smile back, pull your cheeks and say, “naughty boy” and wink at your mom. Spit all over the place, pee at will, cry, make noise, run around the house with no conscience nagging you… I was not like that. Now I feel I missed doing what I was licensed to do.
But there is something I can never get over; the sense of fear that they have and the fear we live in (at our age) is poles apart. What do children fear? Nothing! There are a lot of children who fear the darkness or the monster in the closet, they fear their own shadow but for how long? Till the night passes? Or lesser still, till they fall asleep? I sometimes fear sleep itself. Dreadful dreams; work pressure speaking to you in the middle of the night, sometimes gnawing at you even during the day; Bosses, their temper and ego, parents, their temper and ego… even your own temper and ego cross your life and jolt you now and then. I fear silence, I fear loneliness, I fear my future and there is nothing that comes without fear as side dish. I thought growing up was all about learning how to get rid of fear but no one told me there was fine print that read, “get rid of one fear and the other comes free after the first.”
Few find sense in their fear(s); fewer find their answers lying hidden within their fear(s). “Fear does pose questions and finding answers to them is the way to get rid of fear”, is what some philosophers say. Others opine, “When you look through fear, it will vanish by its own virtue. For fear is nothing but a figment of your own imagination.” I feel fear appears like God when its time for you to introspect or set things right for yourself. We keep looking for signs from god when we are dreading something and the solution is lurking within that darkness.
I stand by it: when fear strikes, be prepared to know what’s beyond it. All you need is one bold step towards the battle against your own dark side.
But there is something I can never get over; the sense of fear that they have and the fear we live in (at our age) is poles apart. What do children fear? Nothing! There are a lot of children who fear the darkness or the monster in the closet, they fear their own shadow but for how long? Till the night passes? Or lesser still, till they fall asleep? I sometimes fear sleep itself. Dreadful dreams; work pressure speaking to you in the middle of the night, sometimes gnawing at you even during the day; Bosses, their temper and ego, parents, their temper and ego… even your own temper and ego cross your life and jolt you now and then. I fear silence, I fear loneliness, I fear my future and there is nothing that comes without fear as side dish. I thought growing up was all about learning how to get rid of fear but no one told me there was fine print that read, “get rid of one fear and the other comes free after the first.”
Few find sense in their fear(s); fewer find their answers lying hidden within their fear(s). “Fear does pose questions and finding answers to them is the way to get rid of fear”, is what some philosophers say. Others opine, “When you look through fear, it will vanish by its own virtue. For fear is nothing but a figment of your own imagination.” I feel fear appears like God when its time for you to introspect or set things right for yourself. We keep looking for signs from god when we are dreading something and the solution is lurking within that darkness.
I stand by it: when fear strikes, be prepared to know what’s beyond it. All you need is one bold step towards the battle against your own dark side.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Natures Rave
I went for a little party the other weekend.
This lovely person called Monsoon invited me. It was very nice of him to send me a shower that said, “It is time you took some time out, friend. Here is a lovely opportunity for you. There is little get together and you should come along to let your feet dangle and head swing to some fab music by DJ River Featuring Waterfalls and the Sparkling streams. Not to mention the Trees are going to be performing a little jig for you. Venue: Close to Pune, time… whenever the hell you like”
So, I took up the offer and organized a trip to Pune with a friend of mine, who has two friends staying there and they know the city well. Little did I know, what was in store for us.
The morning after we reached Pune, we hired a car and decided to let the host (Monsoon) take over from there on. 40 Km south of Pune, waited our first welcome committee. A small stream that trickled out of the big fat wall of Munshi Damn came out to greet us at the bridge. The carpets laid out, were all green and a mix of different shades of it, too. The sky pulled a perfect roof of clouds over us, which made it difficult for us to know what time of the day it was. Not to mention, it struck a perfect contrast to the lovely greens. We then moved on. A serpentine, gray road kept taking us higher and higher like an elevator. The greens grew darker and lighter at each turn and the small droplets of rain kept attacking us like a naughty child’s idea of bothering the guests. A boisterous gust was playing a lovely tune while the trees, the tall grass, fat bushes, all danced to the music. We would stall the car every five minutes and take a walk on the wet gray road. Mist rolled down from nowhere and waterfalls found their way from dizzying heights to the one rock where they would gush and gurgle to add another instrument to the orchestra of Nature.
Overwhelming sights were presented to us as we ordered for chai and biscuits. Sitting right in the center of a meadow we watched a boar grunt, buffalo herds being driven out and in the distance there lay a vast expanse of a lake with jetties hanging menacingly, over the clear yet gray waters. A dark cloud would fill the horizon, as we would watch for a great black Viking ship to break the mist and roll over to our side. Of course, that was not going to happen but darkness was having its effects. The party continued but the guests were all starting to get tired, a little edgy and the rains almost threw a tantrum. So we all decided to let them clear up behind us and we would relish the drive back to civilization.
At that point in time, I had no inclination towards returning. All of this was a scene straight out of the Shire and the images still play in my mind. We made a small attempt to capture beauty in our little cameras and what you see here is only a fraction of a fraction, of what we witnessed and more importantly, what we experienced.
This lovely person called Monsoon invited me. It was very nice of him to send me a shower that said, “It is time you took some time out, friend. Here is a lovely opportunity for you. There is little get together and you should come along to let your feet dangle and head swing to some fab music by DJ River Featuring Waterfalls and the Sparkling streams. Not to mention the Trees are going to be performing a little jig for you. Venue: Close to Pune, time… whenever the hell you like”
So, I took up the offer and organized a trip to Pune with a friend of mine, who has two friends staying there and they know the city well. Little did I know, what was in store for us.
The morning after we reached Pune, we hired a car and decided to let the host (Monsoon) take over from there on. 40 Km south of Pune, waited our first welcome committee. A small stream that trickled out of the big fat wall of Munshi Damn came out to greet us at the bridge. The carpets laid out, were all green and a mix of different shades of it, too. The sky pulled a perfect roof of clouds over us, which made it difficult for us to know what time of the day it was. Not to mention, it struck a perfect contrast to the lovely greens. We then moved on. A serpentine, gray road kept taking us higher and higher like an elevator. The greens grew darker and lighter at each turn and the small droplets of rain kept attacking us like a naughty child’s idea of bothering the guests. A boisterous gust was playing a lovely tune while the trees, the tall grass, fat bushes, all danced to the music. We would stall the car every five minutes and take a walk on the wet gray road. Mist rolled down from nowhere and waterfalls found their way from dizzying heights to the one rock where they would gush and gurgle to add another instrument to the orchestra of Nature.
Overwhelming sights were presented to us as we ordered for chai and biscuits. Sitting right in the center of a meadow we watched a boar grunt, buffalo herds being driven out and in the distance there lay a vast expanse of a lake with jetties hanging menacingly, over the clear yet gray waters. A dark cloud would fill the horizon, as we would watch for a great black Viking ship to break the mist and roll over to our side. Of course, that was not going to happen but darkness was having its effects. The party continued but the guests were all starting to get tired, a little edgy and the rains almost threw a tantrum. So we all decided to let them clear up behind us and we would relish the drive back to civilization.
At that point in time, I had no inclination towards returning. All of this was a scene straight out of the Shire and the images still play in my mind. We made a small attempt to capture beauty in our little cameras and what you see here is only a fraction of a fraction, of what we witnessed and more importantly, what we experienced.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Writing Blues
Why have I lost my taste in writing? Why have I become passive to the one medium that allows me to be free with my thought? What has gone wrong?
I always wondered if it was a good idea to make your hobby, your profession and the answer is, “I don’t know”. I have tried thinking of it as a positive phenomenon but it just doesn’t come to a point, where I am completely convinced about it. Sometimes your profession makes you sick to the bone and you try taking solace in the fact that it is your “hobby”, thus, it must be fun. Conclusion? I must be tired.
So what have I done about it?
Nothing out of the box, really. A few days off because I suffered from Positional Vertigo… (I’m in no mood to explain what it is… look it up!), some movies… Lost season 2 is done with… some books (trust me, I was reading two books simultaneously) and driving around with friends. It did not help much but it did refresh my thought process. The funny part is, I got back to work and within a week, fatigue set in again. Now, what must one do? One has concluded that one must get out of the city. So, I have plans to go to Pune shortly and take three days off. I know this post has almost made you loose interest now and that is my point exactly; I don’t know what to write. I have lost the touch because now I only write 30 second commercials. This post seems menacingly long and it is beginning to annoy me because I still don’t see the point in typing all this out. I guess I will drop it here for now. Hopefully I will come back with something more interesting. So, all my loyal readers, (if I have any) please don’t hold this post against me. I’m just not in the “zone” yet.
I always wondered if it was a good idea to make your hobby, your profession and the answer is, “I don’t know”. I have tried thinking of it as a positive phenomenon but it just doesn’t come to a point, where I am completely convinced about it. Sometimes your profession makes you sick to the bone and you try taking solace in the fact that it is your “hobby”, thus, it must be fun. Conclusion? I must be tired.
So what have I done about it?
Nothing out of the box, really. A few days off because I suffered from Positional Vertigo… (I’m in no mood to explain what it is… look it up!), some movies… Lost season 2 is done with… some books (trust me, I was reading two books simultaneously) and driving around with friends. It did not help much but it did refresh my thought process. The funny part is, I got back to work and within a week, fatigue set in again. Now, what must one do? One has concluded that one must get out of the city. So, I have plans to go to Pune shortly and take three days off. I know this post has almost made you loose interest now and that is my point exactly; I don’t know what to write. I have lost the touch because now I only write 30 second commercials. This post seems menacingly long and it is beginning to annoy me because I still don’t see the point in typing all this out. I guess I will drop it here for now. Hopefully I will come back with something more interesting. So, all my loyal readers, (if I have any) please don’t hold this post against me. I’m just not in the “zone” yet.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
You Give Me Fever
It feels strange when your odyssey ends. Although you have gone through a hell-like experience for most part of your stormy journey, the rewards seem sweet. Sometimes there are no rewards yet a sense of the slightest achievement is ecstatic. The long and the short of it: I feel like Simbad when he returned with his princess. Sometimes I wonder if he was a Mallu from Kunnur but that’s another story.
BIG FM is history, for all practical purposes. But I miss the place. Come to think of it, that’s the catch. I miss my friends, colleagues, associates, the assholes at the top but heck, I am so glad to be out of the organization. All said and done, I received a warm welcome from vultures when I had joined the place and I got the sweetest farewell from them, as a fellow vulture, leaving the pack to invade browner deserts. (I would have said greener pastures if vultures ate grass, but they don’t call me a creative guy for nothing).
So, this vulture has arrived in a blood-red organization called Fever 104 FM. The newest kid on the block, is the result of Hindustan Times copulating Virgin Radio (now that’s the strangest thing I have said) and this place kicks some serious butt when it comes to knowing Radio. But the curse of the 82 never left my side even for the slightest moment. I enter a team of hungry wolves from the early days of middle earth. In the tongue of the commoners, they are better ill famed as “Sales Executives” and man, they can suck your brains out through your skull. Of course, I had to be a part of a team that does nothing to understand the medium they are dealing with. In the words of Meja, “Its all about the money, its all about the dum dum du-du-du-dum” and who gives a flying fuck about creativity, knowledge, feasibility… and such like terms. Having said that, I must admit, I am liking it, much more than BIG. I get to go home at 7:30 p.m. I see people when I go home and not half-dead sleeping dogs. For the unaware reader, I used to work till 1:00 a.m. every day, sometimes later.
Thus the proud sailor embarks upon a new journey of magical adventures and ugly clients with an attitude. Bon Voyage is what I told myself this morning before leaving home.
BIG FM is history, for all practical purposes. But I miss the place. Come to think of it, that’s the catch. I miss my friends, colleagues, associates, the assholes at the top but heck, I am so glad to be out of the organization. All said and done, I received a warm welcome from vultures when I had joined the place and I got the sweetest farewell from them, as a fellow vulture, leaving the pack to invade browner deserts. (I would have said greener pastures if vultures ate grass, but they don’t call me a creative guy for nothing).
So, this vulture has arrived in a blood-red organization called Fever 104 FM. The newest kid on the block, is the result of Hindustan Times copulating Virgin Radio (now that’s the strangest thing I have said) and this place kicks some serious butt when it comes to knowing Radio. But the curse of the 82 never left my side even for the slightest moment. I enter a team of hungry wolves from the early days of middle earth. In the tongue of the commoners, they are better ill famed as “Sales Executives” and man, they can suck your brains out through your skull. Of course, I had to be a part of a team that does nothing to understand the medium they are dealing with. In the words of Meja, “Its all about the money, its all about the dum dum du-du-du-dum” and who gives a flying fuck about creativity, knowledge, feasibility… and such like terms. Having said that, I must admit, I am liking it, much more than BIG. I get to go home at 7:30 p.m. I see people when I go home and not half-dead sleeping dogs. For the unaware reader, I used to work till 1:00 a.m. every day, sometimes later.
Thus the proud sailor embarks upon a new journey of magical adventures and ugly clients with an attitude. Bon Voyage is what I told myself this morning before leaving home.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Murder that ad and i shall pay you for it
He sat there with a frown and eyes squinting as he stared at nothing in particular and sharp was his nose as it twitched while he thought. His aggression, manifesting itself in the vibrations of his throat, as he prepares to speak. His left hand palmed his right fist, tightly clenched as if to protect a very important something from being stolen out of his hands. And he spoke with the authority of a U.S. General declaring war on Iraq. His forehead glistened with a bead of sweat as he opened his mouth and he uttered five words, in a low voice that was hard and cold like stalagmites in an arctic cave.
“IT HAS TO BE CLUTTER-BREAKING”
These rogues come in varied shape and form and they are better known as ‘clients’, dreaded by the agency, by every agency. It’s ironic that the reason for the existence of an agency is one and is also called, “the client”. The hand that feeds the mouth also pokes the tummy (and how?) My banter actually lies not in the inequities of the monster mentioned but in the five words he uttered. The old joke, if I may quote, is “you are unique, just like everyone else” and now this needs a change. The new version should be, “I want an ad that’s clutter breaking” Period. If every goddam client wants to break the clutter, allow us to make some first. The agency then brainstorms to come up with a “unique” idea that “breaks the clutter” and the client sits scratching his little chin. He then paces the room staring at the screen displaying slides of the presentation. A sip of water, an occasional grunt, a throat clearing ritual and lo, you have a client stripped of all that aggression he had displayed in the previous meeting. His face tightens and he looks at you with the concern of a mother and says, “well, nice idea but is this not too early to experiment such a drastic shift in conventional advertising?” You pathetic bastard… what else do you call “clutter-breaking”? A female selling shaving cream for men is clutter; would a man selling shaving cream thus become, clutter-breaking?
That’s not where the buck stops. You give him an ad he would like and he will kill it for you. Changes, as they are known, are his right to cruelty for he pays you to be victims of it. After a thousand such changes, you look at your own creation and wonder if it was your idea in the first place. You started off with an image and a headline and a body copy that flowed evenly, ample white space, lovely font and strategically placed logo. What you end up looking at, is a notice from the court. The image is gone, the white space is a waste of his money, the logo has to be larger than the goddam print area itself and the copy has to have the eighty-five-year-old history of the company and the future it promises in the next eighty years. Not finished yet, it should also tell you who the CEO is and how did he become the CEO and who wiped his poop when he couldn’t do it himself in sixth grade. Everything.
I don’t even know why am I writing all this in the first place… I belong to the radio industry… but they are no different there, either. In my case, my bosses are my clients… go figure my sadness out.
“IT HAS TO BE CLUTTER-BREAKING”
These rogues come in varied shape and form and they are better known as ‘clients’, dreaded by the agency, by every agency. It’s ironic that the reason for the existence of an agency is one and is also called, “the client”. The hand that feeds the mouth also pokes the tummy (and how?) My banter actually lies not in the inequities of the monster mentioned but in the five words he uttered. The old joke, if I may quote, is “you are unique, just like everyone else” and now this needs a change. The new version should be, “I want an ad that’s clutter breaking” Period. If every goddam client wants to break the clutter, allow us to make some first. The agency then brainstorms to come up with a “unique” idea that “breaks the clutter” and the client sits scratching his little chin. He then paces the room staring at the screen displaying slides of the presentation. A sip of water, an occasional grunt, a throat clearing ritual and lo, you have a client stripped of all that aggression he had displayed in the previous meeting. His face tightens and he looks at you with the concern of a mother and says, “well, nice idea but is this not too early to experiment such a drastic shift in conventional advertising?” You pathetic bastard… what else do you call “clutter-breaking”? A female selling shaving cream for men is clutter; would a man selling shaving cream thus become, clutter-breaking?
That’s not where the buck stops. You give him an ad he would like and he will kill it for you. Changes, as they are known, are his right to cruelty for he pays you to be victims of it. After a thousand such changes, you look at your own creation and wonder if it was your idea in the first place. You started off with an image and a headline and a body copy that flowed evenly, ample white space, lovely font and strategically placed logo. What you end up looking at, is a notice from the court. The image is gone, the white space is a waste of his money, the logo has to be larger than the goddam print area itself and the copy has to have the eighty-five-year-old history of the company and the future it promises in the next eighty years. Not finished yet, it should also tell you who the CEO is and how did he become the CEO and who wiped his poop when he couldn’t do it himself in sixth grade. Everything.
I don’t even know why am I writing all this in the first place… I belong to the radio industry… but they are no different there, either. In my case, my bosses are my clients… go figure my sadness out.
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