Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Rags to Riches
RAGS TO RICHES:
UNINTELLIGENT RAGGING
MIT,MADRAS,Class of 1964
University entry is already a major turning point in the life of a student who has to keep his scores at reasonably top levels if he aims to have some degrees to decorate his name in later years. The tensions of maintaining such grades are well known. To add to this situation there is something called Ragging that makes it even more difficult for the novice undergraduate.
We had our fill of ‘Raggers’ too…..
One of them was known by name “Glaxo Baby” which was his nick name. He was a fat guy with chubby cheeks like the baby in Glaxo Ads and came from a rich family. He asked me to utter some lewd abusive words. I was a very timid bloke not capable of either abusive or lewd language, thanks to careful upbringing by conservative parents. I have never seen or heard my mother or elder brothers using abusive language. I have seen my father shouting at some of the office workers when they made some mistakes but even that was only on rare occasions.
So the only abusive words I could mutter at that moment when I was called upon to do so were “Madaya (fool), Muttal (idiot) and Porukki (loafer)”.
He laughed at me. “Is this what you call abuse and lewd? Where do you come from?”
I said “from Royapettah”. He told me that I should go to Washermenpet or Kothwal Chawadi to really learn abusive language. I had never been to either and told him so.
He was quite disappointed with my lack of exposure to such important aspects of life. However he was not ready to dismiss me without asking yet another question to establish my ignorance.
He asked me whether Madras was wet or dry.
It was raining at that time and so it was an easy question to answer. Wondering why anyone would ask such a silly question I answered “Wet, of course”.
He said “No! You don’t even know the difference between wet and dry. How on earth did you manage to graduate?”
I responded “I am sorry, I don’t get you. What has it got to do with my graduation?”
He said “You had been in college for 4 years and you don’t even know Madras is dry. OK. Get lost”.
I had been told that I was to say “Thank You, Sir” when a Senior dismisses a newcomer. But since he told me to get lost I felt he didn’t deserve to be thanked and just walked away from his room.
He called me back, “Hey ignoramus, didn’t you forget something?”
I looked around to see whether I left my slippers or my umbrella, but remembered that I didn’t have an umbrella and my slippers were on my feet. There was nothing missing. I said “No, I didn’t forget anything”.
He said “It is bad manners to leave a senior without saying “Thank you”. How can you expect us to help you if you don’t respect us?”
I was too timid to mobilize enough courage to punch him on his bulging face. I said “Thank you for what? I don’t appreciate what you did to me. I don’t want your help”. With that I left, hoping that he wouldn’t consider it worth his while to pursue me any further. Luckily, he didn’t.
Later that day when I narrated this to Krish, a friend of mine who was also in similar circumstances, he laughed merrily and said I did respond well. He told me that they were all spineless and brainless. They could do nothing.
I asked him whether he knew Madras was dry. He said yes. I was surprised. I asked him how come it was dry when it was raining?
That was when I learnt for the first time in my life that dry referred to prohibition. Madras was under prohibition from sale of alcoholic drinks. Pondicherry was wet and people used to go there to drink. So it was, that I had to learn such bits of wisdom thanks to our Seniors like “Glaxo Baby”. I came to know later he used to go with friends to Pondicherry for some weekends of drinking and floating.
After a couple of days I was called by another Senior. I went to his room at the appointed time, wondering what it was going to be like this time, since he would have already come to know about my uncooperative response to “Glaxo Baby”.
Only thing I can remember about him is his French beard. I don’t recollect his name. He made me stand at the entrance for some time as he pretended to be busy with God-knew-what. Then, as if he suddenly remembered he called me and offered me a seat. That was an unexpected kind gesture.
He told me that most of the new students were morons and we were going to find it difficult to manage the subjects in the first semester which was short.
Then all of a sudden he asked “Where is your brain?” I couldn’t understand any connection. I was fairly sure that I didn’t leave my brain in my room. I pointed my forefinger at the rough location of where I thought my brain was, hoping that it continued to be there although I knew he had no way of finding out whether I did have any, with whatever little he himself had at his disposal.
He then asked me “Where is your anus?”
“My God. This man goes very fast form one end to the other” I thought. I obediently showed him my rear end as a nursery school child does when such intelligent questions are asked.
He said “You stupid. I am not interested in your ass. I asked about U-R-A-N-U-S-- URANUS. Don’t you know where the planet Uranus is?” With this he started laughing as if he had achieved a great victory in proving my ignorance.
Why did all these great guys have to prove their superiority by indirect methods of trying to expose the ignorance of lesser mortals?
If he had shown a map of all planets and asked me where Uranus was, I would still have not managed to locate it, since Geography was not one of my strong subjects and I had never cared much about Uranus anyway. I had heard that it was very very far away. It didn’t even figure in my astrological charts, to have any influence on me.
I laughed with him as if his intelligent joke had impressed me.
He seemed pleased now and softened a little. He asked me which faculty (major) I had opted for and I told him “Instrument Technology”. He said he was in “Automobile Engineering”.
Then he asked me “Is a piston male or female?”
I had done machine drawing during my high school days and I had some idea about pistons and cylinders.
I said “Male”
He asked “Why is male called a male?”
I wondered why. I had never thought about such important engineering concepts and I was almost sure that he was going to prove to me that I was not suitable to study engineering with such a poor knowledge of the basics.
I tried to think of some possible explanation but nothing sensible came to my mind.
There was no use saying “A male is called a male because it is not a female”, but I said it, anyway.
He responded with his pearls of wisdom “No. A male is called a male because male is always on TOP. It is derived form the Tamil word ‘male’ which means top”.
I had to laugh, pretending again as if he had made a great discovery in the roots of English language. With such linguistic abilities at his command I wondered why he was wasting his time in the study of automobile engineering.
I wanted to ask him “If that was so, then by the same logic the Tamil word for bottom was “Keezhe” and the word “female” didn’t seem to have even a remote connection to that word. Why was that so?”
I didn’t ask him this question because I thought it was too much of an exercise for his tender brain which might collapse if forced to handle such complicated logic.
He asked a few more intelligent questions of similar nature presumably with the object of proving my ignorance and found that it was more interesting to go for dinner (as it was dinner time) than to question an ignoramus on empty stomach. He graciously left me at that. I didn’t mind thanking him as he was much more polite than most others with his parting words “see you later”.
Soon after that I applied to the Director to allow me to be a day scholar. I didn’t like the hostel atmosphere even though the food was quite good and I had quite a few friends to spend time with. I had never been away from home before and the home-sickness was aggravated by the ragging.
Within a month I left the hostel and so did some of my friends. We had to travel daily by bike and train to reach our professional school of learning, the one and only MIT in Chromepet, on of the suburbs of Madras. But we didn’t mind that to the alternative of living in the hostels that housed such self proclaimed ‘Seniors’ who didn’t know that they were lacking in so many areas including academics. What is the use of education on such unfit individuals whose main aim in life seemed to be to harass other lesser mortals, to prove their not existent superiority. What a waste of life.
Perhaps from those beginnings of 'RAGS' they hope to achieve the 'Riches' of better-than-thow attitude to hide their inferiority complex.
Ragging is a curse on our educational system. The sooner it is done away with, the better it will be.
UNINTELLIGENT RAGGING
MIT,MADRAS,Class of 1964
University entry is already a major turning point in the life of a student who has to keep his scores at reasonably top levels if he aims to have some degrees to decorate his name in later years. The tensions of maintaining such grades are well known. To add to this situation there is something called Ragging that makes it even more difficult for the novice undergraduate.
We had our fill of ‘Raggers’ too…..
One of them was known by name “Glaxo Baby” which was his nick name. He was a fat guy with chubby cheeks like the baby in Glaxo Ads and came from a rich family. He asked me to utter some lewd abusive words. I was a very timid bloke not capable of either abusive or lewd language, thanks to careful upbringing by conservative parents. I have never seen or heard my mother or elder brothers using abusive language. I have seen my father shouting at some of the office workers when they made some mistakes but even that was only on rare occasions.
So the only abusive words I could mutter at that moment when I was called upon to do so were “Madaya (fool), Muttal (idiot) and Porukki (loafer)”.
He laughed at me. “Is this what you call abuse and lewd? Where do you come from?”
I said “from Royapettah”. He told me that I should go to Washermenpet or Kothwal Chawadi to really learn abusive language. I had never been to either and told him so.
He was quite disappointed with my lack of exposure to such important aspects of life. However he was not ready to dismiss me without asking yet another question to establish my ignorance.
He asked me whether Madras was wet or dry.
It was raining at that time and so it was an easy question to answer. Wondering why anyone would ask such a silly question I answered “Wet, of course”.
He said “No! You don’t even know the difference between wet and dry. How on earth did you manage to graduate?”
I responded “I am sorry, I don’t get you. What has it got to do with my graduation?”
He said “You had been in college for 4 years and you don’t even know Madras is dry. OK. Get lost”.
I had been told that I was to say “Thank You, Sir” when a Senior dismisses a newcomer. But since he told me to get lost I felt he didn’t deserve to be thanked and just walked away from his room.
He called me back, “Hey ignoramus, didn’t you forget something?”
I looked around to see whether I left my slippers or my umbrella, but remembered that I didn’t have an umbrella and my slippers were on my feet. There was nothing missing. I said “No, I didn’t forget anything”.
He said “It is bad manners to leave a senior without saying “Thank you”. How can you expect us to help you if you don’t respect us?”
I was too timid to mobilize enough courage to punch him on his bulging face. I said “Thank you for what? I don’t appreciate what you did to me. I don’t want your help”. With that I left, hoping that he wouldn’t consider it worth his while to pursue me any further. Luckily, he didn’t.
Later that day when I narrated this to Krish, a friend of mine who was also in similar circumstances, he laughed merrily and said I did respond well. He told me that they were all spineless and brainless. They could do nothing.
I asked him whether he knew Madras was dry. He said yes. I was surprised. I asked him how come it was dry when it was raining?
That was when I learnt for the first time in my life that dry referred to prohibition. Madras was under prohibition from sale of alcoholic drinks. Pondicherry was wet and people used to go there to drink. So it was, that I had to learn such bits of wisdom thanks to our Seniors like “Glaxo Baby”. I came to know later he used to go with friends to Pondicherry for some weekends of drinking and floating.
After a couple of days I was called by another Senior. I went to his room at the appointed time, wondering what it was going to be like this time, since he would have already come to know about my uncooperative response to “Glaxo Baby”.
Only thing I can remember about him is his French beard. I don’t recollect his name. He made me stand at the entrance for some time as he pretended to be busy with God-knew-what. Then, as if he suddenly remembered he called me and offered me a seat. That was an unexpected kind gesture.
He told me that most of the new students were morons and we were going to find it difficult to manage the subjects in the first semester which was short.
Then all of a sudden he asked “Where is your brain?” I couldn’t understand any connection. I was fairly sure that I didn’t leave my brain in my room. I pointed my forefinger at the rough location of where I thought my brain was, hoping that it continued to be there although I knew he had no way of finding out whether I did have any, with whatever little he himself had at his disposal.
He then asked me “Where is your anus?”
“My God. This man goes very fast form one end to the other” I thought. I obediently showed him my rear end as a nursery school child does when such intelligent questions are asked.
He said “You stupid. I am not interested in your ass. I asked about U-R-A-N-U-S-- URANUS. Don’t you know where the planet Uranus is?” With this he started laughing as if he had achieved a great victory in proving my ignorance.
Why did all these great guys have to prove their superiority by indirect methods of trying to expose the ignorance of lesser mortals?
If he had shown a map of all planets and asked me where Uranus was, I would still have not managed to locate it, since Geography was not one of my strong subjects and I had never cared much about Uranus anyway. I had heard that it was very very far away. It didn’t even figure in my astrological charts, to have any influence on me.
I laughed with him as if his intelligent joke had impressed me.
He seemed pleased now and softened a little. He asked me which faculty (major) I had opted for and I told him “Instrument Technology”. He said he was in “Automobile Engineering”.
Then he asked me “Is a piston male or female?”
I had done machine drawing during my high school days and I had some idea about pistons and cylinders.
I said “Male”
He asked “Why is male called a male?”
I wondered why. I had never thought about such important engineering concepts and I was almost sure that he was going to prove to me that I was not suitable to study engineering with such a poor knowledge of the basics.
I tried to think of some possible explanation but nothing sensible came to my mind.
There was no use saying “A male is called a male because it is not a female”, but I said it, anyway.
He responded with his pearls of wisdom “No. A male is called a male because male is always on TOP. It is derived form the Tamil word ‘male’ which means top”.
I had to laugh, pretending again as if he had made a great discovery in the roots of English language. With such linguistic abilities at his command I wondered why he was wasting his time in the study of automobile engineering.
I wanted to ask him “If that was so, then by the same logic the Tamil word for bottom was “Keezhe” and the word “female” didn’t seem to have even a remote connection to that word. Why was that so?”
I didn’t ask him this question because I thought it was too much of an exercise for his tender brain which might collapse if forced to handle such complicated logic.
He asked a few more intelligent questions of similar nature presumably with the object of proving my ignorance and found that it was more interesting to go for dinner (as it was dinner time) than to question an ignoramus on empty stomach. He graciously left me at that. I didn’t mind thanking him as he was much more polite than most others with his parting words “see you later”.
Soon after that I applied to the Director to allow me to be a day scholar. I didn’t like the hostel atmosphere even though the food was quite good and I had quite a few friends to spend time with. I had never been away from home before and the home-sickness was aggravated by the ragging.
Within a month I left the hostel and so did some of my friends. We had to travel daily by bike and train to reach our professional school of learning, the one and only MIT in Chromepet, on of the suburbs of Madras. But we didn’t mind that to the alternative of living in the hostels that housed such self proclaimed ‘Seniors’ who didn’t know that they were lacking in so many areas including academics. What is the use of education on such unfit individuals whose main aim in life seemed to be to harass other lesser mortals, to prove their not existent superiority. What a waste of life.
Perhaps from those beginnings of 'RAGS' they hope to achieve the 'Riches' of better-than-thow attitude to hide their inferiority complex.
Ragging is a curse on our educational system. The sooner it is done away with, the better it will be.
Bed of Nails
JERRY TAKES A DIG:
Jerry used to jog with me when we were in a workout
program 3 evenings a week. I introduced some breathing techniques from Yoga to
the group to help them expand their lungs and increase their oxygen intake.
The next day when he met me at
work he was appreciative of the techniques. He said he had read about Yoga but
did not have any idea that breathing techniques were part of Yoga.
He then asked me "I read
that Yogis always sleep on a bed of nails. Do you sleep on nails too?"
I was not shocked by his question
because many people in the west have only a vague idea about Yoga because of
what they read and the magazines highlight only odd bits such as sleeping on
the nails.
If I have to undertake the
formidable task of changing such public opinion one life time would not be
enough and even then I might end up wasting my time because people only believe
what they want to believe.
To them ‘India
But Jerry needed an answer, much
as he would have liked to believe that I might one day teach him to sleep on a
nail bed. I had to politely and firmly dispel such misconceptions for the good
of both of us.
I said "One day not long ago
when I went to bed there was something that disturbed my sleep and yet I didn’t
know exactly what was wrong. I turned this way and that way, adjusted the
pillow. Then everything seemed OK, but after sleeping for a few minutes I woke
up again. There was something biting me at my back. I switched the light on and
without disturbing my wife I tried to see what it was. There seemed to be
something below the sheets. I moved the sheets. There indeed was the culprit- a
hairpin. After I removed it I had no problem with my sleep.
So tell me if a small hairpin can
be so uncomfortable to sleep on, how can I ever sleep on a bed of nails?
There may indeed be some yogis
who have achieved complete control and detachment from feelings and for them it
is immaterial whether they sleep on a mattress or a nail bed. The rest of us
have to be happy with normal beds since nail beds are expensive.
One more important point should
be taken into consideration before you entertain such temptations. The gaps
between the nails will invariably provide free accommodation to bed bugs to
whom biting humans is an endless source of pleasure and protein”.
He started laughing, amused that
bug bites could make any difference to a person who is unaffected by nail
pricks.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
TIME MACHINE
WATCH FOR TIME
Many times our buying decisions are based on impulse or the craving to possess what others have, rather than on need or logic.
For instance I brought a digital Casio watch with built in calculator about 15 years back. At that time it was a novel item and a couple of my friends had it. It was so fascinating to have a calculator handy and the watch also had other features such as alarm, stop watch etc.
In the first few days I had used the calculator a couple of times. The buttons were so cramped it was not very convenient to use it. I have rarely used the calculator-function since then.
It is not as if I am the only fool around. There are many persons who sport a calculator-watch and rarely have I seen even one of them using it for calculation. May be they are shy to use it in front of me.
There is a friend who never failed to let me know that the gold that glittered on his wrist was a Rado for which he had paid $500 because it had a special hardened cut glass face which is “scratch proof” and “break-proof”. He demonstrated to me the truth of this claim by rubbing the watch on the wall, on the table top and once even with a pen knife. The glass was still perfect, in immaculate condition after all the abuse. He said the watch was guaranteed scratch proof for 50 years at the least.
The other day he was very upset and I asked him what was wrong. He said he left his watch on the table when he went for his prayers, but when he came back his watch was missing. He moved around asking everybody whether they had seen his watch. He couldn’t trace it.
His loyalty to Rado is unbelievable. It is almost as if he is addicted to this brand for some reason. He brought another Rado thereafter, although for a comparatively lower price but still with a scratch proof glass.
He was all praise for Rado and even took a jibe at me for being so tight on my spending. He said I should throw away my old watch and buy a stylish Rado.
I had to politely turn down his suggestion by saying that in my mind a watch was to show me the time and the watch I was wearing was good enough and very dependable. It had shown the time - all the time- fairly accurately. It looked decent enough to me. I needed to change the strap every year or so but otherwise it did not demand anything more.
The brand names such as Corum, Rado and Cartier did carry a snob value and people wore them more to show their status than to see the time. I was not disturbed by the ordinary name of Casio on my watch.
He laughed at my ignorance and my lack of appreciation for a masterpiece like his Rado. I had to correct him that I did appreciate the excellence of his watch. It fitted so well on his robust wrist. But it didn’t make me run for a Rado to replace my ‘old’ Casio, just for the heck of it.
On a rainy day, not long afterwards I was in a hurry to get to work. I parked my car in the parking lot, took my heavy yellow raincoat from the boot, squeezed into it and sprinted to my office. I removed the raincoat and hung it on the coat stand in a corner of my office. When I sat down at my desk I noticed that I couldn’t see the time because there was no watch on my wrist. I recollected having worn it, so I searched my rain coat, the floor, the corridor and later (when the rain subsided) I went all the way upto my car, but there was no trace of my watch. It was gone.
I told myself that it was not the end of life, I had a standby watch which was a wedding present to me. It was older but still running OK. So I started using that (a Favre Leuba) and my Rado friend was shocked. He couldn’t believe that I would go from an old one to an older one. He branded me a miser.
In order to keep up his friendship and also to experience the freedom to choose and be liberated form my own self imposed restrictions, I went to the watch shops and came out with a Seiko. It was still a simple watch reasonably priced at $30.
The next day when he saw me wearing a different watch my friend was curious to find out what make it was. I said it was a Rado. He said it was not - a Rado had a distinct look which he could know from miles away.
I let him see the watch. He was unable to read the name since he didn’t have his reading glasses on hand. He still maintained that it couldn’t possibly be a Rado.
I told him that it was one of a new range from Rado which was meant for simple people. It didn’t have an expensive scratch - proof glass but otherwise it had all the good attributes of Rado. Handicapped as he was without his reading glasses, it was beyond him to disprove my statement.
Later that day I managed to lift the name Rado from a watch advertisement (from an Airline inflight magazine) and carefully stuck it on the dial of my Seiko.
Next day this Rado fan was equipped with his reading glasses and insisted on reinspecting my watch to make sure of its identity. I said it didn’t matter to me what make it was, as long as it showed correct time. He didn’t leave me until I showed the watch again but I was enjoying the unbelieving look on his face. He said it was a duplicate and I had been cheated.
I said I bought it in good faith. Because he was singing the praise for Rado so much, I wanted to give it a fair try. So far the watch was keeping the time accurate to the second and I had nothing to complain.
How else do you deal with people who refuse to believe that there can be other ways different form their own.
I haven’t bothered to remove the Rado label form my watch since it didn’t matter to me, one way or the other.
As Marilyn Ferguson observed, “No one can persuade another to change. Each of us guards a gate of change that can only be opened from the inside. We cannot open the gate of another, either by argument or by emotional appeal”.
MY NEPHEW IS A GENIUS
A CLASSIC DISCOVERY
My nephew is a genius.
The other day when I visited him, I was impressed with the way he had organized his living space, with comfort as the main theme.
He had a remote controlled stereo music system which he could operate without getting up from his comfortable sofa, which doubled as his bed at the appropriate times whenever his body moved from semi vertical to horizontal position.
The curtains could be opened and closed by the touch of a button in his hand and so also were the lights and the fan. He didn’t have an AC but he had a plan to buy it next year and for sure it would be a unit with remote control.
He brushes his teeth with a Braun Automatic tooth brush with a built in motor. It is a cute little thing and I should say that it does full justice to his teeth, considering the rate at which his teeth are engaged in grinding the spicy food that he is so fond of.
His mother was complaining to me that with all the remote controls at his command he was still so lazy that he doesn’t even switch off his music system when he goes to sleep. It vibrates the entire apartment with the heavy metal noise he claims to be music to his ears and she can’t catch even a minute’s peaceful sleep in the night. The only way she manages to remain sane is by sleeping after he leaves for work in the morning.
I took pity on her and assured her that I will talk to him about it.
My own line of thinking was that my nephew could be persuaded to add another voice activated remote control which could operate the push buttons of the remote control of his music system. I have seen some of these voice activated things. They can be programmed to take instructions exclusively from the specific person’s voice. They ignore all other voices/noises and even heavy metal.
So when I next met him I found him to be in excellent mood and I took the opportunity to browse the subject.
What he told me took me by surprise. He said he did it only for the benefit of the people cohabiting in that apartment, and in particular for the welfare of his mother who had always been very kind to him in looking after his needs although he was grown up enough to take care of himself. He said that the music system was kept “on” through the night not because he was lazy to switch it off, but on purpose.
I asked him “what purpose could it serve if everyone wants to sleep and the music system is pumping music (or noise) full blast?”
He said “You are not going to believe it but music keeps the mosquitoes away. Actually I discovered it by accident. As soon as I arrived home from work I used to switch on the mosquito repellent as otherwise it was so annoying to be surrounded by a swarm of mosquitoes which had the habit of biting different parts of the body at the same time.” I thought perhaps they had learnt this technique from the British who were famous for their multipronged attack of the Germans during the World War II.
He continued “One evening however I had forgotten to switch ‘on’ the mosquito repellent and went ahead as usual to play a new CD on the music system. After enjoying the music for over half an hour I noticed that the mosquito repellent was not ON. I thought the red lamp might have been fused or may be there was a loose connection in the plug. I was too fixed to fix it at that time but what amazed me was the total absence of mosquitoes. Not a single one was visible around. All of them had taken a vacation! Was something wrong with my blood?
It was time to go for my shower, so I switched off the music system and proceeded to pick up my towel. That was when I noticed the swarm of my friendly mosquitoes which returned from their vacation to feast on my body with such ferocity.
Suddenly my mind sensed a connection. I rushed to the remote control and switched the music ‘on’.
‘Lo & behold! The surprise of my life! The mosquitoes scrambled for escape routes like robbers running at the sound of the police siren. And to realize that this miracle was an innocent and unintended side effect of the heavy metal music was one of the rare moments in my life.
I tested this again a couple of times. The result was unmistakable. I then tried switching to other types of music like classical. Nothing else could match heavy metal in scaring the mosquitoes away.
From that day I have successfully used this discovery to protect my body and save my blood form these ungrateful mosquitoes which have bitten me mercilessly.
I know that it is difficult for you to believe what I am saying. That is why I didn’t mention it to anyone including my mother.”
I was still spell bound by the impact of his words. Perhaps he could sense that I was nevertheless skeptical. So he invited me to see it with my own eyes.
He switched the music off. And the mosquitoes came in as if from nowhere. Until then I didn’t realize the presence of the music. Only in the sudden quietness I could feel the absence of it. By now there were so many mosquitoes around that I begged him to switch the music back, ON. And they ran away.
Impressed as I was with his scientific discovery I was still not sure how he could sleep with the music penetrating the eardrums and reaching every corner of his brain. He said “It takes only 4 or 5 nights to get used to the music and you will sleep even better because no other sounds around will disturb your sleep such as the neighbour’s child crying or the dogs barking”.
While I write this to make this rare discovery available for the benefit of the common man, I also have doubts as to whether he will be fortunate enough to see it in print since my publisher may be wary of possible law suits form the heavy metal group who may sue him for printing such findings which may affect their reputation. On the other hand it may perhaps be of benefit even to the music makers since they can claim royalty for this new use. Their albums will sell like hot cakes.
Try it yourself. You may agree with this remarkable finding of a homegrown genius.
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