Shanx | Shashank Tripathi

The Shashank FUQ: Frequently Unanswered Questions

Dangerously mispronounced introduction to myselves: Shashank Tripathi

Hi. Thanks for stopping by. Seeing how my kludgy red herring page, ordained to guard all the cloak-and-dagger sins on this site, has done a miserable job of keeping snoops at bay, I've cobbled together some choice doodles that should quench public curiosity about the anomaly that's Shashank. (Think that was a mouthful? Wait till you're done with this page. Words on this site may hurt your toes if they fall. Quite a bit.)

What kind of a name is “Shashank Tripathi”?
The erudite kind. Shashank means “Full Bright Moon”. We got the Bright bit right. Tripathi harks back to a few milleniums of Brahminism; details available upon suitably chirpy requests.
“Shanx” and “Shanky”?
Nicknames. Inevitable if you live in Asia with a profoundly romantic Indian name. Not that we don’t sport a specious linguistic idiosynchrasy now and then.
Great, anything else?
Sure, in Chinese, 夏翔珂, pronounced Shia Shiang Ke. In Japanese, シャシャンク, pronounced Shya Shya nku. In Russian, Горячая ванта, pronounced (cough cough) Hot Guy.
Right. So who is Shanx / Shashank / Shanky / Shia Shiang Ke?
As an umbrella characterization, a totally sweet and harmless technosexual (which helps). Given his flying regime, probably also a jetrosexual. Devout epicurean. Dimensionally aware. Libran. Polymath. Healthy. Quite likely a Dog person, although there’s humor in cats too. Dragon, ergo duly Hot. Evolved beyond punctuation. Patriotic, in the right sense of the word. Contrary to sporadic evidence, not quite grappling with a questionable 13th chromosome, though frequently spotted referring to himself in third person.
Hey, what’s with the heavy words?
We suffer from a verbiage fetish, though suffer doesn’t quite capture the sentiment. Do not proceed if sesquipedalophobia is of concern.
So where is Shanx / Shashank / Shanky / Shia Shiang Ke?
Lying on a beach with forty two gorgeous women and a small team of experts working on innovative ways to be nice to him while he basks in continental cuisine, acid jazz, eclectic films, quirky romances, cool gizmos, and other choice adjective-noun combinations…
And where will he be when he wakes up?
Gallivanting in the land of pubs and porkies, mildly missing the Rand of the Lising Sun, leading a life of gleeful decadence in the quixotic hope that a confident, passionate, voluptuous, loving woman with a blemishlessly glowing skin will come by and softly profess her unbridled devotion to him. In the meantime he cuts his teeth at a day job.
How old is he to be thinking of these things?
A few dozen trips round the sun will teach a man a few things. Like the wisdom in skirting snoopy questions.
Under that login, does he have a thriving blog?
No. But I do have a few Groove workspaces.
Why? Do you hate blogs?
No. Just like I don’t hate a wrench. It’s a tool, unworthy of any specific emotion. If lollipop promises of chronologically reverse content management systems make you buckle and heave, I’m happy for you. Look at me bounce and click my toes.
But, but, blogs are like diaries. They help.
Dilbert on diaries (and blogs)
Ok, Ok, how can I reach you?
To quote a Sears consumer guide, “If you don’t find it in the index, look carefully through the entire catalogue.”
You’re being secretive.
Letting you savour the thrill of exploration.
No, but really, you’re clandestine.
Maybe. Friends who matter, don’t mind; those who mind, don’t matter. I don’t see why Joe & Jane from across the street should be in on all the little peccadilloes of my richly chromatic life. (That said, there’s precious little that crisp cubes of exquisite dark chocolate gifted at opportune moments cannot fix. Why?)
You’re so arrogant!
Only 52% on the Snob Scale, I’ll have you know. Plus, I have little to be humble about. Yet. The word’s irreverent, btw.
Must be the blood type?
Type O. And you thought it didn’t matter?
Good, while we’re at it, personality type?
Within smelling distance of dichotomy. Spurious Myers-Briggs points to ENTP (nutshell) and then occasionally to INTJ (nutshell). Enneagram straddles between Type 3 and Type 7. Guess I’m schizophrenic, maybe, which means I’ll never be lonely.
Lonely? Ever fallen in love?
Infatuated with uncanny regularity. Handled mostly with the supreme grace of a freckled juvenile retard.
You wouldn't happen to be gay, would you?
That'd be incredibly fashionable right now, but no. By fate, or nurture, or genetics, or steadfast repression, I remain completely heterosexual. I love the ladies and, thanks to post-hypnotic suggestion, they love me right back.
What’s your net worth?
I don’t own any nets, but I do have a fishing pole and a semi-stocked tackle box.
Ok, smart alec, are you rich?
What’s rich for You? Have been accused of living a bit beyond my means. So beyond, in fact, that we may appear to be living apart.
Are you at least good looking?
If you’d kindly direct that question to the 269 breathless XX-chromosomes who know better
Oh, so you’re conceited too!
On occasion, yes, I’ll allow myself the delusion of being a dormant Fabio.
Delusion, you bet!
A dormant one, but alive. Simply awaiting the felicitous trigger — a damsel in distress, a loving pat on the scruff, third world war. In that defining moment I shall summon my devastating charm and sweep the perfect woman off her station in life. In the mean time, have I mentioned the spiritual benefits of abstinence?
What benefits, perhaps you flirt?
How would I know. Anyway, such shapely fingers! Dinner plans this Friday? I'll be sweet.
Only if you marry me.
Of the many things that I’m not, foolish is one.
Heard of morality?
Ah, yes, that. It’s tempting, when applied to others.
Are you a chauvinist?
Andy Capp on connubial realities
Right, what do you like in a woman then?
Dignity. Loyalty. Unachievability. Self-control. Among other things, such as blemishless skin.
You’re difficult to figure out.
Thanks. Multiplicity is the middle names of myselves. It provides a joy denied even to prayer.
You pray?
Sure, it’s tax exempt. Don’t you? You would, if you had wishes awaiting entelechy.
Are you happy?
Umm, I try.
Hey, I received spam from [shanx] at [shanx] dot [com]!
Don’t burst an artery, you didn’t. I for sure did not send it. Check your email headers. I believe in Formosa's Law, so with some luck, you’ll probably receive a digitally signed email from me, but the most malicious thing it’ll ever couch may be an impulsive bout of hack verse.
Verse? You mean you do poetry?
Can’t help it. Prose is such a lumbering valet of thought, even when opinionated, trudging around labouriously with a flickering candle to make a point. Poetry on the other hand comes tip-toeing, furtive like a sneeze, crouching first as a lump in the throat, then springing to its feet to cup a fancy with a sprightly flourish of music.
Oooh, touchy!
Right. What can I do, I’m sensitive. Hold me please.
What’re those horizontal bars at the top?
Nothing monumental. I like them. Need frequent breaks from limpid prophesies. This site and its style validate though.
Are you interested in a link exchange?
No, I'd rather indulge in omphaloskepsis. Unless you write for Salon. Or a Condé Nast publication.
Hey, everything you write is so long!
Sorry. I don’t have time to be brief.

Still with me? Good job. At the end of the day there's little accounting for taste, but in case you're wondering, the above is (mostly) tongue-in-cheek, and I actually do speak like this. Uh huh. Nice meeting you too.

Shashank / Shanx Whistle Shanx Whistle

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