I'm So Annoyed

So I am seriously annoyed (Annoy is the blogword of the week, by the way) by

People who “know” they’re going to Heaven
This goes for anyone who thinks this but is directed mainly towards the Christian types. For crying out loud, who died and made you Jesus?

...Was that an inappropriate comment? No… I don’t think so… gosh, I hope not. Clearly, I am NOT fortunate enough to know I am going to Heaven. Otherwise I would not be wasting valuable time worrying over the appropriateness of my blog postings. I’d be Heaven bound… F**k s**t c**k b**ch!! It doesn’t matter!! I can say what I want because I am going to HEAVEN!! F**k s**t c**k b**ch again!!!!!

People who type “your” when they mean “you’re” and “their” when they mean “there” or “they’re” or any combination of the three.
Seriously people, this is the 21st century. If you’re on a computer, go to www.dictionary.com and get yourself an education. Oh, and the BIG gear grinder: People who type “definately” or “defenately” or any other incorrect form of the word DEFINITELY. Fine, forget dictionary.com. AT LEAST use your damn spell check.
*fumes out his ears*

Parents who can’t keep their kids quiet on airplanes
“Thank you for flying So-and-So Airlines. We hope you have a pleasant flight” Pleasant flight my foot! Only if you smother the bawling one year old in the seat behind me with a large pillow. That’ll teach incompetent parents to have kids. Haha! Couldn’t control your child?? Now he’s dead!! You killed him!! Yes, you!! No, not the pillow – YOU!!

"Ladies and gentlemen, since this is an overnight flight, we will now be dimming the cabin lights for those of you who wish to –"
"Waaaaaaaaaa –"

Now I like kids and babies as much as the next man (or woman even, seriously, infants and toddlers are cool) but not when you’re confined to 8 cubic feet for upwards of 7 hours. Come on parents, haven’t you heard of sedatives? Tranquilizers? Darts? Frying pans? Sledgehammers?

No, I have no children of my own. I will no doubt feel terribly guilty and ashamed if I ever read this post of mine as a father, but whatever. Live for the moment, yes? F**k s**t c**k b**ch!!!

Most conservative radio talk show hosts here in the United States
Hannity, Limbaugh, Beck and so on and so forth. Sean Hannity, how I hate you. Sorry, hate is such a strong word, right mother? Sean Hannity, how I really really really really strongly dislike you (to the point of hating you, but who's measuring?). You and your fellow right-wing air wave befoulers are nothing but a bunch of ignorant know nothings, your expensive shirts hardly able to contain your self-importance and misconceived righteousness (and your no doubt large, pasty white stomachs too). Yes, I do listen to you from time to time. When I’m in the mood for FICTION. Oh snap!

People who say "Blame the terrorists"
to rationalize every injustice the "free world" perpetrates upon us and justify every atrocity it commits in the name of "freedom."

*multiple expletives deleted* *post edited for content and clarity* *additional expletives deleted*

*post terminated*

Sencetac, Menoplatz, "Beaches"

So this post is being written as though I have a plane to catch… because I DO have a plane to catch… hahahahahaha… *sigh* More on that later.

The first year MBAs (i.e. myself and one hundred and thirty three others) in the Fisher College of Business at THE Ohio State University were enrolled in EPI this past quarter. EPI stands for Enhancing Professional Interchange, a glorified name for a course that would have done just as well had it been called “Presenting-so-that-those-listening/watching-do-not-fall-asleep.” It was, shockingly, a useful course and I, shockingly, learned a lot. Anyway, one of the activities our professor had for us early on (Week 2 maybe?) was talking about made up words. He had about 40 such words on the board (venimisious, jorman etc etc) and we each had to pick one and explain what it meant. I myself ended up with sencetac, which was cleverly crafted into a story about our kitchen sink attacking me. Get it? Sink Attack? Hahahaha…… My teammate Tom picked the word menoplatz, which, as he eruditely explained, was the place her family goes to hide when a woman goes through menopause. Witty, isn’t he?

EPI was, shockingly, quite an enjoyable course… we had a nice mix of Americans and foreigners as well. During one presentation, one of the internationals was talking about the beautiful beaches of Florida, but she said beaches they way you would say beaches if you said itch instead of each and itches instead of eaches… you figure it out. Poor Tom about cracked up and there were a lot of hands over smiling mouths all around… good times good times.

Anyway, to the airport!
Vamos al aeropuerto!
Zum flughafen!

I Knelt To Pray But Not For Long

I found this poem a long time ago in one of my mother’s home remedy books (of all things)… I like it because it rhymes, like my raps, and because you get the “Oh crap, I better get my act together” feeling at the end. I couldn’t find it online anywhere so you’re basically looking at exclusive content… like everything I post, except this isn’t mine… I don’t know who wrote this so I can’t give him or her credit for it.

Anyway, here:

I knelt to pray but not for long,
I had too much to do.
Must hurry off and get to work,
For bills will soon be due,
All through the day I had no time
To speak a word of cheer;
No time to speak of God to friends,
They would laugh at me I feared.
No time, no time, too much to do
That was my constant cry;
No time to give to those in need,
At last it was time to die.
And when before my God I came,
I stood with downcast eyes;
Within His hands He held a book,
It was the Book of Life.
God looked into His Book and said:
"Your name I cannot find;
I once was going to write it down,
But never found the time."

And the moral of the story is: He who disses last disses best.

Really, Theme Songs, Childhood Innocence

Before I get to the blogword, much love and respect to my homie, Mohammad Yousuf, for breaking Viv Richards’ 30 year old record of Test Runs Scored in a Calendar Year. After a summer ruined by the idiotic antics of prima donnas like Shoaib Akhtar, it’s refreshing to see one of the quiet, unassuming and dedicated members of the Pakistani team deservedly achieve something worthwhile. Good on you, mate. (Notice I am fluent in both Black American and Australian slang… *sigh* so much talent in just one mind.)

Anyway, on to the blogword: REALLY

Every blogword, apparently, is going to lead me to music. Really makes me think of "So if you really love me, come on and let it show," from the old Wet Wet Wet hit (though it's actually a cover of The Troggs original), Love Is All Around (lyrics, 1994, Four Weddings & a Funeral, OST).

I hadn't seen the movie (and still haven't, come to think of it), but I was addicted to the song for quite some time in the mid-to-late 90s. I remember sitting in our lounge singing along (I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes...) instead of doing homework. I couldn't manage the high notes very well though; credit to my long suffering mother for allowing her ears to be extensively abused... although that was probably nothing compared to what she had to go through when I was in my One stage a couple of years later. One, of course, is quite possibly U2’s best song… you know... Is it getting better, or do you feel the same? Will it make it easier on you, now you got someone to blame?

I've always been a theme song person. Remember Ally McBeal and the crazy psychiatrist woman who was always trying to get her to find a theme song? I was the crazy psychiatrist… and, frighteningly, I was the patient too. My theme songs changed frequently... looking back at the ones I've had over the years, I realize that I must have had quite a miserable adolescence (although it didn't feel that way... weird). Here's a sampling:

One by U2 (lyrics)
The ultimate sad song. I think this had to do with
a) Growing up,
b) First crushes,
c) Not being cool,

and so on... which, in retrospect was entirely unnecessary because

a) I’m probably never going to grow up and I've come to terms with that,
b) Tons of attractive young ladies have crushes on me constantly and
c) Everyone accepts that my coolness is life’s third certainty after death and taxes (although, if you’re a corrupt Pakistani, I guess taxes become optional, so my coolness would be life's second certainty... isn't it ironic that one of life's certainties is death?).

Back to Good by Matchbox 20 (lyrics)
Another "I-want-to-go-back-to-the-days-of-innocence" type song... it's a wonderful track if you like manic-depressive Adult Alternative (which I do).

Baby, Can I Hold You Tonight by Tracy Chapman (lyrics)
Details withheld.

Praying for Time by George Michael (lyrics)
The music video for this song was rather lame; all it was was lyrics floating on and off the screen, like a karaoke machine. I was a fan of the line: Hanging on to hope, when there is no hope to speak of. So profound. So definite. So depressing.

Another Lonely Day by Ben Harper (lyrics)
Title says it all.

I've always been a sad music aficionado, even when I'm not in doom-and-gloom mode, so I dare say there's no sense in reading much into this (though you are welcome to if it pleases you). To my point, these days I'm quite the happy camper, but my favorite song is Bachpan (Childhood) by Kaavish (Pakistani band - kaavish means endeavor or struggle). The song is a melancholy soliloquy by a fellow yearning for his days of carefree childhood innocence... I'm really big on childhood innocence apparently... funny the things you learn about yourself when you write.

Your Little Secret, Cricket, French Bakery, Tradition

So the new blogword is: SECRET

I’d like to take a moment and say, even this early on in my Wandering, how much I prefer blogwords to blogthoughts. True, a blogthought is only a thought… merely a couple of words more than a blogword, but the word has so much flexibility and the thought seems kind of limiting… maybe that’s why, in the Bible, the Word became the Flesh, and the Thought didn’t. Think about it.

Speaking of a waste of your time, here’s the rest of my posting this fine week, catalyzed once more by everyone's favorite Association (Pavlov's, in case you'd forgotten):

Secret. Little secret. Your little secret. Melissa Etheridge. 1998. O Level examination preparation. Nade. Lodhi. Lollipops. French Bakery. Cricket. Tradition.

Tradition is not what it used to be. My train of thought is still the same. A runaway. But seriously, allow me to explain.

Nade (Ali Shah) and (Imran Khan) Lodhi are two of my buddies from the olden days at Beaconhouse Public School (now known as Beaconhouse School System – seriously, who studies in a system anyway?). We would hang out a fair amount, not enough to get sick of each other, but enough to be identified as friends, if you know what I mean. Anyway, come O Levels (Class 11 mainly, the Os in Class 10 didn’t sink in well enough for me to take them seriously, hence the B and the C), we would get together at Nade’s house for “study sessions.” These “study sessions” generally involved the following:

Cricket
Like, the game, you know. Only we didn’t play with a bat… oh no, regular cricket was too simple for us. We had to play cricket with what must have been a broken chair leg as our bat. “Phatta cricket” we called it – phatta (remember the aspiration on the p) being the Urdu word for plank of wood – and we saw that it was good. Honestly, Nade’s driveway, large as it was, would have been tiny had we played with a real bat, so the phatta worked quite well. Many a fine inning was played using that broken chair leg. Many a game won. Many a career launched. Well, not really. But still.

French Bakery (French by name, not by nature)
Our study sessions invariably involved an hour long (minimum) trip to Khadda Market – Khadda (aspiration on the k now, haha) meaning ditch in Urdu, so literally Ditch Market, because it was built in a large bowl that had a hockey stadium in the middle, but the hockey stadium has nothing to do with the name – for provisions. As far as Lodhi and I were concerned, this trip meant bullying Nade into spending his allowance on us and our need for carbonated beverages, potato chips and lollipops. We always ended up at French Bakery, (which I believe is still there, across the road and to the left of Jimmy’s Studio for the reading Karachiites) run by a group of people who at various stages of my ignorance I believed to be Chinese, Afghan, Kashmiri and Vietnamese (but never French, although they could have been, though it’s quite unlikely). I hate to admit I’m still boggled by their potential ethnicity. Maybe one day I’ll ask them…
And if you’re wondering why a trio of 16 year old young men was at a bakery buying lollipops, I’m afraid I can’t help you. It’s just the way we rolled dawg.

The Melissa Etheridge Connection
So during one Khadda Market swing, we went into the music and movie store (I forget the name) next door to the bakery to browse. Forty five minutes later, the store owner kicked us out saying, and these were his exact words, “This is a music store, not a playground.” Haha. We were a little abashed… well, I was, so, to partially validate our visit, I hurriedly purchased an album Lodhi had recommended during our browse: Your Little Secret by Melissa Etheridge. Little did I know that thirteen years later, that moment would be the inspiration for a blog post. The blogword moves in mysterious ways. You’ll be happy to know though, that the music store of shame shut down not much later and as never reopened in the same location. Oh, the wheel of sweet sweet karma spins so sweetly sometimes. Sweet.

Your Little Secret turned out to be quite a decent album. There was this one song, I Could Have Been You, which I really liked. Part of the lyrics went like this:

I, I could have been you
You could have been me
One small change that shapes your destiny

Naturally, given my penchant for bastardizing songs, even my favorites weren’t safe… a friend of mine and I were singing this song in school a few days later and we ended up like so:

I, I could have been you *point at duet partner*
You could have been me *point at self*
We could have been them *point at random group of people*
Ewww *pretend retch*

Yes. Really high class, I know. Anyway, this is neither here nor there. Cricket and French Bakery were our traditions… notice that studying was not. But they were good times. Good memories. Good traditions.

On a side, Nade used to switch houses often (I think he was secretly a drug overlord or something… but he couldn’t have been because his cook made the best chicken corn soup ever… I miss Ishaq…). During our time at school, he lived in at least four different houses that I knew of. And, since I drove by them this summer, I know that three of those four have either been knocked down or knocked down and completely rebuilt. The fourth one I’m not sure about because I didn’t get a chance to go down that street. A little strange, don’t you think? Now, I’m not saying Nade is the reason for any of this destruction. Just saying, you know. Maybe he has a secret.

(And by now you’ve figured out that the last paragraph, although true, was just a long drawn out way for me to end my post with the blogword. Forgive me.)

Blogthought 4: JFK, I'd Rather Be Sleeping

Blogthoughts are like blogwords except they are thoughts and not words. Simple, no? I'm not sure how I feel about this though... my psychology test didn't work as well as it did for the blogword. So I scratched around for a while... mentally... and frighteningly found myself thinking of John F. Kennedy.

By the way, I looked up my "psychology test" and it's formally known as Pavlov's Association, named after this fellow, Ivan Pavlov, who basically realized that people think things when you say things to them. And he had a dog. And a bell. But no one has ever found it. The bell, not the dog. I love Wikipedia.

SO, Blogthought 4 is: THEY SAY IT ISN'T POSSIBLE

This reminds me of John F. Kennedy's speech (delivered in Houston, Texas in 1962) about America's forays into space. Now I read the whole speech, but he didn't use the Blogthought... in fact, and I used the "Find" function in Internet Explorer, he didn't even use the word "possible."
The line I found that struck me as being the destination of my train of thought was this:

"We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too."

For some reason, "they say it isn't possible" and "because they are hard" resonate with the same frequency in my head. I dare say you could make a connection between the two on an intellectual level i.e. throughout history, man has conquered the impossible by taking on hard challenges thought by many to be insurmountable. Through his dedication and perseverance, he has succeeded and achieved what once seemed unattainable, even ridiculous.

I realize however, that this high level of contemplation didn't drive my meandering thoughts. My introspection was more along the lines of:

Hard = Impossible = Why even bother? = I'm not doing it.

I hope no potential employers are reading this posting... *nervous chuckle*

I looked back on various challenging situations, primarily academic in this case, I had encountered and realized I would rather have slept than tackle any of them.

See.

Would I rather develop a new technique of measuring spanwise flow over wings or sleep?
I’d rather be sleeping.

Would I rather delve into the social factors catalyzing the rise of political Islam in Pakistan in the 1950s and 60s or sleep?
I’d rather be sleeping.

Would I rather fine tune an argument in a paper discussing the feasibility of a large U.S. corporation establishing a manufacturing facility in Indonesia or sleep?
I’d rather be sleeping.

Would I rather attend a group discussion (with lunch) on the international pharmaceutical industry or go to the gym to play some basketball?
I’d rather be sleeping.

*sigh* I may have some motivation issues... or just a great bed... or as great a bed an air mattress can be. It isn't bad to be honest, but it's no soft, feathery bliss either.

Anyway, it's been a long day. Time to go sleep, not because it is easy (which it is), but because it's better than lying on the floor... which is hard. I like floors though... they're hard, but never impossible. Hahahahahahaha.

Wednesday Wanderings A'beckoning - Sorry

I am a Wednesday Wanderer. This makes me happy. I am now a part of an ultra-cool*, intellectual* (or, intellActual, as Jammie put it :p), eclectic*, esoteric* assembly of talented* Pakistanis** who blog. Woohoo!! Of course this may not actually be completely true but I can read into my small successes what I want, right?

* At least I hope so (I can be a nice counter balance)
** As far as I know

And now, on to the Blogword!!

Wednesday Wanderers receive a blogword (on a day of the week which cannot be disclosed). A blogword is, in the words of the all-knowing Jammie, “simply a creative exercise in jumpstarting our minds; one single word that for each of us triggers something completely different.”

For me the benefits of this are threefold:

• I will be prompted to post regularly (instead of for three month stretches followed by three month breaks… as long as the blogword keeps coming)
• My posts might actually have some sort of direction… but maybe that’s too much to hope for.
• I will be a part of an ultra-cool, intellectual, eclectic, esoteric assembly of talented Pakistanis who blog. Woohoo!!

Anyway, Blogword 1, or really, since I’m a little late to the party, Blogword 23 is: SORRY

I’m treating this like a psych examination… the first thing that came to mind when I heard/saw the word sorry:

Midnight Oil performing Beds are Burning at the Opening Ceremony of the Sydney Olympic Games in the Summer of 2000

It was a good song… nay, a great song. In fact, I’m listening to it right now. I bet you didn’t know they were one of the first Australian bands to address social and political issues in their music. I tell you… the things I know… ANYWAY, SORRY.

So the band was dressed in black… black shirts, black pants. Their lead singer wore black too (crazy looking bald fellow, reminded me of Patrick Stewart) but the front of his shirt had a single word in white on it. And that word was, you guessed it, Sorry. I immediately wanted that shirt, and I still do to be quite honest. It’s quite possibly the deepest (as in depth of thought, not depth of sea) shirt I have ever seen. It was so meaningful on so many levels… well, at least two:

a) Sorry on my shirt means I’m sorry for everything – poverty, hunger, thirst, war, hatred, misunderstandings, accidents, Christina Aguilera, Dick Cheney. Everywhere I go, people know I’m sorry. I’m doing everything I can to help but it’s not enough. It’s still my responsibility. I’m sorry that I can’t do more for myself. For my family. My friends. My city. My country. My planet. My life.

b) Conversely, Sorry on my shirt means I’m sick of being blamed for everything. I’m only human. I do what I can. I have my faults. I’m tired of having to be what I’m not in order to please people. I’m tired of apologizing. I’m tired of saying I’m sorry. So my shirt can do it for me. And you will deal.

So I may be guilty of some form of grievous over-analysis here (it’s just a shirt dumbass). I’m almost certain Peter Garrett (lead singer of Midnight Oil – I had to look that up; I’m not thaaat great of a phenom) didn’t put this much thought into his clothing either.

But the shirt SPOKE to me (What did it say? Sorry. Hahahaha… ok). I think about that shirt a lot. I’ve been looking around for one too… eBay has not come through for me yet. If you see a black long sleeved t-shirt with the word sorry written across the front in white lowercase lettering, please buy it for me. I will reimburse you… or I will pay you up to US$10/- and make up the difference in prayers and good wishes.

On a completely different track now, that shirt would be a fantastic conversation starter… for example;

Shahyan: *strides into restaurant in “sorry shirt” that doesn’t do a great job of hiding his sculpted physique – takes a seat at the bar and orders a pineapple juice (I happen to like pineapple juice, alright?)*
Supermodel: *seated on adjacent stool… for now* Sorry? Your shirt says sorry. What are you sorry for?
Shahyan: Oh, the plight of the starving children in ___________ (insert developing nation here)
Supermodel: Oh, that’s so cute/kind/caring/sensitive. *moves closer*

You see how this works? Depth AND shallowness. All from the same word and shirt. Such a powerful word… such a powerful shirt.

Hot or Not?

So housemate Chris is single... and getting desperate by all accounts. Earlier this week, he allowed other housemate, Clay, to convince him that posting a profile at www.hotornot.com was a great way to meet nice girls. This was a mistake for at least the two reasons given below:

1. Allowing Clay to convince you of anything is a bad idea, especially now that he's almost half a lawyer. They have no morals. And Clay didn't many to begin with.
2. Clay found his current girlfriend on HotorNot. Chris chose not to learn from vicarious experience.

HotorNot is, for all intents and purposes, a meat market. Tons of girls who like cars and bikes (believe it or not) and tons of guys who are "sensitive and caring." I would be lying if I said I haven't been tempted to create a profile on there myself to see what comes of it... but so far the fear of being stalked by some clingy, hideous, disease ridden monstrosity is keeping me strong. That and the fact that NO.

Back to Chris. With all websites and online "match making" services like this, the first photograph can make or break you. Chris's introductory viewing needed to be stunning, fantastic, irresistible even. It needed to say, "Look at me! I'm single and Canadian! But not too Canadian! Won't you break bread with me under the soft silver moon?"

This took time.

Chris had the desire, the tripod, and the fancy shmancy camera.
And the wifebeater (sleeveless vest... see Wikipedia - type wifebeater - for more, if you care. "The origin of the term is from the stereotype that the shirts are worn predominantly by men who beat their wives." Run, mother, run!!)
And the tight t-shirt that showed off his "physique" without showing his "physique"
And the shirtless shot, that both showed and showed off his "physique"
And the winning smile ("I'm itch-free and great company!")
And the side pose ("I have too many interests to focus just on getting my picture taken!")
And the I'm-strong-enough-to-carry-my-bike-and-grin picture (designed to attract athletic pieces of meat)

A lot of thought and consideration was expended on the all-important picture. Unfortunately, in the midst of this, we were accosted by a surreptitiously taken photo of Clay's ugly naked behind, which naturally traumatized us all, even Clay, who had no idea what his posterior looked like until he saw the photograph.

So snapshots were narrowed down, selected and posted, along with a charming blurb that was meant to amuse, titillate and allure. To be fair, Chris's was probably half-decent. Here are extracts from some others I found in five minutes of "research." Actual items bolded. Clever, humorous add-ons by me in italics.

"I'm very easy going. I'm also very strong willed."
And how exactly does that work?
"Did I mention I'm schizophrenic?"

"I like to do normal girl stuff like going to the mall with friends and movies."
So you go to the mall with movies?
"I have sub-average sentence construction skills."

"I love to save animals."
From what?
"From my inability to put together a coherent thought."

"I am very diverse and like lots of different things!"
Could you make a sentence that says less of substance than this one did?
"No."

"I like to ride my motorcycle and hang out at the beach!"
(This was actually a complete blurb, not an extract.)
Clearly, you are fit to be the mother of my children.

"Let's be honist (sic). I don't look like I have been hit by a shovel!"
Maybe just grazed by one...

*sigh* Good luck Chris. And God help us all if you find someone.

Snippet + Blog Evolution

Not a lot to write really - midterms and such keeping me busy and miserable. I did read an article at Time.com this morning that was rather interesting: an email home from a U.S. Marine in Iraq. It was a series of best/worst moments etc from his experiences over the past year. The snippet below was the highlight for me:

Most Profound Man in Iraq — an unidentified farmer in a fairly remote area who, after being asked by Reconnaissance Marines if he had seen any foreign fighters in the area replied "Yes, you."

Oh snap!

Speaking of profundity, my blog has evolved into something drastically different from what I had originally envisioned it to be. It has been, in grossly simplified form, a four step process of sorts:

1. Early 2005: I have thoughts. I like expressing these thoughts. People blog. I should blog. A blog would be good. I could tear into dishonest politicians and bring about a positive change in the world, maybe even a revolution. Oooh.

2. First blog: About a fungal skin cream commercial (Lamisil AT, if you remember). Maybe I'm not destined to change the world then... stupid Lamisil. But I can at least write about global events, right?

3. Two months later: I'm blogging about my job finding woes - remember when The Daily Show rejected me? Alright, so I'm going to mix global events and personal issues. That's alright.

4. October 2006: My last 12 postings have been about me, my life, my thoughts and my world. I have ceased to be a global citizen. World events be damned; what goes on in my life is important. *sigh* And the blog had so much potential.

To be fair to me though, the first two paragraphs of this posting are about things other than me. So I'm not COMPLETELY self-centered and self-absorbed. Maybe there's still hope. I wouldn't count on it though.

The Grandfather II: Memories of a Hero

My grandfather (who I had talked about in an earlier post) passed away yesterday. I've been thinking about him and the family a lot (more so than usual) for the past day or so and I figured I'd share with you another couple of stories/memories of him (and also of my grandmother, who is being very brave right now).

My brother and I (I was probably 12, he 7) were walking to the general store near our house one Saturday morning. Why we were going to the store together is beyond me... that was probably the last time we did anything together that didn't involve the lure of defeat and humiliation for the other. Anyway, the grandparents happened to drive by us on their way back home from a store of their own and, being our grandparents and all, decided to kidnap us. The brother and I were obviously helpless (and willing) victims. Imprisoned in the backseat of the old Mazda 929, we conveniently ignored the fact that our mother would be waiting on us to return with much needed groceries, until that is:

Grandmother: We'll call your parents once we get home
Us: OK
Grandmother: Your mother won't be waiting for you, will she?
Us: *silence*
Grandmother: Will she?
Me: Erm... well, she is expecting us back with groceries...

At which my grandmother, not wanting to incur the wrath of her daughter, instructed my grandfather to turn the car around and take us home.

Grandfather: It doesn't matter. We'll get to our place first.
Grandmother: No! Their mother is waiting.
Grandfather: Oh, let it be.

Clearly my grandfather, as usual, had his priorities straight.

Wrath of daughter = Small price to pay for time with grandchildren.

What transpired next was nothing short of shocking. The grandmother, with another "No!" leaned over and yanked the steering wheel to one side in an attempt to make the grandfather return us to our owners. The car veered towards the gravel median. The brother and I watched excitedly as the parents of our mother struggled manfully and womanfully against each other. Somehow, in the midst of the threats and the yelling, the car returned shakily to the center of the road. Huzzah! We were saved! Unfortunately, the matriarch's attack resulted in victory in the psychological battle... the grandfather glared and reversed course... we ended up back home... without groceries to boot... and with some explaining and storytelling to do.

Next story. My grandparents had had some trouble with a neighbor, and one of the other neighbors had helped in sorting the matter out. We had the gentleman (the one who helped, not the one who created the problem duh) over to tea (or was it lunch, I don't remember... I was about 17 though, if that helps). We (grandparents, parents, uncle, aunt, cousins) were sitting in the drawing room being all grateful and entertaining. My grandmother was going on about the callousness and wickedness of some people (quite rightfully too, I might add). She turned to our guest and, almost accusingly, said, "They had no regard. My husband is a heart patient."

At this second, I caught the heart patient's eye. For some reason, he grinned his infectious grin at me. And I couldn't help but grin back. So here we have my grandmother going on in a deadly serious vein about heart patients and bad people and I have all my teeth showing. My uncle happened to catch this out of the corner of his eye. Loudly, he said, "Why are you smiling? Leave the room right now." I almost pointed at the grandfather and said, 'He started it!" but that would have been inappropriate. So I left. Trust the grandfather to start grinning when his heart condition was being discussed... and trust him to get away with it at someone else’s expense. *sigh*

I used to have a couple of toy guns (1 or 2) when I was small (5 or 6). One of them was a huge plastic Kalashnikov, almost as big as I was. Whenever the grandfather saw the weapon in my hands, he would feign terror. You know, eyebrows up, eyes wide, hands shaking and waving in typical "don't hurt me" fashion. My six year old self thought this was hilarious, so I'd display my arms threateningly at every opportunity. He never failed to disappoint with his trembling and occasional whimpering. I outgrew the guns (thank God) but the memory of the grandfather's fake terror never fails to bring a smile to my face. It's funny that even stories involving guns and terror (albeit both fake) go only to show what a kind, caring and family oriented man he was.

We may not be seeing him for some time now, but the joys and memories... and mishaps we shared will always keep him near. If, one day, my grandchildren feel about me the way I feel about my grandfather, Mansoor Karamat Ahmad, I'll know I've done well.

Canadian Toilets: A Symbol of Quality, and Other Stories

Canadian Toilets: A Symbol of Quality

The last refuge of a sub-par blogger: Bathroom humor.

Housemate Chris was in Canada this past weekend. He returned Monday evening, and promptly clogged our toilet. I thought there was something wrong with the flushing mechanism, or the water pressure, or something else unrelated to human waste. Chris put paid to my innocent theories by nonchalantly informing me that the blockage was due merely to the fact that he had just returned from Canada. The items in question needed some time to "soften" as he put it. Canadian food, it would seem, has a higher iron content... or something.

Fortunately, we have another bathroom in our house, so calls of nature could be heeded unimpeded. And true enough, when I got back from class the next day, approximately 18 hours after initial discovery, our toilet was as clean as can be (well, as clean as can be in a house of three male graduate school students). Apparently, poop is harder in Canada. They must have stronger, sturdier toilets too then... maybe with reinforced titanium and high pressure suction. Canadian toilets: A symbol of quality. Who would have known?

The Bluegrass Concert... Or was It?

While Chris's digestive system was getting reacquainted with its Canadian roots, I was in Salyersville, Kentucky with Tif visiting people she worked with over the Summer. One of the townspeople told us about a bluegrass concert in a town 20 minutes north of where we were. Hmmm... Rural Kentucky? Bluegrass concert? It seemed like the ultimate Southern experience. Banjos, harmonicas, fried chicken, toothless old codgers with war stories, right? Certainly not a Democrat running for Morgan County Judge Executive or anything of that nature, right?

Wrong.

It so happened that our "Bluegrass Concert" was actually a "Political Rally" designed to "Drum Up Support" for "Democrat Mike Gevedon" as he takes on "Republican Incumbent Tim Conley" for the seat of "Morgan County Kentucky's Judge Executive" in the November elections. The "concert" part was 4 slightly overweight fellows singing songs that no one really paid any attention to. It was bluegrass though, I'll give you that, with banjos no less, but still a far cry from a "concert." I guess it might have been a bit of a PR spoof to get unsuspecting idiots (like me) to convince the people with them (like Tif) to attend the rally. So that was that. It wasn't a total loss though. We got to use their facilities. And I came away with a "Mike Gevedon Democrat" nail file. Very handy. Very handy indeed.

Forgot My Lines & Covered My A**

So this goes back to my time as Leo in The Producers. We were on 10 nights (11, if you count the three scenes we did for the press) and I only forgot my lines once. But it was memorable. Not only did I forget my lines, I didn't realize I had forgotten them.

It was the middle of Act 1 Scene 2. I was supposed to say, "So is he good... I mean is he bad?" and cue Aly (Max) to say his next line ("Bad?? He couldn't direct you to the bathroom!") which in turn cued Mikail (Franz) to knock loudly on our door. But I didn't. So Mikail waited patiently off stage, Aly stood patiently on stage and I sat on a couch facing the audience wondering what the hell was going on. 300 pairs of expectant, just-paid-800-rupees-for-this-farce eyes watched our every move.

After about 5 seconds I realized someone had missed their cue (of course it couldn't have been ME) so I looked at Aly and, without thinking, said the first thing that came into my head: "Was there something you wanted to say?" Now Aly, being the better actor and the quicker thinker, covered my gaffe quite well. The scene got back on track, and we ended it as planned. As soon as we got off stage though, Aly shared with me his deepest feelings:

"You (expletive deleted) (expletive deleted) (expletive deleted)!! You NOT ONLY forgot your lines, but you managed to make it look as though I had forgotten MINE!! (Expletive deleted) (Expletive deleted)!!

Which, in retrospect, though completely unintentional, was quite true. Aly, being on the whole quite good natured, got over it (at least I think he did) but I'm probably not going to be allowed to forget that shining moment as long as I live no matter how often I apologize. The perils of being a superstar... alright fine, a medium star... minor star... never mind.

Stand Up: Karachi My City

So I did a bit of stand up comedy this summer. My buddies Imran (of ADP fame) and Tia Beg (of threatening-to-sit-on-me fame) had a little Thursday open mic performance night thing going so I took advantage of it. In a nutshell, I was not-very-good-at-all-but-give-me-a-break-I'm-just-an-amateur.

However, my Ode to Karachi rap, an entirely original creation I will have you know, became quite the hit. I performed it on no less than three separate occasions, each time to considerable acclaim. It makes sense, now I'm no longer a performance artist, that I should share my composition with the world at large, especially those of you who were unable to make it to The Basement Cafe behind 4th Zamzama Commercial Lane on those balmy Summer evenings.

For the benefit of my non-Urdu speaking readership (i.e. the illiterates), I have included Urdu to English translations wherever needed. All the asterisked words in the poem/rap/revelation will be explained in English right below the verse they are in. Is that alright? Would you like an interpreter? CAN. YOU. SPEAK. ENGLISH.

I had originally intended to have the translations/explanations directly to the right of the verse they appeared in but, since I can get kind of somewhat unnecessarily even when there's no need for it you know what I'm saying long winded sometimes, they wouldn't fit. So we'll be sacrificing user-friendliness for content.

You'll see #harmonica# typed early on in the poem. For my first performance, I actually had my harmonica with me and played a couple of bluesy notes on it (couple of notes is all... I didn't even know what they were... I don't actually know how to play the harmonica you see)... but then I lost it so I was reduced to making harmonica sounds with my mouth which was another farce altogether.

By the way, after the "But you're still so fiiiine," Yasir (or Joshua; Yasir stood me up the last performance... haha, the stand up was stood up) would give me a nice percussion beat on the Arab (or Turkish; Joshua didn't have an Arab) drum so I wouldn't have to do the whole thing acapella. The drums really made the performance worthwhile in my opinion... maybe I should have had a drum playing throughout my act... anyway, back to the Ode.

Ode to Karachi

Karachi my city
#harmonica#
Oh city of mine
#harmonica#
You fail to consistently supply your citizens with basic amenities like electricity, water and telecommunications
#harmonica#
But you're still so fiiiine

Karachi man it can't be beat
A million people you will meet
Dressed in jeans or just a sheet
Roadside vendors you will greet
Ministers with smelly feet
Don’t forget there’s lots to eat
Rotis* of domestic wheat
Cool lassi* namkeen* or sweet
Houses: reinforced concrete
Evenings cricket* in the street
Lata ke purane geet*
Harbor, there's our naval fleet
Army men now kind of dheet*
Traffic jams all in the heat
Road construction incomplete
Karachi man it can't be beat

*Roti = Tortilla
*Lassi = Refreshing yogurt drink
*Namkeen = Salty
*Cricket = The game not the insect
*Lata ke purane geet = Old songs by Lata Mangeshkar (famous old Indian movie singer lady)
*Dheet = Stubborn (like our favorite in-the-line-of-fire General)

Karachi's a city where the heat is on
AC's dont work coz the bijlee's* gone
All the bandas* and bandees* agree
God must hate the KESC*

*Bijlee = Light/electricity/power
*Banda = Man
*Bandee = Woman
*KESC = Karachi Electric Supply Corporation

Bijlee nahin to paani kiyoon*
Water tankers empty too
Mobilink ka network down*
I am full of rage now frown

*Bijlee nahin to paani kiyoon = If no electricity, then why water?
*Mobilink ka network down = Mobilink's (cellular phone service popularly known as Maybelink) network is down

Driving man, its an ugly scene
Spent 6 hours on Shahrah-e-Qaideen*
Trucks and minibuses rule the road
Chal gari hata kamine bahen*****

*Shahrah-e-Qaideen = One of Karachi's many major roads
*Chal gari hata kamine bahen**** = Come on, move your car inconsiderate ******* (expletive deleted, but it rhymes so well!)

Yo, the bus conductors are so brave
Hanging from the doors and doing the wave
They're yelling with voices full of masti*
Gizri Punjab Colony Defence Mor Aazam Basti*

*Masti = Impishness
*Gizri Punjab Colony Defence Mor Aazam Basti = Gizri, Punjab Colony, Defence Mor (Turn), Aazam Basti (Settlement) are names of areas in Karachi falling along the route of bus number W-21

Saddar*, man, is where its at
Sabzi* or a cricket bat
Whatever you need you'll find for sure
Aslee cheez ya naqli ho*

*Saddar = Karachi's major market (i.e. madness)
*Sabzi = Vegetables
*Aslee cheez ya naqli ho = Either genuine or fake

Rainbow Center* I love you so
DVDs aur CDs do*
You won't find this stuff in Quetta* or Lahore*
I'm glad we trade with Singapore*

*Rainbow Center = Karachi's hub of cheap cheap pirated software and entertainment CDs/DVDs
*DVDs aur CDs do = Give me DVDs and CDs (do rhymes with so)
*Quetta = City in the step-province of Baluchistan
*Lahore = Punjabi City, one of Pakistan's mistakes
*Singapore = We get most of our stuff from Malaysia I think, but Malaysia doesn't rhyme with Lahore

Your neighborhood is never dull
Thelawalas* selling phul*
Aunties walking in the park
Salaam khala sab kuch theek thaak?*

*Thelawalas = Handcart vendors
*Phul = Fruit (pronounced phal with aspiration on the p to give it a huh sound)
*Salaam khala sab kuch theek thaak? = Hello Aunty, everything going well? (Technically, this means "Peace be on you, elder sister of my mother. Is everything in order?")

Beaches, museums and the zoo
How else may we pleasure you?
Hungry? Barbecue Tonight*
Angry? Phadda!* Yeah lets fight

*Barbecue Tonight = Popular Restaurant
*Phadda = Violent fight, generally involving youngsters with too much time and money on their hands (pronouncd Padda, but like Phul, with aspiration during the release of the P, if you know what I mean)

Karachi’s boys have common sense
Lots of nerve and confidence
But ladies don’t they understand?
You do not want to be their fraand*

*Fraand = Friend (this isn't even an Urdu word... the origins of this will take an entire posting to explain)

Karachi’s girls are clever dames
They know all the mating games
No lift* now, but listen dear
Flirt with me, when mom’s not near

*Lift = Lift

Hungry still? Tikkas* tonight
Kulfi falooda for your delight
Halwa puri* from Boat Basin*
There’s some stuff no one’s replacing

*Tikkas = Meat fried in spices
*Kulfi falooda = Ice cream with spaghetti-type-things-that-are-kind-of-tasteless-but-people-like-them-so-I-pretend-I-do-too.
*Halwa puri = Another food item I'm too illiterate to explain
*Boat Basin = Popular area with lots of restaurants

Lets all visit Quaid’s* mazar*
Jinnah* was a superstar*
He said, “Bury me where I was born
Coz Karachi knows what’s going on!"

*Quaid = Literally, leader. Refers to Muhammad Ali Jinnah, our George Washington
*Mazar = Tomb/Mausoleum
*Jinnah = Superstar

People say they hate this city
Silly fools! Its them I pity
Lahore* and Pindi* don’t make the cut
Karachi always kicks their butt!*

*Lahore = Punjabi city, one of Pakistan's mistakes
*Pindi = Rawalpindi, another mistake
*Butt! = Rear end!

And stop.

#Applause & Autographs#

If you have questions/require additional translations/would like to correct my translations/wish to heap more praise on me than I have heaped on myself, let me know.

Just Call Me Leo

So it's been a while. A long while. A lot of things have happened (obviously... it's been three months stupid) since I posted last. It's been an interesting summer to say the least: World Cup Soccer/Football, power failures, rain, visa applications, blah blah. But this particular posting addresses what ended up consuming the last half of my time at home: The Producers, The Musical.

Let me say here that your appreciation of this posting will be greatly enhanced if you have seen either the movie with Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick or the musical on Broadway, London's West End or in Karachi. Having not seen the Broadway or West End productions, I am qualified to say that the Karachi production knocked the pants off the other two hands down. Though how you knock the pants off anything with your hands down is an existential dilemma I have yet to work my way through. But that's beside the point. As most of what I say is...

It was all a big mistake really. The month was June. The place was an ADP concert. (Yeah ADP! Plug for my buddies who are planning on releasing their debut album sometime this decade.) An announcement was made. Auditions were open. I had nothing better to do with myself. Might get U.S. visa later... don't really want a job... need to pretend I'm doing something constructive with my time... helloooo acting career.

So I showed up at the director’s house on the day and at the time. I read through the script while waiting to be called and decided I wanted to play neo-Nazi wacko, Franz. I can do accents. German accents especially. Ja ja. All set. Not a lot of lines. Short, snappy, potentially funny appearances. Wunderbar!

Yeah, they made me Leo. Nervous, frightened accountant, Leo Bloom. Apparently, I didn't have the voice or the presence of aggressive, masculine Franz. But I casted perfectly for the role of neurotic, spineless wuss, Leo. *sigh*

I had several issues with this:

Leo = Mousy, frightened accountant.
Shahyan = Not. Maybe mousy, certainly not frightened. And most definitely not an accountant.

Leo = Lots of lines to learn.
Shahyan = Not wanting to.

Leo = Gets slapped around a lot.
Shahyan = Enjoys not being slapped around.

Leo = Lead role
Shahyan = Total acting experience: Tailor who got rejected in our 6th grade production of The Emperors New Clothes. One line. That is all.

But I decided to give it a shot anyway, despite my misgivings, partially because co-star and friend Tia Beg threatened to sit on me and/or break my legs if I opted out. And she'd have done it too.

Funny thing, I gained a bit of insight into what my mother actually thinks of me when I was sitting at home in our lounge, doing "homework," watching The Producers, The Movie. She probably doesn't remember this but anyway, there's a scene where Leo (Matthew Broderick) gets slapped around (literally *slap* *slap*) by Franz (Will Ferrell). She was passing by during this and stopped to watch. As Leo got slapped and looked all aggrieved and pained, she started chuckling and said, "Son, you're perfect for the role!" At the time, I just thought she was being encouraging and supportive. But later, I realized the deeper meaning behind her words... My mother thinks I'm the type of fellow who gets slapped around!! Naturally, this epiphany traumatized me and I spent several weeks high on meth in an attempt to escape reality... well, not really, but still.

Anyway, rehearsals got going. The ups and downs that are part and parcel of every theatrical production (at least I hope they are) were soon upon us. Days of progress, days of despair, days of wanting to hammer sharp nails into the director's back, days of wanting to drown some of the younger actors (like unwanted kittens, you know, cruelty), days of wanting to marry all of the female dancers (like at the same time, though the logistics of that would have been a bit of a challenge), days of wanting to be paid for this (all volunteer cast baby!), days of thanking God I wasn't getting paid for this (there was this one line I could never deliver with a straight face, no matter how hard I tried), days of this and days of that.

There was this one day where our director wasn't around (sorry Nida; I don't mind telling you this now though: p) and our energy levels were as low as the low of lows. We were supposed to do Act 1 Scene 1 but we didn't really want to. We managed to get through it by replacing every line we had to say with something incredibly obscene and/or completely inappropriate, yet still related to our characters. I would not post here some of the awful stuff we said even if you paid me. It was however the most fun we ever had doing Act 1 Scene 1. Sad (yet very good) that our version will never be put forth for public appreciation.

Anyway, we went on stage at the end of August. The public was appreciative and reaction on the whole was positive. My parents made it to two show nights and managed to get several decent photos of the performance, including a couple of movies. There's this video of one of our dances (Guten Tag Hop Clop with Franz) where I get a little beaten up. Every time I watch that, what stands out to me is this one lady in the audience. I can't see her obviously, because the camera was trained on the stage, but I can hear her chuckling throughout. EXCEPT when I get hit. Then the chuckles turn to loud guffaws... Sadist!

Naturally, one measly little posting isn't enough to encapsulate everything of note that occurred during this venture. Perhaps later on, if I ever become a regular poster, I will pull more Producers stories from the archives of my fantastic actor's memory. As in the memory is fantastic, not the acting. Well, the acting was pretty damn good too. Damn I'm good.

8 Simple Rules...

8 Simple Rules for Driving in Karachi

1. Always assume you have right of way. If you don't, someone else will. And you won't be home in time for your infant's 18th birthday.

2. Honk (toot your horn) whenever you feel like it, but ESPECIALLY when it serves no purpose. Like in hospital zones. Or in your driveway.

3. Do not use your turn signals (indicators). If you use your turn signals (indicators), you're a pretentious jerk who thinks he or she is better than everyone else.
(For the record, I do use my turn signals. But then we all know I am a pretentious jerk, so it's alright.)

4. Do not stop at red lights. Stopping at red lights unnecessarily compromises the safety of those behind you trying to run the light.

5. Ignore all speed limits. The traffic policemen have no radar guns. And if they do, their 70 cc motorcycles aren't going to get them very far anyway. They aren't going to chase you. And if they do, they'll give up soon enough. Besides, it's fun.

6. Stop for crossing pedestrians. Unless you don't feel like it. In which case either
a) Run them over (Half the time the morons deserve it.)
b) Honk loudly and glare as you fly past them (They should be grateful you didn't run them over.)

7. Prepare to be blamed for everything, especially accidents. If you get hit, even while stationary in a designated parking spot, you obviously weren't paying attention.

8. Yelling and cursing is expected and appreciated.

Mercy is for the weak.

Cockroaches & Power Failures

Cockroaches and power failures are two things symptomatic of summers in Karachi... I think it's the heat and humidity that attract both of them. The power failure is by far more destructive, causing daily losses to businesses, industries, body fluids and tempers. The cockroach, however, is not to be taken lightly. Sudden appearances when least expected cause moments of concern, frustration and, in my case, mind numbing fear.

The other evening (10 pm or so) I was lying in bed sweating away (my air conditioner wouldn't work because the supply voltage was too low at the time), rereading the riveting last few pages of Angels & Demons by Dan Brown. By the way, Deception Point and Digital Fortress are a complete waste of your money, time and plasma. They are as bad as The Da Vinci Code and Angels & Demons are good. Anyway, heat, sweat, low voltage, suspense in the Vatican. I just had to take my t-shirt off (calm down ladies). So I'm lying there in my shorts when out of the corner of my eye I see something on the wall to my right. Shadow? Satanic symbol? Cockroach?

Cockroach!

I kid you not. This thing was at least 2 inches long, brown as a brown Crayola crayon and must have had a span of an inch and a half. *shudder* Its 64 legs... alright, there were only 8, stretched lazily and its antennae waved gently with such arrogance that I was immediately cowed. Three options:

1. Ignore it. Yes, like you ignore a Cat 5 hurricane.
2. Kill it. But that would mean getting close to it.
3. Leave the room. But what if it's there when I come back?? *sob*

Anyway, lying there wasn't helping matters. I needed to be on my feet, senses alert, reaction time minimal. Gingerly, I slid my feet off the side of the bed. No sudden moves. Slippers on. Eyes on the enemy. Up. Slide around to the side of the bed away from the intruder. Take stock of situation. Analyze strengths and weaknesses. Cockroach near door. Open door so cockroach can flee? Only person with room on second floor of house is me. Feasible. Crawl to door. Door open. Cockroach observes silently. Clearly a tough customer. Been here before. Re-establish safe distance. Commence stare down. The cockroach moved. But it didn't use its legs. Or its antennae. It used its WINGS.

Flying cockroach!

Why me? Oh, give me a wingless cockroach over this beast any day! *sigh* Suddenly, with no shirt on, I felt exposed. The cockroach had respositioned itself on the same wall. What if the thing flew at me?? 10 seconds later, t-shirt back on. I felt braver. But not by much. No long poles or brooms nearby. No insecticde either. What to do? Shoes? Shoe?

Shoe!

I picked up one of my running shoes and weighed in my mind the best way to go about this. Long distance throw of deadly accuracy? Cavalry charge of inconceivable horror?
Quick math: Cavalry Charge = Getting close to cockroach = Long distance throw.

I pulled my arm behind my head, my massive brain performing a million calculations of trajectory and velocity. An instant before I started my arm forward on its noble mission, I went blind. Blackness. Nothingness. Had I fainted? Was I dead? No.

Power failure!

So, here I am, in pitch darkness, running shoe in right hand still cocked behind my head and a vile, cunning enemy with powers of flight mere feet away from me.

If I stay still, it won't know where I am.

Thirty seconds later

Aaaaaa! I don't know where it is!

Make way to table. Feel around blindly for small emergency torch/flashlight. Torch/flashlight located. Move back to safe distance from last known location of the enemy. Suddenly switch on and beam light towards wall. No cockroach. Beam light frantically around room. There's the beast! In the tiny nook between the wall and my open door.

I'm fairly confident I could have held the light with one hand and thrown my shoe with the other, but the consequences of missing the target were now too great. The moster had too many conditions in his favor and too many places to hide. I needed reinforcements. I went downstairs and recruited my father. "There's a cockroach in my bedroom," I said nonchalantly, "can you hold the torch while I kill it?" My father, to his credit, did not tell me to grow up and kill my insects independently. He followed me upstairs.

Now armed with a spray pump of insecticide (procured from the ever-equipped mother), I stepped cautiously back into the room. My father followed, and shone the light where we thought the cockroach would be. Gone. It could be anywhere! I started spraying insecticide wildly, hoping to lure it out while I had support. We found it on my door, blending in perfectly with the varnished wood. Clever, but not clever enough. With my father, stage manager, providing the spotlight, I got as close as I dared and sprayed a mist of sweet sweet insecticide all over the creature.

The thing was on the run. It's flight capabilities were immediately impaired by the fast acting drug. It scampered across the floor sending shoes (mine, with me still in them) in all directions. More spray. AGH! STOMP STOMP STOMP.

Flying cockroach guts everywhere!

Relief. Invasion quashed. Invader squashed. Still working with the torch/flashlight, we fashioned a rough scoop from a couple of newspapers and deposited the body outside, to be taken later by our cleaner, or by beasts of the wild.

The power was still out, and would be for a while. But we had fought the good fight against at least one threat to civilization tonight. And we had won. We had won.

This war was over.

Emirates: Tribute To Entity

As promised, here is Emirates: Tribute to Entity, Part II. (Refer to first complete paragraph of previous post for more information.)

Before I deliver the equivalent of a eulogy, some context: I'm quite fond of the United States (despite what I think of its "people in power"), but its airlines could learn a thing or thirty four from Emirates.

Delta, Northwest, US Airways, Continental... I've flown them all, and on just about every flight (including the four hour hops halfway across the country) the only time I saw my scowling flight attendant was when he or she was shoving a packet containing assorted nuts (about 3) and a carbonated beverage in my face. Ugh. I've even used the call button when needing a blanket, or getting dehydrated, but they're either all color blind (and can't recognize WHITE) or they believe that passengers are a waste of their time. Hmmph. Hey STUPID! The only reason you have a JOB is the fact that I fly your SORRY airline and deal with your PATHETIC service in the first place.

*breathe in* *breathe out* *breathe in* *breathe out*

Now Emirates. Thirteen hours in the air never went by so fast. The personal entertainment systems in each seat are something I'd be happy to have installed in my house. Over a hundred movies (FYI, I watched Glory Road, Four Brothers and Big Momma's House 2), games and TV shows. Add to that pineapple juice, good FREQUENT food, lightning fast and friendly service, ample legroom, comfortable seats, footrests, and the flight's as good as a retreat.

Now I wasn't travelling with a baby (which is good, considering I don't have one), but, and I saw this with my own eyes, the attendants helped weary parents out by babysitting; whether it be bottle-feeding, or walking around with the infants to lull them to sleep. And this was all in Economy (or Coach, if you will). I wonder what happens in Business and First Class... do they prepare for your meetings so you can sleep? Give backrubs? Perform open heart surgery?

*open mouth, wide eyed wonder*

I guess only the second half of this posting was truly Emirates: Tribute to Entity. The first half was more of the U.S. Airlines: Unmitigated Frustration variety. Can frustration be unmitigated?

Homeland Security: Tribute To Entity

So I've been home five days or thereabouts, so far so good. More on that later.

This post is a series of two written in tribute to two entities that made my return to the fatherland (or motherland, whatever floats your boat) pleasant and anuerysm-free: Emirates (the airline) and the United States Department of Homeland Security. What?? For serious, Matil**, the DHS has got my back.

We will discuss in this post the DHS. In the interest of brevity, I'm going to relate my experience in bullet form... with timestamps!! In addition, I will refrain from mentioning exact dates and physical descriptions in order to protect the identities and careers of my benefactors.

Note: Times accurate to within +/- 10 minutes

0720: Arrive at JFK Terminal 4.
0721: Get lost. Ask for help.
0728: Check in. Passport examined. Boarding pass obtained.
0740: Leave 2 pieces of checked baggage with security. Interestingly they didn't require the suitcase or the bag to be unlocked. Either they have incredibly advanced X-Ray machines, or they like breaking into things.
0745: Begin hunt for mysterious room 161/011 for Special Registrants (i.e. suspected terrorists i.e. me).
0748: Ask airport staff for assistance. Fellow gives me precise directions.
0749: Get lost. Ask for help. Fellow gives me precise directions.
0755: Arrive at mysterious room 161/011. It turns out to be a lost luggage office for Swiss Air. No one around. Interesting...
0758: Wonder why the DHS doesn't have its own room. Swiss Air fellow tells me their office is now around the corner.
0801: Arrive at DHS office. 2 agents sitting in front of 2 PCs. One male, one female, and that's all the info on them you're getting.
0802: Give the female my documents.
0803: Female asks for my I-94 (document required to have departure recorded, and therefore also for legal re-entry).
0803: It's in the passport woman! Use your eyes!
0803: No, it isn't Sir.
0804: Check passport. No I-94. Hyperventilate.
0805: Female says to me,"This does not help me."
0805: I say to me,"This does not help me."
0806: Hyperventilation continues. Carry-on bags emptied. No I-94.
0807: Apologies. No clue where the I-94 is. Will you accept a copy?
0807: "This does not help me."
0808: Ultra-hyperventilation.
0809: Male agent now free. Watching situation with interest. Fingerprinting. Questions.
0810: Female pulls out a new I-94 form. To her colleague, "It doesn't matter to me. I am only doing this to help him."
0810: Help? Me? Cardiac Arrest averted. Attention paid.
0811: New I-94 given to me with old number written on in pen. "I have made note of the loss of your original one." Legal exit and possibly subsequent re-entry to the United States now possible. Heartbeat begins long journey to normal.
0812: Express profound gratitude. Start rambling about good times in the U.S.
0813: DHS Agents share stories. Offer immigration advice. "If you come back on a work visa, you can stick around long enough to get residency. Try to get a job here. That's how you get a green card."
0814: Almost faint with shock. DHS agents offering a Pakistani citizen immigration advice??
0815: Friendly goodbyes. No longer feel like a criminal.
0830: Make way to departure gate. Talking to Tif on phone. Sudden idea: The silly** Emirates check-in girl took my I-94 when I checked in at 0728! Didn't see the deed occur because of angle of counter. Rush back to counter.
0831: Get lost. Hyperventilate.
0832: Find counter. Show silly** girl my new I-94. Did you take my old one?
0833: Silly** girl in shock. Why do you have that? We're supposed to take them from every departing non-citizen.
0835: Light comes on. Give it back. My buddies at the DHS will want to have a look at it.
0836: Make way back to DHS office.
0837: Male & Female happy, if a little surprised, to see me again.
0838: Situation explained. No one had made clear that registration is to occur before check-in. So I-94 gone then. (To be fair to me, when I flew out of Detroit, my I-94 was taken AFTER check-in).
0839: Female tears up new I-94, stamps old one, hands it to me, smiles all round, music plays, credits roll.
0840: Another sad goodbye.
0843: Return to Emirates counter. Give correctly stamped, 100% legal I-94 to silly** girl.
0850: Go through final security check.
0900: Arrive at gate.
0940: Exit stage right.***

Important Notes
* "For serious, Matil": Expression indicating earnestness first used by Derek Zoolander in 2001 when talking to the future Matilda Zoolander... or Matil.
** Silly girl not actually silly.
*** The first known positive US Department of Homeland Security experience is now officially a part of public record.

Summer Plans a la Robert Frost

This is what my last posting was supposed to be about. Let's hope I don't stray this time.

I'll be home in approximately a fortnight/2 weeks/14 days. As always, I have plans for the summer which generally involve some form of self-improvement.

Past planned summer activities for me have included
- Reading all the United Nations documentation on the Israel/Palestine conflict
- Becoming moderately skilled at the Harmonica
- Getting my 800 meter dash (if we can call 800 meters a dash) time down to a respectable 2:00 (minutes, not hours)
- Learning how to speak _________ (insert language here)
- Lifting regularly enough to be able to bench my own body weight (which is really not much more than the bar, to be honest)
- Making and maintaining a webpage (this blog doesn't count; the Indian** did all the set-up work for me. The Indian, you may know, is my source for all answers Internet. And he's a really great guy too... for an Indian.)

Past actual summer activities for me have included
- None of the above
- Not much else

I'm very good at planning/organizing/making lists. Not so good at following through with them. This summer I'm getting smart. I'm going to set a small number of clearly defined goals and resist the temptation to add more.

So, without further ado, I present to you

The Foreigner's Summer Plans 2006... in VERSE!!

Summertime is here again
I'm heading home, yes on a plane
Two years almost I've been gone
Karachi, dude! What's going on?

Sunny days are on their way
Little work and lots of play
Maybe cricket, maybe squash
Maybe World Cup Soccer. Gosh!

The harmonica will reappear
Lovely tunes to tease your ear
But only if I take a class
I don't want to break no glass

Webpage building here we go
Take it easy, take it slow
No demands, no deadline pressure
Time for an XML refresher

Have to get my F1 visa
Columbus, not Berlin or Pisa
Study some for graduate school
Can't show up and look the fool

Music, sports, the Internet
Would you like a cigarette?
No would be the correct answer
Nothing sucks quite like lung cancer

The last three lines are out of place
I could edit, change the space
But that would counter my intent:
Public Service Announcement

Anyway, I'm almost done
Said my verse, now have to run
But! Before this poem I smother
A message for my father, mother

The perfect son I may not be
The apple fell far from the tree?
Mistakes galore this boy has made
But on this point I won't be swayed

You may flinch; I will not blink
"Oh, what will your uncles think?"
No matter how you show dismay
The hair has gone; the stud will stay

The Long Term Memory Curse

I am cursed with an incredible long term memory. Here I am in my mid twenties, and, from what I've seen and heard, people in their mid twenties have a vague recollection of their school days... yes, there were some people, we had some fun, skinned some knees... and that's it. I, on the other hand, remember full names, faces, pet phrases and detailed anecdotes that are of no consequences whatsoever. Examples:

The Tuesday Incident
In grade/class 6 - I was 12 or thereabouts - one of my classmates, Sabih - or, in the spirit of full-namingness, Sabih bin Fakhar (I hope I don't get sued or something for using his real name) - mentioned during a conversation that the following day was Tuesday. I was bored. So I decided to make a big deal out of it. I pretended to be shocked and horrified that he would say such a thing. I whispered loudly to the people around me: "Oh my God! Sabih said tomorrow is Tuesday!! How could he??" (Of course this was all in Urdu - apologies to purists, but I am willing to compromise the linguistic integrity of this account for the benefit of my greater readership.)
My friends, being heartless jerks like I am, promptly picked up on it. Within seconds, a dozen people were berating Sabih for his use of the word Tuesday. We carried this joke a bit too far - too far meaning we spouted variations of "Sabih said tomorrow is Tuesday. How could he??" for the next 30 minutes - reducing the poor fellow to tears. He was a friendly, gentle soul, and I certainly felt bad when he cracked. We were, thank God, able to joke about the event later (on Wednesday and Thursday... but NOT Tuesday). Water under the bridge... Why do I remember this? God knows.

KG Lady (Haha... KG... cagey...)
I remember the name of my kindergarten teacher: Natasha Cowasjee. We had KG1 and KG2 back when I was young... I believe she may have been a KG2-er. So I was how old... 6? It's not like the lady's name was ever mentioned or reinforced after my time in her classroom either... sometimes I scare myself. I think my KG1 teacher was a lady whose last name started with a P... was it Pinjwani?? Mother?

The Math Problem
When I was trying to get into school in Pakistan - this would have been 1985... so I was 4 - I had to take an "admission test" which basically consisted of me standing by the Head Mistress - Mrs. Tahir, argh, I remember her too... I say argh not because the lady was hideous, far from it, but because the extent of my memory frightens me - and reading a few selected letters and numbers from this book she had. I handled the colors, letters and fruits (I think they were fruits) just fine. But then we got to a complicated math problem, 2 + 4 I think it was. Mrs. Tahir said, "What is this?" and I, not having the foggiest, blithely waved my hand and said, "Oh, I'll learn that later."
If my sarcastic streak had been any sort of developed back then, I would probably have said, "You silly woman! This is exactly what my father is going to pay you his hard earned money to teach me." But I didn't. I did notice that the mother had been unable to suppress a laugh when I waved my hand... I only understood why much later... when I was 22.

Anyway, those were some stories from my distant past. My distant past is fascinating. Someday I'll tell you the story of the time I hung upside down from a see-saw for what felt like several years.

You'll notice the first sentence of this post. Specifically the "cursed" part. Allow me to explain. I've recently become somewhat addicted to communicating with friends and aquaintances using Orkut (http://www.orkut.com/) a free networking service (kind of like Facebook, you Americans). One evening, I was idly browsing through one of my friend's friends lists and I found all these people I had known between seven and ten years ago. Naturally, interested to see them around, and wondering how they were doing, I "added" them to my own list. Some of them just plain rejected me. Others didn't respond. The few that bothered to add me sent messages along the lines of "At first I thought you were some random pervert" or "I had forgotten all about you." I suddenly realized that a whole bunch of people must think I'm some sort of sick-in-the-head psycho with too much time on his hands... "Weirdo I don't know... why does he think I'm his friend?" and it's really their sub-par memories that are doing me an injustice. Am I really that forgettable? *sigh*

So, in a completely understandable reaction to the callousness one with an outstanding memory must endure, I've been wishing I had rotten memory cells. Maybe then someone would come running up to me and say something like, "Shahyan!! Remember when we belly danced for 15 hours straight in 1996??" and I'd be able to look down my nose at him or her and say, "Sorry, Scum of the Earth, do I even know you?" and walk away. Ignorance is better than rejection, what.

Anyway, if you're reading this and have been stalked - or so you think - by me, don't worry. It's just my phenomenal long term memory under the mistaken impression that you actually know who I am. And your memory sucks, fyi.

What's funny - and a little bit sad - is that I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday, or what I did at work today (which may actually be nothing, knowing me).

What's also funny - and a little bit sad - is that I started this post thinking I was going to write about my plans for the summer...

Brokeback Mountain: My $0.02

So we watched Brokeback Mountain the other day. Fortunately, in case you were concerned, watching it will not make you gay. At least not within 5 days anyway.

In my honest, heterosexual opinion, the movie is overrated. By the time I had developed any sympathy whatsoever for the characters, the credits were rolling. The one high point was the theme - Wings by Gustavo Santaolalla, very low key, yet moving. The general premise of the movie was also solid but I would have preferred a little more action (but NOT of THAT kind).

So I got to wondering why the movie did so well... thoughts:

1. Acting was decent, but the pace was sooo slow I could have left the room, filed my teeth into little teddy bear shapes, returned and not missed much of the plot. So it wasn't that.

2. Amazing scenery in Wyoming. Lovely mountains, greenery, flowing water (i.e. streams and rivers). But you can get that stuff in most nature documentaries, or in photographs, or you could visit. So it wasn't that either.

3. Great soundtrack. No. Apart from Wings, nothing really jumped out as an outstanding composition.

I think the only people you'll find raving about the movie are gay people, because, lets face it, they're more marginalized than even African-Americans. There's finally a movie "about them." Can't blame them for being excited.

So why has this movie grossed $83 million to date and is still playing in some theaters across the United States despite being out (Haha - the gay movie came out**) for over 17 weeks ? It's really quite simple. The Right-Wing Christian fundamentalists don't want us to watch it. The bible thumpers provided a media blitz the movie makers could only have dreamed of. Human beings will always espouse certain childish traits. And one of those is doing the things people tell us we shouldn't.

Scenario A:
Brokeback Mountain is released. Homosexuals everywhere are thrilled. A little buzz, a little fizz. 3 weeks later it's over. No one cares. Yeah yeah, a movie about a couple of guys who like guys - not interested.

Scenario 2:
Brokeback Mountain is released. Homosexuals everywhere are thrilled. A little buzz, a little fizz. 3 weeks later - Stuffy, righteous old people all over the place trying to stop people from watching the movie. Some theaters not showing it. People calling it degenerate, evil, sinful etc etc. Holy Crap! I'm there!

Seriously, I wouldn't have cared to watch it if there hadn't been such an outcry. Yeah, yeah Oscar winners blah blah. I've skipped crappy Oscar winning movies before. I'm sure gays everywhere are thanking the Christian right for bringing the movie to a position of such prominence. Hell, they got me to watch it. And while it will never be my favorite movie, I did gain a further appreciation of how difficult it must be to know that the core of your emotional being is something that present day society will not accept.

So thank you Pat Robertson. Thank you Jerry Falwell. Thank you to all the idiots who try to keep us from broadening our horizons and being sympathetic to our brothers and sisters, even if we may not agree with their beliefs and lifestyles. Keep telling us what not to do. And we'll keep throwing your hatred right back at you.

I seem to be all sorts of angry at Falwell and Robertson... I will explore these feelings in a later post. (I hope this post happens... none of my promised posts ever come to fruition.)

**For those unfamiliar with homosexual terminology (I happen to be familiar because I was a resident assistant in a university residence hall for three years - a heterosexual resident assistant with a couple of gay residents, just for the record), "coming out" is the phrase that refers to the time a person openly admits to his or her homosexuality. Like a coming out of a closet... Now go back and read my joke. And you'll see how funny/clever/witty it was.

Global Awareness

So, I'm not feeling the bloggery these days. But, instead of blogging for the sake of blogging, I've decided to paste one of my business school application essays from a few months ago. I was looking at it the other day, and it struck me that it reads like one of my less rantish, halfway thoughtful posts (and it got me admitted so it must not be complete rubbish) .

The topic was "Global Awareness" and the limit was 500 words. And, for the record, this is not fiction.

Here we go:

I was born in the charming little university town of Aachen, on the Western border of what was then the Federal Republic of Germany. Though I lived there for only the first three years of my life (and then for another when I was seven), I have many happy memories of the place, most of them involving snow, my yellow tricycle and smiling, round-faced Germans – a complete antithesis to the commonly portrayed stark, stern and mechanical people we often associate Germany with.

My parents and I moved to Pakistan in 1984, and I made the transition from modern Western life to the bustle and disorder of a developing nation quite seamlessly, as three-year-olds with little or no interest in a world beyond their parents' presence often do. I spent my formative years in the fifteen million strong metropolis of Karachi, rushing from education-filled mornings to lazy afternoons and evenings spent playing cricket or soccer. Life in Pakistan is generally quite laid back, and though the standard of living is low, I feel that the quality of life is relatively high.

Having a connection by birth to Europe, I always followed keenly developments – both political and sporting - in that part of the world. A combination of aware parents, access to abundant reading material and news sources and an interest in matters international inevitably led me to learn lots of about the world I live in. Pakistan's perennial status as a pariah bothered me, because I knew, and I still do, that the country has a lot of good in it, and is just unfortunate enough to be hijacked by the power-hungry few who happen to be selfish, righteous and wrong about almost everything all at the same time.

The United States always struck me as being a big bully. So, it was with some degree of cautious excitement (if there is such a thing), that, at the age of twenty, I made my way across the Earth to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. Here, I discovered, as any frequent traveler could have told me, a nation of wonderful, generous, friendly and caring people that is just unfortunate enough to be hijacked by the power-hungry few who happen to be selfish, righteous and wrong about almost everything all at the same time.

I have enjoyed my time in the nation where cultures and countries come to meet as much as, if not more than, I have enjoyed my time anywhere else. I continue to make an effort to build bridges both by sharing my experiences – through presentations, essays, letters and discussions with friends - and learning from the experiences and knowledge of others who have seen much more than I have. The world, for better or worse, is becoming smaller day by day and I believe that each of us has a responsibility to learn about and appreciate the qualities of every race, religion and nation.

My Grandfather, Cricket and Bushes

First on the whole Dubai Ports World thing, I have to hand it to W. Never let it be said that George W. Bush let xenophobia get in the way of cronyism.

Enough of that. Yes, enough.

On to the real star of tonight's post: My Grandfather (this would be my mother's father). He's in hospital at this moment awaiting a Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy (i.e. feeding tube insertion). I spoke to him briefly this morning. He wasn't at his most coherent but we still talked about stuff; cricket, family, George W. Bush... you know, the usual.

My grandfather has always been one of the cornerstones of our family, especially in the eyes of his grandchildren. When we were small, he was the "cool" grandparent, getting us toys and openly letting us watch stuff on T.V. that the parental units would never allow (wrestling, fight scenes etc etc). He would even (random thought) get us clothes if he thought we'd like them (shorts, trousers, shirts etc). He always had our backs... covered.

So, funny story. My brother and I regularly played cricket (and we probably will this Summer too) in our grandparents' garden. There were bushes all over the place (these will be important later in this posting) and a couple of windows too. We would always hear dire threats - from the dictatorial panel comprising female members of the family – of the terrible consequences set to befall us should we ever break a window while playing. There were always moments of excitement (and paralyzing fear) any time a ball went near or bounced off one of these, but by God's grace, the windows held firm.

Except for this one sunny afternoon. We had convinced my grandfather to play with us (it was never really a difficult job to be honest). Anyway, he was batting. My brother was bowling. And I was fielding. My brother delivered a somewhat mediocre (by his standards) half volley that my grandfather timed well towards the cover region (somewhere in between first and second base for you illiterate types) smack into one of the sacred windows. The window cracked into several pieces. My brother and I collapsed with laughter. My grandfather started grinning sheepishly. The female oligarchy appeared, breathing fire and brimstone. Haha. Their fury was effectively rendered null and void when they learned who the culprit was. A few glares and some scoffing and they were done. You don't mess with the patriarch. Even if he has just broken a sacred window.

Looking back, my grandfather probably saved us from a fate worse than death. Sooner or later, my brother or I would have cracked a glass-breaking shot towards the weakened-by-years-of-abuse sacred window and the oligarchy would have had a field day feasting on our remains. So he had our backs yet again.

(I suppose, before something terrible happens to me, I should state for the record that the ladies in our family aren't really thaaat bad. They're pretty nice actually... very forgiving.)

So when I said my grandfather and I talked about George W., I wasn't kidding. My grandfather is not, to say the least, a fan of W. or his daddy. And neither, frankly, am I. But still, my grandfather is pretty extreme. (A good way to get him fired up is to tell him "Bush sends his love" or "Bush was asking when you're going to visit him" or something along those lines.) Part of his outlook is set this way, I think, because he's a traditional conservative Pakistani who's lived through the 50s and 60s when America kept promising us friendship but never delivered once it had what it wanted from us. Also, he's suspicious of the US's imperial ambitions in the Middle East and Asia (can you spell Iran?). But it's mostly because he's never met the Bushes and has no idea what wonderful people they actually are. (So, if you didn't realize that the last 19 words were COMPLETELY SARCASTIC, you are forbidden from reading my blog ever again. I don't care. I’ll take the hit in terms of readership. You are the weakest link. Good bye.)

Anyway, so when we used to play cricket with BUSHES around, and my grandfather was with us, and we'd hit the ball into the BUSHES, he'd occasionally mutter, "Good! Hit it into the BUSH. Hit the BUSH hard." Then he’d crack up. His inoffensive form of resistance to the American juggernaut. Now that I'm all grown up and realize that there's no such thing as spying and wire-tapping, I find his comments hilariously funny. At that time however, I was somewhat amused, but always secretly wondered if "they" were listening and were going to come kill us all at night. I was so naive back then, I had no idea that the United States was a fuzzy teddy bear that wouldn't hurt a fly.

One more thing and I'll let you go. My grandfather is so awesome; he let me drive a car when I was only 5 years old! OK fine, he worked the pedals and all I had was the steering. And it was an empty street. And I realized later that he actually had at least one hand on the steering wheel at all times. But still. He was the man when I was 5. And he is the man today.

Poor Denmark

This posting is dedicated to my good, old, Ivy League friend Omar (we have known each other since age 6... 5?), who is not ashamed to flatter me by requesting blogs on current affairs that pique his interest:

I think Ann Coulter is a moron. I also think she's actually a man, but that's another discussion for another time and another place. After roughly a year of reading his/her columns, today, for the first time, I actually came across a paragraph by him/her that I would not necessarily use to wipe a dog's behind... not that I wipe dog's behinds... on a regular basis. Anyway, the paragraph goes so:

"In order to express their displeasure with the idea that Muslims are violent, thousands of Muslims around the world engaged in rioting, arson, mob savagery, flag-burning, murder and mayhem, among other peaceful acts of nonviolence."

Which is pretty much what happened in the Middle East and Asia when that poor Danish newspaper, Jyllands-Posten decided to publish a couple of cartoons kind of poking fun at the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh). (For the record, pbuh = peace be upon him, and why pbuh? Because I certainly hope so.)

The latest rampage has been a series of idiotic attacks and protests in my own country... *sigh* which left 3 people, including an 8 year old boy dead. OK, first, to you protesting imbeciles and the emptyheads that incite you:

1. It's a CARTOON. Explain how it threatens the well-being of you and your family.
2. It's a CARTOON. Go make your own if it makes you feel better (like Iran for example... see below). Don't hurt things and people. If this were not a family-oriented blog, I would direct terribly bad language your way right now.
3. It's a CARTOON. Get over it.

In the spirit of non-violence, I would be happy to see run over by a steamroller each and every one of the idiots who thinks it's noble and worthwhile to run around a developing country burning things, injuring people and destroying lives to show displeasure at - well, at ANYTHING. I don't care how illiterate, parochial, disadvantaged, downtrodden or attacked-by-the-West you are. God gave you a brain. And a heart. Use them.

That being said, I am interested to see international reaction to the latest competition no doubt capturing the imagination of the nation of Iran: The Holocaust Cartoon Contest
Rather a sick idea, but then, to many, so is the idea of a cartoon of Muhammad (pbuh) with a turban bomb. Once again though, sticks and stones etc etc.

Couple of interesting (well, I think they're interesting, so you're going to hear about them) situations developing in the world international relations-wise:

1. Iran seems to be taking a massive gander at calling the United States' bluff on the whole "we're-going-to-invade-and-occupy-you" issue. Restarting their nuclear reactors, poking fun at Israel, telling Condi to "shut up." They're really asking for it, eh? And that Ahmedinejad fellow is stark raving mad too, it seems. The way I see it now, the US (ie the Republican Admin. featuring Prince of Darkness and Secret Sniper Dick Cheney) loses face and credibility now if it DOESN'T invade.

2. Poor Denmark. I mean, the neutral, friendly country having its flag burned all over the place. Danes welcomed everywhere now having to hide their nationality. All because of a cartoonist. You never know where the next kick in the groin is coming from, do you? Personally, I find it quite amusing, in a haha-you-were-loved-but-now-you're-not kind of way.

12:30:45; Dane: I'm from Denmark, everybody loves me, lalalalala *happy music*
12:30:46; Jyllands-Posten publishes a cartoon
12:30:47; Dane: Auuuuugh! You want to KILL me!! But I'm from Denmark! DENMARK!! Why???

Talk about crashing a party you thanked your lucky stars you weren't invited to... or something.

Important News this Saturday...

This morning, the headline of the article topmost in the little Yahoo! News box on my homepage:

Doctors Remove Part of Sharon's Intestines

Is the partial removal of an 80 year old Israeli's bowel system really the most important news in the world this Saturday morning?

This is a bad sign for us all. What's next? Will we read a stunning expose on Netanyahu's impotence? Maybe Shimon Peres has hives?

Shocking Pink Curtains

So I send my parents emails from time to time; I try to send at least 3 or 4 every week. The parents write back as often as electricity and our internet service providers allow. My mother is effectively the spokesparent. My dad emails occasionally, the most notable missive from him being the email he sent to tell me to not get my ear pierced after I had sent home an email (WITH attached photograph) telling them I had ALREADY got it done...

Anyway, I look forward to these emails from my mother as they usually contain news of stuff from back home that I used to be involved in - mass murder, violent protests and such and such... no, not really... though that would make me an altogether more interesting person... and probably a more entertaining blogger. Maybe when I go home this Summer...

What dear mother's emails ACTUALLY contain are little tid bits about life in K-Town, KYC, KHI (for you airport code types). Road closures, sweepress absent for four days straight, new restaurant opening, old ladies falling off cliffs... you know.

So we moved into a new house a year and a half ago, and since it's a big house (and we're little people), we're still in the process of "finishing" it. Not all the rooms have tables, carpets (and in some cases, floors) yet. I get messages every week about progress made; kitchen light finally working, new side table, plants in the garden etc etc. And its nice. I usually make note of the small enhancements to our abode and store them in my mind (from where they inevitably disappear somehow... head like a hole).

So the latest small enhancement is curtains for yours truly's bedroom. Normally, knowledge that my room was getting curtains would be a source of joy to me... but in this case, I'm not sure what to think. I have reproduced for you (completely unedited) the line from my mother's latest email that informs us of this impending addition:

"ordered curtains for ur room [ hope ull like ..shocking pink ..muhahaha]...now looking for blinds for f s room and cellar"

*sigh*

Notice first of all that my brother (F happens to be my brother) gets BLINDS - nice twisty blinds that are convenient to open and close. Also notice that even our CELLAR is worthy of blinds, but I'm having bulky, clothy, un-twist-and-open-able curtains foisted on me. Not too big of a deal. But still, gripe-able.

Second, they're SHOCKING PINK. Now you may laugh this off as a joke but I wouldn't put it past my dear mother to actually do something like that... "But son, they create such a lovely contrast with your grey-blue marble floor" or "Son, I thought you'd appreciate them given your long hair and earring" or "No boy has shocking pink curtains in his room; don't you want to be different?"

"hope ull like" she says. NO I WONT LIKE.

So how many mothers out there actually use the evil laugh (muahaha) on THEIR OWN OFFSPRING?? How horrible is that?? I didn't think it was possible, even in jest (maybe I'm naiive?)... then today happened...

"What's for dinner mom?"
"Broccoli and cabbage... muhahaha"

"Can I go out and play?"
"Only after you clean your room... muahahahaha"

"What color curtains are you getting for me, your 24-soon-to-be-25 year old son?"
"Shocking pink... hope ull like... muhahaha"

The orb of security that enveloped me when my mother was near (in spirit even, if not in person) to nurture and protect me has now been shattered. I am alone, cold and defenseless. Orbless mishaps in a cruel world by day. Shocking pink curtains in my nightmares. Muhahaha.

Childhood is over.