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.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
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.)
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.)
Thursday, November 16, 2006
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.
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, November 08, 2006
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:
* 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.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
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.
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.
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