YouTubing

I waste my time. Let me waste yours.

Bob
Weird Al being himself... but with palindromes.


The Facebook Skit
Penn Masala. Enough said.


Curry and Rice Girl
Ludakrishna and Vikram MC of "Welcome to India" fame


Crush on Obama
Amber Lee... rumor had it Michelle Obama wanted to kill her... all completely made up of course but exciting nevertheless.


Curious GWB
One of the better George W. spoofs out there.


Paris in Jail
If you've heard "Stars are Blind," you'll appreciate this.

Chicago Nights... Well, Night

So I meant to post this last week. But hey, better late than never. Unless you’re a cold or the bubonic plague or something…

As promised, I have downtown stories. Friday night, 5 of us arrived in downtown Chicago around 715 or so… I forget where we alighted. I do remember, however, that we were starving. We figured we would walk around for a while and choose a nice restaurant for Tom’s birthday dinner. Tom, in case you didn’t know, was turning 26. Anyway, about 40 minutes in, we realized we had a problem. Naynesh eats no meat (religion). Christina can’t be near nuts (allergies). Shahyan doesn’t drink alcohol (religion and fear of parental backlash). So several bars and restaurants were off the list automatically. The number of dining establishments in Chicago that insist on using meat and/or peanuts in every single one of their offerings is astounding.

Eventually, we found one and ate (the overpriced, high society Tavern on Rush, if you must know – even paupers have their days). Dinner was uneventful for the most part. We discussed which of our Fisher College of Business professors would be most likely to commit a murder AND get away with it. Then we discussed which of our professors would be most likely to completely mess up the execution of a planned murder… you know, normal stuff.

After dinner, we found that downtown was a bust as far as bars-that-Ohio-State-students-wanting-to-get-drunk-would-approve-of. So we got a cab to Wrigleyville, home of the Chicago Cubs and also lots of interesting bars and clubs. I sat in the front and the other four crammed in at the back.

The cabbie’s cell phone blared, of all things, a cheap Indian movie song ring tone. “Excuse me” he said and answered the phone. Thirty seconds into his conversation I heard the following sentence: “Behench*d, saree zindagi kum karaan ge, maa dee k*ss” which translates to something I’m sure I shouldn’t have written here, even in partially censored Urdu.

Five minutes and many such utterances later, the phone was shut off, and I gently inquired of the gent, “Are you Punjabi?” Anyone who understood what I’ve typed above knows that was a stupid question. OF COURSE he was. Anyway, after introductions, the fellow jokingly berated me for listening to his conversation then apologized if he had said “anything he shouldn’t have.”

He proceeded to regale us with stories of other desi (South Asian native) cab drivers in Chicago who had carried on similar conversations while on the job not realizing that their customers were understanding every word and enjoying themselves. Oh, and when he learned we were interning at a large telecommunications company (company to remain unnamed), he spent 10 minutes explaining to us exactly why the XXXX phone, manufactured and sold by said company, was a terrible phone and why he hated his own so much. Talk about unsolicited feedback from the end user. *sigh*

So Wrigleyville. We first went to this bar called Moxie that was rather quiet and had a nice relaxing atmosphere. Which is exactly why the others didn’t want to spend too long there. So we left, after the beginnings of drunkenness. After 30 indecisive minutes of walking up and down Clark street, we picked a German bar, The Uberstein, where “It’s Oktoberfest every day!”

At The Uberstein, we were treated to three elderly gentlemen in lederhosen playing various musical instruments and performing polka after polka. This was entertaining for me in the beginning. However

As novelty for me down,
Alcohol content in others’ blood streams up,
Equals novelty for others’ up

They were clapping and shouting along to the polkas (all of which sounded the same after a few minutes) and Christina got to perform a number on the “verrückter stück” or “crazy stick” that was brandished with much aplomb by the lead performer and offered to any audience members brave (or drunk) enough to have a go at it. The crazy stick was a stick (believe it or not) with a mounted tambourine, some type of horn and several things that made noise when you tapped them. Good times.

The highlight for me was what I later learned to be the “Too Fat Polka”

I don’t want her.
You can have her.
She’s too fat for me, HEY.

I get crazy
I get numbo
When I’m dancing
With my jumbo jumbo

I don’t want her.
You can have her.
She’s too fat for me, HEY.
She’s too fat for me. HEY.
She’s too fat for me… and so on.

So around midnight, we left The Uberstein and headed over to SmartBar, one of the trendier clubs in Wrigleyville. We had to pay $10 each just to get in. *sigh* But, I will say the house DJs were quite good. The bald fellow who took over from the kid on the Mac was the much much better though.

Now I’m not much of a dancer. So I took my bottle of water (thank you Christina) and stood at a bar that looked out on the dance floor. I was all cool like with my gelled hair and my contact lenses and my I’m-too-manly-to-dance semi-sneer. I glared at people who had no idea I existed and bobbed my head in time to the bass. Yeah. That’s right.

About an hour or so into my coolness, this short fellow walked up to me, leaned in, and said,

“Hey man, do you know where I can get anything?”

Excuse me? I, still in cool mode, just shook my head while staring straight ahead.

“Are you sure?”

Still cool mode. Nod my head silently. Yes, I’m sure, peon.

“I’d be really happy for you to not be sure.”

Turn head slightly towards speaker, oh so coolly, and shake it once more. I was such a stud.

And he left. “What exactly was that all about?” I wondered. And then it came to me.

Needy boy thought I was a drug dealer!! My evening was complete. I was all cool and glare-y like and patron of stylish Chicago club thought I was a drug dealer. Fantastic! I’ve never felt so alive… so powerful… so much like a drug dealer. So I stood and sneered at people some more. Life was good.

The others, all this time, were either on the dance floor or at the bar, getting drunker and more uncoordinated by the second. At around 2 am, Christina stumbled over to me and loudly proclaimed her love for the city of Chicago. Then she started trying to hump my leg.

I took this as a sign that the evening was surely drawing to a close. We left SmartBar a few minutes later and made our way to the CTA (i.e. Chicago Transit Authority subway).

That should have been the end of noteworthy events. But no. On the subway, we had the pleasure of encountering a very angry African American lady who took offense to Christina resting her hands on the headrest of the seat the lady wanted to sit in. There was a lot of yelling by the lady. Christina was challenged to a fist fight. Christina looked bemused. And the rest of the people in the railcar tried to hide their smiles. Then there was more yelling about whores and bedrooms, completely off topic, I might add. And then lots of muttering. The lady left us only a stop later, thank God, with more memories to cherish.

Chicago can be a strange place.

Crossing Limits

Keith Olbermann is easily the most astute and eloquent political commentator on the face of the United States. This is probably his finest piece yet; a searing indictment of the Bush administration's steady march towards corrupt Third World dictatorship.

Brief background for those unfamiliar with the situation:
GWB's aide Lewis 'Scooter' Libby lied in court about the treasonous revelation of the identity of CIA Secret Agent Valerie Plame.

Scooter got caught. Scooter went to court. Scooter was convicted by a jury of his peers of Obstruction of Justice and sentenced to two and a half years in jail, among other things.

Then, this week, GWB slaps the American judicial system and the people of the United States in the face by bypassing all legal protocol and constitutional requirements to commute Scooter's sentence to ZERO freakin' days. Why? Well, "the President thought any jail time was excessive." Ha. Talk about not knowing your limits. Talk about a betrayal of a nation's trust.

Just watch Olbermann. He puts indignation into words better than anyone could:

Aisam, Tennis, Songs

Unbeknownst to the majority of my readership, I have been keeping up on the blogword for the past few weeks. A subtle bolding now and then would have been your only clue as to the identity of the word. This post though, since I missed last week's blogword, I am going to be cheap and do TWO blogwords in ONE post: Forever (last week's) and Me (this week's).

On a side, I've had some issues with some of my older IM accounts... you know how you have accounts you don't use any more? Delete them. It prevents issues. Issues that could permeate newer accounts as well. Anyway, *cryptic warning terminate*

All is well in the online world once more.

Aisam Ul Haq Baby!! Yesterday he became only the second Pakistani EVER to win a match at Wimbledon. He beat some Englishman or the other and now gets to play Marat Safin... tomorrow, I think. A massacre in the offing, yes? Not necessarily. Aisam beat Richard Gasquet last week. The man is on a roll. After he's got Marat Saf-in his pocket (I know, weak, but give me some credit), he will send Roger home - another Fed-er...er... in his cap. (Hey, this is totally off the cuff... there was no thought involved. Can you even tell?)

Anyway, blogwords. For forever, I was under the mistaken impression that I would be Pakistan's star in the tennis galaxy. Aisam was supposed to be me. I was destined to be the next Ivan Lendl: The late bloomer who rose to conquer the tennis world through sheer hard work and perseverance. That was before I realized how bloody lazy I am. Hard work... meh. I'd rather be sleeping.

So I am clearly not a tennis pro... although for several years (i.e forever) my ego let me believe that there was a chance. I suppose I'll settle for a second rate blog and the occasional all beef hot dog. All beef hot dogs are good.

Getting Pavlovian for a second, the word "forever" makes me think of Mariah Carey and that old song... you know, with the high climax ending “You will always beeeee the only oneeeeeee.” The song was called Forever. Surprise surprise.

Just about every blogword relates to a song from my adolescence… I’ve said this in another posting too haven’t I?

*senses this post is fading fast*

And the word me? Haha. Take On Me by A-Ha. What else?

Take on meeeee
Take me onnnn
I'll be gonnnnnnne.

So sorry no fun story this week. This weekend promises to be entertaining though… 6 Ohio State students getting drunker than all get out in downtown Chicago. And me.

Late One Evening In A Quiet Suburban Chicago Apartment

We have a really nice, corporate style, hotelesque apartment for the summer. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, cable TV, internet, the works. Even dishes and crockery. Living it up in style in the North-West suburbs of Chicago, we are. We even have housekeeping come in once a week - included in rent - to change our sheets, give us fresh towels and clean the place. I want to live here forever.

So I was alone in the apartment this past weekend; Naynesh had gone to Indianapolis to watch the United States Grand Prix. I too would have gone but I was lazy. And Formula 1 without Michael Schumacher can hardly be called Formula 1. Although Sebastian Vettel (only teenager ever to score a point in a Formula 1 race, that too on debut) may rekindle my interest if he finds a team next year.

But I digress. As usual. So I was alone in the apartment Saturday night folding laundry, listening to Joe Purdy and digesting dinner when there was a knock at the door. "Ah, no doubt some pretty young thing who wants to keep me company and discuss Liverpool's chances of luring Samuel Eto'o away from Barcelona this summer" I said to myself, quite reasonably.

I moved noiselessly to the door - barefoot on soft carpet you see. I looked through the peephole and saw not a pretty young thing but a rather large gentleman of Hispanic appearance with a neck as wide as my waist sporting a shiny gold chain. He was in a bright yellow sleeveless shirt. His tree-trunks-for-arms gave me the impression that he wasn't the housekeeping kind.

In my mind, I ran down the list of gold-chain wearing, Latin American wrestlers that I am acquainted with. Short list. And Javier standing outside the door was most definitely not on it.

I did some quick math (as is my habit in situations of this nature)

Me, 5' 8", 135 lbs <<< Latin American Wrestler I do not know

Now I'm not afraid of much, if I do say so myself (only Samara from The Ring, truth be told). But if I have to choose between opening a door to confront an unknown man four times my size and cowering in a corner in a closet until he's left, I'll pick the closet every time. Call it an acute sense of self-preservation.

So I cowered in the bedroom... kind of. I ignored the door and folded laundry. Javier stood around for what seemed like too long. He was there two minutes later. But not three minutes after that.

It was all probably completely innocent.
Javier was looking for his cousin Manuela and had entered the wrong building by mistake.
No eres Manuela. Lo siento.(You are not Manuela. I apologize.)

Or Javier was visiting his old friend Paco and they realized they had no sugar for their tea.
Quiero azúcar por favor Señor. (I would like some sugar please, Sir.)

Even so, I scrapped plans of a late night grocery run and put on some old school Drowning Pool.

Let the bodies hit the floor.
Let the bodies hit the floor.

That's right Javier. Mess with me and the bodies WILL hit the floor.
*angry snarl*

Numb Me, Drill Me, Floss Me, Bill Me

Ten points to whoever caught on to the title of my post being the old Weird Al Yankovic parody of U2's Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me from the Batman Forever soundtrack. You know I still haven't seen Batman Forever... or Batman Returns... or Batman. I have however seen the TV show from the 60s *POW* with Adam West et al. *BIFF*

Holy Ohio State University College of Dentistry Batman!! So my student health insurance is supposed to get me a dental check up and cleaning for the nominal fee of $15, quite reasonable by any standards. I figured that'd be a good thing to do before heading out to Chicago. You know, dazzle the employer with sparkling, plaque free teeth and walk away with a full-time offer on the strength of that alone. That's the plan anyway. So far though, a week in, I see no signs of my pristine oral condition being any sort of advantage.

I'd like to talk to you today about my teeth and their experience at the highly regarded Ohio State University College of Dentistry (OSUCOD). In order to provide some context, I will recount a typical visit to a dentist's clinic back home, in Karachi.

Karachi:
*walk into dentist’s office*
Dentist: What do you want?
Me: Clean my teeth, dammit
Dentist: All of them?
Me: Yes, dammit.
Dentist: Alright then.
(15 minutes later)
*walk out of dentist’s office*

And now,

OSUCOD:
First, you have your teeth examined by a dental student. Then

• Re-examined and checked by several qualified and experienced dentists (a couple of them looked a little senile... so incredibly experienced they must have been).
• X-rayed. About 5 different ways. I've never had so much padding in my mouth. I must have looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger's bloated baby brother. There is not a bone in my mouth or jaw that has not been photographed.
• Pressure tested or something crazy complicated. Six different measurements from each tooth.
• Gum health type thing tested. I don't even remember what arcane tricks they pulled to get that done. There was all sorts of poking and prodding. I can't remember a time I felt so violated.

On top of this, they took a COMPLETE medical history. Seriously complete.
"Do you still have your tonsils?"
"I don't know. Look and see."

It turns out that I do still have my tonsils. It was my adenoids that were removed. Those are dangerous. They're usually only found in space, you know, orbiting the Sun between Mars and Jupiter. How they got up my nose, I will never understand.

"When did you have your adenoids removed?"
"When I was really little."
"Could you be more specific?"
"Not really."

That whole rigmarole took about twenty minutes. And the joy and happiness that was the rest of the lines above took all of three hours. Notice no cleaning was done. Because they knew right away that I was going to have to COME BACK FOR ANOTHER DAMN APPOINTMENT. New patient, teaching hospital, blah blah. All I wanted were shiny teeth. Instead I got 180 minutes of protocol. Anyway, I had no choice. I scheduled ANOTHER DAMN APPOINTMENT.

Nine days later I walked back in for The Long-Awaited Cleaning.

Which took almost three hours and twenty minutes… the length of the movie Titanic. What's sad is I can't decide which was the more painful experience. What's scary is that it sometimes takes TWELVE hours to clean people's mouths (so said Erin, the poor dental student forced to spend six hours with me). I was *lucky* to be done so quick. All I can say is Americans must have some terrible oral hygiene. Ha. Going to civilize the world and can't even civilize their own mouths. Ha.

But hey, 380 minutes in, I was done! Teeth clean. Two dental students and fifty qualified dentists at the Ohio State College of Dentistry officially know my teeth better than I would want to know them myself. Good for them.

Things Economists Say

Well, AN economist. Our macroeconomics professor has a very... shall we say... laid back teaching style. You almost feel as though you're hanging out with him in his backyard on a Saturday afternoon. We did learn some stuff though... mainly about endogenous and exogenous shocks. I have tried for three weeks to think of a good joke I can make about a person's exogenous zones but have failed miserably. It would have been a bad, inappropriate joke anyway, so oh well.

Sometimes the learning was high quality. Other times not. I present to you some gems from the past quarter in MBA 820 - The Global Economy.

During a discussion on what contributes to a nation's GDP:
"Some people say prostitution is a bad thing. I say those people probably just aren't paying enough."

Talking about economic slowdowns:
"The definition of recession is like the definition of pornography. You know it when you see it. If you're like me, you see it everywhere."

Simplifying a model:
"In fine American fashion, we're going to assume the rest of the world doesn't exist..."

During a ridiculously boring lecture:
"This isn't interesting to me either."

Explaining his teaching style:
"Let me stumble around and mumble for a while. Then I'll ask you a question."

On the horrors of inflation:
"There would be no chili cheeseburgers for Dave. I would be s**t out of luck."

To an uncooperative PowerPoint presentation:
"Why are you such a jackass?"

Good times. Good times...

Exam Doctor Stud Lost

I don't really enjoy the "LiveJournal" type of blog posting where you say stuff like "I woke up today and ate breakfast" or "Then we went to Malmo's bar where Marmaduke got totally plastered" or some other completely unimportant rubbish of that nature. But today, it appears, I shall wallow in sin and blog in that exact manner. A different sort of unimportant rubbish than what you're used to:

I am officially done with half of my MBA education and my 21st year of formal learning.
Finals ended yesterday.
Drive to Chicago on Saturday.
Work starts on Monday.
Life in the fast lane. Right now however, I’m sitting in an examination room at the doctor’s office (you know, me and my cough). And I have been, alone, for 35 minutes. This happened last time too, so this time I was smart and brought my computer with me. There are no fast lanes in the American healthcare industry. Only unmarked dirt roads and really long rest stops. Interestingly, the case in our Strategy final exam also dealt with the healthcare industry. But we’re not going to talk about that. Ever again.

The male nurse who took my blood pressure told me it was “really good” and “very strong.” Haha. My blood pressure can kick your blood pressure’s behind. To be fair, despite the fact that you walk in a 26 year old and leave a grandfather, the Ohio State University Lung Center does provide high quality care with empathetic physicians and staff. The nurse went as far as to offer to mail me medication in Chicago should I need it. Now that’s service.

While we're on the subject, my stud fell out of my ear sometime last week. I don’t even know when it happened… I only realized it when I was in the shower, cleaning behind the ears you know, when I noticed I couldn’t feel any metal. I figure it’s a sign. For some reason God doesn’t want my left ear adorned this summer. I’ve been studless for about 6 days now. At this point, if my parents were drinkers, we would be seeing the busting out of champagne and the popping of the cork. But hah, don’t celebrate too soon. I have more studs and, if it turns out God was just being funny, the ear shall sparkle once more… well, it’s kind of a dull silver sparkle. I can’t afford diamonds yet.

By the way, Christophe finally has a new car. A nifty 2003 Hyundai Santa Fe; a gas guzzling, space hogging, road raging, truly American sport utility vehicle (Made in Korea). Let’s hope and pray this one doesn’t die on him.

So I started watching Lost, the TV series, about 15 days ago. From the beginning, Season 1 Episode 1 because, you know, it’s impossible to follow if you don’t. And this evening, by God’s Grace, I will finish Season 3 and be completely up to date and in sync with the Lost universe. That’s 3 seasons, 23 episodes a season… 45 minutes an episode… 52 of the last 336 hours of my life have been spent lost (hahahahaha) on "The Island." The only thing that annoyed me was that they kept killing the pretty girls off... I won't say any more... don't want to spoil it if you're still catching up.

I’m going to have so much free time tomorrow…

Smallville, here I come.

Completing My Collection

Of all the defining moments in one's life; birth, first day of school, graduation, first job, first minor car accident etc etc, first drug test has to rank somewhere in the Top 10. Wednesday, May 23rd will forever be seared in my mind as a date of considerable import (not like anything else worth remembering happened... damn you AC Milan with the magnificant diving Gattuso and the phantom-groin-injury Inzaghi).

Anyway, drug test. Summer employer wishes summer employees to be drug free for some reason. So they sent us paperwork and told us how to get tested and even paid for it. Which was nice because I was certainly not going to dip into my own meager funds to have some scientist in Tennessee stare at my urine through a microscope. So we - we being Shahyan, Naynesh (India) and Iliana (Bulgaria) decided to go this afternoon and get the thing over with.

The first interesting thing was that they had a check in desk. With an attendant. But you had to sign in using their computerized registration system. So you never actually talked to anyone even though the lady was sitting right there staring at you. So we typed in our names... I went first ... S.H.A.H.Y.A.N. so I got called in first.

"Shenyen?? Are you Shenyen?" Apparently I was going to deal with the pee collector who couldn't read. "Did I misspell my name?" I asked her with no small air of condescension.

I wasn't alone.

Iliana became Liana. And Naynesh... haha... give the lady some credit... she started at his passport for a good 10 seconds and finally looked up at him and said, "How do you say this? I've already got names wrong today." So he told her. Later, she asked him if the three of us were from the same family. Apparently, in the lady's head, unpronounceable names translated to a bond of blood.

So that was our registration process. Once in the "room" there was all sorts of protocol to be followed. I had to wash my hands. With soap. I guess they were afraid I had walked into the place with my hands coated with urine altering substances. Then I had to empty my pockets of everything except keys and wallet. All of my information was being entered into a computer. It felt like an interrogation session. I began to wonder if the general intended to make me pee in front of her to make sure I wasn't cheating or anything.

But no, thank God. I was given a little container with a line drawn about a third of the way up. "You must collect up to the line." Yes, General. And led to a bathroom. Bathroom was inspected and toilet was flushed before I was allowed in. "You have four minutes to complete your collection." Yes, General. Complete my collection...

So, thanks to mass consumption of fluids earlier in the day, performance anxiety was effectively vanquished and I completed my collection with aplomb and no small amount of flair. Container sealed. Now I just had to wash my hands and leave the bathroom. But wait. Haha.

Sink. Check.
Taps. Check.
Water. NO

The threat of urine dilution holds great fear for the drug testers. They had turned off the water supply to the sinks in their testing areas. Talk about paranoid. Or maybe some underperforming souls turned to water to facilitate their collection reaching the all-important line... I don't know.

Anyway, back in the interrogation room, I had to sign 17 forms authorizing a bunch of MDs and PhDs to stare at my waste and judge my character and eating/drinking/smoking/inhaling/imbibing habits.

Results will be sent to the employer but, if I so desire, I can ask employer dear for a copy.

Gosh, I hope I do well.

Wolfowitz, Media, Mexicans

Wolfowitz

So Paul Wolfowitz is gone from the Presidency of the World Bank. Ha. Another neocon bites the dust. Now I am by no means a liberal (as the second half of this posting might hint) but it amuses me to see buffoons like Rumsfeld, to a great extent Cheney, now Wolfowitz and soon Gonzalez fall by the wayside. Maybe there is such a thing as karma. Although humiliation and derision for the remainder of their earthly existences are hardly commensurate punishments for their crimes against humanity.

It’s funny to see some analysts and self-important journalists discussing Wolfowitz’s dishonorable exit as a political outcome and pointing to his outspokenness as something that alienated his colleagues and doomed him from the get-go since "Wolfowitz, World Bank just didn't fit."

Are you for real?

That pathetic little man has always looked out for his own interests. He lied. He broke rules. He got caught. He’s been punished. Don’t use your pseudo-intellectual, pompous would-be political acumen to gloss over that.

Media
That being said, the image below points to the fact that the taste of the water one drinks depends entirely on the toilet one happens to be drinking out of. I did a Google News search on this fiasco and, lo and behold, the first two hits were

World Bank was Never a Good Fit
And
Wolfowitz, World Bank were a Perfect Match

Meh. Media. Can’t trust a word. In the United States anyway… in Pakistan, the media these days is probably the only source you can trust. The politicians are all pathological.

Mexicans
Anyway, so, for the life of me, I can’t understand this whole amnesty scenario that’s been bouncing around in the corridors of power of the United States these past few years.

Brief Background:
There are millions of Mexicans in the United States illegally (and hundreds more entering every day) working in low income jobs. This is a problem because among many many issues, they can’t be taxed, employers can pay them lower than minimum wage, there is no count of how much they are contributing to or taking away from the economy and crime in their communities cannot be accurately reported or effectively combated. There have been all sorts of proposals on how to deal with this, the one gaining the most traction has been an amnesty plan that will allow all undocumented immigrants to come forward without penalty and begin a program that will lead them to US citizenship in a specified number of years.

Are you for real? This just blows my mind. I have to

• Jump through umpteen hoops (answer questions like "Are you a terrorist?") and wait three months to get a U.S. visa for legitimate purposes,
• Face snotty, blue eyed, blonde immigration officers at every port of entry I go through,
• Struggle with ridiculous amounts of protocol every time I want to fly anywhere

And those pipsqueaks can just run across the California border when it suits them and have citizenship handed to them on a silver platter?

Please. There’s something wrong with the picture here. When it comes to me and my people, America is all about rules and laws and security and you have to obey what we say, blah blah blah, this is our country, after all. Fine. Understandable, even.

But when it comes to Spanish-Speaking Southerners who surreptitiously sneak in and slyly steal your jobs, you’re all about rolling out the welcome mat? The laws of America suspended? George W. (the good one, Washington) must be turning in his grave. What is this? The United States of Hypocrisy?

Put them on buses. Send them back home. Put up that fence. And electrify it.

A country that cannot even respect its own rule of law cannot expect to thrive for long. If you don’t believe me, look at mine.

Karachi Bleeds. Again.

What I am posting about today is happening NOW. This isn’t one of my silly, nostalgic, much-ado-about-nothing postings. This is real, current and serious.

So the brother left this morning; he’s gone home for eight weeks or so to work in the desert on some engineering thing. I don’t know the details. Anyway, he’ll be landing at Quaid-e-Azam International Airport in Karachi some time Sunday morning. Whether or not he gets beyond the airport remains to be seen.

You are probably aware, if you have eyes and an internet connection, of the current situation in Karachi. If you are not (and best you not tell me if you aren’t), let me provide some context and background.

Early March, dear President Musharraf removes the Chief Justice of Pakistan Iftikhar Chaudhry on some “misuse of power” charge that no one can explain. Lawyers angry. The President has overstepped his bounds again. Protests. Support for Justice Chaudhry grows exponentially. Now for some reason, the gentleman decides that he needs to attend rallies in his support and become the poster boy for Pakistan’s constitution. Fine. Except this goes to anger the government. So, a quick recap. Judge rallying. Government angry.

Now, this weekend dear Justice ventures Karachi-ward. “I must show my face to my darling supporters in the port city as well.” The day of this rally (Saturday, May 12th 2007) dawned with the provincial government warning him to stay away for fear of violence. In true “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” fashion, Pakistan’s opposition parties decided to support Chaudhry and decry Musharraf. The MQM, the group of thugs that has been trying to run Karachi for the past 20 years, found itself in the same corner as Musharraf in this case and decided to stop any silly Chief Justice rally before it started.

Several hundred opposition party political activists were arrested on Friday night; interestingly, not one from the MQM. Overnight roadblocks appeared on city streets. Major thoroughfares were shut down. Shops and offices remained closed. Gunfights broke out. Cars and buses were burned. Journalists were shot. TV channels were threatened with dire consequences for broadcasting the truth. The MQM was showing its might. And the opposition could not bear this affront to its manhood. They had to fight back. Sweet, angelic Justice Chaudhry was stranded at the airport when he arrived. There was no way for him to enter the city. All this while, in the name of power, people died. One hundred wounded. Twenty seven not going home again. And the numbers continue to rise.

Let’s face it. The MQM needs to go. Now. They are what the IRA is to Northern Ireland, what ETA is to Spain and what the Tamil Tigers are to Sri Lanka. Terrorists. All they have done for our city in the past twenty years is call strikes, hold rallies, kill people, burn buses and extinguish hope. Some of our family members live in MQM controlled parts of the city. One year, on the occasion of Independence Day (August 14th), they had decorated their house with Pakistan flags (below).



A few hours later, MQM “representatives” showed up and demanded they replace the crescent-and-starred green and white (above) with the red, green and white of MQM (below).



Really patriotic, these thugs are.

And President Musharraf. If ever there was a disappointment, he is one. Eight years ago we thought we finally had a man with morals and principles to lead us.
No more power hungry dictators with God complexes.
No more bureaucracy and nepotism.
No more corruption.
No more fundamentalism.
No more power and water shortages.
No more of the elite stuffing their pockets while the common folk suffer.
Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.

He started out well, like so many of them do.
Pledges to improve Pakistan’s image abroad he delivered on to an extent.
But then he became President. Chief Executive wasn’t permanent enough I suppose.
And rigged elections so that the man who would listen to him would become Prime Minister. Shaukat Aziz, you pliable little ball of plasticine, you.
And he was cowed by the mullahs. What is so scary about those damn beards, anyway?
And he dismissed those who disagreed with him and his views. Such as the Chief Justice of Pakistan.

I hate to say it.
Pervez Musharraf has become George W. Bush.
Naively blind to his many faults.
Strangely content to ignore important issues.
Blatantly primitive in enforcing his will.
And bafflingly ignorant when it comes to the good of his people.

I’d say he needs to go. Now. But there is no one to take his place. Incredible as it may sound, he’s probably still the best of a bad lot. And that means my city, not to mention my country, is in big big trouble.

Right here, right now, there are no answers.

Six Reasons They’ll Make It Six In Europe

6 bankable reasons Liverpool FC will defeat AC Milan in Athens on May 23rd 2007 to win their 6th (count it) European Champions League Crown:

1. If a three goal cushion in a Champions League final won’t allow you to beat a team (2005 y’all), nothing will. Liverpool is to AC Milan what a heel was to Achilles. Or something.

2. Kaka is Bhagga’s brother. Bhagga is the name of the custodian who has worked for our family for donkey’s years. Kaka is not a footballer. Kaka is Bhagga’s brother.

3. A name like Gattuso will only Gat U So far. Hahahahaha.

4. Liverpool doesn’t lose in red. Liverpool will be wearing red. Liverpool doesn’t lose in Europe. Last I heard, Athens is in Europe.

5. Rafa Benitez. Any manager who can calmly sit cross-legged (or Indian style, as they say) on a football field while his team is in a penalty shoot out (this versus Chelsea last week) has to be half-god. He even checks his watch. Haha.



6. Steven Gerrard.
Olympiakos. Conquered.

"Mellor. . . Lovely cushion header. . for GERRARRDDD!! Ohhhhh you beauty!! What a hit son, What - a - hit!!"


West Ham United. Conquered.

"GERRAAAAARD!! OOOhhhh!! Stunning!!"


AC Milan 2005. Conquered.

"In towards GERRARD!! Hello!! Here we go!!"


And, dare I say, AC Milan 2007.
I dare.
Conquered.

P.S: This is the first time I've actually put some sort of multimedia in my postings. Little blogger boy is growing up.

Go Away

The title of this post I say, firmly yet politely, to each of the individuals or entities below.

Hillary Clinton
Go away.
Every word out of that – and I hate to demean her gender by calling her a – woman’s mouth is calculated and self-promoting. My stomach churns every time I hear her speak. She wants to be President to be President, nothing more – no values, no stand, no morals. And what’s even more worrying is that an electorate that was stupid enough to re-elect Bush is more than stupid enough to send the ambitious demon thing-in-the-guise-of-a-woman to the White House. *sigh*

Undergraduates
Go away.
It is 1:40 a.m. right now. I would like to be asleep. But we live next to undergraduates. And they are having a “party.” There is drinking, some yelling, blaring music with little or no rhythmic appeal and tons of loud, pointless conversation. There are about 60 people in the backyard of the house next to ours. I bet none of them could muster a 1300 on the SATs (and that’s the new one too, out of 2400). Obnoxious undergraduates who like to drink and be loud with no concern for those around them are a symbol of all that is wrong with America. George W was one, after all. As I said to Clay, I didn’t really like undergraduates when I was one. God, how I hate them now. I mean strongly dislike. Not hate. Not hate. Strongly dislike.

Cristiano Ronaldo
Go away.
Poor Mr. Cry-baby-diving-to-win-free-kicks-with-a-head-too-big-for-his-loser’s-hat needs to straighten out or take a hike. Yes, your footwork is pretty but you’re an arrogant little prat who isn’t above cheating to get ahead. Shame on you. And your whiny, hypocritical, look-at-me-praying-to-the-virgin-Mary-for-redemption act every time you get a card isn't impressing anyone.

Entertainment TV (of any kind)
Go away.
No one cares that someone has new footage of Anna Nicole kissing her son, Daniel (while both were still alive, of course). Also, no one cares that Britney Spears prefers being naked to being clothed. And no one cares that Paris Hilton can’t sing.

Progressive Insurance
Go away.
So Progressive is supposed to quote you their rates and the rates of their competitors so you can find the best deal on insurance with only one call. Turns out, while they’re “saving you the trouble,” they’re actually running a credit report on you and, if they don’t like what they see, they’ll tell you Geico or All State has better rates than they do. I called them when I got my car in 2003. The “helpful” fellow on the line told me All State would be my best bet. Bah. If I ever have a good credit rating, Progressive will not have my business. Ever.

Dick Cheney
Go away.
Seriously now. Is there a person alive (except Cheney himself… well, he’s barely alive, but still) who disagrees with me? Every day of his snarly voiced, crooked mouthed existence is a dagger in the heart of humanity.

Also on the list but not in the spotlight this time, the entire Duke University men’s basketball team (including and especially the coaches); undergraduates; several idiot fundamentalist mullahs back home in Pakistan; people who force their beliefs on others; undergraduates; the anchors, talk show hosts, employees and anyone affiliated with Fox News; those who travel the world, have nice houses and possessions and then complain about being poor; undergraduates; Russell Crowe (seriously, who throws a phone at a concierge?); John McCain (likeable maverick turned senile buffoon… it’s quite sad really); Nicaragua (long story) and undergraduates.

Did I mention undergraduates?

Italian, Cousins vs Nephews

You ever stare at a word for so long that it starts to seem not real? This is what happened to me just now staring at the latest blogword: Finally. I found myself looking at just the "fin" part wondering why a fish had a body part the name of which comes from the Italian word (that presumably came from Latin at some point; I am no linguist) for end… or so I think. I have done no research to back this up.

Italian is an enjoyable language… not that I would know. I don't speak it. I do an admirable accent though… I remember once during rehearsals last summer, Aly and I did the entire first act of The Producers in Italian accents. We were so bored…

These days I'm working on my mafia boss accent… due in part to a series of unfortunate events during a Managerial Economics case discussion last Fall that led to my being called a hitman. All I said was they should have him knocked off. I didn't mean anything by it, I swear. Anyway, I'm practicing the thin wheezy voice whenever possible… whenever possible the last two weeks has been right before logistics class, with poor Nat Jordan as my unwitting subject. "*thin wheeze* Nathaniel, Nathaniel… my bambinos, they no lik-a you." Only a former pastor like Nat could have the patience and fortitude to endure my pathetic mafia persona with an indulgent smile. *sigh*

Speaking of bambinos, and other family members, I was recently informed (by Shannon's mother, Mrs. K, no less) that nieces and nephews become cousins once they're removed from being the offspring of your siblings.

I know.

Crazy.

Don't believe me. Don't believe Mrs. K. Believe Wikipedia.

Apparently, the system of naming people uncles and aunts has a name:
The English Kinship Terminology System
"In this system, the child of one's aunt or uncle is one's first cousin. The child of one's first cousin is one's first cousin once removed."

And for years I thought I was niece… well no, nephew to so many aunts and uncles. Turns out, all this time, I've been their first cousin once removed or second cousin once removed and, occasionally, twice removed. Talk about a shift in world views…

Yesterday: Nephew
Today: Just a cousin and, in most cases, removed!!

Yet another layer of cherubic innocence stripped away. Or, as they say in the English Kinship Terminology System, removed.

*sigh*

P.S: Don't forget to examine the nifty "Table of Consanguinity" on the Wikipedia page. I'm surprised they don't teach you that in school.

P.P.S: This post, like so many others, has ended up having nothing to do with the blogword. It's not my fault. I go where the blogword takes me.

P.P.S: Removed.

What's My Age Again?

So I’m back to Wandering. With a vengeance. Or something. The blogword is: SURE.

Sometimes I’m not sure I’m getting older… you know, your body starts to creak, you have hair on your face, but you still have the sense of humor of a seven year old and you find toilet jokes hilarious. Am I seven? Eighteen? Thirty-five? I don’t know. But everyone now and then, something happens that makes me realize that I’m surely not getting any younger. Like yesterday.

Brian Lara retired from international cricket after a 17 year career. Yes, retirements from sports happen all the time. But for some reason, I only really feel my age when a sports star calls it a day… or a life. I still miss Hansie Cronje. And Ayrton Senna.

Miandad
Javed Miandad retired in 1996. Now there was a cricketing icon gone. I remember watching his last game in Karachi on TV. It was a World Cup game and you could barely hear the announcers over the din of people shouting “Javed! Javed!” as he walked out to bat. I saw him at the airport once. It was sometime in the mid to late 80s. I was there with the father to receive some sort of relative. And the cricket team happened to be arriving at the same time. He was the only player I can recall that evening with enough humility to smile and shake the offered hand of a security guard eager for a connection with one of his heroes.

Oh, side story. Javed is rather dark. But you can’t really tell on the TV so much because of the light or the something or the helmet hiding his face, I don’t know. Anyway, we saw him in person at a wedding (This is a few years after the airport event). The maternal grandfather (of other posting fame) was there too. When he saw Miandad, he leaned forward and exclaimed loudly (and we are sure Javed heard him), “Oho!! Yeh itna kaala hai!! (Translation: Oh My! He’s really dark!)” My grandfather officially insulted the greatest batsman ever to play for Pakistan. At a wedding.

Moving on…

Becker
Boris Becker retired in 1999. My first conscious memory of him was watching his victory over Stefan Edberg in the 1989 Wimbledon final. It felt like 10 years of my life had flown by when he quit. Whoosh. The Stich battles. The wife who wasn’t white enough for some people controversy. He managed to maintain his dignity throughout. And then, all of a sudden, no more Boris.

Schumacher
Michael Schumacher retired in 2006. I’d been watching the arrogant genius running (well, driving really, if you must be technical) circles (well, laps really, if you must be technical) around opponents since 1992, when he drove a miserable Benetton Ford V8. Many a Sunday evening was spent in front of the television, eating lemon tarts (hey, they’re good), watching Schumi pull away from driver after driver. Yes, it got boring after a while, but I watched anyway.

I have more nostalgia to share, but in the interests of not boring you to death (just near death… you know… you see the white light but you don’t actually move towards it), I will restrict myself to further reminiscence only on the career of Brian Lara and why his retirement makes me feel old.

Lara
So this may surprise you, but I actually remember Brian Lara’s first innings in international cricket. It was the 1990 tour to Pakistan. Interestingly, the West Indies tour started as soon as the New Zealand tour I mentioned in my previous post ended.

Anyway, test match cricket.
TV on.
Shahyan cricket watching.
Wicket falls.
In comes debutant Brian Lara.
No real hype or anything. You know… no fanfare. No “Oh look, it’s the greatest player of our generation making his debut!” He scored 44. A very good looking 44. I was a fan. It was easy to follow his career after that. He come to prominence in the 1992 World Cup, starring in an opening partnership with the reliable Desmond Haynes. I actually tried to model my batting technique after Desmond Haynes’ for a few years but failed miserably… come to think of it all my attempts at modeling myself after any sportsman or woman have ended in abject failure. *sigh*

Anyway, Lara went from strength to strength. 375, 501, 277, 400… records tumbled, bowlers were miserable. It was a good time to be a fan of batsmen. Sad to say, the West Indian cricket team kind of disintegrated around him. Many a game, he was left playing a lone hand… a lone lonely hand. You really felt for him. He leaves with West Indies cricket a shadow of its former self. It’s all quite tragic really.

Lara gone. After a SEVENTEEN year career. And I remember the beginning of that career. I couldn't at the time conceive there would be a day when he would stop. I’m so old. And so naive. *sigh*

P.S: The title of this post is actually a song by Blink 182… an OLD song fittingly… 1999… 8 years… where does the time go? Anyway, the song is excellent. And would be a great theme song if I were 23, not 26… opportunity missed three years ago.

More Cricket, More DC

Cricket
So Ireland beat Pakistan. Fine. But Ireland also beat Bangladesh. And Bangladesh beat India. And since Ireland beat Bangladesh by a larger margin (open to debate I suppose but Ireland-Pakistan was thrilling and the leprechauns walked all over the Bengal “tigers”), it follows that Pakistan is a better team than Bangladesh. And, logically, Pakistan is therefore a better team than India. Just thought I’d throw that out there, backed up by solid evidence.

For the record, I hope New Zealand wins the World Cup. I first became a fan of theirs in 1990 when they toured Pakistan and has their behinds so soundly walloped, I felt sorry for them. So it was more pity than anything else. But since then, I’ve learned that they always produce committed, hard working players, even if talent levels are low and star power is non-existent. Their whole is always greater than the sum of their parts. Or something. Besides, they have rugby too.

Washington DC Stop Press
When Christophe and I were in DC, we saw John Kerry speak on the environment at a “Climate in Crisis” rally just outside the Capitol. It was a complete coincidence. We walked up just as he was being introduced. He did his usual 30 second speech. In 15 minutes. You know how he is. And we got free t-shirts. We had to get in line for them and reveal our email addresses and all but hey, they were free.

Christophe’s car died in rural Maryland when he was on his way to visit a friend.

He spent the next day and a half in a mechanic’s garage.
I spent the next day and a half on my aunt’s living room sofa.

He spent 400 dollars to learn his car wasn’t going anywhere.
I ate my aunt’s ice cream and watched my uncle’s TV.

He sat in a Greyhound bus for 4 hours to get back to DC.
I ate dinner and annoyed my niece.

We had to rent a car to return to Columbus.
I got to drive a 2007 Hyundai Sonata for 6 hours.
He slept.

Zimbabwe + Religion = Failure

Yes, this is now incredibly old news but since I have been out of it for so long and I do have thoughts on the matter, I am going to go ahead and share them anyway.

Two reasons Pakistan is out of the World Cup (or as the money grabbing morons at the International Cricket Council would rather we call it, the ICC Cricket World Cup West Indies 2007).

Zimbabwe
I'm shocked no one has even thought to bring this up. If Zimbabwe had beaten Ireland like they were supposed to, Pakistan's gormless capitulation to the team of happy leprechauns would have been inconsequential. A victory over Zimbabwe in the final group game would have left all three teams tied at 2 points and Pakistan would have gone through on net run rate. Instead, the wretched African wretches wretchedly allowed the in-all-likelihood-drunk Irishmen to TIE the game, giving them the point that saw them through. That's what cost us advancement: A single miserable South Central African run. This is not Pakistan's fault by any stretch. Don't blame the team. Boycott Zimbabwe and freeze diplomatic relations with them. It's not like they have any troubles of their own.

Religion
It turns out that our dear cricket team spent more time in the West Indies preaching and indulging in sickening public displays of religiosity than actually doing what they were supposed to i.e. not playing cricket like a group of adolescent girls who would rather be watching Fashion TV than elevating their maligned, downtrodden nation's status. Now I have issues with today's religion (especially the organized kind) and displays of religiosity anyway. But this just takes the cake. For many reasons:

Preaching
I disagree with the whole concept of preaching anyway. Words don't change people. Actions do. If you want to "preach," walk the walk and don't talk the talk. If you want people to "convert," be what you believe and they will eventually see the good in what you are, assuming there is any. Preaching is annoying, complacent and frankly, an insult to anyone you choose to direct your attentions to. And coming from cricketers who have hardly been model citizens their entire lives and have no right to impose their beliefs on anyone, it can only be worse. Shame on them.

Demonstrations of Purity
If you must be holy and good and kind and saintly, be so for God and to help others, not to show people how holy and good and kind and saintly you are. Photographs of our dear cricket team praying together on a lawn do not impress me – they make me wonder how many of those spineless hypocrites actually embody the good qualities prescribed by any major religion (decency, honesty, humility) in their private lives. Reports of drinking and infighting in the Pakistan team have never been unusual. Add to that the issues of doping, match-fixing and cronyism and you wonder who they're trying to fool. Even our beloved captain, Inzamam-ul-Haq, fancied himself an autocrat in the latter stages of his tenure. Your long beard cannot hide your hubris, cricketer-formerly-known-as-potato.

Hypocrisy
Blah blah blah, we're spreading Islam, how dare you question us??? Yes, very nice. But you cannot spread Islam by:

• Being under the cloud of a doping controversy for the past 8 months
• Failing to adhere to even the basic values of Islam of hard work, perseverance and commitment to goals (remember the Ireland game?)
• Displaying complete ignorance of the etiquette required when a friend and mentor passes by turning the entire incident into a circus (retirements and inquests into defeats, however pathetic, are NOT important the day after a significant death)
• Failing to put up even the semblance of a respectable performance when the hopes of millions were riding on you. I have been a Pakistani a long time (my whole life actually) and I know we do not expect our teams to win all the time, but we do expect them to show some heart and commitment. Many times after tough losses I have heard people call into radio shows to express their pride and pledge support to the team that tried its best. We are not an unreasonable people. All we want is some effort from our boys. Instead we get embarrassment, humiliation, degradation and, worst of all, asphyxiation.

The Irish are proving to be better global citizens than the Pakistanis in this case. They are enjoying themselves, playing with heart and enthusiasm and staying out of trouble. Maybe we should all convert to their religion… what is it? Alcoholism?

D To The C, Washington That Is

You know how it is... you miss one week, you miss another... then another... and then you're in the first week of April and your loyal readership has all but disappeared and you decide to take anther stab at this whole "blogging consistently" thing that works really well in theory but not so well in practice when the practitioner is as lazy as yours truly is.

I've been telling myself for two weeks now that I need to blog about my DC experience... well, really Christophe’s and my DC experience... it would have been very different without Christophe; less tiring, more relaxing, less car-renting... but that’s another story.

We arrived in Washington DC on the evening of Saturday, March 17th, having made the drive from Columbus, Ohio in a little over 8 hours including a 90 minute stop in Washington, Pennsylvania to have lunch ("Ze food was' orrible. Vee vill never go back zere!") and look for a gas station (my bad; I was driving and I detoured us all the way back to the street we had passed 20 minutes ago). It was bordering on twilight as we arrived and we took a quick tour of the National Mall area (White House, Capitol, museums etc.) before heading to my aunt's. Apparently the light was perfect and the buildings were beautiful so Christophe hung out of his window, camera in hand, starting to take pictures like a crazed Japanese tourist. I offered to drive so he could concentrate on tourism but he didn't want to be the map reader...

Anyway, we got to my aunt's and met the aunt. And the uncle (who kept trying to make fun of Pakistanis but naturally failed miserably... typical Indian). And the two-year-old niece, who couldn't decide whether she loved me or hated me. But this is beside the point. The next 3 days in Washington DC consisted of all (but were not limited to) the following:

National Museums
National Air and Space Museum
Grade: Meh.
It was alright… it was at the fag end of our whirlwind three day tour and we didn’t really feel like reading, walking or learning. But we were there. And we got to see a couple of INCREDIBLY overpriced McDonalds’ restaurants.

National Museum of Natural History
Grade: Blah.
Alright, so this was NOTHING like “Night at the Museum.” Nothing came alive. No one tried to kill us. And Owen Wilson most definitely did not go whizzing around our shoes in a miniature Jeep. Everything was still and dead. The only really neat display was one of a couple of original quadrillion year old dinosaur skulls… but even they were dead.

No other National Museums were visited. Although we parked right by the Daughters of the American Revolution Museum a couple of times. Their flag looks exactly like the flag of Argentina. I was fooled. Of course there was no smiling Sun in the middle... instead some sort of ship's wheel. That should have been a clue.

Also, I had no idea the "Smithsonian" was a network of museums and societies, 23 or something of them. I thought it was one big building... the things you learn.

The Supreme Court
Grade: Moo.
It was alright. You know, big pillars, justice, impressive, laws and rights, blah blah. We saw the courtroom. And there was a bunch of stuff on the walls and historical blah blahs and an imposing statue of some fellow whose name I forget right in the middle of the lower level.

Library of Congress
Grade: Ah.
The architecture was stunning but, believe it or not, we saw no books other than from behind a Plexiglas screen several stories above the main reading room. Go figure. Apparently you need a special ID to get anywhere near the books. Not hard to get, but still, more work than we were willing to put in.

The White House
Grade: Boo.
Because of who lives there right now, not because it was bad. We didn’t go inside, obviously, especially since we’d been told that the official tour was a waste of time (you didn’t even get to sit in the Presidential chair in the Oval Office and go through the Presidential desk drawers… I dare say the contents of the drawers would have been more entertaining during the Clinton years anyway). But we saw it from the front and the back… through the iron fence. It was actually an enjoyable experience.

Christophe (saying): “Aaah, we are so close to Boooosh.”
Me (thinking): “I wonder how many snipers have their gun sights trained on me right now.”

The United States Capitol
Grade: Coo.
This was somewhat nice, although we didn’t get to see the House or the Senate (you needed special passes for that). We stood in the big old rotunda and learned about all the statues and the artwork and the history etc etc. On our way out we walked past the door to the Office of the House Majority Leader, which was sadly the only real highlight. The real thrill was being inside the building you see on the news every day, I suppose.

The International Spy Museum
Grade: Yay.
Probably DC’s best kept secret. Well, from me anyway. We had to pay $16 to enter but it was well worth it. It was a very interactive museum; all sorts of games, activities and movies. We ended up spending close to four hours there. I decided then and there that I will be a secret agent at some point in my life. Maybe I already am. Or maybe not. Or maybe…

The Ford's Theater
Grade: Supercool.
The theater where Lincoln was shot. Our seats happened to be directly across from the booth where John Wilkes Booth did the deed. Shot by a Booth in a booth, how about that? The booth (theater, not John Wilkes) was decked out with flags and a portrait of Mr. Lincoln… all of which looked like they had been there since 1865. I don’t know if that was intentional. I wish I had known how far into the play it happened. I would have stood up and yelled “Bang bang!!” I’m sure the rest of the audience would have appreciated my enhancement of their theater experience.

Add to that, the musical itself (yes, we actually went there to see a show as well) was fantastic. Meet John Doe, a Frank Capra musical. I have no idea who Frank Capra is/was.

Other sights:
The Washington Monument:
Big tall thing rising up into the sky.

The Lincoln Monument:
HUGE statue of a seated Lincoln behind some awfully large columns. He certainly looks a lot smaller in the pictures.

The Pentagon:
The subway drops you off right by the wall. And by right by the wall, I mean you are literally 10 feel from the wall of the Pentagon. But from there you can’t go anywhere but in. And we couldn’t. So we left.

The Dupont Circle Area:
Food, shops, embassies. Rather a nice place actually. Culture, sustenance, international affairs. Filled to the brim with gay people too, if that's your thing. Here is also where we met Shannon and Isaac (her fiance, not her brother) and Shelly (sister) for dinner in a French bistro. Christophe was in Heaven.

The French Embassy:
Lots of French speaking people. It was important for Christophe to go here for some reason. Everyone was under the impression that I was French too. I maintained this façade by not opening my mouth even once while we were there.

The National Cathedral:
Big building, very bare and boring but with three redeeming qualities:
1. Friendly nuns. If they hadn’t been nuns, I’d have questioned their motives.
2. Wicked stained glass. Pretty colors.
3. The lower level looked exactly like Hogwarts should be. “It’s like ‘Arry Pottaire!”

Arlington National Cemetery:
Many famous dead people (JFK probably being the most famous). And some nice monuments. It ended up being the kind of place you go to say you’d been there. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was rather interesting - we saw the Changing of the Guard as well - except it turns out that they now know who the soldier was so he’s not unknown any more. Damn DNA testing. Squeezing every little bit of mystery out of our lives. And deaths.

Brotherly Conversations

I hadn't heard from my brother in a couple of weeks so I sent him an email, and he replied. In order to give you some exclusive insight into the intricacies of our relationship, I am posting the entire text of both emails below:

Email from me to brother:
Things fine?

Email from brother to me, a few hours later:
Yes.

I'm not even kidding.

Inside Thoughts & The KESC

The blogword is INSIDE, and this week, instead of manipulating the word to relate to something I would have posted anyway, I’m actually going to work with it. For a while anyway…

I don’t like the rain… unless I’m inside. I remember when we’d get sudden rainshowers in Karachi (generally July or August), we’d first go outside and get soaked – even people who don’t like the rain go out and get soaked when it rains in Karachi… at least we used to. Now it seems we get heavy rainfall often enough that it’s not a big deal. But this is neither here nor there.

So after the soaking, voluntary or otherwise, I’d get back in the house/apartment and take a warm shower, usually with no electricity. The first casualty of rain in Karachi is the electricity supply… to be perfectly honest, the first casualty of anything in Karachi (heat, rain, construction, clouds, light breeze, lilting melody) is the electricity supply. This summer, I actually wrote a first person verse about the KESC – Karachi Electric Supply Corporation, which I presented during one of my stand up sets, to lukewarm acclaim (Hey, you can’t win ‘em all). For the benefit of my loyal readership, here is a part of said verse (FYI, **** means BAD word):

They call me KESC. The Karachi Electric Supply Corporation…

I honestly am not sure why…
Not much electric, not much supply.

My connectors can’t get a grip
6 drops of rain and my feeders trip
My cables are so bloody old
Oh my God, they’re growing mould
My transformers are all just rust
Touch them and they turn to dust
Repair crew? Don’t hold your breath
Just sit back and wait for death
I’ll blame the heat, the rain, the man
I’ll blame Australia if I can
But don’t ever lay the blame on me
I am the ****ing KESC

And it went on in this vein for a while…

Pitch darkness when you have to pee?
I am the ****ing KESC

And so on. I didn’t think it was all that bad quite honestly, but the public was not wooed.

So the POINT of this ramble is lost. The point was that I enjoy being INSIDE when it’s raining outside, especially after a hot shower. The shower being inside too… like in a bathroom. An indoor bathroom.

Christophe's Laptop Computer Odyssey

Imagine

1. Being in a strange land.
2. Without your only connection to what’s familiar (aka laptop computer)
3. Then, imagine this:

A Frenchman (Christophe) and a Pakistani (me) going to buy a laptop computer (Toshiba/Compaq, we don’t care) in the United States (there)

• In the entire market, there are only about three computers to choose from because everyone is waiting for Windows Vista before rolling out their latest models.
• Christophe sees one, likes it, wants it.
• (Seriously, this was a good deal… a Gateway with 2 GB RAM, 160 GB hard drive and a dual core processor – Intel something something 5500 – for only $899)
• Best Buy’s check out counter computer doesn’t like European credit cards. (Zis countree is ridiculous!)
• Christophe is impatient: ‘e must ‘ave eet now! (‘is ozzer laptop is dead, you see.)
• Best Buy gives credit! But only if you have a U.S. drivers license and a debit card.
• Christophe has both! (I 'ave both!)
• Choice of two Best Buy credit cards – one comes with oodles of free things and money thrown at us. The other one has nothing.
• One of the cards is interest free. The other one would require an interest payment of $160 as soon as the sale was made.
• Guess which one wasn’t interest free. Sneaky little charming salesman fellow wasn’t going to tell us that.
• Best Buy also forgot to tell us that Christophe also needs a social security number.
• Christophe has none! (I 'ave none!)
• Disaster!
• Wal-Mart, in the next plaza, has an ATM!
• ATM – Our last hope (as opposed to our new hope)
• ATM!
• European credit card accepted! (Zis countree is still ridiculous!)
• Cash in hand!
• Bank account empty! Credit limit reached!
• Back to Best Buy!
• Laptop! Sneaky little charming salesman fellow makes a big sale!
• Done! (I 'ave a full service warrantee! I can break eet if I want!)

That took about 90 minutes longer than it should have - damn you Best Buy - but hey, good story.

Someday I will tell you about the time Christophe and I went to the Columbus Museum of Art and he took a picture of the most hideous painting in the entire exhibit (a 15 foot by 10 foot painting of some hip-hop artist dancing with purple and yellow wallpaper in the background) to send to France. (Zis is art in America.)

It appears that someday was now.

Be is for Brixton

So the blogword is “Be.” And Be is for Brixton, an area of South London, part of the London Borough of Lambeth. It is bordered by Stockwell, Kennington, Camberwell, Tulse Hill and Herne Hill. But that’s all beside the point.

And what was I doing in Brixton, you might ask (and rightly so). Well, I was NOT buying black market arms and ammunition. The brother and I were attempting to rendezvous with old school friend Adnan (drummer boy formerly of Aaroh fame, for those that know and care) who I hadn’t seen in almost 7 years. He was doing the education thing in London, kind of like how I’m doing the education thing in Columbus, except his education thing was more English, being in England and all.

Anyway, cutting to the chase, we were supposed to meet Adnan at 12 noon, but Einstein had both his phones off so the brother and I chilled at Brixton Station for a while, trying not to get mugged, then we tubed it to Victoria Station where we chilled some more. It was beginning to look like a day of solitary chilling when Adnan finally answered his phone. At 2 pm, we headed back to Brixton. From there was had to catch a bus to High Towers, which I kept calling Three Towers, to the confusion of our eventual bus driver. But that's also beside the point.

It was raining. I stood under the bus stop shelter no doubt kindly provided by the London Borough of Lambeth. The brother ventured into the nearby Woolworth’s to purchase a phone card. So there I was, outside, people walking around, quite a bubbling stretch of pavement. And it began.

This huge African-American… English-American… African-Englishman… black fellow – he was about 8 feet tall – came and stood right next to me. He was joined a few seconds later by another 8-footer on my other side. Was I about to be mugged? A "victim"? Did I smell bad? They were whispering “skunk skunk” under their breaths. But I had showered that same morning!!

Suddenly a crowd gathered around us… a shifty crowd… a crowd that was up to no good… a crowd of black, white and brown though. They whispered, “Five,” “Ten.” And the giants opened up their jackets to reveal bags upon bags of marijuana/weed/hash/grass/Mary Jane. Rapid transfers took place. Bags for cash. And I was so far in the middle of it – backpack and all – I couldn’t see anything but people and weed all around me.

This would be a great time for a raid by London's finest.

Panic.

Hasty exit from Circle of Illegal Substance Transactions.

Bus! Brother! Escape!

Adnan later told us “skunk” is the code word drug dealers in Brixton use to let potential buyers know they have the “goods” as it were. So I smelled just fine, thank you very much.

And I end with a short poem.

Be is for Brixton
We is for Weed
8 foot tall drug dealers
Have got what you need

Erm… or not? *nervous chuckle*

Iraq, Professors, Escalators, LOOSAR

I write (write = blogword of two weeks ago). About things. Such as:

I-raq, You-raq
In my post of August 2005, eloquently titled, “How to Win in Iraq & Afghanistan, or at least Stop Losing,” I said that the U.S. needed to substantially increase troop numbers in Iraq and Afghanistan to have any chance of “winning” the war. True to form, George W. and his psyche of a stubborn little 8-year-old are too little, too late to the party. It’s not looking good for Captain America. Even I don’t have any good ideas for him any more.

Business Professors
At the risk of sounding like a nerd (I suppose I can’t hide it forever), my professors at the Fisher College of Business are awesome. They know their stuff, and they’re pretty darn funny when they want to be.

“I am German so you need to be very precise. 17 decimal places.”
~ Our finance professor on being asked how many decimal places he wanted in our problem set answers. On seeing our jaws drop, he hastily said, “I’m joking. One or two is fine.”

“Yes, Adrienne, you are deep in Section 6 now.”
~ The same finance professor in response to Adrienne’s complicated question. We were barely into Section 2 at the time. (Subtle German accents in the previous two quotes increase the humor factor dramatically.)

“Those of you sitting at the back may never get a good look at my face so here’s what I look like in case you see me outside the classroom.”
~ Our decision modeling professor. At this point he put up a slide of Richard Gere. This professor also plays “Simply the Best” by Tina Turner on the class audio system when indicating the preferred (or "best") outcome of any optimization exercise.

“Does anyone have any questions? Does anyone care?”
~ Our accounting professor after explaining anything and everything.

Escalator Embarrassments
I was riding the "down" escalator in the London Underground. And the fellow on the stair in front of me was taller than I was despite the fact he was standing a full step (What is that? A foot?) lower than I was. I’ve never felt more 5 foot 8 in my life. *sigh*

Shoaib Akhtar
Once again, the pansy toed, brittle kneed, ugly headed waste of our national cricket team’s time goes down. Idiot has torn his hamstring. Let’s face it. He doesn’t take care of his fitness. He’s injury prone. He expects the board to foot all his bills. He isn’t a team player. And he’s NOT THAT GOOD. I hereby announce the formation of LOOSAR (that’s probably how he spells it too), Living-beings Outraged Over Shoaib Akhtar’s Ridiculousness. Our time is Now LOOSARs!! Who’s with me!!??

3 Anecdotes: Family in England

Here are some England stories... although they're not really England stories, as in with England as the focus, they did take place in England, so they should at least qualify.

Wales
We ended up in Wales for a brief jaunt while driving around the English countryside. There my father and his brother giggled like schoolboys while trying to read the Welsh road signs. Welsh is indeed an interesting language. They use consonants as freely as someone with a spastic colon uses bathrooms. My aunt, who happens to be English, summed it up best: "I understand more Urdu than I do flippin' Welsh," she said.

What’s in a Name?
One of my other aunts had a horrible time getting my name right. I'm inclined to blame this on her Anglicization. This is my AUNT after all (mother's cousin, not mother's or father's sister, but that shouldn't matter). She knew of my existence before I did. My name is Shahyan. Not so hard, right? Over the roughly 72 hours I was with her and her family, I was called every manner of name except Shahyan including, but not limited to: Farzan, Tariq, Ibrahim, Arman, Shannan, Rehan, Imran and, most mysterious of all, Shamaiyna… I’m not even kidding. Shamaiyna.

Good thing she's a nice aunt.

Nothing Like a Pig
My cousins up in the Crewe area were quite the entertainment package. The youngest one, four or five, and I got into a wrestling match. I had him held down on his tummy quite comfortably – I'm terrifically strong, you see – when he twisted his head back and yelled "You're nothing like a PIG!!"

“What does that mean??” I queried.

“I don’t know!” he responded. But somehow, he had made his point. Over the course of my week long stay, he also confidently informed me that I was “just rubbish” except he said “roobish,” you know, like a Yorkshireman… I think. And another time, I learned I was a “parsnip,” a parsnip being – and I looked this up – a plant, Pastinaca sativa, cultivated varieties of which have a large, whitish, edible root. So there.

Time in My Music

Ugh. A blogthought. “It takes time.” To be honest, I don’t feel as challenged by this as I expected. I seek refuge in a familiar sanctuary: Music.

Being a late bloomer and all – I was about 3 foot 8 till I was 14 – I’m quite familiar with the whole “time taking” of things to happen. A lot of the music I happened to listen to was also time-oriented. Here are selected lyrics of a few I really liked.

You Can’t Hurry Love – Phil Collins
I remember mama said
You can’t hurry love
No, you’ll just have to wait
She said love don’t come easy
Well, it’s a game of give and take
You can’t hurry love
No, you’ll just have to wait
Just trust in a good time
No matter how long it takes

I actually don’t remember mama saying this, come to think of it… she may have said something along the lines of “arranged marriages don’t come easy”… no, I’m just kidding. She didn’t even say that.

Time – Hootie & The Blowfish
Time is wasting
Time is walking
You ain't no friend of mine
I don't know where I’m goin'
I think I'm out of my mind
Thinking about time

Hootie was one of my “MTV years” bands. Very mid-90s. Doing homework in the TV lounge… watching By Demand with Trey and Muriel… does anyone remember the MTV Asia Music Awards when Muriel stole the Funniest Joke in the World from Trey in hopes of joining Code Red? Then Trey shot Muriel and killed him? Erm… Muriel was a puppet.

Time, Love & Tenderness – Michael Bolton
Oh, nothing is a sad as it seems, you know
'Cause someday you'll laugh at the heartache
Someday, you'll laugh at the pain
Somehow you'll get through the heartache
Somehow you can get through the rain

From the I’m-3-foot-8-and-I’ll-never-find-love days.

And, of course, my old favorite from the sad songs post,

Praying for Time – George Michael
And it's hard to love, there's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it's much, much too late
Well maybe we should all be praying for time

The more I listen to this song, the more I realize it speaks about today’s world more than anything else. The verse above, for example, could be about the spiral of violence in Iraq. Good Job W!!

These are the days of the empty hand
Oh you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year

Poor getting poorer. Rich getting richer. It takes a disaster or a catastrophe (Hurricane Katrina, or the earthquake in Northern Pakistan) to remind us that we’re human, fragile and have a responsibility to help our fellow Earth dwellers.

And, in the same vein,

The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we'll take our chances
'Cause God's stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and all God's children
Crept out the back door

I don’t know about the God not keeping score and turning His back on us part, but we’ve certainly managed to creep away somehow. You know, you look around and wonder… is this how it was meant to be? In a perfect world, would we even have things like electricity & telephones? Are inter-continental ballistic missiles really a part of the Grand Plan? Is there one true religion? And if there is, does it exist on Earth? Or have we completely lost the thread?

Maybe we should all be praying for time.

(Funny how my post went from being all light-hearted like to hardcore theo-philosophical... oh well...)

My Father's Secret Past

Past is the neglected blogword.

On the recent trip to England (Yes, I know I still owe you England stories), I spent a fair amount of time with family, not least with my dad’s cousin and her family. She’s a few years younger than the father as far as I can tell (but I don’t know HOW much younger nor was I brave enough to ask the inappropriate question). Anyway, as often happens when family gets together after a long break, there was reminiscing and memories and stories of glorious pasts and such. I heard about a lot of incidents (funny and/or serious) involving family members – uncles, aunts, cousins – but the most personally eyebrow-raising (if you know what I mean) episodes revolved around my father, believe it or not.

Now if you’ve met my father, you probably associate, like I do, one or more of the following words or phrases with him: mature, sober, reserved, occasionally stern, distinguished, analytical, thinking. He can also be entertaining. He has lots of stories of his youth and young adulthood that both enthrall and shock, but they are always about other people. My aunt, this December, turned the tables somewhat and told me some anecdotes that had me wondering if, after 25 years living under the same roof, I really knew my father at all.

Gosh, I’m afraid I don’t remember the exact location or the family members involved all that accurately, but the essence will be intact.

The Figure in Black
As far as I know, this was Faisalabad, and the father (probably in his early teens) was spending the summer, along with his brothers and cousins, at his grandparents’. An aunt and some cousins were woken up one night by a HUGE towering figure in black hovering over their beds in a threatening manner.

Extreme terror.

Until they realized my father had taken someone’s black burqa (abaya/covering worn over clothes by many Muslim women) and was waving it around above them using a broomstick to add height.

Extreme anger (I imagine) and, I would presume, also some embarrassment.

The Doorknob Incident
I think it was his uncle (either that or grandfather) who was awakened one night by a strange jiggling sound, as though someone was trying to open the door to his bedroom. Uncle got out of bed and opened the door. No one there. Back to bed. Jiggle jiggle. Out of bed. Door open. No one there. Back to bed. Jiggle jiggle. Confused. Out of bed. Open door. No one there.

String attached to doorknob??
String attached to doorknob!!

Follow string… all the way to my father, who was in his bed in a different room (or was it the roof?) tugging at the string every now and then, obtaining some form of obscure satisfaction from the confusion he was putting his uncle through.

Sweets for the Children
My dad had got a bunch of sweets for his younger cousins and he called them all to take some. The children ran up excitedly. They all helped themselves to the unexpected treats and eagerly popped the toffees in their mouths.

And realized they were eating soap.

There was, in those times, a laundry (or dish) soap bar that looked exactly like toffee. Father had eaten the candy himself, broken off bits of soap and packaged them neatly in the sweet wrappers to hand out to his innocent cousins. Everyone had really clean palates that day.

You think you know someone…

The Most Ridiculous Claim of the Year (Already)

Most is the blogword of old, but I would have posted this regardless. According to CNN, and probably other news sources too – I didn’t check, moronic evangelical broadcaster Pat Robertson had a “vision” in which “God spoke to him” and told him that a “terrorist attack” on the United States would cause a “mass killing” in late 2007.

From the CNN story:
Evangelical broadcaster Pat Robertson said Tuesday that God has told him that a terrorist attack on the United States would cause a "mass killing" late in 2007.
"I'm not necessarily saying it's going to be nuclear," he said during his news-and-talk television show "The 700 Club" on the Christian Broadcasting Network.
"The Lord didn't say nuclear. But I do believe it will be something like that."
Robertson said God told him about the impending tragedy during a recent prayer retreat. God also said, he claims, that major cities and possibly millions of people will be affected by the attack, which should take place sometime after September.

The man is an idiot – he’s one of those far right wing radical Christians that the U.S. government conveniently ignores while claiming to tackle radicalism in the “less civilized” parts of the world. He’s also known for advocating the assassination of democratically elected Venezuelan Premier Hugo Chavez (Remember the “smell of sulphur” line at the United Nations? Haha). And he believes Ariel Sharon suffered a stroke because of Israel’s (so-called) concessions to the Palestinians.

Now imagine what a buffoon (even more so than usual) this crackpot will look like if 2007 ends without a “major terrorist attack.” I think he knows something… perhaps he’s even planning something. Even a half-wit like Robertson wouldn’t make a claim of this magnitude without some back – I think he should be arrested and interrogated. Find out what he knows. He might just kill a bunch of innocents so he can say I told you so.

But then how much credibility does a senile 76 year old who claims to be able to leg press 2000 lbs have?? “God” speaks to him. My foot. I wonder who it really is…. If I had an imbecile like Pat Robertson for a housemate, I’d probably whisper stuff like that in his ear while he was asleep, just to mess with him.

“Pat, Pakistan is going to win the World Cup this year to punish the West Indies for being located so close to Cuba.”

“Pat, Hugo Chavez wears Hugo Boss. Your nation must boycott all products that have both a ‘u’ and a ‘g’ in their legal names, except on Saturdays if the third vowel in the name is preceded by an ‘m’ or a ‘p.’ In that case, send $50/- to a charity of your choice and bathe in warm honeysuckle nectar as the Sun sets on the Swiss Alps.”

Brainless twit.

Random Selection: An Additional Screening Story

Alright, so England, for some reason, inhibited my blogging instincts. I'm way behind. I have Philadelphia airport, London Heathrow airport, London, Nantwich, Brixton, Liverpool and Chicago O'Hare Airport stories not to mention the blogwords and blogthoughts I have cruelly neglected. But all in good time... I hope. This weekend better be good to me is all I can say.

Anyway, just to get back in the swing of things, I'm going to post my Columbus Airport story, or as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would say, The Foreigner and the Oddly-Named Central Ohio Airport. Certain time references may be inaccurate because I actually formulated this post three weeks ago but wasn't able to fine tune it till right now.

If you’ve read Homeland Security: Tribute to Entity, you’re somewhat familiar with my adventures associated with exiting the United States in a legal, dignified manner. I’m in England right now, having survived the exit, the flight over and the subsequent entry to the United Kingdom. But, naturally, none of my interactions with U.S. border and airport security can ever be uneventful.

So clearly, my brother has some sort of Don't-additional-screen-me-or-anyone-traveling-with-me Shield that he activates at will in airports. Remember our trip to California last year with the suspicious black backpacks and the same foreign sounding last names and the no checked baggage and the suicide bombing age range-ins, when we didn't even warrant second looks? Yes, so I travel alone last weekend, with only small laptop bag in carry, WITH checked baggage, all by my lonesome (I couldn't hijack a cotton candy stall if I tried) and I get pulled aside every which way to be inspected and questioned. *sigh*

At Columbus's Rickenbacker (sounds disconcertingly like knickerbocker... EDIT: Tif tells me that I in fact didn't have anything to with Rickenbacker Airport - I landed at and took off from Port Columbus International.... I'm an idiot) Airport, I wasn't surprised to see the four Ss on my boarding pass as I left the ticket agent… another "random selection." Lovely. Went through the security check and sure enough, "Sir, you have been randomly sel-"

"I know, I know. Do what you have to do."

So this was new. Instead of being led straight to the additional screening area (i.e. a mat and a table 10 feet away), I had to stand in a glass corridor for a few moments while the no doubt high school graduated security fellow struggled to copy my complicated foreign name on to a piece of paper… the glass corridor is lovely. It ends in a glass door and you're meant to wait in it until you're ready. So you just stand there stupidly in full view of everyone walking by, grinning like an idiot. Well, I guess the grinning is optional, but I didn't realize it at the time. Anyway, out of the habitat now, while being patted down (but not felt up, thank God) by a fellow we will call nerd-boy, I had my bag searched by a lady we will call butch-girl. During this, a third security agent, who will we will Celtic-Fan, inquired loudly as to the origin of my shirt. My shirt happened to be the Liverpool Champions League Away shirt (white with green trim) which I considered appropriate clothing for the trip across the pond to the home of English football… England. I told him it was a Liverpool shirt and he was like, "Don't they wear red?"

"Yes, but this is their Champions League AWAY jersey Sir."

"Oh, alright." Turns out the gentleman was a long-time Glasgow Celtic fan and well acquainted with European football. Nerd-Boy and Butch-Girl jumped in to the conversation at this point (bear in mind that Shahyan is still a suspected terrorist):

Nerd-Boy: They don't have time-outs in soccer do they? How do they do commercials?
Me: They don't. They have half-time for that.
Butch-Girl: Yep, that's right.
Nerd-Boy: How do you know that?
Butch-Girl: I played soccer for 14 years
Nerd-Boy: The last time I played soccer was 1984
Me (incredulously, looking at his baby face): What? How old are you?
Nerd-Boy: 27. I was in kindergarten when I last played. I got hit by the ball. Once was enough.
Butch-Girl: *snigger*
Me: *snigger*
Celtic-Fan: *would have sniggered but was giving other potential terrorists the once over*

Anyway, bags clear, person clear. Some goodbyes and I was on my way.

Note:
*Nerd-Boy quite possibly not actual nerd, although I doubt it.
*Butch-Girl quite possibly not actual butch… though I wouldn't rule it out.
To be fair, all three of them were quite cool. I felt as unlike a terrorist as a person with SSSS on his boarding pass can feel while being patted down and having his bags checked.

On to Philly!