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!