The Foreigner House Rules

Dear Lodhi

2010-03-15T23:00:00.005-04:00

Lodhi,

I think we were in Class 10 at Beaconhouse when I asked you why you had a sticker of that dog from Garfield, Odie, on your pencil case. You pointed at the L to the left of the sticker and said, "L plus Odie equals Lodie!" Then you laughed. And then you shook your head.

Your body is home. And your soul is free. We hadn't talked in a couple of years, I know, but that doesn't bother me, for some reason. Ours was a comfortable friendship, I like to think, one that would pick up seamlessly after long periods of quiet. It did, whenever we met. And it will, again, someday.

As we let you go for now, I think of the good times we had growing up in Karachi... especially the stupid good times.

You, me and Nade getting kicked out of that music store in Khadda Market.
Our Pat Rafter vs. Mark Philippoussis tennis matches. You were so horrible at that game. Haha.
Studying for our O levels at my place and spending 10 minutes laughing helplessly at the sound pencil made on paper in a quiet room.
Whacking each other on the head while travelling in cars over bumpy roads and then apologizing insincerely a la Faisal Butt. (Sorry, Faisal, wherever you are.)

I'm only upset with you for one reason, really, Imran. You were the best shot I had of knowing an honest to goodness global celebrity. Someone with your talent, passion and love of music was going to make it sooner or later. It was only a matter of time. And I was really looking forward to cashing in (socially, and perhaps monetarily) on your fame. Why else do I still have the ticket from your first Undertow concert at the Alliance Française stored safely at home? You owe me, buddy.

You left earlier than anyone knew you would, but while you were here, you had the courage to follow your dreams, through ups and downs and across oceans and continents. And you did it with that unassuming charm and humility that we all grew to cherish. Your sense of humor was one of a kind. Your life brought us joy. Your death leaves us devastated, but appreciative of the years we had with you.

For a life ended too soon, I mourn. For a life that meant so much to so many, I celebrate. And for a life well lived, one filled to bursting with the love you yourself may have described as unobtainable, Imran Khan Lodhi, I salute you.

Shahyan

Ayesha Nasir, I Am Sorry

2010-02-28T23:20:00.010-05:00

Dear follower of this blog,

Before reading the below, maybe you should read this.

And now:

Ms. Ayesha Nasir, I am sorry.

I am sorry that all Pakistani Muslims don't have two Masters degrees from Columbia and know how to pronounce obscure French terms correctly. Clearly, we are barbarians.

I am sorry that you "scrawled your signature on the most important contract of your life without reading a word." Clearly, the ability to read doesn't presuppose the existence of the ability to reason.

I am sorry your family and your husband's family considered you extraneous to quite possibly the most significant ceremony of your life. Clearly, you need to take this issue up with your family and your husband's family, NOT with the entire Muslim world in some Western tabloid.

I am sorry you had to sit a mile away from your fiance during your wedding ceremony. Perhaps you could have taken a cue from EVERY OTHER WEDDING that has taken place in urban Pakistan in the past fifty years, and sat together.

I am sorry that you have a group of friends who suffer from the same victim syndrome you do. Perhaps all that money spent on those expensive educations and global opportunities would have been better invested in someone who was actually going to use them.

I am sorry that your rights were signed away in your marriage contract. Perhaps that is not your fault. But it is not the fault of Pakistan either. Or of Islam. Allah gives women all the rights you have stated in your article. It is the fault of your family. And your husband's family. You may wash your dirty laundry in public, but don't pretend it isn't yours.

I am not sorry that you have a joyous marriage (far from it), but I am sorry that you felt the need to point out how horrible things could become for you, despite your good fortune and (apparent) happiness. There are serious gaps to overcome in women's rights in Pakistan - I am not denying this - and there are some interpretations of Islam that are unfair to women as well. I do not take issue with the fact that you wish to draw attention to these issues. I take issue with the fact that you make sweeping generalizations about a religion and a nation in your writing. The title of your article itself implies that "Islamic marriage contracts" inherently limit the rights of women. You know as well as I do that this is not true. A good marriage contract, of any faith, will adequately protect the rights of both parties. A bad marriage contract, of any faith, will not.

What has publishing an article in Slate done for the women you want to help? Nothing. It has only given more ammunition to those who wish to beat Pakistan and Islam down every chance they get. The women who don't read their marriage contracts are still not reading them. Are they?

I agree. You should have read your marriage contract. The fact that you didn't though, is not a problem with the Islamic faith nor with the Pakistani nation. It is a problem of cultural awareness and an unwillingness to break with tradition even when it serves the greater good. You'll find this problem everywhere in the developing (and in some cases, the developed) world, not just in Muslim countries, not just in Pakistan. And Ms. Nasir, it falls to people like you and me, with our Masters degrees and our impeccable diction, to do what we can to fix things. How? By encouraging our countrymen and women to think for themselves and providing them with outlets for unique expression and opportunities to learn. Not by selling a sob story to a rag.

Of Speeding Tickets and Such

2010-02-03T21:33:00.010-05:00

So I got a speeding ticket in Michigan this past Friday night (rushing to see the Indian and his fiancee)... it had been over two years since my last one (ticket, not Indian... never mind). It was dark. I didn't see the sneaky fellow sitting in the median with all his lights off... flew by, lights flash, stop, talk, wait, talk, ticket and on my way in about 5 minutes. The officer was civil, as most are, but I still got hit with a hundred and fifty five dollar bill... doing between 20 and 25 miles an hour over the posted speed limit (70).

So here's my philosophy on speed limits. They are stupid. They serve no purpose other than to pad the coffers of whatever law enforcement agency decides they want to enforce them. Drivers should be able to drive as fast as they want on the road for as long as they want without speed limits to deal with/worry about/look out for. But (there's always a but), the penalties for at fault accidents or other losses of control should be so severe (25 years to life, for example) that people will think twice before pushing the pedal down just in case something goes wrong. The benefits of this are twofold. First, drivers such as myself who believe in filling the empty road ahead of them while maintaining full control of their vehicles will not have to deal with being pulled over for nominal speeding offences. And second, really bad drivers (and East Asians - I'm sorry; THAT stereotype is completely true), who weave dangerously through traffic and in general act like complete jerks on the road, will be forced to get their act together, because even the tiniest dent could cost them dear.

Think about it.

All this aside, I really don't mind getting ticketed every now and then because:

1. I see them as a yearly (more or less) premium for driving as fast as I want whenever I want. I'm always in control of the vehicle and I'm prepared for the occasional ticket if it means I get to save myself hours and hours in the car over the course of 12 months.

2. Every time the trooper returns my license with a fresh new ticket and says, "You drive safely now, Sir," without arresting me, I realize that I am not wanted in the United States for any major crimes. And that is a good feeling.

Chase Sapphire

2010-01-17T22:17:00.001-05:00

No, seriously. If my wife were to secretly spend our Chase Sapphire Card rewards points on some stupid dress, I would not be smiling at her like this moron.

Interlude

2009-12-18T20:03:00.002-05:00

I just realized my blog doesn't really have an identity... it's a little bit of all over the place. It's also very sporadic... ages of dormancy interspersed with brief periods of fervent productivity. It sounds like me, actually... strange.

Things are fine (in case you're reading/care). Maybe I'll start writing again soon.

Maybe I won't.

Or maybe I will.

Grandmother

2009-04-13T19:57:00.002-04:00

She called me last night, from Karachi, where she lives, and in between the usual prayers and hopes and admonitions (I'm not allowed to go on boats any more, apparently), she mentioned that she hadn't been able to get my brother on the phone.

Me: "Oh, he was in South Dakota this past week on some University trip. He's probably busy getting ready for school tomorrow."

GM: "Oh... is South Dakota safe?"

Me: "It's as safe as Karachi!"

GM: "Then WHY did he go!!??"

...

Nessun Dorma

2009-04-05T11:23:00.008-04:00

This is several kinds of powerful and wonderful. And the YouTube clip below is one of the best versions of it I have heard...

Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!
Tu pure, o, Principessa,
nella tua fredda stanza,
guardi le stelle
che tremano d'amore
e di speranza.

Ma’il mio mistero e chiuso in me,
il no me mio nessun sapra!
No, no, sulla tua bocca lo diro
quando la luce splendera!

Ed il mio bacio sciogliera il silenzio
che ti fa mia!

(Il nome suo nessun sapra!...
e noi dovrem, ahime, morir!)

Dilegua, o notte!
Tramontate, stelle!
Tramontate, stelle!
All'alba vincero!
vincero, vincero!

Nobody shall sleep! Nobody shall sleep!
Even you, o Princess,
In your cold room,
Watch the stars,
That tremble with love and with hope

But my secret is hidden within me,
My name no one shall know...
No!...No!... On your mouth I will tell it
When the light shines

And my kiss will dissolve the silence
That makes you mine!...

(No one will know his name
And we must, alas, die.)

Vanish, o night!
Set, stars!
Set, stars!
At dawn, I will win!
I will win, I will win!

If you like, watch this clip of Paul Potts on Britain's Got Talent... it's a great story too. He went on to win the thing.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1k08yxu57NA
(Couldn't embed - the embed code was disabled.)

A piu tardi.

Sunday Afternoon

2009-03-08T19:03:00.004-04:00

I just did my taxes. For some reason, I owe the state of Illinois 3 dollars... I can't quite figure it out. Turbo Tax hinted that I might get as much as $30 back, but my math doesn't make it so.

I didn't want to pay Turbo Tax $34.95 to e-file the state tax return for me in order to get $30 back. Make sense? So I did the paper arithmetic thing. And apparently, I'm not as good at paper arithmetic as I thought I was... I don't care any more. They can have their $3, or their $33. I've spent all afternoon looking at these numbers. I'm tired of it.

Other things I am tired of: Pakistani politics and politicians, especially those named Bhutto, Zardari and Sharif and anyone and anything associated with them.

Sidrah sent me this. It makes me happy and sad. It has English subtitles, for you illiterates.

Laal always has a powerful social message in its songs (well, the two I've heard so far anyway). Let's hope the message translates into action somehow... I feel like such a fraud saying that, sitting here in Chicago... but a brother has to get out of debt. And have a plan. In debt with no plan doesn't equate to driving positive change.

What does?

25 Things About Me (11 - 25)

2009-02-09T23:12:00.003-05:00

11. For the first three months of my life, I was blond. Believe it.

12. My father used to call me "gol mol" meaning round. That stopped when I transformed from a chubby ball into some type of twig around the age of 3.

13. I listen to pop music.

14. I like using metric system measurements to confuse people in the United States. (*honh honh honh Stupid Americain honh honh honh*)

15. Reality TV either makes me sick or sends me to sleep, depending on my mood.

16. I've always thought Botswana was the most unfortunate name for a country... or anything.

17. I watched the first three seasons of LOST in two weeks flat... right before finals week at the end of the first year of business school. 15% of my life that fortnight was spent on that show.

18. I can count to 100. In Urdu. Strangely enough, not many people can...

19. During a game of basketball, I rejected a shot attempt of Clay's so masterfully that he fell flat on his behind. All ball. And Clay is 6' 2". That is probably still my finest basketball moment...

20. When I was in the single digits, I would pray for Germany to win field hockey games (even against Pakistan) to the extent where I would read verses from the Quran. My dad would make fun of me and say "Even the Germans themselves aren't praying this hard!"

21. I've always wanted to dye my hair red.

22. I'm ashamed of losing my British spelling ability... colour, favour, programme... one day we shall reunite.

23. In an attempt to increase my general knowledge, I once memorized the distances of all 9 (well, now 8) planets from the Sun. I don't remember any of them... thank God.

24. I used to think the words "Super Trouper" in the Abba song were actually "Suicide suicide..." I wasn't a disturbed child. I promise. It was just an auditory mistake... a big one. But still.

25. I took way too long over this stupid list.

25 Things About Me (1 - 10)

2009-02-08T13:48:00.004-05:00

Yes, this is Facebook inspired... and, now that I've been "tagged" for the third time, I suppose I'm bound to write 25 things about me... so here:

1. The line from Kipling's Just So Stories, "I am the cat. I walk by myself. And all places are alike to me" was my secret motto for the longest time. And, in some ways, it still is.

2. I watch Man United's games until they take the lead. And then I turn the TV off. My favorite United games are the ones I watch till the end.

3. When I was 15, I ate a pound of peanuts in one sitting while watching a Formula 1 race on TV. Peanuts have never been the same. Or they have. But I haven't.

4. I got my left ear pierced my senior year of college and wore my stud till halfway through my first year of business school.

5. The first woman I ever wanted to marry was Steffi Graf.

6. Each evening, I arrange things in my apartment (down to keys) in such a way that I can wake up as late as possible the next morning and make it to work on time.

7. I never wear open shoes. Too many open shoe foot injuries in my past.

8. When I was in school, I used to read the comics in our daily paper in the order of least favorite to most favorite. I was always upset when they moved the strips around.

9. My favorite colors are red and black. When we made wax hands one weekend in college, my wax hand was red and black. It looked awesome.

10. I like singers with low voices, because then I can sing along and feel only partially inadequate. Damn you, Chris Isaak!

This is taking a long time... the rest later.

Thoughts on Football and Life

2009-02-01T20:00:00.003-05:00

I about cried with relief when Fernando Torres and his magnificent head (and feet) took Liverpool past Chelsea this morning. I almost blew kisses at the screen as well... stopped myself just in time. Never let it be said that men are incapable of showing emotion.

A beard worn for the sake of religion is like your favorite football team's jersey. You have to want it yourself. Others can't impose it on you. (Try getting me in a Man United shirt... just try it.) You have to be comfortable enough to be seen everywhere with it. (My Liverpool shirt has been to work, to plays and musicals and to parties.) And you wear it out of love for something greater than yourself.* (Fernando Torres, for example)

I could be a Premier League referee. I could. For example, I would know that when, during a Premier League game (Liverpool v Chelsea, February 1st 2009) in England (the United Kingdom), a player (Jose Bosingwa of Chelsea) runs at another player (Yossi Benayoun of Liverpool) and boots him (Benayoun) in the behind (Benayoun's behind) to get him (Benayoun) off the ball (a football), it is a foul. Experienced Premier League official Mike Riley apparently doesn't know this. Ergo, I >> Mike Riley. Ergo, I == good potential Premier League referee material.

P.S: Chicago is bloody cold. Apart from the great restaurants, amazing entertainment, top quality sports teams (though I don't care for any of them), decent public transportation facilities, hopping nightlife, killer diversity, reputed institutions of higher learning, fantastic museums and skyline-to-die-for, I don't know why people choose to live here.

*(For the record, my beard is grown because I don't like shaving every day.)

Pahari Bakra

2009-01-17T15:02:00.003-05:00

I have dabbled in song writing (though it's usually a mistake to call it that in my case) from an early age. And by early, I mean 14ish, when, before school every morning, Moinuddin and I would churn out classics like "We got to cheat, just to make it today" and "In the classroom, in the country, we're doing chemistry."

All our hits paled, though, in comparison to the one monster track, composed in honor of our friend Imran Akbar, who we thought looked like a mountain goat. I could have sworn I had already posted this here, but I can't seem to find it. Anyway, here is Pahari Bakra (Mountain Goat - translation in italics, in case you couldn't tell)

*Opening riff (massive distortion of course):
Jig-jig-jig-jig Jig-jig-jig-jig Chyaon Chyaon Chyaon Chyaon
Jig-jig-jig-jig Jig-jig-jig-jig Chyaon Chyaon Chyaon Chyaon

Mein ne pahari bakra dekha
I saw a mountain goat

Woh khet mein ghaas char raha tha
He was chewing grass in a field

Mein ne kaha,"Aye, Pahari Bakra!"
I said, "Hey, Mountain Goat!"

*Repeat opening riff (still with massive distortion)

Pahari Bakray idhar aa!
Mountain goat, come this way!

Mujhe apna munh dikhaa!
Let me see your face!

Aye, Pahari Bakra!
Hey, Mountain Goat!

*Repeat opening riff (don't forget the massive distortion)

Pahari Bakra nah aaya
Mountain Goat did not come

Woh chehra mur ke bhaag gayaa
He turned his head and ran away

Abay jaa, Pahari Bakra!
Fine then leave, Mountain Goat!

*End with opening riff (yes, the massive distortion)

Someday, someone will give me 2 hours of studio time (plus musicians) as a birthday present. Then I will record this baby and go platinum with it.

To Those Who Think

2009-01-10T12:37:00.004-05:00

that Israel's war crimes in Gaza right now (and against Palestine for years) are in any way, shape or form justifiable,

I am going to move into your house, force you to live in your bathroom without ever leaving, and kill your children if you protest. Alright?

I am going to take over your playgrounds, tell your children to go play in sewage swamps and dung heaps, and kill your parents if you protest. Alright?

I am going to shut down your schools and colleges, declare to the world that you'll never amount to anything, and kill your brothers if you protest. Alright?

I am going to bomb your place of work, inform you it's your own fault you have no hope and no future, and kill your sisters if you protest. Alright?

I am going to disenfranchise you, persecute you, terrorize you, humiliate you, degrade you, dehumanize you, and kill you if you protest. Alright?

Deaf Girl Mute Girl

2009-01-08T17:25:00.003-05:00

The following email conversation occured sporadically between the hours of 0900 and 1600 between Chris, me and someone we will refer to as "Soil" (because Clay would be too obvious):

Soil (early in the morning, no doubt stirred from slumber by this realization):
I want a deaf girl. Yes.
They look so quiet, calm and composed in movies.
And they're always damned cute.
Can you imagine the lack of bitching? If they're moody - you wouldn't even know it (most of the time).

Me (during my lunch break):
You don't want a deaf girl, dummy. You want a mute girl.

Soil (an hour later):
Damn. I was hoping no one had responded yet. Yes, I realized my error halfway to lunch with my parents. One of those deaf girls might be the kind that talks really funny and in an annoying manner - might be worse than 'regular'!

Chris (soon after):
Soil... you need help. Seriously.

Me (right now):
Haha. This is going on my blog.

Nostalgia Part Deux

2009-01-01T22:20:00.007-05:00

I tend to find new years more depressing than uplifting. All they mean are that we're another 365 days closer to death, no? Not that there's anything wrong with death (as long as they have football wherever I'm going).

Today, I thought a lot about where I've been. And where I'm going. But more about where I've been. And here, for your listening and viewing pleasure, are some songs that were prevalent during some of the key moments in my pre-teenage, teenage and post-teenage years. (I think I had a post like this some time ago, hence the Part Deux... ah, here it is, if you care: Time in my Music)

Santa Maria by Oliver Onions - This is my perfect escape song. When it's on and I close my eyes, I'm four again, playing with my Matchbox cars and only worried that Sesame Street is still several hours away. Growing up is such a b**ch. Ha. (Sorry, no moving things in video - just an album cover with two swarthy Italian fellows, or so it would appear.)

All That She Wants by Ace of Base - The omnipresent tune of sunny days and breezy nights through middle school. Poor girl. She leads a lonely life. I wondered many times what it would be like to meet such a girl... one with a lonely life, who would hunt me like I'm a fox. Gosh, that's rather disturbing.

Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth by Primitive Radio Gods - This was kind of a "coming of age" song for me. I listened to it at a time when friends were leaving, when bonds were breaking, and when I realized that I might be my parents' son all my life, but I didn't have much longer left as a child. The whole "Ma Teresa joins the mob" part is classic. Have a listen.

Collide by Howie Day - Sometimes songs have a significance that only a couple of people can grasp. This is one such song. Funny how it's such a happy song. But such a sad song too. (Sorry no video again, just album cover.)

This isn't all of them obviously. I could blog for days about songs that have played a role in my life, but let's face it, I'm in the entertainment business, and nostalgia only does well for so long.

More later perhaps.

Have a happy new year (if you're into that sort of thing).

Things I Did in 2008

2008-12-26T20:33:00.003-05:00

Got really bad haircuts - three of the last four. These ladies keep insisting that they know my hair better than I do and that they've taken "years off me" and that all the pretty women are going to be "Oooooh" but dammit, woman, I just want my hair nice and short so I can get out of bed and go to work and not have to bother with it.
Learned that women don't like it if you call their hair "frizzy" - and I learned that the hard way too. I happen to think "frizzy" hair suits some women... apparently some women don't think so. My education is just beginning. Yet another advantage of working in retail.
Realized that both Croatia and Somalia are shaped kind of like boomerangs. O Geo Challenge! Is there no end to the wisdom you bestow upon your subjects? (Peru looks like an ear, Cuba looks like an eyebrow and Nicaragua looks like something a cat threw up. Ha. Take that, Nicaragua!)
Had tons of fun with my dad for five days straight when he visited. I'm getting so old.
Lifted a man who weighs at least 50 pounds more than me clear off the ground. (Amazing things happen when the Crew score goals that involve Frankie Hejduk ghosting into the penalty area to connect with a sublime GBS chip. And I'm hernia free!)
Made money. Unless I do something utterly ridiculous in the next four days, 2008 will be the first year I've actually made more money than I've spent. Perhaps my heirs will not be saddled with my debts* after all (*Heirs may still be saddled with gambling debts and losses from recent investments in Bernie Madoff's fund... after he was arrested)
Accepted that f**ker and a**hole can actually be terms of endearment when used in the right context at the right time with the right people. Such occasions are rare, but when they come about, they must be cherished. And taken full advantage of.
Blogged religiously at least once a week. *cough cough* Oh alright, not really.

My Ears are Blocked

2008-12-23T22:17:00.003-05:00

Again. The same thing happened to me this time last year. It has to be the weather.

I had to get them "irrigated" back in Columbus where this brave nurse squeezed hot water into my ears using some strange rubber bulb type thing and tried not to retch when all sorts of ear wax spilled out into the bowl she was holding to my hearing devices.

But I could hear tons better.

I'm going to try to go see Dr. Angulo tomorrow. Dr. Angulo is a geriatric, senile Colombian who cured me of my bacterial infection 6 weeks ago and also:

1. Told me that every doctor I'd ever had till I came to see him was an idiot
2. Tried to explain to me that Mahatma Gandhi was the driving force behind the Partition of India (he may have been on to something there)
3. Interrupted examination and diagnosis for 10 minutes to try to remember all he could about this Persian prince named "Ahmad" that he had read about once years ago
4. Recounted an exciting story of how he discovered the tumor the size of a grapefruit in an indigent artist's testicle. (How said artist didn't realize he had a tumor the size of a grapefruit in his testicle I do not know.)
5. Nodded appreciatively at my knowledge of early 90s Colombian football players (Valderrama and Higuita was as far as I got, but it was enough)

'twas quite an interesting experience. He took his time (75 minutes) and got to know me and my issues, made a diagnosis, loaded me up with prescriptions for six different drugs, warned me of the several different ways I could die from the common cold and sent me on my way.

He reminds me of home. So back to him I go.

I Fell Off My Bike

2008-05-01T22:14:00.004-04:00

So I fell off my bike earlier this week. It was all Russell Peters' fault. If I hadn't learned that there were free student tickets to his show here in a couple of weeks on offer at the Union, I wouldn't have been biking at breakneck speeds to get there and back during the 10 minute break in my Negotiations class. So I tried to jump the kerb and I probably shouldn’t have. But that doesn’t stop it being Russell’s fault. (I’ll still come see you Russell, don’t worry.)

The wheels came out from under me and I did a graceful twist/twirl in the air, my legs gently caressing the bike frame. I landed on my back. Glasses safe. Watch safe. Head safe. In that order. A passer-by was concerned.

“Are you alright?” she inquired.
“Yes… just feel a little stupid,” I answered, still on my back.
“Don’t worry. It’s happened to me loads of times,” she assured me as I rose gingerly.
“Well, then you must be one sorry uncoordinated type person,” I said. No no. I just thought that. What I actually said was nothing. I just smiled… for two reasons

She was probably just trying to be nice, my above average brain reasoned.
She was rather pretty. But seriously, I wouldn’t have been mean to an ugly girl either. Seriously.

Anyway, the bike was beyond riding. Brake lever broken off… back brakes jammed… etc etc. So I gave it up as lost, jogged to the union, got my ticket and jogged back to class in time. Later that evening, I limped home to my sympathetic house mates. Who laughed when I told them my tale of woe and injury. We have a funny dynamic in this house. We laugh at each other’s misfortunes. We laughed at Isaac when his girlfriend broke up with him. We laughed at Kenley when he missed his flight. And we laughed at Clay when… well, we laugh at Clay all the time.

You’ll be happy to know I have almost fully recovered from my bruises now (mother). I managed to sell the remains of my bike to a second hand bike shop for $50. Which wasn’t bad, considering I paid $110 for it brand new. I’m such a hustler.

Life goes on.

Hugh Laurie

2008-04-06T13:47:00.004-04:00

So I about fainted when I realized that the star of the hit TV show House is Hugh Laurie. I discovered this only yesterday when I actually sat down/lay down and watched an episode. You see, I know him more for this:

And I expect from him things like this:

(Side note: I too, was at one point in love with Steffi Graf. But then weren't we all?)

But, never, never, in a thousand years, this:

He even has the accent down pat. Incredible. And he is such a massive **ck. Incredible.

I was always a fan of Hugh Grant... especially because it has oft been said that I look *ahem ahem* strikingly like him. But today, I have a new favorite Hugh, a Hugh who goes from being a stupid prince to a lispy recording artist to a complete jerk of a brilliant doctor. Hugh Laurie, I salute you.

Terrific, Heroic & Abstinent

2008-03-25T21:46:00.006-04:00

The Columbus Crew (Columbus's excuse for a Major League Soccer (MLS) team - the MLS, by the way, is America's excuse for a professional football league) are playing their home opener this Saturday against Toronto FC (damn Canadians). And there are several of us going to the game, a 4 pm kick off.

Jeff, Clement and some others were planning on going to the Rumba Cafe (near the stadium), drinking excessively, and then walking to the game. But there was a problem. What follows is an email conversation over the course of several hours condensed and presented tastefully for your consumption:

(Sender of email in bold)

Jeff:
Unfortunately the Rumba Cafe is not open until 8pm on Saturdays, so going there and walking to the game won't happen. Plan B is Buffalo Wild Wings, where we can eat, drink and merrily watch sports on many televisions before one terrific volunteer drives us all over to the match (I will start a fund to pay parking for said glorious volunteer).

Clement:
It sounds good to me, but where the hell could we find someone who does not drink ? ahem...

Shahyan:
sigh. Alright fine. I will refrain from drinking on Saturday.

Clement:
Shahyan, you're my hero!

Jeff:
Shahyan..... I was going to have a word with you about your excessive drinking.... I am glad to see you are taking a day off.

So, to summarize:

I'm a terrific volunteer
I'm a hero
I will not be drinking on Saturday
Jeff is pleased with me
I think I just got my parking at Crew Stadium paid for

Life is good.

P.S: This is funny because I don't drink. I suppose, if you didn't know that, this was kind of stupid. Perhaps it's kind of stupid anyway...

P.P.S: The term "drinking" in this particular post refers to the consumption of alcohol, not the imbibing of water and other such fluids necessary for the sustainment of life.

P.P.P.S: You know what annoys me sometimes? People who write P.S.S. instead of P.P.S. Post post script makes sense. Post script script is just ridiculous.

Labeled

2008-03-08T22:55:00.002-05:00

So I haven't been quite so well this past week; a throat situation combined with the kind of coughs that rearrange your insides (well, mine in this case) has rendered me quite miserable.

So, this afternoon, on my first day off in a couple of weeks, I decided to try a little something to get rid of this affliction. I implemented the age old, mother-recommended cure for the dry cough and the congestion: Steam inhalation.

I boiled water, got myself a towel and sat in our lounge. There I was, head bent over pan of water, towel sealing heat in, inhaling deeply and pretending that my face wasn't being singed. Clay and Isaac were in the house, pottering around. Clay was quite intrigued by my cough remedy.

Suddenly, I head him say, "Oh!!" Then stomp stomp stomp as he ran from the kitchen, through the lounge (where I was doing steam) and into Isaac's room. "Hey Isaac!" he said excitedly, "Shahyan's a towelhead!"

And they both found this to be exceedingly funny. It was funny, I suppose, but more weak smile funny than the hearty ha-ha-ha funny that they thought it was...

Oh well, simple things please simple minds, what? This is towelhead, signing off.

Cold?

2008-01-27T18:07:00.000-05:00

Earlier this afternoon, I looked at the weather forecast for tomorrow and saw that we would be hitting the 40s (roughly 7 degrees for you centigrade types... of which I am one, come to think of it). And I said to myself, "Oh, I could actually ride my bike to work tomorrow!"

Never in a million years would I have thought to consider 7 degree weather bike-ride congenial. But after two weeks of -7 and -14 and wind chill that kills, I suppose relativity kicks in.

And in Karachi last month I was roaming around in nothing more than shorts and a t-shirt... and the requisite undergarments. Naturally, my mother was horrified. Not at the undergarments of course... rather at the shorts... as in... let me explain.

My mother considers any temperature below 60 degrees (15 degrees centigrade) to be "freezing." So Karachi this December was "freezing." However, after almost 7 years in Ohio, Shahyan considered Karachi this December to be "pleasant" if not quite "balmy" but definitely not "freezing."

I was comfortable in my shorts and t-shirt and requisite undergarments. My mother thought I was woefully under-dressed and was going to catch pneumonia or double pneumonia or something terrible. Hence the horror.

And here I am, in Ohio again, considering a brisk morning bike ride in temperatures that are, according to the maternal scale, roughly 20 below zero (8 degrees centigrade below zero). She would be horrified if she knew. But, since I haven't posted in six months, I'm pretty sure no one, not even she, comes to this page any more. So I'll just leave this up here till someone notices.

*hums a little tune*

YouTubing

2007-07-23T20:06:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-08T19:41:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-04T17:58:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-27T21:29:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-21T23:45:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-18T20:08:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-13T19:52:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-06T16:28:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-24T14:15:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-20T20:35:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-05-12T17:48:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-07T21:40:00.001-04:00

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

2007-05-04T01:27:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-30T13:06:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-04-22T22:09:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-15T16:33:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-10T15:44:00.000-04:00

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

2007-04-08T14:44:00.000-04:00

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

2007-02-04T21:47:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-04T21:43:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-29T09:47:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-22T22:58:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-22T22:23:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-07T19:41:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-05T22:10:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-05T21:40:00.000-05:00

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)

2007-01-05T21:00:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-03T21:41:00.000-05:00

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!

I'm So Annoyed

2006-12-15T18:52:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*post terminated*

Sencetac, Menoplatz, "Beaches"

2006-12-11T11:05:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

I Knelt To Pray But Not For Long

2006-12-02T19:02:00.000-05:00

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

Anyway, here:

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

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

Really, Theme Songs, Childhood Innocence

2006-11-30T20:03:00.000-05:00

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

Anyway, on to the blogword: REALLY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Little Secret, Cricket, French Bakery, Tradition

2006-11-27T21:09:00.000-05:00

So the new blogword is: SECRET

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blogthought 4: JFK, I'd Rather Be Sleeping

2006-11-16T23:25:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday Wanderings A'beckoning - Sorry

2006-11-08T21:53:00.000-05:00

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

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

And now, on to the Blogword!!

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

For me the benefits of this are threefold:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hot or Not?

2006-11-04T20:53:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

This took time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snippet + Blog Evolution

2006-10-29T19:14:00.000-05:00

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

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

Oh snap!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Grandfather II: Memories of a Hero

2006-10-17T21:44:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canadian Toilets: A Symbol of Quality, and Other Stories

2006-10-11T23:24:00.000-04:00

Canadian Toilets: A Symbol of Quality

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

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

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

The Bluegrass Concert... Or was It?

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

Wrong.

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

Forgot My Lines & Covered My A**

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

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

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

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

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

Stand Up: Karachi My City

2006-10-02T18:56:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ode to Karachi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Lift = Lift

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

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

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

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

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

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

And stop.

#Applause & Autographs#

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

Just Call Me Leo

2006-09-26T01:10:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

I had several issues with this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8 Simple Rules...

2006-05-31T17:32:00.000-04:00

8 Simple Rules for Driving in Karachi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8. Yelling and cursing is expected and appreciated.

Mercy is for the weak.

Cockroaches & Power Failures

2006-05-24T08:07:00.000-04:00

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

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

Cockroach!

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

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

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

Flying cockroach!

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

Shoe!

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

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

Power failure!

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

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

Thirty seconds later

Aaaaaa! I don't know where it is!

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

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

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

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

Flying cockroach guts everywhere!

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

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

This war was over.

Emirates: Tribute To Entity

2006-05-16T11:50:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

*open mouth, wide eyed wonder*

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

Homeland Security: Tribute To Entity

2006-05-12T10:19:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

Note: Times accurate to within +/- 10 minutes

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

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

Summer Plans a la Robert Frost

2006-04-23T16:34:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

So, without further ado, I present to you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Long Term Memory Curse

2006-04-20T00:01:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brokeback Mountain: My $0.02

2006-04-09T19:18:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Global Awareness

2006-03-12T22:09:00.000-05:00

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

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

Here we go:

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

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

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

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

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

My Grandfather, Cricket and Bushes

2006-02-28T23:28:00.000-05:00

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

Enough of that. Yes, enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor Denmark

2006-02-15T13:56:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Important News this Saturday...

2006-02-11T15:18:00.000-05:00

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

Doctors Remove Part of Sharon's Intestines

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

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

Shocking Pink Curtains

2006-02-06T17:22:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

*sigh*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Childhood is over.

Rap Song - Enemies Anemones

2006-01-26T23:24:00.000-05:00

So I've decided to write a rap song... I downloaded a bunch of freestyle beats last night and am seriously considering a couple of them. I need to work on my lyrics though... I came up with a great line when I was in the shower yesterday (Hey, it worked for Archimedes, didn't it?) but I haven't quite managed to construct a rap around it:

I ain't got no enemies
But I got anemones
In a fishbowl

Now I wasn't sure about the pronunciation of the word "anemone" because
a) I distinctly remember calling it an "an-eh-moan" when I was five or six years old.
b) Sure they say "ah-ne-money" in Finding Nemo but can you really trust a cartoon?
Tif confirmed that Finding Nemo is in fact a reliable source for the pronunciation of otherwise obscure marine-type words. We also had a spirited discussion (well, it lasted about 5 seconds, but it was productive) on the suitability of the word "tank" as compared to the word "bowl" as the last word in the line. Bowl was agreed upon.

Now all that remains is the rest of the song... I'm considering playing around with the line I already have... maybe give it more of a street feel:

I got no homies, only street enemies
I got no street anemones
In my sixteen dollar hotel room
Yeah Yeah... Uh Huh... Yeah Yeah...
Thas Riiight Daaawg
In my sixteen dollar hotel room

Or a Cowboy rap:

My enemies left me without saying goodbye
Anemones have left me; they took my good guitar
My fish bowl has left me; I'm a hungry, lonely, thirsty man
*insert mournful harmonica*

Maybe a boy band rap:

Baybeee, I got no enemies just your heart
Baybeee, I got anemones just like your heart
In my broken fish bowl just like my heart
Oh baybeee, I don't have the heart to break your heart
The way you broke my fishbowl...

OK, never mind.

Sigmund's Wife

2006-01-18T00:01:00.000-05:00

So what does Sigmund's wife wear to bed?
A Freudian slip.

CIA, Pakistan, Anger

2006-01-15T22:09:00.000-05:00

A few words about the CIA attack on the village of Damadola in Pakistan:

1. What a stupid thing to do. Remember Jean Charles de Menezes? The Brazilian fellow who was murdered on the London Underground? Yeah, well this is that all over again. But is anyone going to mourn 17 invisible, unimportant Pakistani village children, their mothers and fathers? No. Because we're too busy drinking oil and watching the latest installment of American Idol. Please. 12 West Virginia coal miners die in a freak accident and there are inquests and memorials. 17 Pakistani villagers are murdered due to misinformation and *cough cough* oops? Each loss of life is tragic, but you wouldn't know it in the world we live in.

2. If the CIA did carry out the attack, why didn't they cover it the HELL up? Pakistan is in enough trouble as it is. The last thing we need is a wanton (and well publicized) violation of our airspace and sovereignty in this manner. Obviously some pompous jackass safe and sound in a bunker miles underground (anyone seen Dick Cheney lately?) wanted credit for this action and leaked the story to the media. "Hey, we just sent jets 50 miles into Pakistani territory to blow some innocent villagers to smithereens!! But say we got Al Zawahiri... you know... to make it seem legit. And give the CIA credit... we rule!" Now the Pakistani government will be under fire from the domestic, hell-bound, bearded ones and many other more reasonable people. I mean, are we a sovereign nation or aren't we?

3. So why couldn't the Pakistan Air Force carry out the attack, if it was so completely necessary to have one? Last time I checked, we had planes. And pilots. And our President seems to enjoy being W's blue eyed boy. So much for "friends" and "allies."

4. If you happen to be American, I'm sure this is all worlds away for you; impoverished Pakistani villagers? Sixteen of them? Seventeen? Who cares? But, any day, some hotshot pilot could get "confirmed and accurate information" that Osama bin Laden is hanging out just chillin' in my parents backyard. (Why he would do that, I do not know. Anyone who's been to my place knows all the green grass and pretty flowers are in the front.) And that scares me. Because the pawn on the plane will do what he's told to do. And governments will deny all knowledge. And then the Pakistani government will "file a protest." What bloody good does "filing a protest" do anyway? "Here. Piece of paper saying we're kind of mad. OK, I feel better now."

My only real comfort is that God is watching. Sometimes I wish He were more Republican... you know, preemptive and irrationally angry; He could smite F-16s from the sky when He sees them flying on missions supported by flimsy, plain wrong or non-existent evidence. That would make me happy. It'd be like the Bermuda Triangle... The Bermuda Earth... featuring God... the Omnipresent, Omniscient Smiter of Errant F-16s (and Other Flying Objects). Now there's a good reality show for you. None of that "Skating with Celebrities" crap we're going to have inflicted on us later this month.

Airports, Parents, California

2006-01-09T22:06:00.000-05:00

So a lot has happened since my last post, one of those things being a lot of not posting. I'll try to get you up to speed with a few choice snippets.

I flew to Los Angeles and back with my brother over the Christmas holidays. Keep in mind this meant we were on no less than FOUR airliners operating in United States airspace in about a 14 day period; two long haired Pakistani Muslim (or so they like to think) males (or so they like to think) of around the age where they go through the I-wanna-blow-myself-up stage. We were stopped for extra security checks (you know shoes off, socks smelly, why is your underwear dirty type of searching) not once, not twice, but ZERO freakin times. I felt like walking back to the TSA people and saying, "Hey. We're Muslim. We're brothers. We have John Walker Lindh hairstyles. We're flying on the SAME PLANE. Aren't you going to probe us or something?"

The funny thing is I always get stopped when I fly alone. Hell, my harmless (I mean, they even LOOK harmless) parents were stopped and searched every flight when they visited me in May (I don't know what happened on their visit last month). Apparently my brother has this weird disarming quality that affects only officials of the government of the United States of America. Remember when the U.S. Embassy decided he wasn't even enough of a threat to be fingerprinted?

Anyway, this incident leads me to believe that either

a) The United States government does not actively indulge in racial and ethnic profiling, or
b) The United States government actively indulges in racial and ethnic profiling, and SUCKS at it.

So, as I mentioned parenthetically above, my parents visited again this December. This time it was just to "be near the boys" since they couldn't come up with a good reason for spending 12 days in freaking DAYTON OHIO. Yes.

2 return tickets to the United States: $4000 (or thereabouts)
Cost of hotel room for two weeks: $500 (we got a good deal)
Total public bus fare over the two weeks: $20 (fearless explorers are my parents)
Getting to "be near the boys" in Dayton, Ohio: PRICELESS

Does not compute.

California was fun. Some highlights:

1. I'm 99.99% certain I saw a cross-dressing transvestite (is that possible?) prostitute on the Los Angeles metro this one day. Just sharing a subway car with that him/her made me want to take a shower. ALONE. To get myself CLEAN. He/she was going to North Hollywood. I know this not because I followed him/her, but because he/she did not get off at Hollywood and Vine, which was the second to last stop for the Red Line, which was where I escaped from the train. Lesson #1: Stay away from North Hollywood.

2. My brother and I took this "Homes of the Stars" tour; Mulholland Drive, Beverly Hills and such and such. My overall impression of the tour was, "God, stupid rich people spend a lot of money to live near each other in cramped, crappy houses on steep hills with narrow winding roads." Maybe when I'm rich and stupid, I'll do that too. Our tour guide was Scottish though. That was fun. Nothing quite like touring Hollywood with a Scotsman. I mean, it makes things so authentic!

3. So my uncle and aunt (in California, this is where we stayed) got this weird idea that my brother and I were missing Ohio. So they took us to Palm Springs for a day where the temperature was TWENTY DEGREES (- 8 or so for you centigrade types) and the wind was BRISK and MURDEROUS. I don't really know what they were thinking... "You know, it's been forever since we've been pointlessly unkind to our sons and our house guests..."

4. On the return journey, McDonalds at LAX tried to sell me a parfait for $3.25! if I weren't so addicted to them, I'd quit eating the dollar parfaits here in Dayton in protest. My protests never really work out anyway. I'm back to using UDF for milk and ice cream and such as well. *sigh*

I just realized I listed seeing a cross-dressing prostitute as one of the "highlights" of my visit to California... I must need help.

Touchdowns in the Bathroom

2005-11-28T20:15:00.000-05:00

Yeah, so I'm still waiting on the church posting. Stupid life keeps happening, and I have to keep doing stuff to stop it. You know how it goes.

Anyway, today I'm introducing a whole new genre to my already widely varied bloggery: Pottyology. I'm almost certain I'm going to look back on this posting with regret and delete it at some point in the future so enjoy it while you can. It's just that I had one of those Eureka moments yesterday, and I feel the need to share it with my loyal readership which, including my mother is now at, I believe, one.

So yesterday I was answering the call of nature (For those of you unfamiliar with the call of nature, it sounds something like "Rumble rumble, nowhere to go but down and out"... gosh, I'm disgusting.) and I realized that I never left the restroom without converting my "touchdown" (or "try" for you rugby types) as it were.

OK, I'm going to try to explain this without making you throw up. Every time you score a "touchdown" or a "try" you get "more points" because it was for a "longer play" that required “considerable effort.” Then you try to tack on another couple by "converting," for which you get "less points" because it's a "shorter" play requiring "less effort." Now, if you haven't already done so, put on your thinking cap (or bowler hat… haha… Sorry) and convert this to bathroom terminology. Make sense? If not, you're too old to be reading this and you're going to be dead soon so it doesn't matter anyway.

Now my nature answering habits may differ from yours but, personally, there is nothing more unsatisfying than an unconverted touchdown. You're left sitting there wondering what happened to it... has there been a "delay of game"? Why are there no "penalty flags"? No way in hell they're overturning this one...

Once again, I apologize.

Campus Jihad for Christ

2005-11-06T23:14:00.000-05:00

So this morning I went to the Apex Church in Kettering because Rachel told me about a Muslim who converted to Christianity who would be speaking and she figured I might be interested. What actually sparked this invitation was an ongoing conversation she and I have been having about the college campus Christian groups that call themselves "Campus Crusade for Christ." Now these groups are generally filled with really nice people (such as Rachel, and the aptly named, and very manly, Michael Trinity) and I have no problems whatsoever with their characters, activities and taste in cheese. But, to a Muslim (or someone who likes to think he is a Muslim i.e. me) the name “Campus Crusade for Christ” reverberates the way the name "Campus Jihad for Muhammad" would reverberate in a Christian brain. That is, somewhat uncomfortable-making-you-feelingly.

Anyway, I suggested to Rachel that her group might be better off if they changed their name to "Campus Jihad for Christ" for the following reasons:

1. A Crusade means, according to dictionary.com and Yahoo! Reference:
a. Any of the military expeditions undertaken by European Christians in the 11th, 12th, and 13th centuries to recover the Holy Land from the Muslims.
b. A holy war undertaken with papal sanction.
c. A vigorous concerted movement for a cause or against an abuse.

Notice that the two primary definitions involve war, hence giving the word a somewhat threatening aura... aura? Well, you know what I'm trying to say. Anyway, short version: Crusade = War

2. The meanings of the word Jihad (if you speak to a rational Muslims and not one of those crackpots who likes killing white folk) are as follows, in order of relevance and importance:
a. Struggle with one’s self to overcome temptation, improve one’s self and be a better servant of God.
b. Struggle to convince others of the truth of one's path and guide them that way if they are so inclined.
c. Defending one’s self against aggression on the part of an enemy.
(Seriously, this is the last time I am using “one’s self” in my writing.)
Anyway, yes, the tertiary definition is all about war (a defensive war, but war nevertheless). But the primary and secondary definitions are not. Jihad of the Mind and Jihad of the Pen are given more importance in Islam (at least the Islam I have been taught) than Jihad of the Sword is.

Now, what I think my friends in these Christian groups (Campus Crusade, Switchfoot, The Mel Gibson Fan Club etc) are trying to do is
a. improve themselves (Jihad)
b. share their faith with others (Jihad)
c. not declare war on the infidels (not Crusade)

So the Crusade word thing in their name thing just doesn't make sense thing. I encouraged Rachel to start a nationwide movement to have the name changed to Campus Jihad for Christ but I haven't seen colorful fliers or prime time television commercials yet so she still has a ways to go. Don't worry Rach, you'll get there.

OK, so the whole Crusade/Jihad thing was totally not supposed to be this long. I'm going to have to write about my exciting Church experience in another post.

Al Franken is Boring

2005-11-04T11:22:00.000-05:00

You know what? Al Franken is boring. That's why people turn their radio dials over to Rush between noon and 3 every weekday. Yes, Rush is 86.4% more lies than Franken is. But at least he's entertaining. For the record, Franken has a FLING (Fabricatin' Like Its Nineteen... Gosh-we're-already-in-the-21st-century) Index of 0.5 - which means I'm willing to believe half of what he says... at least half of what I manage to keep myself awake for. Seriously, listen to his show. He has that deep droning voice, thinks too much before he says anything (which is a bad thing on the radio) and basically plods through segments like a wildebeest with a hangover.

Anyway, based on my half-arsed mathematics and the FLING Matrix, we find that Rush Limbaugh has a FLING Ratio of 0.932, which effectively means that the only time he isn't lying is when he says "ummmm," "hemmmm," haawww," "folks" or "we'll be right back after this."

My posts are becoming more and more one dimensional. Stupid politics. I hereby solemnly swear that my next post will be on a subject completely different. Something like socks. Or polar bears with dysentry.

Right v Left v... Where's the Third Party Dammit?

2005-11-02T22:09:00.000-05:00

Yes, long absence.

So the extreme right in America makes me laugh for the following reasons:

1. They won't give Harriet Miers due process but they demands it for Sam Alito. Oh, and George W. Bush has the right to nominate whoever he wants for the Supreme Court... as long as they agree with the pick. Otherwise God help him. But not really. Because God only loves true conservatives.
2. It's not OK to kill unborn children on purpose, but it's perfectly fine if their loss is collateral damage in war.
3. It's OK to talk of "Crusades" and "Jesus" but God Forbid you mention "Jihad" and "Allah" in the same context.
4. It's more important to point out why the left is wrong rather than why they are right (right as in correct, not right as in conservative).
5. They think they're mainstream America. Gosh, I'd be dead/deported/Gitmo'ed/something-else-that's-really terrible if they were.

Irrational, temperamental, self-centered... it's like watching a bunch of three year olds fighting over cake.

So the extreme left makes me laugh... well, cry for the following reasons:

1. They're pathetic.
2. They have no plan.
3. They have no direction.
4. They have no stance.
5. They have nothing.

And the centrists make me scratch my head and wonder why it's necessary for them to align with one set of kooks or the other. What a waste of intelligence.

McCain-Powell 2008. You heard it first here. In my dreams.

Notice I rarely back up my opinons with solid facts. This is because:

1. I don't really have the time to fact-check and cite and source and all that jazz.
2. This is MY HOUSE. I say what I want!

Political Compass

2005-08-25T14:51:00.001-04:00

Now, I know this isn't supposed to be a link-posting, website pushing type of blog, but this is rather interesting. If you are the least bit politically inclined, go to Political Compass and take their test to determine how far left, right, up or down you are.

I ended up with coordinates of (-4.63, -0.56) on their graph, meaning (according to my hopeful interpretation) that I'm a Left-Leaning Moderate with Libertarian tendencies. I didn't expect to land SO far left. I guess I'm more of a commie than I thought. You go Stalin!

How to Win Iraq and Afghanistan (or at least Stop Losing)

2005-08-25T14:34:00.000-04:00

So the whole Iraq War thing is hotting up again (did it ever really cool down?) and we have the Sheehans and the anti-Sheehans and the pundits and the morons wanting the whole world to hear what they think about Iraq and the troops and dead soldiers and live soldiers and elections and Iran and terrorism.

And now (in the tradition of loudmouth moron-dom) it's my turn.

1. Cindy Sheehan lost her son. You cannot belittle his sacrifice or hers. She must be given the utmost respect and honor, no matter what her views. Calling her behavior "disgraceful" and denouncing her as a "tool of the left" is just cheap and despicable (which I guess explains why Rush keeps doing just that).

2. Cindy Sheehan has a skewed perspective of the future of Iraq. Bringing the troops home will not solve anything. I hate to agree with W, but they need to stay in Iraq. If they don't this will happen:
530 pm: 138,000 fatigue wearing, gun-toting Americans leave Iraq.
531 pm: Abu Musab Al Zarqawi and his buddies stroll into Baghdad, kill a few (thousand) people and establish the Hardcore Fundamentalist Islamic Republic of Iraq - Osamas join free.
532 pm: The world says "Oh Crap."

3. America is not going to win Afghanistan or Iraq unless things change drastically. You don't want to reduce troop numbers. You want to INCREASE them. These piecemeal battles will help only the extremists. Quite frankly, things look really bad. I'm not going to harp on past mistakes, lies, false pretexts, misjudgements and stupidity. Forget what's happened. Look at where we are right now, and what needs to be done. Here are the steps I feel are needed to rescue what appears to be more and more of a lost cause:

1. The US needs to forget about North Korea, Venezuela, Iran, Syria and all the other fun places it may want to invade (for now, anyway) and focus on just the two it's already caught up in.
FOCUS: IRAQ AND AFGHANISTAN.

2. The US should increase, as much as possible, troop numbers in both Afghanistan and Iraq. Keeping the bare minimum required to give the impression of some semblance of order and security will not do. The extremists will not be deterred by such a wishy washy effort. They will be encouraged by the apparent indecision and lack of commitment on the part of the coalition. In addition, the general public will be more and more alienated from the cause as days go by; a status quo of instability and uncertainty is not progress - and every time a civilian dies in this long drawn out effort, more hearts and minds are lost. The longer these wars take, the harder they will be to win.
INCREASE TROOP NUMBERS SIGNIFICANTLY AND GO AFTER THE TERRORISTS.

3. There are some possible objections to what I just wrote:

a. This would mean putting more troops in harms way.Yes, it would. But you're not a soldier to sit around and claim benefits. You're a soldier to fight (By the way, this is one reason I laugh when soldiers and their families whine about their being sent to Iraq because they just signed up for the army or the National Guard or the Marines "to pay for college." You join the army to fight for your country. You take out a loan to pay for college. Idiots.). Sending more troops now means sending less later. Bringing the troops home would be a very selfish thing to do, especially considering the fragile situation that part of the world is in right now.
THERE ARE NO WINNERS IN A WAR THAT LASTS FOREVER.

b. Iraq and Afghanistan themselves and other coalition partners should play a larger supporting role.
YOU WANTED THIS MESS. YOU CLEAN IT UP. (*sigh* So ugly is the truth. TO W's credit, he's not shirking the responsibility one bit.)

c. Increasing troop numbers would imply a larger, longer occupation.Yes, this is a problem. I do have an idea however, and I'm sure no one will like it, but it may be a way to get stuff done. Keep the US military there, but have them under the command of Iraqis or Afghans of high rank. Yes, this is a strange, undesirable idea but if followed through with, it may convince the people of each occupied nation that the US and its allies
1. Do not consider themselves superior to the natives
2. Do not want a monopoly on power
3. Are there to help and are willing to do what the nations wants
4. Are clearly not an occupying force if they answer to native military officials
And then they may stop the hating. These are extraordinary times. And extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. It is important however, that this not be just a typical PR junket. The commanders need to have real decision making power. The Iraqis and Afghans are not stupid. They know how to run an army. They just lack the strength and firepower they need. And the US, as a true friend, can provide that.
WORK FOR THEM, NOT AROUND THEM.

4. Stop whining about faulty intelligence and WMDs. What's done is done. Much as I would love to see some people get what they deserve, I'm sure God has a better payment-for-your-sins plan than I or any of the whiners out there, can conceive. Look at what's here, NOW. And fix it. This is to you, Dems. (Well, expecting you to fix it is probably asking too much. At least don't get in the way of those who can.)

5. Admit your mistakes. No one is perfect. I've lost what little respect I had for the current administration because they're hell-bent on telling everyone that they're perfect and haven't set a foot wrong. Psst. Mr. and Mrs. American Politicians. Let me tell you a secret. WE KNOW YOU'RE ONLY HUMAN DAMMIT.

So there you go. Not the most eloquent of posts. I dare say my ideas could do with a fair amount of fine tuning and making-sound-bettering but that's the core. I know it's asking a lot, but you're America. Talk the talk. Walk the walk... You know what the problem is? The rest of the world holds America to the high standards it holds for itself. You guys just don't leave yourselves any room for error... and then when shit happens... yeah. That's another post altogether.

This ends here.

What kind of US Embassy...

2005-08-10T22:20:00.000-04:00

So my brother might actually be here in a week or so... scary. Scarier for me than for you, trust me. Yeah... I'm not saying any more.

So, it's no secret that the U.S. is hurting for high quality international students at their institutions of higher education. We know this because I know this. I know this because I don't personally know anyone who came to the United States to study AFTER 9/11, but I know tons of people who came BEFORE. Yes, much as I hate to harp on it, this has to do with 9/11. The number of international students in US universities has gone down significantlyas the smart (and not-so-smart-but-filthy-rich) Muslims (and those-who-like-to-think-they're-Muslims-but-there-are-some-who-would-beg-to-differ) now go to Australia, England and Canada.

Except me. And my brother. We are truly loyal Americans. *takes bite out of Big Mac while watching American Idol and downloading photographs of Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen*

So, no smart or filthy rich brown people in American universities.
Ergo, most American universities = not happy (or secretly happy but just don't want to admit it).
Ergo, US Ambassador (or someone from the embassy, anyway) to Pakistan writes a long article in Pakistani newspaper (about 6 months ago now) encouraging Pakistanis to consider furthering their education in the U.S. and promising fair and efficient visa processing.
Ergo, my brother applies and gets into good ol' UD (Honestly, he had already applied at the time of the article).
Ergo, he applies for a US visa and goes to Islamabad for an interview.

So, visa granted (woohoo) but hang on a turban-wearing minute. The passport must go to "Washington" for some sort of "security check." Oh well, it's the middle of June. Plenty of time, right?

WRONG. Beginning of August = No passport back. Two weeks to departure (if at all). Much anxiety. Someone forgot to pay some silly fees (not our fault, by the way). Fees paid. Passport on way back. Relief, right?

WRONG. Some genius at the US Embassy in Islamabad FORGOT TO FINGERPRINT THE BROTHER WHEN HE WENT FOR HIS INTERVIEW. Seriously now, answer me this:

What kind of US Embassy forgets to fingerprint a 19 year old Pakistani male??

Gosh, if I were my brother, I'd be almost offended. Poor fellow looked so harmless, they didn't even think of fingerprinting him. Haha. So they called him back (and by back I mean a 2 hour flight each way) and did the deed. Passport back. Brother fingerprinted. Flight confirmed. All set to go, right?

WRONG. Pretty much anywhere we green passport holders land, we need a visa of some sort. And, since the brother will be spending a couple of hours at Frankfurt Airport, he needs a transit visa. So, on to the Germans. Let's hope their efficiency overcomes their xenophobia.

And you black folks think you have it rough... *sigh*

A Sad Day for Common Sense + Bye Bye King

2005-08-01T12:39:00.000-04:00

John R Bolton has been appointed the United States' Permanent Representative to the United Nations. This is the kind of crap you expect from corrupt, power hungry Third World governments. Appoint an anti-UN idiot as the ambassador to the UN. Please. Surely America has more talent than this? On the other hand, look at the President. And the guy who failed to beat him.

Honestly though, to the Democrats, if you can't even beat George W. in an election, you deserve everything bad that happens to you. Whine away. We don't care. Just keep Bolton's moustache away from me... Aaaaagh! Get Away! Shoo!

So King Fahd died. Boo. Hoo. If there ever was a monarch that defined hypocrisy, he was it. In bed with the West and money and capitalism and all that jazz yet incredibly harsh and oppressive to his own people; supporting conservative, anti-West Islam to appease the Saudi fanatics while whispering sweet nothings and pouring oil into the white man's ears. Good riddance.

*sigh* So much hate...

Murder Most Needless

2005-07-24T17:04:00.000-04:00

Name: Jean Charles de Menezes
Age: 27
Cause of Death: 5 bullets to head and torso
Killers: Plainclothed Officers of the London Metropolitan Police
Crime: He was a man of South Asian appearance who, while wearing a heavy padded jacket, left a house in the shady London neighborhood of Brixton, leaped the turnstiles at the London Underground's Stockwell Station and ran onto a train less than a day after 4 terrorists botched an attempt to copy the criminal attacks of two weeks earlier.

That was his crime, word for word. You'll find it reported that way in every news source, wherever you look. Honestly, even I thought he was guilty of trying to blow something up. And one of the witnesses said he saw wires hanging out of de Menezes' jacket.

Only one thing bothered me. Another witness said the man looked "petrified" as he was hauled down and shot dead. "Petrified" is not an expression you associate with a terrorist. "He must have been terribly disappointed to have failed in his mission to kill innocents," we all thought, and moved on with our lives.

Now, the key points of this story, told the way they should be:

He was South Asian
No, he was Brazilian. Jackasses. And so what if he looked South Asian?

He was wearing a heavy padded jacket
This was London, England. He was Brazilian. He felt cold. I was in London in the summer of 2000. I had a jacket on most of the time. I still felt cold. Jackasses.

He left a house in Brixton
He was only an electrician. Forgive him for being forced to conduct business or even live in an area that deosn't measure up to your high standards. Jackasses.

He ran from the police
If you happen to be in a shady neighborhood, and are followed from that neighborhood by several casually dressed (remember, PLAINCLOTHED OFFICERS) people who suddenly yell at you to stop, what would you do? Turn around and chat with them? Jackasses.

He had wires hanging from his jacket
I only found one report of this... this means either that the so-called witness was a sensationalist who was looking for fame or that the man who had been murdered was an electrician. Jackasses.

Of course, this quiet, hard working young man will soon be forgotten. But his murder should not. It is one thing to be killed in cold blood by those who want to hurt you and do you harm. It is entirely another to be killed in cold blood by those who have sworn to protect you.

Remember Jean Charles de Menezes. He could have been you. You could have been him.

Narnia, Aslan, Tash, Foreigner

2005-07-16T13:34:00.000-04:00

Warning: Spoilers Ahead

So I just finished reading The Chronicles of Narnia. I think it's safe to say I can add Clive Staples Lewis to the list of people who have actively tried to make me Christian. What is that now, three?

Anyway, after page after page of preaching and proselytizing, Aslan (ie God) meets Emeth (a Calormene warrior - one of the "bad guys" ) who had been worshipping Tash (the Devil, or some such representation) but was sincere in his worship and honestly wanted to do good. So they have the typical benevolent-god-meets-errant-but-all-in-all-good-creation conversation. "Fear not my son" etc etc. And then Clive Staples Lewis writes probably the most liberal passage in the entire 767 page tome, and I, shockingly (shockingly because I tend to disagree with things both liberal and conservative - and this is a liberal passage by a conservative writer), agree with it almost completely (see near the end of this posting for the point that prevented me from agreeing with it completely completely).

Anyway, for those of you who care enough to still be reading this post, here is the passage (from near the end of book #7, The Last Battle), as narrated by Emeth: "Then by reason of my great desire for wisdom and understanding, I overcame my fear and questioned the Glorious One and said, 'Lord, is it then true, as the ape (*Blogger's Note: The ape is a jackass) said, that thou and Tash are one?' The Lion growled so that the earth shook (but his wrath was not against me) and said, 'It is false. Not because he and I are one, but because we are opposites - I take to me the services which thou hast done to him. For I and he are of such different kinds that no service which is vile can be done to me, and none which is not vile can be done to him. Therefore, if any man swear by Tash and keep his oath for the oath's sake, it is by me he has truly sworn, though he know it not, and it is I who reward him. And if any man do a cruelty in my name, then, though he says the name Aslan, it is Tash whom he serves and by Tash his deed is accepted. Dosts thou understand, Child?' I said, ' Lord, Thou knowest how much I understand.' (But I also said, for the truth constrained me), Yet I have been seeking Tash all my days.' 'Beloved,' said the Glorious One,'unless thy desire had been for me thou wouldst not have sought so long and so truly. For all find what they truly seek."

Notice how terrible Aslan's subject-verb agreement is? "If any man swear"... "though he know it not"... I suppose as God, you're allowed to mess with the language as you please. Though it could just be Harper Collins messing up... God knows. Haha.

My interpretation of the above is, briefly,
1. Keep your promises,
2. Search for truth, and
3. Be nice to people
and you'll be A-OK. I guess my only issue with it is that it seems almost relativistic and hippyesque... "Dude, your God's cool, as long as we can get high together... wooooow, pretty rainbowwwww." I think it's alright to be "cool" with other people's "God" as long as you sincerely try to understand them and see where they're coming from. But the "it's all good let's drink some beer" approach is a bit flippant. I think we should
1. Keep our promises,
2. Search for truth,
3. Be nice to people, and
4. Be aware that it's not ALL good .

Maybe C.S. Lewis feels that number 4 is covered in number 1, or something like that, but I wouldn't have minded if he had been more explicit. On the whole, the above passage didn't really fit in with the rampantly Christian hurrah that the rest of the book was. I was completely expecting Aslan to say something like, "Thou shouldst have looked harder for me, silly boy," but all he did was go, "Meh, Tash, me, whatever, as long as you're cool, dude."

It's a nice thought though...

Only in America

2005-07-10T14:54:00.000-04:00

Only in America...

- can you be pro-life and pro-war at the same time

- can an unemployed college graduate own two cars in good running condition (No link here, this was me a month ago)

- is eating considered a sport worthy of LIVE airtime on ESPN

- can you cheat on your wife, lie about it, get caught lying about it, then get away with it and even keep your wife because her political career is dependent on her affiliation to you

- can you sit in a fast food restaurant at a table near four burly, tattooed construction workers, watch them pick their teeth and listen to them discuss their children's potty training progress (No link again, this was me last week)

- does 100% fruit juice mean 15% fruit juice and 85% other crap (Take a trip to your nearest Wal-Mart and read the labels on the cartons)

- can donkeys with empty heads have their own radio shows AND a strong following

- will people tolerate mistakes like this

(To be fair, some of these, like the fruit juice thing for example, may be found in other countries too, but since I haven't really looked, I'm going to assume not.)

Me > Queen, Britney and Indian Songs

2005-07-04T19:48:00.000-04:00

I'm sure you've heard "I Want To Break Free" by Queen (lyrics). If you haven't, go listen to it now. And then come back to finish reading this entry. A long time ago, when I was a wee lad still in school (or what you foreigners call HIGH school), so 8, 9 years ago, a friend of mine and I came up with a Weird Al caliber parody of this song. And, for lack of anything better to write this Sunday afternoon, I present to you the first verse of the song closet environmentalist (and flaming homosexual) Freddy Mercury really meant to write:

I Want To Plant Tree
I want to plant tree
I want to plant tree
I want to plant tree in the ground
It'll be so safe and sound for meee-o
I’ve got to plant tree
Gardeners, Gardeners, I want to plant tree...

I'm sure it goes on. I just don't know how.

And, since this isn't really long enough to be a respectable blog entry yet, here's another of my patented (well, not really, but if you're going to use this for personal gain you better pay me something... in cash, a visit doesn't count) parodies. This was written by me (that's why it's MINE, you see) when I was supposed to be studying for my Mechanics I final (which may explain why I got a low B in the course). The original song is, wait for it, "Baby One More Time" by Britney Spears (lyrics):

Problem One More Time
Oh baby baby, how was I supposed to guess
My method wasn't right
Oh baby baby, I shouldn't have found the stress
The question asked for height
Show me moments of inertia
Tell me baby
Coz I need to solve for resultant force

Mechanics I is killing me
And I
I must confess
I hate machines
When I see plane trusses I lose my mind
Sine or cosiiiine?
Work that problem one more time.

*Note: With clever manipulation of the syntax and some ingenious modifications to obscure binary algorithms, I was able to change the I in Mechanics I to a II and thus use the same song for my Mechanics II course as well.

Alright, fine, just one more. And this is only a two liner. And it's in Urdu/Hindi as well. But don't worry. I'll translate for you illiterate types.

The song is called "Sandese" meaning "Messages" and is from the Indian movie Border apparently, released in 1997 according to my sources (some website or the other). The first two lines were despicably distorted (again several years ago) in honor of one of my school friends who we liked to pretend was obese (even though he was probably just somewhat stocky, you know, well built, a healthy man if you will). The name of the song was altered to "Samose." A samosa is a small fried turnover of South Asian origin filled with seasoned vegetables or meat. And the original lines of the song:

Sandese aate hain
Humein tarpaate hain

which translate roughly (and most elegantly) to:

Messages come.
They make us restless/anxious.

were improved to read as follows:

Samose aate hain
Hum inhe khaate hain

which translate exactly (and most elegantly) to:

Small fried turnovers of South Asian origin filled with seasoned vegetables or meat come.
We eat them.

Hey, in the Third World, to amuse yourself, you do what you have to do.

Quotes: Iraq, Insurgents and Other Messes

2005-06-26T11:25:00.000-04:00

Recent quotes I came across in the news. The first four (read in a group) are classic. Unfortunately, they're the only ones that I have been able to verify independently (and perhaps the fifth, but read for yourself):

"The insurgency in Iraq is in its last throes."
~ Dick Cheney (June 22, 2005 - not sure of the exact date, to be honest)

"I believe there are more foreign fighters coming into Iraq than there were six months ago... in terms of the overall strength of the insurgency, I'd say it was the same as it was (six months ago)... I don't know that I would make any comment about that (Cheney's comment above), other than to say that there's a lot of work to be done on the insurgency. I'm sure you'll forgive me for criticizing the vice president."
~ General John Abizaid, Head of US Central Command (June 23, 2005)

"If you look up 'last throes,' it can mean a violent last throe."
~ Donald Rumsfeld (June 25, 2005, ABC Interview)

"We're not going to win against the insurgency. The Iraqi people are going to win against the insurgency. That insurgency could go on for any number of years. Insurgencies tend to go on five, six, eight, 10, 12 years."
~ Donald Rumsfeld (June 25, 2005, SAME ABC Interview as the quote above it. Awfully long violent last throe, isn't it Donny? I think you call that CIVIL WAR)

" I know where Bin Laden is, but I'm not going to tell you. And no, I'm not going to catch him either."
~ Porter Goss, Director of the CIA (June 21, 2005, Sadly, this one is almost true. CNN.com put it this way: "CIA Director Porter Goss says he has an "excellent idea" where Osama bin Laden is hiding, but that the al Qaeda chief will not be caught until weak links in the war on terrorism are strengthened."
I like my way better.)

"Insurgency be damned. We don't know where Bin Laden is. Now leave us alone, but keep giving us money."
~ Pakistan

"Nobody wants to play with me. Or give me money. Or hunt for Bin Laden on my soil. :("
~ India

"HEY! Pay attention to me! I'm actually uprooting settlements! I'm going to displace 150 people in a pathetic attempt to atone for over 50 years of ruthless persecution! Pat on the back please!"
~ Israel

"*sigh* Death to Israel... or something."
~ Palestine

"Why, Henman, Why!!?? Oh, and the invasion was a bunch of jolly old rot, but we'll re-elect Blair anyway"
~ United Kingdom

"Woohoo! Death to America!"
~ Iran

"Holy crap! What have we done??"
~ Rest of Iran

"Y'allz still want the nukes, right?"
~ Russia, to Iran

Traffic Lights: Here and There

2005-06-25T23:06:00.000-04:00

So on the way back to campus today, all the major traffic lights and streetlights on Stewart Street were out. Now that I've laid the foundation of my story, here we go:

Traffic Lights Go Out in America:
Drivers slow down. Pedestrians, commuters and travellers look at one another anxiously. Is everything alright? Maybe it's terrorism? Drivers proceed throuogh intersections highly alert and incredibly aware of everything around them. Drive. Stop. Look right. Look left. Look right again. Look left again. Drive. Breathe sigh of relief. Emergency crews are on the scene in seconds. Temporary stops signs are erected at each corner of the crossing. Some semblance of normality returns. Drivers show utmost respect for the stop signs. Everyone takes care moving through the intersection. Users of the road show patience and courtesy. Highly civilized. Very safe, secure. Serene almost.

Traffic Lights go out in Pakistan:
No one pays attention to them when they're working anyway. No change noted.

Now that's not completely true. But still, good story. Or story-like posting.

UDF, Brits

2005-06-20T20:41:00.000-04:00

So it's been a while.

Before I talk about anything else, you need to stretch out with your peelings. Just click on the link. Trust me, you'll be happy you did.

Did you know United Dairy Farmers (bear in mind, DAIRY) doesn't even stock plain yogurt? Clay, Sonia and I went to this Indian restaurant where the spiciness scale was so out of whack, we could barely taste our food because of the burning (ala Ralph Wiggum and "It tastes like burning!"). Anyway, I figured some Yogurt mixed with the chilis that were a poor substitute for rice would help temper somewhat the sensation of having my tongue ripped out every time a grain crossed my lips. So, off to UDF I went. I searched for the yogurt that would, could and should invariably be found at any self-respecting DAIRY store. I questioned a store attendant and she helpfully suggested strawberry flavored yogurt. And this is AFTER I explained to her the whole chili and rice and why I need plain yogurt story. Some people...

On a side, UDF is also directly responsible for having my car towed on the campus of the Ohio State University (and the $109.40 I had to pay to get it back). Needless to say, they will not be grateful recipients of my patronage for quite some time to come. Speedway Forever! UDF Never!

So the Brits had cold feet before the Iraq war, or so say 8 Secret and Confidential memos leaked to the press by some fellow in the British government. The memos are genuine apparently, but dear God, the Brits are such spineless morons. SIX months (not a year, not 2 years, SIX months) after September 11, 2001, Condoleezza Rice was in London discussing not Bin Laden, not the Taliban, but frickin IRAQ. Now think back to March, 2002. Was Iraq even at the back of your mind? No. Bin Laden was. As was the war in Afghanistan, which, for all intents and purposes, is still ongoing. 194 US servicemembers have died there, almost 50 more than the first Gulf War that created all that hoohah. But no one cares. Scores of young Americans and Iraqis alike are being led to their deaths on the whims of a powerful, short-sighted and perenially stupid few. It's enough to make your toes curl (and not in a good way either).

Anyway, so these memos are freely available online and at the AP website. Listen to some of these quotes:
"The truth is that what has changed is not the pace of Saddam Hussein's WMD programs, but our tolerance of them post-11 September."
"If 11 September had not happened, it is doubtful that the U.S. would now be considering military action against Iraq. In addition, there has been no credible evidence to link Iraq with OBL (Osama bin Laden) and al-Qaida."
"We have also to answer the big question — what will this action achieve? There seems to be a larger hole in this than on anything."
Everything that is now apparent, the Brits knew BEFORE the war. Yet they went ahead with it anyway. What a bunch of pansies. Idiotic pansies. Tea-drinking, idiotic pansies. Tea-drinking, Queen-loving, idiotic pansies. Yeah.

I have little or no patience now for anyone who continues to preach the complete and utter righteousness of the actions of their government. EVERY goverment has its faults. Open your eyes. And grow a brain.

That is all.

For now.

Bob Jones University

2005-04-26T21:40:00.000-04:00

Message from me to the Graduate Admissions Office at Bob Jones University:
I am a 24 year old male Pakistani citizen and also a Muslim. I am very interested in attending Bob Jones University in the Fall of 2006 to continue my education. I was wondering what facilities you offer your international students and whether there are any events that would cater to the people from my region.
I also noticed, while going through your Residence Life web page, that you do not specify any restriction on rap music on your campus. Does this mean I would be able to bring my Eminem CDs with me when I join you? I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.

Message from the International Admissions Counselor at Bob Jones University to me:
Greetings from Bob Jones University.
For detailed information on our majors, please visit our website at http://www.bju.edu/ and click on "Academics."
Let me share a bit of information about BJU which may interest you:
Bob Jones University is Protestant, nondenominational, coeducational, and thoroughly orthodox university which stands without apology for the absolute authority of the Bible. We are in the business of training Christian leaders to go out to witness for the Lord Jesus Christ in whatever business or profession they may feel called of God to invest their lives. We are generally reluctant to enroll an international student unless he is a born-again Christian. Each applicant must write a testimony of how he or she became a born-again Christian.
We are sorry, but we do not have any financial aid to offer to you. The founder believed that each student is responsible to care for the cost of his education, regardless of his citizenship. We require an advance payment of one year's room, board, and tuition before you will be accepted to come.
Please click on the following link to see the special information we have included on our website for international students. This page will answer your questions about our application deadlines, TOEFL scores, and financial requirements: http://www.bju.edu/admissions/international.html
If you are interested in further information about Bob Jones University, please let me know.

Looks like I'm good to go with the Eminem CDs at any rate...

Two Stories - Waiting and The Turks

2005-04-24T21:56:00.000-04:00

Two stories this entry. Lucky you!

Foreigner, Clay and the Bad Waiting Experience
So yesterday Clay and I printed off a $25 dollar coupon for this restaurant at http://www.restaurant.com/ - we'll call it "Enemies" - and went there to eat. It seemed like a nice, friendly environment. Several families were eating together. Basketball games were on the TVs at the bar. No one was being shot in the head. Pianos weren't being molested. You know, good stuff.
Things started to go downhill when we sat down and looked at the menus that were handed to us by a caucasian girl who looked like she'd just been scolded for eating too many cookies before dinner. The menu informed us that we had a grand total of 4 entrees to choose from. It didn't take us long to decide what we wanted. And then the waiting began:

Minute 0: Orders for salads and entrees placed. Pathetically flat carbonated beverages received.
Minute 10: Clay and I decide to play pool. I foolishly hope our food doesn't arrive while we're playing. I wouldn't want the steaming hot gastronomic delight to go cold in our absence.
Minute 20: I pocket the 8-ball to complete a stunning come-from-behind victory (as is my style) and we return to our seats at the bar to find no salad, no entree and even flatter beverages.
Minute 30: The Houston-Dallas game is dead as a contest. I glare at the waitress every time she walks by and complain loudly to Clay about the service. No eye contact is made. No salads. No entrees. No refills.
Minute 35: I encourage Clay to get up and leave with me. Clay gets cold feet. The waitress walks right by us with a cellphone to her ear. I glare. She ignores. She goes into some sort of supply closet with the phone still to her ear.
Minute 40: Waitress exits closet. I glare with extra intensity. This finally gets her attention. We get some story about how our food is coming (No kidding? Food at a restaurant?). Clay promises to leave if our food hasn't arrived in 2 minutes.
Minute 42: Clay looks away when I point out that two minutes have passed.
Minute 45: Waitress disappears. Could this be the magic moment?
Minute 47: Waitress reappears. Still no salads, no entrees and no refills.
Minute 50: I tell Clay we're leaving. Clay says he'll follow me out after a minute or so to dispel the suspicion a hurried pair exit is likely to raise.
Minute 51: Out. I'm such a rebel!
Minute 52: Clay out. He's such a rebel!
Minute 70: We pull into the parking lot of the Golden Dragon Chinese Buffet and enjoy a decent meal, friendly service and full stomachs.

All I can say is Thank God for Immigrants. If it weren't for the Chinese, we'd have been driving around to restaurants similar in nature to Enemies all night long.

On the other hand, this reminds of me of another story which we'll call:

Foreigner, Clay and the Rude Turkish Tailor
So the zipper on my suit pants was completely out of order. It just plain stopped zipping. I'd tug on the pin and the gaping hole in the front of my pants would refuse to seal no matter what I did. Now back home in the Third World (I'm foreign, remember) when something like this happens, you walk 10 minutes to the nearest tailor, pay him the equivalent of 50 cents and have a brand spanking new zipper put in that as good as if not better than the original.
But not in the most advanced nation on earth, oh no. Here, you won't find a tailor who'll do it for less than what you paid for the damn pants. In the first place, you won't find a tailor. Maybe I didn't look hard enough... anyway, you won't find a tailor EASILY. I ended up one Thursday afternoon with Clay driving through downtown Hicksville, Mid-Western USA in search of tailors. The one seamstress we hoped to find was out. The second one had shut down and moved away. Our last hope was this huge shop in pretty much the heart of the dead downtown (where buildings went as high as 5 storeys and Clay told me they actually knocked down a mall to put in a street... so things were picking up that year).
Anyway, this shop was the deadest of the dead. Three old Eastern European type people sitting in a back room talking in Turkish sewing what looked like 30 year old curtains. You know the feeling you get when you walk into an attic that's been shut for years and years? Yeah, well that's the feeling you get when you walk into Mr. Turkish Tailors (not the store's real name).
So this old fellow looked up in shock (Customers?? But we don't get THOSE anymore!) and asked what the matter was. I told him my story. He looked at the pants for a while, tried some fancy chalk stuff and then announced dramatically: "New Zipper!"
Amazing! We would never have guessed!
But get this. He wanted FOURTEEN dollars for his work. I was a bit taken aback. That seemed a bit steep... that was about half of what I'd paid for the whole pair of pants (or what my parents had paid). But whatever. As long as they were repaired, right? So I asked if I could pick them up later that afternoon since I needed them on Saturday (2 days later). To which he pointed to Saturday on the calendar and nodded his head. I was quite happy, till I realized that he was pointing at the Saturday AFTER next (9 days later). Now I needed to wear those pants in less than 48 hours so I tried to turn on the charm, praise his skills, explain how the zipper would be child's play to him etc etc.
"Very busy" were the two words I got out of him. I looked around the coffin of the place feeling a little disoriented. Very busy? What?
I tried once more to talk him into a shorter waiting period. For my efforts, I received my pants in my hands and the words "Then take it!"
Take it I did. And Clay and I left. Stupid immigrants. Deport them all!!

And the moral of these stories is:

There's two sides to every story... or
There's two stories to every side.

Take your pick.

No to Bolton, Daily Show Update

2005-04-18T12:37:00.000-04:00

John R. Bolton makes me so mad. Here the United States is supposed to be working on repairing its image and blah blah and instead we get saddled with this goon. Or, what the world thinks of America be damned, but lets not go out of our way to get people's pantyhose in knots please. John Bolton's nomination as US Ambassador to the UN is just plain stupid.

Look.

1. He hates the United Nations. He has denounced international treaties on small arms, biological weapons and the International Criminal Court. He has said that if the United Nations building lost 10 of its 38 floors, no one would notice (Washington Post, March 22, 2005).
2. He tries to get fired or reassigned pretty much anyone under him who wishes to think for himself or herself. He sought the removal of at least three subordinates or intelligence officials during his time as an Under Secretary of State, one because the results of a report didn't agree with his world view (New York Times, April 16, 2005).
3. He is a douchebag (Foreigner's Opinion Post, April 18, 2005).
4. He looks like he lives in a cobweb (Foreigner's Opinion Times, April 18, 2005).

The man is just so WRONG for this position, it blows my mind. Seriously. In case you're having trouble comprehending the magnitude of the idiocy of this nomination, allow me to present to you some analogies of similar levels of ridiculousness :
1. Michael Jackson being invited to star in Fox's Nanny 911
2. Jenna Jameson being appointed President of Bob Jones University
3. Anna Nicole Smith writing a book titled "Aging Gracefully"
4. George W. Bush qualifying for Mensa membership
5. Jay Leno winning the "Smallest Chin" Award
Yeah, so there. And remember, if you're one of the 18 United States Senators on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee that will be voting on this matter on Tuesday, the last two letters of John R. Bolton's last name read backwards spell NO.

By the way, Daily Show update. They didn't reply to me so I faxed them again this Friday. And, when I got back to my room later that day, there was a message on my phone from a lady named Joanna* at The Daily Show saying I didn't make the first round of interviews. So sad.
HOWEVER, the very next message on the phone was from Pat at The Daily Show saying they've already filled their positions for the Summer but if I'm interested in a position for the Fall, I should call back and let him know. So Pat's obviously the man. And Joanna* doesn't know what she's talking about.

*Name changed to protect her identity to ensure that my rabid fans don't hunt her down and kill her

Vijay Singh, Ducks

2005-04-10T14:18:00.000-04:00

Been a bit of a busy week for me, what with academic commitments and finding out that my car has an oxygen sensor, then finding out that it actually has two, but then only being able to find one on the actual car itself. So you see why I haven't had time to post. The Daily Show still hasn't come to me on its knees by the way. Y'all need to get your telephoning skills in order right quick (and I mean ALL of you... all 3 of you...).

So what's with this Vijay Singh fellow anyway? He gets all up in Phil Mickleson's face because... get this... Mickleson's spikes were too large. Apparently poor Vijay had a hard time putting on the 12th green during the second round of the Masters this weekend because of the gaping craters left by Phil's oversize spikes. What a wimp. Golf is barely a sport anyway, Veej, and if pinprick-sized holes are going to bother you, you may as well take your Fijian behind and your primadonna temperament to the Spelling Bee. Seriously, spelling is a sport too. They show it on ESPN. Do you know how to spell Lilliputian?

Did you hear about how the US Secret Service is protecting a pregnant duck? So this mallard sets up nest right outside the US Treasury building and lays eggs, right? And the Secret Service is nice enough to build a shelter for it. Nothing against that... nice of the fellows if you ask me. But I was wondering what would happen if I, or any other person for that matter, decided to set up nest on the stairs of the Treasury Building. And then lay stuff... probably not eggs. I don't see the Secret Service protecting me... or the Secretary of the Treasury stopping by to say Good Morning. *sigh* Even ducks have more rights than I do. Maybe the duck's protesting what Bush is trying to do to Social Security or something. Smart animals these ducks are... you never know. I wonder if the Secret Service frisked it...

Yeah, I'm really not on form right now. So I'm done.

Not a joke!

2005-04-03T00:04:00.000-05:00

A Word to the Wise:
The Daily Show entry (the one right below this) is NOT an April Fool's Day joke despite the date of posting. I seriously expect you to call New York City and talk me up to the answering machine. Clear?

I guess I should talk a little about the Pope. I liked him. All-round good guy, he was. I just hope they don't elect some war-mongering, crusading monster to take his place. We have enough of those in sitting governments. And I'm not talking ONLY about America either.

The Daily Show

2005-04-01T13:57:00.001-05:00

Alright, so I did this past week what I've been trying to muster enough gumption to do for a very long time. I wrote to The Daily Show with Jon Stewart (Mon - Thu 11/10c on Comedy Central) and politely requested that they consider employing my services if they happened to have a spot open on their roster this upcoming May.

ACTUALLY, I composed a desperate, devoid of all hope country song type of missive that will probably give them the impression that I spend most of my day on my knees (begging and pleading, not doing anything else). I included phrases like "I hope to God you read my plea in its entirety and decide I’m worth getting in touch with" and "Look. This means a lot to me. All I ask for is a chance." Basically, in hindsight, I made them think I'm a pathetic loser with low self esteem. Dammit!

HOWEVER, I did also, from time to time, insert stuff like:

"Think of me as an investment. I will pay off handsomely"
*Makes The Daily Show sound like a brothel.

"I’m also horribly smart. Trust me. I’m horribly smart"
*Illustrates my ability to get a point across to my viewers/listener/readers. I'm horribly smart, you see.

"Exactly how many genuine, bona fide, certified Pakistani citizens do you have working for the Daily Show?"
*Lets them know that I watched the Monorail episode of The Simpsons and am willing to steal other people's ideas for a few cheap laughs.

"I can be horribly bitter and sarcastic when I’m in the right mood (i.e. awake)."
*Hints at the little-known fact that I may occasionally from time to time have a subtle sarcastic moment from time to time, occasionally.

"Plus, I’ll even teach the entire Daily Show staff how to swear in Urdu, the national language of Pakistan."
*Elaborates on how I plan to use my cultural strengths to introduce diversity to the show.

So it wasn't ALL bad.

By the way, if you're from The Daily Show, and you're reading this, HIRE ME. NOW.

And if you're not from The Daily Show, and don't exactly want me dead, do me a favor:

1. Call 1-212-586-2477. (If you are under 18, please ask your parents' permission.)
2. Listen to the incredibly long automated response that will tell you that you can't reserve tickets for the show over the phone.
3. Leave a message telling Whoever Listens to These Messages that they need to hire me as soon as possible for the good of the show (the planet, world peace, blah blah. Be creative, I don't care. If you are under 18, tell them to do it for the children. That'll be cute and touching).
4. Don't forget to tell them my real name and current academic location. (If you're reading this, you probably know my real name and current academic location, right? And if you don't, hot damn, I've got a reader who doesn't know me!)
5. Hang up.
6. Repeat steps 1 through 5.

Thank you for your efforts. I am now going to go sit in a dark corner, rock back and forth and whine piteously until I hear good news. I might make a couple of phone calls myself, who knows.