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*
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Monday, July 23, 2007
YouTubing
I waste my time. Let me waste yours.
Bob
Weird Al being himself... but with palindromes.
The Facebook Skit
Penn Masala. Enough said.
Curry and Rice Girl
Ludakrishna and Vikram MC of "Welcome to India" fame
Crush on Obama
Amber Lee... rumor had it Michelle Obama wanted to kill her... all completely made up of course but exciting nevertheless.
Curious GWB
One of the better George W. spoofs out there.
Paris in Jail
If you've heard "Stars are Blind," you'll appreciate this.
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.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Chicago Nights... Well, Night
So I meant to post this last week. But hey, better late than never. Unless you’re a cold or the bubonic plague or something…
As promised, I have downtown stories. Friday night, 5 of us arrived in downtown Chicago around 715 or so… I forget where we alighted. I do remember, however, that we were starving. We figured we would walk around for a while and choose a nice restaurant for Tom’s birthday dinner. Tom, in case you didn’t know, was turning 26. Anyway, about 40 minutes in, we realized we had a problem. Naynesh eats no meat (religion). Christina can’t be near nuts (allergies). Shahyan doesn’t drink alcohol (religion and fear of parental backlash). So several bars and restaurants were off the list automatically. The number of dining establishments in Chicago that insist on using meat and/or peanuts in every single one of their offerings is astounding.
Eventually, we found one and ate (the overpriced, high society Tavern on Rush, if you must know – even paupers have their days). Dinner was uneventful for the most part. We discussed which of our Fisher College of Business professors would be most likely to commit a murder AND get away with it. Then we discussed which of our professors would be most likely to completely mess up the execution of a planned murder… you know, normal stuff.
After dinner, we found that downtown was a bust as far as bars-that-Ohio-State-students-wanting-to-get-drunk-would-approve-of. So we got a cab to Wrigleyville, home of the Chicago Cubs and also lots of interesting bars and clubs. I sat in the front and the other four crammed in at the back.
The cabbie’s cell phone blared, of all things, a cheap Indian movie song ring tone. “Excuse me” he said and answered the phone. Thirty seconds into his conversation I heard the following sentence: “Behench*d, saree zindagi kum karaan ge, maa dee k*ss” which translates to something I’m sure I shouldn’t have written here, even in partially censored Urdu.
Five minutes and many such utterances later, the phone was shut off, and I gently inquired of the gent, “Are you Punjabi?” Anyone who understood what I’ve typed above knows that was a stupid question. OF COURSE he was. Anyway, after introductions, the fellow jokingly berated me for listening to his conversation then apologized if he had said “anything he shouldn’t have.”
He proceeded to regale us with stories of other desi (South Asian native) cab drivers in Chicago who had carried on similar conversations while on the job not realizing that their customers were understanding every word and enjoying themselves. Oh, and when he learned we were interning at a large telecommunications company (company to remain unnamed), he spent 10 minutes explaining to us exactly why the XXXX phone, manufactured and sold by said company, was a terrible phone and why he hated his own so much. Talk about unsolicited feedback from the end user. *sigh*
So Wrigleyville. We first went to this bar called Moxie that was rather quiet and had a nice relaxing atmosphere. Which is exactly why the others didn’t want to spend too long there. So we left, after the beginnings of drunkenness. After 30 indecisive minutes of walking up and down Clark street, we picked a German bar, The Uberstein, where “It’s Oktoberfest every day!”
At The Uberstein, we were treated to three elderly gentlemen in lederhosen playing various musical instruments and performing polka after polka. This was entertaining for me in the beginning. However
As novelty for me down,
Alcohol content in others’ blood streams up,
Equals novelty for others’ up
They were clapping and shouting along to the polkas (all of which sounded the same after a few minutes) and Christina got to perform a number on the “verrückter stück” or “crazy stick” that was brandished with much aplomb by the lead performer and offered to any audience members brave (or drunk) enough to have a go at it. The crazy stick was a stick (believe it or not) with a mounted tambourine, some type of horn and several things that made noise when you tapped them. Good times.
The highlight for me was what I later learned to be the “Too Fat Polka”
I don’t want her.
You can have her.
She’s too fat for me, HEY.
I get crazy
I get numbo
When I’m dancing
With my jumbo jumbo
I don’t want her.
You can have her.
She’s too fat for me, HEY.
She’s too fat for me. HEY.
She’s too fat for me… and so on.
So around midnight, we left The Uberstein and headed over to SmartBar, one of the trendier clubs in Wrigleyville. We had to pay $10 each just to get in. *sigh* But, I will say the house DJs were quite good. The bald fellow who took over from the kid on the Mac was the much much better though.
Now I’m not much of a dancer. So I took my bottle of water (thank you Christina) and stood at a bar that looked out on the dance floor. I was all cool like with my gelled hair and my contact lenses and my I’m-too-manly-to-dance semi-sneer. I glared at people who had no idea I existed and bobbed my head in time to the bass. Yeah. That’s right.
About an hour or so into my coolness, this short fellow walked up to me, leaned in, and said,
“Hey man, do you know where I can get anything?”
Excuse me? I, still in cool mode, just shook my head while staring straight ahead.
“Are you sure?”
Still cool mode. Nod my head silently. Yes, I’m sure, peon.
“I’d be really happy for you to not be sure.”
Turn head slightly towards speaker, oh so coolly, and shake it once more. I was such a stud.
And he left. “What exactly was that all about?” I wondered. And then it came to me.
Needy boy thought I was a drug dealer!! My evening was complete. I was all cool and glare-y like and patron of stylish Chicago club thought I was a drug dealer. Fantastic! I’ve never felt so alive… so powerful… so much like a drug dealer. So I stood and sneered at people some more. Life was good.
The others, all this time, were either on the dance floor or at the bar, getting drunker and more uncoordinated by the second. At around 2 am, Christina stumbled over to me and loudly proclaimed her love for the city of Chicago. Then she started trying to hump my leg.
I took this as a sign that the evening was surely drawing to a close. We left SmartBar a few minutes later and made our way to the CTA (i.e. Chicago Transit Authority subway).
That should have been the end of noteworthy events. But no. On the subway, we had the pleasure of encountering a very angry African American lady who took offense to Christina resting her hands on the headrest of the seat the lady wanted to sit in. There was a lot of yelling by the lady. Christina was challenged to a fist fight. Christina looked bemused. And the rest of the people in the railcar tried to hide their smiles. Then there was more yelling about whores and bedrooms, completely off topic, I might add. And then lots of muttering. The lady left us only a stop later, thank God, with more memories to cherish.
Chicago can be a strange place.
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.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Crossing Limits
Keith Olbermann is easily the most astute and eloquent political commentator on the face of the United States. This is probably his finest piece yet; a searing indictment of the Bush administration's steady march towards corrupt Third World dictatorship.
Brief background for those unfamiliar with the situation:
GWB's aide Lewis 'Scooter' Libby lied in court about the treasonous revelation of the identity of CIA Secret Agent Valerie Plame.
Scooter got caught. Scooter went to court. Scooter was convicted by a jury of his peers of Obstruction of Justice and sentenced to two and a half years in jail, among other things.
Then, this week, GWB slaps the American judicial system and the people of the United States in the face by bypassing all legal protocol and constitutional requirements to commute Scooter's sentence to ZERO freakin' days. Why? Well, "the President thought any jail time was excessive." Ha. Talk about not knowing your limits. Talk about a betrayal of a nation's trust.
Just watch Olbermann. He puts indignation into words better than anyone could:
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:
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Aisam, Tennis, Songs
Unbeknownst to the majority of my readership, I have been keeping up on the blogword for the past few weeks. A subtle bolding now and then would have been your only clue as to the identity of the word. This post though, since I missed last week's blogword, I am going to be cheap and do TWO blogwords in ONE post: Forever (last week's) and Me (this week's).
On a side, I've had some issues with some of my older IM accounts... you know how you have accounts you don't use any more? Delete them. It prevents issues. Issues that could permeate newer accounts as well. Anyway, *cryptic warning terminate*
All is well in the online world once more.
Aisam Ul Haq Baby!! Yesterday he became only the second Pakistani EVER to win a match at Wimbledon. He beat some Englishman or the other and now gets to play Marat Safin... tomorrow, I think. A massacre in the offing, yes? Not necessarily. Aisam beat Richard Gasquet last week. The man is on a roll. After he's got Marat Saf-in his pocket (I know, weak, but give me some credit), he will send Roger home - another Fed-er...er... in his cap. (Hey, this is totally off the cuff... there was no thought involved. Can you even tell?)
Anyway, blogwords. For forever, I was under the mistaken impression that I would be Pakistan's star in the tennis galaxy. Aisam was supposed to be me. I was destined to be the next Ivan Lendl: The late bloomer who rose to conquer the tennis world through sheer hard work and perseverance. That was before I realized how bloody lazy I am. Hard work... meh. I'd rather be sleeping.
So I am clearly not a tennis pro... although for several years (i.e forever) my ego let me believe that there was a chance. I suppose I'll settle for a second rate blog and the occasional all beef hot dog. All beef hot dogs are good.
Getting Pavlovian for a second, the word "forever" makes me think of Mariah Carey and that old song... you know, with the high climax ending “You will always beeeee the only oneeeeeee.” The song was called Forever. Surprise surprise.
Just about every blogword relates to a song from my adolescence… I’ve said this in another posting too haven’t I?
*senses this post is fading fast*
And the word me? Haha. Take On Me by A-Ha. What else?
Take on meeeee
Take me onnnn
I'll be gonnnnnnne.
So sorry no fun story this week. This weekend promises to be entertaining though… 6 Ohio State students getting drunker than all get out in downtown Chicago. And me.
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.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Late One Evening In A Quiet Suburban Chicago Apartment
We have a really nice, corporate style, hotelesque apartment for the summer. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, cable TV, internet, the works. Even dishes and crockery. Living it up in style in the North-West suburbs of Chicago, we are. We even have housekeeping come in once a week - included in rent - to change our sheets, give us fresh towels and clean the place. I want to live here forever.
So I was alone in the apartment this past weekend; Naynesh had gone to Indianapolis to watch the United States Grand Prix. I too would have gone but I was lazy. And Formula 1 without Michael Schumacher can hardly be called Formula 1. Although Sebastian Vettel (only teenager ever to score a point in a Formula 1 race, that too on debut) may rekindle my interest if he finds a team next year.
But I digress. As usual. So I was alone in the apartment Saturday night folding laundry, listening to Joe Purdy and digesting dinner when there was a knock at the door. "Ah, no doubt some pretty young thing who wants to keep me company and discuss Liverpool's chances of luring Samuel Eto'o away from Barcelona this summer" I said to myself, quite reasonably.
I moved noiselessly to the door - barefoot on soft carpet you see. I looked through the peephole and saw not a pretty young thing but a rather large gentleman of Hispanic appearance with a neck as wide as my waist sporting a shiny gold chain. He was in a bright yellow sleeveless shirt. His tree-trunks-for-arms gave me the impression that he wasn't the housekeeping kind.
In my mind, I ran down the list of gold-chain wearing, Latin American wrestlers that I am acquainted with. Short list. And Javier standing outside the door was most definitely not on it.
I did some quick math (as is my habit in situations of this nature)
Me, 5' 8", 135 lbs <<< Latin American Wrestler I do not know
Now I'm not afraid of much, if I do say so myself (only Samara from The Ring, truth be told). But if I have to choose between opening a door to confront an unknown man four times my size and cowering in a corner in a closet until he's left, I'll pick the closet every time. Call it an acute sense of self-preservation.
So I cowered in the bedroom... kind of. I ignored the door and folded laundry. Javier stood around for what seemed like too long. He was there two minutes later. But not three minutes after that.
It was all probably completely innocent.
Javier was looking for his cousin Manuela and had entered the wrong building by mistake.
No eres Manuela. Lo siento.(You are not Manuela. I apologize.)
Or Javier was visiting his old friend Paco and they realized they had no sugar for their tea.
Quiero azúcar por favor Señor. (I would like some sugar please, Sir.)
Even so, I scrapped plans of a late night grocery run and put on some old school Drowning Pool.
Let the bodies hit the floor.
Let the bodies hit the floor.
That's right Javier. Mess with me and the bodies WILL hit the floor.
*angry snarl*
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*
Monday, June 18, 2007
Numb Me, Drill Me, Floss Me, Bill Me
Ten points to whoever caught on to the title of my post being the old Weird Al Yankovic parody of U2's Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me from the Batman Forever soundtrack. You know I still haven't seen Batman Forever... or Batman Returns... or Batman. I have however seen the TV show from the 60s *POW* with Adam West et al. *BIFF*
Holy Ohio State University College of Dentistry Batman!! So my student health insurance is supposed to get me a dental check up and cleaning for the nominal fee of $15, quite reasonable by any standards. I figured that'd be a good thing to do before heading out to Chicago. You know, dazzle the employer with sparkling, plaque free teeth and walk away with a full-time offer on the strength of that alone. That's the plan anyway. So far though, a week in, I see no signs of my pristine oral condition being any sort of advantage.
I'd like to talk to you today about my teeth and their experience at the highly regarded Ohio State University College of Dentistry (OSUCOD). In order to provide some context, I will recount a typical visit to a dentist's clinic back home, in Karachi.
Karachi:
*walk into dentist’s office*
Dentist: What do you want?
Me: Clean my teeth, dammit
Dentist: All of them?
Me: Yes, dammit.
Dentist: Alright then.
(15 minutes later)
*walk out of dentist’s office*
And now,
OSUCOD:
First, you have your teeth examined by a dental student. Then
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.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Things Economists Say
Well, AN economist. Our macroeconomics professor has a very... shall we say... laid back teaching style. You almost feel as though you're hanging out with him in his backyard on a Saturday afternoon. We did learn some stuff though... mainly about endogenous and exogenous shocks. I have tried for three weeks to think of a good joke I can make about a person's exogenous zones but have failed miserably. It would have been a bad, inappropriate joke anyway, so oh well.
Sometimes the learning was high quality. Other times not. I present to you some gems from the past quarter in MBA 820 - The Global Economy.
During a discussion on what contributes to a nation's GDP:
"Some people say prostitution is a bad thing. I say those people probably just aren't paying enough."
Talking about economic slowdowns:
"The definition of recession is like the definition of pornography. You know it when you see it. If you're like me, you see it everywhere."
Simplifying a model:
"In fine American fashion, we're going to assume the rest of the world doesn't exist..."
During a ridiculously boring lecture:
"This isn't interesting to me either."
Explaining his teaching style:
"Let me stumble around and mumble for a while. Then I'll ask you a question."
On the horrors of inflation:
"There would be no chili cheeseburgers for Dave. I would be s**t out of luck."
To an uncooperative PowerPoint presentation:
"Why are you such a jackass?"
Good times. Good times...
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...
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Exam Doctor Stud Lost
I don't really enjoy the "LiveJournal" type of blog posting where you say stuff like "I woke up today and ate breakfast" or "Then we went to Malmo's bar where Marmaduke got totally plastered" or some other completely unimportant rubbish of that nature. But today, it appears, I shall wallow in sin and blog in that exact manner. A different sort of unimportant rubbish than what you're used to:
I am officially done with half of my MBA education and my 21st year of formal learning.
Finals ended yesterday.
Drive to Chicago on Saturday.
Work starts on Monday.
Life in the fast lane. Right now however, I’m sitting in an examination room at the doctor’s office (you know, me and my cough). And I have been, alone, for 35 minutes. This happened last time too, so this time I was smart and brought my computer with me. There are no fast lanes in the American healthcare industry. Only unmarked dirt roads and really long rest stops. Interestingly, the case in our Strategy final exam also dealt with the healthcare industry. But we’re not going to talk about that. Ever again.
The male nurse who took my blood pressure told me it was “really good” and “very strong.” Haha. My blood pressure can kick your blood pressure’s behind. To be fair, despite the fact that you walk in a 26 year old and leave a grandfather, the Ohio State University Lung Center does provide high quality care with empathetic physicians and staff. The nurse went as far as to offer to mail me medication in Chicago should I need it. Now that’s service.
While we're on the subject, my stud fell out of my ear sometime last week. I don’t even know when it happened… I only realized it when I was in the shower, cleaning behind the ears you know, when I noticed I couldn’t feel any metal. I figure it’s a sign. For some reason God doesn’t want my left ear adorned this summer. I’ve been studless for about 6 days now. At this point, if my parents were drinkers, we would be seeing the busting out of champagne and the popping of the cork. But hah, don’t celebrate too soon. I have more studs and, if it turns out God was just being funny, the ear shall sparkle once more… well, it’s kind of a dull silver sparkle. I can’t afford diamonds yet.
By the way, Christophe finally has a new car. A nifty 2003 Hyundai Santa Fe; a gas guzzling, space hogging, road raging, truly American sport utility vehicle (Made in Korea). Let’s hope and pray this one doesn’t die on him.
So I started watching Lost, the TV series, about 15 days ago. From the beginning, Season 1 Episode 1 because, you know, it’s impossible to follow if you don’t. And this evening, by God’s Grace, I will finish Season 3 and be completely up to date and in sync with the Lost universe. That’s 3 seasons, 23 episodes a season… 45 minutes an episode… 52 of the last 336 hours of my life have been spent lost (hahahahaha) on "The Island." The only thing that annoyed me was that they kept killing the pretty girls off... I won't say any more... don't want to spoil it if you're still catching up.
I’m going to have so much free time tomorrow…
Smallville, here I come.
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.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Completing My Collection
Of all the defining moments in one's life; birth, first day of school, graduation, first job, first minor car accident etc etc, first drug test has to rank somewhere in the Top 10. Wednesday, May 23rd will forever be seared in my mind as a date of considerable import (not like anything else worth remembering happened... damn you AC Milan with the magnificant diving Gattuso and the phantom-groin-injury Inzaghi).
Anyway, drug test. Summer employer wishes summer employees to be drug free for some reason. So they sent us paperwork and told us how to get tested and even paid for it. Which was nice because I was certainly not going to dip into my own meager funds to have some scientist in Tennessee stare at my urine through a microscope. So we - we being Shahyan, Naynesh (India) and Iliana (Bulgaria) decided to go this afternoon and get the thing over with.
The first interesting thing was that they had a check in desk. With an attendant. But you had to sign in using their computerized registration system. So you never actually talked to anyone even though the lady was sitting right there staring at you. So we typed in our names... I went first ... S.H.A.H.Y.A.N. so I got called in first.
"Shenyen?? Are you Shenyen?" Apparently I was going to deal with the pee collector who couldn't read. "Did I misspell my name?" I asked her with no small air of condescension.
I wasn't alone.
Iliana became Liana. And Naynesh... haha... give the lady some credit... she started at his passport for a good 10 seconds and finally looked up at him and said, "How do you say this? I've already got names wrong today." So he told her. Later, she asked him if the three of us were from the same family. Apparently, in the lady's head, unpronounceable names translated to a bond of blood.
So that was our registration process. Once in the "room" there was all sorts of protocol to be followed. I had to wash my hands. With soap. I guess they were afraid I had walked into the place with my hands coated with urine altering substances. Then I had to empty my pockets of everything except keys and wallet. All of my information was being entered into a computer. It felt like an interrogation session. I began to wonder if the general intended to make me pee in front of her to make sure I wasn't cheating or anything.
But no, thank God. I was given a little container with a line drawn about a third of the way up. "You must collect up to the line." Yes, General. And led to a bathroom. Bathroom was inspected and toilet was flushed before I was allowed in. "You have four minutes to complete your collection." Yes, General. Complete my collection...
So, thanks to mass consumption of fluids earlier in the day, performance anxiety was effectively vanquished and I completed my collection with aplomb and no small amount of flair. Container sealed. Now I just had to wash my hands and leave the bathroom. But wait. Haha.
Sink. Check.
Taps. Check.
Water. NO
The threat of urine dilution holds great fear for the drug testers. They had turned off the water supply to the sinks in their testing areas. Talk about paranoid. Or maybe some underperforming souls turned to water to facilitate their collection reaching the all-important line... I don't know.
Anyway, back in the interrogation room, I had to sign 17 forms authorizing a bunch of MDs and PhDs to stare at my waste and judge my character and eating/drinking/smoking/inhaling/imbibing habits.
Results will be sent to the employer but, if I so desire, I can ask employer dear for a copy.
Gosh, I hope I do well.
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.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Wolfowitz, Media, Mexicans
Wolfowitz
So Paul Wolfowitz is gone from the Presidency of the World Bank. Ha. Another neocon bites the dust. Now I am by no means a liberal (as the second half of this posting might hint) but it amuses me to see buffoons like Rumsfeld, to a great extent Cheney, now Wolfowitz and soon Gonzalez fall by the wayside. Maybe there is such a thing as karma. Although humiliation and derision for the remainder of their earthly existences are hardly commensurate punishments for their crimes against humanity.
It’s funny to see some analysts and self-important journalists discussing Wolfowitz’s dishonorable exit as a political outcome and pointing to his outspokenness as something that alienated his colleagues and doomed him from the get-go since "Wolfowitz, World Bank just didn't fit."
Are you for real?
That pathetic little man has always looked out for his own interests. He lied. He broke rules. He got caught. He’s been punished. Don’t use your pseudo-intellectual, pompous would-be political acumen to gloss over that.
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
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.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Karachi Bleeds. Again.
What I am posting about today is happening NOW. This isn’t one of my silly, nostalgic, much-ado-about-nothing postings. This is real, current and serious.
So the brother left this morning; he’s gone home for eight weeks or so to work in the desert on some engineering thing. I don’t know the details. Anyway, he’ll be landing at Quaid-e-Azam International Airport in Karachi some time Sunday morning. Whether or not he gets beyond the airport remains to be seen.
You are probably aware, if you have eyes and an internet connection, of the current situation in Karachi. If you are not (and best you not tell me if you aren’t), let me provide some context and background.
Early March, dear President Musharraf removes the Chief Justice of Pakistan Iftikhar Chaudhry on some “misuse of power” charge that no one can explain. Lawyers angry. The President has overstepped his bounds again. Protests. Support for Justice Chaudhry grows exponentially. Now for some reason, the gentleman decides that he needs to attend rallies in his support and become the poster boy for Pakistan’s constitution. Fine. Except this goes to anger the government. So, a quick recap. Judge rallying. Government angry.
Now, this weekend dear Justice ventures Karachi-ward. “I must show my face to my darling supporters in the port city as well.” The day of this rally (Saturday, May 12th 2007) dawned with the provincial government warning him to stay away for fear of violence. In true “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” fashion, Pakistan’s opposition parties decided to support Chaudhry and decry Musharraf. The MQM, the group of thugs that has been trying to run Karachi for the past 20 years, found itself in the same corner as Musharraf in this case and decided to stop any silly Chief Justice rally before it started.
Several hundred opposition party political activists were arrested on Friday night; interestingly, not one from the MQM. Overnight roadblocks appeared on city streets. Major thoroughfares were shut down. Shops and offices remained closed. Gunfights broke out. Cars and buses were burned. Journalists were shot. TV channels were threatened with dire consequences for broadcasting the truth. The MQM was showing its might. And the opposition could not bear this affront to its manhood. They had to fight back. Sweet, angelic Justice Chaudhry was stranded at the airport when he arrived. There was no way for him to enter the city. All this while, in the name of power, people died. One hundred wounded. Twenty seven not going home again. And the numbers continue to rise.
Let’s face it. The MQM needs to go. Now. They are what the IRA is to Northern Ireland, what ETA is to Spain and what the Tamil Tigers are to Sri Lanka. Terrorists. All they have done for our city in the past twenty years is call strikes, hold rallies, kill people, burn buses and extinguish hope. Some of our family members live in MQM controlled parts of the city. One year, on the occasion of Independence Day (August 14th), they had decorated their house with Pakistan flags (below).
A few hours later, MQM “representatives” showed up and demanded they replace the crescent-and-starred green and white (above) with the red, green and white of MQM (below).
Really patriotic, these thugs are.
And President Musharraf. If ever there was a disappointment, he is one. Eight years ago we thought we finally had a man with morals and principles to lead us.
No more power hungry dictators with God complexes.
No more bureaucracy and nepotism.
No more corruption.
No more fundamentalism.
No more power and water shortages.
No more of the elite stuffing their pockets while the common folk suffer.
Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
He started out well, like so many of them do.
Pledges to improve Pakistan’s image abroad he delivered on to an extent.
But then he became President. Chief Executive wasn’t permanent enough I suppose.
And rigged elections so that the man who would listen to him would become Prime Minister. Shaukat Aziz, you pliable little ball of plasticine, you.
And he was cowed by the mullahs. What is so scary about those damn beards, anyway?
And he dismissed those who disagreed with him and his views. Such as the Chief Justice of Pakistan.
I hate to say it.
Pervez Musharraf has become George W. Bush.
Naively blind to his many faults.
Strangely content to ignore important issues.
Blatantly primitive in enforcing his will.
And bafflingly ignorant when it comes to the good of his people.
I’d say he needs to go. Now. But there is no one to take his place. Incredible as it may sound, he’s probably still the best of a bad lot. And that means my city, not to mention my country, is in big big trouble.
Right here, right now, there are no answers.
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.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Six Reasons They’ll Make It Six In Europe
6 bankable reasons Liverpool FC will defeat AC Milan in Athens on May 23rd 2007 to win their 6th (count it) European Champions League Crown:
1. If a three goal cushion in a Champions League final won’t allow you to beat a team (2005 y’all), nothing will. Liverpool is to AC Milan what a heel was to Achilles. Or something.
2. Kaka is Bhagga’s brother. Bhagga is the name of the custodian who has worked for our family for donkey’s years. Kaka is not a footballer. Kaka is Bhagga’s brother.
3. A name like Gattuso will only Gat U So far. Hahahahaha.
4. Liverpool doesn’t lose in red. Liverpool will be wearing red. Liverpool doesn’t lose in Europe. Last I heard, Athens is in Europe.
5. Rafa Benitez. Any manager who can calmly sit cross-legged (or Indian style, as they say) on a football field while his team is in a penalty shoot out (this versus Chelsea last week) has to be half-god. He even checks his watch. Haha.
6. Steven Gerrard.
Olympiakos. Conquered.
"Mellor. . . Lovely cushion header. . for GERRARRDDD!! Ohhhhh you beauty!! What a hit son, What - a - hit!!"
West Ham United. Conquered.
"GERRAAAAARD!! OOOhhhh!! Stunning!!"
AC Milan 2005. Conquered.
"In towards GERRARD!! Hello!! Here we go!!"
And, dare I say, AC Milan 2007.
I dare.
Conquered.
P.S: This is the first time I've actually put some sort of multimedia in my postings. Little blogger boy is growing up.
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.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Go Away
The title of this post I say, firmly yet politely, to each of the individuals or entities below.
Hillary Clinton
Go away.
Every word out of that – and I hate to demean her gender by calling her a – woman’s mouth is calculated and self-promoting. My stomach churns every time I hear her speak. She wants to be President to be President, nothing more – no values, no stand, no morals. And what’s even more worrying is that an electorate that was stupid enough to re-elect Bush is more than stupid enough to send the ambitious demon thing-in-the-guise-of-a-woman to the White House. *sigh*
Undergraduates
Go away.
It is 1:40 a.m. right now. I would like to be asleep. But we live next to undergraduates. And they are having a “party.” There is drinking, some yelling, blaring music with little or no rhythmic appeal and tons of loud, pointless conversation. There are about 60 people in the backyard of the house next to ours. I bet none of them could muster a 1300 on the SATs (and that’s the new one too, out of 2400). Obnoxious undergraduates who like to drink and be loud with no concern for those around them are a symbol of all that is wrong with America. George W was one, after all. As I said to Clay, I didn’t really like undergraduates when I was one. God, how I hate them now. I mean strongly dislike. Not hate. Not hate. Strongly dislike.
Cristiano Ronaldo
Go away.
Poor Mr. Cry-baby-diving-to-win-free-kicks-with-a-head-too-big-for-his-loser’s-hat needs to straighten out or take a hike. Yes, your footwork is pretty but you’re an arrogant little prat who isn’t above cheating to get ahead. Shame on you. And your whiny, hypocritical, look-at-me-praying-to-the-virgin-Mary-for-redemption act every time you get a card isn't impressing anyone.
Entertainment TV (of any kind)
Go away.
No one cares that someone has new footage of Anna Nicole kissing her son, Daniel (while both were still alive, of course). Also, no one cares that Britney Spears prefers being naked to being clothed. And no one cares that Paris Hilton can’t sing.
Progressive Insurance
Go away.
So Progressive is supposed to quote you their rates and the rates of their competitors so you can find the best deal on insurance with only one call. Turns out, while they’re “saving you the trouble,” they’re actually running a credit report on you and, if they don’t like what they see, they’ll tell you Geico or All State has better rates than they do. I called them when I got my car in 2003. The “helpful” fellow on the line told me All State would be my best bet. Bah. If I ever have a good credit rating, Progressive will not have my business. Ever.
Dick Cheney
Go away.
Seriously now. Is there a person alive (except Cheney himself… well, he’s barely alive, but still) who disagrees with me? Every day of his snarly voiced, crooked mouthed existence is a dagger in the heart of humanity.
Also on the list but not in the spotlight this time, the entire Duke University men’s basketball team (including and especially the coaches); undergraduates; several idiot fundamentalist mullahs back home in Pakistan; people who force their beliefs on others; undergraduates; the anchors, talk show hosts, employees and anyone affiliated with Fox News; those who travel the world, have nice houses and possessions and then complain about being poor; undergraduates; Russell Crowe (seriously, who throws a phone at a concierge?); John McCain (likeable maverick turned senile buffoon… it’s quite sad really); Nicaragua (long story) and undergraduates.
Did I mention undergraduates?
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?
Monday, April 30, 2007
Italian, Cousins vs Nephews
You ever stare at a word for so long that it starts to seem not real? This is what happened to me just now staring at the latest blogword: Finally. I found myself looking at just the "fin" part wondering why a fish had a body part the name of which comes from the Italian word (that presumably came from Latin at some point; I am no linguist) for end… or so I think. I have done no research to back this up.
Italian is an enjoyable language… not that I would know. I don't speak it. I do an admirable accent though… I remember once during rehearsals last summer, Aly and I did the entire first act of The Producers in Italian accents. We were so bored…
These days I'm working on my mafia boss accent… due in part to a series of unfortunate events during a Managerial Economics case discussion last Fall that led to my being called a hitman. All I said was they should have him knocked off. I didn't mean anything by it, I swear. Anyway, I'm practicing the thin wheezy voice whenever possible… whenever possible the last two weeks has been right before logistics class, with poor Nat Jordan as my unwitting subject. "*thin wheeze* Nathaniel, Nathaniel… my bambinos, they no lik-a you." Only a former pastor like Nat could have the patience and fortitude to endure my pathetic mafia persona with an indulgent smile. *sigh*
Speaking of bambinos, and other family members, I was recently informed (by Shannon's mother, Mrs. K, no less) that nieces and nephews become cousins once they're removed from being the offspring of your siblings.
I know.
Crazy.
Don't believe me. Don't believe Mrs. K. Believe Wikipedia.
Apparently, the system of naming people uncles and aunts has a name:
The English Kinship Terminology System
"In this system, the child of one's aunt or uncle is one's first cousin. The child of one's first cousin is one's first cousin once removed."
And for years I thought I was niece… well no, nephew to so many aunts and uncles. Turns out, all this time, I've been their first cousin once removed or second cousin once removed and, occasionally, twice removed. Talk about a shift in world views…
Yesterday: Nephew
Today: Just a cousin and, in most cases, removed!!
Yet another layer of cherubic innocence stripped away. Or, as they say in the English Kinship Terminology System, removed.
*sigh*
P.S: Don't forget to examine the nifty "Table of Consanguinity" on the Wikipedia page. I'm surprised they don't teach you that in school.
P.P.S: This post, like so many others, has ended up having nothing to do with the blogword. It's not my fault. I go where the blogword takes me.
P.P.S: Removed.
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.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
What's My Age Again?
So I’m back to Wandering. With a vengeance. Or something. The blogword is: SURE.
Sometimes I’m not sure I’m getting older… you know, your body starts to creak, you have hair on your face, but you still have the sense of humor of a seven year old and you find toilet jokes hilarious. Am I seven? Eighteen? Thirty-five? I don’t know. But everyone now and then, something happens that makes me realize that I’m surely not getting any younger. Like yesterday.
Brian Lara retired from international cricket after a 17 year career. Yes, retirements from sports happen all the time. But for some reason, I only really feel my age when a sports star calls it a day… or a life. I still miss Hansie Cronje. And Ayrton Senna.
Miandad
Javed Miandad retired in 1996. Now there was a cricketing icon gone. I remember watching his last game in Karachi on TV. It was a World Cup game and you could barely hear the announcers over the din of people shouting “Javed! Javed!” as he walked out to bat. I saw him at the airport once. It was sometime in the mid to late 80s. I was there with the father to receive some sort of relative. And the cricket team happened to be arriving at the same time. He was the only player I can recall that evening with enough humility to smile and shake the offered hand of a security guard eager for a connection with one of his heroes.
Oh, side story. Javed is rather dark. But you can’t really tell on the TV so much because of the light or the something or the helmet hiding his face, I don’t know. Anyway, we saw him in person at a wedding (This is a few years after the airport event). The maternal grandfather (of other posting fame) was there too. When he saw Miandad, he leaned forward and exclaimed loudly (and we are sure Javed heard him), “Oho!! Yeh itna kaala hai!! (Translation: Oh My! He’s really dark!)” My grandfather officially insulted the greatest batsman ever to play for Pakistan. At a wedding.
Moving on…
Becker
Boris Becker retired in 1999. My first conscious memory of him was watching his victory over Stefan Edberg in the 1989 Wimbledon final. It felt like 10 years of my life had flown by when he quit. Whoosh. The Stich battles. The wife who wasn’t white enough for some people controversy. He managed to maintain his dignity throughout. And then, all of a sudden, no more Boris.
Schumacher
Michael Schumacher retired in 2006. I’d been watching the arrogant genius running (well, driving really, if you must be technical) circles (well, laps really, if you must be technical) around opponents since 1992, when he drove a miserable Benetton Ford V8. Many a Sunday evening was spent in front of the television, eating lemon tarts (hey, they’re good), watching Schumi pull away from driver after driver. Yes, it got boring after a while, but I watched anyway.
I have more nostalgia to share, but in the interests of not boring you to death (just near death… you know… you see the white light but you don’t actually move towards it), I will restrict myself to further reminiscence only on the career of Brian Lara and why his retirement makes me feel old.
Lara
So this may surprise you, but I actually remember Brian Lara’s first innings in international cricket. It was the 1990 tour to Pakistan. Interestingly, the West Indies tour started as soon as the New Zealand tour I mentioned in my previous post ended.
Anyway, test match cricket.
TV on.
Shahyan cricket watching.
Wicket falls.
In comes debutant Brian Lara.
No real hype or anything. You know… no fanfare. No “Oh look, it’s the greatest player of our generation making his debut!” He scored 44. A very good looking 44. I was a fan. It was easy to follow his career after that. He come to prominence in the 1992 World Cup, starring in an opening partnership with the reliable Desmond Haynes. I actually tried to model my batting technique after Desmond Haynes’ for a few years but failed miserably… come to think of it all my attempts at modeling myself after any sportsman or woman have ended in abject failure. *sigh*
Anyway, Lara went from strength to strength. 375, 501, 277, 400… records tumbled, bowlers were miserable. It was a good time to be a fan of batsmen. Sad to say, the West Indian cricket team kind of disintegrated around him. Many a game, he was left playing a lone hand… a lone lonely hand. You really felt for him. He leaves with West Indies cricket a shadow of its former self. It’s all quite tragic really.
Lara gone. After a SEVENTEEN year career. And I remember the beginning of that career. I couldn't at the time conceive there would be a day when he would stop. I’m so old. And so naive. *sigh*
P.S: The title of this post is actually a song by Blink 182… an OLD song fittingly… 1999… 8 years… where does the time go? Anyway, the song is excellent. And would be a great theme song if I were 23, not 26… opportunity missed three years ago.
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.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
More Cricket, More DC
Cricket
So Ireland beat Pakistan. Fine. But Ireland also beat Bangladesh. And Bangladesh beat India. And since Ireland beat Bangladesh by a larger margin (open to debate I suppose but Ireland-Pakistan was thrilling and the leprechauns walked all over the Bengal “tigers”), it follows that Pakistan is a better team than Bangladesh. And, logically, Pakistan is therefore a better team than India. Just thought I’d throw that out there, backed up by solid evidence.
For the record, I hope New Zealand wins the World Cup. I first became a fan of theirs in 1990 when they toured Pakistan and has their behinds so soundly walloped, I felt sorry for them. So it was more pity than anything else. But since then, I’ve learned that they always produce committed, hard working players, even if talent levels are low and star power is non-existent. Their whole is always greater than the sum of their parts. Or something. Besides, they have rugby too.
Washington DC Stop Press
When Christophe and I were in DC, we saw John Kerry speak on the environment at a “Climate in Crisis” rally just outside the Capitol. It was a complete coincidence. We walked up just as he was being introduced. He did his usual 30 second speech. In 15 minutes. You know how he is. And we got free t-shirts. We had to get in line for them and reveal our email addresses and all but hey, they were free.
Christophe’s car died in rural Maryland when he was on his way to visit a friend.
He spent the next day and a half in a mechanic’s garage.
I spent the next day and a half on my aunt’s living room sofa.
He spent 400 dollars to learn his car wasn’t going anywhere.
I ate my aunt’s ice cream and watched my uncle’s TV.
He sat in a Greyhound bus for 4 hours to get back to DC.
I ate dinner and annoyed my niece.
We had to rent a car to return to Columbus.
I got to drive a 2007 Hyundai Sonata for 6 hours.
He slept.
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.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Zimbabwe + Religion = Failure
Yes, this is now incredibly old news but since I have been out of it for so long and I do have thoughts on the matter, I am going to go ahead and share them anyway.
Two reasons Pakistan is out of the World Cup (or as the money grabbing morons at the International Cricket Council would rather we call it, the ICC Cricket World Cup West Indies 2007).
Zimbabwe
I'm shocked no one has even thought to bring this up. If Zimbabwe had beaten Ireland like they were supposed to, Pakistan's gormless capitulation to the team of happy leprechauns would have been inconsequential. A victory over Zimbabwe in the final group game would have left all three teams tied at 2 points and Pakistan would have gone through on net run rate. Instead, the wretched African wretches wretchedly allowed the in-all-likelihood-drunk Irishmen to TIE the game, giving them the point that saw them through. That's what cost us advancement: A single miserable South Central African run. This is not Pakistan's fault by any stretch. Don't blame the team. Boycott Zimbabwe and freeze diplomatic relations with them. It's not like they have any troubles of their own.
Religion
It turns out that our dear cricket team spent more time in the West Indies preaching and indulging in sickening public displays of religiosity than actually doing what they were supposed to i.e. not playing cricket like a group of adolescent girls who would rather be watching Fashion TV than elevating their maligned, downtrodden nation's status. Now I have issues with today's religion (especially the organized kind) and displays of religiosity anyway. But this just takes the cake. For many reasons:
Preaching
I disagree with the whole concept of preaching anyway. Words don't change people. Actions do. If you want to "preach," walk the walk and don't talk the talk. If you want people to "convert," be what you believe and they will eventually see the good in what you are, assuming there is any. Preaching is annoying, complacent and frankly, an insult to anyone you choose to direct your attentions to. And coming from cricketers who have hardly been model citizens their entire lives and have no right to impose their beliefs on anyone, it can only be worse. Shame on them.
Demonstrations of Purity
If you must be holy and good and kind and saintly, be so for God and to help others, not to show people how holy and good and kind and saintly you are. Photographs of our dear cricket team praying together on a lawn do not impress me – they make me wonder how many of those spineless hypocrites actually embody the good qualities prescribed by any major religion (decency, honesty, humility) in their private lives. Reports of drinking and infighting in the Pakistan team have never been unusual. Add to that the issues of doping, match-fixing and cronyism and you wonder who they're trying to fool. Even our beloved captain, Inzamam-ul-Haq, fancied himself an autocrat in the latter stages of his tenure. Your long beard cannot hide your hubris, cricketer-formerly-known-as-potato.
Hypocrisy
Blah blah blah, we're spreading Islam, how dare you question us??? Yes, very nice. But you cannot spread Islam by:
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?
Sunday, April 08, 2007
D To The C, Washington That Is
You know how it is... you miss one week, you miss another... then another... and then you're in the first week of April and your loyal readership has all but disappeared and you decide to take anther stab at this whole "blogging consistently" thing that works really well in theory but not so well in practice when the practitioner is as lazy as yours truly is.
I've been telling myself for two weeks now that I need to blog about my DC experience... well, really Christophe’s and my DC experience... it would have been very different without Christophe; less tiring, more relaxing, less car-renting... but that’s another story.
We arrived in Washington DC on the evening of Saturday, March 17th, having made the drive from Columbus, Ohio in a little over 8 hours including a 90 minute stop in Washington, Pennsylvania to have lunch ("Ze food was' orrible. Vee vill never go back zere!") and look for a gas station (my bad; I was driving and I detoured us all the way back to the street we had passed 20 minutes ago). It was bordering on twilight as we arrived and we took a quick tour of the National Mall area (White House, Capitol, museums etc.) before heading to my aunt's. Apparently the light was perfect and the buildings were beautiful so Christophe hung out of his window, camera in hand, starting to take pictures like a crazed Japanese tourist. I offered to drive so he could concentrate on tourism but he didn't want to be the map reader...
Anyway, we got to my aunt's and met the aunt. And the uncle (who kept trying to make fun of Pakistanis but naturally failed miserably... typical Indian). And the two-year-old niece, who couldn't decide whether she loved me or hated me. But this is beside the point. The next 3 days in Washington DC consisted of all (but were not limited to) the following:
National Museums
National Air and Space Museum
Grade: Meh.
It was alright… it was at the fag end of our whirlwind three day tour and we didn’t really feel like reading, walking or learning. But we were there. And we got to see a couple of INCREDIBLY overpriced McDonalds’ restaurants.
National Museum of Natural History
Grade: Blah.
Alright, so this was NOTHING like “Night at the Museum.” Nothing came alive. No one tried to kill us. And Owen Wilson most definitely did not go whizzing around our shoes in a miniature Jeep. Everything was still and dead. The only really neat display was one of a couple of original quadrillion year old dinosaur skulls… but even they were dead.
No other National Museums were visited. Although we parked right by the Daughters of the American Revolution Museum a couple of times. Their flag looks exactly like the flag of Argentina. I was fooled. Of course there was no smiling Sun in the middle... instead some sort of ship's wheel. That should have been a clue.
Also, I had no idea the "Smithsonian" was a network of museums and societies, 23 or something of them. I thought it was one big building... the things you learn.
The Supreme Court
Grade: Moo.
It was alright. You know, big pillars, justice, impressive, laws and rights, blah blah. We saw the courtroom. And there was a bunch of stuff on the walls and historical blah blahs and an imposing statue of some fellow whose name I forget right in the middle of the lower level.
Library of Congress
Grade: Ah.
The architecture was stunning but, believe it or not, we saw no books other than from behind a Plexiglas screen several stories above the main reading room. Go figure. Apparently you need a special ID to get anywhere near the books. Not hard to get, but still, more work than we were willing to put in.
The White House
Grade: Boo.
Because of who lives there right now, not because it was bad. We didn’t go inside, obviously, especially since we’d been told that the official tour was a waste of time (you didn’t even get to sit in the Presidential chair in the Oval Office and go through the Presidential desk drawers… I dare say the contents of the drawers would have been more entertaining during the Clinton years anyway). But we saw it from the front and the back… through the iron fence. It was actually an enjoyable experience.
Christophe (saying): “Aaah, we are so close to Boooosh.”
Me (thinking): “I wonder how many snipers have their gun sights trained on me right now.”
The United States Capitol
Grade: Coo.
This was somewhat nice, although we didn’t get to see the House or the Senate (you needed special passes for that). We stood in the big old rotunda and learned about all the statues and the artwork and the history etc etc. On our way out we walked past the door to the Office of the House Majority Leader, which was sadly the only real highlight. The real thrill was being inside the building you see on the news every day, I suppose.
The International Spy Museum
Grade: Yay.
Probably DC’s best kept secret. Well, from me anyway. We had to pay $16 to enter but it was well worth it. It was a very interactive museum; all sorts of games, activities and movies. We ended up spending close to four hours there. I decided then and there that I will be a secret agent at some point in my life. Maybe I already am. Or maybe not. Or maybe…
The Ford's Theater
Grade: Supercool.
The theater where Lincoln was shot. Our seats happened to be directly across from the booth where John Wilkes Booth did the deed. Shot by a Booth in a booth, how about that? The booth (theater, not John Wilkes) was decked out with flags and a portrait of Mr. Lincoln… all of which looked like they had been there since 1865. I don’t know if that was intentional. I wish I had known how far into the play it happened. I would have stood up and yelled “Bang bang!!” I’m sure the rest of the audience would have appreciated my enhancement of their theater experience.
Add to that, the musical itself (yes, we actually went there to see a show as well) was fantastic. Meet John Doe, a Frank Capra musical. I have no idea who Frank Capra is/was.
Other sights:
The Washington Monument:
Big tall thing rising up into the sky.
The Lincoln Monument:
HUGE statue of a seated Lincoln behind some awfully large columns. He certainly looks a lot smaller in the pictures.
The Pentagon:
The subway drops you off right by the wall. And by right by the wall, I mean you are literally 10 feel from the wall of the Pentagon. But from there you can’t go anywhere but in. And we couldn’t. So we left.
The Dupont Circle Area:
Food, shops, embassies. Rather a nice place actually. Culture, sustenance, international affairs. Filled to the brim with gay people too, if that's your thing. Here is also where we met Shannon and Isaac (her fiance, not her brother) and Shelly (sister) for dinner in a French bistro. Christophe was in Heaven.
The French Embassy:
Lots of French speaking people. It was important for Christophe to go here for some reason. Everyone was under the impression that I was French too. I maintained this façade by not opening my mouth even once while we were there.
The National Cathedral:
Big building, very bare and boring but with three redeeming qualities:
1. Friendly nuns. If they hadn’t been nuns, I’d have questioned their motives.
2. Wicked stained glass. Pretty colors.
3. The lower level looked exactly like Hogwarts should be. “It’s like ‘Arry Pottaire!”
Arlington National Cemetery:
Many famous dead people (JFK probably being the most famous). And some nice monuments. It ended up being the kind of place you go to say you’d been there. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was rather interesting - we saw the Changing of the Guard as well - except it turns out that they now know who the soldier was so he’s not unknown any more. Damn DNA testing. Squeezing every little bit of mystery out of our lives. And deaths.
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.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Brotherly Conversations
I hadn't heard from my brother in a couple of weeks so I sent him an email, and he replied. In order to give you some exclusive insight into the intricacies of our relationship, I am posting the entire text of both emails below:
Email from me to brother:
Things fine?
Email from brother to me, a few hours later:
Yes.
I'm not even kidding.
Email from me to brother:
Things fine?
Email from brother to me, a few hours later:
Yes.
I'm not even kidding.
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