Pahari Bakra

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

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

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

Mein ne pahari bakra dekha
I saw a mountain goat

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

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

*Repeat opening riff (still with massive distortion)

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

Mujhe apna munh dikhaa!
Let me see your face!

Aye, Pahari Bakra!
Hey, Mountain Goat!

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

Pahari Bakra nah aaya
Mountain Goat did not come

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

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

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

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

To Those Who Think

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deaf Girl Mute Girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nostalgia Part Deux

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

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

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



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



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



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



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

More later perhaps.

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

Things I Did in 2008

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

My Ears are Blocked

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

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

But I could hear tons better.

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

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

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

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

I Fell Off My Bike

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life goes on.

Hugh Laurie

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



And I expect from him things like this:


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

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



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

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

Terrific, Heroic & Abstinent

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

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

(Sender of email in bold)

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

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

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

Clement:
Shahyan, you're my hero!

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

So, to summarize:

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

Life is good.

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

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

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

Labeled

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cold?

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

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

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

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

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

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

*hums a little tune*

YouTubing

I waste my time. Let me waste yours.

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


The Facebook Skit
Penn Masala. Enough said.


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


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


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


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

Chicago Nights... Well, Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chicago can be a strange place.

Crossing Limits

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

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

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

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

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

Aisam, Tennis, Songs

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

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

All is well in the online world once more.

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

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

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

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

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

*senses this post is fading fast*

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

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

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

Late One Evening In A Quiet Suburban Chicago Apartment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Numb Me, Drill Me, Floss Me, Bill Me

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

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

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

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

And now,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things Economists Say

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good times. Good times...

Exam Doctor Stud Lost

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smallville, here I come.

Completing My Collection

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

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

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

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

I wasn't alone.

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

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

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

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

Sink. Check.
Taps. Check.
Water. NO

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

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

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

Gosh, I hope I do well.