Ayesha Nasir, I Am Sorry

Dear follower of this blog,

Before reading the below, maybe you should read this.

And now:

Ms. Ayesha Nasir, I am sorry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of Speeding Tickets and Such

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

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

Think about it.

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

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

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

Chase Sapphire

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

Interlude

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

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

Maybe I won't.

Or maybe I will.

Grandmother

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

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

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

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

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

...

Nessun Dorma

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A piu tardi.

Sunday Afternoon

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

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

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

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



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

What does?

25 Things About Me (11 - 25)

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

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

13. I listen to pop music.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

25 Things About Me (1 - 10)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughts on Football and Life

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

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

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

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

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

Pahari Bakra

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.