8 Simple Rules for Driving in Karachi
1. Always assume you have right of way. If you don't, someone else will. And you won't be home in time for your infant's 18th birthday.
2. Honk (toot your horn) whenever you feel like it, but ESPECIALLY when it serves no purpose. Like in hospital zones. Or in your driveway.
3. Do not use your turn signals (indicators). If you use your turn signals (indicators), you're a pretentious jerk who thinks he or she is better than everyone else.
(For the record, I do use my turn signals. But then we all know I am a pretentious jerk, so it's alright.)
4. Do not stop at red lights. Stopping at red lights unnecessarily compromises the safety of those behind you trying to run the light.
5. Ignore all speed limits. The traffic policemen have no radar guns. And if they do, their 70 cc motorcycles aren't going to get them very far anyway. They aren't going to chase you. And if they do, they'll give up soon enough. Besides, it's fun.
6. Stop for crossing pedestrians. Unless you don't feel like it. In which case either
a) Run them over (Half the time the morons deserve it.)
b) Honk loudly and glare as you fly past them (They should be grateful you didn't run them over.)
7. Prepare to be blamed for everything, especially accidents. If you get hit, even while stationary in a designated parking spot, you obviously weren't paying attention.
8. Yelling and cursing is expected and appreciated.
Mercy is for the weak.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Cockroaches & Power Failures
Cockroaches and power failures are two things symptomatic of summers in Karachi... I think it's the heat and humidity that attract both of them. The power failure is by far more destructive, causing daily losses to businesses, industries, body fluids and tempers. The cockroach, however, is not to be taken lightly. Sudden appearances when least expected cause moments of concern, frustration and, in my case, mind numbing fear.
The other evening (10 pm or so) I was lying in bed sweating away (my air conditioner wouldn't work because the supply voltage was too low at the time), rereading the riveting last few pages of Angels & Demons by Dan Brown. By the way, Deception Point and Digital Fortress are a complete waste of your money, time and plasma. They are as bad as The Da Vinci Code and Angels & Demons are good. Anyway, heat, sweat, low voltage, suspense in the Vatican. I just had to take my t-shirt off (calm down ladies). So I'm lying there in my shorts when out of the corner of my eye I see something on the wall to my right. Shadow? Satanic symbol? Cockroach?
Cockroach!
I kid you not. This thing was at least 2 inches long, brown as a brown Crayola crayon and must have had a span of an inch and a half. *shudder* Its 64 legs... alright, there were only 8, stretched lazily and its antennae waved gently with such arrogance that I was immediately cowed. Three options:
1. Ignore it. Yes, like you ignore a Cat 5 hurricane.
2. Kill it. But that would mean getting close to it.
3. Leave the room. But what if it's there when I come back?? *sob*
Anyway, lying there wasn't helping matters. I needed to be on my feet, senses alert, reaction time minimal. Gingerly, I slid my feet off the side of the bed. No sudden moves. Slippers on. Eyes on the enemy. Up. Slide around to the side of the bed away from the intruder. Take stock of situation. Analyze strengths and weaknesses. Cockroach near door. Open door so cockroach can flee? Only person with room on second floor of house is me. Feasible. Crawl to door. Door open. Cockroach observes silently. Clearly a tough customer. Been here before. Re-establish safe distance. Commence stare down. The cockroach moved. But it didn't use its legs. Or its antennae. It used its WINGS.
Flying cockroach!
Why me? Oh, give me a wingless cockroach over this beast any day! *sigh* Suddenly, with no shirt on, I felt exposed. The cockroach had respositioned itself on the same wall. What if the thing flew at me?? 10 seconds later, t-shirt back on. I felt braver. But not by much. No long poles or brooms nearby. No insecticde either. What to do? Shoes? Shoe?
Shoe!
I picked up one of my running shoes and weighed in my mind the best way to go about this. Long distance throw of deadly accuracy? Cavalry charge of inconceivable horror?
Quick math: Cavalry Charge = Getting close to cockroach = Long distance throw.
I pulled my arm behind my head, my massive brain performing a million calculations of trajectory and velocity. An instant before I started my arm forward on its noble mission, I went blind. Blackness. Nothingness. Had I fainted? Was I dead? No.
Power failure!
So, here I am, in pitch darkness, running shoe in right hand still cocked behind my head and a vile, cunning enemy with powers of flight mere feet away from me.
If I stay still, it won't know where I am.
Thirty seconds later
Aaaaaa! I don't know where it is!
Make way to table. Feel around blindly for small emergency torch/flashlight. Torch/flashlight located. Move back to safe distance from last known location of the enemy. Suddenly switch on and beam light towards wall. No cockroach. Beam light frantically around room. There's the beast! In the tiny nook between the wall and my open door.
I'm fairly confident I could have held the light with one hand and thrown my shoe with the other, but the consequences of missing the target were now too great. The moster had too many conditions in his favor and too many places to hide. I needed reinforcements. I went downstairs and recruited my father. "There's a cockroach in my bedroom," I said nonchalantly, "can you hold the torch while I kill it?" My father, to his credit, did not tell me to grow up and kill my insects independently. He followed me upstairs.
Now armed with a spray pump of insecticide (procured from the ever-equipped mother), I stepped cautiously back into the room. My father followed, and shone the light where we thought the cockroach would be. Gone. It could be anywhere! I started spraying insecticide wildly, hoping to lure it out while I had support. We found it on my door, blending in perfectly with the varnished wood. Clever, but not clever enough. With my father, stage manager, providing the spotlight, I got as close as I dared and sprayed a mist of sweet sweet insecticide all over the creature.
The thing was on the run. It's flight capabilities were immediately impaired by the fast acting drug. It scampered across the floor sending shoes (mine, with me still in them) in all directions. More spray. AGH! STOMP STOMP STOMP.
Flying cockroach guts everywhere!
Relief. Invasion quashed. Invader squashed. Still working with the torch/flashlight, we fashioned a rough scoop from a couple of newspapers and deposited the body outside, to be taken later by our cleaner, or by beasts of the wild.
The power was still out, and would be for a while. But we had fought the good fight against at least one threat to civilization tonight. And we had won. We had won.
This war was over.
The other evening (10 pm or so) I was lying in bed sweating away (my air conditioner wouldn't work because the supply voltage was too low at the time), rereading the riveting last few pages of Angels & Demons by Dan Brown. By the way, Deception Point and Digital Fortress are a complete waste of your money, time and plasma. They are as bad as The Da Vinci Code and Angels & Demons are good. Anyway, heat, sweat, low voltage, suspense in the Vatican. I just had to take my t-shirt off (calm down ladies). So I'm lying there in my shorts when out of the corner of my eye I see something on the wall to my right. Shadow? Satanic symbol? Cockroach?
Cockroach!
I kid you not. This thing was at least 2 inches long, brown as a brown Crayola crayon and must have had a span of an inch and a half. *shudder* Its 64 legs... alright, there were only 8, stretched lazily and its antennae waved gently with such arrogance that I was immediately cowed. Three options:
1. Ignore it. Yes, like you ignore a Cat 5 hurricane.
2. Kill it. But that would mean getting close to it.
3. Leave the room. But what if it's there when I come back?? *sob*
Anyway, lying there wasn't helping matters. I needed to be on my feet, senses alert, reaction time minimal. Gingerly, I slid my feet off the side of the bed. No sudden moves. Slippers on. Eyes on the enemy. Up. Slide around to the side of the bed away from the intruder. Take stock of situation. Analyze strengths and weaknesses. Cockroach near door. Open door so cockroach can flee? Only person with room on second floor of house is me. Feasible. Crawl to door. Door open. Cockroach observes silently. Clearly a tough customer. Been here before. Re-establish safe distance. Commence stare down. The cockroach moved. But it didn't use its legs. Or its antennae. It used its WINGS.
Flying cockroach!
Why me? Oh, give me a wingless cockroach over this beast any day! *sigh* Suddenly, with no shirt on, I felt exposed. The cockroach had respositioned itself on the same wall. What if the thing flew at me?? 10 seconds later, t-shirt back on. I felt braver. But not by much. No long poles or brooms nearby. No insecticde either. What to do? Shoes? Shoe?
Shoe!
I picked up one of my running shoes and weighed in my mind the best way to go about this. Long distance throw of deadly accuracy? Cavalry charge of inconceivable horror?
Quick math: Cavalry Charge = Getting close to cockroach = Long distance throw.
I pulled my arm behind my head, my massive brain performing a million calculations of trajectory and velocity. An instant before I started my arm forward on its noble mission, I went blind. Blackness. Nothingness. Had I fainted? Was I dead? No.
Power failure!
So, here I am, in pitch darkness, running shoe in right hand still cocked behind my head and a vile, cunning enemy with powers of flight mere feet away from me.
If I stay still, it won't know where I am.
Thirty seconds later
Aaaaaa! I don't know where it is!
Make way to table. Feel around blindly for small emergency torch/flashlight. Torch/flashlight located. Move back to safe distance from last known location of the enemy. Suddenly switch on and beam light towards wall. No cockroach. Beam light frantically around room. There's the beast! In the tiny nook between the wall and my open door.
I'm fairly confident I could have held the light with one hand and thrown my shoe with the other, but the consequences of missing the target were now too great. The moster had too many conditions in his favor and too many places to hide. I needed reinforcements. I went downstairs and recruited my father. "There's a cockroach in my bedroom," I said nonchalantly, "can you hold the torch while I kill it?" My father, to his credit, did not tell me to grow up and kill my insects independently. He followed me upstairs.
Now armed with a spray pump of insecticide (procured from the ever-equipped mother), I stepped cautiously back into the room. My father followed, and shone the light where we thought the cockroach would be. Gone. It could be anywhere! I started spraying insecticide wildly, hoping to lure it out while I had support. We found it on my door, blending in perfectly with the varnished wood. Clever, but not clever enough. With my father, stage manager, providing the spotlight, I got as close as I dared and sprayed a mist of sweet sweet insecticide all over the creature.
The thing was on the run. It's flight capabilities were immediately impaired by the fast acting drug. It scampered across the floor sending shoes (mine, with me still in them) in all directions. More spray. AGH! STOMP STOMP STOMP.
Flying cockroach guts everywhere!
Relief. Invasion quashed. Invader squashed. Still working with the torch/flashlight, we fashioned a rough scoop from a couple of newspapers and deposited the body outside, to be taken later by our cleaner, or by beasts of the wild.
The power was still out, and would be for a while. But we had fought the good fight against at least one threat to civilization tonight. And we had won. We had won.
This war was over.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Emirates: Tribute To Entity
As promised, here is Emirates: Tribute to Entity, Part II. (Refer to first complete paragraph of previous post for more information.)
Before I deliver the equivalent of a eulogy, some context: I'm quite fond of the United States (despite what I think of its "people in power"), but its airlines could learn a thing or thirty four from Emirates.
Delta, Northwest, US Airways, Continental... I've flown them all, and on just about every flight (including the four hour hops halfway across the country) the only time I saw my scowling flight attendant was when he or she was shoving a packet containing assorted nuts (about 3) and a carbonated beverage in my face. Ugh. I've even used the call button when needing a blanket, or getting dehydrated, but they're either all color blind (and can't recognize WHITE) or they believe that passengers are a waste of their time. Hmmph. Hey STUPID! The only reason you have a JOB is the fact that I fly your SORRY airline and deal with your PATHETIC service in the first place.
*breathe in* *breathe out* *breathe in* *breathe out*
Now Emirates. Thirteen hours in the air never went by so fast. The personal entertainment systems in each seat are something I'd be happy to have installed in my house. Over a hundred movies (FYI, I watched Glory Road, Four Brothers and Big Momma's House 2), games and TV shows. Add to that pineapple juice, good FREQUENT food, lightning fast and friendly service, ample legroom, comfortable seats, footrests, and the flight's as good as a retreat.
Now I wasn't travelling with a baby (which is good, considering I don't have one), but, and I saw this with my own eyes, the attendants helped weary parents out by babysitting; whether it be bottle-feeding, or walking around with the infants to lull them to sleep. And this was all in Economy (or Coach, if you will). I wonder what happens in Business and First Class... do they prepare for your meetings so you can sleep? Give backrubs? Perform open heart surgery?
*open mouth, wide eyed wonder*
I guess only the second half of this posting was truly Emirates: Tribute to Entity. The first half was more of the U.S. Airlines: Unmitigated Frustration variety. Can frustration be unmitigated?
Before I deliver the equivalent of a eulogy, some context: I'm quite fond of the United States (despite what I think of its "people in power"), but its airlines could learn a thing or thirty four from Emirates.
Delta, Northwest, US Airways, Continental... I've flown them all, and on just about every flight (including the four hour hops halfway across the country) the only time I saw my scowling flight attendant was when he or she was shoving a packet containing assorted nuts (about 3) and a carbonated beverage in my face. Ugh. I've even used the call button when needing a blanket, or getting dehydrated, but they're either all color blind (and can't recognize WHITE) or they believe that passengers are a waste of their time. Hmmph. Hey STUPID! The only reason you have a JOB is the fact that I fly your SORRY airline and deal with your PATHETIC service in the first place.
*breathe in* *breathe out* *breathe in* *breathe out*
Now Emirates. Thirteen hours in the air never went by so fast. The personal entertainment systems in each seat are something I'd be happy to have installed in my house. Over a hundred movies (FYI, I watched Glory Road, Four Brothers and Big Momma's House 2), games and TV shows. Add to that pineapple juice, good FREQUENT food, lightning fast and friendly service, ample legroom, comfortable seats, footrests, and the flight's as good as a retreat.
Now I wasn't travelling with a baby (which is good, considering I don't have one), but, and I saw this with my own eyes, the attendants helped weary parents out by babysitting; whether it be bottle-feeding, or walking around with the infants to lull them to sleep. And this was all in Economy (or Coach, if you will). I wonder what happens in Business and First Class... do they prepare for your meetings so you can sleep? Give backrubs? Perform open heart surgery?
*open mouth, wide eyed wonder*
I guess only the second half of this posting was truly Emirates: Tribute to Entity. The first half was more of the U.S. Airlines: Unmitigated Frustration variety. Can frustration be unmitigated?
Friday, May 12, 2006
Homeland Security: Tribute To Entity
So I've been home five days or thereabouts, so far so good. More on that later.
This post is a series of two written in tribute to two entities that made my return to the fatherland (or motherland, whatever floats your boat) pleasant and anuerysm-free: Emirates (the airline) and the United States Department of Homeland Security. What?? For serious, Matil**, the DHS has got my back.
We will discuss in this post the DHS. In the interest of brevity, I'm going to relate my experience in bullet form... with timestamps!! In addition, I will refrain from mentioning exact dates and physical descriptions in order to protect the identities and careers of my benefactors.
Note: Times accurate to within +/- 10 minutes
0720: Arrive at JFK Terminal 4.
0721: Get lost. Ask for help.
0728: Check in. Passport examined. Boarding pass obtained.
0740: Leave 2 pieces of checked baggage with security. Interestingly they didn't require the suitcase or the bag to be unlocked. Either they have incredibly advanced X-Ray machines, or they like breaking into things.
0745: Begin hunt for mysterious room 161/011 for Special Registrants (i.e. suspected terrorists i.e. me).
0748: Ask airport staff for assistance. Fellow gives me precise directions.
0749: Get lost. Ask for help. Fellow gives me precise directions.
0755: Arrive at mysterious room 161/011. It turns out to be a lost luggage office for Swiss Air. No one around. Interesting...
0758: Wonder why the DHS doesn't have its own room. Swiss Air fellow tells me their office is now around the corner.
0801: Arrive at DHS office. 2 agents sitting in front of 2 PCs. One male, one female, and that's all the info on them you're getting.
0802: Give the female my documents.
0803: Female asks for my I-94 (document required to have departure recorded, and therefore also for legal re-entry).
0803: It's in the passport woman! Use your eyes!
0803: No, it isn't Sir.
0804: Check passport. No I-94. Hyperventilate.
0805: Female says to me,"This does not help me."
0805: I say to me,"This does not help me."
0806: Hyperventilation continues. Carry-on bags emptied. No I-94.
0807: Apologies. No clue where the I-94 is. Will you accept a copy?
0807: "This does not help me."
0808: Ultra-hyperventilation.
0809: Male agent now free. Watching situation with interest. Fingerprinting. Questions.
0810: Female pulls out a new I-94 form. To her colleague, "It doesn't matter to me. I am only doing this to help him."
0810: Help? Me? Cardiac Arrest averted. Attention paid.
0811: New I-94 given to me with old number written on in pen. "I have made note of the loss of your original one." Legal exit and possibly subsequent re-entry to the United States now possible. Heartbeat begins long journey to normal.
0812: Express profound gratitude. Start rambling about good times in the U.S.
0813: DHS Agents share stories. Offer immigration advice. "If you come back on a work visa, you can stick around long enough to get residency. Try to get a job here. That's how you get a green card."
0814: Almost faint with shock. DHS agents offering a Pakistani citizen immigration advice??
0815: Friendly goodbyes. No longer feel like a criminal.
0830: Make way to departure gate. Talking to Tif on phone. Sudden idea: The silly** Emirates check-in girl took my I-94 when I checked in at 0728! Didn't see the deed occur because of angle of counter. Rush back to counter.
0831: Get lost. Hyperventilate.
0832: Find counter. Show silly** girl my new I-94. Did you take my old one?
0833: Silly** girl in shock. Why do you have that? We're supposed to take them from every departing non-citizen.
0835: Light comes on. Give it back. My buddies at the DHS will want to have a look at it.
0836: Make way back to DHS office.
0837: Male & Female happy, if a little surprised, to see me again.
0838: Situation explained. No one had made clear that registration is to occur before check-in. So I-94 gone then. (To be fair to me, when I flew out of Detroit, my I-94 was taken AFTER check-in).
0839: Female tears up new I-94, stamps old one, hands it to me, smiles all round, music plays, credits roll.
0840: Another sad goodbye.
0843: Return to Emirates counter. Give correctly stamped, 100% legal I-94 to silly** girl.
0850: Go through final security check.
0900: Arrive at gate.
0940: Exit stage right.***
Important Notes
* "For serious, Matil": Expression indicating earnestness first used by Derek Zoolander in 2001 when talking to the future Matilda Zoolander... or Matil.
** Silly girl not actually silly.
*** The first known positive US Department of Homeland Security experience is now officially a part of public record.
This post is a series of two written in tribute to two entities that made my return to the fatherland (or motherland, whatever floats your boat) pleasant and anuerysm-free: Emirates (the airline) and the United States Department of Homeland Security. What?? For serious, Matil**, the DHS has got my back.
We will discuss in this post the DHS. In the interest of brevity, I'm going to relate my experience in bullet form... with timestamps!! In addition, I will refrain from mentioning exact dates and physical descriptions in order to protect the identities and careers of my benefactors.
Note: Times accurate to within +/- 10 minutes
0720: Arrive at JFK Terminal 4.
0721: Get lost. Ask for help.
0728: Check in. Passport examined. Boarding pass obtained.
0740: Leave 2 pieces of checked baggage with security. Interestingly they didn't require the suitcase or the bag to be unlocked. Either they have incredibly advanced X-Ray machines, or they like breaking into things.
0745: Begin hunt for mysterious room 161/011 for Special Registrants (i.e. suspected terrorists i.e. me).
0748: Ask airport staff for assistance. Fellow gives me precise directions.
0749: Get lost. Ask for help. Fellow gives me precise directions.
0755: Arrive at mysterious room 161/011. It turns out to be a lost luggage office for Swiss Air. No one around. Interesting...
0758: Wonder why the DHS doesn't have its own room. Swiss Air fellow tells me their office is now around the corner.
0801: Arrive at DHS office. 2 agents sitting in front of 2 PCs. One male, one female, and that's all the info on them you're getting.
0802: Give the female my documents.
0803: Female asks for my I-94 (document required to have departure recorded, and therefore also for legal re-entry).
0803: It's in the passport woman! Use your eyes!
0803: No, it isn't Sir.
0804: Check passport. No I-94. Hyperventilate.
0805: Female says to me,"This does not help me."
0805: I say to me,"This does not help me."
0806: Hyperventilation continues. Carry-on bags emptied. No I-94.
0807: Apologies. No clue where the I-94 is. Will you accept a copy?
0807: "This does not help me."
0808: Ultra-hyperventilation.
0809: Male agent now free. Watching situation with interest. Fingerprinting. Questions.
0810: Female pulls out a new I-94 form. To her colleague, "It doesn't matter to me. I am only doing this to help him."
0810: Help? Me? Cardiac Arrest averted. Attention paid.
0811: New I-94 given to me with old number written on in pen. "I have made note of the loss of your original one." Legal exit and possibly subsequent re-entry to the United States now possible. Heartbeat begins long journey to normal.
0812: Express profound gratitude. Start rambling about good times in the U.S.
0813: DHS Agents share stories. Offer immigration advice. "If you come back on a work visa, you can stick around long enough to get residency. Try to get a job here. That's how you get a green card."
0814: Almost faint with shock. DHS agents offering a Pakistani citizen immigration advice??
0815: Friendly goodbyes. No longer feel like a criminal.
0830: Make way to departure gate. Talking to Tif on phone. Sudden idea: The silly** Emirates check-in girl took my I-94 when I checked in at 0728! Didn't see the deed occur because of angle of counter. Rush back to counter.
0831: Get lost. Hyperventilate.
0832: Find counter. Show silly** girl my new I-94. Did you take my old one?
0833: Silly** girl in shock. Why do you have that? We're supposed to take them from every departing non-citizen.
0835: Light comes on. Give it back. My buddies at the DHS will want to have a look at it.
0836: Make way back to DHS office.
0837: Male & Female happy, if a little surprised, to see me again.
0838: Situation explained. No one had made clear that registration is to occur before check-in. So I-94 gone then. (To be fair to me, when I flew out of Detroit, my I-94 was taken AFTER check-in).
0839: Female tears up new I-94, stamps old one, hands it to me, smiles all round, music plays, credits roll.
0840: Another sad goodbye.
0843: Return to Emirates counter. Give correctly stamped, 100% legal I-94 to silly** girl.
0850: Go through final security check.
0900: Arrive at gate.
0940: Exit stage right.***
Important Notes
* "For serious, Matil": Expression indicating earnestness first used by Derek Zoolander in 2001 when talking to the future Matilda Zoolander... or Matil.
** Silly girl not actually silly.
*** The first known positive US Department of Homeland Security experience is now officially a part of public record.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Summer Plans a la Robert Frost
This is what my last posting was supposed to be about. Let's hope I don't stray this time.
I'll be home in approximately a fortnight/2 weeks/14 days. As always, I have plans for the summer which generally involve some form of self-improvement.
Past planned summer activities for me have included
- Reading all the United Nations documentation on the Israel/Palestine conflict
- Becoming moderately skilled at the Harmonica
- Getting my 800 meter dash (if we can call 800 meters a dash) time down to a respectable 2:00 (minutes, not hours)
- Learning how to speak _________ (insert language here)
- Lifting regularly enough to be able to bench my own body weight (which is really not much more than the bar, to be honest)
- Making and maintaining a webpage (this blog doesn't count; the Indian** did all the set-up work for me. The Indian, you may know, is my source for all answers Internet. And he's a really great guy too... for an Indian.)
Past actual summer activities for me have included
- None of the above
- Not much else
I'm very good at planning/organizing/making lists. Not so good at following through with them. This summer I'm getting smart. I'm going to set a small number of clearly defined goals and resist the temptation to add more.
So, without further ado, I present to you
The Foreigner's Summer Plans 2006... in VERSE!!
Summertime is here again
I'm heading home, yes on a plane
Two years almost I've been gone
Karachi, dude! What's going on?
Sunny days are on their way
Little work and lots of play
Maybe cricket, maybe squash
Maybe World Cup Soccer. Gosh!
The harmonica will reappear
Lovely tunes to tease your ear
But only if I take a class
I don't want to break no glass
Webpage building here we go
Take it easy, take it slow
No demands, no deadline pressure
Time for an XML refresher
Have to get my F1 visa
Columbus, not Berlin or Pisa
Study some for graduate school
Can't show up and look the fool
Music, sports, the Internet
Would you like a cigarette?
No would be the correct answer
Nothing sucks quite like lung cancer
The last three lines are out of place
I could edit, change the space
But that would counter my intent:
Public Service Announcement
Anyway, I'm almost done
Said my verse, now have to run
But! Before this poem I smother
A message for my father, mother
The perfect son I may not be
The apple fell far from the tree?
Mistakes galore this boy has made
But on this point I won't be swayed
You may flinch; I will not blink
"Oh, what will your uncles think?"
No matter how you show dismay
The hair has gone; the stud will stay
I'll be home in approximately a fortnight/2 weeks/14 days. As always, I have plans for the summer which generally involve some form of self-improvement.
Past planned summer activities for me have included
- Reading all the United Nations documentation on the Israel/Palestine conflict
- Becoming moderately skilled at the Harmonica
- Getting my 800 meter dash (if we can call 800 meters a dash) time down to a respectable 2:00 (minutes, not hours)
- Learning how to speak _________ (insert language here)
- Lifting regularly enough to be able to bench my own body weight (which is really not much more than the bar, to be honest)
- Making and maintaining a webpage (this blog doesn't count; the Indian** did all the set-up work for me. The Indian, you may know, is my source for all answers Internet. And he's a really great guy too... for an Indian.)
Past actual summer activities for me have included
- None of the above
- Not much else
I'm very good at planning/organizing/making lists. Not so good at following through with them. This summer I'm getting smart. I'm going to set a small number of clearly defined goals and resist the temptation to add more.
So, without further ado, I present to you
The Foreigner's Summer Plans 2006... in VERSE!!
Summertime is here again
I'm heading home, yes on a plane
Two years almost I've been gone
Karachi, dude! What's going on?
Sunny days are on their way
Little work and lots of play
Maybe cricket, maybe squash
Maybe World Cup Soccer. Gosh!
The harmonica will reappear
Lovely tunes to tease your ear
But only if I take a class
I don't want to break no glass
Webpage building here we go
Take it easy, take it slow
No demands, no deadline pressure
Time for an XML refresher
Have to get my F1 visa
Columbus, not Berlin or Pisa
Study some for graduate school
Can't show up and look the fool
Music, sports, the Internet
Would you like a cigarette?
No would be the correct answer
Nothing sucks quite like lung cancer
The last three lines are out of place
I could edit, change the space
But that would counter my intent:
Public Service Announcement
Anyway, I'm almost done
Said my verse, now have to run
But! Before this poem I smother
A message for my father, mother
The perfect son I may not be
The apple fell far from the tree?
Mistakes galore this boy has made
But on this point I won't be swayed
You may flinch; I will not blink
"Oh, what will your uncles think?"
No matter how you show dismay
The hair has gone; the stud will stay
Thursday, April 20, 2006
The Long Term Memory Curse
I am cursed with an incredible long term memory. Here I am in my mid twenties, and, from what I've seen and heard, people in their mid twenties have a vague recollection of their school days... yes, there were some people, we had some fun, skinned some knees... and that's it. I, on the other hand, remember full names, faces, pet phrases and detailed anecdotes that are of no consequences whatsoever. Examples:
The Tuesday Incident
In grade/class 6 - I was 12 or thereabouts - one of my classmates, Sabih - or, in the spirit of full-namingness, Sabih bin Fakhar (I hope I don't get sued or something for using his real name) - mentioned during a conversation that the following day was Tuesday. I was bored. So I decided to make a big deal out of it. I pretended to be shocked and horrified that he would say such a thing. I whispered loudly to the people around me: "Oh my God! Sabih said tomorrow is Tuesday!! How could he??" (Of course this was all in Urdu - apologies to purists, but I am willing to compromise the linguistic integrity of this account for the benefit of my greater readership.)
My friends, being heartless jerks like I am, promptly picked up on it. Within seconds, a dozen people were berating Sabih for his use of the word Tuesday. We carried this joke a bit too far - too far meaning we spouted variations of "Sabih said tomorrow is Tuesday. How could he??" for the next 30 minutes - reducing the poor fellow to tears. He was a friendly, gentle soul, and I certainly felt bad when he cracked. We were, thank God, able to joke about the event later (on Wednesday and Thursday... but NOT Tuesday). Water under the bridge... Why do I remember this? God knows.
KG Lady (Haha... KG... cagey...)
I remember the name of my kindergarten teacher: Natasha Cowasjee. We had KG1 and KG2 back when I was young... I believe she may have been a KG2-er. So I was how old... 6? It's not like the lady's name was ever mentioned or reinforced after my time in her classroom either... sometimes I scare myself. I think my KG1 teacher was a lady whose last name started with a P... was it Pinjwani?? Mother?
The Math Problem
When I was trying to get into school in Pakistan - this would have been 1985... so I was 4 - I had to take an "admission test" which basically consisted of me standing by the Head Mistress - Mrs. Tahir, argh, I remember her too... I say argh not because the lady was hideous, far from it, but because the extent of my memory frightens me - and reading a few selected letters and numbers from this book she had. I handled the colors, letters and fruits (I think they were fruits) just fine. But then we got to a complicated math problem, 2 + 4 I think it was. Mrs. Tahir said, "What is this?" and I, not having the foggiest, blithely waved my hand and said, "Oh, I'll learn that later."
If my sarcastic streak had been any sort of developed back then, I would probably have said, "You silly woman! This is exactly what my father is going to pay you his hard earned money to teach me." But I didn't. I did notice that the mother had been unable to suppress a laugh when I waved my hand... I only understood why much later... when I was 22.
Anyway, those were some stories from my distant past. My distant past is fascinating. Someday I'll tell you the story of the time I hung upside down from a see-saw for what felt like several years.
You'll notice the first sentence of this post. Specifically the "cursed" part. Allow me to explain. I've recently become somewhat addicted to communicating with friends and aquaintances using Orkut (http://www.orkut.com/) a free networking service (kind of like Facebook, you Americans). One evening, I was idly browsing through one of my friend's friends lists and I found all these people I had known between seven and ten years ago. Naturally, interested to see them around, and wondering how they were doing, I "added" them to my own list. Some of them just plain rejected me. Others didn't respond. The few that bothered to add me sent messages along the lines of "At first I thought you were some random pervert" or "I had forgotten all about you." I suddenly realized that a whole bunch of people must think I'm some sort of sick-in-the-head psycho with too much time on his hands... "Weirdo I don't know... why does he think I'm his friend?" and it's really their sub-par memories that are doing me an injustice. Am I really that forgettable? *sigh*
So, in a completely understandable reaction to the callousness one with an outstanding memory must endure, I've been wishing I had rotten memory cells. Maybe then someone would come running up to me and say something like, "Shahyan!! Remember when we belly danced for 15 hours straight in 1996??" and I'd be able to look down my nose at him or her and say, "Sorry, Scum of the Earth, do I even know you?" and walk away. Ignorance is better than rejection, what.
Anyway, if you're reading this and have been stalked - or so you think - by me, don't worry. It's just my phenomenal long term memory under the mistaken impression that you actually know who I am. And your memory sucks, fyi.
What's funny - and a little bit sad - is that I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday, or what I did at work today (which may actually be nothing, knowing me).
What's also funny - and a little bit sad - is that I started this post thinking I was going to write about my plans for the summer...
The Tuesday Incident
In grade/class 6 - I was 12 or thereabouts - one of my classmates, Sabih - or, in the spirit of full-namingness, Sabih bin Fakhar (I hope I don't get sued or something for using his real name) - mentioned during a conversation that the following day was Tuesday. I was bored. So I decided to make a big deal out of it. I pretended to be shocked and horrified that he would say such a thing. I whispered loudly to the people around me: "Oh my God! Sabih said tomorrow is Tuesday!! How could he??" (Of course this was all in Urdu - apologies to purists, but I am willing to compromise the linguistic integrity of this account for the benefit of my greater readership.)
My friends, being heartless jerks like I am, promptly picked up on it. Within seconds, a dozen people were berating Sabih for his use of the word Tuesday. We carried this joke a bit too far - too far meaning we spouted variations of "Sabih said tomorrow is Tuesday. How could he??" for the next 30 minutes - reducing the poor fellow to tears. He was a friendly, gentle soul, and I certainly felt bad when he cracked. We were, thank God, able to joke about the event later (on Wednesday and Thursday... but NOT Tuesday). Water under the bridge... Why do I remember this? God knows.
KG Lady (Haha... KG... cagey...)
I remember the name of my kindergarten teacher: Natasha Cowasjee. We had KG1 and KG2 back when I was young... I believe she may have been a KG2-er. So I was how old... 6? It's not like the lady's name was ever mentioned or reinforced after my time in her classroom either... sometimes I scare myself. I think my KG1 teacher was a lady whose last name started with a P... was it Pinjwani?? Mother?
The Math Problem
When I was trying to get into school in Pakistan - this would have been 1985... so I was 4 - I had to take an "admission test" which basically consisted of me standing by the Head Mistress - Mrs. Tahir, argh, I remember her too... I say argh not because the lady was hideous, far from it, but because the extent of my memory frightens me - and reading a few selected letters and numbers from this book she had. I handled the colors, letters and fruits (I think they were fruits) just fine. But then we got to a complicated math problem, 2 + 4 I think it was. Mrs. Tahir said, "What is this?" and I, not having the foggiest, blithely waved my hand and said, "Oh, I'll learn that later."
If my sarcastic streak had been any sort of developed back then, I would probably have said, "You silly woman! This is exactly what my father is going to pay you his hard earned money to teach me." But I didn't. I did notice that the mother had been unable to suppress a laugh when I waved my hand... I only understood why much later... when I was 22.
Anyway, those were some stories from my distant past. My distant past is fascinating. Someday I'll tell you the story of the time I hung upside down from a see-saw for what felt like several years.
You'll notice the first sentence of this post. Specifically the "cursed" part. Allow me to explain. I've recently become somewhat addicted to communicating with friends and aquaintances using Orkut (http://www.orkut.com/) a free networking service (kind of like Facebook, you Americans). One evening, I was idly browsing through one of my friend's friends lists and I found all these people I had known between seven and ten years ago. Naturally, interested to see them around, and wondering how they were doing, I "added" them to my own list. Some of them just plain rejected me. Others didn't respond. The few that bothered to add me sent messages along the lines of "At first I thought you were some random pervert" or "I had forgotten all about you." I suddenly realized that a whole bunch of people must think I'm some sort of sick-in-the-head psycho with too much time on his hands... "Weirdo I don't know... why does he think I'm his friend?" and it's really their sub-par memories that are doing me an injustice. Am I really that forgettable? *sigh*
So, in a completely understandable reaction to the callousness one with an outstanding memory must endure, I've been wishing I had rotten memory cells. Maybe then someone would come running up to me and say something like, "Shahyan!! Remember when we belly danced for 15 hours straight in 1996??" and I'd be able to look down my nose at him or her and say, "Sorry, Scum of the Earth, do I even know you?" and walk away. Ignorance is better than rejection, what.
Anyway, if you're reading this and have been stalked - or so you think - by me, don't worry. It's just my phenomenal long term memory under the mistaken impression that you actually know who I am. And your memory sucks, fyi.
What's funny - and a little bit sad - is that I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday, or what I did at work today (which may actually be nothing, knowing me).
What's also funny - and a little bit sad - is that I started this post thinking I was going to write about my plans for the summer...
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Brokeback Mountain: My $0.02
So we watched Brokeback Mountain the other day. Fortunately, in case you were concerned, watching it will not make you gay. At least not within 5 days anyway.
In my honest, heterosexual opinion, the movie is overrated. By the time I had developed any sympathy whatsoever for the characters, the credits were rolling. The one high point was the theme - Wings by Gustavo Santaolalla, very low key, yet moving. The general premise of the movie was also solid but I would have preferred a little more action (but NOT of THAT kind).
So I got to wondering why the movie did so well... thoughts:
1. Acting was decent, but the pace was sooo slow I could have left the room, filed my teeth into little teddy bear shapes, returned and not missed much of the plot. So it wasn't that.
2. Amazing scenery in Wyoming. Lovely mountains, greenery, flowing water (i.e. streams and rivers). But you can get that stuff in most nature documentaries, or in photographs, or you could visit. So it wasn't that either.
3. Great soundtrack. No. Apart from Wings, nothing really jumped out as an outstanding composition.
I think the only people you'll find raving about the movie are gay people, because, lets face it, they're more marginalized than even African-Americans. There's finally a movie "about them." Can't blame them for being excited.
So why has this movie grossed $83 million to date and is still playing in some theaters across the United States despite being out (Haha - the gay movie came out**) for over 17 weeks ? It's really quite simple. The Right-Wing Christian fundamentalists don't want us to watch it. The bible thumpers provided a media blitz the movie makers could only have dreamed of. Human beings will always espouse certain childish traits. And one of those is doing the things people tell us we shouldn't.
Scenario A:
Brokeback Mountain is released. Homosexuals everywhere are thrilled. A little buzz, a little fizz. 3 weeks later it's over. No one cares. Yeah yeah, a movie about a couple of guys who like guys - not interested.
Scenario 2:
Brokeback Mountain is released. Homosexuals everywhere are thrilled. A little buzz, a little fizz. 3 weeks later - Stuffy, righteous old people all over the place trying to stop people from watching the movie. Some theaters not showing it. People calling it degenerate, evil, sinful etc etc. Holy Crap! I'm there!
Seriously, I wouldn't have cared to watch it if there hadn't been such an outcry. Yeah, yeah Oscar winners blah blah. I've skipped crappy Oscar winning movies before. I'm sure gays everywhere are thanking the Christian right for bringing the movie to a position of such prominence. Hell, they got me to watch it. And while it will never be my favorite movie, I did gain a further appreciation of how difficult it must be to know that the core of your emotional being is something that present day society will not accept.
So thank you Pat Robertson. Thank you Jerry Falwell. Thank you to all the idiots who try to keep us from broadening our horizons and being sympathetic to our brothers and sisters, even if we may not agree with their beliefs and lifestyles. Keep telling us what not to do. And we'll keep throwing your hatred right back at you.
I seem to be all sorts of angry at Falwell and Robertson... I will explore these feelings in a later post. (I hope this post happens... none of my promised posts ever come to fruition.)
**For those unfamiliar with homosexual terminology (I happen to be familiar because I was a resident assistant in a university residence hall for three years - a heterosexual resident assistant with a couple of gay residents, just for the record), "coming out" is the phrase that refers to the time a person openly admits to his or her homosexuality. Like a coming out of a closet... Now go back and read my joke. And you'll see how funny/clever/witty it was.
In my honest, heterosexual opinion, the movie is overrated. By the time I had developed any sympathy whatsoever for the characters, the credits were rolling. The one high point was the theme - Wings by Gustavo Santaolalla, very low key, yet moving. The general premise of the movie was also solid but I would have preferred a little more action (but NOT of THAT kind).
So I got to wondering why the movie did so well... thoughts:
1. Acting was decent, but the pace was sooo slow I could have left the room, filed my teeth into little teddy bear shapes, returned and not missed much of the plot. So it wasn't that.
2. Amazing scenery in Wyoming. Lovely mountains, greenery, flowing water (i.e. streams and rivers). But you can get that stuff in most nature documentaries, or in photographs, or you could visit. So it wasn't that either.
3. Great soundtrack. No. Apart from Wings, nothing really jumped out as an outstanding composition.
I think the only people you'll find raving about the movie are gay people, because, lets face it, they're more marginalized than even African-Americans. There's finally a movie "about them." Can't blame them for being excited.
So why has this movie grossed $83 million to date and is still playing in some theaters across the United States despite being out (Haha - the gay movie came out**) for over 17 weeks ? It's really quite simple. The Right-Wing Christian fundamentalists don't want us to watch it. The bible thumpers provided a media blitz the movie makers could only have dreamed of. Human beings will always espouse certain childish traits. And one of those is doing the things people tell us we shouldn't.
Scenario A:
Brokeback Mountain is released. Homosexuals everywhere are thrilled. A little buzz, a little fizz. 3 weeks later it's over. No one cares. Yeah yeah, a movie about a couple of guys who like guys - not interested.
Scenario 2:
Brokeback Mountain is released. Homosexuals everywhere are thrilled. A little buzz, a little fizz. 3 weeks later - Stuffy, righteous old people all over the place trying to stop people from watching the movie. Some theaters not showing it. People calling it degenerate, evil, sinful etc etc. Holy Crap! I'm there!
Seriously, I wouldn't have cared to watch it if there hadn't been such an outcry. Yeah, yeah Oscar winners blah blah. I've skipped crappy Oscar winning movies before. I'm sure gays everywhere are thanking the Christian right for bringing the movie to a position of such prominence. Hell, they got me to watch it. And while it will never be my favorite movie, I did gain a further appreciation of how difficult it must be to know that the core of your emotional being is something that present day society will not accept.
So thank you Pat Robertson. Thank you Jerry Falwell. Thank you to all the idiots who try to keep us from broadening our horizons and being sympathetic to our brothers and sisters, even if we may not agree with their beliefs and lifestyles. Keep telling us what not to do. And we'll keep throwing your hatred right back at you.
I seem to be all sorts of angry at Falwell and Robertson... I will explore these feelings in a later post. (I hope this post happens... none of my promised posts ever come to fruition.)
**For those unfamiliar with homosexual terminology (I happen to be familiar because I was a resident assistant in a university residence hall for three years - a heterosexual resident assistant with a couple of gay residents, just for the record), "coming out" is the phrase that refers to the time a person openly admits to his or her homosexuality. Like a coming out of a closet... Now go back and read my joke. And you'll see how funny/clever/witty it was.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Global Awareness
So, I'm not feeling the bloggery these days. But, instead of blogging for the sake of blogging, I've decided to paste one of my business school application essays from a few months ago. I was looking at it the other day, and it struck me that it reads like one of my less rantish, halfway thoughtful posts (and it got me admitted so it must not be complete rubbish) .
The topic was "Global Awareness" and the limit was 500 words. And, for the record, this is not fiction.
Here we go:
I was born in the charming little university town of Aachen, on the Western border of what was then the Federal Republic of Germany. Though I lived there for only the first three years of my life (and then for another when I was seven), I have many happy memories of the place, most of them involving snow, my yellow tricycle and smiling, round-faced Germans – a complete antithesis to the commonly portrayed stark, stern and mechanical people we often associate Germany with.
My parents and I moved to Pakistan in 1984, and I made the transition from modern Western life to the bustle and disorder of a developing nation quite seamlessly, as three-year-olds with little or no interest in a world beyond their parents' presence often do. I spent my formative years in the fifteen million strong metropolis of Karachi, rushing from education-filled mornings to lazy afternoons and evenings spent playing cricket or soccer. Life in Pakistan is generally quite laid back, and though the standard of living is low, I feel that the quality of life is relatively high.
Having a connection by birth to Europe, I always followed keenly developments – both political and sporting - in that part of the world. A combination of aware parents, access to abundant reading material and news sources and an interest in matters international inevitably led me to learn lots of about the world I live in. Pakistan's perennial status as a pariah bothered me, because I knew, and I still do, that the country has a lot of good in it, and is just unfortunate enough to be hijacked by the power-hungry few who happen to be selfish, righteous and wrong about almost everything all at the same time.
The United States always struck me as being a big bully. So, it was with some degree of cautious excitement (if there is such a thing), that, at the age of twenty, I made my way across the Earth to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. Here, I discovered, as any frequent traveler could have told me, a nation of wonderful, generous, friendly and caring people that is just unfortunate enough to be hijacked by the power-hungry few who happen to be selfish, righteous and wrong about almost everything all at the same time.
I have enjoyed my time in the nation where cultures and countries come to meet as much as, if not more than, I have enjoyed my time anywhere else. I continue to make an effort to build bridges both by sharing my experiences – through presentations, essays, letters and discussions with friends - and learning from the experiences and knowledge of others who have seen much more than I have. The world, for better or worse, is becoming smaller day by day and I believe that each of us has a responsibility to learn about and appreciate the qualities of every race, religion and nation.
The topic was "Global Awareness" and the limit was 500 words. And, for the record, this is not fiction.
Here we go:
I was born in the charming little university town of Aachen, on the Western border of what was then the Federal Republic of Germany. Though I lived there for only the first three years of my life (and then for another when I was seven), I have many happy memories of the place, most of them involving snow, my yellow tricycle and smiling, round-faced Germans – a complete antithesis to the commonly portrayed stark, stern and mechanical people we often associate Germany with.
My parents and I moved to Pakistan in 1984, and I made the transition from modern Western life to the bustle and disorder of a developing nation quite seamlessly, as three-year-olds with little or no interest in a world beyond their parents' presence often do. I spent my formative years in the fifteen million strong metropolis of Karachi, rushing from education-filled mornings to lazy afternoons and evenings spent playing cricket or soccer. Life in Pakistan is generally quite laid back, and though the standard of living is low, I feel that the quality of life is relatively high.
Having a connection by birth to Europe, I always followed keenly developments – both political and sporting - in that part of the world. A combination of aware parents, access to abundant reading material and news sources and an interest in matters international inevitably led me to learn lots of about the world I live in. Pakistan's perennial status as a pariah bothered me, because I knew, and I still do, that the country has a lot of good in it, and is just unfortunate enough to be hijacked by the power-hungry few who happen to be selfish, righteous and wrong about almost everything all at the same time.
The United States always struck me as being a big bully. So, it was with some degree of cautious excitement (if there is such a thing), that, at the age of twenty, I made my way across the Earth to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. Here, I discovered, as any frequent traveler could have told me, a nation of wonderful, generous, friendly and caring people that is just unfortunate enough to be hijacked by the power-hungry few who happen to be selfish, righteous and wrong about almost everything all at the same time.
I have enjoyed my time in the nation where cultures and countries come to meet as much as, if not more than, I have enjoyed my time anywhere else. I continue to make an effort to build bridges both by sharing my experiences – through presentations, essays, letters and discussions with friends - and learning from the experiences and knowledge of others who have seen much more than I have. The world, for better or worse, is becoming smaller day by day and I believe that each of us has a responsibility to learn about and appreciate the qualities of every race, religion and nation.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
My Grandfather, Cricket and Bushes
First on the whole Dubai Ports World thing, I have to hand it to W. Never let it be said that George W. Bush let xenophobia get in the way of cronyism.
Enough of that. Yes, enough.
On to the real star of tonight's post: My Grandfather (this would be my mother's father). He's in hospital at this moment awaiting a Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy (i.e. feeding tube insertion). I spoke to him briefly this morning. He wasn't at his most coherent but we still talked about stuff; cricket, family, George W. Bush... you know, the usual.
My grandfather has always been one of the cornerstones of our family, especially in the eyes of his grandchildren. When we were small, he was the "cool" grandparent, getting us toys and openly letting us watch stuff on T.V. that the parental units would never allow (wrestling, fight scenes etc etc). He would even (random thought) get us clothes if he thought we'd like them (shorts, trousers, shirts etc). He always had our backs... covered.
So, funny story. My brother and I regularly played cricket (and we probably will this Summer too) in our grandparents' garden. There were bushes all over the place (these will be important later in this posting) and a couple of windows too. We would always hear dire threats - from the dictatorial panel comprising female members of the family – of the terrible consequences set to befall us should we ever break a window while playing. There were always moments of excitement (and paralyzing fear) any time a ball went near or bounced off one of these, but by God's grace, the windows held firm.
Except for this one sunny afternoon. We had convinced my grandfather to play with us (it was never really a difficult job to be honest). Anyway, he was batting. My brother was bowling. And I was fielding. My brother delivered a somewhat mediocre (by his standards) half volley that my grandfather timed well towards the cover region (somewhere in between first and second base for you illiterate types) smack into one of the sacred windows. The window cracked into several pieces. My brother and I collapsed with laughter. My grandfather started grinning sheepishly. The female oligarchy appeared, breathing fire and brimstone. Haha. Their fury was effectively rendered null and void when they learned who the culprit was. A few glares and some scoffing and they were done. You don't mess with the patriarch. Even if he has just broken a sacred window.
Looking back, my grandfather probably saved us from a fate worse than death. Sooner or later, my brother or I would have cracked a glass-breaking shot towards the weakened-by-years-of-abuse sacred window and the oligarchy would have had a field day feasting on our remains. So he had our backs yet again.
(I suppose, before something terrible happens to me, I should state for the record that the ladies in our family aren't really thaaat bad. They're pretty nice actually... very forgiving.)
So when I said my grandfather and I talked about George W., I wasn't kidding. My grandfather is not, to say the least, a fan of W. or his daddy. And neither, frankly, am I. But still, my grandfather is pretty extreme. (A good way to get him fired up is to tell him "Bush sends his love" or "Bush was asking when you're going to visit him" or something along those lines.) Part of his outlook is set this way, I think, because he's a traditional conservative Pakistani who's lived through the 50s and 60s when America kept promising us friendship but never delivered once it had what it wanted from us. Also, he's suspicious of the US's imperial ambitions in the Middle East and Asia (can you spell Iran?). But it's mostly because he's never met the Bushes and has no idea what wonderful people they actually are. (So, if you didn't realize that the last 19 words were COMPLETELY SARCASTIC, you are forbidden from reading my blog ever again. I don't care. I’ll take the hit in terms of readership. You are the weakest link. Good bye.)
Anyway, so when we used to play cricket with BUSHES around, and my grandfather was with us, and we'd hit the ball into the BUSHES, he'd occasionally mutter, "Good! Hit it into the BUSH. Hit the BUSH hard." Then he’d crack up. His inoffensive form of resistance to the American juggernaut. Now that I'm all grown up and realize that there's no such thing as spying and wire-tapping, I find his comments hilariously funny. At that time however, I was somewhat amused, but always secretly wondered if "they" were listening and were going to come kill us all at night. I was so naive back then, I had no idea that the United States was a fuzzy teddy bear that wouldn't hurt a fly.
One more thing and I'll let you go. My grandfather is so awesome; he let me drive a car when I was only 5 years old! OK fine, he worked the pedals and all I had was the steering. And it was an empty street. And I realized later that he actually had at least one hand on the steering wheel at all times. But still. He was the man when I was 5. And he is the man today.
Enough of that. Yes, enough.
On to the real star of tonight's post: My Grandfather (this would be my mother's father). He's in hospital at this moment awaiting a Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy (i.e. feeding tube insertion). I spoke to him briefly this morning. He wasn't at his most coherent but we still talked about stuff; cricket, family, George W. Bush... you know, the usual.
My grandfather has always been one of the cornerstones of our family, especially in the eyes of his grandchildren. When we were small, he was the "cool" grandparent, getting us toys and openly letting us watch stuff on T.V. that the parental units would never allow (wrestling, fight scenes etc etc). He would even (random thought) get us clothes if he thought we'd like them (shorts, trousers, shirts etc). He always had our backs... covered.
So, funny story. My brother and I regularly played cricket (and we probably will this Summer too) in our grandparents' garden. There were bushes all over the place (these will be important later in this posting) and a couple of windows too. We would always hear dire threats - from the dictatorial panel comprising female members of the family – of the terrible consequences set to befall us should we ever break a window while playing. There were always moments of excitement (and paralyzing fear) any time a ball went near or bounced off one of these, but by God's grace, the windows held firm.
Except for this one sunny afternoon. We had convinced my grandfather to play with us (it was never really a difficult job to be honest). Anyway, he was batting. My brother was bowling. And I was fielding. My brother delivered a somewhat mediocre (by his standards) half volley that my grandfather timed well towards the cover region (somewhere in between first and second base for you illiterate types) smack into one of the sacred windows. The window cracked into several pieces. My brother and I collapsed with laughter. My grandfather started grinning sheepishly. The female oligarchy appeared, breathing fire and brimstone. Haha. Their fury was effectively rendered null and void when they learned who the culprit was. A few glares and some scoffing and they were done. You don't mess with the patriarch. Even if he has just broken a sacred window.
Looking back, my grandfather probably saved us from a fate worse than death. Sooner or later, my brother or I would have cracked a glass-breaking shot towards the weakened-by-years-of-abuse sacred window and the oligarchy would have had a field day feasting on our remains. So he had our backs yet again.
(I suppose, before something terrible happens to me, I should state for the record that the ladies in our family aren't really thaaat bad. They're pretty nice actually... very forgiving.)
So when I said my grandfather and I talked about George W., I wasn't kidding. My grandfather is not, to say the least, a fan of W. or his daddy. And neither, frankly, am I. But still, my grandfather is pretty extreme. (A good way to get him fired up is to tell him "Bush sends his love" or "Bush was asking when you're going to visit him" or something along those lines.) Part of his outlook is set this way, I think, because he's a traditional conservative Pakistani who's lived through the 50s and 60s when America kept promising us friendship but never delivered once it had what it wanted from us. Also, he's suspicious of the US's imperial ambitions in the Middle East and Asia (can you spell Iran?). But it's mostly because he's never met the Bushes and has no idea what wonderful people they actually are. (So, if you didn't realize that the last 19 words were COMPLETELY SARCASTIC, you are forbidden from reading my blog ever again. I don't care. I’ll take the hit in terms of readership. You are the weakest link. Good bye.)
Anyway, so when we used to play cricket with BUSHES around, and my grandfather was with us, and we'd hit the ball into the BUSHES, he'd occasionally mutter, "Good! Hit it into the BUSH. Hit the BUSH hard." Then he’d crack up. His inoffensive form of resistance to the American juggernaut. Now that I'm all grown up and realize that there's no such thing as spying and wire-tapping, I find his comments hilariously funny. At that time however, I was somewhat amused, but always secretly wondered if "they" were listening and were going to come kill us all at night. I was so naive back then, I had no idea that the United States was a fuzzy teddy bear that wouldn't hurt a fly.
One more thing and I'll let you go. My grandfather is so awesome; he let me drive a car when I was only 5 years old! OK fine, he worked the pedals and all I had was the steering. And it was an empty street. And I realized later that he actually had at least one hand on the steering wheel at all times. But still. He was the man when I was 5. And he is the man today.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Poor Denmark
This posting is dedicated to my good, old, Ivy League friend Omar (we have known each other since age 6... 5?), who is not ashamed to flatter me by requesting blogs on current affairs that pique his interest:
I think Ann Coulter is a moron. I also think she's actually a man, but that's another discussion for another time and another place. After roughly a year of reading his/her columns, today, for the first time, I actually came across a paragraph by him/her that I would not necessarily use to wipe a dog's behind... not that I wipe dog's behinds... on a regular basis. Anyway, the paragraph goes so:
"In order to express their displeasure with the idea that Muslims are violent, thousands of Muslims around the world engaged in rioting, arson, mob savagery, flag-burning, murder and mayhem, among other peaceful acts of nonviolence."
Which is pretty much what happened in the Middle East and Asia when that poor Danish newspaper, Jyllands-Posten decided to publish a couple of cartoons kind of poking fun at the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh). (For the record, pbuh = peace be upon him, and why pbuh? Because I certainly hope so.)
The latest rampage has been a series of idiotic attacks and protests in my own country... *sigh* which left 3 people, including an 8 year old boy dead. OK, first, to you protesting imbeciles and the emptyheads that incite you:
1. It's a CARTOON. Explain how it threatens the well-being of you and your family.
2. It's a CARTOON. Go make your own if it makes you feel better (like Iran for example... see below). Don't hurt things and people. If this were not a family-oriented blog, I would direct terribly bad language your way right now.
3. It's a CARTOON. Get over it.
In the spirit of non-violence, I would be happy to see run over by a steamroller each and every one of the idiots who thinks it's noble and worthwhile to run around a developing country burning things, injuring people and destroying lives to show displeasure at - well, at ANYTHING. I don't care how illiterate, parochial, disadvantaged, downtrodden or attacked-by-the-West you are. God gave you a brain. And a heart. Use them.
That being said, I am interested to see international reaction to the latest competition no doubt capturing the imagination of the nation of Iran: The Holocaust Cartoon Contest
Rather a sick idea, but then, to many, so is the idea of a cartoon of Muhammad (pbuh) with a turban bomb. Once again though, sticks and stones etc etc.
Couple of interesting (well, I think they're interesting, so you're going to hear about them) situations developing in the world international relations-wise:
1. Iran seems to be taking a massive gander at calling the United States' bluff on the whole "we're-going-to-invade-and-occupy-you" issue. Restarting their nuclear reactors, poking fun at Israel, telling Condi to "shut up." They're really asking for it, eh? And that Ahmedinejad fellow is stark raving mad too, it seems. The way I see it now, the US (ie the Republican Admin. featuring Prince of Darkness and Secret Sniper Dick Cheney) loses face and credibility now if it DOESN'T invade.
2. Poor Denmark. I mean, the neutral, friendly country having its flag burned all over the place. Danes welcomed everywhere now having to hide their nationality. All because of a cartoonist. You never know where the next kick in the groin is coming from, do you? Personally, I find it quite amusing, in a haha-you-were-loved-but-now-you're-not kind of way.
12:30:45; Dane: I'm from Denmark, everybody loves me, lalalalala *happy music*
12:30:46; Jyllands-Posten publishes a cartoon
12:30:47; Dane: Auuuuugh! You want to KILL me!! But I'm from Denmark! DENMARK!! Why???
Talk about crashing a party you thanked your lucky stars you weren't invited to... or something.
I think Ann Coulter is a moron. I also think she's actually a man, but that's another discussion for another time and another place. After roughly a year of reading his/her columns, today, for the first time, I actually came across a paragraph by him/her that I would not necessarily use to wipe a dog's behind... not that I wipe dog's behinds... on a regular basis. Anyway, the paragraph goes so:
"In order to express their displeasure with the idea that Muslims are violent, thousands of Muslims around the world engaged in rioting, arson, mob savagery, flag-burning, murder and mayhem, among other peaceful acts of nonviolence."
Which is pretty much what happened in the Middle East and Asia when that poor Danish newspaper, Jyllands-Posten decided to publish a couple of cartoons kind of poking fun at the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh). (For the record, pbuh = peace be upon him, and why pbuh? Because I certainly hope so.)
The latest rampage has been a series of idiotic attacks and protests in my own country... *sigh* which left 3 people, including an 8 year old boy dead. OK, first, to you protesting imbeciles and the emptyheads that incite you:
1. It's a CARTOON. Explain how it threatens the well-being of you and your family.
2. It's a CARTOON. Go make your own if it makes you feel better (like Iran for example... see below). Don't hurt things and people. If this were not a family-oriented blog, I would direct terribly bad language your way right now.
3. It's a CARTOON. Get over it.
In the spirit of non-violence, I would be happy to see run over by a steamroller each and every one of the idiots who thinks it's noble and worthwhile to run around a developing country burning things, injuring people and destroying lives to show displeasure at - well, at ANYTHING. I don't care how illiterate, parochial, disadvantaged, downtrodden or attacked-by-the-West you are. God gave you a brain. And a heart. Use them.
That being said, I am interested to see international reaction to the latest competition no doubt capturing the imagination of the nation of Iran: The Holocaust Cartoon Contest
Rather a sick idea, but then, to many, so is the idea of a cartoon of Muhammad (pbuh) with a turban bomb. Once again though, sticks and stones etc etc.
Couple of interesting (well, I think they're interesting, so you're going to hear about them) situations developing in the world international relations-wise:
1. Iran seems to be taking a massive gander at calling the United States' bluff on the whole "we're-going-to-invade-and-occupy-you" issue. Restarting their nuclear reactors, poking fun at Israel, telling Condi to "shut up." They're really asking for it, eh? And that Ahmedinejad fellow is stark raving mad too, it seems. The way I see it now, the US (ie the Republican Admin. featuring Prince of Darkness and Secret Sniper Dick Cheney) loses face and credibility now if it DOESN'T invade.
2. Poor Denmark. I mean, the neutral, friendly country having its flag burned all over the place. Danes welcomed everywhere now having to hide their nationality. All because of a cartoonist. You never know where the next kick in the groin is coming from, do you? Personally, I find it quite amusing, in a haha-you-were-loved-but-now-you're-not kind of way.
12:30:45; Dane: I'm from Denmark, everybody loves me, lalalalala *happy music*
12:30:46; Jyllands-Posten publishes a cartoon
12:30:47; Dane: Auuuuugh! You want to KILL me!! But I'm from Denmark! DENMARK!! Why???
Talk about crashing a party you thanked your lucky stars you weren't invited to... or something.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Important News this Saturday...
This morning, the headline of the article topmost in the little Yahoo! News box on my homepage:
Doctors Remove Part of Sharon's Intestines
Is the partial removal of an 80 year old Israeli's bowel system really the most important news in the world this Saturday morning?
This is a bad sign for us all. What's next? Will we read a stunning expose on Netanyahu's impotence? Maybe Shimon Peres has hives?
Doctors Remove Part of Sharon's Intestines
Is the partial removal of an 80 year old Israeli's bowel system really the most important news in the world this Saturday morning?
This is a bad sign for us all. What's next? Will we read a stunning expose on Netanyahu's impotence? Maybe Shimon Peres has hives?
Monday, February 06, 2006
Shocking Pink Curtains
So I send my parents emails from time to time; I try to send at least 3 or 4 every week. The parents write back as often as electricity and our internet service providers allow. My mother is effectively the spokesparent. My dad emails occasionally, the most notable missive from him being the email he sent to tell me to not get my ear pierced after I had sent home an email (WITH attached photograph) telling them I had ALREADY got it done...
Anyway, I look forward to these emails from my mother as they usually contain news of stuff from back home that I used to be involved in - mass murder, violent protests and such and such... no, not really... though that would make me an altogether more interesting person... and probably a more entertaining blogger. Maybe when I go home this Summer...
What dear mother's emails ACTUALLY contain are little tid bits about life in K-Town, KYC, KHI (for you airport code types). Road closures, sweepress absent for four days straight, new restaurant opening, old ladies falling off cliffs... you know.
So we moved into a new house a year and a half ago, and since it's a big house (and we're little people), we're still in the process of "finishing" it. Not all the rooms have tables, carpets (and in some cases, floors) yet. I get messages every week about progress made; kitchen light finally working, new side table, plants in the garden etc etc. And its nice. I usually make note of the small enhancements to our abode and store them in my mind (from where they inevitably disappear somehow... head like a hole).
So the latest small enhancement is curtains for yours truly's bedroom. Normally, knowledge that my room was getting curtains would be a source of joy to me... but in this case, I'm not sure what to think. I have reproduced for you (completely unedited) the line from my mother's latest email that informs us of this impending addition:
"ordered curtains for ur room [ hope ull like ..shocking pink ..muhahaha]...now looking for blinds for f s room and cellar"
*sigh*
Notice first of all that my brother (F happens to be my brother) gets BLINDS - nice twisty blinds that are convenient to open and close. Also notice that even our CELLAR is worthy of blinds, but I'm having bulky, clothy, un-twist-and-open-able curtains foisted on me. Not too big of a deal. But still, gripe-able.
Second, they're SHOCKING PINK. Now you may laugh this off as a joke but I wouldn't put it past my dear mother to actually do something like that... "But son, they create such a lovely contrast with your grey-blue marble floor" or "Son, I thought you'd appreciate them given your long hair and earring" or "No boy has shocking pink curtains in his room; don't you want to be different?"
"hope ull like" she says. NO I WONT LIKE.
So how many mothers out there actually use the evil laugh (muahaha) on THEIR OWN OFFSPRING?? How horrible is that?? I didn't think it was possible, even in jest (maybe I'm naiive?)... then today happened...
"What's for dinner mom?"
"Broccoli and cabbage... muhahaha"
"Can I go out and play?"
"Only after you clean your room... muahahahaha"
"What color curtains are you getting for me, your 24-soon-to-be-25 year old son?"
"Shocking pink... hope ull like... muhahaha"
The orb of security that enveloped me when my mother was near (in spirit even, if not in person) to nurture and protect me has now been shattered. I am alone, cold and defenseless. Orbless mishaps in a cruel world by day. Shocking pink curtains in my nightmares. Muhahaha.
Childhood is over.
Anyway, I look forward to these emails from my mother as they usually contain news of stuff from back home that I used to be involved in - mass murder, violent protests and such and such... no, not really... though that would make me an altogether more interesting person... and probably a more entertaining blogger. Maybe when I go home this Summer...
What dear mother's emails ACTUALLY contain are little tid bits about life in K-Town, KYC, KHI (for you airport code types). Road closures, sweepress absent for four days straight, new restaurant opening, old ladies falling off cliffs... you know.
So we moved into a new house a year and a half ago, and since it's a big house (and we're little people), we're still in the process of "finishing" it. Not all the rooms have tables, carpets (and in some cases, floors) yet. I get messages every week about progress made; kitchen light finally working, new side table, plants in the garden etc etc. And its nice. I usually make note of the small enhancements to our abode and store them in my mind (from where they inevitably disappear somehow... head like a hole).
So the latest small enhancement is curtains for yours truly's bedroom. Normally, knowledge that my room was getting curtains would be a source of joy to me... but in this case, I'm not sure what to think. I have reproduced for you (completely unedited) the line from my mother's latest email that informs us of this impending addition:
"ordered curtains for ur room [ hope ull like ..shocking pink ..muhahaha]...now looking for blinds for f s room and cellar"
*sigh*
Notice first of all that my brother (F happens to be my brother) gets BLINDS - nice twisty blinds that are convenient to open and close. Also notice that even our CELLAR is worthy of blinds, but I'm having bulky, clothy, un-twist-and-open-able curtains foisted on me. Not too big of a deal. But still, gripe-able.
Second, they're SHOCKING PINK. Now you may laugh this off as a joke but I wouldn't put it past my dear mother to actually do something like that... "But son, they create such a lovely contrast with your grey-blue marble floor" or "Son, I thought you'd appreciate them given your long hair and earring" or "No boy has shocking pink curtains in his room; don't you want to be different?"
"hope ull like" she says. NO I WONT LIKE.
So how many mothers out there actually use the evil laugh (muahaha) on THEIR OWN OFFSPRING?? How horrible is that?? I didn't think it was possible, even in jest (maybe I'm naiive?)... then today happened...
"What's for dinner mom?"
"Broccoli and cabbage... muhahaha"
"Can I go out and play?"
"Only after you clean your room... muahahahaha"
"What color curtains are you getting for me, your 24-soon-to-be-25 year old son?"
"Shocking pink... hope ull like... muhahaha"
The orb of security that enveloped me when my mother was near (in spirit even, if not in person) to nurture and protect me has now been shattered. I am alone, cold and defenseless. Orbless mishaps in a cruel world by day. Shocking pink curtains in my nightmares. Muhahaha.
Childhood is over.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Rap Song - Enemies Anemones
So I've decided to write a rap song... I downloaded a bunch of freestyle beats last night and am seriously considering a couple of them. I need to work on my lyrics though... I came up with a great line when I was in the shower yesterday (Hey, it worked for Archimedes, didn't it?) but I haven't quite managed to construct a rap around it:
I ain't got no enemies
But I got anemones
In a fishbowl
Now I wasn't sure about the pronunciation of the word "anemone" because
a) I distinctly remember calling it an "an-eh-moan" when I was five or six years old.
b) Sure they say "ah-ne-money" in Finding Nemo but can you really trust a cartoon?
Tif confirmed that Finding Nemo is in fact a reliable source for the pronunciation of otherwise obscure marine-type words. We also had a spirited discussion (well, it lasted about 5 seconds, but it was productive) on the suitability of the word "tank" as compared to the word "bowl" as the last word in the line. Bowl was agreed upon.
Now all that remains is the rest of the song... I'm considering playing around with the line I already have... maybe give it more of a street feel:
I got no homies, only street enemies
I got no street anemones
In my sixteen dollar hotel room
Yeah Yeah... Uh Huh... Yeah Yeah...
Thas Riiight Daaawg
In my sixteen dollar hotel room
Or a Cowboy rap:
My enemies left me without saying goodbye
Anemones have left me; they took my good guitar
My fish bowl has left me; I'm a hungry, lonely, thirsty man
*insert mournful harmonica*
Maybe a boy band rap:
Baybeee, I got no enemies just your heart
Baybeee, I got anemones just like your heart
In my broken fish bowl just like my heart
Oh baybeee, I don't have the heart to break your heart
The way you broke my fishbowl...
OK, never mind.
I ain't got no enemies
But I got anemones
In a fishbowl
Now I wasn't sure about the pronunciation of the word "anemone" because
a) I distinctly remember calling it an "an-eh-moan" when I was five or six years old.
b) Sure they say "ah-ne-money" in Finding Nemo but can you really trust a cartoon?
Tif confirmed that Finding Nemo is in fact a reliable source for the pronunciation of otherwise obscure marine-type words. We also had a spirited discussion (well, it lasted about 5 seconds, but it was productive) on the suitability of the word "tank" as compared to the word "bowl" as the last word in the line. Bowl was agreed upon.
Now all that remains is the rest of the song... I'm considering playing around with the line I already have... maybe give it more of a street feel:
I got no homies, only street enemies
I got no street anemones
In my sixteen dollar hotel room
Yeah Yeah... Uh Huh... Yeah Yeah...
Thas Riiight Daaawg
In my sixteen dollar hotel room
Or a Cowboy rap:
My enemies left me without saying goodbye
Anemones have left me; they took my good guitar
My fish bowl has left me; I'm a hungry, lonely, thirsty man
*insert mournful harmonica*
Maybe a boy band rap:
Baybeee, I got no enemies just your heart
Baybeee, I got anemones just like your heart
In my broken fish bowl just like my heart
Oh baybeee, I don't have the heart to break your heart
The way you broke my fishbowl...
OK, never mind.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Sunday, January 15, 2006
CIA, Pakistan, Anger
A few words about the CIA attack on the village of Damadola in Pakistan:
1. What a stupid thing to do. Remember Jean Charles de Menezes? The Brazilian fellow who was murdered on the London Underground? Yeah, well this is that all over again. But is anyone going to mourn 17 invisible, unimportant Pakistani village children, their mothers and fathers? No. Because we're too busy drinking oil and watching the latest installment of American Idol. Please. 12 West Virginia coal miners die in a freak accident and there are inquests and memorials. 17 Pakistani villagers are murdered due to misinformation and *cough cough* oops? Each loss of life is tragic, but you wouldn't know it in the world we live in.
2. If the CIA did carry out the attack, why didn't they cover it the HELL up? Pakistan is in enough trouble as it is. The last thing we need is a wanton (and well publicized) violation of our airspace and sovereignty in this manner. Obviously some pompous jackass safe and sound in a bunker miles underground (anyone seen Dick Cheney lately?) wanted credit for this action and leaked the story to the media. "Hey, we just sent jets 50 miles into Pakistani territory to blow some innocent villagers to smithereens!! But say we got Al Zawahiri... you know... to make it seem legit. And give the CIA credit... we rule!" Now the Pakistani government will be under fire from the domestic, hell-bound, bearded ones and many other more reasonable people. I mean, are we a sovereign nation or aren't we?
3. So why couldn't the Pakistan Air Force carry out the attack, if it was so completely necessary to have one? Last time I checked, we had planes. And pilots. And our President seems to enjoy being W's blue eyed boy. So much for "friends" and "allies."
4. If you happen to be American, I'm sure this is all worlds away for you; impoverished Pakistani villagers? Sixteen of them? Seventeen? Who cares? But, any day, some hotshot pilot could get "confirmed and accurate information" that Osama bin Laden is hanging out just chillin' in my parents backyard. (Why he would do that, I do not know. Anyone who's been to my place knows all the green grass and pretty flowers are in the front.) And that scares me. Because the pawn on the plane will do what he's told to do. And governments will deny all knowledge. And then the Pakistani government will "file a protest." What bloody good does "filing a protest" do anyway? "Here. Piece of paper saying we're kind of mad. OK, I feel better now."
My only real comfort is that God is watching. Sometimes I wish He were more Republican... you know, preemptive and irrationally angry; He could smite F-16s from the sky when He sees them flying on missions supported by flimsy, plain wrong or non-existent evidence. That would make me happy. It'd be like the Bermuda Triangle... The Bermuda Earth... featuring God... the Omnipresent, Omniscient Smiter of Errant F-16s (and Other Flying Objects). Now there's a good reality show for you. None of that "Skating with Celebrities" crap we're going to have inflicted on us later this month.
1. What a stupid thing to do. Remember Jean Charles de Menezes? The Brazilian fellow who was murdered on the London Underground? Yeah, well this is that all over again. But is anyone going to mourn 17 invisible, unimportant Pakistani village children, their mothers and fathers? No. Because we're too busy drinking oil and watching the latest installment of American Idol. Please. 12 West Virginia coal miners die in a freak accident and there are inquests and memorials. 17 Pakistani villagers are murdered due to misinformation and *cough cough* oops? Each loss of life is tragic, but you wouldn't know it in the world we live in.
2. If the CIA did carry out the attack, why didn't they cover it the HELL up? Pakistan is in enough trouble as it is. The last thing we need is a wanton (and well publicized) violation of our airspace and sovereignty in this manner. Obviously some pompous jackass safe and sound in a bunker miles underground (anyone seen Dick Cheney lately?) wanted credit for this action and leaked the story to the media. "Hey, we just sent jets 50 miles into Pakistani territory to blow some innocent villagers to smithereens!! But say we got Al Zawahiri... you know... to make it seem legit. And give the CIA credit... we rule!" Now the Pakistani government will be under fire from the domestic, hell-bound, bearded ones and many other more reasonable people. I mean, are we a sovereign nation or aren't we?
3. So why couldn't the Pakistan Air Force carry out the attack, if it was so completely necessary to have one? Last time I checked, we had planes. And pilots. And our President seems to enjoy being W's blue eyed boy. So much for "friends" and "allies."
4. If you happen to be American, I'm sure this is all worlds away for you; impoverished Pakistani villagers? Sixteen of them? Seventeen? Who cares? But, any day, some hotshot pilot could get "confirmed and accurate information" that Osama bin Laden is hanging out just chillin' in my parents backyard. (Why he would do that, I do not know. Anyone who's been to my place knows all the green grass and pretty flowers are in the front.) And that scares me. Because the pawn on the plane will do what he's told to do. And governments will deny all knowledge. And then the Pakistani government will "file a protest." What bloody good does "filing a protest" do anyway? "Here. Piece of paper saying we're kind of mad. OK, I feel better now."
My only real comfort is that God is watching. Sometimes I wish He were more Republican... you know, preemptive and irrationally angry; He could smite F-16s from the sky when He sees them flying on missions supported by flimsy, plain wrong or non-existent evidence. That would make me happy. It'd be like the Bermuda Triangle... The Bermuda Earth... featuring God... the Omnipresent, Omniscient Smiter of Errant F-16s (and Other Flying Objects). Now there's a good reality show for you. None of that "Skating with Celebrities" crap we're going to have inflicted on us later this month.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Airports, Parents, California
So a lot has happened since my last post, one of those things being a lot of not posting. I'll try to get you up to speed with a few choice snippets.
I flew to Los Angeles and back with my brother over the Christmas holidays. Keep in mind this meant we were on no less than FOUR airliners operating in United States airspace in about a 14 day period; two long haired Pakistani Muslim (or so they like to think) males (or so they like to think) of around the age where they go through the I-wanna-blow-myself-up stage. We were stopped for extra security checks (you know shoes off, socks smelly, why is your underwear dirty type of searching) not once, not twice, but ZERO freakin times. I felt like walking back to the TSA people and saying, "Hey. We're Muslim. We're brothers. We have John Walker Lindh hairstyles. We're flying on the SAME PLANE. Aren't you going to probe us or something?"
The funny thing is I always get stopped when I fly alone. Hell, my harmless (I mean, they even LOOK harmless) parents were stopped and searched every flight when they visited me in May (I don't know what happened on their visit last month). Apparently my brother has this weird disarming quality that affects only officials of the government of the United States of America. Remember when the U.S. Embassy decided he wasn't even enough of a threat to be fingerprinted?
Anyway, this incident leads me to believe that either
a) The United States government does not actively indulge in racial and ethnic profiling, or
b) The United States government actively indulges in racial and ethnic profiling, and SUCKS at it.
So, as I mentioned parenthetically above, my parents visited again this December. This time it was just to "be near the boys" since they couldn't come up with a good reason for spending 12 days in freaking DAYTON OHIO. Yes.
2 return tickets to the United States: $4000 (or thereabouts)
Cost of hotel room for two weeks: $500 (we got a good deal)
Total public bus fare over the two weeks: $20 (fearless explorers are my parents)
Getting to "be near the boys" in Dayton, Ohio: PRICELESS
Does not compute.
California was fun. Some highlights:
1. I'm 99.99% certain I saw a cross-dressing transvestite (is that possible?) prostitute on the Los Angeles metro this one day. Just sharing a subway car with that him/her made me want to take a shower. ALONE. To get myself CLEAN. He/she was going to North Hollywood. I know this not because I followed him/her, but because he/she did not get off at Hollywood and Vine, which was the second to last stop for the Red Line, which was where I escaped from the train. Lesson #1: Stay away from North Hollywood.
2. My brother and I took this "Homes of the Stars" tour; Mulholland Drive, Beverly Hills and such and such. My overall impression of the tour was, "God, stupid rich people spend a lot of money to live near each other in cramped, crappy houses on steep hills with narrow winding roads." Maybe when I'm rich and stupid, I'll do that too. Our tour guide was Scottish though. That was fun. Nothing quite like touring Hollywood with a Scotsman. I mean, it makes things so authentic!
3. So my uncle and aunt (in California, this is where we stayed) got this weird idea that my brother and I were missing Ohio. So they took us to Palm Springs for a day where the temperature was TWENTY DEGREES (- 8 or so for you centigrade types) and the wind was BRISK and MURDEROUS. I don't really know what they were thinking... "You know, it's been forever since we've been pointlessly unkind to our sons and our house guests..."
4. On the return journey, McDonalds at LAX tried to sell me a parfait for $3.25! if I weren't so addicted to them, I'd quit eating the dollar parfaits here in Dayton in protest. My protests never really work out anyway. I'm back to using UDF for milk and ice cream and such as well. *sigh*
I just realized I listed seeing a cross-dressing prostitute as one of the "highlights" of my visit to California... I must need help.
I flew to Los Angeles and back with my brother over the Christmas holidays. Keep in mind this meant we were on no less than FOUR airliners operating in United States airspace in about a 14 day period; two long haired Pakistani Muslim (or so they like to think) males (or so they like to think) of around the age where they go through the I-wanna-blow-myself-up stage. We were stopped for extra security checks (you know shoes off, socks smelly, why is your underwear dirty type of searching) not once, not twice, but ZERO freakin times. I felt like walking back to the TSA people and saying, "Hey. We're Muslim. We're brothers. We have John Walker Lindh hairstyles. We're flying on the SAME PLANE. Aren't you going to probe us or something?"
The funny thing is I always get stopped when I fly alone. Hell, my harmless (I mean, they even LOOK harmless) parents were stopped and searched every flight when they visited me in May (I don't know what happened on their visit last month). Apparently my brother has this weird disarming quality that affects only officials of the government of the United States of America. Remember when the U.S. Embassy decided he wasn't even enough of a threat to be fingerprinted?
Anyway, this incident leads me to believe that either
a) The United States government does not actively indulge in racial and ethnic profiling, or
b) The United States government actively indulges in racial and ethnic profiling, and SUCKS at it.
So, as I mentioned parenthetically above, my parents visited again this December. This time it was just to "be near the boys" since they couldn't come up with a good reason for spending 12 days in freaking DAYTON OHIO. Yes.
2 return tickets to the United States: $4000 (or thereabouts)
Cost of hotel room for two weeks: $500 (we got a good deal)
Total public bus fare over the two weeks: $20 (fearless explorers are my parents)
Getting to "be near the boys" in Dayton, Ohio: PRICELESS
Does not compute.
California was fun. Some highlights:
1. I'm 99.99% certain I saw a cross-dressing transvestite (is that possible?) prostitute on the Los Angeles metro this one day. Just sharing a subway car with that him/her made me want to take a shower. ALONE. To get myself CLEAN. He/she was going to North Hollywood. I know this not because I followed him/her, but because he/she did not get off at Hollywood and Vine, which was the second to last stop for the Red Line, which was where I escaped from the train. Lesson #1: Stay away from North Hollywood.
2. My brother and I took this "Homes of the Stars" tour; Mulholland Drive, Beverly Hills and such and such. My overall impression of the tour was, "God, stupid rich people spend a lot of money to live near each other in cramped, crappy houses on steep hills with narrow winding roads." Maybe when I'm rich and stupid, I'll do that too. Our tour guide was Scottish though. That was fun. Nothing quite like touring Hollywood with a Scotsman. I mean, it makes things so authentic!
3. So my uncle and aunt (in California, this is where we stayed) got this weird idea that my brother and I were missing Ohio. So they took us to Palm Springs for a day where the temperature was TWENTY DEGREES (- 8 or so for you centigrade types) and the wind was BRISK and MURDEROUS. I don't really know what they were thinking... "You know, it's been forever since we've been pointlessly unkind to our sons and our house guests..."
4. On the return journey, McDonalds at LAX tried to sell me a parfait for $3.25! if I weren't so addicted to them, I'd quit eating the dollar parfaits here in Dayton in protest. My protests never really work out anyway. I'm back to using UDF for milk and ice cream and such as well. *sigh*
I just realized I listed seeing a cross-dressing prostitute as one of the "highlights" of my visit to California... I must need help.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Touchdowns in the Bathroom
Yeah, so I'm still waiting on the church posting. Stupid life keeps happening, and I have to keep doing stuff to stop it. You know how it goes.
Anyway, today I'm introducing a whole new genre to my already widely varied bloggery: Pottyology. I'm almost certain I'm going to look back on this posting with regret and delete it at some point in the future so enjoy it while you can. It's just that I had one of those Eureka moments yesterday, and I feel the need to share it with my loyal readership which, including my mother is now at, I believe, one.
So yesterday I was answering the call of nature (For those of you unfamiliar with the call of nature, it sounds something like "Rumble rumble, nowhere to go but down and out"... gosh, I'm disgusting.) and I realized that I never left the restroom without converting my "touchdown" (or "try" for you rugby types) as it were.
OK, I'm going to try to explain this without making you throw up. Every time you score a "touchdown" or a "try" you get "more points" because it was for a "longer play" that required “considerable effort.” Then you try to tack on another couple by "converting," for which you get "less points" because it's a "shorter" play requiring "less effort." Now, if you haven't already done so, put on your thinking cap (or bowler hat… haha… Sorry) and convert this to bathroom terminology. Make sense? If not, you're too old to be reading this and you're going to be dead soon so it doesn't matter anyway.
Now my nature answering habits may differ from yours but, personally, there is nothing more unsatisfying than an unconverted touchdown. You're left sitting there wondering what happened to it... has there been a "delay of game"? Why are there no "penalty flags"? No way in hell they're overturning this one...
Once again, I apologize.
Anyway, today I'm introducing a whole new genre to my already widely varied bloggery: Pottyology. I'm almost certain I'm going to look back on this posting with regret and delete it at some point in the future so enjoy it while you can. It's just that I had one of those Eureka moments yesterday, and I feel the need to share it with my loyal readership which, including my mother is now at, I believe, one.
So yesterday I was answering the call of nature (For those of you unfamiliar with the call of nature, it sounds something like "Rumble rumble, nowhere to go but down and out"... gosh, I'm disgusting.) and I realized that I never left the restroom without converting my "touchdown" (or "try" for you rugby types) as it were.
OK, I'm going to try to explain this without making you throw up. Every time you score a "touchdown" or a "try" you get "more points" because it was for a "longer play" that required “considerable effort.” Then you try to tack on another couple by "converting," for which you get "less points" because it's a "shorter" play requiring "less effort." Now, if you haven't already done so, put on your thinking cap (or bowler hat… haha… Sorry) and convert this to bathroom terminology. Make sense? If not, you're too old to be reading this and you're going to be dead soon so it doesn't matter anyway.
Now my nature answering habits may differ from yours but, personally, there is nothing more unsatisfying than an unconverted touchdown. You're left sitting there wondering what happened to it... has there been a "delay of game"? Why are there no "penalty flags"? No way in hell they're overturning this one...
Once again, I apologize.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Campus Jihad for Christ
So this morning I went to the Apex Church in Kettering because Rachel told me about a Muslim who converted to Christianity who would be speaking and she figured I might be interested. What actually sparked this invitation was an ongoing conversation she and I have been having about the college campus Christian groups that call themselves "Campus Crusade for Christ." Now these groups are generally filled with really nice people (such as Rachel, and the aptly named, and very manly, Michael Trinity) and I have no problems whatsoever with their characters, activities and taste in cheese. But, to a Muslim (or someone who likes to think he is a Muslim i.e. me) the name “Campus Crusade for Christ” reverberates the way the name "Campus Jihad for Muhammad" would reverberate in a Christian brain. That is, somewhat uncomfortable-making-you-feelingly.
Anyway, I suggested to Rachel that her group might be better off if they changed their name to "Campus Jihad for Christ" for the following reasons:
1. A Crusade means, according to dictionary.com and Yahoo! Reference:
a. Any of the military expeditions undertaken by European Christians in the 11th, 12th, and 13th centuries to recover the Holy Land from the Muslims.
b. A holy war undertaken with papal sanction.
c. A vigorous concerted movement for a cause or against an abuse.
Notice that the two primary definitions involve war, hence giving the word a somewhat threatening aura... aura? Well, you know what I'm trying to say. Anyway, short version: Crusade = War
2. The meanings of the word Jihad (if you speak to a rational Muslims and not one of those crackpots who likes killing white folk) are as follows, in order of relevance and importance:
a. Struggle with one’s self to overcome temptation, improve one’s self and be a better servant of God.
b. Struggle to convince others of the truth of one's path and guide them that way if they are so inclined.
c. Defending one’s self against aggression on the part of an enemy.
(Seriously, this is the last time I am using “one’s self” in my writing.)
Anyway, yes, the tertiary definition is all about war (a defensive war, but war nevertheless). But the primary and secondary definitions are not. Jihad of the Mind and Jihad of the Pen are given more importance in Islam (at least the Islam I have been taught) than Jihad of the Sword is.
Now, what I think my friends in these Christian groups (Campus Crusade, Switchfoot, The Mel Gibson Fan Club etc) are trying to do is
a. improve themselves (Jihad)
b. share their faith with others (Jihad)
c. not declare war on the infidels (not Crusade)
So the Crusade word thing in their name thing just doesn't make sense thing. I encouraged Rachel to start a nationwide movement to have the name changed to Campus Jihad for Christ but I haven't seen colorful fliers or prime time television commercials yet so she still has a ways to go. Don't worry Rach, you'll get there.
OK, so the whole Crusade/Jihad thing was totally not supposed to be this long. I'm going to have to write about my exciting Church experience in another post.
Anyway, I suggested to Rachel that her group might be better off if they changed their name to "Campus Jihad for Christ" for the following reasons:
1. A Crusade means, according to dictionary.com and Yahoo! Reference:
a. Any of the military expeditions undertaken by European Christians in the 11th, 12th, and 13th centuries to recover the Holy Land from the Muslims.
b. A holy war undertaken with papal sanction.
c. A vigorous concerted movement for a cause or against an abuse.
Notice that the two primary definitions involve war, hence giving the word a somewhat threatening aura... aura? Well, you know what I'm trying to say. Anyway, short version: Crusade = War
2. The meanings of the word Jihad (if you speak to a rational Muslims and not one of those crackpots who likes killing white folk) are as follows, in order of relevance and importance:
a. Struggle with one’s self to overcome temptation, improve one’s self and be a better servant of God.
b. Struggle to convince others of the truth of one's path and guide them that way if they are so inclined.
c. Defending one’s self against aggression on the part of an enemy.
(Seriously, this is the last time I am using “one’s self” in my writing.)
Anyway, yes, the tertiary definition is all about war (a defensive war, but war nevertheless). But the primary and secondary definitions are not. Jihad of the Mind and Jihad of the Pen are given more importance in Islam (at least the Islam I have been taught) than Jihad of the Sword is.
Now, what I think my friends in these Christian groups (Campus Crusade, Switchfoot, The Mel Gibson Fan Club etc) are trying to do is
a. improve themselves (Jihad)
b. share their faith with others (Jihad)
c. not declare war on the infidels (not Crusade)
So the Crusade word thing in their name thing just doesn't make sense thing. I encouraged Rachel to start a nationwide movement to have the name changed to Campus Jihad for Christ but I haven't seen colorful fliers or prime time television commercials yet so she still has a ways to go. Don't worry Rach, you'll get there.
OK, so the whole Crusade/Jihad thing was totally not supposed to be this long. I'm going to have to write about my exciting Church experience in another post.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Al Franken is Boring
You know what? Al Franken is boring. That's why people turn their radio dials over to Rush between noon and 3 every weekday. Yes, Rush is 86.4% more lies than Franken is. But at least he's entertaining. For the record, Franken has a FLING (Fabricatin' Like Its Nineteen... Gosh-we're-already-in-the-21st-century) Index of 0.5 - which means I'm willing to believe half of what he says... at least half of what I manage to keep myself awake for. Seriously, listen to his show. He has that deep droning voice, thinks too much before he says anything (which is a bad thing on the radio) and basically plods through segments like a wildebeest with a hangover.
Anyway, based on my half-arsed mathematics and the FLING Matrix, we find that Rush Limbaugh has a FLING Ratio of 0.932, which effectively means that the only time he isn't lying is when he says "ummmm," "hemmmm," haawww," "folks" or "we'll be right back after this."
My posts are becoming more and more one dimensional. Stupid politics. I hereby solemnly swear that my next post will be on a subject completely different. Something like socks. Or polar bears with dysentry.
Anyway, based on my half-arsed mathematics and the FLING Matrix, we find that Rush Limbaugh has a FLING Ratio of 0.932, which effectively means that the only time he isn't lying is when he says "ummmm," "hemmmm," haawww," "folks" or "we'll be right back after this."
My posts are becoming more and more one dimensional. Stupid politics. I hereby solemnly swear that my next post will be on a subject completely different. Something like socks. Or polar bears with dysentry.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Right v Left v... Where's the Third Party Dammit?
Yes, long absence.
So the extreme right in America makes me laugh for the following reasons:
1. They won't give Harriet Miers due process but they demands it for Sam Alito. Oh, and George W. Bush has the right to nominate whoever he wants for the Supreme Court... as long as they agree with the pick. Otherwise God help him. But not really. Because God only loves true conservatives.
2. It's not OK to kill unborn children on purpose, but it's perfectly fine if their loss is collateral damage in war.
3. It's OK to talk of "Crusades" and "Jesus" but God Forbid you mention "Jihad" and "Allah" in the same context.
4. It's more important to point out why the left is wrong rather than why they are right (right as in correct, not right as in conservative).
5. They think they're mainstream America. Gosh, I'd be dead/deported/Gitmo'ed/something-else-that's-really terrible if they were.
Irrational, temperamental, self-centered... it's like watching a bunch of three year olds fighting over cake.
So the extreme left makes me laugh... well, cry for the following reasons:
1. They're pathetic.
2. They have no plan.
3. They have no direction.
4. They have no stance.
5. They have nothing.
And the centrists make me scratch my head and wonder why it's necessary for them to align with one set of kooks or the other. What a waste of intelligence.
McCain-Powell 2008. You heard it first here. In my dreams.
Notice I rarely back up my opinons with solid facts. This is because:
1. I don't really have the time to fact-check and cite and source and all that jazz.
2. This is MY HOUSE. I say what I want!
So the extreme right in America makes me laugh for the following reasons:
1. They won't give Harriet Miers due process but they demands it for Sam Alito. Oh, and George W. Bush has the right to nominate whoever he wants for the Supreme Court... as long as they agree with the pick. Otherwise God help him. But not really. Because God only loves true conservatives.
2. It's not OK to kill unborn children on purpose, but it's perfectly fine if their loss is collateral damage in war.
3. It's OK to talk of "Crusades" and "Jesus" but God Forbid you mention "Jihad" and "Allah" in the same context.
4. It's more important to point out why the left is wrong rather than why they are right (right as in correct, not right as in conservative).
5. They think they're mainstream America. Gosh, I'd be dead/deported/Gitmo'ed/something-else-that's-really terrible if they were.
Irrational, temperamental, self-centered... it's like watching a bunch of three year olds fighting over cake.
So the extreme left makes me laugh... well, cry for the following reasons:
1. They're pathetic.
2. They have no plan.
3. They have no direction.
4. They have no stance.
5. They have nothing.
And the centrists make me scratch my head and wonder why it's necessary for them to align with one set of kooks or the other. What a waste of intelligence.
McCain-Powell 2008. You heard it first here. In my dreams.
Notice I rarely back up my opinons with solid facts. This is because:
1. I don't really have the time to fact-check and cite and source and all that jazz.
2. This is MY HOUSE. I say what I want!
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