Be is for Brixton

So the blogword is “Be.” And Be is for Brixton, an area of South London, part of the London Borough of Lambeth. It is bordered by Stockwell, Kennington, Camberwell, Tulse Hill and Herne Hill. But that’s all beside the point.

And what was I doing in Brixton, you might ask (and rightly so). Well, I was NOT buying black market arms and ammunition. The brother and I were attempting to rendezvous with old school friend Adnan (drummer boy formerly of Aaroh fame, for those that know and care) who I hadn’t seen in almost 7 years. He was doing the education thing in London, kind of like how I’m doing the education thing in Columbus, except his education thing was more English, being in England and all.

Anyway, cutting to the chase, we were supposed to meet Adnan at 12 noon, but Einstein had both his phones off so the brother and I chilled at Brixton Station for a while, trying not to get mugged, then we tubed it to Victoria Station where we chilled some more. It was beginning to look like a day of solitary chilling when Adnan finally answered his phone. At 2 pm, we headed back to Brixton. From there was had to catch a bus to High Towers, which I kept calling Three Towers, to the confusion of our eventual bus driver. But that's also beside the point.

It was raining. I stood under the bus stop shelter no doubt kindly provided by the London Borough of Lambeth. The brother ventured into the nearby Woolworth’s to purchase a phone card. So there I was, outside, people walking around, quite a bubbling stretch of pavement. And it began.

This huge African-American… English-American… African-Englishman… black fellow – he was about 8 feet tall – came and stood right next to me. He was joined a few seconds later by another 8-footer on my other side. Was I about to be mugged? A "victim"? Did I smell bad? They were whispering “skunk skunk” under their breaths. But I had showered that same morning!!

Suddenly a crowd gathered around us… a shifty crowd… a crowd that was up to no good… a crowd of black, white and brown though. They whispered, “Five,” “Ten.” And the giants opened up their jackets to reveal bags upon bags of marijuana/weed/hash/grass/Mary Jane. Rapid transfers took place. Bags for cash. And I was so far in the middle of it – backpack and all – I couldn’t see anything but people and weed all around me.

This would be a great time for a raid by London's finest.

Panic.

Hasty exit from Circle of Illegal Substance Transactions.

Bus! Brother! Escape!

Adnan later told us “skunk” is the code word drug dealers in Brixton use to let potential buyers know they have the “goods” as it were. So I smelled just fine, thank you very much.

And I end with a short poem.

Be is for Brixton
We is for Weed
8 foot tall drug dealers
Have got what you need

Erm… or not? *nervous chuckle*

Iraq, Professors, Escalators, LOOSAR

I write (write = blogword of two weeks ago). About things. Such as:

I-raq, You-raq
In my post of August 2005, eloquently titled, “How to Win in Iraq & Afghanistan, or at least Stop Losing,” I said that the U.S. needed to substantially increase troop numbers in Iraq and Afghanistan to have any chance of “winning” the war. True to form, George W. and his psyche of a stubborn little 8-year-old are too little, too late to the party. It’s not looking good for Captain America. Even I don’t have any good ideas for him any more.

Business Professors
At the risk of sounding like a nerd (I suppose I can’t hide it forever), my professors at the Fisher College of Business are awesome. They know their stuff, and they’re pretty darn funny when they want to be.

“I am German so you need to be very precise. 17 decimal places.”
~ Our finance professor on being asked how many decimal places he wanted in our problem set answers. On seeing our jaws drop, he hastily said, “I’m joking. One or two is fine.”

“Yes, Adrienne, you are deep in Section 6 now.”
~ The same finance professor in response to Adrienne’s complicated question. We were barely into Section 2 at the time. (Subtle German accents in the previous two quotes increase the humor factor dramatically.)

“Those of you sitting at the back may never get a good look at my face so here’s what I look like in case you see me outside the classroom.”
~ Our decision modeling professor. At this point he put up a slide of Richard Gere. This professor also plays “Simply the Best” by Tina Turner on the class audio system when indicating the preferred (or "best") outcome of any optimization exercise.

“Does anyone have any questions? Does anyone care?”
~ Our accounting professor after explaining anything and everything.

Escalator Embarrassments
I was riding the "down" escalator in the London Underground. And the fellow on the stair in front of me was taller than I was despite the fact he was standing a full step (What is that? A foot?) lower than I was. I’ve never felt more 5 foot 8 in my life. *sigh*

Shoaib Akhtar
Once again, the pansy toed, brittle kneed, ugly headed waste of our national cricket team’s time goes down. Idiot has torn his hamstring. Let’s face it. He doesn’t take care of his fitness. He’s injury prone. He expects the board to foot all his bills. He isn’t a team player. And he’s NOT THAT GOOD. I hereby announce the formation of LOOSAR (that’s probably how he spells it too), Living-beings Outraged Over Shoaib Akhtar’s Ridiculousness. Our time is Now LOOSARs!! Who’s with me!!??

3 Anecdotes: Family in England

Here are some England stories... although they're not really England stories, as in with England as the focus, they did take place in England, so they should at least qualify.

Wales
We ended up in Wales for a brief jaunt while driving around the English countryside. There my father and his brother giggled like schoolboys while trying to read the Welsh road signs. Welsh is indeed an interesting language. They use consonants as freely as someone with a spastic colon uses bathrooms. My aunt, who happens to be English, summed it up best: "I understand more Urdu than I do flippin' Welsh," she said.

What’s in a Name?
One of my other aunts had a horrible time getting my name right. I'm inclined to blame this on her Anglicization. This is my AUNT after all (mother's cousin, not mother's or father's sister, but that shouldn't matter). She knew of my existence before I did. My name is Shahyan. Not so hard, right? Over the roughly 72 hours I was with her and her family, I was called every manner of name except Shahyan including, but not limited to: Farzan, Tariq, Ibrahim, Arman, Shannan, Rehan, Imran and, most mysterious of all, Shamaiyna… I’m not even kidding. Shamaiyna.

Good thing she's a nice aunt.

Nothing Like a Pig
My cousins up in the Crewe area were quite the entertainment package. The youngest one, four or five, and I got into a wrestling match. I had him held down on his tummy quite comfortably – I'm terrifically strong, you see – when he twisted his head back and yelled "You're nothing like a PIG!!"

“What does that mean??” I queried.

“I don’t know!” he responded. But somehow, he had made his point. Over the course of my week long stay, he also confidently informed me that I was “just rubbish” except he said “roobish,” you know, like a Yorkshireman… I think. And another time, I learned I was a “parsnip,” a parsnip being – and I looked this up – a plant, Pastinaca sativa, cultivated varieties of which have a large, whitish, edible root. So there.

Time in My Music

Ugh. A blogthought. “It takes time.” To be honest, I don’t feel as challenged by this as I expected. I seek refuge in a familiar sanctuary: Music.

Being a late bloomer and all – I was about 3 foot 8 till I was 14 – I’m quite familiar with the whole “time taking” of things to happen. A lot of the music I happened to listen to was also time-oriented. Here are selected lyrics of a few I really liked.

You Can’t Hurry Love – Phil Collins
I remember mama said
You can’t hurry love
No, you’ll just have to wait
She said love don’t come easy
Well, it’s a game of give and take
You can’t hurry love
No, you’ll just have to wait
Just trust in a good time
No matter how long it takes

I actually don’t remember mama saying this, come to think of it… she may have said something along the lines of “arranged marriages don’t come easy”… no, I’m just kidding. She didn’t even say that.

Time – Hootie & The Blowfish
Time is wasting
Time is walking
You ain't no friend of mine
I don't know where I’m goin'
I think I'm out of my mind
Thinking about time

Hootie was one of my “MTV years” bands. Very mid-90s. Doing homework in the TV lounge… watching By Demand with Trey and Muriel… does anyone remember the MTV Asia Music Awards when Muriel stole the Funniest Joke in the World from Trey in hopes of joining Code Red? Then Trey shot Muriel and killed him? Erm… Muriel was a puppet.

Time, Love & Tenderness – Michael Bolton
Oh, nothing is a sad as it seems, you know
'Cause someday you'll laugh at the heartache
Someday, you'll laugh at the pain
Somehow you'll get through the heartache
Somehow you can get through the rain

From the I’m-3-foot-8-and-I’ll-never-find-love days.

And, of course, my old favorite from the sad songs post,

Praying for Time – George Michael
And it's hard to love, there's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it's much, much too late
Well maybe we should all be praying for time

The more I listen to this song, the more I realize it speaks about today’s world more than anything else. The verse above, for example, could be about the spiral of violence in Iraq. Good Job W!!

These are the days of the empty hand
Oh you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year

Poor getting poorer. Rich getting richer. It takes a disaster or a catastrophe (Hurricane Katrina, or the earthquake in Northern Pakistan) to remind us that we’re human, fragile and have a responsibility to help our fellow Earth dwellers.

And, in the same vein,

The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But we'll take our chances
'Cause God's stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and all God's children
Crept out the back door

I don’t know about the God not keeping score and turning His back on us part, but we’ve certainly managed to creep away somehow. You know, you look around and wonder… is this how it was meant to be? In a perfect world, would we even have things like electricity & telephones? Are inter-continental ballistic missiles really a part of the Grand Plan? Is there one true religion? And if there is, does it exist on Earth? Or have we completely lost the thread?

Maybe we should all be praying for time.

(Funny how my post went from being all light-hearted like to hardcore theo-philosophical... oh well...)

My Father's Secret Past

Past is the neglected blogword.

On the recent trip to England (Yes, I know I still owe you England stories), I spent a fair amount of time with family, not least with my dad’s cousin and her family. She’s a few years younger than the father as far as I can tell (but I don’t know HOW much younger nor was I brave enough to ask the inappropriate question). Anyway, as often happens when family gets together after a long break, there was reminiscing and memories and stories of glorious pasts and such. I heard about a lot of incidents (funny and/or serious) involving family members – uncles, aunts, cousins – but the most personally eyebrow-raising (if you know what I mean) episodes revolved around my father, believe it or not.

Now if you’ve met my father, you probably associate, like I do, one or more of the following words or phrases with him: mature, sober, reserved, occasionally stern, distinguished, analytical, thinking. He can also be entertaining. He has lots of stories of his youth and young adulthood that both enthrall and shock, but they are always about other people. My aunt, this December, turned the tables somewhat and told me some anecdotes that had me wondering if, after 25 years living under the same roof, I really knew my father at all.

Gosh, I’m afraid I don’t remember the exact location or the family members involved all that accurately, but the essence will be intact.

The Figure in Black
As far as I know, this was Faisalabad, and the father (probably in his early teens) was spending the summer, along with his brothers and cousins, at his grandparents’. An aunt and some cousins were woken up one night by a HUGE towering figure in black hovering over their beds in a threatening manner.

Extreme terror.

Until they realized my father had taken someone’s black burqa (abaya/covering worn over clothes by many Muslim women) and was waving it around above them using a broomstick to add height.

Extreme anger (I imagine) and, I would presume, also some embarrassment.

The Doorknob Incident
I think it was his uncle (either that or grandfather) who was awakened one night by a strange jiggling sound, as though someone was trying to open the door to his bedroom. Uncle got out of bed and opened the door. No one there. Back to bed. Jiggle jiggle. Out of bed. Door open. No one there. Back to bed. Jiggle jiggle. Confused. Out of bed. Open door. No one there.

String attached to doorknob??
String attached to doorknob!!

Follow string… all the way to my father, who was in his bed in a different room (or was it the roof?) tugging at the string every now and then, obtaining some form of obscure satisfaction from the confusion he was putting his uncle through.

Sweets for the Children
My dad had got a bunch of sweets for his younger cousins and he called them all to take some. The children ran up excitedly. They all helped themselves to the unexpected treats and eagerly popped the toffees in their mouths.

And realized they were eating soap.

There was, in those times, a laundry (or dish) soap bar that looked exactly like toffee. Father had eaten the candy himself, broken off bits of soap and packaged them neatly in the sweet wrappers to hand out to his innocent cousins. Everyone had really clean palates that day.

You think you know someone…

The Most Ridiculous Claim of the Year (Already)

Most is the blogword of old, but I would have posted this regardless. According to CNN, and probably other news sources too – I didn’t check, moronic evangelical broadcaster Pat Robertson had a “vision” in which “God spoke to him” and told him that a “terrorist attack” on the United States would cause a “mass killing” in late 2007.

From the CNN story:
Evangelical broadcaster Pat Robertson said Tuesday that God has told him that a terrorist attack on the United States would cause a "mass killing" late in 2007.
"I'm not necessarily saying it's going to be nuclear," he said during his news-and-talk television show "The 700 Club" on the Christian Broadcasting Network.
"The Lord didn't say nuclear. But I do believe it will be something like that."
Robertson said God told him about the impending tragedy during a recent prayer retreat. God also said, he claims, that major cities and possibly millions of people will be affected by the attack, which should take place sometime after September.

The man is an idiot – he’s one of those far right wing radical Christians that the U.S. government conveniently ignores while claiming to tackle radicalism in the “less civilized” parts of the world. He’s also known for advocating the assassination of democratically elected Venezuelan Premier Hugo Chavez (Remember the “smell of sulphur” line at the United Nations? Haha). And he believes Ariel Sharon suffered a stroke because of Israel’s (so-called) concessions to the Palestinians.

Now imagine what a buffoon (even more so than usual) this crackpot will look like if 2007 ends without a “major terrorist attack.” I think he knows something… perhaps he’s even planning something. Even a half-wit like Robertson wouldn’t make a claim of this magnitude without some back – I think he should be arrested and interrogated. Find out what he knows. He might just kill a bunch of innocents so he can say I told you so.

But then how much credibility does a senile 76 year old who claims to be able to leg press 2000 lbs have?? “God” speaks to him. My foot. I wonder who it really is…. If I had an imbecile like Pat Robertson for a housemate, I’d probably whisper stuff like that in his ear while he was asleep, just to mess with him.

“Pat, Pakistan is going to win the World Cup this year to punish the West Indies for being located so close to Cuba.”

“Pat, Hugo Chavez wears Hugo Boss. Your nation must boycott all products that have both a ‘u’ and a ‘g’ in their legal names, except on Saturdays if the third vowel in the name is preceded by an ‘m’ or a ‘p.’ In that case, send $50/- to a charity of your choice and bathe in warm honeysuckle nectar as the Sun sets on the Swiss Alps.”

Brainless twit.

Random Selection: An Additional Screening Story

Alright, so England, for some reason, inhibited my blogging instincts. I'm way behind. I have Philadelphia airport, London Heathrow airport, London, Nantwich, Brixton, Liverpool and Chicago O'Hare Airport stories not to mention the blogwords and blogthoughts I have cruelly neglected. But all in good time... I hope. This weekend better be good to me is all I can say.

Anyway, just to get back in the swing of things, I'm going to post my Columbus Airport story, or as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would say, The Foreigner and the Oddly-Named Central Ohio Airport. Certain time references may be inaccurate because I actually formulated this post three weeks ago but wasn't able to fine tune it till right now.

If you’ve read Homeland Security: Tribute to Entity, you’re somewhat familiar with my adventures associated with exiting the United States in a legal, dignified manner. I’m in England right now, having survived the exit, the flight over and the subsequent entry to the United Kingdom. But, naturally, none of my interactions with U.S. border and airport security can ever be uneventful.

So clearly, my brother has some sort of Don't-additional-screen-me-or-anyone-traveling-with-me Shield that he activates at will in airports. Remember our trip to California last year with the suspicious black backpacks and the same foreign sounding last names and the no checked baggage and the suicide bombing age range-ins, when we didn't even warrant second looks? Yes, so I travel alone last weekend, with only small laptop bag in carry, WITH checked baggage, all by my lonesome (I couldn't hijack a cotton candy stall if I tried) and I get pulled aside every which way to be inspected and questioned. *sigh*

At Columbus's Rickenbacker (sounds disconcertingly like knickerbocker... EDIT: Tif tells me that I in fact didn't have anything to with Rickenbacker Airport - I landed at and took off from Port Columbus International.... I'm an idiot) Airport, I wasn't surprised to see the four Ss on my boarding pass as I left the ticket agent… another "random selection." Lovely. Went through the security check and sure enough, "Sir, you have been randomly sel-"

"I know, I know. Do what you have to do."

So this was new. Instead of being led straight to the additional screening area (i.e. a mat and a table 10 feet away), I had to stand in a glass corridor for a few moments while the no doubt high school graduated security fellow struggled to copy my complicated foreign name on to a piece of paper… the glass corridor is lovely. It ends in a glass door and you're meant to wait in it until you're ready. So you just stand there stupidly in full view of everyone walking by, grinning like an idiot. Well, I guess the grinning is optional, but I didn't realize it at the time. Anyway, out of the habitat now, while being patted down (but not felt up, thank God) by a fellow we will call nerd-boy, I had my bag searched by a lady we will call butch-girl. During this, a third security agent, who will we will Celtic-Fan, inquired loudly as to the origin of my shirt. My shirt happened to be the Liverpool Champions League Away shirt (white with green trim) which I considered appropriate clothing for the trip across the pond to the home of English football… England. I told him it was a Liverpool shirt and he was like, "Don't they wear red?"

"Yes, but this is their Champions League AWAY jersey Sir."

"Oh, alright." Turns out the gentleman was a long-time Glasgow Celtic fan and well acquainted with European football. Nerd-Boy and Butch-Girl jumped in to the conversation at this point (bear in mind that Shahyan is still a suspected terrorist):

Nerd-Boy: They don't have time-outs in soccer do they? How do they do commercials?
Me: They don't. They have half-time for that.
Butch-Girl: Yep, that's right.
Nerd-Boy: How do you know that?
Butch-Girl: I played soccer for 14 years
Nerd-Boy: The last time I played soccer was 1984
Me (incredulously, looking at his baby face): What? How old are you?
Nerd-Boy: 27. I was in kindergarten when I last played. I got hit by the ball. Once was enough.
Butch-Girl: *snigger*
Me: *snigger*
Celtic-Fan: *would have sniggered but was giving other potential terrorists the once over*

Anyway, bags clear, person clear. Some goodbyes and I was on my way.

Note:
*Nerd-Boy quite possibly not actual nerd, although I doubt it.
*Butch-Girl quite possibly not actual butch… though I wouldn't rule it out.
To be fair, all three of them were quite cool. I felt as unlike a terrorist as a person with SSSS on his boarding pass can feel while being patted down and having his bags checked.

On to Philly!

I'm So Annoyed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*post terminated*

Sencetac, Menoplatz, "Beaches"

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

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

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

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

I Knelt To Pray But Not For Long

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

Anyway, here:

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

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

Really, Theme Songs, Childhood Innocence

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

Anyway, on to the blogword: REALLY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Little Secret, Cricket, French Bakery, Tradition

So the new blogword is: SECRET

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blogthought 4: JFK, I'd Rather Be Sleeping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday Wanderings A'beckoning - Sorry

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

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

And now, on to the Blogword!!

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

For me the benefits of this are threefold:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hot or Not?

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

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

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

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

This took time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snippet + Blog Evolution

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

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

Oh snap!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Grandfather II: Memories of a Hero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canadian Toilets: A Symbol of Quality, and Other Stories

Canadian Toilets: A Symbol of Quality

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

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

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

The Bluegrass Concert... Or was It?

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

Wrong.

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

Forgot My Lines & Covered My A**

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

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

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

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

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

Stand Up: Karachi My City

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ode to Karachi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Lift = Lift

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

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

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

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

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

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

And stop.

#Applause & Autographs#

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

Just Call Me Leo

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

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

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

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

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

I had several issues with this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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