and so it is

Fruits of my labors

2006-04-30T22:09:00.000-07:00

The yellow ones first. The pink and yellow ones should be out in another week or so.

SRO

2006-04-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

Seems like shortly Aeroflot will no longer be the only airline that allows standing on planes during takeoff, crusing, and landing.

Airbus is offering clients the possibility of a standing seat.

The New York Times has prepared a graphic here.

So I guess it's true what they said about William Jefferson Clinton

2006-04-25T19:26:00.000-07:00

You gotta love the New York Post, for their covers, if nothing else.

My only question of the portaitist is: why did you make Bill look so much like Ted Koppel??

Ouch

2006-04-22T10:50:00.000-07:00

from Charles McGrath's profile of Gay Talese on the occasion of the imminent release of "A Writer's Life", his memoir:

"...one of the many porters or doormen on the Upper East Side who seem to know Mr. Talese by sight and nod respectfully when he strolls by. Whether or not they know anything about his books, they recognize good posture and good haberdashery when they see it. Mr. Talese, the son of a tailor, carries himself like a papal guard and, now that his nudist phase is over, is the best-dressed writer in New York. He makes Tom Wolfe look like someone who collects Mark Twain outfits from a thrift shop."

Safest birds in the Nordic region

2006-04-22T10:46:00.000-07:00

From today's New York Times:

NORWAY: PENGUINS GET FIRST BIRD FLU SHOTS Eight penguins became the first birds in Norway to be vaccinated against bird flu after an aquarium in western Bergen won an eight-month battle with health authorities for the vaccine, the newspaper Bergen Tidende reported. "The Safest Birds in the Nordic Region," its headline declared. According to the news agency NTB, the first penguin vaccinated was a 9-month-old female, who promptly threw up. No outbreaks of the A(H5N1) avian flu have been found in Norway. (AP)

"Does Amitabh have a queer body?"

2006-04-20T20:51:00.000-07:00

Just one of the many questions posed today, during the opening sessions of the four-day conference hosted by the Department of Cinema Studies at NYU unter the title of The Social and Material Life of Indian Cinema.

Arundhati Roy was seated among the audience during the afternoon and evening sessions, sharing many jokes and passing notes back and forth with Sohini Ghosh, who spoke during the morning on "Fear of the Queer and All Things Erotic: Censorship Debates and Emergent Narratives".

I started out in grad school studying literature, and read a fair amount of theory and criticism, but it's been years since I've heard phrases like "heteronormative structures", "hierarchy of desires" and "aesthetic of social realism", and it all comes back to me why I didn't want to do that PhD after all.

But in spite of some posturing (by some audience members) and unnecessarily bloated vocabulary (by both audience and panellists), Day 1 was interesting and I learned some things:

- In India, 40 seconds of footage was removed from the hetero love-making scene in Brokeback Mountain, whereas the gay love scenes were left untouched.

- American film students have commented to one of today's panellists that the Angry Young Man 1970s movies of Amitabh Bachchan remind them of the blaxploitation movies that were produced in the U.S. in the same decade.

- After his death in 1992, Satyajit Ray's bedding was being sold outside the crematorium before his body was even cremated.

But seriously, this is one reason - inspite of the excess of people with too much money, and the high rents, and the high cost of most things here - that I love New York city: sooner or later (more often sooner), the world (and all its many cultural offerings) will arrive at your doorstep. This conference, which, according to one friend "Has brought together everyone who's anyone in the Indian film studies field", has four days of jam-packed offerings plus breakfast and lunch included, is all entirely free.

And if one had decided to pass on the keynote address by Partha Chatterjee at the Asia Society (and reception) tonight, across town at Lincoln Center, Mira Nair was participating in a screening of Salaam Bombay.

Forever youngish

2006-04-20T20:25:00.000-07:00

There are a couple of times a year when a New York magazine article is dead on about some phenomenon particular to life in this city, and the first issue I found waiting for me when I arrived from India had this one by Adam Sternbergh. Here's an excerpt:

"Let’s start with a question. A few questions, actually: When did it become normal for your average 35-year-old New Yorker to (a) walk around with an iPod plugged into his ears at all times, listening to the latest from Bloc Party; (b) regularly buy his clothes at Urban Outfitters; (c) take her toddler to a Mommy’s Happy Hour at a Brooklyn bar; (d) stay out till 4 A.M. because he just can’t miss the latest New Pornographers show, because who knows when Neko Case will decide to stop touring with them, and everyone knows she’s the heart of the band; (e) spend $250 on a pair of jeans that are artfully shredded to look like they just fell through a wheat thresher and are designed, eventually, to artfully fall totally apart; (f) decide that Sufjan Stevens is the perfect music to play for her 2-year-old, because, let’s face it, 2-year-olds have lousy taste in music, and we will not listen to the Wiggles in this house; (g) wear sneakers as a fashion statement; (h) wear the same vintage New Balance sneakers that he wore on his first day of school in the seventh grade as a fashion statement; (i) wear said sneakers to the office; (j) quit the office job because—you know what?—screw the office and screw jockeying for that promotion to VP, because isn’t promotion just another word for “slavery”?; (k) and besides, now that she’s a freelancer, working on her own projects, on her own terms, it’s that much easier to kick off in the middle of the week for a quick snowboarding trip to Sugarbush, because she’s got to have some balance, right? And she can write it off, too, because who knows? She might bump into Spike Jonze on the slopes; (l) wear a Misfits T-shirt; (m) make his 2-year-old wear a Misfits T-shirt; (n) never shave; (o) take pride in never shaving; (p) take pride in never shaving while spending $200 on a bedhead haircut and $600 on a messenger bag, because, seriously, only his grandfather or some frat-boy Wall Street flunky still carries a briefcase; or (q) all of the above?

This is an obituary for the generation gap. It is a story about 40-year-old men and women who look, talk, act, and dress like people who are 22 years old. It’s not about a fad but about a phenomenon that looks to be permanent. It’s about the hedge-fund guy in Park Slope with the chunky square glasses, brown rock T-shirt, slight paunch, expensive jeans, Puma sneakers, and shoulder-slung messenger bag, with two kids squirming over his lap like itchy chimps at the Tea Lounge on Sunday morning. It’s about the mom in the low-slung Sevens and ankle boots and vaguely Berlin-art-scene blouse with the $800 stroller and the TV-screen-size Olsen-twins sunglasses perched on her head walking through Bryant Park listening to Death Cab for Cutie on her Nano."

And the photos of the guys on the cover, the girls inside, and the guys sporting their babies in their Snugglis (these are all real people wearing their own clothes, mind you, not models) just drive the point home beautifully.

Even Jack Bauer, the hero of the Fox TV series 24 played by Kiefer Sutherland, has been dressing like a Grup this season.

Is that a copy of The DaVinci Code in your pocket?

2006-04-18T22:08:00.000-07:00

Seen recently at Strand Bookstore.

Privacy please

2006-04-18T22:07:00.000-07:00

An enclosed litter box, for the chronically shy cat.

Sex and the City for British men

2006-04-16T00:32:00.000-07:00

in their late 40s.

Manchild:

Four buddies have reached an age, and stage in life, where the world is potentially their big fat juicy oyster. Sports cars, shiny motorcycles, riverside apartments and gorgeous young girlfriends so sexy and willing… Surely knocking on the door of 50 can't be this much fun?

You know you're back in New York (city) when

2006-04-15T23:58:00.000-07:00

you open a magazine and see an ad for a Passover seder at the very tony W hotels.

Bombay: Gateway

2006-04-12T19:59:00.000-07:00

Bombay: Welcome taxi

2006-04-12T19:57:00.000-07:00

Bombay: Not just Smart

2006-04-12T19:54:00.000-07:00

Bombay: Cafe Coffee Day dog

2006-04-12T19:51:00.000-07:00

Bombay: Mural at Kala Godha

2006-04-12T19:49:00.000-07:00

Bombay: Hallelujah

2006-04-12T19:46:00.000-07:00

Ganesha on the dashboard, sign at the church says "God may forgive your sins, but your nervous system may not."

Bombay: Ganesha at the Pali Hill FabIndia

2006-04-12T19:44:00.000-07:00

Bombay: street dog

2006-04-12T19:43:00.000-07:00

Bombay: Avion hotel

2006-04-12T19:41:00.000-07:00

Ok, so where's Nana Patekar?

Strange, sad night in Bom Bahia

2006-03-29T12:24:00.000-08:00

The day starts with eggs and fresh mushrooms that tasted just like the ones my cousins and I picked as kids one Sunday morning in the Irish countryside.

Later, being driven around streets and unknown areas, white earbuds in and old songs like “Lagi Choote Na” and “Duniya na bhaye” are the soundtrack to streetside clothes stalls, dusty dogs and people and vehicles swirling around. We drive from Cottons by Century (for men, it turns out) to Cotton On (tiny cramped slip of a store) and then stumble across the original Cottons that was being sought.

The women shopping here are comfortably off and straight out of Monsoon Wedding, they are relatives and friends, stressed out before the big day, piling up kurtas and the like before they move on to their next stop. The sales clerk in Hindi rushes a woman out of a dressing room to make way for me, since he sees she’s done trying on and is just chatting with her girlfriend in the neighboring room. She glares at me as I feebly protest to the salesman “Nehin, nehin, no problem.” I am tolerated, but not welcome, but then again, maybe no one else is.

We drive past an area I remember from last year, where you see the poverty that everyone writes about in India. People living their lives on the street for all to see. One woman scrutinizes as she combs the hair of another woman, looking for something. A little girl stands in a t-shirt with no underpants on as an older little boy looks down and seems to point and say “You don’t have a willie like I do.”

We arrive at the place of my assignation, to meet the best friend of the long-departed ex-. Nervous. Why am I doing this? I should have cancelled. Why wound anyone think that you can tie things up neatly and put them away like a copy of your 2004 tax returns?

I arrive first to the lobby of the five-star hotel we’ve chosen. As I freshen up in the loo a young girl in uniform comes in and I realize that her job is to go from stall to stall and be sure that all the recent lady visitors have flushed, and if not, to do the needful.

Across from reception, some Swiss people sit near me and speak in that sing-song French that they do. I will them away and they oblige. A hotel guy in a uniform fluffs the pillows for the 10th time. I listen to my filmi theme song of 2005 – Ishq hai jhoota – as I text people to keep busy. He arrives. It’s awkward. He can’t stay long. Probably afraid of a scene. Over a dinner of mostly alcohol this awful wobbliness and teariness comes up. WTF? I don’t get like this anymore, ever. Neither of us is who we were a year ago. We talk about stupid mundane stuff, I even brooked the topic of the weather.

Ex’s best bud departs and as I wait for my driver to pull around, who strides down the stairs next to me, mobile glued to his ear, but Abhishek Bachchan. Well that’s the cherry on this sundae. He skinnier looking than in film. He gets into a big shiny grey BMW SUV as Preity Zinta and Rani Mukherjee trail after him, like so many cheerleaders after so many quarterbacks before them, Preity yelling “Wait, did you call Karan? Is he coming?” I know I haven’t had that much to drink at dinner, but I still can’t quite believe that I’m not sprawled out on the expanse of stairs and hallucinating the whole scene. The driver has now appeared and I skirt Ms. Zinta, who’s fresh from working it on the runway yesterday, this is Fashion Week after all. Abhi’s security blocks us from leaving until they pull out, as they trail him in a smaller vehicle. I guess the girls are on their own.

Home, Ramesh, kripiyaa.

Earbuds back in, I close my eyes and listen to contemporary filmi music now. Adaa thumps away for I don’t how long when I hear a firm knocking on my window, and a tiny woman (girl?) with an also tiny infant in one arm stands there, rapping to get my attention. I fumble furiously for my wallet and the light changes, and the driver, seeing what I’m trying to do but conscious of the cars behind honking, starts to move slowly and the girl holds on, hurrying along with us. I manage to grab 200 rupees as I lower the window, hand them to her and she’s gone. Window up and I can’t stop crying. I try to be discreet and keep the flemmy sniffling noises as quiet as possible. If we were in Madras and he was not this Ramesh he would ask me “Are you ok, Mam?”, and I'd have no way to explain in simple English what's happening, not that I can explain it in any more complex English to myself, but this is Bombay and he probably sees enough dumb farangs getting worked up pointlessly about things like this often and his life is probably hard too.

I wonder what will she do with the 200 rupees. Will she even get to keep it or will some pimp or husband take it from her.

Favorite Bombay street ads, so far

2006-03-28T13:47:00.000-08:00

Salient Bra & Panty

New Japanees Hair Dresses

Et tu Kamalhasan ?

2006-03-26T13:25:00.000-08:00

Ah the joys of late night Sun TV in India..... channel surfing after getting in around 2.30am, I see a young, moustachioed Kamalhasan in a Tamil movie that had to date back to the 1980s (to go by the amount of lip gloss the heroine's lips were glazed in), singing and dancing around a very chintzy, gold set wearing - I kid you not - a white mini-skirt length Roman tunic, with black trim, and the kicker: white fisherman sandal/boots that came up mid-calf on his legs.

For some reason, the damsel who was on the receiving end of his attentions was not following the ancient Roman theme and was only in a sari.

And then they lay on a round bed that rotated while four women tossed rose petals on them.

Truth in advertising?

2006-03-25T11:58:00.000-08:00

First you have one, then you need the other

2006-03-25T11:54:00.000-08:00

Look closely.

Just some of the sights you see on an average Saturday afternoon in Patpong.

Wat pho Russian graffiti

2006-03-14T02:45:00.000-08:00

It's always nice to leave your mark at the religious sites in the countries you visit.

Wat pho

2006-03-14T02:43:00.000-08:00

Reclining Buddha at Wat Pho

2006-03-12T12:45:00.000-08:00

Massive and beautiful.

Malli on my pillow

2006-03-12T12:42:00.000-08:00

Just cannot get enough of these (only 20 baht each).

Sweating in Siam

2006-03-11T20:22:00.000-08:00

The temperature is expected to hit 97 degrees F today in the City of Angels.

This is one hot place to walk around, or do anything really. At least two showers a day on average, and friends tell me that in April and May, you can make that four.

But oh my, if you've got a decent Western salary, you can live well.

Saw a friend's apartment last night. I lost count, but I think there were something like 4 bedrooms, all with their own bathrooms and marble floors all over the place, for less than $2000 US a month, which would maybe get you a decent studio or one-bedroom in Manhattan.

Compared to the average taxi ride in NYC costing $7 - $10, you can get around here, even after being stuck in traffic, for $3 or $4 at most, but usually half that.

Without being able to speak Thai, it's possible to make your way, but I find I feel very cut off. You can't make that bridge and relate to people very well, aside from a few empty, polite comments about where you are from, and the temperature differentials between here and home.

Shopping is amazing, if you like that sort of thing, which I do.

Had a Spaulding Grey perfect moment Saturday afternoon at the weekend Chatuchuk (or JJ) market, after having done some great retail therapy for silver rings and coming across a really delightful selection of Thai paintings.

Artists seem to have realized that we farang like either works that refer to typical Thai subject matter, or dogs!

I admit that I succumbed to 2 adorable brightly colored Warhol-esque paintings of a smiling English bull terrier (the Target dog) on a chartreuse background, and a cross-looking Pekinese on a red background. Too funny. Yes, I realize that they sound hideous, but they really are charming.

After some more sweaty wandering around [side note: if you are thirsty, and think that the green and yellow Fanta can will contain something lemony, you will be sorely disappointed to find something that veers more toward bubblegum - UGH], I came across a little CD stand, run by some dredlocked, slightly stoned Thai guys, and aside from the racks and racks of bootlegged CDs, there was a group of comfy chairs where you could lounge. They encourage you to sample ones you'd like to buy on several players they have laying around, which I did.

Total bliss ensued when I spied a cooler full of bottles of Heineken. Never a beer drinker, I still couldn't resist because they just looked so cold, and 30 Baht later, cap off, it was a refreshing shopping episode cum happy hour.

The picture up top is from the Jim Thompson home, now a museum.

Reasons to be cheerful, part 4

2006-02-11T22:16:00.000-08:00

Italian alpine skier Giorgio Rocca recites the athletes' oath at the opening of the Torino Olympics. Delizioso.

Reasons to be cheerful, part 3

2006-02-11T22:12:00.000-08:00

Alberto 'La Bomba' Tomba carries in the flame to the stadium at the opening of the Torino Olympics.

Only in America

2006-01-15T20:43:00.000-08:00

will you find a preacher whose name is Dollar.

And what does the good Reverend Creflo A. Dollar Jr. preach about?

Total life prosperity.

More here.

Writers Reading: Vikram Seth

2006-01-11T20:47:00.000-08:00

Vikram Seth did a reading at the Asia Society on the occasion of the release of Two Lives one rainy evening as last year was drawing to a close.

[By the way, click here for a really hot pic of Vikky a few years back when he had long hair.]

The book tells the story of Seth’s uncle and aunt, their lives and the time that Seth spent living with them as a college student at 18 Queens Road in Hendon.

His uncle Shanti was a German-trained dentist who lost an arm while operating during the battle at Monte Cassino, but continued to practice after World War II when he settled in England. Henny, Shanti’s wife, was a Berliner who escaped Germany but lost her mother and sister to the Nazis. He referred to their marriage as one “not based on confidences, but rather on great confidence in each other.” Not unlike The Greatest Generation by Tom Brokaw, in reading Two Lives and hearing him speak about Shanti and Henny, you sense a similar admiration for their strength and stiff-upper-lip attitude toward life.

After being introduced and called up to the stage, he emerged from the front row, carrying his winter coat and his backpack. The Asia Society guy made gestures to take them from him, which Seth brushed off, and dropped them in a heap at the foot of the podium.

The stage was set with a Persian rug, a comfy chair and coffee table, and an East Asian teapot and cup. And Vikram was miked.

He sat down, kelly green scarf still draped around his neck, and began. Given the Asia Society's location on Park Avenue, you can hear the number 6 train come and go underneath. “The cell phones have been stilled, but the subways continue,” he remarked.

It was a lovely setting for the reading and Seth seemed perfectly at ease, looking out at the audience and chatting as if he were across the table in a coffee shop with you alone. He spoke of his Shanti Uncle and Aunt Henny and of home as the place that "if we have to go there, they have to let you in". His German aunt received him, a seventeen-year-old student, with “enthusiasm rather than warmth” and had, earlier on, the habit of saying things like “Shanti, your relations are here” and referring to Vikram as “my husband's nephew”. But later on, in spite of herself, she started calling him "my nephew".

His use of words and phrases like “japes” and “get a purchase on” contribute to the academic air around him, but he also oozes warmth.

Some of the revelations during the evening were that he came across Gestapo paperwork, written in “calm, measured bureaucratise” that described the removal of Henny’s family’s possessions, and how, having learned German because he thought he needed a European language to get into Oxford, when he learned more about the horrors of Henny’s past, it ruined German classical music and Heine's poetry for him. Seth commented to the audience that by the grandfather count the Nazis used, Heinrich Heine would have been considered a Jew.

More than the sadness of such things, what really inspires is the love that Shanti and Henny had for each other. Shanti was so griefstruck by his wife's death that he burned all papers he could find that had anything to do with her (fortunately for us, it turns out he missed a trunk in the attic, where, like the German woman she was, Henny had saved carbon copies of her letters to friends).

When he opened the floor to questions, he was asked “Do you think creative writing can be taught?” and he made some references to the word education referring to a both a drawing out and a stuffing in, but he seemed to infer you either have it, or you don’t.

At one point, he shared that his family refers to A Suitable Boy as "the fat one" and that the he was very pleased with the title of the Hindi title: Koi Achha Sa Ladka. He said the kernel that served as the starting point for the book that would occupy a decade of his life was overhearing a woman say "You too will marry a boy I choose".

And he revealed that he considered Two and a Half Lives as a possible title for the Hindi edition, because it's also a partial memoir of his own life.

Someone asked, still on the subject of A Suitable Boy, if the main city setting for the novel is really Patna, but he replied that it's a composite city, more like somewhere in eastern UP.

When the time came to get your books signed, he couldn’t have been chipper or more charming.

As he made his way through the entire Vikram Seth collection I had schlepped in from home and deposited on the table before him, we had the following entretien (I have no shame):

Me: Have you seen Parineeta?

Him: No, what's that?

Me: It's a Hindi movie set in Calcutta in the '60s and I was wondering what you thought of the depiction of the city then. But, it is a Bollywood film…

Him: Look, if I can watch Columbo, who am I to sneer at Bollywood movies?

Brava, Donna

2006-01-11T19:19:00.000-08:00

Just finished Acqua Alta by Donna Leon. The title refers to the high waters that flood la Serenissima so often when it rains heavily and the water has nowhere to go.

Not normally a fanatic of mysteries, I was attracted by the setting, Venice, such an atmospheric city.

The book turned out to be a delight, especially on the train to work with some Handel on the MP3 player as a soundtrack (this particular mystery involves an Italian opera diva, Flavia, and her female lover, Brett, who is an expert in Chinese antique ceramics).

Storyline aside, what I really enjoyed was how Leon paints so many subtle aspects of Italian culture and attitudes, whether it's a mafioso's son from (where else) the south referring to a Venetian as a polentino (polenta being a dish served in the north of the country), or the small details of red tape, grappa, and just the day-to-day family life of Commissario Guido Brunetti, the recurring inspector from all her stories.

The next time I pick up a book of hers, I'll have my city map of Venezia handy, to trace Brunetti across the campi and down the calle.

Grazie, Donna, un lavoro ben fatto.

Smart birds!

2005-12-19T20:59:00.000-08:00

While off at the local garden center Saturday to buy the perfect Frasier fir tree, I saw something that made me smile and plonk a 40lb bag of wild bird seed in my shopping cart.

The Christmas trees were all outdoors, subdivided by type.

Inside the garden center, where the pointsettias and other plants were kept in tropical warmth, there was a wall full of different wild bird feeders and sacks of various types of seeds. Two large doors slid open every time someone passed the motion detector.

Somewhere along the line, one very bright sparrow had come inside, discovered the sacks of food, pecked a hole open in one, and, no doubt, had one very filling repast, at least. Soon, he or she was joined by a flock, numbering approximately 40, who have now set up residence on the inside, hangin' out on the shelves above the bird seed.

At one point when I glanced up, about 12 were perched on the edge of a box containing sacks of seed, with the words "FEED THE BIRDS" in bright red across its side.

Perfect.

Johnny, we hardly knew ye

2005-12-16T19:21:00.000-08:00

John Spencer, the actor who for the past few years has played Leo McGarry on the TV series The West Wing, died suddenly of a heart attack today, just a few days shy of his 59th birthday. The AP story is here.

I loved the stillness that Spencer had about him as he played first the role of chief of staff, and most recently that of vice-presidential candidate.

He was great back when he was on the series L.A. Law, playing a tough but decent lawyer at the posh firm, in a real thorn-among-the-roses role.

The recent development of his character, Leo, as the VP running mate reunited him with his L.A. Law co-star Jimmy Smits. It was a terrific paring and it will be interesting to see how the writers handle his death and how they will fill the VP-to-be role on the series.

When driving one day last year, I heard him on the radio being interviewed about the garden he maintains at his California home. You can listen to it here.

The end of the AP article, rather sad, caught my eye: 'Spencer, an only child, is survived by “cousins, aunts, uncles, and wonderful friends,” Hofmann said.' (The man quoted is John Spencer's publicist, Ron Hofmann.) Does it matter when we're gone if there is no spouse or partner or child to bear witness to our final rites and mourn our passing?

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam. (May his soul be on God's right-hand side.)

Something to offend everyone

2005-12-10T07:21:00.000-08:00

What do you call two Mexicans playing basketball?

Juan on Juan

What is a Yankee?

The same as a quickie, but a guy can do it alone.

What is the difference between a Harley and a Hoover?

The position of the dirt bag

Why is divorce so expensive?

Because it's worth it.

What do you see when the Pillsbury Dough Boy bends over?

Doughnuts.

Why is air a lot like sex?

Because it's no big deal unless you're not getting any.

What do you call a smart blonde?

A golden retriever.

What do attorneys use for birth control?

Their personalities.

What's the difference between a girlfriend and wife?

45 lbs

What's the difference between a boyfriend and husband?

45 minutes

What's the fastest way to a man's heart?

Through his chest with a sharp knife.

Why do men want to marry virgins?

They can't stand criticism.

Why is it so hard for women to find men that are sensitive, caring, and good-looking?

Because those men already have boyfriends.

What's the difference between a new husband and a new dog?

After a year, the dog is still excited to see you.

What makes men chase women they have no intention of marrying?

The same urge that makes dogs chase cars they have no intention of driving.

Why don't bunnies make noise when they have sex?

Because they have cotton balls.

What's the difference between a porcupine and BMW?

A porcupine has the pricks on the outside.

What did the blonde say when she found out she was pregnant?

"Are you sure it's mine?"

Why does Mike Tyson cry during sex?

Mace will do that to you.

Why did OJ Simpson want to move to West Virginia ?

Everyone has the same DNA.

Why do men find it difficult to make eye contact?

Breasts don't have eyes.

Did you hear about the dyslexic Rabbi?

He walks around saying "Yo."

Why do drivers' education classes in Redneck schools use the car only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays? Because on Tuesday and Thursday, the Sex Ed class uses it.

Where does an Irish family go on vacation?

A different bar.

What would you call it when an Italian has one arm shorter than the other?

A speech impediment.

What does it mean when the flag at the Post Office is flying at half-mast?

They're hiring.

What's the difference between a southern zoo and a northern zoo?

A southern zoo has a description of the animal on the front of the cage along with.. "a recipe".

How do you get a sweet little 80-year-old lady to say the F word?

Get another sweet little 80-year-old lady to yell *BINGO*!

What's the difference between a northern fairytale and a southern fairytale?

A northern fairytale begins "Once upon a time..." -A southern fairytale begins "Y'all ain't gonna believe this shit..."

Writers Reading: Frank McCourt

2005-12-06T21:53:00.000-08:00

Frank McCourt, writer of Angela’s Ashes (or Angela’s Asses as Katie Couric flubbed, to gales of laughter from the author himself) was in great form a few weeks back at a reading he gave at Union Square to promote his latest memoir, Teacher Man. The seventy-five-year-old retired high school teacher has clearly grown accustomed to life in the spotlight. He sprang up to the podium, sporting a somewhat odd combination of green shirt, brown tweed blazer, dark tie and khakis. He began speaking almost before he was in earshot of the mike.

I first saw Frank McCourt at a similar event shortly after his first book was published nine years ago, and I remember as I approached him to have my copy signed, the startled look on his face, as if a gun had just gone off next to him. Understandably, for a man who grew up with such low expectations of what his life would become, to suddenly at age sixty-six be both an acclaimed author everyone wanted a piece of as well as a wealthy man, must have all been a lot to absorb.

But this time, he chatted comfortably to the audience for a while before reading. He told about a friend, Steve, 54 years old, who said to him one day “I think I’ll teach”. McCourt found this laughable, how now some people in the U.S. (usually affluent and well educated) look at teaching in poor, inner city schools, as if it were a fun hobby to dabble in. And he scoffed at the concept of “this giving back”, asking “Who thought that up? Don’t we give back enough every April 15th?”

(Steve only lasted 7 weeks.)

Before teaching, Frank McCourt worked at Manufacturers Hanover Trust bank, as a loan officer. He said he was fired for being too generous and approving an excessive amount of unsecured loans to Puerto Ricans. By the same token, he said he took great pleasure in turning down any Irish names: “Quit yer drinking and you’ll be able to afford a car!”

When it was time to read, he took out a pair of green-framed eyeglasses that would have made Daniel Libeskind, or any architect, proud. They reminded me of a pair of women’s specs by Chanel.

He peppered the pauses between the excerpts he read with his observations of high school students (“They have to trip someone once a day.”) and the boroughs of New York where he’s taught (“Staten Island is not a place for joking. They voted for Barry Goldwater.”).

The best part he read was a selection of excuse notes he used to receive from the students he was teaching at a vocational school. The were remarkable to him not because the students had penned them themselves (which they had), but because they demonstrated a creativity and imagination totally lacking in everything else they wrote for him. The students spun tales of baby sisters spitting up on looseleaf, of flames licking up the wallpaper in the family kitchen before consuming the sheaf that was due, and on and on. I laughed so hard I was doubled over with tears rolling down my face. The Teacher Man seized upon this latent talent and started giving them assignments to write excuse notes for people like Adam and Eve (addressed to God). His students were gobsmacked.

Most remarkable to me, is how we absorb accents at an early age, for good.

Frank McCourt was born in Brooklyn and moved to his mother’s native Limerick, Ireland when he was a child. He remained there until age 19 when he sailed back to America, and to hear him speak today, is to hear a Limerick accent untouched by 50 years of life in New York, one so thick you could cut it with a knife. You can hear for yourself here.

Is it just me, or

2005-12-03T10:04:00.000-08:00

does that pig look smug?

Or possibly he's thinking "Phew, good thing it's not swine flu!"

The accompanying story appears here.

And those clever folks who write headlines have made a - possibly unwitting - reference to Anne Lamott.

"I designed it. It's very sparkly."

2005-12-01T20:48:00.000-08:00

Ah Paris, not one to say too much, you.

(Nor would I if that's the best I could come up with.)

This is what Paris Hilton said on TV today when talking about the launch of her line of watches.

Could Anna Kournikova tell the difference?

2005-11-15T21:59:00.000-08:00

Enrique Iglesias may not know it, but he appears to have a twin brother in Bollywood.

Jiya dhadak dhadak jaaye

2005-11-15T21:42:00.000-08:00

While the ads for it may portend an inconsequential and sweaty potboiler, there is one song from Kalyug that has me tripping.

Rafat Fateh Ali Khan's vocals weave in and out, over soft guitar, flute and drums, and those three lines over and over - jiya dhadak dhadak, jiya dhadak dhadak, jiya dhadak dhadak jaaye - conjure up images of a languid afternoon, lace curtains fluttering in the breeze, and from there, the two of you, rolling around in slow motion, tangled in the sheets with the one you love, when you're in the first throes and anything seems believable.

Arrêt!

2005-11-13T10:10:00.000-08:00

An appeal to desi boys wherever you are: enough with the Tintin do already!

While you may well be a fan of the intrepid boy reporter and his cute Milou, the time has come to issue a moratorium on the gelled, flipped-up-fringe-at-the-front favored by so many (too many!) twentysomething fellas of Indian persuasion who fancy themselves playas. That's one hairstyle whose 15 minutes of fame were up a while ago.

So that's what Govinda's costume designer has been up to

2005-11-05T21:38:00.000-08:00

...while the virar ka chokra is serving as MP.

He's moved south and is designing smashing bellbottoms like these for Vijay (note the matching blue choker).

Theirs is a life that is all about death

2005-11-02T20:29:00.000-08:00

To hear a beautiful, brief story - not even two minutes in length - about an Angus bull named Buck and his human friend Dale, told by nature writer Julie Zickefoose, listen here.

Happy Samhain to you

2005-10-31T19:58:00.000-08:00

Today is the eve of the most solemn feast of the Celtic year: Samhain (pronounced 'sowen').

Samhain is the first day of November and the start of a new cycle, where growth will occur during the time of darkness, as the time of agriculture comes to a close.

Typically, in Ireland, Scotland and Wales there would be a three-day period of night-time rituals to mark the occasion, and tonight (what is now Halloween) would be the final night.

One of the rituals would involve the lighting of a bonfire, and all households extinguishing all sources of light (candles, torches, hearths). Objects representing wishes of different people, or of ailments they suffered from, were thrown into the bonfire. After that, members of each family would come forward and light their torch at the bonfire, and carry the flame back to the household to rekindle all lights.

Another ritual included hospitality for the dead. Food would be set aside for the three nights for the deceased and was not to be eaten by anyone else. Samhain was believed to be the one time of the year when the demarcation between the dead and the living was removed, and the two could commune together.

It's interesting to see how, in Christian times, the days of All Saints (Nov 1) and Halloween (Oct 31) evolved. In Italy tomorrow, families will go to cemetaries with plants of chrysanthymums as offerings, and in Mexico, el Día de los Muertos (the day of the dead) people will dance and toast and eat little sugar skulls bearing the names of deceased loved ones.

No bonfire possible in this po-mo, urban setting, so instead many candles have been lit and one long, luxurious, cleansing bubblebath has been taken.

Right foot forward into the darkness.

Ma Che sucede?

2005-10-24T20:15:00.000-07:00

Occasionally one does surface from a steady diet of Hindi movies.

In this case, to watch Motorcycle Diaries, starring the Mexican actor Gael García Bernal.

While he has been great so far in his young life and career in Y Tu Mamá También and Mala Educación, this movie was a letdown after all the hype it received.

In it, Gael plays the young Ernesto Guevara, before he became the Che that has graced so many dorm room walls and t-shirts, oh yeah, and the dark, brooding revolutionary compañero of Fidel.

Nota bene: ‘che’ is a word Argentines use when addressing a friend, not unlike the way Tams will call a buddy ‘maplai’;for example “Che, vos querés ir al cine esta noche?”, but it’s funny to see how it’s treated in English-language media, often with “el” before it, as if he were The Che. But I digress.

For a road movie, the pace of this flic was that of a slowly deflating tire.

The scenery is gorgeous, especially in Peru. And the landscape isn’t bad, either. Ah the beauty of Gael García Bernal, those green cat eyes and long nose that he inherited from his mother, the actress Patricia Bernal. He could be Saif Ali Khan's Guadalajaran doppelgänger, cursed with an almost too feminine beauty. He is a joy to behold, and he was able to camouflage his Mexican accent with an Argentine one, but I never saw the change that Che supposedly underwent on this trip, where his eyes – those of a comfortable, middle class porteño - were opened to the injustices across the length of South America and he felt a call to action.

All the vim and brio in Motorcycle Diaries was expressed by the actor Rodrigo de la Serna, Che’s companion on the journey, fellow Argentine Alberto Granado. While the less prettier of the two boys, it is Rodrigo who appears to actually live before our eyes on celluloid, while Gael sleepwalks.

Maybe it’s because I had read a lot about Che Guevara and the Cuban revolution already and knew the back story. Perhaps if I had seen the movie with fresh eyes.

If they start any earlier, we can do our Christmas shopping in shorts and tank tops

2005-10-12T20:33:00.000-07:00

Yes, there can be too much of a good thing.

Even for someone who loves the Christmas season, this is just ridiculous.

Starting on Monday evening of this week - that's October 10th, Columbus Day, for chrissakes - and up until now, I can count 4 different Christmas/holiday-themed adverts that have run during prime-time TV hours.

Come on, TV network guys, the weather has just started to turn cool this week. People are still wearing sandals. Halloween is over 2 weeks away.

Oh wait, I get it. Whereas it used to be that Thanksgiving was the official starting bell for the Christmas season, I guess it will now be Halloween. Come November 1, it'll be wall-to-wall winter wonderlands and jingling bells on ads for everything from Depends ("For when you've had one eggnog too many and have a long drive home") to Cialis ("C'mere and trim this tree, baby!").

Judas mon amour, golden boy manqué

2005-10-11T23:19:00.000-07:00

What I miss:

Strong hands at my nape and my shoulders on a late night like this one, kneading the knots away.

The hair and warmth of his legs entwined with my smooth calves on a cold night like this one.

The lovenotes and drawings on the kitchen message board.

Watching him chop and cook as I was curled up with a glass of wine.

Seeing him smile at me when I walked through the door after work.

What I don’t miss:

The ice water shock of learning the enlightened, sweet, polite, handsome man that I and all the girls, and mothers and aunts, loved and thought to be such a golden boy, was a fraud.

The slow unraveling of all the proof of all the betrayal.

The grotesque mosaic of email, SMS, email, voice…so many lies in so many media.

The crushing revelations:

That those you love will hurt you like no other.

That love becomes hate in the flap of a hummingbird’s wings.
That you do not know, ever.
That you cannot trust, ever.
That you cannot believe, ever.

Sara jahan ishq hai jhoota

Daniel Pearl Music Days

2005-10-06T00:23:00.000-07:00

On October 10th, were he still alive, journalist Daniel Pearl would be celebrating his 42nd birthday with his wife, Mariane, and young son, Adam.

But he was beheaded - in a brutal murder broadcast over the Internet - in Pakistan in 2002.

(If you want to read a beautiful and devastating love story, see Mariane's book A Mighty Heart.)

In a gesture of hope in the face of despair, his family have invited people to create or support a musical event in their communities on the day that would have been his birthday. In the past 3 years, events have taken place in Goa, New York, Karachi, Nairobi and Jersusalem, among others.

A fitting tribute for the youthful man who was not just a writer and devoted husband but also a dedicated musician.

Danny Pearl wrote these deep and sometimes quirky stories that appeared in the middle column of the Wall Street Journal, some which can be read here.

Events over the next few days leading up to, and including, October 10th will be taking place in Cameroun, India, the US, Zimbabwe, Italy, Sweden, and on and on.

Many candles to defeat the darkness.

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2005-10-02T19:36:00.000-07:00

(TV Party Tonight playing in the background)

Next to Christmas, this is probably the next best time of year.

The 30+ degree C days have gone, taking the humidness with them, and the Fall television season is in full swing.

And what a season it is so far…. Cute little baby sea monsters in Surface, plus that funky Rade Serebedja….Christian unable to keep up with the woman he brought to bed along with his porn star girlfriend in Nip/Tuck…we got to go inside the hatch on Lost and see that several numerical patterns are being repeated all over the place….Will is at the receiving end of a hard, long kiss (with tongue, I’m sure) from meaty Alec Baldwin on the live opening show of Will and Grace…speaking of meaty, Billy Shatner and Jimmy Spader, both sporting shades, plow down the street in the launch of Boston Legal and run smack into Heather Locklear who’ll be around for a while….ah and then there’s the Apprentices…. Martha’s well groomed group (The Creatives and the Business People) live in a beautifully appointed loft and have, so far, had to create a children’s book and set up a flower shop…. While The Donald’s passle (now divided into Men and Women) have had to set up gym programmes the first week and develop an ad campaign for Lamborghini…on another night we’ve seen the first woman president of the United States take office (with a perfectly evil Speaker of the House – Donald Sutherland – intoning “I’ll be behind you every step of the way” in the most sinister manner)…as much as I love the idea of Benjamin Bratt in uniform throwing around tough-guy bravado with Dennis Hopper, I’ve already given up on E-Ring, as it had a been-there-done-thatness to it…..but on the subject of DC and politics, West Wing (my fantasy government) opened with a teasing glimpse of what the characters’ lives will be like in a few years’ time, then cut back to the presidential campaign between Alan Alda and Jimmy Smits just before the opening credits unfurled…

(Pant, pant) Even with TiVO I can’t keep up.

Let this be a warning to newspaper hoarders...

2005-09-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

...lest ye end up like this.

Dan Barry writes about William Buchanan Obermeyer, who took being a bibliophile to the extreme.

His Manhattan apartment grew so cluttered over the years that newspapers and books took over, towering high in piles and columns, filling entire rooms.

What about all those dotty old ladies Graham Chapman played on Monty Python?

2005-09-14T21:08:00.000-07:00

Germaine Greer came out swinging in a recent lecture, railing against British actresses and their potrayals of septugenarian women in adverts on the telly as one more contributing factor to ageism:

“Why is that character loveable? I’m sick and tired of being the person in a television commercial who is too stupid to understand the directions on a detergent packet,” Professor Greer said in a lecture entitled The Image of Age.

She makes some good points. Ask yourself when was the last time you've seen a woman over 65 in any advertisement who looks like she's intelligent, or street-smart, or even capable?

Link.

Dear New York City

2005-09-11T21:04:00.000-07:00

It was a day just like today has been.

One of those early September days that feel like a reward for having sweltered through another July and August in Manhattan. Miles of blue sky as far as the eye could see, a light, sweet morning breeze.

But then it all went wrong.

On the train to work, the radio signal on my Walkman vanished (the station’s broadcast antenna was on the first tower to be hit) and at first we heard it was an accident. A small aircraft.

But after scrolling to another station I heard the drivetime DJ say “Oh my God, a plane just hit the second tower!”

And by the time I was out of the subway and walking to my office, you could see the smoke pouring from those ugly, unimaginative Kit-Kat-shaped towers that none of us liked, but that, we’d realize later, were vital landmarks for anyone navigating around downtown for a night out or Sunday brunch.

We had only radio in the office, no TV, and CNN and the New York Times websites were crippled from so many hits. I heard about the first tower coming down while chatting online with someone thousands of miles away.

Four years later, I still forget they’re gone sometimes and am even now surprised by the emptiness in the skyline.

Every anniversary we get the phantom blue lights instead. It’s a clear night tonight and you can see them easily from here.

Published on the Op-Ed page of today’s Times:

Dear New York City...
By SPALDING GRAY

Spalding Gray, the actor and monologuist, died in 2004. The following letter, which he wrote in the aftermath of 9/11, will appear in "Life Interrupted," a published version of the monologue he was working on at the time of his death.

For 34 years I lived with you and came to love you. I came to you because I loved theater and found theater everywhere I looked. I fled New England and came to Manhattan, that island off the coast of America, where human nature was king and everyone exuded character and had big attitude. You gave me a sense of humor because you are so absurd.

When we were kids, my mom hung a poster over our bed. It had a picture of a bumblebee, and under the picture the caption read:

"According to all aerodynamic laws, the bumblebee cannot fly because its body weight is not in the right proportion to its wingspan. But ignoring these laws, the bee flies anyway."

That is still New York City for me.

Where's Leander Paes when you need him?

2005-09-11T14:09:00.000-07:00

From It Happened Last Week in New York Magazine:

"The devastation that Hurricane Katrina wreaked upon New Orleans concentrated the minds of New Yorkers, who also weighed the possible consequences of such a storm’s hitting the five boroughs someday, including the evacuation of up to 2.4 million residents. A team of emergency planners was to be dispatched to the Gulf Coast to glean what preparatory lessons they could. Katrina’s remoter effects were felt here in the form of a stifling blanket of humidity. Several competitors at the U.S. Open were overcome: One vomited on the court; another collapsed in the bleachers; yet another, a rather good-looking player from Spain, Feliciano López, played in white Capri pants that were soon rendered all but transparent by his copious perspiration, affording fans an unexpected anatomical spectacle. "

I can see why John Leguizamo's wife got a Brazilian wax beforehand

2005-09-11T11:46:00.000-07:00

One trend I will not be rushing to join (should the occasion present itself), women are now inviting several family members and friends to be present in the delivery room for that special moment:

"Just a generation after fathers had to beg or even sue for the right to be present, the door to the delivery room has swung wide open. Even the most traditional hospitals now allow multiple guests during labor, transforming birth from a private affair into one that requires a guest list. Like bridesmaids and pallbearers, the invitees are marked as an honored group of intimates. But few weddings or funerals involve nudity, blood or heavy anesthetics."

Read more here.

Do the girls have special rates for hurricane survivors?

2005-09-11T11:36:00.000-07:00

It makes sense, I suppose.

After the basic necessities of food, and water, and sleep, and some semblance of cleanliness, sex couldn't be far behind.

Further proof that life does go on, and New Orleans will return to the nudge-nudge, wink-wink city that it was:

"...The day before, Jason Mohney, owner of the Hustler and three other local strip clubs, arrived with a few dancers and bouncers and some high-powered flashlights, and found little damage to the red velvet heart-shaped couches and shiny disco balls, just a little moisture and mold on carpets - probably flooded, but perhaps from spilled beer.

"As soon as we have power, that will be the only thing that's keeping us from opening," Mr. Mohney said. "There'll be couch dances as soon as we can get open," he promised, though one of the dancers, Dawn Beasley, offered one on the spot ($30)."

Read the full story here.

Jacques, comment vas-tu?

2005-09-08T11:07:00.000-07:00

Libération has an interesting article on the intensified rivalry between the poet/Prime Minister Dominique de Villepin and the Interior Minister Nicolas Sarkozy, now that the 72-year-old Chirac is hospitalized, wherein they manage to use the noun "présidentiabilité".

They're alive!

2005-09-03T23:59:00.000-07:00

Though I've cried watching the images of the suffering that the deadly mix of horrendous weather and "superpower" government blundering has visited on so many people in the South, I had no immediate, personal connection to anyone living there, as far as I know.

But I did have two recurring, nagging thoughts about two men: "Where were Andrei Codrescu and Rick Bragg when Katrina hit? And are they o.k.?" I've loved the former for only a year or so now, the latter I've adored since his early days at the New York Times.

Andrei Codrescu sets the bar very high for any of us who think we've mastered a second language. He came to the U.S. from Romania decades ago and does the most amazing things with English, which is not his mother tongue. Aside from being a writer and the editor of The Exquisite Corpse, he also does a regular commentary piece on National Public Radio and teaches at Louisiana State University at Baton Rouge, and has made his home in New Orleans for 20 years. I figured he might not have even been in the U.S. last week, given how prone Europeans are to take holidays in August, but still...

Then I heard him last Wednesday, Mourning for a Flooded Crescent City .

Listen to him, and see if he doesn't sound to you, as he does to me, like Mikhail Baryshnikov but after having smoked even more cigarettes than Latvia's most gorgeous export.

Ok, so Codrescu was o.k. What about Alabama's native son?

The Pulitzer Prize-winning newspaperman and author had a famous falling out back in 2003 with his last employer, the New York Times, when it was discovered, right on the tail end of the Jayson Blair scandal that Bragg had not done all the legwork on an article written under his byline and had not credited the stringer who had.

Since then he did the I'm a Soldier Too book with Jessica Lynch, and I hadn't seen much else of his published after, but I knew he had been living in New Orleans for several years now.

Et voilÃ , this article appeared in the Washington Post on Friday, September 2nd, with all the hallmark Rick Bragg traits. Just look at how he starts off the piece:

This Isn't the Last Dance by Rick Bragg

It has always had my heart in a box.

In the clip-joint souvenir shops in the gaudiest blocks of the Quarter, with canned Cajun music drilling rock-concert-loud into my ears, I could never resist opening the toy wooden coffins to see what was inside. I knew it would be just a cut-rate voodoo doll -- a wad of rags, cheap plastic beads and blind, button eyes. But every time, it made me smile. What a place, what a city, that can make you laugh at coffins and believe in magic -- all the way to the cash register.

What a place, where old women sit beside you on outbound planes complaining about their diabetes while eating caramel-covered popcorn a fistful at a time. "It's hard, so hard, sweet baby," they will say of their disease, then go home and slick an iron skillet with bacon grease, because what good is there in a life without hot cornbread?

What a place, where in the poorest cemeteries the poorest men and women build tin-foil monuments to lost children in a potter's field, while just a few blocks over, the better-off lay out oyster po' boys and cold root beer and dine in the shade of the family crypt, doing lunch with their ancestors and the cement angels in cities of the dead.

What a place, so at ease here at the elbow of death, where I once marched and was almost compelled to dance in a jazz funeral for a street-corner conjurer named Chicken Man, who was carried to his resting place by a hot-stepping brass band and a procession of mourners who drank long-neck beers and laughed out loud as his hearse rolled past doorways filled with men and women who clapped in time.

...

here is the rest of it.

Trolling for hot babes after the hurricane

2005-09-01T06:35:00.000-07:00

Among the pages and pages of coverage the NY Times has devoted to the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, at the end of the article Loved Ones Turn to Web for Searches in Flood Zone, there was a rather interesting example of how innovative men can be when there's an opportunity for some lovin' from a purty woman:

At Craigslist, some links normally devoted to romantic, personals-ad-style connections, like men and women looking for someone they met in a bar or locked eyes with on a subway, also carried notices for the missing. Other links, like the more-risqué "casual encounters," included two postings yesterday from men apparently looking to turn the hurricane into an opportunity for a date.

"I will give you free shelter in New York and pay for you to get here," said a man identifying himself only as a 25-year-old on Long Island. "I will help you get back on your feet. You can come stay with me if you are a young attractive female that has just lost everything in the hurricane. I live on Long Island and I am willing to open my home to you."

Perhaps less than altruistically, he added, "Please send pic."

Comfort after the storm

2005-08-31T21:01:00.000-07:00

Whatever people might say about race relations in the U.S., or moreover, in the southern U.S., this picture might lead you to believe there's hope yet. Link.

Through the eyes of babes

2005-08-29T20:33:00.000-07:00

Saw some startlingly beautiful photographs taken by children of Beslan, Russia to commemorate the first anniversary of the siege on their school.

It was on September 1 when the school was taken over and 338 children and adults killed.

The photographs were taken as part of a UNICEF workshop, and some of the teenage photographers are survivors of the attack.

The symbolism of the water bottles and cigarettes is interesting.

And pictures 12, 13 and 14 are a perfect close to the photo essay.

Panda monium

2005-08-29T10:47:00.000-07:00

First, I got hooked on the San Diego Zoo’s panda cam.

The newborn female panda cub, about the size of a Beanie Baby, is just starting to have visibly black ears and circles around her eyes (before she looked like a squealing white rat) and when her mother licks her (for grooming or bonding or both, I suppose), she looks like she’s eating the kid.

After hearing that the zoo in Washington DC also has a panda cub (older and bigger than the San Diego one) whose every move can also be viewed on a panda cam, I thought this would be great fun, toggling back and forth between the East and West coast cubs, but when I try to access the DC site, I keep getting the following message:

“Our cams are at maximum capacity. Click play to connect.”

UPDATE! You can also view the panda cub born at the National Zoo in Washington DC here, on the Discovery Channel's Animal Planet website. And boy, is he adorable!

Other end of the spectrum from the extended family

2005-08-27T21:54:00.000-07:00

On the same day that Bill Maher commented on Real Time that the population of single people (totally single, no kids even) has bypassed the number of married people and the number of single people with kids in the U.S., the New York Times ran this story on the front page that morning:

Alone in Illness, Seeking Steady Arm to Lean On by Jane Gross

Every time Grace McCabe is handed a form in a doctor's office asking for an emergency contact, the blank space makes her shiver.

It is such a simple question for anyone with a spouse, partner or children. But Ms. McCabe, 75, has always lived alone. Who would stand by her in a crisis? Who would be there for her in the worst of times?

These were once hypothetical questions. But now Ms. McCabe's slowly fading eyesight is almost gone. She has always had lots of friends but had never asked one to take responsibility for her, to answer the middle-of-the-night telephone call from the emergency room, say, or to pay her bills because she cannot write checks herself.

Of all her friends, she has fixed on one with a good heart, a steady hand under pressure and a talent for problem solving. So time and again, she writes "Charlotte Frank" in the blank space and lightens the moment by calling to say, "Charlotte, you're on another list."

The article goes on to talk about how people - singletons - cope in old age, and sometimes not-so-old age, when illness strikes. The examples of friendships are inspiring, but at the same time, the story is chilling. Is there ever a worse time to be by yourself than when you're sick and have to be hospitalized?

How does David Pogue recognize a Bombay accent?

2005-08-25T13:00:00.000-07:00

In a NY Times technology column, David Pogue urges readers to remember to backup their computers, and in recounting his own how-I-lost-my-data story, he also reveals that he has an ear for accents:

You know, you can only be lucky for so long.

In the case of my Dell PC, that was about a year and a half. I came to my desk one morning, turned it on, and got this message on the screen: "DISK READ ERROR. Press Ctrl+Alt+Del to restart."

Dell's technicians, in thick Bombay accents, directed me to perform a number of tweaks, tests and experiments. After several hours, they announced that the hard drive must have died, and everything on it was lost.

This is why I love Dan Barry

2005-08-24T22:02:00.000-07:00

Here's how he opens a story in Wednesday's New York Times Metro section:

This massive city has a fourth dimension, a yawning black hole into which you can willfully dive or accidentally trip. The chance to slip into nothingness is the beauty of New York, and its horror, as when searchers vested in the vanished are left to divine answers from stone-silent pavement and lapping river waters.

The title of the article is The Father Who Never Came Home, and it's about the disappearance of sports writer John Lake in 1967.

He's one of my favorite newspapermen at the Times, and is often mentioned in the same breath as fellow second generation Irishman Pete Hamill. No bad company to be in.

If you want to see some more of his articles, have a look at this one, or this one, or this one. Each of them a little gem. This guy has such a talent for telling a story, cramming in a bunch of information, and all the while revealing some telling facet, when not the essence, of the subject he's writing about.

And he writes about New York City like few contemporary journos do.

When did men start lactating?

2005-08-24T15:24:00.000-07:00

How did I miss this in the news???

Apparently Karisma Kapoor-Kapur's soon-to-be ex-husband has quite some parenting skills:

He charged Karisma with not acting in the best interests of the child as she proposed to take a five-month-old baby to the US on an illegally obtained passport. By doing so, she was depriving Samaira of the right to the company and care of her father, Sanjay Kapur maintained.

He further accused Karisma of not having spent time with their daughter even though he was allegedly nursing her.

"If anything, this gruelling ordeal would seriously jeopardise the health and emotional well- being of our daughter," Sanjay Kapur alleged.

Talk about a Madonna/whore complex

2005-08-23T17:13:00.000-07:00

Doctor Keith Ablow in the Health section of the New York Times today writes of men who have come to him after being with their wives in the delivery room and who then have a hard time feeling "romantic" towards the new mothers after witnessing the child emerging from the wife's body.

Are you kidding me???

A woman - the woman you allegedly love - commits to creating a new life with you, and all the lifetime of responsibility that entails, allows her body and health to undergo all sorts of changes and risks over the course of nine months, and then when your kid pops out of her body, slimy and squirming, you just let out a loud "Ewwwwwwwww! Icky! Gross!" and scurry away?!? Way to go, guys!

You need to get your heads out of FHM and all the online porn you've been looking at and realize that a woman can be many avatars in one, and grow up and get over yourselves.

Most concerning is how he closes the article:

Whether the father is present in the delivery room is a couple's personal decision, of course.

But it is a decision that involves potential gains and potential losses, and too few couples realize that fact or are willing to talk about it.

Women may want to consider the risks as they invite their partners to watch them bring new life into the world. For some of the passion that binds them together may leave their lives at the very same time.

Great, doc, so we should go back to the old days, when the woman was wheeled off to do all the "dirty work" on her own, while the men paced up and down in a waiting room?

The early bird gets what?

2005-08-16T18:45:00.000-07:00

Best line from the opening episodes of the Motley Crue drummer's reality show Tommy Lee Goes to College, as he falls out of bed before dawn to make his University Of Nebraska marching band audition: "I was up at like 5.30 or 6.00. Normally I wouldn't get up at this hour for sex."

Link.

What do snipers munch on when they feel peckish?

2005-08-13T22:52:00.000-07:00

Just imagine, you're a sniper, sitting there, hidden away, peering out through a ventilation slot every couple of seconds, waiting for the 73-year-old man you've come to kill.

You haven't eaten in ages and your stomach is growling.

With both eyes on the Foreign Minister's garden and his swimming pool, you reach back with one hand for your knapsack and pull out a wedge of cheese, bite off a piece then put it aside. That wasn't enough. Now you feel like something sweet. Back into the knapsack, fumble around, where is it, ah, here it is. A bar of chocolate going soft in the Colombo morning heat.

The UK's Sunday Times in reporting on the assassination of Laxman Kadirgamar: "Police found cheese and chocolate that the snipers had been eating as they waited for their target." Link to the full story.

Just what the world needs, one more pushy New Yorker

2005-08-10T20:23:00.000-07:00

Here's what someone had to say about a brush with a certain famous writer while at the M.I.A. concert in Central Park on Sunday:

So who's BEHIND me in the VIP (yaa, I'm cool) line at the show: Salman Facking Rushdie with the goddess of prosperity and his son. It's not enuff he got her, but homeslice totally cuts in front of me. Bitch, no wonder there's a fatwa against you..

Link

Is it really a friend finder?

2005-08-07T16:37:00.000-07:00

I look out over the vast terrain of online dating with mixed feelings. In some ways, it seems great. Convenient, private, as many listings as the Bombay phone directory has Patels, and the sting of any possible rejection seems minimized.

But at the same time, is it really such a good thing that there are thousands of people just a few clicks away, as ready as instant coffee? I don’t know. If one is looking for multiple, quick hook-ups, it must be a wonderful medium, like an Amazon.com of bodies. If you want something other than that, then it's more like doing a Google search, quite a bit of sorting and sifting required.

Some bhel puri with your egg cream, bhaiya?

2005-07-31T13:45:00.000-07:00

In today's New York Times Joseph Berger writes about the various ethnic cuisines in NYC that are now prepared by nationalities other than those of the cuisine itself.

One example: Ray Patel of Gujurat making that most NY Jewish of beverages, the egg cream.

Link.

Would "Tiny" be worse?

2005-07-25T21:51:00.000-07:00

Looking at an online dating site tonight I spy one guy whose profile name is..... Slayer.

His mailbox must be flooded with responses.

Just can't get enough

2005-07-24T18:30:00.000-07:00

So this is the reality of my new single life: now that I no longer need to concur with someone on what movies to rent or see in a theater, that means I can watch as many Hindi movies as I wish, and that means that in the last few weeks the pace and quantity have accelerated considerably.

From Paheli, on to Sarkar, to Parineeta, to Viruddh, with Black and Bunty aur Babli thrown in between.

Before, he used to only tolerate one Bollywood flic every two months or so.

It's a pity he didn't leave sooner!

Perhaps if they'd been watching Roseanne

2005-07-01T20:10:00.000-07:00

David Enders has got a book out about his experiences as a journalist publishing the only English newspaper in Iraq, Baghdad Bulletin: Dispatches on the American Occupation.

Chatting on the radio this week, he told of being asked by Iraqis when he was over there "We all watch Friends. How come the troops aren't pretty like that?"

"Like most love stories, it begins with an act of utter foolishness."

2005-07-01T03:56:00.000-07:00

...Morgan Freeman narrating March of the Penguins, the new film by Luc Jacquet.

Synopsis from the film's website:

"Each winter, alone in the pitiless ice deserts of Antarctica, deep in the most inhospitable terrain on Earth, a truly remarkable journey takes place as it has done for millennia. Emperor penguins in their thousands abandon the deep blue security of their ocean home and clamber onto the frozen ice to begin their long journey into a region so bleak, so extreme, it supports no other wildlife at this time of year. In single file, the penguins march blinded by blizzards, buffeted by gale force winds. Resolute, indomitable, driven by the overpowering urge to reproduce, to assure the survival of the species.

Guided by instinct, by the otherworldly radiance of the Southern Cross, they head unerringly for their traditional breeding ground where - after a ritual courtship of intricate dances and delicate maneuvering, accompanied by a cacophony of ecstatic song - they will pair off into monogamous couples and mate.

The days grow shorter, the weather ever more bitter. The females remain long enough only to lay a single egg. Once this is accomplished, exhausted by weeks without nourishment, they begin their return journey across the ice-field to the fish-filled seas. The journey is hazardous, and rapacious leopard seals a predatory threat. The male emperors are left behind to guard and hatch the precious eggs, which they cradle at all times on top of their feet. Subjected to subzero temperatures and the terrible trials of the polar winter, they too face great dangers.

After two long months during which the males eat nothing, the eggs begin to hatch. Once they have emerged into their ghostly white new world, the chicks can not survive for long on their fathers' limited food reserves. If their mothers are late returning from the ocean with food, the newly-hatched young will die.

Once the families are reunited, the roles reverse, the mothers remaining with their new young while their mates head, exhausted and starved, for the sea, and food. While the adults fish, the chicks face the ever-present threat of attack by prowling giant petrels. As the weather grows warmer and the ice floes finally begin to crack and melt, the adults will repeat their arduous journey countless times, marching many hundreds of miles over some of the most treacherous territory on Earth, until the chicks are ready to take their first faltering dive into the deep blue waters of the Antarctic. "

Holy pocket square, Batman!

2005-06-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

At a reading and signing of Shashi Tharoor's Bookless in Baghdad the other night at the Rubin Museum, just as the clinking of glasses and chatter was dying down and the author was poised to speak, a very dapper septugenarian nearby exclaimed, rather loudly, "This used to be Barneys!"

Indeed, he was right. The location on West 17th street used to be the famous men's department store.

Priceless.

Cabbage??

2005-06-29T19:48:00.000-07:00

Why is it that the writers of Rescue Me are so enamored of the word "cabbage" for money? It's been used at least 4 times in the past 2 episodes.

Is this some common term among firemen of Irish origin?