A Spoonful of Ghee

Why I Am Not a Criminal

2012-01-31T16:49:00.000-08:00

I more or less stay within the confines of the law. This is not because I have some sort of moral compass or anything, but because I am not smooth enough to carry it off any other way. Besides, I am too delirious to acquire enemies, too awkward to enlist co-conspirators, too complacent to desire riches, and too slothful and out of shape to, like, pry and kick shit open. These qualities all supersede the requisite mens rea for committing most criminal activity. I'm astonished that I even took the effort to italicize that term. I also find it totally pretentious.

Blancy

2011-11-17T09:27:00.000-08:00

Last Monday, I decided to give my lethargy a break for the noon hour and attend a yoga class in the Montclair district of Oakland, which is a relatively upscale patch of the city. I arrived about fifteen minutes early and for a moment considered feeding the meter and taking a short walk before the class, but instead opted to save those few dimes and sit in the car and browse Facebook on my phone.

A couple of minutes into my perusal of cat and Bollywood videos, I saw a truck slow down next to me, and the passenger rolled her window down to allow the driver to call something out. Assuming the driver hoped I was leaving the parking spot, I furrowed my brow, rolled down my window, and flatly stated, "I'm not leaving."

"Do you want me to fix those scratches on the back of your car?" the yellow-toothed male driver inquired across his passenger. I noticed a child in the back of the vehicle as well.

"Oh! Maybe," I replied, puzzled.

Within moments, the truck found a spot for itself, and the yellow-toothed driver emerged behind my vehicle. I got out of the car to allow him to explain his offer.

"See all these scratches on the back and sides of your car?" the yellow-toothed driver noted, pointing with one hand and cupping his chin with the other, "Looks like you've driven into some fences or something?"

"Mm hm," I nodded.

"I can paint over and fix them all for you for $250."

"Oh, yeah I have problems with fences and poles and curbs," I explained. "There's a big dent in the front of the car too. Would you be able to fix that too, and how much would it cost for all of it?"

The yellow-toothed driver walked around to the front of the vehicle and examined the damage, confirming, "Yeah, I could pop that back out for you. Tell you what, I can take care of all of this right now for $300. I've got my wife and son with me; they can just wait while I work on this."

"Do you have a card or something?" I asked. "I'm about to go to yoga class, but I can call you and maybe schedule something later today or tomorrow."

"I can do it right now and have it done by the time you're out of your class," the yellow-toothed driver persisted. "You don't even have to pay me anything upfront. Once you're out and you see my work, I can follow you to an ATM and you can pay me then."

"OK, well I'm not doing it right now, but give me your number and I'll call you," I replied, taking out my phone. "What's your name?"

"Blancy," the yellow-toothed man seemed to blurt out. "B-L-A-N-C-Y?" "Yeah," Blancy replied, providing his phone number upon my prompting. "Tell you what, if you go with me today, I'll take care of everything for you for $250. I've got the factory paint and everything."

"OK, I'll call you," I promised.

Just then, a distinctively redneck-looking man in a classy but ill-fitted suit walked by and shook hands with Blancy, saying "HI! Nice to see you!" The redneck then addressed me with a raving testimonial for Blancy. "He's helped me with my car several times. He does great work!" I smiled and nodded.

"OK, I have to go to my class now, but I'll call you!" I vowed.

Later that same afternoon, I went to my car dealer to get an overdue major service on my vehicle. The workers took a couple of hours to change the filters and check everything out, and as they were wrapping up, I asked my service adviser how much he thought it should cost to get the scratches and dents on my car fixed.

"We don't do that work here," he clarified, "But instead of taking it to a shop, I would call one of those mobile services that could come up and take care of it. I'm guessing maybe $300-500."

OK, so it wasn't unheard of to have a random dude pull up and fix up your car -- and it seemed I would be getting a bargain through Blancy. To be honest, I had been thinking about getting this manner of auto work done anyway, but I just figured it would cost way more than I could afford. Perhaps the universe had conspired in bringing Blancy to me! Why even mess with that beautiful universal flow by Google-stalking or Yelp-stalking him or other possibilities?

I called Blancy that evening; his wife answered the phone and took down my request to have him meet me the following afternoon at 2pm at an address close to my office.

Blancy called the next afternoon at around 1:30pm and said he was in Modesto picking up supplies and would be running slightly late. I said that was fine and he could call me when he got to my neck of the wood. Blancy called around 2:45, and I met him on location. He arrived with two other men and said it should only take about 20 minutes. "This is about $800 worth of work if you took it to a shop," Blancy informed me, "It's actually a quick job, but they would just let it sit there until someone could get to it." As he was talking to me, one of the men had already started firing up the area of the dent and indeed had almost completely popped it out. I was impressed. I realized I hadn't yet withdrawn cash for this service, so I told Blancy I would go to the ATM and be right back. "We'll be done by the time you're back," Blancy promised.

When I returned, the other two workers were heading back to their truck, and Blancy awaited me at the front of the vehicle. He first showed me the dent which had been popped out, and then walked me around the vehicle, showing that the scratches had been painted over. However, it seemed that the color of the patches that were formerly scratches was now a greenish color, whereas my vehicle was silver. "See this polish?" Blancy said, pointing to the green, "Just leave it on for about four hours, and ideally overnight. Then wipe it with a wet cloth."

"Oh. OK!" I chirped happily. I pulled out $280 in cash and thanked him, saying I would refer other business to him as well.

"Thank you," Blancy replied, "I'll give you a free detail for the referrals."

Blancy and his men drove off, and I got in my car, feeling excited about how new and awesome my car was going to look. I drove off to San Francisco to meet a friend; however, a few blocks before reaching my destination, a police car signaled for me to pull over. "What the fuck have I done?" I wondered. I had just been driving on a straight road for a while without making any funky turns, and I definitely hadn't been speeding; I never speed, as it seems like a whole lot of effort when I could instead just take my time along the journey and listen to Pitbull.

"Hello," the police officer greeted me as I rolled down my window, "ID, insurance, and vehicle registration please?"

"Can I ask what this is about, officer?" I inquired pleasantly.

"I'll get to that," the officer replied curtly.

I handed the requested items to the copper, who then explained that my front right headlight was out. "I'm just going to issue a fix-it ticket," he said, explaining that I would have to get the headlight replaced, get a certification from the police department, and then mail it into whatever agency with a $25 fee. I normally would have tried to talk my way out of this, but I deliriously nodded and accepted the ticket, wondering how this could have happened when I had just gotten a major service the day before. The only plausible explanation was that Blancy's man had somehow taken out the headlight while fixing the dent right under it. Dammit, Blancy! Oh well. It was just $25 down -- and I had gotten such a bargain on fixing my dents and scratches!

The next day, I looked at the polish and determined it would make no sense to wipe it off with a wet cloth, because it had really pretty much hardened onto the vehicle. What a curious polish, I thought. I decided I would just go through a full-service car wash so my car would come out good as brand new!

I drove out of the car wash full of excitement and anticipation for the sight of a sparkly, evenly silver vehicle. However, when I emerged from the vehicle and walked around it, I saw that the greenish color remained encrusted on the surface -- and only then did it dawn upon me that this might not have been polish at all!

I tried to phone Blancy the next morning to express my disappointment, but an operator message informed me that the number was no longer in service.

Dammit, Blancy!

Well, here's the thing. Blancy, or whatever his actual name is, did swindle me -- and I do totally resent that he may have profiled me to be a gullible fool on the basis of my age, gender, color, and/or propensity to hit up a noon yoga sesh in Montclair -- but, he could have done much worse, as many people are doing in these unfortunate times. The appointment I made with him was in a public place and during the day, but it's not like there were too many people around at the time; he and his two men quite easily could have just carjacked me, and/or run off with my purse. Nay; Blancy actually is a hard-working entrepreneur, driving around and soliciting business, deploying skills of project management, negotiations, and stress management for all that risk-taking, no doubt -- and, he puts diligent effort into procuring at least a semblance of labor and supplies for his services. And, he has other expenses! All that gas driving around searching for business, hiring redneck plants to provide live customer testimonials and probably renting suits for them, and then having to change his phone number every who-knows-how-often!

I paid $280 to have my vehicle defaced -- but at the end of the day, I still have a very comfortable place to call home, many wonderful people to call my family and friends, and copious amounts of delicious food entering my belly every 3-5 hours. I have hardly been impoverished by this incident; one could even argue that my common sense has been enriched. Blancy, on other other hand, seems to come from a different point on the spectrum of the 99%. He can't seem to afford a dentist, so I doubt he's going to be running off with my money to a holiday in Rome. That shit would have pissed me off, but it seems to be more the stuff of Enron executives than a guy who drives around with buckets full of crappy paint in his truck. Nor do I believe Blancy is going to throw the money on meth or alcohol, since he seemed genuinely alert and enthusiastic about rounding up customers. Whatever the case, at least his family should be getting a fabulous meal tomorrow.

99 Probablems

2011-10-28T00:10:00.000-07:00

I just entered to win a copy of Mindy Kaling's new book. The odds are stacked against me, as only ten copies are available, and over 1800 have been requested. Still, I'm thinking there's a chance I'll be one of the lucky ones. Any time I enter a contest or a raffle or buy a lottery ticket, I hope that I'll beat the statistical odds. Yet I take comfort in statistical odds showing that my loved ones and I are unlikely to get into a fatal accident or come down with a chronic disease or be drafted into the Hunger Games. I guess this is a pretty obvious and common way of maintaining an optimistic outlook, but I had somehow not really put it into perspective this way.

Death Wishes

2011-10-21T22:41:00.000-07:00

This is not a suicide note or a will or anything like that. It's more of an acknowledgement that I could die at any time, in any whimsical manner that the universe may choose for me, and it may be at a time that is considered premature for my demographic (financially endowed fat brown girls in North America). It's sort of a blessing to be able to express, while still alive, some aspects of how I'd like that to be treated posthumously.

First of all, I know that my family and close friends will grieve. But in the words of Michael Scott, "There is such a thing as good grief. Ask Charlie Brown." Really, it will be such a double-whammy suck if I die AND the joy of my loved ones dies. My spirit will certainly find itself a rocking existence in whatever parallel universe it is sent to, and it would much rather that my peeps take my departure as an opportunity to further cherish those still in their lives and continue spending their time in ways that bring them fulfillment.

Also, no vacations or major plans should be cancelled or delayed because I'm gone, unless I would have frowned upon said major plans, in which case they should NEVER occur!!

Then there's the whole 21st century aspect, which is actually what sort of inspired this post. I don't know how I feel about people tagging me on Facebook with "RIP" or spamming Twitter and listservs about my untimely death. I mean, I do sort of enjoy the idea of posthumous infamy, but I also find it creepy! Like, unless I achieve fame/infamy in my lifetime such that random people would care, or unless I die in a way that has some type of political significance, what business do strangers have to know about me? I like the idea of my close peeps doing something joyous to celebrate my awesome legacy, but I'd feel weirdly exploited if people I didn't kick it with that much invoked my death for dramatic effect. That's truly just morbid!

No Privacy

2011-09-16T17:19:00.000-07:00

Someone contacted me today about a letter he -- actually, his landlord -- got from his ISP. Basically, the ISP wrote to notify the landlord that it had received a subpoena from some adult entertainment company to hand over his IP address because he had illegally downloaded and shared torrents of some beaver cream something-or-other video, which allegedly amounted to copyright infringement.

I didn't take the case or anything, but it just reminded me of how we really have no privacy, and how much that sucks! I mean, I'm not all overflowing with compassion for this guy, but how embarrassing. As a tenant, I'd be mortified to have my landlord knock on my door with news like that! Between that, ScarJo's butt cheek photo leak, and those fucked up anonymous guys thinking they're activists for publishing a bunch of people's names and passwords from the BART website, I'm realizing how I need to be a bit more cautious with what I do by myself in the privacy of my own home, let alone share with others. I mean, I stream my porn instead of downloading, so I think I'm OK with that? I take naked photos and videos of myself all the time -- not to share with anyone, but to see what I look like from angles that aren't easy to gauge in the mirror. Some asshole better not hack into my phone or computer and share that shit! Also, my passwords are usually pretty mundane, but what if I made it "iheart[nameofsecretcrush]" or something and that got published all over the place for the whole world to know about my secret crush?!

I Do Not Condone These Ads - Example #1

2011-08-28T12:00:00.000-07:00

I can't control what ads come across my blog -- and I guess the nobler choice would be not to be the fucked up capitalist sell-out and just remove the ads -- but how cool would it be if I could truly just blog for a living?

Anyway, my solution will be to supplement decrepit speech with good speech. So here is the first in a series of calling out ads coming across my own blog.

There was one ad I saw for a website that purported to assist with immigration, and offer "affordable" immigration forms. Just keep in mind that pretty much every immigration form you will need is downloadable for FREE at uscis.gov. There is a filing fee, of course, but the form itself is free. Be very wary of websites that sell anything immigration-related! You can get many logistical questions answered by browsing through uscis.gov or calling their customer service number or making an Infopass appointment; any actual legal advice you need should be obtained through proper attorney consultation and not some punk website.

I'm not saying don't click; I'm just saying don't believe what they tell you! ;P

The Real Welfare Queens

2011-08-14T22:47:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of people in this world, especially in this part of the world, who have the privilege not to work, and "take time off" and "figure things out" for pretty much as long as they want -- to crash with mom and dad, and, having not racked up terrible credit, use a credit card (maybe mom and dad's) for travel and gourmet eats. Hey, I get it -- I've been there, and still am, in that I don't feel the pressure to lock myself into a more stable professional track, since I know I have something to fall back on if needed. Remarkably, despite having sufficient material comfort, we often still feel emo and angsty. I guess, per ol' Maslow, you just wouldn't think to fret about what you already have -- so onward to agonizing over more lofty matters that are better suited to your pedigree.

But what would happen if all these people, who are increasing in number and getting older in age, were completely and utterly stripped of the possibility of parental and material support: food, shelter, clothing, and all? Would they actually go get up, get out, and get something? Would they stoop to performing menial tasks at minimum wage?

When people bitch about "lazy" people utilizing governmental support, and more recently, when I hear analyses of "thugs" whose "black culture" dictates "riots," I think about all the well-dressed, well-behaved, more-often-that-not white individuals who have no need to seek welfare or go vent their frustration in a public arena because they can quietly hulk on their parents' expensive sofa as unproductive domestic leeches. I mean, I'm just as appalled as anyone that a poor person would loot stores for designer shoes and things (and I'm sure the media magnified these incidents beyond their actual proportions) -- but how about judging that suburban kid who just graduated from high school, has never worked a damn day in his/her life, and has been gifted with a brand new Beemer? What, it's fine for this person to have an obnoxious sense of entitlement to getting nice things without working for them just because his/her parents have worked or inherited money from somewhere?

And then people dare to scapegoat immigrants for stealing our jobs! As if that dick kid with a Beemer would ever think about plucking strawberries or packing meat for a living and then probably get sexually assaulted or some shit in the process and not even be able to report it!

Seriously though. You can't claim to believe in hard work and scorn laziness and free-riding and welfare unless you primarily target those who have the most viable option to work: the perfectly educated and able-bodied but comfortably nonproductive individuals who clog up countless multi-million dollar suburban homes with their high-brow hipster ideals.

Flexing

2011-07-22T08:53:00.000-07:00

Every now and then when I am standing, like while in line at Trader Joe's, for example, I flex my butt cheeks. I mean, why not, right? May as well develop awesome glutes since I have nothing better to do. I had always assumed no one would notice, or, I guess I just hadn't really given a thought to whether people would notice or not.

The other day, I was trying on some tops in a fitting room. It was one of those fitting rooms I love that has a full-length mirror in front, and another diagonally in the back, plus manipulatively dim, yellowish lighting that makes everything look flattering. I tried a top on, and stared at myself in the mirror, trying to discern whether this item would look good outside of the fitting room context, and make a good contribution to my closet, or, more accurately, to my bin of crumpled clothes. While gazing deeply into my eyes and ruminating over this matter, I instinctively flexed my butt cheeks. And oh my fucking God! The lighting was dim, and I hadn't even been looking into the reflection of that back mirror, but there was absolutely nothing subtle about that!

It's so weird to think about how we really have no idea what we look like to other people. But then... is it really worth maintaining decorum to have flabby glutes?

Moving with Technology

2011-07-09T09:45:00.000-07:00

I have never exactly needed an excuse to lead a contentedly sedentary life. In elementary school, when other children would frolic on the playground and swing across the monkey bars, I would sit on the ledge and examine acorns and woodchips for their resemblance to people's faces. Later on, when we would run laps in PE, I would run fewer laps than needed to comprise the required mile, and still end up finishing much later than most of my classmates. When we would play team sports, I sucked so badly that my team members would soon end up disregarding my presence on the team, and I would sit on the bench behind them and crack my knuckles. And when it came to the social dance unit, I tried to ask my mom to write a note explaining that such an activity ran contrary to my culture -- but she wouldn't do it, so I suffered through it, embarrassed by my sweaty adolescent palms.

Until college, at least I had to go through a few motions in PE. During college and law school, at least I had to walk around on campus once in a while, to take exams and such. When I worked for someone else, at least I had to walk out of the office "to the bathroom" 25 times a day to maintain my sanity. But now that I can work from home, and I can instantly stream from a slew of movies and assorted programming to my TV, and I have a smartphone that allows me to do practically anything with a freakin' thumb, what hope is there for me to contain my corpulence?

Hark! I went for a little stroll to run some errands a couple of months ago, and, not wanting to interrupt Katy Perry Radio on Pandora, I put my earphones in so I could continue listening while walking. It was so invigorating to anticipate the next mystery tune and then match my pace to it that I continued on toward the Lake Merritt and walked the entire 3.5-mile perimeter. Each song uniquely enhanced whatever I was viewing: ducks swimming in unison to Usher's "OMG," a couple making out on a grassy hill to Ne-Yo's "Beautiful Monster," a happy dude pushing an ice cream truck to Tinchy Stryder's "Number 1." OK, it was sometimes a stretch to make the soundtrack relevant to the view, but it was an enjoyable exercise nonetheless. Of course, there were a couple of downsides to drowning out the natural sounds of my surroundings. Rarely is a dull conversation heard around the lake, so I missed out on eavesdropping; also, I almost got run over by a couple of bicyclists, since their frantic "Left! Left!" was left inaudible to me. Still, the activity was engaging enough to endure all the way to this day!

In the last two weeks, I have been trying to make more productive use of Netflix streaming. Rather than continue to park myself in front of the TV and watch reruns of The Office while simultaneously playing Angry Birds and snacking on a platter of pizza rolls and cookies, I now sometimes switch up the aforementioned routine with one of the many yoga and Pilates routines that grace the collection. It is a perfect way to pass the time while I'm waiting for the next round of pizza rolls to finish baking!

Technology has the power to turn us into indolent fucks who communicate and control everything with our thumbs. But we also have the power to move with technology!

Trusting Me x 3

2011-06-03T23:04:00.000-07:00

Many of my friends, particularly the ones in traditionally high-strung occupations, such as lawyering, often remark on how inordinately calm my disposition appears. However, the truth is that although I maintain the visage of a stoic blob, I do have many moments of anxiety. I don't care to recount the numerous triggers that fall into the desperate loser category, so I'll just mention the more dignified one: work. I really can't fuck around when it comes to handling sensitive affairs for other people, and sometimes I just get petrified thinking about whether something I have already completed was done correctly, or how I am going to resolve anticipated hurdles to difficult cases.

I have devised a mind trick to tackle this issue. Basically, I am three people. There is Past Me, an intelligent, hard-working nerd. There is Present Me, a caring and competent human being. And there is Future Me, a fearless, creative bad-ass who can get anything done. In any given moment, I can only be Present Me. This is awesome because any work-in-process that I have in hand has come from Past Me, which means that I need not worry about whether the groundwork has been properly laid. I can instead go ahead and run the usual course of Present Me, injecting some caring and competence. That's not too daunting at all! When I take a break from the work, I need not continue worrying about it, because it will soon be on the turf of Future Me, who I can be assured will finish and polish it up.

Work and sleep have seriously been so much more pleasant since I have started trusting me x 3 in such a manner. Of course, I'm not deluding myself into thinking that We are infallible. Even intelligent, hard-working nerds and fearless, creative bad-asses can make mistakes. But all of those things mixed in with caring and competence always make for a graceful and compassionate resolution.

Trusting is nice.

Something Beautiful

2011-05-19T00:49:00.000-07:00

I went to a law school with a small student body; in many ways, it felt like high school all over again, which was kind of nice. This is not to suggest that my high school experience was a particularly glorious one -- but there were some things that I didn't even realize I liked until I got to revisit them: lockers, dances, talent/variety shows, and lunchtime student club meetings (I was a nerd and preferred the demure indoor ones rather than the rallies).

Our law school student groups had limited funding available to them from the university; under the Terminator's governance, things were getting increasingly rough. The groups did not actually have extraordinary expenses -- maybe small honoraria here are there for speakers that were invited for lectures -- but they regularly needed sufficient funds to buy pizza so that they could incentivize students to attend their lunchtime meetings. Therefore, another high-school-throwback tradition was established whereby groups would raise funds: bake sales! Students from the groups would volunteer to make various baked goods, and supporters of the groups would purchase them. I volunteered to bake on occasion, and on much more frequent occasion, I purchased baked goods from the numerous groups I supported. Fuck yeah, Feminist Forum! Fuck yeah, Middle Eastern & South Asian Law Students' Association! Fuck yeah, Black Law Students' Association! Fuck yeah, Lambda! Fuck yeah, Asian and Pacific Islander Law Students' Association! Fuck yeah, La Raza! (Booooo Federalist Society. I ain't bluffin' with that muffin.)

My seed investments would soon come back to me full circle, and I would get to munch on pizza while gaining enlightenment at the meetings of all these wonderful groups.

Of course, since the bake sale volunteers, buyers, and pizza-scarfing meeting attendees contained such a noticeable overlap, we all could have just directly pitched in for the pizza at the meetings instead of spending time and money on the ingredients, preparation, and buying/selling of the baked goods.

But there is something beautiful about it not having been handled that way.

5 Things That Suck About the US Immigration System

2011-05-10T21:11:00.000-07:00

Many people, particularly those who rattle on about how they oppose "amnesty" for the "illegals" who are destroying our country, are completely misinformed about the actual policies that our federal government directs toward immigrants. The following are just five of the many things that are fucked up about our system.

1. For purposes of gaining legal permanent resident status (commonly known as/represented by a "green card"), it doesn't matter how long you have lived in the country legally.

You would think that if someone has been admitted to the US legally -- say as a student, or as a temporary worker -- and then has worked legally, paid taxes, conducted herself as a big fat nerd, etc, then at some point she will just be able to register for permanent resident status, and eventually apply for US citizenship. Right? I mean, surely if someone has lived and worked in the US for like 15 years and has kids who were born here and are US citizens, there must be an easy process to register oneself for permanent residency.

Nope! With very limited exceptions (including: facing the imminent threat of persecution in one's home country; having earned a Nobel prize; having lived in the US continuously since January 1, nineteen-freakin-seventy-two; or possessing a million dollars to invest in a new enterprise in the US (seriously)), most people need to be sponsored in order to get a green card. And the sponsor can't just be any US citizen or US permanent resident who can vouch for your cred; it must either be your employer, who must then be willing to spend thousands of dollars and see you through the process which could potentially take more than five years; or it must be a parent, spouse, child, or, sibling (though a US permanent resident can't sponsor a sibling, nor a married offspring, and if the offspring gets married after sponsorship, it's automatically voided).

Among the estimated 11 million "illegal immigrants" are many who have been admitted legally but whose status has eventually lapsed. Without sponsorship, you have to keep extending your non-immigrant status, but do you know that even if you have held that status for years, with the same employer, the government can whimsically one day decide not to extend it? That fucking blows!

2. With few exceptions, there is a six-year limit to holding H-1B status; and there is no grace period once your status expires.

H-1B is a non-immigrant, temporary worker status for those working in "specialty occupations." Silicon Valley is flooded with such people, with a computer engineer as the classic example. Despite these workers comprising the backbone to our high-tech industries, they must either get a sponsor within their first six years, or go. What complicates things is that the companies for whom they provide services rarely actually sponsor them for the H-1B, let alone a green card. The Googles, Ciscos, and Microsofts rarely want to take on that sort of responsibility, since they have short-term, project-by-project needs and the H-1B requires a permanent employer-employee relationship -- so what ends up happening is that there is a huge string of vendors, contractors, and sub-contractors leading from to the on-paper employer to the end-client where the worker is placed. This arrangement undergoes a lot of scrutiny by the US government precisely because the employer-employee relationship is often unconvincingly established, yet there is a huge amount of room for the worker to be exploited while caught up in the mix of all these numerous and often unscrupulous middle agents just trying to make a buck off of their work. But in the end, the big companies don't care; they will find someone or other through this chain to meet their staffing needs, and the worker can just go buzz off after six years if they haven't found a sponsor! For that matter, they can buzz off if they quit or get laid off, too, since there is NO grace period whatsoever!

3. If you entered the US without inspection, even as a child, you are unable to gain legal status of any sort under current law.

No, seriously. If your parents crossed over and brought you here when you were fucking three years old, you spent every morning in elementary school reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, and you stuff yourself with fast food just like the next red-blooded American, you are still out of luck. You may not have any further ties to your home country, but there is not even a temporary, non-immigrant status waiting for you, let alone a pathway to permanent resident status or US citizenship. There is literally nothing you can do, affirmatively, to protect your right to stay in the US. You just have to stay alert on the defensive so that you can apply for some form of cancellation of removal in the event that you are placed in removal proceedings.

(The narrow exceptions to this apply to those who had the green card process started for them prior to April 30, 2001 and therefore qualify under a special provision where they can adjust status by paying a penalty; or who qualify for asylum or some other relief based on fear of persecution in the home country.)

This very idiotic glitch in our law is what necessitates passage of the DREAM Act, which would allow nerdy youth a pathway to legal permanent resident status. There is nothing to lose and much to gain from allowing people of upright character who have grown up in the US to stay here legally; yet time and again, this Act has been proposed and has failed in Congress.

4. If you are legally married to someone of the same sex, ie the marriage was legally recognized in the jurisdiction where it was performed, you cannot use that marriage as the basis for any immigration benefits.

Sorry, men, but it does matter if you love him, or capital H-i-m. Our federal government has this law called the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) on the books which defines marriage as only valid between a man and a woman -- and for immigration purposes, this federal law trumps any state law which might legally recognize it. So much for separation of church and state.

There are an estimated 36,000 binational same-sex couples who are assed out of the option for the US citizen or permanent resident to sponsor the foreign national spouse. Opposite-sex partners, on the other hand, potentially have it much better; as long as the foreign national spouse entered the US legally, even if the legal status has long-lapsed, s/he can theoretically adjust status to a permanent resident status through a bona fide marriage to a US citizen. It should be noted, though, that if the person entered without inspection, there is no affirmative way in which to adjust status within the country (unless the green card process was initiated prior to April 30, 2001).

In addition to efforts to repeal the DOMA, which even Prez O has indicated an interest toward, there have been many efforts to pass the Uniting American Families Act (UAFA), which have time and again been shot down.

5. Once you have already overstayed your legally authorized status, our laws will actually discourage you from leaving.

In 1996, the incredibly stupid Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act (IIRIRA) was passed. Among its gems were provisions which created bars from reentering the US if you overstayed your legally authorized time in the country. If you overstayed your welcome by more than 180 days but less than one year, then you will be subject to a three-year bar from reentering the country. If you overstayed by one year or more, you will be subject to a ten-year bar from reentering. These bars are triggered upon departure. One question: If your goal is to stay in the US, and you know you'll be barred from coming back once you leave, then why the hell will you leave? You are taking a gamble by staying, but you are definitely abandoning the option of being back in the US any time soon by leaving.

Speaking of the gamble you are taking by staying, let's not kid ourselves into thinking that some people -- brown and Muslim perhaps -- don't have it riskier than others, particularly in a post-9/11 world. Countless families have been torn apart because of mere visa overstays.

--

Really, these points don't even scratch the surface. There is much else to be discussed with respect to who we let in and on what timeline, and how we treat the foreign nationals who do come to our country. There is especially a lot to be said with respect to the consequences of alleged criminal activity (especially "drugs!"), the concept of mandatory (and indefinite) detention, and so much more.

The fact is that most of these 11 million people are just trying to make a decent life for themselves -- and yes, it would be nice if they could find a legal way to do it, but believe it or not, there isn't always a legal way to do it. Yet, the less likelihood that there is a viable legal path, the more likelihood that the person is working his/her ass off and doing work that US workers do not want to do, under illegal conditions that US employers do not want to change. The processing of meat in your fast food burger, the bussing of the table where you ate, the picking and transporting of the strawberries you bought at the supermarket, the changing of the sheets in your last hotel, the construction of that hotel -- these all are tasks that were likely performed by "illegals" whose employment conditions had little regulatory oversight, all so you could enjoy competitive pricing, and more so, so that the CEO's of those enterprises could take home a fat buck, only to turn around and lobby Congress to crack down on illegal immigration. Our economy thrives on this bullshit, and it's really about time to call it out.

KLPD

2011-05-09T08:30:00.000-07:00

Some time last year, in line with my predilection for random stints, I found and responded to an advertisement that requested assistance with recording profanities in English and Hindi (among several other languages) for some software. Only after exchanging several emails with the solicitor of said recordings (who was pleased with my voice sample, but requested that I sound less stern) did I inquire as to what manner of software was being developed. It turns out that an iPhone app was in the works, where the user would be able to search through a database of profanities and listen to them in the desired language(s), or play them out at a party.

I gleefully set to recording the almost 200 words and phrases that had been sent over to me. Most of these words were ones that I had heard in Bollywood movies. A few I had overheard from random conversations when I lived in the South Bay. Some I had seen on message boards or strewn across social media, but apparently never actually heard, or at least not registered. One of these words was ever-important "lund," which appeared in 14 entries.

"Broken dick," I proceeded to record in English in a calm and pleasant voice, followed with what I thought was the correct pronunciation of the Roman transliteration of the Hindi translation: "Toota hua loond." "Bummer on erect penis," I recorded, and then "Khade loond pe dhoka." Several other entries followed, including cocksucker ("loond choos"), condom ("loond chhatri"), and dick juice "loond ka ras").

The profanities solicitor got back to me soon after I sent her all of the files, impressed with my speed and organization. "We found some pronunciation errors, though..." she advised, "'Lund' needs to be pronounced as in 'Fund.'"

I am happy that I finally know the correct pronunciation of this very important word. I can only imagine the true KLPD that would result if I were to have a Desi lover on whom I attempted to turn on the heat with talk of "loond."

Education truly comes in the most unlikely places.

Mutual Awe of Immigrants and Offspring

2011-05-04T01:40:00.001-07:00

As much as my parents love me to death and are proud of me at the core, I also know that they are profoundly disappointed on some level. In their imagination, by this age, I should have been a medical doctor, and married to an equally accomplished medical doctor, with two kids, two cars, and a large home in the suburbs. Instead, I am running a very modest business, maintaining an iffy single status, driving a car they got me seven years ago, and renting a small one-bedroom apartment in a city that is most notorious for its high rate of homicide. My parents express their understanding and acceptance of my choices to the same extent that I do of their mores -- which is to say, not all that much.

While we don't often express it, I think there is some level of mutual respect and even awe over the vastly different circumstances in which we have had to carve out our livelihoods. While there have always been the renegades, my parents were raised in a context where they very much took for granted that they would be completing their degrees, getting arranged marriages, and then going "abroad" if their luck so materialized. The stars aligned, and they made their lives here in the Bay Area -- but not without struggle. They really had to work their asses off and rough if up in their early days, as they did not have financial backing or inheritances of any sort in American dollars, and they wanted to send money back home on top of establishing a home and family for themselves. Not to mention that they were now living in a place that was completely unfamiliar to them, without having had exposure to the US through the Internet or TV. Despite it all, they never my sister or me feel any shortage of American childhood recreational or culinary joys. We didn't necessarily have all the frills that my nth-generation American peers in my upper-middle-class schools had -- but it was nothing short of happy and comfortable.

Now, one could argue, I am basically riding off of my parents' hard work in building a secure family life so that I can lead a very selfish one. I mean, even the idea of having a pet appalls me, let alone a husband or child; I hate the thought of having to make special advance arrangements if I just want to go out for a night and get a fucking drink or whatever. Why would anyone want to take on such a burden? I also can't identify with the quest to be a homeowner, let alone one in the suburbs; "investments" in general bore me, and I would much rather spend the little skrilla I have on ephemeral joys. My parents largely construe these preferences as being "American" -- but I say their understanding of what is "Indian" is frozen into a specific demographic of people who left India for the west in the 1970s, and India has since multiplied and evolved in a million different ways. Moreover, what they want for me is precisely the "American Dream"! Regardless, I do understand why they would see it as fundamentally disgusting to live in this bubble where I want no accountability toward anyone.

Luckily, my parents' circle of friends is peppered with examples of other Desi immigrant offspring who have defied the mold. Many of the Desi kids I grew up with are now non-profit workers, therapists, writers, perpetual students, actors, and several varieties of artist-slackers -- and probably the majority my age are unmarried, or divorced. While their parents on some level take this as a failure in having effectively imparted their values, I think they are also highly intrigued by the options we have today, and the fact that we are not as buckled down, socially, culturally, or economically. I am curious to see what new horrors the next generation shall bring to ours.

Pinky Toe Appreciation

2011-04-26T23:47:00.000-07:00

I rarely think about my pinky toes. However, I bet that if you were to stab one of them, or yank it out, or run a dresser into it, or paint it some horrendous color, or wrap aluminum foil around it, I would be like, "Dammit. How I wish I could have my pinky toe restored to its normal state."

But why must it be so? Why must I take for granted something that is intrinsic to me, only acknowledging its existence when its state is unfavorably altered? Sure, the pinky toes do not serve a function that is as obvious or pronounced as, say, the clitoris -- but they do help to keep me grounded, and I sometimes use them to scratch my legs when I am too lazy to bend down and scratch or put lotion on them with my hands. Irrespective of the foregoing utilitarian considerations, the mere fact that vandalism/injury to or removal of my pinky toes would unsettle me so should serve as impetus to appreciate them in their day-to-day existence.

Some would ascribe this blase attitude toward pinky toes to "human nature," where we are resigned to undervaluing the familiar, being too enraptured in the pursuit of novelty. But perhaps it is a mistake to conflate "human nature" with the nature of being selected out of existence due to building new fancy things that destroy our planet, fucking our way into sexually transmitted epidemics, and waging wars in the name of new freedoms, only to then say "dammit" in wistful remembrance of the conditions before we acted upon our greed. And perhaps there is some middle ground to be found, where pleasure, innovation, and the common good can coexist. For now, I choose to marvel at my pinky toes, and delight in the fact that they are safe and sound in my caring possession.

Stairs

2011-03-23T19:21:00.000-07:00

It is not easy to maintain the integrity of being a cheap, clumsy, lazy, gluttonous, and socially awkward being all at once. Inevitably, at varying times, one vice must find itself superseding the others. For example, one day back in law school, I went to grab a burrito in between classes, only to spill a dollop of guacamole on my boobs. "Dammit," I muttered, fingering the guacamole off my boobs and licking my fingers while trying to calculate whether I would have enough time to go home before going back to campus. Even though my home, the burrito place, and campus were all within easy walking distance of one another, laziness drove me to all these spots in my unkempt Honda Accord. This normally should have given me plenty of time, except that gluttony had ensured that I had ordered a second burrito after the first, thereby cutting into that otherwise ample time. Laziness thus again won by default over the option of going home to change my top. I ended up getting so late to campus, though, that parking in the lot where I had purchased a permit would still not get me to class on time. There were three tiers of parking: the lot right in front of campus, with a price tag of about $400 per semester; the parking garage a few hundred feet behind it, at $300; and the lot behind the parking garage, at $200. I had obviously opted for the $200 lot, putting my cheapness in direct conflict with my laziness, because it meant a good ten-minute walk. There also were those parking meters right by campus. But, in the infinite wisdom -- or straight up dickishness -- of whoever had designed them, the meters were only good for 45 minutes, whereas class was going to be one hour. I did not want to deal with the stress and expense of a potential parking ticket, and I did not want to park in the lot and walk and get to class late, so instead I just drove back home and took a guilty nap in my guacamole-stained top.

A similar conflict comes into play when I decide between taking the stairs or the elevator, but this time the conflict is between lazy and socially awkward. The elevator would be the obvious choice for someone whose objective in life is to minimize effort -- but the effort of interacting with other human beings often seems more draining than that of just walking up the stairs. Should I even make eye contact? It will probably seem rude not to, but the eye contact will just be weird if it isn't followed up with, I don't know, a smile? And then a strained "hello," and then the other person will make some stupid small talk. And I can't even hear anything half the time, and I'll end up just asking, "What?" No thanks, I'll just take the stairs.

I am not proud of my vices. I do hope to overcome them some day. Luckily, the apartment complex where I currently live only contains 18 units, 6 of which are on the ground floor. The odds of interaction are thus minimal, and comprise the perfect opportunity for training. But I also choose to see the silver lining, the win-win angle whenever a seeming conflict presents itself. I'll either get into the elevator and practice my social awkwardness away, or I'll climb that staircase and burn away my laziness, one stair at a time.

The Bitch Who Gave Me a Parking Ticket

2010-12-28T21:43:00.000-08:00

Late this afternoon, or early this evening -- whatever the appropriate term for 4:00pm -- my friend and I decided to grab a burrito before heading to a 5pm show of Little Fockers at the Grand Lake Theatre. It was raining rather heavily as we trudged over to the parking permit machine a few feet away from the car; I swiped my credit card, and it took a couple of minutes to push the button sufficient times to cover the amount of time I required before I could print out the permit that I would then have to place on my dashboard.

Walking back over to the car, I saw that a city transportation officer was standing next to my car and printing out a ticket. "Oh, is that for this car?" I inquired politely of her, while possessing obvious knowledge of the answer. "I was just getting my permit."

"Well, I already printed it out," the officer replied, obviously not intending to retract it. "I didn't know where you were."

"Well, I needed some time to walk over there and pay," I replied, introducing frustration into my intonation.

The officer stared at me with a bored, unrelenting gaze.

"I mean, I have the permit now. I just needed some time to go pay for it," I repeated, scowling.

"Well, I already printed it," the officer repeated, placing the ticket into the envelope.

"Can I get your officer ID or number or whatever?" I asked.

"Uh huh, it's all on the ticket," she said, "And I was about to take it back, but since you have attitude, you can have it."

"Oh, I WILL," I snapped, grabbing the ticket from her. "Bitch," I glared and muttered under my breath, just loud enough to make sure she heard as she walked away. I instantly regretted not saying more, like "Bitch. Just watch; I'll get your power-tripping ass fired!!"

There are few things I hate more than when people turn themselves into perpetual victims and don't examine what they might be contributing to a fucked up situation or check themselves on their lack of following the golden rule when they are on different sides of different contexts, so I will now dabble in lip service to this lofty notion of empathy.

It can't be that fun of a job to drive around a little truck all day in the rain and gaze at windshields and know that your job primarily entails bringing misery to people, and a little bit of income to the City of Oakland so they can continue to hire bitches like you to bring more misery to people.

I'm not doing so well, am I?

Well, let's see. I bet I'm not the only person she encountered mid-ticketing today. Rain, driving, gazing, printing, encountering grumpy people who cuss you out... perhaps she had already gotten cussed out by someone earlier, and she was projecting that person's attitude on me in preemptively deciding to continue issuing the ticket, when I hadn't YET cussed her out. Well, bitch, get some therapy so you don't project your accumulated frustration on people who are just politely trying to explain that they were getting their permit!

OK, let's try this again. What if the roles had been reversed? What if I had that job, which probably doesn't pay much more than minimum wage, and maybe I had kids to feed or some shit, and I was stressed out, and I had driven up to this car, seen that it did not have a permit, and in good faith proceeded to print out a ticket, when just then, the owner intercepted and explained -- in a completely kind and reasonable tone -- that she had just been procuring the permit? Well, of course I would tear up that ticket, or whatever the appropriate equivalent protocol. Hmm, unless maybe I had to meet a quota on a number of tickets, or I got some weird commission on the tickets. Is there such a deal? But still, there's no way I would betray for my own selfish gain an innocent, law-abiding person who was just trying to pay for her permit.

Have I tormented her to go through a similar sincere exercise in empathy as well? I sure hope so. That bitch could sure learn to see something from a perspective other than her absurd and arrogant one.

OK, OK. Maybe her day just sucked. Don't we all have those? Maybe her life just sucks. Maybe she got dumped on Christmas, or more likely, was bummed that she had Christmas day off and will also have New Year's Day off and is therefore missing so much potential time of making people's lives miserable.

More seriously, she probably lives in the same city as I, and is around the same age -- maybe younger. Youthful bitch. We may very well have some friends in common, or run into each other at the grocery store or movie theater, or in some other random social context. She might actually be a cool person. She might have a blog where she is simultaneously griping about this bitch that took fifty years to print out a permit and then got all huffy that a ticket had been printed, as if it was the ticketer's responsibility to keep tabs on the comings and goings of all drivers, and then she got attitude, and THEN had the nerve to call HER a bitch.

Yes, one day, we may get to know each other in deeper terms, and become good friends and confidantes who can hug and forgive each other.

Until then, though, she is still the bitch who gave me a parking ticket.

750+ words

2010-12-25T02:09:00.000-08:00

Dammit. I skipped four whole days of writing just because I failed to complete the quota that one fateful night. There was no reason I couldn't have just picked it back up the following night, but such is the self-perpetuating nature of failure. Like, dammit, I'm already on the Wall of Shame, so what's the point now? But dammit, the desire to avoid said Wall was supposed to be just one tactic to get me writing, and not the end goal.

Let me back it up. On December 1, I signed up for 750words.com, having stumbled upon it through a series of Twitter-stalking events. Since I have no attention span, I never properly read the background on the site, but it's somehow either inspired by or affiliated with The Artist's Way. Unlike in the book, which I haven't read either but have heard about, you can write at any time of the day, and it can be about anything, as long as it's 750 words every day. You can also set rewards and consequences for yourself, in addition to the ones built in: fulfill the month, and be added to the Wall of Awesomeness; miss even one day, and be added to the Wall of Shame.

I did really well for 20 days, efficiently multi-tasking through my entries. I would type emails into this space and happily smack my lips, watching the word count increase as I responded to mundane inquiries. I love turning decrepit activities into games, especially ones that don't entail any competition.

Aside from using the word space for emails and other required write-ups, I used the words for making time-tables. An example would be the following:

"I love breaking my word count into chunks. I can't believe the end of this sentence will already be twenty-two words. This is pretty goddamn fucking amazingly off the motherfucking charts. I guess I am losing any incentive to exercise brevity and write clear, crisp, and concise sentences; I have absolutely no remaining will to do so, in fact. Hellz yeah, I will soon be at 100 words. I will celebrate by watching an episode of The Office. At 200 words, I'll wash two dishes. At 300 words, I'll watch another episode of The Office. Well, hello, Michael Scott!"

I just did a word-waster within a word-waster. I rock.

What's the benefit if I'm just gonna spew out a bunch of crap like this? Well, creation always entails an element of self-discovery and therapy, and when you put it out there, sometimes others might get a laugh or some weird inspiration from it too; my honest dating profile and honest cover letter came from this project. Of course, if you exercise the level of indiscretion I do, you greatly increase the odds of people being like wtf what a weird-ass moron – but if you don't create and/or don't put it out there at all, you definitely won't gain any benefit from your potential for doing so. So, if you axe me, no exercise that gets your wheels churning and gets you to put any crap from your mind down into a tangible medium of expression is really a waste of time. Then again, I am anything but a high-class broad, and people who have studied this-and-that in this-and-that pretentious setting (dammit, "this-and-that" only constitutes one word, as I suppose it should) would likely be rather horrified by my preferred art, which nowhere features any hoity-toity mind-numbing esoteric hogwash. I mean, I'm sure the message is fine, but can you put it in a commercial hip-hop song or cartoon or Bollywood movie and make it fun and accessible instead of embracing it for being all fucking exclusive when it actually isn't anything that special or different from what all the slumdawgs know and live every day anyway?

At this point, I have no idea what I'm even talking about, but at the end of this sentence, I'll only have 68 words left! And guess what? I ain't stoppin' there!

By the way, the way I had lost that one night was that I got REALLY into the storyline of The Office at my 500-word break past 11pm, and I decided to watch another episode right after it. When I picked up my laptop to complete the entry, it was too late!

Also, this is my nth blog, where I have copied and pasted the better entries from a bunch of other blogs; the idea was that everything on here would be a "piece" that stood well on its own and that could be developed into something better for a collection (which I will soon put together and have published after I put my life together with the help of 750 daily words to break up my tasks). But fuck it! I should just put down whatever I want to put down.

In conclusion, just because I missed a day of walking, yoga, and writing doesn't mean I should hold a pity party in bed for the rest of my month.

Merry Christmas!

A Brutally Honest Dating Profile

2010-12-12T10:31:00.000-08:00

I am funny, silly, intelligent, messy, thoughtful, gluttonous, creative, resourceful, giving (though not in bed), reliable, and sometimes totally clueless. I am dreadfully afraid of spiders. I have the eyes, tits, and hips of a Hindu Goddess, and the belly of the Hindu elephant God. I am not a great cook, and I am too lazy to look up recipes, but off the top of my head, I can make burritos, or I could make a decent chana masala, and heat up frozen nan. I also make really good chocolate chip cookies and butterscotch bars, following the recipes on the backs of the chocolate chip or butterscotch chip packets, respectively. I am not great at verbally communicating my feelings. I believe in celebrating any chance I get, and I will spoil you to death as if I'm the chivalrous man of the relationship. But this is only if you are what I'm looking for. What I am looking for is someone who is just like me in terms of reliability and most of the other qualities, except a little less messy, a little better of a cook, a little less clueless, much better of a communicator about feelings (though choosing not to invoke this ability on an unduly frequent basis) and not at all afraid of spiders -- willing to catch them, in fact. Also, your generosity should extend into bed, and I don't want you to have any resemblance to any Hindu God or Goddess other than the eyes.

That, in theory, is how I would describe myself and the type of person I'd want to spend the rest of my life with, but wait. Let me back up. What do I really want out of the process of "putting myself out there"? I don't know. Really, I'm not the type of person who would know.

Many a person has observed the parallels between dating and job interviewing in that the other party is sizing one up to gauge compatibility. This process sucks, and working sucks even more.

There are people who know off the bat when they go into a new job what they want to achieve. Some know their lack of intention to stay with the employer beyond a certain x amount of time, while others plan a steady climb up the ladder to the top. While not always necessarily the case, I have found that a person's attitude toward employment often correlates to her attitude toward dating and relationships. I once knew someone who was in an absolutely dysfunctional relationship, and I recommended that she dump the stupid son of a bitch. She said that she planned to in due time, but she could not yet, as she did not have a viable replacement lined up. "It would be like quitting your job without finding another one first," she explained to a nonplussed me.

Me? I am happily self-employed. I like making my own schedule, finding my own clients, and managing my own caseload and the manner in which I communicate with others. There were aspects of traditional employment that I appreciated, but I definitely did not appreciate being subject to idiotic and often arbitrary mandates, or being micromanaged. Nobody should be breathing down my neck unless we are having sex. I have rarely sought out traditional employment, instead looking for short-term odd jobs here and there that could give me exposure to new settings and provide some pocket cash and good stories. Suffice it to say that I have largely approached dating in the same manner: as an "et cetera" sort of exercise. Meanwhile, I have enjoyed being self-employed in that arena as well.

Of course, my family and the more practical people around me (who are rare, since I prefer not to keep the company of such people) remind me that as I age, I will have to bear other considerations in mind. I may be making enough money to survive for now with my current strategy, but if I somehow pop out a child, I will need a lot more, as will I when I become senile. I should think about savings, making wise investments, retirement funds, paying into social security, blah blah blah. I see many people similarly leaving behind their playa ways and settling into steady, committed relationships. I understand that this is something that may be an increasing concern for me over time, and options will become more and more limited over time, so I am now opening myself up to this whole relationship business.

So, hit me with your best shot!

An Honest Cover Letter

2010-12-03T14:43:00.000-08:00

Dear Prospective Employer,

I will not bother to customize my letter for your specific law firm/other business, since I feel that my non-customized resume should demonstrate my reason(s) for applying. If my experience and/or interests appear compatible with the job description, then I am applying because I am genuinely interested in the position, and/or the position would be a practical step forward for me, as well as a sensible match for your business. If my experience and/or interests have no apparent resemblance with the type of person you desire for the position, then I am applying because you are offering a salary that is of interest to me, or I have a crush on someone who works in your office.

Let me disclose honestly why I am even on the lookout for employment, when I have been not-too-uncomfortably self-employed for quite some time. The thing is, for the last ten years or so, I had barely watched any new American television programs, save for Ugly Betty. Just a month or two ago, I have been acquainting myself with popular programming from the past few years that does not involve murders, drugged out celebrities, or wannabe drugged out celebrities, since those subject matters have little interest to me, and I would rather revel happily in mundane and relatable matters. I am left with Modern Family, The Office, and Parks and Recreation.

Two out of the three shows I have begun to watch and love principally involve office settings, and have brought back a fond wave of nostalgia from the times I have interacted with coworkers, supervisors, and interns. I remember how fun it would be to make tea and gather around with coworkers in the conference room when the boss was out, coming up with mock-conversations the boss would have with various clients, coworkers, and family members. One time, an intern and I spread out a shawl and took a nap on the boss's office floor for two hours. Several times, people in the office have collided with each other in amusing ways.

Yes, there were miserable times in all my work settings, but there were also times of extreme hilarity, and numerous moments of laughable tension, awkwardness, or tenderness.

The other aspect of work life for which I yearn is the office crush. I have generally worked in offices with fewer than ten employees, and rarely have any coworkers been in the demographic of single, straight men around my age. Having a person to feel giddy about seeing every morning might even get me to wake up in the morning.

It is now as good a time as any to discuss the drawbacks of conventional employment. I am not a morning person. Don't get me wrong; I can wake up if it is truly necessary. I have woken up before 7am a good five times in the last year, due to court appearances in faraway cities, for example. However, I have a problem with someone asking me to wake up early so that I can be in the office at a specific time when I do not have specific meetings lined up, and the job does not inherently require me to be at work in the morning. I like sleeping in, and fuck you if you neither have the capacity to respect that, nor to stock up some eye candy in the office to pry me out of bed at some ungodly hour.

The other related drawback is that I don't like having to be in the office just for the sake of being in the office if I don't have work that needs to be done from there. I do understand the manager's perspective and the logistical difficulty with tracking the productivity of defiant, arrogant employees who insist on the entitlement to work whenever and wherever and however they please. However, I believe that some better middle ground can be achieved than is the case with most offices, where employees can go take care of errands and enjoy day trips on random Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and so forth.

Let me give you some tips on how to keep me happy as an employee. I have already mentioned staffing the office with good-looking men, and allowing me to come and go as I please. I would be delighted if you paid me, say $250,000 per year, but I would settle for far less if you would give me some fucking health insurance. I know the math doesn't add up, since I could buy awesome health insurance on my own and then have lots left over with a phat salary like the above, but I'm a psychological disaster, I suppose, and I like the idea of benefits. In fact, go ahead and slash that salary to $35,000 per year, if you are willing to kick in unlimited supplies of fatty foods as well as a gym membership.

I hope you have enjoyed getting to know me. I look forward to slacking off in your office.

A Cartoon

2010-10-23T21:00:00.000-07:00

Apologetic Summary Day 2: Chicago to the Bay

2010-10-14T00:46:00.000-07:00

At the end of July, I wrote a post about the first day of a road trip I had taken the previous month from Chicago to the Bay, and indicated that the subsequent posts would chronicle the activities of each day. Those subsequent posts did not ever manifest, and to be perfectly honest, they never will, the reason being tripartite. The first reason is that I'm not particularly good with descriptive writing. Secondly, I'm a lazy motherfucker who doesn't care to develop that skill or strain my memory in any way. Thirdly, days 3 and onward were fun in the moment, but there were no great stories as such -- so now I'll throw it back to the first and second interlocking explanations, and it should all make sense.

That being out of the way, day two, when we actually departed from Chicago, was pretty awesome. We had a late departure, around 3pm, after checking out some touristy spots and getting lunch. We hadn't made any advance hotel bookings -- 'cause it's not like we'd be passing through places where all the cool kids would be flocking to -- but about an hour into the drive, we thought, may as well look up a hotel in Des Moines and just make a reservation. That way, we'll have a set destination, and we could just plug it into the GPS and show up and be like "yo."

Another hour in, now a little after 5, as we were feeling all fly on the highway on a hot summer day on the border of Io-way, the car started feeling... a bit sha-kay, and then really sha-kay. M pulled over and inspected the car on all sides. The back right tire was fucked.

Dammit.

Luckily, M had just gotten her Triple A membership upgraded for extended roadside protection. She called Triple A, and after being placed on hold for a great amount of time, was asked where we were. We had totally not been paying attention to road markers or signs. But thanks to my smartphone, I was able to pinpoint our location with a fair amount of precision. Triple A said they would arrive in 45 minutes. Wonderful.

It was really fucking hot in the car. Like a spoiled lil bitch, I complain about it being hot when it's 85 degrees in the Bay Area -- but this little patch of the Illinois-Iowa really was working the heat, and was obviously going to be doing so for a few more hours. I asked M if she wanted to walk over to a shaded underpass area a couple hundred yards away, and she said sure.

As we walked up to that patch, we saw a truck pull over a few feet ahead of it, and then slowly start to reverse toward us. Afraid of the rednecks I imagined to be inside the vehicle, I asked M if she thought we should run back into the car. We turned around to start doing so, when we heard a female voice call out, "Do you need some help?" and then a friendly-looking young woman emerge from the vehicle.

"Oh, thanks! But we called Triple A, and they're on the way."

The woman asked if we were sure, and said her husband would be able to change up our tire with a spare if needed; while we were stopped, two other cars pulled over to offer assistance as well. My bad for fearing the good people of the midwest.

Triple A finally came a little after 6, comprising of two men: one older lanky guy, and one middle-aged mustachioed guy. The latter, as soon as he emerged from the truck, gazed from M to me and back and asked if we were related. We said no, while understanding his amazement that there were two unrelated brown people present in this part of the country.

The men were very much trying to be helpful, but unluckily, they didn't have a spare tire on them, and M didn't happen to have one either. They said that there would not be any tire shop open, so they would probably just have to tow us to a hotel, and then we'd have to call the next day to be towed to a tire shop. I said I would check if there was some shop open, and I proceeded to do so on my smartphone. The Triple A workers just looked confused, and I told them that there was a shop that seemed to be open in some place called Davenport. They said it was a good 40 minutes away, and for some weird legal or logistical reason or something, they wouldn't be able to tow the car over there -- but they offered to take us to the shop and purchase the tire and bring it back to the car. Although this seemed an inefficient solution, we opted for it.

I thought it would be awkward for four of us to smash into the tiny bench of the Triple A truck, so I stayed in the car in the scorching heat. One hour passed as I kept drinking water and reloading Twitter. Then I noticed a cop car had pulled up behind me. The cop was perfectly nice though, and just asked if I needed help. I said Triple A was on its way.

Another hour passed, and I was a hot mess. I was greasy, my phone was about to die, and I really, really, had to piss.

Somehow, throughout my years of collegiate debauchery, I had never gone through the sacred rite of Pissing On the Side of the Highway (POSH -- you saw it here first). It no longer seemed glamorous. Maybe because I the Illinois-Iowa border, in broad daylight, and 29 years old. And not drunk. And I really didn't want these damn friendly midwesterners with all their helpfulness to stop and offer assistance while I was doing my third world deed.

But I got to a point where there was no other choice. Luckily, I was wearing a skirt. So I slid out of the car, pulled my underwear down, crouched, and just sprayed that pee out as quickly as I could before getting a new underwear and pajama pants out of my bag, getting back into the passenger seat, and trading one set for the other.

M and the Triple A guys returned just about ten minutes later, and were amused to see that I had changed into pajama pants. "I'll tell you about it later," I said to M in ventriloquist-mouth.

Finally, we were on the road once again. It was around 9, and we wanted to eat, and it would be another three hours or so to Des Moines -- but what the hell. At least we already had the reservation, so we could just go there, crash, and set out later in the morning the next day. At least now the car was good.

We stopped for dinner at a random diner and had totally disgusting hamburgers and milkshakes. We were pleased to be blending in with the locals for an authentic midwestern experience, although I think our brownness and my pajama pants may have stood out a little bit.

After dinner, we walked back to the car and put the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. We tried again, and again, and again.

Dammit.

The diner had just closed, but we knocked on the door, and our friendly server opened it. We told her that our car wasn't starting, and she said, "Let me go get the boys; I'm sure they can help."

"The boys" consisted of two mustachioed men in overalls with cigarettes dangling out of their mouths, who immediately appeared with jumper cables and started hooking things up, and one tall Eastern European dude who was more of a spectator. The men in overalls quickly determined that it actually wasn't a battery issue, and deftly proceeded to experiment with different engine parts. They seemed to have quite a bit of experience with cars, but weren't having much luck with this one.

"If I could find out where the starter was, I might find the problem," said one. "But I don't know anything about these foreign vehicles."

A light bulb went on in my head, and I used my smartphone to search for starter on Mazda Protege. I found some description or chart or something, and I tapped the man to show it to him, saying that perhaps this could help in locating the starter.

The man stared at the screen for a few seconds with a concentrated expression, cigarette dangling out of mouth, and then nudged the other guy in overalls. "She has a computer!"

It turned out that the issue was one requiring a part that only a mechanic would have, and that there was a mechanic on the same block, but wouldn't be open until the morning. The tall Eastern European guy turned out to be the owner, and yet another extremely decent and helpful resident of the midwest. He personally dropped us to a nearby hotel, waited to make sure we made it in safe, and gave us a card with the restaurant address so we could cab our way back the next morning.

We lost the money on our Des Moines hotel, but we discovered midwestern hospitality, and with it made so many fond memories.

Bollywood Rental Business Models in the Suburbs of America

2010-09-27T10:33:00.000-07:00

I am lucky to live in a part of America where Bollywood movies have been easily accessible all my life, starting from way back in the '80s. Within five miles of our home in the suburbs east of San Francisco, there was a video store called Sri Emporium where we could rent VHS cassettes for $2 each, with the title labels printed in slanty blue font. We were (or strategically became) family friends with the owners, so they would hold the good movies for us and wouldn't mind if we stretched a rental out for three days, or even a week. Then again, they were dealing with Desis, so there could never have been hope for standardization. They would record the rental in a notebook indicating the name of the renter and the name of the film, and that was that. We could also obtain Indian snacks and spices at the store, which was lovely, since it would still be years before the "Ethnic" isle became a standard feature in the average American chain grocery store.

In the '90s, another store popped up in the downtown area of our hometown, located right next to a loud-and-proud lingerie shop. I was always fascinated by the sparsely clad mannequins as I would walk past the window to the neighboring store and cringe, thinking about the variety of salivating uncles indulging the same walk.

This video store was slightly more sophisticated for a Bollywood rental shop. They had a computer! And they gave each person a customer code to memorize so they could record the rental in the computer in conjunction with the code. I could never remember my code, so the uncle at the check-out would have to sigh as he asked my last name and looked up the number in the database so that he could go back to the main screen and enter the rental.

There was a certain charm to the VHS era. Getting the tracking in shape was a labor of love which made us all the more excited for the feature film. We would keep the remote control handy to address the many interruptions, courtesy of Tilda Basmati, Elephant Brand Flour ("the only one my family enjoys"), and Vicco Turmeric Ayurvedic Cream. We had purchased a multi-pack of blank VHS tapes so that we could duplicate the movies we liked, after moving the VCR's into the same room so that we could play on one and record on the other in real time.

I was away from the hometown for college in the advent of the DVD era, and then away for law school, before finding myself in the heart of Silicon Valley for work in 2007. Silicon Valley is home to a crazy influx of Desis -- for obvious reasons -- and perhaps because of the volume as well as visibility to distributors, I was amazed to find a Bollywood rental store where the DVD's were in original cases -- and had barcodes! Additionally, the store uncle had me fill out a form and provided me a card so that I would have my own barcode! I was extremely impressed.

I had been away from the rental shops in the East Bay 'burbs for quite a bit, so I thought that maybe by now they also were onto the technology that mainstream rental shops had enjoyed since my birth. I asked my parents if they had seen barcodes come to the Desi rental spots yet, or original prints for that matter. They laughed. Even though you would think a DVD would offer better viewing quality than a VHS, they said, it was even worse now because rather than being copies of copies of copies of the original, many of these were bona fide bootlegs, where someone had obviously recorded the entire film in a theater, providing the three-dimensional viewing experience, with audience laughter, crying babies, nodding heads, and all. On top of the many types of distortions in the print, whoever duplicated the print was apparently running into a timing constraint on the copies, resulting in a wholly arbitrary nip/tuck where whole scenes were being deleted or snipped so that the film made even less sense.

The customers, though they would grumble, did not make a huge demand to stop this epidemic -- thanks to a new business model: rent a DVD for $2, or buy for $3; OR, buy $20 worth of groceries, and get a free DVD, to keep! The new trend on the block was that the aunties would collude. Each would choose a different DVD with her groceries, and then they would circulate their DVD's among themselves. I imagine the more tech-savvy aunties and uncles download the movies and/or burn them to DVD's for similar effects.

Nowadays, the shops don't seem to event want to deal with rentals at all. They now sell the DVD's for $2. And how! I went to the shop the other day and asked for Tere Bin Laden. The uncle walked over to an area that had more than a dozen spools of scribbled-on DVD's. One by one, he stripped and flipped through the contents of each "R through T" spool until he found me a shitty copy of the film.

Most customers in the hometown apparently don't demand more; this certainly isn't how it goes in higher-volume and probably more conspicuous places, like Berkeley or San Jose.

The result for me is that if I really want to watch and enjoy a film, I am now buying the original online.

Imagine that: a lawyer being driven to the point of following the law.

Six Fundamental Tenets of Self-Destructive Relations

2010-09-20T11:28:00.000-07:00

1. If I feel hurt as a result of another person's actions or omissions, that means the person is a rotten dick.

2. I deserve to have my feelings listened to and validated by others immediately and on as high a frequency as I request. Anybody who does not engage me in such a manner is a rotten dick.

3. If somebody else claims to feel hurt as a result of my actions or omissions, it doesn't actually have anything to do with me. The person is just projecting his/her own baggage and insecurities on me and characterizing my behavior as the cause of it, which is totally out of line. At a stretch, if it does have anything to do with me, it can be explained by differing values or perceptions; but most likely it doesn't really have anything at all to do with me.

4. If somebody asks to speak with me about his/her feelings, but I don't feel comfortable engaging the conversation, I am under no obligation to enable such parasitic behavior. My comfort and personal boundaries are paramount.

5. Anybody who uses terms like "emotional blackmail," "manipulative," "self-absorbed," "self-righteous," "passive-aggressive," or "borderline personality disorder" in describing my behavior is pretentious, ignorant, mean-spirited, and has absolutely no idea what s/he is talking about.

6. Being able to identify and list these tenets means that I cannot possibly embrace them. In any way. Ever.

Chicago to the Bay: Prelude & Day 1

2010-07-28T22:18:00.000-07:00

This May, I received a mass email from my friend M, originally from the Bay Area, who had been working in Michigan on a six-month stint starting December '09. She said she would be crashing with her friend in Chicago for a couple of days following the termination of her job in mid-June, and was looking for company to drive back home from there to the Bay -- and in the process, do some sightseeing in the middle of America.

The way I see it, if an opportunity arises which seems fun and/or new, and that is not going to put a major dent in my wallet or in whatever is left of my sanity, then I should take it. I had never stepped foot in any red state and was rather curious to see the "real America"; I had a modest amount of money saved up which would suffice for the cost of living for a week in those places; I had found a good legal assistant who could take care of my bullshit while I was gone; and M would be a good, low-maintenance, moderate-energy, type B travel companion. Plus, God bless my friends who are settled down with pets or kids or partners or some such, but I selfishly adore and plan to exploit my spinsterhood to the fullest. So, I told M I was in.

I bought a one-way ticket to Chicago and landed there on June 15. I returned home on June 24. The next few posts will entail a day-by-day account of the events, with tips, photographs, and lessons learned. Many long-winded and gratuitous details regarding the relatively uneventful portions of the trip should be expected.

June 15

I flew out of SFO, since there were no direct flights from Oakland to Chicago. Or maybe there were, but they were expensive. I don't remember.

Anyway, the flight itinerary reflected that it was an Alaska Airlines flight, "operated by" American Airlines. I thus BARTed to SFO and then deboarded the airport shuttle at the terminal containing Alaska Airlines. I had been hoping not to have to check in my bag and just get my boarding pass using the e-ticket machine -- but the e-ticket machine kept telling me it couldn't pull up my information. With clenched fists, furrowed brows, and ujjayi breaths, I proceeded to wait in the check-in line for Alaska Airlines, which was the longest one I had seen in years. About twenty minutes in, an Alaska Airlines employee came around and asked if anybody had flights that were supposed to be boarding within the next hour, and I told her my flight number. She confirmed the end destination, and said I was in the wrong terminal, and that I should be in American Airlines, as that is the airlines by which my flight is "operated."

D'oh!

I sprinted to the other terminal and successfully printed out my boarding pass at the American Airlines e-ticket machine, only to be cock-blocked by airport personnel while attempting to enter security checkpoint, and told that my bag was too big for carry-on per the new TSA guidelines.

Dammit!

Then, of course American Airlines charged $25 to check in the bag. It would have been just $15 were it truly Alaska Airlines.

Then, at security checkpoint, my gold bracelets set off the metal detector, and I was heavily frisked by the security personnel. Seriously, there is no need for a monthly breast self-exam if one is a frequent flyer with fobby bracelets.

At last, I made it to the gate just as boarding was being completed.

The flight was pleasant. I slept during most of it, since the best sleep I get is in moving vehicles. Upon landing, I saw a text from M saying she was stuck in traffic coming to the airport and might be 15-20 late. My flight had landed on time, but I still needed to get my bag, so I thought the timing would work out perfectly. It turns out that they didn't even turn on the conveyor belt for the bags until about 20 minutes after landing, but at last, I got my bag, and by then, M had made it too.

I got my first sight of traffic by the Chicago airport, and it was some wild and crazy bumper-to-bumper action. Surprisingly, once we got into downtown, there was barely any traffic, and parking in front of Lou Malnati, a popular pizza joint, was a total breeze. The Chicago-style pizza at Lou Malnati was quite the bomb, although it didn't carry the fragrance that Zachary's Chicago-style pizza in Berkeley, CA carries. After the pizza, we hit up a piano bar that was pretty dead, and then went to M's friend's place and crashed.

Professor Ramirez

2010-05-29T23:38:00.000-07:00

Salma rushed into her room, threw her backpack in the corner, and frantically clicked her mouse into reviving her hibernating netbook. She was eager to chat with anyone who would be around and available in the middle of that morning.

salmabomb: hey baby sis, what you doing online?

510ndn: lol im 16, not a baby

510ndn: and im online cuz i stayed home cuz im sick

salmabomb: sick, right right

510ndn: lol ya... wuz goin on with u?

salmabomb: just got back from professor ramirez's class

510ndn: lol

salmabomb: he is sooooooooo hot and smart and i want to jump his bones

510ndn: lol

salmabomb: i wonder if he's single

510ndn: lol

salmabomb: i wonder if he's into desi chicks

510ndn: lol... ur obsessed

salmabomb: i wonder if he is even straight!

510ndn: lol...ask him haha

After exactly 0.5 seconds of contemplation, Salma signed out of her email and followed the link to create a new account. Glancing at the Kaminey DVD on the edge of her desk, she typed in Priyanka Kapoor as the name on the new account, finalized set-up, and proceeded to draft an email.

"Dear Prof. Ramirez," she began.

On second thought, she deleted Prof. Ramirez, instead writing "Pablo."

"Dear Pablo, I met you at" -- where? "a conference" -- no, "an event last year, and I find your work on Latino cultures and intersectionality to be really interesting" -- no, "really compelling. I was wondering if you would like to meet for coffee some time."

Salma knew she would drive herself mad if she analyzed and measured the words any further, so she hit send, squealed, and went to the kitchen to grab herself a beer.

Professor Ramirez, seated in his office and poring through stacks of articles for his forthcoming book, heard the beep of his email alert and groaned. He had just been interrupted by two phone calls, and he hated having his concentration broken -- at the same time, he was one of the main organizers for conferences coming up the next two weekends and needed to keep himself available.

The new email was from a name that he did not recognize: Priyanka Kapoor. The subject was "coffee and intersectionality". This email was obviously not urgent or relevant to the upcoming events regarding juveniles of color and restorative justice, which made Professor Ramirez all the more keen to click on it immediately.

Professor Ramirez smiled, having read the email. It was a nice break from his stressful day to think that this woman appreciated his work, and possibly had some form of a crush on him. He wondered who this Priyanka was -- a professor from another school? A grad student? And he liked that name, remembering that it was the name of a pretty Bollywood actress he had looked up after seeing her in some insane Bollywood superhero movie on the international channel.

"Dear Priyanka," he proceeded to type.

"Intersecting over coffee sounds good."

Wait, that sounded mildly sexual, and he didn't want to come off as a presumptuous pervert. Delete.

"I would love to meet over coffee." That seemed sort of too eager. Delete.

"Coffee sounds good. I'm a bit busy with conferences for the next couple of weeks, but maybe we can meet after that. In fact, you might even want to attend the conferences if you have an interest in reform of the criminal justice system."

Wait, was this TMI? He should keep it simple and light, right?

He deleted the last line, and then started deleting the one before it when the phone rang. Then somebody started knocking on his door.

It was going to be a long day.

Itch Is a Bitch.

2010-03-27T15:32:00.000-07:00

My skin itches. And I scratch it.

Other people tell me not to scratch it. They say it will only get worse.

It may be so, but it's much easier said than done. You can only know the depth of misery I experience from this itch by living in my skin. It interferes with too many aspects of my life and keeps me awake at night, resulting in a sense of frustration that I simply cannot ignore. Scratching provides a much-needed sense of relief; indeed, a splendid feeling of... closure.

Scratch.

Beautiful. I feel so much better.

And life goes on.

Then it itches again.

I scratch it again, and I feel better.

Life goes on.

But the itch keeps coming back.

And now the intervals are shorter, and the sensation more intense. I scratch; I feel better; I scratch; I feel better; I scratch... but at some point, I cease to feel better. In fact, I now itch more intensely and in more places than I itched in the beginning. Before I know it, I have a bleeding, swollen, inflamed, vile, and disgusting rash, and I just want to roll up in fetal position and stay in bed all day, scratching and mutilating myself from dawn to dusk.

This is ridiculous, others say. What I need is... a licensed medical professional.

I go to one. With no insurance. I pay almost $200 for an impersonal verbal cut-and-paste solution for my "atopic dermatitis," including a prescription for a corticosteroid ointment that has the side effect of thinning out my skin, and possibly glaucoma, cataracts, high blood pressure; research has indicated it could also result in impaired judgment. I sure could use summa that.

I follow the recommended treatment. Apply the ointment. It provides temporary relief, with more impressive intervals than the scratching. But the itch is still there.

I consult another type of licensed professional. A holistic health practitioner, who is also a friend. A more caring, personal consultation explores why I might be itching to begin with. Perhaps my body under-produces certain essential vitamins and oils. Supplements to Vitamin A, Vitamin E, Zinc, Omega-3, and Omega-6 are suggested. Perhaps certain stresses in life are contributing the manifestation of itch. Perhaps certain foods or other types of allergens trigger it. Possibilities can be identified by friends and experts, but it is now up to me to run the experiments if I want the itch to stop.

I wish someone could just know the answer and heal me without speculation.

But I remember that I said before, in defiance, that others don't know what it is like to live in my skin. Only I live in it 24/7 and have access to everything that goes on behind it. Only I have the power to observe my patterns, and isolate and eliminate certain potential triggers.

If and when I am ready, I surely, some day, will feel completely comfortable in my own skin.

Until then, I from time to time will no doubt opt for the more detrimental-in-the-long-run, but more convenient-in-the-short-term, method of addressing the bitch...

Scratch.

How to Justify Anything

2010-03-07T14:37:00.001-08:00

(Please comment with requests for what you would like to have justified.)

Gluttony.
Devise inefficient food storage system. Purchase inordinate amount of food. Argue there is no space to store it, and therefore it must be consumed.

Procrastination.
Overcommit. Enroll in many courses or positions, and/or tell many people you will do things, or just make up additional commitments. Each takes time and sometimes overlaps with other things, and therefore you must push some things back.

Sloth.
Stay awake until very late in the night, having engaged in the steps prescribed for gluttony and/or procrastination, above. Go to sleep exhausted and guilty from aforementioned steps. Wake up late, continuing to harbor guilt and restlessness, therefore requiring "time off" in a physical manifestation of sloth.

Writing Prompt: A Siamese twin whose “other half” is annoying them

2010-02-25T20:25:00.000-08:00

You know what? Compared to the present situation, I wish I had multiple personality disorder, as seen in the movies. Sure, conflicts of interest would likely manifest over time, but at least each personality would have its discrete moment to act according to its unique volition. I would experience the sensation of being one person in mind and body, even if just for a moment before involuntarily embodying other behaviors. What I have now is split personalities locked together in time, and locked, literally, at the hip.

My Siamese twin is a such a bitch.

See, I'm a very social person by nature. I make friends easily. People open up to me and share their secrets and seek out my perspective – but it's not so easy to maintain those bonds and foster those friendships when I have this mad-dogging face looking just like mine a mere two inches away. Why can't she at least smile and say hello to my friends?

My friends do their part to say hello and be pleasant, and they try to continue carrying on with me at least, knowing that the other head will do no talking, but it just gets awkward. I feel like staying out and partying, but my friends see this tired, scowling face next to mine, and remark, “Well, it's getting late for you... two... so I guess we can catch up later.”

And then, I've been smoking for years, and suddenly this bitch claims to have asthma? How you gonna claim to have asthma when we share the same set of lungs?

For people who have spouses, partners, or family members that you don't always get along with, who you feel sometimes have co-dependent tendencies or whatnot, trust me, I envy you. Your situation does not even come neck and neck.

Writing Prompt: "The Ex from Hell"

2010-02-25T20:17:00.000-08:00

“So where did you grow up?” I had asked him on our first date.

Right after, he accidentally dropped and smashed his glass of Bloody Mary in the bar of the fancy restaurant where we were seated, and in the chaos of the situation and then my need to comfort his embarrassment, I never revisited the query.

I realized two weeks later that I still didn't know where he had grown up, because after the bar incident, we soon found other distractions that were far more preoccupying than the question of his origins. Oh, he was a devil in bed. Things just got so naturally heated up, it felt like a Bikram Yoga sex marathon. And I swear, I don't know how he managed to arouse me in so many ways at once; it felt like he had multiple pitchforks, perfectly customized to tease and incite my senses.

Then one day, he just disappeared. He didn't even bother to call me, or even to leave a note. All I got was a text message, from the number 666: “Hey, things weren't really working out, and I ended up moving back home. You know how it goes. Take care.”

And that was my ex from hell.

SAALMA, Mama Jenny

2010-02-21T13:32:00.001-08:00

Background:

Over the past few months, I did background acting in My Name Is Khan, a major Bollywood production released on February 12, 2010, and Trauma, an American network television program on NBC. The Trauma episode I worked on will be aired some time in March or April, 2010.

Those who have seen My Name Is Khan will recall Mama Jenny, a kind and overweight African American woman dwelling in some poor colony of Georgia. She is befriended by Rizwan (played by SRK) in the course of his journey across America, and later saved by him when a Katrina-like incident occurs.

The episode of Trauma in which I participated takes place in a mosque in Oakland. During prayers, an elderly woman has a seizure, and her daughter calls 911. The woman's husband is a crazed, frothing-at-the-mouth religious zealot who does not take kindly to having prayers interrupted, let alone having male paramedics enter the women's area and touch/treat his wife. His raspy, growling warning directed to his daughter Salma to have the paramedics leave is still ringing in my ears. "SAALMA, YAAD RAKHNA KE YE MASJID HAIN!" ("SAALMA, REMEMBER THAT THIS IS A MOSQUE!")

The Aunt Jemima-type role of Mama Jenny is well-intentioned -- and perhaps even that of Salma's father, in a White Man's Burden sort of way where he comes around and realizes what is important in the end -- but they also serve as an amusing as well as disturbing reminder of the place minorities take in Hollywood as well as Bollywood.

So, here's a tribute.

---

SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA

SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA

From the irrational brown Muslim
on American TV
to the Southern Black woman of Bollywood
Obese and matronly

When minorities are visible
They tend to be some sort of archetype
Dirty, dangerous, criminal
Or kind mammy by your side

SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA

SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA

Ma-
SAALMA
Ma-
SAALMA
Ma-
SAALMA
Mama Jenny

SA-
MamaJenny
SA-
MamaJenny
SA-
MamaJenny
SAALMA

I looked up Mama Jenny
On IMDB
Nurse, nurse, nurse, big black woman
Nurse, clerk, nurse, cafeteria lady

Even in Crash
Showing the nuance of race
All the Iranian does
Is froth at the mouth and rage

SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA

SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA
Mama Jenny
SAALMA

Sat Sri Akal, Would You Like a Cigarette?

2010-02-19T00:07:00.000-08:00

One fine spring afternoon, I was meandering around my Bay Area suburban hometown with a mirrorwork-embroidered purse swung over my shoulder, recently procured from a street vendor in Mumbai. I passed by a coffee shop during my walk, and an elderly white gentleman called to me from the outdoor section where he was seated, "Sat Sri Akal, would you like a cigarette?"

In my usual distracted and asocial manner of interacting with strangers, I made an insincere attempt at smiling and muttered, "No thanks," while trudging onward.

Only after safely exiting the zone of potential contact with strangers did I reflect on the communication and realize: It was pretty fucking revolutionary!

First of all, the "Sat Sri Akal." I'll be damned! Sure, that would be the wrong greeting for me, but still: the thought process wasn't as simplistic as brown skin + mirrorwork-embroidered purse = Indian = Hindu = Namaste. I'm not sure what made him associate me with Sikhism, but the fact that he thought I could have been Indian and not Hindu is weirdly impressive.

Then, the "Would you like a cigarette?" This part is fascinating on two counts.

1) Who offers a cigarette? Don't people normally accost strangers in an effort to bum one? How very generous of him to consider doing otherwise.

2) The fact that he thought I was Indian/Sikh of the sort that would prefer to be greeted in my native language, and that he thought I could want a cigarette, proposed in English, is pretty rad. It kind of reminds me of when a few brown friends and I were drunkenly stumbling around North Beach one November night and got holla'd at by some guys who leered and mused, "Daaamn, looks like it's the Ramadan after-party!" How cool that these random perv guys knew that people who looked like us could have been Muslim, as well as debaucherous!

I'm not one of those people from immigrant families who takes offense when people don't just take me as an American without having to pinpoint or dissect my ethnic identity -- although I definitely can sympathize with that position. After all, being badgered about one's background, or having assumptions made about it, or being expected to be the brand ambassador for it, is probably not something that a second-generation, say, Irish or Italian person with an American accent and upbringing would experience.

The thing is, I'm incredibly narcissistic and would rather represent the culture than have most other people from my culture do so. I don't feel so squeezed and suffocated under the anthropological lens, because I know I always have the option to punch through that shit and smash it.

Namaste. Don't have a cow, OK? Or have one. It's up to you.

Rock the Light

2009-11-14T16:47:00.000-08:00

Written for NPR Music

Audio at http://twiturm.com/oy4f6

Everybody's searching for the perfect lampshade
Conical, cylindrical, red, blue, white, and gray
But I just wanna feel you shine on me
Don't need decoration; I just want something real

So rock the light
Shine it bright
Don't seek out diffusion
Let me take in your sight

Just rock the light
Shine it bright
Don't need the convolution
Let me take in your sight

These decorative lanterns are numerous
Some high-tech ones are even wireless
But when something is looking to get sold
It probably isn't being so bold as to

Rock the light
Shine it bright
Don't seek out diffusion
Let me take in your sight

Just rock the light
Shine it bright
Don't need the convolution
Let me take in your sight

Papa, Don't Preach; It's My Turn.

2009-10-17T01:49:00.000-07:00

I feel entitled to be a pedantic asshat now that I am freshly 29, and it is also Diwali. So here we go with 29 bits of wisdom (in no particular order).

1. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down (thanks, Mary P); a spoonful of ghee keeps your butt nice and round.

2. There is a ranger in every stranger.

3. You don't need to go out of town to have an adventure. You don't even need to leave your house. Or your bed.

4. Be considerate of the time others set aside for you.

5. Appreciate your parents and all the elders in your family, and all the tender moments and myriad struggles they endured to enable your place in the world today.

6. If you butt into other people's shit, you end up with shit all over your butt, and then no one wants to offer you a seat.

7. What is essential is invisible to the eye. (Thanks, Antoine De S-E.)

8. Denying yourself pleasure does not make you a more honorable person. Those who would honor you more for it deserve to be punched.

9. Have some greens and marvel at the culmination of modern technologies that allows you to sit at a computer and read the ramblings of someone in a different city, state, or country.

10. If a person indicates that s/he is not that into you, bloody accept it. You disrespect yourself and the other person by thinking or attempting otherwise.

11. People who are confident and secure with themselves help and support others in achieving their goals. People who withhold readily available resources and information are losers.

12. Laugh.

13. If something is humanly possible to do, it is probably humanly possible to do with little to no money, with the proper human capital.

14. You can't dance with a stick up your ass; you can't groove with no space to move; so take that stick out, shake off the doubt, and STFU.

15. No book, class, or formula is going to give you the answer to a situation, or the motivation to do something you supposedly want to do.

16. Do not be embarrassed about your bodily functions. What woman hasn't menstruated, and what human being hasn't had some sort of funky issue like hemorrhoids? Walk up to that cash register with the hottest clerk and purchase your anti-diarrheal medication! Chances are s/he will be thinking, "Amen, that shit sure worked for me last week!"

17. Do not be afraid to put your voice in the world in whatever medium you desire. The wider your reach, the wider the possibilities in all respects.

18. Appreciate each of your senses and each of your functional body parts. Don't only think about them in times of dysfunction.

19. People have different ways of caring and being there for you, just as you do for them.

20. Where there is potential for competition, there is usually also potential for collaboration.

21. You cannot always control your circumstances; but you, and you alone, control the way you handle them.

22. Recognize your socio-economic privilege in having access to a computer, and all the power that comes with it to read about, write about, donate to, and find volunteering opportunities for supporting various causes for those less fortunate.

23. Uptight and/or high-strung individuals are no less likely to get into erratic and fucked up situations than the Type B's.

24. If you find yourself in many situations or relationships that end up with similar patterns, remember that the one thing they all have in common is you.

25. Do not assume that a person/matter/pursuit is more valuable if seeming out of your reach. Value yourself and the people/matters/pursuits within your reach to recognize mutual worth.

26. Do not assume that a person who does not have a conventional life -- or your life -- wants it. Sometimes you will be right, and other times you will be a presumptuous aunty/dick.

27. Drink plenty of water. In many places, tap water is just fine.

28. High formal education does not equate to intelligence; fame does not equate to talent; and a pretentious or esoteric way of framing something does not equate to wisdom.

29. Quoting Bill & Ted quote Socrates, "The only true wisdom consists in knowing that you know nothing."

May this year be auspicious for all!

Rain in Shivaranjani

2009-10-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

STFU

2009-09-18T15:16:00.000-07:00

You can't dance with a stick up your ass
You can't groove with no space to move
So take that stick out
Shake off the doubt
and STFU

Whenever Pappu rides the bus
He always checks the schedule first
Wouldn't be a minute late
For the life of him

Whenever Pappu buys a ticket
He has a designated place to stick it
Once thing out of place
Would be a cardinal sin

He may have neatly ironed pants
But Pappu saala cannot dance

You can't dance with a stick up your ass
You can't groove with no space to move
So take that stick out
Shake off the doubt
and STFU

When you make Pappu a presentation
It's not just about the information
He needs to know why you didn't use
A different font

When you take Pappu to a restaurant
You better hope the food is sufficiently hot
Else the end of it
You will never hear

He may have clean and sanitized hands
But Pappu saala cannot dance

You can't dance with a stick up your ass
You can't groove with no space to move
So take that stick out
Shake off the doubt
and STFU

Quoth the raven "Nevermore"
But of lore knows not the raven
Only by failing, trying
Can one can become a maven

The world is not going to end
If you have an extra calorie
Ask my boy Lord Krishna
Who knows well the worth of stolen ghee

Oh look! Pappu forgot to bring his map
And he stumbled his way into a dance

You can't dance with a stick up your ass
You can't groove with no space to move
So take that stick out
Shake off the doubt
and STFU

Hain aisa jaam
Ki na koi anjaam
Bas aata raha...

A Handy Movement

2009-09-17T11:06:00.001-07:00

Zaara was born left-handed. Or maybe she wasn’t, but she just preferred to use her left hand. No, it must be that somewhere in her early childhood she suffered some traumatic event that subconsciously triggered her defiance of right-handedness. Because you see, being right-handed was normal. It was the natural way. There had simply been no other acceptable way in the quaint town of El Derecho.

Still, Zaara for some reason just could not use her right hand the same way she could use her left. Her parents tried to teach her to use her right hand, and would sometimes supervise her while she was eating and doing homework to make sure she didn’t sneak in that sinister left hand. Her teacher would gaze at her disapprovingly, and her classmates would snicker as she used the wrong hand.

One time, she accidentally jabbed her elbow very hard into Jill, the girl that was sitting next to her and writing with the “right” hand.

“You freak!” Jill had growled, “Get that nasty hand away from me.” Jill then requested another seat, which the teacher promptly granted.

After that incident, Zaara was determined to learn to be right-handed. However, she was so upset and preoccupied with this goal that she was not able to concentrate on the actual tasks that needed to be performed with the hand. She started turning her homework in late because she was concentrating more on improving the manual dexterity of her awkward right hand than learning the material.

The children in her class were also unreceptive to her renewed efforts. “Dude, check out the freak trying to write with her right hand like us,” Jay muttered under his breath to Serena.

“Oh my God, what a dork,” Serena replied disgustedly, “Look, her hand is all fluttering. No matter what, she’ll always be a freak.”

When Zaara’s next report card came out, she had a C average, whereas when she had been using her left hand, she had mostly A’s and B’s. Zaara was very depressed; her parents were angry at her performance and her inability to adjust the use of her right hand, and she felt completely alone.

Then Takeshi moved to the neighborhood and joined her class. Takeshi also seemed to be inflicted with this left-handed disease, and the children had a new target. “Zaara and Takeshi, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” they would sing to their hearts’ delight.

Zaara was becoming very angry with all this chiding and all this pressure in her own mind to become right-handed. What if there wasn’t something wrong with Takeshi and her? After all, she could do the same things with her left hand that everyone else could do with their right, so why did it really make a difference?

One day she asked Takeshi what he thought of this idea that left-handedness might be different, yet equal to right-handedness.

“But Zaara, it doesn’t matter what you can do,” he replied matter-of-factly, “You have to do it the right way. If you’re not doing it the right way, you’re not really doing the right thing.”

Still, Zaara had had quite enough. Her troubles had only been compounded by Takeshi’s presence, and if he wasn’t going to help her, she was determined to establish her own “right” to use her left hand. Normally she sat on the far left side of the bench in the middle row, and would often get jabbed by the elbow of Takeshi, who had taken Jill’s old seat and would persevere in perfecting the use of his right hand while she used her left. Today, she went and sat on the far left side, where Jill was now used to sitting. When Jill came in, she was astonished to find Zaara there.

“Mr. Rose!” Jill shouted, “Zaara is trying to take my seat!”

Mr. Rose strode to the bench dramatically, looked Zaara up and down for several seconds, and finally asked, “What is this all about, Zaara?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rose,” Zaara mumbled, “But I-I was wondering if I could sit here instead of my old seat so that Takeshi’s elbow doesn’t keep jabbing me.”

Mr. Rose stared blankly at Zaara for a minute, and then burst out laughing. “You’re quite a comedienne, Zaara. Takeshi is making a fine attempt to use the proper hand, and you are not only failing enormously in that regard, but wishing for others to accommodate your insufficiencies?”

Zaara could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. What was she thinking? It would be one thing if she gave up on her effort to use her right hand, but she had no right to expect others to cater to her defect. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, making her way back to her seat.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Takeshi gasped in wide-eyed wonder.

“Shut up,” Zaara muttered back curtly.

“I’m sorry,” Takeshi responded, keeping his head down, “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I was just surprised.”

Zaara was wondering what to do. She was absolutely unable to write with her right hand, and she really didn’t enjoy the bitter arm collisions with Takeshi or the scorn from her peers. Did she have a right to be angry? What would she have thought of left-handed people if she were normal and right-handed? Would she have been just as mean as her peers? Was Takeshi right, that it wasn’t just the end result, but the use of the right hand that mattered? She asked herself these questions every day, which increased her guilt, sadness, and hatred of herself and her school. Above all, she hated her left hand, one of the most operational and essential parts of her functioning.

One day during recess, Zaara saw her teacher talking with a girl around her age whom she did not recognize.

“Mr. Rose, who was that?” Zaara inquired meekly as they walked back into the classroom.

“Oh, nobody, Zaara,” Mr. Rose replied quickly. “Nobody you need to know about. It’s a shame the kids at the school across the street have such influences.”

Zaara was very curious to know what this girl was about. For some reason, she had a feeling this girl could help her. Right after school was over, she walked across the street and peered through the various corridors until she saw the girl emerging. The girl saw Zaara looking at her curiously and extended her hand.

“Hi there,” she said, “Do you go to East Gate?”

“Yeah, my name is Zaara.”

“Hi Zaara, I’m Carla.”

“Hey, I was wondering, what were you talking with my teacher about?”

“Oh, that,” Carla smiled. “Well, I’m left-handed, and a few other kids at this school are also, so we wanted to see if anyone at your school was.”

“Yeah, actually I am!” Zaara said, excited but keeping her voice down, for she feared that people at this other school would also know she was a freak.

“Oh really?” Carla asked, confused. “That’s weird, your teacher said no one was. Anyway, at our school we’re having an open forum tomorrow morning, and some of us want to request that we can reserve a row near the middle for left-handed people, so we don’t have to deal with bumping elbows together. I went to your school to see if anyone wanted to join and propose a similar thing.”

“What!” Zaara gasped. “You mean, people are OK with you writing with your left hand?”

“Sure,” Carla laughed. “Some people who are right-handed even do it for fun.”

“Why would they do that when they know the right way!” Zaara asked, astonished. “Don’t they get called freaks?”

“Well, a lot of them were right-handed for a long time and can use their right hands, so people know they’re not really freaks,” Carla winked. “Some of them really think left-handedness fits them better now. I’ve always been left-handed and I used to get called a freak, but four other left-handed people joined this school in the past couple of years and eventually people kinda started thinking it was cool.”

“So now things are OK for you? They’ll even give you the special desks?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Carla sighed. “They do think it’s OK, supposedly, but they don’t want to reserve for us the seats that would really allow us to use our left hand. Even a lot of the kids that use their left hand recreationally don’t like the idea.”

“Well… it’s not like right-handed people get special rows. So why should we, right?”

“That’s what they say,” Carla replied, tired. “Hey, why don’t you come to the rally at my school tomorrow, 8am?”

Zaara was very excited to see what would happen at Carla’s school the next day. She came into the classroom at 8, and was very surprised at what she saw. A large banner hung along the left wall of the room with the words, “Right-Handed Coalition.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” declared Geoff, the president of the newly formed coalition, “We, the Right-Handed Coalition, gather here today to express our devotion to justice and equality. This school has been gracious enough to house people of both handednesses, and we fully espouse that tolerance. Our school not only provides lefties and righties access to the same textbooks and educational facilities, but accepts the use of the wrong hand.

“Today, however, the lefties are trying to take advantage of our kindness and generosity, and transgress into a very hazardous arena. The lefties demand that one full row be devoted exclusively to their use. This is a travesty to the fundamental rights of righty as well as lefty individuals to choose their own seats. The righties are strong advocates of individual rights; we all must be able to sit wherever we please, without any special treatment. I now want to call upon a special speaker, Warner, who will tell us about his own experience as a previous lefty who became a righty by choice. Warner?”

Warner solemnly gathered himself and stood in front of his peers, clearing his throat. “Esteemed colleagues, it is my honor to stand here in front of you all today. As many of you know, I was once a lefty. I had an exceedingly difficult time using my right hand properly. I used to bump my left elbow into my esteemed classmates and inconvenience them regularly.

“But I have learned to overcome my abysmal inferiority — not by demanding special seats, but by working hard to perfect the use of my right hand. I am now fully accepted by the right-handed community, and therefore I speak before you today. Of course, there should be no shame in being left-handed; on the contrary, someone who is left-handed and can also adapt to right-handedness is worthy of extraordinary recognition. If you can adapt to right-handedness, you can sit in any seat you would like and not have to worry about bumping arms. Does this strategy not confer upon us the optimal advantage?

“Let us not subscribe to a victim mentality where we demand special accommodations; rather, let us work our way up on our own merit to show that we can succeed under any circumstances. It is my dream that one day our classroom community will not be classified by ‘us’ versus ‘them,’ ‘lefty’ and ‘righty.’ We are just human beings. Thank you.”

The crowd clapped politely as Geoff resumed his post. “Let us not blind ourselves,” Geoff pronounced firmly, “with the political correctness, A.K.A. reverse handedism, of our era. I believe that we should strive for true equality of the handednesses. This equality consists of not looking to the hands, but to the humanity of each individual.

“There is also a very sound economic basis to my idea: righties are more efficient with our right hands, and can thus get more work done with our right hands, and should must have the freedom to choose our seats for the sake of Gross Domestic Product emerging from and for the use of right hands. I thank you very much for your time.”

Cheers emanated from all corners of the room as Right-Handed Coalition flags waved in the air. “Right! Right! Right! Right!” the entire room seemed to shout in unison.

However, the victorious climate soon went awry. A large hullabaloo erupted after several righties stampeded the row of desks that the lefties had wanted to use, resulting in the cataclysmic injury of Geoff’s right hand. Thereafter, the entire class went into chaos and destroyed the whole school.

School in El Derecho was halted for one month following the destruction of Carla’s old school, Old School, while East Gate underwent expansion to accommodate all the students. During this time, the lefties from both schools would gather frequently to discuss what accommodations they might seek at the newly constructed school.

“I don’t know if we can even make any demands, after this,” Carla sighed, “We’re totally outnumbered, and we won’t have enough people to make any solid platform.”

“Well, maybe we can,” Zaara smiled. “‘Cause now it’s the five of you, plus Takeshi and me.”

“I think it’s definitely worth a try,” piped in Jason, another lefty, “And there’s also eight ambidextrous kids and even three righties I know that would want to help. But we should try to reach a middle ground.”

“Yeah,” Carla smiled knowingly, “Something that the righties would find less burdensome than granting us our own row.”

“What if we ask for some seats in the left column?” Zaara suggested.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Carla said wryly, “But what, so we could be relegated to the margins, and easier for the teachers and other students to identify or ignore? Why can’t we have one row where we’re all left-handed?”

“But seeing as we probably can’t get a row, isn’t a column still better than being awkwardly sandwiched between righties, and then bumping into each other?” Jason pointed out, “I think jerks will always find reason to hate, but the important thing is our ability to make use of our hands.”

“Yeah,” Carla agreed, “I really don’t find this solution ideal, but I think we can get more people to buy into it.”

Takeshi, who had been deep in thought, finally chimed in, “You know, I didn’t like the idea of different seats before because I thought we should just write with our right hands. But now I think this might be a good idea. Because lately I’ve been thinking, it’s OK if you do things a different way.”

“Yeah, we can still do the same things,” Zaara agreed.

Takeshi nodded, pondering further, “We can still do the same things, but we might even not want to, ’cause maybe we just are different. Maybe the different stuff you do is still OK though.”

Zaara nodded. “You’re right, Takeshi, I never really thought about it that way. Why should we be second-class citizens in a space that caters to right-handed people? We’ll never know what we’re about until we get enough space to really use our hands, without having to feel like we’re the odd ones out.”

“You mean like having our own lefty school?” Takeshi inquired.

“Maybe, Takeshi,” Carla replied pensively, “Who knows? When we get a little older, and there’s more of us, maybe we can do it.”

A week before school was set to resume, Zaara and her friends decided to call themselves the Lefty Liberation Front and put together a modest proposal, requesting a column, that they intended to present before the class.

Meanwhile, the righties were cooking up a plan of their own. Geoff, furious over the temporary uselessness of his right hand, now desired to be accommodated in using his left hand. Other righties were also sympathetic to their leader’s plight, and did not think he should have to risk encountering the nuisance of colliding elbows. Hence, they thought it would be appropriate to devise a policy that would provide temporary assistance to people like Geoff, who clearly had the ability and the merit to succeed while using their right hands, but had a limited necessity to use their left.

The righties determined that their desire to have people like Geoff accommodated could be best achieved by reserving exactly three seats along the left-hand column, with three layers of preference.

The first category was for those with “irreversible damage” to their right hands. People whose right hands were physically, permanently incapable of use would automatically be designated a reserved seat.

With any spots remaining, the second category of preference went to those with “temporary injury” to their right hands. Geoff fit into this category, as he needed just a brief period free of collision.

If any seats still remained, one seat would be reserved for a third category that went to those who were “right trainees,” viz., those who had no injuries to their right hands, but who were not yet fully proficient in their use. This category required an application where the applicant trainee would have to approximate the time required for training, and explain the reason for needing temporary assistance. As a condition of the training, the trainee would be required to sit next to a right-handed person two days a week to acquire skills in adjusting to the use of the right hand.

Although there was limited preferential seating for the use of the left hand, the use of the left hand was not going to be prohibited anywhere in the classroom; all students were still formally allowed to use whichever hand they preferred, in whichever seat that they preferred.

When the Lefty Liberation Front approached the administration with their proposal, they were surprised to learn that this new policy had been instituted.

“This is so typical,” Carla sighed, “Geoff now has no choice but to use his left hand, and he can’t even conceive for a moment of having to inconvenience himself by bumping elbows. But we deserve that inconvenience because we are permanently left-handed.”

“But there is one seat available,” Jason pointed out, “And you know what? I just want to get through my work. I’m not hung up on doing it with my left hand; I just use that because I’m better at it. But if there is this training program that will help me adjust to using my right hand, I don’t have a problem with it.”

“But Jason,” Takeshi said, “This makes it seem like there’s something wrong with being left-handed. Why do we even need training? I never really knew that many left-handed people before I met Zaara, and now I know all of you, and you are all really smart, and some of you are really good artists too. Why should our left-handedness be considered such a bad thing that we need a correctional program for it?”

Jason sighed. “I know, Takeshi, the lefties are all great people. But you have to pick your battles. If we are this talented, let’s show that we can succeed with our right hands too. Heck, I’m going to apply for that program.”

“I’m not,” Zaara frowned, “I’m just going to go to class early and sit along the left column. There is nothing wrong with using my left hand, and I want space to use it. Plus, once you go through that program, do you think the righties will really think of you as one of them, as someone who has succeeded on his own? They’ll see you as someone that relied on their stupid program to get anywhere.”

“Probably true, Zaara,” Jason said, tired, “I just don’t want to put in the effort for this right now. I’m sorry.”

Zaara and her lefty friends wondered what type of negotiations, if any, they could request from the administration. They did not appreciate the stigma that accompanied the “training,” but they also felt that if there were more people like Jason who were interested in taking advantage of it, they should be able to without a one-person limit in that category. They thought they could either request that the administration reserve a greater number of seats for that category, or at least that, in the absence of any person with a first or second preference need, third preference students could occupy a larger number of seats.

The administration refused to reconsider its policy, emphasizing the very limited nature of reserved seating available, and the school’s underlying goals to foster both personal responsibility and optimum success. They clarified that students were entirely free to use their left hands part-time and train part-time if they chose to from any seats they were able to get; the fact that only one seat was available for a right trainee, they argued, would add further prestige to the selected applicant, and would motivate students to aspire to that position.

Epilogue

Jason applied for and successfully completed the right trainee position, becoming adept at the use of both his left and right hands. He remained sympathetic to the lefties, perceiving their handedness as a legitimate choice, and grew up to become a teacher at East Gate who, in his classroom, accommodated any requests to use the left-hand column. He emphasized, however, that he was doing this merely to allow the exercise of personal freedom.

Zaara and Carla both arrived at school very early every day in order to get a seat in the left-hand column. They continued holding meetings for the Lefty Liberation Front, and compiled an anthology of first-hand experiences from lefties and ambidextrous people on their classroom struggles. The group expanded as more people of all handednesses gained greater exposure to lefties’ stories, which were sometimes saddening, sometimes infuriating, sometimes even humorous, but always heartfelt. Many people began to respect why the lefties had wanted a column, and deferred to that designation. Zaara remained active in the East Gate community even after graduating and joined the administration, planning to institute fairer policies, such as designating a row for the lefties so they could have full accommodations while still being integrated into the classroom.

Carla started a separate school for lefties, but could not obtain adequate funds or recruit enough students to keep it running. However, she then created an after-school program where the lefties could share stories and feel fully free of stigma in their environment.

Geoff recovered from his injury within a month after school began, but during that period, his performance in school declined precipitously despite all the extra aid and accommodations teachers gave him, as he had to learn how to use his left hand. He would repeatedly highlight that once he recovered from his exasperating condition and was able to return to the natural way, his performance would be stellar. Although this was not the case and his understanding of the material remained as mediocre as ever, he now had an impressive story about this obstacle that he had overcome, which spurred the University of El Derecho to grant him a full scholarship. He went on to law school and became El Derecho’s District Attorney.

Takeshi was very upset with the circumstances after the new policy was implemented, and his attendance dropped. He got very poor grades, and was seen as a disgrace by righties, as well as by a few of the lefties, who thought he was contributing to their stigma. A few years after graduating from East Gate, he settled down and had a child, who also turned out to be left-handed. But instead of trying to convert the child, he sent her to East Gate and Carla’s daycare program, where he could feel comfortable that she would be treated much better than he had been.

Ungroomed

2009-09-10T23:16:00.000-07:00

I have never been a girl to put too much research and development into my appearance. It seems too overwhelming and costly an endeavor to procure and line up an array of products to keep my face all smooth, zit-free, and unblemished; my lips full and puckered; my hair shiny and layered (or whatever the "in" thing is these days); and my body hair out of sight (not to mention my body itself, near-invisible). The new types of technologies, and the distinction between the cosmetics with a link-up to cancer versus the more costly ones that are "natural" and not tested on animals, are just too much to keep up with.

All of this comes to the great dismay of my mother, like many other mothers of stubbornly unkempt girls, I'm sure. She points to girls on television and on the street and at cultural functions and says, "That girl is not as pretty as you. But look at how she takes care of herself. Why don't you learn to groom yourself like that?!"

I shrug. Maybe it's because I consider myself really hot without all of that. Or maybe it's because I think I'm so hideous that no combination of products could ever salvage the decrepitude that is me. Whatever the case, it is what it is: I just don't give enough of a fuck to groom. And the arguably increased prospects to land myself a groom by grooming myself would serve as very little motivation.

The only part of my appearance in which I take an interest is my eyes. Eyes are the window to the soul, and I know not whether my motivation in framing them is to entice the gaze inward, or to shield what lies inside from being seen in its bareness -- but frame them I do, religiously. My hair can be piled into a disheveled bun on my head, my shirt crumpled, my socks unmatched, but the top of my eyes will always be lined, with the corners extended just slightly outward, reminiscent of a 1970s Bollywood vamp.

Now adding a slight complication to my stubborn non-extension of effort into grooming and personal care products, and something that makes me genuinely self-conscious, is a skin condition I have had since childhood: atopic dermatitis. Basically, my skin is fucked. It's dry and delicate, with certain patches that get capriciously agitated into roughness and redness. There is no cure for this condition, but it can be treated and tempered, largely with over-the-counter cortisone creams and ointments. Despite it being the case that it is not a serious ailment, when I applied to purchase my own insurance a few years ago and disclosed that I use over-the-counter ointments for dry skin, my insurance company decided to apply a 25% premium! What a bunch of assholes.

In this past year, I have again found myself with self-purchased insurance. My premium is low, but it will basically only cover a situation where I am on the verge of death. Forget vision or dental; I am on my own to cover anything from an ear infection to a broken limb. So recently, when my atopic dermatitis started to flare up, and added a hideous element of splotchy dryness to my under-eye bags, I knew I would have to fend for this on my own.

Assed out by my penury, I turned to the Internet as a first course of action. Various non-authorities lauded the benefits of applying tea bags over the eyes to fix under-eye bags, and others cited cucumbers, which I had already known to be widely acclaimed for this purpose (thank you, makers of Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead).

While these solutions might sound glamorous, the practicality of executing them is somewhat of a challenge. The tea bags as well as the cucumbers have a tendency to slip from the eyes, and the ideal level of coolness and moistness such that they won't cause discomfort or leakage into the eyes is difficult to achieve. Also, it is difficult to discern whether a particular strategy is effective, especially for an impatient bastard like me. For a few days, I thought I would experiment. I would place a tea bag over only one eye, and nothing over the other. Or I would have a cucumber over one eye, and a tea bag over the other. I had an eye mask that said "Naughty," and I would use that to fasten the tea bag or cucumber into place without slipping. But I soon tired of these strategies and decided it was time to consult an expert.

Luckily, I have a friend who is versed in Chinese herbs and medicine. I asked her for advice on dealing with this beast, and she recommended the consumption as well as application to the eyes of evening primrose oil. Indeed, I found a Burt's Bees eye-wrinkle-extinguishing product containing this ingredient, and began applying it around my eyes. I plan to continue using this product as a long-term strategy in skin care; however, I thought it would still be a good idea to speak with an western skin specialist as well to see if s/he could provide any quick fix, dammit!

At long last, I met with a dermatologist this afternoon. He confirmed that the aggravated nature of the under-eye bags was due to the atopic dermatitis, and he did not have any quick fix, but instead told me to use over-the-counter cortisone ointment, and shitloads of moisturizer. And, lo and behold, his advice: not only was I on the right track by not using any fancy-schmancy products for exfoliation and acne and blemish removal and blah blah blah -- but I in fact should not even use soap or any type of cleanser on my face. He explained that the cleaner I tried to be, the worse my condition would get, as cleansers would only further dry out the patches. No soap sounded like my inner third grader's dream come true! He also said I should not wear contacts, at least for a while, no type of spray or scent, and -- bummer -- I should not wear any eyeliner.

But I'm happy to have a reason now, not only for being ungroomed, but also marginally unhygienic: it's what the doctor ordered.

Attachment by Any Name: Funny as a Crutch

2009-09-08T10:05:00.000-07:00

Inspired by passages from the Bhagavad Gita, other old-school religious and philosophical texts, and many a modern-day quack, many individuals strive for a mindset of detachment. In this quest, they buy books, they pay to attend seminars, and they follow the prescribed strategies until they sense a satisfactory level of detachment. Then they buy more books and pay to attend more seminars to achieve a higher level.

This is why I want in on the self-help movement. I'm convinced it will be my cash cow. I'm Indian, for chrissake, and I have curly hair. All I need to do is throw on an orange robe and some beads and people will come pouring money at my feet for a little bit of wisdom.

So here is a little bit, for free. I think the idea of studying and vying obsessively to become detached is a bit absurd. Self-contradictory, even. But who am I to judge? It is a harmless and arguably noble endeavor, and probably (usually?) less self-destructive than alcohol or drugs, which others turn to as their crutch, escape, coping mechanism, security blanket, addiction, attachment, or whatever you want to call it.

Most people have some sort of metaphorical crutch, if not a full-on wheelchair. Perhaps it is ambition. Perhaps it is an ex, or a crush. Perhaps it is religion. Perhaps it is exercise. Perhaps it is travel. Perhaps it is Bollywood (holla!). Whatever the case, we become dependent on its existence (or lack of existence in the event of unrequited love); we draw strength, meaning, and inspiration from it; and sometimes, if we forget the life and possibilities outside of it, and let it subsume our entire emotional state, it spells our downfall.

The best anyone can do is try and be a little self-aware. And maybe experiment with switching up the crutches on occasion.

A Ranger In Every Stranger

2009-08-23T21:25:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, my sister Anjoo, our friend Shaila, a couple other friends, and I made our way over to a little vacation house near the Russian River in Sonoma County, California, where we could chill, cook, soak in the hot tub, play games, and go on wine-tasting and kayaking excursions. The home was nestled high up in the woods, neighboring a few other small homes and farms, but largely subsumed in nature and isolated in terms of human presence. We were in high spirits on the way there, which we complemented by consuming spirits throughout the first evening.

Eventually it came time for bed, and our two other friends headed to the guest house in the back. Anjoo, Shaila, and I lay down on the king size bed in the bedroom of the house, and expressed how happy we were to have convened for the vacation. We also each reported that we had been a bit creeped out by the stillness-cum-rustling of our surroundings while hot-tubbing earlier that evening.

We changed the topic to quell our fears, and at some point, we began discussing our dream careers. Anjoo mentioned that were she not afraid of everything, she would quite like to be a park ranger. Shaila, not one for political correctness, opined that Anjoo was not sufficiently butch to be a park ranger. Anjoo denied that being butch was a prerequisite to being a park ranger, and the two went back and forth for a bit while I guffawed and took in the surroundings of the room. My eyes then fell upon a blinking blue light that emanated through the closed bedroom door.

"Wait... what's that light?" I interrupted hesitantly.

Anjoo and Shaila looked over toward the door and immediately silenced themselves. "Oh my God, truly, what is it?" Shaila inquired, voice quavering.

"Oh no, do you think it's the ghost of the butch park ranger?" Anjoo asked irrationally. Shaila and I giggled nervously at the absurdity of the suggestion, while feeling genuinely fearful of the possibility.

"Who's going to get up and check?" I asked, unabashed in my lack of volunteerism.

After several minutes of trepidation, Anjoo, the wishful park ranger, got up and armed herself with her light blue backpack before gingerly turning the doorknob. I got up to peer into the living room as well, and our eyes chanced upon the source of the flickering, which was the iPod gadget connected to the stereo.

Phew!

But somewhere in our hearts we still retained the belief that there was indeed the presence of a butch park ranger in our home -- but it was a benevolent presence. We decided to name her Liz. For the remainder of our trip, we attributed our good fortune to her spirit.

We went on our canoeing expedition the next day. We became tired after about ten minutes of rowing, but luckily, the canoe sort of floated ahead without too much of our effort -- thanks to Liz. At one point, the canoe capsized and we toppled over with minor scratches, but we did not get impaled by rocks, grâce à Liz. The following day, we went wine-tasting, and despite our super late start (in the first winery at 2:30pm), we managed to enjoy libations at five different spots, with the last one being exceedingly generous in creating our fully incapacitated state. Anjoo then left her camera behind in a restaurant where we ate five buckets of fried food, but the camera was then found by other restaurant patrons. We owe it all to Liz.

We are now back in the Bay Area, sans Liz, but having learned an important lesson: there is a ranger in every stranger. It's all just a matter of perspective.

The Anti-Pyaar in Rupak

2009-08-18T15:18:00.000-07:00

This one is inspired by the wistful "Dooriyan" from "Love Aaj Kal," bemoaning the distances between two people. I think the two were better off with their distances, at least for the purposes of this cheeky number. There is also a bit of a shout-out to Atif Aslam's "Doorie." The music has yet to be composed, set in rupak taal.

Jabse aayi jawaani
Hamesha pareshaani
Kyon rishta jode
Hum

Kabhi "I miss you honey"
Phir dhoondhe Playboy bunny
Kum khushi zyaada
Ghum

Yeh dooriyan
Sahi salaamat rahe
Yeh dooriyan
Sahi salaamat rahe

Unka peechha kare
Jo interest na dikhaaye
Apno ko
chhodkar

Sabse ek leti main rupee
To banti crorepatni
In this material
World

Yeh dooriyan
Sahi salaamat rahe
Yeh dooriyan
Sahi salaamat rahe

Doori... doori... se hi jiye hum... se hi jiye hum...

Jabse aayi jawaani
Hamesha pareshaani
Kyon rishta jode
Hum

Kabhi "I miss you honey"
Phir dhoondhe Playboy bunny
Kum khushi zyaada
Ghum

Yeh dooriyan
Sahi salaamat rahe
Yeh dooriyan
Sahi salaamat rahe

--

Ever since the onset of youth
I feel an unsettling truth
Why would I want
To commit

Sometimes "I miss you money"
Then seeking a Playboy bunny
Lesser joy
More bullshit

These distances
Are better off maintained
These distances
Are better off maintained

Chasing after the one
Who has no interest in turn
Leaving behind the one
Who does

If I took a rupee from each
I'd be one rich beech
In this material
World

These distances
Are better off maintained
These distances
Are better off maintained

Distance... distance... with its help I live... with its help I live...

Ever since the onset of youth
I feel an unsettling truth
Why would I want
To commit

Sometimes "I miss you money"
Then seeking a Playboy bunny
Lesser joy
More bullshit

These distances
Are better off maintained
These distances
Are better off maintained

Gay Ho Denied in NYC India Day Festivities

2009-08-14T12:16:00.000-07:00

As a long-time ally to the LGBT community and a regular contributor to Trikone Magazine, I was thrilled to learn that last month, the Delhi High Court finally struck down Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code. It was a piece of legislation enacted during the British rule that criminalized sexual activity "against the order of nature" (i.e. homosexuality, as well as plenty of sexual activity engaged in by heterosexuals, though the latter would likely not be bothered about). Good riddance to bad rubbish.

From poking around on Indian blogs, Twitter accounts, and YouTube videos, it seems like a rapid degree of change is occurring socially as well as legally in India with respect to attitudes about homosexuality becoming more supportive. Granted, the views that I have access to through these media are extremely limited, pretty much a sprinkling of the urban elite, but still -- for a film like Dostana to have been made by a mainstream team and have appealed to the masses surely counts for something.

It's funny how while India moves forward and shifts in different ways, many Indians here in the American diaspora remain stuck with old attitudes, essentializing the Indian culture as a petrified entity, defined as what it was at the time of one's own familial migration. According to such individuals, people stepping outside of traditional gender roles, or being open about having a marginalized sexual identity, are infected with a symptom of India becoming "Americanized."

"Americanized"? I think about Texas and Sarah Palin and gay convertors and crazy assholes that go around bombing abortion clinics and scratch my head. I think about what mainstream attitudes toward gays were like just 30 years ago, and for that matter, the fact that the United States' equivalent of the Delhi High Court decision occurred just six years ago in 2003, when finally the state of Texas was politely informed in the landmark case Lawrence v. Texas that homosexual acts were Constitutionally protected. And then I also think about the wonderful San Francisco Bay Area with our Folsom Street Parades, couched in a context where our state's voters just struck down the right for gays to marry, even though it's legal in places like Iowa. I conclude that the notion of an "American/ized" attitude is some pretty complicated, dynamic shit -- but if clearly, the overall consensus of Americans 30 years ago was to hate gays, and now arguably it's not, and the view from now is taken as the "American" view, then why can't Indians take credit for being able to change on our own as well?

It seems like the Federation of Indian Associations (FIA) is one of those souls that refuses to evolve -- or, at least, has chosen to totally disregard an application from the South Asian Lesbian & Gay Association to participate in Independence Day festivities taking place this weekend in New York. The same exact thing happened years before, but I thought that by now, looking toward the motherland as a shining example, they would be more amenable to a shift. I mean, the parade can include the newest and raunchiest of item numbers and have eight-year-olds shake their asses to them, as Vijay Prashad discussed in The Karma of Brown Folk, but it can't have adults celebrating love?

A clip from one of my favorite comedians, Vidur Kapur, is now in order:

Let the FIA know what you think!

Federation of Indian Associations
163 Washington Valley Road, Suite 104, Warren, NJ 07059
Tel. : 732-369-6626
Fax : 732-369-6628
Email: info@fianynjct.org
Committee: http://www.fianynjct.org/cms/Committee/2009ExecutiveCommittee/tabid/69/Default.aspx
http://www.facebook.com/l/;www.fianynjct.org/cms/"

This is the letter I sent to the president from my lawyer account:

Dear Mr. Patel,

As an American-born immigration lawyer of Indian descent and an ally of the LGBT community, I am writing to express concern and disappointment over the implied exclusion of the South Asian Lesbian & Gay Association SALGA in the upcoming India Day Parade in New York, organized by the Federation of Indians Associations (FIA). I understand that SALGA had submitted an application to be included in the festivities, and it was never so much as acknowledged despite several follow-up attempts.

In July, the Delhi High Court repealed Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, a piece of legislation enacted during the British rule that outlawed homosexual acts (among other types). This decision greatly improves India's potential to become a powerful, shining democracy that embraces and thrives on diversity and equality. The United States only had its equivalent Supreme Court decision six years ago, and I am proud to be living in a time where attitudes are changing for the better in both countries with which I culturally identify.

Given that legal obstacles have been partially overcome for LGBT individuals to be themselves, the major obstacle now is one of social stigma. As "the largest non-profit umbrella organization of NY, NJ, & CT," FIA should conduct itself with a certain social responsibility and be inclusive of its diverse constituents. Statistically, at least 10% of those attending the festivities will be LGBT, and so many others will be friends, family members, and co-workers of these individuals.

SALGA is an extremely important organization to bring visibility and support to all of these individuals.

I urge that you please reconsider the manner in which FIA addressed the receipt of SALGA's application, and maintain these concerns in mind for future events.

Sincerely,

L, Esq.

Meteor Shower

2009-08-12T11:56:00.000-07:00

at first glance
it's hard to tell
the volume of the stars
above our heads

but look patiently
turn off surrounding artificial lights
and you will see the myriad constellations
shimmering on nature's great canvas

some shine with persuasion
while others beckon cautiously
some seem to stagnate in stillness
while others pulsate in, out

more stars constantly appearing
as you let your eyes adjust
and be taken in
by the celestial existence

then they begin their journey
dart here and there whimsically
guided by caprice
struck
by
chance

Bollywood, Love, and Entitlement: Commentary on Love Aaj Kal

2009-08-03T00:54:00.001-07:00

*Warning: Spoilers.*

The just-released Bollywood film "Love Aaj Kal" ("Love Now and Then," inspired by a Taiwanese film and directed by Imtiaz Ali) does a decent job of probing at the nuances of human emotion with artful subtlety, and making one ponder the way in which the world has changed in the last few decades; the relative advantages and disadvantages of our plethora of options versus the simplicity of yore; and the very meaning of "love."

The movie starts out with the tale of Jai (Saif Ali Khan) and Meera (Deepika Padukone), two young modern-day Indians who meet in London, date for a while (and kiss, like normal people who date!), and eventually concede that they are in a relationship. However, as circumstances would have it, they have career goals that would lead them in different directions. Meera wants to move to India to restore old paintings, and Jai wants to move to San Francisco (w00t!) to build bridges (the deft symbolism/foreshadowing creeps in already ;P). So, the two meet over coffee one day and calmly, maturely, decide that they should break up rather than torture themselves with a long-distance relationship that will inevitably degenerate and leave them hating each other; it is the "practical" thing to do.

Both are feeling a bit down as Meera packs up and leaves, and this is around the time when Jai meets Veer (Rishi Kapoor), an older man who is very intent on learning Jai's story, as he sees a bit of himself in Jai. Veer cannot seem to understand Jai's nonchalance over the departure of someone he claims to love, and so he begins telling his own story (younger Veer played by Saif Ali Khan). Veer's flashbacks are interwoven with the real-time developments between Jai and Meera.

In "those days," there weren't as many options as there are for middle class, urban-esque people today: the option to consort with the opposite sex freely, hook up, date a bit, then part ways; the option to leave your home town and even your country simply to indulge your curiosity or explore one potential path; the option to defer or forgo the formation of a family to pursue other career or life dreams.

It was in such a context, in Delhi, that Veer fell in love with Harleen Kaur (Anonymous in the credits, but I hear she is a Brazilian actress named Giselle Monteiro), based on first glance at her pretty appearance and sweetly bashful demeanor. Charming her in too interactive a manner was not an option, so he chose to stalk her, and she reciprocated his affection is subtle ways, each in turn sneaking gifts, sweets, and black tea to one another. But as with Meera, circumstances took Harleen elsewhere: her family was shifting to Calcutta. Veer was determined to work and fight to stay with his beloved, and rounded up the rupees to stalk her some more.

The parallels contine to be forged between the situations Veer faced, and those that Jai faces. The circumstances bringing them to various plot points are different, largely because of the difference in the level of agency possessed by Harleen and Meera, and the fact that Meera deliberately takes some steps which further the distance -- but both men possess a longing for the respective woman in their hearts. Even as Jai and Meera go through the mechanical motions of moving on and seeing other people (or perhaps precisely because of that) the longing grows to to an increasingly intense level of desperation. For a few days, Jai and Meera delude themselves into thinking that their abandonment of romantic expectations has resulted in a new, carefree sort of dynamic, but don't we all know better.

Here's my gripe: the film seems to promote the message that love was the same yesterday as it is today, love apparently being defined as something that makes someone crazed, obsessive, and practically (or impractically) self-destructive in one's quest to obtain his/her object of affection. But neither does that idea of love sit well with me, nor am I convinced of the genuineness of true, deep emotion felt by Veer or Jai.

(Warning: I get into some details and pretty much give away the ending.)

Firstly, Veer. Homeboy sees the woman once, and he falls in love? I mean, fine, this is my asshole, modern-day "practical" thought on that, but how can you fall in love with someone you haven't so much as had a conversation with? You can be in love with her appearance, the vibe she sets off; she can make you feel warm and tingly; or, let's face it, she might just make you horny, and because you aren't allowed to say that without feeling ashamed, you say you're in "love"? Bollocks! Stalking her is giving you a certain adrenaline rush, a welcome thrill beyond working in the village, chilling with your family, and then getting an arranged marriage -- so when you go hustle to make the relationship come to fruition, I can't help but think it's just because you want something to happen in your life, which doesn't contain all the potential distractions that ours do. But it's all very sweet. And if the romance has actually sustained, then maybe its genuineness at the time formation is retroactively self-evident, and I'm just being unduly cynical.

Now, Jai. Boyfriend has some serious issues. No doubt, the abundance of options makes the world an overwhelming place for anyone to live in today, and we are all constantly being pushed and pulled in many directions. But there is also a certain attitude that one brings to the table when confronted with these options, which will inform the nature of his personal energy and relations with others. Does one tend to appreciate and harness what he has, or somehow magically always manage to find restlessness and discontent in it? That middle-ground between sheer complacency and perpetual self-induced misery -- that place where adventure and emotional stability can go hand-in-hand -- is a tough one to find; but my overall impression of Jai is that he's a self-absorbed, confused motherfucker. Take, for example, the fact that when Meera asks to speak privately with him at her wedding, he -- guided by the assumption that finding out the state of HIS emotions is her sole reason for inviting him -- delivers a rambling soliloquy that's all about HIM and how HE feels; he gives lip service to giving her good wishes, but at the same time keeps slipping in bullshit about "But what if we're soulmates?" followed by "Shit, I shouldn't have said that." And what about when he goes to see the psychologist and doesn't even disclose the obvious key fact, and then just ups and leaves from the office? Nice attempt at being responsible and getting your act together to lead a constructive life, dipshit. And when does he ever really show his caring and concern for Meera and what is going on with her? It is hard for me to believe that he really loves her, rather than finding her to be a source of the comfort, familiarity, and validation that would be required by someone with his Peter Pan qualities. I think she just provides him a certain sense of closeness that he is afraid of losing, especially after being alone in a new city. He is motivated by fear and selfishness more than a desire for what is best for her.

Harleen hardly has any agency to speak of, and I think she reciprocates Veer's affection mainly because it gives her something to do. Meera does have a mind of her own in theory, and she always says the right thing, according to Jai, but in the end it's on Jai's terms and according to Jai's wishes that she conveniently also pines for him. Bollywood is all about moving forward the hero's agenda, after all, and it is a lucky coincidence that the heroine secretly reciprocates his desire. Identifying with the hero, the viewer would thus be discouraged from honoring a love interest's no as a no. And what of Meera's poor boss (Rahul Khanna), who is so in love with her and has married her, for chrissake? His love is a necessary casualty on the path to "soulmates" finding their windy path back to each other, it seems. In Bollywood, the hero and heroine are luckily on the same page with another as to the "soulmate's" identity, but unrequited delusions are a much more common phenomenon in real life, enabled into cyclic dysfunctions by films such as this one.

Production-wise, the film is excellent. The songs are catchy, with lyrics and picturization that cleverly move the narrative forward. My favorite video was of "Main Kya Hoon," and not just because it's filmed in San Francisco. It quite marvelously captures the whole journey from Jai's excited entry to San Francisco to his sullen state of despair and agony. There is a sensible sprinkling of laughs and dances to break up the emotional moments. The characters are reasonably fleshed out, and for a relatively short screenplay, quite a bit is conveyed. I've seen lots of hateration on Deepika Padukone's acting, but I thought that both she and Saif Ali Khan did justice to their roles. There are lots of subtleties throughout the film and in constructing the parallels of the two tales which I found worthy of appreciation.

So if I don't think either of the stories actually entails love, then what does? Hell if I know. But I just don't intuit that the cliched combination of distance-induced-mad-obsession accurately summarizes it. That is the stuff of infatuations, and the intensity can't possibly sustain for too long after the gap is actually bridged, when it was pretty much premised on the existence of challenges and barriers to overcome. I am more inclined to believe that love is quite a simple thing (albeit difficult to find) comprised of mutual respect, admiration, attraction, compatibility, and a genuine desire for what is best for the other person -- even if it does not involve you. As fun as it can be to agonize, I think that real love would bring with it a joyful sort of bliss. Or maybe I'm just having fun setting up a challenge for myself to finally come across such a feeling, as it gives me something to do.

I think this movie should have been titled in a way to demonstrate the positioning of the Bollywood hero across the eras: Entitlement Aaj Kal.

4 out of 5 stars.

If Pride Took a Holiday

2009-08-02T00:05:00.000-07:00

I have a tendency to smirk when a discussion of "human nature" is raised as a way to explain various psychological or sociological phenomena. It just seems so fatalistic, as though we are resigned to a vestigial set of purported biological instincts and brain chemicals which cannot be rewritten through deliberate acculturation.

And yet if I think about iconic individuals and societies I have studied, and reflect on the wonderful and amazing people I have come across in my life (as well as some of the not-so-amazing, pathetic assholes), I believe there is one thing that unites a sizable chunk of humanity: a deep and profound sense of inadequacy.

This sense of inadequacy is culled together from various sources. We encounter many external ideals from family, culture, friends, partners, celebrities, and media on how we are supposed to look, what type or level of formal education is desirable, how we are supposed to conduct ourselves, what type of partner we are supposed to have, what type and number of children we are supposed to create and raise -- and moreover, when we are supposed to have all these things. It is difficult not to internalize some of these ideals that are presented to us, and measure ourselves against them. We may additionally form some personal objectives that we are having difficulty meeting, or that others seem to be achieving with greater ease. What makes one person feel inadequate wouldn't necessarily make another person feel so. But whatever the reason, the perception of failure sets in, and frustration results.

The frustration manifests in different ways. Some individuals respond with inertia, while others go in overdrive on a spree of proving their potential. Some whine and paint themselves as perpetual victims. Some project their perceived failures onto others by behaving like dicks. Some pour all their effort into keeping themselves busy to avoid having to process their emotions. Some look for validation through the abundant procurement of booty (bonus points if it's the booty of the crush or partner of someone compared to whom you feel inadequate). Some drink themselves silly, or go on eating binges only to feel more inadequately attractive the next day. Some behave sycophantically toward those whom they perceive as more successful, while others attempt to compete, and others yet trivialize or decidedly scorn the achievements of such people. Some are exhibitionists, while others are painfully private.

At first glance (of my resume), one might not think I have reason to feel inadequate. I have a high degree of formal education under my belt, and a fairly accomplished creative side -- and if I put some effort into my appearance, I could begin to resemble a vertically compressed, ethnic version of a conventionally hot chick.

But I'm also a lethargic fuck who:

can't keep my room clean or clothes ironed or lightbulbs changed for the life of me;
consumes only a meager fraction of the fruits and vegetables that I should be consuming, while relentlessly devouring any carb or dairy product that crosses my path;
has a tendency to eschew revenue-generating endeavors;
is awkward as fuck while interacting with someone for the first, second, or sometimes twentieth time;
comprehends the meaning of most Sanskrit words better than the words "flirt" or "date" or "relationship";
is absolutely confounded when told to go "east" or "west" or "north" or "south" on a street; and
has a notable dearth of common sense when it comes to matters of fifth grade chemistry and physics (i.e. stuff you are not supposed to microwave, iron, mix together, how to move objects, etc.).

I could go on and on.

I joke about these things because romanticizing my perceived loserdom through self-deprecating humor feels like a productive and transformative way to work through these issues -- it causes joy both to me and ostensibly to some audience -- but they are real insecurities. On more than one occasion, I have manifested my frustration in other, dysfunctional ways such as the ones outlined above as well, but I make a fair attempt to check myself and be self-aware. Knowing is half the battle, they say, and at present I'm too lethargic and lacking in common sense and direction to undertake the rest of it.

I'm not a "12-step program" or self-help literature advocate, but I am solution-oriented, and I do wonder if on a collective level, we could find a productive way to work through our feelings of inadequacy. The main block to doing so, as I see it, is pride. We are firstly too proud to acknowledge that we have certain expectations of ourselves, and that we are not meeting them. We are also too proud to acknowledge that we might not be able to do everything on our own, at least not with the desired level of speed or expertise, and that there are people in our lives who would provide the needed support if we just opened ourselves up to the possibility. It requires a certain degree of vulnerability to open up, and to be opened up to -- but shared experience has the best healing potential, not to mention the productivity and efficiency gained by pooling resources together.

If we took a holiday from our pride, just some time to celebrate that we've cried, we'd feel much more adequate in our stride. It would be so nice.

SRK's American High School Yearbook Pics!

2009-07-31T14:08:00.000-07:00

Here are some wonderful creations, thanks to this ridiculous website.

Kiss by Diss: Thoughts on Twilight

2009-07-29T10:55:00.000-07:00

Bella moves to a new small town and meets Edward in her high school science class. Edward behaves distantly and coldly toward her, making her feel irritated and intrigued at once. Eventually they form a slight friendship, and then Edward begins appearing everywhere Bella is and rescuing her from assorted unsavory situations with freakish dexterity. Bella is insanely curious about how this is possible and seeks out more and more of Edward's presence, while Edward warns her that she should stay away (because, still unbeknownst to her, Edward is a vampire and could pose a danger to her life if he loses control of his bloodlust and goes into a feeding frenzy on her succulent human blood). But Bella cannot resist Edward, and eventually she uncovers and calls Edward out on being a vampire. He concedes and says that is why he was wanting to keep a distance. The two exchange hungry, furtive glances.

Edward: "I don't have the strength to stay from you any more."

Bella: "Then don't."

Disgusting!

...I love it!

This sampling from Twilight (based on my viewing of the film; I haven't yet read the book) contains a hodgepodge of deliciously infuriating elements found in many a chick-flick, many a romance novel, and many a Bollywood flick.

Boy disses the girl or is somehow unavailable.

Girl obsessively craves the boy's attention and validation for this very reason.

It turns out the boy has been avoiding the girl and acting this way because he has an uncontrollable longing for the girl.

The girl happens to get in many compromising situations.

The boy has been following the girl around in order to be able to protect her from these situations.

The boy saves the girl with extreme speed and strength.

The boy is being controlling and possessive for the girl's own good.

The girl loves it.

At least this time there's an excuse for the extreme speed and strength factor, as well as the initial diss: the dude's a vampire.

But isn't there always somehow some plot device to rationalize all these elements?

I don't believe there's an intentional worldwide cinematic and literary conspiracy to train women to be attracted to men who treat them like shit (or like their property) in the hopes that this treatment is concealing some intense passion which will eventually manifest positively -- but I do believe that these repeatedly reinforced narratives contribute to a society where such a dysfunctional attraction is rampantly formed.

Anjali Sharma's Revenge

2009-07-06T19:47:00.000-07:00

Lyrics here.

Love Tera Shit Shit

2009-06-07T01:30:00.000-07:00

A Real Charmer

2009-05-16T21:19:00.000-07:00

This is my reinvention of two great "snake" songs of the 1980s: "Main Teri Dushman" from the Bollywood film, Nagina, and "Cold-Hearted Snake" by Paula Adbul. The snake, and in particular the Indian cobra, is considered a powerful force in Hindu mythology. The symbolism is explored in the recent film "Heaven on Earth" made by Deepa Mehta with respect to the psyche of a domestic violence survivor; my song/video plays upon her film to some extent.

Lyrics:

You sure are a real charmer
You've charmed the snake out of me
You've charmed the snake out of me (x2)

You won me over
with sweet-talking
thinking of you
used to give me wings

From high up above
saw right through your charm
Guess you could say
it cost me a leg and arm

Now I slither
toes tucked under
The new me
is an Indian cobra

You sure are a real charmer
You've charmed the snake out of me
You've charmed the snake out of me (x2)

C-c-c-cold hearted
Ooh aah aah
C-c-c-cold hearted
Ssssssnake (x2)

You're a cold-hearted fake
Look into my eyes
Uh oh
I'll be just as sly

You're a lover boy at play
Now play by my rules
Uh oh
Boy you're just my fool now

Cold-hearted fake
Look into my eyes
Main nagin tu sapera
Main nagin tu sapera
Main nagin tu sapera

Queer Desi Immigration Matters: The Complexities of Getting In When You're Out

2009-04-22T01:20:00.000-07:00

In the 2008 hit Bollywood film Dostana, wherein the lead male characters Sam (Abhishek Bachchan) and Kunal (John Abraham) pretend to be a gay couple in order to procure housing in a lavish Miami apartment with the glamorous Neha (Priyanka Chopra), there is a scene where Kunal -- accompanied by the two others -- goes to a US Immigration office to file an application for permanent residence. Kunal starts to wait patiently in line, when Neha nudges Sam and him to proceed to the “gay line.” “If you file as a couple, you can get your residency permit much quicker, maybe even within a year. Otherwise it can take up to five years. What, you didn’t know that?!” she exclaims incredulously.

The film’s portrayal of the United States as some sort of homoerotic haven where being gay could provide a fast-track immigration solution is comical, but quite removed from the truth. South Asian stand-up comedian Vidur Kapur once famously proclaimed of his situation: “I have three strikes against me: I’m Indian, I’m gay, and I’m an immigrant – which means I fit in nowhere!” Indeed, each of these identities compounds the effects of the others in terms of social and cultural marginalization; the combination also tends to result in diminished legal rights.

Notwithstanding the immigration factor, even same-sex couples in which both individuals are US citizens face a continuing uphill battle to achieve the same rights as heterosexual couples. Only in the past month, Iowa and Vermont joined Connecticut and Massachusetts to form the small cluster of states permitting marriages between individuals of the same sex, and the D.C. Council voted to recognize same-sex marriages performed in other states. Fewer than ten states (Florida not being one of them) provide same-sex couples with the option for “domestic partnership” or “civil union” with some of the same rights as marriage. The California Supreme Court continues to ponder the constitutionality of Prop 8, which, after passing in November 2008, effectively stripped same-sex partners of marriage rights.

Despite modest state-by-state advancements for marriage equality, LGBT US citizens remain second-class in terms of the right to family unity with foreign national same-sex partners. US Immigration law is derived principally from the Immigration and Nationality Act (INA) of 1952, as amended and supplemented by various federal acts. Of particular relevance, in 1996, Congress passed and Bill Clinton signed into law the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), which contained a statutory definition of "marriage," and of the related term, "spouse." Pursuant to the DOMA, in order for a relationship to qualify as a marriage for purposes of federal law, one partner must be a man, and the other must be a woman. This codified differential treatment impacts a considerable number of couples; according to a survey commissioned by Immigration Equality -- a national organization working to end discimination in US immigration policy -- in 2000 there were about 37,000 same-sex couples in the country where one partner was a foreign national.

(On a somewhat more encouraging note for transgender individuals, though, in May 2005, the Board of Immigration Appeals issued a precedent decision finding that a marriage where one spouse was a post-operative transsexual was valid for immigration purposes where the marriage was valid in the jurisdiction in which it was entered into.)

Because a same-sex spouse does not qualify as an “immediate relative” for immigration purposes, a gay or lesbian partnered individual seeking admission to the United States requires another basis of being admitted to or changing/extending status within the country. Visas are divided into two basic categories. There are immigrant visas, also called permanent resident visas, or green cards; these are chiefly derived through family or employment, with a small number allocated for the Diversity Visa lottery for countries with historically low rates of immigration to the US (including Bangladesh, Maldives, Nepal, and Sri Lanka among the South Asian countries). Then there are non-immigrant visas: those intended for a temporary visit, e.g. H-1B temporary worker visas, F-1 student visas, or B-1/B-2 visitor visas. Immigrant visa applicants generally face a severe backlog due to quotes based on country and category unless applying through an opposite-sex spouse, parent, or child over the age of 21; effectively, an initial admission through a non-immigrant visa is the more practical option. However, unlike the H-1B visa (available on a limited basis for individuals engaged in a “specialty occupation” requiring a minimum of a Bachelors degree) which allows “dual intent,” the F-1 and B-1/B-2 visas strictly require a showing of “non-immigrant intent” and “strong ties” to one’s home country. Hence, partnered gay and lesbian individuals are caught in a double-bind where their relationship not only fails to provide a vehicle for immigration, but could even hinder their ability to visit as non-immigrants, should they have a partner residing permanently in the US.

In the Dostana scenario, with only a pretense of homosexual tendencies, a strapping hot lad like Kunal would in fact be in a decent position. In theory, assuming he entered the country legally (even if he subsequently fell out of status), he could have married a female US citizen, had her file an I-130 Immigrant Petition for him simultaneously with his I-485 Application to Register Permanent Residence or Adjust Status, and received a conditional permanent resident card in as little as three months. Two years later, he would file an application to remove the conditions on his green card, and one year after that, he would be eligible to become a US citizen.

The option to acquire or adjust status through marriage, however, is not available to Kavita, an Indian national currently studying in New York on an F-1 student visa, though her partner Rubina is a US citizen. Nor is the option available to Maya, also an Indian lesbian in New York on a student visa, although her partner, Emily, is a US citizen living in Vermont, where same-sex marriages are now recognized. Kartika, who just became a US citizen last year, is unable to sponsor her partner of almost 13 years; and Elson, of South Asian descent and currently on a student visa, is unable to have his partner visit from India.

Kavita and Rubina first met in Bangalore in 2005, when Rubina was sent there by her US employer on a temporary work project. Rubina moved back to the US in late 2006, and Kavita obtained admission on an F-1 visa in August 2007. Given the state of the economy and the fact that a new H-1B status can only be applied for once a year for a corporate position, Kavita is presented with very limited options as far as changing her status. Although Rubina and Kavita would like to institutionalize their relationship by getting married in a jurisdiction that would recognize it, they are now also tempted by the possibility of Kavita entering a “marriage of convenience” with a man as a means for Kavita to adjust her status to a permanent resident and remain in the country. Ironically, the federal government’s discriminatory stance has encouraged two educated, income-generating, and otherwise law-abiding individuals to consider resorting to marriage fraud in order to stay in status.

Maya has a similar story as Kavita, but she is banking on the possibility of an O visa to remain in the country. The O non-immigrant visa applies to “aliens who have extraordinary ability in the sciences, arts, education, business, or athletics which has been demonstrated by sustained national or international acclaim.” This is a rather difficult burden to meet, requiring extensive documentation to substantiate the “extraordinary ability” of the “alien.” It is granted initially for a period of three years, with one-year extensions available thereafter -- which means that Maya would still need to formulate a future plan to stay in the country.

One of the many kinks in our immigration law is that it is easier for the holder of an H-1B or F-1 non-immigrant visa to bring an opposite-sex spouse on a dependent visa than it is for a green card holder to do the same; the green card holder’s spouse often has to wait abroad a few years until a visa number is available, or until the principal spouse obtains citizenship, effectively upgrading the petition to the category of an immediate relative of a US citizen, with no visa wait. Many permanent residents with spouses abroad -- or in the country but out of status -- are thus very eager to obtain citizenship in order to be able to bring or legalize their spouses. However, this policy does not help Kartika, who just obtained her citizenship last year, and seeks to stay in the country with Hamida, her partner of almost 13 years. Hamida, who has Pakistani and Canadian citizenship, entered the US on a visitor visa three years ago to live with Kartika and tried unsuccessfully to obtain a job for a year and a half before moving to Toronto. “We faced a lot of obstacles because of immigration issues,” says Kartika, “but are lucky that she's a Canadian citizen because she can sponsor me to move to Canada -- and we are in the process of doing that.”

Elson, an Indian national currently on a student visa, was hoping his partner from India could visit him earlier this year. However, the visa was rejected because the consular officer was not convinced that his partner maintained strong ties to his home country, and was suspicious of why he would want to come alone just for a visit. Although there is a carve-out for “cohabiting partners” to enter on a B-2 visa and accompany partners who are also on nonimmigrant visas, this consular denial is an example of the sweeping discretion accorded to officers in consulates s well as at ports of entry, where a refusal for admission can occur despite the granting of a visa. Elson plans to stay in the US for at least a few more years and is despondent over the possibility of his partner not being able to join him. “It is totally depressing, as I cannot leave the country to meet him either, without seriously jeopardizing my career,” Elson adds.

Aside from disabling family unity, the lack of availability for same-sex sponsorship also potentially exiles the foreign national partner back into a country where the overall sentiment is unfriendly toward LGBT individuals. At the same time, the conditions in South Asian countries do not necessarily rise to the level required to qualify a person for asylum. Asylum requires a showing that the person is unable or unwilling to return to his/her home country due to past persecution or well-founded fears of future persecution based on sexual orientation or some other protected class, and extensive documentation of country conditions is required to prove the same.

One important piece of pending legislation that would encourage family unification is the Uniting American Families Act (UAFA) of 2007, which would amend the INA to treat “permanent partners” in the same manner as spouses. The UAFA was introduced during the 111th Congress to the House of Representatives and the Senate on February 12, 2009. To qualify as a permanent partner under the UAFA, a person must be able to show: a) a relationship with another adult in which both parties intend a life-long commitment; b) financial interdependence; c) exclusivity; d) the inability to marry in a manner that is "cognizable" under the INA; and e) the absence of a close blood relationship. The Immigration Equality website (www.immigrationequality.org) has a number of actions that can be taken to support this effort.

Another important piece of legislation, though not specifically addressing sexual orientation, is the federal DREAM Act, which would provide many individuals who had been brought to the US as undocumented children with conditional residency and a pathway to citizenship. Under current law, such individuals would not even acquire a path to legalization through opposite-sex marriage. More information about the DREAM Act and actions to support it are at www.dreamact2009.com.

The notion of “immigration reform” invariably brings to mind the question of how to responsibly address our nation’s estimated 12 million undocumented immigrants, an issue causing heated emotions based upon an array of assumptions. However, the policies and circumstances which thwart people out of the option for legal status are often discounted or misunderstood. Furthermore, even many “progressives” prefer to subordinate issues primarily affecting the LGBT community, fearing (well-foundedly) that it will hamper the ability to garner bi-partisan support for reform. Nonetheless, the many inequities caused by the federal non-recognition of same-sex partnerships precipitate the need for a more compassionate understanding and wider dialogue of these issues.

Tell-Fail Battery

2009-04-14T19:27:00.000-07:00

Pleased to have enjoyed an evening replete with intellectual and physical rigor in equal parts, I turn on the heater, cozy up in flannel pajamas, and snuggle up under the sheets with a delirious smile spreading across my lips. I recount specific events of the day and the few days before it, the thoughts shifting and melding into lower and lower levels of coherence.

I am almost asleep when a brief, mechanical shriek interrupts my reverie. Ah, the godforsaken smoke detector. It had sounded earlier in the day, too, and somehow stopped arbitrarily. It just had to make its come-back at this moment, didn’t it?

I turn around and lie on my stomach. I press one ear into the pillow, and attempt stuffing the other ear with my blanket. No use. The chirping is salient, as disconcerting as a pale, blue vulture eye.

I finally click on my lamp and rub my eyes, squinting as they adjust to the light. I get out of bed and swing my desk chair a few feet over. I step on the chair and flip open the smoke detector, facing the failing battery head-on. I ruthlessly snatch it out.

If I am going to get burned, let me do so in oblivion. I would rather not be cautioned too late and in vain, and I would certainly rather not be kept awake with the shrill reminder of my chamber’s diminishing prowess in smoke detection.

Gentleman's Dementia

2009-02-27T19:28:00.000-08:00

In an effort to preempt any feeling of demoralization in these hard economic times wherein I have no steady source of income to call my own, I spent virtually all of my “savings” on a ticket to New York City a couple weeks back. My best friend met up with me there, and we had no specific intentions for the trip other than eating a shitload of pizza.

My friend and I aren’t particularly cultured in the way of enjoying museums, but we do enjoy film and theater. We spent our late nights catching up on such timeless classics as “The Craft,” and we decided it would be a good idea to see “shows” on at least two days. We saw STOMP together one day (A-W-E-S-O-M-E), and my friend was interested in seeing Wicked. Considering that I had seen Wicked a few months prior in Los Angeles, and I only had a handful of dollars left to my name, I opted out, and thought I would look for a more affordable form of entertainment on Times Square that afternoon.

I had heard that sometimes you can acquire last-minute tickets to crash a Broadway show at a decent rate, so I inquired about prices at the bustling box office for Mary Poppins. I was crushed to learn that tickets were sold out, and in the event of cancellations, they would be made available for $121.50. I inquired in the box offices for other musicals as well, with similar results.

Assed out by my penury, I ordered a slice of pizza at Famiglia and read the newspaper. I then went to a neighboring coffee shop and ordered some green tea. I sat with it for a while, but then ventured outside, freezing and restless. I had so wanted to watch something.

After a couple of minutes of strolling, cup in hand, my gaze fell upon a sign for Flash Dancers, a Gentleman’s Club. “Free Admission 12pm-5pm,” it read. I rotated my wrist, and then, remembering that I never wear a watch, reached into my purse for my phone to check the time. It was a few minutes past 3, and my friend wouldn’t be done with Wicked until at least 4:30. The sky was looking ominous with the promise of imminent precipitation, and this establishment was just beckoning me inside. I had been looking for a show, after all, and the price of a drink -- or even two drinks, with the probably two-drink minimum -- would sure beat whatever they were charging for Mary Poppins.

I so wanted to finish the green tea though.

“Can I bring this in?” I inquired of the doorperson. Looking flummoxed, he said, “Uh, yeah, sure,” opening the door for me.

I merrily trudged down the stairs until I encountered the bouncer. Not much a fan of human interaction, I attempted to just squeeze past him, but he intercepted the effort with the query, “Can I help you?”

“Oh, just getting a drink.”

Eyeing me with a sideways smirk, he asked, “Do you know what sort of place this is?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You can’t bring that in here,” he said, pointing to me green tea as if it were a gun.

“Oh, should I –”

“I’ll take it. Are you sure you want to be here?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Hmm, OK. Corey, could you show her to a table?” he requested of a blonde dancer.

“No, it’s fine,” I insisted, “I’ll just sit at the bar.”

I took a seat at the bar, ordered myself two $14 Malibu Diet Cokes, and started unraveling my topmost layers: black gloves, orange woolen cap, black coat, and scarf. I was left with a brown vest over a yellow short-sleeve shirt over a black turtleneck. I felt rather iconoclastic: a young, all-natural, fully-dressed Desi woman staking her claim to this seat at the Gentleman’s Club. With quite a premium view of bouncing silicone.

While seated at the bar, I took it upon myself to gather the life history of the bartender. Originally from Russia, she had once been a dancer at this same bar seven years ago, before moving to Miami, getting married, and becoming a yoga instructor. Seven years later, she found herself divorced and working the bar, and she hoped to get back into yoga.

A long-haired male patron then took a seat next to me with a long-haired Asian American dancer at his side, and jumped into the conversation, saying he hoped to get married some day so that he could later have an ex-wife. I agreed that sometimes it sucked to be left out when people discussed their ex-spouses. The male patron then started massaging his accompanying dancer and seemed to be genuinely sprung.

I am not one to knock escapism; after all, I spend virtually all of my waking hours watching the extravagant sights and airbrushed faces of Bollywood, and relishing in various delusions inspired by the soundtracks. Nonetheless, there was something viscerally saddening about the sight of these grown men and their wistful interactions with the dancers, which held significance broader than the scope of lust — for this place was a bit more higher-end and involved mingling, not so much a place where college boys convene for homosocial masculine bonding. I’m sure many of these men had wives, girlfriends, or would-be’s, and some probably felt a genuine, multi-layered connection with those women in their lives as well. Yet they derived some sort of validation from the illusion of young women with falsified dimensions truly desiring their company for something other than their wallets; where they did not so much as know the real names of the dancers and could idealize them to be anything they wanted.

Once I got home, I slid out of my clothes and in front of the mirror, which reflected back a genuine, reliable, three-dimensional spectacle I can call upon at any time. Without costing $121.50 or requiring a two-drink minimum, this knowledge is practically perfect in every way.

Pasta Cleaner, Esquire

2009-02-04T19:38:00.000-08:00

In line with my enjoyment of livin’ la vida et cetera, I have recently scored a volunteer post as a Production Assistant for an independent South Asian-focused film being shot in the Bay Area. “Production Assistant” is basically a euphemism for Director’s Bitch. There are about six of us, and we fill in for any number of tasks that may be required: cleaning up the set, moving furniture around, procuring wardrobe changes, running out to get food, etc. Being the token brown female in the group, I have been generally profiled into suitable menial tasks such as ironing saris and helping the cook. I happily comply, figuring that no experience is a wasted experience, especially if it provides an opportunity for a good story.

“The cook” is also a volunteer — an extremely kind, if somewhat frazzled woman in her 50’s with a New York accent and a rather pronounced propensity for clumsiness. For the past several days, when not cooking, she had been running around the set looking quite jittery and muttering to herself about how unhappy she was about the budget constraints for the food, and the wastefulness and ingratitude of crew members. Yesterday, I was asked to help her prepare some pasta for our group of about 20.

She asked me to throw the pasta in the pot while she scurried around serving tea and making preparations for the pasta sauce. I threw the four large bags of pasta into the pot, and it came to a decent boil about 10-12 minutes later. Meanwhile, we chatted about what had brought us to that set. She mentioned that she had experimented with different careers, traveled, met lots of people, but was essentially still broke, unsettled, and searching for the right path; I welcomed her to the club. But, I pointed out, we were both still approaching life with openness and willing to dabble in new things and encounter new people, and that had to count for something.

For whatever reason, the family in whose home we were shooting didn’t seem to have any appropriately sized strainer, so the cook pondered an alternative method to drain the pasta: she would lift up the pot, and I would slide a plate over it to filter out the water into the sink. That seemed straightforward enough, so I lifted up the plate in preparation for the filtration.

The next thing I knew, the boiling water had scalded my thighs, and the pasta was all over the crusty kitchen floor, and the cook was alternating gaping at both, with her arms still outstretched in flummoxed petrification.

My first instinct is always to laugh, even if my thighs are burning. However, the genuine anguish on the face of this poor woman kept my instinct in check, and I focused my effort on calming her down. “It’s OK,” I reassured her, “Let’s just pick all of this up, and then we can talk to the director about what to do. Maybe we can just order some pizza.” “Do you think we can just reboil it?” she asked anxiously. “No,” I replied, horrified, observing all the dirt, grime, hair, and bugs on the carpeted kitchen floor, “Let’s just talk to the director.”

We picked up some pasta together and began flinging it back into the pot, and then the cook went to grab the director. The director, a flamboyant Pakistani man in his late 30s, took a look at the scene, waved his arms, and said, “Just triple-wash it.”

I stared at him for a moment. Then I offered, “You don’t think we should just order pizza?” “Pizza for so many people will be at least $100.” “Well… I wouldn’t eat this.” “We’ll make something else for you. You can have a turkey sandwich. I’ll eat this. Fruits and vegetables anyway come from all the mud stuff, and they just triple-wash it, and we eat that all the time. It’s fine.” He then turned around and flapped his way back up the stairs.

The cook and I look at each other aghast and continued scraping the pasta off the floor, then proceeded to wash the pasta, practically piece-by-piece in order to excise all the filth associated with it. The poor cook again started in on how she had no idea what she was doing with her life or why she was in this position.

“Well,” I stated seriously, “Maybe we’ve found our niche in scraping shit off the floor and taking hair out of pasta.”

The next thing I knew, the cook was on the floor, wheezing. “Shit,” I thought, “Is she having a breakdown?” But it was in fact a happy laugh attack. My statement apparently injected just the levity she needed to turn her perspective on the situation. She was in a great mood for the rest of the day, wheezing every few minutes about something or other, and making observations about various anecdotes from over the past several days. As I was leaving, the cook could not stop thanking me for being there with her and remaining calm and light-hearted in the face of crisis. She got my phone number, saying she wanted to take me out for dinner, and referred to me as her angel and Godsend, assuring me she would keep me in her prayers.

Sometimes as a social observer and a wry commentator who is quite giving and accommodating by nature, yet thoroughly amused by new-age fluffiness, I forget what a warm feeling it is to be appreciated so genuinely and expressively. The knowledge of touching the heart of another human being by far trumps any conventional wisdom of “success.” I am grateful that my stint as a Production Assistant has not only allowed me to add pasta-cleaning as an item on my resume, but has reminded me that in addition to being completely bad-ass, I am also completely human, with all the concomitant needs for connection and validation.

Livin' La Vida Et Cetera

2009-01-16T01:15:00.000-08:00

At several points in my life, I have found myself outside the scope of traditional employment. Feeling stagnated by the nine to five (or beyond) routine, I have solicited various projects on a contract basis from my home — or I have taken up random odd jobs, say, trudging door-to-door in business districts hoisting up marathon training posters for $12 per hour.

In other words, I have been unemployed, if you wanna be a dick about it.

At the particular time in question, I had been finished with the California Bar exam for about six months. The knowledge that I had passed the exam had been followed closely with inter-continental travel and herbal refreshments. Eventually, I realized it was time to buckle up, or buckle down, or however the expression goes. Merely having passed the exam was not going to pave a career for me, or bring me anywhere near the capacity to repay my student loans. I needed — *gulp* — a job.

This epiphany took me straight to the “Et Cetera” section of Craigslist.

I have always liked the idea of participating in focus groups and usability studies. In college, I had earned quite a bit of pocket cash by surrendering myself as a guinea pig to various social experiments. I hoped in earnest to be able to provide my token brown female twenty-something opinions to various delegates of capitalism in return for a flexible schedule with a bit of disposable income — and I did succeed on several counts. I provided my opinions to varying parties, from social networking websites to a product design company which sent designers to people's homes to learn of people’s rituals surrounding medicine (I, with my belly proudly protruding out of my blouse and empty pizza boxes and beer bottles surrounding me, proclaimed that I preferred sticking to natural remedies).

Then I remembered about a gig I had in college, which had been brought on through en email forward indicating that a labor union was in need of Hindi translations for some fliers concerning union activity. I had rapidly zoomed in on the opportunity like a fly on a pile of shit, and had made some pretty decent money out of it. What if I could find another paid position to translate English to Hindi, or vice versa? I would even be making use of one of my undergraduate degrees!

Lo and behold: a keyword search for “Hindi” yielded a listing for an economics research consulting firm that required someone with knowledge of the Hindi language to make some phone calls to India. That sounded amazing! I sent it my resume and was promptly invited in for an interview.

At the interview, I was explained the following situation: A man from India had come to the States, and had been taking a road trip somewhere in California, when he got severely injured in a car accident which ostensibly occurred due to faulty and inadequate road signs. Now, back in India, he had filed a lawsuit against the state of California to recover damages for his injury.

This company I was interviewing with had been commissioned by the state to research the costs of medical care and general living in India, premised on the belief that the state may owe money to the plaintiff, but it should be in the currency of rupees, as the man could receive comparable treatment while remaining in India. The task at hand involved making phone calls to various doctors, hospitals, and vendors of medical equipment and supplies to determine the costs of the needed products and services.

I asked which part of India the plaintiff was living in.

“Tamil Nadu.”

“They actually don’t speak Hindi in Tamil Nadu.”

“Oh…”

“BUT, I think I can work it out.”

“Are you sure? Is the language you speak similar?”

“No, not at all, but a lot of them know English and they might know some Hindi, and I’m sure I can figure out a way to communicate with them.”

“Well, if you’re confident about it, why don’t we see how you do for a couple of days and then take it from there.”

Score!

I set off on my research, conducting a myriad of Google searches to find my way to hospitals and sellers of medical equipment in India. At long last, I came across a reliable chain of hospitals, which would seem to be a one-stop shop for most of the information I needed; I had been provided a lengthy list of procedures and medications for which figures were needed.

It was about 9pm California time, and about 10:30am India time. I had braced myself with some snacks, knowing I would be doing this for the next six hours or so, while business hours were ripe on the other side of the world. I picked up the phone and dialed the number to the hospital. It was answered after about four rings with a curt “Hallo.”

“Yes, hi, I’m calling from a research consulting –”

“Yes, madam?”

“Hi, yeah, um, I needed to find out the prices of — “

“Hallo madam?”

“Could you tell me the price –”

“What, madam?”

After a while, it became clear that the man simply could not understand me.

“PRICE! WIAGRA!”

“One minute, madam. Transferring to pharmacy.”

After a few minutes of listening to the hold music which sounded like an ice cream truck, I was forwarded to the pharmacy, where another gentleman interrupted me with “yes, madam?” after every three words or so. The list of items for which I required prices was extremely lengthy, so eventually the person would pretend to put me on hold and never come back until the phone would disconnect, or would simply hang up with no notice. I had to make sure to keep my calling card fully reloaded, but now I knew the drill. I would place the call, avoid all pleasantries, and at the outset, simply state “Pharmacy!” in my best Indian accent. Once transferred to the pharmacy, I would just state, “Price, Witamin C.” “Price, magic bullet suppositories,” et cetera. I had a bit of trouble with the calcium pills; I knew to pronounce it “calshum,” but the “pill” part was what threw off the operator, until I got my act together and asked “Price, calshum tablet!”

Several months later, after I had discontentedly strapped myself down with a “real” job, the research consulting firm called me for another assignment. They now needed me to make calls to Mumbai to determine the types of salaries drawn by jewelry designers and marketing research analysts from the jewelry industry there; apparently some other Indian who worked in such a capacity had been injured, and the lost wages in rupees needed to be determined.

Unlike the folks at the hospital, who, but for a few requested clarifications, seemed fairly disinterested in who I was and why I was repeatedly calling to find out costs of various male-oriented treatments, Mumbai jewelers were far more suspicious and shrewd.

“Hi, I’m calling on behalf of a research consulting firm, and we’re trying to determine the standard salaries for jewelry designers and market research analysts in Mumbai…”

“Where you are calling from?”

“From the such-and-such group in California.”

“You’re calling from California?”

“Yes.”

“It’s 3am in California.”

“Yes, it is…”

Click.

It was a challenge, but finally I came up with an adequate sample size to satisfy the research requirements.

After 14 months, my firm job wasn't really doing it for me -- despite all the entertaining histrionics -- so I quit and moved to the town where I wanted to live, with lofty ambitions of going private. It indeed is quite the bomb to have been competent and successful in taking cases on my own and seeing them to completion. But it’s this “Et Cetera” that keeps drawing my attention, whether greeting people at a wedding, or volunteering on a film crew. Why can’t you skip the main course and just have a bunch of small plates? Of course you can; there are all sorts of people in this world, and they pave all sorts of paths for themselves. Only time will tell whether what ends up saving me is the Spanish tapas, or the Sanskrit one.

Dostana Movie Review

2008-11-20T17:51:00.000-08:00

No matter what your gender or sexual orientation, Dostana serves up a rather friendly feast for the eyes. The movie starts off with a colorful splash as topless Kunal (John Abraham) and scantily clad Shilpa Shetty get their bounce on in sunny Miami. We then get a few glimpses into Kunal's and Sam's (Abhishek Bachchan) American bachelor lifestyle before the ball really gets rolling into the premise of the story: Kunal and Sam need a place to live, and Neha (Priyanka Chopra) has a totally phat one. However, Neha's aunt won't be having two studs stay with her niece; she needs "baby-log," not "baba-log." Enter Sam's novel idea: why not act like baby-log trapped in hot hunk bodies? A reluctant Kunal agrees to the plot, and the three roommates get along brilliantly, until... the two men fall in love with the woman. The rest of the story awaits you at your local Indian theater.

The movie does have some genuinely touching moments, but it maintains its comedic flow, never going overboard with the drama. The laugh riot is upheld with good timing in the dialogues, a healthy sprinkling of double entendre, and quirky background sound effects. The songs are catchy, and the choreography is visually enticing. My favorite picturization was of "Ma Da Laadla," following Kirron Kher's entrance onto the scene as Sam's anxious mother.

As far as the ground-breaking capacity of the movie -- the mere bringing of a homosexual theme out of the closet, although faux-homo, is quite a leap for a mainstream director and A-list actors. Although many stereotypes are displayed in the film, it is done in an endearing matter, for what that's worth, which is certainly a step above fear and disgust. We have graduated on from trembling Kantaben and Saif Ali Khan's father in Kal Ho Na Ho, whom Saif has to assure that he is "normal" and not gay. Also interesting was the PR surrounding the movie; instead of assuring the media that the movie did not promote or endorse homosexuality, the promoters assured the media that the movie would not offend homosexuals. This acknowledgment of and respect for the homosexual audience is certainly a positive narrative shift.

There were a few amusing factual errors in the movie. For example, it is suggested at one point that the Immigration & Naturalization Services (INS) would provide expedited services to registered domestic partners. Not only is there no longer an INS (its functions have been taken over by the Department of Homeland Security), but, unfortunately, a domestic partnership does not accord any immigration benefits whatsoever.

The other problem I have with so many Bollywood films "abroad" is the proliferation of whiteness. In Miami, other than in Neha's household and the three black bouncers at the nightclub, why is everyone blonde and skinny? Where my fat Cubans at?

Overall, Karan Johar's latest production is a very pleasant film -- entertaining, light, and marking a paradigm shift of sorts. Two thumbs up. ;)

Scratch N' Sniff: A Review of Madhur Bhandarkar's "Fashion"

2008-11-06T17:49:00.000-08:00

Fashion chronicles several years in the life of Meghana Mathur (played by Priyanka Chopra) as she forays from a small-town girl from Chandigarh into India's top model. Commencing the story with a spirit of naive optimism, Meghana navigates through various shades of vulnerability, arrogance, degeneracy, fear, and gratitude, tracking her exhausting career and her blurred personal/professional relationships.

The director of the film, Madhur Bhandarkar, is known for making edgy, realistic cinema exposing the inside world of various industries, and Fashion continues this trend by exploring... the fashion industry. Overall, the quality of the production was superb, and Priyanka Chopra also excelled in portraying the journey of Meghana Mathur. Kangana Ranaut did a decent job in her usual role of the drugged up, mentally unstable glamor girl (I'm convinced she always gets cast in these roles because of her curly hair, grrr), and Mugdha Godse shows promise as the altruistic struggling model. The styling was amazing, and the music was sensational.

The problem with Fashion is that the elements that it exposes -- and that ostensibly required extensive research -- are rather predictable shockers for your average middle-class audience member. The plot thickens with the introduction of various elements that one could readily imagine being associated with the modeling world: "Gays!" "Alcohol!" "Drugs!" "Affair!" "Abortion!" "One-night stand!" Right before intermission, in a matter I found just a tad cliche, Priyanka lights a cigarette for the very first time, precipitating her downfall.

I know that a film by its nature is finite and thus has its limitations in how many angles it can touch, but I feel that some major issues went unexplored. First of all, why is it that Meghana wanted to be a model -- ji nahi, supermodel? She is asked the question once and sort of blows it off. Through a dialogue in the film, it is revealed that 200 girls come to Mumbai every day with dreams of becoming a supermodel. What is it about our society that makes image and glamor so enticing to so many girls? I think the film owed it to the audience to give at least some examination to the social, cultural, and gendered socialization that triggered this desire in Ms. Mathur and so many others.

An even greater omission than exploring the motivation behind joining the industry was the lack of attention paid to the body image of the aspiring models. Pretty much all "normal" women, no matter what we look like, are prone to thinking our stomachs are too big, our faces too-acne-ridden, our boobs the wrong size, our hair too dry... and that's before you inject the Desi factor, also making us hairy, greasy, and dark. It would be a mistake to say that models don't obsess over these issues as well; indeed, it's precisely by obsessing over these issues and pouring large proportions of their disposable incomes into fixing them that many land where they do. Regular salons and cosmetics don't always suffice for threading, waxing, exfoliating the skin, heightening the cheekbones with blush, or tinting the hair and eyebrows; sometimes you need the professional tummy tuck, silicone implant, or botox.

Despite all amendments one may make to her appearance, she will still inevitably be airbrushed for the magazine cover because she shows a slight blemish on her chin, or her arms look too fat. And speaking of fat, Meghana is shown happily running away on the treadmill and then eating nice meals at five-star restaurants without subsequently vomiting them; I'm not sure this is quite so representative of reality, when India has just recently entered the size-zero craze.

Skin color is another huge issue that was simply ignored. Luckily, Priyanka Chopra's skin tone does not seem to be altered for her role; she is left a "medium-wheatish" tone -- and some of the other models even venture to "dusky." However, notice that the darker you get, the more "raw" the looks are, and the women are clad in peacock feathers or animal print. In the Bollywood batch, you have the beautifully "dusky" Bipasha Basu playing the seductress, the vamp, the schizophrenic, but rarely the nice girl next door. Priyanka seemed to be an exception that was a bit darker and still able to pull the goody-two-shoes roles, and then came along her Pond's fairness cream ad to demonstrate to Indian girls how lightening their skin would help them retain their man. What psychological impact must this message have on all involved and implicated parties? Where my critical race feminists at?

It is perfectly respectable for a film simply to take on the task of telling one person's story and showing a particular aspect of her personal growth; however, I believe that Fashion set out to be more ambitious than that, and I just don't know that a major part of a model's life would not be to obsess over criticisms of her appearance, no matter how closely she fit a Barbie-type mold. I would have found it interesting had the film explored some of the social, cultural, and psychological dimensions associated with beauty, and perhaps provided some social commentary and insight into multinational, gendered branding. I believe that the film's arguably moralistic fixation on "drugs!" "alcohol!" and "sex!" would greatly scandalize and thereby appease a large segment of the audience, but this particular curly-haired kook believes that it barely scratched the surface.

Vulnerability Playlist

2008-10-30T01:17:00.000-07:00

esoteric pleasures siphon downward

through a forlorn canal

no more remiss

acknowledging crisis

awakened languorously

to discomfort in incongruity

sound composure

changes composition

a legacy of upbeat juxtapositions

displaced by polyphanous harmonies

musical charades

of a confounded jugalbandhi

smears syncopation

reciting a new nomenclature

Rose-Tinted Shards

2008-10-15T01:19:00.000-07:00

After spending my afternoon wedged between leather and bare-skinned pot bellies at the Folsom Street Fair, and then playing some intense rounds of Scattergories and Celebrity with my buddies from law school, I BARTed my way back to the 19th Street stop in Oakland, ready to hop into my car and zip on back to my apartment and crash.

After descending from the train, I pranced over to my car parked on Broadway and opened the door to the backseat. I was about to set my purse down when my gaze fell upon a procession of pretty, blue-tinted shards of glass. I scratched my chin and wondered whether I had unknowingly left a glass vase in the back seat, then unknowingly jerked my car around violently while failing to hear or feel the impact of the vase’s breakage.

I shrugged and closed the back door, opening the door to the driver’s seat. My eyes were met with the sight of even more shards of glass on this seat, and some object in front of the brake resembling a tombstone. Then I saw the broken window on the passenger’s side.

Put a cute boy in front of me and I will begin palpitating; put my own burglarized vehicle there and I may as well be at a meditation retreat. I just stood there for a moment, taking in the deftness of the thieves who so precisely broke just that one window without causing any further damage to the vehicle; quite considerate of them, I thought. They hadn’t even taken any of my vehicle registration documents, so that would save me all the drama with the DMV. I simultaneously bemoaned the thieves’ misfortune of finding nothing of value except a stack of mixed Bollywood CDs I had burned off of iTunes.

Finally I realized that I needed to get home, report the incident, and eventually get the window fixed. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and saw that its battery was on the verge of death. Sighing deeply, I crouched down and maneuvered around the glass to put my key in the ignition so I could plug my phone into the car charger (also generously left intact). I first called my sister to ask if she could pick me up, and then I phoned the Oakland PD, who quite understandably couldn’t care less about my measly car theft. I decided to leave the car there and take care of the fixing the next morning.

The next morning, I set off on foot toward Broadway and called my insurance company to file a claim. I requested them to hook me up with service from a place I had found through Yelp; they connected us, and a friendly rep informed me that someone would be over within 30-45 minutes.

I ordered a hot chocolate at a neighboring cafe and procured a lid before seating myself outside, close to my vehicle. I placed my purse on top of my lap, and lifted the cup to take a sip. I had a little leftist ‘zine in front of me to flip through in a little bit, romanticizing my progressive, urban, 20-something-ness — but for now I wanted to sip my hot chocolate and reflect on how this whole incident had left me harder, better, faster, stronger.

The next thing I knew, my jeans were hot, brown, and soaking wet, much like myself in better times. Apparently, I hadn’t fastened the lid properly — but I was lucky to have put my purse on my lap, because my thighs surely would have gotten burnt off otherwise. “Oh,” I said to the empty chair next to me, standing up. I went inside and asked the cafe worker whether they had a restroom, but they did not. I sat back down with my sticky brown pants awaiting my friends from the glass repair shop.

Two men drove up within 45 minutes, and they had brought their full gear to clean up the glass and to replace the window. They thoroughly shook out the doors and vacuumed the entire car, retrieving items from under the seats which I thought I had lost long ago. They affixed the new window and cleaned it off. They called in my credit card number to the store and charged only my insurance deductible, which was $100 — not bad at all. I think it only would have been another $40 without insurance.

Now there were a few shards still left under the passenger’s side seat — I won’t say it was at 100% — but it was still such a relief to get it fixed to a reasonably thorough degree, and so quickly.

But really, the stars lined up for me and granted a truly auspicious time and place for being broken into. My sister was available to pick me up, the place was close enough to walk to the next morning, I ain’t got no job to report to or anywhere else to go, and I had Yelp to help me find just the right service. Could I possibly have had better training wheels for the spread of burglaries to come in this town, and in this economy? No. I’m not about to overlook the silver lining on the loud, or miss the chance to develop new perspective when opportunity knocks on my window — or breaks it.

Maktub.

All In My Grill

2008-09-24T01:22:00.000-07:00

Last spring, I dated a boy named Dan. When speaking about him with friends, I referred to him by the moniker of “Jadoo” (”magic” in Hindi) on account of his magic fingers; of the details and context behind this discovery, I shall spare the reader.

He was a character, this Jadoo — although I may not have had proper perspective on just what sort of a character at the time. Sure, I am a keen social observer, often able to provide in-depth and largely accurate character assessments of other people’s love interests just by brief anecdotes that they provide. But since when do we creepy introverts inject logic into matters of our own hearts? To me, his intelligence, sharp wit, impeccable grammar, sincerity and commitment to his work, artfulness with whispering sweet nothings, good looks, and, well, magic fingers, somehow seemed to elide any and all possible downsides.

So what if he had a chemical dependency on poppy tea and underwent erratic moodswings without it?

Why did it matter that he diligently cloaked his hands in gloves before touching the steering wheel of his car (if only I could learn to be so meticulous!)?

And what a matter of admiration that he had trained himself to drive using his knees — with his legs crossed… a useful skill indeed in the event that one leg or the other should ever go out of commission!

And carrying around a knife — not a Swiss Army knife, but a bona fide murder weapon — well… I decided just not to give much thought to that.

I thought he was just so great.

It turns out that a month later, he took a road trip to Washington with an ex, and they ended up getting married there — so that was that.

After a long pause and then a series of incredibly unromantic encounters, I met “Paneer.” The big cheese.

What can I say about Paneer? He was THE most PERFECT guy EVER!! He had all the good qualities of Jadoo, plus he was politically active, adventurous, spontaneous, Bollywood-loving, ambitious, entrepreneurial, laid back, a joker, a midnight toker, and just — SO much FUN! There were no red flags with him, and not just out of delusional blindness. I just knew that I would NEVER ever POSSIBLY meet ANYBODY like him EVER again!!

All this after one date.

Paneer called a measured three days after the first date and asked me out for the upcoming weekend. He wanted to drive me to the beach at Half Moon Bay for a picnic! Yet more evidence of his consummate perfection! Paneer also offered to bring the food, but I insisted that I would bring it, and he could just bring some drinks if he wanted.

Cupid strikes me with a peculiar force. Take one step toward me, and I’ll fly over a private jet to swoop you up.

In other words, zero game.

ZERO.

My mind swam with glee thinking about what manner of culinary delights I could pack for the picnic. I didn’t want to make sandwiches; how played out!

My roommate then suggested taking a mini-grill and making burgers or shrimp skewers. She said she knew someone who had a mini-grill. What a splendid idea!

But a used grill was hardly the private jet I sought for my Paneer.

So I drove to Target and bought a brand new grill. I also bought charcoal and lighter fluid. When I sat down to assemble it with my roommate, she noted that the grill took propane rather than charcoal; I went back to return the charcoal and lighter fluid and procure the propane that would fuel my love jet.

The morning of the picnic, I drove to Cost Plus and bought a brand new picnic basket. Then I drove 20 miles out of my way to the nearest Whole Foods and bought some fresh grapes, strawberries, cheese, crackers, buns, salmon patties, and MARSHMALLOWS. Not one stone left unturned.

Paneer picked me up from my abode in San Jose as planned. He was astonished by the spread of items on the table that had to be carried back to the car — including the large plastic bag which contained the brand-new grill — but was happy to chat up and carry them over. The drive was scenic and pleasant, the only way it could possibly be in the company of the most amazing person in the world.

We finally got to the beach and unloaded the items. Only upon removing the plastic bag with the grill from the trunk did Paneer realize what it was. “Oh, a grill? I actually had one in my car.” Of course he did, my little happy cutie-pie camper! But I wanted to make my own special contribution.

It was not until actually removing the grill from the custody of the plastic bag that Paneer discovered the newness of it. “Did you just buy this?” he asked with a tender degree of hesitation.

Suddenly, my love jet stopped mid-air and I realized that I had overshot my passenger by about 400 miles. A brand-new grill? What the fuck was I thinking??? If any other woman had told me she was about to buy a grill for a date, I’d have smacked that bitch upside the head!

In response to Paneer’s wary query, I had half the mind to say “no” and aver my gaze while casually unraveling the cheese, but the exquisite shine of the equipment, not to mention the fact that one piece was assembled wrongly, would have seemed to give away the truth.

The grill did not end up being the death knell to my romance with Paneer. Sure, it was clear that he found it a bit out of the ordinary, but we had a good time eating, talking, strolling down the beach making clouds. I saw him several times after that, and my feelings impressively managed to augment with each meeting.

Like most good things, the romance with Paneer did come to an end. Shit happens, feelings change, matters get complicated, and life moves on. But the spark, the fire, the one desire, the intense and euphoric longing for succulence has been all but lost. It’s all in my grill.

Servings With A Smile

2008-09-21T01:22:00.000-07:00

(Notes for those not hip to the scene:

SRK is the commonly used acronym for Shah Rukh Khan, a Bollywood superstar.
Dard-E-Disco is the name of a song in a popular Bollywood movie “Om Shanti Om” which was released in 2007. In it, SRK sports a very hot six-pack. Various parties have alleged that he trained seriously for three months in order to acquire it.
“Item number” roughly translates to sex symbol in Bolly-speak. Refer to the Wikipedia entry that I initiated for more details.
Bindu is a female “character actor” who is a bit stout in stature.)

—

Ever since seeing SRK’s six-pack in “Dard-E-Disco” — which I wholeheartedly believe was acquired within three months, per various claims, and not in the least bit aided or abetted by paint or graphic art — I have been inspired to transform my own rotund torso into a similarly sizzling item number.

Eight months after being decidedly inspired, I contemplated a concrete plan of action over a quart of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. I would give myself one “SRK Point” for each healthy behavior. Yes! Mind and body are fully connected, and I wanted to keep a positive attitude about this. Why should “points” be bad things that you have to cap off, a la Weight Watchers bullshit? Points are good! The more points I have, the better! There is no reason to deprive myself of anything bad! I’ll just fill myself up with good things to get more points, and then I’ll naturally have less room for bad things! Right?!

Off I went on walks: to the park, to the grocery, to the mall, up mountains, around lakes, just keeping on the trudge. The SRK points were rackin’ on up, and my belly rolls were jiggling all the way, preparing for their demise.

OK, actually they were jiggling in celebration of a newfound rationalization to continue my regular visits to Masala Grill and effortlessly devour garlic nan, paneer tikka masala, and gulab jamuns galore. “Damn, are you trying to look like SRK or Bindu?” my sister remarked in dismay one day.

Enter the Bindu points. Mind and body need sincerity and balance, not the delusion of perpetual positivity. So my goal transformed from racking up lots of SRK points to keeping my balance in check, and making sure that my SRK points at least equaled if not surpassed my Bindu points.

Blessed with no directives, I assigned the SRK and Bindu points with utmost caprice.

Took the stairs instead of the elevator? One SRK point!

A sourdough bagel with cream cheese and a glass of OJ? Two SRK points!

Dry-humped my date? Three SRK points!

Slice of pizza and two scoops of gelato? Eh, I guess that would make one Bindu point.

I knew there was nothing empirically sound about my method, but I just needed some encouragement, I told myself.

Then one day as I threw a handful of spinach onto a pan, smugly adding one SRK point to my mental tally, I reacquainted myself with that bastard known as the nutrition label. I was absolutely shocked and awed to see that the whole packet of spinach — of which I was only eating maybe one-tenth — was only two servings?!!!!!

Mind you, I held no illusion about the number of servings I was consuming of fatty products. I may have only assigned myself one Bindu point for the chocolate-covered almonds I had earlier in the day, but I very well knew it was seven servings. But it’s THAT hard to have one serving of spinach? And at that, I had to sex it up with garlic and olive oil to make it edible, steaming away most of the nutrients. Bullshit!

But all hope has not been lost. I have now resolved to stick to three simple truths: yoga, Honey Kalaria’s Bollywood workout video, and an apple a day.

And if all else fails, there’s always A Spoonful of Ghee.

So Are the Days of Our Lives

2007-10-18T12:49:00.000-07:00

It’s weird. When I was younger, a year used to seem like such a long time. And for good reason, I suppose; when I was five, one year was 20% of my life. But now, one year is just under 4% of my life. One day is barely over one hundredth of one percent. Holy shit!

Now why should I feel any sense of responsibility toward a period of my life that constitutes a trifling hundredth of a percent?

And yet, when I look back on these 324 months I have lived, I can say that a cumulative 1% of my life has bore the most significant impact. That one percent did not come in one lump sum, but in bits and pieces: a conversation, a small gesture here and there, a chapter from a book — fractions coming in tenths, hundreds, thousandths, billionths, added together — microscopic golden epiphanies, embroidered into a quilt of giddy, giddy sloth.

I want golden embroidery to equate to more than one percent of my quilt. And yet with each passing day, the quilt helplessly expands, and the same quantity of golden thread that was once one percent is now becoming a smaller and smaller proportion, subsumed into the fabric of complacent inertia.

One hundredth of a percent does matter. Each day should be an indelible thread, and my quilt should radiate extraordinary simplicity.

Dammit.

OK, time for a nap.

Khushboo-Bhari Yaad: A Bilingual Poem of Love

2007-10-18T01:23:00.000-07:00

barson baad meri jaan
aayi mujhke ek yaad
woh thi ek choti si
mithi si paad

after years my darling
a memory came to heart
it was an endearing
and sweet little fart

andhi hokar bhi mujhe
ehsaas hua uska
bade hole hole se
khushboo ghusa

though i was blind
its essence i felt
at a very slow pace
its scent i smelt

ab is choti si paad
se juda kaise hoon
mera ek hissa ban gaya
jaise mera lahoo

now from this small fart
how can i distance myself
it’s become a part of me
like the blood in my cells

Time Bargain

2007-02-26T12:45:00.000-08:00

My mom has selective hearing, always blocking out the second figure in my time span when she asks me what time I will be home. This is why I have a system worked out for when I expect to return after midnight: I give a figure, just ONE figure, well beyond the actual expected time, because I know both of our Desi asses will immediately begin bargaining.

“What time you will be home?”

“I don’t know, like 4.”

“FOUR??? No, you be home by 12.”

“No, maybe 3.”

“1.”

“2:30.”

“No later than 2. Take your cell phone and make sure you have gas.”

Having been away during the year, I had forgotten that even a drive to the post office at 2:00pm requires a 10-minute conversation.

“Where are you going?”

“The post office.”

“OK, so you will be back in 10 minutes?”

“No, maybe a little later.”

“Why? You’re just going to Treat, right?”

“No, Meridian Park.”

“What? Why Meridian Park? Go to Treat. Have you seen gas prices recently?”

“Yeah but I might want to stop by the mall and look for clothes.”

“No, absolutely not, I get nauseous looking at your closet. Look how many clothes you have! And so many that you don’t even wear. Come back in 10 minutes and then go through your closet and remove the clothes you don’t wear so we can give them to Salvation Army.”

“OK, I’ll do that later, but I want to find some new tops.”

“No later-bater and no new top-bop. You think we are rich? And look how fat you are. Just sleeping and eating all day, don’t even wake up to go for a walk in the morning. From tomorrow on I want you to wake up at 8 and come with me for a walk. The morning sun is the best. Lose at least 20 pounds and then think about new clothes. Go to post office on Treat and come back in 10 minutes.”

“OK!!!!!!!”

“And make sure you lock the top and bottom lock as you are leaving. One day three months ago you had only locked the bottom. A thief could have come in!”

“But it’s the same key for the top and bottom lock. If the thief could have unlocked the bottom one it also could have unlocked the top one.”

“Don’t get smart with me. Do you have enough gas?”

“Yeah, or I’ll fill it.”

“OK, and make sure you take your cell phone.”

Stayed in India

2007-01-11T23:03:00.000-08:00

India was lots of fun, full of lots of family, food, shopping, arts, a surprise wedding of a cousin, heat, and dust. The latter two really got to my pathetically fragile skin in the last three weeks; but luckily, my uncle hooked up an appointment with a really swell skin specialist who prescribed this miracle cream to cure the latter ill. Yay for the privilege of being from Amreeka and having family connections ! :P I think my slightly irritated nose and throat will mend themselves over time, since I'm now away from the outsourced pollution.

Random observations, speculations, and recommendations (which might eventually be culled into a more coherent article...) --

- You can find pretty much anything within a few feet of wherever you are in Mumbai, Delhi, or the big cities of Kerala. While sitting in traffic, I've been approached at the window with offers for novels, memory sticks, garlands, toys, nuts, and more. There are dozens of tiny shops lining every street, and dozens of informal stands set up with the most random merchandise. Services are ample from tailors to mechanics to doctors (allopathic and ayurvedic) and ridiculously affordable for anyone traveling from the west.

- Since the last time I was in Mumbai in 1997, I noticed a remarkable increase in women walking on the street -- and the average age is younger, and mode of dress far less conservative than it was then.

- I thought our War on Terror was extreme, but Mumbai takes it to new levels. There are metal detectors placed ahead of every shopping mall, movie theater, and temple, and billboards and public service announcements to make "Mumbai Unbreakable." One temple in Kerala which has always required men to wear dhotis but used to allow them to wear them over pants and/or with shirts now only lets them wear a dhoti... which often tends to be rather sheer. (So much for "modesty" being a gender-neutral cultural concept.)

- People do not believe in leaving space in line!! You have to be all up in the booty of the person in front of you, or someone will surely cut, possibly from a sincere mistake about whether you meant to be in line, given your curiously considerate (or just clueless) behavior. Customer service in shops similarly clings to your ass.

- Another thing about customer service: there is a line for the line for the line where you pay and then another one for where you receive the item, or something of the sort.

- Probably the most useful Hindi phrase during travel to Hindi-speaking regions: "Nahi chahiye." (= "I don't want [it/them/these/those, etc.]") The street hawkers in all big cities I've been to, and the tour guides, particularly in Delhi, will be all over you trying to persuade you to buy their good or service. Just say this phrase loudly and clearly a few times and your work should be done (assuming you don't want their shit).

- Big temples leave you with a very poor taste in your mouth, incredibly dirty feet, and maybe a few bruises. Seriously, I fucking hate over-zealous temple-going motherfuckers who push, shove, and bribe to get in their worship. Temples are veritable marketplaces, with dozens of people swarming you to buy puja thalis, murtis, mithai, and random crap, or saying you can pay them 300 rupees to get to the front of the line. There is literally a VIP line for the temple. WTF? I mean, I can't blame the people offering up these goods and services because they're poor and they need money, and when have I ever otherwise been offended by blasphemy -- this would be a good place for it, on the contrary -- but I just can't stand being surrounded by earnestly pious twits.

- Along the same lines, people have extremely inventive ways of making money. In Delhi, several men threw themselves on our taxi, and we were like WTF? Are they OK? Are they sick? Crazy? But they just really wanted to be our tour guides. And the ones we hired were totally making shit up, because I sometimes knew the actual facts! And at the tomb of Akbar, this dude said you could make an offering and your wish would come true, and he was straight up pocketing the money! Same with some weird thread thing you had to tie around a pole at Fatehpur Sikri. Oh, and HOW many times did I hear that such-and-such item is hand-made and available ONLY in our random corner of the temple, and then find it at the local souvenir shop for less! Ah well. Salespeople are salespeople, whether in an American car dealership or an Indian temple.

- Somehow, the Punjabi food in India didn't seem that different to me than the North Indian food that's available here. Of course, here (East Bay/SF at least) you don't really get Gomantak cuisine and Gujarati thalis and all that, and here the selection of the Punjabi fare is pretty limited and predictable, but the quality and taste is pretty comparable.

- People seem to think McDonald's is the bomb. It's like the hangout spot for the cool kids. Whaaa? And McDonald's delivers!

- Good places to eat in Mumbai include some really bomb hole-in-the-walls that actually didn't give any of us any stomach problems: Gypsy Corner (Maharashtrian snacks and pizza) in Dadar, Highway Gomantak (Goan cuisine) in Mahim, Gujarati Thali in Worli; and also some trendy, more upscale-ish spots like Olive (Mediterranean) in Bandra, Karma (Italian, Chinese, Indian) at Opera House, Bombay Blue (Chinese, Indian, Italian, Mexican) in Bandra, and Oven Fresh (Chinese, Indian, Italian, Mexican) in Dadar. My mom is the only one who got an upset stomach, and after which restaurant, but the five-star Taj Mahal Intercontinental. Oof!

- I need to go sans familia and just go kick it with the young 'uns some time.

Cinematic Debut

2006-08-26T12:31:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 2001, something possessed me to audition for a role in a zero-budget Hindi-language venture. The casting call had been put out by an aspiring Bollywood director, newly arrived to Berkeley from India and eager to put together this pilot project for Zee TV. I was going to be around Berkeley the whole summer with nothing to do after the 9-5 office space crap, so I figured, might as well see what’s up.

My acting ability, like my drawing ability, is something that only exists when I have some detailed example to bite blatantly. Before going into the audition, I popped in some Madhuri Dixit flick, which at the moment of necessity enabled me to ape the melodramatic lines and accompanying gestures with the greatest of ease. Because of this and the probable reluctance of many an aspiring actor to take up this questionable unpaid gig, I landed a role as the “feminist friend” of the female lead.

The story was something along these lines: The male is is this dorky, persistent, but well-meaning guy who comes to an American college from India, and, while walking by McDonald’s, instantly falls in love with the female lead who happens to be passing by; she is American-born with “Indian values” (read: sexually modest, naive, and ultra-forgiving). Ooh, such deep irony in the East-West swap already — can you feel it?!

Now check this: the “feminist friend” is newly moved from Bombay (more irony!!), and, for some reason that the audience is not supposed to sympathize with, dislikes the persistent, bumbling Indian-born guy with pretty much no game. She instead sets the heroine up on a date with a jerk of an American-born Indian cocaine addict, who ends up tricking her into getting drunk (poor girl would never drink alcohol of her own volition, mind you; she thought it was just Coca Cola!) and… sexually assaults her. The heroine is traumatized because she feels responsible for having her “honor” toyed with, so she overdoses on the date rapist’s cocaine and ends up in the hospital. This is when dork man comes to hold her hand and tell her he loves her, and rapist dick also comes to apologize and beg for her not to take legal action. This gets dork incensed and ready to beat him up. However, sweet desi chick forgives rapist dick and tells dork man to leave him alone. Then dork man and forgiving dipshit chick fall in love and live happily ever after.

We shot a couple of scenes in my apartment, and during one such occasion, I thought I’d have a nice two-hour “discussion” with the director over a chai break.

I began by expressing my concern over my imperfect Hindi and subconscious American mannerisms. He assured me that they were OK, because my role was that of a “feminist.” I then told him I was having a bit of difficulty understanding the character and what made her a feminist.

“She hates Indian men,” he explained.

I found this characterization of feminism intriguing — an oddly refreshing break from the common patriarchal American perception of feminism as the decisive hatred of all men, regardless of nationality.

Nonetheless, I offered my dear director the knowledge that I was a feminist, and I did not consider his assessment to be accurate.

The knowledge of my female-emancipatory leanings put a twinkle in his eye, and he began a quest to develop the character around the real me. He asked to check out my room and noted various posters that I had, endorsing musical talents such as the Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys, movies such as Bride of Chucky and Leprechaun in the Hood, and finally, Lord Krishna.

“Let’s film a scene in here!” he exclaimed. “But not with the Krishna poster — that doesn’t fit. We’ll use the Spice Girls in the background.”

He then went on to underscore how because the feminist friend was so misguided in her distaste toward Indian men, she led the heroine astray into the trap of the wanton westerner and effectively caused the whole conflict, which she comes to realize and regret later on. Somehow, the Spice Girls poster would represent the negative phase of the role just perfectly.

I informed homeboy that feminism was about social justice, and neither the admiration of the Spice Girls, nor the arbitrary shunning of men from a particular country, nor the desire for your friend to get with some leering asshole, reflected a desire for this. I mean shit, say what you want to say about me, but don’t use my -ism’s name in vain!

I then explained the problems I had with the script, starting from: 1) none of the characters being remotely likable; to 2) throwing in something as serious and life-altering as attempted rape just to demonstrate the lead male’s heroism in wanting to beat up the guy that did it, even though this was probably more because he saw it as an assault on his “property” more than anything else; to 3) demanding no legal accountability from the rapist or clarifying that he, and he alone, is at fault; to 4) not giving any indication that homechick is informed of her rights or planning to seek social services at least for her emotional well-being; to 5) reinforcing the virtue of the pious, self-sacrificing dumb-ass hoe. And there was no fuckin’ way in hell he was going to vilify the “feminist” as the root cause of evil on top of all this.

He looked at me as if I were some sort of deformed unicorn: something which cannot, and SHOULD not, exist.

Upon some back-and-forth bargaining (Desis R’ Us!), he agreed to add a scene to the end showing the rapist dick in handcuffs, suggesting that homechick had at least reported him, making that action her only redeemable one.

After shooting was complete, home boy said he was going to India temporarily for some “networking” and would return and do some post-production work, letting the cast sit on the editing process with him. I have not heard back from him since.

A Real Property Poem for Bar Studiers

2006-06-26T10:52:00.000-07:00

Studying for the Bar exam should not have to be completely miserable. One can spice up studying by creating songs, like this!

I never gave you permission
To enter my heart
But now you’ve acquired
A prescriptive easement

You entered actually
Your presence was continuous
The whole world knew
It was open and notorious

Now the statute has run
And I can stop you no longer
‘Til you give a clear sign
That you don’t belong hurr

I never gave you permission
To enter my heart
But now you’ve acquired
A prescriptive easement

I'll Taco While You Talk-O

2006-02-25T11:01:00.000-08:00

This one afternoon last semester, I had ordered a fish taco and was sitting by myself contently surfing the 'net at Dos Coyotes when this dude from my class and his 2L girlfriend walked by and sat down at a neighboring table. He then came over and said hello, and said that I was welcome to join his table, unless I had work to do. Not knowing how to rebuff this friendly gesture, and seeing as I was clearly doing nothing to advance my academic career or the common good, I mumbled an acceptance of his offer and relocated to the table.

As the minutes passed, I was mortified to see that about eight other law students joined, none of whom I had any intention of befriending. Not that they’re not perfectly nice people in their own right.

As the conversation progressed, people in the group started reminiscing on how popular they had been in high school, and then repenting the mean things they had done to less popular people. I could not on any level identify with being popular — having descended from the wrong continent for such an aspiration even to have resounded my radar, for one — but the discussion nonetheless allowed me to introspect on two matters: 1) Even with my abysmally inferior social status, I had found ways to be a pretty big asshole, and I wonder if some of the people with whom I’ve since lost contact still remember and resent me for it; and 2) A ton of people had been assholes to me, and I wonder if they, like these ex-populars, ever recall and bemoan their past behavior.

One incident in particular stands out from junior high, actually. I used to wait for my mom to pick me up after school, and this girl named Katie — who bore a startling resemblance to “The Brain” of “Pinky and the Brain” — was waiting in the same area and asked to play my clarinet. I didn’t want to let her, since I didn’t look too fondly upon the idea of her salivating on my instrument, but being a world-class pushover, I handed it right over. She attempted to play it, minus the reed. Someone else soon joined the vicinity and asked her why she wasn’t applying the reed, and she loudly and matter-of-factly declared, “She could have AIDS, for all I know!”

I said nothing in my defense, oddly gratified that the perception of me as a foreign, diseased creature had prevented this filthy, ignorant bitch from tonguing my precious reed.

Flashing forward again to Dos Coyotes: the conversation then steered to people revealing things about themselves that others might find surprising. One person had been in her high school marching band, and another had been a cheerleader, which was somehow supposed to be surprising.

Then they asked me what I could say about myself that would be surprising, and I said that I did not know what would be surprising, since I did not know what would be unsurprising. They agreed that it would be a hard question to answer since they had just met me, so I was let off the hook.

But really, sometimes I wonder what impression I could possibly give off, such that anything about my relatively conservative reality could serve as a shocker. These are some observations my colleagues may have made:

I am brown.
I rarely talk.
I rarely smile.

From these data, I suppose it would be reasonable to conclude that I am a good speller. Since this is generally true, I really have no surprises to offer.

Extreme Casual Carpool

2005-07-12T12:19:00.000-07:00

I’ve taken the casual carpool about eight times now, and each time I hope to come out of it with a story worth telling. I don’t need anything too drastic to happen, like the driver pulling a knife on me, or having pictures of young boys plastered across his/her glove compartment, or driving into the bridge railing — but a little eccentricity wouldn’t hurt. Maybe the driver could be wearing dark sunglasses and a trenchcoat, and play Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence” on repeat. Maybe s/he could have a caged tarantula in the back seat. Maybe s/he could at least have a really dirty car.

Nothing. The drivers, and my fellow passengers, have been disappointingly normal.

I suppose I can’t complain, when I myself have not had the audacity to play out the interesting/quirky passenger.

I could bring my own case of CDs, and just thumb through it and help myself to the disc player and radio.

I could bring rose petals in my bag and shower them on the driver throughout the ride.

I could blow some balloons and also bring along streamers and confetti to decorate the car.

I could recline my seat all the way back and start meditating.

I could clutch the dashboard and shriek in fear every few moments, reprimanding the driver for his/her speed even if it is entirely reasonable.

Or, I could just laugh hysterically.

But I don’t.

And hence, alas, I contribute to the uneventfulness of the casual carpool.

Injury

2005-05-24T17:13:00.000-07:00

I first got summoned for jury duty at the age of 18. Like most US citizens, especially college students, I really didn't care to participate in this process. So, in order to negate my own credibility, I capitalized on the probable adultism and sexism of the judge and the attorneys and decked myself out in a pink Backstreet Boys baby tee, capri pants, and butterfly clips. I was excused by the defense attorney soon after being called into the jury box.

Today, I was called to serve again, and I was excused again, by the prosecution attorney. Except I had actually hoped to serve this time.

The case was in Yolo County. The jury pool (100-some people, narrowed down gradually) was all white, save for one black woman (who never got up to the jury box), one Latino man, and me. The defendant was a black man. The charges: possession of a burglary tool, threats to police, and resisting arrest.

A snapshot of the process: the peeps in the jury pool chill on the benches in the back of the courtroom, and the clerk calls up 18 people to sit in the jury seats. The judge addresses those 18 people with his questions and instructions, but wants everyone else to listen so that if/when they fill in the seats, they can quickly dislcose any issues that would potentially qualify them to be dismissed. The judge first asks some preliminary screening questions to make sure you don’t know any of the parties such as defendant, attorneys, or witnesses (the prosecution attorney is quite some major social butterfly; a bunch of prospectives were excused because they had played golf with him), and to determine if you would have any experience or belief that would prevent you from being “fair and impartial.” If you have some valid excuse for not being able to serve, the judge excuses you and the clerk calls up someone else to fill that seat. This goes on until the judge is satisfied that people will be able to set aside whatever baggage they have to be “fair and impartial.” Then, the attorneys have the opportunity to ask questions to the prospective jurors, and the judge can again excuse people accordingly. Finally, the attorneys have the opportunity to excuse a limited number of people for any reason other than race, gender, or other immutable characteristics. The judge emphasized that though we all have our own experiences and beliefs that will color our thinking about the law, the important thing is that we be able to apply the law, as it exists, to the facts, without writing in our own beliefs to the verdict.

One of the guys that got called up toward the end of this process was finally a man of color, a young Latino male. The judge asked if he had any concerns with any of the questions that had been raised so far, and the guy said, “I won’t be able to be impartial because I’ve been harassed by the cops a lot and I don’t trust them.” D’oh!! Of course, he was excused, as was probably his goal. On the other hand, the white constituency of the jury pool vocalized a largely enthusiastic and trusting attitude toward police, and they were not excused.

I was the very last person to fill in that box of 18 jurors before the judge was satisfied and the attorneys had the opportunity to question. Before I entered the box, the questions from the attorneys had included the following:

From the Defense-

* “Do you believe that it should be a crime to use profanities on the police?”
To which, at least 6 people responded yes.

* “Would you trust the credibility of a cop more than a layperson?”
To which, 3-4 people responded yes. Two women were extremely adamant that they had had very good experiences with Yolo County cops and considered them to be very fair and honest people.

From the Prosecution-

* “Is there anybody who feels that a crime not involving violence should not be a crime?”
To which, nobody said yes.

* “There is a new trend where jurors want the standard of evidence to be beyond any doubt whatsoever. Is there anybody who believes that should be the case?”
Nobody did.

* [To a young-looking white dude who said his occuption was "Unemployed":] “How old are you, sir?” The dude responded, “19.” “And how long have you been looking for work?” “About six months.” “Oh, OK.”

* [To a guy with a green mohawk:] “Now, sir, your hair is very unusual. I feel like it’s trying to make some statement. What is that?”
To which the mohawk guy, a UCD undergrad, responded very articulately and said he liked to be unique and throw people off who made assumptions about his being a radical, etc. The prosecution grilled him further about whether he was discontented with the law, and he said that he was a little bit, but felt that the law should be changed on the books rather than through the courts.

* “I see that the defendant is the only black person in this room [there was actually one black woman, so the attorney apologized and was like “well, only black man”], and there’s a bunch of white folks in the jury [at this point I hadn’t stepped in yet, so it was literally all white]; can you assure me that you won’t allow sympathy for the defendant on the basis of his race to come in the way of your fact-finding?”
To which, the prospective jurors nodded: scary Yolo County residents who love the cops. Really, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???????

So anyway, I got up there, the judge approved of me, and then the attorneys asked questions. I wanted to present myself in a “fair and impartial” way where I could get onto the jury and sway my ulterior motive; it seemed to me from the nature of the prosecution attorney’s asshole nature and questioning that this “crime” didn’t involve any force, and was a matter of a black man resisting arrest from Yolo County cops. I have several black and Latino friends in this county, and yes, my opinions on the cops are “colored” by their experiences. I didn’t want to show this, and yet I wanted to be sure that the defense did not see me as a threat, because as far as I could tell, I was probably their only ally.

The defense attorney asked what year I was in law school, and what type of law I was studying. “Intellectual Property.” Safe enough. “Do you believe it should be a crime to use profanities on a cop?” “No, I don’t,” I responded truthfully, like a moron.

Then the prosecution attorney had the chance to ask me questions. “Do you believe it should be a crime to resist arrest?” Obviously, this is the “crime” this dude had committed. Again like an ass, I replied, “No, not unless force is used.” “How would you define force?” smirked the attorney. “Uh… it would be really fact-dependent,” I drawled. “Well,” the prosecutor continued, “Say if a person is wriggling while being hand-cuffed-”

The defense attorney objected because it was “getting into the facts of the case.”

“Well, that’s fine,” smirked the prosecution attorney.

The first chance he got after the defense attorney excused a juror, the prosecution attorney said, “I’d like to thank and excuse Ms. Kamat.”

I wanted so badly to go up and punch him in the balls.

Everyone else that left was overjoyed. The judge gazed kindly at me as I was leaving, too, probably thinking this had been my hope.

Like an ass, I started crying as I left the courtroom. Nothing new had been revealed that I didn't know, but it was just so in my face that this case was just a drop in the bucket. This is how our jails get over-crowded with black men, and how more money goes into prisons than schools. Add to the cops, jurors, and prosecutors the “preemptory challenges” that have historically been used to keep black people off juries, and now other ethnic women who know what’s up, and you get a self-perpetuating cycle.

Jury duty is not something I'll try to get out of again, or advise others to. Sometimes, the defendant really is some sort of rapist or batterer or murderer or robber or other chump, in which case a proportionate penalty is deserved — and sometimes, s/he’s not. My belief is that our criminal justice system largely serves to criminalize poverty, and we would be much better off redirecting those resources into social services. But in any case, if the jury system is devised to give a say in justice to the common person, then let's use it!

Let It Bleed

2005-05-02T12:51:00.000-07:00

One morning in fifth grade, I was just going about my usual business: brushed my teeth, pulled my pants down to pee…

“Oh my God… I shit in my pants!!!”

I was mortified by my rectal incompetence!

But wait, it didn’t really look like shit; it was brown, but it had more of a… soupy texture. I didn’t know what to do with this, so I just took off my chaddi and presented it to my mom.

At first even she was surprised. You didn’t get hurt, right?”

“I don’t think so; I never felt anything there.”

“OK, well… it looks like you got your period.”

Ohh. I remembered her telling me about this period thing. I would start bleeding every month because later I would have to have a baby, and I couldn’t go to the temple when I had this thing — but I thought that was going to be when I was thirteen or fourteen, not ten!

“So what do I do now??”

“Ek minute.”

She went to the closet and came back with a small green package.

“This is a maxi-pad. You just tape it to your underwear so it covers the hole where you are bleeding from — you know, that is where the baby comes from. Do you want me to tape it for you?”

I liked to think of myself as grown up enough to figure things out on my own, so I declined the offer for help and proceeded to the bathroom with my pad.

…Common sense has never really been my forte, and I started wondering how I was supposed to get this thing to cover the hole where babies came from. See, I always thought babies came from lower in the stomach. At the bottom of my rolls of baby fat (which have now brazenly assumed the role of adult fat), there was this indentation, which I thought could reasonably expand into a hole if a baby needed to come out. I applied the pad horizontally as I thought it should go and wondered, who designs these things? Why was the tape only attached to the top part of the underwear? Maybe the rest of the tape was for the shirt to go over?

Well, eventually I figured out the right way to wear a pad, but there are many things about these things that I still don’t get. Like, why are there so many varieties of them? You have to scan the aisle for several minutes before finding the right kind. I know this is supposed to be the great thing about capitalism — all this competition! all these choices! — but who would really choose the short, bulky-ass pad with no wings?!

I also don’t get why we have to pay for pads in public restrooms. That may seem obvious, but think about it. We don’t pay for toilet paper, right? The government doesn’t want us dribbling our piss and smearing our shit everywhere, and it would be kind of ridiculous to carry around wads of toilet paper, so we have it provided in restrooms. Oh, I guess when it’s a “female-specific” concern, well, women are either responsible enough or unimportant enough so they don’t have to figure into any budget. Maybe that mentality could explain why so many insurance policies will cover Viagra but not birth control.

Well, fuck that! We should stand up to this bullshit. Our bleeding pussies deserve free sanitation too! We shouldn’t have to carry around a pad or a tampon or a quarter everywhere we go. I think we should just… bleed. Let’s just go around bleeding all over the malls, parks, schools, government buildings, and see how the mothafuckers like that! Let’s let our blood gush from every mountaintop, and from sea to shining sea.

That’s what we have to do, ladies: just let it bleed!

A Marriage Proposal

2005-01-07T01:20:00.000-08:00

I was wondering how my sister and I had avoided being subjected to the parent-daughter discussion about marriage that ordinarily burdens every Desi woman starting around age 17. Then finally today our parents brought it up at dinner.

“One daughter is 24, the other will soon be 29 — it is a new year, and our goal is to find husbands for you both.”

My sister grunted, and I calmly explained that I had no interest in the institution of marriage, finding it utterly obsolete, among other things.

“Yes,” my mom smirked dismissively, “Come on. You must start thinking about settling down, marrying, having kids…”

“I have no motherly instincts,” I declared. “I hate kids. I can’t stand them. If I had any, I would neglect them and sit on the Internet all the time.”

My sister nodded, adding that she does like kids, but plans to adopt them rather than continue to overpopulate the planet. And, she pointed out, you don’t need to be married to adopt. Nor, incidentally, do you need to be married to conceive, should such a thing ever interest either of us.

But it was my comment that my mom couldn’t let go. “Yes, you have no motherly instincts,” she agreed, “Because you have no instincts at all. Let’s see: today when you left to get groceries, you didn’t lock the door. When you came back, you didn’t think to check the mail. Yesterday you brought back a nice suit from the dry cleaner and just left it crumpled on the ironing stand. Motherly instincts indeed.”

My sister and I reverted the topic back to marriage, preferring it over the commentary on our many vices. My mom suggested that my sister place an ad, but my sister explained that she was not a car.

Nevertheless, tonight we treated marriage prospects as cars by browsing shaadi.com with our parents. We soon learned that there is a limit on how many profiles you can view without creating one yourself. Alas. I proceeded to form an honest profile of myself using my sister’s input for the last line, and my mom was alarmed by its contents:

I like to eat and sleep. I go to bed at 3am and sleep until 2pm every day. I have no maternal instincts. I cannot cook, except heating up morningstar breakfast patties. I like to eat them with hot sauce and ketchup. I like all sorts of food, including pizza. I have no ambition other than to eat and drink. I love watching Bollywood movies- at least two every day. Mujhse shaadi karoge?

My mom tried to reason with me, pointing out that the habits and qualities I described were not among my best. However, I was emphatic about retaining the description as it was the most proper summation of my most salient characteristics that could be made in a paragraph. My mom scowled, but said to go ahead and make whatever profile, as long as it allowed us to browse the prospects. We entertained ourselves for an hour or so, but it was my mom that eventually got tired of the fruitless dig and went off to bed.

Burnt Chai: A Provocative and Unintentional Art Project

2004-10-26T12:04:00.000-07:00

Collages

2004-03-26T12:47:00.000-08:00

From A to Z

2004-03-08T01:28:00.000-08:00

This story is about the letter “A”. No, it’s not The Scarlet Letter, but the act that warrants its telling is no less fraught with ignominy.

I was briefing a Contracts case when I entered an animated revelation over equitable estoppel and recklessly scraped the “A” and “Z” keys off my keyboard. “Fuck!” I exclaimed, while scarfing down Fritos and eyeing the keys as they plummeted to the lint-ridden floor of the law school basement. After finishing the chips, I picked up the keys and tried to replace them into the keyboard. The “Z” I was able to pop back in with relative ease. The “A”, though, would not properly affix. In fact, every time I am typing the letter “A”, I have to apply unnatural amounts of pressure with my left pinky, a finger whose presence I had taken for granted thus far.

I hauled ass to Comp USA in Vacaville and presented my crippled keyboard to the adolescent employee. He smirked at the missing key, informing me that I would have to get the entire keyboard replaced. “For just one key?” I inquired incredulously. The employee nodded, rolling his eyes in contempt at the hardwood-designed contact paper I had recently applied to the cover of my laptop. It can’t be right that I have to replace the whole thing for just one key. He probably didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Men usually don’t.

Since then, I have talked to people at Circuit City, Toshiba, Toshiba’s service center at Comp USA in Sacramento, their tech department, back to their service department, back to their tech department. The verdict is inconclusive as to whether I need to replace the keyboard, and if so, how long that will take, and whether it will be covered by the warranty. I think I’ll just continue developing the muscles in my left pinky and forget about replacing the key. I mean, fuckin’ A!

Triple-A Rated

2003-11-25T01:24:00.000-08:00

This morning I was determined to go to Civ Pro. The class started at 8:30 and it usually takes me about 20 minutes to drive there, park, and walk to the class, so I left my apartment at 8:31 (better late than never). I put the key in the ignition while bobbing my head to that asshole R. Kelly’s track which was playing in my head, when I realized that the key was impotent. I tried twice or thrice more, but my efforts proved frivolous and barren. I called a couple of friends who are more adept in matters of common sense than I, and they recommended calling the Triple-A for a jump start, possibly towing. So I called.

For some reason or another, my parents had taken me off their membership, and my “inactive” status would require a full 24 hours to be re-activated, I was informed by the African-American male customer support representative (thank God for social constructs, as I shall explain later). If my mother were physically present, she would be able to authorize, but I had no power of my own.

I have been known to make my parents drive long distances to bail me out of self-induced unfavorable circumstances, but my parents were now in India, so it would be a bit much to ask of them.

I placed Call #2, this time resolving to impersonate my mother, minus the accent. I figured they probably just had the name and had no reason to know her nationality or age. I decided that if the same customer support representative answered, I should just hang up, since it would be somewhat shady. However, this time it was a not-necessarily-African American female representative, so I proceeded with my treachery. She asked the name, the membership number, the location, the make of the car… so far, so good. Then, out of nowhere, she clarified, “Are you Meena or Leena?” Goddammit. Once the Tow guy came, I could have gotten away with saying I reported the name on the card, not knowing I was not covered, but when asked the specific question, I could not find the heart to commit such perjury. I honestly conceded that I was in fact Leena. She informed me once again that my membership was “inactive” and that my mother would have to call back and authorize. “Oh! She can just call?” I clarified. “Yes, that’s fine. My name is Theresa, and your confirmation number is 909.”

Woo hoo! Now I just had to muster my best motherly voice and call back. Though the Triple A still had no reason to know of my mother’s nationality, I decided an accent would help me out since my voice normally sounds like that of a twelve-year-old raised in The Valley.

This time an African-American female representative answered the phone. I was just lucking the fuck out with the confirmed diversity of my assistants. “Hallo, my daater is outside her apartment in Davis and needs somevun to come there and start her caar… she said I must caall back to authhorize.” “Now are you there present with her?” “No, I am not there.” “And she’s not covered under your membership?” “No.” “Well ma’am, we don’t do that; someone with a valid membership card needs to be present.” “But they said I could caall and authhorize. She spoke with Theraysa. Can I talk to her?” I was frantic and frustrated by this point, my accent fading in and out of the western hemisphere. “I don’t know who Theresa is.” “The conphirmation number is 909. Please let me talk to her.” “OK ma’am, please hold.”

While on hold, I decided to fumble with the ignition once again. If the fucking car would just start, I wouldn’t need to continue with all this drama. Just as I fumbled for the third time, the representative came back on the line. “Hello?” she said, catching me off guard, and I instinctively responded “Mm hm?” in a very polite, American manner. “Uh… well you’ve been a long-time customer of ours, so we’ll let you authorize this one time, but in the future you’ll need to have your daughter added to the membership. Now is this the mother or the daughter?” “Oh, it is the mother,” I assured. “OK, so they’ll be out from Jimmy’s Auto in 30 minutes or less.” “OK, thank you waaaary much,” I gushed, and that was that.

The Whistling Cashier

2003-11-12T01:21:00.000-08:00

I like studying at the small Cafe Roma. Sure, it’s dirty, and stepping into the bathroom makes me want to hurl, and there are flies everywhere — but there is always an empty table, and it’s huge enough to spread out all my gear. Why, this is my territory. I’m the motherfucking lord of the flies!

Anyway, so I was at Cafe Roma, purportedly reading Criminal Law, when I got distracted by the sound of melodious whistling emanating from the curly-haired cashier. He was white, but not that white — Italian or Jewish perhaps? — and had a very benign demeanor. After he finished wiping the counter, he wandered off into the kitchen, and eventually I forgot about it and went back to my reading.

Then came on the next track, and the whistling recommenced as he resumed his position on a stool back at the cash register. He was so totally in key, able to effortlessly hit all the highs and lows in a manner reminiscent of Lord Krishna’s seductive flute.

I tried to concentrate on my reading again, but then he added a taal to the sur, tapping his palms on the counter, and I could help myself no longer… I had to seize the moment.

“Can I get a refill on my hot chocolate, please?”

The whistler retreated from his stool to provide service with a smile. “Sure, we are out of chocolate, but there is white chocolate, which is actually better.”

“OK, I have never had it before but I can try,” I replied, smug in my esoteric appreciation of the racial metaphor.

“Whipped cream on top?”

“Yes, please.”

This whole conversation was had in vocal monotony on my part, for I was fantasizing about whistling in bed with this fine gentleman, and not focusing much on improving my vocal variation. However, the moment he informed me that the refill was only fifty cents, the cheap desi in me sparked a visceral valley-girl resurrection in my vocal cords, as I exclaimed, “Oh, cool!”

To top off the night, the gargantuan quantities of lasagne and chai I had consumed throughout the day had not served my sensitive stomach too well, so I left behind a cardamom-scented gust of air.