I want my own t.v. channel.

Or my own show at least.

My television experience has been painful mostly. I hated the people I had to work with, I despised the tomfoolery that producers indulged in and the whole media culture that spawns big-headed jerks we like to call ‘celebrities’.

My first television program was when there was only PTV around. I was about 13 maybe. And a friend of my father thought I talked a lot.

A lot. And even though the man was nothing short of a genius himself, I really didn’t think it took brains to figure that out.

And he thought he should put it to use. He put me in a kids magazine show with lots of puzzles and tweeny songs PTV fondly thought kids loved. I did a couple of more shows after that, co-hosting and playing the part of the little cute girl in the frock with short hair and big eyes (in all fairness, I wasn’t cute, just a kid in a frock PTV fondly thought was the mass image for little girls). And I kept getting to do silly kids programs – and then I went on a break. Because I was 16 and in my day, 16 was not the age for television and vice versa.

Television barely had anything for teenagers mainly because television was only PTV, NTM and ZeeTV if you had a dish antennae. Or SPTV with those goofy spider-style antennae that seemed to be made out of leftover utensil steel.

So once I grew out of that I began getting offers to do dull plays (that Dad wouldn’t let me do) and slightly moronic singing shows with kids (remember Hadiqa Kiyani and Sohail Rana?) and a music teacher. That show ran for a year or so and I still meet people telling me they remember me from that time. My face hasn’t really timewarped into adulthood and I quickly change the subject. I’ve even had my kindergarte/montessori teachers spot me and tell me, ‘You went to Casa Dei Bambini didn’t you?’

Post cable television, post-Geo and post all that is now all and sundry in the name of media, I reclused. People who were assistant producers in Pakistan Television (and being an assistant producer in PTV meant picking up leftover scripts after the recording is done and making sure the noisy nosy kids get food during breaks) began directing their own shows. The market was suddenly huge and PTV’s way of doing things suddenly became obsolete.

There was no way you could spend two days of rehearsing the script or arriving at the studio at 8 in the morning – even before the lighting guys got there – with all the competition and 24-hour-transmission cycle. Cable channels were on the air, all the time, all the while. They had to keep it snappy, they had to create stuff all the time and if they slacked on quality some time or the other it was okay because the guy sitting on top was too busy taking calls from advertisers and the ones overseeing the recordings/transmissions were rejects from PTV or NTM.

There was no way you could speak stuff without telling your producer first. Censorship was a big deal and so was clothing. There were people who would tell you your face is meshing into the background or your words were slurring and fumbling and if you had an accent like Saima Mohsin, you weren’t allowed to speak Urdu. If you had an attitude, you could shove it up your ass because PTV was the king.

Good or bad, cable dethroned PTV like Louis the Fourteenth and fed everything else – including the standard, the method, the environment – to the guillotine. Cable changed television forever and from one khabarnama at nine we went to news on the hour. From one stellar-star-cast drama a week that ended after 23 episodes, we went to multi-starrer, multi-month-running plays that didn’t rely on studio sets and old furniture. They were shot in beautiful countries with beautiful girls and 00900-786-01 kept flashing at the bottom.

PTV lay old and forgotten, like a half-dead retired court jester alive only because the King had to have an official jester.

Where the King really got his laughs from was the free-lance pranksters who did it funnier, kinkier and faster.

While this meant great business opportunities for stakeholders, job opportunities for fresh graduates of media studies and a significant change of taste and sensibilities for the public – the bombardment of channels provided an erratic graph of quality and quantity. Shitty programs went on air with girls who twisted their lips and hips and said stuff in those video magazine shows that made me want to shoot myself.

Television made celebrities out of idiots like Aamir Liaquat Hussain (who is a total retard and a moron and anyone who has the patience to listen to him and call on his show is three times less the brain he does) and celebrated evangelism for truth. It dealt carelessly with aspects such as responsibility in journalism and made a mockery out of creativity and a million out of PT  Barnum’s quote.

And suckers kept lapping it up.

Yesterday I saw “Rahat” cooking pineapple pancakes. And people called on her show to tell her that she had ’saved’ them from eating out of the house and thus they were saving money and they just couldn’t thank her enough.

Every caller started from,

“Haye, aap humain itni achi lagti hain na!”
(Oh, we think you are so great!)

And even though I tried the pancakes myself despite her idiotic recipe-giving out method (“a little butter, a little flour” – what the fuck is little? You’re giving out a recipe, not taking part in an old ladies’ discussion!) I did that after double checking from an online source. That woman was far too annoying to be taken without doubt.

Do NOT take Rahat's recipe for it.

I can’t understand callers like that. When Amir Liaquat Hussain was wearing a maroon embroidered organza thingamajig that flowed down to his shoulders, people called into his show and said,

“Aamir Bhai, aap bohat hi khoobsoorat lagg rahay hain!”
Brother Aamir, you look ‘beautiful’.

Which clinches it.

I should have my own tv channel. I’ll call it MinervaTV and I won’t take any advertisers to bust my chops and tell me I need to show their stupid ads to pay for my airtime.

As for how I’ll find the money to invest this, well. What if some millionaire (who hasn’t gone bankrupt yet) happens to read this blog and thinks I might have something here?

I’ll show stuff to prove that people are stupid and will keep getting more and more stupid if they kept watching these things and liking them.

To prove that television isn’t about merit or truth or objectivity. I guess it never was.

It’s more about who can get where and talent doesn’t always have to be a major portion of the deal.

I’ll make cooking shows the way they’re SUPPOSED to be shown. Not with squeaky clean kitchens where everything is neatly chopped and put in bowls. I’ll plant the cook smack in the middle of the sabzi mandi (veggie market) where tiny kids will follow him/her around for petty labor or bheek (charity) and I’ll kindly ask the host/presenter NOT to meticulously clean the cooking workspace between breaks and let it be messy, crazy and smelly.

The way a kitchen IS when you decide to cook pineapple pancakes and a chocolate milkshake and a main course apart from that.

I’ll forbid talk show hosts from repeating questions and I won’t care how big the politician is (maybe I should ask a mafia head to invest in my idea – that way the politicians would always behave on the shows), if he decides to justify his leader by saying, “That’s just the way it is” he’s not getting to speak again.

And video jockeys should have at least SOME semblance of sanity before being video jockeys. That means they don’t get to use ‘you know’ more than once in one hour, they don’t get to giggle irritatingly between sentences and it is mandatory for them to give a quiz on Pop/Rock and Metal History every week.

And I’m going to ban Meera from coming anywhere near my studio. I don’t care who she sleeps with or decides to marry or produce children with.

I’d kick ass.

That’s why I’m in Yemen with no possibility of opening a channel and that’s why Miss Meera Jee Online is getting to interview Tapu Javeri.

Books, Movies and Hillary Clinton.

You know one of those books which you pick up from the shelf because they look terribly interesting and you flip page after page after page and nothing happens and the book ends and you realize you’ve just wasted four hours of your life reading something that didn’t make any sense and whether the author was really inspired enough to write the book or just plain bored as you were before you started reading the piece of shit?

James Frey’s “My Friend Leonard” is exactly that kind of a book. To a T.

I flipped page after page after page to hope something good would come out of the book, to hope some twist or turn or some semblance of a story would emerge out of a guy who’s been an alcoholic and a coke fiend (the basis seemed strong enough to expect a storyline) but unfortunately the whole book is one crass event after another until it ends and I am left with a sense of gladness that I never read “A Million Little Pieces” to which this was a sequel of.

The book apparently has gotten rave reviews including one that says,

 ”This book is fascinating. And if you don’t think so, fuck you.”

Well, alright. Fuck you too. The book is a waste of time.

Qurutulain Hyder’s “My Temples Too” is a fascinating read, even in English, that provides the reader with that intimate insight into the era that was pre-partition and the final divide between the subcontinent. A must-read, even though I’m still hoping to read the original in Urdu.

Barack Obama - a biography by Joanne F. Price is another complete waste of time, money and energy. As my husband is prone to say, wikipedia’s great for biographies. And he couldn’t be more right in this case since the biographer has added no personal insight, no angle, no feel to the book itself. It almost seems as if you’re reading a robotic memoir of a man who is perched at greatness (the book was printed before he became POTUS) and sucks all the fun out of the remarkable journey he’s taken.

Management: This is another movie that rambles in and out of the life of Mike who falls in love with Sue. They’re together, then they’re not together, he’s doing something with his life, then he’s not doing something with his life. Eventually it’s just a dull hour and a half with nothing redeeming except Jennifer Aniston’s portrayal of the repressed stoic character Sue Claussen.

The Ugly Truth: As far as rom-coms go, Katherine Heigl sure knows how to pick the unlikely ones. First with Knocked Up and then with 27 Dresses and now with The Ugly Truth.

The movie pits together two television personalities, a producer (Heigl) and a cynical, indelicate tv show host (Gerard Butler) who end up falling for each other in a typical case of opposites attract. The plot’s fine, the acting’s fine, the twists are fine. The film just couldn’t hold my interest despite Heigl’s huffing and puffing at the various indecencies of Butler’s character. Quite surprisingly though, Butler seemed to overshine Heigl (which is saying something) and remained the main watchable part of the movie.

The Proposal: Sandra Bullock is getting old. Despite facial lifts and botoxes, her eyes are still crinkling and her lips are still wrinkling. And since Ryan Reynolds is fairly young and plays her romantic interest in the movie, she just keeps looking older.

The movie however is hilarious and is a must-watch for all romcom fans. Old or not, Bullock can hold her screen presence still and my special favorite scene is when she dances and chants around some bonfire with Betty White to the words, “To the sweat drop down my balls”. The story isn’t original, it’s a typical formula flick – but with lots of laugh and a happy ending. What more can you want out of a chick flick, eh?

Star Trek: I’ve never been a Trekkie and I frankly don’t ever think I’m going to be one. But this movie, even for a non-Trekkie as myself, was pretty well-made and adequately interesting to watch. Plenty of explosions, lots of spaceships and aliens and oh yeah. You get to see Eric Bana like never before. Eye candy includes Chris Pine and his uncanny resemblance to William Shatner’s “Kirk” days of the yesteryears.

Ice Age III: I liked it the first and the second time. No arguments about how I liked the third. It’s quick, it’s funny and I love Sid the Sloth. And where has Ray Romano disappeared to? Not that he needs to make money again for the next five Romano generations but he really shouldn’t retire this early.

Public Enemies: Okay so it’s probably blasphemy to call a movie with Johnny Depp and Christian Bale boring but it very much was. John Dillinger is supposed to do something interesting to keep the movie on its edge but I’m afraid all his tricks and haps are as old as gangster flicks go. There isn’t darkness in the movie – just drudgery. There isn’t charisma (or hasn’t been exploited enough) in Bale’s character (there was a lot more in Gordon’s character, re. Gary Oldman in The Dark Knight) and Marion Cotillard is just plain playing the chick – except in that one scene where she is brutally interrogated by a police officer regarding the whereabouts of Dillinger in which she is without a doubt, splendid.

The Tale of Desperaux: What started off as a very interesting story ended up being very unoriginal. The kingdom of Dor loves soup. One day the king bans soup because of an unfortunate incident and we are now taken deep inside the world of mouse and men. Or mouse and rat, if you will.

The movie, despite being packed with a stellar cast and stellar animation, didn’t rise up to the expectations that were built in the first twenty minutes. The messages are strong and a little too complicated sometimes for a children’s book (upon which the movie is based on). It was one of those movies you wished were better – because if they were, they’d be very, very memorable watches.

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince: Harry is growing up, ending his multi-billion dollar ride and getting all ready to defeat Lord Voldemort.

A big fat giant treat for all Potter fans. I can’t talk about this movie objectively because I’m quite a Potterholic myself. So the only way I can talk about it is the way all Pottermaniacs talk about it. What was missing from the book and what we hope to see in the future.

We definitely missed Dumbledore’s funeral. The lighting of wands just wasn’t enough, sorry. We’re happy to see Daniel Radcliffe’s acting improving with time (took him long enough) and we are very much hoping to see something great done with Severus Snape’s story in the upcoming movie. Bellatrix Lestrange must be kept up front and centre (and that mainly because of what a kickass job Helena Bonham-Carter has done in the movies). The romantic triangles are well-played and well-portrayed.

If they can get away with breaking the last book into two VERY GOOD movies, I’d say that would be a job well done.

JK Rowling’s millions of pounds would be proud.

Upcoming/or already arrived movies I want to watch are:

1. Julie and Julia,
2. Funny People,
3. G-Force,
4. Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs,
5. Inglorious Basterds,
6. A Christmas Carol,
7. Where The Wild Things Are,
8. Couples Retreat,
9. Law Abiding Citizen
10. Up.

–

It is amazing to see how completely thick Pakistanis can get sometimes. And I don’t know if the media does it on purpose or whether it’s just how we think – but callers keep dialing into shows and random people keep showing up on those street interviews stating the most bizarre of theories.

For example.

My personal favorite and the most popular one to date.

“Sab Amreeka karva raha hai.”
(It’s all America’s doing.)

Are you fucking psycho?

I don’t know where we get our roots of blaming people right left and centre. First it was the British. Then it was the Hindus. Then it was the Army. And now it’s America. Oh and let’s not forget the Jews. The Jews are all spending their time and energy and money on trying to eradicate Muslims in the world because they really have nothing else to do – let’s say, maybe save their own dwindling population from going extinct?

The Jews should get cable.

US Secretary of State, Mrs. Hillary Rodham Clinton’s visit to the Islamic Republic of Pakistan met with … exceedingly Pakistani reviews.

People complained about the protocol she was given (did we honestly expect her to roam around Islamabad like a hitchhiker with no guards to save her ass in a country where over 200 people were killed in random suicide blasts in the past one month?!) and that it ‘blocked traffic’.

Zardari, Gilani and all his other chailays (sidekicks) don’t?

They complained that she didn’t reach out to the common man (she’s US Secretary of State, not God, it’s not her job to reach out to the common man to solve problems, it’s her job to sit in high-profile meetings, give millions of dollars in aid to a war-torn country like ours and get the fuck out of here before someone shoots her in the head and we get blamed for everything from here to Antartica for the next seventy years) and didn’t do much to deserve thanks and appreciation.

I don’t know what Pakistanis wanted from her, really. A game of lukkachuppi (hide and seek) with the local greengrocer’s son? Or a cozy dinner with Sheikh Rasheed? Really, what?

The worst part is, while all this complaining is going on about Hillary’s visit, I cannot believe Pakistanis are still stuck in “America’s doing it for their own selfish purposes” … well, of course they are, you nitwits, wake the fuck up.

If you had a country that was powerful enough to bring down the economy, if your biggest buildings were bombed by passenger airplanes and if your army was stuck in two godforsaken countries trying to get the hell outta there, you’d do everything in your power to make “War Against Terrorism” your daily slogan and I don’t blame America for that for one second. If anything, I blame Pakistanis for not taking their country as seriously as America takes its own land of opportunities.

Even with the shadiest links they created between the 9/11 attacks and Osama bin Laden, they went to war on his ass and still haven’t given up. They’re losing money, they’re losing morale, and they’re pulling out of Iraq (which in all fairness had nothing to do with 9/11 – but we can thank Bush Sr. for being a redneck for that) but they haven’t given up. They are using everything in their power to make sure that ‘Islamic militancy’ doesn’t rise again – especially in their country and they don’t care if Pakistan seems to be whimpering about it.

And thanks to their free and independent media, no one shuts up about how the brewing of 9/11 was loosely linked to the proxy Soviet War for which America used the Taliban.

No one lets them forget that for a second.

Pakistanis like the whole blame tennis. We don’t want to see how we’re in any way responsible for groups like Lashkar e Jhangvi and Mullah Deisel. We don’t want to accept that whenever someone yells “Nara e Takbeer” we want to lose all common sense and charge into the field without knowing what we’re charging INTO.

So we elected the MMA (which Benazir often called the Military Mullah Alliance), voted for the Kitaab and called Musharraf a heathen when he talked about ‘enlightened moderation’ and hated him for what he did at Lal Masjid.

My question is – when do we stop hating and start figuring out what is really wrong with the attitude we have towards solving problems?

When do we stop blaming America for every small problem that happens in this country and start taking responsibility for all the nuisance we’ve created in the name of Islam?

Because if we do – then we begin to seriously look at our issues, we begin to then (and only then) begin to curse our leaders for what really is the problem … instead of cursing them of just kissing America’s fine hamburger-clad ass.

When do we realize – that our problems lie deeper than a US official’s visit and until and unless we stop supporting (even in our hearts) the bane that is Taliban, Islamic militancy and all this business about mullahs and their ulterior motives … we won’t go anywhere near a Zardari-free future.

Sleepless in Sana’a.

People ask me why I don’t have a job. Or why I haven’t thought about working after I got married.

It was only after an incidence or two that I learnt that when I give them an offhand response, they think like all men, my husband is a sexist chauvinist pig who likes women to stay home and produce offspring.

So I began telling them the whole story. Cumbersome but at least clears out the air.

And prevents people from giving me that knowing look or ‘Aoowhhh’ when they hear I’m doing nothing these days.

I tell them that I haven’t been on a break since five years. That I’ve been constantly studying AND working, or just working since the day I got my admission in my masters programme and that having to cook food for one day being the only job I have these days is actually a relief instead of finishing assignments, having a term quiz the next day and then rushing to teach or finish the article on the deadline or arrive at the studio on time.

And then I tell them I’m in Yemen.

To which they produce their knowing “Aoowhhh” again and thank God that’s the end of that.

I don’t work because there really is nothing worth doing here for a person with my skills and degree. Every job requires fluency in Arabic – at which I magnificently suck. Most jobs want me to spend 9-5 hours with them, which I can’t stand because hey. How would I go to the loo?

You heard me right.

The loo.

Two days ago, husband and I attended a book fair at the local expo in Sana’a. And thanks to the enormous amount of cashews and almonds I had consumed right before leaving the house (very, very bad idea) with some pineapple juice (very, very, very, bad idea), fifteen minutes into the dismal, abysmal book fair, I tugged at B’s sleeve.

“Ghar chalo na.”

“Kioon, kia hua?”  He looks up from his copy of “The Three Musketeers” at which he is very disappointed because it’s abridged.

“Bathroom jana hai.”

“What? Now?”

“Haan na.”

He puts down his book. “Shouldn’t you have thought of this before?”

“It’s the call of nature, I can’t think of these things before!”

He grins and continues to throw his witty comebacks about how I have the threshold of a two-year-old for these things and gets even wittier when he sees me slightly whimpering and shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

We quickly pay for the three highly unwanted novels we bought (we bought them anyway because we’re both book lovers and can’t resist the idea of buying books at what may be the ONLY book fair in Sana’a for the next year and what may be our ONLY chance of buying books for the next year or so and what were the ONLY two stalls of English books in the 2-300 plus book stalls in the expo centre that was filled with books in Arabic), and proceed towards the exit.

I realize the exit is too far and too complicated to locate in this labyrinth of Arabic books, so B spots a female guard and tells me to ask her where the loo is. God forbid if a man addresses a woman here – esp. asking that question.

The female guard thinks I’m trespassing so she quickly jabbers in Arabic and almost shoves me aside.

Not helping.

I explain to her again. “Hammam! Mojood?”

The light dawns and she navigates me to a group of toilets where the men are getting ready for namaz and doing wud’u. I look around for a sign of a woman in a frock but the guard points to a pair of shady looking stairs.

“Fouk” or something to that effect, she says. Which means up.

Oh dear.

I rush up the stairs and the first thing I see is a woman sitting on the dirties possible floor breastfeeding her little kid. She looks up at me and I give her a feeble smile.

I want to say, “Wouldn’t it have been better to go home and do that instead of exposing your barely-one-year-old to the hazards of a Yemeni toilet floor?”

But maybe she’s in as much of an emergency as I am.

So I check the three stalls.

And hold your noses. The first two I check win the Nobel Prize for the Dirtiest Public Washrooms. If I wasn’t in a hurry, I’d take pictures and post them all over the internet with a title, “And you wonder why people have swine flu here?”

The third one is a little (and only a little) better, so I get my business done and walk out. The woman is still sitting there. The baby continues to stare at me and while I manage another attempt at a feeble smile, I realize it’s best not to wonder the amount of germs that little bundle could be contracting at that very moment.

Not that Pakistani public washrooms aren’t contenders for the aforementioned Nobel but Yemenis are just too fascinatingly gross for even a lowly Pakistani such as myself. And especially after what B told me – that even the most educated of Yemenis use the toilet in a very creepy way.

Now I need to figure out how exactly should I explain this.

They perch themselves on top of the flush as if they’re sitting on an Indian toilet. So basically they’re gracing the toilet seat with their shoeprints. And it’s only GOD who’s saving them from all kinds of diseases in the world. They certainly haven’t left it to good sense.

Maybe these things get easier to deal with when you’re in your home country. Because you at least know what you are getting into, what you’ve grown up with. But in a Middle-Eastern country like Yemen – especially when other Middle-Eastern countries are virtually speckless clean and don’t chew on Qat, you kinda wonder what went wrong with this lot.

So I lie sleepless now (this morning was thoroughly disturbed by the new construction workers next to our building who think 8 in the morning is a perfect time to sweep the ground clean with their dumpers) .. and I can’t help but wondering about the future of not only this country (I’m not that selfless) but of the possibility of having a family here. Raising children in this country is an ordeal. The schools remain closed at the slightest whims of the ministry. This very year they’ve been shut for over 5 months, due to the swine flu pandemic.

I don’t know what these teachers teach since most kids in 9th grade chemistry are oblivious to what ‘matter’ is. And I’ve been told that a very recent math class in a very upscale, expensive school here spent the entire period questioning why -4-4=-8.

One day while B and I were discussing our respective cultural shocks from Qat, to eating habits, to driving craziness here, we wondered if people thought the same thing about Pakistanis? Foreigners who came from … I don’t know … America, Switzerland, Australia … did they find our pan-spotted walls and peeing-on-streets gentlemen just as grossing out? Or how donkey carts could easily and lazily travel on main and busy roads and how one man can establish himself as an entreprenuer with his thaila that claims:

“Mr. Barger – humari koi branch nahee hai.”

Do these people consider us just as bad as Yemenis? Or would they prefer Yemenis because Yemenis have that whole oh-everything-here-is-over-four-thousand-years-old and this-and-this-has-been-declared-a-UN-World-Heritage-Site going for them and all we’ve got going on right now are suicide blasts and a death toll that rises every day thanks to the motherfuckers that are Taliban.

Maybe I’m being biased – but we sell more than just URDU books in our book fairs. We don’t have a government order for women to wear burqas and we have cinemas, thank you very much. And oh yeah. Our food’s fucking brilliant. From seafood to Chinese to Pakistani. Our varieties of food, clothing, shopping kicks anybody’s ass any day.

Our women may only be as qualified as 25% of all the 82, 035, 128 women of the country but for a country that’s not as old as Methuselah, we’re getting there. Even in this meagre number, women are progressing in so many sectors of the country.

Our government schools still leave a lot to be desired for but we have our saving graces in institutions like IBA, LUMS, GIKI, FAST, NUCES, Aitchison, KGS, Convent (s), BVS, Mama Parsi etc etc. I’ve met with students from all these institutions and they are not still stuck on why -4-4=-8 … they may have their weaknesses in their own respects but they’re still pretty goddarn awesome.

Our streets may be riddled with beggars and donkey-carts and peddlars selling tissue paper and people peeing in the sidewalk … but we’re still a nation that has had only a few years to grow and we’re still a nation some countries wouldn’t recognize because they didn’t think we’d last more than a year.

We’ve done more than last a year.

Don’t you think.

Oh and ps. I’m thinking of changing my blog name to “The Daily Bakwas” … if that already hasn’t been taken up already. Feedback on that is welcome.

Bring on the wheezies.

It’s that time of the year again.

One half of the population I know is getting married, the other half is producing children, and a very minor population that is leftover is getting the flu.

Right now I’m in the minority, considering the past year, and dammit the cold is a bitch.

I hail from Karachi, the city where you don’t sleep. Sometimes it’s because of pollution, sometimes it’s because one group of extremist assholes have killed another guy heading another group of extremist assholes, somtimes it’s because KESC has decided to play hopscotch on the main switches of your area, sometimes it’s because you spent all day frolicking with your friends at a nearby coffee shop and now you have a presentation the next day, sometimes it’s because your brother has recently found a new addition to his playlist or sometimes because your neighbor’s sister’s husband’s cousin’s daughter just got married in Thatta and has arrived with her family in your building at an unholy hour.

And sometimes it’s because you’re freezing. At a reasonable 14 degrees celsius.

My husband has, what you call in Urdu, done this: ghaat ghaat ka pani pya hua hai. He has been there, done that, lived in no less than four to five different cities all across Pakistan for his education and for vacationing purposes. And most of these cities had extreme weather conditions. Sargodha, Lahore, Multan, Islamabad, Muzaffarabad, etc etc. Most of these cities know winters more than Karachiites know what a klashinkov sounds like.

Can you blame the guy for making fun of me when I decide to sleep in a sweater, a shawl, socks and of course putting it all away under a thick blanket?

He refuses to go near a sweater while I am now dead set on buying four different new ones for myself. He’s still drinking ice-cold Pepsi while I’m trying new Knorr soups everyday (which SUCK btw). He’s still strutting around his six foot two frame in half-sleeved tees while I frantically search my wardrobe for something other than cotton or linen. And pants that are like those Egyptian shalwars that don’t let any cool air in at all.

I am this close to buying a heater and this close to taking a Gandhiesque vow not to take a shower until the winter passes. In the case of the latter, I’m afraid I’ll have to be a little flexible but I wouldn’t bet on it. It’s October and Sana’a has already begun its fearful descent into winter. I am told it’ll be up til freaking zero degree celsius when it’s December and I want to run back to Karachi where fourteen to fifteen degrees was considered the pinnacle of the Sniffly Season.

While all this merry joking around is at its height in our household affairs, I figured that though this may be the wrong time to be in Sana’a, it is an even worse time to be in Pakistan, what with all the attacks and now the earthquake.

Being a Pakistani right now means being in the spotlight for all kinds of negative imaging. It means that you’re praying for a country that is struggling for its survival amidst cheap politicians and international terrorism. It means fighting against nepotism, red-tapism and the general bigotry that is corrupting systems all around the nation. It means praying that no one you know has died in a suicide bomb attack and wondering what your currency will be like in the next ten years.

I sit over 1000 miles away from my homeland, watching television updates and friends and family filling me in with details I don’t know how to respond to. I end up questioning something I never thought I would.

Do I want to go back?

Do I spend my entire life like a gypsy, trekking around countries that will no doubt be beautiful and historic and lucrative for my family’s future – but will not have Urdu, bhel puri and chaand raat?

Do I give up all of that and seek asylum because I have an established fear of my home country?

One of the recent attacks in Lahore was right where my sister-in-law’s husband works. The attack on GHQ killed one of our albeit-distantly known family friend. The unrest in Karachi is usually minutes away from the house of anyone I know. Six degrees of separation is all it takes to make me pray and hope that the country sees better days.

And I wonder if it is safe for me to go back – whether it just is easier to stay abroad for as long as it takes.

I wonder (and in my subconscious know the answer to) whether that makes me a coward in all its utmost certainty.

Here is a country that is ruled by a man who does nothing but take foreign tours. Our biggest politicians didn’t even want to come back to this place until they were given safe passage. Our minority leaders are like laughingstocks, bhaands, if you will and the only thing we want to watch on television is Meera. Our economy is a joke and our literacy is its punch line. The newspapers flash every day with headlines with people dying under strangest of circumstances and I don’t even want to get started on what the FUCK are Taliban still doing in this country where most people don’t seem to care what mosque you go to or what colored turban you fancy.

We care about Mirza fucking Ghalib, Bollywood style mehndi dances and bhangra and Abida Perveen concerts and playing patriotic songs when our team won cricket matches. We care about wearing the right clothes to our friends’ weddings, discussing television dramas, enjoying sheesha after late dinners with friends and the weekend cinema trip. We barely care about who took over whose seat in the recent elections or whether Sheikh Rasheed is ever going to get a new toupee. We, as a people, are submerged in our cultural entertainments, our self-satisfying lifestyles. We don’t care if Taliban didn’t strike as great an oil deal with the US as they should’ve and just how much of a woman’s face is to be seen by the non-mehram’s eyes. If Ayub Khan committed the Original Sin for a military democracy (hail oxymorons), Zia was the fucking mother of all things holy.

The famous dialog from Fight Club reads:

Tyler Durden: Man, I see in fight club the strongest and smartest men who’ve ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war… our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.

To Pakistanis it reads something like this:

An entire generation of fighting identity. Struggling with rock and pop alongside beards and burqas. A generation of fucked up morons trying to convince us they can run it smoothly but they’re just referendums and martial laws and shams in the name of democracy. We have no Great Revolution, no Castro, no Churchill. Our Great Revolution is Geo, our Castro has killed his wife and become president and our Churchill was killed in Liaquat Bagh. We were told we’d get gas, roads and literacy. What we got were suicide attacks, Taliban and adrenaline rushes from hating India and Israel. But we realize that we don’t want it. And we’re very very pissed off.

I don’t know if we actually are, but I’d like to think so. I’d like to think we’re working towards a gradual resentment towards the way things have been going around. I’d like to think that all daughters of government servants won’t accept that their fathers are building giant empires out of government salaries. I’d like to think sons of army officers won’t use their fathers’ contacts on building their own networks. I’d like to think that someday in “Hum Sab Umeed Se Hain” they’ll climb out of MQM’s ass and actually make a caricature of Altaf Hussain. I’d like to think that Pakhtoons will soon stop referring to Peshawar as their “mulk” and I’d like to think that someday Pakistan will be as proud as those songs we play on 14th August.

Until then. I’m stuck in Yemen.

So bring on the wheezies.

And here I thought I was getting famous.

Remember the time when your life wasn’t about facebook statuses and comments on photos and tweets and blog posts?

When your real friends were the people you hung out with every day instead of the people with pseudonymous emails?

Friendship was defined by how well your family knew your friends’ family and not how many times you chatted on Gtalk everyday?

Remember the simpler times?

The times when adding or removing someone on your friends list on facebook wasn’t the only conflict in relationships and our personalities weren’t defined by our photos, our videos, our list of friends, our blogs, our comments, our farmville farms and everything else that was virtual in this lifetime.

How did we know who had a baby and who got married and who finished their housejobs and whose parents just came back from a recent trip to Malaysia – before Facebook?

How did we express ourselves and connect with other peoples’ writings before blogs were invented?

And how did we have normal lives and have real ideas about people instead of those two minute two penny quizzes that tell you “ALL ABOUT YOUR FRIENDS” and may send you into a minute of giggles – but that’s about it.

How did we survive before the information/technological revolution took over every aspect of our lives?

There were times when parents would wait for their children to take out the time to write them letters. Handwritten personal letters, printed photographs that you could hold in your hands and frame on the wall. There were times you could cook something and take it to a friend’s house on a weekend and just “Skyping” them and sending them an emoticon of a pizza wasn’t an option. There were times when people sat and talked at dinner tables and parties instead of watching Geo or CNN together – and the topics of discussion were just as real as the people were. Not characters that were from the future or men who were impossibly gorgeous.

The times when I could log on to wordpress and not be flabbergasted at the stuff that make people land on my blog.

For example, everyday, more than 30 people land on my blog googling Atif Aslam or Shah Rukh Khan’s nude pictures. Or simply googling SRK’s 2009 pictures or Atif Aslam’s shampoo commercial or his height. I kid you not.

I’m not a very serious blogger as such. I don’t blog about the tiniest details and when I do write, I mostly have the aim of venting or giving words to some thoughts that just won’t go out of my head on their own.

I love writing, though. There is dozens of stuff I’ve written but never put on a blog, there’s plenty of things I would love to write about but I don’t because somehow they don’t really fit the purpose of being ‘blogged’ about.

What I’m saying is – while it is great to blog and to facebook and have google at your disposal for every need that you have, including pacifying your libido – it is a little disconcerting to see that everyday 10 percent of the people who are landing on your mainly-personal, slightly-original blog are people who shouldn’t have been here in the first place.

So when I read a recent post on Purple Drifter’s blog I decided it’s about time I do a post on the search terms that land people on my blog. I am of course omitting the search terms which are as disgusting as they come. It tells me a lot about the kind of sexual fantasies some people may have and it definitely tells me that with ALL the twisted, psychotic porn in the world, there are people who will STILL freak you out with what goes inside their heads.

shah rukh khan’s body - almost 20 hits a day.
atif aslam’s body – believe it or not, also 20 hits a day.
baby shah rukh khan - uhm.
shah rukh khan without shirt – I almost regret putting up that picture of him.
shah rukh khan body images – not aiming high, I guess.
shah rukh khan can – i’m sure he can.
why atif aslam sings in painful voice – and why google that?
atif aslam shampoo commercial – sigh.
how tall is atif aslam – really, now?
i hate atif aslam – again … googling that because?
atif aslam with black background – sigh.
how he did baba shadi shaheed die – … who the what what?
zahanat meaning – when did google replace the Feroz ul Lughaat?
iris goo goo dolls borderline personality - tough psych. assignment?
sardar muscle – that kind of sounds like a steroid cream.
smirk vs grin pepsi package – i seriously don’t know what that is about.
is sabs good or allenora – Allenora.
is allenora good or sabs – Allenora.
pakistani crying bride -  riiiight.
disciplined bride – I really hope this isn’t what I think it is.
whole mushroom masala like minerva - I swear have never made a mushroom masala. Ever. And am definitely not into psychedelics.

And here, ladies and gentlemen, are the alarming facts and figures of the past year, courtesy: wordpress. I entertain no more the illusion that people come to this sad little website to actually READ what I have to write.

Lost in translation? No more. Lost in cyberspace, more like.

atif aslam 819
shahrukh khan 750
harry potter 6 568
pakistan flag 567
pakistani brides 432
shah rukh khan 308
pakistani bride 307
atif aslam pics 159
pakistani flag 141
atif 74
shahrukh 74
afridi 72
pakistan flag picture 64
flag of pakistan 62
harry potter 54
mayoon 35
fulla 29
twilight 27
mayoon dresses 25
desi bride 24
afridi photos 24
pakistan 22
maulana fazlullah 22
atif aslam photos 22
shahrukh khan body 20
pakistani wedding dresses 20
atif aslam pictures 17
paki brides 16
beautiful pakistani brides 16
paki bride 16
bride wars 16
atif aslam picture 14
assorted mundanities 14
pakistani flags 14
singaporean rice 14
pakistani brides 2009 14
agnostics 14
atif aslam images 13
pakistani brides pics 13
punjabi bride 13
harry potter6 13
ather shehzad 13
pakistan bride 13
pics of atif aslam 13
pakistani dulhan 13 
 

Kinda makes you want to be a Neo Luddite and kinda gives the U2 song a brand new meaning.

Also kinda makes me want to delete my blog.

The best of randomness.

Miraculously I have nothing to write and no one to hate right now so I’m going to go with a few updates and a tag.

I’ll be writing for Yemen Today which is great news since it gives me a sense of purpose and achievement in life – definitely beats whining about crazy old aunties that are filled in Yemen.

I’ve completed seven seasons of West Wing and CJ Cregg and Jed Bartlet have been added to my favorite characters of all time.

Grey’s Anatomy producers should know that if a woman is pregnant, it shows on her face, and reducing body shots of her won’t fool an audience. Especially if the world is dominated by free press and paparazzi that follow Ellen Pompeo everywhere she goes.

Leena’s gotten married and am so happy for her. Mayya and Hira are next and I really wished I could’ve been there on their big days.

Am appalled by the attacks on GHQ. How in God’s name do we keep letting these things happening in our country?

I’m reading “My Temples, Too” by Qurrutulain Hyder (the only book left in my short Yemeni library/bookcase that I haven’t read yet) and I really wish I could’ve read the Urdu version. The characters have names like Kunwar Sahib and Rakhshanda and Dr. Salim. You want to read about swishing ghararas and Abbasi Khanum in Urdu, you really do. Although the translated version is done by the author herself it still doesn’t have the same zing as it would have in Urdu.

So here’s the tag. Took it up from Ghazal.

1. What was the last thing you put in your mouth?
A glass of OJ.

2. Where was your profile picture taken?
In my home.
3. Can you play Guitar Hero?
Hain?
 

4. Name someone who made you laugh today. What was it about?
The day’s just begun. Can I interest you in yesterday?

5. How late did you stay up last night and why?
11 maybe. Wasn’t doing much at all really.

6. If you could move somewhere else where would you and why?
Back home, back in Pakistan. One reason: no place like home.

7. Ever been kissed under fireworks?
Huh. No. Barooq!

8. Which of your friends lives closest to you?
*sniff* none of em.

9. Do you believe ex’s can be friends? With benefits?
Blekh. No way.

10. When was the last time you cried really hard? Really hard as opposed to just sniveling?
Cried really really broken-down hard when Mom left. Didn’t really think I would but I did.

11. Who took your profile picture?
B.

12. Who was the last person you took a picture of?
Creepy men in Bab ul Yemen. That rhymes.

13. Was yesterday better than today? Why?
The day’s just begun. So yeah. Maybe.

14. Can you live a day without TV?
Sure. TV isn’t exactly my lifeline. My pc is, though.

15. Are you upset about anything now?
Nah. Just contemplative.

16. Do you think relationships are ever really worth it?
I’m in one now so I guess I can safely say hell yeah.

17. Are you a bad influence?
If you are as orthodox as they come then yeah. Maybe.

18. Night out or night in?
Tough choice. Both?

19. What items could you not go without during the day?
Food, food and food.

20. Who was the last person you visited in the hospital?
Erm. Me?

21. What does the last text message in your inbox say?
Sabafon spam. Oh and one of those classic pathan jokes Dad keeps sending to me. And Ali’s jokes on “Golden Words on Rickshaws” … “Chal pagli sajan ke dais” … “Karachi sada shehr hai, tu lang ja sadi kher hai” … “Sawari labbay na labbay, speed aik so nabbay” … “Zid na kar, Gujjar aap bara ziddi hai!” … “Jis ne maa ko sataya us ne sada rickshaw chalaya!”

22. How do you feel about your life right now?
Pretty good I guess. Is there a scale for when one feels that?

23. Do you hate anyone?
Sure.

24. If we were to look in your Facebook inbox, what would we find?
Okay, FIRST of all, you’re not going through my facebook inbox, I’ve had enough of hackers. But if you’re aiming at questioning the content of my facebook inbox exchanges then okay. Private exchanges between friends.

25. Say you were given a drug test right now, would you pass?
Duh. 

26. Has anyone ever called you ‘perfect’?
Yes. I can make a perfect cheesecake.

27. What song is stuck in your head?
Violet Hill by Coldplay.

28. Someone knocks on your window at 2 a.m., whom do you want it to be?
Someone telling me they need internetwork experts in a totally glamourous exotic country and we must move out of Yemen asap.

29. Do you (or did you) want to have grandkids before you’re 50?
YES!

30. Tell us your Saturday night.
You mean last weekend? Shopping, dining out and trying to watch Bruno before I almost threw up at how disgusting Sacha Baron Cohen could get.

31. Do you think too much or too little?
Too much, babe. Too much.

32. Do you smile a lot?
Nope.

Of TV and other devils.

As I write this I twist and turn on my chair in what can only be a boogie step to the music of Ali Azmat’s “Dil Ne Dil Se Kaha”. Social Circus was a great album and I’ve said it before I’ll say it again. True rock, in Pakistan, died after Junoon. Now all we’ve got is teeny boppers and bubblegum pop that I can’t listen to after the first forty seconds.

During my recent torrent search for the latest episodes of my favorite tv shows, I came across a review of Gossip Girl on wikipedia which stated that the conservative factions in the US were very very unhappy with not only the premise of the show but also its nightmarishly glamorous depiction of the upper-class teenage lifestyle.

Well, yeah. Makes sense at some level. Television (or any other media) has an implicit responsibility to guide and form opinions of the masses. And given just how much the world of today takes its information from the television (not from neighbors, friends or your daily newspaper), that responsibility is only getting more and more significant.

So when we see Chuck Bass pursing his lightly glossed lips and sporting a Lucifer-inspired wardrobe, trying to open a club that invites debauchery of the classiest kind and in his imagination we see an almost naked Blair Waldorf dressing down, I kinda have to wonder how many shrieks of horror were let out by the Parents Television Council.

“Mindblowingly inappropriate” and “Every parents’ nightmare” to name a few.

The decadence and lavish ways and styles of “Manhattan’s elite” no doubt make you want to buy expensive headbands and travel in limos and hook up with the latest beauty around. These shows are meant for all the eye candy that there is. Otherwise how can any family be as ridiculously good-looking as the Humphreys and the van der Woodsens?

Be that as it may, I remain as crazily hooked as I was before. There is one part of my brain that tells me that it is just as improbable as it is silly that Carter Baizen would spend two years in trying to find Serena’s father and out of a sheer twist of fate would that there is no way in hell can I expect normal teenagers to sleep with each other by alternative turns. First Nate hooks up with Blair (before hooking up with Serena), then Serena hooks up with Dan Humphrey. Blair wants to hook up with Chuck Bass but he almost ends up hooking with Vanessa Abrams. Dan and Serena stay together for a while but of course all good things must come to an end and Serena goes after a number of eligible men while Chuck and Blair finally come together after a series of dramatic romantic almost-kisses.

The other part of my brain forgets all the ridiculous twists and turns of the plot and is spellbound at the sight of Serena’s long hair and perfect lipstick shades and can’t get over just how sickeningly sweet Nate Archibald (his name is right out of an Austen novel, I tell you) is and roots for him and his latest illicit love interest anyway. Then there is the intelligent, well-rounded Dan Humphrey (who did lose his way with a teacher once but that seemed to be his only vice) and his totally handsome dad, Rufus Humphrey, part rockstar, part-dad.

With attractions like these … you see where I’m getting at?

You see why people who can have the sensible judgment of not watching these shows get reeled in anyway? The good, the bad and the terribly beautiful.

Television relies more and more on selling beauty each day; packaging possibly damaging images and ideas with these irresistible faces and designer bags is getting to be a forte with the networks. The improbability of their lives and the possibility of wanting to be like them (even maybe a portion of them) is a paradox that is earning millions for shows and their creators.

And it’s not just designer bags. If that’s not your thing.

Breaking Bad centers around a high school chemistry teacher who falls into al life of crime. Californication centres around a novelist who is struggling to find his next movie. Weeds centres around a widow who ends up selling drugs to a suburban town populace. Dexter centres its show around a man with an antisocial personality disorder who has the urge to kill – and is working for the police force. The Secret Diary of a Call Girl … well. You know what that’s going to be centred on, without my help.

 

Then we have House. The Vicodin-hooked son of a bitch who’s a genius and gets away with his addictions and devil-may-care attitude every time he solves a case. Retribution, for the past five seasons of House MD, haven’t been a major centre plot point up until the 5th season finale in which he enters a rehabilitation centre to cure his dependency on drugs.

What I especially liked about the season’s development was that it didn’t rely on House finding another crack in the system (which he could often do with his hospital administrator and conflicted love interest Lisa Cuddy). It actually showed House struggling with his broken self for the period of 2 hours, the latter part of which was dedicated to sessions with a therapist just as obnoxious as he was. The sessions showed no feigned or deliberate attempts to cure House from what he was. The sessions were not about changing him as a person but were about achieving goals that House could actually pursue. They were about those small insights that House would always deflect through his pain or Vicodin or his rebellious behavior … which compounded lead to his inability to connect with other people on a more personal, more normal level.

I guess the universal appeal for the bad boys was always there. How else can you explain girls falling in love with Darcy or Heathcliff or even superheroes with ‘deep, dark pasts’?

Perhaps we like damaged goods. Deep down we feel we identify with them. Granted not on levels of drug-addiction and sleeping with every person that crawls out of the woodwork … but perhaps there is something in the conflicted characters that make us want to watch them. Something that makes us curious to find out what happens to them. Will Chuck ever find true happiness? Will House stay clean of Vicodin? Will Dexter ever settle down with a regular life? Will Nancy Botwin ever stop selling drugs on the streets of Agrestic?

Critics say there is a dilapidation of values, a change of social mores and a disintegration of values in the modern (or post-modern) society as we know it. Television and music choices are clearly telling us (combined with that healthy dash of free market policies) that people are choosing completely irreverant, completely parallel cocktail of subjects that appeal to their rapidly evolving tastes. Whether its about murder, drugs or sexual promiscuity, these tastes are here to stay and markets are milking it because they are meant to. It is indeed very rare that we find people like Aaron Sorkin daring to be different (and succeeding at it majestically) in shows like West Wing and Studio Sixty on Sunset Strip. Mostly directors and showmakers stick to bad boys and sexual indiscretion.

 

 

Maybe the critics do have a point. Maybe we are moving towards a morally decrepit society that bows to nothing but its own twisted chaos.

But maybe – its in the framework of mankind, built within the basic infrastructure. Maybe people like House and Chuck Bass and Nancy Botwin are modern archetypes, the figures each of us find relating to because each of us see a part of us in themselves. Unhappy with the world, dissatisified with no matter what we have and stuck in situations where we have to make choices we really didn’t ever think we’d have to make.

Maybe these characters are spiced up to make for interesting viewing – but they are originally based on the Original Sin. Mankinds’ own love for vice. His basic nature to disobey (getting kicked out of Eden wasn’t a small thing you know) and to kill and plunder (Cane and Abel, wars based on religious persecution etc) … maybe television today isn’t the work of the devil.

Maybe it is a reflection on the fabric God built for man.

Maybe it is exactly who we are. And conservatives just won’t admit that.

Are you one of those …

 … Boys who think they are Black and Girls who think they are White?

Boys of the last four or five years have taken a sudden interest in rapping when they’re actually in a normal conversation. “Dis how we roll, you mo’fo nigga” (or something to that effect) is how they respond to “What the hell have you done to your pants and why do I see your underwear and a glimmering chain hanging out of them?” Did their parents tell them they were all the illegal children of Tupac? Or have they done nothing else in their teen years except listen to Marshall Mathers? You want to tYp3 L!k333 dAt, you’re going to stay four minutes into a serious conversation before someone labels you as an idiot. Unless d3Y tYp3 L!!!k333 d!s dEm$3Lv3s.

And the girls.

Oh, girls. Please grow up.

Please stop talking like Sarah Michelle Gellar. Please don’t twist your ‘r’s and yours ’s’s just to sound like an American. Please don’t forget that your dad didn’t graduate with a degree in phonetics and your mom wasn’t Reagan’s personal assistant. Please don’t forget that you grew up in a country that still cannot get over its British influence and doesn’t give the option of American  High School diplomas but IGCSE certificates that make you spell and write business letters in a very un-American way. Please don’t make me stress on trying to gather your words into coherent sentences because if I wanted to hear an American accent, I’d turn on Fox. And if I wanted to see it on a girl, I’d rather see it in a movie where she’s fighting aliens in Manhattan rather than on a girl who’s never been to the US and is dressed in a simple shalwar kameez. It isn’t very settling to hear that ‘thait Amreeki’ accent from the likes of Pakistani girls. It just isn’t. Makes me feel very bad for our generation. Makes me feel like Zardari is the right representation for our people. And I can’t insult my generation any more than that. Hai na?

…. Put-Me-Downers?

Incessantly jabbering about how pathetic life is and why there’s no reason to live? My winner in this category is my friend ZS. The day I even begin on a remote thought-track as hers, I’ll join the circus to reinvent myself. She said the only reason she got pregnant pretty soon after her wedding was because she was ‘bored’ of her marriage. And that wasn’t how she put it either. When I congratulated her on being pregnant, her immediate response was a terse smile and a sigh followed by, “Why do you think women get pregnant? Because they’re bored of their husbands.”

Ooohkay. It’s gotta be hard waking up every morning with thoughts like those swimming in your head .. and then go through the day without blowing your brains out with a water pistol.

… My-Life’s-Greater-Than-Yours Queens?

It doesn’t matter if you’ve flown to the moon. She’s been to Mars. It doesn’t matter if you’re happy with your small, regular life. She’s met Gaddhafi. It doesn’t matter if your car’s a decent one. She’s driven around in limos all her life. It doesn’t matter if you know Pakistan’s literacy rate. She’s been writing for Dawn. It doesn’t matter if you don’t care what a great hot life she’s got. She won’t quit telling you. And as a last resort, you decide you were better off being the wallflower. NOTHING is worth this torture.

… I-am-in-love-with-the-world Cheerleader?

She’s hot, preppy and all she needs is a pompom to make the world her oyster. Who’s she? She’s the girl Heroes want to save and high school comedies centre as their selling point. She’s the girl your mom wants you to be and every guy wants to hit on. She’s saving the world from Global Warming, has the brain of a snail (but that’s okay, she makes it up in good looks) and warms the cockles of your heart with her giggle. It makes YOU want to kill her but you don’t want to be the one who killed the cheerleader. What a waste of pom pom space that would be, you tell yourself.

… Low Self-Esteem Bums?

Can’t get out of a bad, pointless relationship. Can’t state an opinion for fear of rejection. Can’t give up on self-deprecatory cycles that result in nothing but misery. Can’t have the courage to step out of comfort zones and dare to be different … original … creative. That will risk public opinion and even if stubbornness is a correlated characteristic – failure in public is a bigger deterrant. So life’s spent in the pithy depression that can’t be faced and can’t be fought. Makes Scrooge seem almost … normal.

… Limited-Interest-Fielders?

I love hairclips. They’re so cool. And hip. And oh did I mention I love hairclips?

And I just can’t get enough of them.

Imagine being stuck in one room with a script like that for endless hours. That’s what it’ll seem like. People with only ONE thing to talk about are definitely wasting your time. If there’s only ONE subject you want to talk about, just frikking write a book about it and get it over done with. Whether it’s sports or books or movies or hairclips. Conversations are supposed to expand as time passes. If it constricts like a helium balloon running out of gas, it’s time to think up a way to get the hell out of there.

… My God kicks your God’s ASS fanatics?

If you got a divine revelation hanging from the back of your neck which said, “Listen to this person, signed God” itself it still wouldn’t justify the condescension with which I often find religious zealots dipped into. I get that you don’t get what I’m saying. I get that you might find it difficult to understand that God means different things to different people – but browbeating me into accepting something isn’t going to work. Trust me, they’ve tried.

———————————–

So if you happen to be any of these people … chances are you’re also blind in seeing it. That’s the usual comorbid symptom. Denial. The only way to work out of it is to stand up, face the truth and get cracking.

Otherwise you’re just another pain in the ass. And God knows we’ve got plenty.

Food is bliss.

On a much, much, much happier note (hallelujah) the dinner we hosted yesterday went really well. No bitching about other people, no idle gossip, no tales of woe and sadness. Just plain old laughter, good food and might I add a perfect, perfect, perfect, cheesecake a la me.

Food won’t cure my irritability against seeing Zardari as a world premier or make me feel safe about everything in the world and save me from gossip queens - but it will make me feel happier today.

Food – is an existential success.

Which will continue till tomorrow. We have leftovers. You’re invited. (Not if you’re a stalker though, really. In which case you can sniff the trash cans outside.)

So anyway. Yay me. Check these out. Posting pictures of some of the food I made.

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