During a rather lackluster week, my zombie thriller has provided great entertainment. While it inspires laughter now, I remember how serious I was about this story all those years ago, spending hours writing in bed at night, a pen gripped solemnly in my hand and the words written so fiercely that they almost bleed through the page. I loved this story then and, the truth of the matter is, that I still love it now (as much as I’ve slammed it in my previous posts). If nothing else, it shows that I had imagination.
So, here’s chapter 3 of “Jade” and because I'm feeling nostalgic and emotional, I'm not going to include any parenthetical comments. You can do that on your own.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
The bell finally rang. Psychology class was finally over. Zach got up from his desk and walked to the door.
Mr. Ross was talking about family problems and all that crap. It was just plain and simple boring boring boring. Zach wanted to just doze off when he got back to his room. Who knows, if he was tired enough he would sleep from 5:00PM to 6:00AM. He’d done that before.
Someone called Zach’s name from behind him. He turned around and saw Michael waving for him to come over.
“Zach, I have some news to tell you,” Mike said in an excited voice. “You want to come to the third floor with some of the guys?”
“Mike, the third floor is closed. No one’s allowed to go up there, not even the teachers,” Zach said.
“But this is going to be great,” Mike said nervously, afraid that Zach wouldn’t join them. “Sean is going to bring some chicks from Lakewood, you know what I mean? Sneak them in or something.”
“No way am I going to be a part of this. If we get caught, Dean Norwood is going to kick our asses. Anyway, I’m too bushed. I’m going to my room to get some sleep,” Zach said.
“Listen, I know you’re not a party animals but there’s always a first time,” Mike said. “You think sleeping is better than going to the third floor with chicks and reading a spooky book. You know what else? There are no lights on the third floor. We’re only going to have a flashlight. So, please Zach, come with us. Please, please, please,” Mike nagged like a child.
“No,” Zach said with a firm shake of his head.
“I bet if Nick was still alive, he would have come along,” Mike said sadly.
Zach knew that Mike had won again. Whenever he mentioned Nick, Zack would do whatever Mike begged for. After a long moment of silence, Zach nodded and said, “Okay,” so softly that he could hardly be heard.
But Mike’s ears were wide open, wide enough to hear Zach’s answer. “Yeeeeees!” Mike shouted. “Thanks bro,” he said with a smile. “Meet me on the third floor at 12 o’clock sharp.”
With a quick nod, Zach turned around and walked to his dorm room in the other building.
When he got to his room, he lay down on his bed and closed his eyes but opened them again in shock. Someone had turned on banging music on the stereo. His eyes fell on Todd, who was listening and singing along. Zach’s roommate was the wild type. Always going out on dates and driving fast cars, Todd was almost impossible to stand.
“Todd, turn the music down. I’m really tired,” Zach shouted over the pounding.
“Okay man, I’m turning it off,” Todd said flatly.
The son of the owner of the Chicago Art Museum, Todd Matthews wasn’t at all sophisticated. He just listened to music and didn’t pay attention to school at all!
“Hey Zach, are you going to the third floor tonight?” Todd asked.
“Yes, Todd. I am going to the third floor tonight,” Zach answered in a tired voice.
“Well, so am I!” Todd said eagerly. “It’s going to be awesome.”
Zach got up. He wouldn’t be able to get any sleep with Todd talking so much. “Todd,” Zach said, “I’m going to take a shower. You can play your music as loud as you wish. But when I get out, that stereo should be turned off. All right?”
“Sure man,” Todd answered as he turned his music on.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
JADE: The Second Chapter of a Zombie Thriller Written by Our Nerd at 10 Years Old
Wow. I have nothing to say except that this story sucks. Just remember that I was 10 when I wrote this, the second chapter of “Jade,” a zombie thriller unlike anything that you’ll ever read (well, for your sake, I hope it’s unlike anything you’ll ever read). Again, I’m including my own parenthetical, present day comments.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Sean Robinson walked into the library. He sat in his usual spot, at a table towards the back, thinking of what kind of book he wanted to read on that day. Not being able to decide, he walked to a shelf and pulled out the first book his hand fell on. This one had a raggedy cover. He pulled it out, curious, and was surprised by a tap on the shoulder. He turned around to find Mike Edwards. A twinge (good word for a 10 year old to know) of sadness hit him when he saw his best friend’s little brother (gosh. Mike sure does depress the hell out of everyone, which blows pretty badly since he seems to be such a happy go lucky guy, not at all hung up over Nick’s death). If Nick was still alive, he would have been a senior like Sean.
Mike was the spitting image of his brother. Sean knew that he was responsible for Nick’s death and could never get over the guilt (Sean: suicide is an option. Why do I feel like Sean will be the first casualty in this zombie thriller?). He was supposed to be his best friend’s ride home from the dance that night. But Sean was hurt about breaking up with his girlfriend (this is back when these prep college students were actually into girls. The homosexual undertones in this story are ridiculous), so he left early, forgetting all about Nick (what a bastard).
Everyone Nick knew had already left the dance. Nick was left with one choice and that was to hitchhike home (really? Was that really the only option? What would a smart, rich kid be doing hitching home anyway?). A drunk man in a station wagon picked up Nick. His car ended up crashing into a truck. The impact caused Nick to fly out of the car. The drunk man suffered only from a broken foot.
If only Nick didn’t have to hitchhike home that night…(damn straight. It’s ALL your fault, Sean, you murderer!).
Sean was distracted from his thoughts by Michael, who was making strange faces at him (Mike seems obnoxious).
“Earth to Sean?” Mike asked. “Sean, are you all right?”
“Oh yeah,” Sean answered, “just thinking.”
“I knew that,” Mike said with a smart look (what a prick. Nick would’ve probably hated his guts had he been alive). “Hey, that’s a raggedy (raggedy seems to be one of younger SabilaK’s favorite adjectives) old book you have there.”
“This actually sounds interesting. It’s called Jade, the Mystical Power (ahem).”
“This Jade sounds like one hot chick,” Michael said, whistling softly (I repeat: what a prick).
“Shhhhhh,” the librarian warned (bet the librarian is a dude too. Kettleburg University seems to be devoid of females. Interesting... )
“Jade isn’t a girl,” Sean explained as he skimmed through the book. “Jade is a power that was first used by a girl. According to this book, it was a force used in the old days to communicate with the spirit world.”
“Hey, hold it right there,” Mike said, raising his hands in the air. “Is that book spooky? (I want to kick Mike’s ass so badly. What an asshole).
“Well it does talk about the spirit world and all that crap (wow, I was such an eloquent writer back in the day),” Sean pointed out as he ran his hand through his brown hair.
“Well, I don’t want to hear about it right now. Why don’t you call all the guys to the old room on the third floor at midnight and we’ll take turns reading it (and then we’ll make out),” Michael said.
“Hey, that’s a good idea (it always starts with something that sounds like a good idea in zombie thrillers…). And maybe we can sneak some of the girls from Lakewood University in (This doesn’t mean that the guys aren’t gay. I’m guessing the girls from Lakewood are just the requisite big-breasted sluts in low-budget horror flicks). I hope the dean changes his mind about the “no girls in college” rule (well, it IS an all-boy’s prep college after all, Sean; this explains why even the librarian is probably a male),” Sean said sadly.
“Okay. You could call up five or six girls (it’s obvious that Mike’s isn’t happy about having girls over: he’s limiting the number PLUS he’s having Sean make the calls. What part of “guys” didn’t Sean understand? Gosh!) We’ll meet on the third floor at 12 sharp,” Mike said with a wicked smile.
“You’re on,” Sean said.
If only Nick was here, he thought again, watching Mike walk away (clearly Sean was more than a little in love with Nick)…
*End of chapter 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Sean Robinson walked into the library. He sat in his usual spot, at a table towards the back, thinking of what kind of book he wanted to read on that day. Not being able to decide, he walked to a shelf and pulled out the first book his hand fell on. This one had a raggedy cover. He pulled it out, curious, and was surprised by a tap on the shoulder. He turned around to find Mike Edwards. A twinge (good word for a 10 year old to know) of sadness hit him when he saw his best friend’s little brother (gosh. Mike sure does depress the hell out of everyone, which blows pretty badly since he seems to be such a happy go lucky guy, not at all hung up over Nick’s death). If Nick was still alive, he would have been a senior like Sean.
Mike was the spitting image of his brother. Sean knew that he was responsible for Nick’s death and could never get over the guilt (Sean: suicide is an option. Why do I feel like Sean will be the first casualty in this zombie thriller?). He was supposed to be his best friend’s ride home from the dance that night. But Sean was hurt about breaking up with his girlfriend (this is back when these prep college students were actually into girls. The homosexual undertones in this story are ridiculous), so he left early, forgetting all about Nick (what a bastard).
Everyone Nick knew had already left the dance. Nick was left with one choice and that was to hitchhike home (really? Was that really the only option? What would a smart, rich kid be doing hitching home anyway?). A drunk man in a station wagon picked up Nick. His car ended up crashing into a truck. The impact caused Nick to fly out of the car. The drunk man suffered only from a broken foot.
If only Nick didn’t have to hitchhike home that night…(damn straight. It’s ALL your fault, Sean, you murderer!).
Sean was distracted from his thoughts by Michael, who was making strange faces at him (Mike seems obnoxious).
“Earth to Sean?” Mike asked. “Sean, are you all right?”
“Oh yeah,” Sean answered, “just thinking.”
“I knew that,” Mike said with a smart look (what a prick. Nick would’ve probably hated his guts had he been alive). “Hey, that’s a raggedy (raggedy seems to be one of younger SabilaK’s favorite adjectives) old book you have there.”
“This actually sounds interesting. It’s called Jade, the Mystical Power (ahem).”
“This Jade sounds like one hot chick,” Michael said, whistling softly (I repeat: what a prick).
“Shhhhhh,” the librarian warned (bet the librarian is a dude too. Kettleburg University seems to be devoid of females. Interesting... )
“Jade isn’t a girl,” Sean explained as he skimmed through the book. “Jade is a power that was first used by a girl. According to this book, it was a force used in the old days to communicate with the spirit world.”
“Hey, hold it right there,” Mike said, raising his hands in the air. “Is that book spooky? (I want to kick Mike’s ass so badly. What an asshole).
“Well it does talk about the spirit world and all that crap (wow, I was such an eloquent writer back in the day),” Sean pointed out as he ran his hand through his brown hair.
“Well, I don’t want to hear about it right now. Why don’t you call all the guys to the old room on the third floor at midnight and we’ll take turns reading it (and then we’ll make out),” Michael said.
“Hey, that’s a good idea (it always starts with something that sounds like a good idea in zombie thrillers…). And maybe we can sneak some of the girls from Lakewood University in (This doesn’t mean that the guys aren’t gay. I’m guessing the girls from Lakewood are just the requisite big-breasted sluts in low-budget horror flicks). I hope the dean changes his mind about the “no girls in college” rule (well, it IS an all-boy’s prep college after all, Sean; this explains why even the librarian is probably a male),” Sean said sadly.
“Okay. You could call up five or six girls (it’s obvious that Mike’s isn’t happy about having girls over: he’s limiting the number PLUS he’s having Sean make the calls. What part of “guys” didn’t Sean understand? Gosh!) We’ll meet on the third floor at 12 sharp,” Mike said with a wicked smile.
“You’re on,” Sean said.
If only Nick was here, he thought again, watching Mike walk away (clearly Sean was more than a little in love with Nick)…
*End of chapter 2
JADE: The First Chapter of a Not-Very-Good Zombie Story from the Nerd's Childhood
After finding the undelivered letter to my cousin, posted below, I’ve become a bit obsessed with my old correspondences, notebooks, book reports, diaries, anything. I was looking through a box of old notebooks when I found one on the verge of disintegration. In it is a story called “Jade,” that I wrote when I was around 10 or 11 years old (additionally, on what’s left of the cover of the spiral bound notebook, I’ve drawn a pair of giant hearts that are linked together by a smaller heart. In the giant hearts, I’ve written in careful cursive letters “Christian Slater” and “Sabila K.”). The story, which I suspect is unfinished, consists of seven (not very good) chapters.
And now, for your reading (dis)pleasure, I present to you the first chapter of the zombie thriller “Jade”! I’ll try to keep my present-day parenthetical comments to a minimum.
Summary:
A group of college students from Kettleburg University, an all boys prep college (what exactly is an all boys prep college?), find a way to communicate with the dead. Now the college doors are locked by a supernatural power, the phone lines are dead because of the hurricane that is raging outside and a terror caused by the mystical power of Jade is taking over.
Story:
Zach (because all cute boys back in the day seemed to be called Zach) Thompson, a junior at Kettleburg University was sitting outside campus (outside campus? What’s that?) and enjoying the autumn leaves that were on the ground around him.
Zach was a good looking blonde and had no trouble making friends. First of all, his family was one of the riches in all of NY and he was also one of the smartest guys at Kettleburg, which was located in Southern California (a hurricane in SoCal?). He wasn’t the snobby type, like some of his friends. He liked small towns instead of big cities. He enjoyed the country air instead of noisy streets and he liked trees instead of tall skyscrapers. He was a little old fashioned, but that was his style.
“Hi Mike,” Zach said as he saw his friendly but snobby friend.
A twinkle appeared in Michael Edwards’ green eyes when he heard Zach greet him.
“Hey Zach, how’s it going?” Mike asked with a childish look on his face (huh?) that made him look more like a high school freshman than a college freshman
Zach had always been like a big brother to Mike. They had grown up together despite the age difference. Ever since Michael’s older brother Nick died in a car crash, Zach had always stayed with him like Nick used to. Plus, Zach’s father, David Thompson, and Mike’s father, Marshall Edwards, were good friends and business partners.
Michael was spoiled by his family. He got everything he asked for. Ever since Nick died, he got more attention than ever. He usually caused trouble but was never struck by trouble itself (damn, that’s deep).
He always wanted to do with Zach did. Mike got into Harvard and Princeton but came to Kettleburg because Zach went to school there (how Felicity of him). He shopped at the same stores Zach shopped, got the same hair style that Zach had, and said everything that Zach said (how very single white female of him). It was a pain to Zach but he was used to his friend.
“Okay,” Zach responded to Mike’s question.
“Working hard as usual, Mr. Brain?” Mike asked as he pulled out a pocket-sized mirror and started to comb his black hair.
“Hey, look who’s talking. I wasn’t 15 points away from a perfect score on the SATs.”
“Well, excuse me,” Mike said with a funny look on his face. “I can’t help it if I’m smart, okay.”
“Har, har, har,” Zach joked. He looked at his watch and suddenly stood up. “Hey, I’m late for Psychology. Catch you later or Mr. Ross is going to blow a fuse.” He cursed at himself silently for being late as he ran towards the building, leaving Mike staring at him in disbelief (what’s so unbelievable about this anyway?).
Zach entered his psychology class right on time. As he took his place, he looked around at the small classroom. It was the same boys in the same building, and the same balding teacher. And then he realized that he would have to sit through the same 30 minutes of boring lectures.
*End of chapter 1. I’ll post the second chapter up tomorrow.
And now, for your reading (dis)pleasure, I present to you the first chapter of the zombie thriller “Jade”! I’ll try to keep my present-day parenthetical comments to a minimum.
Summary:
A group of college students from Kettleburg University, an all boys prep college (what exactly is an all boys prep college?), find a way to communicate with the dead. Now the college doors are locked by a supernatural power, the phone lines are dead because of the hurricane that is raging outside and a terror caused by the mystical power of Jade is taking over.
Story:
Zach (because all cute boys back in the day seemed to be called Zach) Thompson, a junior at Kettleburg University was sitting outside campus (outside campus? What’s that?) and enjoying the autumn leaves that were on the ground around him.
Zach was a good looking blonde and had no trouble making friends. First of all, his family was one of the riches in all of NY and he was also one of the smartest guys at Kettleburg, which was located in Southern California (a hurricane in SoCal?). He wasn’t the snobby type, like some of his friends. He liked small towns instead of big cities. He enjoyed the country air instead of noisy streets and he liked trees instead of tall skyscrapers. He was a little old fashioned, but that was his style.
“Hi Mike,” Zach said as he saw his friendly but snobby friend.
A twinkle appeared in Michael Edwards’ green eyes when he heard Zach greet him.
“Hey Zach, how’s it going?” Mike asked with a childish look on his face (huh?) that made him look more like a high school freshman than a college freshman
Zach had always been like a big brother to Mike. They had grown up together despite the age difference. Ever since Michael’s older brother Nick died in a car crash, Zach had always stayed with him like Nick used to. Plus, Zach’s father, David Thompson, and Mike’s father, Marshall Edwards, were good friends and business partners.
Michael was spoiled by his family. He got everything he asked for. Ever since Nick died, he got more attention than ever. He usually caused trouble but was never struck by trouble itself (damn, that’s deep).
He always wanted to do with Zach did. Mike got into Harvard and Princeton but came to Kettleburg because Zach went to school there (how Felicity of him). He shopped at the same stores Zach shopped, got the same hair style that Zach had, and said everything that Zach said (how very single white female of him). It was a pain to Zach but he was used to his friend.
“Okay,” Zach responded to Mike’s question.
“Working hard as usual, Mr. Brain?” Mike asked as he pulled out a pocket-sized mirror and started to comb his black hair.
“Hey, look who’s talking. I wasn’t 15 points away from a perfect score on the SATs.”
“Well, excuse me,” Mike said with a funny look on his face. “I can’t help it if I’m smart, okay.”
“Har, har, har,” Zach joked. He looked at his watch and suddenly stood up. “Hey, I’m late for Psychology. Catch you later or Mr. Ross is going to blow a fuse.” He cursed at himself silently for being late as he ran towards the building, leaving Mike staring at him in disbelief (what’s so unbelievable about this anyway?).
Zach entered his psychology class right on time. As he took his place, he looked around at the small classroom. It was the same boys in the same building, and the same balding teacher. And then he realized that he would have to sit through the same 30 minutes of boring lectures.
*End of chapter 1. I’ll post the second chapter up tomorrow.
Monday, June 19, 2006
THE NERD'S UNDELIVERED LETTER TO HER COUSIN, circa 1992
*The Nerd in Jr. High
I was digging through some of my old folders when I found a letter that I’d written to my cousin back in 1992. Back in the day, I was famous for writing long, detailed letters that I never mailed out. This one was meant to go to my cousin F, who was living in Pakistan at the time. I was 13 and, clearly, boy crazy. Read it and enjoy; I’ve included parenthetical comments:
6/13/92
Dear Pinky (that’s F’s nickname):
How are you?! Uncle Talat told me that you were waiting for my letter but I already sent one to you (yah, and by “I already sent one to you,” I actually meant that I’d written her a letter that was sitting in a sealed envelope somewhere in my room with no hopes of ever being mailed out)! It probably got lost in the mail, so I guess I’ll just write you a whole new letter!
I’m not sure if I’ve told you about this new series of books I’ve been reading called Sweet Dreams. I’ve only read the first two books in the series, Play Me a love Song and Backstage Romance. I’m keeping my eyes open for more Sweet Dreams. Guess what? I’m back into Sweet Valley High. I (insert a heart here) them. They really are the best! (Just for the record, I wasn’t only reading teeny bopper romances in elementary school. I started reading Stephen King in the 2nd grade—no joke—and was reading the classics. I swear. I don’t want this to tarnish my reputation)
Summer vacation started three days ago on the 10th. I got straight A’s on my report card and made first honors!
We went on four field trips this past year. We visited Newark Symphony Hall on the first field trip of the year. It was pretty boring because we had to listen to the orchestra play music and we saw Mr. Mezz, the 8th grade teacher sleeping! The second field trip was boring too because we went to Newark Symphony Hall again!!! But it was a little better than the first time (I wonder why it was better the second time around…).
Our third trip turned out to be a complete blast! We went to the New Jersey State Aquarium in Camden (Camden is a pretty scary town but Walt Whitman spent his final years there. We should’ve just visited his house. Sigh), which is south of Jersey City and very far away. It took us around two hours to get there but we had loads of fun on the bus (I remember that the sluttier girls were dancing and shaking their butts at passing vehicles). We saw so many different kinds of sharks and fish at the aquarium! Ilene’s mother, Mrs. Sosa, was the girls’ chaperone and she’s the coolest. Shazia, Roselle, Ilene, Irene, Rakhee, Rita, and Shafaq were in my group. When we were leaving the aquarium, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to find a group of BOYS (so, I’m going to put in caps everything that is underlined and bolded in my letter, since Blogger won’t let me format as such online) who looked like they were around 15 or 16 years old. We just kept on walking but then one of the boys, who was VERY CUTE, asked me for my number (I don’t see how this is possible. Surely, someone as cute as a button like Shafaq or Irene was standing next to me, and this guy wanted her number and I only thought that he was asking for my number. If only you could see my pics from this period of my life, you’d understand. Perhaps I’ll post one up). My friends and I giggled and continued walking. When we got outside the aquarium, we discovered that our group was the first one to complete the tour and we had to wait for the others to get done. While we were waiting, someone pinched Roselle on her BEHIND!!! (Hahahahahahahahah! Oh man, I remember this. She was LIVID). She was VERY angry. Mrs Sosa blamed us for everything, saying that we’d been acting like flirts, which I guess is true. My friends and I are usually quiet by ourselves but when we get together we act crazy. When boys at the aquarium walked by us, we giggled and this encouraged them to talk to us (Gosh, I make us sound like sluts. We were anything but sluts). For example, while we were waiting outside for the others, this one boy went down the row with us, asking each one of us if he could sit on our lap (to be honest, I was sitting last in the row and he sort of skipped over me). Of course we all said no! But I can see how our giggling might have made him want talk to us (ah, dur).
Later, we ate lunch in a park next door to the aquarium. Shazia, Roselle and I were eating together and these two OLD police officers walked by us and we, being in crazy moods, offered them some potato chips. Pretty soon we were talking to them like they were old friends (this, in retrospect, is a little creepy. I wonder these middle-aged cops could possibly have to say to 13 year old girls). As you can see, our field trip to the aquarium was lots of fun.
While our final field trip wasn’t as good as the one to the aquarium, it was funny because of one incident. On this trip, the 6th and 7th grades walked to Liberty State Park (because Catholic schools are poor as shit). Once we got to the park, my friends Shazia, Roselle, Arshia, Rita and I were pretty bored, so our teacher, Ms. Sobers, took the five of us exploring. We walked, speed walked, and jogged around the park (I can only imagine how out of breath I must’ve been). We saw a replica of Henry Hudson’s ship, The Half Moon. We also jogged past this large barge and saw a very CUTE guy working inside the barge (I still remember what this dude looked like. He had a long scar that went from his left temple to the left side of his chin. He was handsome in spite of it). On our jog back, we discovered that the barge was actually a museum. Ms. Sobers asked the guy if admission was free (I suspect she was kicking it to him) and he said that it was but he had to drop something off somewhere and so, we’d have to wait for him to return before we could get in. He had the nerve to leave us standing there as he STROLLED away (doesn’t seem like Ms. Sobers’ kicking it to him was very effective). He was gone forever and, when he returned, he was licking a popsicle.
The first thing we saw when we entered the museum was a very large structure in the corner. It was very strange and looked like a giant slinky (for real. It was a contorted giant slinky). We asked popsicle guy if the structure symbolized something and he said “Nope.” We asked him if the metallic tubes attached to the top of the structure were chimes and he said “Nope.” We asked if the metallic tubes or the structure made sounds, if it was a musical instrument and he said “Nope” (seriously, what a bloody jackass). Finally, Ms. Sobers asked him if he was eating a popsicle. He smiled and said “Yes.” What an idiot (I’m glad that, even back in the day, I could recognize a jackass/idiot) And then he started asking us questions:
TOUR GUIDE who knows what a barge is?
We were quiet until Roselle said: a very big thing. (clearly, we were trying to be cheeky)
TG: What kind of a big thing? What does it do?
Sabila: It transports things.
TG: Right! What does it transport?
Rita: People?
TG: Would you like to be lying in a barge with 50,000 people? I don’t think so.
Sabila: Goods.
TG: Exactly. Now, what pulls a barge?
Shazia: A boat.
TG: What’s a boat?
Rita: A piece of wood that floats on the water (to Ms. Sober’s chagrin, we were all cracking up and playing along).
TG: (he explains what a boat is) So, what pulls a barge?
Roselle: Er…A boat?
TG: Do you really think that a regular little boat could pull a barge across the river to New York? I don’t think so.
Shazia: A speed boat?
TG: Um, no.
Rita: A tug boat?
TG: Exactly!
As you can see, we were acting very dumb and were cracking up the entire time. But I haven’t even told you about the funniest part of the day!
TG: Let’s go see the captain’s quarters. The captain’s quarters are where the captain sleeps during the voyage.
We followed him to an extremely small room. There was a very small bed crowded in the corner and popsicle guy sat down on it.
TG: What’s your name?
I thought that he was asking all of us, so I turned to Rita, who was first in line, expecting her to say her name first. But Rita didn’t say anything. When I turned around to look at the tour guide I saw that he was asking me.
TG: What’s YOUR name?
Sabila: Oh. Sabila.
TG: What a beautiful name. Come and sit next to me, Sabila.
He was patting the space next to him on the bed. I sat down next to him as he described how the captain and his entire family slept on that tiny little bed. The bed was hard and it hurt my behind. I saw Roselle cracking up, trying to make me crack up. I started to giggle and turned my face away from the guide towards the wall so that he couldn’t see that I was cracking up (if I remember correctly, we were all on the verge of dissolving into giggles for the duration of our time in the barge). I guess he noticed because the next thing he said was, “You can go back to your friends now if you’d like.”
It was a complete blast! Yo! It’s 1AM and I have to go to sleep. I guess this letter was all about field trips! Hope I didn’t bore you too much (ahem. I’m almost glad it didn’t make its way to her). I miss you and please write me an equally long letter!
Love ya (Love ya? Seriously?)
SABILA
XXXXXXX+OOOOOOO (I need a
barf bag)
PAKISTANDARDS: Pakistani Vegetarianism?
Our nerd holds a bowlful of cholay earlier this evening as her family chows down on a meat-heavy Pakistani dinner.
There is no such thing as Pakistani vegetarianism. There is only cholay (curried chickpeas). This dish has saved me from going hungry or pathetically nibbling on plain naan and salad at many Pakistani parties. There are times when I, craving variety and effort on the part of our host(s), find myself getting sick and tired of cholay, even hating the dish a little bit.
But that's wrong. Because cholay's been there for me...and I appreciate that.
Thank you cholay, for everything.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
HEAVENLY BODIES: Endangererd Skies and the Nerd's Teeny-Bopper Summer Romance That Never Was
The dark and starry night is endangered and one of the world’s leading academic organizations studying light pollution has predicted that the last truly dark areas in the US will be gone by 2025. The National Park Service’s Night Sky Team, comprised of three people, travels from national park to national park, studying some of the darkest skies in the country, assessing light pollution and gathering data that might increase awareness of the problem (who really is aware of the problem? I, for one, was not before reading about it in this summer’s double issue of National Geographic Adventure) as well as help lobbyist push for better lighting laws.
Back in the summer before senior year of high school—yes, during those wonderful awkward days of our nerd’s life—I spent six weeks in Lawrenceville, New Jersey, in a summer program for smart kids. The highlight of the program was a weekend of canoeing and camping in the Pine Barrens. The highlight of the canoeing and camping weekend was the second night, when we decided to forgo our tents and, instead, slept under the night sky in our sleeping bags.
It was one of the most spectacular experiences of my life. The vast stretch of celestial sky seemed to go on forever all around me and I easily lost sense of where the heavens and the earth met. Hundreds of thousands of scintillating stars surrounded me, closer and more real than I’d ever experienced them in my life, while the voices of the kids on either side of me seemed to float from space like phantoms. The ground dropped away and I could’ve been flying, my pillow person clutched to my side—
Oh right.
I took my pillow person with me to Lawrenceville.
I also took my pillow person with me on the camping trip.
It rode with me in the canoe.
It slept with me in my sleeping bag.
Yes, I was a loser.
I was also a hormonal teenager and, keeping company with boys my own age for what was, sadly, the first time, I had high hopes for that summer. Like the heroine of a teeny-bopper romance, I fully expected to fall in love with and KISS some preppy Caucasian boy from suburbia, ideally one who played football and/or soccer, was gifted with the social skills that I lacked, was on NHS and student council, read the classics, tanned easily, and would see me for the swan that I was. Ahem.
Suffice to say, the frizzy hair, big-ass spectacles and the extra 30-40 pounds weren’t helping my cause. That pillow person, however, was what did it, slamming the door shut on any possibilities for teeny-bopper love………
Right…getting back to light pollution. Not being able to see the stars would suck. Unfortunately, James Vlahos’ illuminating (okay, bad pun) article, “Night Rangers,” doesn’t seem to be available online but I’ll dig around some more for you folks. It’s a good article and you should read it.
WILL THE NEW US POET LAUREATE PLEASE STAND UP?
Donald Hall is the nation's new poet laureate. While I'm not familiar with his work, a Washington Post review of "The One Day," a book-length poem published in 1998 cites the following as the climactic line of the work:
"Work, love, build a house and die. But build a house."
I think that's beautiful.
I must purchase "The One Day."
Read more about Donald Hall here: http://poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/264
FLIRTOLOGY
So, the other day, I'm on the phone with an audio publisher and somehow we start talking about alcohol and I mention that I'm a teetotaler. He says, "You don't need alcohol, Sabila; you're flirtatious enough without it."
My response: "Oh."
Well. I guess I'm a bit of a flirt then. Ahem.
My response: "Oh."
Well. I guess I'm a bit of a flirt then. Ahem.
UNLESS WE TAKE A CHANCE, WE DIE IN ART
I took an elective music class in college, which intorduced me to John Cage, the avant-garde composer of the last era. I’m sure many people have been as blown away as I was by, among his many strange works, the provocative and legendary silent piece, 4’33”, which pushes the envelope, forcing the audience to reexamine the very definition of music. Check it out here: http://interglacial.com/~sburke/stuff/cage_433.
In this week’s issue of The New Yorker, Alex Ross writes brilliantly about Morton Feldman, who was, not only a fast friend of John Cage but, was also one of the major 20th century composers (Ross describes him as“…a hard-core avant-gardist to the end”).You can read the article here: http://www.newyorker.com/critics/atlarge/?060619crat_atlarge.
Ross writes of Feldman:
The often noted paradox is that this immense, verbose man wrote music that seldom rose above a whisper. In the noisiest century in history, Feldman chose to be glacially slow and snowily soft. Chords arrive one after another, in seemingly haphazard sequence, interspersed with silences. Harmonies hover in a no man’s land between consonance and dissonance, paradise and oblivion. Rhythms are irregular and overlapping, so that the music floats above the beat. Simple figures repeat for a long time, then disappear…Certain later works unfold over extraordinarily lengthy spans of time, straining the capabilities of performers to play them and the audiences to hear them…
Naturally, I downloaded some of Feldman’s compositions—“Three Clarinets, Cello, and Piano,” “Madame Press Died Last Week at Ninety,” and “The King of Denmark”—and they are uncanny and bizarre, vast yet spare and hauntingly beautiful. Like Ross says, for Feldman “The sounds animate the surrounding silence” and that with the composer’s works “we are in the region of Wallace Stevens’s ‘American Sublime,’ of the ‘empty spirit/In vacant space.'
If you are at all interested, click here for a few samplings of Feldman’s works: http://www.ubu.com/sound/feldman.html
Thursday, June 15, 2006
I’VE BEEN ARCTIC-MONKEY’D…AND THINGS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME
My friend surprised me with tickets to an Arctic Monkeys show at Roseland Ballroom last night and it was spectacular. And I’m not saying that just because it was my first time.
Shock! Gasp! Horror!
Yes, dear reader, I speak the truth. It’s a lame truth, but I speak it anyway and fully expect you to do one of two things once you’ve fully comprehended this truth: laugh or shake your head in disappointment. What can I say? I was sheltered in my youth and didn’t necessarily dabble in all of the “football-and-apple-pie”-ness of Americana.
So, last night, standing amidst a sea of teenagers—preppy, punk, geeky, they were all represented—a few soccer moms and small clusters of grups, I took in the thick smell of sweat commingled with smoke and smiled as I was pleasantly jostled. A band called We Are Scientists opened for the Monkeys and while I had no idea who they were before last night, they were a fun band.
As for the Monkeys, I was quickly able to get over the fact that they look like fourteen-year-olds because they put on a most excellent show, starting off with “Riot Van” and finishing with “A Certain Romance.” They were up there for about an hour and had the swagger of seasoned professionals. I had such a good time that, in spite of the fact that, by the end of the night, I’d been on my not-the-most-comfortable-shoed feet for over two hours, dancing to the music, I felt amazing. I was positively bouncing on my way home.
Special shout out to my friend M for the show! You rock! I can only hope that some of your coolness will eventually rub off on me.
Shock! Gasp! Horror!
Yes, dear reader, I speak the truth. It’s a lame truth, but I speak it anyway and fully expect you to do one of two things once you’ve fully comprehended this truth: laugh or shake your head in disappointment. What can I say? I was sheltered in my youth and didn’t necessarily dabble in all of the “football-and-apple-pie”-ness of Americana.
So, last night, standing amidst a sea of teenagers—preppy, punk, geeky, they were all represented—a few soccer moms and small clusters of grups, I took in the thick smell of sweat commingled with smoke and smiled as I was pleasantly jostled. A band called We Are Scientists opened for the Monkeys and while I had no idea who they were before last night, they were a fun band.
As for the Monkeys, I was quickly able to get over the fact that they look like fourteen-year-olds because they put on a most excellent show, starting off with “Riot Van” and finishing with “A Certain Romance.” They were up there for about an hour and had the swagger of seasoned professionals. I had such a good time that, in spite of the fact that, by the end of the night, I’d been on my not-the-most-comfortable-shoed feet for over two hours, dancing to the music, I felt amazing. I was positively bouncing on my way home.
Special shout out to my friend M for the show! You rock! I can only hope that some of your coolness will eventually rub off on me.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
SOPHIE/SEBASTIAN
So, I was summoned to my brother's place at 5:30 this morning (yes, you read that correctly...5:30AM) because Sophie/Sebastian had cried all night, keeping S, my brother, up. S tried to calm the kitten down for hours and hours: he fed it more food, reasoned with it, even turned on the radio for it, but nothing worked. S finally decided to let the kitten loose in the bathroom, but it just ran around, crying and distressed. When I got to his place, Sophie/Sebastian was still meowing heartbreakingly. Sitting down on the bathroom floor, I picked up the kitten, wrapped it up in my sweater and held it in my arms. Sure enough, it stopped crying and started kneading my sweater. Kittens knead upon receiving a signal from their mother that she is ready to suckle. When kneading, a kitten is using its paws to draw out milk.
Clearly, Sophie/Sebastian had been crying for its mother the entire time.
Anyway, we let the kitten run around my brother's bedroom and, eventually, relinquished it to Dorothy, the cat rescuer who lives in the building next door to us. According to S, Dorothy runs a no-kill cat shelter by the Liberty Science Center and was thrilled to have this new kitten to foster. Plus, she's agreed to call it Sophie/Sebastian (depending on the gender, of course).
I'm still awaiting pics of the kitten from S and will post them up as soon as I have them. Anyone interested in adopting the little girl/guy?
Clearly, Sophie/Sebastian had been crying for its mother the entire time.
Anyway, we let the kitten run around my brother's bedroom and, eventually, relinquished it to Dorothy, the cat rescuer who lives in the building next door to us. According to S, Dorothy runs a no-kill cat shelter by the Liberty Science Center and was thrilled to have this new kitten to foster. Plus, she's agreed to call it Sophie/Sebastian (depending on the gender, of course).
I'm still awaiting pics of the kitten from S and will post them up as soon as I have them. Anyone interested in adopting the little girl/guy?
Sunday, June 11, 2006
BREAKING NEWS, BREAKING NEWS! SUCCESS!
I received a frantic phone call from my brother at circa 8:30, telling me to come downstairs to the parking lot asap, that the kitten had returned. I ran downstairs. The kitten (photo TK) was adorable, approximately 4-5 weeks old and meowing to the high heavens, demanding food. We tiptoed and whispered around it in the darkness. I placed a canful of catfood in the kitty carrier that K had left with us and placed the carrier by the blue Toyota of which the kitten seemed so fond.
Drawn to the oceanfish variety of canned cat food, the kitten approached the carrier slowly, crouched low to the ground. It eyed us for a moment before proceeding to examine the carrier, trying to figure out how to get inside. Then it gingerly stepped inside the carrier. Holding my breath, I waited until I saw the last bit of its tail float into the carrier and, slowly, I approached it. Swooping down, I threw the door closed and almost had it but the kitten managed to push past the door and, before I knew it, it was on the other side of the fence, meowing vexedly.
My heart was ready to explode and, honestly, I was on the verge of an anxiety attack at this point. I hadn't realized just how young this kitten was and now that it was outside the lot, I felt afraid for its safety. My brother asked me to pull myself back from the anxiety attack that I was on the verge of and I had to double over for a little while and take in some deep breaths.
"Okay, now, when the kitten goes inside the cage, throw the blanket in"--the carrier came with a little blue blanket--"pick up the cage at an angle and shut the door," my brother instructed.
I nodded and, after repositioning the carrier and waiting for several anxious minutes, we heard the kitten's meows again and, soon, it was peeking out from behind the blue Toyota's tire. This time, it made its way swiftly to the carrier and I tiptoed over even though her tail was still poking out of the door. Following my brother's instructions, I managed to trap the kitten! Success!
So, now the kitten, whom I will recommend be called Sophie if it's a girl and Sebastian if it's a boy is in the kitty carrier at my brother's place. At first the poor thing was shaking in its boots, it was so scared but pretty soon, I was feeding it cat food with a plastic fork through the carrier door and it ate enthusiastically. If either my brother or I stepped out of the living room, Sophie/Sebastian would cry out for us!
Anyway, as much as I'd love to keep the little gal/guy, my Zanadune would not be happy at the arrangement and will surely eat her new friend. Plus, throwing a new cat into my household would probably kill me (remember, I'm allergic). My oldest brother can't keep the kitty because he, too, is allergic and my other brother (the one who helped me rescue the cat) might also be allergic and doesn't think he can take on the responsibility of adopting a cat.
Sophie/Sebastian is spending the night at my brother's place and tomorrow will be delivered to Dorothy, a cat rescuer who lives in the building next door to ours. I will help Dorothy find a home for the kitten, so if anyone's interested, contact me. I'll post up pics I've taken of the kitty soon. The kitten's precious.
Drawn to the oceanfish variety of canned cat food, the kitten approached the carrier slowly, crouched low to the ground. It eyed us for a moment before proceeding to examine the carrier, trying to figure out how to get inside. Then it gingerly stepped inside the carrier. Holding my breath, I waited until I saw the last bit of its tail float into the carrier and, slowly, I approached it. Swooping down, I threw the door closed and almost had it but the kitten managed to push past the door and, before I knew it, it was on the other side of the fence, meowing vexedly.
My heart was ready to explode and, honestly, I was on the verge of an anxiety attack at this point. I hadn't realized just how young this kitten was and now that it was outside the lot, I felt afraid for its safety. My brother asked me to pull myself back from the anxiety attack that I was on the verge of and I had to double over for a little while and take in some deep breaths.
"Okay, now, when the kitten goes inside the cage, throw the blanket in"--the carrier came with a little blue blanket--"pick up the cage at an angle and shut the door," my brother instructed.
I nodded and, after repositioning the carrier and waiting for several anxious minutes, we heard the kitten's meows again and, soon, it was peeking out from behind the blue Toyota's tire. This time, it made its way swiftly to the carrier and I tiptoed over even though her tail was still poking out of the door. Following my brother's instructions, I managed to trap the kitten! Success!
So, now the kitten, whom I will recommend be called Sophie if it's a girl and Sebastian if it's a boy is in the kitty carrier at my brother's place. At first the poor thing was shaking in its boots, it was so scared but pretty soon, I was feeding it cat food with a plastic fork through the carrier door and it ate enthusiastically. If either my brother or I stepped out of the living room, Sophie/Sebastian would cry out for us!
Anyway, as much as I'd love to keep the little gal/guy, my Zanadune would not be happy at the arrangement and will surely eat her new friend. Plus, throwing a new cat into my household would probably kill me (remember, I'm allergic). My oldest brother can't keep the kitty because he, too, is allergic and my other brother (the one who helped me rescue the cat) might also be allergic and doesn't think he can take on the responsibility of adopting a cat.
Sophie/Sebastian is spending the night at my brother's place and tomorrow will be delivered to Dorothy, a cat rescuer who lives in the building next door to ours. I will help Dorothy find a home for the kitten, so if anyone's interested, contact me. I'll post up pics I've taken of the kitty soon. The kitten's precious.
BREAKING NEWS, BREAKING NEWS! THE NERD FINALLY RESCUES AN ANIMAL...er, I mean an insect.....
So, I had no luck finding the (phantom) kitten on my third trip to the parking lot. I hope it's all right, wherever it is. I often wish I had the ability to communicate with animals like St. Francis of Assisi or Dr. Doolittle so that I could reassure them that I always come in peace. Wasn't there a superhero that could communicate with animals, as well, or am I making that up??? Anyone? Anyone?
Naturally, I was feeling very sad and dejected as I stepped into the elevator to return home. I went to hit my floor, when lo and behold, what do I see next to the button for floor 19 but a tiny black ladybug, looking grossly out of place. The ladybug was lovely with one red dot on either side of it but it looked distressed as it attempted to navigate the rough terrain of floor buttons 1-22. Being empty handed, I had nothing to pick the ladybug up with until, scanning the floor, my eyes fell on the corner of a candybar wrapper that some inconsiderate litterbug had dropped carelessly. I'd never been happier to find litter in my life. Picking up the little piece of wrapper (it was no more than a couple of inches), I put it in the ladybug's path and she stepped onto it without a hitch. Holding the wrapper in my right hand, I cupped my left hand under it and watched as the bug sped back and forth, from edge to edge, wondering what it'd gotten itself into.
I rode the elevator back downstairs and released the ladybug onto the leaf of a tree in the parking lot.
Finally, sweet success!
BREAKING NEWS, BREAKING NEWS! THE NERD UNDERTAKES YET ANOTHER (POTENTIALLY FAILED?) ANIMAL RESCUE ATTEMPT! LIVE COVERAGE! Part II
Concluding that the kitten was likely napping somewhere, we decided to reconvene in an hour. I couldn't help but feel annoyed with my brother. Not only had he been willing to leave the kitten alone last night but his decision to feed it before K's arrival was a bad one as well; the kitten had no reason to show itself until it was hungry now. Of course, I should've been available for my expertise in the field last night, but I'm not available 24/7. What do they think I am? PETA?
My brother, K, her kids and I did, in fact, reconvene at 4:00. The security chief met me at the entrance as I was heading out, shaking his head and appearing downhearted. "I checked for the kitten three times. No sign of him, sweetheart." The five of us walked around the perimeter of the lot for another 45 minutes, following sounds that we swore were the cries of a kitten. The little guy, however, didn't materialize.
"You should've tried grabbing it while it was eating earlier," I told my brother, sighing as we, once again, sat on the curb, our eyes peeled for the furball.
"Sabila, you're the cat lady of the family. You know I'm not so skilled in this whole rescue thing," he said, sadly.
"I'm the animal lady, S," I told him. "I'm an equal opportunity rescuer...and, you know what, with the amount of animals in distress that cross our path, we should keep a giant net handy."
He thought about this for a while and then nodded. "Hmm. That would be a wise investment."
Getting up from the curb, I decided to crawl around the parking lot for a little while longer while my brother exited the lot and walked across the street to check for the kitten there. K and her kids continued calling out for it. But no luck. K had to eventually get back home but she left us with the kitty carrier, just in case the kitten returned later on during the day.
I'll keep you guys posted.
My brother, K, her kids and I did, in fact, reconvene at 4:00. The security chief met me at the entrance as I was heading out, shaking his head and appearing downhearted. "I checked for the kitten three times. No sign of him, sweetheart." The five of us walked around the perimeter of the lot for another 45 minutes, following sounds that we swore were the cries of a kitten. The little guy, however, didn't materialize.
"You should've tried grabbing it while it was eating earlier," I told my brother, sighing as we, once again, sat on the curb, our eyes peeled for the furball.
"Sabila, you're the cat lady of the family. You know I'm not so skilled in this whole rescue thing," he said, sadly.
"I'm the animal lady, S," I told him. "I'm an equal opportunity rescuer...and, you know what, with the amount of animals in distress that cross our path, we should keep a giant net handy."
He thought about this for a while and then nodded. "Hmm. That would be a wise investment."
Getting up from the curb, I decided to crawl around the parking lot for a little while longer while my brother exited the lot and walked across the street to check for the kitten there. K and her kids continued calling out for it. But no luck. K had to eventually get back home but she left us with the kitty carrier, just in case the kitten returned later on during the day.
I'll keep you guys posted.
BREAKING NEWS, BREAKING NEWS! THE NERD UNDERTAKES YET ANOTHER (POTENTIALLY FAILED?) ANIMAL RESCUE ATTEMPT! LIVE COVERAGE!
Yes, readers, this animal rescue attempt is currently underway.
Allow me to give you the details.
Earlier this afternoon, circa 1:45, I was returning home from having spent the night in NYC. Walking towards the entrance of my apartment building, I noticed that my mother and brother were standing towards the back of the parking lot; they motioned for me to join them when they saw me.
"Hey guys, what's going on?" I asked, concerned.
My brother brought a finger to his lips, asking me to keep it down. "Look over my shoulder," he instructed.
A few yards away, sitting next to the tall fence by where the lot abutted the sidewalk, was the tiniest greaseball of a kitten. It was busily eating cat food that my mother had brought downstairs.
I barely had a chance to say "Ohhh," when both my mother and brother launched into the story. My brother was heading out to dinner the previous night with his friend K, when they heard the cries of the kitten. Upon further investigation, they located the kitten but, in spite of their best efforts, couldn't grab it. K wanted to take the kitten home. My brother was apparently trying to get in touch with me all the while but, alas, my phone had been switched to silent mode. Now, K wished to continue her pursuit of the kitten but my brother insisted that they go to the restaurant (I'm still upset about this). They did, however, leave food for the kitten before heading out.
Anyway, by the time I came upon the kitten, my brother had already called K who was heading over with her kids and a kitty carrier to sweep it away to a happier life with two feline siblings. The three of us watched as the kitten devoured the cat food and scurried under a blue Toyota.
"Wait, where's it going?" I asked, alarmed.
"Oh, don't worry, that car is the kitten's hiding place. It was running under it all night."
Not convinced, I handed my bag to my mother, dropped to the ground and peered under the car. The kitten wasn't there.
"It's not there," I called out.
"What do you mean it's not there? We just saw it go under!" my mom exclaimed.
"It's not under this car," I repeated.
"How about under the next car over?" my brother asked.
I spent a good five minutes flat on my belly, peering under the rows of cars on either side of the blue car. The kitten was nowhere to be found.
K drove in with kids in tow as soon as I got up off the ground. The three of them were crestfallen when we broke the news to them but recovered quickly, as they were determined to help us find the stray. The six of us swarmed the east side of the parking lot, the side that according to my brother and K, the kitten was partial to. The bright, beating sun and the whipping wind both alternated the roles of friend and foe as we walked stealthily, squatting down to look under cars. As street lights and flags on poles danced and squeaked in the wind, every sound we heard seemed to mimic a kitten's cry. We ran from one end of the lot to the other in pursuit of phantom cats. When K started to meow like a kitten, trying to draw our little stray from its hiding place, I pushed her aside, lay on the ground by the blue Toyota and started to meow like a mother cat. Wouldn't a kitten be more drawn to the cries of its mother? We called the head of security in our building so that he could locate the owners of the two cars we suspected the kitten could be hiding in--the blue Toyota and a brown van. The owner of the van was kind enough to come downstairs, pop the hood and honk the horn a couple of times. There didn't seem to be a kitten hiding in the car to scare out in the first place. Because the owner of the Toyota wasn't home, we decided to shake the car a little, causing the alarm to go off. Again, the kitten didn't seem to be in that car.
So, the seven of us (head of security included) sat on a curb, trying to come up with our next move. It was 3:00, well over an hour since I'd returned from the city and my stomach had long been protesting its emptiness (I, SabilaK, breakfast's #1 fan, hadn't eaten that most scrumptious first meal of the day). Keeping my eyes at ground level, I willed the cat to materialize so that I could finally go home and eat. But, still, it remained hidden.
To be continued...
Allow me to give you the details.
Earlier this afternoon, circa 1:45, I was returning home from having spent the night in NYC. Walking towards the entrance of my apartment building, I noticed that my mother and brother were standing towards the back of the parking lot; they motioned for me to join them when they saw me.
"Hey guys, what's going on?" I asked, concerned.
My brother brought a finger to his lips, asking me to keep it down. "Look over my shoulder," he instructed.
A few yards away, sitting next to the tall fence by where the lot abutted the sidewalk, was the tiniest greaseball of a kitten. It was busily eating cat food that my mother had brought downstairs.
I barely had a chance to say "Ohhh," when both my mother and brother launched into the story. My brother was heading out to dinner the previous night with his friend K, when they heard the cries of the kitten. Upon further investigation, they located the kitten but, in spite of their best efforts, couldn't grab it. K wanted to take the kitten home. My brother was apparently trying to get in touch with me all the while but, alas, my phone had been switched to silent mode. Now, K wished to continue her pursuit of the kitten but my brother insisted that they go to the restaurant (I'm still upset about this). They did, however, leave food for the kitten before heading out.
Anyway, by the time I came upon the kitten, my brother had already called K who was heading over with her kids and a kitty carrier to sweep it away to a happier life with two feline siblings. The three of us watched as the kitten devoured the cat food and scurried under a blue Toyota.
"Wait, where's it going?" I asked, alarmed.
"Oh, don't worry, that car is the kitten's hiding place. It was running under it all night."
Not convinced, I handed my bag to my mother, dropped to the ground and peered under the car. The kitten wasn't there.
"It's not there," I called out.
"What do you mean it's not there? We just saw it go under!" my mom exclaimed.
"It's not under this car," I repeated.
"How about under the next car over?" my brother asked.
I spent a good five minutes flat on my belly, peering under the rows of cars on either side of the blue car. The kitten was nowhere to be found.
K drove in with kids in tow as soon as I got up off the ground. The three of them were crestfallen when we broke the news to them but recovered quickly, as they were determined to help us find the stray. The six of us swarmed the east side of the parking lot, the side that according to my brother and K, the kitten was partial to. The bright, beating sun and the whipping wind both alternated the roles of friend and foe as we walked stealthily, squatting down to look under cars. As street lights and flags on poles danced and squeaked in the wind, every sound we heard seemed to mimic a kitten's cry. We ran from one end of the lot to the other in pursuit of phantom cats. When K started to meow like a kitten, trying to draw our little stray from its hiding place, I pushed her aside, lay on the ground by the blue Toyota and started to meow like a mother cat. Wouldn't a kitten be more drawn to the cries of its mother? We called the head of security in our building so that he could locate the owners of the two cars we suspected the kitten could be hiding in--the blue Toyota and a brown van. The owner of the van was kind enough to come downstairs, pop the hood and honk the horn a couple of times. There didn't seem to be a kitten hiding in the car to scare out in the first place. Because the owner of the Toyota wasn't home, we decided to shake the car a little, causing the alarm to go off. Again, the kitten didn't seem to be in that car.
So, the seven of us (head of security included) sat on a curb, trying to come up with our next move. It was 3:00, well over an hour since I'd returned from the city and my stomach had long been protesting its emptiness (I, SabilaK, breakfast's #1 fan, hadn't eaten that most scrumptious first meal of the day). Keeping my eyes at ground level, I willed the cat to materialize so that I could finally go home and eat. But, still, it remained hidden.
To be continued...
Friday, June 09, 2006
AN OPEN LETTER TO PEOPLE AT THE SCENE OF AN ACCIDENT: GET IT TOGETHER
Dear People at the Scene of an Accident:
Get it together. You’re an embarrassment to humanity and you often make me sick to my stomach.
While no one particularly wants to see the crumpled body of an elderly woman who’s just been hit by a truck, you have two choices: either be hysterical at a good distance from the victim or take a deep breath, calm yourself down and then help us tend to the victim. Don’t cry out to no one in particular to call 9-1-1 while standing over the victim. You’ve joined us at the scene approximately 5 minutes after the accident. It’s safe to assume that a few of the dozens of people lingering on the sidelines have called for help. Also, try not to call out “She’s not dead! She’s breathing!” Chances are that the poor woman is already freaking out, seeing that she’s had a truck knock the teeth out of her mouth and leave her unconscious and all. I suspect that your utterance of the d-word as you hover over her is not appreciated.
Now, I’d like to talk to nannies at accident scenes: you are NOT getting paid to show your wards bloody people, so please move right along before I slap you. Such scenes are often too awful for an adult to stomach and yet you, in your infinite wisdom, are exposing a child to it? You better believe that ES and I blocked your view earlier today. You are an ignorant git and shouldn’t be allowed around children or accident scenes. It would probably be in the best interest of the greater population to lock you in a closet and throw away the key.
Finally, it’s just you and me, camera-phone-photographer-of-other-people’s-pain, otherwise known as you-no-good-bastard. How dare you pull out your cell phone and snap photos of a woman who has just been mowed down by a TRUCK and is lying motionless in her own blood? Have you no shame? The next time I see you pulling such a cold-hearted, insensitive and stupid act, I swear I will grab that phone from your hands, probably smack you upside the head with it before running to the west side and chucking it into the Hudson River. You make me sick. Really you do.
Get it together, you jerks.
Sincerely,
SabilaK
Revengeofthenerddd.blogspot.com
DEAR READERS: this isn't a haiku
Alternating between knitting five rows and reading ten pages is consuming my life.
Please note, neither the woman nor the child in the above photo is your nerd. Just FYI.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
THE EXCITING LIFE OF SabilaK
So, I was going to post up the following pic of my nose 
and write about the history of nose piercings in the Asian Subcontinent and how important my nose pin is to me (I was paying homage to all of my female ancestors and to the rich culture from which I come, on that warm winter day in Miami four years ago, as I sat before a skinny, thoroughly pierced and tattooed young man who held a very long and thin needle between his fingers at an establishment called The Moshpit).
But I'm not going to do it now because I'm already half asleep.
I'll save that for another time.
I spent most of the night sitting up in bed with Zanadune, alternating between knitting and reading George Orwell's "Why I Write" (5 rows of knitting followed by 10 pages of reading); at one point Aimee Mann's cover of "One" started playing on my Mac and it was just perfect. Because I was knitting and reading Orwell with my cat sleeping next to me and it wasn't lonely at all. It was quite wonderful.
Don't listen to the lies: one isn't the loneliest number that you'll ever do.
And now I sleep.
Adios.
and write about the history of nose piercings in the Asian Subcontinent and how important my nose pin is to me (I was paying homage to all of my female ancestors and to the rich culture from which I come, on that warm winter day in Miami four years ago, as I sat before a skinny, thoroughly pierced and tattooed young man who held a very long and thin needle between his fingers at an establishment called The Moshpit). But I'm not going to do it now because I'm already half asleep.
I'll save that for another time.
I spent most of the night sitting up in bed with Zanadune, alternating between knitting and reading George Orwell's "Why I Write" (5 rows of knitting followed by 10 pages of reading); at one point Aimee Mann's cover of "One" started playing on my Mac and it was just perfect. Because I was knitting and reading Orwell with my cat sleeping next to me and it wasn't lonely at all. It was quite wonderful.
Don't listen to the lies: one isn't the loneliest number that you'll ever do.
And now I sleep.
Adios.
Monday, June 05, 2006
EW
I'd like to chuck the following pick-up line right into the "things best expunged from memory" wastebasket:
"I can make you number 96, baby..."
Vomit.
Pardon me.
Your Nerd.
Clearly, more guys need to read the following book:
"I can make you number 96, baby..."
Vomit.
Pardon me.
Your Nerd.
Clearly, more guys need to read the following book:
I HATE...
Just for the record, I HATE flossing.
I do it because it is, after all, the right thing to do.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
PHEW
On my way to work last week, I found myself standing next to a former high school classmate on the train. I debated saying hello to her but decided against it because who really wants to be cornered into a conversation during her morning commute? I, personally, don't mind (just for the record) but I didn't want to bother her, so I went back to reading my New Yorker. A little while later, unable to restrain myself--and throwing all morning commuter etiquette to the tracks--I tapped her on the shoulder (you must understand, I hadn't seen this girl in nine years):
Me: Excuse me. Did you go to (insert high school name here)?
Former high school classmate: Yes.
Me: (insert girl's name here)!
Former high school classmate (nonplussed)
Me: It's me...Sabila.
Former high school classmate: Sabila! I didn't recognize you AT ALL!
Me (sighing with relief): Yah, I used to wear glasses...
Thank goodness for small miracles.
Me: Excuse me. Did you go to (insert high school name here)?
Former high school classmate: Yes.
Me: (insert girl's name here)!
Former high school classmate (nonplussed)
Me: It's me...Sabila.
Former high school classmate: Sabila! I didn't recognize you AT ALL!
Me (sighing with relief): Yah, I used to wear glasses...
Thank goodness for small miracles.
I HATE...
...(Yes, I HATE, because I don't like saying "I don't care for..." anymore; because the fact of the matter is that I either hate or I love...not too many things fall in the in between for me; because I don't want to mince my words) living with other people.
I'm a person who appreciates quiet time and I don't get enough of it.
I'm a person who appreciates quiet time and I don't get enough of it.
Friday, June 02, 2006
RESCUE ME?: The True Story of Yet Another (Failed) Animal Rescue Attempt
Back in March, I posted a blog entry entitled “Rescue Me?” in which I described my exhaustive, day long efforts to rescue a duck that appeared to be injured as it sat, stone still, in my building’s parking lot. After having called my cat’s veterinarian, a couple of animal shelters, the Office of Fish & Wildlife, the police department and the fire department, I finally paged a PETA volunteer in DC, who encouraged me to trap the duck in a large box and transplant it to the nearest park. Emboldened, I emerged from my building with a giant, empty computer box in hand, determined to take care of the situation once and for all…only to find that the duck had flown away. At the same time, the PETA volunteer was calling a duck expert in South Jersey—who, unlike Fish & Wildlife, didn’t close shop for the weekend (I’m still bitter about that)—to figure out what was wrong with our duck…the short answer to the question: nothing, apparently. Ahem.
Well, dear reader, that wasn’t the only time I went to absurd measures to rescue an animal. I do it all the time. I find it impossible to walk away from an animal that I think is in trouble. What's more, my eyes are always on the ground, peeled for animals in distress. Seeing that these animals are rescued becomes something of an obsession. Whatever I happened to be doing is pushed aside and I, putting on my blinders to everything else, shift into rescue mode. This single-minded approach to animal rescue has been a source of great vexation for my family and friends. They often have to suffer through the hours of rescue with me and usually end up pretending they don't know me.
To illustrate what I mean, I want to share with you the story of the night I spotted a dog that was lost and/or abandoned and distressed, sitting outside the Newport Mall Path Station. My friends—who aren’t very fond of animals—and I had just finished eating dinner and together, we were walking to Starbucks.
Me (squinting): Is that a dog?
Friend #1: Yep, that's a dog.
Me (still squinting): What's it doing out here alone? It doesn't look like a stray.
Friend #2: Looks like it's waiting for someone
Me: I think it's lost. Oh no!
#1: I'm thirsty. I want coffee.
Me: I can't just leave the poor dog here. Gosh, look at its doggy-brows. They're knitted together with concern. And those eyes are so heavy with sadness.
#1: ...here we go again...
Me: You guys want to go to Starbucks now? Seriously?
#2: Yah (walking away).
Me (still looking at the dog): Hey doggie, doggie, doggie. Come here boy, come here, come to SabilaK (yes, at this point, I'm naive enough to think that the dog, sensing that I'm a vegetarian animal activist looking out for its best interest, will trot right over to me. This, I quickly learn, is a pipe dream. The dog ends up looking at me suspiciously out of the corner of its eye. I've, very quickly, become the enemy. Crap.)!
I talk to the vendors who've been in the area all day; I ask them questions to help me determine from where the dog came. They can't tell me much beyond the fact that the dog has been in the same spot, its sight frozen in the direction of the PATH station as long as they've been there. Figuring that this is all I'm going to get from these vendors who don't seem to give a rat's ass about the dog, I try approaching the animal slowly and manage to go in close enough to see that its wearing a collar with a tag. However, I'm forced to retreat when it starts to growl at me.
Next, I decide to call my friend, colleague, fellow vegetarian and dog lover, ES. I'm happy to hear someone just as concerned as I am. She suggests that I try to lure the dog with dog food, whild she Googles the numbers of local animal shelters that might be able to assist me. I run to a nearby deli--after first asking the few remaining vendors to keep an eye on the sweet dog--and buy a small bag of Purina Dog Chow as well as a package of styrofoam bowls. Back by the station, pedestrian traffic is heavy on this lovely evening and I wonder about the peculiar picture I must paint for them: all done up in a Friday night getup, I kneel on the sidewalk, filling a bowl with dog food, all the while cooing to a dog that is very clearly frightened of me. Thankfully, ES calls me back right then and I'm relieved to talk on the phone and appear preoccupied, even normal. As we've suspected, all of the animal shelters are closed for the evening so, once again, I am on my own. I make a few desperate phone calls to my family, begging them for advice. Each person I speak to wonders out loud how it is that I ALWAYS find myself in these situations. Each person I speak to recommends that I give up, bloody leave the poor dog alone and join my friends at Starbucks. I hang up on each person.
The stupid dog still isnt' coming anywhere near me. The vendors are laughing at me. The pedestrians are giving me funny looks. Frustrated and near tears, I ask for divine inspiriation. I even channel St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals, for guidance, dog treats, the ability to talk to the dog, ANYTHING!
What do I get? Friends #1 and #2 step out from Starbucks, wearing matching sheepish grins and swearing that they are ready to help me in anyway possible. I'm still a bit pissed at them for abandoning me but I take their help, which doesn't involve much more than #1 shaking the bowl of Dog Chow a bit and #2 stading next to me with her arms crossed and nodding as I tell her what they've missed so far. For what it's worth, I appreciate their show of support. They also genuinely awww over the poor dog, who's still the image of sadness and anxiety. It's also still growling at me as I approach him.
Friend #2: Is it growling at you? Doesn't it know that you want to help it?
Me: No, I'm the enemy apparently.
Friend #1 (as I get closer to the dog, dog food in hand): Be careful. It might be rabid.
Me (pausing): Great, thanks. The thought of this dog going all Cujo on me is...inspiring.
Suddenly, the dog leaps up as if it's decided that it does want to go all Cujo on me. I shriek. However, instead of taking a bite out of my neck, the dog runs past me and down the long stretches of sidewalk in the Newport area of the city.
Friends #1 and #2 (in unison): Oh no! It's getting away!
I don't have time to comment. I've already started running down the sidewalk and into the darkness after the dog. Yes, I'm trying to run in my heels. Yes, my hair at this point is a frizzy mess. Yes, my makeup is melting and streaked. And, yes, the dog is running as if its life depends on it.
I can't catch the dog, especially not in my heels. I walk back to Friends #1 and #2, a little out of breath but not entirely dejected. We run to Friend #2's car in the lot and proceed to crawl through the streets, looking for the sweet dog.
But it's too late. The dog has run off into the darkness and I've failed, yet again, to rescue an animal.
Sigh.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
ROMPER ROOM DISAPPOINTMENT: What about Sabila?
"Romper, bomper, stomper boo.
Tell me, tell me, tell me, do.
Magic mirror, tell me today.
Have all my friends been good at play?"
Miss Molly closed each episode of Romper Room & Friends by reciting the above rhyme as she stared out through the frame of a small mirror. She then proceeded to name the children who were supposedly watching her at home. Everyday, I sat tall on the floor in front of our television, my mouth falling into a gentle o of anticipation, my fingers clenched in my lap, as I waited to hear my name called. After all, I was a devoted fan of Do Bee and Granny Cat, Kimble and, of course, Miss Molly, herself; I was well-behaved and I always shared my toys and the cookies my mother gave me for recess with my classmates. How was it possible that she couldn't see me as I stared right back at her day after day? She was fond of the Michelles and Brians and even the Rhondas, calling out their names multiple times over the course of a season. Would it kill her to utter my name just one lousy time?
Needless to say, Miss Molly never mentioned my name on air and I grew into a despondent, morose and overall sulky child, who was never able to fully overcome her distrust of people or her resultant social ineptness.
Thanks a lot Miss Molly! Thanks for NOTHING!
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
LOVE: A Follow-up
The Brits, according to RR, are much classier when summing up such things: "Grief is the price we pay for love."
I promise things will get better.
And you'll probably ask "But WILL they?" to which I'll shrug and say "Why not?"
We all might as well stick our heads in ovens if we can't see life as one giant "Why not?"
I promise things will get better.
And you'll probably ask "But WILL they?" to which I'll shrug and say "Why not?"
We all might as well stick our heads in ovens if we can't see life as one giant "Why not?"
Sunday, May 28, 2006
BOOKS: An Obsession
I’ve had a lifelong passion for books. The sheer intensity of this passion was confirmed yesterday, when I decided to clean my room. Within an hour, six bookcases worth of hardcover and paperback titles of varying sizes and subjects were strewn all over the floor and across my bed in what looked like the aftermath of a particularly intellectual battle. There wasn’t much room to maneuver and I hadn’t even touched the boxes of books stowed away under my bed or the mountains of titles in my closet. I couldn’t help but feel ridiculously happy while standing amidst this abundance of literature. This diverse collection was all mine, the result of an enduring obsession with the written word.
I was an introspective and thoughtful child. My mom tells me I was so quiet that she’d feel compelled to check up on me several times during the day to reassure herself that I was still at home. She’d find me sitting in the corner playing teacher to a make believe classroom full of students or serving invisible tea and biscuits in my plastic tea set to imaginary guests. I can’t remember whether or not books meant something to me this early in my life; perhaps my rich imagination, the byproduct of a somewhat lonely childhood, predisposed me to more literary pursuits.
I was hooked on books by the time I started school. I saved my allowance money for weekly trips to the bookstore, emerging with dozens (I’m not kidding) of books, which I’d start reading during the car ride home. I finished books, hundreds and hundreds of pages, in a single sitting. I often read all night, hiding out in the bathtub. When amma rapped at the door, demanding that I go to sleep before I read myself sick or blind or, Allah forbid, both, I used to groan unconvincingly telling her that my stomach hurt and that I’d return to bed as soon as I felt better. Amma would have to carry along with her whatever I happened to be reading when she took me to the park; I’d make sure to sneak in lovely minutes with the book as I sat astride on my forgotten bicycle.
I didn’t believe in borrowing books because I fell in love with them too easily and would often end up wanting to keep them. In the third grade I failed to return biographies about Pope John Paul II, Gloria Steinem and Jane Goodall that I’d borrowed from the library for a book report. In my defense, the books were exceptionally written and superior to anything I’d read up until that point in my life and, I ended up donating them back to the library with several bags full of titles from my childhood.
I devoured books. I lived and breathed them. I read book after book after book, until putting one aside to engage in real life matters felt strange and took a period of adjustment. The handful of times I played hooky from school was to finish reading a book that I couldn’t dream of putting down. When I didn’t have a book to read, I’d pull a title from my dad or my brother’s collections. What it was didn’t matter much, as long as I got my fix. I read until I ended up bespectacled, without many friends who I couldn’t conjure up at a moment’s notice, and somewhat socially awkward.
But I didn’t (and, frankly, still don’t) care. Not fitting in with the other kids was a small price to pay for living a life rich in imagination. The characters from my books were a lot more interesting than my classmates, anyway.
I still read like a maniac, though mostly for work. I desperately try to make time to read for pleasure and would do anything for a book that can recreate that feeling of reading as a child, when falling into and losing myself in the spaces between letters and words, the lines between sentences and paragraphs was a daily occurrence. When I find these books, life gets put on hold: phone calls and emails are not returned, plans with friends are canceled, meals become an inconvenience. Everything else becomes peripheral to the book.
So, now, as I slowly restore order to my room, the task of returning the books to their shelves is a daunting one, but one that I undertake with delight. These books aren’t just objects that occupy my home for the sake of appearance (and occupy my home they do. I counted over 100 books that I’ve scattered throughout the living room alone). They are integral to the person I am.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
TAKE THE HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW OUR NERD TEST!
Now that we've passed the 10000 visitor mark (woohoo and please note, once again, that the counter to our right is not right; you will find our actual counter if you scroll to the bottom of the page), let's figure out how much you've learned about me over the past several months that I've been blogging.
Take this quiz and post your results (please note that some of my answers were cut off. Sigh. Do the best you can with what you have).
http://www03.quizyourfriends.com/linkquiz02.php?quizname=060525232226-176595
Take this quiz and post your results (please note that some of my answers were cut off. Sigh. Do the best you can with what you have).
http://www03.quizyourfriends.com/linkquiz02.php?quizname=060525232226-176595
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
"THIS WAS ONCE A LOVE POEM"
Dear Readers,
I am tired tonight and don't feel much like writing. Therefore, I'll leave you with a poem I love by Jane Hirshfield. It is entitled "This Was Once a Love Poem." Enjoy (and comment, if you so desire, about how it makes you feel, your fears of being alone etc. etc.) while I rest my eyes. Damn that love (because, clearly, this poor love poem's been jilted).
"This Was Once a Love Poem"
This was once a love poem,
before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short,
before it found itself sitting,
perplexed and a little embarrassed,
on the fender of a parked car,
while many people passed by without turning their heads.
It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement.
It remembers choosing these shoes,
this scarf or tie.
Once, it drank beer for breakfast,
drifted its feet
in a river side by side with the feet of another.
Once it pretended shyness, then grew truly shy,
dropping its head so the fair would fall forward,
so the eyes would not be seen.
It spoke with passion of history, of art.
It was lovely then, this poem.
Under its chin, no fold of skin softened.
Behind the knees, no pad of yellow fat.
What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall.
An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows, its cheeks.
The longing has not diminished.
Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat,
the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus.
Yes, it decides:
Many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots.
When it finds itself disquieted
by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life,
it will touch them—one, then another—
with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.
I am tired tonight and don't feel much like writing. Therefore, I'll leave you with a poem I love by Jane Hirshfield. It is entitled "This Was Once a Love Poem." Enjoy (and comment, if you so desire, about how it makes you feel, your fears of being alone etc. etc.) while I rest my eyes. Damn that love (because, clearly, this poor love poem's been jilted).
"This Was Once a Love Poem"
This was once a love poem,
before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short,
before it found itself sitting,
perplexed and a little embarrassed,
on the fender of a parked car,
while many people passed by without turning their heads.
It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement.
It remembers choosing these shoes,
this scarf or tie.
Once, it drank beer for breakfast,
drifted its feet
in a river side by side with the feet of another.
Once it pretended shyness, then grew truly shy,
dropping its head so the fair would fall forward,
so the eyes would not be seen.
It spoke with passion of history, of art.
It was lovely then, this poem.
Under its chin, no fold of skin softened.
Behind the knees, no pad of yellow fat.
What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall.
An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows, its cheeks.
The longing has not diminished.
Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat,
the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus.
Yes, it decides:
Many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots.
When it finds itself disquieted
by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life,
it will touch them—one, then another—
with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.
Monday, May 22, 2006
An Open Letter to Persons Who Insist on Standing on the Left Side When Traveling on Escalators: I hate you
Dear persons who insist on standing on the left side when traveling on escalators:
I hate you. I truly do.
Do you have no shame? Do you have no concept of escalator etiquette? The rules are simple. For the love of sweet goodness, when you wish to remain stationary on an escalator, stand on the right side of the escalator. The left lane is for those folks who might happen to be in a hurry or simply enjoy climbing stairs rather than riding them. You should know better. You should really know better.
You are not unlike those individuals who walk during races. It’s called a race for a reason and, yet, you insist on walking in groups, chatting it up with your pals from work who’ve agreed to sweat it out with you. What a great workout you’re getting! Runners hate you because you’re lazy and because you seriously hurt their times. The more people in your group, the more impenetrable and frustrating the barrier that you form is. If you didn’t waste so much time gossiping with your friends and/or coworkers, perhaps you’d find the time to properly train for a race and you’d end up running it rather than walking it.
Oh, and to those ladies and gentlemen who fall on me during my morning and evening commutes on the train: stop it. There are many things to hold onto on trains. You are called a straphanger for a reason. If you can't reach the metal straps above the seats on trains, there are handrails on trains that a five-year-old can reach. Hold onto these handrails and I promise that you will not fall on me.
Yes, I did fall on a man once during my morning commute last year and, yes, I did inadvertently grab his crotch to keep my balance. Let it be known, however, that all of this transpired because a woman fell on me with so much force that I lost my grip on a handrail and fell on said man's crotch.
It wasn't my fault.
The domino effect would not have taken place had the imbecilic woman "straphanged" as she was, by definition, supposed to be doing in the first place.
I hope you can work on changing your ways.
Thank you and best wishes,
SabilaK
ps: if any of the people I hate happened to have Tivo'd Princes Charles, William and Harry's joint interview on Dateline NBC last night, please be in touch. I missed it and you providing me with the interview might significantly decrease the hate I have for you.
Thanks again.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
WHAT ABOUT THE SHOWER CURTAINS: The Not-So-Hidden Danger in Pakistan's Bathrooms
Most of Pakistan's population DOES NOT believe in shower curtains, as is illustrated by the image above. No one can deny that my aunt's guest bathroom is attractive. I, however, hated it with my entire being. I hated it alot.
I used to take shower curtains for granted until I realized how the absence of a curtain made showering, especially with a removable showerhead, awkward and stressful (one doesn't have much control over where the water splashes. Thank goodness the greater population doesn't believe in bathroom mats either); exiting the tub and then maneuvering around the sizable bathroom was downright treacherous (this is when one starts to miss and appreciate the bathroom mats).
Back in the day, the population didn't believe in tubs at all. Instead of tubs, most of the bathrooms in the older homes have tiled floors and showerheads mounted strategically in corners.
The entire bathroom, essentially, becomes your bathtub. I'm not so keen on that.
I'm glad I managed to survive the Pakistani bathroom.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
LUCY IN THE GODDAMN SKY WITH FREAKIN' DIAMONDS
Someone please freakin' exorcise me of this song. It's been on repeat in my head all day. Joy.
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
Picture yourself in a boat on a river
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes
Cellophane flowers of yellow and green
Towering over your head
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes
and she's gone
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah
Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
that grow so incredibly high
Newspaper taxies appear on the shores
Waiting to take you away
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds
and you're gone
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah
Picture yourself on a train in a station
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile
The girl with kaleidoscope eyes
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
Picture yourself in a boat on a river
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes
Cellophane flowers of yellow and green
Towering over your head
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes
and she's gone
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah
Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
that grow so incredibly high
Newspaper taxies appear on the shores
Waiting to take you away
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds
and you're gone
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah
Picture yourself on a train in a station
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile
The girl with kaleidoscope eyes
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah
Friday, May 19, 2006
TAKE ME BACK, COFFEE MAN!
Back on November 24th of last year, I posted "Caf-fidelity," in which I blogged about cheating on and eventually leaving my Afghan coffee vendor. I'd been with him for a couple of years and although he knew exactly how I liked my coffee--often throwing in free donut and muffins, which I always pimped off to one of my colleagues--I left him for the Egyptian coffee guy a few blocks up as soon as my morning brew starting to taste not so delicious anymore.
What can I say? Taste sometimes trumps loyalty.
Anyway, my relationship with ECG lacked the profundity of what I had with ACG. I missed ACG's easy charm and his agreeable nature. ECG never appeared to be totally at ease in his cart. I soon realized that he spent so much time preparing each cup of coffee, not because he was paying extraordinary care and attention to the process, as I had once believed. Instead, he was as lethargic as he was because he always seemed to want to be somewhere else.
I needed something more. I needed someone who saw me and appreciated me for the unique coffee drinker that I was.
And, so, I moved on to the worldly and sophisticated Jacqes Torres and it was magnificent. Sure, I didn't get to see him very often and he always had his minion serve me, but that was good enough for the short, intense time we were together. The coffee was so worth it.
Anyway, this past Monday night, while watching another nail-bitingly-edge-of-your-seat episode of 24, I found myself longing for ACG again. Honestly, I could've done without the coffee--JT clearly beats him in the overall superiority of coffee category. But I missed our intimacy, our friendship. He knew exactly how I liked my coffee and, what's more, he truly cared about me.
I would try to make it work, I told myself that night. And the following morning, I almost walked right past his cart when he caught my eye and I couldn't help but stop.
"Large coffee with lots of skim milk and two Equals, please," I ordered meekly, looking up at him with wide eyed anticipation.
His weathered face folded into the lines and creases of a familiar smile. "Equal inside or outside the cup?" he asked.
That's when I realized that he didn't remember me. Had he remembered me, he'd known that I wanted the Equal in my coffee and not on the side. I mean I wasn't expecting him to jump out of his cart and dance for joy upon seeing that I'd returned. But, sheesh, he could've remembered me; we had been together for two years, after all.
I snapped out of my reverie to see that he was still waiting for my answer with the cup in one hand and the blue packets in his other hand. "Inside, please," I told him, deciding there and then that I would make this work again.
When I ordered a small coffee from him this morning, ACG gave me a medium and insisted that I only pay him $.50. We went back and forth for a while before I gave him my four quarters and walked away very quickly, smiling.
I'm glad we're back together.
What can I say? Taste sometimes trumps loyalty.
Anyway, my relationship with ECG lacked the profundity of what I had with ACG. I missed ACG's easy charm and his agreeable nature. ECG never appeared to be totally at ease in his cart. I soon realized that he spent so much time preparing each cup of coffee, not because he was paying extraordinary care and attention to the process, as I had once believed. Instead, he was as lethargic as he was because he always seemed to want to be somewhere else.
I needed something more. I needed someone who saw me and appreciated me for the unique coffee drinker that I was.
And, so, I moved on to the worldly and sophisticated Jacqes Torres and it was magnificent. Sure, I didn't get to see him very often and he always had his minion serve me, but that was good enough for the short, intense time we were together. The coffee was so worth it.
Anyway, this past Monday night, while watching another nail-bitingly-edge-of-your-seat episode of 24, I found myself longing for ACG again. Honestly, I could've done without the coffee--JT clearly beats him in the overall superiority of coffee category. But I missed our intimacy, our friendship. He knew exactly how I liked my coffee and, what's more, he truly cared about me.
I would try to make it work, I told myself that night. And the following morning, I almost walked right past his cart when he caught my eye and I couldn't help but stop.
"Large coffee with lots of skim milk and two Equals, please," I ordered meekly, looking up at him with wide eyed anticipation.
His weathered face folded into the lines and creases of a familiar smile. "Equal inside or outside the cup?" he asked.
That's when I realized that he didn't remember me. Had he remembered me, he'd known that I wanted the Equal in my coffee and not on the side. I mean I wasn't expecting him to jump out of his cart and dance for joy upon seeing that I'd returned. But, sheesh, he could've remembered me; we had been together for two years, after all.
I snapped out of my reverie to see that he was still waiting for my answer with the cup in one hand and the blue packets in his other hand. "Inside, please," I told him, deciding there and then that I would make this work again.
When I ordered a small coffee from him this morning, ACG gave me a medium and insisted that I only pay him $.50. We went back and forth for a while before I gave him my four quarters and walked away very quickly, smiling.
I'm glad we're back together.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
...a funny thing happened in the office today...no, SERIOUSLY..
I was minding my own business at work today, busily responding to emails and brainstorming the best strategies for maximizing my department’s annual sales figures (or something like that, anyway) when the phone rang. This is when the randomness started.
“This is Sabila,” I said, by way of greeting. I was met by a brief silence. “Hello—“ I started to say when a woman spoke up.
“Is this Sabila K?” she asked.
“Why, yes, it is.”
“Hello. This is --- ----.” She paused as if her name meant something to me.
“How can I help you?” I finally asked.
“I realize your time in the office is valuable and I don’t want to take up anymore of it, so I’m wondering if I can email you.”
Ah, what?
“What is this concerning?” I asked her, wondering if this was another one of the dozens of daily film rights requests that are for reasons beyond my comprehension, transferred directly to me.
“Well, I want to break into publishing—“ she started.
A wide-eyed, aspiring writer, I thought to myself and my usually iron-clad corporate heart softened a bit for this stranger. I started my speech about the importance of finding an agent and the fact that unsolicited manuscripts would not be accepted, blah, blah, blah when she interrupted me.
“Thanks for the advice, Ms. K. I eventually do want to be a published author but, for the time being, I’d like to work in publishing and would appreciate your insight as to how I can break into the industry.”
This was all sounding a bit single-white-female-ish to me.
“How did you get my contact information?” I demanded (politely, of course).
She chuckled the most monotonous and rehearsed chuckle I’ve ever heard. “It’s a funny story, actually,” she said, not sounding tickled in the least. “I was flipping through a book at the Strand yesterday and I found your card smack in the middle of it.”
Ah, what?
“Like, what?” I asked.
“It was right there, in the middle of the book, tucked between the pages,” she confirmed.
It was my turn to grow quiet.
“Which book was it?” I asked, wondering where else in Manhattan my business cards were cavorting.
“You know, I can’t remember the title but it was a self-help book. Something about
being stuck in a rut and beating a dead horse and looking for new avenues in life,” she explained vaguely.
“Oooo-kay,” I managed to say.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “So, can I email you?”
Could I have said no to a person who already had my email address? I don’t know but I mumbled a “sure” and hung up on the woman as she was thanking me profusely.
How did my business card end up in a book that didn’t sound, from the stranger’s shoddy summary of it, like one of ours? Who was using my business card as a bookmark? Should I be offended if someone was, in fact, using my lovely vertically-aligned business card as a book mark? And, again, where else in Manhattan are my business cards slooting around, giving out my digits to strangers?
It’s all rather troubling.
“This is Sabila,” I said, by way of greeting. I was met by a brief silence. “Hello—“ I started to say when a woman spoke up.
“Is this Sabila K?” she asked.
“Why, yes, it is.”
“Hello. This is --- ----.” She paused as if her name meant something to me.
“How can I help you?” I finally asked.
“I realize your time in the office is valuable and I don’t want to take up anymore of it, so I’m wondering if I can email you.”
Ah, what?
“What is this concerning?” I asked her, wondering if this was another one of the dozens of daily film rights requests that are for reasons beyond my comprehension, transferred directly to me.
“Well, I want to break into publishing—“ she started.
A wide-eyed, aspiring writer, I thought to myself and my usually iron-clad corporate heart softened a bit for this stranger. I started my speech about the importance of finding an agent and the fact that unsolicited manuscripts would not be accepted, blah, blah, blah when she interrupted me.
“Thanks for the advice, Ms. K. I eventually do want to be a published author but, for the time being, I’d like to work in publishing and would appreciate your insight as to how I can break into the industry.”
This was all sounding a bit single-white-female-ish to me.
“How did you get my contact information?” I demanded (politely, of course).
She chuckled the most monotonous and rehearsed chuckle I’ve ever heard. “It’s a funny story, actually,” she said, not sounding tickled in the least. “I was flipping through a book at the Strand yesterday and I found your card smack in the middle of it.”
Ah, what?
“Like, what?” I asked.
“It was right there, in the middle of the book, tucked between the pages,” she confirmed.
It was my turn to grow quiet.
“Which book was it?” I asked, wondering where else in Manhattan my business cards were cavorting.
“You know, I can’t remember the title but it was a self-help book. Something about
being stuck in a rut and beating a dead horse and looking for new avenues in life,” she explained vaguely.
“Oooo-kay,” I managed to say.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “So, can I email you?”
Could I have said no to a person who already had my email address? I don’t know but I mumbled a “sure” and hung up on the woman as she was thanking me profusely.
How did my business card end up in a book that didn’t sound, from the stranger’s shoddy summary of it, like one of ours? Who was using my business card as a bookmark? Should I be offended if someone was, in fact, using my lovely vertically-aligned business card as a book mark? And, again, where else in Manhattan are my business cards slooting around, giving out my digits to strangers?
It’s all rather troubling.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
PLEASE COMMENT
I post and I post and I post and what do I get for it? Nothing, really. Is anyone even out there?
Where's the love yo?
Please comment to let me know that my counter--which happens to be 433 visitors away from my 10000th visitor--is not defective and that you folks are there on your side of cyberworld.
Don't be shy.
Hi.
Where's the love yo?
Please comment to let me know that my counter--which happens to be 433 visitors away from my 10000th visitor--is not defective and that you folks are there on your side of cyberworld.
Don't be shy.
Hi.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
STANLEY KUNITZ
Pulitzer-prize winner and former US poet laureate Stanley Kunitz died yesterday at the age of 100.
His way with words was nothing short of a gift for the rest of us.
Damn, I'm sad.
Hornworm: Autumn Lamentation
by Stanley Kunitz
Since that first morning when I crawled
into the world, a naked grubby thing,
and found the world unkind,
my dearest faith has been that this
is but a trial: I shall be changed.
In my imaginings I have already spent
my brooding winter underground,
unfolded silky powdered wings, and climbed
into the air, free as a puff of cloud
to sail over the steaming fields,
alighting anywhere I pleased,
thrusting into deep tubular flowers.
It is not so: there may be nectar
in those cups, but not for me.
All day, all night, I carry on my back
embedded in my flesh, two rows
of little white cocoons,
so neatly stacked
they look like eggs in a crate.
And I am eaten half away.
If I can gather strength enough
I'll try to burrow under a stone
and spin myself a purse
in which to sleep away the cold;
though when the sun kisses the earth
again, I know I won't be there.
Instead, out of my chrysalis
will break, like robbers from a tomb,
a swarm of parasitic flies,
leaving my wasted husk behind.
Sir, you with the red snippers
in your hand, hovering over me,
casting your shadow, I greet you,
whether you come as an angel of death
or of mercy. But tell me,
before you choose to slice me in two:
Who can understand the ways
of the Great Worm in the Sky?
His way with words was nothing short of a gift for the rest of us.
Damn, I'm sad.
Hornworm: Autumn Lamentation
by Stanley Kunitz
Since that first morning when I crawled
into the world, a naked grubby thing,
and found the world unkind,
my dearest faith has been that this
is but a trial: I shall be changed.
In my imaginings I have already spent
my brooding winter underground,
unfolded silky powdered wings, and climbed
into the air, free as a puff of cloud
to sail over the steaming fields,
alighting anywhere I pleased,
thrusting into deep tubular flowers.
It is not so: there may be nectar
in those cups, but not for me.
All day, all night, I carry on my back
embedded in my flesh, two rows
of little white cocoons,
so neatly stacked
they look like eggs in a crate.
And I am eaten half away.
If I can gather strength enough
I'll try to burrow under a stone
and spin myself a purse
in which to sleep away the cold;
though when the sun kisses the earth
again, I know I won't be there.
Instead, out of my chrysalis
will break, like robbers from a tomb,
a swarm of parasitic flies,
leaving my wasted husk behind.
Sir, you with the red snippers
in your hand, hovering over me,
casting your shadow, I greet you,
whether you come as an angel of death
or of mercy. But tell me,
before you choose to slice me in two:
Who can understand the ways
of the Great Worm in the Sky?
I DON'T CARE FOR...
...explaining to my mother why marrying my cousin is NOT an option.
Ahem.
I'll say it again: welcome.
Ahem.
I'll say it again: welcome.
LIBYA
For those of you who don't already know, I was a Mediterranean baby, born in the North African coastal city of Tripoli in Libya. Although we moved to New Jersey (an underwhelming move, indeed) when I was a toddler, I can't help but feel that people carry place memories with them wherever they go. When I think really hard, I can almost smell the salt in the Tripoli air and hear golf-sized hail falling in our courtyard. I imagine sitting under a pristine blue sky and sucking on an orange slice until the rind sticks to my teeth and picking ripe olives right off their branches.
All of this talk about the US reestablishing diplomatic ties with its one-time foe Libya has me trying to dig through my memory for the vast deserts and stretches of azure beaches that I saw decades ago as a toddler. My parents still talk about the Berber and Greek architecture that adorned the landscape, the mountains and the farms, the fierce rains that enticed children to run through their billows until they were drenched with joy. Neighbors became family and helped raise my two brothers. At Libyan parties, guests often shared potfuls of rice and meat, couscous and vegetables. Utensils were never necessary; everyone ate with their hands. After my family moved to New Jersey, my mother often baked magrood and ghreyba, two of her favorite cookies, the way her Libyan friends had taught her, only to sadly shake her head over the finished products, sighing about the absence of richness and flavor. I'd nibble on the cookies, wrinkling my nose in blind agreement.
I imagine that the joie de vivre of Libya came from its very terrain. How could one not live life ardently in a land that is, at once, so lush and parched? The wilderness of the Libyan dessert offers as colorful a palette as the monuments that rise from history, against the backdrop of the Green Mountains. Life exists beyond four-walled offices (a typical work day ended at 1PM); it is out there, in the outdoors.
I wonder if the land still remembers me, a lusty baby born kicking and screaming to Pakistani expatriate parents. I'd like to think that it's as haunted by me as I am by it.
All of this talk about the US reestablishing diplomatic ties with its one-time foe Libya has me trying to dig through my memory for the vast deserts and stretches of azure beaches that I saw decades ago as a toddler. My parents still talk about the Berber and Greek architecture that adorned the landscape, the mountains and the farms, the fierce rains that enticed children to run through their billows until they were drenched with joy. Neighbors became family and helped raise my two brothers. At Libyan parties, guests often shared potfuls of rice and meat, couscous and vegetables. Utensils were never necessary; everyone ate with their hands. After my family moved to New Jersey, my mother often baked magrood and ghreyba, two of her favorite cookies, the way her Libyan friends had taught her, only to sadly shake her head over the finished products, sighing about the absence of richness and flavor. I'd nibble on the cookies, wrinkling my nose in blind agreement.
I imagine that the joie de vivre of Libya came from its very terrain. How could one not live life ardently in a land that is, at once, so lush and parched? The wilderness of the Libyan dessert offers as colorful a palette as the monuments that rise from history, against the backdrop of the Green Mountains. Life exists beyond four-walled offices (a typical work day ended at 1PM); it is out there, in the outdoors.
I wonder if the land still remembers me, a lusty baby born kicking and screaming to Pakistani expatriate parents. I'd like to think that it's as haunted by me as I am by it.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
BRUCE
Is anyone called Bruce anymore?
I don't think I know a single Bruce (other than Willis and Springsteen, but who REALLY knows them, right?).
Why isn't Bruce a more popular name for boys anymore? I'm not saying that I have a thing for the name, because I really don't. It's just another name. But I suspect that it might be on the endangered list of names and that concerns me.
We can save this name, dear reader.
So, go out there and name a baby Bruce!
I don't think I know a single Bruce (other than Willis and Springsteen, but who REALLY knows them, right?).
Why isn't Bruce a more popular name for boys anymore? I'm not saying that I have a thing for the name, because I really don't. It's just another name. But I suspect that it might be on the endangered list of names and that concerns me.
We can save this name, dear reader.
So, go out there and name a baby Bruce!
THAT WILL DO JUST FINE
I hate losing contact with friends. My friends are very important to me but I'll be the first to admit that I get caught up in the rigamarole of life and push even those I love the most into the background. Don't get me wrong: if you're my friend, I'm your biggest champion and supporter and I love you. I can't tell you the number of times I've gladly stayed up until the wee hours of the morning talking friends I haven't spoken to in months through difficult times. It's just a matter of them reaching out to me; I'm too oblivious to reach out on my own.
The reason I bring this up is because I just found out that one of my closest childhood friends had a baby boy 10 days ago. I didn't even know she was pregnant! The first decade of my life was spent with her as my constant companion. We bathed together, ate together, slept in the same crib together; my fondest memories from my childhood all seem to include her and my squeals of joy upon discovering that she is now a mother were genuine.
I attended her wedding a couple of years ago and couldn't help but feel sorry about how we were now strangers. She introduced me to all of her new friends as her first and oldest friend. But I felt sad as I watched these other girls twitter around her and make last minute adjustments to her gharrara and makeup. Perhaps it was because our friendship had always been so intense--we were more like sisters conjoined at the heart from the moment we met as infants--that we could never engage in the formalities of reconnecting.
It's as if we're content living with the memories we have and the knowledge that no one can take that away from us.
Rest assured that I will call her and I will congratulate her. We will express our disbelief about how the years seem to have gotten away from us and will make promises to keep in touch and meet up for dinner. We'll exchange email addresses again. We'll exchange cell phone numbers again. But we'll forget about the now as soon as we hang up our phones and for a moment as we sit by ourselves we'll both think back to something (gosh, there are so many inside jokes we can have: Scientists on the Run, Frederick and Kathleen, Highlights, Fida) from our childhood together, which will make us smile.
And that will do.
The reason I bring this up is because I just found out that one of my closest childhood friends had a baby boy 10 days ago. I didn't even know she was pregnant! The first decade of my life was spent with her as my constant companion. We bathed together, ate together, slept in the same crib together; my fondest memories from my childhood all seem to include her and my squeals of joy upon discovering that she is now a mother were genuine.
I attended her wedding a couple of years ago and couldn't help but feel sorry about how we were now strangers. She introduced me to all of her new friends as her first and oldest friend. But I felt sad as I watched these other girls twitter around her and make last minute adjustments to her gharrara and makeup. Perhaps it was because our friendship had always been so intense--we were more like sisters conjoined at the heart from the moment we met as infants--that we could never engage in the formalities of reconnecting.
It's as if we're content living with the memories we have and the knowledge that no one can take that away from us.
Rest assured that I will call her and I will congratulate her. We will express our disbelief about how the years seem to have gotten away from us and will make promises to keep in touch and meet up for dinner. We'll exchange email addresses again. We'll exchange cell phone numbers again. But we'll forget about the now as soon as we hang up our phones and for a moment as we sit by ourselves we'll both think back to something (gosh, there are so many inside jokes we can have: Scientists on the Run, Frederick and Kathleen, Highlights, Fida) from our childhood together, which will make us smile.
And that will do.
I CARE (VERY MUCH) FOR...
...long runs. Nothing beats starting off a Sunday with a 7 mile run. I felt like I could've gone forever.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
DAVID GRAY
Dear Readers:
Apologies for slacking on the blogging front.
I promise to post tomorrow. Tonight, I leave you with "This Year's Love" by David Gray. Until recently, I'd forgotten how fantastic this Brit singer-songwriter is and now, I just can't stop listening to him.
Might he be what the Arctic Monkeys were for me over the past couple of months?
Maybe.
Maybe.
"This Year's Love"
This years love had better last
Heaven knows it's high time
And I've been waiting on my own too long
But when you hold me like you do
It feels so right
I start to forget
How my heart gets torn
When that hurt gets thrown
Feeling like you can't go on
Turning circles when time again
It cuts like a knife oh yeah
If you love me got to know for sure
Cos it takes something more this time
Than sweet sweet lies
Before I open up my arms and fall
Losing all control
Every dream inside my soul
And when you kiss me
On that midnight street
Sweep me off my feet
Singing ain't this life so sweet
This years love had better last
This years love had better last
So whose to worry
If our hearts get torn
When that hurt gets thrown
Don't you know this life goes on
And won't you kiss me
On that midnight street
Sweep me off my feet
Singing ain't this life so sweet
This years love had better last
This years love had better last
This years love had better last
This years love had better last
Thursday, May 11, 2006
I CARE FOR...
...not having to speak a single word from the time I wake up at 6AM to the moment I get into the office at 8AM.
It's meditative.
It's meditative.
Monday, May 08, 2006
THE HAPPY RECLUSE?
With each passing day, life is bound to push me further along the road of disillusionment with humanity.
I just hope I'm not bitter when I finally decide to lock myself away from the rest of the world, a la Howard Hughes, JD Salinger and that crazy woman who lived next door to us when I was a kid (she did occasionally stick her head out long enough to tell me and the other kids running up and down the hallway to shut the hell up; I wish she'd been truer to the code of the recluse, because that momentary appearance couldn't possibly be acceptable...not in my rule book anyway!). Is it possible to be a gay (I mean the other definition of the word, ie, happy, merry, lively) recluse? Gosh, I hope so.
I just hope I'm not bitter when I finally decide to lock myself away from the rest of the world, a la Howard Hughes, JD Salinger and that crazy woman who lived next door to us when I was a kid (she did occasionally stick her head out long enough to tell me and the other kids running up and down the hallway to shut the hell up; I wish she'd been truer to the code of the recluse, because that momentary appearance couldn't possibly be acceptable...not in my rule book anyway!). Is it possible to be a gay (I mean the other definition of the word, ie, happy, merry, lively) recluse? Gosh, I hope so.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
READING THE CLASSICS
Sadly, in recent years, I've lost touch with classic literature, mostly because I have to read popular, contemporary works for work.
I need to make right this colossal wrong.
I'm going to (try to) read one major work of classic literature literature a week (reader, please note I might be forced to change this to two books a month, that one book a week is quite the undertaking) and, I'll blog about it.
I'm currently reading Proust's Swann's Way, which I only read parts of in school (unacceptable, I know!).
I need to make right this colossal wrong.
I'm going to (try to) read one major work of classic literature literature a week (reader, please note I might be forced to change this to two books a month, that one book a week is quite the undertaking) and, I'll blog about it.
I'm currently reading Proust's Swann's Way, which I only read parts of in school (unacceptable, I know!).
LONESTAR
I love Norah Jones.
Her sultry voice and the evocative sounds of her playing piano stir my soul more so than anyone else's songs have managed to do so in a very long time.
Anyway, I can't get her "Lonestar" out of my head today. It's playing on a loop in my head, which isn't as bad as, say, Ginuwine's "Pony (Jump On It)" assaulting me.
I think I've shared the song's lyrics with you before, but here they are again.
Listen to the song when you have a moment and you'll know what I mean when I say that it practically holds hands with one's soul:
"Lonestar"
Lonestar where are you out tonight?
This feeling I'm trying to fight
It's dark and I think that I would give anything
For you to shine down on me
How far you are I just don't know
The distance I'm willing to go
I pick up a stone that I cast to the sky
Hoping for some kind of sign
Her sultry voice and the evocative sounds of her playing piano stir my soul more so than anyone else's songs have managed to do so in a very long time.
Anyway, I can't get her "Lonestar" out of my head today. It's playing on a loop in my head, which isn't as bad as, say, Ginuwine's "Pony (Jump On It)" assaulting me.
I think I've shared the song's lyrics with you before, but here they are again.
Listen to the song when you have a moment and you'll know what I mean when I say that it practically holds hands with one's soul:
"Lonestar"
Lonestar where are you out tonight?
This feeling I'm trying to fight
It's dark and I think that I would give anything
For you to shine down on me
How far you are I just don't know
The distance I'm willing to go
I pick up a stone that I cast to the sky
Hoping for some kind of sign
Saturday, May 06, 2006
I CARE FOR...
...orange rinds. I especially like eating the spongy white underside of the rind, called the pericarp or pith.
Before you judge me, please keep in mind that I'm not a freak who peels an orange, throws it out and eats only the rind.
I do, in fact, love oranges, which help me effectively absorb the iron I get from my vegetarian diet. I just keep some of the peel and nibble on it after I'm done with the orange. Sometimes I'll just eat the underside and other times I'll eat the whole peel. It's really not that bad folks. Try some before you point fingers!
You can do that after you gag on the rind.
RUN, MUSIC, RUN
The Arctic Monkeys have been my constant running companions for the past couple of months now. I love them and all and they make the 6.5-6.8 miles I run breeze by but, frankly, I'm getting kind of bored. Sometimes I can only put up with them for the first 4 miles or so before I have to put my iPod on shuffle mode, which sucks too because Ella Fitzgerald and Dido don't exactly sing songs that inspire one to run. Those inpsiring songs become few and far between.
So, I challenge you, dear readers, to create the perfect playlist for my runs. You can either suggest individual songs/ bands or, if you're feeling especially motivated, hit me with an entire playlist.
Anyone? Anyone?????
....she's baaaack.....
Just when I thought my mom had finally gotten over her obsession with my love life (or lack thereof, frankly. We’re amongst friends, so let’s be honest here), the following conversation took place between us. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Naseeb.com, it’s a networking site, like Friendster, but for Muslims. People join for different reasons. While some are looking for soul mates (blech), others, like myself, are on the market for friends and activity partners. I was initially strong armed into joining by one of my friends who thought I had negative preconceived notions about my Pakistani- and Indian-American peers. So, I joined and I met some great people. My mother found out about the site from my brothers, who I strong armed into joining and, needless to say, she now thinks my husband awaits me somewhere in the cyberworld of Naseeb. Crap.
Mom: So, how are your Naseeb* friends?
Sabila: They’re fine, I guess. I haven’t been online much. It’s been a hectic spring.
Mom: How long have you been on the site now?
Sabila: I joined a little over a year ago. Why?
Mom: I just thought you would’ve found someone by now, Sabila.
Sabila: I made a few friends, if that’s what you mean.
Mom: I was hoping that someone would give you an engagement ring.
Sabila: Jesus, Amma.
Mom: I gave you six months to find a boy on that site—
Sabila: You did what?
Mom:--and when you didn’t find anyone I gave you a little more time, thinking that you were still working on it.
Sabila: I didn’t join that site to—
Mom: And now, more than a year later, we’re back to where you started. Have you thought about what you’re doing wrong?
Sabila (feeling a headache coming on): Amma, I didn’t join that site to find a husband.
Mom: Then why did you join?
Sabila: I wanted Muslim friends. You know that.
Mom: You have enough friends.
Sabila (rubbing temples)
Mom: All of your gay boys. They’re your friends. Why do you need more men as friends? You need someone who will be more than just a friend.
Sabila: Amma! Please. What are we even talking about?
Mom: What you’re doing wrong on Naseeb. You know, you can tell everyone on the site that you’re looking for a husband. It's one of the options. Did you do that?
Sabila: WHY would I do that when I’m NOT looking for a husband?! I’m not that big a loser, amma.
Mom: What did you say you’re looking for?
Sabila: Nothing, I’m not looking for anything! Can we change the subject? This is a pointless conversation.
Mom: You must have said you’re looking for something.
Sabila (suspiciously): Amma, why does it sound like you’ve been on Naseeb?
Mom (giggling not too convincingly): Now, why would I be on that young people site? I have a husband!
Sabila: Amma…
Mom: What do you say you’re looking for?
Sabila (shoulders slumping forward, giving up): Friends and activity partners.
Mom (perplexed): Activity partner? What’s an activity partner? You’re looking for a partner for the activity of life!
Sabila (groaning at the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation and the words that have just left amma’s mouth. If there are any words that should be outlawed, those are it): Amma…I’m not looking for a husband on Naseeb.com. Just accept that fact please.
Mom: But, Sabila, if you make it clear on your profile that you are on the market for a husband, he’ll find you!
Sabila (walks out of room).
Nobody tell my mom, but I’m secretly tickled that she’s back to her old ways.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
My Lucky Rocketship Underpants Didn't Help Today
Mark Twain said in The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson: "When angry, count four; when very angry, swear."
I swore ALL DAY today.
It takes a lot for me to get angry. It doesn't take much for me to cry. But reader, I'm not ashamed to admit that I was both angry and teary today. Why should one be ashamed of or embarrassed by emotions? I sure as hell am not.
Does that make you uncomfortable?
Anyway, I'm not feeling particularly funny at the moment. I'm still rather vexed.
Like Calvin said, "You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocketship underpants don't help."
Some days you just have to admit defeat.
I swore ALL DAY today.
It takes a lot for me to get angry. It doesn't take much for me to cry. But reader, I'm not ashamed to admit that I was both angry and teary today. Why should one be ashamed of or embarrassed by emotions? I sure as hell am not.
Does that make you uncomfortable?
Anyway, I'm not feeling particularly funny at the moment. I'm still rather vexed.
Like Calvin said, "You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocketship underpants don't help."
Some days you just have to admit defeat.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
NOTHING TO WEAR!
I'm accompanying a friend to a formal on Tuesday and have honestly slacked on the whole shopping for a dress front. Unsurprisingly, I am now freaking.
Hell!
What the eff am I going to wear?
It's a black tie formal.
Crappers.
The nightmare time I had shopping for a prom dress a decade ago is all coming back to me in cold sweats and flashbacks, impairing my daily life.
Clearly, I need help.
Help? Anyone?
Hell!
What the eff am I going to wear?
It's a black tie formal.
Crappers.
The nightmare time I had shopping for a prom dress a decade ago is all coming back to me in cold sweats and flashbacks, impairing my daily life.
Clearly, I need help.
Help? Anyone?
BE STILL MY HEART!
Dear readers, the rumors are true. Hollywood is, indeed, remaking the comedy classic Revenge of the Nerds:
Newman Directing the Nerds Redo
Source: The Hollywood Reporter May 1, 2006
Kyle Newman has signed on to direct Fox Atomic's Revenge of the Nerds, says The Hollywood Reporter.
The film reteams Newman with screenwriter Adam F. Goldberg, who is rewriting the latest "Nerds" incarnation. The pair worked together on Newman's upcoming Fanboys, which will be distributed by The Weinstein Company.
McG and David Manpearl are producing the remake of the seminal teen comedy from 1984.
I had SUCH a crush on Gilbert, played by Anthony Edwards. I wonder who will be cast in that role?
Newman Directing the Nerds Redo
Source: The Hollywood Reporter May 1, 2006
Kyle Newman has signed on to direct Fox Atomic's Revenge of the Nerds, says The Hollywood Reporter.
The film reteams Newman with screenwriter Adam F. Goldberg, who is rewriting the latest "Nerds" incarnation. The pair worked together on Newman's upcoming Fanboys, which will be distributed by The Weinstein Company.
McG and David Manpearl are producing the remake of the seminal teen comedy from 1984.
I had SUCH a crush on Gilbert, played by Anthony Edwards. I wonder who will be cast in that role?
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