Only five US states have official state poems. The states and poems follow:
1) Indiana; "Indiana" by Arthur Franklin Mapes
2) Massachusetts; "Blue Hills of Massachusetts" by Katherine E. Mullen
3) New Mexico; "A Nuevo Mexico" by Luis Tafoya
4) Oklahoma; "Howdy Folks" by David Randolph Milsten
5) Tennessee; "Oh Tennessee, My Tennessee" by Naval Adm. William Porter Lawrence
Sure, most of the above poems suck but at least these five states HAVE official state poems. Like, what the hell is wrong with the remaining 45 states? When did poetry die?
No wonder the rest of the world hates us.
Monday, April 24, 2006
I DON'T CARE FOR...
...being in a bloody bad mood without having a bloody good reason for being in a bloody bad mood. Effin' hell.
DO YOU FALOODA?: A Gastronomically Challenged Blogger's Very Brief Views on the South Asian Refreshment Drink
Some people would call me gastronomically challenged, simply because my preferences in food are rather unusual.
Sure, I preferred imitation meat to the real stuff well before officially becoming a pesco-ovo-lacto vegetarian and have never been a fan of ice cream (although I will occasionally indulge in orange sorbet). A finicky eater as a young girl, I practically lived on olives, canned mandarins and beets. As a baby, I refused to drink milk that hadn't been chilled in the refrigerator for at least a half an hour.
For these and many other reasons, no one really trusts my opinions about food. They think my taste buds are delirious and irrational due to years of abuse and neglect.
Of course, I doth protest.
My taste buds happen to be very heightened, in my opinion. For instance, I can tell how chai is prepared from a single sip and vegetables that aren't fresh immediately offend my vegetarian sensibilities. Forget being gastronimically challenged; as far as I'm concerned, I'm an epicure (I can already hear the outcries from family and friends who believe otherwise).
In any case, I thought it would be fair to preface my first post about Pakistani food with this disclaimer: my taste buds may indeed be delirious and irrational from years of abuse and neglect so you may want to take what I say about foods with a grain of salt. FYI.
Now, onto the falooda.
Falooda, according to Wikipedia.com is "a South Asian refreshment drink made by using milk, vermicelli, sabja (basil seeds), tutti frutti and sugar along with huge amounts of ice cream. The popular flavours in which falooda is available include rose, mango, chocolate, fig, and many others."
I ate the tall cup of falooda pictured above in about thirty seconds, not because I enjoyed it but because the cool drink worked wonders battling the heat of Karachi. Honestly, the drink left a strange aftertaste in my mouth and was crusty towards the bottom. Plus it was too damned sweet.
I have a feeling that I've just opened the door to hate mail from falooda lovers across the universe.
Oh well. Bring it, I suppose.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
WEIGHTLIFTING OLD HORNY WOMAN
Our blog comes up 9th under a MSN search for "weightlifting old horny woman."
As one can see from the other search results, we are in estimable (ahem) company. This is indeed a proud moment.
WHAT FALLOPIAN TUBES?!
Readers: I realize that my recent posts have been awfully lame. As much as I want to entertain you, those “Welcome-to-your-life-and-yes-the-joke’s-always-on-you-SabilaK,” moments have gone on hiatus. I can’t remember the last time I stepped in dead rodent, or played the role for which I’m perhaps most famous: bird outhouse. I have yet to trip and fall (knock on wood) this year and (wonder of wonders) my mother has totally stopped trying to pimp me off to strange men. While I’m admittedly relieved about most of these turns of events—one NEVER gets accustomed to tripping and falling—I don’t quite know how I feel about my mom giving up on me.
It sure as hell doesn’t make for good blogging.
For years, I’ve been trying to get her off my back about getting hitched. Now that one of my tactics has worked, I’m bored and a little offended.
Now, before sharing how I successfully (can I really call this success?) put the kibosh on my mother’s matchmaking endeavors, I must first warn you, dear reader, to attempt this tactic at your own risk. It’s nice to dramatically roll your eyes and act outraged, annoyed and eventually wounded while your mother is reminding you of your advancing age (27 in my case), your quickly shriveling fallopian tubes, and that nice boy (oh you know him [more often than not, you DON’T know him]: your cousin’s uncle’s neighbor’s sister’s oldest physician son who lives in Alaska) whose pic and biodata some random person is going to email to you before day’s end, but let’s be honest here. You love the comedy. You love feeling like the only sane person in a community full of melodramatic matchmakers. And you love blogging about it.
Here’s how I did it, reader. My mom and I were watching television when she started to tell me about another one of my cousins having found another prospective mate for me. This time our contestant lived in southern California (clearly, there aren’t any available young men on the East coast) and was (no big surprise here) a physician. My mother was very interested in pursuing this hot catch, while I came up with a dozen other ways to waste my life.
So, instead of rolling my eyes or sighing dramatically (it’s amazing how these rishta talks make me revert into a pre-teen) I very calmly told her the following:
“Amma, we’ve been down this “let’s-introduce-Sabila-to-random-people” road before and I think you know as well as I do that it hasn’t been pretty. Don’t get me wrong: I’d love to get married but I don’t want to do it this way. I want to find someone on my own. If I find him, great; if I don’t, that’s just too bad. Not everyone gets married. People aren’t born for the sole purpose of getting hitched and it’s definitely not something that I’m going to force. If it happens: awesome. If it doesn’t: oh well. Marriage just isn’t for everyone and that doesn’t bother me.”
It wasn’t the best or most eloquent speech but it worked. My mother, without saying another word, started watching television. During a commercial break I asked her if she was upset at me and she responded with a terse, “No.”
She hasn’t brought up the topic of getting me hitched since.
I know I should be ecstatic about this change in my mother, but I’m not. I feel like my blog (dare I say my life?) has lost its oomph and its comedy. I need to find a way to spur my mom to action again while attempting to maintain the distance of an (unflappable) observer when she does manage to shake the rishta boat again with blind dates, biodatas, and airbrushed photographs of strange transplanted Pakistani men wearing tapered and faded mom jeans, penny loafers and tucked in flannel shirts. Perhaps I should take the initiative and attend desi (remember, “desi” refers to folks of Indian or Pakistani descent) singles events, deep undercover for this blog. Maybe I should draft a new biodata for myself and post it up here (not a bad idea at all, actually).
Or maybe I should just sit back and enjoy not being constantly reminded of my fast shriveling fallopian tubes.
It sure as hell doesn’t make for good blogging.
For years, I’ve been trying to get her off my back about getting hitched. Now that one of my tactics has worked, I’m bored and a little offended.
Now, before sharing how I successfully (can I really call this success?) put the kibosh on my mother’s matchmaking endeavors, I must first warn you, dear reader, to attempt this tactic at your own risk. It’s nice to dramatically roll your eyes and act outraged, annoyed and eventually wounded while your mother is reminding you of your advancing age (27 in my case), your quickly shriveling fallopian tubes, and that nice boy (oh you know him [more often than not, you DON’T know him]: your cousin’s uncle’s neighbor’s sister’s oldest physician son who lives in Alaska) whose pic and biodata some random person is going to email to you before day’s end, but let’s be honest here. You love the comedy. You love feeling like the only sane person in a community full of melodramatic matchmakers. And you love blogging about it.
Here’s how I did it, reader. My mom and I were watching television when she started to tell me about another one of my cousins having found another prospective mate for me. This time our contestant lived in southern California (clearly, there aren’t any available young men on the East coast) and was (no big surprise here) a physician. My mother was very interested in pursuing this hot catch, while I came up with a dozen other ways to waste my life.
So, instead of rolling my eyes or sighing dramatically (it’s amazing how these rishta talks make me revert into a pre-teen) I very calmly told her the following:
“Amma, we’ve been down this “let’s-introduce-Sabila-to-random-people” road before and I think you know as well as I do that it hasn’t been pretty. Don’t get me wrong: I’d love to get married but I don’t want to do it this way. I want to find someone on my own. If I find him, great; if I don’t, that’s just too bad. Not everyone gets married. People aren’t born for the sole purpose of getting hitched and it’s definitely not something that I’m going to force. If it happens: awesome. If it doesn’t: oh well. Marriage just isn’t for everyone and that doesn’t bother me.”
It wasn’t the best or most eloquent speech but it worked. My mother, without saying another word, started watching television. During a commercial break I asked her if she was upset at me and she responded with a terse, “No.”
She hasn’t brought up the topic of getting me hitched since.
I know I should be ecstatic about this change in my mother, but I’m not. I feel like my blog (dare I say my life?) has lost its oomph and its comedy. I need to find a way to spur my mom to action again while attempting to maintain the distance of an (unflappable) observer when she does manage to shake the rishta boat again with blind dates, biodatas, and airbrushed photographs of strange transplanted Pakistani men wearing tapered and faded mom jeans, penny loafers and tucked in flannel shirts. Perhaps I should take the initiative and attend desi (remember, “desi” refers to folks of Indian or Pakistani descent) singles events, deep undercover for this blog. Maybe I should draft a new biodata for myself and post it up here (not a bad idea at all, actually).
Or maybe I should just sit back and enjoy not being constantly reminded of my fast shriveling fallopian tubes.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
MY HANDS (Pakistani style!)
Years ago, before henna became all the bohemian rage, I'd happily have the dye applied to my hands for religious celebrations or weddings only to show up to school and get teased for having "kakee (or however the hell it's spelled)" on my hands.
Clearly, I was fashion forward and onto something.
Here are my henna'd hands in Karachi. Don't they look festive? Upon returning home from Pakistan with three tubes of henna in my possession, I tried to teach myself how to make beautiful and intricate designs on my hands and feet. I spent many nights applying the cool and pungent brownish-green paste with a shaky right hand to my (unfortunate) left hand and (abused) feet.
The results were not so good.
I've since given up trying to learn the art of henna.
Oh well.
Now, enjoy looking at the pretty henna on my hands.
Clearly, I was fashion forward and onto something.
Here are my henna'd hands in Karachi. Don't they look festive? Upon returning home from Pakistan with three tubes of henna in my possession, I tried to teach myself how to make beautiful and intricate designs on my hands and feet. I spent many nights applying the cool and pungent brownish-green paste with a shaky right hand to my (unfortunate) left hand and (abused) feet.
The results were not so good.
I've since given up trying to learn the art of henna.
Oh well.
Now, enjoy looking at the pretty henna on my hands.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
I CARE (VERY MUCH) FOR...
...Alanis Morissette. In fact, I think I have a girl crush on her. For the record, I'm thrilled that she's finally found happiness with that hotty Ryan Reynolds.
Anyway, the following is my favorite song by her:
"That I Would Be Good"
That I would be good even if i did nothing
That I would be good even if i got the thumbs down
That I would be good if I got and stayed sick
That I would be good even if I gained ten pounds
That i would be fine even even if I went bankrupt
That i would be good if I lost my hair and my youth
That i would be great if I was no longer queen
That i would be grand if i was not all knowing
That i would be loved even when i numb myself
That i would be good even when i am overwhelmed
That i would be loved even when i was fuming
That i would be good even if i was clingy
That i would be good even if i lost sanity
That i would be good
Whether with or without you
Anyway, the following is my favorite song by her:
"That I Would Be Good"
That I would be good even if i did nothing
That I would be good even if i got the thumbs down
That I would be good if I got and stayed sick
That I would be good even if I gained ten pounds
That i would be fine even even if I went bankrupt
That i would be good if I lost my hair and my youth
That i would be great if I was no longer queen
That i would be grand if i was not all knowing
That i would be loved even when i numb myself
That i would be good even when i am overwhelmed
That i would be loved even when i was fuming
That i would be good even if i was clingy
That i would be good even if i lost sanity
That i would be good
Whether with or without you
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE PAKISTANI KIND?
Clearly, I've captured an apparition on my digital camera here at the entrance to my aunt's house in Karachi.
MY FOOT (Pakistani style)!
Well, at least my feet, even in their un-pedicured state, were semi-photogenic in Pakistan. Here's one foot, all decked out in traditional wear
Okay, on second look, they're not very photogenic at all. I run, what do you want?! I never aspired to be a foot model. Ugh.
BANGLES
I'm sorry. I've just realized what a lousy person I've been for not sharing any pics from my trip to Pakistan this past winter. Since I'm apparently not photogenic AT ALL in Pakistan (it's amazing, really), none of the pics I'm going to share will have me in them (or anyone else for that matter--gotta respect privacy, you know).
So, this first picture was taken in a Karachi bangle store. Yes, yours truly did end up buying most of the bangles seen here. And, no, I have not worn any of the bangles since my return to the States...or any of the hundreds of dollars worth of traditional outfits I had tailored...Ahem.
A FUNNY THING HAPPENED IN RHODE ISLAND
In my current state of reader's exhaustion, I'd like to take a break and put up a new post.
Since I've managed to avoid being mistaken for a boy, stepping in rat, and my mother's "you-must-get-married-before-you-become-old-and-angry" speeches recently, the only funny story I can share with you, dear reader, recounts what happened to my oldest brother this weekend.
So, my brother and some of his friends drove up to Rhode Island for the weekend. He was walking around some Rhode Island town (Sabahat, perhaps you'll jump in here and provide us with the details) with his friend Robert when they happened upon a bar where the Doug Flutie Band was playing. Curious, maybe even a bit excited about seeing the veteran quarterback perform with his band, the guys entered the bar to find a mostly drunk audience of what seemed to be locals. Now, Sabahat and Robert were sharply dressed, taller and broader than the rest and the only minorities in the room. Not before long, Sabahat saw Robert shaking his head at a drunk patron. He couldn't overhear the conversationg but soon, Robert was confusedly posing next to this drunkard as his girlfriend took a picture of them.
The drunk dude walked over to my brother next:
"I know who you are!" he slurred.
"Huh?" Sabahat asked.
"I know you!"
"Ah, I don't think so," Sabahat responded.
"You're (insert name of some football player here--Sabahat, do you remember this dude's name?)!"
"I'm not (random football player name)!"
"Listen, I know you're trying to be anonymous but I recognized you."
"Trust me. I'm not a football player."
"Can I have my photo taken with you. I've already taken one with your friend (insert another football player's name here). Honey. Honey. Come, take a picture of us!"
The girlfriend, appearing to be mortified, took a picture of them.
"Man, thanks for not hitting on my girlfriend," the drunk guy told my brother, slapping him on his back. "Because football players like you, I know you can get any girl you want. But you're a good guy. And a good player."
"Um. Thanks. I guess."
At this point, the camera-toting girlfriend walked up to my brother, obvioulsy embarrassed. "I'm so sorry about my boyfriend. He's had a little too much to drink," she apologized. Sabahat thought that she would apologize for the mistaken identity next, that a sober woman couldn't think that he was a NFL pro.
He realized how wrong he was as she continued.
"Thanks so much for taking a picture with him. It must be so annoying for you guys to be swarmed by fans when you're just trying to take a break. I know this means the world to my boyfriend."
Swarmed by fans? A confused couple, one half of which is drunk, does not in anyway equal "swarming fans," Sabahat thought.
And then he saw the group of people that was surrounding him and Robert, cameras and napkins for autographs in hand. The two of them ended up snapping photos and signing autographs in a daze. They eventually stopped trying to argue the case of mistaken identity and signed their REAL names for adoring fans. One man who was sitting behind them shook my brother's hand saying "I don't know who you are, sir, but I'd like to shake your hand before I leave."
Another man came up to Sabahat insisting "You know my brother."
"No, I don't think so," Sabahat sighed.
"You do. You know my kid brother, (insert random name here)."
"Dude, trust me. I don't know your brother."
"No, no. You do. He's a sportscaster. He interviewed you a couple of years ago."
Sabahat was getting bored. "Listen. I don't know any sportscasters. I don't know what you're talking about."
The man laughed. "Don't worry about it man. You athletes are interviewed all the time. I'm sure it'll come to you soon."
With that, he asked for an autograph and walked away on cloud nine with a napkin bearing "Sabahat K" on it.
I can only imagine the surprise of these adoring fans once they've developed or uploaded their pictures.
Now THAT's gonna be hilarious.
Since I've managed to avoid being mistaken for a boy, stepping in rat, and my mother's "you-must-get-married-before-you-become-old-and-angry" speeches recently, the only funny story I can share with you, dear reader, recounts what happened to my oldest brother this weekend.
So, my brother and some of his friends drove up to Rhode Island for the weekend. He was walking around some Rhode Island town (Sabahat, perhaps you'll jump in here and provide us with the details) with his friend Robert when they happened upon a bar where the Doug Flutie Band was playing. Curious, maybe even a bit excited about seeing the veteran quarterback perform with his band, the guys entered the bar to find a mostly drunk audience of what seemed to be locals. Now, Sabahat and Robert were sharply dressed, taller and broader than the rest and the only minorities in the room. Not before long, Sabahat saw Robert shaking his head at a drunk patron. He couldn't overhear the conversationg but soon, Robert was confusedly posing next to this drunkard as his girlfriend took a picture of them.
The drunk dude walked over to my brother next:
"I know who you are!" he slurred.
"Huh?" Sabahat asked.
"I know you!"
"Ah, I don't think so," Sabahat responded.
"You're (insert name of some football player here--Sabahat, do you remember this dude's name?)!"
"I'm not (random football player name)!"
"Listen, I know you're trying to be anonymous but I recognized you."
"Trust me. I'm not a football player."
"Can I have my photo taken with you. I've already taken one with your friend (insert another football player's name here). Honey. Honey. Come, take a picture of us!"
The girlfriend, appearing to be mortified, took a picture of them.
"Man, thanks for not hitting on my girlfriend," the drunk guy told my brother, slapping him on his back. "Because football players like you, I know you can get any girl you want. But you're a good guy. And a good player."
"Um. Thanks. I guess."
At this point, the camera-toting girlfriend walked up to my brother, obvioulsy embarrassed. "I'm so sorry about my boyfriend. He's had a little too much to drink," she apologized. Sabahat thought that she would apologize for the mistaken identity next, that a sober woman couldn't think that he was a NFL pro.
He realized how wrong he was as she continued.
"Thanks so much for taking a picture with him. It must be so annoying for you guys to be swarmed by fans when you're just trying to take a break. I know this means the world to my boyfriend."
Swarmed by fans? A confused couple, one half of which is drunk, does not in anyway equal "swarming fans," Sabahat thought.
And then he saw the group of people that was surrounding him and Robert, cameras and napkins for autographs in hand. The two of them ended up snapping photos and signing autographs in a daze. They eventually stopped trying to argue the case of mistaken identity and signed their REAL names for adoring fans. One man who was sitting behind them shook my brother's hand saying "I don't know who you are, sir, but I'd like to shake your hand before I leave."
Another man came up to Sabahat insisting "You know my brother."
"No, I don't think so," Sabahat sighed.
"You do. You know my kid brother, (insert random name here)."
"Dude, trust me. I don't know your brother."
"No, no. You do. He's a sportscaster. He interviewed you a couple of years ago."
Sabahat was getting bored. "Listen. I don't know any sportscasters. I don't know what you're talking about."
The man laughed. "Don't worry about it man. You athletes are interviewed all the time. I'm sure it'll come to you soon."
With that, he asked for an autograph and walked away on cloud nine with a napkin bearing "Sabahat K" on it.
I can only imagine the surprise of these adoring fans once they've developed or uploaded their pictures.
Now THAT's gonna be hilarious.
Monday, April 17, 2006
FAVORITE (and not so much) SONG LYRICS
So, you folks must have heard about this poll VH1 conducted in the UK to determine the Brits' favorite song lyric of all time. The results follow:
1. U2 - One. “One life, with each other, sisters, brothers.”
2. The Smiths - How Soon is Now? “So you go, and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home, and you cry, and you want to die.”
3. Nirvana - Smells Like Teen Spirit. “I feel stupid and contagious, here we are now, entertain us.”
4. Bob Marley - Redemption Song. “Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds, have no fear for atomic energy, ’cause none of them can stop the time.”
5. Coldplay - Yellow. “Look at the stars, look how they shine for you.”
6. Eminem - Lose Yourself. “Look, If You Had One Shot Or One Opportunity, To Seize Everything You Ever Wanted, One Moment, Would You Capture It Or Just Let It Slip?”
7. Robbie Williams - Angels. “And Through It All She Offers Me Protection, A Lot Of Love And Affection, Whether I`m Right Or Wrong”
8. The Who - My Generation. “Hope I Die Before I Get Old”
9. Radiohead - Creep. “I’m A Creep, I’m A Weirdo, What The Hell Am I Doing Here? I Don’t Belong Here”
10. Marvin Gaye - What`s Going On. “Father, Father, We Don`t Need To Escalate, You See, War Is Not The Answer, For Only Love Can Conquer Hate”
11. U2 - Where The Streets Have No Name. “I Want To Run, I Want To Hide, I Want To Tear Down The Walls, That Hold Me Inside”
12. Abba - The Winner Takes It All. “The Winner Takes It All, The Loser Standing Small, Beside The Victory, That`s Her Destiny”
13. The Kinks - Waterloo Sunset. “Every Day I Look At The World From My Window, But Chilly, Chilly Is Evening Time. Waterloo Sunset`s Fine”
14. Pink Floyd - Another Brick in the Wall. “We Don`t Need No Education, We Don`t Need No Thought Control. No Dark Sarcasm In The Classroom, Teachers, Leave Them Kids Alone.”
15. Tupac ft Snoop - California Love. “Now Let Me Welcome Everybody To The Wild, Wild West, A State That`s Untouchable Like Elliot Ness”
16. Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody. “Is This The Real Life? Is This Just Fantasy? Caught In A Landslide, No Escape From Reality”
17. Bob Dylan - Subterranean Homesick Blues. “Johnny`s In The Basement Mixing Up The Medicine. I`m On The Pavement Thinking About The Government”
18. Kaiser Chiefs - I Predict A Riot. “Watching The People Get Lairy, Is Not Very Pretty I Tell Thee, Walking Through Town Is Quite Scary, And Not Very Sensible Either”
19. David Bowie - Heroes. “We Can Be Heroes, Just For One Day”
20. The Police - Every Breath You Take. “Every Single Day, Every Word You Say, Every Game You Play, Every Night You Stay, I’ll Be Watching You”
Sure, there are some selections in this top 20 that I agree with and others that I don't care for. But that's not the point of this post, dear reader.
The point of this post is to introduce you to what is, in my opinion, one of the worst songs in human history. Yes, I said it.
I just wanted to preface the worst with what a large majority of people are calling the best so that the following lyrics would be easier to digest. You may feel nauseous. You may want to bitch slap me for sharing this perversion of song with you. Or you may already be very familiar with this melody, in which case, you SHOULD sit back and nod your head in agreement that this is pure horndog grossness (if you don't, shame on you).
I already feel my dinner coming up:
PONY by Ginuwine
I’m just a bachelor,
I’m lookin’ for a partner
Someone who knows how to ride without even fallin’ off
Gotta be compatible,
Takes me to my limits
Girl when I break you off,
I promise that you won’t wanna get off
(chorus:)
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
Sittin’ here flossin’, peepin’ your steelo
Just once if I have the chance, the things I would do to you
You and your body, every single portion
Send chills up and down your spine, juices flowin’ down your thigh
(chorus 2x)
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
If we’re gonna get nasty baby
First we’ll show and tell
Till I reach your pony tail (oh)
Lurk all over and through you baby
Until we reach the stream
You’ll be on my jockey team (ooh)
(chorus 2 1/2x)
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
(fades)
Ride it
I don't know what genius came up with these song lyrics but they're pretty awful. I remember listening to them with my best friend when we were in the 6th grade and being SHOCKED. Blech.
I'd love to hear what you guys think are the most awful song lyrics in the history of song.
Don't be shy. Share.
1. U2 - One. “One life, with each other, sisters, brothers.”
2. The Smiths - How Soon is Now? “So you go, and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home, and you cry, and you want to die.”
3. Nirvana - Smells Like Teen Spirit. “I feel stupid and contagious, here we are now, entertain us.”
4. Bob Marley - Redemption Song. “Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds, have no fear for atomic energy, ’cause none of them can stop the time.”
5. Coldplay - Yellow. “Look at the stars, look how they shine for you.”
6. Eminem - Lose Yourself. “Look, If You Had One Shot Or One Opportunity, To Seize Everything You Ever Wanted, One Moment, Would You Capture It Or Just Let It Slip?”
7. Robbie Williams - Angels. “And Through It All She Offers Me Protection, A Lot Of Love And Affection, Whether I`m Right Or Wrong”
8. The Who - My Generation. “Hope I Die Before I Get Old”
9. Radiohead - Creep. “I’m A Creep, I’m A Weirdo, What The Hell Am I Doing Here? I Don’t Belong Here”
10. Marvin Gaye - What`s Going On. “Father, Father, We Don`t Need To Escalate, You See, War Is Not The Answer, For Only Love Can Conquer Hate”
11. U2 - Where The Streets Have No Name. “I Want To Run, I Want To Hide, I Want To Tear Down The Walls, That Hold Me Inside”
12. Abba - The Winner Takes It All. “The Winner Takes It All, The Loser Standing Small, Beside The Victory, That`s Her Destiny”
13. The Kinks - Waterloo Sunset. “Every Day I Look At The World From My Window, But Chilly, Chilly Is Evening Time. Waterloo Sunset`s Fine”
14. Pink Floyd - Another Brick in the Wall. “We Don`t Need No Education, We Don`t Need No Thought Control. No Dark Sarcasm In The Classroom, Teachers, Leave Them Kids Alone.”
15. Tupac ft Snoop - California Love. “Now Let Me Welcome Everybody To The Wild, Wild West, A State That`s Untouchable Like Elliot Ness”
16. Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody. “Is This The Real Life? Is This Just Fantasy? Caught In A Landslide, No Escape From Reality”
17. Bob Dylan - Subterranean Homesick Blues. “Johnny`s In The Basement Mixing Up The Medicine. I`m On The Pavement Thinking About The Government”
18. Kaiser Chiefs - I Predict A Riot. “Watching The People Get Lairy, Is Not Very Pretty I Tell Thee, Walking Through Town Is Quite Scary, And Not Very Sensible Either”
19. David Bowie - Heroes. “We Can Be Heroes, Just For One Day”
20. The Police - Every Breath You Take. “Every Single Day, Every Word You Say, Every Game You Play, Every Night You Stay, I’ll Be Watching You”
Sure, there are some selections in this top 20 that I agree with and others that I don't care for. But that's not the point of this post, dear reader.
The point of this post is to introduce you to what is, in my opinion, one of the worst songs in human history. Yes, I said it.
I just wanted to preface the worst with what a large majority of people are calling the best so that the following lyrics would be easier to digest. You may feel nauseous. You may want to bitch slap me for sharing this perversion of song with you. Or you may already be very familiar with this melody, in which case, you SHOULD sit back and nod your head in agreement that this is pure horndog grossness (if you don't, shame on you).
I already feel my dinner coming up:
PONY by Ginuwine
I’m just a bachelor,
I’m lookin’ for a partner
Someone who knows how to ride without even fallin’ off
Gotta be compatible,
Takes me to my limits
Girl when I break you off,
I promise that you won’t wanna get off
(chorus:)
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
Sittin’ here flossin’, peepin’ your steelo
Just once if I have the chance, the things I would do to you
You and your body, every single portion
Send chills up and down your spine, juices flowin’ down your thigh
(chorus 2x)
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
If we’re gonna get nasty baby
First we’ll show and tell
Till I reach your pony tail (oh)
Lurk all over and through you baby
Until we reach the stream
You’ll be on my jockey team (ooh)
(chorus 2 1/2x)
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
If you’re horny, let’s do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddle’s waitin’
Come and jump on it
(fades)
Ride it
I don't know what genius came up with these song lyrics but they're pretty awful. I remember listening to them with my best friend when we were in the 6th grade and being SHOCKED. Blech.
I'd love to hear what you guys think are the most awful song lyrics in the history of song.
Don't be shy. Share.
MARCH
Congratulations to the Penguin's very own Geraldine Brooks whose novel MARCH won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction today. MARCH imagines the Civil War experiences of Mr. March, the absent father from Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. Give it a twirl, readers; you'll love it.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
ON COLD CASE
Much like Animal Cops, Cold Case is a show that leaves me such an emotional wreck, that my love for it borders on hate.
I DREAM OF FUTURE SAINTS
Seriously.
Mother Theresa and Pope John Paul II came to me in a dream last night.
It was bizarre but very cool.
I wonder why two icons of Catholicsm would decide to visit a Muslim girl on Easter.
Out of respect, I'd rather not disclose the details of the dream on such a public forum.
Mother Theresa and Pope John Paul II came to me in a dream last night.
It was bizarre but very cool.
I wonder why two icons of Catholicsm would decide to visit a Muslim girl on Easter.
Out of respect, I'd rather not disclose the details of the dream on such a public forum.
I DON'T CARE FOR...
...being stuck indoors on such a gloriously, sublimely, spectacularly, marvelously, magnificently gorgeous Sunday reading a manuscript, as tremendous as the manuscript is.
Le sigh.
Le sigh.
I CARE (VERY MUCH) FOR...
...comforters and my pink panther doll. Actually, I wonder where the hell that doll went. I have to look for it.
Friday, April 14, 2006
GRUPS
Let's throw a new word into our lexica, shall we? My favorite new word of the moment: grups.
According to a recent article in New York magazine, an ongoing "rock star-ification of America" is, essentially, erasing the generation gap. Today's 30-, 40- and even 50-somethings are watching the same movies and tv shows, listening to the same music and wearing the same clothes as people in their late teens and early twenties. Adam Sternbergh, who writes the article, came up with the term "grup," to describe these hipsters. " 'Grups' is a nerdy reference to an old Star Trek episode in which Kirk and crew land on a planet run entirely by kids, who call grown-ups 'grups,' " he explains. "All the adults have been killed off by a terrible virus, which also slows the natural aging process, so the kids are trapped in a state of extended prepubescence. They will never grow up. And they are running the show."
So, as cool a noun as "grup" is, let's try to make it a verb (a la "google," "Anna Nicole Smith" [this noun becomes a verb when one tacks on the pronoun "it" to it] "dipstick," "bookmark," and "kung fu").
For instance: "Mom totally surprised me by grupping it and buying a Franz Ferdinand t-shirt instead of another one of those Eileen Fisher blouses that literally LITTER her wardrobe!";
or: "J's never going to find romance in Manhattan unless she grups herself up!";
or: "I grupped around all day, hence, the abundance of shopping bags in my hands! SOME HELP HERE, PLEASE!"
or: "Didn't anyone tell him that suits are for wusses? I'd give anything to grup him!"
and, of course: "My great-aunt MEANT to give the church auxiliary group members a symbolic 'grup you,' when she walked into the meeting wearing oversized sunglasses, an ironic vintage t-shirt, shredded jeans, and cowboy boots."
As for this movement of grup, I LOVE IT. I mean, seriously folks, at 27, the nerd isn't getting younger and has always been an advocate of maintaining hip-ness regardless of age. I'm so gonna be a grup when I grow up and my future babies will wear rockin' clothes like the ones shown here: http://www.samandseb.com/index.php?cPath=21.
According to a recent article in New York magazine, an ongoing "rock star-ification of America" is, essentially, erasing the generation gap. Today's 30-, 40- and even 50-somethings are watching the same movies and tv shows, listening to the same music and wearing the same clothes as people in their late teens and early twenties. Adam Sternbergh, who writes the article, came up with the term "grup," to describe these hipsters. " 'Grups' is a nerdy reference to an old Star Trek episode in which Kirk and crew land on a planet run entirely by kids, who call grown-ups 'grups,' " he explains. "All the adults have been killed off by a terrible virus, which also slows the natural aging process, so the kids are trapped in a state of extended prepubescence. They will never grow up. And they are running the show."
So, as cool a noun as "grup" is, let's try to make it a verb (a la "google," "Anna Nicole Smith" [this noun becomes a verb when one tacks on the pronoun "it" to it] "dipstick," "bookmark," and "kung fu").
For instance: "Mom totally surprised me by grupping it and buying a Franz Ferdinand t-shirt instead of another one of those Eileen Fisher blouses that literally LITTER her wardrobe!";
or: "J's never going to find romance in Manhattan unless she grups herself up!";
or: "I grupped around all day, hence, the abundance of shopping bags in my hands! SOME HELP HERE, PLEASE!"
or: "Didn't anyone tell him that suits are for wusses? I'd give anything to grup him!"
and, of course: "My great-aunt MEANT to give the church auxiliary group members a symbolic 'grup you,' when she walked into the meeting wearing oversized sunglasses, an ironic vintage t-shirt, shredded jeans, and cowboy boots."
As for this movement of grup, I LOVE IT. I mean, seriously folks, at 27, the nerd isn't getting younger and has always been an advocate of maintaining hip-ness regardless of age. I'm so gonna be a grup when I grow up and my future babies will wear rockin' clothes like the ones shown here: http://www.samandseb.com/index.php?cPath=21.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
STUPID HELLO MOTO
My cell phone apparently can't charge and function normally at the same time.
I don't care for this punk ass phone at all.
I don't care for this punk ass phone at all.
COMFY CHIC CREEK AND HOMEY PAAN
Like a nervous-wreck stage mom, I had to walk out of the room when my brothers screened two of their short films at the pleasantly trendy east side bar called Stone Creek last night. The bar, owned by one of my brother's friends, has a space towards the back with a big plasma television and an assortment of comfortable couches and sofas. The turnout was great, the space was conducive to a relaxed atmosphere and I really shouldn't have been experiencing sympathy anxiety and nervous nausea, but I couldn't help it! The room started to close in on me, the faces distorted into nightmarish parodies of cordiality, I started sweating bullets and had to get the hell out of there.
And so I found myself standing outside the bar, hitting random digits on my cell phone in an attempt to look preoccupied and very important. But it was cold and I was sans jacket so I decided to walk in order to warm up. I had taken a few steps to my left when I happened upon it, a gloriously kitschy emporium (well, it wasn't as much an "emporium" as it was a hole-in-the-wall "store") with a placard hanging outside that read: WE SERVE PAAN. For those of my readers who don't know what paan is, check out the following (and please note that paan is just as popular in Pakistan as it is in India; this article fails to mention that): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paan.
My heart sang (it sang a Bollywood song, yes, but, alas, paan only inspires Bollywood songs) and I almost tripped as I ran through the doors to my paan heaven. I heart paan so much. I rarely get to eat it but when I do serendipitously stumble upon paan shops, I make sure to buy in bulk and gorge on the stuff. So, I walked in and ended up buying 6 meehta (sweet) paans and a couple dozen packets of Tulsi Paan Masala. As the paan waala (the dude who makes the paan) laid out six betel leaves and proceeded to methodically create the little triangles of perfection, we engaged in a pleasant conversation in Urdu. For a moment, I felt like I was in Pakistan.
The feeling swiftly disappeared as soon as I exited the store. I walked to Stone Creek with a smile on my face and a purse full of deliciousness from the old country. And it was good.
ps: Most of my friends who've been force fed paan by yours truly liken the experience to eating perfume (as we left Stone Creek, my friend Gary asked to try some of my Tulsi Paan Masala [little packets of betel nuts, pieces of dry dates, aniseed, cardamom, tons of artificial flavor and sacchrin...paan usually contains these and many other ingredients]. Despite my warnings, he threw back a handful of the paan masala in his mouth. I cringed as I watched him try to figure out whether or not to chew on the aromatic blend. "Tastes like perfume," he finally managed to mumble).
It's an acquired taste
Consume at your own risk.
And so I found myself standing outside the bar, hitting random digits on my cell phone in an attempt to look preoccupied and very important. But it was cold and I was sans jacket so I decided to walk in order to warm up. I had taken a few steps to my left when I happened upon it, a gloriously kitschy emporium (well, it wasn't as much an "emporium" as it was a hole-in-the-wall "store") with a placard hanging outside that read: WE SERVE PAAN. For those of my readers who don't know what paan is, check out the following (and please note that paan is just as popular in Pakistan as it is in India; this article fails to mention that): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paan.
My heart sang (it sang a Bollywood song, yes, but, alas, paan only inspires Bollywood songs) and I almost tripped as I ran through the doors to my paan heaven. I heart paan so much. I rarely get to eat it but when I do serendipitously stumble upon paan shops, I make sure to buy in bulk and gorge on the stuff. So, I walked in and ended up buying 6 meehta (sweet) paans and a couple dozen packets of Tulsi Paan Masala. As the paan waala (the dude who makes the paan) laid out six betel leaves and proceeded to methodically create the little triangles of perfection, we engaged in a pleasant conversation in Urdu. For a moment, I felt like I was in Pakistan.
The feeling swiftly disappeared as soon as I exited the store. I walked to Stone Creek with a smile on my face and a purse full of deliciousness from the old country. And it was good.
ps: Most of my friends who've been force fed paan by yours truly liken the experience to eating perfume (as we left Stone Creek, my friend Gary asked to try some of my Tulsi Paan Masala [little packets of betel nuts, pieces of dry dates, aniseed, cardamom, tons of artificial flavor and sacchrin...paan usually contains these and many other ingredients]. Despite my warnings, he threw back a handful of the paan masala in his mouth. I cringed as I watched him try to figure out whether or not to chew on the aromatic blend. "Tastes like perfume," he finally managed to mumble).
It's an acquired taste
Consume at your own risk.
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