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.

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!).

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

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.

I CARE (VERY MUCH) FOR...

...dinners that almost never end with ES, LC and CM.

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.

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?

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?

Whitman and Neruda

Pablo Neruda hired a carpentar to put up a life size painting of Walt Whitman on the terrace of "La Sebastiana," his home in Valpraiso, Chile. When the carpenter asked him if the man in the painting was his grandfather, Neruda replied, "Yes." Or so the story goes.

Most people, myself included, are first introduced to Neruda by way of his love poems--Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair and One Hundred Love Sonnets are known the world over and have made the Chilean the most translated poet in the world. The Nobel laureate's oeuvre, however, is much more varied and rich. Like Whitman, whom he credited as his earliest poetic inspiration, Neruda's works speak of politics and nature, country and the quotidian celebration of man, the beauty of the ordinary and the nobility in the base. In a manifesto called "Towards an Impure Poetry," Neruda states:

‘It is useful at certain hours of the day and night, to look closely at the world of objects at rest: wheels that have crossed long, dusty spaces with their huge vegetal and mineral burdens, bags of coal from the coal bins, barrels, baskets, handles, and hafts in a carpenter’s tool chest. From them flow the contacts of man with the earth, like an object lesson for all troubled lyricists. The used surfaces of things, the wear that hands have given to things, the air, tragic at times, pathetic at others, of such things — all lend a curious attractiveness to reality that we should not underestimate.’

These words could have just as easily been Whitman's.

Both men are tied by a common philosophy, a shared love for the people and a desire to map these nations of people with words.

For some reason, I just can't get enough of either Leaves of Grass or FSG's The Poetry of Pablo Neruda tonight. They seem to be haunting me.

Le sigh.

Killer Paan

Paan can kill.
Pakistani folks have mentioned to me, in passing, the carcinogenic properties of the delectable palate pleaser's ingredients, but it took the following abstract to scare the shit out of me:

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/entrez/query.fcgi?cmd=Retrieve&db=PubMed&list_uids=10728606&dopt=Abstract

Fuck.

Turkmenistan? Seriously?

*Citizens of the world: you MUST sing Chicago's "You're the inspiration" under your breath whenever you find yourself gazing lovingly at a picture of the Turkmenbashi! It is literally the only way to quiet down the pitter-pattering of your heart! Sing with me: "You're the meaning in my life, you're the inspiration, you bring feeling to my life, you're the inspiration, wanna have you near me, I wanna have you hear me sayin', no one needs you more than I need you."
Isn't that better?

In this week's issue of the New Yorker (the one with Donald Rumsfeld in the doghouse on the cover), David Remnick writes about the former Soviet state of Turkmenistan. The politics of this country are so over-the-top, that it isn't difficult to read this piece in the "Talk of the Town" section as a satire on greater world politics.
Alas, it is all too real.
So, Saparamurat Niyazov, the autocratic president of the country, has anointed himself "Turkmenbashi"--"Leader of all Turkmen." That Niyazov is an egomaniac is a gross understatement, as the article reveals: "Doctors there now take an oath not Hippocrates but to Turkmenbashi; the month of January is now called Turkemnbashi; and in the capital, Ashgabat, there is, atop the Arch of Neutrality, a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot gold statue of Turkmenbashi that, like George Hamilton, automatically rotates to face the sun."
Seriously.
Niyazov has written the Ruhnama, "a book that is meant to be a spiritual guide, a celebration of the Leader, and a newly contrived history of the Turkmen people." The book is displayed alongside the Qu'ran in the nation's mosques. It is required reading, makes up a large part of the Turkmen curriculum from primary school to university, and knowledge of it is required to pass the nation's driving test. Which is a relief, seeing that Niyazov believes anyone who reads the book three times will surely go to heaven.
Clearly, he has his people's best interest in mind.
I am, however, proud to say that, in spite of all this, our president still takes the crown at the egotistical, self-centered and all-around stupid world leaders pageant.

McDonald's and KFC (Paki style)!

While we're on the topic of the globe and expanding waistlines, here are pics of Pakistani McDonald's and Pakistani KFC; both are right by Clifton Beach.

Who's Exporting the Junk: Pictorial Proof of Pizza Hut in Pakistan

Globalization: killing diversity and expanding waist lines across the planet.
By the way, the pizza from Pakistani Pizza Hut tastes almost exactly like our Pizza Hut pizza.

NERDS SUBMIT!

Seriously, you guys, don't you want to be Revengeofthenerddd.blogspot.com's Nerd of the Day?
I know you want to, so submit!

Good night, Irene

In this week’s Personal History section of The New Yorker, Daniel Raeburn writes of his daughter who was born four days after she died. More than eight months into their pregnancy, Raeburn and his wife Rebekah learn that their baby girl—already named Irene by Raeburn (“Her name came to me in the night as I was falling asleep, her hands and her feet drumming against Rebekah’s belly and my palms. Good night, Irene, I thought, I’ll see you in my dreams. I didn’t know anything about this song other than the chorus, which haunted me just as a song is intended to”) has inexplicably died in her mother’s womb. Opting to remove Irene through childbirth, the couple endures hours of anguish, knowing that theirs will be a silent baby, still and lifeless. Their grief is insurmountable and radiates from the page.

In the hospital room, Raeburn recalls being told that, “William Carlos Wiliams was sitting by the bed of one of his patients when she died. He turned to look out the window and saw a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside white chickens.” Following this legend, “The Red Wheelbarrow” becomes infused with sadness, and can be seen as an attempt to mitigate grief by finding solace in quotidian details (I’ve included “The Red Wheelbarrow” at the end of this post for those of you who are not familiar with the works of WCW). So much does, indeed, depend on it. Yet the grief is too great for Raeburn and his ordinary is encroached upon by the surreal: “I saw a salt-stained sidewalk under the funnel of a street lamp, a beige plastic armrest beside a blue blanket, my left foot in a black boot slipping in my wife’s red blood.” But, clearly, I’m straying from my point. This is a much longer discussion that we can have at a later time.

The point of my post follows:
The essay is entitled “Vessel, Irene Raeburn: born December 28, 2004; died December 24, 2004,” and it’s truly heart-wrenching. It left me a sobbing mess. Read it.

"The Red Wheelbarrow"

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

A SAPPY LETTER TO MY FRIENDS

I sent the following email to my family and friends during lunch today.

To my friends:

In stark contrast to yesterday, this day is unfolding rather nicely. I woke up as bright as the sun at 6AM, had a terrific Americano from JT (that's Jacques Torres for those of you--ie, everyone BUT ES--who don't know), had a delicious albeit overpriced salad for lunch (with anchovies and portabella mushrooms--fish makes me happier than it should, really) and have been getting lots of work done at work.

The point of this email (which gets more and more lame as I continue to type), however, is neither to share with you a day in the life of the SabilaK and nor is it to illustrate how it doesn't take much to make the SabilaK happy (yes, the article before my name is fully intentional). ES mentioned earlier how her very good friend who is getting hitched soon sent out a sappy email to all of her friends, telling them how much she loves them. This, in turn, inspired me to compose my own sappy email to you guys, my friends (no, I haven't been diagnosed with a fatal illness, I don't need any money, and there are no impending nuptials--at least none that I know of (I wouldn't be surprised if my mother is in the process of getting me hitched to someone in Zimbabwe) in my near future. C'mon people. Be a little less cynical! Jeez!)

I just want to say that I really, really, really appreciate having friends like you. I don't think I say it enough, but you guys rock and make me a better person. I feel sorry for those sad, antisocial types who don't have friends like you; and those disgustingly rich people who have a bevy of "friends" who really aren't friends at all (like Notorious B.I.G. said, "more money, more problems." That IS what he said right? How depressing); oh, and Britney Spears, because where she is right now is a lonely, lonely place.
That must suck. I’m glad I'm not her.

Plus, being my friend means having to put up with annoying and random and sporadic emails from me and yet you do so happily (even if you are deleting them without reading them--which I don't need to know).
Okay, now this is getting way too sappy even for me and probably a little weird for you guys, so I'll stop.
I feel kinda gross now and will so regret this like five minutes from now.
Oh well.

*********************

While I meant every word I said—I actually don’t think I said enough—I also wanted to see how the recipients of this email would react to such an unabashed expression of love and affection.

Here's what those of the recipients who weren't totally baffled by my declaration of affection had to say:

“You have got to be THE biggest loser I know. Oh my GOD!!!” was the first response I received. Luckily, it was from my brother so I could totally laugh it off.

The following exchange resulted between me and a rather cantankerous old friend:
T: If we wanted to read this kind of s@#t, we'd read your blog!
Me: Eff off T.
T: Damn, I forgot to respond to [everyone].
Me: You can't [respond to all], you technologically-challenged buffoon; I bcc'd everyone.
T: I had some Rice Krispies for breakfast, I better tell everyone. Oh and I saw some puppy dogs running in the park and flowers are blooming. I love life...
Me: Screw off loser.

Oh, the love.

Another friend commented that the anchovies-and-portabella-mushroom-salad-induced gas I was experiencing must have traveled to my head while a fourth friend declared, “Um, I want to have for lunch what you’ve been SMOKING!”

I did receive a handful of sweet emails, among them:

“Wow Sabila. Is it that time of the month? Just kidding. That was [a] really nice [email]. And, doesn’t it suck that [people think] there always has to be a reason to say such nice things? I think your email was wonderful…I’m very happy to have you as a friend in my life. You are a unique individual!”

The moral of this story: most people just aren't comfortable talking about feelings.

GERALD STERN

In my attempt to become more familiar with the first (of two) New Jersey State poet laureates, I looked up Gerald Stern on poets.org, which happens to be one of my fave websites of all time.
I found the following poem called "The Dancing" (when New Jersey's first poet laureate hails from PITTSBURGH, it's no wonder that we don't have an official state poem. Ugh.).:


In all these rotten shops, in all this broken furniture

and wrinkled ties and baseball trophies and coffee pots

I have never seen a post-war Philco

with the automatic eye

nor heard Ravel's "Bolero" the way I did

in 1945 in that tiny living room

on Beechwood Boulevard, nor danced as I did

then, my knives all flashing, my hair all streaming,

my mother red with laughter, my father cupping

his left hand under his armpit, doing the dance

of old Ukraine, the sound of his skin half drum,

half fart, the world at last a meadow,

the three of us whirling and singing, the three of us

screaming and falling, as if we were dying,

as if we could never stop--in 1945--

in Pittsburgh, beautiful filthy Pittsburgh, home

of the evil Mellons, 5,000 miles away

from the other dancing--in Poland and Germany--

oh God of mercy, oh wild God.

WILL THE NEW JERSEY STATE POET LAUREATE PLEASE STAND UP?

No.
Because the state doesn't have a poet laureate, which is crap, if you ask me.
The position did exist at one time. Gerald (I wish I was familiar with his stuff, but I'm sure he was good) Stern was Jersey's first poet laureate, appointed in 2000. He was followed in 2002 by the controversial Amiri Baraka, who drew strong criticism for his poem "Somebody Blew Up America." The state's governor at the time, Jim McGreevey (yes, THAT Jim McGreevey) called for Baraka to resign, Baraka refused, so the state decided to eliminate the position of poet laureate altogether, which sucks in a major way.
So, now, the state that produced unmatchable talent like Bruce Springstreen, John Bon Jovi, William Carlos Williams, Michael Chang, Whitney Houston, Judy Blume, Ice-T, Bruce Willis, Debbie Harry, Queen Latifah, Frank Sinatra, Nathan Lane, Peter Benchley and Thomas Edison (and possibly the mullet and camel toe) DOESN'T HAVE A POET LAUREATE.
That's just unacceptable.
I say we get it over with and name Walt Whitman our poet laureate in perpetuity.
Now that a large portion of the state's populaton has gotten over its delicate, residual Victorian sensibilities, I don't think Walt's frank treatment of sexuality could offend anyone enough to terminate the position of poet laureate ever again.
I wish people would just listen to me.
Sigh.