I often receive emails from distant acquaintances who have decided to travel to Philadelphia on vacation and have come to know, probably from another distant acquaintance, that I live there. The email will usually be very effusive. More effusive than this person ever was in real life with me. And it will usually go something like, "Hiiiiiii!!!! gawker, do you remember me, we were cellmates in prison, I was the one who snitched on you and let the warden know about your plan to escape through the washbasin. Anyways, I am traveling to Philadelphia this summer. If I were visiting you in Philadelphia, which I'm not, where in Philadelphia would you take me to?"
The problem is, it is somewhat difficult to come up with a Philly itinerary on the spur of the moment. Some have chosen the production of tourist brochures as a career choice and I am not one of them. However, since Philadelphia appears to be quite a popular destination among Indians and since I happen to live in its vicinity, I took it upon myself to compile a list of what Philadelphia has to offer. Let us begin in the suburbs.
Valley Forge Historic Park
About 10 to 15 miles north-west of Philadelphia lies Valley Forge National Historic Park. Here is where General George Washington camped out with his troops in the winter of 1777 while pondering an attack on Philadelphia, which had been captured by the British and whose residents were now being forced to "smoke fags" and spell color with a "u".
The highlight of your tour of the park will be the hundred or so revolutionary era huts scattered about the park in which the miserable continental army camped out in horrible conditions, all the while, no doubt blaming Mexican immigrants for their plight. Another feature of this park are the massive herds of free-roaming deer who, due to the no-hunting policy instituted within the park, have reciprocated by utilizing every free moment to reproduce.
Of course, the reason the good general and his army had to camp out in this hellhole, however pristine, was something that took place a couple of years before in the city of Philadelphia, specifically, in Independence Hall.
Independence Hall
If you are aware of the existence of Philadelphia without having actually lived here, then the following is probably the extent of your knowledge of this city. Here is where the declaration of Independence was signed in 1776, which propelled the American colonists into a revolutionary war against Great Britain. In this brick building, you will visit the great hall where the actual Declaration of Independence was signed. Here, you will also discover that the great hall that you are standing in might not actually have been the place where the Declaration of Independence was signed. And, the furniture on display in the hall might not have been the furniture from that time. Even the windows you see from inside cannot be seen from outside, which means that even the fucking windows are fake. And the guide providing you with all this information is probably not a guide either but just some homeless guy who wandered inside with the intention of stealing wallets, but after finding out it was full of Indians, abandoned his plan.
Basically, apart from a general GPS proximity to the area, the current Independence Hall probably has no resemblance to the original Independence Hall. Heck, who the fuck knows if there even was an Independence Hall?
But you should go there regardless, because that's Independence Hall, bitches. It's not the building but what it stands for that's important, namely, Big Macs and Walmart. Also, it's got great public restrooms which by itself makes it an excellent tourist destination in Philly. It is also very close to the Liberty Bell.
The Liberty Bell
If Philadelphia were a burger franchise, it would distribute its bell-shaped burgers in a container shaped like a bell by a person wearing a bell for a cap, ringing a bell to let you know your order's ready. So, what is this famous bell that everybody keeps talking about?
The Liberty Bell is a unique relic from the revolutionary era. Its primary claim to fame is the giant crack that festers upon one of its sides. It's secondary claim to fame is that it was rung on July 8 1776 to summon the good citizens of Philadelphia for the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Of course, like every other piece of Philadelphia history, historians doubt that this actually happened. But that doesn't matter. For this bell has The Crack.
The Liberty Bell is the proud owner of the second-most famous crack in the world, the first belonging to Jennifer Lopez. It was a product of amazing 18th century American workmanship that caused it to crack during its very first test-ringing. Even after this debacle, people kept ringing the bell on festive occasions such as George Washington's birthday, Lafayette's return to Philadelphia and Alexander Hamilton's death. Ultimately, the growth of the crack caused the bell to become unusable, after which the primary purpose it served was in drawing tourist money to Philadelphia.
While visiting the Liberty Bell, you need to make sure that you are standing on the crack side of the bell. You see, the crack is only visible from one side. This is very important. If you visit the Liberty Bell but do not get to see its famous crack, it would be akin to traveling to New York and failing to get a blow job from a crack whore under the Brooklyn Bridge. Why, if you fail to see the fucking crack, you might as well not visit the damn thing at all, and merely get drunk at the Triumph Brewery instead.
The Triumph Brewery
Regardless of whether you visit the Liberty Bell or not, you should still visit the Triumph Brewery in Old City. Here, on the banks of the Delaware river (which you cannot see from the brewery per se) you will be able to sample the best of Philadelphia's microbrews. However, if you are planning to eat here, it would help if you are a person of small appetite. While I would not say that the portions have been specifically designed to fit comfortably inside a 5 year old's belly, well, why not, I would indeed say that. But the good news is, this area is well-endowed with other eating joints that are sure to satisfy the palate of every ethnicity. So drink your fill here and for lunch, go someplace else, say, the Reading Terminal Market.
The Reading Terminal Market
If the city of Philadelphia were a brothel, the Reading Terminal Market would be its flagship whore. The Reading Terminal Market is located right next door to the Market East train station in Central Philly.The history of this market can be traced back to mid-19th century Philadelphia when there used to be a number of open-air markets serving the city. After these open-air markets became dirty and unhygienic, city officials decided to bring all that dirt and lack of hygiene indoors and that is how the Reading Terminal Market came into existence.
The market has a number of shops selling all kinds of stuff, from produce to books to hippy alternative medicine to pigs feet to bluefish collars and parrotfish cheeks. While browsing through the market, the slightly depressing thought might pass through your mind that somewhere in the ocean, collarless bluefish are pointing and laughing at cheekless parrotfish. Dismiss it. Remind yourself of all those brainless humans who have it worse. The market is also chock-full of eating joints that offer the cuisine of a multitude of nationalities and ethnicities. Be aware that being violently hungry is a necessary condition for visiting the Reading Terminal Market. Going there on a full stomach would be akin to watching a pornographic movie after masturbating twice in rapid succession. It simply serves no purpose.
Since this place is usually packed to the brim, following a few simple rules of navigation would make your life a lot easier. Most importantly, if you're in a crowd of people that appears not to have moved at all within the last ten minutes, it is highly likely that you're standing in a line of some sort. It is then time to gently start nudging people aside, accompanied, if necessary with the threat of physical violence and move along.
Also, when you are moving from point A to point B, forget about the crow and how it prefers to fly in a straight line. A crow faces very little traffic in the air. You, on the other hand, will. So another rule of navigation in Reading Market is, always travel the perimeter route, which is usually less trafficked. The reason for that being the occasional garbage piles and the stink of death. But if you are from India, you should have little trouble dealing with it.
There are a number of such pockets of death scattered about the market where you might suddenly experience an overwhelming desire to faint. Just keep moving, and it will be replaced by pleasanter smells. The key is to keep moving.
Now, since I am a paranoid Indian from a country where being paranoid is necessary for staying alive and in good financial health, every time I am in a crowd, I keep checking my wallet. In Reading Terminal Market, despite the crowd, there is very little need to do so. Most of the people here are hungry and are searching for food. They have no use for wallets. However, if you are carrying a sandwich in your pocket, it might be worthwhile to check up on it periodically.
And as far as possible, try not to carry a frying pan with you. The temptation to hit people with it will be too strong to overcome.
Although the Reading Market gives you a large number of eating options, one of the best ones is the Rib Stand that sells fully cooked baby back and beef short ribs. Here, you will find heaven in the short term. And for adult beverages, you may check out the beer garden in the center of the market.
Note : The Rib stand does not have a place to sit and eat. Therefore, you will have to hijack the seating space of some other eating establishment. To avoid finding yourself in an awkward situation with the management of said establishment, make sure that it has a sufficiently eclectic menu so that your foreign foodstuffs may blend in.
In the unlikely event that nothing in Reading Terminal Market appeals to the gourmet in you, you have a final option to fall back on. The mighty South Philly cheesesteak.
The Mighty South Philly Cheesesteak
The mighty South Philly Cheesesteak inhabits the southern end of the city of Philadelphia. It may also be found hanging around in various other pockets of the city, but in order to experience the racially pure version, you will have to travel to South Philly.
You have a couple of choices : Pat's King of Steaks or Geno's steaks. These two restaurants are located on the same street, facing each other. Rumor is, they have a long history of rivalry that includes steak fights where foot-soldiers from each establishment battle each other with hunks of raw rib-eye and survivors feast on the spoils of victory all night until the breaking light of dawn.
I recommend you try both. Like this guy did.
The fact of the matter is, until you've tasted a Philly cheesesteak, you haven't really experienced Philadelphia. Or a clogged artery.
Showing posts with label DesiPundit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DesiPundit. Show all posts
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Adventures in Pune traffic and clubbing
A friend called me up. Let's go clubbing, he said. Thousand Oaks? Thousand Oaks it was.
I would drive to his house, from where we would take his car to the pub. It was time to bring out the old two-wheeler.
The last time I rode a two-wheeler in Pune was six years ago. My dad was therefore concerned about my ability to stay upright in Pune traffic.
"Why don't you take a rickshaw, instead?", dad suggested. "Our old Kinetic Honda is very unstable, as it is".
"Dad, what are you talking about", I said. "There's a brand new Kinetic Zoom in our driveway".
"That's actually the Kinetic Honda", replied my dad. "I gave it a fresh coat of paint and attached a Kinetic Zoom sticker to it".
"What? That's our old scooter?" I was unconvinced. To verify my dad's claim, I climbed onto it and tried to kick back the stand. It was fucking stiff. Stiff as dead guy boner. Definitely 20 year old Kinetic Honda stiff.
But I had decided that I needed wheels of my own for the duration of my trip, so my dad finally handed over the keys.
Our Kinetic Honda is a masterpiece of Japanese engineering. At least, it was that 20 years ago when it was manufactured. Now, it is a great example of how a bunch of free-floating automobile parts can stay together purely through Newtonian forces of attraction.
Problem one was apparent the moment I turned on the headlights. Through some weird optical calisthenics, the light from the bulb, instead of illuminating the path ahead of me, was shining back at me through the speedometer dial.
The second problem was petrol consumption. This particular scooter burns a whopping one percent of petrol it consumes and releases the rest back into the care of Mother Nature.
The third problem was Pune traffic. Now, I know from old experience that the correct way to drive in Pune is to bid adieu to common sense and every natural reflex you possess and drive not IN, but directly AT traffic. When you do that, like the Red Sea at Moses' command, it shall part. That is, as long as you keep ignoring that tiny little terrified voice inside your head, requesting you to kindly not do that please. However, a decade in the US appears to have corrupted my Pune-traffic navigation skillset.
Although the traffic in Pune has increased, to be fair, a number of new roads have also been built. Where previously stood irrigation canals and wilderness, there are now roads that were built on top of those canals. The problem is, the trees that grew on the banks of those canals continue to exist. So as you are driving your two-wheeler on one of these roads, you should not be surprised if you suddenly find yourself clasped in a tight embrace with the trunk of one of these buggers. Growing, not in the middle of the road on the divider, but in the middle of the fucking left lane. The good news is, as you look up into the branches of the tree, you will discover that you are part of an entire community of Pune tree-dwellers who have arrived at the conclusion that life on a tree is far less hazardous than that on a two-wheeler.
Then, there are the newly built paths designated "bicycle cum homeless" that have been built to accommodate either bicyclists or the homeless, depending on who stakes claim to the path first.
Another huge improvement is the disappearance of pig-horns. These were powerful road-clearing devices popular in the 90s, devised for emergencies whereby the deployment of one would not only cause the two-wheeler rider in front of you to offer you the right of way, but also get him to crash into the sidewalk through the pure terror of being pursued by a feral beast. These now appear to have been replaced by the "baby-cry" horn which replicates the sound of a baby as it howls for food. These are however no less disconcerting because they make you fear for your safety, followed as you are, by a hungry baby on a Hero Honda who may or may not be conversant with traffic rules.
However, the biggest issue with Pune traffic now is the pollution, which is especially problematic if you're riding a two-wheeler. I do not know how two-wheeler riders manage to not get asphyxiated as they wait at traffic signals. Hitler would have adored Pune traffic (/end of tasteless Holocaust gas chamber joke).
An interesting aspect of Pune traffic are the confrontations. They usually occur at traffic signals, when the aggrieved party pulls up to the allegedly guilty party from behind and proceeds to inquire as to the legitimacy of one of his prior actions. The funny thing is, as long as the traffic light is red, the argument is quite peaceful, convivial even.
"Hello sir, do you realize that you did not have the right to cut me off back there?", says the miffed scooter rider.
"Oh hello, I'm sorry, but I own a car and as you can see, it outweighs your scooter by as many as 500 kilos, so quite obviously, I shall always have the right of way with you", explains the car driver quite patiently.
But after the light turns green and the threat of violent physical altercation has passed, that is when vocal belligerence begins.
"Gandu, I will hit your face so hard, you will bleed out of your anus", says the car driver as he speeds ahead.
"I will fucking rape your mother and tell the police your dad did it, madarchod", yells the scooter rider as he waves his fist at the car while simultaneously utilizing it as a shield against cross traffic.
That is Pune traffic.
Braving all this and more, I drove to my friend's place, from where we drove to Thousand Oaks in his car.
We appeared to be early. The place was virtually empty and we got two good seats near the bar, right in front of the TV playing the Mumbai-Bangalore IPL match.
Thousand Oaks has these small circular barstools, kind of like humongous mushrooms that barely accommodate one of your buttocks at a time. And they are so low that when you sit on one, you have to make sure you don't bump your knee into your jaw.
I ordered a bottle of Kingfisher beer, which seems to be pretty much the only beer available in Pune pubs. Seriously, I've had it with Kingfisher. A girl next to us was drinking something from a pitcher that looked kind of interesting. I decided to try and find out what it was.
As the saying goes, the way to a woman's pitcher is through her heart. My wife's voice inside my head said to me, "Okay, you may proceed. But make it fast".
I smiled at the girl. She smiled back.
"What is that stuff that you're drinking?", I asked her.
"Long Island iced tea", she replied.
"Oh okay, so am I", I said.
"No, you're not", said my wife's voice. "We're done here".
So I turned back to my beer.
On the other side, there was a guy entertaining a couple of ladies. Every 5 minutes, he would get a call on his cellphone and scamper out to take it. I've made this general observation in Pune that people never seem to reject cellphone calls. Doesn't matter how pressing the business they are currently attending to, a cellphone call HAS to be accepted.
For example, I'll be in my therapist's office (yes, my Pune guy) telling him, "So Doctor, I have all these heads that I..", and then he receives a phone call. He says to me, "Hold that thought", proceeds to accept it and tells the person on the line, "No, sister, that's the chilli pickle. The lime pickle is in the jar next to it", without being unduly concerned about the heads I'm referring to.
I have been informed by a number of people that pubs in Pune appear to be stuck in a musical time warp. Thousand Oaks was no exception. The DJ began with a Guns n Roses song. Following that up with a Pink Floyd number. Then, another Guns n Roses number, that was then followed by something from Metallica's black album. As the musical timeline progressed from 1996 to 1997, the crowd got even wilder till finally at 1998, they were partying like it was 1999. From my conversation with one such reveller, I came to know that he was celebrating because "who knows what's gonna happen when the clock strikes 2000".
At 11:30 the party ended, as is mandated by Pune Municipal Corporation decree and we all filed out.
But that night, I couldn't sleep because I couldn't stop worrying about the upcoming Y2K problem.
I would drive to his house, from where we would take his car to the pub. It was time to bring out the old two-wheeler.
The last time I rode a two-wheeler in Pune was six years ago. My dad was therefore concerned about my ability to stay upright in Pune traffic.
"Why don't you take a rickshaw, instead?", dad suggested. "Our old Kinetic Honda is very unstable, as it is".
"Dad, what are you talking about", I said. "There's a brand new Kinetic Zoom in our driveway".
"That's actually the Kinetic Honda", replied my dad. "I gave it a fresh coat of paint and attached a Kinetic Zoom sticker to it".
"What? That's our old scooter?" I was unconvinced. To verify my dad's claim, I climbed onto it and tried to kick back the stand. It was fucking stiff. Stiff as dead guy boner. Definitely 20 year old Kinetic Honda stiff.
But I had decided that I needed wheels of my own for the duration of my trip, so my dad finally handed over the keys.
Our Kinetic Honda is a masterpiece of Japanese engineering. At least, it was that 20 years ago when it was manufactured. Now, it is a great example of how a bunch of free-floating automobile parts can stay together purely through Newtonian forces of attraction.
Problem one was apparent the moment I turned on the headlights. Through some weird optical calisthenics, the light from the bulb, instead of illuminating the path ahead of me, was shining back at me through the speedometer dial.
The second problem was petrol consumption. This particular scooter burns a whopping one percent of petrol it consumes and releases the rest back into the care of Mother Nature.
The third problem was Pune traffic. Now, I know from old experience that the correct way to drive in Pune is to bid adieu to common sense and every natural reflex you possess and drive not IN, but directly AT traffic. When you do that, like the Red Sea at Moses' command, it shall part. That is, as long as you keep ignoring that tiny little terrified voice inside your head, requesting you to kindly not do that please. However, a decade in the US appears to have corrupted my Pune-traffic navigation skillset.
Although the traffic in Pune has increased, to be fair, a number of new roads have also been built. Where previously stood irrigation canals and wilderness, there are now roads that were built on top of those canals. The problem is, the trees that grew on the banks of those canals continue to exist. So as you are driving your two-wheeler on one of these roads, you should not be surprised if you suddenly find yourself clasped in a tight embrace with the trunk of one of these buggers. Growing, not in the middle of the road on the divider, but in the middle of the fucking left lane. The good news is, as you look up into the branches of the tree, you will discover that you are part of an entire community of Pune tree-dwellers who have arrived at the conclusion that life on a tree is far less hazardous than that on a two-wheeler.
Then, there are the newly built paths designated "bicycle cum homeless" that have been built to accommodate either bicyclists or the homeless, depending on who stakes claim to the path first.
Another huge improvement is the disappearance of pig-horns. These were powerful road-clearing devices popular in the 90s, devised for emergencies whereby the deployment of one would not only cause the two-wheeler rider in front of you to offer you the right of way, but also get him to crash into the sidewalk through the pure terror of being pursued by a feral beast. These now appear to have been replaced by the "baby-cry" horn which replicates the sound of a baby as it howls for food. These are however no less disconcerting because they make you fear for your safety, followed as you are, by a hungry baby on a Hero Honda who may or may not be conversant with traffic rules.
However, the biggest issue with Pune traffic now is the pollution, which is especially problematic if you're riding a two-wheeler. I do not know how two-wheeler riders manage to not get asphyxiated as they wait at traffic signals. Hitler would have adored Pune traffic (/end of tasteless Holocaust gas chamber joke).
An interesting aspect of Pune traffic are the confrontations. They usually occur at traffic signals, when the aggrieved party pulls up to the allegedly guilty party from behind and proceeds to inquire as to the legitimacy of one of his prior actions. The funny thing is, as long as the traffic light is red, the argument is quite peaceful, convivial even.
"Hello sir, do you realize that you did not have the right to cut me off back there?", says the miffed scooter rider.
"Oh hello, I'm sorry, but I own a car and as you can see, it outweighs your scooter by as many as 500 kilos, so quite obviously, I shall always have the right of way with you", explains the car driver quite patiently.
But after the light turns green and the threat of violent physical altercation has passed, that is when vocal belligerence begins.
"Gandu, I will hit your face so hard, you will bleed out of your anus", says the car driver as he speeds ahead.
"I will fucking rape your mother and tell the police your dad did it, madarchod", yells the scooter rider as he waves his fist at the car while simultaneously utilizing it as a shield against cross traffic.
That is Pune traffic.
Braving all this and more, I drove to my friend's place, from where we drove to Thousand Oaks in his car.
We appeared to be early. The place was virtually empty and we got two good seats near the bar, right in front of the TV playing the Mumbai-Bangalore IPL match.
Thousand Oaks has these small circular barstools, kind of like humongous mushrooms that barely accommodate one of your buttocks at a time. And they are so low that when you sit on one, you have to make sure you don't bump your knee into your jaw.
I ordered a bottle of Kingfisher beer, which seems to be pretty much the only beer available in Pune pubs. Seriously, I've had it with Kingfisher. A girl next to us was drinking something from a pitcher that looked kind of interesting. I decided to try and find out what it was.
As the saying goes, the way to a woman's pitcher is through her heart. My wife's voice inside my head said to me, "Okay, you may proceed. But make it fast".
I smiled at the girl. She smiled back.
"What is that stuff that you're drinking?", I asked her.
"Long Island iced tea", she replied.
"Oh okay, so am I", I said.
"No, you're not", said my wife's voice. "We're done here".
So I turned back to my beer.
On the other side, there was a guy entertaining a couple of ladies. Every 5 minutes, he would get a call on his cellphone and scamper out to take it. I've made this general observation in Pune that people never seem to reject cellphone calls. Doesn't matter how pressing the business they are currently attending to, a cellphone call HAS to be accepted.
For example, I'll be in my therapist's office (yes, my Pune guy) telling him, "So Doctor, I have all these heads that I..", and then he receives a phone call. He says to me, "Hold that thought", proceeds to accept it and tells the person on the line, "No, sister, that's the chilli pickle. The lime pickle is in the jar next to it", without being unduly concerned about the heads I'm referring to.
I have been informed by a number of people that pubs in Pune appear to be stuck in a musical time warp. Thousand Oaks was no exception. The DJ began with a Guns n Roses song. Following that up with a Pink Floyd number. Then, another Guns n Roses number, that was then followed by something from Metallica's black album. As the musical timeline progressed from 1996 to 1997, the crowd got even wilder till finally at 1998, they were partying like it was 1999. From my conversation with one such reveller, I came to know that he was celebrating because "who knows what's gonna happen when the clock strikes 2000".
At 11:30 the party ended, as is mandated by Pune Municipal Corporation decree and we all filed out.
But that night, I couldn't sleep because I couldn't stop worrying about the upcoming Y2K problem.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Hiking up Mt. Whatsitsface
I woke up at 4:30 AM yesterday. Partly because my body continues to be unaware of its exact whereabouts, whether it's the US, India or the mid-Atlantic ridge. Also, in part because I was planning on hiking up Mt Whatsitsface that morning.
I was in Girivan, a private hill station near Pune with my family where my sister has built a bungalow at the base of Mt. Whatsitsface, a mountain that rises up above the rest of the village to a height of, let's say, a thousand feet, give or take five hundred. Historically, it was named Mt. Whatsitsface in the 2010s after numerous inquiries with regard to its name yielded no answers.
So there I was, standing outside the house at 6:00 in the morning, waiting for the caretaker Prabhakar, who was also going to be my guide, to show up. Apparently I needed a guide because otherwise I would fall off the mountain and die. It was still dark and I waited patiently, listening to morning sounds. And smelling morning smells. I decided to perform a few push-ups to kill time. I managed to do 30, give or take 25. Then it was back to waiting. Just then, I heard somebody running hard. Really hard. I guessed it was Prabhakar, really really eager to take me up the mountain of his ancestors.
It turned out to be a little brown dog, who appeared to be running for his life. After making a sharp right and squatting underneath the gate, he entered our garden and stood there with terror in his eyes. I could empathize because once, I used to be little and brown. And on occasion, I've had to run for my life. Thinking quickly, I gestured towards the back of the garden where I knew was a secret exit into the woods. Without pausing to bark his thanks at me, the dog ran out back.
After about 10 seconds, I heard some more running and three large white dogs appeared with the demeanor of people looking for a little brown dog. I stood there with a look on my face that said I hadn't seen a little brown dog and even if I had, you are too big to fit underneath the gate anyways, so eat me. They left, still looking.
I continued to wait. Finally, I saw Prabhakar in the distance, carrying what appeared to be an immensely long bamboo pole. It appeared that the plan was to pole-vault me onto the top of the mountain. As he opened the gate, I said to him, "Good morning Prabhakar, not to rain on your parade here, but I forgot to bring my blow-absorbent clothing and helmet."
"What?", he said.
"You know", I said and pointed at the bamboo pole.
"That's for the Gudi", said Prabhakar. "It's Gudi Padva today".
"Ah, yes", I said, realizing that today was indeed the Maharashtrian new year.
"Let me just get the Gudi up and then we'll leave", said Prabhakar.
"Okay", I said, hoping he wouldn't ask for help, thereby exposing the fraudulence of my Hindu affiliations.
Luckily, he was an expert at Gudi installation and did not require any assistance. After putting up the Gudi (which kind of resembles a broom all dressed up to be married to a mop from a wealthy family) and banging out milk from a coconut, he offered me a piece of its flesh as prasad which I gratefully accepted since I hadn't had any dinner the previous night. We then set off on our expedition.
The road up the mountain passed by Prabhakar's house, where he picked up his cellphone, no doubt to be able to phone in an emergency response team after I were to disappear off the side of the mountain. The road then turned into a footpath, began its ascent up the mountainside and got much steeper. Prabhakar, who is a wiry little guy, was making good time. Actually, much better time than I was because I was basically standing still, having propped myself against a tree and wiping my forehead.
"Hoy, Prabhakar", I yelled. "Can we go a bit slower?"
"Okay", he yelled back. I couldn't even see him.
"You know, it's just that I'm doing this for the first time in my life", I lied, hoping God wouldn't exact vengeance upon my mendacity by deleting all my hiking blog posts.
As I caught up with him, I asked him the question that had been constantly preying upon my mind.
"By the way Prabhakar, what is the name of this mountain that we are climbing?", I said.
"The mountain itself has no name, but this gap that we are climbing up to is called 'Waghjaichi Khinda'", he replied.
Waghjai can be loosely translated into Marathi as "Tiger goes".
"Why Waghjai?", I asked him, hoping to hear it's because tigers never went there.
"It's called that after the temple of Goddess Waghjai on top of the mountain", replied Prabhakar.
"Ah", I said. So that was that.
The path then grew even steeper, with leaves and small stones appearing on it, causing me to slip quite a bit. In addition, I was carrying a water bottle that was grossly impeding my efforts to grab on to the ground as I fell.
"Very dangerous section, this is", I said to Prabhakar, who, it appeared, was texting on his cellphone as he climbed.
"Here, give me that water bottle", he said, astutely realizing the issue.
I gratefully handed it over to him.
"Thanks", I said. "It's just that my shoes, you know, they aren't really meant for hiking", I said, pointing to my Timberland hiking boots. "They don't grip the ground as well as your....err....leather dress shoes".
After continuing to climb some more, we finally reached the flat top of Waghjai gap. There was a rather splendid view of the Mulshi valley with tiny hamlets clustered near the bottom of the mountain and Mulshi lake and dam farther along to the right. I could also see Sinhagad fort dimly outlined against the sky on the left. And on the other side, the twin forts of Lohagad-Visapur.
As I was wandering around, I saw a path going up the side of the mountain. I squinted at it because it was really hard to make out in the distance. What was worse was that I was standing five feet away from it.
"Is that the way up?", I asked Prabhakar.
"Yes", he replied.
"Okay then, I think we've climbed enough for today", I said. "Splendid view here, really splendid", I added and made to turn back.
"What's the matter? Don't you wish to visit the temple of the Goddess and offer your prayers?", said Prabhakar, visibly surprised.
"Well, it's just that I have problems with that path", I said, pointing at the thin, barely visible line on the mountainside. "It looks kind of slippery and there's very little to hang on to. Also, it's a direct fall to the bottom of the valley. And, I have height sickness", I added, just to round everything up nicely.
Prabhakar seemed unconvinced. "You know, a lot of 60 year olds have hiked that path".
"Well, I am almost 60", I replied. I am indeed closer to 60 than I am to 0.
"60 year old women", he added.
"Oh", I said. There really was nothing I could say to that.
"But I guess we can turn back if you want", said Prabhakar.
"I would like that", I said.
So, we turned back.
The hike back down was much more difficult than the hike up. I asked Prabhakar to let me go first. "Just so if I fall, I don't take you with me and you can save your own life", I explained. He seemed to appreciate my concern for his safety.
When we reached the section with leaves and stones, Prabhakar offered me the use of his stick. I declined.
"When I fall, I usually like to grab on to air and I won't be able to do that if I'm holding a stick", I explained.
As we were climbing down, I asked Prabhakar, "Has anybody ever fallen off this path"? It seemed unlikely that no one had because it wasn't a very easy hiking trail.
"No", he replied. "Not to my knowledge. In fact, even 60 year old women have made this hike with relative comfort", he added.
"Yes, you told me about the 60 year old women", I said to him, "but thanks for reminding me".
After fifteen more minutes of easier descending, we were back in the village. After paying him for his services, I told him that I'd be back and this time, we would go right up to the top and the temple of the Goddess. What I didn't tell him was that I'd also be bringing a 60 year old woman with me.
You know, because I'm really skeptical about that whole 60 year old woman business.
I was in Girivan, a private hill station near Pune with my family where my sister has built a bungalow at the base of Mt. Whatsitsface, a mountain that rises up above the rest of the village to a height of, let's say, a thousand feet, give or take five hundred. Historically, it was named Mt. Whatsitsface in the 2010s after numerous inquiries with regard to its name yielded no answers.
So there I was, standing outside the house at 6:00 in the morning, waiting for the caretaker Prabhakar, who was also going to be my guide, to show up. Apparently I needed a guide because otherwise I would fall off the mountain and die. It was still dark and I waited patiently, listening to morning sounds. And smelling morning smells. I decided to perform a few push-ups to kill time. I managed to do 30, give or take 25. Then it was back to waiting. Just then, I heard somebody running hard. Really hard. I guessed it was Prabhakar, really really eager to take me up the mountain of his ancestors.
It turned out to be a little brown dog, who appeared to be running for his life. After making a sharp right and squatting underneath the gate, he entered our garden and stood there with terror in his eyes. I could empathize because once, I used to be little and brown. And on occasion, I've had to run for my life. Thinking quickly, I gestured towards the back of the garden where I knew was a secret exit into the woods. Without pausing to bark his thanks at me, the dog ran out back.
After about 10 seconds, I heard some more running and three large white dogs appeared with the demeanor of people looking for a little brown dog. I stood there with a look on my face that said I hadn't seen a little brown dog and even if I had, you are too big to fit underneath the gate anyways, so eat me. They left, still looking.
I continued to wait. Finally, I saw Prabhakar in the distance, carrying what appeared to be an immensely long bamboo pole. It appeared that the plan was to pole-vault me onto the top of the mountain. As he opened the gate, I said to him, "Good morning Prabhakar, not to rain on your parade here, but I forgot to bring my blow-absorbent clothing and helmet."
"What?", he said.
"You know", I said and pointed at the bamboo pole.
"That's for the Gudi", said Prabhakar. "It's Gudi Padva today".
"Ah, yes", I said, realizing that today was indeed the Maharashtrian new year.
"Let me just get the Gudi up and then we'll leave", said Prabhakar.
"Okay", I said, hoping he wouldn't ask for help, thereby exposing the fraudulence of my Hindu affiliations.
Luckily, he was an expert at Gudi installation and did not require any assistance. After putting up the Gudi (which kind of resembles a broom all dressed up to be married to a mop from a wealthy family) and banging out milk from a coconut, he offered me a piece of its flesh as prasad which I gratefully accepted since I hadn't had any dinner the previous night. We then set off on our expedition.
The road up the mountain passed by Prabhakar's house, where he picked up his cellphone, no doubt to be able to phone in an emergency response team after I were to disappear off the side of the mountain. The road then turned into a footpath, began its ascent up the mountainside and got much steeper. Prabhakar, who is a wiry little guy, was making good time. Actually, much better time than I was because I was basically standing still, having propped myself against a tree and wiping my forehead.
"Hoy, Prabhakar", I yelled. "Can we go a bit slower?"
"Okay", he yelled back. I couldn't even see him.
"You know, it's just that I'm doing this for the first time in my life", I lied, hoping God wouldn't exact vengeance upon my mendacity by deleting all my hiking blog posts.
As I caught up with him, I asked him the question that had been constantly preying upon my mind.
"By the way Prabhakar, what is the name of this mountain that we are climbing?", I said.
"The mountain itself has no name, but this gap that we are climbing up to is called 'Waghjaichi Khinda'", he replied.
Waghjai can be loosely translated into Marathi as "Tiger goes".
"Why Waghjai?", I asked him, hoping to hear it's because tigers never went there.
"It's called that after the temple of Goddess Waghjai on top of the mountain", replied Prabhakar.
"Ah", I said. So that was that.
The path then grew even steeper, with leaves and small stones appearing on it, causing me to slip quite a bit. In addition, I was carrying a water bottle that was grossly impeding my efforts to grab on to the ground as I fell.
"Very dangerous section, this is", I said to Prabhakar, who, it appeared, was texting on his cellphone as he climbed.
"Here, give me that water bottle", he said, astutely realizing the issue.
I gratefully handed it over to him.
"Thanks", I said. "It's just that my shoes, you know, they aren't really meant for hiking", I said, pointing to my Timberland hiking boots. "They don't grip the ground as well as your....err....leather dress shoes".
After continuing to climb some more, we finally reached the flat top of Waghjai gap. There was a rather splendid view of the Mulshi valley with tiny hamlets clustered near the bottom of the mountain and Mulshi lake and dam farther along to the right. I could also see Sinhagad fort dimly outlined against the sky on the left. And on the other side, the twin forts of Lohagad-Visapur.
As I was wandering around, I saw a path going up the side of the mountain. I squinted at it because it was really hard to make out in the distance. What was worse was that I was standing five feet away from it.
"Is that the way up?", I asked Prabhakar.
"Yes", he replied.
"Okay then, I think we've climbed enough for today", I said. "Splendid view here, really splendid", I added and made to turn back.
"What's the matter? Don't you wish to visit the temple of the Goddess and offer your prayers?", said Prabhakar, visibly surprised.
"Well, it's just that I have problems with that path", I said, pointing at the thin, barely visible line on the mountainside. "It looks kind of slippery and there's very little to hang on to. Also, it's a direct fall to the bottom of the valley. And, I have height sickness", I added, just to round everything up nicely.
Prabhakar seemed unconvinced. "You know, a lot of 60 year olds have hiked that path".
"Well, I am almost 60", I replied. I am indeed closer to 60 than I am to 0.
"60 year old women", he added.
"Oh", I said. There really was nothing I could say to that.
"But I guess we can turn back if you want", said Prabhakar.
"I would like that", I said.
So, we turned back.
The hike back down was much more difficult than the hike up. I asked Prabhakar to let me go first. "Just so if I fall, I don't take you with me and you can save your own life", I explained. He seemed to appreciate my concern for his safety.
When we reached the section with leaves and stones, Prabhakar offered me the use of his stick. I declined.
"When I fall, I usually like to grab on to air and I won't be able to do that if I'm holding a stick", I explained.
As we were climbing down, I asked Prabhakar, "Has anybody ever fallen off this path"? It seemed unlikely that no one had because it wasn't a very easy hiking trail.
"No", he replied. "Not to my knowledge. In fact, even 60 year old women have made this hike with relative comfort", he added.
"Yes, you told me about the 60 year old women", I said to him, "but thanks for reminding me".
After fifteen more minutes of easier descending, we were back in the village. After paying him for his services, I told him that I'd be back and this time, we would go right up to the top and the temple of the Goddess. What I didn't tell him was that I'd also be bringing a 60 year old woman with me.
You know, because I'm really skeptical about that whole 60 year old woman business.
Monday, August 31, 2009
God is not a She
I don't understand these so-called progressive women who like to refer to God as a She. Or the men who do it in order to get to know these women better. Ladies, I understand that you wish to rebel against this society of patriarchs by implying that the person who created this world is a woman and gents, I understand your deepest desire to get laid, but come on, by referring to God as a woman, aren't you really putting down the entire female gender?
For God is an asshole. The biggest asshole ever. Look at God's record. Doesn't matter which resume you are looking at, be it Christianity, Islam, Hinduism or Judaism, they all conclude that God is definitely a very shady character, prone to senseless acts of violence, has anger management issues, is needy, jealous and lacks any sense of personal responsibility. God even thinks menstruation is a curse and forbids you from appearing in God's presence for the entirety of its duration. Wtf is with that? By implying that God is a woman, what you're saying in essence is that these Godly character flaws are all feminine traits. Why would you do that? That will only re-empower the misogynists and the sexists and defeat the very purpose of conferring Supreme divinity on your gender.
To conclude, there are better ways of fostering a sense of feminine self-worth than cultivating the belief that God is a woman. Cultivating the counter-belief that God is a man would be a good first step. Men are assholes. Men wage wars and engage in wanton bloodshed. Men like to create stuff and then blow it to smithereens. Men don't have a green thumb and can never be left alone with any living organism in need of loving care. Men are afraid of menstruating women.
Just like God.
I rest my case.
For God is an asshole. The biggest asshole ever. Look at God's record. Doesn't matter which resume you are looking at, be it Christianity, Islam, Hinduism or Judaism, they all conclude that God is definitely a very shady character, prone to senseless acts of violence, has anger management issues, is needy, jealous and lacks any sense of personal responsibility. God even thinks menstruation is a curse and forbids you from appearing in God's presence for the entirety of its duration. Wtf is with that? By implying that God is a woman, what you're saying in essence is that these Godly character flaws are all feminine traits. Why would you do that? That will only re-empower the misogynists and the sexists and defeat the very purpose of conferring Supreme divinity on your gender.
To conclude, there are better ways of fostering a sense of feminine self-worth than cultivating the belief that God is a woman. Cultivating the counter-belief that God is a man would be a good first step. Men are assholes. Men wage wars and engage in wanton bloodshed. Men like to create stuff and then blow it to smithereens. Men don't have a green thumb and can never be left alone with any living organism in need of loving care. Men are afraid of menstruating women.
Just like God.
I rest my case.
Friday, June 05, 2009
Raccoon
So somebody's been stealing the fruit from the strawberry plants on my deck. It looks like a clean professional job. No crumbs lying around. My wife says it could be the squirrels who've have been loitering around in a suspicious manner lately but my money is on the asshole grackle. He's a shady character.
The grackle has devised a great workaround for getting to the contents of the bird-feeder for those times when I'm on the deck. This is what he does. When I'm not around, he violently waggles the feeder back and forth, causing all the birdseed to fall on the ground where he can later browse it at his own leisure. What the grackle doesn't realize or is callously insensitive to is the fact that through his actions, he is spoiling the dining experience for the rest of my patron base. If you're a bird and planning to go out for a nice romantic dinner with your lady friend where you'll be popping her the ultimate question, whose establishment are you gonna visit, the guy who keeps a full feeder or the one who forces you to eat off the ground? The answer is obvious. Each day the grackle finds new ways of getting under my skin. Wars have been waged due to far less provocation. The sad part is, I am sure the grackle would be a much more productive member of society, were he to apply his powers of deductive reasoning to its betterment rather than its downfall. But he chooses to follow the dark side and that is a pity.
A raccoon now trespasses on to my deck every night. He climbs up using a ladder that one of his raccoon buddies or perhaps a mercenary deer has got to be holding down for him because unless he was bitten by a radioactive spider during his stint at the Daily Bugle, there's no way a raccoon would be able to climb up the ten foot post, crawl upside down on the underside of the deck, then make his way up the railing and onto my flowerpots. I have asked around for advice on how to keep him away. An American colleague suggested that I use a BB gun on him. I asked him, what's a BB gun, is it the one that shoots water and is popular among Holi revelers who lack access to a faucet for balloon-filling purposes? He asked me, what is Holi? I replied, it is a Hindu festival celebrating the fortuitous escape of young Prahlad from an assassination attempt by the demoness Holika who carried him into a raging fire on behalf of her brother, the demon Hiranyakashipu. I see, said the colleague, who's this Prahlad, is he an ex-President of India or something? Well no, I replied, India being a parliamentary democracy, the president of India is a mere figurehead. For his escape from a demon attack to be met with such rambunctious delight, it would have to be at least the prime-minister, who happens to be the working head of the executive branch. All in all, it was a highly productive discussion.
Since my colleague turned out to be useless, I turned to my next-door neighbor for help. She informed me that another home-owner up the street also currently had a raccoon visiting him. I said, "Really, does he have any idea why it's doing that"? She replied that apparently it was after the bird seed in his feeder.
"Goddamn you GRACKLEEEEEE", I yelled, raising my face up to the heavens. "The grackle keeps spilling my birdseed onto the lawn", I translated for her, "which must be what attracted the raccoon to my deck in the first place". "Here's what you do", she replied, "Add hot pepper flakes to your birdseed, that should keep the raccoon away".
So that's what I'm gonna do now. Hopefully the raccoon doesn't have any Indian ancestry in his blood. If he does, I'm gonna have to use plan B which involves playing heavy metal music loudly at all times. It might cost me friends and family but every war has its sacrifices.
The grackle has devised a great workaround for getting to the contents of the bird-feeder for those times when I'm on the deck. This is what he does. When I'm not around, he violently waggles the feeder back and forth, causing all the birdseed to fall on the ground where he can later browse it at his own leisure. What the grackle doesn't realize or is callously insensitive to is the fact that through his actions, he is spoiling the dining experience for the rest of my patron base. If you're a bird and planning to go out for a nice romantic dinner with your lady friend where you'll be popping her the ultimate question, whose establishment are you gonna visit, the guy who keeps a full feeder or the one who forces you to eat off the ground? The answer is obvious. Each day the grackle finds new ways of getting under my skin. Wars have been waged due to far less provocation. The sad part is, I am sure the grackle would be a much more productive member of society, were he to apply his powers of deductive reasoning to its betterment rather than its downfall. But he chooses to follow the dark side and that is a pity.
A raccoon now trespasses on to my deck every night. He climbs up using a ladder that one of his raccoon buddies or perhaps a mercenary deer has got to be holding down for him because unless he was bitten by a radioactive spider during his stint at the Daily Bugle, there's no way a raccoon would be able to climb up the ten foot post, crawl upside down on the underside of the deck, then make his way up the railing and onto my flowerpots. I have asked around for advice on how to keep him away. An American colleague suggested that I use a BB gun on him. I asked him, what's a BB gun, is it the one that shoots water and is popular among Holi revelers who lack access to a faucet for balloon-filling purposes? He asked me, what is Holi? I replied, it is a Hindu festival celebrating the fortuitous escape of young Prahlad from an assassination attempt by the demoness Holika who carried him into a raging fire on behalf of her brother, the demon Hiranyakashipu. I see, said the colleague, who's this Prahlad, is he an ex-President of India or something? Well no, I replied, India being a parliamentary democracy, the president of India is a mere figurehead. For his escape from a demon attack to be met with such rambunctious delight, it would have to be at least the prime-minister, who happens to be the working head of the executive branch. All in all, it was a highly productive discussion.
Since my colleague turned out to be useless, I turned to my next-door neighbor for help. She informed me that another home-owner up the street also currently had a raccoon visiting him. I said, "Really, does he have any idea why it's doing that"? She replied that apparently it was after the bird seed in his feeder.
"Goddamn you GRACKLEEEEEE", I yelled, raising my face up to the heavens. "The grackle keeps spilling my birdseed onto the lawn", I translated for her, "which must be what attracted the raccoon to my deck in the first place". "Here's what you do", she replied, "Add hot pepper flakes to your birdseed, that should keep the raccoon away".
So that's what I'm gonna do now. Hopefully the raccoon doesn't have any Indian ancestry in his blood. If he does, I'm gonna have to use plan B which involves playing heavy metal music loudly at all times. It might cost me friends and family but every war has its sacrifices.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
We had more bloodthirsty Gods
So it seems that somebody, let's call him "Genius" with air quotes, decided to go ahead and create an online computer game, involving Jesus and Mohammed slugging it out in hand-to-hand combat. Now, following an outcry from the "Islamophobia Observatory of the Organisation of the Islamic Conference" (try saying that fast while getting beheaded), the Italian company that developed the game is now withdrawing it.
It's actually a pity because the game itself is quite good fun. Along with a scrawny Jesus and a scrappy Mohammed, you can also fight as generic Old Man God, Buddha (which is historically inaccurate since he was an adherent of non-violence), or Lord Ganesha. Now speaking as a fundamentalist Hindu computer gamer, that last part really pissed me off. With the entire pantheon of one billion Hindu Gods at their disposal, why did this company choose Lord Ganesha to represent us Hindus in combat? That's like sending fucking Corporal Radar O'Reilly to represent the M*A*S*H 4077 in a drinking competition.
Look, I'm a Ganesha devotee. Huge, huge devotee. But let's be honest, the Guy's obviously ill-equipped for battle. True, a few of His biographers do claim that He's vanquished numerous demons in his lifetime, for example, the twin brothers Narantak and Devantak, and the hideously ruddy Sindoora (What, forgot your sunscreen? Again?). But you've got to take anything that comes out of His PR department with a grain of salt. Look at the evidence on the ground. Every picture of Ganesha in the press has him holding a lotus and a golden axe, which, by the way appears to be more endowed with aesthetic appeal than utilitarian value. In the age of the atom, what kinds of weapons are these? He might as well be holding a white flag. And in some highly incriminating photographs obtained through secret back channels, He is actually seen to be holding a plateful of fucking sweets and administering benevolence with His remaining hand. What kind of message does this send to enemy combatants? That ain't neither proper combat attire nor attitude, Homeslice.
But in my opinion, where Ganesha's battle-readiness suffers the most is in the area of transportation. When you are at war, your ability to mobilize quickly and reliably is paramount. That requirement goes largely unfulfilled if your preferred mode of transportation is on ratback. Come on now, how can My Man possibly compete in this area? You have Jesus, who can fucking walk on water, Mohammed, who surely owns a horse, or at least a mule, that's in all likelihood equipped with winged feet, Buddha who can fucking levitate in mid-air and then there's our Man Ganesha, crouching beside the hole in his wall with a piece of cheese in his hand, waiting for his battle-rat to get hungry and come out.
This is what bugs me. We have one billion Gods, out of which probably nine hundred and ninety-nine million are experienced demon-war-veterans with a well-documented history of bloodshed and violence. Why choose someone out of the remaining one million? You have Goddess Durga on her ferocious lion. Indra, the bloodthirsty redneck with his flying eight-trunked elephant. Or how about Kali? The mere sight of Kali, and those demon skulls flopping around on her neck and arms would have Jesus calling out his own name and Mohammed peeing vapor into the hot desert air. Buddha would stay calm, though. That's why he's the Buddha.
Look, our ancient Hindu holy-book writers had tremendous foresight. They designed most of our Gods, bearing in mind that at some point in the distant future, They would be called upon by the geeks of the world to duke it out in online fighting competitions and smartly, equipped Them with the requisite skills and gadgetry towards that purpose.
But Lord Ganesha wasn't one of them. He just wasn't.
It's actually a pity because the game itself is quite good fun. Along with a scrawny Jesus and a scrappy Mohammed, you can also fight as generic Old Man God, Buddha (which is historically inaccurate since he was an adherent of non-violence), or Lord Ganesha. Now speaking as a fundamentalist Hindu computer gamer, that last part really pissed me off. With the entire pantheon of one billion Hindu Gods at their disposal, why did this company choose Lord Ganesha to represent us Hindus in combat? That's like sending fucking Corporal Radar O'Reilly to represent the M*A*S*H 4077 in a drinking competition.
Look, I'm a Ganesha devotee. Huge, huge devotee. But let's be honest, the Guy's obviously ill-equipped for battle. True, a few of His biographers do claim that He's vanquished numerous demons in his lifetime, for example, the twin brothers Narantak and Devantak, and the hideously ruddy Sindoora (What, forgot your sunscreen? Again?). But you've got to take anything that comes out of His PR department with a grain of salt. Look at the evidence on the ground. Every picture of Ganesha in the press has him holding a lotus and a golden axe, which, by the way appears to be more endowed with aesthetic appeal than utilitarian value. In the age of the atom, what kinds of weapons are these? He might as well be holding a white flag. And in some highly incriminating photographs obtained through secret back channels, He is actually seen to be holding a plateful of fucking sweets and administering benevolence with His remaining hand. What kind of message does this send to enemy combatants? That ain't neither proper combat attire nor attitude, Homeslice.
But in my opinion, where Ganesha's battle-readiness suffers the most is in the area of transportation. When you are at war, your ability to mobilize quickly and reliably is paramount. That requirement goes largely unfulfilled if your preferred mode of transportation is on ratback. Come on now, how can My Man possibly compete in this area? You have Jesus, who can fucking walk on water, Mohammed, who surely owns a horse, or at least a mule, that's in all likelihood equipped with winged feet, Buddha who can fucking levitate in mid-air and then there's our Man Ganesha, crouching beside the hole in his wall with a piece of cheese in his hand, waiting for his battle-rat to get hungry and come out.
This is what bugs me. We have one billion Gods, out of which probably nine hundred and ninety-nine million are experienced demon-war-veterans with a well-documented history of bloodshed and violence. Why choose someone out of the remaining one million? You have Goddess Durga on her ferocious lion. Indra, the bloodthirsty redneck with his flying eight-trunked elephant. Or how about Kali? The mere sight of Kali, and those demon skulls flopping around on her neck and arms would have Jesus calling out his own name and Mohammed peeing vapor into the hot desert air. Buddha would stay calm, though. That's why he's the Buddha.
Look, our ancient Hindu holy-book writers had tremendous foresight. They designed most of our Gods, bearing in mind that at some point in the distant future, They would be called upon by the geeks of the world to duke it out in online fighting competitions and smartly, equipped Them with the requisite skills and gadgetry towards that purpose.
But Lord Ganesha wasn't one of them. He just wasn't.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Your lawn sucks. But there is hope.
In the single year that I have been a home-owner, I have come to realize that an American home-owner's life is basically one characterized by constant suckerhood. After purchasing a home, at some point, you correctly determine that the human race at a molecular level can be classified into two fundamental categories : a> Home-owners and b> People who make money off home-owners. In fact, if you take a close look at all the major US stock indices, you will notice that for the most part, they are comprised of companies engaged solely in the business of trying to separate a home-owner from his cash. Initially, when the recession made its presence felt in this country, I was surprised to know that it was caused by home-owners. Now that I am aware of the huge role my fellow home-owners and I play in propping up the American economy, it all finally makes sense.
A prime player in the home-owner-milking industry is Scotts. Scotts, of course, is the company most renowned for its lawn maintenance products. Now if you are of Indian origin and used to a life bereft of anything green within a 20 km radius around your house, you'll probably say to me, but gawker, I am Indian and therefore, quite used to a life bereft of anything green within a 20 km radius around my house. Why would I even consider buying a Scotts lawncare product? I am quite satisfied with the Saharan ecosystem currently flourishing in my backyard. My wife and kids have already managed to evolve camel-like humps, padded feet and flapped nostrils in order to cope with the parched sandy environment. I don't need Scotts, gawker, please go away.
I will go away, but let me say this, don't underestimate Scotts, my friend. Scotts has a widespread network of undercover lawn spies. The moment they track down a Desi brown-thumbed lawn anarchist such as you, Scotts will quickly purchase the home next to yours and landscape the holy heck out of it. Soon, you will be spending long mournful hours comparing your terrible weed infested yard to the dazzling state-of-the-art lushness that is your neighbor's property. Don't forget, a large part of being Indian involves coveting your neighbor's lungi, his wife and yes, also his yard. It won't be long before you find yourself loitering around in Home Depot or Lowes and buying up everything that has the word "lawn" or "garden" on it.
And Scotts will be more than happy to help. Scotts has a hundred different types of lawn-care products and you are mandated by law to purchase each and every one of them. In early Spring, you will need to use Scott's fertilizer with Halts. It gets rid of something called crabgrass. Crabgrass is not as delicious as it sounds so you need to remove it as soon as possible. This will give you adequate time to prepare yourself for the next tragedy that is about to befall your lawn, which is weeds. Late spring is weed season. This is when you need to use Scotts fertilizer with Plus-2 weed control. That will get rid of dandelions and thistles. Sometimes it also gets rid of the lawn. But hey, don't worry, Scotts is already on it. Here my friend, meet Scotts grass seed. It will grow you a new lawn. But don't forget, grass seed is quite useless by itself. To grow a new lawn in an ISO 9001 certified manner, you also need Scotts starter fertilizer. You see, grass seeds are like babies. They need water, love and their own expensive baby food. They don't cry and keep you awake all night, but not to worry, Scotts is already working on it.
Alright, so your lawn is back up and running but what d'ya know, it is now summer. Summertime has its own problems. Summer is apparently when grubs take over our planet. As always, Scotts is by your side, eager to provide moral and chemical support. Which is in the form of Scotts fertilizer with Summerguard. You don't know what a grub is or what it looks like or why it shouldn't be on your lawn, but isn't it reassuring to know that Scotts is protecting you from that sucker? It sure is!
Finally, when September comes around, you allow yourself to breathe a sigh of relief. You're probably thinking okay, it will soon be winter, my lawn will stop growing and get covered with snow and I can finally quit the second job I had to take in order to pay for all that fertilizer. But you sigh too soon. For fall is the perfect time to make plans for a lush spring lawn. Hey, you can't be too careful, right? It just makes no sense at all, not to use Scotts Winterguard with Plus-2 weed control. It protects your lawn from spring weeds. Yes indeed, Scotts has invented a fertilizer that is so powerful, it will even kill weeds that don't yet exist. If that doesn't qualify for Alfred Nobel's inheritance, I don't know what does. Also, please don't confuse it with regular Scotts fertilizer with Plus-2 weed control. They are totally different. One has the word Winterguard in it, and the other doesn't.
Sometimes, when I have some time to myself between two fertilizer applications, I sit down and ponder. Ask myself questions. Like, why doesn't Scotts add weed killer, crabgrass killer and grub killer to the same fertilizer? Is it because Scotts weed killer is actually an army of grubs that march forth and devour the weeds? Also questions like, how did grass manage to grow before there was Scotts? Why crabgrass? And why do they call pubic lice "crabs"?
But before I can answer any of these questions, it's already time for the next fertilization.
A prime player in the home-owner-milking industry is Scotts. Scotts, of course, is the company most renowned for its lawn maintenance products. Now if you are of Indian origin and used to a life bereft of anything green within a 20 km radius around your house, you'll probably say to me, but gawker, I am Indian and therefore, quite used to a life bereft of anything green within a 20 km radius around my house. Why would I even consider buying a Scotts lawncare product? I am quite satisfied with the Saharan ecosystem currently flourishing in my backyard. My wife and kids have already managed to evolve camel-like humps, padded feet and flapped nostrils in order to cope with the parched sandy environment. I don't need Scotts, gawker, please go away.
I will go away, but let me say this, don't underestimate Scotts, my friend. Scotts has a widespread network of undercover lawn spies. The moment they track down a Desi brown-thumbed lawn anarchist such as you, Scotts will quickly purchase the home next to yours and landscape the holy heck out of it. Soon, you will be spending long mournful hours comparing your terrible weed infested yard to the dazzling state-of-the-art lushness that is your neighbor's property. Don't forget, a large part of being Indian involves coveting your neighbor's lungi, his wife and yes, also his yard. It won't be long before you find yourself loitering around in Home Depot or Lowes and buying up everything that has the word "lawn" or "garden" on it.
And Scotts will be more than happy to help. Scotts has a hundred different types of lawn-care products and you are mandated by law to purchase each and every one of them. In early Spring, you will need to use Scott's fertilizer with Halts. It gets rid of something called crabgrass. Crabgrass is not as delicious as it sounds so you need to remove it as soon as possible. This will give you adequate time to prepare yourself for the next tragedy that is about to befall your lawn, which is weeds. Late spring is weed season. This is when you need to use Scotts fertilizer with Plus-2 weed control. That will get rid of dandelions and thistles. Sometimes it also gets rid of the lawn. But hey, don't worry, Scotts is already on it. Here my friend, meet Scotts grass seed. It will grow you a new lawn. But don't forget, grass seed is quite useless by itself. To grow a new lawn in an ISO 9001 certified manner, you also need Scotts starter fertilizer. You see, grass seeds are like babies. They need water, love and their own expensive baby food. They don't cry and keep you awake all night, but not to worry, Scotts is already working on it.
Alright, so your lawn is back up and running but what d'ya know, it is now summer. Summertime has its own problems. Summer is apparently when grubs take over our planet. As always, Scotts is by your side, eager to provide moral and chemical support. Which is in the form of Scotts fertilizer with Summerguard. You don't know what a grub is or what it looks like or why it shouldn't be on your lawn, but isn't it reassuring to know that Scotts is protecting you from that sucker? It sure is!
Finally, when September comes around, you allow yourself to breathe a sigh of relief. You're probably thinking okay, it will soon be winter, my lawn will stop growing and get covered with snow and I can finally quit the second job I had to take in order to pay for all that fertilizer. But you sigh too soon. For fall is the perfect time to make plans for a lush spring lawn. Hey, you can't be too careful, right? It just makes no sense at all, not to use Scotts Winterguard with Plus-2 weed control. It protects your lawn from spring weeds. Yes indeed, Scotts has invented a fertilizer that is so powerful, it will even kill weeds that don't yet exist. If that doesn't qualify for Alfred Nobel's inheritance, I don't know what does. Also, please don't confuse it with regular Scotts fertilizer with Plus-2 weed control. They are totally different. One has the word Winterguard in it, and the other doesn't.
Sometimes, when I have some time to myself between two fertilizer applications, I sit down and ponder. Ask myself questions. Like, why doesn't Scotts add weed killer, crabgrass killer and grub killer to the same fertilizer? Is it because Scotts weed killer is actually an army of grubs that march forth and devour the weeds? Also questions like, how did grass manage to grow before there was Scotts? Why crabgrass? And why do they call pubic lice "crabs"?
But before I can answer any of these questions, it's already time for the next fertilization.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Why are birds such assholes?
You may not have realized this, probably due to the sheltered nature of your lifestyle, but not every asshole who's ever descended to earth from Planet Asshole was human. In fact, there are quite a few birds whose assholistic tendencies can rival even the finest mankind has to offer.
Take for instance, the Canadian goose. What an asshole. It's not just that this dipshit is an illegal immigrant from Canada, but also that it regularly fails to realize that it is a bird and would get its ass handed back to it, were it to ever engage in hand-to-hand combat with a human foe. Regardless of that fact, when this asshole is not shitting gigantic human-sized turds all over the path leading from your office building to your car, it is standing over them with the menacing demeanor of a mother guarding her newborn babies, prepared to fight to the death anybody who would dare crush them en route to home and hearth. Get over it, asshole. To you, they might be priceless nuggets of your body and soul, but the rest of us don't give a birdshit. And if I'm walking towards my car, better get the fuck out of my face because you're a goddamn bird and I don't know if you watch Animal Planet but you're supposed to be instinctively apprehensive (read scared shitless) of my species.
And what's with all the road-crossings? Watching these fuckers jay-walk all over our major arteries during rush hour would make one wonder, where are all these wankers off to? Meetings? Presentations? You're probably saying to yourself, "Dear God, am I doing as much with my life as these geese are with theirs"? To which the answer is, yes, because they are just being assholes. Only an asshole would deliberately cross a road on foot during rush hour despite being endowed with actual working wings.
Now you probably wouldn't believe a sparrow to be a bird subscribing to the asshole mindset. After all, it's just a tiny soul, keeps to itself and gets bullied by the larger birds. But then, you don't know assholes. Assholes come in all sizes and innocence. And the sparrow is a tiny asshole, but an asshole nevertheless. Look, you purchased a bird feeder for thirty bucks. You've been keeping it well-stocked with bird feed, spending about fifteen bucks twice every month. It is food fit for a king, delicious and you know that for a fact because you've taste-tested it yourself. So when it is time to patch the bare spots in your lawn with grass seed, it would be perfectly reasonable for you to assume that the sweet innocent sparrow that regularly dines in your feeder would leave your grass seed alone and in peace. But you would be wrong because the sweet innocent sparrow is an asshole. A human would say, I have eaten this man's salt, perhaps I should keep my grubby paws off his lawn. But not the sparrow. The sparrow will eat your salt, have your grass seed for dessert and then return it back to your deck in dropping form. That's how big an asshole the sparrow is.
But there is a feathered asshole that puts all other assholes to shame. Even human asshole heavyweights such as Axl Rose, Bill O'Reilly and Terrell Owens' agent. This is an asshole extraordinaire, one who reigns uncontested at the top of the asshole pyramid. Meet the common grackle. It is not a crow and it is not a blackbird. It is a grackle. Let's call it for what it is, a grackhole.
The grackhole loves to dine at your feeder. That's not necessarily a bad thing since that was the precise intent behind your purchase of the feeder, namely, to allow destitute birds access to adequate nutrition, while maintaining their dignity. But the grackhole is an asshole. The grackhole will keep other birds out of the feeder. And you know why other birds hate it and keep out of its way? Because apparently, the grackhole is in the habit of devouring the other birds that eat at your feeder. Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of an asshole does that? Let's say, you're at a restaurant and you decide there's nothing you like on the menu. Do you then say to the waiter, "Hey, I'll have the guy sitting at that table over there, grilled medium rare with mashed potatoes on the side. By the way, what's the soup of the day?" Not even Dick Cheney would commit such an act of blatant assholery. At least not until you're done with dinner and you go back home and wake up in the middle of the night to find Dick Cheney squatting on his haunches at your bedside, gnawing on your exposed fibula. But at least Dick Cheney will let you eat in peace. Not the grackhole, however. Because the grackhole is an asshole.
A few facts appear to support the hypothesis that the grackle is a world-class asshole. For example, the Cornell Lab of Ornithology says that the grackle has actually benefited from deforestation. Yes, you heard me right. How fucked up does a bird have to be in the head to actually hate trees and rejoice in their destruction? Another fun fact about the grackle is that it allows ants to crawl onto its body in order to destroy the rest of the parasites that live there. I do not even wish to know what it is that the ants are supposedly destroying. Hopefully it is not cancer. I would like cancer to remain on the grackle's body.
But the grackle is not just an asshole to its own kind. It's also an asshole to you. You, who installed the bird feeder on your deck in the first place. You, who are responsible for the healthy radiant rainbow-colored penumbra around the grackle's neck. Yes, you. The grackle doesn't care about you. For the grackle, you are nothing but a pair of hands hovering in mid-air that refill the feeder every couple of weeks. As far as the grackle is concerned, when you're not replenishing its food supply, you are just a fat lazy slob who lolls around on the deck wasting his life, gaping at the scenery and more importantly, keeping the mighty grackle away from its food and preventing it from achieving its daily masticatory goals.
And so, realizing that you are not going to budge from your seat without some external encouragement, the grackle alights on a nearby tree branch along with a couple of its thuggish buddies and kicks things up a notch by firing up the karaoke machine. The grackle's grating "chack chack" is the avian equivalent of fingernails dragging across a chalkboard. In the beginning, you are loathe to admit defeat because by God, you purchased this townhouse in large part due to its wonderful deck and the nice view it has of the woods and the stream and there is no way you're gonna let this filthy cockatoo keep you from getting your money's worth. But after ten minutes of nonstop chacking, you finally admit defeat and make a dignified retreat into the keep, whenceforth you watch as the gleeful little fuck leaps onto your feeder and celebrates its victory by defecating into the flower basket you've just populated today with fresh pansies.
What. An. Asshole.
Take for instance, the Canadian goose. What an asshole. It's not just that this dipshit is an illegal immigrant from Canada, but also that it regularly fails to realize that it is a bird and would get its ass handed back to it, were it to ever engage in hand-to-hand combat with a human foe. Regardless of that fact, when this asshole is not shitting gigantic human-sized turds all over the path leading from your office building to your car, it is standing over them with the menacing demeanor of a mother guarding her newborn babies, prepared to fight to the death anybody who would dare crush them en route to home and hearth. Get over it, asshole. To you, they might be priceless nuggets of your body and soul, but the rest of us don't give a birdshit. And if I'm walking towards my car, better get the fuck out of my face because you're a goddamn bird and I don't know if you watch Animal Planet but you're supposed to be instinctively apprehensive (read scared shitless) of my species.
And what's with all the road-crossings? Watching these fuckers jay-walk all over our major arteries during rush hour would make one wonder, where are all these wankers off to? Meetings? Presentations? You're probably saying to yourself, "Dear God, am I doing as much with my life as these geese are with theirs"? To which the answer is, yes, because they are just being assholes. Only an asshole would deliberately cross a road on foot during rush hour despite being endowed with actual working wings.
Now you probably wouldn't believe a sparrow to be a bird subscribing to the asshole mindset. After all, it's just a tiny soul, keeps to itself and gets bullied by the larger birds. But then, you don't know assholes. Assholes come in all sizes and innocence. And the sparrow is a tiny asshole, but an asshole nevertheless. Look, you purchased a bird feeder for thirty bucks. You've been keeping it well-stocked with bird feed, spending about fifteen bucks twice every month. It is food fit for a king, delicious and you know that for a fact because you've taste-tested it yourself. So when it is time to patch the bare spots in your lawn with grass seed, it would be perfectly reasonable for you to assume that the sweet innocent sparrow that regularly dines in your feeder would leave your grass seed alone and in peace. But you would be wrong because the sweet innocent sparrow is an asshole. A human would say, I have eaten this man's salt, perhaps I should keep my grubby paws off his lawn. But not the sparrow. The sparrow will eat your salt, have your grass seed for dessert and then return it back to your deck in dropping form. That's how big an asshole the sparrow is.
But there is a feathered asshole that puts all other assholes to shame. Even human asshole heavyweights such as Axl Rose, Bill O'Reilly and Terrell Owens' agent. This is an asshole extraordinaire, one who reigns uncontested at the top of the asshole pyramid. Meet the common grackle. It is not a crow and it is not a blackbird. It is a grackle. Let's call it for what it is, a grackhole.
The grackhole loves to dine at your feeder. That's not necessarily a bad thing since that was the precise intent behind your purchase of the feeder, namely, to allow destitute birds access to adequate nutrition, while maintaining their dignity. But the grackhole is an asshole. The grackhole will keep other birds out of the feeder. And you know why other birds hate it and keep out of its way? Because apparently, the grackhole is in the habit of devouring the other birds that eat at your feeder. Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of an asshole does that? Let's say, you're at a restaurant and you decide there's nothing you like on the menu. Do you then say to the waiter, "Hey, I'll have the guy sitting at that table over there, grilled medium rare with mashed potatoes on the side. By the way, what's the soup of the day?" Not even Dick Cheney would commit such an act of blatant assholery. At least not until you're done with dinner and you go back home and wake up in the middle of the night to find Dick Cheney squatting on his haunches at your bedside, gnawing on your exposed fibula. But at least Dick Cheney will let you eat in peace. Not the grackhole, however. Because the grackhole is an asshole.
A few facts appear to support the hypothesis that the grackle is a world-class asshole. For example, the Cornell Lab of Ornithology says that the grackle has actually benefited from deforestation. Yes, you heard me right. How fucked up does a bird have to be in the head to actually hate trees and rejoice in their destruction? Another fun fact about the grackle is that it allows ants to crawl onto its body in order to destroy the rest of the parasites that live there. I do not even wish to know what it is that the ants are supposedly destroying. Hopefully it is not cancer. I would like cancer to remain on the grackle's body.
But the grackle is not just an asshole to its own kind. It's also an asshole to you. You, who installed the bird feeder on your deck in the first place. You, who are responsible for the healthy radiant rainbow-colored penumbra around the grackle's neck. Yes, you. The grackle doesn't care about you. For the grackle, you are nothing but a pair of hands hovering in mid-air that refill the feeder every couple of weeks. As far as the grackle is concerned, when you're not replenishing its food supply, you are just a fat lazy slob who lolls around on the deck wasting his life, gaping at the scenery and more importantly, keeping the mighty grackle away from its food and preventing it from achieving its daily masticatory goals.
And so, realizing that you are not going to budge from your seat without some external encouragement, the grackle alights on a nearby tree branch along with a couple of its thuggish buddies and kicks things up a notch by firing up the karaoke machine. The grackle's grating "chack chack" is the avian equivalent of fingernails dragging across a chalkboard. In the beginning, you are loathe to admit defeat because by God, you purchased this townhouse in large part due to its wonderful deck and the nice view it has of the woods and the stream and there is no way you're gonna let this filthy cockatoo keep you from getting your money's worth. But after ten minutes of nonstop chacking, you finally admit defeat and make a dignified retreat into the keep, whenceforth you watch as the gleeful little fuck leaps onto your feeder and celebrates its victory by defecating into the flower basket you've just populated today with fresh pansies.
What. An. Asshole.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Fashion : You can't just walk it off.
You know, there are a number of things in this life that we take for granted. For example, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Let's consider life itself. What if you weren't alive? Have you ever considered that? Aren't you glad to be alive? You might not remember this, but a lot of stuff went into keeping you alive. When you were born, you had to be fed, clothed and kept from eating your own poop. It was a lot of work and goddamn did it suck. But someone did it and now you are alive. Treasure that fact. Do not take it for granted.
And liberty, how about that liberty? What if you were a caged bird? Can you imagine how much your life would suck? Or if you were water in a glass. Wouldn't you miss the time you went babbling through that brook until you were accosted by that dam and siphoned down those pipes?
Or the pursuit of Happiness. Have you considered how fortuitous it is that you are pursuing happiness and not the other way around? You can't run for shit and Happiness would catch up to you mighty quick. I hear she is into leather and spiked stuff.
So, along with life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, I have stopped taking many other things for granted. I treasure most things. Most but not all. One thing I was still taking for granted was the ability to walk. You'd probably say to me, but gawker, what's the big deal about walking, I do it all the time with little or no trouble. And you would say that because you wouldn't have seen the Hindi movie "Fashion". This movie transformed my life. It changed my opinion about walking.
Fashion is about a girl who is a very talented walker. She walks like nobody's business. She is such a good walker that people routinely come up to her and exclaim my, oh my, where did you learn to walk like that? And she says, why, it came to me naturally when I was a baby. She was terrible at crawling. But boy, that baby girl could walk.
So this girl gets recruited by a modeling agency where she puts her walking abilities to good use on the fashion ramp and earns bunches of money. She turns into a supermodel. Her walking makes her famous. Her fame develops walking, nay running abilities of its own and spreads far and wide. People attempt to walk like her but they fail. You can't compete with the expert. No, it takes a tremendous amount of talent to put foot before foot without falling down. Trust me, I tried it myself and within two days, I was clutching at the walls trying to stay awake and upright.
But here's where the movie gets poignant. Here's the part that made me cry. This simple happy girl begins to get arrogant. Her walking goes to her head. She begins to feel she is the greatest walker the world has ever known. She spurns her family, her friends, her co-walkers. She even spurns walking itself and takes to driving. And to cap it all, drinks while she is doing it. Her walking career begins to falter. Her assignments begin to dry up and pretty soon, she turns into what each of us have nightmares about turning into. Just an ordinary person who can walk. This is disastrous to her psyche and she spirals into depression. To drown her sorrow, she starts doing all kinds of crazy stuff like black guys and cocaine until finally, one day, she wakes up, sees herself in the mirror, looks at her heavily mascaraed eyes and says to herself, Lord oh Lord, what have I become? Where are my eyes? No amount of tissue-rubbing can bring her eyes back. And then she realizes it's not just her eyes that she's lost, but her entire perspective on life. She decides to turn into a new leaf.
So she goes back to her family and her friends. The people she should not have discarded like a pair of worn-out socks in the first place. She loses her arrogance. She replaces it with compassion and a tremendous fear of walking. Her friends are extremely supportive. They try to rebuild her walking career by giving her ramp assignments. The very first day of her rejuvenated walking career, she is faced with a dilemma. Should she drown herself into the memory of her failed past or should she welcome the future and walk? Bright spotlights are shining on her. She can hear the audience in the crowd snicker. Too many doubters and too few well-wishers. Will she able to walk? Well, the movie is still a long way off from ending so you are guessing, no. And you are right. She fails in her attempt to walk. She has the pluck to walk, the will to walk, the bones, muscles, tendons and the primal instinct inherited from our hungry foraging ape-like ancestors to walk, but for this troubled woman, that is still not enough. She fails. And that's when you realize you should never take walking for granted.
But our girl, she will not give up. She is a survivor. She plugs on. She accepts another walking assignment and this time, she is going to be the star of the show, what they (supposedly) call in the business, a show-stopper. Expectations are even higher this time. Not only will she have to walk, but do an exceptional job of it. It is crunch time. And then, it is showtime.
It's her time to shine. She is up next. But she still has her doubts. "Can I walk?" she asks herself. After all, I did walk around all day today. And yesterday. And every day of the past twenty or so years. I walked to the grocery, to the laundry, to the bathroom. Once, I even ran, she muses with pride. It's not like I can't walk. But why can't I transfer my walking abilities onto this ramp? She is about to give it a try and then.... and then, disaster strikes. A telephone call. She is notified that one of her friends is dead of a drug overdose. Her legs go limp. And to add to that, it is now time for her to walk onto the ramp. Dimly, through her tears, she hears her friends, colleagues and gay philanthropic fashion designers exhort her to walk. How can they ask of her something so difficult at a traumatic time like this? Whoever's heard of such a thing? Time's running out. She needs to walk now or her walking career is over. She can almost see her legs in an ordinary salwar kameez instead of a micro-mini.
But it is darkest just before the dawn. Just before time runs out, she grits her teeth, pushes the sad away and walks out onstage. The crowd draws a sharp breath. This is the finest act of perambulation that they have ever been witness to. She turns to the camera, poses for it and smiles. She continues to pose and smile. She has walked this far. Now she has to walk back. Will she able to do it?
Of course she will. It's just walking, for fuck's sake. She turns and walks back, turns again, looks at the camera, re assumes her pose, smiles and waits for the other supermodels to join her onstage for the finale. She has done it. She has walked. Her life is finally back on track. She breaks down from exhaustion. She weeps and sways. Her fashion designer holds her close to keep her from falling. And the credits roll.
Walking. It's not just something people do when they have to go somewhere not far enough to use a vehicle. It is difficult and something not to be taken for granted. The next time someone asks you to just walk something off, just reply to them, why don't you just go fuck yourself?
And liberty, how about that liberty? What if you were a caged bird? Can you imagine how much your life would suck? Or if you were water in a glass. Wouldn't you miss the time you went babbling through that brook until you were accosted by that dam and siphoned down those pipes?
Or the pursuit of Happiness. Have you considered how fortuitous it is that you are pursuing happiness and not the other way around? You can't run for shit and Happiness would catch up to you mighty quick. I hear she is into leather and spiked stuff.
So, along with life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, I have stopped taking many other things for granted. I treasure most things. Most but not all. One thing I was still taking for granted was the ability to walk. You'd probably say to me, but gawker, what's the big deal about walking, I do it all the time with little or no trouble. And you would say that because you wouldn't have seen the Hindi movie "Fashion". This movie transformed my life. It changed my opinion about walking.
Fashion is about a girl who is a very talented walker. She walks like nobody's business. She is such a good walker that people routinely come up to her and exclaim my, oh my, where did you learn to walk like that? And she says, why, it came to me naturally when I was a baby. She was terrible at crawling. But boy, that baby girl could walk.
So this girl gets recruited by a modeling agency where she puts her walking abilities to good use on the fashion ramp and earns bunches of money. She turns into a supermodel. Her walking makes her famous. Her fame develops walking, nay running abilities of its own and spreads far and wide. People attempt to walk like her but they fail. You can't compete with the expert. No, it takes a tremendous amount of talent to put foot before foot without falling down. Trust me, I tried it myself and within two days, I was clutching at the walls trying to stay awake and upright.
But here's where the movie gets poignant. Here's the part that made me cry. This simple happy girl begins to get arrogant. Her walking goes to her head. She begins to feel she is the greatest walker the world has ever known. She spurns her family, her friends, her co-walkers. She even spurns walking itself and takes to driving. And to cap it all, drinks while she is doing it. Her walking career begins to falter. Her assignments begin to dry up and pretty soon, she turns into what each of us have nightmares about turning into. Just an ordinary person who can walk. This is disastrous to her psyche and she spirals into depression. To drown her sorrow, she starts doing all kinds of crazy stuff like black guys and cocaine until finally, one day, she wakes up, sees herself in the mirror, looks at her heavily mascaraed eyes and says to herself, Lord oh Lord, what have I become? Where are my eyes? No amount of tissue-rubbing can bring her eyes back. And then she realizes it's not just her eyes that she's lost, but her entire perspective on life. She decides to turn into a new leaf.
So she goes back to her family and her friends. The people she should not have discarded like a pair of worn-out socks in the first place. She loses her arrogance. She replaces it with compassion and a tremendous fear of walking. Her friends are extremely supportive. They try to rebuild her walking career by giving her ramp assignments. The very first day of her rejuvenated walking career, she is faced with a dilemma. Should she drown herself into the memory of her failed past or should she welcome the future and walk? Bright spotlights are shining on her. She can hear the audience in the crowd snicker. Too many doubters and too few well-wishers. Will she able to walk? Well, the movie is still a long way off from ending so you are guessing, no. And you are right. She fails in her attempt to walk. She has the pluck to walk, the will to walk, the bones, muscles, tendons and the primal instinct inherited from our hungry foraging ape-like ancestors to walk, but for this troubled woman, that is still not enough. She fails. And that's when you realize you should never take walking for granted.
But our girl, she will not give up. She is a survivor. She plugs on. She accepts another walking assignment and this time, she is going to be the star of the show, what they (supposedly) call in the business, a show-stopper. Expectations are even higher this time. Not only will she have to walk, but do an exceptional job of it. It is crunch time. And then, it is showtime.
It's her time to shine. She is up next. But she still has her doubts. "Can I walk?" she asks herself. After all, I did walk around all day today. And yesterday. And every day of the past twenty or so years. I walked to the grocery, to the laundry, to the bathroom. Once, I even ran, she muses with pride. It's not like I can't walk. But why can't I transfer my walking abilities onto this ramp? She is about to give it a try and then.... and then, disaster strikes. A telephone call. She is notified that one of her friends is dead of a drug overdose. Her legs go limp. And to add to that, it is now time for her to walk onto the ramp. Dimly, through her tears, she hears her friends, colleagues and gay philanthropic fashion designers exhort her to walk. How can they ask of her something so difficult at a traumatic time like this? Whoever's heard of such a thing? Time's running out. She needs to walk now or her walking career is over. She can almost see her legs in an ordinary salwar kameez instead of a micro-mini.
But it is darkest just before the dawn. Just before time runs out, she grits her teeth, pushes the sad away and walks out onstage. The crowd draws a sharp breath. This is the finest act of perambulation that they have ever been witness to. She turns to the camera, poses for it and smiles. She continues to pose and smile. She has walked this far. Now she has to walk back. Will she able to do it?
Of course she will. It's just walking, for fuck's sake. She turns and walks back, turns again, looks at the camera, re assumes her pose, smiles and waits for the other supermodels to join her onstage for the finale. She has done it. She has walked. Her life is finally back on track. She breaks down from exhaustion. She weeps and sways. Her fashion designer holds her close to keep her from falling. And the credits roll.
Walking. It's not just something people do when they have to go somewhere not far enough to use a vehicle. It is difficult and something not to be taken for granted. The next time someone asks you to just walk something off, just reply to them, why don't you just go fuck yourself?
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