Updating the hard-boiled detective drama in Castle and Bones; the modern Nancy Drew; urbanite grit & much, much more

It’s widely accepted that Moonlighting broke fairly new ground with its combination of mystery-solving, witty dialogue, and sexual tension between Maddie Hayes (Cybill Shephard) and David Addison (Bruce Willis). It’s also widely understood that Moonlighting’s ratings dived during the fourth season, leading to its cancellation.

Why? Commonly, it’s thought that it’s because it fulfilled the tension between the characters in the third season. Its’ contemporary Remington Steele didn’t fare that much better, dragging into a fifth and final season. But that’s not the only reason these series let their viewers down – it’s because both series relied too heavily on romantic tension as a foundational plot device.

Neither show was terribly kind to the women: Laura Holt (Stephanie Zimbalist) was forced to take on nameless, man-without-a-past, bad-boy Remington Steele (Pierce Brosnan) for the need to have a male partner in her detective business and Hayes was an ex-model, embezzled by her ex-accountant, and with debts to pay. Hayes needed Addison to resurrect one of her failing investments, Blue Moon Detective Agency, as well as to have a purpose in life post-modeling career. Needed. That’s the key word.

Navigating the “will they or won’t they” dynamic is tricky territory. I don’t think detective/crime-drama television series have come back this way since the 1980s. That is, until now: Castle (Andrew Marlowe) and Bones (Hart Hanson). Both series are finding very clever ways to sustain the dynamic, but more importantly to give it real progression.

Why are these two series succeeding where the predecessors failed? The story-telling is far better – with Castle often moving deftly like a Dashiell Hammett mystery and Bones ooing us and awing us with the details of forensic science and technology. It’s almost sci-fi, Stargate geeky. Each episode is equal parts National Geographic and psychological thriller.

However, ultimately, the success comes down to strong, in-depth lead characters as the core, engaging sub-plots, and fleshed out secondary characters . . . who can be foils, but not caricatures. Bones should be commended, next to Battlestar Galactica, for having one of the most racially diverse (and stunning) set of female characters.

Bones and Castle have as leads – strong, beautiful, intelligent, capable, women who do not need their male partners. The interdisciplinary partnership, however, enhances the overall ability to more effectively solve cases. Temperance Brennan (Emily Deschanel) is a brilliant forensic anthropologist teamed up with confident, intuitive FBI agent Seeley Booth (David Boreanaz) and Kate Beckett (Stana Katic) is a hard-boiled, tough, probably Ivy League-educated, NYPD homicide detective in league with insightful writer Richard Castle (Nathan Fillion).

I’m reminded of the best elements of the great noirs of the 1940s with Humphrey Boghart and Lauren Bacall (who were as equal to each other as one could be then). Castle and Bones succeed in part because yes – they are sustaining our curiosity on whether or not the two leads will get together. But only in part.

The dynamic is tricky because if it happens too soon, the viewers lose interest. If the producers wait too long, there is the danger the show will get canceled, or that the viewers will become frustrated and lose interest. My friend Stina asks the question – why have co-worker romantic tension at all? Yes, why have it indeed?

Well, because the dialogue, when executed well, is just marvelous. In Bones and Castle, not only is it intelligent in and of itself, the topic at hand is also intellectual. But a series that relies heavily on sexual tension between two characters, no matter the genre or content of the dialogue, will always fail. (A series that relies only on sexual tension between several pairs of characters is a soap opera - *cough* Grey’s Anatomy.) It may be fun, but it lacks substance.

Whatever happens in Bones, I will be satisfied knowing that Brennan and Booth have came this far – they have transformed each others’ lives. This is not just about witty dialogue and tension – it’s about a genuine friendship and a partnership – a true emotional bond with serious ramifications. Like relationships in my favorite novels, like Diana Wynne Jones’ Fire and Hemlock. Like a Miyazaki film, it sends shivers up your spine. Television rarely enters this territory.

As for Castle, the relationship between Castle and Beckett is so far, more playful. It’s always fun to see her cut him down in her Lauren Bacall/Katherine Hepburn sort of way and to see him catch her off guard. That said, the comic relief is mixed in with some very dark tones of murder cases as well as a sub-plot involving Beckett’s past. I think Castle explores the personal dynamics between those involved around the victim with excellent skill.


Castle is also a fantastic and clever example of life imitating art imitating life imitating art imitating… – and I’ve totally lost track. Moonlighting may have been a spoof of detective series. But Castle takes the best elements – breaking the fourth wall, extremely witty dialogue, and maintains the edge and grit of a real mystery.

Castle is a boyish, playboy, popular mystery writer, who is brought in by the NYPD to help solve a string of murders that mirror those in his novels. In the process, he meets his new inspiration (Beckett) and works out an arrangement (much to her chagrin) to shadow her as research for his new book. That book is actually on our bookshelves. Additionally, the show takes us outside of the homicide lounge and into Castle’s life, which includes his eccentric mother and charming teenage daughter. Castle brings the best elements of comedy sitcoms into a drama . . .which even a lot of non-detective dramas do badly.

It’s Beckett who remains the mystery – to Castle, and to the viewers. Not to mention she’s totally gorgeous with her dark brown hair and enormous green, heavy-lashed eyes, and legs to die for. And jackets to die for – I haven’t seen such great outerwear since Audrey Hepburn’s coats in Charade.

Once you develop great characters, not to say that the story writes itself; but, the viewers are far less likely to be disappointed by what or what does not happen between the leads. One tends to accept it and respects it as the choice of the characters. That my friends, makes a great detective yarn, a great romance, and simply, a great story that keeps me watching week after week. I haven’t had this much fun since reading Nancy Drew novels as a younger girl. And both Castle and Bones make me want to believe that an epic partnership could in fact potentially be real.

Sari Special

I love silk: chiffon, crepe, organza, china, georgette – you name it, I love it. Silk is an odd fabric, almost too delicate for normal handling, sensitive to rain, snow and heat, food elements, dry cleaning, other fabrics, nails, jewelry, and even its own embroidery. And yet, there’s no other fabric that’s quite as elegant or luxurious for a skirt, blouse, dress, scarf or shawl.

It’s natural that I’d love a sari. However, it was only last New Year’s that I would learn how to wrap or tie it on my own. I had just returned from an overdue visit to India, where I had selected several saris. Like language and cooking, it took lessons, from my mother. There are many ways to drape a sari depending on the region. I won't attempt to list all of them - I leave that to French cultural anthropologist Chantal Boulanger.

I myself am familiar with only two styles, which I have nicknamed “namba” (Tamil for “ours”), the predominant style in the South as well across the subcontinent, and the other mainly worn in the north, “Gujarati” since the first time I had seen it draped that way was amongst my counterparts of Gujarati origin.

There’s only a minor difference between the two: in the South, the “pallu” or the end is draped across the body then over the left shoulder, creating a streamlined fall at the back. And in the North, it is draped over the right shoulder, fanned out across the body, with a pretty, hanging J-shape at the back. The latter style is better suited for saris with extreme embroidery or beadwork. I have worn those the other way, but my left shoulder generally suffers for it. In both styles, the pleats for the skirt part are tucked into the petticoat at the waist.

I don’t find tying a sari very easy or intuitive at all. The first time I attempted it independently, it took multiple tries. I was sweating by the time I’d got into reasonable shape. I still had problems safety pinning the pallu to the blouse.

Furthermore, not all saris are created equally. For georgette silk, the pleats are easier to manage, the pallu is more watery (this is where I’ve had the most success). Saris with a lot of beadwork and embroidery on chiffon can be tricky because of the need to manage a light fabric while the ends keep getting weighed down. Chiffon with less beadwork can be equally as tricky to handle. Heavy silks are well...heavy.

The great part is when the silk gets caught in its own beads and you’re struggling to disentangle it all. Although, it's even better when figuring out exactly what to do with the slack, since sari tying involves much estimation: of height, pallu length, number of pleats for the “falls” as my mom calls them – probably not the technical term for the pleated skirt part which fans out like flower petals from waist to ankle. What part should one adjust? If there’s not too much slack, usually you can hide it— which is what I do!

The success to tying a sari is all about controlling the pleats with your thumb and index or middle finger. It’s actually tortuous pain. In the Southern style, the pallu is the easier part, particularly as there is a great deal of versatility in how you can drape it – it can be partially pleated, fully pleated and pinned, or left loose for a more informal, sexier look.

But perhaps, versatility is the watchword overall – a sari is an extremely versatile garment. And you never really know what and how works for you and the fabric until you yourself try it out. So, do what I did to supplement my lessons: watch these YouTube videos.



You may ask: why even bother? How often do I wear a sari – 5 or 6 times a year at best? It’s October and my 2009 tally will likely conclude at 4. Am I holding onto culture unnecessarily? No. Culture comes and culture goes, but I wear a sari for one predominant reason: because it makes me feel beautiful.

The quest for true, hypoallergenic makeup

Now that I’ve dead-ended in my quest for boots in the United States to fit skinny calves (Paris, Tokyo, and Geneva or custom-ordering are probably my best bets), I’m on to my quest for truly hypoallergenic makeup.

I’m allergic to most makeup. If I’m not allergic to it right away, then I will develop an allergy to it. I inherit this from my mother, who has for her entire life, worn very little make up besides Revlon powder, eye liner (kohl is normal for Indian women), and nail polish (yes, this is counted as makeup). Except my mom in her youth looked like a 60s model, bearing an uncanny resemblance to both Twiggy and Edie Sedgwick. I have no such luck.

Face:
Powder is usually not a problem – I find Neutrogena, Loreal’s mineral line, and even Revlon if I’m in a bind, to be more than adequate. Same with blush and bronzers – but I stick to Body Shop. I don’t use liquid foundation; it makes me feel like I’m not breathing.

Lips:
In most cases, I can’t do cream-based lipsticks. My lips are too dry and cream lipsticks dry my lips out. I tend to use gloss, stains, and in most cases, Vaseline. Chapstick is like Tylenol for me: pretty much, useless.

Eyes:

Eye shadow:
I have rabid allergies to most eye shadows. Revlon’s mineral shadows, Physician’s Formula, and Almay make my eyes itch. Estée Lauder and Lancome produce morning-after puffy eyes, even after removal the prior night. Clinique was okay for all of 6 months. Mac worked for a year. As of today, I’ve not made a firm decision to discontinue usage of Mac. It’s better than most, and I’m partial to their color Velvet, a wine/burgundy which is a nice alternative to brown and black for a smoky eye and which a makeup artist used on me the one time I modeled designer bridal gowns. Body Shop is the best and has caused me no problems so far: smooth application, great colors, no allergies.

Eye liner:
It’s not that I’m actually allergic to any liners, but I have great difficulty removing it once applied. And when I can’t remove it, then it causes irritation. My mom applies it on the inside of her under eye lid, which I have always been far too squeamish to do. My hands shake too much for proper use of liquid liner.

Mascara:
Ah, and now the apex of makeup troubles. I cannot do 99 percent of mascara. And yet, I love it. Maybelline Great Lash is terrific in theory and only $5 for the bottle. But, like cheap wine, I pay for it in the morning. Neutrogena is actually hypoallergenic; however, it’s so ineffective, I may as well not wear mascara. I went the medium-price route, trying Body Shop, which was good till it made my eyes itch and subsequently balloon. Though I have to note, while it seems illogical, the tube I bought in Johannesburg a few years ago was good; the one I bought in the U.S. was not. Could the formulas be different? My brief foray into Clinique mascara was horrific.

Wandering through duty-free at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, I shelled out 22 Euros for Dior Show. Which I absolutely loved for the dramatic look, but I developed mild allergies to that as well (and yes, I throw out mascara after 3 months when opened, as one is supposed to do). I would try Dior again since it’s been the best results-for-allergy trade-off so far. Today, I talked to a Mac makeup specialist; however, she directed me to Lancome’s Definicils. So I paid yet another $24 for hope. You ask why?!

Anyone who has seen me within handshaking distance would observe that my eyelashes are almost unparalleled in their thickness, length, and blackness. If Michael Jackson was Janet Jackson’s only comparison for dancing, my younger brother is my only comparison for lashes. In fact, I had a debacle with Cambridge Eye Doctors over the summer, when I chose a frame with a saddle bridge. My lashes hit the lens, and since they couldn’t adjust the frame to prevent it, I had to have an entirely new frame made. I can only get the distance with a nose bridge. Similarly, when I look in a microscope or telescope, all I see are lashes. It’s stupid when important bacteria and Saturn’s rings are being obscured by your own lashes. So why mascara?

Oh, but isn’t that the point? I melt when I see photos and clips of Aishwarya Rai or Audrey Hepburn with tremendously long and luxurious lashes. I don’t think one can ever have lashes that are too long or too thick. Infiniti is the limit.

The question of color:
While the makeup industry has come a long way from the days of when Iman, as the only black model on the runway in the 70s, could not find a foundation to match her skin tone, and while there are lines that cater specifically to women of color (like Iman’s own makeup, most of which I love and am not allergic to), good options for colors are not always in the mainstream brands. Clinique offers dismal choices. Mac and Body Shop are good, along with Revlon. A lot of colors aren’t formulated in ways that work. If not all pinks are created equal, they don’t apply equally either.

Lessons learned:
Upon advice from my mother, I stopped using makeup altogether for a week and found that my face was fresher, less lined, and less stressed out than before. So after putting you the reader through all that, I’ve decided to drop most makeup. Black and white film actresses used Vaseline for a dewy, glossy look. I tried it. It works. It’s also safe. Perhaps Vaseline, lip gloss, and a little powder, is all I need most of the time. Besides, as Scarlett O’Hara and Cleopatra have shown the world, beauty is 90 percent attitude.

And dark nail polish, of course.

Exploring South Asian identity politics & the art of the short story

Jhumpha Lahiri has a remarkable ability to charm the socks off her high-brow reviewers. "Lahiri is 'wow,'" says Caleb Crain for The New York Times, on Pulitzer Prize-winning Interpreter of Maladies. Colleague Michiko Kakutani calls The Namesake "a debut novel that is as assured and eloquent as the work of a longtime master of the craft."

I’ve tried to like Lahiri’s writing. I really have. I found Interpreter of Maladies to be beautifully written, but thematically tepid. I read a few pages of The Namesake and became irate with her generalizations of Americans and Indians. I perused a few stories in Unaccustomed Earth and nearly threw the collection out the window. Ah, the art of the short story! The exposition of identity politics!

I became so fed up with Lahiri’s focus on identity that I vowed to write short stories where identity politics were incidental and irrelevant to the story. In trying to mask the politics of identity, I think I missed the point. As recent events and conversations have revealed to me, identity politics are heated and salient as ever. It’s that Lahiri presents them in clichés, platitudes, and obsessions with infidelity and apathy. She also writes about a very tiny subset of Indians – first and second generation wealthy, Bengalis who have studied and/or live in the one mile radius of Cambridge, Massachusetts. I lived in Cambridge for two years – this profile isn’t even me.

Where are the other Indians? East Asians? Jewish people? Other Bostonians? (Oh wait, I forget that people in Cambridge hardly ever cross the Charles River). Young professionals outside the medical field? Almost nowhere to be found – it’s like they don’t even exist, exposing both the limitations of Lahiri’s personal experience and imagination. Lahiri’s angst isn’t the issue – her characterization of it is outdated. A friend of mine remarked to me, “You know where Americans are stuck? Mississippi Masala. People still ask me if my life is like that.” Let me remind readers that this Mira Nair film was released almost two decades ago. Identity politics and culture is mutable and ever-evolving.

Admittedly, Lahiri has a fine flair for expressing tragedy. However, her characters are recycled and under-developed. I keep thinking to myself “Thank gods, I am not these people.” Her protagonists are passive and lukewarm, and her command of suspense incredibly poor. Her stories give me so little hope. There is no triumph after struggle.

In many ways, film and comedy are well-ahead of the curve over literature. Nair's films have always been visionary. Bend It Like Beckham (Gurinder Chadha, 2002) is a film about South Asian identity politics; however, it’s also about the challenges young people face whenever they want to do something different. Harold and Kumar (Danny Leiner, 2004) is ground-breaking, because it’s really a story about two smart guys being total idiots. The cultural elements -- the pressure on Kumar (Kal Penn) to get into medical school and the need for Harold (John Cho) to stand up against his manipulative, fraternity-boy co-workers -- are presented through comedy. Comedian Russell Peters makes fun of Indian stereotypes and makes us laugh.

Short stories are difficult to write. An author has about 2500-5000 words to place point of view strategically, develop major and minor characters, frame the setting, spin the plot, and reveal the themes – in other words, to make the point. In my opinion, there are very few genuinely good short story writers: William Faulkner, Flannery ‘O Connor, Angela Carter, Edgar Allen Poe (who arguably invented the genre in English literature), and Anita Nair. Now there’s a South Asian writer you should read, along with Chitra Banerjee Divakuruni, who addresses domestic violence in her work. All the writers I mentioned incorporate the weird and gothic, strong elements of suspense, and/or even magical realism.

Why shouldn’t I write a collection of short stories focused on identity politics that is salient to my generation? Suddenly, the inspiration for stories and themes was all around me: pan-Asian identities; the relationships between first and second-generation South Asian peers; similarities in the immigrant story across cultures; where exoticism can turn out to be perceived as a liability for image-creation rather than an asset; the apparent success of Jewish-Indian romances; the paradoxical experience of being a third-culture kid; racial profiling; vulnerabilities in the workplace, where being young and a woman is equally problematic; and how class differences, of even the minutest kind, are often far more dividing than cultural ones or color lines.

Electing President Obama, who is white, black, second-generation, and a third-culture kid, is just a first-step; we as Americans still have a long, long way to go. The unfortunate fact is that humans are 99 percent similar to each other. Unlike Lahiri, who is obsessed with cross-cultural differences, I'm obsessed with cross-cultural parallels. The more I travel, the more I see that we are more similar than we are different. But we focus on the one percent that’s different: the one percent that causes all the conflicts, the one percent that is the reason for rich, cultural diversity in the world. “Identity politics are a whole lot more complex than they need to be,” I said to my friend with a deep sigh.

True lack of prejudice and worldliness is a necessary, two-way dream. To understand curiosities, one has to be curious. To be accepted, one has to accept. To globalize, one needs to be globalized as well. The real question is can we all get over ourselves in order to genuinely eliminate racial and cultural discrimination? I will not give up on the possibility.

A powerful short story of identity politics would be one which they are the undercurrent of the story and not the story itself. One in which the multiple layers of identity draw us together just as much as they pull us apart. The themes can (and perhaps should) be universal in nature. After all, as Lord Alfred Tennyson said, there are no new stories, only new ways of expressing them.

Addendum: Bride and Prejudice

Part Two of Rejection Served Up Three Different Ways.

When I first wrote that entry and discussed Liz Bennett's declining Mr. Darcy's affections, I had thought that there wasn’t an equivalent scene in Bride and Prejudice (Gurinder Chadha, 2004). There is a parallel; it just occurs much later in the narrative development than the other versions I've analyzed. This film oscillates between scenes of extreme hilarity and scenes of extreme awkwardness (funny for the wrong reasons); however, the rejection scene isn’t too bad.

Lizzy here, who is named Lalita (Aishwarya Rai) and Will Darcy (Martin Henderson) have just gotten over their mutual pride and prejudice and have started falling for each other. They walk into Lalita's best friend Chandra's wedding together only to run into Darcy’s mother. She’s opposed to Darcy’s liaison with Lalita not on account of the fact that she’s Indian (misunderstandings of that nature between Darcy and Lalita occurred at the beginning of the film, but they’d been gotten over by this point), but because Lalita’s family is far less wealthy. Darcy’s girlfriend, which it should be noted Lalita didn’t know he had, is also present. Lalita has also just discovered that it was Darcy who discouraged Balraj (Naveen Andrews) from proposing to Lalita's sister Jaya (Namrata Shirodkar) and is primarily devastated by this knowledge.

Given these immediate circumstances, the rejection scene takes on an extra poignancy and understandably, Lalita is angry. Rai is not an amazing actress, but Henderson isn’t a superb actor either, so their combined ingenuity makes the scene feel very natural. Instead of going off into a long, frustrated speech, Lalita’s brevity of response to Darcy’s confession of love is quite refreshing. She says, cool as cucumber, “Only you could say that you love me and insult me at the same time.” Lalita handles the scene with maturity and level-headedness that is distinctive from the other Lizzy’s.

The rejection scene actually starts at 2:30, but I provide the entire clip for context. Chadha was sharply tongue-in-cheek in including Ann’s mispronunciation of Lalita’s name. A similar circumstance has happened to me on a few occasions too. Except for me, it’s been “Evita… like Don’t cry for me Argentina?” My reaction: [. . .] followed by awkward laugh.



There’s also something very definitively Indian about Rai’s posture, tone, and manner in which she handles the scene. I’m not sure I can explain this properly -- perhaps some mix of keeping anger under wraps, wanting to save face, and just needing to leave an embarrassing situation -- except to say that I probably would have reacted the same way.

Lalita has more agency in this scene than the other Lizzy Bennet’s. She’s the one who walks away. The dramatic vocals that begin at 4:32 are quite typical of a Bollywood/Indian film. Lalita’s exit in the sheer white sari is also well done – although it’s not clear exactly where she’s going.

On Chennai: my retrospective

In December 2008, I returned to Chennai, India for the first time in 12 years. The minute I felt the thick humidity and sandy dust even in the midst of cool winter, it was like coming home.

But a decade changes any place. Lattice Bridge Road, the main road off the street where I had lived in Thiruvanmiyur, was nearly unrecognizable. If you asked me to give directions to my favorite bookstore Odyssey, which still existed, I could no longer do it. The roads were overflowing with cars, traffic was exponentially worse, and once plentiful bicycles were few and far between. I used to bike to nearby destinations every now and then just for fun – I’d never risk it now.

I think the most startling changes were the ascending of tall glass tower buildings, the kind you see in technology parks, which were almost all call centers, the disappearance of slums (I think they were just hidden or pushed out), and the profusion of cell phones – everyone, rich and poor, seemed to have one. At least at the urban level, there appeared to be some breaking of inter-generational cycles of poverty.

I lived in this chaotic metropolis for three years in the mid 90s. Even then it was a bustling city of four million (the population has since doubled), a drastic contrast from the manicured spaces of suburbia I had inhabited in Georgia. At the time there, the uphill battle had been proving I was American, whereas, in India, I couldn't downplay my U.S. nationality if I tried.

I went to a school that was run by Christians, so we had a daily assembly which ended with the singing of a hymn. I even had a hymn book – in fact, you were thrown out of line if you didn’t have it in your pocket. We were otherwise totally secular and multireligious. The student body was almost evenly split between Hindus, Muslims, and Christians, so we got out for all of the holidays. And instead of snow days, we had rain days during monsoon season, as the streets were sometimes so flooded that I dreamed of kayaking down them.

We had school from 8 a.m. to 1:40 p.m., with only a 15 minute break in-between. I was picked up by our driver and at home by 2 p.m. I would have lunch, breathe, change, and would be out the door again by 3:15 p.m. in order to make it to my 4 p.m. French class downtown at the Alliance Française. The journey took me 45 minutes. It takes well over an hour now. My peers in French class were mostly college kids – sometimes they took me out for ice cream after class. There were of course no cell phones, so I would ask the administrative office for a favor and call home hastily to let my mother know I would be late. I was 12 and 13 years old. Our poor driver was also my ad-hoc chaperon.

In many ways, my social life was far more vibrant and free than the one I had before, and more than the one that would follow later in high school. I had an unprecedented level of mobility. With my school friends, I was always going to houses, lunches, and dinners and parties in malls, recreational clubs, and restaurants in the city centre. I was quite aware I was moving in high circles compared to people living in abject poverty around me. This troubled me – in fact, I think the knowledge of this disparity pervaded so much into my conscious, I would later gravitate towards work in international development.

Even then, I placed a high premium on my freedom and independence. I had a bicycle, a purple Huffy mountain bike, which looked ridiculously out of place on the streets of Chennai, where bicycles were colored neutrally and built for speed and transport, high and with thin wheels. But the bike served me well across the uneven roads. Amidst great protest and total lack of understanding as to why I’d used it for transport when I had access to an air-conditioned car, I would bike to stores, to my math tutor’s house for classes, and on occasion to a friend’s house.

I would bike to vegetable markets and convenience stores to fetch groceries for my mother if no one else was around, picking up a bar of Nestle Crunch or Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut as my prize. Consumer choice was somewhat limited. I think toothpaste choice was generally confined to Colgate. At a time when quality baked goods were rare, I would run all over town to find the best cakes. Though, as the years went by, the presence of international products increased. It was the beginning of trade liberalization, market reforms, and deregulation of television and radio. Now you can get anything and everything you want. No need to smuggle Head & Shoulders shampoo and VCRs through customs, as we used to do.

Could I live here again? Of course. Chennai is modern, yet as my friend who I met with whom I had not seen in 12 years noted, it has managed to maintain its “rustic” quality in comparison to Mumbai. I was sitting outside at a café on Arundel Beach Road in Besant Nagar with her, chatting as we used to chat, enjoying a strawberry milkshake, and I felt completely in place. The only thing that truly bothered me was that with the traffic and lack of sidewalks, the main roads were not very safe to walk on anymore. I nearly got run over by a few auto rickshaws. I hesitated to come back for a decade, and I could take it no longer. I will never let another 12 years pass. My heart currently resides in Atlanta; I left a huge chunk of it in London and go back regularly; but I also think I left a part of it in Chennai.

On Layers

Layers can reveal complexity, like peeling away the layers of an onion. Layers can be protective, such as piling on clothes in sub-zero Boston weather. Layers can also be oppressive, like flakes of honey-drenched baklava, adding suffocating, cloying density.

I’m a second-generation American woman of Indian heritage. I am a woman, I am American, I am Indian, I am a Southerner, and I am an Anglophile. I am twice post-colonial. I do not consider any of these elements as being in contradiction with each other. Though the navigation can be complex, these “layers” have provided me with multiple lenses to view the world and tremendous opportunities to engage with it. Yet, there are other layers. I write of the things that are expected of us from family, friends, and society as we get older.

They say it’s the little things that you push you over the edge. I have traveled from Tangiers, Morocco to Algeciras, Spain at 2 a.m. on a cargo ship, was abandoned at the Dar es Salaam airport and had to find my way into town on a dead Sunday early morning, navigated sprawling Mexico City in local taxis knowing little Spanish, and nearly missed a ferry off Gorée Island, which would have stranded me in Dakar. I’m only a semi-reluctant adventuress; it takes a lot more than a few wrong turns to rattle me.

Earlier this month, I went to go see Monet’s “Reflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond” at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta. I barely made the exit from the highway. The 14th Street detour took me around in a circle. I ran several red lights, made a series of wrong turns, pulled to the side of 16th street with cars honking at me, and blocked the middle of the intersection of Peachtree and Tenth. A half-hour after I took the exit, I drove into the Promenade parking garage and burst into tears.

I think this ordeal finally brought out all of my uncertainties over the future. In just a short while, I will be out of a job, will not have an apartment, and my next geographical destination is as yet, undetermined. In the long term, I am expected to have a job that takes me into positions of leadership and influence, to be financially self sufficient, and to be married and have children (I have my doubts on both of these last counts). Though it is not expected, I also want to support my parents financially and morally in their old age.

When did life become so hard? When did hard work and solid qualifications not always pay off? I went to two pretty good schools and am wrapping up a job with a decent academic institution. Where is the clearing? Am I just being whiny? Or am I just losing hope and fast? If so, why? After all, I’m not an HIV-positive mother in Uganda barely able to make ends meet or a GM worker who has recently lost a job.

In a conversation with poetblue, she indicated that in college, there were far fewer expectations. We were expected to show up in class (if even that), impress key professors, and get good grades. However, as we move into the post-graduate and working world, there are many more actors and factors monitoring our progress and holding us accountable to our success. Suddenly, in a cultural universal, our parents who had left us in a collegial cocoon, want to see us “settled” in all senses of the word.

As Kate Bush writes mockingly in her song “Suspended in Gaffa”:
That girl in the mirror
Between you and me
She don't stand a chance of getting anywhere at all.



The mirror often laughs at me, chanting, trying to make me believe that some vital element lacks.

But wait just a second. I’ve been through more than this. The friend who introduced this concept of “layers” to me, herself lost her mother to cancer a few years ago. I know not a small number of friends and acquaintances who have lost parents. Life has thrown me a few curve balls too. When I moved to India as an adolescent, my pursuit of perfection precipitated a self-esteem dive. I became anorexic, lost just about half of my body weight, reached the point of serotonin-induced complacency, and nearly became a statistic. That took a few years and a great deal of resilience and persistence to get over. I haven’t developed a reputation for being as tough as nails without reason.

As Stevie Nicks has often noted of her cocaine addiction, there was no sudden epiphany. It just gradually occurred to me that I wanted to continue living. Moving back to the U.S. was no piece of cake either. Once an expat, always an expat. I found strength (and continue to do so) in my writing. I used to think that I cheated the Universe, and that it’s been trying to catch up to me since. I’ve stopped believing that, and I’ve started thinking maybe I was brought back from the brink for a reason, or many reasons.

Sometimes, I’m tempted to believe that I’d have more peace of mind and a greater sense of security if I took on fewer layers. There’s definitely a tradeoff. A fluid identity comes with a certain rootlessness, but I wouldn’t trade in my chameleon-like self for anything else. My refusal to identify myself as one thing and my choices has given me what I sought in the first place: independence and agency. As we face greater responsibility in multiple spheres, I’m not sure if there’s a benchmark for being “settled” or having fewer expectations. Maybe as my mom says in the cadence of the Eagles song, “Take it easy. Life is so. . . long.” To which I respond impatiently, “No, it’s not! That’s why I don’t have enough time to do everything I need to do.” Right, time-out.



On the issue of parents, they can only be a guide. Our friends can be supportive mirrors. Mentors can see the light in us and light our way. And society... to hell with society. Maybe not quite, but it was trying to live up to its conventions which led me into darkness before. There’s only one person whose expectations I need to live up to: mine. That girl in the mirror is my worst enemy and my closest ally. I’ll never be perfect, but I now know that’s ok. The adventure has just started. There are many more paths yet to travel. I recently told a friend that I can’t do everything; that I have to cut something.

“I think you should cut flossing,” he replied. Indeed. That’s about the only thing I plan to concede.

How do you sit on the dock of the bay?

Try It

So very blind in your beliefs
Idealizing American Dreams
Focused upon those golden seeds
so much that you just cannot see

Oh, sighing "hard work does not pay"
You blame yourself, "I'm so below the grade"
So you go back to the beginning
Rewriting all the lines for some better story

Try, it, oh, try, it
Try and visualize a different way of living
Try, it, hey, hey
Not all has to have the spouse, the kids, and a mansion.

You've got your Faith when you are down
And if you don't, you're stuck in doubt
But with best friends you'll come around
To understand that life is about
using the hand you're given
Not everyone must cross the same goal line
So when you feel luck has dried out
Remember having everything is not for everybody

Try, it, oh, try, it
Try and visualize a different way of thinking
Try, it, hey, hey
Not all has to want the spouse, the kids, the glory.

Perhaps now you just can't believe
That traditional scenes are not the only things
To have with your time on earth
Being famous, giving birth
Aren't for all human beings
So when you fail
At anything
And you're thinking that you
can't do any better
Hold on a second 'cause
You don't need to want like everyone else.

--yiqi Cinco de Mayo 2009 6:43 pm





The above quasi-parody (of this song) was inspired by a conversation I had with a good friend. In light of the economic state of the nation and other factors, a significant amount of chaos has filled her life in recent months. Not knowing where one will live, work, or call home is nothing new for a lot of people. For my friend, a nomad at heart, it has become as familiar as the creases in her favorite pair of jeans.

Her day job has required her to cross time-zones at the drop of a stencil, going from hemisphere to hemisphere more times in the last year than I have gone globe-trotting in my entire twenty-eight years of existence. The physical and mental fatigue that has been building as a result of this travel has left my friend on the lower end of life's highs and lows. Nevermind when your puppy gets hit by a car, when your favorite TV show gets canceled and will not be on DVD any time soon, or when your preferred postman takes a new route, physiological exhaustion pulls the spirit into depths of despair and despondency with greater efficacy than even that which hurts more.

Being on the move, having the stamina to move around geographically and intellectually has taken a toll on her. In conversations over the weeks, I threw out the images of an anchor, a captain, a lighthouse, and a boat. I emphasized the image of the "anchor," as something that she can always go back to...something or someone that will always be there. No matter how crazy life gets, the anchor will be there.

Today, she remarked, "somewhere along the line, I forgot I was an artist--I forgot to engage it. I think that's my anchor. It has to be, because I have to take the anchor with me wherever I go. I'm reading this book about Elizabethan pirates and their boats sank all the time. Stable boat = permanence, but maybe my "stability" lies in the anchor. You can anchor anywhere with any boat".

I expanded upon her comment.

Most people spend their lives getting the anchor, the boat, and learning how to be an adequate captain to a first mate. Even when they realize they can't have it all, they don't realize that the boat can be interchangeable. The boat is school, work, community activities, etc; it is assumed to be the most stable, the first priority, and should be the most long-lasting. First mates can come and go, captains can come and go, but a boat is forever.

But no--a boat is not forever, not necessarily and not for everyone.

The components of the American dream, the conventional aspirations, doesn't have to be for everyone.

My question has always been...well, why couldn't these people just realize it? But life wouldn't be as exciting, would it? if everyone walked around knowing the value, functionality or the quirks of the cards they are dealt?

American values, American traditions promote the desire to be someone great, to do something amazing, and even if you aren't rich, you can leave behind a legacy and change the world. Marrying, having children, traveling, and so on and so forth...you list enough items and you get the spectrum of needs to conventions to luxuries.

So the anchor is actually not whatever floats your boat, but rather whatever keeps you from capsizing. Having a good anchor and being a self-sufficient captain...is crucial. Yes, a first mate would help, a lighthouse would too, but if you can't have both, you could have one. If you have neither first mate nor lighthouse, you'd need a line up of destinations and a stable boat. If you have no particular destination in mind, your boat could be the foundation of your existence, or an implement, a tool.

Living and surviving are about not capsizing in the water or getting swept into sea if you're still on dry land. Society teaches us that we should want it all, and why not, right? But if we can't have it all, we would make do, right? We'd learn how to get on with what we do and do not have. Some people realize this before they're old enough to enjoy lower auto insurance rates. For others, though, it's a lifelong lesson.

The sooner you realize the following, the mission of not capsizing becomes less burdensome:

A. You can't necessarily have it all (nor must you want it all).
B. Whichever pieces you have is as much about where you are (in life) as it is what kind of captain you are.
C. Chance, fate, happenstance, etc. contribute
D. Identify your anchor and know what kind of captain you are.
E. You don't have to be a different kind of captain in order to sail the high seas. If you want to be and work at it, and find positive results, then great. If not, perhaps you need to find another boat (or distribute the weight across your boat in a more efficient manner), a better anchor, or a lighthouse.



I am my friend's lighthouse. She is my anchor. My other good friend is the beach. I hopscotch between water and land. I don't want to "go anywhere," so i don't need a "boat." Actually, I do have a boat, but it's on land. It's like a museum piece, an artifact of a past life.

I ask you, who or what is your anchor? Do you have a lighthouse? What kind of boat do you have?

Unseen forces, your dogs, your favorite sports teams, your grandparents....there is no right or wrong answer.

Bollocks to the Patriarchy but Romance can be unconventional

Twilight tulips iridescence.

I have not read the books nor seen the film yet (will do so on the morrow). I love Kristen Stewart, so I won't be in the cinematic experience for quality or life-shattering wisdoms. Speaking of which, I absolutely adore Pete Vonder Haar's review of the film.

I have to give a couple of excerpts some attention. Pete remarks:

With his yearning eyes and tortured past, Edward is the romantic ideal for most 13-year old girls (and some boys): he’s androgynously gorgeous, has a dope ride, and doesn’t want to do anything but talk about your feelings and snuggle. It would appear that in addition to robbing his brood of their need for blood, Carlisle also removed their balls.

Indeed. The Byronesque Brooder is the object of many an adolescent girl's lust and adoration.

This quaint fantasy of the boy putting the brakes on would never fly in a traditional romance, hence the “vampire” angle, and the first half of the movie is devoted almost exclusively to the pair’s budding courtship. Unfortunately, this translates into scene after scene of Bella and Edward gazing longingly at each other – in the forest, up a tree, beside the cold and lonely sea – before any real tension develops.

Not everyone wants a traditional romance. Aside from the debate surrounding the efficacy of the abstinence-only approach to sex and sexuality education, why must all hormonally driven youths become sexually active? Is there still nothing equally or more satisfying to do when two people really like each other?

Furthermore, only in films do sparks between two individuals lead to the expression of that attraction a montage or two after sparks are depicted (or by the end of the film if a romantic comedy is involved). In real life, some people only have eye contact, smiles, and silently acknowledged mutual attraction (intellectual, emotional, physical, all of the above, or some other combination) because neither person wants to make a move...out of fear or paranoia or, in the words of Andrew Marvell, a bond that is "the conjunction of the mind but the opposition of the stars".

They're taken already.

The message is clear: don’t inconvenience that handsome boy who was so gallant in resisting your base urges by also straying beyond the boundaries of domestic complacency.

In other words: a female can have a male who profoundly loves her and will not impose his pro-creative instincts on her but if, and only if, she effectively erases her own sense of self and exists only for his well-being.

Oui ou non.

Definitely, bollocks to the patriarchy.

The oft maligned elegant lady of post-jazz: Sade Adu

By most people's categorization standards, Sade Adu's music is "easy listening" or "lounge jazz" (a kinder way of saying "elevator music"). The lyrics, "coast to coast/LA to Chicago/west of Maine," from arguably her most well-known song "Smooth Operator" invokes an intercontinental tone can comes off as goofy to American listeners. Her music is oft maligned for being schmaltzy and vacuous. For all the nay-sayers, I advise they listen more closely.

Sade’s music has an excellent sense of rhythm, often makes use of Latin beats including bossa nova and African grooves, and is intelligent and sexy. Lyrically, she has a way of diving very deep into your soul with lines like:

"If you were mine, I wouldn't want to go to heaven" (“Cherish the Day”)
“I’d wash the sand off the shore. Give you the world if it was mine.” (“Paradise”)
"I'll give you my love, I'll give you everything I feel inside...surrender your love to me." (“Give it Up”)
“My love is wider than Victoria Lake. My love is taller than the Empire State.”
(“Is it a Crime”)

Who says the best “love poetry” is written by men? I listen to those lyrics and just sigh – would that I could feel that way about a man, is the thought that comes to mind. I often wish that more women be that direct and courageous about the intensity of desire. In that respect, on the lyrical front, I can compare her to Stevie Nicks.

In concert, she’s surprisingly dynamic. With her smooth complexion, high forehead, and eyes that stare right into you, her stage presence is charismatic. She is only 5’7; however she looks incredibly tall. People with long legs, long necks, and long arms get away with murder when it concerns height. She is no dancer, nor is her music really danceable, but she moves well with it, feels it as it is her own, and even barefoot, is amazingly elegant.

Sade’s sense of style is impeccable. It’s at once evocative of old screen legends such as Katharine Hepburn (for the more male elements), Audrey Hepburn (for the un-fussed simplicity in color and form), and Lauren Bacall (for the film noir-ish mise-en-scene), but at the same time deceptive. She wears black trousers and high-necked, long-sleeved turtlenecks with the back completely open or kimono-like dresses, but with slits high up the leg. I think it’s very reflective of the sense of mystery mixed with sex just below the surface. It’s very clever – it’s about covering it all up so that the skin you do show has that much more effect. And at 49, she looks beyond amazing.

Sade was in a genre of her own in the 1980s – next to Duran Duran, U2, and Madonna, no one compared. Indeed, Sade owes a lot to her predecessors – Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Stevie Wonder, and even Diana Ross and Astrud Gilberto just to name a few. I think however she deserves major credit for writing a form of jazz that is lyrically lovely, only marginally in tune with the 80s and 90s, and allusive of the 1940s. It’s completely anachronistic, yet totally irresistible.

An underrated little gem: Stevie Nicks' Street Angel

Don't judge an album by the artist's life at the time of its production.

Stevie Nicks' 1994 release Street Angel was dismissed by the majority of critics as being insipid and stale. I listened to it for the first time over 10 years ago on cassette, and perhaps I was over-influenced by the comments. I found myself at Cheapo Records in Central Square, Cambridge the other evening, looking for used CDs while waiting for my take-away dinner at the Indian restaurant next door. At $3.99, I had to buy a copy, as it's the only Stevie studio album I don't own.

Of course, quality of sound differs greatly on a CD opposed to cassettes (does anyone even own a tape recorder anymore?). The CD possesses high-quality production values that are superior in fact to Rock a Little (1983) and even to Wild Heart (1983) – though not superior to the songs.

Overall, these are beautifully written songs from the catchy pop sound of "Blue Denim" to the poignant "Greta" (alluding to the screen goddess) and the wistful "Maybe Love Will Change Your Mind." Even her cover of the Bob Dylan classic "Just Like a Woman" is well done. If ever there was a woman with the voice to cover a Dylan song, it is Stevie. The take-it or leave-it attitude and open-road feeling of "Kick It" is very satisfying. In fact the only sub-par song on the record is "Jane," her tribute to anthropologist Jane Goodall. Something about the line "the forgotten chimpanzee" makes me cringe, even if the song was well-intended (sorry, Stevie). Most surprisingly, the songs are contemporary for mid 90s popular music, along the lines of Natalie Merchant. Admittedly, her voice was *not* in the best of conditions, but I do love the gravely, lived-in sound, and where she is unable to hold the verse on her own, her long-time back-up singers Sharon Celani, Lori Nicks, and Sara Fleetwood, more than adequately support her vocals.

In retrospect, it almost appears that the reviewers dismissed Street Angel on account of the personal troubles in Stevie's life – she was at the time, overweight and fighting a drug addiction. Her voice was not in the best condition. They seemed to have thrown the record out with the woman, as it were. Street Angel showcases a calmer Stevie and a thoughtful songwriter with excellent rhythm (as always) and exceptional musicality.

A Barrel of Laughs as we Tip Our Team

Random stops along the information super driveway.




Numero Un:

Forget the right to die, try the right to refuse medication on for size.


Numero Deux:

A newfound respect for the suit.


Numero Trois:

Admit it. You would care if they were all gone. You would be sad.


Numero Quatre:

Does your baby count as a living creature?


Numero Cinque:

Brother, can you spare a ride?


Numero Six:

Preventive measures or 'I'll deal with it later'.


Numero Sept:

So much to do, so few ideas or time.

You're not fully clean unless...

I was reading Dr. Sanjay Gupta's blog post memorializing Michael DeBakey, a surgeon Dr. Gupta called a "medical legend." One of the comments from a medical student says that Dr. DeBakey said in a Q&A session many years ago that his biggest regret was wasting too much time. How anyone considered a pioneer in their field can think they have wasted too much time speaks of either tremendous arrogance or almost saintly humility. In Dr. DeBakey's case, who credits his mother's sewing instructions as the key to his success as a surgeon, I'm willing to bet it was the latter.

In my career, I doubt I'll be saving any lives, but I am highly likely to be wasting quite a bit of time. There's the 10 minutes I waste every day listening to Ann Curry gush uncontrollably every morning while I wait for my local news and weather; the hour I spend tooling around on the Interwebs every evening, looking for nothing in particular; and the untold weekend days where I can't seem to get up before 11, then lay in bed for two hours reading trashy books, only to finally get washed, quaffed, dressed and ready to meet the world by 4pm.

Did I do the laundry? Nope..but I still have some clean undergarments so I guess it can wait until next week. Did I go through the mail? Nope, but the stack on the kitchen table hasn't fallen over yet, so it can wait another few days. Did I exercise? Nope. Woke up too late and then ate too late, and who wants to go to the gym on a Saturday night??

Of course, the amount of wasted time in my life is nothing compared to the useless junk taking up space in my brain. There is a scene in Jim Henson's iconic film Labyrinth where Sarah is dreaming about searching for her brother and finds herself in a junkyard. An old woman tries to distract Sarah by offering the girl all of her favorite toys from childhood. Eventually, Sarah remembers what she has come for and yells something to the effect of "I want my baby brother!" (Sorry guys, no youtube luck, though I tried).

This scene haunted me as a child, and even still gives me the heebie jeebies as an adult. In a way, I wonder if my mind isn't a big junkyard, filled more with advertising slogans than literary passages, juicy celebrity gossip instead of complex philosophical concepts.

For example, the other day, I noticed a frozen food lunch my boss was eating. It was Thai peanut chicken or something, in a "zesty" sauce. I thought to myself, "Zesty--that's a word for green things like, cilantro, pesto.... and Zest soap."

I actually spent a few minutes wondering why "zest" the name for the soap means something like enjoying or relishing an experience; but the simple addition of a "y" to the end of the word evokes images of Latin food. Certainly "zesty" wasn't the right world for things with peanuts in it, and although the mango flavored Zest was a tremendous failure, I still stand by my belief that it would have worked if they had kept the soap green.

All this, and I could have been contemplating a solution to our country's current economic difficulties, or learning a new word like "piquant."


Maybe, I simply don't have the mental stamina for such intense intellectual musings. Or perhaps I can blame it all on Corporate America.

DeBakey didn't grow up with television and failblog. He didn't grow up in a world where every waking moment was a bombardment of marketing strategies aimed at convincing you consciously or subliminally to become another lemming.

I can't help it if I grab the Sunny D from the fridge and think to myself, "It's not OJ or the purple stuff." The jingle just eeks out of me, perhaps like a maestro finds himself humming the Moonlight Sonata when driving at night.

What I'm really arguing is that the consumerist culture that pushes Prada and iPhones on my generation and American Girl Bistros and Guitar Hero on the one after me is making us dumber. Certainly, others have wondered the same thing.

So, my brain, which has infinitely less capacity than the late Dr. DeBakey's has no chance against all the catchy slogans and sitcom theme songs that have been engineered, focus-grouped, and triple-tested to stick in the deep nether regions of my consciousness--and the equation for finding the area of a circle and the definition of a gerund are not. And that urban legend that we use only 10 percent of our brains during the day? Untrue. So much for the possibility of finding an alien technology that could help me remember my shopping list.

And this blog? Has it been a waste of intellectual energy and time? You tell me.

In between the dark and the light: memory before time

While listening to Pandora radio recently, a lovely Heart song called “There’s the Girl” came up. It’s not on the greatest hits compilation I own; however, I subsequently recalled hearing it occasionally on the radio as a little girl. All of this brought to mind something I’m calling musical memory. Not memory of playing a piano piece learned per se (I guess, which is muscle memory too), but more one’s unconscious memory of a song – or set of songs.

Almost always, I can trace back the time or era of my life in which I was first aware of a musical artist I like. I remember listening to Michael Jackson when I was 3 or 4 years old (this, the Challenger disaster, and the time I saw through my bedroom window, a flock of hundreds of birds carpeting our lawn in Yonkers, New York in a migratory pit stop, make up some of my very first, if not truly first memories).

I remember first paying attention to The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, and the Velvet Underground – all mostly off my radar until I was in my teens and going through my enjoyment of all classic rock. Those were the days when I wouldn’t turn off the radio when Led Zeppelin came on (sorry, I like them, I do- they just give me a headache a lot of the time.)

I never had this moment with the Eagles. It’s not that I especially love them. I don’t adore them unconditionally the way I do Fleetwood Mac, whose songs sometimes rip out of my heart, throw it on the floor, and then proceed to step on it. I don’t appreciate them the way I do the tunes of Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers – romantic and gritty at the same time. Nothing to hold par with the brilliance of the “oh, my my/oh hell, yes” refrain in “Mary Jane’s Last Dance.” I don’t connect with their lyrics or orchestration the way I do with the raw, elemental power of Kate Bush which makes me want to spin and spin until I collapse. I even like hip Japanese pop artist Namie Amuro much more.

Yet, every time I listen to an Eagles song, it’s like coming home. There’s never a conscious “Oh, I heard this first when I was 5 years old” or “I started liking them when I was 10.” It’s like there was never a time when these songs weren’t in my memory. I always knew of them. No, no, I do not go into a trance like Elaine’s date does in Seinfeld when listening to “Desperado.” It’s just a simple, yes I know this song and have always known this song – there is no time I was not familiar with the ritualistic, drum intro of “Witchy Woman,” the waltz beat of the country-laden “Take it to the Limit,” or the depressed bass-line underpinning the bluesy “One of These Nights.” These songs need no explanation – they are just there, part of my unconscious.

For many years, I vaguely wondered about this effect and suffered my dad playing their Greatest Hits compilation all the time and attempting to sing. Until one day, my mother said very blithely in Tamil, “Oh, not this again. Your dad played this record all the time in the house when I first came to the country.” It is to be noted in 1980, when my mother moved to New York, the Eagles had already split up. And suddenly, it made sense to me.

Though I know that the fetus can listen to music while in the womb, I don’t know if it’s even possible to have a memory of something experienced before you were born – but if that is possible, then this it. Sartre would say that essence does not precede existence, but for whatever it is worth, this is my memory before time.

Bringing Up Baby

I have noticed that just as heroes, cowards, and religious zealots are made in a foxhole, every man's mettle and faith is tested when he is asked to hold a baby. Perhaps it is good that none of us remember being crowd-surfed for kisses. After all, I am sure we have all been exposed to our fair share of danger at the hands of smelly or frightening relatives who have no children and referred to us as "it"--largely in the context of: "it needs to be changed," "it spit up on me," or "it started crying, you'd better take it back."

Perhaps older generations have more excuses. Propriety demanded our grandfathers and great-grandfathers shun any and all knowledge on pregnancy and childbirth--an ignorance that would put today's six-year-olds to shame.

While American men are not nearly as blissfully unaware as their forefathers, thanks, in part, to tasteful and educational movies like "Junior" and "Knocked Up", the single, sub-30, male relative of a new arrival may have no better idea how to hold a baby than how to make a quiche.

Baby-holding pre-dates the wheel and fire--but single guys still haven't gotten it right. Was it a deeply rooted fear of a tiny wailing thing that sent the men off to hunt wolly mammoths instead of indulging in berry picking? I mean, what man doesn't relish every opportunity to sit near a food source and eat?

Truly, little has changed since the homo sapiens walked the earth. Men from pre-history to the apocalypse still try to smash something that doesn't work and they fall into three main categories when they are asked to hold a child for the first time:

The 007: This man is too suave. He's never picked up a child in his life but he's suddenly asking burping and feeding like a pro--showing his mad skillz off to any hot chick who will watch. You hate this man. He would never be unruffled at 3am with the third feeding of the night or ever get his shirt stained with applesauce reflux.

The Hail Mary: This guy thinks it's fun to throw a baby up in the air 12 feet and catch him/her one-handed. If you voice any concern, you're likely to be told he's "got 'em" and to "quit being so protective...you'll never raise an first-round pick Falcon that way!"

The Wuss: He won't buy tampons at the store or even want to be in the same room as a breast pump. If you give him a baby, he'll hold it at arms' length and be quick to pawn it off on someone else. For him, babies are a contaminant, oozing out "commitment" germs wherever they touch or grab.

While 007 has his game on, you may be doing your cousin Sandy a favor by giving the baby something that smells particularly bad when it comes out the other way.

As for Hail Mary, you can rescue your child by asking him to explain the Falcons third-quarter play the other night (assuming this is football season, feel free to use basketball, or baseball alternatives as necessary). Put an appopriately innocent expression on your face and take the baby from him once he starts talking. Hail Mary won't notice the baby's gone becaus he'll be too busy gesturing with his hands about how so-and-so rushed center and Joe Bob fumbled at the 10 yard line...or whatever.

Finally for Wuss, the easiest option is to go out for the night and leave the baby in his care. Pretend like you had understood he'd agreed to babysit, not just come visit. He'll call around 9:30 and beg you to come home, during which time you are free to request any favor you actually need.

Product Differentiation

In the world of retail and commerce, originality, quality, and appeal of merchandise must be carefully formulated and executed so that potential customers and patrons do not feel alienated, confused, belittled, discriminated against or unimpressed. Depending on the product or service offered, price can influence the degree of the public's enthusiasm.

Thriving in clothing or restaurant businesses, for instance, requires an adherence to already established standards and products on the content level, but to exceed everyone else in content quality and presentation (using better materials and ingredients, maintaining a healthy relationship with employees, hiring quick-thinking staff). A white blouse might be a white blouse no matter how you cut it, but it must look good and fit properly. Similarly, a hamburger may be two buns and a beef patty no matter how you bite into it, but it needs to taste a certain way. Business persons who want to re-invent the wheel are certainly free to do so, but unless quality and appeal outweigh potential confusion, the only response they'll get is "don't fix what isn't broken."

A hamburger with baguette bread? Hmmm....I know it's served this way in a few dining establishments, but if you re-think the bun but don't re-think the beef, you're probably going to get fewer repeat customers.

It dawned on me today that as much as human beings yearn for acceptance and a sense of belonging in a larger group, the desire to be unique is strong enough to alienate the audience. The thought actually originated with thinking about goals and dreams I've tossed to the wayside due to the sheer impracticality of retaining them. Specifically, to seek and acquire the kinds of emotional bonds I've craved for a long time.

America was founded on principles of self-agency and individuality, among others. Reclining beneath the "life liberty, and pursuit of happiness" tenet is the notion that being better than everyone else (or sometimes just different in a rewarding way) is preferable to being just like everyone else. Dance to the bass line of your own groove; snack to the percentage of your own sodium needs; read to the themes and plotlines of your own preferences. In terms of self-expression, being different (unique) is commendable and frequently refreshing. With respect to human interaction, however, being unique has a tendency to get lost in transmission.*



I pride myself on being different--to the extent that I must risk coming across as disarming or plain weird. While I wouldn't necessarily alter my behavior or favorite conversational topics just to increase the chances I can reclaim those discarded dreams, I understand now that the reason I've failed on every mission is that I am unique rather than above average. Someone who is unique might be the best in the time zone, but this person is also unpredictable intellectually, emotionally, and behaviorally.** Someone who is above average will be the best in the room (and even zip code) and is much more predictable. By no means is this kind of predictability steeped in convention or monotony. Someone who is above average can be every bit as original and new as the unique. The difference is that the unique person functions along a separate source of motive and intent as well as modus operandi. The above average person exhibits the same motive and intent as the average, but his/her modus operandi can differ.

For people trying to make connections, originality, quality, and appeal are less daunting when you know what is likely to be behind the curtain. How many people are willing to venture towards the unknown?





*Excepting cases where your deviations from societal norms are shared by enough (analog or digital) people such that you don't feel completely alone.

**I realize that a unique person can become predictable given enough time. If you spend enough energy and time with such an individual, you can better comprehend them and anticipate how they will react to a number of situations.

Rio Reiterated

It opens like a steel knife slicing and segues into an entrancing cacophony of sounds that is disorienting and provoking. I think I’ve got it figured it out, but listening to Duran Duran’s “Rio” is always like I’ve never heard it before. In fact, I’ve heard it many times, but I’m forever amazed at how it sounds *different* every time I hear it.

Sometimes I choose to pay attention to the bass line that underpins the song. Other times, I concentrate on the pulsing drum beat. In some instances, I focus on the waterfall-like, flittering melody of synthesizer. A lot of the time, it is Simon Le Bon's beautiful voice with its almost piano-flat, oblique intonations, that captures my attention. And other times, it’s the grating, electric guitar, which grounds the song into a tangible reality. Interspersed with all this are bird-like sounds in the background, a saxophone interlude bridging the song, and the sound of a woman’s laughter, sharp and ringing, almost mocking.

The tone of the song begins with a cool indifference, “cherry ice cream/I suppose it’s very nice.” It builds a driving energy and then cascades. By the time you’ve reached the end, you feel a little more reckless, ready to dive in, to take a risk, because “luck is on your side or something.”

“Rio” proves to be as simultaneously satisfying and as frustrating as the elusive, titular woman of the song. You think you’ve found it, only to have it escape from your grasp . . .

“Who is Rio anyways?” asked a male friend of mine once. “That’s what I want to know.”

I just shrugged & smiled.

Farewell, My Column Scribe and the Price of Aggression

Sydney Pollack.

Jim McKay.

And now Stan Winston.

Gone.


<~>


I was looking through an old email account and found the following saved as a draft. I don't remember where I was going to post it, so I'm putting it here:


So many filmmakers make "war" films about the futility of war. Do politicians ever listen? No.

No matter how passionately filmmakers or other artists voice their "war is good for nobody" mentality, there's always going to be war. Still, some people say that accepting "theres always going to be war" doesn't help.

What I liked about Taegukgi (Kang Je-Gyu, 2004) is the idea that maybe people shouldn't be soldiers of ideologies if it's not just about defending your country. I think what the director was really trying to say was "civil war should not be..."

One of the making-of featurettes mentionedhow disconcerting and sad it was that your enemy spoke the same language as you...and before the US and the Soviet Union made their tension "official," the fight between capitalism and socialism was happening in Korea.

So then I thought, 'But hey, we had the civil war....there were families broken up. What about the Revolutionary War....families were broken up there too." Whenever there's a conflict of interests between humans, it always gets ugly.


The theme song of Taegukgi: "Oori" (We). Performed by BoA.

On Clubbing

There isn't always safety in numbers because you could be stuck with a lousy set of numbers. As I've realized recently, one can be surrounded by people and still feel alone. Among the places where a person can feel this sort of isolation (a waiting room, a classroom on the first day of school, a subway car), a nightclub heightens it like no other place.

Thus, I don't like clubbing or even going 'out' to dance. I don't believe I ever have.

There have been moments where I've enjoyed it— most memorably, an evening out with close friends when I went to Atlanta sushi-bar-turned-night-club Aiko, where I was wearing was wearing sky-high stilettos for the very first time. Earlier in the spring, I found myself at a popular Boston club non-elegantly called the Liquor Store. I dressed to emulate Audrey Hepburn— it's not important why– in a black shift dress, pumps, and a black wide-brimmed hat. Several college-aged boys walked by me and lifted the brim of the hat to get a better look at me, which I found most vexing. A once-over was all they wanted.

Environments that aren't conducive to conversation don't make sense to me. For this reason, I end up feeling intensely alone in a club, because I'm enveloped by people that don't invite communication. Simultaneously, I’m unable to talk to my own friends. It’s like being under the sea and breathing silently, talking and drawing in water instead.

I find it unsettling to dance in clubs. Club dancing, like courting, is a mating ritual. If the dancing doesn't involve hip-hop (where it's more about self-expression), then you're left feeling very self-aware of your body's weight and motion. Any other kind of dancing (choreographed or not) is about so much more than a "come hither." If I'm going to be dancing, I desire structure and rhythm (as I unconsciously desire it in poetry), which is probably why I loved ballroom when I had lessons in college.

To me, any non-choreographed dancing is the most fun and fulfilling when it's simply about one's reactions to music with a good bass-line, a certain tempo, and occurs amongst people who don't care if you can't 'carry a tune' with your body. Think dormitory parties celebrating birthdays, All Hollow Eves, New Year's, and themed parties. I was around a lot of people (some I knew and some I didn't) and never felt alone. Parties at our own apartment enabled my friend & I to pull capers like sneaking in “West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys, regardless of the theme or music.*

In these settings, it doesn't even matter if the music isn't even good for dancing. The party itself isn't always the most anticipated part of the evening. What I've always enjoyed most about the process is the lead-up-- getting dressed, going over to a friends’ places, chatting, having a little bit to eat and drink, the drive over, and perhaps mostly, Waffle House afterward (this is a Southern thing). Or more recently, the few minutes I shared with a friend while sitting on a bench at the Boylston T-stop waiting for a friend of his to arrive. We had a chat filled with non-sequiturs as usual, and I was at ease.

Clubbing is banal, freestyle dancing isn't always enjoyable. Could you concur? Can you see what I see in this observation?

Century Fille's own YiQi C. has noted that when someone like me makes this kind of realization, a waiting audience sees nothing but logic and sense in it. In contrast, when she make such claims --and then proceeds to say that 90 percent of what social people find fun (like amusement parks and mini-golfing) she finds completely not fun— she is cast as the brooding gothic even though she’s not decked out in emo gear. She says it must have to do with the differing vibes we give off. She is perceived as a party pooper, whereas I appear the wise one who has stumbled upon the truth that bumping & grinding on a dance floor (for the sake of being seen and not to spend time with friends per se) isn't fun. I say it has to do with my higher tolerance for and adaptability to sub-optimal environments. However, this also comes with my lower ability for discerning the sub-optimal situation in the first place.

It's not only that I do not like clubbing, I find it a colossal waste of my time. I'd rather be out for drinks and dinner. Or just dinner. Or coffee. Or at a quieter lounge. Or shopping. Or at home with a good book or an academic journal. Not to suggest I can't be enticed out to an 80s night every now and then— it’s just very unfortunate during my last opportunity to do so, I decided to take a nap before going out, watched some of the mind-blowing Battlestar Galactica mid-season finale, fell asleep during it, and then managed to somehow make it through Doctor Who to catch up again with my favorite colonials & cylons at the midnight hour.**

* No matter how loud you turn up the volume on this song, it is impossible to dance to.
**I’m an Anglophile, sensitive to British humor, and I don’t get Doctor Who.

In the Head : Outside the Body

Some may beg to differ, but thought does not equal action.

Something I scooped from the internet:

Orientation is not Behavior

Orientation is who/what gender one is attracted to. This applies to both sexual and romantic orientation. Who you are attracted to does not necessarily determine how you act towards those individuals. Personally, I do not believe that orientation is a choice. However, I do believe that one's orientation CAN change multiple times over the course of one's life, though it does not HAVE to change.

Behavior is how you act towards people, in romantic and sexual contexts. One is more likely to pursue an individual that one is attracted to, but there are countless other factors that will determine couplings/intimate relationships (some examples of these other factors; familial pressure, societal norm, religious law and custom, fear of rejection, holding another value in higher priority to sexual behavior or preference). Personally, I believe that behavior is entirely within one's own control, and that no-one else is to be held accountable for romantic or sexual behavior (with the exception of situations involving coercion or force). I believe that one's behavior CAN change multiple times over
the course of one's life, though it does not HAVE to change.


One's orientation does not determine behavior, though it will most likely influence it.


Homosexuals and bisexuals in the past have had to deny their orientation in their behavior due to societal norms. They have had to behave as heterosexuals in order to avoid persecution. This does not mean that they are not bi/homosexual, just that they do not display bi/homosexual behavior. If their behavior changes, it does not mean they have 'become gay'; it simply means that they have chosen a certain way to act in certain situations.

Sexuals do not always follow a sexual life style. Taking religious dedication as an example, many people take vows of celibacy. This does not mean that they become asexual, or that they are no longer sexual; it simply means that they have chosen a certain way to act in certain situations.

Asexuals do not always follow a celibate life style. Many asexuals enjoy sex for it's own sake, or for the sense of connection that it enables with their partner. This does not mean that they are not asexual; it simply means that they have chosen a certain way to act in certain situations.

I have no problems with any romantic or sexual practices or traditions, as long as all participants are fully informed individuals enabled with fully-functioning faculties to make critical decisions about personal well-being, and have fully consented to all activities under no duress, coercion, or force.

I believe no one has the right to criticize another's orientation or behavior, with the exception of ensuring that all parties are involved consensually. Past that altruistic concern, no one has the right to judge another's orientation or behavior.

There is no right or wrong orientation or behavior (save for non-consensual activities), and every factor changes with every individual.

We love who we love.



source: Boards at Aven.