tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88966550691913442312024-03-08T10:58:03.523-08:00Count Twiststrikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-82816748124638786922011-06-14T23:40:00.001-07:002011-06-14T23:41:33.549-07:00Reluctant Caretaker<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;"><b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Reluctant Caretaker</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I grabbed the railing and tried to avoid letting the balls of my feet touch<b> </b>the loudest spots. But it was useless. Every step creaked, like the beginning of “Thriller.” The railing was made of thick rope. It wasn’t nailed to the wall so it was actually a liability if I were to lose my balance. In my haste I forgot the most basic part of the strategy: avoid the fifth step. I imagined the crack of that step compressing beneath my parent’s bedroom door, then exploding like a grenade inside their room…. But when I stopped to listen, the entire house remained unaroused.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I slid my wetsuit on slowly, right in the middle of our living room-a space so expansive, we never really used it. It remained adorned with things-Persian rugs, two full-sized sofas and a loveseat with a chaise-but always neglected of body heat or voice. At the entrance to the room, there was a sitting area populated with the Louis XIV sofa (the most uncomfortable seating apparatus known to man) and the equally uncomfortable, matching lounge chair. I stood facing the French doors that opened into the patio, resting my knee on the lounge chair. I wasn’t worried about anyone seeing me: The nocturnal birds had finally sung themselves to sleep and the morning birds had yet to begin their songs ushering in the new day. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The neoprene stuck to my leg hair. I would have winced, but for the fact that pain had become a defining characteristic of my existence. I zipped up the back using the long nylon cord. My squandered thighs left a lot of room for water to gush in. I looked outside again. The sun’s rays shone through the image of a bunch of grapes embedded within a panel of the French doors. I picked up my oversized Michigan Wolverines towel, slid on my flip flops and grabbed the car keys from the granite counter top in the foyer. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As I turned the door handle, I was hit with a pain in my abdomen like a barbed rolling pin puncturing my delicate intestinal wall, moving from lower to upper abdomen several times per second. Reflexively, I ran to the bathroom, tearing off my suit. My colon was totally empty-I made sure of that before I even came downstairs. But the spasms paralyzed me regardless of whether I evacuated or not. I hit the floor and grabbed what little flesh I had left on my abdomen and pinching as hard as I could with one hand; I cradled my knees with the other, rocking gently back and forth. I closed my eyes. I focused on my breathing, slowly, trying to calm the parasympathetic impulses. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I did anything to distract myself during these moments. I couldn’t pray with any degree of sincerity, since I was angry at God. I often recited the lyrics to “Rocky Racoon,” without knowing why. Most often, though, I whispered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">amma, </i>over and over and over again, though I had never called my mother anything but “mom.” Once I tried to make myself laugh by calling out for my dad. It worked in some way, I suppose. Sometimes I forced my brain to see the faces of girls I had dated, perhaps hoping that their collective affection for me would magically assuage the pain. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The onslaught passed within a few moments, but the feeling of those spasms lingered, the way amputees feel the pain of a limb they no longer carry.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">For whatever reason, that day I had the energy to continue. I wouldn’t be scuba diving, of course, but just getting into the car and going somewhere…fuck, the day before, I barely made it from the den to the patio. There was a quaint coffee house, Sufficient Grounds, a few doors down from our San Marino home. I always told myself that if I could make it there, I could make it anywhere<b>. </b>But it just turned out to be another bullshit optimistic lie I told myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I walked up the driveway, trying to avoid those little red berries (fuzzy on the outside, and sticky-like-tar on the inside) that never came off the soles of my shoes. Aside from that trifle, there was calm throughout the neighborhood. It was the first time that I could remember not hearing the incorrigibly loud Stanton kids next door; I noticed that tree in their front yard had much more toilet paper wrapped around its branches than it typically did. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">My arm quivered when I yanked open the door of my mother’s bright red Mercedes (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why the fuck to Germans have to make cars with such heavy doors?</i>) I remembered the time she scared the piss out of my dad by pretending she was going to run him down. That was in the parking lot of the hospital the time I had surgery - and he had a party the night before. But back then it was just a sinus surgery.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Feeling slightly light-headed from all the movement, I slid inside. I squeezed the unnecessarily large key fob between my right thumb and forefinger and turned the ignition slowly, as if it would make the engine start more quietly. I pushed my left foot down hard, searching for the clutch, but then remembered I wasn’t in my own car. I shifted into reverse and did my best to avoid the leaves of the pomegranate tree and the orange beaks of the birds of paradise tree as I pulled out of the driveway.<b> </b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was the only one on the road, this being the first day of the new year. I could go as fast as I wanted, but it<b> </b>was hard to break 75mph on the 110S and stay in my<b> </b>own lane with my biceps begging for a break. The 110S lived up to its name of being the windiest freeway in the country. The irony of my own circuitous path in life was not lost on me. I smiled that new smile at the irony. It was my way of telling the world to fuck off, but simultaneously acknowledging its sick sense of humor. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I thought of all the times I had driven this route in the past…in my own car…all the times I smoothly passed through traffic after late nights with friends, a just under-the-limit amount of alcohol pulsing through my bloodstream. I liked to hold the wheel gently with just three fingers, downshifting from sixth to fifth at 80mph, enjoying the twists and turns like a kid flying down a water park slide. But now I was concentrating as if I were taking a standardized test. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">As I approached downtown LA, I looked at the sleeping industrial buildings and corporate skyscrapers alike. There wasn’t even a light on inside the Staples Center. There was a single CD in the changer. I pushed play and immediately remembered it was my 80s rock mix. “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac came on…an captivating Stevie Nicks solo. I loved the song, but never really paid much attention to the lyrics. Nevertheless, I always felt in Stevie’s voice that she was coming to terms with her life...or maybe some part of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I crossed over to the 10-W toward Santa Monica, and twenty minutes later I was at Venice Beach. I was the only one out there. Even the surfers, ever-present as conch shells, remained snoozing in their bungalows…or wherever they slept. I set my towel down and ambled quickly-and awkwardly-toward the water. The sand was cold, like a greeting received from a best friend’s ex-wife. I thrust myself into the icy water. (I stuck my tongue out ever-so-slightly, the same way I did in all those pictures my dad took of my sister and I at whatever beach it was when I was three.) The ice water seeped into my suit through the too-large holes where my once robust biceps and thighs were flattered by recoiled neoprene. I floated there amongst the waves; they pushed me back toward land. Perhaps, they too, were overwhelmed and eschewed the responsibility of caring for me. But I kept pushing forward, and for the first time in seven months, I was autonomous. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was a world away from my bi-weekly visits to G-money (my affectionate moniker for my GI doctor); days spent putrifying in bed or on the sofa; sifting through photos of best friends grilling on the tiny hibachi at our legendary Rosslyn pad; staring at my clinical anatomy book and remembering how I was asked by the Dean of Students to get my classmates to have more fun; smelling the letter Atasi wrote to me in on sky blue paper with silver scented pen; bitter moments grasping the shiny </span><em><span style="color: black; font-style: normal;">Médecins Sans Frontières</span></em><em><b><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-style: normal;"> </span></b></em><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">internship certificate of completion. For those thirty-some minutes the reluctant ocean agreed to care for me. I tasted its salt while it blanketed me in blue-green algae. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">When the ocean and I both agreed to end our embrace, I paddled back to shore. Approaching my towel, I saw a seagull. It was grey and white, like every other drab bird of its kind. Its feet webbed and orange, it had no expression, which is what troubled me so much about animals of its low evolutionary stature. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Can anyone tell the difference between an angry gull and a curious gull?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I had long ago developed an inexplicable, intractable fear of all avian creatures, so I kicked some sand in its direction. But instead, that damn whitish-grey bird merely stood there, observing me. I tried to ignore it by turning away, but this gull, which was actually much larger than I had originally perceived it to be, wouldn’t leave. <br />
<br />
“What the fuck do you want, bird? There’s five miles of beach here and you have to loiter over here? I don’t have any damn bread crumbs, so get the fuck outta here.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
I grabbed my towel and began to dry off, shivering throughout the entire exercise, but unaffected by the proximity of that bird. I slipped on my flip flops, staring it in the face. “You know your brain is the size of the tip of my thumb, don’t you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px;">I dried my back and arms with anemic vigor. I looked back and saw that the bird was still there, looking straight at me with that expressionless expression. The morning rays of the sun made a sharp line in the sand between the bird and me. I picked up a sharp rock and looked at the bird again. It had made itself quite comfortable resting on the part of sand now being warmed by the sun. I finished drying my hair with the “M” part of the towel, then bent over to pick up a half-eaten Fig Newton that I eyed a few feet in front of me on the wooden sidewalk. “Fuck you, you garbage-eating scavenger,” I said as I tossed the cookie sidearm without turning back to see where it landed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I slid back into the car. My arms and legs hurt, but not nearly as much as my core muscles. The back of my ankle pulsated gently as I pressed the accelerator. I turned onto I-10 E and accelerated hard to 80mph. It was a bit sluggish compared to my sports car, yet respectably reached target speed in about 9 seconds. I turned on the stereo and placed the index finger and thumb of each hand on the steering wheel, loosely gripping it as I pushed the gas a little further to 85mph. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-29081751959944552992011-04-16T01:12:00.000-07:002011-04-16T03:09:22.925-07:00UBO<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">UBO</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh, this is so good!” said Doshin as soon as he heard the first few notes.<br />
“I knew you’d like it! I put this one on just for you, homey,” I replied.<br />
“You guys aren’t serious are you? Come on. This is like…eighth grade dance.”<br />
“Exactly!” Doshin and I said in unison. <br />
“How do you guys consider yourselves music snobs?” <br />
“We’re music snobs because we know everything about good music, so we get to define what part of bad music is really good,” clarified Doshin. <br />
“Oooh,” I said, flipping through the 857 songs on my iPod. “I’ve got a really good one for next.” <br />
“We’re going to <i>Newport Beach!”</i> exclaimed Hamza. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting us pumped up?” <br />
“Yes…but this is doing it in a reverse psychology sort of way,” I said through my trademark smile. <br />
“Well played, man,” said Doshin. <br />
Doshin was quite possibly the only male at the DoD with a nose ring and that’s just a small part of what made him so cool. Only I knew that Doshin posed over a dozen times in various outfits highlighting his sleeveless, faded Ella Fitzgerald t-shirt. So to everyone else, he was just smooth, like pistachio gelato. He redefined the whole headband-thing and made the white Adidas Superstar kicks he wore seem novel, even though that style was played out if worn by anyone else. I suppose his clean, black chin goatee gave him enough disco-Buddhist vibe to pull it off. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh wait, here’s the best part,” Doshin said, throwing his head back and holding the steering wheel loosely toward the bottom. <br />
“<i>Guilty feeling got no rhythm, though it’s easy to pretend, I know you’re not a fool,” </i>Doshin and I sing, swaying as we nurtured the lyrics.<br />
“You know they tell you over there you’re supposed to hold the steering wheel like this,” he said, hands at five and seven. <br />
“Why is that?” <br />
“Because if there’s an explosion or something ahead of you, and you’ve got to get around it, this allows you to keep turning without having to switch hands.” <br />
“That’s wonderful. Another piece of civilian life in Afghanistan that I didn’t need to know about,” I said. <br />
“Hey, this is a survival skill,” man. <br />
“This is L.A., homey. The only explosions you gotta worry about is when you eat a chicken burrito that’s a bit too authentic, know what I’m sayin’?” <br />
<i>All laugh in unison</i><br />
“So, did I tell you Tylanni says ‘hi’?” <br />
“Tylie! For real? In DC?” <br />
“No, in New York. She was there for the economic summit.” <br />
“Oh, get out!” I said, accidentally slamming my iPod into the dashboard.<br />
“So, what, did you guys party?”<br />
“Yeah, it was like a reunion. Peter was there, Romit was there, Brennan came out.” <br />
“No shit! How’s Romit’s wife?” <br />
“Still smokin’ man. Still scandalous with those-what did you call them-electromagnetic eyes? Do you still have that scar on your lip?” <br />
“Oh, shit, man! I’m surprised it went way. That Beirut party was insane.” <br />
“What happened at the Beirut party?” Hamza asked, not realizing he had just embarked upon a long and circuitous path. <br />
“Well…basically, I caught Milan under the porch holding Anika’s bra, but she was fully clothed.” <br />
“Wait. You hooked up with Romit’s wife under the porch, <i>while </i>he upstairs?” <br />
“No, no, no. No. Way better. I can’t believe I haven’t told you this story yet! O.K., so Amika was totally hammered because she kept adding that Russian grain alcohol into her sangria. You know, ‘cuz it was that high-grade shit that Serge brought back from Croatia.” <br />
“O.K. We gotta catch up on Serge too, but then what?” <br />
“So, Amika wandered down under the porch and I was looking for the fire extinguisher because Raheem’s eggplants caught fire in the oven. So, she’s just standing there emitting that scent-like the skin under the breasts of a hot chick.” <br />
“Yeah, you lost me there, homey,<i>”</i> said Hamza, puzzled and slightly perturbed.<br />
“I don’t know man. But it was like sex chopped up and condensed, then placed on a spitfire till all the juices come out. And I’m like, ‘Remember, the root of all human suffering is desire.’ Man, I’m thinking about our Nutrition in Crises reading, I’m going over the starting lineup for the 1997 Michigan football team, <i>anything</i> to not think bad, very bad things. Then something took over and I just blurted out, ‘I bet you I can take off your bra without removing your shirt.’ And she took it as if I offered her a falafel, and took a stiletto step closer, and said, ‘Let’s see whatchu got’ in that sick Elizabeth Hurley accent. So, I’m standing there in front of her, I’ve got the fire extinguisher in one hand, and she’s there, this ribbed raspberry sorbet-colored tank top and this turquoise skirt and just winked. <br />
“<i>Then what!”</i><br />
“So, I said ‘aren’t you gonna turn around?’ And she breathes, ‘No, no. This one’s for big boys. The clasp is in front.’” <br />
“<i>Oh, shit!”</i> they both exclaimed-Hamza because it was his first time hearing the story, and Doshin because he couldn’t hear this story enough.<br />
“So, I’m like, ‘Well, looks like I’ll need to put the fire extinguisher down for a moment.’ And she puts her fingers to my bottom lip, squeezes so hard it went numb, and again in that insane accent whispers, ‘On the contrary, you may still require it,’ and she leaned forward just so that I could see between her bra and her skin into that little triangular space beneath. I drop the fire extinguisher and-without making any nippalry contact-unfastened her bra. But there was an unanticipated issue.” <br />
“What do you mean?” said Hamza, now at the edge of the backseat, talking into my ear with his cheek resting on my headrest. <br />
“It was a UBO.” <br />
“UBO? What the fuck is that?” <br />
“Unidentified Brazillary Object,” Doshin explained. <br />
“See, it was this crazy French lingerie and one side had a plastic spaghetti strap, and the other side was strapless.” <br />
“So what did you do?” asked Hamza, pounding the side of my seat.<br />
“Well, going for the strapless side would have certainly offered more breastillary contact. However, going for that route might be sloppy: The bra might not come off smoothly and that would have damaged my reputation, ruined the whole sleight-of-hand.” <br />
“So…”<br />
“So, I went for the strap, thereby allowing me to feel less guilt when I encountered her husband, who was presently a guest in my home, while also enabling optimal exitary fluidity. I put my left hand under her shirt to nudge the one side along and pulled the strap with my right hand. And as I produced two crop circles of lacy-plastic silkiness from her shoulder-” <br />
“I walked in.” <br />
“Yes. So, there I am with Romin’s ugly wife and her bra.”<br />
“Wait, ugly, what happened?”<br />
“Nothing. She was just so hot that she can only be described as it’s opposite: ugly.”<br />
“Hideous,” said Doshin. “And-”<br />
“No! No, you’re gonna try to tell it to make yourself sound like less of a dumbass!” <br />
“No! I’m telling Hamza the-” <br />
“You, no!” I said playfully holding an extended index finger in front of Doshin’s face. <br />
“Fine, go ahead, but, Hamza, this is <i>not</i> how the rest happened.” <br />
“So, Doshin’s like, "Uhhh. Romin said the kafta kabobs are really good.” <br />
<i>“What!?!”</i> exclaimed Hamza with eyebrows raised and his open jaw resting on the top of my seat, just behind my ear.<br />
“Yes. Drunk Doshin, who had been pounding drinks since 4pm, offers, ‘Romin says the kafta kabobs are really good.” <br />
“So, Anika and I just looked at each other, then looked at Doshin, and we both said at the same time, ‘Thanks.’ And after that, due to the bizarre juxtaposition of Anika’s brazier and grilled lamb-not to mention her <i>husband</i>-the moment had come to a tire-torching halt.<br />
“So, what the fuck did you do with the bra?” <br />
“Oh, God. This part is the best,” said Doshin. <br />
“So the fucking fire extinguisher cap is all loose and coming off-”<br />
“We broke it playing Misguided Warfare late one night,” explained Doshin.<br />
“Wait, what the fuck is Misguided Warfare? Like Battleship?” <br />
I explained, “It’s when-”<br />
“No! It was my idea! I get to explain it!” insisted Doshin. “So, one night we were drunk as fuck after Milan dropped off the girls, and we were out on the porch smoking. It was winter, so Raheem figured that throwing lit BBQ matches wouldn’t start a fire.” <br />
“You guys started a fire on the porch?” <br />
“No…not exactly,” I said. <br />
“So, there was something about the varnish-or whatever-that they used on the wood. It started these tiny fires-like the size of a silver dollar. Hence, I invented the game of Misguided Warfare. Raheem’s territory was Vietnam and Milan’s territory was Iraq. So I made stealth bomber runs and dropped the matches and each person had to try and protect their territory.” <br />
“One match at a time?” asked Hamza incredulously. <br />
“Well, that’s what we started off with. But then I discovered I could light about five matches at a time and drop them in different parts of enemy territory.” <br />
“You guys are fucking insane. Where the hell was I during all this?” <br />
“Well, this game was invented on a Thursday, so you were probably doing work, like we should have been. Anyway, we played for like an hour. But then Milan’s territory started to have flames adjoin because he kept running back into the kitchen to get more beer.”<br />
“And then I had to pee really bad.” <br />
“That’s right, Milan had to take a piss, and it lasted like a decade-”<br />
“So, when I came back, all of Anbar was in flames and Baghdad was lit up too. And while I was running back up the stairs, Doshin was running down with a cigarette in his mouth, yelling, “Oh, shit! I think I dropped one missile too many.” <br />
I tried to continue, but I was laughing so hard I was hyperventilating. “So, so, I’m thinking he said, ‘I dropped a fissile too many!’”<br />
“And Milan yells, ‘What? You went nuclear!?!’” <br />
“Yeah! I come up and I’m like ‘Oh <i>fuuuuuuuck!</i>’ And Raheem is there trying-brilliantly-to put out the fire with his loose tobacco. And Doshin came running up with the fire extinguisher yelling ‘<i>Everybody down!</i>’ and he just fired that thing all over the porch, all over me, Raheem, everything. <br />
“That fire was no fucking joke man! I used the whole canister and even then we needed some dirt to put it all out.” <br />
“And I think Doshin tossed the fire extinguisher off the porch and I imagine that’s how the canister got loose.” <br />
“So, what then?”<br />
“Then Raheem had tied a wife beater around his head and was yelling, Ho Chi Minh!” <br />
“<i>No</i>, I mean, what happened with <i>Anika</i>?”<br />
“Oh, right. So, since the cap of the fire extinguisher was already practically off I just rolled her bra up really tight and-”<br />
“You put it in the fire extinguisher? Oh my God!” <br />
“And then I said, ‘I’m keeping this because I will never believe this story otherwise.’ Then she held my face in her hands like she was going to say something really deep.’”<br />
“But instead she…”<br />
“Bit off a piece of my lip!” <br />
“<i>What!</i>” <br />
“A whole fucking chunk!” Doshin added. “He was bleeding like he got stabbed with a bayonet.” <br />
“I was like ‘Ow! Fuck! Ow! You <i>bit </i>me!’ but I didn’t realize I was bleeding until I saw droplets on my shoes. <br />
“What!?! So what did you do?” <br />
“I was in total shock! I ran past her up to the porch and Doshin’s like, ‘Wait. You just had her bra in your hand and now you’re bleeding like a ruptured fallopian tube.' So he ran and got me a towel-the towel Raheem used to discard of the extra cayenne pepper and I’m like ‘What the fuck is going on? I’m bleeding, my tongue is on fire? What the fuck is happening?’” <br />
“So, I took ice cubes from all the empty cups in the kitchen and made Milan an ice pack.” <br />
“Cayenne ice pack.” <br />
“Right. And we iced Milan’s lip. Meanwhile, Romit comes in for a refill and he’s like, ‘That’s a hell of a tear in your lip man. What, did some vampire get you?’”<br />
“Wow, said Ahsen with an expression and tone I'd never before seen. "That’s all I gotta say. That is…wow, man.”<br />
“So, what happened with her in New York?” I asked, criminally, turning to Doshin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></div></div>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-82933997368366662972011-04-03T22:45:00.000-07:002011-04-04T13:03:32.754-07:00Rufus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Rufus<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And so Vik did end up bringing Ananya back to his place that night. We had all taken bets about whether she’d be down to go home with him. The final vote was 3-2 in favor of Vik being able to pull it off. The dissenters thought that, judging by her somewhat reserved friends, she wouldn’t have the confidence to part ways with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But we had put on quite a show in the hour or so leading up to Vik approaching the girl. We began with a couple dirty martinis. And after we had downed those, it was clear we were having more fun than anyone else in that joint. There was no secret to this. We simply happened to be outstanding at making fun of one another. We also ordered drinks that required a bit of a discerning taste. Well, perhaps not really, but for some reason, drinking mojitos and vodka gimlets can do a lot for the way a guy is perceived when standing amongst so many others desiring the same thing: attention from attractive girls. Once the alcohol began to bring us back to our first year out of college - when we used to get in stupid fights and close out dingy bars - we started with the shots. We made allies with the White boys <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">facilmente</i> by inviting them to partake in a slamming a Sambuca shot. There wasn’t really any Machiavellian motive here. We had fun getting others to have fun and we did so regardless of whether there were girls to impress. And we were cool about it. It was always a trip getting the dorky trader types to try something other than their gin and tonic. After one or two Sambucas, Aastin (a.k.a. MCA) would affectionately mess up the guy’s hair and encourage him to lose the glasses. “Your vision is already blurry, isn’t it? Come on, get rid of these for a couple hours.” he’d chide. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There was a group of three girls a couple of tables away. Our age. Dressed impeccably, but not as if they were trying to be on Sex and the City. (It’s a difficult balance to strike in New York, where critiques over fashion sense are even more cruel than restaurant reviews.) Somewhere during the crescendo of drinking, Vik had trained his gaze one of the girls. Eye contact was made and a smile or two was exchanged. When Vik warned us not to look all at once, we did the exact opposite, of course. She was a hottie. She wore whatever couture dress she was wearing rather casually, without any bullshit fanfare. She sported a cool broach which looked Indian. Her (yes, silky) dark brown hair fell delicately on her shoulders and was accented by pencil-straight bangs – if one saw her from behind they might mistake her for a Japanese girl. “O.K. I’m going in. Who’s my wingman?” We all, in unison, said “Jahan.” <br />
<br />
Jahan was designated wingman because he had a mystical charisma that made it impossible for people to dislike him. He was engaging without trying to be, and had an uncanny ability to bring forth more information from a group of girls than anyone I’d ever seen. Girls clearly knew he was the wingman, but nevertheless fell easy victim to his sincere disposition and clear, deep voice. The secret it seemed, is that Jahan was a master of being able to get a group of girls to feel better about themselves and their bond with one another. This renaissance of goodwill allowed his friend to have a much higher chance of having a positive encounter with a girl because the entire energy of the group was cleansed of jealously or petty ill-will. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And so, Vik’s conversation with Ananya was fluid, unforced, and as natural as possible under the circumstances. Here were two people that truly desired to know the other better. Beneath this desire, of course, was that basal urge to embrace the other in a hot, naked, steamy mess.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It wasn’t long before Vik headed back to his place with his hand, gracefully around Ananya’s waist. He was more than a gentleman, and I knew when the two were deliberating about where to go next, it went something like this: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Um, so, what do you feel like doing? I mean, we could go somewhere for another drink, or, I don’t know if you’re hungry. We could grab a slice.” <br />
“No, it’s O.K. We’ve been out since, like 9.” <br />
“O.K., so do you want me to drop you off at your place? Or, I mean – and it’s totally cool if you don’t want to – but we could hang out at my place for a bit.”<br />
“Yeah, that sounds good, because I actually live in Princeton.” <br />
“Oh, O.K., so let’s just do that then.” <br />
“Do what?” <br />
“Head over to my place – I mean, if that’s still cool with you.” <br />
“Yeah, that sounds good.” <br />
“O.K. Cool. I guess I’ll hail a taxi then.”<br />
<br />
Once Vik got past this part, he usually regained his bearings. I think the lawyer in him simply required full disclosure or he would feel somehow at risk for being disbarred. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Surprisingly, things between Vik and Ananya lasted beyond just this one night. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“So, what’s the deal with Princeton? Does she have some phat pad down there that justifies being so far from work?” I asked during one such conversation.<br />
“No, I’m not really sure. Her place is nothing special, but she does have a yard. I’m beginning to think it’s because of her dog.” <br />
“Wait. What do you mean? She commutes to Princeton into the city every day so that she can have a dog?” <br />
“That’s what I’m saying, dude. It’s like, she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loves</i> that dog.”<br />
“Don’t most dog owners love their dog?” <br />
“No, no. You don’t understand. That thing can do whatever it wants. If it’s taking up the couch, we’re relegated to the bean bag.”<br />
“Bean bag? And don’t use big words like relegated, O.K.?”<br />
“Yeah, the damn bean bag is supposed to be for the dog, but it ends up being where we sit.”<br />
“Interesting. So the dog takes up the whole fucking couch? What the hell kind of dog is it? <br />
“It’s a Great Dane and it’s freakin’ big for a Great Dane.” <br />
“Great Dane? So, what does that mean?”<br />
“It means this dog is about 150lbs.” <br />
“Holy fucking shit! Are you serious?!? That’s how much <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> weigh.” <br />
“Yeah! And the bastard slobbers all over me, so I keep having to go to the bathroom to wash that shit off.” <br />
“What does Ananya say?”<br />
“She thinks it’s hilarious.” <br />
“Damn, homey. I’m pretty good with the relationship advice, but I’m stumped here. Looks like you’ve got a little competition and that competition is edging you out.”<br />
“That’s exactly what’s going on. I think I’m gonna carefully bring up these issues and hopefully she’ll understand.” <br />
“I can’t see why she wouldn’t. Maybe she just isn’t really aware of the dynamic here.” <br />
“Yeah, well, I think she sees it, but she doesn’t think there’s anything odd about it. O.K., bro. We just pulled into the station. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.” <br />
“Looking forward to the next episode. Late.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">That night, Vik and Ananya held each other close on the bean bag as they sipped red wine and watched an Audrey Tatou film (Vik’s choice). Somewhere between the protagonist walking the streets of Paris at dawn and dreaming of herself as Coco Chanel, Vik and Ananya began to kiss with anachronistic passion. As Ananya began to moan softly between long, satiating lipped embraces, Rufus began to stir. And as Vik untied Ananya’s halter top and gently squeezed her breasts, the Dane guffawed and threw himself upon the carpet. Vik did his damndest to ignore this distraction, but instead of closing his eyes, he kept one eye trained on the restless beast.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I heard about the unusual dynamic the next day when Vik came over to watch the Nadal match. I don’t recall exactly how the conversation went, but for the most part I was replying, “Are you fucking serious?” Once I had absorbed the exact nature of the Dane’s perturbation, all I could offer was the obvious: “Well, I guess you’ve just gotta hook up in her room and make sure you lock the door behind you.” Vik agreed that this was the only way to survive the subversion by Rufus. <br />
<br />
A few weeks went by and it seemed the lockout strategy was successful. But while Vik and Ananya were able to sleep together in relative peace, Rufus began to act out in other ways. One night, as Vik and Ananya were enjoying yet another sappy foreign film, Rufus began to ram the unsuspecting Vik in the flank with its giant noggin. Apparently, a 150lb dog can generate a decent amount of force when it so desires. Vik attempted to push the beast away, as Ananya responded with innocent, playful laughter. While Vik really wanted to say, “Ananya, can you get this fucking slobbering behemoth off of me – for good?!?” he knew that the closeness between beast and vixen was too great to overcome. Vik was on his own. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Rufus, sensing the popular sentiment was on his side (i.e. Ananya’s reaction) began to wrestle with Vik. After it was clear the Dane would accept nothing less than a direct challenge by Vik, he reluctantly obliged the beast by engaging in a passive-aggressive sparring session. (Ananya even paused the film to spectate.) Vik understood the level of aggression demonstrated by Rufus was not suggestive of simple play. This was about territory and canines are perhaps the most territorial of all domesticated animals. Vik, having been a part of the Brazilian jui-jitsu club for two years in college, was successful in staving off the Dane. But as Vik rose to his feet to take Ananya by the hand into the bedroom, he understood that his dancing days with Rufus had just begun. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The day after, Vik, MCA, Jehan and myself had another night out. MCA and I were psyched because the plan, after dinner, was to meet up with Ananya and her two hot friends. Vik texted each of us that we’d meet for dinner at 9:30pm. He didn’t have to name the place – that, we all knew was Los Dos Tomingos. Owing to the insatiable need for habanero enchiladas and the propensity to leave 25% tips on the part of Vik and MCA, we had become quasi-celebs at the ever-packed cantina. As we walked in, we were greeted with stiff margaritas, genuine smiles, and soft cheek kisses by the smoking hot receptionist. We were seated immediately and the steak nachos and ceviche arrived almost as quickly as we had ordered them. By the time we actually looked at the menu (Jehan and myself, at least) I had started on my third margarita. But while the atmosphere around us was festive, we had serious business to discuss. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“So, Vik, I hear you’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dogged</i> by some relationship troubles,” said Jehan. <br />
“Yes. You could definitely say that. This fucking dog, man. It’s ruining everything,” Vik lamented.<br />
“O.K., so you need a strategy, bro. You’ve gotta get this thing the hell away from you guys when you wanna hang out alone,” offered MCA.<br />
“Yeah, but how the fuck do I do that when she lives in a one bedroom?” <br />
“Didn’t you say she has a back yard? Can’t the dog go hang out there?” asked MCA. <br />
“Dude, I’ve tried so many times to play with that damn thing in the yard so that he’ll wanna stay out there, but as soon as he sees me and Ananya together, he has to come back in. Plus – get this – Ananya doesn’t want to leave him outside after dark for safety reasons.” <br />
“Safety reasons? Is the dog some fucking foreign dignitary?” I asked. <br />
“Why don’t you just shoot the damn thing?” asked MCA. “This dude I work with from Serbia has some crazy semi-automatic rifle that he goes hunting with once a month. I’m sure he’d knock of this dog just for sport.” <br />
“O.K., man. That’s not funny,” Vik scolded. <br />
“Who said I was kidding?” MCA said with uncontrollable laughter.<br />
“So, you’ve read all kinds of stuff on this breed of dog, right?” queried Jehan.<br />
“Yeah, I’ve read the whole fuckin’ Amazon.com top ten list for Great Danes.” <br />
“Was there anything useful about like training it or subduing it when it gets hyper?” I asked. <br />
“Well, yeah. There was some stuff. But the books said behavioral modification takes weeks. The only thing that works right away is establishing pack order.” <br />
“What the fuck is pack order?” we all blurted out in unison. <br />
“O.K., so dogs in packs have to figure out who’s the leader. And that’s called the alpha male. One of the books I read said that if a dog isn’t following any commands, it may be necessary to establish who the alpha male is. Right now, Rufus thinks <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he’s </i>the alpha male because of all this babying Ananya’s given him since he was a pup. He never had to compete for her attention. And dogs are pretty smart. They pick up on pheromones and shit so they know something sexual is going on when Ananya and I are together.” <br />
“So…what’s the solution?” MCA asked. <br />
“The solution, according to what I read yesterday, is that I’ve gotta wrestle with this beast and pin it on its back. And when I pin that motherfucker on his back, I’ve gotta look him straight in the eye to let him know I have power over him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“You know what? I’ve heard of this. I was flying out to Boston one time and on the plane they showed this National Geographic special on wolves. I think they do the same thing,” offered Jehan. <br />
“Right. But the question is, ‘what do I do about it?’” asked Vik.<br />
“Well, it seems like you’ve got it figured out. Go on and wrestle that slobbery beast until you pin him, then talk some shit and squeeze his balls. Seriously, do exactly what that book says to do,” I suggested.<br />
“Dude. I just googled apha dog control on my phone and I got some pretty disturbing porn. Wanna see?” joked MCA. <br />
“No thanks, bro. I’ll pass on that. O.K., so the plan is to pin Rufus and show him who’s boss, right?” <br />
“Right,” we answered in unison. <br />
“O.K., so now that we’ve got that figured out. What’s the story with Genevive and Clari?” I asked.<br />
“O.K. They’re both, obviously, single. Genevive was dating this Italian dude, but they broke up a couple weeks ago because he kept secretly skyping his ex – in his underwear. Clari is super cool. She hasn’t been in a relationship for a while. But she’s hardcore Catholic, so she might want to get to know someone kinda well before she’s down to hookup, I think.” <br />
“How well is ‘kinda well?’ Like more than an hour?” I asked.<br />
“It would be evolutionary time for you, man. You should probably go for Genevive.” <br />
“O.K. cool. She had like dark brown hair and blue eyes right?<br />
“More like blonde hair and brown eyes.” <br />
“Yeah, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dude</i>, that’s what I meant.” <br />
Vik rolled his eyes and tried to stifle his laughter, but to no avail. Just as a strategy for the rest of the night was being devised, blistering hot plates of enchiladas, mole poblano, camarones a la diablo and tacos al carbon arrived. We all stopped talking briefly as we gorged ourselves. The habanero sauce was so hot that I pounded my water along with Vik’s and MCA’s. Upon leaving the restaurant I insisted that we walk 6 blocks out of our way so I could buy a slushie to cool down the heat. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We arrived at the bar about 30 minutes late. If Ananya minded she certainly didn’t make it appear that way. As Vik and I went to push the adjacent table together with the table the girls’, Vik stopped me. “Dude, now do you see what I’m talking about? Do you see her neck?” <br />
“Yes, Vik, I see her neck. So what?” <br />
“Dude, she has the most beautiful neck I’ve ever seen.” <br />
“You do realize you’re talking about her neck, right? Not her breasts or her ass or legs – or even eyes.” <br />
“No, for real, it’s so… graceful.” <br />
“Vik, I’m gonna tell you this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one time</i>, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one time alone</i>. Get yourself together, go and barf out a few margaritas or whatever, but do not – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever again</i> – discuss your enchantment with Ananya’s neck. You sound like a Nature Channel mating study gone awry. Either way, it’s not a role you want, got it?” <br />
“I don’t care what you say, dude. I know the truth. But don’t worry, I won’t tell her,” he giggled.<br />
“Or anyone else!” Stop giggling!<br />
“O.K.! O.K.! Let’s move this damn table.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We had barely sat down before MCA started fucking with Ananya. “So, Ananya, what’s goin’ on? How’s Princeton?” <br />
“Princeton is fine, MCA. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">happen</i> to like it there.” <br />
“So, what’s the appeal. You obviously love the City, like any of us, but you commute all the way to Princeton, like 90 minutes each way?” <br />
“Well, as you know, MCA, I have a dog and I think it’s cruel to have a dog in the City.” <br />
Jehan and I could tell that Vik was getting very uncomfortable because he knew MCA well enough to spot a set-up from a mile away. But MCA had a certain charm about him that, in combination with a knock-em-dead smile allowed him to walk that fine line of fucking with someone without getting slapped or worse. <br />
“Ah, yes. Mr. Rufus. I’ve heard much about this canine of great stature. Is it true he has diplomatic status?” <br />
Ananya laughed good-heartedly. “No, MCA, but I do tend to spoil him.” <br />
“So, if you were on a sinking boat with Vik and Rufus, and you had to choose one of them to toss overboard, who would it be?” <br />
“Nice try, MCA. I’d let us all sink together.” <br />
“Ooooh. Good answer, Ananya. Very good answer.” <br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Anyway</i>,” Vik finally said, “MCA was talking about getting tickets to Thievery on the 17<sup>th</sup>.” <br />
“Yeah, this guy at work organizes a huge fantasy football thing, so he knows a bunch of people with connections,” MCA said. <br />
“Yeah that would be awesome!” said Ananya. She turned to Genevive and Clari, “Do you guys wanna go?” <br />
“Sure!” said Clari. <br />
“I’ll go, but only if MCA stays home,” Genevive said jokingly. “No, no, I’m kidding, I’m in.” <br />
“So, Ananya, back to Rufus-“<br />
“Oh, God. I thought we were done!” <br />
“Almost. I just have to know if-“ <br />
“O.K.! O.K.! That’s hilarious, MCA,” said Vik. He squeezed MCA’s arm to let him know that he’d gone far enough.<br />
“Ow! No, no, it’s not bad! I just want to you if you and Vik are in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">looooove?</i>”<br />
Both Vik and Ananya blushed like they were dusted with a field’s worth of pink pollen, as this was one question they were not prepared for. Vik now wished it had been another obnoxious question about Rufus. <br />
Clari saved them both by asking, “So when is this concert again?” <br />
Jehan and I looked at one another and laughed under our breath. I decided to do my part by heading to the bar and bringing back a round of drinks. <br />
“So, did anyone see that viral video of that Ukranian chick who was so flexible that she could kick herself in the back of the head?” I asked. <br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeah, dude!</i> That was fuckin’ hilarious!” exclaimed Jehan with genuine enthusiasm. Oh, wait, I can pull it up on my phone.” <br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What?” </i>chimed everyone else. <br />
“No, really. This is the craziest shit I’ve ever seen.” Jehan passed his phone around for everyone to see the clip. And from there, we all let Vik and Ananya just have fun without the harassment. <br />
<br />
On August 14, Vik and Ananya decided that they would move into the city together. With Vik starting as an analyst at Swift & Jensen, he would be working some 80 hours a week and would never see Ananya if she continued to reside in Princeton. They rented a one-bedroom in the E. 100s, in one of the few buildings that allowed dogs of Rufus’s girth. Vik had been secretly modeling his new collection of Canali suits in the mirror for the past five days. He changed shirts to match with the undertones in the jackets, then chose the tie to magnify the more prominent colors - they always implied strength and power. On his first day, Vik chose the charcoal suit with the subdued green stitched lines with a powder blue shirt and a solid navy tie. “Damn, I look good!” he said has he pulled his toffee Ferragamos from their respective creamy cloth shoe bags. <br />
“You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do, </i>baby!” said Ananya. <br />
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Vik went to the kitchenette and carefully prepared his coffee – making sure to tuck his tie inside his shirt. Rufus began to stir, undoubtedly salivating for his morning trough. He followed body heat into the kitchen and stood up resting his crusty paws on Viks lapels. In a single motion, Vik stepped away and swatted away Rufus’s grimy claws like a giant greenish-metallic tropical fly. <br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vik!”</i> Anaya said, quickly comforting the beast who was surely aware of the consequences of his actions before he executed them. “He was just greeting you good morning.” <br />
Vik ignored her, as he was reviewing the names of all the partners in their heads, what they looked like, odd moles and hairstyles to help jog his memory. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hello…two-second pause…grip firmly…I’m Vik Patel…release hand…It’s very nice to meet you. <br />
</i>“Aren’t you gonna take Rufus for a walk?”<br />
“Are you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kidding</i>? Ananya…this is a hugely important day for me. Whatever impression I make on all the partners today is what is going to stay in their minds. You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> that on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> other day I’d have no problem, but I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> need to be focused now.” <br />
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That night when Vik neared the apartment, he didn’t hear Rufus shuffling around on the hardwood floor. He assumed Anaya was curled up with him watching a movie - again. He walked in. The bookcase had disappeared. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I thought it looked nice there. </i>He looked to the bedroom to see there were no skinny jeans or lacy push-up bras scattered about the floor. And then he realized that the sofa had been lifted from the very room in which he stood. Without putting down his work bag, he went to the kitchen and in the trash he saw several versions of a note. But no final draft lay on the counter. <br />
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Vik stood, replaying the insignificant events of the morning. He repeated his steps. And repeated them again. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, looked at the screen for several minutes, and then turned it off.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He opened every single window in the apartment. He threw off his jacket and tossed his work bag on top of it. He searched in his fire-proof file cabinet for his pack of Newports and lit one. He poured himself a 2 oz. Ketel One, 1Tb of lime juice, 1tsp of sugar, and stirred it vigorously. He took the first sip so quickly that it trickled out the both sides of his mouth and made tiny splatters on the floor. And then Vik stretched himself out on top of the only remaining piece of furniture in the living room: the giant red bean bag. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
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</div></div>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-9261236792320838942011-04-03T21:22:00.001-07:002011-04-03T21:22:21.984-07:00Too Easy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; font-variant: small-caps;">Too Easy<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I was thrilled when a black Escalade full of football players honked and flashed their brights at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s up girl?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why don’t you roll with us tonight?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured I’d play up the act, so I blew them a kiss; the rose jasmine lip gloss made a sticky imprint on my fingertips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With great concentration, I crossed the street and stepped onto the sidewalk in front of Village Corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I relished the familiar grainy gust of Natty Light as I walked through the heavy glass door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I had a strong feeling I’d see someone I knew, but was surprised it happened before I could even make it to the back of the Beer, Beer Everywhere section. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was about to hang a sharp left into the aisle with the (imported) Fuckin’ Snob 12-packs, when I caught the eye of a couple of stoners that never missed a smokeout at our Viscount apartment last year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those guys used to smoke so much that walking to the stairs was like being a pilot navigating through a cumulonimbus weather system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Say-bash laughed so hard when they saw me that his hash-colored eyes lost their glassy film. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yo! That is off the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hook</i>!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Damn, I’m turned on!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Knoll took a piece of my thigh high boots between his thumb and his forefinger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Damn, you’re not fuckin’ around, are you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saybs, you gotta feel this. It’s like sliding your balls along the hood of a 911 GT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never did I imagine you’d shed the preppy look for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this, </i>homegirl!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“You want some candy little boy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell me now because tomorrow there won’t be any left” I said giggling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I turned and bent over - with my ass just brushing Knoll’s leg - pretending to pick up a piece of paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I nearly lost my balance as my hand-rolled crimson skirt prevented my fingers from actually reaching the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood up and turned, with my hand over my mouth, but simply couldn’t continue the rest of the dirty secretary maneuver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laughed so hard that I stepped backward into the Tostitos display, knocking off ten rumbling 1lb chip bags onto the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We picked them all up together, but I spent considerable time pretending to adjust my top so that Say-bash couldn’t see between my charcoal embroidered bra – a loan from Claudine – and my moisty skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Ooooh,” warned Knoll.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re gonna be a Gold Dust Woman with that Stevie Nicks voice of yours.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Oh, you know it, biatch,” I said, grabbing my padded breasts.<br />
“Why aren’t there more chicks like you?” asked Say-bash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, seriously,” he said, unable to keep a straight face. <br />
“That’s because there just aren’t too many girls as<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> experienced</i> as me,” I replied, licking my finger and touching the tip to my ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ohhh! That’s so hot! Blow on that, boy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>C’mon, cool that off!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cool that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">off!</i>”<br />
As we giggle-footed toward the Brewer’s Dozen aisle (like a Baker’s Dozen, but you still only get twelve) three wasted Frat boys stuffed ice down a pledge’s underwear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were dressed in the lamest superhero costumes – Hulk’s paint job was starting to oxidize from green to rust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just then, the lights were turned down for closing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the sloshed punks said, “Girl, I’ll tap that ass like a Saudi oil field.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went on, “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt...after a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">week</i>!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is exactly what I was hoping for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks to the lights it came so much easier than I had anticipated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I played coy for another minute or two and then trapped him with my right heel planted at his side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“You want it, little boy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you sure you can handle this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Cuz I might be the one doing the hurting,” I whispered in my raspy, baritone voice. <br />
“Oh, shit, no! Ahhhhh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fuckin’ nasty, dude! No, I thought!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought….Fuck!”<br />
But with my heels, I towered at 6’3” and regardless, I had a considerable strength advantage owing to my sprinter’s body. <br />
“Come on, bitch, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i> them,” I chided him. He was so drunk, I could manipulate him like a wasted sorority slut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grabbed his hand and made him feel my breast, which felt like a giant tumor since it was merely a 34 DD bra with a couple of rolled up soccer socks inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His friends feigned sickness as they nearly fell to the floor laughing.<br />
“Ooooh, yeah, just like that, Incredible Mulch,” I said groping and grinding him now, keeping his body firmly against mine as I clenched his button-down flannel shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To ensure Knoll and Say-bash made this the biggest story on all of campus, I grabbed his collar and pushed him back against the fogged glass door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I licked my white blossom syrup lips, pulled out my camera from my sock wad, pressed down on the tiny capture button, and said with my best James Earl Jones, “Happy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mutha’ fuckin’</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hall-o-ween</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bitch!</i>” <br />
“Who are you, Incredible Mulch?” <br />
Knoll yelled out as if on que, “Oh Snap!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatchu gonna do when these 24-inch pythons get ahold of you?”<br />
Unable to return serve, Mulch just threatened, “I got a whole house full of brothers can are gonna run wild on your ass if you guys don’t shut the fuck up.” <br />
“Oh, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes</i>, baby, bring those hot brothers of yours to my pad,” I said, feeling myself up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then in my dirtiest whisper I said, “Bring them right <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Fuck you guys,” said the alpha male as he pushed Say-bash aside, creating an exit for he and his loyal followers.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Just then, the lights were turned down for closing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the sloshed punks said, “Girl, I’ll tap that ass like a Saudi oil field.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He went on, “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt...after a week.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this was, exactly what I was craving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It actually came so much easier than I had anticipated. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I played coy for another minute or two and then trapped him with my right heel planted at his side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“You want it, little boy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you sure you can handle this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Cuz I might be the one doing the hurting,” I whispered in my raspy, bass voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Oh, Oh my God! Shit, no! Ahhhhh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fuckin’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nasty</i>, dude! No, I thought!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought….Fuck!”<br />
But with my heels, I towered at 6’3” and regardless, I had a considerable strength advantage owing to my sprinter’s build. <br />
“Come on, bitch, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i> them,” I chided him. He was so drunk, I could manipulate him like a quarterback with a concussion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took his hand and made him feel my breast, which felt like a giant tumor since it was merely a 34 DD bra with rolled up socks inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His friends feigned sickness as they nearly fell to the floor laughing.<br />
“Ooooh, yeah, just like that Captain America,” I said groping and grinding him now, keeping his body firmly against mine as I clenched his button-down flannel shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For dramatic effect (and to ensure Knoll and Say-bash made this the biggest story on all of campus) I grabbed his collar and held him back against the fogged glass door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I licked my blossomy lips, pulled out my camera from my bra, pressed down on the tiny capture button, and said “Happy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mutha’ fuckin’</i> Hall-o-ween, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bitch!</i>” <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
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</div></div>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-39823191867004311572011-04-03T21:17:00.001-07:002011-04-03T21:17:26.672-07:00Dirty American<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Dirty American<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">It was my first day of my UN internship at the Nasir-Bagh refugee camp in Pakistan. I was looking forward to attending to the care of the Afghan refugees, who made up this camp of some 100,000 residents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of these refugees had fled from the brutal Taliban regime in neighboring Afghanistan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I arrived that morning, I saw young, thin boys swimming in an impossibly filthy stream in the front of the camp. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After turning left and crossing a narrow bridge, we drove down the long, dusty road toward the large, canvas tent, where we would see our patients.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Along the way, I saw vegetable vendors and make-shift stores embedded alongside the countless rows of mud huts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Upon arriving, I joined my superior, Dr. Alam, and the rest of the UN staff around the large table outside the main tent. Alam made polite small talk with me and served tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tea far too hot for the 116° heat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I was still getting accustomed to Peshawar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had only been in this dusty, poverty-stricken city for two days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was still jet-lagged and rather self-conscious that I did not speak the local language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the large, wooden table, Alam and I were joined by the nurses and midwives, who all seemed to be talking about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was slightly relieved to see kind nods and smiles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the other hand, I remained rather nervous because this was my first time doing any type of aid work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just didn’t know what to expect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Alam continued break thxe ice, but it didn't make me any less uneasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"You have settled into your room O.K.?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes, my room is quite comfortable."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Are you liking Peshawar?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes, I'm growing accustomed to it."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided not to tell him what I really thought, which was that Peshwar was one of the most bizarre places I'd ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The filth I saw when walking along the streets was unrivaled. They day before, I had seen a man leaning over a whole chicken, removing its feathers on a dirt path, with hands covered in motor oil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Note to self," I thought, "eat rice with lentils from now on." But poor cities are almost always dirty places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was truly odd about this is that I saw absolutely no women about the town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a single one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew that Pashtos (the dominant ethnic group in Northwest Pakistan) had a custom of not allowing women to leave the home, but I thought I'd at least see women with their husbands. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Soooo, Sasha, how many girlfriends do you have?" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">O.K. This was not a question I had anticipated, but I fielded it as well as I could, given the circumstances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Well, Alam…uhhh…I have one girlfriend." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Oh, you only have one girlfriend?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought you would have many more. 15." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"15 girlfriends?” I began to laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No, no. I've never heard of anyone in the States with so many girlfriends."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Really?" he said inquisitively.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"So, what is her name?" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I cringed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were getting into territory I really didn't want to be in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My stomach churned and it wasn't the astronomical bacterial content of beef stew I had the night before. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Her name is Anita."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"She is Indian?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he asked without judgment.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I looked across the table and felt that all the rest of the camp staff were listening, as their eyes were intently fixed on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to reassure myself that they didn't speak English.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes, she's Indian," I replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, God!</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Why did I say that?</i> Here I am in one of the most conservative Muslim cities in one of the most populous Muslim countries in the world and I just told my superior that my girlfriend is Indian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fantastic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re going to think I’m a bad Muslim and a traitorous Pakistani.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Great start to this internship, buddy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Very interesting," Alam remarked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“’Very interesting?’ Oh, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hate </i>‘very interesting.’ It seems innocent enough, but anytime someone says ‘very interesting’ it really means, ‘Yeah, that’s some fucked up shit?’"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So there I was, being welcomed by the doctor who would be my internship supervisor and I was stupid enough to reveal my girlfriend was a member of the only religion that my coworkers might have a problem with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What the hell is he going to think of me now?” I wondered.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Is she a Hindu?" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">With great hesitation, I answered, "Yes, she is Hindu - so what time do we begin seeing patients?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Alam didn't hesitate nor did he go for the change in subject.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought, "He's not going to give me some lecture about why I should date Pakistani women is he?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is absolutely <i>not</i> how I want to begin my work here." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Sooo, what do you do with her?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"I'm saved," I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was relieved Alam was not one of those self-righteous people that always feel they need to judge Americans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Well, we go to movies. We go to restaurants for dinner. We spend time with friends. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"No, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, what do you do with her in the bed?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Did I hear that right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did my superior, a UN doctor, just ask me about what I do in bed with my girlfriend?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn't this place supposed to be ultra-conservative?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the fuck am I supposed to answer?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait! Clarification!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, yes there must be some language gap here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must</i> mean something else."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"I'm not sure I understand, Alam," I said with a furrowed brow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"What, exactly, do you mean?"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Oh, I mean, like what positions are you liking?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do you like to do it?" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I couldn't believe what was happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked over at the nurses and midwives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was desperately hoping someone would comment that it was time to begin seeing patients.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was hoping a meteor would hit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything, <i>anything</i> to stop this conversation. Did I just hear a Taliban rocket? “What does he think," I wondered, "that Americans are all sex-crazed miscreants who live real-life Cinemax movies?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"I see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ummm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm sorry, I'm not really comfortable answering this question." <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"O.K.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell me, are you a good fucker?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"<i>What</i>?" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Oh, I am a very good fucker," Alam said confidently while smiling and gesturing with his forearm and upper leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I had to ask myself whether this was all really happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mused that it might be the heat that was making me imagine this whole situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in my heart I knew this was, in fact, reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was officially the most bizarre first day that I could ever imagine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Please, God," I pleaded" I will never question another girl who claims to have been sexually harassed in the workplace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just <i>please, </i>I beg of you, get me out of this conversation!"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a desperate attempt to change the subject, I asked, "So, Alam, tell me about your wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is her name?" <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">"Oh, ha, ha, ha," Alam laughed as people often do when a social custom has been violated by an outsider. "We do not consider it appropriate to talk about our wives here in Peshawar."<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-11037963604458427242010-12-20T21:37:00.001-08:002010-12-20T21:37:08.055-08:00Rockstar Moment<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I stood outside my apartment building in the Februaried air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a Sunday night, and my sight was a bit blurry from reading 200 pages of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How To Win in Washington</i>. I fidgeted with my pashmina, a gift from my Kasmiri ex-roomate, that I was never seen without during these wintry days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was fresh mulch at the base of the large oak trees that stood guard in front of my apartment complex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looked strange there, superimposed on the tundra that wouldn’t become grass again until April. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I pulled out a blue, cardboard box of Nat Sherman’s, and removed the one remaining cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could feel a subdued adrenaline rush in anticipation of a hit of nicotine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lit up and took a long drag as the wind threatened to put out the just-lit smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about how I could market myself differently to the countless think tanks in Washington, of which, owing to the financial crisis, none were hiring. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A well-dressed girl turned the corner from N St. onto New Hampshire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she neared, I saw that she was both tall and beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being weary of staring, I turned so that my back was toward her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her heels made a clip-clop noise that steadily grew louder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the noise suddenly stopped and I felt a tap on my shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spun around with a surprised smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Hey, sorry to bug you, but do you have another one of those?”<br />
“Oh, um, I’m really sorry, this is my last one.” <br />
“Oh, that’s ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was just out with some friends for drinks and I’m <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">totally</i> craving a smoke.”<br />
While maintaining my smile, I said apologetically, “Yeah, I know how that can be.” <br />
She started to continue on her way when my partially paralyzed mind instructed my mouth to say, “Hey, do you wanna share this one with me?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
She turned around with remarkable grace, given that she was in heels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said with alacrity, “Sure! Why not?” <br />
I walked toward her and handed her the cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She removed her trendy blue leather gloves and took a few puffs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Oh wow, what are these?<br />
“They’re Nat Shermans.” <br />
“Oh, so you’re too good for Camel lights?” <br />
“Exactly,” I replied cheekily. <br />
“These are so much better than the shit everyone else smokes.” <br />
“Hearing you say that is actually the main reason that I smoke them.”<br />
“Ha! You’ve got quite a sense of humor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s a lot left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wanna walk me home while we finish this off?”<br />
“Sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where do you live?”<br />
“I’m like two blocks from here on 22<sup>nd</sup>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As we walked we exchanged names and, of course, work information and where we had received our graduate degrees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was impressed that I studied at the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy, though she had received a law degree from Duke and a master’s in international relations from Hopkins. Her name was Sonia and her parents had immigrated to the US from India when she was very young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we rounded the corner onto 22<sup>nd </sup>St., I noticed that she was wearing a white colored cashmere coat with a faux fur collar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t the type of coat one could wear every day and I knew she’d never wear it to work at the firm she practiced at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started to understand that this was a girl was part of DC’s “upper crust.” As the lights shined upon us from the Wyndham hotel, I caught a glimpse of her enormous pink diamond earrings. I was a bit disappointed because pink diamonds were almost always conflict diamonds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realized this was the type of girl my friends and I regularly chided when out at a bar or lounge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t that any of us couldn’t afford nice things; we just had our fair share of disasters with “princesses.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Princesses cared more about money than substance, more about where you worked than what you did, more about which senators you knew rather than which ones you voted for.<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To hell with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s super cute and seems like she’s into you. </i><br />
Upon reaching her town house I was glad that DC was being hit hard by the financial crisis as it made me one of thousands of highly qualified people not presently working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sonia didn’t seem fazed by my circumstances despite being a lawyer at a high-powered law firm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stopped at her doorstep and she said, “Well, thanks for walking me home – oh, and for the cigarette,” as she smiled, showing her brilliant white teeth for the first time. <br />
“No worries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next time you’re fiending for a smoke, just stop by,” I said. <br />
“Ok. Cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See you around.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
She stepped up to her door, and as she turned the key, I asked, “So, would you be up for dinner sometime?”<br />
“Umm, sure,” she said pretending to not have expected my inevitable query.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Here’s my card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just shoot me an email, O.K.?” <br />
“I’ll do that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have a good night,” I said playfully. <br />
I turned and walked back toward my apartment, feeling both excited and surprised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I immediately called my friend Zaytun.<br />
“Ettie,” he said, as he always did whenever I called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s the thing I loved about Z.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He never answered with a “Hello?” Instead he always said your name, as if he had been looking forward to hearing from you.<br />
“Z! Dude, you’re never going to believe what just happened.”<br />
“What’s that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait, hang on, let me turn this down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned down the Portuguese ambient electronica he was presently obsessed with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What up?”<br />
“Dude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Check it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m standing outside my building having a smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This super cute chick rolls up, and asks for a smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I was on my last one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I ask her if she wants to share, and she’s like cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we end up sharing the cigarette while I walk her home.” <br />
“Nice, dude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So did you get her number?”<br />
“Well, when we got to her pad, I asked for it and she gave me her card.” <br />
“That’s pretty money considering you knew her all of, what, ten minutes?”<br />
“Yeah, something like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only thing is that I think she might be a princess.” <br />
“Why do you say that?” <br />
“Dressed all in couture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pink diamond earrings bigger than T.O.’s” <br />
“Hmm….Well at least go out with her and decide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You got nothing to lose, right?”<br />
“Yeah, definitely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do you think, the Peruvian joint in Adams Morgan?”<br />
“It’s been nothing but good to you in the past, right?” <br />
“Yeah, I’d say that’s about right. Just don’t want it to seem like I’m trying too hard to impress. Cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, yeah, just called to tell you about this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing else has happened since I talked to you, like, 3 hours ago.” <br />
“Alright, man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s talk about this more tomorrow and we can strategize on the email.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve got a big donor meeting tomorrow so I gotta crash pretty soon.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Ok, man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk to you tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I come to the donor meeting?” <br />
“Uhh, no.” <br />
“Come on, dude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll tell them how well you can withstand multiple alcoholic drinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And how you used to handle way more E than any other human weighing 130lbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to reassure them that you’ll be doing good things with their money.” <br />
“Somehow I don’t think any of that would go over too well, Etienne.” <br />
“OK, dude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me know if you’re starting to get cold feet and you change your mind.” <br />
<br />
I made plans with Sonia for later that same week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Zaytun’s email edits were invaluable and helped me strike just the right balance between playful and confident.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We met at the Peruvian restaurant, which was known for excellent food in an intimate, though unpretentious setting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a fairly small space, only about ten tables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The walls were painted a pinkish-red and each table had a small, unassuming candle placed upon a bluish-grey tablecloth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
We started with the ceviche, which was fantastic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the conversation began to move fluidly, I became less nervous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bottle of Chilean petit syrah arrived, and was poured into trendy, stemless wine glasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sipped the wine, and Sonia complemented me on the selection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she was a progressive, we shared much in common.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We discussed our love for Amartya Sen, Raphael Nadal, and Bollywood films.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Actually, you’re never gonna believe this, but I started watching Indian movies because I was trying to improve my Hindi language skills when I was studying for the foreign service exam,” I confessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“That is so funny!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did it work?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she asked playfully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Yeah, I think after about three weeks I could understand when they read the title of the movie.” <br />
Sonia was definitely digging my sense of humor and I started to feel at ease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our food arrived just as we began to share our favorite travel destinations. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“So, where are some of your favorite places in Europe?” she inquired. <br />
I sensed that she was after a little dirt, and I had no shortage of stories to satisfy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Actually, I went backpacking in Europe with six brown guys.” <br />
“Oh my God! Are you serious? That’s so crazy”<br />
“It was hilarious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, it just happened that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of my housemates senior year were Indian, so we all went together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The token Whitie, Brad, wasn’t able to make it. Anyway, we’d walk through any city, and people would be like, ‘India! India!’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We didn’t mind, ‘cuz they treated us a lot better than they would have if they thought we were American.”<br />
“So what’s your favorite memory?”<br />
“Oh, that’s so tough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Man, I guess I’d have to go with Marbella, you know, Spanish Riviera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had partied all night, and at like 2am, they started blinking the lights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, we thought it was last call and started pounding the rest of our drinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get this: it was a Michael Jackson contest.” <br />
“Wait, what do you mean, Michael Jackson contest?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like karyoke?” <br />
“No, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the real deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would play a Michael Jackson song, and you have to dance to it.”<br />
“Oh my God!” <br />
“So, all of us are trying to get my friend Rahil to do it ‘cuz he’s a kick-ass bhangra dancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Niraj was like, ‘No way, no how, never.’”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“So what happened?” <br />
“O.K., so no one knew, but I was quasi-obsessed with Michael, and I used to practice his moves in my bedroom every morning while I got dressed.” <br />
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sonia said as she nearly snarfed her wine. “That is so fucking funny.” <br />
“Yeah. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was drunk, and I was like, ‘Yo, I’m never going to see any of these people again.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I told the bartender I was in.”<br />
Sonia was enjoying all this immensely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She punched me in the arm playfully and insisted, “What happened then?” <br />
“So then, like three guys and one girl were ahead of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girl was money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the dudes was a shit-faced Greek dude who almost did a face-plant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I roll up and, of course, they played Billie Jean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Man, I knew the song and the moves so well that it just no contest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing I was worried about was the Moonwalk because the stage was kind of sticky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So while I was dancing I kicked off my shoes and then I poured a drink all over my socks so they wouldn’t stick to the floor.” <br />
“Oh my fucking God. So <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">then what?</i>” Sonia asked with wide eyes and an open mouth.<br />
“I totally nailed the Moonwalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And everyone in the bar just went insane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the end of the song, this insanely hot Scandinavian DJ came over and kissed me on the lips.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“That is the fucking funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” <br />
“Yeah, it’s like…we get one of these moments in our entire lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have no idea when it’s going to happen, but we all get this singular chance to be a total rock star.” <br />
“So, wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What did all your friends say?” <br />
“Ha! They were like where the fuck did that come from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> you?” <br />
“I was like, yo, I got skills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got skills that you don’t even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then all these people started crowding around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they were like ‘how did you learn the Moonwalk?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like ten different people bought me a drink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then people started chanting ‘Encore!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Encore!’ but I knew I had to quit while I was ahead, you know?<br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That </i>is a great story.” <br />
“So what’s your rock star moment?” <br />
“Definitely when I was in college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a theatre major.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, there’s this big Shakespeare festival every year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s just kind of understood that no freshman, no matter how captivating they are, can take on anything except for bit parts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So…I was like, ‘fuck that,’ I’m so much better than these upperclassmen chicks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About two months before the festival, the drama faculty comes around and hands out the parts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had like two lines in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tempest</i>, which was totally beneath me because I was a total drama nerd in high school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I actually went to Shakespeare camp every summer.” <br />
“Wow, I bet you got yourself into loads of trouble there, huh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What did you do, interrupt people studying with a soliloquy?” <br />
“Shut up!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>O.K., where was I?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, yeah, so there’s this bitch who was a sophomore and they gave her Cleopatra because her Dad was like Ambassador to Brazil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, this chick was notorious for sucking dick right and left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So guess what happens?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She ends up getting fucking mono and loses her voice two days before the production.” <br />
“No, way!” <br />
“Way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, there’s this urgent email from the head of the drama department in search of anyone, female or male, who could do a cram session and perform as Cleopatra in front of the whole campus.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“So, I replied, and said I could do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, the summer before I started at Yale, I had played Cleopatra - ”<br />
“- At Shakespeare camp!” <br />
“Yes!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I emailed back and said I could do it and that two days was enough time for me to prepare.” <br />
“So then what?” <br />
“So then I crammed like crazy, ‘cuz you have to remember all the gestures and everything too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Performance day came around and people were like, ‘Oh, Antony and Cleopatra is going to blow because Veronica’s not doing it.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was just like, what<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went out there and I was just like in a zone the whole two hours.” <br />
“Then what?” <br />
“They did the curtain call and I got mad ovations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was like, ‘yeah, you know it!’” <br />
“Nice, very nice.” <br />
“But that’s not even the best part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">After</i> the head of the drama department totally kissed my ass, I went back to the dressing area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone was giving me high fives and shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">then </i>came the total rock star moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of a sudden everyone started cheering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None other than William Jefferson Clinton walks in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He came right up to me and said, ‘That is the best performance of Antony and Cleopatra I’ve seen in my entire life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that includes the time when I saw it as president.’”<br />
“Holy shit!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get kissed by a hot DJ and you get props from Bill Clinton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Un-be-liveable.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
We had eaten our entrees without noticing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it had been at least ten minutes since the waiter placed the desert menus on the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Sonia’s story was so amazing that all I could do was smile and shake my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She seemed like she’d need a moment to return from her surreal memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was looking at the candle and smiling to herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I consumed the image of her full lips just barley parted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had a large dimple on her left cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eyes were so large and dark that they made me want to beg them to take me wherever they were.<br />
“Ready for dessert?” I asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Sure. Hmmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything looks good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, do you wanna share the leche asada?” <br />
“Yeah, that’s cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always end up getting flan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it’s time to move on.” <br />
“Excelente.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, do you watch soccer?” <br />
“Yeah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, I don’t have the soccer channel, but I def watch the good club games whenever I can.”<br />
“What’s your team?”<br />
“I dig Man U.” <br />
“Oh, really?” <br />
“Yeah, why?” <br />
“Oh, my girlfriend is from the U.K. and she’s like an insane Arsenal fan.” <br />
“Yeah, you match the passion of the Brits for football.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s part of their DNA.” <br />
“Totally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you used to play?”<br />
“Yeah, man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I played all through high school and then intramural in college.” <br />
“Cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Were you good?”<br />
“Ummm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was pretty average until senior year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I put on a bit of weight on my super-skinny frame and that helped a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, you can move a lot better when the wind isn’t knocking you over,” I shared with a smile. <br />
Sonia laughed, showing her dimple again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You know your sense of humor is quite charming, don’t you?” <br />
“I’ve been told this.” <br />
“Yeah, by who?” <br />
“The little butterfly that lives in my sock drawer.” <br />
“Were you born this cute?” <br />
“Yes,” I replied with a playful smile. <br />
“Oh!” Sonia jumped in her seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That’s my phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hang on a sec,” she said as she pulled her phone from her Fendi handbag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hi babe, what’s up?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, no we’re just finishing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>O.K., sweets.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She hung up her phone and placed it back in her handbag. <br />
“Meeting up with some friends after this?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I inquired as carefully as possible. <br />
“Oh, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s just my boyfriend.” <br />
“Cool,” I said, but I meant, “What the fuck was that all about?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re </i>playing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could feel the leche asada climbing back up into my throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was shocked, but I still maintained sufficient wits to be able to ask the painfully obvious, “Soooo…this is not a date.” It was a statement more than it was a question.<br />
“Oh no, I’m so sorry, sweetie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I made it obvious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, I mean, this is just hanging out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two friends enjoying good food and great conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, your Billie Jean story is fucking awesome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sheel is going to die when he hears it.” <br />
“I hope he gets a kick out of it,” I said with my teeth clenched and my fingernails tearing into my palms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
The check came back and I signed it furiously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To make matters worse, in my disorientation, I gave the waiter a 40 percent tip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
We stood up, and Sonia reached out her arms to hug me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to drop-kick her in the face so hard that that damn dimple would fall right off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I played it cool and attempted to save face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This ended up being the most bizarre thing I’ve ever done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
“Oh, thank you, sweetie!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> to do this again sometime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have to tell me more of your crazy stories!” <br />
“Definitely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll give you a ring next week.” <br />
We walked out of the restaurant and Sonia reached out her arms for another hug goodbye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I half-heartedly wrapped one arm around her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She planted a warm kiss on each cheek, in the European fashion.<br />
“Bye, sweetie!” <br />
“O.K., you heartless bitch,” I said under my breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She started walking south toward Dupont Circle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My apartment was in the same direction, but the last thing I wanted to do was be anywhere near that evil chick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked uphill toward Kindred Spirits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The irony was not lost upon me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slid my Blackberry out of my pocket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held down the side button, and said “Z” into the receiver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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</div>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-73799800070204049742010-12-09T20:39:00.000-08:002011-04-04T11:39:33.203-07:00Tangentially<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">On the first weekend of spring break, Brad and I decided to diss the bars for a club. We got out of the cab at the top of a steep hill where the enormous discotec, The Palladium, was located. As we walked toward the entrance, we could see all of Acapulco’s lights glimmering below us in through the darkness. Beyond the side of the driveway was a cliff that descended the entire height of the hill - at least 200 feet. Brad and I casually made our entrance and headed straight for the bar. We started off with margaritas - rocks and salt. We both took in the scene as we quickly downed our drinks. The space of the discotec was massive, much larger than any club I’d ever been to. Multi-colored lights were rigged upon the ceiling; they made bright circles of red, pink, blue and white on the floor. Brad and I watched the girls walk toward the dance floor in tight groups. We joked that the girls were so fine that they could only be described as ugly. As we finished our first margarita, a guy who looked like he stuffed himself into his pants walked by. <br />
“I knew you were laughing at that dude with the fat ass in those tight jeans!” I said.<br />
“I know, man, he needed a shoehorn to get into those!” <i><br />
“</i>Yo, check out the JLo-wannabe over there in the purple.” <br />
“Not Cute!” we said in unison while mimicking the act of vomiting.<br />
Brad knew that he had to keep a close eye on me, as there was always a danger that after a few drinks I would not only comment on the overly-made up divas, the chumps and the over-dancers, I would likely make them aware of their defect. As one drink somehow became six or seven, Brad and I wandered about the club, checking things out and debating on whether to hit the dance floor. It was now well after mid-night, and there were loads of gorgeous girls dancing together in groups, surrounded by lame guys paying them homage. On the other side of the ridiculously huge club there were tables headed by rich Mexican guys who were buying wine and champagne for their friends. <br />
<br />
Back at the bar, Brad and I found a group of other college students on spring break and hung out with them for a while. Their group had a decent ratio of girls to guys, so we kicked it with them until it became clear that the meat head factor of this group was a bit too high for our liking. “Dude, if you don’t do this shot, I’m gonna kick your ass right here!” one of the guys said to the other. Brad and I gave each other the widened-eye-with-raised-eyebrow-look and rolled out. Just as I was about to do an impression of the chumps we just met, when I thought I spotted a classmate from Michigan. I needed to walk right by her to get a good look. This wasn’t just any classmate. It was Devi Desai. I grabbed Brad by the shoulder and said, “Dude, that’s Devi Desai.” <br />
“Go talk to her,” Brad encouraged.<br />
“What’s my opening?”<br />
“Dude, she’s by herself. Just ask her what’s up.”<br />
“What if she ignores me? She hasn’t said a word to me since Enigmatic Wednesday.”<br />
“Come on, Sash. You never even called her after that. And I’m pretty sure you haven’t run into her, right? Dude, we’re like 5,000 miles from campus. She’s not gonna pull that shit.”<br />
“O.K., man. If she shuts me down, you’ll have to wear a speedo tomorrow.” <br />
“Fine, I’ll wear a damn speedo. I’ll even wear a pink one. I don’t give a fuck. You know I’m <i>fine</i>. Now get your ass over there.” <br />
I had trouble holding back my laughter because I knew he’d actually do it. I walked back toward Devi, but the angle was challenging since she was on the move. I decided to cross her path diagonally, and much to my surprise, she tugged at my shirt. <br />
“Hey, what’s up? I know you,” Devi said flirtatiously. <br />
“Hey, what’s goin’ on? I didn’t know you were going to be in Acapulco”<br />
We exchanged the usual niceties and after a few minutes Devi just asked, “So you wanna hang out?” This was beginning to be a bit surreal. Every guy I knew had a crush on Devi Desai. And every guy I knew, knew that I had a huge crush on Devi Desai. She was coy, elusive, ever-so-subtly flirtatious, but emasculatingly sexy. Earlier that year, on an ass-cold November day, I was lucky enough to catch Devi on her way out of a class. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Somehow I was able to convince her to hang out. Maybe she was just cold. Devi came over on a cold, lazy Wednesday night. We sat on the sofa munching on Tostitos chips and salsa, washed down with vodka and tonic. We watched The Doors. I made sure not to mouth all the good lines before Val Kilmer said them, as I had a terrible habit of doing. I thought I had everything in line for a legendary hook up, but this was, after all, Devi Desai. It was actually the most stressful “date” ever, if you could even call it that. She never broke her poker face, so I had to figure out what she wanted without her really telling me anything meaningful about herself. It was like being on a date with the Sphinx. Needless to say, it didn’t go well. My friends who heard of the Wednesday date bust sympathized with me, both in person and via email. That evening became forever etched in our shared history as Enigmatic Wednesday. Devi Desai had now surpassed Simone Rao as the most mysterious-and-yet-insanely-hot-girl on campus. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> <br />
It’s a good thing I was drunk, because I was able to answer Devi casually. <br />
“Hang out? Are sure that's all you wanna do? No, I'm playing. Of course I would."<br />
Devi led me by the hand to the dance floor, where we talked a bit over the blaring music. I held her close. Her shimmery silver dress was an alluring mixture of materials that felt cool despite the heat of the club. We danced for a few songs, but Devi appeared to be getting bored. I knew I wasn’t a great dancer, but I also knew I wasn’t <i>that</i> bad. <br />
“Do you want some wine?” Devi asked.<br />
“Am I feeling fine?” I asked, unable to hear her over the relentless techno music.<br />
“No! I said do you want some <i>wine</i>!”<br />
“Oh, O.K., sure. I mean, I’ve had a lot to drink already, but I’m down with some vino.” I was off-balance already; I didn’t want to get so drunk that I totally fucked myself over. <br />
<i>One to two glasses, O.K.? No more. DO NOT ruin this!</i><br />
“O.K., rockin,’” she said.<br />
Surprisingly, Devi went up to a table crowded with a group that seemed like regulars at this club. She talked to one of the guys for a couple minutes, while I chilled in the background. In a way I was simply resting on my laurels as it was clear Devi and I were together – at least for the next hour. Devi was chatting it up with such familiarity that it was as if she hung out with this crew at a bar the previous night. But, as I would learn, this wasn’t the case. Devi was simply accessing her full seductive capability, smiling intriguingly, holding a guy’s hand in hers, pretending to be unaware of how much cleavage she was showing as she leaned over. <br />
<i>Isn’t that dude with his girlfriend?<br />
</i>The real skill, I concluded was in winning over all the girls at the table. Oddly, they didn’t see Devi as a threat, nor did they seem offended by Devi flirting with their boyfriends. This was manipulation that would surely make Kissinger proud. Regardless, before I knew it, Devi was pouring champagne into a glass for me. We sat at a small table that had its back to the table of Devi’s patrons. We finished the champagne, oddly, without sharing any with the partiers that bought it for us. Then again, they already had a few bottles of wine on their table. At the end of the day, I had absolutely no problem with Devi playing a game with all these other guys as long as she was procuring the wine from them, but drinking it alone with me. When we’d finished the champagne, Devi took my hand and led me to the next table. <br />
“Wanna see me do it again?” <br />
“O.K. Let’s see what you got.” <br />
<i>Shit! She’s going to get another bottle and I’m going to seem like a total lightweight if I say “No!”</i> <br />
Again, Devi had another bottle of wine in her hand in a matter of minutes. I was beyond amazed at her talent. We began drinking this bottle, too, when I became acutely aware that I was suffering from alcohol poisoning. The enormous space started spinning. The lights on the ceiling began to alternate from incredibly bright to dim. The sound of the pulsating techno began to pump my stomach so as to push its contents upward. I cursed myself for being such an idiot. I gave Devi a peck on the cheek and told her I’d be right back. I walked off briskly and as soon as I was out of sight I ran, in crooked lines, to the bathroom. I puked. I puked like I’ve never puked before. I tried to calculate the number of drinks I’d consumed so that I’d know how much water to drink. But I had completely lost track. I needed to find Brad to figure out a plan of action. <br />
<i>Oh, shit! Brad! Where the hell is he?</i><br />
I leaned against the sink, as dozens of guys passed in and out. The air was saturated with conflicting colognes and it did anything but help my churning stomach. After about ten minutes I started feeling better. I remained a bit queasy, but rejuvenated. I had a strong feeling that I just didn’t live up to Devi’s expectations and that she had taken off. To my surprise, she was still at the table. Now that I had gotten rid of about a liter of alcohol, I could afford to drink some more, I reasoned. Devi and I drank the next bottle of wine, which was a red. She, for the first time, seemed to be showing genuine interest, but I still felt like her real goal was to see how many guys she could get to buy her a bottle of wine while their girlfriends sat watching. <br />
<i>Who cares!</i> I thought.<i> She’s the hottest girl that you’ve ever talked to.</i><br />
And so I found myself accompanying Devi to two or three more tables and finishing just as many more bottles of wine. By 3:30</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">AM</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Devi had, I’m sure, damaged some relationships, but no less than she damaged my liver. Anyway, we agreed it was time to go. I felt myself leaning on Devi so I could walk straight. I put my arm around her shoulder and she held my hand as it hung at the base of her neck. As it was so late the crowd had thinned considerably. It only took me a few minutes to see that Brad was no longer there. Having nothing to lose, I asked Devi to come back with me. She agreed. <br />
<i>Really? But I’m totally shit-faced. I can barely find the exit. Is this going to be another Enigmatic Wednesday? Oh well, I’m not about to argue with her.<br />
</i>By the time we arrived at the hotel, it was so late, and both of us were so tired that we dropped all pretense. I didn’t even offer her a chair or water, nor did she make any such requests. We both just slid comfortably into my bed, completely shit-faced. <br />
“Wait. What happened to your friend? ” Devi asked, slurring slightly.<br />
I looked over and saw that there was a trail of dusty mud on the tile floor that grew heavier as it approached the base of Brad’s bed. I looked over to the corner of the room and saw Brad’s cream-colored polo shirt in the corner with streaks of blood on it. Then I saw his forearm, which had a 5in. gash in it, though it looked like the bleeding had been contained. Nevertheless, the sheet below Brad’s arm was covered in fresh blood. I jumped out of the bed to examine the wound. The bleeding had stopped, but the multiple scrapes and cuts on his arm were still disconcerting. <br />
“Brad! Dude!” <br />
Brad did not respond. <br />
“Yo, Monkey Style!” I attempted to wake him, but he was totally passed out. <br />
I tried again, shaking him vigorously. “Briz! Homey! Dude, you’re bleeding!” <br />
“Well, it’s not actively bleeding. I don’t know if he got into a fight or what” I said to Devi.<br />
“Does he usually get into fights when he’s really drunk?” <br />
“No, we get hammered together every single weekend, but he’s never been in a fight as long as I’ve known him.” <br />
Devi concluded, “I guess we’ll just have to wait for the morning.”<br />
“Yeah…I guess so,” I said, with concern.<br />
I pulled Devi toward me and the moment I felt her chest against mine, I forgot all about Brad. She was warm and her hair smelled like jasmine flowers. I kissed her neck gently, and she pulled the back of my hair with a tight fist. I slid the spaghetti straps of her dress from her shoulders to her upper arm. I slid my hand between her loosened dress and her perfect breasts. At that very moment, I passed out. <br />
<br />
Around 11</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">AM</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">, Devi woke me up, asking if I wanted to go running on the beach.<br />
“Are you high?” I joked.<br />
Then seeing the dusty mud on the floor again, I remembered I had to hear Brad’s story. I threw a pillow at him and asked, “Dude, what the <i>fuck</i> happened to you?” <br />
“Oh, uhhh, well, I think I left around 3</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">AM</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">. I started to walk down the driveway, but then I was like, ‘Man forget <i>this</i>.’ So I decided to climb down.” <br />
“You <i>what? </i>You scaled the 200ft cliff?” <br />
“Wait. Why?” Devi asked with genuine concern.<br />
“Well, I didn’t really feel like waiting for a cab to come up. And the driveway down the hill is really long.”<br />
“Your monkey ass is telling me you were too lazy to walk all the way down the driveway? So you instead scaled a 200ft cliff? Dude, are you fucking <i>insane</i>?”<br />
“I would’ve taken a cab, but there weren’t any. What, was I supposed to wait fifteen minutes?<br />
“As opposed to plunging to a meaningless death? <i>Yes!</i>” I looked over at Devi, who was as incredulous as I was. <br />
“Well, do you wanna hear what happened, or not?” <br />
“O.K. Go, go.” <br />
“So it was too much effort to walk down the driveway and there were no cabs. So, I was like, I can make it down this thing. I just started climbing down, and then I was like this isn’t so bad. So then I kept going. I got tired for a bit but then I was so drunk, I don’t think it mattered. I just kept going down these rocks. There were a few bird’s nests in there that I had to toss away for my grip. Oh, I saw this crazy ass orange lizard! Anyway, so I’m climbing and I’m getting closer to the bottom. I start hearing this clapping and whistling. And then I look down and I see a whole line of taxis and the cabbies are all cheering me on. So, you know, you can’t stop when you’ve got like fifty people cheering you on. So I made it all the way down.”<br />
I laughed so hard when I heard Brad’s idiot-of-the-century-story that I almost vomited again. <br />
“So what about your arm?” Devi and I asked in unison.<br />
“Oh, this?” Brad asked while holding up his forearm with a 5in. gash. “I don’t know. I was somewhere along the way when it happened. I guess I slipped a little.” <br />
“So, wait, what happened when you got back to the hotel?”<br />
“Oh, yeah! They were all like, ‘You can’t come in here. You’re not supposed to be here,’ you know? ‘Cuz I was covered in all this mud and shit. I had this big ‘ol gash on my arm. They thought I just came from a brawl ” <br />
“So, what did you do?” <br />
“I got pissed and made them check the computer. Then they asked for my ID. So they check, and they’re like, ‘Oh shit. He does have a room here.’ So, they tell me to clean the dirt from my shoes and then they got two big-ass security guards to escort me to the room.” <br />
“Holy shit. Bradley, that is the single most ridiculously stupid thing I have ever heard anyone do in my entire life. If I were Buddhist, it would be the single most ridiculously stupid thing I ever heard in thousands of lifetimes. I am so proud that <i>you</i> are my best friend.”<br />
“Sash, I’m gonna head back to my hotel,” Devi said as she tugged at my sleeve. I think I’m gonna go for a run and filter out all the alcohol.”<br />
“O.K., girl. Gimme as sec and I’ll walk you down.” <br />
“No worries, sweetie. I’m a big girl. I can find my way.”<br />
“When do I get to see you again?” <br />
“Just gimme your number. I’ll call you.” <br />
<i>Ouch! I guess she just wanted attention, and I happened to be there. I guess it’s just not meant to be. How could I hide my disappointment?</i><br />
“I feel so cheap!” I said, feigning humiliation. “What, you think you can pick me up at a club, go to bed with me, then just leave? I feel so…so…<i>violated!</i>” <br />
Devi laughed good-naturedly. She leaned over, placed one hand on my shoulder, and kissed my cheek three times. Then she rolled out of the bed and rose to her feet. For the first time I noted how petite she was - no more than 5’1” tall and about 105 lbs. She slid the straps of her dress back over her shoulders, stepped into her stilettos, and pulled her sleek, black hair into a loose pony tail. She took my hand, gave me a wink, and said, “That was fun.” And then she walked out the door.<br />
<br />
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<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </i><o:p></o:p></span></div></div>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-39370527584951334072010-11-13T21:02:00.000-08:002010-11-13T21:02:43.841-08:00Untitled Verse for the Girl at the Cafe<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Wisps of lives content <br />
Blink of an internal smile<br />
The whole afternoon spent<br />
Sunset thoughts for a mile<br />
<br />
Polite replies, my id’s descent<br />
Worldliness, an outdated style?<br />
What romance could I ever invent?<br />
To challenge beauty, so futile<br />
<br />
Duress'd writing, with no relent<br />
Fogged judgment, the whole Nile<br />
My nurtured verse, without consent<br />
In her own world she remains content </span>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-85676802701068283522010-11-01T18:06:00.000-07:002010-11-01T18:06:57.621-07:00Ronnet<div style="text-align: center;">I am Ronnet, forgotten by all for <br />
That bastard Sonnet. Let the emphasis<br />
Fall where it may; let your words smoothly pour.<br />
Iambs you worship while I show the kiss.<br />
Servants of the couplet, blind to my passion.<br />
I will never kill your most perfect lines.<br />
No love, no evil will I soon ration.<br />
Your prose not deployed to hungry mines.<br />
Reveal yourself! Why wait for the couplet?</div><div style="text-align: center;">Must you detain your naked emotion <br />
So your dreamed kisses are no longer wet? <br />
Arousal restrained thwarts culmination.<br />
Sonnet! You nourished my heart, then starved it. <br />
The embodiment of love? Ha! Just a cheap hustler!</div>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-78654893401335039162010-10-28T21:43:00.000-07:002010-10-28T21:43:14.844-07:00Group Therapy<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoBodyText"><em><span>John Boehner, Lady Gaga, Khloe Kardashian and LeBron James are seated together in a circle.</span></em></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">THERAPIST: Welcome to group therapy. As the therapist, I'm here to guide you, but this is your time to entrust your peers to help you work through your issues. OK, who would like to start us off? OK, John, what's on your mind? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: What I think we need to do is talk about how this terrible economy is affecting people.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LADY GAGA: You're really orange. If you tan any more you're going to be extra tasty crispy, dude! </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">KHLOE: OMG! I'm in sooo much pain! I had a nipple firming this morning.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: What the fuck is that? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">KHLOE: It's when you get collagen injected into your nipple so that it stays hard. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: Why would you want your nipple to be stayin' hard like that? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">KHLOE: Duh! It totally looks like you're always aroused. I'm so hoping Lamar will love it! </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: Oh, excuse me, guys. There's gonna be a dude coming from ESPN. He's just chillin' with me so that people can see LeBron James's sensitive side. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: LeBron - is it OK if I call you LeBron? What are you making, $10 million a year not counting endorsements? Do you know how much youre taxes are going to go up once the Bush tax cuts expire? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: So what are you sayin'? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: I'm saying that a Republican president would be better for LeBron James. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: It would be better for LeBron James?</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: Well, you'll be able to keep more of that "bling" you're getting from endorsements and the league. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: Ummm. You don't get paid in" bling." You use your money to buy bling. But anyway, this is the first Black president. I shot hoops with him the other day. [<em><span>Pause</span></em>] But you say I pay less taxes under a Republican? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LADY GAGA: Shit! I just had had a vision. I need to change one of my costumes. I can't let my little monsters down! </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">[<em><span>She begins singing</span></em>]</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">I wanna lift your veil underneath the rocket fire. Helmand! Oh Helmaaaand! Twelve-year-old bride, you gotta run away. Run away to me.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: Hey guys. Just wanted to let you know that my homies Chris and Dwayne are going to be swinging by in a bit. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">KHLOE: OMG! I just figured out what I'm going to do for Lamar's birthday! I'm going to get naked and let him eat sushi off me, just like they do in Japan. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: Would that be cut roll or nigiri? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LADY GAGA: [<em><span>Singing</span></em>] Oh, run, run among the poppies. Helmand! Oh Helmaaaand! Come to the 6'6" Arab man hiding in this cave. I'm your only confidant. Come to me.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: My hands are kind of dry. Does anyone have some Kiehl's hand salve? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">KHLOE: [<em><span>To LeBron</span></em>] I loooove your loafers! What are they made out of? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: [<em><span>To Khloe</span></em>] Oh, these are crocodile, I think. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">KHLOE: What's the difference between crocodile and alligator?</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: I think we need to refocus and talk about all the illegal immigration going on in this country.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">KHLOE: So, can you guys believe that someone wrote that I look like Ms. Piggy on my blog? Ms. Fucking Piggy? How cruel is that?</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: [<em><span>To Khloe</span></em>] That's just wrong, girl. Just wrong. [<em><span>Pauses</span></em>] Hey, if you guys were with one sneaker company for a long time, but another sneaker company offered a little bit more, what would you do?</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LADY GAGA: [<em><span>Singing</span></em>] Love me so gentle, love my kidneys back to life. Helmand! Oh Helmaaaand!</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: So I'm thinking of calling my new yacht Second Surge. But, really we should be discussing how we're all going to be footing the bill for health care, while the rest of America gets a free pass. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LADY GAGA: [<em><span>Stands up on her chair and sings</span></em>] Do Do Do Do, only for. Do Do Do Do only for you. Baby can you feel it, Baby can you feel it? Helmand! Oh Helmaaaand! I will lift your veil beneath the rocket fire. We will roast a lamb in the pyre. Twelve-year-old-bride run away! Run away to me. Oh, I'll feed you some naan. We'll scream 'fuck the Taliban!" Let's go far and hide. I'll even let you drive. Helmand! Oh Helmaaaand! Run among the poppies. I'm kneeling down on my knees. Come to the 6'6" Arab man. Tell me how far you ran. [<em><span>Whispers</span></em>] I need you. I feel you. Hold me, baby. Tell me we'll be safe. Tell me you must hide with me. Love me so gentle, love my kidneys back to life. [<em><span>Sings loudly</span></em>] Helmand! Oh, Helmaaaand. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: I just got a text from my boys. Does anyone know if Ruth's Christ steakhouse is any good? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: One of the biggest problems in this country is stem cell research. I think we should really have a discussion about it. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON [<em><span>To Boehner</span></em>] Isn't that when they take healthy cells from a embryo in a test tube and give them to another person to save their life?</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: Uhhhhh. Well, the issue is that embryo is a living thing.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">KHLOE: But they don't, like, look like a fetus, do they? You have to look at them under a microscope, don't you? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: Yes, but that's off topic. The point is that these are living things.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LEBRON: But you're using them to save a human life though, right? </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">BOEHNER: Well, yes, that's often the case. But- </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LADY GAGA: Oh! I wrote a paper on stem cell research once. It's like 8 cells when the zygote becomes an embryo. Stem cells are currently being used to treat many diseases that require the replacement of an organ or brain cells. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">KHLOE: I so need to get my waxing done. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Bodoni MT","serif"; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;"><span></span>All Too Far</span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
Ziggy played guitar, jamming good with Weird and Gilly, <br />
The Spiders from Mars. <br />
He played it left hand, but made it too far, <br />
Became the special man, then we were Ziggy's Band.<br />
<br />
Ziggy really sang, screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo<br />
Like some cat from Japan, he could lick 'em by smiling <br />
He could leave 'me to hang<br />
Came on so loaded man, well hung and snow white tan.<br />
<br />
So where were the spiders while the fly tried to break our balls<br />
Just the beer light to guide us,<br />
So we bitched about his fans and should we crush his sweet hands ?<br />
<br />
Ziggy played for time, jiving us that we were Voodoo<br />
The kids was just crass, he was the naz<br />
With God given ass<br />
He took it all too far but boy could he play guitar.<br />
<br />
Making love with his ego Ziggy sucked up into his mind<br />
Like a leper messiah<br />
When the kids had killed the man I had to break up the band</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Bodoni MT","serif"; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The US currently suffers from a crisis of identity.<span> </span>Since the end of WWII existential threats from the Cold War resulted in the creation of a façade that does not reflect America’s true character.<span> </span>In adopting the role of “Enforcer” the US seems to have lost sight of the principles that enabled it to enjoy the respect – almost veneration – of much of the world for developing the Marshall plan, taking a leadership position in the establishment of the United Nations and, of course, standing firm against the Soviet Republic. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> Throughout the post-WWII era, the US seems to have become so intent on projecting power it has blurred the lines over itself and its “Enforcer” alter ego.<span> </span>America’s predicament is reminiscent of British rock legend David Bowie, who created a persona known to all as Ziggy Stardust.<span> </span>Ziggy was based on a Bowie song of the same name, which appeared in the album entitled, “Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars.”<span> </span>Bowie began to perform as Ziggy and, in time, was unable to distinguish himself from Ziggy Stardust.<span> </span>But Ziggy provided Bowie with the ultimate high as fans were so enamored of him, their adulation intensified into hysteria.<span> </span>Bowie’s downfall was his consumption by this hysteria, so when Ziggy died, Bowie himself fell apart. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Like Bowie, the grandiosity stimulated by the US’s “Enforcer” role enabled it to feel powerful in the face of the Soviet threat. But the US’s reaction to its vulnerability caused it to take its duty as global policeman too far, leading to several foreign policy disasters during the Cold War.<span> </span>As the bipolar conflict chilled in the 1950s, the US overwhelmed itself by focusing on short-term victories at the expense of producing fiercer long-term menaces.<span> </span>The CIA overthrow of Iranian leader Mohammad Moseddegh, for instance, created the conditions for the 1979 Revolution and the ascension of Ayatollah Khomeini.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">With the ousting of governments in Iran, Guatemala and Chile, the US marginalized the opinions of its smaller, less powerful allies. Just as Ziggy had disregarded his band (The Spiders) the US became the “fly” that dominated the political goals of the western hemisphere.<span> </span>Like the rest of Ziggy's band, there were no “spiders” to protect those countries that were coerced into supporting the US's policies.<span> </span>And then, suddenly, in 1989 the Berlin Wall fell and the Cold War ended.<span> </span>Countries previously constrained by the impracticalities of Communism - China in particular - began to rise.<span> </span>America’s economic and political dominance began to be challenged in a multipolar environment.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After the September 11, 2001 attacks, America received the goodwill of leaders across the globe, both friendly and hostile.<span> </span>Even Libyan autocrat Muammar Qaddafi said, “Irrespective of the conflict with America it is a human duty to show sympathy with the American people, and be with them at these horrifying and awesome events which are bound to awaken human conscience.”<span> </span>But in launching a war against a benign Iraq, the US squandered much of the patronage it had received.<span> </span>Melding into its “Enforcer” alter ego allowed the US to experience a front of virility that curtained its underlying impotence.<span> </span>And just as Ziggy became the victim of the very fanaticism he created, the US began to suffer from the frenzy surrounding its own doppelganger.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> The more the US has tried to exert its power against the “forces of evil,” the more it has made itself vulnerable to the very threat it seeks to quash.<span> </span>Nuanced reports indicate that hundreds of well-trained soldiers from the Iraqi army are now rejoining Al-Queda.<span> </span>Human rights abuses in Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib have fueled extremism in the Muslim world, as the hypocrisy of America as a defender of human rights has been exposed.<span> </span>Recent Wikileaks documents describing torture of civilians in Iraq will exacerbate the situation.<span> </span>Yet America continues to fuel itself on the fumes of the international exaltation it once enjoyed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Like Ziggy, America has ignored the Spiders from Mars - the cadre of nations that were instrumental in enabling the US to become the sole surviving superpower.<span> </span>While publicly agreeing to improvident US policies, they privately curse America.<span> </span>Disgruntlement with the US is based on the fact that its foreign policy agenda is, oftentimes, detrimental to the community of nations.<span> </span>The overarching concern of reluctant allies may be that the hubris of one can lead to the downfall of all.<span> </span>Paradoxically, the “spiders” cannot go forth without the US.<span> </span>They know that their prosperity requires concord with America.<span> </span>Indeed, it would be contrary to a nation’s best interest to break from the US.<span> </span>For The Spiders, going along with Ziggy, however exasperating, at least offered the fleeting chance that Ziggy would regain some sanity so that the group could be reborn.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Spiders were in a codependent relationship with Ziggy.<span> </span>They couldn’t get through to him because he had simply “sucked up into his mind,” but at the same time could not leave him. In a similar way, many US allies contend its warmongering will only fuel the flames of Islamic extremism. The US is trying to keep the world enamored of it but, like Ziggy, the hysteria of its fans is fading.<span> </span>To avoid the same fate the US must recognize its greatness does not stem from assuming some façade, but rather from embracing the principles of freedom, diplomacy and <span> </span>multilateralism that have enabled it to be the great nation it has always been.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8896655069191344231.post-24604430156576185832010-10-13T21:54:00.000-07:002010-10-23T17:44:46.606-07:00Devolution<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="page-break-before: always; text-align: center;"><span style="font-variant: small-caps;">Devolution</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">While living in the Boston’s affluent South End, a few years ago, I noticed that there existed a plethora of high-end bakeries, stores, and grooming shops that were not for people-but for dogs. In fact, there were more doggie bakeries than there were people bakeries. Strangely, these biscuit-making establishments seemed to be crowded from the time I hurried to New England Medical Center, until the evening when I returned exhausted, weighed down by my backpack full of physiology texts and three-ring binders.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Three months later, as I was struggling to comprehend the complexities of kidney function, I began to wax philosophical about the fashionable sweaters I saw donned by the incredibly well-groomed canines in my neighborhood. “Why are these dogs wearing sweaters when it’s 50° F? Don’t they have <i>fur</i>?" I'm furless and I certainly wasn’t ready to wear <i>my</i> jacket yet. Images of dogs dressed for tee time seemed to indicate that dogs were moving up the evolutionary ladder. Within days, however, I would see lawyers, wearing $1800 power suits, loosely gloved with inside-out plastic bags. They would crouch just above dark red bricks lining the sidewalk to pick up the excrement of their beloved "buddy."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">“What the hell?” I would ask myself. I thought about what these dogs meant to their owners and, more importantly, what an alien would think if it landed in my neighborhood. "What would it concur?" Unfortunately I’d never be able to find out. So I had to go on being the only person in the neighborhood (or perhaps all of North America) who felt this way. Certainly the doggie clothing boutique owner didn’t share my sentiments. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">And then one day, as I returned from a full day of classes, recitations and labs, it hit me. Dogs were <i>not </i>becoming more advanced. On the contrary, humans were <i>de</i>volving. "That's it," I thought. "Man has reached a point at which he has actually begun to move <i>backwards." </i>Dogs were domesticated by man several thousand years ago to provide protection against predators while he slept. But at some point during the modern era, dog usurped man’s power and manipulated man into serving the canine species. Why this has occurred is beyond my comprehension. Regardless, my theory is that, man has moved evolutionarily backward. Does anyone rely on his golden retriever to warn him of a burglar? Most likely, the (fully-grown) “puppy” would be the first to run and hide. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;">Lest I be banished from the planet for not being a dog-lover, let me clarify my point of view: I think that people who own animals<i> </i>should treat them humanely, but not treat them as humans. In fact, I have read veterinary studies that support this notion. It simply isn’t good for the canine species, many studies contend, for pet dogs to be pampered in this manner. Nevertheless, I strongly believe that dogs, and pets in general, should be well-fed, cleaned appropriately, and interacted with in a positive manner. But the next time you see Wolfie exiting a doggie spa, munching on a $5 freshly-baked organic biscuit, I really hope you wonder, “Who’s the owner here?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>strikingtheroothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10043281461118668569noreply@blogger.com0