Cheesy Charsi

If it weren’t for marijuana, do you think that Cheetos would still be on the market? I mean, what sober person ever says to themselves, "You know, I’m hungry, does anyone have any crunchy bits of Styrofoam coated in chemical cheese byproducts that’ll stain my hands orange?" But if you’re stoned, and have got the munchies, you’re saying, "Don’t Bogart that bag dude, pass it over. That’s some gourmet shit." Afterall, it ain’t easy bein’ cheesey.

Parents, if you want to find out whether your kids are on the dope, it’s simple, just offer them Cheetos. If they eat them, they’re on the Reefer. If they’re on the Reefer than they’re just two steps away from madness. You only have a limited time before their self-imposed lethargy and amusement with the back of their own hands sends them howling into a fit of raping strangers and looking for heroin. That then, is your only chance, your small window of opportunity, to save them and get them switched over to socially acceptable, legal and healthy drugs like cigarettes and alcohol, because they don’t cause any problems at all.

Many a Slip 'Twixt the Cup and the Lip...

We’ve all had a friend who just couldn’t hold his liquor. I think we’ve all been there. You bring a friend to a party, introduce him around, and then next thing you know he’s gone from sober to plastered with all the subtlety of a light switch. He’s dancing on the coffee table, spilling shit everywhere, insulting people and all he’s got to say for himself is, "drove my Chevy to the Levy, but the Levy was dry…"

But I was thinking the other night, wouldn’t it be funny if someone really couldn’t hold their alcohol... like literally. How sad would that be. Poor guy wants a drink, but he just can’t keep a hold of the glass. Tries to poor himself another and the bottle just slips right out of his hands. You’d say to him, "Dude, get a grip," and he’d be all shaky saying, "I’m trying man, I’m trying." He’s spilled booze all over himself, has just dropped another drink, and someone says, "What’s up with him?" Someone else shrugs, rolls their eyes and says, "Oh, that guy? He can’t hold his liquor."

It Looks Grim Brother...

Have you ever actually read a fairy tale by the Brother’s Grimm? I’m sorry but those things are fucked up. My friend Sophie has a copy of the complete works from those two nutcases so we started leafing through it. For example, here is a general outline of a story called, "The Little Red Hen."

Ok, so a Hen and a Rooster are looking for food. They decide that they will share anything they find. But then the Hen finds a big juicy piece of grain and decides she will have it for herself (typical…). So, I thought to myself, we’re building up to a morality story about selfishness. Not quite. The Hen tries to eat the grain herself and it becomes lodged in her throat and she starts to choke. She calls out to the Rooster to get her some water or else she will die. She says that if the Rooster loves her, he will find her water. I was thinking that the Rooster might have said, "Serves you right, you selfish bitch," but no, he runs off for help. He gets to the stream and explains the situation. The stream is sympathetic but will only give him some water if the Rooster brings some red silk (Red silk? Why does a stream need that?) So the Rooster runs off to the princess to ask for some silk, who says she will give it to him if he retrieves something or other from the willow tree, I don’t even remember what it was. So the rooster finally gets something from the willow tree, gives it to the princess, gets some silk, gives it to the stream and gets some water. Finally. Then he runs back to the Hen, and what do you know, after all that runaround, she’s dead. So the Rooster cries. Then he loads her body on a cart, harnesses up a bunch of mice to pull it (wouldn’t have been my choice of beast, but whatever). A bunch of animals ask the Rooster if they can ride along on his cart, including the sly fox and the clever wolf. Ah, I thought, now the Rooster is going to get snuffed, but not so. He just tells the animals to sit at the back so the weight balances out and the mice can still pull them. What? Seriously, soon enough he’s picking up lions and tigers and everything. These were some kind of Super Steroid Rats of Nimh type mice I guess. Then they get to a stream and realize they have to cross. A branch offers to lie down and let them cross over him. But as they make the attempt the branch washes away and the mice are swept under and drown. End of super mice. Then a grain offers to lie down so they can cross over him. I didn’t think this was a good idea since this whole thing was caused by a grain in the first place. So they try to cross the grain but it swells with water or some such nonsense and a bunch more animals drown. Then a rock feels pity for them and lies down in the river, which runs contrary to what I would expect since I always heard that a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries. So they cross the rock and everyone else falls off and drowns except the rooster who makes it to the other side with the body of the hen. He has reached his destination, but he is so sad that his heart breaks and he dies. And the last sentence of the story is literally: And everyone was dead.

What the hell is that? I don’t really care about old fairy tales being dark and grim, that’s what kind of makes them cool. But they should at least make some semblance of sense. And really, why does everyone have to die? We read another one that ended, "And then the princess’s heart was so filled with happiness and joy that she died." I mean seriously, does that make any sense at all? Someone is finally happy and because of that she also dies?

Violence on television, video games, Marilyn Manson, you can say what you want about modern influences, but we’ve been messing with our kids for a long, long time.

George, it's "New-Clear"...

On my way to work, Subaru Kazoo and I spotted a bumper sticker that gave us pause. If you’re a stickler for details, than technically it was one of those back windshield stickers. It was faded from exposure to the sun, but you could still make out the words:
"Proud to be The Greatest of the Seven Atomic Nations.

There was some kind of logo there, but it was too faded to read. I thought I saw some swirling atoms though. I was a little frightened at the extreme patriotism of the message, but Zubie was laughing his ass off. So strange though. I mean, "The Greatest" of the atomic nations? The greatest of nations living in fear? That’s a pretty lofty claim really. Considering Pakistan has approximately 40 nuclear bombs as opposed to the US with around 10, 000.

I realized I wasn’t exactly sure which 7 nations made the list. So I looked it up, and you know, the cause and effect of the list is quite interesting. It’s like a chain. The US developed the bomb because they were afraid of Germany. Russia started churning them out because they were scared of the USA. China split some atoms to keep the Russians at bay. France and England put together programs to maintain a European balance in the Russian – American standoff. India supposedly created the "Peace Bomb" out of fears of China. And of course Pakistan panicked about India and then spent the next two decades building their own bomb and leaking more secrets than a drunken cheerleader at the highschool dance. Then of course, you have Isreal, who isn’t on the list, but I mean, come on, as if they don’t have nuclear weapons. They won’t sign the proliferation treaty (neither will the other seven) and whenever they’re asked about it you get, "What is this talk of bombs? We don’t have bombs. Or maybe we do. Who can say?"

I think generally, many Pakistanis are proud of the nuclear arms program. It’s not that I agree with them, but I can definitely see where they’re coming from. You’ve got a huge neighbour with a population of a billion with whom you are in near constant conflict. They’ve got a much bigger army, air force and navy. Add in the idea that you used to be all one big country that was split amidst horrible bloodshed and the largest forced migration of peoples in modern history, and you can see maybe why it’s nice to have an equalizer.

But still. A bumper sticker?

Life's a Beach (Baby Sitters' Club Part 2)

Continued from below... obviously I guess....

I awoke at 9:00 am to the sounds of Aman playing with Noor’s cell phone. Why an eleven year old needs a cell phone I have no idea. I just know that it’s a different world than the one I grew up in. Aman had been up for at least an hour and was bored silly waiting for us to wake up and was making strange unidentifiable noises to try and wake us up without us knowing it was her. I found out later that she had set the desk clock ahead by two hours in the hopes that someone would see it and think it was late morning. I looked over and scowled at her. She looked hopeful that I would now be getting up, but based on the previous day’s activities and the two earthquakes that had frightened me awake in the early hours, there was no way in hell I was budging. "Go see auntie." I commanded, sending her out of the room into the hands of Sophie’s mom. Of course, the victory was short lived, as soon enough the room started stirring and we piled out for breakfast.

Soon enough it was off to a Khadda Market stationery store (which incidentally was also stationary) to buy more glitter (since most of the previous glitter was still stuck to our kids) and some sticky-tack to put up all the decorations. Then came a quick stop at Pie in the Sky to pick up enough sandwiches and other snacks to feed a jihad. Then Sophie had a brilliant idea and we stopped at a plastics store, to pick up containers to use in the sand. Of course, I knew what this meant. I would be building a sand castle.

Finally, we were on the way to the beach. French Beach is about 45 minutes out of Karachi on average, depending on the traffic. And when I say "out of Karachi," I’m not sure that’s even right because I think it may even still be within city limits… this place is huge. The drive is fraught with huge trucks, old buses, camels, cows and goats, not to mention all the beach goers, and is a difficult drive even without three kids in the back seat. My head was whipping around in the passenger seat like an F-14 copilot as I simultaneously attempted to juggle kid-patrol, double check blind-spots, help with driving advice and maintain my own sanity.

We arrived at our friends’ hut without incident and I breathed a sigh of relaxation at finally arriving at the beach. My respite was short-lived however as my day at the beach truly began. First was the design and implementation of a sand representation of the 17th century Dutch fort in Galle, where Aman and Zara had just spent a month in Sri Lanka. No, it could not possibly be just a sand castle, it had to be the Galle Fort. Ok fine, I thought as I started digging. A fort is a fort is a fort… moat, walls, ramparts… I can do this. Gradually, I realized that I was working on the fort more than the kids were and I tried to figure out how that had come about. Every once in a while Zara would wander over and say, "Oh David, that is excellent, keep it up."

My architectural adventures were interrupted by the tide, which luckily enough waits for no man, not even head-strong little girls. I thought the fort would be swept away, but as it happens, it was just above the high tide mark. By this time though, the man with the horse had arrived. One by one I walked alongside the horse as it bore each girl down the beach and back. "Let’s go again!" shouted Noor. "We can’t," I said, "the horse is tired." I paid the man and trudged back up to the hut. Our friends had just arrived with a bunch more of their nieces and nephews, in town for a wedding. I think the final count was eleven. I’m telling you, they multiply.

Next I was out wading in the shallows with Aman and Noor, playing in the waves and watching out for them. Although it was a calm day, the currents can still be treacherous, so I had them on an extremely short leash. But they had a tonne of fun and I was soaked. I hadn’t thought I’d be in the water so I hadn’t worn my bathing suit. Sometimes, I really am an idiot. From the hut we heard Zara calling us. The man with the camel had arrived. So we dripped our way back up the beach and climbed aboard the ship of the desert.

I don’t know if you’ve ever ridden a camel before (I hadn’t) but it has its ups and downs. The stinky beast is on his knees when you climb on, so as it rises to its feet, you go careening backward and then flying forward in such a way that makes you feel that your taking a nose dive for sure. Same goes for getting off, except it’s somehow worse. I thought it was a lot of fun, but I couldn’t quite enjoy it completely because I was also caging in the three girls. That poor camel. Three squirming kids and one huge Canadian. Beast of burden indeed. I enjoyed the take off and landing, but the actual ride on the camel is a bit of a ball buster. It’s definitely the most fun thing you can do that smells terrible…. Well.. almost.

After two trips down the beach and back, and shouts of "Again!" I explained that the camel was thirsty so we’d better head back to the hut. I arrived and was handed the best tasting beer of my life. Like sweet ambrosia it slid down my throat. Beautiful. A snake charmer wandered by and entranced his cobra to the mixed fear and delight of the kids. I wasn’t too happy myself, but having faced the wild Black Mamba in Uganda, I wasn’t too worried about the house-trained cobra.

Since I was soaked, covered in sand and smelling like a camel, I secured the kids with Sophs and wandered into the water for a nice long swim. When I got back, the hotdogs were ready and the sun was setting. Another beer made the moment into one of perfection as I sat in a lounge chair taking in the colours. Not too much later we convoyed back into the city where I hoped that having worn out the kids at the beach, the rest of the evening would be quiet.

But of course not. I went to McDonalds and ordered more chicken McNuggets than is generally recommended by the Surgeon General. Meera came over for a visit, and the girls started to get ready for the long anticipated, "Midnight Snack." About eleven Sophie crashed. I felt sorry for her. She’s just little. This was a big bite to attempt chewing. She went for a "nap" in her mom’s room, but I knew that was t last I would see of her conscious form. Then I realized, Hey! I didn’t see her building sand forts, walking horses, riding camels, and playing life-guard, and she's the one who gets to sleep? But she did drive to and from the beach for the first time, so that’s pretty draining. Nevertheless, that meant that the rest of the Sleep Over was in my hands.

The girls were hopeful that Sophie would wake up in time for the midnight snack, but I knew that there was no chance in Hades that that would come to pass. Sania came over, so she ended up being my "date" for the midnight snack, which I hadn’t realized was such a fancy affair. We were seated and then waited upon by our three waitresses. I ordered potato chips, and a Jello with Cantebury (cranberry) juice to drink. Sania ordered a Kit-Kat and Jello and received a complementary glass of water. The snack over with, we transferred Sophie into the room and got the girls ready for bed. This time I was the one who said, "Ok, we’re going to wait for Yasser to pick up Sania, so when I come back, you’d best be lying in your beds talking quietly. Quickly Zara piped up, "But David, you don’t smoke."

"That’s true," I said, "but I may start."

Important Garlic Mayo Update

Last night I had yet another round of Hot N Spicy. I have to admit that my garlic mayo consumption has reached pandemic proportions.

I feel as though those at home might not have a full appreciation of the awesome power of the garlic mayo chicken kabob roll. Tender chunks of chicken kabob pieces slathered in globs of mayo with enough garlic to keep vampires at bay, all wrapped up into an easy to manage tube of thin, fried bread. Yes, even the bread is fried. There is no respite.

Of course, that is merely my favourite of their rolls. They have many more varieties, and even more menu items with even more varieties. In fact, let's play a game. I was laughing over the Hot N Spicy menu the other night, so I happen to know exactly how many types of rolls they offer. So everyone give me their best guess as to just how many delectable varieties they offfer and leave it in the comment section*. Whoever comes closest** to the correct answer I will reward with 500 bucks*** and two garlic mayo rolls. You will receive your prize by mail within 6 to 8 weeks****.

* One entry per contestant. Multiple entries will be ignored
** Offer not applicable to either Zubair or Sophie who were there when I was reading the menu, and as far as that goes, anyone else who just reads the menu isn't allowed either, that's just not fun. You may ask how I would ever know, but I would.º
*** Prize offered in Pak Rupeesºº
****Upon receipt of $19.95 Canadian for shipping and handling.

º This is due to my Extra Sensory Garlic Mayo Deception Perception
ºº Approximate value $10 Canadian.

A Rose is a Rose is a Rose...

I was in a small shop when I saw the following posted on the cash register:

Only the rose in the world no matter which name you take for will still smell sweet!

I can only presume that someone translated my friend Billy Shakespeare's line, "A rose by any other name..." into Urdu, and then it was translated back into English and posted on the cash register of this small shop. How this would have come about, or why, I can only speculate.

All I know is that it sure made my day.

The Babysitters' Club

This past weekend I spent with a lot of girls. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, they were almost all under 10 years old. My friend Sophie had somehow decided that she would host a sleepover night for her nieces, but soon the idea spiraled into an entire weekend of activity. Being a kid-friendly kind of guy (in that they seem to love crawling all over me) I was conscripted to help out with the festivities on Saturday. So Sophie started out on Friday with two of the girls, shopping for food and decorations and all the necessities and basically running errands all over town. I was planning to go out and party Friday night with some friends but I got a call from Sophie in the early evening saying, "I’m picking you up, I need your help... NOW"

So I was in. I helped with the rest of the errands and then began the process of helping design decorations for the Hawaiian Theme Slumber Party 2005. Helping kids with that sort of thing is generally pretty amusing. In a way, it’s frustrating because you just want to reach over and say, "Look, if you don’t want that to look like a piece of crap, then you should do it this way." But of course, you can’t do that, and somehow, it always comes out looking all right anyway. By this time we had three kids and more were on their way. That’s the thing about kids, leave them alone in a room and they multiply like bacteria.

Next thing I know I’m at Pizza Hut with an 11 year old, a 9 year old, a 6 year old, a 5 year old, a 4 year old and one very frenzied Sophie. Luckily, our friends Sania and Yasser came by to help out, and things went relatively smoothly. Thinking back to when I managed a steak house in Calgary and the amount of shenanigans parents would let their kids get up to in a restaurant, I was pretty proud of our success. Nevertheless, we had to wait for some extra take-away and the young ones were getting restless so I figured it would be best to take off with them while the going was good.

So I loaded up the car with 4,5,and 6, went through the seatbelt hassle (which is much tougher over here where no one wears them) and started off back towards the house. Unfortunately, there was some kind of fender bender on Zamzama so I was caught in traffic with three hyped up girls. "Look! A bus!" shouted Meera, the 5 year old. "Correct." I said. "David looks like a girl because he has a pony-tail!" shouted Dina, the precocious 4 year old. "No he doesn’t!" said Zara, the almost 6 year old who is WAY to smart for her age, "he has a beard and girls don’t have beards." "Some girls do," I said, just to confuse things a little. You gotta keep kids on their toes I find. But I aim to please, so I took the elastic out of my hair and let it fall loose amid hoots of laughter. "How’s that?" I asked. "You’re a Girl!" shouted Dina. "You smell funny," I retorted with all the maturity I could muster. They all started to prod and play with my hair. I looked over at the car next to ours and saw that it held four young women about my age who were looking at me like I was the cutest puppy in the window. Hmmm, I thought, I’ve got to take these kids to the park.

Just when I thought we would never get out of this mini-traffic jam, and I thought I would snap the next time Meera pointed out the same bus every time it pulled up beside us, I was saved by the Bombay Rockers. Yes, the British one-hit-hindi wonders came on the radio and suddenly I had three very happy kiddos dancing in their seats and singing, "Teri Toh… Teri Tah…" And I’ll tell ya, it was damn cute.

So finally we made it home and the younger ones were sent off home leaving us with only Noor at 11, Aman at 9 and Zara… still almost 6. They were insistent on finishing all the decorations before bed and so it seemed like an age before they were finally all tucked into their pajamas with their teeth brushed. "Zara, did you brush your teeth?" asked Soph. "Nope. But I’ll brush them twice tomorrow morning." This kid has an answer for everything, and always very logical… twisted, bizarre and faulty logic by times, but logic nonetheless.

I realized Sophie and I were far more exhausted than the kids when I watched Aman jumping around the room, giggling and talking non-stop and saying: I’ve-had-too-much-sugar-you-can-tell-when-I’ve-had-too-much-sugar-because-I-get-a-sugar-high-and-I-run-around-and-talk-non-stop!"
I cradled my head in my hands. Sophie reverted to the oldest trick in the book. "Ok guys, David and I are going outside for ten minutes, and when we get back you better be in your beds and talking quietly." They all nodded solemnly and then Zara said, "In other words, Sophie wants a cigarette!" Busted. I’m telling you… way too smart.

Much ado was made over setting the alarm for 10:59 the next morning so that we were sure to be up and ready to go to the beach after lunch. I looked over at Sophie, having temporarily forgotten that this was just the precursor to a day at the beach and the actual sleep-over the next day. "Sophie…" I began. "I know," she replied with a voice triple glazed in fatigue, frustration and futility. Finally, we all drifted off toward sleep only to be rudely awakened by the alarm clock which, after all the fuss, had been accidentally set for 1:59 am instead of 10:59. "Oh for the love of God," I sighed. I couldn’t even imagine what tomorrow would hold.

Household Cleaners

Yesterday night I was parked in the lane-way outside Hot n Spicy when I noticed a tin labeled "Mansion Polish" lying on the ground. It struck me as hilarious, especially because it was such a small container. I just didn’t see how you could polish an entire mansion with the stuff. You would need cases and cases of it. "Is your palatial home becoming unsightly, and all scuffed up? Then look no further than Mansion Polish"

I was ranting away about this, as I have a tendency to do, when I was abruptly stopped by one of my friends who informed me that "Mansion Polish" was a type of car polish.

Cause yeah…. that makes much more sense.

Very Very Hot.... Very Very Spicey...

Everywhere I’ve ever lived, it has always been essential to find an ideal "drunk food" eatery. I think you know what I’m talking about. That special, 24-hour haven of sustenance that is ridiculously bad for you, and somehow only reaches its full flavour potential at three in the morning. You know you want it, you know you don’t really need it, you know you’ll regret it tomorrow, but in the here and now, you gotta have it. Back home we had the "Milk Mart" which I understand is no longer open 24 hours, which is truly a blow to all teenagers in Eastern Charlotte County. In Fredericton we had the Diplomat, which I always found to have pretty crappy food but with a club sandwich that usually hit the mark. In Kingston we had the pizza-slice-erias and the crazy donair place (where I once saw a guy drop his pants and dance for a free donair.) Calgary has all kinds of late-nights: The Husky House if you were feeling old school, Denny’s if you didn’t want any surprises and Humpty’s if you wanted food poisoning.

Karachi is no exception. In fact, there’s a wealth of places to eat after hours in this city. But far and away my favourite has got to be Hot n Spicy in khadda market. I don’t have a distinct memory ( I wonder why?) of the first time I ever partook of the sinful pleasure of a garlic mayor chicken kabob role, but from then on I was hooked. Those little things are just about the most addictive food I have ever encountered. I have had them a few times while sober, and sure, they’re still pretty tasty, but somehow not quite as good. A good friend of mine (whose name I won’t bother with since anyone who knows him will guess anyway) told me that he was once involved in a two year love affair with garlic-mayo from Hot n Spicy. And I have to say that I know what he means. I can’t say it’s a love affair exactly, but at least a slight crush.

Hot N Spicy’s menu is the type of guide that is pretty much pointless to look at. It has so many entries that the thing reads like the stock exchange. I think there are maybe 40 basic choices but each one has 10 to 15 variations, so you end up with this overwhelming list of caloric calamity to choose from. So what’s it going to be? The chilli garlic mayo cheese roll or the spicy chilli garlic mayo cheese roll? My current favourite, discovered out of the blue last week by my pals Sophs and Raaheen is the Spicy Chilli Garlic Mayo Broast. As you probably know, or maybe you don’t because I don’t find it’s a common term at home, broast is just fried chicken… like KFC style. And as if that isn’t unhealthy enough, leave it to Pakistanis to smother the thing in garlic infused mayonnaise. It’s not so much that the chicken is greasy but more so that the grease is just a little chickeny.

"Hello Brain? This is arteries… we’re shutting down."

It’s heaven.

In the News...

Lately I’ve been off the media. Cold Turkey. Just haven’t been watching, reading, or paying attention in any way. It’s quite refreshing, but I have to admit to this twinge of guilt that I don’t really know what’s going on. Or at least, not knowing what "they" tell me is going on. Maybe I should get back on track… maybe I shouldn’t… any thoughts?

Anyway, that was all just to say that the other day I was leafing through one of the Pakistani papers, which I guess kind of makes the first paragraph kind of redundant. But I wasn’t really reading the paper, I was just skimming the headlines because I can usually get a chuckle or two. It’s not quite like the Ugandan papers that would make me laugh out loud with their outrageous headlines. I remember one article on how parents were shocked to find sexual goings on in boarding schools which was titled "Homos Storm Schools" and one on how women in border villages shouldn’t be trading their wares outside the country called, "Poverty Blamed on Women" or even just the self-explanatory "Man kills wife with hoe in front of family."

But here it’s not the headlines themselves that make me chuckle, it depends on who writes the story. Generally, it seems that any smaller stories or brief news items are attributed with the line "By Our Staff Reporter." But what gets me is that it’s centred directly under the headline and the font size isn’t too much smaller. So if you read it all in one go you get things like:
"Three Killed in Hit in Run by our staff reporter."

Or

"Woman Assaulted in Attempted Robbery by our staff reporter."

Even misdemeanors like,

"Streets Littered with Garbage by our staff reporter."

Somebody better lock this guy up! He’s a menace! And to think, he even has the gall to write about it afterwards.

An Open Letter to Pedestrians in Saddar...

Dear Saddar * Pedestrians,

I know you have the best intentions. I know that your goal, like the omnipresent chicken, is merely to cross the road. I empathize with the fact that you find yourself at the base of the traffic hierarchy. I understand that many drivers are in the habit of ignoring your existence. However, somewhere along the line you have gone astray. I feel that at some point you were misinformed.

For example, you may be under the impression that the best time to cross an intersection is when the light turns green on the street you are crossing. This, however, is not the case. You see, in an automobile, when the light turns green, my intention as a driver will be to set my vehicle in motion. This intent is then hindered by your desire to cross the road at that particular moment… You and all your friends. Indeed, you have power in numbers. This in turn causes the drivers behind me to become impatient and lean on their horns for emphasis. It is fortunate perhaps that I learned to drive in the traffic restrictions of the West, and thus do not attempt to just drive over you. The solution to this whole situation is quite simple, and involves only crossing that particular road when the signal is red.

Also, I think you may be under the impression that a single, raised index finger has the power to stop the momentum generated by a thousand pounds of steel moving at 60 km/ hour. I should also point out that wagging said finger in admonition does not add to your capacity to change the laws of physics. Newton’s laws can be bent but not necessarily broken. I will stop my car if I can. But please use your judgement. Here is a good technique: If the car approaching you is getting larger at an impressive rate, it is advisable not to step in front of it.

If we could all just work together, I’m sure we could make this work. It would even be faster and more efficient for all of us. Now, if you could only tell your friends on the motorcycles to use mirrors and not weave indiscriminately all over the road, we’d be all set.

Sincerely,
David J. Ford

* - For those not in the know, Saddar is an old section of Karachi where my office is located. It features street side markets for every known form of electronics, triple parked cars, carts of wares, swarms of people, and pedestrians like you've never seens anywhere else.

Something to Whine About...

Everyday on my way to work I get irritated with Americans. And this isn’t because I actually see any irritating Americans, nor is it a general irritation with heavy handed, American foreign policy. No, in fact, it’s not even really Americans that make me irritated every morning, it’s their embassy. The American Embassy in Karachi is located right on a busy thoroughfare that connects two important parts of the city. So to protect the embassy, the Pakistani Rangers (like the New York Rangers, but paid a whole hell of a lot less) put up random barriers at each end that you have to maneuver around. They have lots of fun shifting them around each morning, so you can never be sure which side you should be veering toward. What this accomplishes, is bringing four lanes of traffic abruptly down to one lane in an immense bottleneck. Of course, this makes all the drivers frantic and you end up with your cars inches apart. Sometimes it reminds me of movies or cartoons when three people try to squeeze through a door at once and get stuck, when of course, if they had just waited their turn, there would be no problem.

Once you get through the barriers, you can basically just take off at full speed again, so its kind of a funny little obstruction. It seems that they slow everyone down so that they can turn away the vans, trucks and motorcycles. Reason being that someone bombed the Embassy a few years back and these vehicles are apparently the most suspicious culprits. They’ll even stop and question you if your driving an old beat up car. What would stop you from stealing a brand new car, packing it full of explosives and driving right through is beyond me.

There are dudes stationed all along this road in little huts and armored vehicles, and seriously, it’s got to be one of the most boring jobs on the force. They just sit there watching the street. Sometimes they train their machine guns onto your car and follow you along, which is a little disconcerting. I’m just waiting for the day some dude falls asleep at the trigger and sprays the street with a little fun and games.

What’s worse, is when I’m coming home from work in one of our little Suzuki High-Top vans, which of course is a possible bomb carrier and banned from travelling that road. So that means I have to go way around in my little non-air-conditioned sewing machine with wheels. Then I get home all sweaty and have to take yet another shower, and I shake my fist in the air and curse that embassy.

And then the other day someone told me that there’s only office staff in that embassy anyway, no important diplomats or anything. That makes me even more irritated. Well, not so much irritated as annoyed, and I suppose not so much annoyed as put out, and I suppose really, in the scheme of things it doesn’t really bother me much at all, but in the end, I like to pretend that my life is really tough. But it’s not.

How I learned to stop worrying....

Early Saturday morning, I dreamt I was in some kind of scenario wherein I had to choose between a series of buttons on a panel in order to save the day or stop a meltdown or some such nonsense. Anyway, the very second I chose and pressed the big green button, the ground began to shake and I heard a loud explosion. But literally, I woke up and the ground was shaking and there was a loud explosion. Apparently, Karachi was hit by a few earthquake tremors measuring about 5.5 on the dude’s scale. Nothing to worry about. But I have to admit, lying there at 6 AM, having just jolted awake to the sound of everything shaking, I said to myself, "Oh shit, here we go. My mom was right after all, I never should have come here."

She Drives Me Crazy...

You know, after you get over the more or less pervasive fear of death, driving in Karachi is actually really fun.

Kind of like playing PlayStation, but with camels.

She Drives Me Crazy...

You know, after you get over the more or less pervasive fear of death, driving in Karachi is actually really fun.

Kind of like playing PlayStation, but with camels.

Apologies to all...

Well, sorry folks.

There’s been a supreme shortage of postings lately. You may be thinking that I’m still recuperating from my birthday week, and maybe you’d be partially right. But in actuality, I’ve had even more Internet trouble, this time more localized than national. Anyway, seems to be working today, so I’ll see if I can’t throw a few things up. Posts, that is.

Panni Under the Bridge

This just in: I just made a complete ass of myself.

First of all, I walked into work late this morning, almost two hours late. Which, in and of itself, is not all that big a deal. It’s the slow period during the summer, schools are out, so a lot of our work with the teachers is on hold, all my coworkers are on leave (the reason for my transport problem), and I still get all my work done anyway, so it’s not an issue. Nevertheless, my coworkers like to rib me a little, "Oh, Canadian gets to come and go when he wants… must be nice!" That kind of thing. So I gave them my innocent, token white guy expression and walked out into the hallway to get my customary glass of cold water from the cooler.

As I pressed in the little blue button to get the water flowing, it seemed to go in a bit further than normal and then stuck there. With my glass rapidly filling I started jabbing at the button, frantically trying to get it to pop back out again. "Oh crap." I stated matter of factly. My glass filled beyond the meniscus, superceded all pretense of surface tension and started overflowing down my arm. My brain shifted into problem solving mode, and I quickly tipped the cooler back to stem the flow. Unfortunately, the cooler was fairly full, but I slowed the pouring water down to a trickle. Now I was in a precarious position. I had the cooler balanced on its rounded edge, water still trickling down into my shoe. I stood in the increasing puddle of water on the floor and wondered just what I should do. Suddenly it occurred to me: Servants. I called out to them, down one floor in the kitchen… no response. Ok, I thought, if I can just tip this back and balance it against the windowsill, I can buy enough time to run down and grab one of the dudes. I attempted my maneuver, balancing the cooler precariously, and watched with satisfaction as the water stopped trickling from the spout. Then the huge cover of the cooler flew off, the whole thing fell on its side and a Tidal wave of water surged over the counter, doused me, and hit the floor. I desperately righted the cooler, causing more water to come pouring out of the spout. The villagers ran for higher ground. I raced down the stairs yelling for one of the servants, "Rafaqat! Rafaqat!" The wave started cascading down the stairs, as I grabbed Rafaqat and showed him what I’d managed to accomplish. He took in the scene with a strange complacency and said, "How are you today sir?" which is exactly what he says to me every morning in our little exercise of shared lingual capabilities. "Panni," I said in Urdu, exasperated, gesturing to the water surrounding us. "Panni," he agreed. "Panni, everywhere!" I said, shaking my head, "and nary a drink to be found," I thought to myself. "No problem sir," said Rafaqat with a smile, as if this happens everyday. He stuck his thumb over the hole little Dutch-boy style and immediately stopped the water. "Weeelll, Shit." I thought to myself, "Why didn’t I think of that?" I hate it when I’m not as smart as I think I am. I picked up my glass, still filled to overflowing, and in a gesture to the gods, poured the overflow onto the floor with a shrug. I gathered my dignity, and walked back into the office, my "water resistant" khakis soaked from mid-thigh and dripping, my shoes sloshing at every step. I stopped in the doorway holding my glass of water and looking like I just went for a swim. My coworkers just stared. "I had a little trouble," I said.

Today’s going to be great, I can tell.

Don't Mind Me...

I think this could be classified solidly under "O" for the "Only Funny to Me" files:

If you were a professional astrologer, a tarot card reader, I think you could thus safely be called a "Taroist." And if so, would that not be the best profession to use to mess with people at the airport. Name and occupation? "David Ford, I'm a taroist." I think you'd atleast get a few looks. Better still if you were Arabic, or at least brown in colour, then you'd have the advantage of being automatically profiled.

Or alternately, if you were to happen to meet a guy on the plane named Jack, you could say something like, "Hi Jack, I'm a taroist."

Less funny, admittedly, if you ended up in jail, but funny nonetheless.

That's Right, it's all about ME...

Happy Birthday to Me!

Ah yes, my first birthday celebrated in South East Asia. Feels a lot like most of my other birthdays, albeit slightly warmer. Why is it that 27 seems so much closer to 30 than 26 ever did? Oh well, good thing that type of thing doesn't bother me. Nevermind that I have no idea what I'm doing with my life, I'm enjoying it, and that's what matters.

And so I've taken the day off work, I've relaxed and slept in, I've had a late lunch and sit here still in my pyjamas. Ah, the sweet life of the birthday boy. Now, I wonder how long I can stretch this. I figure about a week of celebrations will suffice. Maybe.

Shaken, not Stirred...

Back when we were doing our Masters at Queen’s my classmates and I partied quite a bit. It was an interesting year like that. I had arrived full of idealism for the world of post-secondary education, ready to push through until I had a Ph.D. After three weeks I had already decided that academia was no longer for me. The Queen’s English Department sucked the life out of me. Despite its lofty reputation, it was one of the worst educational atmospheres I had ever experienced and not conducive to learning at all. But luckily, the worst of my academic years was socially one of the best. The core group of us were united in our irritation with academia and driven in our conquest of alcohol and good times.

My friend Dave and I, both having previous bartending experience, decided one night that we would hold "The Daves’ Martini Party." Everyone brought a bottle or two and we just kept mixing. And these were not your garden variety martinis. These were hardcore concoctions of at least 5 oz of straight booze. It was not long before things got out of hand. It was not long before things got messy. And of course, like chefs who tests their recipes before serving, Dave and I mixed ourselves into a frightful state. It’s one thing to drink too much of one liquor, but drinking too much of every liquor is never recommended.

At one point, late in the evening, I became obsessed with how great the olives were tasting. I switched from a chocolate mint martini back to a straight up and dirty Gin (see what I mean about mixing?) The gin was perfectly chilled, because let’s face it, otherwise you might as well be drinking gasoline, and along with a quick dash of vermouth, I filled the entire glass with as many olives as I could. According to sources, I diligently popped every olive in my mouth, counting aloud as I went, all the way to 18. Then, gulping the rest of the drink, I apparently turned to Dave, all smiles, and said, "Well, I’m going to be sick tomorrow… but I’ll deal with that… tomorrow!"

Luckily, my apartment was only about three blocks from Dave’s so the stumble home with my girlfriend and a friend visiting from Baltimore was fairly uneventful. The next morning, I woke up about 10:30. It was amazing, I had woken up in time for class. I sat up, and miracle of miracles I felt ok, a little hungover, but nothing out of hand. I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water and only then noticed that the sink was full of vomit. "Oh Lord," I thought to myself, "that’s just fantastic." I looked over at my friend from Baltimore, still passed out on the couch. I couldn’t understand why she would have puked in the sink, especially since the bathroom was actually closer than the kitchen. Well, she had been very drunk. I sighed, bewildered, and wandered back to the bathroom. "What’s up?" asked my girlfriend. "Well, there’s a lot of vomit in the kitchen sink." I replied. "Yeah," she said, "You were sick for a long time."

What? Was it possible that, in fact, I was the complete idiot who had walked past the bathroom and emptied my half-digested liquor cabinet into the sink? Was I trying to get a drink of water at the time? How could I have absolutely no memory at all? I cleared my throat and sure enough, there was a foul acrid taste back there. It was the first time that I had ever completely blacked out, and for the amount of drinking I’ve accomplished over the years, that’s pretty amazing. I was still almost certain though that it could not have been me. I peeked back into the sink, and sure enough, the certification of my own incompetence was there: an undeniably high olive content.

For whatever reason, I still decided to go to school, but ended up leaving the room 4 times to vomit. There I was, a serious student, trying to get a Masters degree, and I was straddling a toilet still amazed that I had puked in my own kitchen sink. Good times.

And generally, I have no troubles with psychological taste aversions, I got right back on the horse as far as gin, vodka and whatnot are concerned, but I’ll tell you, it took me a heck of long time to get back to eating olives.

Heart Break

Last night I went to the heart centre to get a once over of the ole ticker. A couple of weeks ago, during the Karachi heat wave, I had a brief episode where my heart decided to shift from its stately rhythm into a funky, Latin salsa beat. This is generally not something to get too worried about, but it lasted long enough that it started getting into my head. Usually I’m a big fan of my overactive imagination, but in this case it was a real irritation. Every twinge of pain in my chest, every errant gas bubble, strained muscle or whathaveyou, sent my mind down a wild and frightening roller coaster of apprehension. "Is my left arm tingling?" my wayward psychosis would ask, adding a reminder that the men in my family have had a poor history concerning matters of the heart. The reasonable, rational side of my brain (what remains of it) would reply, "Yes, your left arm is tingling, because you’ve been sleeping on it for two hours you dumbass." Anyway, after about two weeks of this, I decided enough was enough and I should go pay a cardiologist for some peace of mind.

The heart centre is a private clinic and seems fairly new, so it bears no resemblance to what some of you might be picturing of a hospital in the third world. In fact, it was more or less nicer than some clinics I’ve been to at home. Somehow we arrived at exactly the right time; the doctor had just returned from evening prayers. We had no wait whatsoever and were ushered right in. I could tell from the start that the doctor was amused with my concern. Nevertheless, he understood that I was looking for some reassurance so he ran the stethoscope gauntlet and sent me in for an ECG.

I haven’t had an Electrocardiogram in quite a few years, but for some reason I quite enjoy it. For those of you who are unfamiliar, the process measures the electrical processes of the heart via several diodes connected to wrist, ankles, and all across the chest. Each connection point has to have a conductive gel applied to aid the sensors, which admittedly is slightly uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind it when a stranger smears jelly all over my chest, but usually I try to save that for Friday nights. Nevertheless, soon enough I was wired up like Frankenstein’s monster, pouring my heart out to a fancy computer.

The doctor proclaimed my ECG results to be completely and utterly normal. I have to admit that I felt slightly disappointed. Sometimes, you know, some kind of weird, morbid part of my brain hopes for some kind of exciting result. But that passed quickly with the assuaging influence of a clean bill of health. He gave me my ECG results as a souvenir, which is kind of fun, but generally about as comprehensible as reading a polygraph without knowing the questions. On the way home though, I noticed something strange in the printout. The computer had classified the results as "NORMAL" but stipulated that the results were "NOT OFFICIAL" because the "SEX OF PATIENT" was "UNKNOWN OR INCONCLUSIVE." The attendant had typed in my name and age but apparently was confused as to my gender and left it blank. I was bemused; I had no idea that I was such a tough read. I realize that people here generally have a lot of body hair, but I thought that the beard and chest might give me away. Even the word inconclusive struck me as funny. Do they generally get a lot of Hermaphrodite ECG patients… Eunuchs maybe?

In any case, I have decided that this new phrase will also serve as a prediction of how my weekend will most likely progress……. SEX: UNKNOWN OR INCONCLUSIVE

Dry...

Basically, I can’t think of much to write about today. It’s just one of those days. I can’t think of anything interesting that’s happened lately. Usually when that happens, I just write an old story, but nothing is flowing. Maybe I’ll just tell a joke. Sure, why not? This is one of my favourites. It’s an oldie, but I love it. If you’ve heard it before… too bad.

A new church opens in town with a strict code of requirements to get in. One of the toughest regulations is that you must abstain from any sexual activity for six months to purify your soul. So, in typical joke-telling fashion, there’s an elderly couple, a middle-aged couple and a newlywed couple all trying to get in to this parish. After six months, they all come back and the minister asks the elderly couple how they made out. They reply that it wasn’t all that tough at their age, and they had made it through the six months with no trouble. "Well then, you are welcome in our Parish!" says the minister. He turns to the middle aged couple and asks them if they succeeded in their pledge of abstinence. "Well," says the man, "It was tough at times, but we made it through." The minister is happy once again, "Then you are more than welcome in our parish!" he says. Then he asks the newlyweds if they had made it six months without sex. "Well, father, I’ll tell ya," says the husband, "We tried really hard, and we were doing really well, but then I saw my wife bent over the freezer the other day and I just had to have her right there!" The minister is shocked, "Merciful Heavens! I’m sorry, but you’re just not welcome in our parish."
"That’s ok," says the guy, "we’re not so much welcome at the supermarket anymore either."

The Voice...

Last week the strangest thing happened. My cell phone rang, which in and of itself isn’t all that amazing. I didn’t recognize the displayed number, but I answered anyway because really, why not? Before I even had the chance to say hello, a girl’s voice took over the line. She sounded young with a cheapster sort of quasi-Indian accent ("Thank -you -come- again" type accent). "YOU BE MY NAUGHTY BOY!!!" she shouted out, "YOU MAKE ME HOT NAUGHTY BOY!!!" I was already laughing too hard to even reply. I quickly set the phone to loudspeaker so my friends sitting around could join in the fun. "YOU ARE SO NAUGHTY!! YOU MAKE ME HORNY!!" We were all losing it. Suddenly she stopped and seemed to realize that I hadn’t yet said anything. "HELLO?… HELLO???" I picked the phone up again, "Hello." I stated simply. "OH YES! NAUGHTY BOY!! YOUR VOICE MAKES ME HOT!!" For the first time in a long, long time, I was speechless. "Thanks," I finally ventured. I was desperately trying to recognize the voice, but my best guess was just teenagers dialing at random. How had I lucked out! A prank sex call in Pakistan. This was great! "OK? OK? YOU MAKE ME HORNY NAUGHTY BOY, OK?" "Ok," I replied. "OK BYYYYEEE!!!"

And like that, she was gone.

When the Moon Hits your Eye...

A friend of mine messaged me the other day from Lahore to report that she had just seen a motorcycle pizza delivery type guy. That’s just great I thought, thanks for the update. But apparently the name of the Pizzeria is Big Slice and their slogan is "Experience the Complete Canadian Pizza Experience!" I didn’t realize that there was a Canadian Pizza Experience. I wracked my brain for an example of the Canadian Pizza Experience that would be any different than anywhere else in the world. I hate to break it to people that the Canadian Pizza Experience involves picking up a slice of pie and eating it.

Although, I would love it if I walked into the local Pakistani Big Slice and saw a bunch of folks wearing plaid, drinking Keiths and politely saying, "Great Pizza Eh?"

When you’re far from home, even stereotypes make you nostalgic.

Server not found...

I really hate to harp on things, but I just can’t help it. This whole Internet debacle is really starting to get to me. I’d like to sprout the cliché about how you never know how much you miss something until its gone, but that would be total codswallop in this case. If you’d asked me two weeks ago whether I’d miss the Internet if it were gone I would have said, you’re damn right I would. I’m completely aware of how dependent I am on the damn thing. The worst part here, is that there is still no word on how long it’ll be before they fix the problem. The entire country is working on satellite backup links, so I can basically draw the webpages by hand faster than they’re coming up. Of course, Hotmail (which admittedly hasn’t been that hot since 1998) is just a lost cause. I’m kicking myself for not switching to Yahoo like everyone told me to, but you know, when you’ve had an address for almost a decade it’s irritating to switch. I take a little comfort in the fact that my gmail account doesn’t work either… no wait, that’s really irritating too. And even though I know that there probably aren’t any email of major importance that I’m missing out on, it’s just that feeling that I can’t check it at all that really gets me. But, at least I can still post to the blog… barely… but I’ve lost my Pakistani audience so everytime I check my site tracking, I get depressed at the statistics.

Sigh. Well, I better go do some work. Work! I know… I know… desperate times call for desperate measures.

Oh, Canada Day...

Friday night I realized quite suddenly that it was Canada Day. Being so far outside the Canadian context, it had completely slipped my mind. Not that I ever really need an excuse to drink, but this seemed like a good one to me. Subaru Kazoo and I loaded up the laptop with the Tragically Hip and started calling people up. Beer seemed the obvious drink of choice, but unfortunately, since Canada Day took snuck up on us, we were woefully unprepared. Friday is the Islamic Sabbath, so any liquor stores (yes, they have them, but they’re only for the 1% foreign population, wink, wink, nudge, nudge) are closed. So we were stuck drinking left over, local peach flavoured vodka. Not exactly ideal, but in the land of the pure, you drink what you can get. Eventually, some friends arrived with some Scotch, so we were all set. I messaged all the Canadians I know in Karachi (both of them) and they replied, "Oh yeah, Happy Canada Day" which made me feel better, because it hadn’t occurred to them either. I messaged friends to come over and join the celebrations and got a couple of "Canada has a Day?" type responses. Typical. Doesn’t every independent nation have a day? Maybe no one thinks of it because we’re one of the only nations that gained independence by asking politely. I don’t know. Everybody loves Canada, but no one knows a damn thing about us. I guess maybe that’s a good thing.

Being the only true, blue Canadian, and getting a little tipsy, I announced that this was really "my" day, that my drink should never be empty, and that I should be catered to in most every way.. Zubair tried to cut me off saying, "Ok smartass, it’s not your day anymore, Canada Day is over." I looked up at the clock, 12:30 am. I was crestfallen for a moment, but then I realized that Canada Day was only just beginning in Canada. It reminded me of the time my friends and I in New Brunswick celebrated New Year’s Eve for every time zone in Canada (4:00 am? Happy New Year British Columbia!) So here I was with the better part of 12 solid hours of Canada Day left. Nothing could stop me! I would celebrate the birth of my proud nation until the break of dawn!

Then I ran out of booze, so I went to sleep.

Have You Seen This Man...

I’m one of those people that everyone thinks they’ve met before. Either that or I really remind them of someone. So I’m not sure whether I just have a generic face, or whether I have such a unique face that people assume that they must have met me before. Personally, I think I’m unique, and I don’t mean that in a conceited way, more like, you know, I’m kinda weird lookin. I’m a big, tall, bearded, long-haired guy: I stand out in a crowd. So, I agree, if someone has met me before, they’re bound to remember me (which is irritating, because I probably don’t remember them).

But generally, people have very limited imaginations when it comes to the "You look just like…" game. I think that at one point or another, I’ve been compared to every famous person with long hair. When my hair was growing out, people used to tell me that I looked like Jason Bateman. I didn’t see it. I was no Teen Wolf too. Then as my hair reached lengthy status, I generally got a progression of longhaired rock stars. I used to get Anthony Keidis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers now and then, but usually only from drunk observers. I don’t think I resemble him at all, in fact, as I generally wear clothes, with my socks primarily on my feet. I agree that I did legitimately resemble the lead singer of the Canadian Celtic rock band, Great Big Sea. But it’s not exactly a resemblance that you can exploit. Hey, are you that guy from that band no one’s heard of? Yeah, that’s me… got any free stuff? I gradually resigned myself to being associated with anyone with long hair, even shorthaired actors in longhaired roles. I even get compared to one of the chefs on the cooking channel. Often I would yearn for someone to say I reminded them of someone with short hair, you know, to wrap myself in the belief that I was more than just my hair (lustrous though it may be). But no, everytime, it’s the same thing… Hey… You look like the guy from that show… with the hair… you know, that show with the guy…

But then, I started to notice a disturbing trend. My popular doppelgangers started shifting out of the range of comparisons I felt comfortable with. Until finally the day arrived when a patron of one of my bars said, "Hey, you remind me of that singer." I smiled patiently as I reached for his beer, but my smile faded as he continued, "Yeah, you know, Meatloaf."

That night I stood before the mirror for a long time. Meatloaf. A singer who had named himself after dry, leftover casserole. I don’t think it was until exactly that moment that I realized that through years of static academic study followed by a few years of eating food everyday from my restaurants, that I had indeed let myself go. This was pretty far from paradise, dashboard lights notwithstanding. So I resolved to lose some weight. That summer I grew a beard as I drove home across Canada, so that when I arrived, I started to get compared to director Kevin Smith. Long hair and a beard. I’m telling you, people’s imaginations don’t stretch very far. But although Silent Bob was still a hefty character, he was a damn site cooler than Meatloaf.

The Kevin Smith comparisons continued once I arrived in Pakistan. In fact, there’s still one guy here who insists on introducing me to everyone as Kevin. (I threw together a quick story that after Jersey Girl I wanted to take a low profile, so I moved to a third world country, but I don’t think many people bought it.) Then one night a girl said, "Hey you kinda look like Kevin Smith, just without the weight problem." I think I startled her when I hugged her and said, "God Bless you."

And these days, things are looking up. Nowadays, the comparison everyone comes up with is Bo Bice from American Idol. Long hair and a beard… good call. But I’m satisfied, after the Meatloaf scare of 2003, I’m finally back to acceptable rock star territory.

But I wonder, if I ever actually cut my hair, will I look like anyone at all? Maybe then I can actually look like me. Frightening.