Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Hit Me...

Well this is just plain fantastic. I am very pleased to announce that my blog is the number one hit on Google for the search string "Hooty Pecker."

I could never have dreamed a day like this would come.

But overall, it’s really amusing to see what Google searches lead people to my site. One of my tracking programs tells me just that, and there are some searches that just make you shake your head. Not even that the search is so strange, but that they chose to click on my link to find the answer.

Here’s a few choice Google searches:

Bargain Nail Clippers
I’m not sure what type of people do this kind of research on the internet instead of walking to the pharmacy, but I really don’t think I want to meet them.

What happens on a Pakistani Wedding Night?
I sincerely hope that this was typed into Google by a nervous bride. The Artsaypunk takes on the Pakistani Birds and the Bees…. "Ok, it’s like you’re the bun, and he’s the kabob…

Wild Monkey Sex
Seriously, what can I say about this one.

Girl Throws Quran on Floor Turns into Animal
This was a pretty common search a few months back because of this photo-shopped type pic that was going around of a girl who threw the holy book and turned into a monkey or something. Oh the gullible are a treat for the rest of us, aren’t they? I never thought that writing about monkeys would send me such strange folk.

Gradtuity
Strangely enough, this misspelled service charge leads to a link to a comment on the blog. Not so much funny on its own, until you realise that whatever this guy was looking for, he decided to click on "The Artsaypunk: An Important Garlic Mayo Update."

Amy Smith Herpes Slut
I’m actually proud of this one. Perhaps I will become the dominant authority on the poor, maligned Miss Smith.

Star Wars Visa
I’m not sure here if they’re looking for a credit card, or a multiple entry permit to a fictional galaxy.


People have also felt my blog would be a good source of information for: "Dohlki Songs," "Pakistani Wedding Food", "Dubai Hot Sexy Mamas", "Address Canadian Embassy, Dubai", "Toronto Metal Detectors", "Painful Canker Sores" and "The Brainy Bunch.

It just goes to show you that it takes all kinds to make this world go round, and it takes even weirder kinds to make the World Wide Web go round. It is also shows that a lot of people have no idea how to use Google.

Makes Scents...

This morning I almost dropped a bottle of cologne onto the cold, hard tile floor. This would have been a disaster, albeit the best smelling disaster this side of a bakery explosion. The way I managed to avoid this sensory overload was via one of those ridiculous reflex actions wherein you flail your foot out to "catch" the falling item. This generally never works, and in fact, more often leads to an even worse spill, but this morning, someone was smiling and it actually worked. My foot absorbed the impact, and the bottle rolled serenely across the bathroom floor. Which is good, because I really don’t own that much cologne.

I’m not the type of guy to have a whole shelf-load of cologne. First of all, I am a traveller through both time and space (so to speak), so I don’t have all the room in the world to pack toiletries. And secondly (have you ever noticed how many people say "First of all" but there’s never a second or third on the list?) I am a simple guy. I don’t want to have to stand over my vast array of aromas and think, "How do I feel today? Sporty? Suave? Rugged? as if I were naming token members of a boy-band. I prefer to just go with what works, a little scent I like to call, "Dead-Sexxy."

Since all scents smell differently on different people (which I think is pretty cool), I like to test them out. Generally, what happens is that I wait for a girl to give me some cologne as a present. Since cologne is expensive, this will most likely be the current girlfriend, or a really close friend. This doesn’t mean I’m too cheap to buy it myself; I’m talking about the initiation of a new scent. If it works, I’ll go ahead and buy some more. Just wanted to clear that up. The important thing is that I trust a woman’s opinion on whether I smell good, better than any guy’s, including my own.

Another important issue is whether it works with all your other scents. You need to have the total olfactory package: the cologne has got to work in harmony with the soap and deodorant, shaving cream and after-shave, not to mention natural body musk (why does the word "musk" seem so dirty? Maybe it’s because of Muskrats.)

Then I just start collecting input. Every "Oh, you smell really good" is logged and recorded. If there is an upgrade to "You smell amazing" then that’s an automatic five points. My usual response, by the way, is "You’re Damn right I do." Or sometimes, "Yes, indeed I do smell amazing, however, you should stop that, as it doesn’t taste as good as it smells." Oh wait, that didn’t happen so much in reality as it did in my head as I was writing this. So once a cologne gets a high enough approval rating, then it may just receive a prestigious position on my bathroom shelf.

The current inventory includes only two flavours, which is good, because I only happen to have two moods. One is the ever-classic, never-fail Aqua de Gio. Sometimes I swear that stuff is the best purchase a guy could ever make. The other is the less well-known Altitude, by Swiss Army. Which on the whole, always gets me thinking about what a strange Army the Swiss have got themselves. They’ve got no equipment to speak of, defending a "supposedly" neutral country for so long, but when it comes to nifty pocket knives, precision watches and fantastic cologne they’ve got it made. They must be the best smelling, most punctual troops that have 75 small blades for any occasion. Great to have on a camping trip, those guys.

Ok, that was ridiculous. Time to stop.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Funny, That...

This weekend, a friend of mine told me that she had decided that I really wasn’t that funny, it’s just that funny things seem to happen to me.

I wasn’t at all sure how to take that. But… ouch.

Oh well, at least I’m still funny looking.

Friday, August 26, 2005

You Must Remember This…

Sometimes I feel like when it comes to kissing, I’ll just never catch on. I suppose I’d better elaborate. Don’t get me wrong, as far as regular, romantic smooching goes, I’m no slouch, but what stymies me is the double cheek kiss that is so prominent here as a greeting. Hi! How are you!… *Mwah*… *Mwah*… I wouldn’t mind this at all, except that I get so confused. You see, there are just too many variations and stipulations. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to play a sport and I don’t know any of the rules, but the coach just leaves me in there, flailing around, making an ass of myself.

First of all, there seems to be a proximity-to-familiarity ratio that needs to be adhered to and observed. For example, if I know a girl very well, I might kiss her directly on each cheek. But if it’s someone I don’t know as well, maybe we will just touch cheeks together and kiss the air in the vicinity of our earlobes. But then, if I only know her socially, we’ll probably steer clear of the cheeks and just make "Mwah" noises over each other’s shoulders. But then, a casual acquaintance will most likely just go for the handshake. Believe me, it’s confusing as all hell. You have to make these judgements in the blink of an eye. And if she has a different assessment of our relationship than I do, then we might get caught at cross-purposes. She goes for the cheek, I go for the air, and next thing you know I’ve bitten her ear.

The worst is the hesitation situation, where one of you is going for the handshake, the other the kiss, and then you quickly see your error and switch, but so do they. You end up in one of those situations where you’re walking towards someone and both make a move in the same direction until you’re salsa dancing in the street.

And to make matters worse, some people only go with the kissing of the single cheek. This throws a huge wrench into things. Technically, I’m all for it. It’s much simpler overall. But it’ll always throw you off your guard. She stops after one kiss, and meanwhile, like Jesus, I’ve turned the other cheek, and I’m left hanging there. And the worst part is that sometimes I judge incorrectly that the person is a one-cheek-kisser and then I leave her hanging. Then she invariably says, "No sweetie, we kiss both cheeks here." Thanks. Just give me one more year and maybe I’ll get it.

Now, sometimes the guys can throw me off too. A good friend will come toward me with his hand out and so I get ready for the shake, only to find myself in a big bear hug. This means that my shaking hand is now stuck between us and hopefully not prodding anything too inappropriate. Then, after the hug, he’ll be standing there with his hand out for the shake, which I’ve withdrawn out of embarrassment. Hug and then Shake, Hug and then Shake… I always forget. I guess it’s because it basically goes the other way around at home. The brisk handshake evolves through the shoulder clasp, into the manly hug.

I’m hoping that this isn’t just me. I’m hoping that others experience similar situations like: "The Stop and Go," "The Sweaty Cheek" and the always awkward "Cheek Bump." But like most things, I can already hear the decision of the masses: "No Dave, I’m afraid it’s just you."

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Put the Lime in the Coconut...

This Morning’s Billboard of the Day:

Gold’s Coconut Candy

Now With Coconut!

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

These Are A Few Of My Least Favourite Things...

Here are a few things I don't care for.  I don't hate them, I just don't like them:

Coloured Toilet Paper
I'm not a fan of coloured toilet paper.  For some reason, there's a lot of coloured toilet paper in Pakistan: pink, blue, it's all about the pastels.  I don't know why that is.  Why does it need to be pretty.  It's a shitty job, who wants pretty?  Garbagemen don't wear tuxedos to work. To my knowledge, there wasn't this much coloured toilet paper at home.  I don't even know why I don't like coloured toilet paper.  I'm just not partial to it.  Maybe it's a colour barrier.  Maybe I'm being anal.

Baby Corn
I'm not a fan of baby corn.  I think it's a tease.  I love real, big corn so much.  Those delicious sweet kernels with narry a digestible nutrient to be found, they can't be beat.  But baby corn is so disapointing.  The first time I ever saw it on a salad bar when I was a kid, I thought, "Cool, mini corn."  But then I bit into it and it tasted like dirt.  I personally think that baby corn tastes the same as licking a 7/11 parking lot.  I don't see the point of it.  Keep it out of my stir-fry.

Poorly Designed Remote Controls
I’m not a fan of poorly designed remote controls. But who is really? It’s just that they’re so prevalent. There are so many bad remotes out there that it’s hard to think of any good ones. I just don’t get it. You can design a complex electronic component, but you can’t design a remote that makes sense? I get the feeling that the remote is always the last thing that’s worked on before the component hits the market. It’s a rush job. All the elements are there, just poorly conceived, like the conclusion of an undergrad essay. You’ve got the huge remote with a thousand tiny buttons. You’ve got the slim-jim remote that still has tiny buttons. You’ve got the ones with sliding panels that hide yet more buttons, but always slide right off and let the batteries fall out. You’ve got the ones with the volume and channel controls a way down at the bottom. There are just too many examples. This should be simple. But apparently it’s not.

Green Peppers
I'm not a fan of green peppers.  You have to understand that it take a lot for me to say that.  Not long ago, in the scheme of things, I hated green peppers.  I despised them.  I wanted them wiped from the vegetable cannon.  If poison had a generic taste, I would have assumed it to be that of green peppers.  Plus, they give me gas.  But what doesn't these days?  Slowly I have come around.  You see, I was raised in a household that was strongly biased against the plight of that cantankerous capsicum.  Generations of my family have shunned them, but I have turned to accept them.  Feelings change.  People change.  I still wouldn't order them on a pizza, but if they're there... what the hell, I'll eat them.

Classmates.com
I’m not a fan of classmates.com. Stop bothering me. Quit it with your popping up. If I wanted to contact people from my high school I would do it myself. Why are folks so nostalgic about high school anyway? I had a good time, but I’ve certainly had way more fun since. Besides, I have a feeling that the people that would sign up for classmates.com are not the people I’d want to talk to anyway. And I certainly would have no idea what to say to anyone on there. "David, what are you doing? We thought you’d go far." … "I did. I’m in Pakistan." … "What are you doing there?" … "I run a music store."

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

I scream... You scream...

It’s amazing just how much snack foods in this country amuse me. Although, I suppose that it’s more so the advertising campaigns that crack me. Anyway, the latest one to catch my eye is a billboard I drive by most days advertising "F-16 Ice Cream." It’s a product of Igloo Ice Cream, Pakistan and I presume that it is a patriotic, mouth-watering means of celebrating Pakistan’s purchase of old American F-16’s a few months back. That was more or less a win/win situation for the States, since they can sell off old fighter jets to jubilant Pakistanis who feel they’re buying a new line of defense against India, and then they can sell more old fighter jets to India to balance everyone out.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe ice cream shaped into long-range war machines is perfectly normal, regular practice. But since I’m presuming the "target" market is children, it makes me shake my head to see such flames fanned so early. Things with India have been looking up lately, mostly due, I suppose, to General Musharraf’s uncanny ability to contort himself and walk more tightropes than Cirque du Soleil. But a defense minded culture dies hard, and this one is rooted deeper than a sequoia. I work in the Education sector and it’s disheartening to look at such a broken system, one of the most illiterate countries in the world, and see the defense budget stand beside the education budget like a watermelon beside a grape. Of course, this is hardly a local problem, it happens the world over. The American education system is sliding by the hour, although I hear that no child is being left behind.

Of course, things over here are a whole different story. A drive to the airport will take you past the air force block where the wall facing the road declares in large, black letters: "Prepare any strength you can to muster against them." Besides the fact that I think that they could have worded that a bit better, I find the pure desperation of sentiment quite unnerving. Against who? Against THEM. Oh right… Them. I wonder if this force they’re looking to muster will include kids with F-16 Ice Cream on sticks.

Whoa, I got a little beyond ice cream there. Anyway, to sum up, there is a billboard, it has jet-fighter shaped ice-cream zooming around, and it’s funny… and frightening… and sad.

Hair Today...

Can you tell me why my Shampoo bottle contains 250 ml, whereas my conditioner only contains 200 ml? They’re the same brand. They are supposed to go hand in hand. But inevitably I end up with a quarter bottle of shampoo left when my conditioner runs out. Then I’m not very well going to make a special trip just for conditioner; I’m going to buy another shampoo as well, since the other will run out soon. So that means that when the new conditioner runs out, I will have half a bottle of shampoo left. Now granted, after the next pharmacy run, I will only need to buy the conditioner because I’ll have enough shampoo to get me through. Only then, after all that can I even hope to switch brands, after all, you can’t change horses midstream.

I just don’t understand the logic. I suppose I could shampoo my hair twice for every conditioning, but then I would run out of shampoo too fast. I’m telling you, it’s a nasty cycle.

Meanwhile, all the guys are like, "What’s conditioner?"

Beer Butt Chicken...

Well, here’s a new one. A recipe request on the blog. Somewhere down in comment-land, thanks to the nugatory non-sequiturs of the grammatically challenged SD, the topic of my world famous beer-butt chicken arose. And by world famous, I mean to say that my friends and family quite enjoy it. But come to think of it, if I make it here in Pakistan, and it is well received, won’t I then be able to say that it’s enjoyed the world over?

I should stipulate that you could type "Beer Can Chicken" into Google and find half a hundred versions of this recipe, but you might as well get my take on it right here. In any case, it’s a fun and easy recipe, and I’ve got jack all else to write about today, so why not?

What you Need:
- One Medium-sized Chicken
- A bunch of spices I don’t feel like listing
- Four Cans of your favourite beer
- Some Olive oil
- A Barbecue
- An aluminum plate

Well, that was helpful.

First, find yourself a chicken. I find the supermarket to be the best place, but if your feeling adventurous, you could try to find one in the wild. The Eastern Canadian Feral Chicken, for example, is a delicacy that is not soon forgotten, but I recommend wearing protective gloves. Anyway, get a nice, medium sized roasting chicken, and make sure it’s not frozen. I’m always amazed at people who throw frozen meat on the grill, then again, I’m also amazed at people who use the word "un-thawed" when they really mean "un-frozen" or, as luck would have it, "thawed."

Semantics aside, clean up the chicken in the regular way, wash out the cavity, pat it dry, the works. Now, set the chicken to the side. Don’t forget where you left it. Now you’re gonna want to make a rub. In a small bowl (or a big one, I don’t friggin’ care), mix together a bunch of spices you think will taste good on a chicken. I say this because my combo changes each time I make it. But you’re definitely going to want to go with salt and pepper as a base, and I use garlic in just about everything I cook. After that, you can just go with your gut. Some poultry seasonings are nice sometimes: a little parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (if you’re a folk rock fan). If you’re feeling spicy then hit it with Cayenne and chillis. I’ve also found that those Montreal Steak Spice combinations go well in there too. I’m sure you’ll come up with a good mix. Aye, there’s the rub.

Open the first beer. Drink it. This is the best way to cook. While you’re drinking try to find your chicken again. Once the beer is finished, drizzle or brush the chicken with your olive oil (extra virgin… obviously). Then you’re going to take your spice rub, and well, just rub it all over that chicken. Sprinkle some spice down into the cavity as well.

Open another beer. Drink about a quarter of it. Take a can-opener, jack open the top and dump any remaining spices into the beer. Now that your chicken is all rubbed down and lubed up, penetrate it gently yet forcefully with your can of beer. You may feel a little dirty doing this, but don't worry, you can't get arrested for it (well, except in Alabama). Stand the chicken upright so that it stands up on its beer can perch. Push the legs out forward so that they help balance. Throw the whole thing on the BBQ at a medium-high heat (like over 400). I usually put an aluminum plate or something underneath to catch the drippings and save the grill from becoming a god-damn disaster.

Close the cover and let her go. You’re probably looking at a half-hour to forty-five minutes. This is plenty of time to drink the two remaining beers. While you do that, the beer will be bubbling up inside that chicken like Vesuvius, keeping everything nice and flavourful and juicy. I usually put another tin of water in there as well to keep things extra moist.

And that’s all there is to it. I find it’s one of the moistest, tastiest ways to cook chicken. And good for you too, with all those fats dripping off. Plus, there is pretty much no real way not to drink beer while your cooking it. Ahhh… summertime.

Well, that about takes care of any future recipe requests I think.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

The Artsaypunk: Explained...

I've been coming across a few questions lately as to the origins of the "Artsaypunk." And by that, I guess I mean, that every once and a while, someone says, "What the hell is an Artsaypunk anyway?"

Well, I've never been the kind of guy that held down a nickname. They just never seem to stick. People have tried to make it work, but for some reason, I am just simply "Dave." I am referred to in a number of different ways, by a number of different people, but I wouldn't class them as actual nicknames. For example, I would currently list the following lexicon of Dave references: David, Dave, Daud, Daud Yusef Garriwalla, Sheikh Bin Daud, Ford, Fordy, Big-Dave-Ford, the Davistani, Desi-David.

For a long time, my mother was adamant that I remain a pure "David." She would insist that she had named me David, not Dave, and she did it for a reason. In fact, she's given up on it in recent years, but for a long time, if you called my house and asked for "Dave" my mother would say, "No, no Dave's here, but you can speak to David if you like."

In residence, during my undergrad, our house gives a nickname to every single new resident. By the time I got mine, they were fresh out of ideas and I was left with "Schmooze's Bitch." The idea was that I had to carry a bar of soap with me during frosh week, and anytime that Schmooze, an upperclassman, yelled, "Drop the soap, Bitch!" I was to do so, ideally with a certain amount of ass-waggling. Entertaining, certainly, in the minds of some, but not a nickname that would ever stick.

My university campus was one of those ones where the Engineers face off against the Artsies in a friendly (or not so) rivalry. One of the Engineers in my residence, a guy named Vern from a town even smaller than mine, would see a typical Arts student and say, in his hick-drawl, "Would ya look at that Arrt-Saay Punk!" Often, all it would take to incur such wrath was wearing a nice sweater, but what can you do, Vern was set in his ways. In the years following Vern's departure, my Engineer buddies decided that I was one Art's Student who was cool, so my new house name became "The Artsaypunk."

Over the years, I started using the term because it was convenient on the Internet. I could be DaveFord72 or I could be the one and only Artsaypunk. And I grew to like it. I am an Artsy type of guy, but I wouldn't consider myself a typical Artsy. So I guess "Artsaypunk" for me, has morphed into its own definition. It's just me. Not your typical artsy. A little left of centre. Plus, that random phoenetic "a" in the middle throws everyone off, and I like that. I like throwing people off (especially sleigh-rides). So when it came time to name a blog... Hey, what'r ya gonna do?

So there you have it. There's no real explanation, it just happened. I know it was bothering all of you immensely. I'm sure you were thinking to yourself, I wish I had a really lengthy, useless explanation as to where that name came from. Well, I aim to please.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Birthday Blog...

At some point yesterday (or today, depending on where your standing), the blog crept up over 5000 hits. See Blog Go... Go Blog Go! Not too shabby. Considering that it's all word of mouth, and that I didn't really get rolling on this thing until late February, that's not a bad first six months.

So thanks for stopping by, and keep spreading the word.

And for God's sake, leave a comment now and then so I know you've been around.

Dear Mudder...

Mother Dearest,

I was just reading back through my archived posts (because I'm obsessive like that), but for some reason, this time I tried imagining it was you reading them. And yeah, it made me a little embarrassed.

But I know you're here everyday to check in on me, even if I cuss a bit too much and go a bit too far to get a laugh.

Thanks for being a trooper.

Love you,

David

Manic Cure...

After a careful period of surveillance, I have decided that my observation of February 17, 2005 was correct. My fingernails grow faster in February and August than at any other point during the year. These two months, (which bisect the year quite nicely), are the only times that I actually notice that my fingernails are growing quickly. It seems like I’m cutting them all the time these days.

Now, granted, I am a strange specimen, but no one would say that I’m not observant, and I swear that this is the case. Now, if someone can come up with a rational explanation for this phenomenon I would sleep better at night. Well, no actually, I would probably still not sleep very well, but you would sleep better believing that you’ve made me sleep better… wouldn’t you?

The Dave Guide to the Pakistani Wedding...

Hello my confused, hot and sweaty Caucasian brothers and sisters.

I know that if you’ve been in this part of the world for any amount of time, you have probably been invited to a Pakistani wedding. This can be a confusing time for you. The cross cultural mish-mash of Islamic and Hindi celebrations that make up a Pakistani wedding can be enough to leave any self-respecting Gora reeling. I see you there at the wedding functions, a little to the left of the entrance: a group of nervous, uncomfortable white people, standing there like a wilting patch of daisies in a dazzling, showy garden. But never fear. With both the primary and secondary Pakistani wedding seasons pretty much behind me, I am here to help. Although Pakistanis love to have you at their weddings, they will also be very much amused by how you will handle yourself. For this reason, no one will ever give you a heads up on what the hell is going on. That’s where The Dave Guide comes into play. Here are a few excerpts to get you started:

Functions:
Ok, the first thing you’re going to notice is that you invitation includes not one reception, but several. Don’t panic. You don’t really have to go to all of them. You can pick and choose. You’re probably thinking, wait a minute, I’m used to one service, one reception, one drunken, inappropriate uncle, about 200 guests, a nice dinner and some dancing. Well, a Pakistani wedding is just like that, except you do it five or six times.

Although the sheer number of events may overwhelm you, it helps to realize that they are all basically the same, just with different ingredients. I think of them in two categories, depending on what I have to wear. In the first group, you’ve got the Mehndi, Mayun, Dohlki, Kawali (Kavali, Quwwali… I dunno) and other such events, to which I would wear a nice Shalwar Kameez. In the second group you’ve got the Nikkah, Rukhsati, Valima and any other dinner type affairs, to which I would wear a suit and tie.

Personally, I prefer the first group of functions because they’re more casual, more colourful, more culturally interesting, there’s more going on, I get to wear fancy pyjamas, and everything is just much more gay (in the old fashioned sense of the word, not the make-over/track-lighting sense of the word). The Mehndi is the big show, with hundreds of people, more colour than a troupe of clowns playing paintball, and lots of dancing, partying and food. The others are kind of like variations on the theme. A Mayun is like a small Mehndi, except you usually only have one side of the family and everyone wears yellow; a dohlki is a like small Mehndi with a drum, a tambourine and some dancing; a kawwali is like a small Mehndi with a cool, trance concert of religious music.

The second group of functions are still interesting if you’ve never been to one, but they are stuffier, and generally less fascinating. The Nikkah is the signing of the actual wedding contract, which is culturally interesting, but dry as unbuttered toast. The reception or Rukhsati is like the giving away of the bride, so everyone cries for good measure. The Valima is a celebration of the consummation of the wedding, which you would think would be exciting, but the novelty wears off quickly. The couple are usually smiling, which I hope is because of the consummation part, but is probably because they know that the Valima is the last function they’ll have to endure. I tend to get bored at Valimas and start hoping someone will run in with a blood-spattered bed sheet and yell, "It is accomplished!" But unfortunately, those days are gone (I wonder why?).

These functions usually involve a lot of mingling and small talk, and "Why are you in Pakistan?" type scenes. My general irritation with such situations, however, is balanced out by the fact that I look fantastic in a suit…. But then again, I look pretty classy in a Shalwar Kameez as well. I dress up nice.

Keeping Up Appearances
Whichever functions you choose, you should try to pay your respects to the bride and groom. They’ll be the ones locked in one corner, their faces masked in smiles barely betraying the fact that they are probably the most miserable people in attendance. They have to sit on a bench somewhere, while everyone else is having a great time, and endure one group photo for every possible combination of family and friends. They go through more film than an Imax movie, and I’m sure Kodak could stay in business just based on profits from Desi weddings. If you are searching for the happy couple, one helpful tip is to look for the groom first, because there’s a good chance you won’t recognise the bride. She’ll be beautiful, without a doubt, but with the elaborate dress and heavy make-up and jewellery, you’ll probably catch yourself thinking, "Wait a minute, is that her?"

Timing:
This is perhaps the most important category. If you mess up the timings, you can throw off your whole night. You may have received an invitation card listing the time of function as, for example, 8 pm. It may or may not have also included the word "sharp." Ignore this completely. It is a cunning ruse. Despite all your instincts, you must resist any punctual inclinations. Even if you are thinking of being fashionably late, and show up an hour after the given time, chances are you’ll be helping the caterers set up tables. Here’s the way I look at it. If you would like to make an early appearance, then you should plan to arrive two hours after the time on the card. If you’d like to arrive with everyone else, go with a three-hour delay. Don’t worry too much about it. Chances are the bride and or groom will not arrive before midnight. As for the original time on the card, well, there is no rational explanation, unless of course, it’s some sort of ingenious stratagem to make all the White Folk look foolish. As if we need any help.

Eating:
Whatever you do, make sure that you eat before the wedding. This is imperative. In fact, you may even want to stop for drive-thru on the way there. All night long, you will hear how food is about to be served, but you should not expect it to make an appearance much before 1 am. Food at a wedding is more elusive than environmental issues at a Republican convention. From what I can gather, a wedding is often judged on the quality of its food. Ask someone how a wedding was and they'll probably say, "Oh it was very nice... good food." One entertainment, if you still have the energy, is to watch the mass exodus after food is served. Most people are so hungry, they won’t leave until food is served, but as soon as they get the chow, they’re out the door. Since the hosts know that everyone will leave after they eat, they wait until 1 in the morning on a weeknight to serve it, and since all the guests know that food won’t be served before 1 in the morning, they won’t show up to the wedding before 11:30. You see how these things happen?

Dancing:
If you are, ahem, fortunate enough to be close enough to the bride or groom, you may find yourself corralled into a choreographed dance. Don’t panic. There is a very good chance that your Pakistani friends are also extremely bad at this. All it means is that you attend several "Dance Practices" before the wedding. A Dance Practice is an interesting gathering. The first hour is spent calling everyone to find out why they’re not yet at dance practice. The second hour involves discussing what should be ordered to eat for dance practice. The third hour usually involves someone discussing how everyone should be practising dancing, while someone else (depending on your friends) tries to track down some beer. There will be some talk of selecting songs, a lot of talk about how bad your dance will be, and then you’re done. Don’t worry that you haven’t learned the dance, you’ll just get pulled up on stage one way or another anyway, so just go with it.

Try not to be alarmed when you get pulled up on stage to dance. Just be prepared in the knowledge that it will most likely happen. Everyone loves to see Whitey dance. Here are a few tips. Smile broadly, as if there is nothing you would rather be doing in your life. Shrug your shoulders a lot, as if you have absolutely no idea what’s going on. Every once and a while, squat suddenly and throw your arms out like one of those Ukranian dancer dudes. Finally, if you are completely lost, throw both arms in the air, stick out your index fingers and jump up and down on one foot. This will always please the masses.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On...

Alright, I’m getting suspicious.

At first, I said to myself, “Ok, the ground is shaking, there’s an earthquake.” The next time I thought, “Hmmm, that’s strange, more earthquakes.” But this last time, I’m thinking, “All, right, what in the hell is going on here?”

It seems like every two weeks in Karachi lately the ground shakes at around three in the morning. Thing is, it doesn't feel quite right for a tremor. It’s not that extended rumble of an earthquake. It’s more like an explosion of sorts, followed by the ground shaking. There always seems to be one loud one, and then one that feels more distant, and they only seem to affect the Clifton / Defense areas.

I was thinking that maybe they do some kind of night blasting at one of the road construction areas, like Schon Circle for example, but now I’m ready to cook up a nice juicy conspiracy theory… Cruise missile tests… political maneuvering… the World Bank maybe… I’m open to suggestions.

Oh, and the official stand was that the first tremors were small earthquakes measuring 5.5 on Richter’s scale. But as for the last two shakes, the authorities say that there was nothing registered on the Richter scale, so another words, nothing happened, go back to sleep.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

I'm Tired of Waking Up Tired...

As most of you know, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since about late 1995. I’m not exactly sure why this is the case. I’m not one of those stress bag insomniac people, in fact I’m about as chilled out as mango sorbet (and twice as tasty). It’s not that I haven’t had decent sleeps, because I have, but moreso that I can’t remember an extended time where I had numerous good sleeps in a row. The fact of the matter is that my mind hates my body. It’s the only plausible explanation. I drag my ass into bed and then my mind is like, "Oh, so you think your going to sleep eh? Over my dead body." (Even my anthropomorphized brain speaks Canadian eh?) In any case, inevitably I end up arriving at work dreaming about how I might squeeze in a nap after work. This is no way to approach the day.

And to make matters worse, on the way to work, the buses mock me. They thunder and smoke around me in all their jangling, acid-trip of colour and chrome, and it makes my head hurt just to look at them. But the worst part is that half of them are made by the "Bedford" company. So there I am, a hazy mess, lusting for an REM sleep cycle, and there, spelled out in oversized chrome letters, on the fronts of all the buses is the very statement of my desires: Bed Ford. I can hear the buses jibing me. Go to Bed, Ford. Don’t you wish you were in Bed, Ford? I wish it were just an undeniable imperative. A command direct from the bus-walla: Bed Ford. Yes sir. Why aren’t you at work? The bus told me to go to bed.

Ok, that’s ridiculous. More so even if you don’t know that my last name is Ford.

But it reminds me of the ad campaign on the city buses back in Fredericton when we were doing our undergrad. It was called WHAM advertising, but if the ad space on the front of the bus was still vacant, it just said Wham. I always thought that it would be hilarious if you were hit by a bus and the last thing you saw was "WHAM" in big yellow letters. Well, the getting hit by the bus part wouldn’t be so hilarious, but the onomatopoeic poetic justice would be tough not to look back on and laugh… well… if you survived.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Why Am I Here?

At some point or another (whether it be at a party, in conversation, or as a comment on the blog), someone always asks me "The Question." Why are you in Pakistan? Why are you here? Well, I’ve finally decided to tackle the question and satisfy all queries in one fell swoop (which, personally, is my favourite type of swoop).

So why am I here? Why indeed? That is the question, is it not, that we all ask ourselves? Who amongst us has not asked themselves, "Why am I here?" No wonder it is such a difficult question for me to answer. I once asked God for a sign, I said, "God, why am I here? Give me a sign!" And just then, a booming voice in my head said "Why not?" I was blown away by how simultaneously profound and tricksy this God character could be when I suddenly realized that the voice in my head was actually coming over the public address system at a ridiculous conference on self-motivation. Strangely, I hadn't been motivated to attend, but I quickly remembered that the answer to my question, and thus the reason that I was there, was that my boss had made me attend. Problem solved.

But to get back to the question at hand, which realistically we never left, but merely overtook slightly and then cut off from the left lane, the truth of the matter is that I arrived here in Pakistan for work. I had been working for an environmental agency in Calgary and was assigned to Karachi to market exhaust systems for motor-rickshaws and buses that met all international noise and environmental standards.

Well, it appears that our research was not complete on this matter. It's not that the drivers didn't have the money, but that they all answered to a higher authority. Before I knew it, I was mired in a large conspiracy wherein I discovered that the deplorable state of Rickshaw and bus mufflers was purposeful and designed to limit traffic flow by discouraging drivers with clouds of stinking exhaust from all quarters. This limited increase in traffic circulation allowed road-contracts to be drug out and extended for years over budget in something known as "Project Schon Circle."

Needless to say, I realized I was in over my head and I got out as quickly as I could, but not before sustaining a gunshot wound to the lower calf. I limped my way to Agha Khan University Hospital where, unfortunately I was passed off to a med-school student who ordered the removal of my tonsils and appendix. Just before I was sent in for a C-Section, my hitherto unnoticed calf was discovered to have festered. It appeared that I had contracted Dyptheria because the bullet that had penetrated the fleshy part of my lower leg had actually been a rock hard ball of donkey dung. I should have guessed this, since the bullet had been fired at me from an ancient, single-shot, muzzle-loaded musket by a man sitting on a donkey... what a jackass.

I recovered within hours from the illness because I have an advanced immuno-response system that developed because I grew up next to a Nuclear Generating Station. We found out later that our well water had been tainted by small amounts of irradiated heavy water, which luckily for me, modified my DNA to create a super-human immune system. Not so fortunate was my Uncle Chester (or as he is generally known now, Uncle Twitchy). My cousin Joe found that he could pee a glow in the dark stream of neon green, which was always a cool party trick, but I personally thought that I came out with the better deal.

Unfortunately, my special immune abilities were noticed by the medical staff that attended me, despite the fact that I told them I was a fast healer based on a high-octane chemical cocktail of children’s Tylenol, Triple brewed Tim Horton’s cofee, and Pakola. Before I knew it, I was moved to a military hospital and under examination. It seemed that they were interested in cloning my immune system in street rats, in the hope of some day creating a Pakistani Super Fighting Force. Things backfired when the rats escaped and started hunting in packs and for the moment I was allowed to leave the hospital. However, my passport was taken from me and my identity erased. I sold the rest of my rickshaw mufflers to a scrap metal dealer and moved on to work for an NGO, wherein I relay secrets to the Canadian government, which pays the bills.

So, that's the short version. Simple Story of wrong place, wrong time. I've always said that you have got to know your market.

Special Thanks...

Hmmm, this is difficult to word properly. That usually happens when I'm trying to say something serious. I wouldn’t normally do this, but I need to say thanks to someone whose name I hope I heard correctly as Rabia. I had never met her before Saturday night, but she has been a reader of the blog for a while now, thanks to the ever-intrepid Hulleye, who knows more Pakistanis than is generally considered healthy ( www.halai.blogspot.com ).

Firstly Rabia, I must say thanks, because you’re the first person to recognize me only from my writing. And secondly, what you told me the other night was one of the most inspiring things I have ever heard. It’s difficult to keep churning out inane little oddities on this thing day after day, but you made me feel like it was worthwhile, if only for a moment. In fact, I was so struck by what you said that I was somewhat dumbfounded, and I’m afraid our conversation faltered from there. But hopefully we will meet again some day to rectify the matter. So, thanks again.

And as for everyone else, sorry for sounding so secretive, but I felt I needed to make that acknowledgment. The play is over and its time to get back to the blog. Hopefully I’ll get time to throw together some posts in the next couple days and get back on track.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Bits and Pieces...

I’ve always felt sorry for Michael Collins, "the other guy" on the Apollo 11 Moon Mission, because I always tell myself to remember his name but I just can’t do it. Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and um, the other guy. If I were him, I’d be kind of pissed. "Ok, yeah, sure, you guys go ahead, I’ll just circle around and look for a place to park this thing." I kind of wish he had a catchy, memorable name like Buzz or Armstrong…. Maybe, Velocity Jones.

Sometimes a round peg will fit in a square hole, or vice versa, if you really jam them in there. Personally, I think this is how a lot of marriages function.

I never really appreciated the full effectiveness of a paperweight before I moved to Pakistan where the ceiling fan is much more of an active player than in Canada.

I bet you Bette Davis was a big fan of the organ donor program.

Sometimes when I’m stuck in traffic I wish we had transporter technology like in Star Trek. But then I realize that if that were true, we would all be extremely fat, albeit well-traveled.

I think I look best in profile, so when I talk to people, I always try to do it perpendicularly.

Someone asked me the other day if it should be considered a homicide if someone with a split-personality commits suicide. I said No, because that’s stupid.

I think that Martin Scorcese has lost his edge and is currently only making films that kind of remind you of old Scorcese films.

I think that smegma is one of the most revolting words in the language, yet so appropriate.

I would floss everyday if my gums didn’t bleed so much. Consequently, my gums wouldn’t bleed so much if I flossed every day.

I think it’s amusing to refer to The Beatles as the band Paul McCartney was in before Wings. Amusing, unfortunately, only to me.

Slick...

For your consideration:

The following advertisement was stitched into the leather on the back of the seat cover in a Karachi Metro Cab I took yesterday:

Toyota Genuine Lubricants...
Makes Me Smile!


I'm so easily amused.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Splitting Hairs...

Yesterday I got a haircut. I’m really lazy about haircuts, so it had been a while, and I wanted to clean up around the ears and down around the back of the neck etc. My usual dude was not working, my barber from Bahrain, so I was assigned a guy at random. I’m always a little skeptical of whether these guys actually know what they’re doing, and this guy was pretty weak on the ole English language, but when a haircut costs you less than 5 bucks, whatareyagonnado?

So, I was sitting in the chair, not really paying attention, still kind of basking in that nice feeling of someone else washing your hair, when I looked up and saw him in the mirror with his scissors paused in mid-air. He made a motion toward the middle of my hair and then stopped and said, "Excuse me sir, Haircut or trim?"

"Trim, Trim, TRIM!" I ejaculated emphatically (that being my preferred method), my face breaking out in an instant sweat of panic. The world is not yet ready for a short haired Dave.

Sometimes, you just never know how close you are to disaster… or a new haircut.

And this whole thing reminds me of how my Dad used to tell people that he wasn’t getting his hair cut any longer… he always got it cut shorter. Yup, perhaps now you can start stringing together the upbringing that lead to my wonky sense of humour. My own joke along these lines goes: "I don’t drink anymore… of course, I don’t drink any less either."

I like me just the way I am...

Last week I was at a get together, or maybe it was a post-party, or maybe it was post-party-get-together, I have no idea. Anyway, someone called my name and I turned to find a girl I had first met many, many months ago and hadn’t really seen since. She does some modeling and is quite a beautiful woman. "David," she asked, "You’re writing for the Sunday Mag now?" "Well, kind of," I replied. "And for some reason," she continued, "You decided to use a picture of yourself from years ago when you were 30 pounds lighter and looking your best?" I stared at her for a moment and attempted to calculate just how many ways I had just been insulted. As usual, I laughed it off, explained that I really hadn’t taken editorial control over my blog in the paper yet, and that they had just taken the picture off my website.

But really, what the hell is that? First of all, when she originally met me, I was indeed 30 pounds heavier than I was in that photo. But now, after so long in Pakistan sweating my ass off I am back to the same weight I was then, perhaps even less. And looking my best? Why the hell wouldn’t I use a photo of myself when I’m looking my best. I guess I should call up the editors of Sunday and say, "Stop the Presses! Instead of the picture of me on top of a mountain looking like a prophet, please use this photo of me vomiting in my kitchen sink." Yes, I have a beard now, and yes, I do look different, but really, not that different. If you want different, you should see a photo of me when I had short hair. Besides, I kind of like people not being sure if I’m the one whose writings are in the paper, it makes things more interesting. "Are you the one who writes for the paper?" – "No, I run a music store." Also, it took me a few days, but I finally realized that she didn’t say a word about whether she liked the article or not, and to me, that’s slightly more important than the picture that heads it. So if it had been me, talking to myself at a party (which isn’t all that uncommon) I would have said, "Hey, I read your stuff in the Sunday Mag, that’s some funny shit. And that picture of you is fantastic, how long ago was that? You look quite a bit different now." Easy Peasey, Japanesey. But no, instead I have to smile at strange back-handed insults.

Oh well, if there’s one refreshing thing about the whole story, it’s that I know that whatever she says about me to my face is exactly what she says behind my back, which is more than I can say for a lot of people in these social circuits.

Reading this over, I sound like I’m all worked up over this. Let me assure that that’s not the case. It’s just that my own life amuses me to no end. And even if I’m an ugly bastard who used to be hot, at least I can laugh at myself.

Little Janu...

As I mentioned before, the Sunday Magazine of the Pakistan Daily Times has been publishing certain of my blog posts as a "Globe Trotter" column. Unfortunately, my communication with the editors of said publication has been limited, due mostly to my own lethargy. The result being that I have no idea which post they have published each week. I don’t even get the paper, so most weeks I have no idea what they've used until someone tells me.

This week was no exception. I got a call during rehearsal on Sunday from 5 year old Zara. "David, did you write something funny in the paper?" She asked. "Sometimes," I replied. On further inquiry I discovered that Sunday Mag had published my story about looking after Zara and the rest of the kids for the big sleepover last month. I never dreamed that they would pick that one out of all the posts, but generally, I’m pretty baffled by the ones that they choose.

"David," asked Zara, "Does this mean we’re famous?"

I wasn’t sure how to answer. "You’re on your way." I said.

My Life's an Act...

Oh hey, you know what I keep forgetting to mention? I’m in a play. It all started back on my birthday, when I got a little tipsy. I woke up the next morning and I was in a play. Strangely enough, this isn’t the first time this has happened to me. In fact, I can think of three other roles I took on because I was drunk and happy and "Sure I’ll be in your play! I love theatre!" But let’s be realistic, if the worst thing that happens when I wake up after a long nights journey into inebriation is that I’m cast in a play, then I’m still in pretty good shape. It’s much better than the "Where the hell am I?" and "Who the hell are you?" scenarios. But, of course, it doesn’t beat the time I got drunk in Berlin and woke up the next morning in Karachi. I’m still dealing with that one.

So the play is called "Picasso at the Lapin Agile" and was written by funnyman Steve Martin. It’s a clever piece about a hypothetical meeting between Picasso and Einstein in a bar in 1904 Paris before either of them are famous. I play Freddy, the sarcastic bartender/bar owner. It’ll be a bit of a stretch for me, but somehow, I think I’ll manage.

So the play starts tonight and runs until Saturday, and even though it’s late notice, come on down to the PACC auditorium and check it out. For all my Canadian fans, sorry about the late invite, but you still have time. Just muster up a couple grand, and a few vaccinations and head over. It’s worth it; it’s the theatre.

The Music Man...

A few weeks ago, a friend called me that I hadn’t heard from for a while and asked, "Did you open a music store?" I was pretty sure I had not, so I said, "Not that I know of." This seemed to satisfy, so he said, "Ok, thought so, talk to you later."

I had dismissed this as just another example of that particular acquaintance’s zany wonkiness, but then the next week, the same topic resurfaced. I met a girl at a party and was valiantly attempting some small talk, when she said, "Oh, you’re the guy who teaches music." This really threw me off. "Ahhh, no, not me." I said, and then stood there waiting for her to elaborate. But apparently, she did not feel any explanation was necessary. And so, like a ship adrift in the horse latitudes desperate for a breeze, I found myself once again mired in the awkward silence of small talk without a segue. "Ok," I said, "Nice talking to you." To which she said, "Yeah, keep up the good work." I really had no idea what the hell that was supposed to mean.

Over the next couple of weeks I would get the odd call asking, for example, if I still worked at TRC now that I had the music store, and my curiosity had reached a peak. Finally, my friend Mekaal from Lahore, who’s a fantastic guitarist, called me and said, "Dude, I’m standing in front of a place called Dave’s School of Music, is that you?" "For Christ’s sake Mekaal," I said, "We talked about music all last night, don’t you think I might have mentioned if I ran a music store?" I tried to get Mekaal to explain where this mysterious store was located, but he’s not too familiar with Karachi, so I only got a vague idea.

Then, the other day, I dropped off a friend at a hair salon in Khadda Market. I was waiting for a car to squeeze by me, in typical small lane Karachi driving fashion, when I happened to glance up and there it was. A small shop with a sign board reading, "Dave School of Music."

I have got to find the time to go in there and check this out. In a way, I feel a little irritated. I feel like saying, "Hey, I hold patent on being Dave of Karachi." And if I go in there and find out that this Instrumental Dave character is white with long hair I just don’t know what I’ll do. But in another sense, I’m thinking this might save me making up reasons for why I moved to Pakistan. "Are you the guy that runs that music store?" "Yes, Yes I am." End of story. Considering the ridiculous stories I’ve made up for why I’m here that people have accepted at face value, I’m sure that the idea of moving across the world to open a tiny music store in the third world will go over gangbusters. After all, I do want to teach the world to sing.

These are the Daves I know, I know...

I have to take a moment here and acknowledge one of the great storytellers of our time that you’ve never heard of: Big-Dave Lewis. Now, I like to spin a yarn here and there as you know, but Big-Dave has years of experience on me. He’s my friends Josh and Jay’s father, and since the time that we’ve been old enough to drink (or maybe even "almost" old enough) we’ve gotten together around the kitchen table (site of many a Maritime party) drank beer mixed with tomato juice, and told stories. Whether it was Big-Dave’s use and abuse of dynamite when he worked for the phone company, or the girl of dubious repute in his hometown that they all called "Old Yeller," or even the "Winter of ‘39" when the Bay of Fundy froze solid (which of course was many years before he was born), Big-Dave’s stories have never failed to entertain me no matter how many times I’ve heard them.

Big-Dave recently retired after thirty some years of service as a school teacher, and we should all raise a glass in honour of that feat. Unfortunately, in my recent battles to check my hotmail account, I missed the invitation to write something to be read at his retirement party. It’s not quite the same, but I thought I’d pay this little tribute here on the blog. So Big Dave, whenever I get back to God’s country, have those beers chilled and the tomato juice ready (since you and I are the only fools that will drink it)(even if it makes your ankles swell). We’ve got some catchin’ up to do.

And here, as best as I can reproduce it, is my absolute favourite Big-Dave story:

"Back in the day, I had just started teaching at the old Deer Island School. I was doing noon-hour supervision, when this girl comes running up to me saying, "Oh Mr. Lewis! So and so’s written something terrible about me in the girls bathroom!" It didn’t seem like that big a deal to me, but the poor girl was almost in tears, so I cleared out the bathroom and went in with her to check. I didn’t see anything written on the walls so I asked her where this terrible slander was located. "It’s behind the stall," she sobbed. There was a small space between the last stall and the wall and apparently that was where I had to go. The thought crossed my mind that it was ridiculous to be checking graffiti that you had to crawl behind something to find, but I was already cramming myself in there. I was slimmer back then, but you know, I was still a big man, so it was a tight squeeze. I turned myself around in there, and had just spotted, "Laurie is a whore" written on the wall, when By Jeezus Boys, I felt a terrible burnin’ down below."

At this point I interrupted, "You felt what?"

"It was the most horrible burning sensation I’d ever experienced. It turns out I had wedged myself up against an old radiator and now I was scalding the bejeesus out of my hooty-pecker."

I almost choked on my beer, "Your what!"

"My ole hooty-pecker boys. The only thing between it and a chunk of cast-iron full of boiling water was the fabric of my pants. Of course, by this time, I’m hootin and hollerin, and just plain frantic to get the hell outta there. I manage to squeeze outta there, but now I’m in the girls bathroom, bent double and sobbing, and I gotta figure out how to tell my new boss that I gotta go home cause I burnt my hooty-pecker in the girls bathroom."

By this time, the rest of us were all losing it. I was wiping tears from my eyes. Big Dave, always one to see the line and cross right over it, finished off with: "But I’ll tell ya boys, it felt some good when the scab came off."


Here's to you big guy, take a break and relax a bit.

An Axe to Grind...

One night, back in the residence years, a few of us were sitting around in my room having a few beers. Suddenly my door flew open and a guy we had never seen before walked into the room. His head swiveled from side to side, and his eyes seemed glazed. He seemed lost but then he nodded firmly and said, "This is my room." Well, I hated to disagree, especially since the guy looked like a maniac, but I piped up and said, "Well, actually, this is my room." That didn’t really seem to register with him, but after a moment’s silence he corrected himself and said, "This was my room." Well, that made a whole lot more sense. He seemed to decide to stay awhile, since he proceeded to walk over and grab a beer out of my fridge, so we asked him exactly when the room had been his. "During the Persian Gulf," he replied. I was kind of taken aback by this frame of reference so I instinctively said, "What?" He looked at me as if I was the idiot and said slowly, as if to a six-year old, "You know, Operation Desert Storm?" Now, if any of you are finding it hard to keep American incursions straight these days, that was the one back in 1991 where they saved the little, oil drenched, dictatorship from the big, oil drenched, dictatorship. (That being a slightly more plausible reason for invasion than say, a country you’ve bombed every day for 12 years suddenly becoming an "imminent" threat.) In any case, I thought it would have been much simpler had he just said, "I lived here in 1991." Trying to grasp his wavelength I said, "Cool, I’ve lived here since Kosovo," but he didn’t seem to appreciate my efforts.

Everyone in our residence is given a nickname during their first week, some stick and some don’t, but sometimes you remember someone better by their nickname than their real name (for example I always have to think before remembering that PussNuts’ real name was Mike). So we asked our visitor what his nickname had been. "Woodcutter," he said with authority. We all shook our heads, not remembering the name. "I wasn’t here very long," he said as explanation. And then someone amongst us, it may even have been me, asked the fateful question: "Why?"

Well, Woodcutter, as might be guessed, was enrolled in the Forestry Faculty. And everyone in Forestry is issued a big forester’s axe to use during their lab work because if there is one thing we’ve got a lot of in New Brunswick, it’s trees. So Woodcutter was sitting in his lazy-boy one day, absently gazing the length of his room and out the open door. Completely bored, he was looking across the hallway to the room opposite his, where the old wooden door was closed. "Hmmm," he thought to himself, shrugged his shoulders, picked up his axe and tomahawked it across the room and out the door. With a thump the axe embedded itself in the opposite door.

Impressed with himself for such a throw, he got up, retrieved the axe and sat back down. He considered things for a moment, shrugged again and whipped the weapon out the door and across the hall again. Once again it slammed solidly into the door and stuck there. Apparently, the thought that someone could be walking down the hall at any moment did not really cross his mind as he retrieved the axe once more.

As our friend the Woodcutter primed himself to see if he could go three for three, the guy in the room across the hall was starting to wonder what the hell was going on. He got up from his desk and threw open the door, only to see a full sized forestry axe flying toward him. The axe flew over his shoulder, slammed into the radiator at the back of the room, ricocheted up and stuck into the ceiling. Before the axe handle had even stopped shuddering, the nearly decapitated neighbour, as you might imagine, started losing his shit.

His tale finished, Woodcutter slugged back the rest of his beer and looked to each of us in turn. The room was completely and utterly silent. It was the first time I had ever seen actual jaws dropped. Meeting no response, Woodcutter threw his hands out in complete confusion and said, "And can you believe it? They kicked me out of residence for it!"

And with that, he strode out of the room.

I got up and locked the door.

Friday, August 05, 2005

The Future Ain't What it Used to Be....

I like it when someone tells me their birthday is coming up because I always reply, "Hey! Mine too!" And if they say, "Wait a minute, I went to your birthday party last month," I am forced to inform them that, although that may be true, my next birthday is still, without a doubt, "coming up."

This is basically the same reason that I have absolutely no problem eating "After Eight " Mints, any time of day.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

Where is my Mind?

For absolutely no reason that I can think of, I have suddenly found myself with a song from the original Super Mario Brothers Nintendo game stuck in my head. As if that’s not bizarre enough, it’s not the main theme, it’s the one where he’s in the castles. It kind of goes: da ne-na-ne-na-ne - - - da-ne-na-ne-na-ne and jumps down and back by half octaves. Ok yeah, that was no help at all.

But while we’re talking about it. I wonder how Mario brothers came about. More than that, I wonder what kind of drugs those Japanese programmers were on. I can picture it. Eleventh hour. Nintendo’s future is on the line. Six guys in a room brainstorming…

"Ok, I’ve got it. Two Italian plumbers right? And they’re brothers. And one’s fat and the other’s skinny. Ok, and they have to rescue this princess. What princess? The mushroom princess. Why would she want Italian Plumbers instead of a knight or something? I dunno. Who cares? Wait, I know, because they’re going to travel through pipes. Ok? But here’s the beauty. If they eat mushrooms, yeah mushrooms, they get bigger and they’re going to run around stomping on flying turtles and collecting coins that float around and hide inside blocks. Yeah, man. We’ve got it. Pass the Cheetos."


Update: When I went back to title this post I inadvertantly, but fantastically, managed to switch the radio station in my head over to the Pixies song of the same name. Wicked tune.

This Post Brought to you by the Letter D, and the Number 11...

I am often asked how I find living in Karachi. I have never had a great answer for this. Maybe it’s because I’m not a big fan of small talk. I’d rather talk about "things" rather than generalities and niceties. In fact, sometimes I think that small talk is designed to make any sort of normal human discourse impossible. The questions are always so general that any meaningful answer becomes very difficult. It reminds me of when I would go to summer camp or something, have a great time, but then when my parents would pick me up and want to know all about it, all I could ever think of saying was, "It was good." But the worst part of small talk is that you just know that at some point or another, there will be that awkward pause while both parties desperately try to either think of something else to ask or think of a way out of the conversation. It is inevitable. And yes, I know that it is a skill, and that I should probably work harder at it, but sometimes I just don’t have the energy.

Anyway. Digression. To get back to what it’s like living in Pakistan as a big white Canadian, I finally thought of an analogy. It came to me while I was at a party last night staring at a tree. You may ask why I was staring at a tree, and I think you’d be justified, since even just writing that kind of makes me feel silly. But my group of friends had gone off to dance and I just couldn’t find the energy to join them because I’m coming down with something and was feeling ill. So I was standing by myself, trying to look like one of those people who don’t mind standing by themselves, when my eyes fell on the tree across from me. For whatever reason, my mind made one of those inexplicable leaps of association, and I found myself thinking about the big tree at the beginning (or was it the end) of Sesame Street. I remember there was a tree in a park and all these kids keep running behind it but not coming out from behind the other side. And poor Barkley the dog is chasing them and becoming mighty confused. Then that made me think of one of my favourite parts of Sesame Street where the animated ball goes careening through this wicked cool pinball machine and hitting all the numbers up to the highlighted number of the day. I loved that. I do not know why. The higher the number, the longer the ball travelled, the happier I was. Then I started thinking about another favourite, which was the little cartoon typewriter that would squeak on screen, type out a word on itself like L-I-O-N, and then a lion would appear, scare the shit out of him, and then 3 seconds later, completely unfazed, he would roll back off the screen singing, Nooney, nooney, nooney. Then I remembered the "One of these things is not like the others" game. And A-Ha! We have finally reached the substance of the reverie. Suddenly I realized that being a Canadian in Pakistan is just like that. One of these things is not like the others. One of these things is not the same. It’s like being the obvious choice in that game every time. And you know, sometimes its great standing out and being different… But by the same token, sometimes it sucks.

So the next time someone asks me what it’s like living in Pakistan, at least I can keep that all in mind when I answer, "It’s good. I like it."

God. That post was a whole lot of nothing.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Another Bumper Stumper...

Another bumper sticker that catches my attention around here is given out as advertisement by an automobile air-conditioning company, so you see quite a few around. It proclaims in bold yellow letters, "I Love Islam." Yeah, you and 98% of the population. It just strikes me as something that most people would already assume. It would be something like seeing a bumper sticker in Arkansas that said, "I love my cousin."

Dishonourable Discharge...

Well, since I seem to be writing a lot about junk food lately, I might as well keep it up. There’s a new snack food on the market here in Karachi that’s being heavily marketed on sign boards, billboards, the works. Every single time I see the huge billboard on the way to work I start to chuckle. You see the thing is that the name of the product is "Choutooz."

Now, I’m not even sure that I can explain this one to all those of a Western Hemispheric persuasion. I’m not even sure I can explain this one delicately. In fact, I’m absolutely certain I cannot explain this delicately. But then again, I’m generally about as delicate as a freight train. So what the hell?

Ok, so "Chout" is pretty much Urdu slang for ahem… well let’s just be straight up and official and say it refers to female genitalia. For a moment there I thought I would dance around the issue, cloaked in innuendo, but I thought, ah screw it. Then I thought I would use the term "vagina" but I get strange enough Google hits as it is (oh….crap). Anyway, let’s just say it would be roughly the equivalent of using the most forbidden of the nasty four letter terms, as might be typified by my friend "Mike Hunt." And ooz, well ooz is just primordial isn’t it? Put it together, and you’ve got yourself one hell of a Filthy McNasty mental picture of this snack product. I don’t think I would wish it on anyone. In fact, if I saw someone eating this snack and said, "What ya got there?" and they said, "Choutooz," I would probably advise them to head to the clinic.

Anyway, this morning I noticed that Chootooz has a website. Well, that’s just too much to try to resist, so I decided to check it out. At www.choutoozfun.com I found myself confronted by 3 year old Aliyan from Karachi who has been awarded the dubious title of "Choutooz of the month." The company’s mission statement gives all the regular lines about being manufactured from quality ingredients and meeting all international hygienic standards. This kind of disclaimer is pretty common fare around these parts and just means that the ingredients aren’t mixed by two old guys stomping on them (or if they are, they wash their feet first). But then they give the odd statement that they "manufacture edible products, which can also be eaten by our own family kids and elders." I’m not even sure what to make of that.

I also discovered that they have a few flavour varieties of Choutooz. You’ve got Frisky Trisky which claims that "screw shaped will make u lick your fingers once you start eating and… ummmmmm you just cannot stop yourself." And apparently, they claim that your birthdays will not be complete without frisky trisky. With that, at least I agree.

Then you’ve got yourself Teetooz. I will refrain from the obvious comment. Instead I’ll just give you their own description: "Oooooooh these Teetooz will make your teeth excite. Piped shaped crazy potatoes make you go bonkers just try once and you are bound to it."

Another is called Crun Chips, and at this point, we really have to be asking ourselves exactly who is coming up with this stuff, just how demented they might be, and how they ever got into marketing. Here is how this particularly scintillating flavour is described: "Eat Crun Chips n bite your fingers. All the grown ups try once and you are addicted… It’s in these days so go for it." Now, I’m not sure exactly why Crun chips will make me eat my fingers, but it’s not something I’ve ever really been tempted to try.

Finally, they have Lollyooz, which I take to be a candy rather than a salty snack. In fact they describe it as "Yummy tasty head over a stick." I’m really finding it hard not to laugh out loud while I type this in my office. As if that isn’t enough, they go on to say that you should "use your head it’s yummy yummy lollypop. Science has proved that sucking is beneficial for your teeth and facial muscles so keep on doing." Sucking is beneficial for you facial muscles? And it’s been "proved" by "Science"? I know some people who will be glad to hear that…. mostly guys.

Okay, ok. I think that’s enough.

Choutooz… I can only shake my head.


eXTReMe Tracker