The Artsaypunk

Is There Anybody Out There?

2009-03-01T05:33:00.002+05:00

If anyone were to stop by this ole blog, which would admittedly be highly unexpected, I just wanted you to know that there is a shiny new blog over at www.artsaypunk.com

As a matter of fact, it's really not all that new, or even shiny at all (but if you squint it'd be fuzzy). I actually created the site about two years ago as an impetus to kick-start my flagging blogging ways. I figured that if I had a website I was paying for it would ensure that I got back into the writing groove. Yeah, turns out, not so much.

The point is, I'm going to try to start posting my random musings again. I've gotta give it one last shot... So, if you're interested, you know where to find me.

Yeah... so let's see how this goes.

No promises.

Something is a foot...

2006-12-07T16:05:00.000+05:00

Ah, the ever faithful blog enthusiasts... I must commend you for your patience. It is true that every time I say I'm coming back with a vengeance, I do no such thing. Sure I've been busy. Sure, I don't have internet at home. But it's no excuse. It seems I am the "bad boyfriend" of the blogging world.

And yes, despite knock-knock jokes in the comment-zone at my expense, I do want to assure you that I haven't forgotten the blog. Neglected, yes. So much to write about, so little time.

In the meantime, however, let me let you in on a little secret. Something is a foot... Now, my grandfather would have said, "Something is a foot... and it stinks," but in this case, that which is afoot should rock the Kasba. Indeed, the astute among you will deduce the answer in no time flat. Let's just say there's a gonna be some changes 'round here. Once everything is ready... well, then I will be back with a vengeance!

I swear!

Man, it sure is hard to type with your fingers crossed.

Picture It...

2006-09-14T12:26:00.000+05:00

Imagine my surprise to find that in my absence from the blogging world, Blogger has made it immensely simpler to post photographs. As we used to say back in the Navy: Huzzah!

And so, I have made a decision. It is time to change my profile photograph. The old one, commonly known as "The Best Picture of Dave Ford Ever" (BPDFE), has had its day and served me well. But, truth be told, that was taken years ago... I'd even guess that it might have been taken last century in fact. Don't get me wrong, I can still tell it's me. I personally don't see the problem, but the beard seems to confuse people. Are you that guy that has the articles in that magazine? Yes. But you have a beard. Yes. The picture doesn't have a beard. No.... Honestly, I don't really get it. The article title is Desi-David - GlobeTrotter, there's a white guy with long hair in the picture, there are amusing anecdotes about an inside-outsider view of Pakistan... but yet when they meet me, a white, Canadian writer with long hair, the beard throws them for a loop. Okay, it may not look exactly like me, but it sure as hell doesn't look like anyone else round these parts.

So here's to you Best Picture of Dave Ford Ever, it's been a snap.

It is with great pleasure that I introduce, "Raja and Dave." One of my favourite pictures recently, it is also the primary reason for the bizarre rumour in Canada that I purchased a camel at an auction. Works for me. Welcome to the blog.

Pssst.....

2006-09-14T10:09:00.000+05:00

Hey... Hey Blog... Wake up. Vacation's over.

Oh, you're back are you? It's about damn time.

Give me a break, I've been across the world and back.

And you couldn't take a break from your busy holiday schedule to write something?

Well, you know, I was busy and ah, didn't have Internet access all the time. And I'm...

Incredibly lazy?

Yeah, that too I guess.

Whatever. People have been asking about you.

Really?

Yeah. I told them you were dead.

Thanks, I appreciate that.

Thought so. You ready to get started again or what?

Yeah, back in the Land of the Pure, back to work, settling in.

Is that even a sentence?

Shut it, Blog.

Khurram Bhai

2006-06-05T22:00:00.000+05:00

Well folks, I’m extremely happy to report that Khurram is on the road to recovery. I decided to wait for a while before posting, because I wanted a report on his recuperation from a reliable source. And since my lingual abilities are still lacking, it was tough to get close to the source. However, today I found out that he is definitely on the mend. He is at home with his family, and is now able to go out in a wheelchair. He is speaking and responsive, and slowly regaining function and mobility. Of course, Khurram still has a long way to go, with many broken bones and other injuries that will take a lot of time to heal. Still, he has certainly come a long way from the last time I saw him. Considering the fall he took, I think we can safely rate this fairly high in the amazing recovery book. Let’s hope he makes it back to his feet soon.

Thanks to everyone for their support, prayers and donations. Please keep him and his family in your thoughts, as they still have a long way to go yet.

Chill Winston...

2006-06-03T17:44:00.000+05:00

The last few days have been so damn hot that I finally went on the internet to find out just how hot it really was. As of 7:00 PM it was still 34 degrees Celsius (stinkin’ hot, Fahrenheit). Now, that’s not so bad for the middle of a desert, but I think the 56% humidity might have something to do with the drenching, life-force draining atmosphere of the last few days. After all, everyone and their dog will tell you that “It’s not the heat… it’s the humidity.” This maxim is so prevalent that it has completely obliterated “It’s not heavy… just awkward” in the Annual Clichéd Adage competition. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I complained of the heat to an aborigine in the depth of the Australian Outback and he replied, “It’s not the heat… it’s the humidity,” and then proceeded to spread the message across the hills via didgeridoo (I am pleasantly surprised, however, that didgeridoo is in the MS Word dictionary; Crocodile Dundee be proud.).

Anyway, what quite confused me about this Internet weather report was that although the temperature was clearly given as 34 degrees, a little further down, the temperature was adjusted to 40 degrees with Wind Chill. Come again? Wind Chill?

Explain that one to me.

Italian Plumbers...

2006-05-26T14:58:00.000+05:00

I know that this isn't the type of blog to have embedded video. And I know that you need a pretty speedy connection for this to work properly. But still, I wanted to see if this would work, and it's by far one of the most brilliant things I've seen this week. Ah, sweet nostalgia.

Balls to the Wall...

2006-05-16T15:49:00.000+05:00

Well, this is a new one on me.

A while back, I was at the local veterinarian’s office with the Soph-Star. She had rescued a tiny, abandoned kitten from the middle of the road, and I had tagged along to ask about my animal-magnetism, which seemed to be flagging of late. The vet assured us that the kitten, whom we had already labelled “Flea Willikers,” was strong and needed only near constant care and frequent eye-dropperings of milk. She informed me that, unfortunately, my animal-magnetism had reversed polarity, which I found distressing. Sadly, the stalwart Flea mewed his way off this mortal coil that very night. Poor little, short-lived Flea. Hopefully we showed him the best day and a half of his little life.

So, all in all, an upsetting trip to the Vet. However, as we were waiting in line, I was flipping through one of those pet-type magazines, which I can only imagine Veterinarian offices subscribing to, when I came upon a small advert that caught my attention. It was a blank white square with only the word “Neuticles” in blue font, and the catch phrase, “Testicular Implantation for Pets.” I was intrigued. I was well aware of the principle of reverse-vasectomies, but I also knew that pets are completely castrated like a sixteenth-century soprano. How the heck do you reverse that? Thankfully, the website, www.neuticles.com was supplied at the bottom of the ad. My head swam with comedic potential. There was no way I wasn’t going to go home and look that up immediately….

….A month and a half later, I sat in front of my computer desperately trying to think of something to look up on the web in order to maintain my achieved level of procrastination. Like a flash from the blue (or a kick to the nuts) I suddenly remembered… Neuticles! Better late than never. And boy was it worth it. A simple flash animation of a bouncing blue ball that sprouts atomic electron orbits and proclaims “Neuticles – The Revolutionary Testicular Implant Procedure for Pets,” led me into the site.

I soon discovered that what I had stumbled upon was not, in fact, a means to reload your puppy’s pistol, but a complete cosmetic surgery. Yes, this patented technique allows proud pet-owners to implant silicon testicles during the neutering process which apparently allows your pet to “retain his natural look, self-esteem and aids in the trauma associated with neutering” for both pet and owner. In fact, the website proudly proclaims that, “With Neuticles – It’s like nothing ever changed!” Yeah, right… nothing has changed at all.

After I had stopped laughing and wiped the tears from my eyes, I dug a little deeper. The “Most Asked Questions” (an MAQ apparently) explains that “Neuticles eliminates ‘neuter hesitant’ concerns.” Neuticles is doing Bob Barker proud by allowing pet-owners to castrate their pets without hesitation and thus saving the world from thousands of homeless strays. The site emphasises that, “We feel the removal of a God given body part – leaving a male pet looking unwhole after the traditional form of neutering, is not only unethical but unnatural.”

Right. I just don’t buy it. I mean, come on. If you’re going to harp on about God-given body parts, then don’t remove them in the first place. It’s unethical to knacker your pet, but it’s not if the pet doesn’t notice the difference? So apparently, if you cut off my hand, but keep a handy prosthetic nearby, you’re in the clear. Another question asks whether a dog would actually miss anything anyway. The site affirms their unfettered insight into the Canine mind by stating in no uncertain terms that

people know their beloved pet. Their pet can tell them when they are hungry, want to play, don’t feel well, hide when approaching the vet’s office or will get excited when driving by or going to the park – why wouldn’t the pet know a familiar body part is missing Would he know if his foot was cut off? Of course he would – its only common sense.

Yeah, common sense, that’s what that is. Chances are, if your dog’s self-esteem is in danger by lopping off his breeding jewels, then he’ll most likely suspect a little something with his “Neuticles.” Hmmm, this is New… and it Tickles.

Someone else asks, “Do Neuticles come in different models?” Despite the hilarious choice of words in that query, the answer is even better. “Neuticles are available in three models: Neuticle-Originals (rigid firmness), Neuticle-Natural (natural firmness) and Neuticles UltraPLUS.” They range in price from $73 to $839, and are curiously sold in pairs and singly (explain that one to me). Each are made from FDA medically approved (“for human use”) materials that “replicate the animal’s testicle in size, shape, weight and feel.” Now forgetting about the image of someone feeling their dog’s equipment, this leads to the predictable, yet hilarious, question, “Can Neuticles be implanted in People?” Absolutely not. Poor Lance Armstrong.

Of course, the site also has the requisite Testimonials Page (I would have gone with “Testes-Moanials”), with statements like: “I’ve put off neutering ‘Crooked Joe’ for months and when I found out about Neuticles and spoke to them it made me feel better about neutering. Joe not only looks the same now – but doesn’t know he’s missing anything.” To me, the most unethical aspect here, is naming your dog “Crooked Joe.” Lane from Louisiana states, “He’s a guy and I wanted him to remain looking like one.”

Now, these testimonials make me curious. Are there that many pet-owners that sit around staring at their dog’s balls? That sounds like a fantastic way to spend Friday night. “He looks the same!” Sure, but who’s looking? “Look Honey, he’s licking them again! He thinks they’re real!” And I bet these are the same type of people who chop off a dog’s ears, or lop off the tails because it supposedly looks better.

To top it all off, there’s even a press section, where Rush Limbaugh states, “Neuticles are just plain neat!” But to be fair, he was probably hopped up on goof-balls and hoping for some sort of Bill Clinton application.

I find myself wondering what my grandfather, who was a veterinarian his whole life (except for the beginning and ending parts) would think of the Neuticles Revolution. I’m reminded of how he would talk about castrating sheep until someone would inevitably ask him how you go about doing that. “Well, it’s pretty simple really,” he would say, “first you take an elastic band and wrap it around and around the scrotum nice and tight. Then you find two big rocks…” Here, he would weigh the imaginary rocks in his hands. “And then, *SMACK*” he would clap his hands together, “it’s done.” Some startled observer would inevitably ask, “My God! Doesn’t that hurt?” My grandfather would look at them like it was the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard, before answering, “Not at all, you just have to make sure to keep your fingers clear.”

So yeah, I think I know what my grandfather would say about Neuticles. He’d shake his head and say, “That’s Nuts.”

... And Nary a Drop to Drink...

2006-05-05T00:15:00.000+05:00

You know, one thing we all take for granted in Canada is the ole, life-sustaining double-Hydrogen-single-Oxygen cocktail. Our massive, snowbound country has 60% of the world’s fresh water, although our determined efforts are certainly straining the definition of “fresh” these days. I can almost guarantee that anyone who pours a glass of water straight from the tap, and gulps it down on a hot, sunny day (yes, we have those in Canada) never thinks twice about it. Nor do we really consider the wealth of fresh water circling the drain while we brush our teeth or scrape our whiskers off. And have you ever plugged the tub and seen just how much water you use during a long relaxing shower? (I tend to do this quite often given my affinity for long, lustrous locks, and my adversity to cleaning out the drain). Yes, I think it’s safe to say that all of us take water for granted.

In fact, in my beautiful little town in New Brunswick (which I like to say, puts the “ain’t” in “quaint”) the signboard on the highway for years stated: “Welcome to St. George, Home of the Best Drinking Water in Canada.” Now, after decades, that sign has since been changed, partially, I think, for the sake of new tourism priorities, but also because I think the claim was fairly dubious to begin with. Regardless, since there is no such thing as “irregardless,” the water was very tasty. In fact, to my knowledge, it still is. But the reason I choose to supply you with this little tidbit of small-town trivia, is to relate the story of my cousin’s husband, D’Oyen.

Carol and D’Oyen moved to our little town straight from Toronto. D’Oyen was born in Jamaica, but since he was a young boy, his main experience of Canada had been the big city. I think that he was a little taken aback at the substantial shift in the pace of life in our town, which would be something akin to shifting from fourth into reverse. It would often take D’Oyen hours to run an errand, because he was baffled by the number of people who would actually stop to talk to him along the way. Anyway, it was after one of these afternoon-long errands that D’Oyen wheeled into our driveway, ran up the stairs, poured a glass of water and gulped it down. I happened to be in the kitchen and said, “So D’Oyen, a little thirsty?” (I was sarcastic even as a teenager). “No, not really,” he said between gulps. I was slightly confused. He finished the glass, held it up approvingly, and said, “Wow, that is good.” I was still confused, “D’Oyen, you’ve been living here for a year. You’ve never tried the water?” He looked a little sheepish, “Well, yeah, but I just noticed that sign on the highway for the first time today, so I had to come in and check,” Which just goes to show you that you don’t know what you’ve got until somebody tells you… or writes it in block letters on a billboard.

Consequently, you really don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone. And I’ll tell you, one thing I miss everyday in Karachi is that sparkling, clear St. George water. Even living as I do, in one of the most expensive areas of the city, water comes through the lines Monday and Friday at 4:00, for one hour. At which point, you have to run outside and plug in the pump to try and fill the tank buried under your lawn. Now, to be fair, it is now coming into the hotter months and water is harder to come by, but even in the winter, the water gushes forth only once a day – no matter how many times I strike it with my staff.

The timing of the water flow is a complete mystery to me. I leave it up to my man Paul, who always tries to explain, “Today – no water, tomorrow –half hour of salty water, next day – one hour of dirty water, next day – one hour of ‘Sweet’ water.” Of the three water categories, dirty, salty and sweet, the last one, surprisingly enough, is definitely the one you’re aiming for. Now, how Paul figures all this out, I have no idea. There seems to be some secret network of servants in the neighbourhood that figures out when and what quality of water will be coming. I usually just shake my head and say, “Ok, whatever.” Now, since one hour of water doesn’t do much to fill a 5000 gallon tank, especially if you have a housemate who tends to take 3 to 5 showers a day, your tank will go dry at some point. In my experience, this usually happens on holidays, weekends and during transport strikes. Then you have to call up a tanker service, who will tell you that a truck will be there within the hour. An average of six hours later, a tanker truck will arrive and pump, hopefully, sweet water into your tank. Add to this that all of the tanker trucks are part of a mafia that control the prices and supply of the water, and you’ll start to get an idea of the irritation involved.

I feel a little ashamed of complaining about this, since my troubles are obviously insubstantial compared to the countless thousands that survive with next to no water at all. However, believe it or not, all of this rambling has all been leading up to one single story. You can really tell I haven’t been blogging in a while, since my writing is running on like a trip to the toilet after some spicy street food. All this blah, blah, blah about the drip, drip, drip has been to say that my housemate and I decided to sign up for drinking water delivery. We had tried boiling and filtering the “sweet” water, but it just wasn’t cutting it. And since you never know what micro-bugs are swimming around in there, we decided we would play it safe and call Ava or Culligan’s.

However, we left this to a friend to set up for us, who, for whatever reason, decided to save us 20 Ruppees a bottle and instead of ordering a recognised brand of drinking water, signed us up for “Winsip Drink.” No-Name, President’s Choice water. Winsip (which sounds like a windows application I downloaded recently) seemed extremely pleased to have our business. In fact, we soon received the following letter:

Dear Sir,

It is indeed heartening for us to find your great name among our valuable clientele. While we express our thanks for giving us an opportunity to serve you, we congratulate you for selecting a quality drinking water of course water is a catalyst for making body active and hence the choice of water is of high essence.

We have developed and offered WINSIP with all humbleness to be of service to human kind which been engulfed a whirl of complexities of tough life-style, requires special attention on health issues.

Commercial aspects apart, our focus is the satisfaction of WINSIP users and the effect of WINSIP drinking water on their health. Not at all contended with the efforts put in developing WINSIP, we are quiet eager to gain from your valuable suggestion and views to further improve quality and services to what ever extent possible and feasible. We will feel privilege to get enlightened with your valuable comments that would definitely push us making further improvement in our product.

Signed by CEO.

Now, as soon as we received this letter, I was a became a big fan of WINSIP. Grammatical and syntactical errors aside (and I assure you, I copied it word for word) my favourite part is the last paragraph. I love how they say, “Commercial aspects apart, our focus is your satisfaction and health.” It’s great to see a company with a little honesty. Other than our profits, we care about you the most. Fantastic. And I’m also glad to see that they tacked on that “feasible” just to make sure that they won’t be held to any outlandish suggestions.

Unfortunately for me, I won’t be receiving anymore WINSIP letters, because soon after we started drinking it, my housemate and I both admitted to a feeling of lethargy and apathy. Since this is often a common state of mind for me, I didn’t think much of it, but my housemate was convinced it was the water. I wonder if we would have come to that conclusion if it hadn’t been 20 Rupees cheaper. The mind plays amazing tricks. In any case, we have now switched to the Ava service and things are flowing nicely now. Most importantly, it is pleasantly palatable when mixed with contraband Scotch.

One thing’s for sure, as soon as I get home this summer, I’m going to walk in the door and poor myself a nice tall glass… right from the tap.

No News is Bad News...

2006-03-27T17:14:00.000+05:00

First of all, thanks to all of you who sent messages of support and prayer over the last few weeks. It's been trying, but as usual, time marches on and I suppose it's time to pick things up again.

In a way, I suppose I was hoping that I could come back to the blog with a triumphant message of good news about Khurram Bhai's condition. Unfortunately, not much has changed. Physically, he has continued to stabilize, but he remains in a coma and in this case, no news is definitely not good news. Miracles have been known to happen, but with every passing day, my hope dwindles.

Once again, I find myself battling with the fact that anything I have earnestly prayed for has never come to pass. I guess I'm supposed to tell myself that it is therefore God's will. But the cynic within me wonders what the point of praying is in the first place if such pessimistic predertimination rules the day. If it's all part of God's plan, then I'm glad it's beyond my understanding, because, frankly, I don't want to know.

Sorry about the theological ruminations, I go through more phases than the Karachi Electric Supply Company. I have recently contributed some money to Khurram's family, and hope to give more soon, as they are in dire need of funds. To make matters worse, I understand that his wife is expecting. Joy cloaked in sorrow. If anyone feels moved to contribute, let me know and I can supply a bank account number for the family.

Explain this to me...

2006-03-06T20:34:00.000+05:00

Another hindrance to my blogging last week was my inability to access my own blog. I thought it was my own connection, but then friends started reporting the same problem. I later went on to discover that Blogspot.com had been blocked by Pakistani ISPs. Word on the street is that the Supreme Court decided that any site publishing the blasphemous cartoons (you know, the Danish ones? You may have heard of them) should be blocked. As various bloggers in the blogspot world had published them on their sites, someone had the bright idea to block the whole of blogspot.com. Brilliant.

It took me some research to figure this all out, and then, lo and behold, the next day there is a story on the BBC which would have saved me a lot of trouble.

Now, if all this is true, then can one of you techies out there please tell me why I can access blogspot sites at night? Last night I came downstairs because I couldn't sleep and I opened a number of blogspots... this morning... nothing.

Also, while I'm at it. Why is it that with a WorldCall supposedly broadband connection I can only rarely post to the blog? The connection times out over and over and then, as added fun and games, it sometimes says it times out but actually publishes the post, thus resulting in nine posts in a row, which you guys love to make fun of me for. If I walk upstairs, plug in a phone line (which I'm doing now) and connect through a scratch card (even at 19.2 kps) I can post just fine. Is the upstream to worldcall that restricted that I can't even get a blog post through? And is there anything I can do about this?

Someone enlighten me.

Somnambulance...

2006-03-05T17:26:00.000+05:00

And so, the day started with a bang. Thursday morning, some fanatical maniac slammed his carload of explosives into a U.S. diplomat’s vehicle, setting off a chain of explosions as the natural gas cylinders in surrounding cars exploded as well. Thus, he effectively elevated the route in front of the American Consulate back to its position as one of the most dangerous roadways in the world. I have commented in the past on the ineffective security surrounding the place, and once again I am confounded as to why the Americans have refused to shift their premises to a location that isn’t directly in the middle of thousands of commuter's routes to work, and sitting squarely between two five star hotels. It is currently a huge, red bull’s-eye of American arrogance that places local citizens in danger.

Even so, it was not the explosions that woke me that morning, even though the glassware shook throughout the house. I had been editing the TV show until four that morning, and was effectively passed-out. It was my intrepid servant Paul who knocked on my door, poked in his head, and said, “Boss, you stay inside the house. It is a bad day.” More than anyone else, Paul has been extremely worried in recent weeks that I will be mistakenly identified as a Danish caricaturist. The situation isn’t anywhere near as bad as you have heard on the news, but I am inclined to agree with Paul that there is no need to push one’s luck.

So I stuck around the house until I had assessed the situation, and then mid-afternoon, I braved the streets in order to finish shooting the final scenes of my television show. Believe me, at that point, getting that low-budget monkey off my back was the only thing on my mind. We started this silly show back in October so the prospect of finally finishing was like the light at the end of the tunnel. Even as shooting went long in the afternoon, even as we raced the sun to finish another scene before dark, the single thought, “Almost done” was like a beacon of sanity in the chaos of frustration.

That night, we were shooting at my house, on the roof, the final scenes of the final episode: a barbecue get-together for my character before he heads back to Canada. Things were slow, as usual, as we waited for the crew to set up the rooftop for the ersatz barbecue. Finally, at 11:30, we went upstairs. Someone had decided to shift the setup of the scenes from the front side of the roof, where I had suggested, to the other side of the roof, but at that point I just didn’t care where we shot it, as long as we got it done.

We shot the first scene and stopped to take a break for food. The cast sat around on the carpets, gorging ourselves since, by that time, we were all pretty tired and hungry. Still there was a jovial mood as we persistently reminded ourselves that we were almost done. My friend Adnan remarked how since the bombing that morning, there was a heaviness in the air. We all agreed, and I explained how Paul and I had discussed that very same thing earlier in the day. Soon though, we were all laughing and making jabs at each other. I even cursed at Faris in Urdu to get the crew laughing. All the while, the camera rolled, filming a montage of us eating in case we needed it for the episode.

In the midst of the laughter, I happened to be looking toward Khurram, the cameraman (which is technically a no-no), as he moved back to take in the whole scene. I saw him stumble and try to regain his balance, camera on his shoulder, eye to the lens. A sudden spasm of premonition clamped like a steel band around my chest and I couldn’t breathe or shout. Time stood virtually still as he started to fall backwards… as arms reached out for him and shouts from the crew failed to stop his momentum… as his normally harmless stumble became anything but… as he landed squarely on the single, small skylight… as the glass gave way, his body folded in on itself, and he disappeared.

A strangled cry came from Adnan, as I sat there paralyzed. One of the girls screamed and set Time off again at an outlandish pace. For a moment more, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the shattered place he had just been. My mind refused to acknowledge what had happened. It was too ridiculous. It couldn’t happen. The skylight was too small, no one could possibly fall through it. But in that instant, I also knew something that no one else did. I knew that the purpose of that skylight was to bring natural light to the stairwell, and that it did not just open onto the floor below, but all the way down to the cold marble of the ground floor, two and a half stories below.

Suddenly I sprang into motion. Others had rushed to the hole and were looking down, I headed straight for the stairwell. As I rushed by I heard one of the girls scream as she saw what I had already seen in my mind. I flew down the stairs, grabbing the banisters and propelling myself forward. I heard the strangled cries of others as they realized the extent of this fall.

The rest is a blur of activity, as my mind refused to keep up with what was happening. I remember moving him to Adnan’s car. I remember Faris and me shouting to the crew to be careful, trying to calm their panic as they jolted his body to and fro. I remember stopping, making them decide on the closest hospital before they left. I remember the agonized screams of one of his friends on the crew, holding his head and shouting, “Khurram? Khurram Bhai?”

I ran back upstairs, waking my housemate to get his car keys and leaving him dumbfounded with the words, “He fell! I need the car!” Paul was almost in tears. I heard him saying, “I told them… I told them the glass was cracked… I told them it was dangerous.” I grabbed the director and we raced off to the hospital.

The rest of the night I felt like I was seeing myself through a fog. I was a man asleep. I drove back to the house to make sure the girls were okay. I was grateful that Paul had cleaned up the glass and mopped the floor. I made sure that the girls all had rides and were safely on their way. Then I took Paul and the one remaining crew member up to the roof, where we methodically packed up all the equipment, as if in a dream under the dazzle of the TV lights, and moved it downstairs. Then I took them both back to the hospital.

We waited at the hospital, inside and outside, pacing, talking, analyzing. Paul moved beside me like a shadow, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder as we sat on the front steps. Eventually, I found a small garden by the parking lot, put my hands together and prayed.

And that, my friends, is the reason that the blog has been silent. I am shaken. I have been in a daze as I walk through my house. The house where I had suggested we shoot, because it has a nice roof. I can’t look up at the skylight. I try not to look at the spot that I forced myself to mop twice over with high-powered cleansers because I swore I could still smell blood. I have been far from the mood of ironic witticism necessary to write something for this site.

As of now, Khurram is still in the hospital. His life is no longer in danger, but his status is unknown; he has not yet regained consciousness. There is minor hemorrhaging and swelling of the brain, but not enough to operate. It is a time of infuriating anticipation. All that can be done, is wait.

Please pray.

Good Knight...

2006-02-23T16:25:00.000+05:00

You know, just when I was starting to think that I was getting a handle on this teaching thing... just when I thought that maybe, just maybe, these apathetic adolescents were starting to listen... just when I started to hope that maybe I was getting through to them.......

Last night, I was marking some homework, and in the space allotted for the teacher's name, one student had written, "Sir David Fork."

Now, I found it strange enough to begin with, that by taking on this teaching job, I had suddenly been knighted (although sometimes I feel I'll have deserved it in the end). It's disconcerting to be referred to as "Sir David," and makes me feel that I should somehow be out battling mythical beasts and competing in upcoming jousting tournaments. But now, to discover that one of my students has, after two full months, thought my family was named after an eating utensil, really gets my tines in a twist, if you will.

Sir David Fork, knight of the round dinner table, proponent of culinary Etiquette, arch enemy of the uncouth, hand-eating, Earl of Sandwich. Oh what manner of adventures await him?

Eating Crow...

2006-02-21T16:48:00.000+05:00

A few months back, soon after shifting into my latest domicile, I installed a window A/C in the wall opposite my bed. Which, I suppose, makes it less a window A/C than it is a wall A/C, but for the sake of clarity, my intention was to indicate that it is the type of air-conditioner that you fit into a window, even though it is in a wall… because yeah, now it’s perfectly clear. Anyway, this boxy, old unit serves a dual purpose: it gloriously cools my room, and conveniently enough, adequately plugs that air-conditioner sized hole in my wall.

Unfortunately, complete enjoyment of my coolerator was not destined to last. One lazy Saturday morning I was suddenly startled awake at exactly 7:15. From atop my air-conditioner there arose such a clatter; I sprang from my bead to see what was the matter. I ran to the window, and what should I see? But two strutting pigeons staring right back at me. Quickly I banged on the air-conditioner and they took off in a flurry of beating wings. Yeah, so there, take that! I went back to bed.

Half an hour later they were back. A low guttural growl escaped from my throat. Just ignore them, I thought to myself. But then they started one of their pigeon dances, clicking and clacking and cooing with all the fervour of an avian hoe-down. "Damnit!" I ejaculated (verbally) and jumped up to bang on the A/C again. This time however, they stopped dancing, but they didn’t take off. They had me figured. Vaguely, I wondered why I somehow attract the most intelligent pigeons in town. I cranked open my window and shouted, "Get outta here!" The pigeons were startled, but unfortunately, so was the servant in the adjacent yard. I waved reassuringly, realised I was naked, and quickly decided to return to bed.

Everyday, at exactly 7:15, the pigeons would return. It got to the point where my alarm would go off at 7:00 and I’d tell myself I could afford to stay in bed a bit longer, or at least until the pigeons came. By this point, no amount of banging and thrashing on my end of the air-conditioner would come close to scaring them off. By craning my neck, I could see that a ledge ran about 8 inches above my A/C, creating the perfect little cranny for the damned doves. And given my experience at Subaru Kazoo’s place, the last thing I wanted was for them to settle down and make a nest. I just couldn’t afford the heartache.

Finally, one weekend morning, I had had enough. My eyes were set in solid determination and my mind sorted through a melee of competing solutions. I marched downstairs and enlisted the help of my intrepid servant Paul. Together we swept the neighbourhood in search of scrap wood and other various odds and ends from the many houses under construction. Paul wasn’t too happy about this, I think mainly because he didn’t like people seeing his boss out rooting through the trash looking for treasures. Living with two Canadians, poor Paul must just roll his eyes some days.

Having found enough material, we collected some tools and returned to my room. We removed the iron bars from my window frame, and then alternatively holding each other’s feet we leaned out over the abyss, inspecting the problem. Like grand-masters at a teenage Tetris tournament during the great game-boy craze of 1991, we shifted blocks of wood, rotated cardboard boxes, and spun pieces of Styrofoam into place. A small crowd of servants began to gather in the neighbouring yards that share our back wall. Most likely, they were attracted by Paul’s continual shouting, "Boss, are you ok!" followed by my embarrassed assurances that I was fine, at least physically. After some trial and error, I fitted the last piece of the pigeon puzzle into place and wiggled back inside. Now I just had to wait.

The next morning, I watched as a Pigeon came swooping in and abruptly pulled up short in front of the perplexing mess of plywood and polyfoam, hovering in mid-air like giant, ungainly hummingbird. Finally, he flew across to the opposite roof, and continued to stare right at me. I stared back, my fingers twitching over a non-existent six-shooter. Ha! I thought, I have won. The superior intellect has once again conquered the annoyances of the birds and beasts.

That is, until this past weekend, when I heard a clatter, and walked to the window just in time to see a pigeon work a piece of wood out of my conglomerate to send it plummeting to the ground below. With what I swear was a smug look back at me, the bird crawled sedately right inside the jumble of wood. They had found the key-stone! The last piece of the puzzle, the all-important chunk of wood that blocked all entrance. I thought about how there was no way I was taking my window apart again, about how I had now created the absolute perfect nest for the birds, and about whether those damn birds had it figured out all along.

It's a hoax, folks...

2006-02-17T16:50:00.000+05:00

To all my well-meaning and otherwise, very intelligent friends:

If you think that the email forward you are sending me is a hoax, but you’re sending it anyway, just in case, I’ll let you in on a little secret: It’s a hoax.

There is absolutely no way that Microsoft, were it even possible to track, would give out a nickel to every apple-cheeked kid who sent an email forward. Think about it. Microsoft did not get where it is today by thinking about the little guy, especially the stupid little guy.

Nor will that cute little baby, who apparently has cancer, ever benefit from your sending that email to everyone you know. In fact, I can almost guarantee that the kid in that picture is now a thriving teenager given how long ago I first started getting these emails.

I will find out about viruses on my own, but thanks for your concern. I tend not to open emails with attachments that I don’t recognise so you can quit warning me about that. And you know that one you guys send me twice a year about the file that has infected my windows system? Yeah, that file is supposed to be there. Chill Winston…

That girl with the red hair who keeps going missing? I bet she’s just fine. Perhaps next time, before sending me a missing child’s photo, you might consider that for such a cross-country scheme to be effective, some details about the child last known whereabouts, height, weight, eye-colour etc, might be helpful. Yup, you guessed it, it’s a hoax.

Enough about microwaves. Water isn’t going to spontaneously leap from the glass and boil in your hands when it somehow becomes superheated in the microwave. An old lady never killed her poodle by trying to dry it off in one of those contraptions. Use a microwave safe dish, even if it’s plastic, and you’ll be fine, super evil plastic particles aren’t going to infiltrate your food.

Oh yeah, and your cell phone isn’t going to blow up a gas station, and please don’t try to perform CPR on yourself by coughing vigorously (although it doesn’t matter, you’ve only got a few seconds before you’re going to pass out anyway.)

And as far as I know, no matter how noble the cause, internet email petitions have no binding legal authority whatsoever. So why bother?

In short, any email that ends with the phrase "please send this to everyone you know" or something of the sort, is always a hoax. Seriously, if you had something really important to tell your friend about, would you ever say, oh and send this to everyone in your inbox? I have never sent on something like that, and never will, so you might as well not bother sending it to me in the first place because the hoax stops here. But beyond that, you just shouldn’t send it to anyone in the first place. It’s a hoax. Always. Every single time. Your wasting all of our time by sending it, and your giving gratification to some whack-job who gets satisfaction from seeing how far an email chain will go (never understood that actually, why not just keep a box of tissues by the bed?).

Thanks!

David J. Ford

Graeme Cracka!

2006-02-17T16:20:00.000+05:00

I’m so vicariously excited!

Given my somewhat reclusive sojourn in the third-world, I haven’t really been in touch with my more extended family. On a whim, I checked in on some Canadian Olympic coverage and realized with a start that my little cousin Graeme Gorham is competing as a ski-jumper. This is Canada’s first ski-jumping team in over a decade, and they’re some of the youngest guys competing at the Olympics. From the looks of things, Graeme didn’t qualify in his first competition, but there's still the bigger hill left, and really just being there must be quite the experience. Plus, he’s only 18, and should be into his prime by 2010 when the Olympics hit Vancouver. Fly High Dude.

Here’s a site with his stats and photo etc, although I’m a little embarrassed that he’s given Tim McGraw as his favourite music, although I suppose it could be worse. But seriously, have you ever seen a whiter kid? Hard to believe we’re related.

Of course, this only serves to remind me as my own failure to qualify for the Canadian Olympic Team. Of course, I never tried, but I always wanted to. The Athlete’s village just sounds like a blast. I guess I’d better hurry up and learn curling… or lawn bowling.

Punch Drunk Love...

2006-02-16T12:01:00.000+05:00

Yesterday, I was doing the rickshaw walk home from school. By this, I mean that it isn't that far, but it was 12:30 and stinkin' hot, and thus, my forward momentum was hampered by my constant, backward neck-craning any time I heard the rattling, staccato snarl of a motor-rickshaw. Now, this is slightly dangerous, in that my chances of walking directly into an open man-hole rise dramatically, but after a morning of wrestling with apathetic adolescents and William Golding, I’m usually willing to toss down the 20 Rupees (dunno 40 cents?) for a quick, albeit bumpy, ride home.

Unfortunately for the state of my dress clothes, no available ricks were apparent, so I started down my shortcut behind a park to avoid the traffic and crowds in front of my local Mazaar. As I turned a corner, and worked on breathing through my mouth as I passed an open garbage dump, I saw a group of men arguing noisily on the other side of the road. One guy, with a little toddler of a girl straddling the gas tank of his motorcycle, suddenly drew back and punched another fellow right in the face.

Whoa, I thought, that was unexpected. My stride faltered a bit, as part of me felt like I should say something, and the other part of me insisted, “Head-down, keep walking you damn fool, you don’t belong here.” The man jumped off his bike, grabbed his victim by the Kurta and gave him three quick jabs to the jaw. The other men were alternately trying to hold him back and cheer him on; it was difficult to tell which was which actually. By this time, I had inadvertently slowed my pace and was directly opposite them.

Suddenly, with his fist pulled back for another go, the aggressor turned and stared directly at me. Oh shit. His fist hung in the air, and I really didn’t know what to expect. But then his fist unclenched, and still holding the other man, he snapped a quick salute and yelled to me, “Hullooo Boss!” with a big grin. I was a little taken aback. I stammered out a quick “’Salaam Alaikuum,” and hearing the white man give them “The Peace of God” set the whole group to grinning and giggling. A few of them returned the peace, “Walaiku Asalaam,” and I felt a strange pride that somehow my distinct cultural difference and the strange socio-economic interplay that was happening here had calmed their argument.

That pride was somewhat diminished however, when the man gave me another smiling wave and then promptly returned to beating the snot out of his friend.

Foxxy

2006-02-15T19:38:00.003+05:00

I am drunk with post-purchase euphoria, basking in the novelty of a new toy.

Yes, I have finally bitten the proverbial, yet still dangerous, bullet, and bought a laptop. I'm now making my first post from my snazzy, chrome and silver, 17 inch screen (which admittedly decreases portability... but it's sooo pretty), Dell Inspiron 9300. Of course, coupled with the novelty factor is the feeling of having spent a wad of Rupees as thick as a hardcover book, but its balanced by that added injection of pride at having gotten a good deal. Afterall, if I consider myself a writer, which I'm gradually coming around to, then this is an essential tool... right?... right?

In addition, another excitement, is that I finally have a computer of my own, can stop being dependent on friend's and work machines (cutting the USB apron cables) and try to get back to this blog with some gumption. And I do love gumption. What this means, particularly, is that I can finally ditch glitchy Internet Explorer and switch over to my beloved FireFox. So this is also my first post from the superior FireFox browser. It's a day of foxxy firsts. If you haven't already, go download the Firefox Browser... I mean right now. You won't regret it.

I can hear Hulleye grinning from here.

And When I Get This Feeling...

2006-02-06T08:16:00.000+05:00

A recent conversation en route to what eventually became a night of drunken dumb charades:

Journey: Hey you know those massage guys with the oil that stand on the side of the road?

Me: Yeah

Journey: I just found out recently that they'll do anything... anything... if you ask them.

Me: I just took that for granted. Why, are you interested?

Journey: Ha, no, but I look at them differently now, I think, you know, who would want that from one of those slimey guys?

RJ: Wait, wait, wait, what do you mean, they'll do anything?

Journey: You know... anything... male or female.

RJ: Sexually?!

Journey: Of course, what did you think I meant?

RJ: Oh, I thought you meant like, "Go get me a sandwich."

Journey: Oh... well, probably that too.

Siren Song

2006-01-31T20:13:00.000+05:00

Know what I love about kids? They’re so funny. You just never know what outrageous statement is coming next. Kind of like Fox News, except, you know, truthful.

At school the other day, I was asked to stand in for a teacher who was absent. It was a Grade 5 Urdu class, so I knew I wouldn’t have much to contribute to their education that day. After I affirmed, that yes, I’m in a TV show, and that yes, my name is David, but my name on the show is Mike, and that yes, I was wearing a red shirt in one episode, and yes, I do like the colour red, but it is not my favourite, I decided I might as well go with the ole standby: The time-trusted Q&A session about Canada.
“Does anyone know where I’m from?” I asked. They all nodded yes. “Where then?” I prodded.
“Spain!”
I was a little taken aback. “Uh, no, not Spain.”
“France!”
I surreptitiously checked my underarm odour, “Nope, but I do speak French.” I hinted.
“The UK,” shouted out one little guy.
“That’s not even a country.”
“Africa.”
“That’s a whole continent! There’s over fifty countries in Africa.”
“Egypt.”
“No, no,” I tried to clarify, “I’m not from Africa.”
“But Africa’s a continent.”
“Right, so I’m not from any country in Africa.”
“Egypt?” asked the same student again.
I sighed, “No, not Egypt… That’s in Africa, you can rule out that entire continent. But I am from a really big country.”
“Russia!”
“No, not quite that big.”
“America.”
Finally we were getting somewhere, “That’s close,” I said, “but not quite.”
“Australia?”
“No.”
“Austria?”
“No.”
“Afghanistan?”
At this point, I figured these guys were messing with me. “No, no, no.”
And then, seemingly at random, the answer finally came, “Canada?”
“YES! Canada, you win!”
“What do I win?”
“My gratitude.”
“Oh”
Immediately another hand shot up. “On the TV show, you’re from Canada too.”
I shook my head, “Then why didn’t you guess then?”
“Cause TV’s not real.”
He had me there. “No, no it isn’t… Does anyone have any questions about Canada?”
One hand went up immediately. “Yes?”
“In Canada, when an ambulance drives by, do people pull over?”
“Yes, you have to, that’s the law.”
“Oh good.”
I looked around. No further questions. Apparently, their curiosity for Canadian trivia was limited to Emergency Vehicle procedures.
And that was it.

It was going to be a long class.

“Um, anybody need any help with your English homework?”

Funny, That...

2006-01-26T14:27:00.000+05:00

A while back, someone asked me what I do in Karachi, which as you all know, is always a difficult question. So, I began to spell out the teaching, and the NGO, and the television work, but when I got to "Stand-Up comedy," he stopped me and said, "Hey, yeah! You look like a stand-up comedian."

I was a little confused, so I said, "You mean... I look like a particular comedian?" He shook his head, "No-no, you just have a stand-up comedian look about you." I thought for a moment, and then said, "Well, thanks... I guess."

It wasn’t until much later that I realised that really, this was all just a fancy way of calling me "Funny-Lookin."

By George - I Think He's Got It....

2006-01-26T14:09:00.000+05:00

Almost from the time I first planted my dusty, Canadian boots on the still dustier soil of the subcontinent, I have been confronted by the cultural phenomenon that is "George." A tall (the guy has got to be 6’5" if he’s an inch… which he is) sandy-haired, Briton he definitely wins all awards for standing out in a crowd even more than I do. Now, the way I’ve heard the story told, is that George came to the Islamic Republic with the BBC, fell in love (both with the country, and a wonderful girl) and decided to stay. In this way, he embodies nearly all of my mother’s worst nightmares.

With his television experience and connections, George put together a program detailing his attempts to become Pakistani, entitled "George Ka Pakistan," which began airing a few months after my arrival. It was very popular, and although I only caught a few episodes, it seemed like a quality production.

Now, I guess because we're both paler than most, people started comparing me to George at every step. Some people actually mistook me for him, which is about as plausible as my being mistaken for Bob Marley. My friend’s mother just wouldn’t let it go. While the show was airing, she would say: "Have you taken a train in Pakistan?" … "No, Auntie, I haven’t"… "Have you ever wrestled a Lahori?"… "No Auntie, I haven’t"… "Oh-ho, George has!" She seemed to get great amusement from pointing out everything that George had done that I had not. I would try to point out that I had only been in the country for a few months, and that I didn’t have a funded film crew following me around, but that too was apparently my own fault.

Over the past year or so since George’s program aired, the idea that I should have my own show occurs to just about everyone at some point (usually an inebriated point). There were a good three months there, when at some point during a party, someone would shout out, "David Ka Pakistan!" because apparently, even if I did have my own TV show, apparently I would be required to give it the exact same name as George’s. Some people were adamant. "You fit in great here! You’d make a great show, go pitch it to Geo." As if that would make any sense, if you already have a show with a big white guy bumbling around, I seriously doubt you need two.

As the months passed, I started to find it amusing that George and I had never actually met, even though we have many common acquaintances, and everyone presumes we must be best buds. So I decided, for no particular reason but my own penchant for hyperbole, that George would be my nemesis. If anyone even mentioned George, I would raise my fist and utter his name with the vehemence of Seinfeld’s "Newman." I played up the humour of my being upset that he had arrived here first and trumped me. I thought it was pretty clear that I was only kidding around, but one acquaintance took me aside and told me not to worry, because although George had the masses, I had the elite, and the elite control the masses. Believe me, I had no idea what to think of that. I even did a radio interview a while back, in which I was billed as "The second-most popular white man in Pakistan." To which I would raise my fist (always effective on radio) and mutter "Damn that George."

In any case, I decided that if I ever did create my own show, I would make sure that there was one segment where Dave and George met. It would be straight out of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A face off in the middle of a dusty street, eyes squinting, dirt swirling, flies buzzing as garbage blows past our feet… (luckily, there’d be no shortage of locations). Tension would build, there’d be the sound of a heart beating steadily faster in the background… And then, you know, we’d just shake hands or something, and he’d say, "Nice Country eh?" and I’d say, ‘Jolly good."

So all of this is just a long rambling introduction to the fact that after a year and a half, and many near-misses, I finally met George. I was at a wedding and severely hungry (which is commonplace), so when food was finally served at midnight, I abandoned my friends and hit the buffet. Now, if you’re white, sitting by yourself in any social situation in Pakistan will draw foreigners to you like iron-filings to an electro-magnet. It is a situation I generally try to avoid, since often the white guys you meet abroad tend to put the "cock" in Caucasian, if you know what I mean, and sometimes I feel like the kid in the Sixth-Sense (I see White People!). But on this particular night, I was pleased to see George and his friend Andy heading my way.

I have to admit to being a little nervous. Especially since I had built up this meeting over the past year with absolutely no justification, and now none of my friends were here to see it. Everyone knows George, but now that I had been on the scene for so long, and appear regularly in print, on stage, and in sub-par television productions… had he heard of me? We shook hands and introduced ourselves. "Ahh, the famous George," I said, with the help of the several rum and cokes dancing in my belly, "we finally meet." He smiled pleasantly, and said, "Indeed, and you are the famous Daniel!"

There was one of those awkward silences, as I strove for something witty to say about a lion’s den. Finally Andy came to the rescue, saying, "Umm, I think it’s Dave… right?" Yes, I assured him, it was Dave, and obviously not very famous at all. George seemed appalled at his mistake, and I really wanted to make him forget it, but I couldn’t think how. We all chatted for a bit, but small talk faltered and struggled. Finally, George said, "Look, I feel terrible about getting your name wrong." I attempted to assuage him, telling him not to be silly, think nothing of it, etc. But he seemed much more shy than I expected, and continued to shift awkwardly and blush. Finally, he mumbled something about grabbing some more food and made his escape.

Finally, my meeting with George… and I had blown it. If only I’d had time to prepare! I thought to myself. Once again, as with most things in life, expectations had battled with reality and suffered a shattering defeat. So instead, I had a very interesting chat about teaching English in Pakistan with his pal Andy, which made me feel better about the situation as a whole.

So hopefully, as long as this article doesn’t appear in the paper (editors take note) and scare him off, I can try to patch things up on our next meeting. Inshallah, I will reconcile with Pakistan’s favourite white man, and establish myself securely as number two.

You, Me, the Blog, a Horse and Tea....

2006-01-26T13:08:00.000+05:00

This post serves a dual purpose.

One, it serves to break the latest silence on the blog, which is difficult, because I always feel I have to come back in with a bang. But while I’m on the subject, I just wanted to thank everyone for continuing to check in. I was scoping out my stats (36-24-36) and it seems that although I have been unable of late, for various reasons, to keep up my blogging standards, a great number of you are still faithful. You make a big man cry.

And two, I just wanted to report that the other day I was making tea (which perhaps, as a Tim Horton’s kid, demonstrates my acceptance of this culture more than anything else), and although I watched the pot the whole time (in an effort to increase my procrastination time away from writing TV episodes), and despite my mother’s assurances to the contrary my entire life… it still boiled. Just thought you should know for future reference. Actually, to be honest, I just want to see if anyone can decipher that convoluted excuse for a sentence. And those who know me really well will probably guess that I just spent way too much time going back and adding clauses. In retrospect, I probably should have just said, "I watched a pot, and it boiled."

Oh well. When it comes to blogging, sometimes you just have to get back on the horse... as long as it wasn't a gift, and you didn't look it in the mouth, or, for that matter, led it to water (boiling or otherwise) and tried to make it drink .

Ok stop. God. I annoy myself sometimes.

You're In Trouble...

2006-01-03T13:19:00.000+05:00

An old faded advert, on the side of a building...

Serve Your Guests Whizz!

Dip and Drink!

I don't even want to speculate on that last part.

Gun Control...

2006-01-02T15:55:00.000+05:00

Last week, the gardener came upstairs and woke me from a nap. First of all, yes, I have a gardener, and secondly, no, he doesn’t usually wake me from my naps (unless I’m snoring, in which case he nudges me gently to roll over). I came groggily to the door, and he said, “Oh! Sahib sleeping?” Such an observant gardener we have. “Yes, yes, Sahib sleeping,” I replied somewhat testily. He gave his judgment, “Sahib sleeps too much, I think.” I shook my head and rolled my eyes, “Gardener talks too much,” I said. He laughed. I tend to have strange relationships with servants, as I’ve explained before. Generally though, as my command of the language increases slightly, I’ve become more comfortable with them. They seem to like me, which I think is derived from my unique tendency to treat them like human beings rather than the dirt under my feet that happens to unquestioningly clean up after me. My more skeptical friends tell me that I’m setting myself to be taken advantage of, but oh well, I like trusting people, it makes me feel nice.

Anyway, the gardener was now saying something about how I had to go with him because he was done in the house. I couldn’t really figure out what he was doing in the house anyway, since surprisingly enough, the gardens are all outside. “Done in the house?” I asked to clarify. Big nods, “Yes, yes, done in the house… I go.” I was still a little hazy from the nap, and my mind was shifting lazily trying to communicate in this mixture of the language I command and the one I slaughter. “You are going,” I said slowly, following him down the hall, “because you are done in the house?” He turned back, nodded and said, “No,” which threw me even further behind the ball. I still couldn’t figure out why he was beckoning me to follow him. In my mind, if he was done in the house and wanted to go, then he should feel free. But then I thought, maybe he wanted me to lock the gate behind him. Ah yes, that must be it.

I was basically back in the land of the living now. The last shreds of afternoon fantasies had slid to the wayside and my wide-angle lens had slid back into focus. I followed the gardener to the gate. He ducked in to the vacant gate-keeper’s hut to grab something, and I started to open the gate. I turned back to find him facing me with a grin on his face and an AK-47 in his hands. Apparently, my head wasn’t as clear as I thought. “Jee-Sauce!” I shouted jumping backward quickly and smacking awkwardly into the gate. “House!… in house!” he was saying, gesturing with the barrel of the assault weapon. Quickly, I tried to file through all the reasons my gardener might have for taking me hostage. I’d only been in this house for maybe two weeks, and as I said, I’d only treated him kindly. It wasn’t until he said, “Gun in house,” that I registered the similarity to his earlier remarks. “Ohhh,” I said, “You want me to keep the gun in the house?” He was all smiles now, “Yes, yes, Sahib, in house, more careful being.”

I had to agree that the gun would indeed be safer in the house, than at the unguarded gate. He handed the gun to me and I took it with no little trepidation. I recognized it now. The security guard for my housemate’s company had worked the gate for our Christmas Eve party to help people with parking and keep out any undesirables. Apparently, he had left his semi-automatic weaponry behind when he had left that morning. Vaguely, I wondered how that could happen. I mean, I’m always forgetting my sunglasses wherever I go, but come on… I examined the gun, and saw that it either didn’t have a safety switch or it was disabled. With my hands shaking slightly, and the slight, but real, worry that I might accidentally shoot the dining room windows out, I thumbed the switch to release the fully loaded magazine. Hollywood style, I pulled back the mechanism and sure enough, another round popped out of the chamber. I sighed, placed the whole works on the dining room table to frighten someone else, walked upstairs and once again asked myself what the hell I’m doing here.

M M V I

2006-01-01T15:16:00.000+05:00

Happy New Year Everyone!

The creative content, publishing and editorial teams, along with all the rest of the staff of The Artsaypunk (ie: Me and the altered egos) would like to wish you and yours (your what? I have no idea) a very prosperous, non-phosphorus, phantasmagorically fantastic year.

And here’s hoping that Aught-Six shakes down a little better than ole Double-0-Five. I have high hopes, because although staying alive was all well and good in 2005, I’ve always been a big fan of picking up sticks.

Cheers!
Dave

Gora-Vision

2005-12-30T16:29:00.000+05:00

Yes, that’s right. Dave is on TV. The boob is on the tube. The first episode of my show aired last week on national television. Now, I have to admit that before I left, when people asked me what the hell I was planning to do in Pakistan, I certainly did not foresee acting in shoddy television productions. Wasn’t exactly on the radar, as they say. Still, I’m never adverse to the ways the winds blow me (or anyone else for that matter), so I’m just going with the flow.

But you know, it is a rush seeing yourself on television, no matter what it is. And honestly, the show wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong, it was still pretty terrible, but happily, it was not the complete catastrophic destruction of all things good and natural in this world that I thought it might be. I also happen to have the inside scoop that the episodes do get better… marginally. I took over writing around the fifth episode, so I guess I have to get behind the show at some point there. In the meantime, I was pretty confident that not many people would have caught the episode. But sure enough, within days, I had aunties and co-workers stopping and saying, "I saw you on TV!" Usually, I responded with a simple, "I’m sorry." But even though I’m living proof that you only have to be in the right place at the right time to be on Television (oh, and being white helps), people still have an inherent respect of someone on the screen, no matter the quality.

But I guess that’s where things have to start. You put some shows out there, you make some money, you make a better show the next time, and then gradually you’ll have a solid base to work with. And it’s cool to be a part of that. But this morning, I had a sobering thought. When I return to the school to teach next week, I know for damn sure that one of those kids will have seen the show. I’ll never hear the end of it. I don’t know why that hadn’t occurred to me before, but I’m going to have to face that one down.

And now… the only thing to do is to start scheming for my own show. Look out George, here I come... And as it happens, I’m already here.

A Festivus for the Rest of Us.

2005-12-29T21:59:00.000+05:00

Well, sadly, and surprisingly, there was no white Christmas in Karachi for me this year. I waited up until midnight, gazing wistfully from the balcony, hoping for that light dusting of snow that makes Christmas so much sweeter. But alas, it was not to be. Of course, the fact that I was wearing a T-shirt outside at midnight should have tipped me off, but as I mentioned, I was full of wist, and, as it happens, a bottle or two of wine. In fact, at that point in time, I would have been well and truly satisfied with a light dusting of ashes on the Karachi streets. I was half-tempted to go to the vacant lot next door and light a pile of garbage on fire, but the prospect of catching the flakes on my tongue seemed less than appetizing, and even in my inebriated state, I knew it would lose a little in translation. But then, with a flash of insight, I walked down to the kitchen, smashed up some ice and tossed it around like confetti, singing, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow” in my best Bing Crosby voice (which is surprisingly similar to my own voice). It was nice for a few moments, but sadly, my “Christmas in the kitchen” idea was short lived, as I almost immediately slipped on the now saturated floor and hit my head on the counter. That more or less destroyed the effect, but at least I had visions of sugar plums dancing ‘round my head.

Yes, it’s admittedly difficult to get into the Christmas spirit here in Karachi, but I tend to try my best. Maybe it’s the concussion talking, but I believe that it’s the spirit of Christmas that matters, so I did my best to consume as many Christmas spirits as I could, without decking the halls with pools of unpleasantness. You see, the real trouble, is that Christmas just comes sneaking up on you over here. There’s none of that month and a half long build-up of the North American Christmas scene, which has less to do with what Christmas is really about, and more to do with selling a million sleigh-loads of GAP khakis. As a result, I had no running tally of how many shopping days I had left, and with a shock, about a week before Christmas, I realized I had better get around to ordering my Christmas turkey. It was then that I learned of the Great Turkey Shortage of 2005, and that my bird this year would be even more exorbitantly priced than last. Something to the tune (a carol I presume) of $100 for a ten kilo bird. A far cry from 79 cents a pound. I shrugged it off though, figuring that it was indeed Christmas, and the only time of year I would allow myself to drop that kind of dough on frozen poultry.

One way that I measure the success of my Christmas season is by the number of turkey dinners I’m able to consume. By that measure, all things considered, I did pretty damn well. Christmas Eve, my friend Komal cooked her first ever turkey for Steve, her Canadian fiancé (who I happen to be staying with at the moment) and 30 odd guests. It was a great success, and as a Christmas connoisseur, I give her full marks. I played bartender, a role I am quite comfortable in, whether it be professionally, on stage or off. It was a great little shin-dig, considering I really didn’t know anyone at all. The last guests left, and I slid out to a get together nearby and came home just in time to call Mother at 3 AM. I don’t think she noticed my inebriated state, at least, no more than usual.

Christmas morning, I woke up at 11:00 to my cell phone ringing and ringing. I picked up, only to hear Norma, Steve’s coworker from Newfoundland (and you thought I was strange) screaming in my ear. “Dave! The only other goddamn Maritimer in Karachi and you’re sleeping through Christmas lunch! Get your ass over here!” Fair enough. I got up, took a shower and got my ass over there. I entered a scene that would have chaos theorists in a tizzy. Kids were running and screaming and peeing everywhere, wrapping paper was scattered about, and Norma was yelling curse-filled instructions in the kitchen. I took a deep breath and smiled… Ah, now this was Christmas. I rocketed into the Kitchen, cracked a beer and started cooking. The turkey and all the fixin’s were phenomenal once again, and I stuck around to watch the kiddos open some more presents, cause really, nothing beats it.

So then it came time for me to don the apron and stuff my bird, so to speak. I planned to cook on boxing day, but logistical issues made me postpone a day. So on the third day of Christmas, I set aside my turtle doves and got to work. I threw out open invitations and coordinated with my pal Ameena, the queen of the dinner party and self proclaimed opiate of the masses. She took care of appetizers and the opening courses and I stuck to Turkey, garlic mashed and veggies in a cheese sauce. About an hour and a half into the cooking, I opened the oven and thought to myself, you know, I shouldn’t be able to hold my hand in here like this. I touched the turkey and thought, you know, this really shouldn’t be ice cold. Then I had a fleeting memory of some wise figure saying, “Watch out for those local ovens, you just never know.” My turkey was cursed. I was upset, so I stuck my head in the oven, but only so I could light that sucker up, top and bottom. Now, as Big Dave Lewis would say, I was cooking with gas.

In any case, the late, great turkey was finally ready at about 1 am. By that time, everyone was starving, but the back-bar was covered in empty bottles, so the Christmas cheer was palpable. To my relief, it was just as juicy and tender as always, thanks to the skills handed down to me from my mother and grandmother before her. A secret technique that, faulty ovens notwithstanding, has now, literally, been enjoyed the world over.

At that point, I changed out of my kitchen garb and entertained until dawn. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. A little snippet of Christmas in the Islamic Republic. Falalalala-lala-la-la.

Rats...

2005-12-23T15:56:00.000+05:00

Now, I know that at some point I should ceased to be amused by the grammatical goofs of advertisements and packaging over this way… but not yet baby… not yet. I came across this one on a cute little package of rat poison at the supermarket.

Rats are your enemies and of your economy!
Combat rodents onslaught with czar rodent killer
which is an attractant to rats mice, no matter rodents,
eat steal food they fancy.

Going to Cashmere…

2005-12-23T14:35:00.000+05:00

This just in…

Boy do I have news. It’s incredible really, and I don’t actually expect anyone to believe me; truly, I can hardly believe it myself. On the International Scale of Basic Credibility, it would rate slightly above the tooth-fairy but certainly below the moon-landing. Yes folks, here it is… I, David J. Ford, wore a sweater.

Yes, that’s right. For the first time in Karachi: A sweater. The Canadian in Pakistan wore a nice, cosy, little woollen number. We’re talking about the very same Canadian who lost forty pounds just by sweating.

I can see the headlines now: Profuse Sweater Prefers Sweater

Yes, I was set to attend a late-night, rooftop barbecue a few weeks back and on a whim, I decided to pull out the sweater that had been conveniently taking up a sweater-sized space in my suitcase for so many moons. And I have to admit, I was completely comfortable. Of course, it helps that Karachi is currently mired in the deep, dark days of winter. That six-week stretch when the mercury dips below 30 degrees, the air conditioners take a rest after their ten-month terms of service, and we all talk about how fantastic the weather is.

So I wonder just how much I’ve acclimatised? I have been here for over a year. I have lost a lot of weight. Will I freeze my ass on my triumphant return to the Great White North? It’s true, I have found it slightly chilly lately, even though it’s probably 22 degrees out there. Granted, it’s actually colder indoors during the winter in Karachi than it is in Canada. Hard to believe, but true. The buildings are all made of concrete, with high ceilings, and designed to stay cool. Having a heater installed for the two weeks you might appreciate it is about as sensible as having central air-conditioning in New Brunswick.

Unfortunately, while Canada has four seasons, Karachi only has 1.2, and it won’t be long before winter will once again be replaced by the sweltering, shirt-drenching season we like to call, "The rest of the year," which is about as comfortable as chilling out inside a Dutch Oven (both types). Which reminds me… what the hell am I doing in this climate? Oh wait, that’s what everyone asks me…

For now though, I will be out there, soaking up all the winter for as long as it lasts. I love it. Who knows? maybe the sweater will make another appearance.

The Darkest Day...

2005-12-21T18:01:00.000+05:00

Dad,

I miss you still. More than words... and unfortunately, they're all I have.

Love,
David

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

Mark My Words...

2005-12-20T10:56:00.000+05:00

In an unfortunate, Dead Poets’ Society inspired delusion of grandeur, I recently accepted a position teaching English Literature and Language to Grade 9 and 10 students at a private school here in Karachi. The idea being, that I could inspire young minds in the mornings, continue working with the NGO in the afternoons and evenings, and still write and shoot the odd television show (and I mean odd in both senses of the word). Little did I know that I would be walking into the classroom like a one legged man, dripping blood into an open shark tank.

Now, I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years: Teenage Landscape Artist; Junior Forest Ranger; Computer Fix-it-Guy; Forest-Fire-Fighter; Salmon Kidney Remover; Office Clerk; Teacher’s Assistant; Bartender; Tech-line Call Centre Operator; Bar Manager; Restaurant Manager; Writer; Editor; Researcher; NGO - Third World Educationist; TV Writer; TV Actor; Sometime Stand-Up Comedian; and Body Guard for Mr. Burns… but so far, teaching is by far the most challenging. Growing up as the son of a popular high-school teacher, I have always been well-aware of the supremely undervalued, overworked and massively underpaid status of educators, but I still was not quite prepared for the work involved. I was unaware at the outset that the previous teacher had "resigned" under special circumstances, that I would be starting two weeks before the end of term, or that ADHD and dyslexia have somehow become more common than paperjams in a copier. In any case, I’m not one to give up easily (after all, I’m still in Pakistan), so I’ll keep you posted.

Anyway, all that set to one side, what’s been getting my goat lately, is that it actually stipulates in my teaching contract that I am not to mark student work in red ink. Studies have shown that students have an adverse reaction to red, they feel demoralised, associate the colour with blood and pain, and many educators feel that it emphasises the students’ errors. Ok, but here’s the reason that I like using red ink… because it emphasises student errors. Call me a battleaxe, but I feel that we’re losing the forest for the trees here. I’ve heard about these "red-ink" studies over the last ten years or so, and gradually they seem to have taken hold. Even Staples and other such Office Depots have changed their marketing strategies for a younger generation of teachers who have been taught to grade in the less offensive colours of green and purple. The idea is that students should not be discouraged when they are wrong, but rather encouraged when they are correct.

Sure ok, I’m all for that, obviously, but I feel it’s gone a bit too far. Aren’t we now just coddling children too much? I don’t think it’s actually possible to fail a grade anymore, even if you tried. It seems to me that repercussions have become a thing of the past. I mean, can’t we presume that the human species has evolved to the point where they can handle a little red-ink? Why can’t we give kids a little credit and teach them to accept and work with criticism, after all, they’ll be dealing with it for the rest of their lives. On my more sceptical days, I question whether cradling student self-esteem might actually do them more harm in the long run. But I certainly do think that student-self-worth (whatever that actually means) has come at the cost of actual learning. I can insist all day (in pale, purple ink) that a student is very creative, but if I am not allowed to point out his or her tragic writing skills, because it might hurt his or her feelings, then what help am I?

The reason I use red to mark papers is for the very fact that it does stand out. I want students to see their errors. Maybe, although it’s admittedly far-fetched, they will attempt to learn from their mistakes. To be truthful, I want them to know when they have done poorly. Perhaps they may just garner satisfaction from writing a paper that has fewer errors next time. I don’t know. I’m no expert. As far as I’m concerned, green and purple just aren’t effective when you’re trying to correct papers written in dark blue and black. I’m not looking to shock anyone, I just want my corrections to be visible and plain. As for my current situation, I’ll probably end up getting a few bad-assed, dark green pens to commit my demoralisation of the youth. Which makes me wonder, if all the teachers switch to green, can’t we assume that eventually students will come to associate green with errors instead of red?

Because ultimately, red is an effective colour for the very reason that it does attract attention. In my opinion, that’s what Red is for. That’s why God made our blood a nice shocking crimson, so that when it leaks out, we go, "Whoa, Shit! That ain’t good." There is a reason why traffic lights don’t cycle from pink through peach to a lusty shade of teal. Perhaps as we continue to avoid that which causes distress and slide further into self-serving, self-esteem building, we will all be trying to remember to stop for pastel coloured stop signs, or for aqua-marine fire-trucks squealing by and playing "Always look on the bright side of life." Because, after all, sirens are distressing.

The Cellar Pub

2005-12-13T18:35:00.000+05:00

I stumbled over the last few uneven steps before my eyes had a chance to adjust to the gloom. I peered into the room through a haze of smoke. A single ceiling fan sliced languidly at the air, leaving a ring of cigarette soot on the ceiling tile. Jim and The Doors drifted from the sound-system… This is the End… My only friend, the End… I walked up to the bar and ordered a beer: “Keith’s. Please.” The bartender grunted, then said, “Two-Seventy-Five.” I smiled. The times may change, but the prices stay the same. I tossed him three bucks, “Keep the change,” I mumbled. “Gee, thanks…” he said with a smirk.

I turned my back on him and looked out across the room. The patrons looked up from their miseries and eyed me with suspicion. Yes. This was it. The Cellar. The dark, subterranean tavern of my subconscious. Where elements of my past came to linger and die slow deaths, every now and then, reeling up the stairs to make an appearance before stumbling back down to their stupor. I saw a table of regrets downing shots of flaming Sambuca and dwelling on past mistakes. A group of guilty memories played ‘Truth or Dare,’ led by a manifestation of my young self, insisting that he hadn’t pushed a centipede down the furnace grate. “Don’t trust him,” I said, as I walked by, “He’s a liar.”

I focused my attention on the darkest corner in a room that seemed to have more than the standard amount of dark corners. Half-hidden by a suspiciously stained pillar, I spotted my quarry. I pulled up a chair and sat down. I tried to make light of the situation, “So, do you come here often?” I asked.

The blog looked up from the pint of Oland’s Red, “Oh, it’s you…”
I glanced around, “Look, I just wanted to say…”
The blog shrugged and took a slug of beer, “You’ve gotta lotta nerve…”
“Just listen, I’m sorry… I’ve been busy.”
The blog scoffed, inasmuch as blogs can scoff, and said, “Busy? That’s the best you can do?”
“Well, I have been working four jobs you know…”
“Oh, boo-hoo. Try juggling hundreds of posts and comments. You’ve been busy before. Did you even think about how I feel? Sitting there, being accessed, with nothing to show?”
“I cast about for another angle, “Well, the internet barely works, and I haven’t been able to post anything.”
The blog slammed down the nearly empty glass, “You haven’t posted in a month!... a whole month… But forget that… you haven’t even checked in.”
I hung my head, ‘I know… I know… I feel bad.
“Ha. Tell me the truth, there’s someone else, isn’t there.”
“Well…”
”I knew it!”
“But I’m back! I’m reorganized. We can start over, just like old times.”
The blog looked up, “Really? I dunno…”
“Oh come on…” I shifted closer, “Remember when we were in Africa? The jungle, the treehouse, the internet café computers named after the twelve apostles…”
“I remember…”
“Then let’s do it. We’ll get back together.”
The blog was all smiles. We walked up the dingy stairs and stepped blinking into the light. “Are you sure you’re going to keep this up?” asked the blog.
“Well…”
The blog sighed. “It’s ok, I understand… but you’re back for now, right?”
“Yeah.”
"Thank God, because that was ridiculous.”
“What? This post?”
“Yeah, come on, anthropomorphizing a website is one thing, but drinking beer in the dark, watering-hole of your soul? That’s just plain stupid.
“Shut it, Blog.”

Pigeon Holed...

2005-11-14T16:26:00.000+05:00

It is with a heavy heart that I garner the courage to relate the final chapter of the pigeon family, with whom I shared my bathroom. For weeks, I had been peeping in on the pigeon sanctuary while I peed. The old Peep and Pee play. I watched the baby pigeons grow from hideous, reptilian creatures into hideous, avian creatures, and finally into what one might imagine could possibly become a pigeon some day. I had named them "Squawky" and "Stinky" for reasons you can probably guess. As it turned out, "Stinky" never shut up, and "Squawky" stunk to high-heavens, but I think they appreciated the effort from their Dawood-mamo (Sorry, joke applicable only to Pakistanis). I found it heartwarming to watch the mother pigeon shelter the young, while the male stood perched on the outer window, keeping a watchful eye. Both parents worked together to raise the children, just like humans… well, theoretically just like humans.

For the duration of my stay at Subaru Kazoo’s place, his parents had been living in Saudi Arabia. This made for a cozy pad for myself, Subaru, Winston and Fiesty (our kittens) and Squawky, Stinky, Mama and Papa Pigeon. Our latest intelligence dossiers had Subaru’s parents coming back into Karachi in December. So it was a shock when our intelligence gathering was shattered by the Downing Street memo that came in the form of a call from Subaru’s mother. The Subaru Legacy (sorry, joke applicable only to North Americans) would be returning mid-October instead. Frantically, I began calling in favours, as I realized that in under four days, I would need a new place to stay. I have to admit, that in the frenzy of my preparations, I forgot all about my feathered friends.

My last night at Subaru’s place, I wandered into the bathroom. It was a few moments before I realised what was wrong. Silence. It was quiet... Too quiet. I took a whif of the surrounding air, and didn’t find the familiar acrid smell of pigeon poop. I hurried over to the window and found… nothing. The nest was gone, the pigeons were gone, and their babies were gone. I was in shock. I had forgotten all about the fate of my pigeons pals, although, to be fair, I have no idea what I would have done if I had remembered. In preparation for Mrs. Kazoo’s return to the master-bedroom, the pigeons were deemed unwanted guests and cleared out without notice. I reflected for a moment on the fact that apparently, the nest of noisy, smelly birds were considered "A-Ok" while I was occupying the room, but I let it go at that.

I was subdued and saddened. Just then, the mother pigeon returned and squeezed her way into the window, despite it being closed much tighter than before. She was in a frantic state, and I wasn’t sure she could get out. Gingerly, I opened the screen and propped the window open wider. Mama Pigeon flew out of my life without leaving so much as a feather behind. I thought of the ugly little baby pigeons and their unceremonious launch from the window-sill. I conditioned my brain to acknowledge that perhaps they had had a chance to learn how to fly before their nest was deemed inappropriate. But I knew that it was a slim chance, and I cursed the servant who had cleared out my pigeons with so little care. I vowed never to speak to him again, but since I wouldn’t be living there anymore, and we don’t speak the same language, chances of that were pretty good anyway.

So here’s to Sqawky and Stinky. I’ll always remember the day that two flew over the cuckoo’s nest. Fly high little ones. Find that shining marble statue and shit all over it. Coo-coo catchoo.

Food Fight....

2005-11-14T15:47:00.000+05:00

A few days ago, King-Pin asked me casually whether I had plans for dinner. I was curious, since dinner is not something that the King-Pin ever takes casually. He let me know that he was planning a small Nihari excursion, if I was interested. Now, as I believe I have explained somewhere in the mists of blog-history, Nihari is basically stewed meat in its own gravy, doused in oil and served with fresh, hot Naan. Nihari is tender and almost buttery, the flavour is amazing, and even if you’re not a big fan, you really can’t beat fresh, hot naan bread. There are many things in this world I would cheerfully throw out a seventh floor window in exchange for hot naan. So, needless to say, I was interested.

We set off in two cars toward northern Nazmibad, or maybe it was FB Area… not dead sure. Although, I do remember that it wasn’t far from the roundabout that features that frightening depiction of a clenched fist. Half way there, two guys on a motorcycle, trying to weave through the traffic like a couple of wasps (albeit less intelligent), slammed into the back of our car. "What the hell?" I said, startled by the two dudes’ high-speed rearrangement of the back panel nearest me. They spilled out on to the pavement, none the worse for wear, as if this kind of thing happens everyday, brushed themselves off and flashed us their best sheepish smiles. Ooops. King-Pin stepped out for a minute to make sure everyone was ok, but then jumped back into the car saying: "I can’t be bothered, we have to get there, they might run out of food." He had his priorities. The clock was ticking. The Nihari was not unlimited, and we were going to get there come hell or highwater… no matter how many ridiculous motorcycle kids we left in our wake.

We arrived at the restaurant and found parking amazingly easily. The main level of the eatery is segregated for men only, and since we had girls with us, we headed upstairs to the mixed family section. Downstairs, the men’s section was peaceful and serene. Upstairs was a different story. Being a head taller than most Pakistani’s, I glanced across a swirling melee of humanity. Men, women and children were in a literal battle for sustenance. We pushed through to the desk in the hopes that there was some kind of seating plan, only to be laughed at and told to go fend for ourselves.

The running strategy seemed to be the age-old technique of milling around someone’s table until they stand up to leave, and then swooping into their seats (much like the American Supreme court ( except without having to wait until they die (although it does seem to take forever))). Immediately, I worried whether we would even get a chance to eat. I knew that personally, being a spineless, North American still somewhat partial to the idea of a "line," I would never have the aggression to stand up for a table. We positioned ourselves behind one table whose occupants seemed almost finished. We were poised for the swoop, when suddenly an old, paan stained, henna-haired grandmother flew in from the side, elbowing one of our group in the solar-plexus to clear the way, slammed herself down into a seat, and beckoned to her waiting family. Her group sauntered over, all smug smiles, fully aware of the power they held with their battering ram grandmother. Flailing Masses: 1 - Burgers: 0

We scoped out another table. This one was ours for the taking. We formed a blockade with our biggest guys. We cast discouraging looks at anyone who approached. We were ready. But then we got cocky, overconfident. We politely allowed the other family to stand up before we swooped in under their laps to take their seats. Fatal error. Another family spotted the weakness of our politeness and sent their two little kids, like midget reconaisance scouts, to scoot between our legs, under the table and into our chairs. "God-Damn-It!" one of us let out in frustration. Masses: 2 – Burgers: 0

By this time, most eyes in the house were fixed on our exploits. No doubt there were running bets as to whether we get to sit before they ran out of food. The King-Pin had had enough. "Huddle up," he ordered. We squared in together while King-Pin formed the battle plan. "Ok, Dave, you take your team down aisle two. Try to square up perpendicular to me, and cover those tables. Remember, you're white, so try to make it look like your mad that you haven’t eaten yet. Adnan, you stay with me but make sure to secure the two corner tables, especially that one, they’re running low, and I think they’re looking to bolt. Faisal, you secure the perimeter, keep these vultures at bay. Any questions, relay them through SMS."

Admittedly, using our cell-phones to communicate while we were all within 20 paces of each other felt a little ridiculous. But it was necessary. I got a quick flash, SMS message from the perimeter saying "watch out for woman with baby, she’s looking for sympathy table." I side-stepped to make the block. Suddenly, one of the tables we held under guarded surveillance started standing up. I had never seen King-Pin move so fast. He was in the seat so quickly I was a little worried he would sit in the previous occupant’s lap. "Quick! Quick! Sit down!" he cried. We zipped in from our various posts. I sat down beside a girl of about 9 who had yet to leave the table. She looked up at my white-skinned, bearded, long-haired form with wide-eyes. "Hi." I said. She left.

In a few minutes we had steaming bowls of Nihari, and Naan too hot to touch. After spending at least 45 minutes securing a table, we ate in a frenzied state for about 20 minutes, stood up and left.

Was it worth it?

Indubitably.

Of Moose and Men...

2005-10-29T15:10:00.000+05:00

I looked down at the moose lying on the side of the highway. Despite being dead, the animal had definitely seen better days. In fact, it was a God-awful mess. By the looks of the strips of fibre-glass lying around, I guessed that the animal had been hit by an 18 wheeler. There’s not much that can slow down a moose, but a long-haul truck is definitely one of them.

I was working for the Department of Natural Resources and Energy, which is just a fancy, bureaucratic way of saying “Forest Rangers.” It was a great job, no three ways about it, one that I returned to every summer of university despite the low pay and the tongue twisting effort of answering the phone with a perky: “Good Afternoon, Department of Natural Resources and Energy.” The real advantage of the job was that the “Ranger Station” is located right next door to my house. Every morning, I would walk across the lawn to work. I remember one morning I woke up at 7:56 and got to work on time at 8:00. The commute was a killer, especially if there was a lot of dog-poop to jump over. I was technically hired as a computer guy, office assistant type, but the great part was that if I got bored, I could head out into the field with one of the guys. So I was often out traipsing through the woods, rocketing down old roads on quads, canoeing to old camp holdings or fighting forest fires. Great job I tells ya, one that always impressed my city-slicker friends.

Now, one thing that a lot of people don’t realize is that the Forest Rangers are responsible for clearing up large-scale road-kill. The Department of Transportation handles all the small animals, or “shovel-jobs” if you prefer, so basically, anything smaller than a coyote. We handled all the big game (deer, bear, moose, cougar etc.) Such large animals can be a real problem, since our high-speed highways, thick coastal fog, and abundance of wildlife make for a pretty dangerous cocktail.

So there I was, on the side of the highway, looking down at what was once assuredly a moose. I was with Terry, one of the Rangers I had known forever; he had watched me learn to ride my bike in the station’s parking lot. We backed up the truck and trailer and adjusted the winch. We hefted up the moose’s head, which is no mean feat, and secured the cable around its neck. Terry started the winch and I stood by to guide the animal up the ramp as we ungloriously yanked it up by its head.

The winch started to overheat with the strain of hauling the huge animal and we were forced to move the moose up the ramp in fits and starts. Terry would wait for the winch to cool and then give it another burst, hauling the moose up about six inches at a time. We were both starting to curse in frustration when I noticed a car zip past us, swerve suddenly to take the next exit, and come back down the other side of the highway until they found a place to turn and pull up behind us.

“What the hell is this?” asked Ranger-Terry. The car had Ontario plates, and a young couple jumped out with YUPPY written on their foreheads in indelible ink. “I think they’re tourists,” I replied. “Weeell, shiiit,” said Terry, rolling his eyes and giving the moose another pull up the ramp. I walked back to try to head off the couple at the pass.

“Hi there!” shouted the woman, “We’re from Toronto!” Now, that’s a label no one would self-apply where I come from. “Hi,” I said, giving a half-hearted wave, “I’m from right here.” The man grinned and said, “We’re on our honeymoon… we’re from Toronto!” I looked from one to the other, “You sure are,” I replied. I tried to cut between them and the shattered animal, but the woman was already peering over my shoulder. “We’ve never seen a moose before!” she said excitedly, “That’s a moose right?” The husband spoke up condescendingly, “Of course it’s a moose honey,” looking at me and rolling his eyes. I raised my hand and tried to speak with a little authority. “Look folks, I really don’t think this is the moose you want to see.” I’ve always found that when you talk with authority it’s good to call people “folks.”

“No, no,” insisted the wife, “we saw one from a distance once, but it was far away.” I decided not to tell her that things at a distance generally are. “Well, listen, there’s a zoo about half an hour up the road…” “No, no, not the zoo, that’s not the same. We want to see a REAL moose, in the wild.” I was sure that my face was betraying my disbelief. I tried to spell it out to them, “But… well, at least it would be, you know, walking around.”

There was nothing for it. The couple followed me back to where the moose was lying, halfway up our ramp. A pink jelly was oozing from several contusions, one of the legs flopped around like a rag-doll, and slimy green innards were spilling from several old and new orifices. I looked up at Terry on the truck and shrugged. He cursed and turned back to work on the winch. “Wow! Look at that!” said the husband. The couple seemed completely unaware of the mangled condition of the animal. “How much do you think it weighs?” asked the man. I looked to Terry for an estimate, but it was clear that he wanted nothing to do with this. “Oh, I dunno,” I said, “maybe 600 pounds?” Of course, I had no idea, I can’t even judge the weight of a package of hamburger. The woman was bent over the moose, inspecting it carefully, “Are you sure it’s dead?” she asked. I stopped short. “Pardon?” She seemed very genuine. “Are you sure it’s not still alive?” she asked again. I turned away to see if Terry was hearing this. “Well, you know, I’m just a summer student, I’m no expert…” I said, trying not to lose it. They both turned to Terry. I had to hand it to him, he looked at them for a long moment and then said, “Ma’am, in my professional opinion, this animal is dead.”

Seemingly satisfied, the woman ran back to the car and came back with a video camera. This was getting out of control. She started her narrative, “Here’s the moose we saw in Nova Scotia…” “New Brunswick” I broke in. “New Brunswick…. And here are the Forest Rangers.” She started panning over the moose and zooming in. Terry had had enough. He wanted to get the damn moose loaded and put an end to the stage show. He started up the winch, and with a scream of engine and cable, the moose lurched six inches up the ramp.

To be fair, we probably should have warned them. Despite our assurances, and the overwelming physical evidence, the poor woman must have suspected that the moose just maybe, possibly, was still alive, because when the winch screamed and the animal jumped up the ramp, she screamed and jumped even louder and higher, and threw her hands in the air. I give a lot of credit to her husband, who watched agape as the video camera flew through the air in a perfect parabola, but somehow managed to catch it before it became as mangled as the moose. The woman was hysterical, I was shouting, “It’s dead… It’s dead.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. The couple scrambled back to the car without saying goodbye or thank-you for seeing their first REAL moose, which I thought was a little rude.

Man, would I ever love to see that video.

Here's the Thing...

2005-10-29T15:02:00.000+05:00

Alright, here’s the story. Remember that stand-up comedy bit I did a few weeks back. Well, as it turned out, there was a TV producer there that night. He called me a couple days later, said he thought I was pretty funny, and asked me if I wanted a part in a sitcom he was working on. I had some reservations, but figured, well, being on TV in Pakistan had way too much comic potential to resist. The show is a very original concept involving six friends, three guys and three girls, who hang out in their apartments a lot, and even go down to the local coffee shop once and a while (remind me to write something about original ideas in the media over here at some point). I play “Mike,” an easy-going white guy from Canada, who comes to Pakistan to visit a friend and ends up staying to work for an NGO. My character reminds me of someone, but I just can’t put my finger on it.

In any case, taking on the project has meant that I’ve spent less time at the NGO where I usually type things up and post to the blog. Now, it doesn’t help that the days that I have been at my desk, the Internet connection has been as slow as a turtle on its back in a puddle of molasses. Neither have I been very excited about the way this shoot is going, which I would compare to an airplane crashing into a train-wreck and causing a pile-up on the autobahn.

I guess, if there is any good news, it’s that I should have plenty of material for the ole blog by the time I get settled into some kind of routine again. So far, doing this show has been excrutiatingly painful, but in a way that I can already tell will be hilarious in retrospect. That's some foreward thinking retrospection for ya. Anyway, we shall see.

Feeling Flushed...

2005-10-18T14:48:00.000+05:00

The other day, I noticed that my toilet wouldn’t stop running. Before someone told me that I’d better go catch it, and being conscious of water conservation, I decided I’d better see if I could fix it. Most toilets over here are the type with the knob that you pull up from the centre of the tank. So I loosened it and figured out how to remove the cover. I’m no plumbing expert, but I’ve got a few shards of common sense left kicking around my skull, so I realized that the stopper wasn’t forming a seal down at the bottom of the tank. I undertook my usual handyman action, which I like to call "fiddling," that I have performed with next to no success on various appliances and fixtures the world over. I fiddled with the stopper shaft, and it seemed to form a seal. The toilet stopped running and the tank began to fill. Ah, success never smelled so sweet… well… not exactly. It may not have been a permanent fix, but in any case, I left the cover off in case it happened again.

Having finished my work as a plumber, I hitched up my pants, and decided I had earned a nap. I settled down and was soon dreaming of a magical land where Q’s aren’t followed by U’s. About an hour later, I woke up, but I wasn’t sure why. I had the distinct sensation that something wasn’t right. I remembered that in my dream it was raining, but I could still hear water. Subaru Kazoo must be showering, I thought, as I rolled over, still in a daze. Wait a minute, I realised, waking up, there’s no way I could hear Kazoo’s shower from my room. I stood up with cold dread in the pit of my stomach and opened the bathroom door.

A plume of water was geysering from the top of the toilet tank. Subaru must have actually decided to take a shower and asked the servants to turn on the water pump downstairs that brings us enough pressure to shower. For some reason, the added pressure blew the valve on the toilet intake and it shot across the tank, hitting the opposite side, arching through the air, and quite literally all over everything. All over my towels, all over the toilet paper and Q-tips, all over the pigeons, all over my toothbrush (fantastic!), and all over my cologne, which is great, because if there’s one thing I like on my toilet water, it’s toilet water.

I took a tentative step and nearly slipped and killed myself. I skittered across the floor toward the toilet tank like a drunk on skates. I reached in and flushed the toilet, which I thought was smart, until I realized that it would in no way inhibit the flow of water. I slid over to the water taps down by the floor and twisted them off. The plume of water shrank down to nothing, and I was left only with the sound of screaming baby pigeons in their saturated windowsill roost. Ah, I thought to myself, so this is what it sounds like, when doves cry.

I spent the next hour working the squeegy over the tiles, cleaning and mopping up. Where I once had a running toilet, I now had a completely busted ass toilet, to use the technical term. I walked out and found Subaru Kazoo and asked him if he knew anything about toilets. "Why?" he asked. "Because mine just exploded." I replied. "Oh…" he said," Shitty." Yup, good ole Subaru Kazoo, always a good man in a jam.

Oh, Now, That's Rich...

2005-10-12T12:12:00.000+05:00

In a speech on the "War on Terror" at the National Endowment for Democracy last week, George Bush said the following:

…Islamic radicalism is elitist, led by a self-appointed vanguard that presumes to speak for the Muslim masses. Bin Laden says his own role is to tell Muslims, quote, "what is good for them and what is not." And what this man who grew up in wealth and privilege considers good for poor Muslims is that they become killers and suicide bombers. He assures them that his -- that this is the road to paradise -- though he never offers to go along for the ride.

So, let me get this straight… George Bush, who grew up in about as much wealth and privilege as you can get, who is proud to joke at almost any possible occasion about his dismal grades during his family bestowed time at Yale, who has sent thousands of poor Americans into a war based on lies to become endorsed killers and torturers, who is generally intent on telling the world "what is right and what is wrong," who rigged his National Guard service so he would never have to "go along for the ride," is accusing Bin Laden of what exactly?

Hello Pot? This is Kettle… you’re black.

In the same speech, George says:

Some have also argued that extremism has been strengthened by the actions of our coalition in Iraq, claiming that our presence in that country has somehow caused or triggered the rage of radicals. I would remind them that we were not in Iraq on September the 11th, 2001 -- and al Qaeda attacked us anyway. The hatred of the radicals existed before Iraq was an issue, and it will exist after Iraq is no longer an excuse. The government of Russia did not support Operation Iraqi Freedom, and yet the militants killed more than 180 Russian schoolchildren in Beslan.

This is classic diversionary arguing techniques. No one is saying that terrorism did not exist before the Iraq invasion. The point of fact is that terrorist action in Iraq did not exist, and now it does. Al Queda was not active in Iraq, although a lot of Americans still think they were. Now people in that country have a reason to be angry. And bringing in the Beslan School fiasco is just mind boggling… In fact, taken as the sum of it’s parts, the whole paragraph just doesn’t make any sense.

And since I seem to be on this kick, have you noticed all the "War on Terror" speeches lately? No big surprise, if you ask me. Bush and Co. are losing their footing on the ground they thought was secure, so they’re trying to distract by playing the card they still feel is their trump: Terror. You gotta keep the people scared. It’s hard to care who’s on the Supreme Court when you’re trying to figure out the difference between Orange-level fear and Yellow-level fear. And now, it’s coming out that the New York Subway terror threat was a hoax. The host of MSNBC’s Countdown's, Keith Olbermann has charted 13 "coincidental" occasions when terror alerts immediately followed bad political news for the administration. What concerns me, is that terrorist acts are still a very real threat, and this constant play with the terror scale (that has more colours than a gay pride parade) will just have people so desensitized that any real threat has the potential of being ignored. It’s like the little boy who cried Wolfowitz.

I’m tempted to go on and on here, but I should cease and desist. I think maybe I should go back to not reading the news… those were happy times.

Many Hands Make Light Work... Vs. ... Too Many Cooks Spoil the Broth...

2005-10-11T13:58:00.000+05:00

Sunday night, I went with some friends to the PAF Museum parking lots, which are serving as the drop point for disaster relief donations from Karachi citizens. I didn’t exactly know what to expect as we headed up there, but I was hoping to help out in some way, however small. When we arrived, we were confronted by lines of cars dropping off donations, and people like us hoping to lend a hand. Every available space in the parking lots was piled with mounds of supplies, crates of water, milk and juices, and mountain ranges of quilts and blankets. The extent of the generosity was heart-warming. Of course, it’s impossible to look at a vast pile of supplies such as that and try to estimate just how many people it might serve, but whatever the numbers, it was certainly a start.

We made our way toward the main staging ground, where things seemed strangled and confused. Hundreds of people stood around or wandered from place to place, looking for things to do. Civilians pitched to, working at one thing or another, while the military stood by watching, or sitting looking bored. I had been afraid of something like this. I looked around and tried to assess what was going on. Finally, I did the only thing I could do. I stood around, and wandered from place to place, looking for something to do.

Here and there, I found bits of work. I taped together some boxes, helped move some supplies from one pile to the other. I am a hard worker, when it comes to it, but I also have an embedded sense of what I might call "intelligent laziness." By that, I mean that I have no problem working, but I am against doing more work than is necessary, and am always looking for simpler, easier ways to do things. I could already see that the enthusiasm of this workforce was being wasted. Women, in typical fashion, were being relegated to sorting medicine, since someone had decided that it was suitable work for women. That’s fine, since medication is one of the most important aspects of the relief effort. But the tent where the drugs were being sorted was crammed into one corner with a throng of people crowded around trying to help. It was hard to make head nor tail of what was going on. Piles of blankets and sorted supplies were already being moved from one area to another. That is the kind of thing that irritates me. Without an organising principle, everyone will do what they think is best, which is admirable, but not necessarily helpful to the entirety, if things have to be continually moved from place to place. Everyone around me seemed to be saying, "We need more people!" But I didn’t find that to be the case. What they needed was someone to take control and organise. In fact, I felt there were too many people. There was hardly room to move. Trying to carry something from one area to another was a nightmare, as you were forced to weave your way around people and piles of goods.

Finally, I settled myself toward the outskirts where truckloads of rations were being unloaded. I helped form "bucket-brigade" style lines to shuttle supplies from the trucks into piles in the parking lot. Each truck would start out well, but then, with the sight of activity, more men would arrive, the efficiency level would be broken, and we would actually have too many people trying to unload the truck. It was almost comical, as people tripped over each other in an effort to help. Men were crying out encouragement to each other to unload the truck as fast as possible. The enthusiasm was fantastic to see, but of course, there was really no hurry to unload the trucks. I was shouting out, "Slow down! … Chill Out!… Aram Se!" because bags were being broken open in their haste to unload the trucks at lightening speed. There was no line of trucks waiting to be unloaded; there was no rush. Stacking the supplies in a more orderly fashion would have been a better plan than unloading as fast as possible, but of course, there’s really not much you can do in that kind of situation, so I moved on.

I worked with another group, packing boxes with supplies. Again, everyone was cramped together, so I tried, somewhat successfully, to spread them out into stations of boxing the supplies, taping up and fortifying the boxes, and labeling and stacking them together. I was hindered by language as usual, but was proud to have worked out a small system. Unfortunately, the trucks I had left earlier had stopped arriving, so dozens of people came to help with the boxing. As two groups started to squabble and fight over what to do, I walked away.

Huge, double-transport trucks arrived that would be taking supplies up North. I found one with less people around and helped load extremely heavy bales of blankets into the back. A volunteer came back to rear of the truck, where I was wrestling these huge bales into position. He admonished me for not stacking them one on top of each other. In fact, I was lining them up to do just that, but I’m afraid I lost my temper just a little bit. "Then why don’t you help me lift them then?" I said forcefully (yeah, that’s about as angry as I get). I had just maneuvered these things into position that had taken five guys to lift into the back of the truck. I wasn’t about to try to lift one up by myself. Someone decided that each truck should be loaded with a mixture of blankets, water and other supplies. I was having trouble, without the use of language, to convince the guy I had argued with earlier not to stack the boxes of water bottles in the puddle at the back of the truck. I clinched my argument by forcefully picking up an already saturated box and letting the bottles fall through the ruined cardboard and onto the floor. "Acha," he said, as comprehension dawned.

By this time, it was after midnight, and we decided to call it a night. On a small scale, I had witnessed exactly how, without coordination, good intentions and enthusiasm can bog down relief efforts. I could see exactly how organisations find themselves criticized for mismanaging resources. On the plus side, I had also seen more genuine hard-work, effort and focussed enthusiasm than I had yet seen in Pakistan. The next day, I heard that things became much more organised and much more was accomplished, which is excellent. As more donations continue to pour in, I can only hope that it will be enough to help meet the incredible demand.

Enough About Me...

2005-10-09T13:28:00.000+05:00

Yes, folks, I am fine.

Thank you for your concern. Karachi is just about as far as you can get from the epicentre of the massive earthquake that occurred yesterday morning in Northern Pakistan.

But enough about me. The human toll of this natural disaster will be immense. The count today sits at 18,000, but projections are for well over 50,000. Whole villages up north have been wiped off the map, and even getting any aide there at all will be extremely difficult. But, as it stands, I feel unqualified to comment as I have only been watching the news like everyone else.

Thanks to Abbas for pointing out that the Lahore Metroblogging site has some excellent coverage. You can read first person testimony, view photos and find out how you can help.

My Finger is on the Button...

2005-10-07T11:51:00.000+05:00

Does this scare the crap out of anyone else?

Nabil Shaath [Palestinian Foreign Minister] says: "President Bush said to all of us[In June 2003]: 'I'm driven with a mission from God. God would tell me, "George, go and fight those terrorists in Afghanistan." And I did, and then God would tell me, "George, go and end the tyranny in Iraq …" And I did. And now, again, I feel God's words coming to me, "Go get the Palestinians their state and get the Israelis their security, and get peace in the Middle East." And by God I'm gonna do it.'"

- From an interview in the upcoming BBC documentary "Elusive Peace: Israel and the Arabs."

"George, go and get yourself a ham sandwich."

An Open Letter to the Folks on Khi-e-Badar with Three Bronze Stallions Charging Through the Front Wall of their House:

2005-10-07T09:44:00.000+05:00

Folks,

I have driven past your house hundreds of times, but it was only recently, while walking up Badar, that I had the time to notice the artistic travesty that is your home. For whatever reason, you decided to create the illusion that three metallic horses have burst through the front wall of your house. First of all, this is not a very convincing illusion. I am not convinced that you have a herd of metallic horses in your upstairs lounge in the midst of a catastrophic stampede. Second, I do not believe that these animals were somehow trapped there during the construction of the house, and if they were, shame on you. Third, I don’t choose to believe that the raging fury of the concrete-penetrating stallions somehow represents the ostentatious moral fiber of your family. However, this is mostly because I don’t believe in metallic horses. They’re not real.

In any case, it’s not cool. In my estimation, there is absolutely no need for you to have three horses charging through the front face of your house like a pink Cadillac at Planet Hollywood. I see no purpose: whether practical, aesthetic or artistic. In fact, there is only one way I will accept your decision to represent a trio of escaping equines through your exterior wall. And that is, if there are three horses’ asses represented on the interior wall of your dining room.

And if by some chance, you know me, or read this blog, please ignore the preceding two paragraphs.

Cheers! And Giddy-up,

Dave

Going My Way?...

2005-10-06T20:27:00.000+05:00

Last night, I was walking home from a friend's place when a rumbling, old truck pulled up beside me. I was slightly conscious that I was carrying more money than I usually do when I'm out walking, but I wasn't too worried. After all, I have a distinct size advantage over most Pakistanis. So I continuted walking and looked over at the truck that was now keeping pace with me. A man leaned out the passenger window and asked me something. From the intonation in his voice and his gestures, I guessed that he was asking directions. I just stared at him for a moment. It was dark, so I wanted to give him a second to register just who he was asking for directions, but it didn't seem to phase him. He thrust out a piece of paper with an address written on it.

Now, there's something in me that always makes me stop in these scenarios. I don't know what it is. I can be walking in a city I've never been in before in my life and if someone stopped and asked me directions, I would listen to them, contemplate, and then tell them I have no idea where they're talking about. All this would be much simpler if I just started out by saying, "No, I don't."

So here I was, with a piece of paper in my hand, sweat dripping down my forehead, looking at the anxious man in the cab of the truck. I held the paper up to the light, and was surprised that the address was in English. Even more surprising, I knew where it was! Miracle of miracles. Now this was exciting. A Canadian was about to give directions to a Pakistani in Karachi, in Urdu even. What fun! Quickly, I drove through a mental map, assembled a patch work quilt of my Urdu directional words (those being strictly limited to... right, left, forward, back), and then told the man where to go, so to speak.

I stood on the side of the road gesticulating wildly. The men in the truck nodded and smiled, every once in a while one of them would say something that I couldn't understand anyway. Anyone passing by must have thought we were involved in some sort of crazy, cross-cultural game of charades.

I finished my masterful description and stepped back. They smiled and thanked me. I felt a swell of satisfaction at having accomplished such a monumental task. Self-Satisfaction which admittedly deflated slightly as I watched them head down to the intersection and drive off in precisely the wrong direction.

Oh well.

Under The Bridge...

2005-10-06T20:24:00.000+05:00

Adamjee: Actually, I learned to play bridge in junior high-school, I just didn't have anyone to play with.

Me: Yeah, I don't remember many kids playing bridge in grade 9.

Adamjee: So I ended up teaching my servants to play.

Me: Ha. You taught three, illiterate house-hold servants to play bridge with you?

Adamjee: Yeah. Took me months and months.

Me: Did it actually work?

Adamjee: Well, no. Not really... but it was worth a try.

The Keystone Cop...

2005-10-04T13:59:00.000+05:00

Yesterday, I was driving somewhere through Defense Housing area. I wasn't really paying attention, but I would guess it was Phase VII. We slowed for a speed-breaker in front of a Police Station where I saw the following huge sign:

Office Of The
Town Police Officer

Well, I'm glad he's on the job. He's got a bit of territory to cover in the ole town of Karachi, but he knows what he's doing.

Somebody Call the Police! Oh never mind, he's already here.

Diggin' a Hole...

2005-10-04T12:25:00.000+05:00

I was just reading that as of Friday, the national debt of the United States stood at $ 7, 924, 890, 927, 754.51… Now that’s a heck of a lot of numbers on parade. I think the precision is pretty funny though. Fifty-One cents. Almost Eight Trillion Dollars, but don’t forget that half dollar and the single, solitary penny. I feel like someone should cop up the .51 to even things off, heck, I’ll do it. I’m noble like that. I’m willing to help out my Southern neighbours (even though I spell neighbours with a "u"). Although, on the other hand, Dick Cheney could always just give another 49 cents to Halliburton and make it an even 755.00, I mean, why not? The victims of the hurricanes are going bankrupt, but those contracts just keep getting handed over without a bid.

But then I started thinking, you know, Seven Trillion, Nine Hundred and Twenty-Four Billion, Eight Hundred and Ninety Million, Nine Hundred and Twenty-Seven Thousand, Seven Hundred and Fifty-Four Dollars, and Fifty-One cents is a lot of money – I don’t think I’ll ever make that much myself. Imagine writing that on a cheque? (I would still put squiggly lines at the beginning so no one could add any extra numbers). But, I started getting curious, if that was the American Debt on Friday, what was it now? So, I found this American Debt Clock, which is just like a normal clock, except completely different. As of this morning, the American National Debt had marched onward as to war, to the tune of $7, 930, 261, 983, 734.81… I mean, Wow! That was quite the weekend. I splurged a bit more this weekend then I had intended to, but no where close to Five and a half Billion Dollars. And according to this site, the debt has increased by 1.5 Billion dollars per day since October 2004. Wow. That’s staggering.

But don’t you think that these numbers are just too much? I don’t think people worry about deficits like this because it just doesn’t seem real. Who can even fathom a Trillion? Back in University, Jeff and I decided to do some calculations to put Millions and Billions in perspective. We figured that everyone has a handle on Millions, but no one really appreciates how much more a billion is than a Million. You with me? So we figured out that when you are born, if you started counting your age in seconds, you reach your Millionth second on your eleventh day on Earth. In comparison, you won’t live your Billionth second until you’re almost 32 years old. Twelve days… Thirty-Two Years, that’s the difference between a Million and a Billion. As for a Trillion… well, it doesn’t take a math genius to tell you, you’d have to live to be 32 Thousand years old to hit your Trillionth second.

Currently, as of 12:21:45 PM, October 4, 2005, taking into account my being born at 1:56 AM July 11, 1978 and an eight hour difference from my birth time-zone, I have reached 858,824,745.. 46.. 47.. 48.. .. .. .. .. .. Jeez, that’s depressing.

If you can fill the unforgiving minute,
With sixty seconds worth of distance run,
Yours is the world, and everything that’s in it,
and what is more, you’ll be a man, my son.

Pigeon Porn...

2005-10-03T16:27:00.000+05:00

Folks, I have seen the baby pigeons, and they are ugly.

For years I have heard people speculating on the very existence of baby pigeons. There are no shortage of adult pigeons, white-washing statues the world over, but where are all the youngins? I have even had some folks tell me that pigeons must be born in an adult state. I always thought that a more plausible solution might be that they build nests under the eaves of buildings and such, where it’s difficult for all these baby-pigeon enthusiasts to track them.

Nevertheless, to all of you who still dream of the day you might see the elusive baby pigeon, let me just say one thing: Consider yourself lucky. They are not worth the trouble. After my sister saw some baby hyenas and warthogs in Uganda, she developed a theory that "baby" anything must be cute. Well, let me tell ya, when it comes to pigeons, you can toss that theory right out the window.

You see, this all started a few months back, when I heard some strange noises coming from the bathroom. Now, my bathroom is often the source of many strange noises, but usually only when I’m in there, so I was curious. I found two large pigeons roosting on my bathroom window sill. Since that window stays open all the time (for obvious reasons), the birds had shored up in the cozy, albeit smelly, refuge. I had no real problem with sharing the space, except that I found it a little disconcerting when they stared at me while I peed.

Then I started observing some strange wildlife phenomena. One day I burst into the bathroom with some speed, which is not uncommon, and caught the pigeons in the midst of some kind of ritual… a pigeon dance of sorts. I was suspicious, but I had other things on my mind. Early the next week, I thought for sure I could hear strains of Barry White and Marvin Gaye music coming from the loo, but every time I threw open the door it would disappear.

Then one day, I decided that the flapping and cooing I was hearing from the next room had reached unacceptable levels. I grumbled to myself and strode quickly into the bathroom, catching those two avian exhibitionists red-handed in the act of pigeon-penetration. I have to say though, that I was fascinated. I couldn't look away. I had always wondered how our feathered friends went about making eggs, and now I had a window seat view. It was all very fast, furious and feathered, and seemed to conform to a position I can only describe as "Birdie-Style." Oblivious to my presence, they shared a peaceful cigarette, and I snuck politely from the room.

A few weeks later, what do you know, but the window ledge started filling up with random twigs and leaves. Hmmm, I thought to myself... Sure enough, it wasn’t long before two shiny, little eggs were nestled in amongst the rest of the trash in my window. Most of the time, the mamma pigeon was sitting on the eggs, so I couldn’t really see them, which is probably good, because they tended to make me hungry.

Finally, those little omelets cracked open to reveal the single most hideously revolting creatures I have ever encountered. The first time I saw them, I stumbled backward over my bathmat and almost knocked myself silly against the towel rack. Ugly duckling? No. Ugly is not the word. I’m not saying pigeons are the most beautiful birds in the world, but they might as well be Birds of Paradise compared to their babies. And to make matters worse, they stink, and living as they do in my bathroom, that’s saying something. They’re primordial, reptilian and scaly, with tufts of yellow feathers sticking out at random. Their heads look like a duck-billed dinosaur. Somewhere Darwin is smugly nodding and saying, "Ya see what I’m sayin’? Intelligent Design, my ass."

And so, now I have the Swiss Family Pigeon living in my bathroom window with their stinking, hideous offspring. I have no idea how long it will take these creatures to eveolve into normal birds, but I sure hope it's soon. Otherwise, I might just become overwelmed by their revolting presence, open the screen and push them out into the abyss...

Just kidding.... but I'm telling you, they're that ugly.

Carma

2005-10-03T15:26:00.000+05:00

The other day, I was an errand-running phenom. There was absolutely no stopping me. The shopping I had put off for weeks, suddenly came together in one fell swoop. My wardrobe quickly doubled with my purchase of two pairs of pants. Presents for various friends’ birthdays were located in record time. I found myself smiling in a shopping mall for the first time since the success of the lightening-strike, Christmas Eve shopping-blitz, extravaganza of 2001.

One gift remained to be purchased; I had one more stop to make. Unfortunately, the only shop I could think of that would have the item was located smack in the middle of Schon-Circle. Normally, I would shudder at the thought of venturing into the netherworld of that construction zone without a Dune-Buggy, but like a gambler I was riding my successful shopping streak. My bet was staying on the table. I was not to be thwarted! I knew that I could not fail. I strode purposefully across the parking lot to the White Baleno of Justice. The ole Baleno had been giving Subaru Kazoo some difficulties lately, but I was confident as I eased her grumbling through the lower gears. I popped the tape deck into action and listened to a mix-tape that Subaru had bought from a local shop. It was labeled, "Black Music," which I soon discovered meant rap music.

I made my way down through boat-basin and waited at the intersection to make the turn toward Schon Circle. I felt kind of strange, bopping my head to Eminem and the rest of the "Black" music, but I was in a good mood… you betta bulee dat. I successfully navigated the construction site: riding the rim of a few craters and sliding down the side of one sand dune. My streak was still running, as I found a parking spot available right in front of the store. I ran in before the store closed, found exactly what I was looking for in two minutes or less. Truly, I was having the most successful shopping trip of my life.

Triumphantly, I returned to the car, which promptly failed to start. Apparently, my luck had run short. I had stayed in the game one hand too long. I should have quit while I was ahead. I should never have doubted that the life-long curse that has plagued all the shopping endeavours of my entire life would only have a slight time-delay in arriving in Pakistan.

I diligently shut off all power sources and tried the car again. Nothing. I hit the gas, and I could hear it almost catch, but not quite. Gently, I stroked the steering wheel and whispered, "C’mon ole girl," because it just seemed like the right thing to do. Sweat started dripping down my face in the confined space. I looked to the right and saw an Auntie and two kids staring at me from the nearest car, watching the show… "Will the Gora start the car? Tune in next week to find out…"

I tried again… and again. I tried to look non-chalant for my audience. I tried to look like sitting and sweating in my car while attempting to start it a few dozen times was an everyday occurrence. I floored the accelerator, I eased it, I caressed it, I cursed it, I stomped it like a drunken, redneck in a line-dance… all to no avail. Finally, just when I was sure I had flooded it, the engine caught and started. "HA!" I shouted, and turned to the family next to me and gave them a big smile and a thumbs up… at which point the car promptly stalled.

God Damn It. That’ll teach me to be cocky I said to myself, but then I added a footnote that no, it probably would not. After a few more tries, the engine turned over again, and I sat and revved it for a while. I rolled down the window, because the AC had quit (this all being due to an overheating problem). As I started off, I turned on the stereo to a resoundingly loud chorus of "MOVE BITCH – GET OUT DA WAY!" which made me smile, and hopefully traumatized a few nosey kids along the way.

Blog it Up, Bloggers...

2005-09-30T16:06:00.000+05:00

This just in: I have just now told my spell-checker to accept "blog" as a word. I am nothing if not the apogee of efficiency. So welcome to my lexicon "blog," no more will you feel the shame of the red squiggly line of infamy.

Although, to be honest, even though I love the blog like a second mistress, I have always been annoyed by the actual term. The word just falls with a thump. Blog. It’s like the onomatopoeic sound of dropping a soft-boiled egg into a bowl of lime Jello. Sometimes I wish the word had evolved in a different way: something with a bit more grace. But what can you do. Blog it is… along with all the bloggers in the blogosphere I have learned to accept and move on.

Blog on, You crazy Diamond.

Dave’s a Stand-Up Guy…

2005-09-30T11:43:00.000+05:00

So yeah. Those of you who also check all the comments may remember that I was invited to participate in an open-mic Monday night. Propositioned through the blog… how exciting. I received a lot of encouragement from friends far and wide, so I decided to go for it. At first I was nervous about performing for a Pakistani audience, and I’ve always heard people say that 5 minutes seems like nothing, but is actually a lot of material. But I poured myself a drink and started jotting down ideas and in no time I had a page of notes to draw from. I had the opposite problem. I roughed out a general routine and then had to cut and slash it down to five minutes. Maybe I should just have my own comedy special.

Those who know me will attest that I have a, shall we say, slight tendency to procrastinate. So in typical Ford fashion, I didn’t really write the routine until the day before. I wasn’t too worried, because a) I’ve done the same thing for just about every event I’ve hosted or MC’d (I refuse to endorse the spelling "emcee"), and b) I tend to have everything simmering in my head, so writing it down is more of a means of ordering the bits and ensuring transitions. Another "problem," if you want to call it that, is that new jokes to add always occur to me as I go, so it gets tough to keep to the time limit. I finally got it down to about 7 minutes, but that was without audience laughs, so I figured on about ten minutes. Twice the time allotted me, but then I figured, oh well, fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.

I personally think the night was a great success. Everyone I spoke to really enjoyed it. Full Kudos to Saad for organising the whole thing. Saad was very funny with his own material, and did a good job of keeping things roling. The two musicians that participated did a great job, and I especially appreciated the Leonard Cohen cover that was beautifully done, and added a bit more Canadian content. Sami, who had extended the comment invitation originally, did a good job with some stand-up material of his own.

Here, more or less, is the routine I performed. I would imagine it loses quite a bit in transcription, and it was designed with jokes for this context, but what the hell. Who cares?

Hello….. My name is Dave, and I’m a Pakistanaholic. (Pause) Um, I’m not sure if you guys have seen any movies, but that’s the part where you’re supposed to say, "Helllllo Dave!" (Half the audience responds)… Too late… too late… thanks for coming out though. But it’s true, I am a Pakistanaholic. I have a problem. I can’t explain it. I wish I could. People say to me, "Dave, you’ve been here a year, why are you still in Pakistan?" And I have to answer, "I have NO Idea!" I’m addicted to you’re crazy-assed country.

I even tried to set up a support group once, Pakistanaholics Anonymous… P.A… but it didn’t really take off. I tried to hold a meeting but only one other person showed up, and he was like (half-assed British accent), "Hello, my name is George, and I’m a Pakistanaholic…. I said, "Hi George, I have a problem" He said, "Hi, I have a TV show." I was like, "There’s the door… yaar."

But the most amazing thing for most people is that I decided to come here in the first place… of my own volition. Hard to believe isn’t it. But it’s really quite simple. I was bored. Needed something to do. I walked into a travel agent’s and said, "I’m looking for some excitement, but I’m not sure where to go." The girl said, "Well, we have a new database here, you give us your criteria and it matches up destinations." So I thought about it and said, "Oh, ok, that’s cool, alright... I could go for some near constant political tension, that would be good.... Uhmm, how about some explosions and bomb-blasts to shake things up a little.... And I guess the potential for natural disaster would be nice, just to keep me on my toes... Let’s see… Oh, a figurehead democracy, that would be great... Religious fanaticism would be fantastic.... Oh, and throw in a massive divide between the rich and the poor." So she typed it all in and there were two hits: Pakistan and the United States of America…. The US? It’s full of crazy people, so here I am.

And now I’m addicted. I’m addicted to the people. I’m addicted to the food. I’m addicted to the clothes. I mean look at this (gesturing to the Shalwar Kameez I wore for the routine) it’s fantastic. You may be thinking I just wore this tonight to get a few extra laughs… and you’d be right… but I do love wearing them. I’m in my pajamas all day long... I’m sorry, I’m going to take a nap... I remember the first time I bought one of these outfits. I brought it home and opened it up, all excited like a little kid, and started unfolding the shalwar (that’s the pants part, westerners). I was prying it apart (unfolding actions accompanied by strange "prying" noises) because there’s more starch in these things than a truck-load of baked potatoes… If you’re on the Atkins diet you’re not allowed to wear them. And I’m unfolding, and unfolding, and unfolding… and I thought, "You have got to be kidding me. I’ve slept in tents made of less material than this." Finally I got it opened up, put them on, and I’m standing in front of the mirror like the "after" shot of a weight-watchers commercial (miming holding out the waist of a huge pair of pants with a goofy smile and thumbs up)(special thanks to Jeff on that joke).

I mean, how can you not love a country where people wear shoes like this (holding up the ornate, pointy, curly-toed shoes (saleem shahi?) I was purposely wearing)… and they’re being serious. Come on man! You’re a genie in a bottle… and I’m not going to rub you any which way... If you’re wearing these shoes, I’m sorry, but I have to laugh at you. I’m wearing them for this bit and I’ve been chuckling all night. You could be standing on the side of the road in tears, but if you’re wearing these shoes, I’m going to lose it. There are three things that I cannot NOT laugh at. One is these shoes. Another is when you fall down in a comic manner. I’m sorry, I hope you’re okay, but I’m going to laugh. And the third one is a running midget.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love midgets. Power to the little people. But when they run… when those little guys start to pick up speed, I just can’t help myself. Their little, big, asses start wobbling back and forth and I’m finished. A midget could be running towards me with a butcher knife and rage in his eyes and I’d be laughing saying, "Whoa, little fella, slow down, you’re making me giggle." Now, if a running midget were wearing a pair of these pointy shoes?… That would be just plain ridiculous. It would be like some kind of Pakistani Leprechaun. (Half-assed Irish accent) "Ahhh, there’s a pot o’ Biryanni at the end of the rainbow… yaar."

Ahhh…. Midgets…. We used to have a midget in my home town. What a little bastard he was. We had a dwarf too…. He was mean too… Grumpy… Our little town had a good representation of the little people now that I think of it. Cause, I mean, I grew up in a very small town. There are probably more people at the Special Olympics New Year’s ball than live in my whole town. We had one black family. Their name was the Grays… that was confusing... We had a Korean Family… no Pakistanis though. But I guess that makes sense, because my home town was way too small to need a Taxi… Oooh… low blow.

People ask me how I could grow up in such a small town and adjust to living in a metropolis like Karachi. Well, I was worried about the same thing when I first arrived. But after a while, I realized that I was actually very well prepared. Living in this Clifton Defense bubble, I was completely prepared by my small town upbringing. Let me explain. I’ll tell you what it was like growing up in a small town. You tell me if it sounds familiar… Growing up in a small town everybody knows everybody else… OR you’re related. You’re bidness ain’t your bidness, it’s everybody’s bidness… as the Grays used to say. Sound Familiar? When you grow up in a small town, there is NOTHING to do at night, unless you make your own entertainment. If you’re not going out to coffee, if you’re not going out to dinner, than what are ya gonna do? Rent a movie? I’m convinced that’s why the teen-pregnancy rate was so high in my town. Standing there (looking from left to right).. "Well… nothing in at the video store (turns and looks "girl" up and down)… Whatcha wanna do?"… When you grow up in a small town, every party is exactly like every other party. It’s the same people, the same faces, it’s just at someone else’s house. Maybe we’re partying at the beach, maybe around a bonfire, maybe by the pool, but it’ll always be the same. There’ll be a fight, there’ll be a break-up, and enough drama to get us through to the next party. Familiar? And back then, we were all under-age, so alcohol was illegal. We had to go to bootleggers and pay crazy prices for booze (pause with pointed stare at audience). So you’ve got kids chugging back booze like they’ll never see it again. (Half-assed frantic teenager voice) "What’s this in the water bottle? Is that Vodka? It’s Vodka… I’m going to drink it straight! Yeah! Chug!… Is this Scotch? I’m going to mix it with lemonade and Pepsi! Let’s Dance!" So after I’d been on the scene for about a month, I plopped down on the bed one night, stretched and said to myself, "Ahhhh, Home Sweet Home."

Thanks, you’ve been great.

Back to Business...

2005-09-30T10:50:00.000+05:00

Well folks, it’s been hectic. Not so much hectic in the sense of a world gone mad, but more so that life just seemed to be conspiring against the blog lately. It’s annual report time at work, so what with writing, rewriting, editing and proofreading the same 40 pages over and over; the general tendency for every computer or internet connection in my vicinity to cease functioning (or electrocute me); and my own general lethargy and lack of adventures lately… the poor blog has suffered.

That may all sound like excuses. There’s a reason for that. They are. My dog ate my blog-work. In any case, things are looking up. Hopefully I can get back on schedule soon.

Thanks for continuing to check in.

Get Off My Tale...

2005-09-29T14:25:00.000+05:00

I think it would be funny if I wrote something and then inadvertently spilled
a tube of crazy glue on the papers in some kind of comic fashion, and
then accidentally sat on the manuscript in some other comedic manner, so that when someone asked me, "What’s that on your ass?" I could say,
"That’s my story and I’m sticking to it."

And now you're thinking, "Hmmmm, maybe Dave should go back to neglecting the blog."

A Typical Conversation on the Way to Work...

2005-09-21T14:39:00.000+05:00

Subaru: Where'd you guys go to dinner last night?

Me: A Chinese place called, "Yuan Tung." Pretty tasty.

Subaru: Yeah, that's an old Karachi favourite.

Me: I wouldn't know.

Subaru: No you wouldn't.

Me: Right. Well, it's across the street from another Chinese restaurant called "Little China." But I didn't want to go there because I've heard they had some big trouble a little while back.

Subaru: Ha! Big Trouble in Little China.

Me: You nailed that one.

Subaru: Ya, that was a classic film.

Me: Never seen it, I just make jokes about the title... Kurt Russel right?

Subaru: Yeah, basically, there's this demon loose in China-Town...

Me: Wait, I think you mean, "Little China"... hey wouldn't it be funny if there was actually a Little China full of Chinese midgets?

Subaru: Shut up Dave.

Me: What? It just strikes me as something those wily Chinese might do. Anyway, there's a demon...?

Subaru: Right. And the demon has been hunting for thousands of years for a green eyed Chinese girl.

Me: Virgin?

Subaru: Couldn't hurt. So Kurt Russel's friend is dating a green-eyed, Chinese girl.

Me: Convenient.

Subaru: So the Kung-Fu guys that worship the demon go after the girl, and the Kung-Fu guys that support Kurt Russel go after them.

Me: Were those cats as fast as lightening?

Subaru: Ya. It was a little bit frightening.

Me: So then?

Subaru: So then, I dunno, a whole lot of shit goes down.

Me: Ok, so two Kung-Fu gangs are battling an ancient demon for a green-eyed girl and then a whole lot of shit goes down.

Subaru: Pretty Much. Oh, and it also features an early appearance of Kim Cattrall.

Me: Who's Kim Cattrall.

Subaru: The old, slutty one on Sex and the City.

Me: Isn't that all of them?

Subaru: The oldest and sluttiest.

Me: Oh right. You're a big fan are ya?

Subaru: I'm not the one who's seen every episode of Desperate Housewives.

Me: I'm telling you, it's a good show! And since I'm an honest guy, I'll tell you that while you were at work last Saturday I watched Season Six of Sex and the City.

Subaru: What!

Me: In my defence, there are a lot of naked women in that show.

Subaru: A lot of naked men too.

Me: That's why you watch it, you mean?

Subaru: Shut up.

Me: You shut up.

Subaru: Anyway, now I'm thinking we'd better find a copy of "Big Trouble..."

Me: Oh yeah, sounds like a quality film. We should track it down.

Subaru: But we won't.

Me: No, no we won't.

It's Dave... Naturally...

2005-09-20T15:44:00.000+05:00

The monthly magazine, The Herald, has published a review of our play, Picasso at the Lapin Agile. It’s a pretty favourable review, but for some reason, I think this is my favourite part:

Of all the actors, David Ford, who played the bar owner, Freddy, was the most natural.

Luckily, the review comes out just in time for all of you to come and see my "natural" performance at the PACC Auditorium in Karachi, a month and a half ago.

I Sing the Body Electric...

2005-09-15T15:31:00.000+05:00

I was typing something up and listening to some tunes on Subaru Kazoo’s laptop the other night when I felt a strange sensation, like a small prick. I know what you’re thinking, but I checked, and Subaru Kazoo was not behind me. No, rather, it was like a pin-prick in my left wrist – not painful per se, but irritating. I thought maybe one of the stickers on the surface of the laptop had a sharp corner sticking up, or maybe there was a piece of plastic or something, but I couldn’t find any likely culprits. It was happening sporadically enough that I started to think that maybe it was all in my head, so I just rubbed my wrist and kept typing. Just then, the next song started with a heavy bass track and the middle finger on my left hand spontaneously spasmed, causing me to hit the "D" key three times. It was only then that I realised that Subaru’s laptop was discreetly, but diligently, electrocuting me. Something in the speakers must not be grounded properly, because when you’re playing music on the computer it sends a charge up through your wrist. This meant that I had to find an appropriately sized, non-conductive material to place under my wrists while I typed. I decided I would file the whole thing under "W" for "Why the hell do such weird, little things happen to me?"

But speaking of shocking experiences… In my entire life, I think I have electrocuted myself maybe three times (in a minor way obviously, otherwise I’d be dead, which makes it harder to blog). Three times, that is, before I came to Pakistan. In the year that I’ve been here, I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve blitzed myself. I’m telling you, I’ve been shocked so many times I feel like Galvani’s Frog (wow, that was a little obscure).

The worst occasion was when I reached blindly under a cabinet (like an idiot) to plug in my cell-phone charger. Somehow, I managed to touch something I shouldn’t have and wound up on my ass in the middle of the floor. The best part was that I was on the phone at the time, which was the reason for my blind plugging attempt. I wish I had a recording of that conversation that went a little like this:

Dave: Yeah, well, I think that on Friday we should probably try to …BzZOWP!!

(THUMP)

Mbbs: We should what? Dave… Dave…?

Even funnier, was the time that I was trying to plug a USB device into the back of the computer in my room. I was in one of those awkward, leaning over the desk, craning my neck, reaching in behind the computer type positions. I couldn’t find the right hole by feel (no comments necessary) and so I leaned forward to try to see the back panel. I located the socket and as I tried to plug it in, my thumb touched the back of the computer and I felt the throbbing sensation of an electric shock. I was startled, and tried to pull back, but because of my awkward position, I ended up falling forward onto the desk. My hand slipped further down, resulting in a heavier shock, and because my head was behind the computer, I kind of fell sideways against it. This meant that not only was my hand throbbing with electricity, but so was my face where it was pressed against the metal like a kid against the school-bus window. I don’t know if you’ve ever received minor electric shocks simultaneously to your right hand and your left cheekbone, but I wouldn’t generally recommend it. For the rest of the night I was clasping and un-clasping my hand and my cheek kept twitching. I must have looked like a squinty-eyed gun-fighter in the wild-west.

But to be fair, I have to say that all my shocking encounters are not entirely my fault. Electrical sockets here really are ridiculously dangerous. Nothing is ever grounded properly so you never know when you’re going to catch a current (once I was shaving and touched my mirror and got a shock). The two-prong, rounded plugs only barely fit the sockets. They dangle from the wall like limp, exhausted snakes hanging on to their stubborn prey by their fangs. Just about every time you plug something in, there’s a blue flash to tell you that it’s working. You have to tweak and twiddle the plugs into place, so that the connection is made, and then the next day, you have to do it all again because the cleaning lady has knocked them all out of place with her broom.

So yeah, that’s my latest complaint about Pakistan: Bad electrical sockets. I blame the Brits, it’s their standard after all. I’m just sick of getting shocked. I would call someone and complain, but I just can’t get up the courage to plug in my phone.

At least all these electric shocks haven't electric shocks haven't really affected me affected me in any real way.

Oh yeah… I forgot… I’m fine…

2005-09-14T15:51:00.000+05:00

It really wasn’t really until I started getting emails and comments asking if I was ok, that I remembered that the KFC and McDonalds had been bombed the other day. So yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for your concern though. My penchant for fried chicken did not endanger me on that particular day. The KFC is actually at the bottom of my street, but not to worry Mother, that’s still about 25 blocks away. I was sitting up with a friend that night when the bomb went off and I didn’t hear a thing, so it couldn’t have been a huge explosion. It certainly took the windows out of the franchise though. Interestingly, Subaru Kazoo and I got a craving for KFC the very next day. I didn’t think to ask which location it was delivered from.

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure how to portray that this isn’t that big of a deal. It would be more frightening to me if it was random, but it wasn’t. There was a nationwide general strike called by one of the opposition parties for Friday. Generally, I love it when strikes are called because the whole city shuts down and I don’t have to go to work. The best ones are transportation strikes due to fuel prices or some such beef, because then no buses run, no one can get anywhere, and I’m definitely not headed for work. Strikes here are serious business. But since this one was politically motivated, they try to rile up the radical elements to put on a show. It was a pretty half-assed strike to be truthful, the city wasn’t really affected on Friday because not many people really reacted to the call for strike.

So the bombings early Friday morning, may or may not have been directly linked to the group that called the strike, but nevertheless, it was definitely the motivation. I guess the logic is that they hate President Musharraf, they hate his cooperation with the United States, and thus they hate the symbols of American capitalism. So, the poor fast-food outlets get blasted. It doesn’t seem to occur to anyone that the franchises are staffed and frequented by Pakistani’s and that that’s the only people who will be hurt in something like this. It’s a tiny blip on KFC’s global radar. Thankfully, no one was killed this time around, but last time, while I was in Africa, a KFC was gutted and 6 people were killed.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I use my head. When a strike is called, I don’t go to any areas I would consider of higher risk. In general, I don’t go to the fast-food outlets very often anyway. Why eat the same crap I can get at home when I’m surrounded by amazing food?

Sock it to Me...

2005-09-14T15:29:00.001+05:00

Yesterday morning I was sitting on my bed in a daze, pulling on my socks, trying to clear the haze of sleep from my head. To be fair, I usually accomplish this around 11:00, but I start working on it around 8:30 (the haze, not the socks). As I pulled on my left sock, which theoretically, could just have easily have been my right sock, I felt a lump down in the toe area. This made me immediately pause, because I grew up with a cat that would leave lovely, little wildlife presents in our shoes. As unlikely as it might be that a decapitated, chipmunk head would be hiding in the toe of my sock, I still wasn’t going to take any chances. Gingerly, I wiggled my big toe and touched whatever was taking refuge in my stockings. Due to the amazing tactile recognition skills of my left foot, I quickly determined that it was a wad of paper. When I pulled it out, I discovered that it was a used and abused, washed and wadded, Ten-Rupee note.

My mood immediately brightened. Imagine if my socks could become a source of income! Of course, at Rs. 10 a day, I wouldn’t exactly be raking it in hand over foot (nyuk,nyuk). Still, I was excited. On my way to work, the fog in my brain cleared slightly and I remembered that two weeks previously, I had gone for some exercise at a walking park near my house. Since I’d never been to that particular park, and since some such parks charge an entrance fee, and since I had no pockets in my shorts, I had stuck 10 Rupees in my sock. End of mystery. I must not have picked this particular pair of socks off the shelf since they had been washed. Even though I was slightly disappointed that the earning potential of my socks was not all I’d hoped it would be, I still basked in the general good-feelings of having found money unexpectedly.

When it came time to order lunch, I gave some money to one of the servants (a little guilty that one of the notes had spent two weeks in a sock) and realised that I was about 5 Rupees short of a meal. I checked my wallet again, but had no more small change. "Does anyone have 5 Roops?" I asked my coworkers, "I just need 5 Rupees." As my coworkers were digging around for coins to help me out, I shoved my left hand into my pocket and discovered a 5 Rupee coin. I was once again astonished. Immediately, I said, "I just need 100 dollars," and shoved my left hand in my pocket again. But unfortunately, magic is a mystery: you can’t force it. This time, I remembered fairly quickly that the last time I had worn those pants I had made some purchases at Agha’s Supermarket and had tossed the coin in my pocket. Excellent.

As I sat back down at my desk, I wondered whether I had any more surprises in store. After all, I had just brought in 15 Rupees, and was now sneaking up on 30 cents Canadian, and when lunch costs me 50 cents, that’s not half bad. I reached into my desk drawer for a pen and my hand fell on an envelope that had been pushed toward the back. I pulled it out, only to discover that it was filled with money that I had left there like an idiot last Friday. Thousands and thousands of Rupees. I had now made a giant leap forward in my serendipitous currency discoveries. I was now up over three hundred bucks.

Now, I realise this was all money that was already mine to begin with. But you have to admit that just finding it in places you don’t expect is great. I think I will begin surreptitiously hiding cash around my room and office when I’m not looking. You just can’t beat the feeling. It put me in mind of back home in Canada, when you pull on the ole winter jacket for the first time that year and find twenty bucks in the pocket. Because of my new found wealth, I left work in a good mood, and I couldn’t wait to see how much more money I would discover.

As it turns out, that was it. But later on, I did find a rock shaped like a duck.

Have You Seen This Man...

2005-09-12T18:57:00.000+05:00

5c48
Originally uploaded by Artsaypunk.

Well, for those of you who have been demanding an updated photo, this was taken a few months back. It's a little pose I like to call "The Evil Jesus."

And don't worry, just because I've finally found a connection that I can post photos from doesn't mean I'll become a photo blogger. I know, I know, you're thinking to yourself, "You know, Dave hasn't been posting as much lately, maybe he's running out of steam. He'll probably just start throwing six pictures up there and say,'Here are six pictures,' and then next thing you know he'll think he's some kind of photographer and start taking pictures of himself taking a picture of himself in the mirror."

Rest at ease, my friends, it shall not come to pass. However, I do have some funny shots from the last year, so I'll have to get them posted up here soon.

The Face of Radio...

2005-09-09T11:30:00.000+05:00

For anyone in the Pakistan area that might be interested, I will be on the radio today at 4:00.

A friend of mine has a show on FM 89.0 and featured me in the second hour as "The Second Most Popular White Guy in Pakistan...." Damn that pesky George!

Anyway, it was a fun interview and features five songs of my choosing. Even if it's not true, I'm taking full credit for introducing Pakistan to The Tragically Hip.

So check it out if you get the chance.

Plus, if I do say so myself, I've got a great voice.

Rug-Burn...

2005-09-08T16:17:00.000+05:00

I love this story. Maybe because, in a strange way, I can relate.

A friend of mine, let’s call him James, had been interested in a girl for quite some time. The problem was that they had been friends for years, and he didn’t know if she felt the same way, or if it was all in his head. I think we’ve all been there before, when you feel like your sensors are on the fritz and you just can’t interpret the signals properly. Finally, they decided to get together and watch a movie at her place. Now, this was good news for James, because they had never spent time alone together (I think "alone together" is a funny phrase) and the best part was that it had been her idea. For once, they wouldn’t be surrounded by all their friends, and he could try to gauge the situation.

So they’re watching a flic in her basement - things are going well - when suddenly James feels his stomach cramp. Not good. With a sickening feeling (that I know all too well), he realizes that if he doesn’t go straight to the bathroom, there will be terrible repercussions. Now, any guy will tell you that using the bathroom at a girl’s house is a delicate matter. There’s a definite comfort level that must be reached before it can even be considered. And at this point, on their first real date, and with his insides gone super-nova, the idea of desecrating her toilet is about as appealing as a nudist fish-fry. He tries to hold it for as long as he can, but it’s just no good, he knows that this feeling is not going to pass. Finally, as casually as he can, he asks where the bathroom is. She points to the door across the room. Of course, this is the last thing he wants to hear. If only the bathroom were upstairs… out of range. As far as he’s concerned, it would be ideal if the bathroom were in a different house.

His soul full of doubt and trepidation, he heads slowly for the bathroom. He decides that he’s going to try to get this done as fast as possible, so that maybe he can make the whole venture seem like one long pee. He makes his deposit as quickly as he can without pulling a muscle, while staging a coughing fit to try and cover any untoward noises. Everything is going according to schedule. He is beginning to feel confident that everything is going to work out fine (so to speak), when he realizes that there is no toilet paper in sight. He looks to he left... he looks to his right. No relief in sight. Gingerly, he opens the cupboard under the sink. Nothing. He performs the pants-around-the-ankles-dirty-assed waddle over to the closet to check for supplies. Nada. He scans the whole bathroom and there isn’t even a magazine to help him through.

The clock is ticking. It’s around this point that James starts to panic. In fact, if he hadn’t already, he probably would have lost his shit. I think it would be safe to say that James abandoned all capacity for rational thought. All he could imagine was his potential girlfriend sitting in the other room wondering why he was taking so long. The idea of popping his head out to ask for more toilet paper either didn’t occur to him, or else it just seemed too far beyond embarrassment to even contemplate.

Instead, in his now frantic state, a different solution occurs to him. Pulling out a Swiss Army Knife, he gets down on his hands and knees and cuts a piece of carpet from behind the toilet. He then proceeds to wipe himself with a swath of prime, 1970’s orange shag. I don’t think it’s exactly necessary to point out that behind the toilet is never the most sanitary area in the bathroom either: guys always miss. But at this point, he just doesn’t care. As far as he’s concerned, his problem is solved. In fact, he’s proud of his resourcefulness.

He calms himself and returns to the rec-room, where this poor girl has been sitting with the movie paused, unaware of the drama unfolding in the washroom. "Are you ok?" she asks. "Yeah, yeah," he says, as non-chalantly as possible. He even uses his new found adrenaline rush to snuggle in closer to her for the rest of the movie.

About an hour later, the girl’s father gets home and comes downstairs to say hello. He sits and chats for a minute and then heads for the bathroom. James isn’t worried until he runs out shouting, "Where’s the plunger, the toilet’s flooding!" James slowly shrinks back into the corner of the couch. He is seriously considering cutting his losses and trying to make a stealthy escape when her father shouts from the bathroom, "Jesus Christ! There’s a God-Damn piece of carpet in here!"

And the best part is, last I heard, they’re still together.

Just Curious...

2005-09-08T15:56:00.000+05:00

If a dentist has a bad day, is he allowed to say, "Man, that procedure was like pulling teeth"?

Along those same lines, I’ve often wondered if brain surgeons ever shrug sarcastically and say, "Well, it’s not rocket science."

Caffeine Dreams...

2005-09-07T12:20:00.000+05:00

T: I’ll have a Caramel-Flavoured Latté.
Waiter: Pardon sir?
T: I’ll have a Caramel-Flavoured Latté please
Waiter: Yes sir, What flavour?
(Pause)
T: Umm… Caramel.
Waiter: Yes, Sir.

Me: What are the latté flavours?
Waiter: (points to menu) Here.
Me: Ok, I’ll have Hazelnut.
Waiter: Hazelnut?
Me: Yes… Latté.
Waiter: Latté? What flavour?
(Pause)
Me: … Hazelnut.
Waiter: Yes sir.

G: I'll have a Hot Chocolate.
Me: Good Call.

The Writing on the Wall...

2005-09-07T11:37:00.000+05:00

Last night, while out for a stroll, I wrote down all of the interesting graffiti scrawled on one large wall. In retrospect, I must have looked a little strange standing in front of a large wall like a modern day Daniel (my life having its fair share of lion’s dens), madly typing graffiti into my cell phone, but then, realistically, I always look a little strange.

Without further delay then, here is the wisdom of the wall… with commentary:

Born Horny
Thank You, Sigmund Freud

Fuck Others
Save your energy: Go fuck yourself.

Full Stop
Period.

Fuck U All Only
Oh, as long as it's only all.

How Do You Do?
Exuberant, and you?

I Am A Drummer
Whatever you say Ringo.

Chomsky Wozzy
Uhmmm….

Where the Rubber Hits the Road...

2005-09-06T14:22:00.000+05:00

Condoms make me laugh.

Well, not the latex itself, but more so the brand names. And I guess they don’t make me laugh so much as chuckle ironically. It just seems to me that whoever it was that decided on these names just wasn’t using his head (or the right one anyway). Think about it:

Trojans? Listen, Troy fell. The Trojan defenses failed. The walls of Troy were penetrated. Sure, the Trojans defended their city for a decade against thousands of marauding Greeks, but when it really came down to it, when push came to shove, they let a big horse-load of Greeks in the backdoor.

Then you’ve got Ramses. Who was the genius on this one? I think that it’s just plain brilliant to name a birth control method after a guy that had 200 kids. Plus, unless I’m mistaken, wasn’t Ramses the pharaoh that had the little skirmish with Moses and the Isrealites? So that means firstly, that all his people got plagues, and secondly that he really wasn’t that great at keeping things contained. I mean he let the slaves split the Red Sea and escape to "the Promised Land," which, as luck would have it, was a land of milk and honey.

Sheik? I really don’t think it’s a good message for kids these days to name a condom after a guy with a harem full of women. It’s certainly better than having 200 kids, but who knows what goes on in there? Besides, take it from me, having a harem is hardly worth the trouble.

Lifestyles? For some reason, it just sounds sketchy to me. If there were a lifestyle channel on TV, I wouldn’t watch it.

I guess there’s Durex. I can almost accept Durex. There’s not a whole lot wrong with the name. The name seems to be indicative of strength and durability. But still, I’m suspicious, I feel like you're tempting fate... like naming a condom "Never-Fails," you should just never say never. "I’ll have two tickets for the Titanic please." I remember we used to have "Duralex" drinking glasses in our kitchen when I was growing up. They were never supposed to break, but we sure managed it.

You know, looking back over this post, I’m starting to realize that it reads like a bad stand-up act: "What is it with condoms these days..." Oh well, I don’t think I’ve ripped it off from anyone because I first wrote something like this in Dave’s Big Black Book of Mystery, which was the early print predecessor of the blog and was stolen out of the back seat of my car in late 2002. I just hope that whoever that asshole was got a kick out of it… why would you steal someone’s journal?

Anyway, I’ll leave you with one more condom story. A friend of mine worked in a pharmacy while she was in college. One day a twelve year old kid walked up to the counter with a 12-pack of condoms (one for every year of his life I suppose). When she raised an eyebrow, he didn’t shyly place the package on the counter and pay, instead he gave her "the wink and the gun" and said, "Hey, No glove - No love, baby!"

Dave Fiction...

2005-09-06T14:15:00.000+05:00

I've decided that the next time someone asks me why I'm in Pakistan my answer will run along these lines:

VINCENT
                       So if you're quitting the life,
                       what'll you do?

                                  JULES
                       That's what I've been sitting here
                       contemplating. First, I'm gonna
                       deliver this case to Marsellus.
                       Then, basically, I'm gonna walk the
                       earth.

                                  VINCENT
                       What do you mean, walk the earth?

                                  JULES
                       You know, like Caine in "KUNG FU."
                       Just walk from town to town, meet
                       people, get in adventures.

                                  VINCENT
                       How long do you intend to walk the
                       earth?

                                  JULES
                       Until God puts me where he want me
                       to be.

                                  VINCENT
                       What if he never does?

                                  JULES
                       If it takes forever, I'll wait
                       forever.

                                  VINCENT
                       So you decided to be a bum?

                                  JULES
                       I'll just be Jules, Vincent -- no
                       more, no less.

Let's Make a Deal....

2005-09-06T10:00:00.000+05:00

Saturday saw me, once again, engaged in my favourite quarterly distraction of obtaining a visa extension. It really seemed to sneak up on me this time around. I just can’t believe it’s been three months since I was in Africa; almost two months since my birthday; and almost a month since the play. Time is screaming by me like a red-neck in a pickup truck throwing beer-bottles at the road signs. Well, to be expected I suppose. Tempus Fugit, as Augustus might say.

Anyway, I found myself in the office of the Assistant Director for the visa branch once again pleading my case. This time I had my boss with me who was working on getting her own machine-readable passport and had gained the respect of the Ass. Director the previous week by tearing a strip off of everyone in his office. I commend her. He had told her that if she needed anything else at all, she should go straight to him. And so there we were. Sometimes things just work out well.

I think it’s the fourth time I’ve been in this guy’s office, and on each occasion, he’s started shouting at a subordinate while I’m sitting there. Since I don’t understand what he’s saying, and he seems so upset, it makes for a fairly intimidating experience. However, this time I was expecting it, and when it happened, I started wondering whether he sets it all up on purpose to show how important he is. "Ok, when the white guy’s been here five minutes, you come in and I’ll scream at you in Urdu… Theak Hai?.. Watch his face, it’ll be hilarious."

In any case, as soon as the stage show was over, he asked me why I was still in Pakistan. Now, you would think that by now I would be prepared for this question. Apparently not. I reiterated that I was enjoying the country, that I was travelling and writing and volunteering for TRC. This apparently was not a fully satisfactory answer. "But Why?" he demanded. I thought I had just answered that, so I stalled for time and said, "Pardon?" He stared at me for a long moment and then said, "No one wants to stay here this long. Before this you were here for six months. You leave for one month and now you are back? Who likes Pakistan so much?" For a fleeting moment I thought of launching into a diatribe about how Pakistanis don’t value their own culture enough, but quickly thought better of it and simply replied, "I do… I’m strange." "Yes you are," he said, which I didn’t really know what to make of.

We sat in silence for a while, my boss spoke up for me and they chatted in Urdu a bit. The mood was lighter than some of my previous visits so I figured that things were going well. I heard him offer tea, which was politely refused. Then he turned to me and said, "You will have tea." I tried to refuse as politely as I could. "If he wants to be Pakistani, then he will have real Pakistani tea with me," he said to my boss. I tried to protest that I had just had a mug of thick, milky chai only an hour before, but he would have nothing of it. My boss told him how I eat local food every day, and that when it comes to food I’m more Pakistani than she is. "If you like Pakistan…" he said cryptically, tapping his finger on my passport with every word, "You will have tea." He raised his eyebrows, glanced down at my application again, set it to one side and said, "Chai?"

I blinked. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like he was only going to give me my visa if I had tea with him. Was this really happening? Was this some sort of Chai-Way Bribery? (sorry…) This is ridiculous, I thought to myself. But then, I continued to think to myself, it’s not like he’s asking me to kill someone (which was the last I saw of Ecuador). I looked up. "Yes," I said, "I will have chai." He smiled and made the order. This meant we had to sit for another fifteen minutes while tea was made. But in the meantime, my passport application went flying through the ranks and arrived back at the desk ready to be processed. The tea arrived and I tried to sip it with an appreciative air. I didn’t even flinch when the thick skim on top escaped from the cup, slid across my teeth and lodged at the back of my throat, tickling my gag-reflex.

With a slurp, the Ass. Director finished his tea, set down his cup and then picked up my form and signed it with a flourish. He smiled and handed it back to me. I stood and thanked him, and then got the hell out of there.

I had hitherto underestimated the power of chai.

Cunning Linguists...

2005-09-02T14:54:00.000+05:00

The latest billboard ad from the Karachi branch of Nando’s, the international chicken chain, states:

Nandos:
A Chick That Looks Good and Tastes Great!

Of course, that is an admirable goal, one that I suppose I seek myself, but considering their audience, I’m not sure exactly what they’re going for with this one. If they weren’t going for the innuendo, I can’t see why they would choose the word "Chick." And if they weren’t going for the innuendo… then I don’t get it.

Nando’s last ad campaign was quite good, but difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t been to Karachi. They had a big billboard near Three Swords saying :

Why did the chicken cross the road?
Because the underpass will take forever.

Now, if you don’t live in Karachi, you’re saying, "What in the hell is that supposed to mean." It refers to the ongoing road-construction project to build an underpass through the high traffic intersection of Schon Circle. I thought the advert was clever because of the timing. When they put that billboard up, the construction was just beginning and the contractors were assuring everyone that the disturbance would only be for six to eight months. Of course, everyone knew it would take much longer, and sure enough, it’s been at least six months and the whole area still looks like the surface of the moon during some kind of inter-orbital nuclear war. A good question might be: What will last longer in Karachi? The Schon Circle Underpass Construction? or David J. Ford?

On a related note, this latest Nando’s tasty chick campaign puts me in mind of the old Cape Breton fried chicken restaurant: Lick a Chick. Every time I drive across the island I see that big "Lick a Chick" sign, think to myself, "Don't mind if I do," and then laugh the rest of the way to Sidney.* But of course, you can't blame them, "Lick a Chick" has been around for decades... back before sexual innuendoes were invented.

* Geographical Note: In case anyone was thinking that I drove from Canada to Austalia... Sidney is also the largest city on Cape Breton, an incredibly beautiful island off of Nova Scotia.**

** Further Geographical Note: In case anyone was wondering, Nova Scotia is a province on the East coast of Canada. ***

*** Further Geographical Note for Americans: In case you were wondering, Canada is an extremely large country to your North

Balls to the Wall...

2005-09-01T15:35:00.000+05:00

One summer, I was home from University and my brother and I decided to play Soccer in a summer men’s league. Technically, it was called the International Men’s League, which makes it sound like we played Slovakia every third week, but all it meant was that we played one team from the State of Maine. Now, I’ve seen a lot of soccer in my day, but I have never seen a rougher, rowdier, or more violent league than this one. Basically, you’ve got a lot of guys who used to play, but are now pushing into their thirties and don’t have the wind that they used to. What they still have however, is their pride and competetive natures. So, when they get frustrated, they tend to lash out and try to compensate for their slower footwork by, you know, body-checking a guy. But I guess I shouldn't talk, since I got the nickname "Tank" for (accidentally) knocking a guy unconscious. What can I say, there's not much I can do about momentum... it's physics... I'm a big guy... I have to admit though, it was kind of satisfying that he was out cold and in the fetal position before he hit the ground.

Anyway, this particular game we were up against one of our principal rivals from St. Andrews. The last meeting of our classy, gentlemen’s teams had led to three separate fights, one of which involved me being forced to knock a guy off of my brother where he was kneeling on his chest about to pummel him (although I bet my brother still would have got the better of him). So, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the game.

We were warming up, taking shots on goal, when one of our balls sailed over the fence and into the yard opposite. Charles, a childhood friend of mine, started over to retrieve it because it happened to be his own ball. But just as he was crossing the street, in a streak of grey and pink, an old lady ran out, grabbed the soccer ball and then ran back into the house. Charles stopped in the middle of the road and turned back to us with a look that would have perfectly accompanied the phrase, "What the fuck?"

You see, St. Andrews is a resort town. It is a tourist destination. It is the site of the Fairmont Algonquin hotel and an international golf-course (where my canoe and I once pitched a tent). It is a beautiful location, there’s no doubt about it, but for me the place always rings a little false. The town swells in the summertime when all the Americans come north to their summer homes. My town, on the other hand, is just as beautiful, but more like a country cousin. My little town is quaint; St. Andrews is faux-quaint. The way to make this distinction is by counting the gift shops. Who needs 24 gift shops selling the same thing on one street? Anyway, the town has a reputation locally as being snobby and elitist, and like most reputations, some of that is completely undeserved, but then, some of it isn’t. There are some great people who live in St. Andrews, but as we were about to find out, the lady who had just athletically whisked away Charles’ ball was not one of them.

Charles continued across the street and knocked on the door. Eventually, the lady opened the door, releasing a small white poodle that immediately started barking and relentlessly jumping on Charles’ legs. Ever the gentleman, Charles began, "I’m sorry Ma’am, but it seems our ball landed in your yard, and I was wondering if you might have found it?"
"Yes I did," stated the woman, "but you little bastards can forget about getting your ball back."
This took Charles aback, not being used to hearing the elderly refer to him as a little bastard. But still, he maintained his composure. "We are very sorry Ma’am. But you see, that’s actually my own personal ball, and I’d like to get it back."
"Young man, there is no way in hell you will ever see your ball again."
"Look, I understand you’re upset, but maybe you should talk to the town about raising the fence around the field or stringing a net or something…"
"The town?" she sneered, "Those bastards are the worst bastards of them all."
Charles took this in stride, but the dog jumping up his leg was starting to annoy him. "Listen," he began.
"Don’t you "listen" me!" she shouted in a shrill voice. "I’m not putting up with this anymore, you can all go fuck yourselves!"

At this point, I heard escalating voices and started over there. I arrived just in time to hear Charles shout, "Listen you crotchety old whore! You go into your musty, old-lady house right now and get my god-damn soccer ball!"
The woman gasped… so did I. "Chuck!" I said, completely at a loss for what to say.
The woman recovered first. "Have respect for your elders, young man!" she squeaked.
"Fuck You." said Charles.
"That ball was on my property," said the woman, "It’s mine now!"
"Fine" said Charles as he bent down and scooped up the annoying, little dog, "You keep the ball, I’m taking your dog."
"You can’t do that!" she screamed.
"Watch me! Your dog is jumping all over me, so he’s my property now… See ya." Charles turned and started down the walkway. I stood rooted to the spot.
"I’ll call the police you little bastard-shit-head!" she screamed at his retreating form.
"You go right ahead, you old bag!" Shouted Charles.

The police arrived shortly. The officer in charge went inside and retrieved our ball, begging us to try our damnedest not to let it land in this yard again. "That woman," he confided in us, "is a God-Damn crazy lady."

We thanked the officer, and headed back to our already delayed game, heady with the victory that a bunch of guys in their twenties and thirties had just achieved in getting our game ball back from a mean old lady.

Ceylon-Soph

2005-09-01T10:53:00.000+05:00

Well, Sophie-Super-Star, one of my best friends, has struck off for Sri Lanka this morning. She’ll be doing volunteer work for Tsunami Relief under Project Galle on the Southern tip of the island for the next three months. I can’t say I’m not a little jealous. It’s a great feeling to get away from things and work on something where you really feel like you’re helping someone. That, and it doesn’t hurt that Sri Lanka is beautiful, Galle is stunning, and the people are fantastic.

Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get back to saving the children, one report at a time.

Good Luck Soph!

Hit Me...

2005-08-30T14:05:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-30T12:25:00.000+05:00

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.

Funny, That...

2005-08-29T11:38:00.000+05:00

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.

You Must Remember This…

2005-08-26T15:21:00.000+05:00

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."

Put the Lime in the Coconut...

2005-08-25T10:32:00.000+05:00

This Morning’s Billboard of the Day:

Gold’s Coconut Candy

Now With Coconut!

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

2005-08-24T19:30:00.000+05:00

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."

I scream... You scream...

2005-08-23T13:36:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-23T11:05:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-23T09:36:00.000+05:00

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.

The Artsaypunk: Explained...

2005-08-21T17:34:00.000+05:00

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.

Birthday Blog...

2005-08-19T12:31:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-19T11:29:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-19T11:08:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-19T10:42:00.000+05:00

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.

Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On...

2005-08-18T19:50:00.000+05:00

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.

I'm Tired of Waking Up Tired...

2005-08-17T10:29:00.000+05:00

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.

Why Am I Here?

2005-08-15T16:34:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-15T16:01:00.000+05:00

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.

Bits and Pieces...

2005-08-11T16:21:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-11T11:57:00.000+05:00

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.

Splitting Hairs...

2005-08-10T15:38:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-10T15:07:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-10T13:51:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-10T13:29:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-10T12:06:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-10T11:55:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-10T11:43:00.000+05:00

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.

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

2005-08-05T16:58:00.000+05:00

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.

Where is my Mind?

2005-08-04T14:00:00.000+05:00

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...

2005-08-04T09:43:00.000+05:00

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.