In the United States, we find ourselves debating politics over an iced mocha made with water that doesn't require a good boiling prior; we most often cross crosswalks without wondering if the car that just passed will suddenly start speeding backwards into you; we enjoy the luxury of wearing sandals without the worry that we might step in poo on the side of the road if we aren't careful. Sure there is stupid in the US. I've seen it. I've even been there. Americans still piss in public, but we have paved roads and concrete gutters to collect said liquid and reroute it to our excellent sewage systems that probably dump the excrement into pipes that end in Malaysia. We are just that awesome.
You don't really start thinking and even appreciating these small conveniences of Western life until you begin traveling or attempt to live in a Third World country. You will still see the same old day-to-day stupid minus the modern plumbing, but this concept extends further to those the govern the country themselves. In Nairobi, the government just miraculous decided literally overnight that smoking was to be banned in all the city proper except two roped off areas. Literally, roped off. It wasn't even a rope, it was more of a ratty twine that was tied around trees with spray painted signs that said "smoking area". WTF? Then in Nepal, I showed up for my 12pm flight only to find out at the airport checkin counter that my flight was rescheduled to 9am. WTF?
But nothing tops this experience more than my dealings with the Indian Consulate right here in fabulous America. Unbeknownst to me, the bigwigs up in New Delhi just woke up one morning and declared that all tourists wishing to enter their damn country require to furnish a copy of their birth certificate for visa processing. Damn son. I wouldn't even need a copy of my birth certificate to repair a ruptured appendix sans insurance so why would I need one to enter a country where traffic goes 100 times slower due to major "cow" blockage? Well I guess it was because of the Mumbai bombings and wanted to ensure that my Indian -Hindu name, is in fact, Indian-Hindu. Ok, fair enough. I will tolerate such great demands.
So I have a copy of my birth certificate at hand. Then I came across another conundrum. NRIs are supposed to apply for a SPECIAL visa with LONGER processing time and that is MORE expensive than the standard "tourist" visa for basically white people. Wasn't the terrorist that bombed Mumbai PRETENDING to be WHITE so shouldn't white travelers to India be the ones under greater scrutiny? Nope not to those Rajas in New Delhi. It is the American-born Indians that they're after with all there coconut-like qualities and perfect English. They are the ones to pay for their misfortunes with a visa fee $50 more than its counterpart. So while other future traveler's to India can get a 5 or 10 year Tourist visa to India, I'm stuck with just a small possibility of getting a 5 year visa. I hung my head down, ashamed of being Indian for the 5th time that day, signed the damn papers and sent off my money, passports, and dignity to the Indian consulate.
Then I get an email from RAJ at the Consulate asking me to furnish my parent's birth certificates and my grandparent's Indian passport information. WTF? Damn son, the last time I was ever asked to provide copies of my parent's birth certificates was well... never. And grandparent's passports? Would there have been a passport issuing agency within my grandparents' vicinity in rural India in the 1930s? THEY DIDN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THEIR BIRTHDAYS WERE. In fact my grandmother just called me a few months ago to ask if I KNEW. So here I am. Close to giving up because this is almost too much bullshit to deal because I feel like I'm in India already. I'm going to start to boil my water and brush my teeth with it for the full effect of what it feels like to be living and dying as an Indian American rejected by her own mother country.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
Total Domination
A few years back, I had a friend that was inflicted with a brain aneurysm. Her recount of what happened when it burst was fascinating. She told me that she just woke up one day and she couldn't move the entire left side of her body. She had to have her boyfriend piggyback her to his car so he could drive her to the hospital. When she got to the hospital, they showed her pictures of horses, cows, chickens, and pigs. She told me that she'd be able to recognized these animals in her brain, but when she tried to say "horse," she wouldn't be able to. As a scientist, I thought that maybe she just forgot her barnyard animals since kindergarten was so many years ago at that point. But then she proceeded to say the same thing happened with pictures of fruits and vegetables. Then I was convinced. Her brain was messed the fuck up.
I am only reminded of this story since I underwent a similar experience just recently. It was suddenly dark and I had to squint to even distinguish whether or not a person was female or a male, let alone a friend or a foe. I would waft through the crowds of people like a toad fighting to swim upstream. I was leaning on people for balance because my entire left side of my body, particularly, hurt so much. I was getting nauseous. I remember getting a little panicked. OMG, do I have a brain aneurysm. Someone call an ambulance PLEASE, I wanted to yell out, but I couldn't.
For a brief moment, I thought the end was coming near. I shut my eyes, took my last breath. Then I realized. Oh wait. I'm drunk.
I am only reminded of this story since I underwent a similar experience just recently. It was suddenly dark and I had to squint to even distinguish whether or not a person was female or a male, let alone a friend or a foe. I would waft through the crowds of people like a toad fighting to swim upstream. I was leaning on people for balance because my entire left side of my body, particularly, hurt so much. I was getting nauseous. I remember getting a little panicked. OMG, do I have a brain aneurysm. Someone call an ambulance PLEASE, I wanted to yell out, but I couldn't.
For a brief moment, I thought the end was coming near. I shut my eyes, took my last breath. Then I realized. Oh wait. I'm drunk.
Adventures in Stripperland
I finally did it. I went to Acropolis. I've heard about it for years as a resident of this fine city. It has become some sort of a buzz word amongst the shady men that I meet and has reached such a level of fame that it is now referred to as simply "Acrop." I hear about "Acrop" as I'm switching light rail lines, as I'm walking down the street, as I'm passing by under-the-table drug deals.
Acropolis is legendary for another reason altogether. It apparently has the "best steak in town" and at $5 for a 6 ouncer, that is a deal that I, myself, would run around naked for. However, the thought of walking into a white-trash-esque strip joint, as a woman and alone never seemed appealing to me. I mean, if I want to get groped, might as well don my own stripper gear and make some money off of that deal right?
So I finally had the opportunity to go with an entourage of thugs. They wore their chains and workout clothes. (Bonus points for any of you who know why guys like to wear sweat pants to strip joints. But I digress.) I wore a sensible top and jeans, ready to chow down on the "best steak I'd ever have in my life." And it sure was. I was on my second plate of steak as I occasionally glanced up and saw some breasts the size of grapefruits swinging around some pole or bouncing around. It was a combination that was appealing to all 5 of my senses.
It wasn't until I took my last bite that things got a little wild. I waited a few minutes to allow the meat to digest and settle in my belly and decided to sit up front row and center. A Betty Page look alike come out from back and man, could she work it! She was swinging them hips and shaking those coconut sized breasts like no other. Then she did this "laying down" routine that exposed all the strange piercing she had in the nooks and crannies of her body. One guy took a look at one of these piercings and was like "man that's gotta hurt." And she laughed and just said "yea I'm like a jewelry box." She sure was and she got paid handsomely for it. Or at least I hope she got tipped out with some of that 20% of the $10 I spent there. Bravo Betty, bravo!
Acropolis is legendary for another reason altogether. It apparently has the "best steak in town" and at $5 for a 6 ouncer, that is a deal that I, myself, would run around naked for. However, the thought of walking into a white-trash-esque strip joint, as a woman and alone never seemed appealing to me. I mean, if I want to get groped, might as well don my own stripper gear and make some money off of that deal right?
So I finally had the opportunity to go with an entourage of thugs. They wore their chains and workout clothes. (Bonus points for any of you who know why guys like to wear sweat pants to strip joints. But I digress.) I wore a sensible top and jeans, ready to chow down on the "best steak I'd ever have in my life." And it sure was. I was on my second plate of steak as I occasionally glanced up and saw some breasts the size of grapefruits swinging around some pole or bouncing around. It was a combination that was appealing to all 5 of my senses.
It wasn't until I took my last bite that things got a little wild. I waited a few minutes to allow the meat to digest and settle in my belly and decided to sit up front row and center. A Betty Page look alike come out from back and man, could she work it! She was swinging them hips and shaking those coconut sized breasts like no other. Then she did this "laying down" routine that exposed all the strange piercing she had in the nooks and crannies of her body. One guy took a look at one of these piercings and was like "man that's gotta hurt." And she laughed and just said "yea I'm like a jewelry box." She sure was and she got paid handsomely for it. Or at least I hope she got tipped out with some of that 20% of the $10 I spent there. Bravo Betty, bravo!
Friday, May 14, 2010
When Will It End?
Every morning, I wake up. Brush my teeth. Dab a little sunscreen on my face. Dress in the finest clothes that Nordstrom Rack has to offer, which usually entails a sensible pair of pants, a button-down shirt, and a blazer of some sort. I look at myself in the mirror one last time to make sure that the claw clip will successfully hold my french twist for the remainder of the day. Then I am off.
Considering that my sense of style is seemingly bland and lazy, the inevitable still happens. Some bad boy in corn rows, basketball jersey and baggy sweat pants, thugged out chain, or a combination of any of the sort "hoots" at me and yells some form of the phrase "Yo 'girl', can I 'holla' at 'chu'?". To this day, I still cannot figure out. Is it some sort of joke? Here I am, this brown girl with an apparent "granola" sense of style involving dated hairstyles and even more dated outfits getting chased by a man who literally has to hold up his oversized basketball shorts as he's talking to me (or attempting to at least). Or is it just simply a fascination, a deeper desire to cross the boundaries that hold us to our stereotypes. The "coconut girl". The "thug." Is it their intellectual drive to cross the bounds that keep us apart, an effort to achieve some sort of world peace, starting in the microcosm that is Portland, OR?
When this first started happening, I fought it. Conversations went something like this:
Man: How you doin' homegirl.
Me: Why hello there mister. How do you do?
Man: Gurrrlll. The burgers at Burgerville are fucking offff the hookkkk.
Me: Indeed they are. I find the Black Bean Burgers equally appetizing.
Man: Yo, where you usually go fuck around at after school?
Me: I'm a virgin. Sorry.
However, I've learned an immense amount from these incidences. As much as these fellows were indeed pushing with their ebonics and golden teeth, I too was pushing back with my penchant for Olde English grammar and manners. I have since attempted to let go of these habits, as I've identified as just a subconscious way to "fit" in the world.
Considering that my sense of style is seemingly bland and lazy, the inevitable still happens. Some bad boy in corn rows, basketball jersey and baggy sweat pants, thugged out chain, or a combination of any of the sort "hoots" at me and yells some form of the phrase "Yo 'girl', can I 'holla' at 'chu'?". To this day, I still cannot figure out. Is it some sort of joke? Here I am, this brown girl with an apparent "granola" sense of style involving dated hairstyles and even more dated outfits getting chased by a man who literally has to hold up his oversized basketball shorts as he's talking to me (or attempting to at least). Or is it just simply a fascination, a deeper desire to cross the boundaries that hold us to our stereotypes. The "coconut girl". The "thug." Is it their intellectual drive to cross the bounds that keep us apart, an effort to achieve some sort of world peace, starting in the microcosm that is Portland, OR?
When this first started happening, I fought it. Conversations went something like this:
Man: How you doin' homegirl.
Me: Why hello there mister. How do you do?
Man: Gurrrlll. The burgers at Burgerville are fucking offff the hookkkk.
Me: Indeed they are. I find the Black Bean Burgers equally appetizing.
Man: Yo, where you usually go fuck around at after school?
Me: I'm a virgin. Sorry.
However, I've learned an immense amount from these incidences. As much as these fellows were indeed pushing with their ebonics and golden teeth, I too was pushing back with my penchant for Olde English grammar and manners. I have since attempted to let go of these habits, as I've identified as just a subconscious way to "fit" in the world.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Male Species
The male species is an interesting lot of animals, yet quite diverse in nature. After giving the whole dating ritual thing a shot, as well as excavating precious data from other male (or semi-male) friends of mine, I am now teem full of data that allows me to develop a scientific phylogeny based on character, personality, and physical traits. Here, I will share with you what I have so far.
Homo oaf
This type of male, as the name implies, is an oaf. He's lazy, eats often, and enjoys playing video games while eating. While out on dates, he often digresses into conversations about food, particularly fast food and even more specifically, the newest fast food items to hit the market. He will wine and dine you, but once he's got his talons into you, will proceed to strictly only hit up drive-thrus and throw in an extra $1 sundae for you on an anniversary or birthday. And beware, members of this species come in small, medium, and large sizes. And please don't super size it for an extra 25 cents.
Homo yuppie
This type is easily spottable. He'll wear a Cartier watch to go buy groceries in your local yuppie neighborhood. He'll flash his LV wallet when he's paying for toll as he's cruising down the New Jersey turnpike in his leather-interior vehicle. If that's not enough, he'll wear designer jeans to go play baseball and on rare occasions, women's designer jeans. He'd fret at the thought of sullying his freshly manicured hands by allowing them to touch the dirt to pick up said baseball. Often mistaken for just plain homo.
Homo loser
This is the guy that has no game whatsoever, knows it, and still tries. He's the one that tries to get you into bed on a first date by asking you subtly and blushes in the process i.e. "So uhm quick question... like... uhm... what's your favorite position ::blush::." A good response is "you under... a bus". He would then proceed to laugh awkwardly and act as if he was just "joking". Right. On days when I feel gutsy, I'd order an extra meal to-go and walk away with my doggy bag. At least I'd get my nookie!
Homo backwash
This is the guy that uses poor helpless lonely women to make the woman they actually want, usually an ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, jealous. He'll take you to events where his ex's will just "happen" to be, grab you so tightly by the arm as you are awkwardly introduced to each other, that you are left with bruises that could be enough cause to file a police report. The minute the other woman walks away, this species tends to instantly lose his smile, want to go home, cry on your shoulder, and then want meaningless sex. It makes you feel like you are sloppy seconds, but then again you are... in spirit.
Homo cannabis
He smokes pot. He talks about pot. He even smells like pot. It is impossible to land a decent job while a dating a guy like this because the contact high alone from his immense pot smoking will prevent you from ever passing a drug test. This type usually does not have any money because he spends it all on pot. He usually does not have a car either because he not only, once again, spends all his money on pot but he is more often than not carrying a license that is suspended due to being caught in the possession of pot. Relationships involving these types of males usually end wherein the ultimatum is presented "It's either me or marijuana," and he sadly chooses... the marijuana.
Homo oaf
This type of male, as the name implies, is an oaf. He's lazy, eats often, and enjoys playing video games while eating. While out on dates, he often digresses into conversations about food, particularly fast food and even more specifically, the newest fast food items to hit the market. He will wine and dine you, but once he's got his talons into you, will proceed to strictly only hit up drive-thrus and throw in an extra $1 sundae for you on an anniversary or birthday. And beware, members of this species come in small, medium, and large sizes. And please don't super size it for an extra 25 cents.
Homo yuppie
This type is easily spottable. He'll wear a Cartier watch to go buy groceries in your local yuppie neighborhood. He'll flash his LV wallet when he's paying for toll as he's cruising down the New Jersey turnpike in his leather-interior vehicle. If that's not enough, he'll wear designer jeans to go play baseball and on rare occasions, women's designer jeans. He'd fret at the thought of sullying his freshly manicured hands by allowing them to touch the dirt to pick up said baseball. Often mistaken for just plain homo.
Homo loser
This is the guy that has no game whatsoever, knows it, and still tries. He's the one that tries to get you into bed on a first date by asking you subtly and blushes in the process i.e. "So uhm quick question... like... uhm... what's your favorite position ::blush::." A good response is "you under... a bus". He would then proceed to laugh awkwardly and act as if he was just "joking". Right. On days when I feel gutsy, I'd order an extra meal to-go and walk away with my doggy bag. At least I'd get my nookie!
Homo backwash
This is the guy that uses poor helpless lonely women to make the woman they actually want, usually an ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, jealous. He'll take you to events where his ex's will just "happen" to be, grab you so tightly by the arm as you are awkwardly introduced to each other, that you are left with bruises that could be enough cause to file a police report. The minute the other woman walks away, this species tends to instantly lose his smile, want to go home, cry on your shoulder, and then want meaningless sex. It makes you feel like you are sloppy seconds, but then again you are... in spirit.
Homo cannabis
He smokes pot. He talks about pot. He even smells like pot. It is impossible to land a decent job while a dating a guy like this because the contact high alone from his immense pot smoking will prevent you from ever passing a drug test. This type usually does not have any money because he spends it all on pot. He usually does not have a car either because he not only, once again, spends all his money on pot but he is more often than not carrying a license that is suspended due to being caught in the possession of pot. Relationships involving these types of males usually end wherein the ultimatum is presented "It's either me or marijuana," and he sadly chooses... the marijuana.
The Invasion of The Candy Snatchers
Ladies and gentlemen, the unthinkable has happened. I would have never fathomed that such a disgusting, self-deprecating accusation could ever come to realization, but it has. Yes, I have been accused of being a... Reese's Pieces thief. It all began when I cleaned my house, which involved shuffling other people's possessions around. At some point in this process, a brand new bag of Reese's Pieces, once in the custody of my roommate, magically disappeared like Kaiser Soze. Oh my. I'm sure The Oregonian would jump at the chance at publishing a front page news story about this poor bastard's lost 65 cent candy. And this is The Oregonian and the damn candy wasn't even King size!
So I get home from school and here he comes barging into my room, and the conversation went something like this:
Roommate: Did you go into my backpack, steal my Reese's Pieces and eat them?
Me: WTF, do I look like ET (muthafucka)?
He then proceeded to woddle away. I felt like throwing three quarters at him, but felt sorry for the bastard so I gave him a crisp $1 bill instead.
So I get home from school and here he comes barging into my room, and the conversation went something like this:
Roommate: Did you go into my backpack, steal my Reese's Pieces and eat them?
Me: WTF, do I look like ET (muthafucka)?
He then proceeded to woddle away. I felt like throwing three quarters at him, but felt sorry for the bastard so I gave him a crisp $1 bill instead.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Single Brown Female
Living in Portland has its downfalls for the straight, brown female. Mostly because I am considered a minority in all 3 categories, which basically means that I have to constantly check myself before taking any measure, drastic or not. However, just like any other human being, I do have a slip-up now and then.
For example, the other day I was waiting at the bus stop and this woman comes and waits with me. As we're both standing there in silence, we saw a truck pass by on the street rather slowly and as said situations normally dictate, two rubberneckers came bobbing out of the window as well.
"Looks like they like you," she said.
"Yea, probably the dress." I said.
"Yea, I mean I ain't no looker now, but I am damn sexy in a dress too," she announced. She smiled at me. Her teeth had her magenta lipstick smeared all over them.
I smiled back at her and was like "Oh you're sexy even now, baby!," and nudged her on the shoulder and started laughing.
...She didn't find it funny. Rather, she instantly turned away and avoided making eye contact with for the remainder of the wait as well as the bus ride itself. At some point, I was tempted to say something "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like a lesbian," but the moment obviously escaped me.
Yea right. Like I wanted her magenta lipstick smeared on my teeth too.
For example, the other day I was waiting at the bus stop and this woman comes and waits with me. As we're both standing there in silence, we saw a truck pass by on the street rather slowly and as said situations normally dictate, two rubberneckers came bobbing out of the window as well.
"Looks like they like you," she said.
"Yea, probably the dress." I said.
"Yea, I mean I ain't no looker now, but I am damn sexy in a dress too," she announced. She smiled at me. Her teeth had her magenta lipstick smeared all over them.
I smiled back at her and was like "Oh you're sexy even now, baby!," and nudged her on the shoulder and started laughing.
...She didn't find it funny. Rather, she instantly turned away and avoided making eye contact with for the remainder of the wait as well as the bus ride itself. At some point, I was tempted to say something "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like a lesbian," but the moment obviously escaped me.
Yea right. Like I wanted her magenta lipstick smeared on my teeth too.
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