Doing things in India often exhausts me, and I generally try to nap or at least lie in bed for some time in the late afternoon. Vacation in India is no different.
After a week on the road I've built some confidence, lost some desire and many things in between. I've only now come to realize that I've been in India for a long time and maybe I really do miss some things back home. So this vacation might actually end up being more of a "I want to be somewhere else" rather than "yeah! I'm here". This is in part(s) due to the fact that I'm traveling almost exclusively to beachside areas, which although nice can be understimulating and over-touristy, in party because I am alone, in part because I am so cheap and when alone with no one to point out the sillyness can't help but take cheapness as a challenge, and in part because none of these places I am staying at have TV. Although they have all been nice accomodations until I reached this hostel in Goa where nothing is as it was advertised.
I've learned that flying in India is nice and relatively cheap. The trains are relatively slow and uncomfortable but extraordinarily cheap. Busses are unbearably slow, especially with all the stop and go, and unbelievably cheap. And people everywhere will simply tell you what you want to hear and in the process try and rip you off. So phrasing a question where the desired answer is obvious is really quite pointless. I guess it's all part of the fun. I also rented and drove a scooter all around town and the countryside, which was definitely a defining highlight so far. Otherwise I've experienced a mild culture shock just being around white people after four months of rarely a spotting.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Years for now.
28.12.07
20.12.07
18.12.07
Music Aficionado from U.S.A. Speaks to Press
After a long day, a day that drags on like its got a flat tire and no spare, followed by a rainy walk home from martial arts class in which you notice bird crap (possibly bat...) on your pants as you take a seat in the restaurant, well, after one of those days not much will cheer you right up.
However, it seems in India small events have a way of delivering a significant impact, and the arrival of the following magazine in the mail, which included the following interview with yours truly, was such a pleasant surprise that I ended up wearing my crapped on pants for nearly a half hour after I got home.
Please note the misspelling of my name, the way that the questions I am responding to are not included along with my answers, how the photo is credited to a professional photographer when my co-worker took it, and the fact that I’ve only been to one musical event in Chennai and may not end up attending another for the duration of my stay.
However, it seems in India small events have a way of delivering a significant impact, and the arrival of the following magazine in the mail, which included the following interview with yours truly, was such a pleasant surprise that I ended up wearing my crapped on pants for nearly a half hour after I got home.
Please note the misspelling of my name, the way that the questions I am responding to are not included along with my answers, how the photo is credited to a professional photographer when my co-worker took it, and the fact that I’ve only been to one musical event in Chennai and may not end up attending another for the duration of my stay.
You can.
You can read the news if you want, but you probably don’t. You can make fun of the glossy magazines. You can write extraordinary poetry. You can live in India. You can be happy. You can act like you’re six. You can play dead.
You can be quiet, too quiet. You can know you’re the best. You can be a snob. You can move up, be a mover and a shaker. You can sit in your room listening to music making playlists to your life: beginnings, endings, in-betweens. Songs will probably repeat themselves.
You can travel of course, but it’s probably just a stage. You can spend your whole life trying to find yourself. You can focus on marrying an attractive woman or living gracefully. You can go broke. And forget. And complain.
You can rhyme because there is a rhyme and a reason. You can change your mind it’s up to you. People can tell you things, people will. You can talk to them on the phone, the internet, they’re always around. You can realize what things means. You can regret.
You’re hindsight should improve but your vision probably won’t. You can test your patience. Really test it. You can have a one-track mind. Just for the hell of it, you can say that. You can think it doesn’t matter. You can realize something’s really great. Or you cannot.
You can.
You can be quiet, too quiet. You can know you’re the best. You can be a snob. You can move up, be a mover and a shaker. You can sit in your room listening to music making playlists to your life: beginnings, endings, in-betweens. Songs will probably repeat themselves.
You can travel of course, but it’s probably just a stage. You can spend your whole life trying to find yourself. You can focus on marrying an attractive woman or living gracefully. You can go broke. And forget. And complain.
You can rhyme because there is a rhyme and a reason. You can change your mind it’s up to you. People can tell you things, people will. You can talk to them on the phone, the internet, they’re always around. You can realize what things means. You can regret.
You’re hindsight should improve but your vision probably won’t. You can test your patience. Really test it. You can have a one-track mind. Just for the hell of it, you can say that. You can think it doesn’t matter. You can realize something’s really great. Or you cannot.
You can.
14.12.07
Cover Concept Artist
On top of my 9 to 5 here in India, where I am part of the pulse, a minor artery or vein somewhere in the lower arm, pumping mostly posters and event invitations to the heart and subsequently soul of this self-aggrandizing independent publishing house, I've been attempting to freelance some work, although lately these ventures have waned.
The first effort resulted in being paid $60 to travel south and play an eighteenth century missionary. As already discussed, actual value: priceless. Since then I've been making in-roads with another local publisher, acting more as a condiment on something they're eating, ketchup seems to be the most popular choice around here, than an element of the circulatory system.
I've designed two books covers, participated in an interview (with photo) regarding a subject I know nothing about for a magazine I've never heard of, and had offers to re-edit translated books (re: rewrite esoteric translations...massive headache) and write children's stories. All for Indian-standard wage of course.
Did I say designed two book covers? One was actually only a cover concept...
The first effort resulted in being paid $60 to travel south and play an eighteenth century missionary. As already discussed, actual value: priceless. Since then I've been making in-roads with another local publisher, acting more as a condiment on something they're eating, ketchup seems to be the most popular choice around here, than an element of the circulatory system.
I've designed two books covers, participated in an interview (with photo) regarding a subject I know nothing about for a magazine I've never heard of, and had offers to re-edit translated books (re: rewrite esoteric translations...massive headache) and write children's stories. All for Indian-standard wage of course.
Did I say designed two book covers? One was actually only a cover concept...
mental note: note mental notes
Feeling agitated about the correlation these days between making money and staring at a computer screen for half your life.
Learned that white lies, once uncovered, can transfer their whiteness to the truth. Although I imagine upon piling up they grow more opaque.
Remembered that I should write things down so I don’t forget them, one-sentence blog epiphanies for example.
Learned that white lies, once uncovered, can transfer their whiteness to the truth. Although I imagine upon piling up they grow more opaque.
Remembered that I should write things down so I don’t forget them, one-sentence blog epiphanies for example.
12.12.07
fish and juice
I am buying fish and juice in India. I am buying them regularly, leisurely, casually. Nothing too fishy about it, nothing too juicy to tell. I am a regular. I go to Fresh Zone and I point at the fresh limes, which are the size of oranges and mostly taste like oranges, and I say “fresh lime” and sometimes I say “juice.” It doesn’t even matter though because I am a regular. I walk the 40 yards to Fresh Zone from my house, I drink my juice sitting on the steps, and when I’m done they pour me the extra juice. I get the leftover juice. A nice phenomenon, that extra juice, like a free refill on a smoothie. Whoever heard of that?
I sit on the steps beside Fresh Zone, in front of the three pay phones, all different models and makes, sipping my juice from a straw, and I ponder the group of skinny guys smoking. I wonder about their jobs and what sort of husbands they’ll make. I watch the married couple approach the adjacent medical stand, our local medical shop, and I wonder where their dog sleeps. I wonder what drugs the auto drivers are buying, what drugs the software engineers are buying. What makes their meters run? What keeps their microchips conducting?
I leisurely, casually drink my fresh lime juice and when I’m done, done with the extra as well, I hand the friendly man 15 rupees and we both cordially shake our heads from side to side. Then I walk away like that’s life. And it is.
I go to the fish stand. I stand over the fish like I know what I’m doing and people try and tell me things like I know what they’re saying. There’s big ones and little ones, shrimp and other things. Of course I don’t really know. I say fillet because someone told me to and it seems to work. They grab one of the big fish, or what’s left of it really, and it’s big so I know I’m on the right track, and someone starts cutting. I ask how much and the man by the scale says a number and we argue a little like I know what I’m doing. They move their hands a lot and I shuffle around eying the fish, as if they’ll clue me into their true value.
The cutting man looks at me and makes more chopping motions and I nod yes of course. Cut it up good and right. It’s all happening so fast and suddenly I have a kilo of some large fish, now small and well proportioned, in my hand, double bagged. I place my other hand under the bag. It feels squishy, yet firm, stable, and a little cool. I confirm the price and pay the man by the scale. A lot of people are paying attention, a few people are doing something with fish. The man by the scale gives me 10 rupees back. He always does. He just gives them back like a receipt. Like it’s part of our relationship, really what defines our relationship. We both smile extra because we know this is unusual, you don’t usually give change on an agreed price. I see a man oddly close to picking his toenail with a cutting knife so then I turn and leave. I have fish to cook. I have juice to drink.
I sit on the steps beside Fresh Zone, in front of the three pay phones, all different models and makes, sipping my juice from a straw, and I ponder the group of skinny guys smoking. I wonder about their jobs and what sort of husbands they’ll make. I watch the married couple approach the adjacent medical stand, our local medical shop, and I wonder where their dog sleeps. I wonder what drugs the auto drivers are buying, what drugs the software engineers are buying. What makes their meters run? What keeps their microchips conducting?
I leisurely, casually drink my fresh lime juice and when I’m done, done with the extra as well, I hand the friendly man 15 rupees and we both cordially shake our heads from side to side. Then I walk away like that’s life. And it is.
I go to the fish stand. I stand over the fish like I know what I’m doing and people try and tell me things like I know what they’re saying. There’s big ones and little ones, shrimp and other things. Of course I don’t really know. I say fillet because someone told me to and it seems to work. They grab one of the big fish, or what’s left of it really, and it’s big so I know I’m on the right track, and someone starts cutting. I ask how much and the man by the scale says a number and we argue a little like I know what I’m doing. They move their hands a lot and I shuffle around eying the fish, as if they’ll clue me into their true value.
The cutting man looks at me and makes more chopping motions and I nod yes of course. Cut it up good and right. It’s all happening so fast and suddenly I have a kilo of some large fish, now small and well proportioned, in my hand, double bagged. I place my other hand under the bag. It feels squishy, yet firm, stable, and a little cool. I confirm the price and pay the man by the scale. A lot of people are paying attention, a few people are doing something with fish. The man by the scale gives me 10 rupees back. He always does. He just gives them back like a receipt. Like it’s part of our relationship, really what defines our relationship. We both smile extra because we know this is unusual, you don’t usually give change on an agreed price. I see a man oddly close to picking his toenail with a cutting knife so then I turn and leave. I have fish to cook. I have juice to drink.
7.12.07
The poet inside, under a tree
My aunt, a freelance artist in L.A., recently started a weekly e-poetry club, where people are free to submit mostly extemporaneous works. For example-
So yesterday morning at work I decided to try and reinvigorate my once determined, and determinedly adolescent, poetic hand. There's a poet inside all of us right? Somewhere near the fat person I'd imagine, probably under a tree.
These Anxieties
I’ve got this anxiety in that within place I can never find.
At work it concerns itself with work, at home with home.
And when I go out, well then it’s way out.
But I’ve got this other anxiety in that same within place.
It’s never present at work, always off somewhere in the past or the future.
When I’m at home it likes to go out and see the world.
And when I go out it gets lazy and dreams about sitting at home.
I’ve got these two anxieties like they should cancel each other out.
Like they should like, just really get over themselves already.
Agree to disagree or something, too much weight on my shoulders.
These anxieties.
Without them work, home, out, the past, the future, now just wouldn’t be the same.
So hard to keep imagining all these things, all these fucking scenarios.
It’s really hard to imagine. All the time.
It’s really hard to imagine where I’d be without these anxieties.
Oooh, ooh here is my submission! I call it "My Grammar Poem"
I do stuff and
Stuff happens to me
So yesterday morning at work I decided to try and reinvigorate my once determined, and determinedly adolescent, poetic hand. There's a poet inside all of us right? Somewhere near the fat person I'd imagine, probably under a tree.
These Anxieties
I’ve got this anxiety in that within place I can never find.
At work it concerns itself with work, at home with home.
And when I go out, well then it’s way out.
But I’ve got this other anxiety in that same within place.
It’s never present at work, always off somewhere in the past or the future.
When I’m at home it likes to go out and see the world.
And when I go out it gets lazy and dreams about sitting at home.
I’ve got these two anxieties like they should cancel each other out.
Like they should like, just really get over themselves already.
Agree to disagree or something, too much weight on my shoulders.
These anxieties.
Without them work, home, out, the past, the future, now just wouldn’t be the same.
So hard to keep imagining all these things, all these fucking scenarios.
It’s really hard to imagine. All the time.
It’s really hard to imagine where I’d be without these anxieties.
5.12.07
In training
Chennai has a city train. It consists of two lines running vertically across the city, parallel to the ocean. I often hear it’s lulling rush at work: a brief reminder of the world outside passing by. Often I’ll use this opportunity to stretch, as if the train took me away, far and fast, for those few seconds. As if the case with most trains with two lines in cities of 8 million, the Chennai train is often not a practical option. But I needed to go to Chennai Central Station, a very practical option for the train, even in India where practicality is not always practical.
Running for about 1 km, from behind where I live all the way to behind the office where I work, with some slack on both ends, is a mammoth concrete structure. This imposing edifice lies unfinished, dormant besides a few seemingly stray workers still shuffling dirt to and fro. There’s concrete staircases, concrete corridors, concrete shop fronts and bathroom entrances; there’s sprawling puddles and drip, drip, dripping water echoing throughout; and every so often there’s the rumble of a passing train. Passing just above and even through the structure really, because this structure is the train station.
I don’t know how much the train costs, but I’m sure it’s worth it. I’m just not sure how to pay this worthy amount. If you try and go to ticket booth (the signage was completed before abandonment) you’ll find it boarded over. Personally I decided not to focus on paying, which shouldn’t have to be ones focus in pursuits such as this but should come naturally as part of the process, and simply concentrated on riding the train, which the abandoned ticket counter might discourage one from. Then, with all moral apprehensions at rest for the time being, simply by climbing several staircases (ignoring the escalator signs, although you may later spot an escalator incised somehow into the concrete mass, not running of course) you’ll emerge onto a platform and, astonishingly, other people will be waiting there as well, on the platform, presumably for this very train you’ve heard so much from.
Anyways I found myself on the train, standing by the open door staring out at the city from above, seeing the slums and poverty and windy roads from a new perspective, sweaty and late for work after an unsuccessful attempt at getting train tickets, thinking about something totally banal. Something I’d thought of thousands of times over and over again. Something like lunch or work. And I looked around and I’m pretty sure that’s what most other people were thinking about as well, aside from a spattering of loved ones and lost ones and past ones intruding into several psyches. And we were all on the Chennai city train, some of us for the first time, most of us not for the last, passing by the outside world full of offices with people stretching, weighing our luck for the day or maybe just relaxing, our spiritual-somethings’ woven together for that brief instant, contained safely within the train.
What does this mean? Maybe I’ve been in India for too long to further avoid spiritual reference. Maybe I should listen to music on the train to avoid such tangents. Maybe nothing.
I think something to do with frame of reference, like when you’re sitting on the idle train and you feel like you’re beginning to move but it’s only the train next to you. Or when two trains pass each other and it seems like you’re going twice as fast from inside either train. Or when you hear the train from office or see the office from the train. This is just what I think though, and it could simply be a result of me writing about trains for so long that they’ve traveled all the way to my critical thinking capacities, choo-chooing all-the-while.
(By the way, I hate this blog entry, but since I wrote it I thought I might as well post it. I don't think it means anything.)
Running for about 1 km, from behind where I live all the way to behind the office where I work, with some slack on both ends, is a mammoth concrete structure. This imposing edifice lies unfinished, dormant besides a few seemingly stray workers still shuffling dirt to and fro. There’s concrete staircases, concrete corridors, concrete shop fronts and bathroom entrances; there’s sprawling puddles and drip, drip, dripping water echoing throughout; and every so often there’s the rumble of a passing train. Passing just above and even through the structure really, because this structure is the train station.
I don’t know how much the train costs, but I’m sure it’s worth it. I’m just not sure how to pay this worthy amount. If you try and go to ticket booth (the signage was completed before abandonment) you’ll find it boarded over. Personally I decided not to focus on paying, which shouldn’t have to be ones focus in pursuits such as this but should come naturally as part of the process, and simply concentrated on riding the train, which the abandoned ticket counter might discourage one from. Then, with all moral apprehensions at rest for the time being, simply by climbing several staircases (ignoring the escalator signs, although you may later spot an escalator incised somehow into the concrete mass, not running of course) you’ll emerge onto a platform and, astonishingly, other people will be waiting there as well, on the platform, presumably for this very train you’ve heard so much from.
Anyways I found myself on the train, standing by the open door staring out at the city from above, seeing the slums and poverty and windy roads from a new perspective, sweaty and late for work after an unsuccessful attempt at getting train tickets, thinking about something totally banal. Something I’d thought of thousands of times over and over again. Something like lunch or work. And I looked around and I’m pretty sure that’s what most other people were thinking about as well, aside from a spattering of loved ones and lost ones and past ones intruding into several psyches. And we were all on the Chennai city train, some of us for the first time, most of us not for the last, passing by the outside world full of offices with people stretching, weighing our luck for the day or maybe just relaxing, our spiritual-somethings’ woven together for that brief instant, contained safely within the train.
What does this mean? Maybe I’ve been in India for too long to further avoid spiritual reference. Maybe I should listen to music on the train to avoid such tangents. Maybe nothing.
I think something to do with frame of reference, like when you’re sitting on the idle train and you feel like you’re beginning to move but it’s only the train next to you. Or when two trains pass each other and it seems like you’re going twice as fast from inside either train. Or when you hear the train from office or see the office from the train. This is just what I think though, and it could simply be a result of me writing about trains for so long that they’ve traveled all the way to my critical thinking capacities, choo-chooing all-the-while.
(By the way, I hate this blog entry, but since I wrote it I thought I might as well post it. I don't think it means anything.)
30.11.07
hats off to the birthday boy
Taken just before being bonked on the head by Mr. A. Judging by his expression a rather enjoyable south Indian birthday tradition .
After being bonked on the head I decided to keep the cake all to myself, eating two slices at a time. The others didn't appear very hungry anyways.
Then, offended that I ate all the cake and adding insult to injury, Mr. A took my gift and opened it for himself, all-the-while keeping me at a distance by threatening me with a blade. I no longer felt like wearing my birthday cap.28.11.07
HEADLINE: "Physics Grad Student Friend Wins, Big Surprise"
Well, no one can be too surprised that the man who's been studying math-related things on a daily basis for the entirety of his life up to this point has won. It's finally starting to pay off, right Chris? That fourth one sure was a doozy, although it appears that you may still have a slight hangup distinguishing the sign for addition from that of subtraction, unless 40 is the new 24, which is could be.
Here's a few more for all you folks who spend most of your time avoiding the things that Chris eats, sleeps, and dreams about; meaning keeps your answers to yourself Chris, and you too Zach, or should I say 24-champion-of-the-5th-grade-elementary-school-class!
Also second prize is the same as first prize. So maybe there's a moral to this story after all. Oh yeah, and after all, congratulations Chris!
2 2 2 3
4 4 9 1
8 3 6 2
5 5 2 2
Here's a few more for all you folks who spend most of your time avoiding the things that Chris eats, sleeps, and dreams about; meaning keeps your answers to yourself Chris, and you too Zach, or should I say 24-champion-of-the-5th-grade-elementary-school-class!
Also second prize is the same as first prize. So maybe there's a moral to this story after all. Oh yeah, and after all, congratulations Chris!
2 2 2 3
4 4 9 1
8 3 6 2
5 5 2 2
27.11.07
beware of 24
I thought I would upgrade my brother's comment to post status. The first one to post (comment) the answers shall be rewarded with the same. Let the birthday-celebration excitement ensue!
Happy Born-Day broaridudebro. 24 years old. Like all budding 24-year olds, you must now try to figure out the below "24" math problems (remember that game I played in Elementary School?)
The rules:
Add, subtract, multiply, and divide the four given numbers to get 24. You must use all four numbers, and you can only use each once.
Example:
3 6 2 3
1st step: 3x6 = 18
2nd step: 2x3 = 6
3rd step: 18+6 = 24
YOU WIN!!
24 CHALLENGES:
9 3 8 2
6 5 3 3
4 1 2 2
7 9 2 8
Good luck.
Also, I'm still waiting for an e-mail.
Happy Born-Day broaridudebro. 24 years old. Like all budding 24-year olds, you must now try to figure out the below "24" math problems (remember that game I played in Elementary School?)
The rules:
Add, subtract, multiply, and divide the four given numbers to get 24. You must use all four numbers, and you can only use each once.
Example:
3 6 2 3
1st step: 3x6 = 18
2nd step: 2x3 = 6
3rd step: 18+6 = 24
YOU WIN!!
24 CHALLENGES:
9 3 8 2
6 5 3 3
4 1 2 2
7 9 2 8
Good luck.
Also, I'm still waiting for an e-mail.
23.11.07
the Edge
Thanksgiving time. I give thanks. Thanks for the harvest and the land and the white man’s immunity to germs and prior development of guns and ambitions to sail over and off the edge of the earth. Somehow a very Western thought, sailing off the edge of the planet. In India and the East everything goes in circles and cycles and incarnations, but in the West we just try to reach the end, even if just to fall off. Celebrated Thanksgiving for for breakfast this year by eating idlys and vedas dipped and drizzled in their various sauces and hand-spooned off the banana leaf. Jenn’s parents sent “crackers” and we popped them (pop!) and then opened them—inside mine was a mini-tape measurer (4 ft.) and a joke, “What kind of cat should you never play cards with? A Cheetah.” I imagine Christian laughing at this joke, but not many others.
Birthday time. I was birthed. I was born around Thanksgiving time because my parents consummated their young marriage around Valentine’s Day—so much love associated with my birth; so much proud American consumer-culture. We would sail to the edge of the earth for love in America, yes we would, and if we didn’t find it there we would find it in a frog and turn that frog into a beautiful prince, or princess. And then on February 14th we would buy that frog chocolate-covered flies and an exceptional bouquet of lily pads and inseminate that frog, not once considering the trip to the hospital during the Cowboys vs. Redskins game we were resigning ourselves to the next fall. And then we would most likely eventually realize we married a frog and get a divorce.
In reward for being born 24-years ago I’m hoping to receive deodorant sticks and one of these sweet gas-station-attendant shirts they wear here that say “Pure for Sure” with a graphic of a hand giving the “A-Okay” sign on the back. I’m also hoping to finally shake this stomach bug (no more mixed-veg dosas for me) and sore throat (too much running around in the rain trying to prevent the rain from running too much into our house), and even have something resembling a party; because if there’s one thing to help push us over that edge we’re so drawn to in the West, or maybe it helps keep us back I'm not really sure, it’s a good party.
Birthday time. I was birthed. I was born around Thanksgiving time because my parents consummated their young marriage around Valentine’s Day—so much love associated with my birth; so much proud American consumer-culture. We would sail to the edge of the earth for love in America, yes we would, and if we didn’t find it there we would find it in a frog and turn that frog into a beautiful prince, or princess. And then on February 14th we would buy that frog chocolate-covered flies and an exceptional bouquet of lily pads and inseminate that frog, not once considering the trip to the hospital during the Cowboys vs. Redskins game we were resigning ourselves to the next fall. And then we would most likely eventually realize we married a frog and get a divorce.
In reward for being born 24-years ago I’m hoping to receive deodorant sticks and one of these sweet gas-station-attendant shirts they wear here that say “Pure for Sure” with a graphic of a hand giving the “A-Okay” sign on the back. I’m also hoping to finally shake this stomach bug (no more mixed-veg dosas for me) and sore throat (too much running around in the rain trying to prevent the rain from running too much into our house), and even have something resembling a party; because if there’s one thing to help push us over that edge we’re so drawn to in the West, or maybe it helps keep us back I'm not really sure, it’s a good party.
20.11.07
I can be your hero
"Ari donned a past intern's gigantic blue rain suit and turned into Superman, making makeshift pipes and giving sound advice."
-quote from Jenn's blog entry Of Floods and Bugs..., although that's really all you need to know.
-quote from Jenn's blog entry Of Floods and Bugs..., although that's really all you need to know.
15.11.07
A year in the making
The following are excerpts from two journal entries I wrote one year ago during a brief but intense spell of documented introspection. I stumbled across them the other day and thought they presented both a fine contrast to the present and a reminder of how things change but stay the same. I’ve edited out anything too revealing, sorry.
11/15/06
One minute past midnight, so late, so early. There were some highlights today; more like the day’s highlights, nothing I’ll need to keep highlighted for too long. For one, I interviewed at an employment agency. With a lot of these job-searching activities by the end I am left with the feeling that I should be doing the person’s job because I could do it better. I think they are left with the feeling that I feel that way. It took them over a week to call me back for Christ’s sake.
I ended up taking three aptitude tests at the agency: basic knowledge, MS Word, and MS Excel. It really hit me that I was wasting my time when, just as I was about to complete the basic knowledge test, the computer malfunctioned and I had to start all over again. And the lady interviewing me had a broken foot and was just entering that crucial period where she can begin to apply pressure to it, which apparently deserves frequent notation. As I was walking out the door the secretary actually told me that for the next several weeks, things, job market things I presume, “would certainly be dismal, but you never know.” I should have spent the afternoon gathering firewood.
11/16/06
I took another employment-related test today. This one was less of an aptitude indicator and more of a social-placement test. It was for Borders, and I had to take it twice since I wanted to apply to two different Borders locations. After doing 37 pages of 5 multiple choice questions once, I somehow found the motivation to do it all again. Oh, the toils of job hunting.
In taking the test I realized that the person they want me to be and the person that I am are about as different as…well, as your typical Border’s employee and a relatively insecure, lugubrious 22 year old who lives in his mom’s living room [don’t know what I was thinking here…differences seem rather unimpressive don’t they?]. Of course I lied accordingly on the test, the first time at least. The second time I was more willing to accept myself as a poor candidate for Borders. I mean, I could do the job, it’s just not a job designed for me. Anyways, in typical ruminative fashion I began to question why I didn’t more resemble this ideal Borders employee: why couldn’t I glide smoothly between cashier, inventory, and the café without the slightest mental hang-up? Why didn’t I easily put negative criticism behind me? Why did I spend a lot of time worrying about things that were out of my control? ? Why am I not more content with who I am?
11/15/06
One minute past midnight, so late, so early. There were some highlights today; more like the day’s highlights, nothing I’ll need to keep highlighted for too long. For one, I interviewed at an employment agency. With a lot of these job-searching activities by the end I am left with the feeling that I should be doing the person’s job because I could do it better. I think they are left with the feeling that I feel that way. It took them over a week to call me back for Christ’s sake.
I ended up taking three aptitude tests at the agency: basic knowledge, MS Word, and MS Excel. It really hit me that I was wasting my time when, just as I was about to complete the basic knowledge test, the computer malfunctioned and I had to start all over again. And the lady interviewing me had a broken foot and was just entering that crucial period where she can begin to apply pressure to it, which apparently deserves frequent notation. As I was walking out the door the secretary actually told me that for the next several weeks, things, job market things I presume, “would certainly be dismal, but you never know.” I should have spent the afternoon gathering firewood.
11/16/06
I took another employment-related test today. This one was less of an aptitude indicator and more of a social-placement test. It was for Borders, and I had to take it twice since I wanted to apply to two different Borders locations. After doing 37 pages of 5 multiple choice questions once, I somehow found the motivation to do it all again. Oh, the toils of job hunting.
In taking the test I realized that the person they want me to be and the person that I am are about as different as…well, as your typical Border’s employee and a relatively insecure, lugubrious 22 year old who lives in his mom’s living room [don’t know what I was thinking here…differences seem rather unimpressive don’t they?]. Of course I lied accordingly on the test, the first time at least. The second time I was more willing to accept myself as a poor candidate for Borders. I mean, I could do the job, it’s just not a job designed for me. Anyways, in typical ruminative fashion I began to question why I didn’t more resemble this ideal Borders employee: why couldn’t I glide smoothly between cashier, inventory, and the café without the slightest mental hang-up? Why didn’t I easily put negative criticism behind me? Why did I spend a lot of time worrying about things that were out of my control? ? Why am I not more content with who I am?
12.11.07
topic
There’s four days off and the topic is vacation. The location is Bangalore, India; India’s most Westernized city. My American friends back home told me it’s not worth my time, too Westernized, my Indian coworkers have nothing bad to say. My friends back home are too opinionated in predictably preemptive ways, my Indian friends aren’t, well, so suffocated by Westerly winds, yet. Either way, cooler weather, a change of pace, and Western breakfast are too appealing to preempt at this point.
We’re taking a Polish couple with us, insistent that Jenn’s recent stomach problems have a direct correlation with her lack of Vodka, an overnight train, 2nd class reserved, and a list of places to eat, drink, and be merry. We’ve got a hotel for two nights, a tight budget, and an understanding that whatever happens will be strange, unexpected, and generally memorable. We’ll see how it goes.
It’s November and the topic is leaves. The location is between the sky and the earth. The question is when, why, and who leaves with him. The reason is he shouldn’t be asking. The result, a different time and place for sure. And then we all fall down, between the sky and the earth.
It’s Martial Arts class and the topic is why we eat off banana leaves in South India. The decision is that the chlorophyll is good for us, it has ATP it has energy, and that simply by eating off these leaves we are providing ourselves with fuel and nourishment. The obvious is ignored, the ignorance is obvious. The thought of my inferiority as a Martial Artist becomes a personal focus.
It’s 4:30 and the topic is getting a drink of water.
It’s 4:34 and the topic is the rest of my life, the GRE, women, heat, life on other planets, why is the tile so ugly?, why are people comfortable with each other?, Chinese Junk ships, Kurt Vonnegut, the theme music to my life, and the appropriate amount of work to do as to not disappoint but also not over-exert.
It’s 4:39 already. The topic is time, and, briefly, the point at which people give up trying to find meaning and simply accept some form of it; for example reciting prayer passages as slowly as possible for a half-hour as a form of meditation. Jenn, Christian and I tried this last week at a free seminar with a fortunately-worded advertisement. I memorized the prayer of St. Francis; Christian repeated three lines of something having to do with light vs. dark and life vs. death; and Jenn said “baruch atah adonai” over and over again for some reason. In it’s favor the half hour of meditation passed surprisingly quickly and I found it a good opportunity to work on my posture, and there were fresh brownies.
Talk amongst yourselves.
We’re taking a Polish couple with us, insistent that Jenn’s recent stomach problems have a direct correlation with her lack of Vodka, an overnight train, 2nd class reserved, and a list of places to eat, drink, and be merry. We’ve got a hotel for two nights, a tight budget, and an understanding that whatever happens will be strange, unexpected, and generally memorable. We’ll see how it goes.
It’s November and the topic is leaves. The location is between the sky and the earth. The question is when, why, and who leaves with him. The reason is he shouldn’t be asking. The result, a different time and place for sure. And then we all fall down, between the sky and the earth.
It’s Martial Arts class and the topic is why we eat off banana leaves in South India. The decision is that the chlorophyll is good for us, it has ATP it has energy, and that simply by eating off these leaves we are providing ourselves with fuel and nourishment. The obvious is ignored, the ignorance is obvious. The thought of my inferiority as a Martial Artist becomes a personal focus.
It’s 4:30 and the topic is getting a drink of water.
It’s 4:34 and the topic is the rest of my life, the GRE, women, heat, life on other planets, why is the tile so ugly?, why are people comfortable with each other?, Chinese Junk ships, Kurt Vonnegut, the theme music to my life, and the appropriate amount of work to do as to not disappoint but also not over-exert.
It’s 4:39 already. The topic is time, and, briefly, the point at which people give up trying to find meaning and simply accept some form of it; for example reciting prayer passages as slowly as possible for a half-hour as a form of meditation. Jenn, Christian and I tried this last week at a free seminar with a fortunately-worded advertisement. I memorized the prayer of St. Francis; Christian repeated three lines of something having to do with light vs. dark and life vs. death; and Jenn said “baruch atah adonai” over and over again for some reason. In it’s favor the half hour of meditation passed surprisingly quickly and I found it a good opportunity to work on my posture, and there were fresh brownies.
Talk amongst yourselves.
6.11.07
future of music
this article is about the death of Oink, my beloved music downloading site, and the future of the music industry. I liked it.
LESSON IN LOCAL CULTURE III
Local: tack on a G, swap the C for a B, and what do you get—Global. That’s right, just a few letters difference. And who can make that difference? You! So let’s C what you can B, and tell your Gs too!
Christian threw his passport in the trashcan five minutes before heading to Africa.
Christian threw his passport in the trashcan five minutes before heading to Africa. Everyone at the driving range was Korean. China has only one time zone. Twenty-six-year-old Polish physics majors sometimes bun you CDs with “Enigma” on them.
Biking through rush-hour traffic feels like smoking 5 packs of cigarettes. I’ve been to 11 countries in my life. Change is good. Change is bad. How did the world go’ round without cell phones?
Christian came all the way back from the airport to find his passport in the trashcan. Today is one of my best childhood friend’s 24th birthdays. We hugged for the first goodbye but shook hands for the second.
In elementary school I memorized the name and capital of every country in Africa. If you’re in Western China and you cross the border time must skip about 5 hours. We don’t talk anymore but we are friends on facebook. There’s things I can’t say in this blog because certain people are probably reading it.
I’ve never seen Casablanca, but I’ve rented it twice. We have two Rough Guides to South India and one for all of India. Diwali, the Hindu New Year, is this Thursday. Indian fireworks lack a visual aspect, but they make up for it in sound. The louder the better the more celebratory. A person can get used to anything.
Kingfisher is the only beer for sale in this state and also the most luxurious Indian airline, same owner. Christian says it’s “so legit” and that they give you menus and scarves. Everyone just watches bad movies in planes now, as if they needed an excuse. Sometimes I think in song lyrics. Sometimes I sing my thoughts. Sometimes I sing songs.
The first song I memorized all the lyrics too was “Self-Esteem” by Offspring; Christian played that song this weekend without knowing this. We sang along. He’s going to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, which apparently only takes 7 days and thousands of people do it every year. But do it soon, the ice cap is determined to leave. Sometimes I find it hard to justify not devoting my life to saving the environment, the other times I find it too depressing.
Toilet paper is a waste. Auto rickshaws are a waste. Jealousy is a waste…The pollution made Sarah feel sick the whole time she was here. At least that’s what she thought. Half the world seems to be flooding or burning. Tara books is having a seasonal promotion; free shipping and free gift wrapping, a free note from Ari if you request. Don’t throw your passport in the trashcan. Not yet.
Biking through rush-hour traffic feels like smoking 5 packs of cigarettes. I’ve been to 11 countries in my life. Change is good. Change is bad. How did the world go’ round without cell phones?
Christian came all the way back from the airport to find his passport in the trashcan. Today is one of my best childhood friend’s 24th birthdays. We hugged for the first goodbye but shook hands for the second.
In elementary school I memorized the name and capital of every country in Africa. If you’re in Western China and you cross the border time must skip about 5 hours. We don’t talk anymore but we are friends on facebook. There’s things I can’t say in this blog because certain people are probably reading it.
I’ve never seen Casablanca, but I’ve rented it twice. We have two Rough Guides to South India and one for all of India. Diwali, the Hindu New Year, is this Thursday. Indian fireworks lack a visual aspect, but they make up for it in sound. The louder the better the more celebratory. A person can get used to anything.
Kingfisher is the only beer for sale in this state and also the most luxurious Indian airline, same owner. Christian says it’s “so legit” and that they give you menus and scarves. Everyone just watches bad movies in planes now, as if they needed an excuse. Sometimes I think in song lyrics. Sometimes I sing my thoughts. Sometimes I sing songs.
The first song I memorized all the lyrics too was “Self-Esteem” by Offspring; Christian played that song this weekend without knowing this. We sang along. He’s going to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, which apparently only takes 7 days and thousands of people do it every year. But do it soon, the ice cap is determined to leave. Sometimes I find it hard to justify not devoting my life to saving the environment, the other times I find it too depressing.
Toilet paper is a waste. Auto rickshaws are a waste. Jealousy is a waste…The pollution made Sarah feel sick the whole time she was here. At least that’s what she thought. Half the world seems to be flooding or burning. Tara books is having a seasonal promotion; free shipping and free gift wrapping, a free note from Ari if you request. Don’t throw your passport in the trashcan. Not yet.
30.10.07
Answers?
Yes our house did flood yesterday, about a week into the two-month monsoon season. No no no, this was not unexpected. Highly expected really, a little bit like growing up I think. You delude yourself for a while but eventually you’ve got to roll up your knickers and start wringing out the towels as the fountain of youth floods into your housemates’ bedroom, no longer within but from somewhere without. No, I know, that doesn’t really make sense, but now you’ve got the imagery at least.
Our crazy landlord? Yes, she’s in full form of course. She’s decided to tear up the floor starting tomorrow. I know, it’s the middle of the monsoon, but we’re not dealing with someone who accepts the rational as, well, rational; we’re dealing with construction in the blood; we’re dealing with “don’t tell my mother, [they both live upstairs] she thinks I’ve been just throwing money away trying to fix the house”; we’re dealing with “maybe I shouldn’t have paved the entire yard in cement, the water has no soil to seep into”; we’re dealing with uninhibited, unchecked decision making where one minute she’s planning a trip to north India with us and her expectedly-insane children and the next she’s calling one of us fat or ugly or pathetic. We’re dealing with a grown-up child, although she did help with the wringing out last night.
She asked us how we lived without TV. Well first she asked us if we had a TV even though she’s the one who furnished our apartment. When we told her no we don’t but we do things like read books and watch movies she said she can’t imagine life without television. She also told me she doesn’t mind rats because she loves Tom & Jerry and she hates all reptiles, including cockroaches. I know, I know, I need to film her.
Well, let’s see…we finally ran out of gas over the weekend. Actually it happened as I was boiling water and preparing to sauté some vegetables. No, I ended up eating lukewarm vegetables stirred in oil. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds though. I’ve been eating a lot of crackers lately, although we did splurge for Dominos last night. Yeah, we took a break from the flooding for a little taste of home. No, Dominoes doesn’t remind me of home, although I’m sure for the rest of my life it will remind me of India. I guess it’s ironic. I also ate lunch at a restaurant where they serve 5 juices (think V8 or protein shake), 5 uncooked vegetables, 5 semi-cooked vegetables, 5 cooked vegetables, and then finally rice and sambar, and you have to eat it in that order. Oh yeah, and for desert they pour some honey into your hand. No, Jenn tricked me into going. I’d like to bring my family there though, that would be funny. No, they aren’t visiting. Various reasons.
Work is fine. Sorry, I’m going to answer that like a fifteen-year-old getting picked up by his mom. I worked at McDonalds when I was fifteen. No I haven’t been to McDonalds in India, I haven’t even seen one. Strange, I know.
Christian and Sarah, my friends from home, are visiting for a few days this week, did I tell you that? They’re on their way to Africa for ten months. Crazy, I know. Something with children, for a good cause. I know. I’m not sure what we’re going to do. I’m not even sure where they’re going to stay now that our house is in disrepair. Yeah, they’re laid back. Apparently all New Mexicans are right? Although I can think of some exceptional…exceptions. Yeah, I know, I know.
Our crazy landlord? Yes, she’s in full form of course. She’s decided to tear up the floor starting tomorrow. I know, it’s the middle of the monsoon, but we’re not dealing with someone who accepts the rational as, well, rational; we’re dealing with construction in the blood; we’re dealing with “don’t tell my mother, [they both live upstairs] she thinks I’ve been just throwing money away trying to fix the house”; we’re dealing with “maybe I shouldn’t have paved the entire yard in cement, the water has no soil to seep into”; we’re dealing with uninhibited, unchecked decision making where one minute she’s planning a trip to north India with us and her expectedly-insane children and the next she’s calling one of us fat or ugly or pathetic. We’re dealing with a grown-up child, although she did help with the wringing out last night.
She asked us how we lived without TV. Well first she asked us if we had a TV even though she’s the one who furnished our apartment. When we told her no we don’t but we do things like read books and watch movies she said she can’t imagine life without television. She also told me she doesn’t mind rats because she loves Tom & Jerry and she hates all reptiles, including cockroaches. I know, I know, I need to film her.
Well, let’s see…we finally ran out of gas over the weekend. Actually it happened as I was boiling water and preparing to sauté some vegetables. No, I ended up eating lukewarm vegetables stirred in oil. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds though. I’ve been eating a lot of crackers lately, although we did splurge for Dominos last night. Yeah, we took a break from the flooding for a little taste of home. No, Dominoes doesn’t remind me of home, although I’m sure for the rest of my life it will remind me of India. I guess it’s ironic. I also ate lunch at a restaurant where they serve 5 juices (think V8 or protein shake), 5 uncooked vegetables, 5 semi-cooked vegetables, 5 cooked vegetables, and then finally rice and sambar, and you have to eat it in that order. Oh yeah, and for desert they pour some honey into your hand. No, Jenn tricked me into going. I’d like to bring my family there though, that would be funny. No, they aren’t visiting. Various reasons.
Work is fine. Sorry, I’m going to answer that like a fifteen-year-old getting picked up by his mom. I worked at McDonalds when I was fifteen. No I haven’t been to McDonalds in India, I haven’t even seen one. Strange, I know.
Christian and Sarah, my friends from home, are visiting for a few days this week, did I tell you that? They’re on their way to Africa for ten months. Crazy, I know. Something with children, for a good cause. I know. I’m not sure what we’re going to do. I’m not even sure where they’re going to stay now that our house is in disrepair. Yeah, they’re laid back. Apparently all New Mexicans are right? Although I can think of some exceptional…exceptions. Yeah, I know, I know.
26.10.07
(Q&A)-A
Do auto drivers drive their autos recreationally or do they use public transportation, such as other autos?
Will I get sick from all the mayo that was on the veggie burger I ate for dinner?
Is it funny that the restaurant I ate dinner at was named “Baywatch”?
Why did I eat there? Why do they use so much mayonnaise?
Why am I not more profound?
Where will I be in one year? What will I think about now then?
Are these questions stupid?
They seem stupid?
Why am I too lazy to take a shower even though I am gross?
Will my umbrella still be at Baywatch tomorrow when I try to go pick it up?
Will the Martial Arts teacher yell at me for deciding to only stay for the warm-up segment of the class and not the actual teaching-of-ancient-martial-arts part?
Why is deodorant here sold as a talc powder? How does one apply this powder correctly?
How did an elephants theme develop in my room? Why is my sheet such a sherbert-orange color?
Why do I feel the need to try and plan my life so strictly? Is life what happens while we’re making plans? Why did Oasis get so fucking stuck up and decide they were the next Beatles and then completely self-destruct?
What do I think of the new Radiohead album?
Why am I so tired? Why don’t I stay up later doing all the things I like to think about doing when I’m not doing them, like reading/writing more?
Is our sink really not draining because there is cement clogging the pipes due to all the construction?
When will I next see a giant cockroach?
Who will answer these questions?
How strong will the monsoon be this year?
Is it strange that I am used to the clotheslines crisscrossing my room being lined with drying pairs of my boxer briefs?
Is strangeness, just like all other perception, subjective?
Is it dumb to major in philosophy?
Are some questions better left unanswered?
Will I get sick from all the mayo that was on the veggie burger I ate for dinner?
Is it funny that the restaurant I ate dinner at was named “Baywatch”?
Why did I eat there? Why do they use so much mayonnaise?
Why am I not more profound?
Where will I be in one year? What will I think about now then?
Are these questions stupid?
They seem stupid?
Why am I too lazy to take a shower even though I am gross?
Will my umbrella still be at Baywatch tomorrow when I try to go pick it up?
Will the Martial Arts teacher yell at me for deciding to only stay for the warm-up segment of the class and not the actual teaching-of-ancient-martial-arts part?
Why is deodorant here sold as a talc powder? How does one apply this powder correctly?
How did an elephants theme develop in my room? Why is my sheet such a sherbert-orange color?
Why do I feel the need to try and plan my life so strictly? Is life what happens while we’re making plans? Why did Oasis get so fucking stuck up and decide they were the next Beatles and then completely self-destruct?
What do I think of the new Radiohead album?
Why am I so tired? Why don’t I stay up later doing all the things I like to think about doing when I’m not doing them, like reading/writing more?
Is our sink really not draining because there is cement clogging the pipes due to all the construction?
When will I next see a giant cockroach?
Who will answer these questions?
How strong will the monsoon be this year?
Is it strange that I am used to the clotheslines crisscrossing my room being lined with drying pairs of my boxer briefs?
Is strangeness, just like all other perception, subjective?
Is it dumb to major in philosophy?
Are some questions better left unanswered?
23.10.07
Typical interaction with the driver of an auto rickshaw on the streets of Chennai-
I am walking along the side of the road, traffic is whizzing by, auto rickshaws pass about every 10 seconds and a vacant one is inevitably approaching. There it is. I wave my hand slightly and make eye contact. The stage is set.
Me: “Adyar” (Southern part of city)
Auto: “Adyar” (nods head)
Me: “Indira Nagar” (Neighborhood)
Auto: “Intrebartar??” (looks at me with askew confused face)
Me: “IN-DIR-A NA-GAR”
Auto: (same askew face, slightly more confused)
Me: “indiranagar, indiranagar” (Really fast as I attempt to imitate the way it sounds in South Indian)
Auto: “Ahhh indiranagar”
Me: “Water tank, indiranagar water tank” (the landmark nearest my residence)
Auto: “indiranagar water tank?”
Me: “Adyar, Indira Nagar, water tank”
Auto: “Adyar, Indira Nagar, water tank, yesgetinnoproblem”
Me: “How much?”
Auto: (looks me up and down while pretending to calculate the rate, lips already drooling) “150”
Me: “Nononono, 80”
At this point a fair number of the auto drivers will simply give a final look of mild disgust/disappointment and drive off with their heads shaking. Otherwise-
Auto: “Adyar, Indira Nagar, water tank, 150, 150, very far, traffic” (said as if imparting new information upon me that clearly concludes the debate and makes any further misunderstanding a fault on my part and my lack of cultural consciousness.)
Me: “No, 80, I pay 80 to come here. 150 too much.” (Begin to walk away, partly serious but aware that the entire ceremony could simply be up for reenactment with the next auto.)
Auto: viable to drive away at anytime and adjourn the discussion, keep in mind “130, fair price, 130, Indira Nagar water tank” (said while waving hands and shaking head to give illusion of far more content dispersion.)
Me: “100, that’s it, 100. I pay 100.” (Still facing the dusty road ahead, as if about to depart.)
Auto: “120.” (Not willing to concede a larger portion than I.)
Here is where I glance back, showing my weakness and in effect sentencing myself to a price of no less than 120. Jenn could’ve got 80, I’ve seen her do it, but I am weak and find it exasperatingly hard to run a hard bargain. Also, somewhere deep down, buried below many layers of cheapness, with just a hint of a smug smirk, a little Ari-like man waves a white flag that reads “40 rupees = US $1” and eventually me and this mini-Ari realize that we are willing to pay the extra fifty cents or so, no matter how hard it was lost. Plus sometimes we take the bus, costing the both of us a mere 4 rupees, and then we feel good about ourselves, like maybe we deserve a luxurious auto ride through the streets of Chennai. Of course, we are yet to experience a luxurious auto ride. But then again, we don’t really deserve one.
Me: “Adyar” (Southern part of city)
Auto: “Adyar” (nods head)
Me: “Indira Nagar” (Neighborhood)
Auto: “Intrebartar??” (looks at me with askew confused face)
Me: “IN-DIR-A NA-GAR”
Auto: (same askew face, slightly more confused)
Me: “indiranagar, indiranagar” (Really fast as I attempt to imitate the way it sounds in South Indian)
Auto: “Ahhh indiranagar”
Me: “Water tank, indiranagar water tank” (the landmark nearest my residence)
Auto: “indiranagar water tank?”
Me: “Adyar, Indira Nagar, water tank”
Auto: “Adyar, Indira Nagar, water tank, yesgetinnoproblem”
Me: “How much?”
Auto: (looks me up and down while pretending to calculate the rate, lips already drooling) “150”
Me: “Nononono, 80”
At this point a fair number of the auto drivers will simply give a final look of mild disgust/disappointment and drive off with their heads shaking. Otherwise-
Auto: “Adyar, Indira Nagar, water tank, 150, 150, very far, traffic” (said as if imparting new information upon me that clearly concludes the debate and makes any further misunderstanding a fault on my part and my lack of cultural consciousness.)
Me: “No, 80, I pay 80 to come here. 150 too much.” (Begin to walk away, partly serious but aware that the entire ceremony could simply be up for reenactment with the next auto.)
Auto: viable to drive away at anytime and adjourn the discussion, keep in mind “130, fair price, 130, Indira Nagar water tank” (said while waving hands and shaking head to give illusion of far more content dispersion.)
Me: “100, that’s it, 100. I pay 100.” (Still facing the dusty road ahead, as if about to depart.)
Auto: “120.” (Not willing to concede a larger portion than I.)
Here is where I glance back, showing my weakness and in effect sentencing myself to a price of no less than 120. Jenn could’ve got 80, I’ve seen her do it, but I am weak and find it exasperatingly hard to run a hard bargain. Also, somewhere deep down, buried below many layers of cheapness, with just a hint of a smug smirk, a little Ari-like man waves a white flag that reads “40 rupees = US $1” and eventually me and this mini-Ari realize that we are willing to pay the extra fifty cents or so, no matter how hard it was lost. Plus sometimes we take the bus, costing the both of us a mere 4 rupees, and then we feel good about ourselves, like maybe we deserve a luxurious auto ride through the streets of Chennai. Of course, we are yet to experience a luxurious auto ride. But then again, we don’t really deserve one.
18.10.07
what I do in my free time
This is what I do in my free time. Although technically not free time but time taken off from work to play catholic missionary in 18th century reenactment film.
These are the people who film me during this time (when not filming villagers dressed as tribesmen, although there was some overlap).
This guy was supposed to reciprocate my photographic generosity by snapping a few shots of me doing similar moderately-strange things, but somehow managed not to hold the shudder button down sufficiently even once. So I only have pictures of him.
17.10.07
Coffee Day Today, 18th Century Missionary Tomorrow
Sitting in the local Coffee Day partway though a humid Sunday afternoon. A staff member remembers me for the first time today. I’m pretty sure they stole their uniforms from Pizza Hut. Strange rock anthems and international remixes play slightly louder than I’d like, often cutting off mid-song. There’s a large group of East Asians sitting outside and a smaller group sitting in front of me. Everyone is laughing, most people are eating cake or anything else with chocolate, I am waiting for my “Eskimo Freeze,” I am trying new things in places that are becoming familiar. There’s a sideways flatscreen TV advertising some movie as “A New Kind of Easy Rider.” Later tonight I will get on a bus for nine hours and head South to play an 18th Century Christian Missionary in a Sri Lankian-Tamilian Catholic PBS-style documentary. I can do this because I am white and the Polish guy who was supposed to play the role is on vacation. I met the Polish guy at my evening martial arts/aerobics class. I will be paid the equivalent of US $36 for two days work, plus room and board. But, as previously mentioned, I will play an 18th Century Christian Missionary who comes to India and saves oppressed women, and this is priceless.
My Eskimo Freeze has arrived; it’s quite cold and caffeinated and costs about US $1. The power just went out. I look around. The power comes on momentarily. Goes off again. No one seems to notice. Now it’s back, music and all. An Indian guy walks in with a shirt that says “Sweden.” The furniture in Coffee day looks especially comfortable; solid wicker structure, leather cushioning. But it’s not. The cushions are far too thin and when I lean back I am supported about 10 degrees past my ideal repose. Some people are leaving, two men, two women, two motorcycle helmets. Not quite sure why the women riding on the backs of the cycles aren’t accounted for cranially.
Yesterday I walked along the longest city-side beach in the world, about 5 km. Jenn says it’s the second longest but who wants to hear that. There were men sleeping in the shade of their fishing boats. I’d heard the beach was strewn with trash, but was unimpressed—there was a line of trash along the tide line just like you find off the coast of any large metropolitan. I collected shells until I thought my face might become seriously burnt, and I need to look sprightly for my film role.
I spent five hours this weekend listening to uninterrupted Tamil, three hours in a movie and two at a play. The movie, Sivaji, was a big hit overseas and broke the UK top ten. I’m not sure why people in the UK went to see this movie. At least in India there’s an intermission and you can get ice cream or French fries to further distract yourself. I won’t say much other than there was no plot development from the intermission on—about 1.5 hours—and there was a long scene where the protagonist applies “fair and lovely” in hopes of lightening his skin so the female will accept his advances. Maybe if I understood the dialogue I would have disliked this movie as much as many Hollywood blockbusters, instead I’m glad I got to experience it, even if just once, yes, just once please.
Ok, getting tired. Couples are starting to arrive. This coffee shop is attached to a chic-looking clothing store. I think some of the guys in here shop there. I think one guy is wearing a shirt from the window display. I see some ripe-looking coconuts hanging from a tree outside the window. Maybe I’ll buy one on the corner.
ANNOUNCEMENT: Don’t be afraid to leave a comment, if only to let me know you are reading. This encourages me, makes you look good, strengthens our friendship, expands the blogosphere and exterminates loneliness. This could be a good thing to do every month or so.
My Eskimo Freeze has arrived; it’s quite cold and caffeinated and costs about US $1. The power just went out. I look around. The power comes on momentarily. Goes off again. No one seems to notice. Now it’s back, music and all. An Indian guy walks in with a shirt that says “Sweden.” The furniture in Coffee day looks especially comfortable; solid wicker structure, leather cushioning. But it’s not. The cushions are far too thin and when I lean back I am supported about 10 degrees past my ideal repose. Some people are leaving, two men, two women, two motorcycle helmets. Not quite sure why the women riding on the backs of the cycles aren’t accounted for cranially.
Yesterday I walked along the longest city-side beach in the world, about 5 km. Jenn says it’s the second longest but who wants to hear that. There were men sleeping in the shade of their fishing boats. I’d heard the beach was strewn with trash, but was unimpressed—there was a line of trash along the tide line just like you find off the coast of any large metropolitan. I collected shells until I thought my face might become seriously burnt, and I need to look sprightly for my film role.
I spent five hours this weekend listening to uninterrupted Tamil, three hours in a movie and two at a play. The movie, Sivaji, was a big hit overseas and broke the UK top ten. I’m not sure why people in the UK went to see this movie. At least in India there’s an intermission and you can get ice cream or French fries to further distract yourself. I won’t say much other than there was no plot development from the intermission on—about 1.5 hours—and there was a long scene where the protagonist applies “fair and lovely” in hopes of lightening his skin so the female will accept his advances. Maybe if I understood the dialogue I would have disliked this movie as much as many Hollywood blockbusters, instead I’m glad I got to experience it, even if just once, yes, just once please.
Ok, getting tired. Couples are starting to arrive. This coffee shop is attached to a chic-looking clothing store. I think some of the guys in here shop there. I think one guy is wearing a shirt from the window display. I see some ripe-looking coconuts hanging from a tree outside the window. Maybe I’ll buy one on the corner.
ANNOUNCEMENT: Don’t be afraid to leave a comment, if only to let me know you are reading. This encourages me, makes you look good, strengthens our friendship, expands the blogosphere and exterminates loneliness. This could be a good thing to do every month or so.
11.10.07
Only Vaguely India Related #1- Things that still excite me
I don’t yearn with anticipation for many things—good food, cross-country drives, certain songs, certain people, and, to a strange degree, upcoming movie releases. Early October may be the climax of this movie eagerness, as many films wait until late in the year to premier due to Oscar aspirations and/or the onset of S.A.D in many parts of the country, which I imagine leads seasonally depressed people to go see either uplifting or depressing films depending on what soothes their sun-deprived souls.
Though I am relatively disjointed from this phenomenon here in India (I’m working on building a subcontinental repertoire) I still managed to come across the Entertainment Weekly fall movie premier yesterday in the neighborhood bookstore. I was happily surprised to find the approaching release of some solid looking films. Not to set myself up for grave disappointment—Zodiac, Nacho Libre, recent John Cusak films, anything involving superheroes, anything with a tantalizing preview that builds expectations for more but in reality includes all the worthwhile scenes of the film, anything that makes me realize I’m not the immature adolescent I used to be (Jim Carrey)—here’s a list of a few that struck the right chords:
-No Country for Old Men; an adaptation of a Cormac McCarthy novel starring Tommy Lee Jones and directed by the Coen Brothers.
-A new Noah Baumbach film, the director of the superb the Squid and the Whale. Forget the name, starring some famous people.
-Something about Oil in 19th Century California, directed by Paul Thomas Anderson.
-The new George Clooney movie about corporate politics. Good reviews.
-And, most surprisingly good-looking, Ben Affleck’s directorial debut starring his younger brother Casey.
Anyways there were certainly more and they all had names; unfortunately trivial trivia has never been my strong point. I recommend scanning an Entertainment Weekly briefly in the checkout line of your local whatever. And who knows, I may even get to see some of these on DVD before they make it to theatres—Superbad was in our local video store way back in late August.
Though I am relatively disjointed from this phenomenon here in India (I’m working on building a subcontinental repertoire) I still managed to come across the Entertainment Weekly fall movie premier yesterday in the neighborhood bookstore. I was happily surprised to find the approaching release of some solid looking films. Not to set myself up for grave disappointment—Zodiac, Nacho Libre, recent John Cusak films, anything involving superheroes, anything with a tantalizing preview that builds expectations for more but in reality includes all the worthwhile scenes of the film, anything that makes me realize I’m not the immature adolescent I used to be (Jim Carrey)—here’s a list of a few that struck the right chords:
-No Country for Old Men; an adaptation of a Cormac McCarthy novel starring Tommy Lee Jones and directed by the Coen Brothers.
-A new Noah Baumbach film, the director of the superb the Squid and the Whale. Forget the name, starring some famous people.
-Something about Oil in 19th Century California, directed by Paul Thomas Anderson.
-The new George Clooney movie about corporate politics. Good reviews.
-And, most surprisingly good-looking, Ben Affleck’s directorial debut starring his younger brother Casey.
Anyways there were certainly more and they all had names; unfortunately trivial trivia has never been my strong point. I recommend scanning an Entertainment Weekly briefly in the checkout line of your local whatever. And who knows, I may even get to see some of these on DVD before they make it to theatres—Superbad was in our local video store way back in late August.
8.10.07
Fauna
Like most children, my brother knew what he wanted to be when he grew up. Unlike most young adults, he is still pursuing that same goal into his early twenties. Herpetology, Zoology, playing with animals, catching lizards with a two-pronged stick, studying bird’s fecal patterns, call it what you will—he is on the path to becoming a certified veterinarian. For as long as I can remember my brother has been torturing small animals, primarily reptiles and amphibians, developing an ever more intimate yet detached relationship with them. I think his philosophy finally crystallized this past summer when he interned at local vet hospital and did things like clean up blood, take temperatures, and subdue large animals. When asked “why animals?” he would respond “because I won’t care if they die (the alternative being a human doctor of course).” Although a perverse and somewhat unsettling outlook to hold, as long as a vet does his or her job it’s hard to complain too much, and who knows, maybe a lack of any emotional attachment to your patients, no matter how fundamental of one, actually proves beneficial in the long run.
In any case, due to his request I am attempting to describe some of the local fauna here in southern India. Please excuse my rudimentary knowledge of scientific terms and any unnecessarily grotesque details—for those are by far his most cherished.
First to mind are the stray dogs. Often resembling small, slightly malnourished greyhounds with multi-colored and patchy coats, dogs roam the streets here in similar numbers to the States during evening dog-walk time, except they have no owners, leashes, collars, or homes here. These are highly complacent dogs, mostly sleeping all day, and often keeping one eye open that seems to say, “why do these people bother to run around all day in the heat.” Then at night, I imagine, they roam for food and potential mates, and while I’m yet to see or hear dog copulation I’ve been told it can reach a pretty high decibel. While we’re on the subject, one of the biggest differences between animals here and those in the States is the massive size and prominence of their testicles, especially on dogs. The other day I saw a Wiener dog (a rare breed sighting) and its balls were nearly dragging on the ground.
I’ve seen monkeys but only on my brief jaunts outside of the main urban area. From my observations they appear to be typical mid-sized monkeys doing typical mid-sized monkey things such as grooming, hanging around in trees, and looking for bananas.
About once a week upon turning the final corner on our walk to work we are greeted by several large cows plopped over in front of the office gate. They seem to have some sort of routine where they appear every 5 days or so and leave large, smelly gifts in front of the office until they tire of the office dog (adopted from the street) barking at them. These appearances may have something to do with the rain patterns but I’m not sure. And if we are including flies in this survey, tack on several hundred of them here. There’s also the bulls, more commonly sighted pulling a large cart down the street while being constantly honked at and whizzed by. There is a sacred aspect to these animals but that might simply come from my thankfulness that they don’t try and attack me as I pass within inches of them.
Now for Zach’s favorite; reptiles and amphibians. How jealous you will be Zach to hear that I share my home with anywhere from a dozen to dozens of small, translucent gecko-lizard creatures. They do fun things like get stuck in the sink basin, poop on the walls, and hide in glasses I am about to drink from. There is currently a clump of hair blowing in circles on the floor that I continue to mistake for a lizard. Outside, depending on the heat and moisture, small critters such as frogs, chameleons and…other lizards…roam the terrain. I saw a snake once in a small pond.
To sum up, there are large mammals, goats, reptiles, bugs, loud yelping birds that escalade their noises until I’m woken up and then slowly dissipate them, dogs and cats, other creatures I am forgetting, and I think I saw a rat once.
There is also a vet hospital down the street, although it the only one I’ve seen and not much larger than a mini-convenience store. Fortunately there are numerous people hospitals throughout the city. I don’t know if you would do so well here Zach, you might be forced into caring.
In any case, due to his request I am attempting to describe some of the local fauna here in southern India. Please excuse my rudimentary knowledge of scientific terms and any unnecessarily grotesque details—for those are by far his most cherished.
First to mind are the stray dogs. Often resembling small, slightly malnourished greyhounds with multi-colored and patchy coats, dogs roam the streets here in similar numbers to the States during evening dog-walk time, except they have no owners, leashes, collars, or homes here. These are highly complacent dogs, mostly sleeping all day, and often keeping one eye open that seems to say, “why do these people bother to run around all day in the heat.” Then at night, I imagine, they roam for food and potential mates, and while I’m yet to see or hear dog copulation I’ve been told it can reach a pretty high decibel. While we’re on the subject, one of the biggest differences between animals here and those in the States is the massive size and prominence of their testicles, especially on dogs. The other day I saw a Wiener dog (a rare breed sighting) and its balls were nearly dragging on the ground.
I’ve seen monkeys but only on my brief jaunts outside of the main urban area. From my observations they appear to be typical mid-sized monkeys doing typical mid-sized monkey things such as grooming, hanging around in trees, and looking for bananas.
About once a week upon turning the final corner on our walk to work we are greeted by several large cows plopped over in front of the office gate. They seem to have some sort of routine where they appear every 5 days or so and leave large, smelly gifts in front of the office until they tire of the office dog (adopted from the street) barking at them. These appearances may have something to do with the rain patterns but I’m not sure. And if we are including flies in this survey, tack on several hundred of them here. There’s also the bulls, more commonly sighted pulling a large cart down the street while being constantly honked at and whizzed by. There is a sacred aspect to these animals but that might simply come from my thankfulness that they don’t try and attack me as I pass within inches of them.
Now for Zach’s favorite; reptiles and amphibians. How jealous you will be Zach to hear that I share my home with anywhere from a dozen to dozens of small, translucent gecko-lizard creatures. They do fun things like get stuck in the sink basin, poop on the walls, and hide in glasses I am about to drink from. There is currently a clump of hair blowing in circles on the floor that I continue to mistake for a lizard. Outside, depending on the heat and moisture, small critters such as frogs, chameleons and…other lizards…roam the terrain. I saw a snake once in a small pond.
To sum up, there are large mammals, goats, reptiles, bugs, loud yelping birds that escalade their noises until I’m woken up and then slowly dissipate them, dogs and cats, other creatures I am forgetting, and I think I saw a rat once.
There is also a vet hospital down the street, although it the only one I’ve seen and not much larger than a mini-convenience store. Fortunately there are numerous people hospitals throughout the city. I don’t know if you would do so well here Zach, you might be forced into caring.
5.10.07
Walkabout
You might call it a Phillips tradition to go on long walks; my dad does, my brother does, I do, and when together we rarely do anything else. I thought in India this would change, maybe it would be too crowded, maybe the heat would be incapacitating, maybe I’d finally realize going on long walks was pointless. Well, out of habit or a deep regard for things pointless, the walks have endured.
Ok, not so surprising, I’ve always walked around aimlessly why would that come to an abrupt halt in India? The noteworthy part though, at least for me, is that I can still do it with such aloof oblivion. To walk in Santa Fe there’s no need to exceed the boundaries of your cranium other than to cross a street or two, to walk in Santa Barbara you don’t really even need a cranium, but to walk in Chennai, it would seem, it behooves one to keep a firm head on their shoulders, like the emergent part of a submarine keeping lookout for rampant cruise ships full of drunk Floridians (in Chennai the drunk Floridians representing the countless captivating happenings taking place all around at all times, including but far from limited to the ruthless drivers). Well somehow, in this proverbial sea of human unruliness, I still manage to zone out in the undernether depths for prolonged periods, only reemerge in front of a giant water buffalo or an oversized bumper car honking its clown-car horn.
I realized this today on a walk, which gives some insight into the makeup of these nether regions into which I immerse. Feel free to chime in with blog topic ideas, otherwise I may continue down this path of obscurity. Don’t worry Zach, I will address your request shortly.
Ok, not so surprising, I’ve always walked around aimlessly why would that come to an abrupt halt in India? The noteworthy part though, at least for me, is that I can still do it with such aloof oblivion. To walk in Santa Fe there’s no need to exceed the boundaries of your cranium other than to cross a street or two, to walk in Santa Barbara you don’t really even need a cranium, but to walk in Chennai, it would seem, it behooves one to keep a firm head on their shoulders, like the emergent part of a submarine keeping lookout for rampant cruise ships full of drunk Floridians (in Chennai the drunk Floridians representing the countless captivating happenings taking place all around at all times, including but far from limited to the ruthless drivers). Well somehow, in this proverbial sea of human unruliness, I still manage to zone out in the undernether depths for prolonged periods, only reemerge in front of a giant water buffalo or an oversized bumper car honking its clown-car horn.
I realized this today on a walk, which gives some insight into the makeup of these nether regions into which I immerse. Feel free to chime in with blog topic ideas, otherwise I may continue down this path of obscurity. Don’t worry Zach, I will address your request shortly.
2.10.07
Sightings
A rare sighting of one of three Jews inhabiting Tamil Nadu. Did not speak with the odd specimen, but other passersby agreed on strong likelihood of Jewishness.
This is the Ferris Wheel on the beach. It's not bigger than it looks, but the beach is quite large.
LESSON IN LOCAL "CULTURE' II
October 2007 marks the release of Vogue India, marking another step in the India’s climb to global prominence, assuming attaining global prominence includes filling half your publications with adds, mostly of foreigners and for foreign things. India will be the 17th country to join the ranks of Vogue’s (fashion) elite. I’d like to present several quotes from this premier issue:
“Today, India is enjoying a scintillating soiree with the world’s attention, and fashion is one of its brightest canvases for expression.”
-Editor’s note
“India is one of my favourite places, and so inspiring for my work! Now, with Vogue, India is even better”
-Valentino Garavani, Valentino
“What does Vogue, used as an adjective, mean? The Vogue woman—and she has been around for over 100 years—is someone for whom personal style expresses a love of life and a matchless sense of discrimination.”
-Sally Singer, Director of American Vogue
“The task is not to try to impose a Western aesthetic on Eastern women, but to try to mark out the magical common ground.”
-Sally Singer
“Indi-pop: (noun or adj.) A quirky mish-mash of Indian colour, chaos and humour in art and design, with a global outlook.”
-The Flavor of Fashion VERY VOGUE
“158 THE GREAT DEBATE The cocktail sari vs. the cocktail dress”
-Table of Contents
At a mere $2.50 an issue Vogue India has a good chance of succeeding, and I wouldn’t bet against it or what it stands for failing, no matter how much I’d like to.
“Today, India is enjoying a scintillating soiree with the world’s attention, and fashion is one of its brightest canvases for expression.”
-Editor’s note
“India is one of my favourite places, and so inspiring for my work! Now, with Vogue, India is even better”
-Valentino Garavani, Valentino
“What does Vogue, used as an adjective, mean? The Vogue woman—and she has been around for over 100 years—is someone for whom personal style expresses a love of life and a matchless sense of discrimination.”
-Sally Singer, Director of American Vogue
“The task is not to try to impose a Western aesthetic on Eastern women, but to try to mark out the magical common ground.”
-Sally Singer
“Indi-pop: (noun or adj.) A quirky mish-mash of Indian colour, chaos and humour in art and design, with a global outlook.”
-The Flavor of Fashion VERY VOGUE
“158 THE GREAT DEBATE The cocktail sari vs. the cocktail dress”
-Table of Contents
At a mere $2.50 an issue Vogue India has a good chance of succeeding, and I wouldn’t bet against it or what it stands for failing, no matter how much I’d like to.
Yes, yes, perfect fit, yes, yes, yes
Clothing shopping in Chennai is remarkably simple. I simply frequent any one of the numerous retail outlets within walking distance and point at the desired article of clothing—whether track pants with insignia denoting both “Structure” and “Lee” as the brand, plaid shorts made from sheet cloth, or an oddly-patterned collared shirt—and the shopkeeper says “yes, perfect size, yes yes, perfect fit, just one? Need this too (points at second nearest article of clothing) just right, perfect yes.”
Unfortunately none of what the shopkeeper says relies on my physical being specifically, unless you allow for the possibility that I could also be a 7-foot Asian basketball player or a stout Russian midget. So when he’s holding up an XXL polo shirt stating that it’s “just right for me” I’m pretty sure we’re both smiling inside at the subjectivity of things like appropriate clothing and retail protocol. And just to clarify these are not the high-end stores where people do things like try on clothing and pay fixed prices, which do abound throughout the city. These are the lazy, slightly cheap man’s stores for the local who’s more interested in the outcome of [price/(articles of clothing X effort)] than [(style X fit X quality)/price], which at some point during my 23 years on this planet has come to include me. The relevant outcome being that I’ve already made several ill-advised purchases in India that have quickly become fixed items on the bottom shelf of my closet.
[Slight aside: I decided at some point earlier this year that the method in which I clothing shop could stand as a metaphor for the overall way in which I live my life. I make a lot of slightly brash, potentially ill-suited and often unusual purchases with the result being that I end up disposing of many of the items upon allowing common sense and external input the occasion to fester, but intermittently end up with an unforeseen gem. This theory is yet to be disproved.]
Also contributing to this phenomenon following me to India is the fact that I can be a model pushover, although part of why I came to India was to resolve this issue, and I do seem to be making progress. Now I only consider items that I’ve myself pointed at not the numerous things are thrown in front of my face and I also remember to bargain down not simply accept the pushover-priced tags. Sometimes it’s hard to learn to say “no”, especially to things like drugs and relatively cheap clothing presented by amicable Indian men, but sometimes if you don’t say no you’ll end up on the wrong side of town in somebody else’s clothing. These are the kind of predicaments I face every time I step outside.
Unfortunately none of what the shopkeeper says relies on my physical being specifically, unless you allow for the possibility that I could also be a 7-foot Asian basketball player or a stout Russian midget. So when he’s holding up an XXL polo shirt stating that it’s “just right for me” I’m pretty sure we’re both smiling inside at the subjectivity of things like appropriate clothing and retail protocol. And just to clarify these are not the high-end stores where people do things like try on clothing and pay fixed prices, which do abound throughout the city. These are the lazy, slightly cheap man’s stores for the local who’s more interested in the outcome of [price/(articles of clothing X effort)] than [(style X fit X quality)/price], which at some point during my 23 years on this planet has come to include me. The relevant outcome being that I’ve already made several ill-advised purchases in India that have quickly become fixed items on the bottom shelf of my closet.
[Slight aside: I decided at some point earlier this year that the method in which I clothing shop could stand as a metaphor for the overall way in which I live my life. I make a lot of slightly brash, potentially ill-suited and often unusual purchases with the result being that I end up disposing of many of the items upon allowing common sense and external input the occasion to fester, but intermittently end up with an unforeseen gem. This theory is yet to be disproved.]
Also contributing to this phenomenon following me to India is the fact that I can be a model pushover, although part of why I came to India was to resolve this issue, and I do seem to be making progress. Now I only consider items that I’ve myself pointed at not the numerous things are thrown in front of my face and I also remember to bargain down not simply accept the pushover-priced tags. Sometimes it’s hard to learn to say “no”, especially to things like drugs and relatively cheap clothing presented by amicable Indian men, but sometimes if you don’t say no you’ll end up on the wrong side of town in somebody else’s clothing. These are the kind of predicaments I face every time I step outside.
28.9.07
The amusement park that is the world
This weekend I almost rode a Ferris wheel, checked out the local drive-in movie theatre, and experienced my first Mexican food in India. Let me qualify each of these experiences before going into further detail: the Ferris wheel consisted of 4 flat wooden sections which were rotated by a man pushing them, the maximum height being about 10 ft., the drive-in movie theatre was actually relatively legit, the only drawback being that all the films screened are in Tamil, and the Mexican food tasted like cheap, frozen pizza, was prepared by men in tall chef hats, and upset my stomach.
Let me now situate these experiences within their greater contexts.
The Mexican food scenario was the first to occur. After returning from my three-hour Spanish class Jenn and I decided to try a Mexican food joint we had heard about, in fact the only one we had heard about. I’d heard from a German that the food was decent, but I’m starting to understand that Germans have no bearing on how good ethnic food should taste, at least not once it’s been Americanized—I think it has something to do with having a bland native cuisine with similarly poor preparation of foreign foods. So we hopped in a rickshaw and headed downtown, making sure to keep our expectations as low as possible and, realistically, not even think about how GOOD Mexican food actually tastes. Upon our arrival we were greeted by an African-American midget in a sombrero, a nice reminder of the daily ironies encountered in India. It’s important to understand that if one thinks African-Americans are rare in New Mexico, in Chennai there really might be only 7, and one of them is a midget door man at “Don Pepes”; gives you an idea of how many Mexicans are around. Skipping ahead, and skipping the virgin margaritas, we ordered. Jenn tried to order nachos and tacos, but the waiter told her they were the same thing and she should choose otherwise. No Shit—all Mexican food is the same thing! And at Don Pepes all Mexican food tastes like those Mexican pizzas at Taco Bell without the addictive fast-food flavoring. We also both had minor stomachaches throughout the night, not that unusual of Mexican cuisine, but usually a worthy payoff. Regardless, it was worth the black-midget doorman encounter and the Indian kitchen staff all wearing tall French chef hats, even if none of them had ever tasted Mexican food only seen pictures of it—the presentation was right on.
After a very lazy Sunday morning spent recovering from the food and drinks the night before and reading the newspaper Jenn somehow managed to subscribe us to after riding her bike down some small alleys and talking to various odd men, I don’t really understand it, we headed south on our bikes. When imagining bikes don’t envision road bikes or mountain bikes, but slightly condensed cruiser bikes with slightly harder-than-desirable seats and heavier-than-desirable frames. The whole bike scene here in Chennai isn’t very developed and things like gears and adjustable seats aren’t yet in vogue. On the plus side roadside bike repair and maintenance shops appear about every 200 yards and I can get my tires inflated just around the corner for about 2 cents.
Every time we’ve endeavored to ride our bikes beyond the neighborhood bounds we’ve been rewarded with pleasant, or at least unexpected, surprises. This time around we found a grocery store that carried yogurt with real fruit in it, Dr. Pepper (previously thought to be a lost cause, still searching for tonic water), and other goodies like veggie crackers. Grocery shopping is something I’m still very, very distant from mastering but I’ve improved from days past in which I would check out with two readymade Indian food boil-and-pour packets, a loaf of wheat bread that looked white, and a look like I’d just been put through a room full of funny mirrors. . Basically you have to diversify and simplify and buy things that require significant preparation, or live with people who will cook and just chip in monetarily; I fall somewhere in-between with my main contribution being eggs-and-potatoes breakfast for dinner and lets-get-creative veggie sandwiches.
We did however have a destination in mind today on our ride south—the Beach Drive-In Movie Theatre. After working on a drive-in documentary for six months last year research had led me to believe that drive-ins in other countries were very rare, but Chennai possesses one with real pole speakers and some variety of a concession stand…amazing really. It even has a “seating area” where people who don’t have cars (a very high percentage) can comfortably view the film under the stars. Unfortunately all the films are in Tamil and most likely have plots revolving around predictability and prolonged song-and-dance performances. Either way it made me feel like a little bit of what American used to be…was now in India, and maybe even something worth having made the trip. On the ride home we happened upon a Chinese food restaurant by the side of the road in which each table had it’s own personal gazebo and exclusive waiter and the food was actually really good, so I must amend my prior assertion that no foreign cuisines are prepared to my liking here—Chinese is now attainable. And so is pizza, with the Dominoes and Pizza Hut actually significantly tastier than their counterparts in the US, something to do with the fresh factor here in India.
And lastly, Sunday evening at Elliott’s beach, our neighborhood beach located about twenty-minutes walk from our residence. As far as I can tell during the day the beach is left for the birds and dogs and other creatures that can better tolerate the heat, but at night the people emerge and gather, especially on Sunday night. Elliott’s beach is about ½ km long and maybe 100 m wide. The sand is clean enough to feel comfortable relaxing on, and no one brings a beach towel. There are chip and corn and fish hawkers and a main walk down the beach with tiny Ferris wheel rides and shoot the balloon stands. I took a seat near the ocean to observe young couples and small family groups and just as I was starting to forget where I was various groups of Tamil men broke into fragments of song that lasted for about 20 minutes, which turned out to be quite a pleasant surprise. It’s not often you get a gathering of people who all feel comfortable enough to lay in the sand and sing across the beach with various degrees of decibel and tone.
I almost convinced Jenn to ride the mini-Ferris wheel with me but in our newfound cheapness we decided 10 rupees was too much, which translates to not wanting to spend 25 cents. We get paid in rupees so we might as well spend according to them, right? Plus, there’s always next Sunday. On the walk home I came upon a place that serves Boba tea, you hear Zach? They have Boba here, although my drink came with fruit chunks rather than tapioca, but receiving something resembling what I hoped for was satisfying enough. Strangely, instead of calling it “Boba tea” here they call it “Singapore bubble tea.”
Next weekend we have Monday off due to a government-sponsored statewide strike, which apparently can turn violent if not abided by. And apparently it’s not really a good idea for us to leave the house. The strike has something to do with disturbing an underwater Hindu holy site between India and Sri Lanka and reeks strongly of the convoluted and abstruse religious conflicts one finds in Israel or South Carolina.
Let me now situate these experiences within their greater contexts.
The Mexican food scenario was the first to occur. After returning from my three-hour Spanish class Jenn and I decided to try a Mexican food joint we had heard about, in fact the only one we had heard about. I’d heard from a German that the food was decent, but I’m starting to understand that Germans have no bearing on how good ethnic food should taste, at least not once it’s been Americanized—I think it has something to do with having a bland native cuisine with similarly poor preparation of foreign foods. So we hopped in a rickshaw and headed downtown, making sure to keep our expectations as low as possible and, realistically, not even think about how GOOD Mexican food actually tastes. Upon our arrival we were greeted by an African-American midget in a sombrero, a nice reminder of the daily ironies encountered in India. It’s important to understand that if one thinks African-Americans are rare in New Mexico, in Chennai there really might be only 7, and one of them is a midget door man at “Don Pepes”; gives you an idea of how many Mexicans are around. Skipping ahead, and skipping the virgin margaritas, we ordered. Jenn tried to order nachos and tacos, but the waiter told her they were the same thing and she should choose otherwise. No Shit—all Mexican food is the same thing! And at Don Pepes all Mexican food tastes like those Mexican pizzas at Taco Bell without the addictive fast-food flavoring. We also both had minor stomachaches throughout the night, not that unusual of Mexican cuisine, but usually a worthy payoff. Regardless, it was worth the black-midget doorman encounter and the Indian kitchen staff all wearing tall French chef hats, even if none of them had ever tasted Mexican food only seen pictures of it—the presentation was right on.
After a very lazy Sunday morning spent recovering from the food and drinks the night before and reading the newspaper Jenn somehow managed to subscribe us to after riding her bike down some small alleys and talking to various odd men, I don’t really understand it, we headed south on our bikes. When imagining bikes don’t envision road bikes or mountain bikes, but slightly condensed cruiser bikes with slightly harder-than-desirable seats and heavier-than-desirable frames. The whole bike scene here in Chennai isn’t very developed and things like gears and adjustable seats aren’t yet in vogue. On the plus side roadside bike repair and maintenance shops appear about every 200 yards and I can get my tires inflated just around the corner for about 2 cents.
Every time we’ve endeavored to ride our bikes beyond the neighborhood bounds we’ve been rewarded with pleasant, or at least unexpected, surprises. This time around we found a grocery store that carried yogurt with real fruit in it, Dr. Pepper (previously thought to be a lost cause, still searching for tonic water), and other goodies like veggie crackers. Grocery shopping is something I’m still very, very distant from mastering but I’ve improved from days past in which I would check out with two readymade Indian food boil-and-pour packets, a loaf of wheat bread that looked white, and a look like I’d just been put through a room full of funny mirrors. . Basically you have to diversify and simplify and buy things that require significant preparation, or live with people who will cook and just chip in monetarily; I fall somewhere in-between with my main contribution being eggs-and-potatoes breakfast for dinner and lets-get-creative veggie sandwiches.
We did however have a destination in mind today on our ride south—the Beach Drive-In Movie Theatre. After working on a drive-in documentary for six months last year research had led me to believe that drive-ins in other countries were very rare, but Chennai possesses one with real pole speakers and some variety of a concession stand…amazing really. It even has a “seating area” where people who don’t have cars (a very high percentage) can comfortably view the film under the stars. Unfortunately all the films are in Tamil and most likely have plots revolving around predictability and prolonged song-and-dance performances. Either way it made me feel like a little bit of what American used to be…was now in India, and maybe even something worth having made the trip. On the ride home we happened upon a Chinese food restaurant by the side of the road in which each table had it’s own personal gazebo and exclusive waiter and the food was actually really good, so I must amend my prior assertion that no foreign cuisines are prepared to my liking here—Chinese is now attainable. And so is pizza, with the Dominoes and Pizza Hut actually significantly tastier than their counterparts in the US, something to do with the fresh factor here in India.
And lastly, Sunday evening at Elliott’s beach, our neighborhood beach located about twenty-minutes walk from our residence. As far as I can tell during the day the beach is left for the birds and dogs and other creatures that can better tolerate the heat, but at night the people emerge and gather, especially on Sunday night. Elliott’s beach is about ½ km long and maybe 100 m wide. The sand is clean enough to feel comfortable relaxing on, and no one brings a beach towel. There are chip and corn and fish hawkers and a main walk down the beach with tiny Ferris wheel rides and shoot the balloon stands. I took a seat near the ocean to observe young couples and small family groups and just as I was starting to forget where I was various groups of Tamil men broke into fragments of song that lasted for about 20 minutes, which turned out to be quite a pleasant surprise. It’s not often you get a gathering of people who all feel comfortable enough to lay in the sand and sing across the beach with various degrees of decibel and tone.
I almost convinced Jenn to ride the mini-Ferris wheel with me but in our newfound cheapness we decided 10 rupees was too much, which translates to not wanting to spend 25 cents. We get paid in rupees so we might as well spend according to them, right? Plus, there’s always next Sunday. On the walk home I came upon a place that serves Boba tea, you hear Zach? They have Boba here, although my drink came with fruit chunks rather than tapioca, but receiving something resembling what I hoped for was satisfying enough. Strangely, instead of calling it “Boba tea” here they call it “Singapore bubble tea.”
Next weekend we have Monday off due to a government-sponsored statewide strike, which apparently can turn violent if not abided by. And apparently it’s not really a good idea for us to leave the house. The strike has something to do with disturbing an underwater Hindu holy site between India and Sri Lanka and reeks strongly of the convoluted and abstruse religious conflicts one finds in Israel or South Carolina.
24.9.07
You might be a South Indian if:
-You weave your head from side to side to indicate everything and anything having to do with things that will turnout all right, which thus far is everything and anything.
-You consider an outdoor wall to also be a public restroom, especially those walls within close proximity of a bus depot.
-You eat rice by mixing it with sauces and scooping it into your mouth with your right hand at least once a day.
-You get angry with rickshaw drivers not for driving too wildly, but for driving too slowly.
-You know an inordinate amount about yoga even if you don’t practice it, and you snicker at the notion of a “yoga mat.”
-You have a favorite tailor of whom you frequent regularly with fabrics you purchased at your favorite fabric shop.
-You have a mustache, or at least 90% of your male friends do.
-You own a motorcycle, or at least 90% of your male friends do.
-You’re used to ocean water being as warm as bathtub water.
-You receive at least 3 spam text messages a day.
-Anything less than 30 degrees C is comfortably cool.
-Road names mean nothing to you, and you give directions by referring to landmarks and then backseat driving the rest of the way.
-You only know of toilet paper and tissues because of Hollywood.
-Every piece of footwear you own is open-toed.
-You consider an outdoor wall to also be a public restroom, especially those walls within close proximity of a bus depot.
-You eat rice by mixing it with sauces and scooping it into your mouth with your right hand at least once a day.
-You get angry with rickshaw drivers not for driving too wildly, but for driving too slowly.
-You know an inordinate amount about yoga even if you don’t practice it, and you snicker at the notion of a “yoga mat.”
-You have a favorite tailor of whom you frequent regularly with fabrics you purchased at your favorite fabric shop.
-You have a mustache, or at least 90% of your male friends do.
-You own a motorcycle, or at least 90% of your male friends do.
-You’re used to ocean water being as warm as bathtub water.
-You receive at least 3 spam text messages a day.
-Anything less than 30 degrees C is comfortably cool.
-Road names mean nothing to you, and you give directions by referring to landmarks and then backseat driving the rest of the way.
-You only know of toilet paper and tissues because of Hollywood.
-Every piece of footwear you own is open-toed.
18.9.07
First legit tourism
This man sells tender coconuts, which are exactly the same as all coconuts but with an extra word in the name. He chops them open and you drink the juice with a straw and then give it back and he chops it more open and you eat the flesh. Then you throw it on the ground and the goats eat the rest and pretty much everything else that you could think of throwing on the ground, not to mention things like posters glued to walls.
Small children, cricket, cow creatures, less-than-clean sand; this is the coastal Southern India I know. Most of the boats in the picture were donated after all boats (not in the picture) were destroyed by the 2004 tsunami. Very strange to actually stand on the beach where it happened and imagine the water receding and reapproaching as a colossal water-wall.
This was not something tourists were supposed to take pictures of but I liked it more than most of the hyped-up stuff. There were frogs and snakes and fish in this little pond and it was nice to sit and drink a coke and think about how all these creatures could evolve into man eating beasts within the next several generations if people keep providing them with enough toxic trash.
Stone carvings, exactly the picture that one can be expected to take. Mostly it reminds me of how sweaty I was throughout the walk. So sweaty.
Inspiration while riding bicycle
I Left my Heart in the first Rickshaw I saw this Morning
(Sung to the tune of a Frank Sinatra song or a hammer hitting something hard just outside your window, whichever prevails)
Oh India, maybe we can be friends
You’ve lead me to a place with fresh bread
So I can make sandwiches for lunches, yes
Sandwiches for lunches
Veggi Sandwiches of course
You’ve lead me many places down many dusty roads
You’ve shown me I can buy pants and get them tailored
Two shops down, tailored just two shops down
You’ve shown me there’s a Teacher’s Colony
Where I can take a Spanish class, just down the road
Yes, just down the road past the “Coffee Day”
Where young Indians go for casual dating you will find
An American in India taking a Spanish class with nine other Indians, yes nine other Indians and a Costa Rican teacher, what a world what a world
But India, I have so many questions for you
Like why doesn’t Coffee Day open until 10:30
Which is far too late India, don’t you know this
I need to be at work by 10:00 and must have coffee by then
Why can alcohol only be served in hotels with 20+ rooms?
I ask this of you specifically Tamil Nadu, since every state varies in their liquor laws
Yes every state varies because you are so diverse India
And so ancient
Overlapping and contradicting
Do you have plans for the future India?
Will your villages and cities grow together?
Will you help the world survive? Will you lead by example when you become a leader?
Will you become a leader?
Yes we could be friends India
You leave cows by the side of the road for me
And hints about how to find DJs and dance music, which is not really my thing
But it’s interesting, oh always interesting, yes you like it that way don’t you?
But then you rip me off and you know India,
You are not really so cheap anymore
You are growing so rapidly India, how long can the auto rickshaws keep up?
Where will all the drivers go? Where will they nap?
By the side of which road? They can’t ride the subway to work can they? No, they can’t!
But yes we could be friends India
Worthwhile friends take time; I’ve had a few
Your water is so warm, your nights so dark
It’s not easy to get to know you
(Sung to the tune of a Frank Sinatra song or a hammer hitting something hard just outside your window, whichever prevails)
Oh India, maybe we can be friends
You’ve lead me to a place with fresh bread
So I can make sandwiches for lunches, yes
Sandwiches for lunches
Veggi Sandwiches of course
You’ve lead me many places down many dusty roads
You’ve shown me I can buy pants and get them tailored
Two shops down, tailored just two shops down
You’ve shown me there’s a Teacher’s Colony
Where I can take a Spanish class, just down the road
Yes, just down the road past the “Coffee Day”
Where young Indians go for casual dating you will find
An American in India taking a Spanish class with nine other Indians, yes nine other Indians and a Costa Rican teacher, what a world what a world
But India, I have so many questions for you
Like why doesn’t Coffee Day open until 10:30
Which is far too late India, don’t you know this
I need to be at work by 10:00 and must have coffee by then
Why can alcohol only be served in hotels with 20+ rooms?
I ask this of you specifically Tamil Nadu, since every state varies in their liquor laws
Yes every state varies because you are so diverse India
And so ancient
Overlapping and contradicting
Do you have plans for the future India?
Will your villages and cities grow together?
Will you help the world survive? Will you lead by example when you become a leader?
Will you become a leader?
Yes we could be friends India
You leave cows by the side of the road for me
And hints about how to find DJs and dance music, which is not really my thing
But it’s interesting, oh always interesting, yes you like it that way don’t you?
But then you rip me off and you know India,
You are not really so cheap anymore
You are growing so rapidly India, how long can the auto rickshaws keep up?
Where will all the drivers go? Where will they nap?
By the side of which road? They can’t ride the subway to work can they? No, they can’t!
But yes we could be friends India
Worthwhile friends take time; I’ve had a few
Your water is so warm, your nights so dark
It’s not easy to get to know you
13.9.07
LESSON IN LOCAL CULTURE I
In Tamil Nadu, the southern Indian state of which Chennai is the capital the majority of the population speaks the official language of the state, Tamil, which sounds a bit like possessed mumbling. Apparently past Tara interns have attempted to learn Tamil, but for me there is no hope. I might try to learn Spanish instead. There are kids however who grow up in this state of 65 million+ speaking only English—weird proper Indianized British-English don’t forget. Now I speak English, and let me tell you it’s not so easy to interact with your typical Tamilian Naduian using only my native tongue. So these kids, primarily and maybe exclusively of the upper-middle class, basically speak a different language than the rest of the country. They go to English schools and have enough support that they never need to learn the language of the streets. Of course six hours away in Bangalore they speak Telugi and another few hours in the other direction they speak Keralian or something, and in the north it’s Hindi or Bengali amongst others, so blanketing the different cultures under the quilt of English begins to gain some credibility. So all those in favor of globalization give the British some credit.
Under construction
My world in India is still for the most part restricted to Besant Nagar, the southern “suburb” of Chennai that I call home. And by suburb I don’t mean Starbucks (none) or street-lit roads (ummm…some have lights, but somehow a post-apocalyptic darkness descends every night after six). What I do mean is that the roads are smaller and the area feels more like a neighborhood, less like a city. That feeling of small towns being conglomerated into a big city, similar to how Portland feels with the same “suburb” spin of being in India, pervades Chennai; the drivers drive as if they live in a village of 8,000 not a city of 8 million, roads never go from point A to B without hitting the rest of the alphabet first, shops are tiny and infrastructure is erected on a need-to-know basis and none of the surrounding structures need to know. Point being, with most of what I know being in this immediate vicinity, really in this house and at the office (and the fifteen minute walk between them) that’s where the blog topics shall remain. And I hope that doesn’t disappoint anyone, and it shouldn’t, because there’s still plenty of things to write about.
Such as local infrastructure, specifically that of the structure I live in. A little history: last year, when three other Tara interns lived here, the first floor, the floor of this apartment, flooded. The landlady, Udaya, resolved to fix the problem. Udaya’s mother lives upstairs and Udaya and her son have been staying there with her since construction began over three months ago. It’s not safe to construct things in India without constantly watching (…and yelling at) the workers; otherwise they will somehow do things in a less legitimate way than they already are. Also you need to watch your construction materials, or else something like several hundred bricks might disappear during the night, and that night might have been two nights ago. So I wake up most mornings, weekday or end, to the pleasant sounds of hammers hacking or welders whacking or yellers yapping. I leave the house anticipating the daily surprise of what these sounds are working towards; could be an elevated gate, could be a space-age silver truss, could be a tall brick wall, could just be watering the garden. In the long run, anywhere from 2 weeks to eternity, Udaya plans to solve the riddle of the monsoon flooding by elevating the entire yard nearly two feet so the street water won’t run in from the street. As far as I can tell, she managed to consult no one and consider no other plans in reaching this conclusion, and no one is really sure where the idea came from other than deep inside her inner psyche, from which some other pretty strange things have emerged since our acquaintance. By raising the earth our residence will effectively be lowered two more feet below ground. Already being two feet underground I’m not so certain about Udaya’s master plan and am really banking on a poor monsoon season. Monsoon season pretty much corresponds with the thing we call autumn back in the states, so if I want a new pair of goulashes for my birthday then we’ll know which way the water flowed.
Such as local infrastructure, specifically that of the structure I live in. A little history: last year, when three other Tara interns lived here, the first floor, the floor of this apartment, flooded. The landlady, Udaya, resolved to fix the problem. Udaya’s mother lives upstairs and Udaya and her son have been staying there with her since construction began over three months ago. It’s not safe to construct things in India without constantly watching (…and yelling at) the workers; otherwise they will somehow do things in a less legitimate way than they already are. Also you need to watch your construction materials, or else something like several hundred bricks might disappear during the night, and that night might have been two nights ago. So I wake up most mornings, weekday or end, to the pleasant sounds of hammers hacking or welders whacking or yellers yapping. I leave the house anticipating the daily surprise of what these sounds are working towards; could be an elevated gate, could be a space-age silver truss, could be a tall brick wall, could just be watering the garden. In the long run, anywhere from 2 weeks to eternity, Udaya plans to solve the riddle of the monsoon flooding by elevating the entire yard nearly two feet so the street water won’t run in from the street. As far as I can tell, she managed to consult no one and consider no other plans in reaching this conclusion, and no one is really sure where the idea came from other than deep inside her inner psyche, from which some other pretty strange things have emerged since our acquaintance. By raising the earth our residence will effectively be lowered two more feet below ground. Already being two feet underground I’m not so certain about Udaya’s master plan and am really banking on a poor monsoon season. Monsoon season pretty much corresponds with the thing we call autumn back in the states, so if I want a new pair of goulashes for my birthday then we’ll know which way the water flowed.
7.9.07
6.9.07
some pics
http://mcgill.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2151242&l=63f7b&id=13602328
Voila, a link to some pics posted by my housemate, who was gracious enough to provide my lazy nonobservant ass with the link.
Voila, a link to some pics posted by my housemate, who was gracious enough to provide my lazy nonobservant ass with the link.
Tara Books' books
My current employer is best known for their handmade books, of which they’ve handmade some 150,000, or, as they would write in India, 1,50,000 (something to do with lakhs and croors, I don’t really get it). The books range from children’s books to visual arts to fiction to…don’t get me started I’ve spent the last two weeks working on their fall catalog, or, as they would write in India, catalogue. The main Tara office, a six-room house about 15 minutes walk from my 4-room residence, is far removed from the handmade aspects of the company and we follow the typical modern business protocol of vacantly staring at computer screens and getting up to stretch every hour or so as to avoid future muscle dystrophy. So, even after reading the ‘Handmade’ section in last years catalog, I had no first hand experience of the Tara press and no real idea of the process of this “bookmaking”(even though I’m pretty sure I took that class in college…college is so silly) until today.
After a fairly exhilarating drive to the south of Chennai we pulled up to a bright yellow house: the residence of Arumugam (Mr. A to us sloth-tongued Anglos) and his thirteen magical bookmaking elves, or south Indians, whichever fits your fantasy. Mr. A shares a corner of my rounded-triangle-shaped desk in the office, the third round-corner being shared by Shalini, an ambitious 28-year-old who used to write for the Hindu but took a pay cut to come oversee PR at Tara. So Mr. A, his wife and two kids, and thirteen strapping, young bookmakers all live and work within this bright yellow house.
I don’t know about the average first-world person, but when I hear the words handmade, 150,000, and press together I imagine at least some form of machinery present to assist in the process. Well, as I’ve come to expect, my imagination mislead me; these books are entirely handmade. More specifically they are screen printed, color-by-color, page-by-page, book-by-book, day-by-day. Anyone who’s ever seen a handmade Tara book (just me? I doubt my dad even knows the name of the company where I’m working, and I’m certain he doesn’t read this blog—by the way dad I got my first taste of bacterial-stomach infection this weekend, I felt weak immediately after eating some samosas and then had a headache, stomach ache and fever, in that order, only just recovering today.) Right. So, anyone who’s even seen a handmade Tara book knows that they are quite well done, as if every page could be displayed in a gallery, which is in fact becoming a larger part of their business. I may try to get them a show in Santa Fe, anyone know any galleries there? Well these fine pieces of work are made on the roof of a building in south India by thirteen young men who came from the village to find work in the city and ended up finding work, housing and community. Not bad. They even have a television to watch cricket on, which is something I wouldn’t mind doing right now as I try and gauge my digestion capacity.
Also, if anyone talks to Dustin tell him I am gravely disappointed with his neglect of his blog and lack of update since I left San Francisco.
After a fairly exhilarating drive to the south of Chennai we pulled up to a bright yellow house: the residence of Arumugam (Mr. A to us sloth-tongued Anglos) and his thirteen magical bookmaking elves, or south Indians, whichever fits your fantasy. Mr. A shares a corner of my rounded-triangle-shaped desk in the office, the third round-corner being shared by Shalini, an ambitious 28-year-old who used to write for the Hindu but took a pay cut to come oversee PR at Tara. So Mr. A, his wife and two kids, and thirteen strapping, young bookmakers all live and work within this bright yellow house.
I don’t know about the average first-world person, but when I hear the words handmade, 150,000, and press together I imagine at least some form of machinery present to assist in the process. Well, as I’ve come to expect, my imagination mislead me; these books are entirely handmade. More specifically they are screen printed, color-by-color, page-by-page, book-by-book, day-by-day. Anyone who’s ever seen a handmade Tara book (just me? I doubt my dad even knows the name of the company where I’m working, and I’m certain he doesn’t read this blog—by the way dad I got my first taste of bacterial-stomach infection this weekend, I felt weak immediately after eating some samosas and then had a headache, stomach ache and fever, in that order, only just recovering today.) Right. So, anyone who’s even seen a handmade Tara book knows that they are quite well done, as if every page could be displayed in a gallery, which is in fact becoming a larger part of their business. I may try to get them a show in Santa Fe, anyone know any galleries there? Well these fine pieces of work are made on the roof of a building in south India by thirteen young men who came from the village to find work in the city and ended up finding work, housing and community. Not bad. They even have a television to watch cricket on, which is something I wouldn’t mind doing right now as I try and gauge my digestion capacity.
Also, if anyone talks to Dustin tell him I am gravely disappointed with his neglect of his blog and lack of update since I left San Francisco.
3.9.07
Mosquito proof
Aside from a few slits in the window netting the main rooms of our house are mosquito proof. That’s not to say other friendly creatures such as small lizards, similarly small spiders, and much smaller ants don’t find their own ways in. But for the time being I can drift into sleep rather soundly, which I consider to be a good indicator of my comfort level.
Unfortunately the bathrooms have slotted walls and provide no such luxury. These tiny, shutter-less windows provide the ideal entry point for the airborne critter, such as the mosquito. On any given foray into my bathroom I can expect to be greeted by no less than five mosquitoes, no more than fifteen. These are dumb mosquitoes, spoiled by the warm climate, mud-puddled terrain, and billion-plus Indians, so it’s not as if they all swarm to feast on my smooth, milky epidermis. Generally I can swat and blow at them until I’ve completed whatever it is I came into they bathroom to accomplish and can make a quick getaway locking the custom-made door (which includes wood and sheet metal in several different combinations) behind me and forget the whole ordeal until the next time nature or laundry calls. But wouldn’t one rather, if one had such a choice, swing at these mosquitoes with an electrified tennis racket? I think one would.
It’s become my routine to wakeup in the morning, head to the wall outlet to fetch my weapon—a plastic racket with electric wire instead of string netting, enter the fighting grounds (slightly reminiscent of gladiator and the coliseum), brandish the racket several times in preparation and to assert my threat, and then zap away, not satisfied until killing at least four or five of the buggers. For waking up purposes this works miracles, elevating the senses to full alertness as I encounter a genuine “fight or flight” situation, and I can’t very well choose flight every time. The electro-shock noise and ensuing spark that accompany a successful swing are what make the activity truly satisfying, and I’ve actually started to look forward to these morning encounters. Especially since throughout the rest of the day I’m bound to get what’s coming, and what’s been promised all fresh blood in South India—bites, potentially malaria filled, always agitating, mostly on my feet and elbows.
The landlady has all but promised that we’ll get nets on the bathroom windows this week, but judging by the professed rate of construction on our patio and the real-time rate, I’m just hoping for installation sometime before November, the heaviest monsoon month. In the meantime I’ll work on my back swing and hope to someday approach the level of skill and finesse demonstrated by my boss who consistently zaps mosquitoes right in front of my face before I even know they’re there.
Unfortunately the bathrooms have slotted walls and provide no such luxury. These tiny, shutter-less windows provide the ideal entry point for the airborne critter, such as the mosquito. On any given foray into my bathroom I can expect to be greeted by no less than five mosquitoes, no more than fifteen. These are dumb mosquitoes, spoiled by the warm climate, mud-puddled terrain, and billion-plus Indians, so it’s not as if they all swarm to feast on my smooth, milky epidermis. Generally I can swat and blow at them until I’ve completed whatever it is I came into they bathroom to accomplish and can make a quick getaway locking the custom-made door (which includes wood and sheet metal in several different combinations) behind me and forget the whole ordeal until the next time nature or laundry calls. But wouldn’t one rather, if one had such a choice, swing at these mosquitoes with an electrified tennis racket? I think one would.
It’s become my routine to wakeup in the morning, head to the wall outlet to fetch my weapon—a plastic racket with electric wire instead of string netting, enter the fighting grounds (slightly reminiscent of gladiator and the coliseum), brandish the racket several times in preparation and to assert my threat, and then zap away, not satisfied until killing at least four or five of the buggers. For waking up purposes this works miracles, elevating the senses to full alertness as I encounter a genuine “fight or flight” situation, and I can’t very well choose flight every time. The electro-shock noise and ensuing spark that accompany a successful swing are what make the activity truly satisfying, and I’ve actually started to look forward to these morning encounters. Especially since throughout the rest of the day I’m bound to get what’s coming, and what’s been promised all fresh blood in South India—bites, potentially malaria filled, always agitating, mostly on my feet and elbows.
The landlady has all but promised that we’ll get nets on the bathroom windows this week, but judging by the professed rate of construction on our patio and the real-time rate, I’m just hoping for installation sometime before November, the heaviest monsoon month. In the meantime I’ll work on my back swing and hope to someday approach the level of skill and finesse demonstrated by my boss who consistently zaps mosquitoes right in front of my face before I even know they’re there.
29.8.07
the not-so differences
At the computer at work. At the computer at home. Download something. Design something. Listen to new Beirut album. Buy the cheapest groceries possible (factoring prep time heavily). Do laundry, take shower, eat, sleep, go to the bathroom, try to communicate with people. It’s not really so different. Think about the future, think about the past, think about girls, worry excessively, be lazy. Make mental notes that float around, occasionally latching onto something. Think about what other people are doing in San Francisco, in Glasgow, in Israel, what I could be doing, here or there. What I am doing, why. Not really that different.
Listen to new Jens Lekman album. Zone out. Stretch. Think about doing yoga. Draw uncertain and unreliable conclusions. Change mind. Free good, free great, feel tired, try to stay awake, feel bad, mopey, fall asleep, not want to wake up, not want to sleep. Layout different possible futures. Become determined to live in the moment. Live vicariously through other people. Think about other people. Think about that last sentence in “Catcher in the Rye”, the poignant one that relates to these feelings. Wish had the internet at house to look it up. Vow not to get internet at house, living in India should be different: people living in India don’t have internet in their houses. But, yes they do, and cheaply too. It’s not so different. Not really.
Listen to new Jens Lekman album. Zone out. Stretch. Think about doing yoga. Draw uncertain and unreliable conclusions. Change mind. Free good, free great, feel tired, try to stay awake, feel bad, mopey, fall asleep, not want to wake up, not want to sleep. Layout different possible futures. Become determined to live in the moment. Live vicariously through other people. Think about other people. Think about that last sentence in “Catcher in the Rye”, the poignant one that relates to these feelings. Wish had the internet at house to look it up. Vow not to get internet at house, living in India should be different: people living in India don’t have internet in their houses. But, yes they do, and cheaply too. It’s not so different. Not really.
27.8.07
First first nots etc.
I am yet to blow my nose in India. I have, however, in an attempt to alleviate my snotty, dribbling proboscis wiped it on my shirt, on my hand, probably on my elbow, definitely on a towel, snot-rocketed, sniffled my heart out, scrunched my nose and upper lip adamantly, and, yes, even swallowed some. You’d think there’d be some multinational drooling over the potential of the tissue market here, but I’m guessing it’s a cultural thing which is the direct result of an economic thing—similar to how they eschew forks and knives for fingers…and they probably have better things to think about than tissues anyways. But not me, I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about tissues and what happens to the mucus in these people’s noses throughout the course of a spicy meal, of which there are many, or flu encounter.
I am also yet to wipe my ass in India. This is, luckily for both of us, a happier story. Instead of toilet paper here they have hoses, almost shower heads really, next to the toilet that you use to “hose off”. Not too bad actually, except that I can’t use toilet paper to blow my nose, although I could see what effect spraying my face with one of the hoses has. All-in-all, this emphasis on getting by without waste is especially appropriate considering I don’t think the trash gets far beyond the street corner where it’s burned, eaten by animals, picked through by people, or incorporated into the landscape. And recycling falls under the same policy. And I live in, according to some source somewhere, the second most livable city in all of India, after New Delhi. Makes you wonder what the world will be like in fifty years, although most things make me wonder about that.
Something else entirely, but still related to thinking about the world in fifty years: one Home Depot = (approx.) 800 small, kiosk shops in India. Today I walked by a shop, probably about 300 sq. ft., that simply sold door handles. And it wasn’t as if this shop was in an area reserved for handyman type things, it was next to a pick-the-live-chicken-you-want-and-we’ll-kill-it-and-cook-it-store and some “Cell phone Mega World” (both approx. the same square footage as door handle store). So basically, and I hope Sam Walton is listening unless he’s dead which I think he is and good riddance I hope his kids burn in hell with him, if someone constructed a giant dome above these shops and charged everyone to sell underneath their dome, well, this thought doesn’t make much sense. But the thing is that slowly all these small shops will get engulfed and melted and deranged until they form a Home Depot unless of course the world ends first, which might have to be the case because there’s 4 times as many Indians as Americans and that means 4 times as many Home Depots and is that what anyone but Home Depot CEOs want? Maybe? This is scary. I’m not too hot on the idea of door handle stores either. I didn’t talk to anyone today really, so I think that’s starting to show through.
I ate dinner at pizza corner this evening. I’d really rather not discuss the actually food. The ambiance was satisfactory though; there was air conditioning and lots of happy birthday signs (no actual happy birthdays though I don’t think) and families and a TV with a cricket game on and free newspapers. The whole meal with soda and garlic bread cost about US $6, which was, unfortunately, not really a good deal. The memorable event though was that I failed to leave a tip because I wasn’t sure if people tipped at restaurants in India. I decided they didn’t because in Taiwan they didn’t and they’re both in Asia, right? Regardless, the person I texted inquiring about tip-policy didn’t get back to me until about ten minutes too late. So I am a white, rich (Jewish) bastard who can never show his face a pizza corner again, not even his my birthday.
I am also yet to wipe my ass in India. This is, luckily for both of us, a happier story. Instead of toilet paper here they have hoses, almost shower heads really, next to the toilet that you use to “hose off”. Not too bad actually, except that I can’t use toilet paper to blow my nose, although I could see what effect spraying my face with one of the hoses has. All-in-all, this emphasis on getting by without waste is especially appropriate considering I don’t think the trash gets far beyond the street corner where it’s burned, eaten by animals, picked through by people, or incorporated into the landscape. And recycling falls under the same policy. And I live in, according to some source somewhere, the second most livable city in all of India, after New Delhi. Makes you wonder what the world will be like in fifty years, although most things make me wonder about that.
Something else entirely, but still related to thinking about the world in fifty years: one Home Depot = (approx.) 800 small, kiosk shops in India. Today I walked by a shop, probably about 300 sq. ft., that simply sold door handles. And it wasn’t as if this shop was in an area reserved for handyman type things, it was next to a pick-the-live-chicken-you-want-and-we’ll-kill-it-and-cook-it-store and some “Cell phone Mega World” (both approx. the same square footage as door handle store). So basically, and I hope Sam Walton is listening unless he’s dead which I think he is and good riddance I hope his kids burn in hell with him, if someone constructed a giant dome above these shops and charged everyone to sell underneath their dome, well, this thought doesn’t make much sense. But the thing is that slowly all these small shops will get engulfed and melted and deranged until they form a Home Depot unless of course the world ends first, which might have to be the case because there’s 4 times as many Indians as Americans and that means 4 times as many Home Depots and is that what anyone but Home Depot CEOs want? Maybe? This is scary. I’m not too hot on the idea of door handle stores either. I didn’t talk to anyone today really, so I think that’s starting to show through.
I ate dinner at pizza corner this evening. I’d really rather not discuss the actually food. The ambiance was satisfactory though; there was air conditioning and lots of happy birthday signs (no actual happy birthdays though I don’t think) and families and a TV with a cricket game on and free newspapers. The whole meal with soda and garlic bread cost about US $6, which was, unfortunately, not really a good deal. The memorable event though was that I failed to leave a tip because I wasn’t sure if people tipped at restaurants in India. I decided they didn’t because in Taiwan they didn’t and they’re both in Asia, right? Regardless, the person I texted inquiring about tip-policy didn’t get back to me until about ten minutes too late. So I am a white, rich (Jewish) bastard who can never show his face a pizza corner again, not even his my birthday.
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Here are the first four
(9-3)*2+8 = 24
(5*3)+6+3 = 24
(4*2)*(2+1) = 24
2*(7+9) + 8 = 24