Day Four: 05.04.05
The anticipation of seeing all of the wildlife in its natural habitat had me (and by default and design, TP) awake and out early. Girding our bellies with the "breakfast included," we filled up on coffee, juice, a plate of fruit (note: white pineapple is not as sweet as yellow), saturated pancakes, gallo pinto, eggs, and plantains. Eavesdropping on our neighbors (all American), we learned that to enter Manuel Antonio National Park, you had to cross a stream by foot. The rest of the breakfast conversation was spent on the flip-flops vs. sneakers debate. Soon-to-be-ratty sneakers won.

I got DEETed up, TP got SPFed up, we put on our long-sleeved shirts and (as Iman called them) long-sleeved pants, and we walked to the Park. Along the way, we were beset by tour guides (official and not-so-official) who wanted to lead us through the Park. We decided to wing it this day and if we felt we missed out on a lot, we'd hire one tomorrow; and so, we "manana"ed our way to the entrance. If not for the proof of Costa Rican citizenship requirement, I could have paid the locals' price ($2) instead of the foreigners' price ($7) as LB and I did in Cairo when Gojira secured our discounted bus fare by claiming we were Egyptian. From morning to noon, we hiked through, up, and down the Park. There was really no need for a tour guide because any time something interesting rustled along the trail, a glut of shutterbugs stopped, stared, and snapped their photos. One really doesn't need to keep an eye out for the wildlife so long as one keeps an eye out for the wildlife-lovers.

Even at the cusp of the rainy season, the rainforest was lush and dark. The first denizen to greet us was a three-toed sloth dangling in the trees. It was hypnotizing to watch how. Slowly. He. Moved. The sloth languorously lifted his hairy arm as though it was made of lead. His long, yellowed claws sluggishly appeared. Scratching himself took a good long five minutes and probably longer, but we had to move on. For a closer look at this smiling slacker, check out this picture. The huge and lazy sloth won TP's great admiration and yet, when I sprawl on the couch and scratch myself, I get reprimanded.

In sharp contrast, our next host was a collection of frenzied, frenetic white-faced capuchin monkeys. They leapt from limb to limb with aerial grace. They cleverly scraped and pounded on the coconuts to drink the water. They threw stuff at us. One cheeky monkey came down, nonchalantly strolled over to the beach area nearby where a girl had left her backpack, and tossing a quick glance over his shoulder at us, proceeded to grasp the backpack and open the zipper. With eyes in the back of his head, he sensed when the girl came forward to rescue her bag and he shot back up into the trees. If the bag were lighter, I have no doubt he would have taken off with it; as it was, the bag was half open. Color me impressed. Later, this dude got all up in my grill.

The flora became denser as we ventured further along the trail. Curiosity had TP picking up and tossing around one of the abundant small, round, green fruits that carpeted the ground until we came upon the placard about the Manzanillo tree that warned of the toxicity of the fruit and the poisonous sap which, upon contact, could cause swelling, blistering, burning, inflammation, and temporary blindness. Whoops. TP let go of his new toy, dashed off to the shore, and washed his hands immediately. At least he didn't suffer the consequences of getting too friendly with the Manzanillo tree like this guy did.

Everything seemed hushed and muted as we hiked over the damp leaves and soft earth. For that reason, the sharp scratching sounds that broke the muffled ambiance had us freeze in our tracks and look around for the great beasts that must have been making that racket. Eyes darting above and below, we tried to visually penetrate the foliage to determine what could have been making that quick, high noise. It wasn't until we came upon a fork in the trail that we realized what creatures were responsible: hundreds of red land crabs. Also known as the red land crab, these critters danced over the branches, hovered near their holes, and looked as though they had just come back from voting since one (sometimes two) of their claws was painted purple.



The hike took us up to the Punta Catedral Peninsula where we caught a much-desired breeze and had a fantastic view of the beach and bay below. Sitting on a rock, we tried to cool down and dry off but one step back into the rainforest had us sweating again. The film of sweat that coated my arms was like oil; I would wipe my arms from elbow to wrist, but my hands just slid down with no effect. Once I gave up trying to stay dry and accepted the moistness, I could focus on my surroundings more. Zippy chameleons, slow iguanas, industrious crabs, and hoppy nutria kept us company. The beautiful coves below provided wonderful resting grounds and were fairly uncrowded.


The forest was full of dangers and beauty. We didn't see any parrots or jungle cats, but we also didn't see any mosquitoes or fer-de-lances either. Gotta take the good with the bad. And sometimes the ugly.



Next up: the winner of this travelogue's coveted "Grossest Thing Ever" award.

Day Three: 05.03.05
Sheets of rain. Blankets of rain. King-sized duvets of rain. Rolling thunder, bright flashes of lightening, and torrents of rain smashing down on the tin roof kept us company all night long. The few moments of short-lived silence were punctuated by the piercing croaks of the toads who preferred the areas right outside the cabin doors to the jungle nearby.



When morning finally came, the air was thick with humidity. You'd have thought that the rain showers during the night would promise a crisp, clear day. You'd be wrong. Breakfast at Blue Marlin consisted of a plate of fruit (sin papaya, por favor), scrambled eggs (with a hefty but unwanted dollop of mayonnaise on the side), gallo pinto (cooked in vegetable oil and not lard), and coffee (the day just got better).

A walk along the beach to observe the waves and gauge the crowdedness of certain sections yielded us (a) an appreciation for the low season turn out of surfer dudes and loud, obnoxious tourists, (b) a reminder to watch where we stepped lest we end up with a foot full of crabbie patties and (c) a sip of the sweet agua de pipa (water of a green coconut) from a beach vendor near the Park's entrance. Note: the dude next to the entrance to the Park charges 500 CRC for lukewarm agua de pipa, but the dude on the beach across from the Restaurant Lobster charges 300 CRC for nicely chilled agua de pipa. See? Now you don't have to bargain hunt for coconut water because we've already done the homework for you.

By 10:00 a.m., we had decided that we should treat ourselves to a break from the heat and humidity by upgrading to the Hotel Espadilla. We paid for our room at the Cabinas, carried our luggage across and slightly up the street, and checked into the air-conditioned, cable tv'ed, second-floor (and therefore toadless) room. Because the hotel's driveway was under construction, the normally discounted low season rate of $101/night was further discounted to a total of $80/night and included breakfast, a private nature reserve, and did I mention the A/C? Sold!

Finally completely unpacked, we returned to the relatively unpopulated beach (well, unpopulated by people anyway; there were many tiny hermit crabs scuttling around) to swim in the incredibly warm ocean. It is quite possible that the water was warmer than the air. We topped off the ocean swim with a swim in the completely deserted hotel's pool. Ain't no season like low season. Gazing placidly at some iguanas who gazed placidly at us in return, TP and I spent the lazy afternoon alone letting the sun slowly melt our brains. Only here for a day, we fell into a routine pretty quickly. Walk to Blue Marlin for lunch and iced mochas. Walk to the room to cool off during the hottest part of the day. Walk to the beach to watch a sandy soccer game. Walk to the agua de pipa man. Walk to the hotel for a nap.

After sunset, we strolled down to the main street and stood for a moment in awe at the cacophony of toady chatter coming from the creek nearby. The wall of sound was nearly deafening. When we came across some gawkers looking up and pointing, we followed suit and saw playful monkeys dangling from the trees! It was too dark to make out any more than their silhouettes, but it was exciting nonetheless.

We checked out the menu of Blue Marlin's rival, Restaurant Lobster, but opted for dinner at the hotel's restaurant: chunky ceviche, tender tenderloins in black bean sauce, and sweet plantains grilled to perfection. We counted the number of stupid toads facing the walls along the sidewalk back to the room (10), caught up on some of the world's news (same old, same old), and basked in the air-conditioner's glory (until the electricity cut out at 1:30 a.m. for an hour).

Next up: Road-Song of the Bandar-Log
Here we go in a flung festoon,
Half-way up to the jealous moon!
Don't you envy our pranceful bands?
Don't you wish you had extra hands?
Would n't you like if your tails were -- so --
Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow?
Now you're angry, but -- never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
--Rudyard Kipling

Day Two: 05.02.05
First stop: public phones to use the $2.00 telephone card to call home and announce safe arrival. Second stop: ATM to get thousands and thousands of colones (fun fact: the exchange rate these days is $1.00 US to 472.00 CRC so we pulled out about 50,000 colones. Ca-ching!). Third stop: breakfast at Morazan's only the place was just open for lunch and dinner so scratch that and return to the hotel for Tico breakfast accompanied by oldies songs piped in above.

Me (singing along): She seems to have an in-vis-i-ble touch, yeah, it takes control and slowly . . .
TP (interrupting my solo): You shouldn't know those lyrics.
Me (defensive b/c I can't help the fact that my brain retains useless knowledge, stupid stats, and lame lyrics): Why not?
TP: Because they are so bad.
Me: What if a villain captured us and tied us up to a rope dangling over a pit of lava and the only thing that could save us is if we could correctly answer trivia questions about Phil Collins' songs?
TP: Then perhaps death would be better.

Fourth stop: back upstairs to pack (took all of five minutes), back downstairs to pay ($66/night), and back outside to catch a cab (with no meter which means we may or may not have been cheated when the initial quote of 600 CRC ($1.26) increased to 1000 CRC ($2.11) once we arrived at the bus terminal - it's not the amount, it's the principle of the matter. *looks in LB's direction and recalls blistering walk through Cairo because the cabbie wanted to charge us a quarter more than he should have*).

We arrived at the "Coca-Cola bus terminal" which was basically a marketplace that happened to have a large parking lot in the center through which busses came barreling through. A cabbie attached himself to us and tried to convince us that at $45 US per person, we could travel to our destination, Manuel Antonio, in air-conditioned luxury, we could smoke if we wanted, we could stop anywhere along the way, and we could arrive in style. When we didn't take him up on his offer, he sported an expression that was part flabbergasted at our passing up such a sweet deal and part disdainful that we were too stupid to realize that he was the best and everyone else (i.e. the cheapo bus-riders) was the worst.

After much confusion over where to purchase our tickets, we finally deciphered a small, hand-painted sign indicating where the booth was and secured our $5 seats. Finding a spot to sit in the bright sun, we spent the better part of an hour watching the locals do their local things: a young man painting a store front while balancing on a shaky, rusted scaffolding; a worker mucking out a sewer or sludgy hole with his bare hands; a woman with powerful lungs selling everything from earrings to cheap, plastic radios; a decrepit old man aimlessly wandering around in a battered cowboy hat, stained pants, and a Star Wars, Episode I t-shirt. The guards in their yellow uniforms were very alert and helpful, telling one woman to keep her purse closer because there were thieves around and informing someone else which bus left and what time. The Coca-Cola guards ROCK!

We boarded our non-air-conditioned but not too shabby 12:15 p.m. bus, put our luggage underneath, and began our steamy drive through Costa Rica's ubiquitous coffee plantations, cloud-covered mountains, and mango groves.



With only one stop along the way for stretches, bathrooms, and snacks, we arrived in Quepos and then Manuel Antonio about three and a half hours later. Following the directions from the website of Cabinas Espadilla - "Once in the beach, turn left at Marlin Restaurant and follow the street" - we learned that our reservation, while taken, was not held. Luckily, since this was the "green" or "wet" or "low" season, there was one cabin available with a ceiling fan for $52/night with the possibility of upgrading to a cabin with an A/C for $64/night the rest of the week. Sweaty, tired, and hungry, we agreed and were shown our cabin complete with one double bed, one set of bunk beds, a little kitchen, and a clean bathroom. We dumped our stuff off and went back outside for some reconnaissance.

The beautiful beach, Playa Espadilla, was about a two-minute walk from the front door. The National Park was a mere five-minute walk away from that. There were two busy restaurants across the street from each other book-ended by souvenir shops, surf lesson stalls, and internet cafes. And so ended our recon.



Before dinner, we stopped by the pharmacy to get some DEETlicious repellant for my mosquito-buffet skin. We went to the Blue Marlin restaurant for dinner and luckily chose a table under the shelter because within ten minutes, heavy rain poured down and soaked the plein air diners who scrambled inside. Our waiter, Omar from Quepos who spoke his English with a Californian accent courtesy of all the time he spent with the West Coast surfers, was friendly enough but drove us crazy with his constant use of the alleged Costa Rican phrase "Pura Vida" which means "pure life" but can be used for any response from "ok, I got your order," to "I'm doing well, thank you," to "it really is great being here during the low season because then I have the hotels, the pools, the beaches, and the jungles almost all to myself!" We started off with the salty, limey, delicious ceviche (hopefully parasite-free) and shared the mahi-mahi and yellow fin tuna dishes. By the time our plates were clean, the rain had stopped. We strolled over to the sister accommodations to Cabinas Espadilla, the Hotel Espadilla, and contemplated a change in rooms to the fancier hotel after returning to our hot, sweltering cabin for the night.

Next up: hanging out on the beach with the mobile home crew.

Day One: 05.01.05
Indulging in a hot but thin shower with the Bliss products LB gave me, I started the day fresh and hungry. The hotel offered an all-you-can-eat buffet that consisted mainly of gallo pinto (black beans and rice), fruit (marvelous mangos, piquant pineapples, and pass on the papayas), eggs, toast, and all-you-can-drink Cafe Britt.



Tummies full, we took a circuitous tour of the historic Barrio Amon neighborhood and the center of town. Located in the Central Valley, San Jose is arranged in a grid that is bisected by north-to-south Calle (street) Central and east-to-west Avenida (avenue) Central with all of the odd streets to the east, even streets to the west, odd avenues to the north, and even avenues to the south. Good luck finding the street signs which are more often than not spray-painted over, mutilated, or completely missing. We were in the north-east quadrant at Calle 5, Avenida 11 so our first stop, a mere three blocks away, was the Parque Morazan at Calle 5, Avenida 5. The centerpiece was the Templo de la Musica which houses concerts but which, today, was empty. After sidestepping some of the many homeless people sleeping on the streets this early Sunday morning, our next stop was the Central Park where the birds in the trees were having quite a heated debate.

Nearby, we saw several police officers clustered around an ice cream vendor's cart.

TP: (shaking his head) "Look at those cops shaking down that vendor."
Me: (ever the optimist) "Maybe they just want some ice cream."
TP: (Debbie Downer) "No, everyone in power here is corrupt."
Me: (triumphantly) "Look! They are paying him money and getting some ice cream!"
TP: (reluctantly) "Yeah. This time."

We passed by an open-air market where one Tico (Costa Rican) claimed the long cotton shirt with the Indian elephant motif was worth $13.00 (yeah, right, you know how much I can get that for in Pakistan?! Interrodesi!) on our way to where the two Center streets intersected. The sun was getting pretty intense, the crowds were picking up and by the afternoon, the bottomless cups of coffee were making their presence known. Falling back on a habit I picked up in Paris, we ducked into a fancy hotel to use their facilities. We couldn't find any on the main floor, so we headed upstairs. There was an open and completely empty room around the corner with the maid's cart nearby but no maid to be seen. I thought we could totally get away with closing the door, attending to business, and leaving, but Prudence McPrude wouldn't hear of it. Dios Mio! So back out to the main street we went until we found a bustling restaurant with unattended bathrooms below.

Amid the shoe shops, the clothing stores, and the pharmacists, we saw Pops, touted by one of the travel guide books (can't remember which one, I just grabbed a bunch from the library before we left, jotted down some notes, and returned them - I loves me them free books!) as being the best place to get ice cream. It was ok, but it was no gelato. Mango = C, Raspberry = B.



Since it was International Worker's Day, it was only fitting that we stumbled across the TLC (Tratado Libre de Comerio) protest march against the U.S. Central American Free Trade Agreement.



We watched as some of the 4,000 protesters chanted slogans, waved banners, and stomped their way across the city center. A look at our unprotected faces told us we had been in the sun too long so, for our last sight, we climbed up to the top of the hill near the Children's Museum, (where, despite my hatred for him, I pitied a poor sweltering Barney and his friends who must have been dying in their thick, foam costumes under the burning sun) to get a view of the city below:



After a stop at the supermarket for some water and juice, we returned to the room to find it bereft of electricity and just lay in the dark until the blades of the ceiling fan slowly started moving again about an hour later. We got our fill of the Food Network, CNN en Espanol, and Animal Planet en Espanol before we showered again and changed into some fancier duds (i.e. not jeans) for our dinner with TP's former Spanish professor, Magda, and her family.

When TP came to Costa Rica ten years ago to study Spanish, in total nerd fashion, he befriended his teacher. Since the unspoken rule is that every country we visit must have someone we are related to or at least know who lives there, we contacted Magda and arranged to meet her and her husband, Cilo, and their seven month old daughter, Estella. That evening, after exchanging names, kisses, and presents, we were whisked away to experience a typical Tico restaurant. On a Sunday night, the place was not crowded at all and we were seated on some rickety wooden chairs (mine precariously balanced and teetering over the edge of the platform) and served immediately. The standard fare was good and filling: beans and rice; chicken and beef; cheese and chilies. After dinner, the waiter brought out an interesting instrument when Cilo ordered coffee. Called a chorreador de cafe, the traditional Costa Rican coffee maker was basically a wooden frame supporting a cloth filter suspended above a carafe. I would liked to have tried some of the rich, steaming coffee, but (a) I had already scalded my tongue sampling Magda's Agua Dulce - hot sugar cane juice -and (b) I was on Estella duty carrying her around the restaurant to check out the bored mariachi player, the forest of onions hanging from the rafters, and the smiling, friendly cooks behind the counter.

We had a lovely time with the family, learned more about the protest we witnessed that afternoon, and called it an early evening at 10:30 p.m. Back at the Hotel Dumb Inn, we packed our belongings, counted out our few remaining colones (the bit we got earlier from the ATM was blown on the we-take-no-credit-cards dinner), and slept to the dulcet sounds of our neighbors bellowing "whar's mah cigarettes?" which were only slightly drowned out by the buzzing whir of the ceiling fan above.

Next up: Go west, young man! And then, head south. And then, go east when you hit the ocean.

Are you ready, kids?
(Aye, Aye, Cap'n!)
I can't heeeeaaarrrr you!
(AYE, AYE, CAP'N!)
Ohhhhhh, here's the Costa Rica travelogue:

04.30.05
Pre-Day One: Having packed the night before, I was up at 5:00 a.m. and seriously contemplated beginning my vacation by slamming the doors and waking the neighbors (especially the no-named rat-dog) to exact my revenge for their countless pre-dawn antics. But there were still things to be done and so TP and I attended to those instead: throwing away any stinkables, locking down the fortress, and securing the chariot. By 6:30 a.m., we had picked up a sleepy but gracious LB, hurtled through Rock Creek Park in the driving rain, and checked in at the airport. Then, we waited. We shared a cappuccino and an atrocious invention called a "tomazzo" bagel pizza and waited. We read the newspaper from front page to the comix and waited. We listened anxiously as the reports of the storm in Atlanta and the grounding of all planes continued and waited. Our 8:00 a.m. flight became a 10:00 a.m. flight and there was no way we were going to make our connection.

When we touched down and scrambled out at noon, we found out that we missed our flight by five minutes while we were standing in line to find out the status of our flight. Disgruntled, we shuttled over to the international terminal and stood in line to rebook our flight at the Delta counter. With lunchtime approaching, we watched in horror and disbelief as there were four little, three little, two little clerks working the desk for the coach passengers (business class had almost a one-to-one passenger-clerk ratio going on). Inconceivable! An hour and a half later, the line had snaked around the velvet ropes, doubled up on itself, and was nearing one of the gates. Outrageous! When one of the business class patrons tried to jump into the peons' line, there was much gnashing of teeth and preparations for a battle royale (not to be confused with a royale with cheese) until the one remaining coach clerk apologetically explained that she had to attend to the coach passengers. Revolution! We finally reached a second clerk who had appeared out of the woodwork and was huffing in exasperation even before we got there. No smile, no greeting, no apology. But, we did score some business class seats. Grudging acceptance!

With five hours to kill until our flight, we spent the majority of the time snacking, people-pointing, and clock-watching. Our connecting flight was also delayed but sitting in the comfort of business class, we didn't mind so much. San Jose came into sight around 9:30 p.m. - a mere nine hours later than scheduled. The immigration line was much more organized and faster moving than the Delta quote customer service unquote counter (Fie! Fie on Delta!). One disturbing observation: not only printed on the entry forms but also plastered throughout the immigration and customs areas are warnings that supporting child prostitution in Costa Rica is illegal. Apparently, the child sex trade is so rampant that they have to drive the point home before you even step foot into the country. According to the National Institute for Children, as many as 3,000 children in Metropolitan San Jose alone are involved in prostitution. Where are those air-sickness bags when you need them?

After a slapdash custom's inspection of just one of our two bags, we were thrown into the throng of sweaty, determined, and aggressive taxi drivers squawking for our attention. Luckily, we already knew to use the official airport taxis which are sanctioned, safe, and had a set fee: $12 to San Jose. Passing by an extremely fit and voluptuous tranny, we rolled into Barrio Amon, checked into our non-air-conditioned, window-overlooking-the-internal-stairwell, earplugs-offered-at-the-front-desk room at the Hotel Dunn Inn (isn't it redundant to call a place a 'hotel' and an 'inn'?).

Next Up: potential corruption, pathetic ice cream, and power outages.

I wonder how much sand the washing machine can take before it starts to shudder and smoke. Laundry beckons and so just a few blurbs today:

1. This is what I'd look like if I were a South Park character in Costa Rica:

Find your own inner-South Parkian here. Idea gleefully stolen from Upyernoz.

2. Just saw the movie Word Wars, a documentary on the obsessive world of competitive Scrabble. If not for all the drugs, hookers, and foul language, I'd recommend this to several of you. You know who you are. Looks like the next documentary I should check out is Promises which was recently reviewed by Upyernoz and Yasmine.

3. News clip from The Onion:

Hayward, CA -- Dinesh Parekh, 9, continues to struggle to find a bicycle license plate with his name on it, the Indian-American child reported Monday. "This is the third store I've checked today," said a dejected Parekh, exiting a Toys "R" Us near his Hayward home. "Derrick, Diane, Dillon and Dylan, Dirk... no Dinesh." Parekh, who has pedaled his brand-new Schwinn to more than a dozen stores during his three-week search, said he plans to ask his mother to drive him to the KB Toys in San Leandro next weekend.

Ahoy, me hearties! Land ho! We've returned from our trip to the tropics with plenty of pictures, muscled and bronzed bodies, several stories, and about ten to fifteen mosquito bites to show for it. Shout out to me first mate Abez for watchin' o'er me blog to defend it from other buccaneers and keep it updated. Happy Mother's Day love to Cybermom and Literaunty. And just to tide you over until I get the travelogue up and running, here's a pix of our tour guide through Manuel Antonio National Park:

Avast ye lubbers! This here is First Mate Abez, keel hauler of scallywags and designer of piratey layouts, prepare to be boarded!

Long ago, when sailing ships ruled the waves, a captain and his crew were in danger of being boarded by a pirate ship. As the crew became frantic, the captain bellowed to his First Mate, "Bring me my red shirt!"

The First Mate quickly retrieved the captain's red shirt, which the captain put on and led the crew to battle the pirate boarding party.

Although some casualties occurred among the crew, the pirates were repelled. Later that day, the lookout screamed that there were two pirate vessels sending boarding parties. The crew cowered in fear, but the captain, calm as ever, bellowed, "Bring me my red shirt!"

Once again the battle was on. However, the Captain and his crew repelled both boarding parties, though this time more casualties occurred.

Weary from the battles, the men sat around on deck that night recounting the day's occurrences when an ensign looked to the Captain and asked, "Sir, why did you call for your red shirt before the battle?"

The Captain, giving the ensign a look that only a captain can give, exhorted, "If I am wounded in battle, the red shirt does not show the wound and thus, you men will continue to fight unafraid."

The men sat in silence marveling at the courage of such a man. As dawn came the next morning, the lookout screamed that there were pirate ships, 10 of them, all with boarding parties on their way.

The men became silent and looked to the Captain, their leader, for his usual command. The Captain, calm as ever, bellowed, "Bring me my brown pants!"

You know where to leave my dubloons. Har har.

We're off! Ten gold dubloons for the hearty mate who updates me blog whilst we're away. Arrr-revoir!


Congratulations! You have what it takes to be a pirate monkey!


Pirate Monkey Aptitude Test

For those of you who know Hedi, now three years old, here is a snippit of our latest "conversation":

"You are a butthead, ha ha!"
"Oh really? I think you are a butthead."
"No, Tata Baji, you are the butthead."
"I'm pretty sure you are the butthead."
"NO, you are a butthead."
"Well, I looked at your passport and it said that your name was 'butthead'."
'"NO!!!" (pause to consider and formulate scathing response) "I . . . saw . . . my passport . . . and it said YOUR name was 'butthead'!"

For my fellow Scrabbie-lovers and Literati-haters, check this out.

Hai . . . Hai . . . HAIKU! (Bless you)

allergy season

eyes, nose, throat - now hostages.

the price of blossoms

*

sniffle, scratch, rub, wipe

spring has sprung in my lungs, still

better than winter

*

delicate petals

of the flowering dogwood

match lotion tissues

Rumors of our deaths and/or departure have been greatly exaggerated. We are still in town but are planning on leaving at the end of the week.

*hangs up "Welcome Burglars" sign*

Thanks to the advice of several acquaintences, we have gotten several tips and warnings for our trip:

Do see the cloudforests, the volcanos, and the beaches.
Don't see, hang out in, or spend a second longer than necessary in San Jose.
Do explore some of the national parks.
Don't get bitten by the Fer-de-lance.
Do keep your eyes out for an ocelot or jaguar.
Don't step on any scorpions. Or army ants or bullet ants. Oh, and watch out for vampire bats. (this from Oz's friend, Angelus - how cool is that name?! Interro-greco-roman!)
Do indulge in the export reserve Cafe Britt coffee.
Don't indulge in the 1/2 cup of pork lard gallo pinto.

Any other suggestions? Comments? Jokes? Discussions about the WTO-WIPO TRIPS Agreement?

In an attempt to upgrade my wardrobe to something suitable for a more professional venue (rumor has it that pjs and a proper office don't mix . . . yet), LB and I went to the outlet stores at Potomac Mills. Yes, there were bargains to be had. But was it worth it to swim against the tide of obese parents, squalling children, wanna-be Goth Kids, wanna-be Mean Girls, and pushy vendors trying to squirt perfume on you? To suffer the lack of natural light, the dearth of fresh air, the overabundance of piped-in "rock" tunes for hours on end? To witness a Vietnamese manager bark orders to a testy Arab cashier to tell the confused Pakistani clerk to clean up the dressing rooms with the instructions "tell her in her own language." The jury is still out on that one.

Whoops, not it isn't; here they come.

The jury votes "no."

Here we go, here we go, here we go again! We got two tickets to fly (by the seat of our pants) to Costa Rica! Anyone have any suggestions on what to see and where to stay?

To Do:
Dig out the Claritin (ooh! free!) and restock the tissues.
Watch House of Flying Daggers tonight and return to Netflix.
Eat the bhindi and rice and make room for the mac-n-chee.
Go see Kontroll at Filmfest DC tomorrow evening.
Get the A/C and tires fixed on Cressie before I melt and spin out into the Potomac.
Explain to my pals what the difference is among trademarks, patents, and copyrights.
Finish The Winds of Change by Martha Grimes then start If On a Winter's Night by Italo Calvino.
Consider: Argentina, Chile, or Guatemala.
Upload Modest Mouse's Good News for People Who Love Bad News onto the Rio.

Why, oh, why do I have Schooly-D's Aqua Teen Hunger Force theme song stuck in my head? Maybe because while I was doing laundry, I caught up on about four episodes of the show. This was after watching Robot Chicken.


My. name. is. Shake-zula, the mic rulah, the old schoolah,
You wanna trip, I'll bring it to ya.
Frylock and I'm on top, rock you like a cop,
Meatwad you're up next with your knock-knock.
Meatwad make the money see, Meatwad get the honeys, G,
Drivin' in my car, livin' like a star,
Ice on my fingers and my toes and I'm a Taurus.
ha ha, check it, uh, check-check it, yeah
'cuz we are tha Aqua Teens make the homeys say ho and the girlies wanna scream
'cuz we are tha Aqua Teens make the homeys say ho and the girlies wanna scream
Aqua Teen Hunger Force, numba one in tha hood, G.

For some new school raps, check out 2 Scoops throwin' down some mad beats here.

So, you know, what with Ratzinger getting a new job, I thought I should get one too. And so I did. Hee!

How To Induce Nightmares and Have a Sleepless Night

1. Pop in "Taste of Cherry" and contemplate what is going through this Iranian man's mind that he wants to commit suicide so desperately. Enjoy the scenery, the cinematic style, and the striking images, but end on one of the creepiest shots ever (or maybe that's just me b/c being buried alive is possibly the worst way to die in my book).

2. Follow that movie with "Hotel Rwanda" and watch the drama of a hotel manager attempting to aid over 1200 Tutsis refugees during the Hutu extremists' genocide in Rwanda unfold. Learn to avert your eyes when you see the flash of a blade or the carpet of dead bodies.

3. Try to have sweet dreams. Fail miserably.

Had a great "abundant sunshine" weekend with my parents. Leb Tav, home repairs, and walks through Rock Creek Park. Aw, I miss my flan-makin' meemaw and my paint-scrapin' peepaw.

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Six Degrees of Blogeration Updated

Rule -- degrees are established by one live person actually meeting, laying eyes upon, hugging, or clobbering another live person. * indicates blurker or blogguest status

First Degree

Baji -- Lil Baji*, Cybermom*, TP*, Chai, H-Biddy, City Nomad, Ismo, Literaunty, Ushi, and Osman*. (me relatives)

Baji -- Abez, DeGrouchyOwl [collectively, "the Zistahs"], Chan, Gunnar, Najm, Lil Najm, Upyernoz, Amaal* (a.k.a. Gojira), Lamisse* (a.k.a. LaMushy), and Taha* (a.k.a 2 Scoops). (me crew)

Second Degree

Baji -- Chai or the Zistahs -- Hemlock, Karrvakarela, Waleed , da Momma, Poppie , MnM, Lil Gray Crayon, Niqabified, Knicq, Iman, Chai and Apple Pie, Dodo, PakiPenguin, Bness, Chij Bachee and Vora

Baji -- (LB* or Lamisse*) -- Yasmine, Somayya, and Chocoholic

Baji -- (Taha*) -- HijabMan

Baji -- Upyernoz -- Josh Corey, Cathy, Chuck, Sarah, Jon, Julia, LLCoolP, Anglobaptist, bronwen, richard and the spin dentist, ACM, eligere, iwuwill, heinrich and anita, jim, mithras, and Atrios

Third Degree

Baji -- the Zistahs -- Poppie -- Usual Suspect and Anju

Baji -- Upyernoz -- [Upyernoz's Brother or Nameless Friend] -- mshairi and nathan newman

Baji -- the Zistahs -- Hemlock -- Meeks

Fourth Degree

Baji -- the Zistahs -- Bness -- NJ

Baji -- the Zistahs -- Knicq -- AWK

Baji -- Najm -- [Safia or Ayan, but nobody's met Ayan, or come on there's gotta be someone!] -- Shaheen

Fifth Degree

Baji -- the Zistahs -- Bness -- NJ -- Hafsa

Can we make it to the SIXTH DEGREE? I submit that we CAN!

p.s. - new word: "Blogus" (adj) failure to update blog; etymology - blog + bogus. example: "Literaunty hasn't updated in almost a year. That's so blogus."

How To Mortally Wound Yourself During Spring Cleaning

(or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Split Infinitive)

First, obtain a cast iron grate vent register, preferably an antique from the early 1900s which is designed with numerous scrolls and loops and which, over the course of nearly a century, has accumulated a decalayer of paint. Next, find a clean workspace or, failing that, a filthy one. Firmly grasp one sharp end of the grate and begin scraping the rust and paint (oil- and latex-based) with a screwdriver. When the project is half-way complete, take a break by giving yourself a botched manicure. While performing the last scrape before the break, skewer the screwdriver into your thumb in such a manner so that the nail separates from the skin. Bonus points if you manage to wedge some of the newly scraped paint into the wound. Use the blood as a lubricant as you wrest the screwdriver out of your thumb. Admire your handiwork, slap on a bandage, and complete your project with success.

Speaking of Farenheit 451, check out this list of "Banned Books in the Year 2191"
BY BRENDON LLOYD of McSweeny's:

Lying Machines: Robot-Owned Media and How It Corrupts Democracy
A Bot Election: How the Robot Lobby Influences Politics
A Fatal Error: How We Elected a Robot President
They Won't Die: Why Robots Should Never Be Appointed to the Supreme Court
The New Constitution: Binary to English Translation
Our Robot Masters: Though They Force Us to Say Otherwise, We Are Not Proud to Serve Them
Escape From XRT-1041: How One Man Survived a Robot Slave-Labor Camp
Electromagnetic Pulse Weaponry

Also informative:
List of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations,
List of The Hierarchy of Candy,
List of Things That Paper Could Be Replaced With to Make Rock, Paper, Scissors More Believable.

Attention. Attention.
Parental units are arriving in T-minus six days.
Synchronize all watches.
Operation Clean Sweep has been initiated.
All floors must be mopped and all carpets must be vacuumed.
Stack and arrange all boxes so as to appear as inconspicuous as possible.
Contain and sedate all dust bunnies.
Mess hall and latrine must be spotless.
Replace all filters in the vents and if possible, repair all gaping holes in the ceiling.
Sawdust in your lungs? Walk it off!
Laundry must be washed and folded neatly - failure is not an option.
Secure bottle of Windex and/or Pledge and wipe down the oven, the countertops, tables, and behind the ears.
Perform any other task necessary to give the illusion that this is not a place of squalor.
Repeat, this is not a place of squalor.
Stand by for further instructions.
That is all for now.

Dictated by General T. P. Bossy Boots

Forget the National Cherry Blossom Festival. Who wants to join me in visiting the Sonny Bono Memorial Park? The tiny park is near Dupont Circle, sports a memorial plaque, and has an underground vault that contains the sheet music for "The Beat Goes On," Sonny's coffee mug, and his official congressional cufflinks.

Maybe it's the gray and drizzly day. Maybe it's the fitful night. Maybe it's the 24 sushi rolls (half eel and avocado, half spicy tuna sashimi) that Sushiko accidently gave me when I only ordered half but they were so nice about it and didn't charge me extra that I made myself eat almost the whole thing. But I am feeling velly srrreepy. Veehhhllyyyy srrreepy. Oh. So. Sreepy. Reprised.

Random Acts of Randomness:
*Cherry Blossoms are starting to peak. Ka-BLOOM!
*Why didn't superspy Sydney wake up when Vaughn shot up gasping after a nightmare?
*Some hardcore Star Wars fans are already lining up for the Revenge of the Sith which opens next month. At another theater.
*Now that DC has a new baseball team, they need a name for the field. The only entry suggestion thus far? Taxation Without Representation Field at RFK Stadium.
*Wanna see how far the ad wizards have pervaded your mind with their marketing efforts? Play this game and see.
*Welcome back, LB! I missed ye!

This weekend I saw Control Room , the behind-the-scenes documentary of Al Jazeera's work during the Iraqi war. Since upyernoz already did such a nice review for it, I'll take the lazy way out and just refer you to his entry hyah.

Instead, I present to you another installment of "Modern Muslim Cooking of Indo-Pakistan" which reminds me very much of something the Whizzo Chocolate Factory might market.

Sheep's Feet

It is another popular dish of this country. It is delicious and invigorating. It is prepared especially in winter.

Ingredients:
10 sheep's feet
1/3 level tsp turmeric
2 flakes garlic
2 oz onion
1/2 oz ginger
1/4 tsp garam masala
1/2 lb curd
4 oz ghee
1/2 lb onion

Method:
Wash and clean sheep's feet. Scrap [sic] out hair and remove shoes (if not already done) and boil in water adding all the spices except ginger and garam masala till water is dry and feet are tender. Then fry them adding sliced ginger, garam masala and 4 oz. ghee. Again add water (sufficient to cook the feet and gravy required). Let simmer on low heat for two hours till ready. Sprinkle with chopped green coriander, green pepper, garam masala (curry powder) and fried onion slices. Remove from heat after 5 minutes and serve.

Overheard on the Metro: "Um. I was wondering. If a girl says to you 'you're hot,' is the polite response to say 'you're hot' back?" Eshpring is the air.

Could be!
Who knows?
There's something due any day
I will know, right away
Soon as it shows
It may come cannonballing down
Through the sky
Gleam in its eye, bright as rose
Who knows?
It's only just out of reach
Down the block, on a beach
Under a tree
I got a feeling there's a miracle due
Gonna come true, comin' to me...
Could it be, yes, it could
Something's comin', something good
If I can wait!
Something's comin',
I don't know what it is
But it is gonna be great! . . .

This song is dedicated to Spring which is so close I can taste the pollen already! YAY!

Just got back from seeing Sin City in all of its over-the-top film noir glory. Stunning. As in, I was stunned when I left the theater. Stunned, shaking my head, astounded that this movie only garnered an "R" rating. Uberviolent. Grody-to-the-max. Vomitrocious. I have not seen a more graphically violent movie in my life. And I've seen some pretty horrendous flix in my time. I mean, how many mutilations can one movie hold?! (interrochop!) Dames, danger, and decapitations. Guns, guts, and gore. Excuse me while I go purge myself with something Disney.

stickin' it to me

upyernoz hit me! Ouch! I'd retaliate, but he's already been struck himself. And since I am a law-abiding blog citizen, I shall comply:

You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?

If this question is geared to solicit which is my official most hated book that I would like to see burned to ash and gone, I think my previous post answers that and let us never speak of it again. If this question is aimed at determining what book I would memorize in order to save it for future generations, I reckon I'd have to go with the The Quran - the edition edited by Abdullah Yusuf Ali because those footnotes really help.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?

Yes. I'd have to admit to: Holden Caufield, Encyclopedia Brown, Richard Jury, Fiddler, Lord Goring, Westley, Han Solo, Scylla . . . I could go on but I think I've embarrassed myself enough now.

The last book you bought is:

Road to Makkah by Muhammad Asad - ok, kk? are you happy? ;)

The last book you read:

The last book I finished and didn't abandon (see previous post) was The Known World by Edward P. Jones - fascinating account of a former-slave-turned-master's life and the effects his death had on his family, friends, and slaves in the pre- and post- Civil War era. I promise to get it back to you soon, Oz.

What are you currently reading?

The Final Solution by Michael Chabon

Five books you would take to a desert island.

Well, since I've already memorized the Quran (see above):

• Life of Pi by Yann Martel - entertaining fiction plus would give me good survival tips
• Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris - even though I've read or heard portions of it so often
• One of them there Norton Anthologies or Shakesperian Anthologies or Woody Allen Anthologies; let's just say something in the anthology category
• The First 280 Years of Monty Python by Kim "Howard" Johnson - where, I suppose, in my sheer and utter loneliness I would play all of the characters and do all of the voices and walk all of the walks
• One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez - because, much to my chagrin, I never got past the first chapter even though I really want to and on a desert island, I think it would come in handy; in fact, perhaps I shouldn't read it now just in case I do get stranded so at least I'll have something new to read.

Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?

Yasmine, KK, and Owl- because they are the most vocal, thoughtful, and thorough of my bibliophilic blogging buddies (woulda hit up BAQ too, but I can only list three and he only updates about once a quarter century).

(psst - Abez, Bness, Chai, and the rest of you alphabetic bloggers are welcome to accept the stick as well, but those three have mandatory orders to accept.)

After a valiant effort to get through "Reading Lolita in Tehran," I have thrown up my hands and given up. I hate leaving books unfinished, especially ones that I have purchased rather than borrowed. Once I start it, I feel the need to finish it even if it starts trundling down Lame Street or I reach the "okay, I get it, but there are still xyz chapters left" point. However, there are some books that irritate me to the point that I have to let them go. If I don't put them away, I feel obliged to plod on, getting more and more annoyed, until eventually, I don't read anything at all. That happened with "Brick Lane" and it happened here too. I kept wanting to give it a chance, but the author's voice was grating on my nerves, her smug attitude was unattractive, and her writing style just rubbed me the wrong way. It's gotten to the point that I feel if ever I were to meet the author, I might not like her as a person. Nor her rabid fans. Especially this one. I don't know if I can fully articulate how little regard I hold for this book (although I still find the concept behind it a good one).

Yesterday, I put that book away (can you tell how frustrated with it I am that I don't even want to link it here when normally I am a linkaholic?) and started another: The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios by Yann Martel - the author of Life of Pi. Ahhhhhh. So much better. Yes, it is fiction rather than fact; a collection of short stories rather than a lengthy memoir. Perhaps not "politically important" as that book has been marketed, but it is so much more enjoyable. A balance of humor and pathos. Clever but not bombastic. Gripping and nuanced. Now, that's what I'm talking about. I feel so relieved after escaping the shackles of that other book that I may be giving this one too much credit, but I can't help it. I feel free. I feel unfettered. The thrill of reading has returned. Look at me! I'm on top of the world!

Your ticket has been confirmed. (via NJ)

So, the American version of "The Office" was a total rip-off of the British version (down to the same types of characters, office seating arrangements, and even word-for-word jokes). The only plus was the lack of a laugh track. If the writers don't come up with any good new material (which they are allegedly going to do here on out), I'm just going to stick to the Ricky Gervais material.

David: This is Sanj, this guy does the best Ali G impersonation, Aiiieee. I can't do it, go on, do it.
Sanj: I don't, must be someone else.
David: Oh sorry, it's the other one... [awkward pause and tense silence]
Sanj: The other what... Paki?
David: Ah, that's racist.

Have a good weekend, y'all. And for my little Easter Bunnies, here is a reprisal of David Sedaris' commentary on the holiday that I posted last year.

Addendum:
1. Unless you want to end up like Schiavo, get a living will. It's Islamically Delicious!
2. Check out this alarm clock.
3. Baby cheetahs at the National Zoo, potential cherry blossoms in bloom, and Toulouse Lautrec exhibit at the National Gallery - it's shaping up to be a good weekend.

It's been pretty craptastic lately what with all of the death, destruction, and turmoil. One day, my heart is (figuratively) ripped out through my throat. Another day, my leg is (literally) plunged into three feet of sewage water. The next day, I am astounded and appalled by everything I read in the news (although, that is pretty much every day). Today, I'm sick and I feel like a ball of hot "vomick." But in an attempt not to wallow in self-pity and global-misery, I am now going to list some things that cheered me up:

• a welcome visit from upyernoz who not only came bearing delicious gifts but also regaled us with great travel stories while treating us to a lovely dinner.
• a package of intensely chocolate brownies and sweet condolences from princess julestress.
• a call from my parents to let me know that they finally arrived back home safely.
• a view of the trees beginning to bloom in the neighborhood.
• a call from a friend visiting from out of town who allowed me to rant and rave and then graciously let me abruptly end the conversation after I canceled our plans to get together.
• a smootch from TP after he covered me with a blanket as I lay on the couch like a slug and watched the show I love to hate.
• eating a whole bag of Sea Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips.
• Bruff McGruff's violent joy at seeing me approach him by scampering over to the fence, throwing himself down on the ground, and slobbering in undiluted happiness.
• a successful first attempt at making french green lentils with goat cheese.
• hearing Tenacious D's ballad about Wonderboy and Young Nastyman, archrival and nemesis of Wonderboy, with powers comparable to Wonderboy.

Pandi's 'Pinions

Movies:

Motorcycle Diaries - Since this movie got the most blogpoll votes, I watched it with high expectations. If this were just a run-of-the-mill buddy-road-trip movie, it would have been alright enough. The fantastic panoramic shots of the South American countryside is reason enough to see it. However, knowing that the story was based on Che Guevera's actual letters and diaries bumps this movie up a notch or two.

Dodgeball - Bah. I think I'm just going to stick to Stiller/Wilson buddy pix.

The Yes Men - This documentary showcases two fearless activists' adventures in impersonating WTO members at international conferences with hilarious speeches and shocking behavior that for some reason never really elicited the shock and outrage of the participants until they appeared before some college students near the end of the film. More hands-on but less serious than Farenheit 9/11.

Monseiur Ibrahim - Teenaged Jewish boy befriends older Muslim man and several French hookers with their cliched hearts of gold. It had a good premise but could have been so much better. It had such a trite and predictable plot and ending that one (and by "one" I mean "TP") would be tempted to classify it as a Disney-like movie if not for all the hookers.

Big Fish - Much as I like Tim Burton and Ewan McGregor, this was just a string of not-so-tall-tales with no real substance or lesson.

So last weekend, I spent the morning clearing a path into the guest bedroom (note to self: create and patent the "Personal Bulldozer 2000"), getting out fresh sheets and towels (never mind that they would get stinky in a flash after the band returned from rocking out in a smoky club), and shopping with LB for:

• a bagel slicer
• a bucket
• a "cute" spatula
• pink oven mitts

In the evening, we got a call that the band was on its way. We fired up the stove, warmed up a huge pot of chana masala (TP's work) and the bhindi (yours truly), and started on the rice. When the band showed up, rumpled, hungry, and tired from their drive from Connecticut, they were blown away by the prospect of home-cooked Desi food and a clean, comfy bed for each of them. In typical southern fashion, they expressed their appreciation over and over again until we threatened them and reminded them that their food would get cold if they kept talking. As they enjoyed a delicious dessert of York Peppermint Patties, they regaled us with some rock-n-roll stories and memories: "When Bob (Mould) broke up with my roommate, we suddenly never heard from him again;" "It was fantastic doing a Peel Session;" "I had such a crush on (Michael) Stipe - well, you know, until we found out;" and "TP looks exactly the same as he did 10 years ago!"). TP directed them to the club where they needed to set up while I cleaned up, made and/or pulled out the beds, and scattered potential post-midnight snacks around the table.

Later that night, we found a spot rightinfront of the Velvet Lounge (which pleased us to no end), entered without paying since we were on the guest list (which pleased us to the same no end), and found our posse. Earplugs, check. Front and cent . . .er . . . slouched to the side, check. Disdain and distaste for concert-goers who were wearing their old Magnapop concert t-shirts to the Magnapop concert, check. They sounded great and played some of their older tunes ("Open the Door" is a fave) and even did a Guided By Voices cover ("Game of Pricks") in anticipation of their up-coming SXSW tour. Then, to my great glee, they dedicated a song from their new album to us!

Ruthie: "You guys have been a great audience. We want to dedicate this next song to TP and Baji!" (well, she used our real names. well, she used TP's real name and kinda mangled mine so the equivalent would have been "TP and Jarbi!")
Audience Member: "Who are they?!"
Ruthie: "Two great people. Very important people."
Audience Member: "We still don't know who they are!"
Ruthie: "Heh. Um. One, two, one two three four ... [insert guitar riff]"

After they rocked, they rolled. While they packed up their gear and went to visit the 9:30 Club to pay Bob a surprise visit during his Blowout DJ extravaganza, TP and I went home to shower the club stink off and catch the last bits of SNL. Around 2:30 a.m., they called to let us know that they were headed home. We helped them maneuver their gargantuan van into the back, lugged in their equipment, and tucked them in. They were very good and polite houseguests and even folded their sheets and straightened up when the left the next morning. They autographed a copy of their new album for us, thanked us profusely, and stated that when they made it big, they would buy us a washer and dryer (oral contract!). There you go, Moiz, how's that? :)

Okay, Ushi, your interview questions are (drumroll, please):
1. If you could live in any other country, which one would you choose?
2. If you had to narrow it down, what would be your top five favorite foods?
3. Are you still suffering from greasy glasses syndrome or did you discover a remedy for that?
4. What inspired you to begin a blog?
5. What is your favorite childhood memory? (bonus points if it includes something extremely embarrassing for you, your siblings, or your cousins).

Just got back from Finland and the jetlag is killing me! TP had a function at the Embassy of Finland this week and as the dutiful wife, I showed up, mingled with the Ambassador (from across the room), listened to the speeches, and sat in almost every piece of artwork I could. We were treated to an advance design exhibition of Eero Aarnio, a Finnish designer who created funky plastic furniture in the 1960s. I spun around in the Ball Chair, swung back and forth in the Bubble Chair, and tried to race TP on the Pony Chair. Good times.

Ok, interview time (apparently only KK and Moiz were willing to subject themselves to my Qs!):

KK:
1. You seem to have an endless supply of and appreciation for poetry. Do you have any favorite poets or poems?
2. As a fellow movie buff, what movies would make your top ten list?
3. What is the single biggest difference between life in the U.A.E. and life in Pakistan?
4. What work of fiction have you read over and over again?
5. If medicine was not the path you were to follow, what would be?

Moiz:
1. How did you end up in Sydney?
2. If you have eaten any of the following, what is your opinion on it: Moreton Bay Bugs, Barramundi, Kangaroo, Durian Fruit, Shrimp on the Barbee?
3. Why do you refuse to spell your words out?
4. Do you and your sister get along?
5. How's that blue hair working out for ya?

Thanks to everyone for their well-wishes, condolences, and du'as. It really meant a lot to me and my family. Your support and kind words are much appreciated. I think in a successful attempt to distract me, me beloved hearty Sanchez has ordered me to respond to her interview questions. Far be it from me to disobey a direct order. So. Now for something completely different:

THE INTERVIEW GAME RULES: From Sanchez's (do-not-link-me!) Blog

Here's how you can play the interview game:
1. Leave me a comment saying "interview me." The first five commenters will be the participants.
2. I will respond by asking you five questions.
3. You will update your blog/site with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions. (Write your own questions or borrow some.)

The Questions:
1. If wishes were horses then beggars would ride, but what happens when monkeys are pirates?
2. How has your experience as a fellow Brown in world of *insert your field here* been? (You know I'm a Brown. Admit it.)
3. How do you decide which place you'll be travelling to? And when you come to visit me, do you want your sand dune with or without scorpions?
4. Of all the millions of movies you've seen, is there any that you would recommend that every man, woman and child see?
5. Where's the rest of the key lime pie?

The Answers:
1. When monkeys are pirates, the world as we know it will be thrown into complete upheaval. Modern currency will become obsolete and everything must be paid in banana units. The phrase "monkey business" will have new meaning to including pillaging, ravishing, and burying treasure chests (filled with many banana units). Passage on the seas will be treacherous, dangerous, and fraught with adventure including picking of nits, grooming of fur, and buckling of swash. If the monkey pirates ever become monkey pirate robots, there will be hell to pay (in banana units, of course). The sooner you learn how to parlez in Monkey (i.e. "ook ook" and "yarr"), the better. Savvy?

2. You are not a Brown (you are totally a French Vanilla Milkshake with a sprinkling of cinnamon) and so the question you have posed is invalid. But hypothetically speaking (a much easier language to speak than Latin or Greek), my experience as a Brown in the field of law has been interesting. The ability to help non-lawyers decipher crazy legalese, negotiate the tricky curves of a contract, and research archaic laws and confusing regulations has proven gratifying. I have been fortunate in that my first real law job was working, inter alia, for an Arab-American media company where the Browns were the majority and I never felt out of place. Growing up in Southern Indiana, I learned how to get along with all types and not to feel awkward about my differences and, in fact, to appreciate them. As a result, my experiences as a Brown in this world, let alone this field, have been groovy. Especially since, for some bizarre reason, I seem to pass as a native of almost every country I have visited - even Iceland.

3. That's two questions, cheater cheater key lime pie eater. Nonetheless. The usual criterion for choosing each destination is that it be a place I have not been to before. The exception to this rule is when it involves visiting family (although, honestly, having family members strewn all over the world is pretty much what has enabled me to visit so many places to begin with). I wish I could say something along the lines of "I spin a globe and close my eyes and wherever my finger lands is where I go." But, in reality, it's more along the lines of "hey, there is a cheap ticket to Belize; wanna go?"*

4. No. First of all, asking me to choose a favorite movie is like asking me to choose a favorite child. Gosh! Second of all, there is no single movie that I would recommend for everyone for any occassion. Now, if you narrowed it down a bit, I might be able to answer that brutal, insensitive question. Humor? Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Classic? The Godfather. Suspense? Rear Window. Mystery? Usual Suspects. Reverse Mystery? Memento. Best Quotable Lines? Princess Bride. Best Scottish Accents? Trainspotting. Best Escape? The Shawshank Redemption. Best Mockumentary? This is Spinal Tap. Best Dance? Strictly Ballroom. Best Hi-yah? Iron Monkey. Best Political Satire? Dr. Strangelove. Best Teen Angst? Heathers. Best Indie? Ghostworld. Best Shakespeare Spinoff? Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. See where I'm going with this? Good. Now, pass me the popcorns.

5. Apparently, after the cheating incident above, it appears that the key lime pie is now residing in your very own tummy. How was it?

*extra credit: with scorpions, but only if they are barbequed.

Inna lillah wa inna ilayhi rajioon. My Grandmother died today. "Dadiji". "Nano". "Nazir Begum". She had been feeling weak and went to the hospital to be kept under observation. The doctors decided a temporary pacemaker was in order. Then they decided that a permanent pacemaker was necessary. Somewhere between the two, there may have been complications with the anesthesia and she never came out of it.

She of the pink, rose, and cream-colored flowered outfits. She of the cheek-burn hugs and hand-knit accessories. She of the basketball tummy from decades of cooking and tasting and cooking and tasting and tasting and tasting and "oh, just a little taste." She of the contradictions: she was a typical granny with her sewing and crafts and curly white hair and shining eyes and grandchildren and great-grandchildren buzzing around her constantly; but she could also curse in Mandarin (she was born in Hong Kong) and knew her way around a good fart joke and could be as politically incorrect as the next person. She was obsessed with the Food Network. She was deeply religious and loved her gigantic family with all of her heart. She helped my father with his education. She went on a safari with us in South Africa. She wrote poems with pen and paper, with thread and yarn, with her heart and soul. She loved planning menus. She was the wife of a military man and ran a tight ship. She was the grandmother of over 30 children and told them jokes and knitted them hats. She was the benefactor to the needy in Pakistan and donated her time and energy and clothes and money when she could. She came to my wedding and I'm so thankful that the last time I saw her, she was beaming with joy and bursting with love. She was not just my pocket-granny; when she met anyone in her many travels around the world, she became everyone's pocket-granny. She loved and was loved in return.



Please pray for her. May Allah (swt) bless her soul, show her mercy and love, and reward her for her good deeds. Ameen.