Robot Roll Call

ISNA's annual conference is being held in DC this year. Who is attending? Report!

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Happy (official) Birthday, ZP!

Everything Old is New Again

This appears to be the Summer of Before in the entertainment industry. There are only so many sequels you can churn out and although prequels are certainly not a new phenomenon, it seems like there are more than the usual amount this season:

• The latest incarnation of Battlestar Gallatica (which itself is a sequel of sorts to the original 1970s version) ended recently (*weeps*) and Caprica has just come out to show us what life was like "before the fall." Young Adama is likeable enough, but the young Cylon needs some work.
  
• Although we've seen what Picard was like when he was a headstrong youth, we haven't seen a young Kirk or wee Spock before . . . until J.J. Abrams got his hands on the Star Trek franchise and offered his take. Young Scotty is, of course, my favorite.
  
• Speaking of J.J., his show Lost is also taking a trip down memory lane. Well, a trip down, up, across, double-backed, and splintered off. Wee Ben, wee Miles, and wee Charlotte running amok on the Island while their older selves are plotting, surviving, and/or dead.
  
• After the Last Stand, the X-Men folks decided to reminisce and review the origins of its mutants beginning with one of our favorites, Wolverine.
• Wedged between The Sarah Conner Chronicals and The Terminator, we pick up the story line of the rise of the 'bots in Terminator Salvation.
• Ever wonder about the background, history, and origin of G.I. Joe's nemesis, the Cobra Organization? Wait until August and find out in the Rise of the Cobra.

I always enjoyed The Young Sherlock Holmes and was tickled by the antics of a young Indy. We have already been introducted to baby Darth Vader and teenage Hannibal Lecter. I wonder what's next on the plate. I'd love to see Ripper or the pre-Firefly war or anything Joss is willing to dish out to me. Who would you like to see suffering through teenage angst, hormones, and heartbreak?

Happy Birthday, ZP!

Dearest Beast/Zoo Zoo/Zonks,

It's still over a week away, but this will give your fans a chance to get a jump start to say:

Happy Third Birthday! Now that you have put your twos, and the terribleness that goes with it (right? no more tantrums? no more inappropriate shrieking? no more "I wanna do it mySEEELLLFFF!!! rants? RIGHT?), behind you, let's take a look back at your achievements and milestones, shall we?

Your Second Day of Birth was attended by your new and oh-so-permanent baby sister. You were wary of her arrival, which was accompanied by the arrival of Babu and Nani and thus linked, and decided to condense all of your confusion and worry and jealousy and heap it all onto one person - Nani. You shunned her, you avoided her, and you would studiously avert your eyes from her whenever she happened to be cuddling AP. You also decided to intensify your adoration and need for your father. If he so much as dared to lift AP for a quick smooch or even a cursory inspection, you'd rend your clothes apart, beat your chest, and devise your very first self-made sentence ever: "put! baby! ziza! DOWN!" Thankfully, with LB, KG, Babu, Aunty C, and, when you let her, Nani lavishing affection, presents, and love on you, you eventually calmed down and came to accept this interloper into the family. It helped that she never tried to play with your toys, never really made much noise, and actually was kinda cute. She is now old enough to start encroaching on your territory and although there are some skirmishes that do not go as well as planned, you are generally pretty careful around her and try not to lash out when she scratches or bites or swats at you. For that, I thank you.

You finally graduated out of jarred baby food, but you still never really took a liking to kid or adult food other than a few, select choices: oatmeal or cereal for breakfast, pollo con arroz and some fruta for lunch, and whatever we could force down you for dinner (yogurt with honey, pizza, PB&H sandwich). The closest thing to a vegetable we could get you to eat is potatoes in the version of french fries and those are just tubers anyway.

Despite your desire to be a monkey, a train, or a robot, your personality has established itself quite squarely as "policeman." You are adamant about others following the rules, obeying your directives, and pretty much doing what you say when you say it. On our trip to Georgia, you not only reprimanded some kids who were running down the walkway to the plane, you also warned everyone around you that "we're in the plane; you have to be quiet." You nearly put me in time out when I insisted that a picture of a baby on LB's fridge was you and not your sister ("NO, MOMMY! IT NOT ME!") Your vocabulary has jumped by leaps and bounds and you are a quick study for any words that further your goals, nefarious or otherwise. When you abused your power over viewing countless episodes of whatever on youtube and were told that you could no longer do so because "the computer is broken," you stored the slogan away until bathtime when you regretfully announced that you couldn't take a shampoo shampoo because "the tub is broken." Your writing skills and drawing skills have also gotten better, thanks to countless reams of paper and crayons, chalk and the Magna doodle (which you stood on until it cracked and started oozing some clear liquid and we had to toss it away. . . R.I.P. Magny!)

One day, the day after our return from a trip to Florida (where we watched the historical inauguration and you familiarized yourself with the man named Obama who is always on the cover of Daddy's paper and who is the only one allowed to touch THAT switch on the heater), Tia decided that you were old enough to lose the diapers and go straight for the underwear to get some boot camp potty training. On the one hand, I was happy to have the help, happy to know that it would mean one less baby's butt mooning me several times a day, and happy to see you move to this next level of development. On the other hand, I was terrified that you'd balk at it as you have with pretty much everything else until you are darn well good and ready, terrified that our 40 year old Persian carpet and our brand-spanking-new couches would be stained and destroyed beyond all repair, and terrified that you would burn the house down. I decided to take some half days at work so that I could be on call for the meltdowns, mayhem, and mania that was sure to come. To our astonishment and relief, it all went pretty smoothly. You were already familiar with "the frog," you were excited about your new undies, and you were offered treats as rewards for each successful visit. The first day was tense but successful (it helped that Tia ran you up to the toilet every half hour or so whether you said you had to go or not) and by the second day, not only did you avoid any accidents during the day, you even emerged from your room after a good night's sleep completely dry. We were floored.

We had some sad moments this year when your great-grandfather passed away. When you found me in tears, you patted my knee and ran for a tissue. You asked me, "why you crying like me?" I told you that I missed Nani and Babu and you sympathetically nodded and said, "I miss them too. 'Sokay, 'sokay, they're coming!" When that made me smile, you asked, "you happy? I'm happy." And I was - because of you. During those times when you drive me insane with the silence-killing questions ("Mommy, what are you doing? what are you doing? what are you doing? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?") or the demands (after feeding, bathing, and reading you 27 stories before bedtime, tucking you in, and giving you cuddles, you begin your mantra of "I want Daddy." ) or the boisterousness that comes with a two-year old boy (throwing, hitting, running, falling, yelling, screaming, never sleeping), I remember that. I remember the times that you give me unsolicited hugs and smooches. And the times you help me make bread, sort the laundry, and bring AP a toy when she cries. And the times you make clever observations (such as the time I was reading a book about Peter Rabbit jumping into a watering can. I explained that the watering can was used to water the garden, like you did with Nani last summer. You looked it and said, 'yes, it's for flowers. and for my body' which is what you call your bottom). *dies*

And so, my lovely, loving, lovable boy, we wish you a happy birthday and best wishes and all that jazz. Cue the clip show!

GOJIRA!

Gojira is coming! Gojira is coming! AAAIIIiiiii . . . iiiiii . . . iii.

Agenda:

Friday: arrival, Ben's Chili Bowl for some chili cheeseboigahs and fries, home
Saturday: Breakfast (either force TP to make spanish tortilla or get brunch somewhere or both); lunch with LB and KG followed by birthday party for Maggie Jane (ain't no party like a two-year-old party); Kotobuki sushi for dinner
Sunday: [radio edit]
Monday: Breakfast at Tryst or the Diner or Open City; return to Union Station and grab some of Vaccaro's cannoli to go.

Hmmm. It appears that your entire visit will be based up and revolve around food. That okay with you? Yeah. Thought so.

Tourist In My Own Backyard

I spent most of yesterday playing hooky. Work was annoying me and with my flexible schedule and stellar history, I decided to take the day off and meet up with a friend. I walked from Adams Morgan to Georgetown's harbor and appreciated the flowers and trees still in bloom, the crowdless sidewalks, and the streaming sunshine on the way. I stopped at the recently renovated Second Story Books in Dupont Circle to peruse the latest arrivals and see if I could find copies of books I am interested in reading but for which I am not interested in paying full price. I ended up buying two books for my friend.



I treated myself to a lovely cup of mocha at Illy Cafe that I enjoyed all the way to Georgetown.



After visiting the Old Stone House and sitting in the wisteria-blooming garden for a while to soak up some rays, I headed over to the C & O canal. I watched two horses pull a boat through the canal until they reached the lock gates and then watched the Amishly-dressed folks go about heaving and hoing to get the boat down to the next level.



I walked to the Potomac River to enjoy the nearly empty waterfront where. I loitered in the stacks of yet another bookstore until my friend finally called to let me know she was ready for lunch.

We strolled over to the LEED certified Founding Farmers where we had the popcorn of the day (what was it sprinked on there? chipotle? bbq? chaat?) as an appetizer followed by perfectly made crab cakes, whipped yukon gold potatoes, and limeade.



We caught up, made fun of each other, and exchanged prezzies. We fought over the bill (par for the course), promised to visit Tunisia next summer when her beach house was complete, and said our goodbyes. I haven't had a day off in D.C. where it didn't involve going grocery shopping, getting someone's hairS cut, or running errands in what seems like forever. It was a gorgeous day and completely recharged me. As DCist put it so nicely:

D.C. can be a wondrous place for tourists. It's got magnificent architecture, history, museums, and bustling streets and sidewalks. There are people from all over the world, homeless people, military folks in uniform, police, politicians, black squirrels, and lots of well-scrubbed young people. There's the Metro, the Mall, and more. And it's tourist season, so maybe those fanny-pack wearing throngs standing in front of the escalators are just awe struck, rather than annoying. The greater D.C. metropolitan area can be too much to grasp sometimes. It can be amazing.

Happy Earth Day

When I started law school, I was often asked, "what kind of lawyer do you want to be?" As a first year, I had no idea. None of us really did. We took courses in contracts, property, and torts but we had no definite goal of "I'm going to be a criminal litigator" or "I'm going to be a tax attorney." Unlike college, you don't proclaim a major or a focus in law school. You aren't even permitted to take anything but the required courses for the first year and a half (with, perhaps, one or two electives). So it wasn't until nearly my third year that I dabbled in Environmental Law with Professor Richard Lazarus. Unlike the stodgy, dusty, boring case law and historical treatises we were inundated with in classes such as Civil Procedure (just watch My Cousin Vinny and you'll know enough to get by) or UCC, the facts, issues, and impacts we studied in Environmental Law caught and held my attention. It didn't hurt that the professor was engaging and enthusiastic about the subject too. It was around then that I first really learned about Earth Day. Previously, it was just another day to hold some sort of celebration or have an excuse to party in the quad. I took several other environment-themed courses and by the time I graduated, I decided that this was the field in which I wanted to practice.

After graduation and passing the bar exam, I came bright-eyed and bushy-haired to Washington, D.C. for several reasons (including the fact that I wouldn't have to take another bar exam to practice here and that I had free housing for 6 months), one of which was that there were more opportunities to find a legal position in environmental law here than most places. Here is where the acronym-frenzied organizations such as the DOJ's ENRD, the EPA, the ELI, the EDF, the WWF (not to be confused with the previously a.k.a. WWF) resided. I tried my luck with government agencies, private law firms, non-profit organizations and papered the city with my resumes and writing samples. I volunteered at the National Audubon Society. I wanted to use my shiny new legal skills to save natural resources, to protect cute and fluffy critters (the ugly, slimy ones could go to hell), to do something worthwhile and noble and good. I loved environmental law; but it did not love me back. I worked at a small law firm for a few years in which one partner focused on money-paying, steady, cut-and-dry contracts and corporate law while the other partner dabbled in pro-bonoish, erratic, but passionate environmental law. It was the field of the latter that pulled me into the firm, but it was the reality and solidity of the former that kept me there. Eventually, the firm needed to pay the bills by taking on more of litigation and negotiation cases and less of the altruistic but penniless clients. I still wrote briefs on behalf of organizations seeking to protect nature and strengthen standing environmental laws, but, by necessity, I began to gain more experience in contracts, intellectual property, and employment laws. By the time I became a partner myself, the environmental-focused part of the firm was all but gone.

I am pretty happily employed in the field of intellectual property. The pay is decent, the research is interesting, and I can work from home where the hours are flexible and the dress-code even more so. I can assist well-meaning but helpless entrepreneurs seeking protection for their goods and services. I can lay the smack down on arrogant know-it-alls who try to weasel or bully their way into getting their unacceptable trademarks through. But on days like today, Earth Day, I do wonder what my life would be like if it took me down the emission-trading, brownfields, smart growth path.

System D

"Ahh ... Le System D!" he said with a smirk, and a warm expression of recognition. For a moment, I thought I'd stumbled across a secret society-a coven of warlocks, a subculture within our subculture of chefs and cooks and restaurant lifers. I was annoyed that what I had thought to be an ancient term from kitchens past, a little bit of culinary arcanum, was in fact still in use, and I felt suddenly threatened-as if my kitchen, my crew, my team of talented throat slitters, fire starters, mercenaries, and hooligans was secretly a hotbed of Trilateralists, Illuminati, Snake Handlers, or Satan Worshippers. I felt left out. I asked, "Did you say `System D'? What is `System D'?"

"Tu connais ... you know MacGyver?" replied my sous-chef thoughtfully.

I nodded, flashing onto the idiotic detective series of years back where the hero would regularly bust out of maximum-security prisons and perform emergency neurosurgery using nothing more than a paper clip and a gum wrapper.

"MacGyver!" pronounced my sous-chef, "CA ... ca c'est System D."

From The Nasty Bits by Anthony Bourdain

Okay, maybe I am not as creative or crafty or clever as Bourdain and his ilk, but I like to consider myself as having a mommy version of resourcefulness or débrouillard.

One kid claims to have to use the bathroom while the other is screaming her head off from teething pains and doesn't want you out of her sight? Sprint up the stairs, lugging both of them, and use one hand to situate one on the plastic frog to do his business and the other to steady the baby in the baby tub to chew on a rubber ducky that has been nicely chilled from sitting on the tiles.

Trying to bake some bread while simultaneously watching both bored children? Give one child her choice of a dozen kitchen utensils to bang around and gnaw on and give the other the very important, very big boy task of measuring out the flour and sugar, of picking out the pre-cut cubes of butter, of whisking everything together all while ensuring that the kitchen doesn't end up completely shrouded in ingredients.

Baby's hair getting in her eyes and LB refuses to let you cut it (but doesn't understand that it completely impairs her vision) and baby is getting frustrated by it but you can't find her cute little butterfly hair clip? Binder clip will work in a pinch.

Mommy's little helpers getting extremely demanding in the offer to help with the laundry but they keep unfolding the folded stuff as quickly as its folded? Toss all the underwear and socks in their direction and instruct one to match up whatever he can while the other plays peek-a-boo with the unmentionables that end up on her head.

I've yet to achieve the status of Grandmaster Débrouillard of my parents who have considered using airplane's headrest cloth as an emergency diaper or who fashion wagons out of box lids and rope; but, I'm getting there.

Reuse, Recycle, Repost

I was trying to tell ZP about God the other day. Have you ever tried to talk to a nearly-three-year-old about any topic, let alone something like this? You have to put aside your impressive vocabulary and explain things in the most basic terms and with the simplest of words. The result was that I ended up with a choppy concept about someone living in the sky and making a bunch of stuff like flowers and clouds and him. It reminded me of David Sedaris's attempt to explain the traditions of Easter in another language. With that religious holiday right around the corner, I thought it would be nice to revisit this old friend:


Jesus Shaves by David Sedaris from "Me Talk Pretty One Day"

"And what does one do on the fourteenth of July? Does one celebrate Bastille Day?"

It was my second month of French class, and the teacher was leading us in an exercise designed to promote the use of one, our latest personal pronoun.

"Might one sing on Bastille Day?" she asked. "Might one dance in the street? Somebody give me an answer."

Printed in our textbooks was a list of major holidays alongside a scattered arrangement of photos depicting French people in the act of celebration. The object was to match the holiday with the corresponding picture. It was simple enough but seemed an exercise better suited to the use of the word they. I didn't know about the rest of the class, but when Bastille Day eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.

Normally, when working from the book, it was my habit to tune out my fellow students and scout ahead, concentrating on the question I'd calculated might fall to me, but this afternoon, we were veering from the usual format. Questions were answered on a volunteer basis, and I was able to sit back, confident that the same few students would do the talking. Today's discussion was dominated by an Italian nanny, two chatty Poles, and a pouty, plump Moroccan woman who had grown up speaking French and had enrolled in the class to improve her spelling. She'd covered these lessons back in the third grade and took every opportunity to demonstrate her superiority. A question would be asked and she'd give the answer, behaving as though this were a game show and, if quick enough, she might go home with a tropical vacation or a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. By the end of her first day, she'd raised her hand so many times, her shoulder had given out. Now she just leaned back in her seat and shouted the answers, her bronzed arms folded across her chest like some great grammar genie.

We finished discussing Bastille Day, and the teacher moved on to Easter, which was represented in our textbook by a black-and-white photograph of a chocolate bell lying upon a bed of palm fronds.

"And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone like to tell us?"

The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the question when the Moroccan student interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, but what's an Easter?"

Despite her having grown up in a Muslim country, it seemed she might have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," she said. "I have no idea what you people are talking about."

The teacher then called upon the rest of us to explain.

The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and . . . oh, shit."

She faltered, and her fellow countryman came to her aid.

"He call his self Jesus, and then he be die one day on two . . . morsels of . . . lumber."

The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.

"He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father."

"He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."

"He nice, the Jesus."

"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."

Part of the problem had to do with grammar. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection were beyond our grasp, let alone such complicated reflexive phrases as "To give of yourself your only begotten son." Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food instead.

"Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb," the Italian nanny explained. "One, too, may eat of the chocolate."

"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.

I knew the word, and so I raised my hand, saying, "The Rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate."

My classmates reacted as though I'd attributed the delivery to the Antichrist. They were mortified.

"A rabbit?" The teacher, assuming I'd used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on top of her head, wiggling them as though they were ears. "You mean one of these? A rabbit rabbit?"

"Well, sure," I said. "He come in the night when one sleep on a bed. With a hand he have the basket and foods."

The teacher sadly shook her head, as if this explained everything that was wrong with my country. "No, no," she said. "Here in France the chocolate is brought by the big bell that flies in from Rome."

I called for a time-out. "But how do the bell know where you live?"

"Well," she said, "how does a rabbit?"

It was a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That's a start. Rabbits move from place to place, while most bells can only go back and forth--and they can't even do that on their own power. On top of that, the Easter Bunny has character; he's someone you'd like to meet and shake hands with. A bell has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet. It's like saying that come Christmas, a magic dustpan flies in from the North Pole, led by eight flying cinder blocks. Who wants to stay up all night so they can see a bell? And why fly one in from Rome when they've got more bells than they know what to do with right here in Paris? That's the most implausible aspect of the whole story, as there's no way the bells of France would allow a foreign worker to fly in and take their jobs. That Roman bell would be lucky to get work cleaning up after a French bell's dog -and even then he'd need papers. It just didn't add up.

Nothing we said was of any help to the Moroccan student. A dead man with long hair supposedly living with her father, a leg of lamb served with palm fronds and chocolate. Confused and disgusted, she shrugged her massive shoulders and turned her attention back to the comic book she kept hidden beneath her binder. I wondered then if, without the language barrier, my classmates and I could have done a better job making sense of Christianity, an idea that sounds pretty far-fetched to begin with.

In communicating any religious belief, the operative word is faith, a concept illustrated by our very presence in that classroom. Why bother struggling with the grammar lessons of a six-year-old if each of us didn't believe that, against all reason, we might eventually improve? If I could hope to one day carry on a fluent conversation, it was a relatively short leap to believing that a rabbit might visit my home in the middle of the night, leaving behind a handful of chocolate kisses and a carton of menthol cigarettes. So why stop there? If I could believe in myself, why not give other improbabilities the benefit of the doubt? I accepted the idea that an omniscient God had cast me in his own image and that he watched over me and guided me from one place to the next. The virgin birth, the resurrection, and the countless miracles -my heart expanded to encompass all the wonders and possibilities of the universe.

A bell, though, that's f***ed up.

I always feel like somebody's watching me. Who's playing tricks on me? I always feel like somebody's watching me. I can't enjoy my tea!

Today, I was investigated by the U.S. Government. Granted, living in D.C. and having watched way to many spy thrillers, I suspect that I'm always under surveillance, that my phones are tapped, and that my mail is pre-read. I've already been fingerprinted on several occasions, had to fill out lengthy and personal questionnaires, and have had my turn at the super special VIP treatment at the airport. However, today's investigation was live and in person. I was asked about my loyalty to the country ("would you be willing to bear arms for a foreign government?") , about my proclivity for travel ("you have traveled quite a lot!"), and about my sex ("are you a male born after 1960?").

I had to explain that although I listed "Wales" as my place of birth on one form, the drop down menu on another form did not include "Wales" and so I chose "United Kingdom" and apologized for any confusion that may have caused (apparently it caused a lot of confusion because I was asked about it on three separate occasions). I was asked if anyone I knew would say that I was NOT reliable, trustworthy, of good conduct and character, or capable of holding a position of public trust (I answered with a hesitant "no?"). I was asked if anyone had any blackmail material they could use against me (well, do you?). I was asked if that was a regular coffee I was drinking (it was a mocha).

So, just as a heads up, if some white dudes with sunglasses and dark suits show up at your door and start asking you questions about me, just don't tell them about my blog. Or my facebook page. Or my flickr account. 'Kay? Great.

By The Power of Attorney! I Have THE POWER!

My mother needs to have a Power of Attorney attested to by the Pakistani Embassy. After getting zero help from the Pakistani Embassy (whose enviable hours are 09:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. M-F) on instructions, I called the U.S. State Department and here are the following steps to take to have the Power of Attorney attested by everyone under the sun:

1. Fill out and notarize a Power of Attorney (POA).

2. Send the notarized copy of the POA, a cover letter, and a self-addressed stamped envelope to your state's Office of Secretary of State, Authentications Department. The cover letter should include: your name, address, phone number, email address, indication that the notarized Power of Attorney is enclosed and that you require attestation in order to have the document attested for use in Pakistan. If there is a fee, be sure to include it as well.

3. When that comes back to you, send the notarized and attested copy of the POA, a cover letter (can be the same as above), and a self-addressed stamped envelope to:

US Department of State
Authentications Office

518 23rd Street, N.W.
SA-1

Washington, DC 20520

Also include the $8 fee by check or by money order made out to "Department of State". Turnaround time is 5 to 7 business days. Phone# 800.688.9889

4. When THAT comes back to you, send the notarized and double attested copy of the POA, a cover letter (can be the same as above), your National Identity Card or Pakistani passport and $8 (see below) to:

Consular Office, Embassy of Pakistan,

3517 International Court NW

Washington, DC 20008.

Also include the $8 fee by cashier's check or by money order payable to the Embassy of Pakistan. Send one extra copy of the Power of attorney for the embassy's record if you like. Turnaround time is 7 business days. The application must only be accompanied by US Post Office self addressed pre-paid express mail envelope. Please use the flat rate envelope (current cost : $ 16.50). Do not use Metered stamps. We do not accept any other form of return mail. PH. 202-243-6500, FAX: 202-686-1534

There. I've done my pro bono work for the day.

"Everybody, MOVE!"

I have been attending the American Bar Assocation Intellectual Property Law Conference for the last few days and have learned/had forgotten several things:

• Hotel coffee often tastes burnt and is undrinkable but if you add a packet of hot chocolate mix to create a home-made mocha, it is not half bad.
• Although knowledgable and articulate, Patricia E. Hong, Partner, Plumsea Law Group, LLC, does not know how to pronounce the word "skirmish" and perpetually pronounced the word as "squirmish" which made me squirm each time she did so.
• Susan Scafidi, Visiting Professor of Law, Fordham University Law School is a great speaker who had interesting things to say and has a sense of humor that is rarely seen at these kinds of events.
• No matter how fast I walk, how busy I look, or how studiously I ignore people around me, I can't walk down the street free of suggestion.
• I have become very spoiled working from home and had a low threshold of tolerance for the thunderstorm I had to run through during my commute today. The intensely bright, sunny day that followed the thunderstorm made up for it.
• I had forgotten how much I could read on the Metro with no distractions or errands or other matters to occupy my time.

Customer Appreciation Day

I don't consider myself overly sentimagical but the outpouring of love and support and laughs and condolences this week has made me rethink my position on Hallmark cards. I am thankful for everyone's comments, phone calls, and thoughts and prayers. I may not say it very often, but I do appreciate it when someone takes the time out of an assuredly busy schedule to reach out and offer some words of solace to me. So, me beloved bloggers and commenters, this one goes out to you.

*mwah*

Uncle Bhai Jaan

Inna lillah wa inna ilayhi rajioon. My Grandfather died today. "Nanaji". "Uncle Bhai Jaan". "Bhatti". The last few months had been physically difficult for him, especially after the latest stroke and coma. He awoke to find my parents there and had a nice few weeks with them, but his ability to communicate was greatly hampered. He passed away in his sleep.

He was the bearer of puns, anecdotes, and trivia. As an award-winning journalist, he was the master wordsmith of the family. With his steel-trap mind and his shelves of photo albums, he was the holder of the oral and pictorial family history. He always had a love of the good stuff: fatty foods, chocolaty treats, sneaky salty snacks. He could recite poetry that he learned as a child, drop names and dates of events that occurred decades before, and relate a joke about nearly any topic at hand. He had traveled around the world, lived in many countries, and documented his hilarious observations for the enjoyment of others.

He was deeply religious and loved his gigantic family with all of his heart. Like his father before him, he held a good education as the most important thing to give to his children. He wrote copious letters to family members (first, on onionskin thin airmail with carbon paper between the sheets to make multiple copies; later, on e-mail), he drafted volumes of newspaper articles, he edited books. During a school break one year, my teacher had given me the homework I would have missed while visiting Pakistan and he sat down with me to make sure I did it - even demanding that I clean up my chicken-scratch handwriting at the time. He loved to tinker, to invent, to improvise (hard to find the light switch in the dark? Get some glow-in-the-dark paint to outline the switch!). A chronic bibliophile, he passed his love of words to me. He came to my wedding and LB's wedding. As he got older, his strength began to fade (upon being hurried out of a car, he exclaimed, "I AM NOT AN ACROBAT!"), but his wit and humor never did. I'm so thankful that the last time I saw him, he was showering ZP with love. He was not just my Nanaji. Just like I am everyone's Baji, whether related or not, he was everyone's Bhai Jaan or, to their children, Uncle Bhai Jaan. He loved and was loved in return. May Allah (swt) bless his soul, show him mercy and love, and reward him for his good deeds. Ameen.

Inbox

As you may know, I work for the government. We all wear non-descript clothing, have drab attitudes, and generally plug away until we can retire. The interoffice emails are usually pretty humdrum too:

• The Non-Duty Hours Legal Studies Program and the Non-Duty Hours Technical Studies Program. This suspension became effective on Monday, March 16
• Recent TWAH deployments opened up several exterior offices on the 5th and 6th floors.
• OCIO will be performing emergency maintenance to EFS Web starting Friday, March 20, 2009 at 12:01 a.m. until 3:00 a.m., Friday, March 20, 2009. During this time, EFS Web will be unavailable.

But, today? Today, we got this! Yee haw! Sometimes, I quite dig living in this federal city.

Special effects explosion to occur in Washington, D.C. on March 25

The Metropolitan Washington Council of Governments has issued an
advisory that there will be a special effects explosion on Wednesday, March 25,
between 9:30 a.m. and noon on the Potomac River near Key Bridge in Washington,
D.C. The explosion is being filmed as a scene in a new television series
entitled “Washington Field” highlighting the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s
elite District field office.

In the scene, which will be shot just north of Key Bridge near Jack’s Boathouse, one of six nearby sculling boats will be depicted as being destroyed. The fire ball resulting from the explosion is expected to last about two seconds and reach 20 to 30 feet high. Please be advised that the boat will not actually be destroyed, that all explosive materials will be vaporized, and there may be a small plume of smoke. The sound will be a low thud, not a loud bang.

The Department of Homeland Security, the Washington, D.C. police and fire departments, and the Washington Airports Authority have been alerted. Traffic delays due to the filming are expected to be minimal.

Inmate Mail

TP has set me to task - Clean. Up. Your. Office. Or. Else. And so I came across a lovely letter from Yasminay from five years ago. And so I came across some incriminating photographs of TP from his early surly years. And so I came across a few letters from prison. What's that? You've never had an article written about and photograph featuring you in the Washington Post and then received a mysterious letter (right around the height of the anthrax scare) from a prison inmate as a result? Just me, huh? How about that . . . .

Sunday, March 17th, 2002 3:40 p.m.
Asalaamu Alaykum, Ms. [Baji],
Proceeding from the verses of Allah's Book . . . (Al-Quran), I am writing you and sending you this letter card as a cheerful piece to keep you smiling and beautiful. I liked the picture that I saw of you and your cute little sister so much, I decided to make this card. Smile! I hope that it found you at peace [edited from "piece"] with yourself, healthy and strong, focus and feeling charming and very special, [Baji].

Notwithstanding,
My name is Mustafa Umar [etc.] and I am Muslim, who have been truely interested in corresponding and communicating with you every since I saw your pretty name and face in the (Wash. Post) Apartment section of the news paper . . . But it took me to develope the courage to write to you, [Baji], and to ask your permission to write to you and establish a friendly dialogue with you. And with the hope that you and I can be very good friends. On a peaceful, moral and spiritual level. You look so intelligent and strong minded in your photograph hugging your sister, that your smile made me feel good. I've been lonely all of my life in America and one day, Insha'Allah, I will change that. But I would like for you to know that I would love to meet you some day and I pray that you'll give me an honest chance to get to know you as much as I would like for you to get to know me and for all that this is worth, I pray that you won't have any negative hangups about being friendly toward me.

Sister [Baji] -- I don't know if you are a Muslim or not . . . there are so many people born in med-eastern and arab countries who have arabic names . . . but are christians and Jews . . . who hate Muslims and every since 9-11-01 Muslim started really hating each other. Inspite of the New World Order. Most people put all the Muslims in a poor catagory . . . even the people who have arabic names like your are unjustly discriminated against for your name sake. Which is so insane and childish. But if you have experience any ill favor or disrespect for being who you are which no-one can change. Learn to treat it as a compliment . . . Because, regardless, of what the the people in this world put you through . . . you are as beautiful as your name and thoughts and can't no-one take that away from you. So hold on Allah is Akbar and He is leading on and the victory is Allah.

[Baji] . . . when I look at your photo . . . I see a woman that I would love to talk to and I pray that you are as friendly as you look. But more than anything, as beautiful in heart as you are in form.

So Stay. Beautiful.

Omar.

P.S. I would love to hear from you I'll sned you a photo. Please write me back.
Thank you [Baji]. Salam!!

[editor's note: all spelling and grammar appear as written in the letter except the [Baji] part where he used my real name and that freaked me out and annoyed me b/c I HATE it when people over use your name, especially your real name . . .]

[editor's note: a follow up letter from my buddy Omar appearing a month later included questions regarding my ability to cook as well as homework in reading some articles he included]

Pandi's 'Pinions 2009

It's been a while, I know. I've been in hibernation and babysitting Baji's wee ones is no small task. But I have managed to work in a movie here and a book there. So, without further ado, here's the latest installment of Pandi's 'Pinions.

• Slumdog Millionaire: I'll be honest with you. The soundtrack is rockin', the story is compelling and exciting, and Dev Patel is adorable with his gushing but sincere appreciation for his limelight circumstances. Nonetheless, I can't say that it is an Oscar-worthy movie. It was fun. It was entertaining. But was the fairy tale yarn more important or eye-opening or prestigious than the others? Perhaps I'm not being fair since it wasn't until half-way through the feature that I got confirmation (from KG seated to my left) that my cousin (seated to my right) was wrong and the movie was not based on a true story which meant that every other flashback left me shaking my head and muttering, "no way" or "yeah, right" or "gimme a break." Once I was aware that it was fiction, I enjoyed it much more but it was hard to shake the initial resentful response. One scene I did love was the montage of the kids on the train. I think I just have a thing for Bollywood train dancing scenes. Quick shout-outs to Tropic Thunder (hilarious), Wanted (good mindless bullet-curving action) and Across The Universe (love the Beatles covers) and shout-downs to Into the Wild (excellent book but trudgy movie), The Visitor (as TP described it: "I listen to NPR and I like world music so I like this too"), and Leatherheads (I liked it better the first time I saw it when it was called Bull Durham).
• The Wire: I don't have HBO and I barely have time to watch shows in real time but thanks to a combination of Netflix and KG's mom, I managed to watch the full series of The Wire. It took a few months, but it was totally worth it. At turns depressing and gritty and nightmare-inducing (what if ZP turns out to be a corner boy?! interro-I'll-kill-him!) and yet beautiful and hopeful and funny (Omar Little rules). Set in nearby Baltimore, the series was more than just a "cop show" as it delved into themes involving criminal/police hierarchy, the inner workings of the public school system, the good intentions paving the way for the politicians. The butterfly effect is in full force and the show makes you consider the show long after the credits as you think back and realize that [spoiler alert - highlight to read] if Herc had sent Randy to Bunk like he was supposed to, then Randy wouldn't have been labled a snitch and have lost his foster mother to a vengeful fire AND the investigation on Marlo would have been wrapped up earlier not forcing McNulty to take such drastic measures which in turn affected the race for Governor etc. Now that's edutainment.
  
• Music? Thanks to fellow bloggers, TP, NPR and others, here are a few new (to me) tunes that get the Pandi Thumb's Up: The Heavy's Colleen, Getatchew Mekuria & The Ex & Guests Aha Begana, Black Kids' I'm Not Going to Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You.
• True to the New Year's Resolution, I have forbidden Baji from purchasing any new books and am going through the ones on the to-read shelf. When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris had some classic hilarity and, like the misleading cousin mentioned above, I can't help reading his material without his measured voice in my head which is great because he's a good narrator -- even in there. Unaccustomed Earth: Stories (Vintage Contemporaries) by Jhumpa Lahiri is about half way complete but I feel safe in recommending this to anyone who wants to read about the ABCDs growing pangs. I've finished nearly three whole pages of The Wordy Shipmates by Sarah Vowell but her wit and clever ability to make you learn about history through pop culture references will guarantee the completion and enjoyment of this book.

That's it for this installment! Stay tuned for the next time (which, now that the government has cut our bonuses and thus work is decreasing and free time is increasing, may not be too long from now).

REALTOR®

Today, a fellow trademark examiner asked me for some advice about an application I had refused based on the fact that REALTOR® is a registered trademark and therefore this person (who was not the National Association of Realtors) could not have it. When she called in a rage to have me explain each and every problem that was wrong with the application, I did so. She then demanded her money back. When I advised her that once the filing fee has been paid and an attorney has reviewed it, there is no refund, she decided to write a letter to the Commissioner For Trademarks. The walk down memory lane was so enjoyable that I thought I'd share the applicant's response with you for your viewing pleasure:

Dear Sir or Madam:

Please review your attorney's denial of this trademark and then return my application fee to me promptly. The reasons she gave were absolutely invalid.

By the sheer number of attorneys that contacted me wanting to represent me in this matter, it is obvious that you gave out my information without my authorization. Is this just another government scam to forward the American Bar Association's lobby? How disgusting. I will turn this matter over to my congress woman, Hilary [sic] Clinton to expose your corrupt practices if my money is not returned. Shame on you for robbing the small business owners of this country. Organizations like yours are why the American public deeply mistrusts our government!!!

When I realized what you were doing. I immediately withdrew the application, so please give back my much needed money. You have spent no time or effort on my behalf, so this should not be a problem, if you're honest.

Perviouslike on Heros

Scene: Night, Interior, Claire's Bedroom

Claire: I love you, Mom.

Sandra: I love you . . . just the way you are.

Claire: I just wish I could be normal. Then maybe things would have been different between you and Dad.

Sandra: Honey, things between your father and I were troublesome long before you came along.

*brakes screech*

*glass breaks*

Come on, writers. "Between your father and I?" Really? Happy National Grammar Day!

Overheard in DC

I love the "Overheard in D.C." segment on DCist. Cracks. Me. Up. Just the other day I heard "I can't be telling you "I love you" 27 hours a day!" Do we have a glut of these folks simply by virtue of being a slack-jawed yokel tourist hot spot or is this city a dummy-magnet? Any gems you've come across lately?