Seen and heard...

Seen in San Francisco over the last few days:

1) "Wife and dog kidnapped. Please help"

The sign of a homeless man seeking cash. Should I buy the story or not? The answer came pat.

"No checks please."

2) Sugar

The lighted neon sign of a new Hayes Valley restaurant, with a dark 'y' at the end. Out of curiousity, I checked in with their staff. It's original name was "Sugar-y," but they changed it. Doesn't matter -- both names are cheesy. Restaurant was packed, looks good.

Heard:

3) "Fu-tang"

Aunt wondered what a "futon" was. Told her about my futon sale, and she rattled out in all gujju-ness: "fu-tang? fu-tang soo chhe?" (what is fu-tang?). She's cool, part of the Fu-tang Clan. Like one of me homies.

4) "Snakes will eat you"

Mom, encouraged by the movie title Snakes on a Plane. Pajushan, a Jain festival, is on, and we're not supposed to eat green veggies, meat or dunkin donuts. Out of respect for granny, Mom requested we atleast not eat meat.

Being the useless, rebellious child, I declared "No, I'm gonna eat a mutton-chicken combo, what are you gonna do?" An angry Ma retaliated "Snakes will eat you one day then." So, I'm off meat for now.

Freshly manufactured caca

It's fun to be an SOB in an argument with a gang of people. You get the attention, you are heard, and you are thought of as a radical. This weekend I went up against a gang of Indians who took protest to the whole Macaca incident. I found it funny, brilliantly covered by Wonkette and Sepia Mutiny.

The topic got boring after everyone agreed on Macaca being a derogatory slur. Time to spice up things, so donned the role of devil's advocate, the Indian George Allen. Here were my arguments:

1) Indians in India rattle out ethnic slurs endlessly. An example: how African students are insulted in Bombay. Nobody protests, nobody is ashamed. It's a huge disgrace. That's even worse than Allen's purported slur, if he meant it.

2) If Indians called other Indians Macaca, it wouldn't be an issue. It's like a generic slur that can be exchanged openly between Indians, but if said by somebody else, it's an issue. That adds up to racial profiling, and it is hypocritical on the people arguing with me, maintaining double standards.

3) Webb, for whom Macaca works, used the incident to gain political advantage over Allen. Did Webb purposely assign Macaca to video Allen? If yes, it worked. Macaca got his new name and Webb's rating in the Virginia polls went up a bit. Webb used Macaca, and Allen gets the blame.

Naturally I got pulped by the crowd for the weak arguments-- it was 5 on 1, not me vs Bush. But, things won't change. Macaca is still Macaca, you, I and even a kitchen table knows that. Even if he lives in the remotest confines of Africa, the Indians will find him. Or George Allen, if he loses the election.

Wack-o-mother

My friend's parents don't like her drinking whiskey with masala dosa, especially in India. Not even wine or martini.

It took her only days to let loose after reaching the US, making up for years of alcohol deprival. Barhops every week, hip hop party invites walked in like junkmail. She partly got it from her father, a drinker who thought whiskey was a 'macho' drink.

For R's her ma, alcohol was a no no. She is a traditional South Indian woman, a homestead. Actually, what is a traditional South Indian woman?

Thinking R would enjoy a glass, I landed up at her place in New York with a vino bottle. She buzzed me in, and everything was gung ho, until lo and behold, I ran straight into her parents sitting in the living room, right by the door (R 'forgot' to tell me her parents were visiting.)

So there I was, wine bottle in hand, gazing at her parents, wondering what to do next. I could hide or call do something lame like call the vino a disinfectant or a special cooking product.

Their eyes fell on the wine first and then my face, alarmed.

As weird as it felt, I presented the wine to the parents. "Welcome, Aunty and Uncle. It is nice to see you."

R's parents, astonished, perhaps were wondering why I didn't give them an agarbatti instead of wine. R looked at me too, wondering just what the hell I was doing.

Her father gladly accepted the bottle, placed it on the table and said "beta (son), where is this store? Let's get some whiskey!"

Mother angrily shouted at her husband "What you always looking for whiskey whiskey. He has just come, let him rest." Her sneer glance turned from her husband to me.

"What is your name beta?"

I introduced myself. "I am R's friend, just came to visit you." So I was now visiting her parents; the pint plans with R vanished instantly.

The wine situation under control, I hunkered down and joined them to watch this disco woman crossing fingers across her eyes while performing some ill-advised PT stunt. Soon, R joined us too. Not many options now. Sit at home, because her mom wouldn't allow her daughter to be out late at night. Like it is in India.

For an hour we saw more strange PT moves and rated Hindi movie trailers Ebert N Roper-style.

R's mom hated that, being a sensitive TV watcher. To get rid of us, she turned into one of those evil TV mamas and gave us permission to head out for "ice cream."

"And don't bring back whiskey," to which mama's hubby whimpered.

Finally, jackets on, R & I headed out for a pint.

(Let me strongly recommend people: Alcohol is damaging to both the health and spirit. Please avoid it.)

Jill Carroll's Iraq mis-adventures

USA Today is carrying the story of Jill Carroll's 82 days as a hostage in Iraq. It starts with how she was kidnapped and the initial days as a hostage, which is mindboggling. Further chapters will carry further details about her days as a captive to the Iraqi goons.

The first chapter is horrific, just the hors d'oeuvres. It promises to get more gory when she sheds light on what she went through.

I'm very curious about her release. It was vague and all of a sudden, like instant oatmeal, just too good to be true. Carroll's sister pleaded for her release on national TV one day, and voila, next day she was walking on the streets. It seems like a US government covered up for some deal brokered with someone (maybe the insurgents). It'll be interesting to hear her end of that angle.

There's no contesting how strong and brave she is. Unfortunately, Carroll's translator Alan Enwiya was killed by the goons. My prayers are with Alan's family. The Christian Science Monitor has established a fund to support them. I'm donating, and hope you will too, especially if you are a mediaperson.

Alan gave his life in the line of fire, maintaining the sanctity of our profession and dying for a cause we seek -- to tell the truth. The fund will enable his wife, two children and parents to start a new life with their relatives in the US.

You can send donations to:
The Alan Enwiya Fund
c/o The Christian Science Monitor
One Norway Street
Boston, MA 02115

(Postscript: I received multiple e-mails crying foul about her release. My theories could be naysay aka conspiracy theories, but there is an angle there to be investigated. Apologies to those hurt by it.)

Russian mail-order brides

Mail-order brides give Ukraine a bad name. And of course they have the hackers, computer pirates, mafia, the corrupt elite (supposedly more corrupt than India) and much more to pinch your last penny.

The Ukrainian mail-order bride business has shook the US Embassy. The Kiev Embassy warns Americans of buyers beware for Ukrainian agencies dealing in brides/grooms. A bride "abandons or otherwise misuses the trust of the American partner" by disappearing. Brides get their visa and shazaam, they're gone.

Based on red flags, the Embassy makes the final decision on who to pass. Sometimes they get it right, sometimes *extremely* wrong. A friend, an American gal, went through the latter. J married a Russian man naturally, hoping to bring him back to the US.

American women are 'more reliable' in Russia (easier for Russian grooms to get a US visa than brides.). The US embassy raised some red flags in Jessica's case, and her Russian hubby was denied a US entry visa. So J stayed in the country.

The wedding was legit, atleast for J. Maybe the Russian man had some trick up his sleeve, I never met him so I can't say. J co-edited our newspaper; she'd come to work, do her thing, and disappear. It was impossible to figure out she was emotionally distraught.

Until a vodka session, where she spilt her heart out after a shot and Spaghetti "American Bolognaise." Either the food was terrible, or she really meant it. The US Embassy couldn't see her case.

Don't know where J is today, but hope she's doing well and happy. Last I heard, she had plans to move to the UK with the Russian man.

The tentacles of the Russian/Ukrainian mail-order bride business reaches far. And before the thought crosses your mind, I *didn't* go to Russia to find a bride! Though my mom would be happy if I married a Russian, Irish, Viking, Ugandan anyone. She wants me married, period.

Mudslinging

I love slinging mud at morons, especially armchair quarterbacks. I've been on the receiving end, and it felt queasy. Why not reverse it for a change.

After a long time, I found one moron to compost. In mudslinging at Venus' blog, a gentleman Sreej*** said the spirit of Indians is great and sputtered his own agenda on how the Bombay train blasts could've been avoided.

Nothing wrong; he just seemed disaffected, compared to folks like, say, relatives of people who died in the blasts. That got me going with some classic trash talk -- unknown words, South Park terminology, you name it. Stuff designed for "turds" like him.

He fell right into the trap and returned with this baloney: "You are a journalist. I honestly do not know what newspaper accepted you as their employee, seeing your horrible language." (His usage? Queen's English. Verbose structure with *three* verb forms in the same sentence, inconsistent verb tense and wrong attribution. Sick, ugh. This is a blog for god's sake, calm down man.)

Anyways, my writing is bad. It really sucks. I'm not as elaborate as Brimful, Iditis or Mukta. Classic journalism isn't about good writing anyways; newspapers are boring to read. I can't even read my own articles. He deserved some heat, and I gave it to him.

If he's smart, he won't respond. Smart people avoid trash talk from losers like me. If he does, he's falling straight into a trap to put him through garbage disposal. Do I sound like a sicko? Hey, I *need* this one. In a world of smart people, lunkheads like him are hard to find.

But seriously, the broken spirit of people who lost loved ones in the blast won't 'bounce' back quickly. They are the people *really* affected by it. They can be found mourning a loss, not dancing in the alley.