Gentleman’s Dementia
In an effort to preempt any feeling of demoralization in these hard economic times wherein I have no stable income to call my own, I spent virtually all of my “savings” on a ticket to New York City a couple weeks back. My best friend met up with me there, and we had no specific intentions for the trip other than eating a shitload of pizza.
My friend and I aren’t particularly cultured in the way of enjoying museums, but we do enjoy film and theater. We spent our late nights catching up on such timeless classics as “The Craft,” and we decided it would be a good idea to see “shows” on at least two days. We saw STOMP together one day, and my friend was interested in seeing Wicked. Considering that I had seen Wicked a few months prior in Los Angeles, and I only had a handful of dollars left to my name, I opted out, and thought I would look for a more affordable form of entertainment on Times Square that afternoon.
I had heard that sometimes you can acquire last-minute tickets to crash a Broadway show at a decent rate, so I inquired about prices at the bustling box office for Mary Poppins. I was crushed to learn that tickets were sold out, and in the event of cancellations, they would be made available for $121.50. I inquired in the box offices for other musicals as well, with similar results.
Assed out by my poverty, I ordered a slice of pizza at Famiglia and read the newspaper. I then went to a neighboring coffee shop and ordered some green tea. I sat with it for a while, but then ventured outside, freezing and restless. I had so wanted to watch something.
After a couple of minutes of strolling, cup in hand, my gaze fell upon a sign for Flash Dancers, a Gentleman’s Club. “Free Admission 12pm-5pm,” it read. I rotated my wrist, and then, remembering that I never wear a watch, reached into my purse for my phone to check the time. It was a few minutes past 3, and my friend wouldn’t be done with Wicked until at least 4:30. The sky was looking ominous with the promise of imminent precipitation, and this establishment was just beckoning me inside. I had been looking for a show, after all, and the price of a drink would sure beat whatever they were charging for Mary Poppins.
I so wanted to finish the green tea though.
Servings With a Smile
(Notes for those not hip to the scene:
- SRK is the common short-form for Shah Rukh Khan, a Bollywood superstar.
- Dard-E-Disco is the name of a song in a popular Bollywood movie “Om Shanti Om” which was released in 2007. In it, SRK sports a very hot six-pack. Various parties have alleged that he trained seriously for three months in order to acquire it.
- “Item number” roughly translates to sex symbol in Bolly-speak. Refer to the Wikipedia entry that I initiated for more details.
- Bindu is a female “character actor” who is a bit stout in stature.)
—
Ever since seeing SRK’s six-pack in “Dard-E-Disco” — which I wholeheartedly believe was acquired within three months, per various claims, and not in the least bit aided or abetted by paint or graphic art — I have been inspired to transform my own rotund torso into a similarly sizzling item number.
Eight months after being decidedly inspired, I contemplated a concrete plan of action over a quart of Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. I would give myself an “SRK Point” for each healthy behavior. Yes! Mind and body are fully connected, and I wanted to keep a positive attitude about this. Why should “points” be bad things that you have to cap off? Points are good! The more points I have, the better! There is no reason to deprive myself of anything bad! I’ll just fill myself up with good things to get more points, and then I’ll naturally have less room for bad things! Right?!
Off I went on walks: to the park, to the grocery, to the mall, up mountains, around lakes, just keeping on the trudge. The SRK points were rackin’ on up, and my belly rolls were jiggling all the way, preparing for their demise.
OK, actually they were jiggling in celebration knowing that any preparation would be premature, as I regularly went to Masala Grill and effortlessly devoured garlic nan, paneer tikka masala, and gulab jamuns galore. “Damn, are you trying to look like SRK or Bindu?” my sister remarked in dismay one day.
Let It Bleed
One morning in fifth grade, I was just going about my usual business: brushed my teeth, pulled my pants down to pee…
“Oh my God… I shit in my pants!!!”
I was mortified by my rectal incompetence!
But wait, it didn’t really look like shit; it was brown, but it had more of a… soupy texture. I didn’t know what to do with this, so I just took off my chaddi and presented it to my mom.
At first even she was surprised. You didn’t get hurt, right?”
“I don’t think so; I never felt anything there.”
“OK, well… it looks like you got your period.”
Ohh. I remembered her telling me about this period thing. I would start bleeding every month because later I would have to have a baby, and I couldn’t go to the temple when I had this thing — but I thought that was going to be when I was thirteen or fourteen, not ten!
“So what do I do now??”
“Ek minute.”
She went to the closet and came back with a small green package.
“This is a maxi-pad. You just tape it to your underwear so it covers the hole where you are bleeding from — you know, that is where the baby comes from. Do you want me to tape it for you?”
I liked to think of myself as grown up enough to figure things out on my own, so I declined the offer for help and proceeded to the bathroom with my pad.
See No Fat; See Only Urine
His name was Dr. Khare. A urologist by profession, he was also a self-proclaimed brahmin pundit that had expansive knowledge in a realm of subject. Within the Indian “holistic care” medical community, he was famous for having come up with a system to mend people’s dilapidated vision without further need for any corrective lenses or eye surgery. He was thus brought to our house in the summer of 2000 upon the recommendation of my maternal uncle.
After muttering our introductions, Dr. Khare asked my sister and me to stand up and turn around for him, and then sat us down for a pep talk.
“You are good guhls, and that’s why I am telling you this, because you are like my daughters,” he began. “There are some things all guhls want, no? Such as, all guhls want to have children, right? Biologically, all guhls desire to nurture and bring up children. Any guhl who does not want this would be abnormal, na?”
I nodded while wearing a blank Homer Simpson stare, internally shuddering as I envisioned myself muffling my ears with the pillow as my future babies cried for milk and a diaper change from their turd-infested playpen.
Dr. Khare then proceeded on to his next logical leap.
“And to have children, you must get married, no?”
I nodded again, fantasizing about cloning myself in a petri dish and naming the result “mini-ree,” or having a wild and irresponsible night with Johnny Depp and birthing his bastard child (John Abraham wasn’t around then).
Then came the upshot: “And who will marry you if you are fat?!”
My sister and I glanced at each other incredulously.
A Civil Procedure
Jan. 18, 2005
I broke two vibrators last year.
This is what happens when you’re in law school. You can’t focus, so you masturbate. Your focus trials get shorter and shorter, and your handling of the vibrator gets more and more reckless. Before you know it, it’s been 48 hours, you’ve gone through eight packs of double-A batteries, and your vagina is numb as a mofo.
Civil Procedure was the most horrendously boring class of all, and, it was at 9am — meaning, I never went. So I would at least try to do the reading on my own. I would open up the book to the assignment and see “Rule 26: Discovery Procedures.”
My head would start to spin.
OK, I need a break.
I’d come back 15 minutes later, open the book again, and think, OK, this stuff is pretty heavy though. I should take off a full hour.
One hour would turn into three, and before I knew it, I’d be headed out to grab some more batteries. (Lord Ganesha, remover of all obstacles, I thank thee for the 24-hour Safeway.)
You know how Ivan Pavlov did that experiment with the dog, where he’d ring the bell and give the dog food, ring the bell and give the dog food, until the dog began salivating upon hearing the bell? Well, I inadvertently used classical conditioning to make myself horny upon the sight of the Civil Procedure textbook. I am probably the only person who gets horny thinking about Civil Procedure.
