Social thuggery

The LA Times recently published a compelling piece of commentary by Amy Alkon. In it, she writes that screaming children, loud cell phone talkers, and other disruptive people are committing acts of "social thuggery" that "steal our attention" and "wear away at our patience".

Alkon does make some very good points and she exaggerates a few, but the 236 comments that follow the article fall on both sides of the argument.

It just got me thinking about an incident on the metro last week.

I was riding home on the orange line - running a mild fever and burrowing my head into my elbow to lessen the pounding in my temples. A young couple parked their monster-sized stroller right behind me. I wouldn't have noticed but their young son started screaming as soon as the train rolled forward.

Piercing, high-pitched screams that had me on the verge of tears -- and with eight stops to go.

It quickly became obvious to me that the child only screamed while the train was moving. The father's reaction? Negotiating with the two-year old. Other passengers on the train started to get twitchy.

Finally, the mother, who was sitting in a single seat nearby, stood up and brought her son a bottle of milk. There was a tangible release of tension in the car.

What if we occasionally stopped to observe the situation and assess the needs of someone other than our self? The father was embarrassed and wanted his son to stop screaming. He didn't really understand why the child was screaming. The boy's mother, however, was far more attuned to her son's discomfort and the discomfort of those around them.

Same thing with loud cell-phone talkers. Have you ever noticed that most of their conversations begin with, "Nothing much, just waiting in line for coffee." They're on the phone because they're bored and they don't really understand how disruptive their meandering one-sided conversation is disturbing the peace of others.

Observe. Assess. Act accordingly.

Maybe?

Girl geek? Or Web weary?

Some days I think I'm fed up with the Web and I just want to cuddle with an old-school notebook and pencil.

And other days, I'm downloading new desktop tools, grovelling for a GoogleWave invite and troubleshooting basic html.

As much as I love negotiating language and playing with words all day, I'm exhausted by the constant stream of activity and information. Between Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and the other social media I come across at work, I feel as if I never have a moment to myself. Someone is always talking and like the compulsive communicator that I am, I am always answering.

This is a hard feeling to deal with because the Web has allowed me to connect with people and communities. I have found (and been found) by yogis, tangueras, bloggers, artists and writers of all varieties. For this, I am truly grateful. But I'm still ambivalent about some aspects.

What I love about Facebook: the dialogues launched by great status lines, birthday reminders, photo albums

I've been limiting my Facebook time over the last two weeks because the "What type of monkey/era/sandwich/cartoon shoe are you?" quizzes are driving me crazy. I don't take quizzes anymore, I don't add applications, I don't join causes, and I don't want any puppy plants on my page. It's not because I'm a mean-spirited person. I just don't like clutter and excessive busyness.

Also, I don't need to know everything about my friends all the time. I like to leave some fodder for discussion when I actually see you. Crazy, I know!

What I love about blogging: It allows me to be a writer of creative non-fiction

Stretching that part of my brain helps me be a better copywriter and a better fiction writer. However, in order to be a successful blogger, you must have a niche or an angle that sets you apart from the rest.

The only thing that's special about my blog is my worldview. I don't want to be a famous yogi or a famous tango dancer or even a top book critic. I just want to have experiences and write about them. This, understandably, is a hard thing to sell.

What I *like* about Twitter: sharing articles and links of interest, letting my friends help me make discoveries, none of the upkeep of Facebook

Why I haven't progressed to "love" with Twitter: I haven't entirely figured out how it can be of use to me. Of course the big irony is, I'll probably be posting this link on Twitter/Facebook to incite you all to read and comment on this post. Does this make me a hypcrite? Or a masochist?

Mostly, it makes me curious and determined. The Web is an undeniable part of our present - and our future. And as I truly am a compulsive communicator, I will continue to experiment/play with these platforms until I find a happy medium between my needs and how they can benefit those needs.

Waiting in line

What happens to people when it comes to waiting in line?

Whether it be at the bank, the P&A or IKEA, there's a crazed flicker in the eye of every man or woman that approaches the cash area.

We've all had the thoughts before.

"Which line is moving faster?"

"The customers in that line have too many items."

"I'll stand in this line, you stand in the other line - we'll see who gets to the cash first."

"Cashier changing! But I committed to the other one!"

"COUPONS! Are you kidding me?"

Is there any other "everyday" place where human stress is so quickly manifest? And where it's so unnecessary to boot? It's like everyone's in The Amazing Race. Even once they're in the best-perceived line-up, customers are still twitchy and looking around in case they have to make a last-minute change.

"I always get in the slowest line!"

Waiting in line is like everything else in life. You choose a line, sometimes it moves quickly, and sometimes it doesn't, so you might as well relax and enjoy the scenery. Flip through a magazine. Watch the domestic spats unfold in the fruit section. Imagine what people are going to do with all that stuff. Compose a poem!

Are you really in such a rush to get to the pharmacy next... and wait in line some more?

Slippery sidewalks

No, I am not going to rail about the state of Montreal sidewalks. I'm going to rail about the people who can't stop railing about the state of Montreal sidewalks instead.

Oh, the irony, I know.

As Powell and I were driving back from Vermont today, we happened upon another talk radio show urging callers to share their complaints about icy sidewalks, snow-bound streets, etc.

Perhaps the radio show host doesn't really care about the sidewalks. Perhaps he simply needed a hot topic that would get the phones ringing. But I've had it with all this complaining already.

Allow me to make a few friendly reminders:

• The Ville de Montreal does not run this city. Nope. Mother Nature runs this town. We live in a place that experiences deep winter, so stop complaining that getting around is hard. Sometimes all the salt and gravel in the world cannot counteract the whims of the Big M, so don't waste your time pointing fingers and muttering. Hello!? Any of you remember the Ice Storm of '98? In the Tremblay vs. Winter bout, I'm putting my money on the white giant. 

• If most of you wore decent boots, walking would be a far simpler task. For example, UGG boots and leather booties with three inch heels were not made for our harsh winters. So don't give me that shocked look when you wipe out in your dainty footwear and I fail to shower you with compassion.

I love listening to talk radio and engaging in debate (even if it's only yelling "You tool!" at my car radio), and as an avid walker, I too get frustrated with slipping and sliding, but I am soooo tired of listening to the world complain incessantly about situations that can only be accepted, and not modified.

Be upset that a closed coroner's office is delaying the funeral of a Canadian soldier. Be saddened that financial woes may have led to the deaths of three children in the Saguenay.

But icy sidewalks? Leave earlier. Take public transit. Buy crampons. And be grateful that winter is the least of your worries.

New year, same old pretension

Overheard in the Provigo

Trendy gay male: Where are you going for New Year's? We're going to a rave.

Trendy white female: I'm looking more for a reggae-old-style-dancehall kind of thing.

Comment: So who is more cool in this showdown?

Overheard at our office Christmas party

Unknown party crasher: Will any world music be coming on?

Drunk colleague: You don't like Justin Timberlake?

UPC: I can't ask a girl to dance unless it's world music.

Comment: Lonely, lonely man. Is that why you're crashing office parties?

Wasting precious time

Being a member of the marketing/advertising community, I have a very low tolerance for bad ads - especially ones that shamelessly manipulate our emotions with the basest of tactics. One tactic that particularly upsets me is the "stop wasting your precious time" approach.

The straw that broke this camel's back was the TV commercial for McCain Roasters. You know the one where a business woman is preparing roast potatoes while at the office? She's ripping open tiny salt and pepper packets to season the potatoes she chopped while putting together a PowerPoint presentation (or similar), and there's a voiceover making exasperated noises about 'who has time to spend all day preparing roast potatoes?'

Yes, the absurdity of the situation is supposed to be funny, but I gnash my teeth every time it comes on. Not only does it anger me that a perfectly intelligent woman is depicted as being too brain-addled to peel a potato in less than eight hours, and that this product creates more waste in the name of convenience, but I hate how advertisements are constantly telling us to save-time-don't-waste-time.

Advertisers are not worried about us savouring every moment of our time here on earth. They want us to save time so that we can keep running and keep buying their products. These commercials keep us tiny guinea pigs running ever faster on our increasingly-shrinking wheels, and the whole cycle exhausts me.

Now excuse me while I peel the biggest pile of potatoes just for the pleasure of getting my hands dirty.

Tuesday absurdity

Inspired by Tha Connaisseur and her hilarious Monday madness posts, I bring you Tuesday absurdity, or pretentious displays that made me "cuss, cringe and shake my head". It may not be an alliterative title, but I assure you, the content is quality.

1) This is Goop (thanks Manon D). Guess what? Gwyneth Paltrow is a better person that you are, and now she has the website to prove it. As G tells us in the opening page, "My life is good because I am not passive about it" and so she encourages us, "Don't be lazy". The solution to not being lazy, apparently, is visiting her website often to be inspired by her recipes, experiences, and shared thoughts from "one of my sages".

I imagine the greatness of her life has nothing to do with being born to Hollywood parents, being a successful actress, having married a rock star, and rolling around in enough money to make God blush in shame. Nooo, it's that vegetarian lasagna she made last week...

2) Plateau party invitation. Now, out of respect to a very dear friend of mine, I will not reveal how this little treasure fell into my hands. And I certainly won't reproduce it in it's entirety, but rest assured that the whole message is equally "WTF?"

Would you have attended this party "without the social crutches of alcohol and other substances making our minds fall back asleep"?

• PROGRAM: I will probably initiate a talking circle (based on the millenium tradition of Native peoples of the Americas) and/or a collective reflection and writing exercise. Should you have any ideas, inspiring texts, poems, pieces of visual art, etc., that you wish to share with welcoming and curious souls, please allow yourself to share this impulse!

• FOOD, DRINKS: Please note that i do not intend to organize any "potlacht" (potluck, community meal), neither any percussions jam, since i do not feel like dealing with the "dispersion" that it would create, nor end the night with 1-2 hours of cleaning up in the wee hours or the next morning!

Raw veggies and medicinal herb teas were on the menu. Seriously. And then people wonder where the Plateau gets its reputation.

Ooh, this is giving me a stomach ache... Palanca out!

Good advertising

I found this postcard today as I walked out of a restaurant - and was immediately impressed.

It was created to promote a project by the Fondation pour l'alphabetisation to encourage children to read.

Someone give Cinderella a B12 shot...

A bicyclist's lament

Now that I live in the Plateau and am no longer dependent on a car to get me around, I've discovered the joys of bicycling to the office, the studio, the library, the movies... My greatest pleasure lately is pedalling through city streets softened by the night and the cold, the moon reflecting on my handlebars as I hum my way all the way home.

But I have a few complaints I would like to air out. Put on your helmets, people.

• However misguided your parents may have been on other matters, your mother was right on one point: Look both ways before crossing the street. If I see one more person step out into the street with no concern as to whether or not they're in the path of an oncoming bike - or car - I just may forget to swerve. Older Asian women seem to be particularly prone to this behaviour. Just stop. All of you.

• "Hey you! Guy on the bike with your headphones on... Stop listening to music while cycling, you tool!" I don't care if you're Montreal's karaoke champion and your title is at stake, there is absolutely no good reason to have your iPod on while navigating city streets. The nice thing about cars and other cyclists is that they make noise. Give yourself a fighting chance - make sure you can hear them coming. Or risk depriving this world of your heartfelt rendition of "Unbreak my heart".

• Also, a quick note to the lovers spotted earlier tonight on St.Laurent south of Rachel. I know that we common people can never understand the depth and beauty of your love - and that frankly, we're all just jealous anyway - but do you really think it's a good idea to ride side by side on a major thoroughfare? I know how important it is for you to stare deeply into one another's eyes at all times, but maybe do it in a way that won't endanger your lives and the lives of other cyclists behind you just wanting to get home from yoga and have dinner already.

• And while I'm at it, "Hey Westmount SUVs! Yes, I know you're from Westmount, I recognise your parking stickers! Please refrain from weaving in and out of lanes as you look for parking, because if one of your lot cuts me off one more time, I may have to accidentally fall on your pricey car with my scratchy bike. I don't care if you're dizzy from hunger, feverish with anticipation at the meal you'll soon enjoy at a trendy Plateau eatery, you're annoying the rest of the universe.

Whoo... There, I feel better...

Toothbrush technology

I was trying to buy a toothbrush on Sunday night when it occurred to me that some industries don't require this much advanced technology.

Highlights included:

• The Colgate Navigator (not to be confused with the SUV model favoured by rap stars), which helps avoid excessive pressure on gums and reduces the risk of injury to gums.

• The Oral-B CrossAction Vitalizer PLUS, which carries no less than three trademarks, and features soft gum stimulators and antimicrobial bristle protection.

• And the Cadillac of mouthcare, the Crest SpinBrush ProClean (two trademarks). Ergonomic design. Premium designer colours. Dual action technology. Babes - and batteries - not included.

I'm one of those people who are confounded by too much choice. When confronted with four feet of toothbrush display, my eyes shift out of focus and my jaw goes slack. Once I've eliminated every model with a Dora the Explorer masthead, I have difficulty discerning which toothbrush model will best suit my dental care needs.

And beyond that, what exactly are my dental care needs? Am I worried about gum injury? Should I be?

I chose the Vitalizer because it had a nice combination of fuschia pink and neon green. I'm sure marketers will be thrilled to discover that after their scientification of toothbrush brands, it all comes down to which toothpaste has the nicest colour.

Ha!

KRAFT Bagel-fuls

Excuse me - but just how hard is it to slice a bagel and spread some cream cheese? Does it really cause that much mess and stress? Are toaster-related accidents on the rise? Won't it take just as much time to thaw the Bagelful? And do we really need more packaging? How much fat is in one of those monstrosities?

Can I please stop being treated like a moron by big industry?

If frozen-tubular bagels aren't a sign of the apocalyse, they should be.

Are those locusts I see coming over Mont Royal?

Bridesmaid revisited

July 1990. Royal blue sequins with fabric flowers, beaded head piece, dyed-to-match satin shoes, and pre-crinkled elbow-length gloves, also royal blue.

What I was thinking:

"Heels sinking into ground. Don't fall over. How much longer could this possibly last? I think they braided my hair too tight. Tension headache. Don't fall over. Cuchi-cuchi... haha, I feel like Charo. Bet you Charo didn't have to endure this on The Love Boat. Probably just leaned on the small guy. Or was that Fantasy Island? How MUCH LONGER could this possibly %$*#-ing last? Breathe. Breathe away the nasty headache. This is your brother's wedding. Be graceful. Breathe. Soon there will be cake. Or me stabbing someone with my high-heeled shoe. One or the other..."

So I think I may want to start a segment in which people send their bad bridesmaid photos and I get to add some sassy interior monologue. Like Cake Wrecks, but with less icing. Send me your snaps, peops. The more hideous the sartorial/facial expression, the better.

Girlicious

Before reading anything, watch the video for "Like me" by Girlicious first.

If you can make it back from the bathroom - if your legs aren't too weakened by persistent retching - come back for my comments.

Did you get yourself a glass of water for that raw throat? Go ahead. I'll wait.

This video is the most atrocious footage I've ever seen in my life. Worse than the Pussycat Dolls. Worse than a Rob Schneider movie. Worse than those new Bell ads. The crotch-grabbing. The clothes. The gratuitous grinding, moaning and booty shakes. I would like to refer to it "music" but I wouldn't want to offend other artists by classing this tripe in the same category.

I would rather listen to a John Tesh album than have to sit through that trash again.

I think I feel a dry heave coming on...

Saddest Facebook status lines ever

If you're looking for status line suggestions, click here.

If you're looking for random amusement, read on. Names have been changed (obviously) to protect the boring, the random, and the grammatically inept.

• Wayne Gretzky is glad that Fluffy's spay went well.
• Mats Sundin is today is grocery store and coffee tonight with friends!
• Chris Chelios agrees that the price of our freedom from sin was paid by Jesus' blood.
• Ron Hextall is glad to be spending time with Claude, but sad they can't do anything because of his shoulder.

Please note that none of the afflicted are friends of mine. This is a random sampling I came across while doing some research. It may seem very bitchy of me to be ridiculing these probably-lovely people - and it is. If Chris loves Jesus, then I fully respect his faith. As I respect how worried Wayne must have been about Fluffy.

What so exasperates me about these status lines is that they perfectly embody what I dislike most about Facebook, that is, knowing the minutiae of other people's lives. It's almost as bad as having to listen to someone's inappropriate cell phone conversation in a crowded bus.

As a writer, the information is certainly being socked away for the day when I have to create a similar character, but as a sarcastic know-it-all, all I can think is, "if you're not going to tell me something interesting or new about your life, don't bother!"

I suspect that it's just a matter of perception. My friends are clever, creative people and they always manage to compose status lines that are notable, funny or surprising. Wayne, Mats, Chris and Ron are not my friends, so maybe their status lines are uninteresting to me because on the surface, they seem trivial and/or boring.

Maybe Fluffy is a sickly cat and every intervention has been fraught with anxiety. Mats could be an agoraphobic and his getting out of the house is a great achievement. Maybe Chris was a meth head and his love of Jesus is inspiring other meth heads. Ron... well, Ron...

I don't understand Ron. If he's enjoying spending time with Claude, what's he doing on Facebook?

So I know this post is hypocritical. First, I have a Facebook account and check it regularly; therefore, fully consenting to have access to the lives of others. Second, I change my status line frequently and sometimes spend more than a few minutes composing a fun, clever phrase; therefore, subjecting others to reading about the minutiae of my life.

If I were a truly upstanding individual, I would delete my Facebook profile entirely, but it is occasionally very useful to me. So until I develop some backbone, I will try to keep my shouts of "who cares?" to a minimum.

Also, please feel free to contribute your own status line favourites.

Something to hate about cell phones

Among other things, cell phones are making tardiness acceptable. Let me explain.

The other night, the usual suspects decided to meet at Rockaberry's between 7:30 and 8:00pm. I arrived first, at twenty to eight. Within minutes of sitting down, I discovered that not only had I forgotten my cell phone at home, but that I was book-less as well. Buh!

Knowing that my friends would be along shortly, I ordered a green tea and took advantage of the moment to entertain pleasant thoughts. Fifty minutes later, I was feeling less patient.

I wasn't angry with my friends for being late. If I had my cell phone, it would have been easier to bear the wait because I would have received the calls apologizing for their tardiness.

It seems to me that now that cell phone use is so widespread, most people are less attentive to the time. "If I'm late, I can just call." It is very considerate to call, true, but if I was ever late before cell phones, I just made a bigger effort to rush. Now that I can call and apologize, I tend to move a little slower while preparing to leave.

I'm usually fairly punctual, but it seems to me that there was more punctuality - and less cancellations - before we had our electronic *out*.

Is it just me?

The Dark Knight

I try to like movies. I really do. I stride into that cinema full of hope... but am only rarely rewarded for my enthusiasm.

When I walked into the Cote des Neiges cinema tonight, my belly happily filled with tonkinese soup, I was positively giddy. After all, I was going to see The Dark Knight - I had every hope of being treated to a cinematic experience.

[sound of loud buzzer]

The performances were everything they were hyped up to be. My beef is with the screenplay, which had holes in it a mile wide. It makes me angry that filmmakers will serve us inconsistencies and doubtful plots without the least remorse. I have questions that the blinding lights and crumpling metal of an exciting car chase cannot obliterate, and until someone can answer those questions, I am staying off The Dark Knight bandwagon (not that they need me anyway).

Here goes:

1. The mob money was irradiated to help the police track it. How and when did they irradiate the mob's money? Did they know it was going to be stolen? How did they know the irradiated money would end up in the mob's hands?
2. If the Joker stole the mob's (irradiated) money during the bank robbery, did he then place it into the five banks? If the police were able to track it, then I would have to assume that it was the same pile of money. And yet, the mob bosses were acting like they knew about the money in the five banks. If that was not the money stolen by the Joker, then was the money in the five banks (of unknown origin) irradiated too?
3. If the Joker stole the money from the mob bosses, why was Lau able to get it out of the banks before the cops arrived? Seems to me that Lau was working with the mob bosses, and not the Joker. It couldn't possibly be the same pile of money, and yet the plot would suggest it was... and that it wasn't.

So which money is which? And what's with the fake Batmans? And that scene in the parking garage? And what was happening in that scene under the highway? Aaargh!

Good luck.

Signed, The Party Pooper

NB. Super coolio trailer for Watchmen though!

eTalk Daily

I was just watching eTalk Daily and I'm feeling a little nauseous.

1) They interviewed Emily Haines and another member of Metric whose name escapes me to talk about Metric's next album. They had Emily and Male #1 sitting on a couch. There was kibbitzing. There was a little giggling. Emily was being coquette-ish under her blond fringe. And all I could think was, "Are these the same people responsible for Old world underground, Where are you now? Has underground music gone all Hollywood? This is more disturbing than the Joel Plaskett Emergency selling tube socks for Zellers... How did they get roped into this? What is the matter with TV producers in Toronto? Can they stop over-blushing Tanya Kim, please?

2) Smarmy Ben Mulroney was waaay too chipper when he announced how I too could learn how to glow like Feist.

3) They had commercials for Canadian Idol. This whole Canadian Idol thing isn't working for us. Maybe it's more successful in the United States because the country is so big, the population so enormous, that without a platform like American Idol, so many talents would go unnoticed. Is the Canadian music scene more vibrant than the U.S. music scene because we're a smaller country, with a smaller population?

I'm going to make myself some warm milk and read. Much less nausea-inducing.

Boobs

In light of recent news that buying breast implants is now a community service, I thought it appropriate to share a few words about breasts.

One of the best bras I own is a Triumph bra. It's a demi-cup – which is perfect for those of us on the lower end of the B-scale who cannot fill a whole cup – with underwire and a little poof of padding that pushes everything slightly upwards for a fuller effect. Other than a nasty little bow with fake pearls that I couldn't cut out, it’s the perfect bra.

When I purchased this particular item however, the tag read:

Triumph…specially designed for the smaller proportioned figure type.

Now, isn’t that the height of politically correct? I’ve seen a lot of euphemisms in my time and have learned to appreciate their built-it irony, but I especially like ‘Smaller proportioned figure type’ because you can tell they were trying to come up with something really delicate. Their earnestness betrayed by the use of too many words that stumble over one another.

This phrase cannot be read through with a straight delivery. There needs to be some hemming and hawing, for example, “Ah, you know…the small…no, smaller proportioned figure…uh…type. Yes, that’s it, the smaller proportioned figure type. Yes.”

And even the name brand is worth a roll or two of the eye. What exactly do I need to triumph over? 

Is the very progress of my life being impaired by a B cup? It all seems over-dramatic to me, but in the maelstrom of female angst over boob size, shape and weight, there is a lot of drama involved. Breast size does seem to inflict an inordinate amount of anguish on the female population and I am not immune. Like so many others, I have “booby” tops that make me more voluptuous in the upper regions and “boobless” tops that I swear to throw away once and forever every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Breasts are a very key part of who we are as women, so we can’t help talking about them and mythologizing them. If you doubt this in the least, ask a breast cancer survivor who lost hers to a scalpel.

So no matter what size breast you boast ladies, your girls are yours for life so learn to love 'em.

Adriana Palanca, Bridesmaid for hire

I have been part of a bridal party six times. Let me begin with a few stats:

• I have been a bridesmaid four times and a maid of honour twice
• Five of the weddings were in Montreal, the last was in Toronto (where I had the misfortune of being coiffed by a hairdresser from Woodbridge – for those of you who don’t know, that’s the Saint-Leonard of the Queen’s City – who wanted to tease my hair to pre-1989 standards, insisting all the while that people don’t know how to cut hair in Montreal).
• Bride breakdown: 3 Italians, 1 blond girl of vague Canadian origins, and 2 Portuguese-Italians.
• I have worn mint green linen, cream and pink raw silk, gold satin with a bow on the back, lilac taffeta, cranberry taffeta, and royal blue sequins - which went very nicely with the matching head piece featuring sequined flowers, a v-shaped headband, and strings of sparkling beads that lashed me across the face when I turned my head too quickly.*
• Number of times I have had to dance the Macarena is excruciatingly uncomfortable high-heel shoes dyed to match my dress: 6

The highlight of the bridal party experience is undoubtedly the bachelorette party. The bride’s last hurrah, when she is supposed to throw caution to the wind and sow that last wild oat. Some bachelorette parties have been tamer than others, with the evening’s excitement culminating in all of us dancing in a circle around a pile of purses. Others – to be precise, three – have been more daring with a visit to that temple of masculinity (ahem), Club 281.

Once we had survived the shame of being ridiculed by all the punks heading to Foufounes Electrique, once we were past the indignity of having to exorbitantly bribe the leering doorman to get us a table, we found ourselves sitting shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, with countless other women also sipping over-priced drinks and wondering out loud if we were going to see *everything*.

On each occasion, I laughed so continuously, so steadily, that I feared I might get thrown out of the joint before I had a chance to finish my bajillion-dollar gin and tonic. Let me tell you the top three things I witnessed on those choice outings.

One: Those girls in the audience "fortunate" enough to have friends buy them a lap dance were sure to get the performance of their lives. With so many ladies packed so tightly in, the dancer had very little space to work in and all gyrating and grinding was done directly in the girl’s face. Unfortunately, this also meant that when a dancer was performing at the next table, you had to sit very still for fear of accidentally leaning back and finding yourself wearing some stripper’s butt as a hat.

Two: Once, a dancer stepped through the curtains – freakishly unhairy, like the rest, and not-so-heroin-chic thin – wearing a banana-yellow sheath over his bits. When he came out on stage and starting shaking his *fruit* at the audience, I was both amused that such a crude sexual allusion could still work and really, truly horrified at the frenzied females around me who apparently wanted nothing more than to peel his sweet, sweet package. I have fantasies, but I am fairly certain that the last thing I want to see coming towards me is a penis dressed up as a banana.

Third, and last: One tableau began with two men applying suntan lotion to their respective – once again hairless – limbs and then doing a gyrating boogie with each other. Now I understand that many male fantasies revolve around watching two women have sex, and understandably, it can be a very intense, erotic scene to watch unfold. Except I have to say that watching two men get “oiled up” – both physically and metaphysically – is not my idea of a fantasy. Even if, one day, I manage to convince two uber-hotties to come into my bedroom and ravage my trembling self, I don’t think I would be all that happy if they were too into each other. That would just take away from the whole… me… aspect of the fantasy. In the end, I was just glad that they didn’t soak themselves under a Flashdance-style shower head and then lick each other dry.

The last time we went to a strip joint – for the fifth bride – I was so jaded about the whole affair, the other women in line were practically paying me to get them a table. But I did it anyway, because you don’t let your friends down. Even when they make you wear a royal blue headpiece with sequined flowers.

Just a few last stats for you:

• Number of separations: 2 out of 6 (getting close to the national average)
• Number of babies: 9.5 (she's due this summer)
  
• Next time you can expect to see me in a bridal party: Never. Unless it's my own.

*I would have gone through the trouble of scanning that precious photo, but it's already packed in a box. I promise to post it soon.

Oh goodie, more literature by Afghan writers!

"My God, you haven't read Kite Runner? It's so beautiful! You have to read it!"

Um, no, I don't have to read it. And I won't. Now that I've read one of them, I'm sure that I've pretty much read them all.

Excuse my cynicism, but haven't we been through all this before? With Chick Lit? And the Indian saga novels before that? There was a time when you couldn't get to the end of a bookshelf without seeing a cover festooned with lotus flowers, saris and bindhis. Anyone remember Vikram Seth, Arundhati Roy, Monica Ali?

There were some phenomenal writers in that last sweep - namely Rohinton Mistry (I still shudder when I think about A Fine Balance) and Anita Rau Badami (I bow before you The Hero's Walk). But there were some pretty stinky and derivative novels too. 

For example, do not get me started on God of Small Things - or as I like to call it That Overwritten And Heavily Flourished Indian Novel That Everyone Said I Would Love But That I Hated From Page One And That I Never Finished Reading, Simply Skipping To The End To Verify That My Suspicions Of Incest Were Correct

 Or TOAHFINTESIWLBTIHFPOATINFR,SSTTETVTMSOIWC, for short.

At this juncture, only the most pointed recommendations from a select few people will incite me to read another Indian family saga. And forget tales about Afghanistan altogether. I would rather buy knit sweaters for fruit than pick up another *inspiring* tale about the triumph of the human spirit.

So what tomes do I have on my bedroom floor? Borderline by Marie-Sissi Labrèche (upon which a movie starring Isabelle Blais - another girl-crush of mine - is based). Bluebeard by Kurt Vonnegut. And something about Renoir's landscapes.

I'll let you know how it goes.