Desicritics Category: Culture: Humor

Understanding Myself in the US

Chaitanya S — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 02:35:39 EDT

The past year in the US have made me believe I’m God. And by God, I’m not talking about my divine experiences of floating in air or walking on water by the grace of the Holy Spirit called Smirnoff. That’s a different story and hard to pen down since all my friends have a different take on that.

The cause of this godly sensation is because I have read in the Bible that 'You shall not put God to the test’. Well paying heed to the Holy book, my university did not test me with a single exam this semester. My belief in my divine abilities were confirmed when my friend heard about the situation in my school and commented in a tone of reverence, “You are in heaven, dude”. Duh, of course, you mere mortal, where else does God reside anyway!

This conversation took my mind to one of my favorite songs “stairway to heaven”. All I want to say is that if you want to take the stairway to a university in heaven like mine, I’d recommend you slog your ass off under the supervision of a “verny” devil in hell called Mumbai University for 4 years and bear the scourge called Mechanical engineering. Toss in another 3 years of working in the city and you’ve won the devil’s sympathy to be granted parole in heaven for 2 years.

“I never knew my first time would be this good”, I said as I handed the pretty blond girl some bills. She gave a smile and said “Come again” before handing me my denims, belt and shoes. I gave her one more look as I walked out of the door feeling rejuvenated. After almost 5 months of self control I needed this. The urge to resist temptation is too great for a single young man to bear. I’d made a promise to my soul before coming here that I would not indulge myself in such acts. But some pleasures come at a price and every person has to pay a price for that. For someone in a distant land, such prices are usually paid either in cash or card.

I’m not ashamed to say my friend had recommended the place to me. He said it was where students usually went to seek “solace”. As I entered and looked around, I knew it would be addictive. Everything about the place was enticing. “Retail therapy never killed anyone”, I smirked as I came out swinging my shopping bags.

I was chatting with my friend the other day and she proclaimed something on the lines of “dancing is more of a mental skill than a physical one”. Now before I contest this statement, let me clarify that I suffer from a syndrome called “dancing dyslexia”. I just cannot read the steps which are being taught. I shamelessly admit that have I fractured my ankle while learning to dance. And it wasn't even break dancing (pun intended). It was jive. The only person who showed no hint of sympathy was my dance partner. To her the “accident” was a blessing in disguise as she had already suffered sore toes because of my flat footed stomping. Also, she almost had her arm ripped off a couple of times and narrowly missed crashing into a pillar when I spun her round.

But before I dwell too much in the dark ages of my youth, back to the mental aspect of dancing. Well I believe if dancing is such a mental activity, Einstein would have been an award winning choreographer. Also, Shakira would have made an amazing physics professor. Not that you’ll ever hear a whimper of a complaint for the latter. Some purists may argue that Shakira lacks the communication skills and knowledge required to teach the subject. Such purists have definitely not attended lectures in Mumbai University then.

I’ve been here for quite a while now and have been picking up some local terminologies. Americans have a habit of saying “I’m good” akin to our “No, thank you”. For example if you are asked by a host “do you want another drink and pastry”, the polite thing to do is smile sweetly and say is “I’m good”. I know I don’t do that for such invitations, but it’s just an example.

Now in my native country, the new age national language is “Hinglish”. Whilst conversing in it, at times you have no idea whether you are conversing in English or Hindi. So saying “I’m good”, if not interpreted correctly, gets a look of scorn from the conservatives, quaking in the boots by the conformists and a whoop of joy from members of the Indian Gay Society (or whatever it’s called).

Had a kind Indian lady ask me the other day, “so beta, do you want me to help you find a nice Indian bride after your graduation”. Instinctively I gave a sweet smile and replied seconds before I saw palpitations for the first time in life, “thanks auntyji, I’m good”.

Rastafarians, Talibans and Hijabis: Charsis, Afeemis and Purdah-nashins

temporal — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 03:59:25 EDT

These are not digressions on Dar ul Harb and Dar ul Islam. LINK

Talibans have it to their credit that when they controlled Afghanistan they came down hard on opium growing. From supplying nearly 4 tons (nearly 75% of the world supply) to almost zero was one big achievement.

But they also have it to their discredit that when were driven out of power they used opium to finance their movement. Colonel North of Iran-Contra infamy has not been contacted by any media for comments. Even his patron these days Faux News has been silent over this. My contacts in ISI are not returning my SMS messages.

The annual US government estimate for Afghan opium poppy cultivation shows that approximately 172,600 hectares (426,503 acres) of poppy were cultivated throughout the country this year, an increase of 61 percent over 2005, the White House Office of National Drug Control Policy said Friday. Two southern Afghan provinces -- Helmand and Oruzgan where the Taliban has been the most active -- are responsible for the bulk of the increase. Poppy planting there was up 132 percent from last year, compared to an 18-percent increase in the remaining 31 provinces. LINK

Hijab is banned in France. Other western countries are also succumbing slowly to Islamophobia and consider measures to check what they deem threat of Islamic encroachment in their backyards. Yesterday a hijabi woman was denied citizenship in France.

France's ban on religious symbols and apparel in public schools took effect Sept. 2, 2004. The ban includes all overtly religious dress and signs (including Muslim headscarves, Sikh turbans, Jewish skullcaps and large Christian crosses). However, the furor over the ban has focused mainly on the banning of Muslim headscarves or hijabs.

There are about five million Muslims in France – five to 10 per cent of the population – the largest Muslim population in Europe. LINK

Enters former Emperor Haile Selassi of Ethiopia, a god incarnate and the Rastafarians (The name Rastafari comes from Ras (literally "Head," an Ethiopian title equivalent to Duke), and Tafari Makonnen, the pre-coronation name of Haile Selassie I.) LINK

Who Are Rastafarians?

Last year Italy's Court of Cassation said cultivating even a single cannabis plant was a 'punishable offense'. And yesterday the Court ruled that Rastafarians can use cannabis.

Rastafarians have always regarded Ethiopia as the promised land, but Italy could rank a close second after its Supreme Court ruled that smoking or possessing cannabis is not a criminal offence but a religious act when the person doing it is a Rastafarian.

Italy's Court of Cassation has said Rastafarians use marijuana "not only as a medical but also as a meditative herb. And, as such [it is] a possible bearer of the psychophysical state to contemplation and prayer". LINK

We love Bob Marley. And Jamaica has beautiful beaches also in Negril and Ocho Rios. About Hijabis and Talibans we know less. And here, if ever, less is surely more. And if you have a clear MY on the scrabble board, with these seven letter D C I T O H O you can score big.

"Scoring" in the United States

Chaitanya S — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 01:07:55 EDT

The Indian economy is on an upward growth path and showing a tremendous growth at 9%. My girth is doing exactly the same, though I feel my growth rate is much more. Talk of being a true representative of your country on foreign soil!

What can represent Indian more than a game of cricket? I finally played a match last month. I was looking forward to having a dream debut and leaving an impact on the game. I had this personal ambition of seeing a 50 next to my name on the score card. I got the game off to a rollicking start and reached 40 in the 3 overs in which I was in action. Suddenly the captain gestured me to stop and let someone else take over. He made it pretty clear to me that the 50 looks better next to my name while batting, not bowling! Whatever! I clearly remember hearing commentators saying “A half century is a half century in any form of cricket”. Shooting down aspirations of budding sportsmen is such an Indian trait. The captain thus displayed his "Indianness"!

I was chatting with a friend and he asked me “So have you scored in the US as yet?” I was a bit ashamed of my batting performance, but being an honest soul, I said, “Yeah it was pretty tough, but I managed 5”. Knowing every honest bone in my body, he gave me a phone call within 30 seconds of me sending the message in. “So how were they? Americans or Indians? How did you manage so quickly? Damn, 5 chicks in 3 months is rocking! Wish I’d studied there!” Maybe this is the communication gap between virtual teams that the professor warned us about in class. No wonder most people say that MBA education is mostly based on real life situations.

Back to the point, I did not have the heart to act like my captain and curtail someone’s excitement. But after a few seconds of listening to a running commentary of his own exploits, I let the bubble burst and told him I meant cricket. Suddenly I was flooded with comments of how busy he was, how late in the night it was for him and how he really had to hang up.

Statistics show that 80,000 Indian students come to the US annually. I am dead sure that when these 80,000 cross the psychological barrier of making the first long distance call to their friends, the first question they are faced with is the one which faced me. Friends back in India don’t give two hoots about whether you are pursuing an MS, an MBA or a janitor’s diploma.

Hard as it may seem since I’m a “pakka Mumbaikar”, I’d rather be a Dravid than a Tendulkar on foreign shores (figuratively speaking, of course). That will equip me with the perfect technique to “score” consistently in alien conditions rather than just “plundering” on home soil. Now I’ve realized what they mean by accomplishments in India not being appreciated as compared to foreign ones.

Since I’m on the topic of sports, I have to mention my experience in a bowling alley. Now my bowling in the alley isn’t as accomplished as that on a cricket pitch. So by the time we were half way through the game, the screen displaying scores appeared like a chart of noughts and crosses. I had most of the noughts because of innumerable gutter balls and my friends had the crosses because of perfect strikes. One of them asked me “Bet you’ll never manage 3 straight crosses?” Well I could have shown him a few sheets with my name and lots of crosses under that. Too bad Mumbai University does not return our engineering answer sheets. But the score sheet surely evoked nostalgia of my engineering tests, with the crosses, and the zeros right next to them.

But things aren’t all that bleak in my life. I think I’ve finally learned to cook now and my roomies have heaved a sigh of relief. Well I don’t blame them. If the cook doesn’t eat his own food, it surely does provide food for thought to the others. Well I’m proud to state my cooking has reached a stage where I can satiate my own taste buds without going green in the face.

I was chatting with one of my friends yesterday and she asked me,”You’ve been there for almost 3 months, what was the most difficult thing you found fitting into?” I read it and I bit my lower lip with regret. That question hit me where it really hurt. An honest answer was typed back. “My denims”.

Types Of Women Who Drive You Insane

Deepti Lamba — Thu, 3 Jul 2008 11:33:29 EDT

A woman best understands another's pain and yet it is a woman who sees through another's deviousness and petty manipulations.

Tears Come In Handy:

Crocodile tears streaming down satin cheeks might melt the male heart but rarely does too get beyond a certain point on other women. Why? That is because the fairer sex knows that tears come easy to some of their sisters. Scold them and a thousand rivers flow. They snivel into their hankies, dupattas or pallus. Moppy women are tedious to bear and are similar to the emotional wrought ones.

Emotional Wrecks Or Drama Queens:

These damsels are always in distress and demand regular men play Lancelot to their Guinevere. These divas swallow men whole. These kinds of women abound - they expect someone lse to save them from their lonely marriages, their boyfriends, their parents, their siblings, their jobs, etc. Their hearts are forever broken and wounds never heal. Generally women are able to sieve the fake wolf criers from real victims. It is intuitive.

Menstrual Cycle As a Weapon-

Some use their monthlies to garner sympathy. Of course there are those who suffer tremendously - myself included - but to make it a tear jerking scenario doesn't work every time on women. It isn't a form of illness or affliction but a natural phenomena that makes us women. If it hurts, get some medicine, use a hot water bottle, go lie down for a while but if the bleeding is bad, a visit to the Gynecologist would be better than being an periodically ailing damsel.

The Flirt: These are easy to deal with. With the high heels, swanky clothes and tinkling laughter they use their sexuality to impress the opposite sex. They instinctively repel the insecure and the feminists alike. To use one's sexuality alone to be popular rarely works after a while since everyone cannot be Mata Hari in the making.

Lies and Sweet Nothings: The ones with the sweet tongue are the toughest to deal with. Their forked tongues can bring empires down. Manipulation, lying and flattery comes easy to such women. They revel in causing conflict. Not only do men fall in their traps but so do women with simple hearts.

The Matriarch Syndrome: These women use their age, position in the family to have their way. These are the control freaks who would run a finger and show the dust even in the most sterile cleanest environment. No one can best these kinds of ladies. They know best and rule with an iron hand.

Best Way to Deal With Such Women: We may detest them, try our best to avoid them but when circumstances demand interaction there are a few tried out tips that seem to work. Once we know the kind of personality, we are dealing with more than half the battle is won. A heavy dose of humor helps when it comes to dealing with the female dictator; with the forked tongue women, humility works, along with taking everything that they say with a pinch of salt. With the hot air heads keeping them at an arms distance works, mostly.

The hypochondriac ones require heavy doses of Oxycontin to zone them out painkillers and a matter of fact attitude works to keep their hysterics in control

For the emotional wrecks, deliberate deafness is the perfect solution.

And when all else fails, the best thing to do is just cut ties and run for one's life for once tangled in their webs getting out with a sane mind is kind of difficult.

The Heat, the Mosquitoes and New York Times

Ritu Chandra — Wed, 2 Jul 2008 01:07:53 EDT

Ever since I started working in New York city (over a year back), my disposition in relation to this aspect of my life has been grumpy at best. Here I am, a passionate crusader for the country-living-high-thinking kind of life-style, being thrust into the rat race of the financial nerve-centre of the world is disconcerting. The Big Apple has a remote chance of tempting me to bite. After all playing a daily dodge-me with the teeming mass of people that descend upon you in a frontal attack is hardly enticing right?. Neither is chasing 'walk’ signs at pedestrian crossings, running up stalled escalators or spending an hour every morning admiring the environs of New Jersey turnpike(NJTP) as your bus crawls along the serpentine queue into the City. Contrast this to the beautiful vistas of spring flowers, fall colours and rolling fields that are the staple on any kind of commute in suburban Pennsylvania. Think I am complaining too much? Check this out

My commute now

My commute in Pennsylvania

Yet, the City(New York i.e) has a slimy way of creeping up from behind to entrap the unsuspecting outsider in it's web. Take for example, the New York subway. A subterranean ant colony of humanity. However, within it’s folds hides the wayside musician, doing his thing, completely oblivious to the indifferent pattering of feet crossing him every second. Once in a while he will play the most compelling piece you ever heard. Sometimes you discover that ‘perfectest’ linger-in-your-mouth Tiramisu in an innocuous hole-in-the-wall shop down the block. At other times it is an impromptu street show by a maverick on the pavement. Then there are the occasional newsworthy scares like a fire outside Grand Central Station and the ensuing excitement (and lots of stories to tell people later. You know the I-was-there-on-that-day kind of stories). That is fun. The only exciting thing that ever happened in PA was a convention of Jehovah’s witnesses.

So as you see, the City's guiles are numerous. The indifference, pace and godlessness of the teeming metropolis throws up a surprising counter-balance of culture, humanity, passion and sometimes a wanton display of human quirks.

So where were we? Yes, wanton human quirks. It was at Times Square a couple of days back. I was footing my way from work towards the Port Authority bus terminal (from where I catch my scenic-NJTP-route bus back home everyday). Times Square was jam-packed, a little more than usual. "These tourists", I muttered grumpily to myself. "I should have taken the subway". With summer one is tempted to take advantage of the beautiful weather and walk down to the bus terminal. However the route to Port Authority is through the quagmire of Times Square. With the recent devaluation of the dollar, life has become very tough for us poor country-bumpkins-in-a-big-city. Now tourists are everywhere. At the bus terminals, peering down from their top-tier perches on city line buses (making you feel like an animal in the zoo). You dodge them in trains, on escalators and on the roads.

Tough, as I said, for only thing we train to dodge in PA is the occasional angry goose pecking at the legs. One is not prepared for handling this deluge of the human species. It was only the other day that I had a run-in with an extremely endearing Japanese variety in the subway. She was taking a video film balanced on the narrow escalator that leads down to the platform. I am proud to have provided her with a wonderful panorama of expressions for her film. Starting with amazement (WTF, a film here!), to urgency(my train.. it’s here), frustration and impatience (get out of the way, I need to get to it) and finally urghhhh... resignation (the train has gone). I could not disappoint her, after all I still retain all my Indian ‘Mehmaan bhagwaan hai’ values.

I digress, as usual. To get back, Times square was very crowded that day. Inching forward towards the next block, I realized it wasn't the poor tourists this time. 8th Avenue was closed to traffic. A lot of flashing lights and crowds. I hope not an accident, I prayed. However, as I neared the crossing I noticed something strange. Everyone was looking heaven-wards. “Oh my God, I am sure it is another plane.. damn this stupid city”. I looked upwards duly expecting a fireball. I was relieved .The sky was clear. No signs of airplanes. Phew!. (We have to note that however, important and enthused you might feel narrating first-hand tales of disasters in comfy desi family rooms, it is never as exciting to be there at the time of action).

I steered my vision in the direction the crowd was pointing. It was the fifty two floors tall New York Times building that seemed to be the object of their attention. My eyes darted around for a bit and then suddenly settled in on a figure..... a man. Yes, a man hanging on to the building some half-way up. “What in the good world is this?” I wondered. He seemed to be stuck there. Who was he? A window cleaner who got a little unlucky? Someone escaping some problem in the building? Who? A little asking around brought to light a story that could only be staged in NYC. This is how it goes...

This is Alain Robert, a stuntman with a fetish for climbing buildings, a Frenchman to the core, he thinks buildings are like mountains, only difference between the two is that new buildings get constructed regularly (How perspicuous!).

For a while he has had the realization that the heat in the South of France is getting unbearable. And no, it’s not only because Bollywood with all the B(ee)s(and fly Amar Singh) have descended en masse in Cannes. Nopes. Even the Ms Non-Recyclable Plastic Rai and her Ms World contestants know it is the green-house gases that cause it. I must digress, (yet again) to add that ‘Global Warming’ seems to have replaced ‘World Peace’ as the sure shot winner answer for all beauty pageant wannabes.

Getting back, the US ofcourse, takes the blame for all ills ailing mankind. Esp. from the French point of view. Think of it, not only did they pick the most un-evolved item of the French cuisine, the pommes de terre frites or pomme frites, (which are not French anyway) and branded them as France’s most identifiable contribution to the world cuisine… the ubitiqous French fries. Which self-respecting Frenchman would tolerate that? And now, they are adding ‘gas’ to the fire through these green-houses gases. Something obviously needs to be done about it.

Alain decided he had to climb a building to bring awareness. He has been climbing all over the world. Sometimes he succeeds and sometimes he is yanked off before he can ascend and other times he has been arrested and beaten up. Yet he persists. He is a professional afterall and these are nothing but hazards of the job. His latest fancy was the NYT building. It was easy to scale and a 'green' building. A clever choice. Ask any celebrity and they’ll tell you that they fantasize climbing over the media’s head. In this case he literally did it.

So one fine day he started to climb.

The same routine again. After a bit, he was discovered, the police called and a welcoming committee was waiting for him at the top of the building.

His act performed, Alain happily made his way to cool his heels in Jail.

He was done by mid-morning.

But that is not the end of the story.

Another man. Renaldo Clarke a denizen of the City . He had spent a particularly restless night punching mosquitoes in his Brooklyn quarters. The natural side-effect of heat is mosquitoes. Right? And what do mosquitoes carry? Malaria. So Mr Clarke had dreamt a dream, he wanted to do something about the mosquitoes of Brooklyn and in countering the Malaria they spread. He too wanted to climb a building to bring awareness.

Clarke watches the afternoon news. He sees Alain Robert waving into the screen. Holy heavens. This guy has stolen the march on him. "Damn these French. Even after we have declared ‘Freedom’ from their fries and threatened to return the Statue of Liberty, they continue to be a nuisance." Clarke had had his fill. And thus, at 6:00 PM he started his ascent.

When I looked up from my vantage point of 8th Avenue at around 7:00 PM, he had made his way up to the 30th floor. But now he seemed stationary. Probably tired? Nothing was moving up there. Down below there was a lot of movement. My country genes held me there for a while, wide-eyed and mesmerized. But then suddenly something within jerked me up. Knock! Knock! It is close to 7:00. You have already missed the 7:00 PM bus; you don’t want to miss the 7:20 bus, do you?. The charming NJTP awaits your passage. Get going!

So, I disengaged, and walked away…. Just like a New Yorker.

As my bus emerged from the bowels of Port Authority, the NY Times building loomed up in front. And there he was, that small figure, hanging on for his dear life. He hadn’t moved an inch since I had left. As the bus wound out of the city into Lincoln Tunnel, I wondered what his fate would be. I was slightly perturbed with the sense detachment that seemed to have taken root within me, but then I also started perceiving a new sensation, a gut feeling that told me he would get there. For at the end of the day he belongs to the City. The spirit of the City resides within him. A little heat, a few mosquitoes, a dream, some action and tons of tenacity….. That’s all it takes to get scale a height here.

New York City, it spins it’s web tighter and tighter; there is no escape.

Post Script
Mr Clarke did make it to the top, totally exhausted, but victorious. After his moment of fame in front of the cameras, where he revealed his concern for Malaria, he too went to join his French friend to cool down in jail. They were both freed a couple of days later.
Photographs courtesy New York Times

My Initial Days In The US

Chaitanya S — Tue, 1 Jul 2008 01:50:58 EDT

I've been in the US for almost 50 days now and I have gained a lot each and every day. This country makes you realize your potential to grow and I have been taking advantage of it. As I look back to the day I arrived here, I truly feel I have changed and grown as a person.

But more about my weight later.

One of the first things that struck me was the kindness of the people here on campus. When I went for a routine medical check up, the kind lady at the reception asked me sweetly, "Are you an athlete?". I looked down at my perfectly portly frame and gave her the sweetest smile I've ever given anyone. "I'm not an athlete. But thanks for the compliment", I replied.

Out here, people have a fascination for drinks. No wonder I have been able to integrate myself so well. Though I haven't touched a drop of alcohol since leaving my homeland, I have not lost my empathy towards fellow drinkers. Once a drinker, always a drinker is my credo. When I accompanied a group of friends to a pub, we were asked for age identification at the entrance. Out here you need to be above 21 to even enter a pub. Trust me, when you are 26 and in the "matured" bracket, you take such questions as compliments.

When questioned on which degree I obtained in India, I am tempted to say B.E (Mech) + MS (Electronics) + Phd (Maths). With the number of times I've taken the Electronics and Maths exams during engineering, I think I'll be eligible for a masters and a post doc in those subjects respectively.

I think Americans have started identifying sacred places where one has to remove his shoes before entering. Though how airports and the ferry to the Statue of Liberty qualify as holy places, I am still trying to figure out. But I overheard someone standing in line to the ferry, pointing in our direction and saying, "it's because of them". I think he was talking about the integration of Indian culture in American society on the lines of yoga and meditation.

Back to my weight again and I've started applying my MBA principles to try and reduce it. I've compared my body to an industry, which is over staffed and needs trimming down to make it more efficient. I've read somewhere that trimming starts from the top. Some shedding has to be done pronto. My body is following the same pattern and the MBA has caused my hair to start shedding already. Maybe a bit of intelligence as well, but that's something I don't want to dwell upon.

I was playing racket ball the other day and it's a great stress buster. The game requires precision of timing and anticipation of speed to hit the ball well. The constant bouncing of the ball off the walls while smashing it back and forth was like a "Eureka" moment. Thankfully I didn't celebrate the moment like Archimedes. The cold evening air was not highly conducive to run naked in.

I took cue from some of my Ph.d friends here. Then, using my own experience and feedback from friends back in India, I engaged in some complex calculations to came up with a theory. It's called the "Rebound Theory".

It's a method which helps us realize the best time to approach a girl after she has broken up. Usually guys approach a girl when she has broken up and they have to hear "I'm not ready yet". That is so disappointing for them. By applying my theory, we can calculate the best time.

"For every 6 months of a relationship, rebounding will start after 30 days. The subsequent calculations can be done by direct proportion by splitting the time into years, months or days". For example, if a girl has been in a relationship for 2 years, she'll take 120 days to "move on". So approach her after 120 days.

All those who do not understand my theory do not deserve to try it. Those who do, try it out, it really works !

All the best !

P.S It doesn't work on guys !!!!!!

Book Review : Cherry Bomb

Kim — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 01:00:46 EDT

The entire title Reads - Cherry Bomb : The Ultimate Guide to becoming a Better Flirt, a Tougher Chick and a Hotter Girlfriend, And to Living Life like a Rockstar

I don't read "how-to" books, but the title for this one by Carrie Borzillo-Vrenna had me intrigued and itching to get my hands on it, to read more.

Carrie Borzillo-Vrenna has been a music and entertainment journalist since the last 20 years and is best known for her books on Nirvana and Kurt Cobain, her sex and relationship advice column “Dr. Love” for the Gene Simmons Tongue magazine and her music related articles in People, Billboard, Spin, RollingStone.com and Alternative Press magazines.

The title "Cherry Bomb" comes from the song by Joan Jett of The Runaways. Carrie says "Joan Jett's attitude, style and music has always inspired me so I'm happy to reference the Runaways song (in the title) even if some younger people won't know what it means right away. That's ok because cherries are sweet and bombs are badass and the book is all about being a sweet badass! To me, those two words, sum up the book nicely and it's a killer song to boot!"

Cherry Bomb is an alphabetized reference from Absinthe (the new Drink of Choice for the Rock and roll set) to Zig Zags (The Cool Way to Roll a Joint) with Celebrity Pick-up tips, Fetishes, Infidelity Pacts, Orgasms, Piercings, Strip Tease and Tour Bus Etiquette in between .

The tips and techniques are invaluable to a rock chick. There are tips and detailed instructions on how to tie a cherry stem into a knot (using just your mouth- no hands), how to get backstage without being a whore, using bottle service to buy VIP status at the hottest nightclubs, how to perform a striptease (by Burlesque star - Ditta Von Teese) The tips are practical and easily doable, no matter who you are or what kind of budget you are on.

Being in the music industry as a writer and as a wife to a Grammy winning Rockstar - Chris Vrenna who plays keyboards with Marilyn Manson and drums with Gnarls Barkley- Carrie is more than qualified to write this guide. Most of the tips come from her own real life experiences. For the few areas that she did not have first hand experience with when she started writing, she enlisted the help of her celebrity friends including
Cherie Currie of THE RUNAWAYS (on "Cherry Bomb," the song that influenced the book)
Tori Amos (Life Advice)
Betsey Johnson (Breast Cancer Awareness and Personal Style)
Anna Sui (Fashion Inspiration)
Dancing with the Stars' Cheryl Burke (Dancing Tips)
Celeb hairstylist Dean Banowetz (Rockin' Up 'Dos)
Master Chef Dave Rubell (Black Vodka Recipes)
and Stylist Cynthia Freund (Rock Chick Style Tips) among others.

My favorite guest how-to chapter is the one by Peaches' drummer Samantha Maloney on how to play the Drums. It re-ignited an old flame and I just might be inspired enough to go out and get myself into classes and buy myself a drum set. My favorite chapters by Carrie are Jet Setting, Jobs, Money and Networking.

I always thought I had a more than fair knowledge about rock music and rock stars, but on reading Carrie's book, I know I have a lot more to learn and a lot more musicians that I need to listen to at least once. Her list of songs at the end of some chapters seems to be a good place to start. The lists are mood based - songs to Vacuum fast To (the Anger Stage), songs to Eat a Pint of Ice Cream to (the Depression Stage), Funk Fixers etc.

For the Relationship kinda quiz addicts, there are a couple of quizzes as well, to check if you are rockstar girlfriend material and which rock chick you are most like.

The illustrations by Liz Adams are apt and cute (not a word you would associate with rock, but thats truly what they are.)

There is something for everyone in this book. Men can find a lot of the chapters interesting and relevant too. The title hooked my husband and he browsed through the book and loved what he read.

You don't need to be in the rock industry or dating a rock star to use these tips. These tips are great for any independent, confident woman who is comfortable with herself and who she is. From a gangly pre-teen to a grandmother in her 60's, any woman with self assurance can find something of value in this guide and for someone who lacks self assurance, Cherry Bomb is a great place to start.

This book is due for release on the 5th of August 2008 and can be pre-ordered on Amazon. For anyone who has ever been interested in the lives of Rock Stars and been envious of their lifestyle, this book is a definite must-buy as it shows you step by simple step how to lead their life with panache and confidence. Cherry Bomb delivers on all its promises and does impart relevant and easy to follow tips on how to become a better flirt, tougher chick and hotter girlfriend.

Playing On Vulnerabilities

Suresh Naig — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 11:32:55 EDT

He was sitting in the waiting hall, already crowded with many hopeful faces, hopeful that the person sitting inside the chamber, had a miracle cure for all their maladies. They were right in expecting a miracle, because they have seen many persons vouching for his efficacious remedy, in the TV programme repeatedly. Though many have realized, that the programme is aired in the bought out time slot, it is the deep seated desire to have a miracle, which had clouded their logical mind.

When compared to all the waiting patients, he was different, since his purpose of visit was also different. He was a journalist doing a small write up in a vernacular magazine on alternative medicine. To make the story lively, he wanted to visit the doctor, nay the “Healer” – that’s what he called himself, and that’s what evinced interest in the young journalist to visit him. The journalist looked very ordinary, like any one of the faces we encounter on the street, or the Railway Station, in his early thirties. Since he had planned his story from the perspective of a patient, he had not divulged his professional identity.

The waiting hall of the clinic, boasted several certificates from several universities both Indian and foreign, both unheard by our young journalist. He had made a mental note of all the certificates, which had all the letters of English alphabet. It appeared to him that the abbreviations of the qualifications were arrived at from random drawing of different alphabets. The young journalist appreciated the marketing brain, of the practitioner, as he called himself as the ‘Healer’ and not as ‘Doctor’. That was his primary USP. Many of the qualified doctors were humble enough to confess that, they only dress the wound and God heals. The self proclaimed physician, with his bought out degrees, had elevated himself as ‘Healer’.

The large waiting room had liberal doses of grinning photographs of the healer, invariably with several famous personalities. In addition, the waiting hall was decorated with the photographs of previous five generations of ‘healers’, secondary USP of the physician. The ‘healer’ was taking elaborately longer time with each of his prospective clients. Some people in the waiting hall were discussing about the tales they have heard about the healer, elevating him to a legend.

In the waiting hall, people of different age groups were engaged in hushed conversation. Our journalist as usual, had to strain his ears, to listen to them. Surprisingly all the waiting patients were only males and some were discussing about the remarkable abilities of the ‘healer’. One was saying that he could find out the malady of a person with just one look and his medicines are very powerful. Our journalist felt, that people say this kind of fable, more to reassuring themselves, than to convince others.

Having enjoyed different conversation, our journalist was ushered in. On entry the ‘healer’, gave a disarming smile at our young friend. The healer was looking like a clown with his bright yellow shirt, tucked inside navy blue trousers, a broad floral neck tie, with abundance of red hue, clumsily knotted, his forehead decorated with sandal paste dotted by vermillion in the centre.

Without warning, two attractive female assistants draped in white saris, helped him out of his slack shirt and trousers. Before he could react and protest, our journalist was lifted on to an examination table. One female was busy pumping the BP meter, the other after silencing him with a thermometer, started to count his pulse. After the preliminaries, it was the healer’s turn to examine him.

His touch was fond and caressing. Our journalist was dazed, but played along. The healer was nodding his head at regular intervals, while doing physical examination of the journalist. After about 20 minutes, he was merciful in allowing our journalist to wear his clothes. While making the journalist sit in front of his huge table, the healer was giving a quick practiced talk, while his hands were busy packing an assortment of powders and tablets in paper envelopes.

The female assistants were withdrawn to an ante room, as if strictly rehearsed. The healer was reassuring the journalist, ‘Don’t worry, you have come to the right place. I shall give you the right medicine, and within a month you will feel like a man.’

The journalist was confused, he said, ‘I already feel like a man’. The healer said, ‘I know what your problem is. Now that the females have gone, you can confide.’ He reduced his voice to a whisper, ‘you know many top doctors of the city come to me for medicine. My medicines are very effective, especially for your problem and I have some really effective medicine for diabetes.’ Our journalist asked, ‘Do you know what my problem is?’

The healer gave a condescending smile. ‘I know, you are looking for a “raise”, which is not happening’. Our Journalist was impressed for the first time. ‘How did you know that?’. The healer replied, ‘That’s the problem with many of the “self starters”, now the journalist was confused for a moment, but quickly recovered. He wanted to play along to extract more information, and the healer to extract more money. The healer asked him ‘What kind of medicine do you want? Gold, Silver, Super Special, or Special.’

He settled for Silver, and solicited more information on his medicine for Diabetes, so that he can bring his father for consultation. The healer said, ‘My medicine for diabetes is very effective, which is our family secret for over five generations. Had my Grandfather or father wanted, they could have sold this formula to a foreign company and made huge money. Our intention is to only serve humanity.’ He was quick to add, ‘this money we are taking from the patients, is only to collect valuable herbs from the Himalayas, which is very expensive.’

He reduced his voice to a whisper and declared, ‘You know many famous doctors in the city come to me, for blood pressure, diabetes, and I have medicine even for renal failure. If a person takes my medicine continuously for three months, they get cured of diabetes and there is no need of taking insulin at all.’

Our journalist was richer by a few juicy bytes for his article and poorer by five thousand rupees, which the healer snatched away from him for consultation and medicines. The journalist was the last patient for the day and after the patients have left, the ‘healer’, who was in his fifties, pulled a large pen like device from inside a table draw, opened the cap, calibrated the dosage and took a quick prick of ‘insulin’, his regular before dinner for the past ten years.

George Carlin, Comedian and Cynic, Passes Away

Aaman Lamba — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 12:39:48 EDT

George Carlin left an impression like few other comedians or media artists. One felt one was experiencing a darkly humorous perspective on life that made one all the richer, while leaving one with a sense of wanting to change things - to make the joke truly a joke and not wry commentary on the establishment. The nature of anti-establishmentarianism is to view the state of things as flawed. It goes beyond cynicism in wanting to destroy the defective system, seeing that as better than perpetuating it.

George Carlin came of age, in the media sense, as it were, in the 1960s and 1970s, the time of Johnson and Nixon. The anger and frustration of the anti-war movement easily translated to a general distrust of the overall establishment, and Carlin was able to parlay that into numerous comedy routines, though not overtly anti-society in the early years. He was a regular celebrity in the sixties, a role he later repudiated, calling it 'living a lie'.

He built his onstage persona post 1970 around a framework of misanthropy and mockery, using social criticism and language to good effect. He saw himself as 'here for the show' and designed to entertain as he mocked what he saw as the continuing degradation of American culture. He became known asthe "the comic voice of the counterculture", going on to influence two generatins of stand up comedians. He was arrested for his "Seven Dirty Words" routine in 1972 at Milwaukee's Summerfest and charged with obscenity. He went on to be the first host of Saturday Night Live in 1975, but went off the air, as it were, taking a five year break, although airing the first few of his HBO specials in the period.

He provided voice-overs for children's series like Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends, and acted in films ranging from The Prince of Tides to Dogma, besides providing the voice for Fillmore, the psychedelic Volkswagen bus in Pixar's Cars.

He had a history of heart problems, and drug and alcohol abuse, for which he entered drug rehabilitation. He died of heart failure at the age of 71 in Santa Monica, California.

The Right To Cuss

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 14:41:00 EDT

I love cussing, people who know me know my need to act like foul-mouthed Ozzy but I surprised myself today. I tripped badly from a high ledge near a restaurant's parking lot post dinner, twisted my ankle badly and fell along side Parita.

The world blacked out, the food jumped to my throat and pain had me howling. Aaman and a dude nearby grabbed Parita, demanded whether I was okay and all I could think was - FUCK!! I am in fucking pain.

I was told Parita was fine despite the nasty fall. Somehow I managed to jump into the backseat of the car, Aayan very sweetly put my shoes in and Aaman drove towards the hospital.

The nausea and pain scrambled my brains and with every pothole that the car went over, I wanted to scream - Fuck Me Silly!! but the kids were in the car and I just howled and then realized that too was upsetting the kids.

Pain gave me the right to be foul mouthed but for once the legitimacy granted didn't make it right. I held back when they nearly toppled the wheelchair with me in it outside the hospital.

I had the right to scream- Fucking Shit but all I said was - Yaay!!

X-Ray time and it was again whimpers of pain - no screaming, no cussing!! I was trying to act prim and proper.

The doctor said the pain can be traumatic, sometimes patients even suffer blackouts. It set me wondering. For all my regular cussing when it really came down to it - I held back. Bad sprain, a shot of painkiller on my butt and a ride back home.

Currently I am hopping around the house like a one legged rabbit. It hurts bad but the foul mouth Dee seems to have disappeared.

Why?