15 Years Ago

I have not changed at all since fifth grade. Check out some of my journal entries I had to do in class:

Sept. 11, 1990

"Dinner"

Yesterday we had Indian food for dinner. Since my aunt is visiting from India, she ate it, too. My mom, dad, sister, and I ate it. We ate at my house. We ate around 7:00. We ate it so we could grow and so we wouldn't starve.

The Indian food included Indian tortillas, barbequed chicken, and shrimp.

Sept. 20, 1990

If I had a million dollars and had to give it away, I would give it to my sister and parents. That way my sister can get a car and my parents can get a house. My parents could also get Indian tapes and my sister could go to heavy metal concerts.

Sept. 24, 1990

"Exploring"

If I could explore any place I wanted, I would explore the sun. I would put a snow shield on so that I wouldn't burn into ashes.

Oct. 8, 1990

This weekend was very fun. On Saturday morning I watched "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles." After that I watched "Bill and Ted's Adventures."

On Sunday I went to dance practice.

Oct. 12, 1990

The thing that I like best about fall is that I get to step on all of the dead leaves. Stepping on dead leaves makes a crunch sound. Then I get to rake the leaves.

Also, three special occasions come in fall. First comes Diwali, an Indian "Festival of Lights." Then comes my birthday. Last comes Halloween.

Nov. 30, 1990

I have no idea what "a stitch in time saves nine" means. It sounds like it's from the Bible. Maybe it means a cat. A cat has nine lives. A stitch in time saves a cat.

Dec. 7, 1990

If I had to fight for this country, I would feel bad that our country was at war. If I had to wear a certain costume, I would wear a peace shirt and end the war. I would fight for a dead George Bush if I had to fight.

Jan. 15, 1991

I don't think the United States should go to war with the Persian Gulf. I think the United States should stop bugging the Persian Gulf about oil. It's their oil, so let them keep it!

Another reason is that I want the world to be in peace. If the Soviet Union joins, it'll be even worse- World War III!

The last reason is that the prices will go higher. Bush unnecessarily wants a war, and I don't think it's fair. NO WAY! STRIKE AGAINST BUSH!

Feb. 4, 1991

My favorite thing to do in my spare time is to play Nintendo. The games I like to play are Super Mario Bros. 3, Mickey Mousecapades, and Tennis. I also like Super Mario Bros., Super Mario Bros. 2, and Duck Hunt. Hogan's Alley and The Legend of Zelda are fun, too.

Casual Carpool

I've taken the casual carpool about eight times now, and each time I hope to come out of it with a story worth telling. I don't need anything too drastic like the driver pulling a knife on me, or having pictures of young boys plastered across his/her glove compartment, or driving into the bridge railing, but a little eccentricity wouldn't hurt. Maybe the driver could be wearing dark sunglasses and a trenchcoat, and play Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence" on repeat. Maybe s/he could have a caged tarantula in the back seat. Maybe s/he could at least have a really dirty car.

Nothing. The drivers, and my fellow passengers, have been disappointingly normal.

I suppose I can't complain, when I myself have not had the audacity to play out the interesting/quirky passenger. I could bring my own case of CDs, and just thumb through it and help myself to the disc player and radio. I could bring rose petals in my bag and shower them on the driver throughout the ride. I could blow some balloons and also bring along streamers and confetti to decorate the car. I could recline my seat all the way back and start meditating. I could clutch the dashboard and shriek in fear every few moments, reprimanding the driver for his/her speed even if it is entirely reasonable. Or, I could just laugh hysterically.

But I don't.

And hence, alas, I contribute to the uneventfulness of the casual carpool.

Spam I Can

I don't understand why some people are so email-averse. I mean, Hamidi is my man! (See? We Middle Eastern & South Asian folks know how to adapt our infiltration to the digital era. ) How else are you supposed to get out the "unpopular" opinion when the other side is the one with all the money? We demi-bourgies with righteous inclinations don't necessarily have access to TV or print media, but if you've got a computer and some leisure time, you better take it back and spam away the ignorant mothafuckers that have got the same!

It's funny how people don't complain about having to switch the channel or turn the radio dial if they encounter something they don't like, though they are probably brainwashed maggots that do like everything. So delete the damn email too. It ain't hard, finger-lazy bastards. Maybe jack off a little more to loosen up those joints.

Not Hot for BART

BART can bite my ass, and its passengers can burn in hell. What incompetent morons voted this the #1 public transporation in America? I do not appreciate having to pay nine dollars per day with no chance of a commuter discount to endure this frequently delayed, over-crowded abomination.

Let's establish a tableau of my experience today, for example. Tons of assholes packed in together, clutching onto poles, sighing and shaking their heads in frustration. Me, at the center of it all, my arm desperately stretched through a crevice between two fellow obese individuals to grip a grubby pole. A bespectacled, insipid geek repeatedly clearing his throat and persistently crouching over my rack with a crossword puzzle. Some stupid hoochie fisting my ass for about four stops. Two hackneyed frat boys ramming their booties into my love handles. My nose uncomfortably buried in the armpit of some tall dude, who in turn breathes heavily into my dandruff.

There's my fucked up BART porn for the day. Stay tuned for the next one. :P

Split Pee Soup

Because I eat crap all the time, don't exercise, sleep irregularly, and overall have a preposterously disgusting lifestyle, I suspect I may be at risk for a chronic disease or two. To avoid taking any risks, I asked my physician to hook up some tests, and went down to the lab right after my physical exam this morning.

Most of the conditions I was being tested for required blood samples, so I kicked back and watched the fresh crimson fluids being sucked up from the front of my elbow. Then the lab technician (or whatever they're called) asked me to go to the bathroom and collect a urine sample.

The cup she gave me was barely a goddamn inch in diameter. Having had my vulva freshly probed and prodded by the physician just minutes earlier, I was in no position to whip out a sprightly, singular stream of urine that I could aim into this unseemly test tube.

Why can't they strap a funnel to the toilet bowl and have the goddamn flask affixed at the bottom of that? Hrmph.

Anyway, I crouched over the toilet, first "voiding" a sample of my piss into the toilet as instructed. Then I placed the vial under my pee tunnel, and the stress of the ensuing possible catastrophe caused some erratic splatter onto my hand. After collecting a sufficient sample into the container, I placed it on the floor and proceeded to wipe myself. A stupid scrap of toilet paper then decided to fly smack into the container.

I'm sure that wouldn't have been a problem, but I just didn't feel like inquiring after it or returning to the bathroom in the event that the it were a problem. So I emptied the contents and resumed my crouching tiger posture. But nothing came out. I kept swallowing my spit and thinking of scary things, like spiders, but still, nothing.

Ten minutes later, I decided this was ridiculous. I would just have to tell home girl I had no luck and try again in a few minutes.

I went out and offered a moderately fabricated version of my story to the woman. "I think I voided too much initially," I explained, "Now there's nothing left. Can I have some water?"

After drinking two cups of water, I tried again, still to no avail.

Finally, I just asked for a container to go. I'll just have to drop off my piss later on.

Work: Mo' Time, Mo' Problems

People who work lame office jobs would all be much happier and more productive human beings if the standard eight-hour work day (which in reality for most people is more like 12 hours, including those who work the "second shift" and all) were cut down to a four-hour work day -- four days a week.

I am still debating whether the optimal time would be 10-2 or 2-6. The benefit of the former is that you get it out of the way and it entails the lunch hour for sociable lunch meetings. I guess this all depends on what type of job you have, of course. I would prefer the 2-6. You can wake up late, each breakfast, work out, have lunch with friends, go to work, and then go out for dinner and then drinks and wake up with a hangover and repeat.

An eight-hour day is terribly long. We know from our own experiences and from the wisdom of Office Space that people invariably waste time and stare into space for the first hour or so. Then they take a coffee break. Then they stretch out the fifteen minutes' worth of work they have to get done over the next six or seven hours. What crap. There's no way I'm going to do anything after lunch except perhaps attend a meeting and stare at people. Plus, there are all these state and federal regulations on mandating breaks, and every sane person exploits and extends the designated allotments. Instead, make it a flat four hours with a ten-minute break. People will be in, work for a couple hours, take a break, and then work again for a couple of hours. I think it will work well for everyone.

Salaries should not be cut, since people will be getting the same amount of work done, if not more, and posing far less of a nuisance with their decrepit presence. Since people won't be working as much, there won't be as many on-the-job injuries. There won't be so much trash to pick up. There won't be as many HR complaints. There will be lower gas and electric bills.

And, people will have more time free from lame office jobs to volunteer for other stuff. Or, like, support the arts or something.

(Not that I have a problem staying eight hours at my job, since it contains much of what I'd volunteer my time for, anyway, so there's another option -- make your company something people actually care about, punks!)

Accessory in Cheapness

I hadn't been to Sunvalley Mall in quite a while, so I thought I'd hit it up this afternoon to see what kind of new stores it harbored.

Early on, my eyes caught a sign that said "Amuse." Sufficiently amused, I proceeded inside to see a flurry of teeny-boppers purchasing new accessories. I was vaguely interested in this one pair of chandelier earrings, so I turned over the set to check the price. It said: "$1.80."

Did I see that right?

I checked the price tag on an identical neighboring set to ensure there wasn't a preceding "1" that had eluded me, but nope: the earrings were actually for $1.80.

Uh-oh.

I have a habit of gathering unncecessary trifles just because they're cheap, and then I never use them. I thought I could put this undesirable possibility in check by refusing the shopping basket that a sales clerk offered just then. But upon being harassed with shopping baskets thrust in my face by two other representatives within a span of five minutes, I finally surrendered; I am not accustomed to talking to people, and I didn't know if my vocal cords would be able to withstand another "No, thanks."

What followed was a series of frivolous purchases, all consisting of offensively tacky, but cheap, earrings. One of the pairs is so bright, it would put a solar eclipse to shame. My life is complete.

A Scene From My Novel

Sharmila�s sole proprietorship was flourishing with new referrals by the day, adding to a growing base of satisfied customers.

Today, it seemed her services were being solicited by one of the most unlikely customers: Prasad Londhe, president of the Hindu Students� Council.

Sharmila was taken aback upon answering the door, in spite of herself. She was no naive damsel -- she was wise to the ways of her seemingly innocent peers -- but she didn't quite think Prasad would have the gall to come to her and risk poking any holes in his clean reputation.

Prasad, however, was not soliciting quite was she was expecting or willing to offer.

"Hi," Prasad muttered quickly, going directly to the couch to sit down after being let inside. "Look, I'm not here to, you know," he said, waving his hand uncomfortably.

"Aww, Prasad," Sharmila smiled soothingly, sitting down next to him and stroking his arm, "That's OK, I've had first-timers here before; I'll go through everything from the basics. I also want to assure you that everything that happens in here will be kept absolutely confidential."

"For your own good!" Prasad proclaimed in a raging outburst, shifting himself to the edge of the couch. "I'm not here for any of your sick, so-called sexual services. I'm here to talk some sense into you."

"Oh, I see," Sharmila smiled coolly. "Are you trying to shut me down?"

"No, I won't do that. I could have called the cops on you, but I'm hoping you'll make the right decision for yourself and stop being such a disgrace to the South Asian community."

Sharmila raised her eyebrows curiously. "You think I'm a disgrace to the South Asian community?"

"How can you even ask this?" Prasad asked, astonished. "Is this what your parents taught you? Do you know what shame you would bring to your family, and what about the university? Do you think UC Berkeley wants to have a prostitute attending their university?"

"The current administration, probably not," Sharmila shrugged matter-of-factly, "But that's not really my concern."

Prasad's jaw dropped in astonishment. "Look, if you don't care about your parents or the university, at least think about what will happen to you if the word gets out. Sooner or later this will leak to the police or the press; who will hire you then? How will you get married later on?"

"Sweetie, I take each day as it comes," Sharmila yawned, slouching back into the couch.

Prasad sat upright, infuriated. "I can't fucking believe this. Man, if my mother ever found out about you attending this university, she'd be so worried about the distractions, and I have a little sister, I don't want knowing about trashy people like you."

"Ah, the real reason for not reporting me," Sharmila smiled knowingly.

"Don't you have any fucking pride? Living off the money of desperate men. Some of whom make an honest living, mind you."

"Oh, Prasad, how unfair," Sharmila pouted, "Gori can strut her stuff and reap the rewards of your honest living, but can't see a brown sister gettin' some cash of her own?"

"What are you talking about?" Prasad demanded, flustered.

"I heard what a wild time you and your boys had at Centerfolds for Rajiv�s twenty-first. Don't you have any pride, my friend?"

"Yes, we went there. That has nothing to do with this. I don't think too highly of those strippers either. It's unfortunate that some women have to turn to such things for money, but a lot of them are just pathetic, trashy women, completely lacking dignity and trying to make easy money."

"What?" Sharmila frowned quizzically. "You paid money to watch women degrade themselves and their communities, and exploit your hard-earned cash? But don't you realize that you have the power to put us out of business? Come on, Prasad, you'll need to take it in your hands to stop supporting us. I know you really care about those women who get into it for financial need, but maybe that's your calling, huh? Prasad-funded rehab for restoration of strippers' dignity? I'm sure the Vishwa Hindu Parishad, Christian Coalition, and lots of other forces of good will back you up full throttle."

Prasad was silent, shaking his head and heaving in frustration.

"You know," Sharmila said softly, sitting upright with a dazed expression, "Every time I shower, I think about how I could be making a fortune by taking a camera in. A picture of water running over these young, supple brown breasts, or an mpeg film, the camera panning over every curve as I tease it, moving my index finger in and out of my mouth, and down, exploring every crack and crevice. Panting. Heaving." She turned her gaze to Prasad, leaning closer to him. "How much do you think a guy would pay for it? And how many guys would buy it? Just imagine how easy is it is for a girl to make a fortune, and how few girls cash in on it."

Prasad was aghast, his face flushed as he watched Sharmila's fingers shamelessly tracing her breasts over her blouse. "You know, you are really sick. I had heard how much of a whore you were but nothing could have prepared me for what you are saying. You are seriously demented. And who do you think you are behaving like that in front of me anyway -- Sharon Stone?"

Sharmila tossed her head back, laughing maniacally. "Oh, come on Prasad, you're a fellow student at the prestigious Haas School of Business. You ought to appreciate my entrepreneurship. Others will be running sweatshops, which should worry you more; I'll be completely self-made, hurting no one. In fact, I'm helping people -- there are lots of lonely guys who are too shy to ask a girl out, or need some practice and training beforehand. Sometimes the guy really just wants to talk and cuddle; we don't even end up having sex. I would really be a fool not to take up this business. Just think how much of a market I have. A sure monopoly in the market for brown university students, given all the prudes that sit around worrying about their reputations. See? I'm fair and lovely. I can quench your wet sari fetish. I can be your exotic pussy, your red hot dot-head, your barely legal honey-dip! This is a niche with an itch. I can do it live, or on video, or on the phone, on demand. All because I'm sincere with my business and believe in total quality management. I can make out with sluts of other colors. Interracial and lesbian porn are hot commodities, so there I'm hitting two birds with one stone; no, three! I insist on condoms, being a peer health and sex educator and all, but I'll do soft-core threesomes, too; who wouldn't want to be the man in the middle? I've already wasted two years by starting at 20; if only I had really started as a barely legal I could have made a-"

"Just shut up!� Prasad shouted, trembling in fury. "I can't believe what I'm hearing at all. What would your father think! Now I�m convinced I'll move back to India to raise my kids. At least then they won't be exposed to this shameless sexual liberation propaganda of you morally degenerate feminists!"

"I see, I'm a feminist!" Sharmila smirked. "I'd like to see you run that by that Isha chick who seems to think that any time a woman expresses herself sexually, it's because she's trying to be more like a man, which of course is the worse thing possible. A lot of feminists seem to have forgotten about choice, like the one I'm exercising by using my body as a commodity in what's actually the most feminine way possible, profiting from the world's oldest profession. Just look at Ms. Meghana Subramaniam, self-proclaimed radical feminist whose article I just read yesterday, about challenging male sexual entitlement. She says political progress for women and other 'oppressed people' can't be reconciled with free-market capitalism, and sex workers who enter the business by choice set things back by cashing in on the intersection of capitalism and patriarchy."

"Yes, she is absolutely right," Prasad said, gathering himself. "It's sluts like you who make it difficult for girls who are actually trying to make an honest living in this world. No wonder the top companies are reluctant to hire girls -- entirely possible that some two-dollar whore like you might try to seduce customers or sleep her way to the top."

"I see; now feminism's on your side. And in what an interesting way, at that. Way to stick to your bow and arrow, Mr. Hindu Students' Council!" Sharmila cackled.

"You are sick!" Prasad shouted, standing up and pulling his wallet out of his pocket. "How much is the opportunity cost of your whorish enterprise? I have taken up some time when you could have been degrading womankind and mankind. How much do you want? One hundred? Two hundred?"

"I don't want your money, sweetie, just get out of my house," Sharmila replied, opening the door.

"No, let me pay you. You were expecting me to come give you money for your sick business, so I�ll at least do that much."

"Prasad, just get the fuck out unless you want me to call the cops on you for trespass."

Prasad stomped out, sweating in humiliation.

---------------------------

I came up with a novel idea (pun intended) in 2002, and wrote the above scene in 2003 (though I've touched it up a little for purposes of this post). I am now resurrecting the project -- maybe. I'm just going to write bits and pieces as I feel the inspiration. It might morph and take another form. Maybe it will just be a bunch of short stories. Or maybe it will just be this one blog entry.

I want the book to be satirical propaganda, without being too in your face about how I, as the author, feel about certain issues (until very late into the novel, at least). I want to give fair weight to a lot of perspectives and even give heavy credibility to some with which I violently disagree.

Above was an example that I would love some feedback on. Was it entertaining? Did it make you think? Was it really obvious where I stand on the issue of prostitution, in its relationship with feminism? Were the characters too contrived? Both of these characters are such that they can't altogether avoid being symbols/caricatures to some degree, but they should possess at least a modicum of realism. (It should be noted that these are fairly minor characters, but the issues raised by each weave throughout the novel and come up with many other characters. Also, the focus is not solely on sexuality, but is generally an anti-libertarian manifesto.)

Any and all feedback please... thanks!