The musings of Inihtar

A break

2008-03-28T21:49:00.002-04:00

I'm taking a break from blogging. Not sure when I will resume, but I don't have the heart to put an end to it completely. Thank you for reading and your comments.

Giving up stuff for Lent

2008-03-07T01:47:00.004-05:00

When I was younger (and Catholic), I used to give up something every Lent. I was partly inspired to do so by my many Muslim friends who fasted during Ramzan, and partly by some little religious twinge I experienced as that time of year approached. (Incidentally, I always found the period between Ash Wednesday and Palm Sunday particularly depressing, although I'm certain it wasn't in contemplation of Christ's tribulations.)

The one thing I remember resolving to give up year after year (with varying degrees of success) was sweets. I soon realized (although I suspect I knew deep down all along) that my reason for this was anything but spiritual. True, it was a huge sacrifice, probably harder than anything else I could have given up. I've an inordinately sweet tooth, which resulted (and still does) in a constant (and largely unsuccessful) battle with my weighing scale. So when I decided to give up sweets during Lent, it had very little to do with Christ and everything to do with my midsection.

As I came to realize this, I took the easy way out. I simply stopped giving up anything. And since then, even when I've felt the urge to try again (maybe not something as obviously self-serving as sweets but perhaps a little more spiritual), I always decided against it, with the excuse that I would end up making it about myself or giving up altogether. I've also told myself that giving stuff up for Lent is largely a Catholic thing -- so I don't need to do it anymore.*

So I haven't given up anything for Lent in ages. But this year, I feel a bit guilty. I've finally acknowledged that I've been lazy about dealing with the real problem. If I end up making my Lenten sacrifices about myself, the right thing to do would be to find a way to make it glorify God. The problem lies with me, not with the sacrifices.

I've finally realized this three-quarters of the way through Lent. But isn't Lent just a symbolic period in preparation for Easter? There's no reason why I can't start now, is there? Of course there isn't.

Now that that's settled, the question is this: which of my many vices will I give up?

*I know that in some traditions, penance during Lent is supposed to make up for our sins, and that, as I've been put right with God through Christ, I don't need sacrifices to justify me in God's sight. But human hearts and minds don't submit willingly to God (mine most certainly don't), and I do believe that sacrifices focused on God can help us bring our desires more in line with His.

Britain rescinds America's independence

2008-02-27T18:26:00.004-05:00

Since Craver found this funny when I posted it on Facebook, I figured it wouldn't alienate my American readers too much, so it would be ok to post on here.

(And yes, I'm poaching. . .again. But people who don't bother to keep a blog shouldn't throw stones at others making valiant efforts [ok, making efforts) to rescue their own rapidly deterioating ones. . . Caveboy!)

Britain is Repossessing the U.S.A.

A Message from John Cleese

To the citizens of the United States of America:In light of your failure to nominate competent candidates for President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately.

Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (except Kansas , which she does not fancy).Your new prime minister, Gordon Brown, will appoint a governor for America without the need for further elections.Congress and the Senate will be disbanded.A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.

To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary.

1. Then look up aluminium, and check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how wrongly you have been pronouncing it.

2. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'favour' and 'neighbour.' Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters, and the suffix-ize will be replaced by the suffix-ise.Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. (look up 'vocabulary').

3. Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication.There is no such thing as US English. We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell- checker will be adjusted to take account of the reinstated letter 'u' and the elimination of -ize. You will relearn your original national anthem, God Save The Queen.

4. July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.

5. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers, or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not adult enough to be independent.Guns should only be handled by adults. If you're not adult enough to sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist then you're not grown up enough to handle a gun.

6. Therefore, you will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a vegetable peeler. A permit will be required if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public.

7. All American cars are hereby banned. They are crap and this is for your own good. When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean.

8. All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables.Both roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.

9. The Former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline)-roughly $6/US gallon. Get used to it.

10. You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps. Real chips are thick cut, fried in animal fat, and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.

11. The cold tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager. South African beer is also acceptable as they are pound for pound the greatest sporting Nation on earth and it can only be due to the beer. They are also part of British Commonwealth - see what it did for them.

12. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as good guys. Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors to play English characters.Watching Andie McDowell attempt English dialogue in Four Weddings and a Funeral was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese grater.

13. You will cease playing American football. There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like a bunch of nancies). Don't try Rugby - the South Africans and Kiwis will thrash you, like they regularly thrash us.

14. Further, you will stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the World Series for a game which is not played outside of America. Since only 2.1% of you are aware that there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable. You will learn cricket, and we will let you face the South Africans first to take the sting out of their deliveries.

15. You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.

16. An internal revenue agent (i.e. tax collector) from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all monies due (backdated to 1776).

17. Daily Tea Time begins promptly at 4 pm with proper cups, never mugs, with high quality biscuits (cookies) and cakes; strawberries in season.

God save the Queen.

Only He can.

John Cleese

From Inihtar: Incidentally, I must add Craver's response to this letter: "Being the good natured fella that he is, President George W. Bush chuckled and said that he will not ask U.S. troops to respond to the letter. He did however, appoint Chuck Norris as Ambassador to the U.K."

Sri Lanka trip

2008-02-16T00:13:00.003-05:00

View of the sea
My parents
Neighbours
View from my parents' place
Playing pool (or trying to!)
Old college friend with her husband and friend
Ready for high school friend's wedding homecoming party
With the bride

Bangkok trip

2008-02-01T23:10:00.000-05:00

What went wrong?

2008-01-16T08:56:00.000-05:00

I know I've sadly neglected this blog (and haven't read any others in ages -- will remedy that soon!).

I'm still recovering from my trip that was good, bad, confusing, guilt-ridden, joyful, tense, scary, exhilarating, tearful, fun, restful and exhausting (physically and emotionally), all rolled into one.

Can a simple change of scene bring about a drastic change in personality? I can count the number of times I've cried or yelled at someone since I moved to Tokyo on one hand (in fact I don't think I've yelled at anybody. . . I just stew inside). But when I was in Sri Lanka, I felt like I had absolutely no control over myself. . . I'd be talking about something, get slightly emotional, and the waterworks would start (I cry when I'm really angry which is very frustrating). I yelled and screamed, threw tantrums, swore and acted like a diva.

I had a great deal of control over how this trip went, and how much my parents and I enjoyed my stay there -- but I just felt like a puppet in the hands of an evil version of myself. I tried to explain to my parents why I am just a Christian and not a Catholic like them or any particular denomination, but I was constantly conscious of how unChristian my behaviour was. I tried to point out to them how wrong some of their attitudes towards their lives were, but felt completely unqualified when my outlook didn't seem any better.

I'm back in Tokyo now, feeling stragely detached, as if I'm remembering someone else's memories, and devoid of emotions, as if I used up all my quota during my trip, and now have none left over. And I'm wondering who I really am . . . the person I was on this trip or the relatively nice, relatively cheerful person I seem to be here?

Flying off!!

2007-12-19T18:56:00.000-05:00

Today, I fly off to Bangkok!! And then, on Christmas Eve, I head "home" to Colombo, just barely making it before Christmas. . . and probably starting off Christmas Day in a taxi on the way to my parents' place from the airport, if not in the airport itself! This year has certainly been all about new experiences!!

I won't get to blog or read other blogs until after Christmas, so merry Christmas all!! Hope the joy of Christ's birth remains with you throughout the new year!

"For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David's throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever. The zeal of the LORD Almighty will accomplish this." Is 9:6-7 (NIV)

Wednesday allergy

2007-12-16T23:08:00.000-05:00

I have made an interesting discovery. . . I am allergic to Wednesday (the cat, not the day -- then again, maybe the day as well).

The past few times I've visited Okia's apartment to see Weds, barely three minutes pass before my eyes start to itch and I develop a fit of sneezing. The first time this happened, I thought it was just a coincidence. But after the second, third time, I'm convinced that it's not.

But how could it be? I lived with the little guy for a year-and-a-half! Sigh. I guess now, my visits will have to be confined to under three minutes -- which would probably suit Weds just fine -- he's going through an anti-human (or maybe it's just an anti-Ini) phase.

Anyway, it's been a while since my last Weds photo, so here's one.

And I thought I was the klutz!

2007-12-05T07:51:00.001-05:00

Do you remember this post about the convoluted set-up (cool, but convoluted nonetheless) of my workplace in New York, and my prediction that I would go tumbling down the stairs just when my crush from the video-editing department walked in? Well, looks like I wasn't the one who should have been worried about being a klutz. Behold my former crush at -1:48 (not sure why it's counting backwards)!

I know I'm being a bit mean but it is pretty funny! And I will be the first to admit that I've walked into way more than my share of (visible) walls and doorposts.

The secret signature of my soul

2007-12-02T07:46:00.000-05:00

Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of -- something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop, or the clap clap of water against the boat's side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it -- tantalizing glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest -- if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself -- you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt, you would say, "Here at last is the thing I was made for." We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.

--The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis

Have you experienced this? This sense that you were made for something more, a deeper longing for something greater that even you can't define? Does it feel like what C.S. Lewis describes. . .something just beyond your reach, "promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away as they caught your ear?"

Does it always remain beyond our reach? Or do we choose -- because we are too afraid, or too busy, or too comfortable with our lives as they are -- to not reach out and grasp it?

And if so, is this lack what makes us exist instead of LIVE, settle for functionality instead striving for PASSION and practice religion instead of pursuing a RELATIONSHIP with our Creator.

Is it a fruitless endeavor, at least in this life? Will we go to our deathbeds still longing for something we've never been able to reach? How do we find the "echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself?" And what if we lose the desire altogether?

To know or not to know

2007-11-29T01:48:00.000-05:00

At one time or another, we've all been through it. We stand in front of a (metaphorical) closed door, faced with two choices. We can either open it and deal with whatever is behind it, or we can leave it shut and never know.

I've been asking myself which course I would take. Would I rather know, even if the answer turns out to be something I really don't want to hear, or would I prefer to let it remain unknown.

When faced with this dilemma in the past, I've always opted to know, no matter how painful. And painful it has been. But the need to know has always trumped the fear of getting hurt. "I just want to know! I can handle anything as long as I know!" But then, more often than not, when I have found out, I've realized that I'd have been better off not knowing. Surely the wise people who came up with sayings like "ignorance is bliss," and "what you don't know can't hurt you" were right. No?

I'm in a situation now where I could either let the door remain shut and retreat quietly, or open it and face one of two possible solutions -- one that I want -- very much -- and one that I don't -- very much. If I leave it, there won't really be any adverse effect -- after all, if I don't know what could have been, I can't really count it as loss. On the other hand. . . oh, the possibilities if it turns out to be what I want! And yet, even as that unconscious smile begins to appear at the thought of what could be, I'm reminded of what the alternative could mean.

But the familiar mantra is never far away. If only I knew. I could deal with anything, if I just knew!! I can't stand not knowing!

In the end, I know I will choose to find out. I am, after all, in the business of finding things out. I just hope I can deal with the consequences.

Yokohama and turning 27!

2007-11-26T03:02:00.000-05:00

Seeing as last Friday was Black Friday, Okia and I decided we were due for another Ikea trip in memory of our U.S. days! Just to keep life exciting, we headed off to Yokohama this time, a different place and a different Ikea. We spent most of the day there, and emerged hours later, duly laden with lots of good (but necessary) stuff.

Deciding that we'd earned a good dinner, we headed off to Chinatown for a wander around and some yummy Chinese food.

Some pictures from Chinatown:
Ini in front of one of the Chinatown gates

The world's best Nikuman (pork bun) shop (or so they claimed)

Enjoying the world's best Nikuman

Okia trying to decide which of two identical pink teapots was prettier

A real rotary phone in the restaurant where we ate

Ahhh! Food!

The next day I turned 27! Something about getting older must have triggered some sort of signal in me, because I spent most of the day huffing and puffing, rearranging my furniture to make my apartment more homey. I think I sort of suceeded (pics to come!) That evening, a few friends and I went out to a bar with some live music for a very low-key celebration.

A tough decision

2007-11-18T06:09:00.000-05:00

A recent chat I had with a friend about a career decision he was facing set me thinking. If I had the opportunity to work on behalf of someone who everybody knows has caused a great deal of pain and suffering, but has not yet been tried, and therefore not convicted, would I take that position?

Arguments in favor: everyone is innocent until proven guilty; even the most heinous of criminals is entitled to being treated fairly; and, careerwise, it would be the opportunity of a lifetime.

Arguments against: well, everything else. . . that, despite the fact that he has not been convicted, his crimes are well known and documented. Could I, well aware of the atrocities this person has committed, willingly ally myself with him?

As we struggled through the pros and cons of the situation, I remembered my previous post about the movie Dead Man Walking, how Sr. Helen Prejean remained firmly on the side of a convicted killer, despite everyone around her condemning her for her decision. And I thought of Jesus and the company he kept -- people who had not yet been tried or convicted, but about whose sinfulness nobody had any illusions.

But I still wasn't convinced. This person's crimes are on a much larger scale than your average criminal. And I wasn't entirely sure that my friend really believed his arguments about fairness. Intellectually, yes. In his heart, not really. What also concerned me was whether he could, if he came across the people whose lives had been ruined by this person, justify his decision to them and to himself with a clear conscience.

I told him to pray about it. His immediate response was "Ugh. Praying -- the answer is no." My response: if that's the case, I know what I would do.

But when I thought about it afterwards, I realized that I was pretty sure that my friend had not really prayed about it, but had simply assumed what the answer would have been if he had. But I'm not entirely convinced that would be the answer.

After pondering this for a few days, I'm still not sure what I would do if I was in his shoes. But after thinking about it, I do have this to say to him: go back and really pray about it. You might be surprised!

The latest in Sri Lanka

2007-11-02T23:39:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, the Sri Lankan Army killed one of the most senior leaders of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE -- yes, a group designated as a terrorist organization by the U.S., EU and India), S.P. Thamilchelvan, in an airraid, the BBC reported.

The first reaction of those who don't know much about the situation there would be that this is a good thing. If the forces in Afghanistan kill a senior member of the Taliban, don't we celebrate that as a good thing?

But this killing is anything but good news. Thamilchelvan was not just a senior leader of the LTTE, he was also the chief negotiator, communicating with international envoys in their efforts to reach an elusive peace agreement between the Government of Sri Lanka and the Tigers. With his death, that peace agreement has now moved even further away. The GOSL is, as usual, playing on the world's paranoia about "terrorist organizations" to justify this killing, and promises that more will follow. Little do outsiders know that, as far as terrorist organizations go, the GOSL is no better, if not worse, than the LTTE. I in no way condone the means by which the Tigers go about achieving their goal of a separate Tamil homeland. I absolutely don't. But the government uses the very same means, and yet, the President, Mahinde Rajapakshe (who, incidentally, runs the country as a family business, with his relatives in key ministry posts), sits on his high horse and points his finger at his opponents. And naive outsiders buy it.

The government knows that Thamilchelvan's killing will only step up the kidnappings and brutal killings on both sides. And that is exactly what it wants -- to provoke the LTTE, so that the GOSL can then continue to feed on the world's "terrorism" paranoia, and justify its own actions as retaliation, its noble efforts to deal with terrorism . . . all while innocent civilians are stuck in the middle, their loved ones lost, their lives ruined.

For a taste (and it is only a very small taste) of what goes on Sri Lanka, click here. Most people live under the illusion that the capital "Colombo" is a safe place, but, while there is no outright fighting there, the surreptitious kidnappings and killings make it anything but.

Update

The turning woman!

2007-10-17T07:02:00.000-04:00

I think I've run out of things to say on this blog for now, so while I try to come up with something worthwhile to say (ok, something to say), here's something to mull over.

Is she turning clockwise or anti-clockwise? Or both?!?!? (Click on the picture if you don't see her turning).

For more info, click on this link.. . . so what do you think? (my theory is that she turns the other way when you're not looking!)

(To give credit where credit is due, Caveboy sent me the link:))

Interesting globalization facts

2007-10-04T20:30:00.001-04:00

I came across this story today in The New York Times, about the results of a survey of more than 45,000 people in 47 countries on what they think about globalization. There were several tidbits I found very interesting:

Despite the increased focus on illegal immigration in the U.S., and individual states implementing their own measures to clamp down on illegal workers, the number of Americans supporting tighter immigration curbs has declined. So did the number in Britain, France and Germany. Jordanians, however, want stricter immigration policy, to stem the tide of Iraqis flowing into the country since the war started in 2003 (from 48 percent in 2002 to 70 percent).
55 percent of Americans believe their culture is superior. . . the only other Western country to display such self-confidence was Italy. (What exactly is "American culture?") The Swedes, Brits and French, however, seem in need of an ego boost -- only a fifth of Swedes and less than a third of the other two think their culture is superior. (The French have self-esteem issues?!?! Who'd a thunk??!?!?!)
In most countries, the strength of people's religious belief falls as their wealth increases. The U.S. appears to be the only country where the opposite is true. Lots of religious rich people there!
Fewer than half of Americans, Japanese and Israelies believe homosexuality should be accepted.
Germans and Spaniards appear to be the most peace-loving people -- only a tenth of them said military force is needed to maintain order. This is compared with over a third of Turks and Americans, a fourth of French and Italians and a fifth of Brits. (I'm inclined to believe Japan would be similar to Germany and Spain, because of its general anti-war sentiment and its constitution, which Abe tried in vain to change).
The percentage of Russians using mobile phones is higher than the percentage of Indians. . . and Russia had a higher level of adaptation -- from 8 percent of Russians owning mobiles in 2002 to 65 percent today, compared with 12 percent of Indians in 2002 to 60 percent now.
South Korea has the highest degree of computer ownership in the world -- 93 percent!
Germans are the biggest news junkies -- 80 percent "follow international news closely most of the time."

Can you read this?!?!?!?!?

2007-10-02T02:22:00.000-04:00

fi yuo cna raed tihs, yuo hvae a sgtrane mnid too Cna yuo raed tihs? Olny 55 plepoe out of 100 can. i cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Azanmig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!

--Not sure where this is from. . . someone posted it on Facebook.

"This we know, all things are connected"*

2007-09-28T02:14:00.000-04:00

Most people are aware of the concept of six degrees of separation -- that you can connect yourself to any person in the world through six people. . . as in you know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows that person. Yup, I think that's six people.

Now, thanks to Facebook and other social networking sites, there are even fewer connections between each of us. Or I guess the connections might be the same but these sites allow us an easier way to discover them. And yet, when we do find these strange connections, it's mind-boggling!

Case in point:

Last week, someone, a complete, total, random stranger -- let's call her Hakusakana -- added me as a friend on Facebook. I saw that she knew one person on my friends list, a professor at the J-school -- Srisri (who knows the most random people, particularly South Asians, in such random ways that I've ceased to be amazed by his connections). I also gathered that she was a Sri Lankan who was in Japan. So figuring that she was not some person who was randomly adding friends, I accepted her request. A couple of days later, I got an email from her, saying, in essence, "I didn't know there were Tamils in Japan. Are you in Tokyo? Do you want to meet for coffee?"

I assumed from her email that she was an ethnic Tamil, but found out later that she was Singhalese. In any case, I figured, "Why not?" and we decided on a time and place. We met up and she told me that she was visiting Japan for a couple of months. I asked her how she knew Srisri and she told me that someone had put her in touch with him a few months ago when she was in Europe. First semi-random connection established (semi-random, because I guess I actually met her through him, although her connection to him was pretty random in itself).

As we talked, I mentioned that I'd lived in Minnesota. "Oh, you lived in Minnesota! Do you know these two girls. . .?" she started. Even before she finished her sentence, I knew whom she was talking about. I'd met Mindh and Deep (the former a Singhalese painter, the latter a Tamil dancer) through some acquaintances who were alums of my college. The two run an organization that hosts performances by artists in diaspora, and I had wondered, because of Hakusakana's interest in art and in Sri Lanka (her profile made both pretty clear) if she somehow did know them -- the Sri Lankan art world is tiny indeed. So while amazed at the second random connection, I was not entirely surprised by it.

As we chatted about her experiences, I remembered that she had contacted someone else on my list of Facebook friends. I knew him, Yip, also Sri Lankan Tamil, because he went to my high school (in India) several years before I did, and my parents knew his. But I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out how she would know him.

"Oh," she said. "My husband went to school with him." Then she stopped and looked at me. "Wait! You went to school with Yip. That means you went to school with my husband!"

We stared at each other in shock. How does a random stranger turn out to be the wife of someone you went to school with, albeit a few years older? She seemed a bit worried at first about this, uncertain about whether I actually knew him, and if so, how well I did, and if so, if we'd been on good terms. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure that I didn't know him personally but that I would recognize his name. At first she wouldn't tell me his name, and, though I was dying to know, I didn't push her. After a while though, she relented. And I found that I actually did recall his and his brother's names and even vaguely remembered what they looked like. (When I got home later, I called Nev and asked him if he remembered them. After thinking for a bit, he said "Oh yeah yeah yeah! His brother was a goalie on the soccer team!")

As I returned home, I pondered the past few hours. I was struck by Hakusakana's pretty crazy experiences over the past few years but also by the strange ways in which we were connected. How do you meet a person whose path would normally never cross yours (different backgrounds, grown up and living in different parts of the world) with the only obvious thing in common being tenous ties, on both sides, to one little island on the other side of the world. . . and then find several people whom we both knew in so many weird ways?

I guess the world is not as lonely a place as it sometimes seems!

*a quote attributed to Chief Seattle, patriarchof the Suquamish Indians.

Daytrip to Kamakura

2007-09-23T03:28:00.000-04:00

Okia and I headed to Kamakura on Saturday for the day. We'd been hoping that the weather, which has been unusually warm for this time of year, would have cooled by then, but no such luck (as you can see from the photos). The highlight of the trip was definitely the really cool bamboo forest (home of the zen Hokokuji Temple, where I also got my first taste of Matcha Tea (not a fan of any tea, green tea included, but was still a worthwhile experience. . . it's thicker and more bitter than regular green tea!) And of course, the beach!!!

Soba lunch!

Traditional Japanese Shinto wedding
Okia with a Japanese fall flower (she told me the name but I can't remember:()

Hase dera Temple
Kamakura Daibutsu (Great Buddha)
In the bamboo forest

First bowl of matcha!

At the beeeaccch!!!

Kyoto-day 2

2007-09-16T22:28:00.000-04:00

The next day (my last day of travels), I checked out of the hotel, and headed off to Kyoto Municipal Art Museum, which was displaying an exhibit of works from the famous Philadelphia Museum of Art. I spent a considerable amount of time there, trying to memorize the paintings and the stories behind them. Frustratingly, many of the explanations were in Japanese (I usually read every word of the descriptions and information about the paintings in an art museum, so found this especially trying).

From there, I headed off to Heian Jingu, with its several striking buildings, all painted the same bring vermillion colour with green-tiled roofs.

I then went to Fureaikan, Kyoto Museum of Traditional Crafts. Funnily enough, it was one of the few places that didn't charge anything to enter and view the displays, and yet it was one of the best exhibits I saw -- of wood and stone craftwork, dyed cloths, dolls, clothes, fans, umbrellas, paper lanterns, and several other uniquely Japanese crafts, with videos demonstrating how the items were tranformed from simple raw materials to the exquisite finished products.

From there, I decided to take a walk around the area and headed in the general direction of Murin-An a villa located on breathtakingly-beautiful grounds, built by Meiji statesman Aritomo Yamagata (who also designed the gardens). In addition to the villa, the grounds also have two other structures -- a tea-house and a western-style building where the Murin-An conference on Japan's foreign policy, just before the Russo-Japanese war, was held in 1903.

Me in the gardens of Murin-An

Aritomo's villa

The tea-house

The room in the Western-style building where the Murin-An conference was held

Some of Aritomo's personal items

Then I headed off to Yasaka Jinja in Gion. By this time I was getting ready to be done and get off my feet. But I walked around the shrine for a bit and headed into Maruyama Koen (park), popular for its hanami (cherry blossom) viewing in the spring (guess I'll just have to make another trip next year).

I walked around Gion a little more, hoping for a glimpse of geisha again, but I guess I was too early this time. I finally gave up in disappointment and exhaustion, and headed off to Kyoto Station to catch the Shinkansen back to home sweet home and my own bed! (It was a strange feeling, to come back to Tokyo and feel at home here for the first time ever, simply because I felt like such an outsider in the other places by comparison!)

Kyoto--day 1

2007-09-14T07:32:00.000-04:00

The next morning, I woke up and headed off to Nijo-jo. I walked around the grounds, looking at the displays in Ninomaru and Honmaru Palaces and the beautiful gardens that made up the compound. I couldn't take photos of the inside of the palaces, but they have some beautiful, incredibly well-preserved, famous paintings on the walls of nature and animals. One of the rooms (I think it was the visitors room) has "nightingale floors" which squeak when they're stepped on, warning of visitors.

From there, I went on to the Kyoto Imperial Palace where the royal family used to live when Kyoto was the capital of Japan. The Imperial Palace that we visited was not the original one -- apparently, the Royal Family used to stay with courtiers occasionally (like when the Palace burned down, which it seemed to do a lot) and finally ended up moving permanently into one of these homes, which then became the Palace (and burned down a few times itself). The sprawling grounds, with several gates leading in, had huge parks, several smaller, less well-known palaces, and a few ruins.

I made a quick stop at Shokoku-ji Temple, which was very quiet and peaceful after the bustle of the Imperial Palace.

I went back to the hotel, took a short nap, and then headed out to Gion, hoping to see Geisha on the way to their appointments. Unfortunately, I think I was too late (naps must sometimes take precedence over other things!) But I did walk around the area, particulary on a street called Hanami-koji, which was lined with quaint little traditional tea-houses, and, in significance of the changing times, a steak house!

An aside. . .an article on morphine scarcity in Sierra Leone

2007-09-11T02:00:00.000-04:00

Note: Will return to photos of my trip in the next post

I across this article and watched this slideshow in today's International Herald Tribune, and wanted to share it.

*If anyone read the earlier version of this post, I apologize. I deleted it because it was basically a rant (of sorts) and, while in keeping with my whole malcontent theme these days, there are good reasons behind why I am where I am right now. And when God decides the time and circumstances are right, I will hopefully be able to do the kind of work this reporter has done. But in the meantime, I will stay here and appreciate and enjoy my life as it is.

Weekend trip -- part II

2007-09-08T09:40:00.000-04:00

The next day, I set off for Nara. When I reached there, I headed off to Nara Park, the site of the famous Kohfukuji Temple, with its several buildings, several of them designated National Treasures, and a National Treasure Hall, where many artifacts and relics from the temple's past are displayed.

At first, I was awed by the deer grazing in Nara Park, and approached the first few cautiously. I soon realized that the deer had no such compunctions. They were incredibly friendly, approaching people walking through the park with no hesitation. I soon found out why. . . they wanted to be fed. I saw several people mobbed by four or five deer as soon as the animals realized that they were holding food. By the end of the day, I was definitely less enamoured of the deer than I had been at the start.

Five-storied pagoda

Inside the National Treasure Hall

Nan'en-do (South Octagonal Hall)

I also stopped at the Nara National Museum which had a special exhibit on Buddhist paintings from the 11th to 13th centuries. While fascinating, it was also quite overwhelming and intense and the sheer number of art works made it difficult to take in. I found the permanent collection, more varied with sculptures and artifacts, easier to absorb. Unfortunately, no photos were allowed.

From there, I went to Todaiji Temple, home of the famous Daibutsu, or Great Buddha (14.98m tall) in the Daibutsuden, supposedly the largest wooden building in the world .

Scale model of Todaiji

After Todaiji, I made a stop at Kasuga Taisha a compound of structures painted in bright vermillion, hung with a multitude of lanterns.

By this time, I had walked so much in the intense heat that my legs were starting to become numb. I decided that I had seen enough of Nara for this trip and made my way back to the train station to move on to Kyoto, where, after making some tentative plans for the next day, I promptly collapsed into bed exhausted.

Weekend trip -- Part I

2007-09-05T09:47:00.000-04:00

I decided to take a trip over the past weekend and headed of to Osaka on the first leg of my journey, where I met up with Machan, who I haven't seen since we graduated from high school. I'd emailed her some of the places I wanted to see beforehand, so as soon as the Shinkansen reached Osaka at 10 a.m., she met me there and we headed off to the Osaka Kaiyukan.

After a quick stop at the Suntory Museum to watch an IMAX movie on the "Deep Sea," we decided to head off to the Peace Museum. Unfortunately we could only spend half an hour there, but it was a moving and educational experience, albeit a rushed one, reading about and looking at photos and relics from World War II, seeing Japan both as a victim and a perpetrator.

When we were pretty much kicked out of the Museum, we headed off to Osaka Castle.

Unfortunately we couldn't take too many pictures of the exhibits inside the castle depicting its building by Toyotomi Hideyoshi, its history and the history of the area. The few I did manage to take didn't turn out too well. Oh well :(

After the castle, we headed off for dinner, which we had been looking forward to all day (I'd been looking forward to it for the previous few days actually, ever since Machan had told me that we'd go eat okonomiyaki, even though I had no idea what it was). So off we went to the restaurant, passing a famous Osaka bridge (can't remember the name) and taking some pictures with some very Osaka-ish signs.

We arrived at the restaurant where we ordered the ingredients and they brought them to us raw and we cooked them. . . or at least Machan cooked them while I watched and pretended to help!

Okonomiyaki

Yaki Soba

We finished dinner and decided to head to the kanlansha (giant wheel) for a night view of the city. Again, pictures didn't turn out too well:( But I did manage to take this one:

Machan: Please don't let me fall off the kanlansha!!!

We finally decided to call it a night, bid farewell until next time, and Machan headed home while I went to my hotel, checked in, showered, and collapsed into bed in preparation for another big day.

Tokyo festivals

2007-08-28T06:51:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, Tokyo residents celebrated the summer with (at least) two area festivals. . . and as one was in my former neighbourhood and one in the current one, I went to both. I have never seen more food than at the first one (in my old neighbourhood)! There was every kind of food imaginable, from noodles to octopus, kebabs to fried rice, (literally rice that was fried, on a stick!), kakigoori (shaved ice with syrup on top) to Japanese wines, champagne and beer. There was Turkish food and Egyptian food and Indian food, Italian food, even Sri Lankan food!

My new friend O'Rhi with her well-deserved noodles! Octopus!
The Sri Lankan food stall!
We found the Dom Perignon stall!

The second festival, the Koenji Awa-odori, was completely different. Okia and I walked down to the far end of the market street in our neighbourhood and settled down. Pretty soon, people started lining up. And then, the dances began. I watched enthralled as old and young, men and women, dressed in various traditional Japanese costumes, travelled down the street, dancing in formation, playing instruments and calling out the traditional chants.

Okia waiting for the dances to begin

Geta

Published authors

2007-08-27T02:53:00.000-04:00

I wandered into a bookshop during lunchtime today in search of a guide book for my trip this weekend (yes, I'm actually venturing outside of Tokyo-- yaay! But more on that later) I stopped in front of the shelf displaying the latest arrivals. . . and what do you know? There, sitting on the shelf, was Gio's new book.

And, right below it was the book that Pendio edited.

It was very strange. How does one go all one's life without knowing ANY of the authors of any of the multitude of books displayed in a bookstore, and then suddenly, in one day, find that one knows TWO of them (and interviewed a third)?!?! Weird, I tell you!

I felt a prick of pride, particularly on seeing Gio's book. I've been receiving vague updates on its progress for the past few years, so to actually see the finished product, so prominently displayed, gave me goosebumps. With a huge grin that I couldn't wipe off my face, I picked it up, read the introduction, flipped through it, and debated whether my wallet could bear the dent buying it would leave. In the end, I didn't. I think I might still buy it (and yes, read it!) despite my woeful lack of knowledge about (and interest in:() the subject.

And now, methinks, maybe it's time to write my own. What say you, good reader? Actually, I have sort of thought about it (well, in the vague way that one would consider climbing Mount Fuji--which, incidentally, I'm also contemplating doing. . .sigh, I've such high hopes for my life). I even have the makings of an idea for a book--although even the thought of pursuing it makes me want to go take a nap. Only problem (or I guess I should say, one of many problems). . . I have the attention span of a comatose grasshopper. So whether I could finish writing an entire book is highly questionable. And even if I managed to miraculously plough through one, all the waiting around for publication would be enough to drive me to the madhouse. So maybe not? I can always live vicariously. I'm sure Gio has quite a few more books up his sleeve. . .

Where's the Harry Potter magic?

2007-08-21T03:19:00.000-04:00

After witnessing the frenzy that was the release of the final Harry Potter book, I figured I should find out for myself what the big deal was. So I finally went and got Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone -- yes, yes, I confess I am just now reading the first one. The Harry Potter phenomenon too has managed to completely pass me by . . . I do indeed live under a rock.

I'm almost at the end of it and I must say. . . I DON'T GET IT! I don't see what the hype is all about! I've read The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings several times and loved both (I even confess to shedding a few tears while reading the latter) . And I've been known to read random children's books well into (and past) my teens, just for kicks. So you would think that I'd be well on my way to heading up the Tokyo Harry Potter Fan Club.

But sadly, the most I can say for Harry Potter is. . . meh. The descriptions are vivid, the plot has held my attention and it has an element of suspense. I concede that it's above average. But I can't for the life of me see what makes it the worldwide phenomenon it has become. I've looked and looked, hoping the magic (heh heh) would emerge with each turn of the page, but haven't had any joy so far. And I am convinced there must be far better books lurking in obscurity in the world of children's literature that are more worthy of the attention this series has garnered.

I will probably continue to read the rest of the books in the series, because I still hope to find the magic ingredient (heh heh heh) . . . and because I'm obsessive compulsive like that. But I don't know. . .

I am well aware that this is tantamount to sacrilege in the Harry Potter world and that I am liable to be stoned to death by die-hard fans. But I am willing to brave the consequences and confess -- my name is Ini and I can't get into Harry Potter.

Teh LOLCATS complation video

2007-08-17T06:46:00.001-04:00

I just had to post this. Laugh away!!

Suffocating. . .

2007-08-15T08:14:00.001-04:00

There are times when all I want to do is curl up into a ball and go to sleep and not wake up until the thick cloud clinging to me and hovering around me disintegrates and I can actually breathe again. This is one of those times.

I'll be back.

Photo courtesy of Half Moon Imaging

Where have all the endorphins gone?

2007-08-09T03:05:00.000-04:00

I have been on a health kick for the past couple of months -- going running almost every morning, taking care to eat (relatively) healthy food (the last time I so much as looked at a pizza was about six weeks ago) and in smallish amounts. These phases descend on me from time to time. Unfortunately, they don't last very long, so I try to make the best of them when I am still caught up in them.

The weird thing, though, is that I find myself in a constant state of annoyance and irritability during these times. Which I find perplexing. Because, isn't exercise supposed to make you feel BETTER? Aren't those endorphin thingies that the brain releases during and after exercise supposed to increase your sense of wellbeing? In my case, it seems like the opposite happens.

Take last night, for instance. I went to bed in a slightly better mood than I've been for the past few days. But as I tossed and turned, I managed to have a mini-inner tantrum, thinking about various things, situations that bug me but are not entirely tragic or life-altering. I got so worked up that I even composed a blog entry, mostly about my work situation, which has served to enhance my prolonged crabbiness (who knows, I might even end up posting it the next time my annoyance level rises -- yikes!) The result -- I couldn't fall asleep, which made me wake up in an even worse mood today, get annoyed at the smallest things at work, and feel even worse.

Sigh! It's a vicious circle! Maybe I should go back to sleeping in and eating junk food. After all, aren't chubby people supposed to be jolly?

An eighth Harry Potter book . . . from China!

2007-08-02T02:50:00.000-04:00

Harry Potter fans bemoaning the end of the series. . . cheer up! There's an eight book being written--in China.

I got a kick out of this story about fake Harry Potter books burgeoning in China. (I know it's a serious problem, but it's still pretty funny!) Apparently some of the knockoffs are better than the original version!! Wonder how Rowling feels about that!

What is the seventh Potter book called in China?
By Howard W. French
Tuesday, July 31, 2007

SHANGHAI: Chinese readers could not wait for the official release of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows," the much anticipated seventh and concluding book in the series, a little more than a week ago. And they did not have to.

A book with the same title came out a full 10 days before the official worldwide English-language release on July 21 — a wholly unauthorized version that bears nothing in common with the instant best seller written by J. K. Rowling.

The iterations of Potter fraud and imitation here are, in fact, so copious they must be peeled back layer by layer.

There are the books, like the phony seventh novel, that masquerade as works written by Rowling. There are the copies of the genuine items, in both English and Chinese, scanned, reprinted, bound and sold for a fraction of the authorized texts.

As in some other countries, there are the unauthorized translations of real Harry Potter books, as well as books published under the imprint of major Chinese publishing houses, about which the publishers themselves say they have no knowledge. And there are the novels by budding Chinese writers hoping to piggyback on the success of the series — sometimes only to have their fake Potters copied by underground publishers who, naturally, pay them no royalties.

No one can say with any certainty what the full tally is, but there are easily a dozen unauthorized Harry Potter titles on the market here already, and that is counting only bound versions that are sold on street corners and can even be found in school libraries. Still more versions exist online.

These include "Harry Potter and the Half-Blooded Relative Prince," a creation whose name in Chinese closely resembles the title of the genuine sixth book by Rowling, as well as pure inventions that include "Harry Potter and the Hiking Dragon," "Harry Potter and the Chinese Empire," "Harry Potter and the Young Heroes," "Harry Potter and Leopard-Walk-Up-to-Dragon," and "Harry Potter and the Big Funnel."

Some borrow little more than the names of Rowling's characters, lifting plots from other well-known authors, like J. R. R. Tolkien, or placing the famously British protagonist in plots lifted from well-known kung-fu epics and introducing new characters from Chinese literary classics like "Journey to the West."

Here, the global Harry Potter publishing phenomenon has mutated into something altogether Chinese: a combination of remarkable imagination and startling industriousness, all placed in the service of counterfeiting, literary fraud and copyright violation.

Wang Lili, editor of the China Braille Publishing House, which published "Harry Potter and the Chinese Porcelain Doll" in 2002, one of the Chinese knockoffs, said: "We published the book out of a very common incentive. Harry Potter was so popular that we wanted to enjoy the fruits of its widely accepted publicity in China."

The attitude reflected in Wang's comment goes a long way toward explaining not only the explosion of unauthorized Harry Potter literature in China, but also the much larger problem of rampant piracy in China, where travelers can find six different knockoffs of Viagra, without prescription, on display at airport drugstores, and where bootleg DVDs, fake Picassos, and even near-identical copies of famous-brand automobiles are widely available.

China has recently stepped up efforts to rein in the production, and especially the export, of fraudulent and substandard goods in the wake of scandals concerning exports of contaminated food and a dangerous drug additive. Authors and editors say, though, that cleaning up the worlds of literature and publishing is, at best, an afterthought.

Wei Bin, editor of the Writers' Publishing House, which investigates book piracy, said that his group's last survey in 2001 showed that as many as 30 to 40 percent of the books for sale in China might be illegal.

"The focus of the government is not to fight against piracy," Wei said. "It seems they fight harder for banned publications, like pornography, political books, such as things written about the leadership, the government, and historical matters like the Cultural Revolution, and the Anti-Rightist Campaign.

"They maintain tight control over such things, but as literary books, such as the ones we identify as being pirated, when we report the matter to the relevant authorities, they settle matters by leaving them unsettled."

Neil Blair, a solicitor at the Christopher Little Literary Agency in London, which represents Rowling, said the company was investigating reports of piracy and preparing to take action through its local lawyers and Chinese publishers and with the help of law enforcement officials in China.

"Some of these examples seem to suggest that J. K. Rowling actually wrote the books," Blair said, speaking of the fake books. "It is possible that people might buy those believing them to be part of the series, and obviously they'd be disappointed. "

An Boshun, the editor of one of the best-selling works of Chinese fiction in recent years, "Wolf Totem" (whose author has maintained anonymity), said there were at least 15 million fake copies of that novel in circulation here, compared with 2 million legal ones.

"I once even got a call from someone who said that he represented two pirate-book businessmen and they wanted him to say thanks to me for my work," An said. "They wanted me to know that 'Wolf Totem' had brought many job opportunities to country folks working in printing shops in Hebei and Shandong Provinces."

Some homegrown "Harry Potter" authors are also unabashed about their forays into publishing.
One such writer is a manager at a Shanghai textile factory named Li Jingsheng. "I bought Harry Potter 1 through 6 for my son a couple of years ago, and when he finished reading them, he kept asking me to tell him what happens next," he explained. "We couldn't wait, so I began making up my own story and in May last year, I typed it up on my computer. I had to get up early and go to bed late to write this novel, usually spending one hour, from 6 to 7 in the morning and 10 to 11 in the evening to write it."

The result was "Harry Potter and the Showdown," a 250,000-word novel, the final version of which he placed recently on Web sites, followed by a notice saying he was looking for publishers. The book quickly logged 150,000 readers on a popular Chinese site, Baidu.com's Harry Potter fan Web page.

"This is fantastic," Gu Guaiguai, an admiring reader, wrote online about "Showdown." "I wonder if Rowling would bother to continue to write if she had read it."

Another reader was even more breathless. "You are the pride of our Harry Potter fans," he wrote, adding, "We expect you to go on and write Harry Potter number eight," which Li has in fact already begun.

For all the reader enthusiasm, no publishers contacted Li, a 35-year-old high school graduate who grew up in rural Henan Province and said that he and his wife, who works at the same factory, together make about $600 a month.

That didn't stop his book from turning up for sale in a bound version on the streets of Beijing, Tianjin, Dalian and Shenzhen under the imprint of the People's Literature Publishing House, the official publisher of the Harry Potter series in China, which says it had nothing to do with the printing of "Showdown."

"You are not supposed to use the name of Harry Potter anywhere else other than J. K. Rowling's own books," said Sun Shunlin, director for business development of the publishing house.
Not all book editors hew to this strict interpretation of copyright, however. Lu Jia, whose Ba Shu publishing company acknowledges printing one knockoff, "Harry Potter and the Chinese Empire," a few years ago, initially said she did not wish to discuss Harry Potter. "It had problems of intellectual property violations," she said.

Moments later, though, Lu spoke almost wistfully about the experience. "Everything would have been fine if they hadn't made the cover so obvious, even if you copied some sections of the original story," she said. "But the cover was so outstanding, and foreign people care a lot about things like that."

Help Rizana Nafeek

2007-07-26T23:13:00.001-04:00

Some of you may have heard of the case of the Sri Lankan teenager who has been sentenced to be beheaded in Saudi Arabia on charges that she murdered a four-month old baby left in her care. The baby allegedly choked to death while the girl, Rizana Nafeek, 19, was feeding him. Here is an article about the recent developments.

My heart goes out to the family of the baby who died. . . I truly believe that there's nothing worse for a parent than the death of a child. But taking the life of someone who made a heart-breaking mistake won't undo the tragedy and the wrongs that have already happened.

Please add your voice to calls to the baby's family and the Saudi government to pardon Rizana and spare her life. The east of Sri Lanka has already been ravaged by the war and tsunami and much loss and suffering. This is a heart-breaking fate to befall someone who wanted a better life for herself and her family.
An Amnesty International letter with addresses to send to.

A letter drafted by the Asian Human Rights Commission asking the baby's family to pardon her.

An online petition.

Strange encounter

2007-07-19T21:03:00.000-04:00

Disclaimer: If you read this and think "Oh Puhleeze," allow me to assure you that I am in full agreement. This "episode" (for lack of a better word) takes on some minor significance only because of my reaction to it. Ok, now that you've read this, you HAVE to read the rest of the post! :)

For the past few weeks, I have been waking up early to go running in a park some distance from my apartment. The park, unfortunately, is far enough away that I spend considerably more time running TO it than actually IN it. I've been trying to find shorter ways to get there and have been making some progress in this quest, shortening the route to it by a little each today. Today, I managed to find the shortest.

On my way back, however, I miscalculated how far I was from the turn that would take me back home, and ended up turning too early. The result: my unfailing ability to get myself lost on the simplest of routes kicked in. I soon found myself completely turned around, lost in a web of tiny residential streets, with about five minutes left to get home to make it to work on time.

I began jogging toward the end of a small deserted street, in the general direction of where I thought I needed to be headed -- deserted, that is, except for the figure of a woman standing a few yards from where the road ended and another road ran across horizontally across it. The woman looked to be in her late 60s, with a noticeable bald patch on her head, dressed in a long skirt and a cardigan. What struck me, and sent a sudden chill through my body, was the way she stood -- shock still, erect and watchful, smack in the middle of the left side of the street, not off to the side as one normally would. She seemed to be watching for someone, and for a moment, I thought perhaps she was awaiting someone behind me. . . only, there was no one.

As I jogged towards her, she looked directly at me and bowed deeply -- like only the politest of Japanese waiters would. I smiled a little uneasily and continued on about half a minute past her. Discovering that the area was no more familiar than the place I'd traveled away from, I turned around to ask her for directions. . . only to find the road completely deserted. I looked toward the building, an old house, she'd been standing in front of, but there was no sign of anyone stirring.

I continued on, looking over my shoulder occasionally, trying to tell myself that my reaction was the result of one too many ghost stories around the campfire in which passersby saw lone women standing on the street, only to turn around and find them gone. But the uneasiness and the strange clamminess I'd felt upon first seeing her continued to disturb me.

I found my way eventually and sprinted home. My quick shower failed to dispel my nervousness, and even in my apartment, I continued to glance around me as I got ready. It was only when I reached the busy main street that I managed to calm down. And unbelievably silly though my reaction seems (she probably was a sleepwalking housewife), I do wonder. . .

Another first

2007-07-16T02:29:00.000-04:00

I was deeply engrossed in producing an interview about an IPO in Hong Kong (ok, so maybe "deeply engrossed" is pushing it a bit) when Ed II suddenly looked up from his computer. "Did you feel that?"

I clicked on the pause button on the video player, looked up at him and frowned. It was Umi no Hi, or Sea Day, a national holiday in Japan, and we had a full load of work with a skeleton team of two producers and one editor. I was geared up to be a production machine and wasn't in the mood for interruptions. "Feel what?"

"That's an earthquake," he replied calmly, grinning widely at being the one to enlighten -- and shock -- the novice.

"What? Really?" I ripped off my headphones, and channeled all my energy into feeling whatever he had felt. Nothing. I was just about to pooh pooh his claim and dismiss the silliness of calling a barely-felt tremor an earthquake when suddenly, I felt myself sway.

I gaped at him. "Oh my gosh!" I rushed to the window, a little wobbly on my feet, as if I was on a boat on a somewhat turbulent sea. Not too shaky, but definitely not firm. And then it stopped. Outside, people on the street 21 floors below looked like multicoloured bugs, enjoying the day off and the atypical bright blue sky and warm sunshine. Nothing seemed amiss. I would have thought I had imagined it, if not for Ed II.

Still in shock, I was walking back to my desk when the building began to sway again. This was definitely disconcerting, this enormous 50-floor mass of concrete, metal and glass moving as if it was a mere twig on a tree branch. I sank into my chair still in shock, just as the headline flashed: "Earthquake shakes buildings in Central Tokyo" -- there's certainly nothing like experiencing the news as it happens.

Over the next few minutes, more headlines moved: "Earthquake is centered near Noto Peninsula on Japan Sea" and "Earthquake near Niigata, Japan, has magnitute of 6.6, NHK says." Niigata is nowhere near Tokyo, which made the fact that we had felt it here all the more irksome. I couldn't imagine the people in Niigata.

More stories came up over the next few hours, including one about a fire at a nuclear power plant in Niigata, and reports of between two and four deaths caused by the quake.

And then it was back to life as usual, at least in Tokyo. Which fits in with the general view of earthquakes here. When I first moved here, I was shocked and a little disturbed by how matter-of-fact people here are about the possibility of one happening. Relocation and real estate agents calmly advise new-comers to arrange furniture in a way that ensures safe exit -- and avoids squashage -- during an earthquake. Instructions from the gas company guy about what to do with your appliances during an earthquake are part of the service. Each ward has earthquake emergency procedures in place and designated evacuation sites. Not really surprising for one of the most earthquake-prone countries in the world. But not especially comforting either -- preparedness has its benefits, but it is also a constant reminder that one could happen at any time.

And now that I think about it, I really don't know what to do or where to go in an earthquake. That might be a problem. Particularly since Ed II just informed me that Tokyo itself is about 20 years overdue for the mother of all quakes.

Any hope for me?

2007-07-13T03:27:00.000-04:00

I came across this article in the International Herald Tribune this week, written by a Japanese woman who lived abroad for many years before returning to Japan. If she's having problems, I figure I'd better resign myself to being one of those rude, awkward "gaijin." At least I won't be the only one!

Meanwhile: Japan's subtle etiquette code
By Kumiko Makihara
Tuesday, July 10, 2007

TOKYO: Every day in Japan I face etiquette dilemmas.
My son returns from camp with another child's clothes. Do I ship them back dirty, which seems sort of mean, or do I launder them, which would cause the owner to lose face?

My neighbor tells me to leave my phone number in her letter box if I want to occasionally receive baked goods from her. It seems forward of me to leave her my number, but I don't want to ignore her request.

I'm in a crowded train, and my nose is running. Blowing is considered disgusting here, but the alternative is disgusting to me.

From the proper degree of a bow (15 to 45 degrees depending on occasion) to how a lady eats a rice cracker (broken by hand into bite size pieces with handkerchief on lap), a complex and subtle etiquette code dictates the proper way to do everything in Japan.

Japanese embrace the rules because following them assures there will be no offensive or embarrassing moments. My parents implanted the code into me from childhood, warning that I would be shunned if I didn't learn the protocol. But my reflexes are rusty from having lived abroad for many years.

Judging from the large section of manners books at my local bookstore, I'm not the only lost, rude soul. Increased social interaction and new technology like cellphones and computers have diversified scenarios giving rise to more rules and a big demand for the latest etiquette guides. Last year, long-time former bureaucrat Mariko Bando set out to write a book on how professional women could maintain their emotional dignity in a male-dominated workplace, but her publishers urged her to cover etiquette tips like attire, manners and polite language. She complied, and "Dignity of a Woman" has become a best seller.

Manners books traditionally focused on "kan kon sou sai" - literally meaning the rites of coming of age - weddings, funerals and ancestor worship. Now they offer titles like "PTA Dictionary for Getting Along with Others and Writing Notes," which tells you how to inform the teacher that your child has to sit out gym class or how to wiggle out of committee duties. A letter-writing guide offers tips on composing an apology note to a store where you have shoplifted two packs of gum and some AA batteries, (express deep remorse even if the items are small) and declining an offer for a second hand piano (blame it on a scatterbrained child who now wants to take swimming instead).

It doesn't all end in this lifetime either. Funeral preparation books offer pointers on how to be well-regarded after death.

Want to make a phone call? I found four books on the store shelf devoted exclusively to phone manners with tips like no walking and talking on a cellphone because the other party might detect a roughness of breath or hear your footsteps. If you buy the phone guide, you might need a language handbook, too, to guide you through the maze of honorifics. I was recently tongue-tied with confusion on the phone with my father's secretary when trying to tell her my father didn't need to call me back. I must use respectful forms when addressing her but humble language when referring to my father or myself.

There are plenty of etiquette guides for foreign visitors, but it's probably most important to try to do as others do instead of flaunting what you think you may know. On several occasions I've seen foreigners striking wooden chopsticks against each other, smug that they know how to smooth off any splinters. That's actually a crass gesture. These people probably don't know that there are more than 30 faux pas chopsticks maneuvers each with their proper term like sucking and wandering.
A likely infraction that is a topic of much discussion these days is applying makeup on trains. It's become a common sight to see young women drawing their eyeliner and brushing on mascara with great dexterity in crowded morning commuter trains. While critics say grooming is a private act that others don't wish to observe, "there are still no rules for anonymous situations," says Bando.

I'm still trying to get my bearings back, and my current strategy is to overcompensate. I laundered and ironed the scraggly camp clothes and took a gift with me when I presented my neighbor with my phone number. On the packed train, I dabbed my nose and swallowed the rest. All for the sake of politesse.

Kumiko Makihara is a freelance writer based in Tokyo.

Grace. . .

2007-07-09T08:44:00.001-04:00

I watched Dead Man Walking today. Not intentionally. I was flipping through channels, trying to find something that would entertain me for half an hour before I got down to some serious Japanese studying. I stopped when I realized what the movie was, and, although I told myself I wasn't in the mood for something so serious, I couldn't change the channel.

As the movie progressed, I kept asking myself what I would have done if I had been in Sr. Helen Prejean's place. . . would I have stood by the wholly unlikeable, somewhat sleazy, unrepentant Matthew Poncelet who was accused of (and denied until the end) raping one and brutally murdering two teenagers, or would I have turned my back on him? I knew all too well what the answer would have been. Even if something in the man had moved me to stand by him when all others had turned away, it wouldn't have lived for long past the hurt and accusation in the eyes of the teens' parents when they realized a woman of God was taking the side of their children's murderer. I would have changed sides pretty quickly -- and no doubt I would have seemed right to do so.

But I would also have lost the opportunity to help save at least one soul. Because at the end of it all, it was Sr. Helen's persistence in showing love to a convicted murderer, despite all other opposition, including his admission of guilt, that brought both him and his victims' families to at least some understanding of grace -- him to tearfully acknowledge his guilt and need for forgiveness, and them to realize how much courage it takes to extend, if reluctantly and bitterly, that forgiveness.

At Poncelet's funeral, one of the teenagers' fathers approaches Sr. Helen and tells her wistfully, "I wish I had your faith."

"No," she responds. "It's not faith. I wish it were that easy. It's work."

And so it is. Faith motivates us to do the hard and unpleasant work needed to give it meaning, to make others look at us and see something different, something that they want others to see in themselves. Fraternising with prostitutes and tax collectors didn't improve Jesus' reputation or make his social life any easier. But he knew that they, despite their hard exteriors, were the ones that needed someone to reach out to them, to care for them, the most.

And so it is today. It is the office gossip, the school reject, the town grouch, those who seem to deserve the least, who need the most. I've realized that, these days, my idea of extending grace to someone I don't particularly like is to avoid them (after all, if I stay away, I avoid confrontation and keep from making our relationship any worse. . . that's grace of a sort, right?) But not doing harm isn't equivalent to doing good. Not by a long shot. Reaching out and taking a stand for those who seem undeserving of and ungrateful for our love is hard, thankless, heartbreaking work. But those who persevere will be rewarded in the end. . . and the reward may take on unexpected shapes and sizes.

The latest challenge. . . wi-fi

2007-07-03T21:14:00.000-04:00

So I finally got tired of tripping over all the cable wires and the power wires surging out of various electrical appliances. I also realized that I was sorely missing my wireless router. So last week, off I went to good ol' Bic Camera (the equivalent of Comp USA/Best Buy/Circuit City etc). I've wandered through the store enough times now to have a pretty decent idea of what's where (and the chart that shows what's on each floor is in English too. . . yaay!)

So I ambled up to the third floor, unusually confident and excited at the thought of doing away with at least one of the tiresome wires. I was a bit thrown when I got to the signs that read wireless LAN and wired routers (since I was looking for a wireless router) and decided to go with the wireless LAN option (I really should get more tech-savvy). I walked over to the shelves, and stared at the boxes, with all the vital information marked clearly. . . in Japanese. It just would have been too easy otherwise. With I sigh, I began picking up boxes, trying to decipher from the little pictures and the very few numbers which was the right one. (I would have asked for help but I've come to notice that at Bic Camera, all the sales people around me seem to mysteriously disappear when I turn around to ask for something!) I finally settled on one, shuffled over to pay for it and headed on home.

Exhausted with the effort of finding the router, I decided to put up with the wires for another couple of days until the weekend. So it was that on Saturday, I awoke refreshed and ready to tackle the daunting task of setting up my wireless router.

And four hours later, I was no nearer to a solution. The closest I came was to the panels that appeared to show that my computer was recognizing the router and was trying to set it up. At first, this pleased me immensely. But the process was so slow and my computer took so long to download each page that I realized (slightly late) that I might have gotten a router that was too slow. And when, after the first few panels, the characters on my screen began to look different from the ones in the instructions, I gave up in frustration, packed the router back in its box and hooked the wires back up.

Now all I need is to go back to the elusive store assitants, explain why I'm returning the router after I'd opened the box, and find the correct one. . . all in sign language.

Witty and charming, or annoying and obnoxious?

2007-06-29T02:06:00.001-04:00

In my years of fighting my (sometimes extreme) introvert-ism (is that a word?) I have noticed something unfortunate. . . it is when I try hardest to impress someone or be liked that I am at my most annoying and obnoxious. I get nervous and say stupid things and the things that sounded witty and cute in my head come out sounding like complete rubbish. And I realize in horror, as the words spill out of my mouth, that the object of my fruitless attempts to please is looking at me with a look that says something akin to "Are those words really coming out of your mouth?" or "Are you really that stupid?" or "I REALLY don't like you" or something to that effect.

Sigh, readers. I'm afraid Ini has bombed yet again:(

Daytrip to Odaiba

2007-06-23T22:44:00.000-04:00

Jion-Empire flew in from Seoul to spend the week in Tokyo, and stayed with me all of last week. And as much as I love living alone, I enjoyed the company, and the reunion with yet another fellow Columbia J-school sufferer and survivor. Okia, J-E and I headed to Odaiba on Saturday, peeking into a few shops in the mall, and then making a beeline for the beach, where we spent the day chatting lazily, and enjoying the absence of the rain that was predicted. One thing that never ceases to amaze me about Tokyo is how pleasant and clean it is -- I keep expecting to suddenly stumble upon the filth that pervaded NYC, all hidden away to be revealed only after my initiation into this city -- and how breathtakingly stunning parts of it are . . . (while Odaiba is not exactly in the center of the city, it is not far from it by any means. . . and many of these photos were taken mere minutes from the city center).

View from the mono-rail to Odaiba

Reinbō Burijji (Rainbow Bridge) from the mono-rail

Okia and J-E on the beach

Okia and me in the artificial tunnel where the restaurant we had dinner was located

Sunset over Tokyo Bay

Found it!

2007-06-21T20:47:00.000-04:00

I have discovered BBC World on my TV at work. All is well with the world again. . .

After a long day. . .

2007-06-18T08:21:00.000-04:00

Okia enjoying my new recliner after a long day of furniture building. . .
Exhausted Ini putting our handiwork to good use

Lessons in humility

2007-06-11T19:34:00.001-04:00

In the 39 days I've been in Japan, and before that, I've often wondered why God decided to send me here. I'm sure there are several reasons, but as time passes, I've come to recognize one in particular.

I'm one of those people who, when deciding between struggling through something on their own for 30 minutes and doing it easily in 10 by asking for help, will choose the former. But I'm realizing that that's not easily accomplished in a country where I feel illiterate and incomprehensible most of the time. For instance, no matter how long I stare at a row of coloured liquids in similar bottles in a supermarket, I'm not going to have a revelation about which of them is the hand soap I want. And no matter how much time I spend "umm"ing and "aah"ing and "hai"ing on the phone with the gas company guy, the words coming out of his mouth aren't suddenly going to start making sense to me. . . or vice versa.

And so, out of necessity, I've started to humble myself. I've started to deal with the possibility that I might indeed look stupid if I'm holding a bottle that's, to the shop assistant, clearly labeled "soy sauce" and ask (in Japanese) "Is this soy sauce?" I'm getting used to constantly asking for directions, mostly by gesturing wildly, despite the possibility that the bewildered expression on my face might elicit a helpless one on response. And I'm getting used to asking Okia 17 times a day to call the cable company to set up an appointment, or to come over when the gas company guy is expected so she can translate for me (Poor Okia, she's spent almost every weekend since I got here with me, acting as translator, tour guide and furniture-building-helper. . . and now I'm moving 10 minutes away from her!)

I'm still not comfortable with asking for help and acknowledging my helplessness, feminine charm notwithstanding. But it's not a matter of comfort. It's a matter of swallowing my pride and being ok with sometimes looking and feeling stupid. I often feel overwhelmed and helpless and completely drained from the sheer effort of living in a place where I can't even read a label or fill out a simple form on my own. But I am slowly learning to live with that. And looking forward to the day when it finally all starts to make sense.

"Serious blog" alert!

2007-06-08T02:49:00.000-04:00

I've posted an article on my serious blog. I'd almost given up on that blog, but came across an article that had me INCENSED and had to comment. Please read and let me know what you think (even if you disagree with me. . . I'm far from impartial!!)

Tokyo, Tokyo. . .

2007-06-06T09:10:00.001-04:00

I came across this article about Tokyo while trying to figure out the best mode of transport to go from my current accomodation to my future one. It's pretty interesting, and, I have to agree with the author about both the chaos of street layouts and building numbers , and the absolute discipline of the Tokyo "underground." It is, nevertheless, the most organized, disciplined and "perfect" place I've ever been to--I'd love to see a subway brawl here, just to know that it can happen here too!

Robert Fulford's column about Tokyo taxi drivers from The Globe and Mail
If you hail a taxi on the streets of Tokyo, the first surprise is the back door: it's controlled from the driver's seat, and swings open magically before you can reach the handle. Other surprises follow. Lace doilies cover the seats. The driver wears a tie and a white shirt, and perhaps white gloves. Remarkably, doilies, shirt, and gloves always--in my experience, at least--seem to have just arrived from the laundry.

How that's accomplished is part of the mystique of the Tokyo cab driver, one of the unique figures of Japanese culture. In a status-conscious society, he's clearly aware that his status is not low. He presents himself to his customers with extreme gravitas, in the manner of a corporate financial officer. After all, he performs intensely demanding work.

Tokyo people keep anxiety at bay by erecting elaborate structures of space and time. The city runs on maps and timetables, time being regulated with astonishing precision. Ten years ago, on my first trip to Japan, I discovered that when the schedule says the Tokyo-Kyoto bullet train will arrive at 11:34 a.m., it never--barring castrophe--arrives at either 11:33 or 11:35. Once, when a friend of mine made that journey, floods caused a 20-minute delay; the conductor, mortified, walked slowly through the train, apologizing individually to each passenger. But I didn't know, till recently, that the same precision rules underground Tokyo. Subway stations have signs that tell you how long it takes to go from this station to any other on the same line. And (take it from one who ran a test) if the sign says the train will cover the six stations from Kasumigaseki to Shinjuku in 13 minutes, then that's how long it will take--not 12, and not 14.
But that's just underground Tokyo. On the surface, no such principles apply. Everyone must live with the historic chaos of the Tokyo street plan. Tokyo had two opportunities to reorganize its streets, after the vast destruction of the 1923 earthquake and after the 1945 firestorms created by American bombing. On both occasions, it retained the old system. So today, though it has few ancient buildings, the ghost of old Tokyo lives on in the street plan. The city's true character lies not in its vistas but in its layout: you grasp it by walking rather than looking.

Land developers must fit their buildings onto paths carved out by long-ago rice growers and sake brewers. It's like the tangle of Toronto's Rosedale, multiplied 10,000 times. Many streets have no names. Many buildings are numbered in the order in which they were built, so that No. 64 may stand next to No. 13.

This is the world in which the taxi driver reigns. In a cityscape designed by the mad or the eccentric or the merely absent-minded, he's a lonely rationalist.

Stepping into a taxi, a foreigner usually has a map, drawn by the host for the evening, labelled in Japanese as well as English. (Mapmaking is a Tokyo art form.) The driver, receiving it, switches on his light and begins examining it. He turns it upside down, looks at it sideways, turns it over to see whether there's information on the reverse. He compares it with his map book. I doubt that Martin Heidegger, studying Plato, ever looked more serious than this man preparing to journey across Tokyo.

The study time may be the most exciting part of the ride, as you wait breathlessly for the driver to decide where this place is and how to get there. Finally he issues a quiet and tentative "Hmmmuh," nods, and you are on your way.

One recent night we set out to hear a lecture at the Deutsches Institut für Japanstudien. The cab driver, following a meticulously prepared map, drove us to a grey building whose front displayed no word of identity, in English, Japanese, or German, and no number either. By a process of elimination, he had decided this must be the building. Yet even he wasn't positive, and he wasn't about to be responsible for leaving two poor foreigners marooned in the middle of Tokyo. So he leapt from his car, found the floor directory in the lobby, and came back, triumphant, to say the institute was on the second floor.

Half a dozen years ago, a cab driver of the utmost solemnity took my wife and me deep into the Tokyo suburbs, toward a house whose map we had given him. For the longest period, he couldn't find it. He had to stop several times to consult policemen. Finally he found it. We thanked him and he drove off. But that was not the last we saw of him. We had left two umbrellas, small and cheap, on the floor of his car, and half an hour later, having driven many miles before finding them, he was back at our host's house to return them. Of course, he accepted no tip. Tokyo cab drivers never do. They are professionals. You would no more tip a cab driver in Tokyo than tip a brain surgeon in Canada. And in Tokyo, no one seems to find any of this remarkable.

Sweet reunion:)

2007-06-04T08:49:00.001-04:00

Weds and me!
Weds had an identical red tent that I couldn't bring with me. Okia and I went to Ikea (Okia went to Ikea. . . heehee) this weekend to buy my furniture (more on that later) and lo and behold. . . there was the red tent! So Okia bought it, took it home and promptly installed the little guy in it. Looks like he missed it too!
Pensive Weds!

Update on cheeriness. . .

2007-05-31T00:34:00.000-04:00

I must say. . . this whole going against the grain and being all happy and cheerful and chirpy is exhausting! I'm tempted to go back to being grumpy again. . . much less effort required.

Forward march

2007-05-25T03:55:00.001-04:00

I am a depressive person. Ask anyone who knows me well, and they will, for the most part, agree with this assessment. Take, for instance, the times when I've had one glass of wine too many. Now when your inhibitions are lowered, your true feelings surface--if you're a happy person, you're a happy drunk, and if you're not. . . well, then tipsiness is a whole different experience. In my case, as my blood alcohol level rises, I start to ruminate on the unfair and pathetic nature of life--my life in particular--and the next thing you know, the tears, they're a-flowin'. Which just goes to show--I am a depressive person.

But I'm liking this whole new beginnings deal. New place, new life, new language, relatively new job, very few people I know. . . and I'm starting to think that I can make a go of this being happy thing too--for once. Like today. I learned something that would normally have sent me crawling off into the "depths of despair"*. Ok, I'm being a little dramatic. But it would definitely have put a damper on my mood, and at least a few tears would have been shed. But today, as I stepped on the brink of wallowing, I caught myself, sharply pulled myself out, and continued cheerily on, carefully sidestepping the angst and self-pity. For a moment, I felt the familiar pang at the thought of going back after work to my apartment and being alone with my thoughts. But I stopped myself. I've a fabulous apartment (that I've to move out of VERY soon), a nice relaxing evening, a weekend of house-hunting ahead, and a nice church to go to. And I shook off the fear and admonished myself. . . this too shall pass.

*Anne of Green Gables -- fabulous book, highly recommend it, for kids and grown-ups alike!

Update: my friend Yamu posted this in response to this entry on another site, and I thought it was beautiful. . .and true, and wanted to share it.

I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in.
I am lost…I am hopeless
It isn’t my fault.
It takes me forever to find a way out.

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I’m in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in…it’s a habit.
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it.

I walk down another street.

(from the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying)

A long time ago. . .

2007-05-22T01:22:00.000-04:00

My friend Meri found some old photos of us in high school, and I thought I'd show how far we've come! I looked at everyone in these pictures and realized I'm still very much in touch with all of them. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

That's me in my favorite purple button-down shirt!
There it is again! I also had them in green, white and olive.
Here's the white one!

Eight random facts about Ini!

2007-05-16T00:25:00.000-04:00

I've never been tagged for a meme before, so I'm very excited. Thank you Craver!

So here are a few random/strange facts about me.

1. I eat pizza backwards--starting from the crust, and finishing with the narrow end. This is because I had to eat everything my parents put on my plate when I was little, so I learned to eat the parts I didn't like much first, so I could then take my time to relish the bits I did.

2. I cheated on a Social Studies assignment when I was in 6th grade. The teacher caught me and took me to the office of the middle school co-ordinator (equivalent to the principal for the middle school) and told me I would probably be suspended. I was so traumatized by this that I have never cheated on anything since.

3. I still remember a dream I had when I was about four or five years old that an elephant ate Nev while I watched--it looked pretty painless, but was nevertheless quite alarming, although I felt no fear for myself (Any dream interpreters or budding psychoanalysts want to give this a shot?)

4. I bought a beautiful red rug when I went to Turkey for six weeks during my last summer in college--which were incidentally six of the best and the toughest weeks of my life-- and it has gone everywhere with me since. I think I've spent more money carting it from place to place than it cost me to begin with--but I will never part with it.

5. During my last few months in London, I was so restless that I went from one hobby (or plans of a hobby) to another at lightening speed, sometimes even before the plans actually came to fruition. Some of these passtimes: salsa dancing, cross stitching, building a doll's house, and learning Latin American Spanish.

6. While growing up, I was banished from eating with my family at the dining table because I couldn't eat if I wasn't reading a book at the same time. So it was off to the living room for Ini and her book.

7. We lived in a really old house while growing up, and a family of little mice had decided to join us there. My parents would lay traps for the mice and pour cement to block the holes they made, but I developed a rapport with them--during my mealtime banishment, I would put little bits of food at the opening of the hole and watch in fascination as they crept out cautiously and collected their regular meals. (what can I say? I was a weird kid!)

8. I associate butterscotch candy with injections because that was what my parents would give me to soothe me after my shots as a kid. . . yellow toffee in red cellophane wrappers.

I tag Erik, Cyberoutlaw, Ficali McPipe, Mivla, Michael Melcher, Mia

Today's developments. . .

2007-05-08T08:02:00.000-04:00

*obtained new cell phone (yaaaay!!)

*applied for alien registration card

*opened a bank account

*got a subway commuter pass

*various odds and ends at work, including changing my address in my work profile to the Tokyo bureau, getting my phone changed to my name, getting onto the Tokyo server etc.

*got approval for more Japanese classes

Yesterday was my first day at work. As soon as I sat down at my desk, a feeling of complete disorientation and aloneness overcame me. I had expected work to be an anchor, the only thing that was consistent with my past life. But perhaps this expectation was too much and as soon as I realized the tiny differences in the way things are done here and in New York, I realized how different things really were,and how far I am from anything familiar. (And when the acting team leader here, who is going back to New York in two weeks informed me of that fact excitedly, I even had to swallow a lump in my throat. . . I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be longing for New York!)

The differences were tiny -- not having headphones, a much smaller and older TV (and no CNN International :() and a desk with no drawers -- and I feel silly now that such minor changes provoked the panicky, anxious feeling that welled up inside me. Now that I'm in a better mood, I'm even laughing at myself. But I have no doubt that throughout the coming days, it will be the small things that will provoke the greatest reactions. Because ultimately, we do sweat the small stuff.

Brunch and a visit to Meiji Shrine

2007-05-06T09:24:00.000-04:00

Today dawned drizzly and dismal, but Okia and I stuck to our guns and met for brunch near Omate Sando, an area of the city lined with designer stores. After foregoing Japanese cuisine for coconut french toast with almond butter (yummmm! So much for my lofty goals of a healthier lifestyle after moving to Japan:S) we marched around some of the stores, window shopping and catching up on the past year, and comparing notes on Wednesday, Okia's cat who was under my custody until a couple of months ago . We then decided on a quick visit to the Meiji Shrine, a Shinto place of worship located within a beautiful wooded area, a real surprise in this city where space is at such a premium. We made it back just in time for the 4:00 service at Tokyo Union Church where I bid Okia farewell.

Below are some photos of the shrine:

Barrels of Sake on the way to the shrine. . . an offering?
The shrine itself
The shrine
A man sitting near the entrance to the shrine. . . not sure what he was doing.

Today's discoveries

2007-05-05T07:25:00.000-04:00

* the closest McDonalds, Wendy's and Starbucks

* the neighbourhood DVD rental

* the closest subway station

* an all-Japanese bookstore (for future reference)

* about three convenience stores and two supermarkets

* that store-bought sushi in Tokyo's as good as most restaurant sushi in the West

* that I need to learn Japanese PRONTO!

First day in Tokyo

2007-05-04T22:45:00.000-04:00

I arrived at Tokyo Narita Airport around mid-day yesterday, and decided to take the bus into the city so as to not miss the first sights of Tokyo. . . and promptly fell asleep. I did manage to catch a few glimpses on my taxi ride to my apartment from where the bus dropped me off. . . and it seemed pretty much the same as any big city, albeit a little quiet because of the Golden Week holiday.

I arrived at my lovely apartment, my home for the next month, courtesy of The Wire, and promptly descended into the bath tub for a long soak. And then I decided to venture out.

I had a map that the relocation company had sent me, and figured I could find my way around with it. . . although the fact that there were no street names marked on the map worried me slightly. I soon realized why. . . there are no street names on the STREETS!! Well, maybe there were some, but thanks to my lack of Japanese language skills, I couldn't tell the street names apart from the store names, or the building signs or any other names. I did manage to locate my nearest convenience store and supermarket (although whether I'll be able to find them again is yet to be determined!)

Today I will tackle the closest subway station. . . and tomorrow church and meeting Okia! Should be interesting. . .

(More to come on first impressions of Tokyo)
View from upper level balcony
Living area
Sleeping area
View from lower level balcony

Kitchen

London

2007-04-30T11:06:00.000-04:00

Whatever I expected from my return to London, it was not this. When I planned to stop here on my way to Tokyo, I expected a sense of homecoming, a feeling of relief and lightness after the frustration of life in New York. I expected to walk along the Thames, with my head thrown back taking deep breaths of London air, elated at being back in the only place that I had ever loved for itself. I did feel that way--for about one day.

I realized pretty quickly how much I had forgotten (or buried) about the time I lived here. It's true. . . we do start to see past experiences with rose-tinted glasses as time moves forward. But after being here for a day, the emotions of that time--both good and bad--came rushing back. London was where I formed some of my best memories, and my worst. It was where I was the happiest and where I felt the most alone. It was where I loved the most and with the greatest intensity, and where I experienced the greatest loss.

On my first day back, I basked in my pleasant memories, in the familiarity of everything I had expected. But as time wore on, the pain slowly crept back in. At first the familiar sights, sounds, smells seemed to welcome me back. But soon, that changed. At one point when I was living here, everything I looked at, smelled and tasted was tinged with utter misery and darkness. In the past few days, as I began to absorb my surroundings, that feeling returned--although to a lesser degree. And I realized that, while many of the memories have faded into the distant past and the feelings definitely long gone, the pain hadn't completely disappeared. I had peeled off the bandage too fast, expecting the wound to have healed completely, only to find festering remnants that I had just made worse.

It has been a strange few days. The night I missed the last train back to my cousin's, and spent the night wandering around Central London and shivering on the stairs outside Waterloo Station, didn't help. The return of an overload of pain-inducing stimuli didn't help. And the feeling of being suspended between the end of one life and the beginning of another didn't help.

Strangely enough, I don't feel a yearning to leave. . . I have enough good memories and people I love here to keep that at bay. All the same, I don't think I'll be returning to my beloved London anytime soon. . .

Good-byes :(

2007-04-23T18:01:00.000-04:00

Nayma, Ruchika, me

Me, Caveboy

Kris, me

Me and Nev (with his favorite photograph face!)

Mits and me

Nev and me

Sophia, me, Ilajna

Where are all the napkins going?

2007-04-13T18:14:00.000-04:00

My predecessor left a large pile of napkins in one of my drawers. When I discovered the stash, I took a few out and put them in a little recessed area under my desk just so I didn't have to keep opening the drawer everytime I needed one (I'm a snacker, so that's a few times a day).

But lately, something weird's been happening. I take out enough for a few days, but, when I come in the next morning, there's none left! So everyday, I've been taking m0re out, in the hopes that they'll stay there for a few days. But the next day, they're gone again.

What's going on? Do I have another personality that's a compulsive napkin user? Or has someone else discovered my little collection? Or do the napkins come alive at night and flee when they realize they've been let out of their drawer prison and there's no one around? What do you think is happening?

Sayonara New York!!

2007-04-05T23:35:00.000-04:00

That's it. I've decided that I can't live without Wednesday. I miss him so much that I've decided to chuck it all in and move to Tokyo.

Haha. . . just kidding! I'm not that big a loser. . . I mean, I am moving to Tokyo, just not moving there for Weds (although Nev contends that Weds is my real reason for going there).

So yes, I am moving to Japan. . . the Land of the Rising Sun, the Land of Tiny People (I'm 5'8":(), the Land of People Whose Language I Don't Speak.

The story in a nutshell: I was hired at my current job to go to Tokyo, and have been working in the New York bureau while my paperwork gets sorted out. Now, it's all almost done, and I'm flying away on April 26, never to return. . . for the foreseeable future anyway. Of course I will still continue my blog, so I hope you will accompany me on my new adventures.

So see? I wasn't just being a dramatick (to quote Caveboy) when I was going on about the decision to take this job changing my whole life. And that was why I took 18 hours of Japanese classes over two weekends (which I'm already forgetting :S).

So yes, I have a few crazy, hectic weeks of packing, getting rid of stuff and shipping what I haven't gotten rid of. But after that, I'll be off to London for a few days, then on to Chapter 7 of my life. Wish me luck and blessings!

One of these days. . .

2007-04-03T19:30:00.000-04:00

Ok, so my work building is set up in a funny way. To get to the third floor, where I work, I have to take the elevator to the sixth floor, and then plonk down the escalators and stairs to the third floor. So my routine is to go to the kitchen on the sixth floor, get cereal and coffee, and walk down to my desk. And at least twice a week, I trip on the stairs. I haven't quite figured out what factors play into this. . .if it's the funky red lighting, or the narrow stairs (which don't accomodate my abnormally large feet too well), or the dizzyingly gigantic black-and-white flower and ferns painted on the landing wall, or just plain old clumsiness (which I possess plenty of).

So far, my reflexes--which I'm quite proud of actually--have done well, and I manage to catch myself just in time before I go flying. But I'm sure that ONE OF THESE DAYS, as I hobble down the stairs half-asleep--holding my boiling hot cup of coffee in one hand, my bowl of milk in the other, my purse with everything including the kitchen sink slung over my shoulder, and another bag with my gym clothes looped over my arm--my reflexes will fail. And I and my coffee and milk and overloaded bags will go tumbling down like Jack and Jill rolled into one.

And wouldn't you know it, that will be the day the tall, dark and handsome guy in video editing, whom I have the tiniest crush on, will just happen to get in at the same time as me. 'Coz the humiliation just wouldn't be complete if it happened any other way, would it?

Guilty!

2007-03-29T22:06:00.000-04:00

I am overcome by guilt when I don't blog. . . as if my blog is a living, breathing entity and I'm neglecting it and depriving it of love and attention by not writing something from time to time, and the nice people from blog services will come and take it away from me. And the guilt follows me around and gnaws at me, so much so that I have to sit down and write any entry about it.

But, unlike my usual complaint that I can't think of anything to write about, I do have an entry all written up in my head this time--about the ever-increasing likelihood that I will trip over my own feet and fall down the stairs at work every morning. (Ever-increasing=multiplying exponentially with each passing day.) I just haven't gotten around to actually typing it. And I am oh-so-tired now. . . and if I don't go to bed (even though it is only 10:06 p.m.), then tomorrow WILL be the day I fall head-first down the stairs. . . and it's a Friday and I have a busy weekend, and I'm planning on wearing my nice white trousers, so we don't want that. But it's on its way . . . both the fall and the entry. . . Trust me!

PS: Who bore witness to "MC Rove" displaying his hidden. . .ahem. . ."talent" for rapping and dancing today? Good thing he doesn't do that for a living. . . yet.

Life changes. . .

2007-03-25T23:03:00.000-04:00

Over the past few days, I've been hit by two realizations--1. how much things have changed, and 2. how little things have changed, since I graduated from high school.

What brought about this realization was finding someone I've been out of touch with for a long time. . . someone who was very much like a little sister when I was growing up. When I was a child, I very much wanted a baby sister, so when my family moved next door to hers, I eagerly embraced the role of big sister to her and her sister. I vividly remember, when she was about 7, someone made her cry--I can't remember the reason, or who it was--and she came running to me, threw her arms around me and burst into tears. When I came to the U.S. for college, she was still in middle school. I saw her again a couple of times when I went back to visit, and, while she had grown and matured the way most people do with the passage of time, I could discern no drastic change.

When I found her again--more of a (possibly unwelcome) entry into the fringes of her consciousness than actually getting back in touch--I realized how much she's grown and changed. I now feel very intimidated by this person my "baby sister" has grown into. I suddenly feel old and out of it (not that I was ever really "into" it), frumpy and awkward and old-fashioned compared to this popular, beautiful young woman who seems so sure of herself and is clearly adored by those around her.

And at the same time, I realized how little I've changed. For better or worse, most people who knew me 10-12 years ago will look at me and instantly recognize me as the Ini I was in high school. Sure, circumstances have changed, and I am older (and hopefully wiser), but other than the changes that time has wrought, I am still the same person. . . through college, work, London, grad school, and work again. Even now, my closest friends are those I went to high school with half way across the world.

So, I wonder. . . would I be as shocked at the changes in others if I'd changed more myself?

Houdini to be exhumed after 81 years!

2007-03-23T12:10:00.000-04:00

Anyone care to wager that the great stuntsman has skipped out? After all, nothing could contain him when he was alive. . . why should anything be different after death?

Story Highlights• Houdini's great-nephew wants to exhume Houdini's body for testing
• There is suspicion that Houdini may have been poisoned
• There are inconsistencies on death certificate and suspicious circumstances
• Internationally known forensic pathologist Dr. Michael Baden interested

NEW YORK (AP) -- For all of his death-defying stunts, Harry Houdini could not escape the Grim Reaper. The unparalleled performer, age 52, died on Halloween 1926, taking with him many of his trade secrets. Rumors he was murdered, however, soon took on a life of their own.

Eighty-one years later, Houdini's great-nephew wants to exhume the escape artist's body to determine if he was poisoned by enemies for his efforts to debunk their claims of contact with the dead.

A team of top-level forensic investigators would conduct new tests once Houdini's body was disinterred, a relative told The Associated Press.

"It needs to be looked at," said George Hardeen, whose grandfather was Houdini's brother, Theodore. "His death shocked the entire nation, if not the world. Now, maybe it's time to take a second look."

The circumstances surrounding Houdini's sudden death were as murky as the rivers from which he emerged unscathed, escaping from chains, locks and wooden boxes. The generally accepted explanation of Houdini's death is that he suffered a ruptured appendix from a punch in the stomach, leading to a fatal case of peritonitis.

But no autopsy was performed, and when the death certificate was filed on November 20, 1926, Houdini's body -- brought by train from Detroit to Manhattan's Grand Central Terminal -- was already buried in Queens.

Within days, a newspaper headline wondered, "Was Houdini Murdered?" A new biography, "The Secret Life of Houdini," raised the issue again and convinced George Hardeen and others that poisoning was a real possibility.

A Friday morning news conference was scheduled for details on the exhumation plans. Prominent New York lawyer Joseph Tacopina is assisting the family in clearing any legal hurdles to the exhumation.

The likeliest murder suspects were a group known as the Spiritualists, which became Houdini's nemesis in his final years. The magician devoted large portions of his stage show to exposing what he said were fraudulent seances by the group. The movement's devotees included Sherlock Holmes author Arthur Conan Doyle.

Houdini will 'get his just desserts meted out'
In the Houdini biography, authors William Kalush and Larry Sloman detail a November 1924 letter from Doyle that smacks of Professor Moriarty-style malevolence: Houdini, it said, would "get his just desserts very exactly meted out. ... I think there is a general payday coming soon."

Two years later, Houdini -- by all accounts an extraordinary physical specimen -- was dead before his 53rd birthday. Kalush and Sloman noted that "the Spiritualist underworld's modus operandi in cases like this was often poisoning" -- possibly arsenic.

The biography additionally detailed the injection of "an experimental serum" into Houdini by one of his doctors at Detroit's Grace Hospital.

While Houdini took the Spiritualists' repeated death threats seriously, he traveled without the security trappings now de rigeur for celebrities -- no bodyguard, no entourage, often just his wife Bess.

"If someone were hell-bent on poisoning Houdini," the authors wrote, "it wouldn't have been very difficult."

The team working on the exhumation includes internationally known forensic pathologist Dr. Michael Baden, and Professor James Starrs, a forensic pathologist who has studied the disinterred remains of gunslinger Jesse James and "Boston Strangler" Albert DeSalvo.

Baden, who chaired panels reinvestigating the deaths of President John F. Kennedy and civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr., pointed out a pair of oddities in Houdini's death certificate: It noted his appendix was on the left side, rather than the right. And the diagnosis of appendicitis caused by a punch was "very unusual."

Starrs said he was long familiar with the story of Houdini's death, and believed the fatal injury was the result of an accident. Details contained in the Houdini biography convinced him otherwise.

"My eyebrows went up when I read this book," Starrs said. "I thought, `This is really startling, surprising and unsettling, and at bottom, suspicious in nature."'

The exhumation plan received support from a surprising source: Anna Thurlow, the great-granddaughter of "medium" Margery, whose husband Dr. Le Roi Crandon was one of the Spiritualist movement's biggest proponents -- and one of Houdini's most virulent enemies.

During a 1924 seance, Margery "channeled" a "spirit" named Walter who greeted Houdini with a threat: "I put a curse on you now that will follow you every day for the rest of your short life."

The prediction of a short life was all too real, and Thurlow believes there may be a connection.

"With people that delusional, you have to question what they're capable of,"' she said. "If there's any circumstantial evidence that Houdini was poisoned, we have to explore that."

London, the greatest city in the world!

2007-03-15T15:00:00.000-04:00

So says The Times. Ok, so it's a British paper. Still. . . I couldn't resist posting this article that sings the praises of my beloved London! When I tell people that I prefer London to New York by a long shot, I often get the oh-you-poor-thing-you-really-aren't-all-there-are-you?-look. And often, I can't really even pinpoint why. It's crowded and noisy and dirty and the Tube is tiny and unairconditioned, and everything grinds to a halt when there's half an inch of snow on the ground, and it's grey and rainy. . . but there's just something about it that reached out and grabbed me the first time I visited the place--and I've been in love ever since. I usually get attached to places because of the people there. . . but if everyone I know and love in London left, I'd still want to live there (even though I'd be very sad and miss them all). It's weird. . . and it's unexplainable. . .but perhaps this article helps a bit.

I've left out some of the parts about why the city's also attracting more business (the biz journo in me resisted, but this is no business blog, so I fought it!). To see the whole thing, click here.

London calling
It’s cool, classy, cosmopolitan — and it should secede from the UK. Business Editor James Harding on why London is the new capital of the world.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine bought a one bedroom flat in Chalcot Square in Primrose Hill, London NW1. He paid £480,000 — just less than one million dollars. As I was living in the States at the time and flabbergasted by the price, he explained: “Chalcot Square is the best place in Primrose Hill, which is the nicest part of London, which is the coolest city on earth.” Location, location, location. “This is the best property on the planet.”

In fact, he was a few miles off. The most prized piece of real estate on God’s green earth has a view of the Serpentine rather than of Joan Bakewell’s living room. The Candy brothers, two upmarket property developers, have started selling flats at Number One Hyde Park for £4,200 a square foot. That means £84 million — $164 million — for a nice, roomy apartment.

Why? Because London is, indeed, the coolest city on earth. The capital of the world. New York, like Paris, has become a mini-break destination, a playground for grown-ups who enjoy the same standard tourist menu: a walk around Central Park; a shopping trip in SoHo; an entertaining, if unsurprising, show on Broadway; and a very large steak.

The world loves a long weekend in New York but, these days, prefers to make its home in London. New York has the nostalgia, London the future. New York defines the metropolitan, London the cosmopolitan.

And the reason for this is that foreigners in New York are, always, just that. The city treats even its long-term residents from abroad as visitors, welcomed on to the cocktail circuit, perhaps even to a share of a house in the Hamptons, but never to the power-broking tables at the Four Seasons. “New York is always American,” says Bill Roedy, the American who has spent the past 15 years in the UK running MTV world-wide. “Like Paris is French, Moscow is Russian, New York is American.”

London, on the other hand, is passport-blind. It does not have the luxury of being the de facto capital of a continental economy. So, it is international: it treats its visitors as citizens, as players.

Consider Chelsea Football Club, owned by a Russian, managed by a Portuguese and made great by a striker from the Ivory Coast. The Yankees may sign up a third baseman from the Dominican Republic or a pitcher from Japan, but the management is born in Brooklyn.

The men who run two of Britain’s largest mobile phone operators — Vodafone and Orange — are US-educated Indians. The world’s biggest mining companies, run by an American woman and two Australian men, have their headquarters in London.

In January, Nicolas Sarkozy, the French presidential candidate, came to London to chase the votes of young advertising executives and derivatives traders who had quit Paris. Last week, the head of the Democratic National Committee’s fundraising efforts came to the British capital, too, eager to tap up American expats willing to contribute to the 2008 campaign.

The mandarins of New York are currently gripped by a bout of Woody Allen-style neurosis, fretting that the city’s stature as the capital of world capitalism is being sapped by London. Last year, Mayor Mike Bloomberg and the New York senator Chuck Schumer commissioned McKinsey, the management consultants, to examine why international financial business was drifting away from Manhattan. And it suggests that their paranoia is justified.

* * * * *

Deep inside the Bank of England there is a room where the directors meet around a huge, oval mahogany table. The Courtroom is, frankly, a vulgar neoclassical eyesore — but despite the pretentious opulence and faux history of the place, one thing is authentic: the weathervane.

High on the western wall of the room, this clock-face tells which way the wind is blowing. Historically, an east wind would bring the merchant ships up the Thames and, with them, a surge in business. A west wind would prompt the merchants to set sail and the bankers to rein in credit.

The point is that London has long been sensitive to the trade winds. More than that, it has been adept at exploiting changes in the tide and the climate for its own commercial gain. And in recent years it has swollen thanks to this openness to foreign merchants, who have sailed in because they are fed up with the pernickety, litigious culture in the US, or because the City is a short hop from their homes in Moscow and Bombay, or simply because they like the safety on the streets, the serenity in the parks, the quality of schools for their children and the choice of restaurants.

British cuisine, once a contradiction in terms, has become such a hot ticket that you need to book nearly a month in advance to eat a plate of offal at St John on the weekend.

London has qualities: geography, history, culture and, more than that, a grudging embrace of all comers. Within a short walk from Trellik Tower in West London you can find a coffee, a cheese sandwich and a custard pie from Lisbon that make you feel as though you are in a provincial Portuguese cafe; you can eat a plate of steamed dumplings from the Royal China that would satisfy a discerning Shanghainese; a steaming, home-cooked nabemono at Inaho that could come from the Ginza; not to mention a great Indian at Malabar, a fine Lebanese at Fairuz and all that groovy Asian fusion stuff at E&O in Notting Hill.

A weekend in London is like a world’s greatest hits of city living: an English breakfast at Tom’s on Westbourne Grove, a morning spent browsing vintage Americana on Portobello Road, an afternoon watching the best French footballers at Arsenal, Chekhov at the Royal Court or Puccini at the English National Opera, Irish oysters at Sheekey’s for dinner, then out clubbing with the Russians at Annabel’s or the royals at Boujis (I’m making this up now). The next morning, a Spanish string quartet at the Wigmore Hall, a proper Sunday lunch, then a sleepy stroll past the Renoirs at the National Gallery.

No question, all this takes money. A lot of it. Much more than most Londoners have. But the capital’s claim to global leadership is not, sadly, because it is an example of equality. In terms of equal opportunities and the income gap, London has nothing to crow about. It has an alarmingly high level of unemployment — 8 per cent — and the wealth gap is wide and widening.

It’s hard to say which personality, New Yorker or Londoner, is preferable — the ballsy versus the stoic, the gruff versus the curmudgeonly, the sharp-tongued versus the quick-witted. But the real difference between the two is this: New Yorkers come from the five boroughs; Londoners from the five continents. They are Poles, Pakistanis, Brazilians, Americans, Nigerians and more. There are, it is said, 300 languages spoken in London.

London is absurdly expensive. New Yorkers point out that the cost of living in their city is nearly half what it is here. Yet Charles Alexander, who is in charge of the UK operations of General Electric, America’s biggest company, says of his American colleagues in London: “They don’t want to leave.” They like the life, the schools, the style of the city.

* * * * *

In September 2002, Paul Auster wrote in The New York Times about his city’s relationship with the rest of the country: “Alone among American cities, New York is more than just a place or an agglomeration of people. It is also an idea.” New York is the de facto capital of America and still a beacon to people around the world. But London has become an idea, too, and not as a refuge for huddled masses but as the most desirable address for global elites. For them, the argument between New York and London is done. They are just left quibbling over the preferred postcode: NW1 or SW1, Regent’s Park or Hyde Park.

Japanese lessons--for me and Weds

2007-03-12T18:18:00.000-04:00

Ohayo! Hajime mashite! Arigato gozaimasu for stopping by my blog. *

That's right. . . after 18 hours of Japanese classes over two weekends, I am now fluent! Haha. . . if only. I can make perfectly useless statements like Biji-san wa doyobi ni tomodachi to restoran de chiso pizza o ni-mai tabemachita (Mr. Biji ate two small pizzas in a restaurant with his friend on Saturday). . . I am hopeful, though, that the ability to compose such a sentence will be useful--maybe I will write a childrens' book on the Adventures of Biji-san!

And I am in the process of imparting all my Japanese wisdom to Weds, who will be flying off to Tokyo all by his big-boy-self in less than two weeks to join Okia. I am a firm believer in the notion that practice makes perfect-- so all our conversations now are strictly in Japanese. I think he's picking it up quite quickly too--I can tell by his responses that he really does have a knack for languages. His meowing sounds distinctly Japanese.

So am I going to miss my little substitute for human companionship (as Nev has taken to calling him)? Yes. Am I going to forget that he's left and go peeking under my couch and behind my bed when he doesn't answer my call? I'm afraid so. Am I going to be sad when he doesn't come trotting in, meowing seriously and insistently at me when I turn off the shower every morning? Very much so. But let's not go there yet. Let's focus instead on my efforts to making him bi-lingual!

*Hello! How do you do? Thank you very much for stopping by my blog.

Weds at two months old, about a month after Okia, my roommate then, brought him home

Weds a few months ago

Weds and me! (yes, he does sit and sleep like a human being)

For a drop of water to drink

2007-03-05T20:17:00.000-05:00

In August 2004, a young New Yorker was living it large in the Big Apple, as a promoter of top nightclubs and fashion events. But in the midst of his whirlwind of a life, he discovered a feeling of emptiness, a desperate yearning for something more. So Scott Harrison, who had given up on God to enjoy what the world had to offer, decided to make a drastic change, to see what the opposite of his life would look like. He applied for a position aboard the Mercy Ships, a humanitarian organization that operates hospital ships to some of the world's poorest countries. He was (reluctantly) accepted, and set sail for West Africa in the position of the ship's photojournalist.

The transition from his spacious Manhattan loft apartment to the ship's modest quarters was shocking. But when Harrison reached his destination, he found that even the ship was palatial compared with the conditions the people whose lives he was to photograph lived in.

Harrison began documenting what he saw--people who lived in abject material poverty but were infinitely wealthier than he had ever been in faith, heart and spirit. He came across several people with all kinds of unimaginable tumors--benign ones, but of such horrifying sizes and shapes that it was incredible that their fragile human bodies could even support the impossible-looking growths. And even more surprising, these people possessed a quiet peace and simple joy that he had never encountered amidst the abundance and opulence of New York.

Most of the tumors were caused by the dirty, bacteria-infested water that people in these areas had no choice but to drink. Harrison has posted photos and descriptions of his experiences during his travels on Mercy Global (the images on this web site are graphic and often disturbing). He has also created Charity:Water to raise money to fund wells that will provide clean, safe drinking water to these people.

Unfortunately, too many Christians live in complacency, believing that saying "Lord, Lord" is enough to get us into God's kingdom. Or we dismiss the sufferings of people in these countries as being too distant, blame them for their own poverty, or believe we have little time or money to spare for them. Looking at these pictures shows us not just how blessed we are, but also how much is expected of us in caring for those less fortunate than us, physically, spiritually and emotionally.

My church fellowship group has decided to fund one well, which costs about $4,000, and provides water to about 250 people. If you don't have a charity or a cause you're passionate about, I strongly encourage you to look into Charity: Water, and think about supporting this venture. Get a group of friends, your extended family, your work colleagues or your church or fellowship group together to sponsor a well, or go it on your own. Just click on Buy Water for more information on how you can help. Or you can join in my group's effort to raise the money for our well--just email me. Or, if you are not in a position to make a monetary contribution, help spread the word about this effort.

We take so much for granted--including the safe drinking water from our taps that we chug without a second thought. Make a difference in the lives of people who can't afford to take even this most basic of necessities for granted.

Can you figure this out?

2007-02-27T13:11:00.000-05:00

There's twelve of them. No wait! There's thirteen!! Where did the extra person come from?

Click here for the solution.

Against all odds. . .

2007-02-24T14:15:00.000-05:00

Ilajna, caveboy and I went to watch Gordon Chambers perform at the BAM last night. As I listened to him, and to Alice Smith, who opened for him, I started to think about people who are so passionate about something that whatever adverse circumstances they face in their quest for that thing seem insignificant. Watching the performers on stage, I was struck by the thought of how difficult it is to make it as a musician or singer or actor--and that those who aspire to such goals need equal doses of passion and perseverance; that they'd rather endure the struggles and hardships inherent in the pursuit of that goal than live life without it.

There are few people in this world with the tenacity to be that passionate--because it involves much risk and heartbreak, and calls for a great deal of strength and sacrifice. And there are even fewer for whom that tenacity endures, and the difficulties along the way don't overwhelm them.

The object of that passion doesn't necessarily have to be a goal like making it as an artist. As I pondered this, the thought kept coming back to me. . .that I used to be that passionate--about my relationship with Christ. And I also realized that I'm not anymore. I thought back to my mid-teens, when I made the conscious decision for the first time to follow Him--and longed for that passion again; when waking up an hour earlier in the morning to pray (when I was already waking up at the crack of dawn) was a joy, because it meant I could spend that time with Him; when I had the ability to see everyone through Christ-tinted lenses; and when nothing mattered as much as being in His presence day and night.

Today, I am anything but that--I mean, I know in my head that I have a relationship with Christ, but my entire existence is dictated by my circumstances. I am constantly in a bad mood (you should see my subway face--and the number of random strangers who tell me to smile as I walk by!), and I certainly am not "joyful always" (I Thess 5:16); I often ignore that twinge of guilt as I badmouth someone. . . and vow that I won't do it again, already knowing that I will; and praying is more of a chore than a joy. And even when I attempt to get back that passion I once had, I already know that any twist I encounter ahead will derail me.

I drew some inspiration from the passion and commitment I imagined last night's performers must have possessed to come this far. And I'm trying to pick myself up once again, and put myself back on course--with a little help from above.

Remembering. . .

2007-02-15T20:14:00.000-05:00

Memory is a funny thing, isn't it? I have training all this week at work, and have been struggling to find ways to keep myself gainfully occupied during the longish lunchtimes, as I usually don't take more than a 10-minute break--and, while I have many little things to do, can't do them while I'm at work. So today, on my longer-than-usual lunch break, I decided to take a walk (yes, in all the snow and slush, I decided I needed a jaunt). As I sauntered (waded) along, I found myself passing the library and decided to go in.

I fished around on the shelves for some quick, mindless reading, and soon found myself browing through books by an author whom I had not read, but who I knew wrote novels that fell into that category. I picked up the first book and turned to the synopsis. And I realized the story was familiar. Not just in a remote, vague kind of way either. I clearly remembered reading the book about 15 years ago. I remembered the plot, the main characters, and as I skimmed through the summary, realized that a vivid picture was forming in my mind of the story's very dramatic and surprising ending--even though the synopsis didn't even hint at it.

It was very strange. When I was a teenager, I used to read voraciously, my taste switching frenziedly between suspense paperbacks and hardbound classics. By the time I got to the third book, I'd already forgotten many of the details in the first one. So it was bizarre that I remembered so much about one of the random novels I zipped through during one of my reading marathons. My explanation is this-- the book is very VERY loosely based on Biblical events and prophesies (some would say blasphemously so), so maybe the fact that it is connected to something that is so much a part of my life is what made me remember it?

The thing though, is that there are certain books, events, even dreams, that I. . .we. . . remember clearly, for no apparent reason, while we forget other, seemingly more important details. Why is it that our minds latch on to certain memories, while carelessly, even eagerly, releasing others?

Water off a duck's back? Not so much. . .

2007-02-12T21:00:00.000-05:00

Sigh! It's crabbiness galore in Ini-land these days. Things that I'd normally brush off have me seething--a bad choppy haircut (I can pull off a ponytail for a month or two, can't I?), earphones that don't fit in my ear while working out (I've always known that my ears were a earphone-unfriendly shape--why does it bother me now?) a couple of messages that have gone unreturned (that's certainly not new), and just getting on the subway everyday. Teeny tiny things that would normally slip right off my back, that I'd usually not even notice--after all, this is someone who was walking around blissfully unaware of sporting two noticeably-uneven eyebrows for two months--have me up in arms. It might be time for a change of scene . . .

Journalism at its worst?

2007-02-07T22:55:00.000-05:00

In my humble opinion, the coverage of the story about Lisa Nowak-- the NASA astronaut who was arrested for allegedly attempting to kidnap and kill a female air force captain who she perceived as a rival for the love of a male NASA astronaut--is journalism at its worst. I finally learned late yesterday how to change the channel of my TV at work (which was set to CNN by my predecessor) and endured no less than 25 separate repetitions of the story throughout the day.

I understand the lure of the words "love triangle" for most human beings, but the level of coverage this story has gotten is nothing short of overkill. One very unhappy, confused, disturbed woman attempted to do something which I'm sure she'll spend the rest of her life regretting. Or perhaps not. But as I watched the story being repeated every half hour on what is supposed to be a serious news channel, I kept shaking my head in disbelief. There are floods in Indonesia, wars in Africa, a House panel inquiry into misuse of Iraq reconstruction funds, and new talks with North Korea about its nuclear program. And the biggest story of the past two days was a female astronaut who flew off the handle.

It is a big story, I don't disagree. But the biggest? Surely not! Or am I missing something?

Where has all my free time gone?

2007-02-07T22:22:00.000-05:00

So I've been wondering. . . where on earth has all my spare time gone? My very deadline-oriented new job means that, while the 9 to 6 hours are biz biz bizy, once it hits 6:00, or a little bit later as I wrap up the assignment in progress, I can leave. So what have I been doing with myself? I haven't gone to the gym, I haven't watched much TV, I haven't stayed much past six at work, I haven't hung out much with friends, and I certainly haven't been pursuing my beloved passtime of blog reading:(. But I feel like I'm running around like. . . well, like I did when I was in college. . . when I was YOUNG and had lots of energy! It looks like there's one thing after another that needed to be done YESTERDAY. And I'm chasing my tail trying to catch up with myself.

In a couple of months, chapter six will be over. And then, maybe at the beginning of chapter seven, there'll be time to spare?

The new job

2007-01-31T20:45:00.000-05:00

So, I'm sure my beloved readers have been waiting with bated breath to hear about my new job. Yes, yes, I know you have! At least you were before the waiting got to be too much and you couldn't take the fruitless checking any more. So I've decided to end the unbearable suspense and enlighten you!

For the first few days, I was drowning in new information. Lots to learn, lots to remember and memorize, a seemingly infinite number of little details to tuck away and as many minute tasks to remember to do. But as the days have passed, I have been learning--by watching, stumbling through the assignments. . . and making mistakes. Fortunately, in my eight days at The Wire so far, we've only had to put out a correction once for something I wrote. I know if that pattern keeps up, I'll rack up quite a number. But I prefer to see the glass as half full! My heart did jump into my mouth today when I got a new kind of assignment that I hadn't done before but fortunately, it ended up being too important for a rookie like me to do, so I ended up in the spectator role instead. Which suited me just fine--until the next time.

And I'm becoming quite the new junkie, what with the news on all day and the hundreds of stories flashing across my screen. So, whether it's the Boston "suspicious package" scare or Tyra Banks' weight woes, or the Fed's latest move (or lack thereof, as it turns out), I'm your woman!

The corporate culture at The Wire does take some getting used to. Because, while The Mag was also technically part of a big company, it had a distinct journalistic feel, and felt like a separate entity from the rest of the organization. The Wire, on the other hand, is much more integrated into the rest of the corporation--which might take a while to get accustomed to.

So overall, as we used to say in college: It's All Geeewwwd!

The answer. . .

2007-01-23T21:25:00.000-05:00

In my last post, I wondered if happiness comes from giving or holding back. My perspective in that post was a worldy one. And I think I got some consensus that putting yourself out there, and givng and caring, you put yourself at risk of getting hurt. So should you still continue to give and love and care?

I found the answer over the weekend, while reading the book Mocha on the Mount for the Soul Per Suit an online Bible study recommended by LL Barkat. Mocha on the Mount is based on Jesus' teachings in His sermon on the mount, the "Blessed are the. . ." part of the Bible. The author, Sandra Glahn, distinguishes between happiness and blessing. Here is what caught my attention:

"Happiness depends on external circumstances--I got a new job, I got engaged, my relationships are going well. But blessing depends on being rightly related to God despite external circumstances. Horatio Spafford, though his daughters had just drowned in a boating accident, was still able to write, "It is well with my soul." I seriously doubt he felt happy. Yet he knew he was blessed. Lady Juliana of Norwich, writing in the fourteenth century, said, "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.

"Jesus' message would never fly on Madison Avenue. Sigh up for the Christian life. Come, be poor and mourn and die!"

The author goes on to quote Ken Gire in The Reflective Life, who confesses that he wants to be like Christ in His glory, not Christ when he was hated, disgraced and spat on.

And as I thought more about this, I realized that my answer had been within my post, when I wrote that the world rejected and scoffed at Christ 2000 years ago.

Happiness in this world might require less love and caring, and more isolation and selfishness, but blessedness requires the opposite. I'm not saying that only in suffering and rejection do we find blessing--God absolutely rejoices in our happiness. But living by God's heart sometimes means loving and caring and giving even when we don't get much in return.

We still need to guard our hearts, and know when to step away and when there's nothing more we can do in a situation--after all, Christ calls us to love others AS we love ourselves. And, as a Christian, I realized that that is my part, and that is what I need to try my best to do--even if I don't always get the same in return.

Happiness comes from giving. . . or holding back?

2007-01-20T13:28:00.000-05:00

Caveboy and I have been talking a lot about happiness lately--perhaps partly the effect of discoveringThe Happiness Project blog. He even wrote a blog entry about it as a guest blogger, but then refused to let me post it. So I decided to write my own, albeit slightly different one.

The idealistic notion of happiness is that the more you give, the more you get. If you give love and kindness and caring, you get it all back, many-fold. In other words, as Luke 6:38 puts it: "Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."

This doesn't always hold true in the world we live in today--the more you give, the more you put yourself out there, the more you risk unhappiness--because you leave yourself vulnerable to being hurt, rejected, scoffed at, an open shot for those who are not willing to give as much. And you let your happiness be determined by others. But those who don't give, or choose carefully how much of themselves they do give, tend to be happier. They don't face as much hurt and rejection, because they protect themselves from it. Maybe they are less passionate, their loving a little less intense, but they are generally shielded from the hurt that comes from getting nothing or very little in return.

Take Dr. Izzy Stevens on the show Grey's Anatomy, for instance. She's actually my favourite character, because she gives abundantly but also expects much from those she gives to. But because she loves and cares so much, she also gets hurt the most. "But she was incredibly loved by Denny," Caveboy responded when I brought up the example. "Yes, and she lost him," I told him. "Well, um. . . he died," came the reply. But what was the guarantee? Maybe if Denny had gotten better and left the hospital and gone out into the world, he'd have fallen in love with someone else. And Izzy, for having loved him to the extent she did, would have been left to pick up the pieces.

Caveboy contends that those who are shallow, who hold back, are not really happy. Yes, they give less, so they get less. But they are also satisfied and content with less. Happiness is greater than contentment, Caveboy argued. Contentment beats heartbreak and misery, I shot back.

Ultimately, I don't think I am the pessimist I come across as. But I see, over and over, those who choose to go above and beyond in giving and loving get hurt and broken while those who hold back sail through, for the most part, intact. It happened 2000 years ago with Christ*, and not much has changed today. And in my own life, in every instance in which I've given completely, it's come back to bite me. Impulsive and hard-headed as I am, I have not learned from these experiences--much as I wish I had. I know that I will, in some instances, continue to care blindly, but the more it ends up backfiring, the more I wonder how much it is worth.

*I'm talking about the world's response to Him, not His coming into glory after His earthly death and the implications of that).

Convos with Caveboy--part II

2007-01-18T16:24:00.000-05:00

On the first day of my internship at The Mag:

Caveboy: omg
tell me all
SPILL THE BEANS.
Ini: lol
not much to tell
C: i've been waiting
on the edge of my seat
THE EDGE.
it's scary, the edge.
Ini: lol
yes i can imagine
it's going pretty ok
i've been going to random meetings
editor's meetings, international section meeting
photo selection meeting
C: random! we like random!
it keeps you on your toes!
the edge of your toes!
oooh
sounds glam.
I: hehe, yes
editing a couple of things
editing comments
i'm getting my feet wet,
C: egads.
wet!
we love wet!
I: then we hope to be able to write something
C: and edge!
omg omg
too exciting.
I: :)
my ed is quite good
C: yayayayay
I: he always calls me to all the meetings
C: we <3 good editors
I: and shows me editing stuff
C: we <3 going to meetings
C: we <3 being showed editing stuff.
I: brb
C: ok dokey karaoke smokey

*************************

C: i need an emotional number.
that's what i need.
I: lol
don't we all?
C: nah
i like my emoticons.
they're cute, and i keep them tucked inside, and then when i want, i wear them on my sleeve
and they make me handsome.
oh god
i'm a freak.
I :S
C: SUPER FREAK.
I: indeed
i told you
realization is good
and acceptance is even better
:)
C: hilarious.
ur hilarious.
i'm awesome.

Two kinds of people

2007-01-17T01:13:00.000-05:00

It takes all kinds to make a world, they say. If you boil that down to the most basic of denominators, you end up with two--those who make a difference and those who don't.

There are those who waltz into your life and never quite waltz back out. Years later, you find yourself telling your friends, your aquaintances, your grandkids about that person who made an indelible impression on you. People are drawn to them wherever they go--they're the life of the party, the glue of the group, the ones everyone falls in love with, and often leave a trail of broken hearts in their wake.

Then there are the others. The ones with whom you form a loose bond--or if you do manage a stronger one, it's usually temporary; the ones whom you see when they're there but don't particularly miss when they're not; the ones who stand on the fringes, never quite comfortable with themselves or anyone else; the ones who are easily forgotten and gotten over; the ones who are usually left, repeatedly, with the broken hearts.

I think most people are different in different circumstances, and can flit between these two categories, depending on whom they're with and what the situation calls for. But there are a few--very few, I believe--who fall squarely into one or the other, and don't quite manage to ever leave it. In which case, is it better to belong to the first or the second? And what does one do upon making the discovery?

Changes. . .

2007-01-12T20:41:00.000-05:00

Today was my last day at The Mag. I take next week off to work on some freelance projects, finish up a couple of stories I've been working on for The Mag, gather my wits and my emotions together, and prepare myself for starting my new job at The Wire the following Monday.

The past couple of weeks have been a roller coaster ride. The Mag has been a haven for me, and leaving that security is daunting. I fear I will never work with such caring, accomodating souls again (although The Rock did present me with two scenarios: a. that I would be hired by The Mag in the future, or b. that I would come back and take his job--we'll see).

During the week before my departure from London, as I made my way down to my goodbye party with two colleagues, I told them that the beginnings and ends of the chapters of my life have always been clearly delineated. One closes unequivocally before another opens. I am now nearing the conclusion of chapter six. And I am worried and confused.

A job at The Wire means a lot more than just another new job(more on that later). And this time, an additional, personal, variable has made things even more confusing, and I hesitate. For, with this job comes a turn that is difficult to retrace my steps from. And while everyone else exclaims at the opportunities that lie ahead of me, all I can muster is a sigh and a "Yeah, I guess it'll be ok." Because I fear I may be giving up one opportunity for another--and in so doing, making a choice that will define the rest of my life.

Confusion begets worry and fear and frustration, and one result of all this is that I may have caused irreparable damage to a valuable friendship. Amid all the confusion, I felt wronged and hurt by this friend, and I told them so, not very pleasantly, without really considering their position. The conversation I'd imagined in my head went so much better than the actual one. The moment I'd uttered the words, I cursed myself for having said them. I learned the power of words--both good and bad--a long time ago, but forgot those lessons. And I also learned many years ago that, while work-wise, I may be thick-skinned, I am not so when it comes to those who mean much to me--and that what gets to me more than anything else is having something come between me and someone I care about, regardless of which side the fault lies with. I will joyfully take all the blame if it will bring reconciliation. And reconciliation I need now--as all my efforts to contact this friend have been fruitless.

So the close of this week finds me minus one internship, plus one job, possibly minus one friend, plus many doubts. But contradictory as this may seem, I also have an absolute, concrete-block kind of sense that this job, and the direction it will take me in, is part of God's plan for me. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that I'm losing something. . .

Convos with Caveboy--part I

2007-01-10T18:10:00.000-05:00

I have decided to introduce a new section to my blog, to be updated intermittently. I am convinced that Caveboy is quite the joker (or possibly quite mad). So, I'm putting parts of our (insane) chat conversations on my blog, so the rest of the world can enjoy the benefits of knowing this complex and fascinating human being. Here's the first installment:

Ini: what r u up to?
Caveboy: i am waiting for
COUCH
I: ohhh yaay! finally
C: FINALLY
pray PRAY
that it fits.
PRAY.
I: hehe
ok
C: I have cleaned the apt
in anticipation.
I: lol
Viren: yes, "lol."
I: ru trying to impress the delivery guys?
C: no,
i am trying to introduce my apt
to the couch
gently

(for an update on Caveboy's couch problems, please visit his blog and read from Reports from New York on till the second last post in the blog.)
**************************************

I: Is it a circuit or a circuit breaker that you trip?
C: nope
I:?????

Fishie pictures, part deux

2007-01-07T11:06:00.000-05:00

Here are more photos from the GA aquarium (continued from previous post):

Fishie pictures

2007-01-07T10:44:00.000-05:00

Nev and I went to the Georgia Aquarium--the largest in the world--when I visited Atlanta over Thanksgiving. I finally got around to downloading the photos from that visit. There's something so surreal about every aquarium I've been to--the water, the incredibly, breathtakingly beautiful fish, and, if I could block out the hordes of noisy tourists, the unbelievable serenity that comes from just gazing into the tanks.

In 1998, when I left my parents in India for the first time (way after many of my boarding school friends), and went to Sri Lanka to apply for my student visa to come to the U.S. I'd never felt more lonely or afraid. In my cousin's house, where I stayed, there was a small fish tank with about three fish. I'd often stand in front of that tank when I became overcome by a wave of panic and homesickness, watching the fish swimming around, completely oblvious to the chaos that is this world. And I would inevitably find myself growing calmer and breathing easier.

Here are some of the pictures:

This picture of Nev is should be treasured, because it shows him smiling--and that is almost impossible to find in photos. Nev is a firm believer in scowling at cameras.

New Year's money

2007-01-04T14:19:00.000-05:00

We have a charming little New Year's tradition in my part of the world that I've missed for the past nine years (gosh, it's been that long?!?!). Parents and other adults would give their children and other youngsters cash--without being asked! It wouldn't be much--just five rupees, upped to 10, then 20, as age and inflation necessitated--not even enough to buy a candy cane on sale here.

But it was the whole build up to it, trying to guess how much would be forthcoming, and figuring out which adults could be milked for the money that was fun; and the well-laid plans afterwards for spending it. Plus, it was all done very surreptitiously--I've never quite figured out why. Usually we'd go to midnight mass, after which we'd come back home, eat, drink and make merry. At some point, there'd be hugging and kissing and wishing, and in the middle of all the swishing of new clothes and whirling of newly-done hair, somehow the cash would change hands. . .and before I knew it I would be standing there, 10 rupees richer.

There was a catch though--we had to keep the new money until the end of the year. Of course, we could use the cash from the previous year. But if it was a year when we got 10 rupees, but had only received five the previous year, we did feel a bit jipped. But the thought of five extra rupees to spend the following year kept us going.

I never quite asked why or how the tradition started. I guess the obvious answer is that it was a wish for prosperity and happiness for the following year. To me, at that time, it was a treasure that I would safely keep in my little red plastic purse, take out and look at occasionally, and plan carefully--taking into account the depreciating value of the currency and what world events were affecting inflation and all, of course--how I was going to spend it come next New Year's.

Diet anyone?

2007-01-03T13:48:00.000-05:00

I thought this might be fitting for this time of year. . . (I don't know why it's so small. Click on it to see full size).

Long lost twin?

2006-12-29T12:52:00.001-05:00

This photo ran in The Mag this week, in a story that was held from the week after Thanksgiving. I've been waiting for it to show up ever since then, because of this conversation on my return from Atlanta.
The Rock to Crislin: So apparently they've decided to hold the story.
Crislin: Oh ok.
The Rock to spacey Me: So that means your picture won't run this week.
Me to The Rock: blank stare
Crislin: Oh yeah, that's true. Well, next week.
Me to Crislin: blank stare
The Rock and Crislin: Hahaha.
Me to both: blank stare
Finally The Rock deigned to explain: We chose a photo with a woman who we all think looks like you to run with the story.
Me: Ohhhh. Ok. (trying to act nonchalant, but secretly dying to see this photo, convinced it's not going to be a flattering resemblance--or worse, someone that I think I look nothing like, but everyone else thinks is a carbon copy.)
The Rock: Of course, everytime someone says you (generic you) look like someone, you always think they look nothing like you.
Me: Yeah, I know. (now nervously) Hehe.
Since then, as soon as the weekly email plopped into my inbox saying that latest issue was in, I'd run to the library to page through the mag to see if the story was there, not even entirely sure what I was looking for--just a photo of someone who might look kinda, sorta like me. But no. Last week, an email came from The Rock with the PDF of the story (it took me a while to figure out which story the photo was running with, but I did, finally). PDF=photo! I immediately opened it, and there it was finally--the photo of my supposed twin, albeit a profile. And to be honest, although I've examined it from every angle, I can't even tell if she looks like me or not. Although, truth be told, I'm not entirely disappointed.
So? Does she? Doesn't she? Shocked at the uncanny resemblance? Or going "what?!?!? How could they even think that?" Or as confused as me?

Kiddie party

2006-12-28T13:34:00.000-05:00

Today, we had the kiddie version of our work Christmas party. As I am kiddie-less, I didn't go. But it is impossible to not notice some 20-odd bundles of energy darting about the hallways. I happened upon one of these--stationary this time--near the library. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, about two feet high, her tiny face in a half-frown, half-smile, palms up in a questioning gesture, demanding of the world-at-large: "Where's daddy? Where'd daddy go?" "Hmmm! Where DID daddy go?" I wondered. And, as I watched, the half-frown disappeared, to be replaced by a full grin, as daddy appeared. "There's daddy!"

I went into the kitchen, and stumbled upon another little guy, only slightly older, sitting at the dining table, picking at a piece of pizza, long gone cold, somberly absorbed in the news on TV. Someone came in and asked him where his parents were. He mumbled something shyly, and went back to playing with his food and watching the news. "Hah!" I thought. "A journo in the making!"

And as I walked back to my cubicle, one of The Rock's two daughters, and a boy of unknown parentage, shot past me shouting, "Hide! Hide!" (At first, I thought she was yelling "Hi! Hi!" and I was almost moved to tears that she remembered me.) They rushed into the empty office next to mine, and I tuned out. A few minutes later, my attention was drawn to them again as The Rock and Pendio, a senior reporter, approached the office.

"You know, Pendio here is the BEAR of the whole of The Mag," The Rock informed the kids. Pendio duly growled to show that he was indeed the bear of the office. "Yes, he's the BRAIN of this WHOLE place." Pendio puffed out his chest, and pointed to his head. "So you guys need to be quiet, so he can THINK!"

The kids were clearly unimpressed by Pendio's greatness. "Well, we're leaving now anyway," one of them informed The Rock, duly putting him and all of Pendio's bearness and braininess in place. And, after a little more high-pitched excitement, they did.

Ah, for peace and quiet. Although, I must say, it is fun to have little people around--for a little bit at least-- in such a very grown-up place.

My Christmas pet peeve

2006-12-21T12:45:00.000-05:00

This is the season to be kind and giving and forgiving, and generally, I am (I like to think anyway:)If you disagree, SHHHHHH!!!). But one pet peeve that rears its head at this time of year concerns people who whinge about "having" to spend Christmas with their families.

Yes, I understand that families have their problems, and some worse than others. But they're still FAMILY. Unless they've done something horrendous that's scarred you for life, and seeing them is clinically traumatizing, this is the time to put aside your differences and enjoy them. And to be glad that you have them, and that you get to spend time with them. Not to continue to hold grudges and have a bad attitude, and join the throngs that complain about another Christmas at home.

Put these people far far away from their families, where they can't see them or spend time with them. . . and I'm willing to bet the farm* that the majority of them will be singing a different tune.

There! It's out now! My Christmas pet peeve!

Merry Christmas all!!

*I don't actually have a farm. . . but I'm willing to bet Weds instead, if you prefer. And you know he's worth more than any farm to me. . . and to Okia, his real owner--who I'm sure wouldn't appreciate me using her cat as a pawn in my betting!

Unconditional love

2006-12-16T10:43:00.000-05:00

By Sam Gross, The New Yorker, Nov. 30, 1998. From cartoonbank.com

Static

2006-12-14T16:19:00.000-05:00

Have you ever felt like you're standing in a corner, looking on, while the world whirls on around you? I feel a little bit like that now--I'm static, very much an observer, watching as everyone else's lives change, move forward, on to the next level.

The Bart, Chaps, Lala are all getting married, Jags is legally married already, Oiram is the same, Gio is going to be a daddy, Emsten's starting a new business and trying to become a mommy, and Juff Juff's gotten serious about his relationship. And as I become aware of each development in my friends' lives, I become more and more of an onlooker--a happy one, but an onlooker all the same. Yes, there are changes in my life too (soon, hopefully), but those are more beginning of life changes--new job, moving to new place etc. The others' changes are more, I don't know, "grown-up." Growing up. They're all growing up, and becoming big people, people with families and responsibilities. And I'm still, in some ways, not much different from the 10-, 12-, 17- 23-year-old I was when I met some of them.

It's a strange feeling. Not necessarily a bad one. It's actually fun to see the world, and the lives of people I care about, changing, moving on to the next phase. But it's a strange feeling, nonetheless.

Merry Whatever

2006-12-14T14:16:00.000-05:00

Not that I'm on a soapbox or anything. . .

Source: Comics.com

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!

2006-12-12T21:52:00.000-05:00

I left the gym in a bad mood today, and fuming and scowling, made my way to the bus stop and back home. As I slipped my key into the keyhole, I heard a strange buzzing noise, coming, fittingly enough, from my apartment. "Ugh, great," I thought. "Just what I needed."

I entered the apartment, and the loud buzzing enveloped me. I promptly burst into tears, and went in search of the source of the annoyance. I found it in a small metal panel, the size of a switch plate, screwed into the wall in the kitchen. I felt the panel. It was warm. "What do I do?" I demanded of myself. I tripped the circuit breaker. Nothing. "Aaargh." And another bout of tears.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I dialed the management office number, then the emergency pager number. I paged, and waited. A few minutes later, as I began dialing the pager number for the second time, the call came. I explained the situation, then repeated it to someone else. I was ordered to trip the circuit breaker again, and did so. Nothing. Then I was told to go down to the garage and do the same again on my apartment's circuit breaker. I dutifully did so. Still nothing.

They said they were sending someone over to investigate, but he was coming from Jersey City and it would take about half an hour. In the meantime, I should call the electricity company to see if they could figure out what the problem was, and what the mysterious panel was. I did as I was told, spoke to someone clueless, who told me to call an electrician "Erm, I don't think it has anything to do with electricity," I informed her. "Yes, I know. That's why you should call an electrician," came the reply. I gave up, hung up, and decided to wait for the guy from the management office.

About 20 minutes later, after a pointless phone call to Nev--an engineer who informed me that he couldn't diagnose a problem from just a buzzing noise--several confused looks from an annoyed Weds, and a splitting headache in the making, I heard a knock on the door. Wondering why he hadn't buzzed the doorbell, I opened the door. He looked at me, looked at the doorbell, looked back at me, pressed the doorbell, and asked "Is this it?" The buzzing noise stopped instantly. Blessed peace.

He started laughing, while I grinned sheepishly, and apologized profusely. A phone call to the management office and more apologies later, the repair man left. And I kicked myself. Why didn't I think of it? The freakin' doorbell of all things. Figures!

Temporary bliss

2006-12-11T17:26:00.000-05:00

On Saturday, I decided I was going to clean. My apartment was sufficiently covered in cat hair, my sink was sufficiently full of dirty dishes, and my pile of laundry was sufficienty daunting. So, after much hemming and hawing, I decided to finally whip out the hand vac and broom, the cleaning fluid, my pile of laundry quarters, and get to work.

The good thing though, is that once I get started, I go all out. So it was that, three hours later, I had vacuumed, swept, and scrubbed till every corner of my apartment was clean and shiny, and my laundry was spinning contentedly in the dryer.

I showered, made some spicy chai, helped myself to some frozen Fig Newtons, lit an apple cinnamon candle and the scented oil burner, and sat down to enjoy my newly (albeit temporarily) sparkling home. I popped in a "Law and Order: SVU" DVD (not exactly fitting with the whole bliss theme, but it happened to be next on my Netflix list) and sat down to enjoy the lack of mess. Weds clambered onto a cushion on the other couch, settled himself comfortably, and looked just as ready to do the same.

And enjoy we did--until my first sneeze. Followed by another. And another. Now, believe it or not, I STILL DON'T HAVE HEAT!! As I had been moving around earlier, my body had been sufficiently warm. But, as soon as I sat down, the cold hit. And so it was that at the end of a few hours, I was reduced to a sneezing, sniffling mess, surrounded by tissues and shivering like a leaf under my blanket. I was sure that a good night's sleep would do the trick.

But I woke up yesterday, still freezing, still sneezing and sniffling. And even Weds couldn't hold back a sneeze--and a mighty one at that, for such a wee nose.

I think a lawsuit may be in the making if my heat isn't turned on in the next couple of days.

A blissful Weds

12 days of "holidays?"

2006-12-10T12:36:00.000-05:00

Wowie. . . lots of posts today. Here's a column from BusinessWeek magazine in favour of putting the word "Christmas" back into our celebrations this year--albeit from a business perspective. I did see a piece on the news recently that more stores/businesses were greeting customers with "Merry Christmas" again this year.

An Unreasonable Fear of Christmas
Our columnist thinks if advertisers want the huge spike in sales that Christmas provides, they should acknowledge the holiday itself
by Steve McKee

I miss Christmas.

The other night I saw a TV commercial for Lowe's (LOW) that was built on a cute premise. A clumsy young guy approached a female warehouse employee and blurted out, "Would you be my wife?" Startled, the clerk hesitantly began walking the man through the store until she realized that all he wanted was a woman's opinion about the gift he was thinking about buying for the love of his life.

But here's where the spot went south: As the young man role-played with the clerk, turning around and presenting the gift (presumably on Christmas morning), he looked at her and exclaimed, "Happy Holidays!"

Happy holidays? Is that really what a husband would say to his wife? By trying to cover all the bases, the spot ended up feeling forced. It was a departure from reality and a prime example of the unreasonable fear advertisers have these days of saying the word "Christmas."

Where's the Emotion?
It used to be that people wrung their hands about the over-commercialization of Christmas. These days we have almost the opposite problem—Christmas is disappearing entirely. Advertisers still want the huge spike in sales that Christmas provides but they're afraid to acknowledge the holiday itself.

It's almost funny to watch them trip over themselves trying to find politically correct substitutions as they avoid saying the dreaded "C" word. But "happy holidays" and "season's greetings" only go so far. They sound hollow and synthetic, and that kind of approach is no way to build a connection with your target audience.

It seems companies have become so afraid of offending some mythical person out there that they're unwilling to express their true sentiments. After 20 years in the advertising business there's one thing I've learned: Every ad is offensive to someone. Still, I find it a stretch to think that wishing your customers a "Merry Christmas" is going to set somebody off. And if it does, well, there's a word for them: Scrooge.

Don't Lump Them
Ah, you say, but Christmas is a religious holiday—what about people from other faiths? It's true that to millions of people Christmas is the most religious holiday of the year, but to millions of others it's all about Santa Claus and reindeer and stockings hung by the chimney with care.

As the song says, it truly is the most wonderful time of the year, even for many who don't celebrate it as a religious holiday. And there's no reason why the recognition of one holiday precludes the celebration of others. Lumping them together only makes each less special.

Remember A Charlie Brown Christmas? Of course you do, because it's perhaps the most popular Christmas television program of all time. For 41 years this charming (and overtly religious) special has been delighting children of all ages, and it has lost none of its appeal. Why? Because people love Christmas.

The Coca-Cola Claus
And just think of all the warm advertising traditions associated with Christmas, from the Budweiser (BUD) Clydesdales to the Norelco Santa. In fact, not so long ago Norelco (PHG) used to call itself "Noelco" during the holidays, using the tagline "Even our name says Merry Christmas."

Seventy-five years ago Coca-Cola (KO) invented the modern image of Santa Claus, a fact of which—to their credit—they still proudly boast. But even Coke has gotten cold feet; they're featuring Santa on their packaging this year but still won't call it a "Christmas Can" (despite the nice alliteration). Instead, they printed "Holiday Can" at the top. Ugh.

By all means don't be insincere. If you don't want people to have a merry Christmas, don't say so. But if you do, don't be afraid to let your advertising spread a little Christmas cheer. Otherwise, before long we'll all be reduced to humming holiday carols as we open our holiday cards and put holiday presents under our holiday trees. Not to mention dreaming of a white holiday.

To that I say humbug. Merry Christmas!

McKee is president of McKee Wallwork Cleveland Advertising, an ad agency specializing in working with fast-growth companies and businesses whose ad budgets are under $10 million.

Strange Bibles

2006-12-10T12:25:00.000-05:00

Here's an interesting story that ran in The Wall Street Journal on Dec. 6 that kind of tickled me. Some food for thought too, I guess.

Heavens, Bibles Are Really Booming
By JOANNE KAUFMAN
December 6, 2006; Page D12

Several weeks ago, Christian book publisher Thomas Nelson Inc. received a curious submission, "sort of an alarmist Bible," recalled Wayne Hastings, a senior vice president of the Nashville, Tenn.-based company. "A lot of it had to do with what recently went on in Israel and Lebanon."

The offering featured headlines that had been snipped from the front pages of USA Today, then pasted below select New Testament verses. Also included was some newspaper boldface about the collapse of the Jessica Simpson-Nick Lachey marriage accompanied by relevant text from Scripture, presumably not Genesis' 2:24 dictum: "a man shall leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife."

Thomas Nelson, which produces 150 different editions of the Bible each year, arguably more than any other publisher in the world, "gets all sorts of interesting proposals," said Mr. Hastings. Some, like the alarmist Bible and a submission featuring 20 iterations of Scripture woven together -- "It was confusing and overwhelming," he said -- got a thanks but no thanks. The idea of tucking the New Testament between the boldly colored covers of what looked like a teen fashion magazine as a way of appealing to adolescents -- Corinthians and Colossians for the Cosmo girl -- and the notion of a water-resistant Bible, inspired by a leaf of paper sent to Thomas Nelson by a vendor -- well, folks, start the presses.

Always a dependable seller, the Bible is in the midst of a boom. Christian bookstores had a 25% increase in sales of Scriptures from 2003 to 2005, according to statistics gathered by the Phoenix, Ariz.-based Evangelical Christian Publishers Association, a trade group. General-interest bookstores, while declining to give figures, have also seen increasingly strong sales. "Bibles are a growth area for us and we're giving them more space in our stores," said Jane Love, religion buyer for Barnes & Noble. "It's partly because of the way they've evolved over the last three or four years."

Indeed, publishers like Thomas Nelson; Grand Rapids, Mich.-based Zondervan; and Tyndale House in Carol Stream, Ill. -- which together represent an estimated 80% of the Bible market -- have gone far beyond offering the Scriptures between black, burgundy, navy or white covers.

"For a long time the Bible was just the Bible," noted Kevin O'Brien, director of Bibles at Tyndale House. "You put it out there and people bought it. They didn't ask about the options, because there weren't any options. But now, especially in evangelical circles, people are seeing their lives not just in color but high-definition color, and they want the Bible to fit in with that. This is not your mother's Bible."

Thus, following the gospel of Seventh Avenue, publishers are displaying their wares in the season's hot colors. "This year alone I've seen four shades of purple," said Ms. Love, whose stores have also done well with two-tone Bibles. The pink and brown model has been particularly popular. Bibles are also available in the colors of your college, with a fur cover, a flower-patterned cover, and to appeal to young adherents, with a camouflage cover, a metal cover and a duct-tape cover. Next spring Tyndale House will be bringing out a paperback Bible in a plastic case that looks like a flattened Nalgene bottle.

But Bibles are becoming as much personal statements as fashion statements. "What people are saying is 'I want to find a Bible that is really me," noted Rodney Hatfield, a vice president of marketing at Thomas Nelson. "It's no different than with anything else in our culture."

Responding to such desires, publishers offer compact Old and New Testaments like Thomas Nelson's so-called checkbook Bible and Zondervan's Bible in a Bag, as well as myriad themed Bibles, among them archaeology, leadership and sports. "Sometimes what you have to work with seems quite inadequate," begins one section of the basketball edition. "Consider the plight of Rollie Massimino, the coach of the Villanova Wildcats...Villanova was ranked, well nowhere...Several thousand years earlier there was another underdog group that didn't have much to work with. They were called the Israelites."

There are PDA Bibles; audio versions like James Earl Jones reading the New Testament and Zondervan's just released "Bible Experience" with the voices of such African-American stars as Angela Bassett, Denzel Washington and Cuba Gooding Jr. Coming soon from Thomas Nelson: Johnny Cash reading the New Testament. There are Bibles aimed at children and teens, Bibles aimed at women. There's that water-resistant version of the New Testament -- "Immerse," from Thomas Nelson -- for camping trips, days at the beach, and perhaps baptisms. "We had a customer test it by keeping it in a bucket overnight and it was fine," said Mr. Hastings. Prices range from $1 to almost $200 for a 2,400-page study Bible hand bound in calfskin.

Fortunately for Bible publishers, consumers seem to think that if one copy of the Good Book is good, two or more are even better. "Forty percent of my customers own three to 10 Bibles," said Mr. Hastings. "It's sort of like me and golf. I have Tiger Woods's book and Ernie Els's book. I want all those different approaches to how to play golf. It's the same with Bibles."

The expansion of outlets -- Wal-Mart, Costco, Sam's Club -- partly explains the uptick in Bible sales, believes Paul Caminiti, a vice president at Zondervan. "Our company has seen a 20% growth in the last 10 years because of that," he said. The large array of translations has also played a role, according to Mark Kuyper, president and CEO of the Evangelical Christian Publishers Association. "It means there's more opportunity for them to appeal to groups with different theological perspectives," he said.

In some instances, spiritual leaders are embracing myriad translations and their flocks are following suit. "You go back 20 years and the pastor would stand in the pulpit and say 'you need to have this Bible, this translation. Go to the store and buy it,'" said Thomas Nelson's Mr. Hatfield. "But now pastors are reaching out and grabbing the translation that best suits their point for a particular sermon."

The parlous times are also a big motivator for people to open their wallets. "Part of what we see," said Mr. Kuyper, "is that when there is incredible unrest people are asking themselves existential questions and they're drawn to search Scripture. We saw a huge jump in sales after 9/11. We're not in that environment today, but we're certainly in an unsettled environment."

However interested they are in broadening their customer base, publishers say there is a very distinct line between the sacred and the profane. And don't even get them started on the "Jesus Loves Porn Stars" Bible that was distributed this past summer at an erotica convention in Los Angeles. "We're not going to do anything that is overtly seductive," said Mr. Hastings. "And we are not going to get into centuries-old arguments about denominational preferences between Catholics and Protestants. We're not going to do something to stir the pot. We'd turn down anything offensive to either side, that was either heretical or controversial."

"The question is always how do we create Bibles that people will pick up and use but that will not be too gimmicky," said Tyndale House's Mr. O'Brien. "If you get too trendy you've turned the Bible into a widget."

Ms. Kaufman writes about the arts and culture for the Journal.
URL for this article:
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB116536078510241660.html

Six months at The Mag

2006-12-07T13:16:00.000-05:00

As of this past Tuesday, I've been at The Mag for six months. SIX MONTHS! These same six months last year seemed to drag on forever. Time indeed passes quickly when you're having fun. And fun it has been. When I've worked at huge companies and publications in the past, I've often felt lost and confused, more superfluous than anything else, like an unwanted pet that has to be taken care of, and that care given grudgingly.

When I started at The Mag, that was what I feared--no, was sure--would happen. The tight deadlines, the layoffs which had happened a few months earlier, and the fact that it's part of a huge corporation, all made me sure that I would be no more than a pain amidst the hustle and bustle of life here, and that busy editors would see me as more of a hindrance than help. And I fretted and worried.

But I've been proved so wrong. I've been taken seriously, given daily responsibilities, stories to work on, and encouraged to develop my own ideas, even outside of my assigned section. I've pitched stories to editors, who have painstakingly worked with me to develop and shape them into comprehensive stories. When my job offers were being rescinded, editors joined together to ensure that I had enough work to keep me on while I figured out my next move. When I've helped reporters on stories outside of my section, I've had more than one editor say, "If they don't give you a byline for that story, let me know, and I'll deal with it." I've felt depended on, useful, and anything but unwanted.

These have been a strange six months. But this job has been a haven, and I believe, in God's own way, the withdrawal of the other job offers was a good thing after all.

NOTE: I try to stay away from work-related entries, but since I am at my six-month point, thought I would be justified in making an exception.

Forgiveness

2006-12-06T11:51:00.000-05:00

At church this Sunday, the worship leader sang this song by Hillsong United. I used to go to Hillsong church in London, so have a soft spot for all things Hillsong. But this song, in particular, struck a chord. I've been irked by my tendency to go on "sinning binges" and trying to find a balance between questioning the nature of my relationship with God, finding excuses for my actions, and wondering if I take my salvation through Christ for granted.

And even as I contemplated this, this song reminded me of God's unfailing love and His grace through Christ, and that, even if we don't, He does indeed forgive "seventy times seven."

All for love, a Father gave
For only love could make a way
All for love, the heavens cried
For love was crucified

Oh, how many times have I broken Your heart
But still You forgive if only I ask
And how many times have You heard me pray
Draw near to me

Everything I need is You
My beginning, my forever
Everything I need is You

Let me sing all for love
I will join the angel song
Ever holy is the Lord
King of glory, King of all

Oh, how many times have I broken Your heart
But still You forgive if only I ask
And how many times have You heard me pray
Draw near to me

Everything I need is You My beginning, my forever
Everything I need is You

All for love a Savior prayed
Abba Father, have Your way
Though they know not what they do
Let the cross draw man to You, to You, to You

Writer's block, and a bad novel

2006-12-05T11:28:00.000-05:00

Lack of motivation, writer's block and brainfreeze brought on by the sudden onslaught of winter are deadly in combination. Particularly when you write for a living, and have a huge story--which you've been (supposedly) working on for the past 1.5 months--to start, er, I mean, finish.

All I want to do is curl up in bed and read a novel--no, not the one I've been reading for the past three months, and refuse to give up on because I want to start my book review blog (yes, yes it's still on its way) reviewing what might be the most unsuspenseful suspense novel ever written. And I hardly ever read novels, except as treats. I know, I know. I couldn't write one to save my life. But then, I don't claim to be a writer of suspense novels, do I? I'm just a deadly dull journo with writer's block.

But I may, in the spirit of Christmas, extend some grace to the author, and be a little less mean when I review it. If I finish it before Christmas, that is. And if I actually review it. Or I might extend him some more grace, and stop reading it altogether. I'm sure he'd be hugely relieved.

Big foot problems

2006-12-03T19:11:00.000-05:00

Note to self: Do not buy shoes smaller than your abnormally gigantic feet--even if they are only half a size. Especially if they are the high-heeled, pointy-toed ones. Because, that would mean not only limping around the office, drawing curious stares, but also sitting in your apartment in your PJs, wearing two pairs of thick workout socks, with your feet stuffed into your too-small shoes, fruitlessly attempting to stretch them.

Just accept that you have big feet. That would solve a lot of problems.

Weds' Thanksgiving

2006-11-29T21:58:00.000-05:00

All though Thanksgiving weekend in Atlanta, I kept telling Nev, "I hope the cat is alive when I get back," and "If he's alive, I hope the cat hasn't trashed my apartment."

I had good reason to be worried. I'd poured him enough water to last, I hoped, the four days I'd be away. But he'd splashed half of it out before I even left, and I was having nightmares that I'd return to find him flat on the floor, parched and panting, at best. And if that hadn't happened, he usually tore apart anything he laid his paws on when I was home. I couldn't imagine what he might do left to his own devices for days.

So it was with a fair bit of apprehension that I opened the door to my apartment yesterday. "Wednesday," I called out. No answer, and no excited cat came bounding up. That was unusual. A feeling of dread came over me. "Wednesday," I called again, as I walked in, my suitcase forgotten outside. I made my way through the apartment, peering under the couch, looking on top of the fridge, peeking into his little tent--all his favorite hiding places. But no cat.

Then I heard mewing, pitiful and scared. "Wednesday?"

The mewing grew louder, and I realized it was coming from inside. . . my bedroom.

My heart froze. I rushed to my bedroom and flung the door open. Weds sprinted past me. I stared at him in shock, and at the mess covering the floor. The items from the top of my dresser and nighstands were on the floor, the trash can's contents spilled, and drawers stood open. The curtain covering my window had collapsed, and bits of cat puke were on the bed and floor.

"How did you get in here?" I demanded of Weds. He mewed back, and rubbed himself against my legs. In my utter confusion, one thing was clear--I vividly remembered shutting the bedroom door, and seeing Weds in the living room as I left the apartment. And he had used his litterbox--so he couldn't have been locked inside my bedroom the entire time.

Then I thought, "Someone broke in and locked Weds in the room." This was too much. The confusion, the thought of someone else in my home, and the mess in my bedroom overcame me, and I collapsed in tears. I recovered after a few mintues, and looked through all the drawers, but nothing seemed to be missing.

I sighed, went back out to retrieve my suitcase, and set about cleaning up the mess. I was still confused, but Weds seemed completely untraumatised, and I managed to calm down.

As the day went on, my confusion lifted. I kept shutting the bedroom door only to find it open a few minutes later, and the industrious little feline sitting serenely inside. I examined the doorknob, and the answer dawned on me. I had hung a couple of bags on the doorknob before I left, and realized that when I turned it to open the door, the weight of the bags kept it that way. So, when I shut the door, the doorknob didn't turn back to secure the door, which allowed Weds to push it open. I realized that, once inside, he must have playfully pushed the door shut, and was then unable to get out.

The mystery was solved, and I thought no more of it. Until today, when I told The Rock the short version of the story--the cat somehow locked himself into my bedroom. "Wow," The Rock responded. "That must have stunk like crazy."

"Actually, no," I told him. "I think he may only have been inside for a couple of days."

"A couple of days is enough," he replied, laughing.

"Hmmm," I said. That was true. If he'd been inside for any length of time, the damage would have been much worse. So I guess he let himself in, or at least locked himself in, the previous night. Thank God for small mercies.

David Blaine: latest antics

2006-11-23T10:32:00.000-05:00

David Blaine is, as of now, suspended 40 feet above Times Square in a three-ringed gyroscope, spinning constantly. His challenge (sponsored by Target): To free himself by 6 a.m. on Nov. 24. If he succeeds, he will take 100 children chosen by the Salvation Army shopping for free at Target on Black Friday.

Here are pictures I shot of him on my way back from work. He looked like he had freed one arm. We may have a Houdini in the making :)

I am thankful. . .

2006-11-22T15:01:00.000-05:00

. . .for the long Thanksgiving weekend. SO thankful. Because it means a respite from the mountains of paper spread out all over my desk and the numbers and graphs floating in front of my feverish, head-achy eyes. Because, if, after today, I have to look at another company's SEC filings, I will poke my eyes out and run around the building screaming. You just wait and see!

My name is Ini and I love Lucky Charms

2006-11-21T10:04:00.000-05:00

Is it wierd that I am almost 26 years old, and my favourite cereal is Lucky Charms?

I was standing in the kitchen at work today, pouring some milk into my cereal, when a colleague walked in. "Is that Lucky Charms?" he asked me.

"Yes," I told him. "But shhhh! Don't tell anyone."

"It's ok," he went on. "Although. . . we only let our kids eat Lucky Charms on special occasions."

"Well," I said, defensively. "I only let myself eat them on special occasions." Really, I do. I just happen to have lots of special occasions. And of course, if you open a box, you have to finish it. The fact that I buy the huge, ginormous boxes of Lucky Charms, and the puny little boxes of other cereals--you know, the ones that finish in three days--doesn't count. And anyway, Lucky Charms have way less fat than even "healthy" cereals like granola. Check the nutrition information on the box--just don't read all the way down to the sugar content.

But anyway, back to our conversation. "Oh, it's ok," he said. "I love Frosted Flakes. It's just one of those things that you get used to as a kid and then continue to like as an adult."

Silence.

"Did you have them as a kid?"

"Ummm, no."

"Oh."

Awkward silence, and an abrupt end to our conversation.

I believe I am now the wierd adult in the office who eats kids cereals.

Cozy Sundays. . .

2006-11-20T00:04:00.000-05:00

I've been hunting for cozy little coffee shops--you know, the ones with the comfy chairs (ok, space, and hence huge sofas, are a rarity in New York City, so that might be asking too much), and frothy cappucinos in the humungous cups. With the weather turning crisp, I've started looking forward to spending Sundays curled up with a hot cup of coffee with the paper or a good book. Here are my finds. Please feel free to add suggestions (or to join me:)).

Blind Tiger
281 Bleecker St (Cross Street: Between 7th Avenue & Jones)
New York, NY 10014
(212) 462-4682
"Once you walk into the place, you wouldn't want to leave. Luckly enough, they have FREE wi-fi and friendly staffs who don't mind you staying there forever."

71 Irving Place
71 Irving Pl (Cross Street: E 18th Street)
New York, NY 10003-2220View Map
(888) 710-3844
Cozy little neighborhood cafe.

Full City Coffee
409 Grand St (Cross Street: Clinton Street)
New York 10002
Phone: 212-260-2363
Cute little cafe, great coffee, has sofas, tables, music & books.

Gotham Coffee House
1298 2nd Ave, (At 68th St)
New York 10012
Phone: 212-717-0457
A cozy, indie feel, great for studying, reading the paper, or catching up with old friends.

Ceci-Cela
55 Spring St (Cross Street: Between Lafayette Street and Mulberry Street)
New York, NY 10012-5727View Map
(212) 274-9179
Oversized coffee mugs! But some complaints about service.

Caffe Reggio
119 Macdougal St
New York, NY 10012-1202
(212) 475-9557
Reviews say it has a real "Italian cafe" kind of feel, but the chairs aren't very comfy.

Hungarian Pastry Shop
1030 Amsterdam Ave (Cross Street: 111th Street)
New York, NY 10025-1724
(212) 866-4230
"Old style campus coffee shop; delicious desserts"

Broken Cup Cafe LLC
342 E 22ND St
New York, NY 10010-5732
(212) 473-5002
Reviewers say it's a "diamond in the rough," but a bit cramped.

'sNice
45 8th Ave (Cross Street: W 4th Street)
New York, NY 10014-5117
(212) 645-0310
Laid back place with wifi, and vegan friendly

Housing Works Used Book Cafe
126 Crosby St (Cross Street: Houston Street)
New York, NY 10012-3326View Map
(212) 334-3324
Cozy, used book store with cafe, proceeds go to charity Housing Works.