I have a friend named John who hails from Southern India. He is a member of the lowest caste, an orphan and a Christian. He is prohibited from returning to his native land. He is considered a "missionary." A dirty word if ever there was one. John is a phenomenal cook. He has travelled the world as a chef for hotels and catering businesses. He cooks foods from all over the globe. He now resides in the backwaters of Ashtabula county. For a man with such extraordinary talents, he is now cooking mac'n'cheese for a boarding school of some two hundred boys. The school has forbidden him to cook his Indian foods, his neighbors no longer come to dinner when he cooks Indian food, even his wife won't eat these spicy dishes. So, he has turned his eye to my parents. They work at the same school, and they are xenophilic to the point of being definitive of the word. He once arrived at their door with a
* Gulab jamin, for those who want to know its real name.
6. Rumpledyness
I'd like to say a quick word about clothing: rumpledy. Rumpledy is a word invented by my sister to express a state of rumpledness that one cannot get out of except to start all over by changing clothes. Sometimes the rumpledy power is so great over its victim that two or three changes are necessary to break its spell. Sometimes a truly rumpledy person will look rumpled for days on end no matter what they wear. Today, for instance, my clothes utterly
refuse to lie flat or hang straight or form a linear path in any direction across my body. I am rumpled from my shoes all the way up to my hair. There are shirt bubbles forming
under my sweater, my sweater refuses to conform to my hips, and my pants have rediscovered the wrinkles I ironed out of them this morning. I am rumpledy. Let's hope this is not a streak of rumpledyness coming over me, because once succumbed to, very few ever gain control of their couture again.
7. Text and Data Entry
I was offered a job inputing data for a large financial corporation. Demi-cubicles crowded in thick clusters with mini-walls you could see over. Heads bent down to desks and the soft fervent clicking of keys on keyboards wafted through the air to the interview room. The department director was heavy and sweating and smiling and telling me that "we're like a big family here. If anyone needs anything I try to give it to them" and he added that they were very happy. I saw no smiles. I turned down the job.
8. CATS: Nothing Happens
After ten years of waiting, after all the jokes ("...it was better than CATS"), I finally sat down with the DVD and watched it. Folks, I can honestly say that literally nothing happens in the whole friggin' show. Nothing. Don't believe me? Here's a breakdown: Some people in spandex and whiskers come out and prance around and sing something unintelligible. Then the lights go down and when they come up they're all still there prancing and singing (I've never seen anything quite this homosexual looking). And then the lights go down and there's just one cat prancing and/or singing and then another. Then the plot thickens when they all come on stage and prance and sing. Then, just for kicks they all prance around without singing. They even tried singing without prancing, but not for long. And then Grisabella comes out and sings "Memories" and I cried. Then the other cats prance back on and sing some more about something that sounds like "jellied eel hats." Then something ALMOST happens when the chief cat is kidnapped (or catnapped) by the vaguely evil bad guy. But this situation is easily fixed in the next scene when he reappears thanks to magic. Apparently no explanation is needed. Then there is another long fancy prancing session in which they - yep, you guessed it - sing and prance. I felt like I was on drugs the whole time. Maybe that would have helped.
That's it for now. Check back later.
