A Photo Essay: Festivus! For the rest of us.

For those of you who know him, it's no big surprise that we own what is perhaps the most dramatic Jack Russell known to man. Even more so than 'Eddie' from Frasier (just because he's obedient and can do a few tricks doesn't mean he's an actor). Oliver shows off his flair for the boards every single day with a tenacity that's only befitting to a terrorist...urm, terrier. So without further ado I present to you:
Festivus! For the rest of us, as enacted by Oliver J.

Muzak

Why are we such slaves to our emotions? Even the most stalwart amongst us falls prey to 'feelings' whether they be good or bad, it's one of those things that seem to always have a tenuous grip never willing to let go. Often when one's emotions club them in the back of the head leaving them an immobile pile on the floor they tend to turn towards music.

Bit silly innit? Whether it be a euphoric high or an epic low point there's always something that fits neatly into the 'soundtrack of our cutting edge lives.'* What ticks within us that finds the need to express ourselves through tightly written verses accompanied by some sort of instrument? When you think about it sounds absolutely absurd. Whilst going through the aforementioned highs and lows it's almost impossible to think coherently enough to be intelligible let alone eloquent. Perhaps it's because I strive to live my life as an emotionless android like Data that I generally view the whole process of song writing as suspect.

Come on, it doesn't really take much sleuthing to find terrible music written by people in the throes of some sort of emotional flux. Just scroll through a few random blogs and I'm sure you'll find some really poor emo which will make you want to gag. Leave the song writing to the professionals okay kids? Although it's innately within us, sometimes expressing it is best left to the professionals. Or those select few individuals out there who actually have talent.

I'm not a hater, because as I sit here and write I've got my headphones on and am listening to some music at a dangerously high volume. Fighting the urge to retreat with my baggage full of feelings and get lost in the sounds and words which I have no right over, but which have a hold over me. It's a bit strange that someone else's words and feelings can have so much resonance with another person, regardless of if they've ever met each other before or not.

I always want to jump in a car and start driving with a car full of people when I listen to Franz Ferdinand. Unfortunately there are a few things which are standing in the way of my doing that right now, lack of insurance, a car and a bunch of people.

*Care of edge102

More Randomness from the Hustings

Did any of you get a chance to see the creepy Paul Martin gingerbreadman picture in yesterday's Metro?

*shudder* It's put me off of ginger and any variation thereof for life.

I know. What the hell is going on, 2 posts in one day. The only explanation I have is that it's exam time, and I'm procrastinating.

Mike 4 Prez

I really like my Canadian history course. Because unlike Canadian politics, it doesn't focus on *yawn* federalism. Yesterday while sitting in the George Ignatieff theatre gearing myself up for another great lecture (my professor is amazing). I again realised that politics is much like high school. Sometimes humoursly so. My prof is an older man, who bears a striking resemblance to one of ammi's more affable uncles. So when he likened Michael Ignatieff to a media whore like former PM John Diefenbaker, I laughed. Laughed more than is appropriate for Canadian history, because its very nature is to bring people to tears.

Being a 'founding' member of the United Nations, you better believe that Canada was present, but completely invisible at the April 1945 UN conference in San Fran. We represented yo. Dief, who was a member of the Conservative party tried to poke himself into the negotiations which were being handled by Mackenzie King's Liberals. Long story short, Dief decided that it would be beneficial towards his cause to get into negotiations by having his face snapped up by the attending photogs. As my prof put it 'Much like my esteemed colleague from the depatment of Political Science is doing right now, using his face to further his cause.' I think Prof. Bothwell is perhaps a wee bit jealous? I've never heard anyone call him a cerebral sex symbol.

Then again, he is bald.

Possibly the hottest thing ever...

...to have come out of Sri Lanka, seconded only by my grandmother's chicken curry.*

Nigel Barker

My jaw has never literally 'dropped.' I don't get shocked easily and never when I'm watching television. Least of all America's Next Top Model. Last night when I got home from my night class I turned on the tube while eating dinner. (I know! What class. But that's what I'm all about.) Lo and behold I managed to catch America's Next Top Model on CityTV Vancouver (3 hours behind us). Long story short, this week's challenge was a 'Bollywood' inspired one, with Nigel doing the photography. Turns out that good ol' Nige is half Sri Lankan! My jaw literally fell open in shock. That's never happened before, nor do I ever want to repeat that performance.

And I think I have just officially outed myself for having some really dirty television watching habits. The horror.

*Seriously, the picture does him no justice...

*yay* Time to hit the hustings!

Jerry: Why are you calling my parents?
Kramer: Well, maybe if you called more often, I wouldn't have to. Listen, is it all right if I watch a tape in here?
Jerry: Why here?
Kramer: Well, I'm taping Canadian Parliament, you know on C-Span.
Jerry: Ok...
Kramer: Is it all right if I watch it in your bedroom, cause your bed is really nice?
Jerry: Fine...
Kramer: Ok!
[Newman runs in with two boxes of popcorn.]
Seinfeld - The Blood

Usually there's not much happening in the winter to get me excited. However early 2006 is panning out to be incredible, my inner nerd is beside herself. By now it's old news about what happened in Parliament last night. Interestingly enough, they did show the no confidence vote live on C-SPAN in the states, so I really hope my American friends got a chance to see it happen. I for one was glued to the CBC as is my wont. Unfortunately it wasn't as exciting as the one in May, when Belinda Stronach crossed the floor, ripping out Peter MacKay's heart in the process. The most tragic thing of all was that I was in Sri Lanka when it happened, and never got a chance to revel in any of it, reading a newspaper online really doesn't cut it for a politics junkie. Had I been at home, you so know I would've been all over that like a dirty shirt.

Well, with all that said I shall watch with rabid interest what happens to Michael Ignatieff. Am I allowed to say a big fat I told you so? Not that it really matters, because I know no one really cares about Canadian politics. Let the record state, as soon as I heard his speech at the Liberal convention in March (and really, Bono, you totally stole his thunder) I (and some others) knew the man was going into 'real' politics, instead of just blathering on about it like the rest of us. I'm hoping he'll win a leadership bid, just because I think it'd be really interesting to see how he'd attempt to inject some life into fuddy duddy Ottawa. Although our Parliament isn't half as interesting as Taiwan's I'm pretty sure the MPs will have a swell time mud slinging. He may ooze sophistication and brains, but boyfriend does have a bit of a sketchy past. There is a fear that if he does ever become the PM Canada's international standing might increase because of his 'celebrity' (read: only political science students like myself see him as a celebrity). At the same time, (and not unfounded either) folks are a bit apprehensive of us becoming tools of the United States, given his stance on the whole Iraq thing. And to you conspiracy theorists out there, nobody cares about Canada. So it's not going to be too much of an issue.

There shall be campaigning during the Christmas season. What do I expect? Stephen Harper dressed as Santa ringing a bell, standing in front of a red kettle and collecting money for the Salvation Army. Paul Martin handing out soup to the homeless. Gilles Duceppe trimming a Christmas tree in a hospital with a bunch of young cancer survivors. And last but definitely not least, Jack Layton and Olivia Chow singing inter-faith Xmas carrols for the ice skating crowd at Nathan Phillips Square.

It all really does warm the cockles of my empty, empty heart.

*SQUEEEEE*

Um.

Guess who scored tickets to the Coldplay concert in March?

ME!

And I only have one extra ticket. So I'm taking Alby with me :D

Perhaps I'll post later about the obsessive compulsive manner in which I obtained these precious tickets. The stress, trauma and drama of the whole ordeal.

Or not.

Poppy-quette

I have a tough time not losing my poppy. Usually in the course of a day I've lost it at least twice, only to find it attached to some random piece of clothing. Considering the important symbolic context of the poppy, you'd think that in general one would be able to fasten it to one's self with something a bit more sturdy than a pin. A safety pin would definitely be a step up from a regular pin. I mean come on.

A few things get my quince around Rememberance Day, and simply put I guess it revolves around poppy etiquette.

1. Wear it on the left side. Not on the right. On a bag. On a hat. Or with green eggs and ham. There's a reason why we wear things on the left (like a wedding ring, or one of those shmancy engineering rings) it's because it's close to your heart.

2. Don't stick some random thing in the middle of your poppy. It has that green thing in there for a reason, not for you to stick some gawdawful Canada pin in the middle.

3. Technically you're not supposed to wear it after the 11 November. It's just not classy.

4. Although immensely fun, don't pull out the pin, fold the red felt in half, and stick it in your mouth to create fuzzy red lips. Uh. Not that I've ever done that.

We had to memorise this when I was in elementary school.

I'll wear a little poppy,

As red as red can be,

To show that I remember

Those who fought for me.

I predict a riot.

Watching the people get lairy
Is not very pretty I tell thee
Walking through town is quite scary
And not very sensible either
A friend of a friend he got beaten
He looked the wrong way at a policeman
- The Kaiser Chiefs

Shut up. I know. This song is about Leeds. I'm not the only music snob. But I'm still going to talk about France because I think the lyrics are pretty apropos. In reality, I don't have that much to say that hasn't already been said before. North African immigrants reacting to racism. Pretty straight forward to me.

Marietta was one of my English students during my three months in Senegal. She was a little bit older than I was and had a 2 year old son, I never met him, he lived in the village with her mother. She didn't get a chance to see him all that much, she worked 7 days a week and used to come for help with her English homework after she was finished her day job. Marietta was a housemaid, and on the side she used to sell beaded necklaces which the expat community would snap up readily and greedily.

One thing that I particularly liked about Marietta other than her friendliness was that she spoke French with a perfect Parisian accent. Something that was really uncommon to find amongst the native Senegalaise. She was always a really welcome sight to me during my first few weeks in Dakar especially on Sundays at church where the usual suspects were a touch too snooty to speak to me. It took me awhile to get used to the Wolof accent which was inflected on the every day common French. In the beginning I wasn't all that curious as to why the Bowlers' house maid had such an impeccable Parisian accent.

Her father had a few wives, polygamy just like in Utah, is still practiced in many parts of North Africa. Marietta's dad left her along with her mother and took off for France with his latest wife. Some how or another she ended up joining her father in a suburb of Paris. She was about 13 and her new life in France consisted of 5 years of horrible physical abuse at the hands of her father and stepmother.

In the hot dusty afternoons, we used to sit outside to do our English classes. I'd lug out the massive copy of LaRousse which Mrs. Penney used when she was doing her MA in Quebec, and while trying to translate my lesson for her Marietta used to tell me bits and pieces about her life. She credits her social worker in France with saving her. When I met her she had been back in Senegal for just over 2 years (slightly enough time to get knocked up and have a kid). It was her social worker who suggested that she return to Dakar, realising that if she stayed on in France she'd most likely get beaten to death. Instead of just bundling her off on a Dakar bound plane she really went beyond her call of duty. She provided Marietta with all of the necessary correspondence booklets to finish off her French high school education. The social worker paid for it all out of her own pocket. (I was only useful for her English lessons, Mrs. Penney used to help her out with everything else, because I was hopeless and still am.) Marietta has the option of returning to France after she graduates from high school and no longer is a dependent on her father.

Mehdi was a first generation Frenchmen, his family was originally from Morocco. It's because of him that I'm dying to see Marrakesh with my own eyes. He only arrived towards the latter half of my stay, and we had to collaborate on a bunch of projects together. Although I found him mildly irritating we did have some really eye opening conversations. Mehdi was unwilling to pay any attention at all to his Moroccan heritage. Granted this is not uncommon, I know a bunch of Sri Lankans who'd sooner than later forget that they come for a hot, tropical, third world country and not the snowy wilderness of Ontario. But the way he used to vehemently deny that he was Moroccan, it smacked of 'the lady doth protest too much.'

What does this all mean? I'm not really sure and I don't think I'm some sort of a cultural authority on Franco-North African relations just because I spent a fair chunk of time in Senegal and am studying post-colonial history. (If I lived in America, I think I'd have enough credentials and bull shit in me to be a pundit on Fox News though.) It's much more complicated than that, and as the recent events in various different suburbs in Paris proves, it's also very unpredictable.

I wonder though, could what the civil rights movement of the 50s and 60s did for America be likened to the riots that are currently rocking France?

Dear (4) loyal readers, if you're not related by blood...you might want to skip.

Thathi, Aiya and Loku Mammah

Good friends we have
Oh good friends we've lost
Along the way.
In this great future you can'’t forget your past
So dry your tears, I say
- Bob Marley, No Woman, No Cry

I can't hear any song by Bob Marley without thinking about Loku Mammah. Aiya and I burst into an impromptuou rendition of "I Shot the Sheriff" in the kitchen a few weeks back. This usually pushes Ammi into a homicidal rage. We sang with our usual amount of gusto and after inhumanely butchering a few stanzas we stopped. Slightly out of breath (because we are both slightly out of shape) we fell silent. Initially I thought it was due to the Sunday afternoon 'itis which can stealthily incapacitate those who are much stronger than us. But Aiya quietly confessed that he is unable to hear Bob Marley without thinking about Loku Mammah. What ensued was a brief conversation between the three of us (Ammi having put down the meat cleaver) about what a generally hip guy he was.

The truth is I don't remember a whole lot about Loku Mammah, just a few personal memories of him interspersed with everyone else's. When I think of him I'm whisked back to being 4, that's the last time I saw him.

I remember a lap as big as Thathi's to sit in, it could accommodatete Aiya, myself and Rajiv in it all at once. I don't ever remember it being too crowded. Although I'm told that the three of us weren't averse to reverting to fisticuffs if someone was hogging. We were a violent bunch even then.

We had cricket and rugby players coming in and out of our little home, Thathi had some really big friends. But Loku Mammah filled the entire place up, not just because to a 4 year old he was a giant of a man. He was over 6 feet and commanded a lot of respect and had a no nonsense air of authority about him. However there was still something that made people want to be around him. He was incredibly approachable, I tasted this first hand. Being a non-stop talker even then he'd always humour me even though I spoke a parcel of utter rubbish, a mile-a-minute to boot. (Granted in retrospect, I think I made much more sense back in those days.)

He sent me a Barbara Sansoni doll. I don't remember exactly when I got it or who he sent it through. But it made me happy to know that he still remembered me, even though we were in Toronto and our family was so far away. I never played with it. True. I was not much into dolls. But in my defence I never tried to decapitate it or cut its hair off. Through the years most of my stuffed toys found their way into storage. I just never had the heart to put that unplayed doll in with the rest (she's still in my room). Not because I particularly liked her, but because Loku Mammah gave her to me. So Raggedy Anne and Andy, Charlie, and a slew of other much loved toys were put away, never to see the light of day again. A racoon made a nest in my box of toys. I'm glad I wasn't there when Thathi and Punchy cleared out the storage last May when we moved.

31 October 1991.
I was supposed to go out as a bumble bee that year for Halloween. We always had an in class Halloween party where everyone would dress up in their costumes and contribute some cavity giving item to the festivities. It was one of the highlights of the year. We had gone to the pumpkin patch the week before to pick out the perfect gourd to carve into a Jack O'Lantern. The build up was ridiculous, especially to a bunch of kids in grade 2.

My memories of that morning are a bit hazy. Someone had woken Ammi and Thathi up with a phone call and the house was in a state of surreal chaos. But there was a bone chilling hush in the air. No one wanted to tell Amammah. Thathi couldn't, Ammi couldn't, Punchy couldn't, Punchy mammah couldn't.

Loku Mammah had died of a heart attack while swimming with Rajiv.

Piyo (my nanny) is the one who had to do it. I don't remember Amammah's initial reaction. My first encounter with death left me angry in my childish stupidness. I knew how I was supposed to act, but I was really pissed off that I couldn't wear my bumble bee costume to school. No one had the heart to dress me. Ammi tried to placate me by reminding me that I already had a chance to wear my costume to my Girl Guide troop's Halloween party a few days before. This type of reasoning did not work. I huffed of to school with my trademarked sour face of anger, tears burning my eyes not for my dead uncle but for my ruined Halloween.

Mr. Christie was right out of teacher's college, we were his first class. A grade 1-2 split. I was his pet. He famously told my parents during a parent teacher interview that they should give me everything I asked for. (Which thus far has been a rousing success.) He noticed that I was upset, and wasn't dressed up. Stupidly asking, in the way only a caring teacher can, if everything was all right. I told him that my mother's eldest brother had died. I channeled the anger of the lost bumble bee costume and forced a few tears out. Mr. Christie was a sucker, and I had secured a morning free of reading comprehension, cursive writing and decimal places.

I was allowed to choose one friend to make a Halloween poster with me. Brandon was my partner for folk dancing, my gay best friend in elementary school. He was good at art so I picked him. Neither one of us knew much about death, and although we were having a lot of fun making the poster we pretended we didn't. Because when someone dies you're not supposed to be happy. Mr. Christie heaped praise on our hideous poster and hung it up in a place of prominence, right on the door into our classroom. It almost made my lack of a costume worth it.

I begged Aiya to take me out trick or treating that evening. Ammi announced that we would never celebrate Halloween ever again, no more costumes or candy. I thought she was heartless. It was surprisingly easy to get Aiya to agree, I don't really remember how he handled his grief, but he had a sweet tooth, so off we went, Vindhiya, myself and Paul. We didn't make it that far down the street, Paul wet his pants and we had to come home. (This is just one of the reasons why I hated my cousins when I was a kid)

I wasn't forced to brush my teeth before bed that evening; the adults had their mind on other things than my dental hygiene. So with traces of chocolate in my mouth I said my prayers like the pious little Anglican I was.

"Lord, be with me as I go to sleep. Don't let me die. Make sure the house doesn't burn down with all of us in it. Please don't let robbers come in and murder us and then take all of our things..." The general theme of these night time prayers was me appealing to God not to smite me down in some horrible and unusual way. What? I was an Anglican. That's what Anglican's do. (Have you not seen Monty Python's The Meaning of Life?)

After I amened I went over everything that happened that day. I mentally tried to process and analyse the important bits. (It's something I still do today, and is probably the #1 contributor to my insomnia and the root of my narcolepsy.) That's when I thought about Rajiv. Rajiv who was just 9 months older than me. Rajiv who didn't have Thathi anymore. I became very sad for him, I couldn't fathom his loss then, and can't fathom it now either.

Trick or treat.

Horror Stories from the Ivory Towers

Safe to say that I'm not the only one who's drowning in a ridiculous amount of work for Uni? What is up with the mass conspiracy to murder your students in the middle two weeks of October you tenured professors? Jebus.

One of the ways I cope with stress is to get annoyed. Annoyed easily at really small mundane things. Because I'm petty like that.

Bananas
I'm not a huge fan of bananas. Caribbean plantain as a side to oxtail stew and peas? I'm so there. Bananas by themselves straight out of the peel? Not so much. And it's not because of this general dislike for bananas that I believe that eating them in public should be banned. But have you noticed that people tend to over chew bananas? There really is a reason why this is one of the first foods moms give their babies. You don't need teeth to eat them. Which means you don't need to chew them, they're mush for Pete's sake. The sound of an over chewed banana drives me to a homicidal rage. Especially in an area that is full of silence, or where the drone of one solitary voice is gently putting me to sleep, i.e. a lecture. Stop. Before I kill.

Well Groomed People
Seriously? Where do you guys get the time? And more specifically how come I don't have the same leisure? My hair is now entering into its umpteenth day of general grossness; when pulled back into a ponytail it looks more like a squirrel's tail. And you guys know how much I hate squirrels, so this is distressing to me. The other day when I was at the Dollar Store picking some randomness up, someone asked me if I worked there. That. Never. Happens. I felt like sitting down and crying in the middle of the aisle because my worst fear has become realised. I look like I belong in Scarborough. All my life I've been trying to run away from that reality. But I guess now is as good a time as ever to embrace the ghetto fabulousness that surrounds me.

Umesh
Yeah. He still bugs me. I have the pleasure of being in a class again with him this year.
Me: So how was your Thanksgiving?
Him: Oh, I don't celebrate Thanksgiving
Me: *pretending to be uninterested b/c I so already regret asking him anything* I was thankful for the day off
Him: I think the whole concept of Thanksgiving is stupid, because we're effectively celebrating the genocide of an entire population, because that's what happened when the pioneers came to Canada...
Me: Yeah I don't really like turkey all that much either...

I don't even want to know what his thoughts on Christmas are. All I know is that he needs to extricate that pickle that seems to be permanently lodged in his nether regions soon. Otherwise it could become very septic. (<-- I just finished watching an episode of House. In retrospect I guess I could've used that time to groom myself. Damn you hindsight.)

A Round-up

This has nothing to do with my post. I just thought it was pretty cool. Read about it this morning, here's the article on the Beeb.

Umm. So my life generally is wholly uninteresting. I'm painfully aware of this fact already. The only thing that I really can do is bemoan this fact to everyone and anyone. It truly is cathartic. Sometimes even my life spirals into even more uninterestingness than it normally is prone to.

Case in point. The last two weeks the film festival was going on. Aside from the obligatory celebrity sightings I had to deal with the pointless entourages. I find that the bigger the star, the smaller the entourage. At least in Toronto. The most random people have entourages. And more power to you if you want a bunch of freeloaders strapped to your backside. To each one his own. I go to U of T, and even the most suburbian amongst us know that this campus is smack dab in the middle of the film festival, and all the swanky hotels/restaurants to boot. Which means I had to fight my way through entourages to get to my classes on time. Dude? So. Not. Cool.

My beloved Mac has packed up. I'm just praying that it's not the cursed ibook lcd screen malfunction. Because if it is, I think I'll cry. Fortunately I just lost my first week of notes for class. I would've committed suicide by now if it was December and right before mid-terms. Unfortunately I've lost a lot of other more important things. Such as reports for work. Which now need to be redone. Yay for punitive justice. Because I believe that's what's being waged against me.

Oliver tried to eat a wasp. In the process he got severely stung. I never said he was smart. After a trip to the vet we have discovered that someone is having a 'type 2' reaction and therefore has to take prednisone. A tablet which we need to creatively hid in foodstuffs, otherwise it runs the risk of being spat up on the kitchen floor. I never said he was smart.

While being recruited for the Tamil Student's Association, I wasn't hit on this year. Thank the Lord. Perhaps it's too early to celebrate, because I'm yet to be approached by the South Asian Student's Association. You know I think I wouldn't mind the unwarranted attention as much if it wasn't for the fact that I am a fob magnet. Children? Speaking fluent English is always a prerequisite.

I'm still in my PJs and have bed head. Time to go and administer a prednisone laced carrot.

Her Majesty the Queen vs. Oliver J*

Exhibit A: Oliver modeling his new fall argyle sweater

There are a few things that I mentally decided I would never do if I ever became a dog owner. In no particular order

1. Never dressing it up, regardless of what gender

2. No baby talk by anyone, least of all myself

3. It will be treated like a dog, never like a human

4. Will only consume dog food

The list is endless. But suffice it to say that article A is proof enough that none of these regulations were taken seriously.

Personally I think he deserves this humiliation. Sure I love him to bits. It's impossible even for someone who possesses a heart that is equivalent to a lump of coal not to. But the fact remains is that he is sometimes a little demon in disguise. I now present to you exhibit B. This photo was taken moments before I was brutally attacked.

Exhibit B: Oliver weeping for justice, and baring his fangs at the same time. Or yawning. Depending on how you wish to view it.

I rest my case.

*We're Canadian. We don't do that garbage 'People versus...' stuff. Go and review your grade 10 Social Studies textbook please.

Summer? Please don't leave.

The foot of St. Andrews Rd (my street) in happier, sunnier more summery times.

In lieu of a real post.

Excuse the laziness, there are no captions, no funny stories. Nothing really. Just a bunch of pictures, and the real Gerber Baby. Now that's incentive enough to go and take a look imho.

A Really Late Afterthought Part 1: Politics

Quit bending all my fingo
Quit beating me like you're Ringo
You wanna go?
You wanna win a war?
Like P.L.O don't surrendo
- M.I.A. Sunflowers

So if my grade 10 level math serves me correctly it has been two months since I came home from what could be considered the best trip to Sri Lanka ever. It has also taken me just as long to fully process two months spent in the motherland. Maybe it's because I've been spending a little too much one-on-one time with some politically charged press releases and reports I'm editing for work, but I think it's time to wade into Sri Lankan politics. As you can see this is 'part 1' of what will eventually be a really poorly thought out and sporadic series. I guess I'll be lucky if it doesn't peter out and die by the end of this post. But here goes...

*Warning: To my four loyal readers* This is pretty much a rehash of my last post. But it's my blog, and I can do what I want.

I wanted to blog about M.I.A. since February when she played the Drake, mostly because she irritated me. I did feel a bit of affliation with her because she grew up in England and has the whole indie thing down. And she has a killer style (or incredible stylist, but it might be too soon for that). I personally don't think her music is anything to call home about, her artwork however is really good. I think she should stick to designing CD covers. But the scenesters love her, and that's why I think in a weirdly subversive way, she's important to this post. You see they play 'Sunflowers' in American Eagle, Aiya got me a sampler CD from the Urban Outfitter's in Montreal and 'Galang' was on it. What's the big deal? Well her debut album Arular is named after her father who happens to be a member of the LTTE. He trained with the PLO . M.I.A. doesn't shy away from politics regardless of what she may say in the media, just look at her website, look at what her artwork is depicting?

I know I might be over hyping on her politics/political affliation but still. Do you think if folks out here truly understood the level of the conflict in Sri Lanka she'd be such hot indie property? Probably not, it's not like someone with Al Qaeda affliation is going to have a huge cult following when they launch a crappy dancehall album either. But she has a right to speak her mind about the politics of the war, after all she has been totally affected by it, just like many other Tamil immigrants in other parts of the world. What freaks me out though is that through her popularity she might be romanticizing the LTTE. Granted I think the Tamil people of Sri Lanka have a reason to be pissed off, but that doesn't legitimize the actions of the LTTE. 'Freedom Fighter' has a certain ring to it, a Che Guevera kind of thing that poorly groomed hipsters LOVE. A frightening result of that misguided love would be a romanticization of the Tiger movement.

Recently there have been a few 'skirmishes' on some Sri Lankan blogs I frequent about the role of non-resident Sri Lankans putting their two cents into political commentary. I'm of the opinion that just because I grew up in Canada doesn't mean that negates me from having a viable and legitimate opinion on things. Whether it be the recent assassination or the on going 'armed conflict.' It's unfortunate that there are people in Colombo who believe that since we grow up in the relative shelter of the west we have no understanding/haven't been touched by what's going on in Sri Lanka.

Even if I didn't have the chance to go back and visit as often as I do it is because of the events that have taken place in Sri Lanka that I'm here, in Toronto. If the 83 riots never happened, we would never have left. I have had classmates in elementary and junior high school whose lives have been absolutely ravaged because of the situation in Sri Lanka. The internal politics and issues have effected them far more than my cousins who are Sinhalese and live in Colombo far removed from any conflict could feel. Yet there are some in Sri Lanka who would rather listen to my Colombo cousins' take on things. Even though they go to posh schools, and live in what seems to be the lap of luxury.

To tell you the truth though, even after working at an NGO in Colombo which was dealing very specifically with government corruption, I still don't understand a whole lot about Sri Lankan politics. Just when I thought I had wrapped my brains around the method to the madness, it would elude me completely like the Scarlet Pimpernel. At least I have a bit of a better grasp on it, albeit a rather tenuous one.

"Come on Trinitians, be sporty!"*

*translation: Come on you guys who went to Trinity College, have some sportsmanship!

Well kiddos, as soon as I get the beloved Mac checked out and serviced I'll post pictures of what I've been up to. Trying to explain would be too painful for both you and I.

I went to the rugby sevens tournament this weekend with thathi. What a washout, we drove all the way to Brampton to stand in the rain and get wet socks. It was good times. In the past I've attempted to explain the nature of the 'Old Boys Association' which is just the Sri Lankan way of saying 'alumni association.' Thathi is an 'old boy' of St. Thomas' College (STC) and in the interest of hooking up with some old classmates off we went.

It's always fun watching the uncles get hammered on smuggled beer and start yelling indecipherable things at rivals. This year they had the most teams represented so there was plenty of trash talking. The above quote was a result of the perfect mix of booze and unbridled STC pride after a drunk Trinitian hurled insults at our coach. Fortunately a big burly Peterite (St.Peter's) was there to stop the sloshed uncle from rushing the field.

Incidentally this was the first exclusively Sri Lankan gathering that I've been to since coming home. (And no. Church doesn't count!) It was nice to hear people chatting away in Sinhala and it reminded me how the gap between my dual identities are beginning to fill in, the distance to bridge is getting smaller. While this process of reconciliation between the Sri Lankan and Canadian is great, in some ways it blows as much as being confused did.

Something that struck me while in Colombo was the general narrowmindedness of some folks back in Sri Lanka. Especially in relation to how 'Sri Lankan' I actually am, or more appropriately, not. I don't think that it's an issue that can be quantified but it's interesting to see how people attempt to do so.

My Canadian accent was accused of being fake by more than one person. Apparently it's unusual for someone who has lived in Toronto for 18 years to speak like me. Although my Sinhala was good enough to get by it's far from perfect but never once was I laughed at when I tried to speak with someone who had no knowledge of English. You can just imagine the reactions I got from the English speaking populace. Something along the lines of when Copto busts out his French immersion skills to me. What really gets my quince however is the constant need I felt in having to assert my 'Sri Lankaness.' At first I didn't mind, but then it became downright irritating.

Things aren't like that here for us. Come on, think about it. If you happen to be reading this then chances are I know you. If I know you then chances are you're either an immigrant like me or a second generation Canadian. And due to the wickedly mutlicultural nature of the society we've grown up in, for someone to be Indo-Canadian, Irish-Canadian or any other hyphenated variation thereof, it's not crazy for us to not only view them as true Canadians but also accept them as that. No questions asked. No skill testing question. No language based examination.

Wish I could say the same for the motherland.

Oh yeah. Trinity got their ass kicked in by St. Thomas' 29-0. And Thathi was thinking 'blue, black and blue forever.'

So, you're insane?

Claire: What's wrong with the belt?
Jerry: I went to the movies last night, I went to the bathroom and I unbuckled a little wobbly and the buckle kind of banged against the side of the urinal. So…(throws away belt) that’s it!
Claire: So, you're insane?*

Okay. So maybe it wasn't a belt buckle. But it was still disgusting, I had to rip the dangly hem off the bottom of my jeans (left leg) because it dragged on a WET bathroom floor. It was as disgusting as it sounds. Trust me on this one.

Deep Thoughts. More along the lines of Jack Handey

I miss Thorn. If she was here and not in Paris I would have dragged her to see Daara J with me. They were in Toronto a few days back. When I was in Senegal they were really popular, I thought I'd meet some Wolof speakers at the show. How fun would that have been? Granted I'm a bit rusty, but the looks on peoples faces would have been priceless. (As they have been in the past).

Why does The Edge play such crappy music sometimes? I'm listening to a remixed version of Metric's Dead Disco. Why ruin something that's good?

I read this on a fellow Sri Lankan's blog and thought it was funny. Especially the dialogue that ensues in the comments section. It's all so sadly funny.

I need a new pair of sneakers. Well, when do I actually need a new pair of shoes? I got some back GST/HST cheques in the mail. Which means I have cash to blow on sneakers. But I need your help. Should I go with this, this or this?

(Un)fortunately I completely missed the whole Live 8 dealeo. I was stuck in three different airports in the course of the day, on my way home. I happened to catch the tiniest bit of it on one of the many screens in Heathrow, it was altogether uninteresting to me. However, I love the Kaiser Chiefs and unbeknownst to me they played Live 8 Philly. AOL has so kindly put up clips of all the performances. Bless them. But what's with the randomness that played in Rome?

Why is it so hot outside? Someone throw an ice cream cone at my head and call me a unicorn. Please.

Our new deck is almost finished. 3 months later.

I find this whole thing deplorable. That man's life has essentially been ruined and for no good cause. And let's not even get started on this.

I want to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I don't mind going solo, but feel weird going alone to a kids movie. Seems a bit pedophile Pete-ish doesn't it? Thus Alby has been enlisted to go and watch it on Simcoe Day.

Oliver smells like popcorn today, and he ate a rubberband this morning.

And this was the most random post. Ever.

*Seinfeld Episode 158: The Voice

Umesh old boy, I think you've met your match

*disclaimer* This post is full of vitriol

I hate tutorials. I don’t think there’s anything worse in the university experience next to tutorials. Sitting there in a room full of pseudo-academics who actually think I care to know what they think. Oftentimes the poor un-offending PhD student who has to mediate these sessions of verbal diarrhea get caught up in the crossfire. You’d think that if these undergrads who are actually there to learn they would listen to the freaking PhD student at least right? But no.

I have discovered that there is one thing more heinous than a 50 minute tutorial. Enter the two hour tutorial. Some of you might not be familiar with the way the tutorial system works at U of T. So I shall enlighten you. Usually there’s fifteen students and one teaching assistant, we’re supposed to discuss the course readings for the week in a 50 minute session. Out of the fifteen students there’s usually about 5 who think they’re experts on whatever topic is being spoken about. They’re longwinded, egomaniacal and downright boring. Most of the time I just sit there and space out. Sometimes someone will be so exceptionally irritating that I find the need to wade into the fray.

Meet Umesh. He was in my politics of development course last year and I had the unwanted pleasure of being in a tutorial with him. There are a lot of things that bug me about Umesh.
1. The use of rhetoric: I’m sure that he’d LOVE to think that he’s an original thinker, but everything that Umesh said was just rhetoric. He’d make a good spin doctor after he graduates
2. The use of ebonics: Umesh is Indian. I wasn’t aware that Indians could speak in ebonics. I don’t think I need to elaborate on this point
3. Nobody cares Umesh: Going along with the general vibe of bs-ing in tutorials, ultimately no one cares what happens in them. (Myself discluded I guess, if I’m making a post on them.) My little friend would often think it his duty to apologise for his in tutorial behaviour, and to tell people not to “take it personally.” Maybe if he was saying something that was totally controversial and offensive then I could see the need to apologise. But no. He just talked out of his arse. And while that is a sin that deserves years spent in purgatory, no one wants to keep hearing his voice, even for an apology.

You get the drift. Now you can imagine my horror when Umesh walked into the summer course that I’m taking, intro to African history. I was thanking God when the first day of tutorials rolled along and he was absent from mine. My joy was short-lived. Since it’s a summer course, the tutorials are 2 hours long, and my current tutorial only has FOUR people in it. Four people and one of the students happens to be a female version of Umesh. But more irritating, if that’s even possible. Her downfall is her ‘friendliness’

Umesh-a-like: So, are you an anthropology major?
Me: *wondering what sin I had committed to deserve a conversation with her* Um. No, I’m doing a joint specialist in political science and history
Umesh-a-like: Oh cool, so are you doing developmental studies?
Me: Yeah I am.
Umesh-a-like: I could totally tell.
Me: *suddenly warming up to Umesh-a-like. Maybe she could tell through the amazing comments I made in tutorials that I’m down with the third world?* Wow. How did you know that?
Umesh-a-like: You just look like it. You know. The way you dress and stuff
Me: *Suppressing feelings of homicidal rage* The way I ‘dress and stuff’? *fake laugh.* You’re lucky that I have to go now, or you’d have to explain that one to me

And with that I made a hasty and contrived getaway. Can you imagine? People still get typecast by the way they dress! And it’s not even like she’s an old person either, you’d expect such prejudicial behaviour from someone who’s 80, not 21!

Eek.

I have finished.

I'm BAAAACK

Hey kids, I'm baaaack. Here are some pictures of my trip. And if you want to know what I've been up to go here.

Postcards From Sri Lanka

Umm...is vacation the right word for it? Well whatever the case may be, I'm in the motherland!! So come and see what I've been up to

HTTP://WWW.RASTIADU.BLOGSPOT.COM

Really. It was time for a change.

So here's the new blog. Not very new though, just a new address, the old posts that you have all grown to love so much are still here, so fear not, there aren't any drastic changes. I was getting a little sick of the old address and felt it was time for a change. Actually, between you and me, the old addy hit a little too close to home and was way too reflective of who I am, that's the real reason for the move. Oh. And also. I screwed around with my blogger settings and I can't post anything to the old blog anymore. The odds were against me you see, someone was conspiring to ruin me and was orchestrating a blogger coup d'etat. I have an inkling of who it might be. Don't worry, they will be severely reprimanded.

Till next time!

Claustrophobia strikes once again.

Last week I had the strangest dream
Where everything was exactly how it seemed*

Hmm. Four weeks of classes left, the less thought about that the better methinks. So how do I cope during a period which should be highly stressful? I hallucinate of course! Let's see, for the past I don't know, 2-3 weeks I've been having recurring nightmares where I get stuck in an elevator either by myself, or horror of all horrors with a crowd. Most of you enjoy exploiting my severe claustrophobia by squishing me into small spaces, purposely keeping elevator doors closed, swarming me etc and all you sadists get some sort of thrill in eliciting a panicked reaction from me. You'll all be happy to know, these stupid elevator dreams are incredibly realistic and just thinking about them is freaking me out.

Last week I saw Labro at the library, so I decided I'd go and scare her, because after Copto, she's the best to get reactions out of. She was sitting at a computer engrossed in what she was doing, so I went and shook her swivel chair really violently. When she turned around and looked at me horrified I realized it wasn't Labro. These cases of mistaken identity are occuring too rapidly for my liking! I swear I see someone I 'know' at least once a day. But after last week's episode, I restrain myself. Nevertheless they still leave me confused and disoriented. Oh wait. I'm always like that.

Naturally essay procrastination leads to watching crappy movies
Thathi has a thing for poorly made action movies. I have a thing for Hugh Laurie (and really it's only because of Blackadder) so when Thathi brought home Flight of the Pheonix I should have trusted my better judgement and not watched it. But it was Hugh Laurie (and I didn't want to study)! 113 minutes (plus previews) of my life which I will never recover. When in doubt, NEVER watch a remake, words cannot even begin to describe how terrible that flick was. Speaking of remakes though, I watched the original Ocean's 11, flipping amazing. A young Frank Sinatra, *swoon*

To make amends for my terrible lapse of judgement also known as the Flight of the Pheonix, I had to revisit some old friends. Meet some incredibly made Evian commercials. European of course. 'Evian Voices' is great, it's a montage of people lip synching to school kids singing Queen's We Will Rock You. My favorite, is the suit that's (*gasp*) singing in the elevator. 'Evian Water Boy' is soooooo cute. Of course it won a bunch of awards including a Clio. I'm sure you'll enjoy them more than the Flight of the Pheonix, or the Notebook. And no Alby, the final scene in that movie? It's not touching. It's cheesey.

*Sleeping In - The Postal Service

Prepare yourself for a rather useless diatribe

(Drunken debaucherous pictures from our lunch at Spring Rolls are here.)

"Dedicated with honour to the women and children of Calcutta's Red Light District*"
(Excuse the poor grammar and sentence structure. I wanted it to be an authentic diatribe. But really, I'd like to think that my small heart is still capable of warning people against the evil that is formally known as 'D's Run On Sentence of Death.' Consider yourselves warned.)

Photo courtesy of Kids With Cameras

I had wanted to see Born into Brothels for a really long time; way before the Oscar hype(have no fear, I have not gone mainstream. Not yet at least.) But as is often the case, I never get around to actually dragging myself to the theatre and justifying spending $13.50 on a movie that will eventually come out on DVD and can be rented for much less (and now with Blockbuster's wicked no late fees, what's the point anyway?!) I knew if I didn't go and watch it this week, there was no way I would get a chance anytime in the near future. So I pulled a Stan and went solo. Best decision I could have made, because I cried through parts of the bloody thing. And God only knows how big of an arse I would've felt if someone I knew witnessed that. The entire experience was incredibly thought provoking, as is often the case when dealing with documentaries of that sort.

I think my spiral into this month's bout of extreme leftism occured this past Tusday after I watched Cry Freetown (done by Sorious Samura of Living with Refugees fame) in one of my politics lectures. There was an absolutely horrific scene in that documentary where a deaf and mute 10 year old boy was stripped naked and beaten by Nigerian peacekeepers in Sierre Leone on suspicion of being a rebel snipper. He was sobbing and screaming for them to stop. Fanners had to cover her eyes while it was going on. I was immobilized, just sitting there in absolute shock and horror. Although I couldn't erase the images that I had seen from Cry Freetown I still willingly went to see Born into Brothels on Thursday. It's really difficult for me to quantify what I felt watching those two stellar documentaries; but simply put it felt like every single child who had crossed my path and affected me in some form or manner during my times in Mexico, Sri Lanka and Senegal was staring right back at me through the faces of the children on screen. The rawness of their lives once again came up and slapped me across the face. And what made it sting so much more is that for the first time I was able to feel shaken deep within myself while in Canada. As I was watching the little boy being beaten by peacekeepers, I felt the same tightness in my stomach as I did the day when a boy around the same age walked into the Talibe Centre (in Dakar) with horrible third degree burns all up and down his arms. The marabout he belonged to had thrown boiling water on him in a fit of rage. I remember there was a chubby little boy named Reuben in Mexico who insisted that we play frozen tag with him, I used to watch him and all the other little kids and wonder what life would be like for them if they had access to proper education and health care, what they would become. Kochi who is growing up in a brothel in Calcutta wondered the same thing; how different life could be for her if she could end the cycle of poverty and get an education. Childhood has been robbed from these children, their faces are full of innocence but their lives reflect something way beyond my understanding.

Even as I still try to rationalize all of this, I just can't. And to tell you the truth, I'm glad I can't, because really who wants to understand the real reasons behind why developed countries sit idly by and watch the third world go up in flames? Isn't it mind boggling to know that in this day of budget surpluses and booming economies there's still high levels of child poverty in the United States, England and Canada? More attention needs to be paid to the plight of children in poverty and not fixated on fighting a war on terror while millions are dying of preventable deaths every day. Even Richard Roeper rightly points out that films such as Born into Brothels needs more widespread recognition, "This is a movie about our world that deserves the attention and audience that Michael Moore's films command." (For the record, Michael Moore blows, and hopefully this will be the last time I find myself using Roeper to back me up on a point.)

A wise woman once said "Speak up for those who can't speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy." (Proverbs 31:8,9) So, who would like to step up to the plate?

*steps off soapbox* (I know, as of late i've been abusing it. But there's only so much I can hold in. Plus. No one told you that you had to read all of it. What? I msged you on MSN and made you. Well, that's possible, but technically you stillhad a choice. So can it.)

*Born into Brothels

(mis)Adventures in Montreal

Well kids.

Here's what happened in Montreal!

Here are the pictures!

Evidently we're Irish pirates who can't do math.

Indeed it is good to be back home. Although I had a kick arse time in Montreal and Debs was an incredible hostess I missed my bed and the random dog hair which normally covers all my clothing. Naturally after any sort of short holiday/trip Aiya and I have a debriefing session. You know, just to catch up on what heinous things Ammi and Thathi have been up to. Naturally one thing leads to another and we either end up watching a stupid WIll Ferrell/Ben Stiller vehicle, or revert to our castle in the sky. Last night we decided on the latter. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with our castle in the sky. For shame! It's not as if either of us doesn't talk about it incessantly!)

Scene: Checking out the Sri Lankan restaurant talent, to see what kind of pathetic competition Aiya would have
Me: OO look there's a place called Clancy's Pub in Sri Lanka and it's Irish!
Aiya: Looks like we'll have to buy some pints of Guiness and scope the place out when we go there.
Me: Yeah and we can pretend to be Irish right?
Aiya: *attempting Irish accent* Arghh!
Me: Um, okay so instead of just being plain Irish, we can be Irish Pirates?

Scene: Looking over the menu from Athula Caterers and attempting to calculate the price for a 100 person function
Aiya: Okay, convert that now, so per head it's 500 RS, so how much would that be for a 100 people?
Me: Uh, 500x100?
Aiya: Yeah what is that?
Me: I think it's 5000 right? No wait, there's 4 zeros so it'd be 50,000?
Aiya: Just get the calculator and double check.
Me: When'd you become so smart?!

You might want to skip this
So on Sunday we were having lunch at a restaurant called the Three Amigos and conveniently enough they had paper placemats. Given my inability to see a piece of paper, or napkin without writing on it, we naturally had an impromptu handwriting analysis session. Which really blew because I couldn't remember how to analyse jack ;) But I hunted up the original analysis test and re-did it (today). Is it still disgustingly accurate? You bet! Joycie and Abs were wondering about the scientific accuracy of these things, and there doesn't seem to be a whole lot, but here's some useful sites. Wikipedia's take on things and the FAQ from the place I did the analysis from. And of course, for those of you who might be interested, here's the test itself.

Here are a few of my results, and for those in the know, none of them will be very surprising!

Margins: Far left margins indicate fear of the future and apprehension of moving forward.

My 'Y's: Selective in choosing friends, does not truly trust everyone, has a select group of people who are truly close and is careful in choosing inner circle of friends

My 'T's: Extremely ambitious, very sarcastic with comments that are funny but at times are harsh, bitter and caustic (so creepily true!!!)

My 'M's: Has a very investigative and creative mind. Investigates things rapidly b/c of intense curiosity. Extremely logical and ordered way of thinking. Takes on way too many projects at a time. Diplomacy is a strong suit; has the ability to say what others want to hear, tells things straight without offending and can disagree without being disagreeable.

My 'O's: Is highly opinionated and will be candid and direct when exrpressing opinions. Will give straight opinion when asked for it.

The stems on my 'D's and 'T's: Demands respect and will expect others to treat her with honor and dignity. Believes in her ideas and will expect other people to also respect them. Has a lot of pride (<-- WORD!)

The Left slant of my writing and pressure: Is withdrawn into herself, reserved and shows her feelings only at times of great anger, extreme passion, or tremendous stress. Is an introvert who makes decisions based on logic, therefore is rarely impulsive. Doesn't find any need for expressing emotions and sees this as an unnecessary waste of time. Many people do not understand and it is difficult for them to really know how she feels. Enjoys being alone, and prefers working alone. Working with her hands is a pleasure. Does feel emotions, as deeply as anyone else, but they're harboured inside. The first time someone angers her, she probably will not say anything to that person. However, she will mentally keep track of everything this person does wrong to her until she cannot hold her emotions inside any longer. Then, Boom! Will never regret telling someone off, because she knew what she was saying the entire time. She won't impulsively tell someone off. Emotional stories will not sway her. Thinks totally with judgment, first considering every situation by the effect it will have on her. Needs space and time alone.

My 'K's: Can be defiant. Sometimes has the attitude that if someone doesn't like it the way she is doing it, then they can just "go to hell!" This trait may reveal itself in a rebellious nature that is always ready to resist forces which she thinks are infringing upon her freedom of action.

Are you all believers now?! *shudder* That whole thing was disturbingly accurate. Other than the diplomacy thing of course ;) Go do the test and tell me what your results are!

Well, if you're still here after all of the above lol, check back in a little bit, maybe towards the middle of next week for pictures and other scintillating things from my trip to Montreal!

Resort fun circa 1986

l-r Aiya, me and Gunther

I was digitizing a whole bunch of pictures last weekend. They were all really old school, from 1988 and earlier. Our entire life before we came to Canada pretty much. Most of the photographs are getting fuzzy and faded especially the colour ones from the 70s, but you know the old cliche "a picture is worth a thousand words." Most of them are really goofy, you know the usual collection of family photographs, nothing really profound exactly like our lives. As I was going through them though, I was struck by the above photo. Ammi had just gone to L.A. or to London (i don't remember which) and she was gone for about a month, so she and Thathi decided that we would go down south to a resort for a couple of days to spend some time together as a family. Aiya of course made fast friends with another little boy whom he spent most of our vacation with. His name was Gunther and he was visiting from Germany, he didn't speak any English and aiya didn't speak any German. They were pretty much insperable. Whenever Gunther's mom wanted to find him, she'd come to ammi and ask in broken English where he was, and Ammi did the same thing when she was looking for aiya. (Except not in broken English. I hope so at least.)

Even though this picture was taken almost 20 years ago, I couldn't but help thinking about the tsunami. It didn't take pictures of orphans in the newspapers, or black and bloated dead bodies on the internet for the gravity of the situation to hit me at a personal level. It was the picture of the three of us innocently smiling that did it for me. I wonder how many other little Gunthers and Erajs had become fast friends during an idyllic trip to the beaches of the south. It makes me go cold thinking about it. Not to be dramatic or anything, but that's what sealed the deal for me.

Speaking of tsunamis though, I think the current death toll is at 220,000. It's mind boggling to know that a lot of those deaths could have been prevented if there was a proper tsunami warning system in place. The amount of money that ordinary people are pouring out for relief is incredible too. I witnessed it first hand myself when i was taking phone pledges at the Canada for Asia benefit concert. There are some incredibly generous individuals out there. I was watching a documentary on the genocide in Sudan last nigt on the CBC called Living with Refugees. It was incredibly thought provoking. 300,000 people have died so far in the genocide there, and there are a further 2 million refugees. (That count doesn't include the amount of internally displaced people.) Here is another 'disaster' that could be averted. It's not as if people don't care, they do care, but it's difficult to get the attention of the neccessary people in government. Because really who are we kidding? Why should any of the Western nations help those in the Darfur region? There's absolutely no political gain to be had. Canada is more than willing to help with the tsunami relief efforts though. But only in Sri Lanka, even though Indonesia was the hardest hit area. Gee. I wonder why that would be. It probably has nothing to do with the huge Sri Lankan immigrant population in some of the key cities across Canada. I wonder how many votes the Liberals would be able to extract out of the Sudanese-Canadians?

*climbing off soapbox*

Double entendre this!

What's up with the "ironic" trend and when will it go away?! It was kitschy five years ago when UO started putting sexually charged slogans on seemingly innocent looking t-shirts, but now it's just getting plain tasteless. Sure FCUK is actually a nifty little acronym for French Connection: UK, and G-Sus isn't supposed to be another way of saying Jesus, it's supposed to mean G suspended as in the guitar chord. But does anyone know what TNA's excuse is? Because i have no idea. At the risk of sounding like a prude i find all of the above and then some really tasteless. Honestly what's the point of walking around with clothes that have the above brandings on them? (I don't even think FCUK clothes are even nice to begin with, but the G-Sus stuff, i'll admit, it's tempting ;) But not tempting enough!) It's not ironic! If anything it's borderline offensive, just like the Parasuco lesbian tag-team billboards. Just recently there was a bit of a brouhaha over someone wanting to use the acronym "WTF?" as a stand in for "Where's The Faith?" In my opinion that completely dilutes the point of the message. It's just as offensive as the underwear and bikini bottoms that Harrods was selling this summer. The ones with the hindu goddesses on them. Another example of pure tastelessness and lack of decorum. Yeah i'll shut up and have my high tea now. Everyone's entitled to be a bit prudish sometimes!

On a lighter note. Or perhaps a heavier one?
After coming back from the motherland Ammi has re-acquainted herself with some old friends and there has been a flurry of e-mails going back and forth between them. They're all hardcore artsies with a propensity for drama. Most of them (when we were still in Sri Lanka) were really fond of Aiya due to his rampant ADD and bouts of dyslexia; they haven't seen him in many years, so Ammi decided to send them some pictures! Of course she picked the MOST unflattering picture of the two us from my 20th birthday soiree and promptly proceeded to e-mail them half way across the world. Everyone responded in the same manner, "Oh Eraj (Aiya) looks just like Eksath (Thathi)!" and everyone ignored the other half of the picture. Me. Then along came Richard Simon who said "Eraj still looks just like Eksath and D still looks just like you (only a little bit plumper.)" Only a little bit PLUMPER? What the heck is that?! Come on Richard, if you're going to say someone's fat, then be a little bit more eloquent! You are a professional writer after all. Here is a sample of Richard's greatness.

Speaking of people being fat, has anyone caught the new George Stroumboulopoulos show on CBC Newsworld? The Hour? Anyone else noticed how much weight he's lost?! And a little tip to his make-up artist, go easy on the blush, the rosy cheeked thing doesn't really fly well on him. I'm a little bit disappointed about the show i must say, and i consider myself a fan! He was really the only redeeming thing about MuchMusic but the CBC's trying too hard to market his show as "edgey" and in your face, but poor Georgie's left looking like a try hard. He is edgey, and in your face; now he just comes across as unnatural. Sadly that's what happens on the CBC don't you think? They try sooo hard to market a person as being a certain way that they end up making caricatures of them. For example This Hour Has 22 Minutes and The Royal Canadian Airfarce, they'd have you believe that these shows are side splittingly funny. They have their moments, but by and large it's cheese. I guess that's marketing for you, but if that's the case then the CBC should get a new marketing company, our move out of doing it in-house!

Has anyone seen a Mr. T. Sumani?

Hi you have reached the Jayawi... residence sorry we missed your call...
That's what our answering machine message sounds like now, but after December 26 i was so flipping tempted to change it to:

"Hi Ammi and Thathi are fine and alive, the entire island of Sri Lanka isn't under water, Oliver's still eating house plants and yes aiya and I are not starving and have not killed each other yet. If you're calling for any of the above thanks for your concern but please don't leave a message after the beep. Have a great day!"

For those of you who did call, thanks for all your concern it was much appreciated. But i think even the sanest of people would go insane if they had to walk in every day and hear "You have 14 new messages." And i'm not the sanest. Well ammi and thathi are back and are no worse for their trip, maybe just a little bit heavier ;) Of course they brought back some wicked stuff for us, mainly in the area of Mammah's (my grandmother, thathi's mom) baked goods, art work (or ahhht as we prefer to call it) and my personal favourite, family heirlooms. They didn't come back with a whole whack load of stuff like they normally do, granted the situation in the country didn't exactly lend itself to the wild shopping sprees that my parents are usually wont to take part in. Nevertheless the tsunami hung over pretty much every aspect of their vacation although they weren't directly affected by it.

Here i could regale you with stories about friends dying, almost dying and devastation. But i'm not the BBC so i won't. Instead here's a cheesey joke that emobdies all things Sri Lankan. Aunty Shiromal (who owns the Jetwing travel group of hotels and has her own tsunami tragedy stories) related this to ammi and thathi over dinner one evening. A little bit of background for those of you who might not know, apparently some geographical centre or something in Hawaii knew that the tsunami was going to strike S. East Asia and were trying to figure out a way to inform the countries that would be effected.

Person from Hawaii: "Hi may i speak to the President please?"
Sri Lankan: "Sorry she can't come to the phone right now may i take a message?"
Person from Hawaii: "Listen, it's very urgent that someone knows that a tsunami is coming from Indonesia, will you be able to inform the proper people?"
Sri Lankan: "Sir I can assure you that it will be taken care of. How do you spell tsunami?"
Person from Hawaii: "T-S-U-N-A-M-I"
Sri Lankan: "Thanks for informing us."
A little while later
Sri Lankan (To President): Mrs. President, someone from Hawaii called to tell us that a Mr. T. Sumani was arriving from Indonesia today, I didn't want to bother you with it so i sent the driver and the car to the aiport with a sign "MR.T.SUMANI from INDONESIA" to pick him up, but so far no one's shown up.

Isn't that great? I probably got it wrong in the re-telling, but you get the idea :P

Guilty pleasures are embarassing, but so good at the same time...
Along with Maroon 5, salacious celebrity gossip also finds its way on my long list of guilty pleasures. But it's not often that celebrity gossip will get me thinking. You must admit that this is starting out to sound like an oxymoron, but hear me out! Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston are separated, big deal you say. (I immediately said that i hope Jen dies, Brad becomes a Christian, moves to Toronto and starts attending our local church. Therefore making him available, no strings attached. Don't scoff. It could happen!) What really gets my quince about the whole issue is that Jennifer Aniston is suddenly being demonized for not wanting to have children. What are we living in the Middle Ages people? So what if she wants to put her career first, she's made the responsible and honest choice. God only knows how horrible the lives of her children might be if she didn't put them first, at least she know where her priorities lie. So back off, even my best friend Oprah doesn't want to have kids for the same reason! But then again, Oprah's not married to Brad Pitt.

I will be accepting housewarming gifts in denominations of 10
Aiya got me a new wallet. A cute little Matt and Nat number. Although i'm not a vegan nor do i ever intend on becoming one, the wallet's pretty fly. Is it just me, or is getting a new wallet a lot like moving? I mean making that transfer of highly personal items from a space that you've long had and are totally used to, into this harsh new space which you need to get accustomed to. You know, trying to crack the code of the new snap button, and finding the rhythm of the zipper on the coin purse. And of course, getting used to looking into a new wallet that is devoid of any money will take a while to get used to. You can make your housewarming gifts payable to me.

Quips
Man, something about the holidays makes people say absurd things. Not that we don't say absurd things otherwise. It just seems like we say more stupidness after long periods of time away from work and school.

Me: SoOoOoOo who wants to come with me to the Netherlands this summer?! It'll be fun, we can go backpacking!!
Genis: Isn't the Netherlands in Ireland?

Labro: Yeah she's really butch
Me: So she's all ugly and mannish?
Labro: Not really, she's just butch
Me: I don't get it, how can she butch and not mannish and ugly?!
Labro: I can't explain it!
Philbert: She means she's a tomboy
Me: *GASP* if you call her 'Butch' and she's just a tomboy, what would you call ME, Emily?!
Everyone: *hysterical laughter*
Labro: uh...

Her: Seriously though, i have nothing to be jealous of. I mean. You saw her picture.
Me: You did NOT just say that.
Her: No. Wait! I didn't mean it like that!!

Ammi bought aiya and i these KICK ARSE Mont Blanc attache cases. Aiya got a tan leather one, and i got a black one. Trust me, we're just one trip away from Marks Work Wearhouse from looking like two pathetic grad students. (Although aiya looks more like one than i do, b/c he has the little plaid shirt, cord pants, boots and Columbia jacket, all we have to do is make him wear them all at once and get him some nice arcticware gloves!) This is a convo we had about the merits of carrying around said attache cases.
Me: Ammi, how come you and thathi didn't pick up attache cases for yourselves?
Aiya: Yeah ammi, they're perfect for dumping all your crap into! Especially when you go for meetings, then you won't have to lug around your papers.
Ammi: I don't need an attache case, i have an assistant

Aiya: I'm sorry we're not in the business of feeling sorry for people, we're in the business of exploiting them

Ahh, aiya you put it so well. Exploitation is the name of the game kids!

PS: Abs and Debs, i couldn't be MORE excited!