http://www.indiaabroad-digital.com/indiaabroad/20101224?pg=34#pg34
(yay)
Monday, December 27, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
WWJD?
It's so cold out that it hurts my teeth to drink hot coffee. CNN, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and even the arbitrary psuedo-political and barely intellectual blogs, all circle around the same 4 topics: not-so-secret diplomatic secrets; the surrender of politics to the moral obligations of helping 9/11 heroes, freeing closeted soldiers, legalizing those American in all but name; Obamacare's flaws and inadequacies; Sarah Palin's newest blunder, exalted by the Tea Party and Jon Stewart. It tires me. Everything is the same. People don't want to see Obama's brilliance, the NJTransit bus is always late, politics and the economy and all the other fabricated "isms" that have been so loosely thrown about are nothing more than words, words which don't stop frostbite or runny noses or stiffened toes.
In the midst of political and physical frigidity, the last thing I wanted to do was attend a foreign policy forum at the Yale Club. My juvenile conservative fetish has started to corrode, giving way to the forces of common sense and a more durable liberalism. I wanted to attend for a change of pace, but also wanted to not attend for the same reason. I ultimately decided to go, and after roaming around 42-44th streets on Vanderbilt Avenue for 15 minutes (I work right by Grand Central and yet its precise location still eludes me), I saw the Yale Club as refuge.
After handing in my coat, my scarf, my lunch bag, my overnight bag, (and after the man behind the coat check grew a few white hairs), I walked to the fourth floor, past all the libraries and men in sports jackets and women in pearls, to the forum. For some reason, I wasn't registered (even though I did it twice), so got to scribble my name on a blank card. I found a few other familiar faces, and as if I had not spoken in years, I let loose a tirade about PPACA, about flaky pedestrians, about Coach bags and Ugg boots. In between "Obama's saving the U.S.!" and "I'd rather buy 100 burritos than half a Coach bag," we explored the open bar and welcomed with open arms the waitresses providing endless mini bruschettas and knishes and pineapple.
And then someone clutched my arm. "Is that Jerry Springer?" I looked to my right and saw an older man talking to a group of eager young faces, but could hardly believe it to be Mr. Springer in the flesh. I almost yelled, "Jerry! Jerry!" but decided instead to silently stand next to him till I could confirm it to be true.
Most other groups in the room formed around a topic of interest--North Korea, socialism, the free flowing white wine. As I edged closer to Mr. Springer (not yet on a first name basis), I caught snippets of the conversation. "So, do contestants on your show really have those issues or is it scripted?"
It really was him. I introduced myself, he introduced himself, and then we briefly discussed my boss and her policies before a blonde JP Morgan banker inserted herself into the conversation and stole Jerry from me forever. As she maintained a fixated gaze, I fumbled around for my camera. I didn't have the passion she had, and I just wanted my taste of fame before I headed home.
He said he would be in a picture only if he could get a copy.
The rest of the forum went well. Most of the economists on the panel were conservative, small government folk, the types of people both Jerry and I resented. I stopped caring what they had to say, what Chris Matthews and Brian Lehrer had to say, what my office had to say, what my parents had to say.
I just want to know what Jerry would do.
In the midst of political and physical frigidity, the last thing I wanted to do was attend a foreign policy forum at the Yale Club. My juvenile conservative fetish has started to corrode, giving way to the forces of common sense and a more durable liberalism. I wanted to attend for a change of pace, but also wanted to not attend for the same reason. I ultimately decided to go, and after roaming around 42-44th streets on Vanderbilt Avenue for 15 minutes (I work right by Grand Central and yet its precise location still eludes me), I saw the Yale Club as refuge.
After handing in my coat, my scarf, my lunch bag, my overnight bag, (and after the man behind the coat check grew a few white hairs), I walked to the fourth floor, past all the libraries and men in sports jackets and women in pearls, to the forum. For some reason, I wasn't registered (even though I did it twice), so got to scribble my name on a blank card. I found a few other familiar faces, and as if I had not spoken in years, I let loose a tirade about PPACA, about flaky pedestrians, about Coach bags and Ugg boots. In between "Obama's saving the U.S.!" and "I'd rather buy 100 burritos than half a Coach bag," we explored the open bar and welcomed with open arms the waitresses providing endless mini bruschettas and knishes and pineapple.
And then someone clutched my arm. "Is that Jerry Springer?" I looked to my right and saw an older man talking to a group of eager young faces, but could hardly believe it to be Mr. Springer in the flesh. I almost yelled, "Jerry! Jerry!" but decided instead to silently stand next to him till I could confirm it to be true.
Most other groups in the room formed around a topic of interest--North Korea, socialism, the free flowing white wine. As I edged closer to Mr. Springer (not yet on a first name basis), I caught snippets of the conversation. "So, do contestants on your show really have those issues or is it scripted?"
It really was him. I introduced myself, he introduced himself, and then we briefly discussed my boss and her policies before a blonde JP Morgan banker inserted herself into the conversation and stole Jerry from me forever. As she maintained a fixated gaze, I fumbled around for my camera. I didn't have the passion she had, and I just wanted my taste of fame before I headed home.
He said he would be in a picture only if he could get a copy.
The rest of the forum went well. Most of the economists on the panel were conservative, small government folk, the types of people both Jerry and I resented. I stopped caring what they had to say, what Chris Matthews and Brian Lehrer had to say, what my office had to say, what my parents had to say.I just want to know what Jerry would do.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Catharsis
It was one of those days when the wind whips your face so hard it looks like you're wearing a cheap brand of blush, when it rains so hard that the windows groan, and when the only relief you have from large muddy puddles of water are smaller puddles to the left. People were poking each other with umbrellas, hurriedly brushing past the AM New York newspaper guy in order to get to the nearest awning, running from one to the next. Despite best efforts, everyone was drenched, cold, frenetic. In an epic battle against the ennui of our fabrications and constructions, of midtown east and overpriced delis, of business casual and leather shoes, of 9-5 and 9-infinity, of Republican filibusters and self-indulgent nuclear warfare, Mother Nature rose from within herself to shatter the very artifice in which we have captivated ourselves. It rained and rained as if the Earth were crying, as if purging its elation, fury, passion, sensuality in one desperate attempt at reinstilling chaos.
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