Diary of a Lady - 10

h dear, oh dear… I’ve just found out that my hair dresser and my psychiatrist are sisters-in-law. When I mentioned what I did for a living, my hair dresser’s exact words were: ‘So you’re that M___. You know my sister-in-law, she’s S____.”

I don’t trust anyone. Does my psychiatrist now know that I have dry hair that’s prone to dandruff? And does my hair dresser now know that I throw up all the time? I wouldn’t be surprised if my dentist is their brother-in-law.

But there’s one think that really niggling me: Both of them are making a lot of money from me.

Recipe of the Day

Writing the previous blog got me longing for a good burger, which I might had was nowhere near the description of the fetid mass I have just consumed. If you, however, don’t mind making your own delicious burgers try out this brilliant recipe from Chef Dee

Ingredients

2 lbs ground beef

10 crushed Ritz crackers (or any other variety)

1/4 cup ketchup

1 egg, slightly beaten

1 (1 1/4 ounce) package onion soup mix

1/2 teaspoon minced garlic

1 tablespoon worcestershire sauce

2 tablespoons butter

Method

1. Place ground beef in a large mixing bowl. Sprinkle with crushed crackers.

2. In a separate bowl, stir the remaining ingredients together, then hand mix into the hamburger.

3. Using an icecream scoop, place 2 scoops, one on top of the other, onto a cookie sheet.

4. Repeat using all the hamburger, form into patties.

5. Chill for 3-4 hours, then grill till done.

6. Meanwhile, melt the butter in a saucepan, fry mushrooms and onions until golden.

7. Serve burgers on a fresh bun, top with mushrooms and onions.

Wait for it...

There’s a rather novel book at stores across the globe. Service Included is a memoir written by a former waitress Phoebe Damrosch (I say former, because I think with this book, her days of serving demanding gourmands are behind her). The book, according to reviewer Sara Dickerman “has its flaws”, but the highlight is what ‘tips’ other waiters can cull from her book.

Sara has been kind enough to break them down for us, and I have been vile enough to edit them further (to cater to this blog’s readers — who have the colective attention spans of gnats).

Greeting skills
Good service is basically "hello, goodbye, and thank you". A simple principle but one that is often forgotten.

The Personality Principle

The goal of a good waiter is to be present when needed or wanted, but also to disappear when not needed or wanted.

Checking In

When to appear and disappear is a fine art, and without a doubt, my least favorite server is the one who interrupts your mouthful with, "How is that pinot/salt-cod croquette/lamb loin?"

The Mistake Principle

While an apology might come in the form of very noble grape juice at fancy restaurants, efficiently mitigating mistakes is a key to good service at any restaurant. A slice of pie can do the trick, but even a sincere, but simple "I'm sorry" can work.

The Tipping Principle

20 percent on the tab — wine included — every time.

Editorial Cartoon of the Day

This one's a good one by Ben Sargent

Yup, he said it: The Best of Dubya

"We're going to—we'll be sending a person on the ground there pretty soon to help implement the malaria initiative, and that initiative will mean spreading nets and insecticides throughout the country so that we can see a reduction in death of young children that—a death that we can cure."

Return of the Devil

Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary is a classic of satire and literary innovation published in 1911. Every day The Crystal Ship will bring to you one word from this most witty of lexicons. Don’t say I never do anything for your betterment.

ACQUAINTANCE, n.  A person whom we know well enough to borrow from,

but not well enough to lend to.  A degree of friendship called slight

when its object is poor or obscure, and intimate when he is rich or

famous.

Joke of the Day

Little Johnny was just being potty trained and his mom tried this new method with 6 steps:
1. Unbutton pants
2. Pull pants down
3. Pull foreskin back
4. Pee
5. Push foreskin forward
6. Pull pants up and button up
She walked past the bathroom one day and heard Johnny going 1,2,3,4,5,6 and she was thinking she did good.
Then she walked past the next day and heard him saying real fast 3-5,3-5,3-5...

Priyanka Chopra gets the superhero treatment

Indian ctress to star as superhero in graphic novel series

MUMBAI, India: Bollywood actress Priyanka Chopra will star as a superhero princess with mystical powers in a new series of comic book novels, a Virgin Comics official said Friday.

Suresh Seetharaman, president of Virgin Comics, India, said the company was also working with the former Miss World to develop an animated game based on the books — to be launched next year.

Virgin is still working on a title for the series and a name for Chopra's character.

Chopra's character, hails from a line of princesses with magic powers to battle evil, said Suresh Seetharaman, president of Virgin Comics, India.

Virgin Comics is a year-old venture involving British billionaire Richard Branson, self improvement guru Deepak Chopra and Indian filmmaker Shekhar Kapur.

Initial images show the curvaceous Chopra clad in a fitted gold and black suit with billowing black hair, and another shows her wearing silver armor over a wispy white blouse.

Seetharaman said Virgin was sure Chopra, the superhero, would be a hit with her many fans.

Diary of a Lady - 9

(The captain of the Crystal Ship wishes to make it very clear that he is not the author of this diary...lest some nincompoop think otherwise. The Diary is written by a bonafide hussy)

I met an old .. um…acquaintance yesterday. At least I was once acquainted with his penis. As penises go, his was a decent one -- not too large, but not too small either. But in the interests of my newfound purity, I decided against reacquainting myself with it.

I've seen quite a few penises in my lifetime -- not a hundred, but I think 40 would be a nice round figure. And surprisingly, to my horror, I've realised I can remember them all.

This is half an epiphany for me, as I'm not a penis-loving person. I realised that the moment my first boyfriend whipped his 'manhood' out of his pants, and there I was wishing he's just stuff it back it in. Most men like whipping their penises out, given half a chance. It's something I've come to expect and accept.

But the penis that still gives me the shudders belonged to a 39-year-old Scot. I was 17 at the time, and not only would he whip it out, he'd ask me if his was the best I'd ever seen. What can a girl say?

After giving pleasure to 40 penises, I'd like to think that I'm good at oral sex. I wish I could put it down in résumé: 'Also gives good head'. I bet the editor of The Guardian would hire me in a jiffy.

We must squeeze the middle-class into action

Mumbai is a city of opportunity, no matter what stratum of society you come from. Yet, it is this very opportunity that causes Mumbaikars the most grief.

People from all over rural (and by rural I don’t mean idyllic) India come to this metropolis to realise their dreams: a few do, for the rest it gradually transmogrifies into a free house and a chance to badger tax-paying citizens.

Almost every traffic signal in the city now comes replete with its own coven of beggars, vagrants and cripples. They buzz around cars and taxicabs hoping to dupe the conscience of some vapid commuter into giving them some money. But what do they do with the money? Mumbai is full of, if nothing else, theories: ‘They spend it on drugs and alcohol’, ‘they actually make as much as Rs2,000 a day, hence prefer begging to manual labour’, ‘they actually use it to buy the necessities to survive in such a harsh environment’.

Mumbai’s upper class very rarely comes into contact with this segment of urban life. Their air-conditioned cars and tinted windows, shield them from such human realities, and hence they can be excused for not giving a damn. It is the middle-class that should be the most harangued by this imposition; they, however, seem to be anything but.

Apart from the beggars and lepers (I’m not even going to mention the eunuchs, a segment of society so pointless, they could disappear and nobody would know the difference), illegal hawkers have take over pavements and walkways, forcing pedestrians into the streets.

The police, allegedly, is hand-in-glove with the hawkers and the alms-requesters, and will do nothing apart from occasionally wield a limp baton in the direction of a stall that has failed to pay up its monthly protection money. Yet the middle-class strolls on, inspired in its indolence.

Change must come from within, and it is time Mumbai reclaimed its streets. I don’t suggest we do so in the blatantly racist and corrupt manner in which Rudy Guilliani reclaimed New York for white New Yorkers. But do something, we must.

The financial middle class — and the rich — must be taxed for every beggar and illegal hawker on Mumbai’s streets. They must pay for their apathy to what is a rapidly deteriorating situation. Hitting Mumbai where it hurts, in their wallets is the best way to get them to begin taking some pride in their city and spur them into action against the mass of illegal activity that dogs our daily life.

Mumbaikars love talking the big talk, it’s high time they started walking the walk too.

Hiroshima Paul dies at 92

Pilot of B-29 bomber that dropped atomic bomb on Hiroshima dies at 92

COLUMBUS, Ohio: Paul Tibbets (seen in picture, right), who piloted the B-29 bomber Enola Gay that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, died after six decades of steadfastly defending the mission. He was 92.

Tibbets died Thursday at his Columbus home after a two-month decline caused by a variety of health problems, said Gerry Newhouse, a longtime friend.

Throughout his life, Tibbets seemed more troubled by other people's objections to the bomb than by having led the crew that killed tens of thousands of Japanese in a single stroke. The attack marked the beginning of the end of World War II.

Tibbets grew tired of criticism for delivering the first nuclear weapon used in wartime, telling family and friends that he wanted no funeral service or headstone because he feared a burial site would only give detractors a place to protest.

And he insisted he slept just fine, believing with certainty that using the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki saved more lives than they erased because they eliminated the need for a drawn out invasion of Japan.

“He said, ‘What they needed was someone who could do this and not flinch — and that was me’,” said journalist Bob Greene, who wrote the Tibbets biography, Duty: A Father, His Son, and the Man Who Won the War.

“I'm not proud that I killed 80,000 people, but I'm proud that I was able to start with nothing, plan it and have it work as perfectly as it did,” he said in a 1975 interview.

“You've got to take stock and assess the situation at that time. We were at war. You use anything at your disposal.”

“What Mr Tibbits did should never be forgiven,” said Takashi Mukai, whose mother, a nurse, suffered lifelong effects of radiation as she treated bombing victims. “His actions led to the indiscriminate killing of so many, from the elderly to young children.”

It’s pen’s down in Hollywood

Hollywood writers going on strike for first time in nearly 20 years in dispute over royalties

LOS ANGELES, California: Hollywood writers who have long complained of being underpaid and getting little respect said they would go on strike for the first time in nearly 20 years to fight for a bigger piece of the television and movie industry action.

The strike will not immediately affect film or prime time TV production. Most studios have stockpiled dozens of movie scripts, and TV shows have enough scripts or completed shows in hand to last until early next year.

Writers Guild of America President Patric Verrone made the strike announcement in a closed-door session Thursday, drawing loud cheers from the crowd, several writers told The Associated Press.

“Where the membership stands could not be more clear,” said Carlton Cuse, an executive producer of the television drama Lost and a member of the guild negotiating committee. “There was not a single dissenting voice in the room.”

Writers said the guild board would meet today to formally call a strike and decide when it would start. They said guild members would be told this afternoon.

The first casualty of the strike will likely be late night talk shows, which are dependent on current events to fuel monologues and other entertainment.

Did you know this about Carlos?

• He learned to play the guitar when he was eight-years-old.
• Became the first Hispanic to win a Grammy for Record of the Year in 2000 when he shared the honor with Matchbox 20 lead singer Rob Thomas for the song Smooth.
• Says he doesn't even remember giving his (well-received) performance at Woodstock in 1969; with his band not scheduled to appear for several hours, he'd taken a dose of LSD, only to have his band bumped up on the schedule as it was taking effect.
• He was voted the 90th Greatest Rock 'n' Roll Artist of all time by Rolling Stone.

Santana realises ‘she’s not there’

Rocker's wife of 34 years files for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences

SAN RAFAEL, California: Carlos Santana and his wife of 34 years are divorcing, according to court documents.

Deborah Santana, who in her 2005 memoir Space Between the Stars described her guitarist husband as being unfaithful, filed for divorce in Marin County Superior Court on Oct 19, citing irreconcilable differences.

Carlos Santana's publicist, Michael Jensen, said the case is “a private matter and there is no comment”.

The musician has said he knew he made mistakes in his marriage.

“I sincerely apologized to her and to my kids when I wasn't in my right mind and did something hurtful,” Carlos Santana said after the memoir was published. “It has helped me become more humble and to try harder to be the man she wants me to be.”

Joke of the Day

There was a man who wanted a pure wife. So he started to attend church to find a woman. He met a gal who seemed nice so he took her home.
When they got there, he whips out his manhood and asks "What's this?"
She replies "A cock."
He thinks to himself that she is not pure enough. A couple of weeks later he meets another gal and soon takes her home. Again, he pulls out his manhood and asks the question.
She replies "A cock". He is angry because she seemed more pure than the first but, oh well. A couple of weeks later he meets a gal who seems real pure. She won't go home with him for a long time but eventually he gets her to his house.
He whips it out and asks, "What is this?"
She giggles and says "A pee-pee."
He thinks to himself that he has finally found his woman. They get married but after several months every time she sees his member she giggles and says, "That's your pee-pee."
He finally breaks down and says "Look this is not a pee-pee, it is a cock."
She laughs and says "No it's not, a cock is ten inches long and black."

Return of the Devil

Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary is a classic of satire and literary innovation published in 1911. Every day The Crystal Ship will bring to you one word from this most witty of lexicons. Don’t say I never do anything for your betterment.

ACCUSE, v.t.  To affirm another's guilt or unworth; most commonly as a

justification of ourselves for having wronged him.

Portrait of a Lady - 8

he pig is on holiday. The farm is in disarray. So the other animals decided to take charge. The sloth was elected to lead the lesser animals. He tried, but was an abysmal failure. The pompous bull snorted and took charge, but his tail kept getting in the way. The mouse twitched anxiously, the mule nodded wisely. The donkey brayed loudly, and everyone was forced to listen. The peacock played with her nails. It was degeneration without the decadence… everyone masturbated, but no one achieved an orgasm. Disgusted they dispersed, with promises to meet again.

Only the vulture smirked… once it feeds on the carrion, it will move on to a better farm.

But I am trapped here. There is no way out. One day I will become like them – I will scratch my belly, toss my mane, and hoot idiotically. But maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll at least achieve an orgasm.

Memoirs of a traveller - Dubai

This is Dubai. Sheikh Zayed Road lit up the night sky as the beacons atop the Emirates Tower and the Fairmont Hotel blinked, as if surprised by all the construction work around them. The cars blazed a path through the concrete leviathans while pedestrians peered into window displays wondering if that Gucci handbag would clash with their Dunhill luggage set.

I sat, along with a friend (both fresh off the proverbial boat) at the Gallops pub in the Admiral Plaza Hotel in Bur Dubai. All around us was the mob of humanity. A group of Indian labourers drank in the dingy corners, afraid to invade the space of the number of ‘white’ faces that lined the bar, and looked anxiously at the door. The digital clock flashed seven o’clock.
A few minutes later the doors swung open and in walked a bevy of gorgeous ladies dressed to send a man wild with lust, and aching to part with the money in his wallet.
Among them was arguably one of the best-looking women I have ever seen. At over six feet she wore an air of stoic confidence that Eastern European women are so famed for. She walked up to a table of labourers and sat down amongst them. They seemed apprehensive, but a conversation ensued. Minutes later she walked out with four of them in tow. She stood out in the group as they walked passed me — not because she was taller than the lot of them — but because the scent of her perfume jostled for space with the stench of sweat and sun-baked skin that emanated from the men. Her clothes hugged her body, as if protecting her from the grimy, shredded apparel of her suitors.
The door shut behind them and I stared at it for a while.
“New in Dubai?” asked the Irish bar manager. She had obviously seen my eyeballs try to unscrew themselves from my socket and march up to the woman to profess their undying love.
I nodded. “It’s the first of the month,” she said. “It’s payday. The labourers usually come in here and blow their month’s salary on whores and alcohol in one night.”
It was only weeks later, after I had met the girl’s ‘sister’, that I found out her name was Jana. They came from Kiev in the Ukraine, and her favourite colour was blue.
Three months after this incident, Jana and a few other girls were said to have been deported from Dubai for speaking up after one of their friends was allegedly raped and murdered by a group of local men. Her body was found in the desert between Dubai and Abu Dhabi...a stone’s throw away from one of the country’s infamous labour camps.
Dubai’s labour camps are out-of-bounds for journalists, nay forbidden. My favourite newspaper, The Guardian, has been banned from the Middle East because it rarely pulls its punches when it comes to reporting on the region’s human rights record.
Beneath the shimmering veneer of Dubai’s burgeoning real estate market and its skyrocketing tourism numbers, lies a river of Styxian proportions. Labourers from the sub-continent toil in 12-hour days under a blazing Arabian sun — sometimes seven days a week — for as little as Dh1,000 (Rs10,700) a month: many send a large portion of this back home to their families, whom they haven’t seen in years. In some cases their ‘accommodation’ sees them herded 10-to-a-room; the room in question being a dank part of a 500 unit whole. Hygiene levels are disastrous and freedom, as Janis Joplin sang, “is just another word for nothing left to lose”.
A taxi driver once told me that the only reason he didn’t return to his hometown in “Trivandrum [sic]” — where his family live — was because he wasn’t sure of getting a job with a similar salary. He was earning Rs12,000 a month, sharing a room with six other drivers, and was allowed one-month’s leave every three years.
“To leave the Gulf and return without a better job is a sign of weakness. Also, my boss has told me that if I leave, he will ban me from coming back to the Gulf,” he told me. He hadn’t seen his wife in 18 months, but had just celebrated the birth of his second son.
“Things are like that in my village. No problem,” he reacted to my inappropriate calculations.
In all likelihood, Dubai will emerge as one of the world’s premier cities. But while the well-to-do expatriates draw their shades against the setting sun, and clamber into downy beds, another part of the city fitfully sleeps. And in the darkened alleyways of the camps and the graffiti-adorned streets of the city’s poorer quarters, a labourer counts his coins and looks up as a blonde walk towards him.
This is his dream, as much as it is hers.
“Dubai”, I was once told, “is a land of prostitutes. The only difference is in the things you sell.”
A soul and a body are hard to align, but every now and then they combine to form a whole. This is Dubai.