Author Archives: A N N A

I’ve Got Something SOUTH ASIAN For You

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bery bad porn.jpg

I’m sure that no one reading this is “fuzzy on that whole area of geography” like the vellamban in the video above, but I have to say, I am immature enough to have found this bit of stuff from “verybadporn.com” EXTRA amusing after the roiling boil over in the comment thread of the post below.

I had read about this clip in the New York Post a few weeks ago and it kept falling further down my “mutinous stuff to potentially post” list; every time I remembered it, I was at Tryst or some hot splotch and I was apprehensive about visiting a site called VERY BAD PORN in public. I know, silly, right? Today, in the privacy of my apartment, I furtively, finally took a look. I wasn’t disappointed. 😉

I love that I watched this spoof in all its PG-13, hilarious glory today of all days, as we quibble over India and Pakistan. 🙂 Pay special attention to what “Sana Summers” says, both about Nepal (she might want to read the answer to question four of our FAQ) as well as activities which, ahem, involve hands. I totally missed the latter joke the first two times I watched. Yenjoy! Continue reading →

What in Samhain…

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such bullshit.jpg

Oy, I need to start having the intern go through your submissions. After innocently clicking “original” Sonia’s news tip about a Halloween costume she had seen, I clawed my big Mallu eyes out, AGAIN at all the inappropriateness I found. Owwww. Look for yourself, if you dare. —->

Recently, I mentioned to mutineer SJM that since he’s moving back to DC and I have a costume in mind, we should plan to do something fun for St. Pumpkin’s day, even if all we can come up with is adding to the cluster#^@% which is Georgetown on Halloween. The black and orange holiday is huge around here. Thousands converge on M st, in costumes both quotidian and cunning. This pink outfit merits neither of those words; this is plain annoying. If I see someone wearing the schmata on the right on the same street as my beleaguered, yet beloved Amma’s Vegetarian, I might have to rip off my bamboo earrings (at least two pair), hand Salil my Fendi bag (but keep my bad attitude) and invoke the “Manish Vij-Anti-Exoticism” law of 2005 as I beat a kutthi down.

From the website which sells this…thing:

Adult Hindu Costumes – This Adult Hindu Goddess Costume includes a Hindu Goddess costume satin coined top, wrap skirt, Hindu Goddess costume chiffon drape & coined headpiece. The Hindu Goddess Costume is available in Womens Standard.

I know I don’t have to ask you to correct me if I’m wrong, but when coins are used like that, isn’t it more of a belly dancing thing? Or also likely, a case of mixing up continents? When my little sister and I were young, we learned and performed Greek folk dances in authentic outfits which were lovingly made by all the Grandmothers at our church to resemble classic costumes of Crete, Macedonia, Peloponnesos et al…some of those ensembles had coin headdresses and trim similar to what you see on our…um…Hindu Goddess here. It’s like they weren’t even TRYING to exoticize accurately. Sheesh.

But who cares about that– it’s on sale! Click here and you can save 20% by purchasing your Hindu Goddess Costume now (don’t forget to wear it with the retch-inducing nude pantyhose). For just under $32, you, too, can wear an outfit even Diwali Barbie wouldn’t touch. The best part? My wrath and beat down are FREE, especially if Mr. Walker is my other escort for the night. Continue reading →

I speak more Punjabi than Amharic

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Despite declaring that I do not imbibe by myself last week, tragic times call for pathetic measures; I spent the greater part of my Sunday afternoon intoxicating at Tryst, alone. I was all dressed up in black (though sadly, I did not resemble an erotic vulture), like some flashback to 1989, right down to the eyeliner-as-eyeshadow-tactic for that extra corpse-y effect.

271009556_328658be36_m.jpg My favorite way to waste a lazy Sunday is with one fat newspaper and several cups of milky coffee. After a phonecall from home bearing bad news, those props were replaced by this iBook and several pint glasses of milky coffee + alcohol, on the rocks. That was one slightly bright spot on an otherwise bleak day; what I was chugging was delicious and that’s because it was by my design. Sort of. Okay fine, the drink that I want to take credit for right now is but a slight variation on the powerhouse “Martin Blanco” cocktail I’ve been fond of forever at Tryst (iced vanilla vodka + espresso + kahlua + amaretto + milk…shaken violently). Amaretto di Saronno was my Father’s favorite liqueur and I didn’t want to taste it on a day when I was already glum. I improvised.

“Would it be possible to get Bailey’s instead of the Amaretto?”

My waiter paused and then smiled, as if he suddenly approved of such a manoeuver. “SURE.”

Later, when one of his co-workers asked me what I would call this elixir I was re-ordering for the third time, I tipsily blurted out “Martin O’blanco!” and she loved it. So there you have it. Since one of my goals in life is to get something on a menu either named after or otherwise attached to me (I’d totally settle for getting a mention in a menu “description”, which is something I think Tryst does), I take my barely-witty nomenclating of half-creative cocktails seriously enough to torture you with it.

As satisfying (and veg-happy) as Tryst’s menu is, I craved something different. I had devoured Amsterdam Falafel earlier in the day for lunch; I was suddenly consumed with memories of the fantastic gobi I had enjoyed there and I wanted more. I’m like that; if I dig something I will eat it over and over and over (PB + J, every day, grade 1-12) again. I do that with movies, too. And books. Especially suitable ones. Amsterdam it would be. I told the purveyor of O’blanco that I’d be back in 30 minutes and I left.

Though I have learned my lesson and no longer wear anything remotely cute while on 18th street, lest I encourage the invasive jerks who plague my new ‘hood with their assault attempts, all my modest, flesh-concealing layers were barely adequate for the autumn chill. I keep forgetting that it’s October and that I should expect to shiver accordingly. Or, you know, wear a jacket.

“Ay, Mami…where you going? Come on in.” Three confused desi promoters speak Latin to me half-heartedly. It’s Sunday night and the strip is dead. I think they’re more bored than serious. I smile as I pass them, right before one of them asks the other, “Was she Indian?” That’s the question of the day, apparently. Continue reading →

55Friday: The Callipygian Edition

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I know. Normally, there is a song title plucked fresh from my iTunes to grace that prominent, headlining area, but today, by very special request, your girl Friday is going to acknowledge one adorable-assed comment from a few weeks ago and sample it for this post. This is the remix, etc etc…

So I see a word I don’t recognise. I go to dictionary.com to look it up. I find out this word means:
having well-shaped buttocks
Having beautifully proportioned buttocks
I suddenly discover a whole new meaning to my life, to insert this word into conversations whenever I can, because it is as curvacious a word as the thing it describes. I think this has taken over as my favorite word in the English language, which used to be ‘Serendipity’, followed closely by ‘luminous’ and in third place ‘lepidoptery’.
But now I know what callipygian means, I am in love with that word. Please write a post featuring this word in the headline.[link]

And you thought I wouldn’t remember…silly sepiates. I’m all about the love, especially when that’s MY word you’re crushing on (well, it’s mine along with “apposite“…can’t overlook that one). Red Snapper’s kind command has been playing on my mind for these past two weeks, as I considered what post would be…um…apposite for such curvaceous titling. Finally, I have decided to take the easy way out. 😉

This Friday, take a crack at writing a flash of a story, with just 55-words to flesh it out. Take your inspiration from Sir Mix-a-lot, Wreckx- n-Effect or anyone else who’s got love for the booty (HELL, YES!). Write nanofiction about Wessside interpretations of Miami Bass, extra-memorable Seinfeld episodes, Boricua starlets who destroy innocent Beatnuts songs or how “kundi” is going to be Sepia Mutiny’s big contribution to the emerging 2nd gen cross-cultural lexicon (HA! Take THAT Northies!). Or, write about something else which fits in exactly 55 words. Just write something. And then post your astounding ass-terpiece in the comments below, so we can ogle it shamelessly, okay? Get crackin’, you mutinous poo-flingers.

Sepia Mutiny does not waste your time. [link]

It does on Fridays, mang. 😉 Continue reading →

Sunday55: The “Black Dog” Edition

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One of my best friends sent me a virtual pep talk at 5:15 pm; he had no possible way of knowing that the words he borrowed from Winston Churchill to make his point were already on my mind. Reading his GMissive on my august, semi-blinged phone’s meager screen while parked in traffic at M St + Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown reaffirmed my belief that nothing is accidental and that especially in my life, continental, oceanic and ironic plates clash together to create quaking moments which belong on celluloid. What are the odds? I get that email when I’m already pondering the British Bulldog, while “Black Dog” by Led Zeppelin blares through every straining speaker of this zippy red morsel of German perfection, which is mine for the evening? G-d is one hell of a director; I dig all the synchronicity.

Currently, I’m being haunted by the spectre of a black dog myself, as I reboot my entire life and go it alone, in every possible sense of the word. I desperately wish that I had just one pair of my venerable Docs with me in this cocoa city, to stomp through all the omnipresent ick with…alas, every set of bouncing soles lives with Moms, 3000 miles to the left. Incidentally, that picture you see above was taken the day I met Sepia Wizard Paul for the very first time, in North Beach, for a day of molesting Harry Potter (that was me), being confused by elderly Asian people (both of us) and mais oui, espresso at Greco (that SHOULD be everyone). I’m always a sentimental old bat, but I think tumult like this makes it even easier to conjure the past, as if to remind myself that this, too, shall pass, just like everything else has.

We haven’t held a festival for 55-word nanofiction in several weeks, so this Sunday, write about your black dogs, your love of fog, your fear of being a cog. Whatever floats your clove-smoking, black wet-n-wild nail polish-wearing, Gothic boat. If you’re not too black and blue to do so, that is… Continue reading →

What It Feels Like For A Girl

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A few hours ago, when I left my new apartment for dinner at Heritage India (Connecticut Ave), rain was escaping the night sky with such fury and speed, my golf umbrella was barely adequate and my mukluks were soaked. They are lined with sheepskin, which is now wet and disgusting. My toes are miserable. I’m barely cognizant of this though, because I’m on the phone, having the most important conversation of my day. I’m so involved with this voice, I barely notice the mile which I’ve walked uphill, the road I’ve made a right turn on, the periodic hordes of people on Adams Morgan’s 18th street, on this dead-because-it’s-wet-and-miserable night.

I should be at my new home, snuggled in my, um, Aerobed, but I have no internet access yet, so Tryst (a much-loved haunt of our Manish’s) has gone from third-place to first place in my life, for the moment. I don’t want to go inside and be the idiot on her cell phone though, so I’m hunched over my umbrella handle while I shiver mindlessly right outside the giant picture window, directly across from “my table“; practically on the sidewalk, it’s close to an electrical outlet and the perfect size for one. It’s also almost exactly where I sit when I’m at Greco. Some call me boring, I prefer consistent.

I’m in the middle of responding to a worrisome revelation when a group of frat-tastic retards lurches past, reeking of sweat and bad alcohol. I’m less vexed by such roving stupidity than some of my friends, mostly because unlike them, I was “Greek” and thus constantly around similar. I turn away from them slightly as they stagger by, wishing Maisnon were here; one of the last times we were together in the Morg, I was grabbed so violently, you could see marks the next day. Well before THAT sickening reminder of ickiness manifested itself in my flesh, our girl became Our Lady of Terrifying Rage. Approximately two minutes after Filthy McNastyman’s fingers defiled my arm, she accosted the pulayadi mon who startled and then offended me. “You do NOT do that”, she ranted, right in his face, as his innards liquefied in the face of her wrath. Ah, good times. But why was I thinking these thoughts? I had no need for such big guns. Nothing was going to happen to me…

“Jewugingglut”

Wait, what? Immediately, I hit a mental rewind even as I strained to listen to the voice currently inhabiting my cell-phone. WAIT. OMG. No. He. Didn’t. I dropped the phone right then from ear to hip and shouted in to the bastardÂ’s wake.

“What the hell did you just say to me??”

He turned back, the look on his face scaring me so much I think I whimpered for Deepa, my Mom and/or my ferocious, late German Shepherd Rani. Continue reading →

My Super Power: Invisibility

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About 10 minutes ago, one of my co-workers strolled in with an impressive Styrofoam container, filled with something pungent.

“Hey…is that Moby Dick?“, another asked. Seven of us are on this team; we share a decently sized office which is cube-free and thus collaboration-ready.

“Nah, it’s curry.” Â…annnnd my ears are pricked.

“Oh, really? From where?”

“Lunch buffet…place across the street.”

At this point, my eyes slightly bulge. He’s referring to a place I went to once, an establishment which left such an awful taste in my mouth that not only did I hate my lunch, I couldn’t even enjoy complaining about it afterwards, because my then-BF scoffed, “What were you thinking? Food from restaurants named after mausoleums NEVER tastes good. Don’t you know that only gora eat there?”

“Man, I love curry. Wish I had gone there instead of Cosi.”

“Yeah, it’s great.”

At this point, I’m engulfed by weirdness. I’ve mentioned to them in the past that the restaurant in question is blech-inducing. Hmm. Did they not believe me? Wait–is there some issue with my brown credibility? I trust my Lebanese friends when they advise me about which hummus sucks like a Dyson, what gives? I shake my head to clear it, but the discordance is rotting my brain.

The room spins a bit; did I hallucinate that entire conversation with them last week? The one in which we discussed the very difference between these two eateries? No. We totally had that talk. They know I vouched for Heritage India, which is a whopping two doors away from the hole from whence this styrofoam came. I start to feel a bizarre dissonance and I calmly attempt to explore it. Perhaps IÂ’m viewing this improperly. Despite my slight discomfort, maybe we’ve come a long way, baby, if I’m not automatically looked at every time someone utters the word “curry”. Yet oddly, I’m not thrilled. I know. Impossible to please.

This reminds me of Nike’s “Vamp like an Egyptian“-shtick. Is half-assed brown better than no brown at all? I vote “no”. Still, why do I care so much? Who appointed me Ambassador to Brownland? I watch co-worker number two dig in and I almost cringe, I canÂ’t get over my sororal proclivities, my innate bossiness. If he likes to eat sub-par desi food, why should I give a shit? I have work to do, which I attempt to lose myself in, but then… Continue reading →

That’s NOT How You Do The “Head Thing”

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never do that again please.JPG Dear Nidhi M.,

Thank you very much for sending Sepia Mutiny a story idea via our tipline three hours ago. It was so kind of you to think of us as you went about your day.

Since you have demonstrated your generosity already, I feel emboldened enough to wonder if you’d be willing to go a bit further in showing your devotion to this mutinous cause. Do you bleed Sepia? If so, would you graciously consider donating one of your eyes to me? I lost mine when I clawed them out, after watching the link you helpfully enclosed with the following succinct statement:

Nike teaming up with 24 hour fitness mixing and mucking up classical indian dances with bollywood and strange robotic aerobic moves.

Mein Gott, that’s almost poetic. You were right. And now, I am in so much pain because of it. I’d gouge away at the intern’s face, but she took one look at me and ran screaming to Rajni the lemur’s room. At least she didn’t have to watch Jamie King train three mostly wooden dancers in his “Rockstar workout” of “far-East funk”. Nor did she have to hear his priceless wisdom, which I feel I must contradict fervently after watching this entire fiasco:

There are no rules. If you’re feeling the music, you can’t go wrong.

TRUST me. You can indeed go wrong. Especially when you employ that uber-abused cliche which has appeared on browndating dot com so many times, my friends have turned it in to part of a drinking game (“OMG, he prefaced it with ‘good blend of’…DOUBLE SHOT!”).

Of course, I am referring to that bi-cultural, directional claptrap which automatically disqualified all otherwise-promising candidates from suitable debauchery; Mr. King’s spin on it didn’t prevent the gagging, not after what I saw. “East meets West on the dance floor”? Come to any random desi party and you can abuse “South” as well, i.e. “when East meets West on the dance floor, two rabidly horny underage hormones often move South in order to simulate an act which MummyPapa would spank them unconscious for, for even pondering”. Anyway. When this man who has choreographed Madge exhorts us to “just get out there and show your Bollywood style!”, I don’t think he realizes what fresh hell he is inviting the world to suffer through by doing so.

Chick Pea? Are you out there? Have you done your surgical rotation yet??? That faint, scratchy squawking you hear is Abhi, frantically paging you to the bunker’s painfully rustic OR. Go, scrub your hands already! My anesthesiologist Dr. Walker is already prepping me for surgery. As for the rest of you, just know this and remember it well– when you dance like that, you make the baby Jesus cry. Worse than that, you also piss off our Desidancer.

Blindly yours,

A N N A

:+:

(more pictures after the jump, click to enlarge them…if you dare) Continue reading →

Terrorists Bomb Malegaon…

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malegaon.gif …which is about 160 miles northeast of Bombay. Via the news tab (Thanks, Chickpea and kaur):

Two bombs struck in the crowded streets of the western Indian city of Malegaon as Muslim worshippers were returning from Friday afternoon prayers, killing 30 people and wounding 56 in what a top official called “a terrorist act.”[yahoo]
Authorities quickly clamped a curfew on Malegaon, said D.K. Shankaran, a top Maharashtra state official. The city has a long history of religious violence between Muslims and Hindus.[yahoo]

The bomb may have been lashed to a bicycle which was recovered at the scene. The BBC has more:

One of the first journalists to reach the scene of the blasts in Malegaon, Vaishali Balajiwale, told the BBC that the explosion inside the town’s main burial ground for Muslims happened on a day when Muslims pray for their dead.[Beeb]
One eyewitness told her: “There was a big noise when the prayers were on. And then people began running helter skelter for their lives.”[Beeb]

The BBC went on to report that outraged people threw stones at the police after the bombing, which only further stokes my fears of retaliatory violence in an area already affected by tension between Hindus and Muslims. Anti-riot forces are being deployed.

India’s Prime Minister, Manmohan Singh, has strongly condemned the blasts.[BBC]
He has appealed for peace and communal harmony and has urged police to remain calm.[BBC]

Malegaon, known for its weavers, is a city where Muslims are the majority.

Developing… Continue reading →