|
At least they put the apostrophe in the right place |
|
At least they put the apostrophe in the right place |
BREAKING NEWS (well, sort of) via PEREZ HILTON (and tipster Simran):
Casually dressed erstwhile pop superstar Britney Spears attended an event at a Malibu mandir yesterday, Feder-spawn never out of her arms. More pictures of her doing so are available here.
At least this is one occasion where it was appropriate and not disgusting for Brit-Brit to be shoe-free.
Seriously though, motherhood agrees with her– and so does going to mandir. While I have NEVER been a fan and I am gloating that she’s not wearing her ring (DUMP HIM! You still have a chance! Turn your future “Behind the Music” ep around NOW!), I sincerely hope she got something out of her trip to temple.
Anyone have any idea why she was there? After some lazy googling, I haven’t discovered further details so I leave it to you, Mutineers. Kindly call your religious cousins in or near Malibu and beg them for deets, thanks. 😉 Continue reading
Fresh from the little red phone which rings whenever I get a tip:
This is probably the stupidest ‘tip’ I’ve ever sent to a blog, but…If you look at the cover of Gwen Stefani’s latest album, and sort of squint your eyes, doesn’t it look just like a picture of Ganesha’s head? Am I nuts, or do others see this too?
Hmmm. How many other blogs you tippin’? How long has THAT been going on? 😉 Anyway, I’ve squinted enough that I now need creme de la mer eye balm, but I still don’t see it. Don’t be surprised though– I could NEVER see the “hidden” pictures in those magic-eye-annoying posters, either.
And the rest of you lot? Is our “anon” nuts or do you see the face of a beloved deity, too? Continue reading
Time Magazine’s Asia edition writes a favorable review of the new book by Amitav Ghosh titled, Incendiary Circumstances : A Chronicle of the Turmoil of Our Times:
…moments of collapse, when the writer realizes what he cannot do–and what he has to do, as a citizen–are the center of the roaming anthropologist’s new collection of essays, Incendiary Circumstances. The title comes from a piece in which Ghosh, sitting at his desk in Delhi, working on his first novel, in 1984, suddenly sees the tranquil world around him go up in flames in the wake of Indira Gandhi’s assassination. Hours before, he was just another student and aspiring author, hovering over his notebook in a part of Delhi called Defence Colony; overnight, he becomes an activist of sorts, going out into the streets to shout Gandhian slogans with the other everyday citizens trying to quell the riots.It is part of Ghosh’s curious luck that he often seems to be in the thick of things: he was a schoolboy in Sri Lanka just before civil war broke up the island, and he was living in rural Egypt when villagers around him started going to Saddam Hussein’s Iraq in search of jobs. He was in New York City on Sept. 11, 2001. The disappearance of seeming paradises has been his lifelong companion. More than that, though, he is an amphibian of sorts who knows what it is to be both witness and victim.
Reading the review I was reminded a little of this question I posed to Manish just a few days ago. When is the time to write about and discuss an issue over, and the time to to either act on it or walk away at hand? Sometimes writing can inspire the cause that will produce a needed effect. Ghosh seems to focus on this balance.
Faced by those rioters in Delhi in 1984, some women stood up to them and, miraculously, reversed the tide of violence. Following the destruction of their country by the Khmer Rouge, a handful of survivors in Cambodia in 1981 put on a dance performance, piecing their lives together like “rag pickers.” Writers have to be solitaries, Ghosh recalls V.S. Naipaul saying, and yet, he seems to feel, to be useful they have to be participants, too.Incendiary Circumstances traces, over and over, the perfidy of empires and the corruption of most governments, but it never loses sight of individual action and power. And navigating both sides of the shadow lines within him, Ghosh travels to some of the most difficult places on earth to bring their voices back to those in places of seeming comfort.
See Amardeep’s review of Ghosh’s previous book, The Hungry Tide.
Earlier this week a SM tipster (thanks Ami) sent us word of this article in Time Magazine that does a pretty good job of examining the second generation Asian American experience:
The American story is, of course, made up of successive influxes of immigrants who arrive in the U.S., struggle to find a place in its society and eventually assimilate. But the group of post-1965 Asians was different from the Jews, Irish and Italians who had landed earlier. The Asian immigrants’ distinctive physiognomy may have made it more difficult for them to blend in, but at the same time, their high education and skill levels allowed them quicker entrée into the middle class. Instead of clustering tightly in urban ethnic enclaves, they spread out into suburbia, where they were often isolated. And it was there that their kids, now 20 to 40 years old, grew up, straddling two worlds–the traditional domain their recently arrived parents sought to maintain at home and the fast-changing Western culture of the society outside the front door. The six people at the New York City dinner are members of that second generation and–full disclosure–so are we, the authors of this article.
In the paragraph above you see a very concise reason for why the experience of South Asian immigrants living in the U.S. is different from those living in European countries, and totally different from those living elsewhere abroad. The fact that immigrants here spread to isolated suburbs helped them assimilate more quickly, while at the same time encouraging them to embrace inclusiveness by identifying with other immigrant populations.
If you were to draw a diagram of acculturation, with the mores of immigrant parents on one side and society’s on the other, the classic model might show a steady drift over time, depicting a slow-burn Americanization, taking as long as two or three generations. The more recent Asian-American curve, however, looks almost like the path of a boomerang: early isolation, rapid immersion and assimilation and then a re-appreciation of ethnic roots.
I enjoyed this article because I felt that they were describing my own experience quite accurately.
As a child growing up in Pennington, N.J., Fareha Ahmed watched Bollywood videos and enthusiastically attended the annual Pakistan Independence Day Parade in New York City. By middle school, though, her parents’ Pakistani culture had become uncool. “I wanted to fit in so bad,” Ahmed says. For her, that meant trying to be white. She dyed her hair blond, got hazel contact lenses and complained, “I’m going to smell,” when her mom served fragrant dishes like lamb biryani for dinner. But at Villanova University in Philadelphia, Ahmed found friends from all different backgrounds who welcomed diversity and helped her, she says, become “a good balance of East meets West.” Now 23, she and her non-Asian roommates threw a party to mark the Islamic holiday ‘Id al-Fitr in November, then threw another for Christmas–which her family never celebrated. “I chose to embrace both holidays instead of segregating myself to one,” she says.Asian Americans say part of the reason it is so hard to reach an equilibrium is that they are seen as what sociologists call “forever foreigners.” Their looks lead to a lifetime of questions like “No, where are you really from?”
If only you knew what goes on behind the scenes here in North Dakota– the GMail arrives constantly and furiously, let me promise you that. No, it’s not easy to foment a mutiny, but we try our damnedest.
Without going in to too much detail, since I love you all too much for such carnage (it involves someone exhorting others to give his caruthu kundi an ooma), I’ll just let you know that I ended up at a verrry interesting website, which scanned a picture I uploaded before telling me which celebrity in its database I resembled. Mutineers, I present to you a most inapposite result:
See whom YOU don’t look like by going to MyHeritage.com y’self. Continue reading
Check out this gallery of Bangladeshi rickshaw art (thanks, Gujjubhai). I especially like this tiger-borne palki:
Most worrying is the growing popularity of the prodigal son / criminal as a theme around town:
Perhaps it’s fitting that people park their derrières on bin Laden’s face.
A desi conductor is organizing a classical music concert in Manhattan later this month to raise money for the Pakistan earthquake. On the program is Beethoven’s 9th:
Beethoven’s 9th for South Asia Symphony Orchestra and Chorus
… In the aftermath of the tragedy, an exceptional and unparalleled group of musicians have joined forces and donated their services to help the survivors. All proceeds from the concert will go directly to Doctors Without Borders.
Performers to include principal players of the New York Philharmonic, Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, Boston Symphony Orchestra, The Philadelphia Orchestra, St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, Brooklyn Philharmonic Orchestra… as well as a chorus of 150-200 assembled from the major choral ensembles in New York City.
George Mathew, a friend of my cousin’s, is conducting.
Earthquakes, I point out, have always made men eager to placate the gods. After the great Lisbon earthquake of November 1, 1755… the locals decided on a propitiatory auto-da-fé… Herr Candide of Thunder-ten-tronckh, a name like an occult incantation, likely to provoke earthquakes where none had previously occurred, was flogged rhythmically and for a long while upon his bloodied buttocks. Immediately after this auto-da-fé there was an even bigger earthquake, and that part of the city which remained standing instantly fell down. That’s the trouble with human sacrifice, the heroin of the gods. It’s highly addictive. And who will save us from deities with major habits to feed?Continue readingSo god’s a junkie now, Vina says.
The gods, I correct her. Monotheism sucks, like all despotisms…
On Thursday morning NPR will be featuring an interview with this talented and hot young thing. She just goes by one name: Suphala (see Manish’s previous post about her).
The young percussionist known as Suphala studied for years with Ravi Shankar’s tabla player, the late Usted Allarakha.
She still goes every year to Bombay, but she also likes to see where else the tabla can take her. Her musical journeys have included a concert in post-Taliban Afghanistan and a tour with the group Porno for Pyros…For the series “Musicians in Their Own Words,” Suphala describes how she gets the tabla to speak in many languages. [Link]
There are three tracks on the NPR link that are pretty sweet. You can either wake up to her tablas naturally by setting your alarm clock to NPR, or download the interview after 10a.m. EST. I’ve already made my choice.