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Dad,
I miss you still. More than words… and unfortunately, they’re all I have.
Love,
David
Crossing the Bar
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
- Alfred [...]
I stumbled over the last few uneven steps before my eyes had a chance to adjust to the gloom. I peered into the room through a haze of smoke. A single ceiling fan sliced languidly at the air, leaving a ring of cigarette soot on the ceiling tile. Jim and The Doors drifted from the sound-system… This is the End… My only friend, the End… I walked up to the bar and ordered a beer: “Keith’s. Please.” The bartender grunted, then said, “Two-Seventy-Five.” I smiled. The times may change, but the prices stay the same. I tossed him three bucks, “Keep the change,” I mumbled. “Gee, thanks…” he said with a smirk.
I turned my back on him and looked out across the room. The patrons looked up from their miseries and eyed me with suspicion. Yes. This was it. The Cellar. The dark, subterranean tavern of my subconscious. Where elements of my past came to linger and die slow deaths, every now and then, reeling up the stairs to make an appearance before stumbling back down to their stupor. I saw a table of regrets downing shots of flaming Sambuca and dwelling on past mistakes. A group of guilty memories played ‘Truth or Dare,’ led by a manifestation of my young self, insisting that he hadn’t pushed a centipede down the furnace grate. “Don’t trust him,” I said, as I walked by, “He’s a liar.”
I focused my attention on [...]
It is with a heavy heart that I garner the courage to relate the final chapter of the pigeon family, with whom I shared my bathroom. For weeks, I had been peeping in on the pigeon sanctuary while I peed. The old Peep and Pee play. I watched the baby pigeons grow from hideous, reptilian creatures into hideous, avian creatures, and finally into what one might imagine could possibly become a pigeon some day. I had named them “Squawky” and “Stinky” for reasons you can probably guess. As it turned out, “Stinky” never shut up, and “Squawky” stunk to high-heavens, but I think they appreciated the effort from their Dawood-mamo (Sorry, joke applicable only to Pakistanis). I found it heartwarming to watch the mother pigeon shelter the young, while the male stood perched on the outer window, keeping a watchful eye. Both parents worked together to raise the children, just like humans… well, theoretically just like humans.
For the duration of my stay at Subaru Kazoo’s place, his parents had been living in Saudi Arabia. This made for a cozy pad for myself, Subaru, Winston and Fiesty (our kittens) and Squawky, Stinky, Mama and Papa Pigeon. Our latest intelligence dossiers had Subaru’s parents coming back into Karachi in December. So it was a shock when our intelligence gathering was shattered by the Downing Street memo that came in the form of a call from Subaru’s mother. The Subaru Legacy (sorry, joke applicable only to North [...]
In a speech on the “War on Terror” at the National Endowment for Democracy last week, George Bush said the following:
…Islamic radicalism is elitist, led by a self-appointed vanguard that presumes to speak for the Muslim masses. Bin Laden says his own role is to tell Muslims, quote, “what is good for them and what is not.” And what this man who grew up in wealth and privilege considers good for poor Muslims is that they become killers and suicide bombers. He assures them that his — that this is the road to paradise — though he never offers to go along for the ride.
So, let me get this straight… George Bush, who grew up in about as much wealth and privilege as you can get, who is proud to joke at almost any possible occasion about his dismal grades during his family bestowed time at Yale, who has sent thousands of poor Americans into a war based on lies to become endorsed killers and torturers, who is generally intent on telling the world “what is right and what is wrong,” who rigged his National Guard service so he would never have to “go along for the ride,” is accusing Bin Laden of what exactly?
Hello Pot? This is Kettle… you’re black.
In the same speech, George says:
Some have also argued that extremism has been strengthened by the actions of our coalition in Iraq, claiming that our presence in that country has somehow caused or triggered the rage of radicals. I would remind them that we were [...]
Sunday night, I went with some friends to the PAF Museum parking lots, which are serving as the drop point for disaster relief donations from Karachi citizens. I didn’t exactly know what to expect as we headed up there, but I was hoping to help out in some way, however small. When we arrived, we were confronted by lines of cars dropping off donations, and people like us hoping to lend a hand. Every available space in the parking lots was piled with mounds of supplies, crates of water, milk and juices, and mountain ranges of quilts and blankets. The extent of the generosity was heart-warming. Of course, it’s impossible to look at a vast pile of supplies such as that and try to estimate just how many people it might serve, but whatever the numbers, it was certainly a start.
We made our way toward the main staging ground, where things seemed strangled and confused. Hundreds of people stood around or wandered from place to place, looking for things to do. Civilians pitched to, working at one thing or another, while the military stood by watching, or sitting looking bored. I had been afraid of something like this. I looked around and tried to assess what was going on. Finally, I did the only thing I could do. I stood around, and wandered from place to place, looking for something to do.
Here and there, I found bits of work. I taped together some boxes, helped [...]
Does this scare the crap out of anyone else?
Nabil Shaath [Palestinian Foreign Minister] says: “President Bush said to all of us[In June 2003]: ‘I’m driven with a mission from God. God would tell me, “George, go and fight those terrorists in Afghanistan.” And I did, and then God would tell me, “George, go and end the tyranny in Iraq …” And I did. And now, again, I feel God’s words coming to me, “Go get the Palestinians their state and get the Israelis their security, and get peace in the Middle East.” And by God I’m gonna do it.’”
- From an interview in the upcoming BBC documentary “Elusive Peace: Israel and the Arabs.”
“George, go and get yourself a [...]
I was just reading that as of Friday, the national debt of the United States stood at $ 7, 924, 890, 927, 754.51… Now that’s a heck of a lot of numbers on parade. I think the precision is pretty funny though. Fifty-One cents. Almost Eight Trillion Dollars, but don’t forget that half dollar and the single, solitary penny. I feel like someone should cop up the .51 to even things off, heck, I’ll do it. I’m noble like that. I’m willing to help out my Southern neighbours (even though I spell neighbours with a “u”). Although, on the other hand, Dick Cheney could always just give another 49 cents to Halliburton and make it an even 755.00, I mean, why not? The victims of the hurricanes are going bankrupt, but those contracts just keep getting handed over without a bid.
But then I started thinking, you know, Seven Trillion, Nine Hundred and Twenty-Four Billion, Eight Hundred and Ninety Million, Nine Hundred and Twenty-Seven Thousand, Seven Hundred and Fifty-Four Dollars, and Fifty-One cents is a lot of money – I don’t think I’ll ever make that much myself. Imagine writing that on a cheque? (I would still put squiggly lines at the beginning so no one could add any extra numbers). But, I started getting curious, if that was the American Debt on Friday, what was it now? So, I found this American Debt Clock, which is just like a normal clock, except completely different. [...]
This just in: I have just now told my spell-checker to accept “blog” as a word. I am nothing if not the apogee of efficiency. So welcome to my lexicon “blog,” no more will you feel the shame of the red squiggly line of infamy.
Although, to be honest, even though I love the blog like a second mistress, I have always been annoyed by the actual term. The word just falls with a thump. Blog. It’s like the onomatopoeic sound of dropping a soft-boiled egg into a bowl of lime Jello. Sometimes I wish the word had evolved in a different way: something with a bit more grace. But what can you do. Blog it is… along with all the bloggers in the blogosphere I have learned to accept and move on.
Blog on, You [...]
I think it would be funny if I wrote something and then inadvertently spilled
a tube of crazy glue on the papers in some kind of comic fashion, and
then accidentally sat on the manuscript in some other comedic manner, so that when someone asked me, “What’s that on your ass?” I could say,
“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”
And now you’re thinking, “Hmmmm, maybe Dave should go back to neglecting [...]
It really wasn’t really until I started getting emails and comments asking if I was ok, that I remembered that the KFC and McDonalds had been bombed the other day. So yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for your concern though. My penchant for fried chicken did not endanger me on that particular day. The KFC is actually at the bottom of my street, but not to worry Mother, that’s still about 25 blocks away. I was sitting up with a friend that night when the bomb went off and I didn’t hear a thing, so it couldn’t have been a huge explosion. It certainly took the windows out of the franchise though. Interestingly, Subaru Kazoo and I got a craving for KFC the very next day. I didn’t think to ask which location it was delivered from.
Anyway, I’m not exactly sure how to portray that this isn’t that big of a deal. It would be more frightening to me if it was random, but it wasn’t. There was a nationwide general strike called by one of the opposition parties for Friday. Generally, I love it when strikes are called because the whole city shuts down and I don’t have to go to work. The best ones are transportation strikes due to fuel prices or some such beef, because then no buses run, no one can get anywhere, and I’m definitely not headed for work. Strikes here are serious business. But since this one was [...]
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We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time
-T.S. Eliot
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