"I mean, anyone can plant a seed..."

- My employer, a FAMOUS American Political Scientist talking about why Judaism is matrilineal.

Peter Jennings Dies at 67

I spent my formative years waking up with ABC News, watching it right before school. It sounds corny, but on many a morning, I'd see Peter Jennings' face before I saw almost anyone else's.

Teenage years are turbulent and mine were no exception. I went through a pretty rough period in school, and his face became a symbol of the secure shell I was leaving behind at home. School eventually got better, as these things do, but I never stopped associating Peter Jennings' face and voice with feelings of comfort, warmth and reassurance. There was something so parental in his manner that even I, lifelong cynic/closeted idealist, couldn't remain sardonic and unbelieving when he delivered the news.

I am not an empathetic person. But I am so profoundly sad to hear that he is no more.

Ceci n'est pas un post. Just political ranting.

I had a fling with American politics last year. Nothing long-term, I think we both knew it couldn't last. Anyway, it was glorious for a while but ended badly. At least I made me some political friends. They're nothing more than a big bunch of commies, of course, but prefer to be labelled 'social democrats'. We keep in touch via email and share the occassional online encounter. Political encounter, that is.*

The question I am most commonly asked by some of them is: Why I (and indeed some of our other friends) keep insisting that they choose Kerry over Nader come November, when we used to be the biggest Naderites ourselves? When, in fact, I personally confess to not liking Mr. Kerry that much? "How can you?", they ask me, over and over again... looking like so many wounded puppies. Puppies that have just smoked pot, mind you.

Is it because, like so many liberals, I've become so caught up in wanting to see Dubya and his motley crew kicked out of office that I've lost my ideals? Not my ideals, so much as my idealism. I think after I realized, earlier this year, that Kucinich could offer nothing more than a happy glimpse of what the future could be, I stopped really caring about who the Dems chose as their nominee, figuring I could get behind any of the others. Of course, after Howard Dean's suicide-by-scream in the wake of the Iowa primaries, I realized that that choice would have to be none other than Kerry, who is the biggest politician ever. And I mean that in a bad way.

I like Nader. I love him, even. And what he stands for. Still, if I could vote in the upcoming elections, I would walk in and pick that prick (oy, with the innuendo again) over Ralphie. Why?

Well, in short (and to belabour the 'politics/sex/spurned lover' analogy a bit more) I've been there, done that, and been left high 'n dry at the altar by a man who, in spite of his best intentions, couldn't deliver. Don't get me wrong here. I don't mean deliver on his promises. I'm convinced Nader is the goods as far as that is concerned. I mean deliver when it comes to votes. I'm referring to the fact that he will not win...not in a million years. And yes, I understand that thinking this way may be exactly what keeps candidates like Nader from succeeding but come on. Sad as it may be to say, he hasn't got that much support in the country. So we need to go with someone who may just be able to rally enough support around his party on the day.

Some of my FFPIR folks may say this is mighty cynical of me. And it is. I'm well aware of that. But these are cynical times. Most Americans who are going to a voting station this November haven't a clue who Nader is. So it's time us lefties bought a clue and voted Kerry. If you don't believe me, believe that good, midwestern voice of reason. No, not Al Franken. I'm talking about Garrison Keillor. As Keillor (interviewed here at salon.com) puts it:

The thrill of Naderism is in telling your Democratic pals that you're thinking about ralphing and seeing them get all flushed and earnest and wring their hands and roll their eyes and moan. Actually going into the voting booth and ralphing is no great pleasure, compared to the remorse you'll feel if Mr. Bush is elected and fresh horrors begin to unfold and the nadir is reached and the Bushies keep going down, down, down. I say, Stand tall for Ralph, wear his button, wave his flag, put on his cologne in the morning, be as ralphic as you like, but in that private sacred moment, make your X for the Man.

*Feelin' some innuendo? Good. In this dystopic era of (deflated but still potent) dot-com dreams, it only makes sense that the sexual impulses of the bourgeoisie are sublimated to a cyber medium.

I still haven't finished reading Vernon God Little. There, I said it. I've had the book for six dreadful weeks and I still haven't gotten past page 244. It's given me "reader's block" and I hate it.

I'm obsessive-compulsive when it comes to my reading -- since reading is the closest thing I have to religion -- and as a rule I try not to read more than one book at a time so that I can lavish proper attention on each perfect (or perfectly flawed) volume. Therefore, I find it physically difficult to start another book until I finish the one I have in hand. I need to "do right" by a book - however awful - by finishing it before moving on to a new one.

So, when I find myself (as I do now) in the unique position of being unable for god, family, or country, to physically read-through a book, it causes a 'literary logjam' akin to (but far worse than) constipation. 

Yes, constipation. Because I cannot finish Vernon God-Awful Little, I have become bookishly blocked, unable to read. I pick up books of all sorts -- fiction, non-fiction, fiction-posing-as-non-fiction, non-fiction-posing-as...you get the point -- and run my eyes over the words...but all I can see is hollow blather. I feel guilty, somehow unfaithful everytime I walk into a bookstore and a new title catches my eye. For in the twisted, booze-addled recesses of my brain (and my stomach and my liver) I live with the shameful knowledge that I cannot bring myself to finish DBC Pierre's shoddily written, poorly researched, little vanity project. A book that bills itself as an "expose on the nature of the American experience", bilking cheap laughs by showing us 'enlightened' readers how pathetic, stupid, average and obese Americans are in their provincial attitudes and shortsighted worldview, yet curiously failing to account for its own shortsightedness by lumping all the 'American experiences' (diverse as they are in terms of race, religion, sexuality and political opinion) together. By daring to claim that the citizens of an imaginary Tex-Mex backwater may somehow be representative of America itself. Now, don't get me wrong, like every good East Coaster I know that all Texans are rednecked, racist, hicks just like all Californians are fruit-flavored, faggoty actors and hippy bums, and all jewish girls from Jersey and Long Island are princesses and all Latinas from the Bronx are Jennifer Lopez. Because each stereotype is representative of god's honest truth. Right? Wrong. So Very Wrong, mr.pierre.

Were shortsightedness the only shortcoming in DBC Pierre's Booker Prize Winning 'masterpiece', though, I feel I would still be able to plow through it. Slowly perhaps, but steadily. Unfortunately that is not the only place the book falls down. Page after page is riddled with inaccuracies in its descriptions of Texas and Texans. Everything from descriptions of their accents to the trees in their backyards are inconsistent with the real thing. Parts of the book are so bad that these inconsistencies and mistakes become obvious even to me, neither a native Texan nor a botanist. Pierre apparently spent time living in Texas. Did he spend his time blind and deaf? Maybe it's more of his 'ironic portrayal'? Yeah right. In our postmodern era, being 'ironic' can cover a multitude of sins. And apparently a multitude of bad writing. Vernon God Little is a prize-winning exhibit (literally) of just such dreck. I'd like to get my hands on the happymaking crack the Booker committee must have been smoking when they voted this book the prizewinner.

Well, the prizewinning entry has been sitting in my room for ages and I still can't bear to read more than one dreadful page before I put it back down cringing. I tried my old SAT technique of 'speed reading' through it just to be able to say I got it done. It worked, until a particulary repugnant bit of writing on page 243 derailed the train of my thought and wrecked my concentration. I decided then and there to give up altogether.

Even now as I lay here writing this confession, a broken and battered shadow of my former well-read self, I can feel the book...sitting on my window-sill, watching me. Its attractive dusty-rose cover literally 'covering-up' the dead prose inside. It has broken me, and I know that tomorrow morning, just like every other morning over the past six weeks, the book will wait until its glossy jacket refracts sunlight upon my closed lids, forcing me awake so I can spend the first ten minutes of my day (everyday) hiding from the book, wondering when it will end.

Ready for another of my tales of woe? I know Bora is...so without any further ado (and with due apologies to Lemony Snicket) let me narrate...

A Series of Unfortunate Events

um...just the one really.

Event One (and only)

Cut back to a lazy Sunday afternoon about a month ago when a bright-eyed, sunny-natured young girl (me you morons) eagerly romped towards the Rugby Sevens tournament with bated breath and much sighing. Why? Because it is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a high alchohol tolerance and a thuggish disposition, must be in want of other drunken louts. So, short of hitting-up Wanchai on the Sabbath (something even the devil usually avoids), I was left with little choice but to mosey on down to the main event.

To those of you unschooled in the ways of the Hong (Kong), what ARE the Sevens, you might ask? Well, that depends on whom you ask. For instance, a CathayPacific/CSFB PR flack (well-versed in hyperbole) might tell you that

"The Sevens are a Hong Kong tradition that have helped put us on the Rugby world map. Everyone loves it. Year after year it acts to unite rugby lovers the world over and also creates a forum where the local community can come together with our many well-behaved guests from around the world to celebrate sport. The breathtaking displays of athletic prowess and exuberance of the crowd serve as a timely reminder to humanity that the shared love of one thing can make us all overlook our inherent differences."

Obviously, she's lying.

Someone actually attending the event (me, for instance) may choose to describe it more like this...

"The Sevens are a Hong Kong tradition that have helped put us on the Scouser world map along with other pillocky hot-spots (see Spain). Not everyone loves it, just the expats. Year after year it acts like a gigantic frat party/sleaze magnet attracting drunks and orient-fetishists while disrupting the local community who choose to stay at home and watch the rowdy a--holes celebrate beer, meat pies and occasionally, sport. The breathtaking displays of athletic prowess are mostly ignored as the exuberant crowd generally prefer to watch would-be streakers run from security guards and choose to themselves participate in the traditional beer-run. This serves as a timely reminder to humanity that the shared love of inebriation can make us all overlook our inherent differences. Teetotallers are screwed."

Amen. 

Now, don't get me wrong, much as my comments above may seem derisive of the Sevens, of expats and of those who come here to watch, they aren't. Remember, I'm one of them. If you cut me, I bleed (Carlsberg). So, finally being back in 'me old city' (as opposed to 'me old country' you understand) and feeling nostalgic for my schooldays, how I could I resist attending? The South Stands were calling. And...Dhiraj got us in for free. (not that that played a part in my decision to attend. not at all. who's a cheapskate? not me.)

The Sevens were great. Just like school I stood around the South Stands with friends partaking of their overpriced Beer and Pimms and eating meat-pies, chanting "India! India!" and bribing the English guys behind us to chant the same. Just like school after every game ended I danced like so many frolicking orangutans (barv even did the freaky exorcist thing where her head spun 360?. We even made a *tentative* plan to rent a car and go "Paki-bashing" after it was all over (hemant's words, not mine).

Suffice to say that by that stage I was feeling the old ESF love (please don't ask) pulsing through my veins and was well ready to go do something traditionally English -- eat curry. Apparently the organizers had rented out the muddy field next to the Stadium for a Sevens' 'after-party' where the entire crowd were encouraged to again shell out exorbitant amounts of cash to partake in a 'truly English post-sports experience'. "Footy hooliganism...excellent!" cackled a gleeful Katherine. 

I romped in delightedly, no doubt anticipating the eruption of a traditional bout of race-tinged, jingoistic violence -- ready to pummel some drunk people. We loves a good dustup. Imagine my surprise (more like my horror) when I saw the carnage unfold in front of me. For these poor people, the real damage had already been done. After this fateful night, no one would ever be the same again. The organizers, after smoking a considerable amount of crack I imagine, had decided to throw some strange expat version of a.....BARNDANCE. No doubt the setting was perfect. A muddy field, some tents, millions of drunks. Except nobody knew how to square dance or do-si-do. Still <shudder>, they tried.

For me, it was the blackest of ironies. A month after returning from almost six years in America, I found myself living my ultimate nightmare, under the floodlights on an urban Hong Kong night.

I was in pig heaven, in the middle of a bloody hoedown and I couldn't escape. What else could I do? The bouncers already had my money.

This ho got down.