The Downside Of Free Guinness In The Office

I get many perks at work. I get to wear jeans and flats, listen to music and take leisurely lunch breaks. I also get alot of freebies - tickets, electronics, bags (essentially, everything our clients make and we have a whole range of them, and everything our vendors gift us in order to get our business). Quite fun, you say.

Today, Guinness sent us several crates of their draught. Rebecca came by to hand the cans to us. And each of my tank mates (yes, we call the office a tank and yes, we are often referred to as fish) smiled and helped themselves to a few cans, saying, 'I'll take this for my father.'.

Cest la vie. In Singapore.

Everyday Discoveries

• My boss is a Scribbler. Yes, a Scribbler. He called me in for a chat and while he spoke, he unintelligibly noted down everything for my benefit on half a ream of paper.
• DJ Shadow was here in Singapore on August 5th. No, I didn't go. I'm not the most informed person, evidently.
• I can do Excel sheets.

Mid Autumn Night's Dream

Eat moon. Watch cake.

St. Ives

Divine Intervention

What else I am to make of getting turkey curry for dinner tonight after I wrote this the other day? Cooked in coconut, that too.

And I Thought It Was Only A Bird

For a variety of reasons that I will spare you the trauma of reading, I have been finding nodding off to sleep a little hard these past few days. The super student in me refuses to admit exam stress. After all, that how ordinary people feel. Instead, she insists there is some sort of cosmic imbalance in the universe that is refusing to let my brain shut down. But last night, worried, she secretly made me look up tips on inducing sleep. I ignored the usual ideas - brandy, hot milk, waking up early (it was too late for that), etc. - but was rather perturbed by this:

Get up and eat some turkey: Turkey contains tryptophan, a major building block for making serotonin, a neurotransmitter, which sends messages between nerve cells and causes feelings of sleepiness. Note that L-tryptophan doesn't act on the brain unless you eat it on an empty stomach with no protein present, so keep some turkey in the refrigerator for 3 am.

Disturbed, I turned off my laptop. I fell asleep immediately.

'That Was Smooth, SA'

I wonder if by any stretch of the imagination, this could qualify as behaviour caused by 'exam stress'. I was visiting a friend at another student hall this evening. I got into the lift when I was leaving and I noticed a thirty five odd year old looking man with a trendy haircut and a faded leather jacket. He smiled and asked me, 'So, exams over?'

'Not yet.' I replied. 'They only begin Wednesday. You?'

'I'm the warden of this hall.'

'Oh.'

Awkward silence. I rolled my eyes uncomfortably as I do sometimes.

'Err.. well, I don't live here. And actually it's the first time I've been here too.' I justified.

'I often speak to students in the lift.' he said, giving me no indication of what that meant.

So I offered, 'Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don't know who the warden of my hall is. I mean, I know of him but I've never really met him.' I waited for a few seconds but did not think. Instead I continued, 'I've emailed him... once, I think. Yeah, but I don't know what he looks like.'

'Bradley. I know him. Young guy.'

'Like you.' I said immediately. 'I mean, I mistook you for a student, after all.'

Finally, after an eternity the lift doors opened on the ground floor. I fled.

Media Panic

new media paradox Silverstone digerati postnational network community Castells self regulation racism Rantanen broadband Press television Milanovich ethnicity gender value chain analysis technology geopolitical supranational Saussure determinism determinism determinism Mansell Voip open software convergence development society experience inequality IPR audience public sphere web Adorno globalisation Hall Said Foucault media postmodernism Kabeer cosmopolitanism representation Harvey migration Appadurai panic deterritorialisation Bourdieu space placelessness communications Baudrillard time Innis space McLuhan resistance Horkheimer power Tambini Habermas displacement virtual place digital divide information culture political economy production distribution consumer Marx money capital labour qualitative postdevelopmentalism state Stiglitz radio public service broadcasting people individuals choices film analogue switchover

The Relative Humour Value of Exam Questions

Here is a question from P's Roman Law paper:

Six months ago, Julian's slave Castratus was persuaded by Drusus to go with him to a men's club in Rome. Castratus, who had formerly lived a sheltered life, has developed a taste for the entertainment on offer. One night he goes there on his own. He begs Primus and Secundus, two senators, to thrash him. They do so. Castratus returns to Julian's villa, but the wounds from the thrashing are so bad that he is unable to work. Julian calls the doctor, Medicus, who puts a home-made ointment on the wounds. Castratus is allergic to the ointment and dies. Shortly afterwards Primus dies, having made a will in which he left a legacy of a hundred gold pieces to Castratus. Julian, seeing Secundus in the forum, shouts after him that he is a pervert and pelts him with rotten fruit. Some of the fruit misses Secundus and hits Tertius. Discuss.

And here is a question from my Theories and Concepts paper:

Media imperialism is dead. Discuss.

Green Green Sky

The shivers that ran down Axl's spine were far from ordinary. They would start around the back of his neck, trickle across his scrawny shoulder blades and down his poky spine, lingering at his tail bone. All this while playing the bass on stage for Markett, one of the new modern jazz outfit in Kobenhavn.

Today they were doing a nifty improvisation of their signature Green Green Sky and her eyes were, for a change, not glued to her kaleidoscope. Instead she had on her glasses but what Axl couldn't see were her ipod earphones hidden in her long hair. She was listening to Ben Harper's Bring The Funk. She nodded her head rythmically. It was cycle of 16 beats. 1-2-3-Bang. 1-2-3-Bang. 1-2-3-Boom. 1-2-3-Bang.

The Copenhagen Jazzhouse was filled this Saturday evening. Some had spent their day on their boats on the canal. Their linen jackets said as much. Others like her had vaccumed the house, done laundry and filled in a new job application today.

'Thank you all for a lovely evening. We'd like to end with a cover of Jeep on 35... ' said Valentin. The audience made noises of appreciation. Uh-one-two-three-four...

Axl was the Scandanivian father of peace, not Axl Rose, as he often explained to foreigners like her. 'Who would have imagined that!' she had replied nonchalantly last Friday. 'I need a drink.' The shivers had extended to his stringy arms as he handed her a scotch on the rocks. 'Can I tell you a secret? I really don't much care for jazz.' she said, scrunching up her nose. Axl didn't know how to respond. 'It's a little noisy, you see. Nevermind, how come you play bass? I would think it's quite cumbersome. You know, the whole big whale of a thing...' she asked. 'Well, I...' he started to reply but Valentin had swept her away with an I-want-you-to-meet-these-people gesture.

Jeep 35 trudged the terrain of Markett and arrived in style. Scofield would be proud, he hoped. Or at least their fans would be. It was hard being a musician, most certainly. It was hard trying to be something more than ordinary. It was hard handling the shivers when she wouldn't even listen.

Axl watched her from the corner of his eye. She was smiling at Valentin and gave him the thumbs up sign as he walked off stage. He beamed back.

Boys Are Dumb And Get Angered Easily

This afternoon, P and I got in a bit of an argument on the train from Kings Cross to Cambridge. The last few times he has visited me over the weekend, the passengers have had to get off midway, take a bus part of the way due to weekend work and then get back on a train. It has obviously been an annoyance both to him and to me, also because I have never faced this inconvenience on the weekends that I have been to Cambridge.

So we boarded the train. He fished out his lengthy notes on criminal law and I my extra sweater to prop my head against the window and away we went at 1638 hours. A few minutes into the journey I heard the following announcement:

'This train is for Cambridge, calling at Finsbury Park, Stevenage, Hitchin and Royston. Those passengers heading up North are requested to take the chartered bus at Finsbury Park.'

P nudged me awake, carefully put his criminal law notes back into his bag and got up as the train approached Finsbury Park.

'Why are you getting up?', I asked puzzled.

'We have to get off here. Bloody weekend work. This is the reason why I've been late getting into London so many times.'

'Huh? We don't have to get off. This train is for Cambridge.'

'No, the guy just said we have to get off here. You were sleeping.'

'Err... no. He said people going North should get off here, not us.'

By this time, the train came to a stop, two people got off and I kept sitting. The doors shut and the train proceeded.

'We'll have to get off soon, I'm telling you.' he insisted.

'Ok, whatever.' I said dismissively and nodded off.

An hour or so later the train pulled into Cambridge railway station. We got off and I said, 'See, I told you the train was for Cambridge. I don't know why you thought we had to get off.'

'Maybe this time we didn't have to but the last few times, I have had to get off and take a chartered bus!' said P with gritted teeth.

'Oh god, P! What's the big deal?' I asked.

He ignored me.

I muttered under my breath, 'Boys are so stupid and get annoyed so easily...'

As we walked to his college, I looked into the window of the Tshirt store on Bridge Street. There was a manequin wearing a Tshirt that read: Boys are dumb and get angered easily.

I walked in and bought it.

Make That One Year Please

We have been rolling for a year now.

Thanks everyone.

They Call It 'Being Tagged'

In the spirit of this delightful blogging tradition of tagging, That Armchair Philosopher has invited me to share five unknown things about myself:

1. If one is fairly judged by the company they keep, I fear that this little snippet paints me in a somewhat... unstable light:

A friend (let's call her Fatma and let's make her a Nehru scholar at Cambridge) recently said to me over drinks, 'Snake Anthony, I've been seriously troubled by this dream I had last night.'

'What happened?'

'Oh, it was so vivid...' she shuddered, 'I had six fingers. SIX, Snake Anthony, SIX! It was so frightening. I couldn't decide which was my middle finger that I could stick up at people!'

2. As a little girl, I fancied myself as an air hostess or a secretary because the two most remarkable and inspirational people I knew - my father's secretary and my mother's best friend - were in these professions. As I grew older, I came to understand that it wasn't so much the glamour of these jobs that I fancied but the dedication and passion that these two women brought to their work. I am not quite sure what I will be doing 9-5 once I graduate but I know for certain, I will always try to be as enthusiastic and committed as they are.

3. I amuse myself by conversing with media theorists in the margins of their pdf readings. 'How wonderfully vague' and 'Easy for you to say!' are some of my more frequent scribbles. But like I mentioned in one of my previous posts, McLuhan's prophetic writing silences me:

'When we lose nature as a direct experience we lose a balancing wheel, the touchstone of natural law. With or without drugs, the mind tends to float free into the dangerous zone of abstractions.'

from The Global Village: Tranformations in World Life & Media in the 21st Century (1989)

4. I confess that I have been setting back the feminist movement by a few decades. Yes, it is true, I cry at airports and the results are miraculous - inexpensive tickets suddenly appear and several kilos of my luggage over the weight limit are suddenly dismissed. If all my attempts at a mainstream career should fail, do watch out for The Snake Anthony School of Airport and Other Tricks.

5. And here, a spurious one for good luck, as one of my Philosophy professors would say: I ate for lunch a smoked ham and cheese panini and large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

There!

I tag Jerry, Basho, Young Thos, Scritch and Jon.

It's... How Do You Call It?

At the height of essay writing frenzy this week, Snake Anthony and three friends were at Leon for lunch one sunny London afternoon. They chose the Tuk Tuk salad, the chicken wrap, the lemon ginger and mint quencher, the Morrocan meatballs and organic brown rice and the pea and mint soup with brown pitta.

'So how would you describe this food?' asked Kristen.

'Organic?' said Sharon.

'Just organic, you think?' replied Kristen.

'Well, I don't know. Sorta Middle Eastern too...' offered Bekah.

Intense silence.

'Post-modern, you mean.' said Snake Anthony.

Three heads nodded in agreement.

Too Cool For School

So it appears to be acceptable to quote All Along The Watchtower in academic discourses on cosmopolitanism..

if you are Homi Bhabha, Dipesh Chakrabarty and their inner circle.

Much of the Truth Lies in Shadows

We Are Rolling is an anonymous blog for the standard reason of the author wanting her thoughts and expression to be appreciated (or not) for themselves and not for its source. As a result, I have often found it difficult to write about certain things for fear of revealing my identity. But I realise as I approach the first year mark that this cannot carry on forever. I must confess that I have more to write about than inanities like eggs, currency notes or magic beans and would like to share some of my more cerebral thoughts, which sadly, emanate from my academic interests. I am student of Media. There you have it: the truth. Though do not forget that much of the truth lies in shadows. There is more to this facet of me, mired in wanting to be more than a student, a traveler, a woman.

Studying Media is an intriguing 'activity' because every once in a while you'll read something that'll jolt your little world. Marshall McLuhan has been more successful in doing this to me (and I reckon, to many others). You might know him from his famous expressions 'the global village' or the more ominous 'the medium is the message'. For me, as a Media student, the less obvious lines send chills down my spine. Who is the hell is Nostradamus? This man takes foresight to a whole new level! In the early 1960s, McLuhan wrote that print culture would soon be replaced by what he called 'electronic interdependence'. Note, this was the early 1960s; fax machines weren't even used until the 1970s, let alone cell phones or the internet.

And here is what I find most eerie - 'users will simultaneously become producers and consumers' from The Global Village: Tranformations in World Life & Media in the 21st Century, co-authored by Bruce Powers, published in 1989 after McLuhan's death in 1980. I am baffled. How did he preempt the postmodern era of media non-ideology in which YouTube and Amazon and Wikipedia are leaders in this marketplace dynamic? Or, 'communication media of the future will accentuate the extensions of our nervous systems, which can be disembodied and made totally collective'. How did he know of the blogosphere and e-activism and the fact that for an alarmingly large population of the world our cell phones and keyboards are quite simply extensions of our arms and minds?

Much of the truth lies in shadows.

I rest my case.

Untitled

Aniruddha was a little disconcerted to find this email in his inbox one morning:

Dear Aniruddha,

Thank you for applying to the Department of South and Southeast Asian Studies at Berkeley. I regret to inform you that you have not been accepted for graduate study. Our admissions committee has reviewed all of the materials submitted with your application. Its members have the difficult task ofselecting those with the strongest overall records. Equally important is the selection of those applicants (from a pool of well-qualified candidates) who are the best fit with our program's language and literature emphasis. Each of our six language groups must draw from the small allotment ofadmissions permitted our department. As a result, unfortunately, we are not able to accept many talented applicants. We wish you good luck with your academic goals in the future.

- Lee

Perplexed, he replied:

Dear Dr. Amazonas,

I am really surprised to recieve this mail of a rejection of the application for admission, as I haven't applied to the South and Southeast Asian Studies at Berkely in the first place. Therefore, I do not understand this mail and its purpose. A kind clarification would help, if it so pleases you.

Thank you,
Yours sincerely,

Aniruddha

Clarification soon arrived:

Dear Aniruddha,

Please accept my deepest apologies for this error and any distress my mistake caused you. I did not catch this error and am truly sorry for this.

Sincerely,
Lee Amazonas

Musk

With the impatience of his generation

he abandoned his fountain pen.

He chose instead a sip of first flush Darjeeling

because of a butterfly that fluttered past.

Under his pillow, the butterfly kept

some kernels of musk to seep

into his dreams, till warm sunlight

tickled his eyelids awake.

They flocked to the sea one day but

the clouds were debating a storm.

The butterfly laughed at the thunder while

he watched in astonished silence.

Learn, Power Wielders, Learn

Email writing is a tricky business, no doubt. Being the bearer of bad tidings can either make you very uncomfortable or really get your creative juices flowing, especially when you are (secretly) thrilled with your power as the Common Room Treasurer of a college in a prestigious university. Then, emails like this get sent out at a high frequency while it's writer sits chuckling to himself in his room eating chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the night:

Dear A,

Your request for funds to compensate for expenses incurred while participating in the U8 Summit at the University of Warwick this weekend cannot be met. This is for many reasons:

1. I am told that the Summit was well organised but due to its location in an isolated English village, 20 mins away from the crime capital, Coventry, the impact on world affairs and problems was minimal, if any.

2. It is alleged that you spent much of your time either sleeping, talking to a gentleman named Sam and partying to Punjabi music. Though the cultural exchange must have been enlightening, the College Amenities Fund should have nothing to do with it.

3. You slept through most important meetings and talks at the Summit. Thereby, not only casting a shadow of doubt on your commitment to the cause but also shaming the college before students from around the world.

4. You shamelessly slept with your mouth open in a gathering of more than 500 students while the Director of Global Fund for HIV Aids was delivering a lecture.

5. You spend an exorbitant amount of money at a Summit dedicated to development and sustainable growth, on tissue boxes to wipe your (ahem) mucus.

I hope you understand that it would be inappropriate to have the college compensate you for all the above reasons.

Best Regards,

Your Common Room Treasurer

Disclaimer: Reader Discretion Advised (Morbid Content)

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

They say the world is shrinking. I say the world is on Facebook and will not leave you alone. That creepy annoying kid on your bus who picked his nose? Remember him? He is on it. So is that girl who spread vicious rumours about you. Even that boy you had a crush on but could never approach. There are many many many more people in this world who you don't know, don't remember or care to. They are all on Facebook.

Yet, one day you get added by a girl named Mira Seth (name changed to protect her identity though I don't know how it makes a difference). You accept her request because there was a girl way back when you were 12 who you were friends with and she was called Mira. However, when you go to her profile page, you realise that it is someone else. Not some complete stranger, just someone who was a year senior to you at that school. Alright, you say.

But then she writes on your wall, asking you how you are, etc. You are obliged to reply in this wonderful era of instant communication. Oh well, you reply saying your memory is a little rusty and that you recall two Mira Seths and politely ask which one she is, as her profile photo is unclear. She replies saying she is the 'chubby one, the one who didn't commit suicide in Class 12'.

You are shocked. Obviously, it's tragic and scary, even though you cannot remember who she is, no matter how hard you try..

Still, something continues to bug you.. You think, so there now is only one Mira Seth. Why am I not able to put a face to the one on Facebook?

Note to Self

Do not offer to share your umbrella with persons who are 6'2" tall.

There Are Many Ways To Feel Good About Yourself

Here is one:

Meet an old friend who is now, for some obscure reason, studying Finance in Bergen and buy her many drinks when she visits London. Soon she will say, 'I know I said my life is great but it disgusted me when I realised that if I stop eating chicken for a month, I could pay for an entire trip to Spain.'

RHCP Inspired Father-Daughter Togetherness

It has been a really long time since I last heard the Chili Peppers. Stadium Arcadium (which, by the way, I now feel starts off well and then gradually descends into unintelligible madness) is an album that listened to considerably last summer. So when I heard Snow Hey Oh this evening, it brought back the memories of sunny Bangalore and trying to tuck my zippy car in the chaos of cars parked on Church Street. It also brought back this lovely memory of driving my father to work one morning:

My father is, by far, one of the most calm and open-minded people in the world and I love him to tiny little bits. On this fine July morning, we were on Koramangala Ring Road and Stadium Arcadium had played on the system for a good twenty minutes. Negotiating my way through rush hour traffic, I was, as usual, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat.

Suddenly my father asked me in all seriousness, 'What is this fellow saying?'
'Err.. hmm.. actually, I can't follow the lines in this particular track.' I replied uncertainly, trying to decipher Anthony Kiedis' rap interlude.
'Hmm.. so why do you listen to this music, if you can't understand it?' he asked earnestly.
'Well..' I said, caught a little offguard. '.. it's catchy and funky and it has rhythm, don't you agree?'
'Actually, that is true. I do feel the beat.' My father replied, with a tentative head bob to the beat of Hump De Bump.
'Don't you?' I smiled back, pleased at my skills of persuasion, doing a little jig.
A silence followed as we appreciated the melodic genius of the Red Hot Chili Pepper's guitar riffs together. What a beautiful and peculiar moment, I thought to myself.

The song ended and my father remarked in wonder, 'It never ceases to amaze me how there is a market for everything. Even this has an audience!'

For Some Inexplicable Reason

I was reminded of this gem today:

Once upon a time at college, a very sweet and earnest boy called Minga rang the Choreography Team leader, a much sought-after beauty.
She picked up, Hullo?
Minga cleared his throat, Hi. This is Minga and I'm calling from the Students Union..
Beauty replied, Err.. Minga? Yeah right! And this is Chinga.
Huh? No no, my name is Minga!, he protested.
Yeah and my name is Linga!, she said and hung up.

Writing Poems

Revision

My notebook, left by mistake
all night on the garden table
has been revised by rain -

blurs and dribbles swims
the lakes and swallow seas
of its brimming pages.

Put in the oven to dry
drought begins to crinkle
the lip of every puddle -

and what comes out is a shell,
crisp and hollow and curled
around a fall of rain.

- Charles Bennett, How To Make a Women Out of Water

**

The Notebooks

To turn again these faded pencilled pages,
Their neatly cancelled lines, precisely dated,
Their doodles of frustration, sudden rages
Or mocking self-contempt, before the next
Refining or reduction's contemplated,
And then the immaculate and final text -

This is to hear you speak, not just to read you,
Familiar words-by-heart plumbed deep and strange
Down to the nerve of hurt, the pains that feed you
Raw as they are, a present tense, not past,
Thronged with the power to strengthen through their change,
Poised to their lines we know and built to last.

- Anthony Thwaite, The Dust of The World

For He Who Thinks In Multiples

Three Promises

Between the sheets of midnight and morning
A dream

At first light there's frost
Fields of white manna

In sunlight moment by moment
The day stretches out

A dream, manna, this moment
Three promises you'll never keep.

- John Moat, Firewater and the Miraculous Mandarin

(And while I'm on the subject, may I just add, as Sting would say, sometimes I see your face/ stars seem to lose their place/ why must I think of you/ why must I/ why should I/ why I should I cry for you?)

The Collector of Oddities

I am The Collector of Oddities. And stamps, earrings and wine corks, but that's besides the point. The Oddities I collect are stories, or not even. Flecks of stories, the discarded detailing, incongruities of a different sense that go unnoticed because everyone is too busy trying to get on the bus.

In this past week, I have become just a bit richer.

**
Three days a week, I switch to work mode for my internship at an independent literary press that produces almost handcrafted books for a very niche audience. The office is a cozy apartment with big windows, sunlight streaming in, obscure paintings on the walls, books everywhere and beige carpeting.

If I were to ignore the number of letters I've folded, enveloped and franked, I could say that this experience is putting me back in touch with the artist in me, a side that I fear has slowly eroded since I started this masters programme. Interestingly, completely unrealistic conversations about poetry, William Trevor, survival and the art of romanticising globalisation have been enjoyable at the very least and I would even venture to say that I like the seclusion. But this Tuesday, the lack of touch with reality nudged me ever so slightly. The nudge was easy to mistake for an accidental brush but something about it made me look up and right after, I returned happily to the dissatisfied world of the social sciences.

A few neighbourhood boys were playing cricket on the street outside, a street that only rarely sees cars as it is in a residential area. My boss noticed this and with a faraway look in his eyes, said to me, 'What a novel way of playing cricket. On the street! Very unsafe though. Imagine that... Have you ever seen anything like it?'

I answered with a quizzical look on my face.

Still astonished, he replied, 'How very very unsual. How marvellous!' With that, he threw his hands up in the air and walked back into his office.
**

**
I might be stepping out of my area of expertise here but I believe they're called alpha males. They are boys who think they're the best thing to have happened to mankind, or at least to their family and friends. When you have an alpha male friend, it is your duty to stroke his ego and nod in agreement with his insinuations as to his superiority as a creation of God. Chances are, this will be accompanied by dashing good looks, a tall built body, a fairly charming personality. And you will have to smile appreciatively at being showered with physical affection when you're with other friends at a restaurant. At this point, your friends will raise their eybrows and smile, wanting to be introduced, inspite of your insistence that it would not be a good idea.

However, when you are sitting with another alpha male you've just met (for a volunteer project, by the way), who for the satisfaction of his own ego is buying you a drink and talking about how he came to be such a pro squash player, and your alpha male friend walks in, the conversation will go like this:

Alpha male friend to alpha male stranger, 'Hey, man. Who are you?'

Alpha male stranger to you, 'You know this guy?'

You, 'Yes, he's my flatmate.'

Alpha male friend, 'She's my girlfriend.'

Alpha male stranger, 'This guy's your boyfriend?'

Before you can respond, Alpha male friend, giving you a kiss before going back to his table to his latest victim, 'Alright. She's my sister. But no messing with her. She's a very special girl to me.'
**

**
A friend to whom I had lent some money called me yesterday in a curious state of panic, 'Listen, I have a problem. Remember those 90 pounds you lent me? I can't use them.'

'Why?'

'Because! Two of the 20 pound notes have an arrow near the Queen's face with c*** written next to it!'

'So?'

'What do you mean, so? Now if I hand the notes to anyone at a store, they're going to think I wrote it! I don't think the Queen is a c***. She's a little unreasonable, yes but she's like any other sweet old lady.'

'Riiight. How about you use them in a machine to top up your Oyster card then? Then no one can judge you for what you think of the Queen.'

'Dude, that is a brilliant idea!'
**

Speaking of Critical Thinking

Last night I realised that I am no longer impervious to the insidious power of the social sciences.



When I saw this cartoon in The Economist, besides finding it hilarious and appreciating the artistic genius of the drawing, I found myself pondering over these issues:

- Isn't the dragon such a eurocentric representation of China? That's right, continue to exoticise the East, you hegemonic monsters!
- Nevermind the political dimension of the relationship, why must the dragon be sitting and Bush be standing? Huh? Couldn't the relationship be conveyed through less belittling means?
- Why such a servile expression on the dragon's face? Doesn't this continue to perpetuate the image of the world terrorised by America, nations just awaiting approval...

Suddenly Alfonzo interrupted, 'SA, it's a cartoon.'

I looked up.
'Oh. Right.' I replied, sheepishly.

Snake Anthony and The Magic Bean

My maternal instinct was able to shelter this helpless bean from fungus, over-watering and the reckless use of fertiliser. I am now proud to present the documentation of the growth of my magic bean:

Stage One:
Unattractive Infancy

Stage Two:
The Declaration of Love

Stage Three:
Cheeky Adolescence

Stage Four:
Standing Tall and Strong

Stage Five:
Reaching out to Dali

Love Is A Many Splendoured Thing

Or.

Alternatively, this morning's text message:

SA, it is a really windy day today. Make sure you walk carefully. You know what happened in Boston.

Dove: Try The 7 Day Test

I think not.

I am little disconcerted.

Really? Using Dove on one side of my face and ordinary soap on the other and waiting see the difference for myself in just 7 days?

What is the world coming to?

There Is Such A Thing As Too Much Salad

Indeed.

At dinner, the usual small salad bowls were missing last night. Of course, as luck would have it, Dan was next in line. He reached across to the giant size bowls and piled it up high with everything - beetroot, mint leaves, tuna and beans with olives, lettuce, sweet corn, cucumber and tomato - in sight.

Seeing this, Denise surreptitiously nudged her junior behind the counter and whispered, "Pssst... We have a problem. Get the smaller bowls! The kids are going wiiild with the salad."

Question

Seriously.
Singha beer or underboob?

Dancing In Cambodia (Haven't Yet Been To Burma) - 2

Dancing In Cambodia (Haven't Yet Been To Burma) - 1

You Are No Longer Five

You can tell things have changed when your age-appropriate present is no longer this:



But this:



AND you're being asked to get a job.