About Me

So you want to know a little bit about my background, do you? Well brace yourself because I doubt that you have ever known anyone with such an exciting background such as myself. . . . . .
First H fact: my humor is very dry and sarcastic. See above for an example.
Second H fact: I was born and raised in Las Vegas. That's right - sin city. Did I mention that I belong to a practicing Muslim family that holds true to its conservative Indo/Pak culture?
Third H fact: Don't worry, I somehow managed to engage in enough activity that could possibly be contsrued as in direct violation of the values held by a practicing Muslim family that holds true to its conservative Indo/Pak culture. I use the word 'possibly' because everything is left upto interpretation. Some of you may think that I am a prude while others will engage in throwing holy water on me.
Whatever your perspective, I ensure you that I have not committed any felonies or engaged in any of acts of moral turpitude. My point was that I have enough material that encompasses the excitment that is Las Vegas and Los Angeles and London and occasional other cities.
Fourth H fact: I am a lawyer. Woo hoo. So exciting. But this little fact prohibits me from engaging in anything that could be considered a felony or above said crimes of moral turpitude. Do you have any idea how hard I worked for my license? That stops me along with the values I learned growing up in a practicing Muslim family that holds true to its conservative Indo/Pak culture, ofcourse.
Fifth H fact: although I have long since given up on being popular, I am on a never ending quest to be cool. Please follow me in my adventures trying to achieve this ever allusive fete.
Sixth H fact: I really want you to read my blog. Really bad. Please. I will be your friend and do your homework for you.
Last H fact: I am really good at homework. People ask me to do their homework all the time because I am so good. Infact, I should also have an MBA to go along with my JD considering all the MBA homework I have done. Just something to think about.

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Party Masti

I realise that my consistency with maintaining my blog has been less than adequate. This is something that I hope to remedy and in appreciation of you, dear reader, for still reading my blog despite the lapse of time between entries - I have decided to treat you by digging deep into my past life in Los Angeles and sharing with you a story that, although does not say much about myself, will surely provide a great sense of humor and entertainment for you.
 
When I lived in Los Angeles I was very young and naive and easily persuaded. I happened to come into the very dominating company of my still dear friend, Peppermint Patty. Let me give you some background information on Peppermint Patty - she is very dominating, successfully persuasive, insanely fun and at times simply insane. We all have that crazy friend who is a great friend, but with them you end up engaging in activities and going to places which you would have never envisioned yourself doing or going otherwise. All that being said, if it were not for Peppermint Patty, I would have easily missed out on 80% of my wild and crazy stories because although she may not have been present or directly behind all the stupid behaviour I have engaged in over the years, if it were not for her telling me that it was ok and only natural to be completely reckless and irresponsible, well then I would not have had the confidence to embark on my many adventures.
 
While we both lived in LA, Peppermint was always in the search for a good party. Infact one could say that she was desperate for a good party, so much so that she would mistake lame ass events as being a good party. As human beings, we are naturally social creatures and we usually require a companion when we go out. If it is a good party that you are planning to go to, then it is usually no problem in finding someone to go with you. If it is a lame ass event that you are trying to sell as a good party, finding someone to go with you proves to be more difficult. That is where I come in with my once youthful naivety and the still ever present tendency of believing everything someone tells me. I was, needless to say, the Marcy to her Peppermint Patty.
 
I digress - there were, there still are these "parties" that take place in Los Angeles, known "Le Mast Mast". They are put on by a middle aged woman with crazy long hair and who wears what can only be described as "gypsy" clothes. She goes out of her way to be best friends with everyone (myself excluded, but you will see why momentarily) and is very fresh. When I say "fresh" I don't mean it in a cool or slick sort of way. What I mean is what we in the US would call "FOB" - fresh off the boat. I always thought it was weird that a woman my mother's age was partying and trying to hang out in my friend circle, all while wearing really bad and ill fitting outfits no less. These parties were always advertised at being held at really cool venues in West Los Angeles, which basically meant that they were at random coffee shops situated next to Persian Rug retailers.
 
And then there was the crowd - FOB or Freshie isn't even the correct terminology. I am not sure what is. In Le Mast Mast's defense, there would always be a decent turn out - of more middle aged people who were badly dressed with frizzy hair in scrunchies What is worse, since the soundtrack at these parties was exclusively Bollywood remixes - everyone would be badly dancing. There were what was seemingly rejects from my parent's crowd, trying to copy the choreography of the latest Bollywood song - and if you have seen Bollywood that can be both ridiculous and elaborate, definitely not choreography that the lay man should attempt.
 
There were so many different characters that would live for these events, so I had the pleasure of seeing them over and over again. There was Captain Kitty: don't ask me why he was known as that because that is something I have yet to figure out. Captain Kitty was this middle aged man (are you sensing a theme with the middle aged-ness yet?) who, what he lacked in hair on his head he more than made up for chest hair which was made visible by the white shirts that he would wear . . . with only the bottom 3 buttons done up. He always, ALWAYS accessorized his chest hair with these large gold medallions and by the middle of the night his white dress shirt was stuck to his body with sweat as a result of his seizure like dancing which always, ALWAYS caused a circle to form. To do this day I am not sure if people were cheering him on because it was a funny sight or because they genuinely thought his dancing was cool. Judging by the crowd, I would probably go with the later.
 
Then there was Mo. A 5'3 Bangali guy who memorized the choreography of the Bollywood songs and then would attempt to re-create them. Mind you, he memorized the female choreography. He has a crush on Peppermint Patty. Did I fail to mention that Peppermint Patty is 5'10. With out heels. His endless attempts to dance with and woo her provided me with some, short lived, entertainment.
 
Then there was a group of notorious guys that we knew, and I had named FOB mob, pretty self explanatory. All of them had been in love with myself and Peppermint Patty at some point ( I think the fact that we are both American citizens may have played a role). One in particular, Muku (I am not even going to attempt to disguise his name because a blog or facebook is way beyond his comprehension. If you have been reading my blogs, he is the younger brother of once mentioned "Black Leopard"). He was so infatuated by Peppermint Patty that he carved her name in his arm, except poor guy spelled it wrong. He cooked me dinner (he did make really exceptional authentic Pakistani food) on many occasions and when I returned his Tupperware in a Banana Republic bag he kept it as a memento. I also once left a denim jacket at his place (it isn't what you think, I was there in a group of people, which admittedly I should not have been hanging out w any of them). He returned it to me dry cleaned. Anyway, Peppermint Patty and I had on more than one occasion walked into one of these parties to find him doing a drunken strip tease. In front of his friends. Who were all male.
 
Then there were all my many mystery suitors. I call them this because who they were was a mystery. Let me explain something to you - I only went to these lame ass parties because I am a loyal and supportive friend. I am also kind of dumb and even though I had seen for myself what they entailed, I believed Peppermint Patty every time she told me that "it would be different, this time there will cool people there - like guys with spiky hair and it won't be at a bakery I promise". They only way I could get through the night was by being totally obliterated. This was a easy task to accomplish because of 2 things - Peppermint Patty felt that she owed me so she would pay for all my drinks and she kept them coming to keep from complaining about the night and because these parties did not take place in proper clubs or bars, the host had to provide the alcohol and it was often times cheap. Needless to say 85% of the times that I have experience alcohol poisoning in my life have 100% of the time been the after a Le Mast Mast party.
 
2 days later when the puking and headache would subside and I would gather my things from Peppermint Patty's Beverly Hills pad and drive in my 3 day old rancid smelling clothes back through the Valley of LA, go home and clean up - only then would I discover a business card of some random Indian man who worked in IT in my purse. There was a Nitesh Mukerjee, head of IT. A Ritesh Pandey, head of IT. A Prtiesh Gopal, IT consultant. And the list goes on. Who these men were, to this day I do not know. All I would hear afterwards was that they were kind enough to carry me to Peppermint's SUV because as trim as I was back in my University days, I was still too much for her to carry on her own.
 
Now, going back up to the beginning of my long anecdote - the reason why the crazy woman who would, and still does, organize these events never took to me was - and I overheard her saying was that because "I don't know who that girl is, she is some drunken friend of Peppermint Patty's who keeps showing up to my parties". Pretty whack considering I was the only non-middle aged person there with legit dance moves and lack of chest hair and an excessive sweating problem. Since then, I would like to share with you, dear reader, I have moved on to bigger and better things and I have also cut back on my alcohol consumption a great deal. I mean tonight it was a business card in my purse, tomorrow who know what it could have been . . . .

Posted by H Khan 
 

Americans in Paris

I realize that I have majorly slacked when it comes to blogging. I thought that no one but myself had noticed - I was pleasantly surprised to be called out on my lack of activity by a few people. Alas, I have no grand excuse to offer. I did not change jobs, or cities, or move at all, or have any life threatening illness, or get married or give birth. I simply was lazy. How American of me. Actually, although there are many pre-conceived notions regarding typical American personality traits, being lazy isn't one of them. Read on, however, for this post is about all the other stereo typical American traits that I can not seem to break away from no matter how much I try.
 
I have been living in London for over a year now, I have not been back to the US in about 8 months. Although I am American, and will always be proud of this fact (another typical trait - unyielding patriotism), I am still able to recognize the 'over the top enthusiasm' and the incessant need to high five over everything. Hey, I <3 America, but I have no problem admitting where it isn't perfect. I don't think that the US should have ever gone into Iraq, our lack of public health care and rising unemployment rates are a real problem and I agree that American tourists in Europe are blatantly embarrassing and at time borderline obnoxious. I personally think that I have done a good job of becoming as much of a Londoner as possible in the short time I have been here in the sense that I limit my high fives to special occasions, I don't ask for directions every 5 steps I take and I try my utmost best to not be embarrassing in public. Although mind you, that the latter would occur even when I was in the US, that is just a personality trait of my own that I have issues with and has nothing to do with my nationality.
 
Recently, I was lucky enough to have my mother visit me from Las Vegas. Let me explain something about my mother. Yes, she is an immigrant from Pakistan, but she has spent close to 40 years in America (longer than she spent in Pakistan) and considers herself American, which she is. Despite her immigrant back ground, my mother is as patriotic as they come. She might as well have been from Alabama in that sense. She tears up every time the national anthem is played, she decorates our home with American flags when the occasion calls for it, her favorite colours are red, white and blue and in her eyes this great land of ours can do no wrong. Fair enough. She is like the majority of the population. Although my mother is educated and traveled, all of the above did slightly worry me with her trip to London looming. Impressively enough, she was able to tone it down and fit on the tube here, for the most part . . . . . .
 
I took my mom to Paris. We had a grand time. Infact I was pleased that she loved it so much because now maybe her  impression of the French wouldn't be so bad. On the first day in Paris I decided to take her to Notre Dame. We were standing in a long, but quick moving, que to enter the church. Side note - while in Paris I noticed that literally every 3rd person had an American accent. Back to the story: while in line on this crowded day - a French man began yelling at someone in front of us for cutting. He said, very rudely and in English "Can't you see that there is a long que? You can't just cut in, what are you, American????"
 
Well, I thought this to be rather presumptuous. I was American and I was standing in the que as one should, and there were many other Americans doing the same thing. Infact, Americans are rather thoughtful when it comes to que etiquette. As it just so happens the couple standing directly behind myself and mom were also American. They began talking "Did that man just yell at that person and assume he was American?", at the same time my mother and I were having a parallel conversation "Geez, why did that guy assume that person was American." 
 
Naturally both conversations merged into one once the realization of the similarity of accents and nationality was discovered. The man said " I am American and I am a nice person!", my mother said, with grand enthusiasm and pride "I am American and I am proud!", the woman said "Me too!" and then they did the unthinkable - they high fived. They high fived, in Paris, in line to see Notre Dame, over the fact that they were American. I wanted to die. Die. And what a sweet death it would be too, in Paris, to have Zeus almighty strike me down with one of his lighting bolts. Just as the song "I am proud to be an American where at least I know I'm free. . . . . " was starting to be sung with none other than my own mother leading the chorus. Yes, now would be a good time to make my exit from this material world.
 
Alas, none of the above happened and I entered Notre Dame with my mom and our new found friends. I just kept it low key and kept smiling and nodding my head. What as I to do? Afterall, regardless of where I live or my newly acquired etiquette, the fact still remains that I am American too. I can't hide from it. As we entered the church, the conversation was still on full blast. Full blast - in that loud and over excited American way - about how the couple were from Boston and we were from Vegas and my mom left one tourist city to go to another tourist city, etc etc. Just then, we were shushed. Rather obviously and loudly. Ofcourse. Ofcourse the loud Americans, who although did not cut the line, were being loud when entering Notre Dame, were abruptly shushed.
 
The moral of this story is that I love my mom and was so happy to have her come visit and I am totally and awesomely American. However, sometimes a high five isn't always appropriate or necessary and should be limited to only very special occasions.

Posted by H Khan 
 

The night of the cab driver

I have ridden in my fair share of taxis in my life time, although I anticipate many more taxi rides to come. There is always this unspoken awkwardness when you sit in a cab - to talk to the cabbie or to not talk to the cabbie, that is the question. Personally, I prefer to NOT carry on any sort of detailed conversation with the person driving me to my destination. I am not saying that the cabbie is not worth talking to, I am sure many of them are outstanding citizens and perfectly interesting people. I just don't feel the need to answer questions about myself to someone I will never see again. Regardless of my personal preference, I often go against my personal belief system and end up in reluctant conversation. Needless to say, I am really poor under peer pressure.
 
As a result of my lack of overall will power, I have engaged many a cab driver in small talk, especially in London. You see here is where the problem lies: a very common cabbie question is "Where are you from?" and for me, especially being outside of the US, when I not only say 'The US', but 'Las Vegas' - that is the end of it. I am doomed.
 
My answer always, 100% of the time, without fail sparks some kind of conversation. Either the guy has never been to Las Vegas but wants to go or sometimes the guy has been to Vegas and he will then sit there and school ME about MY home town which I spent 27 years of my life compared to the afore mentioned cabbie's 5 days. I usually just sit there and let them have their moment, besides, it is not like I wanted to engage anyway. I let them go on and on and then I exit the taxi, get on with my life and forget the afore mentioned conversation.
 
However, there was one particular lesson on British cab drivers in Las Vegas that I can't seem to shake from my memory, regardless how much I try.
 
A few months ago I was riding in a cab through central London. I was going from the East side to the West side which proved to be a rather long ride - long enough for this London based cab driver of Greek descent to tell me that he goes to Vegas every year with his mates. He told me the names of fancy restaurants and all the big shots who are descendants from the once prominent Vegas mafia that he hangs out with. I listened to all of it nodding my head and smiling along out of politeness despite my skepticism. Then he went on to make the statement "I have the craziest Vegas story that puts the movie 'Hangover' to shame, but I can't tell you. Well I guess now that I mentioned it, I have to tell you, don't I?"
 
Actually he didn't have to tell me, but it was obvious that having a local Las Vegan sitting in his cab was a very exciting moment for him and I honestly didn't really have much of a say in the matter. He was going to tell me. This is the story that followed that fateful statement:
 
" I went to Las Vegas with a bunch of my mates one summer and one of our mates, Paul, had just come off of a divorce and a heart attack. Poor Paul was really depressed and we decided that we should do something to bring him back to life. As a favour to Paul, we hired him a prostitute. (At this point I am really tempted to jump out of the cab but I was sent for work purposes to file corporate papers, therefore I was stuck. There was no getting out of this alive)
 
But we decided that a plain old regular prostitute wouldn't be any fun. You know in Vegas you can find anything - I mean anything - that you are looking for. Well we found a tranny prostitute and he looked so much like a woman, and a hot woman at that, that there was no way anyone could tell on the surface that he was really a man. (Oh no, Oh Lord, how is this stupid conversation getting from bad to worse?!?!).
 
We told him to just give Paul  (for lack of a better term and/or description) oral pleasure, we didn't want to shock him straight off. So the he/she did his/her thing and we were in the next room with our ears pressed against the wall. After he/she was done, he asked Paul if he would return the favour and exposed himself. It was so hilarious! Paul was angry at us but I think he was appreciative as well because we got him out of his shell." (At this point I was thinking - wow - what a bunch of sick f£$*!)
 
I was sitting there in a very awkward state because I knew that the cabbie was waiting for a reaction and all I could think in my mind was curses to Mt Olympus for why had not the mighty Zeus struck me down with lightening to put me out of my misery??
 
Finally, I simply said " I think you guys are horrible friends to do that to poor Paul. I am amazed that he forgave you." and left it that. The cabbie agreed that that was a pretty messed up thing that they did, but if Paul was ok with it then who cares. (Which makes me wonder that if the cab driver telling me this story is so apparently sad, I can't even begin to imagine how pathetic this Paul character must be).
 
Finally my cab ride was over, I was relieved. As I was getting off the cabbie said "Good luck with everything in London, I will make sure to put in a good word with the Partner of the law firm if he ever sits in my cab". Great. Just what I need. A recommendation from a sick, demented and perverse cab driver. Needless to say, I have moved on in my employment (not to worry, it had nothing to with the cabbie, it was just a temp job).
 
After that incident I try my very best to avoid cab drivers' questions. I tend to just look at my phone or begin texting so it seems if I am too busy to talk.
 
Not too long ago I applied this tactic rather successfully as I was returning home from seeing a friend of the opposite sex. The cab driver saw this and became rather excited - asking me how 'the date' was and how 'the guy' was and where we went and what we did, etc. I answered in one word answers 'fine, fine fine' and started to text at a rapid pace and thankfully he got the message.
 
I am learning how to engage or rather how not to engage with cab drivers. And I am still trying to figure out why I come across the oddest people and why they feel that they need to make their oddity apparent to me.

Posted by H Khan 
 

Jaffar outside my house

Recently 2 things happened:

1) I went through my blog and realized that my initial post hardly received any hits and
2) I got kind of lazy

As a result, I decided to re-post some of (just my favorite) blog posts from when I first started blogging and that hardly anyone read. That way the good stuff won't get missed. Don't worry - my entire blog won't be one big repeat. I especially apologize to N/A because I know you read my blog with great enthusiasm, but rest assured you still get all the good stories as soon as they happen. The next entry will be brand new I promise. =-)

This post is dedicated to N/A. You're welcome.

 
The amazing thing about Facebook is that you are able to reconnect with so many people from your past. People from high school, middle school, random social activities, old jobs, etc. People whom you thought that you would never see or talk to again. The even more amazing thing about Facebook is that after reconnecting with such people, you sometimes discover that they were a bigger part of life than you thought. This is such a story.
 
About 10-12 years ago I met this guy, Jaffar. He was friends with many of my friends, including my boyfriend at the time. We had only met briefly, perhaps 2 or 3 times. Our conversations were always semi-formal, nothing special. One could say that my contact with him was rather unmemorable. Shortly after our meeting he moved across the world and has been gone since. Without much notice from my part.
 
Fast forward to present day. Jaffar happens to be one of my FB friends. One night I was up late and was bored. There was no one to talk to and I went online. Jaffar happened to be online so I began chatting with him and we ended up reconnecting. He kept on talking to me for a few days, maybe out of excitement to talk to someone from 'way back when' and talk about the old days. I got this feeling that although he knew who I was, he didn't really remember me.
 
He kept asking about our common friends and I gave him updates. Then finally he brought up my ex-boyfriend. I didn't say anything regarding my relationship with Ex, I just let Jaffar ramble on about what a great guy Ex was. I eventually stopped him mid sentence and informed him that I was the former girlfriend and couldn't believe that Jaffar didn't remember. This is what happened next:
 
                 5 minutes of silence
                 Jaffar: "OMG. It's all coming back to me now. I can't tell you what I did or else you will never speak to me again."
                 H: "Well now you are going to have to tell me."
                 Jaffar: "I used to stalk you."
                 15 minutes of silence.
                 H: "What the heck do you mean; you used to stalk me???"
                 Jaffar: "Um well, you know I used to hang out with Ex alot and he wanted to make sure that you weren't lying to him
                           when you said that you were home. I guess one night you told him you were going to sleep and he didn't believe
                           you. So he told me to sit outside your house to see if you would leave."
                 H: "What?!?!?!?!?!?!"
                 Jaffar: "Yeah, so he rolled me 5 blunts and told me where your house was. I sat there and literally starred at your
                            bedroom window for 2 hours. I was too afraid that your dad would see me so I didn't roll down
                            the windows. I smoked all 5 blunts and then sat there in the smoke. I have never been so high in my life"
                 H: "OMG. I don't even know what to say. But let me guess, I never left my house."
                 Jaffar: "No you didn't. I guess Ex was a little crazy. But it was just because he was so in love with you. He was a good guy"
                  H: "He got you dangerously high so you could stalk his girlfriend. You guys aren't friends anymore. Didn't he beat you up? He beat everyone up. He was not a good guy."
                  Jaffar: "Yeah, he did actually forget about me. I thought I was going to die sitting in that car."
 
                
Moral of the story: Don't under estimate the power of Facebook. If it were not for that, I would have nothing to blog about. Was that not a satisfactory moral? Well, the other moral of the story is: to be honest, I am not even sure. Ok fine, I made some poor choices when it came to boyfriends, but this is another blog for another time.
               

Posted by H Khan 
 

Bhangra Wedding Part II

Yes, it is true. I crashed yet another Punjabi wedding by riding with the Bhangra musicians. I know exactly what this looks like - like I am some sort of washed up, lame Bhangra groupie. I wish I could argue this point. I want to argue this point with all my might, however I realize that my actions (occasional appearances at these weddings) does not help my cause. What is really lame is that if I were going with them to actual gigs, where they perform at a club or similar venue, then it may be slightly more acceptable. But going to a wedding to which I am clearly not a guest, only to hang with the entertainment is pretty pathetic. Welcome to my world. . . . . part II.
 
I believe in my last blog entry regarding the first wedding I crashed, I wrote more about the experience and how ridiculous I felt. Obviously not ridiculous enough to not go again. I digress, this time I want to discuss the actual wedding itself. South Asian weddings are definitely a world about from your traditional, white wedding dress, Western wedding. They are these huge, glorious affairs. Heck - we live for weddings. I think the entire reason there is so much pressure on young people to get married is just so their relatives can party.
 
Anyhow, where do I begin??? Oh to heck with it - I don't care if I ruin this blog entry for you, I can't hold it in any longer - this was the most degenerate wedding/group of people I had ever witnessed in my life. They were more village than actual villagers, and I have attended my share of weddings in actual Indian villages.
 
For starters, I could not for the life of me make out who the bride was. All the women were decked out in red outfits (the traditional bridal colour in S Asian weddings) with so much flashy jewelry that they all looked like brides. Even the grandmothers. It is like going to a wedding in the US and everyone is wearing a long, white Vera Wang dress - you just don't do that.
 
Then, oh my goodness, my Bhangra buddies started to play. I had a terrific view of the audience, which is all I watched all night. I mean, the performer is well known in the Bhangra world but it is not like he is Usher or Lady GaGa or something. The middle aged women went nuts. On the dance floor in front of the stage I saw no males. I saw no young people. Only over weight, women who were clearly between the ages of 36-68 dancing like this was their moment. It was do or die. If they were ever going to be in a Jazzy B video this was their chance to make him notice them, stop singing and say "You, in the red sari - no not you, the chubbier one to your left - yes, aunty jee, you. YOU will be my love interest in my next music video which I will be shooting in Chandigarh/India next month. I will pay for your round trip air fare on Air India and accommodations at the Taj. I will also arrange for a baby sitter for your children and/or grandchildren. I hope you will be able to  be my video vixen, for after seeing you I shall never cast another in any of my music videos again."
 
I have never seen middle aged Indian women acting like this. There were no teenagers on the dance floor because I literally saw one women elbow people out of the way, especially the young girls. There was no way that some 18 year old was going to share her glory.
 
Don't be disappointed, because that was not all. No, this is just the humble beginning of my story, of my treacherous night. At some point a few little children managed to squeeze themselves to the front of the stage. They found a pen or marker of some sort and started begging for the singer to give them his autograph. Because they were not prepared for such an event, they had nothing he could sign . . . that is except for their arm. He was more than accommodating when he saw these little kids and when there was a break in his song, he stopped and signed their arms. Well, when the middle aged, fat women saw this they went ballistic. To have some old Bhangra singer sign their arm!?! I shouldn't say old, this guy is in his mid thirties, these women trumped that. There were some old enough to be his mother, literally.
 
I just didn't understand. Having your arm signed is just so stupid. And if you are 8 years old, fine, you are a dumb kid, Fair enough. But if you are a 65 year old grandmother - and there was a 65 year old, I am assuming grandmother, pushing her arm in front of the singer until he gave in and signed. I mean, aren't you going to shower? Or maybe cook with heavy butter? Or maybe sweat excessively because clearly bhangra dancing like you are a Punjabi version of a hip hop girl, is clearly the only exercise you ever get? Won't all of the above cause this scribble of some bhangra wedding singer (again let me emphasize that he was not Micheal Jackson come back to life or anything) rub off?
 
Oh but wait! It gets worse. Yes, it does. At some point I think these women felt bad that they were not allowing any young people onto the dance floor. So to compensate for their guilt, they brought the youngest people they could find - toddlers. What were children under the age of 2 doing on the dance floor you wonder? Well, they were not on the dance floor. The crowd literally started shoving their children into the guy's arms while he was singing. He had no choice but to hold these random babies, because if he didn't they would fall. So the poor guy is trying to sing and dance while signing fat, hairy arms and coddling children.
 
And then . . . yes there is a 'and then' because the night was not over at this point, towards the end of the performance, and I have seen this before, some of the guys from the crowd like to jump on stage in their drunken state of ridiculousness and act like this is their night and they are the reason everyone is there. Fine, whatever. Well, in this particular instance the stage was really small. It was barely big enough for one person. So when there were about 6 idiots with their arms linked, lip syncing like fools it was kind of hard for the guy that was actually hired to sing to move around. Infact, the guests from the crowd blocked Jazzy B's way and he was effectively pushed off the stage and towards the back. The guy had been accommodating as it was, but even this caused him to look bewildered. He didn't know how to react. Heck, I didn't know how to react. No one knew how to react. Finally a big bouncer type pushed the losers off stage so JB could go back to singing. Needless to say when his last song was over he was off the stage, into the backroom and then out of there so fast that no one even knew he was gone.
 
Truth be told, we were all out of there faster than one could let out a belch after eating a buttery aloo paratha. As we rushed through the back parking lot to get into the car I saw what was the last act of barbarianism of the night. A man, an uncle, who was clearly in his late 50's, in a suit, standing and urinating against a wall. Mind you, although I said that the crowd acted like villagers the venue was in a large hall in the city of London, which is located in the United Kingdom and where there are facilities such as toilets in abundance.
 
After that night I will seriously have to reconsider going to ANOTHER bhangra wedding. Infact there is one coming up in a few weeks I think. Oh who am I kidding,chances are I will cave and go. If someone should suffer for a good story it might as well be me. After all, it is something that I am clearly used to.

Posted by H Khan 
 

Facebook Super Ego

Have you ever had a an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend, some one you used to casually date or even someone that you were just talking to with the purpose of getting to know them better with the hopes of entering a relationship - and now that that this particular person is in the past, do you hold feelings of resentment and disdain towards them? Ofcourse we all have and Id and Super Ego (Freud was onto something) so we do stupid things or convince ourselves that we 'fancy' stupid people and then when it obviously doesn't work (often times thankfully so) we feel, well, stupid. The reason for this is not because we were so in love with said person, or because they were so great and irreplaceable. No, we feel bad because our egos have been bruised, especially if things didn't work out with someone that we come to later realize was not worth our time or efforts to begin with.
 
Hey - we are only human - it happens! Needless to say, I have made some poor judgments in the past. I think that I have been too open minded and not judgmental enough - therefor alot of 'un-savory' characters were permitted to vie for my attention. Once the loser of the moment was in, he was soon out; leaving me to feel bad for a few weeks or so. Luckily, I would soon come to conclusion, like most of us do, that it was better in the long run and what was I thinking anyway because there is no way that loser was compatible with me anyhow. Once this fact is realized, I feel alot better and tend to no longer think about the situation. Also, if by some chance of fate, I find out that person is even a bigger loser now or with someone physically undesirable, it makes me feel really good, even if I haven't thought about in a long time.
 
Travel back with me, dear reader, to many years ago - let's just say 7 years for the sake of the story. I was young and naive and just plain dumb. I somehow stumbled upon a guy that I would like to refer to as 'Pak Diddy' because if Sean Puffy Combs was Pakistani than he would look exactly like this particular person. Hey, I was young, maybe it was the whole urban or bad boy thing that attracted me, me the ever scholastic and academically driven nerdy girl who had a curfew until I was 27 and the closest I ever was to anything 'urban' was Yo MTV Raps (for those of you old enough to remember that show).
 
I spoke on the phone to this person for 3 months and spent some time in person with him as well. He was rather rough. He didn't finish school. I had a doctorates degree. I used proper when I spoke, his English was not so grammatically correct. He didn't know much about the world at all. I am not saying that I know everything, but as you have probably figured out, I was alot more in tune with current events than he was. Oh, before I forget to mention, he spent some time in jail, I no longer remember what for, but he was incarcerated at some point in his youth.
 
What on earth did I have in common with this person? On what level were we connecting? Why did I even like this guy? I don't know. That is a very honest answer - I really and truly do not know. I can't even answer myself, so what can I say to you? Pak Diddy started off by coming on really strong. He was asking me all sorts of things to figure out if I was 'marriage' material like for example, he inquired as to whether or not I had any diseases that he should know about. You know, so he could make a decision if he wanted to deal with it or not. I do have TMJ, which means I grind my teeth when I sleep and have to where a very sexy mouth guard, but I am not sure if that qualifies as a incurable disease. Looking back I wished I would have told him that I was suffering from the Black Plague, but I don't think he would have known what that was.
 
As you have most likely figured out, things did not get very far with Pak Diddy. He eventually told me that he no longer wanted to talk to me because I made him feel inadequate and to paraphrase 'like an idiot'. Mind you, this is nothing that I did on purpose. I figure that people who are in fact idiots must know at some deeper level that they are idiots. Kind of like how people who are ugly know that they are ugly or in reverse that very attractive people know how good looking they are. If I brought this awareness out in him, then swell. It was fine. I obsessed, like any girl would, for about a week or so. And then I just stopped as often the case and focused my attention on something else.
 
I haven't really thought of Pak Diddy too much since then. He was, after all, rather insignificant in the grand scheme of my life. However, the other day I was wasting time clicking away on facebook. For some reason I thought of him and looked him up on Facebook. Like all my extended family in remote villages in India, Pak Diddy was also on Facebook. I got to see his profile picture.
 
I think that I forget to mention that he was a few years older than me, making him probably somewhere around 34 now. He still looked like a hip hop star, well not really star but you know what I mean. Maybe in your 20's that look is kind of cute or something, but in your mid 30's it is not. It it pretty lame. And like most people, he has aged in his face. So now he looked like a pseudo Pakistani uncle wearing clothes designed by Jay Z. Oh and did I also mention that he was not alone in this picture? No, he had a woman by his side. A very fat woman. Before you start gasping at how rude and shallow I am being, you need to shut it.
 
Because any one of you who had been stupid enough to engage some one who was a moronic P Diddy wanna be with a criminal record who rejects you because you have TMJ and can recite the alphabet and can identify the United States on a world map would take some joy, even slight, to see that he has not progressed and the amusingly like minded partner that he did end up acquiring was triple his own body weight.
 
I am not spiteful. I am just ruled by Super Ego. Don't blame me. Blame Freud.
 
 

Posted by H Khan 
 

Identity crisis

Over the past 4 days I have had the most strange occurrence happen to me which made me question my national identity. People - namely actual British people - stop and ask ME for directions. I have been asked about bus stops, tube stops, tube lines and even directions to specific buildings on the street. Come to think of it - I have been asked for directions before, but the last weekend proved to be especially eventful. Everyday for the past 5 days someone asked me a question as to location - as if I would know!
 
This has thrown me off and made me question my own personal identity. I thought I was obviously American. I have American mannerisms. I have a very American accent, I smile too much and I say "hello" on the telephone in an unimpressive manner like an American ;)
 
Could it be that I am slowly morphing into a Londoner? Is that possible? Is that why people stop and ask me, out of the other million people around; where to go? This morning I began to analyze myself. I think that I have mastered the art of walking around with a scowl/apathetic face. Like every other 'young' (and I use this term loosely) person here, I walk around with my head phones so that people will know not to talk to me (which is not working). I read alot to avoid eye contact with strangers; yet I still manage to check them out - hey I like looking at people - without them knowing. Or maybe they do know . . . . I nap standing up. I am always rushing even if I have no where in particular to go. Back home in the US, my friends would comment (positively) on the bright colours I would wear and here my co-workers make fun of me because the brightest colour I wear is grey. I have started using the words 'bloody' and 'sorted' and the most difficult transition was saying 'toilet' instead of 'bathroom'. I am sorry, but it just sounds so unappetizing. It is understood that you are going to use the toilet - does it have to be announced specifically? 'Bathroom' just sounds so much more polite. I digress . . . .
 
Is it that people actually think I am local and that is why everyone who is lost in London comes to me for guidance??? Or is it because of my inherently Northern American nature, I look extremely approachable? I truly feel lost and in between identities. It is too soon for me to take on Londoner traits, or is it? In July I will have been year one year (minus the 2 months I went home and had to force myself to come back). Whatever the case, at least I give off the illusion that I know where I am going. . . . . which is not necessarily the case.

Posted by H Khan 
 

Bhangra outfit from heaven

Photo

Sent from my iPhone

Posted by H Khan 
 

Bhangra wedding

I recently realized that the majority of my stories since I moved to London have to do with public transport. I thought to myself "wow, H, since when did you become so lame. All you do is ride the subway." I looked deep inside myself, I searched the very depths of my soul - surely other, more exciting events have taken place in my life in the last 8 months or so. After days and days of contemplation - I came upon a memory of an exceptional evening last October (that had absolutely nothing to do planes, trains or automobiles) so here I am, writing about it.
 
For those of you familiar with Bhangra, you can skip to the next paragraph - for those of you that have not heard of or experienced this sort of music - you should go and kill yourselves right now because obviously your life has been without meaning. OK, that was a bit too harsh. To be honest, had my life been free of bhangra music and all the characters that come along with - the crazy Punjabi guys you meet at the gigs and the sleazy musicians themselves, well my life would have been much more peaceful and drama free. It would have also completely lacked excitement (maybe not completely, but I would not have had as many stories). I digress - Bhangra music is a form of Indian music specific to the region of Punjab. It is very upbeat and fun to dance too. Most of the musicians and the music come out of the UK. If you are in England, or know anyone (especially a Sikh male ages 16-45) I bet you that you are some how connected to a Bhangra musician by 2 degrees of separation. They all seem to have a cousin or a mate's brother who is going to be really big next year in the Bhangra world . . . .
 
If you know me then you are connected to a few already established Bhangra artists by only 1 degree of separation. I do not say this in a 'bragging' or name dropping sort of manner. To be honest, most of the guys who have actually gained notoriety in this particular art are probably some of the sleaziest guys I know - and if you haven't already noticed, I know loads of sleazy guys. That being said, they are also some of my oldest friends =-) Hey, you can't judge a person by the company they keep . . . . right?
 
So back to my story - last October I was already living in London. I had been here about 4 months at this point. I happen to be friendly with one Bhangra artist in particular band members. Because they are based out of Birmingham, I don't really see anyone unless they are in London for some performance or gig or something. And there is no reason grand enough on this planet to take me to Birmingham. I hadn't seen anyone at all since I moved, and I was lonely and had not made any friends at this point. So when one day a band member gt in touch with me and said they would be in Central London for something and asked if I wanted to come - I was game.
 
It turned out that the event was a traditional Sikh wedding, that I obviously wasn't invite to as a guest. So I showed up in knee high hooker boots and a see through lace shirt only to find everyone decked out in traditional clothes. It wasn't bad enough that I was basically crashing a wedding, but I looked like I was left over from the bachelor party the night before. I am a good sport, I took in jest.
 
I stood outside with my 'friends' while they unloaded all their musical instruments and hung around. I tried to avoid making any direct contact with anyone that looked like my parents, which was everyone. Eventually it came time when everyone had to go inside - the moment I was dreading. What was I going to do in the reception hall? Sit with the guests that were actually invited and have dinner? So I stood behind the stage, in my clubbing clothes, the stage which everyone was looking at with lights and entertainment, etc. I tried to station myself kind of behind a speaker - which was great for my ears, but I had no other choice. At least it was obvious that I was with the band, so no one would wonder who I was and what I was doing there. The only problem was that under what capacity I was with the band was in question.
 
Overall, it was an entertaining night. To be honest, I used to be really into Bhangra music when I was much younger (in my 20's) as that is the age group that frequent its 'scene' so to speak. If I was back stage at this particular artist's performance 7 years ago I would have been in heaven and thought that I was so cool. I mean, this guy is still a pretty big deal. Unfortunately for me, I am now in my early 30s and felt more like a lame wanna be Bhangra groupie crashing a traditional Indian wedding reception.
 
The highlight of the night, and there was one, was that the main singer who was the big act came out in a velvet - VELVET - suit that was not only bright turquoise, but it had his name in gold and silver sequined on the back. I don't think that there has ever been a happier moment in my life then when I regained my eyesight after the sudden burst of flash that was this outfit, and realized that I was not only the presence of the most tacky and ridiculous costume, but that I was within reach of it. So ofcourse, I took a picture with it. If I had it my way, I would have had the guy take it off and I would have wore it myself, but not only did I think that would been a bit of an extreme request, but I was afraid that he would have got the wrong idea. Don't worry - I won't leave you all in suspense - I am going to post the picture next.
 
So just like the movie 'Wedding Crashers' suggested, good things do come out of crashing weddings. Actually I watched that movie so long ago that I don't even remembered what happened in it, but I am just going on assumption.So the next time that you are at a traditional Indian wedding and you see a young woman hanging around in an inappropriate outfit with sleazy looking Bhangra musicians, stop and say hi. It would be great to meet you!

Posted by H Khan 
 

Tube feeding

If you have been reading my blog then you will have noticed that most of my stories that originate in the US involve interactions with other human beings. Since I have moved to London most of my stories are inspired by my endless tube (subway) journeys, mainly because I don’t really have much of a social life here (I know, I know – someone with a personality as vibrant as mine would have no problem making friends, but it is taking time, ok?) and also because the most atrocious things happen on public transport.

 

Recently, the weather in London has actually been really nice. It is really pleasant outside, almost comparable to Los Angeles weather. However, that means the underground transport system is more like Las Vegas weather. The subways are crowded because everyone is out and about in this nice weather and it is hot and muggy.

 

People engage in disgusting behavior all the time on the tube as it is, I don’t have time to write about all of it. First of all, my blog would become super tedious and monotonous. Second of all, I do have somewhat of a life you know. However, when they engage in behavior that can be categorized as something that offends modern day civilization and break the unspoken rules that governs society, well that is something that I feel is my moral obligation to share with those people considerate enough to read my blog.

 

I know you are in suspense so I will cut the crap and tell you about the horrible thing I witnessed. Picture it: I was riding a crowded tube in the middle of a warm day, which means hot and muggy day underground. I somehow managed to get a seat. There was a German family riding in the car with me. The dad and the older kid were standing. The mom was sitting right across from me holding a small baby. The small baby started to scream and cry. I hate small children on subways. And planes. And cars. And grocery stores. And at the post office. And on the street. And . . . . I digress.

 

So the mom did what most moms do in order to stop their baby from crying. She fed him. Yup. That’s it. That is my story. What? You don’t understand? You failed to see my point and/or humor in this story? Oh I am sorry. I think I must have failed to mention that she BREAST FED her baby. The German woman BREAST FED HER DAMN KID ON THE CROWDED, HOT, MUGGY TUBE.

 

What the Hell is wrong with people? Maybe I am just too conservative for this European behavior. If this is the case than I am more than proud to represent my American Puritan values. There is a reason people immigrated to the US from Europe many years ago. I was under the mistaken belief that their migration was motivated by freedom of religion and a promise of a better life. I now question that belief and find myself believing that it was to avoid awkward situations in public due to the shamelessness of European behavior.

 

I know, I know. Some of you are probably thinking, “What is wrong with breast feeding. It is a beautiful and natural part of life – a mother nourishing her child”. Yeah whatever dude. A lot of things are a natural part of life. Childbirth, for example. You don’t do it blatantly in front of 50 random strangers. Most people don’t want to watch random children being born anyway. Most men don’t want to watch their own children being born. Showering is a beautiful and natural part of life. So is hair removal. I don’t shave my legs on the subway, do you? I didn’t think so. Colon cleansing is a beautiful and natural part of life. I think you know where I am going with this. I have made my point.

 

But wait. My tale does not end there. The German family was getting off at the next stop. The mother had to quickly remove her child and gather her bearings. She was wearing a white shirt. A thin, white shirt. For some reason she wasn’t able to “put herself back”, hmmm, I am going to go out on a limb and say this was because she was on a moving, crowded subway! So there she was. Visible for the entire damn world to see, or at least a decent percentage of London’s population that ride the tube. Including myself. Lucky me? Lucky you because you get to experience my social discomforts without having to deal with the awkwardness? Or lucky all the random perverts who were on the tube with me that day? You decide.

Posted by H Khan