US Xpress Desk Minion=Me

I will be working on migrating data at US Xpress in the WFC starting Monday, April 2. After 8 months of waking, sleeping, eating, leaving as I saw fit I will again be slave to that routine schedule employed individuals are forced to keep.

Yes, this will be the most boring assignment on God's green Earth but it pays a good deal for what it is with the opportunity for 10-20 hours/week in time and a half overtime promised. There is also no danger of me cutting and running as the actual contract is for 2 months with option to renew should the work be incomplete or prolific, at their discretion.

Incidentally, the WFC is where D'Souza works when he is actually at his home office. It is also a 10-15 minute walk from my current residence.

To living a debt-free existence: hip hip hooray!
To being a menial computer monkey: boo!

Into the sunset with cash lacking sleep in my drive to be productive and civilized.

My Other Blog

Here is a post I wrote on 230 Fifth for my other blog.

Don't worry...I'm still loyal to you, darling readers of my life. I won't leave you without Sweetly Vicious updates.

Missing D'Souza

Today marks three weeks since I've seen D'Souza.

It seemed so long and it was so long and it's done yet it drags on. He's scheduled to land at JFK at 7am on April 2, only to make his way onto a plane at 9am to OH where he is stationed next week. He should fly back into the tri-state on thursday night or Friday afternoon of next week--which means another week of me missing him.

In some ways I haven't had the chance to agonize over his absence because he actually made an effort to call/text/e-mail/skype/AIM with enough frequency that I didn't have long periods to examine the hole in my heart growing from his absence.

That said, it's been a difficult transition from spending every waking, non-working minute with my man to laying my weary, wistful eyes on his glorious visage. I can tell you that I'm going to stick to him like glue just as soon as he's in a touch-range of Sweet self.

D'Souza--Come home, pronto! I miss you.

Pachyderm Parade 2007

A caravan of elephants--the leader donned a sequined I *heart* NY coat--walked across 34th St. as hordes of New Yorkers whipped out their camera phones and high tech digital devices to capture the annual crossing of Ringling Brothers Circus onto our fair isle.
Tom, Norman, Kelly, and I were part of the eager scene...once they passed a full sprint was required to keep up with the tail-to-trunk parade. There were also a slew of beautiful, glossy-coated black horses followed by white horses and TINY, fuzzy-hooved ponies.
\

This one is on Tommy's camera which is still better than my attempts on a real digital--in my defense it's a REALLY OLD digital circa November 2003.

Where Does the Good Go?

Where do you go with your broken heart in tow?
What do you do with the left over you?
And how do you know, when to let go?
Where does the good go? Where does the good go?

Chorus:
Look me in the eye and tell me you don't find me attractive
Look me in the heart and tell me you won't go
Look me in the eye and promise no love's like our love
Look me in the heart and un break broken, it won't happen

It's love that leaves that breaks the seal of always thinking you would be
Real happy and healthy, strong and calm
Where does the good go? Where does the good go?

Chorus

Where do you go when you're in love and the world knows?
How do you live so happily while I am sad and broken down?
What do you say it's up for grabs now that you're on your way down?
Where does the good go? Where does the good go?

Off the Grey's Anatomy soundtrack, I dedicate that Tegan and Sara song to the memory of Chiara "McWeepy" Levin...the good left with her.

D'Souza's Doppleganger: Desi Model/Bollywood Actor

John Abraham's got nothing on my baby. Seriously, D' could be John's body double.

Ciao Bella

My neighbor and short-time but lasting impact friend, Chiara was killed this weekend. She was visiting her great aunt for her birthday and hitting up a law school prom in Boston when a drive by in Dorchester, MA tragically took her from this world.

Chiara was a beautiful, intelligent, imaginative, creative, culinary, sensitive person with exquisite taste and an elan I can best describe as Euro-Fab. She looked remarkably like Rebecca Gayheart, the former Noxema girl also hailing from the state of Kentucky.

She was a reveler of life. She was unadulterated in her zest for experience and exploration of the world. She had been planning to move to Italy this summer after spending this year in New York. She'd been here since July when she graduated from the University of Michigan and moved here to start a new life.

I will miss her every thursday as I tune into Grey's Anatomy without her McWeepiness. She was often reduced to tears by some sadness on screen or in real life--she just felt with a quiet intensity I can only relay as empathy. Her generosity in spirit and with spirits made my world a brighter place. Like her voluminous, untamed curls she quickly became something to everyone whose life she touched--like the sun in its wanton rising and setting. She radiated a warmth and curiosity that I can best sum up as genuine and youthful.

Here's an article in the NY Post about Chiara Maria Levin.

Ciao Bellissima Chiara!

I should have written this!

Stirring has piqued my attention a bit too late--since the last show was yesterday--but it has brought my attention to another project Shalimar Productions is developing: Immigration/Love Project. How fascinating!

Riding the 6

Going In Hard To Be Soft

This weekend I had the unique experience of being complimented for my brand of insightfulness on more than one occassion.

Friday:
Pixie, my friend from high school, whose boyfriend I'm reputed for stealing a decade ago (they broke up in July! we started dating in September!), celebrated her 25th b'day in Williamsburg. I'm not convinced that Graham Ave on the L is still Willy-burg, but given our tenuous history I don't argue with her. This is the annual event at which we share oxygen--for my part, I keep my head down and glug my drink with a religious fervor. It is upon Tracey's insistence that I arrive at the scene with a meager gift in tow under layers of winter wear.

Sean, GaGa's best bud (Pixie's current cohabitating boyfriend), and I in the course of conversational factions found ourselves discussing culture and identity in the great American landscape. At what might have been the terminus of my intellectual tirade, Sean looked at me with genuine respect which I could easily have mistaken for sarcasm and uttered every aspiring teacher's favorite words, "I never thought of it that way. That's a really interesting perspective you've added to how I look that." After his assurances of seriousness, I found myself enthralled by the compliment of a smart stranger. It's amazing how strangers can influence us, flatter us, create pools of self-doubt, bring a smile or a tear to our cheeks and seemingly vanish from our lives.

Incidentally, Sean is no small potato in the audio film community. Check HIM out! He's an extremely polite person predisposed to pensive bouts with an appreciation for my pedantic pandering. In my limited experience based on one-time contact--Great GUY~

Saturday:
Milan--one within the growing populous of men I've been on A date with only to realize his residence rests firmly in the friend zone--in the course of many hour-long conversations this weekend called my attention to how keenly I listen. He marveled at the level of detail at which I observe him and others in their actions and inaction. He was kind enough to insert at appropriate times, his commentary on my observations. Calling me out of using psychological jargon and analysis in daily observation.

There were moments our ruminations had the rumblings of a recording of Frasier and Niles Crane discussing the merits of Merlot vs. Chianti--except our presuppositions rested firmly in the psyche--why do or don't we do/say/act in certain ways. An exercise in complete self-absorption and at times narcicissm: it was an expression of our education coupled with the rebellion of intelligent desi kids with the have-no-desire-to-make-mucho-$ chip on our non-medically trained shoulders.

Moments of clarity were clouded by moments of self-loathing and doubt. Finally we summed the experience thus: I am a pot of uncertainity stewing on a stove next to him, a dilute pot simmering in discontent.

Our Song

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone.
It's not warm when she's away.
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And she's always gone too long
anytime she goes away.

Wonder this time where she's gone,
Wonder if she's gone to stay
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And this house just ain't no home
anytime she goes away.

And I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know

Hey, I ought to leave the young thing alone,
But ain't no sunshine when she's gone,
only darkness everyday.
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone,
And this house just ain't no home
anytime she goes away.

Anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.

Guess who is learning to play this song on his guitar while he's gone?

Save MTVDesi

Please click on the link and sign this PETITION to save MTVDesi. MTV is making cuts and has eliminated MTVWorld which includes MTVDesi, MTVChi, and MTVK.

Asians need their presence in American pop culture as more than Apu, the Chinese delivery guy, and Korean dry cleaner. Let MTV know that you're MAD!

What a Mighty Good Man

An e-mail my man sent me from GOA! Here I thought I wasn't going to get to talk to him for a full FOUR days.

If you feel the need to talk to me, my friend Sachin's cell # is 98234720566 (can't get my own cell as everyone will keep checking up on me). Between the virgin beaches, the promiscuous babes and the copious amounts of booze, Sachin might not pick up but I will call back.

If I don't make it back, I won't be able to get you a present from here and for that I apologize. Take care and grind on.

D'Souza

Cheating

NO, I'm not cheating on D'Souza. God! Why is that the assumption you jump to make? I'm in looooove, no desire to cheat...even though he is 100000000 miles away and I won't see him till April 2. Yes, there is a countdown in effect.

Clearly, I've dropped out of graduate school so I'm not cheating in that regard as well. Though I never had the opportunity for that--no real tests administered, it's all paper based. boo!

What I will be cheating on my dear reader is YOU. I've been selected by Hotels by City to blog for their website and given my debt to soceity or Amex, Citibank, and Bank of America respectively I have no choice but to accept...besides I bet they get more readers than I'm currenly reaching. I think I'm just reaching you with this inane drivel, Tracey...and on a good day Carrie!

But, Hater...continue to read, hate, and comment (so I can decide whether or not I want to delete your inflammatory slander)

They say, "Cheaters never prosper!" I venture to guess I'm going to be a whole lot more prosperous in that venture than I ever was in this...though the cathartic value of SweetandVicious cannot be measured in monetary gain alone.

ee cummings

may i feel said he

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
how said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(come? said he
ummm said she)
you're divine! said he
(you are Mine said she)

Professor Vicious

I've decided that my dream of the week is to become a creative writing professor at a progressive university and inspire hordes of youngsters to not do but teach...alright, maybe some of them should write in lieu of inspiring others to do so. Not everyone can be a muse.

Style Virus

Heard today on Oprah by the British co-author of What Not to Wear, "There is a style virus in America!"

This got me thinking of whether or not I've fallen victim to this virus. My personal elan would certainly be a healthy mix of matchy-matchy meets shabby chic. While New York isn't Paris or Milan on the fashionista frontier, few would argue that there is a dearth of style in this metropolis. But fashion victims are everywhere as Markiv and I discovered walking up Bowery on Saturday as a young, frizzy-haired, enormous-shoulder-pad wearing youngster in polka-dot tights passed us making us realize why we would never revisit the leg-warmer decade.

My penchant has never leaned toward the label-conscious machinations of urban trust fund babies or surburban trophy wives, given my limited choice in the 0-8 size market and general disdain for spending more than $100 on any given item of clothing--much to Tracey's chagrin. I have prided myself on a well-groomed, polished appearance in public. Lately, in lieu of dressing for work I've taken to lounge wear and casual wear as my uniform of comfort--couple that with flats and shapeless, warm jackets and you see why I fear I've caught something stylistically viral.

This is not something I would have considered if not for D'Souza's dapper dress sense and brutal honesty. The man likes his woman dressed up or dressed for work and jeans and baby tees just aren't cutting it. Not to mention, I've never dated a man whose fashion sense superseded mine. Back to traditional gender roles 101. I'm forced to step it up with no real incentive given my meager financial standing and the reality that heels are just not grocery store appropriate--even in Manhattan--unless one is coming directly from the office or picking up beer on the way to a party.

While I'm not wearing high-waisted, tapered-ankle mom jeans I'm still suffering from a disease that appears to be sweeping the nation--albeit a condition symptomic of apathy-I'm plagued by the style virus.

Goa

Dating a Goan Catholic and never having been to Goa, I decided to learn a little something about Goa and specifically the Catholics in in my unproductively spent free time. Yes, perhaps studying for the GMAT would be a more effective use of said free time, but that's not the point.

History of Goa
Working our way chronologically backwards in the most cursory manner imaginable, here goes:
1987 Goa becomes a State of India, officially
1963 First Election to House of Assembly
1813 Representative sent to House of Representatives in Lisbon
1739 Marathas attack Goa (state of Maharastra where Bombay is located, directly above Goa geographically)
1622 St. Francis Xavier is cannonized by Pope Gregory XV
1570 Goa under seige by Ismail Adil Shah
1560 Establishment of the Inquisition in Goa
1542 Francis Xavier and Jesuits arrive in India--to Goa
1540 Persecution of Hindus in Goa
1510 Yusuf Adil Shah forced to surrender Goa to Afonso de Albuquerque of Portugal
1200-1300 Goa under Mauryan Rule of Asokha The Great

The history of Goa, like much of India but perhaps more so than the rest of the country is colored by religious strife. The Hindus, the Muslims--the Mughals--, and the Portugese Catholics infilrated Goan beaches time and time again. It's one of the smallest states in an over-populated nation but it continues to hold its own at least from the standpoint of tourism. For decades the West has smoked pot and soaked in the Arabian sun on the beautiful beaches of Goa. But past the debauchery and relaxation, the Catholic community in Goa is incredibly strong with architecturally majestic old churches on what were once pristine beaches. Before the resorts and the commercialization, there was St. Francis and Vasco Da Gama.

Culturally, the most Western of communities East of the Middle East Goans love to tout their Portugese heritage and some years ago the government of Portugal issued EU passports to dozens of Goans who could prove their European lineage. Last names like D'Souza, Gomez, Rodriguez, Fernandez, D'Mello, Pinto, Lobo, and Lopez abound on these beaches--these names belong to Indians, or at least folks that look like the rest of the Indians running around the beach.

Goans--at least the Catholic ones--have long held the title of the premier merry-makers and dancers (expect the waltz in lieu of Bhangra) in the greater Indian community. Few are the non-Punjabis (northern Indian community bordering Pakistan consisting of Sikhs, Bhangra dancers, and future Bollywood stars) and who can outdrink the Goans and they can only do it because of their warrior blood and relative enormity compared their dimunitive Goan bretheren. Catholic Goans also represent the only group of Indians to consume sausage in a country of vegetarians and fish eaters. Muslims have the monopoly on goat. Non-goan christians will break ou the beef and fish, but it's the Goans that enjoy lavish Western breakfasts of sausage, eggs, cheese, and milk all in one sitting. No Indian Jew can sit at a table less kosher.

I want to be clear...I'm not Goan and if I were to eventually be yoked with one, I would still never BE Goan, but it's a culture that has fascinated me since childhood. Walking on the beach in Juhu (what was once a fabulous beach in Bombay), you could always tell the Goan Catholic couples apart from the rest--they were the most affectionate, they had on the coolest pair of blue jeans, they had the most interesting slang, and they always looked like they were having the best time with each other in that moment along that shore.

Johnnie Walker Black Label

Growing up in the sticky summer months and less sticky winter months on the

West Coast of India, my grand-daddy always had a peg of Johnnie Walker Black Label on the rocks before dinner.

Dinners in Bombay are eaten late at sprawling tables adorned with overflowing bowls of fresh fruits--papayas, guavas, watermelon, mangoes, custard apples, jackfruits, and pomegranates are seasonal regulars. Dinner, like lunch, isfreshly prepared by women who spend most of their days slaving over hot stoves in air-conditioned flats with poorly ventilated kitchens. Our flat in Bandra is no different. Despite having a fridge and for some years now a microwave, my grandmother still prepares every meal from scratch with fresh ingredients--pestle and mortar in hand, wooden coconut grater on the floor, a small blender (everyone refers to as a mixie) and an enormous pressure cooker hooting intermittently on the gas stove.

These are elements of me I don't have to explain to D'Souza as he sits at my wooden dining table in my window-less living room sipping a double Johnnie Walker on the rocks as I furiously stir a pot of chicken curry on my electric stove and the rice cooker whistles in the background.