Gramatically Yours

hi
i just read 1-2 paragraphs and found lot of grammatical errors as well.
honestly, i dont like the style.

I received that message from someone to whom I had given the link to my blog and decided to copy and paste it here for the world to see. It humored me how someone who isn’t bothered to use capital letters or proper punctuation is the first to make a comment like that. Honestly, I was a bit upset when I read it and immediately wanted to attack the person that would shove such a cold and sharp dagger into the heart of my ego.

But then I took a step back and looked at it in a different way. I know I don’t always spell correctly. I know the grammar in which I have chosen to write would make my old English teacher’s hair fall out in clumps. I write to be funny, not correct in a grammatical, punctuational or any other way for that matter. Like Pee Wee, I am a rebel and a loner. A lone reed. A lone reed standing in a sea of something, blah, blah, something. I forgot the rest of the quote but it is from the film “You’ve Got Mail” so feel free to look it up at your leisure.

I like using commas. I would even go so far as to say I like abusing commas. I like inventing or modifying words when I can’t think of an existing one that fits. Sometimes I like short sentences. I do. Really. And other times I like to run on and on wherever my mind wishes to wander not caring if the subject matter or focus changes mid sentence or makes sense to anyone but me. And I like to start my sentences with “And.” I don’t know if the end of sentence punctuation goes inside or outside the quotation marks, but I don’t really care. If everyone who wrote concentrated on those details, we would not need editors and proofreaders. I like getting my ideas out. I like that I have ideas to get out, and every time I write in my blog, I think of my friend Christina who encouraged me to do this in the first place. In fact, she used to be my audience of one and it was in the wee hours of a San Francisco morning that I sat in her amazing living room up in the hills off Castro with a straight shot down the middle of the Bay Bridge, all jet-lagged from my previous day’s flight from Beijing that I started this blog by posting a few of the stories I had emailed her over the years. She was the one that edited my profile after I typed it out, cutting it down by half.

Perhaps this means I have arrived. In all the years I have been writing stories, I haven’t had anyone say anything negative. In fact, total strangers like Stephen and Pierre have become friends. I have met people like Suzy who already knew things about me, things I had forgotten I had written about. But that little message made me realize something. At some point I stopped writing for me and started writing for other people. I started writing what I thought would make someone laugh or be about something they wanted to hear instead of just writing about whatever popped into my head.

I have also become a bit lazy and instead of setting aside a reasonable amount of time to actually write the way I like, I steal five minutes here and there and quickly post it online. I miss having the time to sit and just let it happen, but that is my own fault. I spent two years without a television. I moved to India and had no friends and everything was new and surprising and exciting. Everyday was an adventure and lately it seems to be about work and coming home and eating and watching show after show until it is time to sleep so I can wake up and do it all again the next day. My life has become routine, dull and predictable. And that is saying something when living in India.

So perhaps that little grammatically incorrect, capital deficient and poorly punctuated comment has some use that goes beyond puncturing my ego. Maybe it’s a challenge to stir some things up.

The Afterlife

Years ago I discovered that the secret to a fabulous life is proper lighting. But since I began walking in the shoes of a forty year old, I have been wondering about that one highly guarded and secret ingredient that ensures a glamorous afterlife. I’ve looked high. I looked low. I watched Oprah and checked under the cushions on the sofa, all to no avail.

Then out of nowhere, the answer came from the most unexpected of places; The Procter and Gamble Company in Cincinnati, Ohio. I was reading about Fredric J. Baur, the designer of the Pringles potato chip container, who passed away early last month and had a portion of his cremated remains placed in a Pringles can which I assume was for Original flavor as opposed to, say, Spicy Guacamole. And suddenly everything popped and all the crumbs fell into place. If life is about lighting, then afterlife is most definitely about packaging. Duh.

The possibilities are not only mind-boggling, they are downright scary and should not be left to others to sort out. One must take one’s afterlife into one’s own hands to avoid an eternity in a sack of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos with a twist of lime. Those nasty, SHOUT!-proof cheese stains are enough to give Bree a nervous breakdown and don’t even get me started on what they do to a person’s breath. The last thing anyone needs in their afterlife are cheese stains and wake-the-dead breath.

My Sex Tape

Last night I made a Sex tape. That’s right, move over Paris. Step aside Pamela. Robb’s got a brand new tape and it’s all Sex, all the time. My much loved iPhone rang around five yesterday evening while I was winding things down at the office. It was Ankit and he was desperate. He wanted to make a Sex tape and needed some volunteers. Always one to help out a friend in need, I said “sure thing!” It was at that very moment I realized I had nothing to wear. I ran home and scavenged through my closet tossing designers this way and that. This was Sex, and any old designer would not do. Stores were closed and my bank account was empty. Was life replicating art?

It was just after eight when Ankit and camera crew arrived. I may be a bit exaggerating when I say “camera crew” when in reality it was camera person. They were set up in no time and suddenly, without hair or make-up, there I was all DSquared and Dolce, propped up in front of the camera like some overgrown Cabbage Patch Doll. And leave it to a friend to know enough of your innermost secrets and how to pull them out of you for public consumption. I felt shy, violated even, and nothing I could do could keep my secrets from issuing forth from my pouty lips.

Questions like “What is your favorite Sex and the City episode?” and “Who is your favorite character?” It was invasive and offensive. Until then, Sex had been my dirty little pleasure and now there it is, on public television for the masses to see.

Hero Worship

The year was 1981. I was on the cusp of fourteen, nerdy, shy and worst of all, I had a bad perm thanks to a beauty school graduate mom who embraced all the latest trends regardless of how embarrassing they may be. I didn’t know it at the time, but I as about to be transplanted, however briefly to the dense, lush rain forests of the eastern slopes of the Andes, the place known as "The Eyebrow of the Jungle" before catching the flight to Nepal and then onto Egypt. I was unexpectedly taken on a quest for the mythical Ark. I decided then and there that I not only liked Indiana Jones, I wanted to BE Indiana Jones. Of course, not as much as I wanted to be the toast of Broadway, but then life is full of cruel choices and having my name up in the bright lights was a tad more appealing than digging in the dirt. And, of course, there was Olivia Newton-John just waiting for me to kick start her career with our yet to be recorded duet and appearance on Merv Griffin.

Then 1984 came along. I was a much more mature seventeen year old. I had been to London and stood outside the Hippodrome. I had been to Harrod’s and had eaten my first Indian food in SOHO. In my mind I was cool, hip and happening teenager of the world with my very first Vidal Sassoon haircut. I had yet to discover the actual act of sex, but had discovered that one need not wait until a partner comes along. I was taking matters into my own hands every couple of hours, and it was with those same raging hormones that I entered “The Dragon” nightclub in Shanghai. Soon after it would be elephant rides in Mayapore and a roller coaster ride through the Temple of Doom. Once again I temporarily questioned my station in life and future goals and once again the promise of a standing ovation and a part in “Cats” or “A Chorus Line” won without much of a struggle. I had, after all, already written out my Tony acceptance speech and was strategizing how to parlay my Broadway success into a Hollywood career.

I was a seasoned twenty-one when Indiana embarked on the last crusade, dragging me to the library in Venice with the giant X on the floor that would ultimately take us to Berlin, face to face with the Fuhrer himself and then onto the long lost city of Petra. By now I had really changed. I realized I didn’t want to BE Indiana, I wanted to DO Indiana. And just now I wonder if perhaps that is where my later fascination with leather and whips began? But at that moment in time, I was sad to see him go. It was the last adventure before he hung up his fedora and put away his whip forever.

Ah, Indiana Jones. I always knew that someday he’d come through that door. I never doubted that. Something made it inevitable. And last Saturday, there we were, reunited again. India it seems is not part of the actual world, and therefore was not included in the world-wide release schedule, so I spent most of last week dodging reviews and spoilers so I could go in pure of heart, my mind an empty canvas, every line of dialogue and turn of plot a delightful surprise. And it was not disappointed. Sure, it was no Raiders, but then what is? Still, I thought it was an entertaining way to spend two hours and even after all these years, having seen the older movies countless times, something happens when the theme music plays and I become almost fourteen again, ready to embark on my own adventure.