Friday, March 24, 2006
Short Takes #5 (or: What's 3 Weeks between Friends?)
So I've been sick. Not deathbed sick, but sick enough to not leave the apartment for three days and to have amassed enough dirty tissues to build a 2/3 scale model replica of the Taj Mahal. I blame it on having drank from a communal tea cup that had been sitting out for who knows how long water that was taken from a spring only yards away from a pile of poo. Erin says I'm being paranoid. I thinks she's nuts. Here is proof of my side of the story:
If you look just below the Sprite bottle, you'll see the tea cup in question. Guarding said cup (and the spring and the 26 other sacred sites in this particular complex) is the man in white, Holy Man Jim. Or at least that's what his name sounded like to me and let's face it, that's a pretty good name for a man who guards sacred sites for a living. Below is proof #2:
That's poo, just on the other side of the stone wall surrounding the spring visible in the first picture (the poo would be up and to the right from that point of view). I don't like poo in my water. Nor do I like the saliva of an indefinite number of other people in my water. But beyond that, I hate being sick. Maybe I'm wrong, but I blame the poo water. Poo water bad, very very bad.
However, the real highlight recently (beyond Mrs. Federline, of course) has been their version of March Madness, in which pop icons have been put up against literary icons in a battle royale (of on-line voting). The first match saw Joyce Carol Oates get utterly destroyed by the esteemed Mr. T. (As it should be; I've still not gotten over Ms. Oates spending a week at Pomfret my junior year.) You can find the brackets on the blog and get your votes in (yesterday was a round two match-up between Mr. T and Willie Nelson!). And, of course, check out the magazine. The second issue is now out (I think; I've obvioulsy not seen it, as they don't sell it in Bishek), so maybe buy it and give the Barellhousers a try.
If you look just below the Sprite bottle, you'll see the tea cup in question. Guarding said cup (and the spring and the 26 other sacred sites in this particular complex) is the man in white, Holy Man Jim. Or at least that's what his name sounded like to me and let's face it, that's a pretty good name for a man who guards sacred sites for a living. Below is proof #2:
That's poo, just on the other side of the stone wall surrounding the spring visible in the first picture (the poo would be up and to the right from that point of view). I don't like poo in my water. Nor do I like the saliva of an indefinite number of other people in my water. But beyond that, I hate being sick. Maybe I'm wrong, but I blame the poo water. Poo water bad, very very bad.
*
Sometime not long before we left Bloomington, I popped into the Corner Book Store (a wonderful independent bookstore whose name for some utterly inexplicable reason I always want to say as The Book Nook, even though it is located--shocker!--right smack dab on the corner of Walnut & Kirkwood) and loaded up with some new lit journals for the road. One among them was the debut issue of Barrelhouse, whose intent is to marry once and for all pop culture and literary culture. Naturally, I loved it. (The fact that Steve Almond was involved in that first issue didn't hurt matters much, as I have stated for years that he's a god among lesser men. Or at least a damn funny and damn fine writer.) Beyond the magazine proper, however, I've recently (since being here, anyway) discovered that the good folks at Barrelhouse are also blogging (here), and their blog more or less makes me laugh every day, which is more than I can say about most things I regularly read on the internet. Yesterday's post points to an art show in Brooklyn containing a sculpture of Britney Spears giving birth atop a bear skin rug. A quote from the page:
According to the announcement, the piece is a "monument to pro-life." Leaving aside for a moment the problematic grammar of that phrase's construction, I've got to assume (hope?) that the sentiment is meant ironically. Though, if it is, apparently no one bothered to clue in the Manhattan Right to Life Committee, which purportedly donated materials to the project.
However, the real highlight recently (beyond Mrs. Federline, of course) has been their version of March Madness, in which pop icons have been put up against literary icons in a battle royale (of on-line voting). The first match saw Joyce Carol Oates get utterly destroyed by the esteemed Mr. T. (As it should be; I've still not gotten over Ms. Oates spending a week at Pomfret my junior year.) You can find the brackets on the blog and get your votes in (yesterday was a round two match-up between Mr. T and Willie Nelson!). And, of course, check out the magazine. The second issue is now out (I think; I've obvioulsy not seen it, as they don't sell it in Bishek), so maybe buy it and give the Barellhousers a try.
*
One aspect of our recent trip to Talas that Erin failed to mention in her recap was my having to 'purify' myself before we went up to one of the mazars. Essentially, this meant I dropped my pants and, standing ankle-deep in a partly frozen river, splashed Arctic-like water all over my nether regions for a few long minutes while five or six Kyrgyz elders looked on approvingly. Maybe that has something to do with the vicious cold, too. I don't know. And I don't particularly want to think about it, either. But I'm not above sharing it with all of you.
*
Last Saturday, as Erin was in Kochkor with her advisor and Kubat and others and I was left to my own devices in Bishkek, I wandered around town for awhile and when I got hungry I stopped into the Metro Pub, which is a self-described 'ex-pats hangout' with a Western-esque menu (hamburgers, traditional English breakfasts, Philly cheesesteak, etc.). All of our experiences there have been tainted by the presence of other Americans (not that you need my word to point this out, but we tend to be an annoying bunch when left to our own devices in foreign territory; especially those of us in the Peace Corps, it seems), but I was hungry and it wasn't lunch time and looked empty, so I went in. There was a big table full of military guys in from the base having lunch and no one else. I sat off by myself by the window, ordered a sandwich and a drink, and started reading. Not long before I left, an American scholar E. & I have met before but who apparently didn't recognize me (though I smiled and did the male head nod of recognition thing as he walked past) came in with a Kyrgyz woman (KW). They sat right next to me. The restaurant is rather big, with about twenty tables, 17 or so at that point empty. But the real point of my story is that this is the conversation they had almost immediately upon sitting down, when American scholar man (ASM) told his server, when she brought over menus, that he'd like an order of onion rings immediately:
KW: What are onion rings?ASM: You'll find out.KW: But what are they?ASM: They're onions in the shape of rings. What more can I say?KW: Whole onions?ASM: They're an American thing. You'll find out soon enough.
I asked for my check immediately. And then went and bought some bootleg DVDs down the street.
*
On a more positive note, the one-year anniversary of the Tulip Revolution (March 24) came and went without much to report. The day was made a national holiday about a week and a half ago and the requisite hoo-ha went down in the center of the city: tanks and ballistic missiles rolled through followed by hundreds of men dressed in camo and simultaneously holding Kalishnikovs and beer bottles (always a fun combo). There were fireworks and performances and general yippie-type activities, but in the end, perhaps thanks to the constant reminder recently of the government's sizable military might (I mean when compared to, say, the guy in the bazaar selling cabbage, not the global military powers), everything went on peacefully and is now back to what passes as normal.
