H1N1 success ... at last

Burned twice, nothing was going to stop me now. I was a freaked out parent on the prowl, willing to go to any length to get my child that elusive vaccination I had been seeking for weeks now. I'm sure part of it had to do with the paranoia sweeping California regarding the virus, and part of it had to do with me not willing to consider the scenarios where I *could* have done something, but didn't.

So it was off to the Santa Clara fairgrounds again, where yet another free clinic was being held. Except this time I showed up at 6:30am. And this time I was ready. I had my cold weather gear (it was 35 degrees), I had my lawn chair, and I had my New York Times (the Sunday edition takes me hours to read cover to cover). Once the line started to move, I planned to call Saeeda to drive over with Nuha, and then the three of us would hang out until we got the shot.

As it turned out, my showing up that early was a good idea, because there was already a ridiculous line of people waiting before me. And with that line came the associated entrepreneurs, selling everything from churros to eternal salvation (some Church group or other passing out pamphlets). One guy was even dressed up as a Subway sandwich and was handing out coupons.

By 9am, I had called Saeeda, who arrived with an unsuspecting Nuha in tow. It was a good thing they got there when they did, because the line had started to move, and beyond a certain point the police were not letting anyone hold places in line for anyone. There were a lot of distraught parents, one of whom had been holding a spot only to realize that they had gone past the point where they could usher their family in later.

It was around 11am by the time we finally made it INTO the fairground building where the shots were being administered. The scene was surreal, and instantly made me think of a Hollywood disaster flick - queues of confused people in a vast hall being directed by authoritative staff and conflicting signs; nurse stations quickly processing vaccine administrations; doctors and emergency personnel standing by in the wings; relieved patients walking out quickly, just glad that the ordeal was over.

The unsuspecting victim before heading inside:

The line inside:

Uh oh:

All done!:

The Quest for the H1N1 vaccine #2

Wizened by last week's H1N1 experience, Saeeda and I spent the last few days strategizing which clinic to attend to get the vaccine for Nuha. I know that we've moved beyond the rational with our panicky approach, but we're parents. We're not supposed to be rational entities anymore.

Son on Friday, after poring over the clinic information and mapping out distances to each, Saeeda and I settled on a Sunnyvale clinic. At 6:30am on Saturday I was awake and dressed. Armed with a water bottle and some reading material, I was ready to be dropped off to hold a place in line for the vaccine.

Saeeda dropped my off by 7am, but already there was a line wrapping around the clinic building. The staff had resorted to handing out numbers to people so that entire families did not have to wait in the morning drizzle. You took the number and came back with your family at the assigned time. However, it was the line for these numbers itself that wrapped around the clinic.

By around 8am things started moving as the folks at the very front of the line began to receive numbers (the clinic wasn't set to open until 9:30am, but they decided to hand out the numbers earlier). Still, the going was slow because people were being interviewed about the number of high risk individuals in their family that needed the shot. Given that not everyone spoke English fluently, and things started to slow down.

While waiting, I decided to strike up a conversation with the guy in front of me. It turned out, to my surprise, that he was an alum from the University of Chicago. Not only that, but since he had gone on to study law at Northwestern, he knew my cousin (alum of U. of C) and many of my friends who were lawyers in Chicago. Small world.

The line kept moving, the rain kept falling, and I continued texting Saeeda with status updates. But around 9:30am something changed. The line started moving a lot faster, and no one knew what was going on until we rounded the corner and saw that a police officer and clinic staff member were turning people away now. They had run out of vaccine, and were therefore no longer handing out numbers. There was no point in waiting anymore.

I silently cursed fate as I dialed Saeeda to come pick me up. Two weeks now, and I had nothing to show for all the waiting around I had done. Today, the vaccine was gone in 90 minutes. What would this country do if there was a true virus outbreak of pandemic proportions? If California couldn't handle the situation for a limited at-risk population, what would happen if everyone were to need a vaccination because of a lethal virus spreading through the community?

Boggles the mind.

The Quest for the H1N1 Vaccine - Attempt #1

Perspectives change once you become a parent. I detest getting flu shots for the very logical belief that I'm Wolverine and no earthly malady can lay me low for long (I know, I'm asking for it). However, this H1N1 thing has me and Saeeda concerned about the little one. At the end of the day, should something bad happen because Nuha went unvaccinated, I don't know how I'd live with myself. Somehow I don't think saying, "but the odds were against this happening..." would make feel any better.

As far as the swine flu - for some reason California trails the rest of the developed world and is rationing out its H1N1 vaccines. Supply is outstripping demand and those pediatrician offices lucky enough to receive a stash are only handing it out to pregnant women or mothers of little ones under 6 months old. The rest of us have to resort to a scouring of the internet to locate free weekly clinics where the shots are available to the remaining high-risk population - kids between 6 months and 24 years of age. Which begs the question - why the hell are 24 year olds considered high risk - doesn't the fact that they've survived college grant them immunity from all known toxins?

Saeeda found a listing for a clinic that was being offered at the Santa Clara Fairgrounds, so this morning we decided to check things out, hoping to get Nuha vaccinated and then to move on to other errands we had for the day. Oh, how naive we were.

Admittedly, we rolled up to the Fairground at 11am, which we thought was relatively early. But already the line of people stretched outside and wrapped for at least a half-mile outside the parking lot. Families were camped out with lawn chairs, blankets, toys, food - had I not known, I would have guessed it to be a national holiday of some sort, with the families waiting for the parade to start.

I rolled down my car window and asked a departing family how long it had taken them before they received their shot.

"4 hours. We've been here since 7am."

?!

I looked at Saeeda - getting in line now was futile. The wait would be even longer. Maybe not wanting to wait in line would make me a horrible father. But another, more reasonable part of me just said to wait until next week, when we'd be able to properly plan for a clinic and actually show up earlier. With that, I turned the car around to head home.

The Quest to get the H1N1 Vaccine was on.

Feeling young again

Does U2 put on a show or what? Saeeda and I had never been to a concert together, so a while back I had bought tickets for the Irish band's stop in the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, CA. Getting to the concert brought with it some trepidation - I was simply worried about being too old to even be at such an event. After all, aren't people of my demographic supposed to gently ease into listening of NPR and to start attending classical music performances?

But I was pleasantly surprised to see that most people were like us - middle-aged and having grown up with the music we were about to hear. The venue was amazing, the stage was cool, and the opening act - Black Eyed Peas - pumped up the crowd with energy. I didn't know half their songs, but that didn't matter. People around us muffled my mutilations of the lyrics.

Then Slash from Guns 'N Roses took the stage and kicked off that classic guitar riff from Sweet Child. Pure sweetness, even for someone like me who knows so little about rock. And then there was U2, a band that justifiably occupies a spot in history as one of the iconic musical acts of all time. 24 songs, ranging across both decades and albums, almost all of which we spent listening to while on our feet.

The funny thing is that Saeeda and I left the concert energized, almost as if a few years had fallen off our shoulders. This music thing was cool, and going to concerts didn't have to be a struggle against a tide of humanity. To some degree, the experience has caused a mini-transformation, and we're now on the prowl for other great musical events to attend. Ones where being middle-aged will be irrelevant. Ideas?

The Blackberry finally claims me as a victim

I’ve done my fair share of travel, most of which came while I hopped from city to city as a management consultant. It was really exciting at first, with the wonder of new places, different time zones, and new friends always promising to make each trip unique. But eventually the flight delays, cramped seats, and horrible airport food became annoyances that I could no longer ignore. Out of all these nuisances, perhaps nothing galled me more than the loud executive on his cell phone.

Keep in mind that this was still back in the day (i.e., late 1990’s) as far as mobile phones were concerned. They were still these ugly, hulking beasts, that weighed 5 pounds, ran on satellite systems, and were owned by a only a few self-important people. And I hated watching these “important” individuals pace around the terminal, obviously showing off the fact that they had a cell phone, and yelling things like, “YEAH HONEY … CAN YOU HEAR ME? YES, I’M CALLING YOU FROM THE AIRPORT ON MY CELL PHONE. YES, MY CELL PHONE. NO, I’M NOT IN THE OFFICE. NO, I’M AT THE AIRPORT. I CAN MAKE CALLS FROM ANYWHERE WITH MY CELL PHONE, AND I’M DOING SO FROM THE AIRPORT. NO HONEY IT’S NOT MAGIC. LISTEN, DO YOU WANT ME TO PICK UP ANY MILK ON MY WAY HOME?”

So I promised myself that I would never be like these idiots, and that I didn’t even need a cell phone. Well, that didn’t get me far, because before I knew it cell phones were everywhere, and my friends were making it a sport to mock me as a luddite. I never understood why a home and work number were not enough – why did I have to be reachable while I was grocery shopping, or at the gym? Still, I eventually caved and bought a clunker of a cell phone. You know, the one that resembled a brick, and which could definitely not be carried in your trouser pocket, unless you wanted to send the wrong message. I held on to my first cell phone for so long that Sprint sales reps would marvel at it whenever I would take it in for servicing at a store. They'd have to dig around for an old timer who remembered how these clunkers worked.

So it should come as no surprise that I swore I would never get a “smartphone”. I would never become slave to a Blackberry, jumping at every ring/ding/vibration to check who just texted me, or what email I just received. I promised that I would reject any offer from my employer to foist one of these devices on me, because I would inevitably just be tying myself down to work. But alas I failed in my quest to keep this promise as well. With this new position in San Fran comes the mandatory requirement to carry around a Blackberry, and I find myself slowly being seduced by this device. But I don’t want to! I don’t want to repeatedly look for a blinking light to see if I have a message, I don’t want to scroll through easily-accessed web pages, and I don’t want to tap out messages on the surprisingly comfortable keypad. Argh, corporate America, why must you turn me into a drone!

The Bay Area - home of the Desi

Ah yes - the adventure continues, but the location changes (as per the title of this blog).

We've been in the Bay Area for a few days now, and already there are a few things that are going to take some time to adjust to. Specifically, this place is teeming with desis. We and our Asian brethren rule Silicon Valley.

One example that made this fact hit home - our rental car. The moment Saeeda got in, she remarked at how it smelled "desi." Now I'll admit, there are times when South Asians eschew the use of deodorant, and instead engage in some sort of macabre contest to see how quickly their body odor can burn through a bystander's olfactory nerves and cause their eyes to tear up. But still, it was unfair of Saeeda to blame the slight whiff of BO to a desi - it really could have been anyone who had used the car previously.

But she was proven right, because the moment I turned on the radio I heard a really old Bollywood movie song come blaring out of the car's tinny speakers. On the AM band no less. Only a desi would preset a rental car's radio station to an AM channel playing ethnic music.

It also turned out that the channel was promoting some sort of "Friendship Day", when friends the world over were supposed to profess their love for each other by calling in with "friendship stories". And desis from across the Bay Area were obliging. One caller wanted to send a shoutout to his friend who was always playing pranks on him, like shoving him out of a whitewater raft while navigating a Class 5 rapid. Ha ha, how funny. This caller loved his friend very much and wanted to dedicate, randomly, a song from a 1950s movie called "Laila Majnoo" (the desi equivalent of Romeo and Juliet).

I'm going to like living here. I'm a FOB (Fresh Off the Boat) at heart, and Saeeda has worked hard over the years to eliminate all traces of my fobbiness. But I see my brothers everywhere - in malls, on the roads, in every office. It's only a matter of time before I start wearing sandals and skinny jeans (they're fashionable again) and eating some good, spicy, ethnic food on a daily basis. Oh, and dancing to Bollywood songs in my car.

Yes, I'm going to like living here very much.

Thank you for the memories Chicago

I'm sitting in my living room, with movers milling around, boxing up our belongings. I'm amazed at how much stuff we've managed to accumulate over our four years here, especially since we live in a two bedroom apartment where space has always been at a premium. I'm also surprised at how sad I am as I see my apartment get emptier by the minute. Perhaps it's the depressing white of the walls as they slowly reveal themselves, or perhaps it's the echo of my voice as it bounces around empty rooms.

A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with my friend Savyon, in which I was expressing frustration at having to start all over again in a new place. Savyon, who is not from the US, remarked at how this nomadic existence was such a quintessentially American experience. In this country individuals are solitary beings with loose ties to community and family, always in search of their fortune. By its very nature, this search constantly takes these residents to new geographies.

On the other hand, in places like the Middle East and Asia (home for me and Savyon), centuries old culture places different demands on an individual, who is never solitary but instead a part of a much larger social whole. Here, familial and cultural ties inhibit movement, and cause entire generations to live out their lives in spacial stasis.

I do not know which is better. Personally, I've lived a nomadic existence, never having spent more than seven years in any one place. But despite the emotional wrenching that occurs with every move, I know that I've found personal enrichment with each new home. And trust me, leaving Chicago has come with its own emotional costs.

After all, this is where my wife and I fell in love with an unparalleled lakefront lapping at the feet of stunning skyscrapers. This is where the midwestern winter made a man out of me. This is where my daughter first opened her eyes. This is also where I was taken kicking and screaming through a master's education at the University of Chicago, to emerge on the other side someone more appreciative of the workings of the world. This is where I watched my nephews born and grow up. This is where I watched Obama stand a field away from me, breaking historic barriers with his accomplishments. This is where I shook Blagoevich's hand, and have since wondered what the hell I was thinking. This is where I entered the world of healthcare, and met mentors against whom I will measure all future business leaders I work for. But probably most importantly, this is where I have met individuals whose kindness and support I will never forget, and whose friendships I will treasure for a lifetime.

If being a nomad is what I have to be ... well then, so be it. Life is only a set of memories, and I leave Chicago knowing that I have amassed some of my most precious memories in this city.

For that, thank you Chicago.

Visa, what visa?

Man what a whirlwind stay it's been . I came with high hopes of exploring two great, summer, European destinations, and instead just saw the inside of the hotel room, and of the office. The work was interesting though, and since medical devices is a field that I know little about, I'm looking forward to the new learning experience in the coming year.


But the regret I feel at not having taken advantage of this travel opportunity has far been overshadowed by the joys of having an American passport. This was my first trip abroad as a US citizen, and the difference in treatment I received from the days when I had to travel with a Pakistani passport has been indescribable. But old habits are seared into my brain – before I left home I went into a panic attack when I wasn't able to find copies of my German visa, as well as a letter from Abbott verifying employment, and a letter from my bank verifying the presence of funds, and a letter (lots of letters) from my manager stating the purpose of my travel, and a copy of my wife’s passport, and a copy my previous US visas (H1-B, student, etc.), and a copy of my travel documents containing numbers and addresses where I could be reached at all times, and a urine sample (ok, not that last, but you get the idea). Then Saeeda would step in when she would see things were getting out of hand, and remind me that I had a US passport, and I would start to calm down.

Still, during this trip I was nervous when I approached German immigration on flight into Europe, and US immigration on flight into Chicago. In both cases I handed over my passport knowing the drill – the harsh questions that would follow, the convincing job that I would have to do, the skeptical looks that I would receive. But these did not come, as the officer just gave a cursory glance at my passport. Nevermind, I told myself. The secret red button under the desk had been pressed, “Code Red” was probably flashing silently across computer screens in a control room somewhere, and Chuck Norris and the Delta Squadron were already en route to ferret me away.

But none of this happened. Instead, I looked like a complete idiot as I stood staring at the immigration officer, while the officer stared back at me with a “what else do you want?” look. The next person in line behind me coughed politely, and I realized that I really truly was being allowed to go through. I clumsily shuffled my way through, mumbling to myself in a daze of confusion, not sure how my world had changed so drastically.

But I wasn’t complaining.

German dining

I met up with the rest of my coworkers yesterday at the car rental counter in Stuttgart airport. Even car renting is an exciting experience in Germany - walking down the garage aisles all you pass are BMWs, Audis and Mercs. Meanwhile, back in the US I'm usually told that I'll be squeezing into a "sporty compact", usually built for a midget and with all the horsepower of a mule-drawn carriage.
From the airport it was off to the small town of Ragindingen, where the hotel was a small, cosy building just off the town river. The hotel is something that I would describe as having "character", but Saeeda would describe as "old." And old it was, since there was no central air conditioning and an elevator straight out of the 60s. Still, I liked the ambience - no two rooms were the same, and all the furnishings had an Old World feel to them.
Our first meal in Germany? Italian food. Excellent Italian food. Which left me really confused at the end of the night, because I had yet to try to typical German food, which in my mind consisted of high calory, saucy, beef/pork boiled in various ways. Why didn't I expect there to be a thriving dining scene in German cities? Ignorance.

To Germany, in style

Although I’ve traveled a lot, and in doing so have racked up airline miles galore, I haven’t had much of an opportunity to fly business class, which is an experience unto itself. I finally got the opportunity to do so for work this week, when I was asked to attend a set of meetings in Germany and Switzerland. Given the distances involved, I was eligible for business class, and so booked my travel with glee. So much glee, in fact, that I think I was more excited about the flight than the fact that I was going to visit two spectacular European vacation destinations.

The experience did not disappoint. I flew Lufthansa, and knew that I was in for some special treatment the moment I sat down in the comfy leather chair. This thing needed its own on-screen instruction manual – with a push of a button I could move it in any direction I wanted, change lumbar support, tilt into “relax” mode, or go fully flat into “sleep” mode. I was served gourmet snacks throughout, provided newspapers and reading material, and practically waited on hand and foot by a flight attendant assigned specifically to me. My only slight disappointment was dinner – appetizers and dessert were delicious, but I was forced to eat my pre-ordered Muslim meal, which was nothing more than a spicy, greasy chicken dish, tasting like it had come straight from a bad desi wedding. Meanwhile, my fellow business class passengers got to dine on steak and fish. The price I pay for eternal salvation, I guess.

The travel was so pleasant, in fact, that it never felt like the long flight that it truly was. Part of me felt guilty. What right had I to such luxury, when my fellow passengers were squeezed into cattle class a few feet behind me? Ordinarily, my 6’ 3’’ frame would be scrunched into a tiny seat with my surgically repaired knees pushing into the seat in front of me, praying fervently that the passenger in front would not tilt their seat too far back. Sleeping would be out of the question, and even going to the bathroom would require asking permission of the five passengers seated between me and the aisle.

But I bet airlines do this on purpose. They give you a taste of what air travel should be like (and was, at one point in time), then warn you by saying that you better continue to buy the more expensive ticket, otherwise look what could happen to you. Nefarious, I tell you.

Nuha turns 1

The party was grand, and held true to the LA tradition of big productions. We had a theme (an Enchanted Garden), delicious food (Persian catering), specialty ballons (in the shape of butterflies and dragonflies), grooving music (a desi-Western mix), a candy buffet (all in pink and green colors – the colors of the theme), a specialty cake (in the shape of a towering garden), and entertainment for the kids (Tinkerbell showed up to play games, tell stories, and paint faces).

However, our daughter wasn’t very interested in the hard work that her mother and father (mostly her mother – father isn’t so creative), put in to organize everything. Instead, she was happiest crawling around on all fours, alternating between picking up things to eat from the floor and trying to eat the flowers embossed on her dress. It was only after the party was over, when I had a brief moment to sit and observe my wired daughter - she had just had taken her first ever bite of cake frosting that evening and was zooming from end of the party room to another - that I marveled at how quickly time had flown by.

First, I had not screwed up. I had made it to Nuha’s first birthday without making major mistakes that would scar the girl for life. Much of the credit for that goes to my patient wife, who has made sure to gently but forcefully set me straight when I start acting irresponsibly around my daughter. As in when I let Nuha run around the house without a diaper on because she should be allowed to “air out” all body parts.

Second, seeing how quickly Nuha has progressed from a helpless baby that fit in the crook of my elbow to a toddler who knows how to aggressively demand what she wants – this makes me marvel at the mysteries of God and my intellect’s puny inability to comprehend the magnitude of what is occurring right before my eyes.

My evolution as a father continues, and so does my gratitude towards my own parents and the sacrifices they made to ensure the successes that I enjoy today. In this evolution I also gain increasing confidence in my abilities as a parent, and I wryly think back to pre-Nuha days, which I spent reading parenting books and browsing websites, all in the quest to try to be a good father. Although I stopped that practice a long time ago, Saeeda has not, and occasionally encourages me to read postings by hyperactive mothers who worry about the smallest development needs of their precocious babies. One mother posts on her blog about how important it is that we position babies facing us while they lie in their strollers - studies show they develop faster when they are able to observe a parent’s facial expressions. Or my favorite, this same mother encourages parents to point out landmarks in descriptive, adult language to our babies when we walk around with them: “Look baby, a big, black building. Look there – a red stop sign. A yellow bus moving by.” And so on. Meanwhile my drooly baby is more interested in her pacifier than anything. I imagine showing this "advice" to those of my parent's generation, and imagine how long it would take before they laugh me out of the room.

Nope, Nuha is turning one, and so far I think we’ve done a decent job. We’re watching her grow, and in her own way, she’s making us grow as well. I’m excited about the years ahead and the adventures they promise to bring. More immediately, I'm excited about tonight, when I get to take care of the baby while my wife runs errands. I sense another opportunity to let Nuha "air herself out” ...

How I lost faith in humanity … and my short term memory

It took me 10 months after the birth of my daughter, but I’ve finally managed to return to a weekly workout regimen, albeit to a limited extent. There’s a great gym at work, which is small but functional, and one which I try to visit twice a week during my lunch break. This gym has free weights, treadmills, machines, showers – the works. So to take advantage of this facility, and free up time in the evenings, I’ve taken to bringing gym clothes, a towel, and miscellaneous toiletries with me in the mornings. Except that I keep forgetting the gym bag that contains these items on the train into work.

Apparently there is a Lost and Found process in place to recover items left behind by passengers, but I have yet to see it work. First, you have to rely on the honesty of fellow passengers and the train conductors to not make off with whatever you’ve left behind. Second, you have to wait a day before misplaced items are collected together and sent back to downtown Chicago for storage in the Lost and Found office. Finally, you have to navigate the world’s most arcane office hours to contact someone at this office to figure out if your article has been located. Below is a picture of the hours that the Lost and Found office is actually open:

Of interest is the fact that the office is not open before 8am and after 5pm, and is not open on weekends or holidays. 90% of the passengers on the train have to be office workers, some of whom are leaving the city to get to far-flung suburbs for work (i.e., yours truly). How we are expected to make it back to the city before the office closes is beyond me, unless I have the gall to walk into my boss’s office and say I need to leave work over an hour early because I need to find a missing gym bag.

Of even greater interest is the set of random times that the office remains closed: 9am- 9:30am, 11am-11:15am, 1pm-2pm, and then 3:15-3:55pm. What the hell are these? Bathroom breaks? Union mandated smoking breaks? Why do you randomly need a 30 minute break, then a 15 minute break, then an hour break, and then, bizarrely, a 40 minute break at the end of the day? WTF?! Every time I’m between meetings at work, or have 5 minutes to myself, I’ll reach for the phone to see if I can call the Lost and Found office … until I realize that the office is not open.

The rare instances where I’ve gotten through to someone, I’ve been told that nothing matching my description has showed up. Why? Who wants my old gym clothes? This is the second time I’ve lost a gym bag – the first time I lost the shoes in which I ran the Chicago marathon. They were old, but nice. The second time I lost the second pair of shoes I bought to replace the first pair. These were not old at all, and were nice. Who looks inside a gym bag and says, “Cool – size 12 ½ Mizuno shoes for medium pronators with a large toe box. Just what I needed!” And both times the gym bag was nice – the second time it happened to be a bag I had received as part of a recognition award at IBM. Why people, why?! Why are you walking away with my stuff and not turning it in? I’d understand if I’d misplaced an iPhone. I’d know better than to expect a return of something like that. But gym bags with sweaty clothes and used shoes? Really?

I’m losing faith in my short term memory, and fast. But I’m losing faith in humanity faster. Give me back my gym clothes!

Soft hands

I suffer from a frustrating inability to get my hair cut regularly. My work hours and long commute mean that most places are closed by the time I get home on weekdays, and weekends are so busy that I just try to find the closest, cheapest hair salon to where I’m running errands. So it was a pleasant surprise to receive a coupon in the mail for Halo for Men, billed as a “hip and relaxing environment where men could comfortably enjoy salon and spa services.” The salon and spa services weren’t what I cared for - it was the fact that they had just opened a location in the very train station that I use daily, and that this location offered hours that worked for me.

The coupon itself was for a set of services called “the Man”, which included a “Signature Haircut & style, Shampoo & conditioning treatment, Scalp massage, Paraffin hand wax, Hand massage, Hot towel & facial toner, Cleanup shampoo after the man, Free touch-up within two weeks of previous appointment, and Complimentary beverage.” [the crazy capitalization is all theirs]. Although I needed only the haircut, the coupon was $25 for $45 worth of services. Nice.

However, this statement on their website troubled me – the salon was designed to be a “sophisticated yet modest environment where men could go to comfortably enjoy luxurious salon services without worrying about feeling out of place or being gawked at, like at other female-dominated salons and spas." Not sure about you men out there, but the only time I get gawked at when I go get a haircut is when I’ve gone two months without trimming things, and I look like a Chia Pet Head on steroids. And how could you be “manly” in a salon? I had trouble reconciling this – I pictured a place where macho men laughed loudly at lewd jokes and downed beverages in one gulp and watched an Ultimate Fighting Championship match on flat screen TVs, while … getting pedicures?

But I made my appointment anyway and showed up at the place last Friday. I received a friendly greeting and was ushered inside to a room with an industrial design. There was music playing over speakers – music that had a lot of guitar riffs in it, so I figured that made it manly. And there were flat screen TVs on every wall, but instead of playing Ultimate Fighting, they were playing “Goodwill Hunting.” Hmm, I thought. This isn’t too bad.

I was offered a beverage, and chose a simple bottle of water. Appropriately hydrated, I was led over to a small tub at waist level, asked to roll up my sleeves and then dip my hands in hot paraffin. “Umm, what is this for?” I asked meekly. “To moisturize and soften up your hands,” came the answer. Duh.

Gloves were quickly slipped on, and with the paraffin slowly congealing, I was led into my chair. On the TV, Matt Damon was solving crazy math equations while MIT professors looked on in awe. Suddenly, my vision was obscured – a hot towel had appeared out of nowhere and was firmly wrapped around my face. I started to resist, but lost my resolve as the warmth from the scented towel caused my facial muscles to relax. Mmm, this is good, I thought.

Gloves were taken off my hands, and the paraffin peeled away. Are my hands softer? I wondered. I had no time to answer, because a hand massage immediately ensued. Mmm. This is REALLY good. 
With the massage done, the towel off my face, and Matt Damon on screen again, the haircut finally commenced.

“How much hair would you like taken off?”

I was confused. The people at Supercuts usually just slapped a guard onto a clipper and buzzed the same amount off from all over my head.
My hairdresser sighed knowingly, and proceeded to go to work. Snips here, there, everywhere. Locks of hair fell from my head in small bunches. Ben Affleck and Matt Damon got into an argument. Then my hairdresser paused.

“Who cuts your hair?” she asked.
I had no answer. Lots of people cut my hair. A different person cut my hair each time. I believed in presenting an equal opportunity head of hair for everyone.

“They’ve got your hair at all different lengths,” she said when I didn’t respond.

Huh, I thought. Interesting.
And so it went. She would ask me a question, or make a statement, and I would have no answer for her, and she would go about fixing things. And fix she did, because by the time we were done, I looked good. That’s right, I looked Matt Damon good. And I felt bad-ass. Jason Bourne bad-ass. Because my hair looked good and my hands were soft and my facial muscles were all relaxed.

I walked out of Halo for Men thinking that I would have to find a way in my budget to make this happen again soon. The train station was crowded, it being Friday, but I walked confidently through, daring anyone to get in my way or threaten me in any way. Because with my new haircut I had gained the ability to pull Jason Bourne moves on my assailants and leave them broken on the floor.

And as they lay there defeated they would think, “Damn that guy kicked my ass. But he had the softest hands…”

Hello? God? Could you please induce Chicago?

It’s the end of April – May starts this week – and I’m still walking around with my poofy North Face jacket on. I still lean into the 30mph wind gusts and try to ignore the biting 40 degree weather, telling myself that I’ve made it through worse weather in this city. I tell myself that I only need to hang on for another few days, and surely things will warm up then. Except that I’ve been telling myself this for the last month – a month where the rest of the world long ago decided to usher in Spring. While elsewhere flowers bloom, birds sing, babies laugh, and people sing Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” to each other – in Chicago I still wipe away my tears of frustration and soldier on.

What makes things worse is Chicago’s schizophrenic insistence on sprinkling balmy warm days between the regular arctic blasts. This continues until one day it will be summer and 90 degrees out. Chicago plays sick mind games with its population, and for the longest time I struggled to find the proper analogy for what the city goes through, until it finally hit me – every year Chicago gets pregnant in September, and tries to give birth to Summer nine months later.

Think about it – the city starts out happy and giddy with possibilities in September. The first trimester is not too bad – sure there is morning sickness here and there as the mercury drops occasionally, but there’s the bigger picture to keep in mind. The second trimester the hormones go out of whack, and things get dicey. You can’t do anything to please the city, and even if you take one wrong step you get hit with freezing -20 weather, with snowstorms that make you wonder about this whole global warming nonsense. You eventually round the corner into the third trimester, which is when you begin praying for the pregnancy to conclude. This is the most frustrating part, especially the last few weeks.

Here is where the false contractions begin. One day it’ll be cold and blustery, and then suddenly it’ll be 65 and perfect. Is this it? Do you rush to pack away your winter clothes and bust out the flip-flops? Haha – no. Just kidding. False contraction – the next day it’s back to 30 degrees and depressing. Then the contractions start coming closer and closer together – two warm days here and there separated by only four or five cold ones. But your patience is being tested, because it is May now, and you really, really want to feel the sun on your face.

Now the contractions are close enough together that Chicago has to be taken to the hospital, where you as the useless significant other wait around, twiddling your thumbs, leafing through old magazines and drinking bad coffee from the cafeteria. And you wait. And wait. And then suddenly it begins. The city is ready to give birth! You rush to its side and hold its hand and ice its brow while it flings obscenities at you that make you blush. “C’mon honey, c’mon, you can do it” you gently encourage.

Suddenly Summer starts to crown, and the city tries to push, and you hold your breath in anticipation, and time slows down. And then it’s there – with a wet plop Summer arrives into the world. Temperatures immediately soar into the 90s, you are dazed and confused, but weirdly happy. You’re a new person now, with new responsibilities. You have to wear lighter clothes now, and purchase things like running shoes and bikes and roller blades. You wonder what life was like before Summer, but can’t quite remember, and anyway you don’t really care anymore. The city has blessed you with warm weather, and that’s all that matters.

Personally, I’d rather we just induce pregnancy or have a C-section every year and get Summer here on time in April – so what if Chicago thinks that’ll result in a premature baby? I don’t care. It saves me from the agonizing depression that I’m currently going through. Unfortunately I know I’m not in control. It’ll be warm when Chicago is ready to let it be warm. Until then, I’ll have to suck it up, and continue to wear my poofy North Face jacket.

Guilty pleasures

My work productivity has been creeping up during business hours. Whether this is because my nascent coffee habit is turning me into twitchy yet efficient worker bee, or whether I’ve reduced the frequency with which I browse www.cakewrecks.com, I don’t know. But I’m happy with this development, especially since it means that I have less work to do over the weekend, and can actually tackle those pesky projects that have been sitting on my to-do list, collecting the proverbial dust.

This weekend’s project entailed taking my calcifying CD collection and ripping the songs onto my computer's hard-drive so that, you know, I too could act like today’s cool youth and listen to music on something called an “i-Pod” (you should check these devices out, seriously). My ulterior motive, however, was to do away with damning evidence that I have no taste in music – it’s easier for me to secretly store my Michael Bolton collection as mp3s in a folder cryptically titled “Bichael Molton”, than to have my daughter accidentally discover the “Best Of” collection years from now, and go crying to her mother because she doesn’t understand why daddy is this way.

Along the ripping process I discovered that at one time I enjoyed listening to all things Jackson (several Michael CD’s, as well as multiple Janet compilations), that at one time I had an affinity for Celtic music (go ahead, laugh – I’m proud of being the only Pakistani who enjoys jamming to a rollicking Irish bagpipe number), and that I have a fetish for Backstreet Boys songs. There, I said it. It feels good to let that out. I can finally move on now.

And don’t you dare judge me. I know you have secret song crushes too, even though you hate to admit it. Act nonchalant if you want. Flaunt your love for indy music and that obscure band from Turkey that no one else has heard, as evidence that you’re a music cognoscenti. But at the end of the day, I *know* that when you’re cruising down the highway with no one in the car, you’ll roll up the windows and secretly blast “Quit Playing Games With My Heart”. And that you’ll sing along. Loudly. And cry, because you don’t want others to play games with your heart.

Anecdotally I know this to be true. But I obtained evidence this weekend as well. I was ripping songs from a mix collection that a special someone gave to me while I was a freshman in college [special someone shall remain unnamed but this was well before I met my wife, my true special someone (I love you honey!)], when Saeeda brought Nuha into the room and started playing with the baby. It just so happened that I was burning a Backstreet Boys song from this CD at the time, and I couldn’t mute the computer volume fast enough. I don’t know why, but I felt flustered and dirty almost, like I was browsing an adult website and was trying to Alt-Tab my way out of the screen or something. Still, a 3 second clip managed to escape before I could mute the speaker. That’s when Saeeda turned around and casually asked why I was listening to “As Long as You Love Me.” From the Backstreet Boys.

Let me repeat – she identified the song from a three second clip. I’m not the only one people …

Making It

Yesterday I had to go to one of our team members to give him a heads up on a new project that was coming down the pipe, and which would need a pretty quick turnaround on his part. This team member has been with Abbott for a lot longer than I have, and his grasp of things is impressive. So we started our conversation and he began to ask me specific questions. I started merrily answering away, until he suddenly interrupted me.

"Wait ... hold on Faisal. You ... actually ... sound like you know what you're talking about dude!"

And I paused. Not because I was offended, but because he was right. I DID know what I was talking about. Heck yeah! It only took me eight months in my current rotation to get to this point, but I had made it!

See, I prescribe to the Infinite Monkey Theorem - if you give a monkey sitting at a keyboard enough time, it will eventually type out the complete works of William Shakespeare. And I sometimes think of myself as that monkey - stringing together random jargon endlessly in the hopes that one day it will make sense to someone. And today it did.

Now, if only I can game the system so that this guy writes my performance review, I'll be set.

I'll beat you silly .. when I'm 60

Last week we concluded play in our Abbott basketball league. My team, playing in the competitive division, came in a respectable 3rd, although I feel that we did not live up to our potential. There was plenty of blame to go around, including some for yours truly - ever since the marathon last October, I've engaged in activity that can very loosely be defined as "exercise" - and even that I've only managed to do once a week. Although the almost daily cleaning out my daughter's diaper pail should count - the little thing is a champion poop generator, and carrying that pail to and from my building's trash chute would leave anyone winded.

What disappointed me most about my play, however, was my inability to keep up with the younger whippersnappers on the court. I'd be guarding someone who would blow by me with ease, and I'd be left blaming my aging knees. Or I'd go up for a jump shot only to have my shot rejected into the bleachers. My coping mechanism focused on the fact that I was more than 10 years older than some of the competition, and that I was actually pretty physically fit for my age. In fact, were I to face my opponents when they were older - say we were both in our 60s - I'd kick their @$$. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but it helped justify why I kept tripping over myself.

Still, I need to figure out an exercise routine, and fast. And cleaning out my daughter's diaper pail does not count.

Stewart vs. Cramer

I wanted to wait a few days before putting pen to paper on the recently concluded Mad Money/The Daily Show Battle Royale. There are plenty of opinions floating around, and I wanted to add mine to the mix, but only after spending a few days digesting last Thursday’s events.

Basically, I think that the Cramer interview was one of Jon Stewart's best ever. Which is funny because Stewart has had dignitaries, celebrities, and luminaries on his show before, and has handled controversial topics galore. But this time he clearly chose to dispense with the gloves, and to aggressively pursue his guest at all cost.

I don’t know why Cramer chose his approach of almost complete subservience. I was expecting to see some of the vigor he displays on Mad Money or, at the very least, the aggressive recitation of a couple of talking points CNBC had to have provided him with. But in retrospect, it was probably smart on Cramer’s part to avoid from being confrontational. How would he have been able to remain aggressive in the face of video clips of him touting hedge fund strategies that were at best shady, if not borderline illegal? How would he have been able to remain aggressive when trying to defend the idolizing of CEOs by his network?

Throughout the interview, the passion in Stewart’s voice was obvious, and his language and delivery could not have been more potent. I also can’t say enough about the research and writing teams that support Stewart’s interview prep – they have got to be one of the best in the business.

Stewart’s performance was eerily reminiscent of his takedown of bow-tie wearing Tucker Carlson on Crossfire several years ago. Given the result of that confrontation (Crossfire canceled, Tucker Carlson subsequently condemned to bouncing around), and now this Cramer interview, the powers that be can no longer afford to underestimate TDS. Jon Stewart has become the unofficial outlet of frustrated masses that have no special interest group to represent them, no talking head to spin their points, and no lobbyist to pressure Congress. Don’t get me wrong – there is an undoubted leftward lean to the politics of TDS, and there are differences that I have with Stewart. But he invariably presents a reasoned, logical, and impassioned argument of the type that you just don’t see used anymore.

So what will be the likely outcome of this episode? I don’t think CNBC can tout “In Cramer We Trust” as the show’s tagline anymore. Doing so would be crass and disingenuous. Cramer’s ratings are likely to suffer – the spat with Stewart and the subsequent outcome has been covered by multiple media outlets, and has had to have reached his viewership.

Unfortunately, unless the network loses advertisers en masse, I don’t expect to see changes to the channel itself. But I’m positive GE executives were watching to see what would happen during the TDS interview, and are now contemplating making some modifications, however superficial. Is it too much to ask that CNBC reporters actually fulfill their responsibility to the public and do hard-core investigative reporting that ensures we don’t get blindsided with a financial catastrophe next time? Probably. The existing culture is too far ingrained to change overnight. But I do believe that there are good people working at CNBC, and I hope their voices are going to be heard a little more clearly now. The tomfoolery of “Fast Money”, the coddling of CEOs and the bombast of Mad Money has got to tone itself down, if not stop altogether. Because, at the end of the day, what is happening around us, as Stewart so clearly stated, is not a f*#$&^% joke.

The reason the economy is where it is today – me

Last week I got to be a guinea pig. Abbott’s continuing education people wanted to test the value of a new financial modeling class they were considering rolling out to the company. Before they did so, however, they wanted to offer a pilot course for approved individuals to attend for free – as long as the participants offered feedback at the end. My team was one of the ones approached, and being the junior-most member I was dutifully offered up as sacrifice. When I read the description for this class I was quite skeptical. Pshaw! I thought. I have an MBA from the University of Chicago, and I eat P&L statements for breakfast in my current role. What could I possibly learn from this experience?

But I showed up dutifully at the start of this two-day class anyway. The morning of the first day, I learned that we would be breaking up into teams of three to four individuals, and would be running a company for the remainder of the class. The company would be a manufacturing concern, where we would have to make decisions such as how much raw material to buy, how much to produce, what price to set for our goods, what loans to take, and how to manage our expenses. We would get to observe our company for the course of a “year” – at the end of each “month” we would see what happened in the market the instructors created, and have the opportunity to adjust each of the variables above. The emphasis throughout the course would be on managing the financials of the company by monitoring cash flow, the balance sheet, and the income statement, with the goal of learning what made a company financially sound. Pshaw! I thought (again). I got this.

Except that I didn’t. My team, egged on by yours truly, made a couple of bad decisions, caught a few unlucky breaks, and ended up as a marginal takeover target by the end of the game. We did so poorly that we barely had anything of value left at the end, but I took solace in the fact that we weren’t alone. Inevitably, those teams that had individuals with financial backgrounds performed poorly. Instead, the team that won consisted of one person from Abbott’s foodservices division (the people in charge of stocking Abbott’s employee cafeterias), someone from Abbott’s library, and someone from Abbott’s technology arm (the IT folks).

While I spent the game acting out my investment banker fantasy (“Guys, let’s borrow up to our eyeballs and get all the loans we can. This is called ‘leveraging’ in the financial world. What good is it to own a building when it doesn’t do anything for you? Better to sell it, then rent it back, and use the cash from the sale instead.”), and while a fellow financial wizard at a neighboring table urged his team to price their product absurdly low (“Let’s capture market share and crowd out the competition – those suckers won’t be able to compete at these low prices and will go out of business”), the winning team was employing a slightly different strategy. For them, it didn’t make sense to take out large loans, or sell their buildings and land. Instead they borrowed only what they could comfortably repay. Neither did they horse around with pricing too much – they set a decent price that earned them an honest profit, and they reinvested that profit back into the company.

Around halfway through the game it became clear that my team wouldn’t be able to make its debt payments. On the other side of the room it struck the other financial geniuses that they had priced their products so low that they were selling at a loss so bad that they weren’t even covering their expenses. Meanwhile, the librarian, foodservice manager, and tech lady kept chugging along. The humiliation was complete by the end of the game, when each team got to walk around the room and see how the other teams had played the simulation. “Why would you take a loan that you couldn’t repay?” someone would ask. “Why would you sell all your assets?” I had no answer for either question.

I left that two-day seminar happy that I had learned more about financial statements than I could have imagined. Abstract numbers on a sheet weren’t so abstract anymore, and the interconnectedness of the various statements that measured the health of a business became a little less arcane for me, the snooty MBA graduate. But as I packed my things and left class to go home that last day, a depressing thought came to me. I realized, in a flash of distressing brilliance, that it was because of idiots like me that we found ourselves in the economic mess we see now. Some overly clever bankers got together and thought they could game the system, except that the system bit back hard. But as soon as I had this epiphany, I also understood the way we could make sure that this would never happen again: when the dust settles on this economic scandal, and all guilty financial whiz-kids have been identified, they should be stripped naked one by one, taken out back, and slapped silly by librarians, foodservice managers, and tech ladies.

How to write a consumer complaint

I've found my inspiration for any future customer complaint that I ever write. The letter below was written by a Virgin airlines passenger at the conclusion of his flight. You have to check the link to see the pictures that he refers to in his beautiful prose. Enjoy!

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/travelnews/4344890/Virgin-the-worlds-best-passenger-complaint-letter.html

Dear Mr Branson

REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008

I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.

Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.

Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, above].

I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?

You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in: [see image 2, above].

I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.

I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.

Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, above].

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.

Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.

By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation: [see image 4, above].

It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.

I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.

Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [see image 5, above].

I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel: [see image 6, above].

Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.

My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [see image 7, above].

Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.

Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.

So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.

As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.

Yours Sincererly

XXXX

Paul Charles, Virgin’s Director of Corporate Communications, confirmed that Sir Richard Branson had telephoned the author of the letter and had thanked him for his “constructive if tongue-in-cheek” email. Mr Charles said that Virgin was sorry the passenger had not liked the in-flight meals which he said was “award-winning food which is very popular on our Indian routes.”

Survival of the Fittest

It is cold in Chicago. Absurdly cold. Cold enough to make your eyeballs hurt. Cold enough to make your nose hairs freeze over. This last is particularly annoying anytime you walk outside, because as your nose hairs start to freeze, they also start pulling away from your nose lining, which is excruciatingly painful. Cold like this makes you feel alive … and stupid for continuing to live in this city.

Currently adding to all this discomfort is the change in Abbott shuttle management. There are dozens of employees who take the train every day to work (myself included). Abbott very graciously provides for shuttles that pick us up once we arrive, and which drive us to the office campus. However, due to a transition with the contractor who manages these shuttles, life for the Abbott commuter has become a mess.

At a basic level, the number of seats available on these shuttles has declined because of both fewer and smaller shuttles. Which means that inevitably some people have been getting left behind at the train station in the morning. In the cold. The absurd Chicago cold. To be fair, a backup shuttle is dispatched and picks up the remaining passengers within 20 minutes, but that is still an eternity in this weather.

The change that this has affected in human behavior is classic survival of the fittest. It started out slowly at first – people would walk briskly after getting off the train so that they would be first in line at the shuttles, therefore ensuring themselves a spot. That brisk walk became a healthy jog, and last week I saw a lady break out into an all out sprint (and subsequently slip and fall on the ice).

When people realized that they were not Olympic decathletes and would be unable to win a footrace as they tried to hurdle over parked cars to get to the shuttles, they adapted again. They started sitting in train cabs that stopped at just the right spot, thereby providing them a straight line to the waiting shuttle in the parking lot. They no longer had to pretend to be Usain Bolt and break any world records – by starting at a more optimal point, they would still beat out the sprinters. But eventually all the seats on the ideal train cab started filling up early in the journey, therefore reducing the effectiveness of this strategy – no one wanted to stand for an hour. So there was more adaptation.

Passengers began to sit wherever they wanted to on the train, but started leaving their seats before the Abbott stop to queue up in front of the train doors. At first this meant leaving your seat a few minutes before the stop, but as more people caught on, people began to leave their seats earlier and earlier – from five minutes, to ten minutes, to several stops before our destination. The result? Passengers that had nothing to do with our shuttle issues, and who needed to get off earlier actually started missing their stops - our crowding at the train doors had become so bad that other passengers were unable to fight their way to the doors to leave.

I still find this fascinating – a seemingly insignificant transition in shuttle management at a specific company is having ripple effects that are making life miserable for the entire ridership of our train line. Whatever, if things continue to get worse I know I'll be ok. I have a black belt in karate and know how to incapacitate an opponent, even if that opponent is a benign market research analyst.

Only in LA

Saeeda, Nuha and I were in LA for the holidays – even though I have no affinity for Hollywood-land, I’d trade Chicago’s arctic chill for LA’s more moderate climate any day. Saeeda’s family lives here, which always gives us a place to escape to when Chicago weather makes you question your sanity in choosing that city as a home. Every time in LA however, I am confronted with something that is unique to this area, and which strengthens my desire to continue living in Chicago (Saeeda will eventually make me move to LA – I just know it).

This time around, the unique experience came during a post-Christmas trip to one of the swankiest malls in the area – the Costa Mesa mall in Orange County (“the OC” of television fame). I’d visited this mall with Saeeda before, but the current state of the economy had me curious. Would we continue to see hustle and bustle at a mall that boasted high-end designer stores for all ages? Would stores and food courts still be crowded? The answer, as it became abundantly clear while spending 30 minutes looking for a parking spot, was yes – there were crowds galore, seemingly thumbing their noses at the idea of a recession.

[As an aside, trying to find a parking spot in an LA mall is a little like going on safari in the South African savannah. The person riding shotgun acts as a tracker, sniffing out signs of people leaving the mall, then making sure that the driver stays locked on this prey as it tries to locate its own vehicle. The driver must prowl slowly, making sure not to spook the prey by revving the engine too much, but always matching the prey’s speed. It is also the driver’s responsibility to conduct outflanking maneuvers to effectively block other circling predators from staking a claim on the hunted. The thrill of finally pulling into a spot cannot be much different than sinking one’s fangs into fresh kill]

As Saeeda and I finally walked towards the mall entrance, I was struck by a beautiful site. In front of us was a serene waterfall in a large plaza flanked by dark walls of granite. The cascading water collected gently into an infinity pool that lay bounded by simple benches shaded by planted trees. The collecting water then made its journey to a single water channel that dipped and turned its way out of sight, leaving only its gentle murmuring behind. The sense of peace was palpable, as was made obvious by the number of people sitting around the reflecting pool, silently contemplating life’s meaning.

“What’s this memorial for Saeeda?” I asked. Such a monument made perfect sense for a community poignantly trying to remember fallen heroes. I could not however, think of the sad tragedy that had to have occurred in Costa Mesa that would require such a monument.

“It’s not a memorial,” replied Saeeda as we walked into the mall. “It’s for shoppers when they get tired.”

Only in LA.