Friday, March 18, 2005

I am just an imbecile

Okay, for the few of you that are still reading, I have to spend a little time here discussing the reason for my post earlier this week stating the obvious- "I am an a**hole!" ((there are, not surprisingly, more reasons than one, but I'm going to fixate on the most relevant one here) Some may roll their eyes and give me the big fat whatev, and oh, do I deserve it. I'd like to blame it on the Bronx, but I can't. It's my own fault- a lack of planning and the assumption going into this that I wouldn't be missed anyway, one way or another, in any direction. In other words, it's mopey a** bollocks that brought us to this point. Which reminds me of a great Sopranos quote, that I am not going to repeat since it's too early to be vile. Sort of.

But what I wanted to say is this- don't think, because of my self-absorbed jackass tendencies, that I'm not aware of what I missed. I am, and it is killing me:
  • All kinds of South Asian authors reading their work, some of it for the first time publicly. That's the kind of stuff that puts me into spells. And only in NYC & maybe DC is such a thing possible, to gather these types of luminaries into one place at one time. Yes, here, we have the occasional drop in from Arundhati Roy or Jhumpa Lahiri or Abha Dawesar, but never so many South Asian authors all together. And if you think that's not a big deal, you are even more foolish than I am. There's something vital about critical mass.
  • As if there aren't enough stars in my eyes thinking about those authors, think about the other authors, the ones I read up voraciously whenever I have a spare moment. Like-
  • Anna- take a minute and consider the "paradigm of blogginess" (TM J) that is Anna. I've never even met her but her writing is fearless- it's fierce, it's heartfelt, it's unapologetically her. She's the standard. All of that and she looks like a supermodel. Intimidated much? Yeah, you should be, but the thing about her is, it's somehow quite clear that she's not a hater. And so I missed the chance to meet another 24K girl.
  • Manish- to tell the truth, I'd have never found Sepia Mutiny or any of the blogs that I now regularly peruse were it not for the beauty of Manish's blog. Even though I know I missed out on meeting him, I know that I would have been tongue-tied and twisted, just an earthbound misfit, I. I would have been speechlessly star struck, I'm sure.
  • J- and this particularly breaks my heart. I was in LA in December for less than 24 hours and so I missed the chance to meet J then. Then I went to Houston over the holidays, not realizing that J was there and missed her that time too. And now this. And does she respond with a sigh, an eye roll, a that b*tch is crazy? No, she writes the sweetest thing on earth on her blog instead. And I am reduced to dust. There are moments of such hilarity on her blog that I've feared being branded insane for my automatic outbursts of laughter upon reading. Not to mention, television & film studies? Can you imagine the kind of coolness that is J? When my sides were not aching from cracking up at her jokes, I would have been transfixed by all the undoubtedly superb stuff she is up to.
  • And last, but not least- SJM. Don't let him fool you, yeah his blog is wicked, but this dude means well, really well. If SJM hadn't given me the swift kick in my pants that I so clearly needed, it would have taken me much longer to realize the amazing people I missed and that actually might have not been repulsed at the idea of meeting me. Not to mention, I might have had a chance to get another embarrassing story out of him.
Now, instead of wallowing about one thing, I'm wallowing about how my wallowing caused me to miss out on meeting all these amazing people. I dream of mysore masala dosas and amazing conversation. And I have only myself to blame. So. Here's the thing. I can't make it up to you, but I have this irrepressible urge to ask you for one last favor. If you send me your snailing addresses, I'd very much like to send you a little something (and to answer the questions that SJM asked- I can promise you that it's neither a bomb nor an ear). Please! I beg you! E-mail me at brimful_of_asha_45 at If you think I'm a psycho and are not so inclined, I completely understand.

Other reasons I must stop wallowing: 1) tonight I am being taken out to Gary Danko. Or, as I like to call it, Gary Swanko. It's a little over the top, and I can't understand half of what is on the menu. But sometimes, you have to get a little crazy. 2) I made a Pocky-related discovery last night, which I will attempt to show you all on Monday (Abhi, this one's for you, man). 3) it's completely counterproductive. If you're at the bottom of a hole, what good does it do to sit around describing the dirt at your feet? Grab a hold of something, and start climbing, b*tch!

p.s. The title line today comes from Tool's Sober, which I heard on the way home last night- is it weird that this song never fail to make me smile?

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