Spa? Getaway!

One more mindless, meandering musing by alatAl

My husband ‘Tags’ and I are planning a short getaway next week: he’s instructed the tour operator that we’ll be wanting lots of beach, relaxation, and luxury spa treatments for me as part of our vacation retreat. He proudly shows me the tailor-made itinerary he’s lovingly put together for us, and it all sounds absolutely fabulous until I get to the spa part.

I’m all for scented candles and music that sounds like delicate wind chimes that clink clink clink together to make wonderful restful melodies. Dim lights, the sound of waves gently lapping across soft sandy shores as the scent of vanilla and lavender wafts through the air… it’s all good.

Until it comes to the part where you have to erm… disrobe for the masseuse. I’m a prude if there ever was one. Yes I KNOW it’s their job and they’re professional and one bare body is just like the hundreds of others they work on every day. But I have issues: Or maybe I’ve had just one bad experience that’s seared itself into my mind like an overdone steak on a sizzler pan.

Our Spa: Tucked away next to our hotel on a little hill in Kandy, Sri Lanka

Take me to a spa and my mind whisks me away to that one fateful afternoon in Sri Lanka many years ago. It’ll be fun, my friend ‘Pal’ chirped, as our husbands sat sipping Bloody Marys on the beach. I reluctantly agreed, not wanting to leave the country without living the ‘complete’ experience. We walked in, Pal grinning from ear to ear, as we inspected our surroundings. It can’t be that bad, I thought, she’s done this a million times. We get taken to our tiny little holes in the wall and the experience is about to begin.
The kind Sri Lankan masseuse doesn’t even bat an eyelid as she mechanically instructs me with the inevitable: yep, down to the VERY basics please. NOOOOOOOO! “I was told I wouldn’t have to!” I retort and she smiles and says that there’s no way I can get a massage if I’m fully clothed in corduroy jeans, socks, and a full sleeved polo neck jumper.

FINE. Let’s just get this over with. “Do I at least get a towel?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes, smiles, and hands me a withered towel about the size of a paper napkin. F*ck. You MUST be kidding.

LIVE THE EXPERIENCE I tell myself as I hoist myself up on the table. NO. It was not relaxing. I was tense and uncomfortable the whole time wishing that DAMN chiming would stop. The smells of oils and candles had mingled into a cloying stench that made me ill and I just wanted out. With my eyes glued shut, I survived the trauma and was ready for phase two. Relaxing my ass.

Follow me, she says sweetly as she starts to unlock the door…”WHAAAAA???? LIKE THIS?” I ask, dripping in oil with barely a towel maintain my modesty. She rolls her eyes (again, I might add), and hands me 2 more towels. Same size. “Now Come”.

It’s too late, I need to get out, but can’t put my clothes back on cuz I’m a living oil slick, so might as well. I do the best I can (pretty well, too!) with the little I have, slip into my flip flops and flip flop my way to the door. Peep out to ensure there’s no one around, then make a mad dash to the other side of the hall. BAAAAAD MOVE. My feet are so slippery, there’s no traction on the rubber slippers…. And screeeeech, greased frightening! I teeter and swerve, holding on to my cotton serviettes for dear life, as my feet slip out of the flips and I’m flopped on the floor. Sprawled on the stone tiles, a sorry bundle of terry toweling and grease.

THANKFULLY there was no one around, and I manage to heave myself back up before the Sweet Sri Lankan walks in and instructs me to get into a wooden torture device. Or that’s what it looks like… like one of those magic boxes where your head sticks out: on the inside, they turn up the heat and your skin is supposed to infuse with herbs and other ‘goodness’ as the steam opens up your pores… Not too painful, I’m fully covered up and can enjoy this… as long as I don’t think about the hundreds of other people who have sweat in the same wooden box: bacteria must be having a field day in all that humidity. *Shudder*

Twenty minutes in and I’m informed it’s time for my herbal bath: I traipse my way into another room (adjoining this time), blissfully, on my own. It’s a tiny tub filled to the brim with thousands of leafy floating bits, and I’m supposed to FIT INTO THAT!? Yes. Apparently all the clientele are contortionists in their free time. Whatever. I just want out and the only way is to get in.

It’s finally over and dab myself dry with the Kleenex that is my towel. I emerge, hot and bothered but very, very grateful it was over.

Pal emerges fresh, glowing and man, she looks so rested! “How was it?” She beams. “Great, great!” I feign enthusiastically, and repeat the same sentiment to Tags when he asks how much fun I had. “Fantastic! Don’t know why I don’t do it more often!”

It was that very remark that has gotten me into the predicament that I’m currently in now. A spa getaway. Yes I know honesty is often the best way to go, but I don’t have the heart to break his. Who knows, maybe this time it’ll even be fun. But one thing’s for sure. I’m taking my own towels.

A Beginner’s Guide to Heavy Metal – Part I

Music is one of the strongest ways to convey or heighten one’s emotions. It is more than mere organized sounds; it is also an expression of artistry, creating and enhancing certain atmospheres and feelings for the listener. Various forms of music specialize in establishing certain moods: where dance music can create a fun partying vibe, accordion music usually causes many folks to think of chimps.

There is one musical genre that, to the uninitiated, seems to encompass one particular emotion. That genre is heavy metal. To them, heavy metal and anger are synonymous … from a ‘furrowed brow & muttered cussword’ sort of anger … to a ‘disembowelment of your boyfriend and flushing his shredded remains down a toilet’ kind of ire … depending upon the intensity of the music. But that just isn’t true! OK, it’s not entirely false either, but heavy metal isn’t just about pumping your fist and banging your head against things. It’s about wild partying, terrible hangovers, strange shaped guitars, guys with long hair, the “sign of the horns” hand gesture, and hopefully some kind of redemption buried within all the noise.

Heavy metal itself really doesn’t exist anymore; it’s more of a blanket term for oodles of subgenres that vary in soundscapes and aggression. Plenty of bands in these sub genres don’t even like to think of themselves as heavy metal nowadays. Yes, terms like ‘pretension’ and ‘elitism’ are now as common as words like ‘leather’ and “SATIN RULES!” in the metal spectrum, so the best way to find out if there’s a heavy band for you is to look at the different genres and possibly discover something appealing.

Let’s take a look:

1. Glam Metal: Glossy, catchy and polished with lyrics about fast women and…err…other fast women, glam metal took the world by storm in the mid 80s only to burn itself out by the early 90s when Seattle’s flannel brigade forced people to reconsider that lion mane coifed men with zucchinis inserted within their leopard print spandex pants were not so cool after all. Fronted by men who could tell you the pros and cons of L’Oreal versus Christian Dior, this genre still exists today, yet in a humble state. Occasionally it tries to crawl out of obscurity and into retro-relevance and mainstream awareness, but it hasn’t quite gotten there yet. Unlike most other forms of modern metal, you can actually boogie to the syncopated 4/4 beats or slowdance to the ‘power ballads’. It’s also much more fun than most other metal subgenres since the vibe is generally upbeat, yet it’s good to have a nice bottle of wine nearby in the presence of this aural experience, since you’ll be dealing with some serious cheese.
Some Band Examples: Tesla, Poison

2. Power Metal: Defined by its thunderous drums, melodic guitar solos and odes to dragons, fire, steel, and occasionally the removal of brass bras, the power metal genre is the musical equivalent of the recent film 300. Macho to the point where it doesn’t even realize how homoerotic it is, this genre typically boasts of vocalists who can actually sing, be it either the type of man who somehow misplaced his testicles somewhere in his pre-teens, or those who incorporate a gruffer but still operatic delivery, sort of like Placido Domingo with a bad case of bronchitis. This is some majestic stuff, with full orchestras sometimes adding to that ‘standing on top of a mountain and shouting to the sky with raised fists’ sense of glory. Fans of these groups are an unusually odd mixture of imposing bikers who can woof down a Burger King Double Whopper in two bites without bothering to remove the wrapper, and awkward nerds who daydream about frolicking through grassy fields with naked female elves.
Some Band Examples: Dragonforce, Manowar

3. Death Metal: The music itself is often played with brutally chunky sounding instruments with a heavy bass sound and complex rhythms played extremely fast, but of course the defining aspect of the genre is the infamous “Cookie Monster” vocals…low guttural grunting that’s often completely incoherent even with the lyric sheet right in front of you. To be honest though, if the voice of the Cookie Monster was indeed suddenly replaced by an actual death metal “singer” such as the vocalist of Immolation, this would result in a sudden global collective soiling of diapers and training pants followed by wide eyed toddlers racing towards the nearest adult leg. Subject matter often revolves around radio friendly fare such as cannibalism, mutilation and occasionally Lucifer’s minions, but the musicians themselves typically look like your neighborhood auto mechanics or tattoo artists. A fun thing to do is try and figure out the name of the death metal band on some dude’s shirt…the logos are almost indecipherable. The backs of these T-shirts usually have city names and dates beneath the words “WORLD DOMINATION TOUR”. It’s amazing how many death metal bands have apparently dominated the world each year, yet the world still somehow exists.
Some Band Examples: Immolation, Cannibal Corpse

If the above three heavy metal styles don’t seem all that appealing (which I’m going to guess is most of you readers), maybe the next batch of subgenres in the next installment might capture your fancy! The journey has just begun folks…

Stay tuned for Part II!

–demmons

Why Bother With Lars and the Real Girl?

You might wonder why anyone would review a movie that came out two years ago. My excuse is that I don’t like to watch movies as soon as they hit the theatres, the hype is a turn off (remember 300?) and I am just too lazy. Hence my tendency to watch movies a while after all the hue and cry has died down (I know, two years seems a little much). Also, I am not a huge fan of watching movies with people who do the following:

1. Exclaim incessantly when watching the film. I know it’s shocking when children see ghosts, that’s not an excuse for gasping like a goldfish.
2. Constantly ask for explanations. If you spent half as much time actually watching the film, you wouldn’t need to ask why the alien had to go home.
3. Constantly shift on their chairs. The squeaking sounds are distracting and you’re really not that cute.
4. Lean too close to me. Hello, personal space rules still apply! And because I’m a very kind person, I would strongly suggest bringing along your favourite blankie or stuffed toy – you may be the laughing stock of the evening, but at least you didn’t cry like a girl.
5. Start conversations with the characters in the movie. I’ve got four words for you: they cannot hear you. More importantly, despite what one of the more popular assumptions about democracy might lead you to believe – your opinion does NOT matter.

Anyhoo, let me get back to my movie review.

I’ve decided to go to bat for…wait for it…trumpets are blaring…Lars and the Real Girl (like you didn’t already know). This quiet little film came out in late fall 2007 and did not get the notice it deserves. To sum the film up in the worst possible way, it’s about a guy who still carries his blankie everywhere he goes and orders a blow-up doll called Bianca for a girlfriend. Creepy, sad, and pathetic is how most people would describe such a person. Maybe he is all these things, but the film is really an exploration of how isolation leads to acts of desperation.  The film opens on a wintry scene somewhere in Small-town America. The people there are all about wholesome family values, decency, and friendliness – you get the picture. Along comes Lars (Ryan Gosling doing his best sad face), clearly socially inept and disconnected from those who love him and desperately want to help him. Then again, isn’t there a fine line between trying to be helpful and being irritating?

When Lars first asks to bring his new girlfriend over for dinner, his brother and sister-in-law (the ever earnest Emily Mortimer) are overjoyed at the prospect. The scene then pans over to the living room where they sit opposite Lars and Bianca, pricelessly stunned as Lars explains that Bianca is the quiet sort. For a second, you wonder if Lars is having one on his family, but then you realize the guy clearly needs an intervention. What follows is the portrayal of an exceptionally accepting community that attempts to help Lars work his way through a rather obvious and disturbing crisis. (Seriously, where is this place?) Lars needs Bianca, much like we need to make mistakes in order to learn. You cannot help but feel sorry for a guy who experieces burning sensations on his skin whenever he comes in physical contact with others – hence the layers of clothing he always piles on. This is what comes from being lonely. Bianca is an effort to learn how to be normal – albeit a rather unconventional learning method. We’ve all been in his place (hopefully not exactly in his place), and should be able to understand that working out how to fix a problem can be as messy as the problem itself.

The film stays afloat due it’s great sense of humour. In a lesser film, you would be pelted with the requisite blow-up doll jokes. Instead, it is everyone’s attempts to humanize Bianca that is a source of laughter. At one point the church committee gathers to discuss how to deal with Lars and Bianca. They even consider whether Lars is committing fornication (gotta love that word) and conclude that as Bianca is not a real person, he is still technically safe. Their attempts to find a religiously correct solution are touching and yet hilarious: “The question is, as always, what would Jesus do?” I can’t help but wonder if this one would have stumped Jesus too.

Lars eventually figures his way through, but Bianca’s exit is not as neatly handled as I expected. Like the townsfolk we also need a little patience to get through the movie as pacing is a slight issue. And perhaps the ending is a little too pat, redemption is never that easy in real life. But isn’t it what we should be aiming for?

(Added bonus, you can watch this film with anyone – literally. It’s a relief to go through a movie without cringing in embarassment.)

-MaheenH

The phenomenon that is the Bun Kebab

a post by alatAl

It’s like nothing you’ll have ever eaten before: And unless you’ve ever eaten food from the streets of Karachi, Pakistan, you probably don’t even know what I’m going on about.

The Bun Kebab is a gastronomic delight, an ingenious yet simple culmination of ingredients that mingle together in your mouth to create the most amazing sensations from the very first bite. Here’s how to create your very own:

Ingredients:
- A big, soft luscious bun
- Slivers of dodgy onion slices (probably not even washed, for that added zing)
- Thinly sliced tomato, old enough that edges are just beginning to curl over
- Fiery hot tamarind chutney
- Yoghurt chutney, also really, really hot
- Minced beef and a variety of special, secret spices

Method:
- Take minced beef and mix with a marvelous marinade of yoghurt and a myriad spices, and leave overnight to ensure a full complete flavor
- Use bare hands (no need to wash first), to make into neat patties, dunk into beaten egg to coat, then toss onto a heated skillet and pan fry until a gorgeous golden hue
- Set aside

Next:
- Take big soft, luscious bun, cut in half with a blunt knife ensuring the edges of bread are jagged and crumbly
- Warm and ‘flatten’ on a hot, buttered pan
- Assemble into ‘sandwich’ form, with dodgy onion and wilting tomato
- Sloppily slather on really, really hot chutneys, being sure to let them drip off the edges of the bread
- Add freshly fried Kebab, and close sandwich
- Press sandwich on buttered pan to ensure a slightly ‘squashed’ consistency

Serving suggestion:
- Serve wrapped in greasy, crinkly non absorbent sheet of tracing paper, with soggy ‘masala fries’ on the side
- For the full experience, serve with a recycled bottle of *Pakola Ice cream Soda, complete with paper straw

*Pakola: The national fizzy drink of Pakistan, with its radioactive green hue, it’s undeniably the best soda in the region
**Note of caution: your mouth will already be on fire, and gulping down large quantities Pakola will not help quench your thirst at this stage. Nothing will. But man, is it worth it!

If you’ve never eaten from the streets of Karachi, then you’ll probably never know the upset stomach that inevitably follows, shortly after. But did I mention it was worth it?!

It’s just that our systems aren’t used to anything that hasn’t been clinically sanitized to the point that it leaves us COMPLETELY susceptible to even a whiff of anything outside the bubbles that we live in.

“You gotta abuse your stomach until it stops giving you attitude,” my cousin once wisely said, doubled over in pain from a particularly bad bout of the tummy bug. And she was right. You need to live life, even if it means stepping away from your comfort zone of all that is clean and sterile.

Experience your experiences! It’s become my motto ever since.

That and ‘pass the Imodium please’.

Perceived Pain vs. Referred Pain

So I go to the dentist on Monday at 7pm after work for the final set of fillings on the top two left molars. I have bad teeth. Actually, I have good looking teeth (because my mom told me), they’re just in very bad condition due to a combination of bad genes and personal negligence.

My dentist, Dr Brooks is a chirpy gentleman of average height and sardonic sense of humor. He is always smiling and maintains a pleasant disposition (I say “maintain” because a couple of times I have heard his voice harden slightly when repeating a request to his nurses. I approve – it usually happens when his instruments are deep in my mouth). He’s also very sweet. He has this trick of injecting Novocain where he gently jostles the area near the incision so you don’t feel the needle’s pin-prick. Blissfully distracting!

What happens during every visit to the dentists chair is that I tense up and am convinced that I will be mercilessly tortured and feel acute, distressing mind-boggling pain. It doesn’t happen, but after 20 plus odd years, I doubt I’ll change. Perceived pain is almost crippling, and it is a very big factor on why I don’t “regularly” go to the dentist. The last visit before I started going to Dr Brooks was 5 years ago.

What made this visit a tad bit different was the pain: this was the first time it smarted while he was working on my teeth. Usually I have an aching jaw, as a result of a gaping mouth, held open by some sort of rubber wedge – a thoroughly tiring experience. I felt pain along my lower left teeth; the dental work was being done on my upper left teeth. My hand shot up (the universal signal for “Stop This NOW!”) and the good doctor asked if I felt something cold.

Yes
Okay – more Novocain.
It was on the bottom teeth, not the top.
Oh. It must be the lower filling (side note: I have plenty of those!). We’ll try to cover it.

Back to drilling and scrapping and pulling and filing my teeth. It started to hurt within 2 seconds. My hand shot up again.

It’s the lower teeth?
Yes.
No, its being referred, its your top teeth, you need more Novocain.
Huh?
The pain from the top is being referred to the bottom it happens.
How do you know? (Yes, I can be rather curt!)
I know. It can’t be the lower teeth because there is no work being done on them.
How can you be sure.
I’m sure. And you won’t feel the needle this time because you’re still pretty numb.

He was right! I didn’t feel the needle. I didn’t feel the painful, cold sensation on my bottom teeth. It was referred pain. Real enough, regardless of location, but not acutely, distressingly mind-boggling! Hmmm…

- manals

Why I Hate Spiders…

Really, I’m not a hater. If anything, I like to think of myself as a peacenik. Hatred is such a waste of time and utterly useless as a marketable skill. Imagine trying to explain your talent for hatred at a job interview or even across the dinner table with family and friends.

However, spiders are special. They have eight legs, and that my friends, is unnatural. Critters with legs that number beyond four are strange enough (think beady-eyed praying mantis). Eight is past pushing it, it’s plain pretentious. Seriously, what are they trying to compensate for? Trust me spidies, six legs would have been just as good.

Worse yet, they always look like they’re preparing for a face-off. All that quiet waiting around on webs and dark corners. No matter how many times you sweep through an area, they’re back haunting the same spot. Some might call it persistence, I call it stalking.

And then there’s the scampering and hopping about. They do! For every move you make, there’s a little dance in counterpoint. Back and forth, this way and that. Lookit, I don’t want to play catch, I just want to kill you. So stand still and suck it up, death ain’t no big deal.

Chinese Food to go… Very, very far away

a post by alatAl

I’ve never been much of a seafood fan. As in, I’d never eaten it before and didn’t have any inclination to try.

Things changed when I travelled to Guangzhou a couple years ago, when my aversion to seafood turned rapidly into revulsion. Alas. My search for a kosher friendly meal in a city where spoken English was rare, seafood was all I had to save myself from stark raving hunger. (You can toy with the idea of weight loss through starvation for only so long).

My hosts were kind and gracious: Tiny little ladies they were, making me even more conscious of my height and erm.. broad bones. My attempts to joke about our height difference was greeted with little chuckles as they covered their lips with their tiny fingers. It was then that I decided I’d better stop as they were probably laughing at me, not with me.

We walked into one of the nicer restaurants on Yanjiang Road, where aquariums with all kinds of fish greeted me: Odd, I thought, as I gazed into a tubelit glass tank, surely they’d have more presentable aquariums on display.

We walked to our table, all set for something they called ‘hot pot’: A pungent clear broth on a stove in the centre of our table. Harmless enough I thought, as I sat down to venture into my first ever taste of seafood. Sun, the charming lady with her unshaven armpits proudly on display, (there’s some cultural reference to untamed locks under the arms being attractive in the Far East. Or Something. I’d really rather not know) quickly proceeded to the ‘salad bar’ to pick up ingredients for the soup.

Cool concept I thought as I made myself comfortable in my red plastic chair. The waiter pours me a thimble of Chinese green tea and hands me a travel pack of tissues. (Something else I was to get used to later, along with sickly sweet Coke!) The green tea is not to be drunk straight away, for those of you unaware of Cantonese Tradition: you swirl the hot drink around in your cup, throw it out and only drink from the next pour.

I’m so engrossed in swirling without spilling that I ALMOST don’t notice that the very fish that greeted me from the unearthly blue glowing tanks are actually part of our meal. THAT’S the ‘salad bar’ she went to!

Don’t panic, I tell myself, focusing even more on the yellowing liquid in my cup. It can’t be that bad!

Sun comes back, grinning from ear to ear with a plate overflowing with writhing vegetables and meats I’d never seen in my life. (I’m not much of a vegetable fan either, with the exception of French fries, there’s very little else I consume from the veggie family).

With her chopsticks she deftly empties the contents into the boiling broth with the reassurance that it was all only seafood and vegetables. I resign myself to ‘trying anything once’ as I gingerly approach the pot with my chopsticks held like a 2 year old holds a pencil. “Wait!” Sun quietly says, as she raises her chopstick wielding fingers (with mighty long fingernails too I might add). “You need this to add flavor,” she grins as she plonks a fish head into my meal that was ALMOST just palatable. Until now.

I watch in dismay as the gills sink into my soup first, and slowly, the glazed eyes go under, leaving only the open mouth to regurgitate the very fare that I was to consume.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the meal, and the rest of my stay, sipping green tea very slowly, and dipping lotus slices in my sesame sauce!