Thursday, June 23, 2005

On failing to lose my virginity

It's not easy growing up to be a man. At a certain age, all women get this divine, angelic quality. As if they are the guardians of the supreme secret of immortality. At that age, young men will start collecting panties they stole from the laundry room. (I never did that.) (No really, I didn't.) At that age, even looking at a pretty woman feels like you're breaking some kind of biblical taboo. Having grown up in India, living in an all boys dormitory, I was kind of late in reaching that certain age.
At eighteen I found myself living in Uilenstede. (The infamous Amsterdam student-city.) There were fifteen of us in the flat, thirteen guys who cultivated pimples as if their faces were herbgardens, Ugly Margareth, and the gorgeous chick whose name I forgot. Many a passionate night Gorgeous Chick and I would spent in utter sexual depravity. Albeit mostly, if not all, within the limits of my overactive sexual imagination.
Gorgeous Chick brought a new boyfriend to the place every week or so. We'd chat politely with him, quietly hoping he'd die of a horrible disease. After Boyfriend left, thirteen pimplefarmers and Ugly Margareth would give Gorgeous Chick a lecture about all the things that were so completely wrong about Boyfriend, until Gorgeous Chick would mutter something to the extent of: "Crazy, I never saw that, but now that you mention it, I'd better break up with him." (Implied collective sigh of relief.)
I tried everything to impress her. But all my Three Stooges imitations, all my funny armpit sounds, all my lectures on how soft, sensitive and understanding I was, didn't seem to sort the necessary effect of her inviting me to father her an endless array of children.
One night though, there was a knock on my door. Gorgeous Chick entered: "I can't sleep. Can I talk to you for a while?"
"Sure", I said and rearranged my blankets so she couldn't see that my body was welcoming her in that very masculine way. She sat down on my bed, closer to me than she had ever been before. I firmly grasped the top of my blanket and pulled it up under my chin in an unconscious defensive gesture. She talked for half an hour and I listened, once in while interjecting a squeaky sound in the conversation. (I must have cleared my troath a hundred times, but my voice failed me.)
Finally she got a strange look on her face. Half serious, half smiling. She started drawing random figures on my blanket covered chest with her finger and said: "You know, I might be able to sleep if I could crawl in here next to you."

I opened my mouth to whisper sweet words of welcome. But instead of a Hollywood oneliner coming out, to my utter shock I heard myself say: "I don't think that is such a good idea." (In a really annoying high-pitched voice.)

I hate me. This is a shame I will always have to carry with me. I wish now to formally apololgise to every man on the planet for betraying our gender in such a horrible way.

It will never ever happen again.

Promise.

Nothing to proof

For those ladies (and perchance gentlemen), who are wondering: I drive a really small car.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Kill your own meat dammit

When I was small, we had a hughe backyard, with many fruittrees, flowerbeds, vegetables and herbs, and of course our chicken pen. There was always an ample supply of fresh fruit, vegetables, eggs and poultry. In our humble backyard farm, I grew up at one with the land and its gifts.
Slaughtering the chickens was no different from harvesting the cherries or the cabbage. It was a chore, not an emotional drama.
It still surprises me that whenever the subject of slaughtering animals pops up in conversation, (and be sure, slaughter is the kind of subject that pops up when you converse with me), people react in the strangest way. Men will often stare in the distance, with a quiet determined look. Most women and boys, (even the 56 year old boys), will react as if you just proposed to send their kid brother to Neverland for the summer.
A 20 year old friend of mine even refused to carry a fresh chicken from my car to the kitchen, claiming it was "Ew".
"Kid, where the fuck do you think meat comes from?"
"Duh! From the supermarket!"
And then there are the accusations. Especially women will give me the kind of look that says: "You went to the graveyard last night, dug up my mother and skullfucked her?", when I tell them about the chickens. (sidenote: These are mostly the same women that claim that islam is the religion of peace and Bush is the evilistest meany in the whole wide world.) Often the implied but silent "Murderer!" will still reverberate through the restaurant as my date stuffs her face with another chickenleg.
It sort of reminds me of the appeaseniks violently demonstrating their pascifism while at the same time enjoying all the benefits of a free society that our millitary guards. Like my Dutch teacher said in highschool a week before I pissed in his coffee: "The Americans were just as bad as the Germans in WWII."

In a perfect society, people would be obliged to kill their own meat. Make it compulsory for them to come to the slaughterhouse once a year. Make them kill 100 chickens, two cows and five pigs. If I were the Grand Commander of the world, (which is not such a far-fetched thought, considering recent developments.), this would be my first standing order.

If you can't kill your own meat, you have no bussiness being a carnivore.
(Fucking vegetarian!)

Sunday, June 19, 2005

In defence of Dirt

When first I went to India, I was 16 years old, rosey-cheecked and chubby. I was sent to a tailor for my new schooluniform. The uniforms, when I finally got them, didn't quite fit me, because I had lost 13 kg between the tailor taking my measurements and me receiving them.
The shits. The Delhi Belly. The Bombay Bongo. The Paki Poo. Whatever went into my mouth made it to my ass within the hour. Hot boiling and wet.
In my youth, my parents made me shower when I was dirty, and I can remember my mothers kitchen as spotlessly clean. Indians shower every day. Sometimes twice. But they will piss anywhere, spit on the floor, wear the same clothes for days, and their idea of cleaning is throwing a bucket of water on the floor and waiting for it to evaporate.
I could give a nice rant about how the Indians got it wrong.

But I wont.

The Indians are right. We got it all wrong. Indians don't get the shits. Indians can eat anything. We have to run to a doctor twice a week cause our systems have lost our innate defensive capabilities. Indians never get sick. They'd survive a fucking nuclear holocaust. They'd probably just brush the radiation out of their hair and ask what's for dinner.
We lost our resistance. I got 9 different bottles of cleaning chemicals in my house. (I counted.) Chloride, anti-bacterial soap, disinfectant toilet cleaner, anti-bacterial toilet paper, leadless paint, industrial strength floor cleaner, "mineral" water in bottles, anti-bug spray, different soap for my hands, my feet, my face, my fucking armpits, Laundry Detergents without artificial ingredients, Shampoo on the basis of fruit extracts (just smear a fucking papaya in your hair.), the list could go on and on.
We spent hours everyday carefully cleaning ourselves and our environment. No bacteria survives. We seem to be on a goddamn mission from God to make the world a cleaner place. And what the hell for?

I really love to get my feet bare and stand in a fresh pile of cow dung. The sensation of mud drying on my skin is exquisite. (And I don't need no overpriced beauty specialized for my mud.) If ever I have kids, they will be known as "those dirty little bastards".
Dirt is good. Dirt makes you strong. I love dirt.