Alas, the man is not rising above the bottom tier of the Democrats, and that is like Third place, we all know the South would prefer to vote for a man, Republican and white, or a man, Republican and black, and last of all a woman or Democrat, but we thought he was a white or whitish male, and could sweep his south west states and get the north too.
But he is not breaking out of the bottom tier.
Meanwhile, at long last, the NYT is recognizing that Pakistan is (still) and always has been a Rathole of Terro.
Iraq could be settling down, the Iranis are learning to be good group players in the Caspian region, with their Caspian friends, Russia is holding it close, so even if it is still scowling at Murrica, they still are being en group someplace with mostly neutral or friendly nations, with whom America has a talking and even cordial relationship.
But Pakistan is a Rathole of Terro and already we know Bush has not been able to sweet talk Musharraf or hot hand Musharraf, becoz we all already knew that Pakistan was a rathole of terro but morons like Gordon Correra of Beeb and mad fat ass Chidanand Rajghatta of Toi made a big to do last year about how Musharraf was hot handed by Bush and now Pakistan was gonna be a real amigo player, which was always rot.
We always knew that and we had been screeching even louder since July of 2006. The stupid Times of India thought we should be ***thawing*** with Musharraf and harassed the heck out of me, I think, through some obnoxious bunch of creepy proxies or whatever and they were dreaming simple mindedly of opening a bank there, we would not even open a truck stop side show restaurant in that rat hole, we told them many times, any stupid bank they opened would get bombed and rolled in a ditch, but stupid people, you should have seen the hysteria with even Benazir's return, they coordinated their wall to wall breathless fan coverage just like Beebs and CNN, breathlessly, then the horrific and nasty bombing shook their stupid gullible asses up.
But Richardson is so disappointing, all he talks about is saying sorry to Saddam and crap like that and we want to know, whoever is the next President of America, will he or she have the courage to confront Pakistan and lead a sustained action of clearing out its ratholes.
It is a total pipedream to think Musharraf is gonna do it, he is lustful of Kashmir, which he pronounces Kaaaaaaaashmir in a lustful, groin r0lly way, as if he is rolling it over his groin and masturbating on it.
Far from making peace, they think Kaaaaaaaashmir is theirs, Baluchistan is theirs and the heck with the rightful heirs and descendants of these places.
Pakistan already ate 4 of our best provinces.
India extended from the Hindu Kush to the Himalayas and from the Mountains to the 3 seas, the Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea, thas ours too.
We extended all the way from the mountains in the top to the seas, 3 of them, and Afghanistan rolled off, even though there are Singhs and Indians who trace their inheritance there, just like Tajiks, Iranis and Hazzaras, and Talibs took it over and made Indians wear a yellow marker, in a horrific reminder and Pakistan took our 4 best provinces, sindh, punjab, bengal and they ate Baluchistan which had not only been free but their own founder, Jinnah had fought the legal battle to make it free.
They kicked out all the Hindu Sindhis after jerrymandering a rigged election of sorts, and never talk about returning our homeland places of Karachi, Sindh, Thattai and Nankana for the Hindu Sufis and Sindhis and the Sikhs.
Meanwhile it is a rathole of terro and moderate in the Pakistani army means that they still hate America, they just dont do anything about it, they still Hate America and secretly approve of all attacks on it from any side, including their best buddy China, whether on it directly or indirectly like on its markets, market share and currencies.
So this is what America faces, far from being laid back and relaxed, this election should be about how to secure Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Iran is being guided into being a global player through the Caspian.
Only Bush's hysterical Iran hating buddies among the Sauds and the Iran fearing buddies among Likudis and normal people, including liberals and moderates, has kept the so called Iran issue alive.
Will the next President of the United States have the nerve, guts and sustained vision to lead a clean up effort on Pakistan, restore Indian homelands, free Baluchistan.
That's what it is going to take, Benazir may be part of it or be too wussied out, too dependant on Mullahs or be too at risk, we cannot take the chance, we have to make plans of our own, US with Russia, the mini stans and India, have to have a sustained effort to clean up the rathole of Tewwo, free Baluchistan and give justice for indians losing their homeland.
We'll see, but right now it looks grim.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
So it is Sunday in Mumbai and I have not watched much TV, I did turn on BBC and CNN and watch what
appeared to be reports for a brief space but did not encounter any live anchor. I stopped watching DW in the mornings a few days ago, still nauseated by the hysteria and uppityness of the German consul, some ass called Hans something something Stackborg, whose driver whooshed past my sister and some pet cats in the basement on purpose.
I watched Brent Goff a few nights, but with severe trepidation.
I have also not mostly looked at newspapers in print becoz of the disgusting behavior of the looney cracked power hungry, money hungry eveil bitch who runs them, Indu Jain, whose family has cornered several apartments in this building and who tried to bully and intimidate and embarass me.
Loutish kids at the back, who have been loutish and lewd for much of last year and this year and only held back a few days in toto and kind of held back this morning are bawling Bol, Bol, Bol, like I give a fuck what they think and for the 100th time, as if it is their bidness while they are playing in the back yard to be receiving cues on what some ass with their hands in their pants is stealing off of my screen before it even gets posted for them to give me real time feedback, which I have never solicited.
How long I can continue I do not know.
My resources are dwindled, which has been the intent all along, to keep me scared and resource poor.
Well, they have succeeded.
The NYT is writing up sob stories, and in the latest some Chinese environmental guy called Wu Lihong, Joseph Kahn the writer cannot decide whether he is a peasant, or a factory salesperson, I would say educated blue-white collar from the sounds of it.
What is a peasant anyway, but I always thought rurality and farming came into it, but Kahn knows that the Lake Tai got choked with Pond Scum.
I also feel choked by Pond Scum.
On Saturdays, they hold their fire till my sister and Dad leave for the club, then they start an engineered ruckus, this has been their pattern. Yesterday, I went for my shower instead.
I told my sister loudly that they had enginneered ruckuses on several Saturdays.
In the night when she returned I went down with her into the basement to feed the cats, who have never been into the garden.
A male driver in a striped shirt came by, then Mohd Nasr, making the first of 3 pass bys, one by himself, the other carrying some steel dishes, which are iconized in these people's minds in some HOLY WAY as representative of SECURITY, but i wash whatever is in the sink, I dont care if it is steel or glass or whatever the fuck, melamine corelle, whatever gets used and needs to be washed, I wash, I dont have any iconic value to it, but you should hear the crap in the compound and from stupid people, like a few days ago, the mad lady who lives upstairs, Prabhu, and her jealousy on behalf of her moronic son Banesh, who works for Citibank in London and sucks Al Walid butt, after i had washed a few steel utensils, they loudly threw a steel plate on the ground. Sheesh, I wash what is there to be washed, but they have an iconic value to it.
So nasr mohd passed by with 2 stupid and dopey steel dishes then walked back with the steel dishes filled with some white stuff, then bahadur's wife came by looking chubby and wearing a green and white print robe and carrying a bucket. I didnt know she was bahadur the nepali gurkha cum workman's wife, I found out later when she did the blinkety blink to Tina and Tina told me who she was.
Then some short guy from the workman's group that sleeps here at night while they work (interminably) on some backyard tank in a red shirt came neanderthalishly lurching towards us and at the end, a grey car whooshed out.
Today I tried again to call my uncle who has left citibank but was told he was unavailable and he didnt answer his cell phone.
I wrote it down so I would note the day of calling and not call again too soon. I have called twice before this past year and got similar non responses.
I gather from the NYT that they are now pretending to be for the homeless, just like they wrote this massive sob story about this Wu Lihong guy who is now in a downward spiral from being ill treated and then arrested and convicted on account of his pro environmental work about Lake Taihu.
But the NYT is guilty of the same thing, they have never acknowledged me, or tried to liberate me and they feed from the same trough of people free loading off of my product, so why should I trust them.
I have no trust in them nor in their episodic spasms of pity and spiral of despair which goes nowhere.
I guess they do not want to remember that the Dems won handily in 2006, a Dem house panel led by Looney Lantos, no less, voted against Bushie crap on Turkey, Rove has departed, Gonzales has departed and who knows what the next couple of years might bring.
The kids at the back started bawling when I chastised the NYT, I correctly diagnosed them a few months, many months ago as Cokie Roberts butt kissers, the type who know the name Georgetown and aspire to be the pets of the Georgetown matrons and if it meant being disgusting and loutish with a fat lady who has returned to sleep on her family couch, having been run off and evicted by creepy females and a loutish agent in Shreveport, why they would be only too happy to be loutish and keep me in line.
Many months ago, they bawled out ***From the back*** when the beatles song love, love me do was playing on my ipod, which should be playing only in my ear, but apparently it broadcasts to the entire neighborhood and I said, see that shows your mentality.
The nasty Marwaris still come down and start slamming doors if I turn over in my sleep and mobike riders, ride in twos and make a ruckus out on Peddar Road for the same great event, of me turning over in my sleep and sleeping on my tummy, which apparently gives them some kind of orgasmic stimulation which only gets relieved by their coming downstairs and repeatedly slamming car doors, or riding up and down Peddar Road, trying to make a whoooosh and a rrrrrrrrrr ruckus with their cars and mobikes.
So that is why today on this Sunday I am so down, also they are careful not to make a ruckus on those Sundays where they want me to be all cheery for the Wolf Blitzer hour on CNN, but plenty other Sats and Sundays, they have enginneered a deliberate ruckus either in the Front or Back yard and last Saturday, as I explained made a whole shenanigan of it.
Bye Bye
I watched Brent Goff a few nights, but with severe trepidation.
I have also not mostly looked at newspapers in print becoz of the disgusting behavior of the looney cracked power hungry, money hungry eveil bitch who runs them, Indu Jain, whose family has cornered several apartments in this building and who tried to bully and intimidate and embarass me.
Loutish kids at the back, who have been loutish and lewd for much of last year and this year and only held back a few days in toto and kind of held back this morning are bawling Bol, Bol, Bol, like I give a fuck what they think and for the 100th time, as if it is their bidness while they are playing in the back yard to be receiving cues on what some ass with their hands in their pants is stealing off of my screen before it even gets posted for them to give me real time feedback, which I have never solicited.
How long I can continue I do not know.
My resources are dwindled, which has been the intent all along, to keep me scared and resource poor.
Well, they have succeeded.
The NYT is writing up sob stories, and in the latest some Chinese environmental guy called Wu Lihong, Joseph Kahn the writer cannot decide whether he is a peasant, or a factory salesperson, I would say educated blue-white collar from the sounds of it.
What is a peasant anyway, but I always thought rurality and farming came into it, but Kahn knows that the Lake Tai got choked with Pond Scum.
I also feel choked by Pond Scum.
On Saturdays, they hold their fire till my sister and Dad leave for the club, then they start an engineered ruckus, this has been their pattern. Yesterday, I went for my shower instead.
I told my sister loudly that they had enginneered ruckuses on several Saturdays.
In the night when she returned I went down with her into the basement to feed the cats, who have never been into the garden.
A male driver in a striped shirt came by, then Mohd Nasr, making the first of 3 pass bys, one by himself, the other carrying some steel dishes, which are iconized in these people's minds in some HOLY WAY as representative of SECURITY, but i wash whatever is in the sink, I dont care if it is steel or glass or whatever the fuck, melamine corelle, whatever gets used and needs to be washed, I wash, I dont have any iconic value to it, but you should hear the crap in the compound and from stupid people, like a few days ago, the mad lady who lives upstairs, Prabhu, and her jealousy on behalf of her moronic son Banesh, who works for Citibank in London and sucks Al Walid butt, after i had washed a few steel utensils, they loudly threw a steel plate on the ground. Sheesh, I wash what is there to be washed, but they have an iconic value to it.
So nasr mohd passed by with 2 stupid and dopey steel dishes then walked back with the steel dishes filled with some white stuff, then bahadur's wife came by looking chubby and wearing a green and white print robe and carrying a bucket. I didnt know she was bahadur the nepali gurkha cum workman's wife, I found out later when she did the blinkety blink to Tina and Tina told me who she was.
Then some short guy from the workman's group that sleeps here at night while they work (interminably) on some backyard tank in a red shirt came neanderthalishly lurching towards us and at the end, a grey car whooshed out.
Today I tried again to call my uncle who has left citibank but was told he was unavailable and he didnt answer his cell phone.
I wrote it down so I would note the day of calling and not call again too soon. I have called twice before this past year and got similar non responses.
I gather from the NYT that they are now pretending to be for the homeless, just like they wrote this massive sob story about this Wu Lihong guy who is now in a downward spiral from being ill treated and then arrested and convicted on account of his pro environmental work about Lake Taihu.
But the NYT is guilty of the same thing, they have never acknowledged me, or tried to liberate me and they feed from the same trough of people free loading off of my product, so why should I trust them.
I have no trust in them nor in their episodic spasms of pity and spiral of despair which goes nowhere.
I guess they do not want to remember that the Dems won handily in 2006, a Dem house panel led by Looney Lantos, no less, voted against Bushie crap on Turkey, Rove has departed, Gonzales has departed and who knows what the next couple of years might bring.
The kids at the back started bawling when I chastised the NYT, I correctly diagnosed them a few months, many months ago as Cokie Roberts butt kissers, the type who know the name Georgetown and aspire to be the pets of the Georgetown matrons and if it meant being disgusting and loutish with a fat lady who has returned to sleep on her family couch, having been run off and evicted by creepy females and a loutish agent in Shreveport, why they would be only too happy to be loutish and keep me in line.
Many months ago, they bawled out ***From the back*** when the beatles song love, love me do was playing on my ipod, which should be playing only in my ear, but apparently it broadcasts to the entire neighborhood and I said, see that shows your mentality.
The nasty Marwaris still come down and start slamming doors if I turn over in my sleep and mobike riders, ride in twos and make a ruckus out on Peddar Road for the same great event, of me turning over in my sleep and sleeping on my tummy, which apparently gives them some kind of orgasmic stimulation which only gets relieved by their coming downstairs and repeatedly slamming car doors, or riding up and down Peddar Road, trying to make a whoooosh and a rrrrrrrrrr ruckus with their cars and mobikes.
So that is why today on this Sunday I am so down, also they are careful not to make a ruckus on those Sundays where they want me to be all cheery for the Wolf Blitzer hour on CNN, but plenty other Sats and Sundays, they have enginneered a deliberate ruckus either in the Front or Back yard and last Saturday, as I explained made a whole shenanigan of it.
Bye Bye
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
My poor cat suffered enormously during their hysterical drilling and banging and there was not much we could do.
Later in the year, when it was clear Bush had been crushed in the election, a fact the Press sought to conceal in many ways, minimizing the massive Dem victory, the train stopping effect it had on Rove's boastfulness about a future of 3 decades of uninterrupted Republicanism, they escalated their attacks on my cat, making loud and disruptive noises, with horns, firecrackers and dropped steel girders hysterically every time the cat reached for food and water and more devastatingly when he climbed into his litter boxes to evacuate.
Max Foster on CNN implied all the abusive behavior was intended to imply that ***the press was ready to come out*** I felt a surge of revulsion and disgust at this simplistic explanation.
The building louts had also taken to bawling Aadmi ko bulao, Aadmi ko bulao, whatever the heck that means.
One day before my poor cat died, he had totally gone off all the foods we had at hand, including 2 brands we hastily acquired through help from my cousin and her driver.
We thought about where to obtain little dainties like salmon and sardines to tempt him into resuming his feeds, and finally went to the club. Some little shrieker is shrieking downstairs and a few sentences ago, there was intrusive car door banging. The kids at the back are still making what I believe are punctuative sounds, but are less hysterical and ferocious than they have been for much of the past 18 months.
Others also implied that assaults on my cat were a combination of friendly as well as hostile fire. But it disgusted me no end.
The entire gesture of a press person showing they are ready to get out of their chairs disgusts me, and Melinda Crane had done it and I got very angry.
I still dont know why their getting out of their chair means violent disruption and disgusting noises to me.
I had gone to the club with my Dad to get some dainties for my cat and either Darshini David or a clone of hers was apparently there.
I did not notice them at the time and even later am not clear what the heck was supposed to happen.
They have gone back to their punctuative rhythmic banging and hysterical noises at various activities.
Yesterday the louts showed up to point their paunches north, then to hold their arms behind their head, then to hold their nose, and when I mocked them under my breath, to show up and stick their ugly hands deep into their ugly buttocks.
On Saturday, when my Dad and sister went to the club as they do mostly each week, I was preparing for a nice calm evening in front of the TV, but apparently the louts and the building security had other plans.
They made a noisy pass with the doorbell, which thankfully, I did not open but called out who is it, and someone with an insulting tone said is it flat no 3, and when I said no, said cheekily SORRY.
This kind of proxy sorry of calling up or ringing the doorbell and pretending it is an error, or stupid people doing the arm fold crap is even more disgusting and creepy than the obnoxious behavior to start with.
A few minutes later the security guard Mohd Nasr started calling Ma ji, Ma Ji, as if after 18 months of abuse, he had suddenly developed a filial relationship and I realized this was to be another disruptive evening and lost it, I had my period and was sick of their disgusting intrusions all day. I called out without going to the window, Shut up, Shut up.
Later when I looked out the window, a greyish SUV was waiting with a moustached man staring up insolently. I have had many disgusting encounters with people with facial hair believing it entitles them to disgusting and obnoxious behavior. As I looked out I said, you have something for me, go on and bring it up and said bring me a check of ***50 lakhs***
A young pair of jean clad legs opened the back door but did not come out, then closed it again and the moustached man shut the door.
Later that evening on DW, Ben Fajzullin turned his head to the side and his partner, either Peter Craven or Terry Martin looked shook up and Stephan Kloss on the radio, who i couldnt see, but reporting from Pakistan also took a sharp intake of breath.
I dont know what all this resumption of banging means, a car door just banged, but the future looks very bleak, if people feel obligated to be tied to obnoxiousness and violent disruptive behavior.
That's all I can say, I dont have a clue what is ostensibly required, to me it is assaultive and violently intrusive and disruptive.
That's all
Max Foster on CNN implied all the abusive behavior was intended to imply that ***the press was ready to come out*** I felt a surge of revulsion and disgust at this simplistic explanation.
The building louts had also taken to bawling Aadmi ko bulao, Aadmi ko bulao, whatever the heck that means.
One day before my poor cat died, he had totally gone off all the foods we had at hand, including 2 brands we hastily acquired through help from my cousin and her driver.
We thought about where to obtain little dainties like salmon and sardines to tempt him into resuming his feeds, and finally went to the club. Some little shrieker is shrieking downstairs and a few sentences ago, there was intrusive car door banging. The kids at the back are still making what I believe are punctuative sounds, but are less hysterical and ferocious than they have been for much of the past 18 months.
Others also implied that assaults on my cat were a combination of friendly as well as hostile fire. But it disgusted me no end.
The entire gesture of a press person showing they are ready to get out of their chairs disgusts me, and Melinda Crane had done it and I got very angry.
I still dont know why their getting out of their chair means violent disruption and disgusting noises to me.
I had gone to the club with my Dad to get some dainties for my cat and either Darshini David or a clone of hers was apparently there.
I did not notice them at the time and even later am not clear what the heck was supposed to happen.
They have gone back to their punctuative rhythmic banging and hysterical noises at various activities.
Yesterday the louts showed up to point their paunches north, then to hold their arms behind their head, then to hold their nose, and when I mocked them under my breath, to show up and stick their ugly hands deep into their ugly buttocks.
On Saturday, when my Dad and sister went to the club as they do mostly each week, I was preparing for a nice calm evening in front of the TV, but apparently the louts and the building security had other plans.
They made a noisy pass with the doorbell, which thankfully, I did not open but called out who is it, and someone with an insulting tone said is it flat no 3, and when I said no, said cheekily SORRY.
This kind of proxy sorry of calling up or ringing the doorbell and pretending it is an error, or stupid people doing the arm fold crap is even more disgusting and creepy than the obnoxious behavior to start with.
A few minutes later the security guard Mohd Nasr started calling Ma ji, Ma Ji, as if after 18 months of abuse, he had suddenly developed a filial relationship and I realized this was to be another disruptive evening and lost it, I had my period and was sick of their disgusting intrusions all day. I called out without going to the window, Shut up, Shut up.
Later when I looked out the window, a greyish SUV was waiting with a moustached man staring up insolently. I have had many disgusting encounters with people with facial hair believing it entitles them to disgusting and obnoxious behavior. As I looked out I said, you have something for me, go on and bring it up and said bring me a check of ***50 lakhs***
A young pair of jean clad legs opened the back door but did not come out, then closed it again and the moustached man shut the door.
Later that evening on DW, Ben Fajzullin turned his head to the side and his partner, either Peter Craven or Terry Martin looked shook up and Stephan Kloss on the radio, who i couldnt see, but reporting from Pakistan also took a sharp intake of breath.
I dont know what all this resumption of banging means, a car door just banged, but the future looks very bleak, if people feel obligated to be tied to obnoxiousness and violent disruptive behavior.
That's all I can say, I dont have a clue what is ostensibly required, to me it is assaultive and violently intrusive and disruptive.
That's all
So apparently the vicious drivers in the Building are now targetting my sister, this time the German consul's car
I only found out today when I noticed a word document on her computer, from which I work, that the German consul's driver had driven savagely close to her when she was down in the basement, where she goes to feed strays and building pets.
I had forgotten the German consul lived in this building, we had some Germans several years ago when I was young but this was the first time I realized they are still a constant presence and apparently afficionados of the same kind of disgusting creepy behavior that I have been targetted with ever since Spring of 2006, and escalating in the Fall of 2006, massively escalating after the election in which George Bush met his watershed, around which I would have about 10-15 drivers calling out lewdly and insulting, commenting on my period, making sound effects when I went to the bathroom etc.
Plus their hysterical harassment everytime I touched a key board.
My computer was also busted about 5 times, with Press people acting giggly and proud, as if they had done a fine thing.
The Indian newspaper tycoon who runs several newspapers and tv channel has been horrendous and insulting, with her family, hired goons and drivers intruding on my hearing and space, showing up at night to slam car doors if I turn over in my sleep or move my legs, which they believe is connected to my vaginal yearnings, and they feel entitled to come and slam doors apparently demanding that I talk about it.
Her drivers also frequently make harassive assaults on me with their vehicles.
The nasty woman who lives upstairs, Mrs. Prabhu, has a son who sucks Al Walid Butt in Citibank apparently in London, and had some foul Muslim workers all of Fall last year, when they kept up a nasty drilling if I lay down in the afternoon, followed me to the bathroom whichever of 3 bathrooms I selected and set up nasty sound effects while I was bathing or using the potty.
Today the banging sound restarted, in a punctuative way, apparently directed at me doing white dishes, which are the dishes we happen to have.
The creepy female Gurumurthy or something on BBC apparently has some connection with the mad Prabhu female, who despite this resumption of hostile banging last week tried to position herself as a friend and well wisher and stood ostentatiously in the archway where we can be dropped off and ostentatiously and flamboyantly pantomimed moving a girl out of the way of the car, as if all her disgusting noise assaults and her son connected with the hysterical Al Walid of citibank were all intended for my well being.
The ***girl*** she ostentatiously and pseudo solicitously moved out of the way appeared to be similar to Shobha Kewalramani, who grew up in this building and as kids was part of a group we all played in, playing volleyball at the backyard and attending various building events together. I have lost touch with her, but her balding brother Suresh and his driver made a vicious car assault on me November 14 of last year.
I had writted down posts regarding penises of General George Joulwan, Michael Gordon of the NYT and Jesse Jackson and Dick Meyer, and I had written them crouching miserably on my sofa to avoid the raucous hysterical crowd chorus that was constantly mocking and abusing me all day, I wrote it on my pda, which immediately brought shrieks and rebuttals from the hysterical security, demanding to know, Kya Hua, Kya hey, what is it, and then in defiance a day or so later, I made sure to write it on my blog MinnieB9.
But on November 14, when I was headed to the club for what I hoped would be (it wasnt) just a pleasant uneventful evening with cousins from the usa, Suresh and his driver made a narrow vicious pass with a mocking glance and ferocious glare at me, and Suresh got out and started pointing and sticking his elbows out.
Later a girl I think was his daugter, about a week later, came down in one of those printed shirts which have tiny designs scattered over them and ostentatiously called out from inside the building to the driver.
I had forgotten the German consul lived in this building, we had some Germans several years ago when I was young but this was the first time I realized they are still a constant presence and apparently afficionados of the same kind of disgusting creepy behavior that I have been targetted with ever since Spring of 2006, and escalating in the Fall of 2006, massively escalating after the election in which George Bush met his watershed, around which I would have about 10-15 drivers calling out lewdly and insulting, commenting on my period, making sound effects when I went to the bathroom etc.
Plus their hysterical harassment everytime I touched a key board.
My computer was also busted about 5 times, with Press people acting giggly and proud, as if they had done a fine thing.
The Indian newspaper tycoon who runs several newspapers and tv channel has been horrendous and insulting, with her family, hired goons and drivers intruding on my hearing and space, showing up at night to slam car doors if I turn over in my sleep or move my legs, which they believe is connected to my vaginal yearnings, and they feel entitled to come and slam doors apparently demanding that I talk about it.
Her drivers also frequently make harassive assaults on me with their vehicles.
The nasty woman who lives upstairs, Mrs. Prabhu, has a son who sucks Al Walid Butt in Citibank apparently in London, and had some foul Muslim workers all of Fall last year, when they kept up a nasty drilling if I lay down in the afternoon, followed me to the bathroom whichever of 3 bathrooms I selected and set up nasty sound effects while I was bathing or using the potty.
Today the banging sound restarted, in a punctuative way, apparently directed at me doing white dishes, which are the dishes we happen to have.
The creepy female Gurumurthy or something on BBC apparently has some connection with the mad Prabhu female, who despite this resumption of hostile banging last week tried to position herself as a friend and well wisher and stood ostentatiously in the archway where we can be dropped off and ostentatiously and flamboyantly pantomimed moving a girl out of the way of the car, as if all her disgusting noise assaults and her son connected with the hysterical Al Walid of citibank were all intended for my well being.
The ***girl*** she ostentatiously and pseudo solicitously moved out of the way appeared to be similar to Shobha Kewalramani, who grew up in this building and as kids was part of a group we all played in, playing volleyball at the backyard and attending various building events together. I have lost touch with her, but her balding brother Suresh and his driver made a vicious car assault on me November 14 of last year.
I had writted down posts regarding penises of General George Joulwan, Michael Gordon of the NYT and Jesse Jackson and Dick Meyer, and I had written them crouching miserably on my sofa to avoid the raucous hysterical crowd chorus that was constantly mocking and abusing me all day, I wrote it on my pda, which immediately brought shrieks and rebuttals from the hysterical security, demanding to know, Kya Hua, Kya hey, what is it, and then in defiance a day or so later, I made sure to write it on my blog MinnieB9.
But on November 14, when I was headed to the club for what I hoped would be (it wasnt) just a pleasant uneventful evening with cousins from the usa, Suresh and his driver made a narrow vicious pass with a mocking glance and ferocious glare at me, and Suresh got out and started pointing and sticking his elbows out.
Later a girl I think was his daugter, about a week later, came down in one of those printed shirts which have tiny designs scattered over them and ostentatiously called out from inside the building to the driver.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
so i really dont understand the entire brouhaha about Marion Jones, but I will
write about it on Minnieb9 my other blog, but I remember some guy in the Duck Tours in Boston, loudly saying ***south dakota*** as he passed me in Boston.
I burst into laughter, I didnt know if he was mocking me for making up crap to lie to hotmail, or he was encouraging me to return to the purpose of this blog.
At the time, I was on Boylston Street, having just had a dismal visit to Citibank, where my account was dwindled and much of what remained, I knew, I had already committed to paying several bills during October, so I was too scared and panicky to touch the rest.
So first I received a call on my USA cell phone from my Dad, then from a guy at the conference, who was an oncology fellow about a year after me, and who I knew from the program, and we had decided to have lunch and he being a respectable much married and childrened, orthodox Hebrew, I was fine and he called me next and said he would meet me next to the CVS on Boylston.
So when the Duck Tour guy called out South Dakota, I didnt know if he was laughing at me for making up the fairy tale info I put into the hotmail or this blog, i forget which, but I did write it down in my note book, since you need to know what fairy tales ya made up, or if he was reminding me of my quixotic plan to blog on the Presidential primaries for my imaginary friends in the Press.
So thats all for now, later I have lots to blog either here or on Minnie B9 on Mitt Romney as well the Resurgence of the Muslim Generals, which only now fucking NYT decides to tell us about, having transiently overcome their intense Iranophobia.
Ciao for now folks.
I burst into laughter, I didnt know if he was mocking me for making up crap to lie to hotmail, or he was encouraging me to return to the purpose of this blog.
At the time, I was on Boylston Street, having just had a dismal visit to Citibank, where my account was dwindled and much of what remained, I knew, I had already committed to paying several bills during October, so I was too scared and panicky to touch the rest.
So first I received a call on my USA cell phone from my Dad, then from a guy at the conference, who was an oncology fellow about a year after me, and who I knew from the program, and we had decided to have lunch and he being a respectable much married and childrened, orthodox Hebrew, I was fine and he called me next and said he would meet me next to the CVS on Boylston.
So when the Duck Tour guy called out South Dakota, I didnt know if he was laughing at me for making up the fairy tale info I put into the hotmail or this blog, i forget which, but I did write it down in my note book, since you need to know what fairy tales ya made up, or if he was reminding me of my quixotic plan to blog on the Presidential primaries for my imaginary friends in the Press.
So thats all for now, later I have lots to blog either here or on Minnie B9 on Mitt Romney as well the Resurgence of the Muslim Generals, which only now fucking NYT decides to tell us about, having transiently overcome their intense Iranophobia.
Ciao for now folks.
While I am on the topic of fleeing panic, lemme tell ya about the short aborted plan I had to visit Berlin and Deutsche Welle
way back in August or September, I have all the dates noted in my notebooks, I took to heart what I imagined to be the requests (actually teary pleadings at which he is very good) of Peter Dolle on Deutsche welle.
A shrieky girl in the backyard is shrieking, I assume Peter is a big hit in my compound, unlike Charles Hadlock who was first a convenient Pretext, every balding or fat male pretending to be him and the stupid compound staff thinking the bbc guy was him and all kinds of crap, and all the men around me holding their Penises in his name, thinking it would immediately fill me with wonder and amazement if they made a Penile reference and it has been a big effort to stay normally engaged with Penises given this constant barrage of insulting and lewd assaults and the constant hysteria of the religious talk show hosts about indriya (organs) and about a list of my real or imagined faults (lethargy, lust, anger hahahhahahahhahahahah to name but a few, all of which I seem to have acquired and nurture in magnificent proportions).
But Peter is a big hit with the compound people and so is Brent Goff and about as much, Ben Fajzullin, and I discovered, Jake Tapper and Charlie Gibson and a couple of others I have forgotten also started grinning happily when I mentioned them.
So ya see, I had booked me a room first in the Berlin Hilton and then when I discovered that they had the same Deutsche Welle deficiency as Hamburg, where I fled from in July, having a hysterical experience with the hotel staff, and local shops and hysterical crowds on most of the 7 days I stayed there, again in mostly isolation of the very DW people I had come to see, I unbooked the Hilton and booked in a posh hotel called Adlon Kempinski which had the channel DW and which had history and was posh and was next to the 4 horsies in the Brandenberg Tor, which David Eades and the Beebs had a habit of standing in front of, when they broadcast their stuff on Fifa world cup last year.
Only Terry Martin of DW usually stands in front of the horsies, but still I thought it would be a nice historic footnote and when I booked the reservation, I did not feel as cash challenged as I do now.
However within an hour or so of de booking the Hilton and booking the posh hotel, I got a nasty shock as Tina's gay boyfriend, Jim Ward called her, when he calls it is usually something way crummy and these DW people know him and seem to rely on him, which is creepy and horrendous and she came to me and threw my ipod on the ground, all of which is documented on my other blog, MinnieB9.
The maharashtrian staff at Cottage Industries in Mumbai andt at the hotel he was staying, grokked on to his creepyness pretty early when he visited here in November of 2006, at which time I was still remembering the boyish Jim who had cheerily visited me in Campbell, near San Jose and in San Diego, and not the hysterically nudgy and gesture making and bossy and judgemental person he had become.
I noticed a creepieness in him, where he hid his cell phone and came hysterically looking for it out of his bath tub in Shreveport when he visited me, prolly in 2004, and also when he raced behind me when I suddenly remembered I needed to shut down my computer which had a bad habit of tanking if you left it on too long. And he raced after me as if I was some fugitive who was trying to do a scurrilous deed, instead of a person who was walking up the stairs to her own apartment to do what she said, which was shut down the computer before it tanked during their outward trip.
There are nasty door slams in the compound, I dont know if they are a noisy slap down or a message from my imaginary friends on TV, but they are annoying as hell.
So Tina's hostility grew, and then I realized just wandering off and staying in Germany in an expensive hotel, with the quixotic notion of somehow going to DW offices and asking to have interviews with their personnel, and taking their pictures with my camera, so I could create an audio visual record was stupid as hell.
Especially since some of the German members did not seem quite as enthused and did not appreciate any abridging of my confinement as captive of the Press, (more nasty door slams) and Peter had first indicated that he expected me to go through steps to find him, then hurriedly agreed that I should come and locate them, and Brent indicated that I would find the same hysterical crowds in Berlin that I found in Hamburg.
So it did not look like a good idea at all, neither going to Berlin, nor returning home, so I cancelled the Adlon Booking and booked at a residence inn in New Rochelle, where I had once lived for a brief period, but which I thought would help me to locate a condo or apartment in White Plains or Armonk, so keeping me from having to return home.
I found however, that several people on my arriving plane still expected I could go to Berlin, since I had valid reservations on Virgin Atlantic and then British Airways, and a couple especially of the women instructors on the Cancer Medicine course, including one woman doctor, appropriately called Berliner, glared at me and indicated that they would prefer me to do my duty and go to Berlin.
Since the whole thing was a no go for the reasons above and even more of a no go, with dwindling cash, bad knees and scary chest, I quickly changed my Virgin Atlantic reservations and also truncated my trip to Oct 8.
But as I found, as even the short week progressed, I was panicky even at the thought of New Rochelle, where I had previously lived and the whole specter of locating a limo and paying for it and hobbling around trying to get on Metro North, just took the adventure and quixotic ness out of it and in my panicky state, residing on the couches in my Dad's living room, even with a potentially annoyed sister, seemed far less hazardous and scary and as I say I bolted Boston and returned home.
Some male is yelling Hey from below, I dont know for what, but it is extremely annoying and rude. Apparently my Brit and German friends think I should be sweet and docile and joyous when I get peremptory messages like this, but I had an encounter yesterday and my cumulative rage welled up and I yelled shut up, shut up at Nasr Mohd bawling at me from below, I have no idea for what, but apparently I had a visitor and I managed to shoo him off, becoz of the creepy and dysfunctional way they had of getting under my skin to let me know he was apparently there.
A shrieky girl in the backyard is shrieking, I assume Peter is a big hit in my compound, unlike Charles Hadlock who was first a convenient Pretext, every balding or fat male pretending to be him and the stupid compound staff thinking the bbc guy was him and all kinds of crap, and all the men around me holding their Penises in his name, thinking it would immediately fill me with wonder and amazement if they made a Penile reference and it has been a big effort to stay normally engaged with Penises given this constant barrage of insulting and lewd assaults and the constant hysteria of the religious talk show hosts about indriya (organs) and about a list of my real or imagined faults (lethargy, lust, anger hahahhahahahhahahahah to name but a few, all of which I seem to have acquired and nurture in magnificent proportions).
But Peter is a big hit with the compound people and so is Brent Goff and about as much, Ben Fajzullin, and I discovered, Jake Tapper and Charlie Gibson and a couple of others I have forgotten also started grinning happily when I mentioned them.
So ya see, I had booked me a room first in the Berlin Hilton and then when I discovered that they had the same Deutsche Welle deficiency as Hamburg, where I fled from in July, having a hysterical experience with the hotel staff, and local shops and hysterical crowds on most of the 7 days I stayed there, again in mostly isolation of the very DW people I had come to see, I unbooked the Hilton and booked in a posh hotel called Adlon Kempinski which had the channel DW and which had history and was posh and was next to the 4 horsies in the Brandenberg Tor, which David Eades and the Beebs had a habit of standing in front of, when they broadcast their stuff on Fifa world cup last year.
Only Terry Martin of DW usually stands in front of the horsies, but still I thought it would be a nice historic footnote and when I booked the reservation, I did not feel as cash challenged as I do now.
However within an hour or so of de booking the Hilton and booking the posh hotel, I got a nasty shock as Tina's gay boyfriend, Jim Ward called her, when he calls it is usually something way crummy and these DW people know him and seem to rely on him, which is creepy and horrendous and she came to me and threw my ipod on the ground, all of which is documented on my other blog, MinnieB9.
The maharashtrian staff at Cottage Industries in Mumbai andt at the hotel he was staying, grokked on to his creepyness pretty early when he visited here in November of 2006, at which time I was still remembering the boyish Jim who had cheerily visited me in Campbell, near San Jose and in San Diego, and not the hysterically nudgy and gesture making and bossy and judgemental person he had become.
I noticed a creepieness in him, where he hid his cell phone and came hysterically looking for it out of his bath tub in Shreveport when he visited me, prolly in 2004, and also when he raced behind me when I suddenly remembered I needed to shut down my computer which had a bad habit of tanking if you left it on too long. And he raced after me as if I was some fugitive who was trying to do a scurrilous deed, instead of a person who was walking up the stairs to her own apartment to do what she said, which was shut down the computer before it tanked during their outward trip.
There are nasty door slams in the compound, I dont know if they are a noisy slap down or a message from my imaginary friends on TV, but they are annoying as hell.
So Tina's hostility grew, and then I realized just wandering off and staying in Germany in an expensive hotel, with the quixotic notion of somehow going to DW offices and asking to have interviews with their personnel, and taking their pictures with my camera, so I could create an audio visual record was stupid as hell.
Especially since some of the German members did not seem quite as enthused and did not appreciate any abridging of my confinement as captive of the Press, (more nasty door slams) and Peter had first indicated that he expected me to go through steps to find him, then hurriedly agreed that I should come and locate them, and Brent indicated that I would find the same hysterical crowds in Berlin that I found in Hamburg.
So it did not look like a good idea at all, neither going to Berlin, nor returning home, so I cancelled the Adlon Booking and booked at a residence inn in New Rochelle, where I had once lived for a brief period, but which I thought would help me to locate a condo or apartment in White Plains or Armonk, so keeping me from having to return home.
I found however, that several people on my arriving plane still expected I could go to Berlin, since I had valid reservations on Virgin Atlantic and then British Airways, and a couple especially of the women instructors on the Cancer Medicine course, including one woman doctor, appropriately called Berliner, glared at me and indicated that they would prefer me to do my duty and go to Berlin.
Since the whole thing was a no go for the reasons above and even more of a no go, with dwindling cash, bad knees and scary chest, I quickly changed my Virgin Atlantic reservations and also truncated my trip to Oct 8.
But as I found, as even the short week progressed, I was panicky even at the thought of New Rochelle, where I had previously lived and the whole specter of locating a limo and paying for it and hobbling around trying to get on Metro North, just took the adventure and quixotic ness out of it and in my panicky state, residing on the couches in my Dad's living room, even with a potentially annoyed sister, seemed far less hazardous and scary and as I say I bolted Boston and returned home.
Some male is yelling Hey from below, I dont know for what, but it is extremely annoying and rude. Apparently my Brit and German friends think I should be sweet and docile and joyous when I get peremptory messages like this, but I had an encounter yesterday and my cumulative rage welled up and I yelled shut up, shut up at Nasr Mohd bawling at me from below, I have no idea for what, but apparently I had a visitor and I managed to shoo him off, becoz of the creepy and dysfunctional way they had of getting under my skin to let me know he was apparently there.
so it is exactly One Week, give a few hours, from last Sunday when I fled the United States of America in a state of panic and relief
I was in Boston, about to complete a conference in Cancer Medicine, but the triple threat of dwindling cash, rapidly filling up credit cards, a creepy chest and throat cold, and limiting knee pain, overcame my cheery resilience and quixotic notions of blogging the Presidential primaries for my unspecified Press and Media buddies, who have as yet to make real or meaningful contact with me, but with whom I share a rich if largely imaginary and projected relationship.
I was in the boston hotel room, at the Fairmont Copley, with incessant door slamming by the other guests and the mostly Haitian housestaff, one day of horrendous slamming by one of the managers there, weird sound effects by a couple of the other managers.
I had attempted to attend as many sessions of the Cancer Medicine as possible, having arrived the previous Sunday, from London.
The sharp cold and dryness of the airconditioning prolly done me in by the third night when I woke with horrendous throat pain. Lozenges were of no use, or only limited, but I remembered that I had a packet of 6 pack Azithral, zithromycin, and deployed it at 200 am.
After that, the panic only increased.
On my first 2 days, I was actually quite happy, I moved around Boylston St, and St James St and posted my sisters and my registration renewals with return receipts and was happy with my surroundings and the new TV friends I seemed to have acquired and re acquaintance with old friends on CNN, ESPN.
There was no BBC and deutsche welle, and that may have led to my increasing feeling of being out in outer space and limbo, although the horrendous noise and the increasing intrusions of crowds when I moved outside may have been a factor.
Knees that started aching after a mere 15 minutes of fairly slow ambulation also led to my increasing panic of lack of ambulation, the dwindling cash was a huge factor and the throat pain reduced but a persistent catching pain started to develop in the bronchial retrosternal region.
So on Friday night, after my Dad had made twice or three times daily calls at my insistence and grateful request, when my Dad suggested I forget about the next phase of the trip which was supposed to be in New York, I was flooded with relief and too scared to venture out of the room to go to the computer room, since the habit of bystanders of making noisy or verbal commentary on my computer work had followed me to Boston, and waited next morning, when my first try on Northwest yielded me a potential reservation.
Gladly I fled back to my room, my Dad called and I excitedly told him the news of the potential reservation, and he said Done, do it, and I immediately called Northwest where a slightly persnickety chick nonetheless managed to make my reservation on Saturday for the following Sunday (1 week ago) to return home.
It was a tourist class ticket, I wasnt even sure I would fit in the seat, or find meals, or make it through the flight without getting a DVT or worsenening chest cold, or losing my personal belongings, but I was thrilled.
Being in the USA, even with a US passport, without a home address, with dwindling cash, with bad knees, which suddenly got bad, and a bad throat and chest cold seemed like a hazardous enterprise.
My Dad and my sister are pretty frail, but suddenly I felt the three of us together in India, even with me perched uncomfortably on one of 2 couches, and rotating between bathrooms to avoid giving trouble to others, was still a way, way hugely better situation.
I also checked a little booklet of Indian holidays and planetary alignments and this past week and a few days of the next were wall to wall sad or mournful or scary ***grihas*** alignments and I just felt way too panicked to continue to take a chance.
So here I am, back in India, a week after I fled Boston and gave up on my quixotic notions of blogging the Presidential primaries for my real and imaginary and projected friends, mostly in the international Press.
Bye bye
I was in the boston hotel room, at the Fairmont Copley, with incessant door slamming by the other guests and the mostly Haitian housestaff, one day of horrendous slamming by one of the managers there, weird sound effects by a couple of the other managers.
I had attempted to attend as many sessions of the Cancer Medicine as possible, having arrived the previous Sunday, from London.
The sharp cold and dryness of the airconditioning prolly done me in by the third night when I woke with horrendous throat pain. Lozenges were of no use, or only limited, but I remembered that I had a packet of 6 pack Azithral, zithromycin, and deployed it at 200 am.
After that, the panic only increased.
On my first 2 days, I was actually quite happy, I moved around Boylston St, and St James St and posted my sisters and my registration renewals with return receipts and was happy with my surroundings and the new TV friends I seemed to have acquired and re acquaintance with old friends on CNN, ESPN.
There was no BBC and deutsche welle, and that may have led to my increasing feeling of being out in outer space and limbo, although the horrendous noise and the increasing intrusions of crowds when I moved outside may have been a factor.
Knees that started aching after a mere 15 minutes of fairly slow ambulation also led to my increasing panic of lack of ambulation, the dwindling cash was a huge factor and the throat pain reduced but a persistent catching pain started to develop in the bronchial retrosternal region.
So on Friday night, after my Dad had made twice or three times daily calls at my insistence and grateful request, when my Dad suggested I forget about the next phase of the trip which was supposed to be in New York, I was flooded with relief and too scared to venture out of the room to go to the computer room, since the habit of bystanders of making noisy or verbal commentary on my computer work had followed me to Boston, and waited next morning, when my first try on Northwest yielded me a potential reservation.
Gladly I fled back to my room, my Dad called and I excitedly told him the news of the potential reservation, and he said Done, do it, and I immediately called Northwest where a slightly persnickety chick nonetheless managed to make my reservation on Saturday for the following Sunday (1 week ago) to return home.
It was a tourist class ticket, I wasnt even sure I would fit in the seat, or find meals, or make it through the flight without getting a DVT or worsenening chest cold, or losing my personal belongings, but I was thrilled.
Being in the USA, even with a US passport, without a home address, with dwindling cash, with bad knees, which suddenly got bad, and a bad throat and chest cold seemed like a hazardous enterprise.
My Dad and my sister are pretty frail, but suddenly I felt the three of us together in India, even with me perched uncomfortably on one of 2 couches, and rotating between bathrooms to avoid giving trouble to others, was still a way, way hugely better situation.
I also checked a little booklet of Indian holidays and planetary alignments and this past week and a few days of the next were wall to wall sad or mournful or scary ***grihas*** alignments and I just felt way too panicked to continue to take a chance.
So here I am, back in India, a week after I fled Boston and gave up on my quixotic notions of blogging the Presidential primaries for my real and imaginary and projected friends, mostly in the international Press.
Bye bye
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