Assessing the Indians

To start, does PREFERRING a particular ethnic group make one a racist? It probably should, to be fair to everyone. In fact, wouldn’t it really be gross prejudice if it didn’t?!

Of course the bigger question rests with why someone who’s so seemingly sensitive to racism (meaning me) is always writing Blah-ugh! entries about race-related stuff. I mean, what the hell’s my problem anyway?!

That said, I really like Indians—the ones from India I mean. Mind you, I have nothing against the indigenous kind—which I believe is where that word comes from, and its original meaning probably sweeps across continents—but today I want to focus on those beautiful nan-eating people we know so well from late-night technical support calls.

I’m not sure what prompted my ruminations for this particular Blah-ugh!, but I’ve always held a fondness for these lovely folks and thought it might be best to examine it in depth. (I mean, maybe I’m deluding myself, and need to break out of my infatuation. And what better time to do it than Valentine’s Day? After all, what have the Indians—or any other national group, for that matter—done for me lately? Plus, as a rule, I’ve never been that fond of people who often go about barefoot, even in summer, because I find feet so remarkably ugly.)

And now I can see I’m already off on the wrong foot, if you’ll forgive the pun, because I’ve just stereotyped Indian people as being barefoot, and I’m sure many are wearing shoes as we speak—my doctor, for instance, and that nice man at the restaurant from whom I buy my malai kofta. Nevertheless, you’re probably going to misunderstand—as you always tend to—because you don’t feel as strongly about feet as I do. Perhaps they don’t taint your outlook as much as they do mine. Well, then consider yourself lucky, for you’re not faced with this constant weighing in of feet and how—like a fungus—they manage to grow over your perceptions of what’s really going on above the ankles.

That said, it speaks highly of my experience with those of Indian descent that I hold them in such high favor, despite their feet (although I could only watch Ravi Shankar play for so long before I’d have to ask him to put some shoes on). With rare exception, all of my dealings with them—be they professional, social or arbitrary—have left me making some mental note about how wonderful people of Indian descent are, and how, given the chance, I would even go so far as to visit their country (should I ever be motivated to leave my town, street, couch or burrow).

Yet while I love the people, I’m not entirely so sure I’m drawn to the culture—or those cows I keep hearing about. In truth—and I can only base this on some old National Geographic articles, a few movies and some related songs, like the Doors’ Indian Summer—I suspect it’s a terribly hot place and I really have limited use for hot weather. I also don’t like the idea of walking around in a nightgown, which I think is very common for the men in places like Bombay and Jabooti, (which I think is in India, but may actually be in Arkansas).

Ultimately we all know I’m deluding myself on some level, even if this is all true. You see, isn’t this really about me projecting my own schema—based solely on my weird perceptions and experiences of life—upon some group or other?! And why would it even have to be a group? Couldn’t it be a musical instrument, or a number, or just about anything that my damaged brain has chosen to hold as favorable for some arbitrary reason?! In all likelihood, some scant past memory—and aren’t all memories really past memories, after all?—is providing just enough positive neural stimulation to prompt rose-colored glasses over my already unfocused eyes.

Therefore, by inverse logic, isn’t this all racism at its worst?! (Cheez, how can you people read this racist Blah-ugh! and still sleep at night?!!) Wouldn’t a fair-minded, healthy , mature individual—which we could all probably agree I’m not—hold no pre-judged perspectives on anyone for something other than their present being (and maybe the kind of car they drive). Hell, if this were Star Trek universe, or maybe San Francisco, I wouldn’t even be conscious of anyone’s ethnicity to catalogue any differences, even if they were positive. (I’d also probably be making it with green women, although this remains more rare in San Francisco.)

I don’t know. Now I’ve forgotten why I started this whole thing—my Blah-ugh! I mean, and not even this particular essay. Perhaps I’m just trying to make a point and, once again, like the quantum mosquito that passes off into future dimensions, it has escaped me.

All I know is I can’t speak to issues about Pakistan or Bangladesh, because I don’t understand them, but I like Indian people, and especially love their food, even though it always gives me fervent diarrhea.

What higher praise could I offer any people?!

Which Indians are Worse -- India's or the Seattles?

August 29, 2012:  I don't know what you did today, but I spent the afternoon yelling at Indians. Ironically, I love Indians -- or, as I call them, the Indian people -- but the bitter maelstrom that has become my communcations life forced me -- yes, it literally forced me -- into waxing violent with these level-headed peace-loving people who wear dots on their collective foreheads for some reason that western man is still struggling to understand.

To begin, I strongly recommend that you never have an "Msn" email account. Thanks to their stupidity -- at least I think it's their stupidity, or it may be someone else's, possibly mine -- but I at least know in this scenario they've acted with a remarkable 21st-century brand of stupidity -- and thanks to that stupidity, I may never see my email account again. This means that all the information that I have stored there -- literally eight-years-worth of letters, notes, files -- everything you could imagine, including some prime examples of erotic art composed entirely from typing the letter "x" over and over in specific patterns -- has been plucked from my world. They assured me today, in fact, (after hanging up on me several times over the course of several hours) that I very well may never see my email again!

So where does this leave me? Well, today's journey began in New Delhi, or so I was told. I even gave this man -- I think he was a man, and his name was either Eric or Ali -- access to my very computer. "You can trust me," he kept saying, because I kept assuring him that I knew full-well that this was all some kind of elaborate scam to screw me -- screw with my mind and steal my identity. (Now, why anyone would want to steal my identity, I can't even begin to imagine, but as we all know, the world is thick with remarkably sick individuals, so the more surprising fact is that more people don't try to steal my identity.)

Where was I? So, this Indian character remoted into my computer, and let me tell you, it was like having a proctologist sticking his finger in your ass. I mean, suddenly someone is moving your cursor about, and he seemed to be poking into all sorts of strange places, and for the life of me I still don't know why. "Don't worry," he kept saying (or at least I think that's what he said, because it was hard to understand that accent, and he may have been saying "Eat curry!").

"How do I know you won't be going on my computer all the time now?" I asked, and while he offered some mumbo-jumbo about passwords and such, I will certainly go to sleep tonight just ASSUMING he's going on there and trying to find my pornography cache (the dirty bastard). And if that isn't enough, imagine my emotional reaction later this evening when I tried to use the computer and the keyboard no longer worked! It turned out to be the battery (because it's one of these stupid wireless invisible floating keyboards or something), but am I really supposed to believe that was a coincidence?! Nice try, New Delhi!!

All I know is that when I tried to sign onto my email yesterday evening, the computer told me someone "may" have been trying to sign on besides me (possibly EJ, more likely Shannon), and so they froze everything until such time as I can PROVE it's actually my account, and etc. and etc.

The problem is, as yet I've been unable to adequately answer their odd collection of questions that would supposedly solve this. These include typing the exact subject lines of emails I've recently sent, as well as a mysterious question about my favorite historical figure that still has me baffled, as I don't have one. (I may have put Orson Welles, but it was so long ago, I'm completely miffed!) Anyway, they're having none of it -- while someone else has the ability to "hack" into my email, clearly I'll never be able to.

Further, they've been unnecessarily difficult about even entertaining my calls to the support line. In fact, one line -- the special one for customers like me who supposedly have some stupid specialized account that costs something-or-other -- simply won't give me a live person. Instead, the recorded woman -- who sounds like someone is lovingly shoving marshmallows up her ass while she's talking to you -- keeps hanging up on me because I'm not providing the right phone number ... The problem is -- as if this isn't a litany of enough problems -- for the life of me, I have no recollection of what phone number started the account so many years ago, and so I can't provide one. It's really quite an extraordinary Catch-22 situation, and if I wasn't so very used to my warped life consisting of literal comedy episode after comedy episode, I'd be more disturbed than I am ...

The bottom line is, when all else fails, rage at the Indians to whom Microsoft has outsourced so many jobs. Honestly, I really don't care, but someone cares, so if it can add to your dislike of Microsoft, I'll gladly push that button. I blame it (and the northwest region) for this whole debacle.

For me, the Indians I've spoked with are lovely, and part of it may simply be that we don't understand one another anyway, and are always too shy to ask what the other actually said, so that makes relating much more joy-filled ... I just spend the conversation alternately thanking them profusely every time they indicate that they're "trying something," and then raging at them after it doesn't work ...

I'm not sure where this leaves me, except I started a "gmail" email account now, but it doesn't seem like there's much point, as I don't have anyone's email address, let alone much motivation to again commit myself -- extend myself -- out into the ether for more of this cyber-screwing.

I did, however, just check that new gmail, and the only email there is is from Microsoft saying that, due to heavy volume, it may now be -- are you ready for this -- 5 TO 7 DAYS before they EVEN RESPOND to the guesses I made about my information, to let me know whether or not they'll let me back in to the account ...

It's all too much, as George Harrison sang. It's all too much. I never knew he was talking about his experiences in India, where his luggage was probably lost, or some such nonsense ...

Anyway, feel free to send sympathetic missives to jarretliotta@gmail.com, and give serious consideration to buying ANOTHER copy of SPACE CASE out of sheer pity, if you don't already own two ...