The wonder of Goodreads

Is there no end to the social media I am on? I need to write a post on how I’m a social media addict as per V, or a social media enthusiast as per moi, but I guess the entire explanation can be summed up in one line – the internet lets me just fall down the rabbit hole and read, read, read thereby satiating my easily bored (with reality) mind and also provides the kinds of discussions I don’t have access to in real life.

So Thumbelina asked if I was on Goodreads and so I checked it out, and my God, how did this one escape me all this while. Needless to say, I’m addicted, because it’s book porn. I have this fetish for collecting books virtually because space and money do not allow me to do this in the real world (i.e. I cannot line up my fantasy bookshelf in real life, because my house literally does not have space for it). I’ve been tinkering with my shelves for the past few days, literally obsessing over the categorisation. I even went into my library record and am inputting books based on there. Yeah, a monster has been created, and it helps that it’s summer and I’m at a loose end till my boss gets snapping which she won’t because she’s on leave starting tomorrow.

Goodreads combines this ability to collects one’s reads in one place with providing reccos that are pretty good based on some creepy algorithm that analyses your reading pattern which is really useful when you have to library systems at your disposal and are spoiled for choice. The main point is reviews and discussion groups, so it’s useful to check out what people are saying about a book, and of course, since I do write my thoughts on books I read (if not really straight-up review them) anyway, I might cross-post mine.

I was dithering over whether to register as myself or my blog ID and finally went with the latter, because I know more people who read like I do on the blog than in real life alas, and the ones I do know in real life who read like me also read the blog. There’s a sliver of people who are not included in this overlap and I can live without them (on Goodreads).

My ID is TheBride. If you’re on Goodreads add me to your Friends because right now I have only three, sob!

Books on contemporary China

The 25^th anniversary of the crackdown on the student movement at Tiananmen Square got me interested in knowing more about the event. I found myself compulsively reading the many news stories about the people, mainly the activists, involved that came out around the anniversary.

So it was kind of serendipitous when I came across these two books in the library. Both are excellent reads.

A Heart for Freedom

Chai Ling was elected the commander-in-chief of the student movement at the Square. I’m always fascinated by the making of people who go on to risk it all for an ideal, and this is a pretty good book to read in this regard. One gets a picture of growing up in an rural area in post-cultural revolution China. Chai Ling’s parents were in the army and that ensured that they at least had food to eat, but her childhood strikes me as very hard, and her achievement at getting into one of the most prestigious institutions in the country more impressive. This achievement made her a star of her village, and her parents had high expectations of her, which she fulfilled in ways they could not have imagined.

Reading about student life in Beijing in the 80s when there was some degree of freedom of intellectual debate was also interesting. This freedom played a part in the events that followed, in which the students demanded greater accountability from their government.

Obviously, the most interesting part was Chai Ling’s recounting of the days of the actual student protest at the Square which ultimately culminated in a brutal government crackdown. She gives one an insider’s perspective on what goes into making a student movement, the kinds of debates and conflicts that take place in the backdrop, the naivete and the idealism, the need for quick decision-making and strong leaders, and the motivations of those who put their lives on the line.

Chai Ling is a controversial figure, who was sharply criticised after a video of her making some shocking statements emerged. Chai Ling deals with this video in the book; her version is that it was meant to be a final statement in case she was caught, was not meant for media release, was made when she was extremely stressed and her words were twisted in the translation. Not everyone is convinced by this explanation, but as a reader of the book viewing events through her lens, one can be more sympathetic.

The latter half of the book is about her escape and relocation in the West. I’ve always wondered what dissidents do once they are uprooted. How do they survive and meet their financial needs? In Chai Ling’s case, she went back to school and tried to live the life of an ordinary (Ivy League School) graduate. But her background followed her everywhere and made life difficult. Nevertheless, she persisted and even brought her entire family to the US. She was also lucky to meet and marry a man who was doing well, but I think she would have made her own way if that hadn’t happened.

The last section deals with her conversion to Christianity and her newfound enthusiasm for fighting the one-child policy in China. This is the part I found hardest to stomach. Chai Ling had had a terribly hard life, and I can understand the need for the kind of solace that Christianity provides, but it was kind of boring reading all about her journey of faith. While her chosen cause is a worthy one, and one close to her heart for personal reasons, she champions it from a Christian lens. So I kind of speed read through that section, which I’m sure was not the author’s intention.

I now want to read about other activists of the time. Recommendations?

Decoded

It’s not that easy to get one’s hands on contemporary Chinese literature in translation because there are not that many translations. So I leapt on this one when I saw it.

I absolutely loved this book, which is strange because it follows the life of a mathematical genius in a kind of dystopic Chinese city. Mai Jia, the author, writes from within the state-sanctioned apparatus, but he still presents a not-very-favourable picture of life under the political regimes of the recent past in China.

The book is often described as a spy thriller which is erroneous because it doesn’t satisfy any of the Western conventions of that genre because there is no great mystery unravelled at the end. I think the book makes use of magical realism, a favourite coping mechanism of writers from places where life can often be absurd and unbearable. There is a pared down quality to the writing which could either be owing to the translation or a Chinese way with words. It works for me and I was pretty much riveted from the start.

I have the feeling that there are nuances I might have missed because of unfamiliarity with Chinese history or Chinese literature. But I still enjoyed it.

New fears, Old fears

The fear of dropping your book into the wrong library dropbox again, having already done so once and got the help of a kind colleague in calling the library and explaining the situation to them in Chinese, then going down to the library to collect it with a print-out of my library record as proof only to realise that the print-out I grabbed before leaving office doesn’t have my name on it. Anyway, they gave me the book which I carried back with me this morning to return to the right library. Only en route I had mini panic attacks about dropping it in the wrong library box again, something that as eminently possible for me to do. Thankfully, the panic attacks worked and I dropped the book in the right dropbox.

The fear that your illness is going to last forever. Considering I used to routinely fall ill as a kid, being sick should be run-of-the-mill for me, right? But maybe since the gaps between illnesses grew larger, especially after to moving to Hong Kong, I began to entertain the possibility that it was not my fate to be confined to bed in a shuddering mess every month. And then when I am indeed in such a state, if I don’t t bounce back after a couple of days, I begin to entertain dire fantasies of being forever stuck in this condition. You know what brought this one, yeah? The tummy upset that refuses to subside. Yes, as of yesterday, I was still on a mush diet. Today, I am better but there’s no telling what the pot might bring tomorrow. In the meantime, I will speculate on whether I am going to forever going to be eating congee and what that will do to my mood.

The fear of putting on the weight that you lost (however measly such loss was, sniff!) when you were eating only congee for more than a week. Self explanatory. Also, clearly I am not as disengaged from concerns about my weight as I like to tell myself. What can I say? Thighs rubbing together is a new sensation that I do not welcome.

Mango mania

Photo of our helper E’s birthday cake because actual mangoes referred to in post were gobbled up too fast.

I have found it in me to talk about mangoes, so I must be feeling better (touch wood).

So, ever since I moved to Hong Kong, I gave up on mangoes. The mangoes you get here are the South East Asian variety that just do not cut it for me. They’re like eating those pastries you get in Japanese-style bakeries (which are pretty much all bakeries on Hong Kong) which only leave you aching for a real dessert. Of course, this is a matter of taste, and there are people who love the above-mentioned mangoes/pastries, and good for those people because those things are easily available but the kind of mangoes I desire are not.

Then, one day this guy we know made an arrangement with a girl who was into him who offered to split a box of mangoes with him. That was the extent of their hooking up (they shared the cost of a box of mangoes, which she procured), and we all shared the fruits (literally) of it. By god, they were gorgeous, and opened up the possibility that one might actually get hold of Alphonso mangoes in Hong Kong.

Apparently, you can buy them by the box at Chungking Mansion, but I have aversion to buying by the box, because I think I was brainwashed by my mother into thinking that fresh produce should be individually evaluated and handpicked (not that I have any expertise in this regard.) Anyway, Alphonsos are not my favourite type of mango, although I’m a Goan and they should be.

My favourite mangoes are the ones I knew of as Benishan, which apparently almost everyone else calls Banganpalli and hence no one knew what I was talking about when I mentioned them. The one fine day MinCat posted something on Facebook about Banganpallis and I had a sneaking suspicion and I googled them and lo and behold, they were the ones I’d been calling Benishan to blank stares all my life. Apparently, it’s a Deccani thing. Heh.

Anyway I had this sudden burst of longing for mangoes, and since V happened to be going to Bangalore I demanded he get some. Turns out V’s dad actually grows mangoes on his farm on the outskirts of Bangalore. So then I muttered about how those wouldn’t be the right ones and I must have Banganpalli. Turns out he grows those too…hell, he grows some five kinds of varieties. And he doesn’t use any chemicals, including the artificial ripening which is apparently the bane of Indian mango-eaters, so his mangoes are effectively ‘organic’ I guess though he would never have heard of the term.

They are very popular with the neighbours though, who flock to their house to buy them, but obviously we got the pick of the lot. And they were stunning. They are probably the best mangoes I’ve eaten in a long time, and I don’t say this out of deprivation. The only flaw were that in our greed we put some in the fridge that were not fully ripe so a couple that were not ideal level of sweetness.

Maybe it’s coming of age or something, but I’ve switched loyalties to Alphonsos. Does this mean I’m a proper Goan aunty now? I certainly have the hips to match, and the mangoes contributed to that.

I realised that the way you cut and eat a mango can add or diminish satisfaction. V insists on doing these criss-cross lines in the cheeks of the mango and then chopping off the resulting cubes so they’re easy to pick up with a fork. But I ideally want to just cut each cheek in half and go at it slobbering. Admittedly, the first way is more feasible with the kids, but the second is so much more satisfying because you can scrape every last bit of mango off with your teeth. Also, for the seed, i cut as much of the flesh around the seed off (so you get two fleshy strips with skin attached which you can then eat like mini cheaks) but most people just strip off the skin and suck the seed.

Benji is a total mango fiend. He was lusting after mangoes before he had even seen one because of this book. Then we got our helper E a mango cake for her birthday and he lapped it up. Benji is such a fan of mangoes that any will do, even some species from Kerala that I really did not enjoy, but that were so close to the South East Asian ones that my helpers loved those. The FIl sent four varieties.

Unfortunately, my tummy collapsed before the last precious two could be eaten and Benji finished them off. Hmph.

 

 

 

Loosies and the World Cup

The two are not connected, except in the case of gripes (hee hee) about the World Cup.

So I have had an upset tummy (this is the most euphemistic way I have found of explaining to people what’s wrong with me) for the past week or so. It had its roots in the Hot Chips V brought back from Bangalore at my insistence and also the amazing mangoes from his dad’s farm (separate post on that maybe, it’s too tragic to talk about the two mangoes I could not eat at this point.) Then period came and threw system out of whack and I had to crown it with eating a really dodgy kebab roll, the kind where the meat had to be spat out it was so chewy.

Voila, a runny tummy. You know it’s bad when you voluntarily eat congee. Congee and Marie biscuits are the hallmarks of sad state of affairs. And I’ve been going on like this for five days. The silver lining could have been weight loss, but only two kilos maximum have been lost, and that seems too paltry for my pains because they can quite easily be gained back when I recover my appetite. I have also been hoping for flawless skin owing to lack of oil and spice (and frankly anything else) but that has not exactly happened, though there has been reduction of flare-ups for which I’m grateful. I guess I can’t expect to glow when I’m in the grey of unhealth.

The worst part is that I have been having really severe muscle pain starting from the butt to my calves, so much so that I wondered if I have arthritis (which runs in my family). But I’ve had this kind of muscle pain before on a lesser scale with infections so I think it’s connected but I’ve had a couple of nights of literally waking up in pain and this is too much penance for just a kebab roll really.

Now that I’ve decided to see the doctor again and booked an appointment, pain has lessened. But if I decide to cancel, it will definitely come back, so I’ve decided to just go to the doctor and describe symptoms as they existed at the beginning of the day.

Okay verbal diarrhea on this subject done.

***

Now the World Cup. Obviously I’m very excited seeing as I have been excited about football World Cups since 1994 when my sister got very into it, so obviously I had to. Since then we’ve supported Italy, primarily because she had a crush on Paolo Maldini, who I also thought was hot but was forced to change track by sister and crush on Roberto Baggio instead who then went on to dash Italy’s hope by fudging a penalty kick.

Apart from teenage hormones (which we haven’t really outgrown) we also were genuinely into the football. I never got into league football, though we did champion AC Milan due to Maldini again, but we watched a fair amount of football when we could. In fact, our house was the gathering place for my sis and her guy friends to watch the World Cup when she was in college.

This is the first time I was not super excited by the World Cup. I think all the bad press about how wasteful it was got to me. And also, Hong Kong has this stupid cable system where one provider will grab the rights and then you have to sign up for some uber-expensive year-long package just to be able to watch the event. Or you can watch the free games they deign to show on the free channels, which anyway are at weird times. So it seemed futile to drum up enthusiasm.

And I managed to actually stay unenthusiastic for the first match, which was unfortunate because it was a dinger. V asked me if I wanted to wake up for it, and I was tempted but I said no in order to be responsible adult and look after children the next day and not be bleary eyed, and I’m trying to stick to that…but now I’m fully into it. Especially after we caught the Italy-Englnad match and Italy won!

I’ve actually grown less fond of Italy since the Zidane-Materazzi incident. I generally think they do too much drama (which V thinks is ironic coming from me.) Now I’ve realised they just wear the opposing team down with their drama, and then out of the blue (literally) score. It’s all very confusing to watch because they’re not the best team, but they win . Also, there’s something endearing about Mario Balotelli.

Okay now to the gripes:

1. There was this extremely sexist Facebook feed doing the rounds in the form of a letter of a male football fan to his wyfe (sic). It contained such gems as “U dont just pass infront of the tv if am watching soccer, u better crawl on the floor.” Signed off by “Gentleman’s Association” if you please. And the lunkheads on my timeline were sharing it. Ugh. Breaking news, guys, women watch and play football too. We even know what offside is, and it’s not that complicated!
2. Now laddiz. Yes, we all have teams and players that we think are hot. But can we not only post such status updates on Facebook, or talk about how hot this or that person is incessantly? Once is enough. Then also talk about the football okay? Otherwise it is too boring. Kthanxbi.

 

 

 

 

Straight and wide

Let’s talk about hair. Mine. I caved, and straightened it. It had been a long season of curls, and finally, I was growing weary of them. I felt ready to return to the straight and narrow.

To being able to wake up, pat head and go, confident that one’s hair was in place. To not wondering if my hair looked insane at any point.

Also, the drastic chop had been more drastic than I had expected. A year later, and my hair was still in the short category. It seemed to be curlier than before, and in summer this meant that no matter how long it grew, it would curl up and look as short as before.

I think I was wearier of the short than the curl. Curly I could live with, rejoice in even.

It takes over three hours to tame hair into a shape it does not want to be. My decision to eschew a heavy book and just take my phone proved to be disastrous. My phone died in half an hour and I was left literally twiddling my thumbs after a five minute browse through the provided Chinese tabloids proved unsatisfactory. Using the last vestiges of battery power I messaged V and asked him to send our helper down with my book (the parlour is literally an elevator ride down from our apartment.) Unfortunately, I was cocooned in a corner of the parlour and straightening requires frequent washes so when she came, she didn’t find me and went away and my phone was dead so I couldn’t call her. So I sat and sat and sat.

Finally, I emerged looking a bit like a pinhead. The hairdresser said I looked trendy, younger, but of course he had to say that.

The thing is that straightened hair lies very flat. Which was fine when my body was very narrow, but now my hips are more than twice the width of my head. So if my head is smaller, my hips look bigger. Ladies, remember this. A fat head is a good thing.

V tried to be nice about it. Benji gaped. The helpers chortled. Mimi came right out and asked: “What happened to your hair?” In office the next day, I drew gasps. You should be used to me and my hair by now, I told them.

Over a couple of days, though, it’s been growing on me. Not literally, but it will and then it will gain volume. Also, the first wash added a smidgeon of bounce. Once I feel daring enough to pin up one side without fearing a permanent kink, my look will be vastly improved. Also, uncurled my hair looks longer, which was my intention. In two weeks or so I’ll be able to tie a ponytail, a whole year after my last one.

A colleague who got her hair straightened two days after me met me in the pantry. “The general talk about your hair is positive,” she said. “That should make you happy.” We both did little happy dances touching our shiny new hair.

 

Life stories

I’ve read a series of memoirs in recent times more off the 65 Books List:

Kitchen Confidential

This is an excellent read. Admittedly, I’m a fan of his show. There are definitely hints of obnoxiousness in some of Bourdain’s escapades and views and there are some non-politically correct views but maybe because I am familiar with his style and viewpoint from the show, I don’t hold it against him. The writing is vivid and evocative.

The Liar’s Club

Most of the reviews of this book said you would laugh through your tears. I didn’t find this much of a laugh riot. There are some terrible happenings as experienced by a child, albeit a scrappy child who takes them almost wholly in her stride (though she did become an alcoholic later, a period covered in Lit which I was actually supposed to read). Much as I avoid the slightest hint of unhappiness in my reading diet, Mary Karr is a poet and her words grabbed me by the hair and held me captive. That’s all there is to it. Mary Karr’s mother is of the kind described by Jerry Pinto in Em and the Big Hoom – wonderfully eccentric but also certifiably crazy and yet beloved. The mother is expected to touch our hearts, but I was moved by the father as well. I don’t know why estrangements from fathers affect me the way they do, hitting me in some primal, howling place that I don’t want to explore. But there you have it. And yeah, I think I might just read the other two memoirs as well.

Me Talk Pretty One Day

I’d been urged to read David Sedaris’s work for a while. Now that I have, it strikes me as Chicken Soup for the yuppie soul. It’s just left off centre enough to make lukewarm liberals happy. It makes you laugh, but it doesn’t touch any of the deep places. It doesn’t leave you slightly sore after. And that to me is a failing, much as I’m supposed to be avoiding the sore-making kind of book. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it. I most certainly did, and I’ll pick up his books later if I want a quick smile. But that’s about it.

Wild

This was a fairly recent bestseller, and yet I wasn’t completely enthused at the prospect of reading it. A woman hiking alone for ages, an admirable undertaking but how exciting could reading about it be? Turns out it was similar to Life of Pi which is about a boy stuck in a boat with a tiger in the open sea. You don’t expect to be riveted but you are. In the case of Wild, I consumed it like a page turner. It helps that Cheryl Strayed interweaves vignettes of the life that brought her to this journey while recounting the actual trudge through the wilderness.

Many of these books have a mother hovering over them, and this one is no exception. It is a tribute to Strayed’s mother, a way of coping with the grief of her loss but also the loss of family that ensues after the lynchpin that held it together has gone. I had always wondered about Strayed’s unusual name and it turns out she took it after her divorce. A fact which delighted me. That one could just pick a name that seems right and it works.

If there was one thing that I didn’t love about the book it was how  Strayed seems to hanker for a man at the first sight of one. She herself admits to this but it seems there’s no breaking the habit. And being the ‘only girl in the woods’ places her in a good position to crush at will. On the other hand, hiking as a solo female did throw up dangers posed by creepy men, but given the length of the journey, there were only a couple of nasties. Strayed herself points to the overwhelming number of kindnesses of strangers she encountered which mitigate the creeps. Her manner of dealing with the creeps – paying attention to her gut instincts about people, being firm, trying not to antagonise them might be good rules of the thumb, if there can be any these situations.

Also, surprising was her hankering for the trappings of civilisation. While her journey is proof that she can live without it, the longing for creature comforts and junk food doesn’t go away that easily.

Bonus book (not on the 65 books list)

The Diary of Anais Nin – Fire

Having become an admirer of sorts of Anais Nin via quotes of hers posted on Brain Pickings and the like, I felt it was time I sampled the real thing. So I was somewhat perturbed to find myself irritated at Nin at the beginning. She just seemed so obsessed with matters of the heart ad infinitum. But later I identified with her more and it became clear how accomplished and unusual she was but also how she was trapped in and a product of her time, as much as she tried to transcend its limitations. Unfortunately, I got sidetracked and didn’t finish this one.

Baby bits

Banji ran around with a box with one chocolate in it making a knocking sound. “Don’t touch my castanet!” he shouted when Mimi tried to grab it. If I hadn’t read his book Conchita’s Party I wouldn’t even have known what a castanet is. He identified it by sound. Maybe from school?

The kids love the song from Frozen. They sit around belting out: let it go, let it gooooo!

Took Benji to a museum, leaving Mimi at home. It’s so much easier to manage one child, especially these days when they seem to set each other off. The next day, I took Mimi to the park alone – she refused to cooperate and go to the same park as Benji. It was terribly hot and I had to coax her along but it was easier than with the two of them. Holding her little hand is the best.

This afternoon after a stint of watching Frozen, once Mimi had gone to bed, Benji said he wanted to play for a while. And as I vegged out on the couch he went crazy with his toys on his own. It made me wonder if the reason he seems to be constantly fighting with Mimi is that her presence infringes on his need to build an imaginative world.

“Who bought it, who bought it?” they clamour and when Mimi points to my arms, I say, “God gave this to me.” And they perk up and Benji asks me to repeat: “What?” In the distance, I can hear the stiffening of the helpers in their silence as they keen to hear me articulate the missing G word. But I can’t bring myself to, I dissemble. “This you have owned since you were born,” I say pointing to Beji’s arms. And so it continues, this experiment in godlessness.

On online shopping

My former colleague was an online shopping addict. She was always very well turned out and fashionable, but one day she discovered the world of online shopping and then it became her go-to place to counter her dissatisfaction with her job. She justified it to herself as a cost-saving as she had found a way to buy from US sites, have the stuff delivered to a service provider in the US who would then ship the items to her at a cost less than the usual international delivery charges. (Yes, I do want to find out the details of how this works, but I’m also scared to, lest I unleash another monster.) Finally she quit the job, thereby solving both problems at one go.

My main experience with online shopping was on Flipkart, and I restricted it to just books and only before a trip to India. I also restricted myself to books by Indian authors that are not commonly available here, or children’s books. If there was a book by a foreign author I really wanted, I checked the library systems here first. All these rules because I realised early on that it could get out of control.

Another thing I usually buy in India is make-up. For foundation and compact, I find it hard to get a good match to my skin tone here. I also realised that make-up of the mid-range brands like Revlon is slightly cheaper in India, and even cheaper if you factor in the currency difference. Unfortunately, I was unable to find time to buy what I needed in India on my last trip and when I had finally made up my mind to buy the items in Hong Kong, I realised they were unavailable. Thus, when V was scheduled to go to India, I began my quest to find what I needed on Flipkart and have them delivered to my in-law’s place so V wouldn’t even have to go shopping for them. Shopping for make-up online works if you know exactly what you need, but it’s a short hop from there into stuff you don’t need but looks very interesting.

Actually, Flipkart didn’t have everything I needed and I didn’t want to take a chance with another website, so I went back to the store in HK. Shopping for make-up is like being in a candy store because everything literally looks like candy and there are so many delectable looking things which are not that expensive that before you know it you can land up with a whole lot of stuff. I have to exercise serious restraint in these shops so as not to land up with a stash that just sits there (because I’m actually not that adept at the actual application of make-up) and results in me getting a bollocking from V for buying stuff and not using it, which is some kind of weird pet peeve that he has. I also realised once again that the price difference is not that much (actually, I’m not that good with numbers so not exactly sure) and if I’m willing to experiment, I could just buy what I need here. I’m kind of torn at the moment between sticking with the tried-and-tested lip gloss colours that I like or being absolutely daring and going for, you know, one shade darker.

Anyhoo, I compromised by buying a couple of things in the store, calling V and frantically halving the number of lipglosses I had asked him to get from India, and leaving the Flipkart order as is. He arrived yesterday with my stuff, and I’m quite happy with it, but I think in future except for foundation, compact, Himalaya kajal and bronzer if I can find it, I’m going to get stuff in HK only because it is stuff to try stuff on physically and compare options in-store. I also used to order perfumes of Strawberry.net until I realised some of them are cheaper in store at SaSa so it’s best to toggle between the two.

I’ve also realised that not all books are cheaper on Flipkart. Or the price difference isn’t always enough to warrant a wait until a trip to India. So, recently, I ordered a book online via Fishpond.com.hk. Let’s see how it goes, but this could also open new floodgates.

For clothes and shoes, I can imagine that one good experience is all it takes. I had once ordered shoes on Flipkart and asked MinCat to bring them on her trip to HK, but sadly, the quality was just not up to par, and so in India I’ve resolved to see and buy. I feel like overall the quality of shoes from the local brands is slipping in India and you have to hunt a bit when earlier one was hardpressed to choose. In HK, shoes are expensive and many people have turned to online stores. I’ve written about my experience with Zalora before, and it was pretty good but because I didn’t get the sizing right the first time, I dropped it. But the next time I tried, I fared better and it’s really a big struggle not to jump at every ‘deal’ that hits my inbox. Yesterday, I discovered this store via this blog, and I’ve been suppressing the belief that I need these shoes ever since. Ouff.

Also, yesterday, I finally went to the wedding registry set up by my second cousin. I’ve never experienced using a registry before and my general impression was that it’s mighty presumptuous. But my actual experience was pretty good. There were several reasonably priced items to pick from and even if one’s contribution was small, at least you have the satisfaction of knowing you’re gifting something the couple really needs and making a contribution to their new home. It’s a little more personal than money, but very practical. I think India should adopt this concept. Hong Kong has the lai see concept which is uber practical to the extent of being a strain on the resources of people who have more than two weddings to attend in a month.

The moral of the story is that given the ease of online shopping, the relatively good results, and the amount of time one is in front of the computer bored during a work day, it is best to shut oneself off from the possibilities except in cases of dire emergency.

On elitism masquerading as the opposite

This article has been doing the rounds. Something about it strikes me as off.

Right off the bat, the veneer of snobbery. Although the writer seeks to counter this by confessing that he is one of those who feels the pressure to appear culturally in-the-know, I suspect this deprecation is faked.

As he himself acknowledges, the phenomenon of people wanting to and needing to appear culturally clued in is not new. To be familiar with the cultural classics is to demonstrate that one is cultured. In the past, people did this by mostly name-dropping at parties and nodding knowledgeably, by keeping certain books on display in their libraries, by gleaning a passing knowledge with some subjects. In our age, people do this by sharing on social media.

His peeve is that nowadays it’s so easy for people to fake cultural literacy. Which is where I detect the snobbery. One way of looking at it would be to rue the fact that now anyone has access to the trappings of what used to require a certain degree of effort and erudition (and elite education/background) for a person to exude. The other would be to celebrate the fact that people who might otherwise not have been knowledgeable about a subject can now easily look it up and expand their worldview if only by a crack.

The New York Times article he linked to makes a better point about people feeling the need to have an opinion on something they have only passing familiarity with. Again, the skimming-the-headlines phenomenon is not new. I’d wager it’s been happening for time in memorial.

I think there are two separate issues here. One is posting RIP status messages or quotes from people on only has a passing familiarity with, which I don’t think is such a big deal because it’s possible to identify with or feel a quote resonates with one but not know the life history of the person one is quoting. The other is having a strong opinion or an argument on something about which one only a passing knowledge of, the not-bothering-to-read-the-article-before-commenting phenomenon. I personally feel more annoyed with these people, and I have a policy of not blogging about or commenting on something unless I’ve read the original piece (in the case of Amy Chua, the whole book, not the newspaper excerpt of the book). However, again, people have been reacting to headlines since newspapers were born, hence headlines have been getting bigger and articles shorter.

So why the hand-wringing over this?