Indians By Choice Not By Chance

I know many of you remember these shirts, at least those of you who grew up in LA. These used to be sold at Independence Day Festivals and made being Indian was something you could feel good about. But it was not always that way.

I did not grow up like most of my Whitney and Diamond Bar friends - my school had one or two Indians. In those days, being Indian was something made you different, and you would have to tell them you are from India and not Native American. Taking paranthas to school in a bagged lunch as sometimes I did was a formula for disaster - “potato pancakes”...I did not say I was discriminated against but it would have been a lot easier if I was white, or ate meat. Explaining that I was veggie, especially when in a new school is not easy.

Things changed in high school, as my sister entered UCLA where Indian pride was taking off. Bombay possee, indian parties, indian crews, indian hoes, indian djs, indian clubs, indian fights, indian bball tourneys were all become a staple of our culture. I remember wearing these shirts to school and people were shocked. I loved it as we would try to roll hard.

In high school, I did not have a fancy car. While most kids were rocking new Mercedes and BMWs, I got an 1980 4 door Volvo. My crew and I used to “roll” down Old Pasadena in this clunker. Because I did not have a CD player, my boy would bring his boombox in the car, and we would rock that. Take a second and just imagine 4 dorky Indians with fresh fades rolling in this clunker. Our night would end typically when the batteries ran out. I wish I was kidding, but it is a true story.

Fastforward to 2006 - Everyone knows Ash, bhangra is being played in clubs, and unless your business has Indian engineers and a plan to outsource to India, you are dead in the water. Indian food is everywhere, and Indians are everywhere. For that I am thankful and found this clip that displays my love for my country.



Random Thoughts
“Gangsta! Gangsta”

Why is it every time I see a girl that I like, my first reaction is to act hard? a.) I am not a gangster b.) I am not a gangster c.) the quietly staring at her makes me look more like a stalker than Tony Montana. I know this yet every time, I find a girl I clam up and act hard. It is embarrassing and leads to no ass. Besides how many girls having lunch in the Financial District will want a gangster dressed exactly like a Brooks Brother ad?

Sidestory: I remember when I was a kid, we would go beach camping as a family. I was walking on the beach and these two spoiled white dudes saw me and my 2 dollar Rockies hat that I had and started clowning. I was alone, and tried to pretend I was a cholo and tried flashing a sign. This made them laugh harder. Fuck me.

“My first love - Vodka”

- I have finally come back to where it all started. Most people can define their life in stages: the years where I dated Mary, where I was screwing around with Julie, etc. I unfortunately would have to call the time from after college to now, 5 years, of the time where I could not get any ass. So instead, I have realized I define my life with the types of liquour I drink when going out. As I changed as a person, my tastes changed and the drink that served me well tasted like shit now.

Freshman Year - Sophmore Year: Overdose on cheap vodka and Long Islang Iced Teas
Junior - Senior Year : Car Bombs, Kamikaze Shots and Rum and Coke
2001-2005: Godfather, Jack on the Rocks, and Scotch on the Rocks.
Now: Vodka and Tonic

I have finally come full circle. Someone congratulate me. Hopefully with a bottle of goose.

“Training in Hell”

I recently reupped for another 12 sessions with the devil, aka my trainer. This guy costs me $60 for every hour, and suprisingly is good. He works me so hard to the point I dont care what I dont look like at the gym. Most people try to play it cool at the gym. Matching clothes, exercises that make you look good, making sure not to sweat everywhere. Normally when I workout alone, I am like this.

However, with my trainer I am breathing so hard that people must think I am going to have a heart attack. Grunting, sweating like a bastard, and collasping on benches are all tell tale signs I am with a trainer. Usually he will tell me how weak I am and how much fat I have to lose. Our workouts usually end with me saying I am bout to yak and cannot do anymore lifting. I then go home and sit on the toilet and wait to make sure that I did not push it too far. Did I mention I am paying an arm and leg for this privelege. To top it all our sessions are at six in the morning. Fun times.

“Rotations”

On a random note, I was wondring how many weeks should one be able to go without doing laundry. I am currently on a 11 day rotation, meaning after 11 days if I have not done any laundry I am going to be wearing tighty whitey’s. However I feel like I am doing laundry all the time. I would be interested to know.