Nshima & Curry

Column: Fold your arms and solve your problems

If you're having trouble solving a math problem or beating someone in chess or checkers, perhaps you should stop scratching your head. That really doesn't help you think clearer or make you look confident, though I suppose it's a little better than scratching yourself elsewhere. (I'm not an expert on scratching, though as a man I've done a fair bit of it in my lifetime.)

The best thing you can do, in terms of posture, is fold your arms. A new study has found that just by folding (or crossing) your arms, you'll have more perseverance and a greater desire to succeed. Yes, it's true. Researchers found that university students who folded their arms were more successful and persistent at solving anagrams than students who kept their hands on their thighs. I don't know about you, but I'm going to start folding my arms as much as I can. I want to be successful not just in solving problems, but also in other activities:

--- "Of course I'm in the mood, honey. Do you think we can do it with our arms folded?"

--- "I didn't mean to swerve, officer. My mouth slipped."

--- "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Gupta. Do you mind if we shake feet?"

The researchers, including Ron Friedman of Hobart and William Smith Colleges, got the idea of studying arm-folding while watching former pro basketball coach Pat Riley, who would even go to the men's room with his arms folded. Friedman wondered if Riley was gaining some kind of competitive edge from his posture. It's amazing how the mind of a scientist works. I've watched Riley and his folded arms many times and my reaction was always the same: "Give the man a blanket -- he's feeling cold."

Column: Guidelines for travelers entering America

A U.S. Appeals Court has ruled that airport officials do not need "reasonable suspicion" to download data from a traveler's laptop or personal electronic storage device and keep it indefinitely. Coincidentally, the Department of Homeland Security has issued new guidelines for people entering America by air:

1. By entering the United States, you give us the unqualified legal right to search all your belongings. This includes all items you are bringing to the United States, as well as items you have left behind. Be prepared to provide your home address, a set of keys and a copy of directions from Google maps.

2. By entering the United States, you give us the unqualified legal right to search your body and your clothing, together or apart.

You may be asked to remove any head covering, including but not limited to: (a) skullcaps; (b) turbans; and (c) toupees.

You may be asked to remove any body covering, including but not limited to: (a) shirts; (b) dresses; and (c) plaster casts.

You may be asked to remove items attached to your head or body, including but not limited to: (a) false teeth; (b) nose rings; and (c) cell phones.

3. By entering the United States, you give us the unqualified legal right to use various means to detect explosives, drugs or other illegal substances that you may be carrying or have recently consumed.

You may be subject to an X-ray of various body parts, including but not limited to: (a) your stomach; (b) your brain; and (c) your implants.

You may be subject to a thorough and intense dog sniffing. The sniffing may be directed toward but is not limited to: (a) your luggage; (b) your hand baggage; (c) your backside.

If you are afraid of dogs, you have the option of being sniffed by a lion.

You may also be asked to provide samples of fluids for testing, including but not limited to: (a) saliva; (b) urine; and (c) sweat. (The sweat will be collected during the interrogation.)

Column: Nothing nice about rice price

Rice is extremely popular in our household -- and I'm not talking about Condoleezza. I'm talking about the type of rice that looks warm and elegant at a dinner party.

My wife cooks rice almost every day. And when she isn't cooking rice, she's often making something out of rice, such as dosa and idli. She practically survives on rice. That's why I'm concerned about the rising price of rice, even more than the rising price of gas. I need gas to run my car, it's true, but I need rice to run my wife. Sure, she might operate on wheat or corn for a few weeks. But eventually I'd have to take her to the people mechanic.

Me: "She's been very sluggish lately, ever since I started filling her up with wheat and corn."

Doctor: "You're an idiot! Don't you know that she's got a rice engine?"

Me: "A rice engine?"

Doctor: "Yes, she's highly adapted to using rice as an energy source. Putting wheat and corn in her is like putting beer in your car. Only an idiot would do that."

Me: "Yeah, that's true. Lemonade is cheaper. Will she be all right? Is there any permanent damage?"

Doctor: "I'm not sure. Put her on the jack. I'll take a look under her."

Billions of other people share my wife's affinity for rice -- and that's just in India and China. Many people in Asia eat rice (or a rice product) three times a day. For them, it's not just a staple -- it's the entire stapler.

Column: A vacation you're guaranteed to enjoy

Dear Parents,

Please forgive this intrusion on your time. I know how busy and challenging life can be when you have children. Kids are such a joy! I have three little ones myself and let me tell you, when I'm at work, I'm constantly looking at my watch, counting how many hours are left before the peace and calm ends.

I went on vacation last year with my wife and kids. We spent seven days in Florida, and when we returned home, I was exhausted. I felt like I had run a marathon. Thankfully, I had to go to work the next day. I was able to recover. It occurred to me that I had just spent thousands of dollars on a vacation that allowed me few moments of rest and relaxation, moments that usually ended with someone pounding on the door and saying, "Dad, come out of there! I need to pee."

That's why I decided to form a new company called Vacation Solution Inc. It's what all parents have been waiting for, the solution to our vacation woes. Yes, now you can have a restful vacation, up to seven days and seven nights in a tropical paradise, with someone else's children. Let some other parents take your problems. I mean, children.

Signing up for one of our relaxing vacations is easy. Just go to our website and pick the children you want to vacation with. You'd better hurry! The best children are going fast. (Mine are still available. If you want to take them for a week in December, I'm offering a free high-definition TV.)

Even if you don't get the best children, don't worry. Chances are, whichever children you get, they'll behave better than your own. How do I know this? Well, it's a scientifically proven fact that children behave up to 28 percent better when they're with adults they don't know. People are always saying to me, "Your children are so well-behaved. They're such angels!" And I say to them, "How would you like a free high-def TV?"

Column: Lock up the dissidents, the Olympics are coming

As the 2008 Summer Olympics approach, many people are scratching their heads and asking, "How in heaven's name was Beijing selected as the host city?" The answer is simple: Beijing was chosen because Baghdad was unavailable. Actually, the International Olympic Committee wanted to encourage China to emulate previous hosts and pursue democratic principles. China, in turn, pledged to be good hosts, promising to make athletes and other guests comfortable and, for at least three weeks, suspend all human rights abuses.

It's a good arrangement, really, opening the door for future Olympics to be held in places such as Tehran, Iran, and Pyongyang, North Korea. I don't know about you, but I'm really looking forward to the 2020 Guantánamo Bay Olympics. By then, waterboarding will be an official event.

The Beijing Olympics are destined to be the most successful games in Olympic history. And if you don't believe me, just ask any Chinese journalist who isn't in prison. "Best Olympics ever," they will say. "That's what we've been told."

If you're a foreign journalist who disagrees, that's okay. You have the freedom to say what you want, while people in China have the freedom to believe whatever their government lets them.

Column: Obama belongs to all of us

I have a message for my African-American friends: Stop claiming Barack Obama as one of yours. He's not one of yours. He's one of OURS. In case you haven't checked, Obama isn't just black. He's half-black, half-white and half-Asian. Okay, perhaps he isn't half-Asian, but his step-father was Indonesian, he was raised partly in Indonesia, and most of his clothes are from Asia. So don't you dare laugh when you're driving through Chinatown and see a bumper sticker that says "I'm Voting For Obama. He's Almost Asian!"

If you're Hispanic, you can take pride in him too. Did you know that Obama loves tortilla chips and salsa, and he once sat through an entire Jennifer Lopez movie? Yes, the man has gone to great pains to discover his Hispanic side.

When they make a movie about Obama, you'll see him flying to the White House in a cape, with people gazing up and gasping, "It's a black man! It's a white man! It's everyman!"

Obama identified himself with the African-American community as a young man, partly because he felt a need to belong, and that suits everyone just fine, because we love to put people into neat categories. But his background is quite different from most African-Americans. After all, there aren't many African-Americans who could organize a family reunion and harbor a slight fear that Dick Cheney might show up.

And there aren't many African-Americans who could fly to Africa, host a dinner party for their extended family and have hundreds of people showing up, most of whom are actually related to them.

Column: The billionaire's house that will help everyone

What kind of house does a billionaire build? Well, if you're Bill Gates, you build a $100 million, high-tech house that's full of modern amenities, such as a 17-by-60-foot swimming pool that plays music underwater, a reception hall that seats 150 people and an underground shelter in case the maids and gardeners need to hide from immigration.

If you're Mukesh Ambani, the Indian industrialist, you build a house that has 27 floors, a parking garage for 168 imported cars, and three helipads, so you don't have to drive any of those cars. At least not until they build special lanes for billionaires.

Ambani's house, named Antilla and sprouting on Mumbai's Altamount Road, is costing hundreds of millions of dollars -- as much as $1 billion, according to some reports -- but that's no major burden for one of the richest men in the world. How rich is he? He's rich enough to contribute millions of dollars to Bill and Hillary Clinton, if only politicians weren't so ethical. He's rich enough to buy his very own island in the Pacific, if only Australia were for sale. He's rich enough to immunize and educate millions of Indian children, if only Bill Gates weren't doing that already.

There are many ways to contribute to society, many ways to help the disadvantaged, and one of the ways Ambani is doing it, his supporters have me convinced, is by building a huge house. So before you judge him, before you label his house an appalling and outrageous display of wealth, you need to look at the positive impact the house will have on thousands, if not millions, of Indians. Indeed, some people are already calling it the Mother Teresa of Houses.

Column: Scientific research does wonders for our lives

Where would we be without scientific research? Six feet under, probably. I say "probably" because some of us might still be moving around, the ones who've had their ashes scattered in the ocean.

Yes, scientific research is vital to our existence, almost as important as food, oxygen and coffee. But wait a minute, you might say, the cavemen didn't conduct research and they managed just fine. Well, that's not completely true. They did conduct research -- they just didn't think of publishing it. Oongah the caveman, for example, was able to conclude, from counting all the bumps on his head, that it wasn't good for his health to comment on his wife's weight. His wife, meanwhile, was able to conclude that it was possible to make a man change his ways, without resorting to violence. Just by withholding certain favors, you could get him to bang his head against the wall.

Modern research is more sophisticated, of course, and more widespread. Just do an Internet search and you'll come across thousands of studies that have been conducted all over the world, even in Saskatchewan, Canada. A few recent ones underscore the importance of funding scientific research and keeping researchers happy. (In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that my wife is a researcher. She has conducted mostly animal research, including an ongoing experiment on what it's like to be married to one.)

Column: The hardest job in the world

Until I became a parent, I didn't know how challenging it could be. I thought it would be easy, like driving in New York City or getting all my teeth pulled. I thought I would just make the rules -- "Don't forget to tidy your room before going to bed" -- and my children would follow them -- "Yes, Dad, we'll do it right away. Would you like us to tidy your room too?"

I didn't realize how much hair-pulling and teeth-gnashing there would be. I didn't realize how often I'd hear the question "Do we have to keep doing this?" and how often I'd have to reply "Yes, dear, I know it's hard, but we can't give up until the kids are 18."

Don't get me wrong. Parenting has brought a lot of joy to my life. One of my greatest joys, for example, is looking at my three children, admiring their sweet, innocent faces, when they're fast asleep. What immense joy. So much peace and calm in the house. The perfect time to do something romantic with my wife, if only we could find the energy.

When I see teen-agers having babies, I wonder if they know what they're getting into. Have they really thought it through or are they just hoping that their children, by some miracle, will be mini versions of Mother Teresa? I wish my children would be more like Mother Teresa. I'd like to send them off to Calcutta.

Column: A fight that's making boxing history

Are you enjoying the big fight? I am. I lost interest in boxing in the 1990s, soon after Mike Tyson fell from grace, but I'm enjoying the sport once again, thanks to all the jabs and fancy footwork in this epic Obama-Clinton clash.

The first round went to Barack Obama, known in boxing circles as The Barackuda. He landed dozens of punches and also followed an unusual boxing tactic: stomping on Hillary Clinton's toes. So dominant was he that when the bell rang, she ran to her corner, sat down and cried. "Boo hoo! He hurt me!"

Everyone thought she'd throw in the towel and run to the locker room, but she's a real fighter. Her trainer, Bill, got her ready, wiping away her tears, treating the cut below her eye and pumping her up with words such as "Go get him, girl!" and "He's a man. Hit him where it hurts!"

Obama came out strong in Round Two with a series of jabs that convinced boxing experts he'd easily win the round. But with a minute left, Clinton stunned everyone with a well-aimed punch that almost floored Obama. Poor guy didn't know what hit him. "Ouch!" he said, staggering into the ropes. "Thank God I wore a cup."

Before he could recover, she nailed him again with an uppercut to the chin, then elbowed him in the gut. “Is that allowed?” Obama asked, but the female referee was distracted by Trainer Bill, who was flashing his undershorts at her. “Hey ref,” Bill shouted. “How'd you like to handle these boxers?”

After splitting the first two rounds, the fighters were determined to win Round Three and came out with a flurry of punches, prompting some boxing analysts to start comparing the fight to the classic 1975 Ali-Frazier clash, known as the Thrilla in Manila. The main difference, of course, was that Ali and Frazier didn't fight dirty.

Column: Don't say no-no to the Nano

Here's some exciting news: The world's cheapest car will soon be hitting the roads of India. Tata Motors recently unveiled the Nano, a car that will surely make many middle-class people happy, particularly Hyundai owners, who will now feel like they're driving luxury cars.

The Nano will come in three models, with the standard one carrying a dealer price of only Rs. 1 lakh (about $2,500), or what Paris Hilton spends on hairspray. As you can imagine, there’s been tons of interest in the Nano, ever since the very first press conference.

Tata spokesman: "We're pleased to announce that we're going to be introducing a one-lakh car."

Reporter: "A one-lakh car? Will it have four wheels?"

Spokesman: "Yes, it will have four wheels -- and even a steering wheel."

Reporter: "What about brakes?"

Spokesman: "Yes, it will have brakes."

Reporter: "Headlights?"

Spokesman: "Yes, it will have headlights."

Reporter: "Air-conditioning?"

Spokesman: "It's a one-lakh car, you idiot!"

The Nano may seem cheap to some Indians, but for others, it's just the right price, enabling them to switch from two wheels to four, to put a roof over their heads. The car is designed to seat five people, which means it's perfect for a family of 12. Three-year-old Raju no longer needs to ride on the crossbar -- he can move to a far more comfortable spot on great-grandma's lap.

Column: 2008 will be a historic year

As the new year begins, I'd like to take this opportunity to wish my loyal readers much happiness in 2008. I hope the year brings good health and prosperity to both of you.

It's going to be a historic year, a year in which we'll see the first African-American elected to the White House. How do I know this? Well, as a committed journalist, I do a great amount of research, looking at surveys, trends and other data. And then I throw it all away and consult a tarot reader. I also gaze into a crystal ball and make a long-distance call to a Zambian witch doctor. Yes, I cover all my bases, which is how I'm able to make bold predictions like this: India will win more medals at the Olympic Games in Beijing than the entire continent of Antarctica.

If you don't think that prediction is bold enough, here's one that will really knock your socks off:  Peace will finally come to the Middle East. Yes, both Israelis and Palestinians will be thrilled to get a visit from British author David Peace.

Here's what else I see in 2008:

• Democrat Barack Obama is elected president of America, beating Republican Mike Huckabee in a landslide. To the delight of his biggest supporter, he announces plans to convert a section of the White House into a studio for The Oprah Winfrey Show. That enables him to appear on the show regularly and gives Oprah a bigger stage to continue leading the American people.

• Osama bin Laden, upset that not enough people are listening to his recorded messages, releases his next video on YouTube and attracts millions of viewers by calling it "Osama's Night With Paris Hilton." But most viewers are disappointed to find Osama lecturing them from the steps of the Hilton hotel in Paris.

Column: The children and the couch: a stained relationship

My wife and I are in the market for a new couch. And by that I mean that she's looking for a piece of fine furniture that will enhance the decor of our living room, matching the other furnishings and creating an atmosphere of warmth and comfort, while I'm looking for something long enough to sleep on.

Our old couch has become rather ratty. We don't want to keep it much longer, even if we can get rid of the rats.

Actually, we don't have any rats. We have something worse: brats. Three of them, to be precise. There's a 5-year-old named Lekha who likes to jump on the couch, a 3-year-old named Divya who likes to spill food on the couch, and a 20-month-old named Rahul who likes to jump on the food on the couch. (Someone has to work it into the fabric.)

Rahul hasn't yet learned how to drink from cups, but when his sisters are drinking on the couch, he insists on doing it too. And when he's done, he's often the only one still sitting on the couch, though he'd feel drier and a lot more comfortable sitting on the kitchen sponge.

As you can imagine, Rahul has left a number of stains on the couch. I've tried to have a positive attitude about this. I've tried to think of him as an artist and the couch as his canvas. I've tried to move young Michelangelo around, so he can create a symmetrical pattern.

The problem is, the couch has been partitioned, in much the same way that India was. The left side belongs to Lekha, the right side to Divya, and the middle to Rahul. (I have to give my kids credit: they did a better job than the British.) What this means is that Rahul cannot move around freely, not without getting a visa.

Column: Why gift when you can regift?

If someone gives you a handbag you don't particularly like, what should you do with it? If you have a gift receipt or know which store it came from, you might be able to return it. But if you don't, you have three options: (1) Donate it to a thrift store or charity; (2) Regift it to a friend or relative; or (3) Keep it in a closet and take it out whenever you need to swat a fly.

Thankfully, no one gives me handbags, but I have received a few gifts I didn't like. And though I hate to admit it, I've regifted a couple of them fairly successfully. I say "fairly," because my California friend wasn't too crazy about the long underwear. But at least his wife seemed to appreciate the mustache trimmer.

You may think that regifting is tacky and improper, that it should be done only under extreme circumstances, such as when your pantry is overflowing with fruitcake and there just aren't enough dogs around. But regifting has become more common these days, partly because it solves two problems at once. It allows you to get rid of the unneeded gift while also saving you the trouble of going to the store and searching for a gift for a friend who doesn't really need anything and ought to be satisfied with the Anna Kournikova calendar, so what if he's gay. (Hey, I'm straight and I have a picture of Clay Aiken on my wall. No, wait, it's Meg Ryan.)

Regifting is far more common than you think. In fact, if you happen to receive one of those Chia Pets as a gift, keep in mind that it's probably been in circulation since 1979, probably been tossed out of more homes than an Amway rep.

Some gifts have traveled across the world and back. You give a white hat to Aunt Rani, who doesn't care for it and gives it to her cousin Shilpa, who gives it to her friend Anita, who takes it to India and gives it to her grandma, Archana, who gives it to her maid, Priya, who gives it to her mother, Raji, who glues a few shells on it and sells it for 2,000 rupees to an American tourist, who returns to New York and gives it to her mother, who is rather thrilled to have a replica of the Taj Mahal.

Column: Dear Santa, I'm on your side

Dear Santa,

It’s been almost 365 days since I wrote to you and I want to begin by telling you that the gift you brought me last Christmas just didn’t cut it. I don’t know where you picked up that lousy beard trimmer. I guess it was silly of me to expect someone like you to know anything about beard trimmers.

Before I give you my wish list for this Christmas, I’m sure you want to know whether I’ve been naughty or nice. I’ve been extremely nice, Santa. Unlike you, I haven’t said “ho ho ho” to anyone. I haven’t called a single person “ho,” not even a married one. But I did get slapped in the garden center of Wal-Mart when I asked for a certain digging implement. People are just so touchy these days.

Don’t get me wrong, Santa. I support your right to say “ho ho ho” to anyone you please. People who complain about that are just horrible and hopeless and probably offended that those words begin with ‘ho.’

I’m on your side, Santa, that’s what I want to say. I don’t agree with the U.S. Surgeon General, who believes you’re fat and unhealthy and a poor role model for kids. You’ve always been a good role model for me, Santa. At dinner time, when I’m trying to decide whether to have another slice of pizza, I always ask myself, “What would Santa do?” And then I eat five more.

I also disagree with the people who want you to stop saying “Merry Christmas” because it might offend people of other religions. It’s so easy to get offended these days, Santa. I could get offended every time someone says “What’s up?” to me. Frankly, Santa, I’m getting old and there’s nothing up anymore. Well, aside from my cholesterol, that is.

Listen, Santa, I’d prefer it if you didn’t say “Happy Holidays!” That’s just so dull and insipid. Instead of that, why not say “Merry Christmas!” to Christians and “Happy Diwali” to Hindus? And if you’re not sure if someone is Christian or Hindu, just say, “Merry Chriswali!”

Column: Many reasons to be thankful

I've always enjoyed Thanksgiving in America, because it reminds everyone to be thankful. Just go to any home on Thanksgiving Day and you will meet people who are thankful -- thankful they have an opportunity, in this great country, to stuff themselves with food. Yes, many people spend the entire day being thankful.

I wish everyone around the world could be just as thankful -- and not just once a year. There are many reasons to be thankful. Here are just a few:

Be thankful if you have food on your plate, if you aren't constantly hungry, if you don't lick your lips whenever you spot your neighbor's Chihuahua.

Be thankful if you have an unlimited supply of water, if your plants don't have to be that thirsty, if your children don't have to be that dirty.

Be thankful if you enjoy freedom of speech, if you can write a book portraying the president as a horse's behind, if you don't have to extricate the book from yours.

Be thankful if you have freedom of worship, if you can attend a church, temple or mosque without any fear, if no one stones you when you wear your "Elvis is king" T-shirt.

Be thankful if you're smarter than the average teen, if you can find Oman, Sudan, Kenya and Samoa on a world map, if you don't think they're parts of speech, as in: "Oman, I'm Sudan tired! Kenya give me Samoa water?"

Be thankful if you have health insurance or free health care, if you can see a doctor anytime you wish, if your doctor isn't sitting in front of a web camera in Bangalore.

Column: Don't sag, you might get fined

You may be surprised to learn that a handful of towns and cities in America have passed laws against sagging. But don’t worry, ladies, it’s nothing against you. Unless you wear your pants too low, that is.

That type of sagging has been popular among youngsters for years. It all started in the fall of 1992 when a teen-age boy in Los Angeles, rushing to get to school, forgot to pull his jeans all the way up. The boy happened to be a star on the high school football team, so everything he did was considered “cool.” Pretty soon, dozens of boys were walking around with their pants hanging halfway down their butts, looking like they escaped from the nearby psychiatric hospital. A few girls followed suit, excited that everyone would now know that they wore designer underwear.

What started in one school spread like a disease to many others, all over the world, prompting Ayatollah Khamenei of Iran to give a sermon on the “evil trouser styles of the West.” Signs in many mosques were updated to say: “Don’t swear. Don’t stare. Don’t show your underwear.”

Many adults in the western world were just as displeased about the trend, believing that it fell somewhere between “indecent" and “inane.” While youngsters thought they were making a fashion statement, the only statement adults could detect was: "Duh, my jeans have fallen, and I can't get them up."

The idea of wearing pants so low was particularly appalling to men in their sixties and seventies, many of whom had made it a habit to pull their pants up to their armpits.

Only a small proportion of adults seemed to approve of the fashion trend. Most were middle-aged men who didn’t pull their pants up either, because their bellies got in the way.

Column: Hit the border, the dollar is up

If you just inherited 100,000 dollars from a long-lost relative, you’d better hope it’s from the right country. If it’s Canadian dollars, you can throw a big party; if it’s American or Australian dollars, you can pop some champagne; and if it’s Zimbabwean dollars, you’d better get a hanky.

Yes, the Zimbabwean dollar isn’t doing too well. Your inheritance might still buy you a car, but only if there’s a clearance sale at the toy store.

The U.S. dollar hasn’t plunged quite that far, but it’s starting to resemble Pam Anderson’s neckline. If it drops any further, Dick Cheney might have a heart attack.

At the start of the year, one U.S. dollar would get you 1.17 Canadian dollars, which was a pleasant surprise to American tourists, including the man who exclaimed, “I had no idea those people up north had their own money.”

Today, the U.S. dollar is worth 0.94 Canadian dollars, which has created a lot of excitement among Canadians, especially all the people who like to cross the border to shop. Marketing experts have a term for these people: ‘women.’

Canadian women, even those who don’t know the first thing about finances, are keeping track of the dollar’s value as closely as they keep track of General Hospital. “It’s up by a cent!” they yell to their husbands or boyfriends. “That means, if we convert $1,000, let me see ... we can get an extra set of panties!”

Go to any bank and you’re likely to find someone converting, someone with a big purse and an even bigger smile. There hasn’t been this much converting in Canada since Billy Graham last visited.

Column: Men excluded, us included

They’ve done it in India, they’ve done it in Japan,
they’ve come up with a good plan.

And they’ll be doing it in South Korea too,
sending out the painting crew.

“Ladies only” the train cars will say,
and it doesn’t matter if you’re gay.

You’re not supposed to go in there,
no matter what kind of earrings you wear.

Leave them alone, give them their space;
don’t force them to use their Mace.

They want to be away from certain kinds of men;
they want to have a safe place for Rani, Miko and Gwen.

They want to be away from men who move in too tight;
they want to be away from men who pinch with delight.

They want to be away from men who like to leer;
they want to be away from men who stare at their rear.

They want to be away from men who are big flirts;
they want to be away from men who look down their shirts.

Column: Missing out on Halloween

Since it's Halloween, I thought you might enjoy a column I wrote a decade ago.

 

  MISSING OUT ON HALLOWEEN

  Halloween has always been somewhat of a mystery to me.
 
  Perhaps that's because I grew up in Africa, where you'd have
  to be a little crazy to leave your pumpkins outside. Folks
  there never have trouble distinguishing between decorations
  and food. And leaving food on your porch is not a good idea.
  Especially during a famine. When people are starving, there
  is nothing more arrogant than decorating your house with
  food.
 
  Actually, the conditions were never that bad in Zambia, the
  country I grew up in. We never felt the need to go door to
  door, begging for candy.
 
  My mom would have been so embarrassed if I had asked a
  neighbor for food. Especially after giving the neighbor a
  threat. Trick or treat? A quick call to my mother and the
  trick would have been saving my butt from a whipping.
 
  If we were guests at someone's house and they offered me a
  second helping of dessert, the correct response was "No,
  thank you." Mom was always watching and I didn't want it to
  be my last dessert.

Lynette Sheffield column: Getting Fruity

Here's a funny column by humorist Lynette Sheffield:

Getting Fruity

While walking through the snack aisle at Costco (And no, it wasn’t like I was going to actually buy anything that would ruin my diet, I was simply looking. Truly.), I saw this product that was called “Fruit Leather.”

I understand that Fruit Leather is a fruit snack.  But I can’t believe that “Fruit Leather” was the name chosen by the company name-choosers. 

I mean, really? 

Fruit Leather was the best you could come up with? 

I can tell you with all sincerity that I have never, not once, looked down at my own shoes and thought, “I wish they were made out of fruit so I could eat them.”   

Maybe I should get out more. Maybe this is a personal expression that is quite common and I am so out of it, I cannot even consider this option. 

I don’t know. 

What I do know is that if something is presented to me to eat and part of the name of that food is leather; I will go hungry.

I’m not a radical vegan, protein disciple or a member of the Carb Police.  I’m just on a lifelong leather-free diet.

Column: No family reunion for Obama and Cheney

Nothing has stunned me more this year than the news that presidential candidate Barack Obama and Vice President Dick Cheney are related. It’s almost like hearing that Paris Hilton has decided to become a missionary. Or that she knows how to spell “missionary.”

Obama is a Democrat, a die-hard liberal, while Cheney is a Republican, conservative to the core. But they do have some things in common. For example: two eyes, a nose and a mouth. The same number of limbs, too.

When it comes to buttering their bread, they’re both conservative. When it comes to buttering their staff, they’re both liberal.

Cheney has been known to hunt ducks. Obama has been known to duck hunts. Cheney has a reputation for stuffing his mouth. Obama has a reputation for mouthing stuff.

But even with such similarities, no one ever suspected that the two leaders were related. It was Cheney’s wife, Lynn, who discovered that they have a common ancestor while researching her memoir. She broke the news to her husband gently, moments after he revived her.

Dick: “Lynn, what’s wrong? Why did you faint?”

Lynn: “I just found out something about your past.”

Dick (turning pale): “What is it, honey? Is it something I can have expunged?”

Lynn: “No, Dick, this can’t be erased. You have a common ancestor with someone you don’t particularly like.”

Dick (turning even paler): “Who is it, honey? Clinton? Kennedy? Bin Laden?”

Lynn: “No, Barack Obama.”

Dick: “Phew! What a relief. It’s only Broke Bama.”

Lynn: “It’s Barack Obama, Dick. He’s your relative now, so you’d better learn how to pronounce his name.”

Column: The world records that make me proud

Please excuse me while I show a little national pride. It’s not every day that I get to revel in the accomplishments of my countrymen. After all, India has won just three medals in the last six Olympic Games, two bronze and one silver, despite the Indian Olympic Association’s best efforts to find good athletes and lure them to India.

So you can imagine my excitement when Mahdi Habib, a loyal reader from Saudi Arabia, sent me an article about all the Indians who’ve managed to get into the Guinness World Records book. According to the Associated Press article, India holds 219 Guinness records –- and some of them are quite impressive. Radhakant Bajpai, for example, set a record by growing his ear hair 5.19 inches long. When I read about that, I pumped my fist in the air and shouted, “Go India!”

As far as I know, no American or Russian has ever come close to that feat, perhaps because they have other priorities, such as attracting the opposite sex. But I choose to believe that many of them are trying their best to grow their ear hair, applying Rogaine to their lobes morning and night, dreaming of beating the great Radhakant Bajpai and becoming “Ear Hair King of the World.”

Bajpai is quite proud of his hair. If you ask him about it, he’ll give you an earful. "Making it to Guinness World Records is indeed a special occasion for me and my family," he said, according to GuinnessWorldRecords.com. "God has been very kind to me." Unfortunately, God has not been so kind to his two sons, Satyam and Anchal, leaving their disappointed father with no hair apparent.

Column: Remembering the victims of Sept. 11

So many names, so many faces. Names that could fill a small town's phone directory, faces that could pack a small college's yearbook.

Do you remember the names? Can you picture the faces? Or has the passage of time turned your mind into a Cuban dock, with more going out than coming in?

Here are five names: Ronald Orsini, Valsa Raju, Michael Parkes, Brooke Jackman, Bill Dean.

Five people who perished on Sept. 11. Let's meet them. With help from the New York Times, let's take a quick peek into their lives.

Ronald Orsini, 59, a bond broker at the World Trade Center, had studied ballet as a boy and loved to dance. But when he wasn't dancing, his wife, Arlene, considered him a klutz. She asked him, "What would you be like if you hadn't danced ballet?"

Klutz or not, he had a positive outlook on life, the type of eternal optimist who, on Sept. 11, might have said, "Stop worrying about it. It's only a plane. I barely heard the crash. My office is only half-full of smoke. How many bonds did you say you wanted?"

Column: In search of America on a world map

In the final round of the recent Miss Teen USA 2007 pageant, Lauren Upton –- better known as Miss Teen South Carolina –- was asked this question: "Recent polls have shown a fifth of Americans can't locate the U.S. on a world map. Why do you think this is?"

Upton paused briefly, then proceeded to give a most revealing answer, part of which sounded like this: “I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, uh, some ... people out there in our nation don't have maps and, uh, I believe that our education like such as in South Africa and, uh, the Iraq everywhere like, such as and ...”

When I heard that “a fifth of Americans can’t locate the U.S. on a world map,” I was really surprised, because I didn’t realize that four-fifths CAN. I decided to conduct my own survey to see if this was true, using a map with all the names deleted. To make sure my survey was scientific, I questioned only randomly selected people, both men and women, from all over Lauren Upton’s hometown.

Me: “Excuse me, mister, can you show me where America is on this world map.”

Young man (pointing): “Yeah, of course I can. There it is.”

Me: “Uh … actually, that’s Iraq.”

Column: Don't wait for the boat: learn how to swim

I’ve never been a great swimmer. But I can move around the water fairly well, so well that I often hear encouraging words from people, such as “Good job, Melvin,” “Nice movement, Melvin,” and “Melvin, I think you’re almost ready to get out of the kiddie pool.”

I don’t want to brag, but I’m quite good at the breaststroke, even better than I am at stroking other body parts.

If you asked me whether I’m a beginner, intermediate or advanced swimmer, I’d have to say that I’m definitely an advanced beginner. On a scale of one to 10, I’m a solid two.

The important thing is, I know how to float. I’m an expert at floating. I can do it for several hours at a time, as long as there’s no leak in the raft.

If it happens to be leaking … well, then I can probably stay afloat by myself for an hour or two. I’m not likely to drown in a body of water, unless there’s a strong current, unless someone drops the radio in. But that’s electrocution, not drowning.

Swimming is a vital skill, as I’m constantly reminded when I read the news. Almost every day, there’s a story of drowning. People drown in all kinds of ways: some fall out of boats, some get caught in floods, some get drunk and think their cars are submarines.

Driver (entering ocean): “How do you like my new submarine, dude?”

Passenger: “Submarine? Who told you this was a submarine?”

Driver: “That’s what it’s called, dude. Submarine.”

Passenger: “Subaru, you idiot! It’s called a Subaru!”