As courtesy to my friend andthree and a gesture of solidarity to his friend, I ask you [reader/follower/accidental visitor] to check out Metasebia Seifu’s “If I could only draw, and knew how to paint (an old-school love story with lots ot sex)” and tell her what you think. It is available on both Kindle and Nook devices and sells for only 0.99 USD.
I thought I might take a cue from my various Facebook followers [who made me hate the idea of Facebook and following; did I already say “አበሻን ‘አድ’ ማድረግ ድንቁርናን ማስፋፋት ነው”?!] and share with you – my [hopefully] more sensible readers – stuff I have been reading, watching and listening to. [And no, Layla, you don’t need to comment on this one sweetness :)].
- is “A conversation about life’s unseen patterns” Podcast hosted by Shankar Vedantam, who is NPR’s social science correspondent and my favorite East-Indian of all times. Unless Anil Kapoor is still alive, in which case Vedantam would have to step off to 2nd place. [Here below are two of his pieces that I found especially interesting; being a woman in a winning-men’s world afraid to try new things because she is fucking scared of failing – in full-view of her own damn self!: How Does Gender Affect One’s Willingness To Compete? and Women Held To Higher Ethical Standard Than Men, Study Shows]
- Timothy McSweeney’s Internet Tendency is my favorite blog for daily humor
- and I believe Netflix to be the go-to place when it comes to great non-Hollywood movies [Housebound, Look Who’s Back, The Man in the wall] and exceptional British [and one French] TV series of all time [Black Mirror, Happy Valley, Broadchurch and the above mentioned French show, The Returned, that kicked the American remake’s ass by a mile].
You don’t know what it means to be picked on until you have been picked-on by a crow three times in a row. It is very hard not to take it personally; it’s cawing bloody murder every time you appeared [as if you were sent from the inner depth of hell], jumping from tree to electric wire to make sure you have left the vicinity, dive-bombing at you and missing you by an inch. Add to this trauma the discovery [like an eye that can’t be closed once opened] that there were a lot of these mother fuckers tip-toeing around. Soon you would find yourself jumping at every flap of every feathered creature’s wing. At every cat that frowned at you. At the squirrel that sprinted in your way before finding its grip on a tree and running up for dear life. As for the dog that startled you when looking up from your phone, you better hope the owner has a strong hold on the leash. Because it would start “leyaj, legeraj mascheger”ing, and you would find yourself both a victim of uncalled-for aggression and apologizing for something he clearly needs to work through. “Dogs need to learn to mind their own business” – endil Troy.
The first two times it happened, the crow-harassment not the dog taking offense at my texting while walking, I haven’t worried much about it. Have even laughed when Troy said “Crows are good judges of character” as to why I was being chased out of town by one. Round 3 was not as amusing. I have, in fact, wondered if it wasn’t an omen; a foretelling of an impending doom; a crow-on-human racism [this is, after all, the “posh” part of Capitol Hill – where bridges over-look Cascade mountains and humans jog in name-brand sweatsuits when they aren’t walking dogs with shiny-coats]. Have wished I had owned a gun, or a baseball bat, or even a pepper-spray that would incapacitate the little bastard before I kicked the living shit out of it. “You aren’t so tough now, are you biatch?!” – I would have bragged, while applying feet to beak.
The fourth time, I was in full panic mode! It was not just the one crazy asshole cawing and taking swooping-shots at me. Two more have joined the cause and they were “maQaTeling” the neighborhood with “chu’het” while making escape quite difficult. I did make it out alive, after alarming two White women by my hide and seek routine to avoid the crows’ field of vision. And almost running into traffic while attempting to dodge what one writer called “the original angry-birds”. Upon finding my breath, calming the fluttering heart, and an area that doesn’t seem populated by the hateful species; I fed the question “crow attack human” into my google-search and waited for a response. Apparently, it was neither my [dark] fashion sense, nor an invisibly-inked “Mark of Cain” on the forehead, or even being mistaken for a past-offender that stirred the crow-community against poor ole moi. May-Mid June, was, apparently “fledge season”: where crows help their babies learn how to fly. And their over-protective parental sense tends to make them mistake anything from a folded umbrella to a tied hair to a flapping buckles of your big messenger bag [as in my case] for a nest, a dead bird, or some such nonsense.
The relief was so intense, so vindicating, I wanted to retell my ordeal in the form of a graphic novel. Start with a murder of crows in a meeting, where a young and handsome crow [ex-military; lost wife and kids to some human-induced accident] with a “you be damned” attitude is pled against by the elderly to stop harassing the neighborhood nanny. That there was nothing to indicate she presented a threat. To stop recruiting their naive [idiotic] sons to its cause, and get the help he needs. And his revolt against the powers that be. And how the story ends with the poor woman’s death; but not before she got the kids in her charge out of danger zone; taking a bullet for them – as it were. With the lesson being how crows were like all [human] communities, or old white men, who would assume the worst at the sight of every [harmless] ‘tsegu’re liwit’.
The following isn’t a people-equivalent of a gaggle of hormone-crazed crows. It is what happened one Summer afternoon [in Federal Way, WA] when the red light refused to change.
Cars ejecting themselves out of the line like a throw up. Honkings, swervings, curses, almost crushes. Mad dashes, victorious laughters, middle fingers. And quite cars filling into spots vacated by angry drivers. Fresh faces of willing motorists ready to wait, to obey the law, shading their eyes from the sun with glasses and newspapers; occupied with earlier conversations, hesitant smiles, not knowing what all the noise was about. Hopeful trusting faces who believe in order [!] and still give a damn.
Until they no longer do.