"Ma, they broke my hair!"

Now Playing: Ellie Goulding - Lights 

As a rule, curly hair is invariably appreciated more by those who are not burdened with it. 

People often ask me, "Is that your real hair?" "Oh no," I feel like replying, "this is just the result of a perm gone horribly wrong. But no need to worry! I'm suing the hairstylist responsible!"

Personally, I doubt anyone would put up with hair like mine - a higgledy-piggledy mess - unless they had to, or perhaps were paid handsomely to do so. I only put up with it because I'm too lazy to go through the bother of straightening it every other day, but most curly-haired people of my acquaintance have, as it were, crossed the Berlin Wall, leaving me to languish in East Berlin as Stasi agents watch my every move. A few months ago though, I was forcibly dragged into West Germany, not so much kicking and screaming as dazed and confused. 

The facts were these: I was minding my own business and wandering about Scarborough Town Centre, when suddenly I was accosted by a straightener-wielding female. 

"Do you have a minute to spare?" she asked. 

"Um, actually, I'm on my way somewhere - " 

"Not an issue, this will only take a minute! Have a seat, set your bag down here, did you have a nice day shopping?"

"Yes, but - wait, please don't undo my braid - "

At this point, her supervisor steps in, dripping hair gel and confidence, and launches into his patter: "You don't straighten your hair very often, do you? No, of course not. Do you own a straightener? You do? Wait, let me guess, it's probably a ConAir, right? Takes forever to use? Well, the new infrared straightener that my colleague is using on your hair - no, don't get up - is super fast, and won't burn your hair. Don't you get bored of your hair always having the same look? Of course, it's natural for women to want to look their best! And this product makes it so easy! It's only been seven minutes, and my assistant has straightened a good third of your hair! How long would it take to do the same thing with your old straightener? And it doesn't damage your hair. Super-fast and safe to use, and it only costs $200! So what do you think?"

"It's a brilliant job, but as I said, I never straighten my hair and I'm really not looking to buy a hair straightener today."

"Well. If that's what you want. Jane*, give the lady back her scrunchie. You have a nice day, now."

So, I have to make my way home with a chunk of my hair Avril Lavigne straight, and the rest the usual mess, providing, I am sure, ample conversation fodder for any or all of the people I pass on the way: "Oh. My God. Did you see her hair? Did she seriously leave the house with her hair only partially straightened? WHAT is wrong with her?"

I finally get home, wash the curl back into my hair, kick back and let it dry. Back to normal at last! Except... one lock of hair suddenly seems longer than the rest; which, what? I extricate it from the rest, and the reason becomes clear - while the rest of my straightened hair has gone back to ringlet-y curls, this laggard hank of hair is just wavy. 

Huh. Have I not rinsed my hair out right? Alright, I figure it'll be back to normal the next time I wash it - except, it isn't. That stubborn length of hair persists in its delusions of waviness for more than two weeks, during which time I look as though I've cut my hair myself and done a really sloppy job of it too. On the positive side, I've learnt a valuable lesson: NEVER let random vendors come near your hair with heated implements; no good can possibly arise thereof. 

So, as messy as curly hair generally is, I believe I've finally accustomed myself to it; having seen life on the other side of the wall, I'm happy to be back in East Berlin in my little Plattenbau flat, with my curly-wurly, higgledy-piggledy hair.

*not her real name

This Is Not The Sci-Fi You Are Looking For

My father and I were discussing Star Trek. As you do. 

Me: So you have The Original Series, right?
Dad: Right...
Me: And then you have The Next Generation.
Dad: ...
Me: The one with Patrick Stewart?
Dad: Right.
Me: And then you have Deep Space Nine, and then comes Voyager, and THEN you have Enterprise, which is set before TOS, so it's a prequel to all the other shows.
Dad: Then where does that other show fit in?
Me: Which other show?
Dad: You know, that show you used to watch?
Me: (thinking) What Sci-Fi show did I watch that my father knows I watched? He can't mean... (aloud) BATTLESTAR GALACTICA?!
Dad: Oh yeah, that one! Where does that fit in?
Me: They have nothing to do with one another! The two are set in completely different universes!
Dad: But they both have to do with galaxies or something...
Me: ... You are aware Star Trek and Star Wars are completely different too, right?
Dad: Oh, that I know.

I am convinced he thinks that all Sci-Fi that lacks lightsabers is automatically Star Trek.

4000 Kilograms of Awesome

I don't know if it's some sort of ingrained malayalee thing, but I love elephants, which is why these ads make me tear up like a professional onion chopper:

Ten Reasons To Watch Chuck

1. It's a show about a nerd who gets top-secret, super-classified government intel stuck in his head... and now he fights crime!
2. Zachary Levi, who plays said nerd Chuck, is adorable and remarkably attractive in a rumpled sort of way. 
3. His handlers, CIA agent Sarah Walker (Yvonne Strahovski) and NSA agent John Casey (Adam Baldwin) are just badass. 
4. The rest of the cast is just awesome, which one rather expects when you have a character nicknamed Captain Awesome.
5. The guest stars! Matthew Bomer, Tricia Helfer, Scott Bakula, Chevy Chase, John Larroquette... It's an ongoing parade of awesome.
6. The UST between Chuck and Sarah. Zachary Levi and Yvonne Strahovski have amazing chemistry and when Chuck and Sarah finally get together, it's going to be epic in the best Veronica Mars sense, "Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed. Epic." (To put it in perspective, Booth and Brennan wish they had this much UST.)
7. It's co-created by the guy who brought us The O.C....which, admit it, you loved.
8. The really cute opening credits are set to an instrumental version of a Cake song. Cake! Who doesn't love them? 
9. The Buy More, where Chuck works, is basically Best Buy dressed up for TV. And so if you believe what you see on TV, most of the folks at Best Buy are apathetic at best, extortionists at worst. Hah!
10. Best use of Domo Arigato, Mr Roboto ever!

Why? How? (But Mostly Why.)

 Why is Heidi Montag following me on twitter?

Vegetarian Hormone Soup

It is quite easy to feel put-upon when you're the lone vegetarian in a house of carnivores. One begins to feel proprietary towards the fruits and veggies. "Keep your hands off my spinach, you already have chicken curry!" I would say, to which my brother, not unreasonably, would usually reply, "Just because you're a vegetarian doesn't mean you're the only person who gets to eat plant matter!" It was a moot point, because my mother is in the habit of cooking quantities that would feed a platoon of hungry rugby players, so usually we'd grumble a bit more, formulate some choice insults and mutter them sotto voce in case either parent was in hearing range, and then forget all about the whole thing five minutes later. 

Then one month, PMT hits me like a hurricane. Dinnertime: I am looking forward to delicious methi chapatis with mango pickle, I open the fridge and lo and behold, the chapatis, they are gone. My brother strolls by, casually, munching on something. I turn a gimlet eye upon him and yes, rolled up in his hand is a methi chapati. Quite steadily, I ask, "Where are the rest of the chapatis?" He swallows; says, "Oh, I ate them. Did you want some?"

At this point, in my head, there was all that really lame lightning-strike imagery you see in cheesier hindi films at moments of high drama. "You ate them ALL!" I roared, aghast. "WHAT ABOUT ME? I'M THE VEGETARIAN HERE!"  I was, at that moment, the spirit of capslock made flesh, but my brother remained unfazed by all the majuscule melodrama. "Che," he said, in between bites, "you do not have the exclusive right to eat vegetarian stuff just because you're a vegetarian."

It was too much. I burst out sobbing. "YOU PEOPLE HATE ME!" I railed, as my very confused parents came in, "YOU DON'T CARE IF I STARVE TO DEATH!" I flounced to my room, utterly bereft, depressed and lachrymose, there to die a (very, very, very!) slow death from starvation.

Except, half-an-hour later, I wasn't bereft, depressed and lachrymose; I was hungry and perplexed. Had I really thrown a fit over chapatis? I went downstairs to check; three pairs of eyes examined me. "Have you stopped your nonsense now?" asked my mother. 

"Um, yeah." 

"Good. Then go eat. There's dal and brinjal on the stove for you."

Shelob Kutty

Me: AAAAAAIEEEEEEEEE!!!
Dad: What? What?
Me: *point and wibble*
Dad: Oh, please. It's probably more scared of you than you are of it.
Me: I really doubt that. It's probably the runt of the litter and Papa Spider and Mama Spider and all its one hundred siblings are probably waiting around the counter to EAT US. Have you learned nothing from Hollywood?
Dad: ...

Striker Party on Google Wave and Everyone's Invited (While Invites Last)

This should be fun: Beth and other assorted Bollywood bloggers and fans are organizing a Striker watchalong this Sunday 7th January at 1 pm EST (10 pm local UAE time) on Google Wave. The film is being released worldwide on Youtube at the same time as it hits cinemas in India - for free in most places, though US viewers will have to shell out a not unreasonable $5. For more info on this event, you can follow #strikerwatchalong on twitter; if you want invites to Google Wave, leave a message with your e-mail address.

Democracy For All (Irony Not Included)

"In this respect, the United States represents the form toward which capitalist democracy is tending; related tendencies include the progressive elimination of unions and other popular organizations that interfere with private power, an electoral system that is increasingly stage-managed as a public relations exercise, avoidance of welfare measures such as national health insurance that also impinge on the prerogatives of the privileged, and so on. From this perspective, it is reasonable for Cyrus Vance and Henry Kissinger to describe the United States as "a model democracy," democracy being understood as a system of business control of political as well as other major institutions.

Other Western democracies are generally a few steps behind in these respects. Most have not yet achieved the U.S. system of one political party, with two factions controlled by shifting segments of the business community."

Chomsky, Noam. "Containing the Enemy." The Essential Chomsky. Ed. Anthony Arnove. London: The Bodley Head, 2008. 257-58. Print.

[More on the US Healthcare Debacle here and here.]

"Life's a bitch, now so am I."

(Inspired by Indiequill's post here.)

Why do we bite our tongues? Why, when faced with something or someone annoying, do we swallow down our anger and tell ourselves that there's no need to make a fuss, the irritant will soon be gone?

I recently had the dubious pleasure of meeting, after a very long time, an old acquaintance. Said old acquaintance - let us call him Q - has always been abrasive to the point of rudeness. Case in point: when we were at school together, Q was an agnostic, which was totally fine by me. I don't care if you're a Rastafarian or a Pastafarian; your religious beliefs - or lack thereof - are your own. Also frankly, I was brought up to believe it was rude to question other people's religious beliefs. Q, sadly, suffered no such scruples. "I don't know how you can believe in God," he said, "knowing what we do about science."

Now, ideally, this is the point where I would say, "Back off, jackass - my religious beliefs are none of your beeswax." Instead, what I did do was to smile politely and noncommitally and murmur something to the effect of to each his own. I could have pointed out that if Q was such a proud agnostic, why did he still pretend to be religiously observant at home? Nope, I shut up.

It was to be hoped, therefore, that Q had mellowed over time. Sadly, this was not the case. He still had an opinion for every occasion and the more strident the better. "You live where? I could never live there. Isn't it full of rich Mallus*?" Did I say anything, dear reader? I wish. How I wish I had said something freezing and cutting. Instead I again murmured something polite and noncomittal (You may notice a trend there.) What did I have to lose by saying, "Shut. UP! You don't know half as much as you claim to, and what you do know is iffy, so please hold your tongue regarding things you know nothing about." Instead I shut up, as usual.

It is difficult to shake off the habits of a lifetime, to silence the inner voice that continually says, "be nice, or people won't like you" but I've decided to atleast try, because frankly, I'll like myself better that way. So, word to the wise, people who are going to be rude to me in future - I'll smile politely, catch myself, take a deep breath and tell you to fuck off.

*It's not, by the way.

Ishqiya: Vishal Bharadwaj Can Do No Wrong

Khalujaan (Naseeruddin Shah) and his nephew Babban (Arshad Warsi) are on the run from their boss, Mushtaq Bhai. Khalujaan - real name Iftekhar, but no one calls him that  - is Mushtaq Bhai's wife's rakhi bhai , but given that he and his bhanja stole a bagful of money from him and left him tied to a chair, things aren't exactly cordial between them. With nowhere else to run, they decide to hide out with Khalujaan's old friend Verma in Gorakhpur, except Verma is dead, and his widow Krishna (Vidya Balan) agrees to put them up. Hijinks - romantic and criminal - ensue.

Ishqiya isn't a traditional Bollywood movie; there are no song-and-dance numbers and it clocks in at a neat two hours. What really intrigued me about it was the fact that the plot and characters - especially Krishna - make sense, which makes them universal. With a bit of tweaking, these characters could be playing out this same plot in Australia or Scotland or wherever. If they do an American remake, by-the-by, my fantasy cast would include Sam Rockwell, Jeff Bridges and Toni Collette (yes, I know she's Australian, but she does a flawless American accent, so shush.)

The casting of this version is note-perfect. I wasn't sure about Vidya Balan at first, simply because she looks South Indian to me, but she has a steeliness about her that fits Krishna exactly. I do not believe there is another major actress working in Hindi films today who could have played broken-hearted, sly, smart Krishna as well as Vidya did - maybe Rani Mukherjee, but steely resolve has never been her forte, and I can't really see her playing as unglamorous a character as this, oil in her hair and all. And, wow, Arshad Warsi. To watch him in any of the dime-a-dozen comedies he does, you'd never think the man could act, but I'm very pleased to be proven wrong. In lesser hands, Babban would just be the lecherous comic relief character; Arshad Warsi gave him depth and enough warmth that Babban is as strong a character as his uncle Khalujaan, which brings us nicely to Naseeruddin Shah.

When writing about great actors, I am reminded of something Laurence Olivier once wrote about Anthony Hopkins auditioning for the role of Edmund* in King Lear - that he walked away with the part as neatly as a cat would with a piece of fish. We're so used to expecting that calibre of acting from Naseeruddin that even though he embodies henna-ed Khalujaan perfectly - a career criminal who once had aspirations towards the arts and falls in love with Krishna because of her music first - it simply doesn't have the same wow factor as the other two central performances. "It's Naseeruddin Shah! Of course he's good, what else would you expect? The man was the best thing about Krrish, for crying out loud."

Being set in the Hindi belt, the language they use in this movie is a bit different from what I'm used to, and weirdly, the movie wasn't subtitled, so a few of the lines went right over my head. What exactly is a "sulphate?" (And if you tell me, well, metals react with sulphuric acid to produce metallic sulphates, I will hit you. somehow.) But to be honest, it's refreshing to watch a Hindi film that for once, is not set in Bombay or the UK or Canada or Australia or the USA. If someone's only experience of India was through mainstream Hindi films, I very much doubt he or she would even suspect that rural India - apart from maybe Punjab - exists! It does, and in the boondocks of UP (where this film is set) and Bihar, kidnappings are rampant, guns are everywhere and life is desperate for the have-nots.

By Hindi film standards, Ishqiya is quite racy, because whoa, Arshad Warsi and Vidya Balan have chemistry. On the flipside, it is well-acted; the writing by Vishal Bharadwaj, Abhishek Chaubey and Sabrina Dhawan is sharp - plus there's a Chekov's gun!; and the direction by Abhishek Chaubey is quite good, and I don't mean, "for his first film," I mean good. So. When can we look forward to Ishqiya 2?

*It may have been Edgar, I'm not sure. 

Why So Blah?

Now Playing: Editors - Papillon (Tiesto Mix)

Anyone who knows me knows I'm shallow like a kiddie pool. I don't just have one fake-imaginary-tv-movie-boyfriend, I have a whole collection. When I'm in the mood for funny banter, there's Nathan Fillion; Abhishek Bachchan has intense and debonair in his pocket; Matthew Bomer is just uncomfortably good-looking, & Shahid Kapoor does that quiet, serious charm thing very well and dances like a dream. So, when I heard Chance Pe Dance described as Shahidporn, I knew I had to watch it.

Me: Chance pe Dance is apparently TOTAL Shahidporn. We must watch it. 

A: Err...

Me: Must. Watch. It. 

A: Um, okay? 

Sadly, the movie sucked. There's no way I can dress it up - this was a total turkey. The music was completely unmemorable - which is criminal in a dance movie; the plot was completely incohesive - Shahid teaches schoolkids how to dance until that plotline is summarily and abruptly wound up; and perhaps worst of all, Shahid didn't even take off his shirt till the big finale number.

Look, if you're going to play to the cheap seats, then, well, play to the cheap seats. If your movie sucks, then don't wait till the end to distract your audience with Shirtless Shahid, because by then they've spent the entire movie cracking wise. Which, by the by, is yet another sign that the movie totally lost its audience, because at the showing we caught, we spent the whole movie making really loud comments and we didn't get one shush or glare. I don't make a habit of talking through a movie, but really, this was the only way to get through this one.

This is not to say that Chance Pe Dance didn't have its bright spots. Shahid did do a great job; Genelia is funny and adorable (especially with her Scooty) though it's difficult to buy her as a choreographer when she's  just not on the same level as Shahid when it comes to dancing. It's a shame, because they're both bringing their A-game to a movie that's definitely minor league.

Bottomline: If someone describes this movie to you as a fun timepass movie, they are lying liars who lie. Do not take a chance on Chance Pe Dance.

Habib Koité & Bamada at the Abu Dhabi Cultural Foundation

 

Habib Koité playing in the midst of the not-so-few, the brave, the energetic - 
the people who got up and danced.

Heroic Pose, Crappy Photo

Towards the beginning of the two-hour set; 

the drummer - Souleymane Ann, I think! - also played the Calabash.

On the Talking Drum, Mahamadou Kone with Bassist Abdoul Wahab Berthé.

The Guitarist - Le Professeur Boubacar Sidibé! - and the Balaphonist - name unknown, sorry.
(ETA: The Balaphonist is Fassery Diabaté; thank you, anonymous tipster!)

The Bassist had this perpetually khadoos expression on his face. Why?

Koite kept the audience laughing with banter between songs, but he did make the serious point that he wants young Africans to dream of Africa - not the USA, not Europe but Africa. 

Like the song says, "L'Afrique fera son chemin..."

Habib Koite and Bamada - if you get a chance to see them, don't miss out.

They're playing Toronto the 25th of March as part of a North American tour, so definitely pencil that in.

Get Out Of Your House (And Into A Library)

Now Playing: Dragonette - Liar

I like to write. I like - though I do not always enjoy - the process of crafting sentences, choosing the exact words and phrasing to achieve the necessary nuance. While there is nothing so neat and elegant as a clever turn of phrase, it is a truth sadly acknowleged by every jaded reader and aspiring scribbler that these specimens are elusive, rarely to be found in the jungles of extant published prose. Furthermore, like many endangered species, these exemplars of expression are loathe to propagate in the laboratories of our assorted notebooks and wordprocessors.

So what's a would-be wordsmith to do? Stare into space and sporadically bang away at a keyboard? Or follow the advice of Ron Koertge?

"Do You Have Any Advice For Those of Us Just Starting Out?"

 Ron Koertge

Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave
your house or apartment. Go out into the world.

It's all right to carry a notebook but a cheap
one is best, with pages the color of weak tea
and on the front a kitten or a space ship.

Avoid any enclosed space where more than
three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware
any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks
across the muffled tennis courts.

Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.
And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle
where a child a year or two old is playing as his
mother browses the ranks of the dead.

Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.
The title, the author's name, the brooding photo
on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray
book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher
it gets, the wider he grins.

You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower
falls, be like that child. Laugh so loud everybody
in the world frowns and says, "Shhhh."

Then start again.

Would a Hello Kitty notebook do, do you think?

In Your Direction / From The Satellite Mind

That Gaping Maw

Now Playing: Little Boots - Symmetry

From the Rush Limbaugh show, Jan 13th:

 "Yes, I think in the Haiti earthquake, ladies and gentlemen -- in the words of Rahm Emanuel -- we have another crisis simply too good to waste.  This will play right into Obama's hands. He's humanitarian, compassionate.  They'll use this to burnish their, shall we say, "credibility" with the black community -- in the both light-skinned and dark-skinned black community in this country.  It's made-to-order for them.  That's why he couldn't wait to get out there, could not wait to get out there.

[...]

CALLER:  Mega Rush Baby dittos.  My question is, why did Obama in the sound bite you played earlier, when he's talking about if you wanted to donate some money, you can go to WhiteHouse.gov --

RUSH:  Yeah.

CALLER: -- to direct you how to do so.  If I want to donate money to the Red Cross, why do I need to go to the WhiteHouse.gov page and --

RUSH:  Exactly.  Would you trust that the money is going to go to Haiti?

CALLER:  No.

RUSH:  Would you trust that your name is going to end up on a mailing list for the Obama people to start asking you for campaign donations for him and other causes.

CALLER:  Absolutely.

RUSH:  Absolutely right.

CALLER:  That's the point.

RUSH:  Besides, we've already donated to Haiti.  It's called the US income tax."

 Atleast 30,000 people have died in the poorest country in the western hemisphere, and Rush Limbaugh is more concerned with scoring points off Obama - who, of course, is only concerned with this because it is a black issue. 

It was bad enough when he mocked Michael J Fox' Parkinson's symptoms, when he flat-out stated that he wanted Obama's administration to fail - if anyone had said that about Bush, he'd have been first in line crying High Treason - but this is just beyond the pale. When is someone going to stand up to Rush Limbaugh and say, "Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of decency?"

In Which A Very Questionable Metaphoric Decision Is Made

Now Playing: Lindisfarne - Meet Me On The Corner

"Having curly hair," I mused, "is like being in an abusive relationship."

"What?!?"

"No, really. You know how abusive spouses can be sweet as pie one day, and then the next day they break your nose because you didn't get their coffee right, or whatever?"

"Um, okay?"

"And then, even when women leave their abusive husbands, a lot of times they have trouble getting into new, loving relationships because they've come to expect craziness from their relationships as opposed to normalcy?"

"And how does this have anything to do with curly hair?"

"Are you kidding me? It is exactly like curly hair. One day, your hair curls exactly the way you want it to, the next, it's a giant ball of frizz that's too pathetic to pass off as an afro. On and off, off and on, until you don't know which way is up and you can't take it anymore, so you buy a hair straightener and iron the curl right out of your hair."

"Um..."

"And now you've got straight-ish/wavy hair that is easy to manage and a hairstyle that doesn't change daily depending on the wind, humidity and the caprices of the curl, right? Except now, that's boring. You've come to expect changeable, unpredictable hair. Hair that simply sits on your head and does what you want it to is somehow... bleh. So you trash the straightener, wash out your hair and let the curl do what it will. Just like an abuse victim going back to her abuser."

"You're seriously comparing having messy hair with being the victim of abuse."

"Um, yeah. It's like, I started the metaphor, and then midway I got how awful it sounded - "

"- and you finished it anyway?"

"...yeah."

"Alrighty then."

Awkward Prose, Let Me Show You It

Now Playing: Cory Monteith - I'll Stand By You

“What makes a masterpiece? One answer is mastery. But that raises questions of its own. What is it? Where does it come from? And is it enough?”

I won’t lie: I totally cracked up typing up that quote. And come on, who wouldn’t? Doesn’t it sound like the opening to a particularly awkward high school essay? “Please write 500 words on what makes a masterpiece. You may include examples from music, literature, film and television. No video games please.”

It’s actually the opening to a piece in today’s The National discussing Beethoven’s fifth symphony. It’s the most juvenile prose I’ve seen in print in a long time, so thank you, Ed Lake, for bringing a smile to my face before the caffeine kicked in. But seriously, what were you thinking? And where was your editor, for that matter? The rest of the article is quite good, but that opening is inexcusable.

Too Hideous For Words (and I don't mean the "fatties")

Now Playing: Friendly Fires - Kiss of Life

How vain do you have to be to join a site called BeautifulPeople.com? A site so "exclusive" you can only get in if existing members agree that you're hot enough? How desperate for validation must you be?

It's alright though, they love you! You're officially one of the Beautiful People! But then, tragedy strikes. It's the holiday season, there are carbs everwhere, you can't avoid that turkey dinner with the folks, and before you can say "superficial," you've put on weight.

As easily as that, you've lost the acceptance of your peers - who aren't actually your peers anymore, as they've voted you and 4,999 others off the island and you're no longer a member of BeautifulPeople.com. Are you worth anything anymore? How can you know you're beautiful unless other people tell you so?

It's not the site's fault, of course. It had to maintain its standards as the last bastion of the Certifiedly Attractive on the internet. In the words of site founder Robert Hintze,

"As a business, we mourn the loss of any member, but the fact remains that our members demand the high standard of beauty be upheld. Letting fatties roam the site is a direct threat to our business model and the very concept for which BeautifulPeople.com was founded."

So even as you languish in exile, you have hope. Because there is still a place for your people - or the people you used to be, at any rate - where beautiful people roam, unmenaced by the fatties, the plain, the uncoordinated and the unprimped. One day, you will get back into paradise - if you have to starve, purge or cardio yourself to death to do it.