Death to Smoochy

Today, disaster struck.

In Hindu mythology there is a story about a wise man who found a little fish floundering in a puddle. He took it home and put it in a bowl. The next morning it had grown too big. He found a pond. Next morning it was too big. Then he took it to a lake. Same thing. Then the sea. Then the ocean. Eventually the fish saves the wise man (and 2 of every animal) from the flood. Besides the fact that white people stole this story and got rid of the fish, it is a lesson of some sort for us to learn from. All I know is that the little fish became god. The same thing has happened to Marrijit's (as yet unnamed) baby. The baby is huge, and Indian people think it is god.

I am sure several of you have some questions about this baby. Why is the baby darker than it used to be a few days ago? It is because I live in Arizona and I tan easily. Readers may ask, why is Arijit of Marrijit fame posting 3 times in succession, instead of an equal division of labor between him and his fair bride (in more ways than one)? It is because Marri has thrown out her back from carrying the fattie around.

What are we to do? I have suggested that we drive the baby to Nebraska and dump it there, because no state is going to believe this creature isn't at least 12. Marri didn't care as long as we didn't take it to Arkansas. Besides fat people and Bill Clinton, Arkansas is also famous for not letting gay people adopt. After a quick perusal of our 'Gay People Cliche's' dictionary, Marrijit has come to the conclusion that only a gay couple can redeem this fashionless foible of a human being.

We can also kill it. Just saying.

Vis a Vis a

In the life of each couple several thundershowers must necessarily occur. Even supposedly/seemingly perfect couples like Marrijit sometimes have trouble. "What," you say. "Nonsense. Everyone knows Marrijit is the bestest couple in the whole world." This is true, and I am not denying it, but the perfection was built slowly. Only recently has it gotten to the point where we are comfortable discussing it with our friends on the world wide interweb. We have revelled in our readers' love and affection, and the pointless musings on our relationship by Anonymous. But there is trouble in paradise now. Marrijit is on the verge of being in dire straits (much like the famous and confoundingly unpopular-in-America band) , the foundations are quivering. The new baby has changed everything. We have filled its little body with all the love we were capable of mustering up, and now Marrijit lies empty and drained.

We are getting old. Middle-age and its incipient responsibilities have overwhelmed us. After work we are sometimes so tired we can barely speak. Sometimes I think the baby is a pickle and try to put him in a sandwich. Sometimes Marri has an affair.

But we must be strong. We must persevere. And I will stop trying to kill the baby. Those are my new year's resolutions.

Triumphant Returns

You might wonder why we have not posted on this blog for nine months. Ask yourself a simple question-- what takes nine months? Yes, dear followers of the honeymooon years, your suspicions are correct. Here is our baby. He is a little undersized. And has a small penis. That happens sometimes. I'm sure size does not actually matter.

To give you an update: Marrijit is doing well. Marri is teaching little children, and Arijit is teaching big children, and we are changing the world while we're at it, just like our favorite politician Barack Obama said. There was a brief argument during which Arijit wanted to install Blagojevich as 'honeymoon years'' favorite politician, but healthy compromise once again won the day, and Marri got her way, so Barack is still our favorite politician.

Here is a bit of advice to all you single men on the manner of navigating a marriage: Marri always wins!

It's good to be back.

differing states of being

The blogosphere (as Marrijit likes to call it) is full of long electronic theses on the subject and nature of hipsters. While Marrijit is not intimately aware of the evolution of hipster-dom (one being a granola jock, the other a foreigner), it is well acquainted with several specimens of the same. From our extensive research we have learned that 'hipsters' are the new hippie (in this revelation we were aided by Dr. Jenn Heinen, whose scholarship has been expounded on in the pathbreaking literary work, 'A Novel Idea'). What exactly does that mean? Good question. As an Indian, I am well aware of the caste system. In India the caste system works like this (in descending order, as denoted by the numbers)--

1. Brahmins (scholars, priests)
2. Kshatriyas (warriors, rulers)
3. Vaishyas (merchants)
4. Shudras (unskilled workers)
5. Untouchables (waddya think?)

In India we have perfected this caste system. Once you're an untouchable you're stuck there. It is not a good system (from what I hear). As a matter of fact, it is a nonsense system, but one everyone takes seriously because its considered pretty bad form to disagree with what your ancestors have told you. It is something like the Founding Fathers insisting that everyone gets to carry guns, and Charlton Heston taking it seriously.

But just like Charlton Heston was proved a fool by Michael Moore, the caste system was shown to be fairly pointless by BR Ambedkar, who solved the whole issues by becoming a Buddhist. Buddhism is a very solid religion, because everyone's just been oppressing them for so long, they haven't come up with any dogma yet. It's like Judaism.

Therefore, we can relate India and the US as such:

caste system= Charlton Heston
BR Ambedkar= Michael Moore
Buddhism= Judaism

Anyway, from recent research we have found out that Charlton Heston is getting a little tired of being responsible for the caste system dilemma, and has asked for a break. He suggested a parallel caste system in America, so that he does not have to be the American representative of the entire caste system, but in America everyone is always asking for equality, so it became a little hard to come up with a similar system. Therefore, we have arranged the different subgroups in America into the following system

1. Hipsters
1. Aging hippies
1. Jocks (Democrat)
1.5 Jocks (Republican)
1. Normal (Invisible)
1. nice people
2. not nice people
0. Barack Obama

-- as we can see from this system, everybody except 'not nice people' are at the top of the chain, and Obama is better than everyone else. However, he is such a nice person that he has consented to being at the bottom of the list, despite the fact that our caste system (as suggested by Charlton Heston) designates him as being the best.

Marri falls between Aging Hippies and Jocks (Democrat)-- this is because she's a jock who plays the guitar. Now she is making a determined move towards hipsterdom. This shows that Marri exemplifies the American dream of class mobility. In India I am somewhere between Brahmin and Kshatriya, and there's nothing I can do about it. But in America I can marry a social chameleon like Marri who freely moves from sub-group to sub-group with nary a care in the world. This is why I love Marri Coen.

and America.

U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A. Also, Walmart.

what we talk about when we talk about love

Luckily for me I decided to marry Marri Coen, and she's been real good about keeping me line. When I fall on the front line she is there to pick up the slack, change the diapers, and post on our blog. For that I am truly grateful.
I've spent the last four days in a drunken stupor in front of the TV, and watched 65 teams want to become national champions. Because of my bracket I've been dismissive of teams such as CalState Fullerton and Texas A&M Arlington. American University has not crossed my mind, and I've scoffed at George Mason, who have not been this year's George Mason. I feel kinda' bad about that, mostly because I just realized that most of the guys out there on the floor are younger than me, and it feels weird rooting against little kids. But also, as a sports fan it's kind of my solemn duty to support the underdog unless there's a team I care about. And my bracket makes me forget that. It's a philosophical quandary. It's hard supporting Duke, it means that I've sold my soul for 2 points in a NCAA bracket, but then I realize that beating Eddie is worth much more than my soul, so I feel better about the whole thing.
Eddie is my American tutor. He teaches me how to be an American-- under his influence I have become a smoker, a drinker, a drug addict, and a jobless, prospectless 23 year old grad student. Needless to say, beating Eddie in our March Madness pool is about all life is worth right now.
I am also writing a story about war. It is depressing. I have so far killed seven characters in the first four pages. For those of you who were closely following my thesis, my first draft involved killing all my characters by about page 70. I think this is a worrying tendency on my part, but no matter how many characters I kill, my story will still be better than 'A History of Love', which is a terrible story.
This is despite the fact that Nicole Krauss is very high on the MFA Hall of Fame board. For those of you who don't know, MFA students/programs have a very special breed of the caste system, and authors are organized in a terribly hierarchical manner. I am not sure of the exact rules, but a reliable rule of thumb is that the less books you sell the more famous you are. I will, of course, explore this thesis further in due course.

sex scandal rocks 'the honeymoon years'

We have absolutely no information, but it is clearly a developing storyline. We will return shortly with details.

Early suspects include (but are not limited to):

Yogi Bear
Hillary Clinton
Louis Armstrong
Madame Tussaud
Edgar Allan Poe
Tom Cruise (and entire Church of Scientology)

who are we can be answered by who we are

There comes a time in every man's life when he must come to terms with the bitter truth of human interaction. It is a pill not easily swallowed, it causes tears and recriminations and much sorrow. But it is a rite of passage. The seeds for this moment of self-discovery are lain many years prior to the actual moment of fatal realization-- from our mother's wombs we are trained to accept the basic truth of all humanity:

Women are smarter than men.

For those of you who know me as a reputable woman-hater this moment might come as somewhat shocking. But by reading Marri Coen's consistently superior prose, her eloquent yet elegant insight, her intelligent and sensitive comments, I have no choice but to accept that my mate would not only be a better gatherer, but a better hunter as well.

Let us look at other evidence to support this claim--

a. Girls get better grades. No less an authority than Cafferty (of Cafferty file fame) said as much during his daily 3 minutes of screen time. And for those of us who are ardent fans of the fantastically named Wolf Blitzer, we must accept any words spoken by his minions as gospel truth.

b. Continuing the political theme, more women are Democrats

c. Katherine Hepburn

d. Women grow eyes in the back of their head when they become mothers. This has long proved to be a true rumor, and every human can attest to this baffling phenomenon of human biology

e. I can't think of it, but I'm sure Marri Coen could. QED.

--I am left with no choice but to accept my genetic inferiority against this mountain of evidence.

Alack, alas, almighty. Why?

I have bought a revolver, it fits snugly in my mouth. How fitting-- the phallic ending to the phallic ending. (note my wordplay; she might be smarter, but I am gloriously witty)