My Brother’s Entry to Penn Masala’s Remix Competition

Hey everyone!

I know I haven’t been terribly active here, and I do apologize. Life has a funny way of taking unexpected turns, both new and exciting (but oftentimes time-consuming!) so blogging has taken a backseat for now.

However, I really wanted to plug my brother’s work. He produces music under the DJ name Emissary and recently entered Penn Masala’s IPM Remix Competition. Penn Masala is the oldest (and best) collegiate Indian a capella group in the country. They have released several albums and have even been invited to the White House. IPM=Is Pal Mein, one of the tracks off of their album “Panoramic.” Here is the original track.

Here is my brother’s remix: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IhcdwOzDqIM&list=UUHTOHkoIesovMlUUdfjXy6A&index=1&feature=plcp

Please “like” and comment on the video, these are both used in the judging process.

Thank you so much for your support!

Ten years later…where do we stand?

I feel like I’ve written or told this story a hundred times before. I’m not even sure if it made out into some tangible form, or if I replayed the events in my head from time to time over the last decade. Every passing September makes my heart ache. I was thankfully not directly affected by the tragedy that day, but it affected me nonetheless.

I remember that September 11, 2001 had started off as a bright day. Bright enough to coax me out of bed, and out of the house, on my way to high school. It was only the second week; classes had not yet lost their novelty. The first two classes passed unremarkably. Even if you asked me, I wouldn’t be able to remember what those classes were. My third class, though, I will never forget.

It was science research, a class devoted to introducing students to lab techniques and research skills. It was a little past 9:40 AM, and several of us were gathered around the desk to the far corner of the room, talking about whatever high school sophomores talk about. One of the girls came running in a little after class started, and exclaimed that planes had hit the World Trade Center. She was someone who had a tendency to be a little silly, if not outlandish, and so I didn’t believe her at first. Who would want to? It was when the wood shop teacher walked in from next door, solemn and silent, that we realized that something indeed was wrong.

We were shepherded into his classroom, where a TV had been wheeled in, blaring the news. There we stood or sat, transfixed, watching smoke billow out from the angry, blazing gashes that had torn through each World Trade Center tower. I remember some students crying, some were talking out loud. Others were anxiously calling their parents who worked at or near the World Trade Center. I don’t remember what I felt exactly, probably because at that moment, I felt empty. I had no idea how to react, because what had happened was so beyond the scope of what was possible, that my mind and body were blindsided. I watched, as though in a trance, as the smoke continued to pour out, and the voices of the news anchors danced nervously around, unsure quite how to react themselves. Gone was the notion that the United States was, somehow, impervious to outside forces. Wars were supposed to be few and far between, fought oceans away, not in my own backyard. Any impression of peace and stability was quickly and mercilessly eviscerated.

I remember that a good friend of mine was sitting next to me, palpably frightened, though perhaps only comforted by the fact that she had discovered that her mother was not in harm’s way. We were sitting together when, at 9:59 AM, the South Tower began to collapse. Forever etched into my memory is the sound of the small scream that escaped my friend’s lips at the moment the roar of the flames and the crunching sound of failing structural beams became one, as everything screamed towards street level. For me, that was the sound that marked the boundary between what once was, and what is now. Innocence, and innocence lost. The start of a terrible new chapter, but everyone was too frightened to willingly turn the page.

I remember that when I left the school that day and looked west, the sky was now covered with a faint, gray haze. “Smoke from the Twin Towers, most likely,” said a friend of mine.

Later that night, I remember sitting on my bed, thinking about the the day’s events, and of what happens now. I was thinking about the thousands upon thousands of bodies scattered throughout the site: some dead, some barely clinging on, and the rest working to save them. Death was not something I was familiar with, let alone on such a scale and in such close proximity. That was the first time that I openly wept that day.

I was scared, not only for future attacks from beyond our borders, but attacks from within. Hate crimes had started almost as soon as word had gotten out that the terrorists were mostly Arab Muslims. Anyone who looked potentially Arab and/or Muslim was a target, including my family, my friends, and me. I heard stories about not only Muslims, but Sikhs and Hindus being taunted, beaten up, and in some cases, gunned down. All paid the pound of flesh that they did not owe. While the incidence of those crimes died down almost as quickly as they had appeared, the simmering anger against Muslims was still present.

Ten years later…

Ten years later, Osama is dead, along with thousands of people with terrorist leanings. So is Saddam, and hundreds of thousands of Afghani and Iraqi civilians. So are thousands of US soldiers.

Ten years later, Muslims (and to some extent many South Asians) are still vilified. Every opportunity to throw stones seems to be taken by people who don’t understand that the sins of the few should not fall on the shoulders of the whole group, and that just because the color of our skin is the same as another group, doesn’t mean we are the same. If you don’t believe me, look at any news story that involves a Muslim, and read the comments from the readers. It is shameful.

Ten years later, The first responders, who put aside family and other responsibilities to toil at the smoldering remains of the World Trade Center, have had to pay a huge price for their sacrifice. Many have developed significant respiratory issues, others have developed cancers that normally occur far more rarely. For this, they have received little, aside from empty words of support and promises, as they face further death and disability. Slowly, steps are being taken in the right direction to provide compensation, but they deserve far more than that.

Ten years later, we receive word of another “credible” threat though “unconfirmed.” I truly hope that nothing happens. Yet, this is just another stop on the paranoia roller coaster many of us in the United States have been riding since 9/11. At this point, I feel like the way in which news outlets cover stories about terror threats, acts of violence, and other similar events has moved so far beyond “the boy who cried wolf” that every threat, credible or otherwise, has become background noise to me. It shouldn’t, but it has. This is what fear-mongering does. It saturates and obliterates any ability to discern what is worth worrying about, and what can be put aside.

Ten years later, I worry that I have descended into a kind of cynicism. I want to believe that, as a country, we have grown closer post-9/11, and that we can look past everything and come together for the sake of peace and stability. Then I see the politicians railing against equality, diversity, and drive while championing xenophobia, a widening income gap, and ignorance. They fancy themselves patriots. The patriots who fought for our country over 200 years ago (yes OUR country) were fighting for freedom and equality for all. How quickly the definition of patriotism has changed! This only fuels my cynicism. If you want to meet a patriot, talk to some of the first responders who didn’t ask those they saved if they were immigrants, followed a different faith from theirs, or worked in a different income bracket before deciding whether or not to save them.

Ten years later, and I’m still admittedly worried.

Ten years later, and I still mourn the loss of life.

Yet…

Ten years later, what was Ground Zero–a smoldering pile of ashes, rubble, pain, and death–has slowly blossomed into something beautiful and full of hope. Even though I am in Manhattan very often, the last time I had visited Ground Zero was in 2008. It takes my breath away now, to see what has literally risen from the ashes. From 9/11 to now, we have been beating the terrorists everyday by living, building, and thriving. Yet we cannot truly win until we hearken to a more basic, but universal set of principles. That is to say, all are equal, and all should have the opportunity to pursue their dreams. Freedom, knowledge, and well-being are not objects that can or should be rationed, but rather, are undeniable facets of human nature that should be tapped, and never stifled for any reason.

What should we do? How should we react?

This is probably the umpteenth article about how to handle the news of Osama bin Laden’s death, but it comes with my own experiences and perspectives on the matter. My apologies, but I do hope it does bring something new to the discussion.
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The rumors about bin Laden’s death came to my attention while I was (perhaps ironically) watching The Killing yesterday. Prior to that, there were some rumbles in the Twittersphere of an impending, and seemingly impromptu address by the President set for later that night. My first instinct was that it was likely about the NATO operation in Libya, the only current event that would likely merit an announcement like that. Yet the bin Laden tweets started to gather steam, and news organizations too began to disseminate details of a recent operation in Pakistan that had ended with the death of bin Laden.

I was floored.

I was still in high school when the towers fell. I believed, perhaps naively at the time, that bin Laden would be captured within months of the mission in Afghanistan. However, the video and audio taunts and proclamations from bin Laden continued unabated for months, then years, as our collective attention began to shift elsewhere. The inability of the Bush administration to capture bin Laden slowly drifted into the realm of comedic fodder, where it comfortably remained. It was something out of a Benny Hill sketch: ludicrous and protracted. Even though we all wanted to see bin Laden brought to justice, the sheer length of time that passed–combined with our collective lack of an attention span–relegated bin Laden to the back burner.

Within minutes of the news breaking on Twitter, crowds swelled in front of the White House and at Ground Zero in New York City, everyone united in celebration and patriotism, cheering the death of another human being. Yes, this human being was, by all accounts, sub-human in his ruthlessness and willingness to take thousands of human lives and indoctrinate so many people into his odious and loathsome school of thought. His ideology was the product of so many life experiences: the mentorship of the Ayman Al-Zawahiri (who ascribes to the Wahhabi sect of Islam), the anger against the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan and, later, the American presence in the Middle East, and a sense of personal duty to right these supposed wrongs.

In a way, there is now a similar emotional climate to the period just following 9/11. At that time, people were rallying in solidarity and in unity against a common enemy: terrorism. Today, they are rallying in solidarity and in unity in seeming celebration of the death of the man who epitomized terrorism, and was responsible for the massacre of innocent lives on 9/11.

Part of me wanted to give in to the celebratory mood that had been generated in the wake of his death, but part of me recoiled in horror at the idea of celebrating the death of another human being, no matter how evil and deluded he may have been. I remembered how news outlets had streamed coverage of the jubilant reaction in parts of the Middle East at the news of the World Trade Center towers being brought down. I remember the collective rage many had felt at seeing others take joy in our devastation and loss. The unrelenting campaign in Afghanistan followed quickly after. Now the tables have been turned, and surely coverage of our celebration is being beamed abroad. While there are certainly many who will also find relief in bin Laden’s death, there are others who will be enraged.

It is important to remember that bin Laden’s death does not mean the death of Al Qaeda, or of terrorism as a whole. Zawahiri, it would seem, is still very much alive, as are hundreds, if not thousands of militants who fall under the umbrella of Al Qaeda, the Taliban, or other similar groups. While I applaud the successful efforts of Obama to finally bring down bin Laden, for him to say the world is safer is an absolutely short-sighted conclusion. I’d argue that it’s probably, at best, no more safe than it was before bin Laden was killed. Yet more likely than not, it is probably far less safe, as acts of retribution are of far greater concern. This means the wars will likely continue, and the security measures will continue to be stringent here, and abroad.

“Delusion arises from anger. The mind is bewildered by delusion. Reasoning is destroyed when the mind is bewildered. One falls down when reasoning is destroyed.” This is a verse from the Bhagavad Gita that rings true in many contexts, no less
in describing the psyche of bin Laden and others who promote terrorism. Islam is still regarded as the enemy by many, but it is delusion that is the true enemy. Bin Laden’s popularity remains strong because he was viewed as a religious man who fought in the name of Islam, in Afghanistan, and in other regions. The truth is that he likely only saw combat once in Afghanistan. The falsehoods and half-truths surrounding bin Laden’s life must be dismantled, to stop the perpetuation of the delusion that continues to fuel terrorist acts globally.

On the flip side, America–now perhaps more than ever–must do more to rid itself of lingering Islamophobia, also the function of misguided anger and delusion. We must do more to embrace Muslims, and frankly all peoples, who seek shelter within our shores. Tensions are very high now, and there must be more effort to truly reach out to the Islamic world, to undo the misconceptions sown by bin Laden and his ilk, and to foster cooperation in achieving common goals.

How can terrorism thrive in an environment where knowledge, friendship, and respect thrive? It can’t.

This should be our ultimate goal.

Osama is dead

Almost ten years ago, I watched the towers fall. I watched my idyllic vision of the world crumble amidst the rubble and twisted metal frame.

Almost ten years after the Twin Towers fell, Osama Bin Laden has finally been killed. At the time that I’m writing this, details are few and far between. What is true is that many are finding solace in his death, and I do hope it will provide some closure to those who were directly and indirectly affected by Al Qaeda. However, his death will likely not mean the end of anything, certainly not the end of the war on terrorism. Al Qaeda is still very much alive, and we must stay vigilant.

The Persistence of Myth: Why Anti-Vaccination Sentiment Still Persists Post-Wakefield

On May 14, 1796, Edward Jenner tested his hypothesis that inoculation with cowpox can confer immunity against smallpox. The success of this experiment earned him the title, “Father of Immunology” and set the stage for the development of new vaccines.

On February 28, 1998, Dr. Andrew Wakefield published a paper in the prestigious journal The Lancet that would have significant public health ramifications. In his paper, he and his colleagues claimed that the measles mumps rubella (MMR) vaccine was linked with an increased incidence of bowel disease and autism among children.

These represent perhaps two of the most important dates in the history of vaccines. One that heralded the start of the age of vaccination. The other that appeared to herald the end of the public’s trust in vaccinations.

In the time since Jenner’s discovery, there has always been some underlying concern about vaccines as the vaccines themselves and the regimens in which they were included changed. The advent of thiomersal (thimerosal in the U.S.), an ethyl mercury-based preservative that was introduced in the 1930s, and the increase in the number of vaccines provided at certain points during infancy and early childhood have both been believed to be linked to the increase in the number of cases of autism. Yet it was Wakefield’s paper that seemed to provide confirmation that the MMR vaccine, and perhaps vaccines in general, were somehow responsible.

Fast-forward 12 years almost to the day, The Lancet paper that had spurred a passionate movement against childhood vaccinations was retracted. In the years leading up to the retraction, Dr. Wakefield had experienced a dramatic fall from grace, as evidence emerged that the data for the study was obtained under deceptive and unethical grounds, where the children involved were subjected to unnecessarily invasive procedures. His medical license was ultimately revoked.

Autism cases have been increasing, but the link to vaccines has not been independently verified in follow-up trials after the controversial Wakefield study. While the reason for the increase is not known, it is likely that it is probably more a function of our understanding of autism symptoms than a true increase. Even after thiomersal was removed from most vaccines (except influenza) and some have moved away from vaccinating their children, cases continue to rise. Yet people continue to vocally support Wakefield’s research despite the fact that it was discredited, believing that he was still a hero, exposing the “evils” of vaccination. Celebrities like Jenny McCarthy, whose own son is autistic, continue to champion the cost even at grave public health risk. She and then-boyfriend Jim Carrey released this statement in light of the retraction. There is still a feeling of “us” versus “them” where “them” refers to the pharmaceutical companies who produce the vaccines. It is understandable that parents of autistic children would want to pin the blame on someone or something, but once that something that seemed so irrefutable is taken away, it is difficult for them to deal with that reality. However, when people like McCarthy continue to peddle this false evidence and perpetuate false notions, there are far greater dangers that lie ahead.

As the anti-vaccination movement gained speed among parents, the incidence of measles, mumps, and rubella increased nationwide when, previously, there had been few if any cases reported. Now, clusters are becoming increasingly prevalent among infants all over the U.S., some leading to death. These are deaths that could have been easily prevented had parents chosen to vaccinate their children. Instead, they felt that the supposed risk of autism outweighed any benefit of vaccinations.

The retraction was over a year ago, and the effects are still being felt today. Unfortunately, the retraction came too late, and thousands of well-meaning parents have already been duped and set events into motion that have brought about the rise of previously preventable illnesses. With respect to the rise in autism cases, rather than continuing to point fingers and hold tightly to theories that have been soundly discredited, our energies should be devoted to understanding the condition, possible causes (verified by sound research), and potential safe therapies. In the meantime, continued efforts need to be made to educate the public about the benefits of vaccination. The risks of choosing not to vaccinate are, infinitely more dangerous than the risks of vaccination.

Internet Novel: Chapter 2

Thank you for your feedback! Here is chapter 2. Again, please feel free to comment with ideas for where the story should go and any questions you may have.

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September 14, 2008

I tried calling Mark again today before I left for the doctor’s office. No response. He’s either already left the apartment or, since it’s a Saturday, eyeing the caller ID flashing my number with derision as he turns his coffee-filled mug over and over mindlessly in his hands.

I am still the enemy.

I don’t know why I still call him. I don’t know why, after I lost consciousness on the way to work and walked into a busy intersection, I called him when I came to in a stretcher three miles away. Why I told him that they found a mass in my brain, and were going to take it out immediately. Why I sometimes just call and cry muffled cries into the receiver.

I don’t know if he ever listened to the messages.

Probably not.

Anyways.

The oncologist seems to think I’m doing better, and refilled my chemotherapy prescription. I’m halfway through my radiation, and the radiation oncologist seems to agree that I’m doing much better. I still get headaches, and I’m losing hair now, but life could be worse.

Guruji has given me another mantra to try on for size, she thinks it will help open my third eye. Who knew that blocking the third eye could lead to brain tumors? She’s so full of light and wisdom, I’m glad I have her through all of this.
Sometimes I sit in a corner of my room after chanting and laugh, thinking of how I used to try to explain all of this to Mark. He thought I was crazy, with my talk of mantras, auras, energy and chakras. We were from two different worlds, he and I.

Mikah made another picture for me today in class. He and I are in a field of flowers, though I don’t have quite as much hair as I used to in his previous drawings. Now there are just a few chance tan strands on top of a perfectly round head. We’re both smiling large, violet-blue crayon smiles with green crayon teeth. It’s simply titled “Mommy and Me and Flowers.” I put it up on the fridge for him to see when he gets back.

I hope I’ll be around long enough to see him grow up and maybe create large paintings where we’re all smiling through oil paints or watercolors, done in self-assured adult brushstrokes. Maybe I’ll be there when he opens an art gallery in LA, and I’m standing in the back, crushed by the crowd but so thrilled for him. Maybe he’ll see his mother through the crowd, pushed up against the back wall, rush over, and envelop me in a gangly-armed hug that lifts me off my feet. I am floating.

Am I selfish for hoping?

Am I blind to the truth?

I think I hear Mom and Dad pull into the driveway, they took Mikah after school so I could get to my appointments. I’m not sure what I would do without them. They really do help fill the void.

Until tomorrow…

Jeanne

Internet Novel: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Mark lit a cigarette, fumbling with it as he tried to bring it to his lips. The IV attached to his arm made it difficult to maneuver and continued to drip poison languidly into his veins as he took a long drag from the cigarette. There is perhaps no greater irony, he thought, than that of the lung cancer patient smoking a cigarette outside of a cancer treatment facility. He blew the smoke out of the corner of his lips entertaining the idea that, for one childish moment, he was a steamboat pulling into port, its boiler belching its greeting high into the sky.

“Can I get a light?”

He heard an IV drip being wheeled closer, the wheels squeaking in anticipation. Obligingly, he held the lighter to the cigarette that was already in her quivering mouth. She ran her hands through her wispy cotton hair, though by then, it was more weathered scalp than actual hair.

“Lovely weather we’re having, huh?” she croaked.

Mark nodded silently, and wrapped his bathrobe even tighter as the wind blew colder and harsher. He could feel her smirk, her thin aged lips curled wryly, cigarette still firmly in place. He was adjusting to the marrow-numbing winter, and his body still fought violently. He took another puff, relishing the taste of tobacco on his lips, and the warm moist comfort of nicotine coursing through his body. For a little while, he felt the chemotherapy-induced haze rise, like fog above the ocean, floating precariously as his eyes open wider, now more aware.

As he stood there, he remembered how he used to be one of the others. The people who would mill about here and there, walking past the center, while on their way to their destinations. Some would be smoking, some would be staring at the patients as they smoked, and a select few would do both. Mark was often in the latter category, though he had little time to stare in those days, and would often be running past the center, on the way to some engagement a few minutes too late. There was more time to stare now, but now he was the spectacle staring out at them. He was just fine with that though.

The woman next to him shifted this way and that, her top-heavy form waddling from side to side on toothpick legs in a feeble attempt to stay warm. She continued to smoke like clockwork, flicking the dying end of one, and swapping it for a fresh one. “You know,” she said through a smoky haze of her own creation, “we have shared the same five feet of space for three months.”

“And?”

“You’ve never asked me my name.”

Mark smiled. “Well, ma’am?”

She held out one frail hand, “Gina.”

He took her hand and kissed it gently, saying nothing more. When the last cigarette was finished, he slowly wheeled his IV back to infusion.

The nurse, Madeline, was waiting by his empty infusion chair with a mixture of condescension and worry on her large, ruddy face. “I suppose I’d be wasting my breath if I even bothered to ask you again to stop.”

Madeline was a formidable woman at six feet, most of it teased brown hair. She could have been a wrestler in any other life, with her barrel chest and tree trunk arms. She used her size and demeanor to her advantage, keeping her patients in line.

Mark shrugged, and rubbed his hands to restore some of the blood flow that had ebbed away from his fingers. He had been somewhat scared of Madeline at the start of treatment, when she marched into the room without warning and quickly jabbed a needle into his arm that dripped contents from a bag that did not hold his chemotherapy drug. “You will thank me later,” she murmured. When she changed the bag to the drug, he realized why. An hour later, he was gripping on to the toilet for dear life as the contents of his stomach, and what he thought was the whole stomach itself came roaring out. Shaking, he tottered out of the bathroom into the exam room, where Madeline was waiting. “Trust me Mark,” she said, as she added her final thoughts to his chart for the day’s visit in sweeping script, “It would probably have been much worse.”

This is how she showed her affection, in gruff bursts, and without any filters. She was not there to coddle, to cajole, to pat your back and tell you everything was going to be all right. Her concern was the well-being of her patients, whether they realized it or not, or were willing to accept it. It was perhaps for this reason that, after the last patient was walked or wheeled out of infusion, she would make her way out of the center in her oversized tweed coat without a single goodbye, and retire for the night in an apartment that reeked of missed opportunities, long since smothered by her lack of emotional depth.

He sat down, allowing Madeline to disconnect his IV, and tape a piece of gauze over the site. She rolled herself over to the nearby desk where his chart lay open. Mark had never actually seen the contents of his chart, and wondered if it was anything like a permanent record. He could imagine Madeline’s angry script trumpeting his various offenses.

“Patient went out for a smoking break during infusion, despite being advised against this.”

“Patient refused smoking cessation materials, insisting he keep this ‘one last pleasure.’”

“Patient desperately needs a shave.”

“Patient is a disaster area.”

Mark slowly got up and grabbed his coat off the nearby coat rack. “Well,” he said to Madeline’s back, “good night.”

Grunt

Mark lived in the same two bedroom apartment on 23rd St. that he had lived in for decades. When he was still working at the hospital, he would time his walk to and from his apartment, so that he could fit in exactly 2 cigarettes (one each way), a stop at the bagel cart in the morning for an everything bagel and schmear, and a stop at the Starbucks at 5th Ave. in the evening for a tall Pike. He used to walk each way in an expertly-pressed suit and silk tie in a double Windsor knot, his leather shoes squeaking with each confident step.

Now he had learned to time the trek from the treatment center to his apartment, having to account for his jelly legs and half-functioning lungs, so that just as he staggered through the door, he was able to rush to the bathroom to make his daily oblations. As he lay on the cold tiles, staring at the mildewing ceiling, he would think of Jeanne.

Today, as he made his way down 23rd, his legs suddenly melted into puddles as he crossed in front of the Flatiron Building, earning the ire and fist-shaking of a cabbie who, in the absence of traffic laws, would have run him over without so much as batting an eye. Trying to make up for lost time, Mark jogged awkwardly the rest of the way, his legs pitching and jerking as he ambled past the avenues. He could see old Ed waiting outside the apartment, holding the door for a guest. Before he could say a word, Mark fell to his knees and heaved just outside the entrance. Old Ed, whose shoes were caught in the crossfire, quickly helped Mark to his feet. “Let’s get you back upstairs,” he said kindly.

Inch by painful inch, the two walked in tandem, Mark’s arm slung over Old Ed’s shoulder for support though Mark was a good half a foot taller than him. He fished in Mark’s coat for his key, opening the door slowly.

“Ugh,” Mark mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

Old Ed half-dragged him to the couch, and lay him down. “Don’t worry about it kid.”

Mark heard Old Ed’s soft shuffling towards the door, but before he could say another word, he heard the door close. He should have been home sooner. The hours that lay ahead of him felt hazy and uncertain. Drained, he decided to call it a night, making his way slowly to the bedroom.

Taking care to not irritate the still raw sites in his arm through which he had received chemotherapy, he changed slowly into his pajamas and slithered under the covers. Jeanne’s diary lay open on the nightstand, drawing Mark back in as it did every night. With a shaky hand, he picked it up and began to read.

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So what do you think should happen next? Remember, this is a partly reader-driven novel! All ideas are welcome!

Japan: past experiences and current hopes

I fell in love with Japan at the age of 3, after watching the Sesame Street special “Big Bird in Japan.” I wanted to visit from the time I saw that special, and got my wish four years later, when my family and I took a trip to Japan. I fell in love all over again, in the way only a 2nd grader can: completely.

At the time, I remember being surrounded by a vast array of colors, the bright lights of Osaka and Tokyo, people whose manners and etiquette made New Yorkers come across as cavemen. I was floored by the modernity when I first got to Japan. Even in the early 90s, Japan was a hub of technological achievement, especially epitomized for me in a smooth, seamless journey on the shinkansen (bullet train) from Osaka to Tokyo. In Nara, I was introduced to the ancient, as it resided alongside the modern. The Todai-ji temple was a glorious site to behold, with its pagoda architecture, giving it the appearance of having wings. Inside, it housed a 50 ft. massive bronze statue of the Buddha which, for someone who was still somewhat below 4 ft. at the time, was an unbelievable marvel. Marbled through modern Japan remained an ancient sense of etiquette, propriety, wisdom, and duty, which was clear in our interaction with the people.

In the years since then, I have kept my love affair with Japan alive, even though I haven’t gotten to set foot on Japanese soil since my first trip. I took two years of Japanese in high school, an Asian religions class in college that covered Zen Buddhism, and have devoted some of my spare time to learning more about the culture.

When I heard about the tsunami in Japan, my heart sank. Yes, Japan had been subject to many natural disasters in the past decade or two, from snowstorms to earthquakes, but none were remotely of the same magnitude as this. As pictures and news stories started to pour in, I began to see just how destructive it had been, and how far-reaching the effects were. Sleepy fishing villages were torn apart and turned upside down, while Tokyo was strewn with debris and rubble. Countless thousands were dead, with thousands more left homeless and alone. Ultra-modern Japan had been brought to its knees by nature. With the added threat of radiation leakage from damaged nuclear reactors, Japan faces a new threat that could have ramifications for decades, if not more.

In the face of disaster, whether at the hands of nature or man, the people are often thrown into chaos, and turn inconsolable, enraged, and sometimes violent. It is a normal reaction to suddenly abnormal and adverse circumstances. What struck me as unusual about Japan is how little of that there appears to be. Yes, there is grief and frustration, but paramount to those feelings was a resolute sense of duty, a duty to rebuild both cities and lives. The so-called “Fukushima 50″ have gained international attention for their extreme dedication to keeping the nuclear reactors at the Fukushima I Nuclear Plant from melting, while subjecting themselves to levels of ionizing radiation that are several orders of magnitude above what would otherwise be safe.

Perhaps this reaction isn’t entirely unusual. The Japanese people, after all, were on the losing end of World War II and the only country to become a victim of nuclear warfare that had horrific consequences for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Yet, they were able to recover from that level of destruction through resolute determination, and so it would only make sense for them to put their collective energies solely towards the business of recovery and rebuilding. Duty and industriousness was something I got to see as a tourist in Japan, and are qualities that persist now. It is reflective of the hardy culture that has endured for centuries, through dynastic upheavals and wars, and will likely help them endure for many more centuries.

My thoughts and prayers are with the Japanese people.

American Idol Season 10

I haven’t really been keeping track of American Idol as much as I used to in the beginning, until now. I checked it out this season because a friend’s relative was supposed to be competing, and I was blown away by the talent.

Now my friends and my readers know how much I complain about music nowadays. Everyone seems to be cut out of the same, faulty mold. This was no less true for the majority of the American Idol contestants I happened to notice over the years, who represented only varying degrees of mediocrity. The ones who had the most real talent inevitably never won (Jennifer Hudson, Frenchie Davis, and others). Some of the winners who showed some faint glimmer of hope (David Cook comes to mind) never really amounted to much outside of Idol, for whatever reason.

I feel like this season has the strongest talent from the get-go, compared to any other season. Here are a few of my favorites:

Jaycee Badeaux: ADORABLE 15-year old who has the voice of an angel. Need I say more? (go to 0:34)

James Durbin: What’s not to love about him? He has had unbelievable struggles that continue through to this day, and in spite of all of that, he is incredibly dedicated to his craft. His voice sounds like a lot of other voices out there today, but how he uses it is mind-blowing. Another Steve Tyler in the making? (go to 1:01)

Last, but certainly not least…Casey Abrams: Undoubtedly my favorite, and the one I predict will win. He’s all of 19 years old, and a Seth Rogen lookalike, and frankly, I didn’t expect him to sing the way he did. He has such a grasp of the emotional context of whatever song he sings, and can make the song his own with such ease. I have been listening to his Hollywood Week rendition of “Georgia on My Mind” on loop. Yes, it’s that good. Ray Charles would be proud. (go to 0:32)

Frankly if any of them win, I think there’s a pretty good chance that good music will survive and thrive, even if mediocrity continues to be peddled to the masses.

A Few Words About the Grammys

I was pleasantly surprised to see that the smaller groups trumped the overly-commercialized and overly-hyped acts like Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber. The performances were overall, a lot better than in previous years (though I could have done without the Bieberfest and uncoordinated Usher performance). Janelle Monae, B.o.B. and Bruno Mars killed it, but it was the shortest performance of the night was also undoubtedly the best: