GOOGLE THYSELF NO MORE…

So two things I need to stop doing:

1) Write in the comment’s section of anything on the internet; and
2) Vanity googling

I knew doing the first was a mistake the moment I did it. See, a friend of mine wrote an article for a newly launched paper. He is, in my opinion, one of the funniest people I know so I was thrilled to see his first attempt at being a columnist. Now, having written a few columns myself in the past, I know what an article looks like when it’s been poorly edited. This piece suffered from that. It had very little of his original style in it and suffered for that, but still was quite funny. Apparently, some people didn’t agree.

Now in real life, if you don’t like something, you usually just walk away from it. But on the internet, where anonymity is available, people adopt a radically different attitude. The internet affords you the opportunity to be anything you want. Turns out, what people most want to be, are assholes. The comments under his article were crass, spiteful and rude. Like all internet comments tend to be (trust me, I’ve been called a “faggot” on youtube enough times). They attacked him on a personal level. For me it was a little difficult to see a friend getting such an unnecessary brutalizing and I stupidly jumped to his defense. Stupid, because on the internet, the best defense really is no defense. Ofcourse, I should have written an articulate and reasoned critique of the critics, or maybe just tried to be the voice of calm by pointing out it was poorly edited and there was no need to get personal in the attacks. Instead, I responded in exactly the way the original commenter’s had been behaving. Wrote something stupid and crass and aggressive.

I instantly regretted writing it once it was too late to take it back.

Which brings us to the second thing I will never do, googling myself. I do it after a stand-up show to see if anyone has posted any reviews. This time, the first thing I came across was a series of blog and twitter discussions between a group of people who loathe me. Which is fine, I understand that not everyone finds me funny. Some people do and some people don’t. Hell, I don’t think some popular comedians are funny either, different strokes and all that. I am grateful for all the people who DO find me funny. It’s a small group but I appreciate their attendance at my shows and for every time they laugh at one of my bits. But I can read a 100 people saying “good show” and I will still obsess over the 1 guy who says “you suck.” It’s ridiculous. I focus in on that one criticism and obsess over it. For. Fucking. Ever.

I know, I have issues.

The recent google search revealed a group of people who seemed to go out of their way to voice their hatred of me. First for defending my friend in an aggressive manner (completely disregarding how rudely they were attacking him in the first place) and then just using that as a launching pad for vocalizing how much they dislike everything I have ever done. And for a while I couldn’t figure out why they were going on about it, going out of their way to just bash me and everything I’ve done. Until one of them posted something revelatory. They wished I could read their comments.

They wanted me to know how much they hated me.

They wanted me to react.

I almost did too. Almost wrote to the the person to ask them why they hated me so. Then I realized that was me doing exactly what they wanted.

Did what they say hurt? Yes. Did it anger/upset/frustrate me? Yes.

Will I respond?

No.

Although, in a way, this blog post is probably going to thrill them. So fine, just this one time:

If you like my comedy or even dislike it but are decent enough to understand that I put a lot of work into it and so probably have some emotional attachment to it (and am also a fucking human being), thank you.

If you find it fun to attack because it gives you a vicarious thrill, fuck you.

There.

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MAKING YOUR OWN COMEDY CLUBS…

So here’s the plan:
April is my return to Stand-Up. I’m going to do 4 shows at T2F cafe in Karachi, spread over the 4 weeks of April. Each show will be unique. Which means I will not repeat material from one show to the next. You can attend all 4 shows and have a different stand-up experience each time.

The thinking behind this is that every year for the last 4 years now I’ve done one show. It’s been a massive show with all new material each time but they have always been performed once. So I have basically a ton of Stand-up material that has only seen the light of day once each. And that’s a waste. Plus throw in material I haven’t performed because it didn’t make the final cut due to timing issues or the topic being a little more taboo than I am comfortable with. All in all there is a ton of stuff that can be performed again and for alot of audiences it will be the first time they are seeing it.

This isn’t even counting the new hour of material that I have sitting ready and polished that I will perform in May at a series of massive shows.

I’ve always complained about the lack of comedy clubs here. What that club experience provides is the opportunity to try out new material, to work on unfinished stuff and to develop your personal style. In the large auditorium shows you can only do an all-out best of the best style show. You can’t expect 400 people to sit there patiently while you experiment.

That’s what I hope to achieve with the T2F shows. Smaller audiences, more personal. I can work on my story telling style, try out half-baked stuff, even read excerpts from How I Became a Suicide Bomber. It’ll still going to be the kind of funny I always work towards delivering just in a more relaxed setting is all.

200 bucks per person. Pay at the gate. See you there.

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Episode 04: Many Kinds of Muslim…

Ep.04 of your favorite podcast about the comedic adventures of the world’s worst suicide bomber (it’s a very tiny genre) is up, just in time for the holidays.

Listen directly at samishah.com/howibecameasuicidebomber or download it from iTunes. If you have subscribed to the iTunes feed I would really appreciate it if you could post your feedback there as well.

This week: Our hero classifies the various kinds of Muslims in the world. Play along and figure out which group you fall under!

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Episode 03: Lying in Pakistan…

Episode 3 of “How I Became a Suicide Bomber : An Audio Bookcast” is up. Click the pic to go directly to the page where you can listen to the continued adventures of everyone’s favorite combustible loser. Or you can go directly to iTunes and subscribe directly to the podcast:

iTunes Direct Link

This episode is a bit longer, running over 10 minutes, mostly because I couldn’t find a neat end point. Hopefully future episodes will be just 5 minutes or so in length. No one needs to hear my nasal droning for much longer than that. If you are subscribing to it on iTunes, I ask that you take a few minutes out to leave some feedback there as well. Otherwise, ofcourse, you can direct all questions to me at samishah@gmail.com.

In other news, most of my new stand-up set is ready. A full hour of new material that I hope to perform in Jan of 2010. If I can pull this off, then that will be 5 hour long shows in 5 years. Each time with new material (mostly). Something to be proud of I think. I think my stand up voice is changing though. The stuff I right now is different in tone from my earlier material. I hope so. It would be a terrible thing if 5 years on I am still doing material about how no one dated me when I was a teenager.

Right. That’s enough out of me. Go to http://www.samishah.com/howibecameasuicidebomber and listen to all 3 episodes if you haven’t yet. I am maybe two episodes ahead in terms of writing so I need to start increasing my speed or the podcast will overtake the book. And then I’ll be screwed.

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Bombcasting…

So this is what I’ve been working on recently. Introducing (drum roll please):

My attempt at entering the podcasting world, several years after it has become unfashionable. To listen to the first 2 episodes just point your browser at http://www.samishah.com/howibecameasuicidebomber. Not available on iTunes yet, that will happen as soon as I get some time to figure out how to do so.

Quick explanation:

First and foremost, this is a work of fiction. Let me say that again: FICTION! These are the kind of disclaimers you have to give out in this crazy world we live in. Basically, after the demise of News Weakly some months back (which you can still watch old episodes of at youtube.com/newsweakly), I started to cast about for what to do next. I’ve always wanted to write a novel and decided no time like now. This is the result of that decision. It is also my attempt at keeping myself interested in the writing process and experimenting with turning writing into a performance.

Each episode of HOW I BECAME A SUICIDE BOMBER (a work of Fiction, I can’t say that enough times), is recorded from the unedited, first draft. I am writing this as I record it. Currently I am maybe a few thousand words ahead of the podcast, 2 episodes ahead at best. It keeps the pressure and gives it the deadline feel that I tend to work best under.

The story basically follows the pathetic and (hopefully) hilarious life of the world’s worst Suicide Bomber. Now, before you get all riled up, let me clarify one thing; this is not offensive to victims of suicide bombing. If anyone, it should be offensive to people who believe that suicide bombing is a good thing. I would be quite happy with that result. Living in Pakistan I am as full of rage and frustration at the destruction caused by these martyrdom-fetishists. Maybe this is my way of processing that anger.

Either way, go to http://www.samishah.com/howibecameasuicidebomber and listen.

Feedback can, as always, be sent to samishah@gmail.com.

Enjoy!

Oh, and in case you haven’t figured it out yet, this is a work of FICTION!

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VIVA LA VIDA VISA…

So I was totally supposed to be famous by now. According to my math, October 2009 was to see me performing two shows at the Australian Comedy Festival, using the momentum from that to generate some press coverage, maybe do some television appearances and then take a few weeks out to write a novel. By December 2009 I would become the darling of the international comedy circuit, a celebrated wit and generally adored by all.

My math was off by a few numbers it seems. Didn’t put the decimal point after the right zero and forgot to carry the two. Oh and I forgot that I’m a Pakistani and thus generally shunned by immigration departments worldwide (except Sri Lanka it seems, which makes you wonder why they are so keen to experience the joys of avoidable terrorism).

Apparently the Australian Immigration Department thought I was too much of a security risk to grant a Performance Visa.

What’s scary about a comedian? Where they worried I would literally bomb on stage so hard I’d take out the whole front row! My pun’s would blow up in their faces? My witticisms will slice them like shrapnel?

Or maybe they thought this was all part of Osama Bin Laden’s elaborate plan? Take a skinny unassuming Pakistani, make him practice stand-up comedy in the caves of Jalalabad. Teach him classic extremist terrorist jokes:

What’s the difference between an American and Satan?
Nothing! Hahahahah!
It’s funny ’cause it’s true!

Then get him to perform in obscurity to audiences who hate comedy for 5 years and then let him be invited to a comedy festival in Australia. Once he is on stage then kaboom!

Okay, now that I say it out aloud it sounds kinda plausible.

So anyway, with no visa I ended up not going to Australia, not performing on stage and not becoming a world famous comedian who people write sonnets and epic poems about.

This feels like an appropriate metaphor for my life right now:

Oh shut up and let me wallow in self pity.

In the meantime, I decided to try my hand at finally starting my second attempt at a novel (after college I decided to put my English degree to use by writing a terrible terrible book called, with no hint of self-conscious pretension, “Summer Chai.” Thankfully I tossed the completed 300 page first draft into the dustbin shortly after finishing it). So far I’ve written three separate First Pages of three separate novels. One is the first Pakistani sci-fi novel, one is the first Pakistani fantasy novel and finally there is a noir mystery. You will find no epic South Asian family dramas here, nor a love story between a rich housewife and her lower caste driver or some such nonsense. Here, exclusively, are the first lines of each of these stories. Enjoy:

SCI-FI:
The rickshaw lifted into the sky, probability thrusters leaving contrails of info-vapor behind.

FANTASY:
Atif Shakoor’s father was a retired businessman and his mother was a djinn.

NOIR:
“I’ve been fucking him longer than I haven’t been fucking you,” she said, just before walking out the door.

So there you go. Maybe I should let a public vote decide which story to continue. Democracy seems to be all the rage these days after all.

Ah well, now I need to figure out what to do in 2010.

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Pee, poo and susu…

So my mail box has been, surprisingly, quite choked with a number of emails all asking me the same question: “Where the fuck are you?”

It’s flattering to have so many people who actually want to know what I’m up to. It’s also frankly a bit disturbing. Maybe I should be twittering less about the various stages of discomfort in my genitalia and more about what I’m actually up to (perhaps I can combine the two. Each genital-related updated can be a metaphoric explanation of the goings-on in my life).

If I have to sum up my current activities in one word, that word would be “Diapers.” My beautiful, wonderful, glorious daughter has, at two months old, excreted enough suspicious looking substances to fill a mid-sized lake. My wife and I are, therefore, deluged in diapers (you remember “Deluged in Diapers” right? They opened for The Spin Doctors in ’96. Nyuck nyuck!). We carry them with us wherever we go, they fill every empty space in the house. We fashioned a bed out of them and use it in the guest bedroom and if the apocalypse comes I’m probably going to shelter under a several hundred packs.

I have become a diaper expert. Pampers, for example, fits snugly but leaks. The locally produced brand leaks pee as well as poo. Essentially it is a comfortable sieve. The manufacturers seem to have misunderstood the basic function a diaper should provide. The imported Pampers, which are slightly more expensive, are slightly better designed. They contain the pee, but still provide the same amount of protection against poo as a used tissue would against a tsunami. Now Huggies is slightly better, provide more protection against both substances, but are not as readily available, which causes problems at 2:30 in the morning when you realize you are out. I have yet to try SUSU Diapers. Yes, “SUSU”. Oh to be a fly on the wall in the meeting when they decided the brand name.

“Peepee?”
“No, that’s silly. We can’t name a diaper after urination.”
“Weewee?”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“Caca?”
“Are you trying to piss me off!?”
“Doodoo?
“Security!”
“Susu!”
“Please escort this asshole out of…wait…what?”
“Susu.”
“Stand down everyone. I think we have a winner.”

So yes, SUSU Diapers. The packaging, which uses the severely underutilized Curlz font, that has sadly fallen out of favour with birthday banners and wedding shower announcement e-vites the world over, proudly proclaims that SUSU is an “alcohol free” diaper. Fucking what!? Alcohol free? Does that mean the other brands are full of booze? No wonder my daughter keeps peeing and pooing, she is getting hammered on her diaper! My poor baby has been turned into a corner wino by the insidious bastards at Pampers (although the alcohol content must be quite minimal. I barely got a buzz going after ingesting nearly an entire 20-pack of Huggies).

So yes, diapers. That has been my existence.

Oh, that and I quit Dawn News, the company that was my secondary place of residence for the last 3 years. No hard feelings or anything. They cancelled News Weakly, I didn’t feel like I had anything else I wanted to work on and an internationally affiliated advertising agency bribed me into becoming their Creative Director with scads of money and the promise of a corner office. The money, after taxes, becomes a great deal less than scads sadly, and the corner office is less an office and more a solitary confinement cell. Bowl of piss and side of toast not included.

The comedy thing has been a bit slow as a result. Keep planning on hammering out a new stand up show, but never really get the time to do it. Now that I’ve finished building my beautiful new website www.samishah.com, I can finally find the time to start working on some new acerbic witticisms.

Oh, and I will pretty soon be making a huge announcement on the comedy front. Won’t say anything until all the final pieces fall into place, and I am paranoid about jinxing it by talking about it, but soon. Hopefully. Soon.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some friends coming over and I need to finish the diaper punch I’m making. They may not get you drunk easily, but with some lemon, ginger and vermouth they taste great!

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website is go…

After much beating and cajoling, www.samishah.com is finally up and running. Won’t you go see?

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ANYA ARRIVES…

I can never be a woman.

Not that I plan on, lets just make that clear right now. This isn’t going be a post about my attempting to push my danglies between my legs and dress up in a skirt, so go fill your Trannie fetish somewhere else. Just making a point that has been brought home to me in the last few days. Being a woman requires far more patience, strength and resilience than I am capable of.

My wife went through close to 10 hours of labor on Friday and gave birth to a a devastatingly beautiful little girl. Then, just seconds after the doctor placed my daughter on her chest, my wife turned to me and said, “I’ve already forgotten about the pain I just went through.”

My daughter, Anya Shah, entered our atmosphere at 5:27 pm, on Friday the 8th of May. She is healthy, beautiful and making me more and more aware of how weak I am. Every time I look at her I go through the same cliched feelings of joy and surrender that I knew I would. That she is the gravitational center of my universe is of no surprise to anyone. That my wife can give birth and then do a 100 push ups while arm wrestling a Rhino is of no surprise to me.

What frightens me is how pathetic I seem in comparison.

Women like to joke about how if Men had to give birth the world’s resources would have been devoted to making it a painless and effortless procedure. It’s true though. Because if I had to go through what my wife just did I’d give up all of Pakistan’s secrets and throw in the Enigma code as well. Before the first contraction ended, even.

And now I look at my daughter, and I look at the world around me and hope she has her mother’s strength. Because mine would fail her in this wretched country. Pakistan as it is, has been and probably will remain, is a horrible place to be a woman. It’s misogynistic, oppressive and sadistic to women. And the whole fucking country uses the bullshit excuse of “God made me do it!” to justify itself. We are like a Psychopath who just refashioned his family into a new set of lampshades and then blames his actions on God speaking to him.

In Pakistan, a woman is stared at, harassed, belittled, abused, neglected, tortured and throughout it all blamed for everything that is happening to her. If I had to go through any of that, ever, I would suffer a series of psychotic breakdowns and either end up being arrested for driving my car over anyone with a penis who came in my way, or give up and sit in a corner curled up in a fetal position.

Yet my wife continues. She laughs and tells jokes and sings songs and makes things and brings Life into this world. And now my Anya will face the same challenges and same stupid stupid bigotry. And all I can pray for is that she has her mother’s strength. Because her father was too weak to even make this world a better place for her to come into.

Thank you, Anya. You have made me want to be stronger.

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I SUCCUMB…

Tweet tweet…

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