Monday, June 22, 2009

#+1: Getting Uneven Steven on your Wedding Gift

It's wedding season, 'caque Knoblauchs. brotate around that fire five times, hide your brother in law's shoes and watch sweaty dudes storm the DJ decks requesting soca hits of the '80s, '90s and today.

Cut Indians loose in the wedding hall and it's like unhooking the baby bjorn and letting your diabetic beta run wild in the jalebe shop.

Because Indians (okay, Gujus, can we stop pretending?) are infamous for their one up-manship, a so so necessary aspect of the indian wedding richa-ual is the round up on the financial gift. Normally Indians round down on EVERYTHING including their age, the mortgage on their condo, their penis size and the previously agreed upon terms for the hotel caterer.

But oh yo not so when it comes to the CHEQUE, cause, uc, if there's one thing Indians prefer to being miserly, it's doing plus one better than Nandini in the gift department. So what if her daughter went to Stanford undergrad, Northwestern medical school and is engaged to a white podiatrist in Winnetka? She only gave one hundred and fifty dollars. You're gonna give one hundred and fifty plus ONE.

Sure, some might say it's auspicious to leave off the extra zero but can we finally, for once, please, pretty please get picked to live in a house, stop being polite and start getting real? The only thing auspicious about getting Uneven Steven on your wedding gift is watching Ritu uncle's face turn red when he finds out you One-Upped him and then wondering if he's actually angry or just drunk...again.

So here's to you Indians. You won't turn the AC on in the summer; you sneak outside snacks into the theater (yeah, i heard you open that can of Diet Slice during Taare Zameen Par, AUNTIE) and you bought little Deepaum VOITS instead of Reeboks, but all that's cumin on a cutlet when you make it drizzle on the lucky couple with your $101 dollar check. Eat it up, Nandini. You just got 1-upped.

Friday, May 8, 2009

#H1N1: Bird Flu, Swine Flu, ToFLU?



Another SILDC original production. Check it out and rate it if you can. Some dick bag gave it like one star and totally dragged our average down. Jai ho, bitches.

Friday, April 10, 2009

#110 BPM: Dancing to Britney's Indian Remix

Sunday, April 5, 2009

#17.5: Shooters (the Remix)


Last year Subhash and I were in the throes of SILDC and g-chatting about what else we could do to impress Indian girls online. Indian girls like Li'l Wayne, we surmised. Indian girls like Robin Thicke, too. Oh shit, we said to ourselves, you know what Indian girls rrrreally like? Shooters.

Since we're Indian, our originality stopped there and we fell back on the crutch all "creative" Indians use to support their wilting sense of humor - the song parody. We g-mailed the lyrics back and forth and even storyboarded a video we were going to shoot in Subhash's Chi-town condo (with a lakeview for about 3 more months until Bill Rancic builds another behemoth monstrosity further/farther East on Ohio street).

Unfortunately, we never got our hands on either an instrumental track or an Indian souljer that can sound like Robin Thicke. I let the lyrics lie under my bed for 10 months until I stumbled across them yesterday while looking for the last four years of my life. We decided to just post'em up so that the world can have but a vague sense of the magic and wonder it was denied when SILDC FLIMS PRESENTS "Shooters" ft. Smeezy and Bhupen Thicke folded in pre-production. Without further aloo.

"Shooters" ft. Smeezy and Bhupen Thicke (a.k.a. Thicky Rice)

[Smeezy]
Yea, yea, yea
Smeezy baby y'all, Get that Evite, should i say Pre-vite?
Lemon Drops, what you know about it
I brought my macaca along for the ride
He parched, he came here to talk to gujubabes and get wasted

[Bhupen Thicke]
I heard some shouts out down by the door
Then even louder, " We got shooters!" (shooters, shooters)

[For video: shot through door peep hole with fish eye of group of indian dudes holding up shot glasses and handles screaming]

It's Friday night and we're about to go out
But first we pre-party to liquor up good
Jumped right over counter / Pointed glass at Pinky, tell her
Here's your shooter (shooter, shooter)

Our hands are up, Our hands are up
We're dancing with our hands way up
We've got shooters

[Smeezy]
I think they want me to remember
But no, I can't do it [2x]

So many doubt 'cause I'm short and stout /
But when I open up my fridge only mixers come out
Pop! Ima pour it straight / make you drink a liquor lake
Ima play Top Chef and whip you up a rum souffle
I'm just trying to be the great / Tryna get a gujubabe
Take your girl out for a date / Though she Hindu feed her steak
She got a whole lot to say but I don't listen
Call me gastronomic Smeezy, bitch, get in the kitchen

[Bhupen Thicke + Smeezy]
With all these Richas and, all these Nishas
There ain't no loners around
They thinkin about shooters that-taste like that
Soco-Lime & lemons that - that Gujus get
Shoot shoot shoot shoot shooters

My hands are up
We're dancing with our hands way up
We're dancing with our hands way up
Oh, shooters

[Smeezy + Bhupen Thicke]
But I'm not
I just cry mama, I think they, hey
Me think they want me to remember (Shooter)

[Smeezy]
And to the Blogosphere, I'm tired o' being patient
Stop bein' self-loathing racists, region haters
Spectators, dictators, behind door dick takers
It's outrageous, you don't know how pointless your hate is
I want to give you a mirror to embrace it
But this is Indian face this
If we too complicated then y'all can't route your basic linksys

[Bhupen Thicke]
Lardhki asks for a Michelob Light
Look her up and down with my nearsighted eyes
I said, "If you gon get a beer, then you gon have to get outta here"
'Cause here's your shooterrrrrrrr!

Our hands are up, our hands are up
We dancing with our hands way up
Oh, Shooter [2x]

[Smeezy]
Me won't remember, me so pretender

Striped Shirt soakin' wet
I been bhangring y'all
I reload, every couple songs, need a shooter, I'm comin' for it
Better know me, Smeezy Baby just call me lord
Hard, take pain like Lassi Bombs, raw
Way past Agra, for, I'm some shit you never saw
I take you to the bar baby take shooters it's the law
And they say, you're Jain, and holy, you don't even eat cow
And, my reply was simply Amaretto Sour!

Mama, I think they, hey, me think they want me to remember
(Shooter, my hands up, my hands up, they want me to remember) [2x]

No, me won't remember, no, no
I promise no remember
I got my Priya
And I need some shooters

Monday, March 30, 2009

#12:15 PM: Taking Lunch

People around the world make lunch; they take lunch breaks and they have lunch together. Only Indians, however, find the in-between gray area of "taking" lunch with friends and family.

Go to an Indian relative's house in India and they'll ask you, "Have you taken lunch?" Tell your parents you can only meet them for twenty minutes, and they'll suggest, "Okay, we'll take lunch together."

Of what, you ask? The frozen parathas, biryani rice, lamb curry and vindaloo they stacked into a cardboard box with seven rolls of packing tape and checked into baggage on AirTran flight 770 to LaGuardia, of course.

Yes, Indians take lunch together but they also physically take their lunch across the country and to wherever they may go, toting tiffins to work, tupperware on trains and, on planes, beat-up cardboard boxes (recycled from the previous journey) scrawled with magic marker, "FOOD," so that the TSA and Dept. of Homeland security understand that the foul-smelling, viscous liquid they come across during a random baggage check isn't explosive in itself, but may, if ingested, cause explosive diarrhea.

The Number 2 you take in the bathroom (or a little in your pants) after a healthy round of aloo ghobi is par for the course when you get brown and dirty with Indian food, the ceremonial 5th course to cap a meal of tandoori chicken, naan and roti. It's a natural, and unfortunately inevitable, prologue to a lunch taken with Indians: Take lunch; take dump; take nap and repeat. Bon appetite.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

#600 Calories: THIS



Least Hindu thing since the Legend of Bagger Vance.

Monday, March 16, 2009

#88 Keys: Quitting Piano Lessons














For Indians there are many traditional rites of passage such as the annaprasan, the thread ceremony for those fortunate enough to be Brahmin, and the big, fat, monsoon wedding. There are also, however, several informal milestones of youth and adolescence that Indians share. There's karate class on Saturday mornings, swimming lessons to get into Flying Fish at the YMCA, the dreaded Friday night Bharatnatyam class that prevented attendance at any fourth grade sleep over and, of course, that universal tribulation of every Indian growing up, taking and subsequently quitting piano lessons.

While growing up, Indians have two options for learning a musical instrument. Either violin, or piano. These can be supplemented with an additional instrument, of course, as long as that instrument is either a flute, clarinet or cello. As a matter of course, most Indians will pretend to take interest in the tabla at the age of 14, around the same time they start seriously considering Hinduism as a lifestyle, dabbling in vegetarianism and listening to Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan records at Borders coffee shops.

As sure as every Indian must at some point take piano lessons, he or she must also go through the uncomfortable process of quitting. Usually, parents are the last one to know their child has quit piano lessons. Even the teacher will know, watching the kid sit through rehearsal awkwardly trying to play through a song, pretending like he'd practiced. He didn't. Check his theory book. It's empty, and if it's not, he hastily filled in the triads with a pencil in the waiting room while going through the Hidden Picture Puzzle in Highlights Magazine.

Though many parents are strict and often impose their will on their children to do what they themselves could never do, there is a chink in the Indian parents' armor that, when exploited, forces them to choose between the lesser of two evils when it comes to the upbringing of their kids. That is, the fundamental trade-off between heavily regimented free-time for college applications, and good enough grades and PSAT scores for college applications. To successfully quit piano lessons, all an Indian kid has to do is cry a little and say, "But quitting piano lessons will give me more time to shtuuuudy." Done.

Parents will immediately cancel the payments to the teacher and remove the kid from piano lessons. Over the years they will realize their mistake as they watch their child try to teach themselves the guitar, dabble in marijuana, underachieve through school, go to a public university, drop pre-med sophomore year and major in Youtube.