The Sometimes Orange-Headed, Sometimes Purple-Headed, Sometimes Red-Headed Link between Redneck Jokes and King Cake

Tanita "Bonds" Jha

One of the biggest pleasures in my life is the pleasure of learning or experiencing something new.

I am an information and an experience junkie, both.

So emigrating to America provided me with excitement and stress in equal portions.

In the early days, everything was a discovery and a novelty.

The grocery stores.

The malls.

The impressive range of car models and makes on the road.

The wide variety of food choices available at restaurants and stores.

(Cusines from every country and an absolutely unbelievable assortment of packaged foods).

Why, even Microsft Word, Excel and Powerpoint were brand new to me.

Arriving in America with only Wordstar under my belt, I was surprised to find it was obsolete and I would need to have a basic knowledge of Word, Excel and Powerpoint, if I was to make a living.

When I failed to break into advertising, Plan B (concocted between my sister R and me), was for me to apply to an administrative assistant position (administrative assistant being what a secretary is called in America).

Word, Excel and Powerpoint were absolutely necessary for that.

This is how I found myself at Goodwill’s Institute for Career Development.

Discovering Goodwill’s ICD through the Penny Saver magazine, I enrolled in their free classes in Word, Excel and Powerpoint.

A Foot In The Door

Those early classes from Goodwill’s ICD were a blessing.

Because they got me a foot in the door.

First at NEC Electronics.

Then at Palm.

And then my rudimentary Excel training seeded a brand new career for me.

After joining Palm as an Administrative Assistant, a few months later, I was able to apply to become their Commissions Analyst.

If you want to know what a Commissions Analyst does, I have tried to describe it with as much excitement as possible in a previous post My Day Job. Xactly. More or Less.

But enough of that.

The reason I am writing this post is because, as I said, I am an information and experience junkie.

And at Palm, I ran into this person who was able to jet-propel both these addictions.

First there was the Jeff Foxworthy transference

I can’t remember what might have sparked the conversation between me and this Palm buddy that led to me finding out about Jeff Foxworthy.

But a conversation did take place where said Palm buddy told me about Jeff Foxworthy.

And before you knew it, I was terribly into this comedian and his unique brand of redneck jokes.

I am not sure if Jeff is the only source for redneck jokes, but he is certainly the king-pin of redneck jokes.

When I first discovered redneck jokes, frankly I just couldn’t get enough of them.

A typical one reads like this:

YOU MIGHT BE A REDNECK IF ...

1.   More than one living relative is named after a southern civil war general.

2.   Your wife’s hairdo was once ruined by a ceiling fan.

3.   Your home has more miles on it than your car.

4.   None of your shirts cover your stomach.

5.   You believe you got a set of matched luggage if you have two shopping bags from the same store.

6.   You consider a six-pack and a bug-zapper high-quality entertainment.

7.   On your first date you had to ask your dad to borrow the keys to the tractor.

8.   You refer to Fifth Grade as “Your Senior Year”

9.   You prominently display gifts bought at Graceland

10.   Nothing under your Christmas tree is paid for

I was so inspired by these redneck jokes, I tried to write similar jokes about the Mangalorean Catholic community to which I belong...

YOU MIGHT BE A MANGALOREAN CATHOLIC IF…

1.    The party is not complete for you until Bara Solow has been sung.

2.   You have a Pavlovian response to Sannas & Sorpotel (especially if it’s made by Kishore)  - it will make you drop everything you are doing -rearrange your calendar, cancel your quadruple bypass surgery,  ditch a hot date – just to line up with your plate.

3.   At some point, you have thought about changing your last name to Shenoy, Prabhu, or whatever you have learned is your Sarsaswat Brahmin family name.

4.   You know your 4^th, 5^th and 6^th cousins, and at least one of your cousins is a nun or a priest.

I know these jokes are not funny, but hey, I’m not Jeff Foxworthy.

Then There Was The Baseball Game

If I can claim to have attended a baseball game (my one and only), it's thanks to the same Palm buddy.

To tell you the truth, I’m clueless when it comes to sports.

So though I went to this baseball game at AT&T Park, if you ask me questions like who was playing who that day and the score and whatnot, I would have to go and look at the photo album and see what the captions (written by said Palm buddy) say.

I am sounding terribly sportsneckish, ain’t I?

But anyway, why don’t I do that…

I’ll be back.

Okay, I’m back.

The captions in the photo album say the Giants played the Braves on that fine day in August at AT&T Park.

Now I know you’re thinking, with that kind of passion for sports, whatever was I doing at a baseball game?

Well, you see I was incidental to the affair. The whole shebang, day out, watchamacallit was entirely arranged on my daughter’s behalf.

And you can see from the pic she was quite in to it.

One of our album pics depicts her getting a shoulder-height view of the entrance to the park.

Other pictures show us eating hot dogs and snow cones.

And dancing to KC and the Sunshine Band, who opened before the game.

It was an unforgettable day. And since we were gifted a photo album memorializing the visit - complete with funny captions and decorative embellishments, we look back at it from time to time and smile.

And Finally, There’s The King Cake

How that got started I don’t know. 

Possibly, I might have said I had been reading about Mardi Gras in New Orleans, and I wanted to go to New Orleans during Mardi Gras some day and I was also intrigued about King Cake.

Mardi Gras, if you are interested, officially begins with Epiphany and runs till Ash Wednesday, and New Orleans is the happening place for it (tuck this info away for when Las Vegas begins to feel a little jaded to you).

But back to King Cake and its part in the celebrations of that week.

King Cake - What Gives?

King Cake is a type of coffee cake.

What gives it its name and makes it unique to Mardi Gras is that a tiny gold plastic baby (representing Baby Jesus) is baked into the cake.

And there’s this charming party game associated with it.

The way it's played is that if you are at a Mardi Gras party and the plastic baby shows up in your slice of cake, you are obliged to host a Mardi Gras party at your house the following night.

Because of the Baby in the Cake,  there's partying every night during Mardi Gras.

(They sure know how to have fun in New Orleans!)

So anyway, me and this Palm buddy are having this conversation on the phone about all of this, one of us in the SFO Bay Area, the other in Florida (or was it Georgia?).

The next thing I know...

…. a King Cake is on its way by Fedex to us just in time for the future Barry Bonds' birthday.

(If Minoo and Tanita can’t go to Mardi Gras, Mardi Gras will come to Minoo and Tanita.)

The Fate Of The Cake In The Hands Of 8-Year Olds

Now because the cake got served to a bunch of 8 year olds at the birthday party, it had a bit of an unfortunate fate.

If you let 8 year olds in on the fact there’s a gold plastic baby inside the cake, what can you expect?

No sooner had we finished singing Happy Birthday to the birthday girl, when 10 pairs of hands were all over their slices of cake, pulverizing and crushing the pastry to find the little gold baby.

And of course, one lucky child did get to find and keep the gold baby.

At the end of the day, even if the cake didn’t actually make it into anyone’s mouth,

…the experience definitely made for an original and very cute memory.

So there you have it….

Redneck jokes.  The One and Only Baseball Game.  And The King Cake.

3 very special experiences.

All as American as apple pie.

And there’s this one person to thank for all of them.

Sometimes Red-Headed. Sometimes Purple-Headed. Sometimes Orange-Headed.

It’s timed I named her.

April, will you please take a bow!

P.S.  April and her soul mate and hubby Damon brought a ton of joy into our lives, when they were in the Bay Area, and even after they moved away. Faithfully, every Christmas and every birthday, a gift would show up for Tanita, each one more unique than the other. This went on right until Tanita was 10. This post is my way of saying Mucho Gracias to them. Or as they say in redneck…MUCHABLIGE!

P.S. 2 In referring to sorpotel,  I very deliberately left out Kishore’s last name. This is to protect him from being mobbed by hungry and weak-willed gastronomes with last names such as Lobo, Fernandes, and such. Kishore, I know you are saying "Phew!"

How Many Times A Day Do You Visit Ireland?

Out of the millions of people we live among, most of whom we habitually ignore and are ignored by in turn, there are always a few who hold hostage our capacity for happiness.

 -Alain de Botton

How many times a day do you visit Ireland?

By Ireland, I am not referring to the idyllic country.

The one that’s across the Irish Sea from the country that’s across the pond.

The one we associate with loved, celebrated and revered traditions such as…

River Dance.

St. Patty’s Day.

Guiness. 

Waterford Crystal.

The Ireland, I am referring to is something else altogether.

It’s “Ire”-Land

I used a play on words to get your attention.

“Ire” Land is the opposite of an idyllic country.

It is the hell we create for others when we get angry and lose control of our words and actions.

When we are in “Ire”-Land, we let our Amygdalas hijack our brain.

And behave as a caveman or angry baboon would.

What’s an  Amygdala Hijack?

The Amygdala is the part of our brain that controls the flight or fight reflex.

When it is activated, a flood of stress hormones is released into our blood and we react with fear or with anger, or both, to a stressful event.

Our Amygdalas hijack our brains before the rational area of our brains – the neocortex - can process the stressful event.

Thus no sooner does the event enter as sensory input through our eyes and ears, when we completely and instantly lose it.

From The Best-Selling Book On Emotional Intelligence

It was Daniel Goleman, author of  Emotional Intelligence: Why It Can Matter More Than IQ, who coined the phrase, Amygdala Hijack.

Your Amygdala  has hijacked your brain, if normally a civilized person, you become brutish, mean, cruel, insulting, hurtful and angry, possibly even ridiculously so  -- in response to a stressful event.

And you do or say stuff which you later regret and feel awful and foolish about and wish you could take back.

Some Typical Situations In Which Our Amygdalas Hijack Our Brains:

-          Someone makes us jealous or mad

-          Someone humiliates us in public

-          Someone disturbs our concentration

-          We don’t get our way

-          Someone takes something we cherish without asking us

-          Someone causes us a loss of some kind

-          Someone cuts us off – drivers let their amygdalas hijack their brains all the time

-          Someone interrupts us, or tests our patience

-          We find out someone has wronged someone we love

-          We find out someone has lied to us, cheated us, or made a fool of us

These are just examples. Everyone has different hot buttons.

What We Should Do In These Situations

The appropriate response in these situations would be for us to:

-          Show forbearance

-          Walk  away

-          Ask someone who is in a calmer state of mind to intercede for us

-          Express how we feel later when we are in a completely calm state of mind

But Instead What We Do Is:

-          Use bad language

-          Scream and rant and rave

-          Raise our voices and make verbal and physical threats

-          Scare young children and others around with our demeanor

-          Hit below the belt

-          Say or do something destructive, abusive or obscene

-          Act recklessly

-          Hurt ourselves

-          Hurt others

-          Damage property

Is this you when you are angry?

What can you do about it?

Can you enroll in anger-management classes?

Can you talk to a friend or family member about it?

Can you ask someone to correct you every time you start to get that way?

Can you try to cure yourself through meditation or yoga?

You bet you can!

Here’s why…

I did it.

I actually cured myself of amygdala hijacks (temper tantrums in plain English), even though I probably hold a record of sorts for them.  (also my tirades would have made McEnroe’s tirades appear like the woofs of a dreaming puppy).

In fact, almost everyone who knows me closely remembers at least one of these exhibitions of amygdala hijacks (it sounds so much nicer than temper tantrums, doesn’t it?).

But miraculously, I’ve changed.

Amygdala Hijacks Begone!

I’ve cured myself of these amygdala hijacks through meditation.

Honestly, a while back, if you had told me I would be able to conquer my anger management issues and put them behind me, I would have dismissed you with an “Oh, yeah!!!!!” and laughed you off, secretly thinking you had no idea what a tough nut I was when it came to losing my head.

But guess what – you would have been right.

Even tough nuts to crack (like myself) can conquer their anger management issues.

I am living proof of it!

What’s My Method?

It started with observing myself.

And noticing all the little things (and frankly, everything is little once your neocortex has had the time to process it) to which I have a hair-trigger anger response.

Doing this turned out to be an interesting and revealing, if humbling exercise.

I found out there was a ridiculous number of things which could set me off.

And some of them were truly weird.

I found out, for instance, that we even get angry just because someone made us angry.

Look At What You Made Me Do

Meaning anger is a two-step thing.

First we get angry with someone over something.

And then we get angry with them because they made us get angry and made us do foolish, angry, destructive and ridiculous things as a result of getting angry.

This was just one of many revelations.

By making it my business to observe myself during the day…

and discovering the triggers to my anger…

 I was able to then meditate on breaking the cycle.

Observation and regular meditation were the two prescriptions I wrote for myself.

And they cured me.

What’s the dosage for this completely free, completely healthful medicine?

 I meditate once every morning immediately when I wake up.

And then at other times in the day as needed. 

A Picture Helps…

Also, when I meditate, I find it helpful to have a picture in my head of people who do not have anger management issues. 

Meaning I try to channel peaceful, easy-going role models and internalize them.

In my very own family, there are many role models for me to choose from.

And you should easily be able to find role models as well.

Conquering Anger Has Been Life-Changing For Me

And I know it will be life changing for you.

So if you are tired of doing and saying things that you later regret and are ashamed of, I urge you…

Get serious about anger management.

Let’s stop the madness and the sadness we cause from our out-of-control anger.

P.S. Thanks for reading.  You know I was thinking…there’s out-in-the-open sadness.  The homeless, the poor, the beggars on the street, the starving, the physical and mental illness we see around us – all these come to mind.  That’s sadness we can see. 

Then there’s Behind-The-Closed-Doors Sadness.   The sadness people cause each other behind closed doors. The sadness no one knows about. 

If you are contributing to this Behind-the-Closed-Doors Sadness, make a new resolution today to get a hold of  yourself.  Like I did.  Like me…I’m sure you’ll be glad you did. And others around you will be relieved and gladder still.

P.S. 2 Meditation has become a daily routine for me.  I got started after reading this wonderful book called How God Changes the Brain.

P.S. 3:  While you try to mend your ways, it is important to have compassion for yourself, so that when you slip up (and you will), you don’t lose heart, give up and revert back to your old ways; you need to forgive yourself  for your slips and move on.

P.S.4: Links to the 2 books mentioned in this post, Daniel Goleman’s Emotional Intelligence and How God Changes the Brain are featured below.

I also thought you might enjoy this video on Forgiveness. Remember, the first person you have to forgive is yourself.

And finally, here's a link to an article by the author of Narnia, C.S. Lewis, on Forgiveness  - where he makes a valuable distinction between excusing and forgiving.

A Short Stint in Advertising

 by Ajay Sachdev

’Twas the winter of ’79.  Fresh out of college, armed with a post–graduate diploma in Marketing and Advertising Management, I scanned the want ads.Though I’d already been offered positions in Hubli at the then princely salary of Rs 2,800/-per month and in Warangal, in rural Andhra Pradesh, one of the hottest places in India, at Rs 3,500/- per month, I turned them both down, making up my mind that I’d take that first available job in Bangalore – my mother was then ailing, and I needed to be with her. Browsing through the Deccan Herald, Bangalore’s leading daily, I spotted a catchy ad calling for Advertising Executive Trainees. I bunged in my application and the rest, as they say, is history.

Thus began a fascinating odyssey. It was nothing like I’d ever experienced before in my life. So far used to system and order, where events followed a logical and orderly progression, things seemed to be chaotic at the agency, MAA. It was a bewildering kaleidoscope of people rushing to and fro, waving artworks or brandishing negatives. Of deadline pressed Account Executives alternately pleading with or yelling at unflappable Art Directors, frequently resulting in intervention by the Managing Director, the legendary Bunty Peerbhoy, whose very presence and assured tones were balm to frayed nerves.

As time passed, and my training period came to a close,  I began to discern a method in the madness. It was chaos admittedly, but an organized chaos. I learnt that the agency was neatly compartmentalized into different divisions. The Client Servicing. The Creative, which in turn was sub-divided into Copy and Art. Art in turn consisted of Creative and Finishing Art. The Studio department was where negatives and positives were processed in the darkest of dark rooms. The Media department was in charge of interacting with different media viz. TV, Radio, Print and reserving prime positions at often short notice. The Print and Production department waved its magic wand and presto! Leaflets, banners, posters, PoP’s, tinplates and hoardings of the finest quality flowed out. Last, but not least, the Accounts department had its finger firmly on the financial jugular of the Agency, being in charge of collections and payments. Not a cheque (check in American English) flowed or a financial transaction took place without its approval.

MAA was a place where I learnt of the power of advertising; where a good or bad ad campaign could make or mar the success of a product. Many an average product took root, thanks to brilliant advertising. On the other hand, we had great products, backed by great advertising fall by the wayside due to disparate reasons such as poor distribution,  inadequate ad budgets or even more unfortunately, poor marketing. Sometimes it was a capricious public which simply didn’t take kindly to a great product backed by superb advertising - perhaps some of these products were far ahead of their time.

The work in MAA, which was then in a phase of explosive growth, was high pressure, with people at all levels frequently having to handle several tasks at the same time (now called multi-tasking). To successfully hold down a post at the agency, one had to be an exceptionally talented multi-tasker.

The high–point of my career at MAA came when I won two awards at the annual awards function of the Ad Club of Bangalore, for the best tinplates and posters designed for my client Mysore Feeds, a leading animal feed producer of South India.

Now, enough of work. Advertising had its compensations. One of them was the annual MAA day celebrations held on the first of May every year, so inevitably it was called the May Day Gala. It was a day of pure fun for Maaites. It began with a grand treasure hunt all over Bangalore in the morning, with a cash prize for the winning team. It was followed by a sumptuous lunch at the office accompanied by beer and soft drinks. Then at night there was a gala party at a fun resort with dinner and dancing where booze and soft drinks flowed. One group of Maaites, determined to extract the maximum from the day, danced the night away, under the stars. Another group, the serious drinkers, hovered around the bar doing justice to the wide variety of spirits on offer, and becoming increasingly unsteady on their feet,  their speech becoming progressively slurred. The rest of us looked on them with tolerant good humour, while taking care not to be pinned down by any of them, intent on finding someone, anyone, who would listen to their views on life in general. The May Day parties often went on till the wee hours, with Maaites reluctant to break away and let slip the evening.

A May Day party represented the only occasion that I, a sworn teetotaler ever got drunk in my life. At that time and for quite some time afterwards, I just could not figure out how. It happened like this. The boss, the legendary Bunty Peerbhoy, said at one of the earliest May Day parties, which were then held at his house,(it was early days then and MAA was yet small)...

“Ajay!”

“Sir?”

“Have an er…drink,” he said with an inviting smile.

“No, thank you,” I said firmly.

“Tell me one thing, Ajay,” said Bunty.

I smiled a knowing smile anticipating what was coming next.

“You don’t drink……you don’t smoke…..you don’t I presume pursue the opposite sex….tell me man, how do you live?” asked Bunty , brandishing a Cuban cigar in one hand and a glass of imported scotch in the other.

I just grinned and Bunty left it at that. You see, in those days, I was just beginning to discover God, religion and the effects of karma, and so I’d firmly resolved, no smoking and drinking for me.

Just then, Srini from Accounts, approached me, and with a wicked smile on his face asked , “ Ajay, what can I get you?”

“How about an orange juice?” I asked innocently.

“Is that all?” asked Srini, with a pleading look, “Go on, have a snifter. Be a sport,”

“Absolutely not,” I said firmly. “Only an O.J. for me.”

A moment later, Srini was back, a brimming glass of O.J. in his hand.

It tasted unusually tangy for an O.J..  Mildly surprised, I reasoned that perhaps the glasses hadn’t been cleaned properly, after all it was a swinging party. And gulped the O.J. down. Then Srini came round with another tangy O.J. and another. No sooner did they arrive, than I downed them straight. I must ask Bunty for the brand name, I told myself; wiping my lips, no O.J. ever tasted this good. Then I asked Srini for a fourth. He shook his head, his eyes looking mildly alarmed, and patted me on the back commiseratingly, and said, “Don’t overdo it, Ajay – everything in moderation, what?”, and moved elsewhere.

I inexplicably developed a mild headache, and to clear my head, went and sat down in the balcony, with my friend, Minoo, a pivot of the Copy department along with a few others who were gathered there for some fresh air. The headache didn’t go away, and Srini was nowhere to be seen, so I went to the bar and got myself another O.J., but this one tasted different, with no tang in it – must be another brand, I reasoned.

That night, while driving home at 2:30 a.m. on my Lambretta, the scooter refused to go in a straight line, but persisted in moving in a zigzag fashion. I was perplexed; the bike came to the party in a perfectly straight line. After a few valiant attempts to hold the bike straight, I gave it up and made my winding way home through the then fortunately deserted roads. It only struck me much later, while reminiscing, that that rascal Srini had spiked my O.J.

The May Day celebrations were often preceded by cricket matches, in the lush green environs of Bangalore’s famed Chinnaswamy stadium. These were fun occasions, with matches between teams formed from within the MAA ranks – we played idyllic matches from morning till the afternoon after which, we feasted on lunch at the club house along with free flowing beer and soft drinks. On other occasions, we played friendly matches with some client teams, which were fun too.

Then there was another interesting episode, which concluded in an immensely satisfying manner. It was like this. We had a dynamo of a Business Development Manager in V Prabhakaran Nair. After the Khalistan problem erupted, he had a gala time ribbing me, since I was the only Punjabi in MAA. He would accost me in the corridors, barge into my cabin or pin me down in the Conference Room and would say, “What is this Khalistan ….. Khalistan. You Sardars should be @@#$&**!! (unprintable)." My several attempts to explain to him that a) I was not a Sikh, but a Punjabi Hindu; b) I was in no way connected to the Khalistan movement, being an innocuous ad executive in Bangalore and  c) not all Sardars were terrorists fell on deaf ears. He became increasingly voluble and more persistent in cornering me , expressing himself rather vehemently how the Sardars should be dealt with. Being mild mannered, I took his jibes sportingly. Like the inscrutable Confucius, I bided my time telling myself that “Everything comes to he who waits”. Sure enough, revenge, sweet revenge was right around the corner.

It was then that the LTTE problem hit the nation and the Sri Lankans right between the eyes; and guess who their leader was? – a V Prabhakaran ! Of course, I went to town. Brandishing a copy of that morning’s newspaper, and waving it in V. Prabhakaran Nair’s face, I asked him “ Aha ….gotcha ! So it was all a front, eh? You are the master terrorist, Mr V Prabhakaran, aren’t you? Confess !!!”

“What on earth are you talking about?” he asked.

I thrust the headlines at him “Read that you LTTE terrorist, you menace to society ……hiding out here in MAA for cover!”

“Heh ! Heh!” he said defensively, “I am Nair……no connection with him…”

“Don’t act so innocent, I said firmly, “Is or isn’t you name V Prabhakaran? What cheek, accusing me an innocent Punjabi of being a Khalistani when you are the biggest master terrorist of all time, you head of the Liberation Tigers,you…….”

“Ok…ok………,” he said, and vanished out of my sight, his coat tails disappearing behind the door.

After that, he gave me a wide berth. Whereas earlier, he seemed to be everywhere, now suddenly, I couldn’t seem to find him anywhere! Of course, I pinned the newspaper on the office notice board, with Nair’s photo stuck in place of the real V Prabhakaran’s, and there were quite a few sniggers after that every time he entered a room. Of "Khalistanis and you Sikhs who should be **#&@@!!!", of course there was no further mention. Confucius was right – revenge is a dish best served cold!

This episode had one interesting sequel. You see, V Prabhakaran Nair’s job was business development and where he failed to get appointments with CEO’s of leading companies earlier, doors magically opened. All he did actually was drop the Nair from his name – a typical telecon hypothetically went like this :

“Hello, hello ! I am V Prabhakaran calling from MAA. Am I addressing the PA to Mr Kumar, CEO of XYZ Motors? I would like an appointment with him.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Kumar is unavailable for the next one month,” would be the PA’s stock reply. Then  “Er…….what did you say your name was?”

“V Prabhakaran,” Nair would growl in reply. “ ‘V’as in Velupillai, ‘P’ as in Pottu, ‘R’ as in ……..”

“Ok….ok……. ssssir,” would come the quavering reply, “I’m……I’m…… sure he can fit you in. When would you like to come over, Mr….. er…..”

“Prabhakaran……” Nair would snarl in reply.

Of course, this didn’t really translate into increased business acquisition, though the gambit did open quite a few doors for him.

I spent another couple of good years at MAA, the last eighteen months of them at Corporate Voice, the specialized division of MAA connected with advertising of public offerings, before moving on to my own business as a stock and share broker, where I continue to this day.

My time at MAA was truly was one of the most memorable times of my life. MAA, to a large extent, has shaped my professional outlook and imparted to me business values that are principally responsible for the successful stock-brokerage business that I run today.

P.S from Minoo, the blog's publisher:  Confession – after reading this post, and posts by guest bloggers Anita, John, Cindy and Don, I feel compelled to publish a post called Move Over, Minoo Jha and hand over my blog to one of them.  But of course I am too selfish and having too much of a blast to do that.

Here's my question for Ajay.  Whatever were you doing as an Account Executive in MAA?  You should have been in Copy.  Pity Sadiqa didn't spot your writing talents back then. Had she, you could have joined the merry band of Nitya, Patty, Meera, Ranjan and myself. And we could have had ring side seats to the showdown between you and Velupillai Pottu.

It’s Why You Want That Louis Vuitton Bag

Photo Courtesy: Tanita Jha

And your 13 year old drags you to Juicy Couture.

Why boys feel like men in Ed Hardy jackets.

And girls feel like princesses in Jessica McClintock dresses.

It's why an uncomfortable pair of Manolo Blahniks is better than a comfy pair of any other shoes.

And a gift that comes in a little blue box, is more than just a gift.

It’s why people who complain about their Infinities will still go and buy another Infinity.

And why, even if cell phones tell the time quite nicely, Wall Street traders like to sport $6000 Rolex Submariners.

A-D-V-E-R-T-I-S-I-N-G.

It's how the desire for life's most coveted possessions and consumptions (and least coveted as well - like Preparation-H)  gets dreamed up. Created.  And perpetuated.

And for the longest time (up until I made America my home) I was part of that dream-making machine.

To say that advertising was a big part of my Indian adult life would be an understatement.

From the day I turned 20 (interestingly my first day in advertising as a copy cub was my 20th birthday) till I boarded that Singapore Airlines flight to Heathrow and on to San Francisco, green card in hand, advertising was my life.

(Seriously, and this is for my American friends, if you asked any of the art directors I worked with to create a visual image of my life, they'd probably draw two book-ends with stacks of Communication Arts and Art Director's Annuals in between, and some furious thought bubbles layered over.)

In light of this revelation, it may seem a surprising omission to some that I have not given advertising any blog time, whatsoever.

Well, I am about to remedy that.

Um, actually, previous guest-poster Ajay has graciously agreed to do the honors.

A Short Stint in Advertising

While I dust the cobwebs off of my advertising memories, Ajay, who previously guest-posted on P G Wodehouse in "Splendid Post, What!", has volunteered to share his memories of his advertising days with us.

Via an upcoming guest post called “A Short Stint in Advertising”.

Get Ready, MAA Communications Alumni

Ajay worked with me in an advertising agency called MAA Communications.

As did readers Nitya, Uday, Patty, Anita, Meera, Audrey, Mira, and many others.

Ajay's post, which will be published Wednesday, is for all of them.

As well as for anyone else who shared those MAA days with us.

In fact, anyone who is wistful about their advertising days, whether they were at MAA, Contract, HTA, O&M, Sistas, Everest, or any of the other advertising agencies between which some of us continuously crossed floors.

Having said that, I do need to keep my fingers crossed.

Because you never know what else might compete for the well-meaning reader's attention that day.

A half-off  sale on Manolo Blahniks at Nordstrom, for instance?

Mark Your Calendars. Coming this Wednesday - A Short Stint in Advertising by Ajay Sachdev. All about our MAA Communications days.

P.S. Here's a little bit of Americana for you.  Or (ImmigrantKhana, if you will).  The green card is officially called an Alien Registration Card.  And it is not green.