Literary Safari

I was listening to a new NPR series not so long ago: The Hidden World of Girls. That particular episode featured Nigerian novelist Chris Abani’s childhood memory of touring the Nigerian countryside with his mother, Daphne Mae Hunt:

My mother became certified as a Billings Ovulation teacher. And her job was to go and teach this to women. … Part of the problem was that her Igbo wasn’t good enough to discuss people’s uterus. She needed an interpreter and mother decided to ask me to interpret for her. I was eight years old. So we would set off, the two of us, and I would have a backpack. … We would go door to door. Everything starts with a greeting … It would be followed by an apology from me because I was about to discuss something sacred, taboo.

These women would never discuss [their period] with their husbands and here’s this eight-year-old boy … [See full transcript.]

The image of a young boy accompanying his mother to strangers’ homes and acting as a middleman stayed with me for several days, and when I recently heard Marina Budhos reading from her new, terrific young adult novel Tell Us We’re Home, I was reminded of it again.

In Budhos’s novel, we meet three young girls, Jaya, Lola, and Maria, all immigrants, who find themselves in a different kind of countryside than Abani — American suburbia — where they act as their mothers’ interpreters and translators.

Their mothers are nannies and housekeepers in Meadowbrook, a picturesque New Jersey town off the commuter rail, and these girls are the invisible teens who help their parents navigate a new culture while struggling to find their own place within it. They go to school with the same kids whose families their mothers work for.

Maria is Mexican. She accompanies her mother on job interviews and acts as a conduit for her employment searches. Jaya is West Indian, from Guyana. She assumes the responsibility to help absolve her mother of the accusation of a theft that in her employer’s home. And Lola is a Slovakian self-appointed revolutionary whose mother is a housekeeper at her classmate’s home and whose father is a depressed former engineer. Each girl’s story–and the story of their friendship–allows us to peer into the hidden world of working class young adult immigrants. Until they meet, each girl believes lives in a lonely bubble of invisibility, but chance brings them together and their friendship saves each of them in some way. Though they are outsiders, they are outsiders together.

I was a fan of Budhos’s first YA novel, Ask Me No Questions, and am glad that this book more than lived up to my expectations. (more…)

It has now been six months since the birth of my daughter and I’m a bit behind on my posts. It actually took me a while to be able to get through an entire book for quite a few months. My attention span was diverted to my adorable little girl, her million and one facial expressions, her many pitches of cries, and her daily discoveries of the world.

Then, during one of my daughter’s first long afternoon naps at 14 weeks, the planets conspired to make reading possible again. I surprised myself by curling up on the couch with a cup of ginger-peach tea and Sheba Karim’s first young adult novel Skunk Girl, which I’ve been wanting to read ever since I first heard about it as a work in progress.

A few months ago, I reviewed Rakesh Satyal’s Blue Boy, a sensitive coming of age novel about a 12 year-old Indian-American boy struggling with his sexuality. One of the qualities I most appreciated about the book was its impeccable portrait of the suburban Indian-American family and the ways in which adolescent growing pains tie into it and its complex social webs.

Sheba Karim’s Skunk Girl is another novel that does a fine job of painting such a portrait and of capturing the intricacies of growing up South Asian in this country, this time from the point of view of girl. [Read an excerpt.]

Nina Khan is a  Pakistani-American junior in high school with an impossibly intelligent older sister Sonia and strict immigrant parents. About to turn 16, she is painfully aware of the “no dating, no pork, no co-ed parties” rules in her life which make her feel like “a wounded bird who longs to fly with the others but can’t.” Matters take a turn for the worse when Nina falls hard for Asher, a new boy in school. The two share math class together and, could it be?, Asher actually seems interested in her? Will she or won’t she break the rules and date him?

As Nina gets to know Asher better, she becomes even more aware of how different she is from her classmates. As if matters weren’t bad enough and she’s not allowed to date, Nina also becomes even more self-conscious about her body hair, which has always been an issue of embarrassment (as it is for many young South Asian women). On a class trip to Albany, she finds herself sitting next to Asher on the bus. When she leans over to look out the window, he gets a view down her back.

When I sit up, he turns to me one eyebrow raised in curious amusement. “You have a stripe of hair going down your back,” he says. …

As soon as I make it home I run upstairs to my room and tear my clothes off. I stand naked in front of my full-length mirror and twist my head to get a good view of my back. And that’s when I see it. A wide line of soft, dark hair running from the nape of my neck down to the base of my spine–the stripe Asher was talking about. A stripe right down the center of my back, like a skunk. This brings me to a whole other level. I’m not just a hair Pakistani Muslim girl anymore.

I am a skunk girl.

Lest you think that Nina sinks into the depths of despair after this revelation, let me assure you that she does not. Of course, she indulges in an afternoon of crying, of cursing, and of making wishes for all sorts of ways to never to set foot in school again. But then she steps right back up to the plate and returns to school and realizes that “nothing happens. No one pauses their conversations. No one even notices me.”

Though Nina the character is often frustrated by her circumstances, Nina, the narrator, has a wry sense of humor and a graceful ability to poke fun at herself. As this entertaining novel progresses, we watch as her streak of rebellion surfaces and watch as she struggles with her conscience as she experiments with aspects of “American culture” (yes, alcohol, and yes, dating) that are off-limits to her and that define her very Pakistani Muslim-ness. What you’ll see her conclude will be surprising and yet, so very Nina-esque; a teenage girl who is simultaneously self-confident and unsure of herself.

While exploring the challenges of high school life, author Sheba Karim also sheds light on the extended social life of Nina Khan’s family – the Pakistani family dinners,  the community weddings, the visits from family friends who measure her adherence to cultural norms, etc. Karim’s eye for these little details and her ability to convey universal aspects of South Asian immigrant immigrant life give this novel an added measure of value.

In an interview at Cayenne Lit, Karim says:

I was raised in a small town with very few other desis, a setting similar to the one in Skunk Girl. Being Pakistani made me separate, different, and often annoyed, because of the restrictions placed on me as a teenager. I think your culture is often something you grow into. I also think as wonderful as being a “hyphen” is, it can also be very difficult, particularly for women from Muslim backgrounds. … Skunk Girl was inspired by a monologue I wrote for Yoni ki Baat, a South Asian version of The Vagina Monologues. I realized there were very few books out there about what it’s like to grow up Pakistani in this country, and that I really wanted to write one.

Her writing certainly took me into the inner world of a teenage misfit with grace and reminded me of the parallels of my own once-upon-a-time adolescent angst. Thank goodness it’s past me!

For those interested in using this in the classroom or a book circle, a helpful discussion guide is available here.

I didn’t know what to expect of the on stage musical adaptation of Uma Krishnaswami’s picture book “Chachaji’s Cup” this past weekend.  The program billed it as “Bollywood style,” a label that automatically leaves me slightly wary. Turns out I was more than pleasantly surprised. The one-hour production, aimed at audiences ages 8 and up, was  lively and entertaining, while it also touched me with its delicate exploration of themes of identity, filial responsibility, and the importance of roots and ties to the past.

Tea with Chachaji is based on the picture book story about Neel, a 10 year old, who learns about his family’s place in the partition of India through a story about his great uncle’s favorite teacup. In the stage production, Neel’s mother, Anya (Soneela Nankani) is a hardworking nurse who paints in her free time. His father died when he was a young boy and his primary male role model is his great uncle Chachaji (Tony Mirrcandani) who is a wizard with words. Neel (Raja Burrows) can’t get enough of his stories – family stories, stories about Hindu mythology, and super hero characters like Hanuman, the monkey god. On the cusp of adolescence, Neel finds himself torn between his new friend Daniel (Jose Sepulveda) and the basketball court and his family, dance lessons, and attachment to Chachaji’s stories. When an accident causes the loss of Chachaji’s favorite tea cup, Neel learns the importance of his family history and grows to appreciate it in his new environment. At the same time, Chachaji comes to view his roots and ties to the past from a fresh perspective.

Before the performance, the opening question to the audience was “Raise your hand if you, your parents, or your grandparents were not born in America.” The majority of the audience raised their hands, as might be expected. But there were a few people around me who sat still with their hands in their laps and their heads bowed down, seemingly embarrassed. At that moment, I wished I had a copy of Davy Brown Discovers His Roots, an independently published illustrated children’s book by Keely Alexander and Velani Mynhardt Witthoft, to share. It would have made a fine bookend to any discussion or workshop following the play.

The main character in this book is an all-American boy Davy Brown who goes into a panic attack when his teacher assigns his class to investigate their family’s immigration roots. His classmates all have fascinating backgrounds, Davy believes. They come from Mexico, China, India, and Sudan, and all of them have unique immigration stories. In contrast, his parents don’t know much about his past. It takes a series of events for him to finally dig deep to find his family’s roots.

Davy Brown is a likable character, who pulls some clever antics and tells some tall tales to his classmates in his attempt to get out of the immigration research assignment. (Pirate ancestors, anyone?!) But with the help of his family and the mighty Internet, he finally gets some of the answers he is looking for.

“Tea with Chachaji” and “Davy Brown Discovers His Roots”  have this in common – it is one’s family that helps both Neel and Davy connect meaningfully to their pasts. In an educational setting, stories like these can serve as valuable tools to get kids interested in researching their family histories. Once they are ready to do that, the resources to do so are endless — and in that respect, the appendix of Davy Brown provides a comprehensive list of websites and methods to go deeper, as well as helpful information about immigration laws. (At the book’s website, there is also a sample lesson plan.)

I’ve been on a brief but wondrous hiatus for the past eight or so weeks, celebrating and treasuring the birth of my daughter who made her very special entrance into this world on September 3rd. I’m not sure whether I’m truly back now or whether this is just a brief hiatus from my maternity sabbatical. We’ll see …

But I thought I’d post a brief little update on a few things I’ve been up to over the past couple of months.

This past summer, I acted as lead content developer and managed the relaunch and redesign of the website of the Student Press Initiative. That site is up and running here.

My article “Rising Tide: The Boom in Historical Fiction About India and the Indian Diaspora” was published in the Summer issue of the journal Multicultural Review. Read it here.

The readers guide I wrote for Ann M. Martin’s Everything for a Dog was published as a super cute bookmark.  Read it here.

The blog Cayenne Lit featured an interview with me last month. Read it here.

Of summer reading, the Presbyterian minister Henry Ward Beecher, once said, “There is a temperate zone in the mind, between luxurious indolence and exacting work; and it is to this region, just between laziness and labor, that summer reading belongs.”

I have to agree. When summer rolls around, I’m always on the lookout for a different kind of book — one that feels like it belongs just as much in a beach cabana as it does it on a park bench, an airplane, a moving train, or my bed; one that makes me think and feel just as much as it allows me to relax and smile; one made for my attention span that alternates between the ability to concentrate and the desire to flit about.

I wrote earlier about how much I enjoyed Gene Yang’s new collection of graphic short stories, The Eternal Smile.

Here, then, are some of my other reading picks for this season:

Rakesh Satyal’s Blue Boy (Kensington Publishing).
Hirsh Sawhney’s Delhi Noir (Akashic Books).
Kwei Quartey’s Wife of the Gods: An Inspector Darko Dawson Mystery (Random House).

While I sit here in steamy New York City awaiting the arrival of my first child and reading lots of non-fiction birthing and pregnancy books, these fictional reads have succeeded in take me through the three places that have been a part of my life so far: Ghana, India, and the US.

(more…)

When I received my copy of Gene Yang’s latest graphic novel The Eternal Smile, the bright yellow reminded me of his award-winning and best-selling American Born Chinese, one of my favorite graphic novel reads over the past couple of years. I cracked it open, eager to see what his collaboration with graphic artist Derek Kim (Yang wrote the script) had yielded. And the verdict is: Another memorable read! This collection of three short stories is filled with Yang’s trademark unexpected twists and turns, humor, and unique characters.

Yang has traveled far from the themes of identity and immigration which defined American Born Chinese. The thread tying the three disparate stories in The Eternal Smile together is technology–how it shapes, defines, and even disrupts human existence today.

In the first story “Duncan’s Kingdom,” we meet a  young man seeking to win over a princess’s heart by proving his heroic nature to her by killing off a frog king. Fairy tale collides with fantasy in a story that explores the power of gaming in the lives of adolescents.

In the namesake story “Gran’Pa Greenbax and the Eternal Smile,” illustrated in classic comic fashion with vivid sound effects, we meet a greedy frog intent on creating a swimming hole filled with gold. Nothing satisfies him until he spots a smile in the sky and decides to create a church that people will flock to with their pocketbooks. As our frog protagonist seeks out his most “profitable venture yet,” things go slightly awry and we are whisked into a TV studio where we discover that he is actually a “chip-enhanced character” in a popular children’s show, Frog Tales, that combines “the unpredictable drama of reality Tv with the anthropomorphic fun of Saturday morning cartoons.”

The final gem in this collection is “Urgent Request,” my favorite story about an office worker named Janet whose mundane existence takes an exciting turn when she starts receiving emails from … a Nigerian prince who has chosen her to help him solve his family’s problems! Delicate black and white illustrations on yellow paper give way to a few pages of four-color depictions where Janet’s fantasies transform her into a Nigerian queen … But really the heart of this story is a look at how it is not so impossible to seek out romantic distractions from 9-5 frustrations through traps and gimmicks that make their way into inboxes.

I’ll stop here. I usually try not to give away any spoilers. I’ll just say that if you’re looking for a thought-provoking comic that examines the ripple effects of technology on our lives with a grain of humor, this is a book you won’t want to miss.

In her book The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron prescribes the “artist date” as an essential building block of the creative life. She describes it as:

a block of time, perhaps two hours weekly, committed to nurturing one’s creative consciousness, your inner artist. In its most primary form, the artist date is an excursion, a play date that you preplan and defend against all interlopers. Doing your artist date, you are receiving–opening yourself to insight, inspiration, guidance.  [more here]

I used to go on these artist dates all the time, but in recent years, they have been few and far between. Imagine my delight this afternoon when I found myself actually stumbling into an unplanned one after a doctor’s appointment when I had a free 45 minutes at my disposal.

After discovering an amazing but not too sweet green tea flavored Japanese ice-cream called Kinako – it’s base is roasted soybean flour—at Cafe Zaiya, I found myself on 41st Street on one of my favorite blocks in New York City — Library Way. Between Park Ave. and Fifth Ave., the pavement is lined with bronze plaques displaying featuring quotations from literature and poetry. with quotes from great writers.

Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz following the yellow brick road, I followed some of my favorite quotes, crossed Fifth Avenue and climbed up the stairs of the imposing New York Public Library, guarded by its regal lions “Patience” and “Fortitude.”

First stop: the current exhibit [on view until August 1, 2009] of an original copy of a draft of the Declaration of Independence, handwritten by Thomas Jefferson: (more…)

Do you ever find yourself reading one book about a particular topic and then, immediately moving on to another in a similar vein? That has been my experience lately as I find myself on a parenthood books kick. In the case of Michael Lewis’s Home Game: Accidental Lessons in Fatherhood, I have my husband K. to thank for turning me on to it. He sent me an email a few weeks ago with a link, and wrote, “I want to read this book.”

As first-time parents, it starts to get overwhelming to keep reading books such as What to Expect When You’re Expecting, or The Happiest Baby on the Block, or  Secrets of the Baby Whisperer throughout the nine months of pregnancy — books that however well-intentioned can’t help but make you wonder whether you will do the right thing, make the right decisions, be a “good parent.” So much pressure …

Perhaps that is one of the reasons why I so appreciated the frank and comic tone assumed by Michael Lewis in his memoir of fatherhood. A non-fiction author and New York Times journalist best known for his books about baseball, Wall Street, and Silicon Valley innovation, this book is based on his “Dad Again” column in Slate magazine which ran from 2002 to 2008, beginning with the birth of his first daughter and ending with his visit to an operating room for a vasectomy after the birth of his third child, his son Walker.

Lewis makes no pretense to be the model father; one who greets his new role in the world with utter joy and dedication. The book would be a boring tome were he to do so. Rather, through journal style chapters in a book divided into three sections (one for each child), he takes readers through his (sometimes knee jerk) reactions to the arrival of his babies, allowing us to peek into his state of mind (harried, confused, frustrated) and his attempts to figure out the role that no manual can ever fully explain.

One amazon.com review of the book warns that Home Game is a better read for men than women: “Women, or at least my wife, should avoid this book because it does delve into the male mindset enough to make me hide my copy for fear that my she might begin to see some of the absurdities of fatherhood.”

Err, this was not the case with me. My husband read the book on a flight across the pond a few weeks ago and immediately came home and handed it to me. “You have to read this,” he said. He wouldn’t tell me why or what he liked about it, but dropped hints that he saw bits and pieces of me throughout the book and wanted to discuss it when I was done.  Uh-oh, I thought … was this a good thing or a bad thing? 

In this book, Lewis describes the comic turns and twists of family and married life that parenthood brings. He writes about juggling his writing career with childcare responsibilities (so different than his father’s generation – “Obviously, we’re in the midst of some long unhappy transition between the model of fatherhood as practiced by my father and some ideal model,” he writes), going along with his wife’s desire to enroll their infant in swimming classes in Paris, taking his daughter on a camping trip with this toddler daughter in California, his drunken passing out in the delivery room, the responses of teachers to the way he dresses his preschool-aged daughter, or where he decides not to share cake with his daughters [read an excerpt] in a real, human, and humorous way.

There’s this one scene where Lewis’s wife wakes him up in the middle of the night with tears in her eyes. He asks her why she is crying and she has no explanation, which only confounds him more as he attempts to console her. Sound familiar? There have been numerous occasions over the years where I’ve found myself in tears and K. asks “what’s wrong? what is it?”, well, I have no answer. Then, I can’t understand why he is perplexed!  This is just one of the scenes that made me laugh out loud and scare the squirrels in Riverside Park away!

Another one of my favorite chapters was where Lewis tries to slip back into the work routine after the birth of his second child and quickly learns that he is quickly earning the reputation with his wife as a “neglectful father.” How does he remedy it? He agrees to take his wife and infant to a Baby Brigade movie night where he quickly learns rule # 1 of fatherhood: “If you don’t see what the problem is, you are the problem.” Yes, this may be construed as a fingerpointing exercise at his nagging wife by some readers, but to me, it was also a comical, almost caricaturist depiction of married life that permits parties on each side of the table to better see where the other is coming from.

There are threads of insight and introspection sprinkled throughout the book as Lewis discovers the rules of fatherhood:

If you want to feel the way you’re meant to feel about the new baby, you need to do the grunt work. It’s only in caring for a thing that you become attached to it.

The outside world has a lot to tell you about how to be a father and how to raise your children, and its advice no doubt serves some purpose. It fails, however, to get across with sufficient clarity the final rule of fatherhood: If you’re not bothered by it, or disturbed by it, or messed up from it, you’re probably doing something wrong that will mess up your kids. You’re probably doing something wrong anyway but that’s okay … [you'll have to pick up the book to read the rest of this rule!]   

Read more excerpts from Home Game here and here.

Ben Okri, the award-winning Nigerian author has said, “The fact of storytelling hints at fundamental human unease, hints and human imperfection. Where there is perfection there is no story to tell.” So true this is when it comes to Home Game, which though written from the father’s point of view also creates caricatures of motherhood and women (as seen by husbands) that definitely make us examine our reactions and better understand why men sometimes shake their heads in confusion and wonder. I have a feeling that his experiences will surely stick in my mind in the coming months as we enter the world of first-time parenting, helping us to find the humor in seemingly tragic or overwhelming circumstances. They have also given K. and I many scenarios to consider and discuss and … laugh about as we wait for our new arrival.

In the Washington Post, Amy Joyce compares Home Game to Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions, which I have yet to read. Maybe that’s the next book that should go on my list–and that I should pass on to K. to read. I’m thinking it will make a good companion read since it comes from a woman’s perspective. I wonder if I will find that to be true.

Here’s the second in a series of reviews of books that I think would make great gifts this holiday season. Part II here. Plus, we’re giving away two free copies of this book. Leave a comment here telling us what your favorite children’s adventure books are by Friday, December 26th, and we’ll put your name in a random drawing for a free copy of the book, courtesy of publisher Feiwel & Friends.

I’m a sucker for adventure stories, especially the type that takes me to deserted islands, introduces me to brave children, and enlisst my imagination in solving an intriguing mystery. As a child, I got my fix from the much-loved British children’s author, Enid Blyton.

When I saw the title of Bermuda-based first-time author Nadia Aguiar’s new book, The Lost Island of Tamarind (Feiwel & Friends, ages 10-14, 448 pages)  it stirred up memories of my favorite Enid Blyton books such as The Secret Island  and the Famous Five’s Five on a Treaure Island.  I couldn’t deny that I was experiencing a pang of nostalgia, plus there was the word “tamarind” — it conjures up such tastes and delicious smells of the Indian subcontinent. I was curious and set out immediately to get my hands on a copy.

I’m glad I did. This book was the closest to Enid Blyton’s spirit (minus the sexism or colonist baggage) that I’ve been able to get in a long time. [check out my interview with Nadia Aguilar where she cites Blyton as one her favorite childhood authors. Children of the commonwealth, unite!]

Set in the imaginary land of Tamarind, which lies beyond a blue line on the horizon, this is the story of three siblings who get separated from their parents, ocean biologists, after their ship, the Pamela Jane, is caught in a tremendous storm near the equator. When the children—the eldest, Maya, a shy, somewhat rebellious adolescent; Simon, an adventurous extrovert; and little toddler Penny—get off their boat, they find themselves in a war-torn world where “fish can fly, pirates patrol the waters, jaguars lurk, the islanders are at war, and an evil, child-stealing enchantress rules the jungle.”As they begin to hunt for their parents, they quickly realize that is a place that “outsiders” like themselves can’t easily escape. (more…)

This is part of an ongoing series that I recently started here, “Flex Your Writing Muscles,” (installment 1) where I take a writing prompt and work it, knead it, pound it … and see what emerges out of it.

In this case, my prompt was to begin with the words “When I was [insert age]” and to write about a memory of that age. I actually started this prompt a year ago, around Diwali, at my desk at work in between tasks. I’ve been playing with it for a while and finally made a small breakthrough today.

The Times of Diwali

Diwali in Bombay

When I was seven
We drove along Marine Drive
My face pressed
Against the grimy glass
Of the bumpy taxi
In my lap a gift-wrapped box
Of store bought jalebis
Sticky orange
Sugary sweet
Circles of delight
Topped with edible aluminum foil

(more…)

On my first day in India, we stopped at a huge food court on the Mumbai-Pune expressway. There’s only one thing I ever get there: vada pav. A crunchy yet soft potato fritter encased in a fluffy bread roll and “kicked up a notch” with a sprinkling of lentil-infused chili powder.

When I went to pay the Rs. 28 for my two plates of vada pav, I handed over two Rs. 20 notes to the cashier. He rapidly slid a Rs. 10 note and two Cadbury Chocolate Eclairs to me over the counter.

“Yeh kyaa hein, bhaya?” I asked. What is this? Do I get dessert with my meal?

“Rupees two ka change,” he said seriously, moving on to the next customer.

During my early school days in Pune, I would have traded a week’s worth of lunch for a single Cadbury’s Chocolate Eclair. A toffee wrapped in a sparkly purple and gold wrapper, this popular Indian toffee has a chewy caramel exterior and a dairy milk chocolate in its center. How pallates change. Now I can’t even imagine popping one of these into my mouth. How much floss and brushing would it take to get those flecks of caramel out of my molars?

I tried to slide the candies back. “Mein toffee nahin khati,” I argued, trying to explain to the cashier that I don’t eat candy. There was no point. It was quickly obvious that this was a moot discussion. The customers behind me urged me along. “That is how it is,” one man grinned.

I moved forward, trying to wrap my brain around this barter system where I, the client, have no choice about what I can receive in the stead of money. If they’d asked me, I would have bought another vada pav or maybe a salted lassi.

After eating, I walked under a rainfilled canopy over to the STD/ISD/PCO booth, made a phone call to my husband in the US, and paid the two eclairs forward to the telephone operator.

“Yeh kyaa hein?” he stared at me in confusion when I doled out Rs. 40 and two eclairs.

“Two rupees,” I giggled. The telephone guy looked down at his palm and back up at me. He giggled too.

I wonder how far those two eclairs have traveled since then!

For your enjoyment, a Cadbury Chocolate Eclair (the crunchy version) ad. It’s a play on those old Bollywood movies of the 1980s where “hero and heroine” ran through fields of flowers!

I didn’t grow up watching a lot of “in” Disney movies like Bambi. Instead, on weekends, my aunt who my sister and I were staying with in Pune, would rent oldies like the 1963 Cliff Richard movie “Summer Holiday.” After lunch, we would draw the curtains, turn on the fan, and sit down together to watch musicals set in worlds that looked nothing like ours.

Even now, when I pack my suitcases to go on a vacation–as I am doing right now–I can’t help but hum this tune. I’ll try my best to be off-line for the next ten days, so in the meantime, enjoy this flashback, vintage oldie. Totally cheesy, I know …