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Strategies & Market Trends : India Coffee House -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Satish C. Shah who wrote (3425)	12/22/1998 8:34:00 PM
From: Mohan Marette	Respond to of 12475

Primakov advocates strategic triange.(Russia-China-India) Satish: Nice write up about Roy though belated it might be,thanks. You seen this? ========== AGENCIES in New Delhi Russian Prime Minister Yevgeny Primakov called yesterday for the creation of a "strategic triangle" between Russia, India and China to ensure regional peace and stability.... scmp.com

To: Satish C. Shah who wrote (3425)	12/23/1998 12:41:00 PM
From: Mohan Marette	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 12475

"I am ready to kick someone's ass" -No kiddin'. Hi Satish: Here is an interesting article I ran across,thought it was kinda funny. ======================================== Courtesy:Charged magazine. Happy Fun Time by Alice Bradley I'M READY TO KICK SOMEONE'S ASS I'm going to hit someone, and I don't care who I hit. That guy who cut in front of me at the store? He's going to get his, all right. The Charged producer who missed yet another deadline? He's scheduled for a merciless thrashing. My cat who threw up on me this morning? She deserves a bitch-slap if ever a cat did. People who talk about their cats? I'm putting on my special ass-kicking shoe for that particular brand of annoying. Of course, there will be no actual beatings. Beyond all that "violence is wrong" hoo-ha, there are a couple of reasons why I'm compelled to keep my fists to myself. First of all, I'm really weak. Also I'm uncoordinated. I hit like a girl. Now, don't all you women start writing to me about how girls can hit as hard as the boys, blah blah BLAH. I'm not talking about STRONG girls who go the GYM and eat lots of FIBER. I'm talking about girls like me, who probably wore Garanimals way past the age when such a fashion choice was seemly; girls who eat sugar cookies for breakfast and watch "Real Tales of the Highway Patrol" on Saturday afternoons instead of, say, white-water rafting, or kickboxing. Perhaps my penchant for brutality stems from my hard-knock childhood. When I was a peace-loving seventh-grader, minding my own business, toying with my retainer and reading "Brave New World," my very presence inexplicably seemed to inspire violence in girls I barely knew. Notes would be passed over to me during chorus. "Meet me outside after school," the notes read, "so I can beat you up." Instead of meeting them for my scheduled hair-pulling and nail-scratching, I would call my mom and beg her to come get me. I think she called me a wimp, but that could be something I made up in therapy to entertain my shrink. Either way, the promised beating never occurred. The worst confrontation came when two tough girls grabbed my LeSportsSac and mocked its contents. They ruined my frosted light-blue eyeliner by dragging it against the brick wall of the school. Go on, laugh. Perhaps my body remained unbruised, but my pride--not to mention my fashion sense--was shaken. And maybe a small seed of rage found its way into my junior-high heart that day--and now it's blossomed into a flower, a really big flower, with tentacles, and these nasty spores that will fly out and knock someone else's eyeliner to the ground, for a change. My boyfriend tells me that while I have no strength or coordination and only a little bit of endurance, I have a little something called "moxie," or as his people call it, "chutzpah." Of course he's wrong--dead wrong. ( I kicked him for being wrong, but he didn't notice.) Besides the weakness, the lack of coordination, the girly-slaps I mistake for death-rendering blows, there's my overpowering cowardice. I pretend to be full of sass--a spunky New York gal who's not afraid to tell it like it is. But in fact my chutzpah begins and ends with moments like these: Let's say someone on the subway is annoying me--they're laughing like a hyena or waving a big knife around and screaming about death to all bipeds. Or maybe they're just breathing funny. I roll my eyes. Then I mutter "shut up" under my breath. The person looks at me. I pretend to read my book. End of bravery. And for all of you who are wondering what this has to do with the holidays, come over here and say that, why don't you. See what you might get. I've got a nice present for you right here, and it has five knuckles! Or something! Note to anyone who wants to beat me up: My real name is not Alice Bradley. It is Jenifer Heck, Charged producer. Thank you. charged.com