Salinger fans, Can't find "Go See Eddie"? It is here now.

J. D. Salinger
Go See Eddie
The Kansas Review VII, December 1940, pages 121-124

HELEN’S bedroom was always straightened while she bathed so that when she came out of the bathroom her dressing table was free of last night’s cream jars and soiled tissues, and there were glimpses in her mirror of flat bedspreads and patted chair cushions. When it was sunny, as it was now, there were bright warm blotches to bring out the pastels chosen from the decorator’s little book.

She was brushing her thick red hair when Elsie, the maid, came in.

“Mr. Bobby’s here, ma’am,” said Elsie.

“Bobby?” asked Helen. “I thought he was in Chicago. Hand me my robe, Elsie. Then show him in.”

Arranging her royal-blue robe to cover her long bare legs, Helen went on brushing her hair. Then abruptly a tall sandy-haired man in a polo coat brushed behind and past her, snapping his index finger against the back of her neck. He walked directly to the chaise-lounge on the other side of the room and stretched himself out, coat and all. Helen could see him in her mirror.

“Hello, you,” she said. “Hey. That thing was just straightened. I thought you were in Chicago.”

“Got back last night,” Bobby said, yawning. “God, I’m tired.”

“Successful?” asked Helen. “Didn’t you go to hear some girl sing or something?”

“Uh,” Bobby affirmed.

“Was she any good, the girl?”

“Lot of breast-work. No voice.”

Helen set down her brush, got up, and seated herself in the peach-colored straight chair at Bobby’s feet. From her robe pocket she took an emory board and proceeded to apply it to her long, flesh-pink nails. “What else do you know?” she inquired.

“Not much,” said Bobby. He sat up with a grunt, took a package of cigarettes from his overcoat pocket, stuck them back, then stood up to remove the overcoat. He tossed the heavy thing on Helen’s bed, scattering a colony of sunbeams. Helen continued filing her nails. Bobby sat on the edge of the chaise-lounge, lighted a cigarette, and leaned forward. The sun was on them both, lushing her milky skin, and doing nothing for Bobby but showing up his dandruff and the pockets under his eyes.

“How would you like a job?” Bobby asked.

“A job?” Helen said, filing. “What kind of a job?”

“Eddie Jackson’s going into rehearsals with a new show. I saw him last night. Y’oughtta see how gray that guy’s getting. I said to him, have you got a spot for my sister? He said maybe, and I told him you might be around.”

“It’s a good thing you said might,” Helen said, looking up at him. “What kind of a spot? Third from the left or something?”

“I didn’t ask him what kind of a spot. But it’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

Helen didn’t answer him, went on attending to her nails.

“Why don’t you want a job?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want one.”

“Well, then what’s the matter with seeing Jackson?”

“I don’t want any more chorus work. Besides, I hate Eddie Jackson’s guts.”

“Yeah,” said Bobby. He got up and went to the door. “Elsie!” he called. “Bring me a cup of coffee!” Then he sat down again.

“I want you to see Eddie,” he told her.

“I don’t want to see Eddie.”

“I want you to see him. Put down that goddamn file a minute.”

She went on filing.

“I want you to go up there this afternoon, hear?”

“I’m not going up there this afternoon or any other afternoon,” Helen told him, crossing her legs. “Who do you think you’re ordering around?”

Bobby’s hand was half fist when he knocked the emory board from her fingers. She neither looked at him nor picked up the emory board from the carpet. She just got up and went back to her dressing table to resume brushing her hair, her thick red hair. Bobby followed to stand behind her, to look for her eyes in the mirror.

“I want you to see Eddie this afternoon. Hear me, Helen?”

Helen brushed her hair. “And what’ll you do if I don’t go up there, tough guy?”

He picked that up. “Would you like me to tell you? Would you like me to tell you what I’ll do if you don’t go up there?”

“Yes, I’d like you to tell me what you’ll do if I don’t go up there,” Helen mimicked.

“Don’t do that. I’ll push in that glamor kisser of yours. So help me,” Bobby warned. “I want you to go up there. I want you see Eddie and I want you to take that god damn job.”

“No, I want you to tell me what you’ll do if I don’t go there,” Helen said, but in her natural voice.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Bobby said, watching her eyes in the mirror. “I’ll ring up your greasy boy friend’s wife and tell her what’s what.”

Helen horse-laughed. “Go ahead!” she told him. “Go right ahead, wise guy! She knows all about it!”

Bobby said, “She knows, eh?”

“Yes, she knows! And don’t you call Phil greasy! You wish you were half as good looking as he is!”

“He’s a greaser. A greasy lousy cheat,” Bobby pronounced. “Two for a lousy dime. That’s your boy friend.”

“Coming from you that’s good.”

“Have you ever seen his wife?” Bobby asked.

“Yes-I’ve-seen-his-wife. What about her?”

“Have you seen her face?”

“What’s so marvelous about her face?”

“Nothing’s so marvelous about it! She hasn’t got a glamor kisser like yours. It’s just a nice face. Why the hell don’t you leave her dumb husband alone?”

“None of your business why!” snapped Helen.

The fingers of his right hand suddenly dug into the hollow of her shoulder. She yelled out in pain, turned, and from an awkward position but with all her might, slammed his hand with the flat of her hairbrush. He sucked in his breath, pivoted swiftly so that his back was both to Helen and to Elsie, the maid, who had come in with his coffee. Elsie set the tray on the window seat next to the chair where Helen had filed her nails, then slipped out of the room.

Bobby sat down, and with the use of his other hand, sipped his coffee black. Helen, at the dressing table, had begun to place her hair. She wore it in a heavy old-fashioned bun.

He had long finished his coffee when the last hairpin was in its place. Then she went over to where he sat smoking and looking out the window. Drawing the lapels of her robe closer to her breast, she sat down with a little oop sound of unbalance on the floor at his feet. She placed a hand on his ankle, stroked it, and addressed him in a different voice.

“Bobby, I’m sorry. But you made me lose my temper, darling. Did I hurt your hand?”

“Never mind my hand,” he said, keeping it in his pocket.

“Bobby, I love Phil. On my word of honor. I don’t want you to think I’m just playing around. You don’t, do you? I mean you don’t just think I’m playing around, trying to hurt people?”

Bobby made no reply.

“My word of honor, Bob. You don’t know Phil. He’s really a grand person.”

Bobby looked at her. “You and your god damn grand persons. You know more god damn grand persons. The guy from Cleveland. What the hell was his name? Bothwell. Harry Bothwell. And how ‘bout that blond kid used to sing at Bill Cassidy’s? Two of the goddamndest grandest persons you ever met.” He looked out the window again. “Oh, for Chrissake, Helen,” he said finally.

“Bob,” said Helen, “you know how old I was. I was terribly young. You know that. But Bob, this is the real thing. Honestly. I know it is. I’ve never felt this way before. Bob, you don’t really in your heart think I’m taking all this from Phil just for the hell of it?”

Bobby looked at her again, lifted his eyebrows, thinned his lips. “You know what I hear in Chicago?” he asked her.

“What, Bob?” Helen asked gently, the tips of her fingers rubbing his ankle.

“I heard two guys talking. You don’t know ‘em. They were talking about you. You and this horsey-set guy, Hanson Carpenter. They crummied the thing inside out.” He paused. “You with him, too, Helen?”

“That’s a god damn lie, Bob,” Helen told him softly. “Bob, I hardly know Hanson Carpenter well enough to say hello to him.”

“Maybe so! But it’s a wonderful thing for a brother to have to listen to, isn’t it? Everybody in town gives me the horse-laugh when they see me comin’ around the corner!”

“Bobby. If you believe that slop it’s your own damn fault. What do you care what they say? You’re bigger than they are. You don’t have to pay any attention to their dirty minds.”

“I didn’t say I believed it. I said it was what I heard. That’s bad enough, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not so,” Helen told him. “Toss me a cigarette there, hmm?”

He flipped the package of cigarettes into her lap; then matches. She lighted up, inhaled, and removed a piece of tobacco from her tongue with the tips of her fingers.

“You used to be such a swell kid,” Bobby stated briefly.

“Oh! And I ain’t no more?” Helen little-girl’d.

He was silent.

“Listen, Helen. I’ll tell ya. I had lunch the other day, before I went to Chicago, with Phil’s wife.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s a swell kid. Class,” Bobby told her.

“Class, huh?” said Helen.

“Yeah. Listen. Go see Eddie this afternoon. It can’t do any harm. Go see him.”

Helen smoked. “I hate Eddie Jackson. He always makes a play for me.”

“Listen,” said Bobby, standing up. “You know how to turn on the ice when you want to.” He stood over her. “I have to go. I haven’t gone to the office yet.”

Helen stood up and watched him put on his polo coat.

“Go see Eddie,” Bobby said, putting on his pigskin gloves. “Hear me?” He buttoned his overcoat. “I’ll give you a ring soon.”

Helen chided, “Oh, you’ll give me a ring soon! When? The fourth of July?”

“No. Soon. I’ve been busy as hell lately. Where’s my hat? Oh, I didn’t have one.”

She walked with him to the front door, stood in the doorway until the elevator came. Then she shut the door and walked quickly back to her room. She went to the telephone and dialed swiftly but precisely.

“Hello?” she said into the mouthpiece. “Let me speak to Mr. Stone, please. This is Miss Mason.” In a moment his voice came through. “Phil?” she said. “Listen. My brother Bobby was just here. And do you know why? Because that adorable little Vassar-faced wife of yours told him about you and I. Yes! Listen, Phil. Listen to me. I don’t like it. I don’t care if you had anything to do with it or not. I don’t like it. I don’t care. No, I can’t. I have a previous engagement. I can’t tonight either. You can call me tomorrow. I’m very upset about all this. I said you can call me tomorrow, Phil. No. I said no. Phil. Goodbye.”

She set down the receiver, crossed her legs, and bit thoughtfully at the cuticle of her thumb. Then she turned and yelled loudly: “Elsie!”

Elsie moused into the room.

“Take away Mr. Bobby’s tray.”

When Elsie was out of the room, Helen dialed again.

“Hanson?” she said. “This is me. Us. We. You dog.”

War on terror and the Pakistani Wildlife

Cemendtaur

War on Terror is terrorizing the wildlife of Pakistan. Let me explain how this is happening.

Pakistan does not have much wildlife to begin with. The population explosion of the country has either made the hitherto wildlife extinct, or in a few other cases has made the animals shrink in numbers and be confined to challenging environments.

Loss of habitat is considered to be the primary reason for the extinction of animals. Homeless animals don’t survive for too long. Tiger that was once found from Balochistan to Assam is now extinct in the present day Pakistan. Whereas the Mughal Emperors used to hunt in the forests that once existed throughout Punjab, today we have the Hiran Minar, but no hiran (deer) in that area and the title of ‘Sher-e-Punjab’ (Lion of Punjab) is reserved for third-rate politicians. In fact, searching out from Pakistan the closest you would find tigers would be in the Ranthambore Reserve in Rajasthan, India. Neel Gaay (a large deer) has met a similar fate. Once found in many parts of Sindh and Punjab, Neel Gaay’s small herds are now found only at the Pakistan-India border. Loss of habitat is not the only way Pakistani wildlife is losing the battle of existence. Any kind of wildlife that can be hunted for its meat is endangered in Pakistan because Pakistanis, as reports suggest, are eager to please their Arab visitors at the cost of the natural beauty the fauna brings to a region.

With Pakistan’s mammalian wildlife retreated to small pockets in Balochistan (in the Kirthar range) and along the Pakistan-Afghanistan border the War on Terror enters the stage. War on Terror is about chasing the terrorists far and wide; it is about looking for the enemy everywhere, even in places people normally don’t go to. You can imagine Pakistan’s shuddering wildlife vexed by such an encroachment on its habitat.

The other way the War on Terror would push Pakistan’s wildlife over the brink is more insidious. Ever since the war started there has been a debate about what makes a person join the ranks of the terrorists. There seems to be a consensus that poorly developed areas with little education, fewer means for people to better their lot, fewer things to keep themselves busy with provide opportunities for the inhabitants to accept extremist ideas. On reaching the conclusion that the development of an area would increase the opportunities for the people of the area, there is a push to make Pakistan’s remote tribal areas more accessible to the connected world. War on Terror has come with an urgent need for “development.” Road construction projects are being planned even before there is any investment in education. With roads comes the evil: people who want to exploit the natural reserves of a region previously inaccessible. When roads would be built to remote areas in the north, that are still forested, one of the first people to use those roads would be the illegal loggers. The grab in the form of logged trees would invariably result in the loss of habitat for the wildlife of that region.

With our present understanding of the environmental issues, Pakistan must put its development strategy in the right order. First there should be education, so that the people would understand the importance of their natural environment and feel motivated to preserve it; building of roads and throwing a region in the cruel market economy should be the last step of development.

As for the War on Terror…if only the Pakistani wildlife could speak. And if the wildlife could speak and be in the audience at the Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech, the booing would have never stopped and it would have been impossible for Obama to deliver a convoluted speech that had obvious contradictions.

Photo of Pakistani leopard courtesy of
http://www.wildlifeofpakistan.com

All You Wanted to Know About Noon Meem Rashid [and could not find it on the Internet]

This month’s Urdu Academy program was on Noon Meem Rashid. Speakers read papers on the life of Noon Meem Rashid and recited Rashid’s poetry. The audio file of the program is present here:

http://www.archive.org/details/NoonMeemRashid--urduAcademysMehfilOnNov222009



[Here you see Ijaz Syed reading ‘Hasan Koozeh-gar']

The torrent of bad news that regularly comes out of Pakistan makes it hard to believe that country of 180 million people has highly successful engineers and scientists working on cutting-edge technologies. Meet Dr. Syed Ali Khayam of NUST (National University of Sciences and Technology, Islamabad) to become familiar with the other face of Pakistan. This scribe interviewed Dr. Khayam at Ashok Malani’s place. The detailed interview of this young electrical engineering professor will be published soon.

Eminent Urdu poet and prose-writer Professor Munibur Rahman (alternatively spelled Munib-Ur-Rahman, Munib-Ur-Rehman, Munib Ur Rehman, and Munib Ur Rahman) recently visited the San Francisco Bay Area. This scribe met him at Ijaz Syed's place.

A brief bio of Professor Munibur Rahman is present here:
http://www.urdustudies.com/auinfo/rahmanMunibur.html

Mr. Mohammad Nauman, popularly known as Professor Mohammad Nauman and often just Professor Nauman, a community leader and an Electrical/Electronics Engineering teacher at the NED University of Engineering and Technology died early morning on Sunday, November 15. He was a chronic asthma patient. Mohammad Nauman got a bachelor's degree in Electrical Engineering from NED and received a Master's degree from North Carolina State University. During his student days he was an active member of the NSF (National Students Federation), a left-leaning organization considered an affiliate of the Pakistan People's Party. On his return from the US Mohammad Nauman started teaching at the NED University and got involved in the social and development issues of the country in general and of Sindh in particular. In the late 80's and early 90's when Karachi was swayed by toxic ethnicity-based politics, Nauman was one of the few community leaders who considered the struggle of the poor and uneducated a much higher priority than the execrable politics of ethnicity. Mohammad Nauman wrote regularly for the English newspapers of Pakistan.

[Mohammad Nauman's photo courtesy of Suhail Akbar of the Koshish Foundation.]

A Heart in Education

A.H. Cemendtaur

Carefully contrived acronyms give a subliminal message about the disposition of an organization. Developments in Literacy, a non-profit organization operating schools in Pakistan, has such an acronym (DIL)—for those who understand Urdu; the initialism gives one the warm fuzzy feeling of working with a group that has its heart in education. In DIL’s annual fundraiser arranged in Palo Alto on November 7, over 250 participants got ample opportunity to hear about and see (in a documentary, featuring Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times) DIL’s heartfelt efforts in promoting primary education in Pakistan.

And education in Pakistan—and Afghanistan--is what many in the west are currently rooting for. Torn between the generals’ ever increasing demands of troops boost and the peaceniks’ cries for a quick and complete pullout from Afghanistan, the US administration often appears looking for an alternative solution. Enter the educationists. They tell you the problem can be solved for only $1 per child per month, through educating people. The vanguards of the education-corps are the various non-profit organizations, several of them based in the US (DIL, HDF, TCF, etc.). The superstar in this cluster of education-warriors is Greg Mortenson whose bestseller, ‘Three Cups of Tea’, has made a lot of Americans wonder if their country is trying to win the ‘War on Terror’ the wrong way. Greg Mortenson was the special guest of the DIL annual fundraiser, but he got sick and could not make it to the program.

The keynote speaker of DIL’s program was Dr. Adil Najam, Professor of Global Public Policy at Boston University, and a lead author for the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), which shared the 2007 Nobel Peace Prize with Al Gore. In a speech laced with witty remarks and clever insights Dr. Najam said the Pakistanis suffered with a “national syndrome of achieving individual excellence amidst collective failure”. He said in order for Pakistan to climb up on the Human Development Index--an index based on quantifiable measures of life expectancy (health), per capita GDP (wealth), and education attainment--the country has to invest heavily in education. Priming the audience for the fundraising part of the event, Dr. Najam quoted statistics from “Portrait of a Giving Community: Philanthropy by the Pakistani-American Diaspora”, a 2007 study done under his supervision, and said the Pakistanis living in the US were very generous in their philanthropy.

Greg Mortenson’s speaking slot was taken by Dr. Abdul Jabbar who is associated with the City College of San Francisco and is a board member of the Central Asia Institute (founded by Mortenson). Eulogizing the mentor of his organization, Dr. Jabbar said Mortenson’s success in building and operating schools in Pakistan lay in Mortenson’s understanding of the local culture and his approach of involving the community in the endeavor. A documentary about Central Asian Institute’s work in remote northern areas of Pakistan and in parts of Afghanistan was also screened.

The speeches and a subsequent dinner were followed by a musical performance by Pakistan's prominent vocalist Tahira Syed. The duo of Paru Yusuf and Ambreen Jamal emceed the program.

==========
Information obtained from DIL's handout at the fundraiser

Gold Partners
Sara and Sohaib Abbasi, Ambreen and Asad Jamal, Bhoomija and Saeed Malik, Paru and Zia Yusuf.

Friends of DIL
Nahid Aliniazee and Kamal Ahmed, Eileen Donahoe, Lubna and Syed Hasanain, Roohina and Arif Janjua, Amena and Javed Patel, Zakia Rahman, Shameela and Hasan Rizvi.

Preferred Table
Nayela and Shuja Keen

DIL 2009-20010 San Francisco Board
Paru Desai Yusuf—President
Ambreen Jamal—Vice President
Sara Abbasi, Nayela Keen, Shuja Keen, Amena Patel, Zakia Rehman, Bonnie Sheikh, Zia Yusuf

Creative talent:
Ayesha Rashid Khan, Event Coordinator
Mariam Hussain, Truck Art Graphics
Haider Ali (Centerpiece Artist)

Catering:
Tandoori and Curry Catering

2009 San Francisco Gala Volunteers:
Faiz Abbasi, Faraz Abbasi, Reem Chughtai, Amra Faruqi, Miraal Haq, Mahum Jamal, Ghazala Khan, Zara Khan, Siemeen Mirza, Naila Qureshi, Abdulrahman Rafiq, Sonya A. Sohail, Saira Yusuf, Sanam Yusuf

Ushers:
Gibran Haq, Daanish Jamal, Salman Javed, Mehreen Khan, Samar Khan, Arham Qureshi, Asad Raza, Ramiz Sheikh, Zara Sheikh

DIL Executive Board

Dr. Nafis Sadik

Executive Board Members
Fiza Shah, Hashmat Saeed, Sara Abbasi, Mehar Patel, Jameela Fakhri, Najmi Sarwar, Tashnim Shaheryar, Muhammad B. Shahzad

Dil Advisory Board
Nasser Ahmed, Shahla Aly, Henna Inam, Dr. Maleeha Lodhi, Kavita Ramdas, Dr. Nafis Sadiq, Jane Wales, Zia Yusuf, Kashif Zafar

TCF Chairman, Arshad Abdulla dies in Germany

Monday, October 26. Losing a long battle with prostate cancer, Pakistani philanthropist and educationalist Arshad Abdulla (alternatively spelled as Arshad Abdullah), died in Germany this morning. An architect by profession--he, along with his younger brother Shahid Abdulla, was the owner of ASA (Arshad Shahid Abdulla, a leading architectural firm based in Karachi)--Arshad Abdulla was a cofounder of The Citizens' Foundation (TCF), a non-profit organization building schools all over Pakistan.


[Photo courtesy of http://www.pcp.org.pk]

Why the Brazilian Embassy, you ask.

Honduras President Manuel Zelaya was ousted in a military assisted coup in June this year. He was put on a plane to Costa Rica, purportedly in his pajamas. On his removal from power Zelaya found instant international support. From Venezuela to the USA—yes, the same Uncle Sam who historically supported the army and the big business in that Banana republic*—spoke in favor of Zelaya. But the ground realities were different. The Honduras army, the Supreme Court, and the opposition were together in a strong dislike for Zelaya. These players knew that time was of the essence—the sooner they could pile a lot of dirt on Zelaya’s ouster, the harder it would be for Zelaya to come back to power: elections were announced to be held in November. Zelaya got apprehensive; he HAD to return back to Honduras, in order to remain relevant. So, after two failed attempts Zelaya did manage to finally sneak in on September 21. He is presently in asylum at the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa. Why the Brazilian embassy? Well, it could not be the Costa Rican embassy, since the Costa Rican President Arias has to play his role in negotiations between Zelaya and the opposition. It could not be the Venezuelan embassy as a refuge there would put Zelaya squarely in the “Socialist” camp and would provide an affirmation of the opposition’s accusation of Zelaya’s leanings. And of course it could not be the US embassy. And it could not be the embassy of a small, toothless country of Central America. Brazil is a big, powerful, non-Spanish speaking country of that region. For Zelaya Brazilian embassy made a good choice. An alternative could be the Spanish embassy. No one knows how many foreign missions Zelaya was in touch with and what his plans B—Z was, had the Brazilian embassy not welcomed him.
[Other logistics were also important. For example, the embassy in which Zelaya would take refuge had to be physically large.]
But no matter how Zelaya ended up at the Brazilian embassy, his return has thrown a monkey wrench in the opposition’s scheme. Now all bets are off and the game is on.


*Traveling in Honduras one sees a poor population living amidst a modern highway system. It does not take too long for the traveler to figure out what is happening. The highway system is not for the poor people of Honduras, it is for the bananas to quickly reach the ports.

[Photo courtesy of the Kuwait Times.]

Happy Father's Day

I am not sure why but I have always associated the strongest emotions and feelings with color, fragrance, or flavor. If you ask me what hard work smells like, I would say it was the scent that effused from the car that returned at night to our home with the man who would leave for work early in the morning. That I used to smell this aroma climbing the stairs of an office building in Karachi--an office building where people parked their cars all different ways, where signs of lawyers and other businesses hung on the façade among a myriad of telephone and electricity wires; an office building where several ground floor shops were of perfume-makers who would put their artistic potions in colored bottles of peculiar shapes, where a Pathan would run his teashop under the stairs. When my brother and I would sprint up to the third floor, on the behest of my mother who would be standing outside that building--the two of us pushing each other along the way--we would smell the redolent mixture of perfumes and hot tea, and then in a third floor office filled with cigarette smoke, sitting surrounded by law books, we would find the most important man of our lives.

Like most fathers of the world my father took care of the economic structure of our household. He worked very hard through his younger years and because of his toil we always remained a step out of the brutal ring of poverty. And being financially secure made it possible for us children to make independent decisions in our lives.

My father's second most important contribution in my upbringing was in setting my direction in seeking knowledge. I always found him surrounded by books; reading the titles of the books by his bedside I learned the names of Bertrand Russell, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Descartes and other great minds. My father never coached me about what I should study in school, but watching him read books I learned that no matter what field I choose for my vocational training, I must find solace in philosophy and good literature. That I may work as an accountant or a garbage collector, but when I find time I should read literature and philosophy to entertain myself and to try to reach the pinnacle of human intellect.

And it is because of this training that I live with the confidence that if ever circumstances suddenly became unfavorable for me, that if the clouds of benevolence that constantly hang over my head ever disappeared, if doors are ever slammed shut on my face, if I am ever pushed to the ground and told of my utter failure, that in the most miserable situation I would live with the inner peace that I have strived to gain true knowledge, the knowledge that illuminates the path to the heavens, the knowledge that I sought through guidance received from my father.

[Originally written in Urdu. That text is here:
http://hindiurdublog.wordpress.com/2009/06/22/%D8%B1%D9%88%D8%B2-%D9%BE%D8%AF%D8%B1/]

It would be surprising if anyone among the Warren Packard audience did not mark their calendar for December 13, 2010. Packard thought the manner in which the technology was getting cheaper by the day, in eighteen months attendees of technical conferences would find themselves receiving free mp3 players as marketing material. "See me if this does not happen," Packard assured the audience.

See other OPEN Forum 2009 pictures at:
http://picasaweb.google.com/cemendtaur/OPENForum2009#

OPEN Silicon Valley Forum 2009

Trying to learn new things in an OPEN (Organization of Pakistani Entrepreneurs of North America) Forum is like trying to drink water from a fire-hydrant. With three parallel tracks of panel discussions going on, scores of knowledgeable speakers to listen to, and hundreds of people to reconnect with the whole day affair is an exhilarating exercise. This years OPEN Forum took place on Saturday, June 13, at the Computer History Museum in Mountain View.

In the picture above you see Warren Packard of Draper Fisher Jurvetson, a venture capitalist firm, giving the morning keynote speech at the OPEN Forum 2009. In his speech Packard put great confidence in the entrepreneurial spirit of mankind; he seemed assured "we" will come out fine from recession, environmental problems, and political instabilities around the world.

See other OPEN Forum 2009 pictures at:
http://picasaweb.google.com/cemendtaur/OPENForum2009#