sometimes it sucks to be persian

I'm half Iranian and there are days when it's simply embarrasing to be a member of this ethnic group.

Take yesterday, for example. I was on an elevator in Century City and had to stand elbow to elbow with a Persian business executive in a shiny suit. He was on his cell phone screaming at Ahmad in both English and Farsi. "Dees vat I am telling you, ACH-MAAAD!" he barked. "Al booh afta HA EH AAAACCCH!" Poor freaking Ahmad.

Then today, headlines all over the place about the comments during the UN meeting by Iran's idiotic president, whose name I can't spell. Thank you for making all Iranians look like raving anti-Semites and pushing diplomatic relations back to 21 B.C. Really. Mamnoon.

Last weekend, J and I took a drive through the Westside and happened upon block after block of Persian Palaces. If you don't know LA, the Persian Palace is an unfortunate blight on the city's architectural asethetic. These homes are generally boxy and feature cornices and bronze Middle Eastern statues, typically of lions. They also completely dominate the land they are built on, with virtually no back or front yard. It's all stucco, marble and gold. An architecture critic once wrote in the LA Times that the Persian Palace has all the grace of a "Humvee in a wedding dress."

Don't get me started on Persian drivers. Please.

Tonight we will go to my parents' house for Persian food. Then something transformational happens. When you ingest Persian cuisine, be it a beautifully formed kabob, a perfectly broiled tomato or yogurt with cucumbers and dill, the embarrasment of your fellow Iranians just melts away. You gain the strength to handle them and their obnoxious conversations, comments and homes. You are proud of your culture and happy to be counted among them.

Until your next encounter, of course.