Developers of Ducted Watercraft and Personal Air Vehicles (PAVs) and Unmanned, Manned and/or Remote Operable (UMR) vehicles known as the Springtail™ and Dragonfly®; and OVIWUN™ a Man Portable Unmanned Air Vehicle (UAV).
Friday, March 13, 2009
Your own personal VTOL aircraft in Dubai
Developers of Ducted Watercraft and Personal Air Vehicles (PAVs) and Unmanned, Manned and/or Remote Operable (UMR) vehicles known as the Springtail™ and Dragonfly®; and OVIWUN™ a Man Portable Unmanned Air Vehicle (UAV).
Skywalker in Dubai?
Dubai is one of the most traffic congested cities in the world and a design like Skywalker would be most at home here - from design and manufacture, to perfecting then marketing to the world.
The latest 2 place design phase of Skywalker VTOL aircraft has the potential to provide exciting air flight, piloted from your location, escaping city traffic and airport landing strips, for direct arrival to your destination. This Experimental Kit-built personal Skywalker VTOL is being prototyped and will be manufactured by Mirror Image Aerospace and TCB Composite Company Inc.
Past musing
UAE Unfettered (can I help it if I forgot my password and now have a completely new email?)
October 16, 2007
Vanes, gyro-stabilised, not lanes!
Vanes are what gave the vehicle control. And coupled with vehicle gyrostabilisers they became the backbone of the early second millennium transportation revolution.
Those vehicles with lateral control vanes did much better than all the rest and the world had mostly to thank the explosive demand for Unmanned Aerial Vehicles in the days of war against terror in early 2000.
UAV's and their manned counterparts took full advantage of the direction and control offered by vanes.
Those vehicles with lateral control vanes did much better than all the rest and the world had mostly to thank the explosive demand for Unmanned Aerial Vehicles in the days of war against terror in early 2000.
UAV's and their manned counterparts took full advantage of the direction and control offered by vanes.
December 03, 2006
direction and control
What if the vehicle could be given ultimate maneuvering capability in 3 dimensions equally? What if the vehicle took on the burden that now was carried by the infrastructure – that of providing automatic, constant direction and control to vehicular movement, again, in 3 dimensions equally? What if the vehicle was given ultimate navigational capability, ultimate safety and proximity assurance capability? What if propulsion issues were no longer a limiting factor? What if these capabilities could be provided at a reasonable price for the global consumer? These really were the questions that Raww Baww Tii Kii existed to address and bring forthright, affordable and reasonable answers to.
“The infrastructure is the vehicle and the airspace around the vehicle, and in that sense, the infrastructure is limitless.” Mike recalled the presentation he had been called to make on many occasions. His favorites were the occasions in which executives from the automotive sector, world wide, would attend and listen with wide eyed interest and edge of their seat anticipation to his spiel. He liked presenting his company's advancements to these kinds of people because they understood the level of chaos that had to somehow be organized into something of value, the levels of engineering involved, the significance and impact that the work of the people at Raww Baww Tii Kii would have in a global innovation sense. They understood what it really meant if you were to actually place the burden of the infrastructure on the vehicle, through maximizing the capability.
Back in the year 2007, Mike had read a white paper published by the AMERICAN HELICOPTER SOCIETY INTERNATIONAL and HELICOPTER ASSOCIATION INTERNATIONAL titled: “DEVELOPING A SAFE AND EFFICIENT VERTICAL FLIGHT INFRASTRUCTURE”. It was this white paper that catalyzed Mike’s compulsion to take on the same kind of revolution in transportation as the AHS had taken on for their vehicles that, for their time, indeed had ultimate capability – though still at such a high cost and complexity when it came to “the average Ahmed”.
The goal of the AHS in publishing the white paper was to spur, by all parties affected, the development of an air and ground infrastructure for rotorcraft operations based upon the concept of simultaneous non-interfering operations, which included heliport to heliport all weather operations, by an Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) integrated product team, which included operators and manufacturers, the FAA, NASA and the Department of Defense.
The AHS’s frustration was with the old fashioned, limited infrastructure within which their ultimately capable vehicles had to operate. And this was now the problem that existed for Mike Strathomre in 2027 sitting here in traffic in his classic Infiniti “M”. You see Mikes company had developed a vehicle with capabilities far advanced compared to conventional automobiles that relied on a physical infrastructure in the same manner that the conventional helicopter had broken free from the need to rely on runways and the traditional airport infrastructures at a typical 2007 airport. The advancement in capability led to a frustration in actual use of existing physical infrastructures.
The reason d’etre of Raww Baww Tii Kii in 2027 was to rid the world of a need to rely on a physical transport infrastructure by extreme advancement in vehicular capability – incorporating the infrastructure burden in the vehicle itself.
“The infrastructure is the vehicle and the airspace around the vehicle, and in that sense, the infrastructure is limitless.” Mike recalled the presentation he had been called to make on many occasions. His favorites were the occasions in which executives from the automotive sector, world wide, would attend and listen with wide eyed interest and edge of their seat anticipation to his spiel. He liked presenting his company's advancements to these kinds of people because they understood the level of chaos that had to somehow be organized into something of value, the levels of engineering involved, the significance and impact that the work of the people at Raww Baww Tii Kii would have in a global innovation sense. They understood what it really meant if you were to actually place the burden of the infrastructure on the vehicle, through maximizing the capability.
Back in the year 2007, Mike had read a white paper published by the AMERICAN HELICOPTER SOCIETY INTERNATIONAL and HELICOPTER ASSOCIATION INTERNATIONAL titled: “DEVELOPING A SAFE AND EFFICIENT VERTICAL FLIGHT INFRASTRUCTURE”. It was this white paper that catalyzed Mike’s compulsion to take on the same kind of revolution in transportation as the AHS had taken on for their vehicles that, for their time, indeed had ultimate capability – though still at such a high cost and complexity when it came to “the average Ahmed”.
The goal of the AHS in publishing the white paper was to spur, by all parties affected, the development of an air and ground infrastructure for rotorcraft operations based upon the concept of simultaneous non-interfering operations, which included heliport to heliport all weather operations, by an Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) integrated product team, which included operators and manufacturers, the FAA, NASA and the Department of Defense.
The AHS’s frustration was with the old fashioned, limited infrastructure within which their ultimately capable vehicles had to operate. And this was now the problem that existed for Mike Strathomre in 2027 sitting here in traffic in his classic Infiniti “M”. You see Mikes company had developed a vehicle with capabilities far advanced compared to conventional automobiles that relied on a physical infrastructure in the same manner that the conventional helicopter had broken free from the need to rely on runways and the traditional airport infrastructures at a typical 2007 airport. The advancement in capability led to a frustration in actual use of existing physical infrastructures.
The reason d’etre of Raww Baww Tii Kii in 2027 was to rid the world of a need to rely on a physical transport infrastructure by extreme advancement in vehicular capability – incorporating the infrastructure burden in the vehicle itself.
November 24, 2006
The pink copy goes to the lady...
The motorcycle traffic police arrived on scene about twenty minutes later from the Garoud Station and observed the position of the ML350 and the M, had a chuckle between them, and then spoke in Arabic in soft and tender tones to the Black-abaya-clad lady who, when first stepping out of 50% tinted darkness . inadvertently revealed her Henna’ed ankle, a silver, diamond-studded anklet, five of her perfectly pedicured, flesh-painted, white tipped toenails, and one of her extremely fashionable, minimalist-in-form, four-inch-heeled straps-free, sandal-stiletto affairs that looked very dainty and very feminine but at the same time, as though it could hold up a tower in a strong wind. And Mike, naturally, marveled at the perfectly engineered Arabic-lady, foot-form thus in post-graunch haste unwittingly, whimsically, revealed before vaulting himself, almost automatically, into another foray of English language cusses such the likes even a former British naval officer would cringe at having to aurally endure lucky for any former British officers that might have been in the vicinity, Mike expelled the cusses this time with clenched teeth and lower volume, remembering suddenly that his top was down, out of respect for the lady who had just gotten out of the ML350, the fender of which still wedged its bulging intention firmly against the bumper of the “M”. It was after all a classic 2007 Infinity “M”, full-insurance coverage aside. The police gave the Sheikha the pink copy of the report and gave Mike the white copy. She was the guilty one. Had the police heard any one of mikes many profanations, the pink copy, just as night turns itself into day, surely, would have been his to take home.
Mike was in the midst of moving Raww Baww Tii Kii LLC HQ to its new location in Festival City Dubai. Why festival city, many people outright asked the owner, Mike. Not one being able to resist the pull of doing business WITH pleasure 100% of the time, Mike had told everyone who asked that he felt it was just the natural progression of Raww Baww Tii Kii’s original vision since its inception in 2007 “Fun Moving, Moving Fun”. Festival City deemed itself: “a unique and eclectic destination transforming the upper reaches of the historic Dubai Creek.” A true all-in-one destination, Dubai Festival City seamlessly blended hospitality, entertainment, business and residential in one superb setting. This was the Middle East’s largest, privately funded mixed-use real estate development. Revitalising the down-town soul of Dubai, this waterfront ‘city-within-a-city’ provided a safe, relaxed, friendly and exclusive setting for residents and visitors alike. From Riviera-style scenery and lush green landscapes to iconic towers and luxury hotels, Dubai Festival City claimed itself to be: “all you can image in one place.”
The logistics involved in moving a 5000 employee, Multi-national Mechatronics research and development organization like Raww Baww Tii Kii in a two week window brought forth the best in those responsible to Mike for making it happen just so.
Mike was in the midst of moving Raww Baww Tii Kii LLC HQ to its new location in Festival City Dubai. Why festival city, many people outright asked the owner, Mike. Not one being able to resist the pull of doing business WITH pleasure 100% of the time, Mike had told everyone who asked that he felt it was just the natural progression of Raww Baww Tii Kii’s original vision since its inception in 2007 “Fun Moving, Moving Fun”. Festival City deemed itself: “a unique and eclectic destination transforming the upper reaches of the historic Dubai Creek.” A true all-in-one destination, Dubai Festival City seamlessly blended hospitality, entertainment, business and residential in one superb setting. This was the Middle East’s largest, privately funded mixed-use real estate development. Revitalising the down-town soul of Dubai, this waterfront ‘city-within-a-city’ provided a safe, relaxed, friendly and exclusive setting for residents and visitors alike. From Riviera-style scenery and lush green landscapes to iconic towers and luxury hotels, Dubai Festival City claimed itself to be: “all you can image in one place.”
The logistics involved in moving a 5000 employee, Multi-national Mechatronics research and development organization like Raww Baww Tii Kii in a two week window brought forth the best in those responsible to Mike for making it happen just so.
November 23, 2006
Mike and the Mechatronics
The year was 2027. The future was now. Michael Strathmore lived in this time. He had no one to turn to, no where to run, by the time he turned 30 and so began a life of solitude funded, mostly, by a rather badly misplaced inheritance bequeathed to him by the passing of a very rich uncle in the business of micro-upping efficiencies and improvements to assembly processes by automation who, after equal apportioning most of his vast estate amongst the family members immediate, had no heirs left to give his vast amounts of money to, gave the rest, to his sole surviving nephew, Mike. Mike deemed himself extremely fortunate and not even a little bit guilty to be thought of as somehow worthy enough to receive such a vast sum at such a time in his life.
Mike’s latest game and the deepest, surely, of his multiple passions, was Mechatronic engineering and he was at the top of his game. He had sensed that economically the world’s center would shift. It did and Mike, being one who easily became bored with his personal advancement in the field of Mechatronic engineering, decided to buy himself rraw baww tii kii LLC, a dynamic, leading company in the Mechatronics industry, which had recently moved to the center of the new world economy, Dubai, UAE.
Raw baw ti ki’s bread and butter came in the form of a massive Dubai Road Transport Authority grant wherewith which to germinate citizens ideas for solving Dubai’s chronic and critical traffic issues. From jams to chock-a-blocks, from rush-hour parking lots to rubber neckers causing tailbacks, this grant was given almost in desperation to Raw baw ti ki LLC in the RTA’s attempts to finally curb the tiring daily mess RTA had made of its own transportation infrastructure.
Solving a traffic problem was not Micheal’s idea of a good time in the workplace. No, he would have rather been doing exactly what he had been given license to do by now owning and operating Raw baw ti ki. That was basically to spawn the new age of personal transport in this ripe for transportational revolution atmosphere. He was driven to this sort of a mandate by fate it would seem for in his passion he found reason finally to give to a community that had given so much to him already in the past years of dwelling in the centre of it all. If it weren’t for the daily raunch of traffic issues, Dubai would be a perfect place to live, thought our man Mike.
One day in November, in the cool 26 degrees of evening winter air in Dubai, on the road that lead to the new, new Garhoud 36-lane bridge while sitting stock still, with the top down, "ready to go", in his convertible, 8-cylinder, 365 hp Infinity “M” classic from the year 2007, in the regular 16:15 chock-a-block, jammed, parking lot style traffic, behind a china great wall pickup truck (A Toyota-like form stamped from toy tin and run by 60 hampsters all blowing blue smoke out the 7/8 inch exhaust pipe straight into mike’s eyes nose and mouth, Mike momentarily lost control of his mental faculties and decided to escape.
Maybe it was the fumes. Maybe it was the cool 26 degree breeze blowing through his close cropped top. Maybe it was his need to escape that very moment from feeling the need to depress fully, the gas pedal of the Infinity “M” and unlease the full fury of 365 horses right up the dog gone 7/8 inch tail pipe of China great wall truck with six persons of at least three different East Asian nationalities in front of him. What ever the motivation was, Mike decided to simply escape his current traffic reality by imagining him self simply, to be elsewhere. Fully and completely, mike escaped from that impulse, lucky for him, lucky for the great wall in front of him, lucky for the three kilometer tail back just snaking around the edge of the Dubai World Trade Center round about snaking. Yes so very lucky. And mike began to day dream help hailed on by the blue smoke blown on down the pipe by sixty of the Great Wall’s wee hamsters.
He dreamed right there and then of how and what could be more satisfying than ridding oneself of the need to remain trapped by an inefficient and strangulating infrastructure when, by gooly and by gosh one could render with a few twists of coat hanger ingenuity a dreamy solution to the problem of being a sitting duck amidst a waiting crowd of idling hamsters. “Toss the infrastructure!” he thought blithely to himself, being brought back to reality by a fleeting thought of what his wfe might think of his crazy idea. Then just as fleeting, the meandering Mike-mode was in full swing. His silent rationalizing, analytical monologue began again, as it had day after day after day while being repetedly strangulated along with ten thousand other driver car combinations down in this same spot in the infrastructure that demanded so much of its users but gave so dang little every day.
“The time is ripe for this.” He thought again to himself. “Surely the time is ripe for this thing that I have in my head. Rid ourselves of this bloody inefficient infrastructure that’s what’s gotta happen!” Dubai RTA simply can not see and plan and build infrastructure upon infrastructure and expect that this huge, seething mass of too many cars per minute will NOT but bottle neck if the infrastructure is flawed at the outset!” Feeling quite smug with him self for having condemned this day yet again in one, self-righteous, selfish sentence, yet another whole bleeding sector of the Entity that governed him, Mike and mind meandered on. “What if we focused wholly on the vehicle rather than the silly infrastructure?” And in this moment of truth Mike’s eyes lit up a smile began in the corners of his crooked left side slightly down mouth and became a wide grin and he yelped: “Eureeka!!! I’ve found it!!!” just for the hell of it, really, he’d always wanted to do that.
Just then, an ML 350 van/car/truck/4by4/grocery getter with 50% black tinted windows revealing nothing but seeming blackness with Dubai plate number A44 edged the bloody corner of his bloody fender just a few millimeters in front of the Infinity M’s Bumper just as the Hamster-powered great wall moved ahead. Mike’s foot moved before his brain had a chance to tell it not to and GRAUNCH! There he was. In the middle of 10,000 trapped souls. 18 lanes on either side of him an ML 350’s Fender copulating unceremoniously the M’s bumper. Mike resorted to English language profanity at high volume for about a minute, for it was the only outlet he had at this point.
Continued in tomorrow’s edition of Might Mike and his Magubious Murano. I know, I know, there’s narry a mention yet of any sort of a Murano but hang tight me wee ones and you’ll begin to see where the tale will wag ya to. Tally ho!
Mike’s latest game and the deepest, surely, of his multiple passions, was Mechatronic engineering and he was at the top of his game. He had sensed that economically the world’s center would shift. It did and Mike, being one who easily became bored with his personal advancement in the field of Mechatronic engineering, decided to buy himself rraw baww tii kii LLC, a dynamic, leading company in the Mechatronics industry, which had recently moved to the center of the new world economy, Dubai, UAE.
Raw baw ti ki’s bread and butter came in the form of a massive Dubai Road Transport Authority grant wherewith which to germinate citizens ideas for solving Dubai’s chronic and critical traffic issues. From jams to chock-a-blocks, from rush-hour parking lots to rubber neckers causing tailbacks, this grant was given almost in desperation to Raw baw ti ki LLC in the RTA’s attempts to finally curb the tiring daily mess RTA had made of its own transportation infrastructure.
Solving a traffic problem was not Micheal’s idea of a good time in the workplace. No, he would have rather been doing exactly what he had been given license to do by now owning and operating Raw baw ti ki. That was basically to spawn the new age of personal transport in this ripe for transportational revolution atmosphere. He was driven to this sort of a mandate by fate it would seem for in his passion he found reason finally to give to a community that had given so much to him already in the past years of dwelling in the centre of it all. If it weren’t for the daily raunch of traffic issues, Dubai would be a perfect place to live, thought our man Mike.
One day in November, in the cool 26 degrees of evening winter air in Dubai, on the road that lead to the new, new Garhoud 36-lane bridge while sitting stock still, with the top down, "ready to go", in his convertible, 8-cylinder, 365 hp Infinity “M” classic from the year 2007, in the regular 16:15 chock-a-block, jammed, parking lot style traffic, behind a china great wall pickup truck (A Toyota-like form stamped from toy tin and run by 60 hampsters all blowing blue smoke out the 7/8 inch exhaust pipe straight into mike’s eyes nose and mouth, Mike momentarily lost control of his mental faculties and decided to escape.
Maybe it was the fumes. Maybe it was the cool 26 degree breeze blowing through his close cropped top. Maybe it was his need to escape that very moment from feeling the need to depress fully, the gas pedal of the Infinity “M” and unlease the full fury of 365 horses right up the dog gone 7/8 inch tail pipe of China great wall truck with six persons of at least three different East Asian nationalities in front of him. What ever the motivation was, Mike decided to simply escape his current traffic reality by imagining him self simply, to be elsewhere. Fully and completely, mike escaped from that impulse, lucky for him, lucky for the great wall in front of him, lucky for the three kilometer tail back just snaking around the edge of the Dubai World Trade Center round about snaking. Yes so very lucky. And mike began to day dream help hailed on by the blue smoke blown on down the pipe by sixty of the Great Wall’s wee hamsters.
He dreamed right there and then of how and what could be more satisfying than ridding oneself of the need to remain trapped by an inefficient and strangulating infrastructure when, by gooly and by gosh one could render with a few twists of coat hanger ingenuity a dreamy solution to the problem of being a sitting duck amidst a waiting crowd of idling hamsters. “Toss the infrastructure!” he thought blithely to himself, being brought back to reality by a fleeting thought of what his wfe might think of his crazy idea. Then just as fleeting, the meandering Mike-mode was in full swing. His silent rationalizing, analytical monologue began again, as it had day after day after day while being repetedly strangulated along with ten thousand other driver car combinations down in this same spot in the infrastructure that demanded so much of its users but gave so dang little every day.
“The time is ripe for this.” He thought again to himself. “Surely the time is ripe for this thing that I have in my head. Rid ourselves of this bloody inefficient infrastructure that’s what’s gotta happen!” Dubai RTA simply can not see and plan and build infrastructure upon infrastructure and expect that this huge, seething mass of too many cars per minute will NOT but bottle neck if the infrastructure is flawed at the outset!” Feeling quite smug with him self for having condemned this day yet again in one, self-righteous, selfish sentence, yet another whole bleeding sector of the Entity that governed him, Mike and mind meandered on. “What if we focused wholly on the vehicle rather than the silly infrastructure?” And in this moment of truth Mike’s eyes lit up a smile began in the corners of his crooked left side slightly down mouth and became a wide grin and he yelped: “Eureeka!!! I’ve found it!!!” just for the hell of it, really, he’d always wanted to do that.
Just then, an ML 350 van/car/truck/4by4/grocery getter with 50% black tinted windows revealing nothing but seeming blackness with Dubai plate number A44 edged the bloody corner of his bloody fender just a few millimeters in front of the Infinity M’s Bumper just as the Hamster-powered great wall moved ahead. Mike’s foot moved before his brain had a chance to tell it not to and GRAUNCH! There he was. In the middle of 10,000 trapped souls. 18 lanes on either side of him an ML 350’s Fender copulating unceremoniously the M’s bumper. Mike resorted to English language profanity at high volume for about a minute, for it was the only outlet he had at this point.
Continued in tomorrow’s edition of Might Mike and his Magubious Murano. I know, I know, there’s narry a mention yet of any sort of a Murano but hang tight me wee ones and you’ll begin to see where the tale will wag ya to. Tally ho!
November 04, 2006
Lunar, baby!
And so it is a game of life in the spaces between. And I have survived the weekend of waiting to this hour at least. Not having heard a wit about things. I feel odd.
Like I have a brain full of ideas ready to record and yet no access to them now because of the torpor filling my spaces in between life; it seems to take snuffing pleasure in settling on and surrounding every synapse I lay claim to have provided a path for in the confined, winding pathways of that which floats in cranial fluid beneath my noggin.
The spaces in between, when torpor settles, are hard to navigate, and torpor, though quick to disappear, like fog in the morning sun, it still hangs in the interim hours, the hours that will end up costing us the most. For instance, in the interim hours we drive to work, in the morning in the settled fog, and have not the time to sit outside the yellow line, engine idling waiting til 10:00 AM when the sun methodically burns a visibility factor through the veil. No, we drive, squinting, our nerves on high alert, the coffee well within reach, so as not to, even for one second, miss the chance of serving to the left or right of a looming Semi’s rear end. So it is when the torpor fills the spaces in between.
Oh it will lift. There is no doubt in everyone’s mind that it will lift, but by the clock struck eight we all don’t wait for the sun’s rays to alleviate at only 10:08, no. We all don’t wait.
I feel odd. As though not knowing what lies ahead need not be thought of or planned for at this stage. How does one plan a skillful avoidance of the Semi’s sudden looming rear end in fog when it has firmly settled?! Wait til 10:00? No way, just merrily drive away - not only today, but yesterday and last week Monday. This is the game of life we play even when odd feelings come our way and the moon so bright in its fullness tonight brushes away the sweat of angst, and even squeals of delight. With a single beam it razes the shimmering tide and draws in to it’s pale, lucid luminescence, the portending dwellers of Um Suquiem, the augers of Al Satwa, the blue ribbon jurists of Jumeirah and… every dweller of the spaces in between.
There we dwell. There we live. There we feel odd, brains full of ideas ready to record and yet no access to them now because of today’s torpor; and of tomorrow’s foggy quota of the same, sure to filled. Perhaps I’ll wait till 10:00 then.
Like I have a brain full of ideas ready to record and yet no access to them now because of the torpor filling my spaces in between life; it seems to take snuffing pleasure in settling on and surrounding every synapse I lay claim to have provided a path for in the confined, winding pathways of that which floats in cranial fluid beneath my noggin.
The spaces in between, when torpor settles, are hard to navigate, and torpor, though quick to disappear, like fog in the morning sun, it still hangs in the interim hours, the hours that will end up costing us the most. For instance, in the interim hours we drive to work, in the morning in the settled fog, and have not the time to sit outside the yellow line, engine idling waiting til 10:00 AM when the sun methodically burns a visibility factor through the veil. No, we drive, squinting, our nerves on high alert, the coffee well within reach, so as not to, even for one second, miss the chance of serving to the left or right of a looming Semi’s rear end. So it is when the torpor fills the spaces in between.
Oh it will lift. There is no doubt in everyone’s mind that it will lift, but by the clock struck eight we all don’t wait for the sun’s rays to alleviate at only 10:08, no. We all don’t wait.
I feel odd. As though not knowing what lies ahead need not be thought of or planned for at this stage. How does one plan a skillful avoidance of the Semi’s sudden looming rear end in fog when it has firmly settled?! Wait til 10:00? No way, just merrily drive away - not only today, but yesterday and last week Monday. This is the game of life we play even when odd feelings come our way and the moon so bright in its fullness tonight brushes away the sweat of angst, and even squeals of delight. With a single beam it razes the shimmering tide and draws in to it’s pale, lucid luminescence, the portending dwellers of Um Suquiem, the augers of Al Satwa, the blue ribbon jurists of Jumeirah and… every dweller of the spaces in between.
There we dwell. There we live. There we feel odd, brains full of ideas ready to record and yet no access to them now because of today’s torpor; and of tomorrow’s foggy quota of the same, sure to filled. Perhaps I’ll wait till 10:00 then.
October 23, 2006
balconies with stills
It feels good to have covered some real territory today. The computer is running again, very well and the Norton Internet Security does its job equally well. I am quite proud of myself right now, as you may be able to judge through the tone of my writing. And why not?
The thing is, one has to write things when one has the mood and the will to do so or else the dross is what gets published and the distilled is that which doesn’t.
Speaking of distilling spirits, I’d like to imagine that there be one, there is a still in no mans’ land, beneath a rather large rock, in the shadow of a singled out palm, beside the Dubai’s or confined to my balcony at least.
What with ethanol and percentages lethal of methanol that even a crude boiler could not reach in ten thousand years of boiling the yield of drinkable still far far outweighs the yield of lethal.
Yes, yes, a man’s capacity for methanol is low indeed but you’d have to be a red man with Lysol in your mit to appreciate just how much you DO need ta kill ya!
And so the dream of distilling one’s own cleaner gasoline in one’s own homemade/kit still, continue on in this middle aged head of mine. I can’t bear the thought of letting such a low key underhanded, protest “idea”, agin the state of current affairs and current location – that is under the regulation as it were of this banner called ‘Slam, go, you know?
The thing is, one has to write things when one has the mood and the will to do so or else the dross is what gets published and the distilled is that which doesn’t.
Speaking of distilling spirits, I’d like to imagine that there be one, there is a still in no mans’ land, beneath a rather large rock, in the shadow of a singled out palm, beside the Dubai’s or confined to my balcony at least.
What with ethanol and percentages lethal of methanol that even a crude boiler could not reach in ten thousand years of boiling the yield of drinkable still far far outweighs the yield of lethal.
Yes, yes, a man’s capacity for methanol is low indeed but you’d have to be a red man with Lysol in your mit to appreciate just how much you DO need ta kill ya!
And so the dream of distilling one’s own cleaner gasoline in one’s own homemade/kit still, continue on in this middle aged head of mine. I can’t bear the thought of letting such a low key underhanded, protest “idea”, agin the state of current affairs and current location – that is under the regulation as it were of this banner called ‘Slam, go, you know?
October 22, 2006
accomodation
Propel thy self towards destiny! Reap the rewards of perseverance! Stand tall among the native shorts. Run swiftly through the glades of green, green grass and breathe deep the sense of purity that wafts through the space and time you currently habit. Know that destiny wends it way towards your open heart. Understand that through these doldrums your ship without billowy sail will pass and catch the unseen wind beyond that which is knowable or doable except that it be done in the future tense.
Of what do I speak? Of things left undone during the lows and those things passing due to having no way to accommodate them on a meager budget of both Cash and Time. No way to accommodate, for example the buying of a present for a two year old because the cost of staying here without accommodation paid for is EXHORBITANT! No way to accommodate the pending electricity bill.
No way to accommodate even our own selfish reasoning about the staying or leaving this place – whether it be right for us or not to move out from here and travel the 35 minutes required into the vast desert into Dibba village for scant less than ¼ of the price. Why not? It is not permenant? We could have easily made do at least until the concrete on a new job was set, no?
These are questions moot. The way we live becomes the way we pay for the way we live and it renders us in waiting breadwinners useless as yet un-split amoebae. Couch dwellers anonymous. TV channel clickers bisplintovous. And Islamic purple haze of Ramadan and Eid choke the living daylights out of survivalist me while I wait….
Of what do I speak? Of things left undone during the lows and those things passing due to having no way to accommodate them on a meager budget of both Cash and Time. No way to accommodate, for example the buying of a present for a two year old because the cost of staying here without accommodation paid for is EXHORBITANT! No way to accommodate the pending electricity bill.
No way to accommodate even our own selfish reasoning about the staying or leaving this place – whether it be right for us or not to move out from here and travel the 35 minutes required into the vast desert into Dibba village for scant less than ¼ of the price. Why not? It is not permenant? We could have easily made do at least until the concrete on a new job was set, no?
These are questions moot. The way we live becomes the way we pay for the way we live and it renders us in waiting breadwinners useless as yet un-split amoebae. Couch dwellers anonymous. TV channel clickers bisplintovous. And Islamic purple haze of Ramadan and Eid choke the living daylights out of survivalist me while I wait….
October 21, 2006
Truth
I swear to you, I made it all up completely.
Jonny Islam, Joe Arab
Jonny Islam, Joe Arab
September 29, 2006
Endurance Technical writing
I am a Freelance technical writer. I make good money at it. I bid for projects, get the contracts and I write them to completion on time, and I get paid. How is possible to make a living doing freelance technical writing? Well, I’m writing this article to tell you not only is it possible to make a living as a technical writer, it is possible to do quite well financially, keep employed and keep writing about interesting stuff for a long time. As a technical writer it is possible to cross many borders, and learn new things in multiple industries and gain fantastic experience while you’re on the job. There are many books and articles already out there on how to become a technical writer. I am a technical writer and I’ve worked in the aerospace industry for most of my technical writing career.
Many types of writers are depicted as a bit eccentric, not fitting into “the mold” that the world wants to fit them in to. In many cases this is true even for technical writers. They don’t fit “the mold.” They are not your average nine-to-five workers in a company. They tend to flourish when given the independence of contacting their services to an employer on their own terms – work at home schemes, freedom of access into departments that they have no other qualification to enter into other than as a technical writer wishing to find ou how and whay stuff works and how best to portray the reason for being of compex equipment or processes in a very clear and easy to understand way. They tend to operate best in situations where they can circumvent the normal day to day business activities in order to gather information, to do research, to sit and talk with engineers and technicians about how equipment is supposed t work and how it’s best maintained, and of course, to write, a lot. Technical writers tend also to be concerned with exactness and clarity in their writing to almost freakish levels. On top of all that technical writers
Technical writers are a unique blend of coffee in that they thrive in the spaces between the day to day business processes and yet with their access to virtually every department, have a better overview of the organization than most of the middle managers and in fact, likely a good part of the upper management. Technical writers are expert communicators when they write, this ability is enhanced further when they’re given the environment, the tools and the time to do so. Trouble is most companies don’t know what to do with you when you are their technical writer. They don’t know where to put you. They don’t know how to categorize you. This is all well and fine since it is exactly this sort of ether to operate in that you need for the ‘bringing to light’ of what a product means for the masses or bringing to light of how a product or service is supposed to be used by the masses or whoever it is you’re writing for. However, because of the difficulty of categorizing you or knowing what to do with you another difficulty presents itself at payday. It becomes the question of: “what is the right sort of reward for this unique ability to communicate so very well on paper?” What is fair? What is just?
No we’re not typists but hey, we type faster than most‘yer typists, yeah. We’re not secretaries or clerks, though we know the office procedures and business procedures, having written them, better than your secretaries and better than your clerks. No, we’re not middle managers, either. But we know more about how the department and how to run it because we listen to everyone every day tell us about how and why they do their jobs then we write that all down in procedures and processes manuals, listen to and propose changes as we see the big picture.
No we’re not Engineers who design things but we are intimately familiar with everything about the designs the engineers in your organization design and we saw it from concept to product in the same way your engineers did. But too we saw further than your engineers because where their purpose of designing something that works ends our purpose of asking whay it was designed for whom was it designed, how exactly doe it work for the customer and how does using one of these designs make things better and easier for the customer in life, begins.
Many types of writers are depicted as a bit eccentric, not fitting into “the mold” that the world wants to fit them in to. In many cases this is true even for technical writers. They don’t fit “the mold.” They are not your average nine-to-five workers in a company. They tend to flourish when given the independence of contacting their services to an employer on their own terms – work at home schemes, freedom of access into departments that they have no other qualification to enter into other than as a technical writer wishing to find ou how and whay stuff works and how best to portray the reason for being of compex equipment or processes in a very clear and easy to understand way. They tend to operate best in situations where they can circumvent the normal day to day business activities in order to gather information, to do research, to sit and talk with engineers and technicians about how equipment is supposed t work and how it’s best maintained, and of course, to write, a lot. Technical writers tend also to be concerned with exactness and clarity in their writing to almost freakish levels. On top of all that technical writers
Technical writers are a unique blend of coffee in that they thrive in the spaces between the day to day business processes and yet with their access to virtually every department, have a better overview of the organization than most of the middle managers and in fact, likely a good part of the upper management. Technical writers are expert communicators when they write, this ability is enhanced further when they’re given the environment, the tools and the time to do so. Trouble is most companies don’t know what to do with you when you are their technical writer. They don’t know where to put you. They don’t know how to categorize you. This is all well and fine since it is exactly this sort of ether to operate in that you need for the ‘bringing to light’ of what a product means for the masses or bringing to light of how a product or service is supposed to be used by the masses or whoever it is you’re writing for. However, because of the difficulty of categorizing you or knowing what to do with you another difficulty presents itself at payday. It becomes the question of: “what is the right sort of reward for this unique ability to communicate so very well on paper?” What is fair? What is just?
No we’re not typists but hey, we type faster than most‘yer typists, yeah. We’re not secretaries or clerks, though we know the office procedures and business procedures, having written them, better than your secretaries and better than your clerks. No, we’re not middle managers, either. But we know more about how the department and how to run it because we listen to everyone every day tell us about how and why they do their jobs then we write that all down in procedures and processes manuals, listen to and propose changes as we see the big picture.
No we’re not Engineers who design things but we are intimately familiar with everything about the designs the engineers in your organization design and we saw it from concept to product in the same way your engineers did. But too we saw further than your engineers because where their purpose of designing something that works ends our purpose of asking whay it was designed for whom was it designed, how exactly doe it work for the customer and how does using one of these designs make things better and easier for the customer in life, begins.
Regress to progress
To be careful when writing is such a lofty thing to achieve for me. My writing process has always been a bit messy. I forget to go back and check essential things like whether all the words that should be there are actually there and whether some words are there that should no longer be there. These things I miss. I also miss little essentials like a comma here and a capital there, however I’m pretty good at ending sentences with a period at this point.
I’m still in Dubai. I’m forty and still haven’t done anything real with my life yet. That’s how I feel at least. I’m forty and I haven’t significantly contributed to anything in any sort of a lasting way in this world nor have I been innovative enough o have created something from nothing that contributes significantly to the progress of my generation or the ones after it. The closest I think I have come to innovation at this late point in my life is the very activity I am carrying out right now - stringing two and more words together on a line across my computer to CREATE. But if looked at closely, one could reveal the shallow secret of all writing in that writing borrows from all the great and minor compositions read previously.
I’m still in Dubai. I’m forty and still haven’t done anything real with my life yet. That’s how I feel at least. I’m forty and I haven’t significantly contributed to anything in any sort of a lasting way in this world nor have I been innovative enough o have created something from nothing that contributes significantly to the progress of my generation or the ones after it. The closest I think I have come to innovation at this late point in my life is the very activity I am carrying out right now - stringing two and more words together on a line across my computer to CREATE. But if looked at closely, one could reveal the shallow secret of all writing in that writing borrows from all the great and minor compositions read previously.
July 26, 2006
WW3?!
WW3? Really? From the acts of one militant crazy man? I find it hard to accept that Nasrallah will be the guy responsible for pulling us all down into the mire of the thing that ends our existence as a human race.
Sure he has a lot of charisma but have you seen his teeth up close? I mean completely yellow and black – like no one at any of his previous American institutions of learning took the time to explain to him the use of tooth brush.
Then there’s the question of his suitability as an authentic representative of Arab nationalism. He’s a Syrian. Syrian born people that I know are pretty nice as Arabs go. This guy though – look at him. Those glasses gotta go. He likes his turban tight (just like his young mullahs in waiting, we ask pointedly?) And the tightness of his turban, Homer-Simpsonizes his head, add a puffed out, black Mutawa, of course.
220 marines killed in Beruit by a suicide bomber from his Hezbollah gang in 1983. What an apprenticeship for the young Nasrallah.
Anyways, it’s a shame to think that this is the guy that will plunge us into WW3. What a way for us, as a race, to go, eh? Maybe he thinks he is himself the twelfth Imam – whatever the hell that means anyway. I just heard that one, today.
What do our dear friends in Persia see in this guy anyways? Dinkamabamabad even when I’m good ah’m a bad bad man…. He is a’building capacity and capability nuclear and otherwise, fer sure, man. The question is, what is HE planning against the great Satan, while his puppet rails agin the Yahudi, to blind us all to his strategic manoeuvrings, we have to wonder.
And poor, security-ensconced, Harari’s boy looks on, Powerless. Hezbollah, the cause of his fledgling government’s country devastation now through the facilitation of the same crazy gang’s man at the helm, Nasrallah that probably commissioned or at least knows about the commissioning of the offing of his dad two years back, poor soul. Did you see him, standing next to: fill in the: “his counterpart in country X” media slot? He’s whipped, completely. No way for him even with such a good Arab upbringing, to hide his vulnerable, beleaguered self on the TV.
Yet the nuns of Lebanon bring their calm, presiding hope to the parceled, piecemeal land, turn their charity now to these forced, stranger/neighbours in their midst; the wondering and wandering Hijabed women and children who finally took the HINT from all the little leaflets dropped and the loudspeaker warnings: “We will attack the Hezbollah strongholds in your village in a few hours. We advise you to evacuate. This is the Israeli army and yes, we are for real.” They got the hint alright, and got out in time. You might be tempted to muse that this sort of thing is exactly what it takes, I guess, for some stubborn people to finally make nice and get acquainted with the folks next door. And surprise surprise, even though they be “abhorred and to be regarded with suspicion”, Christians, these folks actually turn out to be really darn nice, eh! “Overwhelmed by the kindess shown….”, say the Hijabed Muslim women, household of little ones in tow, going there for shelter from the shelling of the “evil Yahoodi”.
Well pour warm milk and honey all over my gosh darned soul and roll me through white clouds of real and proper righteous living borne out of a natural personal response to the love shown by the resurrected saviour of the world, and then go right ahead and just nail me up side down to that cross-shaped tree over there, please! I’ll be humvee’d! Them Christian neighbours of ours are not only awfully nice folks, they’re also… bloody kind and generous!! Flabbergasting, isn’t it?
July 24, 2006
Well enough alone
Here it is another day and almost one o the clock. As for writing things today, Having fallen behind in the estimate of time to carry out to done, all my other work, I am now ready to plunge.
I plunge into the ocean of words fishing a few out for the consumption of the masses. Fried in adjectival butter, spiced with interjections and phrasal turns, hopefully not that predictable I speak merely of a fish fry of unexpected connections within the limits of the language. Corporate Jets. What of em these days? Personal business jets, the new generation of ultra fuel efficient very light jet aircraft. What of ‘em, then?
The revolution is in the Gas turbine engine and in the airframe weight reductions made possible by construction techniques like friction welding, and complete carbon fibre structures to yield a power to weight and power to fuel consumption ratio that has never been so good.
The boys and girls selling us this VLJ category are telling us that the VLJ’s they have in their stables are game changers, category smashers, and technology leapers all withstanding the urge to become at the same time budget exploders. Is it true? Shall we see a capped at one million dollar VLJ now, that by one pilot – even a private rated pilot – can fly up to 2500 kms at near sonic speed in comfort and with ease?
Doing so with very “sippy” economics? What if it is the case that purchase price easily rivals the venerable Beach King Air / Cessna Golden Eagle prices? Surely, turbine driving folks will show interest in making the move from propeller-driven, even if only from a wieldy corporate communications point of view, at the VL jet.
Unquestionabally the attractiveness is there for the corporate people for the 7 figure disposable income folks too. For the price of a Farrari Enzo you could be jetting around, Dubai - Heathrow, for example, actually drinking less jet A / per pound than your Enzo’d be drinking 98 octane per kilometer. Not that such comparisons do the average reader here any good. Most of us, writer included have little reason outside of yearning at slick machine sexiness, machismo, and boy with biggest toy, dreams to ever seriously sit down and crunch the budget numbers in any sort of a serious consideration towards a shared lessorship, let alone sole ownership of a little VLJ smooth and subtle beastie with winglets and a hand finish that speaks to the underlying game changing quality driven, weight conscious design and manufacturing process that conforms to the smooth lines of any of the pick one, game changers, category.
Much as I’d like the phrase: “I want one” to produce a miraculous bang and smoke clearing – on my front lawn, suddenly appearing within the wisp, a pearldrop of VLJ perfection, all for me - I know that “I want one” will remain an aviation fanatics dream yet to come true. And that’s just the thing about this crazy sector isn’t it? The more you confess your deep crazy love for for a lovely machine like the Gamechanging VLJ’s the less you seem to be able to afford the insurance on even the brass screws that hold in your redundant flight instruments let alone the dream of wanting one.
July 23, 2006
Effortless
Effortless. That’s how the transition should appear. Effortless, as in all one motion: the transformation of one to the next.
So what is then exactly I am touching the tip of here? Transitions are the target I suppose. How to make transitions smoothly, with dignity and grace. How to find the elusive combination of that which fulfills the needs accrued by simply living a life – a full life and of assuring a decent level of comfort in terms of earning power.
Here we go again, another piece on working for a living. How boring! Shouldn’t you better be writing about dreams and aspirations as you consider your actual time left on this planet?! Of course, it is true, I should be doing just that with glee. But instead I spend each day wondering about working for a living. Why? Because it deems itself so gosh darn necessary that to pass it by for a whim of I’m gonna throw away the planning, scheduling, waiting for the next interview in favour of a day of doing what I wanna…. Even ane hour of what I wanna, though seems now to be so difficult to manage. ‘Sides, if I do, the guilt of having been so selfish kicks me in the butt and I can’t even enjoy the hour taken! That, or duty calls within minutes reminding me of just how my wasted minutes of selfishness has just cost the dependants on me a fortune they don’t have and never did!
Sooooo. Here, now, with time to write is a bit of an odd and ‘adventuristic’ notion. An indulgence probably soon to be cut short anyways. But then what better to do with your indulgence than to delve and create within the minutes before the guilt consumes again.
Speaking then of the Huzb’Allah leader (That Huzbumuck/shmuck black towel too tight) known to most as Sayed Hassan Nasrallah, can you imagine a more strikingly pristine example of what it means to be a good Shiite these days? I mean for all your stocked kytushkas, (in the tourists-of-the-world-next-best-dest. when other dests. Are full up Southern “Les Banal”, n’ all), you go and offer yourself up. First as THE post Jamal Abul Nasser, post Saddam (Soddom), Arab nation unifier/hero, in regards bringing the final solution to the Palestinian problem and second, as macho-macho-macho, Jew-annihilator (supreme commander of the type), with added new-Arab-world flair.
Without regard to clock or consequence you begin with the Mullah’s (your own) blessing “from Allah” and the sincere belief that Huzbumuck with all its IRCG supplied kytushtas, and direct IRCG help to launch those too-fancy-for-an-ablutioned-terromullah’s hand, the C-802’s. You shout the fifty million dollar Syria/Iran shout of yet another fanatical Muslim Cleric with a big missile shaped penis that needs a deft cutting-off. Rocket t’ ya chest macho-macho-macho man. How many nation uniting heros does Arabia need? The only reason, habibe, that Arabia is ripe for hero worship is the autocratic, fanatic nature of the control mechanisim posing as peaceful religion Islam, that binds it, he says practo-philosophically.
Clever guy? Yeah. He a clever guy, awright. Clever guys lust for power and heroism too ya know. He’s also the leader of a movement called HuzBallah. The one that Israel will annihilate now, in the next few minutes – from a historical perspective. Israel knows how to defend its territory, of course. I am disgusted with BBC coverage and the UN and France, all of ‘em. Disproportionate response?! Descendants of the Ostrich!!! Nasrallah declared war on Israel. Now Israel must root out and destroy this element that never ceases to amaze with its audacity.
Israel withdrew from Gaza. And like Jason in Friday the thirteenth, the monster comes to life and strikes like a coward again from the rear. You give them the Gaza and they try to annihilate you! Sayed Hassan Nassrah will die a hero to a few people, yes. He will die. But before he dies, he will be captured by the ever efficient, ever present, Mossad, and have his big, missile-shaped penis cut off. No don’t worry, he won’t be soddomised after that by buff, young, muscular Israeli soldiers. Why not? Well, simply because he would take that sort of thing as a compliment and probably would enjoy it very much. The idea here is to torture and humiliate the leader of a terrorist org. Remember Al Quaidi’s hero Abu Musab Al Sarquawi and how he died? Far too quickly in my opin onion.
None the less, it’s quite a way to go to have a Missouri farm girl/marine’s boot to head while you struggle to get up from the ambulance stretcher, internal organs done in by surgical strike missile centerpiece instead of your regular byriani, eh? It is an interesting twist on the American hospitality that you and yours use and abuse all the time, eh? Woohoo!, and all that militia-style BS, eh? Abu Em got the shit kicked out of his guts by a girl soldier, til he died, ha ha. Where’s your CIA training, (gone wildly wrong), now, eh, JACKAL of Jordan? And so on.
Yup, in the same vein, Sayed ought to be sent back to his huzbumuck beloved “stronghold” naked, bleeding, penisless, in severe pain, with said appendage hung from his neck, below, a sign reading: “I am Sayed Hassan Nassrallah Arab hero and leader of huzbumuck. My penis is shaped like a big missile and I wish I never had heard the word Katyushka. Allah, prepare us all to die under the hand of the Yahudi that we continue to anger without provocation.” You useless piece of Irani/Surria puppet Shiite. Then, with a piece of rope strung around his ankle dragged back, beaten by olive tree saplings til he dies. his place is already marked out beside his brother Abu Musab. It’s a matter of time til the Israeli defenders of their nation against this outrageously foolish move by macho-missile-penis, root out and destroy the havoc-wreaking idiot and his fanatical black turbine wearing bum-buddy clerics. Who’s next please?
So what is then exactly I am touching the tip of here? Transitions are the target I suppose. How to make transitions smoothly, with dignity and grace. How to find the elusive combination of that which fulfills the needs accrued by simply living a life – a full life and of assuring a decent level of comfort in terms of earning power.
Here we go again, another piece on working for a living. How boring! Shouldn’t you better be writing about dreams and aspirations as you consider your actual time left on this planet?! Of course, it is true, I should be doing just that with glee. But instead I spend each day wondering about working for a living. Why? Because it deems itself so gosh darn necessary that to pass it by for a whim of I’m gonna throw away the planning, scheduling, waiting for the next interview in favour of a day of doing what I wanna…. Even ane hour of what I wanna, though seems now to be so difficult to manage. ‘Sides, if I do, the guilt of having been so selfish kicks me in the butt and I can’t even enjoy the hour taken! That, or duty calls within minutes reminding me of just how my wasted minutes of selfishness has just cost the dependants on me a fortune they don’t have and never did!
Sooooo. Here, now, with time to write is a bit of an odd and ‘adventuristic’ notion. An indulgence probably soon to be cut short anyways. But then what better to do with your indulgence than to delve and create within the minutes before the guilt consumes again.
Speaking then of the Huzb’Allah leader (That Huzbumuck/shmuck black towel too tight) known to most as Sayed Hassan Nasrallah, can you imagine a more strikingly pristine example of what it means to be a good Shiite these days? I mean for all your stocked kytushkas, (in the tourists-of-the-world-next-best-dest. when other dests. Are full up Southern “Les Banal”, n’ all), you go and offer yourself up. First as THE post Jamal Abul Nasser, post Saddam (Soddom), Arab nation unifier/hero, in regards bringing the final solution to the Palestinian problem and second, as macho-macho-macho, Jew-annihilator (supreme commander of the type), with added new-Arab-world flair.
Without regard to clock or consequence you begin with the Mullah’s (your own) blessing “from Allah” and the sincere belief that Huzbumuck with all its IRCG supplied kytushtas, and direct IRCG help to launch those too-fancy-for-an-ablutioned-terromullah’s hand, the C-802’s. You shout the fifty million dollar Syria/Iran shout of yet another fanatical Muslim Cleric with a big missile shaped penis that needs a deft cutting-off. Rocket t’ ya chest macho-macho-macho man. How many nation uniting heros does Arabia need? The only reason, habibe, that Arabia is ripe for hero worship is the autocratic, fanatic nature of the control mechanisim posing as peaceful religion Islam, that binds it, he says practo-philosophically.
Clever guy? Yeah. He a clever guy, awright. Clever guys lust for power and heroism too ya know. He’s also the leader of a movement called HuzBallah. The one that Israel will annihilate now, in the next few minutes – from a historical perspective. Israel knows how to defend its territory, of course. I am disgusted with BBC coverage and the UN and France, all of ‘em. Disproportionate response?! Descendants of the Ostrich!!! Nasrallah declared war on Israel. Now Israel must root out and destroy this element that never ceases to amaze with its audacity.
Israel withdrew from Gaza. And like Jason in Friday the thirteenth, the monster comes to life and strikes like a coward again from the rear. You give them the Gaza and they try to annihilate you! Sayed Hassan Nassrah will die a hero to a few people, yes. He will die. But before he dies, he will be captured by the ever efficient, ever present, Mossad, and have his big, missile-shaped penis cut off. No don’t worry, he won’t be soddomised after that by buff, young, muscular Israeli soldiers. Why not? Well, simply because he would take that sort of thing as a compliment and probably would enjoy it very much. The idea here is to torture and humiliate the leader of a terrorist org. Remember Al Quaidi’s hero Abu Musab Al Sarquawi and how he died? Far too quickly in my opin onion.
None the less, it’s quite a way to go to have a Missouri farm girl/marine’s boot to head while you struggle to get up from the ambulance stretcher, internal organs done in by surgical strike missile centerpiece instead of your regular byriani, eh? It is an interesting twist on the American hospitality that you and yours use and abuse all the time, eh? Woohoo!, and all that militia-style BS, eh? Abu Em got the shit kicked out of his guts by a girl soldier, til he died, ha ha. Where’s your CIA training, (gone wildly wrong), now, eh, JACKAL of Jordan? And so on.
Yup, in the same vein, Sayed ought to be sent back to his huzbumuck beloved “stronghold” naked, bleeding, penisless, in severe pain, with said appendage hung from his neck, below, a sign reading: “I am Sayed Hassan Nassrallah Arab hero and leader of huzbumuck. My penis is shaped like a big missile and I wish I never had heard the word Katyushka. Allah, prepare us all to die under the hand of the Yahudi that we continue to anger without provocation.” You useless piece of Irani/Surria puppet Shiite. Then, with a piece of rope strung around his ankle dragged back, beaten by olive tree saplings til he dies. his place is already marked out beside his brother Abu Musab. It’s a matter of time til the Israeli defenders of their nation against this outrageously foolish move by macho-missile-penis, root out and destroy the havoc-wreaking idiot and his fanatical black turbine wearing bum-buddy clerics. Who’s next please?
July 12, 2006
Intended Ascension
Here and now the day is filled with a shift into neutral. ‘Coast’ is the order and word of the day. Students have all but gone. Mental gymnastics need to be employed in order to stave off the ‘shamal’ of boredom that whistles through the emptiness of a well-staffed, empty institute of learning. Without students present, and with such a wind blowing full knot wise, the mood is - wait and see - what happens next.
Last year was different as there was at least a drummed up, semi-legit target to shoot towards; progress yourselves towards the completion of a final version of a new curriculum in this subject that fascinates ever. This year, that collective motivation towards a target, any target no longer exists. Sheikh ordered restructuring looms dark grey overhead and pervades and dictates every little move collectively and individually from here on in, seems. And so individual mental gymnastics needs become the centering ‘will-producer’ in this present game of keeping a professional modicum of actualities in deliverables vs. fantasies in the realms of dream jobs, that is, the ultimate look-busy-do-nothing position.
With no target and but at least notification of when is my actual end date, finally, in terms of future prospects what else is there to do but F the D? I suppose I could act the part, show initiative, drum up a project to complete make work for myself and perhaps those around with less dose of cynicism flowing through their veins at this time. No. Better not to stick my neck out and show to the boys in uniform the depth to which the blankness of nothin’ doin’ does go. Besides, there are many facets of ‘drift’ through these dole-drums yet to navigate, appreciate, and mull.
For example, ____________________________________________________ ....
So then instead my language of keyboard to screen transmission of thought occurs with single-minded innovation of word. Why? The alternative is numbness of mind and encroachment of lackadaisical languishing, the hour of closing too eagerly anticipated. Enjoy then, and therefore the moments of seeming nothingness passing. Plan nothing less than your future, man.
There is something sinisterly soothing about being in the hands of the notice givers who have to this point over-looked me in this regard. Yet I am sure as the 200 odd that have already had their fates sealed that there is definite reason for my no-less-than paranoiac, under girding belief of serene finality even in the passing moments of waiting for the seemingly imminently inevitable.
What company culture, I ask you politely, is employed in a restructuring of a desert base? This remains a mystery to me. Buildings of purpose close their doors around us and yet this building, this one here, with its unique equipment and stock of severely smart personnel remains quite normally open. As if it believed itself to be self-sustainable to the next century or millennium if we as a race make it that far.
How does one focus on skills and experience that are supposed to ensure a certain level of earning power at the end of one stint while steadily yet rote-wise, still reeling, in the midst of seeking another stint? With family depending on you and waiting for the solid shift to the next higher plane or at least a plane of an equivalent combination of package, responsibility, and veritable assess ability. Suddenly there are bigger things to consider, wider loads to manoeuvre through your docking gates of life.
Perhaps these days, poetry, prose, and art are really the more lucrative option. Perhaps now, in the game of thought process prowess display, the creation of highly saleable quoth he’s and ingenious copy-writable groupings of whence forth and henceforth never grouped in such manner, such words, should surely be as well or better compensated than the engineered language of emerging and long since emerged technology should it not?
Wed July 12, 2006
And here the end of another comes nigh. The week was a goodie. Flew. Really. Why? Because of discovery of, realisation of, motivation. On Saturday I got my notice by Wednesday I had pocketed not only 3150 dhs (approx) from this Boss-forsaken zone but as well an extra 1020 from the moonlighter special. And the moonlighter special Boss also went hisself overboard and offered me a full time gig. Imagine the deep feeling of satisfaction that had then and there welled up in this writer’s soul…. Unfortunately, the moonlighters special become full time gig at most will bring 11000. Not enough to keep a full set of disposable diapers on the young’n nor not near enough to take care of learnin’ the older one.
In the mean time, no serious searching yet on my part though for those types of positions that quell the thirst for the explication of roaring birds as it were. What? Never heard of them before? Yes, they are fascinating and huge and roar. That’s all I’m saying.
Head in books for two years, refresher on the subject at hand, the opportunity to read full on a curriculum filled with the stuff of actually catching a break; a leg up, finally.
What are we talking here? We’re talking a real industry job is what we’re talking here. A potentially large enough package to make it worth’s one’s while to don the "covies" again and get in on the hangar floor action again.
Hell-dwelling snakes posing as soops of this and that thing they don’t have a f’ing clue about, it’s both comforting and disconcerting at the same time, to converse with men 15, 20 years your senior and be able to understand very quickly on, that you, my man, know at least twice as much as they do about TECHNICALLY how it should all come together.
However let not their poseur filth bother your intended ascension my dear one. Chronic fibbers too can be used as stepping stones. Continue on then. Say exactly what you think still, loudly. Express exactly how you feel when confronted by widespread ignorance, lack of technical knowledge, secrecy and brown politicking.
July 07, 2006
Setting the scene
From one mind beguilingly beautiful African Manor Estate to another, Byro’s family moved to Banso. Built into a hillside, as well with a long drive up to it the yard was big the car port drenched in Bougainvillea. The grass was yards grass was green and made a flat bottomed bowl, hedged by an evergreen hedge and overlooking the town of Nso, it was in this bowl in which Byro and his brothers fine tuned all their mischevious boy-adventures.
Ramp for with to jump the Mini bike, all of them evil keneevils in making.
Learning to driving the kuble (umlaut) wagen, popping clutches and lurching around.
Dad raising his ever patient voice a notch er two
It was a paradise cleared from a surrounding green forest. The forest in and of itself was an adventure: "to all who dared enter". Byro and his brothers did time after time.
Underground Fort in forest
Sally the pig raising
Riding bikes down treacherous mountain forest paths
Life in the Tree house in the forest behind
Careening down through long needle pine evergreen trunks, narrowly missing, pushed by brothers on a cool Dad-built wagon/soap-box cart, rugged machine of joy and five brothers delight.
And the house. Oh the house. Front wall of glass, peaked open roof, Iroko wood doors, spiral flint stone stair case, balcony above, carport below. Flower garden beside and in the center of that flint stone spiral staircase a bed too of flowers. Byro’s mom loved flowers. And sweeping slopes either side up around to the rear – a stone fire place / water heater. A backyard squared-in by short 2 foot flint stone wall which kept the rear forest as well at bay. And in the storage shed in that same backyard, of zink built, rough iroko beams, shallow concrete/flint stone foundations and chicken wire walls, lived the family pig….
Ramp for with to jump the Mini bike, all of them evil keneevils in making.
Learning to driving the kuble (umlaut) wagen, popping clutches and lurching around.
Dad raising his ever patient voice a notch er two
It was a paradise cleared from a surrounding green forest. The forest in and of itself was an adventure: "to all who dared enter". Byro and his brothers did time after time.
Underground Fort in forest
Sally the pig raising
Riding bikes down treacherous mountain forest paths
Life in the Tree house in the forest behind
Careening down through long needle pine evergreen trunks, narrowly missing, pushed by brothers on a cool Dad-built wagon/soap-box cart, rugged machine of joy and five brothers delight.
And the house. Oh the house. Front wall of glass, peaked open roof, Iroko wood doors, spiral flint stone stair case, balcony above, carport below. Flower garden beside and in the center of that flint stone spiral staircase a bed too of flowers. Byro’s mom loved flowers. And sweeping slopes either side up around to the rear – a stone fire place / water heater. A backyard squared-in by short 2 foot flint stone wall which kept the rear forest as well at bay. And in the storage shed in that same backyard, of zink built, rough iroko beams, shallow concrete/flint stone foundations and chicken wire walls, lived the family pig….
July 05, 2006
Al cHair in'sh'Allah (By Morning, If God Wills...)
Hope is that elusive ingredient that makes a story good. Change in it self, gives us hope. When we read a good story, we hope things will turn out good in the end. We give ourselves much license to accomodate the buildup of anticipation of our hope fulfilled. Yes hope is what makes a story good however, I think often that Byro’s life; all the things pertaining to Byro’s life, as stories go, would make a fairly bad story for there is no hope in it. No hope, that is, of ever being told exactly as he thinks it ought to be told by him to a willing audience. And yet the hope exists that one day Byro will get over his fear of getting it wrong or telling it badly. Where the hope for Byro does lie too, in this untold as yet story is in this: that He will be, soon, finally able get things right. After that, the Byromaniac’s hope lies in actually beginning that all too familiar, rigorous, process of committing that right writ to paper - to write the story that needs should be wrote. Also there exists a hope that the right writ will not point its gleeful fingers at Byro himself the author. there exists a hope that the right writ will not point gleeful fingers at his life as reported in the third person singular, as if the hope-filled story is readying itself from the start to shift blame for the inevitable unrighteousness, gaps in reason for the sake of poetry, and similarities that don’t or ought not to bear any resemblance to real persons therein.
The hope that drives Byro forward to eventually write this story right is the hope that the expose’ doesn’t expose too much. Yet too, that enough will be exposed so as to be believed as a good story, accepted; it’s main character(s) identified-with, redeemed by and forgiven of and loved by and liked by, even, readers wide. For what is the point really of writing an "everyman" to a narrow readership? In the spirit of the "everyman" then, the story is not about Byro, as some who imagine, having done their thorough research into the author’s life and times. Rather what follows is the story of an everyman. It is a story correctly writ enough to be filled with the kind of hope that we are stayed for. It’s the story Byro’s supposed to write after finally getting many things right. Though by the profit margin dictated by the publishing schedule, still there remain the many almost right passages not only to be written from this day forth but also that could be a bit better in the next draft. In the mean time the beginning of Byro’s story is here published just so, for now. And so it begins, the story rightly writ, by Byromaniac.
Once upon a time there was a boy named Byromaniac who was born in the middle of the night, during a right nasty, ill –timed, Taurus in the sky Canadian blizzard, in the civilized-enough Canadian city of Edmonton. The doctor smacked his bottom and a black Bic pen fell from the heavens into one of the Byromaniac’s little hands to match the color of his thick wild black crew-do and into the other fell a little golden eaglet. Edmonton is a city of a million, planted smack dab in the middle of the largest wheat producing field in the world – the Alberta prairie. The Byromaniac was born surrounded by wheat and people saying "eh" a lot. For exactly three months, the first three months of his life. Then just as whisk is an onomatopoeic term connoting, denoting, downright meaning briskly changed from one state into a foamy ‘nother, his byromaniness was whisked off to Africa by blessed Parents with the compulsion and the churches backing offering a tangible vs intangible mission of healing to Africans and to do the many interesting things in Africa that make deep lifelong impacts on those family members along for the adventure that inevitably accompanies such, in the very vien of that ancient tradition that harkens to mission and the call of almighty God. This, rather than work three decades, retire, get a work-gift, and handshake.
A mind-bogglingly beautiful manor estate facing the west is built onto a bulldozed Plateau, near the top of one of Mbingo, Cameroon, West Africa’s many gigantic hillsides was Byro’s home for the first year of his life. Byro, mom and dad, Byro’s brothers, a dog, and a monkey lived here in a perpetual state of bliss me slowly, bliss me quick for a whole year in our African manor. It is of course all a fog for our young man Byro but in the telling of it, yet another hope in this yet to be told tale is that the reader can imagine and perhaps begin right here and now to appreciate with some degree clarity, the wonder of African manor living and the profound effect it would have on a toddler of one….
As inspriration kicks me gutwise so will I write further.
June 05, 2006
Lion Clown, Enlightened
To write is to write; when practised is better then, written well. What to write content looms and page is yet blank content looms as if the dyke stopper cannot be pulled for wont of a good enough reason to allow the flattening destruction of a dam bursting.
But then a light, a sign, is glimpsed. A glimmer flashes, visible. The distance is brought near, and the Lion lies down with sheep, so to speak. The wolf in sheeps clothing is revealed, though, in his stead, some might even say luckily. If they knew what it means…. If they experienced tha angst of being in amongst sheep posing as one and yet being fully wolf, oh! Yes Oh! The sheepanity of it all. The stress of staying under all that wool while knowing full well that by the by, I am WOLF. No wonder the pacified lion is the preferred intruder. He don’t even have to hide, man!
And so he lies down. The lion, the clown, the knight, he lies down. One Lion of a Clown he is, yes sir. And the end thereof is to whit the end, no more, no less. Nonetheless he survives the blight. He survives, and WINS the fight. Who’d a thunkit! He had all the might with which to dance and punch and prance and sting without the slight – est bite. Whipping like a kyte his eyes darting forth and back but not in fright; NO! In rhythm, rather, to the time of a man’s sprung bok, back-bobbing big head, rolled this way and that by hard and fast fists of flight and may I remind you: his name was Knight. Flying, flaying fists-a-bangin’. What a name his, that Knight! Word spread of his fists that fly like kytes. Word spread too that this knight could not, would go down to sleep without his precious wall-mounted night light. And sniggers of childish admiration lifted him and his glorious name and deeds to vast heights, forgiving him his night light blight.
But he supposed ta be a PACIFIED lion. What he doin’ with all them fists-a-flying. Off the cuff one might smartly remark that it someone must have tweaked him in the nose. Someone must have pulled the dyke stopper. The ones in the know, know what happened to the Lion Clown who lied down. Lets go ask them shall we? But before we go there’s some things for to you I must show. First of course that the way to the truth of the lying down lion clown is one of treacherous and steep slope. Then through the desert surrounding Dubai, this way, that way passing Bedouin Khaimahs billowing Shisha and Arabic lore… Then, in the distance LOOMING half covered in desert sand, the feet of an IDOL, a brought-down warrior and a plaque on the feets pedestal reading thus: “"My name is Bullooshimandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains: round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away, (with apologies to P. B. Shelley). Ready for your future Dr. Who?
June 01, 2006
New-world Monkey God, Hanuman of the Macaca Munzala
Fangs bared, the monkey gained on him with the effortless muscular coordination of a natural predator. In the quiet before sunrise, the sounds of the chase were weirdly amplified by the painted cement stairs: the panicked slap-slap of Buddy's bare soles, the monkey pushing off with his hand-like feet, the macho rippling of those simian gluteals. "Run!" I shrieked, unable to stifle my laughter. It would have looked less funny had Buddy's pursuer been a cheetah or a ferocious hippo, but even in the moment, there was something great about that monkey's indignation. Boy, you think you're evolved just because you're wearing pants? I'll show you who's the boss around here! Buddy leapt the final three stairs, thudding flat-footed to the roof. For some reason, the monkey drew up short. He probably reckoned it was beneath him to polish off such unworthy opponents.
Nonetheless, victory goes to Hanuman, Who is the ocean of knowledge and qualities, Who is the Leader of the monkeys, Who is resplendent in the three worlds, Who was the messenger of Rama, Who is the abode of immense strength, Who is the son of Anjani, and Who is known as Pavanasuta (son of the wind).
April 14, 2006
some dubai links
People's impressions of this place vary and the ones I've selected here below are ones that I think give a very objective and accurate view of Dubai
http://secretdubai.blogspot.com/
http://secretdubai.blogspot.com/2002/12/guide-to-uae-blogs.html
http://www.desertsun.co.uk/blog/
April 12, 2006
The Desert Yields
Around Dubai there is a desert, with camels, real dunes, shamals (dust storms), Nocturnal desert critters – desert foxes, black and white scorpions, and intense heat in the day, this is fact. But to find it takes effort and ever more a bit of a drive because Dubai, expands its limits at a meters per week rate.
Now, a new freehold property law (similar to but completely different from the Hong Kong of past decades, where permanent ownership of land in designated freehold areas is guaranteed, not only for a ninety-nine year lease) has been decreed and signed by Sheikh Kalifa, and investor confidence of course builds.
Some examples of Dubai's expansion:
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/index.asp
http://www.dubaisportscity.ae/
http://www.falconcity.com/projectdetails.html
http://www.dubailand.ae/
http://www.dubai-marina.com/
http://www.dre.ae/dubai-real-estate-projects-business-bay.html
http://realestate.theemiratesnetwork.com/developments/dubai/palm_islands.php
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/gazelle/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/alvorada/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/al_mahra/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/Hattan/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/mirador/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/palmera/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/saheel/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/savannah/Index.asp
http://www.emaar.ae/Developments/ArabianRanches/terra_nova/Index.asp
http://www.difc.ae/
http://www.dubaiinternetcity.com/
http://www.dhcc.ae/en/Default.aspx
http://www.jbr.ae/
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/uae/dubai/internationalcity.a
http://www.globalvillage.ae/
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/dubaimarina.asp
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/discoverygardens.asp
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/dubaipearl.asp
http://www.gowealthy.com/realestate/discoverygardens.asp
http://www.kv.ae/en/
http://www.dubailocation.com/
April 10, 2006
Contact!
Do you have a dime for every one that you can remember as a contact? I don’t but the closer I come to… to “the end of the day”, (every day) the more I mull over the matter that I don’t, but should have that prolific a list of ‘em. Why? Quite simply, mine freund, ze answer ist blovink in ze vind. CEO’s, VP’s, HR managers, direct soops, rejoice. Your miracle employee, your super modest woe-slayer is on the scene bro.
A prolific contact list alone doth not a grounded mareer coove make, does it now. Flit, float, fly, flam, flim, FLEM! The wasta that you want, you can’t quite get. Not for wont but want.
Lie back, let the cold winter waves wash up on ya and think of all the lovely trophy girls you’ve had in mind while posing at being loved ‘afore:
Marylyn, Loni, Crystal, Misty, Debbie, Sharon, Trisha, Tanya, Tawny, Tammy and who can forget the twins; ahde Begu & Eva Walkawalka– we had some good times, but would I call them contacts now?
See what I mean? The idea that momentary interactions necessarily induce a long-term suitability in terms of future contact cannot be relied apon as the norm. It would seem that we are left to chance, the luck of the draw. Chaos rules. There is no centring force no more. We are the hammer that’s been thrown.
We are the ones that have been released from the centrifugal force’s predictable circuit. We are the ones with which the hammer’s landing place must contend. Far flung and seemingly free to fly but in a trajectory determined.
There’s one thing left for us as flung hammers left to do to change our trajectory is to break apart in the air. That would affect our flight. That would change outcomes desired. There’s also outside influences to be relied upon here.
For example, suppose a child in the wings innocently tosses a large pebble into the air in what happens to be the direct path of the flung hammer that is us. We cannot but be knocked off our hoped for trajectory yes? It is the choice of the boy to toss the pebble at that time. It is the force of something greater than the hammer thrower, the hammer, the boy, the air we freely fly through now, even the eventual hammer landing place, that causes that arching, sacrificial pebble to hit the us that is the flung(ged) hammer. What are we to call that force that we cannot but feel the effects of? If it be called chance than by all means, hit me with the forces of chance again and again please and watch the flung me change happily my direction, once, twice, the thousandth time, I don’t mind a change in direction. I am a flung hammer, flying. Adventurer, I, would THIS, ruther than the oft-repeated, dull, predictable, precise, and predetermined flinging out of orbit, by a centrifugal force that’s with shouting, let go of the line that held this hammer, as yet unflung, and orbiting still, suddenly, attempting records.
Okay, FLINGER. You de' one left standing on the ground, ninkompoop. And I fly. What's new?
What’s next?
A prolific contact list alone doth not a grounded mareer coove make, does it now. Flit, float, fly, flam, flim, FLEM! The wasta that you want, you can’t quite get. Not for wont but want.
Lie back, let the cold winter waves wash up on ya and think of all the lovely trophy girls you’ve had in mind while posing at being loved ‘afore:
Marylyn, Loni, Crystal, Misty, Debbie, Sharon, Trisha, Tanya, Tawny, Tammy and who can forget the twins; ahde Begu & Eva Walkawalka– we had some good times, but would I call them contacts now?
See what I mean? The idea that momentary interactions necessarily induce a long-term suitability in terms of future contact cannot be relied apon as the norm. It would seem that we are left to chance, the luck of the draw. Chaos rules. There is no centring force no more. We are the hammer that’s been thrown.
We are the ones that have been released from the centrifugal force’s predictable circuit. We are the ones with which the hammer’s landing place must contend. Far flung and seemingly free to fly but in a trajectory determined.
There’s one thing left for us as flung hammers left to do to change our trajectory is to break apart in the air. That would affect our flight. That would change outcomes desired. There’s also outside influences to be relied upon here.
For example, suppose a child in the wings innocently tosses a large pebble into the air in what happens to be the direct path of the flung hammer that is us. We cannot but be knocked off our hoped for trajectory yes? It is the choice of the boy to toss the pebble at that time. It is the force of something greater than the hammer thrower, the hammer, the boy, the air we freely fly through now, even the eventual hammer landing place, that causes that arching, sacrificial pebble to hit the us that is the flung(ged) hammer. What are we to call that force that we cannot but feel the effects of? If it be called chance than by all means, hit me with the forces of chance again and again please and watch the flung me change happily my direction, once, twice, the thousandth time, I don’t mind a change in direction. I am a flung hammer, flying. Adventurer, I, would THIS, ruther than the oft-repeated, dull, predictable, precise, and predetermined flinging out of orbit, by a centrifugal force that’s with shouting, let go of the line that held this hammer, as yet unflung, and orbiting still, suddenly, attempting records.
Okay, FLINGER. You de' one left standing on the ground, ninkompoop. And I fly. What's new?
What’s next?
April 08, 2006
Subcontinent gunning to put the first Indian on MARS!
Project Dubai
Dubai is one of those places in the world where you can escape from at any time but at any time is no time ever that you can find it again.
Ach yah: Dubai. Sprinkling of white-distached and Ghuttra’d Arabs, a custom built lambo Murcielano, a Ferrari Enzo or two – one red, the other one – RED of course. New cars, Indian faces by the trillians, British faces by the millions, modern viceroys galore. Petrodollars may have driven this econ dev 100 % to its present state but it ain’t necessarily a petrodollar that fuels the growth of growth and progress of profgress from ‘ere on in. Diversification is the order of the day and the 10 percent richest of the rich fling and grab, African-country-sized-GDP portions into and out of the fledging UAE exchange with just the sort of regularity you would attribute to emerging growth fledgling exchanges wherein the majority of stocks are held by a minority rich elite. Havoc thrivers.
Faces of Americans, Canadians, South Americans, Europeans of every kin & Klan dot the miasma. Faces of lesser Arab nations lend their olive hue to the grand canvas. Chinese, Nepalese, Vietnamese, Malaysian and all the more East Asian Faces meld with “-istan faces, too many to name or list, but certainly, mostly, bearded.
Mother Russia’s default spills its steppe-dweller citizens, the ones with the means, the ones embracing the sound philosophy of business-driven, profit-driven economies run by merit-driven “-tocracies” into this area with a steady and increasing optimism.
Even deepest darkest South Africa pushes out of its nest its only fair-haired ones left. “Fly!!!” they’re commanded. And they do, being distantly Dutch and white and not afraid of hard work and not averse to success built in tough environments they fly and find their flock ever more firmly intrenched in this metropolitan metropolis of Dubai. The sensual Persians have their cake and eat it too here in Dubai. The flowing river of Farsi and its accompanying wealth finds a wide delta here.
This is Dubai. It’s being built, very very fast. And still, like its main beach road project – the Jumaira beach road project, it seems Project Dubai will never be finished.
Ach yah: Dubai. Sprinkling of white-distached and Ghuttra’d Arabs, a custom built lambo Murcielano, a Ferrari Enzo or two – one red, the other one – RED of course. New cars, Indian faces by the trillians, British faces by the millions, modern viceroys galore. Petrodollars may have driven this econ dev 100 % to its present state but it ain’t necessarily a petrodollar that fuels the growth of growth and progress of profgress from ‘ere on in. Diversification is the order of the day and the 10 percent richest of the rich fling and grab, African-country-sized-GDP portions into and out of the fledging UAE exchange with just the sort of regularity you would attribute to emerging growth fledgling exchanges wherein the majority of stocks are held by a minority rich elite. Havoc thrivers.
Faces of Americans, Canadians, South Americans, Europeans of every kin & Klan dot the miasma. Faces of lesser Arab nations lend their olive hue to the grand canvas. Chinese, Nepalese, Vietnamese, Malaysian and all the more East Asian Faces meld with “-istan faces, too many to name or list, but certainly, mostly, bearded.
Mother Russia’s default spills its steppe-dweller citizens, the ones with the means, the ones embracing the sound philosophy of business-driven, profit-driven economies run by merit-driven “-tocracies” into this area with a steady and increasing optimism.
Even deepest darkest South Africa pushes out of its nest its only fair-haired ones left. “Fly!!!” they’re commanded. And they do, being distantly Dutch and white and not afraid of hard work and not averse to success built in tough environments they fly and find their flock ever more firmly intrenched in this metropolitan metropolis of Dubai. The sensual Persians have their cake and eat it too here in Dubai. The flowing river of Farsi and its accompanying wealth finds a wide delta here.
This is Dubai. It’s being built, very very fast. And still, like its main beach road project – the Jumaira beach road project, it seems Project Dubai will never be finished.
April 05, 2006
NOTE TO SELF – GROW UP!
(more & more, yet here, oh hero Byro? Chained clown, idiot/savante & illiterary genius of the age that is ours and never was, for this brief moment and always, that thou art made out to actually be...?)
Teacher – I love you!
Wha’? Back OFF! Mojo's mud.
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that it is not dad that is obligated to warn him that the way he takes in life, if it is to be a meaningful journey, is treacherous. Comes a time too in a man’s life to realize the boss may very well NOT have the epiphany holder’s best interest at heart.
Dad is not obligated to tell you all the fine lines you must cross and the ones you had better not cross until your damned well ready to fight. When being a hero to most and completely undesirable to the few that have the power to flick you off their high-powered noses in an augen blik whim, means that you cannot continue to bend like a young tree acquiescing whither the four winds do blow, no. Niether dad nor mom is obligated to tell you, you may not be well liked AT ALL when you open your mouth and out come tumbling, intensity of purpose, focussed precision, and building blocks of new creation in the pragmatic prose of life and in the hell-bent romantic poetry of existance, flowing, shape-shifting, symmetry & dissymmetry, pure and pure filth, annoying hypocrisy, annoying righteousness. That you may not be well liked when you lift your right arm high to lead the bloody charge and effortlessly wield the sword of your clan circuitously above your head then point its point straight ahead, with wide-mouthed shouts of sure victory. You wield it comfortably as if it were the extension of your right arm, your right side, your right heart, in fact. People may not like you at all when they find they’re suddenly face to face with he that holds the sword, you, and that by your hand they will vanish, flayed mercilessly through and through tissue and spine alike until decimated. Yes, DES – CI – MAT – ED is what I said.
Dad is not even obligated to tell you, dear Bryo about the enemies that exist and the ones that appear to exist during all the inappropriate times you’d care to manage in any particular moment.
Dad’s obligation is actually his choice only really, to yea or nay as he sees fit. And, if yea then it is to pray, the Lord your soul to keep, while you alone face and fight the enemies that may be related but are surely different, if by time’s partition only, from the enemies that his dad was not obligated to tell him about since effectiveness against enemies is best borne out, as all quest custodians understand, in a journey of self-discovery, in the process of finding them out for oneself in one’s life - alone, in studying them - alone, in knowing them when facing them - alone, in anticipating them – alone, and in the noonday showdown sun. Descimating done, what else better to do with an enemy but write for them a love poem as the good Mr Katrovas has so succinctly writ for his below:
LOVE POEM FOR AN ENEMY
I, as sinned against as sinning,
take small pleasure from the winning
of our decades-long guerrilla war.
For from my job Ive wanted more
than victory over one whod tried
to punish me before he died,
and now, neither of us dead,
we haunt these halls in constant dread
of drifting past the others life
while long-term memory is rife
with slights that sting like paper cuts.
Weve occupied our separate ruts
yet simmered in a single rage.
Weve grown absurd in middle age
together, and should seek wisdom now
together, by ending this row.
I therefore decommission you
as constant flagship of my rue.
Below the threshold of my hate
you now my good regard may rate.
For I have let my anger pass.
But, while youre down there, kiss my ass.
Richard Katrovas
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that to nurture and keep alive for yet one more hour of this beautiful day that is ours for now, the good things in his life, the peace-bringing things, the beautiful things too - end up being the things that he has to fight hardest against things for, larges forces, others’ and his own many, many, many, many vices. And what a fight he must put up too, so subtle, so smooth, so exacting, that the outcome is decimation of the spoiler forces, the spoiler life-leeches that attach and suck the living chance right out of you, man, “thereunto” in legalese, let’s say – just for fun, spoiling you.
As time flies by, blights become harder to scrub out. Blunders become harder to recover from. On the other hand what’s a blunder but a recovery in the making? For if in the blunder one can not recover, your call to arms is defeat before you risk a blow even. So I say blunder on byro!!! Blunder on, ‘til you learn the art and science of it. The art and science of it and learn enough of it. That is, enough of what it takes as you observe and absorb every day, my dear Byro, to ever soooo subtly initiate then egg on til "completion" the ever soooo subtly anticipated blunder of a clolleague forward slash enemy - you know what I'm talkin' of yes?.
And, I struggle continually to find and actually read instead of skim an ever more appropriate stack o' books layin' around to ground the soundness of my latest philos on.
When the cockroach roller derby begins, it’s a pretty good idea to have your Sunday-best, big squashing shoes already, mate. Go for the overtly jealous-looking ones first and y'all should be alright.
Teacher – I love you!
Wha’? Back OFF! Mojo's mud.
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that it is not dad that is obligated to warn him that the way he takes in life, if it is to be a meaningful journey, is treacherous. Comes a time too in a man’s life to realize the boss may very well NOT have the epiphany holder’s best interest at heart.
Dad is not obligated to tell you all the fine lines you must cross and the ones you had better not cross until your damned well ready to fight. When being a hero to most and completely undesirable to the few that have the power to flick you off their high-powered noses in an augen blik whim, means that you cannot continue to bend like a young tree acquiescing whither the four winds do blow, no. Niether dad nor mom is obligated to tell you, you may not be well liked AT ALL when you open your mouth and out come tumbling, intensity of purpose, focussed precision, and building blocks of new creation in the pragmatic prose of life and in the hell-bent romantic poetry of existance, flowing, shape-shifting, symmetry & dissymmetry, pure and pure filth, annoying hypocrisy, annoying righteousness. That you may not be well liked when you lift your right arm high to lead the bloody charge and effortlessly wield the sword of your clan circuitously above your head then point its point straight ahead, with wide-mouthed shouts of sure victory. You wield it comfortably as if it were the extension of your right arm, your right side, your right heart, in fact. People may not like you at all when they find they’re suddenly face to face with he that holds the sword, you, and that by your hand they will vanish, flayed mercilessly through and through tissue and spine alike until decimated. Yes, DES – CI – MAT – ED is what I said.
Dad is not even obligated to tell you, dear Bryo about the enemies that exist and the ones that appear to exist during all the inappropriate times you’d care to manage in any particular moment.
Dad’s obligation is actually his choice only really, to yea or nay as he sees fit. And, if yea then it is to pray, the Lord your soul to keep, while you alone face and fight the enemies that may be related but are surely different, if by time’s partition only, from the enemies that his dad was not obligated to tell him about since effectiveness against enemies is best borne out, as all quest custodians understand, in a journey of self-discovery, in the process of finding them out for oneself in one’s life - alone, in studying them - alone, in knowing them when facing them - alone, in anticipating them – alone, and in the noonday showdown sun. Descimating done, what else better to do with an enemy but write for them a love poem as the good Mr Katrovas has so succinctly writ for his below:
LOVE POEM FOR AN ENEMY
I, as sinned against as sinning,
take small pleasure from the winning
of our decades-long guerrilla war.
For from my job Ive wanted more
than victory over one whod tried
to punish me before he died,
and now, neither of us dead,
we haunt these halls in constant dread
of drifting past the others life
while long-term memory is rife
with slights that sting like paper cuts.
Weve occupied our separate ruts
yet simmered in a single rage.
Weve grown absurd in middle age
together, and should seek wisdom now
together, by ending this row.
I therefore decommission you
as constant flagship of my rue.
Below the threshold of my hate
you now my good regard may rate.
For I have let my anger pass.
But, while youre down there, kiss my ass.
Richard Katrovas
Comes a time in a man’s life to realize that to nurture and keep alive for yet one more hour of this beautiful day that is ours for now, the good things in his life, the peace-bringing things, the beautiful things too - end up being the things that he has to fight hardest against things for, larges forces, others’ and his own many, many, many, many vices. And what a fight he must put up too, so subtle, so smooth, so exacting, that the outcome is decimation of the spoiler forces, the spoiler life-leeches that attach and suck the living chance right out of you, man, “thereunto” in legalese, let’s say – just for fun, spoiling you.
As time flies by, blights become harder to scrub out. Blunders become harder to recover from. On the other hand what’s a blunder but a recovery in the making? For if in the blunder one can not recover, your call to arms is defeat before you risk a blow even. So I say blunder on byro!!! Blunder on, ‘til you learn the art and science of it. The art and science of it and learn enough of it. That is, enough of what it takes as you observe and absorb every day, my dear Byro, to ever soooo subtly initiate then egg on til "completion" the ever soooo subtly anticipated blunder of a clolleague forward slash enemy - you know what I'm talkin' of yes?.
And, I struggle continually to find and actually read instead of skim an ever more appropriate stack o' books layin' around to ground the soundness of my latest philos on.
When the cockroach roller derby begins, it’s a pretty good idea to have your Sunday-best, big squashing shoes already, mate. Go for the overtly jealous-looking ones first and y'all should be alright.
February 14, 2006
Yo! Mojo u da bomb, dude!
As the uproar over Danish Newspaper comic sections continues, Byromaniac jumps in here for a chance at scything things apart with just the sort of sarcastic wit that seems called for. Hush reader! Don’t you fret now. It’s a true and legitimate wit come by honestly, the wit’s possessor and purveyor having been immersed as a child in a great cauldron of global, intercultural interactivity. On to the subject at hand then.
Perhaps a depiction of the Profit Mojo (PBUH - Psst! Be a Upon Him! Make haste I prithee!), in bed with his “seven eleven” year old wife Ayesha, diddler that he reveals himself to be (fact un-refuted even by his most respected followers), in “his” famous work: “the holy quoran”, would have been more appropriate.
Picktall, in his: “The Meaning of the Glorious Koran” Explanatory Translation, Mentor publishing, Chicago, introduction to Surah XXXIII, lets us in on, and surrounds with a rather oedipal-sounding 'plea for normalcy’ excuse for; Mojo’s preferences and saviour-complex justifications. Read on:
Perhaps a depiction of the Profit Mojo (PBUH - Psst! Be a Upon Him! Make haste I prithee!), in bed with his “seven eleven” year old wife Ayesha, diddler that he reveals himself to be (fact un-refuted even by his most respected followers), in “his” famous work: “the holy quoran”, would have been more appropriate.
Picktall, in his: “The Meaning of the Glorious Koran” Explanatory Translation, Mentor publishing, Chicago, introduction to Surah XXXIII, lets us in on, and surrounds with a rather oedipal-sounding 'plea for normalcy’ excuse for; Mojo’s preferences and saviour-complex justifications. Read on:
The Surah contains further references to the wives of the the Profit, in connection with which it may be mentioned that from the age of 25 till the age of 50 he had only one wife, Khadijah, fifteen years his senior, (emph. on the oedipal, mine) to whom he was devotedly attached and whose memory he cherished till his dying day. With the exception of Ayeshah,… …whom he married at her father’s request when she was still a child (emph. On the diddler, mine), all his later marriages were with widows whose state was pitiable (emphasis on the saviour complex, mine) for one reason or another. (P. 301)Having admitted most of the following himself, & along with many unmentioned but easily, if need suddenly were to arise, referenced, Muslim followers and scholars of many a nation, having agreed on ALL of the following at some point ernother, perhaps a depiction of him as an illiterate, epileptic, schizophrenic dictator (of words, people, of words, here), dictating his epileptic, schizophrenic dreams of Quoranic revelation to an haphazard assemblage of opportunist scribes, would have appeared and disappeared as fast as the fleeting moment of levity that one experiences when reading one’s daily Dilbert or Garfield or BC. And yet again, we turn to: “The Meaning of the Glorious Koran” for support:
The words which came to him when in a state of trance are held sacred by the Muslims and are never confounded with those which he uttered when no physical change was apparent in him (emphasis mine, on the fits of an epileptic nature). The former are the Sacred Book; the latter, the Hadith or Sunnah of the profit (ed. Evidence of two vastly different personalities of the Profit revealed in the comparision of his Sacred book with “the latter”). And because the angel on Mt. Hira bade him “Read!”—insisted on his “Reading” though he was illiterate—the sacred book is known as Al-Qur’an, “The Reading”, the reading of a man who knew not how to read (illiteracy freely admitted by Mojo’s own followers).
Assuming no knowledge of reading, then, within the realm of the definition of literacy, there exist a pretty huge sliver of possibility that he had no knowledge of writing either. It was said here that Mohammed was illiterate – that means he had no knowledge of letters. It means someone else wrote the Quoran for him. So he had scribes then, most probably. Having scribes means the possibility of an introduction of error in transcription. In fact, these Scribes could have written anything they bloody well wanted to, Mojo would not have known, either way – he was illiterate.
How can I say that? I am a scribe by trade and predilection, my dear reader. I know the twists and turns taken by and of and through and under and over things - dictated, then and when transcribed.
In any event, you may wonder what the hell all these recent blogs, or perhaps ANY of these blogs at all have to do with the “unfetteredness” of, or more brazenly so; the "unfettering of" UAE. Well, I too, as author - scribe, wonder daily at the same thing. Perhaps it’s a difference in price per word, only. Their relevance, though, we might bend and twist and turn iron logic a few degrees our way to say, is justified merely because I am here, as temporary resident, and it is from this place that I, a scribe, by trade and predilection, feel compelled to yell these things across my keyboard, and thus convert them into a big digital furuncle.
My very own creation. One humungous, festering in contradiction, virtual butt-boil. Simultaneously fascinating and sickening to look at, an imperialistic, hodgepodge of ego-sroking, "religion of the masses" kind of feruncle. Borne of letters though, eh, not illiteracy.
POP! EW! The ripe feruncle just burst, you see, and Mojo’s 'religion of the masses' robustness oozes on down the leg itself stands on, unfortunately, in the presses’ puss-letting that inevitably follows.
Feeling the itch thereof, we want to scratch that feruncle. We want to poke that feruncle. We want to squeeze that feruncle. Part of us even wants to (come on, face it, adventurer, reader-mine) to…. OK, here it is, to just stick one finger right in the middle of that press-puss flowing down, to wipe it around, disturb it's flow. Watch we then, detached from the finger’s stirring act, & distanced from it too, by shoulder, by upper, and forearm, all. After disturbing the puss, in lewd fascination, we leer in, twisted, and stenchedly close, we want to see just where the disturbed puss-flow will twist to next before it needs to be all wiped away and cleaned.
Following that, getting sick of the whole infected spectacle, we begin to eagerly anticipate the influx of willing, very effective, antiseptics to begin their cleansing - their un-festering reversal as it were, preventing the post-puss-let feruncle, otherwise left un-wiped-un-cleansed; from going viciously gangrenous on our collective focuss, the universal left arse cheek of the "religion of the masses". We too. We know where in this world we are right now....
Byro
January 21, 2006
Un-coordinator
Fat ugly slob-cum-well-dressed, xtreeme braggart claims are outspoken, but yet unrealized.
For where, it seems, pudgy fingers fore-telling clumsiness begin, bossy, SUB-continent, uncertificated, blue-collar rhetoric, spelled:
T-E-C-H-N-I-C-A-L
I-N-C-O-M-P-E-T-E-N-C-E
finally, after all the pseudo-intellectual, undergraduate-poseur filth that flows from the source, ends. It is silenced by the truth of a laughably purple-faced clockwise wrench twist meant to crack the NORMAL RH-threaded B-nut, if you can even imagine it; silenced by the thunderous yet thankfully not disastrous effect of an experimentally dislodged safety pin. And the subcontinent's fatted-up royal son's very degreededness is lifted up for public perusal on an overloaded, pedestal with its left hand in the air, but standing on one foot, t'other hand grasping at the Ayurvedic ankle region of a right-upturned Ayurvedic region of the foot - a fine balance, indeed.
Yet hark! We approach now, unapproachables, and wander, tentatively, through the undiscovered, touching this and that, but what, really, daintily, shyly, braving our way finally into the realm of the, as yet untouched, where machines, systems, sub-systems, assemblies, and sub-assemblies actually do exist Dorothy. Here, we encounter inevitably those that simply KNOW more technical things than we, having not lied their way in, and are 300 million times less bloody arrogant than we and less good at one thing only - constant boss-arse caressing.
There is a prison in Arkansasas in which inmates are stripped of their privilege of privacy. The warden's men see all, unskewed and unfiltered information about the daily lives and habits is given them through glass walled cells. When the inmates take a shit, the warden's men see. When the inmates take a piss the warden's men see. When the inmates sleep and when they wake the warden's men see. When the inmates eat soap and feighn stomach trouble for a free trip to the infirmary, the warden's men see. The inmates can't get away with a lie. The truth of their very being is revealed through transparent plexi.
Oh, would that tiny cameras be installed in the 30-something orfices miscelaneous, in every potentially crooked nook and cranny to catch the lying, fat, sub-continent, slob/cowboy in his lie, to catch the worker/royalty-cum-manager-cum-coordinator-cum-man-about-the-campus in his man-fridaying. "the ONE" for him and "the HIM" for ONE, as it were. The sub-contitnent cowboy, in the midst of his own, as it were. The sub-contitnent cowboy in the realm of the as yet untouched. Would that the tiny cameras be installed to capture the numerous moments of incompetence forever, the shirkers in their shirk o' work, to catch the nose picker in his pick; the arse-scratcher in his scratch. Etc.
Would that all the tiny mics shoved strategically into fabrics of orfice curtains and blinds miscelaneous, under desks and unswept for, pick up all any latent cowardice-speak. Things too terrifying to speak out to the face of subject someone, for fear of instant ass-kickerage reprisal and the possible instant deaths of junior politicians. Transparancy we seek. Transparency we get. Transparancy. There's a certain powerfully focussing and calming effect in knowing what is the exact content, context and reaction to the content of the hilariously ridicoulous yet damaging fib the other guy just told to the boss about ya, just to make his boots look more shiny, isn't it.
What's that you say? They've been already installed, my friend and you de only suckah that don't realize the extent of the 7.1 Dolby surround, home theater effect, prying eye and ear combo that already exists? Pass it off, toss it off to paranoia, to fancy dreams of a momentous longing for a different sort o' madness, less predatory, any sort thereof, actually, would do, in a pinch.
And yet, mic or no, tiny cam or no, Fat Albert's fattiness speaks for itself. And Fat Albert's pudgy sub-contient poseur-clumsiness & subsequent incompetent fingering, touching of things yet untouched, that is, actual technical things, speaks/reveals volumes of the sort of thick, subcontinent broodingly-hungering-for-post-colonial-legitimacy, fog, that this fatty-man operates within. A very pushy, up-the-bosses arse, sub-continent cowbody, that's what, brinking everybody with his overbearing manageer-play, as we might be tempted to describe his dyed-in-the-wool sub-continent, wolfish-yet-sheepish-yet-ferret(ish) methods if we didn't know better how to fetter the typecast.
And on and on it goes. Where it stops, it blows up in your face so just don't let it stop. OK?
Happy happy joy joy
And BY SO THIS, "Rhohintin" Maniac LIVES ON, in this particular not so veiled sentiment.
For where, it seems, pudgy fingers fore-telling clumsiness begin, bossy, SUB-continent, uncertificated, blue-collar rhetoric, spelled:
T-E-C-H-N-I-C-A-L
I-N-C-O-M-P-E-T-E-N-C-E
finally, after all the pseudo-intellectual, undergraduate-poseur filth that flows from the source, ends. It is silenced by the truth of a laughably purple-faced clockwise wrench twist meant to crack the NORMAL RH-threaded B-nut, if you can even imagine it; silenced by the thunderous yet thankfully not disastrous effect of an experimentally dislodged safety pin. And the subcontinent's fatted-up royal son's very degreededness is lifted up for public perusal on an overloaded, pedestal with its left hand in the air, but standing on one foot, t'other hand grasping at the Ayurvedic ankle region of a right-upturned Ayurvedic region of the foot - a fine balance, indeed.
Yet hark! We approach now, unapproachables, and wander, tentatively, through the undiscovered, touching this and that, but what, really, daintily, shyly, braving our way finally into the realm of the, as yet untouched, where machines, systems, sub-systems, assemblies, and sub-assemblies actually do exist Dorothy. Here, we encounter inevitably those that simply KNOW more technical things than we, having not lied their way in, and are 300 million times less bloody arrogant than we and less good at one thing only - constant boss-arse caressing.
There is a prison in Arkansasas in which inmates are stripped of their privilege of privacy. The warden's men see all, unskewed and unfiltered information about the daily lives and habits is given them through glass walled cells. When the inmates take a shit, the warden's men see. When the inmates take a piss the warden's men see. When the inmates sleep and when they wake the warden's men see. When the inmates eat soap and feighn stomach trouble for a free trip to the infirmary, the warden's men see. The inmates can't get away with a lie. The truth of their very being is revealed through transparent plexi.
Oh, would that tiny cameras be installed in the 30-something orfices miscelaneous, in every potentially crooked nook and cranny to catch the lying, fat, sub-continent, slob/cowboy in his lie, to catch the worker/royalty-cum-manager-cum-coordinator-cum-man-about-the-campus in his man-fridaying. "the ONE" for him and "the HIM" for ONE, as it were. The sub-contitnent cowboy, in the midst of his own, as it were. The sub-contitnent cowboy in the realm of the as yet untouched. Would that the tiny cameras be installed to capture the numerous moments of incompetence forever, the shirkers in their shirk o' work, to catch the nose picker in his pick; the arse-scratcher in his scratch. Etc.
Would that all the tiny mics shoved strategically into fabrics of orfice curtains and blinds miscelaneous, under desks and unswept for, pick up all any latent cowardice-speak. Things too terrifying to speak out to the face of subject someone, for fear of instant ass-kickerage reprisal and the possible instant deaths of junior politicians. Transparancy we seek. Transparency we get. Transparancy. There's a certain powerfully focussing and calming effect in knowing what is the exact content, context and reaction to the content of the hilariously ridicoulous yet damaging fib the other guy just told to the boss about ya, just to make his boots look more shiny, isn't it.
What's that you say? They've been already installed, my friend and you de only suckah that don't realize the extent of the 7.1 Dolby surround, home theater effect, prying eye and ear combo that already exists? Pass it off, toss it off to paranoia, to fancy dreams of a momentous longing for a different sort o' madness, less predatory, any sort thereof, actually, would do, in a pinch.
And yet, mic or no, tiny cam or no, Fat Albert's fattiness speaks for itself. And Fat Albert's pudgy sub-contient poseur-clumsiness & subsequent incompetent fingering, touching of things yet untouched, that is, actual technical things, speaks/reveals volumes of the sort of thick, subcontinent broodingly-hungering-for-post-colonial-legitimacy, fog, that this fatty-man operates within. A very pushy, up-the-bosses arse, sub-continent cowbody, that's what, brinking everybody with his overbearing manageer-play, as we might be tempted to describe his dyed-in-the-wool sub-continent, wolfish-yet-sheepish-yet-ferret(ish) methods if we didn't know better how to fetter the typecast.
And on and on it goes. Where it stops, it blows up in your face so just don't let it stop. OK?
Happy happy joy joy
And BY SO THIS, "Rhohintin" Maniac LIVES ON, in this particular not so veiled sentiment.
January 18, 2006
T'er Ba Qui
Recently I sampled a new cigar in stock at the local smoker centre outlet - a Don Thomas Cetros.
I feel the Don Thomas Cetros is an overall excellent value for the smoke. The one I bought was longer than a robusto size, like a corona size, but a bit longer (not up to speed on all the different size-groupings yet). I was asked to give some feedback on this cigar by an extremely polite Philipino attendant who, when he spoke, belied a solid, bachelors-level University education, if not more than. He is very knowledgeable about his product and has a very keen sense of customer service. He said the Cetros wasn't moving well and wanted customer feed back on the Cetros to consider how to market it differntly in UAE. So I agreed and what follows is pretty much a word for word of what I wrote for the smoker's centre on the cetros.
I took the Don Thomas Cetros with me to work to smoke there – I’ve recently taken up residence in the desiganated smoking office, which is well and good because I now I have time during the day, while I carry out my desk duties, to try out a lot of new brands of cigars in a relatively consistant environment. I used a round hole cutter to cut the end of the Don Thomas Cetros. The cap did not tear or crack and I was able to make a cleancut, consistantly round hole. The cigar was evenly packed and had a medium to light brown wrapper. The wrapper was not completely dry but also not quite as moist nor having the peculiar to cigar-wrapper feeling of oily smoothness as the Quorum Robustos from Nicaragua that I smoke regularly and I’ve taken a great deal of liking to lately, given their great, rich flavour with medium mild taste for a very nice price – 6dhs. Of the quorum good things have already been well written:
So now you see that I have set my standard against which the Cetros was to be compared, as the fine budget cigar hailing from Nicaragua. The Cetros took about 40 minutes to smoke. When I smoke at work, I tend to take a draw approximately every 30 seconds up to every 2 minutes. The Cetros stayed alight with no problem between draws, smoldered evenly, and its ash tapped off in uniform cylindrical chunks, leaving a flat circular glow on the end of the cigar, “just like any good cigar should” I could say. The room odour during my smoking of the Don Thomas Cetros was commented on by my colleagues as “…far better…” than the odour filling the room when I smoke one of my “fill-in” Villigar Extras, for example. I must add though that they also commented on the room odour left by the Quorum Robustos as: “…leaving a really nice scent”.
The acidity of the Don Thomas Cetros as the burn approched the drawing end was not as noticeable to me as in other cigars, such as, an uncharacteristically-tightly-packed Luis Martinez Londsdale, and a similarly, uncharacteristically, tightly packed Quorum Corona. They were very acidic even in the first few difficult draws. I have since then figured out a way to make a tightly packed cigar much more palatable. An easily fabricated special “cigar saver” tool – a strait piece of coat-hangar-sized wire, sharpened to penetrate and make a hole through the middle of the length of the cigar does the job well.
I don’t like to waste any cigars by having to throw them away just because the draw is too difficult. Lucky for me, the special tool allows me to enjoy to the fullest even poorly chosen, too-tightly packed cigars, now. The appropriately sized hole effectively counter acts the acidity effect and all but eliminates the difficulty of drawing heavily on a tightly packed cigar.Though it may not be the recommended, ideal way to smoke a cigar, I ridgedly refuse to do any less than get the full value of the cigar. Another probably less than ideal, non-recommended thing I tend to do, also to get the full value of the cigar, is to remove the label and proceed to smoke right down to an approximate 1.5 cm length, regardless of the the initial length, diameter, brand name, flavour, or richness of the particular cigar.
I did not have to use the special hole making tool on the Cetros. It was evenly packed. The flavour was walnutty, with fresh undertones of the way that my grandfather’s favorite cologne smelled. Don’t ask me the name of it, I don't recall. Suffice to say, the Cetros waft triggered a memory of a balanced, anticipatory, full-of-life til passing on, renaisance-like creativive masculinity.
The Cetros was of medium mildness and medium richness. I would describ it as a characteristically stout, reliable, everyday, sort of cigar that you can easily bring to work and smoke without cigarette smokers in the same room complaining. Out of the office, let the Davidoffs, the Cohibas, or even one of the very underrated and well-priced Quorum Robustos, waiting patiently, at 70 to 75% humidity, in the glass-topped humidor you were oogling the week before Christmas (nice present from the family), be reserved for cool, UAE winter evenings of 21 deg. C, accompanied by any of the quality, aged, sipping-type beverages that are available, at our fingertips (after a short drive to the neighboring emirate). I will conclude by saying that there is room in MY glass-topped Christmas present humidor for more than a few Don Thomas Cetros and of course any other new brands of well valued cigars as well, as they continue to find there way here.
Byromaniac,
fequenter of Smokers’Centre outlets in Dubai
I feel the Don Thomas Cetros is an overall excellent value for the smoke. The one I bought was longer than a robusto size, like a corona size, but a bit longer (not up to speed on all the different size-groupings yet). I was asked to give some feedback on this cigar by an extremely polite Philipino attendant who, when he spoke, belied a solid, bachelors-level University education, if not more than. He is very knowledgeable about his product and has a very keen sense of customer service. He said the Cetros wasn't moving well and wanted customer feed back on the Cetros to consider how to market it differntly in UAE. So I agreed and what follows is pretty much a word for word of what I wrote for the smoker's centre on the cetros.
I took the Don Thomas Cetros with me to work to smoke there – I’ve recently taken up residence in the desiganated smoking office, which is well and good because I now I have time during the day, while I carry out my desk duties, to try out a lot of new brands of cigars in a relatively consistant environment. I used a round hole cutter to cut the end of the Don Thomas Cetros. The cap did not tear or crack and I was able to make a cleancut, consistantly round hole. The cigar was evenly packed and had a medium to light brown wrapper. The wrapper was not completely dry but also not quite as moist nor having the peculiar to cigar-wrapper feeling of oily smoothness as the Quorum Robustos from Nicaragua that I smoke regularly and I’ve taken a great deal of liking to lately, given their great, rich flavour with medium mild taste for a very nice price – 6dhs. Of the quorum good things have already been well written:
The new Quorum goes where others have tried and failed. Quorum is that rare bird – a full size, fine smoking cigar in that very inexpensive. Even though it’s definitely a budget cigar, Quorum certainly doesn’t smoke like one. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear it would sell for a great deal more. But “Great Deal” is the operant term when it comes to Quorum. Here you get a smooth and flavorful smoke in a medium strength cigar. The Nicaraguan fillers and binders signal dependable quality all the way, and the Ecuador-Sumatra wrapper even adds a hint of exotic elegance to Quorum. (Mr. Bill's Pipe and Tabaco Company, Las Vegas, Nevada)
So now you see that I have set my standard against which the Cetros was to be compared, as the fine budget cigar hailing from Nicaragua. The Cetros took about 40 minutes to smoke. When I smoke at work, I tend to take a draw approximately every 30 seconds up to every 2 minutes. The Cetros stayed alight with no problem between draws, smoldered evenly, and its ash tapped off in uniform cylindrical chunks, leaving a flat circular glow on the end of the cigar, “just like any good cigar should” I could say. The room odour during my smoking of the Don Thomas Cetros was commented on by my colleagues as “…far better…” than the odour filling the room when I smoke one of my “fill-in” Villigar Extras, for example. I must add though that they also commented on the room odour left by the Quorum Robustos as: “…leaving a really nice scent”.
The acidity of the Don Thomas Cetros as the burn approched the drawing end was not as noticeable to me as in other cigars, such as, an uncharacteristically-tightly-packed Luis Martinez Londsdale, and a similarly, uncharacteristically, tightly packed Quorum Corona. They were very acidic even in the first few difficult draws. I have since then figured out a way to make a tightly packed cigar much more palatable. An easily fabricated special “cigar saver” tool – a strait piece of coat-hangar-sized wire, sharpened to penetrate and make a hole through the middle of the length of the cigar does the job well.
I don’t like to waste any cigars by having to throw them away just because the draw is too difficult. Lucky for me, the special tool allows me to enjoy to the fullest even poorly chosen, too-tightly packed cigars, now. The appropriately sized hole effectively counter acts the acidity effect and all but eliminates the difficulty of drawing heavily on a tightly packed cigar.Though it may not be the recommended, ideal way to smoke a cigar, I ridgedly refuse to do any less than get the full value of the cigar. Another probably less than ideal, non-recommended thing I tend to do, also to get the full value of the cigar, is to remove the label and proceed to smoke right down to an approximate 1.5 cm length, regardless of the the initial length, diameter, brand name, flavour, or richness of the particular cigar.
I did not have to use the special hole making tool on the Cetros. It was evenly packed. The flavour was walnutty, with fresh undertones of the way that my grandfather’s favorite cologne smelled. Don’t ask me the name of it, I don't recall. Suffice to say, the Cetros waft triggered a memory of a balanced, anticipatory, full-of-life til passing on, renaisance-like creativive masculinity.
The Cetros was of medium mildness and medium richness. I would describ it as a characteristically stout, reliable, everyday, sort of cigar that you can easily bring to work and smoke without cigarette smokers in the same room complaining. Out of the office, let the Davidoffs, the Cohibas, or even one of the very underrated and well-priced Quorum Robustos, waiting patiently, at 70 to 75% humidity, in the glass-topped humidor you were oogling the week before Christmas (nice present from the family), be reserved for cool, UAE winter evenings of 21 deg. C, accompanied by any of the quality, aged, sipping-type beverages that are available, at our fingertips (after a short drive to the neighboring emirate). I will conclude by saying that there is room in MY glass-topped Christmas present humidor for more than a few Don Thomas Cetros and of course any other new brands of well valued cigars as well, as they continue to find there way here.
Byromaniac,
fequenter of Smokers’Centre outlets in Dubai
December 18, 2005
the ONE
Here's an interesting take on the nature of things and human interaction in the world as we "know it"
Sohan Banwar, Dalitstan Journal, Volume 1, Issue 2 (Oct. 1999).
Oh really? Hmmm....
Osama, Mulla Omar, etc. and the roving band that is al Quaida really screwed all of these peace-loving, conflict-resolving, non-hate spreading guys like Sohan Banwar, over then, didn't they. Just when the world was supposed to be seeing the Hindus as fanatics too. Tut tut, guys.
On the other hand:
Oh really? Hmmm....
The Brahmins will never stop at anything to establish world dominance. All Islamic nations must take heed of the Brahmin-Hindu menace that so vociferously threatens them. Israel indeed poses a lesser threat; it is Hindu India which, with its much greater resources and larger population, poses the gravest danger to Islam. Hindutva poses a grave danger to the West; India has now joined the tentative anti-Western axis composed of Russia, China and India. The West should also heed these warnings of a `White House Collapse', these brazen statements by the fanatic Hindus show that the main enemy of the West after Mother Russia is Hindu India. Worse still, both these rogue states have joined together to combat `Western Imperialism'. While tax dollars from Western countries do not fund Russian nationalism, they unfortunately do fund Hindu nationalism in India. By doing so, the West is merely feeding its enemy.
Sohan Banwar, Dalitstan Journal, Volume 1, Issue 2 (Oct. 1999).
Oh really? Hmmm....
Osama, Mulla Omar, etc. and the roving band that is al Quaida really screwed all of these peace-loving, conflict-resolving, non-hate spreading guys like Sohan Banwar, over then, didn't they. Just when the world was supposed to be seeing the Hindus as fanatics too. Tut tut, guys.
On the other hand:
"Krishna told Arjuna, "What sort of weakness and foolishness has overtaken you? How such cowardice and unmanliness has come over you? Come on, see where your duty lies, be ready to fight.
Krishna said, "I am the soul of all the beings. I am the beginning, the middle, and the end. I am Vishnu among the adityas, the Sun among the lights. I am the Moon among the stars, I am the Sama among the Vedas, I am Mind among the senses and Intelligence among the living beings. I am Shankara among the Rudras. I am Meru among the mountains. I am Aum among the words, I am Vajra among the weapons, among those who count, I am Time, I am the Death all devouring. I am the origin of the things yet to be, the Seed of all living beings. I pervade the universe.
Krishna granted divine vision to Arjuna and showed him his universal form. Like the lights of thousands of Sun.The splendour of the mighty one was witnessed by Arjuna. He saw the entire universe in the ONE.
Arjuna became awestruck, with folded hand and faltering voice he prayed the lord, "O, Infinite Lord of the lords, Abode of the universe, The Imperishable, the first among the gods, the Primal being, the Supreme being, I prostrate before you. In my infinite foolishness and ignorance I called you as, ‘Krishna’ and ‘friend’. Overlook my faults as a father does to his childrens, please assume your former form, I am unable to bear this form of yours."
The lord abandoned his Vishvaroopa and became Krishna again and said to Arjuna:"Surrender all duties and come to me alone for shelter. Have no grief. I will release you from all sins. I have declared to you the most secret wisdom. Consider it and then act, as you will."
Arjuna said: My lord, my delusion is gone. I am not in doubt anymore. I shall act and fight as per your command.
Arjuna took up his Ghandiva with a happy smile. The lord took his reins to the chariot and moved towards the chariot of Bhishma. The war has begun.
Oh really? Hmmm....
December 14, 2005
Gunga Din but Brahmin/Rajahs Don’t & Never Did, I Suppose
Wrote Ruyard long before:
“…Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them black-faced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippy hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"
Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!"
Rudyard's Din twernt no Hindu Brahmin, I trow….
According to the Puranas, Brahmins were created from the mouth of Brahma so that they might instruct mankind. This was why they were considered the highest of the four castes, as they had the most to do with intellect. Since it was recognised that knowledge is the only thing that remains with a person throughout life, Brahmins, as teachers, were duly respected.
Since they were the teachers, preachers and priests they had to be proficient in sacred knowledge through the Vedas. They had to maintain a strict code of conduct and exemplify ideal behaviour. They were to be kind and gentle. For this, they earned certain privileges. They were regarded as the highest class and respected by all, to the extent that they were treated almost like gods by commoners and kings alike. They were given special gifts, dana, dakshina, in some cases even big brown noses, and were free from oppression and immune from capital punishment. It was considered to be the gravest of sins to kill a Brahmin.
“…Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them black-faced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippy hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"
Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!"
Rudyard's Din twernt no Hindu Brahmin, I trow….
According to the Puranas, Brahmins were created from the mouth of Brahma so that they might instruct mankind. This was why they were considered the highest of the four castes, as they had the most to do with intellect. Since it was recognised that knowledge is the only thing that remains with a person throughout life, Brahmins, as teachers, were duly respected.
Since they were the teachers, preachers and priests they had to be proficient in sacred knowledge through the Vedas. They had to maintain a strict code of conduct and exemplify ideal behaviour. They were to be kind and gentle. For this, they earned certain privileges. They were regarded as the highest class and respected by all, to the extent that they were treated almost like gods by commoners and kings alike. They were given special gifts, dana, dakshina, in some cases even big brown noses, and were free from oppression and immune from capital punishment. It was considered to be the gravest of sins to kill a Brahmin.
November 11, 2005
Bisblintovskayov
And the new star city is the place. Dextrous hands assemble, from black market red minds, great and mighty bits of metal and plastic to form the next best vehicular structure – the NBV – recycled soviet military space’s history. And careful consideration is given to propulsion systems that might explode or on any given day direct the pointy end to infinity and Beyonce because the just Knowles they can.
Young Russian Aerospace Engineering, Russian hip hop, Uria(c)h (C)Heap, de Byeatlyes, and a German Motley crew stressed Russianly, on the second syllable – RamSTEIN - fuel and propel the Soyouz-boosted, young Russian-Aerospace Engineered, payload-bearing innovation, to its orbital then interplanetary destination, full of venusial mystery and darkness though the journey may be. Very clean US dollars – our new world’s gold standard – are exchanged.
The comet’s tail of cold-war communism’s rhetoric shizzles Star City’s fizzle and snoop dawggy dawg in tight braids and pimp goatee, once again, exhales white smoke an unseen moment previously drawn in, creatively & religeously, from a twisted white fag, him being portrayed as "representin'", or one might even say as "down wid it" in his oversized NFL Jersey sporting the obligatory inuendo-filled numbers "69" during a typical video shoot of a typical “down” of his lyrical ups and downs, again – bear with him. Please.
And Irbit, the Ural Motorcyle factory is the place. The year is 2005. Bent welded shapes of metal and only allowable, relatively minute, percentages of plastic bits, unite to form world-war-two era frames, tanks, and side cars. Meanwhile, harkening back to reason for being of the horizontally opposed powerplant, Boxer blueprints from Bavaria reveal themselves, unravelled, not so mysterious, smacking of the Stalichnaya shared in clandestine and consequential meetings between Fhurer Adolf und Tzary Joseph, cause 750 to 1250 cc’s of torquey trouble between the knees of wanton “Ural Volk” riders.
Era?! Errata! Circa! Circa?! Circus! Yet, saleable. All these metal and plastic joined bits are enviably and ultimately saleable to those rest-of-the-world-wide nostalgaholics who insist on perpetuating the state of solid metal bits united with only necessary percentages of plastic bits, joined together towards of course, what else but a healthy sense of anarchy. Good thing pewter isn’t as addictive a metal to be considered in the structural sense.
Hell’s angels wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against the “Ural Wolf (pack)” in any of the olympisized or televised extreme right wing sports of any sort, docketed. And yet our bits of joined metal in union with allowable minute percentages of plastic bits, no matter whose territory their ores have been dug from, nor no matter whose national chemical laboratory their phenolics have been formed in, continue to hurtle and guide global history immer onwards on the well-worn, ring-road less taken, by everybody. Rome, having fallen in its "extra-reachitary" left, then right, then left again, regardless of direction it leaned too far towards anarchy and the empire therefore, has been nowhere to be found, for otherwise acceptable lengths of time.
This kiss, this kiss, subliminal.
Young Russian Aerospace Engineering, Russian hip hop, Uria(c)h (C)Heap, de Byeatlyes, and a German Motley crew stressed Russianly, on the second syllable – RamSTEIN - fuel and propel the Soyouz-boosted, young Russian-Aerospace Engineered, payload-bearing innovation, to its orbital then interplanetary destination, full of venusial mystery and darkness though the journey may be. Very clean US dollars – our new world’s gold standard – are exchanged.
The comet’s tail of cold-war communism’s rhetoric shizzles Star City’s fizzle and snoop dawggy dawg in tight braids and pimp goatee, once again, exhales white smoke an unseen moment previously drawn in, creatively & religeously, from a twisted white fag, him being portrayed as "representin'", or one might even say as "down wid it" in his oversized NFL Jersey sporting the obligatory inuendo-filled numbers "69" during a typical video shoot of a typical “down” of his lyrical ups and downs, again – bear with him. Please.
And Irbit, the Ural Motorcyle factory is the place. The year is 2005. Bent welded shapes of metal and only allowable, relatively minute, percentages of plastic bits, unite to form world-war-two era frames, tanks, and side cars. Meanwhile, harkening back to reason for being of the horizontally opposed powerplant, Boxer blueprints from Bavaria reveal themselves, unravelled, not so mysterious, smacking of the Stalichnaya shared in clandestine and consequential meetings between Fhurer Adolf und Tzary Joseph, cause 750 to 1250 cc’s of torquey trouble between the knees of wanton “Ural Volk” riders.
Era?! Errata! Circa! Circa?! Circus! Yet, saleable. All these metal and plastic joined bits are enviably and ultimately saleable to those rest-of-the-world-wide nostalgaholics who insist on perpetuating the state of solid metal bits united with only necessary percentages of plastic bits, joined together towards of course, what else but a healthy sense of anarchy. Good thing pewter isn’t as addictive a metal to be considered in the structural sense.
Hell’s angels wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against the “Ural Wolf (pack)” in any of the olympisized or televised extreme right wing sports of any sort, docketed. And yet our bits of joined metal in union with allowable minute percentages of plastic bits, no matter whose territory their ores have been dug from, nor no matter whose national chemical laboratory their phenolics have been formed in, continue to hurtle and guide global history immer onwards on the well-worn, ring-road less taken, by everybody. Rome, having fallen in its "extra-reachitary" left, then right, then left again, regardless of direction it leaned too far towards anarchy and the empire therefore, has been nowhere to be found, for otherwise acceptable lengths of time.
This kiss, this kiss, subliminal.
October 27, 2005
Pigeons and Falcons, Falcons and Pigeons
In two articles from Gulf News October 26th avian bird flu is the focus:
1. "Bird flu scare robs falconers of their sport"
Thousands of UAE falcon hunters, who traditionally travel to Asian and North African countries, are giving up the sport following the outbreak of bird flu in Asia and parts of Europe.
The hunters are being advised to forget about the sport at least for this year, as the birds may be carrying the deadly avian virus.
The UAE has joined other countries, such as the United States, in having a contingency plan in case of a bird flu outbreak in the country. Sources from the Health Ministry and Agriculture and Fisheries Ministry said the plan incorporates various government agencies.
(Samir Salama, Bureau Chief)
And;
2. "Give residents the correct signal"
There was panic in a Dubai school on Monday after a dead pigeon was found in the yard. School officials, fearing it was a case of bird flu, called Dubai Municipality for instructions.
But they were disappointed with the response of the city authorities. They were told to just throw the dead pigeon away, before another section stepped in and confirmed that the bird had tested negative for the flu.
(staff writer)
If I recall my Dubai Channel 33 viewing of the sport of falconry correctly, domestically kept pigeons are the prey and food of falcons in the hunting OFF season, yes? I guess the advice to falconers to avoid their sport of hunting bustards in Pakistan, etc., due to the flu scare, written about by the Bureau chief himself, has not yet filtered down to the staff writer level. The falconers will need another source of food for their falcons in the forced OFF season, no? Will not the falconers turn to their domestically kept pigeons in these trying times of having to avoid their sport for a year? Neither has the advice from authorities written about by bureau chief Samir seem to have filtered down to the municipality level when it comes to meting out instructions on how to deal with suspicious dead falcons' prey lying in UAE school yards.
1. "Bird flu scare robs falconers of their sport"
Thousands of UAE falcon hunters, who traditionally travel to Asian and North African countries, are giving up the sport following the outbreak of bird flu in Asia and parts of Europe.
The hunters are being advised to forget about the sport at least for this year, as the birds may be carrying the deadly avian virus.
The UAE has joined other countries, such as the United States, in having a contingency plan in case of a bird flu outbreak in the country. Sources from the Health Ministry and Agriculture and Fisheries Ministry said the plan incorporates various government agencies.
(Samir Salama, Bureau Chief)
And;
2. "Give residents the correct signal"
There was panic in a Dubai school on Monday after a dead pigeon was found in the yard. School officials, fearing it was a case of bird flu, called Dubai Municipality for instructions.
But they were disappointed with the response of the city authorities. They were told to just throw the dead pigeon away, before another section stepped in and confirmed that the bird had tested negative for the flu.
(staff writer)
If I recall my Dubai Channel 33 viewing of the sport of falconry correctly, domestically kept pigeons are the prey and food of falcons in the hunting OFF season, yes? I guess the advice to falconers to avoid their sport of hunting bustards in Pakistan, etc., due to the flu scare, written about by the Bureau chief himself, has not yet filtered down to the staff writer level. The falconers will need another source of food for their falcons in the forced OFF season, no? Will not the falconers turn to their domestically kept pigeons in these trying times of having to avoid their sport for a year? Neither has the advice from authorities written about by bureau chief Samir seem to have filtered down to the municipality level when it comes to meting out instructions on how to deal with suspicious dead falcons' prey lying in UAE school yards.
snow storm's chance in dubai
Thrill-seekers in Dubai will be able to enjoy the Middle East's first ski slope in little more than a month's time. (Daniel Bardsley, Staff Reporter, Gulf News)
"This is real, wild snow we are creating. It feels like rain but it is actually snow. It means visiting Ski Dubai will be like having a beautiful day in the mountains, except that conditions will be perfect all the time," Francois de Montaudouin, chief executive of the Ski Dubai in Mall of the Emirates's developer MAF Investments said.
And to think I travelled 10000 miles to get away from the snow and cold.
"This is real, wild snow we are creating. It feels like rain but it is actually snow. It means visiting Ski Dubai will be like having a beautiful day in the mountains, except that conditions will be perfect all the time," Francois de Montaudouin, chief executive of the Ski Dubai in Mall of the Emirates's developer MAF Investments said.
And to think I travelled 10000 miles to get away from the snow and cold.
September 27, 2005
Rooster
Wisps of grey at the temples are revealed on a particular day in a particularly hectic week. The man has no time at middle-some age to comb in the usual morning ritual of kept up youth. He rushes and consequently stumbles up and onto a higher plane of perception; a higher plane of wisdom, apparent by the sudden, less than subtle, appearance of wisps of grey at the temples.
LOOK! He’s forty five to forty nine, not thirty five to thirty nine! Zounds! The combed in ritual of kept up youth, breifly neglected this day, indicates "forthe-wisp", apparent wisdom to any and all who care to notice. The delta's in the daily dog-gone details. Durst we burst the grey-framed bubble?
So it is that the grey wisps add rather than subtract from the over all projection. Why NOT be perceived as apparently wise? Why not add to the apparent notion?
LOOK! He’s forty five to forty nine, not thirty five to thirty nine! Zounds! The combed in ritual of kept up youth, breifly neglected this day, indicates "forthe-wisp", apparent wisdom to any and all who care to notice. The delta's in the daily dog-gone details. Durst we burst the grey-framed bubble?
So it is that the grey wisps add rather than subtract from the over all projection. Why NOT be perceived as apparently wise? Why not add to the apparent notion?
September 17, 2005
the happiness of junior, junior mints
Hello, my name is Bryomaniac. Some of you may know me as Byro or By. Others of you may think you know me just simply as –maniac. Oh, would that the subtleties of unspeakable truths not reveal themselves to you so brutally, in names: halved. The rest of you really do know me as that, more than oft-times, blowhard, sarcastic bastard in your neighbourhood, in your nay bohr hoo-ud, and office cube as your less than sometimes sweet, bedroom-eyed baratone sounding, self-paced study module, host voice. To you I say nothing less than: "YO! MY PEEPS, DAWGS, yo'AHL da BOMBS DUDES!" I AM, I say again for your clarification, the people that you meet as you're walking down the street, I AM the people that you meet each daaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
Initiating an inevitable (by human nature’s fate) junior-junior mint feeding frenzy. To bring to bear said sweet blended feast full brimmingly, just so, toward a better understanding of your direct fore & agin (against), your anticipated weak-need knee’d, knead attempt at surpassing the diaphragm-collapsing abruptness with which I will momentarily stomach punch you: my quals and XP, I herefore-to-with stomach punch you with: my quals and XP…. OOOOHAAAAA!!!! THE YOUBLEEP-PEAD BLEEEPS MA-BLEEEP KORE!!!
Gentle tribal folk, permit me but a few small blights o' tan wastage, on the respective, pristine, bright white quintessence’s of all your illustrious, industrious & meaningful careers…. Lend me your full attention PLEASE, while I stand here before you today and lean heavily upon the aid of this sanctuary of learning’s inherent ability to soak your brain with ALL that, which, I have - advertantly - left out. Bound myself, by a strict code of silence when it comes to speaking ever so convincingly knowledgeably about all those things so glaringly unknown to me as confessor to a Doctorate, or unremembered, at least, at hand, by me, (although easily covered for, under careful consideration of the blase' attitude with which I choose to refer to recent 'readings' of the amass-ed technical literature pile upon which my modern methods so freely float'n'bob), re: the subject at hand, that would indeed reach the toothpick tip of the Burj Dubai were it infact to have been built, at this time, in our given scenario. Old Mcdonald had a farm ee ay ee ay ee ay oh and on that farm he had a free and easy manner of making noise, ee ay ee ay oh, with a neigh neigh here and a hehaw, hehaw there, here a quack there a cluck, every where a ruff, meow, ee ay ee ay oh (freely float'n'bob's the idea. Now grab your partner, spin them round..., etc.).
In the meantime, getting back to the authority by which I stand up here, expounding raw menial’s meat morsels of marketable great benefit to all of you my smart dressed pyoops - morsels yet to endure the searing effect of a gruelling grilling and becoming, only then, fit for feeding to masses from high stages of life. Moving yet on, I ever so gingerly hold a Diploma in ‘Engineering Chugg-ology’ specializing in ‘knockin’em back’ from the Absolute Blue Poly-tech, the pride and pinnicle of Finland’s: ‘lacking-the-necessary-secondary-cert.and will-to-make-it-to-real-university’ education system. I hold as well, a mature student’s version of a B.Sc. in Slurrology (the science of ‘silkening’ your words) from Abysinthe U., a very land-based Research sort of University, located in anywhere BUT Old New Delhi. I earned a post grad M.Sc. from Tequila U., Mexico City, Mexico, by part-time evening courses alone, majoring in their Courvoisour XO's VSPO program, that is: philosophical and social systems engineering program. What we learned: how to continuously consider, while lying on the beach, enjoying a beautiful evening's sunset, how to build up and modify the natures of things yet unbuilt and unmodifyed in this world, then get up and do absolutely f'all about it, while earning money. And ALSO, as if that weren't taxing enough on our bold and youthful brains of the day, we learned how to continuously and willingly enter the various forms and states of being that are said to exist in 'the mist', as it were.
Oh, by the by, IAM a certified, Erin Go Bragh (& bring us six simple JD black-labels wid ya dis time me lad! Be kwik aboot id!), hangover and hurl consultant, I am too, specializing in the painless streamlining of all your organization’s chunder and chunk-blowing processes, towards an increase in the capacity to WOW even wits-end investors, I'll have you know....
Publishable? You bet your bony writer's arse it is! Get wid it den!
This is a self-paced study module, you may exit at any time…
Initiating an inevitable (by human nature’s fate) junior-junior mint feeding frenzy. To bring to bear said sweet blended feast full brimmingly, just so, toward a better understanding of your direct fore & agin (against), your anticipated weak-need knee’d, knead attempt at surpassing the diaphragm-collapsing abruptness with which I will momentarily stomach punch you: my quals and XP, I herefore-to-with stomach punch you with: my quals and XP…. OOOOHAAAAA!!!! THE YOUBLEEP-PEAD BLEEEPS MA-BLEEEP KORE!!!
Gentle tribal folk, permit me but a few small blights o' tan wastage, on the respective, pristine, bright white quintessence’s of all your illustrious, industrious & meaningful careers…. Lend me your full attention PLEASE, while I stand here before you today and lean heavily upon the aid of this sanctuary of learning’s inherent ability to soak your brain with ALL that, which, I have - advertantly - left out. Bound myself, by a strict code of silence when it comes to speaking ever so convincingly knowledgeably about all those things so glaringly unknown to me as confessor to a Doctorate, or unremembered, at least, at hand, by me, (although easily covered for, under careful consideration of the blase' attitude with which I choose to refer to recent 'readings' of the amass-ed technical literature pile upon which my modern methods so freely float'n'bob), re: the subject at hand, that would indeed reach the toothpick tip of the Burj Dubai were it infact to have been built, at this time, in our given scenario. Old Mcdonald had a farm ee ay ee ay ee ay oh and on that farm he had a free and easy manner of making noise, ee ay ee ay oh, with a neigh neigh here and a hehaw, hehaw there, here a quack there a cluck, every where a ruff, meow, ee ay ee ay oh (freely float'n'bob's the idea. Now grab your partner, spin them round..., etc.).
In the meantime, getting back to the authority by which I stand up here, expounding raw menial’s meat morsels of marketable great benefit to all of you my smart dressed pyoops - morsels yet to endure the searing effect of a gruelling grilling and becoming, only then, fit for feeding to masses from high stages of life. Moving yet on, I ever so gingerly hold a Diploma in ‘Engineering Chugg-ology’ specializing in ‘knockin’em back’ from the Absolute Blue Poly-tech, the pride and pinnicle of Finland’s: ‘lacking-the-necessary-secondary-cert.and will-to-make-it-to-real-university’ education system. I hold as well, a mature student’s version of a B.Sc. in Slurrology (the science of ‘silkening’ your words) from Abysinthe U., a very land-based Research sort of University, located in anywhere BUT Old New Delhi. I earned a post grad M.Sc. from Tequila U., Mexico City, Mexico, by part-time evening courses alone, majoring in their Courvoisour XO's VSPO program, that is: philosophical and social systems engineering program. What we learned: how to continuously consider, while lying on the beach, enjoying a beautiful evening's sunset, how to build up and modify the natures of things yet unbuilt and unmodifyed in this world, then get up and do absolutely f'all about it, while earning money. And ALSO, as if that weren't taxing enough on our bold and youthful brains of the day, we learned how to continuously and willingly enter the various forms and states of being that are said to exist in 'the mist', as it were.
Oh, by the by, IAM a certified, Erin Go Bragh (& bring us six simple JD black-labels wid ya dis time me lad! Be kwik aboot id!), hangover and hurl consultant, I am too, specializing in the painless streamlining of all your organization’s chunder and chunk-blowing processes, towards an increase in the capacity to WOW even wits-end investors, I'll have you know....
Publishable? You bet your bony writer's arse it is! Get wid it den!
This is a self-paced study module, you may exit at any time…
September 09, 2005
42 inch world view
big screen, nine feet away,
bright pixel, individual,
personal transistor driven
driven to deliver
multi-channel array
buckwheat Zidacoe never-never
appeared so crisp
as he did do tonight.
nine feet away,
inside the ring of speakers
part of the play
sung-spoken trippingly
on the tongue
song is sung
in my head and in my ears
tonight, found never, never land
driven easily to tears
hever-never land
oh hopeless spin on hope
tragedy exists
there's no escape
never-never land
six years old
& a simpler way through
somehow,
mom gone
dad gone,
bears
it all
on
little shoulders
and weep we
every unspent tear
metaphor slapping us
rude guilt of missed marks,
passing holds us spellbound
and finish we well too
our greatest hope and fear
hope to settle emotive depts
ought to still feel for depts
distance and time depts
distance and time depts
fade as gracefully
& knowingly
as pyotr pan
& wendy too
into never-never land
bright pixel, individual,
personal transistor driven
driven to deliver
multi-channel array
buckwheat Zidacoe never-never
appeared so crisp
as he did do tonight.
nine feet away,
inside the ring of speakers
part of the play
sung-spoken trippingly
on the tongue
song is sung
in my head and in my ears
tonight, found never, never land
driven easily to tears
hever-never land
oh hopeless spin on hope
tragedy exists
there's no escape
never-never land
six years old
& a simpler way through
somehow,
mom gone
dad gone,
bears
it all
on
little shoulders
and weep we
every unspent tear
metaphor slapping us
rude guilt of missed marks,
passing holds us spellbound
and finish we well too
our greatest hope and fear
hope to settle emotive depts
ought to still feel for depts
distance and time depts
distance and time depts
fade as gracefully
& knowingly
as pyotr pan
& wendy too
into never-never land
August 16, 2005
clerical error
DUBAI — Magic! The magician astonishes, and awes. The astonished audience erupts. But the laughter is sheepish. In their minds, the question: How did he do it? Or, did we see something that wasn't there? A sleight of the hand? May be. Illusion? Could be. There's no answer that comes pat, on the dot. Scherson is from Santiago, Chile. His business card says he is a 'Close-up Magician'. He doesn't astonish the world from a stage. He does it standing right next to you. At times he comes down on his knees to do the trick on you. He makes you part of the act. (Khaleej times reporter : Sushil Kutty)
Another magical disappearing act: where is Bakri?
Syrian-born Bakri, founder and spiritual leader of the now defunct Al-Muhajiroun organization, is one of Britain's best known - many would say notorious - radical Muslim clerics. Bakri told the Saudi-owned pan-Arab daily newspaper Asharq al-Awsat that he had arrived in Sharjah after spending three days in Beirut. (7DAYS Staff Reporter)
The chief of police in Sharjah yesterday issued a forceful denial of claims that Muslim cleric Omar Bakri Mohammed, who faces the prospect of treason charges in Britain, had landed in the emirate. Yesterday Brigadier General Ali Saleh Al Mutawa, commander in chief of Sharjah Police told 7DAYS: "This man is blacklisted and is banned from entering the UAE. "He did not enter Sharjah airport, and he is not anywhere in Sharjah. His name is in the computer and he would be arrested automatically. That never happened.". (7DAYS Staff Reporter)
Scherson says his magic is not sleight of hand or "tricks". He creates an illusion to astonish the audience, and he does it effortlessly and instantly. (Khaleej times reporter : Sushil Kutty)
Last night there were no reports of Bakri being seen anywhere in the Emirates, sparking speculation that Bakri may have deliberately tried to mislead people over his whereabouts.. (7DAYS Staff Reporter)
In anycase, Bakri would have had no trouble getting a taxi straight away from the Sharjah airport into town, the trip being a distance more than 5-kilometres.
Another magical disappearing act: where is Bakri?
Syrian-born Bakri, founder and spiritual leader of the now defunct Al-Muhajiroun organization, is one of Britain's best known - many would say notorious - radical Muslim clerics. Bakri told the Saudi-owned pan-Arab daily newspaper Asharq al-Awsat that he had arrived in Sharjah after spending three days in Beirut. (7DAYS Staff Reporter)
The chief of police in Sharjah yesterday issued a forceful denial of claims that Muslim cleric Omar Bakri Mohammed, who faces the prospect of treason charges in Britain, had landed in the emirate. Yesterday Brigadier General Ali Saleh Al Mutawa, commander in chief of Sharjah Police told 7DAYS: "This man is blacklisted and is banned from entering the UAE. "He did not enter Sharjah airport, and he is not anywhere in Sharjah. His name is in the computer and he would be arrested automatically. That never happened.". (7DAYS Staff Reporter)
Scherson says his magic is not sleight of hand or "tricks". He creates an illusion to astonish the audience, and he does it effortlessly and instantly. (Khaleej times reporter : Sushil Kutty)
Last night there were no reports of Bakri being seen anywhere in the Emirates, sparking speculation that Bakri may have deliberately tried to mislead people over his whereabouts.. (7DAYS Staff Reporter)
In anycase, Bakri would have had no trouble getting a taxi straight away from the Sharjah airport into town, the trip being a distance more than 5-kilometres.
August 14, 2005
all in the family
Refering again to a June 19th story of interest in Dubai-based newspaper, 7DAYS, Daad Mohammed Murad Adul Rahman, father to 68 children is reported to be head of the biggest family in the UAE.
Daad told 7DAYS that despite the large number of kids that he has, each one gets due attention and care and their share of daily pocket money - dhs5 in the morning and dhs10 in the evenings. Hmm, 68 times 15 is... 1020 dhs a day. Hmm, times that by 365 & that'd be... 372300 dhs per year - approximately 31000 dirhams a month. Hmm... can't imagine where he'd have been financially if he had had an only child.
Daad also told 7DAYS: “My life is dedicated to my children. Once they grow I help them find a job, arrange their marriage and build new houses for them,” said Daad. Sultan, a four year old says: “Baaba is good. He never beats us. I help him to walk and get his stretcher. He has only one leg and needs help.” “We are all given mobile phones too and the bill is footed by Babaaji,” he added.
Hmm... Wonder if Babaaji Daad ever once, in his making of all these children, considered the cost of a box of male contraceptives?
Daad told 7DAYS that despite the large number of kids that he has, each one gets due attention and care and their share of daily pocket money - dhs5 in the morning and dhs10 in the evenings. Hmm, 68 times 15 is... 1020 dhs a day. Hmm, times that by 365 & that'd be... 372300 dhs per year - approximately 31000 dirhams a month. Hmm... can't imagine where he'd have been financially if he had had an only child.
Daad also told 7DAYS: “My life is dedicated to my children. Once they grow I help them find a job, arrange their marriage and build new houses for them,” said Daad. Sultan, a four year old says: “Baaba is good. He never beats us. I help him to walk and get his stretcher. He has only one leg and needs help.” “We are all given mobile phones too and the bill is footed by Babaaji,” he added.
Hmm... Wonder if Babaaji Daad ever once, in his making of all these children, considered the cost of a box of male contraceptives?
August 13, 2005
shalimar the clown
Commenting on the completely segregated life styles that were lived by three young Leeds-resident Muslims who became the rucksack bombers of London on July 7th, Slaman Rushdie is quoted in yesterday's 7DAYS (a budding, nicely writ daily that is still free at all gas stations and can be found in many public areas here) as saying:
"What is needed is a move beyond tradition - nothing less than a reform movement to bring the core concepts of Islam into the modern age, a Muslim Reformation to combat not only the jihadi ideologues but also the dusty, stifling seminaries of the traditionalists, throwing open the windows of the closed communities to let in much-needed fresh air."
I'm not sure what a Muslim reformation would look like but it will be interesting to see what comes about in the next few years or even months as even Rushdie jumps back on the band wagon calling for big changes to one of the world's largest religions/sects (depending on your view of pre-reformist Islam).
Anyway, Rushdie is working on his next book, the article tells us: "Shalimar the clown", a tale of a Muslim teenager who is guided by a radical Mullah to become an Islamic terrorist. I initially thought: “Great! I can hardly wait to read it!” Then I remembered that I live here in the UAE and that I will probably have to wait quite a long time to read it, actually, and will also probably have to be out of country when I do. Maybe Rushdie could do all us expats living in Islamic countries a service and put some Arabesque designs on the cover and perhaps present the title in an arabic-style caligraphy. That way the book would blend in much better over here and I wouldn't tell, promise. Even though the market for it here would, I'm sure, be small, perhaps he might consider a limited run just for people like us? Perhaps.
In a completely different train of thought, people still living in the Emirate of Sharjah will not have to wait long at all now for a taxi to honk their extremely pleasant sounding horn at them repeatedly until they are forced into becoming the next fare. 7days tells us that Sharjah will now be getting its FOURTH taxi company; “Al AF Dalya". Just what Sharjah needs, 850 MORE spanking new blue and red metered Chevy Optras cruising its roundabouts. Wednesday night Rolla road travellers on their way to Ajman Marina, will welcome the extra beeping-and-stopping-every-2-metre blue-n-reds with the usual patient Rolla road travellers smiles, I’m sure.
"What is needed is a move beyond tradition - nothing less than a reform movement to bring the core concepts of Islam into the modern age, a Muslim Reformation to combat not only the jihadi ideologues but also the dusty, stifling seminaries of the traditionalists, throwing open the windows of the closed communities to let in much-needed fresh air."
I'm not sure what a Muslim reformation would look like but it will be interesting to see what comes about in the next few years or even months as even Rushdie jumps back on the band wagon calling for big changes to one of the world's largest religions/sects (depending on your view of pre-reformist Islam).
Anyway, Rushdie is working on his next book, the article tells us: "Shalimar the clown", a tale of a Muslim teenager who is guided by a radical Mullah to become an Islamic terrorist. I initially thought: “Great! I can hardly wait to read it!” Then I remembered that I live here in the UAE and that I will probably have to wait quite a long time to read it, actually, and will also probably have to be out of country when I do. Maybe Rushdie could do all us expats living in Islamic countries a service and put some Arabesque designs on the cover and perhaps present the title in an arabic-style caligraphy. That way the book would blend in much better over here and I wouldn't tell, promise. Even though the market for it here would, I'm sure, be small, perhaps he might consider a limited run just for people like us? Perhaps.
In a completely different train of thought, people still living in the Emirate of Sharjah will not have to wait long at all now for a taxi to honk their extremely pleasant sounding horn at them repeatedly until they are forced into becoming the next fare. 7days tells us that Sharjah will now be getting its FOURTH taxi company; “Al AF Dalya". Just what Sharjah needs, 850 MORE spanking new blue and red metered Chevy Optras cruising its roundabouts. Wednesday night Rolla road travellers on their way to Ajman Marina, will welcome the extra beeping-and-stopping-every-2-metre blue-n-reds with the usual patient Rolla road travellers smiles, I’m sure.
August 01, 2005
Deficit
I have slowly and methodically painted my world a differnet color only now I have stepped back and looked and seen that it is red. I frown a raised eyebrow frown, considering. What have I done? What is it that I have done? I'm in the red. I'm in the UAE, earning quite a sizeable chunk o change and: I'M IN THE RED!
And that's just it isn't it. It is the question one asks looking at the half of a life the knowledge of how to keep gainfully employed no matter what the news or unions may say or do to us, no matter what jealous paranoid souless colleagues might try to undermine us with. Knowing too when and how to call a spade a spade and when to more diplomatically call a spade, a shovel knowing full well the two terms are absolutely interchangeable in reference to mine fields of character deficit - it is a learned thing already.
And....
And that's just it isn't it. It is the question one asks looking at the half of a life the knowledge of how to keep gainfully employed no matter what the news or unions may say or do to us, no matter what jealous paranoid souless colleagues might try to undermine us with. Knowing too when and how to call a spade a spade and when to more diplomatically call a spade, a shovel knowing full well the two terms are absolutely interchangeable in reference to mine fields of character deficit - it is a learned thing already.
And....
May 20, 2005
getting the J.O.B. done
Here I am at thirty nine at a point where I thought I’d have done enough by now to protect myself from looking a fool in most situations or at least to have shored up my intellect with a certain degree of education and a certain amount of experience as to be given at least a minimum amount of respect in most situations, or at the very least, in the presence of lazy witless minds, to ward off every attempt at making me look the fool. However it seems that all it still takes is a class room full of lazy witless minds to do just that and more, with apparent ease. These young guns, are PAID to sit in their classes and fail. In failing, they perpetuate the flow of money. Most of these guys have been here in the same class for six years - money for nothing.
Not for THEIR financial gain, did they fail this time, oh no. They know nothing and didn't even try to pass. I tried to help them but how can you help somebody who doesn't want to be helped? These guys were forced to be here, these guys don't want to be here. These poor boys, God bless ‘em, will never know what it means to be free of the grip of sloth, ignorance, and the stupidity of an acculturated unwillingness to know basic things that the rest of us in the whole wide world know. Here, they’ve taken things a step further – they bask in their ignorance, rejoice in it – proud of their ability to not know stuff. It’s a refined art here, the lazier he is, the less he manages to get away with, the more esteem a boy seems to be bestowed.
As for the way I’m left feeling about another interaction with the exasperating, absolutely unmotivated classroomful, I turn to the quotes of others who have the wherewithal to summarize their similar experiences and beyond that find a way to triumph if not only through a simple reconciliation in their own minds of the good thing they have done despite the odds against any good being done at all and against the slip into simple cynicism when once the truth of decades of cultural indoctrination slams your efforts into the “sewers of baser minds” (see quote below) and leaves you feeling, basically, sad:
"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn." - T.H. White (The once and Future King)
This admonishment I take on myself having finished with yet another batch of "baser minds" who happily and willingly remain in the sewer enjoying their airs of arrogance, ignorance and sloth. I have learnt at least in part why the world wags and what wags it but certainly not the whole. So I will LEARN more, since not only T.H. White's quote, but also my own conviction so unequivically steers me to the simple truth: learning is the the one thing noble left in THIS world still worth persuing.
Yet in the same determined breath of committing to that noble end, there lurks the voice of a jazz musician's caricature, perched in miniature, red, with horns, upon my left shoulder whose learning is of a far different kind than purely academic. Fats Domino's comment following, like Hamlet’s handled skull in the graveyard, is constantly there, reminding of me:“A lot of fellows nowadays have a B.A., M.D. or Ph.D. Unfortunately, they don't have a J.O.B.” Well, I do have a J.O.B. AND, Fats, I have also some letters behind my name.
If the activity left at the end of the day for us to engage in is to LEARN then that is LEARNING's good use right there and nothing more needs to be accounted for, does it. Perhaps in this light then, Fats’d be better off getting off his “Fats butt”, to LEARN too, along with the lettered focus of his verbal jibe, and all of us who commit to do so, in all the other areas of life. OK, He is already a genius of jazz. But that doesn't mean he should rest on his laurels either, see.
Onwards!
Not for THEIR financial gain, did they fail this time, oh no. They know nothing and didn't even try to pass. I tried to help them but how can you help somebody who doesn't want to be helped? These guys were forced to be here, these guys don't want to be here. These poor boys, God bless ‘em, will never know what it means to be free of the grip of sloth, ignorance, and the stupidity of an acculturated unwillingness to know basic things that the rest of us in the whole wide world know. Here, they’ve taken things a step further – they bask in their ignorance, rejoice in it – proud of their ability to not know stuff. It’s a refined art here, the lazier he is, the less he manages to get away with, the more esteem a boy seems to be bestowed.
As for the way I’m left feeling about another interaction with the exasperating, absolutely unmotivated classroomful, I turn to the quotes of others who have the wherewithal to summarize their similar experiences and beyond that find a way to triumph if not only through a simple reconciliation in their own minds of the good thing they have done despite the odds against any good being done at all and against the slip into simple cynicism when once the truth of decades of cultural indoctrination slams your efforts into the “sewers of baser minds” (see quote below) and leaves you feeling, basically, sad:
"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn." - T.H. White (The once and Future King)
This admonishment I take on myself having finished with yet another batch of "baser minds" who happily and willingly remain in the sewer enjoying their airs of arrogance, ignorance and sloth. I have learnt at least in part why the world wags and what wags it but certainly not the whole. So I will LEARN more, since not only T.H. White's quote, but also my own conviction so unequivically steers me to the simple truth: learning is the the one thing noble left in THIS world still worth persuing.
Yet in the same determined breath of committing to that noble end, there lurks the voice of a jazz musician's caricature, perched in miniature, red, with horns, upon my left shoulder whose learning is of a far different kind than purely academic. Fats Domino's comment following, like Hamlet’s handled skull in the graveyard, is constantly there, reminding of me:“A lot of fellows nowadays have a B.A., M.D. or Ph.D. Unfortunately, they don't have a J.O.B.” Well, I do have a J.O.B. AND, Fats, I have also some letters behind my name.
If the activity left at the end of the day for us to engage in is to LEARN then that is LEARNING's good use right there and nothing more needs to be accounted for, does it. Perhaps in this light then, Fats’d be better off getting off his “Fats butt”, to LEARN too, along with the lettered focus of his verbal jibe, and all of us who commit to do so, in all the other areas of life. OK, He is already a genius of jazz. But that doesn't mean he should rest on his laurels either, see.
Onwards!
April 20, 2005
Berthe of the Profffittt Mojjo-Hhaammiiidd
We are fortunate enough to call this day a day off because tomorrow is Mojo’s birth day. Yes that’s right. MojoHamid turns two thousand one hundred sixty or so odd years old tomorrow. Or at least his legacy, in lieu of the presence of him, turns two thousand one hundred and sixty or so odd years tomorrow.
And we, having made sacrifices miscellaneous in order to glean dry, in the scheme of things in this "face" society, buck by really hard-earned buck, the rich fields of Middle Eastern o-yah, take in stride the pompous differences of religion, culture, and social custom, and take yet another ride on yet another benevolent wave, Sheikh-led and fancy free, all in the name of Ughllah & his precious mess-maker, megalo-Mojoniac (PSST! Be upon him! Make haste, I beseech thee!) and too, of course, in the name of the delicate politics entwined and enterwined through loops and hoops, of dealing out royal sons’ inheritances and duties thereto.
We, the few, the proud, the: it’s getting crowd(ed) in here. “We” stand by: blithely, smiley, toughly, don’t mess with my fourteen plus four years of sacrifice now, hear-ly. You “aus-landers” who show up - newbie, with cocky, conquering the Middle East-like-in-a-week-or-two attitudes. Swim back to your Englands, your USAs, your Canadas, your Australias…. Swim back to your European unions and so forth. Make the necessary sacrifices, decide the tough choices. THEN, set foot on Middle Eastern shores. Why? Well you could just not listen to me and decide to come on over out here for some fantastical heated adventure in the desert, sure. You could do that, but the more of ya’ll that choose to do that, the more of ya’ll ‘ill fail at your attempt at what ever it is you say you are attempting to attempt here. Trouble is, the more of ya’ll that fail become the failures we have to explain indigenously, on your failing butts’ behalf, as representatives of the community of long-term “yet-to-fails” having only just recently after all this time figured out just what it takes to live comfortably here, having made the bleeding sacrifices in four years that you think you don't have to even in one.
Swim then, with the might of one determined to make the prerequisite sacrifices!
And we, having made sacrifices miscellaneous in order to glean dry, in the scheme of things in this "face" society, buck by really hard-earned buck, the rich fields of Middle Eastern o-yah, take in stride the pompous differences of religion, culture, and social custom, and take yet another ride on yet another benevolent wave, Sheikh-led and fancy free, all in the name of Ughllah & his precious mess-maker, megalo-Mojoniac (PSST! Be upon him! Make haste, I beseech thee!) and too, of course, in the name of the delicate politics entwined and enterwined through loops and hoops, of dealing out royal sons’ inheritances and duties thereto.
We, the few, the proud, the: it’s getting crowd(ed) in here. “We” stand by: blithely, smiley, toughly, don’t mess with my fourteen plus four years of sacrifice now, hear-ly. You “aus-landers” who show up - newbie, with cocky, conquering the Middle East-like-in-a-week-or-two attitudes. Swim back to your Englands, your USAs, your Canadas, your Australias…. Swim back to your European unions and so forth. Make the necessary sacrifices, decide the tough choices. THEN, set foot on Middle Eastern shores. Why? Well you could just not listen to me and decide to come on over out here for some fantastical heated adventure in the desert, sure. You could do that, but the more of ya’ll that choose to do that, the more of ya’ll ‘ill fail at your attempt at what ever it is you say you are attempting to attempt here. Trouble is, the more of ya’ll that fail become the failures we have to explain indigenously, on your failing butts’ behalf, as representatives of the community of long-term “yet-to-fails” having only just recently after all this time figured out just what it takes to live comfortably here, having made the bleeding sacrifices in four years that you think you don't have to even in one.
Swim then, with the might of one determined to make the prerequisite sacrifices!
February 18, 2005
Subtraution, subtraustic, subtrausian, and subtrauseum
"The game is up, Byro." Is what I told myself today. The age of brand- invention has finally enveloped me. I am stifled.
It was my intention to copyright and register:
subtraution
subtraustic
subtrausian
subtrauseum
as words specific to my ability to make a profit.
but alas,
my broadcast here of the words renders the process MOOT.
It was my intention to copyright and register:
subtraution
subtraustic
subtrausian
subtrauseum
as words specific to my ability to make a profit.
but alas,
my broadcast here of the words renders the process MOOT.
December 25, 2004
Winter wonder land
Desert Christmas day; outside the wind is howling and sand has filled our living room in a millimetre or more of layered film. Thank you very much oh desert winds. We really appreciate that while we were trying to stay cool in the night WITHOUT the AC, leaving the balcony door open, that you would be so thoughtful as to blow wildly and steadily day for 24 hours and bring so much of the desert’s core into our living room. No really thanks.
Not a creature in the house is stirring, except me and my little son. Having fed and changed him I now entertain him By writing with a half a mind by computer and cooing alternately. Not even the unfortunate roach - that met is end by a special paste spread by anti-roach specialists last week – here at my feet, is stirring. It’s 14:00 on the 25th already and Everyone else… sleeps. Must now to the shouting of my son attend. Merry Christmas. It’s my turn because my wife is awful tired from three hours of sleep last night and because it’s the weekend.
Not a creature in the house is stirring, except me and my little son. Having fed and changed him I now entertain him By writing with a half a mind by computer and cooing alternately. Not even the unfortunate roach - that met is end by a special paste spread by anti-roach specialists last week – here at my feet, is stirring. It’s 14:00 on the 25th already and Everyone else… sleeps. Must now to the shouting of my son attend. Merry Christmas. It’s my turn because my wife is awful tired from three hours of sleep last night and because it’s the weekend.
December 01, 2004
Busy Busy Busy
Time stands still momentarily, impatiently,
Outside the walls of the desert city
And crys a peacefully sad mourning
To the cooling desert evening breeze.
Her voice carries
To the alert flicking ears
Of the tiger of Yemen.
He knows time’s mourning song
And his brown eyes blaze.
Flickering once, they focus now
On the end of the winding grey cable
Of progress, snaking its way
In the distance
Upwards and around Hafeet.
Times swoops and snatches smoothly
The tiger's soul is borne up
By respectful talons
Graceful dazzling falcon
Spreads its wings
Rides the inevitable current up.
Yes. Time it is, shape-shifted now
From and to and to and from
It's fateful winged hurtling heritage.
Upwards, upwards, up & up,
With one tiger's soul, claw-borne
Gently to the peak.
Presents his etched transparancy
To the desert there.
Sun rays warm the visible and invisible passages that meander
About and through the post-flight folding up of time's winged form.
Sun rays warm the visible and invisible passages that meander
About and through the transparent complexity of a bodiless tiger's soul.
The sun sets on time alighted there.
The sun sets on the tiger's soul there.
And the intensity of reflected
Desert evening heat
On the edge of Winter
Answers time's cry.
"We mourne our father's soul"
The father of the desert,
The tiger of Yemen,
Is resting at time’s feet
At the peak of Hafeet.
Time waits for no man.
The tiger of Yemen’s soul knows
In the desert,
Time too waits for no tiger.
"Thus we play the fools with time; and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us"
Henry IV, Act ii, Sc.2
Outside the walls of the desert city
And crys a peacefully sad mourning
To the cooling desert evening breeze.
Her voice carries
To the alert flicking ears
Of the tiger of Yemen.
He knows time’s mourning song
And his brown eyes blaze.
Flickering once, they focus now
On the end of the winding grey cable
Of progress, snaking its way
In the distance
Upwards and around Hafeet.
Times swoops and snatches smoothly
The tiger's soul is borne up
By respectful talons
Graceful dazzling falcon
Spreads its wings
Rides the inevitable current up.
Yes. Time it is, shape-shifted now
From and to and to and from
It's fateful winged hurtling heritage.
Upwards, upwards, up & up,
With one tiger's soul, claw-borne
Gently to the peak.
Presents his etched transparancy
To the desert there.
Sun rays warm the visible and invisible passages that meander
About and through the post-flight folding up of time's winged form.
Sun rays warm the visible and invisible passages that meander
About and through the transparent complexity of a bodiless tiger's soul.
The sun sets on time alighted there.
The sun sets on the tiger's soul there.
And the intensity of reflected
Desert evening heat
On the edge of Winter
Answers time's cry.
"We mourne our father's soul"
The father of the desert,
The tiger of Yemen,
Is resting at time’s feet
At the peak of Hafeet.
Time waits for no man.
The tiger of Yemen’s soul knows
In the desert,
Time too waits for no tiger.
"Thus we play the fools with time; and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us"
Henry IV, Act ii, Sc.2
October 11, 2004
this little bit right here
Thinking wide is tough when you start a new job. It’s tough but not impossible, if the new job is one that is exactly what you thought you’d love to be doing for the rest of your life. Or, let’s say - the next five years - just to pique the curiosity of resource hunters everywhere. So... Thinking wide… Beyond your self and what you thought you needed out of this rather than the "so much more", you will get out of this when checking your stubborn ego at the door, and blending in to become a useful part of a very good international team of well-educated individuals towards the design of, the bringing to life of, nothing less than this new vision.
Contribution to the new vision is a natural babble, suddenly, because it pours out as a result of being considered a trained, experienced and careful person in the matter at hand and a result of having "thunk" on these things for a long, long time already. Thinking of how to help bring someone’s very realizable vision like this to life, how things can be more practical and how to suggest all this things in a manner that both maintains the not so delicate pecking order for those that need to peck, yet spurs an acceptance of the simplicity and relevance of the babble in those with the authority to make the path look easy for us as we make the path look glorious for them, the ones in charge and in need of this glory. How things can be 1000 times more relevant despite the years of culture decreeing that THIS little bit right here is all the sons of the desert are capable of. Yes of course, I KNOW, it’s a huge challenge to capture the imagination of a son of the desert and facilitate his moulding. I, for one, KNOW.
God, it seems and a silly idealist streak that I can’t seem to shake, (despite jaded external moments) lead me into this place now where suddenly all I have learned and studied and experienced about aviation - my affliction – is being considered as clear, concise, relevant, and useable by people with the wherewithal, the authority, the timing, and the ear of the full chain of Cee Em Dee. to break new ground, to institute new vision in the middle of this desert.
Contribution to the new vision is a natural babble, suddenly, because it pours out as a result of being considered a trained, experienced and careful person in the matter at hand and a result of having "thunk" on these things for a long, long time already. Thinking of how to help bring someone’s very realizable vision like this to life, how things can be more practical and how to suggest all this things in a manner that both maintains the not so delicate pecking order for those that need to peck, yet spurs an acceptance of the simplicity and relevance of the babble in those with the authority to make the path look easy for us as we make the path look glorious for them, the ones in charge and in need of this glory. How things can be 1000 times more relevant despite the years of culture decreeing that THIS little bit right here is all the sons of the desert are capable of. Yes of course, I KNOW, it’s a huge challenge to capture the imagination of a son of the desert and facilitate his moulding. I, for one, KNOW.
God, it seems and a silly idealist streak that I can’t seem to shake, (despite jaded external moments) lead me into this place now where suddenly all I have learned and studied and experienced about aviation - my affliction – is being considered as clear, concise, relevant, and useable by people with the wherewithal, the authority, the timing, and the ear of the full chain of Cee Em Dee. to break new ground, to institute new vision in the middle of this desert.
October 05, 2004
eastward bound souls
Somewhere between Abu Dhabi and Dubai at five o’clock in the morning, at 31 degrees Celcius and 97 percent humidity, the fog is very thick – 50 feet visibility at most. Cars with four way flashers blinking whisper mystically along at 120 Kmh, appearing disappearing and reappearing in front and in the rear view. Some braver Desert native souls in Nissan 3.0J’s, Bims & Mercs whirl by at 140 or more, trailing curled turbulent evidence in the fast lane just to the left of me. With no radio noise to fatigue, with headlamps lowered to their adjustable lower extent & secondary driving lights on for the sake of clearer vision, I set my pace against the norm. A fresh cup of Abu Dhabi National Oil Company coffee graces the cup-holder. My mind wanders in the quiet auto interior hum. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
Surrounded by the desert fog I am at once alone - alienated from that which I cannot see fifty-one feet in front and behind of me and yet partaking in this momentary, murky highspeed gathering alongside all these other visible, eastward-bound souls. Our collective quest lies just beyond that which we can barely decipher on the wide enshrouded highway section we are presently seeing, an inviting exit.
A Semi, bearing a forty foot container looms suddenly out of the mist to the right of me and adrenaline flows for a few seconds, driving the need to sleep right the heck out of me. Almost there mon. No worries.
Surrounded by the desert fog I am at once alone - alienated from that which I cannot see fifty-one feet in front and behind of me and yet partaking in this momentary, murky highspeed gathering alongside all these other visible, eastward-bound souls. Our collective quest lies just beyond that which we can barely decipher on the wide enshrouded highway section we are presently seeing, an inviting exit.
A Semi, bearing a forty foot container looms suddenly out of the mist to the right of me and adrenaline flows for a few seconds, driving the need to sleep right the heck out of me. Almost there mon. No worries.
September 24, 2004
the very heart of Arab army soil
Despite our skin colour, there are major, major differences between me and an American. One major difference is that my country has never declared war on anyone. Canada is one of the most peaceful nations on earth. Doesn’t mean we’re wimps of course. We have very well trained, smart soldiers and Canada uses these soldiers as peace keeping units working for the UN and in occasional assistance of other countries who are members of NATO only if they deem it as a just cause.
Another difference between me and an American is that even though I grew up in an oil rich province of Alberta, I have absolutely no interest the oil fields of Iraq – BECAUSE I have enough of my own oil in my own backyard to worry about. An American who grows up in the oil rich state of Texas for example seems to still have a major interest in the oil fields of Iraq. Why? Greed? Power? I don’t know, but I will say this: in this point of interest in other nations’ wealth there is a major difference between Canadians and Americans actions globally. Canadians have enough, Americans seem to want everybody elses' stuff.
I will now teach Emirati technician/soldiers how to fix airplanes. I will teach them all about what I know about airplanes. In my view, airplanes have never been weapons. Rather, complex machines that have one unique and captivating ability to lift themselves off the ground, only to slip mellifluously through the variance in pressures of the air enveloping their wings, and daring gravity to hold them back one second longer than it should on solid ground – holding them back from melting into suspension by the magic fluid that draws them there: air. And this is my passion, I love doing this. I love to talk about airplanes in technical depth and about the deep “reason” for their ability, to anyone, for any length of time.
But I am a little bit nervous about this job for a couple of reasons. One is that even though I’m not an American, I look very similar to one & I’m treading on the very heart of Arab army soil in a time when American expats are being beheaded in Iraq, a time when American expats are being murdered at their places of work in Saudi Arabia, a time when American and British expats are being forced out of their places of work by criminals who engage in acts of terror in the name of their god, allah, and in the named of holy war. Two, I’m nervous because I have white skin and I stand out like a beacon of light over here. So I go to work on Saturday with a case of the jitters, an seriously considering carrying personal protection in the form of a Glock, a heckler and Koch, or perhaps even an effective at short range light machine gun of Russian make. Can foreigners carry over here? Must find out for sure. Perhaps I can make an earnest enough case for it to authorities, in the face of the present situation. Perhaps I can get more trained in the army, how to shoot accurately at close range, under the pressure of haveing to protect my family, while being nervous, that kind of thing. Perhaps I should take up karate, boxing, kickboxing, maitai fighting, Russian free-fighting, with serious, serious intent. Just to ward off the potential of any misguided attempts, as it were. But even then how will I keep my family safe? If I have a gun or two in the house, on my person, at the ready, 24-7, how will that protect my family, really? If I know how to fight and neutralize one nocturnal intruder at a time, no matter how big and tough, how will that protect my family, really?
Hopefully, being recognised as Canadian will do the trick. Dang, the sensationalism of terrorism makes it difficult for the average work-a-day stiff, doesn’t it.
Another difference between me and an American is that even though I grew up in an oil rich province of Alberta, I have absolutely no interest the oil fields of Iraq – BECAUSE I have enough of my own oil in my own backyard to worry about. An American who grows up in the oil rich state of Texas for example seems to still have a major interest in the oil fields of Iraq. Why? Greed? Power? I don’t know, but I will say this: in this point of interest in other nations’ wealth there is a major difference between Canadians and Americans actions globally. Canadians have enough, Americans seem to want everybody elses' stuff.
I will now teach Emirati technician/soldiers how to fix airplanes. I will teach them all about what I know about airplanes. In my view, airplanes have never been weapons. Rather, complex machines that have one unique and captivating ability to lift themselves off the ground, only to slip mellifluously through the variance in pressures of the air enveloping their wings, and daring gravity to hold them back one second longer than it should on solid ground – holding them back from melting into suspension by the magic fluid that draws them there: air. And this is my passion, I love doing this. I love to talk about airplanes in technical depth and about the deep “reason” for their ability, to anyone, for any length of time.
But I am a little bit nervous about this job for a couple of reasons. One is that even though I’m not an American, I look very similar to one & I’m treading on the very heart of Arab army soil in a time when American expats are being beheaded in Iraq, a time when American expats are being murdered at their places of work in Saudi Arabia, a time when American and British expats are being forced out of their places of work by criminals who engage in acts of terror in the name of their god, allah, and in the named of holy war. Two, I’m nervous because I have white skin and I stand out like a beacon of light over here. So I go to work on Saturday with a case of the jitters, an seriously considering carrying personal protection in the form of a Glock, a heckler and Koch, or perhaps even an effective at short range light machine gun of Russian make. Can foreigners carry over here? Must find out for sure. Perhaps I can make an earnest enough case for it to authorities, in the face of the present situation. Perhaps I can get more trained in the army, how to shoot accurately at close range, under the pressure of haveing to protect my family, while being nervous, that kind of thing. Perhaps I should take up karate, boxing, kickboxing, maitai fighting, Russian free-fighting, with serious, serious intent. Just to ward off the potential of any misguided attempts, as it were. But even then how will I keep my family safe? If I have a gun or two in the house, on my person, at the ready, 24-7, how will that protect my family, really? If I know how to fight and neutralize one nocturnal intruder at a time, no matter how big and tough, how will that protect my family, really?
Hopefully, being recognised as Canadian will do the trick. Dang, the sensationalism of terrorism makes it difficult for the average work-a-day stiff, doesn’t it.
September 22, 2004
my fingAIR prints all over the place
A final letter issued from the army immigration department to the identification badge office indicated that my nationality was Iraqi, while my passport was Canadian. This plus the fact that I had arrived at 5 minutes past 12 (the beginning of the mid-day prayer caused a delay of about an hour and a half.
The army returned from the mosque, and some of them turned their attention again to the lone white guy standing at the reception window. “Come, we will take your fingair print now”. I said “you took my fingair print already two months ago.” “I came only to get my ID badge, process is finished, yes? Look, see, you gave me my army residence visa already.” I tried to convince them. Two of them looked nonchalantly at the photocopy of my residence visa as three other uniformed soldiers were play-wrestling behind them at the incipience of their weekend. “Ah! You need letter, seer. Here, talk to Captain, talk to Captain.” They pointed to a uniformed man strolling confidently and with obvious purpose, across the waiting area.
He acknowledged me and then, I was questioned by this captain who runs the recruitment office and by happenchance, I was questioned also by the chief of the security clerks, who happened to be strolling back from the mosque just then too, a no-nonsense-looking fellow from Sudan. “Are you sure you are Canadian, sir? The letter says you are Iraqi”, the captain asked me, quite seriously as the security chief surveyed the document with some interest. The captain looked into my eyes intently (for any sign of betrayal, I suppose), as he pointed out the - absolutely foreign to me - Arabic letters on the issued letter, circled in red.
I returned his confident stare, as required by the culture, said yes I’m sure I’m Canadian, with a bit of a smile already, then obligingly looked at the letter, then up to the roof for a second or two, engulfed in a lovely feeling of complete amazement at the level of miscommunication that can be achieved in a cross-cultural situation. My pronunciation of "Canadian" must have sounded an awful lot like "Iraqi" somewhere along the way in this process. And while looking up I saw on a TV, mounted high in the waiting area, John Kerry’s mug and outstretched hand, silently begging for votes from all the Arab nationals who happened to be waiting here on Wednesday afternoon at 13:30 in the UAE army recruiting office….
And then, I couldn’t help but start laughing. I just laughed out loud in the presence of the Arab captain and the Sudanese head of security clerks. I asked if someone was trying to make a joke, or what and said I'd enjoyed very much visiting Abu Dhabi six times and hoped that i could come and visit again on Saturday. My reaction seemed to lighten them up quite a bit. Then I quickly phoned Lt. mahmood again to let him talk in Arabic to these guys to let them know that this was somehow a mistake. In fact he knew about it and he’d had the immigration department already issue a new letter on my behalf a few hours ago, indicating that I was in fact Canadian and had faxed it already to their office.
Well…, after they got this assurance in Arabic (and the faxed letter), from Lt. Mahmood that nothing untoward was going on with this sole "Iraqi-Canadian" white guy in their recruitment HQ, who was delaying their weekend, things just really sped up from there. Al Humdulil’Allah!! (approximately, as they say over here). I got my badge and I'll start work on Saturday, seven o’ clock. About a two hour commute until we get our accommodation sorted out.
Here goes.
The army returned from the mosque, and some of them turned their attention again to the lone white guy standing at the reception window. “Come, we will take your fingair print now”. I said “you took my fingair print already two months ago.” “I came only to get my ID badge, process is finished, yes? Look, see, you gave me my army residence visa already.” I tried to convince them. Two of them looked nonchalantly at the photocopy of my residence visa as three other uniformed soldiers were play-wrestling behind them at the incipience of their weekend. “Ah! You need letter, seer. Here, talk to Captain, talk to Captain.” They pointed to a uniformed man strolling confidently and with obvious purpose, across the waiting area.
He acknowledged me and then, I was questioned by this captain who runs the recruitment office and by happenchance, I was questioned also by the chief of the security clerks, who happened to be strolling back from the mosque just then too, a no-nonsense-looking fellow from Sudan. “Are you sure you are Canadian, sir? The letter says you are Iraqi”, the captain asked me, quite seriously as the security chief surveyed the document with some interest. The captain looked into my eyes intently (for any sign of betrayal, I suppose), as he pointed out the - absolutely foreign to me - Arabic letters on the issued letter, circled in red.
I returned his confident stare, as required by the culture, said yes I’m sure I’m Canadian, with a bit of a smile already, then obligingly looked at the letter, then up to the roof for a second or two, engulfed in a lovely feeling of complete amazement at the level of miscommunication that can be achieved in a cross-cultural situation. My pronunciation of "Canadian" must have sounded an awful lot like "Iraqi" somewhere along the way in this process. And while looking up I saw on a TV, mounted high in the waiting area, John Kerry’s mug and outstretched hand, silently begging for votes from all the Arab nationals who happened to be waiting here on Wednesday afternoon at 13:30 in the UAE army recruiting office….
And then, I couldn’t help but start laughing. I just laughed out loud in the presence of the Arab captain and the Sudanese head of security clerks. I asked if someone was trying to make a joke, or what and said I'd enjoyed very much visiting Abu Dhabi six times and hoped that i could come and visit again on Saturday. My reaction seemed to lighten them up quite a bit. Then I quickly phoned Lt. mahmood again to let him talk in Arabic to these guys to let them know that this was somehow a mistake. In fact he knew about it and he’d had the immigration department already issue a new letter on my behalf a few hours ago, indicating that I was in fact Canadian and had faxed it already to their office.
Well…, after they got this assurance in Arabic (and the faxed letter), from Lt. Mahmood that nothing untoward was going on with this sole "Iraqi-Canadian" white guy in their recruitment HQ, who was delaying their weekend, things just really sped up from there. Al Humdulil’Allah!! (approximately, as they say over here). I got my badge and I'll start work on Saturday, seven o’ clock. About a two hour commute until we get our accommodation sorted out.
Here goes.
September 21, 2004
five mountains at once
Big challanging things, like mountain climbs, happen in real life, it seems, in quints. Will you listen now to my five mountains? First mountain: we are going to have a baby in about three weeks. Second mountain: I have not worked for three months - no cash on hand, in the bank, anywhere - WE ARE BROKE - til I get my first paycheck. Third mountain: my trusty little polo's timing belt tore apart almost exactly when it was supposed to be changed - at 60000 km. My car sits in the garage until I can pay to get it out. Fourth mountain: Getting my mom in law and son back down here is proving to be difficult. She is waiting for the ex husband to remove his name from her flat's registration paper so that she can sell it, without anyone "living there" and my son's waiting for money that the army will pay for his schooling, soon. Fifth mountain: I have a number of big bills coming up and I don't know when I get my first paycheck from the army.
These are my five mountains to climb. With the twist of unplanned adventure mentioned above, I suddenly have to climb them all at once. Maybe I can just move all of the mountains closer together and stradle as I climb? Cheat the system as it were. Or perhaps I should just achieve the first peak - get my wife to the hospital and get the baby delivered nicely, THEN, 'stead o' going down again, just hop on over nimbly to the next peak and deal with it at a high level - too and then on to number three as nimbly able and on to number four and the last.
five mountains at once. AAAAAAHHHHH!
These are my five mountains to climb. With the twist of unplanned adventure mentioned above, I suddenly have to climb them all at once. Maybe I can just move all of the mountains closer together and stradle as I climb? Cheat the system as it were. Or perhaps I should just achieve the first peak - get my wife to the hospital and get the baby delivered nicely, THEN, 'stead o' going down again, just hop on over nimbly to the next peak and deal with it at a high level - too and then on to number three as nimbly able and on to number four and the last.
five mountains at once. AAAAAAHHHHH!
September 17, 2004
books about uae!
I've just become an affiliate of Amazon.com and now, miracuolusly, I promote books that relate to this blog, books about the UAE and Dubai. If you are a reader of this blog, everytime you click on a link below to amazon.com and decide to buy one of these books, I get a "referal fee". Soon I hope to be a millionare using this method. Thanks for your attention to this promotion.
September 04, 2004
sections of life
Over the past three years I’ve taught beginner English classes up to advanced English levels. I’ve had in my classes at all levels, ladies and men, Arabs: Iraqi, Afgani, Syrian, Jordanian, Palestinian, Saudi, Yemeni, and Emirati. No one Arab from Qatar, Bahrain, Kuwait, or Oman, though. Nor, never once have I had in my English classes an African Arab: Egyptian, Sudani, Ethiopian, Somali in my classes, have I had. I’ve had many, many Persians in my classes.
Am I a lucky man? Yes. I’ve learned a lot from my students, month to month. I’ve learned a lot about this unique culture that is housed by the cozy, cosmopolitan country that is UAE.
Today, I told my last class I was leaving for good. No longer here now to teach English, you see. I’ve been hired by somebody else to teach something other than English. That felt good – to close a chapter like that. I’m generally not good at closing chapters. My life is rather a series of headlong rambling sections where the new section is generated in the chaos of the last section sputtering, faltering but never quite really closing before the move to the new is completed. A perpetual contractor I’ve been. Now for once I’ve closed the chapter. I told my colleagues and my boss that the new job required my to go tomorrow and the next day to begin a paper trail and it was a wonderful feeling to have been cheered by my boss. It was a wonderful boost to hear them say there was always a spot for me if I needed it there in the future. Much better than being lied about, lied to, and then transferred to a new school just to satisfy the political notions of an American middle-manager gone wacky…. Don’t ask.
So onwards now to the new employer. Soon all will be revealed. I’m hedging now because I don’t want to jinx anything you know? Sounds ridiculous I know, but anyways. Just trust me on this on and watch this spot in the next few days ok.
Am I a lucky man? Yes. I’ve learned a lot from my students, month to month. I’ve learned a lot about this unique culture that is housed by the cozy, cosmopolitan country that is UAE.
Today, I told my last class I was leaving for good. No longer here now to teach English, you see. I’ve been hired by somebody else to teach something other than English. That felt good – to close a chapter like that. I’m generally not good at closing chapters. My life is rather a series of headlong rambling sections where the new section is generated in the chaos of the last section sputtering, faltering but never quite really closing before the move to the new is completed. A perpetual contractor I’ve been. Now for once I’ve closed the chapter. I told my colleagues and my boss that the new job required my to go tomorrow and the next day to begin a paper trail and it was a wonderful feeling to have been cheered by my boss. It was a wonderful boost to hear them say there was always a spot for me if I needed it there in the future. Much better than being lied about, lied to, and then transferred to a new school just to satisfy the political notions of an American middle-manager gone wacky…. Don’t ask.
So onwards now to the new employer. Soon all will be revealed. I’m hedging now because I don’t want to jinx anything you know? Sounds ridiculous I know, but anyways. Just trust me on this on and watch this spot in the next few days ok.
August 29, 2004
Tactical Muslim Kid Avoidance Suite (TMKAS)
Some days, in the evenings when it cools off to 33 degrees Centigrade, when ALL the Jordanian, Syrian, Palastinian, Iraqi, Irani, Sudani, and Zanzibari kids are out to play, it just sometimes pays to take the back roads to the local Eppco gas station to buy a Gulf News and some chocolate. Some days you just get tired of wave after wave of brave little loving yet well-brainwashed souls coming up to you, asking: “ente fie Muslim?” (is it possible that you are Muslim)? La, la, ana mafie Muslim, no it is not possible that I am a Muslim.
Ana fie Christian, and genuflecting like the catholic I am not (protestant that I am), from my forehead to my chest. Ana fie, the only white guy in this neighbourhood. Ana fie, the oh so damn strategically placed elephant / mouse (depending on how you categorize 105kg of the pure muscle boundedness of middle age), of the Russian mafia, the missing link in what ever chain of events you care to start a rumour about, the cool-calm-collected Canadian in your neighbourhood, AND your worst: “attack-kelb”, night mare, as far as you know, my well-brainwashed little friend – you whose infant brother will fear dogs now for the rest of his life because of your little stunt of frantically pushing the poor little bastard towards Golden Guardian Angel Joki, as you went off screaming “HARAM!!!!”, running away, screaming and hollering. Pretty comical I must say ‘cept for the terrified screams of your little brother and the close up whites of eyes. Lucky for you, Golden guardian angel Joki had his muzzle and chest harness on, eh? With me holding him back, eh? Shoulda’ just sic’d him on ya, well-brainwashed poor little coward.
“Kelb! Kelb!” Dog! Dog! “Wen Kelb?” Where’s your dogs? Where’s my dogs? Where’s my two prized, show-winning Amstaffs? They’re gone from this slum area, my little friends. Yes, that’s right, wee shababs, the kelbs have both moved into choice villas respectively in Jumaira and Jebel Ali. Yes, I miss them terribly. Mother of Ahmed, I realize I no longer am providing the target for the children’s rock throwing game but you see UUM Ahmed, sometime you just have to engage the TMKAS and let it do its work subtly and effectively while you carry on living in one of the many slums of Arabia. Please get off the hood of my car Mojohamed – IT IS NOT A PARK BENCH - and stop kicking the soccer ball into the driver’s door, Mojo, thanks. Have you considered professional mental help for your little monstermuslim child, mom and dad? Ever heard of riddlin, mom and dad? Yeah, I’m the Middle East supplier – come one, come all. Wistful thinking.
So instead... the Tactical Muslim Kid Avoidance System kicks in automatically with a smile to sooth the abrubt, upfront, prevalent, soulless youthful angst yet absence of any of it really, that engulfs this particular slum of Arabia. How effective the TMKAS is has everything to with whenever Magrib (evening prayer) decides to roll around with the setting of the desert sun. Magrib thankfully gets a majority of these kids off the street and back home with mom, whose not allowed in most mosques, while daddy goes to pray along with millions of faithful, in response to the local Imam’s 200-metre, technologically-aided wail.
Much less of a workload for the TMKAS in the hour of Magrib. Following, Muslim kids return to the streets in full force. Then finally, later, bed time intervenes in intervals by age, dwindling the seething yackity flock, further reducing the TMKAS workload. The main feature of TMKAS, which is of course, very necessary here in the midst: a human-synapse-powered, precision point-to-point, back-ally instinctual navigation kit on board.
La! Ana fie ‘a different religion than Islam’ don’t ya know. And it ain’t all about the little piece of property your pals sold to the other big-nosed folks on the shore of the mediteranian, believe it or not. Religons other than islam exist in this big, big world, you know. And there’s much huger problems in the world to worry about than a real estate deal gone bad. Wanna go let your narrow-minded father know these fundamental things about life please, thanks.
Ask him this: if he really feels so strongly about it why ain’t he and all the rest of his country men back over there right now, fighting for their little piece of real estate instead of hiding out here in the Gulf making provoking, armchair comments about a thing he’s so, so far removed from? Oh wait a minute, never mind. And now, please get off the hood of my car, Mojohamed, and stop kicking the soccer ball into the driver’s door thanks. Look, there’s hundreds of cars here in the parking lot try one of those over there K? Thanks. You poor little, souless, well-brainwashed Muslim kid. Welcome to the horizontal societies of the world. See if you can evolve from your 4000 year-old barbarism before lunch tomorrow, please, thanks.
Ana fie Christian, and genuflecting like the catholic I am not (protestant that I am), from my forehead to my chest. Ana fie, the only white guy in this neighbourhood. Ana fie, the oh so damn strategically placed elephant / mouse (depending on how you categorize 105kg of the pure muscle boundedness of middle age), of the Russian mafia, the missing link in what ever chain of events you care to start a rumour about, the cool-calm-collected Canadian in your neighbourhood, AND your worst: “attack-kelb”, night mare, as far as you know, my well-brainwashed little friend – you whose infant brother will fear dogs now for the rest of his life because of your little stunt of frantically pushing the poor little bastard towards Golden Guardian Angel Joki, as you went off screaming “HARAM!!!!”, running away, screaming and hollering. Pretty comical I must say ‘cept for the terrified screams of your little brother and the close up whites of eyes. Lucky for you, Golden guardian angel Joki had his muzzle and chest harness on, eh? With me holding him back, eh? Shoulda’ just sic’d him on ya, well-brainwashed poor little coward.
“Kelb! Kelb!” Dog! Dog! “Wen Kelb?” Where’s your dogs? Where’s my dogs? Where’s my two prized, show-winning Amstaffs? They’re gone from this slum area, my little friends. Yes, that’s right, wee shababs, the kelbs have both moved into choice villas respectively in Jumaira and Jebel Ali. Yes, I miss them terribly. Mother of Ahmed, I realize I no longer am providing the target for the children’s rock throwing game but you see UUM Ahmed, sometime you just have to engage the TMKAS and let it do its work subtly and effectively while you carry on living in one of the many slums of Arabia. Please get off the hood of my car Mojohamed – IT IS NOT A PARK BENCH - and stop kicking the soccer ball into the driver’s door, Mojo, thanks. Have you considered professional mental help for your little monstermuslim child, mom and dad? Ever heard of riddlin, mom and dad? Yeah, I’m the Middle East supplier – come one, come all. Wistful thinking.
So instead... the Tactical Muslim Kid Avoidance System kicks in automatically with a smile to sooth the abrubt, upfront, prevalent, soulless youthful angst yet absence of any of it really, that engulfs this particular slum of Arabia. How effective the TMKAS is has everything to with whenever Magrib (evening prayer) decides to roll around with the setting of the desert sun. Magrib thankfully gets a majority of these kids off the street and back home with mom, whose not allowed in most mosques, while daddy goes to pray along with millions of faithful, in response to the local Imam’s 200-metre, technologically-aided wail.
Much less of a workload for the TMKAS in the hour of Magrib. Following, Muslim kids return to the streets in full force. Then finally, later, bed time intervenes in intervals by age, dwindling the seething yackity flock, further reducing the TMKAS workload. The main feature of TMKAS, which is of course, very necessary here in the midst: a human-synapse-powered, precision point-to-point, back-ally instinctual navigation kit on board.
La! Ana fie ‘a different religion than Islam’ don’t ya know. And it ain’t all about the little piece of property your pals sold to the other big-nosed folks on the shore of the mediteranian, believe it or not. Religons other than islam exist in this big, big world, you know. And there’s much huger problems in the world to worry about than a real estate deal gone bad. Wanna go let your narrow-minded father know these fundamental things about life please, thanks.
Ask him this: if he really feels so strongly about it why ain’t he and all the rest of his country men back over there right now, fighting for their little piece of real estate instead of hiding out here in the Gulf making provoking, armchair comments about a thing he’s so, so far removed from? Oh wait a minute, never mind. And now, please get off the hood of my car, Mojohamed, and stop kicking the soccer ball into the driver’s door thanks. Look, there’s hundreds of cars here in the parking lot try one of those over there K? Thanks. You poor little, souless, well-brainwashed Muslim kid. Welcome to the horizontal societies of the world. See if you can evolve from your 4000 year-old barbarism before lunch tomorrow, please, thanks.
August 26, 2004
All Hail the power of complicit simplicity!
Of all the wonderful folks I’ve had the pleasure to meet and deal with in my life, American Muslims are the nicest, W'Allah! (I swear by almighty god!!!) If you’ve ever had the yearning to work for an american muslim, I urge you now to jump at the chance. It’s an exhilarating experience, to say the least. If you come to the UAE to work with _______, keep an eye out for the muslim american people in this company. Seek them out. Get to know them. Be their friends. Why should you do these things? Because it is they who will bend over backwards to help you. Every step of the way, in your new overseas post, in the middle of the desert, they will help you – W'Allah! (I swear by almighty god!!!), they will help you.
Every American Muslim I ever met was extremely helpful in every way possible - Ya Allah! (Praise be to god!), the most high and his messenger Mojo-hamed (peace be upon him, brother)! In fact, I would even go so far to say that if it weren’t for the american muslims I’ve met over here, I’d be in far different circs than I am now. May Allah (god) heap multitudes of blessings upon them for their kindnesses towards me in this regard.
I’ve been in the UAE for a thousand years now, working for ________ a Canadian company who has had, (up to now at least), a contract with the department of _________ in the UAE to deliver __________ Instruction to Emirati boys in vocational high schools.
Sounds like a really sweet deal doesn’t it? I read in a forum on an absolutely wonderful site for UGH!, that _________ is actively recruiting new teachers for this year.It’s nice to hear rumors that they are in fact getting the contract again this year. I started on with _______ a way back when – one thousand years hence. Therefore you can trust me as a guy with a VAST! VAST! VAST! amount of UAE experience, Middle East, and/or other international experience in general.
Oh yeah, I am: “the real Slim Shady”, to boot. Yes that’s right folks. “Zisooksike a job for me so everybody (pause) jist follow me…”, etc. (with only slight apologies to Malcom Marshall, Marshall Malcom).
Something that I couldn’t seem to get my head around in the first couple of months of working for ______ is how a Canadian company’s project in the Middle East, 12, 000 kilometres from its HQ in T.O., could still function as a Canadian company’s project with a such a VAST! (there’s that word again!), number of mostly ameri-muslim convert managers on the project that worked for another company on the same project previously – a company whose contract performance back then was bad enough to lose the contract for them, namely SuSPECT?
Rumour and fact both have it that SuSPECT lost the contract because of mismanagement of the project in general.Naturally, I was utterly amazed to discover within a month or two of working with ______, that many of the key leadership positions in ______ were filled mainly by the very same lead teachers and managers that had been in place for the SuSPECT company’s attempt at contract delivery. Eventually though, I came to understand that these leaders in place with ______ were indeed good men, men of real character – after all most of them were Ameri-Muslim converts.
Actually, last year one of the bleeps with _____ was simply an American – rather than the double whammy of being Muslim and American, and a couple of the bleeps were simply Muslims (rather than the double whammy, etc. – you get the picture) who happened to be (ahem) Canadian instead of American.“How could SuSPECT go wrong then, having had so many good men of real character leading the way for them?”, was the question I turned over again and again in my head as I adjusted to the 45-degree July/August/September heat.
And then, slowly but surely, as the ambient heat baked me to a light olive brown crisp, I began to see the light of ______’s complex leadership structure. Then suddenly, I had an Epiphany, as it were. In that moment, I understood (or claimed to), that the leadership of _______’s project in UAE is in fact built on that good ol’ fashioned notion that men of real character, in fact, rise to the challenge of leadership NO MATTER WHICH company they happen to be employed by.
At that moment, I too may have converted to Isssslammmm had it not been for the distraction of the gorgeously face-painted, hot-legged “night butterfly” clicking her stilletos through the lobby of the Metropolitan, looking a bit richer than she was two minutes ago and slightly flushed. I lost my train of thought completely my wide eyes on the night butterfly. I stared with the guiltlessness of a real Muslim’s soul and thought nothing further of complex leadership structures. Instead I found myself at that moment filled with jealous yearning at the wonderful freedom that Islam's guilt-free living must bring. Heck, if I get 70 young virgins to pleasure me sexually in heaven anyway, (once I happen to martyr myself in the neighborhood Mulla's version of "holy war" anyway), why not start now?
Oh, how I’d love to emulate and imitate the good men of real character leading ________’s project. These men are the ones to be lauded. Muslims by birth yet full-frontal citizens of the western world. "Amerimuslims", tired of the “two-faced nature” of all of the freedoms that North America guarantees them as passport holders. Desert-returning, burnt out American managers who no longer work for American companies (for SOME reason, mmm...), preferring rather to return to “the ____ project” and have another go at “management in the Middle East” (after their previous company was booted off the project for mismanagement).
These are the types of men who, here in the UAE, have risen through the ranks of by virtue of their demonstrated, seemingly almost naïve’, acts of faith alone. Add to that their markedly simple-yet-determined tendencies towards honesty, nobility, and chivalry, all virtues upheld by the honest, no-nonsense religion that they decided to take-on later in life, or even, having not yet taken it on, at least, have become the clockwork middlemen giving outstanding performances as being necessarily subservient towards Muslim managers higher-up in the company.
Having enjoyed a thousand pleasurable years working with such honourable, exemplary specimens of what it really means to be a Muslim, an effective leader, a good person, and a man of real character, I look forward with great anticipation to the day when I can find some way to return the favours these beautiful people have heaped upon me in the last three years.
I yearn for the day when I can repay what I owe these good men of real character. So much so that I will now I swear before Allah (almighty god), to one day return their kindnesses, if any of our paths have the destined privilege of crossing again. Hang on to your seats boys, really tight now! Cuz I’m a comin’ thru! YEEEEEHAAAAAAW!
As for the Arabic language and culture in the UAE, they remain as mysterious and sultry as ever and if any of y’all want a piece of the UAE pie, get ready for “the bull-ride” of your life, so to speak. Enjoy it. It may last a thousand years or only eight seconds, but it’ll be the best damn thousand-years-forward-slash-eight-seconds of your life! Git' along “little doughggy”!
Eye's about to show you the ropes, "ma nigga! got me ma own personal nigga", (Densel Washington to Ethan Hawk in Training Day). Ya bettah concentrate ya’ heah’ me boy?! Ya’ heah’ me, boy?! That’s right! That’s what I’m talkin’ about, right heah, boy.
My advice to anyone who wishes to “teach” on _______’s project in the UAE, is to convert to Islam first then obtain an American passport somehow, some way. It seems to me that these two skills above all others will be the most highly sought after by ________’s project in the UAE next year. One exception may be the unflinching "skill" of looking bored when a very-well-mannered, nice, fifteen-year-old Iranian boy with a big Iranian nose, and immunity (a local UAE passport), whose father runs the police station down near the beach, pulls a six inch knife on you and waves it under YOUR nose and says, jokingly, OF COURSE: “teecha’, I will kill you now”.
Relax man, he’s just acting out normal adolescent urges, you’ll be fine me-lad. Tell the headmaster everything is fine in your class and that you have no discipline problems with the boys, that they love their English language lessons too, and that you love them all like your brothers, and Allah be praised, naturally. Have a bit of a laugh and think about how you used to have to tell your little brother to quit bugging you as you try to do serious things. Find and use that tone of voice now, calmly, and tell the 15-year old with the knife to sit down and please put his knife away, thanks. Oh yeah, remember also to give him a passing mark on the month-end test because your head master, lead teacher, and current project manager/smelly-breathed clown told you to do so inorder to keep your job, and ALSO OF COURSE, because the young man demonstrated such good English speaking skills in the above knife-nose encounter with a native English speaker.
Welcome, please. "Teecha, U R good teecha, W’Allah! U R good teecha!” Uh, thanks, I guess. W'Allah? Do you really swear by the almighty god that I am a good teacher? Well tie me to a fuggin' purebred racehorse and have him drag me a couple times round the fuggin' 1/4 mile! I'll be a swaggering drunkard! Young Yahya here thinks I'm a good teacher. Isn't that special? Anyone got a whip so I can turn his young Arab ass red for all the shit he's put me through in his classroom this year?! Come on, anyone! Step right up don't be shy, my lovely Arab boys here need a good whuppin' every once in a minute. Daddy didn't whup 'im, mummy didn't whup 'im, nanny didn't whup 'im. I ask you then, who's it left to to whup the asses of these boys into the Arab men they emulate only by their brashness and disregard for anything other than the barbarism they seem so to relish? The teacher, the headmaster, the Indian storemen who endure the boys thieving tomfoolery, the police that are charged with curbing the societal rablerousing of their younger brothers. That's who. I ain't nevr raised a hand agin one of em. You know why? I ain't Arab. I ain't Iranian. I don't have hot Arab blood in me. I'm the most patient man on the earth when it comes to dealing with the PUNTERS - to borrow the infamous youthful English alias. Because I happen to care about these pea-brained buttheads. But damn, I seen the Arab teachers and the headmasters get pretty vicious on their asses - drawing blood, in fact.
Did I mention to y'all that the Yellow Rose of Texas is the only girl for me? My apologies, Wa ALLAH! (I swear by almighty god!!!!), I simply keep forgetting to tell people that. A Non-Muslim, Non-American in the UAE is what I am, thank Allah (the most high god).
Drivel drivel,
drivel on, the devil's
in the wings of
the eastern religion's
domes and parapats.
gold leaf and
inner emptyness
glazed eyes, five daily
water up the nose
o woman outlawed
you kant pray here!
the petty temptation
of men behind you
staring
at your raised bum
when you touch
your forehead
faithfully to the
ground before god
keeps you bound
and is the fuggin excuse
they seriously gave
gay muslim men though?
aroused by
raised arses
of their brothers
in the mosque?!
appear allowed to stay
kutchy kutchy, koo,
"teacha, i love you"
OUTRAGE!!!!
FATWA upon the head
of the writer!!!!
kill the author!!!
satanic verses:
the devil lives in the
phalic / islamic
parapat
quit, already, okay?
peter out!
ineffective
subhuman
repressive
'means'
to
almighty god
peter out, quickly.
mojo and your
band of merry
warlords of old
you embarass
the 21st century
middle east
Every American Muslim I ever met was extremely helpful in every way possible - Ya Allah! (Praise be to god!), the most high and his messenger Mojo-hamed (peace be upon him, brother)! In fact, I would even go so far to say that if it weren’t for the american muslims I’ve met over here, I’d be in far different circs than I am now. May Allah (god) heap multitudes of blessings upon them for their kindnesses towards me in this regard.
I’ve been in the UAE for a thousand years now, working for ________ a Canadian company who has had, (up to now at least), a contract with the department of _________ in the UAE to deliver __________ Instruction to Emirati boys in vocational high schools.
Sounds like a really sweet deal doesn’t it? I read in a forum on an absolutely wonderful site for UGH!, that _________ is actively recruiting new teachers for this year.It’s nice to hear rumors that they are in fact getting the contract again this year. I started on with _______ a way back when – one thousand years hence. Therefore you can trust me as a guy with a VAST! VAST! VAST! amount of UAE experience, Middle East, and/or other international experience in general.
Oh yeah, I am: “the real Slim Shady”, to boot. Yes that’s right folks. “Zisooksike a job for me so everybody (pause) jist follow me…”, etc. (with only slight apologies to Malcom Marshall, Marshall Malcom).
Something that I couldn’t seem to get my head around in the first couple of months of working for ______ is how a Canadian company’s project in the Middle East, 12, 000 kilometres from its HQ in T.O., could still function as a Canadian company’s project with a such a VAST! (there’s that word again!), number of mostly ameri-muslim convert managers on the project that worked for another company on the same project previously – a company whose contract performance back then was bad enough to lose the contract for them, namely SuSPECT?
Rumour and fact both have it that SuSPECT lost the contract because of mismanagement of the project in general.Naturally, I was utterly amazed to discover within a month or two of working with ______, that many of the key leadership positions in ______ were filled mainly by the very same lead teachers and managers that had been in place for the SuSPECT company’s attempt at contract delivery. Eventually though, I came to understand that these leaders in place with ______ were indeed good men, men of real character – after all most of them were Ameri-Muslim converts.
Actually, last year one of the bleeps with _____ was simply an American – rather than the double whammy of being Muslim and American, and a couple of the bleeps were simply Muslims (rather than the double whammy, etc. – you get the picture) who happened to be (ahem) Canadian instead of American.“How could SuSPECT go wrong then, having had so many good men of real character leading the way for them?”, was the question I turned over again and again in my head as I adjusted to the 45-degree July/August/September heat.
And then, slowly but surely, as the ambient heat baked me to a light olive brown crisp, I began to see the light of ______’s complex leadership structure. Then suddenly, I had an Epiphany, as it were. In that moment, I understood (or claimed to), that the leadership of _______’s project in UAE is in fact built on that good ol’ fashioned notion that men of real character, in fact, rise to the challenge of leadership NO MATTER WHICH company they happen to be employed by.
At that moment, I too may have converted to Isssslammmm had it not been for the distraction of the gorgeously face-painted, hot-legged “night butterfly” clicking her stilletos through the lobby of the Metropolitan, looking a bit richer than she was two minutes ago and slightly flushed. I lost my train of thought completely my wide eyes on the night butterfly. I stared with the guiltlessness of a real Muslim’s soul and thought nothing further of complex leadership structures. Instead I found myself at that moment filled with jealous yearning at the wonderful freedom that Islam's guilt-free living must bring. Heck, if I get 70 young virgins to pleasure me sexually in heaven anyway, (once I happen to martyr myself in the neighborhood Mulla's version of "holy war" anyway), why not start now?
Oh, how I’d love to emulate and imitate the good men of real character leading ________’s project. These men are the ones to be lauded. Muslims by birth yet full-frontal citizens of the western world. "Amerimuslims", tired of the “two-faced nature” of all of the freedoms that North America guarantees them as passport holders. Desert-returning, burnt out American managers who no longer work for American companies (for SOME reason, mmm...), preferring rather to return to “the ____ project” and have another go at “management in the Middle East” (after their previous company was booted off the project for mismanagement).
These are the types of men who, here in the UAE, have risen through the ranks of by virtue of their demonstrated, seemingly almost naïve’, acts of faith alone. Add to that their markedly simple-yet-determined tendencies towards honesty, nobility, and chivalry, all virtues upheld by the honest, no-nonsense religion that they decided to take-on later in life, or even, having not yet taken it on, at least, have become the clockwork middlemen giving outstanding performances as being necessarily subservient towards Muslim managers higher-up in the company.
Having enjoyed a thousand pleasurable years working with such honourable, exemplary specimens of what it really means to be a Muslim, an effective leader, a good person, and a man of real character, I look forward with great anticipation to the day when I can find some way to return the favours these beautiful people have heaped upon me in the last three years.
I yearn for the day when I can repay what I owe these good men of real character. So much so that I will now I swear before Allah (almighty god), to one day return their kindnesses, if any of our paths have the destined privilege of crossing again. Hang on to your seats boys, really tight now! Cuz I’m a comin’ thru! YEEEEEHAAAAAAW!
As for the Arabic language and culture in the UAE, they remain as mysterious and sultry as ever and if any of y’all want a piece of the UAE pie, get ready for “the bull-ride” of your life, so to speak. Enjoy it. It may last a thousand years or only eight seconds, but it’ll be the best damn thousand-years-forward-slash-eight-seconds of your life! Git' along “little doughggy”!
Eye's about to show you the ropes, "ma nigga! got me ma own personal nigga", (Densel Washington to Ethan Hawk in Training Day). Ya bettah concentrate ya’ heah’ me boy?! Ya’ heah’ me, boy?! That’s right! That’s what I’m talkin’ about, right heah, boy.
My advice to anyone who wishes to “teach” on _______’s project in the UAE, is to convert to Islam first then obtain an American passport somehow, some way. It seems to me that these two skills above all others will be the most highly sought after by ________’s project in the UAE next year. One exception may be the unflinching "skill" of looking bored when a very-well-mannered, nice, fifteen-year-old Iranian boy with a big Iranian nose, and immunity (a local UAE passport), whose father runs the police station down near the beach, pulls a six inch knife on you and waves it under YOUR nose and says, jokingly, OF COURSE: “teecha’, I will kill you now”.
Relax man, he’s just acting out normal adolescent urges, you’ll be fine me-lad. Tell the headmaster everything is fine in your class and that you have no discipline problems with the boys, that they love their English language lessons too, and that you love them all like your brothers, and Allah be praised, naturally. Have a bit of a laugh and think about how you used to have to tell your little brother to quit bugging you as you try to do serious things. Find and use that tone of voice now, calmly, and tell the 15-year old with the knife to sit down and please put his knife away, thanks. Oh yeah, remember also to give him a passing mark on the month-end test because your head master, lead teacher, and current project manager/smelly-breathed clown told you to do so inorder to keep your job, and ALSO OF COURSE, because the young man demonstrated such good English speaking skills in the above knife-nose encounter with a native English speaker.
Welcome, please. "Teecha, U R good teecha, W’Allah! U R good teecha!” Uh, thanks, I guess. W'Allah? Do you really swear by the almighty god that I am a good teacher? Well tie me to a fuggin' purebred racehorse and have him drag me a couple times round the fuggin' 1/4 mile! I'll be a swaggering drunkard! Young Yahya here thinks I'm a good teacher. Isn't that special? Anyone got a whip so I can turn his young Arab ass red for all the shit he's put me through in his classroom this year?! Come on, anyone! Step right up don't be shy, my lovely Arab boys here need a good whuppin' every once in a minute. Daddy didn't whup 'im, mummy didn't whup 'im, nanny didn't whup 'im. I ask you then, who's it left to to whup the asses of these boys into the Arab men they emulate only by their brashness and disregard for anything other than the barbarism they seem so to relish? The teacher, the headmaster, the Indian storemen who endure the boys thieving tomfoolery, the police that are charged with curbing the societal rablerousing of their younger brothers. That's who. I ain't nevr raised a hand agin one of em. You know why? I ain't Arab. I ain't Iranian. I don't have hot Arab blood in me. I'm the most patient man on the earth when it comes to dealing with the PUNTERS - to borrow the infamous youthful English alias. Because I happen to care about these pea-brained buttheads. But damn, I seen the Arab teachers and the headmasters get pretty vicious on their asses - drawing blood, in fact.
Did I mention to y'all that the Yellow Rose of Texas is the only girl for me? My apologies, Wa ALLAH! (I swear by almighty god!!!!), I simply keep forgetting to tell people that. A Non-Muslim, Non-American in the UAE is what I am, thank Allah (the most high god).
Drivel drivel,
drivel on, the devil's
in the wings of
the eastern religion's
domes and parapats.
gold leaf and
inner emptyness
glazed eyes, five daily
water up the nose
o woman outlawed
you kant pray here!
the petty temptation
of men behind you
staring
at your raised bum
when you touch
your forehead
faithfully to the
ground before god
keeps you bound
and is the fuggin excuse
they seriously gave
gay muslim men though?
aroused by
raised arses
of their brothers
in the mosque?!
appear allowed to stay
kutchy kutchy, koo,
"teacha, i love you"
OUTRAGE!!!!
FATWA upon the head
of the writer!!!!
kill the author!!!
satanic verses:
the devil lives in the
phalic / islamic
parapat
quit, already, okay?
peter out!
ineffective
subhuman
repressive
'means'
to
almighty god
peter out, quickly.
mojo and your
band of merry
warlords of old
you embarass
the 21st century
middle east
digesting weird monologues
I received a job offer from the King Fahad University of Petroleum Engineering in Saudi Arabia – a two year renewable for 97,400 Saudi Riyals a year plus tickets plus a house plus transport money plus help for the children’s tuition up to eighteen, providing the school is in Saudi and “approved” by KFUPE. Not bad certainly, but that would be teaching English - a passion for me but not my real super intensive passionate passion/specialty - that of taking on and succesfully completing intensely intensive technical projects of various types. It's what I did afore. That is why it exites me a lot to have recieved an offer from the you-ay-ee Armed Forces doing just that - intensly intensive technical projects.
Right now, I’m a good ways thru the process of being hired by the you-ay-ee army, theirs is a two year renewable, blahblah dhs a year, plus this and that perks to make it quite worth while. I feel like I’m balancing on the edge of a huge razor blade, and that if I should move but a millimetre, my manhood would be cleft in two followed by the rest of me. We wait. The army has guaranteed me twice verbally of a concrete offer and have spent the man-hours to examine me medically – I passed, and to examine my past as though I were a royal of England r’ sumpim laik a’t (editor: since this was written i've passed that too). All the way back to kindergarten! Now they want to speed up the immigration process for me and I am stuck in the spot of asking my former employer who suddenly wants very little to do with me, for a ‘no objection letter’. This letter should state that they have no objection to release me.
Suddenly Blah Pinoche’ is hedging on this point. I don’t know why but it causes me extra headaches which don’t have to be at all. He claims it’s easier for Suspect to cancel my visa than to write me a simple letter of release. Makes absolutely no sense at all to me and at the same time exposes Blah Pinoche’ for what he is – I don’t have to spell it out. All those who know Blah, or have worked for him in the past know exactly what I’m talking about.
All I can say is I’d love to be his boss for just one day so I could feed him some of the same crap he’s been forcing on all his employees - especially those of us who are not muslim and not from america, for the past two years. I swear the guy is tough to deal with. He doesn’t trust anyone. I feel like I’m listening to a jilted lover every time he subjects me to more of his weird philosophies of ISSSLLAAAMICCC digestion and “listtening-to-your-innner-dialoguue.” Sounds suspicious, at the very least, if not a clear sign of Blah's chronic depression that has since led to a psychosis in him of some kind, (says the layman psychologist of magnanimous proportions).
Blah wanted to “chat” again. I have already endured his monologues while trapped in his office three times already. Much ado about nothing. Wonder how fast he’ll decide to move once all the armed forces of you-ay-ee are brought to bear on him and they begin asking for my release? A Cog in the wheel he claims he is now. Pretty power hungry cog I'd say - if his comical, empty-threat laden troop-barking at ALL of us at the beginning of this year was any indication. Cog in the wheel? Really, Blah? I think you’re just protecting you’re ass. Fine by me. I too will protect my interests. Find someone else to diddle and then say hello to my new work FAMILY, the Yu-ay-eee Armed forces.
Guys like Blah, who think they need to protect their asses all the time instead of doing their jobs, really oughta be reminded every once in awhile just what it is that they should be protecting their asses against – ie an inevitable onslaught.
It is August here. The country still sleeps but it is soon to wake up. Probably around August 20th or so, is my guess - which is as good as any other guess of a person who embarks on their fourth year here in the desert. The place that employs me has given me 96 hours of instruction time for August. at eighty five per, that’s not too bad. I can pay some bills. Need to talk to the money guy regarding getting an advance otherwise I’ll be up caca-creek without an arabic-style toilet hose to spray-clean my bum with, in a few more days. Car payment, loan payment, house payment all descending on me, rapidly.
Right now, I’m a good ways thru the process of being hired by the you-ay-ee army, theirs is a two year renewable, blahblah dhs a year, plus this and that perks to make it quite worth while. I feel like I’m balancing on the edge of a huge razor blade, and that if I should move but a millimetre, my manhood would be cleft in two followed by the rest of me. We wait. The army has guaranteed me twice verbally of a concrete offer and have spent the man-hours to examine me medically – I passed, and to examine my past as though I were a royal of England r’ sumpim laik a’t (editor: since this was written i've passed that too). All the way back to kindergarten! Now they want to speed up the immigration process for me and I am stuck in the spot of asking my former employer who suddenly wants very little to do with me, for a ‘no objection letter’. This letter should state that they have no objection to release me.
Suddenly Blah Pinoche’ is hedging on this point. I don’t know why but it causes me extra headaches which don’t have to be at all. He claims it’s easier for Suspect to cancel my visa than to write me a simple letter of release. Makes absolutely no sense at all to me and at the same time exposes Blah Pinoche’ for what he is – I don’t have to spell it out. All those who know Blah, or have worked for him in the past know exactly what I’m talking about.
All I can say is I’d love to be his boss for just one day so I could feed him some of the same crap he’s been forcing on all his employees - especially those of us who are not muslim and not from america, for the past two years. I swear the guy is tough to deal with. He doesn’t trust anyone. I feel like I’m listening to a jilted lover every time he subjects me to more of his weird philosophies of ISSSLLAAAMICCC digestion and “listtening-to-your-innner-dialoguue.” Sounds suspicious, at the very least, if not a clear sign of Blah's chronic depression that has since led to a psychosis in him of some kind, (says the layman psychologist of magnanimous proportions).
Blah wanted to “chat” again. I have already endured his monologues while trapped in his office three times already. Much ado about nothing. Wonder how fast he’ll decide to move once all the armed forces of you-ay-ee are brought to bear on him and they begin asking for my release? A Cog in the wheel he claims he is now. Pretty power hungry cog I'd say - if his comical, empty-threat laden troop-barking at ALL of us at the beginning of this year was any indication. Cog in the wheel? Really, Blah? I think you’re just protecting you’re ass. Fine by me. I too will protect my interests. Find someone else to diddle and then say hello to my new work FAMILY, the Yu-ay-eee Armed forces.
Guys like Blah, who think they need to protect their asses all the time instead of doing their jobs, really oughta be reminded every once in awhile just what it is that they should be protecting their asses against – ie an inevitable onslaught.
It is August here. The country still sleeps but it is soon to wake up. Probably around August 20th or so, is my guess - which is as good as any other guess of a person who embarks on their fourth year here in the desert. The place that employs me has given me 96 hours of instruction time for August. at eighty five per, that’s not too bad. I can pay some bills. Need to talk to the money guy regarding getting an advance otherwise I’ll be up caca-creek without an arabic-style toilet hose to spray-clean my bum with, in a few more days. Car payment, loan payment, house payment all descending on me, rapidly.
slightly mafia-tainted machinations
It is July 13th, Tuesday Today, and I went for Goulat (walking) with my wife to the police station so that they could register me. But first we had to walk between the moon and New York City in order to get to the passport office to ask what has to be done to register me. The passport office – the employees of which regularly register numerous foreigners to Russia proper, from close, former federation countries like Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, said they don’t know about me because I’ a real foreigner from real far away, Canada.
The woman in the passport office gave us the number of the foreign affairs office in Ekaterinburg city centre. Meanwhile, we went to the police station and inquired about how to register me but as well to inquire about Dima’s passport renewal and how that will affect his residence permit. The policeman was somewhat surprised that we had come to his office to register, given that his office usually deals with registering crimes. Smiling sardonically, he asked my wife if we had a crime to register. She said thanks, no, and we took our leave. They too had no idea what we had to do to get me registered before we leave.
It’s apparently important though, because if I don’t register with the police, when I leave on the thirtieth of July, the immigration police will black-mark me as a foreigner that upset the Russian law system by not registering as a foreigner, even though the same immigration department has a file on me already contain things like a copy of the required official invitation letter my mother-in-law sent to me to come to visit her, and a copy of the three month Russian visit-visa granted to me in Dubai by the Russian consulate.
I made sarcastic remarks while walking with my wife, all the way home and she returned with: “Rowberrt, spikolsi! (Be still, be at peace, and relax) this is normal. You are in Russia now. Don’t worry we will find a way. We will try again tomorrow.” OK… What the hell ELSE am I supposed to say?!
Again, in the span of three years I am twice a complete foreigner (once in UAE and once in Russia), not knowing the language, the culture, or the customs. In this vacuum, the only thing else I really can say is that I am sure glad I am here with family who is Russian rather than simply some poor English speaking Canadian sod, on his own, who knows absolutely nothing about this huge and different country with all its post communist, post-perestroika, slightly mafia-tainted machinations and its altogether tough, tough history.
The woman in the passport office gave us the number of the foreign affairs office in Ekaterinburg city centre. Meanwhile, we went to the police station and inquired about how to register me but as well to inquire about Dima’s passport renewal and how that will affect his residence permit. The policeman was somewhat surprised that we had come to his office to register, given that his office usually deals with registering crimes. Smiling sardonically, he asked my wife if we had a crime to register. She said thanks, no, and we took our leave. They too had no idea what we had to do to get me registered before we leave.
It’s apparently important though, because if I don’t register with the police, when I leave on the thirtieth of July, the immigration police will black-mark me as a foreigner that upset the Russian law system by not registering as a foreigner, even though the same immigration department has a file on me already contain things like a copy of the required official invitation letter my mother-in-law sent to me to come to visit her, and a copy of the three month Russian visit-visa granted to me in Dubai by the Russian consulate.
I made sarcastic remarks while walking with my wife, all the way home and she returned with: “Rowberrt, spikolsi! (Be still, be at peace, and relax) this is normal. You are in Russia now. Don’t worry we will find a way. We will try again tomorrow.” OK… What the hell ELSE am I supposed to say?!
Again, in the span of three years I am twice a complete foreigner (once in UAE and once in Russia), not knowing the language, the culture, or the customs. In this vacuum, the only thing else I really can say is that I am sure glad I am here with family who is Russian rather than simply some poor English speaking Canadian sod, on his own, who knows absolutely nothing about this huge and different country with all its post communist, post-perestroika, slightly mafia-tainted machinations and its altogether tough, tough history.
Sverdlovsk - total net worth
Here we are in Ekaterinburg, Yekaterinburg, Sverdlovsk, and enjoying every minute, thank you very much. Mostly because we're with family and for myself personally - I’assumed responsibility for a highly intensive intense technical project: to fix up the balcony. I bought a Russian circular saw today for 2200 Rubbles which at 29 rubble a dollar Am. is 75 bucks American or 105 Canadian dollars. Not bad eh? Solid Russian technology for 105 Ca-bucks. I’ll take one please.
"Mom, he's a Taurus" explained my wife to my M.I.L.: “he will make everything very accurately.”Much as I condemn the very idea of astrology as sophisticated snake oil, I cannot help but live up to that assessment, it is my nature to get things done right - so much so that I get bogged down with one small detail of a project and I won't let it go til it's "perfect". The goal of staying on the good side of mom2 by preforming a revamping miracle on her balcony shouldn't be too much of a leap. Why am I fixing up the balcony, you may ask? Well, we’re going to put her flat up for sale. It's actually my wife's flat but it's in her mom's name for legal reasons regarding an ex husband with a vengance. Also mom2 wants very much to be near her daughter and grandson (soon to be two grandsons!) now in her latter years, so she's decided to move down to the Emirates with us. The house will come in handy to pay for upcoming university education, saving for the future, etc.
July 11th, Sunday
Two words: not cold. This Siberian city of two million lies in the same parallel with my home town. Hence the summer is much the same as a home town summer. That is, extremely pleasant, temperatures averaging 20 to 25 degrees Celsius. Of course, summer is only three and a half months long in my home town. Here too summer is much shorter than winter – about three and a half months.
July 12th, Monday
So now after five days I am finished my honey-given project: the balcony. I used left over Wood laminate siding from Ioulia’s previous apartment repair in 2001, plus one packet of 11 boards from Germany bought at “Bakjevanagee” supermarket for all your renovating needs for 380 rubbles. For a mere 1000, or so, rubbles, all together, (glue, corner pieces, what not), for the fixing up of mom2's balcony – that’s 30 bucks American - lets say fifty american to account for unsaid costs.
Turned out not too bad if I may say so myself. The floor was extremely out of level because the concrete balcony base is sagging. So we took care of that too by building a frame and levelling the floor. The floor boards consist of some of Ioulia’s old furniture. It looks really great nailed to the balcony floor.
"Mom, he's a Taurus" explained my wife to my M.I.L.: “he will make everything very accurately.”Much as I condemn the very idea of astrology as sophisticated snake oil, I cannot help but live up to that assessment, it is my nature to get things done right - so much so that I get bogged down with one small detail of a project and I won't let it go til it's "perfect". The goal of staying on the good side of mom2 by preforming a revamping miracle on her balcony shouldn't be too much of a leap. Why am I fixing up the balcony, you may ask? Well, we’re going to put her flat up for sale. It's actually my wife's flat but it's in her mom's name for legal reasons regarding an ex husband with a vengance. Also mom2 wants very much to be near her daughter and grandson (soon to be two grandsons!) now in her latter years, so she's decided to move down to the Emirates with us. The house will come in handy to pay for upcoming university education, saving for the future, etc.
July 11th, Sunday
Two words: not cold. This Siberian city of two million lies in the same parallel with my home town. Hence the summer is much the same as a home town summer. That is, extremely pleasant, temperatures averaging 20 to 25 degrees Celsius. Of course, summer is only three and a half months long in my home town. Here too summer is much shorter than winter – about three and a half months.
July 12th, Monday
So now after five days I am finished my honey-given project: the balcony. I used left over Wood laminate siding from Ioulia’s previous apartment repair in 2001, plus one packet of 11 boards from Germany bought at “Bakjevanagee” supermarket for all your renovating needs for 380 rubbles. For a mere 1000, or so, rubbles, all together, (glue, corner pieces, what not), for the fixing up of mom2's balcony – that’s 30 bucks American - lets say fifty american to account for unsaid costs.
Turned out not too bad if I may say so myself. The floor was extremely out of level because the concrete balcony base is sagging. So we took care of that too by building a frame and levelling the floor. The floor boards consist of some of Ioulia’s old furniture. It looks really great nailed to the balcony floor.
russians have bigger billiard balls
Russian Billiard tables are designed with small two and half inch openings for the holes. It is very tough to get your angles right. If you think you're good at 8-ball you better adjust your thinking before you try to get good at russian billiards cuz you know what? Not only are the holes smaller, the balls are much bigger than 8-ball balls! Virtually impossible to sink. I had real troubles on this table. This is coming from a guy who lived in a house with a pool table and I played often. I think even my little brother Bernie, who always beat me at pool would have some serious challanges on a Russian billiards table.
The angles have to be right on or you might as well kiss the shot goodbye. Volodia handed me a book on Strategies of Russian billiards. I read the first page with my wife's help and ended that day with a big headache. Criptic visions of cyrillic letters danced before my eyes as I slept. I still knew nothing of the strategies of Russian billiards save for my interpretations of the vector diagrams I studied fruitlessly, drawn on every second page.
They have some real serious ham and beef sausage featured at the little store in Lobnia. They tasted very expensive and that fact added to my pangs of already existant guilt for staying in Moscow for very durn cheap and having very little in the way of cash, with Ioulia’s Uncle and aunt. I was going to leave 100 bucks american in the house clandestinely at the end but my wife caught me said don't do it, it will be looked at like a big insult besides they're family. So I resolved to return the favor big time when they come to visit us down in the Emirates next time! In spite of my pangs, I managed to enjoy the expensive sausages alot almost every meal - cooked, boiled, fried, baked - with other stuff too of course - and barbequed outside. Very nice time altogether in Lobnia, actually. Very restfull. Very nice weather. No mozzies. Wish we coulda stayed an extra few days in Lobnia.
The angles have to be right on or you might as well kiss the shot goodbye. Volodia handed me a book on Strategies of Russian billiards. I read the first page with my wife's help and ended that day with a big headache. Criptic visions of cyrillic letters danced before my eyes as I slept. I still knew nothing of the strategies of Russian billiards save for my interpretations of the vector diagrams I studied fruitlessly, drawn on every second page.
They have some real serious ham and beef sausage featured at the little store in Lobnia. They tasted very expensive and that fact added to my pangs of already existant guilt for staying in Moscow for very durn cheap and having very little in the way of cash, with Ioulia’s Uncle and aunt. I was going to leave 100 bucks american in the house clandestinely at the end but my wife caught me said don't do it, it will be looked at like a big insult besides they're family. So I resolved to return the favor big time when they come to visit us down in the Emirates next time! In spite of my pangs, I managed to enjoy the expensive sausages alot almost every meal - cooked, boiled, fried, baked - with other stuff too of course - and barbequed outside. Very nice time altogether in Lobnia, actually. Very restfull. Very nice weather. No mozzies. Wish we coulda stayed an extra few days in Lobnia.
moscow to ekaterinburg
July 3rd, 2004 We are now on the train to Ekaterinburg and I have to write quickly because there is no main power on the train. Spent the night sleeping on the train. On Friday, yesterday my wife prepared food for the train in Tuete Marina’s kitchen. My wife and step son bought for us high class tickets without realizing that food was included in the ticket price. So now we wait to be invited for lunch in the dining car, after downing a home prepared breakfast. Thought I would have the opportunity to take lots of pictures on the train but our window’s pretty small – have to see what the dining car offers in that department.
Yesterday and the day before we swam in a small lake thirty miles out of Moscow near a town called Lubnoi. Very nice little lake. Very freaking cold. I now have a bit of an ear infection it feels like in my left ear. We are due to arrive in Ekaterinburg this morning at 5:30. Not sure who will meet us – probably we will go by bus or taxi to Mother in law’s place. The sun has gone almost down outside the train window both wife and step son are engaged in reading and or sleeping already. As for me, I slept soundly two hours post lunch so I am as wide awake as a jack rabbit being hunted.
This Russian countryside is quite something to see. Very similar to Canadian prairies, and also to the foothills of the Canadian Rockies area in Western Alberta. Same vegetation, same trees. There are a lot of birch and spruce trees lining either side of the tracks here. Saw a whole bunch of quaint looking farm dachas that look a whole lot like Western/Southern Alberta farm houses with one major difference. Here, every house we pass is old and rundown, as if waiting for the national economy to one day soon bounce back – no new paint, harly any new buildings anywhere. In the backyard of many of the houses, however, there is evidence of how sturdy Russians really are when it comes to surviving the tough years. Green houses appear growing who knows what, but surely all is saleable, after feeding the family first.
It was the same where Volodia has his dacha. Well, almost the same. What it looked like to me: these were fancy houses from a time before Peristroika that were abandoned (by former government officials? I was hesitant to ask, actually), and now post peristroka folks with fledgling yet high levels of inititative came by and occupied them and began renovating piece by piece. As in, no money down, no money ever.... I'm just sayin', that's what it looked like to ME.
Some of the places looked very nice with BMW X5's, a couple of topline 2005 merc's, and multicolored 2005 peugeot 307, sport-series cars parked outside of them. One place in particular stood out. It was a corner lot, big, facing the pond, and built into the hill. Every bright red brick on this property exuded a fresh newness and the fences around the places were nice and new with bright black and white chainlink contrasting nicely with the red brick. Two BMW X5's grey and black, completed the scene, gracing the paving stone driveway in a subtle, powerful stance.
As we walked silently by, on our way to the food store, beside the vehicles mentioned above, a couple of big Russian fellers with ripped off sleeve shirts and obligatory tatooes, stood taking a ciggy break, while simultaneously guarding... ...something.
The actual dachas have all been there along time, most of them in the area in different stages of renovation as middle to upper middle-class Russian owners spend time and money each summer to make something of their summer properties. We wanted to see more of Moscow so Volodia based us for two days in his family’s flat. That presented the opportunity to compare his flat and his dacha.
His flat is a typical two bedroom basic unit in Suburbian Moscow. Inside is immaculately clean. Inside is very small compared to a typical two-bedroom apartment in Edmonton's downtown area. The building itself - crap. Smelled like cat-crap in the hall in fact. No building maintenance. The bulb in the lift was burned out. Plaster falling off in great chunks. This was outside in the common area mind you. Two large metal doors with several dead-bolts of various designs lead the way into his flat. Very nice hardwood flooring. Kitchen - lovely. Small but lovely. Very nice SOLID WOOD kitchen cabinets with curved glass in the curved doors - all from Italy, bought at a Buckjivanjees homecenter type place - same kind of place we bought our reno stuff for mom2's balcony revamp. Upright Piano for Olga's lessons now, Phillips surround sound entertainment center, Nice Divan fold out bed in living room. Olga's room - nice size, computer table, one person bed.
Main bedroom - had a balcony for hanging wet cloths. One Bathroom and one toilet. They are seperated and TINY!!! I bumped my head on the door knob of the toilet room all three times in three days that I got up and bent down to pull my pants up upon crap completion. No toilet fans in Russia! I never saw any. Stinky! Luckily, Teute Marina had intervened already by placing an easy to find airfreshener spray can near the toilet! Lucky for the rest of the people in the house.... So that's basically Volodia's flat. They stay there for the convenience of being in Moscow for Volodia's work and for Olga's schooling.
The Dacha is paradise, comparitavely. Big, two story, house. A new billiard table upstairs in the main big room. two bedrooms, living room full bath and russian sauna on the main floor. Besides the pool table room, theres another bedroom upstairs that opens on a landing just where the stairs come up. THe whole dacha upstairs is finished in pinewood panelling and wood laminate flooring. Absolutely nice. Also half bath upstairs. They put us upstairs. Dima in the pool hall, us in the third bedroom. Very nice and peaceful for taking a rest, I tell you.
Yesterday and the day before we swam in a small lake thirty miles out of Moscow near a town called Lubnoi. Very nice little lake. Very freaking cold. I now have a bit of an ear infection it feels like in my left ear. We are due to arrive in Ekaterinburg this morning at 5:30. Not sure who will meet us – probably we will go by bus or taxi to Mother in law’s place. The sun has gone almost down outside the train window both wife and step son are engaged in reading and or sleeping already. As for me, I slept soundly two hours post lunch so I am as wide awake as a jack rabbit being hunted.
This Russian countryside is quite something to see. Very similar to Canadian prairies, and also to the foothills of the Canadian Rockies area in Western Alberta. Same vegetation, same trees. There are a lot of birch and spruce trees lining either side of the tracks here. Saw a whole bunch of quaint looking farm dachas that look a whole lot like Western/Southern Alberta farm houses with one major difference. Here, every house we pass is old and rundown, as if waiting for the national economy to one day soon bounce back – no new paint, harly any new buildings anywhere. In the backyard of many of the houses, however, there is evidence of how sturdy Russians really are when it comes to surviving the tough years. Green houses appear growing who knows what, but surely all is saleable, after feeding the family first.
It was the same where Volodia has his dacha. Well, almost the same. What it looked like to me: these were fancy houses from a time before Peristroika that were abandoned (by former government officials? I was hesitant to ask, actually), and now post peristroka folks with fledgling yet high levels of inititative came by and occupied them and began renovating piece by piece. As in, no money down, no money ever.... I'm just sayin', that's what it looked like to ME.
Some of the places looked very nice with BMW X5's, a couple of topline 2005 merc's, and multicolored 2005 peugeot 307, sport-series cars parked outside of them. One place in particular stood out. It was a corner lot, big, facing the pond, and built into the hill. Every bright red brick on this property exuded a fresh newness and the fences around the places were nice and new with bright black and white chainlink contrasting nicely with the red brick. Two BMW X5's grey and black, completed the scene, gracing the paving stone driveway in a subtle, powerful stance.
As we walked silently by, on our way to the food store, beside the vehicles mentioned above, a couple of big Russian fellers with ripped off sleeve shirts and obligatory tatooes, stood taking a ciggy break, while simultaneously guarding... ...something.
The actual dachas have all been there along time, most of them in the area in different stages of renovation as middle to upper middle-class Russian owners spend time and money each summer to make something of their summer properties. We wanted to see more of Moscow so Volodia based us for two days in his family’s flat. That presented the opportunity to compare his flat and his dacha.
His flat is a typical two bedroom basic unit in Suburbian Moscow. Inside is immaculately clean. Inside is very small compared to a typical two-bedroom apartment in Edmonton's downtown area. The building itself - crap. Smelled like cat-crap in the hall in fact. No building maintenance. The bulb in the lift was burned out. Plaster falling off in great chunks. This was outside in the common area mind you. Two large metal doors with several dead-bolts of various designs lead the way into his flat. Very nice hardwood flooring. Kitchen - lovely. Small but lovely. Very nice SOLID WOOD kitchen cabinets with curved glass in the curved doors - all from Italy, bought at a Buckjivanjees homecenter type place - same kind of place we bought our reno stuff for mom2's balcony revamp. Upright Piano for Olga's lessons now, Phillips surround sound entertainment center, Nice Divan fold out bed in living room. Olga's room - nice size, computer table, one person bed.
Main bedroom - had a balcony for hanging wet cloths. One Bathroom and one toilet. They are seperated and TINY!!! I bumped my head on the door knob of the toilet room all three times in three days that I got up and bent down to pull my pants up upon crap completion. No toilet fans in Russia! I never saw any. Stinky! Luckily, Teute Marina had intervened already by placing an easy to find airfreshener spray can near the toilet! Lucky for the rest of the people in the house.... So that's basically Volodia's flat. They stay there for the convenience of being in Moscow for Volodia's work and for Olga's schooling.
The Dacha is paradise, comparitavely. Big, two story, house. A new billiard table upstairs in the main big room. two bedrooms, living room full bath and russian sauna on the main floor. Besides the pool table room, theres another bedroom upstairs that opens on a landing just where the stairs come up. THe whole dacha upstairs is finished in pinewood panelling and wood laminate flooring. Absolutely nice. Also half bath upstairs. They put us upstairs. Dima in the pool hall, us in the third bedroom. Very nice and peaceful for taking a rest, I tell you.
cryptogram for ya!
July 2nd 2004-07-02 Yesterday evening at about 18:00 Volodia drove us to a small lake. We swam. It was 22 degrees Celsius the water was almost tolerable and we swam, Dima, Volodia, marina, and me. Ioulia and the unborn son rested on the beach. Just had the notion to build a house of stone – somewhere. Emirates, perhaps, if allowable and doable. Perhaps. If I suddenly become rich. Approx. $79 grand a year, Canadian tax free, (including accomodation and tuition help for dima that is). Plus free medical and free dental at the local military hospice. Actually, $49, 800 can. straight salary - w/o accomodation and tuition money. One wonders at it all.
Because of my new found ability to promote books by the subject at hand, for my new partner in businesss, amazon.com, I pass on to you good folks the following links about successful negotiation:
Because of my new found ability to promote books by the subject at hand, for my new partner in businesss, amazon.com, I pass on to you good folks the following links about successful negotiation:
life's a swinging divan
The unborn one kicks unusually strongly today, says wife and his mother. Not sure why. She figures it’s all the activity yesterday. Our trip on the Channel Moscow and River Moscow and such. The unborn one is almost six months along now. He’s got a big head. Like me. I’ve felt him kick once or twice that’s it. They rest beside me here on the swinging outdoor divan in Volodia’s big backyard. Ioulia brought a book out with her but I don’t think she’s reading it.
She’s sleeping. The unborn son, continues his life, getting bigger and more aggressive in his kicking, while still suspended in the warmth and comfort of mommy’s baby place. I can buy him diapers, feed him and put some cloths on him now that I have a new job too. Yipee!!! I'm startin' to sound like dad. Ok, just talked to the wife. She said: “Na, Rowb! Why do you account aready money which you have not yet?” “Kam here I vant to you to kiss me”. Life goes on.
She’s sleeping. The unborn son, continues his life, getting bigger and more aggressive in his kicking, while still suspended in the warmth and comfort of mommy’s baby place. I can buy him diapers, feed him and put some cloths on him now that I have a new job too. Yipee!!! I'm startin' to sound like dad. Ok, just talked to the wife. She said: “Na, Rowb! Why do you account aready money which you have not yet?” “Kam here I vant to you to kiss me”. Life goes on.
ode to the russian metro
The Russian Metro system deserves mention as one of the largest, fastest, loudest, most utilitarian, most well designed underground train systems in the world today. London’s underground pales in comparison. Yes, I’ve been on both. Picadillay square, Charing Cross station, have their uniquely English charms, of course. My purpose is not to downplay those charms by any means. Surely Moscow’s metro train system has some draw backs too, however like a typical Russian-built machine these trains are bullet proof, utilitarian, and made to last for years and years.
They are powerful in acceleration & stopping and have a top speed of about 60 to 80 miles an hour. They scream along very loudly too. They’re painted dark utilitarian military green. You can feel the wind rush into the station and hear the train whining down the tunnel long before it arrives and as it does, it’s four bright headlights with over-compensating, millions-of-utilitarian-candlepower ratings, blaze well away into the dark tunnels ahead of them. They scream evenly to a halt right where the driver wants them and each train is a uniform length, approximately the length of each of the uniformly long stations – about six train cars long. No matter where you stand to board, there will be a train door near you once the train halts.
The main central line goes around central Moscow in ring-road fashion, crossing the Moscow river above ground only in two places. All the really beautiful old stations are located around this ring track – each unique and on the verge of being of spell-binding in the “ornate-ness” of the stained glass work and sculpture that was built into each station, were it not for the thousands of people moving through them by the minute. It would make a very interesting project though and as soon as I have access to internet again I’m going to see if anybody has done any work documenting, researching, or studying these stations yet. Spidering out from the central line in every direction are numerous radials of secondary tracks that handle the moving of people out to all areas of Moscow. Each station is named different and is different in appearance than another. The pattern of the system is well laid out and easily mapped. Good, easy to read maps therefore are available.
In my opinion it’s a far better design than British railway Engineers could ever come up with. On the down side – it is, of course, serving Moscow and as such, all signage is in Cyrillic writ so you have to know how to read Cyrillic if you want to get around at all. I’m just learning how to read Cyrillic but I’m lucky to have an accommodating Russian wife to do ALL our navigating for us. Also there is a bit of a long walk to the metro station from wherever you begin, however, my wife assures me long walks in Russia are normal – get used to it!
If you just can’t handle the walking, you’ll see cars along the road – not taxis. Just guys sitting in their Lada number ones, waiting for a “fare”. Thirty Rubles (about $1.00 Am.) to anywhere within 25-kilometers. After that, it’s up to the driver how much he’ll sting you for. Note: let your wife do all the talking in Russian and it will be very cheap ride for you.
They are powerful in acceleration & stopping and have a top speed of about 60 to 80 miles an hour. They scream along very loudly too. They’re painted dark utilitarian military green. You can feel the wind rush into the station and hear the train whining down the tunnel long before it arrives and as it does, it’s four bright headlights with over-compensating, millions-of-utilitarian-candlepower ratings, blaze well away into the dark tunnels ahead of them. They scream evenly to a halt right where the driver wants them and each train is a uniform length, approximately the length of each of the uniformly long stations – about six train cars long. No matter where you stand to board, there will be a train door near you once the train halts.
The main central line goes around central Moscow in ring-road fashion, crossing the Moscow river above ground only in two places. All the really beautiful old stations are located around this ring track – each unique and on the verge of being of spell-binding in the “ornate-ness” of the stained glass work and sculpture that was built into each station, were it not for the thousands of people moving through them by the minute. It would make a very interesting project though and as soon as I have access to internet again I’m going to see if anybody has done any work documenting, researching, or studying these stations yet. Spidering out from the central line in every direction are numerous radials of secondary tracks that handle the moving of people out to all areas of Moscow. Each station is named different and is different in appearance than another. The pattern of the system is well laid out and easily mapped. Good, easy to read maps therefore are available.
In my opinion it’s a far better design than British railway Engineers could ever come up with. On the down side – it is, of course, serving Moscow and as such, all signage is in Cyrillic writ so you have to know how to read Cyrillic if you want to get around at all. I’m just learning how to read Cyrillic but I’m lucky to have an accommodating Russian wife to do ALL our navigating for us. Also there is a bit of a long walk to the metro station from wherever you begin, however, my wife assures me long walks in Russia are normal – get used to it!
If you just can’t handle the walking, you’ll see cars along the road – not taxis. Just guys sitting in their Lada number ones, waiting for a “fare”. Thirty Rubles (about $1.00 Am.) to anywhere within 25-kilometers. After that, it’s up to the driver how much he’ll sting you for. Note: let your wife do all the talking in Russian and it will be very cheap ride for you.
back in lobnia
July 1st 2004, Canada day! Ahhh! Back in the Dacha after two lovely days in Moscow with family staying at Volodia’s flat. We packed in several trips, including one bus tour around Moscow, and two riverboat cruises, one down the Moscow channel and one down the Moscow river. Incredible scenery.
I saw Lenin’s preserved body! We paid 400 hundred rubles along with about thirty other people to cut into the long line up to see Lenin. It took only half an hour and the old lady that took our money and our foto-aparats, seemed to know a whole lot about red square and gave us the whole history of it and surrounding downtown Moscow as we waited that half hour. We then cut into line and I’m sure the guards letting us in took their cut of the 400-Rubles I and the twenty-nine others gave to the old lady…. “Eta Normale na.” They told me. Normal, it’s the way it’s done in Moscow.
Vladimir Illeech Uolianav Lenin lay patiently waiting for us all to pass. He didn’t move a muscle. His suit was black and he did not wear a cap. He was a short guy. His hair was red. His beard was red. His face was emotionless, serene. His shoes, blackened well and practical for long walks that central Moscow is known for. To me, he looked like a wax figure of Lenin, but my wife assured me that what’s under that glass case is truly a mummified Lenin that they “restore” every couple of years. Where he lies is about three stories underground and it’s very cool down there – a temperature controlled mausoleum. We went down steps and at every corner very serious young Kremlin police officers stood guard in honour of their past. Don’t talk! Don’t laugh! Don’t look left or right! Don’t fart! This is a Mausoleum! Serious, very serious, looks all around.
And there lay the father of the Bolshevik revolution, patiently enduring post-perestroika Russia. And, in direct contravention of Orthodox Christian tradition, laid to rest in full view of many a capitalist - above ground, persevered, not buried six-feet under (as Orthodox worm-wood usually is required to be). I tried to manage a tear or an emotion, padding softly and silently by the icon, but strangely, could not muster anything at all. The tangible emptiness of 100-odd years of forced religious repression in Russia must have swallowed up any and all urges towards emotion, or tears – at least for me.
All I really felt was: “wow, that’s Lenin, he looks like a wax figure. I just now saw Lenin.” And I thought further, what a thing to have done in life! How many of my relatives, my countrymen, can say the same? Not much more thought by me beyond that as I drifted through the surrealistic tomb of this guy, responsible for so much that I know really, very little about.
Further, not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but how is one supposed to shed a tear or lend even a moment’s passionate regret for the loss of the leader of a regime that claimed pure socialist values on the one hand and simultaneously exhibited criminal levels of corrupt bureaucracy and severely debilitating religious suppression at the expense of its own citizenry on the other?
No wonder the empty feeling…. I saw none of the other capitalists, sentimentalists, Non-muscovite Russian citizens who came to pay a visit, behind nor before, make any Russian Orthodox or other genuflections of any sort whatsoever when filing by the Lenin’s mummy. Thousands upon thousands of paying tourists cut in line by paying 400 rubles to old ladies making money, to file by Lenin’s body silently between 7:00 and 13:00 daily. I imagined that the ghost of Lenin probably was hovering above us, ready to swoop and strangle someone, anyone, all of us, for a travesty such as this.
The old lady who took our money and foto-aparats met us as we emerged from the depths of Bolshevik ideology. She didn’t look at all afraid of being severely guilty of crimes against the state – taking money from tourists to cut in line to see the very icon of communism in Russia…. She looked pretty fresh actually, and took us on the rest of the tour near the wall of the Kremlin castle where in are buried the ashes of prominent communists from every country of the world. Yuri Gagarin’s trip into space in 1961 earned his ashes a spot in the Kremlin wall too. Opposite the wall in more conventional burial plots, lie the bodies of past presidents of Russia: Chernyenko, Andropov, & Stalin, along with all the dead Generals who had made their communist marks hither and thither over the years.
All at once the tour was over. We were directed out by our knowledgeable tour guide in to the general non-fenced off area of the huge Red square and handed back our foto-aparats with a stern warning not to use them until we were well outside the Kremlin boundary, for fear of police confiscating our fot-aparats.
I saw Lenin’s preserved body! We paid 400 hundred rubles along with about thirty other people to cut into the long line up to see Lenin. It took only half an hour and the old lady that took our money and our foto-aparats, seemed to know a whole lot about red square and gave us the whole history of it and surrounding downtown Moscow as we waited that half hour. We then cut into line and I’m sure the guards letting us in took their cut of the 400-Rubles I and the twenty-nine others gave to the old lady…. “Eta Normale na.” They told me. Normal, it’s the way it’s done in Moscow.
Vladimir Illeech Uolianav Lenin lay patiently waiting for us all to pass. He didn’t move a muscle. His suit was black and he did not wear a cap. He was a short guy. His hair was red. His beard was red. His face was emotionless, serene. His shoes, blackened well and practical for long walks that central Moscow is known for. To me, he looked like a wax figure of Lenin, but my wife assured me that what’s under that glass case is truly a mummified Lenin that they “restore” every couple of years. Where he lies is about three stories underground and it’s very cool down there – a temperature controlled mausoleum. We went down steps and at every corner very serious young Kremlin police officers stood guard in honour of their past. Don’t talk! Don’t laugh! Don’t look left or right! Don’t fart! This is a Mausoleum! Serious, very serious, looks all around.
And there lay the father of the Bolshevik revolution, patiently enduring post-perestroika Russia. And, in direct contravention of Orthodox Christian tradition, laid to rest in full view of many a capitalist - above ground, persevered, not buried six-feet under (as Orthodox worm-wood usually is required to be). I tried to manage a tear or an emotion, padding softly and silently by the icon, but strangely, could not muster anything at all. The tangible emptiness of 100-odd years of forced religious repression in Russia must have swallowed up any and all urges towards emotion, or tears – at least for me.
All I really felt was: “wow, that’s Lenin, he looks like a wax figure. I just now saw Lenin.” And I thought further, what a thing to have done in life! How many of my relatives, my countrymen, can say the same? Not much more thought by me beyond that as I drifted through the surrealistic tomb of this guy, responsible for so much that I know really, very little about.
Further, not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but how is one supposed to shed a tear or lend even a moment’s passionate regret for the loss of the leader of a regime that claimed pure socialist values on the one hand and simultaneously exhibited criminal levels of corrupt bureaucracy and severely debilitating religious suppression at the expense of its own citizenry on the other?
No wonder the empty feeling…. I saw none of the other capitalists, sentimentalists, Non-muscovite Russian citizens who came to pay a visit, behind nor before, make any Russian Orthodox or other genuflections of any sort whatsoever when filing by the Lenin’s mummy. Thousands upon thousands of paying tourists cut in line by paying 400 rubles to old ladies making money, to file by Lenin’s body silently between 7:00 and 13:00 daily. I imagined that the ghost of Lenin probably was hovering above us, ready to swoop and strangle someone, anyone, all of us, for a travesty such as this.
The old lady who took our money and foto-aparats met us as we emerged from the depths of Bolshevik ideology. She didn’t look at all afraid of being severely guilty of crimes against the state – taking money from tourists to cut in line to see the very icon of communism in Russia…. She looked pretty fresh actually, and took us on the rest of the tour near the wall of the Kremlin castle where in are buried the ashes of prominent communists from every country of the world. Yuri Gagarin’s trip into space in 1961 earned his ashes a spot in the Kremlin wall too. Opposite the wall in more conventional burial plots, lie the bodies of past presidents of Russia: Chernyenko, Andropov, & Stalin, along with all the dead Generals who had made their communist marks hither and thither over the years.
All at once the tour was over. We were directed out by our knowledgeable tour guide in to the general non-fenced off area of the huge Red square and handed back our foto-aparats with a stern warning not to use them until we were well outside the Kremlin boundary, for fear of police confiscating our fot-aparats.
red square: something larger
I stood with my wife and step-son in red square. We saw the Kremlin. We saw the sights of central Moscow. We stood in red square. Ponder that for a second. I grew up in a generation of western kids that still saw Russia as an inaccessible place - blazing red as Mars in its communist hold over it's people. I never once dreamed of visiting Moscow or any city in Russia as tourist attraction. I grew up, a bit naively i suppose, on stories of people stripped completely of their freedoms, especially their religious freedoms. I grew up with visions of people sneaking about in constant avoidance of actual living of a day to day life. Rather living a life spent in fear of the strong arm of the Duma - KGB. How wrong it seemed I was as I actually began to see - begining with the kremlin and red square, little bits of how much pre-communist history and deep culture that Russia has to base it's present national identity on. It seems we in the west have missed some things in our learning about Russia. Consider the rapid rekindling of the great power and strength that lies in the incessant prayers of thousands of devout Russian Orthodox babushkas (whether it was "allowed" for them to pray or not), for instance.
I remembered with a smile too, the late 1980's/early nineties news story of a 19-year old German pilot of a Cessna 152 who took off one day from Germany, crossed the border into Russia, flying low, and eventually landed in Red square, safely. They arrested him of course. And now, I saw how in the massive open area of the square he easily could have landed there. A Cessna 152's landing roll in normal wind conditions is pretty short, like 300 feet, that's it.
We continued standing, ten o'clock, mid-morning still and young people in love strolled past with beer bottles in hand, characters mellowed by the brewskis they fondled. Strolling by the front of the mausoleum of Lenin's tomb, I watched a black pigeon peck at the fallen crumbs of something larger left behind. The tomb was closed until tomorrow. The hungry black pigeon pecked on. Beyond the tomb, between the Orthodox Church and a horse-mounted monument to a Russian General who stopped the fascists taking Moscow in WW2, Lenin, Marx, Tsar Peter and Tsarina Caterina offered photo-ops for three bucks American (The next day when we came back I was trying to find the guy dressed as Lenin for a quick picture and couldn't see him anywhere so I asked Dimitri: where's Lenin today? I want to take a picture." Dima replied: "Rowb, he is taking a rest now, break time" and he gestured towards the Mausoleum. "Eh?" I believed him for a half a second (good one, again, Dima!), and for that half second of belief, Dima, Ioulia and uncle volodia all began laughing at me.
Timing is the key and Dima's got it, I tell ya. I believe My wife has now told everybody she knows here and in Russia about Dima's little - getting Rob - with the "Lenin's on a break right now" practical joke. Look, I know Lenin's been dead for a long time ok! Come on, leave me alone ok! I don't wanna talk about, quit laughing!
Through two archways out of red square and back into downtown Moscow, people threw money in the air ensuring one day they'd return to this place. A crowd of poor old folks stood ready for the next person to throw their money. Over the shoulder and tinkling on a Hollywood star like emblem inlaid in the sidewalk, the old folks closed in and grabbed as they could.
Have you ever thrown Macdonald's Drive-thru French fries out the window of your car and watched the seagulls fight for every morsel as you munched down your drive-through quarter-pounder with cheese meal? Sad truths exist in downtown Moscow, it appears.
Meanwhile, skirts are short, girls are slim and bare A LOT. Stilettos are of the latest fashion and usually enticingly laced to pairs of Neet-bared young Russian female's legs, very hard NOT to look at, even with your pregnant wife punching you in the arm six or seven times: "Rowbertt!!, Rowbertt!!, Rowbertt!! ", then slapping you silly. Just kidding, I've learned to be far more furtive then that, and of course, I somehow find the way to remain faithful in spite of the occasional Holy Moses, look at that over there, can't help it if she walks in front of me, dear, lingering glances.
We strolled back to the car, through a construction tunnel, past tables of hawkers hawking items of value to tourists. Pirate software freely displayed, Windows XP Professional, $2.00 Am., Russian Army hats in perfect shape - $5.00 Am. Russian Army medals - $10 Am. Sunglasses - cheap. Socks - cheap.
Back in the square, Government Universal Market which used to house essential goods for citizen's lives now houses fashion boutiques and storefronts of every branded merchant worthy of note. Capitalism has a permanent residence in Red Square and no-one seems to mind at all.
I remembered with a smile too, the late 1980's/early nineties news story of a 19-year old German pilot of a Cessna 152 who took off one day from Germany, crossed the border into Russia, flying low, and eventually landed in Red square, safely. They arrested him of course. And now, I saw how in the massive open area of the square he easily could have landed there. A Cessna 152's landing roll in normal wind conditions is pretty short, like 300 feet, that's it.
We continued standing, ten o'clock, mid-morning still and young people in love strolled past with beer bottles in hand, characters mellowed by the brewskis they fondled. Strolling by the front of the mausoleum of Lenin's tomb, I watched a black pigeon peck at the fallen crumbs of something larger left behind. The tomb was closed until tomorrow. The hungry black pigeon pecked on. Beyond the tomb, between the Orthodox Church and a horse-mounted monument to a Russian General who stopped the fascists taking Moscow in WW2, Lenin, Marx, Tsar Peter and Tsarina Caterina offered photo-ops for three bucks American (The next day when we came back I was trying to find the guy dressed as Lenin for a quick picture and couldn't see him anywhere so I asked Dimitri: where's Lenin today? I want to take a picture." Dima replied: "Rowb, he is taking a rest now, break time" and he gestured towards the Mausoleum. "Eh?" I believed him for a half a second (good one, again, Dima!), and for that half second of belief, Dima, Ioulia and uncle volodia all began laughing at me.
Timing is the key and Dima's got it, I tell ya. I believe My wife has now told everybody she knows here and in Russia about Dima's little - getting Rob - with the "Lenin's on a break right now" practical joke. Look, I know Lenin's been dead for a long time ok! Come on, leave me alone ok! I don't wanna talk about, quit laughing!
Through two archways out of red square and back into downtown Moscow, people threw money in the air ensuring one day they'd return to this place. A crowd of poor old folks stood ready for the next person to throw their money. Over the shoulder and tinkling on a Hollywood star like emblem inlaid in the sidewalk, the old folks closed in and grabbed as they could.
Have you ever thrown Macdonald's Drive-thru French fries out the window of your car and watched the seagulls fight for every morsel as you munched down your drive-through quarter-pounder with cheese meal? Sad truths exist in downtown Moscow, it appears.
Meanwhile, skirts are short, girls are slim and bare A LOT. Stilettos are of the latest fashion and usually enticingly laced to pairs of Neet-bared young Russian female's legs, very hard NOT to look at, even with your pregnant wife punching you in the arm six or seven times: "Rowbertt!!, Rowbertt!!, Rowbertt!! ", then slapping you silly. Just kidding, I've learned to be far more furtive then that, and of course, I somehow find the way to remain faithful in spite of the occasional Holy Moses, look at that over there, can't help it if she walks in front of me, dear, lingering glances.
We strolled back to the car, through a construction tunnel, past tables of hawkers hawking items of value to tourists. Pirate software freely displayed, Windows XP Professional, $2.00 Am., Russian Army hats in perfect shape - $5.00 Am. Russian Army medals - $10 Am. Sunglasses - cheap. Socks - cheap.
Back in the square, Government Universal Market which used to house essential goods for citizen's lives now houses fashion boutiques and storefronts of every branded merchant worthy of note. Capitalism has a permanent residence in Red Square and no-one seems to mind at all.
middle-class russian wealth
Volodia, a Moscow business man of about five feet two inches, and Ioulia’s uncle, was angry. He did not greet us with a smile. He business is not commercial tents as I first understood it to be. Rather his business is industrial-strength textiles of all sorts including material to make everything from commercial tents to armored vests for police and army personnel. Far more furtive, far more lucrative, THIS industry, yes?
First thing he said was in Russian to my wife: “I’ve been waiting three hours”. Mmmmh, good start to our one week with them in Moscow, thought to myself. Wifey, the evanescent diplomat, had him laughing in fifteen minutes after he went and got the car – a 2004 Toyota Corolla. After Gorbachov and perestroika, it became permissible for people to own their own land. Volodia, made the most of the new laws and within several years of perestroika had bought himself a Dacha, thirty kilometers out of Moscow, almost directly on the bank of Rika Gorka (Small Mountain Creek).
It’s a two-story chalet with three bedrooms and two bathrooms sitting on a big chunk of Russian land in amongst other developed acreages with similar big chalets on them. About two acres large, Volodia’s chalet is as peaceful and idyllic a setting a post-perestroika Muscovite could ever want, considering what years of communism has wrought in Russia and on her citizens. If Volodia’s life and dacha purchase are anything to go by, I would say that middle-class Russians could probably be considered some of the wealthiest people around.
First of all it seems that post-perestroika Russians know or care little (yet) about the severe and debilitating dept that living on perpetual credit, North American style, brings. Volodia paid $150,000 Am. cash for his dacha five years ago. His place is now worth over two hundred thousand dollars. Most North Americans that I know, regardless of their age, wouldn’t be able to fathom saving $150, 000 Am. cash for any purpose what so ever. They, I, couldn’t do for sake of a huge dept load. Huge & burdonsome. Russian wealth is real, the result of working and saving, then buying things of value, rather than financing everything and making banks rich; ourselves poor, through high interest. Sometimes I wish my observations weren’t so gosh darn condemnatory of such large masses of people.
Actually, to tell the truth, what it looked like to ME: these were fancy houses from a time before that were abandoned by folks perhaps made government rich but now post peristroika folks with fledgling inititative came by and occupied them and began renovating piece by piece. As in, no money down, no money ever.... I'm just sayin', that's what it looked like to ME.
The rain has just stopped after a steady two hour sprinkling here in Moscow. I am sitting out in the back-acre garden pagoda of middle-class Russian wealth contemplating how huge the world the unborn son is about to become a part of is, and writing about it all. Simultaneously, I’m Drinking a 30-cent Botchkarov beer. Very good.
First thing he said was in Russian to my wife: “I’ve been waiting three hours”. Mmmmh, good start to our one week with them in Moscow, thought to myself. Wifey, the evanescent diplomat, had him laughing in fifteen minutes after he went and got the car – a 2004 Toyota Corolla. After Gorbachov and perestroika, it became permissible for people to own their own land. Volodia, made the most of the new laws and within several years of perestroika had bought himself a Dacha, thirty kilometers out of Moscow, almost directly on the bank of Rika Gorka (Small Mountain Creek).
It’s a two-story chalet with three bedrooms and two bathrooms sitting on a big chunk of Russian land in amongst other developed acreages with similar big chalets on them. About two acres large, Volodia’s chalet is as peaceful and idyllic a setting a post-perestroika Muscovite could ever want, considering what years of communism has wrought in Russia and on her citizens. If Volodia’s life and dacha purchase are anything to go by, I would say that middle-class Russians could probably be considered some of the wealthiest people around.
First of all it seems that post-perestroika Russians know or care little (yet) about the severe and debilitating dept that living on perpetual credit, North American style, brings. Volodia paid $150,000 Am. cash for his dacha five years ago. His place is now worth over two hundred thousand dollars. Most North Americans that I know, regardless of their age, wouldn’t be able to fathom saving $150, 000 Am. cash for any purpose what so ever. They, I, couldn’t do for sake of a huge dept load. Huge & burdonsome. Russian wealth is real, the result of working and saving, then buying things of value, rather than financing everything and making banks rich; ourselves poor, through high interest. Sometimes I wish my observations weren’t so gosh darn condemnatory of such large masses of people.
Actually, to tell the truth, what it looked like to ME: these were fancy houses from a time before that were abandoned by folks perhaps made government rich but now post peristroika folks with fledgling inititative came by and occupied them and began renovating piece by piece. As in, no money down, no money ever.... I'm just sayin', that's what it looked like to ME.
The rain has just stopped after a steady two hour sprinkling here in Moscow. I am sitting out in the back-acre garden pagoda of middle-class Russian wealth contemplating how huge the world the unborn son is about to become a part of is, and writing about it all. Simultaneously, I’m Drinking a 30-cent Botchkarov beer. Very good.
holiday to russia: reflections
The plane was two hours late. It was 12:00 midnight. Dima, Ioulia, the unborn son, and I finally boarded Aeroflot Airbus A-320-100 in Dubai. The flight was five hours. No in-flight movie, & no TV screens on the backs of the standard configuration naughahide upholstered seats. I understood (and accepted the terms gladly) how it is possible to fly Moscow Dubai on $410.00 Am. My wife said she loved me.
I slept on the plane much more comfortably than I had expected. Dima dibbed the window seat, wife said she wanted the middle seat, so I got the aisle seat. We descended and I saw Russia for the first time in my life. We came from the desert; how green the forests look from 5000 feet! At 7:00 in the morning Moscow’s southern edge slipped under us: a patterned silk sheet of civic topography, morning-lit by the still horizon-bound, ochre sun. The unborn son kicked my wife in the belly from the inside and she said: "oh!"
The landing was like something out of an Alex Hailey novel. Nonetheless, the professional Aeroflot drivers got the plane down without too much worry – if you’re a normal passenger, that is, without an aircraft maintenance licence, a PPL, 20-hours towards a CPL, and 10-ODD years of “finding stuff out” in your back pocket. We all unfastened our seatbelts well before the sign went out and well before the aircraft came to a complete stop and there was nothing the flight attendants could do about it.
We roared along, in subtle, Rolls-Royce, high by-pass ratio, big-jet, fashion, up to the Sheremyetevo Two airport terminal and the gate #2 ramp/walkway thingy coupled itself to our aircraft door through some secret society of aircraft ground-handlers’ magic. Overhead racks were popped open hurriedly and they vomited forth luggage of regulated shape and size into the arms of their owners. And we waited, standing in between the seats, migration cards filled out and ready to hand to ultra-suspecting passport control officers. I have never seen such scrutiny of documents in my life.
We were the only passengers there because it was seven in the morning and the officers were taking their time. At least ten minutes per pax. After a good hour or so, I finally made it up to the window, feeling quite confident. I had an invitation from my mother-in-law to visit Russia and had gotten my visa previously and properly done in Dubai at the consulate. I smiled and handed the keen young officer my passport and waited as he scrutinised and scrutinised some more. Utraviolet lights came on, the picture page plastic was examined from the side and lifted a bit to see if it was a fake. The picture was looked at extremely closely and in the end he looked at me and said: “wait here please one minute”.
Wifey, already through the Russian citizen’s line with Dima were waiting on the other side of passport control, bags already claimed, just plain got mad at the young feller. I got a little worried, thinking that this perhaps not the best way for her to behave right now and wanted to tell her to cool down a bit. But, again, I guess I have more to learn about Russians and their ways. She found his captain somehow, and they jawed in Russian for about five minutes. I still didn’t know what was going on, but figured it might be because I only had shown him the Dubai-Moscow ticket, Wifey had the return portion (from Ekaterinburg to Dubai), tucked safely away in her bag. So I asked her to show the guy the return ticket. She didn't understand me in her agitaed state so I made our never mind, it doesn't matter, don't worry, gesture as if I had control of the situation when in fact it was my wife's angry reaction that eventually saved me from interrrogation from immigration cops in the windowless room that the Arab family in from of me had been ushered into.
Next thing I know, as I was standing (over here for one minute) patiently taking it all in, the captain walks briskly and sternly over, opens the glass door to the young feller’s booth and says: “NA! Ni Che vo?!” (What is this?!). And the rest of what he said I didn’t really catch all of it but heard enough to know that he was saying this guy is her husband, they are a family, why are you treating him like a criminal, ease up a bit. Apparently there has been a wave of Canadian passport counterfeit attempts in Moscow over the past couple of months. Just my luck.
Anyways, once the chewing-out was over the young feller had another official quick look at my passport – to save a bit of dignity, I suppose - and gave it back to me. I said, in what I felt was a very sincere tone: “spaseeba balshoi” (A great big thank you). He answered: “pazhoulusteh” you’re welcome.
Every once in a while since we've been married my wife says to me: "nice to have a Russian wife, eh?" And here again was an instance in which I couldn't agree more. I imagined too what it might have been like for me if I had tried to fly into Sheryemetov Two say three years ago when I still single - my purpose being tourism. Knowing not a wit of Russian either, I don't think I wouda got too far.
I slept on the plane much more comfortably than I had expected. Dima dibbed the window seat, wife said she wanted the middle seat, so I got the aisle seat. We descended and I saw Russia for the first time in my life. We came from the desert; how green the forests look from 5000 feet! At 7:00 in the morning Moscow’s southern edge slipped under us: a patterned silk sheet of civic topography, morning-lit by the still horizon-bound, ochre sun. The unborn son kicked my wife in the belly from the inside and she said: "oh!"
The landing was like something out of an Alex Hailey novel. Nonetheless, the professional Aeroflot drivers got the plane down without too much worry – if you’re a normal passenger, that is, without an aircraft maintenance licence, a PPL, 20-hours towards a CPL, and 10-ODD years of “finding stuff out” in your back pocket. We all unfastened our seatbelts well before the sign went out and well before the aircraft came to a complete stop and there was nothing the flight attendants could do about it.
We roared along, in subtle, Rolls-Royce, high by-pass ratio, big-jet, fashion, up to the Sheremyetevo Two airport terminal and the gate #2 ramp/walkway thingy coupled itself to our aircraft door through some secret society of aircraft ground-handlers’ magic. Overhead racks were popped open hurriedly and they vomited forth luggage of regulated shape and size into the arms of their owners. And we waited, standing in between the seats, migration cards filled out and ready to hand to ultra-suspecting passport control officers. I have never seen such scrutiny of documents in my life.
We were the only passengers there because it was seven in the morning and the officers were taking their time. At least ten minutes per pax. After a good hour or so, I finally made it up to the window, feeling quite confident. I had an invitation from my mother-in-law to visit Russia and had gotten my visa previously and properly done in Dubai at the consulate. I smiled and handed the keen young officer my passport and waited as he scrutinised and scrutinised some more. Utraviolet lights came on, the picture page plastic was examined from the side and lifted a bit to see if it was a fake. The picture was looked at extremely closely and in the end he looked at me and said: “wait here please one minute”.
Wifey, already through the Russian citizen’s line with Dima were waiting on the other side of passport control, bags already claimed, just plain got mad at the young feller. I got a little worried, thinking that this perhaps not the best way for her to behave right now and wanted to tell her to cool down a bit. But, again, I guess I have more to learn about Russians and their ways. She found his captain somehow, and they jawed in Russian for about five minutes. I still didn’t know what was going on, but figured it might be because I only had shown him the Dubai-Moscow ticket, Wifey had the return portion (from Ekaterinburg to Dubai), tucked safely away in her bag. So I asked her to show the guy the return ticket. She didn't understand me in her agitaed state so I made our never mind, it doesn't matter, don't worry, gesture as if I had control of the situation when in fact it was my wife's angry reaction that eventually saved me from interrrogation from immigration cops in the windowless room that the Arab family in from of me had been ushered into.
Next thing I know, as I was standing (over here for one minute) patiently taking it all in, the captain walks briskly and sternly over, opens the glass door to the young feller’s booth and says: “NA! Ni Che vo?!” (What is this?!). And the rest of what he said I didn’t really catch all of it but heard enough to know that he was saying this guy is her husband, they are a family, why are you treating him like a criminal, ease up a bit. Apparently there has been a wave of Canadian passport counterfeit attempts in Moscow over the past couple of months. Just my luck.
Anyways, once the chewing-out was over the young feller had another official quick look at my passport – to save a bit of dignity, I suppose - and gave it back to me. I said, in what I felt was a very sincere tone: “spaseeba balshoi” (A great big thank you). He answered: “pazhoulusteh” you’re welcome.
Every once in a while since we've been married my wife says to me: "nice to have a Russian wife, eh?" And here again was an instance in which I couldn't agree more. I imagined too what it might have been like for me if I had tried to fly into Sheryemetov Two say three years ago when I still single - my purpose being tourism. Knowing not a wit of Russian either, I don't think I wouda got too far.
Golden Guardian Angel Joker speaks his mind
Hey, our owner’s taking us someplace! I better jump up on him to let him know how exited I am, and whimper too and run around the door here like I’m slightly nuts, yeah. That’ll get his attention, yeah. Get out of my way Tyson! Younger brother, you can’t jump up on him before me! OW! My ear, what’d ya do that for. Angh! There! See how it feels? Now get down so that I can jump up on our owner. OW Why’d he knee me in the chest like that, that hurts!
Oh! the door’s opening, me first! TYSON! angh! Get back, I’m first. No me! Gee! now we’re free out here Tyson! Lets go as fast as we aaagggh, oops I guess we’re not free. My neck hurts a bit, does yours Tyson? “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh oh, better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. But I wanna go! I wanna goooo! Let’s go! Whimper whimper. Oh! Some more doors opening! Let’s run into this small box that goes up and down as fast as we can ‘k Tyson?! OK NOW! NOW! “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh oh. Better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member.
As the lift descends:Look at ‘im, eh Tyson, whine whine, bet we could kill him pretty quick if we work together, eh? Oh! Doors opening again! ME FIRST TYSON ANGH, when ya gonna learn! Boy this floor is slippery! I’m running as fast as I can but I’m not moving forward, what’s choking me? Pant! Pant! Pant! You movin’ Tys? No? I ain’t either. What’s chokin’ us? Pant Pant Pant. Ok now we’re movin’ HEY LOOK KIDS!!!! Let’s go tear them to pieces “JOKI HEEL! TYSON HEEL! Oh yeah, better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. BUT KIDS! LOOK! LET’S GET ‘IM TYSY!!! GO! GO! GO! Hey! I’m not moving forward, what’s choking me? Pant! Pant! Pant! You movin’ Tys? No? I ain’t either. What’s chokin’ us? Pant Pant Pant.
Why is everybody screaming? That kid’s pretty close I think I can get him, aaagggh, oops I guess can’t get him, can I. HEY! Why did that stupid kid with the white kap and white dress on throw a stone at me, and yell: “Chelb Haram! Chelb haram!” LET’S GET HIM TYSY! GO! GO! GO! SNARL! Look at him run! Listen to him scream in terror, Tysy. Let’s really get him now! Hey, I’m not moving forward, what’s choking me? Pant! Pant! Pant! You movin’ Tys? No? I ain’t either. What’s chokin’ us? Pant Pant Pant. “JOKI HEEL! TYSON HEEL!” Oh yeah, better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member.
Oh look, the shiny silver car. I’m gonna jump up here and put my claws on the silver part right here and… there we go. It’s work of art don’t you think Tyson? Oh! Door opening lets leap inside Tyson ready GO! GO! GO! “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. Gee it’s getting hot in here! Pant Pant Pant. I can hardly breath! TYSON QUIT NIPPIN’ MY TESTICALS, YAUW! Anggh! Get back little brother! Bite me in the balls again n’ I’ll kill ya!
Hey! We’re movin! Ah finally getting cooler. There I think I’m gonna relax. Tyson move over I’m gonna lay down here beside ya. Ahh! That’s nice.
Forty five minutes later…Hey! This ain’t home! Where are we? Tyson take a look at that nice rotty bitch over their being walked by a house maid, mmm mmmm that’s sweet yessiree that’s sweet. Hey there’s a Dobi over there, hey a Shepard! Whine whine, yessiree that’s sweet. Hey we’re stoppin’! I’m first getting out. HEY! How did we both get our heads stuck in here? Get your head out of that space between the headrest and the doorframe Tyson.
OH! The door’s opening I’m getting out first, NO ME! Aagggh! I guess not: “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. Whine Whine Whine. Who’s that? Oh oh, that’s the big guy from yesterday, run Tyson! He’s big. Run Tyson! “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. Oh, oh! Well, I guess the big guy’s alright – he just wants to pet us, not hit us repeatedly with a slipper…. Hey look a gate opening! I’m first! ME! HEY LOOK, A HUGE LAWN! Sniff sniff, mine!, pzzzzzz, dibbs! Pzzzzz, mine! pzzzzzz.
Hey Tyson watch! I’m gonna drop a huge load right ghnn! HERE aahh! Oh yeah, it feels so good taking a crap on nice fresh green grass - right on my leash - owner’s gonna love that. Hey! What’s that lady want? Oh Boy, she loves me, wot Tyson?! She’s all over me, eh?! Look at her boobs Tyson. What do think eh? Right, sweet man, they’re huge snd soft too. She LOVES me man. She’s huggin me close! She smells GOOD! Ohhh, Whine whine she’s turnin’ me on Tyson! Oh yeah!
There’s the big guy again, cringe. Wait a second, he has no slipper. It’ll be alright. He’s just trying to pet us. Yeah, he’s alright. Don’t have to run from him. In fact I like him now – gonna lick his hand, LICK. He’s smilin’ now.
Hey. How come our owners’ got wet eyes like that we better lick his face and wag our tails to make him feel better: LICK LICK LICK WAG WAG WAG, ok done.It’s all good Tyson. We’re in a YARD li’l bro. You like it here? I do. Hey! Where’s our owner gone? Whine Whine. Hey look the silver car is going away! Hey….
This fence is pretty high, eh Tyson? We better get down.Hey Tyson, look at this HUGE GREEN LAWN sniff sniff mine! pzzzzzz.
A tribute to Golden Guardian Angel Joker and Golden Guardian Angel Tyson. A couple of champs. I’m gonna miss them.
June 16th Nine days to go…. We leave on the twenty fifth of June for Moscow for a one month holiday. I am ready already. I gave my lovely puppy Tyson, away to a big british fellow with long dreadlocks and wife with same, named Carl and Joki I gave to one of my former students - one of the more well behaved ones, (actually a really good guy - his mom is Tanzanian). So, both dogs have a better place to stay now. Tyson has a little Dachshund brother to play with all day and a big pool to swim in and a villa staffed with about thirteen servants! Joki has a young German shepard brother of three months to watch over now and lives in a huge villa occupied by a family of dog lovers. Sure miss them. I miss them more than the little green vervet I spent one year with in tanzania, as much as the intelligent and quick little sheep-herding cross dog I had in Tanzania named piki (motorcycle in Kiswahili). I must say that the Amstaff is one of most perfect breeds of dogs I've ever had the privilage of been around. I feel these Amstaffs were really something special. I soon will own another own, once our baby is old enough.
Growing up our family had pets including dogs and though they were all lovely and good companions, etc., I really enjoyed these Amstaffs more than any of my other pets. Perhaps it's simply because these are the only pets I've ever invested 6000 bucks in (when all was said and done)! Anyway, as I was saying, our family a big dalmation named Robbes Pierre, a big shepard named Billy, my cousins had a big retriever/St. bernard cross named Rusty, my mom had a beautiful purebred shepard named Zenta, my grampa had a very nice example of a purbred dobbie named Barry, my little brother had a husky/maniac cross with one blue eye and one green named Ashia. My other little brother owned a lovely hound that had some racing blood in her I'm sure - named daisy, then later when daisy died in a freak accident, he bought a mutt and named him Santa's little helper. my oldest brother's family has a little Yorkie cross and they've named him Bethoven.
In the mean time I write this blog in a fog. In fact I am in the midst of wondering just where the yellow goes, when I brush my teeth with Pepsojoes.
Oh! the door’s opening, me first! TYSON! angh! Get back, I’m first. No me! Gee! now we’re free out here Tyson! Lets go as fast as we aaagggh, oops I guess we’re not free. My neck hurts a bit, does yours Tyson? “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh oh, better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. But I wanna go! I wanna goooo! Let’s go! Whimper whimper. Oh! Some more doors opening! Let’s run into this small box that goes up and down as fast as we can ‘k Tyson?! OK NOW! NOW! “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh oh. Better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member.
As the lift descends:Look at ‘im, eh Tyson, whine whine, bet we could kill him pretty quick if we work together, eh? Oh! Doors opening again! ME FIRST TYSON ANGH, when ya gonna learn! Boy this floor is slippery! I’m running as fast as I can but I’m not moving forward, what’s choking me? Pant! Pant! Pant! You movin’ Tys? No? I ain’t either. What’s chokin’ us? Pant Pant Pant. Ok now we’re movin’ HEY LOOK KIDS!!!! Let’s go tear them to pieces “JOKI HEEL! TYSON HEEL! Oh yeah, better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. BUT KIDS! LOOK! LET’S GET ‘IM TYSY!!! GO! GO! GO! Hey! I’m not moving forward, what’s choking me? Pant! Pant! Pant! You movin’ Tys? No? I ain’t either. What’s chokin’ us? Pant Pant Pant.
Why is everybody screaming? That kid’s pretty close I think I can get him, aaagggh, oops I guess can’t get him, can I. HEY! Why did that stupid kid with the white kap and white dress on throw a stone at me, and yell: “Chelb Haram! Chelb haram!” LET’S GET HIM TYSY! GO! GO! GO! SNARL! Look at him run! Listen to him scream in terror, Tysy. Let’s really get him now! Hey, I’m not moving forward, what’s choking me? Pant! Pant! Pant! You movin’ Tys? No? I ain’t either. What’s chokin’ us? Pant Pant Pant. “JOKI HEEL! TYSON HEEL!” Oh yeah, better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member.
Oh look, the shiny silver car. I’m gonna jump up here and put my claws on the silver part right here and… there we go. It’s work of art don’t you think Tyson? Oh! Door opening lets leap inside Tyson ready GO! GO! GO! “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. Gee it’s getting hot in here! Pant Pant Pant. I can hardly breath! TYSON QUIT NIPPIN’ MY TESTICALS, YAUW! Anggh! Get back little brother! Bite me in the balls again n’ I’ll kill ya!
Hey! We’re movin! Ah finally getting cooler. There I think I’m gonna relax. Tyson move over I’m gonna lay down here beside ya. Ahh! That’s nice.
Forty five minutes later…Hey! This ain’t home! Where are we? Tyson take a look at that nice rotty bitch over their being walked by a house maid, mmm mmmm that’s sweet yessiree that’s sweet. Hey there’s a Dobi over there, hey a Shepard! Whine whine, yessiree that’s sweet. Hey we’re stoppin’! I’m first getting out. HEY! How did we both get our heads stuck in here? Get your head out of that space between the headrest and the doorframe Tyson.
OH! The door’s opening I’m getting out first, NO ME! Aagggh! I guess not: “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. Whine Whine Whine. Who’s that? Oh oh, that’s the big guy from yesterday, run Tyson! He’s big. Run Tyson! “SIT JOKI! SIT TYSON! Oh better do what he says, he feeds us ‘member. Oh, oh! Well, I guess the big guy’s alright – he just wants to pet us, not hit us repeatedly with a slipper…. Hey look a gate opening! I’m first! ME! HEY LOOK, A HUGE LAWN! Sniff sniff, mine!, pzzzzzz, dibbs! Pzzzzz, mine! pzzzzzz.
Hey Tyson watch! I’m gonna drop a huge load right ghnn! HERE aahh! Oh yeah, it feels so good taking a crap on nice fresh green grass - right on my leash - owner’s gonna love that. Hey! What’s that lady want? Oh Boy, she loves me, wot Tyson?! She’s all over me, eh?! Look at her boobs Tyson. What do think eh? Right, sweet man, they’re huge snd soft too. She LOVES me man. She’s huggin me close! She smells GOOD! Ohhh, Whine whine she’s turnin’ me on Tyson! Oh yeah!
There’s the big guy again, cringe. Wait a second, he has no slipper. It’ll be alright. He’s just trying to pet us. Yeah, he’s alright. Don’t have to run from him. In fact I like him now – gonna lick his hand, LICK. He’s smilin’ now.
Hey. How come our owners’ got wet eyes like that we better lick his face and wag our tails to make him feel better: LICK LICK LICK WAG WAG WAG, ok done.It’s all good Tyson. We’re in a YARD li’l bro. You like it here? I do. Hey! Where’s our owner gone? Whine Whine. Hey look the silver car is going away! Hey….
This fence is pretty high, eh Tyson? We better get down.Hey Tyson, look at this HUGE GREEN LAWN sniff sniff mine! pzzzzzz.
A tribute to Golden Guardian Angel Joker and Golden Guardian Angel Tyson. A couple of champs. I’m gonna miss them.
June 16th Nine days to go…. We leave on the twenty fifth of June for Moscow for a one month holiday. I am ready already. I gave my lovely puppy Tyson, away to a big british fellow with long dreadlocks and wife with same, named Carl and Joki I gave to one of my former students - one of the more well behaved ones, (actually a really good guy - his mom is Tanzanian). So, both dogs have a better place to stay now. Tyson has a little Dachshund brother to play with all day and a big pool to swim in and a villa staffed with about thirteen servants! Joki has a young German shepard brother of three months to watch over now and lives in a huge villa occupied by a family of dog lovers. Sure miss them. I miss them more than the little green vervet I spent one year with in tanzania, as much as the intelligent and quick little sheep-herding cross dog I had in Tanzania named piki (motorcycle in Kiswahili). I must say that the Amstaff is one of most perfect breeds of dogs I've ever had the privilage of been around. I feel these Amstaffs were really something special. I soon will own another own, once our baby is old enough.
Growing up our family had pets including dogs and though they were all lovely and good companions, etc., I really enjoyed these Amstaffs more than any of my other pets. Perhaps it's simply because these are the only pets I've ever invested 6000 bucks in (when all was said and done)! Anyway, as I was saying, our family a big dalmation named Robbes Pierre, a big shepard named Billy, my cousins had a big retriever/St. bernard cross named Rusty, my mom had a beautiful purebred shepard named Zenta, my grampa had a very nice example of a purbred dobbie named Barry, my little brother had a husky/maniac cross with one blue eye and one green named Ashia. My other little brother owned a lovely hound that had some racing blood in her I'm sure - named daisy, then later when daisy died in a freak accident, he bought a mutt and named him Santa's little helper. my oldest brother's family has a little Yorkie cross and they've named him Bethoven.
In the mean time I write this blog in a fog. In fact I am in the midst of wondering just where the yellow goes, when I brush my teeth with Pepsojoes.
canis lupis in the domice
Golden Guardian Angel ladybug is the younger of my borderline, illegal-in-this-Country Am staffs, depending on the ever chaning mood of the director of the Ministry of agriculture who owns several pitbulls the Amstaff's 100 times more aggressive breed-cousin. Ladybug's older brother, Golden Guardian Angel Joker is a champion – first place in the terrier class of the Dubai dog show 2004! Yes we were pleasantly surprised. Right now I have about five to seven shots of Absolute Blue in me. Mixed, of course, with orange-carrot juice, just recently ordered from Marco Supermarket. Marco supermarket is just across the street from Al Chile supermarket – downstairs in our building, No. 42.
Means absolutely nothing as far as I can tell. Really? Nomber 42? So the freak what?! That sentence has no verb I alertly observe. I yearn for my homeland. Canada. It is my homeland don’t you know? I yearn for it, Canada in the same manner I yearn for my wife's caress after a few days of not having good wholesome sex’n’cuddle in the midst of a vast, first pregnancy. I’m a bit off right now to be sure but the words here writ, surely, stand as fodder for eventual revelation to the vast audience that is the WWW. Big brother has not nothing on you baby! Keep the faith! Lose the tie, but keep the faith!
The beet goes on. Borsht is the best soup in the world, I've been convinced to believe by eating it and the constant raving that this is in fact the case. Today I ate potatoes pure' and chicken fried and yes, I feel fed to the fullest. My wife’s cooking transcends all ceilings, glass and non-, in her constant “strival” towards the perfect cooked meal. (GOLLY!) it’s some good stuff!!!
I wonder how much of the on the job slag I miss. I am a straight listening dude; no really. Slightly pissed right now - can’t hardly see the keys for a lack of freakin’ focus but nonetheless believe in that silly little thing called "consciousness of the immediate" wherein one’s thoughts transmitted to paper are confined within the acolocic, alchoholic, alcoholic, THERE! filter confining - referred to sometimes as moderation.
DOGS! Back to ‘em! they have so much potential as amstaffs. For the past several years they’ve had so much freakin’ potential. And yet because I slave at finishing these degrees and because Bleep slaves at being the perfect man-about-the-Sharjah-and-Dubai-town, Russian DIPlomat in the freakin’ UAE, and because my wife is four months on, showing muire than slightly, and RESTING by Dr. Nasser’s orders, NO ONE HAS TIME FOR THESE FINE AWARD-WINNING ALREADY, SHOW ANIMALS!!! Damn! It’s frustrating! I phoned K9 friends in Dubai (different from the K9 P and kaka lauded in so many lovely limericks here and beyond) last week to try and pawn the two of my Dubai-bound champion dogs off on them egged on primarily by the aggravated nagging of melovely (alternatively me-luvly)…, and was snubbed by: EVEN THEM!!!!
What are you to do when even K9 friends have no place for your beloved animals!?! Dogs, Dogs, dogs, dogs! Damn canines! My wife threatens air in a syringe. She has had enough, it looks like. And there is the coming baby that we MUST consider. Canis Lupus might well have been a BETTER choice to constrict and confine to such a city prison flat! At least a bloody wolf would not (likely, that is) have nabbed first place in the Dubai freakin' Dog show! God help us for spoiling two champs!
AND… the beat goes on, in an authentically Arabic style and countenance. What a word: countenance! One that fills the empty quarter of any country with desert dignity surpassing Europa elite flare, Latino limbo, African Astute arrogance, and Chinese "oh so chinoise" chai. If micheal Jordan, in full five-storey IMAX, can admit to failing repeatedly then, gosh darn it!!, So the flip can I!!! Yes..., I have failed in CRITICAL areas of my life only to with paint scraper peel myslef carefully off the pavement to wear yet another Nike air innovation and drink yet another clear sprite bubbly sugar water. Woohoo!!! As they say in the slightly outdated, yet trying to seem hip, remains of a past youth culture vernacular…. And this ends this drivel.
See you when I’m SOBER – man. Okay byro, steady now chappie, STEADY!
Means absolutely nothing as far as I can tell. Really? Nomber 42? So the freak what?! That sentence has no verb I alertly observe. I yearn for my homeland. Canada. It is my homeland don’t you know? I yearn for it, Canada in the same manner I yearn for my wife's caress after a few days of not having good wholesome sex’n’cuddle in the midst of a vast, first pregnancy. I’m a bit off right now to be sure but the words here writ, surely, stand as fodder for eventual revelation to the vast audience that is the WWW. Big brother has not nothing on you baby! Keep the faith! Lose the tie, but keep the faith!
The beet goes on. Borsht is the best soup in the world, I've been convinced to believe by eating it and the constant raving that this is in fact the case. Today I ate potatoes pure' and chicken fried and yes, I feel fed to the fullest. My wife’s cooking transcends all ceilings, glass and non-, in her constant “strival” towards the perfect cooked meal. (GOLLY!) it’s some good stuff!!!
I wonder how much of the on the job slag I miss. I am a straight listening dude; no really. Slightly pissed right now - can’t hardly see the keys for a lack of freakin’ focus but nonetheless believe in that silly little thing called "consciousness of the immediate" wherein one’s thoughts transmitted to paper are confined within the acolocic, alchoholic, alcoholic, THERE! filter confining - referred to sometimes as moderation.
DOGS! Back to ‘em! they have so much potential as amstaffs. For the past several years they’ve had so much freakin’ potential. And yet because I slave at finishing these degrees and because Bleep slaves at being the perfect man-about-the-Sharjah-and-Dubai-town, Russian DIPlomat in the freakin’ UAE, and because my wife is four months on, showing muire than slightly, and RESTING by Dr. Nasser’s orders, NO ONE HAS TIME FOR THESE FINE AWARD-WINNING ALREADY, SHOW ANIMALS!!! Damn! It’s frustrating! I phoned K9 friends in Dubai (different from the K9 P and kaka lauded in so many lovely limericks here and beyond) last week to try and pawn the two of my Dubai-bound champion dogs off on them egged on primarily by the aggravated nagging of melovely (alternatively me-luvly)…, and was snubbed by: EVEN THEM!!!!
What are you to do when even K9 friends have no place for your beloved animals!?! Dogs, Dogs, dogs, dogs! Damn canines! My wife threatens air in a syringe. She has had enough, it looks like. And there is the coming baby that we MUST consider. Canis Lupus might well have been a BETTER choice to constrict and confine to such a city prison flat! At least a bloody wolf would not (likely, that is) have nabbed first place in the Dubai freakin' Dog show! God help us for spoiling two champs!
AND… the beat goes on, in an authentically Arabic style and countenance. What a word: countenance! One that fills the empty quarter of any country with desert dignity surpassing Europa elite flare, Latino limbo, African Astute arrogance, and Chinese "oh so chinoise" chai. If micheal Jordan, in full five-storey IMAX, can admit to failing repeatedly then, gosh darn it!!, So the flip can I!!! Yes..., I have failed in CRITICAL areas of my life only to with paint scraper peel myslef carefully off the pavement to wear yet another Nike air innovation and drink yet another clear sprite bubbly sugar water. Woohoo!!! As they say in the slightly outdated, yet trying to seem hip, remains of a past youth culture vernacular…. And this ends this drivel.
See you when I’m SOBER – man. Okay byro, steady now chappie, STEADY!
Mustafa and Mohamad in the desert
Entry at the end of a rather rough year, I must say. Had the unfortunate privilege of dealing with a Bellushi (Southern Iran) student, made very angry from a rookie Lead teacher coming out of California. I had to defend myself against the swinging fists of a young feller that this new lead teacher had spent the past half hour screaming at. Yes, he may well have been an interim director of the anthrax language institute (or some such name)in San Fran. But, my goodness, this ain’t San Fran is it. And yes, he may well have had three months previous experience in the Sharjah school away back in the nineties when a failed contractor, SuSPECT had this contract. But my goodness, SuSPECT is long since dead round these here parts – man. Methods used then don’t belong here now, IMO. Dare I say it? Suspect's was a VERY American method – domineering, in your face, US Marine style - my way or the f’ing highway managment. Here’s a guy that I will never ever give a chance to in the future. I will curse in his face and tell him straight that I don't work with cowards if and when he offers me his hand in greeting.
Here’s a guy that is a classic coward. He does not face his own bungling and puts his mistake on his subordinate's shoulders, me, forcing the project director, his ‘good friend’, as I understand it, to initiate my transfer to another school. Oh well. We’ll see who’s left standing after this year. Maybe he’ll win but I don’t think so. Maybe he’ll lose. Big time. For example, further bungling, and being extremely stubborn, he spearheaded the transfer of the student mentioned above to the school that the student and I both have now spent the rest of our year (successfully) at!
Another measly gratifactory power grubber by a middle man with no feet to ground. In any case if I ever run into him again, he will see my answer. He who laughs last laughs best. Transfer me to another school for HIS mistake? I can teach anywhere. I did and I will I have proven it already.
I am a professional teacher and I teach. He on the other hand is a scared little bleeb. A coward who spoils things for other people. A coward who listens to the "all-in-a-days-work-for-these-guys" lies of certain Amerimuslim teachers, hiding here in UAE, US passports in hand, who have their own agenda and in fear, the coward complies.
Incompetent management of resources due to inexperience is sometimes forgivable. Incompetence due to cowardly character is not and should be rooted out quickly. Especially over here. Yes, it gets personal. HIS is coming, to be sure. HIS is coming.
There is an old Arab proverb that goes something like this (my paraphrase). Two Bedou brothers, Mustafa and Mohamad, met in the desert - one on safari through to Yandu, KoSA and one temporarily settled in a desert camp near Abu Dhabi, family and goats surrounding. They were having chai and over chai Mustafa and Mohamad discussed the events of the weeks preceding, in which they had not seen each other. The conversation came around to a certain man that had cheated the brother on safari around twenty years ago.
“Remember that man that cheated me so many years ago, Mustafa?”, the travelling Mohamad asked. “I do, I do” laughed Mustafa, relishing even the mention of deceit, being Arab, though it was indeed his own brother who had been deceived! “Well, my chance came to get him back yesterday. And I got him good! I got him good”
Mohamed was somewhat shocked but not at his brother's revenge-induced joy, rather that his brother could only wait twenty years to payback the guy: “REALLY?!” “But why so soon, my brother? Why ever so soon?” Ah yes, if an Arab can wait twenty years and more…. Talk about holding a grudge though eh? Later.
Here’s a guy that is a classic coward. He does not face his own bungling and puts his mistake on his subordinate's shoulders, me, forcing the project director, his ‘good friend’, as I understand it, to initiate my transfer to another school. Oh well. We’ll see who’s left standing after this year. Maybe he’ll win but I don’t think so. Maybe he’ll lose. Big time. For example, further bungling, and being extremely stubborn, he spearheaded the transfer of the student mentioned above to the school that the student and I both have now spent the rest of our year (successfully) at!
Another measly gratifactory power grubber by a middle man with no feet to ground. In any case if I ever run into him again, he will see my answer. He who laughs last laughs best. Transfer me to another school for HIS mistake? I can teach anywhere. I did and I will I have proven it already.
I am a professional teacher and I teach. He on the other hand is a scared little bleeb. A coward who spoils things for other people. A coward who listens to the "all-in-a-days-work-for-these-guys" lies of certain Amerimuslim teachers, hiding here in UAE, US passports in hand, who have their own agenda and in fear, the coward complies.
Incompetent management of resources due to inexperience is sometimes forgivable. Incompetence due to cowardly character is not and should be rooted out quickly. Especially over here. Yes, it gets personal. HIS is coming, to be sure. HIS is coming.
There is an old Arab proverb that goes something like this (my paraphrase). Two Bedou brothers, Mustafa and Mohamad, met in the desert - one on safari through to Yandu, KoSA and one temporarily settled in a desert camp near Abu Dhabi, family and goats surrounding. They were having chai and over chai Mustafa and Mohamad discussed the events of the weeks preceding, in which they had not seen each other. The conversation came around to a certain man that had cheated the brother on safari around twenty years ago.
“Remember that man that cheated me so many years ago, Mustafa?”, the travelling Mohamad asked. “I do, I do” laughed Mustafa, relishing even the mention of deceit, being Arab, though it was indeed his own brother who had been deceived! “Well, my chance came to get him back yesterday. And I got him good! I got him good”
Mohamed was somewhat shocked but not at his brother's revenge-induced joy, rather that his brother could only wait twenty years to payback the guy: “REALLY?!” “But why so soon, my brother? Why ever so soon?” Ah yes, if an Arab can wait twenty years and more…. Talk about holding a grudge though eh? Later.
teecha-u
TEECHA-U
A poem by Byromaniac
Twenteen teecha
Tora-tora
Hebah-hebah
Shwe-shwe
Gandu, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Gandu to you!
Gahabah, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Gahabah to you!
Gawad, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Gawad to you!
Mejnoon, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Mejnoon to you!
Mafi sheh, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Mafi sheh to you!
Teecha, one minute, bithrum.
No Omar, Iglis, minfudluck, Al Heina!
IGLIS! Thank you.
fucyu teecha!
MAS’HARAH TEECHA U!
Silence staring.
WALAHI! not me teecha!!!
WALAHI! WALAHI! Not me teecha.
Iss Machmood, Ahshara, Amer,
Ishmael, Essa, Salim.
WALAHI! Not me teecha!
Wazzab Teecha!
Twenteen teecha!
Ishirine?
Twenty not Twenteen!
Twenty teecha?
Eiywa. Twenty zain!
FifTEEN, FIFty teeacha?
Hamstash, hamsine?
5 - 0 teecha?
FIFTY!
Hamsine – fifty teecha?
Eiywa. Fifty! Zain! Tamam!
FUCYU TEECHA!
Silence staring.
WALAHI! not me teecha!!!
WALAHI! WALAHI! Not me teecha!
Iss Machmood, Ahshara, Amer,
Ishmael, Essa, Salim
WALAHI! Not me teecha!!!
Tora-Tora.
Hebah-hebah.
Shwe-shwe.
Torah - Torah?!
TORAH! TORAH!
Hip hip TORAH!
Jazz-hip-jazz-hop drop the beat
Skip fantasia
Me gud, teecha?
Mia-mia
Tora-Tora
Hebah-hebah
Shwe-shwe
And the beat goes on. Al Aikumu-a-salam....
(and; with interjections)
TEECHA U
Twenteen teecha
Tora-Tora Hebah-hebah Shwe-shwe Gandu Teecha u (Bitch) That’s DJ Gandu to you! Gahabah, Teecha u (Pimp) That’s DJ Gahabah to you! Gawad Teecha u (Gay) That’s DJ Gawad to you! Mejnoon Teecha u (without a brain, dumb slightly confused) That’s DJ Mejnoon to you! Mafi sheh Teecha u (without courage, afraid, timid, shy) That’s DJ Mafi sheh to you! Teecha One minute bithrum No Omar, Iglis, minfudluck, Al Heina! fucyu teecha! MAS’HARAH, TEECHA U! Silence staring WALAHI! not me teecha!!! WALAHI! WALAHI! Not me teecha! iss Machmood, Ahshara, Amer, Ishmael, Essa, Salim WALAHI! Not me teecha! Wazzab Teecha! Twenteen techa! Ishirine? Twenty not Twenteen! Twenty teecha? Eiywa. Twenty Zain! FifTEEN, FIFty teeacha? Hamstash, hamsine? 5 - 0 teecha? FIFTY! Hamsine – fifty teecha? Eiywa. Fifty! Zain! Tamam! “Fucyu teecha!” Tora-Tora. Hebah-hebah. Shwe-shwe. Torah - Torah?! TORAH-TORAH!!! Hip hip TORAH! Hip-jazz-hop, skip fantasia. Mia-mia. Me gud, teecha? Tora-Tora. Hebah-hebah. Shwe-shwe. And the beat goes on. Al Aikumu-a-salam....
A poem by Byromaniac
Twenteen teecha
Tora-tora
Hebah-hebah
Shwe-shwe
Gandu, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Gandu to you!
Gahabah, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Gahabah to you!
Gawad, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Gawad to you!
Mejnoon, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Mejnoon to you!
Mafi sheh, Teecha u.
That’s DJ Mafi sheh to you!
Teecha, one minute, bithrum.
No Omar, Iglis, minfudluck, Al Heina!
IGLIS! Thank you.
fucyu teecha!
MAS’HARAH TEECHA U!
Silence staring.
WALAHI! not me teecha!!!
WALAHI! WALAHI! Not me teecha.
Iss Machmood, Ahshara, Amer,
Ishmael, Essa, Salim.
WALAHI! Not me teecha!
Wazzab Teecha!
Twenteen teecha!
Ishirine?
Twenty not Twenteen!
Twenty teecha?
Eiywa. Twenty zain!
FifTEEN, FIFty teeacha?
Hamstash, hamsine?
5 - 0 teecha?
FIFTY!
Hamsine – fifty teecha?
Eiywa. Fifty! Zain! Tamam!
FUCYU TEECHA!
Silence staring.
WALAHI! not me teecha!!!
WALAHI! WALAHI! Not me teecha!
Iss Machmood, Ahshara, Amer,
Ishmael, Essa, Salim
WALAHI! Not me teecha!!!
Tora-Tora.
Hebah-hebah.
Shwe-shwe.
Torah - Torah?!
TORAH! TORAH!
Hip hip TORAH!
Jazz-hip-jazz-hop drop the beat
Skip fantasia
Me gud, teecha?
Mia-mia
Tora-Tora
Hebah-hebah
Shwe-shwe
And the beat goes on. Al Aikumu-a-salam....
(and; with interjections)
TEECHA U
Twenteen teecha
Tora-Tora Hebah-hebah Shwe-shwe Gandu Teecha u (Bitch) That’s DJ Gandu to you! Gahabah, Teecha u (Pimp) That’s DJ Gahabah to you! Gawad Teecha u (Gay) That’s DJ Gawad to you! Mejnoon Teecha u (without a brain, dumb slightly confused) That’s DJ Mejnoon to you! Mafi sheh Teecha u (without courage, afraid, timid, shy) That’s DJ Mafi sheh to you! Teecha One minute bithrum No Omar, Iglis, minfudluck, Al Heina! fucyu teecha! MAS’HARAH, TEECHA U! Silence staring WALAHI! not me teecha!!! WALAHI! WALAHI! Not me teecha! iss Machmood, Ahshara, Amer, Ishmael, Essa, Salim WALAHI! Not me teecha! Wazzab Teecha! Twenteen techa! Ishirine? Twenty not Twenteen! Twenty teecha? Eiywa. Twenty Zain! FifTEEN, FIFty teeacha? Hamstash, hamsine? 5 - 0 teecha? FIFTY! Hamsine – fifty teecha? Eiywa. Fifty! Zain! Tamam! “Fucyu teecha!” Tora-Tora. Hebah-hebah. Shwe-shwe. Torah - Torah?! TORAH-TORAH!!! Hip hip TORAH! Hip-jazz-hop, skip fantasia. Mia-mia. Me gud, teecha? Tora-Tora. Hebah-hebah. Shwe-shwe. And the beat goes on. Al Aikumu-a-salam....
freckly viola
The summit of Jebel Hafeet,
Reddy rocks & heat.
Decision made.
Ekaterina, Crimson & Jade.
Falcon rose,
Moving, wung way out pose.
No static prose,
The Numb Bard; he knows.…
Current, windswept air.
Thoughts on Julia,
Emerald-ruby, bare.
My freckly viola....
Reddy rocks & heat.
Decision made.
Ekaterina, Crimson & Jade.
Falcon rose,
Moving, wung way out pose.
No static prose,
The Numb Bard; he knows.…
Current, windswept air.
Thoughts on Julia,
Emerald-ruby, bare.
My freckly viola....
overlooking kenyatta: mission and moving on
“at the foot of the Ngong hills…” (Blixen, K.), Well, almost at the foot of the Ngong hills, anyways - I was cheated. It was in Nairobi Kenya, actually in 1989. On a week long debrief (waiting for the KLM flt. out of Jomo Kenayta Airport), I took some advice and 600 Am bucks to town with me. I went to the open Bazaar between Moktar Dada street and Kenyatta Avenue. I bought Ebony Makonde carvings and Batiques in African themes, glassware and brassware, a cane sword, some discrete daggers in discrete shafts, Ebony and hammered land-rover-spring-bladed, traditional Masai axes, and clay heads in the form of a Masai man and woman – gifts for all my brothers, cousins and all my new sister-in-laws, cousin-in-laws and mom and dad.
In the two-year span of prime life it took to spend in Africa, there were many new faces to buy for. I spent about 200 bucks Am. Then I had a burger loaded and “chips” for lunch at wimpy’s on the second floor of an office building the window of which overlookcd Kenyatta ave. An alluring young Kenyan lady sat beside me for lunch a minute later. I looked alternatively out the window at my burger, taking bytes of it, and nervously out of the corner of my Baptist up-brought eye, at her not so subtly positioned in my direction, bare legs.
I was fresh out of eighteen months of conservative village-living in Dodoma. Eye-batting with her and her bare legs through lunch, I managed a nervous smile, at the most two, between bytes of wimpy meat-n-bun. She then suddenly smiled extremely sweetly and propositioned to spend the afternoon with me and some of my money. Well, I never.... At the same moment I came to a new self knowledge. I understood what it meant to be a white man of 22 in downtown Nairobi eating lunch at an innocent wimpy’s with an alluring young Kenyan lady choosing eat lunch, like, right there, beside ME, dorky, glasses-faced, an in-love-with-only-airplanes-since-1967-kind-of-guy, with a mission from God to fulfil, and with just barely enough of inkling of the consequence of choosing to spend the kind of time and money she was hoping for.
So yeah, I excused myself, saying: “Ha! I have an excuse! I’ve a mission from God to fulfil, madam, otherwise I’d very likely be impossible for you to stop once you've invited me to have fully-clothed, unprotected sex with you right here in this over-crowded fast-food restaurant.” Wait a minute; I didn’t say that at all. I only fantasized about saying that along with fantasizing about the not so subtle positioning of the bare legs of the alluring young Kenyan lady and her so sweet smile, as I was chokin’ the chicken before I went to sleep that very night, to relieve the tremendous stress of having a mission from God to fulfil, and of course, also, out of a simple, wilful, harmless submission once again to a rather unassuming male habit that 95% percent of us men engage in before we discover a more fitting place for peter.
I didn't go blind and, funnily enough, it wasn't the alluring young Kenyan lady who cheated me. It was a Blackman on Kenyatta Ave, after lunch (and my excuse to the alluring young Kenyan lady), calling out to me from behind after I passed him on the street, asking me why I didn’t greet a black man on the street. “Are you a Dutch, from South Africa?” Eh? I had to turn and see who would dare hint that I had a trace of racism in me. Come on, I grew up in Cameroon. I stayed in Tanzania’s capital village, Dodoma for eighteen months, not only greeting but learning from, working alongside, living with, and eating with them every day.
Me, not greeting a black man? How dare you suggest I am racist! So I turned greeted the black man and he engaged me in pleasant conversation regarding my knowledge of the ANC and Nelson Mandela’s plight – buddy was still in apartheid’s klanger back then - and because I was touched by his fib and sympathetic to Mandela’s plight, the black man on Kenyatta managed to wangle 10 Kenyan shillings out of me. He wangled too, an address in Canada where he could reach me to pay me back.
He was a member of a small band of Nairobi based con-Robbers whose buddies accosted me after about twenty more minutes of shopping, posing as Kenya secret police asking why I was helping a member of the ANC. They accused me of giving information and money to an ANC agent in South Africa. It worked. They had me believing they were secret police – all the ID’s were pretty authentic looking - and that my only way out of this was to pay a sizable bribe. I handed over my 400 bucks in the middle of the day, in a small crowded cafeteria of people having chai, on Kenyatta Avenue. They got me. I was cheated by them. In vain, I reported it to the Nairobi police.
In the two-year span of prime life it took to spend in Africa, there were many new faces to buy for. I spent about 200 bucks Am. Then I had a burger loaded and “chips” for lunch at wimpy’s on the second floor of an office building the window of which overlookcd Kenyatta ave. An alluring young Kenyan lady sat beside me for lunch a minute later. I looked alternatively out the window at my burger, taking bytes of it, and nervously out of the corner of my Baptist up-brought eye, at her not so subtly positioned in my direction, bare legs.
I was fresh out of eighteen months of conservative village-living in Dodoma. Eye-batting with her and her bare legs through lunch, I managed a nervous smile, at the most two, between bytes of wimpy meat-n-bun. She then suddenly smiled extremely sweetly and propositioned to spend the afternoon with me and some of my money. Well, I never.... At the same moment I came to a new self knowledge. I understood what it meant to be a white man of 22 in downtown Nairobi eating lunch at an innocent wimpy’s with an alluring young Kenyan lady choosing eat lunch, like, right there, beside ME, dorky, glasses-faced, an in-love-with-only-airplanes-since-1967-kind-of-guy, with a mission from God to fulfil, and with just barely enough of inkling of the consequence of choosing to spend the kind of time and money she was hoping for.
So yeah, I excused myself, saying: “Ha! I have an excuse! I’ve a mission from God to fulfil, madam, otherwise I’d very likely be impossible for you to stop once you've invited me to have fully-clothed, unprotected sex with you right here in this over-crowded fast-food restaurant.” Wait a minute; I didn’t say that at all. I only fantasized about saying that along with fantasizing about the not so subtle positioning of the bare legs of the alluring young Kenyan lady and her so sweet smile, as I was chokin’ the chicken before I went to sleep that very night, to relieve the tremendous stress of having a mission from God to fulfil, and of course, also, out of a simple, wilful, harmless submission once again to a rather unassuming male habit that 95% percent of us men engage in before we discover a more fitting place for peter.
I didn't go blind and, funnily enough, it wasn't the alluring young Kenyan lady who cheated me. It was a Blackman on Kenyatta Ave, after lunch (and my excuse to the alluring young Kenyan lady), calling out to me from behind after I passed him on the street, asking me why I didn’t greet a black man on the street. “Are you a Dutch, from South Africa?” Eh? I had to turn and see who would dare hint that I had a trace of racism in me. Come on, I grew up in Cameroon. I stayed in Tanzania’s capital village, Dodoma for eighteen months, not only greeting but learning from, working alongside, living with, and eating with them every day.
Me, not greeting a black man? How dare you suggest I am racist! So I turned greeted the black man and he engaged me in pleasant conversation regarding my knowledge of the ANC and Nelson Mandela’s plight – buddy was still in apartheid’s klanger back then - and because I was touched by his fib and sympathetic to Mandela’s plight, the black man on Kenyatta managed to wangle 10 Kenyan shillings out of me. He wangled too, an address in Canada where he could reach me to pay me back.
He was a member of a small band of Nairobi based con-Robbers whose buddies accosted me after about twenty more minutes of shopping, posing as Kenya secret police asking why I was helping a member of the ANC. They accused me of giving information and money to an ANC agent in South Africa. It worked. They had me believing they were secret police – all the ID’s were pretty authentic looking - and that my only way out of this was to pay a sizable bribe. I handed over my 400 bucks in the middle of the day, in a small crowded cafeteria of people having chai, on Kenyatta Avenue. They got me. I was cheated by them. In vain, I reported it to the Nairobi police.
friends in the bedou tribe?
On the idea of blending of entertainment and news, I wonder what makes us tolerate it. For instance I went to www.memory hole.com and knew I was about to watch a guy get his head cut off, live. In the midst of my disgust and shock over the video, a tiny dark part of me tingled with anticipatory fascination. Even over here in UAE. What do I mean by that? Just this: I hope to heck UAE remains the peaceful resort country of the rest of the Arab countries rather than a haven for actual acts of terror. i.e., The place that, (if they do at all roam here), the terrorists will continue coming here to relax AFTER carrying out acts not TO carry out acts.
The fascination? Dunno, maybe from my reading of Wilbur Smith's "The Leopard Hunts in Darkness." His Zambian soldier torture scenes leave nothing out and the Berg video held my attention in the same manner. While of course UAE is a peaceful country, according to some news items, Zarqawi is in fact a Bedouin – a tribe which crosses a number of borders here and makes a sizeable chunk of the local UAE pop…. Bin Laden had a bank account here too.
Of course we know that we're dealing with a convicted murderer. Zarqawi was convicted in absentia in his homeland Jordan and so despite the fact that he killed an Amrikan, his number of friends in the bedou tribe may not be all that high.
Two nights now, though, I have tossed and turned. Thinking about family, getting out, the transient nature of the terror threat (Basrah to Yandu is quite a jaunt for a jackal), the fact that his cronies are all well-versed in making and using poison gas weapons, things like this are making this expat. lose sleep. I have family here. what would we do if fit decides to hit the shan?
The fascination? Dunno, maybe from my reading of Wilbur Smith's "The Leopard Hunts in Darkness." His Zambian soldier torture scenes leave nothing out and the Berg video held my attention in the same manner. While of course UAE is a peaceful country, according to some news items, Zarqawi is in fact a Bedouin – a tribe which crosses a number of borders here and makes a sizeable chunk of the local UAE pop…. Bin Laden had a bank account here too.
Of course we know that we're dealing with a convicted murderer. Zarqawi was convicted in absentia in his homeland Jordan and so despite the fact that he killed an Amrikan, his number of friends in the bedou tribe may not be all that high.
Two nights now, though, I have tossed and turned. Thinking about family, getting out, the transient nature of the terror threat (Basrah to Yandu is quite a jaunt for a jackal), the fact that his cronies are all well-versed in making and using poison gas weapons, things like this are making this expat. lose sleep. I have family here. what would we do if fit decides to hit the shan?
islam's desert jackel versus the "dog of the Christians"
What a way to die. 26 years old and trying to make a real go of it with a new business. What was Nick Berg doing in Iraq? The same thing ALL of us expatriates are doing in the Middle East – exploring the big, big world, trying to make a decent living, realizing that life does not begin and end with North America, crossing cultures and learning fascinating foreign languages, trying to become better human beings by living in and experiencing other cultures first hand…. I could go on.
"Sheik Abu Musab Zarqawi slaughters an American infidel with his hands and promises Bush more," was the title of the video.
A Sheik is traditionally someone who expounds wisdom to the followers of the Prophet Mohamed, especially on Al Juma (Fridays). Zarqawi is a terrorist who usurps the title in the same manner that his crazy banished friend OBL does. In other words they’re as much a Sheik as I am, except within the bounds of the very narrow and select societal ‘structure’ indulged in by him and his anarchistic Militant Islam buddies.
Now for commentary on an English translation of the Nick Berg video excerpts:
Excerpt: "Nation of Islam, is there any excuse left to sit idly by? And how can free Muslims sleep soundly as they see Islam being slaughtered, honour bleeding, photographs of shame and reports of Satanic degradation of the people of Islam, men and women, in Abu Ghraib prison?"
Comment: Abu Musab Zarqawi certainly is free but the question of his mini-brand of anarchistic vicious Islam’s legitimacy has yet to be answered by not only the nation of Islam but by himself. Where did he come up with the idea that his anarchistic ideas will be accepted by the Nation of Islam? The Gulf area Arab Muslims in general certainly don’t want to have anything to do with his mini-brand of anarchistic vicious Islam.
Excerpt: "You will only get shroud after shroud and coffin after coffin slaughtered in this manner," it said. "As for you Bush, dog of the Christians, anticipate what will harm you... You and your soldiers will regret the day you stepped foot in Iraq and dared to violate Muslims."
Comment: Slaughtered in what manner? Like a coward would slaughter a defenseless person as part of his twisted jihad that is not at all a jihad? Does he not know his own Q’uran? He speaks in direct contradiction to the holy book, Allah, and the Prophet Mohamad (Ok, I’ll say it because of the context, in times like these more than ever - peace be upon him) and Allah’s Q’uran now speaks out against this militant blasphemer. Janai is no place for cowardly jackals like Abu Musab al Zarqawi who would substitute bloodlust for religion.
Jihad requires that he fight bravely to the death for what it is that he believes. He should lay down his Chinese made gun, lay down the cheap sword now defiled by the act of cowardly murder and fight like a warrior of God with his BARE hands. He did not slaughter an infidel with his hands. He murdered a civilian citizen of the United States of America with weapons of weakness. he had on his shoulder the choice weapon of a weak man, a Chinese made AK47. In his hands he had the weapon of a coward who cannot even face his enemy’s civilian citizens, rather ties them so that they are defenceless and from behind slices their neck.
A lion attacks from the front, facing his enemy alone. A leopard attacks from the front, facing his enemy, alone. Zarqawi and his jackals are instead interested only in feeding off the carcass of their strange brand of anarchistic Islam. It takes him and four of his cowards who cannot show their faces even, to kill an unsuspecting defenceless civilian from behind. If it turns out that the man he killed is in fact one of El Shadwah el Kitab – the people of the book, this means that he has incurred the wrath of Allah by killing one of El Shadwah el Kitab. If it so that Nickolas Berg is one of the people of the book, Allah will banish Zarqawi from Janai for this cowardly, scavanging murder.
Excerpt: "So we tell you that the dignity of the Muslim men and women in Abu Ghraib and others is not redeemed except by blood and souls," the man said. "You will receive nothing from us but coffin after coffin slaughtered in this way."
Comment: And the people living in the real world tell YOU that the dignity of Islam suffers only because of cowardly jackals, in the service of no-one, (certainly not Allah or Islam), like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. May his Allah fill his days and nights with debilitating and overwhelming torment and terror for the killing of one of El Shadwa El Kitab.
Excerpt: "Does Al Qaeda need any more excuses?" the man asks. "And how does a free Muslim sleep comfortably watching Islam being slaughtered, and its dignity being drained?"
Comment: Al Qaeda is an excuse itself, for selfish bloodlust, nothing more. Al Qaeda should be renamed “The cowardly jackals that kill defenceless people to satisfy our bloodlust”. Again, the dignity of Islam is drained only by cowardly jackals, in the service of no-one, (certainly not Allah or Islam), like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi.
Excerpt: "The shameful photos are evil humiliation for Muslim men and women in the Abu Ghraib prison," the masked man says. "Where is the sense of honor, where is the rage? Where is the anger for God's religion? Where is the sense of veneration for Muslims, and where is the sense of vengeance for the honor of Muslim men and women in the Crusaders prisons?"
Comment: Where are all these things? They are alive and well as far as I can tell, here in the Gulf region, populated by Sunni & Shii alike. And right now, in fact all these things are pointing towards Zarqawi, a coward, a jackal, & a weak man who kills the defenceless civilian citizens of his enemy from behind. He is nothing in the eyes of Gulf Muslims, both Shii and Sunni. He is nothing except a part of his pack of jackals, influenced by the King of Jackals, the banished Bin Laden.
It takes five jackals to work up the courage to murder one defenceless civilian and further, the civilian must be bound so as not to strike back in any way. Zarqawi is a coward. Zarqawi is a jackal, Zarqawi is weak. Zarqawi is nothing.
Excerpt: "Regarding you, Bush, Dog of the West, we are giving you good news which will displease you," he said. "Your worst days are coming, with the help of God. You and your soldiers will regret the day when your feet touched the land of Iraq and showered your bravery on shelters of Muslims."
Comment: He calls Bush the dog of the west and earlier the dog of the Christians, but he himself is the one behaving like a cowardly jackal, and he is a jackal of no-one in particular and for for no-one save the four other cowardly jackals that roam the land with him looking for easy prey, knowing not how to guard against a mighty force occupying his land, nor how to fight like a true lion. May he suffer a long and tortuous death at the hands of the American soldiers.
His jihad means nothing in the eyes of his Allah by even an elementary reading of the Q’uran. Janai has no place for weak, cowardly jackals like Zarqawi.
Ok, that’s off my chest. Now I’m off to see the wizard.
Finally: You know what would be really evil? If Bush, through his CIA & FBI men in Iraq, required this of Abu Musab Zarqawi in the name of cutting the feet out from under democratic ‘politik’ makers who wave the Abu Gharib prison affair under the nose of the silent majority in hopes that Kerry will emerge the better-smelling rose…. I wonder too if a suddenly contrite Abu Musab Zarqawi, would get the ten million $ Bush is offering if he turned HIMSELF in.
Gotta go eat breaky.
"Sheik Abu Musab Zarqawi slaughters an American infidel with his hands and promises Bush more," was the title of the video.
A Sheik is traditionally someone who expounds wisdom to the followers of the Prophet Mohamed, especially on Al Juma (Fridays). Zarqawi is a terrorist who usurps the title in the same manner that his crazy banished friend OBL does. In other words they’re as much a Sheik as I am, except within the bounds of the very narrow and select societal ‘structure’ indulged in by him and his anarchistic Militant Islam buddies.
Now for commentary on an English translation of the Nick Berg video excerpts:
Excerpt: "Nation of Islam, is there any excuse left to sit idly by? And how can free Muslims sleep soundly as they see Islam being slaughtered, honour bleeding, photographs of shame and reports of Satanic degradation of the people of Islam, men and women, in Abu Ghraib prison?"
Comment: Abu Musab Zarqawi certainly is free but the question of his mini-brand of anarchistic vicious Islam’s legitimacy has yet to be answered by not only the nation of Islam but by himself. Where did he come up with the idea that his anarchistic ideas will be accepted by the Nation of Islam? The Gulf area Arab Muslims in general certainly don’t want to have anything to do with his mini-brand of anarchistic vicious Islam.
Excerpt: "You will only get shroud after shroud and coffin after coffin slaughtered in this manner," it said. "As for you Bush, dog of the Christians, anticipate what will harm you... You and your soldiers will regret the day you stepped foot in Iraq and dared to violate Muslims."
Comment: Slaughtered in what manner? Like a coward would slaughter a defenseless person as part of his twisted jihad that is not at all a jihad? Does he not know his own Q’uran? He speaks in direct contradiction to the holy book, Allah, and the Prophet Mohamad (Ok, I’ll say it because of the context, in times like these more than ever - peace be upon him) and Allah’s Q’uran now speaks out against this militant blasphemer. Janai is no place for cowardly jackals like Abu Musab al Zarqawi who would substitute bloodlust for religion.
Jihad requires that he fight bravely to the death for what it is that he believes. He should lay down his Chinese made gun, lay down the cheap sword now defiled by the act of cowardly murder and fight like a warrior of God with his BARE hands. He did not slaughter an infidel with his hands. He murdered a civilian citizen of the United States of America with weapons of weakness. he had on his shoulder the choice weapon of a weak man, a Chinese made AK47. In his hands he had the weapon of a coward who cannot even face his enemy’s civilian citizens, rather ties them so that they are defenceless and from behind slices their neck.
A lion attacks from the front, facing his enemy alone. A leopard attacks from the front, facing his enemy, alone. Zarqawi and his jackals are instead interested only in feeding off the carcass of their strange brand of anarchistic Islam. It takes him and four of his cowards who cannot show their faces even, to kill an unsuspecting defenceless civilian from behind. If it turns out that the man he killed is in fact one of El Shadwah el Kitab – the people of the book, this means that he has incurred the wrath of Allah by killing one of El Shadwah el Kitab. If it so that Nickolas Berg is one of the people of the book, Allah will banish Zarqawi from Janai for this cowardly, scavanging murder.
Excerpt: "So we tell you that the dignity of the Muslim men and women in Abu Ghraib and others is not redeemed except by blood and souls," the man said. "You will receive nothing from us but coffin after coffin slaughtered in this way."
Comment: And the people living in the real world tell YOU that the dignity of Islam suffers only because of cowardly jackals, in the service of no-one, (certainly not Allah or Islam), like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. May his Allah fill his days and nights with debilitating and overwhelming torment and terror for the killing of one of El Shadwa El Kitab.
Excerpt: "Does Al Qaeda need any more excuses?" the man asks. "And how does a free Muslim sleep comfortably watching Islam being slaughtered, and its dignity being drained?"
Comment: Al Qaeda is an excuse itself, for selfish bloodlust, nothing more. Al Qaeda should be renamed “The cowardly jackals that kill defenceless people to satisfy our bloodlust”. Again, the dignity of Islam is drained only by cowardly jackals, in the service of no-one, (certainly not Allah or Islam), like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi.
Excerpt: "The shameful photos are evil humiliation for Muslim men and women in the Abu Ghraib prison," the masked man says. "Where is the sense of honor, where is the rage? Where is the anger for God's religion? Where is the sense of veneration for Muslims, and where is the sense of vengeance for the honor of Muslim men and women in the Crusaders prisons?"
Comment: Where are all these things? They are alive and well as far as I can tell, here in the Gulf region, populated by Sunni & Shii alike. And right now, in fact all these things are pointing towards Zarqawi, a coward, a jackal, & a weak man who kills the defenceless civilian citizens of his enemy from behind. He is nothing in the eyes of Gulf Muslims, both Shii and Sunni. He is nothing except a part of his pack of jackals, influenced by the King of Jackals, the banished Bin Laden.
It takes five jackals to work up the courage to murder one defenceless civilian and further, the civilian must be bound so as not to strike back in any way. Zarqawi is a coward. Zarqawi is a jackal, Zarqawi is weak. Zarqawi is nothing.
Excerpt: "Regarding you, Bush, Dog of the West, we are giving you good news which will displease you," he said. "Your worst days are coming, with the help of God. You and your soldiers will regret the day when your feet touched the land of Iraq and showered your bravery on shelters of Muslims."
Comment: He calls Bush the dog of the west and earlier the dog of the Christians, but he himself is the one behaving like a cowardly jackal, and he is a jackal of no-one in particular and for for no-one save the four other cowardly jackals that roam the land with him looking for easy prey, knowing not how to guard against a mighty force occupying his land, nor how to fight like a true lion. May he suffer a long and tortuous death at the hands of the American soldiers.
His jihad means nothing in the eyes of his Allah by even an elementary reading of the Q’uran. Janai has no place for weak, cowardly jackals like Zarqawi.
Ok, that’s off my chest. Now I’m off to see the wizard.
Finally: You know what would be really evil? If Bush, through his CIA & FBI men in Iraq, required this of Abu Musab Zarqawi in the name of cutting the feet out from under democratic ‘politik’ makers who wave the Abu Gharib prison affair under the nose of the silent majority in hopes that Kerry will emerge the better-smelling rose…. I wonder too if a suddenly contrite Abu Musab Zarqawi, would get the ten million $ Bush is offering if he turned HIMSELF in.
Gotta go eat breaky.
the atrocity of equivocation
Tom Conover was a prison guard who became a writer. He offered his comments in the Gulf News on Sunday May 9th regarding the happenings at the Abu Gharib prison. He says it’s a heady thing to have prisoners at your mercy. He mentions his training in the areas of care, custody, and control of prisoners and that the training he received focussed primarily on the final element – control.
He says the true test of the prison guard, the system, and indeed the nation, is how you will treat those who are helpless before you. He compares the nakedness of POWs depicted at Abu Gharib to the atrocities suffered by POWs in WW2 – ie gassing to death because of ethnicity, dying slowly from starvation, or desease, painful torture of every kind, etc. To go along with the comparison you first must accept Mr. Conover’s attempted coercion that the shame of nakedness of the POWs at Abu Gharib is an atrocity equal in weight and form to the atrocities suffered by the POW’s spurring the writing of the Geneva convention.
I for one don’t accept Mr. Conover’s equivocation. Now I’m going to go off on a bit of a weird tangent just to show the ridiculousness of crying out against these supposed atrocities against the POWs at Abu gharib (Father of the Raven) prison, so bear with me if you will.
Allow me to coerce you for a moment into believing that Mr. Conover is exceedingly gay, engaging regularly in homosexual activities with multiple male partners. Imagine that he is not in the least ashamed of his gayness – what with the liberation the sexual revolution has imbued upon him – suppose too that he is a very vocal and active advocate of gay rights. Seems imminently plausible enough, in this day and age, right?
Would anyone left of enter, any liberal, any democrat these days call his vocal active gayness bent an atrocity? I think not. In reports I've read and pictures I've seen, nothing is mentioned or shown beyond the prisoners nakedness and having to endure being photographed in simulated sexual positions with each other and perhaps being sat upon by a marine guard while subdued between two medic stretchers - pretty normal state of affairs when you're dealing with the captured enemy, in any soldier's estimation.
My point is that when comparing a normal amount of pre-interrogation nakedness for the express purpose of humiliation toawards confession, and "abuse" endured by prisoners of war when compared to the shameless naked acts engaged in by gay men in America, we can see many more similarities than differences. So, at the same time prisoners face these "atrocities" the gay community in America unrelentingly demand legitimacy for very similar nakedness and abuses, through the voice of their extremely vocal advocates in western culture. This sort of behaviour is nothing out of the ordinary - for them.
In that world-view, the things the prisoners are forced to endure don’t seem so bad at all now do they? But of course, to go along with my hypothetical comparison of Mr. Conover to a gay rights activist you first must accept my attempted coercion of your belief that this is actually the case. Getting back to reality, I really don’t see the point of calling these activities atrocities. No, no, not because I’m gay and for some reason, can’t differentiate between what’s considered atrocious and what’s not, no.
My unwillingness to see these activities labelled as atrocities stems from an entirely different slant. That is, a comparative one. Is it really to be considered an atrocity (by a third party mind you) to have to endure nakedness and nude photography in the hands of your captors while at the same time your fellow (still free to terrorize) Iraqi ‘soldiers’ and Al Quaeda faithful are busy:
He says the true test of the prison guard, the system, and indeed the nation, is how you will treat those who are helpless before you. He compares the nakedness of POWs depicted at Abu Gharib to the atrocities suffered by POWs in WW2 – ie gassing to death because of ethnicity, dying slowly from starvation, or desease, painful torture of every kind, etc. To go along with the comparison you first must accept Mr. Conover’s attempted coercion that the shame of nakedness of the POWs at Abu Gharib is an atrocity equal in weight and form to the atrocities suffered by the POW’s spurring the writing of the Geneva convention.
I for one don’t accept Mr. Conover’s equivocation. Now I’m going to go off on a bit of a weird tangent just to show the ridiculousness of crying out against these supposed atrocities against the POWs at Abu gharib (Father of the Raven) prison, so bear with me if you will.
Allow me to coerce you for a moment into believing that Mr. Conover is exceedingly gay, engaging regularly in homosexual activities with multiple male partners. Imagine that he is not in the least ashamed of his gayness – what with the liberation the sexual revolution has imbued upon him – suppose too that he is a very vocal and active advocate of gay rights. Seems imminently plausible enough, in this day and age, right?
Would anyone left of enter, any liberal, any democrat these days call his vocal active gayness bent an atrocity? I think not. In reports I've read and pictures I've seen, nothing is mentioned or shown beyond the prisoners nakedness and having to endure being photographed in simulated sexual positions with each other and perhaps being sat upon by a marine guard while subdued between two medic stretchers - pretty normal state of affairs when you're dealing with the captured enemy, in any soldier's estimation.
My point is that when comparing a normal amount of pre-interrogation nakedness for the express purpose of humiliation toawards confession, and "abuse" endured by prisoners of war when compared to the shameless naked acts engaged in by gay men in America, we can see many more similarities than differences. So, at the same time prisoners face these "atrocities" the gay community in America unrelentingly demand legitimacy for very similar nakedness and abuses, through the voice of their extremely vocal advocates in western culture. This sort of behaviour is nothing out of the ordinary - for them.
In that world-view, the things the prisoners are forced to endure don’t seem so bad at all now do they? But of course, to go along with my hypothetical comparison of Mr. Conover to a gay rights activist you first must accept my attempted coercion of your belief that this is actually the case. Getting back to reality, I really don’t see the point of calling these activities atrocities. No, no, not because I’m gay and for some reason, can’t differentiate between what’s considered atrocious and what’s not, no.
My unwillingness to see these activities labelled as atrocities stems from an entirely different slant. That is, a comparative one. Is it really to be considered an atrocity (by a third party mind you) to have to endure nakedness and nude photography in the hands of your captors while at the same time your fellow (still free to terrorize) Iraqi ‘soldiers’ and Al Quaeda faithful are busy:
- Beheading defenceless civilians
- Mutilating the bodies of their freshly killed American POWs
- Shooting civilian hostages in the arm and letting the wound rot
- Buring and kicking apart the bodies of civilian citizens of USA, Canada, and Europe and hanging the body parts from the Fallujah mid-town bridge
- Plotting and carrying out the murder of five civilian expat oil company managers gunned down at a petrochemical plant in Yanbu, K.O.S.A.
- Tying one of the oil company manager’s bodies to a truck by its right leg and whipping through town yelling and screaming victory - a four man mini-anarchist army flaunting militant Islam and murderous Chinese made (Russian-designed of course! Rumor mongers -don't make me look foolish please oh please!) AK-47 automatic weapons. Then turning in to the local high school, body in tow, just after lunch and screaming GOD IS GREAT! GOD IS GREAT! LOOK THIS IS THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES (kick, kick, kick, the dead oil company manager tied to your truck) GET OUT OF YOUR EXAMS AND COME JOIN YOUR MUSLIM BROTHERS IN FALLUJAH! ATTAIN THE GREATEST RANK POSSIBLE FOR A MUSLIM BY JOINING US IN THIS GLORIOUS HOLY WAR!
Doh! Lost my train of thought - the atrocity of having to remove dog caca from the living room has just been thrust apon me by my lovely wife. Oh the dogmanity! Oh the dogmanity! The smell alone is atrocious enough to cause global warming. There that’s done.
You want to call the shame of POW nakedness and routine interrogation procedures of those not smart enough to get killed by their American enemy instead of caught by them an atrocity, Mr. Conover? What will you then come up with for a term describing the normal day to day terrorist goings on in a Middle East war zone? Light-hearted fun I suppose?
That would be funny if it weren't for the context. I propose a 'counter atrocity' that of surgically, sans anaesthetic, removing the testicles of the four nasty terrorist bastards who caused the meyhem at Yanbu, boiling them, then feeding the testicles as lunch to the castrated individuals to whom they used to belong. Now that’s an atrocity worth writing about, in my opinion.
On the question of atrocity, a level of necessary evil that does not yield an evil person might well be definable in this instance. Look at Private England. Given the context, a military prison, is her routine interrogation procedure called for by her bosses really that evil? On the other hand, is her laughing at the small penises of naked Iraqi captured terrorists necessary? Is her evil for being photographed laughing at detained terrorists - lets call them what they are - being given a bit of their own medicine necessary? Perhaps it very well IS necessary, Mr. Convenor, in the context of terrorism and a Middle East war zone.
Who’s to say? The media? No. Not the media. They are there to give accurate account. According to Al Jazeera, the following have died in Iraq doing so. According to Tom Conover, would these deaths be seen by him as atrocities produced by this war, I wonder?
- Terry Lloyd, 22 March 2003, ITV News correspondent; disappeared in southern Iraq and was declared dead a day later.
- Paul Moran, 22 March 2003, freelance Australian cameraman; killed when an apparent human bomber detonated a car at a military checkpoint in north-eastern Iraq.
- Kaveh Golestan, 2 April 2003, Iranian freelance cameraman on an assignment for the BBC; killed after stepping on a landmine in northern Iraq.
- Michael Kelly, 3 April 2003, US journalist and Washington Post columnist; killed while travelling with the US army's 3rd infantry division in Iraq.
- Julio Anguita Parrado, 7 April 2003, New York correspondent for El Mundo daily Spanish newspaper; killed in a missile attack while accompanying the US army's 3rd infantry division south of Baghdad.
- Christian Liebig, 7 April 2003, reporter of German weekly magazine, Focus; killed in a missile attack while accompanying the US army's 3rd infantry division south of Baghdad.
- Richard Wild, 5 July 2003, British freelance cameraman; gunned down in central Baghdad.
- Jeremy Little, 6 July 2003, Austrian journalist with NBC News and embedded with the US 3rd infantry division; died of post-operative complications, days after being injured in a grenade attack.
- Duraid Isa Muhammad, 27 January 2004, producer and translator for CNN; killed in an ambush carried out by unknown assailants outside Baghdad.
About levels of necessary evil, Lois McMaster Bujold, a raving maniac – I mean - an award winning Science Fiction and Fantasy author whose majority of stories are set in the future and concern the Vorkosigan family and the planet of Barrayar tells us:
Any community's arm of force - military, police, security - needs people in it who can do neccesary evil, and yet not be made evil by it. To do only the necessary and no more. To constantly question the assumptions, to stop the slide into atrocity." "Barrayar", 1991
Even on fantasy planets, it appears the community’s arm of force has to deal with judging levels of necessary evil and considering how to avoid a slide into atrocity. I wonder if the Vorkosigan family or the other residents of Barrayar would deal with shifty definitions of atrocity created and shamlessly published by people who consider themselves expert commentators on a Middle East POW prison just because they used to be a prison guard for a while, in a New York jail, before they decided to write for a living.
The Passion of the Christ
The passion of the Christ was made available to me through innovative Russian technology. From a linguistic point of view I was intrigued, this late on, in my studies in applied linguistics, with Aramaic and Arabic’s use of the same words for the first person singular pronoun – ana. Also the word for yes – aiwa, and the word for no – la, are the same in both languages.
In UAE the Passion of the Christ was a vast hit. From a cultural and historical standpoint it’s easy to see why. Isaac and his half-brother Ishmail were never closer than right now. Between inevitable tears while watching, I had a bit of time to ponder the Aramaic linguistic similarities to Arabic (of what little Arabic I know I mean!), And their closness despite the distance between Muslim and Christian faiths that Sarah herself induced through her impatience with God and the offering of Hagar her concubine to her husband.
The movie struck me as an eerie reminder of just how much the truth of the history recorded in the Bible, and even its fundamental central message – that the forgiveness of sins comes only through the propitiation of the Christ, the son of the living God who sacrificed himself on behalf of all mankind is forgotten or brushed aside and yet nowadays is (almost) fully accepted by all these reloes of Ishmail here.
I was struck with how so much more diluted and filtered and just basically unfamiliar to many the bible has become through hundreds of years of western society insisting that their freedoms be gained in other ways than the biblical freedom offered by the Son of God. Of course, the Prophet Mohamed really, really waters down the Messiah too, doesn't he. What with considering Jesus merely "the Prophet Essa", rather than the son of the living God.
In UAE the Passion of the Christ was a vast hit. From a cultural and historical standpoint it’s easy to see why. Isaac and his half-brother Ishmail were never closer than right now. Between inevitable tears while watching, I had a bit of time to ponder the Aramaic linguistic similarities to Arabic (of what little Arabic I know I mean!), And their closness despite the distance between Muslim and Christian faiths that Sarah herself induced through her impatience with God and the offering of Hagar her concubine to her husband.
The movie struck me as an eerie reminder of just how much the truth of the history recorded in the Bible, and even its fundamental central message – that the forgiveness of sins comes only through the propitiation of the Christ, the son of the living God who sacrificed himself on behalf of all mankind is forgotten or brushed aside and yet nowadays is (almost) fully accepted by all these reloes of Ishmail here.
I was struck with how so much more diluted and filtered and just basically unfamiliar to many the bible has become through hundreds of years of western society insisting that their freedoms be gained in other ways than the biblical freedom offered by the Son of God. Of course, the Prophet Mohamed really, really waters down the Messiah too, doesn't he. What with considering Jesus merely "the Prophet Essa", rather than the son of the living God.
massive fire-power in a small package
It’s Friday morning, a holiday here. Pregnant wife: house cleaning is for me now, cooking is for me now, washing dishes is for me now. Have not cleaned house this weekend by virtue of insanity – I mean, of the fact that I spent 8 ½ hrs yesterday completing “assignment one” worth thirty percent of my Linguistics 465 grade. Submitted yesterday at 17:00 local. Almost there, one more assignment to go and a bunch of discussion questions.
I went to Dubai Police College with son yesterday to the Middle East Police and law enforcement exhibition MEPLEX2004. We came away with a couple of subcompact Glock pistols - massive firing power in a small package. It’s the optimal backup weapon, especially preferred by VIP guards (and International English teachers in the Middle East). Just kidding of course. I wouldn’t know what to do with massive firing power in two small packages in the house, let alone one in the hands of a granted mature sixteen year old.
Now it’s Saturday afternoon and all the teachers had to stay at school till the normal going home time of 13:20. This is good in my opinion. If the headmaster let us go early every day we’d come to expect it as the norm, probably. I guess there’ll be no going home at 9:30 in the morning, like last week, for a while. Oh well, at least a guy can still make plans around the normal work schedule for the really vital daily living that one has to do. And so I do. I made plans to study today. Week 7 – Topics 12, Phonetic Representation & 13, Issues in Transcription. As soon as I finish this blog….
Need for Speed - Underground is the best PC racing game I have ever played. I'm on level 94 of 111 levels on the 'easy setting'. I'm ranked third in sprint races, third in drag racing, and fourth in circuit racing. I drive a highly modified Acura RSX. It sports an extreme performance-level (EPL), direct-port-injection Nitrous Oxide kit, extreme performance-level Stillen Turbo kit, extreme performance-level Electronic Fuel Control Unit, (EFCU), Rage Racing carbonfibre front and rear bumper and sideskirts, a dual XP aluminum racing spoiler, Suspension by Stillen & HKS, Racing heart Carbonfibre wheels with extreme performance, 45-series Yokohama street-racing tyres.
Only a few other car on the system - the Nissan Skyline - has as high a top speed as my car, though others, like the subaru imprezia 4-wheel drive, has mo' betta' handling characteristics, whereas others like the Honda S2000 has better acceleration. It is addictive, my wife is starting to complain that I'm playing this NFS_U game way too much.
Almost there Byro, almost there. June 25th, submission of second and final linguistics assignment.
I went to Dubai Police College with son yesterday to the Middle East Police and law enforcement exhibition MEPLEX2004. We came away with a couple of subcompact Glock pistols - massive firing power in a small package. It’s the optimal backup weapon, especially preferred by VIP guards (and International English teachers in the Middle East). Just kidding of course. I wouldn’t know what to do with massive firing power in two small packages in the house, let alone one in the hands of a granted mature sixteen year old.
Now it’s Saturday afternoon and all the teachers had to stay at school till the normal going home time of 13:20. This is good in my opinion. If the headmaster let us go early every day we’d come to expect it as the norm, probably. I guess there’ll be no going home at 9:30 in the morning, like last week, for a while. Oh well, at least a guy can still make plans around the normal work schedule for the really vital daily living that one has to do. And so I do. I made plans to study today. Week 7 – Topics 12, Phonetic Representation & 13, Issues in Transcription. As soon as I finish this blog….
Need for Speed - Underground is the best PC racing game I have ever played. I'm on level 94 of 111 levels on the 'easy setting'. I'm ranked third in sprint races, third in drag racing, and fourth in circuit racing. I drive a highly modified Acura RSX. It sports an extreme performance-level (EPL), direct-port-injection Nitrous Oxide kit, extreme performance-level Stillen Turbo kit, extreme performance-level Electronic Fuel Control Unit, (EFCU), Rage Racing carbonfibre front and rear bumper and sideskirts, a dual XP aluminum racing spoiler, Suspension by Stillen & HKS, Racing heart Carbonfibre wheels with extreme performance, 45-series Yokohama street-racing tyres.
Only a few other car on the system - the Nissan Skyline - has as high a top speed as my car, though others, like the subaru imprezia 4-wheel drive, has mo' betta' handling characteristics, whereas others like the Honda S2000 has better acceleration. It is addictive, my wife is starting to complain that I'm playing this NFS_U game way too much.
Almost there Byro, almost there. June 25th, submission of second and final linguistics assignment.
kaffers and sinner muslims
On a break from an Linguistics project that's due on the seventh, I write. A sample answer: "In a tamil speaker’s meta-linguistic conceptualisation of language the syllable ‘ka, ku, and ki are unitary sounds which cannot be broken down into k + a vowel if speech was actually a system of individual sounds, then it would be quite natural for him to separate out k from the following vowel sound even though his Tamil writing system is a syllabic one." Sometimes you just need a break.
Um al Quain is one of the smaller Emirates, between Sharjah and Ajman. Even after three years of living here I still don't know much about Umm Al Qwain apart from these few things. It houses Hamriya port free zone. It has an excellent beach resort called the Barracuda, located next to Umm Al Qwain Sport Aviation club and airport. The Barracuda's main attraction is it's well stocked Alcohol Shoppe.
It’s the only place that stocks Starry Melnik, a prefect brew that costs fifty Dirhams a two/four as opposed to 110 Dirhams for a twofour of Molsen Canadian, Labbatt Ice, or Bud, which all by the way they stock in big amounts here. They have a large wine cellar attached to the alcohol shoppe. People like us – non-Muslim Kaffers and all the SINNER Muslims come to Barracuda because booze is a few Dirhams cheaper here than in the Ajman Marina, or ‘hole in the wall’ as many of the KAFFERS like to call it.
On the other hand, Ajman Marina is much closer to home and convenient for this reason. My wife and I imbibe rather infrequently actually, despite all the rumours, and even less so now (read never), since she’s four months along. Last night was one of the rare occasions where wifey wanted to drive somewhere just to take in some fresh sea breeze. So we headed out Umm Al Qwain way down a long beach road and as we approached the Barracuda turn off we decided to turn in and buy 2 twofours of Russian-imported Starry Melnik beer. Good stuff. Canada has its many microbreweries, yes. The desert’s answer is a Russian imported brew that certainly measures up – in my unschooled opinion. Ok. Break is over. Later then.
Um al Quain is one of the smaller Emirates, between Sharjah and Ajman. Even after three years of living here I still don't know much about Umm Al Qwain apart from these few things. It houses Hamriya port free zone. It has an excellent beach resort called the Barracuda, located next to Umm Al Qwain Sport Aviation club and airport. The Barracuda's main attraction is it's well stocked Alcohol Shoppe.
It’s the only place that stocks Starry Melnik, a prefect brew that costs fifty Dirhams a two/four as opposed to 110 Dirhams for a twofour of Molsen Canadian, Labbatt Ice, or Bud, which all by the way they stock in big amounts here. They have a large wine cellar attached to the alcohol shoppe. People like us – non-Muslim Kaffers and all the SINNER Muslims come to Barracuda because booze is a few Dirhams cheaper here than in the Ajman Marina, or ‘hole in the wall’ as many of the KAFFERS like to call it.
On the other hand, Ajman Marina is much closer to home and convenient for this reason. My wife and I imbibe rather infrequently actually, despite all the rumours, and even less so now (read never), since she’s four months along. Last night was one of the rare occasions where wifey wanted to drive somewhere just to take in some fresh sea breeze. So we headed out Umm Al Qwain way down a long beach road and as we approached the Barracuda turn off we decided to turn in and buy 2 twofours of Russian-imported Starry Melnik beer. Good stuff. Canada has its many microbreweries, yes. The desert’s answer is a Russian imported brew that certainly measures up – in my unschooled opinion. Ok. Break is over. Later then.
selective condemnation
Today I re-read yesterday’s Gulf News and was struck again by the irony of the quoted Iraqi’s out cry against the Americans portrayal of “abuse” of Iraqi prisoners of war as normal war prison operations. Another gulf news edition of a few days previous told another story of five Expat civilians, Americans among them – not soldiers, civilians – being brutally murdered by crazed Fallujah-area followers of young maniac Shiite Mulla, Moktada al-Sadr.
After they murdered their victims they burned the bodies and kicked them apart, then hung the burned body parts off the main downtown bridge in Falluja. I find it very interesting that the gulf news, an Arab-centric publication has one of the few objective accounts of what happened in Fallujah. The Gulf news also published the picture of a female American soldier pointing at a blindfolded Iraqi POW’s really small penis and grinning.
Here’s the irony: George W. Bush straight away condemns the action of his own soldier but condemns nothing about what has happened to his citizens over the past few weeks in Iraq. Did the female soldier shoot her Iraqi POW in the arm and let the wound rot like the two young Iraqi Fallujah-area fanatics did with their American hostage Mr. Thomis Hamill? No, she simply laughed at the infinitesimal size of an Iraqi’s penis. Mr. Hamill’s retribution for his captors brutality was to advise American soldiers of the location of his crazed Muslim Fanatic captors whereupon the American Army arrested them. I didn’t see any reports of Mr. Hamill pointing at the now captured captors tiny penises and laughing….
As for the irony surrounding Bushes selective condemnation, perhaps various mediums are quoting only those things that would bring his government’s popularity rating down as another election approaches. That’s my view. As for the Americans occupying Iraq, I consider this argument to be relatively baseless. My wife does not. Oil pillaging and George W Bush’s regime change, for her, go hand in hand.
So why do I take the opposite view? I guess I feel much more comfortable admiring the courage of a man who actually decides to go against Iraq in the complicated war against terror, and takes out a paranoid schizophrenic dictator who would kill not only his own family members in the blink of an eye to hold on to his seat, but also Americans out of general hatred (One having experienced the Middle East in all it’s “kizb” glory might say this typifies the general Arab mentality, in lesser degrees, of course.).
I’d much rather admire Bush’s courage, no matter how baseless, than wait for a wet dishrag President like William Clinton or God-forbid a John Kerry-type, to get a Middle East policy even organized and paid for in Berlin, er I mean Washington. Then again, who listens to expat. Canadian advice these days?
And today I read in the Gulf News about the five Americans, Managers of an oil company over in Saudi, that were murdered by four crazy Muslim f’kers with machine guns who came into the company building and shot them. I am in the midst of applying for a position in Saudi Arabia. This makes me think twice, since, though I’m definitely NOT American, my skin is the same color as those who were killed today in the country that borders this peaceful one where we’re at.
After they murdered their victims they burned the bodies and kicked them apart, then hung the burned body parts off the main downtown bridge in Falluja. I find it very interesting that the gulf news, an Arab-centric publication has one of the few objective accounts of what happened in Fallujah. The Gulf news also published the picture of a female American soldier pointing at a blindfolded Iraqi POW’s really small penis and grinning.
Here’s the irony: George W. Bush straight away condemns the action of his own soldier but condemns nothing about what has happened to his citizens over the past few weeks in Iraq. Did the female soldier shoot her Iraqi POW in the arm and let the wound rot like the two young Iraqi Fallujah-area fanatics did with their American hostage Mr. Thomis Hamill? No, she simply laughed at the infinitesimal size of an Iraqi’s penis. Mr. Hamill’s retribution for his captors brutality was to advise American soldiers of the location of his crazed Muslim Fanatic captors whereupon the American Army arrested them. I didn’t see any reports of Mr. Hamill pointing at the now captured captors tiny penises and laughing….
As for the irony surrounding Bushes selective condemnation, perhaps various mediums are quoting only those things that would bring his government’s popularity rating down as another election approaches. That’s my view. As for the Americans occupying Iraq, I consider this argument to be relatively baseless. My wife does not. Oil pillaging and George W Bush’s regime change, for her, go hand in hand.
So why do I take the opposite view? I guess I feel much more comfortable admiring the courage of a man who actually decides to go against Iraq in the complicated war against terror, and takes out a paranoid schizophrenic dictator who would kill not only his own family members in the blink of an eye to hold on to his seat, but also Americans out of general hatred (One having experienced the Middle East in all it’s “kizb” glory might say this typifies the general Arab mentality, in lesser degrees, of course.).
I’d much rather admire Bush’s courage, no matter how baseless, than wait for a wet dishrag President like William Clinton or God-forbid a John Kerry-type, to get a Middle East policy even organized and paid for in Berlin, er I mean Washington. Then again, who listens to expat. Canadian advice these days?
And today I read in the Gulf News about the five Americans, Managers of an oil company over in Saudi, that were murdered by four crazy Muslim f’kers with machine guns who came into the company building and shot them. I am in the midst of applying for a position in Saudi Arabia. This makes me think twice, since, though I’m definitely NOT American, my skin is the same color as those who were killed today in the country that borders this peaceful one where we’re at.
operation desert soul mate
I’m here in UAE for one very simple reason. I’m supposed to be here. Where else would I (or should I be right now), considering my bits of life up to this point scattered between the plains of West and East Africa to the Alberta prairies. Because I can DO this with no debilitating wounds showing. I can EXCEL here easier than a single-country-born and bound guy. Fortunately, or un-so, I am designed for this sort of stuff, despite big holes of unrequited phantasmagoria now quelled by actuality of life. But I cannot claim this ability as something I came up with, as my own. It’s a gift given to be utilized well. It’s a mantle to be worn. I hope I am utilizing my gift well. I hope the mantle has been and will be worn well. That doesn’t stop me from being a big worrier still. That doesn’t stop me from focusing on the REAL adventure instead of wasting time abstractly perfecting the art of imagining successful adventures of the mind. Some have said I’m driven. Mom outright asked me why I insist on going upstream all the time. I was confused for a day or so by her question. Because I thought surely by now she knows why I do. When I had formulated my answer I went to Mom and dad’s for a supper. I told her my answer to why I “insist”. It is my inheritance, didn’t she see. She and dad taught me the current-be-damned stroke, didn’t they? She and dad gave me this drive, this wanderlust, this (now determined to be) wholesome homelessness to me to use if not directly by inheritance than certainly indirectly by the manner and model of their own lives, didn’t they? She shook her head and told me my stubbornness would do me in one day.
Now it is my wife that asks me why I am so stubborn - almost every week. It is my inheritance. I don’t say that to my wife because she’d just point and laugh at my primitive philosophical notions. Instead I smile at her and say because you would not have me any other way - because we need someone just as stubborn as each other to stand against things that try to move us. Together we are a stone wall, my wife and I, as long as we agree. Damn, I’ve had some lively and lovely debates with her already in the last two years. I love her a whole lot. Meeting her and marrying her is the best thing that happened to me as far as my whole being, spiritual, social, and emotional, is concerned. I’m glad I found her here in UAE. Some guys hang around the hometown and find their soul mates in the same neighbourhood. Others of us, by our inheritance, must first travel 14000 kms from the hometown driven by some ridiculous, if not self-made mission, and then suddenly, quite unexpectedly, in front of our noses, God provides a soul mate who is also there from half way round the world. And it only works because it’s been designed well already by a master designer. Timelessly, but also seemingly effortlessly, I have lived with her in the same life space. We make it work because it’s been designed to work. Thank God for his (and my wife’s) unlimited measure of accommodation on behalf of all the human foibles I’ve brought to this “project”.
Now my definition of my existence includes and is better described interms of family. The selfishness of single living loses itself, pales greatly, in comparison with a loving and caring wife and a family identity that one can relax in, be proud of. A family structure from which the individuals therein can grow outward in every aspect of themselves. Step by step, The Byromaniac, the Prince of Numb Bards, is learning little applied truths here and there, and is learning what maturity is made of and just how much it costs. He’s learning how much reward there is in sacrificially reaching out and embracing a higher level of maturity, of responsibility.
Now it is my wife that asks me why I am so stubborn - almost every week. It is my inheritance. I don’t say that to my wife because she’d just point and laugh at my primitive philosophical notions. Instead I smile at her and say because you would not have me any other way - because we need someone just as stubborn as each other to stand against things that try to move us. Together we are a stone wall, my wife and I, as long as we agree. Damn, I’ve had some lively and lovely debates with her already in the last two years. I love her a whole lot. Meeting her and marrying her is the best thing that happened to me as far as my whole being, spiritual, social, and emotional, is concerned. I’m glad I found her here in UAE. Some guys hang around the hometown and find their soul mates in the same neighbourhood. Others of us, by our inheritance, must first travel 14000 kms from the hometown driven by some ridiculous, if not self-made mission, and then suddenly, quite unexpectedly, in front of our noses, God provides a soul mate who is also there from half way round the world. And it only works because it’s been designed well already by a master designer. Timelessly, but also seemingly effortlessly, I have lived with her in the same life space. We make it work because it’s been designed to work. Thank God for his (and my wife’s) unlimited measure of accommodation on behalf of all the human foibles I’ve brought to this “project”.
Now my definition of my existence includes and is better described interms of family. The selfishness of single living loses itself, pales greatly, in comparison with a loving and caring wife and a family identity that one can relax in, be proud of. A family structure from which the individuals therein can grow outward in every aspect of themselves. Step by step, The Byromaniac, the Prince of Numb Bards, is learning little applied truths here and there, and is learning what maturity is made of and just how much it costs. He’s learning how much reward there is in sacrificially reaching out and embracing a higher level of maturity, of responsibility.
portobello: ode to the priests at duoala's french catholic mission
The question is, how clear should the mind be in order to spew forth honest accounts? Alcohol-induced clarity was lauded by the ancients: “…in vino veritas…”. Trouble is, when you’re playing the role of responsible adult, a certain amount of sobriety is expected of you from people around you like your wife, stepson, new baby, friends, coworkers, etc. Besides your responsibility has left you without money for the regular Ajman Marina alkeehol run now hasn’t it. They have 40 Dirham – very good price - 2 litre bottles from Italy named Portobello. Soft red table wine at 10%. I drink it like the Priests at the French Catholic Mission in Duoala, Cameroon did. Nice with supper, in the evenings, watching DVD’s with my wife while she rests, pregnantly, a lot, by doctor’s orders. Even at 40 dirhams things are so tight now on this Master’s student while caring for a family budget I can’t afford to relive my childhood drinking experiences. Responsibility now requires that I finance the entertainment sector of my teenage stepson’s life instead – I hope soon his perception of the entertainment sector of his life will drop lower than 100%. Perhaps as the family money continues to dry up early every month, we’ll be able to reach a compromise with him. Then there’s his Petroleum Engineering dream to cater to. Four years at 10000 Dhs a year, not bad for an excellent Russian University degree in petroleum engineering, eh? My hair is turning grey. Have not lost any of it though.
property world, middle east
Had a brief ‘Chance meeting’ today with the financial director of Property World, Middle East magazine. Tyson, our six month old Amstaff jumped unexpectedly off the ground to his face level just to say hi. The guy’s answer as he nonchalantly stepped back to avoid the leap: “Oh. Nice pit-bull man.” “Amstaff Actually” my standard reply, lately. He seems an interesting guy. He’s from Ireland. We have a number o uncanny parallels in our lives, uncanny that is for a chance meeting in the UAE desert…. Me and he both have step sons in the Dubai Russian Private school. Me and he both were out at ‘the polygon’ today just west of Sharjah – a developed road system waiting to be populated with houses and a magnificent area to be if you are 14 – 16 years old, Russian, and operating a vehicle belonging to someone who loves your mother…. His step son drives his Mitsubishi Pajero way too fast. My step son drives my VW Polo way too fast. Come to think of it, I drive my Polo way too fast. My wife drives my polo way too fast. Why should I wonder then that he too would drive my Polo way too fast? He gave me two issues of the magazines which have the scoop on the myriad property developments in and around Dubai that are hot hot hot right now. Very interesting to talk to, this guy. To top it off he is approachable, and friendly. Been in the Middle East a long time. Been in the former USSR a long time before that. Our stepsons had arranged in Russian to be driven by him to Dubai City center after our two hours of ado-racing in 34.5 degree comfort. So I went home alone with two magazines and a business card and he trucked off with an extra Russian teenager to Dubai city center.
writing for Mr. kaha's sixth-grade son
How I spent my Monday.... Got to work 7:15 am. Signed in and stood century by the gate as was my scheduled duty to do. Students filtered gradually in and then Hadani the headmaster drove in his bateaux de grande - Chevrolet Caprise. I waved/he waved. He proceeded to park and the Limpy local teaboy went off to get Hadani his mornin tea. I greeted stragglers that came in after the mandetory arrival time of 745. They caught hell from the emerging Hadani. I caught hell from the emerging Hadani: "Mr. Byro, if the students come in late don't even let them in. Ok Mr. HAdani. Ok Mr. Hadani. In the mean time, had not whitey (me) been there to see, boys'd be wandering in til eight o clock without due reason to worry! "Ok Mr. Hadani, never happen again, I promise, Mr. Hadani." Trudged back to the English office, prepared a rudimentary English review for month test lesson plan for my only class this day. Bell rang. I went and taught my class at 8:25 to 9:45. I came back to the office and the rest of the guys were either preparing for their next lessons or already out there teaching. So I hauled my Gulf News out and began to read. For an hour and a half I read. Then Marold, my lead told me of his plight. The assistant head master had recruited him last week sometime to whip up a report on Dubai fish and fishing for his six grade son, who knows little English. Marold asked if I would mind just putting it together - he already had all the info off the web, etc. So I said sure. And so I spent the rest of my day writing a report for Mr. Kaha's six grade son, about fish and fishing in Dubai. I must admit I enjoyed it a bit too much. Thinking like a boy of 11 would and writing it. Marlod came in about 12:45 at which time I had just finished his report. "Byro this good." Said Marold. I mean this is good - almost too good. We laughed at the maleability of a gov secondary school system that allows its headmasters to allow their teachers the flexibility to create and explore areas of research as yet untapped - as in what methodolodies would a six grader employ in writing this report, really, if he were actually the one writing it?
everything we need
"We have no money!" I complained bitterly to my wife. "Why do you make me nervous, saying such things!?" Look, you are almost finished your degree. We have used 35,000 Dhs to pay fees for you at the school and also to buy your computer. Also before we agreed to buy Ivanov that computer for his school. We have nice flat. We have furniture. We have pets. We have ADSL. We have everything we need right now so why do you complain?" She's got a freaking good point. We have everything we need right now. Why am I worried? I shouldn't be. But I am. I guess I am not used to not having enough money since up to the point I got married I seldom ran out of money before the next paycheck, let alone halfway through the month. I guess I'm used to having the next year or so planned out finacially. I guess I'm used to having very definite goals finacially to strive towards. I have things to teach my wife - I mean - to LEARN, here. Mean time, my first baby is baking in her oven. So somehow somewhere the money's gotta come in for that from somewhere! And I must put in one more week of serious babysitting/teaching.
amrika to abyssinia
Letting fall to the ground any paper that has the name of Allah or Mohammed on it is strictly forbidden. The students had finished their Islamic exams and were therefore burning their cheat sheets rather than throwing them on the ground.
I am privileged to share these moments with a truly outstanding bunch of guys from Tunis to Tripoli, from Syria to Sudan, from Canada to Kerela, from Amrika to Abyssinia, teachers all, in the comfortable state of taking money from the UAE Ministry for our much-needed duties.
"Put Question One over here and Question Two over here." I explained to the student I had never seen before. And Madani with DTE entourage, the headmaster walked in on us. Oops! Step back straighten up and say Salam al Aikum for lack of anything substantial in Arabic to say. And he laughs at me! I was invigilating the 2nd secondary technical drawing exam because of an apparent shortage of technical teachers. I thought I was gonna get chewed up because yesterday Madani tore into one of the technical guys for "helping a student" during the first year science exam.
Truth be told the guy teaches Civil Engineering not science and he wasn't helping the student - it just looked that way. Bad timing. In my case, Madani decided not to pounce, rather to laugh at the way the guys had set me up. Did I mention they stuck me alone in the room with twelve students to inviligate these guys in a contra-DTE move that does not provide for single invigilation by a teacher even in the case of shortages (Department of Technical Education). I imagine Madani had a good laugh at the set-up. I hope that's what the aftermath will be percieved as...
A sample of the fictive lesson plans I make for every class....
They are fictive because they account for imaginary time spent.
Wk. 2 – Beginning February 7th, 2004
Saturday Feb 7th to Wednesday Feb 11th 2004:
S. Come to class on time, greet the teacher and then their mates and sit quietly in their desks.
T. Calls role and awards points for books, pens and attendance for the day T. Reviews students’ midterm marks and behavioural performance in first term.
S. Negotiate with T. for a better mark.
T considers the subjectivity of the marking procedure and awards as per 1st term anecdotal assessment anywhere from 2 to 5 percent more marks (to be added to the final grade) to those who have clearly shown a marked improvement in behaviour from first term to now.
T. Reviews the students’ queries.
T asks for S. queries on the mid term
S. query the teacher re midterm
T. Answers Queries
T. gives an overview of the second semester schedule
S. Copy the schedule in their books from the WB Lesson Summary: As you like...
I am privileged to share these moments with a truly outstanding bunch of guys from Tunis to Tripoli, from Syria to Sudan, from Canada to Kerela, from Amrika to Abyssinia, teachers all, in the comfortable state of taking money from the UAE Ministry for our much-needed duties.
"Put Question One over here and Question Two over here." I explained to the student I had never seen before. And Madani with DTE entourage, the headmaster walked in on us. Oops! Step back straighten up and say Salam al Aikum for lack of anything substantial in Arabic to say. And he laughs at me! I was invigilating the 2nd secondary technical drawing exam because of an apparent shortage of technical teachers. I thought I was gonna get chewed up because yesterday Madani tore into one of the technical guys for "helping a student" during the first year science exam.
Truth be told the guy teaches Civil Engineering not science and he wasn't helping the student - it just looked that way. Bad timing. In my case, Madani decided not to pounce, rather to laugh at the way the guys had set me up. Did I mention they stuck me alone in the room with twelve students to inviligate these guys in a contra-DTE move that does not provide for single invigilation by a teacher even in the case of shortages (Department of Technical Education). I imagine Madani had a good laugh at the set-up. I hope that's what the aftermath will be percieved as...
A sample of the fictive lesson plans I make for every class....
They are fictive because they account for imaginary time spent.
Wk. 2 – Beginning February 7th, 2004
Saturday Feb 7th to Wednesday Feb 11th 2004:
S. Come to class on time, greet the teacher and then their mates and sit quietly in their desks.
T. Calls role and awards points for books, pens and attendance for the day T. Reviews students’ midterm marks and behavioural performance in first term.
S. Negotiate with T. for a better mark.
T considers the subjectivity of the marking procedure and awards as per 1st term anecdotal assessment anywhere from 2 to 5 percent more marks (to be added to the final grade) to those who have clearly shown a marked improvement in behaviour from first term to now.
T. Reviews the students’ queries.
T asks for S. queries on the mid term
S. query the teacher re midterm
T. Answers Queries
T. gives an overview of the second semester schedule
S. Copy the schedule in their books from the WB Lesson Summary: As you like...
CID for Abductor Ho-dani
In the mean time. Ho-hamad Abbyss, the biggest boy in our school and now in his final year, a senior with a posse' was up to his marauding antics yesterday. He was buggin Mr.keen's 2nd year English class and caused ten students to up and walk out in the middle of the lesson. I had grabbed a cup of coffee between lessons and was sipping it outside on the corridor bench minding my own and watching all. My lead teacher, converted Afrcan Ameri-Muslim, Milal bin Maft, was sitting near on another bench watching the goings on. Ho-hamad, who couldn't leave well enough alone, on account of having a pea-sized brain, marauded on over with posse' in tow, to Milal and proceeded to yell at him that he was "CID" (Central Intelligence Department) for Abductor Ho-dani, the head master. "Mr. Milal you are CID! W'Allah! you are CID for Abductor! You are CID for Abductor! you are CID for anyone! you are CID for even Shatani!" bellowed big Ho-h'd Abbyss. Milal showing mild irritation by now, proceeded to evenly ask Ho-h'd Abbys why he was bothering one of Milal's teachers. Ho-h'd clamed it was not him that came out of the classroom. Then he called Mr. Milal Mr. blacky and said "you are nigga, Mr. Milal!" "Mr. Black, Mr. Blackyeeeh." Well, Milal bin Maft, who is a former US navy SEAL and thus, usually, the epitome of self-discipline in the face of such encounters, blew up in Ho-h'd Abbyss's face. "Ho-h'd Abbyss, you leave my teachers alone! Because they're my teachers!" "That's what I'm talking about!" "Yes sir that's what I'm talking about!" In context it seemed to make perfect sense to all of us, except of course, Ho-h'd Abbyss. And so Ho-h'd Abbyss laughed a bellowing laugh and his posse' laughed a cheery crowd laugh at the ever more angry Mr. Milal. I slipped quietly back into the English office glad not to have to face this until tomorrow in my 1W class. Just substitute the word nigga for gandu or bitch or teaboy of Mr. Ho-dani (anything to try and get under your skin just once) and substitute ho-h'd Abbyss for Butti (Bootti-licker) Ibrahim. Actually Butti's specialty is finding every way to skip class and then though he's been marked officially absent, he hangs out outside the door of his class for all of administration to see! Real dumb, real persistant. Yep, that's the Bootti-licker for ya.
side-stepping the nitty gritty
side-stepping the nitty gritty
Today is Monday. It is the middle of the week here, as the week starts on Saturday and ends with Wednesday.It is also the middle of April and the weather outside is heating up into the low to mid thirties as we cascade towards another desert summer.I teach two classes at Dubai Technical Highschool. One is a first year class for twelve hours a week and one is a third year class for nine hours a week. That's a total of twenty one hours of teaching a week. The hours and the pay are two of the many many good things about this job. I want to get into writing about today right away but I hesitate doing so at the same time. I feel that if I plunge right into it, most people who have never had the pleasure of experiencing Middle Eastern culture would not believe what I am writing nor understand WHY it is that I feel I must needs write about it. So instead I have written and introductory paragraph that completely sidesteps the nitty and the gritty of the day to day at Dubai technical High....
Thinking too, through a process; a means by which to focus in on where and when to introduce the real subject and in what manner. Therapy, we could tritely say. But, infact, yes it is therapy.I'll begin then with what happened the day before yesterday. I walked into my first year classroom and observed torn text books strewn about the floor in an act of general protest and signaling to us the teachers that April, subsequently the second semester are almost over. I asked who did it with an account of what happened Yesterday. They said third year boys had come in and ripped apart the books however they would not, could not give me any names.
After I assigned the classwork, Mohamed Khalid, one of my first year students said: "teacher why exam every day, why working every day?" "We don't want this!" followed by: "You are Mashara!" (a joke) "You are gandu (a faggot; gay)." After which he grabbed his crotch and acted as though he was masterbating. "Teacher you want go bathroom with me?" I told him no thanks and told him to sit down and shut up and stop disturbing the lesson(And he tries to label me gay just because it's one of the first and few English words he learnt from living in Dubai!). F'ing lil' bastard (he really is a bastard - has no idea who his pop is).
He then took a bulky jackknife out of his pocket, opened the six inch blade, and cockily waved it in my face about an inch from my nose. "Teacher I will kill you" he said in mock seriousness. Not a flinch, not a reaction from me. In a tone of voice that you'd use with a little brother that was buggin' you too much I said: "Moh'd will you just get out of my face and sit down, now!" Then he told me OK teacher just one minute bathroom and walked out the door never to be seen again up to the end of the class. I marked him absent. Normal. Not so bad. Trying to get a reaction out of me and he failed. I did not react. I showed no emotion and this is very much in my favor in this culture.
Today there was a similar episode. Salim Moh'd who is a second year boy burst forth into my first year classroom just a grinnin'. He had a new toy. In his hand a blue strobe within what looked like a cigarette lighter flashed rythimically. In reality it was a personal security electroshock device. Psychiatrists sometimes use Electroconvulsive shock therapy ECT to treat patients with severe cases of schizophrenia or depression. In ECT, 180 to 460 volts of electricity are fired through the brain, for a tenth of a second to six seconds, either from temple to temple (bilateral ECT) or from the front to the back of one side of the head (unilateral ECT). The result is a severe convulsion, or seizure, of long duration - i.e., a grand mal convulsion, as in an epileptic fit.
Most personal security devices put out not less 20,000 volts of electricity. Knowing this, I had to assume that the personal security device Salim Moh'd brought into the room could be very dangerous if applied to the neck or head area of any one of my healthy students, more so if any of them happen to have even a mild form of (managed) epilepsy! So I wrote a report on him.More to post tomorrow when I face the consequence of having written the report.
Today is Monday. It is the middle of the week here, as the week starts on Saturday and ends with Wednesday.It is also the middle of April and the weather outside is heating up into the low to mid thirties as we cascade towards another desert summer.I teach two classes at Dubai Technical Highschool. One is a first year class for twelve hours a week and one is a third year class for nine hours a week. That's a total of twenty one hours of teaching a week. The hours and the pay are two of the many many good things about this job. I want to get into writing about today right away but I hesitate doing so at the same time. I feel that if I plunge right into it, most people who have never had the pleasure of experiencing Middle Eastern culture would not believe what I am writing nor understand WHY it is that I feel I must needs write about it. So instead I have written and introductory paragraph that completely sidesteps the nitty and the gritty of the day to day at Dubai technical High....
Thinking too, through a process; a means by which to focus in on where and when to introduce the real subject and in what manner. Therapy, we could tritely say. But, infact, yes it is therapy.I'll begin then with what happened the day before yesterday. I walked into my first year classroom and observed torn text books strewn about the floor in an act of general protest and signaling to us the teachers that April, subsequently the second semester are almost over. I asked who did it with an account of what happened Yesterday. They said third year boys had come in and ripped apart the books however they would not, could not give me any names.
After I assigned the classwork, Mohamed Khalid, one of my first year students said: "teacher why exam every day, why working every day?" "We don't want this!" followed by: "You are Mashara!" (a joke) "You are gandu (a faggot; gay)." After which he grabbed his crotch and acted as though he was masterbating. "Teacher you want go bathroom with me?" I told him no thanks and told him to sit down and shut up and stop disturbing the lesson(And he tries to label me gay just because it's one of the first and few English words he learnt from living in Dubai!). F'ing lil' bastard (he really is a bastard - has no idea who his pop is).
He then took a bulky jackknife out of his pocket, opened the six inch blade, and cockily waved it in my face about an inch from my nose. "Teacher I will kill you" he said in mock seriousness. Not a flinch, not a reaction from me. In a tone of voice that you'd use with a little brother that was buggin' you too much I said: "Moh'd will you just get out of my face and sit down, now!" Then he told me OK teacher just one minute bathroom and walked out the door never to be seen again up to the end of the class. I marked him absent. Normal. Not so bad. Trying to get a reaction out of me and he failed. I did not react. I showed no emotion and this is very much in my favor in this culture.
Today there was a similar episode. Salim Moh'd who is a second year boy burst forth into my first year classroom just a grinnin'. He had a new toy. In his hand a blue strobe within what looked like a cigarette lighter flashed rythimically. In reality it was a personal security electroshock device. Psychiatrists sometimes use Electroconvulsive shock therapy ECT to treat patients with severe cases of schizophrenia or depression. In ECT, 180 to 460 volts of electricity are fired through the brain, for a tenth of a second to six seconds, either from temple to temple (bilateral ECT) or from the front to the back of one side of the head (unilateral ECT). The result is a severe convulsion, or seizure, of long duration - i.e., a grand mal convulsion, as in an epileptic fit.
Most personal security devices put out not less 20,000 volts of electricity. Knowing this, I had to assume that the personal security device Salim Moh'd brought into the room could be very dangerous if applied to the neck or head area of any one of my healthy students, more so if any of them happen to have even a mild form of (managed) epilepsy! So I wrote a report on him.More to post tomorrow when I face the consequence of having written the report.
Byromaniac arrives
I am bryomaniac and I am the next "new guy on the blog". Probably, that one's been used many a time already on a site with the name BLOGGER. I guess I should give some sort of introductory context here if for nothing else, to try and situate my miscel. rambings for you my potential reader.... I live and work in UAE - the United Arab Emirates. I am a Middle East English teacher of three years. More will, no doubt, be revealed in the writings that follow. If it's any good, this initial 'hook' will draw you in to this place where I'm at right now.
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