Dream For An Insomniac

Moving House

2009-01-02T08:07:00.002+04:00

Hello, reader. I'm closing down this blog soon. I have moved to a new blogsite. For the new address, please email me.

Thank you for reading me. It's been great.

Kids

2008-10-21T07:36:00.003+04:00

Kids have cooties. Boys AND girls.

This is the number one reason I avoid dealing with them as much as I possibly can. They're little people who have no control over their emotions; all of their emotions are insanely heightened. When they're happy, they're HAPPY. When they're angry, they're ANGRY. When they're hungry, oh they're HUNGRY. When they're sad, you get the gist.

They know no social, political or socio-economic boundaries.

They have no control over the range of their voices. Decibels to them is a name given to a mystical community of mermaids and mermen.

They say things they're not supposed to, and then they don't say things they're supposed to.

They have very limited vocabulary.

They don't have a sense of limitations, they don't know when to stop. Repetition is funny to them. How crass.

Their characters are underdeveloped. Like Sylar. No, like Mohinder Suresh. No, like Parkman.

They don't have finesse, no appreciation for art, or the senses.

They think the manifestation of power lie solely in physical outbursts. How asinine. How utterly crass.

Kids. Unimpressive.

I don't know why people have them.

Maybe they remind me too much of myself, or of the things I want to be now, me, a non-kid.

I'm *fortunate* enough to have the *magnificent* opportunity to always be surrounded by kids. Yes, I started teaching kids again after a whole year. Well, it was a fun first day. My class consisted of a bunch of 10-11 year old children who were so bursting with fruit flavor that all I wanted to do was take a stick and bang it on the board twice to shock them into silence. I did the next best thing: stare at them quietly for a few minutes. It worked. Once I got their attention, I took their attendance, had them introduce themselves, and start on their classwork. It was fun. I referred to them as ladies and gentlemen. It was almost a business 101 class. I'm quite proud of them. At the end of the class, they pushed their chairs in, cued up quietly and left.

I like kids who understand my power. *snicker*

***

The best kids class I ever taught was 2 years ago, a level 4 English class, a smart funny artsy ridiculously insane group of kids. I miss them now. I came across a piece of paper they all wrote on and handed to me on the very last day of class. It's filled with inside jokes, the kind of stuff I cherish.

(sic)

to my favorite teacher ms nesreen, I wish for you a happy future. good by mr cris*.
Raba'a

dear mr. cris, Hi and bye and I wish you will be lean again ;-) and I wish your next B-4* are worse than yours now. good by. miss nissreen i wish you will become mrs.!!! don't forget us.
Aliah

Thank you for teaching me and you are a good teacher and good luck in you life and don't eat a lot! and if I saw Adnan Fallatah* I will tell him my teacher says hello.
Yazeed

Thank you for study me mr cris and I wish you have good life.
Ibrahim

Hi Hi to my teacher thanks for you to be my teacher & for helping me. I wish to see you another time.
from Shams (Maha!)

* Inside the classroom, we each had alter-egos. Mine was Mr. Cris, the know-it-all 50-year-old English teacher with a horrible British accent.

* B-4 is the name they gave to their class.

* Adnan Fallatah of the Ittihad football club was a favorite classroom meme. All the students were hard-core Ittihad fans.

I ran into a couple of these students early this year. They've all grown up, shed the cooties, moved on to teenage drama. Me? I'm still racing around the teacher's room in a swivel chair.

The Mind Dump

2008-10-11T05:38:00.003+04:00

My favorite chair in the house is a black and white two-seater couch with detachable cushions. It used to be in my room. It now rests in the living room, where I usually sit until 5 or 6 in the mawnin, armed with laptop, iPod and cigarettes in pocket, waiting for that elusive phenomenon some people like to call Sleep.

What do I like to take with me everywhere? Let's see. My iPod, for one. My point-and-shoot whose features Souma and I were DSLR-snobbing just last night. My 2 phones, one of them really Summer's, but she has given it to me. Yes, she has. I keep these four things in a small, black Sony bag originally intended for my humangus headphones. I always carry a bottle of perfume, right now, Burberry Sheer Pink. I usually have at least 2 lighters in my bag, one of which is probably stolen from one of my smoker friends. I might also have a book in my bag, or a really rumpled 6-week-old copy of Time magazine, for when I choose not to walk around with my friends and stay back at a restaurant or cafe with a smoking area. I don't do wallets because I usually don't have any money anyway.

My father has very precise handwriting. He jumps from casual scribble, to playful print, to pompous cursive, to full-blown calligraphy in both English and Arabic. He is cheating, of course, since he is an artist. He has more control of his handwriting's moods, and they usually don't betray what he's feeling at that moment. My mother has only one kind of handwriting. She doesn't do print, and her cursive has that distinct g-y curve, and small trails and loops on her Rs and Ps.

I remember school when I was very young. My earliest memory is coming home in the afternoon feeling extremely carsick, changing from my uncomfortable school uniform into my sun-dress, and coloring in the thick, white fonts of the Ikea catalogues of the 1980s. I would go through each page, ignore the furniture, and go straight for the labels, the captions, and painstakingly fill in each letter with a different color.

When I was little, I used to look forward to my parents grocery-shopping. It was such a treat to be chosen as The One. We were a whole army of kids, and it would've been mayhem to take all of us. Instead, my parents would choose 2 or 3 of us to go with them, while the rest are left at home. The good thing about being picked, is that we got to buy candy and push the buggy. The thing is, it was also such a treat to be left at home. Being left at home meant we didn't have to help with the grocery bags, and we had the house all to ourselves, wreaking havoc in all the rooms of the apartment. We could be as loud as we wanted, play basketball inside the house, pretend we were the World Wrestling Entertainment (I always wanted to be Rey Mysterio or at least one of the Wolf Pack gang, but of course I always just ended up as a "spectator"), and just literally Laugh Out Loud.

College for me was fun in the first half. I was filled with hope and idealism. By the third year, I had become too brooding and self-deprecating to hang out with my old high school friends. I spent the last quarter of college in my room with, again my brothers, and many many bottles of beer between us. If I wasn't there, I was at Sarah's with my college posse.

Let's say I had the chance to leave a note before I died. The note would read: "You will never guess the passwords, suckers." I might want to write something profound that will resonate with angst and hidden meanings, but I would force myself not to.

The first time I fell in love, I was 17 or 18. I was in love for about 20 days. I can't remember why now, but I remember what it was like. It was a winter month, and I was always cold, I remember, I always had a jacket or a sweater, and I was always on the phone or out with him, and he was one of our childhood friends. By the 20th day, everything just fizzled, as expectizzled. He remains a good friend.

I would put letters in a time capsule. Letters to people I haven't yet met, but will meet in the future. It will all be, of course, about me, but isn't that what writing is about? Everything is about the author. Whatever they tell you, however much they talk about something or someone else, it's always about the author.

We don't celebrate Christmas, but I have a favorite Christmas. It was 2004, the year I got to spend a whole week with all of my siblings, except for Omar who was in Riyadh, and Ayman and Othman who were both in Jeddah. Adnan made us some secret-recipe margaritas, Waleed, Zen and Pollock cooked and bbq-ed, Amir sang on the karaoke with me and my sister, and my sister's son MD snuck whole plates of food out to the stray cats and dogs. We hadn't been able to get together, all of us, for years at the time, and I don't know when we will be able to do that again. Nothing connects us now, except rusty telephone lines.

I don't like rainbows. Much.

***

This was a creative writing exercise called The Mind Dump. Thank you for participating.

I Think It's...

2008-10-01T08:48:00.001+04:00

Sweet when people wave good bye without actually waving, with just a firm hand, like a frozen high-five.

Sweet when your friends and your other friends get along so well that it doesn't feel like you introduced them to each other, like they'd known each other forever. Friends-in-law.

Sweet when you receive presents that may otherwise be extraordinarily ordinary, and yet are just what you need or want. Like bookends. A snapshot of you in mid-laugh. A candy bar.

Sweet when people tilt their heads sideways a little bit and smile at you across the noise in a huge room.

Sweet when people look out into the wide unknown and contemplate their future, with that preoccupied look on their face.

Sweet when sunlight shines through the curtains and tiny, little nothings float around in the sunlight.

Sweet when you catch people smile into their pillows first thing in the morning.

Sweet when you close your eyes against a cool breeze, sun-kist.

Sweet when you hear a song you could've written.

Sweet when someone remembers.

Sweet.

And a little romance never hurt anyone.

- 14 November 2007

Definition of Madness?

2008-09-03T21:57:00.002+04:00

Noun. A moment in one's life when, inexplicably, wrong just seems right.

What do Ted Bundy (serial killer), Albert Einstein (theoretical physicist), Dave Chapelle (crazy) and I have in common?

Yep. I'm a murderer, a genius, and all kinds of crazy. Also, I broke my fast for a cigarette.

The thing about moments of madness is that there's always an after-party in your head, where the guests are guilt, remorse, and a trapped feeling of knowing you will have to pay for your sins sometime in the foreseeable future.

The question is, is the fleeting euphoria associated with it worth all the trouble?

If I can bottle the guilt that comes after this "crime of passion", I might just solve the energy crisis.

Here is, instead, a list of situations that, put together, might equal the guilt of breaking fast for no reason other than a futile assertion of cool. Might.

* Skipping a credit card payment.

* Cancelling a class.

* Calling in sick at work to laze around with friends.

* Not returning prized DVDs of close friends.

* Sneaking out of a parent's house.

* Sneaking peeks at a sibling's diary.

* Flinging a mobile phone across the room in anger.

* Eloping.

* Lying.

* Shopping mindlessly during sale season.

* Not paying a restaurant bill because they missed a charge.

* Joking at the expense of someone else.

* Using the work phone to make overseas calls.

* Stealing someone else's lighter.

* Not removing make-up before sleep.

* Avoiding a phone call.

* Wearing an outrageous outfit at a relative's wedding.

* Getting drunk at an office party.

I hate morning-afters, and their counterparts.

Remembering The Tinman

2008-08-24T04:33:00.002+04:00

Broken hearts have terrible memories. They forget what it was like.

*****

So this is what heartbreak is.

You feel so crushed you're almost numb. You're sitting there, with your jittery hands, and your pounding heart, and your averted gaze, and your embarrassing nails, and your out-of-place bag, and your unwanted food, and you are crushed.

You almost believed it. For the first time in years, you remember The Tinman, who stole your heart, the smile from your face.

What robber, what thief, who took away the part so essential to the whole, who stole your heart, who took it away, knowing that without it you can't live.

You had faith in this, that it would work, because it was so unexpected, because it came to you at a time when you weren't looking, or expecting anything from anyone of such close proximity.

Sometimes, before tonight, you would mentally shake yourself, and hit yourself on the back of the head, and suspect that there is some dark magic involved that made you so preoccupied with him, that dark magic you've only ever heard of, that dark magic that manipulates vulnerable souls into thinking they are attracted to someone.

Sometimes, the shaking and the hitting would work for a few seconds, and you would convince yourself that you were right; why else would you be so besotted by someone you wouldn't ordinarily be besotted by. Why else? But it would only last a few minutes, and then you're back to the kidding-yourself.

Was it a trickster using mirrors and sleight of hand

A strong elixir or a potion that you drank?

Who hurt your heart

Bruised it in a place?

And some neighborhoods away, there lies your friend in her bed, crying her eyes out because you know her and you know that she IS crying, and you feel her pain, a pain that is probably identical to yours. And you want to share with her the story of the Tinman, but you know you can't because you've kept so much from her. You are so crushed that no tears come to your eyes.

You are so embarrassed that you said the things you said. You would think you knew better.

You are crushed by the images that cross your mind, of a happy ever after that will never be yours.

You are reminded by all the things that you don't have that could be the reason behind this loneliness. You are reminded by the profoundness of the pathetic situation you are in, of how deeply sorry it is. You are reminded of the neglect that is the only thing you possess, neglect of self, neglect by others, neglect by friends, neglect by family.

You are forced to rise from this. You are forced to pretend nothing happened, that there was no heartbreak, that you didn't have to give up anything because you never owned up to anything to begin with.

Your arms feel weak, your knees.

And you feel even worse by your friends' concern for you. That their concern should explicitly imply that you have, in fact, lost before you've even begun the game.

You are now forced to dust yourself off, and to remind yourself over and over again: Wrong person, wrong time.

Remind yourself, over and over and over:

If you can tear down the walls
Throw your armor away, remove all roadblocks, barricades
If you can forget there are bandits and dragons to slay
And don't forget that you defend an empty space
And remember, the Tinman
Found he had what he thought he lacked
Remember the Tinman
Go find your heart and take it back

Who stole your heart?
Maybe no one can say
One day you will find it I pray...

You are forced to convince yourself that everything's gonna be alright, from here on out. If you just hold yourself together. Like you always have.

*****

Citations Needed

2008-08-16T02:31:00.002+04:00

The Berlitz Wikipedia

Instructor's Manual (n) bulky book you take everywhere, presumably to prepare lessons. Main purpose is to cause extreme discomfort on account of its heaviness. To be read in the car on the way to work for maximum cramming.

Student (n) the number one cause of violence and thoughts of murder.

Cleaning Lady (n) i.e. Khala Zahrah; person who witnesses increasing signs of teacher madness, when you deliberately slide down the hallways en route to your class. *cough*

Break Time (n) a 15-minute-period between classes dedicated to catching up on gossip and acquiring any number of diseases from 2nd-hand smoke.

Thursday (n) when the countdown starts for Saturday, when you have to work again.

Friday (n) the day you spend being miserable about tomorrow being Saturday, when you have to work again.

Saturday (n) damn it.

Senior Instructor (n) instructors who have been working at Berlitz for at least 2 years, who can't stop talking about WadhHa, the greatest center director of all time.

Junior Instructor (n) new instructors who are probably getting really tired of hearing about it.

Cafeteria Lady (n) person who knows when an instructor is PMS-ing, based on how much candy and chocolate the instructor consumes.

Twix (n) the Berlitz instructor's kryptonite.

Bulletin Board (n) where you should post a document you don't want anyone to read.

Receptionist (n) person whose job all instructors want.

WadhHa (n) the greatest center director of all time.

Snort, Snort

2008-08-11T03:25:00.003+04:00

My dahling friends. I know you're all planning on getting me some ridiculously expensive birthday present, or getting me a really hot dude inside a huge cake, or a new Mac, or expensive photographer stuff I won't know how to use (but will be happy to own and show off).

You don't have to.

All I want this year is for you guys to be with me on my birthday, and that is enough.

Okay, I lie.

I also want books. More books. Muwahahaha!! MUHUWAHAHAHAHA!! (That's supposed to be the evil laugh behind the closed doors, Sonja and Linzi.)

Lots and lots of books.

So here's a list of books that I want to hoard. I have divided them into categories, so that it's easier for you to judge me and my taste in books.

***
FICTION:

1. The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera
2. Baudolino by Umberto Eco
3. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams
4. The Number Devil: A Mathematical Adventure by Michael Henry Heim
5. Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris
6. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz
7. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
8. The Coma by Alex Garland
9. Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami
10. Atmospheric Disturbances by Rivka Galchen
11. Lord of the Flies by William Golding

***
NON FICTION:

1. On Bullshit by Harry Frankfurt
2. 21 Nights by Prince (I totally love this, by the way)
3. Poor People by William T. Vollmann
4. The Stuff of Thought: Language as a Window into Human Nature by Steven Pinker
5. The World Without Us by Alan Weisman
6. Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain by Oliver Sacks
7. The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness by Elyn R. Saks
8. Testosterone, Inc: Tales of CEOs Gone Wild by Christopher Byron
9. The Emperors of Chocolate by Joel Glenn Brenner
10. Her Husband by Diane Middlebrook
11. Ash Wednesday by Ethan Hawke (I think he's hot.)

***
COMIC / GRAPHIC NOVELS:

1. A Million Little Pieces of Feces by Python Bonkers
2. Cosmic Banditos by A.C. Weisbecker
3. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
4. Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi
5. V For Vendetta by Alan Moore

I could go on forever, except I think I lost you at NONFICTION.
Anyhoo. Some of the books here, especially the fiction ones, are available at Jarir. The rest are only available in remote countries like Trkalejhooli (true story).

Of course, if you know me, you know that I read just about anything anyway, so you can just get me any book by any author, except Dan Brown.

I can't wait to not have the time to read the books!!

Thank you (in advance)!! I promise to be very happy, and to not be online so much.

PS Stop muttering "nerd" under your breath. I can hear you.

xoxo

It Does

2008-08-04T02:07:00.001+04:00

Everything happens for a reason.

(That reason is, most probably, me.)

*snicker, snicker*

The Self-Help

2008-07-23T00:01:00.003+04:00

To get rid of arrogance:

Read the following. Repeat 5 times. Flush out arrogance from system, as it apparently serves no purpose.

I am the language you never learned

I am the clique you are excluded from

I am the shutter speed, the ISO

I am that little smile from across the room

I am the twinkle in the eye

I am the future contemplated

I am the preoccupation

I am the wide unknown

I am the sunshine through the window

And then I am the tiny little nothings that float around in that sunlight

I am the "sleight of hand"

I am the "strong elixir"

I am the alternate ending

I am that snapshot of you mid-laugh

I am the bookends

I am the tilt of head sideways

I am the flip of hair

I am that wave you missed

I am the karate chop

I am the monochrome

I am the "lighter to the cigarette"

I am the mother's superior

I am the preposition of place

I am every man woman child you never met

I am the sixth degree of separation

I am the shindig: you can't stop, you're addicted

I am the right place, the right time

I am the manifestation the infiltration the self-validation

I am Billie Jean, and the kid IS his son

I am the pop culture

I am the shit, shit, rebel, rebel

I am the moments before you drift off to sleep

I am the heartfelt laughter, the hahahaha

I am the soup Nazi

I am the new unread message

I am the sound of light

I am The Great White Hope

I am all the books you never read

I am the lyrics

I am the song that nobody knows

I am the baby's smile

I am the wine glass

I am the killing blow

I am the subject and I am the object

I am the new car smell the fresh laundry the Crabtree & Evelyn

You know what? I am The Body Shop.

I am the "nonsense that exercises your brain"

I am the before and I am the after

I am the sunrise and the sunset and the fear of commitment

I am the attitude

I am The Beatle

I am the velvet rope

I am the supercalifra-

I am the dream that came true

I am the original high

You got nothing on me

Who the f*ck are you?

How To Be A Photographer

2008-03-21T07:30:00.003+04:00

~

Like most everything else, there's the long way, and then there's the short, easy way. If you're smart, you listen to me.

Here are the top ten short, easy ways to be a photographer. Pencils ready, ladies.

1. Nikon VS Canon.

Pick a side. With Canon, You Can. With Nikon, You Can And You WILL. It's a war, people.

2. Express yourself.

Insert the sentence "I'm a photographer myself" in your conversations every chance you get. There's no point if nobody else knows it but you.

3. Network, network, network.

Make fast friends with photographers. Join an organization. Hopefully, their photography jargon will rub off on you.

4. Show it off.

Use the jargon you learned on non-photographers. Speak photographese to them . Deliberately make comments they won't understand, like "Well, this is an excellent picture, but it lacks composition. Also, the exposure level could've been adjusted to highlight the foreground, you know what I mean?" Then quickly walk away.

5. Don't say picture, say photograph.

They are two very different things.

6. Philosophize.

Take random photos of ordinary things and elaborate on their profundity. For example, take a photo of the edge of a table, and title it "The Edge of Reason".

7. Accessorize!

Buy equipment you don't know how to use. Buy books on photography and don't read them. But make sure to display them.

8. The joke is on you.

Tell jokes that end with, "... it's the white balance that's the problem, not your eyesight! Hahaha! Get it? White balance! Hahaha!" Smack the person for effect.

9. Cuss like a photographer.

Train yourself to drip with ISO sarcasm. Condemn your enemies to the hellfires of camera-settings ignorance.

10. Give advice.

It's time to give back to society. Help other aspiring photographers. Write an article. Lead a workshop. Open a Photographers Anonymous forum. Extol on the virtues of the Nikon.

And don't forget to be condescending.

Previously, on "The World Revolves Around Nessreen"...

2008-03-20T05:15:00.007+04:00

~

I'D LIKE TO GIVE TITLES to each of my blog entries, in the tradition of all these new TV shows. I'd like the titles to be titles of songs. Even though my life isn't nearly half as eventful as even the most boring episode of these TV shows. I can hear myself narrate the events as they happen in my own personal Meredith Grey voice.

I'D LIKE TO TELL A story in each entry, to have a cohesive beginning and ending, to have a moral lesson, and to have a vague little one-liner at the end.

IN EVERY EPISODE, I'D LIKE that guy with the deep voice to refresh my readers' memories with his usual line: Previously, on Nessreen's Highly-Anticipated and Followed Life..., followed by little flashbacks of my theatrics and histrionics of the past week.

AS A SPECIAL TREAT FOR my loyal readers, my TV-like blog would be linked to a YouTube video clip of a gag reel of my bloopers. Little mistakes here and there where I would, together with my co-stars, burst out laughing, or make funny faces and sounds, or mispronounce a word, or say "f*ck" and have it bleeped.

IT WOULD ALSO HAVE A behind-the-scenes commentary special blog entry. Watch me talk about myself for a good half hour. Fun stuff.

Now how about that.

Do Not Valentine!

2008-02-21T12:31:00.002+04:00

In their attempt to put out the infidel flames of Valentine celebrations, the "authorities" have successfully, albeit inadvertently, made people more aware of Valentine’s Day than they ever were. Take for instance the story of a man who just happened to be wearing his red shirt that day. He was apprehended, lectured, reprimanded and sent home to change his red-shirt-wearing ways. The man head-scratchingly goes home, marks his calendar for next year: VALENTINE’S DAY, MUST ABSTAIN FROM RED, and proceeds to tell everyone in his circle about what happened to him.

8 out of 10 people he told had either forgotten, not known or simply not cared about Valentine’s Day. Those 8 people went home to THEIR calendars and marked them correspondingly, and also proceeded to tell THEIR circle of friends. 8 out of 10 people each of those 8 people told had either forgotten, not known, so on and so forth, you get the picture. It’s a little like Pay It Forward, or the Six Degrees of Separation theory, or, ultimately, like Facebook. They might as well have their own group or application on Facebook. Or wait, they actually might already have one.

February 14 in Jeddah is now like February 14 in any Valentine-celebrating city, except people are trying harder to inform everyone else about the alleged insignificance of this wildly popular and uncelebrated celebrated holiday.

Here’s how it is purposely not celebrated in Jeddah. We have any number of urban legends and freak stories about it. Men in long beards and long cloaks allegedly roam the streets in search of people wearing or carrying – and in the process, promoting - the color red. The following items are absolute profanities: red shirts, red caps, red shoes, and if you’re wearing red pants and your name ain’t Michael Jackson, you really deserve to be in prison. Heart shapes and flowers are deeply discouraged, red or otherwise, and flower shops are known to be surrounded by cops and maybe a couple of idiots who haven’t heard of my story of the man in the red shirt and are therefore still trying to buy flowers for their 12-year-old girlfriends. If we are patient, within a few seconds, the idiots will hopefully be shot to death. Restaurants are earmarked in case more of these idiots survived the flower shop drama and are now in the middle of dates with said girlfriends. For the ladies, it has been said that red nail polish and hot red lipstick attract attention you don’t want on this day. In supermarkets, malls and shops, any product remotely related to hearts, flowers, red, love and Michael Jackson are pulled off the shelves. So far, I’ve only heard jokes about red cars, and apparently, only the shimag [red-and-white checked headdress for men] can pull off the color red on this highly-charged day.

So what exactly happens when someone is caught not not-celebrating Valentine’s Day? More urban legends. Supposedly, there is a camp on the outskirts of Jeddah where these violators are thrown and imprisoned for an unknown length of time. As punishment, they are forced to listen to Tamer Hosni love songs all day and all night. To make it even worse, everytime “love” is mentioned in the song, they bleep it out. Ah, the agony.

Valentine’s Day was never a part of Saudi culture or religion. People should start respecting law, culture, and more importantly, religion. I mean, let’s talk open-minded here.

Aren’t we always the first to volunteer the fact that we are open-minded? What constitutes open-mindedness? Respect for another individual’s opinions and beliefs. The power to, in the words of The Beatles, Let It Be. To be able to listen to someone talk about their culture and not mock, or in any way offend them. When the National Association Of People Who Make Up And Release Cliche Sayings And Proverbs (NAPWMURCSP for short) said: “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” they really meant: “When in INSERT NAME OF COUNTRY, do as the INSERT NATIONALITY OF PEOPLE FROM SAID COUNTRY do.” Trust me, I was an honorary member of the organization.

So how about, for now, let’s respect? No more crazy talk about the Day of Love, at least until next year. Mark your calendars, errbody. And stay away from Michael Jackson.

Pride

2007-12-14T17:11:00.000+04:00

There is a part of us, some section of our brain that communicates to us that there is, somewhere in our hearts, compassion for the human race. We feel the injustice, we are enveloped in that sadness, that empathetic helplessness when someone is being grossly maltreated. We feel in ourselves that desire to better our person, to avoid being one of those people who dole out prejudice and bias, that urge to erase those people off completely.

I do not have black skin, I am not of African descent. Whatever discrimination and antagonism I get from other people where my race is concerned isn’t even half of what others get. But I feel. I empathize. I strive to make others feel as minimally pre-judged as possible.

I do resent the fact that films like Pride sensationalize something that some people have worked so hard to wipe out. Now that the Afro-Americans have it better going than ever before, these films relight that fire, that anger, that resentment. People have different reactions to success stories like these. Some might withdraw from a certain level of socializing with those that caused so much pain to their forebears, while others, as what the producers directors writers probably initially envisioned, use it positively: as a means to value their fortunate predicaments, their current status, to remember what they have fought for and not take it all for granted.

Still, I respect. I understand. Or at least I try. It can’t be easy.

I get a small taste of this pain every time I have to deny my nationality and state my fake Americanism. It’s all ok, only a means to an end, until I start believing the lies. It gets dangerous when I do forget who I really am and get sucked into a lifestyle, an entity that is really not mine.

I love all the undertones and overtones of this film. I especially love the feelings of determination and eventual success that it inspires. I feel like I can do anything. I feel like I can apply these things to my daily activities, to my job, to my health, to my family life. I love the splash of water as the swimmers dive into the pool, that perceptible muting of sound as soon as they are submerged, and the fight they fight as they swim for the win. It’s all very metaphoric.

I love the photography. I love noticing the subtle and the significant differences between still photography and movement. I love acknowledging and appreciating the fact that it took a lot of motivation, a lot of hard work to finish a piece of artful storytelling and showing such as this film.

I love watching Terrence Howard and that held-back aggression he possesses, the one that radiates from his oddly coloured eyes, from the set of his mouth, and his unsteady but no less strong voice. He was noticeably more fit in this film, and absolutely hotter than ever. I love his posture, and his walk, and his shoulders, his unrefined hands, his laugh. It’s amazing how much respect he inspires, just by being such a multi-faceted actor, a dynamic talent. He has so many faces, so many angles to his character: he can be a thug and a highly-educated black man at the exact same time.

This film moved me.

The Thobe Identity

2007-12-08T15:13:00.000+04:00

A couple of nights back, some friends and I decided to hang out by the Corniche. We drove along the long stretch of seaside looking for a spot to sit and have our dinner and meaningless conversations. We would check the people already sitting to gauge the safety of the spot of our choice. Finally, we decided to sit some distance from a group of guys that looked harmless. They weren't loud, they weren't playing music, they weren't monkeying around, and they didn't seem to be wearing thobes.

As we unpacked and got ready to settle down, one of the guys from that group stood up. He was, in fact, wearing a thobe. There was an undeniable pause and an audible gasp from our group. Crap. We just might get harassed after all.

We ended up staying anyway, and the guys left us alone. We weren't assaulted.

***

"You don't change the city; the city changes you."

This city suffers from acute racism. Discrimination, stereotyping, prejudice, bias, judgment, typecasting, labeling, you name it whatever politically incorrect *gasp* scandalous term you want, it's here. It's such a commonplace thing to do that it has become a valid justification.

Here's a snippet of a typical conversation:

"Oh, that's horrible! Why do you think that happened?"

"What do you expect? He is *insert nationality after changing tone to one of disgust*."

"Ah." *insert bright background beam of enlightenment*

Yeah, what a shame, since there are people from all kinds of countries and cultures residing here. We are the ultimate cliché of a melting pot.

There are layers of discrimination, too. It's very organized-crime-ish.

People here are divided into two:

The locals, i.e. Saudis
The foreigners, i.e. expatriates

The locals are further subdivided into:

The Bedouins. People that are so backward-thinking that they slam against their own backs. They buy techie gadgets and sacreligiously misuse them. They are blind followers of ancient cultural norms; they stink of the sand from the deserts and the tents from whence they come. They wear unflattering sacks they call clothes and even though they have kept up with fashion trends, they're still 10 years behind. They drink their coffee, and talk their talk, and dance their dance, and sing their music, all of them painfully old-fashioned and out-of-date.
The New Age Saudis. You see them cruising around with their expensive cars and their trendy thobes and gilded abayas, speaking their English, drinking their franchise-café lattes. They shop in high-end boutiques and they smell of French perfume. They tell stories of summer vacations in Europe and they live for big family matches and milkahs and weddings. They are "open-minded", they are Western, they are upper middle upper-middle class. The young men with their raging hormones chasing after the young women at malls. The young women inviting harassment from their male counterparts with their coy glances and painted nails. Some of them are wildly educated, quoting literary icons and asserting their political views and their distaste of the mainstream pop culture. They are the bohemian bourgeoisie.
The Hybrids. The half-Saudi, half-something else. The ones with the western accents, the mixture of features, the confused where-am-I-from rhetoric , the identity crises. They are outsiders through and through, too foreign to the Saudis and too Saudi to the foreigners.

Which brings us to the foreigners. They could have lived their whole lives in this city, learned the language, absorbed the standards of behavior and the points of view. Or they could have just moved to the city from their home countries, staying for work, or staying with their working parents. They are subdivided into the following major categories:

Zee Arabs. The Lebanese, the Syrians, the Egyptians, the Morroccans, the Jordanians, the Palestinians, the Turks, the Tunisians, the Iranians, who cares what continent sub-continent they come from - they look Arab, they sound Arab. Them with their food, and their men and women, and their wild hair, their music and their dancing, their morals, and why can't they speak with proper Arabic accents, and why are they influencing the youth?
The Asians. The little people. Indonesians and Filipinos. Excellent kitchen people. They clean your house, raise your kids, steal your jewelry, seduce your husbands, cast spells on your family. You have to squint your eyes to understand what they're saying when they swallow the consonants and the crucial vowels and they bastardize your language. Third world people who corrupt societies with their DBDs DBDs, buy-the-latest-DBD-sadik, and their homosexuals bisexuals multisexualities.
The South Asians. Indians, Pakistanis, Bengalis, Sri Lankans. The rolling tongue accents and the beads on their foreheads and on their clothes and on their hands and their bellies, and their saris, and that slicked-back hair, and the onions and spices, and the ignorance, the deceit.
The Africans. The thievery, the conning, that dark dark skin, always suspect. Oh, they bring in drugs and prostitution and HIV, they deal in their little adobes and they walk around with their deep baritones and the white eyes.
The Westerners. Australians, Americans, British, Europeans. They knock the culture of this city off its feet and replace it with blond hair and blue eyes. They push people out of the box of chastity and humility and set them free into a world of underground booze and partying and mixing-of-the-sexes.

That's right, GASP. Be SHOCKED. This is a fine form of discrimination staring you in the face. Can you handle it's unadulterated consistency? Are you mad, furious, because you can make fun of your own race and other people shouldn't, that you can throw racial slurs if you're from the same race but that no one else should? Does it infuriate you that you have every right to criticize your own culture but others shouldn't, and yet they do?

Nobody has earned that right. Nobody is entitled to any kind of judgment or prejudice. Not anybody, and certainly not you, you Arab Asian Western infidel uneducated outcast leper ugly beggar skank whore son-of-a-nobody.

And yet..

History revolves around the same axis, it orbits around the same nucleus of hatred and looking-down-on-other-people.

Culture is beautiful. Songs have been sung about them, poems recited, books written, worlds fused. But to this city, there exists a fine line between the appreciation of beauty in culture, and the overdose of it.

Hate begets hate. The chicken begot the egg. The egg begot the chicken. Potatoe potah-toe. Same banana.

Are you a discriminator, or are you discriminated against?

The first step to solving a problem is to acknowledge that there IS a problem.

Hi. My name is Nessreen and I am a racist.

The Diarization Process

2007-11-15T03:52:00.000+04:00

I’m doing a very bad job if I want to be a diarist. I’m always thinking of the honesty factor: Should I be shamelessly honest in my entries, or should I manipulate them according to my audience? Am I really going to allow access to my personal “journals”?

Anyhoo, while the ideas above are left to cook, let’s try the diarization process, shall we?

***

Friends should be excused from pleasantries. The whole how-are-you routine is wasted on friends. It doesn’t really serve a purpose in our relationships; we always know it’s coming, and we always know the answer to it. “Hey, how are you?” “I’m good, yourself?” “I’m good.” That’s about 10 seconds wasted. We know what’s coming next, too. There’s nothing else to follow that except, “How’s your family? Boyfriend? Work?” And the answer is the same. “All good”. Which is about 20 more seconds wasted. This leads to about 5 more seconds of time wastage when there is a very short, awkward silence while friends try to figure out the best way to segue into what’s really happening in their lives.

***

I’ve been spending most of my time watching Desperate Housewives. I have only good things to say about it. It seemed pretty superficial and mundane to me at first, just mindless entertainment and pure soap opera of the telenovela kind. And yet, there is profundity in all its simple glory. I am all the characters of this TV series, every man, woman, child.

***

James Bond lives in an unreal world of (get ready for a series of keywords) luxury, cars, tailored suits, European women, five-star hotels, expensive gadgets, betrayal, sex, and travel. That’s a lot of money in one sentence. I enjoyed the last one only because I’m so used to the Bond culture; I grew up with men idolizing him. The new Bond actor (Craig something or other, I think) is sexy enough. He’s got the body, and his face, however comical, has its own uncultured charm, lent to it by the role he is playing. His looks are very cruel, though, and his eyes... not mischievous, that’s too cute a word, maybe a little sinister, and the set of his mouth stubborn. There’s nothing else to discuss about this movie, it’s not exactly profound. Besides, the main character is bigger than the movie.

The Size of Asia

2007-11-15T03:10:00.000+04:00

Asia is the largest continent in the world. According to Microsoft Encarta, it covers an estimated 44,391,000 sq km (17,139,000 sq mi), or about 30 percent of the world’s total land area. Its peoples account for three-fifths of the world’s population.

I have thoughts in my head the size of Asia. They come rushing through my brain and I struggle to keep them organized into countries, cities, little islands. I think of every little detail, of every little gesture and all its tiny, tiny implications.

My Asia is bounded on the north by the great waters of my Ambition. I long to be the best, to be looked up on, to be envied. On the east, my relationships with my family and their extended family, on the South by the vast sea of people I meet and make friends out of. On the west lies my long stream of weaknesses, a stream that continues along the mountains of insecurities and on to a huge waterfall of failure that I am frightened of and yet am unable to avoid.

Because of its vast size and diverse character, my Asia is divided into five realms: 1) who I am when nobody is watching, 2) who I am with my friends, 3) who I am with my siblings, 4) who I am when everybody else is listening, 5) and who my parents would like me to be.

I have excess baggage the size of Asia. They come in many forms. For instance, the shoes that I hoard and never wear. I have boxes and boxes of stilletoes, pumps, peep-toes, boots, round-toes, kitten heels, sandals, slip-ons, flip-flops that gather dust under the hung clothes. I have tons of paper and books that are piled on top of each other, dangerously teetering. I have notes I've written down throughout the years, sitting, waiting to be published.

I have ambitions the size of Asia. I want to be a doctor, a lawyer, an interior designer, a marketing manager, a creative director, a businesswoman, a lyricist, an actor.

I have identity issues the size of Asia. My patriotic pride lies under thick layers of embarrassment, of apologetic remarks that defend my people's behaviour, under layers of American accents and deep denial. I am Asian.

I have obsessions the size of Asia.

I have dreams the size of Asia.

The size of Asia moves me.

A Photographic Lie

2007-10-22T10:14:00.000+04:00

I've been a bad, bad photographer today. I took overexposed pictures, I didn't change my ISO and white balance as necessary, I didn't carry my camera in its bag, and ultimately, I took a picture of a policeman's motorcycle and lied profusely about it.

So, what happened was, I went to the hospital earlier today with my friends to visit Sheri who gave birth to the most precious baby girl. After much fussing over baby, we went downstairs to the baqalah next door to buy some stuff. Right outside the store, Sharifa and I, caught up in a photographer's frenzy, noticed this beautiful golden door that had lots of potential. In a burst of misplaced bravado, I bullied her into taking pictures of it with me.

Before you proceed on murdering this photo with your comments, let me assure you that wasn't the worst part.

Across this door was a small police station. It had windows that were tinted and closed. Parked outside it was a motorcycle with the cop radio on, so that I knew the policeman was somewhere nearby. But because I'm such a hippo, I proceeded to take pictures of the motorcycle. They were nice pictures, taken with excellent settings, at a very profound angle. They would have garnered lots of photo comments and smiley faces on my deviantart.

As I was getting ready to run, however, the window opened and out came the policeman's head. He attacked me with an onslaught of brisk Arabic accusations, pointing wildly at my camera. I shook my head in feign miscomprehension. Let me tell you something, that delete button? It has never been pressed as fast as I did when I was deleting the pictures I took of his motorcycle. I am actually proud of myself, for at least mastering the art of deleting pictures. So I walk over to him to prove that I am a good liar, and that Wallahi, no pictures of motorcycle in my camera, only baby and Filipino nurses. I had to go through 200 pictures with him, clutching my camera like mad (I think I left a few scratches on screen, I was clutching it like a maniac) because he wanted to take it and look through it himself. My short life as a photographer flashed before my eyes, and I could see the JUArtists shaking their heads in disdain and disapproval. With renewed determination, I clutched some more, and lied some even more. Idiot was pressing all kinds of buttons on my camera, saying I hid the pictures somewhere, and in the process, changed all my settings. After he got tired of looking at the pictures of nurses, he let go of the camera, and warned me that I could be under investigation for taking pictures. I think I also heard him say that my pictures were overexposed, but I can’t be too sure, I was too shaken to look through my English-Arabic Dictionary.

As I walked away, my friends soothing me and assuring me he had no right to do that and that my pictures were perfectly exposed, I couldn’t help but think of how much we suffer for art. What price beauty? What price profound angles? Mokhtar once said that photographers in Saudi Arabia are so restricted and constrained, but it only makes them more creative and more aware of the little things, little details that they ARE allowed to photograph. It took today for me to realize how true that is. We are the oppressed. We are the muted voices. We are the social pariahs.

I suffered for art.

I am shaken, but not quite stirred. Because at least, I was able to share Mikayla Angelina Soares’ baby pictures to that po-po, and he was given the golden opportunity to look at a baby so beautiful, so full of life, that I’m sure as he rode that ugly motorcycle, he pondered the splendour of existence and the true meaning of humanity. Idiot. I hope he buys a camera and never learns how to adjust his settings.

Ode to My Family

2007-10-19T03:46:00.000+04:00

When we were younger, one of my father's template sermons was the one about studying hard and striving to be successful so as not to grow up to be "servants" of much wealthier uncles, aunts, and/or cousins. This was something we scoffed at; nonsense, we said. I now see the wisdom behind this motivational technique (one that, in my opinion, didn't work). By "servant" I mean "errand boy", someone who is asked to do any number of menial jobs around the house, a social pariah, useless, therefore, pushed around. As a result of the stigma my father has put on this particular kind of servitude to relatives, I fear it above all. I resent all my relatives who ask favours of me, be it something as simple as handing over something, to bigger favours. I’m always fuming inside, indignant, “do they think I am some kind of a slave?”

Is it arrogance on my part?

***

My cousin Kaka Cody passed away Eid morning at about 7am, Jeddah time. I felt a momentary shock, as per usual, but the moment passed so quickly it was almost not worth acknowledging. This could be an indication that I handle shock very well, or it could be a warning sign that sometime in the future, I will break down mightily and... I don’t know, lose it big-time.

I never knew Kaka Cody very well. He was, to me, one of our many well-off relatives. When we were younger, we would go to Riyadh and visit him in his home. We loved his IKEA furniture and his surround sound system. He was, like most of our relatives from our father’s family, an articulate man, always conversing with us as if we were adults. He was a chain-smoker, too, I remember, he was never without a cigarette. He was always very casual, an approachable adult, very rare. We knew he and my father were inseparable when they were growing up, even though they were cousin and uncle.

My father was devastated. He stayed in bed most of the day. I can only imagine how he must've felt. It must be a complete shock for him, and quite scary as well, because he and Kaka Cody are exactly the same age. I imagine he must’ve thought he would still see him sometime in the future, perhaps when they’re both much, much older, retired maybe, reminiscing the past, playing chess. He must’ve been thinking how much he wants to do for him and his family now that he has passed on, the way we all do when we think of our very close friends. It must crush him the thought that he isn’t capable of doing anything, being so far away from HIS own family, being financially unstable, and being so disconnected from everyone else who knew Kaka Cody as well as he did.

It’s sad, and at the same time, quite fortunate that it takes death to reunite a family. People are suddenly very forgiving of each other, and reminiscing better times has always softened people towards one another. We spent our Eid morning, as did all our Tamano relatives, in collective mourning, sitting solemnly in my Mom’s living room. We had a quiet breakfast, after which we sat around in groups, teenagers together, 20-somethings together, in-laws together, listening to my father tell stories of our cousin, who was well-loved, who was a very kind soul. In some ways, it was a celebration – of family ties that bind us together, of a decent man / father / son / brother’s passing, and ultimately, of life.

Pilgrimage

2007-10-01T20:52:00.000+04:00

Having had about 15 years of experience performing Umrah, I have made some observations.

** Never underestimate the strength of old lady pilgrims. They have big, calloused hands, the better to push you with. Encountering one, which is a huge possibility, constitutes an 80-year-old lady manhandling and roughhousing you, and you not being able to do anything about it.

** Wear extra thick socks to cushion the blow of stepping on date cores/seeds, especially if you're going to perform your Umrah around Maghreb time.

** No, it is NOT a mosh pit, NOT an extreme sport, and NOT Amazing Race, no matter how much you have convinced yourself that it kinda is. So concentrate on praying, not winning or yelling "Unbelievable!" at rude people.

** I'm a Bring-Your-Own-Scissors kind of girl, so it always annoys me when I reach the end of my Umrah - and I'm this close to finally sitting down and resting my over-flexed calves - and I can't get a move on because my scissors are being passed on from one family to the next, cutting hair by the fistfuls. It's extremely humbling to be reminded of patience and generosity. What's the harm in lending scissors? We tend to forget.

** We tend to forget that we're there for: worship. So let's keep the cussing at zero. Don't cuss out the female security who always shove you in attempts to keep the crowding at a minimum. They're just doing their job. I repeat, resist the urge to cuss. Not even in spelling. (Oooh, that bee-eye-tee-see-etch!)

** The biggest fear of all pilgrims is to get lost, to break away from their group never to be found again. This is where the Universal Green Light comes in. Everyone goes to the green light if they're lost. Can't find your way? Green Light. Looking for someone? Green Light. Not sure where to start your Tawaf? Green Light.

** Get that tune out of your head! Sometimes, the whole experience of Umrah is so exhilarating that one wants to break into song. Make Du'a instead; pray.

Outside of these observations...

I am humbled by the magnificence of Al-Haram, by the unity of the Muslim Ummah in prayer.

I am amazed by the extent of human generosity.

I am overwhelmed by the power of faith and prayer.

I am humbled by Allah's might.

*****

It's good when a group of friends party and have fun together. Even better when they pray together.

May Allah accept our prayers, may He bless us, and guide us to the right path.

Ameen!

Ramadan Kareem, errbody!

On Art

2007-09-24T20:33:00.000+04:00

I've always had a love-hate relationship with photography. I love it because it captures profundity and beauty in the most mundane of things, it exudes emotion, it changes views, it inspires action. I resent it because it intrudes, it trespasses the thin, fragile lines of privacy.

By getting myself a camera, I am nurturing this relationship. I want to dip into that vast ocean of profoundness found on both sides of the lens, or, in true klutz fashion, slosh through it. I want to conquer this fear of truth, of honesty, of being open and straightforward.

Maybe I'm a little too dramatic. Maybe I won’t do any of those things, maybe I'll stick to taking ordinary photographs of random things: the corner of a table, a glass of water, a mug of pencils, "the curve of a woman's hip", to quote Winona Ryder's character in Autumn In New York.

Maybe I'll just take pictures of my friends: posing with their hands in a collective Peace Sign, smiling at the camera with a calculated and practiced pose, or caught mid-sentence in an unflattering angle.

Maybe I'll remain mundane.

***
My father was the happiest with my purchase. His delight encouraged me; maybe someday I'll become as good as he is. I listened to him talk about apertures, exposure, lenses, shutter speed; listened not to what he was saying, but to his words and the animation that lit up his older face. "Ah," he said, "but my eyes are so bad now, I miss the beauty in things. I don't see anymore."

Maybe it's wrong to allow my father's interests to take control of mine. Maybe I should do this for myself. Maybe. Maybe not.

Right now, this moment, I don't know where I'm going.

I can't say I completely dislike the feeling.

***

Take Control of Life

An Awesome Birthday

2007-09-06T17:09:00.000+04:00

My friends have outdone themselves this year. There is a LOT to be thankful for, the foremost being my friends for trying their best not to slip up and say something that would give away the *gasp* super secret surprise party for Linzi and myself, the two spoiled brats who always get properly shocked every September. So let's begin the slideshow, shall we?

We got off work and came down the building to find this sleek, black Limo awaiting our Royal Bratness. In the humidity, it looked like this:

But in real life, it really looked like this: (notice the trademark)

We were driven around the city, of course on major streets to garner as much attention as possible, by the very skilled driver Mr Fahad. Inside, of course, a raging party ensued, where every man, woman, and child sweated like camels while dancing to random music, notably, Madonna's Music.

Afterwards, we had some cake at Friday's, as is traditional, and then we hied off to the Eyd Residence, where we had more surprises.

I'd like to thank all of my friends who facilitated the smooth occurrence of The Big Surprise, and for the lovely gifts I received. I wish it were my birthday all day, every day, every damn day. *chicken-dancing*

These are a few of my favorite things:

From Sara Mini: (thank you SO MUCH, you know what I like, and most importantly, you know what I would, and COULD wear, LOL)

From Kholoud, resident Glamorous Naughty Girl:

From Ozzy Sinni, Kebdi, Keliyati.

From Souma and Doha, my gorgeous friends:

From My B-Girl Suzi Yoshi:

And from my lovely, lovely friends, who know that deep within my soul, I am a Britney Spears, waiting to make it to the top. I'm loving it!!

Big bastard hugs all around.

The List

2007-08-31T11:22:00.000+04:00

Yeah. I AM getting older. For one thing, I am slowly, very slowly realizing that there IS such a thing as too much television. You know, the old I-Need-To-Stop-Watching-And-Start-Living-eroo.

For another thing, my birthday is coming up. I’ll be 24 in about 4 days’ time. Wow. When I was younger, I thought by the age of 21, I’d have my own house, my own car, and be fiercely independent and career-oriented. Like I said, too much television, especially considering I had always envisioned myself living in Jeddah for the rest of my very debatable life. Of course now I am about 3 years older than my hitherto imagined self, I still live in Jeddah at my parents’ house, women still aren’t allowed to drive, and I am not only fiercely dependent on everybody else including the hobo that lives on the street next to our house, I am also very career-confused and very lame-jokey.

A-hey-ny-way-hey. Here it is, my wishlist for the annual celebration of my mediocrity, which is organized into categories:

The Radical

-A vanity set with a huge mirror with dressing-room lights around the frame

-An iMac, any color

-2 months worth of sessions with a psychiatrist (so I could, of course, talk about nothing but myself – an elitist alternative to this tedious blogging business)

-3 bottles of Smirnoff Mules, alcoholic

-A Nokia N95

-Weight loss. Or okay, a gym membership. Ha ha ha.

The Super

-A lens upgrade for my Nikon

-A guitar signed by a real (performing) guitarist/s

-Jewelry (I’m allergic to silver and I prefer white gold)

-A 30gb iPod, white

-BOSE headphones

The Fabulous-o

-Music CDs (John Legend, India Arie, Marvin Gaye, Eryka Badu, et al.)

-A bottle of Chanel Chance perfume, the green one

-Mascara, Max Factor (in the spirit of elitism, and because I’m allergic to all other brands)

-A T-Shirt that says Nessreen in the front, and “I don’t have friends, they all call me Master” in the back

-A watch

-Books, books, books!! *evil, greedy laugh* For a list of the books I already own, please go here

-A photo-shoot of all my friends with me as the photographer

-The Sopranos DVD set

Disclaimers

- You are under no obligation to get me anything for my birthday, as I never celebrated my birthday up until last year, and I’m not used to receiving birthday presents, hence the audacity. Except if you’re reading this. THEN, you really MUST get me something out of courtesy. I mean, in my country... so on and so forth.

The Gray Anatomy

2007-08-08T00:53:00.000+04:00

"Nobody knows where we might end up.. Nobody knows..
Suppose we never know?"

Grey’s Anatomy moves me. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m me, and I live vicariously through the movies and the TV shows that I love to watch. Or if it’s because this one inspires me to be better at my job, pushes me to do my best and make a difference in people’s lives, pushes me to love and respect what I do. Or if it’s because it makes me realize that I AM an important member of this community that is behind the success of one company. Or if it just makes me sad to think that if I’d done better in school, if I’d made better decisions, that I’d be so much more than I am right now. Maybe I would’ve been a good doctor, maybe a great lawyer. I know this is just me, the slave to society, speaking. How bad is it to be a teacher, an excellent teacher, if it means I’m helping my family at the same time I’m supporting a company – two things that are bigger than myself? Why do I have to be a cliché?

Why can’t I be content with what good I’m getting from my current situation – considering my achievements or lack thereof?

Why is it so hard to accept the fact that maybe, just maybe, this is what I was always meant to do?

Why does it feel like I’m always just settling for second best? All the friggin time? And why am I stuck in a rut when I should be flourishing at this age, when I should be pushing myself to my greatest potential? What IS my greatest potential? I never had the chance to find out. I don’t know if I ever will.

“Waking is better than sleeping.”

And yet, every day at work, when I go out with my friends, when I get home, I can’t wait to sleep. I might have mastered the art of time suckage without even knowing it.

“Why do I keep hitting my head with a sledgehammer? Because it feels SO GOOD when I stop.”

***

Dr Grey reminds me so much of Jehanifah. The straight hair & that fringe, the scrubs, the shirt-sleeves underneath the scrub, the eyes that look like she's just woken up. Why was I even surprised when I found out that she watches this show? I so know she would be attached to it as much as I am. We are both suckers for hard work, excellence, and prestige disguised as profundity, indifference, and good-quality sweaters. Yes, this has always been our bond. Cold weather coupled with warm comforts like cigarettes, cups of coffee, epiphanies, and cashmere. And that’s what I think of when I watch Dr Grey. I don’t even like her character. She is too... fluid. She doesn’t have clear lines, she is all fuzzy. I can’t tell where she begins and where she ends. She is a mishmash of too many personalities.

Stay Tuned

2007-08-02T03:27:00.000+04:00

The thing about TV shows that are narrated in the first person is that it is far from real life. Think Grey’s Anatomy, Scrubs, Sex and the City. Each episode usually starts off with the main character telling the story of the day, and then ends with some epiphany or other. It wouldn’t bother me so much if the epiphanies weren’t as vague or redundant or slightly stupid as they usually are most days.

“I made my way home and that’s when I realized, we HAVE to be who we are.”

Or “It suddenly struck me that people do the things they do for a reason.”

Gimme a break.

The thing of it is that we watch these people stumble through their daily lives, their jobs, and then ultimately idolize them. We find ourselves the following day waking up and acting like there’s a whole crew of people videotaping our lives. Then we make our way home and start realizing equally meaningless things. I do it more and more each day. Only last night, I was in the car on the way home when I realized, people ARE different from each other, even if they’re all the same.

It’s funny, isn’t it. People started making movies to imitate real life. But now, people live their lives in imitation of movies. (See what I mean about epiphanies?)

Of course, before these TV shows, there was MTV. I still remember when I was in my early teens, when my friends and I lived our lives like it was a drawn-out music video. If you’re a bastard child of the 80s, you know what I’m talking about. The Slow-Mo Syndrome, we call it. If you had a problem, you sit prettily by the edge of your bed, cry theatrical tears, have flashbacks of happier times in slow motion, and pretend you were a teen pop star singing a ballad. The flashbacks were the best part. They usually involve a group of pretty young things with their heads thrown back in laughter, spraying each other with water. Slow motion is key.

In real life, of course, flashbacks aren’t that vivid or detailed. In real life, there are no epiphanies, except if you’ve had too much to drink. In real life, there isn’t always a story to tell, there isn’t always a moral lesson.

As I wrap up this entry, I realize that life isn’t always what it’s supposed to be. At the end of the day, we are who we are. People go on with their lives, and most of the time, so do I.

LISTEN

2007-05-28T03:01:00.000+04:00

As soon as we hit our 20s, we get sucked into that void between adulthood and... adulthood. This is the time when we think we've transcended adolescence. But in reality, we haven't. We've just gotten more eloquent and impassioned in phrasing our complaints.

What was once "I hate my life" has now become "I'm having an existential dilemma."

It used to be "I hate my parents", now it's "They're manipulating my life so they can live out their faded dreams through mine."

Yep, same difference.

This is also the time when we ponder and write articulate blogs about how unsure we are with the paths our lives are taking. We never know what to do, never know what we want, never satisfied. We are always chasing dreams. As a result, the complaints consume us and we can't even start to think about living these dreams.

I'm proud of some people I know who pushed themselves into doing what they want to do. They stopped the complaining (or at least kept it at a minimum), and slaved on until they got to the starting point. Yes, JUST the starting point. It's a long way, but at least they're somewhere.

So everytime I hear Beyonce singing in that movie Dream Girls, I can't help but feel some of her triumph. This song is for my sister Jehan, for achieving her goals, for getting her degree finally, and for taking control of her life; and for Shari, who also finally took a step forward, inching closer and closer towards success.

Now, close your eyes, and imagine me screaming at the top of my lungs, Beyonce-style, singing this song.

Listen
To the song here in my heart
A melody I start
but can't complete

Listen
To the sound from deep within
It's only beginning to find release

The time has come
For my dreams to be heard
They will not be pushed aside and turned
Into your own,
all 'cause you won't listen

Listen
I am alone at a crossroads
I'm not at home in my own home
And I've tried and tried
To say what's on my mind
You should have known...

Now I'm done believing you
You don't know what I'm feeling
I'm more than what you made of me
I've followed the voice you gave to me
But now I've got to find my own...

You should have listened...

Listen
To the song here in my heart
A melody I start
but I will complete...

Gift-ed

2007-05-20T03:10:00.000+04:00

Gifts are perpetually embarrassing, giving or receiving them. When someone's birthday comes along, you always think, "Will she like this?". Then you end up spending tons of money on something you're only half-sure she likes, only to slap yourself on the forehead later, thinking what other cooler things you could've gotten for her. Or him.

THEN you hand over the present, and the fervent thanks-giving ensues. "Oh, you shouldn't have!" and you're obligated to respond, "Oh, you deserve much, much more!" *red face*

I always die a little when people give me presents. It's always surprising, always flattering, and I never know how to respond. I usually smile from ear-to-ear, crack some lame joke, and then quickly make a list of things I can give the person back. "She got me a book, love it, love it, LOVE it; now I'll have to get her a gold watch." Yes, I was always bad at calculation.

So when one of my students, a real-life princess, gave me an expensive mobile phone as a thank-you gift, I did the only two things I knew to do:

a) Got so red-faced you could hardly see me in that big red abyss that was my face.
b) Showed it off to every single living person I knew.

For the sake of discussion, because we all know it is just next to impossible, what kind of gift can I give her back? What does one give a person who cannot possibly want or need something I can ever afford?

No, abstract ideas like freedom and loyalty and kindness do not count.

Anyway, I really appreciated the gesture; she was the best kind of princess I ever met, and even though I was utterly embarrassed by the present, the showing-off-afterwards was all worth it.

What was the best gift YOU have ever given or received?

The Secret Lives of Children and Friends

2007-05-16T04:44:00.000+04:00

My mother told me that she had rung Rosie yesterday.

"How did she sound?" I said.

My mother's face broke into a big smile and she said, "Oh, she's fantastic. She's doing incredibly well. She's almost finished her dissertation and she's going out with a lovely boy called Simon. She needed £200 to buy a new printer for her computer so that she can print her dissertation out."

How little our parents know about us. Do my children lie to me?

- Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction, Sue Townsend

The secret lives of children. My parents, for instance, don't know the demons I wrestle with, the intensity of my tooth problems, the extent of my smoking habit, my relationships with my friends and family. For sure, it's better that they know nothing of it. The question is, do they REALLY want to know? Do they, somehow, somewhere deep within their subconscious, not want to know? Do they want us to forever stay little children? I don't want their noses in my business, at the same time I want them to know how I turned out.

The secret lives of friends. How much do we know of our dear, dear friends? Outside of projected habits, of expressions and recycled jokes, outside of the hanging-out-in-cafes, how much do we really know?

The secret lives of parents. What did they have to give up? All we know of our parents start from the day we were born. Anything before that is just a story they tell us. How much of it is true? How much is held back? Do we want to know?

*****

I've been trying for the past hour to divert the attention from my toothache elsewhere. Nothing's working. Everything triggers a throb of pain: the light from the lamp, the ticking of the alarm clock, the tapping of the keyboard, the hum of the air conditioner downstairs, the blinking stand-by light of the sub-woofer, the computer screen, the creaking of the bed, the colors of my room, the darkness behind my closed eyes. The pain is driving me to madness. I imagine if I had a gun right now, I wouldn't even think twice about using it: aim it at my temple and pull the trigger. Blow my fucking brains out.

My teeth problems started when I took up smoking. I remember a time when people complimented my teeth, when I was encouraged to audition for toothpaste commercials and advertisements. All this before I was a smoker.

I remember my brothers' friend Sujie, how miserable he would be when I squirmed with my toothaches. He would run out to the Mercury Drug Store on Tandang Sora Avenue, the closest one that's open, at 3 or 4 a.m. and get me some painkillers. I don't remember which brand I popped back then. Ponstan, maybe. He would offer me a lit cigarette for instant and momentary relief. The gestures touched me. He was like an older brother to me.

*****

I look at windows in apartments, and as I watch people's curtains sway with the soft breeze, I wonder mightily about their lives, about their furniture, about their troubles and their luxuries. I wonder if they have it going better than I do, or if they have it worse. I wonder. I remember Khadija, and how we shared this little pastime. It's strongest when I'm in a moving vehicle, and I'm looking out the window.

*****

Jet Lag is the kind of movie that I don't want to end, and yet, drives me crazy from wanting to know what the ending will be. It's not very original; I know I've seen better foreign films, better romantic comedies. But Juliette Binoche, and Jean Reno, and that old French charm makes a world of difference. I notice little things, like Rose's man Sergio's lines, how they were written so that he sounds more cruel than he probably is, to turn the audience off. Or how the whole plot revolved around two people, how unrealistic it was that the people around them didn't seem so important, but that they were constantly on the phone with them. Or those little signs of Change: the decision to forgo make-up 'just this one time', or the description of the dream house. Little things. I like to think that I've evolved from a movie buff to a proper film critic.

*****

The story of Freckles, have I mentioned it? I lost her last month. My cousins were over for a night of movies and karaoke, and the boys were sent out to buy food. Of course, them being valedictorians, one of them “forgot” to close our front door, a door that never shuts. Next thing we know, My Cat Formerly Known As Freckles And Now Just Miming was gone.

She is, in human years, about 21 years old. She is a university student now. She's out there somewhere, hanging out with alley-cats, discovering the outside world, getting drunk on dirty water, getting high on catnip, discussing cat-literature with her bohemian kitty-crew.

I am a bad cat owner.

Psychoanalyze Yourself

2007-03-29T02:46:00.000+04:00

Fill in your answers and then scroll for the meaning behind it. Don't mess up the fun, do the answers first.

1. You are not alone. You are walking in the woods. Who are you walking with?
- My sister Jehanie.

2. You are walking in the woods. You see an animal. What kind of animal is it?
- A huge, mutated beast of the fantasy-novel kind.

3. What interaction takes place between you and the animal?
- A psy-war or a physical power struggle.

4.You walk deeper in the woods. You enter a clearing with your dream home that looks like...
- A small wooden house by a river.

5. Is your dream house surroundedby a fence?
- No.

6.You enter the house. You walk in to the dining room and see..
- A wooden table with writing tools and a book (possibly a thesaurus). Yawn.

7. You exit the house through the back door. Lying in the grass is a cup. What material is the cup made of?
- Glass. It's a champagne flute.

8.What do you do with the cup?
- I step around it and leave it there.

9. You walk to the edge of the property where you find yourself standing at the edge of a body of water. What type of body of water is it?
- A river.

10. How will you cross the water?
- I will wade through it.

*****
What the answers mean:

1. The person who you are walking in the woods with is the most important person/s in your life.

2. The size of the animal is representative of your perception of the size of your problems in your life.

3. The severity of the interaction you have with the animal is representative of how you deal with your problems.

4. The size of your dream home is representative of the size of your ambition to solve your problems.

5. NO fence is indicative of an open personality. People are welcome at all times. The presence of a fence indicates a closed personality. You'd prefer people not drop by unannounced.

6. If your answer did NOT include food, flowers, or people, then you are generally unhappy.

7. the durabililty of the material with the cup is made of is representative of the perceived durability of your relationship with the person you named in #1.

8. Your disposition of the cup is representative of your attitude toward person in #1.

9. The size of the body of water is representative of the size of your sexual desire.

10. How wet you get in crossing the water is indicative of the relative importance of your sex life.

*****
I'm tagging YOU. Send me your link so I can read your answers. =)

Riding In Cars With Boys

2007-03-23T06:45:00.000+04:00

One of the many things I took for granted when I was outside Jeddah was, you guessed it, riding in cars with boys. I first realized this last year when my cousin PJ called me up at 2am to ask if it would be ok in Jeddah if he came to pick me up so we might cruise around the city, something we used to do in Manila.

IMHO, it's one of the most entertaining pastimes and rites of passage any girl worth her guy friends can go through. Boys play nice music, they drive fast and efficiently, they know how to park, their cars work properly, and you are safe in the knowledge that if and when the car breaks down, it's all taken care of. In addition to that, some of the funniest, nastiest, most disgustingly hilarious jokes and pranks take place inside a car with boys. Even on mild-joking days, there's always the oldest trick in the book, popularly known as Who Farted.

I remember spending time inside my guy friends' and cousins' cars. Sometimes, I ignore their crass jokes, sometimes I pitch in my two cents, sometimes I block them out when they become really dirty, and most of the time, I just roll down the window and let the bad air out.

In Jeddah, however, things are a little more complicated than just calling up a guy friend and getting in the car. I'm not encouraging youngsters to step out and meet random members of the opposite sex. I'm talking about people who have known each other forever, or people who are friends, cousins or otherwise related, or girls who just need rides home.

For these people, when it comes to transportation, there are other considerations to make. There's an age-old process that had been established by many young men and women before us, a sacred ritual that may not be overlooked. It could cost you your social life. The three major ones:

The Type of Car
Jeddah was never a place for single people. It has always been agreeable towards married couples, or families. Not boys with nice cars. Boys with nice cars are not married. Or they say they're not. Either way, they are Police magnets, especially if the abovementioned cars contain women. Therefore, guys who are planning on transporting women friends are encouraged to use the family station wagon, preferrably one with a sticker in the back that swears "Baby On Board".

The Relationship
Friends must establish their relationship way before they even THINK of getting in the car. This is crucial because, in the unfortunate event that you are apprehended, you could at least say you're cousins N-times removed. Don't forget to memorize each other's middle names, parents' names, addresses, and tribes of origin. It's a long shot, but a shot nonetheless.

Body Language
According to an unofficial study conducted by the National Riding In Cars With Boys Association, the number one reason for busts involving Friends In Cars is the little telltale signs of body language. Be comfortable. Think brother-sister. Try as much as you can not to dart your eyes from side to side. Don't be stiff. Don't be afraid to use hand gestures. Hit the driver for added effect. If you can hit him on the back of the head like his mom or sister would do, even better. Act as natural as possible.

There are many other precautions to take, but those, I shall leave to your sense of common. Bottom line is, unless you absolutely have to, don't ride in cars with boys. In a city like Jeddah, it might not be worth it, anyway.

However, if these two happen to be your friends, by all means, ride.

(Squeek and Sonic Boom, courtesy of Shari)

Some of my friends who are fun to ride in cars with: Aymen, Fayez, Ahmed, Waleed, Abdullah, and Majed, just to name a few.**

** Names may have been changed, and real names used, to protect the identities of these young men.

Girls' Best Friend?

2007-02-21T02:57:00.000+04:00

Blood Diamond was impressive at best. The plot was so general and taboo that one is inclined to give credit to the filmmakers for tackling a topic so touchy. I bet it stepped on many important toes, and I'm just as sure that it didn't even begin to explore the whole messy and corrupt affair. That is the main problem of films that are ambitious enough to take on issues that are ruthlessly and tenaciously controlled by untouchable higher-ups. Other such films were early 2000's Traffic and 2005's Lord of War. It doesn't take one evil person to rule the world, and so it can only follow that it doesn't take one person to change it. It's a depressing thought, knowing that whatever good we strive to contribute to society, whatever help we can give, is almost useless. However, the writers attempted to lift our post-millennium cynical souls by inserting Danny Archer's noble and quixotic gesture towards the end. They finished with the idealistic, if cliché, "One man can make a difference" statement. Good for them. I, on the other hand, loather of sentimentality that I am, accuse the attempt of being unrealistic.

In many ways, the movie parodied itself. This is discernible in the female lead's Big Speech on her own stabs at making-the-world-a-better-place. So what if she is exploiting other people's grief by photographing them and writing dramatically subjective profiles on random sufferers, so what if all it does is move one person for five seconds, so what if it helps .0000001% of the needy? At least she's doing something. I'm glad she has that kind of hopeful defiance. It's more than I can say for MY pessimism.

The story itself is a little too smart, maybe a little too broad. Unless the audience has sufficient background knowledge on the history of war-torn Africa, movie-goers might be confused as to how exactly the diamond industry affects these people's lives. Are the diamonds the direct causes of death of the citizens? It's inevitable that the motives of the rebels-slash-villains would sway from worldly material possessions to political convictions. They are all interconnected. But then again, it takes away the focus of the movie. I wish they'd put more effort on informing the people on the many angles of the issue, but I guess that would compromise the entertainment factor. I can live with it. Djimon Honsou's chilling and powerful performance as an honest but distressed father distracted me from the many protests forming in my mind, and His Royal Hotness Leonardo di Caprio's grown-up stubble made up for all the missing links.

The portrayal of the female lead as an educated and passionate woman, yet not exempt from using women's wiles to get what she wants begs objection, but she did inspire me to go one step further and use whatever I have to be part of a cause bigger than myself. Who knows, I might bump into my very own former-teen-idol.

On the whole, it encourages compassion for those that are less fortunate than us; it promotes conscience and an awareness of the prevalent corruption all over the world. If, after seeing the movie, you change your mind about that rock you so desire to be married in, then it has served its purpose, and you have put in your two, rather valuable, cents.

Literary Snobbery

2007-02-04T21:09:00.000+04:00

I can't believe how much I dislike Nicholas Sparks and that phony book "True Believer". It makes me sick. It's one of those books that, after you've finished reading, you feel like you've not only NOT GAINED anything, you've actually LOST valuable time. In short, it didn't tell me something I didn't already know.

In all fairness though, it made me think of the purpose my diaries might serve in the future. Would people read through it in search of something and actually FIND what they need? Am I doing justice to my generation?

*****
I liked CITIZEN GIRL. It's not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill chick-lit where some heavily caffeinated twenty-something woman stumbles through a much-hated job, the battle with the bulge, and an asshole-infested lovelife. Well, sure, it had those, too, but it's a little more intelligent than usual. We were presented with real conflicts here, real emotion, and some real smart language. For once, a chick-lit novel that makes you THINK.

The book is all about a girl making her way up the career ladder. On the brink of absolute success, she finds, to her utter dismay, that she is a candidate to become the higher-up of a pornographic company.

The heroine was conveniently placed in a dark place between the devil and the deep blue sea, and she had to decide if compromising her deep-set beliefs and convictions was worth it if it meant contributing to the greater good. Like killing one person to save a hundred.

Towards the end, I was hit squarely in the face with that sinking feeling that I am just one person in this world, and there's nothing I can do to make a difference in this evil, disgusting generation. But then, as she tossed away her (possibly) only shot at good employment and a handsome package, I could feel a little of her victory.

As for the love angle, Buster is your typical X-Generation twenty-some-odd-year-old: sometimes surprising but ultimately predictable and a little assholey (a requisite characteristic), articulate, updated, and pretty smart. Mr. New-Age Mushroom Guy.

The fictional names were a little mushy, though. The authors named the heroine Girl and the protagonist Guy. I think I flinched every time I read their names. And then there was that overused detail of the heroine calling one of, or both, her parents by their first names. So bohemians-last-season, if you know what I mean.

Johnny Ob-Knoxville

2007-01-25T14:42:00.000+04:00

There are SOME valuable lessons to be learned from the Jackass videos. We have only to dig deep, to look beyond all the asshole-isms. This group of grown-ass men acting like total jerks, abusing themselves and those around them, is a fun and quite accurate example of the kind of men our MTV generation has produced. Forget dignified, educated leaders. Forget hard-working, compassionate, ambitious individuals. Those were our fathers. We are a generation of beer-bellied, vomit-eating, fart-smelling, physically destructive hee-haw machines. THIS is art for us. This is creativity: taking extreme sports to a whole new Jackass level.

Sure, they inspire me. Hey, just because they're disgusting doesn't mean they don't pull at my heartstrings. After watching the whole lot of them defy all sense of reason, I felt a surge of spunk, of bravery if you will, almost recklessness. How am I from this generation when I'm such a sissy? I can't even ride a bicycle, and I'm terrified of water.

They made me want to at least TRY to push my limits, to step out of my comfort zone. Those amusement park rides don't seem so scary now in comparison to their madcap stunts. I envy them their carefree dispositions.

Of course, most of their adventures were just so repulsive I could SMELL them through the TV screen.

And because I am (and will always be, no matter what I say) a member of our uptight, judgemental society, one question nags me:

"Where are their parents?"

Johnny Knoxville, Bam Margera, Party Boy, Ehren, Steve-O, Dave England, Ryan Dunn, Wee Man, Raab Himself (*salutes* what an original name!), all of them remind me of my cousins, my brothers, our friends, all the guys I hang out with. They are SOMEHOW charming because they are REAL.

"Hi, I'm Johnny Knoxville, and this is Jackass."

Birthday Greetings

2007-01-17T21:36:00.001+04:00

I've missed too many birthday greetings. Not that it's THAT important to me. But birthdays are the perfect excuses to shower the people you care about with presents and attention. Unfortunately, they usually come around at a time when you are broke, or otherwise hanging by a very thin financial thread.

For the record, I acknowledge Kaka Nora, Kaka Khai, Kaka Amic, Alla, Al-Nemery, Emil, and Kaka Reham.

Albom's Law

2007-01-17T21:29:00.000+04:00

Mitch Albom's The Five People You Meet In Heaven is a brilliantly tight-weaved piece of work. It does lean towards romanticism, but thankfully not to the Coelho extent. Having read it in less than 24 hours brought me back to my One Night Stand with By The River Piedra I Sat and Wept. Once again, thank God for the absent mysticism, forgive the pun.

So, romanticism. I don't just say that for snobbery's sake. I can understand the significance of the four people Eddie met in Heaven, except for that one. I mean, okay, the Blue Man saved his life (by getting killed), the Captain saved his life during the war, Ruby indirectly caused his death (seeing as how the whole amusement park business wouldn't've been made had it not been for her glorious self), and then there's the little Filipina (might I add) girl he "killed".

So where does the wifey come in? I think she only served as the mood-light to set the tone of the story. She was the focal point of love, that phenomenon without which the world would not 'go round'. Hey, I love romance. But I abhor sentimentality. Even more than that, I abhor sentimentality disguised as romance. It's like when the unreal parades itself as the surreal. Thin lines, people. Thin lines.

So what's a good book (or movie, or any work of art) without a one-liner, eh? The less it makes sense, the more profound it seems. The more contradictory, the more meaningful it becomes. Some highlights:

"All parents damage their children. Neglect. Violence. Silence."
I can write a book on this one. You know, do a La Toya Jackson.

"Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them."
I can write a sequel to the one above with THIS one.

"We think that hating is a weapon that attacks the people who harmed us. But hatred is a curved blade. ...Forgive."
So much easier said than done. To forgive someone would take incredible strength. We see it as a sign of weakness, a symbol of giving up and submitting oneself to the enemy. Pride has a vise-like grip on people's subconscious. I have a long way to go before I can even think of forgiving certain people.

This novel can be likened to a single piece of embroidery picked out from a huge pattern; it's not the beginning of a story and it's definitely not the end. It continued from five people and it will continue on to five more people. Very not unlike Friendster and MySpace.

It might be a good idea to start taking notice of the people you meet on earth, to stop taking things and people for granted, and to stop complaining.

Life is good.

A Blast From The Past

2007-01-06T21:17:00.000+04:00

Talk about the best of both worlds.

At the risk of crude sentimentality, I'd say I had an amazing time last night.

On the blue corner, my old friends.
On the red corner, my new friends.

All of them are now, officially, friends-in-law.

My old friends:
a) Sheriff Ahmed (of Who Shot The Sheriff fame), an old classmate
b) Muneer Taleb, also an old classmate
c) Ahmed Selim, an old classmate of my brother Zen
d) Dudut, a very good friend of my whole male posse

Muneer was quoting an old saying, "Mountains never meet, but people do." Mother of all surprises, I AM NOT A MOUNTAIN. I haven't seen Muneer and Sheriff in 9 years. We used to spend N hundred hours couped up in a Filipino-dominated classroom. Introducing them to my new friends was quite the experience. On the one hand, these are people who know everything about me; I do not have a single memory of my whole childhood and tweenhood that didn't have them in the background somewhere. There is no space or need for any kind of pretension with them. We shared high-school teachers, lame jokes, minor discrimination, and eggheadism. That's enough to sustain a relationship.

On the other hand, my new friends are just beginning to see other sides of me. Incredulity is not uncommon. Yes, I was a monster. Yes, I used to beat up boys and girls. Yes, I used to laugh at peoples faces. No, I wasn't always nice and all-brown-sugar-ish.

We all met at the Serafi Megamall. The little impromptu reunion started with the boys calling me to fetch them at the Danube supermarket. I was their only ticket to that glitzy glamour-world called Malling. As per contempo-Saudi tradition, young men are not allowed into the malls without the supervision of their female counterparts. After the prerequisite gasping and you've-gained-so-much-weight comments, the walk down memory lane commences. We talk about dorky days and even dorkier school-people, laughed at former red-faced moments, and tsk-tsked about how we turned out.

Yeah, it's funny how things turn out. And funny how things don't.

People do change. But how much of us has changed?

The Bacon

2007-01-03T21:10:00.000+04:00

Sometimes, I feel the urge to explore further my growing obsession with KEVIN BACON, the biggest factor to this being the fact that my brothers practically forbade this occurence by laughing at his unusual nostrils and wimpy built.

They know nothing of his deep, blue eyes.

***
No one can fully comprehend my propensity for watching... watches, given my tendency towards wasting-time. I have a digital watch by my bed that gives me the exact time - down to the seconds, and I have a clock directly across my bed, positioned so that it's the first thing I see every morning when I wake up. It is also visible at every conceivable point in my room.

And yet, each time I awake, I go through the same motions: check the digital, then the wall-clock that's 5 minutes late, and finally, as if to make absolutely sure, I check the time on my mobile phone.

***
What's the world come to when a person goes for a smoke not because she wants to, but because she CAN?

I'll go for a smoke because I can. Never mind the pain in my throat, or that queasy feeling I have before a fever sets in. I CAN. Therefore I WILL.

***
A line in this rap song moves me.
"You silly girl, you better start talking."

Nothing profound. I know. But still.

***
People gasp in horror at the incredulity of our non-existent relationship, my mom and I. I will allow them to. It's the perk of ignorance: to be allowed certain reactions.

The Great White Overhaul

2007-01-03T19:48:00.000+04:00

In honor of the new year, ladies and cats, welcome to this blog's Great White Ass-Haul.

Predictions:
1. Less pounds.
2. More responsibility.
3. No more Marlboros (and less Davidoffs).
4. Less pretentions.
5. Maturity.
6. Shoes.
7. No. More. Lies.
8. More Action, Less Talk.
9. But more words.
10. Possibilities.

Who Shot The Sheriff?

2007-01-03T19:29:00.000+04:00

Whod've thought that I would see an old friend after what, 500 years? I don't know who he is anymore. It's disconcerting, the changes, time, the now-gone similarities, no common ground anymore. What did we have in common anyway? Half a nationality? Mr. Basman? A school building?

There's a certain level of out-of-bounds curiousity; of wanting to know what goes on in his head, how he turned out, how different or alike we are from each other considering our similar backgrounds and experiences. More like trying to understand my predicament, what brought me here, what pattern I followed.

The important question here is, is it fair to use him as a mirror? Maybe there are more differences than likenesses.

*****

Maybe I wasn't as mean to him as I remember, but knowing myself, I know I was to some degree, quite the bully.

The truth is, the Sheriff shot me.

To all the people I bullied, whose opinions and points-of-view were unimportant, non-existent to me; what gives me the right to contemplate their (newfound) intellects now? Their senses of humor? Their rugged features, their grown-up ways?

I do not have a right to claim them as my friends now. I have NOT EARNED IT.

I have no right talking to them, listening to them, introducing them to my other friends.

In so many ways, I needed the people I bullied. I did it for acceptance. I wanted to be funny at their expense. I'd lure them with the silhouette of friendship, kindness, generosity, so that they end up trusting me and thinking I'm their only friend. And then BAM. The Mighty Mighty Turnaround. The Poking-Fun. The Locking-In-Bathrooms. The Laughing-At-Faces.

I'm probably beyond karma. I am fortune's fool.

Because We Love Metaphors

2007-01-03T19:01:00.000+04:00

Friends may be likened to songs.

Some are catchy, like pop songs; in the moment, fashionable, a sign of the times. You make friends with people around the same age as you.

Some are like hip-hop beats with a good hook. They make you want to get up and dance or nod your head. They are smooth and cool, almost savvy.

Some are old-fashioned; not necessarily classic, but more unimaginative and common.

Some are annoying and high-pitched, repetitive.

Some are seasonal, like Christmas carols, or novelty songs.

Some songs, like some of your friends, you like especially because they reflect your background, your roots, your origins, where you're from.

Some friends you just get sick of because, like a song that's over-played, they've become too familiar and you just want something new.

Some friends would remind you of a collaboration between two musicians of different genres, a duet. You might come from opposite points of a spectrum and yet be in harmony. Aerosmith and Run DMC. Jay-Z and Linkin Park. Sting and Craig David.

Some are just forgettable in their shrillness. They hurt your ears.

The friends I like most are those that inspire me to be a better person, musician, writer. They stretch my imagination and pull me up to their level. I strain to keep up, and in so doing, unknowingly go through a certain amount of growth. They are like those brilliant songs by ingenious musicians that I look up to. Sergio Mendez. Lauryn Hill. The Beatles. Pharell Williams. Marvin Gaye. The Red Hot Chili Peppers.

What song are you?

Twenty Oh Seven

2007-01-03T17:43:00.000+04:00

New Year's Eve

Where I Spent It: Friday's, Andalus Street

What I Was Drinking: Pepsi

What I Was Wearing: My new abaya with the crimson spots on the sleeves that looked like cheese gone baaaaaad. Oh, and blood red nail polish courtesy of Linzi.

Who I Was With: The Ghamdis, the Noordin girls, Nadia, Linzi, Rami, Asmaa & Esraa, Yanni, Rami, and Squeek (briefly).

What I Was Thinking: How I wished it was a mixed crowd with more people; how it's my first New Year's party sans alcohol; how I could negotiate with my dad to pick me up much later than the 12:10 am that he did; and how my brothers were having a blast with my cousins sans me.

What I Was Reading: Cosmopolis by Don DeLillo

What I Last Watched: Just Like Heaven starring Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo, which I loved to pieces and watched twice in 24 hours.

What Song I Loved: Please Baby Don't by Sergio Mendez featuring John Legend

Last Magazine I Read: Newsweek and Time

Major Local News: Hajj updates and Saddam Hussein's execution

Ho-Hum

2006-11-21T22:25:00.000+04:00

Tis the season to be married, fralalalala lalalala.
Congratulations to the brides and grooms of 2006. See y'all next year.

***

Filipinos are gaining popularity by the second.

***
Mr & Mrs Smith (the movie), in the scene right after Mrs Smith tried to unknowingly kill Mr Smith..

Brad Pitt: I didn't see who it was.
Vince Vaughn: Maybe he was Filipino.

***
The Break-Up, starring Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston (the jilted Mrs Smith)..

Jennifer Aniston: Look at yourself! You're a mess!
Vince Vaughn: And you? What, you don't wanna talk about your family? About that Filipino exchange student?

***
Boston Legal, the courtroom drama TV series...

Lawyer Whatshisface: Extortion is so popular that even Filipino street-gangs are doing it!

***
Those aren't accurate quotes. But that's the gist. Oi.

HWY

2006-11-21T22:02:00.000+04:00

It was one year ago today that my friend Nhurzy passed away. She was a victim of a drive-by shooting; both she and her father were shot as they were making their way to a pharmacy. I have not come to terms with her death; I still feel that she's there somewhere, making a fantastic ruckus, cracking taboo jokes, hoping for a better future. Her blogsite will be forever locked.

We're HERE WITHOUT YOU.

I'm NOT A QUITTER

2006-11-21T21:45:00.000+04:00

Everyone tells me to quit smoking.

Maggie*: "Why do you hate yourself? Don't do this."

Ingrid*: "It's NOT gonna help you lose weight."

My boss: "Try the new Smoke-Less thingamajig."

My boss: "No smoking at work when kids are around."

My parents: "Stop smoking."

My friends: "Stop smoking."

Dully (7 years old): "DO YOU WANNA DIE?!"

My cigarettes: "Smoking is dangerous to your health."

***

The thing is, it is man's nature to SEE FOR HIMSELF.

I give people all kinds of advice. I don't mind when they don't listen. It's also man's nature to give advice.

***

I want to meet Al-rajul Al-3ankaboot. I have said his name approximately 63 times just the past week; averaging 9 times a day.

A Lot Like Love

2006-10-24T18:39:00.000+04:00

As people, as human beings, we often feel the need to romanticize our states-of-affairs, to make ourselves feel the heroism that we most probably never possessed in the first place.

"I do everything I can for you, I put you before myself, I spend all my money, time, and energy on you, and this is the thanks I get?!"

*****

Why do we cry at movies? At weddings? Because we mourn for what we don't have, what we never had, and what we probably would never have. I don't believe those tears shed in happiness or joy for another person.

Tears are a lot like love - SELFISH.

*****

"Sadness is everyone's secret."

Writers Block

2006-10-13T23:00:00.000+04:00

Would you marry a writer?

Writers and their overrated blocks. Would you be able to live with someone who would shut you out every so often? Who would have prolonged bouts of depression and extreme mood swings: one minute overjoyed and the next sullen and silent? Someone who'd constantly feel the need to detach himself from you, clear his air of your presence, push you out of his personal space? A writer and his perpetual delusions?

I would. If he were hot enough. LOL.

Would it work if you were BOTH writers, attracting and repelling each other at the same time, bouncing literary quotes off one another? Would you be threatened by the other's success? Or held back by the other's lack of?

"On the other side of attraction lies repulsion."

*****

Is there guilt attached to feeling lucky?

Absolutely. Now that I think about it, it's probably my Numero Uno Problemo. I am guilty of being much more fortunate than my peers or family members. I feel so guilty that I hold myself back and strain against full-fledged success for fear of crossing over the line from Loser City to Great Rewards Metro. I repress myself and put my destructive mode on turbo, and then, when I've damaged my affairs enough, I secretly tell myself that I deserved it for even THINKING I could rise above anyone I know. In a sick way, I still want to be a member of that bitter community that does nothing but sulk and complain about pre-destined misfortune. Most of all, I am afraid of the person I migh turn into if I do become successful, the person I see myself turning into even now. The question now is that, if I do manage to let go of this guilt, would it be of any help?

*****

When did you have your first sensation of the passage of time? Of progress?

I don't remember the first, but I know the moments. It's when I see an old picture, or when I smell a scent that I used to wear, or hear a song I used to dance to, sing-along to. More specifically, when Princess Diana's death anniversary comes around. I remember that day so vividly: my father coming in from work with his newspaper under his arm, smelling of the sun; my mom doing the laundry in the small bathroom of our old house; the smell of the newly-mopped dining room floor; the electric fan in the living room. And yet, this was 10 years ago. There's no telling if THEN was better than NOW. But it sure does remind me that I am 23 and not 13 anymore.

In the words of the unlikely intellectual in that annoying film Tokyo Drift...

"Life is easy. You make choices and you don't look back."

I am tempted to take his advice. It seems like a good idea, if I am to move forward and break the stillness.

Families At Work?

2006-10-13T22:43:00.000+04:00

Whoever said that companies are like families? They're as different as different can get.

There's no place for feedback forms and evaluations in families.

There are no monthly meetings, no motivational speeches, no reward systems.

Emotions are unchecked and vicious words are flung with reckless abandon.

There are no efforts to make the environment pleasant.

Most importantly, there are no hirings of potential employees and no firings of incompetent ones.

In my family, at least.

Thank You India**

2006-10-10T23:32:00.000+04:00

** Remind me again why Alanis Morisette was thanking India in that song?

Anyway, I'd like to thank MY India:

~ Sally and Summer, who coerced everyone in our circle to give us the fright of our lives in Linzi and my surprise birthday party. We couldn't've asked for a better party!!

~ Everyone at work who turned up at Friday's.

~ My good Bumbum friends and their better halves: Suzann, Sharifah, Sheri, Sara Grace, Nadia, and Dina.

~ Everyone who went to the party: Mum Debbie, Ali, Sara (Minute!!), the guy whose name I forget, Aiman and Dulli.

~ The people who called me and greeted me on my birthday.

~ The people who gave me birthday presents, as if their presence in my life wasn't enough (cheesy cheesy).

*****

The thing about birthday presents is that we LOVE receiving them, never mind what they are. I was lucky enough to receive presents that I loved just as much. Thanks for the books, the perfumes, the CDs, the earrings, the flowers, the bags, and the wallet.

So that there's no confusion in the future, those above-mentioned are just some of my favorite things. I am also not above accepting cash. Haha.

*****

Ramadhan Kareem to everyone. May Allah accept your prayers and bless you on this holy month. Salaams!!

Doctor Doctor

2006-10-10T23:08:00.000+04:00

In other parts of the world, doctors have a good - if not excellent - command of English. Here in Jeddah, forget your English and you'd better learn the localese.

Imagine, if you can, the blank look on my doctor's face while I was explaining the pain I felt.

"I have this pain right here," were my exact words as I pointed to my tummy. "It started this morning as a little discomfort, and it grew to a steady hammering pain that would last about 30 seconds and recur within 5-minute intervals ... " At this point, imagine my voice trailing off as I realized he was smiling at me with incomprehension written all over his face.

It was almost as if the doctor pressed this huge, imaginary red button under his desk that prompted to raise a sound-proof, bullet-proof invisible wall (otherwise known as the Language Barrier), locking him safe from my attempts at medical-English. I imagine him hearing only muted elevator music on his side of the barrier. ARABIC elevator music.

Oi.

*****

That traitor Pepsi. After years of my undying loyalty, after all those mornings I chose Pepsi over a healthy breakfast, after all those praise and homage I paid it, this is the thanks I get. A gaping hole somewhere inside my stomach.

This Guy

2006-10-08T22:28:00.000+04:00

I love This Guy for so many reasons that I'll say YES in a NewYorkMinute if he ever asks me to marry him. The reasons?

1. I trust him completely.
2. He knows everything about me; there is no need for pretensions or lies.
3. Not to mention he's HOT.
4. He gets along famously with everyone in my family (maybe except for my Dad with whom he has a very interesting history HAHA), and my brothers respect him.
5. He's multi-faceted.
6. He's artsy without the fartsy.
7. I can always show him off to my friends because he's incredibly HOT (all my friends think so), and he has fantastic people skills. There is nothing he can and could do that would make me embarrassed of him.
8. He's funny as hell.
9. He educates me. He's that smart.
10. He's not filthy rich, but amazingly, with him it doesn't matter.
11. He let's me be myself. I can be stupid around him and tell him lame jokes and he doesn't make me feel stupid.
12. There is no Language Barrier, no Cultural Barrier, because we meet right in the middle.
13. He's streetsmart.
14. He's an incredible friend.
15. I know he loves me. I just know it.

If you see a ring on my finger, it's because I've bullied him into getting me one.

*****

Of course, this is the result of watching Gone With The Wind.

How can you resist a man who loves you unconditionally?

Easy. Women only want men who don't even know they exist. So the question should be:

How can you resist a man who DOESN'T love you?

And the moral of this story is:
Stop whining, and stop watching those gotdamn movies.

Shape Of An L...

2006-08-12T21:49:00.000+04:00

... on the forehead.

If a guy doesn't have the proverbial Asshole Streak, then he most definitely has the Loser Streak. To quote the Eraserheads,

"...there's a B-Side to every story..."

Now, it's not as bad as its asshole-y counterpart, but it's very annoying. It's very easy to detect, too; a guy's little habits, his humor, insecurity, paranoia, a hot temper, lame jokes, or general eggheadism.

So, how do we define cool, anyway?

The opposite of "Loser"?

Laissez-faire?

Sangfroid?

The ability to be quiet without shutting up?

Case in point: Fonzie of Happy Days fame. He was so cool that he practically crossed over to being a loser. You know, like when something is so sweet it becomes bitter? But what was it about him that was so cool? The exaggerated hand gestures, the pauses for applause or ooh-ahh?

I think it's cool when a guy is knows what he is capable of and is not ashamed of what he's not.

It's cool when he can take a joke or two and laugh at himself the way he laughs at other people.

It's cool when he cares, and yet, just doesn't.

I don't know why it's such a big deal. I have one of those streaks myself, especially visible when I lie about such obvious things as my weight. Or my paycheck. My question is, are Loser Streaks tolerable? To what extent?

What's YOUR loser streak?

The Fear Factor

2006-08-11T23:43:00.000+04:00

There are a lot of things that I am afraid of on account of plain ignorance. I'm afraid of my mobile phone because it's smarter than I am, and I'm not sure how to use it to my advantage. I read the owner's manual, and, much as I hate to admit it, I still don't understand exactly how it works. It's no less amazing, of course, how everything is now "intelligent", how it's all connected: the PC, the phone, the camera, the music player, all of them in sync with one another. And standing right smack in the middle of all this magnificent networking is the clueless schmuck (myself). I can almost hear my gadgets soothe me, "Hush, now, we'll take care of it." But how condescending.

I'm also afraid of the gym. The gym people with their muscular calves and trim waists would tell me to step onto some machine that would judge me for being overweight, or, if it changes its mind, obese. But how condescending.

Machines telling me what to do.

*****
That Night is a film about a little girl named Ally who followed the turbulent love story of her teenaged neighbor Sheri and her bad-ass boyfriend Rick. Ally would look out her window across the street into Sheri's room and watch her every movement, emulating her, buying the same perfume she wears, listening to the same records. At one point, she says,

"I wonder if someone will ever look at me the way Rick looks at Sheri."

When I was a little girl, I hero-worshipped my sister. I would watch her write in her diary, and while she was in the shower, I would sneak peeks into it, then copy them into my own diary. I was 8 years old when I went to the supermarket and bought a deodorant exactly like hers; 10 when I wished I would have my period already so I could use the same brand napkins she did. She is seven years older than me. Now, we're like old friends; I don't feel any age difference, but I still hero-worship her.

*****
On the one hand, there's Hero-Worship.

On the other, there's The Evil Eye.

Arabs, especially the Saudis, believe in the Evil Eye. When a person looks at something or someone beautiful or desirable, and that person feels even the tiniest of envy, the Evil Eye is cast, and that object of desire is destroyed, or marred. Unless, of course, one says MashaAllah. Even people without an inkling of bad intention might be unconsciously giving off the Evil Eye. To protect oneself from such a misfortune, one should recite the Ayatul Kursi.

A couple nights ago, at a late-night dinner party, this lady that my family has known for ages kept looking me up and down, head to foot. Whenever I'd meet her stare, she'd turn away. Now, I'm not saying that I'm beautiful or desirable (but I'm not saying I'm not, LOL), but she freaked the sh*t out of me. After all, I was wearing my best abaya and tarha at the time. Earlier this morning, I noticed a couple of zits dotting my left cheek.

Evil Eye?

Or my new facial cleanser?

*****
I wouldn't be surprised if my internet connection gets cut yet again. My phone bills have been skyrocketing the past year; I NEED to go DSL. It's just such a hassle to go through applying for DSL, and I don't even know where to start. My father has no time for this nonsense.

In the meantime, I'm downloading all these lovely songs from years ago.

~ The Incidentals by Alisha's Attic
~ Beauty On The Fire by Natalie Imbruglia
~ It's Gotta Be Love by Color Me Badd

Once a slave to the mainstream, always a slave to the mainstream.

Hello

2006-07-23T02:30:00.000+04:00

I miss people.

I miss my cousins so much I can't bear it.

The Movies

2006-07-21T03:13:00.000+04:00

Why do people love to go to the movies? Is it an escape or is it a passion?

Tom Hanks:
It’s all of those things. It’s not just one thing. Sometimes we have to go off and be with other people in a room, in a collective room and have our attention in one place. But you don’t have to go with somebody. You can go by yourself to the movies and feel that. I think sometimes you have to feel like you’re a part of something bigger than just yourself and certainly the cinema has always been able to do that. But so has a day in the park, or a visit to a museum, or going to a sporting event. That can make you feel as though you are connected to everybody else in the world. Movies are, at their core, both a participatory art in that you’re taking part in something much larger than yourself, and at the same time, a very, very particular, personal experience. I think it’s the human condition to seek that out periodically. You have to go to the cycle races, or you have to go to the carnival, or you have to go and sit in the café and have a conversation with somebody, or you have to go to church. You have to do that. It’s what human beings do.

I agree with Mr. Hanks totally. But the cinema coming to Jeddah is a very different issue. Sure, it’s an amazing experience, one that we tend to take for granted because it’s so commonplace a pastime, but it also raises so many questions and issues for us. When my friends and I went to the cinema last weekend (the first in Jeddah), we all asked the questions.

So, we’re having a “mixed” crowd in the cinema?
Yes. Around here, we call it the “Family Section”. Men are allowed ONLY if they come with their wives, children, and/or mothers and sisters.

What if some guy I don’t know sits beside me?
Hah. You wish. Seats are arranged before the movie starts, and they strictly adhere to these arrangements.

What if a guy comes in with his *GASP* girlfriend? How would they know if they’re married and not just illicitly dating?
Because dating and pre-marital relationships between the opposite sexes are absolutely ILLEGAL, young married couples always take the extra precaution of carrying around their marriage contracts, JUST IN CASE they are apprehended. As a result, we can always tell a married couple from those who are just dating. Dating couples usually have this guilty look on their faces, they might as well have a sign on their foreheads that say “OUR PARENTS DON’T KNOW”.

We’re NEVER going to see blockbuster movies at the cinema, are we?
Of course not. Forget REAL movies. We’re talking about Disney and Pixar productions monopolizing the industry.

And so on and so forth.

We resist this because it stands for all the things we are against. But I’m sure there is a way for us to enjoy a movie without having to worry about the consequences of change in our culture. The question is, what way?

***
We watched Over The Hedge, which was nothing special, except that it was good to see the outrageous Mr. Nick Nolte back in circulation. I miss the cinema experience. I hear there's a new thing they call iMax or something. Someone, tell me about it, why don't you.

Wanting to...

2006-07-16T05:15:00.000+04:00

There are so many things I want to do.

I want to walk into an all-male cafe (here in Jeddah) and join the white thobes and shimags, al fresco.

I want to go deep into the desert, meet the locals, and have decent conversations with them.

I want to drive a truck.

I want to meet a never-ending stream of people, have them pass me by and say hello, and then wave goodbye, to meet again.

I want to walk barefoot along the beach and chicken-dance against the sunset.

I want to take funny-bunny-ear photos of my inamorata, my fair-haired boy, my Romeo.

*Wanting, but wiser.*

Flatteration

2006-07-16T04:33:00.000+04:00

It’s always nice to hear people say something nice to you, or about you. The past weekend must’ve been National Say-Something-Nice-About-Nessreen Weekend; even my friends would agree. Everyone said at least one nice thing about me. Plus, Majed called me twice in one day (he’s in Germany).

***

We finally met Sharifah’s Khaled. I can imagine how he must’ve felt; having to go through meeting all of us Shari’s friends on top of trying to impress her family. But, like we told him, he was pre-approved. He just garnered additional points for being such a darling, and for giving the most sensible piece of advice we’ve ever heard:

“If it doesn’t feel right, don’t do it.”

Although the advice was directed at Nadia, who’d wanted to try smoking for the first time at age 25, we all agreed it applies to everything else in life.

***

There was a “Fudgy Bum” incident, where Summer (the most practical, un-cluttered person in our clique) and I (the most scatter-brained) got some chocolate fudge all over our abayas in the car. What baffled everyone was how I got the chocolate in my bum. Aunt Debbie had to flip me over and wipe my rear end with moisturized tissue, all the while tsk-tsking me, ‘naughty, naughty girl’. Sure enough, everyone concluded that my klutziness is contagious, and Summer caught it. And now, we are Fudgy Bum Sisters.

We ARE a homogenous group.

Girls of Summer

2006-07-04T00:39:00.000+04:00

We had fun today. The huge slices of cake they have over at Mugg & Bean are unbelievable. It was Summer's 23rd ermm... summer. We hid behind a wall and half-screamed "Surprise!!" as she came into the restaurant. We knew she knew we knew she knew about the surprise party. Don't you hate when that happens? Everything's half-hearted afterwards.

*********
The problem with truth is that... it's much too simple. Sometimes, [actually, most of the time], I feel the need to embellish the things I say. Like looking at life through rose-tinted glasses. Otherwise, all our little phone conversations would be dull. But I'm always afraid I might turn into a minstrel.

Imagine if you died. Right now. People would go through your personal effects. Your family and friends would be thrown together, discussing your life and times. What are the things you wouldn't want them to suddenly discover about you?

*********
It'll be a busy weekend, for sure. But I'm broke. I'm going out with my large group of friends on Thursday for a little Karaoke affair, Saudi-style. I'm going out with a friend on the weeknights to some cafe or other, to discuss the future and whatever's wrong with me. I'm going to not spend money because... I don't HAVE any money. I wonder...

Music And Words

2006-06-28T00:41:00.000+04:00

"Singing along to feeling-alright.."
- Hanson

Why Don't You & I
Carlos Santana

Since the moment I spotted you
Like walking round with little wings on my shoes
My stomach's filled with the butterflies
Ooh and it's alright
Bouncing round from cloud to cloud
I got the feeling like I'm never gonna come down
If I said I didn't like it then you know I lied..

Everytime I try to talk to you
I get tongue-tied
Turns out everything I say to you
Comes out wrong and never comes out right

So I'll say why don't you and I get together
and take on the world and be together forever
Heads we will and tails we'll try again
So I say why don't you and I hold each other
and fly to the moon and straight on to heaven
Cause without you they're never going to let me in

When's this fever going to break?
I think I've handled more than any man can take
I'm like a love-sick puppy chasing you around
Ooh and it's alright
Bouncing round from cloud to cloud
I got the feeling like I'm never gonna come down
If said I didn't like it then you know I lied...

Slowly I begin to realize this is never gonna end
Right about the same time you walk by
And I say 'Oh here we go again'

(There's Got To Be) More To Life
Stacey Orrico

I've got it all,
but I feel so deprived
I go up,
I come down
and I'm emptier inside

Tell me what is this thing
that I feel like I'm missing
And why can't I let go

There's gotta be more to life
Than chasing down every temporary high
to satisfy me
Cause the more that I'm
Tripping out thinking there must be more to life
Well it's life, but I'm sure
there's gotta be more
Than wanting more..

I've got the time
and I'm wasting it slowly
Here in this moment
I'm half way out the door
Onto the next thing,
I'm searching for something that's
missing..

GOOOOAAAAALLLL!!

2006-06-21T01:36:00.000+04:00

Last Monday, a group of friends and I went to the Serafi Megamall to watch the football match between Saudi Arabia and Ukraine. The In-10-So Family Recreation Center on the top floor had set up this huge screen by the bowling alleys for families to watch. The place was packed to the hilt, and, as was expected, filled with young boys and men in full green-and-white regalia: hats, shirts, face-paint, masks, flags, the works. We weren't really keen on watching the game; we were just glad to have an excuse to hang out after a strenuous day at work. But, unexpectedly, we got caught up in the Saudi spirit and impulsively painted our faces. It was hilarious because:

a) Half of us weren't Saudi at all; well, I was the only southeast Asian in the group, the rest were Arab-Westerners.

b) We attracted a lot of attention, being the only group of grown-ass women in hijab with face-paint.

c) Saudi lost to Ukraine 4-o. There was a man behind the counter of the Shawarma place we ordered food from who smugly pointed that out to us in a crooked English accent: "Madam, Saudi lost, no?" [No, Duh?]

d) We were hounded by the MBC paparazzi. A photographer for the leading Arab newspaper Al-Hayat approached us several times during and after the game, offering to publish our photos on the newspaper. We unwaveringly refused to have our pictures taken, quickly covering our faces whenever he aimed the offending Nikon. [Hypocrites!! LOL!!]

e) We were also approached by a couple of young Saudi men in thobes who claimed to be photographers of some fake magazine, while they held up their mobile-phone cameras. LOL! [Pervs!!]

f) There we were, 8 women in full hijab, speaking loudly in English and occasionally switching to Saudi Arabic, walking around the mall, totally asking for it.

To be perfectly honest, the attention was unwanted, but not completely un-enjoyed. We're chalking this one up to experience. It's definitely not something women do (or should do) in Jeddah, and yet we did it, and we were meted out with that amusing tolerance that locals reserve for quasi-foreigners.

I was loathe to scrub off the face paint long after I'd arrived home. On top of that, Sally did my eyes, and I loved it. I don't know what the point of this photo is.

It was a fun evening. Totally inappropriate, but that's what made it fun.

Here is Abdullah, the cutest little Saudi-American I know. He loves sneaking up on me during picture-taking sessions and giving me bunny ears. What he loves even more is rummaging through our tote bags and confiscating our packs of cigarettes and declaring, "I don't want you to die!!"

And there's my silly friend Suzann, who'd kill me as soon as she sees I posted her photo.

Go, Saudiyyah groupies!!

More where those came from!

The Cup Of Life

2006-06-16T23:07:00.000+04:00

It's the World Cup frenzy all over again. Wherever you go in Jeddah, you will see throngs of young men and boys with faces painted green and white to show support for the Saudi team. Family recreation centers are packed full of avid football fans; watching the games on the huge screens set up especially for the Series.

I'm not much of a soccer fan myself. What does soccer mean to me? Let's see:

* Ricky Martin singing The Cup Of Life [Ole! Ole! Ole!] years ago.
* University days, when I, along with an equally clueless girlfriend, would watch The Hot Soccer Players at the Sunken Garden while they stretch and warm up.
* The heavily moisturized, manicured, facial-ed, quasi-gay David Beckham.
* A bunch of testosterone-laden blokes running around a huge field.
* Jeddah's black-and-yellow Ittihad Football Club and their catchy theme song.

Last week, Majed attempted to explain to me how the game works. Not surprisingly enough, 20 minutes into the "lesson", I was still clueless. Red cards, yellow cards, technical fouls, kickoffs, whathaveyous. I could only care about that singular hot-hot-hottie with the long hair and muscular legs. I don't even remember what team he played for.

Nevertheless, my friends and I are going to watch the next Saudi game against Ukraine, and hopefully, I can pretend to be interested long enough to scream enthusiastically when our team scores. I have to admit, the festive air is infectious.

I hope Saudi wins, if only to experience once again the chaos on the streets as the "shabab" run around the streets honking their honks and tonking their tonks ecstatically. I haven't seen that in years.

Fashion Passion

2006-05-12T01:44:00.000+04:00

Fashion in Jeddah is as contradictory as it gets. Everyone wears the same clothes, look the same, and yet not. "Thobes" and "abayas" may all look alike, but upon closer inspection, there ARE differences. You can tell a person's social status just by looking at his/her outer clothing, just like everywhere else.

It's when you live in a place like Jeddah that you realize what a struggle it is to express oneself through fashion or general appearance. Driving down Sitteen Street, I watched as a teenaged boy walked the "limp", a red handkerchief knotted at the top wrapped around his head, and a contrived look of boredom on his face. I imagine how much courage he'd had to muster to pull off that look.

I always delight in seeing someone expressing himself. Even when it's in something as judgemental as fashion.

************************************************

Earlier tonight, we had dinner at Friday's where Sharifah celebrated her 25th birthday. I finally met Sally's sister Sara, who shares a birthday with me, and who looks so much like Thalia [of Rosalinda fame] that it's shocking.

I'm two weeks into my walking regimen, and I don't see any changes. Dagnamit.

Fight Club

2006-05-06T23:12:00.000+04:00

Some months ago, I had to come between my two younger brothers as they scuffled in the middle of the night. As I sat there, trying my best to be just and reasonable, I attempted to count the number of times I've had to pull my brothers apart when they were in the middle of one of their infamous brawls.

All those times I doubted myself and my negotiation skills were unwarranted. I've honed the ability to settle fights down to an art from having so many brothers.

See, I make them out in pairs: two from each generation. There's Omar and Amir, Waleed and Zen, Adnan and Pollock, and finally, Ayman and Othman. These pairs stick together; they rarely start fights with members of another pair.

My sister and I are different in our tactics. Worlds apart, in fact. She'd always believed in the power of touch, love, and sweet words. She settled conflicts with her soothing voice, singing us calm. I, on the other hand, am more street - uncultured, threatening, berating, scolding.

I wash them with detergent soap and my sister pours fabric conditioner over them. I iron them out aggressively, and she lovingly folds them or hangs them up in padded hangers.

We are the SWAT team. Teamed up, we make a formiddable pair. And I think it's very fortunate that she and I don't squabble.

I love my siblings. I remember a time when I couldn't imagine ever sharing them with other people. The first time one of them entered a serious relationship, I was devastated. Growing up, we laughed together, and fought together. It was almost like an exclusive club we belonged to, impenetrable, inaccessible to outsiders.

It's tough, realizing that we have to move in different directions now, go our own separate ways.

Bowling Down The House

2006-04-21T00:02:00.000+04:00

I have always stayed away from bowling. Probably because I find it disgusting to have to wear bowling shoes. Maybe because I was afraid I would totally suck at it [the way I felt before I'd even tried playing pool]. Apparently, those fears were unfounded.

Coz tonight at the Skydiving Center along Hera'a, I totally KICKED ASS.

Oh, yes, people, I have to go on and on about it. That's me at Number 2 with all those yellow triangles that my friends call "strike". Talk about beginner's luck.

I played with Abdullah and Ibrahim, and we kicked the other team's ass.

And I have to reiterate, that's me with all the triangles. WOO-HOO!!

Johari Window

2006-04-19T15:22:00.000+04:00

Please click on the following link if you have nothing else to do.

http://kevan.org/johari?name=nessreen

The Saddest Thing

2006-04-16T20:43:00.000+04:00

This has to be the saddest email I've received my entire life.

I miss you so much, Nhuraphy.

Date: Sun, 16 Apr 2006 03:43:00 +0000
To: hamlet_ness@yahoo.com
From: "Birthday Reminder" <Service@BirthdayAlarm.com> Add to Address Book Add Mobile Alert
Subject: First Reminder for Nhuraphy Magarang's Birthday on Sunday April 23rd

Nessreen

Nhuraphy Magarang's (hardcore_nhurzy@yahoo.com) birthday is on Sunday April 23rd. Nhuraphy will be 24 years old.

Click below to choose an eCard and we will send it on Nhuraphy's birthday...
http://www.BirthdayAlarm.com/eCard/129163884a1b194764443c23285808

Kind Regards,

BirthdayAlarm.com

Former Fuzzy Feeling

2006-04-14T23:51:00.000+04:00

Here's a fond memory:

One evening, Yahya's mom Tita Irene took us to one of the condominium units the boys and I signed up to "agent" for [i.e. we sold them and earned a percentage]. We were in it for what little percentage we just might earn, but mostly, too, for the free dinners that almost always follows every "trip", and the extra time we could all spend monkeying around. That night, it was Yamani, Jill, Xaviere, Rommel, Yahya's sister Camille, and possibly even Bart, and myself. Yahya was out at a bar along Timog Avenue for a high school reunion. Tita Irene decided it would be fun to play a joke on him by calling him up on his mobile and threatening to crash the party, her, Yahya's Dad, and the whole lot of us. We'd parked outside the bar and made silly jokes heavy with half-truths and connotation, and sure enough, 15 minutes later, Yahya comes out of the bar, mobile in hand, pretending to be pissed but actually looking rather pleased about the attention we were all showering on him. I remember how close we'd all become then, that we had actually communicated through looks alone. We had a look that said, "Don't say nothing stupid now, the old folks are here". Another one said, "Let's pretend we're all going home after this and then meet up at Sarah's afterwards." There was also the classic, "We'll laugh about this later when no one else is listening." Sure, we said some things out loud, but we would continue the conversation in silence, or much later in the night at Sarah's little drinking place, or on a 5-hour phone conversation. I remember basking in their spoiling attention, how Tita Irene always reserved the front seat of her car for me in each trip, how nice she was.

When I recall moments like this, I think of winter-time. I love winter. The contemplation. The cold. The warm moments seem more pronounced in winter. The overall cozy feeling that seeps through me, like a huge, fragrant blanket around my shoulders. It reminds me of my good friends, like Alfie, and my first trip to Marawi City, our hang-out time with other good friends.

That former fuzzy feeling. Like coffee on a cold, cold day.

Just a day after that night rushed back to me, I got a phone call from Yahya. It was good to hear from him again after so long, my good, good friend Yahys. We hadn't talked in almost a year. We've been reduced to smatterings here and there, each one heading to a different direction. I wonder if we'll all stay friends; if, when things change, I'd be the same person they claimed to love having around.

The Sea

2006-04-11T21:08:00.000+04:00

When I see the sea once more

Will the sea have seen

Or not seen me?

The Fabulous Englishman

2006-04-10T15:32:00.000+04:00

I've just had one of the more excellent experiences reading in that book by Robert McCrum called The Fabulous Englishman. My fascination, as per usual, is with the way writers like him weave their words to create beautiful language, their keen and accurate observations. This book has been very real, down to the last paragraph. Sometimes, we like - and expect - things to be black and white, forgetting all the gray areas in between. And we always manage to look shocked in the end. At least I know I do.

The other nice thing about this book is what little I've learned about (former) Czechoslovakia and the Prague Spring (revolution). It also led me to read on Franz Kafka and get a grasp of communism, fascism, and activism, all gray areas to me. I am now basking in the exhilaration of enlightenment. Politics and socialism are two subjects I can't even bluff about.

Clearly, I'm not cut out to be a fighter, an activist, a believer if you will.

Things I fiercely believe in:

God
Fear
Luxury
Certain Death
Deception
Change

Does it embarrass me that my intellect is, after all, skin-deep? Yes. But more than that, it makes me sad. I feel empty inside. There must be something meaningful, something I would live for, something bigger than myself and my trivial flights of fancy that I'd be willing to fight for. There must be something in there, something for humanity, some compassion, or a speck of motivation so I don't waste my time, my youth on purely selfish interests, on fashion, scandal, drama, empty entertainment, self-pity, resentment.

I'd like very much to hear the music of Plastic People of the Universe. They sound very intelligent. "Hundred Per Cent" seems like a testament to that genius.

10 things I'm afraid of:
1. I am afraid of rejection.
2. I am afraid of old age.
3. I am afraid of motherhood.
4. I am afraid of commitment and responsibility.
5. I am afraid of physical pain.
6. I am afraid of bodies-of-water.
7. I am afraid of the past.
8. I am afraid of obscurity.
9. I am afraid of punishment.
10. I am afraid of monotony.

"So why are you afraid of me?"

Memoirs

2006-03-29T21:47:00.000+04:00

1. Are you currently mad at someone?
>> I am perpetually mad at someone. It's my nature to blame other people for my screw-ups. Lately, I've been raving mad at my friend, the Elusive One. Through no fault of his, might I add, I hate that he's been generally scarce. I want only undivided attention, a luxury I indulge in a little too much, especially when I can't afford it.

2. Which of your friends has the worst temper?
>> I have to say Micks. Who can forget the one time he picked a fight with a guy at a billiards hall for looking at my shirt? Granted, it was a white shirt I had on, but he was allegedly staring at the captivating buttons that adorned the top of said shirt, and we all know what a serious offence that is, staring at buttons.

3. Have you ever thrown something at anyone?
>> I was fifteen years old, and I threw a bottle of perfume at someone who dared to give me a fragrance seemingly made for nanogenarians. It was an expression of outrage for being stereotyped as such, and I never forgot how the bottle hit the floor and broke into a million, tiny pieces. The perfume stayed for a week. The stereotyping stayed on longer.

4. Does your face turn red when you're angry?
>> My face turns red only when I'm caught lying, or when I can feel the person I'm lying to seeing through the intricate web I've spun. When I'm angry, I turn deathly pale.

5. When you're mad do you prefer to stare angrilyor yell/scream?
>> I prefer to stay passive until hours later, when I've calmed down and have a hundred and one thoughts of how I should've reacted. Maybe a clever comeback that should've stunned my opponent to silence. Maybe a swift sweep of my hand before I snap my fingers and cock my head. I'm such a wimp.

6. Has anyone ever thrown you a suprise party?
>> The year I turned eighteen, my uncle, his wife, and his children snuck into my bedroom at midnight with a huge chocolate cake and a birthday card. With my eyes watering and my heart in my throat, I gazed intently at the eighteen candles while they sang the birthday song [not the 50 Cent version, mind you]. We don't celebrate birthdays, but the gesture touched me nonetheless, as it felt like a first birthday.

7. Are you easily excited?
>> You have no idea how easily. My private student cancelled two weeks worth of classes, leaving me with more time to lie in my bed, stare at the ceiling, and complain about how little time I have on my hands till I fall asleep. I chicken-danced my way out of the office.

8. What event is coming up that your most excited about?
>> Next week, I just might draw up enough courage to come face-to-face with my worst nightmare to date. I'm excited about the inevitable downhill motion from there on.

9. Which of your friends is most exciteable?
>> Maybe Suzan, with the sweet, child-like disposition. She remains untouched by our general air of cynicism.

10. If you won a million dollars what would be your first thought?
>> "NOW can I afford a country?" A million dollars would be perfect, but obviously unattainable, like all perfect things. My secret list of things to buy will remain a secret till the day I die.

11. If you could have anything right now what would it be?
>> Weight loss. Oi vei.

13. What was your latest dream?
>> Last night, I dreamt that one of my friends' son passed on. It was a sad, sad dream, and my friend was squirming with agony at the pain of losing her sweet, sweet 8-year-old. I can't for the life of me fathom what brought on that dream. In it, she clutched her belly and said, "Only a mother would understand."

15. Do you usually remember your dreams?
>> I have trouble remembering the last person I talked to, much less my last dream. So I keep a little notebook by my bed, for the mornings I wake up breathless from an intense dream, and I furiously scribble it all down.

"If I write it, I don't have to remember it. I write to forget." - John DuFresne

6 Easy Steps...

2006-03-22T21:30:00.000+04:00

"Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast." - William Shakespeare

Being a Muslim is most difficult when we are young. In fact, being religious in ANY faith is most difficult at this time. Temptations abound, and we are still so lost, insecure of ourselves, still searching for something concrete to hold on to. But discovering our religion and all the good things we can learn from it is one of the best things we can find when we are young.

I'm not saying that I'm a good Muslim. But I know that I'm better now than I used to be. I realize now that faith cannot be forced. The more we are forced to do something, the more we rebel against it. It's one of the things that we can only achieve in our own time by taking small steps, slowly and surely. A little like losing weight, or growing up.

"New Age Muslims" are a new breed, mainly because of the issues that we grapple with. We have any number of bad habits that are so hard to get rid of, habits that we know are wrong and destructive to us, not only as Muslims, but as human beings. Our elders reprimand us, chastise us, scold us, but all we can think of is: "Man, you wouldn't understand." We are carefree, we LOVE not caring. But what happens afterwards?

When the party's over, after the friends have gone and the music has died down, you are left to yourself feeling empty, and robbed of something... something you don't even know you had. And then you realize it is your faith that you've lost. There is nothing else to hold on to.

When I was going through the same phase, I was panic-stricken. I didn't know who else to turn to. My parents didn't need the stress, my sister had enough on her plate, my friends were just as lost, and my brothers were just starting their own phases. I had only myself, and my trips to the bookstore, eyes going over the titles of self-help books I was embarrassed to be found browsing. Where is "7 Effective Habits of Spiritually Successful Muslims"? "Chicken Soup for the Muslim Soul"? Nowhere.

We don't really need self-help books. We just need to stop for a bit and think. And maybe have a little checklist.

1. Learn what you can about your religion. Islam teaches beautiful values. Every act of worship has a healing touch. Read books. Read the Qur'an.

2. Make friends with Muslims your age, people who are going through the same things as you. They are great sounding-boards, and you can discuss every issue without fear of admonition.

3. Apply what you have learned. Try it on for size.

4. Worship. Prayer is an exhilirating experience.

5. Be generous to people less fortunate than yourself. Kindness is preached in Islam. It cleanses your big-spending, credit-card-maxxing, partying soul.

6. Don't be afraid to ask questions. Inquiry is always good.

Well, I think I've succeeded in sounding like an inarticulate Dr. Phil, so I hope I succeed in following my own advice. What a lot of us don't know is that there are degrees to being a Muslim. Like university, there are pre-requisites. We can't just jump on to the last level. We need to learn and earn.

Yay, self-help!

Salaam.

Who's Your Aunt?!

2006-02-10T21:23:00.000+04:00

Like Kate Hudson's character Helen in Raising Helen, I far too often suffer from the Cool Aunt Syndrome, a condition that occurs when a young niece, nephew, or cousin looks up to me and then things go wrong. Yeah, I'm the cool "Aunt". They can hang out with me because I know a lot of things; they can talk to me about anything and I'd understand. I don't think their thoughts or convictions are immature, childish, or plain stupid. I'm like that because I went through the same thoughts not so long ago. I have a cool sense of humor. I have a problem with authority, just like they do. I don't discourage adolescent rebellion, like their old aunts do. They can smoke around me, with me, in fact. I have all these fascinating stories about my silly, daring adventures and how I got away with them. I give them the rules in a firm voice, and in the next instant, whisper about how I hate the rules. Rules, like propriety [whispering: oh, f*ck propriety, you shouldn't care what people think about you], or the straight path [sod it, you should take the road less travelled]. I'm fun like that. They can talk to me about pre-marital sex, marijuana, getting drunk, flirting, college, pick-up lines. Whatever. Plus, I'm such a cool aunt, I even have my own money, so when they're short on cash, they can come up to me and ask for a few bucks to buy a pack of cigarettes. I can even buy them a few drinks. So, who's your Aunt?!!

Say my name, bitch!

And then... They come to me with a fake ID. Crying, coz they flunked an exam. I would understand, they were out on a party late last night, on to the early morn ["Oh, Aunt Di, it was SO fun, the DJ flirted with me"]. Crying, coz they're having chest pains from all that smoking ["But that's normal, right, Aunt Di? You get chest pains, too, don't you?"]. Crying, coz their moms found a packet of cigarettes in their jean's pockets ["Aunt Di, I told Momma it was yours. Phew. Close one, eh?"]. Crying, coz everyone's talking about them being wild, loose women ["Aunt Di, it wasn't as if I was making out with him! We were just hanging out in his car!"]. Crying, coz shit, Aunt Di, I'm 5 weeks late... I think I'm pregnant. What do I do? Will you tell my Dad, Aunt Di? He'll kill me!

Dagnamit! Who's your Aunt, now?

Once the Cool-Aunt wheels start turning, there's no stopping it. I wish I could run to my own former Cool Aunt. Where do we cool Aunts toe the line?

Waxing Nostalgic

2006-02-10T20:21:00.000+04:00

It's amazing the things we take for granted. Like the outdoors in the early morning. The sea breeze in your face. The beautiful sunrise and the blue, blue sky. The magnificence of all God's creatures and the harmony they exist in. Everything feels like a well-oiled machine.

I am undone.

Simple things make me smile. The kid in nothing but swimming shorts shaking off the pool water from his ear, hopping on one leg. The young man on the other side enjoying the morning air, walking with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cup of coffee. The bare-chested guy jogging along the stretch of sand. I wonder what lives they lead. I wonder what they're thinking.

The beach is lovely. I imagine spending time there in the company of the people I love. My brothers. Zen would be fussing about food. Waleed would be barking out orders. Adnan would be contemplative and melancholy, nursing a cigarette. Pollock would be monkeying around. And I, I would be flitting here and there, longing to be alone with my pen and paper. My friends. Jiehan would be in her best beach-wear, gazing out into the sea, hand holding her wide-rimmed hat against her head, thinking about God-knows-what. Marj would be preparing to do something worthwhile, jetskiing maybe, or surfing. My sister. She would be laughing, happy, carefree, trying her best to make it all fun for us. My boys. Da Boys would be doing all the dirty work, spoiling me senseless. They'd be making jokes and fronting, poking fun at my "good breeding" [what am I, a dog?].

Until I get a chance to travel elsewhere, I will continue to compare everything I encounter to Manila. It's jarring, to be suddenly removed from a city where I can be as daring as I dared to be and put in a place where the mere glimpse of an uncovered neck or a smooth ankle attracts attention. Young people here grasp at every little chance to have a semblance of social interaction. Like myself. I hold on to the very thought of him. He is my former bustling social life, my brothers, cousins, friends, acquaintances, college buddies, neighbors, boys and girls, all rolled into one. He represents all that I am missing. It's funny, because I don't even know him. I made him.

My Kind of Guy

2006-01-29T21:07:00.000+04:00

1. The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different points of their perfect lover.
2. Need to mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on their comments saying they've been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there's no need to post again.

Target: Male

Points:

1. Must be from Saudi Arabia [negotiable] and Muslim [non-negotiable].

2. Must love food and luxury [i.e. must afford it - slash - reasonably loaded]
I mean, like Kanye says:
"I ain't sayin she a gold-digger,
But she ain't messin with no broke nigga."
And I ain't sayin I like Kanye,
But I guess because I quoted him I kinda do.

3. Must have a good musical background [i.e. in touch with his inner artiste, if at all any.]
And I'm not talking about "Yeah, I like hiphop, Nelly's Dilemma was DA BOMB, niggah" kind of white-guy small-p*nis talk.

4. Must be street [if you know what I mean].

5. Must NOT be too open with his feelings. Smiley dolts are just that - dolts. I mean, a little mystery's good, but nothing creepy.

6. Must be tall [and superficial, too].

7. Must be a smoker [i.e. risk-taker].

8. Must be good at something I would NEVER be good at [i.e. Nessreen's Respect-Maintenance Insurance Policy. I tend to be over-confident, and this is a good thing to hit my head with].

I was tagged by Diane, and I'm tagging anyone who's reading this.

Will Say A Little Prayer

2006-01-08T05:05:00.000+04:00

I'm all geared up for Hajj this year. Nadeemah's remark struck a chord.

"What are you doing now that's so bad, anyway?"

And she's right. It's not like we're sleeping around, or drinking [anymore]. But she doesn't know us, doesn't know half of it, like Dina and I were saying. It's all those little things -- flirting, smoking, music, the other worldly distractions that we all can't seem to let go of. So when we say "We're not that ready", we're not talking about promiscuity, or intoxication, or adultery. Just the basest forms of worldliness.

But then again, like Majed and I were discussing, if we're not ready now, when we're young and fully able, when will we be? More importantly, will we EVER be?

The biggest Hajj truism is:
"I'll go when I'm older and all the wiser [read: when all those worldly desires cease to matter]."

And the question is this:
"WHEN exactly are you OLDER?"

When we're 17, 27 is older. When you turn 27, you think, "Hell, I'm still young. 37 is older." Come 37, would you admit you're older? Of course not. 47 becomes the new old. You hit 47 and you say, 57 is DEFINITELY old. So on and so forth, till you reach the point of no-getting-younger, and the next ten years [or less, who knows], you're past Older and well within Dying. And you're no longer young nor fully able.

If not now, when?

There are a lot of things and people I will be praying for. Khadijah said I should prepare the list, have my cheat sheet ready, and go for it the whole time I spend in Arafat. Sounds like a plan. Off the top of my head:

1. Will pray for a stable financial status for myself and my family. [Surprisingly, money matters spring to mind. LOL.] Will pray for the ability to be thankful for what I have, for the ability to manage my finances in the smartest, and cleanest way possible. Must start paying my Zakah dues, and personal debts.

2. Will pray for the guidance that I and each of my siblings need. Will pray for religion and faith to enter our hearts, for the awareness of God, and for knowledge of ISLAM. Will pray for the success of each of my siblings, for love to dwell between us, and for all animosity to be removed.

3. Will pray for Mum and Pop, for their physical health and their spiritual well-being. Will pray for their peace of mind. Will pray for any resentment they have, between themselves and for their children, to be erased.

4. Will pray for a good future, for a stable sense of self, for insecurity to disappear from my system. Will pray for a good partner [INEVITABLE, I realize. Ha ha.]. Will pray for acceptance -- of myself FOR myself, and of others for myself. Will pray for respect and self-respect, for knowledge and travel.

5. Will pray for my extended family. For Daddy and his people, who have been good to me. Will pray for those who share a family name with me, for many good returns for them. Will pray for my maternal cousins and aunts, for them to be more forgiving, considerate, and ultimately, more blessed and successful for it.

6. Will pray for my friends. For Marj and her family, for their continued appreciation of my religion, their respect and love for me. Will pray for my new friends, who have opened new and wonderful doors for me. Will pray for their well-being and that of their families, and for the success of their affairs. Will pray for Mariam Guilbeaut, Lutfah, WadhHa, Inas, Sausan, Sara, Khadijah [and Mazen, too, I guess, our little inside joke], Mariam France, the Ghamdi sisters, Nadia, and Nadeema. For Khala Zahrah especially. For Dina, Ihsan, Shariah, and Najlah, the ones closest to me, my soul sisters. Will pray for Da Boys -- Yahya, Micks, Yamani, Khalid, Rommel, and Ibn, and the rest of my MSA people. For Dudut, my cousin slash brother slash friend slash absentee family member. Will pray for Majed, who has taught me a lot about the country I grew up in and thought I knew, and the religion I was brought up in and thought I'd mastered. Will pray for emptiness to be wiped out. For Diane, my blog buddy. For all their kindness and thoughtfulness to be returned to them in blessings ten-fold.

7. Will pray for my students who have been nothing but wonderful. They brought out the worst in me, but ultimately, the best as well.

8. Will pray for time management skills, the ability to do my best in everything I do, and for the awareness that anything worth doing is worth doing well.

9. Will pray for compassion, good judgement, moderation, and consistency in all my affairs. [erm.. weight loss figures here, I guess. Ha ha.]

10. Will pray for my childhood friends, for Nhuraphy who passed away, and for the family and friends that love her. For the Busaw Family. For Jehanifah, the B-side to all my stories. For Jiehan.

11. Will pray for all the friends of the family.

12. Will thank God for all the blessings I overlooked.

13. Will pray for prayer. For the light of the Qur'an. For knowledge. For Islam. For peace.

Will say a little prayer for you.

Ameen.

Hajj Mabroor, everyone, and Eid Mubarak. See you in five.

Oh, Twenty Oh Six

2005-12-31T04:03:00.000+04:00

Meretricious and a Happy New Year.

- Gore Vidal (1925 - ) U.S. novelist and essayist.

New Year's Eve isn't that big a deal in our household. The only one time I really celebrated it was last year when most of my brothers, my sister, and I were finally in the same place at the same time. It was more of an impromptu reunion than anything, really.

But anyway, just for the heck of it, here's a fresh batch of New Year's resolutions to back up the ones I wrote down not two months ago [most of which I haven't even started doing]:

1. Minimize the fronting. One day, all my little untruths will rise into one huge whale that would swallow me whole. The funny thing is, I come up with the most outrageous lies. Those are the ones I feel really good about. LOL.

2. Keep my room organized for a minimum of 12 hours at the very least. [Good luck with this one].

3. Drink 8 glasses of water a day.

4. Be less absent-minded to improve my memory and attention span.

5. Stop being such a wuss. More often than not, when faced with something I'm not capable of overcoming, I whimper and retreat to a pathetic corner. Be more tough. Think G.I. Jane. Think "Suck my d*ck."

Now that I've got them down, they all sound so simple. Easy-peasy. But knowing myself, I'll be lucky if I can achieve at least one of them.

So, like I always say, baby steps. Baby steps.

Johnny, Johnny, Johnny

2005-12-31T03:16:00.000+04:00

Is there anyone in my immediate circle of influence quite nearly as sexy as Johnny Depp playing Roux in the film Chocolat?

Stupid question, of course. Let me rephrase that.

Is there ANYONE IN THE WHOLE WORLD so on and so forth?

I can only think of one other person:

Johnny Depp in Once Upon A Time In Mexico.

Or... or... Johnny Depp in What's Eating Gilbert Grape?.

Or else, Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Carribean.

Well, I don't know. He surpasses himself. I'd like to have him for New Year's Eve.

Watching TV

2005-12-21T22:31:00.001+04:00

Outrageous

Well, there you have it. My secret mundane obsession with showbusiness packaged in one little trendy reality show that I will follow religiously from here on till its expected television demise.

I've been watching Britney and Kevin Chaotic, and despite the fact that I'd been trashing her about jumping on the Reality TV bandwagon prior to this, I find that I'm immensely enjoying it. I should've known I'd be so into it since I "secretly" admire and look up to the pop princess (as does Jhie, with whom I've spent many a weeknight watching Britney's concerts on video). Besides, her show is a far, far cry from Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey's now-defunct NEWLYWEDS, an utterly annoying sitcom that warrants a whole other blog entry. Anyway, it has me thinking that even if and when Britney and Kevin's relationship ends up in divorce, it looks like they had fun in the amount of time it took them to videotape their lives. And Kevin's kinda cute. Of course I can't help but feel sorry for him, because he is surely going to feel inferior at one point or another, especially when he realizes that there is nothing he can do that Britney can't do (and pay for) better. Right now, it's all well and good since he's obviously still in that starstruck phase. Oh, well. I've only just started Season 1.

What's even sillier than this obsession is the fact that now, I have this ridiculous notion in my head that Britney and I are a lot alike! Minus the body, minus the dance moves, minus The Face, minus the fame, minus the wealth, the energy, and the voice [what-the-fudge there's nothing left]. I mean, she's goofy just like I am. Aren't we so alike?

Parental Guidance

I love my dad to pieces. But if there's one thing I hate, it's watching movies at home with him. I was watching Unfaithful the other night when he saunters in and settles comfortably on the bed (I sit on the floor). Enter the wild fornication scenes. It's not exactly porno, but I can feel my dad watching my face for some reaction. I mean. Dude. Can't a girl watch the hot scene with the hot Italian guy in peace? So I hold my breath all throughout the obscenities and pray that my face wasn't beet red.

Otherwise, my dad's real cool. Here he is mocking me:

Pity She Doesn't Know

2005-12-01T20:03:00.000+04:00

"Answer me this:
When I see the sea once more,
Will the sea have seen or not seen me?"

- Viggo Mortensen as the Master Chief, G.I. Jane

Pity she doesn't know
Songs were written for her,
Pages were filled with words that worshipped her.
Does she know tears were shed for her?
Nights and twilights spent staring at the ceiling
In remembrance of events that would've taken place
Had she known.

Pity she doesn't know
The mind she has plagued, the place where she's lived, not knowing,
and the people she lived with in that colorful vastness.
I wonder if she knows how many times
Her name has been written,
Or if she knows what heart holds her.

She doesn't know the stories told about her,
Who has heard of her.
She's never seen nor felt the pedestal she's been put up on,
Never looked into the eyes of the mind that sees her.
She's never closed her eyes against the dizzying whirlwind
The romance that attempted to break her free-fall.

Pity he never told her.

Pity she never knew.

- November 2005

Boys, Boys, Boys, Boys

2005-11-30T21:20:00.000+04:00

What I've Learned From The People & Things I Love, Part II

I have always surrounded myself with boys. Boys of varying natures, men, guys, boys-who-think-they're-men, boys-who-like-girls, and boys-who-like-girls-to-be-boys.

Bond. James Bond.

** My Brothers. I have a special bond with each of my brothers.

Omar - the one I can speak to about love and life in general. We wax political, we discuss books, and watch indie films together. Our bond is: complicated love stories.

Amir - the one I sing with. He has a beautiful singing voice, MashaAllah. Our bond is: karaoke.

Waleed - the one I share a circle of friends with, He's also the one who gets all my jokes, bland, lame, or otherwise. Our bond is: common friends and humor.

Zen - the one I've never had a fight with. We just never clash. He's also allegedly the best-looking from among them. (sure, man). Our bond is: laughter, and good & bad times.

Adnan - is the one I clash with the most. He's also the best writer in the family (second only to yours truly, of course). Adnan is also very sensitive. Our bond is: creative writing and Hanson's "Penny and Me".

Pollock - is my adopted son. We have five years between us, and I was always responsible for him. I check his grades (in college), I check his asthma medication, and we share a bedroom and a bathroom. He's the best guitarist in the bunch. Our bond is: movie one-liners and music.

Ayman - is the one I have the least in common with. The only thing we can do together is smoke. Also, we trash silly Korean soap opera plots. We have too many years apart, so we don't really hang out a lot. Our bond is: trashing people and soap operas.

Othman - our baby brother, is possibly the wierdest. Othman has a keen attention to detail, and in fact, borders obsessive compulsiveness. Our bond is: food and watching movies ten times over.

** My nephews. As if I didn't have enough brothers to bodyguard me, I adopted these two as my additional siblings.

PJ - my maternal nephew. He grew up with us in the same household, and shared a childhood. We were inseparable during in freshman college. Our bond is: college life.

Khaldon - a.k.a. G.I. Joe., a fantastic guitarist. We were partners when it came to sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night for a game of billiards. Our bond is: guitars and rebellion.

** My "boyfriends". I gravitate towards guys. In grade school, I had several girl friends, but twice as many guy friends. In college, I had a group of rowdy boys as buddies.

Onat - is my oldest guy friend. He is the only guy outside of my family that I would trust enough to live with and even share a bedroom with. Our bond is: money and road trips.

Alfie - My brother Waleed's best friend. We share a Saudi history. He would drive me around in his white jeep, and he would do me special favors, like the one time I craved pizza in the middle of the night and he helped me look around for a 24-hour pizza place. Our bond is: driving around and Maranao culture.

Nebil - also Waleed's best friend. He educated me in the ways of music. Has been my friend since 1st grade. Our bond is: life and music.

Tam-Tam - my nephew. We share a family history, and we were good friends in grade school. In college, we hung out together, went broke together, and flunk college together. Our bond is: post-adolescence idealism and R&B.

Kaka Archie - also my nephew (Tam-tam's older brother). He was my rock. He literally picks me up whenever I trip, and he's the most reliable among my friends. Our bond is: techie gadgets and family scandals.

Yahya - my drinking buddy. We deny knowing each other to avoid unnecessary gossip. Our bond is: fortune tellers and phone conversations.

Micks - the lover boy. He's very picky about girls, and has a cruel sense of humor. He's also very loyal. Our bond is: conversations about the "future" and stupid jokes.

Khalid - the sweetest guy in the group. He's the resident pretty-boy, too. Our bond is: foreign films at the university cinema and a pair of white-stained shorts.

Yamani - possibly the funniest guy I know. His sense of humor will take him places. Our bond is: serious conversation laced with crazy-ass jokes.

Ibnu - the 5-second man. He's the one I call for academic advice. Our bond is: career paths and long-standing jokes.

Majed - a relatively new friend. He has educated me in the ways of the Saudi. Our bond is: Saudi Arabia and the Arabic language.

** I have learned that guys tend to bullshit less when it comes to true friendship. I hang out with them because they treat me with respect and at the same time treat me as an 'equal'. I've also learned that it is much easier to talk to guys because they give it to you straight.

All Things Random

2005-11-18T21:40:00.002+04:00

20 Random Things About Myself:

1. I hate when my brothers squeeze the toothpaste tube right in the middle, and then NOT replace the cap.

2. We laugh at Kevin Bacon, his "Now what?" films and silly heartthrob roles, but I very secretly think he's HOT.

3. You know those ridiculous romantic scenes where lovers play around, usually with a hose, spraying water at each other or running along the beach in SLOW MOTION, with some old school funk / R&B or soul track playing in the background? I've always wished it would happen to me. ESPECIALLY the slow motion part.

4. Sometimes when my nails are long, the nail on my right index finger [which I use to write with] digs into my middle finger, so I wrap a tissue around my middle finger while I write to cushion it.

5. My favorite pair of shoes hurt like hell, but they look so fabulous that I wear them nonetheless.

6. I've memorized ALL the words to Air Supply's greatest hates BECAUSE I hate them.

7. I can't close my eyes when I'm singing a song because I always have to look at my fingers while I strum the guitar.

8. I list the books I've read, including the date I finished reading them, to get an average of how many books I read in a month. My average for the last three months is 3.

9. I buy cassette tapes [in Jeddah] at record stores because my CD player is not working [hasn't been for years now] and I've never gotten around to having it fixed. Tapes cost less, anyway, so it works for me.

10. I make most of my critical decisions in the shower.

11. I sneak out office supplies from my workplace: bond paper, board markers, glue sticks, paper clips, etc. The key word here is: UNCONSCIOUSLY. [sure]

12. I arrange the books on my bookshelves according to their publishing house[s], from Bantam to Random House.

13. My greatest fear in a Karaoke bar is that someone picks and sings the song that I've practiced singing for the longest time.

14. I am alternately embarrassed and insulted by bad films and bad actors. My favorite bad film is: Solaris, which starred George Clooney.

15. I have dreams of my best guy friend [nothing sexual, you pervert]. Sometimes I dream of him getting married [where I'm his best "man"], sometimes of him becoming a millionaire, sometimes of him getting shot.

16. I'm still very unsure of when and when not to use the word "whom".

17. My best guy friends think that my ultimate flirtation pick-up line is LAME. But it's worked for me EVERY SINGLE TIME.

"My one greatest dream is (to) ___________ [insert activity that guy-being-picked-up does best].

Worked once with a DJ at a club when I came up to him and said: "My one greates dream is to get inside a DJ's booth and get a panoramic view of the party below." That DJ has been a great family friend to this date, and we have been on guest lists at parties and getting free drinks ever since.

18. At "hard-core" Maranao parties, I can't think of anything to say beyond "How are you?" since everything you say to a Maranao can and will be used against you. Most of the time I just smile and pretend I don't speak Maranao.

19. I love MINT. Mint chocolates, mint on my tea, peppermint, mint lotion, mint shampoo, and mint green.

20. Sometimes I grin at myself in the bathroom mirror for about 5 minutes, then abruptly turn off the lights to freak myself out. I always expect someone standing behind me when I turn the lights back on.

Do you know a random thing about me that I don't? [Not you, Druggie, I know what you're going to say. Hahaha.]

In Memory Of

2005-11-13T22:12:00.000+04:00

Dear Nhurzy,

It hurts.

Everytime I hear your name it hurts me, a dull, numbing, physical pain.

I look at our photo albums, any album, and it hurts. It hurts when I go through all the photos I've accumulated throughout my entire life and I realize that for the first 15 years you were in every other photo.

It hurts like hell when everything in my life has a connection to you because of our shared history.

When I turn on the computer, when I open all my online accounts, my websites, and I see how you're ever-present, everywhere, it hurts.

Everytime I cry, there's a hollow, right in the middle of my heart, where it hurts the most.

Remember when we used to dance? The Pandanggo Sa Ilaw, was it? The Itik-Itik dance? The crazy dance steps you taught us?

Remember our stupid Boyzone parties at Suad's house? Where we'd spend all night watching their music videos? Oh, I remember now, you hated them. You were there to make fun of us and how we loved those "faggots".

Remember our football jerseys in Sophomore High? Go Lakers? You used to wear the jersey bunched up at the tummy and tied in a knot to show off your abs.

Remember the Detroit Pistons and the love of our life, Grant Hill?

Remember when we used to wear nothing underneath our abayas because no one would notice anyway? You taught us how to wear our tarhas a certain way, like a trademark, you me, Ice. You know, press it against our foreheads then tie it at the back? So we look gangsta while we walked around and around the school campus under the sweltering sun?

Remember our middle-finger photos?

Remember the videotapes we made? Spoof music videos, speeches, dedications, dancing, head-banging, monkeying around?

Remember the times we were all together as a family? Suad? Jehanifah? Latifah? Ayesha? You? Me? At Ayesha's house eating Indomie after skipping classes? The Busaw Family? Do you remember?

Do you remember how much fun we had?

Do you remember when we suddenly grew up? When we suddenly had breasts and our periods and suddenly Mozi was the "cutest" guy in the universe?

Do you remember your cats? All six or seven of them? I don't remember how many, but I'm sure YOU remember. You had names for every single one of them, remember? They were your babies.

Do you remember that time you and your baby sister came to spend a night in our house and she cried because we didn't have corn flakes and she wanted to eat corn flakes?

Remember how we used our brothers as postmen for our letters? Remember what your letters said? "Ness, if you really like Allan, I'm sorry but he just came to my house and asked me to have sex with him." Crazy-ass stuff like that. My father once received a letter from you on my behalf coz I wasn't home, and he was outraged. We were 13 years old then.

Remember the fights? When we fought? We were divided then. Latifah fainted. Suad and Jehanifah were screaming obscenities. Ice was just whimpering in the corner. You and I moved left and right and screamed obscenities, too. Putangina mo!! Miyabunu ka!! No one would come near us because we were the Maranao girls and our rage terrified the shit out of them.

Remember when you first came to Manila and you sent us that voice tape? You hated Manila. And your first day in your new school was a disaster. You sent us pictures. Lots of them. Then we sent you back a million voice tapes and a huge bottle of Jeddah's finest and cheapest shatta Hot Sauce, your favorite.

Do you remember when things changed in college? The incident with your ugly-ass maid? How we laughed about your foolishness?

You were always mischievous, but you were NEVER DISHONEST.

Do you remember when you came to our Manila townhouse and we locked ourselves in my room with two packs of Marlboro Lights? We didn't even have Coca Cola to cool our throats with, but it was alright, we couldn't afford it anyway.

Do you remember the last time we'd ever be together? Our reunion right before I came back to Jeddah not six months ago? At the karaoke bar with Jehanifah and Jiehan? Beer, song, and cigarettes? The stupid tambourines ever-present at Korean videoke bars? I was in my "tennis-slash-badminton" outfit then, because I had to pretend I was going out to hit some balls when I was really going out with my friends. Remember how you drove Jiehan's car?

Do you remember last week how we chatted on Yahoo? You were teasing me about my love life. I was teasing you about your new car. Dude, I love your car and I haven't even seen it. "Fuck you, Ness," you said.

Do you remember the last words you told me?

"Miyasokaran ka, Baboy. Love ya, Nessreen."

I didn't reply. I signed out because you were pissing me off royally, you freaking bitch.

Do you remember?

Because I do. It hurts to remember. I choke. I'm out of breath. With the pain.

Do you remember two days ago how Jehanifah and I talked on the phone and cried and laughed at the same time, saying how this sounded like the kind of prank you would pull on us to get our attention?

Do you remember how she and I, we said, "This is unreal. This is a dream. She can't be gone."

Do you remember last night how I cried and my parents didn't know what to do with me? My grief had taken residence in my room. It stayed with me and followed me around the house. I cried because I lost you. We lost you. I cried because I didn't know how painful it was for you and I wished and wished and cried and wished some more and prayed that you went quickly and painlessly.

Do you remember?

No?

You don't?

Is that why it hurts?

It hurts me that I have to ask for your forgiveness now. Forgive me for all the wrong I've done, for anything I've said to hurt you, for any gesture that made it look like I don't want you in my life anymore.

It hurts me like fucking hell that you will never read this.

We love you, sister girl. Always have, always will. We are family.

Rest in peace, Nhurzy. You're our number one girl. Sister. Friend. Soulmate. Yosi-Buddy. Family.

A Few Good Deaths

2005-10-31T16:58:00.000+04:00

I've been having weird dreams lately, and I couldn't figure out what they were all supposed to mean, or if they had any meaning at all. But yesterday, I think I found my meaning. We could've perished in a domestic accident had it not been for my weird dream. In my dream, a friend and I were headed home from work and hailed a taxi. As soon as we got in, an awful smell immediately assaulted our olfactories. I signaled to my friend this discovery by waving my hand rapidly up and down whilst pinching my nose. It was an unnecessary gesture, as she already had her hand over both her nose and her mouth. It smelled of sweat and gym socks in that there cab, but we were already moving, and it was so hard to get a taxi in those parts. So we stuck it out. We were laughing quietly a little later when the smell changed. It became smoky, like barbecuing a pair of overused gym socks. I mouthed "Geez!!" to my friend who chocked back her laughter. The driver raised his eyes to the rearview mirror and looked at us. Suddenly, he turned into a burnt piece of flesh, and I screamed and screamed as a great smoke took over the whole cab.

Then I woke up. There WAS smoke in my room. I ran out to the hallway where there was MORE smoke. I stifled a scream, just so I wouldn't inhale too much of the smoke, and ran back inside my room where I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around my head [at this point, I felt very heroic and smart about grabbing the towel, like those gorgeous firemen in Third Watch would've asked me to]. I slowly made my way to the kitchen where, on the stove, a pot of shrimp was smoldering. My mom had fallen asleep while waiting for it to cook. Being a sissy, I ran to my mom's room, screamed my head off to wake her up, and told her that she needed to do something quick. My poor mom jumped up, turned off the fire, turned on the exhaust fan, and started to right the house. My brothers were in their room, which was right next to the kitchen, sleeping like babies.

So. Am I a hero, or what?

After that close brush with death, I felt so thankful for surviving the potential fire. I mean, if I was going to die at the age of 22, I would rather it be of something a little less domestic. Something more amusing, perhaps. My friend Marj suggested a few good deaths, to which I added my own:

* Death By Chocolate - But that's awfully over-rated, I say.
* Death By Repetitive Music-Playing
* Death By Potato Chips -Some of which are on the chin still at the time of death. But how unglamorous.
* Death By Korean Soap Operas -Possibly in the middle of a confrontation between the poor leading lady and the leading man's rich snob of a mom.
* Death By Lack Of Imagination
* Death By Arrogance
* Death By Excessive Celebration of Youth
* Death By Confusion
* Death By Conceptual Overload
* Death By Excessive Thought
* Death By Hardened-Booger Pursuit [i.e. pangungulangot]

"Dying is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well."

- Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963); U.S. poet and novelist.

Hair Ye, Hair Ye

2005-10-24T09:22:00.000+04:00

What does a good hairdresser have in common with a bad hairdresser?

They both possess the tremendous [and sometimes evil] power to change your life: One for the better, the other for a whole lot worse.

For hair mavens such as myself, finding the right hairdresser is like finding the right guy. You want to rely on your instincts; you can always tell what the hairdresser is like from the moment you sit on her chair. The way she talks to you, the way she examines the shape of your face, the way she sifts through your hair and parts it this way and that.

So I don't understand why I went through with the haircut anyway. There were tell-tale signs right from the start. For one thing, she never asked me any questions about how I wanted it cut. She had a magazine ready, and as soon as I pointed out the hairstyle I wanted, a-snipping she went, no examination, no sifting, no "where do you usually part your hair?". And there I sat, submissive, cowed, while she scooped generous handfuls of my hair, snip snip snip. At one point, I started to resist. But she very quietly pushed me back into my chair, and carried on cutting away my life, my hair. See, I didn't think I could fight her off. She was very insistent and noiselessly rough. Of course it was when I got home safe and considerably far away from her evil, abusive clutches that I started entertaining thoughts of having her murdered. I mean, I was violated! She practically RAPED my hair!! No foreplay, no sweet nothings, just reckless clipping!

When I came into the beauty parlor, I had in my head visions of Drew-Barrymore-hair, Fever Pitch-style. After all, we had the same hair type, and so it would be so much easier for me to emulate her, sweeping bangs, waves, and all. What the witch [her name's JOSIE] gave me was 80s-inspired bangs. The type that reminds me of when I was 6 years old and my "dalaga" aunts would come visit us with their overpowering perfume, crimped hair, and bangs that looked like hats. The kind that makes you think of Madonna in Material Girl. Especially since I have frizzy hair. It's not all well and good, because this is just one of those trends that never made a comeback. And there's a reason why: it's horribly unflattering. I look like a freaking... maid. With outdated hair. I got out of the parlor with Helen Hunt's hairdo in her ancient sitcom Mad About You.

I am fuming, outraged, livid right now. But let me tell you something. Just like we never learn from past relationships with Asshole-Syndrome characters, we never learn from our mistakes with a terribly under-experienced hairdresser. You'll be reading about another horrible experience at yet another untried and untested beauty salon in six months, perhaps after i see yet another film that stars Drew Barrymore or Mandy Moore with that great, star-quality hair.

Oi, vei. Women.

"You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair."
-Lewis Carroll (1832 - 1898) British writer and mathematician.

The Desk Has Spoken

2005-10-19T08:48:00.000+04:00

What's on my desk:

* A glass full of colored paper clips.
* Post-its in leaf and arrow shapes.
* A Starbucks Arabia mug full of pens and pencils.
* Berlitz instructor's manuals for adults and kids.
* A Berlitz magazine.
* Ikea's 2005 catalogue.
* Arabian Woman and Emirates Woman magazines.
* Unmarked essays in a folder submitted by my freshman college students.
* Lemony Snicket: A Series of Unfortunate Events VCD I borrowed from BemBem.
* A tube of Mentos Mints.
* A lilac-colored lighter.
* A bunch of mismatched socks and stockings.
* Grocery receipts.
* Books: "Longman's Synonyms Dictionary" and "The Right Word At The Right Time".
* Juz 'amma [Qur'an] tapes my Mom left on it.
* My 2005 appointment diary.
* A mini Nivea hand lotion bottle.
* An oversized calculator.
* A red stapler that doesn't work.
* Index cards with a list of irregular verbs.
* A bag of 5-week-old nuts.
* A heart-shaped dish with potpourri.
* Folders and files.
* Scratch papers.
* A little notebook of quotations that I compiled.
* A picture of the Elephant Rock in Saudi Arabia that my student Yazeed gave me.

What I think they say about me:

* I'm an English teacher. [Tsk.] And apparently, not a very good one.
* I attempt to organize my stuff by using cliche office supplies. Some of which don't work.
* I'm in charge of matching the socks in the fresh-laundry basket but I've never gotten around to doing it.
* My students think I'm an elephant and therefore am interested in my fellow elephants.
* I read glossies when I should make lesson plans.
* I watch movies I've seen over and over again.
* I'm a boring, bored nerd.

What does your desk say about you?

Enough About Me...

2005-10-16T07:35:00.000+04:00

... let's talk about me. *Hihihi* As it turns out, I don't know myself half as much as these quizzes do! Let's see, shall we?

You're Andie Anderson(Kate Hudson - ('How to Lose A Guy In 10 Days')
You're smart, beautiful, and ambitious. You have
life going for you in every possible way.
You're true to yourself and to others. You may
make some mistakes along the way, but you don't
cover them up.
Your vintage styling and girl next door persona
makes you an instant trendsetter and everyone's
friend.
You feel just as confortable in silk and heels as
you do in blue jeans on the back of a Harley.You're a wonderful friend, looking for ways to
bring sunshine and laughter to people's lives.You take yourself seriously, but not too seriously.
You express yourself through a public medium,
encouraging feedback and honesty.
All in all you're the Ray of Light.

Which Romantic Comedy Heroine Are You?

** Won't you look at that. Kate Hudson. I wanna be like her when I wake up.

What I've Learned From The People and The Things I Love

2005-10-13T08:47:00.000+04:00

The most important things we can learn in life are in the people and things around us. It can be found in the periphery – in-between classes while waiting for the next professor, in those moments while you’re walking from here to your destination, or in brief elevator rides. It can be found in the seconds right before you burst into tears, or in the recurrent beat of a song. In this ultimate age of epiphany, I have unearthed a treasure of discoveries from those I love.

Friends

“It is important to our friends to believe that we are unreservedly frank with them, and important to friendship that we are not.” - MIGNON MCLAUGHLIN

I am blessed with a multitude of friends. From them, I have learned that we have various friends for the various aspects of our personalities. The only people I am ever truly honest with [outside of my immediate family, of course] are my three closest friends.

Jiehan and I get along because of our tastes in fashion and the other superficial aspects of life. We have always been dedicated to the cause of popularity for popularity's sake. I have always been obsessed with the tangibles and the superficial. This may not always be understood by my more philosophical friends, but Jiehan does, and she indulges me. Being slaves to the retail industry, we bond in beauty parlors during hour-long foot spas and hair treatments, reading glossies, watching MTV and fashion TV, and frequenting night-haunts in plush clubs of our generation, armed with our chandelier earrings and excruciatingly high stilletoes. We also have an unbreakable faith in Chinese soap operas.

Marjorie, on the other hand, is my ally. We share principles in life. We wax political, intellectual, and spiritual. Our friendship was concretized in college where, side by side, we fought for our rights and stood our ground against people who did us wrong. We were not always successful, but we can say we tried our best. If I was a lawyer, she’d be the judge in my courtroom. If she was a nurse, I’d be the doctor in her emergency room. I’ve spent N-Thousand hours on the phone with Marj, talking about the philosophical implications of The Lord Of The Rings, and the possible life and times of Arnobi The Rabbit, the mascot of a junior supplement that comes with a leading newspaper here, and Paalle Bukhari, the man who faithfully served us soggy French Fries with Vinegar and Hot Sauce for most of our high school life. We spent several thousand hours more at the Sunken Garden of our university, lying on the grass, staring at the night sky, and weeping at our insights, new-found convictions, and lack thereof. It seemed highly unlikely back when we were 9-year-olds together in our grade school, but we now find ourselves always in the same country at the same time.

To balance this relatively good side of my personality, I have Jehanifah to help me disturb the peace. The only existence we know is in trying to fix something, some situation, some crooked idea or other. So that when we run out of things to fix, we inexorably destroy something, anything, in order to fix it. Jehanifah is my partner in crimes of passion, like when we stole romance novels from her sister’s collection and from this other girl who happened to have the book we’d been looking for. Much later, we would steal out into the night and belt out sappy songs at the local Karaoke bar with much fervor, boozing and burning sticks in-between songs. She and I suffer from – and revel in – the curse of friction, being too alike at times and too different at others.

I have learned that there is enough love to go around. When you make a new friend, you don't necessarily lose an old one. It's time we never have enough of.

… to be continued...

Trippin

2005-10-11T00:33:00.000+04:00

Yup, ladies and cats, I'm still tripping about my teaching experience. I'm only realizing that teaching is a lot like acting on stage. You're up there, and all those people peering at you from behind their under-used books are under your mercy. You can cheat, steal, and lie. You can tell them your mother smuggled your brother in from Vietnam. You can give them grades based on your whims. [I did all that]. I'd like to share some of the best moments of my short experience.

** Earlier today, a student came up to me and said, "Teacher Nessreen, I miss you. I hate my new English professor. She's 57 years old and she doesn't know how to work an MP3 player." Aww. Sweet. All those times I was supposed to be teaching them gerunds but taught them how to browse the internet in English instead paid off. At least she hates the new professor more than she hated me.

** On one of review sessions with Level 1 English students, a girl was asked what she would say if she needed to ask information at the Heathrow airport in the UK. She said: "First, I would say, Execute me, Mister, can I ask?". Capital.

** Last summer, the cheekiest kid in my class [read: the student I hated most] asked me, tongue-in-cheek of course, "Teacher, what's the one thing you would like to eat right this moment?" I replied, "A big mac. Why? You gone whip it up, magic-like?" He didn't. What he DID do was call up someone on his mobile, and in 20 minutes, I had a Big Mac meal in my hands. Awwww. That was the best burger I had in my life. He was 9 years old. How can I hate him?

That's off the top of my head.

Life And Times

2005-10-10T01:41:00.000+04:00

I am DONE teaching college girls up in here. The only good thing I had going was this office space I was loaned. On my last day, one of my students asked if I had really wanted to be a teacher ever since I was a kid. I did what any self-respecting non-teacher would've done: I swept my hand and snapped my finger at her face, and yelled "Heeeelllllll, naw!! Now, git! Git outta my face! You better work on that gotdamned book report before I whup you up and down with my grade book, you piece of shit." I mean, what, now I'm not good enough for them? Asking me all kinds of nasty shit like that? What was that question supposed to mean? That I hadn't been doing my job? That I hadn't been a good teacher to them and it showed? Well she'd right it gotdamned showed, they the worst students I had ever had the opportunity to teach! Hehe. Not really. I was just real hungry when she asked me. Afterwards, I was so guilty that I snapped at her that I went and did her book report for her. I buckled. I mean, something's gotta give, man.

Yalla, bye.

Ramadhan Mubarak

2005-10-06T01:00:00.000+04:00

Trendy Al-Fayhaa District, where Dar Al-Hekma is situated. This is probably the smallest house in the area. The rest are versions of Michael Jackson's Never-Never-Land. Now, if I can get into one of them and just count the rooms, I'd be happy. I imagine there are at least 14 rooms in this one. At the very least.

Kullu 'amun wa antum bikhair!

Ramadhan 2005:
A chance to start over and maybe fast for the whole month for the first time in my life. I'm saying maybe. InshaAllah. It's not as commercialized this year as it was the past couple of years here in Jeddah, but the spirit is definitely out there. I have to work nights like a horse, but I'm fine with it. At least I get the days off, and I can finally catch Interview With A Vampire on Jeddah's very own HBO - MBC 2. Also, the Ramadhan sale season is just around the corner. That should be fun. The days are short for now, so we don't have to wait that long for iftar.

Ramadhan 2004:
Not even. I spent it with my brothers and Kaka Suge at our Manila townhouse, and it was crazy. I was working the graveyard shift at a call center, and there was a Muslim mohawk-hairstyled character who stalked me all over the office. I prayed Taraweeh at the Capitol Estates Mosque an amazing total of 2 times.

Ramadhan 2003:
Even crazier. Most nights were spent at the apartment that my brother Waleed shared with Dudut and Kaka Archie. I distinctly remember the lovely Oreo shakes Kaka Archie would whip up, the "Tram" card games with Kaka Sunny ["pi!" Sssssiiiinnnnoooonnnnggggg tatay mo, Kaka San-eh?], and sharing a pack of Marlboros with Kaka Omar to break our fast. Shameful. But good times.

Shariah has signed me up to be a member of her circle's book club. I'm pretty excited, because I've never been in a book club before. I'm not sure how it works, but I'm guessing book discussions [no duh]. It might be a little embarrassing once I fess up about my occasional Fabio indulgence. Currently, though, I'm reading Rani Manicka's Touching Earth, which I recommend to fellow book-people. It's a fantastic read on the search for truth, a quest we have all tried to embark on at one point or another.

In other news, my Dar Al-Hekma gig is almost up, and I am marra relieved, like you wouldn't believe. I've had it with bratty freshmen girls. For the record, Bitch, I did flash the middle finger at them, so many times in fact that my students have picked it up [you know how we flash the middle finger inside-out in Jeddah]. And for the finale, I am flunking two of the nastiest sumbitches in my class. Haha. They'll be kicked out of their program because of the F that I WILL give them. Thanks to you and me. I call it "making the world a better place". Sorry, Druggie, I couldn't resist. I wish I coulda been more like you.

Photo Op

2005-09-27T22:28:00.000+04:00

For my brother Adnan, who's been asking for pictures.

Turtle Power
Anyone who's been to Sarawat [aka Souk Aj-Jiddah Ad-Dawlih], knows this old bastard. He's been around for the past two decades.

Chillin' At Chili's
I don't like the food at Chili's. In fact, I don't even like this cup of capuccino. But isn't it picture perfect?

Brought To Us By...

The closest thing to an alcoholic beverage here in Jeddah: non-alcoholic malt. I remember back in high school, when my clique [Joan, Jiehan, Jehanifah, Michelle] and I would sneak out of the school grounds to get our daily dose of Lemon Barbican from the baqalah. This was before we discovered the alcoholic variety in college.

Paging Roger Bus-Riders...

Who can ever forget Roger the bus driver and the crazy-ass records he used to play on the bus radio? "Brother Louie Louie Louie...." used to haunt my dreams. It was in this bus that I made my first best friend: Sarah Saifullah, Pakistani national. She spoke English and I spoke Maranao. Friendship transcends language.

To Teach A Mockingbird: Kill It

2005-09-27T21:34:00.000+04:00

"Those who can't do, teach. And flunk those who can."

I hate teaching. I was always meant to be a bad student, not a good teacher. My students hate me, and I hate them twice as much. I bore them, and they bore me. They judge me by my heritage, and I judge them back by their physical appearance. No love lost here, can you tell? My friend and colleague Summer tells me I haven't been teaching long enough to complain about it. I don't need to be in this profession for long to know that I'm just not cut out for the job. But, Goddamnit, it's the only job available to me in this country! The only thing I can't complain about is the pay. I know I sound like such a brat just saying this, but I guess it's my exhaustion speaking right now. And it's getting tired, I know, but I want out. The search is not over.

The dialogue at Dar Al-Hekma College earlier today was a complete rip-off, IMHO. Where do they come off calling it an open forum when all the questions posed were left unanswered and skirted? What a disappointment. It could've been a great step forward for Saudi women, especially since the cream-of-the-media-crop was present: BBC, Fox, CNN. But questions such as "Why does the American media continue to project Saudi society in a negative light?" were obviously not the ones they wanted asked. Ambassador Hughes sounded nervous and fake the whole time. I can just imagine my students' reactions to the whole affair tomorrow in class when we discuss their feedback. They're probably expecting me to defend The West, since I'm teaching them Western culture and linguistics. I hate teaching college students [in addition to hating teaching in general]. I want to be on their side, not up there on the spotlight.

My faulty memory is a disgrace. I met a lot of people earlier today at the college, most of whom I have already met at some dinner function or other, apparently. Is there any way to ask a person his/her name when he/she remembers yours? Apart from the awkward one?

I was seated beside this obnoxious American lady during the first half of the dialogue; she's been in Jeddah for a month and already she wants to leave. She says her tarha [veil] is considered a hazard in Wisconsin where she's from, because some thief or mugger may easily come up behind her and strangle her with it. Thus her extreme distaste for it. I don't think I've ever heard of anyone attacked in such a manner. Hmmm... Death By Tarha. I had to leave her by herself, I was very uncomfortable with the ocean of difference between her and myself.

Death by Film

2005-09-19T20:43:00.000+04:00

5 Films I Watch A Lot:

5. Pulp Fiction. You know what, any movie by Quentin Tarantino is worth watching hundreds of times over, IMHO, of course. His films have a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am feel about, sort of a no-bullshit bullshit approach. But Pulp Fiction was fantastic. I loved the soundtrack [Al Green's I'm So In Love With You], I loved the dialogue, I loved the humor, I loved Samuel Jackson's Ezekiel 25:17 speech, I loved Uma Thurman's OD scene, I loved Quentin's cameo, and I love John Travolta.

4. Snatch. Director Guy Ritchie is crazy. Cool, funny crazy. His films have a straightforward quality, just like Tarantino's, and I like that. Swept Away starring his wife Madonna was good, even though the people over at the Box Office didn't. His earlier film Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels is almost as good as Snatch, except it didn't star Brad Pitt and his crazy-ass Gypsy accent. This is probably the only film [before Troy] I liked that starred Brad Pitt because I really don't like Pitt in heartthrob roles. I wasn't bothered to watch Legends of The Fall, and I hated Meet Joe Black and Pitt's stupid peanut-butter-licking character. Sorry. Anyway, Benicio del Toro also starred in Snatch, and it featured his now-famous squint. The only other person who can squint as well as del Toro does is the original squint-er Bruce Willis, who in turn lent his squinting prowess in Pulp Fiction.

3. Face Off. Because I love John Travolta. I just do.

2. City of God. Man, that was some serious film-making there. Every time I watched it, I learned something new, some new insight, some new emotion, some new poignant conclusion, what-have-you. Plus, the soundtrack was fantastic. You can never go wrong with James Brown.

1. Pretty Woman. Who doesn't watch Pretty Woman over and over again, anyway? It's the classic Cinderella Story, made so much more special because it seems absolutely impossible and far-fetched.

Of Cowardice And Imminent Doom

2005-09-18T22:23:00.000+04:00

Well, there you have it. A Filipina works so hard she busts her non-existent balls and where does it land her? A spot at the American presidential kitchen as chef. Congratulations. My hardworking fellow countryman is your fellow countryman's chef, cook, maid, ho, and whatever else degrading work you can hide behind a euphemism. I'm sorry if I sound very cynical or negative about it, but if I hear anyone telling me to look at the bright side of it one more time, I will burn my eyebrows, so help me. President Gloria is doing all the looking-at-the-bright-side for all of us, at that UN meeting where the microphones picked up her blushing comments to the American Presidents praises. Isn't it sad that we're doomed to be kitchen-people for the rest of our lives just because we happened to be the little-brown-brothers of our Caucasian superiors? We need our very own Martin Luther King, Jr. if that's the case.

I can't believe this guy, I swear to God. Bitch, you gotta help me. He was YOUR BOYFRIEND, too!! Hahaha. Okay, here's the lowdown on the downlow. Ten years ago, I had this nauseating crush on one of my distant cousins. You know, the cousins you have that are 400 times removed you wonder if you're even related at all? He was very good-looking at the time. Understand that he was maybe 13 years old back then. He had a striking resemblance to Ahmed Ash-Sharif, this Arab popstar. Anyway. Fast forward to a hundred years later. He has now become this obnoxious, dumb-ass, Usher-looking muthafucka who slings soap-opera one-liners my way every now and again. The worst part is that he keeps calling me Coz. The thing is, he's ten years late. If he'd thrown his bullshit at me when I was as dumb as he is now, I would've swooned and sacrificed my youngest brother's blood to a makeshift altar of his image I would've made in my room. So. How do you stave off unwanted attention and disgusting amorous advances? I mean, if he looked anything like Andy Garcia in The Godfather III, I wouldn't mind him calling me Coz, you know?

If any of y'all have information about this guy, please notify me immediately. He is wanted for causing personal unrest. His full name is Ragheb Alama, and he can be identified easily because his songs contain nothing but Habibi and Bahebbak, words that are potentially terrorrist-ic.

I am....BATMAN

2005-08-25T21:33:00.000+04:00

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder where you're at!
Up above the world you fly!
Like a tea-tray in the sky!

- Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
British writer and mathematician
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

After watching four Batman movies one after the other in one sitting, I've decided that I've gathered enough vital information to make my own Batman movie. I know I am no Joel Schumacher or Tim Burton, but I know of no rule against wearing their shoes.

So, to make my very own Batman installation, I will need the following:

** Your support. Bear with me, it's going to be a box office hit.

** A Leading Man, of course. To play Batman. He would have to:

1. Be good-looking - the man every woman wants, and every man wants. To be, that is. I'm thinking along the lines of Post-Troy Brad Bitt. If Kevin Costner wasn't so old now, I would consider him for this part. We should remember that Bruce Wayne is eternally 30-something, so it was probably a mistake casting George Clooney who was fast-approaching 50 at that time. Val Kilmer was okay, except there was something disturbing about his nose... Oh, well.

2. Have nice, distinct lips, for when he's wearing his mask and the damsels in distress are staring pointedly at them. Perhaps no one can better Michael Keaton in that area.

3. Be tall. Batman was always referred to as the 6-foot-something bat. Tom Cruise is, of course, out of the question.

4. Have a six-pack and a nice rear end, for those close-up frames while he's getting into his bat-suit.

5. Have a prominent jaw to flatter his masked mug.

6. Have a troubled, pre-occupied look about him, so that he is contrived as someone of grave importance to the society, someone very wealthy and intelligent, and also very busy and sought-after. This would divert the attention from what it is exactly that he does when he's not flying around [for example, we can't help but wonder how it is that he maintains his Wayne Enterprises when all he does is sulk about how his parents were murdered 700 years ago]. A pair of Gucci eye-glasses and a pencil with a rubber end that he can bite on in contemplation would be crucial for this facial expression.

7. Have a quick wit and a sense of humor. He should be able to pepper his conversations with smooth puns and mild sexual innuendoes.

8. Know the exact moment to utter key one-word commands to non-living things, like his study furniture and his automobiles, to name just a few. Lock. Chair. Shields. Women. Oops.

9. Master robot-like actions with his head and shoulders to support his apparently very heavy head gear, so that he looks like he's going to keel over any moment from the weight of his pointed ears.

10. Know how to suppress smiles and laughter because, after all, Bruce Wayne [and Batman] isn't a stupid, smiley dolt. He is a very serious and intriguing man.

11. Look like a man who is very at-ease with the prospect of having a slave... no, scratch that... a 'gentleman' butler, that he manages to retain by occasionally referring to as 'family'.

** A villain is of great import, too, of course.

1. The villain part should be played by an actor of high-caliber, such as the ones in past Batman films: Christopher Walken, Danny de Vito, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Tommy Lee Jones, and of course, the father of all Batman villains, Jack Nicholson. For my movie, I'm thinking John Travolta, who outdid himself in Face-Off as a maniacal baddie. I mean, his ridiculous [and disarming] chin alone is all the make-up he needs! John Malkovich is a good choice, too, but he's too mean. Batman might not be able to fight him off.

2. The main villian should have had a horrible childhood so that he grows up to be a freak of sorts. This family background is essential, because it's the only way Batman would get through to him, having had a horrible childhood himself. Towards the end, they would swap sob stories right before the villain is hied off to Arkham Asylum where he would either disappear in obscurity among other former villains, or emerge later in a spin-off movie where he gets the chance to give a dragged-out version of his sob story.

3. I would be needing a Co-Villain to stretch the script and provide Batman with more opportunities to impart wise-ass one-liners seconds before he doles out punches and high-power kicks. The co-villain would emerge right after Batman's first encounter with the main villain. He must have a psychological problem [as does everyone else in the movie, anyway]; someone who is actually angry at Bruce Wayne and not Batman. The co-villain would eventually team up with the main villain [whose target is Batman] and together, they discover that GASP Batman and Wayne are one and the same! [Oooh, love that rhyming. Will include in script.] There are two kinds of villains:

a. Male Co-Villain = someone absolutely outrageous, who desires nothing more than world domination. Or Gotham City domination. Same thing. To play this part, I want an actor capable of over-the-top theatrics, like Jim Carrey was in Batman and Robin. Someone viewers love to hate, like Alan Cumming [oh, but he's too cute], or someone viewers just HATE, like Ben Stiller.

b. Female Co-Villain = someone very sexy. At the beginning, she is actually a well-meaning woman who wants good things to happen to the world, but is ultimately wronged and killed by a man. She comes back to life as a sinister, vengeful, and darkly stunning she-villain, so she should be someone who has miles and miles of leg and looks good in designer villain garb and goth make-up. I would consider Milla Jovovich or Rachel Weisz. She would have a plain-looking alter-ego, so she should also be able to pull off huge-rimmed glasses and disheveled hair. The female co-villain is very crucial to the script, because she could double as the love interest of both the main villain and the hero. Cut costs, if you know what I mean. After all, I'm casting high-profile actors here.

4. All the baddies should master the requisite evil laugh. Buhuwahahaha... Muhuwahahaha... Or something like that. Maybe take lessons from the poster-child of villainhood himself, Dr. Evil.

5. I would be needing a slew of supporting thugs and outlaws in motorbikes, dressed up in face paint and muted versions of the main and co-villain's suits, whichever one they're supporting.

6. Villain's characters should be based on a mutated animal, plant, or anything else from nature. I'd probably base one on a monkey [Mojo-Jojo style], and another on a sequoia tree [Yawn].

** Now, it gets ridiculous by the minute, so I would need another person to add to the fast-growing Bat Family. Let's call this person a Co-Hero. I mean, of course, there would be moments when our hero is suddenly trapped and seemingly doomed. This is Bat-Brother or Bat-Sister's cue to come crashing down some glass ceiling or other and save him. Also, I need this Co-Hero to cause inner conflict. The Co-Hero should be someone younger, with a rebellious streak and a smart-alecky nature, who'd fall madly in-love with another Bat-Person [another spin-off idea]. Colin Farrell comes to mind. If it's to be a girl, who better to play the role than It-Girl Mandy Moore?

** How would Batman and his posse go from one place to another without their bat-mobiles? Of course, we would need them. I don't want to be James Bond-ish about it, so I guess I'll just keep the classic Bat-Mobile and Bat-Bike. Maybe have Mercedes Benz or Honda sponsor the whole affair, so that the new Co-Hero may have his or her own Bat-Wheels. We can't have any of them riding shotgun in His Royal Batness' coupe, can we?

** Alfred is getting old. He needs a replacement. Besides, he won't be able to cope with not one, not two, not three, but four [possibly even five, God help him] deranged humans prancing about as bats. But we all love Alfred. Plus, he knows everything; his know-how is priceless. So I'll maybe just give him an assistant. I'm sure Lara Croft wouldn't mind my borrowing her butler. She can afford another one after the success of her last movie.

** There should always be a love angle. After all, Bat-Wayne is very attractive, a ladies' man, a man's man, a man-about-town, a most eligible bachelor. The leading lady would be someone interested in the mysterious and possibly very kinky Batman but is invariably drawn to the filthy, filthy rich Bruce Wayne ["Tricky, tricky... Hmm... Let's see... Who shall it be?"] She would be a journalist, a reporter, or an expert on something, maybe on monkeys and sequoia trees. Catherine Zeta-Jones fits the profile. Glamorous, vogue, stunning. A classic Wayne-trap, he loves to wear beautiful women to dinner galas. She should be smart, yes, but not smart enough to notice that GASP Batman and Wayne... are one and the same! [sorry, just had to say it again], even though she has kissed, spoken to, and been up-close and personal with both, more than anyone else in the film.

** Now, I would have to use gloomy Gotham City as the backdrop, of course, which is really a cross between Chicago and New York City. The city would, as usual, come with the same incompetent, lazy policemen who depend on the Winged One to do their job.

** To top off my movie, I would employ The Neptunes to produce and perform every single musical score on the film. The original Batman was successful with the talents of The Artist Formerly Known As Prince And Also Formerly Known As An Unpronounceable Symbol But Is Now Known As Just Prince [I have utmost respect for the one man who could pull off a name like that. Boo-Yah, Master Chief!]. The Neptunes Who Were Formerly Unknown should be able to give the chase and fight scenes a rock feel, pipe in some sexy beat for the female villain's entrance, and then finish with a catchy rock-hiphop theme for the credit roll.

Fantastic. Absolutely marvelous. I can just see it now. The opening credits. The fabulous premiere gala. The red carpet. The swift celebrity interview with Joan Rivers. The rave reviews. The movie awards. The MTV music video. The behind-the-scenes documentary. The magazine cover and feature. The action figures and merchandise. The offer for yet another sequel. "Batman Lives". "Batman: A True Underdog Story." "Batman's World." "Batman and Batwoman".

Phew. Well. I gotta go give Joel Schumacher's shoes back, he'll be wanting them.

There you go, Schumacher, my man. See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya.

The Writer's Club

2005-08-19T21:05:00.000+04:00

I derive pleasure in making new friends, even more so when they turn out to be wonderful writers. Here, an example of honest, free thinking.

Thank You God
By Sayeeda Ihsan Walker

I thank you God for I all that has been,
I have no regrets you always make me win.

Every place I go,
there are people I get to know,
people I learn to love,
and people that help me grow.

Sometimes I feel bad, frustrated and mad.
But with God by my side I overcome all rough tides.

I thank you my lord, I thank you so true,
for none of this could have been if it weren’t purely for you.

I have been through difficulty times and again,
and in various situations I thought it would never end.

But I was so wrong.
I thought I couldn’t take it, I thought I would be torn,
only to learn that it all made me strong.

I thank you God again.
My gratitude will never end.

I thank you God, and still I thank you again.

** There are many things in my life that I forget to be thankful for. But there are also many things in my life that remind me to be. I'm thankful for both.

Kiss The Clouds

2005-08-19T20:14:00.000+04:00

" 'Scuse me while I kiss the sky." - Jimi Hendrix, Rockstar

A big movie producer wants to cast you in his film and lets you pick your role… what would you pick?
-- Highly unlikely, but in the event that said big-time producer does approach me for a role in a film, I'd like to be cast in an independent movie, preferably as a slacker of some kind. Or maybe a role in a talkie movie, like Before Sunrise, or What To Do In Case Of Fire, or Reality Bites, the ultimate talkie movie. I've tried acting and I know I rival the acting prowess Arnold Schwarzenegger [whose famous one-liners are delivered with such bad acting as to propel him into superstardom], and being in a movie where I would play a role that is similar to my real-life personality will not put considerable strain on my skills. However, to push my luck, I would most likely ask to be in a movie version of a musical play, like Moulin Rouge, or Chicago, or Le Boheme, preferably one that has a love scene with a very good-looking [and very gay, doesn't matter] leading man. Hahaha.

If you had a chance to spend one whole day with a TV character, who would it be?
-- I would spend a lifetime Sex and The City's Mr. Big. That way, I wouldn't have to rant and rave about wanting my Mr. Right to be handsome, smart, rich, well-traveled, and rich. Wait, did I mention RICH? Haha. But for one whole day, I'd hang out with Ariel of The Adventures of Ariel and Maverick, or Chandler Bing of F-R-I-E-N-D-S, because each one has a reliable sense of humor.

If you had to talk about something for 2 hours, what would it be about?
-- For 2 hours or more, I would talk about a subject that wouldn't elicit indignant response from the audience - myself. By talking about me, I wouldn't have to worry about saying something wrong, and if I did say something wrong, that would be my problem. I'm tired of conforming to other people's ideas of what I SHOULD or SHOULDN'T say concerning one issue or another.

If you could choose one person who would remain youthful forever, who would it be?
-- Myself. I'd like to say my sister, but if she would remain youthful forever while I wouldn't be around to notice, it would just defeat the purpose. I'm sure she'd say the same. In any case, I'm terrified of old age, so I'd prefer to stay 21 forever. If it means I should become a vampire in the process, so be it.

At a moment’s notice, you were given a chance to step into a “talent duplicator machine” which could duplicate any person’s talent and make it yours for life. What talent would you pick and whose?
-- I would pick music-making and song-writing. Pushing it, I would pick any one of the Beatle's talents. Or any rockstar's for that matter. I believe I have the trappings and makings of a proper rockstar, anyway, except for the talent in actually becoming one. I am addicted to self-destruction, for one thing, I am very excessive on all counts, I go through extreme moods [I'm either very hyper or very out-of-it, I've never travelled the middle road], and I'm in love with lifestyles that would invariably lead to an untimely death [by some peciular event or other] by the age of 27.

If you had to live in another country, where would you go?
-- I would live in Cuba, where I could dance wild and unbridled and not be taunted crazy.

You get transported into Cartoon Land and get to pick any cartoon identity to have as your own. Which cartoon character would you choose?
-- I would be Dumbo, with flappy ears, a friend dedicated to my cause, and the gift of flight. Also, I'd like to experience the Pink Elephants in the event I encounter a basin full of intoxicating liquid while I grapple with a bad case of hiccups.

If you had a choice to pick one person in the world, from the past or present, who wouldn’t die, who would you pick?
-- I would pick contemporary mystic Osho. I have a lot of questions on his teachings that I'm sure only he could answer, although judging from his personality, I'm sure he would say that I would find the answers within myself.

If you were invisible for a day, what would you do?
-- I would go to the king's palace, spook him for a while till he shat himself, then coerce him into signing over his wealth to me.

If you were chosen to be the first person to relocate to Jupiter, and could only bring five personal items, what would they be?
-- A music player [in case Jupiter turns out to be very quiet], a state-of-the-art camcorder, a book, a pair of huge, dark sunglasses, and a sleeping bag.

What, for you, is the most memorable line from a movie and from what movie?
-- Off the top of my head, it's from the cartoon A Shark Tale, where Leni The Shark appears from a makeshift dressing room and declares in a sing-song voice: "I'm Sebastian, the whale-washing dolphin!"

If you had to be an animal, what would you want to be?
-- I would want to be a tiger = fiercely beautiful, and above it all.

Complete this sentence: I am the only person I know who…
-- contradicts herself every few seconds.

Your ideal man/woman?
-- Like everyone else who wouldn't admit it, my ideal man is someone who has my best traits and has the opposite of my worst characteristics.

How would you want to be remembered by?
-- The definitive girl of her generation, who always pushes her luck by being more ambitious than she should be.

Winter Of Discontent

2005-08-09T22:16:00.000+04:00

This is a post from my best girl Bitch, whose blog you may access here for more of this witty repartee. The whole selection below is the main reason we get along - beat conversations and clever comebacks.

I N T R O D U C T I O N

Reality is an illusion that occurs due to lack of alcohol. True. Twenty four hours in a day, twenty four beers in a case... coincidence, I think not. We never know how good a quote is till we live it. I know this because I have. Your opinions and interpretations are not welcome, maybe I’ll listen to your logic and reason on this matter when it comes out on CD. When you say? tomorrow perhaps. In just two days, tomorrow will be yesterday. I’m not crazy, this is just a disguise. Read on…to.. Uranus. Where your prison-mate launches his probe.

Troy: So what do you say, Lelaina?
Lelaina: I'm not a valedictorian but I play one on tv.
Troy: We all know you slept your way to the podium.
Vicky: My favorite part about graduating now will be dodging my student loan officer for the rest of my life. He will be in cahoots with the Columbia Record and Tape Company guy... been after my ass for years.
Lelaina: Well, I know this sounds cornball but I'd like to somehow make a difference in people's lives.
Troy: And I... I would like to buy them all a Coke.

Lelaina: Hey Sammy, what's your goal?
Sammy: My goal is... I'd like a career of something.
Vicky: Here’ s the deal, I’m gonna take Sam against his will and straighten him out because I truly believe that if we can get two women on the Supreme Court, we can get at least one on you, Sam.

Lelaina:: Quick, Vicky, whats your social security?
Vicky:: Uhm... 851-259-357.Troy:: Very impressive.
Vicky:: Thats the only thing I really learned in college... Sometimes I get that not so fresh feeling.
Lelaina: Vicky, he will turn this place into a den of slack.
Troy: What the hell is your problem?
Lelaina: I have to work around here and unfortunately, Troy, you are a master at the art of time suckage.
Troy: Oh well I'm sorry Miss poster-girl for the worker's party but until I get that uh toe-hold in the burger industry I've got a little time to suck. I'd rather check into a shelter then deal with her shit.
Vicky: It's cool, Troy, you can stay. Welcome to the maxi-pad.
Sammy: Yeah, with new dry-weave it actually pulls moisture away from you.
Troy: Well, should I get married, should I be good, should I astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and my faustushood and not take her to movies but to cemeteries and tell her stories of werewolf tongues and four clarinets... What 'Hey, That's My Bike' would like to do as a band is travel the countryside like Woody Guthrie.
Sammy: Or Richard Simmons. You know, how in his commercials he surprises people jogging...
Troy: As you can see, I have the occasional run-in with an anti-Hey-That's-My Biker and to those people I say nobody... nobody can eat 50 eggs.

Troy: If I could bottle the sexual tension between Bonnie Franklin and Shnyder, I could solve the energy crisis.
Vicky:: Excuse me, don’t Bogart that can, man.
Troy:: What are you, retarded?
Vicky:: No, I’m rhyming.

Lelaina: Troy, aren't you excited?
Troy: I'm bursting with fruit flavor.
Sammy: I just do not understand why this moment needs to be Memorexed.
Troy: Sammy, don't you realize this is your one oppurtunity to play a small part in what is destined to be greatness? Lainy here is going to revolutionize Good Morning Grant.
Sammy: Oh my God I am so sorry, I had NO idea.
Lelaina: Oh yeah, look whos mocking. All you do around here, Troy, is eat and couch and fondle the remote control.
Troy: I am not under any orders to make the world a better place.
Lelaina: Well, then what good are you?
Troy: You're a pathological optimist.
Lelaina:: You’re pathological.
Vicky:: Oh why don’t you guys just do it and get it over with, I’m starving.((phone rings))
Troy: Hello, you've reached the winter of our discontent.

Vicky: We're going to eat gas.

Troy: Did he dazzle you with his extensive knowledge of mineral water or was it his in-depth analysis of Marky Mark that finally reeled you in? I just would have liked to have been there to watch how you rationalized sleeping with a yuppie-head cheeseball on the first date.
Lelaina: He's not a yuppie.
Troy: He's the reason why Cliff's Notes were invented.

Lelaina:: Why are you acting like a jealous boyfriend all of a sudden?
Troy:: I... am not acting like anything. I am calmly reading.

Troy: There's no point to any of this. It's all just a... a random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near escapes. So I take pleasure in the details. You know... a quarter-pounder with cheese, those are good, the sky about ten minutes before it starts to rain, the moment where your laughter becomes a cackle... and I sit back and I smoke my Camel Straights and I ride my own melt.

Vicky:: The free clinic AIDS test: the right of passage for our generation. We’re so lucky, c’mon!
Sammy: You got fired? I mean, that just screws up my whole idea of good and evil and God.

Troy: One of these days I'm gonna wake up, before noon-
Lelaina: Yeah right.
Troy: I'm gonna turn on the tv and there Bryant Gumble will be and he'll say, 'Today we have with us the Pulitzer-prize winning documentarian Lelaina Pierce. Lelaina, after your first film, 'Why Barbie is Bad', you seemed to have forgotten all about your best friend, Troy Dyer.'
Lelaina: Troy... who? What was that name again? Oh, right through the heart!
Troy: I'll probably be working at Whole Foods you know, playing warehouses and hanging around places like the Radio Shack screaming that I used to know you and you'll be there in the lights and all beautiful and shit.
Lelaina: Oh, Troy, no no no no no, that would never happen. They'd never HIRE you at Whole Foods.

Troy:: See Lainy, this is all we need. A couple of smokes, a cup of coffee, and a little bit of conversation. You and me and five bucks.
Lelaina:: You got it!

Lelaina: I mean, these job interviews, Troy... The word “vivesection” a staggering understatement. I mean, can you define irony?
Troy:: Its when the actual meaning is the complete opposite from the literal meaning.
Lelaina: My God, where were you when I needed you today?

Vicky: All right, we're just trying to pay bills here, OK? So Troy, if you've got any money...
Lelaina: Money? Oh but whats money to an artist? To a philosopher? Its just green coloered paper that floats in and out of his life likfe snow. Its not anything you actually have to I don't know, work for, is it Troy?
Troy: No not if you have daddy's little gas card.
Lelaina: You shut up, I busted my ass to find a job, any job. You won't even bother showing up for interviews.
Troy: What is it that you want from me, huh? You want me to get a job on the line for the next 20 years til I'm granted leave with my gold-plated watch and my balls full of tumors because I surrendered the one thing that means shit to me. Well you can just exhale because its not gonna happen, not in this lifetime.
Lelaina:: Don’t just dick around the same coffee house for 5 years! Don’t dick around with her or with me! Try for once in your life do something about it! But you know what, you better do it now and you better do it fast because the world doesn’t owe you any favors. And whether you know it or not you’re on the inside track to loserville USA... just like him.

Vicky:: He’s weird. He’s strange. He’s sloppy. He’s a total nightmare for women... I can’t believe I haven’t slept with him yet.

Sammy:: Maw!
Vicky:: I’m right here, son.
Sammy:: Ma, I have to tell you some... thing. I am a homo... sexual.
Vicky:: Oh... Christ. Is there a support group that I can join to help me come to terms with my own homophobia?
Sammy:: Yes, there is a group which is named PFLAG. Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays.
Vicky:: Oh... Oh, PFLAG. I’m beginning to like the sound of that.
Sammy:: What you just witnessed here is a preenactment of events that are about to take place.

Sammy:: I wanna be there too. I want to feel miserable and happy and all of that.I mean I want... I want... I want to be let back in the house.

Troy: What happened to your normal clothes?
Michael: Wow, Lelaina, look at you. You look... Where'd you get that dress?
Lelaina: Um... I don't know, I just bought it. But I think I'm gonna go change...
Michael: No don't, you look beautiful. You look like... you look like...
Troy: A doily.

Michael: Have I stepped over some line in the sands of coolness with you, because excuse me if somebody doesn't know the secret handshake with you.
Troy: There's no secret handshake. There's an IQ prerequisite, but there's no secret handshake.

Lelaina:: I just don’t understand why things just can’t go back to normal at the end of the half hour like on the Brady Bunch or something.
Troy:: Well, ‘cause Mr. Brady died of AIDS. Things don’t turn out like that.
Lelaina:: I was really gonna be something by the age of 23.
Troy:: Honey, the only thing you have to be by the age of 23 is yourself.
Lelaina:: I don’t know who that is anymore.
Troy:: I do. And we all love her. I love her. She breaks my heart again and again but I love her.

Vicky:: Lainy... sex is the quickest way to ruin a friendship, c'mon.

Lelaina: Well, congratulations, Troy Dyer. Welcome to the world of the emotionally mature. It's a very nice place to visit. Hey, you might run in to Michael he lives here.
Troy: Oh yeah, Michael Michael. He's so mature because he lets you navigate that entire relationship. Well, I'm sorry Lelaina, but you can't navigate me. I might do mean things and hurt you and I might run away without your permission and you might hate me forever and I know that scares the shit out of you because I'm the only real thing that you have.
Lelaina: Yeah, well that ain't real much.

Michael: Nice job. Very well done.
Troy: I don't want to hear it from you.
Michael: Oh, I forgot, I'm not qualified to talk to you. I'm sorry I can't be Mr. look a me I'm Buddha on the mountaintop. Know what you are man, you know what you remind me of? You're like that guy, you know, with the hat and the bells you know...
Troy: Court Jester.
Michael: Yeah, where everything is so easy to laugh at from a safe distance back in clevercleverland. You know what happens to him? They find his skull in the grave and they go- Oh, I knew him... and he was funny. And the guy, the Court Jester, dies all by himself.
Troy: Where'd you hear that, a Renaissance festival? Besides, everyone dies all by himself.
Michael: If you really believe that, who are you looking for out here?
Troy: What happened is that um, I kinda got this arcane glimpse of the universe and the best thing I can say about that is... I don't know.

Answering Machine: At the beep, please leave your name, number and a brief justification of the ontological necessity of modern man's existential dilemma and we'll get back to you.

Pray Just To Make It Today

2005-07-27T23:10:00.000+04:00

I was watching a talk show on The Filipino Channel the other day, and they were talking about issues relevant to the present generation. They presented the usual: pre-marital sex, designer drugs, yuppie work, porno, the media, higher learning, friends, independence, whatnot. What struck me was the last question posed by the host to his young guests:

"With youth on your side, what is it you pray for?"

I was brought back to my wild-child days, when I would "party like it's 1999", going home when the clock strikes 5am, wasted like a muthah. There was one night when everything just changed for me. I had been having rough times with my status at the time, university issues were bogging me down, I was quarreling with my close friends and my brothers, and I had hit a record low with my self-image. It was approximately 4:30 in the early morn, I was in the car on the way home from a reggae party, smoke in my eyes, when a song came on the radio. It was a Bone Thugs N Harmony track, a remake of an old song that goes: "Take, take me home... Coz I don't remember... Take, take me home..." I'd started to cry then, all those unshed tears of confusion rolling down my cheeks from my heavily made up eyes. I didn't know what I was living for anymore. Everything was just downhill, whatever I did. I realized that I was chasing that original high I discovered so many years ago, when I'd first lived by myself, on my own for the very first time, away from my parents and free to do whatever I wanted. I was all too suddenly lost, after being so sure of myself, youth's arrogance propelling me to self-righteousness and overconfidence. I got home at around 5am, and I prayed like I had never prayed before in my whole life. I prayed for the most of 2 hours.

I prayed for Guidance, for Someone to hold my hand.

I prayed for Divine Intervention.

I prayed for the proverbial light found at the end of that pitch-black tunnel.

I prayed for a window to open somewhere, knowing full well that when a window opens, a door closes with a resounding Bang.

I admit I prayed for more parties at the back of my mind, I prayed for weight-loss, I prayed for better hair, a new wardrobe, more spending money.

I prayed for wisdom.

I prayed for unconditional love.

I prayed like a muthah.

I prayed to God to take, take me home, coz I don't remember.

With youth on my side, I prayed for youth to end.

With youth on my side, I prayed to God.

The Craft

2005-07-22T21:53:00.000+04:00

The Busaw Family [1997-1999]

1. Nhuraphy

2. Jehanifah

3. Suad

4. Nessreen

5. Ayesha

6. Omelhayr

7. Jiehan [Special 'Surprised' Guest]

It's amazing the wealth of old shoeboxes.

As I've matured...

I've learned that you cannot make someone love you. All you can do is stalk them and hope they panic and give in...

I've learned that one good turn gets most of the blankets.

I've learned that it takes years to build up trust, and it only takes suspicion, not proof, to destroy it.

I've learned that whatever hits the fan will not be evenly distributed.

I've learned that you shouldn't compare yourself to others - they are more screwed up than you think.

I've learned that it is not what you wear; it is how you take it off.

I've learned that you can keep vomiting long after you think you're finished.

I've learned age is a very high price to pay for maturity.

I've learned that we are responsible for what we do, unless we are celebrities.

I've learned that artificial intelligence is no match for natural stupidity.

I've learned that 99% of the time when something isn't working in your house, one of your kids did it.

I've learned that there is a fine line between genius and insanity.

I've learned that I don't suffer from insanity, I enjoy it.

What have YOU learned?

Old Classmate

2005-07-21T20:29:00.000+04:00

HAVE YOU BEEN GUILTY OF LOOKING AT OTHERS YOUR OWN AGE AND THINKING, "SURELY I CAN'T LOOK THAT OLD?"

I WAS SITTING IN THE WAITING ROOM FOR MY FIRST APPOINTMENT WITH A NEW DENTIST. I NOTICED HIS DDS DIPLOMA, WHICH BORE HIS FULL NAME. SUDDENLY, I REMEMBERED A TALL, HANDSOME, DARK-HAIRED BOY WITH THE SAME NAME HAD BEEN IN MY HIGH SCHOOL CLASS SOME 40-ODD YEARS AGO. COULD HE BE THE SAME GUY THAT I HAD A SECRET CRUSH ON, WAY BACK WHEN??

UPON SEEING HIM, HOWEVER, I QUICKLY DISCARDED ANY SUCH THOUGHT. THIS BALDING, GRAY-HAIRED MAN WITH THE DEEPLY LINED FACE WAS WAY TOO OLD TO HAVE BEEN MY CLASSMATE. HMMM,...OR COULD HE??? AFTER HE EXAMINED MY TEETH, I ASKED HIM IF HE HAD ATTENDEDCENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL.

"YES. YES, I DID. " HE GLEAMED WITH PRIDE.

"WHEN DID YOU GRADUATE?" I ASKED.

HE ANSWERED, "IN 1957. WHY DO YOU ASK?"

"YOU WERE IN MY CLASS!" I EXCLAIMED.

HE LOOKED AT ME CLOSELY.

THEN, THAT UGLY, OLD, WRINKLED SON-OF-A-BITCH ASKED,

"WHAT DID YOU TEACH?"

*Dream For An Insomniac*