Severin, Severin.

How about you call me Venus as I dress in animal fur?

صحيت فى ميكروباص... شاكرة جدا، حطيت سماعات الام بى ثرى – اللى كنت اصلا استهلكت اخر بطاريته بمنتهى الشهوة فى الليلة السابقة – فى ودانى، عشان اتفادى اى استظراف أو استلطاف متوقع تجاه أى شئ يرتدى حمالة صدر فى ميكروباص – بغض النظر اذا كان يحتاجه أم لا. يفرق بينى وما بين السواق رجل بيقول على مراته "الجماعة" ولابس اخضر فج... ولكن السواق كسب نقط احترام، مش بس عشان اخد غرزة ما بين تلات تريللات من غير لما يشد اهتمامى... ولكن ايضا، عشان ضيع كل رصيده على السواقين اللى وراه بيشرحلهم ظروف الرادارات والكمائن...

وعادى يعنى... يستمر سواق الميكروباص فى أخدان الغرز ما بين التريللات ويتغاضى عن الثلج اللى بيزحلق العربية تحتيه... فهو على رأى المنادى... برنس الطريق... فيقرر الشاب الفج فى أنه يخدش الكادر الكوول للسواق ويسمح أن موبايله يرن برنة صراخ واحدة بتولد والموضوع بيقلب أن هى بتضحك بهيستيريا... بديهى جدا... كلنا اتسرعنا... وبديهى جدا سرق الشاب الفج الكادر من برنس الطريق... فزى اى راجل لابس أخضر... هو عاشق تافه للانتباه...

كنهاية طبيعية لأى اتنين مصريين فى الموقف ده... انتهى الأمر ان الشاب اللى عنده "جماعة" بيسمع السواق نكت عن البلديات من الموبايل... وكل الركاب... كأى ركاب مصريين طبيعيين... سمعوا كل النكت للأخر وبلعوا البضنة بمنتهى الشهوة...

وعلى اخر الطريق كدة... على الغرزة الأربعتاشر... الراجل اللى ورايا لقيته بيقول "يعنى انت ينفع الطريق كله كدة تشغل نكت عن البلديات؟" ننظر احنا التلاتة... أنا ، ناسية تماما انى المفروض باسمع السماعات اللى فى ودنى، الشاب الأخضر فى بداية احراجه ، وسواق الميكروباص فى المراية الأمامية.

يجلس خلفنا راجل وامرأته وابنته... صعايدة... وصعايدة يعنى صعايدة... جبهتهم واسعة ، تكاد تكون كارتونية... وعينيهم واسعة... وجلدهم قمحى بيلمع من اللون اللى مينفعش تبصله باستمرار... فيرد الشاب الأخضر فى منتهى السسّينة... "انا مالى يا عم ده هو اللى بيقول مش أنا..."

تنظر المرأة الصعيدية أمامها ، وكأن هذا الصوت يصدر من حشرة خضرا... لا تستاهل رحلة الى عبوة الفليت... بل فقط غمزها فى قعر أقرب قبقاب... برضه من غير أى انتباه من عينيها... فتقول...

"هو فى رچالة غير فى الصعيد؟ هو فى مرچلة برة الصعيد؟"

وكأى فتاة قاهرية تافهة ، من أصول صعيدية لا أعلم عنها الكثير... توقعت أن ينظر سواق الميكروباص والحشرة الخضراء الى زوجها ويوبخوه عن ما صدر عن "جماعته" أو يطلبوا منه أنه يلمها... ولكنهم غاصوا فى صمت... وتبللت جبهتهم ، الغير بواسعة كثيرا... ولم يجدوا الجرأة أن ينظروا اليها فى عينيها...

كسر سواق الميكروباص ذلك الصمت بمنتهى التردد والتهتهة ليقول "أيوة يا... ستى... أنا أصلا... عندى... أصل صعيدى"... فأنهى أقوى مشهد سادى رأيته فى حياتى.

iPray.

God..

Give me the money to travel around the world,

the seyaعa to always discover good new music,

the health to drink like a vulgar pig,

and the ears to hear you calling me "Mahfouz".

Sea of Beads.

For some reason I’ve been lying in a quick sand of beads for as far as I can remember. It’s been there ever since I was born. I choke on beads, eat beads, shit beads, and breathe beads. I have never had a good sleep… never with eyes closed, back stretched and legs in sloth… beads can’t make beds, can’t make pillows either. I took it for long enough now. Yet something has changed, since early last year. Somewhere along my skin where my hands cannot reach, a hole was created and the beads flood inside of my body, making me heavier, weaker, not fitter… not happier… like a pig stuck in a cage, sometimes on antibiotics. And no amount of alcohol can help me believe the lie I’ve been enforcing upon myself… that I am as strong and I am doing a good job grabbing life and people by the balls, as I always did before… and always survived.

I never stayed long enough, not to call those beads – or anywhere – home. The sea of them beads flows mercilessly and forces change. And I’m sick of change, of light bags, rental houses, evil omens and lie-convincing alcohol. Now all I wanna do is stand right in front of you, look you in the eye and spit out an avalanche of beads right at your face. To be specific, I want to bull-eye your eyes and create holes somewhere along your skin, where your hands won’t be able to reach or sew, and I will fill you with beads… make you a pig dead… in a cage… with no alcohol.

Something in the Way.

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: Goddamn they don't make em' like they used to.

Cassidy: Fuckin' 80's man, best shit ever !

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: Bet'chr ass man, Guns N' Roses! Rules.

Cassidy: Crue!

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: Yeah!

Cassidy: Def Lep!

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: Then that Cobain pussy had to come around & ruin it all.

Cassidy: Like theres something wrong with just wanting to have a good time?

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: I'll tell you somethin', I hate the fuckin' 90's.

Cassidy: Fuckin' 90's sucked.

Randy 'The Ram' Robinson: Fuckin' 90's sucked.

Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler

Nosferatu.

There is no camouflage in the air. Not at all, no. For I stand, a flapper, naked under a short black dress, mounted by a glittery tilted hat and with weaved spider-web stockings around my thighs. There is not even color in the air. It’s all black and white, even my red lipstick… even the black smoke coming out of my cigarette. Passers-by don’t quite grasp it, for they look at me and spit out remains of chewed tobacco at my flapper shoes and look at me with disgust. It’s quite understandable; they are pretty much disappointed at the uncountable Tom Waits strippers I failed to become. I don’t really care that much, lonely towns make lonely flappers.

From time to time, F. Scott Fitzgerald gives me a call on my old 1918 Nokia. I am always standing by that same corner when he calls. I tell him not to worry too much… “Fitzzie, ye need not worry too much,” I always say. He never listens to me, always has to check on me. He’s a nice guy… His sister Ella too. They live uptown now; don’t get to see much of them anymore. Ella sings too. Ella is the flapper all other flappers follow. It’s a lonely lonely corner ever since the Fitzgeralds left. The whole district can agree except that they have them Tom Waits strippers now.

It was a black and white humid Monday when he passed by my corner. It took a minute or two till he spotted my eyes under the piles of black liner I have on. It took less not to spit any chewed tobacco, but a little bit longer to get me on my knees. “All `em Tom Waits strippers you failed te be,” he said as he smeared the lipstick off of my lips, “don’t know what ye will become.”

But Parov Stelar knew… damned well.

حكمة الأسبوع

حديث ما بينى وبين صديقة قديمة جدا ليا.. نسميها اكس يا ريت.. ونسمى الشخص اللى بنتكلم عليه واى

اكس: انا شايفة انك تصاحبى واي

انا: نعم؟

اكس: ايوة.. انتوا لايقين جدا على بعض

انا: ازاى يعنى؟ انا عمرى ما فكرت فيه وانا وهو مننفعش مع بعض

اكس: لازم تفكرى.. الواد تحفة.. ومزة.. وتعرفوا بعض من زمان.. ونفس اللايف ستايل
(مفهمتش اوى ايه لايف ستايل دى بس نعدى يا ريت)

انا: انتى شكلك اتهبلتى

اكس: انتى اللى اتهبلتى.. ما هو يا اختى احسبيها صح
الواد معاه باسبور.. مفكرتيش لما الاخوان يمسكوا هتترمى انتى فى انهى داهية؟

انضف بقى

For those who have gotten close enough to me, they can tell how far I have gone loathing any production created by TV. They have definitely heard me whining and giving speeches about how I puke a little in my mouth because of the bleak lame stupidity-combo present among each TV actor’s face. How my stomach squirms in pain whenever my eyes fall on a scene with too much lightning – like any TV scene should… and would. And further, how I have troubles with my breathing pace whenever they play those fake sounds of people laughing in the background forcing – for some unjustified reason – each and every one of the audience to laugh, all in a herd, all in turn, all in puppet smiles. Oh and let me not forget that words like “episode” and “season” give me goose bumps. Give me time to dwell upon… the dumb script-writing, the repeated jokes, the camera movements… and finally after skipping some dwelling-upon, my worst part, those who sit around me, watch TV productions get obsessed with them or laugh at them. For those who have gotten close enough to me, none of you know that I used to tongue-lash my brother whenever I walked into our living room to see him watching an eye-scarring scene produced by an amateurishly disgusting crew on TV. I used to rush away to force the television apparatus out of my eye sight after I have shouted at my brother…

“انضف بقى”

I have not however, closed all doors, and when finally someone broke through my racist Nazi TV walls, I thought I’d just admit it and share…



Christopher Titus was introduced to me in a setting of a very few favorite people, as all good things get introduced in such settings. Faced by a sigh or two of resistance from my side, which did not last for long, for I have long given up on catering my own personal elite inclinations among the sitting-on-sofas-and-watching-MTV-in-an-air-conditioned-room generation. But Titus was not like any MTV-watching in any air-conditioned room. Finally, someone has written something so wittingly for TV, that made me survive one and two… and three and four “episodes”… someone who speaks a language I understand and have perfectly practiced… someone who knows where I am coming from and went all the way to meet me there… and finally, someone who made me not take notice of all the elements, previously mentioned, that make me feel worse than PMSing while watching a TV production.



Dysfunctional families – or whatever those carefully dressed-up toffee-munching people who love giving big names that sound awful to normal things, give to it – are the main theme of the Titus show. Coming from a family of a psychopathic schizophrenic mother who loves her children for beer-filling her mugs at bars, and a drunkard father who is an expert at self-esteem demolishing and loving his children for being his scapegoats, and finally a brother who takes it all as lightly as Titus does, the scene is weaved, very much like most of that of most of the families I have known. Titus creates a world of sarcasm and light black comedy… giving a middle finger at what the world forces us to see as an ideal family portrait, and how guilty we grow and how self-destructively we follow in the footsteps of what this same world paints to the likes of us… product of “dysfunctional families”.

But no, hell no.