Song of the Day

Last Flowers - Radiohead.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

الى كل المصريين المحموقين مع احداث غزة

يا سيدى، اغفر لهم... لأنهم لا يعلمون ماذا يفعلون
لوقا 34:23

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Eyes Up, Jaw Down.

The bartender understood perfectly that I am the only woman he shall not crave for, for he didn’t want to lose my weekly drunken session of confessions. I didn’t want to start lying to him either. Our meetings have been mostly weekly, not before eleven or so. I didn’t like walking into that blues bar with them couples sober enough to notice me or them solo men unlucky enough not to have found a lady companion for the night. I’d slip in around midnight, take my place on the bar and exchange a nostalgic hello with the bartender.

The bartender also understood perfectly that I love fooling myself that I am not a bourbon addict, and thus pours me martini and vodka in V-shaped glasses for the first hour or so. It doesn’t take long before I am devoured from those cheap perfume drinks and I give in to bourbon.

For some reason, I was dressed in a silver dress that night. I gave in to the flapper inside of me mercilessly. And what are my nights really but a series of give-ins?

I didn’t spend that much time at my usual bar seat. For when Tom Waits started disciplining his piano, with his half dimmed eyes trying to shield his irides from his intensive smoking habits, I was sitting at his feet on the glossy floor. My head was tilted on the leg of the black drunken piano and my thighs were spread on the floor. The whole idea was to stare at him from that angle, my eyes pulled upwards, my jaw dropped downwards. His face through his instrumental piano hands pretended I was not there. Without looking back at the bar, I could tell the bartender was jealous. However, through the V-shaped bourbon trip and the helplessness at Tom’s feet; he showed me what it is to love a man.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Just Throw It.

As we were having lunch at work, it was inevitable to speak about the Bush incident and watch it over and over again on TV with the satisfied fairy-tale-like expressions on everyone's faces. The mockery spark was born, and we brainstormed different ideas on how this will be a rich soil for a lot of parodies in the upcoming period. I particularly suggested an idea about a Nike ad. An hour later... a graphic designer colleague who was sitting on the same table sent me this...



It seems like it was hastily made.. but thought I'd share it with you.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Confessions to come.

Let’s face it. I am 22, good-looking and single on my official papers. Hence, it became my mother’s weekly habit to insinuate the presence of prospect grooms who talk to her personally or to members of our bigger Orthodox family about “tying the knot”. The first time this happened – which was right right after my graduation, I have sunk into a great state of bewilderment and relative depression. I had to talk my grandmother and my aunt (whom I considered my favorite person among this very big fat family) out of it. Using many conversational tools I have acquired, including seriousness, anger, sarcasm and light humor to indicate that this topic is out of question. Notice that I never had to talk my mother out of it, because this lady has known me well enough to fear approaching me on such topics. Instead, she asks other ladies of the family to talk to me about it.

I have gained a great deal of immunity though, which has always been the case with my family matters that force a psychological war. Thus, every time my mother re-opens the subject, I nod without attention, fall silent watching TV waiting for her to finish speaking about this week’s groom, maybe say a sentence or two along the lines of “Elly feeh el kheir, ye3meloh rabena”. However, today was a little bit different.

She started the conversation the way she always does… “A male friend of mine…” I also interrupted the way I usually do, without glancing at her “ya mama er7ameeny, 3arees tany?” And she spat out the usual… “ya benty sebeeny akamel”… And I helplessly gave in, to the TV’s remote-control of course. Today, the keyword “forty-five” caused me to pause my aimless switching through the channels, to squirm on the sofa in order to force my body to face her and attentively listen. She concluded “…I was really shocked and I just told him, I am sure you’ll meet the right woman”. I asked if he was really forty five. She nodded. My second question was… “Do you mean he has salt and pepper hair?” She nodded again. I spat out; “Shit, that’s hot”. My mother looked at me that confused look of hers… the one I know very well.