Woody, Michael, and The War

Did I say in my update, below, that I was going to get my haircut and go to the gym? I think what I meant was: get a chocolate chip muffin from Chocofolie (my FAVOURITE chocolaterie...actually the only one I know...conveniently located down the street from my house, but hidden away so almost no one else knows about it), and then spend 30minutes in traffic on my way to the haircutter's, only to freak out and leave.

To further describe my freaking out -->

When I arrived at the hairdresser's, there was a man getting his haircut who sort of epitomizes middle-aged disgusting male slime* (cf: my former step-father): self-contented chubby, resentful yet pompous, somewhere between greasy used car salesman and businessman, and, in this case, chainsmoking IN the barber's chair, tipping his ashes on the ground, and talking on his cell phone (to his credit, he was not shouting, which is normally standard operating procedure for these guys). I found him so physically revolting that when my hairdresser asked me if I wanted to sit down in the chair next to him and begin, I told him I'd prefer to wait until the other hairdresser was finished with Mr. Slime. After 20 minutes of Mr. Slime's increasingly revolting demeanor, and the hair dresser rightfully trying to convince him that having his hair naturally fall straight back looks better than a rigid side part, I went outside, told my hairdresser that I was in a bad mood, unhappy there, and didn't want to stay, and got him to agree to come to my house to cut my hair in the morning at 11AM. Guess my Moroccan Garden of Eden (post-Fall) roof patio will finally get put to use!

My concern is that (albeit after a very taxing day), I am just SO intolerant and SO indulgent of my own annoyance triggers, I might one day be some kind of Woody Allen neurotic, or worse, a Michael Jackson recluse -- has Cairo's insistent chaos forced me to be more rigid in my calls for perfection? [must think about that one more -- seriously]

I came home around 10:30PM to find construction rattling my walls, interrogated the people in the computer business (of dubious legitimacy) on the floor beneath me, who swore that they were not doing any construction, and finally, after telling myself to ignore it and then failing to obey my own orders, went to the bowaab and had the following conversation in Arabic and body language:

VC: Is there construction in the building?

B: Is there {arabic word that sounds like my pronunciation of "construction" with a Middle Eastern accent hoping that it is a cognate, but isn't} where?

VC: *banging on the wall in the driveway* Is there THIS in the house?

B: In your house there is that?

VC: No. Not in MY house.

B: Then where?

VC: I don't know!

B: What do you want?

VC: In THE house, not my house, but THE house there is this *continuing to bang on wall*.

B: Above or below?

VC: Below. Please come with me...but I know that you can't hear it [the bowaab is almost deaf...he is about 97, and is, I'm certain, dying of emphysema, but that's a different blog].

B: No! I am able!

{in elevator, where bowaab attempts to unlock already-unlocked elevator, as he cannot see the keyhole, because the poor man is actually deaf AND blind}

B: It's in your house?

VC: No. Not MY house. Not the 4th floor, either. I talked to them [literally in my broken Arabic: "I speak them"]

{enter house -- bowaab and I stand in silence while he looks at me like I'm insane or about 60 seconds...no noise...I am not going to let this go}

VC: Please, sit.

B: [in a jolly mood since I first accosted him, despite our run-in last night where I had my laundry man tell him that I don't want him asking me for money everyday because I know when the rent is due, and I'm always on time, and don't want daily reminders] Yes. I will sit here and wait and listen until we hear it. Where is it?

VC: *knocking on wall* It's here.

B: THERE?

VC: Not there exactly. I don't know where. It's everywhere.

B: Huh? ("Eh?")

VC: I don't know where, but you know, in a house, maybe *banging on wall gesture* over there, but *pointing to ears* here, or there, everywhere.

{wait for almost 3 minutes while I explain in VERY broken Arabic my theory that it actually IS the people on the 4th floor, but they stopped when they heard me go downstairs, literally: "They know I in elevator and they done. They know and they done." When FINALLY there are two loud and startling thuds, just when the bowaab was getting up to leave, contented, apparently, by my explanation that I'd intimidated my neighbours into silence}

B: I will go and check on every floor and find the noise.

WHICH HE DID! The people on the 2nd floor were drilling their walls...at this point after 11PM. He made them stop, and agreed with me when I chastized them in broken Arabic: "Why? Why now? Now it's 11! In the morning, ok. Now, problem." This is the first time in 10 months that my bowaab has been swift and effective (VERY ODD).

Let the day of problems continue: my pizza, as I'm freaking out to Desi online (who I JUST found out actually reads this blog), arrives with light sauce AND light cheese (which, when it's a plain thin crust pizza means: a crispy large cracker). I order AT LEAST 4 times a week (usually 5 or more) from Pizza Hut, and they KNOW me, but for some reason, after more than a year of great service, I've had three pizzas this week where they oddly think (perhaps emulating NYC Pizza Hut?) that "light sauce" means: "keep the sauce: cheese ratio the same, so light sauce AND light cheese, because I want to eat a plain dough cracker." I have tried to correct for this by persistently complaining, receiving complimentary pizzas (which I gave to the doormen/guys living in the lot next door, and who I caught, spying on them from above, refusing to eat the unknown pizza -- regarding the box with the suspicion normally reserved for Brazilians riding the London tube), and receiving personal phone calls from the call center and branch managers. I also TELL them: "light sauce, but regular cheese," which is often interpreted to mean: "light sauce and PLAIN cheese," rather than "cheese that is standard in quantity." Anyway, I had to send it back, explain the problem to the delivery guy, call the call center, talk to two operators and the manager, wait for the manager to call, call the call center again...it was a mess...but in the end I had a good pizza.

So, yeah. Today pretty much sucked. It's 4AM and I'm working on a proposal for a meeting in 11 hours to implement a system for awarding honors to graduates in our program.

All I wanted to say about the war is that it terrifies me to think what kind of a system I am part of that I am protected from ever being in war more or less thanks to my educational/social place, but there are 18yos (EIGHTEEN! That was me FIVE years ago) dodging bullets in Iraq, because they think they can't pay for college, and because they think they are protecting American democracy (they should be shooting the majority court in Bush v. Gore, if that's what they want to protect...but don't quote me!).

*sigh*

I miss my Mooom.

To end with something funny: check out this photo of Russian tennis player (who I really like) Nadia Petrova, lifting the trophy from the recently-concluded tournament in Linz, Austria. She defeated Swiss #1 Patty Schneyder, who I like even more -- another Swiss tennis genius...that country is a factory of tennis players with unmatched variety, finesse, and on-court wit -- and with whom she is fiercely battling for one of the last spots in the season-ending championships...the top 8 women compete for like a billion dollars and a Brazilian wax...or something like that. The trophy really cracks me up, though. What the heck is it? It's like a 4-foot glass prism! So weird. I should try to find a photo of the really cool golden hawk/pigeon/bird-thingy they give the winner as a trophy in Doha (or is it Dubai?). Keep in mind, when considering the humongosity of this chunk of glass, that this is NOT a small girl -- it's a HUGE trophy, lol. Oh yeah, it's also her FIRST ever win on tour...you have to feel bad for the girl that her first trophy looks more like the glass door to a trophy case than is does like a real trophy.

VC

*The reader, of course, knows VC's unabashed affinity for middle-aged men, so the emphasis, here, is on "slimey."

In Egypt & In Planning Mode (updated!)

Some of you might think that I am in Cyprus, right now, but I'm not. I'm on my couch. I will self-plagiarize an email I wrote to Curie earlier today to explain:

I canceled my trip. I just don't feel motivated/up to it. I think that there have been a lot of emotionally-draining things to deal with over the past few weeks (not like destructive things, but more like just THINGS occupying my emotional energy -- law school aps, your surgery, missing my family [for once! lol]) and I don't have a lot left to get excited about Cyprus. I also think (and I think if you borrow my LP Cyprus guide you'd agree) Cyprus is like THE ideal country for you and I to take 10 days and rent a car and go all over. A lot of the best UNESCO/World Heritage church frescoes are unreachable without private cars, as are some of the best hiking spots. It just felt a little forced, and not like a great trip that I was pumped about that was coming together. I'd also be missing a few academic responsibilities (meetings etc.) that I should really be here for, and that by NOT missing I'll be less stressed and not trigger the "I'm stressed and therefore paralyzed and can't do the work necessary to de-stress myself" reaction.

So there you have it. I'm in Cairo, and more or less nipping my responsibilities in the bud -- including this blog.*

By way of apologizing to some of my most valued friends who have recently emailed me, I am aware that I have been out of touch, but I am in the process of snapping out of it. Since I don't have the energy, right now, to blog about the many things on my list**, but I want to make some token gesture of connecting with my loved ones (you people), I'm printing my schedule for tomorrow (fun, right?). Please note that I don't include the personal/social things I have to do (like writing emails to you!) because that stresses me out and distracts me when making the schedule. Enjoy :)

VC

Sunday (30 October)

8:00 – 9:00 Wakeup, cleanup
9:00 – 11:00 Prepare for MEST 570
11:00 Pay Vodafone bill (check on deposit)
12:00 Request transcript from Registrar (and FedEx if available)
1:00 – 4:00 Prepare for MEST 570
4:00 – 5:00 MEST 570
5:00 – 7:30 Gym (purchase moisturizer)
8:00 – 10:00 Haircut & Dinner (call dentist)

Life List
(A) Go to Registrar for transcript
(A) FedEx transcript (if available)
(B) Get haircut
(B) Pay Vodafone bill
(B) Buy moisturizer
(C) Call dentist

Work to submit
(A) MEST 570 Week 8 Reaction Paper
(B) MEST 570 Work Plan
(B) MEST 570 Week 9 Reaction Paper

Evening work
(A) Proposal for MESC honours
(A) HIST 542 Week 9 Reading
(A) HIST 542 Reaction Paper

Predictions: Vodafone will hassle me about deposit refund or will not be open at 11AM; transcript will not be readily available; hot guy from gym will see me pre-haircut (but I cannot put off the gym any longer for this reason!); good haircut guy won’t be there; will fail at 25th attempt to call dentist.

Reminders for Monday (31 October): Get stipend, Crew meeting (3:00), Iftar & Movie (4:00-7:00), HIST 542 (7:00-9:00)
____________
* This is not a "responsibility" in that I'm not obliged, and I don't find it a pain at all, but more like it means something to me and rises to responsibility status because of its importance/functional value.

**A Word document called "Stupid Blog," which is a spin-off of the "Stupid Gmail" document that I created when my computer started randomly re-starting every few days, losing all unsaved info, leading me to misplace my frustration with my Stupid Toshiba [which I actually really like, for the most part] onto my email and blog accounts in the document titles of their backups) (<--how's THAT for a convoluted parenthetical!?) ++++++++++++++++++++++++ UPDATE

Well my schedule ended up being a total joke. It's 5:30PM and, only 6 hours into my awake day, I have to say that the turn of events today has been quite humorous. Start with: me waking up at 11:30 instead of 8:00, panicking, then reading the email sent to me at 7:45AM from my MEST 570 professor that she wanted to cancel our meeting and push everything back until 6 November. Phew (weird how that worked out, right?). This gave me a little wiggle room to go get cash for the cleaning lady (we actually call them "maids" in Cairo, but I'd imagine that's quite jarring to my American audience), sing a little of my favourite new Destiny's Child power ballad, "Stand Up for Love" (to be blogged-about soon enough), and take care of my Vodafone bill.

A note on Vodafone: that I only had to call seven times (two real calls and five disconnected calls while on hold), and the whole process only took half an hour, is a *miracle*. Seriously. There were the predictable frustrations (eg: them shutting off my phone, then telling me that to get it turned back on and pay my bill I'd have to dial a number on my phone that you can't dial unless your phone is NOT shut off), but the people were actually helpful and understanding, and I'm quite thankful that it wasn't the nightmare I thought it would be.

Enter the Registrar's Office: The AUC Registrar is a witch -- she is actually one of the most unpleasant human beings I have ever met, and I have no shame in telling her so. I wanted to get my Degree Audit Report officially printed and signed (the format of the actual "Transcript" I don't like), and she kept refusing, with brilliant Cairene logic:

VC: I'd like to get a copy of my Degree Audit printed and signed, please.

Evil Witch Registrar (EWR): We don't do that. It's not a document. You can print it yourself.

VC: I understand, but I would like official confirmation that the information on my Degree Audit is authentic.

EWR: No. It's not a document.

VC: I understand "no" and I understand "It's not a document," but I don't understand why?

EWR: We only print and sign things that can be forged, and you can't forget your Degree Audit. You print it from your online account, and we would print it the same way you would.

VC: Great, then please print it on AUC paper, sign it, and give it to me.

EWR: No. We don't do that. It's not a document.

At this point, after having patiently tolerated her snotty and exasperated demeanor for a full 90 seconds, I broke:

VC: Every time I have met with you, you are extremely argumentative, and I don't know why.

EWR: I'm argumentative?

VC: Yes. Every time I've met with you, you've been very argumentative.

EWR: I don't believe I've ever met you before.

VC: I HAVE met you before.

EWR: Well if I was argumentative then you must have said something to make me this way.

She is seriously 1.6 meters and 60 kilos of PURE witch. I'm still not sure how I will resolve this situation, but tomorrow I will go to the director of grad student affairs (who is AMAZING) and hopefully she can help me.

Interestingly, to get anything from the Registrar's office, you need to first have whatever you need paid for (with a stamped receipt) from a separate Cashier's office (which is also where I get paid) which closes at (I can hardly type it without feeling furious) 1PM! How they manage these long work days (4 whole hours!), I really don't know. So I was not able to get my pay, or my stamp, or make any progress with the Registrar.

I then decided to make myself feel better by rushing over to visa services to get my new passport a valid Egyptian residency visa. I sort of knew that they'd hassle me about being in the country "illegally" (your entry visa is good for 1 month + 14 days grace, and I arrived in September), but the stupid thing with AUC is that *they* (not the government) enforce visa fines that, if I just went to the airport and they saw my visa, they wouldn't enforce. I violated the stay period THREE times last year (and showed them this, today, in the office) and never paid a fine, but since today I wanted AUC's help with a SEPERATE issue (my residency status), they wanted the cash. In the end, I think that it's probably a matter of them going to the government and facing harsher rules than I face, as a foreigner, when I deal with them at the airport or elsewhere, so when they apply for me thay actually DO need the fee, but I hate (HATE!)* the inconsistency. I should also blog, at some point, about the shady HIV test requirement that they have -- basically (like in many countries in the region) that you can't live here (as a foreigner) if you are HIV+. Obviously there are a ton of issues, there, that I won't get into, now, but the really odd part is that this rule is, again, enforced at the level of the institution (eg: it's AUC that asks for my HIV test, not the Egyptian government). I sent them one when I originally applied from NYC, and when they lost it refused to get another test here (although I was tested for my OWN knowledge again in the States, later on), and my best friend, here (aka: Bombay Puppy, perhaps referred to before as Desi) refused, as a professor, to get the test, and he (like me) still EVENTUALLY got his visa (in other words: maybe my giving AUC the benefit of the doubt that it just has to deal with more bureaucracy than we see first-hand is not actually the case). Anyway, I'm now passportless for 10 days, and am a little sad that my new passport will lose its visa virginity to Egypt (the residency sticker is nowhere near as cool as, say, the sticker for Iran, or India), but what can I do?

Then I went to meet Shakira at Bon Apetit (a cafe where you can see, on a near-daily basis, the hilarious phenomenon of French tourists wearily stumbling in, hoping that it's ACTUALLY French, only to find out that the only thing French about the place is the name and the unpleasant waiters). Everything was going FINE -- I got them to give me the bug spray so that I could, myself, spray the entire sitting area, wipe down my own table, and clean the chairs (hey if you want it done right, I've learned, you have to do it yourself, because seeing tables covered in bird droppings and feeding flies just doesn't seem to encourage the waiters to clean!), which I was not AT ALL annoyed by (seriously, I was just glad to have it done by someone, even if it was me) -- until the bill came. Keep in mind that I tip RIDICULOUSLY for Egypt (like borderline insane with how big I tip) *and* I go to this place at least 3-4 times per week. The peach iced tea is made with water and peach packets, and is really week, so I ask for "extra peach" (2 packets, instead of one) and always do this (sometimes they mess up and only give one, but usually the drinks guy, who knows what I like, uses two, and looks expectantly at me for approval when I take my first sip -- glad that he cares about his work product!), and they ALWAYS charge me just for a regular peach iced tea. Today, ordering two of these "strong" ones, I was charged for 4 iced teas. Now, had this always been the case -- had it been that the first time, weeks ago, that I first ordered extra iced tea, the waiter said: "Chunk, we'll charge you double, but we can do it" then I'd have made an informed decision, but the LACK OF A CONSISTENT SYSTEM, which today surprised me with 4 iced tea charges, infuriates me. I got in a huge fight with a waiter, who (and I HATE THIS) tried to tell me that I was wrong about what I knew to be a fact: that this was NOT the first day that I'd ordered it with two packets (another waiter later confirmed this). I don't have a problem with the money, but I have a problem with these waiters vehemently defending THEIR (incorrect) understanding of what happened, when what they SHOULD be focused on (especially since it's not like the peach packets are taken out of their salary) is a regular and generous customer being happy. It's an impulse that they can't control, though, to argue, and I'm totally fed up with it.

I then go to the stationers/copy center (where I'm totally crushing on one of the brothers who owns the place and who I think, in another life, would reciprocate my crush -- I mean he reciprocates, but we don't act on it), got index cards and a new notebook for Arabic (tutoring starts in 8 November), and got a copy of Shakira's passport to fax to customs (which requires a photocopy of her passport faxed to them because they'd decided to confiscate the contact lenses that her mother FedExed to her), because I was going to the Hyatt to workout and buy moisturizer (per my schedule).

I walked to the GH, but when I got there EVERY shop (and the hair salon, which I was thinking of going to instead of my regular place) was closed, so I was only able to send the fax and nothing else (note: the hairdresser's is run by Lebanese Christians and definitely did NOT need to close for the Muslim iftar). Wanting to enjoy the afternoon sunset, knowing that traffic was impossible and I couldn't get a taxi, and hoping to burn some calories and release some steam, I walked all the way to my hair salon in Zamalek, which closed literally at the moment that I arrived at the door.

I failed to get my transcript (let alone mail it), get my pay, buy moisturizer, get my haircut, or go to the gym, and on top of that I had extremely unpleasant confrontations with the Registrar and a group of waiters.

Sometimes (and this is acknowledging that I *allow* myself to be stressed about these things) I really don't know how long I can last, here. I'm not depressed, or even all that angry, but I'm just tired of EVERY DAY encountering problems. I'm not a problematic guy, and as I think my friends from NYC (or even Kabul) can swear by, I am capable of having a day-to-day life that is free of frustration and problems...just not in Cairo.

It's now 6PM, and I am going to relax until 7 (when everything opens again, after the break-fast) by watching tennis and doing Arabic vocab cards. At 7, I will go to get my haircut, then go to the gym (which will make me feel ONE THOUSAND times better about my day), and then come home, where I will work on HIST 542 for tomorrow, and probably order pizza (at least I'm realistic! lol).

VC

PS: Per my gluco/insulin imbalanced existence in Cairo, and what I believe to be rapid mood swings that it induces (sugar level plummets after not having eaten all day, processed starch/sugar consumed -- cookies, pizza, etc. -- level spikes, hyper euphoria ensues, energetic for a few hours until level plumments again), I'm feeling less awful than I was 30 minutes ago, and am just looking forward to my haircut and seeing my pookie and friends and family again ASAP in the US.

*Hate, as a faithful reader of stuning South Asian beauty, is a very strong word, and we normally do not use it (we also don't use "ugly"), but in this case I'm defining hate as: "an emotional directed not at a person, but a system, that renders the world less efficient and more unjust," which is, I think, an acceptable usage.

Cypriot Sexism

Is it just me, or is the following description of Cyprus Air's "Sunmiles" program indicative of a distinctive sexism viz. the Greek pantheon?

Members travelling on Cyprus Airways flights and aircraft, accumulate points
which can be exchanged for free tickets in the Apollo Business class or in the
Aphrodite Economy class and for upgrading to Business class.

From Aphrodite to Apollo is an upgrade? I'm sorry, but I'd much rather be "the goddess of love, beauty, and sexual rapture" than some closet-case who falls in love with stupid boys who kill their pet dear (check out these articles on Aphrodite and Apollo to know what I'm talking about). Plus, if you are Aphrodite then you get to be the subject of a million "Naissance de Venus" (Birth of Venus) paintings, and you'd get to sleep with Adonis (I'd have never cheated on Hephaestos, especially not with Adonis of all people, but I think most of YOU would have, lol).

More apropos to Cyprus Air, it appears that this was the island where Aphrodite was taken after she emerged from the sea -- you'd think the airline could give her some credit for being the hometown deity!

Here are two Naissance de Venus paintings: on the left, the most famous one, by Botticelli (now Florence, from 1485); on the right, one by Cabanel (Paris, 1863), which I like much more, and which is usually spoken-of in comparison to to Manet's "Dejeuner sur l'herbe," done in the same year (below, now in Paris). The comparison is used to contrast the kinds of art that the traditional Ecole des Beaux-Arts jurists looked for in its Salon participants, Cabanel being accepted to the 1863 exhibition, and Manet being rejected. Incidentally, the Cabanel and Manet paintings now hang together in the same museum in Paris (the Musee D'Orsay).

VC

Blog-Chain

I don't want to be superstitious (I'm sure there is a more appropriate adjective than that), but one of the most important people in the world to me (I should say more flatteringly: one of the best people in the world...and I know because I've been to like 20 something countries and met a lot of people!) is having surgery today, and I want all my devoted VC readers (of which she makes up like 50% lol) to please be wishing her good thoughts around 1PM NYC time. We want her surgery to go great, and her long-term recovery to be smooth-sailing (she prefers windy sailing with polarized lenses, but that's different).

VC

Carbonated French People

I am moments (ok, several long moments strung together in succession ad infinitum) from sending my Yale application -- NYU and Harvard have already gone out -- but I wanted to just say very quickly that I just realized that French people are full of air. Seriously. It's not a cultural critique, but a physical phenomenon that can be empirically observed.

You must know a French person in order to appreciate this observation, and VC only counts for roughly 1/4, so unless you have another friend who is 3/4 French and who I am sitting on, then you need to have a totally French friend other than me...French Canadian does not count, because they are not full of air in the way that I am about to discuss, and I am not sure if the same phenomenon can be observed amongst Belgian Walloon, French-speaking Swiss, inhabitants of Luxembourg, or former French colonies. Here we go -->

Have you ever noticed that French people sometimes attach bursts of air to the end of their words that dwell somewhere between a hiss and a shush? (if they are talking to an American, then they are likely both hissing and shushing) Consider how "oui," or "merci," often become "oui-hhhhh," and "merci-hhhhh," and how "mon dieu" becomes "mon dieu-hhhhh."

I used to think that this was just a French linguistic habit of emphasizing certain vowels at the end of words, but I just got of the phone with a friend, who inserted this trademark French sound *between* two consonants: "Great *hhhhh*. So, pass by my office at one *hhhhh*."

This brought me to the revelation that French people, for a reason still unapparant to me, are full of air, and must spontaneously expel it in order to maintain homeostasis! I hope you all save this post, so that if I don't one day win the Nobel Peace Prize, then we can submit this blog to the Nobel Committee for consideration for the prize in medicine.

VC-hhhhh

Being Gay is Good!

Three funny things I thought I'd share.

1. Being gay is good, at least subconsciously if one evaluates the writing of my mother. Consider the following email I received from Madame Wong yesterday regarding me guilting her for not emailing me:

Chunk, honey, [she didn't say honey, but I think it sounds more tender] I would like you to think about how many days go by without me hearing from you. Me, the lonely old lady vs. you the adorable fascinating cultivated young gay son! I am extremely busy…I worked on Saturday and stay late almost every night! Give me a break. Where did you learn to lay guilt trips on people…Grandma Ruth I bet!

The reference to my now-departed Russian Jew-turned-Christain minister paternal grandmother really cracked me up. It's true that even a Princeton Doctor of Divinity did not shake the babushka out of her, and she was the "queen of lamentations," as well as the queen of shopping and queen of raising hell over bad service (god I really am her!).

Anyway, what you were intended to notice from this, and I bolded it to assist you :), is that she lumped-in with my good traits (adorable, fascinating, etc.) "gay" -- which I found very interesting. She is implying that to be gay is to lead a more interesting and enriched life...what can I say? I'm biased...but I *totally* agree. It also means that you can't marry and are considered both mentally ill *and* a criminal in most parts of the world, but that's for another blog.

2. Life Advice from Elle Magazine

Got this hilarious email from the most beautiful Pakistani-American Fulbrighter I know (ok, that sounds like a narrow category, but even if you changed it to just be "one of the most beautiful people I know" the distinction still stands):

I was reading the Oct. issue ofELLE and came across this and thought of you:

ask E.Jean: How can I get my man back?
Answer: Disappear for one year. When you run into him again, lookthree times hotter than you did before. Even then, the odds are 97percent against it.

We're going to ignore the last part. What does ELLE know aboutrelationships that you and I don't? Nothing.Smooches.

HAHAHA. It's still cracking me up. But I think that since I'm disappearing for 2 years and not just one, and am coming back with a master's and not just a tan, I only need to be 1.5 times hotter than I was before...which, ok, right now I'm not, but I *SO* will be by the time I see him again (for the record: when I went back to the US in January and was looking rather fit he DEFINITELY noticed and I DEFINITELY played it cool hahaha).

3. On the ridiculousness of gay men in Cairo (cont'd -- now and forever).

Now, I want to preface this by saying that I have met a few, and I mean VERY few, more-or-less normal, nice, educated gay guys here. I can think of about 2.5...ok, I'll be generous and say 3...but I wanted to share with everyone (including my soon-to-be-horrified mother) what I have to put up with here. Keep in mind that this is in response to my *TOTALLY* G-rated profile in which I explicitly state that the frequency with which I look for "hookups" is basically ZERO (those as more or less my EXACT words), and I ALSO say that I care NOTHING about looks, *as well as* saying that I do not go for 20yos.

The reply (and this is indicative of what happens basically daily, here): an email with NO message attached, just an email address (that is too dirty to re-type, here) which means: "this is my MSN chat email...add me so that I can waste time asking you if you are the police and see if you have a webcam" (which I don't). Anyway, I just looked at this guy's profile and it is SO typical (SOOOOO typical) that I had to re-print it, here. I don't want you to think that what bothers me is the English, because actually that's not what annoys me about this kind of profile. You should be able to find the red flags for yourself, but just in case you can't (being novice gay profile readers, and all) I'll put them in red for you :)

About
HI
HAW R U
I AM 20 YEASR OLD
I LIVE ALL MY LIFE IN SUDAN BUT I GO OUT SAID 2 SEE MY FAMILY AND ANTHER CUONTRES .
MY MUM SHE IS MOROCCAN
MY DAD HE IS EGYPSHIN AND TURKISH
SO ABUOT ME I GET ALL THIS PASSPORT AND WITH THE SUDANES .
SO I AM A SMPIL GUY I LOVE 2 CHAT AND HAVE A FUN LIKE AND ONE AND I AM MODIL

Looking For
SO ABUOT THE GUY WHO I AM LOOKING AT HIM HE MUST BE BERFECT AND GOOD AND JENTEAL AND MODIL AND HE MUST BE STAIL WITH MORE HONDSOME AND NIEC BODY

Oh, and his nickname? "Casenova horny." HAHAHAHA.. YEAH RIGHT!

So, just so we know what kind of "modil" [sicK] we are talking about, I thought I'd post his photos (which are public online and which were not sent to me privately) -- let's just say that someone might make a better veiled chunk than I do! Those of you who ask me why I don't date or have a boyfriend, here, should (I hope) be finally silenced by this post:



















And for the record, the body pic was subtitled: "Me hot body...WOW" :*(

VC

Solomonic Solutions & Turtle Stacking

My undergrad is known for its mandatory core curriculum that places a really heavy emphasis on classical humanities studies, and is often criticized for producing a bunch of snobs who can feel proud about having read Plato and listened to Stravinsky, and it was many a time said to me, while I was there, that we were being trained to sound smart at self-congratulatory cocktail parties. Maybe. Personally I don't really care if that WAS the object of my education -- there are more important things going on in the world than the perpetuation of categories of elite based on knowledge of philosophy and music, like the much more insidious privileging of elite categories based on religion, passport colour, breast size, and skin pigmentation.

That said, I do not think that this is what our education was serving to do. I think that what we were given were a set of storied, tools maybe, that we could use subconsciously to think analogically about the world around us. I just came to this, today, when I was one of the only people in our comparative con law & human rights class who "got" the reference in the article to the world being built upon infinitely-receding stacks of turtles [edit: having doubted myself, I spent the past hour googling it to make sure that I was right about its Hindu origins], and there was also a reference, in the must-read Makwanyane Case from South Africa (and again in our reading, today) to "Solomonic Solutions," that I did not get before reading the Makwanyane Case, but which is now a useful tool in my conceptualization of certain choice options. Knowing about Plato's Cave is not about feeling smart while eating fondue in your Pookie's Greenwich Village apartment; it's about being aware of a structure (for lack of a better word) that appears, in one instance, in the form of a cave, shadows, and an allegory of ignorance and "true" contemplation of forms, and can appear, in another instance, to describe the neoconservative blogosphere in the US and the caves in which many neo-con libertarians find themselves ;p [sorry to any neo-cons reading this]. Studies in humanities provide us with invaluable structures that contribute to the vocabulary (if not in words but in more abstract relational descriptions between things) that we can use to decipher our own world.

VC

La vie romantique: mise en relief

Don't know why I felt like saying that in French, but the title, in case you couldn't guess, is: "Romantic Life: Put in Relief" (NOT in the sense of relief = satisfaction, but in the sense of a sculpture and the degradation of depth achieved with something is put in relief).

I have a lot of things to discuss, but I guess -- to be stream of consciousness about this -- the one that is currently and most frequently on my mind are the perspective-inspiring developments in my personal life, this week.

To self-plagiarize from an email just sent to Desi that summarizes recent developments (following me calling up the ex-Pookie and following up my unabashedly frank emails with some real phone time):

Things have taken a fantastic turn (thanks to my aggression), and he is really pushing for a weekend visit in December (even when I told him I'd prefer that he not). The key to the offer, on his part, is that it's not motivated by the sense of obligation that would then later loop back around to make him feel constrained by burdensome expectations, but is just a positive desire on his part to see me in the place that I live. He also followed the request with an "I'll understand if you don't think it's a good idea," which is about as close as he is capable of getting to acknowledging the emotional complexity between us (as opposed to pretending like there is nothing of substance or complexity at all...which is what he normally does with everything).

*sigh*

Yeah, I feel pretty happy about it. It's funny, too, because talking to him on the phone (which we basically NEVER do), seeing his photo, emailing him regularly (like everyday -- which is also not standard practice of the past year), it really reminds me that this abstract thing that I keep saying I want (a relationship with HIM) does not ONLY exist in my head, but can be (and should be) a daily reality. It suddenly puts into very severe relief that stupidity of "options" (so-called) that I considered with certain other people...they're in totally different universes in terms of what could/has happened.

{end of email} To follow-up that last thought, since I think it's worth clarifying: I don't want to give the impression that the people I've dealt with in Cairo are less real, or deserve less respect, or should be considered less seriously than my ex, but rather that my responses to them (ranging from jealousy, to attachment, to combination of things in between), and the weight that my interaction with them had in my day to day happiness, was totally out of proportion to what happened and what was happening with them. I will analyze why I was allowing this to happen, and what ways in which I allowed this to happy, at a later point, but the main thing, now, is that seeing his face -- knowing that he is there -- I can't explain how much more connected I feel to NYC and less affected (less disproportionately affected) I am by what is happening in Cairo. To engage in just once sentence of the analysis I said I'd postpone: maybe part of what made me so unhappy this past year in Cairo, and what made me react in such extreme and disproportionate ways to the goings-on in my nearly-nonexistent Cairo romantic life, was that I was acting out the process (the deeply emotional process) that I never experienced as part of my breakup (or negotiation phase) with the ex, because we were dating, I moved to Egypt, and we broke up (no discussion, no denouement -- it just vanished).

Will write a seperate blog about some other things, but there you have it -- romantic life of the Chunk.

Oh, but just to make you laugh, I circulated his photo to some close friends, and here are the replies that I got (keep in mind that he is 48, and despite the fact that I'm 23, HE'S the hot one!):

• In this picture, he totally looks like Jack from Will & Grace!
• I think he's adorable, VC!! I also think he's the kinda guy whocalls his mom "mother" and knows how to use proper silverware (these are good things).
• Wow. [Pookie] is very boyish-cute.
• ...wanted you to know that of course I forwarded [Pookie's] photo to [a friend who is an extremely talented painter, excellent woman, and great political thinker, and who will soon be linked-to on this blog]…she wrote back this morning that he looks like he is 20 year old!

Just thinking about the four wonderful people who wrote those responses, as well as the other people in my life, as well as the Pizza Hut dinner that JUST arrived, I feel like a pretty happy Chunk.

:)

VC

Online Strikeouts

Going to bed, soon, but in order to bore myself to sleep, I decided to check out online NYC prospects (read: make sure my ex does not have an online profile). I was watching Will and Grace DVDs, but was having too much fun and ended up getting MORE awake rather than less, so I figured draining my mind with the nonsense that normally fills people's profiles would help fatigue me.

I have to say that while Cairo has not been easy, romantically, some of the profiles I'm reading (within certain search parameters to maximize the chances of finding the target) make me think that I'll be single FOREVER. Three that stick out in my mind are:

• A guy who only wants slave boys who hold master's degrees (I thought the vocabulary used was QUITE ironic). I *obviously* do not fit that bill (ask any of the waiters I've made cry).
• A writer/producer/lawyer (read: unemployed and full of himself) who listed his favourite film as Shakespeare in Love (!). I'm guessing that's why we haven't heard of his work.
• A guy who bragged about the size of his KITCHEN (we are right to breathe a sigh of relief that this is all he was bragging about). Fine...BUT, he was "looking for" someone who would like to cook in it. Now, VC doesn't have any problem with a nice kitchen, in fact, I think the kitchen can be one of the most beautiful rooms in a house, but don't expect me to cook in it, or enjoy cooking with you in it, or understand the difference between a sauce pan and a...wok (those are that ONLY two pans I can even think of!)...is there such thing as a grease pan? That sounds right.

A nice arrangement that I had with the ex, convenient for him, me, and the tiny kitchen, was that I did not pass the threshold to the kitchen, and interacted with him while he cooked *across the bar*. Occasionally I entered to grab a champagne glass for my vanilla coke (it was sort of a THING, back then), or sneak in to put some Laughing Cow cheese in the fridge (which he considered to be a total offense to his taste in real cheese), but I can honestly say that I have not turned on a stove in...gosh...years...and years.

*sigh*

So where does that leave the chunk? Single, hungry, NOT watching Gwyneth in drag, and NOT bent over anyone's knee. Maybe it would be a useful exercise for me to think of what kind of profile WOULD make me happy? What DO I want? HAHAHA -- a rep/jazz musician (? I have no idea, they aren't captioning him) from New Orleans on BBC right now just described the people of New Orleans as "wild and elegant." That's a start. Maybe emphasis on the elegant and light on the wild? I could work with that. Throw in kind, critical, culturally-engaged, directed, established, and bold, and we've got ourselves a match :)

(oh no! The guy from New Orleans just decided to expand this idea of wildness by comparing New Orleans to Ancient Greece, which, he reminds us, had "all this wild stuff" and ALSO gave birth to Homer)

Well I'm getting sleepy, so that's a good thing!

Will update, tomorrow.

VC