Iran Nuclear Row & More News

(that's what the BBC graphic calls it)

I really do not know enough about the laws/treaties involved to make a judgment on this, but I have to say that the announcement that the foreign ministers of all the permanent members of the Security Council (including China and Russia) agreeing that the IAEA should refer Iran to the Security Council seems kind of circular. I mean -- if all the foreign ministers (who are themselves the ones who sit on the Security Council for the nations they represent) have already agreed that Iran should be referred to the Security Council then *I wonder what will happen* once Iran is referred.

When they sat down for the press conference Rice was BEEMING (they had been negotiating all day and late into the night, according to the BBC, but she sat down at that table grinning from ear to ear).

What I think happened is that the US and maybe the EU-3 told China/Russia that they would provide super high compensation for any processing work they could convince Iran to outsource (so it wouldn’t be, like, on a voluntary basis that Russia would be transporting and processing these materials), and once the price they named was met, they gave in.

I think US policy can be described by what I call the “Being Poor for Peace” plan. With reconstruction funds ending this year in Iraq, sanctions being placed on Iran, and aid being cut to Palestinians, it looks like from the Sinai to the Caspian Sea, we’re looking to have a whole lotta poor.

Finally – the most unlikely use of technology I’ve ever seen (I will try to find photos): Robotic camel jockeys. Small robots that can be used to “ride” camels in races across the Gulf (Sheikhs have traditionally raced camels against each other in widely-attended events not dissimilar to horseraces in Europe and the US) and are quickly replacing the small children (many of them boys as young as 3, according to the BBC) trafficked from South Asia and Africa to ride the camels. Imagine some Swiss engineer (the robots were designed in Switzerland -- another reason to love that country!) tinkering with a robot helping to end a form of child trafficking. Very cool.











VC

Emergency Announcement

I have to take another look at Revelations to see if this is a portend of the second coming or the apocalypse, but – and you might want to be sitting down when you read this – I have just cooked.

Because I have not yet posted the account (with photos) of my failed attempt, recently, to cook lentils, you probably can’t completely understand my bravery, getting back up on the culinary horse so soon after such a hard fall, but I am proud to say that I have just cooked and eaten my first meal at home since…well…the last time I prepared something in California, which would have been a really, REALLY long time ago (and about equivalent to the level of complexity of microwaving popcorn).

After a diet, today, that consisted of two Snickers Crunch bars, a canister of Doritos, and a row of full-fat Chips Ahoy cookies and milk (the lowfat ones just taste stale), even my body had reaches its junk food limitations, and was telling me that it needed some veggies. When I was so sick a few days ago and couldn’t eat, I did have one noticeable craving, and that was for corn, so today when I was stocking up on imported junk food, I also bought corn, mixed vegetables, beans, and basmati rice (is there any other kind, really?).

The key to the corn (shown in the photo -- no idea why my hand looks like it's rotting) is that it was already canned and in liquid and therefore did not require cleaning or water boiling (sadly, it was the water boiling step that I think led to the terrible disaster with the lentils). I had to seek SOME preparation advice from a friend in Amsterdam in the middle of a heated debate over whether or not Lara Fabian has an audibly-Belgian accent when she sings in French, and whether or not Barbara Streisand is nasal...I wasn't sure if I should use my saucepan or my pot (which I still regard skeptically after it failed to properly cook the lentils) and was instructed to give it another go with the pot.

I just plugged the electric burner plate in, within a minute it was hot, put the pot on the plate, dumped out the corn, and within literally 2 or 3 seconds it was already making scorching sounds (which to the amateur chef means: “Done!”). Both my sauce pan and my pot are way too big for the little mini serving of corn, and there wasn’t enough liquid in the can to even cover the bottom of the pot, so it was clear that the corn might start frying (and, now really understanding the full lifecycle of a corn kernel, I was a bit worried that the corn, although not exactly in kernel formation, might undergo some kind of popping process and I’d end up with burning-hot and totally soaked mutant sweet corn jiffy pop). I took the pot off the burner, got a spoon, and put it back on the burner stirring the tiny bit of liquid in the pot around with the corn for about another 3 or 4 seconds, removed the pot from the burner, unplugged my little “kitchen,” and was done! I even served the corn on the plate I’d gotten out to eat my pizza on last night (but which saw very little use – it’s straight from box to mouth for this Chunk!).

All the dishes have been rinsed, the corn was actually quite good, and the whole thing (including the eating and cleaning part) took about 5 minutes. Amazing. I’m a total corn convert.

Tomorrow I will make the mixed veggies, and then they day after I’ll try beans with rice (the beans are also already canned, so they will be easy, but the rice will mean a second go at boiling water, so wish me well!).

Random sidenote: How good does yellow sweet corn look on a fake black marble table!?

Oh – this is not related, but while I was eating, I was watching BBC Hardtalk with senior British politician Shirley Williams, of the Liberal Democrats (this is the minority party that is NEITHER Blair’s Labour Party, nor the resurgent conservative Tories). I found her to be *extremely* impressive, and regret that we don’t have politicians in the US who are so articulate AND straightforward. She has my vote!

VC

A Moment of Silence

...no...not because I've gotten more bad news from law schools. This is something MUCH more tragic.

This is the senseless burning of a Prada store.*

Of all the Prada boutiques Manhattan -- and there are 5 (and Dr. Juicy and I have been to all of them...together...in one single day...IN THE RAIN) -- this one in SoHo was definitely the most beautiful. Architecturally it was really stunning, and I think it's a tragedy that if something had to burn in SoHo, it was this Prada store, rather than all the atrocious art that is sold on the sidewalk (TOTALLY blocking the entrance to Emporio Armani) on the weekends.

If anyone reading my blog is in the NYC Metro area, please pass by Park Slope for me. I fear that Juicy may have thrown herself out the window of the only building in Brooklyn tall enough to have an elevator.

VC

*Obviously if anyone had been seriously injured, I'd have not thought it appropriate to talk about the "tragedy" of Prada burning. I also understand that a lot of people lost a lot of precious things in the fire, and that is very sad. You'll note in the article, though, that 200 firefighters can't control the flames, which makes me think that it's because of the uncontrollable hotness of the clothes in the Prada store. I also think that the fact that it's been burning for so long might make this, in the fashion world, comparable to the story of the burning candle in the Temple of David -- maybe one day we'll have songs and light candles once a year in memory of Pradannukah, the week that they poly-blends just would not stop burning.

PS: I totally wrote this post a long time ago but just noticed that I forgot to move it from Word to the blog. Shoutout to Juicy for the article!!

More Bitching

I had a realization, earlier today, about relationships that I think is worth sharing, but first: More of the Cairo gay life!

Just got a text message from the Swedish (and gorgeous, although repeatedly turned-down by yours truly) Assistant Manager of F&B at the Hyatt: “I am horny. Any recommendations?”

My reply: “The other hand?”

: )

It’s been a week of gay scene disappointment overload. In the same way that a lot of people find traveling through conditions of extreme poverty and squalor depressing, I find gay life here really unmanageable.

It’s also odd how much time I devote to thinking about how miserable gay life here is, since in New York my sexuality and the society that that aspect of my identity fit into was such an unimportant part of my existence. I think about dinners with Pookie in which there might be a table full of gay friends and amongst whom it was not even known, even after years of friendship, who was top or bottom or both or doing what with whom – not because sex was demonized or shameful to talk about, but because for reasons that I think are obvious, fascinations with gay sex and gay life are pretty much exhausted amongst a group of 40+ year-old urban gay men.

I could hypothesize about why that is not the case in Cairo, but I don’t think the obvious explanation (that men here don’t get to freely experience their sexuality and so there is a constant fascination with what *might* be) really holds. Not with the people I know. Even men with international degrees, full passports, and a blackbook that rivals that of any guy in Chelsea, still somehow seem contented in Cairo to spend their time endlessly gossiping and hunting for the next story or lay that will occupy their time and feed their supposedly “discrete” network.

That men here are satisfied (or even if they are dissatisfied: reluctant to change) with what most people get over in their late teens and early twenties is only part of what bothers me about gay life, here. The other major annoyance with gay life in Cairo relates to what I think of as the “sexual utility” principles according to which all men are judged. It’s related to class, discretion, aesthetic preference, and I’m sure a lot of other things, but in general in Cairo men will not befriend each other unless they are theoretically capable of (or have, at one time or another) had sex. Of course, some men are not sexually compatible even if they find each other mutually attractive, due to an incompatibility of roles in the boudoir, but even amongst friends for whom sex would be impossible for that reason, they normally still need to find each other at least mutually attractive (if unfortunately unsuited for each other role-wise).

I find this really odd, and it took me a few *months* to put my finger on the phenomenon, because it’s so completely divergent from the standards according to which I normally select my friends. When I am at dinner (always dinner with Pookie seems to be the moment of comparison for this blog, lol) with Pookie and four of his friends are at the table, even if some of them are exes, you can see a CLEAR variety of types, and there are not really questions being asked, looks exchange, or any subdialogue AT ALL of how each person could be or is sexually useful to the other people, there. In New York, you might have a “straight acting” muscular Chelsea who has a “screaming queen” of a best friend who is not AT ALL his type physically, but who he adores as a person. In Cairo that couldn’t happen. Sure, you have friends who will say “no he’s my friend…not my type at all…” but in general that’s more about background stuff than actual physically taste. If you told someone here that Italian models hang out with Filipino drag queens, leather daddies, and surfer boys, and didn’t think anything about the fact that their friends, for them, might be totally unf*ckable, I think a lot of people here would find it shocking. If you aren’t potentially interested in someone here, at least from afar, then you won’t even speak to him, let along befriend him (and be seen with him in public). That’s the “sexual utility” principle that I find so disturbing about Cairo. I cannot wait to be back at a dinner table with Pookie and his friends in which there is as little sexual tension (or judgment) in the air amongst them as there would be between a gay man and a woman.

Getting back to my life, though, I said it’s been a week of disappointment overload, and Swedish guy is the least of that (I had his number before he even had a chance to embarrass himself, so there were not real expectations to be disappointed – he still annoys me, though). Another part of it has been Leopold. I had started to actually think of him as a friend after we managed to have an entire lunch, last week, in which, despite speaking tirelessly about the Egyptian caste system, he did not revert to his infinitely-tedious speculations about who is hot and what they are doing and with whom they are doing it. He passed-on some rather interesting stories about his family during Nasser’s time and their relationship to the Saudi royal family, and it was a really enjoyable afternoon.

A few days ago, however, Leopold called me to tell me he was having coffee with a friend (who tells people he his Saudi, but who Leopold of course follows behind his back with the qualification: “Palestinian born in Saudi Arabia”), who I was introduced to socially in the past. Leopold wanted to know if I wanted him to hook us up. I told him no, that I didn’t need a hookup, and that there was zero chemistry when I met this guy in person, before, even if physically he wasn’t bad. Leopold pressed the issue and it ended with me saying “whatever, I don’t care” and leaving it up to his discretion (and this was just a day or two after I turned down another guy he tried to pass-on to me without request/solicitation).

Yesterday, while in the middle of my work marathon, Leopold calls and tells me that he’s with the Palestinian-Saudi again, and wants to know if I can give him the phone number of the American hussie who I blogged about having dinner with me, Leopold, and Lord of the Dance for Coptic Christmas (the one who was with us the night that we fought with Amr Bin Laden and his guards).

I told Leopold that I’d give it to him, but that I thought it was really tacky that he was calling me, in this guy’s presence, when he’d been trying to hook us up just a few days before, and was now asking for another guy’s number. He protested that it wasn’t tacky, and that I wasn’t Palestinian-Saudi’s type. I told him that it was irrelevant, since I told him I wasn’t interested in the first place, but that for the record the hussie and I are physically *exactly* the same type (which Swedish guy confirmed when I turned him down the last time, but passed-on the hussie as “same type as me but like a cuter version” – which for the record Swedish guy AND LoTD both said I was cuter…not that it matters!). Leopold tried to say something weird about how hussie has darker hair, and when I said that’s ridiculous (because his hair is light brown), Leopold was like: “Well Palestinian-Saudi likes bitchy guys and you aren’t a bitch. You’re a proper guy.” (for the record: “bitch” and “bitchy” means, in Cairo terms, not feminine or mean, or any of the things one would expect it to mean in the US, but means more like “trashy” or “low-class slutty”)

I found the whole conversation frustrating – particularly because it so neatly embodied exactly what I find impossibly disappointing about gay life here: the middle of a “work” day and the only few 40yo gay men in this city with any education who aren’t already married are sitting around passing around numbers and scheming for their next kill, and feeling totally fulfilled and entertained by that.

I sent him the following text message: “Do not EVER network me in your circle of bitches again. It’s pathetic that a 40yo with any class or intelligence spends this much time on these things. I don’t want X or Y or any of your other contacts and stop calling if all you have to talk about is bitchy bullsh*t. Hussie’s number: ____.”

Refer to my blogging about making enemies, below. Needless to say a day has gone buy and he hasn’t called.

The examples of my being frustrated with this THEME of social annoyance would take me hours to describe. Swedish guy and Leopold are but two pictures of my current frustration that decorate the awful museum of Cairo gay life (I’d make a joke about entrance to the museum being “couples only” but probably only Desi would get it).

There has been another frustration that I’ve been meaning to blog about, and I’ve kept a running commentary on the situation in a Word diary, but I’ve not updated in a few days, mostly because I’m too lazy to fish out all the old text messages for you to supplement the diary and give you an idea of the ridiculousness of it all. Let’s just say as a preview that it involves an Italian diplomat, a piano concert, and diarrhea on the Mediterranean.

In many ways, though, be it the lashing I gave to Leopold, my refusal to even minimally indulge Swedish guy, or my iron-willed resistance to the Italian, this week has been about the wiping-clean of my social slate. It’s odd that my angst is, in so many ways, a romantic angst, and yet with none of these people who are causing my angst did I actually have anything romantic. Just the environment in which romance WOULD occur, but is so quickly snuffed-out, distresses me…so it’s not that my romantic life is full of drama, but rather that the setting in which my non-existent romantic life SHOULD occur is itself so full of drama.

Ok, now I need to write about what I decided about relationships, today…stay tuned!

While you wait: Check out these links about PUGGLES!

VC

Thinking Genius Look

Well the BBC special on Billie Holiday was not as good as the one on Callas, but there was one really eerie thing that, unless you have watched “The Making of Miss Saigon” a million times with me like Wong has (who had her birthday yesterday! HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!), and she will unfortunately probably never see the BBC special, you won’t be able to understand, but Billie Holiday in her later years and Lea Salonga (even at 16) bear such similarity it was truly uncanny (one will note that it’s perhaps odd that an aged black woman could bear such a resemblance to a teenager from the Philippines).

It wasn’t just her eyes, but her look, her forehead, just EVERYTHING in some shots was so Lea. Very spooky. There is a part of the BBC special that has Holiday’s 1957 “Sound of Jazz” TV performance, where she sings the one and only blues song she ever sang (which she wrote, herself – something about how her man was bad to her), and her Nester Young, a dying saxophone player, was there, too. The looks that she has when she is singing in that part are SO much like Lea sitting at the piano in her first audition in Manila that I can’t believe it – its this thinking look (I described it once to Curie, and I don’t know if she remembers…there is a look that I call the “thinking genius” look and it’s actually the weird way in which someone like Lea can look like Martina Hingis, or Billy Holiday…it’s so hard to describe!). I really wish I could find side-by-sides to prove this! (I should say that USUALLY they look nothing alike, but just in these moments they really look the same)

Ah well. Better go to the gym. It’s so cold, still!

VC

PS: Alfred Brendel (pianist) special on, now. I really want to stay and watch. He said the cutest thing – he was like: “I wasn’t a child prodigy. I’m not, to my knowledge, a genius. I’m not from Eastern Europe. My parents were not musicians. I have a decent memory, but it’s not exceptional, and I am not a very good sight-reader. I have no idea how I made it.” *big grin* He seems VERY good-natured! His hands are SO still. God, Pookie was an ANGEL for taking me to so many concerts (probably because my après-box analysis was so on point ;p). Oh he just said another cute thing (reading from his diary…he’s also a poet and painted in his youth – they looked great to me, but he thinks they’re bad): “If I had a twin…a real-life double, my doppelganger could be used to save time by cooking and cleaning, and practicing…and in return he could be recognized in public, receive prizes, honours, and distinctions, charm ladies, smile coyly, and exude optimism…of course, he’d have to be kept happy, otherwise he might hide my socks, overdraw my account, or, worse yet, attempt to play the piano, maybe a Beethoven sonata, even…in the end he could run me out of business, completely!”

Meet Mr. Masry: Why I Have No Friends

I realize this will look like serial-blogging, because they are all going up at once, but I’ve been typing these in a Word document since my blogsite was not available, earlier (so these aren’t like PSs to each other).

I am really quite alone in Cairo. Assigning blame for that is tricky, since I’d say that it would be easy for me to be surrounded by smiling people all the time and have a different party or event or something to go to every night if I chose, so one could say it’s my fault for being alone, but I really feel that there was no other choice.

It’s weird to think that there are cities all over the world where there are people I feel comfortable calling any moment of the day or night if I am in severe distress (however unlikely it would be for me to actually do that), but the city where I live is unfortunately not one of those places.

There are people on the fringe, who with trust and cultivation and shared experience could go either way, but I’d say Shakira (who is not back in Cairo after vacation) is really the only person who I feel I can count on, here, and in a city of like 20 million people, that’s not a very high percentage!

Some of this is very clearly my own doing. In Cairo I have not just failed to make friends; I’ve made enemies. I used to always wonder, even as recently as my last year in New York, when I’d watch a movie or something with a criminal investigation and the question would be asked: “Well did he have any enemies?” how someone would ever answer “yes” to that. Sure, there were people who maybe didn’t think I was super fun, or interesting, or even respectable, but I never really had people who really thought I was a nasty person. Now I think there are a non-insignificant number of people who do think that. What I understand, though, and I don’t think I’m being too easy on myself, here, is that *before*, I was never in an environment where I had to deal with people who were, given my own personal values and social norms, such total a**holes, and being one who speaks his mind and doesn’t smile and roll with the punches (unless it’s a professional setting, and no I’m not willing to treat life like a job in which I’m constantly seeking good reviews and a promotion), I have told people exactly how I feel. A normal scenario would go something like this:

Chunk meets Mr. Masry (not to be confused with Slim Masry of former postings, who has never exhibited the behavioural pattern I’m criticizing, here). Chunk and Masry engage in a brief but not wholly unsuccessful exploration of amicable possibilities (ranging from having coffee, to seeing a movie, to something more romantic/datelike). Masry is interested, present, and mature/engaging to some minimally-passable degree until the point where he realizes that Chunk is either not going to be the ideal casual sex partner or is not going to be the ideal rush-into love (that means saying “love” but not doing anything about it since everyone is scared and closeted) – I’ve found meeting a Mr. Masry is like flipping a coin, and you’re equally likely to get someone for whom anything other than casual sex is as desirable as castration, as you are to find someone who will tell you he’s in love with you after a single dinner (and don’t think that you being clear about your OWN Chunky goals and limitations and offerings has any significant effect on what he will do/want from you). Once Masry is frustrated in his goal of getting EITHER a f*ckbuddy or a “habibi,” he will PRETEND (the movies are awful but the real-life population knows how to act) like he’s ok with the terms of your friendship (being straightforward or articulating one’s emotions in a straightforward manner would be far too sensible and ethical), only to persistently flake out, string you along, equivocate, confuse you and himself and then you again, and never, for one moment, engage in a healthy moment of self-criticism or productive reflection. At that point, when I see that we are at the “waste of my time and insult to the emotional energy I’ve put into this friendship” stage, I will normally confront Mr. Masry about his a**hole-ishnss, which *very interestingly* results in automatic and rote apologies and NEVER results in a logical explanation of one’s behaviour.

THIS IS WHAT KILLS ME: not UNDERSTANDING how and why things are the way they are (and I mean in general, not just socially…it’s like I cannot have MY logical rules satisfied, here, and I find it extremely mentally stressful).

I don’t *care* if someone apologizes to me or not. I don’t even understand what forgiveness means, because I’m not usually harbouring a grudge, but rather confusion. Forgiveness for me means understanding, and that I never seem to attain.

If you say to someone, for example: “Well why did you tell me that I should not make plans tonight because you wanted to go out, but then when I waited all evening for you to tell me where to meet you, you never called or replied to my text messages asking where you were or if we were still getting together?” Then you are really likely to get back an: “I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry. Please forgive me.”

That doesn’t interest me.

What I want is: “I was really tired and felt reclusive and didn’t want to go out.” OR “You are nice so I didn’t know how to break it to you that I’ve decided I’d rather hang out with my other friends more,” OR “I met a REALLY hot guy on the way to meet you and forgot to call you to cancel,” or just ANYTHING that remotely resembles an explanation.

If I then say (and one should NEVER use *diction* that can come off as insulting, even if you mean it as a dispassionate statement of fact): “Well it was rude for you to not call or text so I could make other plans. I didn’t even call you to make plans in the first place, but when you called me to go out, I said ok,” then the reply will (oddly, in my opinion, and it’s not a language barrier thing) be: “Thanks. Thanks man. Now I’m RUDE? You’re rude to say I’m rude.”

?? Huh? Not calling someone when you say you will is rude. 1000 meters is a kilometer. I am chunky. These are statements of fact that are not made as insults or compliments or anything in between.

Saying that, though, means that whatever level of discussiveness you had with Mr. Masry (which was already pitifully low) will instantly vanish, and an enemy will be made.

“I thought you were a nice guy.”
“I am a nice guy, but that was rude of you. That’s all I’m saying. I still think YOU are a nice guy, too, but last night you were rude.”
“So you just want to keep calling me names!”
“I’m not calling you names! You’re crazy – this is just me telling you the truth. You said you’d call. You didn’t. It’s not THAT big a deal, but it was rude.”
“Ok I’m rude and crazy. Thanks. Thanks.”

You can see it’s a downward spiral. Normally it ends with me TRYING to give a polite “sorry for the misunderstanding but I think it’s best that we end this discussion” goodbye, but it’s definitely how enemies are made, here. There are people who think that I am rude and mean, and I really can’t do anything about that (or rather: I don’t care to).

I think, then, about my “real” life in New York, and the AMAZING friends I have outside New York as well, the exes I’m still friends with, the people who KNOW that I *never* hit below the belt, sling insults, or engage in unproductive name-calling, and who KNOW that I’m a great friend and person, and I think: “How is this my life?”

That’s kind of where I am, today. I’m very frank and very undiplomatic (and why shouldn’t I be?), but I’m never unfair or abusive in the way I deal with people (except one or two times in my WHOLE life that were themselves just very unhealthy and much deeper than the interactions I’m describing, here), and it is NOT, when you’re not privileged enough to be dealing with a set of really cosmopolitan individuals who, one might say, tend to speak in emotional/socioeconomic/political urban unison (the only people I’d really been dealing with, before), a way to “win friends and influence” people as the saying goes.

VC

VC Goes Straight

Followup on hateful blogging:

I am also no longer gay. I’ve decided that whatever it means to be gay, here, and more and more I’m thinking “gay” is very much an aspect of one’s identity that is local, I’m not it. I’ll refrain from further hateful blogging by going on and on about whatever it is that I think gay is here, but suffice it to say that I am not it. I can still think of two or three self-identifying gays in Cairo who I think are decent people, but on the whole, at various ages, levels of wealth, looks, and geographical distribution, gay men here are pretty awful to deal with (in and out of bed). This is only to a degree about what families, Islam, Christianity, and Mubarak make people do, and is to a much larger degree about behavioural choices that don’t sit well with me (and I recognize that as a non-normative and personal statement that is free of good/bad judgment on some absolute global scale), and this is not the right place for me to be gay (or for me to be living, but that’s not something I can chance by blog declaration, so we’ll let that one be for now).

VC

PS: I’ve had plenty of sleep, watched some great tennis, got out of the house, had some good and yummy food today, and did a HUGE amount (about 6 hours continuous without distraction) of work, so I’m not being pissy for any of the usual reasons (boredom, low blood sugar, isolation, stress about lack of productivity).

Ode of Hatred for Cairo

I hate it here SO much.

I hate services here.

I hate the traffic here, which incorporates my hatred of BOTH the way people drive AND the way the streets are organized.

I hate gay life here, which is only in a small part a hatred of the way the government and various religious and cultural elements treat gays, and is in a much larger part a simple hatred of what most of gay life here looks like (I know the two aren't separate, but I'm holding people responsible for being what they are).

I hate my university and I hate my flat.

Hate is a really strong word, I know, and I feel (unfortunately) quite strongly.

I could never imagine a place, over such a sustained period of time (1.5 years) could so consistently annoy me, piss me off, bug the sh*t out of me, frustrate me, make me want to cry, to leave, to shout, and to write mean things on a blog. It’s SHOCKING how much I really do hate it here.

VC

Red Things

Well we've reached Chinese New Year, and as I well learned in boarding school, that means time to clean your house and give children money in red envelopes! (I'll note that "child" is defined as anyone still in school, and grad students therefore count!)

This is the year of the dog, and I'm a dog! Woof. Woof. *tail wag, panting*

According to China Today: "The Dog will never let you down. Born under this sign you are honest, and faithful to those you love. You are plagued by constant worry, a sharp tongue, and a tendency to be a fault finder, however. You would make an excellent businessman, activist, teacher, or secret agent."

No comment. A little surprising, actually. (Note that I think they are right on with the Dog, but I looked at the other signs and am not sure that you guys would think of the other categories as similarly on point)

That's one red thing.

The other red thing was presented by Bono in Davos, today, and that is Product Red -- a plan designed "to eliminate HIV in Africa." Check out this scathing review of the plan (rather stupid, the critique, I mean -- check out the parallel-syntax contrast between "rock stars" and "people who want to help the developing world" lol).

Ah hell...I've just spent like 40 minutes looking for an AmEx press release to promote it to those of you who could actually qualify (read: not me), but I can't find anything official on the Amex site. DAMN IT ALL! ;p

See -- being sick I get to be moody and complain in capital letters.

XO

VC

Sick Widdo Chunk

Well after two days of really intense workouts, not a lot of food, and an odd sleep schedule, I just, in the past like 1.5 hours, have gotten totally sick. I am achey, have chills, feel nauseated (like very close to vomiting), and have the slightest of slight runny noses.

The point is not to complain, but just to say that I really miss having SOMEONE who can hug me. My mom would hug me and tuck me into my tv-watching bed and call me her "poor widdo guy," and although I was never really sick with Pookie (I was really healthy, then!), I remember once when he got REALLY sick, and I loved being there just to hold him when he slept. We had been at a really fantastic play with his sister and nieces who were visiting, and he knew he was getting sick, but by the end of the show he hit a WALL (the flu comes on fast like that) and I took him home and he literally passed out in a feverish-lump. Since I know that he's someone who doesn't really DO the whole lovey-dovey interdependent relationship THING, I was trying to be really aware of when he'd want me to scram, but in this kind of cute and helplesslly sick way, he had me stay for a little while, and I just hugged him on the fold-out bed (which will be unnecessary in his new Eastern Palace).

Yeah...I have friends, but I have NO ONE who I want to hug me in Cairo, and I really miss that!

This reminds me of a bird flu joke I heard today (from the rather mindless assistant manager of food and beverage at the Hyatt who thinks he's god's gift to gay men -- he actually told me he didn't GET the joke at first!): "Concerned about the threat of an impending avian flu epidemic, US President George W. Bush ordered immediate air strikes on the Canary Islands."

VC

Held at Harvard

Well you guys are always asking me for updates, and here it is: Got my "Hold" letter from Harvard.

They basically say: "We are waiting to make a decision on your file until we have had a chance to compare you to a greater percentage of the total applicants," and the deadline for the rest of the applications is the beginning of February.

There is a new Director of Admissions this year, and it appears (compared to years past) that he is putting basically all of the non-"auto-admits" on Hold, and has said on his blog that "the vast majority of offers of admission will be made in the future," however it's hard to not feel like this is, as it was in years past, a fast track to the waitlist.

In any case, I can't stress about it, but I do feel a but puzzled by what to do next. From what I understand (I have not read the letter myself), its recommended that you send in supplemental materials, updated transcripts, and a "why Harvard?" statement.

My problem is that my application was already so full of supplements, including a "Harvard: A Perfect Fit" essay, that I don't even know what to send them. I don't think sending an updated AUC transcript where my GPA went from 3.94 to 3.97 will be particularly relevant, and I'm not sure who would write me a more glowing rec letter than the ones I already have.

I understand that there are some applications that are basically a GPA, an LSAT, an irrelevant personal statement, some uninsightful rec letters, and a resume, and that HLS and other ad coms don't have a clear idea, after reading such aps, who the student really is. That is not the case with my application. Whoever reads my application actually knows (perhaps sadly? lol) more about me than almost all of the readers of this blog, and I just don't know how to supplement something that really was complete.

As I've expressed to Pookie via email, part of what bothers me about this is that I feel like it still represents the consequences of some really poor decision making and unfortunate and sustained weakness in my last semester at Columbia, and I'm just so tired of there being so many consequences to that. It will ALWAYS have an impact on what I think of a lot of things -- how I relate to people, the Hamptons, how I feel when I hear Russian...just SO many things...and I wish it didn't also enter into this. The fact is, though, that my GPA dropped from 3.86 (autoadmit range) to 3.74 (below the median) in the space of ONE disastrous semester, and while the consequences on my GPA are the least important of all in terms of what that whole "moment" in my life means, it matters a lot (A LOT) for law school.

Yes, I'm going to go to a Top 5 law school, and yes I wanted to be in NYC for a ton of reasons, but (as I've also recently said to Pookie, so forgive me for repeating myself), I want my choice to go back to NYC to be because I've balanced a lot of factors in my head and made a positive decision to engage NYC again, not a decision made by default because I had no other option.

For the record, when I get out-right rejected from Stanford and Yale, I'm not going to bitch about it, because I totally expect that. I did NOT expect this.

And Mommy Wong, can you please stop throwing in "and when you get into Harvard and Stanford and Yale..." into your emails to me. It's not going to happen, and that's ok, but I'd rather YOU be happy with reality than happy with an unrealistic distortion of it. Not *everyone* in our family can dance, not *everyone* in our family takes great photos, and I am not getting into HYS.

For a bit of levity, here is one of the photos I mentioned before that I saved in order to use when I get bad news from law schools. This is a photo of the steps leading up to a Harvard classroom. Could it look any more ominous? No wonder people at Harvard are unhappy...




















VC

VC Lashes Out

...and makes an 8 cent profit!

Since I've managed to totally ignore things of global importance ranging from bird flue, to Sharon, to the Paris riots, I figured I'd use my intellectual energy and spare time to send my thoughts (mostly negative) to the author of this editorial piece about Michelle Kwan's quest go to her third olympic games (read it -- it's really short).

This was the email I sent him:

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

Just read your editorial on the Kwan petition, and while I like your sense of humour, I think the journalism is far from rigorous (and I'm not even a die-hard Kwan fan).

The vast majority of voters who recused themselves did so not because of personal relationships to Kwan (although you make it sound like this was exclusively the case in your article), but because they had personal relationships with competitor skaters (eg: as coaches), or were themselves competitor skaters who held spots on the "international committee." This is just basic research.

Regarding self-aggrandizing manipulation of the system, I hardly think that that's what this petition is about. As the committee has said, it's their job to get medals -- no one is going to be impressed with Kwan if she can't land a jump, least of all herself, and that's what this petition-vote-test skate process is about. If ANY skater (Kwan or not) cannot skate, then they petition -- it's not an aberration of the system, but the system at work.

It's not like some skating diva said "I don't feel like trying out" and expected people to bow to her will. It's written into to skating bylaws that this petition process exists, and it exists for a reason (namely: last-minute injuries that might make traditional skater comparisons difficult); in fact, you might recall that the last time it was invoked was to bump 13yo Kwan off the team when Nancy Keragan was attacked. What is not written into the bylaws is that the US Nationals is a definitive "olympic trails" (as you say in your article). In fact, it's explicitly stated that this is not the case -- the top performer from US Nationals is to be taken as an auto-admit to the Olympic team, and the next two spots are to be determined by vote (normally the vote follows the US trials, but it needn't necessarily do so).

That is part of what makes your PGA and NASCAR analogies so erroneous -- this was not an ad hoc system made for Kwan, but a system that allows for the selection of a medal-winning team that is flexible enough to take injuries into account.

I also don't really understand your revelation that this is about medals. Of course this is about medals -- it's the job of the national competition to provide PART of the criterion for the committee to decide who is most likely to earn medals. You seem to have a vision of a system that should serve itself (and not have medals as its secret agenda), arguing that it's unfair for the third place national finisher to be bumped as part of a greedy Olympic medals quest. This is inconsistent, though, with your desire to have US Nationals be the exclusive Olympic trials. If you think that Olympic selection should be based entirely on one system, then that system needs to serve the goal of the Olympics, and that is winning medals. It would be a waste of all the money (including tax payer money) being poured into the training of US athletes for it to serve anything else. Kwan didn't petition to be awarded third place at nationals -- Hughes has that and it stands alone; she petitioned to have her candidacy for the US Olympic team be considered, as has happened in the past and is part of US figure skating Olympic selection rules, considered outside the domain of the US national competition, the burden on any petitioner being to prove that (s)he is the most qualified to win the US medals at the Olympics.

I like your sarcastic (almost snotty, actually) style, but I think it was a bit misdirected, and, in the few instances I've described here (eg: your description of the judges who recused themselves, the "olympic trials," and the comparison to NASCAR and golf) is simply incorrect.

I do appreciate any article that includes a dig at the Abramoff scandal, though :)

Just my two cents,

Veiled Chunk

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

Here is his reply (very prompt!)

mr. chunk,

thanks for taking the time to read and write back.

while i did not attend the nationals in st. louis, what i learned of the international committee and the reasons for the low number of votes was through the internet and from a bunch of news services and reporters that did cover the event.

from what i've heard and read, kwan is not some high-maintenance diva. she's simply using the system to her advantage.

maybe my golf and nascar analogies were off base. perhaps i should have mentioned other olympic sports trials. if maurice greene had been hurt going into the u.s. sprint trials or false-started his way out, did he have similar recourse? if swimmer michael phelps was rehabbing a torn shoulder muscle or dq'd at the trials for an illegal turn, would the usoc say: don't worry, you're coming anyway?

i also looked at the salt lake and nagano teams, where the top 3 finishers at the u.s. trials were the olympic skaters. as i told someone else, the kwan-kerrigan situation in '94 was justified. when you're essentially kneecapped by another competitor, that's about as extenuating as circumstances get.

i know the olympics are about medals. it would be more honest if those involved would just say so. say: 'these may look like trials, but they're not. the winner goes, and all of us suits then decide everybody else you cheer for.'

believe me, i appreciate your thoughts. they're worth at least a dime. take care.

dave fairbank

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

I am tempted to point him towards Serena Williams's last selection to the Olympics over Lisa Raymond in doubles (keeping in mind that Lisa Raymond had been #1 in the world in doubles for a few YEARS), and the consistently opaque process through which the girl's (I use that language deliberately) gymnastics team is selected -- part trials, part behind-the-scenes training camp assessment, part smoke-filled-room debates. I would ALSO remind him that the sports in which we are most strict about trails (eg: track and field) are sports in which we are basically guaranteed a medal whether or not the trial accurately selects the top athlete (because usually our third or fourth best runner can get a medal).

Oh well :)

Feel a little bad that I lied about being a die-hard Kwan fan to gain credibility, but not that bad ;)

VC

Double Wins

...For Pookie and Martina Hingis!

I had beed reluctant to blog about Martina Hingis's comeback, and about her first round match at the Australian Open especially, because I was worried about jinxing her. For the same reason, I hadn't shared with those closest to me the *fantastic* news that Pookie had reached an agreement on a new flat in New York.

I've been thinking about it though, and I realized that Madame Wong would be very disappointed (not really -- I can't ever disappoint her because she loves me so much and I'm so close to perfect ;p) by how superstitious I'd become (eg: over Ricco Gross, Hingis, Pookie...), because she has always said that she doesn't believe in superstition OR luck ("We make our own luck!"), and I think that this really is demonstrated by both Hingis and Pookie (a weird comparison, I know).

Hingis just played a *gorgeous* (literally) match with Zvonareva, crushing her 6-1 6-2, and it had NOTHING to do with getting lucky -- it had to do with a lot of talent and thousands of hours on court. Pookie has reached an agreement on great Murray Hill flat that ALSO had nothing to do with luck, but about shrewd market timing, clear (post-Moscow) thinking, hard work looking for flats and setting realistic search parameters, and working for more than two decades (WOW!) in private law to make this kind of purchase possible.

These kinds of people do not need luck.

They can use our well-wishing, though, so let's send some colletive optimism their way that Hingis continues to make an impressive comeback to professional tennis, and that Pookie gets approval from the co-op board.

Let's not spread our good wishes too thin: I could compile a list a mile long of things we could wish for for Desi Puppy and the whole rest of the bunch...even for Martina and Pookie there is more road ahead than behind: Hingis needs to remain injury free and Pookie needs to finish upgrading his current flat, find good buyers who are themselves co-op approved, etc. For now, though, my blog wish is that they both continue with lots of success (tomorrow, which is a day off for Hingis :) I might focus my psychic positive energy on friend's job searches or my own law school aps!).

Anyway, YAY for the good news for two people I want good things for!

On a totally unrelated note, check out this CRAZY photo of Serena Williams's booty. I could be biting by 1000 mosquitoes while brushing my teeth and it would NEVER look like that!

As a former student of art history, I have to say that I think that the photo was deliberately constructed with the dog's anus in full/direct view so as to send the subconscious message that it is THAT area of the subject (Serena) that we are to focus on (it "points," iconographically, to her luscious booty).




















Sidenote: Think the Jack Russell could get Murray Hill co-op approval? Could Serena's booty?

VC

Bad Dreams and Sports News

What happened in real life last night: A mosquito *bit my ass* (like almost between the cheeks!) while I was brushing my teeth through my underwear. The downside is that I have a constant urge to scratch my butt; the upside is that I must have a pretty firm rear, otherwise it would have been jiggling* too much while brushing my teeth for the little bug to land and have his bootyliscious feast. I then fell asleep watching the US Open.

*When I originally typed that sentence, my inability to spell (and the inability of MSWord SpellCheck to understand intent) had me talking about "giggling" rather than "jiggling." I just want it stated, in case I ever make a similar spelling error that I do not catch and correct, that under NO circumstances does my ass ever, EVER giggle.

What happened in my dream world (you can see the transformation of what happened at night to what I dreamed about): I was being chased by spiders (but like BIG spiders, like the size of crabs...not really chased but they were pursuing me in my flat and I kept having to smash them), and was slated to play world #1 (and Swiss hottie) Roger Federer in the first round of the Australian Open. It was really high pressure (duh) because *no one had ever seen me play.* I was a rumoured phenom, but everyone knew I wasn't a pro and had never played a match like that. I had all this public support in Australia (and from a coaching team), though, because people kept saying: "You've never done it before, but you can, now. It's in you even if it's never been used." It's kind of like I've always said: Anyone with well-functioning limbs and medium stature can physically make the MOTION that generates a 120mph serve, the problem is that it takes most people 15 years of non-stop tennis coaching to be able to do that...similarly, I could *theoretically* hit a forehand the same as Roger Federer, it's just infinitely unlikely. SO, in this match, it was like I needed to hope for this serendipitous moment where I'd hit shot after shot at his level, and I kind of woke up when we went on court, but I remember it hitting me that I could not count on a miracle streak of points, and kept flashing back to the spiders chasing me.

I'll end my tennis news (guess this wasn't really NEWS lol: "Veiled Chunk Dreams He Plays Roger Federer in Meblourne, Rumoured to Suffer From Arachnophobia"), by this FANTASTICALLY attitde-y quote from Venus williams in her post-match interview after losing to unknown Bulgarian teen, Tsvetana Pironkova, in the first round of the AO:

Q. Why should we believe that you'll be back to where you were?

VENUS WILLIAMS: Well, I think that at the end of the day, I don't care if you believe or anyone else believes in here, because it's me. So believe what you want to. There's always going to be nay sayers. You may be one of them, I don't know. Guess what, I don't care.

My last sports update (and I'm too lazy to lookup the actual name, times, etc.) is that an Ethiopian runner has broken ANOTHER long-distance world record, this time setting a half-marathon (just over 13 miles) time of less than 59 minutes. Curie ran her first half-marathon EVER in the Fall (I think I blogged about it, actually), and finished in about 99 minutes. Now, I realize that percentage-wise (and minutes/mile wise) this sounds like a big difference, but really, what IS 40 minutes? I can hardly brush my teeth, get my ass eaten by a mosquito, and since my morning Whitney Houston repertoire while attempting to get dressed in 40 minutes. To me, Curie is stunningly close to breaking the world record, at least when her distance from it is measured by what I can accomplish in the time she'd have to shave-off her debut finish, which is almost nothing.

The two TOTALLY unrelated photos with this post are of Martina Hingis (I LOVE HER!) practicing her volley's in preparation of her first round match, tomorrow, at the Australian Open. I'm SO nervous for her! It's an oddly beautiful photo (she has a very untraditional beauty about her). The second photo is of another favorite athlete of mine, Michelle Kwan, doing a cool laid-back spin. I haven't bothered to blog about all her injuries drama, the drama about her provisional selection for the Olympics, etc., but let's just hope that she's healthy and can finally take the gold!

VC

CNN Farsi F*ck-Up

I just happened to be watching CNN when the anchor off handedly remarked, at the end of a story about Iran and EU-3 negotiations, that it wanted to correct an interpretation error it made last week in translating a speech by Iran's President Ahmedinejad.

CNN translated his comments as: "Iran has the right to nuclear weapons."

The correct translation, CNN now says a week later, was actually something basically identical to: "Iran has the right to nuclear energy. Civilized nations do not have the need for nuclear weapons. Iran does not have the need for nuclear weapons."

???

I'm sorry, but I think my deceased cat could have gotten the original translation more on point.* This borders on grossly irresponsible, in my opinion, especially since there has since been global outrage about his comments, MUCH of that outrage in response to what was seen on the news (one would presume) and reproduced *as things are* with increasing hysteria through mass media conglomerates.

I mean it's as if they were to say something like: "Gore takes Florida," or "12 miners alive, one dead." I mean can you IMAGINE?

Oh wait. You Can.

VC

*Granted, Qi was a really intelligent kitty and, like Ricco Gross, was a genius polyglot.

Iron Chunk

It's supposed to be a pun on both Iron Chef and Iron Man...

Why?

Because today is my first day back at the gym *and* my first day cooking!

It's 1:30 and as the housekeeper is about to arrive, I'm going to AUC to submit my passport for residency renewal, and visit the security office to report a harasser who has been calling more than 15 times/day for the past 5 days or so (just some random person who speaks no English and probably just dials my number randomly) -- won't get into all the failed steps I tried to take, already, to solve that problem, because then I'll feel frustrated and unmotivated :) I'll then head over to the Hyatt for a workout (with my new Nano) and lunch with a book that I'll review, later. Tonight will be heavy Arabic, as classes resume tomorrow, and I want to make a work plan for what I'll be doing outside Kalimat (my language school) to supplement my learning.

On the horizon, I also want to tighten up the work that I did last semester on humanitarian law and the insurgency in Iraq, so that it's fit for the Harvard web-portal (did I already explain that, here?), and will need to start working, on the 17th, on the syllabus for the course that I'm TA-ing in the Spring (Human Rights in the Middle East and Africa).

We'll see if the lentils actually get cooked, tonight, since I might be having lentils later at the Hyatt, but they are sitting in my flat, now, so I have everything I need to make my first meal...ever (other than hot pockets).

VC

Edit: I forgot that Ricco is racing in the men's pursuit, today! Might have to come home after AUC, as that starts at 3:30PM...then gym before dinner. But what to do with the housekeeper?? Have her come back on Thursday. Yes, that's the plan.

Maria Callas Diet

*Loving* the BBC special I'm watching right now on "The Tigress" opera diva Maria Callas.

Just wanted to say that she went from obese to slim in about two seconds and you know her secret? Steak tartare :) aka: a tapeworm from uncooked meat.

I'm going to go lick the streets in Cairo's butchery district now,* and pray for a tapeworm. By the way -- the "name that worm" competition I had more than a month ago on this blog? The answer was tapeworm. It's like a Veiled Chunk leitmotif!

"All my tears can never bring his love to me" (name that opera!) ended up being all too true for Callas, though, and I have to say that hearing her speak about her pursuit of Onassis -- who totally chose Jackie Kennedy over her -- reminds me a lot of my early romantic decisions (how's THAT for narcissism?). You work and work for someone (in my case an Evil Russian, in her case a Greek billionaire...ok so I should have set the bar higher lol) and then you look back on the isolation and secrecy and everything you lost (basically your life) and are both stunned by your own stupidity and loss of power and devastated by all that you didn't end up with combined with all that you lost. Good thing I moved on...she didn't. It sounds like people like to depict her death two years after Onassis died as the tragic (but strong-willed) female following her life pursuit to the grave. I don't know about that. I think that suicide happens when you really feel yourself to be removed from the system...like almost physically -- like you could die and literally EVERYTHING in the world would go on as it did before...you only kill yourself when you feel you've already ceased to exist (this is my impression). In any case, I'd like to think that her death was something more sublime than the willed-suicide of a tortured woman frustrated by lost love and a faded career, but why should anyone focus on hero (or in this case: heroine) narratives around her death, when she obviously was a legend in life. Personally I don't care how or why she died when I hear the high E she hit in Mexico singing in Aida -- either Onassis nor cracked-voice performances during a short London comeback can take that from her (let's hope Martina Hingis remembers that if things don't go so well for her).

Wow -- from tapeworms to suicide to Swiss tennis players. I'm really all over the place!

Off to have coffee with a Syrian film critic who lives nearby. The things I'll do for a visa ;p (kidding!).

VC

*There is no such thing, as far as I know, as a Cairene butchery district, and if there were, I certainly wouldn't know where it would be found.

Ricco is En Route

His back is better (I massaged it lots the other day) and is in the 10km spring in Ruhpolding AS WE SPEAK.

I'm so nervous.

He's cleared all the targets on the prone and standing shoots but is not all that fast right now on the snow -- in 2nd beind a really fast French guy (Poiree).

Will update!

VC

EDIT: My lover is 10 seconds out of the lead with a Russian now 6 seconds ahead of him for second.

EDIT: AH! Another German is 0.4 seconds ahead of him and he's rumoured to accelerate (which Ricco doesn't).

Edit: NO! Some Swede (who's only 20! I DETEST YOUNGER GUYS!) is now in 2nd.

It's hard to compare in these races because everyone stars at different times, do you can only compare split times.

Edit: Gross is across the line and can do no better than 2nd because someone finished ahead of him already. Some other German just finished (Wolfgan Rottman -- fastest skiier but sucked on the standing shoot) and his heart rate is 178 beats per minute.

Edit: AH! Someone else just finished ahead of Ricco. Ok I can't update again until it's ALL over, beecause it's making me neurotic and sad :(

Edit: Not done yet but wanted to say that the 20yo burned out :) HA! Ricco in 4th at the moment, but one another German is almost guaranteed to beat him, so I'm praying for 5th

Edit: OMG I jinxed my babe AGAIN! The 20 somehow managed to shoot EVERY standing target in like 1 second and even though he fell ON HIS FACE in the snow skiing out of the range, is like 15 seconds in the lead! Which puts 123 as German-French-German, and then Ricco probably in 6th :(

Edit: The 20yo put in an unbeatable time and 123 is Germany-France-Germany (so far). My only satisfaction is that the youngster was filmed in slow motion at the finish making some kind of oddly-fascist salute, kissing his fist while snot and spit stuck to his hand -- the most unglamorous part of this sport being that by the end they are COVERED in semi-frozen snot and drool. Oh...and he's 22, not 20.

Edit: The 22yo just got bumped by someone I don't dislike as much. Bad for my baby, good for my jealousy of the 22yo German. Looks like my babe is in 7th :(

But whatever, I don't love him because he's a championship skiier...or because he's extremely hot...or because he loves dogs and is a polyglot and is extremely hot (oh wait, I already said that). I love him because of who he is INSIDE -- which is an extremely hot championship skiier polyglot dog-lover ;p

VC

One Approach To Marriage

I had dinner last night with a close friend who I've mentioned a few times on the blog -- it was his auction where I met Leopold -- we'll call him "Glam" (which is how he signs all his emails lol), and he was telling me all about his friends from Vanderbuilt, and one of them sounds like SUCH a hoot.

I think Dr. Juicey and a certain Nocal Desi I know will like this story, especially...

A friend of Glam's from Vanderbuilt married the Director of Deutschebank in Japan (he is German), and their children grew up speaking English, German, French, and Japanese. Not the point, but still impressive.

Anyway, he (like some other pookies I know?) sometimes just needed to get away from everyone (especially her lol) and escape, and she understood and permitted that...but every time he disappeared for a weekend (about every two months he'd go for a few days into hiding) she demanded payment. She accepted cash payment or jewels, and he knew the routine: he'd disappear, return, and with no drama and not a word of condemnation from his wife, a bill from some auction house would come to him for some necklace or bracelent, and he'd pay up. It was quite the system. After many years of marriage, his disappearing routine landed her a villa in Hawaii and mansion in coastal texas with its own guesthouse and infinity pool.

One day, he came home, and told her: "I don't love you any more." His (teenage) children were there with them in the house. She said: "That's fine. Go tell your children that." He did. She then told him: "If you want a divorce then I understand that, but I hope you understand that I am going to take everything." He told her that he was miserable within the confines of marriage and was sorry. She told him that he didn't need to apologize, and that she didn't have a problem if he needed a divorce to save his own hapiness -- it was totally up to him...but she was gonna take everything. And she did.

Well wouldn't you know it, a year or two later, he came back to her and told her that while he was miserable in marriage, he wanted to work on things, because he was equally incomplete outside marriage. Glam told me that it would be obscene to even REPEAT the kind of contract she made him sign to get back together...I'm guessing she now owns a group of small islands off Okinawa.

I just thought it was hilarious.

There's no real moral to the story. I like a husband who knows when he should pay, and I like a wife who knows when to stand her ground. That said, I think that there must have been a better system for his wallet and BOTH their sanity that the disappear-payoff-disappear-payoff cycle. I think that people should pay for occassional transgressions (as an act of apology and as a display of one's intention to not repeat), but when something becomes habitual, it's time to take it to a counselor (that he should pay for lol).

VC

Chunky Predictions: Women in the Australian Open

Begining with the Quarter Finals:

Q1: Henin v. Davenport = Henin to Semis
(this will require Henin defeating Venus Williams in the Round of 16, and a tough match between Davenport and Kuznetsova in the Round of 16, as well)

Q2: Serena Williams v. Dementieva = Serena to Semis
(this is a complicated result: Serena comes up against Sharapova in the Round of 16, and hopefully will upset her; I also am thinking that Dementieva will upset Petrova, so basically neither Serena nor Dementieva are seeded to reach the Quarters but I hope they both will…the other lurker in this Quarter is Serbian Jelena Jankovic, who could defeat Dementieva in the Third Round, and herself come up against Petrova in the Round of 16, with the winner of that match going on to play the winner of the Serena v. Sharapova Round of 16 match)

Q3: Mauresmo v. Schneyder = Mauresmo to Semis
(this is according to the seeding – I think there is a chance Myskina could upset Schneyder in the Round of 16, but I’d still pick Mauresmo over Myskina)

Q4: Clijsters v. Hingis = Hingis to Semis
(ok, now, this one takes a lot of explanation: first of all, Hingis is my favourite player EVER, as I already mentioned, so I have to pick her to win some things that might not be the smartest bet; this is one of those cases…Hingis has a tough first round match against the most unstable on-court personality I have ever seen – and I totally feel for her for that lol – Vera Zvonareva; if Hingis makes it past Zvonareva, then I think she’s good until the Third Round where she’ll meet Mary Pierce; if Hingis beats Pierce, then I think she’ll also survive her Round of 16 Match and make it to the Quarters…in that sense, I’m optimistic: Hingis needs to beat Zvonareva and Pierce and she’s in the Quarters!...that’s the top half of this quarter…in the other half, you have Clijsters as the clear favourite, except that her hip and her back might be a little messed up, which I’m hoping will carry her through to the Quarters, if Italian Francesca Schiavone – the most Italian woman EVER – doesn’t upset her in the Round of 16, but hopefully a little injured, too…which would allow Hingis to upset her in the Quarters – or flat-out beat Schiavone if Clijsters is upset earlier)

This leaves the Semis as: Henin v. Serena and Mauresmo v. Hingis. It makes me salivate. I think that, while BOTH are rusty, Henin and Hingis can both pull it out, which puts Henin and Hingis in my dream final.

Sadly for my #1 Swiss star, I’m picking Henin for the final, but I think it’s *enough* of a success story (for now, at least) for Hingis to make it to the finals of the Australian Open.

VC

Pray for My Ricco

Disaster: My baby Ricco Gross has injured his back and was pulled out of Germany's relay team, today, in Ruhpolding (which is in Germany, FYI, AND is Gross's hometown!).

There is a lot of speculation, now, that he will be deselected from the German olympic team, despite the fact that, according to Eurosport commentators, he has won THREE gold medals with the German relay team and FIVE world championship golds with them, as well. They also called him "THE most reliable servant to Germany over the last 15 years," which would have been, of course, a pretty dubious distinction 60 years ago.

While you're praying for athletes I love, put in a few good words to whomever you look towards (I'm so hungry right now, my choice would be: Large Cheese Pizza with light sauce) for Martina Hingis and Justine Henin for the upcoming Aussie Open. My fantasy semifinals (although I haven't seen the draw to know if it's even possible) would have Hingis wining the final over Henin, after Hingis beats Mauresmo in the Semis, and Henin beats Pierce. Not that you care (AT ALL), my favourite players go like this:

Always Henin, unless she is playing Hingis (my real #1)
Always Mauresmo, unless she is playing Henin or Hingis
Always Pierce, unless she is playing one of the three
Otherwise, I'm rooting for Serena

There are of course emotional victories I'd love for Hingis/Henin to have (like I could have said "Henin over Davenport in the semis and Hingis over Sharapova") but then my OTHER faves couldn't have made it that far in the tournament, which makes me sad.

VC

Jinxed Ma Babe

I’m so sad! Part of my Eurosport obsession has made me an avid follower of biathalons. Today I watched a riveting race in which the German women were like krystalnacht all over again (if that’s even how you spell it). There was ONE Russian woman and ONE French woman in the top 8, and I swear all the others were German. The camera was set at the finish, which is just past the last climb/turn of the race, and I swear these girls just kept turning the corner and sliding and attacking the finish, poles and skis like Deutsche-Terminator or something. You’d have to see it. It was intimidating and frightening in that kind of thrilling way (like when you used to see all the Soviet gymnasts rock ALL their routines without sweating or smiling).

In the men’s race, though, I totally jinxed my lover. Now, since I’ve already BOTH asserted my saintly celibacy and repeatedly made reference to my romantic designs on one NYC Pookie, I should qualify this by saying that by “lover” I mean “hot athlete who I have seen a few times on TV and who, now that Pookie is frolicking with some Muscovite snow dancer somewhere in Novisibirsk, I am adopting as my fantasy man.” Let the fantasy begin…

His name is Ricco. Hey is SERIOUSLY Ricco. Ricco Gross – kind of an Italian-turned-German thing.

The fantasy background that I’ve made up for us is that we met one year ago when I was in Zurich. We were in the same shop looking at Freitag (Friday) Swiss recycled-truck bags (found at the Bloomie’s in SoHo for you NYCers) and he was so impressed with my pronunciation of “Freitag” when he overheard me asking the salesperson a question about the bag that that he approached me and said (in German, which I don’t speak but I of course understand): “You sound German when you speak, but have the face of a Eurasian angel and the body of a devil.”

I blushed and pretended to be offended by his forwardness (in English): “Actually I’m from Monaco” (like I’d tell him the truth in our first meeting? Egypt has taught me better…) “and I appreciate the compliments, but I’d be more impressed with someone who noticed my mind than my body.”

HE then said in flawless French: “Before becoming an Olympic biathlete, I was a PhD Candidate in Heidelberg in continental philosophy.”

At this, I picked up the bag I was looking at, opened the flap, grabbed a pen off the counter, and wrote my number ON the inside of the bag (the salesperson was totally shocked) closed the bag, handed it to him, said “buy it and call me,” and walked away.

I took the trolly to the river, where I sat by some non-hissing swans (Swiss swans are SUPER well-behaved!), and thought about how I wished I lived in Switzerland and not Egypt. Deep in reverie, I barely noticed Ricco approach me – barely noticed, that is, until he held me at gunpoint. Don’t be scared (even though I was): he jokingly had his beebie rifle pressed against my neck and said in my right ear: “One move and I’m throwing the bag in the river.”

I grinned: “I wouldn’t recommend that. It will just be such a hassle for you when I push you into the river and make you retrieve it for me.”

He sat down next to me and we properly introduced ourselves. As it turns out, Switzerland is his favourite country, too, and it was by total coincidence that he’d come to the same spot by the swans, where he said he’s also spent many a contemplative moment.

I was leaving for NYC the next day, and he had to go to some world championships of biathlon or something, but since that day he has called me religiously at least once a week, and we have often met in a cabin of his on Lake Geneva. I’m really popular with his biathlon buddies, mostly because they see how much happier (and faster on the snow) Ricco is, now that I’m in his life.

Just so you know a bit more about him, here are some photos. I took these photos of him training during the summer in Afghanistan (can you believe the sweetheart followed me there just to make sure I was safe!?), and I particularly love the one of him doing the standing shoot (no giggles!). The one of him on the ski rollerblades going up the paved hill might surprise you, because there aren’t very many paved roads in Afghanistan, but the big humanitarian sweetheart that he is PAVED A ROAD that he not only used as a practice track, but was also used by wheelchair-bound widows to get from mosque to market. So thoughtful, he is.

I have a cute photo of him on the podium from last March in Norway, and I know you are all wondering “did he dedicate the victory to you?” The answer is no, he did not – he actually dedicated it to Madame Wong (they really hit it off, because he has crazy taste in furniture, too), and promised to dedicate his immanent gold medal at this year’s Torino Olympics to me.

The last photo I have to share with you is of him looking over the rifle with chilling intensity at a race I was at in northern Greece last winter. I was having a bit of a stalking problem when the Shooto fighter known as “Shaolin,” pictured in my blog, below, got wind of my blogging about him, fell madly in love, and wouldn’t leave me alone. Poor Ricco had to always carry extra bullets in his riffle whenever we were together, just in case Shaolin appeared out of nowhere, and in this race he had a sixth sense intuition that Shaolin was nearby. We’re SO connected in that way.

I know you are all wondering – is he as intense off the shooting range as he is on the shooting range? The answer is: HE SURE IS! Let’s just say I’ve seen that look more than once ;)

Sadly, though, I totally jinxed him in today’s race (that was the whole point of this ridiculous story, actually) – he was in the lead going into the final shoot, had cleared the last set of targets in record time (less than 25 seconds), and then he missed TWO of the five targets on the last shoot. He is trying to peak for the Olympics, so today’s tournament wasn’t SO important, but the poor babe gets SO upset when he doesn’t perform to the highest level, it took about two hours of cuddling him and BOTH Legally Blonde DVDs to calm him down. I’m flying back to Cairo, tonight, and won’t see him again until Italy, but win or lose we’re spending a few days together on Lake Como after Torino, and I am really looking forward to being together again.

(on a serious note: he is a real hottie and did TOTALLY blow it on today’s final shoot; I seem to be jinxing ALL my favourite athletes: Hingis lost in Sydney, Federer lost today, although to another hot German who I like, and Kwan is injured and has to PETITION to be on the US Olympic Team!)

I may have said this on my blog, before, or maybe I just said it privately to Curie, but I think I would be an EXCELLENT biathlete. I’m good at accuracy/practice/precision things like shooting, and I think that I’m built a lot like the biathletes (I can just tell it would be a motion that my body would feel good doing – especially the climbs and that double-polled lunging that they do more in sprints), BUT – and this is why Curie and I concluded that I couldn’t really do any form of cross-country skiing, I can’t turn my feet out (Ricco doesn’t consider my pigeon toedness to be a deformity, but alas it limits my biathlon abilities) and almost ALL of the skiing positions require a bow-legged turned-out position…people like me would just trip over their crossed skis.

VC

Hating On Yale

Just wanted to say that Yale is going WAY overboard on its website in terms of trying to appear diverse. I don't have a problem with diversity -- I have a problem with borderline-desperate efforts to APPEAR diverse. It's like Yale's new marketing device is to make us think we're on the BET webpage.

I have been keeping some of the webpage bloopers of top law schools that will soon reject me just so I can feel better about being refused admission, and although Yale has not YET given me the thumbs down, I am compelled to start my hating early (love the school, hate the website).

First of all, of the three people who appear in photos on the official YLS homepage (www.law.yale.edu -- I don't want to link to it because I'm paranoid that they will track back to my blog) two ("students" and "alumni") are black, and one is the asian dean ("faculty"). Now, I love 'em, but isn't Yale trying a LITTLE hard to appear to not occupy the penthouse suite in the proverbial ivory tower? More outrageous is the photo, shown here and taken from the main financial aid webpage, of a bunch of black students sitting around laughing and studying (the only photo on the Financial Aid main page). WHAT IS THE MESSAGE? “If they can afford it, so can you!” or “Yale’s Blacks LOVE them some financial aid!” ?? It’s so odd. All the other people in other sections of the website are wearing v-neck sweaters and seem to be jcrew models while not studying at YLS, and this bunch is pictured in tshirts and (I can barely say it) OVERALLS and baseball caps. They may as well have a bucket of KFC, as far as Yale is concerned.

The other weird thing about the Yale Law School webpage, and I don’t even remember where I found this (back in September or October) is its school crest, which to me looks like a cheap East Village tarot card.














VC

More Royksopp

Merry Christmas to me!

I took no trips, I saved the money on my Arabic course at AUC, and I bought a pot to start cooking: aka -- I'm saving money.

SO, to celebrate, I bought myself a much needed Christmas gift: MY NEW BLACK iPOD-NANO!

It's gorgeous. I've named it Panda Pod (did I already talk about non-mating Pandas in an earlier blog? If not, then remind me to).

Anyway, since I'm listening to the aforementioned Royksopp on my new Panda Pod, I decided to finally edit the lyrics, below, from "Only This Moment" (read them again: It's a fantastic song with an equally fantastic video), and also include another song before I dash off to finally get my haircut and have lunch (and go to the gym with my new iPOD!):

Some of the lyrics are REALLY good (and some of the songs are REALLY bad lol), this song -- which I don't particularly like -- "49%" has a some great lines related to infidelity:

I won't try to dent your night, or stop your flight
I've known our plight
You know I'm right

I know about your little fling
How you hide your ring
You senseless thing -- I'll cut this string

The heat has simmered for a while
It's not my style -- so versatile, and with a smile...

When you kissed your toad, you killed your princely episode...

****

Actually that last line is my favourite.

The song "Circuit Breaker" is great -- personally, I think it depicts a kind of "love" that sounds hot, but is not what I would want for myself. It's a bit over the top, unsustainable, etc., but I do really like some of the words (I'm impressed by the poetry of this one):

What is that vitalizing sound?
Calling me
In my head
Repeatedly

What is that visionary sight?
Before my eyes
So prominent
So mesmerizing turbulent

You've got a hold on me
Your ingenuity
Seems to be driving me
down on my knees

The force you generate
You reinvigorate
Your body talks
and overstates

****

I LOVE that -- your body talks and overstates. There are other snippets here and there that are really good ("this candid chemistry").

Since this is a blog about ME, though, and not about Swedish electronic artists, I'll end with a song that in some ways feels apropos right now (of course, like all songs, it is limited in its applicability to my life and would require all kinds of qualifications). Unfortunately, I hate the actual song, but the lyrics are very well done: "Follow My Ruin"

Down below a faded glow
Vibrant key without a tone
Realize in here it's cold
I can only let it snow

Words were said so long ago
Left a mark, an open sore
You go fast, I'm burnin' slow
Hate to say I knew you'd go

So much going on
And I wish to hold on
So much going on
And I cannot let go

Past the trees that hide our love
Hurry now it's time to go
Make this moment matter more
Show me like you did before

Words were said so long ago
Face defeat and take the blow
So naive now I know more
Won't forget the things before

****

CNN is SO ridiculous! Iran has made the announcement that it's resuming nuclear research and CNN is discussing the story with the headline "Iran Nuclear Standoff" -- HUH? Wouldn't a nuclear standoff be, like, if Pakistan and India had warheads pointed at each other a la Cuban missile crisis? THAT, to me, is a standoff -- not a country announcing (with invites to international journalists and the IAEA) that it's resuming nuclear research.

Gotta shower.

VC

Yalla, Ciao, Bye!

Well Pookie is off to Moscow. I'm kind of worried he's going to return with some PhD physicist ice dancer -tuned- gay tour guide, but since I know first-hand what being in a relationship with a traditional Russian man is like, we'll just wish him luck ;p

No, joking aside (since I know you all follow his life just as much as you do mine!) he has just put his home on the market in NYC and is hammering out a lot of tough decisions about where he will be next and what he will be doing (the "with whom?" questions obviously needs to be answered AFTER the where and what), and I think this trip will be really good for him...plus Russian art is fantastic, and it's such a historically-interesting place.
He is spending the next two days in Amsterdam en route, and I actually planned an intercept trip that would have me there at 10PM tonight and in the Swisshotel (only $130/night!) and I could even visit Den Haag (former stomping ground of Hawk Barbie!) after he continued on to Moscow for $50 roundtrip on the train, but I think he needs his space. I don't mean to sound Panglossian about it, but I think that it will all end up for the best, and I think that when you really love someone, you stop asking yourself (except for certain rare moments of need) "where do I fit in" and focus more on how their lives are going and whether or not they are happy. I certainly see this with my mother, as well as my best friends -- Curie and Juicy and Barbie and Desi are not normally sitting around feeling sorry for themselves because I'm not with them, they are thinking about my life and how they can better support me, and that's what love really is.

Or...........love can be different....Or at least lovin' can lol --> Now, it would not be a blogosphere exaggeration to say that my sex life is about as boring as the Virgin Mary's (that should be my new screen name!), but in an interesting pre-development (meaning: it hasn't developed into anything and probably won't, because I'm *happy* to be the Virgin Mary...except I'd spell it "Marie" since I think it looks better), I was at dinner a few nights ago -- the Hard Rock night actually -- and as it turns out, I was noticed...and not just by Bin Laden and his body guards!

A friend of mine who we will call Leopold (because his real life name is seriously THAT "my parents are historical Egyptian elites and named me after a random Belgian king because that's what rich people, especially ones who do not want their Coptic son named 'Mohammed' used to do" -- French-speaking family etc.) who was our dinner companion with Lord of the Dance, called me today to tell me that we were spotted at the restaurant by a friend of his. To toot my own horn, this is actually the second time in the past 4 months (actually that sounds really sad, now that I think about it) that I've been spotted and later hunted down at a restaurant, but anyway, this guy called Leopold and told him that he wanted to know me (we all know what THAT means) and asked for my number. Leopold called to ask for permission, and the conversation went something like this:

VC: Hello? Leopold? I'm brushing my teeth.

L: Don't tell someone that. Would you say that you are wiping your ass? You are expected to be beautiful and shining with no effort.

VC: Saying I'm wiping my ass and brushing my teeth are two totally different things. Oral hygiene is something that people really value morally. Besides, what are you, a Victorian Woman? [I wanted to tell him about this poem called "Cecilia" that I read as a senior in high school that pokes fun at the dark underbelly of Victorian beauty, talking about a woman in her toilet preparing to go out, and her ear wax, and her bugers, and then, at the end, the disgusting revelation: "Cecilia, Cecilia, Cecilia shits!" -- but I didn't think he'd appreciate the anecdote, as we aren't on that kind of high school anecdotal basis with each other]

{fastforward through him telling me that the other night someone saw us and that's why he's calling, and me saying that it couldn't have been me and that it was either LoTD or the slutty American who was stripping for the Gulfis *or* he's passing me on to someone and making up a story to make it sound "social" and therefore legitimate}

L: He's a GREAT guy. Very intelligent, very very very good background. Upper upper middle class.

VC {chuckling, because in Egypt you wouldn't, especially if you are from a family like Leopold's, consider anyone middle class to be from a good background -- but his value set has changed since his family moved to San Diego, he saw a country like the US with a real middle class, combined with the fact that he has slept with so many REALLY ghetto guys that he is able to recognize shades of grey between the street and the elite}: Ok, so he's married, right?

L: Yeah he's married. But you like that.

VC: I DO NOT LIKE THAT! I like *older* guys, and here they all happen to be married, but that's why I can't be with anyone!

L: You can't expect people to change. He drives a BMW.

VC: You said it's impolite to talk about BMs over the phone *laughing*

L {silence -- puzzled -- a little dim, at least so far I think so, but not because he's ACTUALLY dim, just because here most lamps only handle 60 watt bulbs, and so 100 watt bulbs tend to tone it down a bit so they can be screwed in somewhere ... YOU figure the analogy out! ... and no, Desi, it's not about sex}: So, I will have him call you. He's a really great guy.

VC: Then why aren't YOU with him, Leo?

L: He's too much for me.

VC: What does that mean?

{repeat times 3 as I get nowhere trying to figure out what Leopold means by that and he doesn't tell me, then finally...}

L: He was too much for me sexually.

{DEAD SILENCE. My shock is best demonstrated by fastforwarding to a call I made later to the friend whose auction I met Leopold at, who responded to my relaying of the conversation with: "HE SAID HE WAS TOO MUCH FOR HIM SEXUALLY? LEOPOLD, THE BLACK HOLE OF HUMAN SEXUALITY FROM WHICH NOT EVEN LIGHT CAN ESCAPE?" So you can see that most people who know Leopold would find the statement extremely shocking}

VC *stammering*: Um, well. Um. You know I'm not so into hookups.

{fastforward through Leo then making the "and he's a really good friend to" approach, which eventually won, and I agreed to have my number passed on}

Mr. Sexual BMW called when I was washing my face, and I jokingly told him that I couldn't pick up when he called originally because I was washing my face, but don't tell Leopold otherwise I won't be invited to the ball. Mr. SBMW *got the joke* with little explanation, and was really nice on the phone. Unfortunately (and predictably) he was not really my type -- meaning: he made reference to the sheep he's slaughtering in the AM as part of the three day Muslim feast which begins tomorrow (which is why you have CNN obsessing over every step of hajj)...maybe I'm weird, but when someone says: "I'd love to see you tomorrow, but I have to slaughter a sheep for my wife," it kinda ruins it...BMW or not!

So the sheep will be slaughtered for the beginning of 3id (remember when I taught you about that letter earlier in the blog? "3ayn"?), and I've already gone downstairs to the bowaab to make it VERY clear to him that I don't want anyone in the building wandering up to the expansive roof (where my little cottage is) to slaughter their sheep. I was in Europe last year when they did this (I think?), but I've heard that there is literally blood on the streets, here. I guess when you have 16 story buildings with 70 families and EVERY ONE slaughters a sheep (since unfortunately, in a neighbourhood like this, everyone can afford to), it can't ALL be done discretely in the stairwell of the flat (where my old roommate told me they'd done it in our building the year before).

OH MY GOD I ALMOST FORGOT TO EXPLAIN THE TITLE OF THE BLOG!

It's what Mr. SBMW said to me when he said goodbye, which is to basically say "bye" in Egyptian slang, global Italian, and English. Middle class (since we're using the term lol) Egyptians usually say "yalla bye," which always throws me off, because "yalla" is also like "let's go" like "come on," so I always feel like they are asking me to go somewhere and then hanging up. "Yalla" really means, kind of: "Keep the momentum of whatever we were talking about and executing it" so it can mean "continue with our discussion of leaving and actually GO somewhere" or: "continue with the winding down of the conversation and say goodbye." The "bye" is also more of a deep, "mbye" (the mmm is actually almost hummed at the beginning) and I'm starting to say it this way by accident! I thought that "yalla, ciao, bye!" was just excessive, though. Who knows if he's too much sexually, but his adieus are certainly way overboard.

VC

PS: I can hear sheep "baa"-ing from my flat :( Tomorrow will be awful.

Fighting With Bin Laden

Well it’s just after 5AM and I’m returning from my first night out in Cairo (other than to dinner) since returning from Afghanistan more than four months ago. It is Christmas Eve for Egypt’s Coptic Christians, and after spending the day touring the pyramids with my closest remaining friend in Cairo’s two Turkish guests, I was awakened (sleeping in my friend’s flat I was so exhausted) by a call from my Coptic friend (American-raised and Stanford-educated, here for a year to apply to law school and learn Arabic – sound familiar?), who we’ll call Lord of the Dance (because I like to tease him about a post-modernist “fixed location dance performance” he did as a commentary on vertical mobility amongst immigrants in California while part of a Stanford dance team), or LoTD, telling me that he was lonely on Christmas Eve, away from family etc., and had made MIDNIGHT reservations (to break their fast – Copts spend the MAJORITY of the year fasting, although their fast sort of just means “eat vegan”) at an Egyptian restaurant in Zamalek, and invited another Coptic friend of ours as well as an American guy who is SCANDALOUSLY slutty and basically fluent in Arabic (ie: my total opposite).

I’ll fastforward through the dinner except to say that the slutty American kept making eye contact with the Gulfis at the table next to us and actually TOOK OFF HIS SHIRT to reveal his tank top underneath, which prompted one of them men to say in Arabic an expression akin to: “I adore God but I worship the devil,” or something that basically means “God help me in this moment to resist temptation.” LoTD has been wanting to go out, go dancing, explore explore explore (and gossip gossip gossip) – which I find quite boring and actually extremely depressing, and it’s such a reminder to me of how much happier I have been the past 5 months NOT going out. Anyway, we compromised on going to the Hard Rock Café, because it’s not AS high pressure as Latex (our one REAL nightclub), there are a lot of “khalijiis” (Gulfis), and LoTD has been itching to try one, and neither he nor the slutty American had been. The Copt dropped us off at Hard Rock (which, to continue with my theme, is at the Grand Hyatt lol), and we paid out 150LE cover fee (which you use towards drinks which are basically 50LE each), and moved on. The music is a weird mix of hip-hop club remixes (decent) and belly-dancing music (bad) and the scene is one that deserves more commentary than I’ll devote to it, here.

The club consists of two main groups and two lesser groups. The two main groups are young Gulfi men looking for, well, anything, and the second group (in a MUCH smaller proportion to the first) are prostitutes willing to give them just that. It’s really awkward, because you need to picture women TOTALLY done up to look “cute,” false eye lashes, bedazzled belts, bags, and nails, and lip liner galore, all floating around trying to look like the picture of glamour and NOT like trash. It’s kind of sad and awkward. The guys either give off cruisy heterosexual prostitute-seeking vibes, or obviously homoSOCIAL inward-looking vibes, but in any case the scene is very weird. The two smaller groups are the few non-Gulfi tourists who come, and the few Cairene residents (Egyptian and expat) who are there. I’d say that tonight, though, well over 65% were Gulfi men.

I should preface this by saying that I had heard that the Bin Ladens owned all the Hard Rock cafes in the Middle East, because a friend from AUC told me, last spring, that she once witnessed an American student wearing an “I hate Bin Laden” t-shirt at the Café in Cairo asked by the Bin Laden entourage to remove his shirt (they were apparently polite) and offered a free Hard Rock shirt in return. I was always a bit skeptical, and never really cared either way (the few times Desi and I went to Hard Rock it was a total disappointment). I can now confirm: the Bin Ladens own the Hard Rock and they are very much there.

One of the bouncers kept politely reminding me and LoTD to not stand on the steps leading from the dance floor/walkway to the upper bar level (just two little steps), and I assumed it was because we were blocking a passageway, so when I caught myself or LoTD or our other friend standing near it, I’d jokingly pull them back and sort of smile at the bouncer. WELL, just after 4AM, when it had again happened (me pulling LoTD away from the stairs that he had unconsciously floated too near to) and this time a man in plain clothes started pushing LoTD away, and we were almost ON a table away from the stairs and thus not in anyone’s path, the fight began. The bouncer and especially the plainclothes guard began to get very aggressive with LoTD, and I was trying to say (in a thumping club to people who spoke almost no English) that we weren’t anywhere near the stairs and I didn’t see the problem. It then became clear, when a thuggish guy sitting next to his friend, got up and ALSO started yelling (after having short discussions in whisper to both security guys who would then return to their spat with us) that this was NOT about the stairs, but was about these two guys’ table. I was still puzzled, though, because we were not blocking their view. I then though (as ended up being the case, but I still think it’s a weak argument on their part) that maybe we were too close to the women at the table next to them (with the table we were standing at being BETWEEN the men and the women), but we were clearly not talking to the women (and were CERTAINLY not interested in them) and were also not blocking their view. Finally LoTD’s fight with the security guys has escalated to such a degree (in part because he raised his voice an octave and was screaming in a banshee headvoice) that he was being forcibly removed from the club.

A manager came over to me to take me aside, as the two men form the table got up to explain to me what was happening (one of them still clearly angry and thuggish), as I insisted that we were not blocking anyone or anything, and I didn’t understand what was so special at that table and why we were not equal to those men. The manager took me across the room to the side of the bar and was trying to explain to me that everyone is equal, that it was just a matter of blocking the tables, etc. (which were all bullshit and which angered me more), and so I physically drug him by the hand outside, while condemning him for letting someone touch LoTD so roughly, until we were outside the club in front of all the people trying to enter, the cashier, etc.

To rewind: when I was checking out who, in the room, was using their Bluetooth communication program on their mobiles, I came across the ID “No.70AmrBinLaden,” and tried unsuccessfully to message him (people don’t normally accept Bluetooth files from people they don’t know), so I figured that what I’d heard about the ownership of the club was true, and that he was there. When the manager took me outside, I finally told him that I didn’t want him to bullshit me, that it was clear that that table was special, and that I wanted to know why. He told me that the man in the blue (the non-thuggish one) was the owner. I wasn’t impressed. I told him that I don’t care who the owner is, everyone should be treated equally, certain standards of decency have to be met, it was improper to rough-up my friend when we weren’t doing anything wrong, and it is also inappropriate for someone in plainclothes with no ID to be speaking to us as an employee/representative of the club, let alone touching us. I added that “I know he’s not the owner. The owner is Amr Bin Laden” (taking a risk). His reply: “He is the owner and he is Amr Bin Laden.” I then played it cool by immediately saying that I didn’t care who he was, it’s HIS obligation as an employee of the club to protect paying customers, and he or Amr can give us our money back. I also sort of pushed him on his deference to the owner’s authority, asking: “Do you call him pasha? No? Do you call him Bey? No? Why? Because we are all equal, then why are you worried about your job and impressing him.” I told him that I didn’t care about his job, that I don’t care who owns the place, and that I do care about what happens to my friend, there.

Enter Bin Laden. Bin Laden comes with the plainclothes guard, his thuggish friend, and another Hard Rock employee, and while LoTD continues to scream at everyone, I take the “this is so shocking and uncivilized approach” with Bin Laden. Our exchange was really humorous and I have to say that I was sort of funny and self-possessed. I told him that his thuggish friend was speaking in a really uncivilized way, that no one should be touching LoTD that way, and that I was disappointed that he was running an establishment with these hierarchies of privilege. He apologized, had his friend calm down, asked us how much we paid (300) and told them to give us back double the money. He tried to explain the nature of Saudi men (I told him that I knew it well and loved Saudis lol), and also explained that “the women don’t like to dance too much, they just like to watch,” and so us being there, close to them, and potentially in their way, was a problem. I explained to him that he only needed to have one person ask us politely in once sentence: “We would be more comfortable if you were not so close to these ladies. Could you please move?” and we’d have immediately been fine. He was dripping with the hugest gold and diamond-encrusted Bulgari necklace, chest hair fully exposed, and at one point I jokingly unfolded his shirt collar, which had tucked under itself, to cover more his hair (he thanked me lol). I also interrupted him once, when I recognized one of his rings (plain silver) from last season’s Bulgari collection, and also had some fun with him when he tried to tell me that none of his guards could tell me politely what was happening, because they didn’t speak English – I told him that he has the money to hire a bodyguard who speaks 10 languages, and he could even hire LoTD who speaks Enlgish and Arabic both lol. He told me that the guards had been putting up with Egyptian troublemakers (most people in the club being bad, he said) since 10PM – 4 hours before we arrived – and treated us the same way. I told him that they should work form the presumption that customers are good, and not that they are bad. He understood. He was trying to get us back inside, and I told him (in Arabic, but only this was in Arabic) that after this it was Latex and forever after Latex – Hard Rock is done. He asked why, and reiterated that he apologized, and I told him that he knew why I wasn’t interested in coming back. I jokingly asked him: “So are your bodyguards beating up our other friend inside, too, or is he still ok?” and Bin Laden laughed. I also told him, in relation to the point that most patrons are bad, that MOST patrons are prostitutes, and he doesn’t seem to mind that, and that we are not the ones he need to worry about. He welcomed us back again, and I added: “If your guards upstairs institute a couples only policy preventing men without women from getting in, then we can’t see you again here” (a police that is more biased against Egyptian males), and asked if that was another of his decent policies, and he told me no that that’s Egyptian local police who make and enforce that rule themselves. Our last funny exchange came when we re-entered the club to retrieve our friend, and two prostitutes came up to him and shook his hand, and I gave him the knowing/powerful “tisk tisk” with my finger, he said to me jokingly “now I have to wash my hands,” and so I gave him a friendly handshake and we left (not asking for the refund).

6AM and I now can’t keep my eyes open, but I’ve been getting so many blog requests that here you go!

XO

VC