Najib Nasr.
Talk about national pride.
During October 2010 Najib Nasr came to Lebanon to break a record. He broke, instead, his helmet, dislocated his shoulder, and sprained his pelvis.
You want details, naturally.
Lebanese born and residing in France, where sporting achievements are looked upon with some favour, Najib was world boxing champion in the French Savat in his weight range, before shifting his attention to the Iron Man competition, which entails swimming 3.8 kilometers, followed immediately by a 180-kilometer bicycle ride, and running a marathon distance of 42.2 kilometers non-stop. This triathalon consumes between 9 and 12 hours, by the way. (I should know, I do it each morning on weekdays.)
Our athlete has earned three mentions in the Guinness book of world records: for riding a stationary bicycle for 20 hours and 20 minutes without a break; also for running 560 kilometers around Lebanon in 17 hours, and another time for 14 hours.
Our story begins, fittingly, in Lebanon, where Najib came to set yet another record, planning to ride his bicycle between Nahr Ibrahim and Shikka 15 times over, covering a distance of 890 kilometers (20 hours worth of not-so-fresh air). On his 6th run, after doing 400 kilos, traffic had built up. The rider was, naturally, using the furthest most right lane on the highway, and had earlier been accompanied by two motorcycled policemen, who promptly left him alone at the end of a Lebanese workday, at 4 P.M.
One irate motorist, driving a commercial passenger van, tried to pass the sportsman ON THE RIGHT! (This is standard driving practice here.) Failing from the right side, the van driver succeeded at getting ahead of the cyclist and the car in front of him from the left side, then brought the van to a sudden stop and dismounted, baring fangs. The car in front of the athlete hit the brakes, and the athlete hit the car, and the police stopped the van driver and released him immediately, because he gave them his word he wasn’t involved.
And thus comes to an end a scintillating tale of hope, courage and drama on the Lebanese highway.
2009 in review
The year 2009 saw several welcome improvements at our beloved website, to name just several.
Attentive to the academic needs of society, and alarmed by news that a full thirty percent of post graduate students worldwide have been dipping into our website for research ideas, a wise decision was arrived at by our table-person (hey, we have twelve chairs, one table – oval, not round – not a whiff of pizza and not a knight in sight; what would you do?): to present our award-winning essays with clear, informative titles in order to facilitate research and review. And that we have achieved, to the delight of scholars from far and farther.
Also of prime importance, we have silenced outcries from the world of ophthalmology, by finally replacing the laser-sharp red on our main page with gentle, yet firm, white.
We had previously, in innocent error, misinterpreted the lack of complaints over our choice of colour to mean that out of millions of readers, not one complaint equalled full satisfaction. In truth, it turned out that with not one confirmed reader, not one complaint meant nothing. So we went back to the drawing board, drew some trees and birds, and after fifteen minutes were becalmed to a sufficient degree to discuss the issue. The decision having been reached, we painstakingly went through the process of dipping all the letters in coconut extract (come closer, smell your screen), reassembling the main page over a bed of tame grey (before we put up the wall), capturing the result with digital photography, and reproducing the classic work in new, improved, vision-friendly colour, so that you may browse in utter safety and not curse so much. You’ll thank us later.
That said, the essays of 2009 themselves represented that same frank, deep look at the inner workings of a man who knows not the meaning of many words, but owns a nice, fat thesaurus (whatever that may be) and consults it with diligence.
We learned of the Dragon’s behind-the-scenes contribution to the success of the summer Olympics; and of the constant search for a decent carton for those lazy summer afternoons by the beach (in response to which an unnamed university relocated its dumpsters to an unnamed location – but I’ll find it); also revealed was the fiasco that cost the Dragon his prized dot com address, and the cheap tactics to which some people would resort for a buck (in this case no buck, no luck – let’s see you try that again, sucker!); typically, we also heard the same tired and true ranting about Lebanese politicians, a subject matter that has been fodder for commentary that never lets up; plus a behind-the-scenes look at the making of Where I Wanna Be, Walid Itayim’s landmark album; and lastly, there was that letter to Santa, a last-ditch effort to hang on to reality, and failing with flying colors.
All in all, been there, done that, will always be there, will always be doing that. Life is good (the term used by permission from LG – thanks LG).
Dear Santa.
I was in the process of composing a letter to Santa when hesitation set in. Partly because I am down to my last postage stamp, and partly due to rumours I have been hearing from kids around the block, to the effect that Santa does not, and never did, exist.
I don’t know what to make of the news, but I am certainly disheartened. The kids say Santa’s myth was propagated by department stores in an effort to boost sales. Perhaps that’s true (I haven’t bought so much as a new brutel in twelve years). I do know my past pleas have gone unanswered. Here is my last letter to Santa, sent in 1963:
Dear Santa, please bring me a wife and forty head of cattle. If that is too much to carry, I’ll settle for the forty head of cattle. Thanks in advance. Yours in spirit, Munir.
If that request proved too much for Santa you may imagine my hesitation to ask for peace in the region, or a decent government here in Lebanon. We do have a brand new government in place, but it promises to be no more real than Big S himself.
I will, however, out of sheer desperation, risk my last postage stamp and send out a letter to the man. I’ll probably ask for a gallon of gas, or a pair of warm socks. I am not particular. I just need to go through the motion. But I most certainly do not plan to stay awake all night, as I did in 1963, keeping an ear out for shuffling sounds in the chimney – we didn’t even have a chimney then.
I’ll probably spend the night out at the pumpkin patch instead, hang out with Linus. Misery loves company, doesn’t it ?
Where I Wanna Be.
This CD by Walid Itayim marks his official offering on the local scene, and sets a high standard for the genre.
A prolific songwriter, whose guitars (four or five, on any given day) are never put away in their boxes, but lie on various couches and settees (like so many Cleopatras) within easy reach, Walid is credited with an immense number of original compositions, vocal and instrumental.
To the last piece, his instrumental compositions are deeply compelling, drawing from his vast knowledge of masterworks, he being a connoisseur of the world’s best music, and owner of a gigantic library of CDs and videos.
Walid’s vocal compositions are also rich in texture and varied in style, borrowing from rock, pop, blues and jazz influences, while maintaining a highly personal feel.
Where I Wanna Be presents but a small sample of these vocal compositions, barely enough to whet the appetite of music lovers.
The work was recorded at his home, using Nuendo music software. I had the good fortune to assist in the production, my duties mainly revolving around drum programming, and brass and string arrangements.
It was a great experience and an honour, helping to weave arrangements around such fine melodies. Given fairly wide latitude, I had so much fun with brass and strings, giving flight to ideas honed from listening to Rachmaninoff’s string sections, James Brown’s brass section, and Nelson Riddle’s work with both these elements (not that I could ever come close to their level).
Guests on the CD included Ziad Rahbani, who added a classic solo on the Reggae-tinged Can’t Live This Way, Sami Shabshab on bass, Jeremy Chapman on woodwinds and Arthur Satyan on organ. I did the best I could with mixing and mastering, and the rest is musical history.
Samples of Where I Wanna Be are available on Walid’s Myspace page, and offered for sale at cdbaby.com.
Animal Planet.
I rarely park my butt in front of the “Idiot Box”, idiocy in all its rich variants being rather plentiful all around (look up Lebanon, Middle East). But when I do clutch the remote and turn the television set on, I immediately guide myself to one of two destinations: National Geographic or Animal Planet, so fond am I of animals and their wondrous ways. But I’ve recently uncovered a wealth of animal shows - the mother lode, if you will – at another source, and for all you animal lovers out there I strongly recommend tuning in to your local news stations, where you will see so many animals you’ll long for a human face, human voice, hunan chicken (if you can handle the MSG).
This is the election season (mating season, in common parlance), where a lot of fornication is perpetrated out in the open, with no restraint and no protection. You’ll see animals of all shapes and forms, jumping one another in a frenzied orgy of unbridled activity, the dreaded fruit of which will see the light very soon when the offspring rears its ugly head and blurts out its first words: “I am your new government”.
Not quite an occasion to distribute sugar frosted almonds, but these will be distributed nonetheless. The ugliest, nastiest, most dastardly child is, to its mother, a pure little angel with a cherubic smile, and that little angel will lead you and me straight through the alleyway to Hell, without the relative comfort of a hand basket.
To the voting booths, everyone.
Dot Commed.
A funny thing happened on my way to the office. First I realized I haven’t an office to go to, then my domain name was hijacked and I had nothing to do in an office, had I one.
This sensational news made no headlines anywhere, much to the chagrin of one Samir K., who must have figured he’d be awash in bazillions of rupees by now.
Attempting to renew the annual registration of our domain name and failing to do so, our webmaster engaged in some first rate detective work and uncovered the source of the trouble. Apparently this wily businessman, based in India, makes it his business to snap up just about any domain name the moment the registration expires, before the owner has had a chance to renew it.
Thus was munirkhauli.com hijacked and held hostage for months before we uncovered the diabolically brilliant but ultimately sterile scheme.
Losses of fan base numbers to our beloved dot com website are estimated at a staggering 75%, which translates into 3 out of our 4 dedicated visitors, but we can regain our footing without much hassle. Roger, our most consistent visitor, has been alerted to the fact that we are now dot netted. Walid, our crafty webmaster and in-house detective, needs no briefing as he personally uncovered the scheme and changed our domain name. Myself, I have already added the new address to my favourites, while retaining the dot com address, to stay in touch with our new friend, Samir K. So that’s Roger, Walid, and Munir makes three; oh, yes, and one for the pot. I learned this while honing the art of brewing the perfect cup of tea. And voila, we’re back at 100%.
Thus Mr. K’s brilliant scheme turned out - to use a phrase I read in every Perry Mason novel – incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial, and we’ll owe the man some financial compensation for losses he’s incurred registering our old domain name for a year and dishing out a cash down payment on his mansion in the mountains of Kashmir, and we’ll make good on it, as soon as our new site picks up steam.
Wish us luck, Sam, but don’t play it again.
Good carton, good day.
I am often asked to share part of my carton, by tearing out a section of it if the carton is large enough, which it invariably is. And this has become a source of hostilities, good carton being rare, with supply lagging behind demand. I'll explain. This goes right to the heart of Lebanese culture - or none thereof.
I frequent a spot on the beach, one of a precious few still available to the general public, the majority of the sea front having been developed and sealed off to you and me, unless you're one of them.
The areas open to me are either composed of jagged rocks, shaped like needles from centuries of whip lashing by angry waves, or of smooth asphalted surfaces, booby trapped with thousands of tiny shards of glass from beer bottles smashed by good-natured beach visitors every day.
So, unless you own a car and have your own special chair or padded mat in the trunk, or you’re endowed with feet like those on most of the regulars at the beach - webbed paws thicker than India rubber, impenetrable by nails, screws, razors or glass - you need a carton to sit on; and you cannot very well go into a self respecting store and ask for an empty carton, even though the store dispenses with a number of these each morning. The cartons are carted off to the big, green garbage containers; and, it logically follows, it is to the big, green garbage containers you must go to retrieve one.
While this spares you the embarrassment of having to ask the store clerk for the carton, rummaging for it in one of those big, green garbage containers opens up a whole funkier can of worms.
So here I am each bright, sunny morning, handsome and debonair, clad in the finest of sportswear and exuding the very air of refinement, walking with sure footed steps, tall and straight; a man of breeding on his way to engage in a noble activity in a civilized city. Then, as I round the bend leading to the big, green garbage containers, the steps become hurried, the posture contracted, and all refinement evaporated into thin air (not quite so thin around the big, green…). And like a thief, before some reputable citizen spies me engaging in this less than respectable undertaking, I have to pick out a decent carton, clean on at least one side, fold it in quarters, tuck it underneath my arm and continue walking like nothing out of the ordinary has taken place.
But a good carton, like the proverbial good man, is hard to find. And big, green garbage containers are not all created equal. To minimize the risk of having to visit more than one such site each day, I must decide on my course of action before hand, and set my sights on a big, green garbage container that is sure to offer good quality cartons with minimal contamination. That means a big, green garbage container like the big, green garbage container right outside the University (which shall, for obvious reasons, remain unnamed).
The unnamed University discards a good number of high quality cartons daily. I am sure to find what I need, and as sure to be seen by a dignified professor or group of students coming in or out of the nameless university. But I will have claimed my carton, and on the beaches of Beirut, a good carton means a good day. But at what price?
Following the degradation involved in obtaining this carton, you can imagine why I would be so defensive when asked to share. The majority of beach goers here insist on arriving and leaving the beach with nothing that has to be carried by hand. There are so many reasons for this I can only name a few. Men here like to swagger. That is just about the only prerequisite for getting acknowledgement as a real man – the swagger. And you cannot very well swagger while carrying a plastic bag with a towel and slippers inside. The bag will swing in too wide an arc, it will look silly; and the bag will interfere with the natural flowing movement of the arms, upsetting the balance and symmetry gained by years of practice before a mirror. Plus you would be deemed a wuss if you had a need for towel and slippers.
Then there’s the knowledge that there will always be guys like me around, who will have their knapsacks on their backs, complete with towel, slippers, oil and drinking water (no to mention Q-tips, paper tissues, lip balm, back-up lip balm, and a host of amenities unknown to the fellow swimmers). And the Lebanese live and die by the popular parable: “Kil shee bi balash, katter minno,” meaning: Anything that’s free, get as much of it as you can. So all I hear around the beach is: “Hey brother, how about a sip of that water?” or “Hey man, where’s that great coconut oil of yours?” Or “Munir, hand me your slippers; I’m going up to the pavement to get a Kaake” (the dry baked bread sold on the streets for very little, that stays in your stomach for very long – the very antithesis of fiber, a dietary nightmare).
You cannot refuse a request because that would lead to bad blood, so I have to make sure I have enough water for five or six people, and fill up the oil canister daily, and replace the slippers every time they are loaned out. And I also have to smilingly accept the chunk of Kaake given me in appreciation for loaning the slippers, feign taking a bite out of it and moving the jaws left and right, until the guy walks out of view, whence the kaake is retired into the knapsack, where it will stay until I reach land and find some birds desperate enough to nibble on the thing.
All that is well and good and I have acquiesced to my fate with no more resistance. Bottled water only costs money, coconut oil is plentiful and when it runs out there’s olive oil and Pennzoil; slippers are a-dime-a-dozen and can be washed out with bleach – but the carton costs dignity. I’m having trouble giving away my dignity (Ha, look who’s talking about dignity – the big, green garbage container guy).
At any rate, I have learnt from my mistakes. Gone are the days when I would arrive at the beach crumbling under the weight of a U.S. made Kelvinator Refrigerator carton – that’s a five-seater, by the way. And I even pass up on Japanese L.G. air conditioning unit cartons. Those only mean trouble. Smaller is better, and I try (within the tight limitation of time) to choose my own size, something in fashionable beige perhaps, strong enough yet pliable, preferably without coloured ink for a label.
And you think you have a tough life?
The Ollempiks.
There’s nothing like a scandal of international proportion to send skeletons scurrying out of closets, shaking off cobwebs and mothballs, baring everything before a merciful public.
The event: Opening ceremonies of the Beijing Olympics, referred to on the street as the Ollempiks.
Yes it was I, the voice behind the voice behind the face – booming all cherubic in its innocence, intoxicating billions who sat mesmerized before their television sets, gazing at little Lin in red, standing there like a young angel.
Little did any one know right then, how misleading a picture can be. It was later conceded by the media that Lin was lip syncing to the voice of 7-year old Yang, who was deemed not quite cute enough because of an ugly set of teeth.
Imagine, then, how uncute I must have been deemed, to have young Yang stand as my replacement. But the voice; that voice that was not to be stilled, that was mine. So, I sang, Yang opened her mouth, Lin moved her lips, Beijing was awash in praise, and the Ollempiks were a grand success.
Some in the media tried to make a big thing out of it, mocking musical director Chen Qigang’s reasoning. “The reason was for the national interest, the child on camera should be flawless in image, internal feeling and expression. … Lin Miaoke is excellent in those aspects.”
Note the conspicuous silence regarding the Dragon of Song. But I understand Chen’s position and harbour no ill feeling. So long as you know.
August 2007
Cancellation of our July instalment caused panic across the globe and warrants an explanation. Contrary to popular belief, the cause was not global warming, nor our site having been chosen as the eighth wonder of the world. That honour, after all, was totally expected and long overdue. The delay was rather related to time constraints owing to yours truly making his leap to the silver screen. Television proving a narrow medium, unable to contain the overflowing talent of a larger-than-life figure, cinema beckoned and I answered the call, but not before answering the call of Nature (having imbibed a litre or two of water at sun-up).
And a glorious debut it was, with the French filming crew staring with mouths agape at the masterful performance, befitting a Shakespearean farce. The film: Melodrama Habibi, a long feature by Hani Tamba, who had earned a Cesar Award for his short film Beirut Apres Razage. He realized the film needed a charismatic presence, I acquiesced to please the millions of fans, and the rest is cinematic history. Dubbed the Lawrence Olivier of the Arabs, I turned one of the most memorable performances in recent memory (in my recent memory, at least - and I can't remember whether I turned in my laundry last week, but I’m pretty sure I did).
The film won't be out in theatres for a few months, and that alone is reason to live. Wait for it, buy it, watch it, and hold on to your seats.
In the meantime, work is no doubt under way to prepare my Hollywood Star – and I have inside news that they’re giving me two, not one, stars on the famous walk, right outside the Chinese Theatre. Fans and friends can soon walk all over me with both feet, an event for which I am well prepared, broken in as I’ve been by the women who’ve loved me ever so tenderly (cry for me Argentina, cry for me).
A footnote, as no account is complete without one (not with finely manicured feet like mine): It is regrettable that news of my silver screen debut should coincide with reports of the physical departure of two of cinema’s all-time greats, Ingmar Bergman and Michelangelo Antonioni; Bergman’s work has had a profound effect on me, and I find myself reaching for Dreams, or Monika, once a year; likewise with Antonioni’s The Eclipse and L’avventura, difficult as they may be. A dedicated movie buff, and very difficult to please, I hold my modest collection of great films very dear. I have seen no film more powerful than Shindo’s The Island, a film you couldn’t pay a young person to sit through today. And I’m always moved to tears by Teshigahara’s Woman in the Dunes; yet I am always the solitary viewer when enjoying such greatness. The last handful of times I sat through Aguirre, Wrath of God, Herzog’s masterpiece, I was alone again, naturally, and nothing seemed amiss. All the while, people are flocking in droves to queue up for the latest Die Hard or Exterminator. Deplorable. For true suspense, find a copy of Henri Clouzot’s The Wages of Fear, watch it, and get back to me; if you feel I’ve led you to waste two-and-a-half hours of your valuable time, you can walk all over me, star or no star (see below).
At any rate, no footnote is complete without a baby footnote, and I take this opportunity to promote Rif’s new book, without which no coffee table is fully dressed. Roadmap to Stardom: How to Break into Acting in Hollywood, is cousin Rif’s latest offering, and a must read for anyone who reads, full stop. Buy it, snuggle up with it, and hold on to your pillow.
I tell you, with brother Baba Kameel showing up on television screens all over the world, giving worldly advice on raising a family, and sister Sumaya among the pioneers launching a television station and developing programs, this family has got the industry by the jugular. What’s next? I’m not divulging all details of my strategy, but I do have my eye on a government position, and I’m praying the results of my psychological exam are returned with LUNATIC stamped in big red font, so I can start my campaign. You can vouch me, I’m sure.
June 2007
Richard Rumbold said, "I never could believe that Providence had sent a few men into the world, ready booted and spurred to ride, and millions ready saddled and bridled to be ridden."
I dwell momentarily on this classic statement (which has haunted me for thirty years), a brief analysis of which I trust will suffice to paint an accurate picture of the situation in Lebanon today; everyday.
In a nation where the multitudes' preferred position is at the end of a leash, gazing with adoring, unseeing eyes at the one tugging the leash, no hope is to be entertained of any democratic proceedings, or peace and well-being. All the more so when the slave drivers bear no gratitude for the unswerving loyalty of the slaves. Our stock of iron fisted leaders are among the most successful models, both in design and in application; and the things at the end of the leash have never before been perfected to such exact specifications. A match made in Hell, and one that can stand no alteration, however demeaning the results.
The brevity of this discourse is but a premeditated decision to avoid exposing an open wound to the elements any longer than necessary. Our kind readers are doubtless in agreement.
May 2007
I must remind myself to avoid travel, if I am to maintain a shred of fondness for my country of origin.
A work engagement took me to Bahrain recently, and it was relatively easy to look forward to returning to Beirut. But the next destination was Tunisia, from whence the return trip loomed menacingly unattractive.
Birds here chirp like they mean it; citizens lounge in the streets in lazy acquiesence to a government that affords them peace of mind, even if to the observer it may appear they have nothing much to live for. Theirs makes a strong case for peace and quiet as incentive for life. Certainly none of the thrill that Lebanese people enjoy on an hourly basis, as we get yanked around like backgammon pieces by expert players; but the smiling faces on every Tunisian indicate no awareness of the loss.
Conspicuously absent on the streets of Tunis are garbage and collectors thereof (something gone wrong somewhere). Architectural examples of utter simplicity define the landscape, ultra quaint with colorful bathroom tiles for storefronts, along with hand-written signs and hand-drawn awnings.
A green nation, cradled by a happy sea, with egrets and pelicans fishing out clams alongside unarmed fishermen. A dashing president standing tall in posters willingly put up by uncoerced residents. Smiling policemen, which I don't recall encountering elsewhere - another anomaly proven false. Handicrafts and artisan wares; ancient railroad tracks still grated by beautiful trains - time has stood still in reverence of a bygone era, timeless in its simplicity.
Jealous? Who's jealous? Certainly not I. People are deserving of their fate when they accept it with no objections, as we do. Lebanon's great forefather must have been one nasty fellow, to bequeath us such an end. Rest in peace, big guy, your legacy lives on.
April 2007
Should I yield to instinct, I would proceed once again to rant and whine about our sorry state of affairs; about our corrupt leaders, toying with the population's livelihood to assert imaginary manhoods; about the impoverished general public, blown around like hapless leaves by the fartings of their elected elders; about the history of this sapling of a democracy being plagiarized, paraphrased from the worst pages of man's ill-advised actions. But to do so would be to serve the interest of all concerned - ours is a sadistic strain of humans, thriving on self-flagellation, enamoured by their own voices as they ring with complaint. To write anything in their defense would be to take away their justification for playing the martyr. Far be it from me to puncture the cocoon of self-justification.
Our two-tiered social system seems custom made for the nation: on one tier, leaders, elected or simply in their posts since the stone age (hence preceding the concept of voting), to the last man filthy rich, with ample phlebotomy on their resumes. On the other tier, the babies wailing for their pacifiers. Call it a cozy nursery.
I suspect that less than 10 per cent of my four dedicated readers are falling off their chairs while imbibing this presentation, but when the dust settles, the humor will still be there, as will the weighty, scientific and philosophical issues we've long made a habit of dissecting and analyzing, here on the Dragon's diaries.
For this month, I shall offer the true story of a little girl's harrowing entry into this world, as a sobering thought that should make each of us count their blessings, and put a sock in it - and as another last ditch attempt to rid our columns of this decidedly stale subject matter that doesn't seem to go away.
Last week, in the back lot of New Mexico University Hospital, a newborn girl emerged headlong out of the womb, severing the umbilical cord, and hit the asphalt, then rolled a few feet and came to a stop underneath a parked car. A parking attendant carried the girl into the hospital, where a nurse pronounced her unharmed, healthy, and in good spirits. The mother walked out on her, leaving her nameless and an orphan.
And we cling to our God given right to nag and whine? And send two delegations to the summit? (Good thing I withdrew at the last moment.)
March 2007
As Lebanon is plunged ever deeper into the abyss of despair by its ignorant egocentric leaders, I reflect on the unwavering faith the common man retains in those slave drivers. What unimaginable psychological complex is it that consolidates and nurtures this faith? Observing a flock of sheep earmarked for slaughter, I am shocked to see the animals grazing peacefully as a fellow member of the community is being processed right before their eyes; do they think, "it won't happen to me"? As I draw a parallel between the two herds, I admit my chagrin at not finding any discrepancy in their respective cases. Lebanese citizens today are only distinguishable from their hooved cousins in that they whine profusely and complain eloquently about their lot, before duly and heatedly aligning themselves with their allotted leaders, an alignment based primarlily on sectarian grounds. A thoroughly forgettable civilization, this; though civilization is certainly not the choice word for it. (In defense of sheep, dogs are far more accurate an example in our case study: a dog will tolerate abuse by its owner and not consider defecting. And in defense of dogs, at least they do it out of love.)
The resilience of the Lebanese in adhering to their abysmal state is nothing short of admirable. These are people not to be impinged upon to force a change for the better. Adjectives that normally might carry a positive connotation are robbed of their merit when applied to this populace. Totally impervious to common sense and impermeable by logic; impregnable by good taste, steadfast in the face of progress; yet utterly elastic in the hands of a leader, supple and malleable by malfeasance, and completely pliant. A perfect blank canvas, for the demagogue to paint at whim. And upon completion of the dreary picture, nothing but plaudit and adulation. And for a touch of humor, a population who has never obeyed the laws of the land now threatens civil disobedience.
But Nour won't let me end this essay on a negative note, which basically means getting off the subject of Lebanon and its noble citizenry. I therefore reach for the envelope wherein I save interesting newspaper clippings for just such an occasion - the envelope please: Police in East Side New York found Mr. Vincenzo Ricardi at his home, dead for over a year, on the couch facing the television WHICH WAS STILL ON. Not only that, but Jeff Bakhos, Suffolk county coroner, stated that the body was surprisingly well preserved, not having been exposed to humidity; facial expressions of the deceased were still fresh, etched by the program he was last watching, and hair on his head complete. Conculsion: television is good for your health, but will outlive you every time.
Spurred on by this timely discovery, I shall now rush to the living room and anchor myself before the television set, just in time for an inspirational speech by one of our nazi leaders. And it will help preserve what hair remains on my head. Life is good.
February 2007
Numbers don't lie; so it seems to me. If you'll review the January essay you'll save me my usual gloom and doom forecast. The daily newspapers carry enough such reports. 2007 promises to eclipse the dark years that preceeded it; so much bad fortune, in a century so young yet already baring its fangs. And to have foreseen it, or forefelt it all, should merit me no accolades. But call me a visionary, call me a prophet, just don't call me collect. I'm rather low on funds these days. My income won't come in - the anomaly to end all anomalies.
At least it's been unseasonably sunny for months. The solar powered creature that I am, I've enjoyed refuge under its benevolent rays, and have that coveted winter tan to show for it, if little else underneath.
One piece of good news that I can pass on is the highly anticipated release of the Banadoura compilation. Finally, after decades of teaseful suspense, you can hear the Banadoura anthem, and you won't have heard anything as original. A composition by Meen, the talented duo of Tony and Fuad Yamine, the anthem serves as a herald for many original, funny and hip songs to come. The voice of youth, Meen will sing their way into your hearts, the road having been paved by a more ancient generation, some of whom are represented in this compilation CD. You'll hear the Quiminboos, Nadim Abu Khalil, Zena Daccache, and the old Dragon. Banadoura is available at - Virgin MegaStore (downtown, citymall, ABC ashrafieh, Tripoli), - CDteque (Ashrafieh, Hamra), - Maison du disque (Gemayzeh, ABC Dbayeh...), - Art Lounge Dora, - Electric Shadows Jdeideh, .... and from www.cdbaby.com/cd/banadoura.
I fold my manuscript on this note, and I can only hope next month brings forth a new dawn for our sorry nation. I must cling to that hope, because I set fire to two of the tires on my tricycle in the melee last month, and I can't give up the third. My tricycle is my livelyhood; transporting tourists around town, one tourist at a time, perched precariously on the handlebars. Green tourism, I call it. I'm in demand for my extra smooth driving while they snap photos. I had the only floating tricycle on the banks of Venice, and Wells Fargo too. And you thought I was a purveyor of pop hits and award winning music! Well, think again.
January 2007
A brave year. That is the only way to describe 2007. To fear not the fate of its siblings, of going down in history and not getting back up again.
2007, the 7th year in a young century, let's see now. Numerologists should have a party analyzing the year ahead. 7 is a number that holds mythic status in Arab lore, and has held a singular attraction since biblical times.
- And God rested on the 7th day (and I maintain that resting on the 6th, after having cut the schedule short by eliminating Adam & Eve day, would have been so much better for the world; and would have resulted in a shorter work week for all of us, though unborn to tell the difference)
- They talk of the 7 heavens (imagine how many hells there must be)
- Not to mention the 77 vestal virgins awaiting me in one of the heavens if I manage to die with weapon in hand (so we won't mention it)
- The 7 mortal sins (which seem immortal, practiced as they are with unwavering commitment by one and all)
- There are the 7 seas (one dead, the rest in critical condition)
- Fishermen talk of 7 mild waves following every 7 rough ones (I'll try to remember that, the next time I'm drowning)
- Salome's Dance of the 7 Sails (wait till you see my dance of the 7 falls. Last time I performed it, I knocked 'em dead; but I didn't get any head)
- Ali Baba and the 7 thieves (it's true, look it up. The remaining 33 comprised 2 accountants, a graphics designer, 3 camera men, the musical band, Ali's personal coiffure, the chef, and assorted delivery boys)
- The 7 spices, a special mix particular to Middle Eastern cuisine (you can take the man out of the chef, but you can't take the chef out of the man)
- The victory sign (flashed by so many around here of late, eclipsing even the hugely popular 1 finger greeting, previously the official state salute)
- Snow White and the 7 Dwarfs (actually 3 basketball players and a referee)
- There's the new 007 movie (have yet to see 006)
- And speaking of movies, how about The Magnificent 7 (famous Western, starring Berri, Nasrallah, Junblatt, Jaajaa, Aoun, Hariri and Sanyoura, along with assorted extras - won multiple Oscars for worst acting, directing, and film score - a sorry attempt at recapturing the success of 7 Brides For 7 Brothers, in which Lahoud played the role of matchmaker and actually found mates for the rogues)
- The fish with 7 eyes, caught last week in Khaldeh (with 15 tons of oil in the sea, what do you expect?)
- Ever wonder how old you are in dog years (living as you do, if you live around here, a dog's life)? Just multiply by 7
- Let's not forget the 7 Year Itch (although I seem to itch every year. Must see the dermatologist)
- I woke up at 7 this morning (now this may be a coincidence, but you just can't be sure)
- 7 UP, of course (thinly veiled plea for a sponsor)
- Songs about the 7th son (that's a lot of kids, if you ask me)
- Talk of 7 years bad luck (we've had over 30, and still counting)
- Cats with 7 lives (daylight savings time)
- 7 ways to leave your lover (still waiting for Paul Simon's e-mail with the other 43)
- The 777 deck of cards (anyone for Tarneeb?)
- 7 card stud (and I'm not referring to my own mythic status here, just a game of poker {again no personal reference})
- The 7 strands of hair remaining on my head (now that's not funny)
So, what will 2007 bring? Too soon to tell, but if the standard pattern is not altered, it will soon be too late. If you've read my diaries (and who hasn't) you know my failings as a cheerful optometrist (can't bear to use that 'optimist' word - see 2006 in review). So don't look to me for answers, but if you need questions I'll gladly oblige.
Personally, I'm not exactly drunk with hope. Last year started with a bang and folded with a whimper. A model of futility. A barren year of fallow dreams, punctuated by revelations of rearmament by each of the numerous militias. So I'm not taking any chances, and have decided to arm myself to the teeth (floss 7 times a day). But I am having trouble acquiring the necessary equipment. No thanks to Santa, who had better not show up around here any more. All I asked for at Christmas was an AK 47 in decent condition, with a truckload of ammunition. Instead, Santa left me a Christmas stocking with his foot still in it (and I have to foot the bill for the in-grown toenail operation, to boot). Ho ho ho.
2006 in review
Another eventful year of forgettable consequence comes to an end. Twelve months marred by political downheaval, social unrest, fierce fighting and mounting losses. And yet, a year in which the bountiful offerings of the Dragon Diaries never abated. A bottomless well of wisdom that never runs dry. A rich gush of information without which our faithful readers are lost in an increasingly disorienting world. It is a grave responsibility, that which we carry on our broad shoulders, and one of which we never tire. Here, then, is a cursory look at the documents that are akin to a compass, always pointing out the right direction, showing the way, without fail.
December brought about the merciful end of a series of comments on the state of the nation, hopefully to be buried and forgotten forever (not the nation, the comments - although the former is showing signs of expiring first). With yet another demonstration scheduled on the first day of the month, the proceeding had lost all flavor. And most depressing for me was the realization, upon reviewing past essays, that the December 2004 installment had focused on the massive demonstrations held in Martyrs' square that month; the first of their type in recent history, two huge demonstrations were staged (literally), one by the opposition, another by the opposition to the opposition - and neither with any tangible result. Any hopes kindled by the mass hysteria were nullified in hindsight, as there they were again this December reenacting the play with the same zeal and same futility. The good news? I gave a fiery speech and was pelted with sundried tomatoes only, as requested.
In November we bestowed knighthood on the newest inductee into our hallowed halls of learning, the venerable Mr. Fico. But try as we did to write something that made sense, our brain cells were clogged by diesel, a debilitating condition epitomized by the immortal phrase that caught the emerald green eye of even newer inductee, Lady Randa, "I'm high on diesel and you can't bring me down". Now, with such discerning literary connoisseurs browsing these pages, our standard is pushed ever upwards, and we rise to the challenge (unless, of course, we can lower our friends to our own standard - that would, I believe, be the energy-saving solution).
On the heels of the Israeli army's pullout from Lebanon, the even more lethal army of singers/stars/vedettes/divas and divos made a formidable comeback, staging a coordinated assault. Their weapons of choice: silicone-guided missiles and voices that curdle the blood, braying nationalistic songs confirming victory. Most of these princes and princesses of decadence had taken a well-timed vacation out of the country, and caught up on their shopping, while the nation was taking a pounding. There went October.
September discussed the importance of remembering wars precisely at times when there aren't any - that is, in times of peace. Custom-made for the Lebanese, this mantra has never seen the light of day. The idea is to keep awake the horror of the past war, and be on the alert for signs heralding the next one. The September article also provided invaluable tips on survival during crises, including how to avoid getting a silky smooth chest while attempting to read by candlelight, and how to navigate one's way through total darkness in the streets by relying on inner glow. Essential reading for anyone planning a vacation in Beirut.
August 11th. Like a good war correspondent, I placed myself at a strategic location that offered a bird's eye view of the historic proceedings. I planted my butt in front of the television set and started surfing. I went looking for BBC, CNN and FANTASY ISLAND, but got stuck on ANIMAL PLANET's Big Cat Diary. The sight of those lions chasing after wildebeest was just too engaging; I was enthralled. Some hours later guilt overcame me. Driven by solid purpose and determination, I again clutched the remote and moved on, only to be sucked into a fascinating reportage on dolphins, shown on National Geographic. Finally, I did pause on a channel with news strips running at the bottom of the screen and got all the news of the hour in under five minutes. Walter Cronkite I ain't, but I learned a lot about dolphins that month.
In August, the mermaid of my dreams slipped right through my hands, coated with some of the fifteen tons of fuel discharged into the maligned Mediterranean. Israel and the Party of you-know-who were at it, and anticipating the difficulty of keeping my head amidst the carnage, I wisely kept several others, and gave readers a preview of what they could expect in the coming weeks of the unfolding war.
July gave us Operation Sour Grapes, a rude wake-up call from a nightmare we hadn't had enough of. An optometrist by nature (can't bear to use that 'optimist' word), I looked at the bright side of the ordeal and pointed out some positives to be eked out of the unfortunate situation. And on a personal level, I was fired up by a speech from the de facto chief of staff, and took his advice to grin and bare it, and felt one with the universe. Things got steadily worse after that, but citizens of the land were firm and resilient, confident that at war's end the esteemed leaders of our nation would stand together (and walk right into the sea). That's optometry.
In June I was depressed after not having heard from Buckingham Palace regarding my application for the job of Chef in the Royal Kitchen (and I had barely gotten over being snubbed by the White House kitchen, even though I won the Best Chef in Swimsuit trophy. For more details on that fiasco refer to the September 2005 essay). Who better than me to don the Royal Apron, spin the Royal Spatula, and compose sumptuous canvases of grub fit for the Royal Palate? I was planning to wow them with Shepherd's Pie a la Khauli, with 60 % real shepherd, no less! The remaining 40 % would comprise close friends/relatives of the shepherd (shepherds are hard to come by these days). But no such luck. I didn't get the job and I'm considering hanging up my trusted old apron. But I will store it in the closet, enshrouded in mothballs, because I know it'll fetch record sums on e-bay, after (if and when) I depart this earth. [Even then, I'll probably get reincarnated as a wok - so deeply spiritual about cooking was I, bless my oil-stained soul.]
April I was in orbit, and May on tour with the Star Academy graduates (one-in-a-lifetime experience. And I mean just ONE), so my readers were spared the usual gibberish.
In March I found out that I still suffer from CBS, civil behavior syndrome, and am characterized by zero tolerance towards typical Lebanese waste management: dumping everything into the sea. I reacted rather harshly, though not harsh enough. And I reiterated our need to have a Saddam whip our citizens into shape, claiming that we have a vacany waiting to be filled - ha, shows how much I know. Rest in peace, Big S.
Our February column, as you know by now, has a life of its own. Invariably, whatever else is happening in the world, there is bound to remain something that is just not happening in mine. Feeling shortchanged in love, I thanked goodness I wasn't living in South Korea, where they have twenty variations on Valentine's day for lovers to note. Then, talk got to sage and trout and world class cuisine, and my insecurity surfaced again regarding my application for Buckingham Palace chef. As it later turned out, I didn't get the job, but I did for a moment visualize the Queen of England and the King of Kitsch, together at last. But just for a fleeting moment.
2005 was a totally rotten year, and adding insult to injury, a leap second was added to the miscreant year. But I took advantage of the extra time to launch several new worthy projects. I cleaned house; exchanged my Nobel prize for a new set of curtains (not new but hardly used); caught a film by Wolfgang Becker, Goodbye Lenin! I also completed editing a three DVD set of archives that fans are sure to fight over (no sign of life from the fans yet, but it's only been a year).
December 2006
The year 2007 is fast approaching, and a collective hope on the part of the Lebanese is that it will bear no resemblance to its predecessors. Too much to hope for? Probably so. But hope is free, and we love freebies.
Today is December 1st. That time of the month again; the menstrual cycle of the bearded and the bald, the depraved and the enraged; when buses are paid handsomely to cart herds of unwitting masses from far corners of the land, to congregate and wave flags, shout in the air, listen to spirited speeches, maybe torch a car or two, and generally enjoy a day in the great outdoors, away from work and other productive activity. (See December 2004 - if you've the heart for it.)
Does it ever get stale? Not with 58 million illiterate adults in the Arab world, who, devoid of rational and analytical processes, need to be led at the end of a short leash, and to be told what to do, how and when to do it, but not why. Henry Labouchere, on military leader Duke of Cambridge: "He's standing at the head of his troops, his drawn salary in his hand." Does that describe our great leaders to a tee, or what? I swear, the nation is going to the dogs, but do the dogs want it? Therein lies the question.
Let's look at some numbers, those little things so rooted in reality, they do speak louder than words. Finance minister, Jihad Az'our, says each day of strike or closure costs Lebanon 90 million dollars in economic activity and national production (consumer confidence and future investment not factored in); the banking association announced the national debt at 40 billion dollars, for the first time; and Israeli papers report that the army is training for Lebanon's 3rd war next summer. Pretty, huh? In the words of the great Doc Jazz, "Wake up, wake up, wake up!"
2006 was downright lurid ( the adjective, not the former singer of Velvet Underground). Dependence Day was nothing to write home about. The usual parade was cancelled, coming as it did just one day after another brazen assassination of a public figure. The dark days of November drove me to a thorough inspection of the Phoenix mythology; oft quoted in newspapers of late, a scenario in which Lebanon, burnt to the ground again and again, rises each time like the Phoenix, from its own ashes, again and again. No fanciful bedtime story for children, and quite incredible even for some adults. But matyrdom is so IN these days that the legend of the Phoenix lives on, and on (longer than the Energizer bunny). You may think me a blatant heretic, but I think there is a limit to the self-resurrecting ability of that damned bird. Ultimately, we're just looking at a wingless, featherless, guileless, roasted fowl - with the flu. I'd previously used an analogy involving the Ostrich (December 2003), including an understated description of what is bound to occur when the head is buried in the ground and the butt is left to fend for itself, but the Phoenix business is just too much.
Right, then. See you out on the square, this afternoon. I'll be the third speaker and I hope you'll like my speech. No tomatoes, please, unless they're sundried.
November 2006
Enthused by the impressive rate of new readership gained by our fine website (one every couple of years), I take up pen and pad to etch indelible ideas into fresh minds. Into these hallowed halls of learning we welcome the venerable Mr. Fico, a cultured learned man of unyielding talent and unswerving character - the very prototype of the discerning thinker, well worthy of browsing these timeless dissertations.
I inhale deeply, with focus on lofty issues, and take in a lungful of diesel. Clouds my brain into near oblivion. Doomed to a life in the diesel lane, how can one reach out for something with meaning? A thunderstorm growls outside my window, heralding another episode of an ongoing uncouth storm that has pounded the country for a week. With the first rain of winter farmers bless the Lord and everyone else curses the devil. Three drops of rain bring traffic to a standstill in this unvanquishable land. And with the whole of greater Beirut turned into a free parking lot, diesel is king. I write under the influence, lending my writings an air of hallucinatory ranting. Electric power is still erratic, and mammoth power generators still have their say. They huff and puff and paint up everything in fashionable grey. Taxi drivers have a special affinity for diesel fuel because petrol costs more, but they keep their cars' original motors near at hand for those bi annual checks by authorities. Vans and buses are allowed to operate on diesel, but not the green variety I hear good things about; rather a cruder form of untamed stuff that sticks to the ribs - in the rough, as it were.
So where does one go for a whiff of clean air? Out of the country, is the answer that leaps to mind (convenient in that it offers relief from a host of other problems as well). And all the while, nationalists (who seem to reproduce by the minute) repeat the boring mantra: Lebanon is the best country on earth. These are people who have not even seen photographs of Swiss lakes reflecting the snow capped peaks above, typically wrapped around small squares of milk chocolate. Where do they get this firm conviction? If only indefatigable faith like that could be rerouted into generating something of actual value to someone, somewhere. But that would be so un-Lebanese.
I'd been planning a return to music commentary: exploring the mythical hold of the A minor, G, F, E cycle over nearly all of Arab music and a good part of Western pop music; or offering my heartfelt opinion on the tiresome reworkings of old songs by modern artists in the West - Remix, they call it! Remiss would be closer to the mark; or working out a mathematical formula that might explain why Sean Paul can only sing two notes, and seems happy enough with them. But I'm high on diesel and you can't bring me down. So I hope to delve into musical commentary at a later, more opportune time. Right now I'm off to the neighborhood gas station for a quick fix. Check back next month, Mr. Fico.
October 2006
The Israeli invasion was ugly, to be sure, but the invasion of the vast army of singers will be far uglier and longer lasting. In retrospect, the war that came and went like a brief nightmare served as a teasingly short reprieve from cheap entertainment. The majority of our precious singers fled the country, and for eight magical weeks were nowhere to be seen. Would that they were nowhere to be heard as well. But to the chagrin of anyone with an iota of good taste, the entertainers were all over the television screens, braying about their national pride and resistance for all to view. How the bandwagon managed to hold so many tons of manure, I don't know. But jumped on it they did.
I was invited to do a live interview on the Orbit channel on September 15th, and was asked to perform a song borne by the latest war. I elaborated on the idea that nationalism goes right out the window if the citizen is driven to hunger, for all attention is then devoted to the stomach and its plea for food; and equally incapable of feeling national zeal is one who is sitting in the dark, or one deprived of the freedom of movement, etc. The point being: you can only deprive and degrade a person to a certain extent before he or she begins worrying about themselves rather than pitying the nation. I sang a song that put those sentiments in blunt musical terms, and I am confident I sang to deaf ears that day. But I portrayed the bare truth, from which the mainstream veers, to preserve their sanity and faith perhaps.
And now, in the aftermath of physical carnage, the very return of these entertainers is an affront to the memory of all who died and lost; and returning so soon, yet! The radio stations had been spinning old hits from this year and last, but now new songs are already hitting the air, and the whirring of guided missiles seems pleasant in contrast.
Arabic pop is so bad and tasteless, I don't see it getting any worse - and I'm the eternal pessimist; I wonder how optimists spend their time. A young, hopeful contestant in the Superstar campaign of last year wore a t-shirt upon which was printed CHEEKY BASTARD, the meaning of which was doubtless lost on the youth, but it bespoke volumes about the industry.
September 2006
War? What war? The Lebanese forget easily, blessed by a sense of instant amnesia. Myself, I vaguely remember bombs and rockets and the like, but I can't quite place them in proper chronological perspective. Was it just last month, or last year, or last decade or two? All the above, more likely. IF THE LEBANESE HAD BOTHERED TO REMEMBER ANY OF THEIR FIRST FEW WARS, THIS LAST ONE WOULD NEVER HAVE TAKEN PLACE.
So this latest round was just that: another round. Causes of war are never treated; symptoms are patched up and memory banks erased. The hip thing now is for well-to-do nations to adopt reconstruction of villages and bridges. "Rebuild it and they will come", to misquote a popular film of some years back. I suggest rebuilding everything using as material the harrowing amounts of unrecycled plastic used in this country. In that way, damage will be minimal and we will never run out of plastic to rebuild.
I have been one of a few people always vocal in times of scarce peace about the need to remember the war and its causes. Back in November 2003 I performed in the Ya Salam concert, an event staged to remind of the long, exhausting fifteen-year civil war. The audience cheered and applauded, then promptly went back to whatever it was they were wasting their time with. To be fair, it is difficult to keep alive the memory of a certain war when so many are in rotation, with some breaks in between. The data just get mangled, and unless you defragment and reformat your brain, confusion is bound to set in.
From a perspective of economics, it is plain to see why wars are easily forgotten around these parts: Supply and demand. With such ample supply of fresh robust wars, the price goes down, and the whole event can be had for cheap. For the traders, profit is made on volume, so it behooves the heads of governments and militias to make the most of one war before the lull that follows.
All that holds little interest for me. I dream of a simple life, coexistence with my fellow man (a fellow woman would be even more preferable, or a cat, for that matter), and the ability to pursue my goals unhindered. And war, for some reason, always proves to be a major hindrance.
For those of you who have not been in one, there are unforgettable experiences to be had during times of war. Attempting to read by candlelight and inadvertently getting a wax job is one such experience. I am missing a whole batch of hair from my chest (barrel chest, may I add), where I had propped up the candle holder, with the book right behind it (an Alfred Hitchcock paperback, for real bedtime horror). Spending the day lined up behind long queues of cars at several gas stations, just to get the tank half filled, is also worth trying. But the cream of the crop has to be this: walking through the streets when electric power is out in the whole neighborhood. If you've tried floating motionless in a dark, silent pyramid, and come out needing just a little bit more, this is custom made for you. It is definitely a once-in-a-lifetime experience (if you're lucky. For us it's a lot more frequent). In a small apartment with which one is fairly familiar, hazards to be avoided in total darkness are bumping a shin against the leg of a table, or dislocating a shoulder on a door frame. But in the wide open streets, you could walk straight into a parked car, or kick an unsuspecting football-sized rat, with no forewarning whatsoever. No way to avoid the numerous pits and crevices in the road, so baby steps are in order. And sidewalks are a menace to navigate, so walking has to be in the middle of the street. When a car approaches from afar, you must make the most of the illumination provided by its headlights and run as fast as you can, covering as much distance as possible. I swear, the total, undiluted darkness has to be seen to be believed. You have to rely on inner glow if you are to see an inch in front of you. I made many such nocturnal hikes and've died to tell about them. Naturally, I had a small flashlight on hand, but was afraid of using it for fear of getting rounded up on suspicion of signalling to jet fighters hovering overhead.
So as you can see, our wars are not all that bad (or maybe we're not all that good). In the very least, during a war people are browbeaten into a temporary phase of civility. A newfound humility distinguishes the Lebanese when they are getting pounded, and gone is the arrogance that is their normal trait. During this latest lull, familiar forms of uncouth, belligerent behavior are back in force. By night, youths in cars with sawed-off mufflers burn their tires on quiet neighborhood streets, in a loud assertion of character; their cars phallic symbols compensating for shrunken manhood, the jarring screeches on the asphalt akin to cries of victory over the silence of better educated people nestled in their homes. By day, the irreverence is taken up by motorists of all makes and sizes. Old cabbies, young women, middle-aged businessmen, all express their attitudes via the cursed car horn. At the slightest hint of stoppage in traffic flow, twelve horns will blow in unison, as if on cue, in a chorus of aggravating noise enjoyed by one and all. The typical driver will have the whole weight of their body pressed against the horn, with shoulder blade jutting out of the backside. And this in a nation where you'd be hardpressed to find six musicians who could blow their saxes and trumpets in unison.
It is downright sad that near-civil behavior and respectful silence can only be enjoyed when a nation is under siege; that the humbling effect of strife should be looked upon as a positive result. For one magical month the Lebanese lost some of the ugliness with which they love to adorn their social ethic, but at what cost! None of this would have happened if they'd only let us have Saddam (review March 2006).
I know I don't pull any punches when I criticize the Lebanese, and here's why: I believe in the little things that make a life worth living. I believe in honest, hard work, by which the worker earns a healthful meal and comes to deserve good air to breathe and a restful night of sleep. In Lebanon, these little things are forever trampled underfoot, weighed down by the cumbersome ideologies of defeating the enemy, national unity and honor, sanctity of land. Heavy bullshit that provides the excuse for a corrupt government to weasel out of its responsibilities towards its citizens. In Lebanon we will never come to enjoy the little things, but we may revel in the sweet stench of a victory that leaves the nation in shambles; euphoric flag waving takes the place of peace of mind. And why is peace (that dreaded concept) such a laughable idea these days? It gets more laughs than the latest Abu Abed joke.
Europe's barbaric past paved the way for the civil social behavior that is normal today, and perhaps Lebanon might arrive at such a state in a few centuries. Growing pains are natural and inevitable. And just to set the record straight, Europe's irrational carving up of borders in the Middle East, and the unjust decision to create the Israeli state on Palestinian soil have provided fodder for endless conflict in this cursed region. So naturally, driven by guilt, money for rebuilding is always handy, and a lot of officials here can expect to fill their pockets, syphoning chunks of aid earmarked for construction. Nothing ever changes.
Operation Sour Grapes came and went, and the name seemed to befit the escapade, I thought. But I'd better start preparing even more poignant names for future rounds. I was sobered up on this by a report in today's paper, that of an operation going on right now in Afghanistan. NATO calls its current drive Operation Jelly Fish. I envy you, NATO.
So, for all those folks who truly believed this was to have been the spark to ignite world war three (as alluded to in some scriptures), maybe next time. It has been widely noted that if the world does reach 1000 years of age, it certainly won't reach 2000. My guess is, daylight savings time wasn't factored in when the initial forecast was made, some time B.C. But it may not be long now, so keep them candles handy, and wear protective clothing, unless you don't mind being all silky smooth for a while. I know I don't.
August 11th, 2006
One month into the dreadful ordeal, and what have we gained? We've gained some weight! The gym is closed, and the bowling alley is teeming with refugees, none of whom have shown interest in the sport. But let's get down to brass tacks: you log on to the World of the Dragon because you have come to expect no-frills, honest-to-goodness, straight-from-the-front-into-your-living-room reporting. And that ye shall receive.
A good war correspondent places oneself at a strategic location that offers a bird's eye view of the historic proceedings. So I plant my butt in front of the television set and start surfing. I go looking for BBC, CNN and FANTASY ISLAND, but get stuck on ANIMAL PLANET's Big Cat Diary. The sight of those lions chasing after wildebeest is just too engaging; I am enthralled. Some hours later guilt overcomes me. Driven by solid purpose and determination, I again clutch the remote and move on, only to be sucked into a fascinating reportage on dolphins, shown on National Geographic. Dolphins display such uncanny intelligence, it casts our own into serious doubt.
Could it be that the war has become boring already? Even one with such interesting twists in the plot? That is not for me to determine; I was bored by Lebanese politics long before this latest episode was scripted. Although I have to admit, the "Tearful Prime Minister" does add a human angle, and helps boost the ratings. Not many governments can boast of having one of these - book him now for your next baby shower.
The dolphin segment over, I courageously press the remote's buttons onwards, fearlessly bringing myself closer to the line of fire. I finally reach CNN in time for a report of 100 deaths in a single strike, in Iraq. Again I am moved to ponder the relation of sheer numbers to dramatic effect. Iraq's casualties routinely surpass those in Lebanon's latest round, but I remind myself that the Iraq quandary is old news - boring - and that this is the hip hot spot now, which international reporters are clambering to reach, as locals are clambering to exit.
It seems we're hosting a couple of wars per decade. What is this? Party zone for the peace impaired? Give us your action-starved generals; your trigger-happy snipers; your frustrated tacticians. We're like a nursery for hyperactive, aggressive, overgrown monsters. We provide the playground for them to run around and expend their aggression, thus they will cause no problems at home. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy with all the attention, but them knees are getting too old to party. You're only old once, and I've had the chance to attend more than my quota of wars, I'd like to leave some for others. I believe in sharing.
This nation gained independence in 1943, but the last French soldiers didn't leave till 1946. Twelve years later the fun began: 1958 (I was minus-one-year-old, but I swear I could feel the tension); 1975 (trouble started in 1973); 1978; 1982; 1989; 1993; 1996; and now this. And these are just highlights.
Not much is left standing in targeted areas. Them Israelites are nothing if not thorough. Even old, dilapidated, out-of-commission towers are being hit, in an endearing show of care for the young. Old towers provide excellent live target practice opportunities, a chance to apply techniques learned in simulation rooms. The Creative Department pores over the satellite maps and marks anything that stands out; then young air force pilots are sent out to hit them. All in good fun.
Hitting old, unused communication towers is one thing, but there are examples aplenty of rather dirty fighting. On Friday the 11th alone, a convoy of civilians was allowed out of the village of Marjeyoun, and then pursued by jets shooting rockets, killing six; the Haysa bridge in Akkar was raided once, and some minutes later, after locals went to check the damage, it was hit again, this time claiming eleven; and a Red Cross vehicle was targeted, wounding two. Very commendable indeed, and not unexpected of an army that used a bulldozer to raze a young American lady protesting the razing of Palestinian homes and olive groves.
Perhaps no statement has in the last half decade been uttered more frequently than the infamous "We're coming out of a state of war". Used time and again to defuse requests for better living conditions, this phrase has been a most effective excuse and a favorite among politicians of all makes. An organization demanding better lighting in an alley rife with muggers; a request for a pedestrian bridge over a stretch of highway that sees a daily death or two; a plea for traffic cops on street corners to decrease infractions; any gripe a citizen may have with the government, all would be handled with the short and curt "We're coming out of a state of war", which implies "Bear with us, buddy. One thing at a time. We'll get to it." And after this exhilirating new episode I trust I'll never hear the lowly excuse again; nor expect any improvement in living conditions. For I fear we'll be coming out of a state of war for a long, long time after this one.
I surfed on and on till I found a news channel that displayed those graphics passing at the bottom of the screen - an effective method of getting all the news I need in under five minutes. I got this: Israel's finance minister plans to invest $500 million into the war effort; and a strip or two later: the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation pledges $500 million for the global AIDS fund. Join voices with me, let's all sing together now: "...and I think to myself, what a wonderful world".
Next month, should there be one, a look at the mating rituals of dolphins. I learned a lot about dolphins these past few weeks. (And somebody get that Madonna off the cross; pop martyrdom is old.)
August 2006
Procreating with an agreeable mermaid, indeed! Sound as the idea may have been, the chance to sire a new, amphibian race has literally slipped out of my hands. My mermaid, coated with heavy oil, proved too slippery to hold on to; we just couldn't get it on, so she turned her sights instead to a crab that was sauntering about, flaunting his disproportionate but impressive biceps. And the anticipated tidal wave turned out to be simply a series of minor ripples caused by barges, aircraft carriers, and large passenger ships carrying people out of here (in something of a hurry).
With fifteen tons of heavy industrial oil oozing out into the sea, life becomes interesting (and the Ramleh el Baidah becomes Ramleh el Sawdah - you heard it here first). An official described efforts to burn off some of the oil before it hits the water, conceding the damage to the air but favoring it as the lesser of two evils (would that there were but two). Not that the average citizen can tell the difference: the air over Beirut isn't air at all, but a conglomeration of fumes from a host of sources, chief among them the multitude of generators used by every home and business to supply electric power. These, of course, run on fuel, so they are destined to turn silent soon, as no fuel carrying ship is allowed into the area; local suppliers cannot reach individual gas stations; and the national supply - enough for two weeks - is being gobbled up by motorists in a panic, lining up at gas stations for an alloted share per customer. Boy, does that bring back memories; albiet bad ones. Some gas stations have already run out of stock and have filled up their tanks with water, so they won't burn into flames upon an air strike. But don't tell that to Olmie (what he doesn't know won't hurt him).
If I remember correctly, next we can expect folks sneaking up to cars parked in dark corners, armed with rubber tube and tin can, to siphon out the valuable substance. The clandestine activity was rampant in the 70's civil strife, and many a man was admitted to hospital after lighting a cigarette and glowing in the middle of a darkened street. Car thefts, at least, will go out of vogue. I, of course, have my own formula for making fuel, but that would be useless if potatoes became scarce.
The resilient Lebanese, inventive as ever, are coping admirably. Every other car on the street now boasts in big lettering: PRESS, TELEVISION and WASH ME. Sales of masking tape are soaring, as taxi drivers and car owners hope to avoid attracting the attention of carnivorous military jets circling the skies like mean, sharp eyed vultures. I can tell you, from down here the masking tape job is downright shoddy, but I sincerely hope the ploy works.
Last month, hoping to attract clients for the World Cup games, every cafe, pub and restaurant in town installed large screens for the event, and patrons came in droves. Today the places are just as densely packed, clients having already formed the habit, and with programming that is so hard to resist. Operation Sour Grapes is mesmerising to viewers here and abroad, and reporters from all over are scrambling to get in the country and valiantly venture into danger zones, for their moment in the limelight. War is big business, and as some are earmarked to die, others make a living out of it.
If captious, cynical reporting is not quite your cup of tea, I hope you'll bear with me during these trying times. It isn't easy keeping your head amidst the carnage, so I'm keeping several others, in case I run out. Lebanon had its chance to break free last year and failed. When the inquiry into Hariri's assassination and those that followed began to stall, people got lazy and forgot all about the almost-but-not-quite-successful revolution in the street, when they came oh-so-close to toppling the government. But close doesn't cut it, so Lebanon retains its reputation as the favorite ping pong ball for Regional Tournaments, held every decade or two, until death do us part. The bottom line: When Israel's right to exist collides with your right to live, you've got a problem.
Well, that's all I have to report right now. Tune in next month when, the war over, we present the line of beach wear for the 2006 summer season (what remains of it, or of me).
July 2006
Procrastination and abundance of work in June (first such summer) led to the delay in publishing the July essay, which was to have been an exhaustive dissection of the World Cup and all the fine participating teams, with the inevitable focus on the plethoric amounts of spitting involved. Then the shit hit the fan, with the expected result that shit was then spread far and wide - elementary physics.
What started as a routine skirmish on the border, a military game of hide and seek among men whose careers are fed by such games, has mushroomed into a nightmare for the entire population of this sorry nation; a sequel of a sequel of a nightmare that isn't scary anymore, just thoroughly dispiriting.
As the generals drool over the opportunities to try out new tactics on live guinea pigs, I do my best to understand their point of view. Weapons of war constitute the single most lucrative business the world has ever known. Months and years are spent developing and testing new machines of murder, and they are sold for exorbitant amounts of money. It is only fair to have them tried out in real time; especially when there is no shortage of ideological motives to justify the fun.
So the pedestrian should be nice enough to let them indulge in their fantasies, and would do well to look at the bright side - there is a bright side to everything. Streets of Beirut, normally turned into massive parking lots by hungry, predatory taxicabs and dilapidated carbon spewing buses, are today ominously quiet. For once one has no need to look left and right and then left again before crossing the street. Even the Dora intersection is a breeze to drive through. Another residual effect is the pleasant lack of noise; the cacophonic car horns that wake the dead are absent. Even the horrific whine of the infamous Sukleen trucks is mercifully infrequent, but garbage is already mounting on street corners, to the delight of nocturnal rodents and scavenging felines. The ancient rocks that cradle the sea, upon which only a week ago reclined thousands of foul-mouthed narjileh-smoking youths, disposing of beer bottles by breaking them over the rocks and leaving behind mounds of garbage, are again free from the human problem. And many more positives to be eked out of the unfortunate situation.
So where's the problem? Well, an extended vacation from work is relaxing, but financially ruinous, and goods have already appreciated in price, one week into the campaign. If my memory serves me well, we can soon expect shortages of petrol, so if you need to go some place, go today. And electric power is already at half service and dwindling, so if you need to read a book, start now. Fresh vegetables and fruits are also destined to disappear, but who needs fiber and vitamins. And the Lebanese pound has held out steadfastly so far, but not for long. Soon you can use the bills as wall paper, or toilet paper, even. And the de facto chief of staff got on television to tell me, the citizen, to grin and bear it. I understood 'grin and bare it', so I did, and enjoyed the freedom, and feeling one with the universe. But I soon realized he meant otherwise. Now I'm not grinning. You don't want to irk the man of the hour. His militia represents divinity, after all, and you can't answer to a higher authority than that.
I would much rather have ruminated on the World Cup, or any other cup, for that matter. But the little fry have no say when they swim with the piranhas. Serves me right to belong to a leaderless nation. Who can stop the madness now? Every sane person I know has packed up and left. If I were sane I'd do the same.
You'd like to berate me, I'm sure, for making light of a matter with so much melodramatic content. I can't help being painstakingly objective. If this were happening anywhere else no Lebanese would bat an eyelash. No one took pity on Darfurians when Arab militias were hacking them to death. The plights of many other nations registered no sympathy over here. Is it more painful or relevant when it is so near? More people die each day in Iraq as we speak, yet that is old news, and this is fresh, right out of the oven. So come and get it while it's hot.
I believe I'll wait it out on the beach (you guessed right), and pray for a tidal wave large enough to flush everyone out. I'll have my goggles and oxygen tank, so I'll survive the Natural Solution; and then I'll pair up with an agreeable mermaid and start an amphibian race and begin from scratch. There, I'm delirious already.
June 2006
Barred, if you can believe it, from posting my essays online. Yes, the unthinkable has happened. ADEQUATE (Agency for Deleting and Eliminating Questionable, Unsolicited, Asinine, Torpid Essays) - can you believe the name? - sent me a notice asking me to refrain from contributing more BS to my readers worldwide. I believe last month's essay may have earned me this distinction, although I can think of a handful of other ones that pack as much (as little?) punch. Still, I think it is unfair and prejudiced. And here I was preparing to unleash yet another mindbreaking dissertation on the difference between organically grown ping pong balls and genetically modified ones.
I guess I'm still depressed after not having heard from Buckingham Palace regarding my application for the job of Chef in the Royal Kitchen (and I had barely gotten over being snubbed by the White House kitchen, even though I won the Best Chef in Swimsuit trophy. For more details on that fiasco refer to the September 2005 essay). Who better than me to don the Royal Apron, spin the Royal Spatula, and compose sumptuous canvases of grub fit for the Royal Palate? I was planning to wow them with Shepherd's Pie a la Khauli, with 60 % real shepherd, no less! The remaining 40 % would comprise close friends/relatives of the shepherd (shepherds are hard to come by these days). You just can't beat that. So what is taking so long? Have they hired someone else and are afraid to let me know? Fearful of my renowned wrath? You just don't procrastinate with a chef of my standing (my knees ache and I need to sit).
This has definitely sucked the wind out of my sails, and with oar withered by age I can't go much further, wading against the current. Is it time, God forbid, to hang up my apron? (Well, I would hold on to it for costume games with the wife - once I find a wife, that is. No hurry.) That trusted, old, beat-up garment, battle-stained with samples of the best ingredients ever to be united in a cooking pot. Well, yes, it may be that time. The last time I tried my hand at an omelette it came out chewy as rubber. Maybe Michelin tyres might award me a couple of stars for that, but even they are undergoing restructuring now, just like I must.
I know you are holding your breath, and while that is recommended from a Yoga perspective, you can go ahead and let some of it out now. Yours truly (that would be me) is here to stay, apron or no apron. At least I know the literary world is not ready to go on without me. How do I know? Call it a mother's intuition.
April (and May) 2006
Lebanese horticultural skills my ass. From the time of the trader Phoenicians onward, we've been known for cutting down trees rather than growing anything.
Anyway, I had no time to organise my thoughts this month as I was busy with a top secret mission. I guess I'm not supposed to divulge information, but NASA enlisted me to help out in an emergency. The moon had not aligned itself on the axis as expected, and the much anticipated eclipse was doomed to failure. At the very last minute I was asked to fill in for the wayward planet, and I cheerfully took on the challenge, not even pausing to take snacks along. Yes, that was me up there, standing between you and the sun. I couldn't resist the chance to moon the earth and all its inhabitants. It was grand, if brief, and my butt got sunburnt, but I'm not complaining. Look out for me again in fifty-six years or so.
See what happens when time does not allow proper thought and preparation? No essay would have been better than the gibberish above. So, to avoid similar embarrassment, I shall refrain from posting a comment in May, as I will be on tour with the Star Academy graduates. These are the bright young stars of tomorrow, and having passed the grueling weeks of training they are ready to tantalize the yelping youths of the Arab world with their bountiful talents. If I survive the ecstasy of it all you'll hear from me again in June.
March 2006
A fine, warm winter day; the sun's healing rays glinting off snowcapped peaks; humans strolling on the boulevard by the sea; traveling salesmen plying edible wares; a young lady and her gentleman companion perched on the railing overlooking the serene sea, enjoying a snack and sharing a smile.
What's wrong with this picture? I'll tell you what's wrong: it takes place in Beirut, Lebanon, that's what. So the story can't end there, can it? You may find this frivolous but it irked me to no end: the young couple finish munching on their Mankoushehs (the silly national food, composed of white flour and industrial grade oil, produced by bakeries of dubious hygiene standards), they pack the grimy wrappers and soda cans in the black plastic bag, and dump the refuse right down into the sea, atop the frolicking fish and industrious crabs. A simple flick of the wrist, a daily occurrence and standard procedure, practiced by all and frowned upon by none. A minimal action that raises not a brow among the populace, yet summarizes the essence of being Lebanese.
What stopped me from pushing the irreverent invertebrates right down into the sea, after their garbage? Pure negligence on my part, but it won't happen again, I swear.
No chance of this people ever rising to the status of civilized society. Take a standard issue Lebanese person, erase and reformat the brain, clone the new version, eradicate existing specimens, replace with new, improved product. This would work with fowl too, waste no more time on Tamiflu.
On reflection, it hurts me to see a Saddam tried in court when we've a most dire need for his ilk right here (hang in there Big S, we needja baby). The man is prescribed for us, practically doctor recommended. I would personally finance his trip over here. We have a guy on the way out, vacancy waiting to be filled by just such a mongrel, to lead fellow mongrels at the end of a tight leash.
Give us your terrible tyrants, your iron fisted despots, your blood thirsty disciplinarians, your unappreciated dictators. We need them and they need us.
Next month, a look at pretty floral designs and the delicate horticultural art of Lebanon, jewel of the Mediterranean.
February 2006
The February column seems to have developed a mind of its own, centering on Cupid's misadventures and blocking out all else. Valentine's Day sums up the month, and although I have had a fair share of love mutually exchanged, of late I feel I've been shortchanged. I'll probably sleep the fourteenth away, and thank goodness the national obsession with love is reduced to one lone day in this country. What would I do if I lived in South Korea? Over yonder there are twenty special days for couples to note, the result of marketing efforts by companies impressed with the commercial potential of this exclusively human folly.
January 14th is Diary Day, when calendars are exchanged along with vows. On February 14th men are given chocolates by women, and on March 14th, White Day, men return the favor. April 14th is Black Day, and unattached folks eat only black food for the day. May 15th is Yellow Day, and singles gather over dishes of curry. Then comes August 14th, Green Day, not a popular one yet, but give them time.
And talk about originality: In Sweden last year, 488 marriages took place in Arlanda international airport - up from 348 in 2004. A romantic lot, those Swedes (I should fly more often).
What has become of love? How can an escaped lunatic like Cupid roam free, shooting his arrows indiscriminantly into callow butts everywhere? But why listen to me, an aging stallion in the grime of life, an old guard from the days when love did not carry a price tag, tax included? What do I know about love? What do I know about anything? What is knowledge? What are granules but teeny weenie grains (and I figured that one out with my own little branule). What do I know about wisdom? I give out sage advice when I'm better off giving out a sprig of sage, and a trout. You can't munch on wisdom but sage improves the memory and the trout will hold you over until a gazelle comes trotting along that you could spear. I should stick to what I know best, and that is concocting the world's most succulent dishes. They don't call me a chef's chef for nothing (I have to pay them a dollar each time).
And speaking of world class cuisine, the White House snubbed me but Buckingham Palace can't. I mean, they can but they won't. That is to say, they probably will but they shouldn't. I am exactly what they need. Queen Elizabeth the Second is out looking for a known chef to up the quality of grub in the Royal Kitchen. A Palace spokesperson specified that I'd be responsible for 20 cooks (I can handle that; the more the merrier); and preparation of meals for 800 diners (no problem. Wait...is that two zeroes behind the eight? Nah, probably just a printing mistake, that's all); and I'd be counted on to create special dinners for the Queen herself (easier done than said, after my experience with my last girlfriend, herself an Empress with a marked disdain for pickles, cute yellow kernels of corn, and all forms of ground meat - myself included). The Palace spokesperson mentioned no word on salary, but I'm sure we can come to a mutual compromise; I'm easy, and more interested in quality clientry than in hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of dollars, or even euros (let me catch my breath).
I can't be passed over, can I? Visualize it for a moment: The Queen of England and the King of Kitsch, together at last! A match made in heaven if ever there was one - if I say so myself.
January 2006
2005 was so rotten a year, it would have done well to have aborted itself before it ever did begin. And yet, the irony of it all, a leap second was added to the miscreant year. Not one to succumb to fate, even being known to turn a negative into a positive, I took advantage of the extra time to launch several new worthy projects.
I cleaned house; exchanged my Nobel prize for a new set of curtains (not new but hardly used); caught a film by Wolfgang Becker, Goodbye Lenin!, a small budget project that puts all of Hollywood's recent output to shame, with its original, poignant story, humble, realistic acting, immaculate filming and editing, and best of all, no Michael Douglas.
I also completed editing a three DVD set of archives that fans are sure to fight over. Check out the product in the DISCOGRAPHY section and salivate over it for a while, until it is made public.
2005 in review (and not a moment too soon)
Finally, then, we arrive at this juncture. It has been a horrible year by all accounts, and it won't be missed, but here at the World of the Dragon we know not the meaning of failure, nor that of numerous other beneficial words, for that matter. Yet that has never stopped us from shooting our mouth and commenting on everything under the sun - spending, as we do, more time under the sun than anyone, thereby earning a sort of expertise on the matter. But enough blabber. Curl up beside the fire (those tires burning over there) and enjoy a sweeping review of the history-faking essays that tower over the literary world and set the standard for serious thinkers all around the globe.
The December feature was concerned with music-making, a welcome return to the subject after a run on various issues, loosely linked and poorly presented, but FUN, FUN, FUN! Enemies made from the essay: many. But hard-edged reporters come to expect this result. Fake, untalented stars hate to be exposed, and they cling to their imagined status with claws clenched tight. But the Dragon's fire burns deep (Note to webmaster: Insert eerie soundtrack here).
November dealt with the dispiteous thought that the BIGGEST news will always elude the LITTLE people. Governments give themselves a free hand in developing weaponry, but experiments to control weather came as a shock to me. I'm notorious for doing little serious research in the classic manner, but I pick up information from every source of reading material that comes my way. Kind of like a metal detector, if anything valuable is buried under the sand, I will find it, but it will have to beep first. The New York Times reported forecasters warning that intense storms will continue for years to come, following a six-month respite. The final tally for 2005 shows twenty-six storms, thirteen of which turned into hurricanes, most famous among them being Katrina. Stop tinkering with Mother Nature.
The International Herald Tribune is a primary source of news and I cut out items that surprise, tickle or enrage me. Every few months those clippings are compiled and presented here for the benefit of humanity. October brought us a colorful bouquet of news, some bordering on the inane, some on the insane. To those we can add a report by A.P. about the effectiveness of guitar sounds in easing the nerves of patients at hospitals. In England and the U.S. guitar players are hired to strum the instrument as therapy. That doesn't surprise me, a guitar player and enthusiast, and I can further attest to the instrument's long-standing fame of producing tones capable of soothing the savage beast, having soothed a great many of those myself, over the years. Another piece of news: Paul (Sir) McCartney vowed never to perform in China after seeing how dogs and cats are killed for fun in that uncultured ancient culture. He could've consulted with me, I've always held that nation in low regard for abuse of the animal kingdom. Consider this Chinese saying: Eat anything with legs except a table, and anything that flies except an aeroplane (you read it here first). And in Lahore, East Pakistan, firecrackers inside a bus full of wedding celebrants killed forty of them when the gas tank caught fire. I mention this to illustrate human folly, and to justify my lack of sympathy for humans, and the abundance of sympathy I feel for animals who suffer at their hands. And speaking of human folly, Mizuho Securities lost $223 million when a trader sold 610,000 shares at 1 yen each, instead of the intended transaction of 1 share at 610,000 yens! Kudos. And I got a kick out of reading of Howard Stapleton's invention, in Wales, of a contraption he named the "Mosquito". Hanging over the entrance to his store, the Mosquito emits a high frequency pulsating sound that is inaudible to adults but drives teenagers crazy. It is intended to disperse the loitering species, and has proven more effective than a machine that focuses blue light on them, highlighting their zits, named, aptly, the Zit Light. Finally, I would close with a note of appreciation for singer Willie Nelson, who uses Bio Willie to fuel his Mercedes. Bio Willie is 100% vegetable oil derived from kitchen grease. Biodiesel can be made from any number of crops, and it is time to consider those alternatives.
August saw me hibernating, but I came back in September with tail between my legs, to concede defeat and congratulate Cristeta on landing the job of White House Chef, which I had long coveted. I still believe, deep, deep inside, that my recipes are unmatched anywhere, but in the heat of competition I yielded to lofty dreams of grandeur and overdid it. I don't know if I'll ever try for the job again; I'm probably stuck in my current position as leading brain surgeon (in my price bracket: Brain-Surgery-While-You-Wait, $29.95, WHILE SUPPLIES LAST), so I might as well try to learn to love my job.
In July I had no time to supply my sophisticated readers with a humorous, witty, enriching essay, owing to a delay that kept me in France, where I helped broker a deal to build the world's first nuclear fusion plant. The thing cost $12 billion, not all of it out of my own pocket, thank God. Most of all, I'm glad I talked them out of naming it after me. I deplore publicity.
In June I was trying to organize my smoking regimen, with an eye on a lawsuit against tobacco companies that would set me for life. And I was also engrossed in preparations for the contest to win the position of White House Chef, after the resident cook got the shaft. A glance at that essay can get mouths watering, the description of my recipes alone seeming to emanate enticing aromas. But I did get some negative feedback from several battery companies, irate at having their product figure in cooking recipes. I pay them no heed.
May was a sad time, and marked my exit from the Lebanese political scene. Basil Fuleihan, a wise and humble gentleman, died of wounds suffered in the blast on February 14th that changed the modern history of Lebanon. A great friend of ours, his departing stretched my patience to the limit. I stopped keeping in touch with, or caring for, the ugly workings of Lebanese politics. March and April had been an exercise in making fun of the president and prime minister, but even as this column goes to press, the prez is still warming that coveted seat, refusing to budge despite the widespread loathing he's earned. He should be credited, however, for uniting the Lebanese people, they who up to now had not agreed on anything.
In February I offered my life savings ($73.25) as reward for the capture, dead or deceased, of that fallen angel, Cupid. No one came forward to claim the cash, and I believe I will pool it along with savings from my non-stop touring, and offer the combined sum as this year's reward. P.S. I'm still waiting for my mid-life crisis.
January began with the European Union Task Force getting a cold shoulder from Lebanese authorities. The Task Force had offered aid, to the tune of fifty million Euros. But we're a proud bunch, the Lebanese.
The above ruminations are not protected in any way. Please copy them, share them with friends, teach them in class. And pray that 2006 turns out a bit more humane than 2005.
December 2005
This month sees me return to music commentary, for better or worse. (Worse. There, I've betrayed the ending.)
I am sorry to display this negative attitude so consistently, but the infractions that are perpetrated in the name of music are unforgivable; music has been my love and my livelihood; and I assume that you turn to these diaries to get an educated opinion. And now for some analysis.
Take 50 cents (or a fraction thereof - depending on exchange rates) for example. Actually take half-a-dozen, but you'll still be short a musician. Anyway, I don't single out the guy because his name (Name? Logo, maybe!) opens up endless possibilities for third-rate humor, but rather because I like his voice (real smooth) and his vocal style (real cool), and his rugged looks as well. Sadly, though, voice, style and looks don't amount to anything outside the world of rap/hip hop - and there does exist a world outside rap/hip hop (You should visit sometime, 50, before you get to be 40, or even 30-something, when your career comes to an abrupt, age induced halt).
A recent trend that has proven to be a major turn-off and that is devoid of musical value has been the widespread use of short, novelty riffs to lend a song its differentiating character, instead of allowing the song to stand on its own feet, on the strength of good lyrics, valid musical ideas or inspired performance. This habit is rampant in rap/hip hop, and it got tired and pointless soon after it began, a few years ago. "A Little Bit", by 50 cents, features something that sounds like a plastic recorder, or some kind of a toy whistle, playing a succession of four or five notes (thus forming a riff). This riff is looped (made to repeat itself till death does it part) from beginning to end of the song. Another song, "Candy Shop", by the same man, features a short, Arabian-sounding riff, again very short and repeated forever. The silly riff sounds only as Arabian as melodies heard in 1940's and 50's American movies. And to add insult to injury, it is programmed on synthetic violins; anyone who's heard Arabic music knows to what lengths Middle Eastern musicians have taken the violin and the emotional expression of which it becomes capable in their able hands.
Now, only a non-musician might find use for such an irritating twist. I can see how a civilian might hear a little riff and think: "Hey, that'd be cool to loop and rap over." But, in application, when you loop that riff and hear it repeated for over 10 seconds it begins to grate on your nerves; and three-and-a-half minutes of it, going round and round, constitutes nothing short of Chinese torture. Again, only a layman would find that interesting. Is it any wonder?
50's mentor, Eminem, used part of an Aerosmith song and looped it, instead of sitting down to compose a tune for himself. The reason? Try incapable.
Sure, the same thing is done with drums tracks - you didn't think the drum sound propelling the song actually results from a living, breathing musician/drummer, seated at his drum set and keeping time with his sticks, did you? (Well, you might have, if you knew nothing about music making - and you couldn't well be blamed, what with producers hiring actors to pretend they're playing instruments in the video versions of songs that were constructed electronically). Drum programming follows an established concept: using a drum machine or computer, a drum pattern is programmed, 4 to 8 measures long, then looped for the duration of the song. Depending on the software and on the personal taste of the engineer/arranger/composer, the cymbal might sound like friction from a beaver's teeth gnawing on a steel cable, and the kick drum might sound like a 1946 Ford truck backfiring. And those irritating sounds will accompany you for the length of the song.
I am attempting to distinguish between the non-musician turned star and the true musician. As with everything else, the flaky, fleeting, consumption-oriented attitude of the times plays a major role in the degeneration of art. Musicians of yesteryear were fully dedicated to the learning and mastering of the inherited works. They would listen to all the classics and analyze every intricate movement in each piece. They would train to achieve full proficiency on the piano, in addition to one or more of the lesser instruments. Their quest would be characterized by humility and respect, and needless to say, you wouldn't find their bodyguards shooting at each other in the streets and in nightclubs. Thank goodness for someone like Alicia Keys, who composes her own songs; she has something worthwhile to say; writes beautiful melodies; plays a fine piano; has a very attractive voice. She is the healthy picture of a modern artist.
Zip over to twenty-first century Los Angeles or NY. Your typical recording star of the day is a guy who understands only the amount of cash to be made from a hit single, who has heard nothing but his/her immediate predecessors of the last ten years, all of whom were doing the exact same thing he/she are attempting; all of whom displayed the same childish knowledge of music. The name 'Rimsky Korsakov' would remind of a cartoon character on Dexter's Lab, no more. Mozart might elicit the reaction, "Moe who?" Musical education: nil. No awareness of, or respect for, musical rules, harmony, improvisation. No problem. There is a market for take-out music, and as such, there have to be chefs who specialize in take-out (as well as the inevitable vomit from some of the more palate-sensitive comsumers).
In closing, a mention of the worst thing I've heard this year, perhaps even ever: Songs that have been coming out of Italy (and that I wish would have stayed there). At least two such things have hit the airwaves, both featuring blatantly bad taste, musically and vocally. I don't know the names, nor do I care to ask. One of them is built with two lone, adjacent chords, no more, with no variation whatsoever, and some girl whining along. The other features a girl using her breath as rhythm, but Donna Summer she ain't. As if fast, flimsy cars weren't enough, now we have to put up with this flagrant shit. And this comes after the Germans did music an irrevocable disservice by cultivating Techno. What is this? A Fascist takeover of the industry?
And an electronic remake of the guitar solo of the Dire Straits' "Sultans of Swing" deserves a nod as a terribly moronic idea. So do remakes of "California Dreaming" and "Every Breath You Take"; the few years that have elapsed since the latter was a hit barely qualify as respite from the obnoxiousness we had to endure for years while radio stations played it like it was the official song of the decade.
Another dumbass idea went into making the hit song "So Lonely". Again, I don't know the name of the culprit - radio stations don't give out names; the DJs assume you are hip to their garbage. This song features a speeded up version of an old song, resulting in the singer sounding like a chipmunk. Old tape recorders had a varispeed function, and children found the effect funny. But the composer of this song clearly took this effect seriously and actually sang a duet with the mutilated voice. Is this really happening, in the year 2005?
Wake me up when the decade is past.
November 2005
This is dispiriting, to put it very mildly. I read local newspapers in Arabic and English, followed by the International Herald Tribune; I watch a couple of channels of local news, followed by a couple more of international channels; I keep my ears open and engage in informative debates with learned people; all this to keep abreast of important events and breaking news. And yet, it takes an afterword in a Sidney Sheldon novel to inform me of some heavy information of which I definitely should be aware. According to Sid, and I readily believe him, America and Russia have the ability to control weather around the world.
Tests conducted in the late 1800s, by Nikola Tesla, involved transmitting electrical energy through space. A patent was granted in 1969 for a 'method of increasing the likelihood of precipitation by the artificial introduction of sea water vapor into the atmosphere' (sounds innocent enough, so far). A patent was issued to the Westinghouse Electric Corporation, in 1971, for a system of irradiation of planet surfaces. In the early 1970s, during hearings on US military research into climate modification, the US Congressional Committee on Oceans and Internal Environment found that the defence department had plans for creating tidal waves through the co-ordinated use of nuclear weapons (now we're talking, eh?). Then in 1978, a US experiment created a downpour of rain over six counties in Wisconsin, the storm generating winds of 175/hour and causing 50 million dollars in damages (does this ring a bell?). And most recently, according to a 1992 Wall Street Journal report, Elat Intelligence Technologies, of Russia, was selling weather control equipment tailored to specific needs, available to every country in the world.
The afterword goes on to list strange weather phenomena reported since the 1980s, but the book was published in 2004, and we all remember how 2005 started and all that followed.
I'm just appalled, I guess, at how the BIG news eludes the LITTLE people; at how simple and easy it is to prevent such news from becoming common knowledge. I haven't a bigger comment to make, or any analysis to offer. I, like the vast majority of people who roam this earth, am too little and insignificant in the face of events of this magnitude. Nothing I can do to thwart or alter decisions made by the movers in this industry; my role relegated to that of unfortunate victim when the region in which I reside comes up as next order of business. I'm not even bitter, don't worry about me.
If I linger too long in the shower and cause a sharp rise in the humidity within the bathroom, leading to the discomfort or even death of some of my resident ants, I will have done the same thing, on a littler scale. But I always crack open the window, precisely to avoid such a fate. I don't care to play God; I'd rather play Crazy 8.
The novel itself, Are You Afraid of the Dark?, was interesting enough, a fast read, much like a television movie with like-able protagonists and loathsome villains. A bit too formulaic to stay in one's memory for evermore. But the afterword will.
October 2005
So many gripes, so little time. Not that I'm the complaining type, mind you, but this past summer saw me reading the newspapers with some diligence, and there is always an abundance of bad news in every section. Add to that the immense popularity of these collected gripes, attested to by the overwhelming response of our readers to questionnaires we have been sending out since 1976, with %100 of responders choosing bad news over good news any day of the week, except Tuesday. In strict adherence, therefore, to the preference of our inestimable audience, we offer here a collection of interesting news items, most bordering on the tragic, and listed in no particular order.
Back in May, Kerri Packer, Australia's wealthiest man, was considering suing the airport for damage to his private jet. The plane had collided with an unfortunate kangaroo, and Kerri was adamant about billing someone. What avarice! And total disrespect for all things natural. Worst of all, the newspaper closes with the statement: "Damage to Kangaroo unknown". This kind of news usually brings out the worst in me but I shall make a concerted effort to contain myself and remain objective.
London's "Independent" reports that deforestation last year was only surpassed in 1995, when an area the size of Belgium was erased. Alarming as the news should be, readers hardly flinch at it. It is too remote an event, too removed from one's daily travails to brood about. Out of sight, out of mind, if eventually up the behind. The time-tested formula never fails.
News from the First World: Matthew Koso, 22, and wife Crystal, 14 (years of age, yes), have a baby. The happy, mature couple were wed in Kansas, which falls far, far away from the parched plains of Sudan or the poppy fields of Afghanistan. And the wedding is perfectly legal, Kansas being only hypothetically part of the United States. This is not to condone the practice in the aforementioned fourth-world nations or a host of others, but Kansas brings to mind the Blues and fields of corn as far as the eye can see, not archaic legislation that still reeks of the sweat of the he-man pioneers who liberated the land from Indians, bison and nature, to build a civilized society promoting happiness and equality among all.
Closer to home, Ravi Shankar, world-renowned musician, lost "two relatives" when two treasured sitars that he had played for years were broken during a flight from Lebanon. I felt with brother Ravi as I did with Shawn Phillips, who also had a prized guitar broken while in flight to Lebanon for a concert. I am myself a musician, but I have the foresight to keep my good guitar safe at home and lug my second-rate guitar to a second-rate gig where mishandling is expected. In a second-rate gig the sound system isn't going to be good enough to bring out the finer nuances of the instrument, that's if the instrument survives being bounced about by baggage handlers who've never seen a sitar; who can't read English and won't heed the FRAGILE or THIS WAY UP signs; who are just waiting for the day to end and are too underpaid to care; who keep awake by honing their racial bias skills, cracking jokes about Ravi's dark skin and Shawn's pale one. Did no one brief the musicians about their destination?
Farther from home, half-a-million dollars was offered Nicole Kidman for 25 minutes of her time, to talk about her dreams and desires as an actress and mom, in a lecture for Forbes officials in Sydney. As an actor and mutha I don't recall ever being offered anything resembling money, except that one time when I was lecturing the Tahweetet el Ghadeer Housewives Committee, and they threw a bunch of spinach leaves my way which I briefly mistook for a wad of dollars but quickly grasped the difference after munching on a twenty. So of course I was upset when I heard about Nicole's $20,000 per minute fee, and then I learned that she wasn't planning to be there in person, her image beamed in by satellite deemed worthy enough. (If only you could beam me up Scotty, but you've already beamed yourself up, haven't you?)
Eighteen-year-old Marwa, on death row and jailed since she was thirteen-years-old, was set free after her in-laws accepted the sum of $800,000. Interested? Read on. Marwa's husband - that is, her husband before she was sent off to jail, when she was 13 - had a dream. Yes, the good husband dreamed that his young (hell, under aged) wife had strangled him; he asked her to help him reconstruct the dream with a scarf. The result: one less lout on the face of the earth. Did Marwa perhaps pull just a teensy weensy little too much on that scarf? I don't know and I don't care. She was eventually pardoned in exchange for the blood money (the guy sure had a lot of blood in him) and (you want to sit down for this) construction of a mosque commemorating him.
Finally, and those two certainly deserve all the ribbing in the world, Brad (Olive) Pitt and Jennifer Aniston separated, literally, when sculptors at London's wax museum applied the knife to their stupid likenesses. Jen had one hand on Brad's chest and another on his bottom (I don't know how many hands she's got but I could guess where the third would be). The cost of getting her paws off his waxen frame: a lousy $19,000, as good as thrown down some drain. Who comes out looking real good? The folks at the museum, who deemed the infamous duo a "safe couple" after four years of marriage.
Who cares? I've got a lot of spinach left over.
September 2005
I must have overslept, I don't know for a fact, but August is past and that's that. No use brooding about it. And besides, as I came to learn lately, August isn't a real month at all, but one that was added on by Augustus Ceasar, to commemorate himself. It was one of a pair of months that were added thus, but I forget which the other one was.
Let's hope it wasn't September because I have prepared a whale of an essay for this month. Well, on closer inspection it bears more likeness to an anchovie. I wasn't that far off - fruits de mer, all of them.
Six grueling months of stress and suspense ended when Cristeta Comerford won the position of White House Chef, which I had coveted, sought and thought I had in the bag. In the proper sporting spirit I congratulate Cris and wish her many successes in the White Kitchen. I shan't dwell on the crushing defeat, even if I am destined to relive and review the moment in my dreams, however long I may live. The way my Triple Deck Multi-Colore Linguini Arabiata Pastorale Abdel Hameed a la Bolognaise reclined glistening under the glowing lights, not an eye in the house could be averted from it. But I knew I had lost the moment the First Hand reached instead for the Processed Cheese with Mayo on White. Unbeatable combination, and I just didn't think of it.
No matter. I shall relish my Best Chef in Swimsuit trophy and try again in ten years time, should fate prove to be so accomodating. I am, after all, making more than the annual $100,000 the White Chef commands, and I am saving lives in the process. But brain surgery can only be interesting for so long, and I fear I am getting closer to that dreaded threshold, where my work fails to hold my interest. I also have reason to believe I sewed up the last head with my cherished recipe for Mashmallowed Chicken Wrists enclosed within. And I cannot very well come up with another lame excuse to reopen that head, not after I did it last month to retrieve my baster and two liters of turkey broth that took an hour to make. So, I may have to improvise the next time I plan to serve those chicken wrists. In the meantime, keep those heads rolling. I'm still on the job and still the best out there (in my price bracket: Brain-Surgery-While-You-Wait, $29.95, WHILE SUPPLIES LAST).
July 2005
I'm sorry to report I'm still abroad, ironing out some of the finer details of a deal I helped broker, to build the world's first nuclear fusion plant in Southern France. After a lot of haggling (they wanted to name it Munir's Energy Saving Solution - MESS, but I would have none of that) we settled on The International Thermonuclear Experimental Reactor. The 12 billion dollar plant represents one of my greatest achievements to date, and I trust it will be successful at reducing humanity's reliance on burning fossil fuel for energy. I know some of you would rather read another hilarious essay here today than worry about the future of the world (and those precious fossils - I have a very nice one of a fish that I found when I was a daring, inquisitive youngster, roaming the hills of Lebanon; I had more but I burned some on a particularly cold evening last year). But I have never turned a blind eye to the needs of my fellow man, and I carry a rather large responsibility on my shoulders (and you thought that was dandruff!). I will be back at my post before long, and I'll come bearing fresh croissants and truffles. No red carpet at the airport, please (it doesn't go with my socks).
June 2005
Yay! I'm going to be rich. Filthy, stinking rich (actually, at that point I suppose I'll be able to afford fine soap and shampoo - I'll be spiffy, spic'n'span rich, although it doesn't sound as good). Gather round friends and relatives so you could help me spend it all. Cruises, seven-star hotels, caviar and champagne... the works. The sky's the limit.
Here's my plan: I'm smoking two to three packs of Cedars a day, but that is only because I'm still sleeping at night. Gradually I'll be phasing out the sleep and gaining more hours of wakefulness, thereby increasing my consumption of tobacco. I hope to work my way up to the stage where breaks between lighting up are merely nominal. I can afford to do that now, whereas ten years ago I couldn't - I was still swimming the English Channel on Mondays and Thursdays and I needed my strength. But now I'm devoted to the cause, and igniting those Cedars represents my road to riches and success. For those of you who are not familiar with them, Cedars are cigarettes made in Lebanon, and although useful in arts and crafts, effective as building material or to construct dams with, just about the last thing you should do with them is smoke them. Your typical Cedar cigarette is an elegant long thing, filled with 100% locally grown tobacco, rolled in heavy duty wall paper and glued together with industrial-strength adhesive. The result: a sure trip to the bank. I'm so confident of striking it rich I'm already spending like mad and running up a credit.
You see, just a couple of months ago, a Jackson County jury awarded the family of Barbara Smith more than $20 million, in a wrongful death lawsuit against Kool cigarettes. You can't find Kool cigs on the market here, but Cedars are so heavy I believe I'll be awarded even more than 20 big ones. But there's a catch: this Barbara Smith died of a heart attack at the age of 73. Now, I'd rather get the money before I'm that old, because I'm bound to be slowed down by the years somewhat, and that may occlude my spending technique to some degree. Also, I must find a way of collecting without actually dying, as that eventuality would effectively terminate my spending ability. But these are minor details and no match for a brainy intellectual like yours truly. I'll soon find a way around them and claim the jackpot. God bless tobacco companies for their unmeasurable contribution to human progress.
As I smoke away the years, waiting for that moment when my efforts are recognized and duly rewarded, I must get a job. I've filled out a few applications and had them sent off. One application, in particular, I'm anxious about: the one I sent to the White House.
It is no secret that I am a world-recognized chef. My first restaurant, in the Shatila roundabout, behing the broken-down van, carries the distinction of being the only eatery ever to be awarded 4 stars by the Michelin Guide. Look it up. To this day Eddie Michelin regulary consults me before issuing his annual review, and I am often invited to spice up the feasts when big occasions beckon. I was hand-trained by the old great himself, Chef Boyardee, and have since eclipsed the reputation of the master. Some of my creations have repeatedly made gastronomic history. Consider the stuffed Zucchini a la Reine, a favorite of my late mistress (she's always about twenty-five minutes late), and the turkey stuffed with chicken stuffed with snails (you can never overstuff - that's the golden maxim of first-rate cookery). And how about the battered and fried pigs' hooves with strawberry sauce? (Use only 9 volt alkaline batteries with that). And the list goes on. At any rate, I'm hoping to land the job recently vacated by Walter Scheib. He was the White House chef until sacked on February 2nd. He'd been there for eleven years but his time had come. As he made his exit he was reported to exclaim, "We've been trying to find a way to satisfy the first lady's stylistic requirements, and it has been difficult." Walter's loss is sure to be my gain, as no palate has been known to resist the hypnotizing aromas of my magical recipes.
I am hoping, of course, that the White Kitchen isn't a no-smoking zone. I can't give up the Cedars now, not when I'm so close to the big pay-off. Plus, there is a cultural exchange angle there that shouldn't be wasted. But if I win the money before starting the job, I'll have to bow out and recommend someone else. So get those cookbooks out and start practicing. And remember, smoking is bad for you.
May 2005
Dear Basil, a modest thought from someone who has always admired you: It is a crying shame and an utter disgrace to the human race that good men like you should depart this earth so prematurely while evil men seem to live long and prosper. You who have embodied goodness and imparted wisdom leave behind a gaping void, so scarce are men of your caliber. The law of the jungle prevails. I take solace in knowing that you are now in a better place, one far more suited to your noble nature. It is a comforting thought to know that you watch over us from above. In repose, therefore, as in life, I will always look up to you. In all sincerity, your friend, Munir Khauli.
[With Basil Fuleihan's transition I end my mourning and will no longer comment on the farce that is Lebanese politics. Next month I will devote my time to discussion of worthier issues.]
April 2005
Of course I'm eager to comment on anything but the current political situation in Lebanon, but new twists keep coming up that draw my ire and get me more entangled in it. This column is beginning to read like a newspaper, and I'm not quite the expert political analyst on whom you would rely for commentary, but recent events have been so insulting to the intelligence, one just can't keep one's trap shut.
The latest news has the President asking the UN to spare no effort in finding the party responsible for Hariri's assassination. This came on the 24th of March, five-and-a-half weeks after the event. Why now? Perhaps on account of cloudy weather that rendered his poolside activity and tanning mirror useless. The President had previously denied international teams the opportunity to conduct a proper investigation, and his belated invitation almost guarantees that any evidence not tampered with or taken away from the scene of the crime has been eroded by natural elements. The UN report had some very interesting things to say about evidence in this case, most amusing among them a report of local police hauling in parts of a pick-up truck and dumping them into the crater of the explosion, and then photographing it as evidence.
The UN report gave voice to a number of local officials (read: insignificant cartoon characters), who condemned it as libelous and insisted that Lebanese authorities dealt with the investigation in a most admirable fashion. In the meantime, bombs have been going off at the rate of one every four days, sewing fear among the populace and bringing back memories of the first days of Lebanon's civil war. Citizens are once again panicking at the sight of a briefcase resting on a sidewalk, or a dilapidated car parked in the street. And those all-too-familiar sand-filled burlap sacks have also made an ominous return, stacked in front of certain buildings as a form of protection against attack.
Following the explosion of a bomb in a Beirut neighborhood, residents gather around their television sets for reports from the scene. Here is what they see: a so-called reporter, barely graduated from some 7th rate college and with pitiful verbal skills, describing with stutters and redundant expressions the scene unfolding before the camera. (One such reporter went on and on, talking in such an unwavering monotone, that I reached for a guitar, determined that he was whining on a C# note, and played along with him for a while.) Next arrive one by one a series of parliament members and ministers, some still on the roster and some retired, to recite their poorly prepared rhetoric before the public. To a man, these guys accuse the "bats of the night" of the sinister act. That is the preferred description of the unknown culprits, and is a must in every earth-shaking speech. Bats are getting a bad rap even though they are in reality harmless, caring mammals that cause no harm to anyone. And while the reporter is holding the microphone for the speaker of the moment, scores of giddy young men can be seen elbowing their way into the camera's frame, speaking on their cellphones and smiling at the viewers. Elementary lip reading shows they are saying, "Do you see me? Can you see me?" And following a response in the affirmative, they exit the frame, assured of a place in history. And comedy mixes with tragedy on a typical spring evening in Beirut.
And here's a news item that didn't make the front pages of Lebanon's papers and won't appear in any international ones: The finance minister explained that the National Electric Company borrows money to provide power to the nation, and that the loan is covered by the government. Hence, if no government is formed by the 3rd of April, we can expect no power supply in May. So, if you don't hear from me next month, send me some candles.
I pray that next month brings us a resolution of the crisis, so that I may return to commenting on issues more up my alley, such as music, fashion, architecture or nuclear fission. Everything has taken a back seat to the current problem, and many businesses are suffering, artistic endeavors scrapped. But it will be some time before we see an end to this mess. As we await the UN ruling on forming an investigative committee, the chief of Lebanese military police took a well-timed leave of absence and will be unavailable for interviews or interrogation. Can you believe that? This at a time when, in the civilized world, someone like Hilary Swank, owner of two Oscars, gets fined for bringing in two pieces of fruit into New Zealand. Hey, Hilary, we'll trade you our missing chief of military police for your orange and apple. How about it?
BUT, the news out of Lebanon isn't the only bad news reported, and the world certainly doesn't revolve around this little place. I myself have been appalled and disturbed by events elsewhere, most notably Sudan and Congo, where poachers are killing off wild animals with abandon. Thousands of elephants in Sudan are being felled, their carcasses left to rot while the ivory tusks are sent to China to make chopsticks. And in Congo, at the border with Sudan, fewer than a dozen northern white rhinos still exist (the last of their kind in the world), and not for long. Their horns are coveted in Asia for purported medicinal value, and in the Middle East to make dagger handles. Poachers are mainly offshoots of the militia groups pillaging villages in Darfur, and that is another bit of disgusting news. I just focused on the massacre of animals because of a personal reason that will be discussed at length some another time.
March 14th, 2005
Just when you thought it was safe to go in the water again, HE'S BACK! A fangless, hapless, witless blob of jellyfish, but a menace nonetheless. Yep, good ol' Omar was reinstated as PM just days after he was pressured out by a zestful demonstration, staged by Lebanon's vociferous Opposition supporters. The way was paved for his return by an equally obstreperous demonstration, this time on behalf of the government (Well, both governments). The powers that be would have it no other way, and he's here again, as if to send a message that this is how things are, should be, and will be; and that O.K. is the suitable man for the job, and it's OK. And a KO early in the second round of what promises to be a long-winded heavyweight fight for the title.
Meanwhile, the President gave his long-awaited speech and referred to the February 14 event as "mischief", and warned that the party responsible had but to throw a grenade somewhere to re-ignite a war. Such rhetoric we'd heard a few times from OK himself lately, but from the President too? Birds of a feather. Well, at least the Prez. consoled the masses by claiming he'd refrained from taking his daily swim on that fateful February morning (although I was on the shore myself, and I could swear I caught a glimpse of him floating on a green and pink inflatable duckling right nearby - I may be wrong, of course. The sun does play tricks on you, out there in the open seas).
So, the Opposition hordes heading for Martyr's Square again today made for a beautiful sight, all blowing their car horns and waving Lebanese flags. A bit too much red, I might say - same problem we're having with this very website - but a patriotic sight to behold. Will they manage to throw out O.K. again? And will another pro government showing next week reinstate him again? This is turning into an animated game of seesaw, and the man's going to get dizzy going up and down like this.
Who will win, and who will lose? I'm no expert on political sciences, and I've always been a distinctly apolitical animal. But it takes no expert to know that the ultimate losers in all of this will be those citizens in the lower and middle stratas, you and me. There already is talk of the Lebanese pound devaluating, and if that happens all my savings won't buy me a banana - and I need my Potassium. On the other hand, all those politicians, ministers, deputies and their ilk retain their money in strong currencies, and they will rush to buy Lebanese pounds at real cheap rates, then change them back into Dollars and Euros when the pound regains its strength, turning a neat profit. By then I may have saved enough for my banana, but will I have the appetite?
The above scenario is by no means farfetched. On the contrary, anyone familiar with the Lebanese civil war (alas, so few of today's youth are) knows how many times that trick was played, how many people gained from it, and how many were made bankrupt.
So, as the President passes the buck, someone is making a buck or two: millions of Lebanese flags have been waved and worn as neckties in the last month, hence millions of flags were manufactured and SOLD. This is the time to invest in fabric, paint, and wooden poles. Get your flags here, best rates in town.
March 2005
It was the morning of Valentine's day and the first sunny day in weeks. I was stretched out at the beach, trying to soak up the sunshine and get my courage up to jump into the sea after a month's layoff, the longest in five years. A huge blast shook the earth, and smoke billowed up to the sky, one mile north of me. I turned to watch the smoke but didn't bother to get up. This is how jaded I had become. Yet another assassination, thought I. Who is it this time, and who will it be next time? The last one had occurred a couple of months ago, less than a mile to the south, also on a fine beach morning.
A fellow swimmer, just arrived, informed us of the news. Rafik Hariri, the magnate who had rebuilt the downtown area, and who had been pressured out of the government, was murdered. A generous, giving philanthropist, his death is most lamentable in that his hands were not tainted by blood, in contrast to all those politicians now visiting his grave and making speeches. Body guards and innocent bystanders perished in the blast. Basil Fuleihan, ex-minister and close friend of our family, is in critical condition. The government has refused calls to allow neutral, international forensic experts to conduct inquiry into the assassination. I doubt very much whether we'll ever know who did it. This is the way of Lebanon and of all corrupt governments. Sickening.
An hour after the bombing most of Beirut was shut down, and remained so for three days. Suburbs and outlying areas, however, boasted open restaurants and bars, business as usual. Don't let the news fool you, this is still a stubbornly sectarian nation, and that will never change. That, for me, was the saddest realization of the day.
Moments before the posting of this essay the Prime Minister resigned, something he should have done two weeks ago. What that bodes for the nation, it is too early to tell. Who will come next, to fleece what fur remains on our backs, and siphon what coins still jingle in the shallow recesses of our pockets?
February 2005
The posse is still out, but I'm expecting them back any day now. With this bunch of rugged, ruthless bounty hunters I've assembled, the rogue's chances of escape are nil. If they can't find him he's either dead and buried or serving in a governmental office. But they'll have to find him to claim the reward money. I've pooled all my savings into this reward - $73.25 in all - and I'm offering it in return for Cupid's head on a tray, along with some rice and beans, buffalo wings and a side order of fries.
Hello! What's this I hear? Hooves drumming up the canyon. Can this be it, finally? I jump out onto the porch, waving my money. But no! This posse is heading West, with some guy in a turban. I'll have to be patient, I guess.
Back in the neighborhood, I ran into Barbie today, of all people. She, like me, turned 45, but she must be doing 400 sit-ups a day, because she looks quite trim and fit. Just from talking with her you wouldn't feel that anything's amiss, but Mattel are really worried about her. Sales are slumping and her popularity's on the wane, although I can, from personal experience, vouch for the insignificance of those symptoms. My own popularity's never been dimmer, and yet this dragon is still far from toothless. In fact, I'm taking Barb out tonight, for a meeting of the middle-aged. Never could do this with Ken around, but things have been more relaxed since he joined G.I.Joe in Iraq. Bless them both, and all the young men giving their lives to perpetuate the noble ideal of democracy.
I'm due for my mid-life crisis sometime soon. I had a preview at thirty-something but it didn't quite mushroom into one. I wish it would start so I'd get it over with. Can't cling to youth forever and decrepitude doesn't scare me, but being stuck in this mid-way station is a bummer. I can still outswim a twenty-year-old and I can already outgrumble a seventy-year-old, but I'm neither rash nor wise; neither bubbling with enthusiasm nor quite ready to lay down my arms. I'm just standing on the crossroads, waiting for my train to come puffing along the tracks.
I'm off to saddle up my horse and help with the chase. I can't let that fallen angel fly at will, poisoning people's minds with his hand-spun myths. Maybe I'll end up catching him myself and keeping the reward money. That would be swell because I'm going to end up charging Barbie's mobile this month.
Finally, in keeping with the world-famous pessimism that distinguishes my writings - pessimism, I might add, that reflects only too adequately the pathetic nature of mankind - here is a news item that came as no surprise at all, as reported in the 29-30th January edition of the International Herald Tribune: The European Union's executive arm and the French Agriculture Ministry said that a goat slaughtered in France in 2002 had tested positive for mad cow disease, the first in another species. They released this piece of news while playing down the risk of a link to a brain disease in humans. My only question in regard to that is why they find it prudent to sit on the news for more than two years before informing us. Unbelievable. Still, aren't you thankful you weren't born a goat?
And lastly, happy birthday Roger. You da man. Who would I be without you?
January 2005
Here's a great piece of news that should help us start the new year on the right foot - with the left foot pressed firmly upon the brakes, of course. The European 'Task force' was scheduled to visit Lebanon for meetings that can only be of considerable benefit to the latter, but, wouldn't you know it, just days ahead of the visit the whole thing was adjourned indefinitely.
The Task force's objective is to develop a partnership strategy with Europe's neighbors, and it has already begun implementing the idea with several nations that were less hesitant to reap the rewards of such a liason. The European commission first submitted a draft of the proposal to the European Union 19 months ago and got a swift stamp of approval.
Now, I know nothing first-hand about this whole deal, nor am I particularly interested in familiarizing myself with the details. I was simply riled by the description in the daily paper of the foiled visit and reasons thereof. The head of the EU delegation, Mr. Patrick Renault, explained that he was under the impression his visit was to launch the plan here in Lebanon, while the Lebanese government viewed the visit as exploratory in nature, with any acquiescence to come later, after some arm-twisting by the delegation. Renault had submitted a document to the Prime Minister's office in September 2004 and got no response. He's worried that the 50 million Euros slated for expenditure here will be refused. And now he's got me worried too.
But you know what, this fledgling of a year has already broken my back and I can't afford any more stress. Surprised at hearing these words of defeat coming from a pillar of strength and fortitude? Well, I am too, but some problems are too bulky to shove under the rug, and besides, I have wall-to-wall carpeting here (Refer to the December 2004 essay). You may be thinking, "What has this fool got to do with politics, anyway? He is a musician - or so he claims - and his first essays all dealt with issues related to music-making. Why doesn't he leave the political arena for other, more knowledgeable persons to comment on, and go back to picking his guitar?" But you know better than to debate with a fool. Still, it would behoove me to record a new CD this year and get back on the road. But in the meantime I will comment on the ineptitude of government officials, and occasionally on issues related to music as well.
Next month we let the bloodhounds out and go hunting. Oil and load those shotguns.
2004 in review
Well, here we are, a year older and not an iota wiser (Ignorance truly is bliss). And as the new year prepares to kick in (and hopes are that it won't kick as hard as its predecessor) we honor the age-old custom of looking back at the highly illuminating dissertations that have appeared in this column and shed light upon so many of earth's mysteries.
December saw me marching off in demonstrations and, miraculously, living to tell about it. Essential reading for the would-be revolutionary.
In November I informed my readers that my 12-volume, in-depth analysis of the work of James Joyce was ready to publish, but that erratic electric power supply was keeping me from uploading it. Add to that the stress of having to resort to internet cafes to continue my work, and getting distracted by the creature from beyond, blowing lethal bubbles and using up valuable oxygen in the claustrophobic little place. I just couldn't get any work done, and genius was once more trumped by the common.
In October I was gone fishing, but only figuratively. I dislike the look of a fish out of water and I've never condoned hunting of any sort. I would, however, support a measure to cull the herds of creatures that frequent internet cafes and pose a hindrance to serious work.
September: I was totally livid about an amendment to the nation's constitution, allowing the re-election of the president for a further three years. I'm still livid about it, but neither my cries of protest nor those of every other citizen of the land have prevented the Big Cheese from vacationing in the South of France and retouching his fabulous tan while we observe our collective skin darkening from the wisps of soot splurted forth by generators atop every building.
The essay in August tackled the issue of refurbishing apartments. On any given day, at every hour in every neighborhood in this city, a hammer spanks a nail on the head, a saw cuts through a slab of marble, a drill screws its way through a wall. No rest for the wicked, or for anyone else, until this nation rebuilds itself, and that's going to take many more years.
In July I was struck by the number of hienous crimes reported in the papers. More disturbing than the criminals' actions was the form of justice meted out to them. As I read in disbelief I decided to write about the ill-fitting relation between crime and punishment. I did the math and came up with the following equation: it costs the guilty party 1.4 days in jail and $14.25 in cash for every day they've abused a victim. That isn't very harsh and it's not going to make a saint out of anyone. Makes you wonder what goes on in the judges' minds when they issue the sentence.
June's thesis dealt with the introduction of x-rated movies on mobile phones. The work probed far and wide to trace the history of human communication, starting with prehistoric man and ending with Long-dong Silver. Entertaining, informative and no sillier than the proposed concept itself.
In May I was thoroughly showered by a passing car speeding over a puddle of rain water mixed with automotive oil, as I walked by the side of the road for lack of space on the perfunctory sidewalk. The experience was not as pleasant as you may think, and I was prodded to examine our existence as moving vehicles rather than as thinking, feeling beings. The result was a brilliant essay that has been translated into three-thousand-and-seven languages, and made into a film starring, who else? Long-dong Silver, of course.
April kept me busy trotting around the globe trying to bring about Middle East peace, dissuading North Korea from developing its nuclear arms program, preventing the slaughter of baby seals in Canada and working on an effective aids vaccine. I just didn't get around to writing anything but I slept well that month.
In March I posted the well-researched essay on dancing, its status in modern societies, its importance in early civilizations, and the origin of the ABS brake system, so essential in today's cars.
February was a stressful time. I posted a hefty reward for the capture - dead, alive or reincarnated - of the elusive Cupid, and no bounty hunter proved cunning enough to bring in the deplorable little angel. The reward is still offered and I still want the scoundrel's scalp, so git your bows and arrows out and report back to me.
January saw me all optimistic and feeling positive about the year ahead. Those great vibes lasted almost all day. For in the evening of the first of January I was enjoying a short walk to my home, or attempting to do so, and encountered an unbelievable array of hazards, in all shapes and sizes, man made and natural, obstacles and pitfalls as far as the eye can see. By the time I negotiated the unforgiving terrain and got home, I had been to Hell and back, with 364 more days to go. A harrowing experience that has to be read to be believed.
Good luck to all in 2005. We're going to need it.
December 2004
Off marching in a demonstration but I'll be back in a couple of days, guaranteed.
A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER. Ha! Haitham (Abo Zolof, webmaster of the wildly successful Shoofimafi.com) predicted that I may not be back, following my participation in street demonstrations. But I am back, a testament to how little attention is given the ordinary citizen by officials in this country.
The month was characterized by two demonstrations that further cemented Lebanon’s reputation as the premier stage for hypocritical, poorly choreographed examples of mock democracy. The first of these featured the OPPOSITION, and it was the first such event in which the marching folks weren’t hosed down by security personnel (ie. thugs in matching costumes). A local newspaper featured the photo of a young man with a loofa scrub tied to his neck, dry as the sense of humor that prevails in this column. The second (and far more comical) demonstration was orchestrated by the government, and was intended to prove to the world that Lebanon is living its finest hour under Syrian control and accepts no substitute. Scores of disinterested citizens were collected from their villages, hoarded onto buses and brought into the capital (some enjoying their first-ever trip to Beirut) to form what was advertised as the Demonstration of the Million, but the numbers fell well shy of that. By day’s end posters of presidents and paper flags were littering the streets, and the nation’s credibility had suffered yet another blow. Once again, no skin off this ample nose. My self esteem does not run parallel to that of the country, not with the species of officials we have here, glued to their Italian leather office chairs and parliamentary seats, busy wheeling and dealing and bickering and getting rich. Anyway, my conscience is clear. I participated in the democratic process and actually made a showing in both demonstrations. I marched onward with the throng and proudly held up my handwritten placard, bearing the message, “Say no to rugs” – I couldn’t find a placard large enough to display the sentiment, “Say no to wall-to-wall carpeting”. A great day it was, and I felt complete, and proud to be a citizen of this fine country.
To further pepper the events of the month, a man, Jamal Jarrah, affiliated with the ousted Prime Minister, claimed he was shot at by eight armed men in two vehicles, while driving his car in the Bekaa, Sunday the 5th. A very plausible scenario, and it made good copy for all of one day. But the next morning forensic detectives inspecting the car found no evidence to support his claim and decided he was bluffing the government, a big no-no. And then on Wednesday the 8th, judge Tanios Ghantous claimed he was shot at in his car by an assailant, and that he managed to drive himself to the hospital, only he had a real bullet wound in his chest to bolster his story. But the next morning, wouldn’t you know it, it turns out that the gun in question was his own, and judiciary sources claimed the judge may have shot himself after being summoned for involving himself in activities that conflict with his duties as a judge. Another attempt to bluff the government. Now that’s entertainment.
As 2004 heads for the history books, I look forward to a prosperous new year which will no doubt see Lebanon shine anew under the guidance of a fresh set of elected officials. I persevere, as do my fellow citizens, and we shall reap the riches when foreign investors flock by the droves once again to invest their money in our country. Wake me up when the first wave of these arrives.
November 2004
I’m back. I was gone fishing last month and was not caught. Faithful reader Roger commented, “Fishing? What happened to golf?” Answer: “You can’t get caught by the golf balls”. You could get caught by the balls, though, and that just about describes me to a tee right now. My life is in disarray (can’t remember a time when it was in array), mirroring the state of affairs in the nation. A new government is in place, and the new Prime Minister wasted no time in promising no miracles. He boldly stated that the situation in Lebanon can’t possibly get any better than it has been the last few years - that is, downright miserable. So give him credit for not infusing the citizenry with a false sense of hope. Nice start for the Prime Minister, but a slab of Prime Rib would look better right now. But enough ribbing and back to me.
For October, I had prepared a 12-volume in-depth analysis of the work of the late James Joyce (I wonder what’s holding him up), and just as I was getting ready to upload it the lights went out. Electric power was shut off and Lebanon was plunged into darkness for weeks while two barges loaded with fuel sat anchored at the port, refusing to deliver the liquid gold because our government wouldn’t pay up. It turns out that the price of oil had gone up by $10 bucks a barrel and the finance minister wouldn’t pay the difference. So it was back to candles and battery-charged fluorescent lamps, bringing back memories of the war years, when women were men, men were animals, and animals had mountains of garbage to feast on (not that anything has changed).
To date, the electric power supply is still erratic. With the weather changing and winter kicking up its heels, people are going to have to huddle for warmth, and you know what normally results from those huddles: Babies. But that’s no concern of mine. My interest, as can be expected from a seasoned scholar (white and black pepper, salt, coriander, cumin and garlic powder), is purely academic. I reviewed my comprehensive document on James Joyce (he could at least call and explain himself) but the work struck me as dated. So I opted instead to ramble on aimlessly and post my ramblings as the November offering. Of course, even ramblings from the giants of literature are of great literary value and can be expected to fetch huge sums of money at auctions following the writers’ ascent to that great, big library in the sky. You beg to differ? Well, you certainly don’t need to beg.
But seriously, don’t mistake my intention as an attempt to weasel out of writing something specific. It’s just that my loyal old laptop caught a nasty virus and I’ve been staying away from it. And as I sit here in this dingy net café my ingenious thoughts and interesting ideas are scattered by the unprofessional air of the place. To my right a being that bears a passing resemblance to Homo sapiens is chatting online with a similar being while busily chewing on a chunk of bubble gum the size of a golf ball (Golf, again?). The crackling of that bubble gum is quite a distraction but I’m even more worried that when she chooses to blow a balloon I’ll be sucked into it and the literary world will have lost one if its pillars (I can hear you yelling: Blow, lady, blow). And to my left an under-developed kid squirms and twitches as he punches the keyboard with marked speed. He is playing some sort of combat video game in which centipedes are teamed up against terrorists, the computer screen lighting up with orange and yellow explosions along with obnoxious sound effects each time a hit is scored. He can expect to be the next casualty if he doesn’t call it a day soon, because I have important work to do and my readers have come to expect the very best.
I just can’t concentrate. I can’t deal with the base mentality of the uncouth public. Net cafes are no place to compose gems of literature, and I have a feeling James will never show up. I have got to get my laptop fixed. While Mr. Prime Rib promises no miracles, a simple statue of Mary, up in the village of Bishwat, has been performing them by the dozen. A crippled man was suddenly able to see with his eyes, and a woman who had suffered from a heart condition suddenly found she had been cured of her varicose veins. So I’m thinking of trekking up there with my ailing laptop and seeing whether anything can be done about it. If not for me then for cultured readers everywhere. So, on this near-holy day, all saints day, pray for me, brothers and sisters, and watch out for that balloo…………….
October 2004
Gone fishing, but I'll be back next month (if the fish don't catch me).
September 2004
I had meant to write something pleasant, funny perhaps, for this month’s installment - something to bring a smile to the faces of those faithful readers who take the time to check out this column. Instead, those faces are invited to contort in pain and share my distress at the recent developments in this election year, a rotten one that is sure to go down in history as the final blow to this country’s self-esteem.
A few nights ago, under a blanket of darkness, the house representatives met and wasted all of ten long minutes to amend an article in the republic’s constitution, allowing the re-election of the president for three more years. And just like that, before you could say, “Pass me the Tabbouleh” (no relation to representative Fattoush), what tiny shred of dignity left for the Lebanese to hold onto was gleaned before their eyes. The pathetic conditions under which they had labored for the last few years are to continue unabated, salt and pepper rubbed in the wounds for added flavor.
Why is that any concern of mine? I who have never cared for politics or followed up on the escapades of our elected politicians? The answer eludes me. Perhaps it is the lack of work that leaves me free to ponder such weighty issues. Or perhaps I am finally showing signs of maturity and displaying interest in my country’s welfare. But more probably I am appalled by the pure glee my elected representatives show as they flaunt their spinelessness, flashing empty smiles and sounding hollow rhetoric, fake as ever. This is the third “lone, exceptional amendment” since 1995. The second of these was orchestrated to enable the current president to take power as he was constitutionally barred on account of his involvement in the army. While the whole world (more precisely, a handful of nations that bother to comment on the current affair) cries foul, the men behind the mahogany desks bend over backwards, seeking the approval of you-know-who. Meanwhile I, the common man, can look forward to more cheap meals coming out of cans; more confrontations with beggars on the street asking for change; more volunteers knocking on my door for donations; and hours upon hours spent at home where I can clip and re-clip my toenails, until hell boils over.
Where the Big Cheese gets the gall to run again, don’t ask me. I guess his toenails don’t grow that fast. Or maybe he just can’t bear to spend too much time at home with the wife. Still, why should I pay the price? I’ve been flattened by debt while my elected officials pick dollar bills off the trees – it’s always harvesting season with those guys. Their wages are hefty enough as it is and yet they feel the need to augment their income by securing shady, lucrative deals with each other. There’s so much back scratching going on, one had better keep on the lookout for bed bugs or poison oak. Our politicians abuse their privileges unabashedly, fully enjoying the gift of being above the law. I’ll never know how that feels; I have always been several feet beneath the law, and that’s when I come up for air. You’d think someone up there would at least go through the motions and strive to appear like they’re working for their money, by getting people like me to shut up, for example. But even that is asking too much.
I just need to learn to shut up by myself, save my breath for worthier causes. I could go on ranting for days but that would be unfair to you, my beloved reader. For the moment, let’s all kick back and take in this historic moment as our Republic’s constitution gets amended for yet another “lone, exceptional time”. Hey, maybe next time they’ll amend it so I can get to be president. (I always wanted to be a Maronite.)
August 2004
The sounds are coming closer; harrowing, hair-raising growls emanating from some deep cave, wherein resides some unsightly behemoth, hairy, hungry and extremely angry. The howls send a shiver up and down my spine and I squirm with fright, beads of sweat trickling down to form a sticky pool around the contours of my body. The mattress begins to feel like a swamp and I can’t take it any longer. I pry my eyes open, slide my exhausted body off the bed and onto the floor, and I whisper a quick prayer in thanks for still being alive to enjoy yet another day on this earth. But the very next order of business is to go down to the third floor and strangle someone, anyone. The apartment on the third is supposedly being refurbished, even though it had been redone just a couple of years ago. And under that pretext some trigger-happy construction worker has been warming up the drill and going for a joy ride around the apartment, starting at 8:00 AM every single day, for the last three months. The first few weeks no one thought of complaining, accustomed as they were to hearing the sounds of machinery being employed in the service of humanity. But beginning the second month irritation had built up and begotten family feuds and sudden fits of anger. Upon inquiry we were told that the drilling was necessary to change all the electric current outlets in the walls. We live in the same building, however, and we know for a fact that there are no more than a dozen outlets or so in the walls per apartment. What is going on down there? Is it a front for money laundering? If so, why am I not getting a cut? And here we are, entering the third month and still without the need to wind an alarm clock before retreating to bed. The jarring wake-up call is guaranteed to hit on time, and no earplugs on the market can block out the noise and help gain you another hour of sleep.
The sound of marble slabs being sawed is nothing less than torture. And every Lebanese redesigning a house wants marble in it. At any point in time, in every neighborhood in this tiny nation, an apartment is being fixed up, a building is being torn down and one is being built. (I have in previous essays touched upon the disturbing process of tearing down beautiful, stately mansions that have graced the city for centuries, in favor of nondescript – nay, ugly – buildings that block out the sunshine and loom like giant cardboard boxes in a crowded warehouse.) There is nowhere to go for peace and quiet. Twelve years after the war ended this country is consumed with the frenzy of rebuilding. And everyone knows that it is just a matter of time before the next wave of destruction begins. But it’s no fun to start smashing things if you’re going to run out too soon, so the building glut is understandable.
Lego for adults, but not all can play. Businessmen feel that building apartments is excellent investment. But the apartments are priced beyond the means of local residents, which explains why brand new buildings stand empty, waiting for the oil-rich Arabs to sign a heavy check and move in - but few are, they haven’t any confidence in the long-term situation. Still, it is a classic situation of the rich trying to lure the rich. Statistics pit the nation’s poor at 90%. The remaining 10% are filthy, detergent-free rich. They own the Mercedes 500s, Ferraris and Porsches. Their car alarms are set at extra-sensitive and begin to wail when a cat pisses on a tire. Alarms litter the night sky every evening, going on and on like a stuttering canary on amphetamines. A decade ago alarms would finally shut up once the battery ran out, but batteries these days are hardier. It is the poor (who can’t afford air-conditioners and have to keep their windows open for some air) who stay up nights, listening to the mechanical canaries sing their nocturnal arias. The poor have indeed inherited the earth here, complete with rubble, rubbish and buried barrels of toxic waste.
I guess not all Lebanese are created equal. And what else do you expect? This is the wild, wild East, where lawlessness is the law of the land. The government exists for the sole reason that someone needs to pocket all the money available – a dirty job, but someone has to do it. And the smiling Mona Lisa at the very top has done such a miserable job they’re trying to keep him on for another four years. I’m telling you, if this isn’t democracy, I don’t know what is.
Back on the home front, I’ll have to grin and bear it until the damn apartment is ready for its new tenant. I’ll pretend I have an appointment with the dentist from hell, and ultimately I’ll get used to the drilling. In the meantime, hordes of vermin have been staging a mass exodus from the apartment. Giant ants, two-inch-long cockroaches, palm-size tarantulas and swarms of mosquitoes, all rendered homeless by the digging and drilling and painting. They leave the third floor for the greener pastures of the fourth, fifth and sixth. We finally meet our neighbors.
When someone decides to refurbish the apartment in which I’m staying, I’m not moving – they can go ahead and refurbish me along with it. I’d look good in marble, wouldn’t I?
July 2004
This essay is about misguided justice. I don’t often write about serious topics but I have been appalled by a series of news reports that demonstrate the inadequacy of notions of justice, in particular the ill-fitting relation between crime and punishment. And although I had in 1991 composed a song that criticizes the concept of “tooth for a tooth and eye for an eye”, I will be arguing that the maxim makes a lot of sense and should be applied in certain cases.
In a local newspaper two weeks ago, I read a story that started my anger brewing. A man had cast his evil eye on a thirteen-year-old girl and resolved to get his claws on her. Who should help him in his quest but his own wife, who befriended the victim and drugged her, allowing the husband to rape her to his heart’s content. Another story in last Tuesday’s paper reported that thirty-four-year-old Samir Ahamd Akrah lured a twelve-year-old girl to the roof of a building, where he forced himself upon her and raped her. He kept repeating his act for two-and-a-half years before the girl, swollen and near death, had the courage to tell her mother about her plight. The man was apprehended, tried and sentenced to hard labor for six years, but the sentence was immediately reduced to three-and-a-half years, along with a payment of $13,000.
A cursory study of the sentencing in this case shows the glaring disparity between the harm inflicted on the victim and the relatively painless punishment handed to the perpetrator of the crime. The young girl will probably never regain her trust in men or be able to love one, or enjoy a healthy sexual relation. She may be traumatized for the duration of her life. The attacks may have caused permanent damage to internal organs. As for the monetary compensation, the $13,000 can finance her education for three or four years, or buy her a car when she’s older, provided the money is still there and not squandered by whoever it is given to for safekeeping. As for the punishment, the rapist merely has to part with the sum of $13,000 (he can sell his car) and spend three-and-a-half years in a prison, where he can expect regular meals, a bed in a quiet cell, safety among fellow criminals, and some physical work in the sunny outdoors, which should develop his musculature and improve his long-term health. Not quite fair, is it? What was the judge thinking when he handed that sentence? That justice was duly served?
Stories such as these are all too common in Lebanon. There are at least two or three each week reported in the one paper that I read. Of course, the huge majority of such crimes are never brought out into the open. Victims are terrorized into reticence, some parents stifle the news for fear of tarnishing their reputation, some retaliate against their own children, blaming them for the whole thing, and authorities often don’t act when the criminal is wealthy or well positioned. And, human nature being the same everywhere, things aren’t that much more civilized in so-called “civilized” countries. Dutroux got life in prison, again with the relative comforts that come with that. The details of his crimes are too grisly for me to relate, but they are widely available for anyone interested. His wife got thirty years for allowing two of the girls to starve to death while Dutroux was serving a jail sentence for car theft. Her excuse was that she was too afraid to enter the basement to feed the slaves. And yet, she is guaranteed three meals a day, right on time, for the next thirty years. But most blood curdling is the role of the Belgian police in this. They had twice searched Dutroux’s house and heard girls’ voices but failed to find the secret basement cell. And more: the defendant had previously been convicted for pedophilia and was on parole for raping girls when he struck again.
On to France: Thierry and Myriam Delay were sentenced to twenty and fifteen years in prison, respectively, on multiple counts of rape and prostituting four of their children. Eight other defendants also received prison time or suspended sentences. The tally on the victims’ side: over thirty children, aged 3 to 12, raped, pimped or corrupted, over a period of five years. Thierry alone raped nine children, carried out sex attacks on six, pimped his own children and corrupted twelve others. Myriam raped seven children, carried out sex attacks on ten, prostituted her four children and corrupted eleven others. She even testified that she “took pleasure” in raping her own children. Where were the cops during those five years? Egging on the football team to international victories? (Les Bleus did have an impressive run all that time.)
Crimes like those cited occur with alarming regularity in every corner of the world. I am aggrieved at how common they are. I believe that punishment must mirror the crimes because the harm done is irreversible and the criminals are having it too easy. Mr. Samir Akrah gets three-and-a-half years for his two-and-a-half yearlong abuse of the little girl. That translates to 1277.5 days in jail for 912.5 days of crime. What does that teach him? That the next time around, should he get caught, he can expect 1.4 days in jail for every day he abuses a child? And what does 1.4 of a day mean? That he gets released at 10:30 AM? And what about the $13,000 he has to pay? That translates to $14.25 per day. Is this how justice should be measured? Why shouldn’t Mr. and Mrs. Delay be themselves pimped and raped? Why shouldn’t they be given a taste of their own venom? Why shouldn't Mr. Dutroux be tortured, gang raped and locked up in a tiny cage? Why shouldn't his wife be left to starve to death?
It is a veritable crime to let these people off with jail time alone; they will never get to visualize what their victims felt. Once in prison the criminals can go on living in denial for the rest of their years, never admitting they did anything bad, cursing the judge and jury for singling them out. They might even have happy thoughts, be in good moods, entertain funny notions and lead contented lives. And all the while the victim may be unable to enjoy one night’s sleep. No, I firmly believe that perpetrators of such crimes must be punished in kind. I would have no qualms whatsoever in meting out such punishment. I want to be a judge, goddammit. It is so unfair to deny these people the chance to feel what they have inflicted upon their victims. An eye for an eye I say. And this, in a badly researched but heartfelt nutshell, is my view on justice.
June 2004
Good news to all: this will be a rather brief essay. I just want to voice my opinion, relevant or irr, regarding a certain issue that came up in the news recently. Vodafone, Orange, mmO2 and Virgin Mobile held a meeting in Amsterdam to announce a brilliant plan that stands to generate $1.5 billion in revenues in West Europe over the next year. The plan: offering X-rated movies on mobile phones. Now is that brilliant or what? Actually, I’m not sure if they will limit the service to X-rated movies, or include XX-, or XXX-rated ones as well. This may seem like a minor point but, as any porn connoisseur will tell you, the range of entertainment in this domain is quite large, and appetites are not as easily whet today as they may have been a couple of decades ago. I assume that works of art depicting bondage, bestiality and pedophilia are not part of the general plan, but that is sure to irk the serious porn fan and alienate millions of potential customers. At any rate, my objective here is not to comment on pornography and its omnipotence in societies all over the world, but rather to comment on the phenomenon of mobile phones and their effects on the everyday life of their bearers.
In my time (dinosaurs were still roaming the earth) the only means of verbal communication with anyone not within shouting distance was by the use of a bulky telephone apparatus, attached to a wall inside the house and adamantly averse to the idea of going anywhere. Walkie-talkies were limited to armed personnel, and the Morse code required an instrument capable of transmitting the awkward signals, and knowledge of the language itself. Smoke signals were ineffective because they would mix with fumes from factories and automobiles. And drum beating from atop the mountain was impossible due to the unavailability of a mountain in the metropolis. Pigeons clutching crumpled letters in their talons? Give me a break. The telephone was quite a blessing in those days, provided the line was clear and afforded intelligibility. Unfortunately for me and for people of my generation, the civil war started just as we were discovering the joys of telephoning. The decade that followed wreaked havoc with the telephone cable infrastructure and one would spend hours waiting for the phone to cooperate. You could grow a beard before hearing a tone. The methods employed by patient citizens trying to coax a reaction out of their comatose phones are legendary. Dialing 0 repeatedly could sometimes generate a line, and sometimes dialing 1 did the trick. Pressing down on the button that hangs up and releasing it with a sudden movement yielded results at times. Or dialing the numbers excruciatingly slowly. If the phone rang and you received a call, you could dial a number immediately after hanging up and you might be rewarded with success. (For a great description of a citizen wrangling with an uncooperative telephone, check out FIMA, by Amos Oz, page 246, English translation, Harvest paperback.) Bear in mind that telephones in those days didn’t feature buttons to press down; instead there was a round dial with ten numbered little round holes, and you had to insert your forefinger into a hole and slide it all the way to the end. That placed considerable wear and tear on the skin of the finger, with 0 being the furthest from the end, thus the most irritating to the skin. Tears swell in my eyes when I remember the days I spent pleading with the instrument to help me in my quest to speak with a fellow human being. Hours upon hours that could have been spent learning a trade, honing a skill, developing a talent; I could have made something out of myself. Besides, the object of placing a call in those days was usually to make sure that relatives and neighbors were still alive following bombing raids on their neighborhoods and buildings. Apart from that, one would use the phone to make an appointment with the doctor or agree to meet a friend or loved one. I never felt hampered by the limitations of the service. Contrast that with the possibilities open to phone holders today and you’ll be shocked at what a few years can do to change a lifestyle.
Mobile phones today represent a best friend to their owner. They memorize favorite numbers, offer games when boredom beckons, send and receive messages, take photographs, sound alarms, hook up to the internet, fold laundry and prescribe medicine. And soon you can keep up with the latest techniques in copulation, as you squint to identify intermingling body parts moving on an inch-wide screen with wild abandon. Again, my interest does not lie in commenting on the lucrative porn industry. If that were the case I would state that I don’t agree with the recommended age for viewing adult fare, as I don’t find that reaching 18 prepares one for the ever inventive and unorthodox ideas presented in the genre. Just as achieving voting age doesn’t mean that a person is knowledgeable enough to choose the politician who will go on to screw him for evermore, and reaching army service age doesn’t qualify one for early death in the trenches. Nor does the legal age for drinking make a person ready to handle the effects of alcohol. Age requirements are set by industries eager to acquire new consumers as soon as they begin to earn an income, and by governmental institutions that snatch young adults immediately following completion of education, before they begin to earn an income. But that, surely, is none of my business. I am well past the age for army service, I wish I were past the age for voting (senility, where are you?), alcohol says nothing to me, and much as I would like to keep up with the latest in sexual techniques, I have no mobile phone. So what does that make me, a Neanderthal? And what if your telephone’s battery weakens all of a sudden? Does the hunk on your screen lose his zest? Does he go limp? Or do they try to finish up before your screen dwindles into darkness? Silly questions, to be sure. But then, the whole premise is silly. It used to be that you had to have a mate to enjoy sex. Or you had to visit a reputable establishment with dim lighting and musty carpets. Then you had to have a video player. Then you just had to have a television set with cable service. Then you could do with a computer. Now you just need to get a phone. What next, keep an open mind and you’ll have explicit images beamed into it from a remote location? Not very unlikely, is it?
There, I’ve put in my two cents’ worth. Do I get any change?
May 2004
If you find this month’s installment to be a little weird, you’re not alone. I thought it pretty weird myself, but I have to be faithful to ideas that present themselves, however unsolicited. Call me loyal. This thought came to me under an awning of muddy water, formed over my head by a speeding car as I walked home one rainy night, towards the end of the waning winter season. But first, some background.
Most streets in this city boast one lane for cars and a token sidewalk for pedestrians. And with automobiles outnumbering civilians by a healthy ratio, cars seem to regard sidewalks as complimentary parking space, there for their convenience. A person attempting to reach a destination on foot is driven (so to speak) to bypass the sidewalk and walk along the side of the road, within inches of cars operated by people who haven’t yet achieved a level of civilization that would allow them to ride horses. And with the trademark malice that distinguishes the Lebanese people from other inferior races, a rainy day provides great entertainment for motorists, who press down on the gas pedal as they approach a miserable footman trying to get home with minimal soaking. Well, as this miserable footman was being treated to a refreshing, outdoor shower, a light bulb lit in his head (short-circuiting a couple of fuses but otherwise causing no major damage. You may beg to differ, having read this far).
The point of my thesis (if any): I have increasingly been brought to regard my body as some sort of vehicle which I have to maneuver along streets shared by different sorts of moving bodies. This interaction between varied species has led me to examine the nature of my existence as a vehicle, rather than as a rational, thinking human being. Let’s face it, we are basically cars with two legs, and we cost far less than our steel-framed brethren. Visualize this scenario and see if you can relate. You’re at home, lounging around in the bedroom, and you feel the pangs of hunger. You start up and drive over to the kitchen. You may speed up in the open spaces, such as the living room, but you’ll slow down for curves in the road and when going through doorframes (many a bruised shoulder will attest to the wisdom in that). You’ll also need to slow down to avoid skidding if the freeway has been freshly mopped. You have to keep your eyes open to avoid collision with family members exiting the area. And some corridors are one lane wide, so you may have to come to a complete halt to allow another vehicle to pass through.
Again, just like a car, there will be many instances when you’ll be parked. There’s short-term parking (on the toilet seat), long-term (in front of the television set, for a drive-in movie) and overnight, in the garage (when you retire to bed). Also, you’ll need to keep clean, and that’s when you visit the do-it-yourself car wash, in the bathtub. (When will interior decorators design huge, revolving brushes for the shower?)
You may have the diligence to take the vehicle out for a drive in the country every now and then, by way of exercise, but regardless of your condition, there will always be some cold mornings when you can’t seem to jumpstart yourself. Sometimes the vehicle is smoking (the result of bad gas), or it revs too high (stress). There is no end to the symptoms. Furthermore, your performance is bound to deteriorate with the passage of time; no machine is perfect. Maintenance and repair will be necessary, and you check into the hospital to have the work done.
Movement consumes energy and you’ll need to fuel up intermittently during the day, so the road leading to the gas station (the kitchen) is bound to be a well-worn path. Then there’s the occasional oil-change, and you may have to navigate the seedier neighborhoods in town to get that taken care of. (This applies to male cars - the ones with the rusted-out exhaust pipes.)
Much in the same way as pet owners come to resemble their pets, people of certain nationalities seem to resemble the cars which they manufacture. German people look hardy and strong-framed, just as Mercedes and BMWs carry that reputation among automobiles. The French are light and quirky, like their Renaults and Citroens. The Italians are small and fast, like their Alfa Romeos and Fiats. The Americans are large and energy consuming like the Cadillacs and Lincolns. The Japanese are energy saving and durable, like their Hondas and Toyotas.
Owning an automobile costs a bundle in registration, maintenance, insurance and fuel. We could always sell it or dump it, and resort to the use of our legs, but we’re stuck with our bodies. We can’t very well ditch our bodies and resort to using our brains to get somewhere (TM practitioners disregard this point).
Sure I have a problem with the way cars on the street intimidate my slower, highly crushable body. No one enjoys feeling that vulnerable. The only revenge to be enjoyed comes courtesy of those big trucks roaming the highways at great speeds. To them, cars are just noisy, little flies, and truckers like nothing more than the opportunity to flatten one or half a dozen of them with one swat. By the same token, trucks have a real fear of getting in the path of a charging, fuming train. Crisscrossing the countryside like zippers on speed, these trains can obliterate a truck like a wrecking ball demolishes walls, except that they’re usually too busy slamming into each other to make a dent in the truck population.
We can take the issue even further and note the aviation traffic crowding the skies, shuttles and satellites littering outer space, submarines snorkeling in the oceans of the earth. It becomes apparent that human beings have been a little too carried away with the idea of mobility, and somewhat too inventive for their own good. Car crashes claim over 1.2 million lives a year, and I’ve no research concerning other means of transportation acting as intermediaries between humans and their Maker, but you can bet the figures are impressive.
So, I don’t know about you, but I’m putting my private jet up for sale, and I’m investing instead in some really comfortable sneakers, and a wet suit and goggles for those walks in the rain. You can deal with it as you see fit, but don’t do like Ashley Carpenter, of Great Britain. After one car almost knocked him off his bike and another splashed him from a puddle, Ashley slashed 2,000 vehicle tires, costing $460,000 in damage and earning 16 months in jail. Needless to add, he didn’t pass Go and didn’t collect $200.
In all honesty now, wasn’t this worth waiting two months for? Wait…don’t answer that.
April 2004
Bad news. Or maybe good news? What with the multiple responsibilities hanging on my shoulders these days, the April thesis will have to be presented in May. I've been trotting around the globe lending my efforts to help bring about Mideast peace, dissuading N.Korea from developing its nuclear arms program, trying to prevent the slaughter of 350,000 baby harp seals at the hands of civilized Canadians, and working on an effective medicine for AIDS. And frankly, I just can't keep up. That, and a torrential affair that's been sweeping me off my hooves. Forgive me, pray for me, hate me if you must, but come what may, come back in May.
March 2004
Dear readers, I must beg you to grant me a few more days before I can post the March essay. I had to fly to L.A. to help Charlize with her acceptance speech (I have, indeed, always stood by her side, and it was her idea to refer to me as "my incredible partner in crime"). We're still celebrating her resounding victory but I'll be back in Beirut on Sunday the 7th, and will get to work right away (provided Charlize doesn't follow through with her threat to accompany me. Enough is enough, I say).
Financial straits had me backed into a corner recently and, as a last resort, I acquiesced to lending my services as guitar player in a dance band, for a modest monthly income. The gig lasted seven weeks but the shock may last a lifetime. I had heretofore made it a non-negotiable custom to perform for seated audiences only, believing as I do that movement hinders concentration, and that good music that has taken time and effort to compose and rehearse warrants the listeners’ undivided attention. But money talks and it whispered sweet nothings in my ear. Having thus sacrificed my integrity, I settled into the routine with no complaints and reported for work clad in dark eyeglasses, in the way of disguise. My position onstage afforded me a point of vantage from which I could observe the audience behavior, and it is from that experience that I draw observations on which I will expound in this month’s dissertation.
It is said that if you can walk you can dance. I heard that once and started to believe it, but then my body begged to differ. Dancing has never agreed with me. By the time I reached my teens I was already three decades too late for organized dancing. Up until the ‘40s, dancing was still choreographed for groups, but with the ‘50s came the Twist – featuring moves you had to do alone, without safety in numbers, and ensuing decades brought more freedom to the individual dancer (and early retirement for me). In my heyday I danced like a wounded giraffe. It took an inordinate amount of booze to get me to strut my stuff. Tall and bony, with arms flailing every which way, I posed a danger to fellow dancers and claimed victims each time out; revelers within a meter were flagellated with no remorse. But without the aid of alcohol I was hopeless. At parties I could be found helping out in the kitchen, spinning records at the turntable, standing guard at the door – anything to avoid the embarrassment of recreating a scene straight out of Animal Planet, to the merriment of my peers. Despite my uncanny skills at camouflage, some girl would ultimately find me and drag me onto the dance floor, where the last shred of dignity would be peeled off me like the skin off a ripe banana. Barely past puberty, the seeds of a powerful psychological complex were sown within me, fruits of which still cross-pollinate to this day.
Gradually, my fears turned into resentment and utter disgust as I came to understand the social sanctity of dancing, and its unique status as King of all possible activities a guy could treat a girl to on a date. You could carefully schedule a full day of fun to impress your date, and still come up short. You might pick her up in a freshly washed car, with romantic music seeping from the radio. You may drive her to a well known restaurant and order everything on the menu, and then head over to the mall and buy her trinkets of her choice, following which you could take her to a movie, and butter her popcorn. Then you would treat her to some ice cream and buy her roses to take home - and what do you know? She had a forgettable time. On the other hand, you could meet at the club, have one beer, dance for an hour, and the girl had a blast – you’ve been just wonderful, thank you.
If this activity hadn’t been forced upon us, if it hadn’t been turned into a benchmark for social acceptance and a measure of a person’s desirability, maybe I wouldn’t have such a problem with it. But it has already cost me dearly. For never will I forget the day when my girlfriend Corrine, who had the cutest face I’d ever seen, took my hand and motioned to the dance floor, at a party in Berkeley, California, twenty-two years ago. My feet had firmly planted themselves in the carpet (and this was before Velcro) and wouldn’t respond to her desperate plea. I handed her to my best friend, along with a change of clothing and two bus tickets, and never saw her again. Since then, I’ve been on the lookout for a lame girl to share my life, but the few I’ve met just want to dance - on one leg.
My phobia notwithstanding, I believe that no one should be seen dancing unless they look graceful enough doing it. If it really means so much, take some lessons, for God’s sake. During those seven weeks of hard labor I saw dancers from every angle imaginable. Men, for the most part, are just accessories to the crime. Very few can move with any grace, and even those look like they’re infringing on some other species’ domain (yelping seals, according to Suha). A surprising number dance with hands in their pockets. If their hands are out, they normally have a cigarette in one and a drink in the other. You’ll often see them answering their mobile phones or sending messages while going through the motions.
Among the women, a greater percentage displays a certain grace, often resulting from years of practicing to CDs behind closed doors. Girls in our society have few privileges and understand the importance of mastering body language, in all dialects. And they have more props at their disposal to aid them in gaining the upper foot. A great mane of hair flung from side to side creates quite an optical illusion, and the wrists, more pliable than those of men, add animated quotation marks to an otherwise bland performance. An hourglass figure is a formidable asset, as the hips seem to move all by themselves. To top it all off, there’s the trick with the sideways-moving neck, a staple of Indian dancing and a mystery to physical education teachers. Busty babes enjoy a particular advantage: they hurl a breast in one direction, and by the time it starts swinging back to the starting point the momentum gets the other breast going in the opposite direction. From there, nature takes its course and the pendulum effect is in full swing, but there’s no stopping it abruptly - brakes have to be applied in gradual increments to avoid injury (the ABS brake system was actually inspired by just such a scenario). And with nightclubs more interested in packing patrons than in giving them the space they need for full physical expression, funny situations can occur. I could hardly contain myself when a girl was roused from her seat only to find that the space between her chair and the table allowed only upper body movement, with her legs pinned straight and motionless. That, however, didn’t prove to be a detriment and she danced with abandon, from the waist up. In the dimly lit, crowded confines of clubs, cigarette burns are common, as are the inevitable elbow-in-the-eye and knee-in-the-ribs. And in the mayhem someone’s going to get goosed, but that’s all in good fun.
It is interesting to examine the gradual progression of excitement that swells in the patrons as they make the transition from relaxed, cultured customers into wild, unstoppable dancing machines. The music, of course, is responsible for this. And the musicians actually plan their repertoire with a progressive excitement factor in mind. The first two or three songs are meant to engage the listeners’ attention and gain their confidence. Then we hit them with an old favorite, guaranteed to bring back fond recollections and memories of better days. After that we got them eating from the palms of our hands, and we speed up the assault as chairs are vacated and tables are cleared. By the time we strum the opening chords of “I Will Survive” not a butt remains glued to a seat. By God, if only we had chosen this song as the rallying cry, we’d have won the war. At this point, the bartenders are usually working frantically to replenish the supplies of liquor as orders start coming in ten-fold following the spirited dance. Tomorrow the carpet will need to be changed and carpenters will be brought in to repair splintered tables and broken chairs, but for tonight anything goes, because the customer is always right. And after all, dancing is a form of art, isn’t it?
Studies have yet to be funded, and research conducted on the effects of dancing on brain cells. The brain isn’t quite bolted down in the skull. It is composed of relatively soft tissue, nestled in a crevice of jagged bone, and hanging precariously by frail, little tendons. Prolonged jiggling cannot be without ill effects, such as the tearing of fragile ligaments and mangling of tiny blood vessels. Add to that a few quarts of alcohol or a couple of hits of Ecstasy, and you’ve got a recipe for a hemorrhage. But instinct does not err, and if it dictates movement it may well be for the purpose of prodding otherwise inactive brain cells into activity. This is not to say that intelligence and the need to move one’s body cannot co-exist. My current dominatrix, the Supreme Empress, is living proof of this. Poised to overtake the throne of oriental dance in the coming months, this woman is of a height that qualifies her for slam dunk contests, with drop-dead, gothic looks that overwhelm the unsuspecting onlooker, and yet she possesses a pair of brains of which Einstein would approve, hands down. Actually, Albert would be on hands and knees if he saw her, but that’s another story altogether.
If the sight of hundreds of humans swaying and swirling in blind fury to loud, boisterous music in dark, smoky halls brings to mind images of ancient Roman orgies, the group of musicians sweating on the stage must remain blameless and above reproach. These are professionals who surely would rather be performing beautiful music to appreciative ears. But the market is merciless and leaves them with no option but to prostitute their talents in order to secure their daily ration of bread. At least their efforts remain in a league above the obnoxious, electronic music that is programmed to aid dancers in dispensing their energy on the dance floor. After the earplugs are extracted, and the stench of smoke washed away under a hot shower, the musician may, with a little meditation, will away the negative vibes and revert to the pursuit of higher ideals - unless, of course, the dance fever catches on. I, myself, was appalled to find that, in the course of my engagement, I’d inadvertently learnt a couple of very rudimentary steps (basically what all babies do at 16 months), but I can only perform them with my guitar strapped on. Will this be the start of my dancing career? Am I destined for greatness as the next James Brown, Gregory Hines, Prince, or Michael Jackson? Only time will tell. Somebody wish me to break a leg.
February 2004
As you well may have guessed, this month’s dissertation deals with that complex and much-maligned emotion, unique to human beings and their ilk, omnipresent in the media and absent from our hearts: “Love”. With Valentine’s Day drawing near and Cupid nowhere in sight, I once again find myself probing the principles by which conjugal love is understood, and the psychological games played in its name. My own take on the matter is a bit marred by my personal experiences, which have been less than glorious in terms of results, myself having reached middle age with no reliable partner to stand by my side through thick and thicket. For that reason, lest I discourage fellow men and women from experiencing the widely advertised joys of love, I will limit my opinion on the matter to a few remarks, and use real-life stories to derive possible conclusions.
I was sobered to the looming fate of bachelor life by a note to self, written sometime in the ‘90s when I still had all my teeth, bearing this message: “ It takes two to three years to know someone. Two or three relationships would see me through my forties. Marriage is clearly not an affair unconstrained by time. I fear a life of bachelorhood and impending loneliness, and yet cannot relinquish myself to a woman who is not tickled by my wit, is not moved by my thoughts, and does not shudder at my touch. I can’t live with a woman who does not want my love and mine alone over that of other men. I need a woman to love me. I need only one.” This quotation is included here to demonstrate the naïve outlook of a man who believes in love, allows it to brew freely, and cannot find a mate willing to absorb it without fear – and to absolve me of any negative opinions I may offer. I have made a career out of love, forever hoping to find that girl with wanton in her eye, not wonton between her teeth - to no avail. The songs I have written about my failed relationships could fill a wing in a library, but one wing doesn’t fly. If I had a penny for every time I’ve been turned down, I’d have enough to purchase the Brooklyn Bridge, although I understand it is not for sale at the moment. I should have paid more attention in the classroom. John Donne’s poem, “The Flea”, describes a flea that has bitten the poet and his lover, mingling their blood and, in a sense, marrying them. While the poet is extolling the virtues of the insect, which now represents three souls, the good lady swats the flea, committing triple murder with no qualms whatsoever. But do I learn any lesson from that? No, because “Romeo and Juliet” has left too deep a mark. Once a sheep always a sheep, even when sporting the latest in wolf apparel. I am sick of wearing my heart on my sleeve - it keeps getting in soups, sauces and dips. My own research has led me to conclude that people fall in love after being subjected to endless stories of love with happy endings, however unrealistic. They use love as a pretext in order to discover the thrills of sex without feeling remorse. Boys to compensate for motherly love or exercise an innate caveman desire to dominate the weaker sex; girls to recreate a paternal bond or enjoy manipulating with one finger the large frame of a male with a brain the size of a peanut, minus the protein. But these are just the conclusions of a self-employed researcher, with no facilities at his disposal. So, without further ado, I hand the proverbial baton to others from whom we may learn a thing or two about this mystery.
My first guest tonight comes from the afterlife, where he doubtless has freed himself from the earthly worries of matchmaking. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, famous philosopher of the 18th century, traces the origins of love to the point at which savage man learnt to build dwellings and confined himself and his chosen mate to its borders to raise children. That was the first instance of conjugal and maternal love which up to then had been alien to Man’s nature. With increased exposure to other people and making comparisons between them, the ideas of merit and beauty were created, and these produced feelings of preference. Soon, people couldn’t get along without seeing one another, and out of this dependency jealousy was born and public esteem came to have value. The strongest and handsomest became the most highly regarded, and this was the first step to inequality and vice. The preference that people developed led the way to vanity and contempt on one hand, and shame and envy on the other. With the idea of self-esteem, an attack on someone was an attack on his esteem, and this led the victim to practice the act of revenge. We in the 21st century realize that what we have come to understand as love combines beauty, vanity, jealousy, self-esteem, shame, contempt, envy, revenge, and a host of venomous feelings all rolled up into one. Far as we have strayed from the natural state of Man, we cannot hope to see any of our emotions proceed in a normal manner.
The desire for people to get married warrants some serious study. In general terms, women want to have children and are hesitant to raise them alone, and therefore acquiesce to life with a man, along with all the problems entailed therein. Men go into marriage lured by the promise of regular sexual activity rather than more noble incentives. Fewer and fewer people are getting married out of mutual respect for one another’s qualities. They are usually too much in love with themselves to love someone else. This narcissistic streak, incubated in the majority of humans, creates the incentive to bear children who may look like them, hence providing a further boost to their ego. Apart from the natural need of a woman’s body to bear offspring, couples in the West may have them in order to pass the inheritance on, in the East to put them to work and bring more income into the family.
Here are some poignant remarks uttered by writers, poets and philosophers through the years.
A man falls in love through his eyes, a woman through her ears. Woodrow Wyatt.
A good marriage would be between a blind wife and a deaf husband. Michel de Fontaigne.
The average girl would rather have beauty than brains because she knows that the average man can see much better than he can think. Ladies Home Journal.
Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards. Benjamin Franklin.
Many a man in love with a dimple makes the mistake of marrying the whole girl. Stephen Leacock.
Marriage is like a besieged fortress. Everyone outside wants to get in, and everyone inside wants to get out. Quitard.
The most difficult year of marriage is the one you’re in. Franklin Pierce Jones.
Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence. H.L.Mencken.
I’m a marvelous housekeeper. Every time I leave a man, I keep his house. Zsa Zsa Gabor.
The following are real-life stories of love that will curl your hair. In January 1954, 18 year-old Fred Lilly pushed a walnut with his nose for a whole mile in less than 24 hours, as a wager with his buddy, Paul Brown. The idea was that, if Fred succeeded, Paul would not date Diana Davis, age 16, leaving that honor to his friend. Diana wasn’t home to welcome the winner.
Then there’s the story of Antoine, a free black who came from Cuba to Virginia in 1792. He fell in love with a slave but was forbidden to marry her. When her owner took the woman to Indiana, Antoine agreed to be an indentured slave for seven-and-a-half years, after which his companion would be freed. But the owner reneged on the deal and sold the woman to a man from New Orleans. Antoine was able to nullify the sale but his love died on the way back to Virginia.
In Sudan lives a 68 year-old man with his 76 wives. He has 65 sons, 86 daughters, and 38 of his wives are pregnant. He’s been turned down for marriage 12 times. The county medical officer (who has only 3 wives) commented that “from the health point of view it is a disaster when men have more than 12 wives”, because the wives will begin extramarital affairs. The man with the 76 wives admits to slowing down his pace, for a good reason. He says: “My sons have grown up, so I need to give them a chance to have wives; my eldest has only 8 wives.” Ruminating on his humble beginning, he says: “When I had only one wife it seemed I had nothing to do.”
Beirut, January 21st, 2004, a 73 year-old male stabs to death a 78 year-old woman for refusing his hand in marriage. She had at first set a dowry of almost 3,000 dollars, but later flat out sent him off. He couldn’t take the rejection.
And in the same day in Madrid, an 85 year-old man stabs to death his 82 year-old wife because he thought he saw someone enter her room at the Old People’s Home where they both reside. They had been married for five days.
Britney Spear’s total time married was 55 hours. Court papers describe the proceedings as: “Plaintiff and defendant did not know each other’s likes and dislikes, each other’s desires to have or not have children, and each other’s desires as to state of residency." Following the fiasco BS saw fitting to proclaim on MTV: "I do believe in the sanctity of marriage, I totally do."
Before I present a final story about love, I must admit that I personally have just about lost hope of fulfilling this seemingly impossible quest. Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote: “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” I feel that two or three lost loves may prove better than none, but to go on like I have, trying again and again to locate that elusive half can leave a sour residue in your heart. The wear and tear can be seriously detrimental. In years past, women have loved me for my long hair (I cut it off to eliminate the “flakes” from my life); my musical skills (now employed strictly for business); my fancy car (back when I still had one); the girth of my wallet (my wallet’s seen better days); my prowess in bed (nowadays still a veritable lion, but in the dozing-off department); and for other attributes which have nothing to do with my manners, brains or noble intentions. Trust is a relic of the past, and unless one can pick a partner solely on the basis of appearance, bank account and social position, one had better accept a life of oneness, all by their lonely self. Me, myself, I – yet again. Suits me just fine.
Here is one story that exemplifies true love. I’ve had this newspaper cutout for twenty years and it still brings tears to my eyes. Evangeline Guico, two months pregnant, marries her dead fiance, Marlon Manalac, who was killed a week before they were to be married. Below is a picture of the ceremony, with the bride sprinkling holy water on the body of her husband.
January 2004
As the new year bravely unfolds – and hopes are that it doesn’t trip over itself in the process, as has been the custom of its predecessors – I stare ahead, resolute in mind and spirit, and resolve to maintain a positive outlook on life. I aim to exchange the biting sarcasm that has long been my bread and butter with gentle observations of the beautiful things available to us in this land of plenty. With this newfound purpose I hope to bring a cheerful element into my commentary, thus helping to spread goodness and goodwill amongst our people and making Lebanon a better place in which to raise future generations.
I have always been one to focus on little things. For example, careful scrutiny of a patch of garden no bigger than a hanky would reveal a microcosm of an active ecosystem, teeming with ants, bees, daffodils, weeds, worms, insects, miniature lakes and gusts of wind. Studying this area would fill me with as much wonder as would an expansive tropical island the professional explorer. This pastime has saved me a bundle in travel expenses and taught me to enjoy the tiny pleasures available to us. It is with this background that I now attempt to recreate the rich and colorful panorama that greets the pedestrian on a typical Beirut street.
I am by birth a pedestrian and have reverted to using my legs for trips about town after having owned several cars (taking the art of driving to new heights) and given them up for ecological considerations. One particular path that I have worn with my tread is the street that links my house to that of Walid, webmaster and co-pilot to stardom. Not over two hundred meters long, this voyage presents limitless wonders to the careful observer.
Following a typical evening spent updating this web site (using Walid’s able computer, bless its Pentium heart) and developing musical projects and ideas, I bid my friend and his family adieu and take my leave, usually around midnight (I suffer from the Cinderella syndrome). The elevator transports me safely to ground level and I exit the building to face the street and begin my adventure. Three or four strides lead me to the end of the curb where the first of many holes attempts to reconfigure my ankle joint. Alert as ever, I deftly foil its plan and continue on my way. A sneaky gutter fares no better at entrapping me as I anticipate its intentions well beforehand. A few meters onward, I remember to veer away from the path of a powerful gush of warm air emanating from the industrial size air-conditioning unit of a building to my left. If I had more hair on my head I might not mind this free blow-drying service. Next, I must keep an eye out for a congregation of cockroaches that hang out by the spice shop, as well as hold my breath to keep from infusing my lungs with the pungent aroma of cumin that emanates from behind the shop’s windows. Having cleared those hurdles, I concentrate on the complex pattern of the sidewalk ahead, warped into psychedelic geometrical shapes, impossible to navigate with regular shoes. One option is to walk along the edge of the road, providing a slow-moving target to giddy motorists eager to nab another victim. Another option is to latch onto the extended branches of a tree hanging from above, and hoisting my body forward by shifting my arms from branch to branch, in the manner of my hairy ancestors. I doubt very much, however, that the tree can support my weight, its health having been diminished by the steady diet of toxic fumes from passing cars all day long. I end up realizing my life-long dream of becoming a ballerina (or ballerino) and tiptoe my way through the maze. On tippy toes, of course, one hasn’t the firm command to balance oneself as on flat feet. Extra caution, therefore, must be taken to avoid wading into an inviting lump of dog shit that beckons, and scattering a bunch of green flies happily gathered to enjoy a quiet meal. Cigarette butts by the hundreds are strewn about like confetti, helping to create a festive atmosphere. I round the next corner with my ears wide open, anticipating the buzzing of scooters driving against traffic and bent on ramming unaware pedestrians from behind. With my virginity intact, I continue the trek past the Sukleen trash bins which are always overflowing with gifts, to the delight of some fat rats scurrying back and forth, reveling in the abundance of goodies. To my right a wall, cracked and frozen in mid-fall, threatens to make its final plunge at any moment - hopefully not this one. A puddle of motor oil sits where an ailing car was parked, shining metallic blue with orange undertones, reflecting the moonlight in a romantic sentiment, with hypnotic effect. I am yanked out of this brief reverie by my proximity to the abandoned building that experience has taught me to avoid, it being a favorite spot for stray dogs that use it as a base of operations for their nocturnal excursions. Crossing the next street I am blinded by the high beams of oncoming cars, rendering me at risk of walking right into the lap of a one-legged homeless man, snoring away in deep slumber by the tire of a $60,000 Mercedes. Now only a few meters from the relative safety of the alley leading to my house, I must remember to watch out for the overhanging live wire, carrying 220 volts of high quality electric current, and itching to touch someone. Way better than Red Bull. Faring well so far, I reach the alley, which has been unlit since the Seventies. It is a mere 20 meters long - hence the dangers it presents are minimal. But the absence of light means that I may be unable to veer off the holes, skip over the ditches, anticipate the warps, or see the SHIT. At this point I trudge in joyful ignorance, planning to put my shoes in retirement on arrival.
As my eyes fall upon the entrance of the building in which I reside, I let out sigh of relief. The danger has passed and I am still whole. I walk up five flights of stairs - slightly regretful of burning up much needed calories but not minding it one bit. Small price to pay for the privilege of sleeping in my own bed, instead of the cramped confines of the elevator, which is not to be trusted to operate in good faith after hours, when it knows full well that maintenance men are off duty. I open the door to my apartment and have only to deal with a couple of mosquitoes that have patiently awaited my return, before tucking myself into bed. I fall asleep and dream that I am walking down a clean, brightly-lit street in some mythical city, where cars stop to let me pass and rodents are nowhere to be seen. By the time I awake the next day the stray dogs will have retired, the shit will have dried, the flies flown away. And I’ll go shopping for new shoes.
2003 in review
Here is that moment we’ve all been waiting for: the time when we celebrate the conclusion of a year’s worth of Diary entries, and worse yet, when we review, add to, detract from and amend each of the historic documents that have graced our pages for the last twelve months.
December brought us the informative piece on Lebanese Independence (from all moral restrictions). The President’s scathing Independence Day speech prompted this essay. His frank, in-your-face approach rivaled my take-no-prisoners style, just as his glowing tan challenges mine. What good can come out of a country whose critical leader and leading critic spend all their time on the beach? Some readers may find the tone of the article a bit harsh even though I tried to maintain a sense of fairness, but nothing will please the Lebanese. Consider that a certain type of Cedar that grows high in the mountains is named The Cedar of God, the name inspired by the fact that the tree loses its top branches after a certain age. The locals explain this as a willful act by the tree to demonstrate its humility before the Maker. Of course, a more scientific explanation may point to a weakness in the tree’s makeup or poor quality of the soil, but that won’t work here, scientific endeavor being undesirable in our society. So, Cedar of God it is.
November marked the one time I weaseled out of working on a worthy essay, for lack of time. I let my faithful readers down, but at least I had the decency to refrain from presenting a sub-standard essay, like my old study on flies and their life-long obsession with glass windows, for example. Trust me, you don’t want to read that.
In October I was happy to announce the release of my much-maligned CD and offered the readers related details that they could easily live without. But then, when you enter the World of the Dragon, you enter at your own risk.
September saw me jumping to the defense of Fayrouz, in an attempt to justify the artistic merit of songs written for her by her son, Ziad. I had assumed that, being privy to what goes on behind the scenes, my opinion on the matter would register favorably with some members of our esteemed readership. Oddly, that dissertation elicited not a single comment.
In August I was moved to lament the loss of some giants of the music business and cast a horrified eye on the cheap alternatives destined to fill the gaping void.
Upon my return from a trip abroad I was shocked by the unique beauty of Lebanon and sat down to write about it. The result, a brief comparison between Vienna and Beirut, posted in July, became the focus of a heated debate in which patriotic Lebanese bravely defended their beloved nation against the ridiculous charges concocted totally from reality. The essay also gave Harry Potter fans the password to get them into Gryfindor, in advance of the book that had only been released overseas a few days before.
May and June featured the authoritative study of modern music in Lebanon, Horror on the Airwaves, parts 1 &2. In it the reader was taken on a tour of the demented mentalities and degenerate practices that lead to the production of such crap as we are made to hear under the guise of music. No holds were barred as all aspects of the farce were exposed for all to see. Kazem el Saher had earned an honorable mention for his alleged abhorrence of electronic sounds in his work. But I have since heard a song by him wherein he uses the same synthesized drum machine beats as those used by other workers in the industry. Consequently, I take back the compliment (everybody makes mistakes). Also by mistake, I had written that Warda is an Egyptian singer, disregarding the fact that her last name denotes her as Algerian. That gaffe was expertly picked out by the eagle-eyed Solitude, whose visits to Dragonland do us great honor.
In April I lashed out against the mind-boggling wages allotted to actors and singers, amounts of money that could cover national debts and which seem inversely proportional to the efforts spent earning them. My rage had been triggered by a report on Kelsey Grammer’s $1.6 million fee per twenty-two minutes of rather lame acting. A few weeks ago the “entertainer” (I am not entertained) said he might be interested in running for the U.S. Senate when he’s done acting. He eloquently proclaimed: “If you have the good fortune to become wealthy doing what you love to do, what happens is you now have an obligation to give back in some way.” I’m expecting a check in the mail any day now. Kelsey “Bad Grammar” added: “I would like to try to rid the country of the idea that it’s the rich against the poor.” Here are other examples of “stars” sharing their wealth: Ben Afleck bought a $1,200,000 pink diamond ring for Jennifer Lopez (like she couldn’t afford it herself). Kobe Bryant appeased his wife with a $4 million diamond after being caught copulating with another woman. Justin “Just throw me in the lake” Timberlake shopped at Harrods to the tune of 1 million Euros, having called in advance and proclaimed his intent to spend the sum. Even dead stars keep raking it in while the rest of us wallow in poverty. Elvis is #1 on the Forbes list of top-earning deceased celebrities with $40 million this year. How’s he going to spend it? Lennon made $19 million and Harrison a paltry $16 million. Going against the trend is David Gilmour of Pink Floyd who donated $5.88 million to house homeless people and low-wage workers in central London – a gesture typical of this man with a haunting throaty voice, immediately distinguishable guitar style and unique, hypnotic compositions. Wish there were more like you, Dave. Myself, I’ll be spending the holiday season at the Lido in Paris, where 9 million Euros were spent to update the extravaganza, 3 million alone to make 600 new suits for the girls, and 18,000 for one ostrich skin coat for the star. That’s one lucky ostrich.
March featured a lengthy manuscript on the way music is made these days. Starting at the very beginning of the relationship between humans and musical instruments, it explored in depth the various methods of generating sound and detailed the effects of modern recording techniques on musical skill and ability. A must read for musicians and listeners alike.
In February I expressed my opinion of today’s pop songs, in no uncertain terms. I had been offered large sums of cash in return for keeping silent about the matter but could not be swayed from doing my national duty. The result was a close look at the rickety foundations of formulaic pop music, from weak, repetitive lyrics, to rehashed, looped electronic sounds. My recommendations, as usual, fell on deaf ears as songs continue to get increasingly stupider and audiences decreasingly demanding. And once again credit goes to the ever alert and oh, so alluring, Solitude, who informs me that “Sex Sells” was sung by Benefit, not Atomic Kitten. It follows that the brunt of my harsh assessment must be borne by Benefit and that an apology is owed Atomic Kitten. Sorry, little kitty.
The first comment of the year took on World music and exposed it as the mindless mix’n’match game that it is. The reader was at once given the real facts about how this music is manufactured and introduced to the methods of incessant probing which distinguish this column from other commercial enterprise.
What you can expect to read in the coming months no one can say. Should I miraculously manage to keep my wits about me, I’ll be commenting on whatever nags at me and seems relevant to the interested reader. One thing is certain: I will always strive to maintain the high standard of professional presentation, based on meticulous research and microscopic analysis of the matter in question. Your time is valuable and so is mine.
P.S. I don’t know if you noticed, but 2003 wasn’t a New Year at all; it was recycled from the previous year. Pray that we don’t get misled again. I can’t go through another year like that. Good luck to us all and thank you for taking the time to read this nonsense.
December 2003
Ah, the fresh smell of independence. As Lebanon celebrates its sixtieth, thoughts turn once again to the concept of “Independence” as understood in our little corner of the world. Here’s what our president had to say on the happy occasion: “The state is to blame for Lebanon’s domestic disorder, which has been the result of political tug of war, sectarian division of spoils, service of personal interests and administrative corruption. People’s needs and concerns are irrelevant to officials and politicians at all levels. Sectarian sub-nations stand in the way of a government for the people.” The Prez. closed with the warning that the dream of a nation must come true or the country will perish and its citizens will immigrate.
Way to go. I couldn’t have said it better myself. I’ve been up staged, for once. I must say, however, that the part about the citizens immigrating is a bit dated. Citizens have been scampering to get out of here for some time now. People without money or connections are devising ingenious plans to reach foreign ports without the benefit of a visa, which they wouldn’t dream to have granted them by any self-respecting consulate (a couple of guys I know are swimming their way over to Italy as we speak. One of them borrowed my bathing suit for the trip – his had a hole in it).
The president’s illuminating speech re-awakens that old nagging question: As a humble, law-abiding Lebanese citizen, what exactly is it that I can take pride in? The search begins. As the Lebanese government in its entirety remains out on permanent paid vacation it cannot be tapped as a source of pride. Ashamed of the present situation, one naturally looks back at the rich history of the land. We do own an impressive assortment of Phoenician and Roman ruins which draw tourists from around the world, but they only serve to remind of the role that Lebanon has always played throughout the ages - that of a doormat with “Welcome” written on it. On the other hand, the abundance of ancient relics may be regarded as evidence of the strategic importance of our land, and we could take pride in the fact that numerous battles were fought over it. But that would be at odds with the pathetic conditions in which we allow our prized souvenirs to languish. The formidable castles of old are over run by weeds and rodents; crevices and corners collect trash, and maintenance work is never done on them. The picturesque “Museilha” castle suffers from damage to its foundations caused by a quarry that extracts chunks out of the very hill upon which it stands.
Lebanon’s natural landscape is highly appreciated by local residents, etched by painters and celebrated by poets, but its reputation has arisen out of comparisons with the deserts that engulf neighboring regions. The Mediterranean Sea is a spit on the sidewalk next to some of the oceans out there. Some lakes in Europe are more magnificent. Besides, our section of the Mediterranean is shamelessly defaced with all the waste we dump into it. No wonder the island of Cyprus edges a few miles Westward each year. Lush forests? Give me a break. When Abu Abed was told that his wife was seen in a compromising position with some guy up in the forest, he went over to see for himself and, upon his return, said to the informant: “Two trees and you make them into a forest!” The 1-inch by 1-inch pictures on Swiss chocolates hold scenic views more breathtaking than anything found on Lebanese soil.
Wildlife is practically nonexistent, hence a poor source of pride for the nation. Migrating birds have long since changed their routes to avoid being shot at by the outdoor- loving Lebanese male. Small birds are still shot for sport, but most other species have cleverly avoided this fate by becoming extinct decades ago. Jelly fish have been multiplying freely because their natural predators, sea turtles, have died out, most suffocating on plastic bags which they mistake for jelly fish, the rest snared by fishermen’s nets. The closest thing to wildlife still in evidence takes the form of revelers who frequent the bars and discotheques that adorn our cute, cozy country.
No solace can be derived from surveying the economic situation. Lebanon has no major industry to speak of. No cars, trains or airplanes are built here (which, in my opinion, is actually good). Neither are electronic goods or refrigerators. Rather, we have factories that manufacture plastic bottles and bags (and none for recycling them). The clothing sector produces replicas of every imaginable name brand item, so a Levi’s can be had for just $7.00, but it will turn your legs blue. Gibran Khalil Gibran detested the local habit of opting for imitation instead of originality: “Woe to a nation whose art is the art of patching up and imitation.” Our forte has always been trade. The Arabs honed their skill trading for “slaves” centuries ago and the modern Lebanese trades anything that moves and everything that doesn’t. You may wish to put this down as something of which we can be proud. There, that’s a start. The bigger picture, however, remains gloomy. The General Debt, now at $32.5 billion, won’t go away despite the officials’ best efforts at ignoring it. Before turning into debt this money represented international loans from caring nations concerned with our wellbeing. Thirty-two and a half billion in the red! That’s a lot of money. I still get confused receiving change for a hundred thousand LLs (when it happens that I have such a sum in ready cash, that is).
Before the war one would cite the old cultural values of honor and hospitality as examples of Lebanese pride. These qualities were best represented by village dwellers, unspoiled by the lures of the big city. Now, villages are cities, and the big city an open zoo. Old cultural values have given way to mistrust and false pretenses, as sometimes happens in a large metropolis. Gone are character traits such as decency, respect, patience, humility, equality and, dare I say it? Love. The post-war Lebanese citizen is a sorry excuse for a human being - consuming like Americans but without awareness of the ramifications; philosophizing like the Europeans with none of the background; talking big with no intent of action; bullshitting oneself out of any situation and refusing to take responsibility.
Actually, I believe I’ve inadvertently stumbled upon the answer. The typical Lebanese citizen takes pride in being a pompous, confrontational know-it-all, blessed with a God-given right to consume everything on life’s menu without heeding any of the consequences or footing any part of the bill. Pride in the ignorance that keeps this country from producing a notable scientist, chemist or physicist. Pride in usurping poorer races over which an imagined superiority is put to effect. Pride in being led by war criminals and ordered around like a lowly canine. Pride in belonging to a pre-selected religious faith and denouncing all others. Pride in the status quo with no desire to change. The typical Lebanese borrows from the Ostrich by burying the head in the ground and believing that there’s nothing wrong, leaving the butt sticking straight out, open to attack from all angles. And loving it.
I am sorry if I’ve offended some of my brethren in whose veins the blood of patriotism still pumps. I was, after all, a typical Lebanese citizen, proud in my ignorance and loving it. I had to get rid of the pride to become a better human being.
November 2003
Time constraints have rendered impossible the thorough research needed to prepare a discourse of the caliber which our readers have come to expect. Consequently, no new thought is presented this month, making this an ideal time to explore in greater detail some of the finer points brought up in the history-making manuscripts that appear downleaf. By exercising this option the reader is spared exposure to any half-baked material, and the staff here in the World of the Dragon can hold their heads up high, secure in the knowledge that our noble beliefs have been upheld, and our integrity uncompromised. Thank you for surfing in our murky waters and do come back this way next month when our subject matter will be: as yet undecided.
October 2003
It is with immense pride and matching humility that I announce the release of my long-anticipated CD: TANNIN AL TARAB, PART ONE, although nowhere on the CD cover can be found the words “part one”. That part was lost in the quagmire of intertwining marketing tactics, along with some other details, an account of which will follow shortly. In the main, however, the CD represents a complete work of original lyrics covering a variety of subjects, and original music custom-tailored to fit the lyrics – the very least that the listener should expect from an artist really. As an added bonus, and in a nod to a practice fast disappearing, no synthetic instruments were used in the recording of this product. Everything you hear is real (unless you’re hearing voices in the night - I’m not responsible for those). And it can all be yours for the price of a salad at some of the prestigious restaurants that keep popping up in our jet-setting capital, Beirut. Early reports even hint that this CD may actually aid the digestive process, thereby eliminating the need to consume salads altogether. (An early prototype of a vitamin-enriched version was abandoned in order to avoid having an expiration date stamped on my forehead as I form that fearsome gaze on the CD cover).
Here are some things of which listeners should be aware as they enjoy this fine product: Songs contained herein are taken from different phases of the Dragon’s prolific career, spanning the ten years from 1985 to 1995. Some of the earlier songs were shockingly new in their time and if they don’t sound outdated today it is because they were not composed along the lines of any major musical fads, but rather according to a singularly personal vision, however skewed or limited in scope. Either that or other offerings on the local market reek of tired formulas and lack of depth, which, come to think of it, makes for a better argument. Each of the CD’s ten songs was performed by a different combination of professional musicians, handpicked for their excellence and distinctive sound. Moments where the music shines and comes alive are credited to these formidable men and women. All-natural, organically grown recording techniques were employed to produce sound with pure tones and a balanced sonic spectrum, in a show of respect for the human ear and its intricate design. Headphones may be used to fully appreciate the panoramic distribution of the various instruments and voices. With the exception of the Electric Piano and Organ, which are played live on a synthesizer, every sound on the CD is genuine. That is to say: a musician walks through the doors of the recording studio, unpacks a musical instrument, spends some time tuning it and a lot more time testing different microphones to best capture its essence, performs the piece at hand and gets paid for a job well done. Thus, this album supports the local musician and does not acknowledge the validity of computer generated music.
It wasn’t a happy process throughout. A multitude of unforeseen events took shape and threatened to thwart the project. Recording had begun in 1996 and didn’t end till the year 2000, in the process going through five studios and amassing enough frequent-flyer miles to earn a trip to Hell and back. Funds were always elusive. In a typical scenario, I would rent out my skill as a guitarist to earn $50 an hour – at times recording real tacky stuff for real tacky singers - and then in turn hire a musician to guest on my album and promptly dispense with my short-lived income. The CD took so long to complete that I started taking jobs left and right. I composed music for Marwan Najjar’s television series “Talbeen El Urb” and “Bis Saff”; generiques for TV shows “Rima Wein?”, “Sghar Kbar”, “La Yumall”; songs for short films by Carol Mansour and Imad El Ali; advertisements for YWCA’s anti-violence campaign. I recorded Oud, guitar, bouzouk and percussion on countless radio jingles, and begrudgingly lent my voice to many others, most famous being the “Xtra” campaign.
While the recording of the songs could be done piecemeal with small monetary installments, marketing them required a large investment of one lump sum. In the absence of such funding the completed CD sat on the shelf for two years before an interested producer could be found. After that delays came as a result of a series of international incidents and regional wars during which time I found myself doing more radio commercials and appearing in bands backing other artists, most notable among them the diva Fayrouz and Ziad Rahbani. In addition there were appearances with Julia Boutros, Alex, If U band, the Micho show band, and Tania Saleh with whom I still perform today.
The CD is not free of flaws. Actual performances don’t always reflect the music as written and some pieces took on a flavor quite different from what was intended. Track #2 should have been more Hip Hop; the piano on track #3 is not very audible in the mix; track #4 is too long and the Oud solos are nowhere near as interesting as those that come out when we're not recording; track #9 is missing an Organ track which we never got around to recording, and my vocals are far from perfect, as am I, generally. Also, the vocals are kept rather low in the mix, a practice considered normal in the West but not familiar here. I am not comfortable enough with my voice to blast it all the way up, and the potential listener will have to concentrate to catch all the words I am singing. Also, this being a compilation disc, some listeners may find a lack of a common thread uniting the various songs, although I myself consider the variety a plus. About the title: the CD should have been entitled Tannin Al Tarab, Part One, indicating that other parts are to follow - which indeed they will - but someone, somewhere, forgot this small detail (The plan is to release my entire repertoire in batches of ten songs per disc, so that they may be preserved for eternity and provide hours of listening pleasure to those who may enjoy my style). The word “Tannin” as printed in Arabic on the cover looks more like “Rannin” because of discrepancies in computer programs. This problem was noted before printing but was not corrected in time, and to some I will forever be known as “Rannin”. Even sales receipts from Virgin say “Rannin”. A detail that could have rectified the oversight was the printing of the name in English on the inside spine of the CD cover, visible through the transparent plastic to the left of the main picture. Unfortunately, the printing is a few centimeters too far to the left and fails to draw attention. So “Rannin” it is. I also want to emphasize that my wish was to design environmentally friendly packaging and avoid the use of plastic, which I abhor. But economics take precedence to conscience and my wishes weigh little when corporate decisions are being formulated. I hereby apologize for promoting waste and urge everyone to call for the institution of recycling plants in Lebanon.
The delay in completing this CD had numerous repercussions. While my material sounded revolutionary in 1986 and still maintained a fresh feel in 1991, today it seems quite common as it has become the preferred style of some other artists and producers of commercial shows. The only solace that may be taken is that here, with this CD, you have the original article on display, in all its simplicity and direct approach. The saddest result of the delay in production has been the passing away of legendary trumpet player Elie Mnassa. Elie played on two songs and never got to hear them. He would often ask me when the album might come out and tell me how much he enjoyed the arrangements and the lyrics of the songs. It is because of his premature passing away that I most regret the delay, and I will always remember his sweet, calm nature, at complete odds with the ferocious way he blew his trumpet, like a bolt of lightning splitting the sky.
Special thanks go to Philip Tohme who was my partner in this production. Philip believed in the potential of my songs and encouraged me to go into the studio at a time when I had planned to conduct the recording in my own home, as I had done on three earlier releases. Philip spent a good deal of his own money and time to help realize this project and no amount of words can adequately describe his contribution. Michel Elefteriades and MusicMaster also deserve credit for launching this CD before the nation despite the songs’ noncommercial nature. This is entrepreneurial bravery, rare in our times.
Here then is the first of what I hope to be a three or four-CD anthology of my work. It won’t change any lives but it could help while away the time. Until the release of the next disc, be safe and please recycle.
September 2003
Once again I welcome the devoted reader who does me the honor of checking this diary at the start of each month. And once again, much to my chagrin, I am unable to announce with pride that my long-delayed CD has become available for mass consumption. The fireworks are on hold until the tenth of September (according to those handling the business end of things) when my work will be on display at the Virgin store, in downtown Beirut. While awaiting the historic event, I have decided to step forth and present my own point of view regarding an issue that has become a staple of discussion and a source of discord among fans of the great diva, Fayrouz. I realize that the idea of a relatively unknown entity coming to the defense of a living legend is bound to inspire jokes of the ant and elephant variety, but I nevertheless embark upon the project in all seriousness, emboldened by the close-up view I am afforded as the guitar player in the group.
Having successfully wound up a week of intense practice sessions, culminating in two highly charged concerts to seal the Beitteddine festival, I am constantly reminded of the rift created by the new material prepared for the diva by her gifted son, Ziad. People on the street are eager to be heard on the matter and, being the proud owner of an aging but still functional Renault 11 (my two legs), I am easy prey and am constantly halted in my tracks and subjected to their heated opinions, under the stifling August sun. Fans invariably fall into two categories: those in favor of the new style claim that the fresh material is a welcome change from the naïve and nationalistic flavor of old. Those who are against decry the mutilation of sacred folklore and are unwilling to accept innovation when it concerns such a larger-than-life icon. There is no middle ground in this battle, and rare is the listener who wholly approves of both directions.
The voices of dissent rang loud when “Kifak Inta” was released, back in 1991. The title song was considered by some as heresy and “Ya Leili Leili Leili” was criticized because it improvised on a theme that unites all Arabic forms of music and which up to that point hadn’t been messed with. “Maarifty Feek” of 1984 had represented the point of departure for the great singer from her usual style. That album contained some songs that can be described as pop, but with a lot of class, as well as songs that were a throwback to the old school. “Ma Idirt Nseet” has a very accessible melody but is cloaked in an arrangement that relies heavily on the bass and guitar, rather than the usual Oriental instruments, and this throws off the superficial listener. “Kifak Inta” contained even more ‘difficult’ songs such as “Fi Shi Aam Biseer”, and then again the exquisite “Mish Qissa Hay”, drawn straight from yesterday’s lore. Also included was “’Indi Thi’a Feek” which is a Bossa number, the first of many Ziad was to write for Fayrouz. Ziad is very keen on Brazilian Bossa Nova and it was inevitable that he should compose in that vein - “Shoo Bkhaf” shows him paying homage to one of his all-time idols, Luiz Bonfa. “Mish Kayen Hayk Tkoon” also took a lot of flak from listeners who argue that lyrics such as those in the title song don’t befit the stature of Fayrouz. But listen to “Sallimly Aleh” and you have an example of genuine, classical songwriting.
The bottom line is that Ziad presents old and new influences in every offering, and he accomplishes both with every attention to detail, as a professional would. Besides, he has nothing to lose and no one to answer to. The brunt of popular criticism falls on Fayrouz, the quiet, reclusive songbird in whose hands is held one of the last remaining threads that unite Lebanese people together. [Remember that the Lebanese gave up their nation lock, stock, and barrel in return for a temporary fling with bloodshed and insanity, but they would not give up their national treasure: Fayrouz belonged to all ethnic denominations, a feat never since equaled, except by the all-powerful US dollar, in its various denominations].
Here are points to consider when engaged in this debate. First of all, an artist is by nature forced to yield to innovation; to recreate one’s art; to update one’s sound. Time doesn’t stand still and one has to move along to stay relevant. CDs were invented for the purpose of preserving music in an existing form for an unlimited period of time, so the old folklore is safe and available for anyone to buy. Second, Fayrouz seems comfortable singing Ziad’s lyrics, and its no wonder, for Ziad has always reminded of Shakespeare: a man endowed with a rare understanding of women’s nature when the majority of men can’t begin to understand the logic of the opposite sex. In his songs we hear Fayrouz giving voice to hopes and fears only a woman can feel. Witness “Ana Fizaaneh” or “Kbeereh el Mazha Hay”. Lyrics from older songs often painted scenes of life in the village, quite outdated today as villages turn into cities, and cities into concrete jungles. Third, technically speaking, Ziad’s arrangements merely add a lot of harmonic texture to an otherwise plain, simple melody. The multiple layers of harmonies confuse some listeners, but to others they are the ingredients that propel a song to greatness. In the center remains the strong voice around which the lush arrangements are wrapped, and from which they cannot detract. Fourth, in his arrangements Ziad is merely carrying on the tradition of the Rahbani brothers who themselves had broken free of the monophonic restrictions of traditional Arabian music. Their progressive vision, brazen and unprecedented, was embraced without scrutiny by critics and the public alike. Fifth - and this is important in my opinion - some of the new songs which are constructed along the lines of Western pop or jazz pieces can serve to interest the Western listener whose ears would be at a disadvantage when hearing music laden with quarter notes. The knowledgeable Lebanese listener knows Ella Fitzgerald but jazz enthusiasts abroad don’t know Fairuz. While arranging “Autumn Leaves”, Ziad was aware that the song has been arranged by hundreds of able musicians, and yet he proceeded with the determination to leave his personal mark on the classic. Sixth, when critics claim that the lady has lost some vocal range, they neglect to consider that, even at her age, her vocal prowess overshadows all the young starlets of the day; add to that the fact that child-bearing has a degenerative effect on vocal chords. Fairuz is known for her husky yet fragile timber, with peanut-butter texture and vulnerable undertones. These qualities have undergone little change and retain their magical hold over the listener. Seventh, the fervor with which young people are attached to the enigmatic singer demonstrates the existence of a new generation of fans, not yet born when “Kifak Inta” was produced. This generation doesn’t compare between the present and an earlier era, but rather judges the current offering at face value.
There are numerous other angles one can bring out but I leave that to fellow scholars who may wish to further elaborate on the issue. I believe that Fayrouz should keep singing as long as she wishes, and that her career is safe in the hands of the meticulous Ziad. Just think of the void she will leave behind if she retires, leaving us at the mercy of the Elissas and Zughbis of the world – a frightful concept. For reference, my own favorite album remains “Wahdun”.
August 2003
I must first of all beg pardon of my faithful readers (all four of them, myself included) for the brevity of the following essay and its lack of a central point or unifying theme. The fact is that I have been a trifle busy of late, and the composition of such magnificent, informative works of literature as appear on this page places heavy demands on one’s system. The feat entails drawing on vast reserves of past experience, hard-earned wisdom, accurate memory, flawless analytical skills, and vivid wit. This requires a fair amount of energy - energy that is being spent jumping over or crawling under the multitude of obstacles that lend Beirut its singular appeal. But, when duty calls, the brave answer.
I had hoped to cheerfully announce the release of my long-awaited CD this month but there have been further delays due to red tape and formal procedures. It won’t be long, however, before my voice haunts the airwaves, and the world will never be the same again. Until then, I can only hope that August proves more benevolent than July which passed, but not before robbing the music world of three of its icons: Benny Carter and Compay Segundo in one weekend, and Celia Cruz shortly thereafter. Their loss is all the more lamentable in view of the rapid proliferation of disposable music and make-believe musicians. Between them, the three legends combine a hundred years of fine music and unforgettable performances. Benny Carter alone was an accomplished soloist on alto sax, trumpet and clarinet, and played piano, trombone and both tenor and baritone saxophones, in addition to his highly developed talents as composer, arranger and bandleader. Compare this giant to the modern-day “musician” who never learned to perform on a musical instrument or bothered to study music theory, harmony, or history, and yet is responsible for providing the radio stations with their quota of fresh sounds each week - an achievement accomplished by splicing, cutting and pasting digital data with the aid of a computer, without ever leaving home or picking up a musical instrument of any kind; such a sad state of affairs, to say the least.
Well, I won’t dwell on the negative aspect, for once. Lately I have been coming to grips with the fact that I seem to be endowed with an exceedingly critical nature and that, perhaps, some people prefer to observe the proverbial glass and focus on its filled half. What was in that glass anyway? Water? Vodka? No one has ever lived to tell. It is not a concern of mine because my half is empty. I have heretofore justified my attitude as being of some use to society, in that it helps expose injustice and calls for responsible action. Not that I have been met with any reaction, mind you. But never fear. Munir is here. I have a lot to say before I’m gone, and I’m not going until I’ve said all that I have to say.
July 2003
“Mimbulus mimbletonia” will get you through the Fat Lady this year. Muggles disregard this notice.
I have just returned to Lebanon from a trip to the US where I spent some quality time with my son, Jeremiah. On the way back I had the sense to stop in Vienna for a couple of nights, and what a grave mistake that turned out to be. The shock of seeing Beirut just four hours after lounging on a bench in front of St. Stephen’s cathedral is too heavy for an adult to bear. Had I used some of those gray cells (stored in the upper floor for a later day) I might have broken up the trip and gone via Romania, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, and on to Beautiful Beirut. But no, I flew straight through a time warp and wound up entangled in a web of contrasts guaranteed to keep me in a daze for days.
It is gut wrenching to have to admit it, but people living in Beirut aren’t living at all; they are existing – or more accurately, surviving against formidable odds. The life we lead here is far from satisfactory, even if it looks better than life in Ethiopia or Afghanistan. Officials in our government are still making a lot of money squeezing every last drop of sweat out of the poor man’s forehead, and the poor man accepts the theory that the present conditions are typical of a post-war situation, never mind that the war ended a dozen years ago. Austria was ravaged by war but no ill effects of that experience endured, in large measure because its people appreciate beauty. We tend to sympathize with the underdog and have a soft spot for ugliness and vulgarity. But that’s just us, don’t try this at home.
Beirut’s residents walk with their heads to the ground, straining under the yolk of oppression and exhausted from fighting off the daily barrage of noise and hardship. Plus, they have to watch out for ankle-busting holes in the concrete and the numerous pools of spit hocked from the tobacco-scarred throats of the nation’s five million cab drivers. In contrast, Vienna is a neck-twisting town; walking in it one is continually looking up at the majestic buildings, none of which seems complete without a horde of cherubim and cupids smiling from the rooftops. If you lower your head your eyes are immediately drawn sideways and backwards by the multitude of beautiful women in elegant dress. Skirts of every shape and size are the preferred fashion in Vienna today; a welcome sight for someone used to seeing nothing but the national costume on 99 percent of the women in Lebanon - namely, the ubiquitous tight-fitting black pants into which the local females manage to squirm every morning and pass the whole day, in 35degree weather - Centigrade, that is. How they do that is still baffling the fabric experts.
Even visitors to Wien are pretty, elegant and observing of the laws of the land. Tourists from all nationalities flock to the city to pour their savings into the deserving Austrian economy; we here get the chicless sheikhs who come to pour their oily dollar bills onto the highly-coveted, available Lebanese femmes. Money travels out of Lebanon in the form of savings, painstakingly put away by those individuals who are able to go abroad, their ability to travel determined not so much by having enough money to do so but rather by being fortunate enough to have a visa granted to them. These travelers look forward to spending their money abroad where they are guaranteed genuine products and fair prices, in the process robbing their homeland of much-needed funds, further straining the hobbling economy. But the gents in high places are themselves getting fat off the status quo, so don’t expect changes any time soon. One such man has quite a fancy for buying land and has recently been rumored to buy Mercury - not the Lincoln, the planet. That’s something along the lines of unreal estate. There is enough currency in bills within the Lebanese borders to use as landfill for the whole nation, but it just won’t make a foray out of the silk-lined pockets of the well-heeled, to land on the dusty streets where the masses toil. And speaking of tourism: not one mosquito, fly, or cockroach crossed my path on any of Vienna’s charming streets. That makes me wonder why the creatures travel in droves to beloved Lebanon. Maybe they appreciate its breathless beauty.
Vienna takes pride in being a practically crime-free city; Beirut may be described as a free-crime city. Deprivation has driven many locals to devise ingenious ways of conning money out of the unsuspecting. The daily papers provide accounts of wide-ranging forms of crime which make for interesting reading with the morning cup of coffee, even if they foster mistrust amongst the populace. Back in Vienna, you can sit on a public bench for days and no one would ask you who you were or what you were doing. A person feels downright respected, not an easy feeling to get used to. But linger for 11 seconds anyplace the Lebanese army keeps two or more sentries stationed and you’ll draw some serious attention. I guess it’s nice to be noticed.
Of course, not everything about the Viennese is praiseworthy. The folks are walking chimneys. Everyone there smokes: men, women, teenagers, construction workers, the elderly, and some of the pigeons that frequent the public squares. The only things that don’t smoke are the cars, trains and buses. Bless their stainless steel hearts. An air-conditioned Mercedes bus ride to the airport costs six Euros, comparable to bus fare from San Francisco to its airport, or the train fare which costs even less. In Lebanon, however, no buses or trains serve the airport, and the visitor is at the mercy of cab drivers who try to charge $50 for the ten minute drive, but will go down in price if browbeaten with zest.
Finally, being a musician, it was quite a lift for me to be in Vienna and witness so many people carrying their instruments and heading for performances or music lessons. Home of Mozart and Strauss, the city prides itself on its musical heritage. World-class performances await the refined listener. Here is what my cousin, Rif, writes on the subject: “Tonight we’re at the Musikveriensaal, where the Vienna Philharmonic normally lives, to hear some, yup, Mozart. This is a beautifully ornate hall located on the outside of the Vienna Ring, not far from the Operstaadt. The inside of the place is exuberantly decorative Vienna Art Nouveau. The balcony that follows the perimeter of the building is held up by thirty-two columns carved into gilded semi-nude female figures. What’s not to like? … The program is a Mozart’s Greatest Hits sort of thing, with arias from Don Giovanni and The Magic Flute. They perform an entire horn concerto. The French horn in an instrument that tends to accumulate spit. We’ve all seen players clean their pipes in the course of a concert, but a horn concerto summons up a prodigious amount of saliva. At nearly every opportunity, the poor man amputates some section of his horn and spends the time until his next note running hankies through it. When the piece is finally over, we erupt into applause as much for his heroic defense of spitlessness as for his musicality.” This excerpt is taken from the book: AWAY FROM MY DESK, by Rif K. Haffar. It is a must-read for anyone interested in world travel, motorcycle riding, keen observation and humorous wit. You can get it from Amazon books or by contacting Rif at: Ameera Publishing, P.O.Box 30161, Seattle, Wa 98103-0161. info@ameerapublishing.com
I enjoyed being in Vienna even if it has softened the hard-boiled shell I so desperately need to function in Beirut. The friendly nature of the Viennese has left an indelible mark. Austrian Airlines is dubbed The Most Friendly Airline, and rightly so; even my electric guitar felt right at home. At San Francisco airport, my guitar was turned away at the check-in counter because its plastic case was deemed too big, even though it has been on so many airplanes it has accumulated enough flyer miles to take a trip all by itself. But United (against common sense) Airlines has no policy regarding fragile musical instruments: the check-in lady looked at the guitar case and said, “Oh my God! I can’t let you take that THING on board”, whereas the Austrian Airlines girl didn’t even flinch. After I waved it in front of her face she said, “Would that it were a cello”.
June 2003
CAUTION: THIS ARTICLE TURNED OUT A BIT ON THE LONG SIDE. YOU MIGHT WANT TO READ IT IN TWO OR THREE INSTALLMENTS.
“The customer is always wrong”. The old maxim reversed seems to describe the modern Lebanese music scene best. The general public has absolutely no qualms with the musical offerings of the day – not surprising, given the poor background of musical knowledge and extinction of refined taste that distinguish the majority of Lebanese listeners from their Arab counterparts. Welcome to “Horror on the Airwaves” part two.
It saddens me to report that the Lebanese like their music cheap, fast and devoid of class. A quick comparison with neighboring countries shows the disparity in a glaring light. Syrian performers adhere to the traditions of song passed on to them by their predecessors. Sabah Fakhri still sings the “Qudoud” as they were meant to be sung, and Mohammed Khayri before him presented the art in its true form to generations of listeners. Iraqi artists have always been known to preserve the values of their inherited music. Even after achieving stardom, Kazem el Saher refrains from tainting his songs with the electronic sounds and foreign rhythms which are perceived as a must in order to guarantee success. Tunis produces nothing but fine music; Libyan music is also true to form and Moroccan output doesn’t stray far from the roots. With the exception of Rai, Algerian music also retains its own qualities. Palestinian artists produce protest songs in good style. Performers in certain nations of the Arabian Gulf see no shame in the use of electronic sounds in place of real instruments but have not yet substituted Western rhythms and beats for traditional ones. Egypt, which can lay the claim to having produced the greatest singer of all-time, Um Kulthoum, and the uncontested innovator of Arabian music, Mohammed Abdel Wahab, has lately been a prolific source of junk music and has set a bad example for the rest of the Arab world. But Egypt is a land of many millions and a relative few of these cock an ear in the direction of the radio when the hits are playing. The majority still feed on Um Kulthoum’s and Abdel Halim’s songs, broadcast daily, year after year. In fact, Lebanon’s reputation as a curator of bad taste serves as a magnet, drawing singers from the Arab world who desire to make a name with cheap novelty songs. We have dozens of such singers here enjoying the limelight when they would only be spat upon in their homelands. Lebanon’s “laissez faire” economic system encourages the making of profit by any means necessary. It is a quagmire from which there is no escape. But the consumers are happy.
And now for some history. In the early 1990s, Egyptian singer Warda (whom some hailed as a successor of Um Kulthoum but neither she nor anyone else has the voice to warrant such status) had a hit with a song called “Bitwennis Beek”. It was in medium tempo and was built around a rhythm native to Egypt and heretofore not used in commercial songs, the “Sa’idy”. That song spawned thousands of offspring as copycats got to work, creating replica after replica for the hungry masses - the deaths of Um Kulthoum and Abdel Halim Hafez had left a gaping void. Since then the trend has been to watch out for any new direction in musical arrangement and cloning it without delay (The “Flamingo Revolution” occurred after Amro Diab, the Egyptian wonder boy, had a hit song incorporating flamenco guitars. Millions of songs came out with “Flamingo” guitars, and I myself got a decent amount of work strumming my Spanish guitar in recording studios for a good two years or so). After milking the market dry with medium tempo songs using the Sa’idy beat, songwriters turned to faster tempos, and we saw the introduction of the electronic drum-set to augment the traditional percussion instruments. The kick drum, snare drum and high hat were programmed to play the same beat as the tabla, katem and riq. No song was complete without this new innovation. Next came the ready-to-use sampled Arabian percussion ensembles, again originating in Egypt. This meant that human percussionists were no longer needed for recordings as the new sounds were hip and market-proven. And most recently, commercial songs have turned to Western Funk and Hip Hop rhythms and beats, dropping the traditional Arabian structures altogether, leaving belly dancers with no material to which to shake their hips and ample bosoms. (I limit my analysis of the musical transformation to rhythm and tempo, although I could go on forever describing the drastic flaws in the use of brass and guitars. And in the case of the bass guitar no less than a comedy was unfolding. A hit song would be constructed using the preset percussion beat in a synthesizer, along with the automated bass function wherein a bass sound would play the root of the chord, shifting with any chord changes, if any. The bass function was included in synthesizers to aid the novice pianist or provide accompaniment for the lone performer, but certainly not to be enjoyed as part of the musical arrangement of a song playing on the radio, for God’s sake). Thus, in the span of a mere twelve years, commercial Arabic music has done away with its roots and molded into an indistinguishable hodgepodge of sound, concocted by amateurs who combine ingredients with no relation to one another, in ridiculous cacophony. It is neither Arabic music nor Rap, or Hip Hop, or Soul, or Funk, or Rhythm and Blues, or Rock, or Pop. It is a mindless free-for-all and a blot on the history of an otherwise respectable legacy. And it is all happening here, in Lebanon, the world’s capital of overnight stardom and hub of the dismantling of musical heritage.
To complete the picture, it is necessary to look at the lyrics used for popular songs. In the golden days of songwriting, Ahmad Rami would labor for a year or more to create a poem for Um Kulthoum to sing; the diva would study and edit it for another two years before singing it. Although I have always criticized the poems for dealing exclusively with the subject of love, I have to admit that they were very well written and done with class. Um Kulthoum was so protective over her songs that she was wary of the modern musical arrangements suggested by Abdel Wahab – but we all know how those turned out. Nowadays, so-called poets write their texts while they’re driving their car; while they’re watching television; while they’re doing their laundry; while preparing their dinner; while disposing of the previous day’s dinner. They write ten songs a day and sell them to anyone waving cash, for about $2000 to $3000. But don’t be fooled by the price tag: the words are wobbly; the imagery mundane; the similes silly and the concept stupid. Nothing to write home about. And as testament to the harlot mentality of the Lebanese, consider that up until very recently Lebanese vocalists sang in an Egyptian or Arabian Gulf accent because these were more popular than the Lebanese accent. No wonder we’re still labeled as third world (In reality we’re more like seventeenth, but don’t tell anybody).
Here are some details of the inner workings of the music scene in Lebanon today. Extreme jealousy exists between the established singers, and they continually watch each other’s interviews, scrutinizing every word. Aping is rampant, and not just in songwriting: when one famous singer got his hair cut in a new style a few years ago (in imitation of Inglesias junior) hairdressers were deluged with requests of the same cut by hundreds of popular vocalists. Clothing apparel is closely copied as well. Female pop singers keep thrashing one another, and each has a fixation on a British or American diva and tries (in vain, and with very humorous results) to mimic the dance steps and choreography she sees on her television screen. Our female stars have the butts, busts and hair, but none of the moves, charisma or charm. Only one or two can be said to own a good voice; most are endowed with voices so nasal and shrill they fend away mosquitoes (these girls make good neighbors). Rumors abound regarding their extra-curricular entertaining behind the curtains of ultra-rich sheiks, where in one night they rake in ten-fold what they hope to make from a hit song. And the audience keeps tuning in. Young girls grow up in the hope of becoming the next vocal stars, and young boys idolize their pop heroes and take along boom boxes to play the same CDs over and over, everywhere they go.
More facts: a budding youth with talent (or looks, or better yet, an uncle in the government) will need to make the rounds of some producers’ bedrooms before hitting it big time. And to get a new song played on the radio eight times a day will cost $2500 to $3000 per month. Some individuals are paid two hundred dollars a month just to sit around and dial the radio stations’ numbers and request certain songs. And the folks at home swallow it all, hook, line and sinker.
I could go on but won’t. You can’t read anymore, can you? Little good will my ranting do. Writing an essay such as this will change no minds and doesn’t quite make me feel any better. I guess someone has to point out these abnormalities and I have put in my two cents worth. (Maybe I should have saved it for my piggy bank, huh?)
May 2003
I have received numerous requests to comment on the current Lebanese music scene, and up to this point I have refrained from doing so because the undertaking is akin to scavenging in piles of garbage to describe what refuse might be unearthed. I had touched upon the subject briefly in my biography and hoped that it might suffice. But now, due to popular demand, I tackle this disturbing topic head-on, winner-take-all.
Contrary to my usual style, I shall begin by showcasing good music to come out of this nation - this shouldn’t take too long. The history of recorded music in Lebanon harks back to the early stages of the last century, shortly before the country gained its independence - independence in name only, you understand. More than sixty years have since elapsed and I’d be hard-pressed to name two dozen artists who have produced anything of lasting value. To be fair, in a country of three-and-a-half million folks (according to the latest statistics which were taken shortly following independence, in the last century), the ratio of one genuine artist surfacing every three or four years isn’t so bad. But the million-plus singers who have sprung up in the last ten years have done more than throw that ratio out the window. They have obliterated the roots of Lebanese music and cast a dark pall on the achievements of their predecessors. But more on them later, provided the Primperan kicks in and my stomach holds still.
Omar Z’inni was the first songwriter whose work carried real impact. He made fun of fake politicians, stifling bureaucracy and rich people, and was a proponent of equality between women and men. A poem directed at the President earned him a trip to jail (without passing GO or collecting $200) for a month and a half in 1949. The melodies and arrangements of his songs were simple, at times even childish, but his lyrics were extremely witty and potent. A prolific writer, Z'inni's songs covered every topic imaginable but, sadly, copies of his recordings are not sold in music stores and are very difficult to obtain - the standard reward for writing about real people and true situations. His work remains without parallel and it is highly unlikely that we will ever see anyone of similar caliber.
As can be expected in any country in the world, there were beautiful voices that graced the airwaves. Fairuz, Sabah, and Wadih El Safi are names that immediately spring to mind. Fairuz had the voice of a nightingale and the combined talents of the Rahbani brothers composing songs for her. The music made by this trio came to define Lebanon and extended its reach to unify Arabs the world over. Sabah had more of a popular appeal and a huskier voice than her peer. Wadih El Safi had a voice that could shake mountains and still does. His songs described Lebanese village life and endeared him to the masses. This just about concludes the overview of Lebanese music of yesteryear and brings us to the present.
The Omar Z’inni tradition of writing witty songs about relevant social issues has been carried on the shoulders of one man: Ziad Rahbani. Ziad inherited his family’s musical inclination and used it to give voice to his unusually acute opinion regarding matters of social and political life. His album "Ana Mish Kafer" (I Am Not a Sinner) epitomized the use of wit, sarcasm and strong musical sense to expose social injustice. His solid background in various styles of international music enabled him to custom design each song to best promote its message, something which had been lacking in the work of Omar Z’inni.
Another important figure in the field of sociopolitical songwriting is Marcel Khalife. Marcel enjoys a huge following among Arabs all over the world. His lyrics differ from Ziad Rahbani’s in that he substitutes emotion for the latter’s wit; musically, Marcel’s compositions evolve from traditional Arabian melodies and arrangements built around the "Oud", the instrument over which he has total mastery. Another songwriter worthy of the name is Issam Hajj Ali. He weaves beautiful arrangements around haunting melodies and sings with a voice laden with emotion. His 1983 album, "Ta’ammulat el Kouz Fi Tammouz" (The Meditations of the Pinecone in July), is a must in every music library. And of late, Sami Hawwat has been making a mark on the local front with his witty lyrics commenting on social themes that concern the common man and his daily strife. Sami's latest offering ,"Rahhala" (Nomads), was recorded live in an ancient convent and represents a daring approach to production in these days of artificially put-together musical releases. Though less known than my brethren, I fall squarely in this category of social commentary. I use a healthy dose of wit and sarcasm to push the subject matter across, and I borrow from any form of music that best serves the lyrical content of a song - provided that I am quite familiar with that form of music and thus qualified to use it. On my first three albums I performed all the instruments myself, thus insuring that all the parts were faithful to the original source. I continue to produce my trademark songs to this day, in humble service of the Lebanese public.
There have been some good instrumentalists who have made a name in Lebanon. My personal favorites include Abboud Abdel Al on violin; Matar Mohammed and Said Youssef (both Kurdish) on the "Bouzok" (cousin of the Greek bouzouki but with two double strings instead of four); Sitrak’s (Armenian) flair on the "Dirbakkeh" (tabla); Michel Baklouk’s (Palestinian) pyrotechnics on the "Riq" (cousin of the tambourine but with fewer and larger cymbals); Samir Siblini’s "Nay" (bamboo flute). There are some more good musicians of whom I am not aware, but even these gifted players have had to dilute their craft and record commercially-friendly pieces of music in order to survive in a country where musicians can expect no backing, funding, or encouragement from the government.
Today, songwriting has succumbed to the severe rules of market capitalism and no longer qualifies as art. Just as intellectuals advise the separation of church and state, there should be separation of art and trade. When music becomes a commodity it is produced to specifications that ensure its selling power rather than its artistic merit. The Lebanese market - small by any standards - has been almost completely overtaken by commercial recordings, leaving few avenues for genuine songwriters to vent their ideas. I am afraid that going into detail about commercial music is sure to tax my system beyond repair at this time. I shall have to explore the topic in some depth next month after undergoing a regimen of endurance exercises and a special dietary plan. Be sure to tune in next month for the exciting ending of "Horror on the Airwaves".
April 2003
This month I wish to express my opinion regarding salaries in the world of entertainment. If wages were fair and compatible throughout the industry my opinion would be uncalled-for. That being far from the truth I hereby state my case.
Kelsey Grammer - a mere actor in a comedy series - makes $1.6 million dollars per episode. Digest this for a moment. Each episode lasts no more than twenty-two minutes, during which time this actor has to utter a couple dozen punch lines (thought up by the show’s writers), twitch a few muscles in his face and walk no more than twenty or thirty steps on the set, and he earns the figure mentioned above (too depressing to type it out again). Why didn’t I land that job? Shoot, I could think up funnier lines with both of my hands tied behind my back. A more poignant question would be: What does good ol’ Kels do with all that money? He could end starvation in Africa with one trip to the bank. He could buy Africa - and a couple of smaller continents to boot. Of course, this is not an isolated example. Many actors command wages that boggle the mind. And television salaries pale in comparison with those paid to movie actors. Is there any logic on earth that can justify such voluminous rewards for such minimal effort? Top athletes make big bucks but they earn it with their own sweat. Their bodies are spent once their careers are over and most of their savings end up as doctors’ fees. But acting? That most frivolous of occupations? That least useful of the arts? I’m stumped.
Closer to home, I find that many musicians are grossly overpaid. Robbie Williams signed a deal with EMI worth $80 million dollars. Again, that’s not in Monopoly money; we’re talking real US greenbacks here. Now, I don’t know who this guy is. I am not in the habit of buying records made by people under thirty. It is a policy of mine to wait until an artist matures a bit before I part with my hard-earned money. But, while I am not familiar with the work of brother Rob, I do know a blind violinist whose performance on the instrument will elevate you to a higher plane of sensory perception. He lives in a run-down shack in the seedy part of town, has no access to hot water or a cooking stove, and will play his violin for a whole evening in return for $6 bucks and a home-cooked meal. How about it Rob? Need some classy background music for your next candle-lit dinner?
Now, I admit to not being big on research. All the examples I am citing come from two weeks worth of newspapers. Cher had a wig stolen and returned. The wig is valued at $8,000 to $10,000. Hmmm. No comment here. Well, maybe a small one in passing: I wouldn’t use that wig to wipe the dust off the violin case of my blind violinist friend.
Mariah Carey was recently dropped by her label. We all know that a flop by Mariah can still sell enough to finance a major war, but the label could still afford to let her go. The label executives will not settle for millions when they can reap billions - it begins to sound like small change to them. Mariah may feel slighted, her feelings may be hurt, a tear may even carve a path down her velvet face. We hope she saved enough for a box of Kleenex.
So, you tell me: Do any of the aforementioned deserve the money they’re making? Is Kelsey’s acting worth more than $50 dollars an hour? Robbie’s lyrics, Cher’s hair, Mariah’s voice? Their managers will insist that every penny earned by these entertainers is well deserved, but tell that to the little girl in Bangladesh, sold by her parents for less than $100 dollars, for lack of food on the table; tell that to the sweatshop worker slaving away for a dollar-a-day so that you may enjoy the feeling of cotton against your skin; tell that to the Ethiopian baby, dying shortly after birth, for lack of a glass of milk.
And Michael Jackson is $240 million dollars in debt. Will you pass that hat around?
March 2003
This is a relatively brief discourse on the way music is made. While it may not offer anything new to working musicians, it is intended to introduce the layperson to the changing methods of music-making - in particular the use of electronic music and its effects on employment and musical skills.
Musical instruments have been made since the beginning of time. The first of these were made using materials ranging from wood, bone, ivory, skins, pottery and twine, to bronze and precious stones. Prehistoric man used clappers, scrapers and rattles to ward off evil spirits, and as toys to keep children occupied, but also as rhythm-generating instruments to accompany dances. Flutes were part of daily life way back in the Paleolithic age. Musical instruments underwent constant development with each subsequent civilization and always mirrored a society’s sense of culture and standard of living. Up until the Renaissance musicians built their instruments themselves, but interest in collecting spawned manufacturing plants across Europe, and mass production became possible with the industrial revolution of the nineteenth century.
Which brings us to the twentieth century. An American engineer is credited with inventing the first instrument to generate sound electrically in 1906. It was called the Telharmonium and employed rotary generators and telephone receivers. It was too bulky and impractical to survive but it helped pave the way for the complex, computer-controlled synthesizers that rule music today. Another well-meaning invention that proved to be a precursor to disaster was the multi-track recording machine, developed in the 1940s. It made possible the recording of a piece of music in separate layers, one part at a time. These inventions were used wisely for a while and actually enriched the musical landscape without encroaching upon pure music and its practitioners. But that was then and this is now. Today, with the emphasis on huge sales and profit, technology conspires to destroy the roots of musicianship in more ways than one.
Synthesizers imitate the sounds of musical instruments, eliminating the need for the instruments themselves and for people to play them. This is not to say that any synthesizer created can fool the trained ear. Musicians can tell an electronically generated sound immediately. Whereas real instruments are made out of natural materials, synthesizers are made of plastic and produce sound that is utterly devoid of character and compassion, laden with unnatural sound waves and supersonic hum which nag at the brain, causing tangible headaches. Samplers were intended to override that deficiency by digitally copying an original sound and allowing it to be reproduced at the push of a button. The result can be heard on most commercial music on the radio: snippets of short guitar riffs, drum beats, horn stabs, or James Brown shouts, inserted at certain intervals as if they were musical expression or arrangements - a veritable farce. Modern recording takes place with computers. A singer need not repeat the chorus of a song four times - it is sung once then copied and pasted three more times. Stray notes by a weak vocalist are corrected by an Auto Tuning program. The consumer is fooled into enjoying the performance of a singer who can’t sing to save his/her life. Similarly, a group of musicians who haven’t the talent to play in synchronized fashion have the luxury of recording their individual parts separately, and repeating the process until they sound coherent as a unit. If they commit the mistake of performing live they make fools of themselves and give the business a bad name. Groups that use electronic music go on stage without a band, or with a bunch of actors who carry instruments and dance around with them while the CD is played by a DJ in the back room.
These deviant practices have many side effects. Fewer and fewer people study music seriously because there is no demand for their services. And there is little need for musicians to master their crafts as technology offers shortcuts and ready-to-use alternatives. Most studio operators I have seen can only play piano with their right hand - convenient because they can count money with the left. (By piano I mean the small, plastic, five octave keyboard. Real pianos have gone the way of the dinosaur). In broad terms, every time an electronic sound is used in a recording a musician is out of a job. Needless to say, producers are happy to save on expenses. Adding insult to injury, electronic sounds become the norm and normal sounds become outdated. Machine-generated drum sounds have all but replaced real drums in commercial recordings. Even worse is when musicians perform like machines because that is what the market dictates. Muzak and elevator music were born out of such irreverent unions. And due to the erosion of talent, the brief instrumental solo which served the dual purpose of highlighting a gifted performer and breaking the monotony of the vocals has been optioned out of commercial songs. In the interest of brevity I spare the reader further analysis concerning the limitations of digital recording technology in the area of replicating the full range of natural audio frequencies.
On the bright side, classical and jazz musicians and composers shun electronic instruments and never utilize them. They also have no use for multi-track recording and only perform live. Folk artists, blues singers and plain old rockers also insist on real sound and genuine performance. It is mainly commercial music that insults the senses to maximize profits. But radio stations devote more time and promotion to commercial music because it pays their bills. Can it get any worse? You bet it can.
I entertain no hope of changing the status quo with this humble essay. I know only too well that the general public couldn’t care less for the methods employed in music-making as long as the music remains readily available for immediate consumption with no strings attached. Most people pick up the can of corned beef off the supermarket shelf with no thought of how the cow came to be corned. Even when the gory details are on the evening news buying habits aren't altered. Movie-goers aren’t turned off by the fact that big battle scenes, action sequences, and aliens frolicking in outer space are all computer generated. That’s entertainment.
February 2003
This is a comment on bad pop songs. Now don’t get me wrong, there are many good pop songs. They’re abundant, plentiful and available at every turn of the dial. This essay concerns bad pop songs.
The first time I heard “Sex Sells” by Atomic Kitten I was pleasantly surprised when the singer got to the chorus which contains the words "manipulate" and "stipulate". I thought to myself: “Wow, two big words in a breezy pop song. It’s refreshing to hear lyrics that haven’t been used to death; anything but the same old cliches.” But then, as the song played along, the singer went on to repeat that one line with the two big words something like a-hundred-and-eighty-four times. I felt so betrayed. Couldn’t the genius who composed the song have spent a little more time to come up with a couple more good words? Or did the inspiration stop right there? Or was the payment only large enough to cover two big words per song? Or is this the limit of creativity we can expect from today’s songwriter? A first year student of English could have contributed a few more rhyming words to complete the message: evaluate, subjugate, titillate, scintillate, insinuate, captivate, capitulate, motivate, mutilate - any of these, and many more, could have enriched the content of the song and lent some credibility to the songwriter (The term "songwriter" is loosely applied here). These words can be found in low-priced dictionaries and thesauruses everywhere. Or am I, the consumer, so marginal in the eyes of music producers that I am expected to settle for and enjoy a half-baked song such as this? I find the idea unacceptable.
In another example of bad taste, take the guy who sings the song with the chorus “I can't stop thinking of you 'coz you’re the one I want tonight, you make me feel so right, just me and you.” Upon hearing this text a number of questions immediately present themselves: He wants this girl for tonight, but what about tomorrow night? Is he such a thorough worker that she can expect to be all used up by tomorrow night? Any guarantee that she wants him too? Is she supposed to be thrilled to be his choice for tonight so that all he has to do is single her out as his chosen mate for the evening? Does the idea that she makes him feel so right coincide with the fact that his head is screwed on wrong? Who the fuck is this guy anyway? At best, he is another nobody who has been made into a star by aggressive marketing. He’s no worse than the youngster who whines “Cry Me a River.” I mention this song because it borrows its title from an old classic that was made immortal by no less than Julie London, and now made mortal again by some kid who in two years time will be forgotten forever. Other examples of bad songwriting such as “When the Sun Goes Down” and “Hey Sexy Lady” escape criticism because megabytes are too valuable to waste on them - storage space costs money.
I’ve been writing songs since puberty - I have succeeded at nothing else. I write in English and Arabic, and have written a song in Spanish (I’m currently brushing up on my Chinese). Writing good lyrics is a methodical, deliberate, didactic process where each word has to be carefully handpicked according to the number of syllables, ease of pronunciation and particular meaning. Words have to fit comfortably within a line that will, in turn, have to be balanced with other lines in terms of length, meter and fluidity while maintaining a steady development of the unfolding narrative. Rap and Hip Hop exemplify the process of shaping and twisting words to form smooth, coherent lines that flow effortlessly. That is due in part to the fact that the spoken word lends itself to manipulation more readily than singing does, but only in part. Lyric composition in Hip Hop stresses originality; Pop still believes in cliches. And what Hip Hop lacks in depth or relevance, Folk writing makes up for with its emphasis on introspective soul-bearing. Wry wit is an essential ingredient in Blues. Rock remains juvenile and Techno doesn’t even count.
The use of cliches is the Achilles' heel of the songwriter. Songwriting is poetry - bad poetry becomes Hallmark greeting cards. You want good lyrics? Listen to Gil Scott-Heron or Oscar Brown Jr.; Tom Waits; Joan Armatrading. Of course, Bob Dylan wrote that book forty years ago. Joni Mitchell; Nick Drake; Annette Peacock (has anyone heard of her?). The late, great Frank Zappa. Johnny Guitar Watson and most bluesmen and women. Come to think of it, there is no shortage of good songwriters. It is just a reality of economics that stupid songs are pushed to the front of the bins and the top of the charts, and the consumer is burdened with the task of having to wade through the junk before getting to the cream at the bottom.
January 2003
World music sucks. Nothing personal, but this particular form of commerce has crossed the boundaries of good taste. It takes little physical effort and no brain power whatsoever to put together a World music hit. Here's how it works: the alleged artist (always male) walks into his neighborhood music store and heads to the international section. He eenie-meenie-miney-moes a couple of CDs from whichever part of the world is currently up for grabs (this year: India). Back at the studio (a small room with a computer) he plays the CDs and expertly chooses a single line or phrase which he then copies onto his computer. He pushes a button or two to generate some canned rythm (electronic drums), inserts his carefully chosen Indian phrase at regular intervals, adds some English lyrics and lots of electronic noise, et voila! A World music hit. That's all there is to it. Try it today.
When Carlos fused rock music with his Latin roots he was combining two worlds which he lived and loved, and he ended up benefitting both. His sound has lasted five decades. I myself first married Rock music with Arabic influences in 1985 and called it a marriage of convenience because both elements were needed to voice my opinions. Today's World music artists are traders who have no thoughts of any consequence beyond making an easy buck. I used to like sifting through the international music sections to find interesting new music to enjoy and learn from. When I first discovered the voice of Lata Mangeshkar and the arrangements of Laxmikant Pyarelel I was in heaven. Now I've developed an allergy to those sounds, soured by the haphazard collage that is circulating as World music.
This is not to discredit the efforts of a few conscientious artists whose work introduces the public to folkloric music otherwise unavailable to them. Ry Cooder's production of the Buena Vista Social Club is a case in point, as has been the work of Grateful Dead drummer, Mickey Hart, and whoever brought us the magic of Bulgarian voices. But, as ever, the honesty of the few holds a faint candle to the gluttony of the majority.
The original motives behind World music weren't all that noble to begin with. Much as colonial powers of the nineteenth century dug up valuable material out of African land and transported it to the West, World music is a one-way transaction and fits snugly under the label of globalization rather than qualifying as cultural exchange. You don't find an Australian aborigine sampling an electric guitar to go with his didgeridoo, do you? World music recordings aren't even available for him to buy. Should we wish to delve deeper into the subject there is a derogatory element that enters the picture. Westerners bored with their language are amused to hear a voice chanting in a tongue they don't understand. It is a typical infantile reaction to find a foreign language funny-sounding (English must sound just as funny to non-speakers). But at the heart of it, the proliferation of songs featuring people singing in Indian and Pakistani this year stems from the need of English-speaking producers to present something different, having used up all possible combinations of expression allowed within the simple format of commercial songwriting. Consumers gobble it up as it caters to their fascination with the exotic, just as their ancestors stood with mouths agape at the sight of a black tribesman on display, early in the last century. Never mind that nobody understands what the singer is saying, somebody is turning a profit from it.
Well, what can you do? It's always going to be money over matter in this world.
