Wing Flapping

My new job gave me my own office with my own door that I can close on my own. I have a view out my window. I have a phone I can turn off. I have one of those pencil-thin flat screen monitors. I have two desks and a couch. I have my own coffee maker in my office. Aside from when I meet certain people, I can wear jeans and t-shirts to work.

I’m taking over a project mid-stream from someone who had to leave unexpectedly. This person, according to everyone I’ve talked to, was perfection herself, an individual of perfect, detailed-oriented, angelic beauty. Those are some pretty tough wings to fill. Luckily, I am Superman.

My training involved reading a stack of files as tall as I am (over two metres tall), and coming up with a work plan by the end of the day. Since when I walked into the office with the sketchiest idea of what the project is and left with a very set idea of what I would do – with new boss’ approval, I’d say I did it right. This is not bad for someone who has spent the past two years scraping together a very modest existence with freelance contracts out of his living room.

I have to give frequent presentations and speeches. Luckily I’m rock star manqué and I love the attention. I can do them in jeans and t-shirts.

I am most definitely in a cultural minority in this office. At lunchtime, a new colleague practically demanded a logic explanation for the Pesakh (Passover) dietary laws, which are in effect until the weekend for me. Assuming that one can ever find an explanation for anything in religion that doesn’t defy logic, I couldn’t come up with anything as I watched enviously while he munched on delicious fefalel, crunchy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, and hearty qebbe. I nibbled glumly on my rabbit food spread on on crumbly, constipation-causing baked air and couldn’t wait for real food again.

I can arrive when I want, leave when I want, set up meetings with people outside the office as much as I want, and I have a budget for meetings I set up in the office.

My new job gave me my own office with my own door that I can close on my own.

Love is Like a Bottle of Gin

It makes you blind, it does you in
It makes you think you're pretty tough
It makes you prone to crime and sin
It makes you say thing off the cuff
It's very small and made of glass
and grossly over-advertised
It turns a genius into an ass
and makes a fool think he is wise
It could make you regret your birth
or turn cartwheels in your best suit
It costs a lot more than it's worth
and yet there is no substitute
They keep it on a higher shelf
the older and more pure it grows
It has no color in itself
but it can make you see rainbows
You can find it at the Bowery
or you can find it at Elaine's
It makes your words more flowery
It makes the sun shine, makes it rain
You just get what they put in
and they never put in enough
Love is like a bottle of gin
but a bottle of gin is not like love

"Love is Like a Bottle of Gin" by the Magnetic Fields

Fairy Godperson

Suddenly I have a new job and an accompanying higher wage. This morning I had my old job. Poof! Now I have a new job without even applying or interviewing or, for that matter, any knowledge of an opening previous to this morning. I’m just that good at what I do, whatever that is.

I wish I could say the same about things like noses or furniture. This morning I had my old nose but poof! now I have a new, elegant and sexy shnoz. Or this morning I woke up on my old lumpy mattress but poof! now I have a comfy king-size bed with tiny heated or cooled contouring air pockets, depending on the season.

Or even, this morning I woke up with the old world full of hatred, violence, and cruelty but poof! now everyone sings "Kumbaya" and "If I Had a Hammer" for a living (although that would get a little grating after about fifteen minutes, but it's still better than reality).

But getting back the important me-centred universe, I wish I could say that this morning I had my old bank account but poof! now I have a new bank account with no service fees, a super-high interest rate, and an automatically self-replenishing balance so I won’t have to beg my parents to lend me money for May rent. That’s what I really wish right now. I suppose the new job will give me a hand with that for June. And maybe with the shnoz, even.

Update: I cut a big gash across my face while shaving, my knck-em-dead-on-the-first-day-of-new-job Versace tie needs ironing but my iron's broken, I can't find my take-away coffee mug, and there's a solid layer of cat fur sediment on every stitch of good clothing I own. It's a typical first morning of a new job.

The Colours of Bahrain

Chan’ad Bahraini prepares for Mawlid al-Rasool.

Sometimes I Miss TV

Matt Groening explains how and why, after sixteen years, The Simpsons are only halfway through their run. Sometimes I wish I had my TV set back.

Mile-High Size Queen

Ever since I was a boy, I’ve been fascinated by passenger jets (spare me the jokes about loving long, tapered, cylinders – it’s already boring). My parents and I lived under an airport route and I used to run to the window to see what kind of plane was screaming over our house. Since at that time I lived in a medium sized city, it was usually only a boring DC-9 or 727. Sometimes it would be an enormous L-1011 or a 747 and I would jump up and down and be all happy in a way only children seem to get excited.

There’s a new crop now, and although they all look basically the same to me, I like to newest ones. There’s the double-decker Airbus A380 due out next year that claims to be big enough for cocktail lounges and gyms.



The Boeing 777 (already out) and 787 (out in a couple of years) look very graceful. I wish I had enough money to travel.

Very Pretty

Swedish footballer, Olof Mellberg.

I Dance Like a Putz

I took this racism test and was told that, although – or maybe because – I am white, I am nevertheless slightly prejudiced against white folk. I knew it!

G-d Smites Angel of Death

(Disclaimer: You gotta be Jewish to get most of this)

In an act that stunned Satan worshippers everywhere, The Almighty axed the Angel of Death by freezing over Gehinom, causing an unusually cold winter for everyone on Earth, or at least everyone in the New York Metropolitan area.

Smoke in My Eyes

Alert: World apprently watches chimney with baited breath for white smoke while millions die of AIDS in Africa because the condom is a sin and gays and lesbians continue to be branded "dirty" and "evil" for no reason other than that we're slightly different.

As the white smoke billows from the Sistine Chapel and the bells peal from St. Peter's Basilica, will the Church move into the new world or continue to try to keep all of us, Catholic or not, in the old one? Congrats on your new perfect dude, Church. Please come join is us in the 3rd Millennium.

Update: Sadly, instead of joining us in the 3rd Millenium, the new Pope has a reputation for wanting to drag us all back to the last time there was a German Pope before this one, the 11th Century. I guess I'll go and make myself gayer.

Swollen Drama

The thing that was supposed to be a big thing turned out to be nothing at all. Well, it was something, but it was the less serious, more embarrassing thing and not the more serious, potentially life-threatening (and hair-threatening!) thing. All that worry, a couple of days of starvation, the consumption of a vile concoction, mortification, fingers prodding at parts of me I didn’t know I had – all to find out I have a thing I’ve been taught to be embarrassed about rather than a thing I should be scared of. Yes, you are most welcome for all the information.

I know I should be relieved that I have to live with embarrassment for a short time rather than with the fear of death, but I’d built up all this proactive drama within myself for that day I’d be swooning feebly on my divan while rival lovers dueled operatically for my attention. Now I don’t know what to do with all this swollen drama. I suppose I’ll have to find some lucky cute guy with whom to release it.

Court to Consider Church's Use of Hallucinogenic Tea

The Supreme Court agreed Monday to consider whether a church in New Mexico can continue using hallucinogenic tea in its religious services ... The church, which has about 140 members in the United States and 8,000 worldwide, says the herbal brew is a central sacrament in its religious practice, which is a blend of Christian beliefs and traditions rooted in the Amazon basin ... In its Supreme Court appeal of that order, the Bush administration argued it has a “compelling interest” to prevent an illegal market for the drug.

I wonder how much of a market a church of 140 members really constitutes, especially with the Food and Drug Administration regulating down their necks.

I think I’d like to see the Bush administration loosen up and take some hallucinogens. Then again, considering some of the decision they’ve been making, perhaps they already are.

Watch Out, Naked Chef!

Although my latest batch of beef salami wasn’t exactly a great success – it tastes like elongated burger patties in cow intestines (sounds delectable, no?) – my previous batch of salami was actual salami (if you ignore visual aesthetics) and the clock is ticticking down the days until my delicious corned beef with a legume glaze is finished corning and leguming. Despite my recent salami-related setback, I am confident that I will soon be in direct competition with Jamie Oliver’s unfairly misleadingly titled show, “The Naked Chef”. Either that, or he and I will soon be engaged in mutual recreational fraternisation. Either way is fine with me (I think I prefer option #2, actually).

Bye-Bye Britney

"The news that Britney Spears is pregnant is sure to provoke wistful appreciations of her early career as well as speculation about her future."

Yes, I am very wistful. I am wistful to read an article describing how, at a Britney concert, Björk, MIA, PJ Harvey, and Joni Mitchell jump onstage, chase that common-as-mud strumpet off, and show the crowd of teenage girls and gay men (I thought we were supposed to have taste!) what a real entertainer can do. Dare to dream ...

Very Pretty

Indian model, Zulfi Syed.

Weebles Wobble but They Don't Fall Down

A couple of days ago I alluded subtly to the fact that my body was going berserk. To that, I add that my body wants me never to be able to show my face in public again. It has decided that the part of it that is to go wrong is the part that no one ever talks about, at least not in polite company.

It couldn’t be something wonderful and interesting so that when I go to describe my supposed to condition to people, they exclaim, “Upon my word! Why, that’s simply the most whimsical health condition I have ever heard of!” Instead, they try desperately to pretend that the grimace that trampled across their faces was, in fact, due to something extremely repulsive going on behind my back and not due to what I had just told them. And then they change the subject.

There is a procedure I must undergo that I hope they put me sleep for. There is a vile potion I must take in preparation for this procedure that travels all through my body, especially to that unmentionable place, and … well, cleans it all up nice and spic’n’span. My doctor described exactly what the brew would do and what the ghoulish torture the procedure would visit upon me while she scribbled nonchalantly on her little prescription pad of doom. She didn’t seem to notice that I was blushing.

But then she wouldn’t, would she, considering what she herself had just done to me. Let us simply say that, since I am a gay man, she went where no woman had previously gone. And that’s probably enough of that.

I clasped the little white note in my hands as I trudged down the busy downtown street, head low. I felt as if I had been bad and teacher was sending me to the principal with a note cataloguing all my various atrocities. Beside me walked my friend AlefAlef, whom I’d brought along under the impression that he would provide me moral support. We entered the pharmacy, I plodded up to the counter, plunked down the prescription, and looked up into the most dazzling pair of soulful brown eyes I had ever seen.

Of course one of those gorgeous men I had seen around and admired, waiting for the right moment to approach was a pharmacist. Without a doubt he was a pharmacist at the very pharmacy I happened to go to that time. And because that is the way life is, he smiled at me with recognition as I handed over my mortifying slip of paper while. This was definitely not that right moment I had been awaiting.

Wordlessly he poured goo into a bottle and gave it to me. He then launched into a very long speech on effects, side effects, and contraindications. As I stood there, half listening to the beautiful pharmacist, the counter began to rise up higher and higher until I was face-to-face with the decongestants. Luckily, AlefAlef scooped me up, because I was by that point, the size of a weeble, put me in his jacket pocket and paid for the glop himself, saving me that final humiliation. I knew I’d brought him for a reason.

Very Pretty

Israeli Druze actor, Yousef Sweid ( יוסף סוויד )

Very Pretty

Israeli actor, Lior Ashkenazi ( ליאור אשכנזי )

Body Gone Berserk

My body is out to get me. At least that’s what my doctor told me today. She turned to me and said that this strange little thing that’s been happening to my body, if it’s what she thinks it is, is happening because part of my body has gone berserk and is trying to knock me off, a little like a mini mafia on the cellular level.



I spent most of the winter recovering from one Thing, and they tell me it’ll never really go away completely. So I don’t have time for a New Thing. I have time for looking for work to support myself now that I can work again. I have time to hang out with the friends who stuck around when, over the winter, I had to rest after walking from the TV-watching post to get a glass of water and back to the TV-watching post. I have time to reconnect with the ones who were less present because they didn’t know or because they felt uncomfortable.

I do not have time for a spoilt brat of a body throwing a hissy fit like a teenager rather than the 34-year-old that it is. And a mighty young looking 34-year-old at that, he added modestly.

Or it could be nothing. But thanks to my doctor, I’m already convinced it’s something. But, like my grandmother Miriam liked to say over and over, if you prepare for the worst, what actually happens won’t seem so bad. And she died of lung cancer, so she knew a thing or two about preparing for the worst.

When I was a kid, the only lumps I was worried about were lumps in my mashed potatoes. But all lumps are conquerable. It’s a good thing I already shave my head.


I’ll look exactly like this guy!

Teardrop on the Fire

Love, love is a verb
Love is a doing word
Feathers on my breath
Gentle impulsion
Shakes me makes me lighter
Feathers on my breath
Teardrop on the fire
Feathers on my breath

Water is my eye
Most faithful mirror
Feathers on my breath
Teardrop on the fire of a confession
Feathers on my breath
Most faithful mirror
Feathers on my breath
Teardrop on the fire
Feathers on my breath

“Teardrop” by Massive Attack

Very Pretty

Maybe it’s the large, brown, eyes with the long, sensual lashes. Maybe it’s the intelligent, contemplative stare. Or the salt’n’pepper. Maybe it’s the full, Jean Harlow lips. Russian multi-billionaire, big business tycoon and accused fraudster and tax evader – although many say he’s actually a political prisoner – doesn’t fit into any of my usual types. But who am I to argue with irrational pleasure? I imagine eccentric yet elegant dates like the ones Baryshnikov took Carrie on in “Sex and the City”. But until then, there’s always a prison fantasy or two to indulge ...

Very Pretty

UAE model, Murtaza Moulvi.

The Media Are Not My Friends

Gnarlie Charlie and Horseface Finally Wed: SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!

Newsflash! Pope Still Dead! Details As They Emerge!: Now some have already mentioned that I appear to have a wee anti-Church bias. I admit, although I point out that my bias is not at all against those truly believe. I have the utmost respect for all spirituality, in whatever form it takes. However, the very astute (and cute!) Rohin puts it best:

It’s a divisive issue. I agree. Divided between those who it impacts (consequently those who care) and those it doesn’t impact. I’m in that second category. If an icon close to my heart died, the world wouldn’t bat an eye. And in like, I can’t bat an eye for a man who never really touched my heart so much as made me shit-scared with his stance on gay rights and other political matters.

And when you consider that the Church, in all its wisdom, has seen fit to invite scandal-addled Cardinal Bernard Law to lead the Mass for Jean Paul II, basically telling the world that it thinks that it’s just great for priests to molest little boys, I’d say there’s a very large gap between the true believers and the Catholic Church.

Palestinian Teenagers Killed by IDF While Playing Soccer: Being a left-wing Jew is like having a juvenile delinquent as an older brother. You’re raised to love him because he’s your brother despite some of the appalling things he does. The rest of the world says to you, “How can you love such a monster?” and your family chides you for listening, and agreeing. But you point out to the rest of the world that nothing is black and white, and that there is a reason for everything, even though the reason is not always an excuse (sometimes it is), and that not everything about him is bad, and the world says that you are exactly the same as your older brother.

But on the other hand, Israel is not my older brother. It is a country of 6.5 million people of varying cultures, varying concerns, varying opinions, varying appraoches to life, and varying joys and fits of melancholy - just like anywhere else. The majority are appalled by the unending violence, the actions the army takes, the hypocrisy of the current administration, and the volatile actions of the extreme right wing who seem bent on prolonging the Intifada and the Occupation, if not annihilation, of the Territories – no matter what the media would have one think.

My condolences to the families of the three boys killed. I wish I could write words to bring them back.

Early Hominid Cared for Elderly: This is the kind of human interest story that doesn’t leave me feeling covered with a slimy coat of saccharine. If our earliest ancestors were capable of such tenderness and compassion, and we know that we’re capable of such tenderness and compassion, why are we constantly at violent odds with one another?

World Relieved Popuppupop not Damaged by Romantic Mortification

The world was relieved to hear that Popup Pupop, 34.5, still feels “pretty and witty and gay” despite a minor humiliation last evening when he was ignored by his latest romantic interest, the host of the small social event he was attending and with whom the interest had previously appeared mutual.

“I don’t get it!” exclaimed a visibly disappointed Mr Pupop. “It seemed clear that the interest was reciprocal and that was the reason he’d invited me – he’d never invited me anywhere before. And then when I got there he like totally pretended I was like dog doo on his shoe and so I was all ‘Whatever. See ya’.’”

Efforts on his behalf only seemed to compound the problem as Mr Pupop’s friend, Can’t Keep ‘Er Gob Shut, dragged him from person to person at the event, introducing him to strangers she deemed attractive and telling him to “laugh as if you’ve just heard something fantastically clever. It’ll make him jealous,” she advised, referring to event host, the scorning potential lover, Great Big Poopyhead.

Mr Pupop has been known to wonder when his life had turned into the cliché of an episode of “Will & Grace”.

Sympathy from close friends was muted. “Honey, why do you waste time with these airheads?” reportedly said bestest friend, AlefAlef, 33.5 and perpetually single so why should I take romantic advice from him, who is accustomed to seeing Mr Pupop’s romantic life construct and demolish itself on a weekly basis. “If you want a boyfriend, find someone more compatible, maybe someone less pretty.”

Although Mr Pupop is still undecided as to whether he indeed desires a lifelong romantic partner or whether he would prefer to flit about for as long as he still looks slightly younger than his actual age, he did articulate that despite the mortification, he does indeed feel “pretty and witty and gay.”

Reaction from world leaders to the news was one of relief.

“I was concerned he would be cranky and moody for the next couple of days,” said Canada’s Prime Minister Paul Martin. “But if he says he’s doing ok, then I think that’s great!”

“I recall that the last time this happened, he ate an entire box of Krispy Kreme glazed,” reminisced Prince Hans-Adam II of Liechtenstein, Europe’s only absolute monarchy. “Then of course he had an upset tummy, which in turn made him even more difficult to get along with than usual. I’m glad that doesn’t appear to be the case this time.”

America’s President Bush had no comment as he was too busy shredding the civil liberties of the American public to concern himself with the matter.

There was some speculation as to whether the “pretty and witty and gay” comment was merely a smokescreen to hide the usual disappointment at yet another romantic failure.

“Well, he is gay, at least,” added AlefAlef, not very helpfully.

Very Pretty

Israeli actor, Liron Levo ( לירון לבו ).

Very Pretty

American rapper and actor, Treach.

British PhD Candidate on Picnic with Sharon, Muslim Leaders

World leaders hailed it as a major breakthrough for world peace when Israel’s Ariel Sharon and Muslim leaders went on a picnic near the Israeli city of Tiberias, on the shores of the Sea of Galilee.

“I just kinda woke up this morning and got this idea,” explained a sunburnt Mr Sharon.

“Yeah! Ari like called me up out of the blue and my immediate thought was, ‘Uh oh! This can’t be good ... ’” chimed in Palestinian leader, Mahmoud Abbas, “But he was just like all ‘Hey! Let’s call up Moammar and the gang and go for a picnic!’ and I was like ‘Cool!’.”

Aside from small disagreements as to whose tabouleh was the best and who could grill the tastiest burger, the picnic was a success.

“I had no idea everyone was be so funny!” laughed Senegalese President Abdoulaye Wade. “I mean, Ari and [Syrian President] Bashar [el-Assad] got together and were like wandering around threatening to “occupy” people’s condiments until Abu Mazen [Mahmoud Abbas] threw the relish at them! Then we had like this total food fight! It was hilarious!”

“My favourite part!” exclaimed Yemen’s Ali Abdallah Saleh, “was when [Kuwait’s Sheikh] Jabir [al-Ahmad al-Jabir al-Sabah], [Iraq’s] Ghazi [Yawer], and [Iran’s Ayatollah] Ali [Khamenei] were like pretending to blow up each other’s tumblers of Kool Aid! It was like soooooooo funny!”

“Quite frankly, Ahmet and some of the other non-Arab Muslim leaders had discussed this and we were a little worried about, y’know, whether we’d be welcome n’stuff seeing as how we’re Muslims but not Arab and we’re definitely not Israeli,” said Albanian Prime Minister, Fatos Nano, referring to Turkey’s Ahmet Necdet Sezer and the leaders of Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, several other Central Asian leaders, as well as several sub-Saharan African leaders, “But like everyone was so sweet and so welcoming. Moammar just walked up and gave me a great big hug!”

Not only was it fun, but the picnic also proved to be very productive. The leaders all agreed with very little prompting that Israel would withdraw to the 1967 borders, that Jerusalem would be the capital of both Israel and Palestine, that Palestinian militants would immediately cease and desist all violent activity, that Syria would withdraw unequivocally from Lebanon, and that free and democratic elections would be called in every single country that had not already done so.

And who is responsible for this amazing turn of events? “A little lady I like to call Sue,” answered Egypt’s Muhammad Hosni Mubarak, referring to British PhD candidate Sue Blackwell.

Ms Blackwell spearheaded the movement to boycott all Israeli academics except those “ conscientious Israeli academics and intellectuals opposed to their state's colonial and racist policies” as well as a complete boycott of three of that country’s most influential universities.

“There I was, wondering if the world would ever hear my voice,” said a clearly overwrought Ms Blackwell, “When I thought to muyself, ‘You know what would really turn things around in the Middle East? The destruction of the careers of a few academics based on what I consider to be the acceptability or lack thereof of their political thought, whether or not their political thought has any bearing on their academic research. And look! That was simply all it took!”

Asked whether she considers it somewhat hypocritical to censure the careers of academics based on their apparent beliefs whereas she protested vigorously at her employer’s, the University of Birmingham, closing of all personal websites on their system, hers on the Academic boycott of Israel included, she protested that the U of B had an “absolute responsibility” to allow her to broadcast her views even though they were completely unrelated to her field of research, as she is a lecturer there as well as a PhD candidate, whereas her larger goal was for the greater good and thus the Orwellian measures she proposed were therefore justified.

Asked whether it wasn’t closer to the truth that she simply wanted someone to pay attention to her, she responded that she was already “quite well known in the field of Forensic Linguistics, thank you very much” and will be even more so once she finally “gets around to finishing her bloody thesis!”

Very pretty

Italian actor, Raoul Bova.

Giant, Floating Mr. Potatohead to be New Pope

The world was shocked when the conclave of cardinals announced today, after the world’s shortest interregnum, that a giant, floating Mr. Potatohead was to be the next Pope.

“Well that was unexpected!” exclaimed Irish singer/bombastic pedant Bono, still under the impression that anyone cares what he thinks.

“All those people who have convinced themselves that they’re absolutely devastated can rest easy now and go about their daily business,” a Vatican spokespriest told reporters. “There’s a new Pope in da house!”

“Well, all us cardinals acknowledge that the Church is a bit of an anachronism,” the unnamed spokespriest responded when questioned on the unprecedented nature of the next head of the Catholic Church, “and a toy from the 1950s seemed the perfect way to express our anachronistic nature. Besides, anachronisms can be fun and we are in bad need of a makeover!”

“Plus, the idea of a movable face was very appealing to Church leaders,” he continued. “I think a face that never stays the same, that can be modified for any occasion, fits in well with the basic hypocrisy that underlies much of the Church’s teachings as practiced today, such as teachings that tell us to “love thy neighbour”, yet promote intolerance and hatred of homosexuals, while at the same time “turning the other cheek” to shocking examples of the sexual abuse of young boys by priests.”

“Remember, this is a Church that teaches equality for all, as long as ‘all’ doesn’t include women, gays, or survivors of abuse by priests, or people who support women or gays or survivors of abuse by priests. But most religions do that, so it’s really OK in the end … no pun intended! Hahahahahaha!”

“Plus, The Potatoheads were totally everybody’s favourite characters in “Toy Story”, even though they were, like, Jewish and everything, probably. We didn’t like that astronaut character. We thought he was a homosexual trying to sodomise that nice, young cowboy.”

When asked if he thought Catholics would have problems adapting to a giant, plastic toy as their new Pope, he responded that “true believers never lose their spirituality no matter what the outside influences of the world. Just like Job.”