As I plop down onto my sofa to write this, I can't help but remember the first time I wrote an electronic journal. God it feels like aeons ago. I was probably about 9 or 10 years old, keyboard happy on my LC Macintosh. Now as I watch the blank screen of the computer patiently as it loads, I catch my reflection and ponder as to how much it has changed over these many years. Was I ever innocent?
Life - it's always been about getting ahead for me. On top. I think I inherited that, probably from my mother. And in so doing I developed a whore-dom for her approval. When she died, I prostituted every skill that I had to make sure the approval never died with her. I made sure everyone approved of me in one way or another. It sounds pretty screwed up, but the reality is it has helped me a lot. I worked my ass off, finished first in my graduating class both at school and university. Took diversifying my time to the extreme - writing, web design, saxophone, track and field training, charity, politics and eventually - law.
But I didn't stop there. Like her I've always been a social creature, and nobody approves of a know-it-all do-it-all geek who can't carry a witty conversation or enjoy cointreau. I used what looks I have and combined it with whatever affluence I had acquired and morphed it into charm. The subtle kind of course, the kind that takes equally charming and affluent people to truly understand (the rest are confused, baffled). Even in my criticism I make sure that it is tasteful, hyperbolically understated so as to deepen the injury intended.
I was always like this. I dont remember a time when I didnt craft every word that came out of my mouth, or didn't plan a couple of steps ahead, or obsess over social dynamics. Innocence and spontenaiety? In theory possible. But it's almost as if I can hear my Id, Superego, and Ego - every layer of my brain - talking at once, analysing every moment.
Now I'm 23. Now I'm running. Faster, faster. Not sure where, but in doing the above I have surpassed even my own expectations. Now there's little out there to challenge me to go further. "A god amongst flies" AD tells me, and I allow myself the thought out of egoism.
The world around me has changed since the age of 9. London is the perfect escape. Transience. Let me hear you say it, with a capital T, Transience. After hating growing up in a family where family members disappeared, and in a school where your friends often came from far away places only to return with a piece of your heart with them, no justice was quite so poetic as me moving to this wasteland of London. Here it is multiplied. No one same set of friends exists from weekend to weekend as the never ending flock of 747s swoops in and out of the city. You spend your day between 2 or 3 languages, 10 or 20 nationalities, people you will never see again and people you will bump into weeks later and never remember.
London is the perfect escape. Life in London is a surreal blur, not for the motion sick or the faint of heart. Thick skin and a thicker wallet is all you need. Opulence, the city thrives on it. Spend your weekends on a diet of vintage champagne and pure cut cocaine, spend your week closing the deals and billing the hours. In between you throw in the exhibitions, the pseudo-philanthropic events, the afternoon teas and the late night coupes. Leave the country once a month and pretend like you never want to go back. Its as if we all are afraid of having an hour to ourselves, lest we think inwards and not outwards; lest we realise the gaping abyss we are trying to fill with infinite ambition and indulgence. It's a cliche, but in a city of so many people the easiest thing for one to be is alone.
Was I ever innocent? The question, I guess, is what you would define as innocent. If you define innocence through actions, then that ship has sailed a long, long time ago. If its a state of mind or an tenacity to faith in the goodness around you, even when you live in a place like London, then maybe the curtain hasn't quite been called yet. One thing, however, is for sure. In constantly pushing and getting so far ahead I sometimes fear that I've lost a bit of who I used to be along the way.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
Poems on the Underground
Thursday, 5 February 2009
The Diary of Zarathustra's Groupie
"Der Mensch ist ein Seil, geknüpft zwischen Tier und Übermensch - ein Seil über einem Abgrunde."
I've been a Nietzsche groupie for a while, but as of late I've taken that laterally to being a fan of Zarathustra. Two reasons, first, ever since art class in 3rd grade at elementary school I've always looked up to Leo Da Vinci and Michelangelo for being versatile, accomplished people of virtually every craft and trade. Inventor, scientist, artist, carpenter, surgeon, you name it I'm fascinated with the Renaissance man, his fearless optimism and pursuit of knowledge and ability, the excitement of individualism and the self-actualisation that must surely result. I had no literary background to describe the Renaissance man in Ms Batty's 3rd grade arts and crafts class, let alone the Übermensch (over-man, beyond man, super-man) as envisioned in Also Sprach Zarathustra (Thus Spake Zarathustra), but I could sense the yearning for greatness that these men (and women) turned into something real.
The second reason is my new found interest in Zarathursianism (or Zoroastrianism, founded on the teachings of Zoroaster or Zarathustra), a religion that flourished in Persia among other places prior to the Islamic Empire. As children in the Middle East we were taught that the Muslims defeated the "fire worshippers" from what is now Iran as the empire spread from Spain to China. Fire worshippers. That sounded pretty stupid and a tad scary. But the Zoroastrians don't pray to fire, they ignite it to give them inspiration in connecting with God (Kabbalists still use candles, and churches are lined with them). The In fact, the principles of Zoroastrianism are pervasive throughout all three Abrahamic religions and of course pre-date them.
I suppose the irony is that, with me being so excited about religion, an often blasphemous and angry atheist like Nietzsche turns out to be one of my heroes. "When I come across a religious man, I feel the need to wash my hands" he says. And in many ways I couldn’t agree more. The Sufi order to which I hold most affinity is the Malamteya order - which rejects ostentatious displays of religion and goes to extremes in doing so.
But what's the relationship between his concept of the Übermensch and Zarathustra, the prophet? One of Nietzsche's attacks on religion is that it focuses too much on the benefits of the afterlife and religious folk as a result are willing to settle in this life for much less than what they would otherwise be willing to, and can, attain. This can be tied quite well to the Zarathustrian aversion to asceticism in all its forms. Unlike the Abrahamic traditions for which there exist an array of mystics who fast for months on end and walk around barefoot in concrete caves, Zarathustrians focus on the here and now and with insist on active engagement in good thoughts, good words, and good deeds. Monasticism is therefore practically taboo. Another interesting fact is that proselytizing, or 'converting people', is generally not practiced. Though this may be for historical reasons, its another de-emphasis that works towards the theo-phobic Übermensch.
What I'm trying to say is that it's often comforting too see that ancient ideology and relatively modern philosophy still in many cases converge. In many ways it actually feels like we're all saying the same thing over and over again, with different words and in different languages, and the lucky ones get a glimpse of this harmony now and again.
If you're still snoring its time to get up and hit facebook.
I've been a Nietzsche groupie for a while, but as of late I've taken that laterally to being a fan of Zarathustra. Two reasons, first, ever since art class in 3rd grade at elementary school I've always looked up to Leo Da Vinci and Michelangelo for being versatile, accomplished people of virtually every craft and trade. Inventor, scientist, artist, carpenter, surgeon, you name it I'm fascinated with the Renaissance man, his fearless optimism and pursuit of knowledge and ability, the excitement of individualism and the self-actualisation that must surely result. I had no literary background to describe the Renaissance man in Ms Batty's 3rd grade arts and crafts class, let alone the Übermensch (over-man, beyond man, super-man) as envisioned in Also Sprach Zarathustra (Thus Spake Zarathustra), but I could sense the yearning for greatness that these men (and women) turned into something real.
The second reason is my new found interest in Zarathursianism (or Zoroastrianism, founded on the teachings of Zoroaster or Zarathustra), a religion that flourished in Persia among other places prior to the Islamic Empire. As children in the Middle East we were taught that the Muslims defeated the "fire worshippers" from what is now Iran as the empire spread from Spain to China. Fire worshippers. That sounded pretty stupid and a tad scary. But the Zoroastrians don't pray to fire, they ignite it to give them inspiration in connecting with God (Kabbalists still use candles, and churches are lined with them). The In fact, the principles of Zoroastrianism are pervasive throughout all three Abrahamic religions and of course pre-date them.
I suppose the irony is that, with me being so excited about religion, an often blasphemous and angry atheist like Nietzsche turns out to be one of my heroes. "When I come across a religious man, I feel the need to wash my hands" he says. And in many ways I couldn’t agree more. The Sufi order to which I hold most affinity is the Malamteya order - which rejects ostentatious displays of religion and goes to extremes in doing so.
But what's the relationship between his concept of the Übermensch and Zarathustra, the prophet? One of Nietzsche's attacks on religion is that it focuses too much on the benefits of the afterlife and religious folk as a result are willing to settle in this life for much less than what they would otherwise be willing to, and can, attain. This can be tied quite well to the Zarathustrian aversion to asceticism in all its forms. Unlike the Abrahamic traditions for which there exist an array of mystics who fast for months on end and walk around barefoot in concrete caves, Zarathustrians focus on the here and now and with insist on active engagement in good thoughts, good words, and good deeds. Monasticism is therefore practically taboo. Another interesting fact is that proselytizing, or 'converting people', is generally not practiced. Though this may be for historical reasons, its another de-emphasis that works towards the theo-phobic Übermensch.
What I'm trying to say is that it's often comforting too see that ancient ideology and relatively modern philosophy still in many cases converge. In many ways it actually feels like we're all saying the same thing over and over again, with different words and in different languages, and the lucky ones get a glimpse of this harmony now and again.
If you're still snoring its time to get up and hit facebook.
Sunday, 1 February 2009
Politics of Sex
Etiquette is something we learn as very young and ungrateful children. Where to put our cutlery when still eating and when done, where to leave our napkin if we’re visiting the mensroom, and how to never bend our backs while eating soup. You also learn ‘cocktail party’ etiquette as you reach adulthood by 18. You learn the kind of conversations that are acceptable with people you just met, how to seem debonair even if you’re an out of control alcoholic, and how to politely divert any unwanted sexual interest heading your way. How to be pretentious and angelic in one breath.
Those rules I’ve pretty much adopted throughout my life as law, even if at times unnecessary, because I’m a whore for approval and shudder at the thought of being considered ungracious.
In the past couple of weeks I’ve been finding my Gwyneth Paltrow approach to socialising in large groups detrimental to when the time comes and I escort one of the lucky gentlemen to my bedroom. It seems that the faux pas I’ve been so warned against are in fact the only way you can survive being gay and sexually active, at least in London. And of course, its sad.
The examples are many, but lets take the most recent one with Ishmael. Friday night I was planning a quiet and cozy night indoors, probably read a little more Umberto Eco and dabble with a little dinner. It was not to be though – I hadn’t had sexual intercourse (not counting oral sex, who does these days?) for a month and Charlie was insisting that I head out to the Box in Covent Garden for a drink.
The Box is, of course, a gay bar. It stands out from other gay bars because the men are pretentious (more than your average dose) and muscle-bound. I may at times lay claim to the former, but not the latter. Still I went, knowing that by now Charlie has introduced me to half the regulars there and I wouldn’t be at all bored.
I’m glad I did, the evening was fun. People I hadn’t seen since last year were hanging around, I flirted with couple of cute bartenders, had delicious vodka, and even went out for a divine menthol cigarette (and I don’t even smoke). At some point at around 10.30pm I was introduced to Ishmael, a sexy Spaniard who works for British Airways as a flight attendant. I carefully asked him if he knew any of the other BA flight attendants I’d slept with in the past (they are a dime a dozen) and felt refreshed when he didn’t. He asked what I did, I replied not revealing too much for fear of being tacky. We talked a little, and as we were standing side-to-side I politely had my hand around his shoulder when i leaned over to talk to him. I was heading home soon and I told him that. Where do you live, he asked, and I had moved to Westminster which was not very far away. Since he lived in Croydon (which is at least an hour’s worth of public transportation) I offered that he spend the night at my place. He smiled, and said he would like to.
At home, the cork was popped, the clothes came off, and we made out for a while. I took him upstairs to my room and got him in bed. It may have been the vodka but he was really hot. After teasing him a little more I went into my wooden treasure case (thank you S! I’ve been putting to good use) to take out lube and a condom. As things progressed he stopped me, looked, and smiled: “I’m sorry, I’m only active”.
First of all, WHAT?! An active BA flight attendant?! What has happened to the world? I checked and sure enough things were really tight down there. “Its ok,” I mumbled, and though on occasion I have switched sides I wasn’t going to do it with someone I just met and I wasn’t in the mood for it anyway. We played around a little more, he eventually gave it a try, but it was so difficult I was literally in pain every time I pushed.
Resigned, we fell asleep next to each other. In the morning I got up, made us breakfast, and got ready for my run. When he left, I messaged Charlie, who had seen us leave together and was inquiring about how well thing went, and I let him know of the unfortunate disappointment.
He wrote back: “A lesson your mother has to teach you is about careful due diligence before you rush home with someone!”. Due diligence. Hm. So what, as I passed him his Corona that night I should have casually slipped in: “So, do you take it up the ass?”?! My faux pas etiquette monitor would have burnt me on the tongue no sooner. How much are you supposed to discuss when you’re planning to take someone home, without loosing the charm of the moment? I realise this is entirely unchartered territory because for straight couples, unless the guy likes girls with strap-ons, there is really one way things can go: he’ll give and she’ll receive. But with two men, there’s a couple of options, and just as I’m pretty fixated on one option so will other guys be- and liking each other at a bar is not enough. I need to figure out a way to, somehow, know which side he’s on without spelling it out and ruining the fun. Though i can’t be blamed for my assumption this time around (I repeat, BA flight attendants are almost always passive), what am I going to ask the next time? I figured that in clubs things are a little easier. When everyone’s jumping and dancing you sometimes get a feel for which end of the spectrum Mr. X is on. Moreover the etiquette rules are thrown out the window with the music, the sweat, and substance abuse. But clubs are the worst places to meet people in London, and I plan on sticking to my bar/dinner party scene.
Anyone come up with a crafty little trick, throw it in my direction.
Sunday, 11 January 2009
The New Year Chronicles
Breathing a sigh of relief that the ‘date’ I was so afraid of (see "Moral Dilemma”) turned out to be a friendly dinner with a very senior co-worker, my mind switched immediately to holiday/party mode. It was the morning of the 31st of December, 2008. Packing my bag was taking longer than usual, as every morning, afternoon, and evening from that day until the 5th of January had to be pre-planned to the last belt.
Decisions made - I locked my front door and in minutes I was walking through the gorgeous St. Pancras station, hunting for my friend Charlie.
(Background: Charlie and I met in a club in early 2005. He is by far gay London’s most established socialite. A Jewish Iraqi of Austro-Hungarian descent, who grew up in Sudanese Catholic school in Khartoum, we instantly bonded in the royal fuck up that is our bi-cultured (or in his case tri? quad?) upbringing and our passion for middle-eastern culture and men. In that club at around 6 am we realized that we knew a lot of people in common in both Cairo and London. Ever since that night we have been to a large extent part of the same ‘family’, after he announced semi-officially that he’d ‘adopted’ me. During the three or so years I spent with James, we grew apart as James despised Charlie and his drug-taking habits, and Charlie did not appreciate the judgment. To define Charlie as a druggie is to define Madonna as a blonde – its irrelevant and he is so much more than that. Charlie is a spiritual and social landmark with an intense history and sharp people skills.)
As I walked through the awe-inspiring atrium of the train-station I saw a figure waving from the escalator, phone in one hand, shopping bags in the other. Charlie gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear with an almost sinister wisdom: “My dearest son, are you ready?”
Within in minutes our train was making its way out of London to Bruxelles. In typical Charlie fashion, he dumped his bags, silk scarf and coat on his seat and dragged me by the hand to the restaurant car. On the way there we ran into a friend of his that was travelling to Bruxelles for the same purpose, ‘La Demence’.
(Background: La Demence (which is french for The Insanity) has for the past year or so, along with Amsterdam’s ‘Rapido’ and Ibiza’s ‘Supermarxe’, been known as one of Europe’s best gay circuit parties, usually held in Bruxelles. This is no meek business. Buses run from Amsterdam, Paris and Köln to drop eager gay clubbers in Bruxelles for the night and wait outside for a 10am return journey. The party is held at Fuse in a not-so-cool neighborhood in Bruxelles, though to be entirely honest all of Bruxelles turned out to be a scheisshole.)
Charlie’s friend on the train, Cedonic, was a delicious Portuguese boy who just happened to be a contemporary art museum curator and who, as I saw for myself later on, has abs so ripped and defined I felt like I was looking at a map of mid-town Manhattan. Plus a sense of humor. We spent the 2 hours from London to Bruxelles laughing, joking, and all slightly anxious of what is to come.
In a bitterly cold Bruxelles, Charlie and I made a bee line for the cab. We met another member of our London ‘family’, Zahed (My ‘uncle’, an African-Yemeni who grew up in London and recently moved to Madrid) and we all made it to Vorst, where we were staying with our friend Sameer (A Syrian diplomat who recently moved to Belgium, but who spent many of his childhood years with Charlie in Khartoum). Sameer was a generous host, and in no time we were preparing for our NYE dinner with his two Belgian friends. They were pleasant, but the conversation dove sometimes far too deep in French that Zahed and I couldn’t carry that well. As the champagne flowed we realized the hour approached 11 and it was time to move on to our next destination.
11.35pm - We were guests at a private do held by one of our Lebanese/Palestinian friends. The other guests were an ever-so-subtle mix of Moroccans, Parisians, Israelis, Brazilians and the very random American girl from Michigan (?!?) who showed up with a horrible French accent and in a full Marie Antoinette outfit that was far too small for her (yes, I was asked at some point to try and zip her back into it…”bitch stay away from the quiche!” i managed to squirm). We were handed feathers and champagne as we walked in and of course invited to the mountains of charlie and kitty in the kitchen.
As the hour approached midnight I got a call from JD. My heart sank. What the fuck? I went into the balcony and picked up, my fingers already freezing. It was, as is typical with his phone calls, short and bland. Yes, happy new year to you too. I hung up and walked back into the party, trying to forge that just happened.
12:00am – BONNE ANNEE! Mwah, Mwah, Mwah
12:01am – 3.30am: the music got louder, the champagne and charlie being consumed in larger quantities. I was developing a crush of unusual intensity for an Israeli boy. Predictably, his Belgian boyfriend of 7 months was also at the party, and he was getting uncomfortable with the amount of time we were spending together. I decided to maintain my own self-respect, as much was possible anyway given the circumstances and environment. Somewhere in the middle of all this the music suddenly died down and our intoxicated host gave a surprisingly articulate speech, thanking us for attending, and inviting us all to share our new years resolutions. His dilated pupils somehow made their way directly to where I was standing:
“Notre pharaon,” he let out loud, for the 3rd time forgetting my (rather common) name. “Alors?”
I had nothing to say. I hadn’t even thought of it. New Years resolutions are a load of bull. But for some reason, whether because of my fresh encounter with this Israeli or some divine inspiration encapsulating the past year - I blurted out almost in exasperation: “More friends, less lovers”… Amidst the cheers and jeers Charlie looked at me in approval, and gave me a big kiss on the cheek. I glanced at the Israeli, who was staring straight back.
January 1st, 2009
We got up a little after noon, and went for a walk in Le Grand Place and the centre ville area. Bruxelles was dull, cold and not entirely friendly. Our phones were ringing incessantly. It was, after all, La Demence evening, the carrefour of gay Europe and the rest of the masses that have trekked in from far and wide were arranging dates with their coiffeurs, trainers and dealers – and inviting us to the same. We stayed out of it for the large part.
11pm: We decided to go for dinner in centre ville. There was no way on earth we were arriving at the club before 3am given the obscene queuing that was inevitable. At 1.30am we were invited by a friend to his dealer’s house. Calimbro was a muscle-bound Brazilian who was far too generous with his charlie and Mitsubishi candy. The conversation between him, his guests, Charlie and Zahed was all in Spanish, which I have no knowledge of. One of Calimbro’s friends was a quiet Chinese-German boy from Dusseldorf who had taken the train in for the party also. As he spoke no English, we managed a decent conversation in German. He was slightly intimidated by the build-up to this party, and I couldn’t blame him. Don’t worry, I said, just enjoy yourself…
Famous last words. 3.30am we raided the arena that is La Demence. (Setting: Spread across three floors, including 4 bars, a dark-room and 3 dance floors, Fuse was definitely Belgium’s biggest. The music was high impact, high energy, and ranging between soulful and dirty. The crowd was eclectic. Muscle marys and leather-bound masters danced as the odd twink made his way to the bar for something other than water. Topless Brazilian girls and of course, fat drag queens.)
I was in ecstasy. The crowd wasn’t necessarily Europe’s most sophisticated, but it would certainly do for this evening. The Israeli boy was there, and so was Cedonic. I flirted with both for a while, but was generally disinterested in sex (trust me it happens when flesh is shoved up your nose [see video above]).
We left at around 9 am on the January 2nd and after restless and short sleep Zahed, Charlie and I got on a flight to Madrid.
As it would turn out, Bruxelles was only a prelude to a formidable symphony played out in Madrid. We arrived a little after 10pm, picked up the bubbly at the airport and made it to Zahed’s flat. Some friends were having a good-bye party for a friend a Boite near Chueca but of course, being Spain, that was starting at around 4am. We drank at the flat, I slipped into something preppy and purple, and we walked the few blocks to Boite for the party. I was instantly shocked by how different the boys in Madrid are – friendly, good looking, generally young…it was heaven. This was to be, however, a light evening and I stayed with my vodka on the rocks for most of it. Zahed, who had come along, was introducing me to his Madrid posse, some of whom I recognized. One of them in particular, Inigo, had hosted a private party at the SoHo House in London around August time and, though I’d spent quite a bit of time at that party, I hadn’t realized how hot he was till that evening in Boite. I said hello, my gaze lingered slightly, and I moved on to the dance floor (they played Modjo, which is daring, and I appreciated the moxy).
Home at 6.30am, I crashed till about 4 in the afternoon. My phone was again buzzing constantly. The Cairo and Moscow crowd had arrived. This group was usually made up of Armani and Kyril, the only two I could call ‘friends’ in the loose sense of the word, plus the usual assortment of muscle marys, Mohameds to Vladimirs, whom I communicate with on a strictly “hi, how are you, lets grind” basis, ready for a good time in the most extreme sense.
(Background: Armani is one of the Middle East’s most famous socialite. Flamboyant but closeted back home, his Madrid/London trips are frequent and involve hardcore clubbing and vast quantities of drugs. He’s in the movie business, and counts 3 of the Spice Girls, Beyonce and Naomi Campbell as friends, not to mention Egypt’s billionaires. I met him at a private gay party in the Sakkara Country Club and we flirted very randomly. He wasn’t my type but I was intrigued by the conundrum that was his life and of course the fabulous parties he would drag me too (yes, i was ever so reluctant). As for Kyril, he is also a lawyer but lives in Moscow. We met through a mutual friend in London and again flirted very occasionally. I had always wondered what it would be like to spend some time with him one on one).
Yes the phone was not shutting up. Lunch at Isolee? Why the heck not. To my surprise Inigo was also there. Lunch was brief, and I wasn’t speaking too much. I was still in a bit of a haze, and needed a siesta. Kyril, Armani and I walked around the shops a little, then I excused myself to go nap. Dinner was at 10 with some Dutch boys in their apartment in Cheuca, and around 1.30 we headed to a funky bar where all the waiters were dressed as nerd and the only light was lazer and LED screens from behind black walls. At 3.30, we knew well it was time for Cool.
I’d been to Cool once before, with James and his friends a couple of years ago. Nothing was going to prepare me for what happened this night however.
The music was amazing, uplifting, beautiful. The club is set on two levels. On the top level are two bars, from which you can watch the madness below. And below was the large dance-floor, all pointed towards a stage where the dancers were performing. Everybody that should have been there was there, Charlie, Zahed, Kyril, Armani… I was starting to run into even more people I hadn’t known were visiting from Cairo. Inigo was there with his friend (who got too drunk and vomited on my hand, luckily there was ample soap in the bathroom) and who one of the Dutch boys took home to sleep.
Charlie had hooked up with an Egyptian I had never met before. Why are there that many Egyptian in Madrid?
Suddenly in the middle of this euphoria, just as my body was internalizing the amazing music and my brain rushed with ecstasy, Zahed walks up to me with wild eyes and yells “ARMANI COLLAPSED!”
For those of you who don’t know me personally, allow me to explain. I (clearly) don’t hold any judgment for people who use, shall we say, “enhancement”. It may sound like a cliché but there is such a thing as recreational use with calculated and low risk. What I don’t understand or respect is when people aren’t able to control themselves (be it on drugs, alcohol or whatever the hell you like). Using GHB is stupid and too risky, but our Middle-Eastern superstar thought he was far too cool for all that at Cool.
I asked Zahed where Armani was, and he said that the bouncers threw him out of the club. Armani was at Cool with at least 20 other people and I was by no stretch of the imagination his best friend, I’m sure they’ll take care of him. Still I decided I’d take the ramp between the lower level and the upper bars to get a drink and say hello to some people.
Just as I entered into the connecting ramp area I saw 3 or 4 people gathered around a lifeless body. Yes, Armani wasn’t my best friend, but I couldn’t see him like this. Kyril was there too. The bouncers were trying to wake him up, slapping him on the face, no luck. They were going to throw him out but he was half naked and his coat was still in the coat check. They dug into his pockets to find the ticket, each time their fingers returning with everything but. Kindly, they returned the illegal articles to his pockets and looked at us and shrugged. By this time it was only Kyril and I standing. I managed to get water off of someone and sprayed Armani with it. He jolted to life, delirious and incomprehensible. Violent too, he was kicking and yelling. “Shit”, said Kyril, “We have to take him home”.
Kyril put his coat around Armani, and I gave Kyril my sweater since I had a jacket too. We carried Armani, who frequently attacked us, through the cold streets of Madrid across Chueca (no taxi would even stop of course). It was a journey, that lasted at least 45 minutes but felt like days. One of Armani’s friend, an Egyptian muscle mary with a bad attitude, showed up out of nowhere to help. Armani’s kicking and slurred half-conscious screaming was getting worse. He slapped Kyril (very hard) and bit me. That’s it, said the Egyptian guy, he needs some cocaine to wake up.
So here we are, on the Gran Via no less in downtown Madrid, at around 6am, digging into our pockets for a key and white powder to feed someone that OD’ed on a drug that resembles cleaning fluid. If only it worked…
Fast forward, we are taking Armani up the stairs to one of his friend’s places. The fleet at Cool had been mobilized and they were on their way now that the dirty business was done. I opened the door for them, only to realize that Armani had also brought the Gucci Corner to Madrid.
(Background: the Gucci Corner was the corner at the American University in Cairo’s Greek Campus (no longer with us) that consisted of all the page-6 socialites from the American International School and Cairo American College (with the odd Lycee Francais graduate). They are pretty girls, generally fabulous and unfortunately unremarkable. As I went to one of the two American schools, I new them on a strictly “hi, good-bye” basis.)
One of them, with crazy curly blonde hair, walked up to me and said: “M, is he ok?” I assured her he would be. “Good, where’s the kitchen? I need vodka and a fat line.”
Armani regained consciousness at about 9am, embarrassed and apologetic. I was relieved. Just as I was going home, Gucci Corner clone 1 walked into the room with some more charlie and a big smile telling Armani: “Come on big boy, we have to be in Space in 6 hours.”
I slept and woke up in time for Heaven again at 2am the next evening. At this point I was through, tired of the ridiculous consumption, of the clubbing, of living in a complete bubble. I mean Inigo for example was one of a few guys who were literally on their blackberries in Heaven changing their flights in one hand and downing champagne with the other. There are people dying in Gaza. I enjoyed Heaven, but was happy to head home, alone, crash for a few hours and get on the flight to London. I had taken the next day off for detox and recovery but the truth is I felt fine, London’s arctic temperatures actually waking me up.
“Only once a year,” I kept saying to myself, “thank God New Years comes only once a year.”
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
Memories of Autumn
The fog was dense, an opaque blanket had been thrown over the city. It was nighttime. The streetlights were smothered, muted by the ominous cloud of particles that surrounded each raw bulb. Walking a few feet apart laterally, we made our way over what we hoped was Charles Bridge. I stretched my left hand out, trying to find the ledge. When my fingers touched the rough surface, I glanced to the right where the sound of his footsteps came and could only see a dim outline of his body. The fog was dense. His pace was steady. I could hear his exaggerated breathing with every few steps.
I stared ahead into nothingness. My left hand hovered over the ledge, occasionally dipping my fingers to tap the damp, cold stone. In the fog, the colossal statues that line Charles Bridge approached me with mystical glory. Out of the thick grey a dark, towering figure would appear, a poised body, a biblical promise. They were awe inspiring, and terrifying at the same time. The immense love and unexpected confusion that I felt at the moment only accentuated the contours of the dark figures, the chiseled faces and crosses.
I stared ahead into nothingness. My left hand hovered over the ledge, occasionally dipping my fingers to tap the damp, cold stone. In the fog, the colossal statues that line Charles Bridge approached me with mystical glory. Out of the thick grey a dark, towering figure would appear, a poised body, a biblical promise. They were awe inspiring, and terrifying at the same time. The immense love and unexpected confusion that I felt at the moment only accentuated the contours of the dark figures, the chiseled faces and crosses.
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
Moral Dilemma
After living life for a while, awkward situations get easier. Or easier to handle at least. For example, you develop skin thick enough to take criticism (of the non-constructive kind), or have the wisdom to say No to seeing someone again because your incompatible as people but have great sex.
When I started work there was inevitably going to be a wide array of awkward situations that I will find new and difficult to deal with. One of them just hit me in the face.
My office is about 3 doors down from the office of one of the main partners in the Corporate Finance department. He's about 65, very pleasant, and I've worked with him on several smallish matters. When he found out I was from the middle east, he told me how he'd spent years in Dubai working for the this law firm.
On the 23rd of December before heading off for Christmas he came into my office and asked if I would like to have "supper" with him on the 30th. The invitation was very kind, and I said yes.
Today, as I am at work, I start getting nervous. Does he think this is a date? I noticed he does not wear a wedding ring. He comes into my office on random occasions to discuss his trips, tennis, the like. On one hand, being probably the most junior person in my department, I'm flattered by the interest but on the other hand I'm terrified by the possibility that he sees this in any way as romantic.
He's a very pleasant person and I have no reason to not give him the benefit of the doubt. As my friend also pointed out, it wouldn't hurt my career to be friendly back. But at the same time, I'm afraid I'm going to be labelled as Whora Flynn Boyle.
The "supper" is tonight in a very nice restaurant in Mayfair. God help me, I have to go home and pack for Brussels tomorrow!
When I started work there was inevitably going to be a wide array of awkward situations that I will find new and difficult to deal with. One of them just hit me in the face.
My office is about 3 doors down from the office of one of the main partners in the Corporate Finance department. He's about 65, very pleasant, and I've worked with him on several smallish matters. When he found out I was from the middle east, he told me how he'd spent years in Dubai working for the this law firm.
On the 23rd of December before heading off for Christmas he came into my office and asked if I would like to have "supper" with him on the 30th. The invitation was very kind, and I said yes.
Today, as I am at work, I start getting nervous. Does he think this is a date? I noticed he does not wear a wedding ring. He comes into my office on random occasions to discuss his trips, tennis, the like. On one hand, being probably the most junior person in my department, I'm flattered by the interest but on the other hand I'm terrified by the possibility that he sees this in any way as romantic.
He's a very pleasant person and I have no reason to not give him the benefit of the doubt. As my friend also pointed out, it wouldn't hurt my career to be friendly back. But at the same time, I'm afraid I'm going to be labelled as Whora Flynn Boyle.
The "supper" is tonight in a very nice restaurant in Mayfair. God help me, I have to go home and pack for Brussels tomorrow!
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