Sweet, sweet potatoes. Not sweet potatoes though.

I was walking back from lunch when I saw a baked potato stand that looked familiar.  There was a lady in it absolutely beaming at me and oh shit! It was the same sweet Filipino cashier lady from a year and a half ago near the corniche!  Just goes to show you that delicious cheesy potatoes, and not love, conquer all. Sort of. 

Outskirts of Dubai

Plenty of stray cats here, and they live as easily as any human can hope to imagine.  Yesterday, I saw one lay down on the steps in front of a busy entrance to a supermarket.  Not off in a corner, right in the middle. Just lazily observing all those people coming and going and thinking to themselves, that yes, here is a cat, we must all go around.  If there is time, perhaps we will pet it, but for now, we will have to find an alternate route or just step over it.
So I stood next to it for a bit - well, off to one side as I might be more difficult for people to step over - just for a few minutes to see what the life of a cat on the outskirts of Dubai was like.  Momentarily, a short Indian man with a toddler in his arms, stopped in front of the cat and made a meowing sound.  The toddler looked at the cat and giggled.  The cat looked up and catted.  The Indian man saw me observing and smiled and I smiled back.  Then the man and his happy kid headed off in one direction. A few moments later I headed off on my own.  The cat, it took a nap. 

Days of Sharjah Observations

Across the road, a pigeon flew into a kitchen through a door open to the street. The first guy that saw it threw his hands up and backed away immediately to a presumably safe corner. The second contorted spasmodically to avoid near certain death. The third corralled the flightful intruder, the frightful intruder, picked it up casually and placed it quite gently on a metal case right outside the door. It's been 10 minutes and the pigeon is still outside. Everything is calm.

Never going to use a stupid pigeon as an accomplice again.

Idiocy Unflinching, Part 2

We were an especially attractive couple and I suppose that made a difference down there.

We didn't need an alarm clock anymore, or maybe I just didn't need it.  Of course I would pretend to be asleep sometimes when she first woke, but I don't know why exactly.  Maybe I was tricking time and space into letting me observe her when they thought I wasn't around.  It made sense when I was in bed, anyway.

Through my half closed eyes, she would noiselessly transform, from my naked playmate, into a world conquering professional woman.  Her clothes belonged to another era, a more modest, sillier time that sought to mask beauty with boredom, but she was still lovely to look at. When I would finally wake visibly, even in those early lightless hours, I don't remember it ever being disagreeable.  Probably it helped that I could lay in bed in that sublimely soft and cool dove-white comforter that I believe was her favorite of my meager possessions.

Eventually I would get up, throw on my baggy grey sweatpants and one of a million white undershirts (fashion maven), then head downstairs and out to where the cold bite was refreshing for me, but fitful for her car.  Likely she would be more comfortable if the heater was on for a bit too.  

The dawn light would wake up everything outside just as she finished up. Probably I came up from behind her, where my hands without my permission went straight to her boobs.  They were very much in love with her boobs - it wasn't my fault.  Sometimes she would show mild exasperation at her newfound immobility, and sometimes she went on as if I was simply another bit of clothing she had somehow put on. I just enjoyed being near her. 

But she would free herself shortly enough and I would brush my teeth as the sink was free.  With the last of her preparations addressed, we'd head down to her car.  I'd open the door for her and close it behind her.  She'd roll down her window and it was always her eyes that said thanks.  I kissed her properly and immodestly.  Her lips were soft and warm, glossed and smiling.  Then that happy little civic drove off with that happy gorgeous woman off into another new day.  

I'd stand there for a bit in the cold.  I can't fully explain why here either.  I remember there was some vague feeling of accomplishment that usually lingered.  Also some serene sense that possibly I could exist here after all.  Maybe.  

And then as the young sun painted around me with elongated reds and yellows, I would head back up to my lovely dove comforter.  The bother of the rest of the world could yet wait a few hours. 

I don't know if I've ever loved anyone properly, but some nights, I miss her inconsolably.

Things Done Changed

So when i was a bebbeh back in Dubai, we would go to the parks, where all sorts of things to climb and conquer lay before us in sandy islands dotted about in the lush manicured green grass seas.  Towering at least two, maybe three stories high, the main attraction was a steel pole a foot or so in diameter, from which a taut webbing of  thick red rope extended down in all directions, an unfinished tee-pee of a spider with giant fly dreams.  We would climb it endlessly, make it to the top, survey all the lands that now belonged to us, and then with a bit of bravery, wrap arms and legs around the pole and slide unfettered all the way down.  Then we'd climb right back up again.  Mountaineering for bebbehs, I suppose.

My exploration needed a destination and I heard that somehow this seemingly dangerous relic of the late 80s  still stood in Dubai, in Safa park.  Why not capture a bit of nostalgia on my way to re-discovering this city that I left behind now a quarter of a century ago?

Except when I got there, it was closed.  They told me it was for renovations.  Well.  Shit.

Fridays in Dubai.  All those wonderful weekends of our youth started on Fridays and we had the same request for every one of them.  Chicago Beach Hotel.  Five well mannered delinquents, we'd pile into our red Mercedes 250 , singing along innocently and nonsensically to the Lambada, growing ever more rambunctious as the salt sea air let us know we were getting closer without ever needing to ask if we were there yet.  What ever happened to the Chicago Beach Hotel then, Mr. Cabbie?  He had no idea what the hell I was talking about.

Well, shit.   Again.

At this point, the cab driver, instead of being annoyed, realized I had neither any idea what I was doing, nor had I any reasonable options other than his cab.   Being only my second day back in the country and my plans already skewered, I asked him for suggestions.  I was hungry and figured I should just head to a mall somewhere, so naturally I grabbed some McDonald's while he pumped some gas.  Well, ok.

Next he took me to what he assumed was the beach I was talking about.  Driving past it, it quickly occurred to me that I didn't really want to sit on empty beach in my jeans and t-shirt, eating fries while watching a few families romp around in their bathing suits.

At this point, the cabbie, thoroughly bemused by my misadventures, fully embraced his role as my personal tour guide.  A few different times already, he'd recommended Miracle Gardens based on my initial Safa park request.   Now he started peddling it like he was born there.  I had no idea what Miracle Gardens were, but they sounded like somewhere I could possibly relax and eat, so I relented.  Off we went.

Now a quick word about me, I am in the extreme minority in that I am a man almost entirely indifferent to flowers.  I'm well aware  that most men can spend years in aromatic fields of lilies and daffodils, but I have to confess, my interest in flowers piques only in those rare moments when I am delivering them to a pretty woman, and even then, I am more interested in their effect than in the flowers themselves.  All of these eccentricities I suspect I should have explained to my cabbie immediately upon entering his cab.  This was my failing.  As a result, there I stood, one man alone, outside of Miracle Gardens, armed with a bag of McDonald's.

Now for those of you that don't know what Miracle gardens are, imagine some sort of flower heaven you'd take your significant other to, largely to take mushy, lovey-dovey pictures.  I guess I have expressed my love for fast food and burgers on occasion, so I suppose it was appropriate.  Except I wasn't allowed to take the food in.

Well, shit, yet again.  Sorry, love.

Almost immediately, the guards asked me quite conversationally what the hell I was doing there and then laughed and laughed as I told them about my tour guide.  Bastards.  Friendly, though.  I had no other choice really at this point, so I started walking around, pretending quite ably that I was some fancy photographer with a smartphone.  It was mostly newlyweds and old couples, with the occasional family, but as I made my way around the grounds, there was a lovely European woman that approached me.  So not too bad.  "Where was the bathroom?" she asked me.  Oh, right, even though I wasn't in a uniform, it only made sense that a lone guy walking around was probably the head gardener or something.  That way, Miss.  And please do let those guards over there know if the restroom is satisfactory.  We hope you enjoy your visit.

At this point, the misadventure needed a close, I grabbed a cab, asked him to turn up the a/c and to just take me to the Dubai Mall please.  I sat in the back pensively looking out the window and that's finally when the nostalgia hit me.  Vast yellow expanses, pockmarked with those dry, hardy bushes - the desert was still the same.  And just as before, it was as uninhabitably comforting, best viewed from a traversing vessel, as the sea to a sailor.  Finally, some small vestige of my childhood had survived. So I started to take a video of it

... except my battery was dead.

Motherf...!

Need to buy a ticket, but am finally heading back to Dubai.  Here is a link to a lovely interactive way to conceptualize how small biases contribute to a segregated society based off the work of Nobel Prize-winning game theorist, Thomas Schelling.

Vi hart for super-president!

LINK:  Parable of the Polygons

Idiocy Unflinching

The third short story.  Orders of magnitude worse than the first two.  Does not even have a picture of  a pretty woman for the cover.  Enjoy.

Idiocy Unflinching - plaintext version for people that donut like the cursive font/color of the original

Red Velvet Dreams

Another short story, even dumber than the first one.  Enjoy.

Red Velvet Dreams - plaintext version for people that donut like the cursive font/color of the original

The Arbitrary Horse

I have been reading a good bit of Italo Calvino lately and have decided my own writing is not yet very good.  Naturally then, I have decided to write a short story and and give it a quick ebook treatment.

Please note that if you like this story, you are most likely a terrible person that reads terrible stuff that is terrible.  

Melissa Mooney and the confidence of a thousand idiots

A random old story brought on by an old basketball buddy from college recounting his own missteps.

Embarrassing, but I can beat that. And I'll name names. Melissa Mooney, my freshman year. She was a junior - psych major, tall, stunning, and remarkably, incredibly elegant. I remember my buddy Mysen was able to pick her out from a crowd just from my description of her - specifically that she moved as if a halo of light made her impervious to all the nerd, dork, pansy, and Bing that abounded on that Carnegie campus.

She was in my tiny Calc 2 class, but I actually met her outside it, as I was lazily walking to a TA session already 5 minutes late and there she was walking out of it, just 5 minutes in. Clearly then, we were fated to be together, as she smiled a lovely smile and I conveniently ignored the significance of her leaving someplace just as I was arriving. Inexplicably, over the next week, I actually managed to get her number. Miraculously, I asked her to have lunch with me and she agreed. Ladies, that you might just enjoy eating and walking is an absolutely ludicrous idea to us when we have a crush on you, you see. Obviously, she loved me, obviously.

Now to give you an idea of where my head was at this point, I had an intramural basketball team named after me, (YBF was originally, stupidly, called Fahd) and Liz, the hot dramat, whom you may have seen as Constance Brenneman on TV, she had singled me out to say hello to, and now I was having lunch with the hottest girl on campus - a junior.  I tell you I walked around that CMU campus with the confidence of a thousand idiots.

On to the denouement, then. The lunch was cringe-worthy. At one point I asked her what her last name was, and then I told her mine, you know, just in case she wanted to know. It quickly dawned on her that she wasn't just killing time before class with some odd, lazy, child, but a particularly oblivious and smitten idiot. And particularly oblivious, smitten, and an idiot I was. I called her up, exactly two days later of course, to ask her out to dinner. She stalled awkwardly and then dropped the most beautiful lie I'll ever hear. She had a boyfriend. Problem solved. Except there I sat then in my dorm room, with my roommate, Pete, and my friend, Kelly, both looking awkwardly on as I had just been obviously rejected. It was ok, though, because I proceeded to throw a hissy fit, leaned back in my chair in the middle of the room, and in karmic slow motion tried to grab the flimsy card table upon which I had resting both the phone and one of those thick and juicy burritos from the UC that broke apart almost instantly when you took a bite.

I shot for the moon; I wound up on my ass - deafened by laughter, blinded by embarrassment, covered in burrito.

And if that's not embarrassing enough, I used to hang out with Bing Xu, trying to pick up chicks.

This has been your Pretty Boy Jacket History moment of the day. If you'll excuse me, I have a cold personal pizza and mountain dew to attend to. Nuts. to. everybody.

Fishy Fishing Experts

Back in the states, I used to go fishing with my kid sister whose name is Mervat, but whom I call woodchuck.  We fished in a small pond in her apartment community with relatively crappy fishing poles that I think I bought for us at walmart.  Woodchuck was a fishing expert in that, despite the crappy equipment, she would still manage to catch fish. Well, if you can call them fish.  I have no idea what kind of fish they were, but there were a lot of them, and they were none of them especially large.  She caught a catfish once though, if that helps bolster her credibility.

Woodchuck:  Expert Fisherman

I was also an expert, but only at catching sticks and leaves.  Well, only because nobody ever claimed to be better at catching sticks and leaves.  Nothing like snatching mediocrity from the jaws of defeat, I used to teach the astronauts.  Or at least I would have, if they would have ever asked me.

Fahd:  Teaching astronauts through instructional photography

Other than the occasional alleged fish murder, mostly we just wound up feeding the fish tons and tons of stale bread.  I say alleged only in case some fish out there has internet and uses my blog as evidence.  But I think we all know who really murdered those fish.

Allegedly!

But we really did feed them a ton of bread.  Loaves of stale sliced white bread.  We tried other things like fishing lures haphazardly and with little success.  Possibly because some of the lures might have been bigger than the fishes themselves, but hey, dream big.  At least that's what I would tell the tiny microchip makers; if only they'd ask me.  But the bread, there would be multiple feeding frenzies every time we threw in a couple of slices at once.

And it led us to wonder, how in the world do fish know that bread is food?

Are there underwater bakeries down there that churn out baked delicacies, but in extremely small amounts, thereby always leaving the fish wanting?  Are the fish still following an outdated food group pyramid and have  realized they haven't been getting anywhere near their recommended daily allowance of whole grains?  Seriously, when is bread any part of a fish's world other than when a pair of jerks decide to drop by the pond with a loaf?

As a quick aside, we were certainly expert jerks, at least.  Sometimes, there would be turtles, but they were far too slow to get the bread.  Naturally, then, we'd throw bits of bread at their shells; mostly to make them paranoid that there was something fishy going on behind their backs.  

Anyway, my theory is that the fish are using an advanced system that involves the higgs field, the fourth dimension, and cations to figure out bread is food.  To test this theory, I will take some stale bread with me and throw it in the caribbean to see if pretty sea fish have the same method of determining that bread is food as ugly pond fish.

Because if they do, I'm probably going to have come up with an alibi for the great fish massacre of 2008.

The kids are dead because of sadness about the fish massacre

A bit more Dominica Nonsense

Today, Dominica has answered the question, "Why did the chicken cross the road?"
Because there was a huge truck coming.

However, Dominica has no answers for the question, "Why did the 2nd chicken a little bit further down cross the street?"

Roosters are idiots.  The sun does not rise at 1AM, or 3PM, or 2:45AM.  Worst alarm clocks ever.

Crabs remain adorable.  I was bored out of my mind a recent Saturday afternoon, so I decided to hang out at the edge of a long wooden pier where I stared off into the distance with my chest proud and my long locks of hair billowing in the wind as the silver golden water anointed me its King.  Actually, I was sitting down and watching the fish.  The Caribbean is super clear and there are some fancy looking little fish down there.  While I'm sitting, I feel an odd grappling sensation on my left thumb.  I turn around and there is a tiny crab no bigger than a golf ball that just realized that my thumb might not be food it can take back to its house.  Either that, or the crab was a fan of bootleg romance novel covers as well.

My prop is my imaginary bike of shame

Found out something very interesting that day.  My hair's pretty long right now and I actually let it dry in the sun as it was, as opposed to combing it straight, like I normally would.  It turns out air drying my hair out here does not turn me into a Caribbean Carrottop as it did in Ecuador.
Rather, it turns me into a Dominican Shirley Temple.  I'm talking big,  fancy, bouncy, curly locks.  I swear, iIf I didn't have a beard going right now, I'd be scary looking.

As opposed to a beardless 6 foot tall Dominican Shirley Temple, which would just be adorable, of course.
(note to self:  Insert terrible, terrible photoshop of giant shirley temple with a beard here)

Now, I'm assuming that Shirley Temple hair is at the top of most women's requirements for men, so I'm not sure how to interpret the way random women in Dominica react to me sometimes.  They'll be passing by and give me the elevator look.  For those that don't know, that's where your eyes scan a person from top to bottom and then back up.  Talking to these women, however, just leaves me confused.  They don't flirt back in any way, but just answer my pointless questions as matter of fact-ly as possible.  That's leading me to believe now that I'm actually mistaking the elevator look for a "Shirley, you can't be serious" look.

One more thing.  Today, I ran into a woman that apparently recognized me from somewhere.  It is a very small island town, after all.  I wish I could say I recognized her as well, but I'll be very honest, I have no idea what her face looked like.  She was dressed up for something and would have probably looked quite elegant if she wasn't wearing a very low cut top, displaying proudly what I can only assume were double R boobs.  That fills the boob quota for the post.  

Dominica Snippets

I wish you could see this sun set over the Caribbean through the rain that I can see.

Beauty dies in but one pair of eyes.

Dominica, for a bit

The last two weeks have been pretty stressful, so I haven't written much.  But I should have a brief respite for a bit so I can continue to flood the minds of the bored with foolishness.

It occurred to me yesterday that I hadn't written all that much about Dominica, even though that's what everybody's curious about right now.

Well, Dominica is indeed boring, and quite miserably hot and humid far too often.  But man is it gorgeous.  Absolutely stunning.  Just achingly, mesmerizingly beautiful.

Yesterday morning, long before the sun's punishment began, I walked down Dominica's encircling coastal road with a thousand different names.  This road, with its curious personality taking a million inland detours as if enchanted by a feathered painting one second, then drawn back seaward to the glimmer of the Caribbean the next; this road, winding about Dominica like a telephone cord (yes, young'uns, telephones had wires once, twisty ones); this road, yesterday morning, offered me the simplest route to the boring little town of Portsmouth.  But then, on this road, there, in the morning light, Dominica, fresh out of the shower; myyyy goodness.

I will confess that only a very select few women have ever made me think in poetry, but now, here was Dominica inspiring metaphors and bewitching me entirely.

Bright Caribbean blue eyes washing softly on her dark almond skin, above her vivid jungle green dress, covering some truly grand Tetons.

Well, so I guess it wasn't particularly good poetry.

See!

Some curious and interesting tidbits about Dominica:

Most places have annoying pests and problems that scurry away when they sense somebody nearby.  Dominica has crabs.  And they're fantastic.  They're not everywhere mind you, but close to the shore, where most everybody lives.  They'll scurry away under any rocks or shelter anytime they hear your footsteps.    And then the hermit crabs, they have goofy looking shells sometimes, makes it look very much like they're hiding out of sheer embarrassment.  Frankly, it's all adorable.  I'm sure they've pinched somebody or maybe they're a nuisance to fisherman perhaps, but to me they're charming.

And Dominicans themselves are charming.  Exceptionally friendly people, they'll greet you like you just helped them move that heavy dresser last week.  And it makes sense I suppose.  They all grew up around each other.  Probably never developed a fear of strangers because there just weren't any.  Admittedly, it's quite refreshing to see compared to the "lock the doors, hide your wallet - there's a person of a different race/religion/sexuality/ideology/age group/socioeconomic status/musical taste/brand preference across the street" mentality that seems to be becoming so prevalent in the US and Ecuador.  (If I missed a group or offended anybody, I didn't, your eyes are just dirty and you misread what I wrote.  Clean your eyes, you bum)

But they will argue though, these Dominicans.  Every day there's a new argument amongst the fishermen outside my place.  But the thing is, even when laced with profanity, there's such an innocence to it all.  Once you listen to them for a while you really get the feeling that nothing in the arguments is threatening, but almost a communication that, hey, mr. person, you have hurt my feelings and that is not cool.  For example I heard one man yelling down the street that somebody's soul would burn in the hottest fire and that there would not be one drop of water anywhere to put him out.  Try yelling that next time you're about to get into a fight.  Also adorable.

Speaking of fishermen, I'm discovering that I find one aspect of their otherwise Hemmingwayishly romanticized profession very unappealing.  Everyday, right outside my window, the fishermen display their trophies on a table and carve them up for the eager seafood lovers that gather around.  You can practically see the gathered licking their lips, delighted at the prospect of getting fish so fresh, they're making unwanted advances even as they're being eaten.  But so the fishermen make a living, the seafooders are happy and all of this is well and good.  No, the thing I find unappealing is the very necessary task of cutting up the fish.  And I assure you, I am a carnivore with an almost shameful appreciation of a good bloody cut of meat.  No, what I find unreasonable about the fish being cut is far more ridiculous.  You see, these aren't your slow, tubby catfish bloating about glacially at the bottom of some unconcerned lake or apathetic river.  These are sleek, powerful creatures that dominate the Caribbean while giving torpedoes inferiority complexes.  Cutting them up is like seeing someone chainsaw a Ferrari, or put jorts on a supermodel, or make a soy based alternative to nutella - it's just wrong.

Yesterday, I saw a couple of fishermen drag an 8 foot long swordfish out of their boat.  I'm just going to pretend that they're going to be grooming it to be a racing fish.  I can see it now - Pointy is going to be a champ!

But seriously, Dominica is gorgeous.  I'm watching the sun set over the Caribbean literally as I type this.  The sky is all sorts of colors that would make the most flamboyant salmon, flamingos, and tomatoes jealous.    Yesterday from the back of the apartment, I saw a rainbow jumping over the moon with a jungle backdrop that looks like it should be filmed for future generations for when their trees are replaced by robots.

But I digress.  Dominica is gorgeous.  And she has hilarious crabs.

-----

Will get back to the basketball framed stuff shortly.  I know all my readers are diehard hoops fans.

- Fahd

Part 3 - The girl from Manta

In Quito, Ecuador, they have women that must be in their 50s (at least) running full court games with young men.  I like to attribute anything odd to the altitude there.  Maybe it's kinder to old age for some reason. For those that don't know, Quito is the 2nd highest capital in the world (right below Kingston, Jamaica?).  At 5280 feet, Denver is a mile above sea level.  Quito is at 9350 feet.  In a valley.

Carolina Park hoops

But Quito must not have believed I was old though, because those 9350 feet certainly weren't kind to me. Three weeks of acclimation, and the altitude still left me breathless both literally and figuratively.  On one of my first visits to the courts of Parque Carolina, despite being new, I was quickly picked up for a full court game.  Now, Ecuadoritos are generally short, so to them, at 6 feet tall with an athletic build, I probably looked like a great pick up.  And in any case, we had an excellent point guard, 2 solid guys that hustled on every play, and an explosive 2 guard - the girl from Manta.  The girl from Manta with the sick handle, a deadly jumper, and absolutely no fear in the paint.  We couldn't lose! We lost.  That fifth guy could barely get past half court, and as great as she was, the girl was no Vic Hung 33*.

I've played quite a few terrible games in my life, but I think this might have been the worst.  I felt terrible.  I was the Ecuadorian version of the tall goofy European center that didn't speak the language and could only dribble with a fish.

Practice!

Afterwards, the Girl from manta changed her shoes and came over to where somehow, despite the game having long since ended, I was still being terrible at basketball. Now as Ecuadorian water is patently evil and I had somehow forgotten how eyes and legs worked, I asked her where I could get a drink.  She just smiled politely and motioned for me to follow her to a nearby store.  And then, as we walked off the court, they started whistling behind us.  She giggled and looked back at them, then looked at me and once again, she smiled.  Except this time it was more that smile where it's in their eyes rather than in their lips.  THAT smile.

What?

So despite my best Ivan impression (Eddie was an underrated movie), the Girl from manta had taken an interest in me.  Gave me her number, told me to call her for drinks and everything.  And there was the epiphany - the moral of the story, and we all know it's true:  The key to getting girls is failing spectacularly.

Anyway, while we were getting that drink, I remarked that she was very good and she said that she had better be.  Big surprise - she was on the national team.  Three countries down.

And honestly, at first, I was quite impressed with her.  I mean, she was very, very good.  Consider this, the national team probably has the 12 or 15 best basketball players in the country on it.  That means that at worst, she would have ranked - on a list of 7.5 million people - in the top 15.  The girl from Manta was better than roughly 99.9996 percent of 7.5 million Ecuadoritas at basketball.

And I caused her to lose.

Now, who could blame me, I was more impressed with me.

Yeah, well, shut up, I still got her number. (we'll just ignore that nothing much  really came of it).


*Remind me to link this to the post I make about Vic Hung 33.
...

fin part 3

-Fahd

Part 2, the Genesis of YBF

I was born in Dubai where I flubbed about for a decade until we moved to the states.  I never played basketball in the great United Arab Emirates, but I want to say that I did know what it was.  I want to say I did, if only for of a vague memory of having played the stick figure version of hoops on Atari.  Considering how insanely skinny I was in my youth, the left basketball stick figure must've been my role model.  But anyway, by the time I reached Carnegie Mellon in Pittsburgh, I might as well have majored in hoops (with a focus in turnovers, according to my cohorts).   CMU was where I met a kid from the U.A.E.  And apparently he played for them in the Junior Olympics.  He wasn't bad.  To be honest, he was just a random person I played with.  But at least now he's served a purpose.  Two countries down.

So not much of a start so far, but the thing is he just wasn't anywhere near as memorable as the rest of the cast of characters around the UC and the ghetto gym.

First, if intramural team namer was a profession, I'd be somewhere on the spectrum of brilliant and horrific.  I was responsible for the "Badass Honey Bunches of Oats" kickball team.  I am also to blame for half of the galaxy altering matchup of Jigglage vs. Biguns in IM football.  We were Jigglage.  Of course.

But really, all of this is just an excuse for me to talk about YBF.

I created YBF.  If I do nothing else in life, I can still claim that.  YBF, short for Your Biological Fathers, was the greatest team ever in the history of hyperbole.   Borne of goofiness maybe, but it truly transformed us all into gods amongst pancakes.  No, we were actually more like the Bad News Bears.  From the collection of misfits, to the incompetent 90 year old coach/manager (me), even down to losing in the finals with one of our best players hurt, we resembled the Bad News Bears.  And we were a fantastic collection of misfits too - our main quality being that every one of us had a proclivity for smiling in a goofy manner here and again.  Well, that and we could all ball.


From the Nigerian NOOOO! to Mystery Ali,
from Superman in khakis to Vic Hung 33,
Big Tim, Little Tim, and OC Jack,
and Knice at all sports sending shots back
There was a Cherry Picking Sun,
and a Bharath the black hole,
the Fiercest of Berry's,  and a Big Smooth Paul
6'8 Kyle and me, shake and bake
We'd hit a jumper in your eye
and then we'd yell "STEAK!"

We were Your Biological Fathers

Top:  Mystery Ali, Superman, Vic Hung 33, Fierce Berry, 6'8 Kyle
Bottom:  OC Jack, little girl?  Little Tim, the Nigerian NOOO!, Knice, Big Smooth Paul
Dead:  Walter Matthau 

Although the past tense does seem to imply that something happened... hmm, sorry about that

For the astute amongst you, yes, you can surmise that this is an indication that my blog might contain terrible photoshops and even worse poetry.  Don't worry, the other nationals are much more impressive.  This post was just a way to introduce a cast of characters I'll reference now and again.

Kevin, Siuwah, Me, and Mark.  All Fathers.  Biological.  Yours.

---

fin part 2

-Fahd

The Non-Basketball Basketball Resume Pt. 1

It occurred to me that I have stories, right now basketball stories, that I have a need to share.

I seemed to have lived a life.  It's not one I would wish upon anyone else, but it seems, it does seem as if I have lived a life.

Let me introduce it, for now, through my basketball resume.

Don't worry, I'm not going to regale you with stories of my on court conquests.  By many measures I was amazing, and by a million more measures, I was an abject failure.  Same as anybody else I suppose.  And I suspect those basketball moments, that each subsequent day become more dear to me as I get older and more incapable, are really only interesting to me.  So I'll spare you.  For now, at least.  It's not as if I played professionally, anyway.

No, but this post is still about my basketball resume.  Specifically, it's about the people I've managed to meet, to impress, to embarrass, and to be embarrassed by.  Though I've never played with or against anybody that played in the NBA, my resume, I think, is quite remarkable.

To give you some context, I've spread out my 31 years now in 4 countries and, for a very brief time, an immigrant detention center which might as well as count as 45 mini countries.  And this number of countries is only going to increase because as a friend recently referred to me, I am now a man without a country.

As a man without a country, it occurred to me that I have stories.  For example, I recently found myself wandering about looking for a game here on this sparsely populated, mountain and jungle covered island: the Commonwealth of Dominica.  Near a basketball court that some kids were misusing for cricket, I struck up a conversation with a middle aged man about hoops.  They're very friendly here and it turned out, this friendly middle aged man had played for Dominica's national team some years ago.  Very interesting.  He was only 5'7 so he must've been pretty good.  Curious.  The next day, I joined his team and no, he wasn't bad, but not quite Spud Webb either.  It was fun, anyway.  Afterwards, we all regaled/bored each other with our ancient basketball conquests, which is probably why you're being spared now.

And then as it got dark and I walked back, I looked around at the mountain behind me, the Caribbean to the right, and a magnificent array of stars lighting up all the space in between.  Somehow I was in Dominica.  Two years ago, I didn't even know what Dominica was.  Dominica, whose entire population you could easily fit in the Georgia Dome.  Dominica, where they had high speed internet even in the remote and mountainous interior, but where they somehow didn't always have interior plumbing.  What in the world was I doing in Dominica?  Apparently, I was hooping with a former member of the national team.  

I realized it then.  No, I don't know what I'm doing.  But I also realized one thing I had done.  Somehow, I had now played basketball with somebody from the national team for every country I'd lived in.  

And no, it's not much.  But it does give me a way to frame my stories for now.  And I do have a need to tell these stories.  Part of my own futile plan to convince the universe that I'm worth holding on to.  

So just hear me out, universe, for it seems, it really does seem as if I've lived a life.  

...

fin, part 1.

- Fahd