tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77924334215708401292024-02-06T18:29:40.808-08:00Doha...No, How OddYou really really should read this. I find it quite fascinating. You will too.Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-32437456011969891802011-07-28T19:32:00.001-07:002011-07-28T19:32:37.109-07:00People Like You Make Me Sick<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Hmmm....I never got around to posting this before I left Doha: so, now, I will.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not people like Sirish (actually, Suresh, but I’m sticking with my first spelling, so let’s just ignore the fact that I got his name, and much else about him, wrong, ok?) It’s not like he’s going to read this blog, although I would strongly encourage him to!, which does remind me that I wouldn’t write about my other colleagues in Qatar, although oh boy the stories I could tell! which means that I am treating Sirish (or Suresh) as someone I can write about, without worrying that he’ll storm into my office saying “Hey, Pal, you think you can just write about me and post it for the whole world to read, without giving a shit about what I think?” to which I’d respond “Yeah, go ahead and post whatever you want about me, because I’m so smart and charming and bullet-proof, that whatever you post will just enhance my global reputation.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just don’t send any of those pictures, ok?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, Sirish does not make me sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over time, we developed a healthy and warm relationship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d ask me for money, and I’d ask him to bring me coffee or juice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I’d see him the first day of the week, I’d say “So, Sirish, how was your weekend?” and he would reply “I need more money.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He did bring me coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>LOTS of coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He started walking in to my classroom during class with a big mug and a glass of water, and I would thank him profusely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was slightly embarrassed by this – did my students think that I ordered him to bring me coffee in class, as a way of establishing my authority? – but I was more embarrassed by the fact that I always had to pee like crazy about 20 minutes before class was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there is a big mug of coffee, and a glass of ice water, in front of me that I’m going to drink it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should learn something from this.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think he was sad to see me go…hard to say whether he liked me, which I think he did, or whether he saw me as his ATM, because I ended up doubling his base salary by cleaning my apartment and this and that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t find him before I left, so I wrote him a note and left it on my desk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I did learn that Sirish gets up at 5 a.m., catches the bus at 5.30, arrives at Georgetown at 6.30 and then works from 7 to 5 for about, as I calculated, $1.30 an hour, give or take.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shares a room with 7 other guys, who sleep in shifts, I think, because there are not enough beds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sirish needs some surgery on his stomach for reasons that are not clear to me, although one of my colleagues suggested that it was from a shrapnel wound he received during the war in Sri Lanka.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, Sirish is Tamil, and the Tamil Tigers were on the losing end of the war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The end did not include an unconditional surrender as with Lee at Appomattox, but a slaughter of the remaining Tigers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One sleepy afternoon, I asked Sirish: Do you ever want to take a nap?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said of course….but if he were caught, he would be docked on week’s pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew this because someone had narked on one of his friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One week’s pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I’m a couple years in debt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Awhile ago I posted a Fascinating! Insightful! Truly wise! blog about the fact – and yes, it’s a fact – that I make tons more than Sirish because of dumb luck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I reposted this on Facebook on a discussion thread about taxing and deficits and blah blah blah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it would be warmly received for the fascinating, insightful, wise gem that it was. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, the first comment in response, after a few gratuitous slurs towards the middle east, was something like:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“If you [me] were a man, you’d give half your money to Sirish and ask him to move in with you, rather than asking the government to steal my money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People like you make me sick.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, I really am for freedom of speech, really, and even for dickheads, not that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> specific person is a dickhead – although I have my suspicions – and I am glad folks engage in political discussions, so more power to him, but my gut responses were:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hey, it’s possible for people to believe that good societies should have police, libraries, and bathrooms without personally volunteering to be a cop, a book, or a toilet. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hey, my post didn’t say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything </i>about government or taxes, and so is it possible that my precious few readers, which may or may not include you, because I’m not sure if you’re reading this or just looking for more pictures, which I don’t have, because I lost my camera, don’t actually bother reading my posts?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, dickhead, and yes now I am talking about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you in particular</i>, can you take the time to understand what I’m saying before commenting on it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And Hey! On the social network that is FB, is it possible that a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">friend</i> of a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">friend</i> actually would post for the world to see “People like you make me sick”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This from a person I haven’t met, but who is a friend of a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>WTF?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re doomed.</div><!--EndFragment--> </div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-61843317545390952982011-06-14T13:08:00.000-07:002011-06-15T01:29:40.301-07:00My True Self<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The article "<a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/06/05/in-search-of-the-true-self/?scp=1&sq=joshua+knobe&st=cse">In Search of The True Self</a>" intrigued me. It begins with this story....</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Mark Pierpont used to be an important figure in the evangelical Christian effort to help “cure” gay people of their homosexual desires. He started out just printing up tracts and handing them out in gay bars, but his ministry grew over time, and eventually he was traveling the world and speaking to crowds that sometimes numbered in the thousands. There was just one problem. Mark Pierpont himself was gay. He continued to feel sexual desires toward other men and was constantly engaged in an effort to suppress them. In the documentary film “Protagonist,” Pierpont movingly describes his inner conflict, saying that he sometimes felt an almost physical revulsion at his own desires and would then think: “Good. I hate this. I hate sin, just like God hates sin.”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The author then asks: Which one is Mark's true self? The Christian? The Homosexual? </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The first answer is: both. He is just as much Christian as homosexual, even though these seem to be in deep opposition to each other <i>within Mark himself</i>. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The second answer is: if you ask others which one is Mark's true self, they will give the answer in accordance with <i>their own values</i>. Some will say: Mark, dude, you're gay. You'll be much happier if you just accept that that is indeed your true self. Others will reply: Mark, your Christian self is your essential self, even if being true to your beliefs involves personal struggle. Both will say the true self is the self that <i>they</i> think is more important.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Now, I don't have a dog in this particular hunt, as I'm about as Christian as I am gay. Have fun with <i>that </i>one, friends!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">But I was reflecting on this while having a lemon mint, a rocket salad, a hamour plate, and a green apple shisha at the local Al Shami Home Restaurant tonight. I would have taken a picture of my meal, but it looked disappointingly as if I had ordered from Applebee's Home Restaurant.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The view around the room was more interesting. The waitrons -- both men and women -- wore black pants, white shirts, orange striped vests, and black bow ties. The patrons were wearing, well, who knows what the guys were wearing, various guy stuff, I suppose, but the women were divided into those wearing the traditional black abayas and sheilas, and the Kardashians. It was the Sisters of Mercy and the Jersey Shore, dining together. I felt like I was on a highway with some driving 70 and others 30 -- either speed is fine, but having both on the same road made me grip the steering wheel a bit tighter than normal.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Back to the Which Self is the True One? I think the choice here is not between the "Good" self and the "Bad" self. Which would be which for Mark, not me Mark, but Mark Pierpont? Evangelical Christians would (mainly) say that the devout Christian is the Good Mark. Others would say that the Gay Mark is the good Mark, and that the form of Christianity that suppresses homosexuality is itself a force for Evil. (Myself? I can imagine that God would say: "You don't have to choose between being a Good Christian and a Good Homosexual.") I also don't think the choice of true selves is </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">between the self we "Are" and the self we "Want to Be", but between two different, but equally "true" selves.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Which brings me to Anthony Weiner. No, what really brings me to AW is that all bloggers everywhere apparently are required to write about him, or at least to have an opinion about him. It would have been more interesting if he had been sexting Sarah Palin, or Albert Haynesworth, so I could blog (!!!) multiple (!!!) parties (!!!) at the same time.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">What is AW's true self? He may not know, and I'm pretty damn sure no one else knows either, other than (as above) by saying his true self is the one you say it is. Maybe he is truly a libertine; maybe he is truly a devoted public servant. Maybe he is both, or maybe he will somehow resolve for himself which self is more true, the obligatory-and-cliche rehab notwithstanding. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">As for me, I like having those multiple selves. Well, maybe not <i>those</i> multiple selves, but, anyway. It's more interesting having two selves, at least. I always have someone to talk to -- an amusing person, too, always good for a laugh or an insight or a story! -- even if he never quite fully understands me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Update: <i><b>Warning! </b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Highly </span><b>graphic, explicit</b> </i>political commentary follows.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Should Weiner resign?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The small "d" democratic in me is willing to leave that to his constituents. I mean, our Congress has historically been loaded with idiots, imbeciles, drunks, thugs, racists, crooks, and that is just Weiner's home district I'm talking about. (Apologies, NY's fighting 9th District!) </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Senator Vitter, a married, <i>family</i> <i>values </i>Republican was handily reelected after doing hookers. <i>Laissez les bon temps roulez</i>, Lousiana. If Vitter's good enough for the good folk of Louisiana, fine. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Was Vitter, who <i>broke laws</i> while actually <i>having </i>sex worse than the sexting Weiner?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">The large "D" Democrat in me said that Weiner should resign. He was the visible face of the Democratic wing of the Democratic Party (Howard Dean reference!), unlike who-the-hell-is-Vitter?, and his continued presence in Congress will harm the Democrats. Refusing to resign places his own interests above those of his party. Go away.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Oh, wait. President Clinton got a blow job in the Oval Office from an intern. This is worse n every way than what Weiner did, and I didn't want Clinton to resign. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', times, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">I'll let my inner selves have a bit of convo about this over breakfast. Maybe they can work out my internal disagreement.</span></span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcGlk4Sbw0FxpepZLtAHw-uSk-SaNW9x3qUEJPNun_SbKip5ZwHQx1Dksm7xOwatVhaXDZcoLMCGheICrx5FppgJx-IQ2bB-laGWKj-4vCvhOD8ExvvJsd866veUheMKF8bWPt5P1WnuT/s1600/100_0001-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcGlk4Sbw0FxpepZLtAHw-uSk-SaNW9x3qUEJPNun_SbKip5ZwHQx1Dksm7xOwatVhaXDZcoLMCGheICrx5FppgJx-IQ2bB-laGWKj-4vCvhOD8ExvvJsd866veUheMKF8bWPt5P1WnuT/s320/100_0001-3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Here's a glimpse into the new Georgetown campus, where I spend my days. Usually. Mainly. It's fab. Lots of eye candy in the building...Above you can see the corridor I traverse each morning.<br />
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I know, trying to catch up on blogging by posting multiple times back-to-back is like trying to floss your teeth numerous times before going to the dentist.<br />
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Which I do.<br />
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When the dentist's assistant asks me: "Have you been flossing?" I want to reply....<br />
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"Can't you tell by looking? Why are you even asking me?"<br />
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Instead, I reply...<br />
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"Yes!"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2yGUQM8kWa3Lhcxodk0UnwgBazPVCxmFw366nxVdr_gwriIKzM5GyCryZHqjbL56MpYfiff8Q_8aioFQdri0oW3tSXoK42MBwmJVkSzmuVXsTR2zE5lBJAvVEwqbFEWV4qN1zu-dS1zJ/s1600/100_0013-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2yGUQM8kWa3Lhcxodk0UnwgBazPVCxmFw366nxVdr_gwriIKzM5GyCryZHqjbL56MpYfiff8Q_8aioFQdri0oW3tSXoK42MBwmJVkSzmuVXsTR2zE5lBJAvVEwqbFEWV4qN1zu-dS1zJ/s320/100_0013-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The Gtown building has some nice nooks for napping. Not that I do.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGuwr5VYmnIBOFSRrkHeb_ENTYlp36B_XDm2KCZ_f-79PN66EyJMZGdT22vcl2v3ZRLWm-kg4A41CtA7NsyuNJkKPZZL_1Pnp-VdGXtKI11piq5isry2JY3haMxDXqye7puTvn0UEKXx7/s1600/100_0008-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGuwr5VYmnIBOFSRrkHeb_ENTYlp36B_XDm2KCZ_f-79PN66EyJMZGdT22vcl2v3ZRLWm-kg4A41CtA7NsyuNJkKPZZL_1Pnp-VdGXtKI11piq5isry2JY3haMxDXqye7puTvn0UEKXx7/s320/100_0008-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I wish I had napped here! Very womblike and calm. I think wombs are calm, at least so far as I recall.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIggXJ6z5eAmPvnurrCsRajKYAclqAgN6BkU_FNZVVOR6wJTFjVP3wTrCZrsrww32bKp5YEA5TAKXxSQ3WkQVAWOM3NsLUSYYvloKRHDb0lnByMjyXmsL3EXqgMVd5OM3pIzExErEV9pLC/s1600/100_0007-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIggXJ6z5eAmPvnurrCsRajKYAclqAgN6BkU_FNZVVOR6wJTFjVP3wTrCZrsrww32bKp5YEA5TAKXxSQ3WkQVAWOM3NsLUSYYvloKRHDb0lnByMjyXmsL3EXqgMVd5OM3pIzExErEV9pLC/s320/100_0007-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Lots of interior balconies, too. Here I'm looking down at what I think is the main lobby by the front door, but I've never seen anyone use that door, as I think everyone comes up through the garage.<br />
<br />
The garage, in fact, was the topic for one of my student's final presentations. The topic? Georgetown should allow students to park in the garage for reasons of equity, efficiency, safety, health and so forth. Those ideas were pretty interesting, but the guy mainly just wanted to park in the garage, I think. I seemed to sense rationalizations instead of arguments.<br />
<br />
The class was split on this issue into two groups: those with cars, who believed the current policy was inequitable, inefficient, unsafe, and unhealthy; those without cars, who (I sense) thought the first group might just be lazy and, after all, couldn't the money be better spent on other things (that, coincidentally, were those things that appeared to benefit the car-less group).<br />
<br />
I don't doubt that both groups were sincere, but it did look self-interest, not public spirit, determines arguments. Yes, my students are human, too.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKUWCbgl8aoV6aYJ0TbtS3WXCyNJkgUa8qmsy0xM5aAh8DhQoBYnMGZ4y3cf8MD5QwiFnelHhGNzIfOblHZS94Ck5hmMuTIKaeA6sRI20dCwS10PGbZnvO4xZOaROKWzT4-cMmmwzsrM2/s1600/100_0011-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKUWCbgl8aoV6aYJ0TbtS3WXCyNJkgUa8qmsy0xM5aAh8DhQoBYnMGZ4y3cf8MD5QwiFnelHhGNzIfOblHZS94Ck5hmMuTIKaeA6sRI20dCwS10PGbZnvO4xZOaROKWzT4-cMmmwzsrM2/s320/100_0011-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The view across the cafeteria towards the library. Look in the upper right below the flags. That room jutting out is a lounge area, with a pretty comfy bed. A nap there is also on my list. I might have to return next year.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMzh6OGx1kPUknOZTBLPYU8qQjZBMw2WPWZSaIEt2yfo6fUc2DR9jcSyWAYBsaq-qJpavMsZYRI2vjf_m823OfnnXClp0IiwoDSCwi0-h915G7_It-luWatJXeT7CTo4kOgpa76WMCIFJI/s1600/100_0012-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMzh6OGx1kPUknOZTBLPYU8qQjZBMw2WPWZSaIEt2yfo6fUc2DR9jcSyWAYBsaq-qJpavMsZYRI2vjf_m823OfnnXClp0IiwoDSCwi0-h915G7_It-luWatJXeT7CTo4kOgpa76WMCIFJI/s320/100_0012-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The library is grander than my camera would allow. It's also a good place to nap.<br />
<br />
This is making me sleepy. But I'll revive: I have more blogs to write!</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-35455753266872320052011-06-13T22:41:00.000-07:002011-06-13T22:41:06.314-07:00You Think I Make This Stuff Up?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgInynEFplvsIMgYMiD7_YOyrP3n7Tji6ZR7jG6zHbeealsjz_u8Jng9VujK8IVBw_ssVen2rHqrahR_8x79zr4GdWEn3GC8w_FX2q_7YBHYN09xWoXIX-2I5qdNdJwJ1M6qnNv5orC0cSS/s1600/100_0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgInynEFplvsIMgYMiD7_YOyrP3n7Tji6ZR7jG6zHbeealsjz_u8Jng9VujK8IVBw_ssVen2rHqrahR_8x79zr4GdWEn3GC8w_FX2q_7YBHYN09xWoXIX-2I5qdNdJwJ1M6qnNv5orC0cSS/s320/100_0001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
See, there <i>is </i>a Ferrari Saloon.<br />
<br />
Note the air hose on the right of the screen. This was used in my facial, I believe.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifoEkeAR6jjWS9SCM1iMwlh_Ku-h3FXSQ5W13X0paGnS_MylvZZ8Q8xpZOMBvS7DXwrJ4JOzyqj6gkbP0n9-j-w6f_p-EZfD9LnS0UtV9iYGIOCKiipf3OYp1_T3mpz19GNdCsbdbqWjx6/s1600/100_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifoEkeAR6jjWS9SCM1iMwlh_Ku-h3FXSQ5W13X0paGnS_MylvZZ8Q8xpZOMBvS7DXwrJ4JOzyqj6gkbP0n9-j-w6f_p-EZfD9LnS0UtV9iYGIOCKiipf3OYp1_T3mpz19GNdCsbdbqWjx6/s320/100_0002.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I splurged after my facial, and got a fresh squeeze from the Juice Stall next door....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiE3WETrWnz5ww_w5vdc9goSRP2olnKNXl07Eg0UqyLAdbXYEPCUp6b2xVKbRT357knQqtCqz-4DNe6U-PdkTRHVXqkTixa_vHkteFy3c4mY6_jerw7uj9ezNu-h4hGQxqYR0X4OpZsogq/s1600/100_0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiE3WETrWnz5ww_w5vdc9goSRP2olnKNXl07Eg0UqyLAdbXYEPCUp6b2xVKbRT357knQqtCqz-4DNe6U-PdkTRHVXqkTixa_vHkteFy3c4mY6_jerw7uj9ezNu-h4hGQxqYR0X4OpZsogq/s320/100_0003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
.....and a shawarma from Al-Ennabi....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoU0tOluFbiKi9XPLT1xfl42fSAM4OrlqOrKJrAgsWK_QGeCVK9SAwoCYsAOPSFovVvVfUdGmflK0UaW8pGeq_wK1BN98ElPQm9qbUuMTUHqjI69t01CCqBZSpWqp1oLL-y0jHYmahOITc/s1600/Lamb-Shawarma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoU0tOluFbiKi9XPLT1xfl42fSAM4OrlqOrKJrAgsWK_QGeCVK9SAwoCYsAOPSFovVvVfUdGmflK0UaW8pGeq_wK1BN98ElPQm9qbUuMTUHqjI69t01CCqBZSpWqp1oLL-y0jHYmahOITc/s320/Lamb-Shawarma.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Ok, I didn't take that last photo, but the shawarma was so shweeet!<br />
<br />
The next photo is mine: I'm delivering these donuts to my class this morning. Blood sugar spike, here we come! Yes, they are Dunkin.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2q4atw7aZh8eO-mCrr21fjqgXirUVTzmRyxVNtiwSHKxE47AfIqttuaHxuDxbCl3U2TiMAtzwrlywjsZjH8OwvDVnQ3CnIdRlvkRTIRoK6sFWppFT8dUWevwQCHpgL0mDoAlctT361Tw/s1600/100_0004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2q4atw7aZh8eO-mCrr21fjqgXirUVTzmRyxVNtiwSHKxE47AfIqttuaHxuDxbCl3U2TiMAtzwrlywjsZjH8OwvDVnQ3CnIdRlvkRTIRoK6sFWppFT8dUWevwQCHpgL0mDoAlctT361Tw/s320/100_0004.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-25473363114916875272011-06-13T13:09:00.000-07:002011-06-13T13:12:57.747-07:00I Said "Yes"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Feeling a little fluffy Friday, I drove to the barber. I chose the Ferrarri Saloon, because my head is like that race car (sleek! fast! hot! needs constant care!) and what better place to get a haircut than a drinking establishment?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxN2uL0g45sOqpOBfoKAwcehiJw2D0DjjCR9l_zuXVJyA_fXzOPhSqc3D2QWXiZ3wur-ljAt1MgEMrUSNqMRKbJKPRjByVWEEBwKwkY-BYrCYgraSddY_Tr1_kzI5g_kIAs_2dZJx9NG4Y/s1600/100_0002_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxN2uL0g45sOqpOBfoKAwcehiJw2D0DjjCR9l_zuXVJyA_fXzOPhSqc3D2QWXiZ3wur-ljAt1MgEMrUSNqMRKbJKPRjByVWEEBwKwkY-BYrCYgraSddY_Tr1_kzI5g_kIAs_2dZJx9NG4Y/s320/100_0002_2.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><br />
Oh, right: Ferrari <i>Salon</i>. <br />
<br />
My man didn't speak much English, and I didn't speak any of whatever he's speaking (Ferrarish, maybe?) but I made it clear that I needed a haircut. At any rate, that I <i>wanted </i>a haircut.<br />
<br />
Now, Laura usually cuts my hair, and she does a fine job. But, you know, being able to mow a townhouse lawn doesn't exactly make one a master gardener, if you get my drift, and Ferrari dude was <i>good!</i> He didn't just run the mower back and forth. He held the clipper in one hand and a blade in the other, moving both like Edward Scissorhands. I swear he cut each individual hair, one by one.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMj2ekE3uTsD-2AQJc6YC2eusbsSl7CtIZ4klCGj8ax9fAa18FkTU5dgRnxNEw0MrkVeys2HXB42QHOo1UMVtlv2iv7rGIcm4F-WVdgzVQlozFbBsbjUt5z784Q0D5cVkVea04KAdPV1D7/s1600/Edwardscissorhandsposter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMj2ekE3uTsD-2AQJc6YC2eusbsSl7CtIZ4klCGj8ax9fAa18FkTU5dgRnxNEw0MrkVeys2HXB42QHOo1UMVtlv2iv7rGIcm4F-WVdgzVQlozFbBsbjUt5z784Q0D5cVkVea04KAdPV1D7/s320/Edwardscissorhandsposter.JPG" width="221" /></a></div><br />
Scissorhands now points to my 2 week beard stubble, as in "Let me perform my magic on that, too!"<br />
<br />
I said "Yes".<br />
<br />
I'm feeling great, my head is even sleeker, fast, <i>hotter</i> than before, so I'm going to keep saying yes to whatever he asks.....<br />
<br />
This is usually not a good idea.<br />
<br />
But, so, the facial began. I haven't had a facial before, certainly not one given by a guy speaking Ferrarish, so I didn't know what to expect.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgES9c_xN55sL56gwZBJRaqrgK2EWlep0dVr8DUrx70MCUGKXdH25QyPuWaNrqB1Bt1wKgPJ-k6HfK8htL3t7_qAwS7iaVdySANKVJRQI_WeXNy9zmfnW_vQ8aI28xVD9mA0yqLBrgYkHTD/s1600/100_0004_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgES9c_xN55sL56gwZBJRaqrgK2EWlep0dVr8DUrx70MCUGKXdH25QyPuWaNrqB1Bt1wKgPJ-k6HfK8htL3t7_qAwS7iaVdySANKVJRQI_WeXNy9zmfnW_vQ8aI28xVD9mA0yqLBrgYkHTD/s320/100_0004_2.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><br />
I got various potions and lotions that tingled, or stung, or stunk, or abraded, or sometimes all. First I think he began with the "asbestos and arsenic" paste (reenacted above).<br />
<br />
Then he used a blowtorch to dry it, as if I were the creme he would brulee.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiGTQ1PSqkKhuR-oQRg9w82QTvC2UV8b3UWFheYCZbpY5YPe9nSjP7RB-SnWmPwviD3SZBMS91umcKHiIPl2tI3f8SfN8GksL9tf9MTW5L8htrDjWBNJ_BsuECN5ai1g7O9m7_iTUBQ-lR/s1600/Caramelising+cre%25CC%2580me+bru%25CC%2582le%25CC%2581e+with+blowtorch-443301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiGTQ1PSqkKhuR-oQRg9w82QTvC2UV8b3UWFheYCZbpY5YPe9nSjP7RB-SnWmPwviD3SZBMS91umcKHiIPl2tI3f8SfN8GksL9tf9MTW5L8htrDjWBNJ_BsuECN5ai1g7O9m7_iTUBQ-lR/s320/Caramelising+cre%25CC%2580me+bru%25CC%2582le%25CC%2581e+with+blowtorch-443301.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Ok, at this point I'm thinking that he may be doing all this for the amusement of the other six guys in the Saloon, none of whom are either are cutting or being cut. I'm suspecting he charged admission:<br />
<br />
"Come on, come all, see how I can afflict the foreigner, who will still thank me and pay me!"<br />
<br />
More potions, more lotions:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsUKtVRvsLoCdYWDTvfGXRdt8KNrB0q4OQQUkHtZUo2k740VntFeANvgS45FOJc1iglFLkuQEWlWxOORDZKeglDIQS4WOCd05niBl0Bi6v6Csj7J8pKjk-O2YwWMPYC5bGXk6UdUdIepg/s1600/100_0006_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsUKtVRvsLoCdYWDTvfGXRdt8KNrB0q4OQQUkHtZUo2k740VntFeANvgS45FOJc1iglFLkuQEWlWxOORDZKeglDIQS4WOCd05niBl0Bi6v6Csj7J8pKjk-O2YwWMPYC5bGXk6UdUdIepg/s320/100_0006_2.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><br />
I was beginning to feel like a cheeseburger.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZvN_j7tGeOOWim0-Jo_r1YnCoSy5ZccziK6fY137joHLAflqljsUNfqCJX9ENqF2W4FrQ7H4wWSLck5AhTeO1TPe8yBt864dqAF64CbJ5QK5cWwvXdWgw0AjLAAF1wosTwSvE1u0hI3y7/s1600/100_0010_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZvN_j7tGeOOWim0-Jo_r1YnCoSy5ZccziK6fY137joHLAflqljsUNfqCJX9ENqF2W4FrQ7H4wWSLck5AhTeO1TPe8yBt864dqAF64CbJ5QK5cWwvXdWgw0AjLAAF1wosTwSvE1u0hI3y7/s320/100_0010_2.jpg" width="306" /></a></div><br />
A cheeseburger to go, for that matter, after he put my head in the bag.<br />
<br />
A steamed cheeseburger, even. Ferrari dude would stick a hose under the bag, fill it with steam to the point that my eyes were beginning to poached like eggs....<br />
<br />
Is that laughter I hear from the audience?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1caetYsIX9XiJtGXslHVSRUE4nl_FCH1dY5hmR5OC4A8TklvG5zG2VNVGfMZf90SoNDMeFZ2tXVRhjdfrPodTTh_F4ovJYKVB8b39PgziQ7ZkED13qfYRDGmy46P3ygM076JdOh9RvBx/s1600/100_0013-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1caetYsIX9XiJtGXslHVSRUE4nl_FCH1dY5hmR5OC4A8TklvG5zG2VNVGfMZf90SoNDMeFZ2tXVRhjdfrPodTTh_F4ovJYKVB8b39PgziQ7ZkED13qfYRDGmy46P3ygM076JdOh9RvBx/s320/100_0013-1.jpg" width="262" /></a></div><br />
Some of his ministrations struck me as unusual. But what did I know? I had said yes.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWmZW8fP2HJ9jPub8_5ShDI0cDm2I48aSjXpvx2qsy2IRtCST_WG9xUGcQwpVwfdpaf0ByLWrb1lh-XACOVXbJOWggAS4ViXfwriIZ6qHUvN3U3fKyGVi-BAMdlC2EW2g8ay4UWPNUkis/s1600/100_0009-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZWmZW8fP2HJ9jPub8_5ShDI0cDm2I48aSjXpvx2qsy2IRtCST_WG9xUGcQwpVwfdpaf0ByLWrb1lh-XACOVXbJOWggAS4ViXfwriIZ6qHUvN3U3fKyGVi-BAMdlC2EW2g8ay4UWPNUkis/s320/100_0009-1.jpg" width="268" /></a></div><br />
I was becoming more and more suspicious. My eyes were also beginning to swell shut.<br />
<br />
Every so often, he would spritz my face without warning: water-boarding lite.<br />
<br />
<br />
Two hours later I paid Ferrari dude as much, almost, as Sirish makes in a week. <br />
<br />
Was it worth it? Well: My skin was Oprah-smooth, and remains so, mainly, after a couple days.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it's good to say Yes. The guys applauding the show thought so.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwT12Lx7goaDUrWVZ80e-cgepmGo6a8MP3yXnqHmfajIn3OZLsHbSC8FmzLkCza9kbA5nzBwce_TKKNgRuDhfj5NtVAItEz-bUdRaSFXjIRaYb2Zn6q5D13k5VXaedi02nLWJemraAqgF3/s1600/100_0014-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwT12Lx7goaDUrWVZ80e-cgepmGo6a8MP3yXnqHmfajIn3OZLsHbSC8FmzLkCza9kbA5nzBwce_TKKNgRuDhfj5NtVAItEz-bUdRaSFXjIRaYb2Zn6q5D13k5VXaedi02nLWJemraAqgF3/s320/100_0014-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-37089019401225128762011-06-10T09:54:00.000-07:002011-06-10T09:57:44.327-07:00My Morning Mosques<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42R5IDCvhVmxSnvPty-4QNNkxto6vLeYr_uAlEAElzqlGNiFt78WFWN5pnEtc4WLLXZ1sYhEPcY1CGuK7yu1er7AOQT4xD8U7utqWLM0PLVmrKpehtl5SsrZ6qOJy_DHFzbOiPQZdw10_/s1600/100_0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42R5IDCvhVmxSnvPty-4QNNkxto6vLeYr_uAlEAElzqlGNiFt78WFWN5pnEtc4WLLXZ1sYhEPcY1CGuK7yu1er7AOQT4xD8U7utqWLM0PLVmrKpehtl5SsrZ6qOJy_DHFzbOiPQZdw10_/s320/100_0002.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This morning I pointed my Civic in the direction of the National Mosque. My plan? No real plan, if by plan you imagine that I had any idea of what I was really going to do. I figured I'd just start at the National, then wander home, turning in the direction of any mosque I saw....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxK11roMQXZQbn5eCtyiMrWRVzK8D4KpQN5wsVfm5IbN8OXZqHtT3BesdFLyN_TG-Hk-g7n3I6FW7Fwys6NHE04mhxqA5Jhgz6WzXTjGEvi_NcE-mH7gB_oSSlRV86NmtNbCBlIP4_wFiX/s1600/100_0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxK11roMQXZQbn5eCtyiMrWRVzK8D4KpQN5wsVfm5IbN8OXZqHtT3BesdFLyN_TG-Hk-g7n3I6FW7Fwys6NHE04mhxqA5Jhgz6WzXTjGEvi_NcE-mH7gB_oSSlRV86NmtNbCBlIP4_wFiX/s320/100_0009.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><br />
The National Mosque looks lonely to me. It has a great view of the city, and a large parking lot. This morning I was the only car there. I mean, I wasn't the car itself, although I do consider myself pretty much a Civic kind of guy. The place was deserted.<br />
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If it were crowded, and if I was a VIP, then I did discover the Stairway to Heaven:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaO7FG7xSIzE6UQgPigFaQmWdW9cxpzfA5vaxOIPRkKDTdh3cLH7ns9Q2mxU__tkHB-wBL814SIfGq1pQD5-qNFPtjiN_tXz_6KLjAIngnq20icUUTMx-LE7zon2tTCJ4h7s5AGlcT46o9/s1600/100_0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaO7FG7xSIzE6UQgPigFaQmWdW9cxpzfA5vaxOIPRkKDTdh3cLH7ns9Q2mxU__tkHB-wBL814SIfGq1pQD5-qNFPtjiN_tXz_6KLjAIngnq20icUUTMx-LE7zon2tTCJ4h7s5AGlcT46o9/s320/100_0007.jpg" width="179" /></a></div><br />
Mosques are fairly easy to see because they're common and the feature they have in common is their minaret. Wait a minute. Perhaps mosques don't all have minarets, although it seems that all minarets have mosques. So I followed the trail of the minarets.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3uh3fgzGsBLRJ1MKNbqp6EuUOUfjhBgfnKtsRU2lqykiOKn7d_0Sxhy3hNev07RoGSwlRLgE9w7Z3bRgQn3600djc7VIjIJV-HXiTYog08xVlx_gCsc3viTsEAPaAxxmVaBG8hmTCvuu3/s1600/100_0026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3uh3fgzGsBLRJ1MKNbqp6EuUOUfjhBgfnKtsRU2lqykiOKn7d_0Sxhy3hNev07RoGSwlRLgE9w7Z3bRgQn3600djc7VIjIJV-HXiTYog08xVlx_gCsc3viTsEAPaAxxmVaBG8hmTCvuu3/s320/100_0026.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Most are small, and they're often tucked into commercial areas.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyzqrYQyfdADWyN6rQo99OEc7QaDwl8Dp2dwAHhbST1YOKHaeI8xZY55Xj62DEe-VUYPX0MTtPH0sl340fuCZskWmvs_HLVcr8V4V902psOPtTiMXSPz2IKlkgMBR-lkirSfvX3TovbE2j/s1600/100_0025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyzqrYQyfdADWyN6rQo99OEc7QaDwl8Dp2dwAHhbST1YOKHaeI8xZY55Xj62DEe-VUYPX0MTtPH0sl340fuCZskWmvs_HLVcr8V4V902psOPtTiMXSPz2IKlkgMBR-lkirSfvX3TovbE2j/s320/100_0025.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I wished I had a mosquetect in the car to explain the different styles.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbwrpjxLK58wRlmzJkzyZgtLYzZeWDhmmytmgodH3D_DmfPzqlv1f6Ql_6S7qHZi7xaDt6yawP4Qch_iKgCs9JA0z_7k5VdNDHelrsOr9BhkMvaAN2w6xlOpYsXKFgT2GSsvErmVol0Fw/s1600/100_0023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbwrpjxLK58wRlmzJkzyZgtLYzZeWDhmmytmgodH3D_DmfPzqlv1f6Ql_6S7qHZi7xaDt6yawP4Qch_iKgCs9JA0z_7k5VdNDHelrsOr9BhkMvaAN2w6xlOpYsXKFgT2GSsvErmVol0Fw/s320/100_0023.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Choices: I could make either the minaret vertical or the building vertical, but not both. Ahh, perspective <i>does</i> shape reality.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Kq_rFYgG26qa6wWyTxaJ-h2-YRcC9uNArLnw92aEW7XWoaPuto6ByW_C80bBTZh3C2sMYH0AZIOGXpmXokbVcjljKWnPKdYqyIPqxcoznpszeF3fz8s9guZ-GVcTY4lt2ZUPX7ZrqIdt/s1600/100_0021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Kq_rFYgG26qa6wWyTxaJ-h2-YRcC9uNArLnw92aEW7XWoaPuto6ByW_C80bBTZh3C2sMYH0AZIOGXpmXokbVcjljKWnPKdYqyIPqxcoznpszeF3fz8s9guZ-GVcTY4lt2ZUPX7ZrqIdt/s320/100_0021.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
All these pictures were taken with a cheap point-and-shoot Kodak. It was SO bright out I never could see the display screen, so I more-or-less-point-and-shot.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPUnZ5EfYvdfqUPK4MMcDC9tHDQG0CFauXm5w6ixWc-GFDGtlB__7jr11N1J1nm-5Vvs8bgc8mEP-ZJ48XswIk8__TT6QME3CFBwuzpQTTHMl6KnsnvvH_bL9kwDGAja6m8_UDTL2Yt04d/s1600/100_0019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPUnZ5EfYvdfqUPK4MMcDC9tHDQG0CFauXm5w6ixWc-GFDGtlB__7jr11N1J1nm-5Vvs8bgc8mEP-ZJ48XswIk8__TT6QME3CFBwuzpQTTHMl6KnsnvvH_bL9kwDGAja6m8_UDTL2Yt04d/s320/100_0019.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I did edit each picture to chop out the extraneous. I don't take such care editing my blog.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRpkftosF-q1St1qcGfPLzYe_qWNsKe0p2oeDz9H0eb6ogkEgMhoHIlYG77LCr8nHZz27wjVIjZ7Kg0dO8OKAujtkqJqwAVb_MbhWA7tWj6SzKWvzCP_4MAboRK8nzpVrrflNIRrv11SC/s1600/100_0017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRpkftosF-q1St1qcGfPLzYe_qWNsKe0p2oeDz9H0eb6ogkEgMhoHIlYG77LCr8nHZz27wjVIjZ7Kg0dO8OKAujtkqJqwAVb_MbhWA7tWj6SzKWvzCP_4MAboRK8nzpVrrflNIRrv11SC/s320/100_0017.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><br />
Can I tell you a secret?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAQgtNY6o3w0Y2SNlibvnXqh0xJuTuUGZ9Mty2gWuslui5EkTZ0HDY4NBGc7y6-3oXmT3m7EXNxd3MMPVjsW78aXCEWMlabVH7xnYqBnHbMeaxp1nm3vtt09m_NHBrOupPOaG6gamXELA/s1600/100_0016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTAQgtNY6o3w0Y2SNlibvnXqh0xJuTuUGZ9Mty2gWuslui5EkTZ0HDY4NBGc7y6-3oXmT3m7EXNxd3MMPVjsW78aXCEWMlabVH7xnYqBnHbMeaxp1nm3vtt09m_NHBrOupPOaG6gamXELA/s320/100_0016.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This probably makes me a bad Facebook friend, but it bugs me when a person downloads <i>every </i>picture from their chip, no matter how ill-focused, redundant, redundant, or redundant. Edit, folks!<br />
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The previous sentence should read "ill-focused or redundant". But now I've added yet <i>more</i> extraneous words....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gb_7zpJvE2FEZ9VZWZ1EsCYcII09KLeM9q4MMfDMrYyKV25UoXzA5qalt5I3Q6e-JLtUBFCjE91NLFULxfNM5DLolxWoG9hQNLx5Lkr_U95KpnX_cBVAfjkjKj2ylHpl9DW7PmShOxAQ/s1600/100_0010-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2gb_7zpJvE2FEZ9VZWZ1EsCYcII09KLeM9q4MMfDMrYyKV25UoXzA5qalt5I3Q6e-JLtUBFCjE91NLFULxfNM5DLolxWoG9hQNLx5Lkr_U95KpnX_cBVAfjkjKj2ylHpl9DW7PmShOxAQ/s320/100_0010-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
So now I'll let the pictures speak.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXJ5Aa8lrAKpymu_dtWm1xUnSDvf5Rwjasrjvq9XEQfTnz1UN-GXKY2IAZEU5ToHzY_HBLqtcn5hbVqVasirA4OGOftttyZ8SA5gKE5rZpgKqFEkZEwC5B_llXBEuav63gzNjYrMZL6Esp/s1600/100_0022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXJ5Aa8lrAKpymu_dtWm1xUnSDvf5Rwjasrjvq9XEQfTnz1UN-GXKY2IAZEU5ToHzY_HBLqtcn5hbVqVasirA4OGOftttyZ8SA5gKE5rZpgKqFEkZEwC5B_llXBEuav63gzNjYrMZL6Esp/s320/100_0022.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZzz2ILsrxdvtwzdNbUADZ88Ut3csk854A2xJago2McBzVs5xilYNOxEsDtR72XCEp7hPBiso3Ez4V_kUy9nXcgZBnd9Sy66ds-S_c1H7Xc8OrouO4SLuKtZiHPm69MsfGBqBdlf_zV0Q5/s1600/100_0020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZzz2ILsrxdvtwzdNbUADZ88Ut3csk854A2xJago2McBzVs5xilYNOxEsDtR72XCEp7hPBiso3Ez4V_kUy9nXcgZBnd9Sy66ds-S_c1H7Xc8OrouO4SLuKtZiHPm69MsfGBqBdlf_zV0Q5/s320/100_0020.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEytdX3BRHCZwUQTr9jieDw61S4cADqnEb4aTyZYWHwxA4iqpRy_7ifWwyh4StIKhEaQ0tP22Ew7_jTQ-TMrOJl9Al3QBRHHD_HKWQTTRT9yWRXszyjfW9Iw7-lC_Kh85AgWpAgyG_JwnP/s1600/100_0015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEytdX3BRHCZwUQTr9jieDw61S4cADqnEb4aTyZYWHwxA4iqpRy_7ifWwyh4StIKhEaQ0tP22Ew7_jTQ-TMrOJl9Al3QBRHHD_HKWQTTRT9yWRXszyjfW9Iw7-lC_Kh85AgWpAgyG_JwnP/s320/100_0015.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Tomorrow: My smooth skin, and other tales from the neighborhood.</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-55897778092463470072011-06-07T12:38:00.001-07:002011-06-07T12:38:50.410-07:00People Like You Make Me Sick<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My carefully crafted, and artfully illustrated, blog on this topic just got vaporized.<br />
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I blame human error.<br />
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Mine.<br />
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I'll try again tomorrow, dammit.</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-72637128050801063932011-06-06T13:10:00.000-07:002011-06-06T13:10:11.210-07:00Get Out of My Head, and Into My Car<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">No, not <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x28rmm_billy-ocean-get-out-of-my-dreams_music">Dreams, as Billy Ocean</a> would have it, even though that is one great old school video....<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichw_othYomVv94uyP2fg74b2l3UEWolNywyA0ty5aaEaqysRQ0Cs3W0VZ279fakdnNLP3E-IcoCx5VlQhTYBjUSG-3Hm7lQXVRKByT8XCSawoJVrh6mZZ6qIMAZtuIMsO96Ejy9qg9Pti/s1600/100_0010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEichw_othYomVv94uyP2fg74b2l3UEWolNywyA0ty5aaEaqysRQ0Cs3W0VZ279fakdnNLP3E-IcoCx5VlQhTYBjUSG-3Hm7lQXVRKByT8XCSawoJVrh6mZZ6qIMAZtuIMsO96Ejy9qg9Pti/s320/100_0010.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Scorned lover that I was, I needed to get out of my head, and stop the brooding.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Driving around <i>looking</i>, not <i>thinking</i>, was the tonic I needed. Photo tour of Doha, here I come! </div><div><br />
</div><div>It's easy to miss Doha unless you look. The city is definitely designed to make mass protests hard, which would never happen here, as there is no reason for them, and I most certainly am not advocating them, and that's all I'll say about that. Doha is criss-crossed with huge highways, that completely separate the smaller neighborhoods: no one is going to walk back and forth between them.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DzETqEvpVAzBglvpUc4s0OO8FHJlHgBEKjsNNLUG8XoQ9Nv1U7LjphUglupA-qBLdjSNhdelF4tC1tYaekLqjLV-wODyQlxCrsrqX8ZV8aB6q_Yt7xM-vEk4c8QvNvW5idnJc6a1FLiq/s1600/100_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0DzETqEvpVAzBglvpUc4s0OO8FHJlHgBEKjsNNLUG8XoQ9Nv1U7LjphUglupA-qBLdjSNhdelF4tC1tYaekLqjLV-wODyQlxCrsrqX8ZV8aB6q_Yt7xM-vEk4c8QvNvW5idnJc6a1FLiq/s320/100_0005.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>I don't know anything about the neighborhoods here, and you don't either, so I'm going to speak with authority and hope you don't notice. But, first, I'm going to <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x28rmm_billy-ocean-get-out-of-my-dreams_music">play that video again</a>. And turn it up. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Much better.</div><div><br />
</div><div>As far as I can tell, there are three kinds of "neighborhoods" here. There are the mansions, which are located wherever the owners damn well want to put them. They seem to be scattered around, unlike in the US, where you don't really have a mansion unless your neighbors can look at yours and say "Mine's bigger" and you can look back and say "No, mine is".</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhATmAXUnFLWPo-mdiGa58MuFtxmEu8cofXvwlf2HpMFbrEF_Uj8zgYQ7GCFRFzaOjXQjB3s1z2Ad7eULj_26W2b74qMWvvvrWMFK1xUFXvaeZ2Lw75hCl7vNv5pzTVnaEeYak3UlMR7Wff/s1600/100_0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhATmAXUnFLWPo-mdiGa58MuFtxmEu8cofXvwlf2HpMFbrEF_Uj8zgYQ7GCFRFzaOjXQjB3s1z2Ad7eULj_26W2b74qMWvvvrWMFK1xUFXvaeZ2Lw75hCl7vNv5pzTVnaEeYak3UlMR7Wff/s320/100_0008.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>The mansions are often right next to major roads, so maybe the owners DO want to be seen. All right, all right, these are not the best mansion pictures, but it was early and I was just wandering around. You want to do better? Qatar Airways is awaiting your call.</div><div><br />
</div><div>The second kind of neighborhood is where the ex-pats live, and by ex-pats I mean well-paid foreigners like me. We mainly live in apartment complexes which, like the mansions, are always behind fairly high walls. You've seen my pictures of al Samrya, where I live, but if not then do yourself the favor and go back and read the post that contains the pictures. Damn, I couldn't even find that one, so good luck with that. It does seem like the ratio of pictures-to-words has grown over time, so maybe I'm just getting lazy. Anyway: I'll post some pictures of ex-pat life soon.<br />
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</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixMznDBSmhrCpK_jRS9taMkAGBOrNjKrmouyceCDH2ARulrW0-yQTzRzGtf3ezrbskR0wm1CmaZ0Ug5CHmaGQ5eYg4WT1wVBSLYCuJitzHL_PAYcaOO7IOV-mCgxHcAdWL_g9VRc70gZh9/s1600/Tom-Brady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixMznDBSmhrCpK_jRS9taMkAGBOrNjKrmouyceCDH2ARulrW0-yQTzRzGtf3ezrbskR0wm1CmaZ0Ug5CHmaGQ5eYg4WT1wVBSLYCuJitzHL_PAYcaOO7IOV-mCgxHcAdWL_g9VRc70gZh9/s320/Tom-Brady.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><br />
He's still a Pat, I know, but he won't always be. Then, maybe he'll be an ex-Pat-pat.<br />
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Better, if P-Diddy played for the Patriots, and then retired to move here, he could be a P-diddy-Pat-pat.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRue5ATEtiKMWD_Wqho-v87zWgfrvnCsZ6Eb25l5O3yeNhMcYlfBAIQ-4BZUse6TmnUPe4Mu8vh8MMRpMMLU2ejIdNY1oGmI3YQHtk5-dYmeJKiPTU6KJ16eGjnGEHEXXorAiNfZMX1dd/s1600/Unknown-7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKRue5ATEtiKMWD_Wqho-v87zWgfrvnCsZ6Eb25l5O3yeNhMcYlfBAIQ-4BZUse6TmnUPe4Mu8vh8MMRpMMLU2ejIdNY1oGmI3YQHtk5-dYmeJKiPTU6KJ16eGjnGEHEXXorAiNfZMX1dd/s1600/Unknown-7.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
The third kind of neighborhood houses everyone else, who I suppose are also ex-pats, except it's unlikely that they hang out at ex-pat hangouts, or if they do they are of the sort affordable to those making $350/month.<br />
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This is probably not such a place, but I liked the lone air conditioner. And the lux palaces in the background.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I should be writing more, and more eloquently, as you dear reader have come this far without a whole lot of payoff. So I fear I leave you greatly disappointed, or perhaps I'm still just smarting from being jilted. Anyway. Enjoy the pictures. I'm going to go eat ice cream right out of the container.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSZJUOlsoFriFs5PrxWTumO5BUvoahVWFzuV_Dc01D9q-OBW6rj0vpgjDDL6rVcuBCC91diRKlScZl2iHopToBxEA140A9UsZ8wjcSOXOyajgft5o6Hge6zaAJwegYO68dHDpq0kWhN1B0/s1600/100_0012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSZJUOlsoFriFs5PrxWTumO5BUvoahVWFzuV_Dc01D9q-OBW6rj0vpgjDDL6rVcuBCC91diRKlScZl2iHopToBxEA140A9UsZ8wjcSOXOyajgft5o6Hge6zaAJwegYO68dHDpq0kWhN1B0/s320/100_0012.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrOkpnXuXWyh9uJ8epdBD3Mi5yD6tc6DZVl26G82ugxLjyYlOyUPEmg9gTAGXUWsejLTPW1kB2fTpDMIrwt-hjl8vSTArlCMT-hWXwfPTLa98BPqwuNoRsqhuhmDdacV7RiZAsB61PnoH/s1600/100_0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrOkpnXuXWyh9uJ8epdBD3Mi5yD6tc6DZVl26G82ugxLjyYlOyUPEmg9gTAGXUWsejLTPW1kB2fTpDMIrwt-hjl8vSTArlCMT-hWXwfPTLa98BPqwuNoRsqhuhmDdacV7RiZAsB61PnoH/s320/100_0004.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvfRc-bjo3em0mcV57ZvFRxdJNr2bdzj_O5YxB7e24DZ51J7YQh4p94u-lGo-sh22GWs0154WEa_M4OQU_iU6TjZ-h1YswoFWqRuqhIqO2PIyp-onyQjZi1YmmehP6S9fUmY21Z5eFXZ0/s1600/100_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXvfRc-bjo3em0mcV57ZvFRxdJNr2bdzj_O5YxB7e24DZ51J7YQh4p94u-lGo-sh22GWs0154WEa_M4OQU_iU6TjZ-h1YswoFWqRuqhIqO2PIyp-onyQjZi1YmmehP6S9fUmY21Z5eFXZ0/s320/100_0001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Congrats! You've made it to the end. Thanks, and good night.</div></div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-82640076697781178262011-06-03T10:40:00.000-07:002011-06-03T10:48:31.577-07:00Jilted<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn4-8UMwikoSCbzDQk_oPhsyBBrKrNuMNGlpxkQM-9W34sIJPImKaSsYESCBbU-O7HlDwg4GbnztgsvWY12GfQkt4ILPlMexPGce3IHPkRxZ_Q0WAxxWC41HPRrJytaEIuaayqGyMjLR1K/s1600/100_0013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn4-8UMwikoSCbzDQk_oPhsyBBrKrNuMNGlpxkQM-9W34sIJPImKaSsYESCBbU-O7HlDwg4GbnztgsvWY12GfQkt4ILPlMexPGce3IHPkRxZ_Q0WAxxWC41HPRrJytaEIuaayqGyMjLR1K/s320/100_0013.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I loved her, and she loved me. Sometimes I had ignored her, I regret, but this spring I had rededicated myself to her. She seemed happy. Life was good.<br />
<br />
Imagine my shock when I opened the note from her last night that read:<br />
<br />
I don't love you anymore.<br />
Those endearing little actions of yours? They annoy the shit out of me.<br />
I can do better than you. I'm out of here.<br />
PS: You're a lousy kisser.<br />
<br />
That's what it really felt like last night when I received my course evaluations for the spring semester.<br />
<br />
I felt jilted, blindsided, gut-punched, without warning. My evaluations are usually pretty good. I have had some bad ones, but those were generally well-deserved. This spring, I worked exceptionally hard on my courses. I was attentive and responsive to the students. I was well-prepared and engaging. I assessed the students' work in detail and quickly. I did an excellent job. Or so I thought.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgah5Z9gcebz5IVXPzJuuTZ17QJSOEEpbILZaQuQQtcEz1Klt22DJI-L3BevHjqq-JbtcZ1m6Bay6kfmuxGAAN8d1yZrlCW3nbyGrDauI9-TNQPrc0szfsoIjwWSFW-6dCIePGLZKXMs0JH/s1600/100_0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgah5Z9gcebz5IVXPzJuuTZ17QJSOEEpbILZaQuQQtcEz1Klt22DJI-L3BevHjqq-JbtcZ1m6Bay6kfmuxGAAN8d1yZrlCW3nbyGrDauI9-TNQPrc0szfsoIjwWSFW-6dCIePGLZKXMs0JH/s320/100_0009.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
My students concluded otherwise. Sure, I got lots of love in the evaluations, but I'm the anti-Sarah Palin in viewing my audience, as I assume that my critics are right and that my fans are just being nice ("You're a <i>pretty </i>good kisser..."). Sarah and I may be alike in our thin skin, though, as try as I might to ignore my critics their words do hurt.<br />
<br />
Some of the words were pretty harsh. Now, I study politics, and I know harsh words are often used in commenting on public figures, especially on blogs allowing anonymous posts. Like those blogs, my evaluations are done anonymously, on line, and that no doubt makes for harsher words than would be used face to face. But, still.<br />
<br />
Is it possible not to know that your love is about ready to walk through the door, and to believe that everything between you is good? That's what this feels like. Now, when I think about looking into the faces of my students during class, I wonder how many were thinking: When can I walk through that door? Now, in thinking about my pleasant interactions throughout the semester, I wonder which students were thinking: I can't wait to be rid of you.<br />
<br />
The worst part is the PS: You're a lousy kisser. <br />
<br />
If you were told that, and you thought you actually were sort of a pretty good kisser, then what do you do next?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9HxLadPz8-N4ti5b_FGB-TdgY6xJNshopZYk0nneMcQUrJhm3FmWNZ0YT7uqycrgEsNCScKR2UMm7OBUyTxPsZCqzR_J5dnhoV2ixEQX4Cr7e8pxgrNaXcb_Wp7IhyphenhyphenxWTxNsN1BFOPpX/s1600/100_0011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9HxLadPz8-N4ti5b_FGB-TdgY6xJNshopZYk0nneMcQUrJhm3FmWNZ0YT7uqycrgEsNCScKR2UMm7OBUyTxPsZCqzR_J5dnhoV2ixEQX4Cr7e8pxgrNaXcb_Wp7IhyphenhyphenxWTxNsN1BFOPpX/s320/100_0011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I was in a fog today. Literally. A dust fog. The sun did not penetrate it, and it was tough to breath. Driving was difficult.<br />
<br />
</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-10667881846724775592011-06-02T09:34:00.000-07:002011-06-02T09:34:12.972-07:00Worth Waiting For!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">You've been too busy to catch up on this blog; that's why I haven't written more.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlofCmNHkBxuO7yfkaL3KavDE8ghj7H1aQL2MAy_A4I9bwSxvbZEOAMZDHlG97z7PxMaqLsnzqGu6IVaBv_Snt_xhGWN-h0hKMn5yt9i9Gv9YNrrRLfDcklCX2Cr1kL8GBMgCQONOYqaDJ/s1600/Photo+on+2011-05-31+at+12.53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlofCmNHkBxuO7yfkaL3KavDE8ghj7H1aQL2MAy_A4I9bwSxvbZEOAMZDHlG97z7PxMaqLsnzqGu6IVaBv_Snt_xhGWN-h0hKMn5yt9i9Gv9YNrrRLfDcklCX2Cr1kL8GBMgCQONOYqaDJ/s320/Photo+on+2011-05-31+at+12.53.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I have been saving up, and now I'm ready to unleash the verbal torrent, but dinner calls. Should I answer dinner and, if so, what should I tell it?<br />
<br />
Coming soon:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">Honor Killings</span></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><br />
</span></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Wanna Get Lucky?</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>People Like You Make Me Sick</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>More About Sirish</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-82263137998249779922011-05-28T12:56:00.000-07:002011-05-28T13:06:09.806-07:00Coming Clean<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xXK5p_7DvkykoT1RcOYV6vxQsRtlYtJ5OSyjdAH6sPjyTYQuJEqgYs9_VjsNZcOWjKSerYLUfCyUQQtU1exuj4pTF9jqwqtVWtHudYgKfLkvRII0o6gQ-07ySAl3JXsUii22VKzmeN7j/s1600/100_0004-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xXK5p_7DvkykoT1RcOYV6vxQsRtlYtJ5OSyjdAH6sPjyTYQuJEqgYs9_VjsNZcOWjKSerYLUfCyUQQtU1exuj4pTF9jqwqtVWtHudYgKfLkvRII0o6gQ-07ySAl3JXsUii22VKzmeN7j/s320/100_0004-2.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><br />
So: How much should I pay Sirish to clean apartment?<br />
<br />
Not that my apartment really needs cleaning, because for a guy I'm pretty phastidious. In case you are not as hip, or as black, as I am, I took the word "fastidious" and swapped out the f for the ph, which I hear is the way that urban youth roll, which shows only that I am neither hip nor black. Like you.<br />
<br />
I make my bed, even though no one is going to see it but me. But one can hope. (Kidding!) To give my bedroom the "lived in" look, I sometimes leave a pair of jeans artfully draped. If you looked really close, or used the before-mentioned sniff test, you'd know that those sheets have just been washed, even though I realized that with four beds in my apartment I could just move around and sleep each night in a different one, giving each set of sheets the chance to smoke a cigarette and maybe get a drink before I came back again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVM38qIeMiEByzljLJmf6P6CW7ZY1nMUD1vf2q5-28yC59GF8O52MsZo0ZSjHykTvKlNpLXrbqjCCZibWM5kaXzAmXLzrJ7xI6ns8QpUdxpRcoCoDTwgepVOZbWuX1zTGQ4J3sSM-zH2Sn/s1600/100_0005-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVM38qIeMiEByzljLJmf6P6CW7ZY1nMUD1vf2q5-28yC59GF8O52MsZo0ZSjHykTvKlNpLXrbqjCCZibWM5kaXzAmXLzrJ7xI6ns8QpUdxpRcoCoDTwgepVOZbWuX1zTGQ4J3sSM-zH2Sn/s320/100_0005-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I wash my dishes promptly. Promptly means "when I wash them". Given how few dishes I have, it's not like I need to buy stock in <a href="http://www.colgate.com/app/Palmolive/US/EN/HomePage.cwsp">Palmolive</a>, although after clicking on this link I realize how much fun my life is lacking, if it lacks <a href="http://www.colgate.com/app/Palmolive/US/EN/HomePage.cwsp">Palmolive</a>. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUesWJ0r_QVZXQQjcRgCiqYJKLVa0Nz7kZQjksCTU2k8q2SDH9StKdZ3W_kAof_CrcTCBomjoeS1g1qmKuvmxBNVLSEiSxhFfVWIntKkDypV3R2xPY6OAfPgE8E57Df66J7ErGyP2_pD5T/s1600/100_0002-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUesWJ0r_QVZXQQjcRgCiqYJKLVa0Nz7kZQjksCTU2k8q2SDH9StKdZ3W_kAof_CrcTCBomjoeS1g1qmKuvmxBNVLSEiSxhFfVWIntKkDypV3R2xPY6OAfPgE8E57Df66J7ErGyP2_pD5T/s320/100_0002-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Yeah, ok, my desk gets a bit sloppy, but I usually clean it when I'm avoiding an important project, or trying to remedy self-loathing, or pointlessly seeking control over the external world, or something, so a bit of mess is just fine with me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6F4aLPs5EfqmXLEoELhOGb-XunHkt5dooBSnAoqoCc7lG34DSVy39kKdNj9t3cICFOca8xkaEdqS7_Z4UB6FCwvSgPlTpGcPx5bwB5tfh-61WpsQ5tPPIyK-PZqtMpsMoRV0fq_e48b4k/s1600/100_0001-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6F4aLPs5EfqmXLEoELhOGb-XunHkt5dooBSnAoqoCc7lG34DSVy39kKdNj9t3cICFOca8xkaEdqS7_Z4UB6FCwvSgPlTpGcPx5bwB5tfh-61WpsQ5tPPIyK-PZqtMpsMoRV0fq_e48b4k/s320/100_0001-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
This is all to say that I don't need Sirish to clean my apartment. He <i>asked </i>me if he could clean it, though, saying he could use the money, and I do earn a ton more than he does.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty egalitarian, and I'm uncomfortable with social distinctions. I try not to suck up to those who might think they are higher on the food chain than me. I don't think any tasks are beneath me. Like Jimmy Carter, I carry my own luggage, although it really did look stupid for The President to be hauling a Samsonite. I didn't say I was <i>completely </i>egalitarian. <a href="http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/bloggers/2312453/posts">But then again maybe Carter was just messing with us</a>. As you might remember, if you have been reading this blog, and if you have not I strongly encourage you to start from the beginning, because what you think it's easy to write like this?, at first I resisted having a Tea Boy bring me coffee, until I got over it. My instinct is to be self reliant, and to clean my own apartment.<br />
<br />
So, of course, I told Sirish:<br />
<br />
Sure. <br />
<br />
How much do you charge?<br />
<br />
At this point, the economists among us -- if there are not any, you should recruit five or so, to get at least five if not more economic perspectives -- would probably assume that Sirish would ask for as much as he thought he could get, I would offer as little as I thought possible, and we would negotiate some mutually agreeable number. Because there are <i>lots</i> of potential cleaners here, that price would be pretty low.<br />
<br />
That's not at all the way it worked. Sirish said "Pay me whatever you want." Rather than thinking how hard I could screw the proletariat, and by that I mean my fellow human of integrity, I asked someone in my office "How much should I pay him?"<br />
<br />
I was told: 50QR, plus cab fare for him to get home, for 2 hours of cleaning.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-QO3Jl_ttdI1ASJipJlhXaSKdkhY0pkwLyD9w91Ul7_9zxU6PSrnAHk7_UvngJ4W-0J7Hp4Fp2BU8blfPFKb0yRO6cBWheO-frIq9EoXBhXoQqYIiC4g5kU2s-_R5fnsoTBh6zNQVHVFZ/s1600/100_0007-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-QO3Jl_ttdI1ASJipJlhXaSKdkhY0pkwLyD9w91Ul7_9zxU6PSrnAHk7_UvngJ4W-0J7Hp4Fp2BU8blfPFKb0yRO6cBWheO-frIq9EoXBhXoQqYIiC4g5kU2s-_R5fnsoTBh6zNQVHVFZ/s320/100_0007-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
That's what I told him I would pay, and he accepted.<br />
<br />
Perspective #1: That's about $6.75 an hour, you cheap ass douche bag.<br />
<br />
Perspective #2: Sirish is paid about $1.75 an hour to serve coffee, and you are offering him 3.5 times as much, you munificent saint! Besides, really, I could clean the apartment in about 20 minutes, since it basically needed light dusting.<br />
<br />
Later, I told one of my colleagues about our arrangement and he said "Mark, 50QR is a little light (you cheap ass douche bag). You should offer him 75QR."<br />
<br />
The next day, I gave Sirish 25QR more, thanking him for his good work.<br />
<br />
Here's where it gets interesting, so prepare to start getting interested.<br />
<br />
Sirish says: "I clean for professors X and Y, and they pay me 100QR (you cheap ass douche bag)."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvYwiaCNCLxTrP8TfSrdxMFbbvdYCW3oHBzJVejX2ZPoMaqLZODkbpoc5CPe_lz5Z0NVeUHDXgwFw6eGmdZbQTRQWo_mplvzU0xRdMLCcQK8xL7A6PLsm7IJjffHhew7oh2LkEwLFm3EZ/s1600/100_0006-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvYwiaCNCLxTrP8TfSrdxMFbbvdYCW3oHBzJVejX2ZPoMaqLZODkbpoc5CPe_lz5Z0NVeUHDXgwFw6eGmdZbQTRQWo_mplvzU0xRdMLCcQK8xL7A6PLsm7IJjffHhew7oh2LkEwLFm3EZ/s320/100_0006-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
My inner egalitarian is now totally spinning, because not only did I underpay him, I underpaid him even when I tried to make up for underpaying him!<br />
<br />
When I drove him to my place this past Thursday to clean -- yes, I drove <i>him</i>! And I <i>opened doors</i> for him when we walked to the car! -- I gave him 100QR to clean, another 25QR to make up for the first time, <i>and </i>cab fare.<br />
<br />
I tell my colleague about this, glad that now I'm finally being a good, solid, generous, decent human.<br />
<br />
My colleague says: "He told you that he's getting paid 100QR? No way. He just pulled a fast one on you."</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-85735455360424646802011-05-27T10:21:00.000-07:002011-05-27T13:57:23.475-07:00Life's Unfair<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My parents would tell me this when I whined about something my brother Curt got that I didn't get.<br />
<br />
They were right, of course, as they usually were. If we think we're always going to get what we "deserve" then we're bound to be disappointed.<br />
<br />
Or, maybe, not. When I reflect on all the things that I have that I really don't deserve, I'm reminded: yeah, life <i>is </i>unfair....and it's mainly been unfair to my great advantage.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7cz8nQNKYlgz4CdP4ihMTUK3K0m2hFamf9jGdfJHE4Z0YhkUQuBGZzd1Aqnmzi4KUVw-F8PVEPWP8lU66X4Dhu8V1GIgi6-qIZJavGJt9wgZXe8SXtiEZvC9w4Zx3VekOMe_s_zkcmT3/s1600/100_0005-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7cz8nQNKYlgz4CdP4ihMTUK3K0m2hFamf9jGdfJHE4Z0YhkUQuBGZzd1Aqnmzi4KUVw-F8PVEPWP8lU66X4Dhu8V1GIgi6-qIZJavGJt9wgZXe8SXtiEZvC9w4Zx3VekOMe_s_zkcmT3/s320/100_0005-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Meet Sirish, my "tea boy". That's what guys like him are called here. Every morning when I arrive at my office, he brings me coffee, OJ, and a glass of ice water. (More on this later.)<br />
<br />
Sirish is 26, Sri Lankan, and getting married soon.<br />
<br />
He makes 1000QR a month. <br />
<br />
I'm paid 36 times that amount this month to teach a single class, <i>plus</i> my normal salary.<br />
<br />
Oh, my posh three bedroom apartment, where I live alone, is paid for. <br />
<br />
Sirish lives with 7 other guys in his apartment, and as far as I can tell they all live in the same room. (His English is not so good, but it is far better than my Tamil.)<br />
<br />
Do I really deserve to be paid that much more? Well, yeah, in one sense: that's what the "market" says we're each worth, and the market is never wrong. (Right?) Besides, he's delivering drinks on a tray, and I'm offering highly sophisticated, carefully crafted, enormously skilled guidance to students, and that guidance required years of study and effort to develop.<br />
<br />
But, really? Do I <i>really </i>deserve to be paid that much more? Is that <i>really </i>fair? Here's how I see it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTncqA_2mRshUCWd22iwMRgIm7Dc4JX9LctKef8yx-9Df0n2gEbqjRiDnLL0JaCufUBVnWtZIWN1qGLulcBzgIGRSvchzClceqYcEAa05ZuACz7xfVD6pbT8YvTkPP9iPwuIMhwVEfKBIX/s1600/100_0007-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTncqA_2mRshUCWd22iwMRgIm7Dc4JX9LctKef8yx-9Df0n2gEbqjRiDnLL0JaCufUBVnWtZIWN1qGLulcBzgIGRSvchzClceqYcEAa05ZuACz7xfVD6pbT8YvTkPP9iPwuIMhwVEfKBIX/s320/100_0007-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I was reflecting on such matters while lounging on this day bed in the private lounge just outside the Dean's office. The lounge is off limits to commoners, in this case including me, but I walk in the place as if I own it and no one has seen fit to question me. Also, the Dean is out of town, so let's keep this a little secret between us, ok?<br />
<br />
Here are some reasons why I <i>might</i> deserve to be paid so much more than Sirish.....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgdb1Dz3M71vwLdlJOtvw5aCBVu7tbLktQFMVIOP9o7181aAn9-OiHhHmDd2j3ixgZZrJqB6-BIA_ccp9dx7X4UcWk0mzNV19ljfGBl7YcvO3mUxt2bgDzZwLkS0VMknA704jzq8GLXf3/s1600/god-creator29g.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgdb1Dz3M71vwLdlJOtvw5aCBVu7tbLktQFMVIOP9o7181aAn9-OiHhHmDd2j3ixgZZrJqB6-BIA_ccp9dx7X4UcWk0mzNV19ljfGBl7YcvO3mUxt2bgDzZwLkS0VMknA704jzq8GLXf3/s320/god-creator29g.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
It's God's will that I should be so blessed.<br />
<br />
If that's true, than God truly does work in mysterious ways, by showering this non-believer with riches while allowing millions of His devout followers to live in misery. Of course, there might be payback for me in the Great Beyond....<br />
<br />
I deserve my wealth because I'm a good person.<br />
<br />
Ahem....well....I've tried to do some good works, but I've done a whole lot of sinning, too. I'd guess I'm about average on the good works scale, maybe. I'm pretty sure I'm not 36 times gooder than Sirish.<br />
<br />
I deserve it because I work hard for it.<br />
<br />
This thought came to me while I was sunning myself by the pool. As Sirish was inside cleaning my apartment at the moment, it didn't seem wise to pursue this idea further.....<br />
<br />
Now that I've torched those [what is the gender neutral term for "strawmen"] to the ground, here are the three main reasons I think I'm getting the coffee delivered, and why Sirish is delivering it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23BUW2djhKYa5J-LOnR-SaM9XAJEFu8UjAaTUwasgo4i9LxSJEQg28kC5Z3M8XgufjKBEV4xZ85vcQO_UzhhLD11V4sKR0gG4ejHCya9SsJQw7Jb1BpoZkLZ9ODvTJwSTpenUXNXj6pvM/s1600/strawman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23BUW2djhKYa5J-LOnR-SaM9XAJEFu8UjAaTUwasgo4i9LxSJEQg28kC5Z3M8XgufjKBEV4xZ85vcQO_UzhhLD11V4sKR0gG4ejHCya9SsJQw7Jb1BpoZkLZ9ODvTJwSTpenUXNXj6pvM/s320/strawman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<i>First, I was wise (um, lucky) enough to be born in the US</i>. <br />
<br />
Imagine every person in the world, including me, is put into a really big hat, like this one. Now imagine that God is going to reach into the hat, draw each person out one at a time, and place them in a country based on how many people currently live in that country. Got it?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXxCqTja6jxDLLZNY_Wl1ONhZhq1TGbBXwwrOMiLTGtTy30tCTE-4SZL9RcxuzzIhKx3KgWBrl_WvWIxPJT45wO2VnQl6tZExloTYeQzrJrVjf644-OjxHP6xBeGxyDygO2hbD5qcFGOi/s1600/camilla+big+hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheXxCqTja6jxDLLZNY_Wl1ONhZhq1TGbBXwwrOMiLTGtTy30tCTE-4SZL9RcxuzzIhKx3KgWBrl_WvWIxPJT45wO2VnQl6tZExloTYeQzrJrVjf644-OjxHP6xBeGxyDygO2hbD5qcFGOi/s320/camilla+big+hat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
There's only a 5 percent chance that any person -- say, you or me -- would be lucky enough to be placed in a country where average incomes are as high as in the US (roughly $47,000 per person).<br />
<br />
[<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Statistical note, which you </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">better </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">read, even though when you saw the phrase </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Statistical note</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> your first thought might have been "aww, fuck that". Average incomes are not good measures of typical incomes, but I couldn't find better measures. Averages are misleading because "the average" income of you, me, The Donald would be maybe $30 million or so, which is not typical of you and me. Besides, The Donald is kind of a dick, and I don't really want him in my average, anyway.]</span><br />
<br />
It's just as likely that I would have ended up in a country like Uganda (average income: $1200 per person) or one even poorer.<br />
<br />
Think about that for a second: as a matter of <i>sheer luck, </i>it's as likely that you and I were each born in a country as rich as the US or as poor as Uganda. Half of the world's population lives in a country where the average income is $7,500 (like China's) or less, so it's as good as a coin flip that I would be living in one of those countries. <br />
<br />
Ka-ching! Simply by being born in the US, I won the (economic) lottery! Whoo hoo! Well done, Mark!<br />
<br />
Sirish was born in Sri Lanka: average income, $5200. Sorry, Sirish.<br />
<br />
Next: I chose my parents very, very wisely. <br />
<br />
They passed along some pretty good genes. All right, I got screwed on the height and hair genes, but I'm pretty good at math and words, and I inherited those things, and as it turns out they are pretty helpful at making money.<br />
<br />
Oh, one last thing: I lived in a place where I wasn't shot at, I wasn't beaten, I wasn't starving, I wasn't cold, I wasn't humiliated, as if anyone would <i>choose</i> those things.<br />
<br />
Life isn't fair. I won the nation lottery, the parent lottery, and the environment lottery.<br />
<br />
Do I really <i>deserve</i> to be paid so much more than Sirish? No.<br />
<br />
I am <i>lucky</i> to be so fortunate. Life is unfair.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-40905047356132719372011-05-24T09:56:00.000-07:002011-05-24T09:59:28.928-07:00My Shirt Don't Stink: Other World News<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwonkq62G35o9FBYwg7C8S9SfA3xLmqp-ca3gVC9rK2Xh9O_LJlCjlqTYYbNIOSLDarV7ZmXS27lLY5a6jjQVjCmTll7R1Er0AfqESRYy37w4RZdRI4JTDCs2OTOye-4cR5r0EYTrxTfS/s1600/100_0004-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcwonkq62G35o9FBYwg7C8S9SfA3xLmqp-ca3gVC9rK2Xh9O_LJlCjlqTYYbNIOSLDarV7ZmXS27lLY5a6jjQVjCmTll7R1Er0AfqESRYy37w4RZdRI4JTDCs2OTOye-4cR5r0EYTrxTfS/s320/100_0004-1.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><br />
Yes, I said "shirt".<br />
<br />
In DC, by the end of the day my clothes are thoroughly, um, lived in. I bike to work and clean up the best I can <i>sans</i> shower. I dash around campus, hauling books, computer, papers, and my ass. I climb three flights of stairs to my office several times. Now, I'm not saying I'm a world of funk when the day is done, but....<br />
<br />
I have, on occasion, also used the "sniff test" to see whether I really need to wash some clothes.<br />
<br />
You have too, right?<br />
<br />
If you haven't, please raise your hand.<br />
<br />
Um, perhaps <i>you really should try it.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
The only time I sweat here is at the gym, in workout clothes (me, not the gym). Otherwise it is from air conditioned apartment to air conditioned car to air conditioned office and back again...<br />
<br />
The ballroom was also chilled for Professor Rashid Khalidi's talk at the Hyatt, where I avoided both pool and lounge. Most striking to me were these comments (my interpretation):<br />
<br />
1. The Arab Spring protests and revolutions were about the desire for prosperity, dignity, and freedom; they were against poverty, humiliation, and coercion.<br />
<br />
2. Americans (and he is one) were often too focused on the bogeyman of Islamic extremists rather than on common human aspirations.<br />
<br />
3. So long as the US tries to lead the "peace process" between Israel and Palestine, the process is bound to fail. <br />
<br />
And there's more!<br />
<br />
One of my students is from Bosnia. In answering the question "Tell me one interesting thing about you that I won't learn in class" (I give the students a survey on the first day of class), he responded:<br />
<br />
"I've watched people die."<br />
<br />
The next stop for me, was the library: Here's the book I'll start later tonight.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nD1WexfGRSRkXnBHjS7jIhV7vHlxNPSYDOx2gElmQPOSs5wh0HJKMsYPu895XRLbRypyaFM7apoi8cJrcua01g6cfbCaBpU5ySGJra0b2O-0nwX_y5x-nu0Jk4U5DHzqDbdcUOaSmhtv/s1600/image4341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nD1WexfGRSRkXnBHjS7jIhV7vHlxNPSYDOx2gElmQPOSs5wh0HJKMsYPu895XRLbRypyaFM7apoi8cJrcua01g6cfbCaBpU5ySGJra0b2O-0nwX_y5x-nu0Jk4U5DHzqDbdcUOaSmhtv/s320/image4341.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-48688755439617103792011-05-23T12:35:00.000-07:002011-05-23T12:42:27.857-07:00Eye Opening<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmM9EoKip0eQtAfjHY3S78R3cbCqs4bRLpN_92nisHtR8PS7ZjMt1vYG9jCoja8T5qcapEvcWBKVzXMOKGnlld51JmOSxcXXUdm2ftjz1X0Dg9_WKzeFSHlXQDqw1_N5V7J2__jRcwTy1C/s1600/100_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="115" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmM9EoKip0eQtAfjHY3S78R3cbCqs4bRLpN_92nisHtR8PS7ZjMt1vYG9jCoja8T5qcapEvcWBKVzXMOKGnlld51JmOSxcXXUdm2ftjz1X0Dg9_WKzeFSHlXQDqw1_N5V7J2__jRcwTy1C/s320/100_0001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
You are reading this, which means you are not reading about the "situation" in the Middle East. You could be, of course, but let's face it: you apparently would rather follow my blog, which is really truly very flattering, and I'm blushing, but all things considered I do have to question your choice. I mean, really.<br />
<br />
Let me help you kill two birds with one metaphorical stone, as I am writing about the situation. Ok, I <i>was </i>writing about the situation, but as you are reading this I clearly no longer am. But you get my drift.<br />
<br />
Speaking of birds, last Friday I ate my first pigeon. Yes, pigeon<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jPf9o368VSyb3dgBNMCdly-gst1BmTYT8Fp7zBuEROKEhyDmClTT3CetRBKfwq2wRXb87MKT-3TkKAqOjOxpP8re3u6uMPfwk2Bo5XxjHL5_LmequSKsHj3ov0ElG19epW6EPFa1XDNd/s1600/Pigeon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jPf9o368VSyb3dgBNMCdly-gst1BmTYT8Fp7zBuEROKEhyDmClTT3CetRBKfwq2wRXb87MKT-3TkKAqOjOxpP8re3u6uMPfwk2Bo5XxjHL5_LmequSKsHj3ov0ElG19epW6EPFa1XDNd/s320/Pigeon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Pigeons are served in pairs (Mr. and Mrs, I presume) at Egyptian restaurants.<br />
<br />
It tasted pretty much like pigeon. It was stuffed with rice, which made me think about the life cycle of pigeons, which I shouldn't have, because...well, if you are eating while reading this, which you probably are, admit it, and I'm guessing it's something not very healthy, don't want to disrupt your digestive system anymore than it already is. Or will be, if you think of what I thought of while chewing the rice.<br />
<br />
Before I came to Doha, I rarely read about the Middle East either, at least not more than you would think a person who reads a lot, and who studies politics professionally -- and I am a pro -- would read. Sure, I checked out the headlines to see how much -- or how little -- progress was being made in our invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan. The Arab Spring protests and revolutions made for some great, inspiring, images and I was especially interested in the brutal crackdown in Bahrain, as I had visited there last summer.<br />
<br />
I definitely didn't read about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Following that, for me, was like following All My Children: the drama lasted forever, but nothing really happened, nothing really changed, it was pretty clearly not "relevant" to me, and if I <i>did </i>want to catch up I could do so in about 15 minutes. The chances of a breakthrough were about as good as the chance of Susan Lucci winning an Emmy. Yeah, right, like <i>that</i> could happen.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3dRxd-mzmadJKakwe-ukjcneQOuBayku_ivgTNlNiBUIS6-3m0gUEvw2__0Bz6hQE7RTxyUbcThBO_FHvrzr_qjLxeFa_ULsLPrtdzE-4sEMpUhWPC-ga0gXXAzYVrgqZSmuY-stmKnei/s1600/450px-Susan_Lucci_2010_Daytime_Emmy_Awards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3dRxd-mzmadJKakwe-ukjcneQOuBayku_ivgTNlNiBUIS6-3m0gUEvw2__0Bz6hQE7RTxyUbcThBO_FHvrzr_qjLxeFa_ULsLPrtdzE-4sEMpUhWPC-ga0gXXAzYVrgqZSmuY-stmKnei/s320/450px-Susan_Lucci_2010_Daytime_Emmy_Awards.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Now, my eyes have been opened. <br />
<br />
I thank my students. One of them, a Palestinian, suggested that we watch <i><a href="http://www.occupation101.com/">Occupation 101</a></i> in class.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpMaK540Uz7wDlX9YDEqp3MF2Q0lNlrVpry95nuhzJl2ggWVhEb6WEAAmK6f3ykTAdRriA9kSbpKpJ_3fJLEKXrruplvJH9QqukSK9ZwMkN-gPuoFfaK5x0VJKYC59NvWY9PgTJl3Qwsm/s1600/MV5BMTA4MDg3NzAyNTNeQTJeQWpwZ15BbWU3MDA0OTUxNzE%2540._V1._SY317_CR4%252C0%252C214%252C317_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpMaK540Uz7wDlX9YDEqp3MF2Q0lNlrVpry95nuhzJl2ggWVhEb6WEAAmK6f3ykTAdRriA9kSbpKpJ_3fJLEKXrruplvJH9QqukSK9ZwMkN-gPuoFfaK5x0VJKYC59NvWY9PgTJl3Qwsm/s1600/MV5BMTA4MDg3NzAyNTNeQTJeQWpwZ15BbWU3MDA0OTUxNzE%2540._V1._SY317_CR4%252C0%252C214%252C317_.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Fascinating, and heartbreaking. I hate to comment on the conflict between Israel and Palestine, because others know so much more, and often have such strong opinions, but this I do know:<br />
<br />
The status of the Palestinians as an occupied and/or dispossessed people is a tragedy and a shameful blot on the community of nations -- with US policy contributing to the shame.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNu5UuIOY_RR1elLjquMVXw140wfRtLSNm1ly7HIggQCFZ8QaKO9YmCUWlLKJmXo77zNJx_mNLafBXgqFt7FuNZIS6SUqrbNOWGrY_SoOT8cnsEojnvmtqAWx2UcNtuSphWUQkIJnI2xXK/s1600/Pop40-283x208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNu5UuIOY_RR1elLjquMVXw140wfRtLSNm1ly7HIggQCFZ8QaKO9YmCUWlLKJmXo77zNJx_mNLafBXgqFt7FuNZIS6SUqrbNOWGrY_SoOT8cnsEojnvmtqAWx2UcNtuSphWUQkIJnI2xXK/s1600/Pop40-283x208.jpg" /></a></div><br />
President Obama gave a speech on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict this week and, as expected, he has been blasted as too timid, too bold, too unrealistic, too little, too late, and too 'fill in your favorite negative word here'. Or, as the noted international statesman Gene Simmons, of KISS fame, concluded: Obama has <a href="http://www.popmodal.com/video/7664/Gene-Simmons-Slams-President-Obamas-Israel-Policy">"no fucking idea what he is talking about."</a> (Gene: KISS off! Badabing).<br />
<br />
Last night I, along with about 600 other souls, went to the Doha Hyatt to attend a talk on the "Arab Spring" by<a href="http://www.columbia.edu/cu/history/fac-bios/Khalidi/faculty.html"> Professor Rashid Khalidi, Professor of Modern Arab Studies at Columbia University</a>. This raised a big question for me: Should I just skip the talk and head to the pool?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjus0kw9HlbOUb2TzaPNikkzwfYeenZIJDY1SuxbQWoxThI2hszRMTt28lYNHJWT2r3PZ-m9sLQoNOLXmEQ2Galsanuw35nWU53qo8fxaLHPJpZ-fd2qAg7b0EcATGQRnk1fr_-Tca5Mi6f/s1600/gallery_50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjus0kw9HlbOUb2TzaPNikkzwfYeenZIJDY1SuxbQWoxThI2hszRMTt28lYNHJWT2r3PZ-m9sLQoNOLXmEQ2Galsanuw35nWU53qo8fxaLHPJpZ-fd2qAg7b0EcATGQRnk1fr_-Tca5Mi6f/s320/gallery_50.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
That was a rhetorical question.<br />
<br />
Wasn't it?<br />
<br />
The lounge was pretty tempting, though, and what better place to consider the plight of the dispossessed?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQrUzkBYGlcIgSaF3VrmNRMAqS9CUX_frrtKaigZYjMuJkuO_8nDIIPGcvWyV2G00sgmWBprPNoRFZ2vUzGgXdIyrJWMaz4Xk16-RwlAoFRWC3Qo3d8FWA4axzgNXYgHAw9L_6I0MX1iF0/s1600/gallery_23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQrUzkBYGlcIgSaF3VrmNRMAqS9CUX_frrtKaigZYjMuJkuO_8nDIIPGcvWyV2G00sgmWBprPNoRFZ2vUzGgXdIyrJWMaz4Xk16-RwlAoFRWC3Qo3d8FWA4axzgNXYgHAw9L_6I0MX1iF0/s320/gallery_23.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I'll sleep on that -- no, neither the lounge nor the dispossessed -- with "that" referring to what I was talking about. Whatever that was. Tomorrow, I'll open my eyes again and report back. Peace.</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-19642992081010263912011-05-20T10:39:00.000-07:002011-05-20T10:39:43.958-07:00De(Graded)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lMUYiOqZ51WBqj43xwv6ckgrGUIwXN7qIaLlizKmob6MfWSNjUg6Vxw9gbeR8WiUsxa7pCyfX305eztk79ggvcTwzHIuggS-aPKLs1USomvg3lYsXIZhqHvCYvTr9HAWMcLp4r7aE4-F/s1600/100_0001-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2lMUYiOqZ51WBqj43xwv6ckgrGUIwXN7qIaLlizKmob6MfWSNjUg6Vxw9gbeR8WiUsxa7pCyfX305eztk79ggvcTwzHIuggS-aPKLs1USomvg3lYsXIZhqHvCYvTr9HAWMcLp4r7aE4-F/s320/100_0001-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If I had been blogging this week, I rightly could have been accused of procrastinating on finishing my grading, so I didn't blog. I did <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">procrastinate</span>, but it just wasn't so obvious to anyone but me. Now, I hope, I'm finished.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But my hopes will be put through the garbage disposal of the sink of life. I'm sure I'll hear grade protests, as the standard model for measuring student learning is pre-test, post-test, protest.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Earlier I was the one protesting. When I entered my Doha apartment, it was swarming with "Blue Books." I was inundated. They were everywhere.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjobiJOTjbdQZOGzqYuG98Y_B9iiR4f1Nj2tpnRq6BW4lFQNzFdLMmY9GaFBE1nBbQgpDAUIDrQSIHdcv2RrM5bwLkes6DsNgREjS5wCyJvpOze4219LuhviTDgdxBpk24UCrN8uRToWO_Q/s1600/100_0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjobiJOTjbdQZOGzqYuG98Y_B9iiR4f1Nj2tpnRq6BW4lFQNzFdLMmY9GaFBE1nBbQgpDAUIDrQSIHdcv2RrM5bwLkes6DsNgREjS5wCyJvpOze4219LuhviTDgdxBpk24UCrN8uRToWO_Q/s320/100_0011.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">They filled my refrigerator, and covered my bed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiuBY3P-PHqK2jm5q_S2bU8HBmWUrnynaqBUUykT5UE0cUfUNyNjIHYXBzdEzTeRvk7Bb8cnKBLSUXPpNRKYHame5Z2GyeU_Oa4ryY1CSJVM5aEq8DHewvUtYLf-wSQManGo_N4Glpw6mF/s1600/100_0010-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiuBY3P-PHqK2jm5q_S2bU8HBmWUrnynaqBUUykT5UE0cUfUNyNjIHYXBzdEzTeRvk7Bb8cnKBLSUXPpNRKYHame5Z2GyeU_Oa4ryY1CSJVM5aEq8DHewvUtYLf-wSQManGo_N4Glpw6mF/s320/100_0010-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Don't even ask to see the mess in the bathroom.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Blue Books, which are used for undergraduate exams, are the cicadas of university life -- they emerge at regular cycles, they are generally annoying, and yet they never completely go away even though they make no apparent contribution to the public happiness. Cicadas, like Blue Books, are also virtually impossible to read.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I put my gloves and gas mask on, and got to work. One book at a time, Mark, one book at a time.....</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Grading student papers is much like being a parent, with the work incredibly important, often tedious, and commonly thankless, except being a parent is not tedious or thankless, at least not in comparison to grading. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Grading IS important to the students for almost every reason one might imagine, and others, too, if one had a better imagination. Students care a LOT about getting the right grade, too, in the sense that the right grade is "at least as high, if not higher, than the one you gave me". </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Nothing wrong with that: I myself was, um, "grade assertive". In college, I challenged one final grade a professor gave me all the way to the University President's office. (I won.) My claim was not just that I got a lower grade than I deserved (ok, yeah, it was the dreaded B+, or maybe even an A-), but that the professor's grading system led to inconsistent and incoherent outcomes and so it should be reformed to eliminate those problems and, oh, by the way, I would receive an A under the new scheme. But I was only an accidental beneficiary or the reform! It was the principle at stake! It was a victory for justice!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The grading was going slowly. Too slowly. I was getting desperate. I almost turned to Marco, Ismerelda, and Thatcher to see what happened in the next chapter.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8IabsIpWn_oAVn5P3ucQZE7cem_qf-Ej5alJGdp5M6AW0glpQQ5hQNgrLA3YHTRpwhVDPyd4-DvOGmOTrz7oUwe3sQ2igvM03Mdiv0yXUujM11ZDPWj40zQtuPOL6mUekYTWQYLZLxIlj/s1600/100_0009_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8IabsIpWn_oAVn5P3ucQZE7cem_qf-Ej5alJGdp5M6AW0glpQQ5hQNgrLA3YHTRpwhVDPyd4-DvOGmOTrz7oUwe3sQ2igvM03Mdiv0yXUujM11ZDPWj40zQtuPOL6mUekYTWQYLZLxIlj/s320/100_0009_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I finally filed the grades. Now: would anyone care to guess what the ratio of complaints to praise will be?</div><span id="goog_1018401308"></span><span id="goog_1018401309"></span></div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-6080785620105723752011-05-15T10:23:00.000-07:002011-05-15T13:04:31.344-07:00Close ShaveI knew I missed a spot shaving today when I felt the barrel pressing against the few stray whiskers on my chin.<br />
<span id="goog_939315248"></span><span id="goog_939315249"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4hF9ZW8XpPxo_TPlmPW1wkxo4YPqZbyFowZndTkrnoTTFzNDPQEHAhkL3V_s8n3PH9_TuoKc_70Rxd53CBUOnC06E-teDEIx9hTk2Zxu2Y97HoPOwTKF19CH1Ry6e-kFiue_xkTMyCysB/s1600/gun_barrel_05_lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4hF9ZW8XpPxo_TPlmPW1wkxo4YPqZbyFowZndTkrnoTTFzNDPQEHAhkL3V_s8n3PH9_TuoKc_70Rxd53CBUOnC06E-teDEIx9hTk2Zxu2Y97HoPOwTKF19CH1Ry6e-kFiue_xkTMyCysB/s320/gun_barrel_05_lg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I heard the cock of the gun and the sound of leather, as if someone was juggling footballs, when she crossed her legs. Sure, those legs were long, but not as long as her arms, which reached from the carpet to my chin. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh04dPQajY8YBQYUibgYZq7kUsSVDad_I8HGpEsbupHcN6j_BecTCHCnk5TPLnT5QGvoG2tpilykP5nDGExSVrEGBIq5YAHyPNTyS4Uj69DXDMoynx4BNH-ubAn928eAl0NYLxpx318wQ4i/s1600/Black+Leather.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh04dPQajY8YBQYUibgYZq7kUsSVDad_I8HGpEsbupHcN6j_BecTCHCnk5TPLnT5QGvoG2tpilykP5nDGExSVrEGBIq5YAHyPNTyS4Uj69DXDMoynx4BNH-ubAn928eAl0NYLxpx318wQ4i/s320/Black+Leather.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Marco, she whispered: You must choose. Who gets it? You or Thatcher? I think I knew which one my readers would save, after they take one look at Thatcher....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdsKzYIydKslx7DMDESpQ_aN8PXKF-TdoJ0lJ7Iahd-oISw0tz2r6x_66vPSXTEuz60Zf8I5ECM0NX9t_ZqX9tIzHw-kUpPERKhywqhuS8QancC6zpinzGwX5rGyiqeHXjl02edAiCROCx/s1600/thatcher-the-labrador-retriever_58353_2011-05-14_w450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdsKzYIydKslx7DMDESpQ_aN8PXKF-TdoJ0lJ7Iahd-oISw0tz2r6x_66vPSXTEuz60Zf8I5ECM0NX9t_ZqX9tIzHw-kUpPERKhywqhuS8QancC6zpinzGwX5rGyiqeHXjl02edAiCROCx/s320/thatcher-the-labrador-retriever_58353_2011-05-14_w450.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
To be continued...<br />
<br />
Ok, actually, I got up with the alarm, had a healthy bowl of cereal, juice, and cardamon-flavored coffee, caught a taxi to my office, did the routine check in stuff, faced various technical problems in my office and the classroom that couldn't be fixed, checked out some films at the library, ate rice, fish and salad for lunch, worked at my desk, went through the hassle of getting a rental car, fought traffic home, did three miles on the treadmill, fixed eggs and toast for dinner, and caught up on desk work.<br />
<br />
So: Which story should I continue?<br />
<br />
You wouldn't shoot me, Ismeralda, I hissed. <br />
<br />
Thatcher knows your secrets. And he'll chew those boots to shreds the moment you take them off.....Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-90106492588151402872011-05-14T09:15:00.000-07:002011-05-15T10:03:53.098-07:00Arab Spring<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGmltgbH3vkABFwN2kbjKIMOhjgaGBdsfGpIoe2tuBodcekYtCYfWP71Tiyd2oWnkWMRAXh9bILIJcicfFA6HlOyO4K4MUwoG08S4C0biQYouo4GS6JyUIaIcMHDPPGINlRo_sqLzUWKqk/s1600/100_0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGmltgbH3vkABFwN2kbjKIMOhjgaGBdsfGpIoe2tuBodcekYtCYfWP71Tiyd2oWnkWMRAXh9bILIJcicfFA6HlOyO4K4MUwoG08S4C0biQYouo4GS6JyUIaIcMHDPPGINlRo_sqLzUWKqk/s320/100_0001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT9joJEMnifuGPCVxXqQLF5cJYJ9MjVGBW8mAnueSPkX6FYL9axwfho9a8BEnrD910ZRRmv19zklzsiACVsv7vXmR31Al5ip8sdmtsnwu_T3R3fi8XatOiAnl5aY0UhVnqRkW6o8hNAIK6/s1600/100_0004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's spring in Doha, and throughout the Arab world.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The air is filled with sand...shimmering heat....and democracy. Well, maybe the breezes have not yet blown democracy into Doha, but democratic aspirations are swirling around the Gulf.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So I wonder: what will come out of the fragile shell?</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKJE9urPRkufqXwi_A7e5YTpaaM-OMPLh3CPu4jil5NVU3phr6DIj7t56FxbJJgmnqqa7umPVsHcYXoMoeWMzapVpdwR5_vydp10YKAJyFxQs-_taCeEoOVA5WDFRylChqvLAVkvMZ8FQ/s1600/100_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKJE9urPRkufqXwi_A7e5YTpaaM-OMPLh3CPu4jil5NVU3phr6DIj7t56FxbJJgmnqqa7umPVsHcYXoMoeWMzapVpdwR5_vydp10YKAJyFxQs-_taCeEoOVA5WDFRylChqvLAVkvMZ8FQ/s320/100_0002.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Will there by a sunny upside -- or a sunny side up?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLljCIFh8CH_KhV9_79o3XeLw009fGPdZf6s7y6lr8lBerwpSKcKLXvIwsS5YVGnfnasSygbJUckvrXHEKPcIiCEWBuqAcvnFnflejvCsVl1u6ghTcpUKXLc5EXN4DxDQ6JhS5I5dnF4JZ/s1600/100_0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLljCIFh8CH_KhV9_79o3XeLw009fGPdZf6s7y6lr8lBerwpSKcKLXvIwsS5YVGnfnasSygbJUckvrXHEKPcIiCEWBuqAcvnFnflejvCsVl1u6ghTcpUKXLc5EXN4DxDQ6JhS5I5dnF4JZ/s320/100_0003.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Will many eggs be broken before the omelette is done?</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT9joJEMnifuGPCVxXqQLF5cJYJ9MjVGBW8mAnueSPkX6FYL9axwfho9a8BEnrD910ZRRmv19zklzsiACVsv7vXmR31Al5ip8sdmtsnwu_T3R3fi8XatOiAnl5aY0UhVnqRkW6o8hNAIK6/s1600/100_0004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT9joJEMnifuGPCVxXqQLF5cJYJ9MjVGBW8mAnueSPkX6FYL9axwfho9a8BEnrD910ZRRmv19zklzsiACVsv7vXmR31Al5ip8sdmtsnwu_T3R3fi8XatOiAnl5aY0UhVnqRkW6o8hNAIK6/s320/100_0004.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Will just the broken shells be left?<br />
<br />
Who knows? Eggs can be tricky: they can form the perfect souffle or the perfect stench.<br />
<br />
The students in my "Ethics and Values in Public Policy" class -- middle easterners, all -- will have much to teach me, and I hope to learn from them.<br />
<br />
I do hope I can tell them apart. My class's photo roster indicates they all look like Jack the Bulldog.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghtwKFhnkhFfhE98cpz27AEGTkdU_lo2iPQiYLWDzK3NyiWoAxglJb9bxX_PyMN2nsp_jpSCxlBBQC-bLUuab1zMMh-nq_NwpVAdOnLsE56EESe4AV3IUfd3tj5slKjP2yBu1ZeQ5js3z7/s1600/Doha+Class+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghtwKFhnkhFfhE98cpz27AEGTkdU_lo2iPQiYLWDzK3NyiWoAxglJb9bxX_PyMN2nsp_jpSCxlBBQC-bLUuab1zMMh-nq_NwpVAdOnLsE56EESe4AV3IUfd3tj5slKjP2yBu1ZeQ5js3z7/s320/Doha+Class+1.jpg" width="175" /></a></div>Time to finish the syllabus. Class begins tomorrow morning, Sunday May 15, at 9.45 a.m. Qatar time. I wonder what the air will be like....</div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-65546294328911336072010-07-09T20:35:00.000-07:002010-07-09T20:46:49.988-07:00Our Road From Paradise to Ruin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_EGCw7O1p012e_5AkUj8iosd1_p7VPhE5P_KR9ur17le1QbMjwVbo9FXQSrFHiOXT1XPNEAsPUEzE_Q2-vPIODCJ6VAJHgNnkCDWTcIM9DF2Jgzm0dPBEPL3-oJwifsaJX4QYt2ZHBU2/s1600/Meth+Lab+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ_EGCw7O1p012e_5AkUj8iosd1_p7VPhE5P_KR9ur17le1QbMjwVbo9FXQSrFHiOXT1XPNEAsPUEzE_Q2-vPIODCJ6VAJHgNnkCDWTcIM9DF2Jgzm0dPBEPL3-oJwifsaJX4QYt2ZHBU2/s320/Meth+Lab+1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Or, from ruin to paradise. It depends on which way you're driving.<br />
<br />
So let's begin in the middle. Midway on the road was the meth lab. Maybe it wasn't really the meth lab, but the Ponderosa Pharmaceutical Reprocessing Corporation. I doubt this, because somehow the trailer that used to sit here didn't look incorporated. But it did look like what I thought a meth lab would look like, if things looked as they should. The windows had been broken for years so the residents' shelter from the cold was a blanket draped over the frame. Perhaps cooking the Pseudofed kept the place warm. The trailer was dismantled, finally, and all that's left are the front and back porches. I assume the owners used them to enjoy the fruits of the labor.<br />
<br />
Looks <i>can </i>be deceiving, I understand. In my old neighborhood there was a car with the license plate "Meth Dst". It seemed odd to advertise an illegal activity so blatantly (read "meth distributor") until I learned a Methodist minister lived there.<br />
<br />
No worries, though. Our vibrant neighborhood, full of entrepreneurial souls, already has a possible replacement. A smarter entrepreneur might have located the new lab just outside the reach of the state maintenance, but it's probably a start up operation that is learning as it goes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7ozH6CPENQskIWCNELY3Ik8dwlG8lbKdcNs1WjdJD7YnsKlSzaxQU4bRmnhk0NEweFPiqJHxgPGxkyD_duxAS0QLpRo_Pin4jsU_zxs0YnUNEIkXA4la0hnx4HalQawm3JCzqRvHQuAd/s1600/Meth+Lab+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7ozH6CPENQskIWCNELY3Ik8dwlG8lbKdcNs1WjdJD7YnsKlSzaxQU4bRmnhk0NEweFPiqJHxgPGxkyD_duxAS0QLpRo_Pin4jsU_zxs0YnUNEIkXA4la0hnx4HalQawm3JCzqRvHQuAd/s320/Meth+Lab+2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Actual ruins do exist on our road. The log cabin was dismantled a while back, and all the logs are probably used now as the flooring of Albert Haynesworth's home or, even worse, Ann Coulter's. At $40 million, he (and by this I mean Ann) can afford it, not that he really gives a flip.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgul_QnwCUMpek9fVlFiwI7FZ6G1GZlxE6e-I9JPY4Y4B8Au8BNh0oPirx3h33JaECLK3OjugioF64lnu6Ip2YltujG7l90VM48utDsN1ONIk0ofDeBMsgkL4kC31V-JyiZwo5e4hMiNr/s1600/Chimney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgul_QnwCUMpek9fVlFiwI7FZ6G1GZlxE6e-I9JPY4Y4B8Au8BNh0oPirx3h33JaECLK3OjugioF64lnu6Ip2YltujG7l90VM48utDsN1ONIk0ofDeBMsgkL4kC31V-JyiZwo5e4hMiNr/s320/Chimney.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Deserted homes make me....wonder. Built in hope, certainly. Abandoned in despair, probably. In between...How much laughter and kindness and love was there? How much anger and bitterness and sullenness? Did the family move to a "better place"? Were they sad the last time they walked out that door, or eager for the new place they would call their own?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKd_0BSqJABL4eZGHeBJ1-c2VnQL5fyyQj_Up4ABdk0kGGIwEMbtf0opejUcDikcyhf6-o3CoN1lwAYn7LldMrSOcoQst86ezAFcXMCL7YXUZ1DcSB9uJGOepE3LLVXDptG5ABxvQxwSG/s1600/Limits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKd_0BSqJABL4eZGHeBJ1-c2VnQL5fyyQj_Up4ABdk0kGGIwEMbtf0opejUcDikcyhf6-o3CoN1lwAYn7LldMrSOcoQst86ezAFcXMCL7YXUZ1DcSB9uJGOepE3LLVXDptG5ABxvQxwSG/s320/Limits.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Just up from the chimney is this speed limit sign. The limit was likely unnecessary, or unheeded, or both. Limits can be that way. Should I worry that I tell my sons (in a fatherly way) that, yes, I set my cruise control to be exactly nine miles over the posted limit? I could explain to them (and I think I have) the difference between <i>de jure </i>limits (what the rule actually is) and the <i>de facto </i>limits (what the limit is that is actually enforced). The lesson they hear: this is how much you can break the rule before you are likely to face the consequences.<br />
<br />
Even when you are driving between paradise and ruin, you will be watched. Are they blowing kisses or raspberries?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCwfAdWh5xMGHi7_lxwoU3umbVYgJIRb3AxcU-ZtOh_17AtwwwFWoN5H1mIvljPOj_-1qnNFBX_brZ_DiJUnwtW81iTtJKCDxg6kjBCNFDg5vD7doblk5A0XUpXGP1BlSnNYrm3PYLpyE/s1600/Gnomes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCwfAdWh5xMGHi7_lxwoU3umbVYgJIRb3AxcU-ZtOh_17AtwwwFWoN5H1mIvljPOj_-1qnNFBX_brZ_DiJUnwtW81iTtJKCDxg6kjBCNFDg5vD7doblk5A0XUpXGP1BlSnNYrm3PYLpyE/s320/Gnomes.jpg" /></a></div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-8482625637619460702010-07-07T14:38:00.000-07:002010-07-07T14:55:43.122-07:00Temptation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0yDBea8KWGT2m0W_FE7b2gHFckdiOZo93ehREdEzsIB2eO5L2b6JELoVuDfpN-tKMVRMy3x6yil65ZAlFuFAOMimgXMTuSE1x8LAX6-DusQ2zBnLQrP0kHdgMqFFTFtJ37Rw6SsXIPJH/s1600/Temptation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0yDBea8KWGT2m0W_FE7b2gHFckdiOZo93ehREdEzsIB2eO5L2b6JELoVuDfpN-tKMVRMy3x6yil65ZAlFuFAOMimgXMTuSE1x8LAX6-DusQ2zBnLQrP0kHdgMqFFTFtJ37Rw6SsXIPJH/s320/Temptation.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I would have liked to meet Eve. Adam, basically, is sitting on his ass, probably drinking a Bud Light. Maybe moping. Probably wondering when Eve would bring him another one.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, she's checking out the tree of knowledge. Wondering. Considering. I'm not sure she would talk with the Snake, as I'm guessing that even then Eve was pretty skeptical of snakes. Or wary. Or alarmed. So I'm thinking the Snake is a metaphor, unlike Eve and Adam.<br />
<br />
For the record: my father assures me that the tempting fruit was not an apple, as they didn't grow wherever the Garden of Eden was. He knows stuff like that, being an "appleologist" which is different than "apologist" although maybe they somehow are linked, which they are not. Oh well. He assures me it was more likely a pomegranate. But the "pom" was somehow I think connected to the French word "pomme" for apple. Dad, feel free to weigh in. <br />
<br />
I don't think Eve needed the metaphorical snake. Bold as she was, she wanted the knowledge, and she took it (the pomegranate, that is), and bit it, and a hall of shit rained down on her. No more lounging by the pool, naked. From now on, busters, you are working for a living, bearing children in pain, and living with the knowledge that you would die. Which seems pretty harsh for eating a fruit, but I'm no God.<br />
<br />
Did she create temptation or was it offered there to her? <br />
<br />
I'd like to think that she created it. I'm not so confident of a God who would say: "Come on, innocent one....what's the harm of a little temptation...."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEQqtUD3iWN99tRx11HJMr7JVhOsu8TQIR8nIH-RUZhsYLuqV024ZY910DMkcwK6Wy9zHJVnc4Q7mIGudGJX_c02cqZaYA_ECfcqAHLVLBFX1D7XJMVbeDq8ZgSjnG2b218OigBxEoC41/s1600/Dove+Assortment+Bag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdEQqtUD3iWN99tRx11HJMr7JVhOsu8TQIR8nIH-RUZhsYLuqV024ZY910DMkcwK6Wy9zHJVnc4Q7mIGudGJX_c02cqZaYA_ECfcqAHLVLBFX1D7XJMVbeDq8ZgSjnG2b218OigBxEoC41/s320/Dove+Assortment+Bag.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Just seeing this picture makes you want to get some, doesn't it?<br />
<br />
It does. Or it should. Because that's the whole point of temptation, isn't it? To give in, just a little?<br />
<br />
When did temptation become good? When it was useful to make money, which really is just about the oldest profession. Think about it...how did the "oldest profession"come about if there was no money to be made? But now: check the ads. They are all about temptation, and giving in. Except for the abstinence only advertisements, which are about as useful as the Snake.<br />
<br />
Me? I'm much better at avoiding the sources of temptation than the temptation itself. Rather than saying "No thanks!" it seems easier to avoid the question entirely. Sometimes I wish that the Tree of Knowledge would have been clearcut. But then where would that leave Eve?<br />
<br />
And you. And me.Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-32817092915954100452010-06-23T22:28:00.000-07:002010-06-23T22:44:43.196-07:00Doha: Done<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3qeTDbtJorNVNFN5pJCy3d4v31l-9AZf4g_kgtJFtob6AZ1t_LX1MjgcSBWxEoXy7Tzm7uc3Tbxuz3kMVS_XfJRA2DQKlPWq3GUpQm1PYX6g_NABNMCWBOUFj3P5MYKpAhOk59rtOdGgp/s1600/31S7QBUAsbL._SL500_AA300_.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3qeTDbtJorNVNFN5pJCy3d4v31l-9AZf4g_kgtJFtob6AZ1t_LX1MjgcSBWxEoXy7Tzm7uc3Tbxuz3kMVS_XfJRA2DQKlPWq3GUpQm1PYX6g_NABNMCWBOUFj3P5MYKpAhOk59rtOdGgp/s320/31S7QBUAsbL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486209054704653730" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I’d cap Frosty’s ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My sons know this, as I have encouraged them with words like “Cap Frosty’s ass!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s not that I have anything against Frosty, in particular, or his ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m sure he’s a fine guy, what with his corncob pipe and carrot nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t like is commercialized cuteness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Especially the ones that require generators, like the inflatable Frosties, Santas, Easter Bunnies, or Great Pumpkins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Even if I drove by an inflatable Bambi, I’d instruct my boys to shoot to kill. Even Thumper – the inflatable one – would be advised to wear a vest. So when my sons and I are out driving during the Holiday season, I've given them this wise holiday advice. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Even worse, if that is possible, are the posters of Eagles soaring on the wing, with the caption reading "Unless you soar with the Eagles you’ll sit with the Turkeys."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m not sure whether I’ll agree or disagree with this, as right now I am sitting with the (Wild) Turkey. Who seems quite friendly, and we have been having quite the revealing conversation (you won’t BELIEVE what he has done, the rake).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Ben Franklin certainly liked turkeys, and for a guy who was early to bed and early to rise, and spoke French, and had badder mullet than MacGyver (compare their pictures below!), and still discovered electricity and petticoats, and said things like “We shall all hang together, or we shall all hang separately” he seemed to do OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m on his side, in general. As for the Eagles…well Don Henley Must Die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><a href="http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/3530822107858627835/">That’s not my opinion, that’s a song</a>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQuV9LTaHKN2VzlFQdJeckaLON_z_L4OccdHMMkMIs8w7U5AwuT2GpWuCLOn4Ri6dHQ8RhGceJ4kOb9MAgcXfgCDVQSqDPiHvugjnTw4Etr55pxYYqnSTl4C4eWua82HfrcY0nU-0AB_w2/s320/3a22591r.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486210795219770258" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 320px; " /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJs8Uw1n9iIrpIG0GasSEI7uJTaW7xEKFi71hnuYBJ2xc-ELeID_ATtPVWouSRrfpoID1qMiJFJOTDKzWdSpJHD29Nthj5Zg7HXnoBXvgrvo-j1jeGNev6fBjBU0a3gHGriDKIpWO2Vmy8/s320/macgyver-s4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486210809453267282" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 249px; " /></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <div>At any rate, I've spend too much time on the setup for this post and, I fear, that time was wasted. But what else am I going to do at 2 a.m.? So let me get to the main point: I don't like cutesy inspiration comments. But I did like these signs which ring Education City, where Georgetown is located, in Doha. What might just be maudlin in my cynic's head might just be inspiring elsewhere and to others. I hope so.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4kbh-IhEBH-jo87vhzIksAOoj-1LeofOmIZFX10ObBVDArYVFfeDZzyUWHqNduSgBxSnfGbK0lYVdtxUcNANeKLRgn3nwU4c8t3-_yLxl57Ar577EMiLwCImw12_yqbSxt2FoxpyGzNxA/s1600/100_0010.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4kbh-IhEBH-jo87vhzIksAOoj-1LeofOmIZFX10ObBVDArYVFfeDZzyUWHqNduSgBxSnfGbK0lYVdtxUcNANeKLRgn3nwU4c8t3-_yLxl57Ar577EMiLwCImw12_yqbSxt2FoxpyGzNxA/s320/100_0010.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486208537106017538" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMAKPJZZVbFITw36hulDf5CrjWrUKzyxKRGs0UFxaHeU8WKsZwwdNleGm8b05KCKNdzquQxKBPhJnLy6yeBqezfLVf-QggJzvp7x0bNQBOP4cy4elmLleZ_Q1FyLEa2fGMTqNq_6BslHdy/s1600/100_0009.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 257px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMAKPJZZVbFITw36hulDf5CrjWrUKzyxKRGs0UFxaHeU8WKsZwwdNleGm8b05KCKNdzquQxKBPhJnLy6yeBqezfLVf-QggJzvp7x0bNQBOP4cy4elmLleZ_Q1FyLEa2fGMTqNq_6BslHdy/s320/100_0009.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486208524307967842" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjRlNvKly4WkSp1v8ML3_1DqLLB4MLuaEYU9ADhxD4nT4j500Py-76ajFAiiu6R47R-KCpnqic7ELg2-eK6sIv2rMw6BJLn4fJZUillp_H4bT6kWNZofNdzswdYIXDILdhk3FNYhCWT5L/s1600/100_0008.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjRlNvKly4WkSp1v8ML3_1DqLLB4MLuaEYU9ADhxD4nT4j500Py-76ajFAiiu6R47R-KCpnqic7ELg2-eK6sIv2rMw6BJLn4fJZUillp_H4bT6kWNZofNdzswdYIXDILdhk3FNYhCWT5L/s320/100_0008.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486208505144784242" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pSMIEa7Lxa6c2l0GZMibxA5Y5qCviNOzB_qXXaS7xDPXH3FjYuEWVKhyphenhyphen5gFgVrpThOhJN2UDmoZBH9GPLsxRPLM385xgbzsu-y9beM7_XIueCm-GOvmcIg8GHWDCDmlpgSVA4MKIvKA5/s1600/100_0007.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pSMIEa7Lxa6c2l0GZMibxA5Y5qCviNOzB_qXXaS7xDPXH3FjYuEWVKhyphenhyphen5gFgVrpThOhJN2UDmoZBH9GPLsxRPLM385xgbzsu-y9beM7_XIueCm-GOvmcIg8GHWDCDmlpgSVA4MKIvKA5/s320/100_0007.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486208482480047170" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhMEg0lbrJberG7O4QTmO0xpSfyY1MskZ3u64ydJ0_E-uSKAeHT8e25cY2rXEC_KzOAkqbvH-e-atoqS75zJoCiTdkTjacsv6apsYc65HbYAmdD4XXYh-js1mj7tXXlbCAUzryK9zBv7d/s1600/100_0006.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhMEg0lbrJberG7O4QTmO0xpSfyY1MskZ3u64ydJ0_E-uSKAeHT8e25cY2rXEC_KzOAkqbvH-e-atoqS75zJoCiTdkTjacsv6apsYc65HbYAmdD4XXYh-js1mj7tXXlbCAUzryK9zBv7d/s320/100_0006.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486208470084664690" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTzHYuA17IZR04SrcUbNxQAx9AIwhm8Zs6sS6Z4_8JUiWHKZp58-YKrOxVY1bLXWHWvhgp1G2CyqGcbRWiCc1MOCZ33Fqid6vS-AYDo_VWpbDWg0P_8fGMQFmWtodoovluJyROiM2m4mxY/s1600/100_0005.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 301px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTzHYuA17IZR04SrcUbNxQAx9AIwhm8Zs6sS6Z4_8JUiWHKZp58-YKrOxVY1bLXWHWvhgp1G2CyqGcbRWiCc1MOCZ33Fqid6vS-AYDo_VWpbDWg0P_8fGMQFmWtodoovluJyROiM2m4mxY/s320/100_0005.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486208129294859794" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK8wB0zeceCRhghfGplsz35_ZuTGXyuOCH5xd8Njyfx8r_i83ufLvkwchTDeOXwJ2-Ujb7y9SMRWaphcUyFvnhJUHTqvtYKG6LZgq33hxsI0sIQipE34diY5kxyliid4GNaVedr-ePh2IT/s1600/100_0004.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK8wB0zeceCRhghfGplsz35_ZuTGXyuOCH5xd8Njyfx8r_i83ufLvkwchTDeOXwJ2-Ujb7y9SMRWaphcUyFvnhJUHTqvtYKG6LZgq33hxsI0sIQipE34diY5kxyliid4GNaVedr-ePh2IT/s320/100_0004.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486208114932465890" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH4bdmdPVswKfvt9ZQDzdxFI7NlZjBqaxa5GM2DOnHufbedWEdSNpQhSCRThgvDk8OsR6_OFkA79Hjy9D1fpeNxuoTR0bYWM7w4vCCp9CvUAWKFHDsr9MvBGXK_9t3XjQA6jP8aoOMOj3O/s1600/100_0003.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH4bdmdPVswKfvt9ZQDzdxFI7NlZjBqaxa5GM2DOnHufbedWEdSNpQhSCRThgvDk8OsR6_OFkA79Hjy9D1fpeNxuoTR0bYWM7w4vCCp9CvUAWKFHDsr9MvBGXK_9t3XjQA6jP8aoOMOj3O/s320/100_0003.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486208104928823602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhka4i3zkgZehMGANLYlDcfO3kZgeXFc2agoeQIJT4PthG9jBjJE7D-Ke6qJsh_yvvZPGURDWw6QmOuuuySohMJ_zt3VsC4WpW63LEKoBqs7k9mluyCz2EUXYcXvLUETPPSDqhkL5htGUeq/s1600/100_0002.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhka4i3zkgZehMGANLYlDcfO3kZgeXFc2agoeQIJT4PthG9jBjJE7D-Ke6qJsh_yvvZPGURDWw6QmOuuuySohMJ_zt3VsC4WpW63LEKoBqs7k9mluyCz2EUXYcXvLUETPPSDqhkL5htGUeq/s320/100_0002.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486208096762128098" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMWLl0JcejAb8tZeaWN7IWf50-KltzQaf4HIlQj-7UkBopukgmPIcFSZqKj4Osq5NqJaaxJaAt1qlvpcIBjvomfnIECsBKFBLpAChZw9ilxKKApCcnErV88M8_8xgSFMghDonUvteLmrK1/s1600/100_0001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMWLl0JcejAb8tZeaWN7IWf50-KltzQaf4HIlQj-7UkBopukgmPIcFSZqKj4Osq5NqJaaxJaAt1qlvpcIBjvomfnIECsBKFBLpAChZw9ilxKKApCcnErV88M8_8xgSFMghDonUvteLmrK1/s320/100_0001.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486208076117929186" /></a>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-91417254098023533312010-06-17T03:56:00.001-07:002010-06-17T07:29:19.549-07:00Day 34: Lessons Learned, Forgotten, and Ignored<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3xGA0-qXJPXl4l1iGYFHS_hBO4X3EogBvgN2cdatAB5tQbEEYPpZXmNYENCHEaR-xs5J4Cck-4tnu_V6KJH1ZZALl0Jp0JwQh-D6FJVj0ymT-63bDrjWMfUiGOh-qjj2iAKBFLMhJnaFM/s1600/Popeye-tv-01.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJXY6_BiRecUZiEtNTtiIpl1eMH_F6osHzF3IUZ_IwHeRyUGfA4-R9oz70BSG1siSx_OJ16G3nFp3OPbmGJrj3izvdD9nan-VBzq3b8bvmc38Oc-UKK4kFY_OpOiR3w91Tk6RDprE07fHF/s1600/double_bubble.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 209px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJXY6_BiRecUZiEtNTtiIpl1eMH_F6osHzF3IUZ_IwHeRyUGfA4-R9oz70BSG1siSx_OJ16G3nFp3OPbmGJrj3izvdD9nan-VBzq3b8bvmc38Oc-UKK4kFY_OpOiR3w91Tk6RDprE07fHF/s320/double_bubble.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483695130270114962" /></a>My father, or Abraham Lincoln, or the Pope, or someone like that once told me: "If you expect life to be like a gum machine into which you put money and out of which you get candy, you will be greatly disappointed." I think whoever said it was more eloquent, but I got the metaphorical point, and it made sense. As I understand it, the message was "Don't expect your good works to be recognized or rewarded. If you do, you're setting yourself up for failure." <div><br /></div><div>I get that. But the fact remains that when I put my hard-earned money into a vending machine, and it doesn't deliver the goods, I feel screwed. So I begin with some soft whispers ("Oh, come on machine, give it up") which quickly elevate to swearing ("Give it to me, *****mn it"), pleading ("I'll do anything you want") and ultimately shaking, kicking and yes disappointment. It's not quite a Kubler Ross stages of grief tour. Maybe my Dad was right, and not just in a metaphorical way. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's not the only lesson I've learned, or not learned, from a vending machine. When I was 18 I played lots of tennis, had a right arm like Popeye, and a left arm like Olive Oyl. At one court there was the old kind of Coke vending machine which would drop a paper cup down and then fill it with part soda and part syrup. (Remember those? Cripes you're old.) We didn't have any money, as usual, and we didn't have drinks to take to the court, but we knew that my left arm was skinny enough so that if I got on my knees and wiggled my arm up into the machine's guts, I could grab some of the paper cups and pull them out. This is much same process used for delivering a breech calf, according to the dime store westerns. We could then fill the cups with water and take them to the court.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHNZQGOC1e-MrmPBpjtJU3vUzg69H6cMppshDDGEjDEdbTLoMEBhF6oZeukKutRL0P5XBrer_VYhEkTJBOWFM7kNDKkh4gVRCXg7eHixpFWMQn4vwbp2XzwKgyjAWuLMBWOthV-ggMTAjR/s320/Popeye.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483701280480159010" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div>Get the picture? I'm on my knees, with my hand crammed up inside the Coke machine, when the security guard arrives. Sort of a compromising position (a phrase that I have come to know well), wouldn't you agree?</div><div><br /></div><div>Guard: What are you doing? </div><div><br /></div><div>Me, in my mind: Stealing cups, officer! What kind of moron are you? (Sins 1 and 2: theft and pettiness.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Me, for real: Um, I put my money in the machine, and the cup didn't drop, so I'm just trying to get it! (Sin 3: falsehoods)</div><div><br /></div><div>Guard: Did you try the change return?</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Um, no! (Sin 4: This isn't really a sin, as I'm telling the truth, but it serves to support my earlier lie, so it should fall into the damnable category).</div><div><br /></div><div>Guard, pushing the change return button: Oh, here's your change. It must have just gotten stuck.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Right! Thanks! (Sin 5: False gratitude).</div><div><br /></div><div>Me, putting change into the machine, and now getting a totally free, totally crisp, totally refreshing Coke: Ahhhh.....(Sin 6: Gluttony. Lust.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I learned the valuable lesson that getting caught stealing, and lying your way out of it, can actually get you good stuff!</div><div><br /></div><div>Sons: Please disregard this story. It's just a story. I was caught, sentenced, and severely punished, and you will be too.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not that I usually try talking my way out of bad situations, as I'm not very good at it. I'm much better at talking my way <i>into </i>bad situations, anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>Recently a couple students and I took a spur-of-the-moment driving tour of Education City. When we got to the construction site of the new Georgetown building, no doubt there were signs that said: Caution! Warning! Construction Workers Only! Keep Out! Dangerous! Do Not Enter!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioHdpVPuz3J6T_dtkYauJ9pmhm9FOUJd2uYMBPERFJxNVqhckPPjcB0dzUDNP14PEIQdj1eKz-UQewA_osL7OY8MiojOolHgU4k_FLmkuOPKbxxy0o5PcziindRSHlNerabryVnva4rZiO/s320/library_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483745192830007586" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 200px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I interpreted these signs to say "Come on in" and so we did. Wow. Each student apparently will have a lab, a library (see above), and a petting zoo. Faculty members will each have their own named wing, with a choice of ski jump or golf course. Yeah, it's big. The most amazing thing, to me, was that as we arrived during the lunch hour the building was deathly quiet....and many side rooms looked like morgues. Body after body, in straight lines, silent, still. Everyone, and I do mean <i>everyone</i> was sound asleep. Company policy? Section 103.C.a:b2 "All workers are required to take naps between noon and one" Or exhaustion.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I told some colleagues about the tour, they replied "You can't do that," which didn't seem like very useful information. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I do ask first. Earlier this month, I inquired what would happen if a driver used a well-known international driving sign to indicate displeasure at the way he (me, in truth) was treated while on the roads.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxNoeQrKdDD40uU0aljZ4Rp40ZzcoJrn8HvMr-K1IN4Wz4HrFXNdBeZ95G2nABMWjTcMbqOCkZarw7tJ_zqef9_-nrsPmq1y4rODeBGY7_fSU579alIZpzGw9JpNIRZpXp0I6gRxgGuMBr/s1600/Bird.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxNoeQrKdDD40uU0aljZ4Rp40ZzcoJrn8HvMr-K1IN4Wz4HrFXNdBeZ95G2nABMWjTcMbqOCkZarw7tJ_zqef9_-nrsPmq1y4rODeBGY7_fSU579alIZpzGw9JpNIRZpXp0I6gRxgGuMBr/s320/Bird.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483695125847214530" /></a>The students said that the driver would likely be deported. This was helpful information, which I heeded.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe we should make this US policy to solve our "immigration problem": anyone flipping the bird while driving would be deported. Relax: this policy would not be retroactive. It seemed a good option, until I thought that, well, some drivers really <i>deserve</i> to be flipped off. Maybe we'd be deporting the wrong people...maybe we should deport the flippee, not the flipper (again, not retroactively!) Thought question: Would the US be better if we deported those without papers, or assholes? One benefit of the latter is that it wouldn't require profiling, as it's obvious who the assholes are.</div><div><br /></div><div>Next lesson: It has now been five weeks that I've been without what economists would neutrally call certain "goods and services". And yet: the sun rises, BP leaks, Ann Coulter moults, Albert Haynesworth sucks. Not much is different.</div><div><br /></div><div>Final lesson for the day. Clarifications almost never clarify. You know what I mean, don't you? If someone asks you "what did you mean by that?" and you try to explain, you usually make things worse. Maybe <i>you</i> don't, so I should clarify by saying that <i>you </i>means <i>me</i> which, I know, is an unconventional use. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's easy for me (meaning, "not you") to ignore <i>that</i> rule. So let me clarify what I meant in writing about marriage the other day. I said something like "do you want to spend the rest of your life thinking about Taye Diggs, etc., while I'm pondering the deep meaning of folding laundry while doing so? I didn't think so." </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb1fpk3F4N_0QZ8jUNEsMJhYrUl2Iw65epn6SvSDio-aEwHkSMZvQIhkFP6Tc_t1zi3F6-kzH6zzN-1uzRgURjtcNlPhMeAu_BmJ1DBwELMSPwwgHUGwLhKCSpwSiEtvwBuJPk8TEgdg5h/s320/Taye-Diggs-pr04.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483748243537845650" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div>What I <i>meant</i> to say was "If you're watching me fold laundry <i>without</i> thinking of Taye (not Taye in particular, but the figurative Taye, who could be Leonardo, or Sting, or Steven Strasburg, or whomever), then <i>I'd</i> be worried about your sanity, your imagination, your health, or all the above." So I'd think we weren't a good match. And would you want to marry someone who thinks that we're not a good match?</div><div><br /></div><div>See? Isn't everything clear now?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-6284664917034491832010-06-14T20:59:00.000-07:002010-06-14T23:35:17.516-07:00Day 30: Footprints<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7XRvy7vLaa5dK-dTXNntne6oR96ApTtiqCmr9C_bi7zajka4tXt-QigjiBINVey6KJrVXoy2zfbLrk2TPAQAOG04ChKSd2BMSfJZzPjDtMm7QTXnyYCY_AVUEJvggvYw3tYOCfAu0aSHo/s320/Fossil.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482847719239701762" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 289px; " /></span>Man once walked here. Or some other Vibram™ soled creature. It does make me wonder if there are Vibram™ souled individuals among us: you know, the kind of person who will walk all over you, and have the footwear to leave a lasting imprint.<div><br /></div><div>I found this "fossil" in the terrace by the pool. Should I get married again, I think I'll bring this picture with me as the example of "something old, something new". The old being the fossil, the new being the fact that the fossil is of modern shoe technology, of course. But saying this reminds me why it is very unlikely that I will remarry, or that anyone would have much interest in doing so with me, really, when you think about it, because how would you explain it to your family (or yourself) that your husband gave you a picture of a fossilized Vibram™ footprint on your wedding day. What is quirky charming can become simply quirky odd quite quickly, you know, and surely there are more wedding appropriate and clever and romantic examples of old and new. Sting would have them, naturally, and so would George Clooney, or Taye Diggs. And do you want to spend the rest of your life thinking about Taye, or George, or Sting, or the guy who refinanced your mortgage or looked good at the reunion while I'm across the room, folding the laundry, and thinking about the deeper meaning of doing so? I didn't think so.</div><div><br /></div><div>The fossil is really only "creation science" old, anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>I left similar traces one time. Dressed in my best suit, and hurrying to an important meeting, I didn't see the construction workers smoothing out the fresh cement on a sidewalk, and I walked right into it, sinking up to my ankles. So far as I know, this was the first instance of a person voluntarily trying on concrete shoes.</div><div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoYcjjHd9GP1a3I_qTf-cARv9uk2SYwUt50jtWGaH78MijTaQqKyhbOLGjJb-wkW2a6SAvVFUofUpxrpkuJwSp32ezHTrXrFP5evqMoutPhMdKzCxwFEvBmOHXB9P3WaMpqX7vxqJDXY7/s1600/Footprint.jpg"></a><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoYcjjHd9GP1a3I_qTf-cARv9uk2SYwUt50jtWGaH78MijTaQqKyhbOLGjJb-wkW2a6SAvVFUofUpxrpkuJwSp32ezHTrXrFP5evqMoutPhMdKzCxwFEvBmOHXB9P3WaMpqX7vxqJDXY7/s1600/Footprint.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 320px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoYcjjHd9GP1a3I_qTf-cARv9uk2SYwUt50jtWGaH78MijTaQqKyhbOLGjJb-wkW2a6SAvVFUofUpxrpkuJwSp32ezHTrXrFP5evqMoutPhMdKzCxwFEvBmOHXB9P3WaMpqX7vxqJDXY7/s320/Footprint.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482847725836183954" /></a>Most of the time, the footprints I leave are much more ephemeral, like footprints in the water. Sure, molecules are displaced, and heat is transferred, and now that I think about it germs are deposited, and maybe some toe jam too, and small waves are made....but when I lift my foot out of the pool, no visible traces remain. Only memories.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes the ephemeral acts do form lasting memories. In 1975, I wrote a brief, flippant note in a classmate's year book. About a decade or so later I ran into her and she told me that she was actually quite hurt by my note. I had to be reminded what I wrote, given the comment's pithy flippancy, and also that I'm sure I was just trying to be clever. Once she explained, it all made sense: I hadn't really considered how my comments would be heard or remembered. The lesson, now a quarter of a century old? Don't be a jerk, if you can help it, and even if you don't mean to be. Show others respect: they will remember, even if you don't. (Oh: I know I owe many many other apologies for jerkiness.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of fossils, and memories, and limbs, how about this zipper on my elbow? I had surgery on it (and pins inserted) when Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy still roamed the earth. It is common knowledge, I think, maybe, that all the cells in our body are replaced every week (or year, or 15 minutes, I can't remember exactly, but the point remains the same, that it is some short period of time, so there is no need to correct me here, although I'll try to look it up later). So why does that scar persist for over 40 years? Like most of the fossil record, I don't pay it much attention it. Only sometimes.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7XRvy7vLaa5dK-dTXNntne6oR96ApTtiqCmr9C_bi7zajka4tXt-QigjiBINVey6KJrVXoy2zfbLrk2TPAQAOG04ChKSd2BMSfJZzPjDtMm7QTXnyYCY_AVUEJvggvYw3tYOCfAu0aSHo/s1600/Fossil.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0f6EvrEnJmKzMWShQKounUHyRDR02uPCuL1oiRtdxO-qvQoI-pNF7SecJv8zYvtGkk2FoBiUDa2w9_cbu2sLrIKJ4NgtgIE7BWSPP8SnrjBPxmjBhimqvuMNqY5hRCXtlFiS-pLFGK6ET/s1600/Scar.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0f6EvrEnJmKzMWShQKounUHyRDR02uPCuL1oiRtdxO-qvQoI-pNF7SecJv8zYvtGkk2FoBiUDa2w9_cbu2sLrIKJ4NgtgIE7BWSPP8SnrjBPxmjBhimqvuMNqY5hRCXtlFiS-pLFGK6ET/s320/Scar.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482847362192557346" /></a>I'm quite fond of my knees. Unlike ankles, elbows, and shoulders they have not faced the surgeon's scalpel. They do have lots of mileage, as each has bent and moved forward approximately 100,000,000 times. One hundred million! Seriously. I did the math. Damn, that's a lot of steps. Go, knees!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8sEZ0zG8Azr3OKbm0tzCA0R_yvZd6QWmrmYaOWyTzrPVSG2ujxUqrjT5BMV87f0j0G3wawdPz1CyYl9ITf_LhzrSgEVXcHA2wShhN4uMTLgV9Q_f8SEvs4pRwe7cxh0muW-Vljza8DSL/s1600/Knee.jpg"></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8sEZ0zG8Azr3OKbm0tzCA0R_yvZd6QWmrmYaOWyTzrPVSG2ujxUqrjT5BMV87f0j0G3wawdPz1CyYl9ITf_LhzrSgEVXcHA2wShhN4uMTLgV9Q_f8SEvs4pRwe7cxh0muW-Vljza8DSL/s1600/Knee.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 320px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8sEZ0zG8Azr3OKbm0tzCA0R_yvZd6QWmrmYaOWyTzrPVSG2ujxUqrjT5BMV87f0j0G3wawdPz1CyYl9ITf_LhzrSgEVXcHA2wShhN4uMTLgV9Q_f8SEvs4pRwe7cxh0muW-Vljza8DSL/s320/Knee.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482847353789994850" /></a><br />I'm not showing a picture of my hip because I'm pissed at it. Stop whining to me, you big sissy.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxN8nIW_vV1S7KAmvW05c1Qc1ZVTQxTnf_FTCOmKO86Jtpk8oGDPi_LPx9HISX42-VI2HvsVpFt6tK6oqGfuc1LU5NE1AzSK5lpmSn7s1gsNdNcipL9GD6OgxJvAieCg619iY0C300aYuq/s320/Wrist.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482855318826359666" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 195px; " /></span></span></div><div><br />My wrists are good for lots of things, most especially a) providing a place for my watch to rest; b) keeping my hands attached to my body. They should be thanked more often.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNhBJrWJLBuSdkbxXy25-eZm8oq7Ei0wxG_xTUcROaesYIvdgdLQOK4fJwFFtAc6DjVnpeY4CglJiGETt-TF5Lxof-kwUxDKRAEJbUSnZ-kugcVyn_Ww8Xvt6zimAW4EA3gkZxRaWDvN2W/s1600/Face.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNhBJrWJLBuSdkbxXy25-eZm8oq7Ei0wxG_xTUcROaesYIvdgdLQOK4fJwFFtAc6DjVnpeY4CglJiGETt-TF5Lxof-kwUxDKRAEJbUSnZ-kugcVyn_Ww8Xvt6zimAW4EA3gkZxRaWDvN2W/s320/Face.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482847331572526850" /></a><br /></div><div>Props to the little guys! The sweat glands, pores, hair follicles (well, you know which ones can stay, which should go, and which have already left the building), nostrils, ear canals, taste buds, and what not. Especially the sweat glands. I'd hate to cool off by evaporating just through my tongue.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-79313187133782278732010-06-13T02:49:00.001-07:002010-06-14T06:25:23.342-07:00Day 29: Criminal Under My Own Hat<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowqYVe5_guMcN8fQSgxk8TlYSUHTRB0JZSYsZIpcERFxCoa_jiwBGP0Udrpd6J3JoE1CpAUtDUpujCCU4qs6v6q8eUG0rReLCi-C37yM12y9JgNdfQf4PQMb3ODk5S6ZRhGQzxZXquk_X/s1600/hotelview.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNUjR5S6OKTrHPj_dU62Sn4Y5YTTbytb3jrRKAJmOdeDByy60bDMUYkzkPIB7d5UngotDceAHRE_8NjiW2SiykbawQeAZVSgW6ZxsJy_T46s-7KRScvb8JLlesmuJJTK244SqDeyQDMLf/s1600/Cherry+Jam.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNUjR5S6OKTrHPj_dU62Sn4Y5YTTbytb3jrRKAJmOdeDByy60bDMUYkzkPIB7d5UngotDceAHRE_8NjiW2SiykbawQeAZVSgW6ZxsJy_T46s-7KRScvb8JLlesmuJJTK244SqDeyQDMLf/s320/Cherry+Jam.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482471238900954002" /></a>I am not a crook.<div><br /></div><div>Not usually, anyways. But something about hotel buffet breakfasts makes me want to pocket the petite jars of jam. I guess I'm just a petite thief. So, yes, at the Treasure Box I slipped two of these luscious, tart/sweet, cute jars into my pocket. Wait, that's not thievery, right? I <i>paid</i> for the breakfast, and I'm just extending the breakfast until I return to Doha.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's not a good idea to be a criminal in Oman, which is an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oman">"Islamic Absolute Monarchy"</a>. I can almost see Ann Coulter's neck veins throbbing at the very sound of that statement and, given the choice of enduring Ann or IAM, I'd go for the IAM every time because it is less vicious and more sensible. To get both ideas out of my mind, I'll imagine the advertising campaign for <a href="http://www.freakingnews.com/Absolut-Pictures--231.asp">Absolut Monarchy</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you are going to be a criminal, it doesn't make sense to do it on the cheap. <a href="http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Court+frees+man+wrongly+detained+in+Qatar.-a0228463109">A Saudi man arrested for stealing a cell phone in Qatar was held for </a><i><a href="http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Court+frees+man+wrongly+detained+in+Qatar.-a0228463109">three </a></i><a href="http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Court+frees+man+wrongly+detained+in+Qatar.-a0228463109">years before being released.</a> As it turns out, after three years someone decided to check whether the serial number on the phone in the Saudi's possession matched the number of the phone that was stolen. It wasn't, and he was released. "My bad," I assume Qatar said. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's the problem with criminal justice systems, everywhere. It's tough to design them so that the bad guys are put away, and the good guys are released. The more we protect the innocent, the more we allow criminals to evade punishment. And vice versa. That's why the US is on to a pretty helpful concept: innocent until <i>proven</i> guilty. Too bad that sometimes it's just a concept, Justice Scalia.</div><div><br /></div><div>The great Jam Heist was only my first crime of the day. After breakfast I left for a self-guided tour of Muscat, which is not so much a single city as a string of smaller towns along the coast. A full day tour cost about $150, and the tours didn't run on Friday, so I paid myself that amount (with a very generous tip, even though my English was probably not as good as the guide's) and tried to find all the spots mentioned in the brochure, meaning that me and my "YARis" put in some good kilos. One viewing spot, on the Indian Ocean, was close to the Grand Hyatt (<i>not</i> to be confused with the Grand Mosque) Resort.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgowqYVe5_guMcN8fQSgxk8TlYSUHTRB0JZSYsZIpcERFxCoa_jiwBGP0Udrpd6J3JoE1CpAUtDUpujCCU4qs6v6q8eUG0rReLCi-C37yM12y9JgNdfQf4PQMb3ODk5S6ZRhGQzxZXquk_X/s320/hotelview.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482477519060913026" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 151px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I figured I should scope it out. At the gate on the beach, the sign says: "Hyatt Resort limited to Members and Guests".</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, temptress! More like "Oh, go ahead and dangle chum in front of this shark!" I can't resist disregarding signs like this. Ok, I can but I don't. Not disregard , I suppose, as I think to myself: "Mark, you are the <i>kind</i> of guest the Hyatt would want. You are <i>classy</i>. You put the toilet seat down, even if you are staying at the hotel by yourself. You <i>tip </i>well (note my generosity to the tour guide, above). You know how to walk around a place like you own it, not in a Michaele Salahi kind of way -- hey, I just tried to friend her on Facebook! -- which, by all accounts, or my account, which is the only account that counts, is too creepy and narcissistic, even for me, so I just <i>withdrew</i> my Facebook request. No one at this Resort is going to ask me if I belong, as I have that "yeah, I'm wearing khaki shorts, and a t-shirt, and a baseball cap, but because all American men dress like crap at these resorts, for all you know I'm wealthy and important" stroll going. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I hang by the pool for awhile.</div><div>This resort is boring, so I go out for a walk. </div><div><br /></div><div>Getting a latte at the local Joe Shop, I try not to read the lettering on the woman's underwear, which is clearly visible under her dress, in large print, as if she was reaching out to the nearsighted demographic.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the local booksellery, I buy three: the "work" book (<i>Risk,</i> by Dan Gardner), the "serious" novel (<i>American Rust</i>, Philip Meyer) and the "fun" one (<i>Juliette, Naked, </i>Nick Hornby). The serious one remains unread; I'll get to it later. The main theme of <i>Risk</i> is "Feelings trump numbers. Gut trumps intellect." My head thinks this must be wrong, but my instincts tell me the author is right.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today I've already filched jam, forgotten to tell you about the tea bags I also pinched, and I snuck into a resort. As T-Bone Burnett sings:</div><div><br /></div><div>He's capable of anything</div><div>Of any vicious act</div><div>This criminal is dangerous </div><div>The criminal under my own hat</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6m1DgQ8VkcZfggiAkVuYpeOCEKMkjb4MRhcH-Gh0rLt5aguJnuO91Udfg_k4cbIoSXbSipTbehaezNkbYXzJlWfQxe_FLcDArkrYtddESPMJeqA4lRH0Z0C6Ds_euzh8B3HSVUQjFItB/s320/Symbols.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482469598376526098" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>My tour continued. Next photo stop? The Al Alam Palace, the formal home of the hereditary sultan, Qaboos bin Said Al Said. It's helpful to remember this name, not only in case you happen to be asked at a cocktail party "Who's the hereditary sultan of Oman, again?" but also because the main highway is named after him, the main sports complex, the main shopping district, etc.</div><div><br /></div><div>Imagine a Washington DC where Tyson's Corner has been renamed Obama's Corner; Fedex Field is now Obama Field; and Pennsylvania Avenue is Obama Avenue.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wow, that was FUN! watching Coulter's head explode! </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh. Former Member of Congress Bob Barr sort of tried to do this for Ronald Reagan. Hence the Reagan Building in Washington, DC (the biggest federal building in the city is named after the President who thought the government was the problem! oh, the delicious irony) and Reagan National Airport. Barr wanted all public buildings named after Reagan, and he was only 68 percent successful.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Palace looks like...what? You tell me. <a href="http://trifter.com/practical-travel/luxury-travel/7-famous-palaces-to-visit-1-you-wish-you-could/">Versailles? Buckingham? GuGong? The Kremlin?</a> I don't think so. Help me out: What does this palace look like?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSHegNxZoEf0Ei4B_n5FUAPPziTtGqL8k0q8pJuzsSlzJ5EFSqUmgt1-6R4ApbuHAKthVRlYF_3fS2v3kIcjNbAhUcnoe4PDK1urPD3i9maMVcZa1wzTT6oNJdhKP9nrClqnKPup1Tto1g/s320/Palace.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482469591096275474" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 198px; " /></span></div><div>This picture from the palace exemplifies Oman to me. The peanut brittle mountains. The historic forts (center, background). The destruction of older buildings (left) and the construction of the new (right).</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MendORdig47HqB1o_zm22j5Kml9AvcwszvMgkjNP2YSUWXvexi-C3SuLIALgas-QKBGZtu1du7h9Xu66ey5EdY0A8zr7SpqkLMelo71Z7CdAA-bQeaBm7R1KwzqJat1ZqJfWhtypp5Jv/s1600/Old+and+New.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1MendORdig47HqB1o_zm22j5Kml9AvcwszvMgkjNP2YSUWXvexi-C3SuLIALgas-QKBGZtu1du7h9Xu66ey5EdY0A8zr7SpqkLMelo71Z7CdAA-bQeaBm7R1KwzqJat1ZqJfWhtypp5Jv/s320/Old+and+New.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482469606301841698" /></a>Or maybe this picture exemplifies. Huh?</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACodWm8GCxd_xusJ3ncODXL5SeUth9RI0MueA3XeSWPEhqmMA0kh-nFK8M7TLSCTK95rgwlEV-qZd-j2ZigRgV-qK9i5LkMaBl2SXd-D5VqLCyobNSl8SGOIm5cJgFlV9xGxMWbwLYzrW/s1600/WTF%3F.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACodWm8GCxd_xusJ3ncODXL5SeUth9RI0MueA3XeSWPEhqmMA0kh-nFK8M7TLSCTK95rgwlEV-qZd-j2ZigRgV-qK9i5LkMaBl2SXd-D5VqLCyobNSl8SGOIm5cJgFlV9xGxMWbwLYzrW/s320/WTF%3F.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482469579899478178" /></a>By this time I was not traveling alone. In a deserted historic area I came across a young German man carrying a backpack, complete with tent and sleeping bag. It was <i>very </i>hot and humid, and he was soaked. We were both touring aimlessly, so I figured he would enjoy my air conditioned YAR!is. So we spent the rest of the afternoon just poking through neighborhoods, circling roundabouts, walking up stairways, and talking about the middle east. He is working for the German Chamber of Commerce in Dubai and rode the overnight bus here. Where are you staying? I asked. I'll find a place in some park, he replied. I've done that myself many, many times....many, many years ago. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62_3Ht-4Y9GFNx6kO1zvCli0skpgD4S5bTGXS4eSFScclL7xW8_hb2q4VVemBNPeaaQUStIaf31Wh1z0rDVNJ92BjSGmwOxV4m3n1OZhxl95kWWtxwzqjoZAjldW8iBeLrZ5jEc7ppyO1/s1600/Grand+Mosque+Day.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62_3Ht-4Y9GFNx6kO1zvCli0skpgD4S5bTGXS4eSFScclL7xW8_hb2q4VVemBNPeaaQUStIaf31Wh1z0rDVNJ92BjSGmwOxV4m3n1OZhxl95kWWtxwzqjoZAjldW8iBeLrZ5jEc7ppyO1/s320/Grand+Mosque+Day.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482469571818333618" /></a>I dropped him off at the Grand Mosque at the end of the afternoon. He'll probably camp illegally in the park outside. At least I hope so.<br /><br /></div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-975602054485199692010-06-12T21:12:00.000-07:002010-06-13T12:04:53.344-07:00Day 28: Treasure Box<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHh6P-DkRhf5_aSZSORBurtdyy1k2aeHsk2WkrsnDtisSuTCGVUHvVdY8_u4xua5pzC0ojrSxPbRdVTxCoAhky_OCVYmyGXuAw4KOsbT5mV8YxlExRURTbC5t6SS8DKi7pGkbiMDf2PbfP/s320/Oman+Meets+Japan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482107672141806562" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div>Oman looks like Los Angeles, if LA looked more like Abilene. Or Kyoto. It's tempting to compare a new thing to an old thing, but the comparisons inevitably suffer. <a href="http://www.veniceonthecreek.com/">Venice on the Creek</a> (outside Denver) is not, well, Venice, no matter what the developers say. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oman did have a LA-Abilene-Kyoto feel though. Like LA, it is shoved up to an (Indian) ocean by a mountain range, although the mountains here are sharper and steeper, like a brick of peanut brittle that has been shattered by a cleaver. The air was both humid and dusty, and I did see goats roaming some neighborhoods although, unlike Abilene I didn't see any real goat ropers. There were scenes of fragile, elegant grace, almost like Shinto temples photographed through the cherry blossoms.</div><div><br /></div><div>A quick geography lesson may be in order because, well, you don't have the slightest idea where Oman is, do you. Stop lying. I didn't either. If you had any initiative at all, you'd google the map, but you don't, because you expect this blog to spoon feed you. (Editor to Mark: readers typically don't like to be insulted. This one in particular. So apologize.) </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgK3yP5xotQ7uYP192ir-t7lRY6xrX-FlnYWh2YtoFFzlUYmnrTK3eGr4bXxQIuUjWLnjwlY_cs8cEq1EIvvOE3No1bgqK-dCZZINMlt3M4kXuECTh-xWA6IQtkR4hk-hJ5tPEBmb54YM/s1600/Qatar+Oman.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgK3yP5xotQ7uYP192ir-t7lRY6xrX-FlnYWh2YtoFFzlUYmnrTK3eGr4bXxQIuUjWLnjwlY_cs8cEq1EIvvOE3No1bgqK-dCZZINMlt3M4kXuECTh-xWA6IQtkR4hk-hJ5tPEBmb54YM/s320/Qatar+Oman.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482107934002127394" /></a>You can see Muscat (or Musqat, or other spellings, as Arabic is translated into English with apparently random spellings) on the lower right of the map. If I was looking out at the Indian Ocean, which I did, right before I snuck into the Hyatt Resort (more on that later), I would see (from left to right) Iran, Pakistan, and India. Behind me is Saudi Arabia and Yemen. Over my left shoulder is the United Arab Emirates and Qatar.<div><br /></div><div>Gotcha question: Which middle eastern countries have US military bases? </div><div><br /></div><div>Answer: Bahrain, Oman, Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Egypt, Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan, at least, although most of the other countries have at least some "military presence" After all, the US military is in something like 160 countries around the globe. </div><div><br /></div><div>Easy question: Which countries would we allow to put military bases in OUR country (so as, for example, to ensure safety and security in Texas, Florida, Mississippi and other "hot spots"...)</div><div><br /></div><div>Answer: We would never allow such a gross infringement on our national sovereignty.</div><div><br /></div><div>Riding the shuttle bus to the main terminal of the airport, I stood next to this fellow. I'm pretty sure his watch cost more than mine. Then again, we were riding the same shuttle. One time I sat next to Mike Dukakis, the man who might have been president, riding a shuttle: he was wet from the rain, tired from the day, and carrying his own suitcase. As far as I could tell, I was the only one on the bus who even recognized him.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpo64lZaHr4f8mhjdC6Vv-E_lLZd0lSXhGeM-CIGZuV2xm5xLgZWYaJpGeZZM_AWd8pMOJpZvjcwPAw_45YD2JeRKTu7BEovjU4gO8vDNOOFCawA6R2t7wTA7yx6puKN6MROL_2fT9n8Ss/s320/Watch.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482107656215365250" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 320px; " /></span>Once in my rental car, I sped to my hotel like Danica Patrick on Crack, if she were older whiter maler balder, driving a Toyota Yaris (this car name really only works on Talk Like a Pirate Day), and drinking a Red Bull. Unlike Bahrain, which had no useable maps, Oman provides <i>great </i>maps, with every street numbered or named. Three feet by three feet, at times my map blocked the entire windshield. </div><div><br /></div><div>In front of me, eventually, peering over the top of my map, was the Treasure Box Hotel. It was the coolest looking hotel that I could access and afford. Very cool. I was one of about three guests. Does word get out that I'm coming, so the other guests bail? No one was at my hotel last week, either. <div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs21uRBshz7kDL_RWbmDEpg6B517Ukv9Xe4J9TUtXO4h5KXTHkKXpKzy0UzCUcreBS1P54SXrEc0NFgHSaniVjaS2h8GurD9RU2Nj8e4emh9O6o8mgvXIcpoazH-pbLnl6g8mFfWGscXxf/s320/Hotel_Pohn_NET1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482107067430013890" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 230px; " /></span><div><br /></div><div>Cultural differences: the mini-bar had no liquor. </div><div>Cultural similarities: a can of Coke cost $6.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mark's strategy: Walk 50 feet to the convenience store (I think it must have been photoshopped out of the picture) and buy a Coke (and a smile!) for about 50 cents. </div><div><br /></div><div>Mark's strategy, II: I finished revising a scholarly (!!!) article for publication today. One of my reviewers noted that I had an alarming and annoying tendency to put extraneous stuff in parentheticals (Can you imagine? Me? Extraneous Stuff? Parentheticals?) I took them all out (mostly) and so I had a surplus, and now I plan to use them all (here).</div><div><br /></div><div>The Treasure Box was close to the Grand Mosque. My first visit came that night. I marveled at the building in its grace, beauty, and solemnity. It became my favorite place to reflect. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5X1s_HpOv4luabAqLlGaiVmqRNVwDGQP9OatcFfrTupyDaIuu9mXmZVb_XJcLcn1nhgyWvkCq-4hL7tyAOnClX3-dK6PyFuk8d6BE_uX7qri2QsvYEun7cQTbVBb1u4BfGwQW_IrcPTja/s320/Grand+Mosque+at+Night.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482332857633762834" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 195px; " /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><div><br /></div><div>Sample reflection: Doesn't it seem odd that anyone who claims that God has a chosen people is, quite conveniently, one of them? </div><div><br /></div><div>Such thoughts kept me awake, until they didn't.</div><div><br /></div></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs21uRBshz7kDL_RWbmDEpg6B517Ukv9Xe4J9TUtXO4h5KXTHkKXpKzy0UzCUcreBS1P54SXrEc0NFgHSaniVjaS2h8GurD9RU2Nj8e4emh9O6o8mgvXIcpoazH-pbLnl6g8mFfWGscXxf/s1600/Hotel_Pohn_NET1.jpg"></a></div></div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7792433421570840129.post-14071971345962478932010-06-08T12:46:00.000-07:002010-06-08T13:54:28.171-07:00Day, oh, maybe 23: Seeing Clearly<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjOASrOxFVhKbCfjIJpReZguZNEn1-FSMVJKTy3XVHQBmAhtJ78JxM6rPFKNdivhZuKtKOY0KBnk0CHtEErTgvluix4b3VOkJ8_6EhFQirV6c9DjyJeSwIQ-6LUitiFyrWr48xbKM5ZZex/s1600/I+see+you.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjOASrOxFVhKbCfjIJpReZguZNEn1-FSMVJKTy3XVHQBmAhtJ78JxM6rPFKNdivhZuKtKOY0KBnk0CHtEErTgvluix4b3VOkJ8_6EhFQirV6c9DjyJeSwIQ-6LUitiFyrWr48xbKM5ZZex/s320/I+see+you.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480493554785918914" /></a>Hello, Students!<div><br /></div><div>That's right: you. The students in my Ethics class. I see you. I know you're reading this. Well, I don't really know that, but I'm guessing you are. Or were. Or will be. Or should be.</div><div><br /></div><div>The cat pretty much leaped out of the bag (I'm hoping the phrase "leaping the bag" will become as popular, and as opaque, as the phrase "jumping the shark". Already, it's not that far behind, as Google gives 506,000 hits for shark and 449,000 for bag) when Hassan walks into class today, in previously noted black t-shirt, and says "Looks like its casual day for Muslims".</div><div><br /></div><div>Busted. </div><div><br /></div><div>I mean, it's not like I was trying to hide my blog. Truth be told, and I plan to tell it, I think <i>everyone in the universe</i> should be reading it because of its wit and wisdom. And because I would become filthy rich if everyone read it. I would buy Google, and make my name the most popular search term. I would hire writers even wiser and wittier and more grammatically correct than me to write it, and I would pay them a pittance, and they would be <i>grateful</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, anyway, I didn't actually expect my students to find it or read it. Although it does make me think about posting the <a href="https://campus.georgetown.edu/webapps/portal/frameset.jsp">class readings</a> here, so you read my blog and your <a href="https://campus.georgetown.edu/webapps/portal/frameset.jsp">assignments</a> at the same time. </div><div><br /></div><div>I just don't think I was seeing very clearly, in a sand got in my eye kind of way. In fact it <i>was</i> sandy today, or dusty, or particulaty. I'm blaming BP.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5WcoVz3dCyIWd2R9p7mWXxBDGcdmw4Qqz1A4eUClI2OyO4BBk53DK8X_NBrxvdQO_449q9ntPrf0Tg2MHpbxa6GZTJot1b3rFH5SsrT3F9WtTc1qDsUamAweibwQL3k9gXOS6LnJ-mP5/s1600/Dust+storm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij5WcoVz3dCyIWd2R9p7mWXxBDGcdmw4Qqz1A4eUClI2OyO4BBk53DK8X_NBrxvdQO_449q9ntPrf0Tg2MHpbxa6GZTJot1b3rFH5SsrT3F9WtTc1qDsUamAweibwQL3k9gXOS6LnJ-mP5/s320/Dust+storm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480493540256079634" /></a>After my blushing stopped -- and, man was I redder than a bleeding Razorback dipped in cherry juice on Valentine's Day <i>-- </i>I had that Uh Oh moment: What had I written that would embarrass me or embarrass the class? After class I went back and reread everything (like I hadn't done <i>that</i> before). Hassan had no worries about my description of him -- perhaps he should hire me as his agent -- although I did worry a bit about the "casual day for Muslims" thing. Saying I lusted after the woman in the tight jeans was a bit dicey and, dammit, why did I bring <i>that </i>up again? A couple other lapses in good taste could be mentioned, if I were tasteless enough to mention them. Overall I think I'm in good shape, mainly because I didn't pick on anyone but myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's a good thing. I don't like hypocrisy and malicious gossip, although I've no doubt done both. When I do, I do feel slimy. There are other feelings I'd much rather have. I'm only down with a couple of the seven deadly sins -- yeah, you can guess which ones (hint: anger ain't on the list) and I think those are downright virtuous compared to hypocrisy and gossip. </div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of anger: wow, when I read the comments on American political blogs, it's clear there is a <i>lot </i>of anger out there. Hey, you: If you're angry <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1H1YLZFSlmk&feature=related">listen to this</a>. Chill guaranteed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, we all see things differently, some more clearly, some less. I do have proof of this. Check out the cool frames below, found at the Villagio Mall. I'm thinking of getting the white frames with the lavender lenses. I'd sure look different and, if I didn't see more clearly, I would more colorfully.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fsr2hll-J876pUdm2E5EFeqi4YVaOTQpmQB91JLjpIIi2XRGXLbkP1PuhKikbt3-IwDCHoF97mMf-Zp7YuKaX51HKPrpuD6XOFBHWY1RzHEW5xW1iuV8qCBUyQklGa2MhQSTRRJ3aZHl/s1600/Villagio+Glasses.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fsr2hll-J876pUdm2E5EFeqi4YVaOTQpmQB91JLjpIIi2XRGXLbkP1PuhKikbt3-IwDCHoF97mMf-Zp7YuKaX51HKPrpuD6XOFBHWY1RzHEW5xW1iuV8qCBUyQklGa2MhQSTRRJ3aZHl/s320/Villagio+Glasses.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480493524855904354" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Rom, Not Built In a Dayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15658294488276869991noreply@blogger.com0