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About Ramblings of a Hopeless Khowaga

Welcome to my Web site. My name is Chris, and I’ll be your host. I\'m an opinionated, snarky, gay academic with a predilection for the history, the Arab world, languages, photography, food, and music. I live in Austin, Texas. You can read more about me, learn 100 random things about me, and if you’re wondering what the heck a khowaga is, click here. Feel free to browse, read, and leave comments!

Tag: ‘media’



Just Can’t Take it Anymore

Monday, September 7th, 2009

It’s been a while since I’ve posted.

In all honesty, I’m a bit tired of the same old aimless blogging.  This outlet is no longer as anonymous as it used to be, and, in true “careful what you wish for fashion” I’m in a conundrum: I have more readers, but they’re people that I know.  Some of them don’t always seem to be familiar–either with the concept of exaggeration for comedic effect, or with my tendency to use it liberally.  Some of them are likely to approach me in the hallway (either a literal hallway or a metaphoric one) and ask me about something I’ve written.

In the case of literal hallways, it’s even more alarming: I’ve written things about my work environment that are predicated on a good number of my coworkers not knowing that I have a blog.  Some people are good about keeping the secret, others … less so.

And so, I’ve tried to keep my liberal rants and raves to a minimum in the hopes that I won’t offend anyone.  And in doing so, I’ve made myself rather bored with the whole concept.

Well, I’ve got a rant.  And if it offends you, tough.

For a while, I’ve been trying to put my finger on my feelings about the current political situation in the country.  And, frankly, it’s not just a political thing although what set me off today is political in nature.

We have guaranteed freedom of speech in this country.  The problem that I’ve noticed is that as a society, we don’t practice responsible freedom speech.  Americans seem to think that if they have a thought on their head, it needs to be stated out loud.

At the moment, we have this whole situation going on with President Obama: the man has the gall to want to speak directly to schoolchildren to encourage them to stay in school.  The nerve!  Doesn’t he know that as a bona-fide secret Muslim who was born in Zanzibar* and is trying to convert the entire country to Socialist Fascism** that good right-wing American Christians will see right through the AntiChrist’s ploy to brainwash their children.  After all, Memaw and Naydell left school after the fourth grade, and they turned out just fine!

Seriously.

Our last president … well, let’s put it this way.  In eight years, he took the entire nation to war with one country that had something to do with 9/11 (sorta) but that wasn’t spectacular enough for the news media … or his popularity ratings.  So, we decided to go to war with another country that had nothing to do with 9/11 and posed absolutely no threat whatsoever to the United States–this second war was justified on the presentation of completely false intelligence that the White House, it has been revealed, practically made up.  As part of said invasion, it was revealed that our infantrymen were involved in torture of sensitive prisoners, and graphic humiliation of non-sensitive prisoners.  We went from having a balanced budget to one so far in the hole that it’s hard to fathom … and, oh, by the way, started the whole corporate bailout scheme that everyone seems to have forgotten about and now blames on Obama.

Let me say this: I have lost my enchantment with Obama.  I have.  I’m starting to think that the best chance the Democrats have to keep the White House in 2012 is for Obama to not run again.

That said, where was this level of vitriol and anger at Bush 43?  I hated the man — hated him.  For all of the reasons mentioned above, and much more.  To his dirty rotten core.  But if he’d spoken to schoolchildren about the importance of education, I would have made a joke that the speech would be titled: “Stay in School!  Don’t turn out like me,” and let it go.  I wouldn’t have petitioned the school board to either not show the speech or change their policies to allow children to skip school during it.

What we’re hiding here is racism, pure and simple.  People don’t like Obama because he’s an educated black man.  It’s not nice to say that we don’t like him because he’s black, so we make shit up.  He’s Muslim.  He’s socialist.  He’s fascist.  He’s Zanzibari Kenyan.  But, no, really it’s not because he’s black.  We’ve evolved.  (But only metaphorically — we don’t use that term to suggest that we believe in Evolution.  We all know it’s much more likely that an invisible guy who lives in the sky snapped his fingers and made the entire universe happen in six days.)

Moving beyond politics: Americans really do think that they can say whatever they want — which they can, but without any sense of appropriateness or decency.

Take, for example, an experience that I had in El Paso a few weeks ago.  Natalie and I delivered training to a group of 70 people.  At the end of the day, as we were proceeding to the rental car with our things, we reflected on the day.  “It seemed to go well,” she said to me.  “People really seemed to enjoy it.”
“I think so too,” I said, “but I noticed that there was at least one evaluation that seemed to be straight 1s down the line.”  [Our evaluation forms consist of rankings on a 1-5 scale: 1 is "strongly disagree / poor / strongly dislike."]

Natalie then did what we’ve learned over the years that you should never do.  While standing in the parking lot, she pulled out the collected evaluation forms and started going through them.

I should say this.  The number of negative evaluations was somewhere around 4.  Of 70.  Far outnumbered by the number of overwhelmingly positive evaluations.

However, the negative evaluations were really negative.  Like, nasty on a personal level toward the two of us.  One of them, for example, went into pedantic detail about what a poor speaker I am because I said “um” and “ah” too much during one of the presentations (which I had prefaced by saying, “I haven’t done this one in a couple of years, so bear with me”).  I won’t even repeat some of the other comments because, well, they’re not worth repeating.

We sat in the rental car (yeah, it was a dry heat, but 102 is 102, especially when the sun is shining directly on you) in shocked silence.  “So much for professionalism,” I said.
“What on earth would make someone think that it’s OK to say these things to someone?” Natalie asked.
“I … have no idea.”

The coordinator of the event contacted us last week to see if we could set up another date for later in the fall or spring.  “All in all, I think it went very well,” she said.

Natalie called to ask if there was any way to respond in a way that would both convey our enthusiasm and willingness to continue working together, while making reference to the unacceptable and inappropriate nature of some of the comments on the evaluation forms.  “No,” I said.  “It’ll make us seem petty.”

My guess is that the reason people say nasty things is the disconnect of the written word: it’s easier to write it out and not have to deal with the repercussions of watching what you say hit home.  I work with a professor like that: in person, he’s the sweetest, most generous guy.  Put an Ethernet connection between him and the rest of the world and he becomes the sadistic lovechild of Dorothy Parker and Jason, the machete wielding villain of the Friday the 13th movies.  I’ve never heard him use the f-word in person.  I’ve never read an e-mail from him that didn’t contain it.

Why are we, as a people, so unaffected by the notion of the effect that the words we write have on others?  Why do we think it’s OK to engage in such awful diatribe?  Have we really lost the ability to debate civilly without resorting to name calling, innuendo, and wild accusations?

In other words: what’s wrong with us?

*Yes, children: in 1961, Mombassa, which is now in Kenya, was part of the sultanate of Zanzibar.  It became part of Kenya in 1963.  I strongly suspect that the reason why no one in the birther movement knows this is because they all think Zanzibar is a made up place like Wonderland, Narnia, or Canada.

** Quick primer: fascists are on the extreme right side of the political spectrum; socialists are on the left side–and not that far to the left, either.  You think they’re farther than they are because American “liberals” are what, in most countries, are called “leftist-centrists,” meaning that they’re just to the left of the center on the political spectrum.  Socialists and Fascists do not like each other as a matter of course.  It is not politically possible for Obama to be a socialist while pursing a fascist policy.  It does not make you look smarter to try to use both terms together and pretend that they mean the same thing.  They don’t.  And it makes you look even more stupid than you are.

Cures and Diseases

Tuesday, August 18th, 2009

The doctor’s office is decorated in a style that is more reminiscent of the sitcom Newhart.  The wood trim is oak, highlighted with brass chrome.  The wallpaper is a narrow stripe pattern that alternates between midnight blue, brick red, and kelly green.  The seating is a beige sectional sofa that is low to the floor and impossible to sit upright in.  The entire waiting room has an overall feel that suggests that a mounted moose head wouldn’t be out of place hanging over the receptionist’s desk.

The receptionist herself is an ex-Marine.  I know this because the larger-than-life SUV that’s always in the parking lot has at least three lady Marine bumper stickers and, when you meet her, it’s pretty obvious that the car is hers.  She has a bedside manner that matches.   “I have a 9:30 appointmentdon’tshootmeSIRYESSIR!” is the way I usually want to check in.

As has been the case on my last three visits to this doctor, I am kept waiting for half an hour past my appointment time.  The entire rationale of my choosing the earliest possible appointment in the morning is so that this won’t happen, and I am rather unhappy about it.  I suppose there’s no reason that they need to be running around urgently, but I always find the extremely relaxed staff to be annoying.  Couldn’t you be taking me back and letting me wait in the exam room? I want to ask.

The upside of this tactic is that, once I’m in the exam room, the doctor always comes in immediately.  I suppose I should be happy about that: the magazine selection is better in the waiting room.

The doctor has no sense of humor.  Never has.  I’ve stopped trying.  He opens my file and starts going over my case.  “Well, let’s see,” he says.  “You had surgery five months ago now.”
“Yup.”
“Any discomfort?”
“Well, no, but the reason I’m here…”
“Let’s take a look.”

In a scene that would be funny were this a sitcom (or hot were this gay porn … and involving two other people), I am told to drop trou and assume the position on a table that would, it seems, be a welcome accessory in certain clubs that I’ve only ever heard about because of its ability to pretty much turn me on my head (while holding on for dear life).

I hear the snap of latex, all the while protesting, “The last time I was here, you said that I was already completely healed so I dunno if you really need toYARGHcould you warn me before you do thatGAHHfor god’s sake do you keep that metal scope in the freezer between uses??”

“There’s a bathroom through there if you’d like to wipe the lubricant off your backside,” he says, snapping off the latex and turning on the sink with his elbow.  I do so, realizing that I must have the same look on my face that the dog has whenever the vet brings her back to the exam room after going to “collect a sample.”  I kind of feel dirty and violated.

“So,” he says, “we still have some minor irritation to contend with.”
“Yes,” I say.  “That’s why I’m here — last time we tried a new prescription.”
“Yes, I see,” he says, finding the line item in my file.  “And how did that work for you?”
“It didn’t.”
He looks at me.  “You didn’t fill the prescription?”
“I did.  I think it made the problem worse.  It certainly didn’t make it better.”
“Well,” he says, and hems and haws for a while.  “There’s another one we could try.”
Yay.
“We’ve had some success with it.  There’s a catch, though.”
“A … catch.”
“Well, some patients have reported a burning sensation the first time they apply the compound.”
“Burning,” I say.
“In some cases, the patients have reported that it burns so badly that they have to wash it off immediately.  I’ve had a couple who’ve refused to use it after that.”
Blink blink.
“But let’s give this a try.”
“You know, the irritation is kind of minor…”
“Let’s schedule you in for three months from now and see how you’re doing.”

And then I’m back out on the street, $30 lighter (the Marine receptionist having given me a nasty look for not having a ten dollar bill on me), with a prescription in my hand for a compound that apparently causes a massive burning sensation.

I think my doctor must have been at Evil Medical School with Dougie.  :sigh:

Cuh-Cuh-Cuh-Clusterfuck

Tuesday, August 4th, 2009

Note: names have been changed to protect those in need of protecting from my foot up their ass.

Howdy, y’all!

I’m currently in a hotel room right underneath the flight pattern from the active takeoff runway at Houston Intercontinental Airport (Continental’s 777 bound for London went over a little while back — boy, was she noisy!).

Today was not a good day.  In fact, today was the sort of day that the term “clusterfuck” was invented to describe.  I’m over it now, but first … first I’m going to blog about it :twisted:

(more…)

So You’re Back, Then?

Sunday, July 26th, 2009

It’s been over a week since my last blog post.  This probably makes me a Bad Blogger, but whatevs.

It’s also been a little over a week since I flew back from the Middle East.  I had a slow weekend that involved going few places and seeing no one, and then it was time to go to work on Monday.  Needless to say, as I mentioned in my last post, returning to work was not something that I was actively looking forward to.

My office was a mess.  I had been running a workshop right up until I left and had left a couple of piles of things in my office to deal with when I got back.  Normally, when I go on vacation, I try to leave the house or my office in as good a shape as possible, so that when I come back I don’t have exactly the kind of reaction that I had when I walked into my office on Monday: “Oh, fuck.”

My office is still a mess.  There’s still workplace drama.  It’s like the never ending cycle of birth, death, rebirth, and the occasional Bollywood epic describing it.

What my being out of the way has meant, however, is that I haven’t been able to touch base on what one friend called Celebrity Death Fest 2009.  (Yeah, it’s kind of a tasteless term … but it does have its merits.)

All over the Middle East, the one thing everyone wanted to talk about was Michael Jackson … but not for the reason that I thought.  In addition to the obvious question (“What do you think about Michael Jackson dying?”  Seriously, folks, what answer is there to that question??) came this stumper: “Was Michael Jackson Muslim?”

Before you give yourself whiplash trying to figure out where that question came from, lemme ‘splain: when Jermaine made the public announcement of MJ’s passing, he ended with a prayer to ‘almighty Allah.’  Jermaine is Muslim.  Michael … I never heard nothing about.

However, since the Muslim world loves a good conspiracy theory bar none (they include themselves–most of the theories involved local politicians I’ve never heard of, and some of them weren’t about which ones had slept with Sylvio Berlusconi), this was immediately taken as a Sign that the entire Jackson family was Muslim and that the Islam-hating Western media had covered it up.

Clearly they’ve never seen Janet.  Or maybe they ought to, I dunno–depends on whether you think Islam is pro- or anti-feminist … and whether you think Janet is pro- or anti-feminist.  She’d certainly present a different face of Muslim women than a woman in a burqa, that’s for darned sure.

In one of my more sardonic moments, I responded to someone in the Istanbul bazaar, “Right now, the public face of your religion is Osama bin Laden.  Do you really think a gender neutral accused child molester is a step in the right direction?”  Fortunately for me, his English wasn’t good enough to understand most of what I said.  (It was kind of tasteless … even if there’s just the faintest hint of truth in there.)

As for what I think … well, the sad truth was that the likelihood was that his story wasn’t going to end well.  I feel sorry for the guy.  He was surrounded his entire life by people that wanted stuff from him, and he was always alone.

I never got asked what I thought about Farah Fawcett, Billy Mays, Karl Malden, or Ed McMahon.

Anyway.  It’s still hotter than blue blazes here in Texas (everyone in Turkey kept apologizing for the heat–I finally had to break out with, “It’s 44 at home!  It’s only 36 here!  We’re loving it!”), with no end in sight.  If anyone has sway with the Powers that Be, some rain would be great, mmkay?

And maybe some throat lozenges … I think my long-anticipated summer cold might finally be materializing.

Morbid Newshound

Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009

For the past two days, I’ve been completely spellbound by the unfolding mystery of what happened to Air France 447.

There’s something of the locked-room mystery about the tale: passengers board a flight on a late autumn evening in Rio de Janeiro.  Among their numbers are the presidents of major corporations, doctors, lawyers, cabinet ministers, and, for a dash of complete exoticism, a handsome young prince, fourth in line to the Brazilian throne (never mind that the monarchy was abolished in the 1890s). The plane takes off, bound for Paris.  Dinner is served, the lights are dimmed.  Everything is routine.

Four hours into the flight, the plane passes over the northeastern coast of Brazil, heading for international waters.  The pilots report to Brazilian air traffic control that they’re passing out of their jurisdiction, and, as is usual when passing into an area that’s not covered by radar, they report the time that they expect to cross in to Senegalese airspace.  Some time later, the pilot reports thunderstorms and severe turbulence.  Then … nothing.  The plane never arrives in Senegalese airspace.  Calls fly back and forth between Recife and Dakar — no one can see the plane.  It never shows up on radar screens in Casablanca or Tolouse.  With the exception of a few automated messages received on a maintenance computer in Paris indicating that something has gone horribly, terribly wrong, the plane has, quite literally, disappeared.

There’s a compelling story in here, even if we try to fictionalize it.  But it’s not fiction, it really happened.  And, like lots of people everywhere, I want to know more.  Am I morbid?  Why?

There is, of course, the fear factor.  I’ve spent a good deal of time on airplanes, including ones that cross the ocean.  In less than a month, I’ll be flying transatlantic again–I’ve lost count, but I think this trip will be number 15 or 16.  I want to know what happened to AF 447 because I want some sort of reassurance that it’s not likely to happen on any flight I’m planning to take in the near future.

And then there’s the morbid part: what would it have been like to be on that plane?  *shivers*

For the past two days, I’ve spent a bit of time regularly checking updates as reported by the foreign media — back and forth between the Brazilian papers Folha do Sao Paolo and O Globo, the French newspaper Le Monde, and the message boards on Airliners.Net where polyglots helpfully translate articles in languages I can’t read.  (As a Spanish speaker, I find Portuguese easier to read than French … although clicking on the video clips that Globo has posted turned out to be pointless because, although I may be able to read Portuguese, I can’t understand the spoken language at all).

I’m also learning things about what the American press considers worthwhile.  One of the reasons why I had to break out the Spanish-Portuguese dictionary is that the English language media is doing a pretty bad job at updating the story regularly.  The Brazilian press reports every latest development, whereas BBC is running several hours behind, and CNN?  Fuggedaboutit.  Granted, it wasn’t a flight that came from the US, and there were other important goings on in the world yesterday (I refer, of course, to the Bruno/Eminem teabagging incident), but I still couldn’t help being a little snarky when I noticed that CNN became far more interested once it was known that two American citizens were on board.

Today, the world has caught up.  And the mystery is starting to clear, at least a little: although the aircraft would have run out of fuel a couple of hours after it missed its scheduled arrival time in Paris yesterday, it wasn’t until Brazil’s Minister of Defense announced that wreckage found in the Atlantic 700 miles northeast of Recife has been positively identified as belonging to Air France 447 that the media began using the word “crash.”

It’s a stunning tragedy — I feel a knot in my stomach whenever I see the images of relatives and friends arriving at the airports in Rio and Paris, trying to get more information.  They want what we all want: we want to know what happened. We want to find out it was quick.  We want to find out they didn’t know it was coming.  And we’re all pretty sure we’re wrong.

And I just can’t stop watching.

 

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