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 |  My second blog. Enter at your own peril. |
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This is my second blog on writing.com and I thank my loyal legion of fans (thanks mom) for leading me to this. Enjoy the banter, join in when needed, and send all the people who need a little abnormal dose of reality my way. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I’d like to get serious here for a minute or two, or however long it takes you to read this blog today. We live in trying times right now. Everywhere you look there seems to be violence, degradation, economic plight, and rising obesity rates. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even turn on the television anymore because I just don’t want to see how bad it is. But then I realize, not that I’m dreaming, but that it could be so much worse. I remember a tale from when I was a kid about a whole village that makes what I’m living through seem so contrite and tame that I shouldn’t be afraid to turn on the television. This was a peaceful village, by all accounts. Of course, I learned of this village on television and you shouldn’t believe everything you see on television. The occupants of this village went about their daily business with no fuss, no bother, each one doing what they did best. They had painters, and builders, and scholars, etc. Things were wonderful and carefree. But you know it couldn’t last. Someone didn’t like them. It’s not like he didn’t like one of them; he didn’t like any of them. He went about trying to infiltrate the village to rid himself of their nuisance. And so he put a spy in their midst but his plan ultimately backfired and he would spend the rest of his days tormented by this unlikely group. Hell, they even tormented his cat so they must have been evil. I shall let you decide for yourselves though. They must have been a pre-cursor to nudist colonies because they only walked around with trousers and hats on. Some of them wore glasses but bad eyesight should never be considered as a fashion crime. They had a leader of sorts, the wisest and most experienced of them all. I think they chose him for his ability to grow facial hair but I’ll never know for sure. He was sort of like Santa Claus and Zeus all rolled into one delightful little package. The white beard, the red trousers and hat. He was wise beyond even his years and handled the rest of the village with a humility bordering on God-like proportions. He even set about fixing the spy in the camp. And this is the tale of The Smurfs, a gnome-like group who live in mushrooms. Every time I think we have it rough today I just think of them and realize it’s not so bad here. Aspects of their life mirror our own I’m afraid. And some of it is even worse than ours. I’m not making this up. I saw it on television and read about it. In a book! First off, they lived in mushrooms. They didn’t live off mushrooms or trip on mushrooms. They lived in them. And not shitake mushrooms either. Nope, these were your plain old boring toadstool variety fungi. Not a lot you can do to dress those up. When Papa Smurf cornered the infiltrator and turned her badness into goodness, she became the only female in the village. Now, either she became the village bicycle and was ridden more times than her little blue frame could handle, or she became the ultimate cock tease and was very selective in her breeding partners. And let’s not forget about how shallow the gene pool would get with such a limited number of humping posts. One mother for all of those children. I’m not saying we’d eventually see Smurfs with three arms and fish eyes, but we might eventually see Smurfs with three arms and fish eyes. Imagine that show coming on television. They wouldn’t even show that in Chernobyl where you would think you’re watching a show about your neighbor! And have I even begun to mention the odds aren’t exactly stacked in your favor in this scenario. One woman for over 100 men. Have you thought about that? Seriously, step back and think about that. For every 100 pairs of blue balls there is one set of funbags. Think of how much bluer most of those balls would be. And what if she just isn’t into you? The simple answer is that if she isn’t into you you won’t get into her. She might like the silent type so that would count me out. She might hate athletes so that would count me out. She might like the muscle-heads so that would count me out. I’m not a Smurf either so that would count her out. I’ve just decided it would totally suck balls for me to live with them. See, living where I do ain’t so bad. I’d be completely fucked if I were living with Smurfs! Cheers, The Penguin |
In response to the blog of Alrac Tabb  and the questions left by Auntynae I have decided to enlighten you all about what it takes to come out here to Saudi Arabia as a woman. I know I’m a man. But, you’re going to hear this man’s views on just how wonderful and crazy you have to be as a woman to want to come out here. Sounds riveting don’t it?The Hijra calendar that is used in Saudi is about 600 years behind the calendar used in the rest of the world. And at times, you believe so is the thinking out here. And it goes further than women not being allowed to drive and having to cover up when they go shopping or out anywhere. It goes further than seeing the women walk 5 paces behind their husbands. And it certainly goes further than women getting paid less than men to do the same job with the same qualifications. This country is backwards in a lot of regards, but anyone who comes out here to take a job knows that. And if they don’t, they deserve the slap across the face they’ll get from that cold-hearted hussy reality when they get here and find out. When I took my job out here I was immediately on the Internet finding out all I could about the region, the people, the way of life, etc. Does that amount of research prepare you for what you’re about to do? No. But at least you have a clue as to what to expect. I had a clue. I had an idea. I talked to Muslim friends back home as well. I was prepared but still ended up shocked. And I was a 36-year-old man going to a country that puts an emphasis on men. Imagine being a 22-year-old woman leaving home for basically the first time to take what is basically your first job in your chosen career. Imagine coming straight out of university, nearly, a life of parties, socializing, flirting, late nights getting work done, and limited responsibility. Imagine coming from England, a land of freedoms and few inhibitions, a land where women can vote, can drive, can take home a boy at the bar if they want. And then imagine you end up in Saudi Arabia! Kirsty flew out here on her 22nd birthday knowing full well that the only person she would know was a person she had only had email contact with and limited phone contact with. They had never met. The first person I knew in Saudi was the person who met me at the airport! And he could have been anybody! Luckily for Kirsty, the woman who hired her was from the same region in England (Staffordshire) so they had an instant bond and are very good friends (even today and they work closely together). Of course it all went to shit a couple of days after arriving here when she was introduced to me but don’t hold that against her. She has shown remarkable courage to come out here. This is a culture that limits male/female interactions as much as possible. In fact, it is illegal for a non-married man and woman to go out in public together (or actually spend time in private together). I guess the thinking is that all male/female interactions will end in sex. Saudi Arabia is the only Middle Eastern country that limits this interaction by the way. And as such, the women that work for the company we do live in a compound that is for women only. It is a part of a bigger compound where single men and families live, but Kirsty’s part of the compound is strictly for women. Besides the all male staff that work on the compound of course who seem to have a habit of wandering around the swimming pool! Can you say hypocritical? I thought you could. As such, I am not allowed in Kirsty’s apartment. I’m not even allowed in the front gate of security either! The other night I dropped her off with about a dozen bags and things from Ikea and couldn’t help her inside with them. I asked her if any of the staff helped or provided her with a cart and she said no. It is frustrating at times. All I wanted to do was help her carry her stuff inside but I can’t. And I can’t help her clean her apartment either because, obviously, I’m not allowed inside. When I got here they said I didn’t qualify to live on a compound and then the story was that there was no “single male accommodation left”. After fitting and threatening to hop on the first plane home they put me where I am. It’s not too bad I suppose but things always look rosier elsewhere. Her apartment is bigger and nicer than mine. She has a balcony (I have one window that faces a brick wall 10 feet away), her couches are bigger, she has a microwave. I will never see the inside save for photos. She wants to adopt cats and that is cool. I’ll never get to hang out with them so long as she’s living in her women’s compound. I can’t have pets at my place. And has Kirsty complained about this? No. Sure she’d like more freedom, especially so we could be a couple out in public and hold hands, but she knew what she was getting herself into. We both have friends here who do nothing but complain and insist things shouldn’t be the way they are because they aren’t Muslim or it’s just stupid. We might think it is stupid; but this is life out here. You know what to expect. You had the choice to come here. They don’t owe us anything to be here. We’re getting paid, pay no rent or taxes, and can have a pretty active social life. Suck it up and deal with it. And that’s what Kirsty has done. She doesn’t agree with everything that goes on out here, and she has that right. But she also respects that it does and carries herself in a professional and courteous manner (most times – we all have to lapse sometimes). To handle it the way she has, with a maturity that dwarfs mine, and the reasoning that this is only a means to an end, is truly amazing to me. I could not have made this move at 22. Hell, I couldn’t have made this move at 32. It is a testament to her that she has succeeded already when so many of us have struggled. She says she feels very settled right now and almost thinks of this place as home when we’re together. I’m refusing to take credit. Cheers, The Penguin |
| “Success is not the key to happiness. Happiness is the key to success. If you love what you are doing, you will be successful.” Albert Schweitzer Since I left most of you in a disappointed mood yesterday with my statistics from the publishing world I thought I would try and cheer you up. And since some of my readers are male, or related to me, the nude photo of myself I was going to post to bring a smile to the face of many has been vetoed. Of course, I would have to get a nude photo of myself first. But, that’s just a technicality. Instead, I’ll focus on happiness. How true is the aforementioned quotation? Do you have to be successful to be happy? Or, like the quote says, does happiness define success? I haven’t spent a lot of time thinking about such deep thoughts (mostly my thoughts revolve around chocolate, sports, boobies, and more boobies), but I don’t think it takes Stephen Hawking to come to grips with this notion. And speaking of Stephen Hawking for a minute – does anyone else find it a bit insulting that this guy hails from Oxford and speaks with a pretentious American accent? Just checking, that’s all. I agree completely with the quote, and not just in the writing world. Sure, it best describes why I write, but it goes further than that. Commercial success is an afterthought for most of us. Would we like to be able to wake up in the morning and not worry about paying our bills, buying food, emergency repairs on our cars? Yes, of course we would. But the sobering reality is that only a mere fraction of us will ever get to be that way. And yet, we write. Why? I write because at the end of the day on the days that I do write I feel better than I do on the days that I don’t. Again, the formula isn’t that complex. Ger writes, he’s happy. Ger doesn’t write, not so happy. Granted, there are also outside influences that can affect my mood as well. Ger has sex, he’s happy. Ger doesn’t have sex, he’s not as happy. See? You don’t need any more examples do you? Too many people struggle with the day to day because they don’t love what they do. And at the end of those days, they don’t consider themselves to be successful. Let’s look at my career for a moment. This won’t come as a surprise to my boss so I’m not too concerned about printing it here. I don’t love my job. I’m good at it, like it, but I don’t love being a technical writer. My heart will always lead me to creative writing and she knows that. Everyone around me knows that I would much rather be able to support myself and a future family through creative writing than from technical writing. My lack of real passion for technical writing spurs my creative endeavors so the job is perfect for me in a sense; but I will never feel completely successful if I never write anything creative again. But I know I will keep writing creatively because I have to. It’s the spark that fuels all the passion inside me. Because I love it so much, I know I’ll be successful at it. And success doesn’t mean the New York Times Bestseller list. Success means that at the end of the day I can look back and be proud that I wrote something I find worthwhile, and perhaps someone else found worthwhile as well. If I can make a few bucks from it then even better. And my personal life is finally starting to show signs of success because I really love what I am doing and especially whom I am with. The details are insignificant really. But the fact that I love going out to buy a hot water bottle for Alrac Tabb  on days she’s not feeling well, or making my home feel lived in to help her adjust to the country – the little things that mean more than the big things, makes me feel successful in my relationship. And I’ve had plenty of unsuccessful relationships! At the end of the day, we’ll get out of life, what we put into it. Our successes will be measured not by what is in our bank accounts, but by the smiles on our faces and those of the people that we love. Go out and find something you love to do. That love will bring you success. And success cannot be measured by dollars and cents. Your success can only be measured by the way you feel. Cheers, The Penguin |
| Who wants some sobering news? You do? Even if it is sobering news about writing? Okay. I love that about my readers. You love to read tales of me getting the little penguin out and you love when I recount tales of embarrassment gone by. But you also love when I decide to use this space to write something a little more literary. You understand my need to be a chameleon. Or, you have just accepted the fact that I won’t shut up and you just let me think I’m doing what I want to do. Whatever it is about my faithful readers I am glad you are with me. Very glad. As most of you are aware, I am a published author of a little non-fiction book called Weird Alberta Places. This is a book I would never have thought of writing but when asked to write it I jumped at the chance. Who wouldn’t? I say I’m a writer and turning down a chance to be published would have been foolish. Now, this blog isn’t about my book that will be a waste of the 45 minutes it takes to read. I am currently trying to publish two other books – one a very tongue-in-cheek dating advice book that Scarlett  seems to love, and two, a young adult fiction novel called Aaric that I have had close to my hear for about 5 years. And as any of you who are trying to publish books of your own can attest to; it’s really hard to find interest out there. Take these frightening statistics for example:These numbers are all based on 2005 but the trend is very much the same now. Overall sales have increased mind you, but the gap between the haves and have nots remains the same. Book publishing is a multi-billion dollar industry (in 2005 it was $5.2 billion to the good). 172,000 (or thereabout) new titles or editions were published in 2005 and of those, 5 publishing conglomerates accounted for 80% of book sales, even though they published just over 23,000 new titles in 2005. To make it worse, in 2004, 87% or retail bookstore sales came from just 7% of titles published. Fewer than 1200 new titles sold more than 50,000 and a staggering 93% of new titles sold less than 1000 copies. Having read that, the 8000 or so copies my book has sold seems like best-seller material! The point is quite simple – it is tough out there to become published and successful. Yes, we write because we feel we have to, or write because we love it, but we also write because we want someone, anyone, to read our work. You wouldn’t be on this site if you didn’t want your work being read. There comes a time when we, as writers, have to decide if this is it for us. Is this the fullest extent of our readership or do we strive for getting that published work? Maybe it is vanity, maybe it is delusions of grandeur, or maybe it is just a life-long dream, but I want to be a published novelist. I’m a published author, and that is a big difference as far as I’m concerned. I want to try and beat the odds, and they seem pretty insurmountable at times, and WOW someone with my work. And it is a tiresome and often lonely process. It was much easier before JK Rowling came along. She decided to send her book off, no agent, unannounced, and managed to get the right people to like it. Since her success, for many years after, publishing houses were inundated with unsolicited manuscripts and now most of them, including many small presses that are supposed to be more author friendly, won’t accept anything that doesn’t come from an agent. Simple then – get an agent. Not so simple as I am finding out. Most reputable firms are just about as picky as publishing houses about who they represent. Most of them I have researched ask for publishing credits, which I can give them, but mine doesn’t fall under a category that is high enough it seems. All of this leaves a bitter taste in the mouth when it comes to thinking you might actually be a commercial success at this writing game. It also makes me step back and hold my head up high that one publisher actually liked Aaric enough to show an interest in publishing it. The offer is still there and they told me to take my time when thinking about it. I know what I won’t do – and that is let this news keep me from writing. This is what I love to do and I will keep doing it. Even if Kirsty is the only person who will ever read my work I’ll consider myself successful. Sure fame and fortune would be nice. Sure having a press conference or a street named after me would be a great thing to tell the grandchildren about. But at the end of the day, I write because I love to. No downturn in the economy can change that. And no publisher can tell me to stop. Cheers, The Penguin |
| As Alrac Tabb mentioned in her blog today, I did have my final football game yesterday. We had a chance of winning the league before the day started - well, 3 teams were tied on points and only separated by goal difference. Going into our game we learned that we would have to win by 12 goals. There was still a chance that I could be the leading goalscorer as well but I would need to score 7 goals to do that as well. lol. So, basically, we knew that we were playing for second place and only a win would get us that. Needless to say, we won. It was a lot closer than it should have been and we fought our way to a 2-1 victory. We had a player sent off early in the game and played with one fewer players, but they never really threatened us after we made a mistake for their goal. In actuality, we should have scored about 10 and their goalkeeper was the man of the match. As for me, I hobbled off with about 10 minutes or so to play but I didn't want to. The leg is still a bit tender today but I'll survive. I can't help but wonder what the other player is like because he came off far worse than I did. The bad leg didn't affect my bowling game though! And I don't even practice. I'm in the process of cooking my first roast as I'm taking care of Kirsty today as she's not feeling well. I like playing the mothering type. lol. I think I'll be good at when I have little ones. But, that is a thought for another day. Cheers, Geraint |
| I’ve had a burning question/annoyance going through my head for a good number of years now (probably 4 or 5) and it might be time to air my complaints and see what the good readers of blogville think about it. I went back to college in my 30s because, well, I also struggled to believe I had any kind of potential whatsoever. But this isn’t a blog about that. I quit a job I had for 8 years that paid well, offered a great retirement scheme, and that I could do in my sleep. That was part of the problem I suppose (no challenge, no possibility for advancement, etc.), and once I found the program that was absolutely perfect for me to resume a life of poverty I took the chance. I enrolled at a local college that had just been granted degree giving status and found myself in the second ever class in the Bachelor of Applied Communications in Professional Writing program. Try saying that while you’re drunk or decide what initials should come after your name on a business card! Anyway, after the first year the program transferred from the state-of-the-art, glass and steel downtown campus to the older, artsy, and quainter campus in the west end. And I loved the change even though I lived mere blocks from the downtown campus. We were now on the same campus as the dance, drama, music, and graphic design students and the campus had a very creative vibe. Soon, we had our own school within a school, the MacEwan School of Communication. I could live with that name. Soon, we would have another name that I couldn’t quite live with... (I’ve just gone online to check out dates – I’m so great. Also, I guess on a business card I can put: Geraint Isitt B. App. Comm.) Back in 2003, the first year after the move to the new campus it was decided that the Digital Arts and Media, Journalism, Design, and Professional Writing programs would become the School of Communication. Not too bad and not entirely far-fetched either. I guess every school needs a namesake, or a sponsor or something. The University of Austin has James Michener’s name on their Creative Writing program. Granted, Edmonton is not a hotbed for world-renowned writing talent (although several of my teachers are published authors and damn fine writers in their own regard). But whom we ended up using, was one part baffling and one part embarrassing. The dean of the college went to school many years before with a Hollywood actor who spent time, obviously, living in Edmonton. This actor didn’t even go to MacEwan College, didn’t even go to college actually, but he had some links to Edmonton. An obvious choice, we as students thought, would have been Marshall McCluhan, born in Edmonton and coiner of the phrase, “The medium is the message”. The Marshall McCluhan School of Communication wouldn’t have been bad; especially since McCluhan had such an influence on media and journalism. But, we didn’t get McCluhan. Instead, one day in early 2003, we had a visit from the comedian and actor Leslie Nielsen, he of the Naked Gun and Airplane movies. His brand of low-brow humor may lead him to a lot of jobs in Hollywood, but what qualified him, besides a passing friendship and a few years spent at school in Edmonton, to have his name on a school of communications? He would go on to answer this in his speech his gave at the inauguration of the school. In short, he said, he was as baffled as we were that he would be chosen to have his name on a school of communications. I will give him some credit though – he handled our looks of mocking disbelief with grace. He knew we weren’t quite sure what was going on. He wasn’t either. I will say that his speech was one of the worst ones I’ve ever heard though. There wasn’t an ounce of funny in his speech. I don’t know if this shocked me or not to be honest. I don’t find him particularly funny at the best of times and it’s the writers who do funny. Oh well, moving on. We get stuck with him as the focal head for our school and the uproar dies down a little bit until the next year when we go for convocation. You see, my program was a 2-year diploma program or a 4-year degree program. Students could opt out after 2 years. I chose the degree option but decided that I would go to convocation in April after 2 years to get the diploma (A snippet at only $25) to give myself a sense of accomplishment. Naturally, you don’t get your parchment at the event, so we all stood around waiting for photos and then someone, I can’t remember who it was, said, “do you think our diplomas and degrees will say HIS name on it?” We all just grew even more still. Would they? When the diploma actually arrived in the post about a month or so later I paused before I opened it. I carefully looked it over, held it up to the light, flipped it around, and was almost tempted to take it to the bank down the road to see if they could look at it under one of those lamps they use to check for counterfeit bills. Nowhere on the piece of parchment was the name Leslie Nielsen. I could proudly hang this document on the walls of my home or office (when I got one)! Two years later I was pleased to see the degree parchment didn’t have his name on it either. And neither will my business cards when I get some made. And my CV states I went to MacEwan College and nothing more. While I congratulate Mr Nielsen for a long career in Hollywood I cannot thank him for being the name on my school. Call me shallow, call me biased, call me an asshole, I just think someone should have to have at least a passing interest in the thing he’s having his name put on. Cheers, The Penguin |
| We had the second installment of our creative writing group last night and as much as I thought the first lesson went well, the second lesson was even better. We had 3 new people come out and attend and their input and enthusiasm was exceptional. For a group of supposedly non-writers, there is some talent there. We’ll see if they can carry that talent over to an entire short story or if it just comes in small bite sized chunks. Regardless, they are all willing to learn, seem to respect Kirsty and myself and our “talents”, and even did the homework assignment from the first week. We briefly went over critiquing and reviewing last night and this has fuelled my inner most thoughts to dig out a snippet from my past... While at college earning my degree I took a mix of both creative and technical courses to help me become a better writer and ensure myself a decent chance of finding employment as a writer when I was done going in to debt to become a successful student. All of my creative classes – creative writing, publishing prose, creative non-fiction, advertising, two screenwriting courses – dealt with having to review work done by my fellow classmates and, in turn, having mine reviewed by them. I have had my work ripped apart from elbow to asshole and back again and it doesn’t really phase me. My years growing up bow-legged, pigeon-toed, and with a terrible stutter has made me immune to criticism these days. Lol. I handled every one of them with a grain of salt and worked on my projects with the constructive criticisms I would get. I, on the other hand, would always look for positives in a person’s work and focus on those, before adding things I thought they could improve. A fair and honest system. But, unfortunately, some people just don’t seem to think that way. And you’ll find it on this site too. I left a review for someone and I gave them a 3, told them why, what they did well, and ways I thought they could improve. The next day I had a review left by them for one of my stories and they gave me a 1, and basically just called me an idiot and ripped my work apart using very negative language. I’m sorry, but I could piss out a story and have it be at least a 1.5 rating. Lol. I guess what I’m saying is that some people just can’t handle reviewing or being reviewed. There are many reasons for this as well, too many to list here, but I will give you some of my favorites though. Some people just aren’t mature enough to leave a good review or react to a review. And this has nothing to do with age. I’m guessing the writer on writing.com that gave me my 1 rating was in his/her teens, based on the language used in my review and the story I reviewed of theirs. But when I was in school we had students in class ranging from 18 to 62 and some of the older ones were often the most, umm, how can I put this nicely... screw it, they were some of the biggest fucking babies in the program. So, you need maturity to be reviewed and to leave a review. Another favorite of mine is the lame excuse about a piece “not being one of my favorite genres”. You know what? Suck it up buttercup and do the right thing. People who use this excuse are the same ones who kick puppy dogs, steal candy from babies, and park in handicap spaces at the Special Olympics because they feel the extra walking the athletes will be forced to do will be like warm-ups for them. You don’t like a certain genre? Big deal. I’ve got an arse you can lick instead. I hate poetry. But I will review it if asked and will comment honestly about the word choice, pattern, rhythm, etc. I won’t write, “it sucks”, because I hate poetry in general. We had a guy in our program in his late 50s and I had a lot of respect for him as a writer and as a man. He worked as a British police officer in Hong Kong during the 60s and 70s and had some amazing stories. He loved true crime novels and who-dunnits. He pretty much avoided anything else. In screenwriting class we had to write a 30-minute script that we would pitch to imaginary television channels. One of my best friends in the program wrote a fantasy script about other worlds, mystic power, legends, all of the usual stuff involved in fantasy. It was really good and he put a very unique spin on. Everyone in the class reviewed except for one guy, the aforementioned guy, because he didn’t like fantasy and couldn’t bring himself to read it. Granted, we can’t force people to read what we write, but in a classroom setting that is based around the concept of feedback, his actions were pretty childish. Here on writing.com we are spoilt because we can have a filter as to the genres we can choose to review. I know I don’t enjoy certain genres so I won’t read them. If I’m asked to, I will, and I will reply honestly and openly and will always be willing to share and discuss what I thought. In fact, some of the highest rated pieces I’ve read have been poems, and remember, I hate poetry (probably because I can’t write it), but if you can, and I read it, I’ll know and let you know. This doesn’t make me a better person or anything silly like that, it just makes me an honest reviewer. I have written crap. I will continue to write shit. And when I do, I expect people to let me know. Kirsty gives me stuff at most a 3 because she knows it’s only a first draft I’m presenting and can see so many things I should do better. When she let me read the excerpts from her novel she knew I would be honest but kind about it. I told her what worked, what didn’t, why I thought something should be changed. Sometimes we get too close to something to see it truthfully. And it is the truest statement in a writer’s life that it is damn near impossible to kill our babies sometimes. Damn near impossible. A good review, done with honesty and grace, can point that out for us. So, feel free to read and review my stories. Don’t base your reviews on the reviews left by others. Who cares if the previous four people gave it 5 stars? Nothing in my port deserves 5 stars (unless it’s my blog for imagination or something – the writing doesn’t). Review with honesty, grace, and the maturity required to be a good writer. I guarantee you that I won’t leave any disparaging words on your work just because you gave me a 1 or a 2 on mine. Unless of course your work deserves it. Cheers, The Penguin |
| I’m doing something tomorrow night that I haven’t done before in Saudi Arabia. I’m wondering how long to keep you guys all hanging and guessing what it is I might be doing? I’ve already been on a camel, one of the most over-priced and overrated experiences I’ve ever had. And for the record, all of you men out there that might decide to ride a camel one day, sit sidesaddle. My nutsack has never taken such a beating in its life. The 5-minute ride on that camel must have inflicted 1000 years of damage on my undergrowth, my oddly shaped balls, and the excess elbow skin that God used as little pouches to keep them in. I have even gone quad biking on the sand dunes out here a couple of times and once the weather starts to cool again we’ll all be taking Kirsty out to do it. It’s great fun and a different experience altogether. And the beautiful thing about is that you are the only ones on the dunes because most of the locals don’t bother getting out of bed until at least noon and we’re already gone by that time. You have the dunes to yourselves and are free to take as many jumps as you can over anything that looks remotely like a jump. I have even been to the beach; both a private Westerner’s only beach and the local beach. I have stood amazed to see the Saudi women in their full-length abayas playing in the water and wondering just how heavy the fabric must get. I had been here for only a few weeks when I did that and I was absolutely stunned. I am told that they will wear them at water parks as well but I haven’t been to one of those in Saudi Arabia yet. I have encountered road rage and laziness, friendly hospitality and hatred, but on Wednesday night I shall do something I have yet to do here. Kirsty is doing it too. It was her idea. She’s prepped and prepared me and reminds me about it all the time. I don’t want to disappoint her so I better be ready for it. She’s young and so full of life that I wonder if I’m going to be able to keep up. I shall give it my best try though. And if I need a rest, I’ll pause for a moment or two and then keep at it. Yup, I’m off to Ikea on Wednesday night. Should be fun. Cheers, The Penguin |
| I’m here today to talk about best friends. Not good friends, or great friends, or friends with benefits. Nope, I’m here to talk about best friends. The rarest of friends there are. The kind of friends that if you are lucky you have more than one of. Not only can you tell these friends anything, you probably have, but they would also be there whenever you needed them. And probably, sometimes you don’t. It has been said, and perhaps I read this on a t-shirt somewhere (I often opted for t-shirts that read, “I know the credit card is for emergencies but she was hot”, and, “I’d rather be masturbating” (a shirt I wore to all of my final exams at college)), that a “good friend will help you move, a great friend will help you move a body”. And this is probably very true indeed. I would consider myself to be a great friend, and even have a couple of best friends that I can rely on, but only time will tell if I call them back when they leave a message on my machine simply stating, “Ger, Glenn here. I need you to meet me at the park with a bag of lime, a shovel, some disposable rubber gloves, and a blow torch.” Han Solo was a great friend to Luke Skywalker. Seriously, he was. How many of your friends would risk extreme frostbite on all of your tiniest and hairiest of places on an unfathomable planet to rescue you? Would you ride out at night, with the temperature dropping below –100 degrees to look for him? Would you still love him enough to split open the Tom Tom, the two-legged furry beast you rode out to rescue him on, and pull out its guts to stuff your friend inside so he could be warm? Would you do that? You would? Wow. Even if you were both chasing the same girl? And she’s a princess by the way. See, that is a great friend right there. A great friend will do that. A great friend will risk personal harm to make sure you are safe. A great friend will give up the girl if he thinks you deserve, knows you really like her, or sometimes knows she’s a terrible shag and wants you to find out for yourself. A friend would tell you that last one, but only a great friend could get away with not doing it. JRR Tolkien wrote a little tale about a little dude trying to throw away a ring. Now, this little dude wasn’t upset that his marriage ended and he wanted nothing to do with the sacred band that once symbolized his marriage. And the ring didn’t even symbolize the hole that not just he would slip something into either. Nope, this was just a plain old ring devoid of any symbols or anything like that. Wait, it dropped in the fire and had script scrawled across it? What’s that? The ring is the “one ring to rule them all”? Whoa, slow down. So, the poor little dude embarks on a journey to throw said ring into the fiery depths of Mount Doom. Why couldn’t he just have to throw the ring into any other volcanic mountain? Did it have to have such an ominous name? Would he have felt so small and afraid if he had to throw the ring into the fiery depths of Mount Eva Gardner (I think that is something my dad would have done back in the 40s and 50s)! The little dude sets off and with him is his trusted pal, and greatest friend of all, Sam. Sam is a little dude as well. Neither Sam or the other guy wear shoes, oddly enough at home, but on a months long journey this is fucking ridiculous. Anyway, the little dude is weak, a pansy and a pussy, and Sam should have just drowned him the first chance he got. Sam, however, knew this was his friend’s task to complete and left him to it. Sam knew that he just had to help and then he could go home and engage in some midget sex with Rosey Cotton, a girl aptly named because her cheeks were red and her bra was stuffed! Okay, I made that last part up. Sam showed his true worth when the little dude, too weak to continue and failing to find the intestinal fortitude to look at the big picture because he was a selfish little bitch, carried his friend up Mount Doom, fought off the creepy balding slimy guy (no, he wasn’t from Greece), and made sure his friend had the easy task of throwing the ring into the fire. Of course, his friend was too weak to do it, and this crippled poor Sam. When the ring was accidentally heaved into the fire along with the slimy dude, and the little dude’s ring finger (don’t ask), Sam was there to stop his friend from falling to his own fiery death. Personally, I don’t know how he did it. His friend reached up with his stubbed fingered hand and grabbed Sam’s arm. I would have pulled away. I have a sick fear of stumps, stubbed fingers, and artificial limbs. Okay, I made that last part up too but I was trying to show just how great a friend Sam was. He spent the next few hours talking about all that was good about home as they waited for the death they both thought was coming. What a great little dude that Sam was. I also think that makes Sam wise. The literary world has brought us many examples of great friendships. My favorite, and I’m not sure why because it has such a sad and tragic end, is the relationship between George and Lenny in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. Lenny is a simple guy and has traveled with George for years doing all sorts of manual labor jobs. Now George has promised Lenny that one day they will have a house with a white fence, and Lenny will get to tend the rabbits that he wants so much. George and Lenny have a special relationship and it is a rare one. While they are busy in their latest job, Lenny goes and kills a woman quite by accident as he was stroking her hair because it is soft just like the puppies at the farm they are working on. When she starts to panic and yell because he gets a little rough because he doesn’t know any better, he shakes her so violently that he damn near snaps her bony little ass and she dies. Her man Curly is none to impressed and goes on the hunt for Lenny. By this time, George knows all about what happened and tells Lenny to get out as fast as he can, knowing that Lenny will go back to their favorite place. George follows him there and sits with him a bit and Lenny asks him to, “tell me about the rabbits George.” George knows Curly and his gang are coming and will kill Lenny when they find him. As George and Lenny sit together on an uprooted tree, George calmly telling Lenny about the house they’ll have, the chimney, and of course the rabbits, he watches the fear fade from Lenny’s eyes and turn to thoughts of happiness before he pulls the trigger and puts a bullet in Lenny’s head! Lenny was a dead man either way. George just made sure he went out thinking the dream was still alive. Now, a great friend would help you move a body; how great of a friend do you have to be to kill your best friend to give him some lasting happiness? Could you do it? Could you pull the plug on a friend who really needed it? If a friend fell while climbing and there was no way of getting him back down and it would take you days to return and by that time he would be dead, would you listen to his pleas to push him off the ledge he landed on to ease his suffering? Scary thought isn’t it? I’m just glad that when I was growing up all I had to do to prove my worth as a best friend was to occupy the socially inept girls (and I’m being awfully nice here) so that my friends could try and score with the pretty ones. Cheers, The Penguin |
| What worth would you put on your life? Now, I don’t mean this in a life and death way; this is more to do with is your life, your time, your existence worth more than the life of any one else’s? An interesting thought isn’t it? And I’m sorry to bring this up today but it’s just kind of floating around in my head at the moment so I’ve got to let it all out or I’ll smother all my normal thoughts – food, vacations, boobs, what to buy Kirsty for her boobs, err, Christmas – you know, normal boy thoughts. So, here I am, sitting at my keyboard, pounding out some thoughts about how my life here in Saudi Arabia is worth than someone else’s. I won’t even go into salary scales that are used here based on the strength of your homeland’s currency against the Saudi Riyal. This isn’t about money; this is about people. It’s a funny world out here, a world that I have agreed to spend two more years in (sometimes you can’t say no to a little or a lot more money), and I still struggle at times with what goes on around me. The obvious hierarchal structure of national importance here was at first shocking, and now just has me sickened that the race of someone else makes him or her less important than I am. Well, maybe not less important, but his or her value is less. Wait, scratch that – I’ll always be more valuable here than a woman because I am a man. And that frustrates the Hell out of me too but there is nothing I can do about it. In fact, I still hold doors open for women here and some of them will not walk through it. Actually, if I hold the door open for an Asian male (Indian, Filipino, Sri Lankan) they refuse to walk through first and wait for me to go through because I am the Westerner! And some of these people are physicians! I work as a technical writer and I often have to liaise with people. And I liaise with people of all nationalities, all status levels within the hierarchy of the hospital, and all levels of hierarchy within their own self-importance. Now, I have absolutely no authority whatsoever. None. Zip. Nada. The people in my department (when we had them) came to me with questions and problems because I am trained to do this and am pretty good at my job, but I am not a manager, not an assistant manager, or even a manager-in-training. But I have had people nearly bow before me when I have gone to pay them a visit because they haven’t responded to any of my questions in weeks. All it takes is for me to put on a suit and march down to see them and suddenly I’m important. The sight of a Westerner in a suit must signal, “holy shit, a manager” in their minds because they soon become very accommodating and helpful. And some of the people I deal with are very high up in the organization. It’s all a little weird. I’m the one extreme, but unfortunately I have seen the other. Too many people are treated like non-humans in this place (the country, not the work environment singly). I see it everyday when I go downstairs to the cafeteria to eat. All of the waiters and cashiers are South East Asian of origin and the lowest classification of employee you’ll find in the Middle East. But from my first day I would talk to them, get to know them a little bit, make them feel like people. One of them is a really great guy. I was standing in line waiting to pay for my food and he caught me singing to myself, and asked me if it was Pink Floyd I was singing. When I nodded he joined in. I swear the guy must be the biggest Pink Floyd fan ever to come from Sri Lanka. And one of my best mates here, Hakeem, is Indian. He’s simple and sweet is always looking out for me. He’s a straight up, quality guy and I love him to pieces. I know a lot of people here would rather talk to me than Hakeem because I am the Westerner and he’s apparently beneath some people here. It’s an attitude that makes me sick. And here’s where I get confused about the whole deal. I often sit and think if I would be a friend with Hakeem if I were back in Canada? Sure, if I had taken the time to get to know him I would; but would I have done it? Would I have seen him as a simple and honest person and thought that he wouldn’t add value to my life? A part of me thinks this might be the case and that really upsets me because maybe, just maybe, I used to be a bit like the people I am complaining about here. And if I look back, although I didn’t go to the extremes as I see it here, perhaps I did. Maybe I wouldn’t have given Hakeem a chance to develop into a good friend. There is no doubt in my mind that I would have been nice to him, treated him respect, and talked to him as an equal, but for the life of me, and this pains me to admit it, I’m not sure he and I would have ever gone for lunch on a regular basis. And it has nothing to do with race. My parents never taught us to see colors when looking at people. My parents instilled a rule that I still use – treat others with respect until they prove they don’t deserve your respect. Sort of the innocent before proven guilty technique of the social world. And I would have respected Hakeem as he is worthy of respect, but it probably would have ended there. His views on life wouldn’t have matched mine, his religious beliefs would have been too strong for me to be around, or his lack of perfect English would have bothered me in my self-righteous glorification of who I was. And I can’t help but look back on things to see if I have done this before. I think back to see if there was anybody in school, in work, in social situations where I had the chance to be the better person and didn’t take it. My mom commented on a photo I sent home about a year after I had got here and said that I looked older, perhaps a little wiser. My older sister said that I “very much left home still a boy and now look like a man.” Maybe this is finally true in the way I truly see people. Cheers, The Penguin |
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We've all had a moments like that...oh, and variations on the other one you mentioned! 