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Photo by Paul Friel

So, three fat women walk into a government office; did that sound like the front end of a bad joke? Let me try again.

One tired, miserable writer walks into a government office after two weeks of incompetent officials and hot, hot Beirut sun; how difficult could it be to renew your girlfriend’s visa, right?

And as I stood there in the hot, hot office waiting for yet another lazy laborer who really knew what I should do, to get off his supremely important call and work his way through the man with the moustache, lady in a scarf, smelly guy in pink tights, smelly guy in jeans and smelly guy in – what the hell is he wearing? – the universe took a moment to remind me how lucky I am.

‘Excuse me monsieur, can I pass?’

I turned to explain to the squeaky voice that despite her (not altogether) fairer gender she’d still have to wait in the miserable, sweaty line. I wish I’d gotten the chance to; I generally come up with some decent commentary when I’m stressed. » Read more…

Photo by Neal Sanche

My name is Karl, and there’s no music in my head.

I realize it may not seem like a problem, but see that tune you were humming in the bathroom this morning? Remember that song you drove home singing last night? Yeah, I have none of that.

The best writers, I hear, write effortlessly; as soon as their hands touch the keyboard their fingers dance to the music only they hear, and weave pieces of their lives, dreams and that obscure art they saw while stumbling into the trash-bins drunk, on Friday night, into great literature. Or if you’ve watched painters tackle a canvas; they too have rhythm and grace that I can’t quite catch – all I see is an angry artist stabbing a cloth with a brush.

But even everyday people have a beat, something they walk to, talk to, dance to and have thumping, rhythmic sex to – I suppose.

I walk into walls, trip over nothing and simply cannot dance, not if it would save my life. And when I write, I need absolute silence. » Read more…

Photo by Paco CT

Summertime, and the living is, well, strange.

Beirut goes through a cotton shortage in the summer, and our poor, underprivileged women have to walk the street with hardly a scrap of clothing to cover their, um, honor. Fret not ladies, for every one of your exposed strolls I guarantee there are half a dozen warm-blooded men in deep consideration, trying to find a solution to your plight.

I of course hardly notice any of that anymore (I swear honey!), and as I was driving by yet another playboy parade on the marina the other day I saw, well, I saw them.

‘Them’ here refers to about 20 or so 40-somethings on Harley Davidsons driving up (and down, then up, and down again) the marina. I suppose they were hunting for women, but then they could always have been out on a philosophical quest for enlightenment involving loud engines, sunsets and asphalt. No wait, they were definitely hunting for women. » Read more…

Photo by Paul Woods

One of our most fascinating skills as a people, is the ability to delegate responsibility. I suppose we’re actually justified every so often; the power failures are the government’s problem, the patchwork roads entirely the municipality’s fault – and certainly not our problem.

Trash on the road, for instance, is definitely somebody else’s problem.

Enter the Ferrari, screaming through the streets of Broummana and breaking every moral driving code invented. By the time they’d moved from my rear-view and happily into a collision path I had learned to hate hot rubber, young drivers and the summer hotrod season in general. But rather than ruin a beautiful day, I over-clocked my air-conditioner and blasted some heavy metal.

The blond in front of me clearly did not care to self-medicate. » Read more…

Latte art by Andrew Feldon

‘I’m sorry sir, we don’t have any wipes; there’s Kleenex on the table right in front of you though.’

I know he was being helpful, but I’m neither blind nor stupid; nor am I so up there that regular Kleenex no longer met my normal wiping requirements. What bothered me the most though, is that I’d actually asked for wine, not wipes.

‘Well thanks anyway.’

‘Anything else I can get you?’

I was tempted, really.

It’s all too easy to get angry at waiters, and many of them will take it too. Waiting tables is mostly a thankless, low-paying job that already places you at the bottom of the social chain. Yet for my money nothing makes my stay better than a genuinely friendly, well mannered and efficient waiter; so when you meet one that is less than efficient, you take it, for the sake of the rest. Farah disagreed.

‘You should’ve told him off, you know; you let them get away with the little things and the overall quality of service decreases. Also, now I’m out one white wine; care to fix that?’

I know my friends, and this little one was more interested in picking a fight, than in her wine, or the greater good and café’s overall quality of service. But one mishap does not a bad waiter make. Two mishaps? Maybe. » Read more…

Photo by Okinawa Soba

Tigers don’t care much for humor.

To be fair, most animals can’t really laugh; but if tigers could let out the occasional chuckle, it would probably fall somewhere in between a hiccup and a dying gazelle. I make that kind of sound as well, mostly when flawless Chinese women ask if I’d like an escort back home, and leave the option of post-coital marriage entirely on the table.

‘Home, now?’

‘Oh, sorry what? No, no; not tonight.’

‘You don’t like me? I can be better.’

Of all the illnesses that could befall a foreigner in China, lack of communication with the libido has to be the most frustrating.

‘Libido,’ said I, ‘did you just tell that pretty lady to leave without us?’

It was upon me; destroyer of worlds, bane of men, the force behind a woman’s chuckle, and Viagra’s entire marketing angle. I’d seen this in movies; none of them ended well. » Read more…

Photo by Gabriela Camerotti

Women scare me.

Ask me anytime, and I’ll argue the merits of bachelorhood with the eloquence of Arabian philosophers and the conviction of pack-mules; any time, except around Valentine’s.

And no, the Hallmark spirit doesn’t penetrate my quiet but callous façade and seep into my shrivelled heart, birthing an organ of hope and love – ‘cause that’s weird; it’s just that around Valentine’s, women get dangerous.

Cue childhood trauma music.

Enter Rhonda, my very first experience with obsessive love; thankfully, I was not the object of her affections.

Rhonda was part of the circumstantial baggage that came with my first girlfriend, and my roommate Rami was the only boy she could ever possibly love. Ever.

I’ve since learned to identify that particular glimmer of insanity in a woman’s eye, the one you should never, ever reject; but back in our naive teens, we thought that the world was a happy place where yes meant yes, no meant no, and smiling women did not secretly plan on slitting your throat while you slept.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

‘He doesn’t want to make out, what do I do?’

This was the first time my girlfriend and I got close, and that was Rhonda talking loudly through my locked bedroom door at a rather critical moment. I was exasperated.

‘Rhonda, if he doesn’t want you it shouldn’t be forced; give him space.’

I would’ve mentioned that it was an inconvenient time to be discussing this, but it would’ve made no difference whatsoever.

‘But it’ll be Valentine’s in a few days, what do I do?’

I was young, it was late, and I had less than an hour left with my topless girlfriend; I had to say something. I never did get the chance to apologize to Rami. » Read more…