The Cairo Complex

That there are rather lengthy articles in Wikipedia about the interjections Eh and Huh makes me laugh and laugh (out loud).

That there is an anchor point on the Eh article for Egyptian usage makes me fall on the floor.

Who will support me in my endeavour to write an article about “yahni”?

I went to the mall the other day, for the first time in a long time, and walked into Abercrombie and Fitch more or less out of force of habit.

I looked around at the clothes for a bit and before long I had a few items in my hands and was walking to the dressing rooms.

I tried on a few different color polos: ash, pea, mustard and navy. I also tried on a pair of low-rize, boot-cut, semi-destroyed, light-wash jeans.

Once I was done slipping out of my clothes and into the ones I had picked out, I lifted my head and took a look in the mirror.

It hit me pretty quick… I looked ridiculous. It’s not so much that the clothes looked bad, or even that they looked bad on me. They just looked wrong. They looked tragic. They were a symbol of failed attempts to look a part. More over, a part that was obviously not me.

The image staring back at me, with it’s slouchy denim and tweaked-just-so collar, wasn’t me at all it seemed. It couldn’t have been. I felt like one of those refrigerator dolls that come with different magnetized outfits that look humorously out of place. It felt like the clothes were wearing me.

Now, all of this is not to bash on the clothing at Abercrombie, which I’m sure is of a high quality and no doubt portrays a certain aesthetic. But the whole affair was certainly disconcerting enough to make me question everything from the definition of youth and maturity, and the strange mechanisms with which people form their identities to my ideal waistline. 

The disconcertion was exacerbated later by the realization that I had just had an existential moment inspired by an end of summer sale.

[Usual white backdrop with usual music] 

PC: Hello, I’m a PC.

Mac: And I’m a Mac.

Linux [Jumping in from off screen with a big smile. Linux is wearing jeans, flip-flops, a whacky t-shirt, an old tweed blazer, and thick framed glasses. A mash up, he’s got tattoos on his arms and a boyish charm. Part geek, part hippy, part punk]: MAC!!!

Mac: Linux! What’s up, man?

PC [A bit snarkily]: And who might this be, Mac? Another one of your “friends,” I assume.

Mac: Oh! Linux, this is PC. Linux is kind of like my cousin. You could say we’re cut from the same kernal.

Linux [Presenting a bag of candy and holding some out as if to offer to Mac and PC]: I brought snacks!

Mac [Holding out hands to accept some treats]: He loves to share.

PC [Arms folded, PC’s already had enough.]: Uh. No thanks, I don’t really like sharing. And… I don’t really know where you’ve been. [Raising finger as if making a point, turning and walking away] Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to configure some things.

Linux [Super excited and walking after PC]: Oh! I love configuring things!

PC [Looking over shoulder a bit frightened and starting to nerdishly jog quickly away]

Linux [Chasing after PC]: Oh, come on, where’s the love? Open up a little!

Mac [Charmingly smiles and shrugs shoulders at camera]

[End]

Obviously, since I missed out on being the Mac, I’d want to be cast as Linux :)

I listened to Sublime’s self-titled album on the way to work this morning and by the end, I had formed a pretty solid opinion on what I perceived to be the band’s “purpose.” It was all negative, and I was determined to write a post deriding the band’s low message (especially the misogyny, misguided malcontent and under-the-influence nihilism), but realized the futility in trying to denounce a now defunct group with such a dedicated following.

I will say this, though: I don’t think I’ve ever listened to a band that seemed to more aggressively declare the tenants of slackerdom than Sublime. It just seems so inherently self-contradicting.

And for the record (my record, if nothing else), I can pinpoint the exact moment that I lost hope on this album. It’s about halfway through the song “April 29, 1992,” when Brad Nowell seemingly claims that seeing a woman steal pampers from a drug store during the L.A. riots somehow justifies his theft of alcohol and musical equipment as a legitimate act of civil disobedience. If he were alive (and I, for some reason, had the opportunity to talk to him), I would say “no, Brad, it just shows the danger of privileged suburban youth getting their drug-fueled delusions of grandeur confused with ‘street prophecy’.” But he’d probably just call me a punk ass.

Odd as this inspiration might be, I was listening to “Do You Love Me?” on KISS’s Destroyer this morning, and I had a briefly brilliant musing regarding romance.

In the song, Paul Stanley questions the legitimacy of an unnamed adorer’s affection. It is clear to Stanley that this person loves all the fancy living concomitant to his rock star stature (and the “7-inch heels” that support it), but he can’t help but ask if she really loves him.

Now, without getting into a complex analysis of what love really is (I personally wouldn’t even know where to start), I started to think about one of the song’s strongest implications; mainly, that certain aspects of a person’s life are not worthy of justifying love. By extension, the song is an indictment of all things shallow in romance, and a testament to the true meaning of love.

This is all well and good, except, I don’t buy it.

Money, fame, and private planes are just as appealing and worthy of a person’s romantic interests as any other aspect of their character. Indeed, the argument can be made that money and cars and mansions are “things” and are not at the crux of anyone’s personality, but I ask you to imagine what Gene Simmons would be like without his wealth. He wouldn’t be the same person. He’d just be some guy with an unusually long tongue.

Let’s delve a bit deeper: there are many who, if asked, would say that physical beauty is a necessary trait of their romantic interests. And there are many who would call those people shallow, for placing such an emphasis on a thing as transient as beauty (forgetting those, for a moment, who fetishize the elderly). But is beauty’s transience what makes it hallmark of the petty person’s checklist for lust?

If this is the case, then I challenge anyone to name a trait which isn’t prone to the same criticisms. I mean, just as surely as beauty, a person’s mind fades; slowly memories deteriorate, and mental agility stiffens with the rigors of age. Humor becomes tired and irrelevant. Kindness gives way to douchebaggery on a long enough timeline. I know for a fact my exes aren’t the same people that I used to know in most perceivable ways (I’d like to think they’ve all changed for the better). Even my self of yesteryear seems foreign in this day.

So then why should Mr. Stanley fret? He shouldn’t! Take love (whatever it is) as it comes, I say. And for whatever reason. And invest your money properly, because a diversified portfolio is sure to last a lot longer than wrinkle-free face.