A Long Time Ago, In This Very Galaxy...

Dad came home from work with a birthday cake. It was my eighth birthday and I was excited about the small family party to come in a couple of hours; presents were sure to come, and now the cake was a certainty. And that was all I cared about.

But then, without saying a word, dad went back outside. Is he leaving? Won’t he be there for my birthday? Oh look, mom is taking my cake out of the box! Chocolate. Nice. Before my childish attention span had the chance to move on, dad came back through the front door, holding… A VCR!!! Wow! I get to watch a movie while eating cake and playing with my presents! Wait… did he also rent any movies?

In the post Islamic revolution Iran, VCRs and most movies were strictly forbidden. However, there sprang an underground network of movie and VCR rental shops; part of the Iranian people’s resistance to the oppressive fundamentalist regime’s wish to stifle all signs of life from a once vibrant culture. Same things happened with wine and music and other sudden taboos, but those were of no concern to me.

Dad put the chunky Sony Betamax VCR down near the TV and stretched his back. He then turned and handed me a small video cassette. “Here, this is apparently all the rage these days.” Written in bold black carefully written letters were the words…

Star Wars.

Seeing Star Wars (Episode IV: A New Hope, I later found out) as a child made such an impact on me that, nearly 40 years later, OI still recall the details of that experience. I spoke no English at the time, but I still managed to cobble together most of the storyline just by swimming in and absorbing every last drop of that magical trip. It was all I talked about for days. Dad had to constantly remind me about the illegality of the VCR and the movie and sternly telling me to quit blabbing on about it.

But even then, he couldn’t help but smile at my overwhelming joy.

I mention all this because the latest movie in that storied franchise has just hit the silver screens; the final episode in “The Skywalker Saga”, apparently.

And I couldn’t care less.

It just isn’t that special anymore. Not to me, anyway. A few years back, Disney bought the franchise and started what I like to call ‘Marvelizing’ it; cranking out movie after movie as quickly as possible with the aim of making as much money as quickly as possible. Ironically, Disney now own Marvel, too.

It was years after my eighth birthday before I saw the Star Wars sequels, while living in Tanzania where renting movies and owning VCRs (VHS, sadly) was perfectly legal and the only entertainment for a teenager. I didn’t even know there were sequels until then, which explains why I watched “Return Of The Jedi” before “The Empire Strikes Back”!

And that’s the whole point. I waited. I was pleasantly surprised. I was rewarded with great experiences, specially since I now spoke English and could follow the story properly. And I was saddened when it was all over. That rollercoaster of emotions has no chance of reaching the top if Star Wars movies come at us one after another as if fired from a Hollywood Gatling gun. The books and comics that expanded the Star Wars universe and filled the gaps in between the movies and kept us all entertained no longer matter. Add to that the fact that mass production hurts quality, and you have exhausted and disappointed fans; middle aged people like myself, whose magical childhood experience has become their only connection to their beloved characters and quotable lines of dialogue. What are we to do? Where can we point our childish glee?

Is Star Trek still a thing?

The Insistence of Hope

Nietzsche wasn’t much on hope. Of it, he wrote “Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torment of man” or some words to that effect. Up until I read that, I had seen hope as my only means of survival; the only way out of my doldrums and depressions into which I have sunk ever since my disability became a constant and lifelong companion couple of years ago.

But after everything that has been happening recently, I can see Nietzsche’s point. I had kept hope alive, even after years of failing to find a simple part time job so I can spread my wings and make something of my broken and generally useless existence. I told myself, every night as I went to bed, tomorrow is another day, things will happen, and they just might be good things. Then, early evening November 29th, my landlady handed me a one line eviction notice, something to the effect of this arrangement is no longer working for me, and I want you out by the end of December. No real reason, no discussion…

Just a simple ‘fuck off’.

Suddenly I understood what Nietzsche meant. As a means of dragging one’s worn and hollow carcass from one obstacle to the next, hope is utterly useless. After all, what’s the point? One can only take so much failure and humiliation, especially while trying to achieve the most mundane of goals. Nietzsche’s words have been bouncing around in my brain as I make the rounds begging whoever with some power to help for the security deposit I need to find a decent room to rent in a corner of a house somewhere. Social services handed me a stack of papers for my perspective landperson to fill out so they can guarantee my security deposit, in case I tear the place apart.

All I need now is someone kind enough to agree to do paperwork and who trusts the state of New York enough to forgo good ol’ cash.

Yeah right.

I’m off to beg the Catholics for help next. I really don’t want to start the new decade either on a street corner or in a homeless shelter. So yeah, I guess I’m still hopeful. It’s pissing me off to no end but I’m still hopeful. After all, what’s the alternative? Ending my life? That’s just stupid. how will that help anything? Just sitting in a corner and withering away? That’s just as pointless. Besides, I get hungry easily. And I like to eat.

Oh shut up.

So yeah, I keep kicking and keep trying. I have a birthday coming in about a month. Let’s call that the minimum mark until which I’ll keep banging my head against all the walls that continue to be erected before me. I’ll get my free drink from Starbucks; my free burger from Red Robin, and see where I stand. Maybe by then, I’ll have some crumbs to feed that “thing with feathers”.

The little bastard.

Take Your Time, I Can Wait.

I’ve been an Amazon Prime customers since its early days, more or less. I hopped on the wagon as soon as I learned students can join for half the cost, and haven’t left since. Back then, I was in college and didn’t have a car, so I bought whatever I could from Mr. Bezos; not only was it convenient, more often than not it was also cheaper.

Those were the pre-‘Prime” days, so I had to wait a few days for my orders to arrive at my doorstep. And I was perfectly okay with that. And still am, as a matter of fact. Free two day shipping, along with inexpensive next day option, were pleasant surprises when they were added to my Amazon experience, kind of like when Prime Video was launched. TV shows and movies at no extra cost? Cool!

But they were never requirements for me to keep my Prime membership. And that was how I greeted the free next day shipping currently offered by Amazon. Heck, I didn’t even know it was happening until it was in full bloom! I especially appreciate that news because I’ve become disabled and need Amazon’s help with my shopping more than ever.

And that is ultimately what angers me about all these reports and journalists’ investigations into the horribly oppressive and unsafe working conditions in Amazon warehouses. These always start with the accusatory “Do you know what has to happen so you can have your Amazon package the next day?” As if I am solely to blame for whatever horrors are befalling Amazon warehouse workers daily. Do I deserve to feel guilty simply because I shop on Amazon? Is it fair to make people like me (I’m not unique, after all, as my father makes sure to remind me often) feel like shit for shopping online?

I want to make one thing very clear: I am in no way siding with Amazon, nor am I discrediting those reports on which many young reporters worked very hard. But Jeff Bezos’ never ending quest for ever more wealth is his and his alone. The man worth about, what is it these days, $20 Billion, can easily slow things down and make sure his warehouses and fulfillment centers fully comply with all safety regulations, and allow his workers to take a breath every once in a while.

Seriously, how much more money does anyone really need?

So gentle reader, and possible NPR reporter (it could happen!); next time you want to point your possibly journalistic finger at someone for the ills of consumerism and how people are suffering in its boney, bloody hands, point it at the top of the money heap, not at me here on the penniless bottom.

I have no problem waiting a few days for my underwear to arrive from Amazon.

A Good Mind

I spent four years in Tanzania; between 14 and 18; 1988 to 1992. The first three of those four years were spent in the capital, Dar es Salaam, where dad was assigned to the Iranian embassy as the CFO. That sounds important until I tell you the embassy’s staff totaled 5, including the ambassador and the embassy secretary, a young Tanzanian man named Mohammad, if I recall correctly.

Second in the ranks was the diplomatic attaché, the assistant to the ambassador, the man who wore many hats, especially since he spoke English and the ambassador, a mullah (surprise surprise) did not (surprise?). This man was Brahman Jahangir, an educated and smart man in his forties, with curly reddish hair and rimless glasses.

We all became good friends with Bahman and his young wife, mainly because none of us gave two hoots about the restrictive rules of the Islamic regime by which were all made a pretense of abiding while in public. We got together for dinner and drinks (wine for the adults, soda for me) and spent many fun nights, mom and Bahman’s wife in their own world on the sofa while we three played dominoes; Bahman quizzing me on English grammar; praising me when he realized my English skills were fast surpassing his own.

All his life, it seemed as if Bahman had been forced into decisions and situations he didn’t necessarily like, but put up with because what the hell, why not. In doing so, he often overcompensated by trying too hard to do a good job; to please his superior, and it made him come across as a bumbling simpleton to strangers; and dad being dad, constantly needled him about it. It was all good natured, and they shared a laugh together, Bahman turning red as he chuckled and tried to needle him back. I even managed to get a couple of good ones in on him before I was checked by dad and told to remember to respect my elders.

There was another side to Bahman, a side I was introduced to when I was left in his charge for a while as his wife, mom, and dad all went back to Iran for a while to do… whatever. He’d come home from work, frazzled and tired. We’d all eat the meal the housekeeper had prepared, and then rest for a while as we caught up with each other’s day and whatnot.

And then came the evening, and with it brought a sparkle to Bahman’s eyes. A mischievous glint, accompanied by a wry smile that signaled his intent to let lose, to do things he normally wouldn’t. Alas, we were limited in how much adventure we could find, what with me being a 15 year old and him being the second in command at the Iranian embassy. We were expected to act restrained and Islamic like, which meant stuck up and boring.

So we went to the beach, we rented rude comedies from the video store, and we blasted whatever music we had in the car as we went to the beach and the video store. Doesn’t sound like much but we had fun! Bahman was just happy to be free of the constraints of his daily life; his job, his obligations, and everything else that was foisted upon him somehow and he surrendered to.

Even when we had to accompany the ambassador whathisname to the mosque and line up behind him in prayer, he couldn’t help but crack up because he realized I, like him, was just mouthing the prayers and mimicking others’ movements. Neither of us had a clue how to be a ‘proper muslim’, and neither of us cared to learn. It was all we could do not to burst into laughter mid prayer and get into huge trouble.

That week or however long it was, Bahman was a teenager like me. He was free to let loose, albeit in a constrained measure, knowing full and well that I would let loose with him. Because that’s what teenagers do. Faced with all the pressures and heft of life, every once in a while…

They let loose

Bahman (an old Zoroastrian name meaning “good mind”) Jahangir died a few days ago, on the 24th of October. He lost a four year battle with Lewy Body Dimentia. I guess that teenager inside him finally won the fight. For one last time…

Bahman let loose.

... Ye Who Enter Here

So much has happened since we last spoke, gentle reader.

That is partially to blame for my absence these past whatever days; I just can’t decide what I want to say, which part of the madness of this world I want to comment on or complain about…

Then came the news of Trump’s decisions to withdraw all US troops from Syria.

Just like that, in his usual knee jerk manner and via twitter, our loathsome leader decided his popularity, ever waning in the wake all the impeachment happenings, needed a boost and the best way to gain that boost is to completely screw over the brave Kurdish fighters whose tireless fighting alongside US troops had been instrumental in pushing back ISIS forces and retaking Syrian territories from their evil clutches by allowing Turkey to mount offensives in northern Syria and try to wipe them all out.

This was such a sudden move that it took not only his advisors, military and otherwise, but everyone in the senate and congress by surprise. Even his staunchest allies McConnell and Graham cried foul; Democrat and Republican alike rose to condemn Trump’s foolish selfish move. His response was as childish as ever, warning Turkey he would fuck up its economy and how, if it stepped out of line against the Kurdish people in northern Syria.

Don’t worry, I have no idea what the hell all that means, either.

That empty threat, gentle reader, is why it didn’t take more than a day or so after Trump’s nonsensical tweets before Turkey began a major offensive into Kurdish occupied territories, sending thousands of women and children fleeing for their lives and already killing a handful of them in its massive bombardment campaign. That number is certain to rise rapidly as the Turkish ground campaign continues.

And it’s all Trump’s fault.

Those of you who know me know that I am not a religious person, and as such, am not a huge believer in heaven, hell, purgatory, and any other components of the Abrahamic religions. I can’t say for certain if any of it exists, and even if they do, I’ll only find out after I’m dead, so what does it matter then. I believe in being as decent a person as one can be; doing good as opportunities arise, and not hurting anyone in any way, if at all possible.

But then someone like Trump comes along.

Someone so darkly sociopathic, so viciously narcissistic, so cold-heartedly antipathetic towards all things ‘other’, that I truly hope there at least exists a hell where such people will go to suffer in all eternity after they die.

My mind reels when I think about how Trump goes to sleep at night, well fed, safe, and self satisfied, knowing full and well that the blood of heaven knows how many innocents is on his hands, simply because he couldn’t stand to be unpopular. Never mind the fact that, even strictly politically speaking, he has ended American troops involvement from the wrong war, and the one he should have ended, the one in Afghanistan, he has royally fucked up.

I sincerely hope Trump is haunted by the ghosts of all those he has sent to the slaughter to satisfy his own means. And I mean a sort of Shakespearean haunting that would wake him up in the middle of the night, screaming like a stuck pig, that would take his appetite and ratchet up his paranoia, that would make him want to gauge his own eyes out.

And I sincerely hope that after his death, he will be stuck in the ninth circle of hell, abandoning all hope forever more.

Addendum 10/17/2019:

Having previously moved American troops out of Turkey’s fire line, Trump is now completely removing US troops from northern Syria, suddenly taking a completely isolationist stance; a ‘it’s not America’s problem, let them fight it out amongst themselves’ approach that has completely opened the door for Russia; a Syrian ally, to come in and take over.


What, did you seriously think Trump wasn’t going to feed Putin, his master and commander, a nice helping of the pie? I admire your naïveté, gentle reader.

Meanwhile, Germany has clearly stated that they will not come to Turkey’s aid, should it invoke article 5 and ask for NATO help in fighting the Kurds, since they see Turkey as the aggressor. What hath thou wrought, Donald? You and your Twitter fingers.

Make America great again, indeed.

It Has To Start Somewhere!

A little while ago; probably week before last, an interview on NPR caught my attention. Alas, it wasn’t because it was the interview was enjoyable and informative, but because it showcased one of the more obscure sides of the racism conversation: racism against white people.

The interview was with Kathrine Paul, the driving force behind the radical Native American musical project known as Black Belt Eagle Scout. In that interview, Ms. Paul stated that the songs she writes are meant for “her people”, and if she had her way, she’d only allow Native Americans admittance to her concerts and shows. Seemingly noticing the interviewer’s surprise, she laughed and shrugged off her suggestion as no big deal; saying white people are too sensitive about such things.

Hm.

On the one hand, I understand where Ms. Paul comes from. She weighs all the injustices white people have heaped on Native Americans ever since they discovered these golden shores against her desire to preserve and love what’s left of her culture, and in that light, sees nothing wrong with excluding white people from her shows. After all, they probably ‘won’t get it’ anyway.

And that’s exactly the sticking point. There are those, including my best friend, who don’t believe whites can be discriminated against, simply because they make up the majority. Racism only goes one way, these people say; from the majority onto the minority, and the minority can use as many racist tropes against the majority with absolute impunity.

But wait a second!

Does the race of the racial offender change the meaning of the term ‘racism’? Does it hurt the person at whom it’s aimed any less, simply because there are more people like him/her? Or does it foster hate where there wasn’t any, and deepens any existing hatred?

Seriously, do we really need any more racial tension, discriminate hate, and open animosity in this world?

Perhaps we should include everyone, even those who may not ‘get it’; especially them, I’d say, and in doing so perhaps open a mind or two and teach them something. We should be the bigger ones and stop our generalized blanket hatred of those who, generations ago, wronged our people deeply, and begin attempting to make friends, to heal old deep wounds, and maybe, just maybe, begin to make the world a tiny bit better place to live

After all, it all has to start somewhere.

Eventually, You'll Have To Get Over It.

It’s a typical mid season game day at The Mestalla. Los Che are up 1-0. Massive flags extolling the virtues of the club and Valencia itself wave majestically over the crowd’s heads. All is well in the land of Els Taronges.

Suddenly, Messi has the ball on the right side of Valencia’s goal.

Going to his left, La Pulga Atomica shrugs off one defender, jumps over the lunging tackle of another, and unleashes a trademark knuckling shot, right at Valencia’s goalkeeper. The ball hits the goalie square in the chest, slips out of his grasp, and hits the ground between his legs, just past the goal line. The smaller crowd of Barcelona fans go wild! The undefeated season will live on after all!

The referee doesn’t blow his whistle, but waves play on to the goalkeeper, who, having grabbed the ball in a panic after that one bounce past the goal line, is only too happy to oblige. Roars of indignant rage, including mine, aimed at my phone screen fill the air. Many replays show the ball clearly and completely going past the line, but not even the commentators’ disbelief will change the ref’s mind.

We all just have to get over it.

You see, unlike many other European leagues, La Liga does not use goal line technology. It’s a good, proven system. It works. But for complicated and likely stupid reasons most likely to do with money, it isn’t yet universal. What is, almost, is the Video Assistant Referee, or VAR.

It is very similar to the video replay in the NFL, except the final decision is always left to the referee on the field. However, unlike the universally welcome goal line technology, VAR is mostly derided by fan and pundits alike.

Chief among their complaints is that VAR destroys the spirit of the game, which apparently includes controversy and unfair decisions breaking the hearts of some fans and bringing glory to others. Some have even complained that it doesn’t give them much to talk about at the pub after the game; one pundit even writing how VAR would’ve erased the infamous “Hand Of God” goal, therefore robbing the soccer lovers the world over of decades of talking points!

Yes, gentle readers, all the whinging is about having less to argue about. Not right or wrong, not winning or losing fairly. It has nothing to do with all the inch-close offside calls that were missed, all the diving and playacting that resulted in unjust red cards, all the sneaky elbows to the jaw and stamps on ankles that went unpunished; nothing to do with such injustices that more often than not changed the outcome of games.

It’s all about not having enough to argue about after the game in the pub while drinking and gradually losing all sense.

To these so called fans I say, stop your bellyaching and get over it! VAR has so far worked as perfectly as possible, and has righted quite a few wrongs on the field of play. Just think of those of us who have to do without some of the technology available to your team and gnash our teeth every time an incorrect call on the field costs us a game or points, and get on with your life.

And if you must argue, you always have VAR.