When Taught By The Best

Broad beginning statement to sweep it all up : There isn't that much honesty in being funny.

So I refuse to be in this post. I feel like a little corazon-a-corazon with anyone who reads my blog on the subject of friendship. Mainly regarding its expiry date. Some friendships are like a carton of milk. It eventually gets old and sour, and you feel absolutely nothing or next to nil when you throw it away. You might not ever drink milk again or you might go for flavored. Hell you might go out and buy yourself the exact same brand and volume (never let it be said that Hamza Latheef cannot stretch a metaphor to the point of annoyance). But the point is that it never really mattered that much in the first place.

But then there are people close to you that you tend to think of like an expensive video game console (whether it's a PS3, Nintendo Wii or Sega Saturn is totally a matter of taste). It get's broken and you fix it over and over like a maniac. You ignore the fact that it really doesn't work as well as it did at the start or that there are some games that you just can't play anymore no matter how hard you try. Then it get's to the point that it won't even respond anymore and you sit there staring at something you loved so much lying completely still. No way to resuscitate it any longer. Well that's when you feel real loss.

Sometimes it's your fault. You were careless with it. Sometimes it was flawed to begin with. Most times you can't explain why it had to end. That's the hardest thing for me. Some sodas just lose their pop and you can be like me and go on drinking it regardless until there's nothing left (if at a loss for analogies, look inside your refrigerator). However, once it's gone and there's no way to get it back, it's just, well, for lack of a better word, sad!

Not as sad as when Randy Jackson (God will he never stop talking about that show, right? That's right I won't!!! Not until the season finale at least) proved to the world, just what an out-of-the-loop dinosaur he is in terms of being a producer. He praised that despicable Chris Richardson for squeezing out all the emotion from a song that I (and most other sane people) absolutely adore. I didn't even think it was possible to sing Don't Speak with that much anti-passion (why bother looking for antonyms when you can do this people?). I'd like to apologize to Gwen Stefani as a fan of No Doubt for that horrendous display which I hope she was too busy to have the misfortune of watching. Also, if you're supposedly a big man in the music industry (pun intended regardless of the conditionality) aren't you supposed to know when a song's been covered by an artist from a different genre (and masterfully I might add)? Putting an RnB (by the way nasal over-singing isn't RnB 'dawg'!) spin on the song was fresh? Then what's this doing on YouTube?

Idolwild

Now there's no doubt in anyone's mind that American Idol gave new meaning to the phrase "socially acceptable cruelty". Why do we feel little or no guilt in watching people embarrass themselves and get laughed at and/or ridiculed for it on AI? It's really no mystery. Simon Cowell is just the living embodiment of every snarky thought we've ever had about anyone else (never mind whether we have the cajones to utter them out loud or not). Why even Mother Theresa in her moments of weakness must have felt a giggle come on when some bow-legged, malnourished kid with a bulging belly (Oh the irony that is protein deficiency) streaked nude across the entrance of her tent/shack/wherever-the-fuck-she-lived. (On a side note: the only reason why I ever watched Haarudhan, or as it was called in its previous incarnation, Haarusoanaa, was for the sight of old or retarded or ugly people prancing about on live TV doing things which they obviously never had the talent to do to begin with.)

I for one feel no shame in saying exactly what I think. There's a childlike honesty to bluntness that I, and the Simon Cowells of the world, feel carries more weight than Paula-esque roundaboutedness. But for some inexplicable reason (probably a loaded revolver pointed at Cowell's forehead by a TV exec from behind the camera) even [insert tired, over-used adjective synonymous with the word "mean"] Simon doesn't go far enough. Therefore I have taken it upon myself to go the distance and say what's on everyone's mind but left unspoken at primetime Tuesday and Wednesday nights on Fox (brought to you by Diet Coke and Ford...among others).

Gina Glockson: I'll say one thing for her. She's pale enough to pull off the whole Goth-Chick image that's been pushed on her by the judges but I swear one of her eyes are smaller than the other (or bigger for you half-full-glass kinda people) and she can't sing to save her life. Now there's an interesting concept for a TV show. Let Al Qaida kidnap her, put a black hood on her head, cut a hole for her mouth, let her sing and ask America to vote on whether she gets decapitated or not. Let's hope for her sake that she doesn't go into a rousing chorus of Hava Nagila.

Haley Scarnato: She reminds me of that Lahufa Faez chick from our own Maldivian Idol. Translation: she looks annoying, sounds like nails on a chalkboard and makes up for mediocrity with silly stage antics.

Blake Lewis: I have a feeling if I knew this beat-boxer personally I would actually like him but that's what the people who watch this show (mostly pre-teen girls, old women on life support and me) need to realize. We DON'T KNOW these people. Their stage personas shouldn't be taken at face value. The fact of the matter is that this dude is a unique choice for this show because of only two reasons. 1. He's slightly more urban than your Carrie Underwoods or Kellie Picklers, and 2. Technically speaking, he's a horrible singer.

Brandon Rogers: I actually recognized this guy way before the revelation that he was a backup singer for big stars. Why? Because I remembered him warbling in the background when Christina Aguilera performed Come On Over (All I Want Is You) on AOL Live. A reason I would have been too ashamed to admit before my sister (lovely girl that she is) made sure that everyone and their grandpa knew just how fey I can be sometimes. Most of the time. Ok! All of the time. Now why did I go off on a tangent about my borderline gayness instead of discussing the strengths or weaknesses of Brandon. Ah elementary my dear Watsons! Because that's what anyone would do when they see Bland-on Rogers perform. Think about their laundry. Or grocery lists. Or the condom wrapper they might have left lying around where their mom could see (Isn't it interesting how fear of condom wrappers being discovered by parents is universal across genders?).

Jordin Sparks: Can sing. Too bubbly. Better suited for a beauty pageant.

Lakisha Jones: Obligatory fat, black, belter (those of you who don't pay attention to punctuation marks, feel free to assume that Ms. Jones can take on Jackie Chan anytime, anyplace) who finds her way onto almost every season (anybody remember a certain someone called Jennifer Hudson?).

Chris Richardson: I would point out that he's a Justin Timberlake-wannabe but that's already so obvious and probably (ugh!) part of his appeal. However, aside from his many, MANY, flaws, Timberlake can actually sing. Through his mouth. Not his nose unlike Chris. Still, kudos to Chris for dedicating Jason Mraz's sublime Geek in the Pink (which he butchered) to his Grandmother (Those are sarcastic kudos by the way. Google the meaning of the song if you've actually read this and don't get what I mean).

Chris Sligh: Kinda sorta funny although I do admit anyone can see his jokes coming from a mile away. Self-deprecation is so blase' these days anyway. He does sound a lot like Elton John though. And if there's anyone who could win American Idol it would be the fairy Knight himself.

Stephanie Edwards: I think the people behind the show still can't get enough of Fantasia Barrino so they just incubated a clone which came out lighter-skinned with a weaker voice.

Phil Stacy: I have no interest in even discussing baldie with the scary smile. He's probably going to be the first to leave next week.

Sanjaya Malakar: I don't understand why Simon and co. just won't come out and say it. This guy is too gay. Even for the show which made a star out of Clay Aiken. He hula dances and being seventeen is no excuse for having a girl's voice either (yours truly could do Marvin Gaye on his fifteenth birthday). Don't get me wrong. I'm not a homophobe. But the key demographic to which AI caters to surely are. He really can't sing for sour apples too. I blame Janet Jackson for making impressionable young queers like Sanjaya think that whispering in a girly voice is singing.

Melinda Doolittle: Had to save the best for last. Melinda is by far the only real talent on the whole fucking show. If I had to criticize her (which, to be fair, I do), I would say she has absolutely no neck. None at all. But neither does Nelly and he seems to be doing pretty well. I also think her deer-in-the-headlights schtick is a well-executed ploy to win votes. But she doesn't really need to do that. She's got more talent in her half-an-inch of neck than all the other contestants combined. Whether she wins AI or not, one thing is for certain, she gets the you-tube embed award for this post. Congratulations Melinda. You might as well leave the show now completely satisfied.

Hell 'n Back Boi

I'm back my pretties and all the flying houses in Kansas can fall on me now for all I care. For those of you in high school, I've got a piece of advice. Learn to sing, breakdance or juggle eggs but avoid University at all costs. It's all a huge, obese sham (thought I'd try the thesaurus-guided writing style of the infamous Ogre Wahid for a sentence). They work you to death and for what? To come out at the other end sapped of all your individuality and thoroughly convinced that every independent thought you've ever had fits into some perverse historian's/philosopher's/scientist's world-view (this is in no way an attack on Mary-Jo's blog, which I adore, and shame on you for thinking it is now that I've suggested it).

Seriously though. Dr. Borg-Muscat if you ever read my blog, I love you but I don't respect you anymore. A veritable golden-hearted hooker, you are, you Julia Roberts of academia. You disappear for a whole semester, return from your holiday (probably in Mykonos) and give me 71% for an essay which I practically stole from all the secondary sources I referenced throughout. Moral of the story: Don't bother with all that critical engagement these hypocrites harp about. The occasional "the" and an "a" or two will suffice in between a billion quotes from a dozen other people you've never met and will never care about.

So much for college life. I'm back on track where I belong. Doing things which I hate less than being anally raped by a horse. And what could I possibly like more than that? Sing it for me Corinne my Nubian goddess.

Valentiniosity

That's my word for a person's attitude toward the 14th of February. There's your broken-hearted Romeo who feels that this day is another twisting of the knife stuck firmly in his perineum. The multi-cat-owning single-woman in her 30s which is a broad stereotype native to Western movies who guilt-trips her friends into taking her out with them and then subsequently spends the whole night thinking of ways to convince everyone else in love to clean the underside of a guillotine blade.

However if we venture outside the abstract, attitudes towards Valentine's day are so varied that there are almost no generalizations to be drawn from them. Except when it comes to women (you predictable creatures, said he in a paternalistic tone). Women, of every size, shape and color, love flowers (no need to deny it ladies) while every human being (get ready for an exclusionary condition to your humanity) loves chocolate. So the rest depends on how dumb anyone is to refuse two of these irresistable goodies just to make a point.

I on the other hand am not confused at all about a day which, in today's world, has nothing to do with Saints and religions. And all because I have been asked to be someone's Valentine and that someone is mine as well (take that all you suicidal loners. HAH!). If not, you might have found me lecturing anyone who would listen on the pointless evils of the least offensive four-letter word in English. But not this year. It's all pink clouds, rainbows and butterflies for me.

Alright I'm grossing myself out now so time to go to song before I induce a worldwide pukademic. I normally don't do this but I feel it's only fair to let the theme song for love's greatest holiday come from the culture where 99.9% of the music consists of love songs. Here's Tera Mera Pyaar Sanam sung by what looks like a prison dyke and some garden gnome at a piano. Hell, I can't do this on Valentine's day. Falguni Patak and Bombay Vikings, I love you too. Mwah. Let your love light shine through everybody!

...And All the Sinners Are Saints

As I'm in the process of writing my dissertation I can't seem to get out of thinking in academic-English-mode, so this post is going to reflect that in all its boring glory (still managed to squeeze in a little wordplay with the name of a flower though).

Let me begin in the proper formulaic manner from a personal premise. My father (who aren't in heaven) was once arrested and sentenced to banishment from the island of his birth for impersonating popular orator (sympathy for the devil being the theme) and shameless political opportunist (so much for that), Ibrahim Shihab on audiotape. Such an incident might be as commonplace as fashion-challenged men in effeminate plaid-patterned pajama-pants in the Maldives of today but in the days of yore it was definitely worth a "hoo" and a "ha". A simple question comes to mind which, I'm pretty sure, only warrants an answer any respectable somnambulist can give in a state of REM. But are conventional answers really satisfactory? Why the difference? Why do some crimes go through such a radical redefinition? Is this change ethical? Inevitable? Is it right? Should we give a flying fuck?

Take murder for instance. Once a simple crime punishable by geographically, culturally and religiously variable means of retribution. The picture at present is a lot more complicated in Westphalic law which is slowly taking over the world. There's manslaughter, plain old homicide, justifiable homicide in self-defense etcetera etcetera. Now I'm going to hit anyone who's reading this post with my not-quite controversial perspective on the whole shebang (which incidentally is my favorite quote by Emily Deschanel on the tv show Bones. Marry me Emily!). I don't put much stock in psychology (Nadha is SO gonna hate me). Especially when it comes to law courts when juries can be so easily manipulated with paid testimonies from "proffessionals" and "experts". So I'm asking the question. Can murder be justified? Certainly not every murder is equally reprehensible but (there's a but) does the motive justify the means and the end? The very difficulty of establishing motive makes the whole thing even fuzzier for me.

Up next, there's a perennial argument I have with my small group of mostly neo-con friends. Are drugs really so evil? Should they all fall under blanket bans? A very good friend of mine, who ironically despises marijuana, thinks it should be legalized everywhere from his particular economic worldview (Hashim you money-mad Adam Smith, you). His position being that if real honest-to-goodness shops sold good quality weed then there would be less crime associated with the sale and use of it. I certainly agree. If regular cigarettes were outlawed I would be the first person to kill, steal and suck cock in order to get my fix.

Now out of the courts and into the streets. What's the foremost concern which is a universal constant for all of us beyond the age of 10? (Ten being an arbitrary number based on when I first ejaculated. I define the very concept of tell-all, no?) Not hard to guess what the answer I was expecting for my own question was. Sex. And one of the biggest complaints and criticisms centering around people's sex lives have to do with sexual promiscuity.

But what really is promiscuity? The word has a tidy little definition but it's unsupported by surveys or statistics. So we're all free, as we please, to use it to derogate people who just simply have more sex than we do (whether out of jealousy, contempt or disgust doesn't really concern me). Why is extreme promiscuity either called a criminal tendency stemming from moral bankruptcy or a psychological defect? Are we really that much more free-thinking than we were, say, a century ago? I've certainly called a few people sluts and whores in my time (those of you who immediately assumed the people I'm referring to were women have only yourselves to blame for giving a gendered meaning to asexual words). But why do we do it? There certainly isn't one single reason but it's worth thinking about. So with an abrupt admonition to practice more introspection (as if any of us really needed a reminder to do that) I shall sign off. Au revoir mon amis.

Hamza Get Your Gun OR My Personal Musical

This post is going to piss the hell out of me later and blow my street-cred to Hades (if I had any to begin with). So (deep breath) here it goes.

That stupid little blind, naked kid shot me with one of his arrows and I'm afraid I've lost my edge. It's funny how the most vindictively vicious people (spelled H-A-M-Z-A) can turn into doe-eyed dumkopffs when this happens but, my friends, I've lost my edge ever since it did. I can't even make fun of ugly people anymore (woe is me). The worst thing is now I can understand those big overblown ballads all of a sudden and some of them even *choke* get me teary-eyed (Oh Al Green you poor misunderstood creature).

(Being the geek that I am) I naturally thought of how lucky telepaths (and god) are when it comes to love because they have the benefit of knowing if they're wasting their time or if their paramour actually feels the same. Still, there's nothing I (or in Say What You Want below, Texas) can do short of hiring a private investigator or buying a pair of binoculars and renting a room with a view of mon cheri's window.



I wish I could say love was all pure emotion and PG feelings but then I would be compromising my unflinching integrity (I can't have that now can I?). A lot of it, in my case, has to do with waking up in the morning with a boner (I don't know whether the timing or the physical reaction applies to women or other men for that matter) and a desperate need to reach the person my body then proceeds to cry out for (after certain dextrous ministrations). But instead of boring you with the fine details of how pathetic I've become, I'm going to embed a little song by Mousse T which I'm sure any warm-blooded sentient being can empathize with (I'm sorry frogs and snails. I know you contributed to my genetic make-up but you're exempt).



Never say it's impossible to end the most wishy-washy schlop on an upbeat note. Mousse T's Horny still rocks in 2007!

Fine Wines Aren't Always Aged

There are times in everyone's life when they've felt like what the song below is saying (unless they happen to be one of those annoying people who never do anything wrong. God I hate them!). I just wanted to share this amazing song in the desperate hope that the majority of the world's population is just as fucked up as I am. This was the story of my life last summer and who better to sing it than Amy Winehouse whose voice was probably preserved in a bunker from the 50s while the twin nuclear blasts of big money and over-production reduced most contemporary voices to synth-heavy cacophonies of unparalleled crapitude (if that's not a word, well, then, it should be! So there).

So, Mesdames et Messieurs, the incomparable Amy Winehouse with Rehab (wild applause).