L3id LKbir, bitches

So last Saturday my family slaughtered a sheep in the hallway. Other than that it was a pretty normal day. Got some reading and watched a bit of T.V. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I initially felt a bit of pity for the animal, especially being that I was the one who led the thing from where it was being held across the street into our modest house. Since no one in the family was really qualified to slaughter the beast so my brother had to fetch a butcher to perform the task in a Halal manner. It being 3id and all, butchers were in high demand and thus the sheep remained in the hallway next to the dinner table, tied up and awaiting its fate for over two and a half hours. During these 150 minutes of unrestricted bleating, I lost all of my former pity had for the mofo.

As soon as the butcher arrived, trailed by two little boys who wanted to watch yet another one of these, our little dolly was lain on the floor and promptly had its throat slit. As the blood spewed out of its gaping neck and all over some recently washed dishes, the decapitated body continued to spasm uncontrollably for the next few minutes. It was at this point that I remembered the factoid elementary school kids used to love to retell, about how chickens live for X number of minutes after their heads have been cut off.

Dressed in nice clothes to celebrate the occasion, I wondered how difficult it would be to get sheep blood out of my light yellow tie without the aid of dry cleaners. Reasonably difficult I figured. Soon enough I was holding the carcass' left rear leg off to the side while my brother poked a hole in the other one and blew in to inflate the midsection like a really morbid balloon. It almost seemed like it was breathing except all sorts of unanticipated sections were inflating. Apparently, the insides of a sheep are not only well connected but also surprisingly airtight.

Without much delay, the bloodied mass was strung from the ceiling and promptly skinned while my mom cleaned the severed head. When the butcher opened the chest cavity, a whole host of body parts came spilling out. They were quickly removed and cleaned with almost ridiculous apathy. The stomach lining and some excess fat were hung out to dry on the clothesline in between a towel and some socks while intestines were ripped out much in the same manner as a magician pulling on a seemingly endless rope of handkerchiefs. The butcher had other places to be, it seemed, and so he was working at full speed.

Within a hour, the sheep had gone from interrupting my reading to upside down in the hallway with its organs in buckets, its head drained, and its skin in a fatty mass in the corner. Within another hour, I was munching on the thing's liver. Mmbruk L3id!

Words

As someone who claims to have officially studied History and Political Science at a reputable University, I tend to shy away from making overly simple generalizations about what are often complicated and diverse groups of people. That being said, every single Moroccan, without exception, likes the following songs: Titanic theme song, Hotel California, and anything by Bryan Adams. The fact that these songs are the representatives of American culture over here raises a few questions. First, considering that both Bryan Adams and Celine Dion are Canadian, do they fail to see the any large difference between the two countries? The answer was pretty easy to come by as one older kid offered the following, "If I could pick any country to live in it would be Canada because it is just as developed as the US without being as violent." I'm sure Smilo has some thoughts on the matter.

A general update on the ping-pong scenario- I no longer suck as much. I actually beat a few kids the other day and only consistently lose to the one or two kids that are really fucking good.

Last Sunday we had a pre-Thanksgiving meal for which I made some pimp ass apple pie. While having it today would be ideal, all PCVs are banned from travelling this week due to the upcoming Muslim holiday of 3id Kbir or Big Feast. This holiday is in commemoration of that time that Abraham was willing to kill his own son but killed a sheep instead after God was all like "Whoa you were, like, really gonna do that!" So how is such a day celebrated? That's right, on Saturday at precisely 10 a.m. every single Muslim family in Morocco will slaughter a sheep (or goat depending on the availability of funds) and proceed to feast on every single part of it for the next few weeks. Details regarding my future meals will follow.

The other day, the director of the place where I "work" pulled me over to explain something to him. He had bought some strange electronic product at the market and wanted to know what it was. Already this was a ridiculous scenario. Despite constantly complaining over lack of funds, he had bought something, something electronic and thus presumably somewhat expensive, without having even the least bit of an understanding as to what it did. As it turns out, he had purchased an old beeper whose functions had been reduced to off, vibrate and display a 5, and alarm tone while displaying a 0. After assuring him that the FCC number and the words "Made in Korea" were not actually English-language instructions on how to use the thing, he shrugged off his mistake and simply threw the beast into a drawer.

Photo

So the other day I had to go get my picture taken so as to apply for my “Carte de Sejour” (Moroccan ID) which I must have to legally live here after three months. First off, living somewhere for three months without issue is a truly shocking experience for those of us that used to carry a Colombian passport. Such a document usually bore with it plenty of unnecessary hassle and customs harassment. But alas, no more, bitches.

Anyway, after managing to explain to the photo guy what precisely it was that I wanted (which confused me because I figured ID pictures would be a simple enough concept to explain. I guess he was bewildered as to what need white dude like myself would have for local identification) he led me through a previously hidden passageway into another room curiously larger than the elevator-sized shop in which we had been previously standing. What was produced from the ensuing photo shoot can only be described as the mug shot of a disheveled hipster terrorist who couldn’t be bothered to fix his glasses for a mere portrait. Needless to say, had my mom been present, a retake would have been promptly demanded. She wasn’t, however, and so my uncombed, unshaven visage with halfway tinted glasses was soon rendered into twenty (yes they need that many) tiny pictures.

Not satisfied with his work, the photo dude then went on to create a complimentary souvenir for me, so I could always remember the experience he said. He then proceeded to photoshop the same image (which displays my glasses and mustache angling in different directions) into a pair of backgrounds so brutal only an awkward mid-90s family portrait done at Sears would fit adequately. Nevertheless, I am now the owner of two miserable adjacent self-portraits, one with my gross rendition wreathed by a golden cord and then thrust in outer space, and the other surrounded by a bounty of brightly colored flowers to fully counter the artificially induced paleness my dear photo guy so generously bestowed upon me. Apparently I can always stand to be whiter.

I realize that the only thing this post says is "I got a picture taken, it came out oddly."

So I'm Like, in Bzou Now

Yea, for reals. Life just got a lot slower and realer. As oppossed to the freezing cold weather up in the mountains of my last site, this place is fucking hot. Like mid-90s. It's November.

While being done with the brutality that was training (10 hours a day of class) is certainly nice, being hours away from friends and such can be a bit discouraging. Also theres the fact that I have to be a legit human now. Whereas before I was merely some trainee whose mistakes could be excused with this fact, now I'm supposed to head a series of activities at a youth center. Did nobody tell these people I am a total joker? Today I spent a couple of hours there getting absolutely manhandled by a group of kids at ping pong.

On the plus side I do have a site mate who has been great in helping me keep my sanity and such. Her place is awesome cause she has hot water...like coming out of the wall in a controlled fashion. It is awesome and I highly suggest you all try it sometime. That and there are crazy nice peeps in this town.

I Really Hope They Did Not Play The Liza Minelli Version

When the Yankees won their latest pennant a stray thought crossed my mind. Could this be the greatest Yankee team of my lifetime? Yes I am a child, but still the idea of any team being better than the 1998 New York Yankees was difficult to grasp. That particular team is shrouded with such distinct excellence that to challenge its prowess was like rehashing the argument as to whether anyone would ever be better than Michael Jordan. How could it be possible?

With their recent victory over the Philadelphia Phuckoffs, these 2009 Yankees have in many ways matched the on-the-field excellence of the aforementioned Torre-led squad. For me, however, the victory is not as sweet. Unable to watch a single playoff game, I felt my favorite team grow distant, leaving me behind on their way to a 27th World Series title. (Speaking of which, the name “World Series” doesn’t feel patronizing until you’re flipping through 230 channels of Egyptian soap operas and Woody the Woodpecker re-runs trying to catch Game 6.) Those of you thinking that I am not now and never was a member of the Yankees and thus could not have been left behind by them can go ahead and choke on a d. I may not have been on the payroll, but I certainly felt some (albeit deluded) connection to the boys in pinstripes. Not being able to watch their continuous tearing of ass felt like Bean or Smilo must feel every time a friend of theirs is doing work. Yea this is good and all, but why not me too?

But back to the original question of which team is better. While I could go into a detailed “analysis” of which team had a better starting 5, deeper bullpen or more consistent defense, that would seem overly reasonable and might lead me to a conclusion I might not want to have. For this reason, I will rely entirely on a general collection of hunches and time-tested intuition.

For one, the 98 team never forced me to defend it from an onslaught of dbags harping on about payrolls, steroids and total lack of class (basically all A-rod). That the nineties team played in the more innocent era of Big Mac and Sammy Sosa where the country was blissfully oblivious of the pervasive presence of steroids is a fact which I will completely ignore. Like I said, this isn’t analysis; it’s more of a gut feeling. Sure I might have been an oblivious twelve year-old during one season and a disenfranchised curmudgeon during the other but the 98 team had a certain aura missing from the updated juggernaut. Torre’s early Yankees seemed to dominate without even trying or taking themselves seriously. They were simply playing a game, very well. While this year’s team also did its fair share of keek vooking and last-minute heroic mystiquing, the matter of dollar signs was never too far. These Yankees had to win in order to justify their payroll, those of old won almost without even realizing it. I also really liked Scott Brosius.

I realize that most of these thoughts would have probably been avoided had I simply seen the damn series but I have never been one to apologize for my blatant bias.

That being said, the 2009 New York Yankees are World Series Champions and that is absolutely fucking awesome. Maybe I can finally stop having to defend A-rod. (He gets paid to hit home runs people, not to be a model father and husband. What he does on his own time, while likely deplorable, is none of our business as long as he keeps smacking the crap out of the ball.) Maybe now when I see a Masshole wearing a shirt that says “Got rings, lately?” I’ll be able to walk up to him and simply say, “yes.” The fact is that, regardless of the relative distance between me and this team, the Yankees are my squad and there is not much that can be done about it. I learned baseball from the 96-2000 teams (and will feel old the minute Derek Jeter retires) but there is still much to love about this next generation of champions. After all, everyone loves a winner

Real Quick

How do you turn a towel into sandpaper? Let your Moroccan mom wash it. I’d never thought I’d say it, but damn do I miss fabric softener.

So Tuesday was my first ever election day as a U.S. citizen and I spent the day living in a foreign country, not voting and bitching about the Electoral College. U-S-A, U-S-A!

Thoughts on My Moustache

Yes I titled it that. My moustache fuckin rocks and it is thus more than deserving of a few words. This mustache is the highest pursuit of all hair. All are jealous of its undeniable charm, calculated technique, and pure aesthetic prowess.

Fez

A few weeks ago some of my family (the young kids, my 17 year old sister, mom and me) of modest means took a trip to major nearby city of Fez. We going to spend the weekend at my aunt’s apartment and this, I was told, would be a great opportunity to visit one of Morocco’s oldest cities (over 1000 years old). Immediately upon reaching my aunt’s apartment I understood a great deal about my nuclear family. Without a single full time worker in the house, it had always been a mystery how mother managed to raise four kids after my host father’s death some years back.

This apartment was not like our house in the mountain town, and my 17 sister was fully aware and mercilessly unforgiving of the glaring differences. While in Fez, my sister reminded me, one was no longer in Morocco. I was no longer referred to as Brahim and speaking darija was suddenly below us. French, with all its elegance, was the language of Fez. That night we walked around the city long after dark (rarely ever the case without a distinct purpose in our hometown) and it became evident that in this setting, my mom was no longer the boss. Instead my 15 year old cousin guided us through the many streets dictating the pace and destinations. In such an urban site, my mom was about as lost as I.

The cab ride back was solemn and silent as we all looked out the window at the metropolis we were leaving behind. As we were pulling into town my sister sighed and let out the conciliatory remark, “this place isn’t so bad, at least it’s home.”

Halloween

Last Halloween I was a drunken mess in overalls and a green t-shirt masquerading as Luigi, stumbling about Franklin Street. This year I was entirely sober for the all of October 31st. To any red-blooded, gun-toting, Bruce Springsteen-loving true American, the previous statement was pure blasphemy. How could any adult possibly go an entire Halloween without one puking on some chick in a cow costume? Surely some booze would materialize, I mean this is fucking Halloween were talking about. Surely it did not.

Despite this, Halloween in Morocco kicked a good deal of ass. Our jack-o-lantern sported a pair of rams horns, a pair of 6 foot 4 dudes dressed as Satan and a Grandmother broke it down to Aqua’s hit single “Barbie Girl” (looped twice in succession), and a spontaneous dance party erupted as the same song played for two hours. The last part was made even funnier by the fact that, being a Muslim society, Morocco tends to frown on PDA and general male-female contact. The result was thus two clusters of hardcore dancing, one of all dudes, the other of all chicks. It was the only time I have ever seen a sausage-fest and a taco-platter occurring simultaneously without any awkwardness.