I Wrote This Over a Month Ago and Never Put It Up. My B.

Quick Points on L3id.

- You know it's going to be a pretty odd day when it begins with a live, national broadcast of the Head of State praying and then slitting a pair of sheep's throats at the mosque's entrance.

- Last year I watched the sheep get slaughtered and whatnot, but mos def missed the grossest moment of all. Once the intestines are removed from the body's cavity, they must obviously be cleaned prior to consumption. This involves the glorious process of slicing them open, and then manually removing the massive amounts of doo doo inside. Seriously though, there's a lot of shit in there. Since I feasted at the mudir's place this year, not five minutes after the sheep was cut open we were surrounded by the resident pack of feral cats . Weary of a beating from the resident terrible-two aged toddler, these feline intruders held their positions around the carcass without risking too much...until the poo was unleashed. Suddenly, these mofos could not be restrained and were ravaging our poor sheep's dump fetus. Just another reason why cats suck.

Cats: Nothin' but a bunch of poopmunchers.

[Sigh]

The Atlas foothills are a world of cell phone powered Justin Bieber saturation. I don't really know who this little prick is but I hate his localized ubiquity in the region.

Logic

Earlier, while at the youth center watching a handful of Moroccan teens take part in what they surely thought was flirting, I was privy to a pretty interesting debate between the mudir and one of his good pals (let's call him homeboy) who lives nearby. The whole deal was pretty mundane until a amidst a thicket of travel minutiae arose one stellar little detail. Apparently, while in Rabat for a national exam, the mudir had ran into someone he knew and chanced upon an opportunity to, you know, totally bone her.

Once this was made public, homebro could not be appeased. How could he have possibly passed? The perceived lack of logic and balls that were required to pass on such a silver platter gimme was seriously and visibly affecting our boy homeslice. Forget the fact that the mudir has three kids, a wife and is so painfully awkward that he could never close anyway, the absence of bonosity that day was a crime to mankind. This, at least, was the position being virulently argued by homeskillet who began to look to me for support. I had become the judge for this most prestigious of cases.

Despite the display of finely crafted oratory debate skills from the opposition, I was siding with the mudir until homevideos made his final statement. Struck by satori, homeandgarden stood up triumphantly and dealt what he perceived would be the final blow. "Last month when you needed money to pay for the new fridge I lent it to you. So, you should have thought of me and done plowed* that girl since that is what I would have done."

Had the venue not shared a door with the mudir's house, (where his wife could doubtless hear us) I would have stood up and applauded such a courageous argument, punctuated by the aforementioned checkmate. The contest was over. Homeboy had won.

* there was no actual verb here, just the sound "tan-tan" accompanied by a move akin to what follows Benny the Jet stealing home.

List of Strikes Against Me, Moroccan Perspective

-Occasionally eats day old bread instead of being hungry

-Cites constant diarrhea as reason for not reveling in salted, sun-dried intestines crawling with bugs and missing chunks to various street cats

-Does not slaughter sheep once per annum

-Chooses to live in this town

-Probably laces his inferior "lipton" tea with booze

-Is weary of throwing trash in open pit in the middle of town

-Grows weird facial hair because he is "too lazy." This is not funny.

-Does not conform to dress code (either jelaba, super-tight zipper laden jeans, track suit or dress shirt and pants)

-Is undoubtedly a CIA/FBI agent who does spy shit for the Army on the side

Other Great Moments in Time

Recently, an old woman chastised me for pouring tea like a city boy. Too much flair and risk, she said, and not enough consistency. The whole thing reeked of a hackneyed comedian, spitting out lines like "white people do their taxes like this..." Unsure of where I could have picked up such metropolitan habits, living in a town of 4000 people, I pressed the matter and realized that by "city" she meant "the part of town that has more than two stores." You know that saying "In the land of the blind the one eyed man is king?" Well, in a backwards-ass piss ant foothills town, the part where stuff is open past 7:30 is developed.

The other day I revealed my discovery of the mudir's status as "that guy" in a perversely high percentage of photographs. This week, however, a new facet of his unbearably puzzling persona made itself obvious. As ridiculous as it may sound (and it shouldn't really considering all the other weird shit this dude is into), he is also a crazy cat lady. While eating lunch at his place last Sunday, we began to be approached, slowly at first, by the various kinds of animals which call his little enclosed dirt-patch garden home. Cats, chickens and toddlers alike came to investigate the food scenario, and all were shooed away save for the former. At the height of the meal we were engulfed by an small symphony of meows. Since meals at this dude's house typically cruise tohigher degrees of disorder, such a stagnation, however eerie, was bound to dissapate into further chaos. Enter the mudir's youngest son, aged two, wielding flailing kicks and erratic verbal outbursts. Those little pussies were no match for the terrible-two fueled insanity of little Sa3d who capped of his Van Dammesque performance by snatching a box of tea and hurling it at the last straggler. He then grabbed an apple slice out of my hand, licked it whole and placed it back on the table, never to claim its saliva soaked nutrition.

By this point in our lives, most of us are aware of the all too common, not-so-secret pastime of champions and pervs alike, facebook stalking. Well, earlier I spent a good hour listening to a married friend of mine scour the annals of the world wide web ogling a particular girl who, surprise, he has never met and is actually the equivalent of a junior in high school. Interestingly enough, my initial thoughts were nowhere near the expected "wow this just got creepy" or even the acceptable "ok he's got a point this bridget is smokin." Instead, I couldn't help but be stunned at how someone who types with only one index finger figured out the intricacies of proper online creeping. Remarkable what the man can do when he puts his d to it. This interaction was then followed up by the totally sincere plea to go along with him on a nearly 400 Kilometer trip to Agadir and pose as a wealthy tourist so together we could connive his acquaintance into showing us a pair of gold, diamond inlaid binoculars he had found in the sand but wouldn't exhibit just to Moroccans because of their inability to put in a serious bid for such an item. That last sentence may run on, but it is accurate. Such is my life.

On the day of 3id this year I witnessed the greatest holiday tradition in the history of organized celebrations with my very own eyes. No, not the religiously sanctioned, semi-controlled mass sheep genocide. Old dudes playin' soccer. Apparently, this town has a yearly tradition of gathering up a bunch of old bros and having them scrimmage each other in front of a large percentage of the town's male populace. Honestly, it's absolutely spectacular. These peeps are way past their playing days and have become pretty much sedentary in their later years, but on Independence Day (which happened to coincide with 3id this year) they squeeze into some short shorts and throw down on the dirt pitch. The style of play this yields can best be described as frantic hacking accompanied by crude jokes and constant debate. The entire ordeal was a majestic comedic show put on by some of the town's more respected individuals so that all could come and revel in their bygone fitness. Score and basic rules were barely important as showmanship and misguided attempts at bicycle kicks reigned supreme. Imagine watching the Harlem Globetrotters, except just the opposite. It was truly remarkable to witness so much effort being put forth with such little quantitative outcome. As I watched, I figured those dudes had to have been defying the laws of thermodynamics, energy was clearly being destroyed. By the time the game ended, the official score was pretty fuzzy. But, most in attendance felt that witnessing three missed PKs, a slap fight and countless old men falling was enough reward.

3id Free Agent

At this time last year, my 3id related worries centered mainly around the most plainly obvious obstacle. The whole sheep deal. Who would clean the blood out of my only tie? Would throwing up while eating undercooked sheep lung and heart kabobs hinder my attempts at integration? And lastly, Why did the man carving up a medium sized mammal in our entryway, who did not wash his hands after going to the bathroom and before plunging them into the insides of my extremely raw lunch, just chastise me for coughing into my hand? In short, I was a fool to be concerned over such petty manners.

This year, however, the stakes were much higher. Due to my in-site host family's high rating on the weak-sauce0meter, my plans for the most important holiday of the year were wide open heading into the stretch. I was a break-week bachelor, a religious independent, the Catfish Hunter of 3id in Morocco. I was a free agent. Notice the past tense.

This rare scenario did not bring liberation, but thrust me into the miserable disarray that is Moroccan social life. Only now do I realize the importance of heeding the Spiderman Corollary, "with great power comes great responsibility." Instead of being able to blaze my own trail, my excess of freedom was quickly mopped up by a flurry of invitations (closer to subpoenas really) for any and all of the many sheep filled days. Resistance was futile. Let me tell you something, if there is one thing Moroccans cannot be beat at, it's guilting guests into eating, or more accurately overeating.

So as I look out over my schedule for the next few days I no longer feel like Catfish, chilling as offers poured in, thinking about which ridiculously awesome offer to accept. I feel a lot more like a poor sap who got lit up after entering the wrong side of town thinking how neat and ethnic it seemed. The week now holds a series of commitments which, if broken, will lead to me getting yelled at by lots of fat old ladies. Seriously though they are really good at guilting peeps.

Great Moments in Time

1. I was mercilessly mocked earlier today for not having shaved in over a month. What sort of barbs were people hurling at me you ask? Well, basically it came down to me starting to look like a Muslim extremist. It is becoming an oddly common occurrence for me to walk down the street and have a group of dudes point at me, make a fake beard motion with their hands around their chin, and then laugh uncontrollably. Yes, that's right, Muslims are making fun of me for looking like an Islamist. Clearly these people have never heard of no-shave November.

2. Recently, while visiting one of my favorite families, the resident eight-year old boy decided to gleefully explain the entirety of the 3id AdHa festivities to me while acting out all of its intricacies. As I watched, it seemed spectacularly similar to kids that age back in the states, overcome with joy at the thought of Christmas. The only minor difference, of course, was that instead of being pumped about presents, this little bro was wielding imaginary cutlasses and slicing sheep throats left and right. Then came the Tarantinoesque depiction of blood pouring out of the thing's neck and splashing all over the butcher and any unlucky bystanders. The show, however, did not end there. Interpretations of involuntary spasms and organ harvesting were still on the young thespian's agenda. As is often the case with people here once they discover something which makes me laugh, the stunt was repeated ad infinitum throughout the meal we were having. On the plus side, he did pretend to wash his hands before reaching in for the invisible animal's fresh flesh. And that, my friend's, is what I call youth development.

A Quick Pair of Characters

My mudir- Barely tolerated by the large majority of locals, the director of the town’s youth center is a loud, illogical and rash man who trusts few people and lives by the law of absolutes (everything is either one way or its complete opposite with no in-between). Despite all this, I know that he is a good man; a fact most people have not discovered because the truth only reveals itself after dozens of brutal one on one conversations (something which I would have never participated in were he not the person in charge of my workspace). Being privy to this information, I always felt like I knew the mudir better than most people but recently, I discovered one more thing. In addition to all his aforementioned absurdities, the mudir is also “that guy” in most of the pictures in which he appears (or cameos). After examining the pictures in his office, the evidence was overwhelming. Every picture featured him either sneaking in from the side or creeping up behind a group of people with the same “I'm trying to be super serious and professional but instead I look like a constipated curmudgeon” face. Keep in mind; all of these pictures are the ones he chooses to display, meaning this is the best he’s got. Before I leave I think I may have to take some legit shots of this dude so he doesn't have to show off depictions of people trying to exclude him. That is if he doesn’t drive me up a wall first.

Drama teacher- Locally “famous” for his appearances in various Amazigh plays which air on the national Berber channel (like Moroccan BET except with less viewership and more dramatic close-ups), the High School’s drama teacher is liable to bust out into a semi-rehearsed monologue at any time. In a previous post, I discussed the formulaic and blatantly stereotypical style of overacting employed here in Morocco. Well, with that information in mind, think about the fact that this man is considered among the best in his craft and thus takes himself very seriously. Now imagine him with a shaved head and thin soul patch, slamming his fist and pausing intensely at the injustice that is a temporary lack of milk at the coffee shop. As I said, this guy takes his work very seriously. Since great acting is supposed to be undistinguishable from genuine human emotions, it always seems as though this bro is trying to close the gap by making real life more like the ludicrous plays he performs in, instead of actually attempting to refine his acting techniques. That, however, would require realizing that such a (huge) chasm exists, something which I’m not sure computes. One thing is for sure though; it is never a dull moment around this dude.

The Little Similarities

After living here for a year, the massive, undeniable differences one encounters on a daily basis seem to fade into the background of the subconscious without much fanfare. Without exposure to daily life stateside, a new standard for normalcy creeps in, steadily budging out old expectations for how things are supposed to run. Fact: it is normal to open one's door and find a herd of sheep and goats munching on the garbage left by neighbors. Fact: sour milk is delicious. Fact: river water is better for you. This is how it works over here.

So, after being entirely engulfed by such a different set of norms, and embracing what used to seem like a strange set of daily expectations, the things that remind me most of the States are similarities I was too overwhelmed to notice last year; namely, the whole back to school mess. With the beginning (sorta) of school this week kids here have begun to behave just like their peers in the States, especially the recent High School graduates.

Kids, who only three months months ago were taking their final standardized tests, walk around dispersing advice to their slightly younger peers as if there was some sort of chasm of wisdom between them. One group of friends went around saying goodbye to some of their old teachers, despite the fact that they would still be living at home for the next few years. Others took their new found status as graduates to mean that they could complain to me about "these kids today."

My favorite reoccurring source of entertainment, however, are the interactions between three best friends who decided to live together as they attend middle Morroco's version of the University of Binghamton. It's big, it's not too far, and everyone you know goes there. I could listen to these kids discuss the unquestionable awesomeness that awaits them for hours on end.

These conversations are precisely the things that make me feel closer to home. Bootlegged movies and pirate download TV shows don't do the trick because the whole time the cultural divisions between the actions of my computer screen and those outside my window are strikingly obvious. The people in these two scenarios do not seem like they could ever agree on anything, let alone be part of the same society. When these kids discuss their future, however, I recall dozens of nearly identical conversations that occurred not only the summer before college, but also the summers before study abroad and senior year. While this realization may seem obvious to most, it is comforting to know that such youthful idealism is not a western trait, but a wholly human one.

When they joke of how they might put in a hot tub just to attract girls I usually just laugh and silently hope their experiences will not disappoint. I think of how my expectations of college life were initially crushed and then exceeded and wish that they enjoy the next few years. Because while I know that they do not honestly believe that they will have parades of girls rolling through their house on a daily basis (this is Morocco after all), they do have an anticipation that whatever awaits them will be much better than what they've already seen. They believe and hope that this is only the first step to a life that doesn't involve the ennui they as 18 year-olds perceive in this town. They don't really know what they want, they just know they want to get the fuck out of the BZ. If there's something more American than that I don't know what it is.

Seriously?

A couple of weeks ago ESPN declared that Isiah Thomas would be added to the Knicks front office as a consultant of some sort. Clearly, James Dolan is now operating on the principle that Knicks fans are total masochists. Only when you start with the idea that the entire fanbase is a glutton for punishment could you possibly come to the conclusion that this team needs to relive the glory days of the Isiah era. Either that or he must have Alzheimer's and think that Thomas is fresh off his championship seasons as a point guard for the Pistons.

I mean, it's not like his inaugural season as coach for NCAA powerhouse FIU (7-25, second to last in Sun Belt Conference) has boosted his resume in any way. To be fair, however, it is hard to compete in a division that pits them against juggernauts the likes of Arkansas State, South Alabama and Middle Tennessee.

Why anyone would want advice from the man who brought us Eddie Curry, Zach Randolph and Jared Jeffries (played for about 12 minutes total) is a total mystery. He can't coach, he can't broker beneficial deals, and he is a terrible judge of talent (Anucha Browne Sanders? come on man you can do better than that). Not only did his tenures as President of Basketball operations, advisor and coach yield miserable seasons at the time, the effectively crippled the team with salary cap obligations which forced us to spend two seasons shedding contracts just to enter the LeBron sweepstakes.

A few days later, the deal was mercifully nullified and Thomas was relegated back to Florida where he will continue to pretend he wants to coach. If Donnie Walsh has his way though, you can rest assured Thomas will slink his way back into the Knicks organization within a few years. I can't wait.

Summer Chronicles

It is hot as balls. With air temperatures reaching a moist 50 Celsius (look it up, it's hot), water failing to come out of the faucet at any given time, and people generally refusing to leave the house between noon and 5pm it is safe to say the dog days of summer are in full stride. It's pretty telling that one of the most common comments I've been getting these days is commendation for buying a fridge last January. Around here, the benefits of keeping food fresh are entirely and definitively secondary to cooling down tap water to a drinkable temperature.

While I spent much of the last month and a half working at camps at the beach or up in the mountains, the last weeks of in site living have given me enough heat to last a lifetime. Too bad there's still two months left of this crap.

With the only reasonably cool hours being shrouded in darkness a particular pattern of semi-nocturnal man-chilling has developed. Since women are not really allowed outside after dark, my summer scene is a complete and unadulterated sausagefest (up from the normal, year round semi-sausagefest). Highlights from this all-male, all the time atmosphere include a two-part hour long discussion on why poop floats, being treated to coffee by someone who paid with hash, and (my personal favorite) watching that same someone steal a porcupine while high and bring it back to his house.

Also, as I may have mentioned some months back, a friend of mine has a particular penchant for acquiring random, worthless, electronic gadgets and bringing them to me for a class on their use. So far I've dealt with various alarm clocks, an illegal cable box, two beepers, a heart-rate monitor and, most recently, a portable digital picture printer. Those last two, which might stick out as not only pricey but also potentially useful were gifts from my friend's brother who works in Spain.

Nice gifts, you may think. Now that family can not only monitor its cardiac health but also print out all of their pictures and make sweet ass collages n shit. Well sure, except the former is broken and the latter will only be useful once they get a digital camera, a computer, a USB key, photo paper, ink and an adapter to plug it into to the wall. Awesome.

Cafes

Cafes here are not the same breed as their yuppie, trendy beverage serving versions stateside. First off, if you asked for a frappuccino here, and by some miracle the guy actually knew what you were talking about, the response would be akin to "what kind of ass drinks coffee cold?"

If you want to envision a Morrocan cafe, you first have to forget the image of the wifi enabled hipster hotbed with cozy chairs and chilled out blues covers that is your typical starbucks. These here cafes are for men only. Spending time at a cafe is one of the many means this country provides for creating an instant sausagefest. A typical evening sesh here includes watching Barca (or Real if you have no soul) amidst a haze of cigarette smoke while a group of crazy old dudes violently play rummy, shout gibberish and drink tea. Yes, rummy is a dangerous game. Cafes are filled with cursing, inane arguments and random outbursts of noise...but not booze. Still these things are pure, unadulterated man.

Keeping all of this in mind, now imagine sitting at one of these establishments on the first day a new cd player/speaker system has just been set up. Whatever music comes on will surely set the mood for the suspicious crowd mumbling their doubts in between drags. The stereo is turned on and the first songs played are:

"Everywhere" by Michelle Branch

"Respect" by Aretha Franklin

"Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" by Cindi Lauper (2x)

That's right, the third song ever played in this joint was that 80s hit classic, followed immediately by that exact same tune. The only two explanations for the repetition are (a) the owner put the song on the CD twice, in succession or (b) upon hearing the magic that is Ms. Lauper, whoever was in charge decided to play it again. I'm not exactly sure which is more absurd. Upon hearing these tracks I figured we would have a revolt on our hands. What I had forgotten was that Moroccan men are ridiculous. They ate that shit up.

My Favorite Things About North Korea

Now that the most ridiculous team in the tournament has been mathematically eliminated and await their final beating, I present my favorite facts about Portugal's grundle (sp?) towel.

- Their fans at the World Cup are paid Chinese actors

- They have a player nicknamed "the People's Rooney"

- The team could not afford to book private time in a gym...so they trained in a public one...during normal working hours.

- Official sources say no players would ever try to defect.

- They threatened to ban the South Korean anthem and flag at a home game between the two teams so the match had to be moved to China.

- Their coach regularly communicates with Kim Jong-il for in-game advice

- This is done via advanced cell phone technology, invisible to the naked eye

- This technology was created by Kim Jong-il himself

- Kim Jong-il allegedly shot a 38under par his first time on the links.

World Cup Fever

Those of you who know me well, realize that I have a habit for developing irrational hatred towards random sports teams. I have hated the Duke basketball program since they played (and lost) in the 1999 NCAA title against UConn because, to quote my 11 year-old mind, "played like assholes." My parents forcing me to take French in 7th grade logically led to my brief loathing of the French national football team. Most prominent, however, has been my persistent distaste for US soccer.

How, people often ask, could I possibly hate the footballing symbol of my adopted country? Usually I just say, "cause fuck you, that's why" but this being a written piece and all, I shall elaborate. Firstly, the US is possibly the only country in the world that could win the World Cup and collectively not give a shit. Think about it. Were the US to raise the trophy this year, would LA riot like after a Lakers championship? Would people in Chapel Hill rush Franklin? Would dukies light bonfires with their collective douche secretions? Simply put, no. Streets would remain calm, cars would remain unflipped, and Durham's gated community would not remove the sticks from their asses in order to light them. There's always a bit of good in everything I guess. Regardless, it would barely make a blip on the US sports conscience.

The second (and initial) reason is a lot more childish, and a lot more powerful. It dates back to that USA-Colombia game in 1994 where a simple mistake by the one of the generation's greatest defenders caused Colombia fall of the footballing map for the next 16 years and counting. Yes, there were other narcofutbol related issues that contributed (documented in an episode of ESPN's 30 for 30 which sadly doesn't air here), but the 6 year-old who watched that game didn't care. The ensuing news report of Andres Escobar's murder is the first moment I can firmly place in my memory. It is hard to let go of habits developed at such an age where even memory is hazy, and so a deep hatred for US soccer has lived within me for many years now. Was the US at fault that day? No, of course not. Any team worthy of playing in the world's greatest tournament would have seized the opportunity and exploited the deflated opposition. Still, I never claimed to be rational person, let alone a well-informed, football-conscious toddler capable of making valid judgements.

And so we arrived at this year's tournament, with Colombia watching from home, and the US in the same group as local favorite Algeria.

Game 1 USA-England

Going in I knew one thing for sure, I wanted US to lose, and badly. Just because I am supposedly an informal representative of the US here, doesn't mean my sudden hatred for its soccer division would suddenly fade. And so, when Gerrard put one through 5 minutes in I clapped a bit. Fuck you Sam's Army, chew on that for a while.

Then the game stagnated and the US was able to hold ground for an extended stretch. Suddenly, my instinct to always root for huge underdogs wanted to kick in. Don't get sucked in, "it's a trap" I thought, quoting Admiral Ackbar. I let a few digs at the misery of USA's backline loose and figured the matter was settled. Yet, a few minutes later when Green's butterfingers erased the deficit,I felt glad. Not ecstatic or anything, the goal was not gonna make a difference when England regrouped at half and got some 1812 payback in the latter 45 minutes.

But then nothing happened. Much to England's frustration, the game ended in a draw after countless advances fell flat. Also, Tim Howard was a beast out there. I left the game feeling confused. Had I just gotten some sort of pleasure out of a US soccer victory?

Shortly after I returned to my site and everybody was congratulating me on the US's valor. All of my protests against the moral worth of the team were brushed off and I was pegged as a die hard USA fan by most everyone in the community. Uncalled for.

Game 2 USA-Slovenia

My sitemate (a girl) wanted to watch this game and so we called in a favor to a cafe owner who allowed a select few of us access into his place while it was closed for afternoon siesta.* The game began and all present were tauting me with cries of a bitter US defeat. "No protest here," I said, to their undeniable confusion. Why would I go through all this trouble, just to cheer against the country I am supposedly from?

Not too far in the first half Slovenia placed a beautiful ball past the stunned Howard. Suddenly I was pissed. Days of being told to root for the US had taken hold and watching that ball hit the back of the net actually stung a bit. Slovenia hit pay dirt again before half and I was a mess. Who the fuck is Slovenia? I wanted to punch all two million inhabitants in their ballsacks. At least, my confusion would be over and the revilement of USA soccer that was status quo would be allowed return with the team's exit.

Then Donovan scored. Then Bradley scored. The US was back in it and my head was a mess. All sorts of qualification scenarios began to be thrown around just as Edu touched in a free kick from Donovan. Game over, US wins 3-2. Then came Mali's own, whistle happy Stevie Wonder and nullified the goal for some unspecified reason. The group was now a mess, and it would be anybody's game in the final matchups after a 0-0 Algeria-England draw.

The days that followed were entirely characterized by people telling me the US had no chance against Algeria. How could the North Americans possibly defeat the juggernaut that had managed to score exactly zero goals in the first two games? So constant was the barrage of "one, two, three, viva Algerie" and various other inane chants, that the defiant in me rose up. I would root for the US to win, but not because I was a fan or anything, but because I am a giant asshole and this would be great to rub in everyone's face. Yup, totally cause of the f-u effect.

Game 3 USA-Algeria

When Algeria's shot hit off the crossbar 15 minutes in I almost punched the guy next to me in the face. There was no way I could put up with the incessant taunting if the parade of wannabes in red, white and blue didn't pull this one through. We got through half and nothing had happened, USA was slated to fade away into elimination in as quiet a way as possible.

Then came a series of US advances, one could sense a goal coming, but then again one could also sense a cascade of wide shots and missed opportunities in the future. As you all know, the game appeared to be over when Donovan touched in a rebound from within the six and pandemonium broke loose on the field. I tried to convince myself that the same was happening all throughout the US but knew it to be false.

USA would advance, first in its group, and congratulations flew my way for the next few hours. I was happy but weary of feeling so. These were the same people that had brought down Colombian football a decade and a half ago and yet I was treating people to soda** on behalf of their victory. Even worse, were the US to win the next match, they would be closer to the cup than Colombia has ever been (Roger fuckin Milla) and I would have to toast even more people.

I don't know where this train wreck of a post is going, but then again, I don't know where my emotions on this team are going. We'll just have to watch the next game and take it one step at a time. I will admit one thing though, when some kid shouted congratulations at me after the game, my response was "eight, nine, ten, viva mirikan."

peace.

*It is generally not allowed for women to sit at cafes, it is purely an all dude's affair.

** The national high school exam results had come out the previous day, people who pass celebrate by buying others soda and cookies. This is the general custom of celebration.

Things I Just Learned Will Happen to You After Eating Pork

- your body will sprout boils
- you will become adulterous
- you will become apathetic
- you will not care if your spouse cheats on you (sexually specialized apathy)
- your cholesterol will rise


I would like to point out that the final item was billed as a secondary effect with less probability of occuring and little overall significance considering the primary conditions.

So yea, apparently pork is some crazy, demonic hybrid of weed, viagra and the plague.

Rabat

So, about six months into service, we's all gots ta go to Rabat to have a week-long conference meant to provide additional training. Here are some of the highlights:

- England-USA game. The last night in town, we went to a British pub in town hoping there would be some opposing fans at which to yell crap like "No taxation without representation" and "1812." Sadly, the place was packed with neutral Moroccans and other idiots who had the same thought process as we did. Apparently, it never occurred to us that any legit, die-hard Brit who would indulge in infantile screaming matches with us would not be caught dead in a country with few pubs and no ties to the World Cup during his team's opener. Still, screaming at nobody is kinda fun.

- 20 minute discussion about lotion. During a medical session with one of the new doctors, it was revealed that due to a change in shipping restrictions concerning liquids, we as PCVs would no longer be allowed to ask for free lotion to fulfill our medical needs. The fact that we were initially permitted to do this was news to me but the heated discussion that followed was even more ludicrous. It was during this period that one of the all time greatest interrupters (we shall call this person K) shone through with a brilliant performance. Combatant, alienating, and irrational, K displayed exactly why there is a drinking game based on his/her number of irrelevant outbursts. I mean, lets ignore the fact that the person being vented on is a trained medical professional with many years experience working in developing countries, how can K possibly be expected to continue service without a steady supply of imported lotion courtesy of US tax dollars? Towards the end of the rambling, I heard someone behind me mumble "Forget dryness, 'hey lady, what the heck am I supposed to jerk off with?'" Finally, someone was addressing the issues.

- Party at the Marine house. Having been assigned the sweetest gig of all time, several Marines live in an absolutely pimped out house in Rabat and regularly throw parties featuring subsidized, high quality booze. I feel like there is no need to explain why drinking Guinness, playing hoops and eating free food all at one party was notable.

- Prom. Yes, we threw a prom. Yes, it was awesome.

- Trip to visit an Association called Humanity without Borders. This was interesting and informative but the whole endeavor was overshadowed by the grafiti we noticed about 5 seconds into the visit. Like most major cities, Sale (next to Rabat) has a football team, one which abbreviates its name into a three letter acronym. Also like most clubs, Association Sportive de Sale has a group of supporters who feel the need to call themselves something. For example, all three dozen of the U.S. national team's ardent fans refer to themselves as Sam's Army. Sale's passionate bunch chose the moniker Pirates. So everywhere in this neighborhood, shakily scrawled on walls, was the phrase "ASS Pirates." Just thought that was worth mentioning.

Tim wuz here

While Tim was here he learned a bunch of ridiculous realities about PCV life. While often reminded of a whole host of stuff I had forgotten about life and culture stateside, in many cases I also felt the need to speak up for my adopted culture. So, now comes a list of paired junk which I will pass off as a post.

- What Tim learned
- What I realized/remembered/commented/I realize this is a pretty shoddy gimmick that barely makes sense

- The whiteness of one's skin and the initial stated price for any item are directly proportional
- Five bucks here can buy you a 3 hour bus ride from my site to Marrakesh, a sandwich, a 1.5 liter bottle of water and some candy, so stop bitching.

- Presence in Morocco makes one's standards of what composes quality booze drop dramaticaly. Seriously though, the Jim Beam he brought actually tasted good.
- It also raises one's standards of olive oil.

- French terminology is pervasive.
- The term "cyber park" is a lot funnier when thought of in an English context.

- Cows, goats, sheep and donkeys can often be found wandering by themselves with no owner in sight
- Has anyone born after the 19th century ever seen a donkey in the states?

- Tim was pissed when I shaved my mustache

- That thing was so vile that even Moroccan's welcomed its demise

- Cabs do not leave unless there are at least 6 passengers and only go to predestined destinations.
- Safety regulations and convenience are for pussies.

- Morocco is fuckin sweet

- People, it's dirt cheap and you got a free guide. Just go ahead and visit.

Language

If you happen to be a fellow PCV who reads this blog (theres probably not more than one of you) the following will be old news and thus completely worthless. My advice, stop reading. There's no reason to waste your precious time reading crap you already know to be absurd. What's that? You're a PCV and thus you have untold hours of free time, thereby forcing you to debase yourself by reading the filth I write?

Anyway, for the other two or three people who casually glance at this in between visits to youporn and ESPN, the following is a bit on language. As PCVs in this country, we have a odd, yet interesting niche in society. On one hand, we are (somewhat) trained in one of the local languages and can, with great effort, communicate with the people in our community. On the other hand, we are a bunch of foreigners and in many ways get treated as such.

Stuff Moroccans call us:

1. Nesrani- Literally meaning "Christian," it is used to refer to all white peeps
2. Romi (taromit for girls)- My favorite of all things to be called because it literally means "Roman." This is more commonly used by Amazigh people (who have been here since forever ago) and truly shows just how up with the times mountainous Moroccans can be.
3. Jackie Chan, Bruce lee- Yelled only at some
4. There is one other Berber word, possibly phrase, which was tossed at me in a small, nearby village. While I didn't make any sense of it, a Berber trained PCV translated it as "the one who steals our olive oil." Ouch.

Also, being immature pricks (1) we also translate certain phrases from colloquial English into the Arabic dialect we supposedly speak.

Examples:

1. klba, 3afak- bitch, please
2. dak shi li galt- that's what she said
3. dir lxddama wld- do work son
4. sear l cunt- go to the corner

OK so that last one is pretty harmless in English. Doesn't make it any less awesome. Regardless, oftentimes the reverse of this effect is also true. I can't imagine any group other than Morocco PCVs saying stuff like "Take care of your head" or "God Bless your Parents" in an entirely serious context.

Then there's the most glaring language issue of all; our constant bumbling with Arabic and its pronunciation. Despite having no authority on the subject, I feel Arabic has to be one of the hardest friggin languages on this planet. Sure, the Arabic I try to speak is not nearly as complex as the standard, written version with its ridiculous number of conjugations, (2) but its still plenty confusing. To get an idea, observe the following three words written in out Latin characters.

qra- he read (past tense) or imperative command for read (present)

qr3- bald

qr3a- bottle

First off, the fact that the same exact word can be used in the third person past and in the second person present is just ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as the fact that the English word "read" is spelled the same in past and present and yet pronounced differently. Anyway, if you are thinking to yourself "those three words are completely different. I mean, since that backwards three thing does not exist in our alphabet it has to represent some totally distinct sound."

Well, according to my textbook the letter "ع" can best be approximated by a non-native speaker by "pronouncing the 'a' in fat." So, in the word qr3a, we have a type of "a" sound, followed by a another slightly different "a" sound. Awesome. You would think that a person would understand slight mispronunciations from a foreigner considering the similarity between the two letters, but no. People honestly think I'm asking for bald coke (3). Lastly, in Arabic there are two different "s's," two different "h's," two different "t's" and two different "d's." Wonderful.

So now that I've bored you, my 4 (maybe 3 by now) readers, I'll leave you with some sweet phrases in English for which only asses like us PCVs have a use (4).

1) To small-boy someone (v)- asking a fellow PCV to go to the store and get something

ex. "Hey broldemort, if you're going out can I small-boy you for some chips?

2) Morocco goggles (n)- when marginally dirty stuff looks really clean because of the conditions to which one is accustomed. Obviously, it also applies to bitties.

ex. "Yo brosimite sam, does that town/chick look clean or is it just my Morocco goggles?

3) Peace Corps pretty, PCP (adj)- a) a person who is attractive enough to withstand the lack of hygiene imposed by service. b) a person who would not normally be attractive but due to scarcity of possible mates is considered "doable." (Yes, these are exact opposites.)

ex. "Ey brometheus, is that broad PCP?"

"Idk brolsen twin, it depends what you mean by that"

"look Wolfgang Amadeus Brozart, I just wanna know if I should make moves"

"oh fo sho, Bronan the Brahbarian"

"thanks for the input Brohamed VI"

(1) Well maybe I'm the only immature prick, but everyone else still says this stuff.

(2) There are not only different second person pronouns depending on gender, there are also different pronouns and corresponding conjugations depending on whether it's 1, 2 or 3+ people

(3) the phrase "bald coke" has to mean something in some version of slang

(4) There are more of these but a friend is putting them together for a submission to our newsletter so I won't use em all up here...not that the make any sense.

A Quick Outline of Every Moroccan Comedic Play

Part 1: Two options

Every comedy sketch here starts out with either an old, and inevitably senile, married couple or with some important man whose crucial work cannot be disturbed. The old couple will begin by arguing about something which reveals how ludicrously ancient they are while the important dude will just frantically type on a fake laptop as if the work being demanded of him was far too much to ask of one man. Quick side note: the manner in which the character pretends to type instantly reveals that people here have no idea how to do so correctly.

Part 2: Interruption

A homeless, sometimes glue sniffing, character will enter and do dumb things like repeatedly fall over or shake uncontrollably. People laugh. The male character from the first scene flips a shit and screams at any present female characters, then slaps or kicks the interrupter. After ripping a few lines akin to "but I homeless and sniff glue so I want money from you!" in some misguided accent, the interrupter leaves.

Part 3-X: Repeat Part 2 Ad Nauseum with New Stereotypes

Other popular characters include: Rowdy teens, promiscuous girls (always played by guys in drag), and girls who do not want to get married. You may be wondering: How long could this pattern be sustained without exhausting its undeniable comedic value? Well, first off, these kinds of plays usually start off tired and immediately veer into brutality so there is absolutely no value to sustain. Secondly, I was thinking about the answer to that question yesterday about 35 minutes (and 6 interruptions) into a textbook masterpiece and realized the only determinant that ends these mostly ad libbed ordeals is physical fatigue on the part of the male lead. I mean, this dude is up there kicking and screaming at all sorts of seedy peeps and disobedient daughters, basically non-stop for the whole performance. It's kind of impressive in that sense.

Part X+1: The Cliché Finisher Into Unintelligible Arguing

The punishment only ends when the male lead executes the last and traditionally most hackneyed line of the ordeal. By this point this dude has already shot off an assortment of Univision-worthy punchlines and the audience knows what's coming. Thus, the last one has to outdo them all. That at least, is the intent. Usually it's just something like "You should have listened to me!", "I can't believe that failed!" or "Now what are we going to do with this worthless, glue addicted daughter!" Ok, so the last one is completely fake. The point, whatever it may be, stands. After the clinching line, the on stage situation devolves into arguing as everyone exits. It is the annoying, loud-mouthed cousin of the musical fade-out.

Despite all of this, it would a lie to say I never laugh during these. I mean, some of those old-Berber-dude-trying-to-use-a-phone impressions are dead on.

Things that are gay in America but are totally not gay here

- Holding hands with another dude

- Picking flowers for another dude

- Making designs out of said flowers for another dude

- Turning said designs into a crown for another dude

- Having a crown-wearing photo shoot with another dude

Just as a refresher, homosexuality is technically illegal in this Muslim Kingdom.

Spring Camp

Last week most PCVs in Morocco were working at one the various English immersion camps throughout the country. Eight of us lucked out and were assigned work at El Jadida, a beach town with pimp weather and much, much less conservative inhabitants. I guess coming from Bzou that’s not saying a lot but still, when those 16-17 year old girls in sun dresses and tight jeans started showing up and things began to take an interesting turn.

Day 1:

All the kids have been divided up by the English level and I had the luck of being given the highest level group and thus spend the two hours going over song lyrics and playing various loosely language related games.

Cue first teenage girl wardrobe change

Sports time: throw mad TDs after teaching kids a watered down version of what they insist on calling rugby.

Second teenage girl wardrobe change

Lunch: stuff face with free food, don’t wash dishes, scrounge for leftovers as the kids leave

Third teenage girl wardrobe change (I wish I was exaggerating, but there more to come)

Club time: In the camp’s infinite wisdom, myself and two other dudes are assigned to lead a 2 hour dance club. After covering the basics of the chicken dance, country line dancing and (of course) the cupid shuffle, we just threw on some MJ and let those kids break it down for a good hour.

4^th change

This is where things get Moroccan. The next two hours consisted of watching five different AIDS awareness themed plays with the exact same soundtrack, a song much like the theme from The Hunt for Red October. It is difficult to describe how absurdly overacted, and needlessly metaphorical theses skits were, but let it suffice to say that most of them involved some sort of slow-mo street fighter style battle between white blood cells and the HIV. My personal favorite moment was when one kid answered his cell phone while performing. After the last piece an instantaneous dance party breaks out to Akon, Rihanna and what sounded like something out of a Wiggles concert, except in Spanish. (Note: after some research I discovered that the original version of this song was a top 40 hit in the Netherlands 10 years ago. Depressingly enough, the singer, Jody Bernal was actually born in Bogota before being adopted by a Dutch family. Also, a translated version of his Dutch wikipedia entry feels it is important to mention that he has an IQ of 96. As a method of comparison, fellow Colombian Shakira supposedly rocks a score of 140. )

Dinner: see lunch

Last wardrobe change

Talent show: sit through hours of brutality before being dragged on stage to help a girl crumbling under the lights finish off the last bit of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On.” We eight white people finish of the event with an air guitar/karaoke performance of “Don’t Stop Believing.” Immediately after, a second all out dance party breaks out.

So the next few days pretty much fell into this sort of pattern so neatly that the absurdity of it all was almost entirely predictable. Every day came with a promise of increasingly ludicrous Moroccan shenanigans, and usually not by the kids. Example: on the second to last day, the camp was scheduled to go on a field trip to the old, Portuguese city and see its historic cistern. The counselors boarded the bus believing the previous statement to be a fact. Nevertheless, after an hour-long bus ride we found ourselves at an industrial phosphate port which had not even been notified of our visit. All of the day laborers initially seemed absolutely stunned at our presence, (Port Jorf Lasfar not being a popular tourist destination) but soon their faces shaped creepy smirks as they suddenly became excited at the sight of 40 or so scantily (for Moroccan standards) dressed teens. So unprepared was the staff of this place that we couldn’t even get someone to show us around, we just wandered aimlessly beating a drum and chanting songs for 2 hours. This pretty much summed up the effectiveness of our camp’s administration.

The only things that helped me retain my sanity throughout the week were my fellow PCV counselors, the prospect of an all out party upon the camp’s conclusion, and, of course, the fact that on the second day several of us went to the barber and got matching moustaches and mullets. Yup, camp was pretty awesome.

US Culture

Yesterday, a fellow PCV and I gave a one-hour, introductory presentation to a local High School about the basics of United States' culture. As anyone who just read that sentence knows, it's a pretty big mistake to give me this kind of responsibility. Considering the audience, I could spew all sorts of bullshit and they would totally eat it up. I could claim that George W. Bush's punishment for such a joke of a presidency was a permanent assignment as lemonparty webmaster, and they would believe it. This was my chance to really screw up a bunch of gullible kids and tell them that most Americans are either Druids or firm believers in the Church of Scientology. To be honest I'm not sure which is less logical. Jk druids are chill.

Anyway, the kids learned the following information:

1. Biggie Smalls is awesome and everybody loves him

2. There is nothing in Iowa

3. The Yankees, Giants, Knicks and Tar Heels are the only important teams. NY Rangers too if you wanna get crazy.

4. Miley Cyrus' "Party in the U.S.A." is what America is all about

All in all I think those kids learned some valuable stuff. My only regret is not squeezing Ke$ha in there.

P.S. to those of you in the US, is Ke$ha actually popular over there or is it just some freak sensation among PC Morocco?

Milos

A couple of weeks ago while I was sitting around waiting to play ping-pong at the local youth center, a balding man in his mid-40s with a slight overbite and over-sized, thin-rimmed glasses walked in and casually demanded to be next on the table. He was wearing what appeared to be 90s era Shaqs and a faded windbreaker sweat-suit. Nothing fit.

As soon as he managed to get a hold of the ball, he began to dictate rules for how the game was to be played from that point on. It was actually pretty great to watch all the kids faces as they tried to pretend they would ever follow those guidelines again. Odd as it was though, I actually agreed with most of his rule changes. Finally, some one else thought allowing triple faults and playing to 5 was ridiculous.

Regardless, our guest continued to talk quite a big game and rejoiced in mentioning how skilled he once was back before middle age slowed his brilliance. At this point I realized that this dude had been holding the ball hostage for almost ten minutes, a time span that could have easily fielded 4 or 5 'normal' bzou rules matches. Soon enough, however, he began to warm up and one thing became instantly obvious. This dude was terrible.

It wasn't just that he could not keep the ball on the table, it was also the disturbing amount of effort he was putting into trying to do so. The abundance of swing-miss-almost-fall-over attempts at playing the game was simply too much to handle. And keep in mind, this is still warm up. This is also about the time that I noticed this dude was a lot like Milos from that Seinfeld episode.

Luckily, the dude's opponent happened to be a nice kid that, though very good, would have a sense of decency and not slam the ball at every possible juncture. In fact, the exact opposite happened. This kid was playing Milos so safe, with nothing but constant high lobs, that eventually some of those wild swings began to connect. Final score: overly ecstatic adult 5, bewildered youth 3. A ridiculous smirk emerged on Milos' face as he raised his arms in triumph.

Being that ping-pong here is almost always a king-of-the-court style affair, Milos had to face at least one more contender before being allowed to sit. This kid was not nearly as passive. Making only one mistake, kid number 2 assaulted Milos to a chest smashing degree. Final score: unrepentant youth 5, pretending he lost on purpose Milos 1.

As he came to sit down next to me I noticed streams of sweat leaking from all over his face. A boy was sent to fetch him a bottle of water. A total of 14 points had been played.

Oh what's that? You have snow? That blows.

It was in the mid 80s here today. For real. You can all laugh at me when summer comes and it's 120 but for right now...eat one.

SIDA

My overall lack of maturity being a well known fact, it should come as no surprise that the noble aims of a recent technical language training session on the topic of SIDA (AIDS in English) was all but wasted on my childish self. It began seriously enough, with discussion how to explain the importance of sterilizing razors and not using intravenous drugs or whatever, but things took a dark turn when we shifted to sex, semen and vaginas. Actually, just typing that made me laugh.

Admittedly, in a setting where everyone in the room is a native English speaker with full command of the languages subtleties, the topic can be adequately sterile and serious. The second my language instructor said the phrase “woman semen juice” instead of “vaginal secretions,” however, I knew it was over. Any chance at a constructive learning session had immediately dissipated and the mood shifted to seeing what sort of vile phrases we could learn in Arabic.

Since Moroccan society is, generally speaking, much more conservative as far as sex and the like are concerned, every one of us westerners in attendance had the additional pleasure of watching the host-country instructors blush at every phrase they were being forced to say. For many of the necessary terms, we even had to delve into standard Arabic as non-vulgar versions simply didn’t exist in darija. Speaking of which, did you know that in Morocco there is a linguistic distinction between the boobs of an unmarried woman (nhood) and those of a respected adult on whom “time has had effects” (bzazl)? Just pure gold. The best part for me was watching the cleaning ladies in the hotel being punched in face by the phrases we were being asked to repeat for pronunciation's sake after they'd unassumingly stepped into the room. Just imagine graphically describing unsafe sex to your grandma in nothing but slang. Classic.

Despite lengthy hours of this stuff, all we really accomplished was convincing the the entire staff of the Auberge that we were all serial pervs. They may never have taught us how to say "don't be a fool, wrap your tool," but creeping out a mass of conservative Muslim women seems like a fair consolation prize.

Carolina- Duke

Tonight, Carolina will face off against a pack of open-mouthed, white upper-class satanic offspring commonly know as the Duke University basketball team. The Tar Heels are 13-10, their opponents 19-4. The young Carolina players seem like they’ve just met and suddenly realized they have nothing in common, while the other ones move about the court as if they attended the same “A Separate Peace” style boarding school. At this point in the season, Carolina is statistically inferior to these bourgeoisie buffoons in pretty much every significant offensive and defensive category. The Heels have essentially given up on the season, while Duke is merely setting the pieces for a March offensive.

In short, this looks bleak. Never one to let mere statistics, precedent and general trends affect my emotions, I am confident in Carolina’s ability to remind those Durham douchebags why we play the game. Even a 2-30 season is defensible if those two victories come against Duke. If this sounds absurd to you, it’s probably a good idea not to read the next few sentences. Recently, I have decided that Carolina does not play basketball to win, but to cause Duke harm. Sorry Herm Edwards, you just don’t understand true rivalry. Sure, maybe at one point the Heels danced for the glory or even to piss off the stray dogpack in Raleigh, but times have changed. The truest modern goal is now to bring as much misery as possible to the reactionary cockmunchers who reside in the gated regions of Durham, North Carolina.

Channeling my 3 credit hours of philosophy, I want to say this is an example of utilitarianism. Carolina winning is of substantial moral value because it maximizes total happiness. All the bliss that normally accompanies victory is not cancelled out by the sorrows of defeat because Duke fans and players, by definition, are soulless scumbags whose misery actually creates additional glee. Simply by losing spectacularly, Duke could create a better world. Being in possession of this knowledge, those spoiled trust fund brats are deliberately withholding massive amounts of moral good from society. In a world where there is simply too little good, this is completely unacceptable.

With this in mind, I make one simple plea to the University of North Carolina Men’s Basketball team. Read the name on the front of your jersey and remember your role in this world.

PeaceWorks

Peace Corps has a submission-based quarterly publication which features articles, pictures and assorted time-killers from its volunteers. Below is my submission, one that should be prefaced with the context that our region (Azilal Province) takes considerable pride in the amount of times it has watched this video. It plays at least 4 times per party and it really gets us through some tough times. Shakira is the stimulus to our package. I seriously doubt it will be accepted but, nevertheless, read away.

If you have not seen the video for Shakira’s smash hit “She Wolf,” you are simply not a complete human being. Prior to encountering the sheer elegance of this masterpiece, I believed the essentials of life were just food, shelter and hardcore porn. In short, I was a fool. Thankfully, fellow PCVs who cared for me arranged three consecutive viewings of this radiant beauty so as to secure a safe eternal resting place for my soul. Now, I understand that more important than either food or shelter is this tale of a neglected, yet fiery girlfriend ready to pounce on other man prey. At least that’s what I think it’s about; it’s hard to tell since it switches from first to third person between verses.

The brilliance contained within these nearly four minutes of bliss, however, is simply undeniable. The text alone is worthy of a Pulitzer, or at least a Nobel Prize since it seems anyone can get one them these days. Anybody studying for the GRE would surely help their chances of doing well with an in depth analysis of this poetic ballad. With words like “lycanthropy” (the supernatural act of morphing into a wolf) and finely crafted similes like “I’m starting to feel abused like a coffee machine in an office,” it is impossible to find even a single flaw in the graceful flow of the narrative. Much like her predecessors Billy Shakespeare and James Joyce, Shakira coins new, crystal phrases like “I’ve been devoting myself to you Monday to Monday and Friday to Friday.” When faced with such overwhelming waves of splendor, the viewer can certainly be excused for being at a loss for words. It might be too good.

The service this video provides for humanity is priceless, its contributions so immeasurable that it is ridiculous to even ask, “What could we as a people do to repay its makers”? Simply put, we are not worthy of this mini-cinematic masterpiece. It was handed to us despite our inadequacy, and the least we could do is thoroughly enjoy its aesthetic charms. I mean, that scene where Shakira is dressed in a skin colored leotard, slowly raising just her ass while lying on the floor of a cage; totally fuckin sweet.

Carolina

So Wednesday night I stayed up until 4am to watch all of Carolina's game at Clemson. It was the first game I have watched live all season, and the first since the national title game in Detroit last April. Despite following the young team through articles and blogs, it was an entirely different matter to actually witness these kids throw the ball away every 10 seconds. Yes, I know they're young (really young actually, with 9 of the 12 players being either Freshmen or Sophomores) but 17 turnovers in the first half is entirely inexcusable outside of Middle School rec league ball during the lockout year when the kids on the travel team weren't allowed to play. It wasn't even the rookies, however, who were making the most brutal of mistakes. The Waer twins were reasonably solid and Leslie McDatonald at least seemed like he had played the game before.

Meanwhile, Marcus Ginyard, who has been on this team since 2005, was about as confused and vulnerable as the stray dogs around here must be just before they're shot in the face as a method of population control. Also, where the hell were Deion Thompson and Will Graves? I would say that Graves must have snuck in a formerly traditional pre-game blunt, but no feasibly consumable amount of weed could cause such a veteran stoner/basketball player to shoot less than 20% from the field. With less than three minutes left, Carolina had more TOs than field goals. Read that stat again and try to keep your hand from creeping towards the nearest sharp object. Needless to say, listening to Jay Bilas emphatically enumerate the miscues did not help the situation.

I honestly cannot remember the last time I shouted "slow the fuck down" at a any Carolina team, and yet here I was, waking up my sitemate and her English-speaking neighbors with desperate pleas for Larry Drew II (R2D2) to hang on to the freakin ball. I mean this is Clemson we're talking about. Clemson. The same team that has started out 15-0 every year since the Truman administration, only to completely implode the second ACC play begins. This is supposed to be their cue to remember mediocrity and fullfil their destiny of dissapointment. As Clemson made three after three, I actually found myself indignant and insulted by their overall lack of failure. We were being completely outclassed and outrun, but even worse, they were tougher than us.

When the game finaly ended, the only bright spot in the whole evening seemed to be the emergence of Frosh Dexter Strickland as a legitimate warrior. Watch out for this kid. So as the orange clad hillbillies of South Carolina rushed the court against a 4-loss team less than 10 days removed from a downfall to College of Charleston (wow thats depressing to type), I was somewhat consoled by the fact that this isn't football, and that any team helmed by Roy Williams has a fighting chance in the big dance come March. That is as long as it doesn't continually break its own record for turnovers. Just please hang on to the ball, ok?



I wrote all of that before Saturday's loss at home to Georgia Tech. Now, after the second consecutive defeat (sixth of the season) it is abundantly clear that Carolina lacks a true and consistent on-the-court leader. In Clemson, Strickland showed some real poise; but Saturday came and he simply disappeared, failing to record either a field goal or an assist in scant minutes. Will Graves definitely stepped up against the Yellow Jackets, but only after a pathetic display on Wednesday. What ever happened to Marcus Ginyard anyway? After the victory in Detroit last April, I distinctly remember having the same conversation about his return approximately 20-30 times before the semester finished in early May. His medical red-shirt was a blessing in disguise, the logic went, because now he could return as a battle tested veteran just in time to teach the flock of talented rookies the same principles of dedication and passion he had acquired during his four years under Coach Williams. So much for that.

I am not saying the newbies are doomed to remain ignorant of these values just because Ginyard seems to be phoning it in right now, as this would be a serious insult to Roy who has clearly proven his abilities as a motivator countless times. I am also not blaming the many ills of this team solely on the 5th year guard. It does seem clear to me, however, that such a raw team would be remarkably better off if Marcus could rediscover the intensity he used to radiate before his injury last off-season. These 18 and 19 year old kids don't just need a swift kick in the ass, they need confidence. It's time for remaining members of last year's team to start acting like the defending champions that they are. The ACC is the roughest conference there is and if these tenderfoots can get their shit together for a legit run, they can build a base of cohesion for this Spring and for next Fall, when three more highly touted recruits will become Tar Heels.
Like I said before: it's a long season, and champions are made in March (and April technically), not in January. Go heels.

Les Mis

So a month ago, as a testament to the completely ridiculous amount of free time PCVs tend to enjoy, I decided to pick up and actually read Victor Hugo's beast of a novel, Les Miserables. At 1463 pages and nearly a kilo in mass, this copy boasted the honor of being the "only completely unabridged paperback ever published." As I would soon find out, there was probably a legitimate reason why Signet Classics was the only publisher willing to unleash this thing as originally written. My guess is they were really desperate for some superlative to put on the cover.

Never in my life did I think I would read 500 pages of any book, only to realize there were nearly another 1000 yet unread.

As it turns out, when faced with such an absurd truth the first sentence that came to mind was" wtf?" Once I found myself cheering on as the 1 year- old who lives upstairs, thinking the illustration of Cosette on the cover was an evil spirit, repeatedly beat the thing with his fist. At least a few times, while in the midst of a 60 page tangent, I thought to myself "Am I one of the miserable?" Yes, yes I am. Since there cannot be more than 15-20 people alive today who have read this thing cover to cover, I have surely gained the credentials to join one of those bands of sufferers who wander the seas in a tanker, chain-smoking and pounding whiskey, detailing the miseries of their lives and asking aloud "Why the hell did I do that?" Or is that just a Simpsons episode?"

Anyway, I did some research into the matter and discovered that, despite its total lack of pictures, maps, bar graphs or hardcore sex scenes, Hugo's work is widely regarded as one of the greatest novels of the 19th century. Instead of employing these wonderful devices, Hugo prefers to "describe" the setting, gratuitously using words where a simple diagram could save the reader a good half an hour. In my humble opinion, Hugo could have at least included a quick zombie invasion to test Enjolras' men before facing off against the Royal Army. Seriously though, zombies fix everything. I guarantee more people would read this book if instead of throwing himself into the river, Javert were to be killed off by a brain-hungry mob of the un-dead moments after they burst through the wall of his apartment...and then threw the body in the river. At the very least it would spice up the on-stage musical version.

Despite these faults, and the fact that it probably took a whole tree to produce this single copy, Hugo manages to rip off some pretty stellar insults, all of which were highly appreciated by this reader. On page 136 Hugo lets a good one fly through the minor character Tholomyes who barbs at the even more minor Zephine, "Yours is like a beautiful face, upon which someone has sat down by mistake." Boom roasted. Over two hundred pages later, on 378, Hugo describes the Thenardiess with the following sentence: "Apart from the novels she had read, which at times produced odd glimpses of the affected lady under the ogress, it would never have occurred to anyone to say: That's a woman." Burn! Hugo lays into this bitch dozens more times throughout the book, but this is easily my favorite as it essentially calls her a monstrous humanoid creature who still reads shitty chick books. Picture Ms. Tucker reading the Sisterhood of Traveling Pants series.

Check this next quote out (966), "he had made great improvements in the business of the lead strippers who plunder roofing and skin eave gutters by the process called 'the double fat.'" Now I have no idea whats going on in this sentence but it sounds completely fucking disgusting and totally worthy of a thorough analysis on urban dictionary. Just like this one (1090), "There is one reality alone: to drink. Whatever may be your opinion, whether you're for the lean cock, like the Canton of Uri, or for the fat cock, like the Canton of Glaris, it hardly matters, drink." Just plain filthy. And I don't want to hear about any alternate meanings for the word "cock." What I learned from this passage is that Swiss people like to get hammered and chug beef in a very liberal and open environment where one is not judged by the whatever the girth of choice might be. That, ladies and gentlemen, is true freedom.

love, peace and chicken grease.

Writings

So a local man recently cleared up a myth for me. Barack Obama cannot be the first black president because Abe Lincoln, who took office right after George Washington, beat him to the punch years ago.

Once, this same dude was telling me how Morocco needs to build as many nuclear power plants as possible to create cheaper electricity for the rural areas, when I casually mentioned the issue of toxic waste. After convincing him that yes, nuclear reactions give off useless, hazardous waste he simply said "Well so what? That's why we have Mauritania." Touché.

I was riding in a cab last week with a seatbelt on when the driver suddenly noticed something which drove (yep, it's a pun. deal.) him to laughter... I was wearing a seatbelt. By the time he had calmed down he had also secretly unbuckled it for me.

So a few of us went to Marrakesh in order to celebrate new years with other people who were aware of its existence. I mean, Halloween without booze, however absurd, is one thing, but New Years sans brew is completely inexcusable. While there I was once again overwhelmed by the amount of hot chicks dressed in attire that revealed elbows, hair, neck and all sorts of other riské shit. For those of you who understand this (it is fairly straightforward), the hottie alarm was going off left and right. Anyway, the whole time we were there I was unsure of how the lot of us fit into the whole scheme of the city. We aren't really tourists or locals; we get quoted the prices with the additional white people tax, but can generally argue it down to something reasonable; we are looked down on by random tourists who think we are morons for coming to kesh solely to drink, be loud and speak English. Who comes to a Muslim city to get hammered? People who live in rural Muslim towns.

I had sheep at my host family house recently. It continues