A young man sits at home at night in a small town near Baghdad. Bombs explode around him and the sound of distant gun fire has become normal. He continually cleans his AK47 because of the new times that have fallen. His older brother an army veteran of 4 years maintains his pistol from the Hussain regime.
This night was different. Peaceful. The two brothers laughed and joked of old times over chai tea and fish. Things were good tonight. There was a happiness that hasn't been shown in some time. It would be the same as you, or I were to be laughing and joking over a few beers, with literally no cares in the world.
And then a strange tapping, or pounding echos from the front door. The window beside the door shakes as the fist strikes wood. The young man and his brother sat quietly and eyed their weapons lying against the far wall.
"Open the door you mother fuckers" Is heard between knocks at the door.
The young man races over and grabs his AK. Loaded. His brother walks over to the door and replies, "No go away we don't want any trouble".
The door busts open and the two men could see the terror they were facing. Four men dressed in ski-masks and AKs stood before them. His brother let off a few shots that missed, but the young man, brave as he is, fired fifteen rounds that hit square into their targets. Injuring one man in the knee. Seeing what they were up against the intruders took to aiding their fallen camrade and fled.
The young men shut the door and took to caring to their family. Ensuring their saftey, and that they were not injured during this frey.
The young brave man slept on his roof guarding his family until he earned enough money to move his family up to Kurdistan in northern Iraq. To this day, the only thing left are burned memories and a trail of dried blood leading away from the house as warnings to the next who try and intrude.
An interpreter friend of mine says he will do whatever it takes to help his country, Iraq, become peaceful. He is not Muslim, he is not christian, he has no believes accept the one for his country. He has no fear of death, especially if it means dieing for what he believes in. To me he is the hero.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Friday, June 08, 2007
Is it really that difficult to find a good stylist?
I got my hair cut today. I am pretty anal when it comes to my hair. I take pretty good care of it, and when I get a bad hair cut I get pretty upset. I know I'm a bitch.
So I sat down in the barbers chair right? He did the norm. white thing around my neck, rob around me from the front to the rear and asked me what I wanted. Six on top, one on the sides, leave the bangs a little big long because I like to style it and bring the back up to the crown." Is my normal response. Literally. Verbatim. Now I assume all stylists/barbers know to fade/blend it in. It's common-fuckin-sense. He nods and smiles and goes to work on my hair. And I'm looking at myself in the mirror at this face I'm making and it looked unhappy but it was just my normal resting face. I mean it's no wonder people thing I'm upset when I'm just sitting there chillin'. So I try to relax it, smile a little and I accomplish making an ass of myself with these faces I'm making in the mirror while he's cutting my hair.
The barber performs the one on the sides and then grabs the scizzors, that's right the sizzors. He doesn't even change the guide on the fuckin' clippers he just grabs the sizzors, a comb and goes to town on the top of my head. Pulling hair out and shit. What the fuck? What the fuck was he doing. Can't this guy follow simple instructions. SIX ON THE TOP! SIX ON THE TOP MOTHER FUCKER! The sizzors are pulling hair out and shit they weren't even cutting the damn hair! And the bangs, oh forget about it. They are not longer then the rest of my hair. They were cut with the rest of the SIX that is at the tom. Needless to say, I am a little disappointed.
At home I go to supercuts. No where fancy but if I get a good hair stylist I will stick with her, or him, and use her every time.
Here's where all of you stylists need to pay attention. My list of demands that only one of my stylists have ever met, and they aren't even all that rigorous:
1) Be nice and talk to me a little bit. Not too much. Seem interested in what I have to say, and maybe get a little personal like, you've gotten into the hair styling business to specifically cut my hair.
2) After or before the hair cut ask me if I want my hair washed. I wear a hat, and hat head is terrible to cut around. I've seen it in action and it never ends up pretty. Oh and when you do go about washing my hair, you should be massaging my scalp, not scratching it, and it should be as though you are massaging your lover. You should really enjoy it. Or at least fake it. C'mon ladys I know you can do this. No water down the back of my shirt help me lift my head up and flash a smile as if it was good for you. Because you know what, a good head massage can be better then sex.
3) Just do a good job. If you can cut a six with your fingers, I'm all for the natural look. Lets go for it. If you can whip out the sheers. No problem.
4) After a couple visits know my name and the style I have gotten the last 4 times.. You have cut my hair for 8 weeks now. (I get it cut every two weeks)
You do these things and I will be inlove with you. And refer everyone to you. Really, guys, ladies, it's not hard to do a six on the top, one on the sides, leave the bangs a little longer so I can style it and bring the back up to the crown.
So I sat down in the barbers chair right? He did the norm. white thing around my neck, rob around me from the front to the rear and asked me what I wanted. Six on top, one on the sides, leave the bangs a little big long because I like to style it and bring the back up to the crown." Is my normal response. Literally. Verbatim. Now I assume all stylists/barbers know to fade/blend it in. It's common-fuckin-sense. He nods and smiles and goes to work on my hair. And I'm looking at myself in the mirror at this face I'm making and it looked unhappy but it was just my normal resting face. I mean it's no wonder people thing I'm upset when I'm just sitting there chillin'. So I try to relax it, smile a little and I accomplish making an ass of myself with these faces I'm making in the mirror while he's cutting my hair.
The barber performs the one on the sides and then grabs the scizzors, that's right the sizzors. He doesn't even change the guide on the fuckin' clippers he just grabs the sizzors, a comb and goes to town on the top of my head. Pulling hair out and shit. What the fuck? What the fuck was he doing. Can't this guy follow simple instructions. SIX ON THE TOP! SIX ON THE TOP MOTHER FUCKER! The sizzors are pulling hair out and shit they weren't even cutting the damn hair! And the bangs, oh forget about it. They are not longer then the rest of my hair. They were cut with the rest of the SIX that is at the tom. Needless to say, I am a little disappointed.
At home I go to supercuts. No where fancy but if I get a good hair stylist I will stick with her, or him, and use her every time.
Here's where all of you stylists need to pay attention. My list of demands that only one of my stylists have ever met, and they aren't even all that rigorous:
1) Be nice and talk to me a little bit. Not too much. Seem interested in what I have to say, and maybe get a little personal like, you've gotten into the hair styling business to specifically cut my hair.
2) After or before the hair cut ask me if I want my hair washed. I wear a hat, and hat head is terrible to cut around. I've seen it in action and it never ends up pretty. Oh and when you do go about washing my hair, you should be massaging my scalp, not scratching it, and it should be as though you are massaging your lover. You should really enjoy it. Or at least fake it. C'mon ladys I know you can do this. No water down the back of my shirt help me lift my head up and flash a smile as if it was good for you. Because you know what, a good head massage can be better then sex.
3) Just do a good job. If you can cut a six with your fingers, I'm all for the natural look. Lets go for it. If you can whip out the sheers. No problem.
4) After a couple visits know my name and the style I have gotten the last 4 times.. You have cut my hair for 8 weeks now. (I get it cut every two weeks)
You do these things and I will be inlove with you. And refer everyone to you. Really, guys, ladies, it's not hard to do a six on the top, one on the sides, leave the bangs a little longer so I can style it and bring the back up to the crown.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Unconditionally Mine
I've done quite a bit in describing my feelings and such, but nothing to describe where I'm living and the weather.
Imagine, you are driving through Mexico and you car breaks down in one of those run down suburbs of Mexico City. All the buildings are made of stone and are half falling apart. The sun beating it hot rays down on your shoulders. There is garbage everywhere and there are flies and mosquitoes as far as the eye can see.
You are dropped off at your place for what you think will be just a few days. The door is hanging on the top hinge and the signs says "lift when opening". The floor looks of tile, dirt, sand and dust blanketing the hall way, and the smell of urine over whelms the rest of your senses. Turning your key to unlock your newest home the unlocking mechanism turn over once. You try the door but the lock is still in place. The key rotates a few more times and the door swings inward. Water drips from the AC in the top right corner of the room and smell of mold fights with the odor of urine coming in from the hall way. Both causeing you to gag and a little bit of throw up comes up into your mouth. You swallow it with pride and move it to assess the damage. Two beds fill the room, a bunkbed on your left with no matresses, and a single bed on the right, with 3 mattresses. There is only one pillow and you ro-sham-bo your room-mate for it. Paper beats rock. Damn, he wins. Both you and your room mate set down 4 duffle bags, a ruck sack, a computer bag, and a carry-on bag and head out into the hallway following the strong scent of urine like a bloodhound chasing the scent of a wanted killer.
A doorless room which you assume is the bathroom, looks... like... your standard bathroom. Three stalls, and across the stalls are two sinks. You take your chances with door number one and you see a hole in the floor, what seems to be a toilet backing on the wall with a string attached to it. A sign is posted underneath the toilet backing reads "Do not throw toilet paper into the toilet" and you can not imagine squating, like you do in the forest, and shitting into one of these holes. This is what they call a 'european toilet'. Get with the times. Door number two opens to two geckos crawling up near the ceiling and a standard porcelain american throne in the center. Again the sign reads "Do not throw toilet paper into the toilet". A trash can sits on the floor and you notice it filled with toilet paper. Again, you gag a little and move on to door number three. A faucet with a pipe heading up towards a shower head. Sounds simple enough. And it is. You test the water and just as you expected it's brown like watered down coffee. So you let the water run a while thinking it will go clear like it does in the states. Well, it doesn't. And you just shrug, turn off the water and head out. An officer greets you into the hallway with "so you're the new guys" and tells you the standard operating procedures for the bathroom.
"When you take a shit" he begins to explain "don't throw the toilet paper into the toilet. It will back it up and because they don't have a fuckin' sewer system here it just sits and will back up the entire fuckin' line." We both just nod when he walks away continuing "oh and you have to flush your own poo".
What? How does one flush his own poo. I assumed I was flushing my own poo when I held the lever down and the water swirled around the toilet and out the poo went.
"After you shit, you must lift up the lever, and dump a bucket of water down the toilet to help the shit go down."
My roommate and I cringe, look at each other, shrug, and leave to our room to unpack. You wake up at 5:30 to shower in the illustrious water, shave and brush your teeth with the non-potable water that flows like the nile through the faucets, and change for PT. As you dress, your lights go out and the air conditioner stops working. Peering out into the hallway, you notice all the electricity has gone out. Every morning at 7:00AM you loose power. Which of course makes your trip that much more enjoyable and you realize that it is unconditionally yours.
Imagine, you are driving through Mexico and you car breaks down in one of those run down suburbs of Mexico City. All the buildings are made of stone and are half falling apart. The sun beating it hot rays down on your shoulders. There is garbage everywhere and there are flies and mosquitoes as far as the eye can see.
You are dropped off at your place for what you think will be just a few days. The door is hanging on the top hinge and the signs says "lift when opening". The floor looks of tile, dirt, sand and dust blanketing the hall way, and the smell of urine over whelms the rest of your senses. Turning your key to unlock your newest home the unlocking mechanism turn over once. You try the door but the lock is still in place. The key rotates a few more times and the door swings inward. Water drips from the AC in the top right corner of the room and smell of mold fights with the odor of urine coming in from the hall way. Both causeing you to gag and a little bit of throw up comes up into your mouth. You swallow it with pride and move it to assess the damage. Two beds fill the room, a bunkbed on your left with no matresses, and a single bed on the right, with 3 mattresses. There is only one pillow and you ro-sham-bo your room-mate for it. Paper beats rock. Damn, he wins. Both you and your room mate set down 4 duffle bags, a ruck sack, a computer bag, and a carry-on bag and head out into the hallway following the strong scent of urine like a bloodhound chasing the scent of a wanted killer.
A doorless room which you assume is the bathroom, looks... like... your standard bathroom. Three stalls, and across the stalls are two sinks. You take your chances with door number one and you see a hole in the floor, what seems to be a toilet backing on the wall with a string attached to it. A sign is posted underneath the toilet backing reads "Do not throw toilet paper into the toilet" and you can not imagine squating, like you do in the forest, and shitting into one of these holes. This is what they call a 'european toilet'. Get with the times. Door number two opens to two geckos crawling up near the ceiling and a standard porcelain american throne in the center. Again the sign reads "Do not throw toilet paper into the toilet". A trash can sits on the floor and you notice it filled with toilet paper. Again, you gag a little and move on to door number three. A faucet with a pipe heading up towards a shower head. Sounds simple enough. And it is. You test the water and just as you expected it's brown like watered down coffee. So you let the water run a while thinking it will go clear like it does in the states. Well, it doesn't. And you just shrug, turn off the water and head out. An officer greets you into the hallway with "so you're the new guys" and tells you the standard operating procedures for the bathroom.
"When you take a shit" he begins to explain "don't throw the toilet paper into the toilet. It will back it up and because they don't have a fuckin' sewer system here it just sits and will back up the entire fuckin' line." We both just nod when he walks away continuing "oh and you have to flush your own poo".
What? How does one flush his own poo. I assumed I was flushing my own poo when I held the lever down and the water swirled around the toilet and out the poo went.
"After you shit, you must lift up the lever, and dump a bucket of water down the toilet to help the shit go down."
My roommate and I cringe, look at each other, shrug, and leave to our room to unpack. You wake up at 5:30 to shower in the illustrious water, shave and brush your teeth with the non-potable water that flows like the nile through the faucets, and change for PT. As you dress, your lights go out and the air conditioner stops working. Peering out into the hallway, you notice all the electricity has gone out. Every morning at 7:00AM you loose power. Which of course makes your trip that much more enjoyable and you realize that it is unconditionally yours.
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