Getting to the Root of Things

I mentioned before that at the very core of my being is a tiny librarian trying to fight her way out of the distractions of life to live amongst the stacks. If I could live in any room in the world, it would be a strategically lit room filled to the brim with towering bookshelves stuffed with thousands of books. I can't think of a happier place.

You'd think someone who loves books the way I do would have recommended more than just the passing novel here and there, right? Well, my darling devotees, tonight is the night I get around to listing the books I think everyone should read before they die (all these are books I have actually read and am not merely recommending because other more glittering members of the literati have praised them. If I haven't read it, I won't recommend it). This is by no means an exhaustive list. I will be adding to it whenever something else pops into my head, or if I ever get around to reading the 1000000+ list of books I'd like to plow through. Enough babbling; let's begin:

1. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. This is my all-time favourite book. It contains the most well written sentence-cum-paragraph ever concocted in the English language. I won't quote it here so that if you bother to read it you'll come back and guess in the comments. Wishful thinking on my part, but one can dream...
2. We Were the Mulvaneys by Joyce Carol Oates. A rare moment in time where the power of writing just seeps into your subconscious. You don't realize what Oates is doing until you're already deeply entrenched in the novel and never want to get out.
3. The Road by Cormac McCarthy. This one really hurt to read. I could only go a few pages at a time. Truly powerful stuff.
4. East of Eden by John Steinbeck. Long but worth the effort purely for the descriptions of Salinas Valley.
5. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy. The fur coats alone should be temptation enough.
6. The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. I lobbied hard to get this book onto a lit class reading list even though I hadn't had the chance to read it prior to that class. My gut just told me I'd love it. I'll be damned if it isn't the finest introduction to the world of Toni Morrison EVER. Many people will disagree with me, but if you have to read one of her books (and I hope you choose to go through them all), this is it.
7. 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Also my introduction to Marquez. You may have noticed that I like to tackle authors head on. Although I love him with intense blindness, this is his standout work.
8. I Know This Much Is True by Wallie Lamb. If it makes my drought-ridden, dammed up eyes leak, then it is worth every penny you spend on it.
9. Sophie's Choice by William Stryon. Beautiful, heartbreaking and also much better than the movie.
10. Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett. If I liked it enough to voluntarily write a 15 page paper on a play where nothing happens, you will like it enough to finish it.
11. The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. There are lots of great little sentences in this one. Plus, it's the only non-fiction book on this list.
12. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Great descriptions, observations, vanitisms and generally cool quotable sentences in this one.

That's the start of my book recommendations. If you're interested in an extended list of honourable mentions (which will probably be more diverse in genre/taste), feel free to ask and I'm happy to oblige. Conversely, tell me what sort of thing you're looking for/like and I'll come up with a list of recommendations suited to your specs. Happy reading!

Common Indecency

The other night I had a midnight pancakes dinner with Cheb Khaled and a friend of his. Now, Cheb Khaled is generally a very polite - if somewhat paranoid - person. He opens doors, walks on the side facing oncoming traffic when we're crossing the street and always tries to stop me from paying my share of the tab. In today's society of pansy boys spending daddy's cash, he is a New York cop amongst Riviera sun worshippers. But whenever he speaks to a waiter or anyone serving him, he reminds me of a huge problem I have with Egyptian society as a whole.

Egyptians cannot be polite to anyone working in the service industry.

Now I don't know if this is a shared superiority complex, collective snobbism or just plain common indecency, but it is a rampant trend in our society and it needs to stop. The fact that someone is serving you in some way does not give you the right to snap your fingers, order them around, be dismissive, not look at them while speaking to them, be slouched in your chair as you speak to them, wave them away or treat them in any way that is demeaning or you yourself would find offensive.

If anything, treat them with respect because they are providing you with the comfort of being served rather than doing things for yourself. Say please and thank you, be polite when pointing something wrong out (i.e. don't curse the person out when they bring the wrong dressing with your salad) and always leave a decent tip; you may not remember who served you, but they'll always remember - and reward - a good tipper.

All of this is pretty basic but the memo seems to have skipped Egyptians. My first instinct would be to chalk it up to poor parenting. Mrs. Fallon is a great example of the benefits of good parenting. She is infinitely courteous and considerate to everyone who serves her, even if they totally mess her order up. But I know that Cheb Khaled comes from a good home as well. So why isn't he more like Mrs. Fallon? What do you think is the root of Egypt's inability to show some common decency?

This whole thing reminds me of the way Tom Hanks was treated in Philadelphia. He was treated with respect and even reverence so long as he was considered an equal at his law firm. The moment he was perceived as 'below' the partners, he was shot down, insulted and ignored. Good movie if you haven't seen it. Bruce Springsteen wrote a great song for the movie, as seen below.

Streets of Philadelphia - Bruce Springsteen:

Master of Ceremonies

Those of my 6 and a half readers who've seen me know that I am pretty preppy in appearance. Typical Ralph Lauren fare during the day, reminiscent of Diane von Furstenberg at night. My style icon is Audrey, my design allegiance is French.

However, one of my more secret dreams does not fit the bill in the slightest. I want to rap. No, not pop rap like Gwen or Gaga and co. do on occasion. I mean hardcore rap like Jay-Z and Biggie. I am a rap fan. I storm through the H-O-V's discography like it is bubblegum Britney. But I don't mean rap like today's idiots with metal on their teeth and money to burn. I mean lyrics that describe a whole society's struggle to fight against the establishment. A nation's inability to care of an entire stratum of its people. A sub-culture erupting from the seams of America. Specifically, I am a New York-based rap fan. B.I.G and Nas are significant contributors to my music collection. But the most important of all is the almighty Jay-Z.

Sunshine recently mentioned that one of the strangest things she's seen is a white, preppy, law and literature major knowing every word to a Jay-Z track. Not just one track but full albums. We'd be sitting having lunch with an iPod on shuffle and as soon as Jay comes on the world comes to a stand still and I blast off along with him, eyes closed, head bouncing and arm flailing to the beat.

I would love to be the world's first female, Egyptian, English-speaking rapper. But what would I rap about? What hardship have I faced? I'd have little more to mouth off about than the pitiful state of grammar in hip-hop. I'd complain about the lack of leadership through education exhibited by the hip-hop community, where it is considered cool to drop out, use ain't instead of isn't for the sake of a rhyme or meter, and refer to women, drugs and guns in derogatory terms. Who'd listen to music as prissy and uptight as that?

Even Egypt-based qualms aren't engaging. Who cares that the traffic sucks, the government is corrupt and your religion defines your every move? Many people can't even point to Egypt on the map. All they'd really want to hear about are the camels, the pyramids and the harems filled with bellydancers.

But Egypt is what I know. Egypt, religious and gender-based discrimination, corruption, nepotism, bribery, traffic, social injustice and the power of money are the things I'd rap about. I'd rap about family, quasi-parenthood, straddling the East-West fence, the ignorance shared by the world and the impact of globalisation of the messages we send out as rappers. I'd tell the world that there are more important things to focus on than their fixation on combatting terrorism in the Middle East. That fueling the region's misconceptions and thus hatred of the West will do little to save them from another 9/11. That their own view of the region as a backward civilization filled with hate is the cause and catalyst for the hate. I'd tell the world to focus on their children. To improve their education, to encourage cross-cultural dialogue and to stop magnifying global differences.

I'd rap in correct grammar. I wouldn't use curse words just for the sake of it. I'd diss drugs rather than people. I'd preach doing right instead of doing every ho on the block.

I want to rap because there is more to be said than money cash hoes and rims on my rims. Listening to the Blueprint 3 (which I must say is a fun album but is by no means on par with any of Jay-Z's previous work - Jay I love you but please stop trying to do seductive rap) proved that even Jay can run out of things to say. The problem with hip-hop isn't autotune. The problem with hip-hop is a fixation on a limited number of issues that causes the community to fixate on said issues. Rap about something new and your fans will follow. Enlighten rather than limit the scope of their interests. Rap about the future - create a Blueprint for that.

Eureka the Smart

I know, I know. How dare I tease you with regular posting only to snatch it away so soon. Busy fortnight at work resulting in an exhausted Eureka, which has therefore created the current sniveling, heavy-headed, sinus clogged, Thursday night at home with a fever creature that claims to be Eureka. Yes, I caught a cold. Boo hoo. Lucky for you faithful (or insane) 6-and-a-half readers, that means I'm home long enough to post an update here.

So, work has been pretty hectic because we've been working towards today's H1 2009 earnings announcement. That basically means Eureka has been pouring over meaningless numbers for the last two weeks trying to figure out how much work the Dragon's Balls has scheduled over the last quarter, how much old work remains, which entity contributed what, how much chemical poo who sold, at what price, to whom, through whom, etc... An endless flow of Excel sheets, links, updates, amendments, adjustments, reallocations, and most importantly, MISTAKES. I cannot begin to list the number of stupid mistakes I've made over the last two weeks. I can't even seem to copy a phone number correctly. I am either stupid, careless, dyslexic, or a combination of all three.

I think it is a combination of lack of motivation and an inherent inability to digest numbers that's making me this prone to error. I mean, when I was at university and writing 30-page papers, I would rarely make more than possibly one slight typographical error. My fact-checking and evidence was always foolproof. My citations were exemplary. My work was top-notch ALL THE TIME. But here? I make stupid mistakes all the goddamn time. AVOIDABLE mistakes. Mistakes anyone with half a brain shouldn't be making. I have never felt stupider or smaller than this week. Mile-A-Minute must think I have the cognitive capacity of a flea. Even a flea is smarter because a flea knows to jump high and feed. I can't even do that properly.

I'll be sitting down focusing on getting all the right items in the right places and Mile-A-Minute starts bombarding me with inane questions because he's too lazy to open up a spreadsheet to check for himself. This distracts me and leads to a mistake, upon which a couple of others are built. He then asks me to do X or Y useless, unimportant and unnecessary task right away, which distracts me once more and leads to mistakes 5 and 6. He later forwards an email he believes he is too important to reply to, distracting me once again, leading to mistakes 10 through 12. And so on. Once I am done, he takes a look at the document and finds several of these silly little mistakes, meaning the document must fly back and forth thirty seven times to amend. And yet, none of these mistakes should have been made, because they're things I:

a) know,

b) should have noticed myself if I'd paid attention to what I was doing, and

c) can easily avoid in the first place BECAUSE I SHOULD NOT BE THIS CARELESS.

I have wanted to take my desk chair and ram my head with it no less than 76,654 times over the last few days. It is a huge blow to my self-esteem. But will I learn anything from this experience? No. I know what I'm like. I will continue to be careless because I know Mile-A-Minute will check up after me. It is a subconscious desire to make him work more than 30 minutes a day - if that. But at the end of the day, I'm still the one doing all the dirty work, and I'm the one who looks like an idiot. Lose-lose situation folks.

But hey, at least I make bank every month :)

Regression

This is one of those nights where a lot is attempting to sort itself out in my head. I don't enjoy thinking about all the things that bother me. I've regressed to the point where I don't even want to admit my own thoughts, fears and feelings to myself. It tires me out. One long, repetitive stream of should haves, what ifs, whys and it isn't fairs.

I went out for sohour (late meal to prepare oneself for the following day's fast during Ramadan) with some friends tonight. I carpool with a good friend, whom we shall call Cheb Khaled (he has a thing for Raï). He's been struggling with several girl and job related issues and we tend to use our alone time in the car to talk things out. So far, it's always been about him talking and me reprimanding (and sometimes advising). We've been pretty consistent about this for about 4 months now. In 4 months, I have yet to open up about anything bothering me outside of the superficial work isn't fulfilling enough sort of thing. Cheb Khaled has poured his heart and soul out to me time and again. He's opened up about a difficult break-up, about his ex-girlfriend's immediate rebound, about being held at arm's length by a new girl and how frustrated he feels. He's talked to me about his responsibility towards his father's business versus making it on his own. He's admitted his faults, his fears and his aspirations. I have not.

I haven't told him about how I'm still nursing the year-old wounds of being rebuffed after being pursued by someone who felt like Mr. Right. I'm struggling with my career options and my future. All I know is that I'm underused and unappreciated where I am now. I'm fighting a losing battle in my relationship with my father. We are too alike in so many negative ways that it is nearly impossible to be as close as we should be. I can't stand the way my brother is turning out to be. I can't stand the way I treat him because of my own prejudices. I can't stand the way my mother refuses to try to knock some sense into him. I worry about my mother. I worry that she is fast approaching her wit's end. I cannot deal with her breaking down. We won't survive it as a family because she is the only glue holding us together. I won't be able to deal with a house, unruly teenagers, a sullen and detached father, a 19-month-old and work all at the same time. This house is too cramped for so many people. I need more space and more time for myself.

I need to stop assuming this family will not function without me trying to shoulder some of my mother's burdens. I cannot hold so many grudges against my father, my grandparents and my uncle. All this ill will is only poisoning me further. But after so many years of harboring all this anger and frustration, how can I disperse it? I need to stop assuming Mr. Right will gallop into my living room. But how will I find him if I already know he's gone? I need to stop worrying about what I'm going to do with my life. It will sort itself out. But when?

Lost Generation

Hat tip: Mrs. Fallon

Born Again Beach Bum

The last time I spent part of my summer on a beach was back in 2006. My family has always been big on sun worshipping, spending most of our non-Europe/USA vacation time in Agami, a small beach-city near Alexandria with a dedicated fan base. We very much loved our summers in Agami, but as soon as I hit 14 and our interests began to lean towards clubbing and being out until 4am, my mother put a stop to our beach bumming days and distracted us by extending our time outside Egypt. No complaints there!

As most Cairenes know, there is an age-old schism between those who are known as Agamists - the Agami devotees - and those who spend their summers on the North Coast, a.k.a Sahel. The North Coast comprises of several large resort/compounds scattered across a stretch of beautiful beaches and bays between Al Alamein (WWII battleground) and Marsa Matrouh (a good example of the beauty of the Mediterranean). Most Sahelites love the hustle and bustle of these large compounds, which are more like cities than beach resorts. Agamists love their little stretch of sewage-smelling dusty roads for the authentic beach bum feel and the change of pace from the big mean city.

This year, we betrayed our Agami roots and spent a week in Sahel. I joined the troops on Thursday morning to spend the weekend attempting to tan. The last time I tried to tan on the beach, I ended up looking like this:

When I start blogging about Melanoma, you'll know what caused it.

Now, I have always argued with Tinkerbell about the merits of Sahel v. Agami. I staunchly opposed the very idea of Sahel and its commercial, hard partying, days into nights lifestyle. Agami was all about the generations of laid back summer loving families enjoying the beach during the day and having a good time together at night. Why would I want anything more to relax? Sure, the sea wasn't as great as Sahel's - it was treacherous and unclean, but it was perfectly swimmable if you were careful:

However, it is nothing compared to this:

[Hat tip: Tinkerbell]

This is the reason the French came up with the word azure. This is the inspiration for every swimming pool created. Even with my irrational and intense fear of everything existing in the sea, I swam in. I swam all the way to the floating lounge-area things about 300 metres into the water (not pictured). Of course, I almost had a stroke with every stroke, but the water was too wonderful to resist. I can't say I overcame a fear by swimming so far in because the very idea of the things that could be in the water still makes me want to piss my pants like a 10-month-old, but hey, you can't win them all.

After my weekend in Sahel, I have made a momentous decision. Agami is great because it holds my memories, my family's memories, and it works because my friends all go there. But if you choose the right place to go to in Sahel, a resort like Ghazala Bay which is as simple and laid back as Agami, you will be in heaven. Avoid the craziness of places like the Marina compounds, and the hectic nightlife beckoning from Hacienda and Marassi, and you will never need to ask for more than someone to hand you a beer.