Dubai Jazz

There's a nice article in the National M Magazine: "The young Syrian businessmen making it happen". The lead photo is of Abdulsalam Haykal, the brother of our fellow blogger Ayman, the proprietor of the 'Damascene Blog', a pioneer in the Syrian blog-sphere.

First of all I'm very proud of what Abdulsalam and his fellow businessmen managed to achieve in the past few years since the economy in Syria had opened a little. It's certainly a far cry from the textile trading businessmen in Aleppo, who still keep their accounts in ledgers instead of excel spreadsheets.

So I was reading this piece in the Huffington Post, the online blog-turned-news website with, supposedly, left leaning coverage. The title itself, 'For Bigots, Israel Can Do No Right' struck me as childish and infantile. But as it turned out, the title was the least malicious part of this piece of crap. And with every line my jaw would drop (in amazement at the creative audacity of propaganda) and clench (at the outright lying and falsification of facts).

In order of gravity, here is the most disturbing of lies and propaganda in the article:

While Israel digs deeply into its treasury and manpower to send medical assistance a quarter of the way around the world, Arab and Muslim nations are generally missing in action when it comes to relief efforts.

It's really mind boggling, given this article is published at the 24th. It couldn't have taken long for this fine lawyer to search Google for info on Arab aid to Haiti. Just type 'Arab aid Haiti' and you'll get several articles saying more or less the same thing: listing the volume and form of initial aid Arab states have rushed to put together (that has also been increased, later). Dershowitz couldn't have not known this, it's obvious that he'd chosen to lie.

And he's not even alone. Here's David Harris of the AJC yesterday:

The Israeli effort far exceeds the nation’s small size and dwarfs the response of many larger countries. Of course, some countries, most notably in the Arab world, shamefully sat on their hands, doing nothing in the face of a human calamity.

What's going on? why is this semi-campaign of lies and propaganda?

You can only understand this in light of Israel's desperate attempt to score some PR brownie points out of the aid it's providing -- something Dershowitz calls Realpolitik (isn't it also Realpolitik to call you out on it, Dershowitz?). And Israel, government and IDF, isn't keeping this a secret. NYTimes reports on the 21st of Jan:

The government has been trying to figure out how to make the most of the relatively rare positive news coverage, especially after the severe criticism it has faced over its Gaza offensive a year ago.

(note that 'severe criticism' is actually a reference to the war crime charges set by the UN fact finding mission, aka the Goldstone report.)

So there you have it. Before I'd read the above (and many other) articles, I didn't think much of the Israeli aid. Although I knew it's going to be exploitedand politicized in one way or the other. Israel set up a field hospital? Jordan did the same. Israel sent 9 metric tons of aid? (Which Dershowitz, mind you, says it had to 'dig deep into its treasury and manpower' to put together), the UAE sent 117 tons of supply. Iran promised to send 30.

So, what exactly warrants this exceptional 'positive news coverage' for Israel's aid? am I missing something here? does helping out in Haiti erases war crimes in Gaza? does the rap sheet of a Mafioso become squeaky clean out of the sudden just by contributing to charity?

Don't panic, comrades and friends, this isn't going to be a post abut politics. I'm honestly fed up with politics. Politics are all about lies and deceit. In my cynical opinion, the only respectable figures to have ever made it to office in any country are those who struggled and suffered through persecution and detention to raise awareness about certain causes and injustices. Madiba of South Africa is one of them.

The others; those who start yearning and crying for publicity and camera lights the moment they exit their mothers' wombs, I'm not a big fan of those.

But politics aside, it's hard to ignore that politicians are, at the end, celebrities. And it's very hard not to partake in attentive observation of character and style. Not to admire the oratory skills -- or ridicule those who do not possess them (anyone comes to mind here, folks?).

There is a science about observing body language, facial expressions and speech patterns. It's called 'kinesics'. It's probably one of the most intriguing things I'd read about recently. Basically put, if you'd become adept at kinesics, you are a walking lie detector. And how useful that could be? well, we could argue about that. It'd certainly be very useful tool for all life's encounters.

But of course, even if you start reading intently today, you are not going to become a kinesics expert tomorrow. Not even next week or month. It's a full fledged field of science. You might become able to detect the lies of your stupid girlfriend (or boyfriend) real soon. But to assess politicians, you'd need extensive knowledge and expertise.

I'm not an expert*, but my understanding is that if a politician partakes in deceit (surprise surprise), he's more likely to be a Machiavellian type of a lier. Those who morally justify lies and deceit just because it serves their purpose and furthers their personal agenda.

I was tuned in to one of Dubai’s prominent radio stations on my way downtown (I had business at Dubai Municipality, where else?). The show host, unusually for him/her, had touched on a sensitive subject: the US-issued list of fourteen countries whose nationals should be subject to close scrutiny at airport security checks. Pure douchebaggery. I’m not sure what’s the exact technical term for that is, though. Both religio- or ethnic-profiling are inaccurate. But then I’m going with 'racial profiling' for the time being (admittedly equally inaccurate, but at least it’s controversial and appealing).

I could sense that the show host has very limited knowledge about the subject; from the kind of SMSs he/she had (chosen?) to read out loud, the overwhelming majority was somewhat supportive of the new security measures. ‘Better to check thoroughly than to get blown up’, or something to that effect, one idiot said. ‘In times like these it’s better to forget about Political Correctness and do whatever necessary to save lives’.

Right.

I shot a quick SMS while I was….. stopped at a traffic light. I said that racial profiling is dumb and discriminatory. Or something to that effect. My message wasn’t read on air. The show host had (instead?) chosen to receive a call from a Pakistani fellow who’s been to Miami recently and had been put through extensive security checks. He said he was cool with that. Wasn’t at all disturbed. The show host agreed with him, will take only few extra minutes of your time….everything is nice and dandy in the world. Bla. Bla. Bla.

I admit that I got a bit angry at this point, I mean, it’s either that the show host was impartial to racial profiling, or had very succinct knowledge about the subject and its implications. I wrote another SMS when I descended the car and was heading toward the waterbus, I said: ‘It’s obvious that you’re a proponent of racial profiling, why not? since it’s basically inflicted on people other than you, innit?’

Now, this message is way too assuming and kind of…what you’d call: ‘mean’. I had no idea whether it’s been read on air or not. It took me couple of hours to finish my business at the DM building and when I got back to the car I changed the station altogether.

Later that afternoon, I got call from a landline I couldn’t identify. And sure enough, it was the radio host telling me he/she’d received the SMS and was wondering ‘where on earth’ (i.e. where the fuck) had I gotten the impression that he/she was a proponent of racial profiling? Now, given that this was my first (off or on air) conversation with a radio show host, I decided to play it cool. No point beating up the dead horse. Besides, you never know what these guys are up to, maybe he/she’s taping the telecon and was intending to play it on air sometime. Or maybe he/she got a dick from their legal department listening intently to the conversation, expecting me to slip so that they can screw me afterwards. Who knows what's up with these weirdos?

So I said I enjoy listening to the station, bla bla. And that racial profiling is a sensitive subject. Probably much more sensitive that he/she’d anticipated. Probably not the best thing to talk about when your job is to receive song requests and dedications. And the tone of the SMSs he/she had read out didn’t do the subject justice, in my humble opinion. Etc. And fainlly I said I might have been rash in my SMS and apologized. We talked for couple of minutes more and then we hung up.

Man, a faint feeling of uneasiness was creeping up on me. Why did I not simply call or send a more.. erm.. 'diplomatic' text? The radio show host really seemed concerned that I got the wrong impression about him/her and probably the station in general. Sure, they have their image to worry about. But then, there’s something personal too here. I did make him/her uncomfortable. And it pisses me off when I make people upset. Sometimes I get this nagging feeling that pokes around my consciousness, I realize that it’s someone I’ve been rude to. And it never stops prickling until I make up with them (....and brother, where to start with that).

Oh well, he/she’s a busy guy/gal and will forget as soon as the sun comes up tomorrow. No point fretting over the spilt milk. Trivial stuff shouldn’t occupy great minds.

Yada. Yada.

So under the above context, I’m driving home and feeling a tad guilty as I listen to the radio, although here’s another radio presenter prattling away at a different radio station altogether. I stop at the traffic light, both hands on the wheels and entirely not in the mood for texting anyone. I look at the rearview mirror and I see something that made the hair at the back of my neck stand erect. Fractions of a second later a Mercedes SUV rams into the back of my car. I jerk forward a little, my foot firm on the brake, as I’d learned from past experience. I sigh and step down and walk around to the back, there’s a local lady behind the SUV's wheels. She’s apologizing profusely and sincerely. No problem mam. But we really need to call the police. The damage is minor, but the car, as you see from the logo sticker, is a company car and the insurance won’t pick up the tab unless I duly present a police report at the workshop.

No problem at all for her. The light turns green and I quickly get back and motions for her to follow. We stop at a vacant parking by the road-side and I call the police. Less than ten minutes later they are on the scene (albeit the scene of the parking, not the accident). I have the registration and DL read and in order. The tall policeman picks up the lady’s and saunter towards me. I hand over my papers and get told to ‘go have a seat’. I sit back in my car and watch as some kind of a fuss takes place in the rear view mirror. The senior policeman, the guy who usually sits in the passenger seat of the land-cruiser, steps forward and joins the discussion. Few minutes later he approaches me and I descend again. He offers a handshake and tells me that we have ‘a bit of a problem’. Turns out the other car’s registration is expired. They are, allegedly, unable to write up a report including the details of both cars… since the others’ are missing. He explains to me how the owner of the other car (the husband, that is) is ‘an important man’. I say I don’t have a problem with whatever arrangement he proposes. He gives me what he says is a ‘workshop certificate’, one which I can use to get the car fixed. As for the expenses, don’t worry about it; the other guy will certainly shoulder them. Easy peasy. All the while when this was going down the ‘important guy’ was on the phone with the policeman. I say I’m perfectly fine with the arrangement, just need the phone number of the other guy and the senior policeman, ‘Just in case’.

Now, I’ve lived on and off in four or five cities throughout my life, and-- though those four might be a tainted sample to some people, I’ve come to conclusion that Dubai Police is by far the best law enforcement organization I’ve ever encountered. I’m comfortable with whatever arrangement the policeman is proposing. There is, nonetheless, that prickly jarring feeling that something could go wrong, most probably because of an oversight on my part. Or maybe it’s the radio presenter and what I’d said to him/her. Could these two be related? The policeman asks if there’s anything more he should do and I said why thank you. I shake hands with them and wave to the local lady, she waves back a greeting. Truth be told, she looks quite sympathetic to my plight. We’re probably kindred-spirits and she’s feeling the same kind of guilt for the upset she’d caused me as I did to the radio presenter (although I wasn’t really upset).

I get in the car and drive away. Sure enough, few minutes later, the important man is calling. He introduces himself. The name doesn’t ring a bell at all. The intonations of the voice betray fine education and honesty. He asks if I need any medical attention, and for a while I’m confused as then it hits me that there’s been an accident. I expected an 'important guy' in a hurry, wanting to close a transaction and get it over with. This guy was all apologies and gratitude. We agree to wait until the statement of damages is issued from the workshop, I’d then fax it to him... (he interrupts here, saying only a phone call and a number would be enough.) I leave it at that and promise to call him later. Finally he asks if I need anything else, I said no, he’d been kind enough. He thanks me and hangs up.

I swing by the café and then go home. Now, a healthy dose of vitamin C is an essential dietary component for all heavy smokers. I whip up a glass of lemon juice and sit it by the bedside table. I climb up on bed and start absently surfing online. I googled the important man’s name and, yessir, he’s quite important. Then I remember I needed to go to the gym. I grab my cell phone to check the time. Old habits die hard, even though there are numerous time indicator on the laptop I’d still need to check my mobile or my wrest watch to make sure. My hand accidentally tugs on the sheets and then it snaps back. The phone departs my grip and it flies up in a perfect arch and dives, head first, in the glass of lemon juice. It settles in with a tiny ‘swoosh’ sound and I stare at for a moment, amused, half expecting steam to erupt from the glass. When I spring to action, it’s too late, by the time I get the phone out and switched off, the LED screen is blurry and the tacky liquid had seeped through all the tiny cracks. I sigh and pick up my other cell phone from the drawer. (Girly looking, but hey, who cares). I extricate the sim card from the old one and tuck it in the new one. I carry on surfing for a while and then get up and hustle off to the gym.

Two days later, after burying the bloody cell phone in packet of rice and making sure it dried up, it still ain’t working. Hey, not a big deal. I had all the photos uploaded on the laptop. The music and videos too. The numbers? I guess I’m fine on that front; I got email addresses for most of my friends. I know my family numbers by heart. I have business cards for prospective clients and the current clients can go funk themselves.

But then again, I have a statement from the workshop for cost of repairing the damages, but I have no one to call to get it compensated from. The number of the policeman got lost in the mayhem too. I don’t even have the text message I sent to the radio show to commiserate myself that I’d done nothing wrong. I’m told that the only way I could get the numbers back is by Data Recovery procedure. Somewhat expensive (almost as expensive as getting on the observations deck of Burj Khalifa), but ironically far less expensive than the car repair cost. So I’ll probably be doing it. And hey, the important man sounded like a real honest guy, maybe he’d give me a call himself if I didn’t call him for a while.

Is Karma being a bitch? Has it been racially-profiling me?

Who knows. Maybe I should just stop text-messaging while driving.

His neighbor is a stout lady in her 50s. Her face is an outbreak of ridges and crevices, reminiscent of global famines and natural disasters. She has three grown-up sons (all of whom are friendly to him), and yet she never allows them to carry the garbage bags to where the chute is at the end of the hallway. She does that herself every night. She doesn’t smile, greet or even node. She just gives you that condemning look like she’s saying “couldn’t your mother have done a better job at raising you?” You are immediately embarrassed with shame.

On the other hand, her daughter-in-law is the exact opposite image; a relatively tall and lean young woman in her twenties, fair complexion and pretty face with soft features. She walks with grace and nods with a shy smile when he holds the elevator for her. It’s fair to say that SHE is also his neighbor, since she too lives with the big family in the big apartment next to his.

Lately, he noted that look of sadness and distance on her face; she’s not as sprightly as she used to be. She lost that energetic, confident gait as if energy has been sapped out of her. She’s troubled, unsure of where things are going. He couldn’t exactly know why, it was not in his character to snoop. But he could guess, he knew from his waiting-room readings that the period following the first childbirth could be very emotional and traumatic for women. And although he couldn’t notice the pregnancy under the loose garments, he’d heard faint cries through the thin walls late at night. The unmistakable squeaking cadence of a newborn.

And he could hear them now.

As he walked to his apartment’s door, he could hear the cries growing louder. He determined the source to be his neighbor’s. The door was ajar and he could not hear, or see, anything else going on beyond the cries of the baby. God, what if he’s in danger? What if somebody had broken in to their apartment and disturbed the sleep of the poor little kid?

But would his parents and grandparents have left him alone in his crib and gone out? Sounds unlikely, but what if they just stepped out for five minutes’ shopping at the grocery store by the corner?

His heart beating fast now, he eased the door opened and stepped inside a small lobby, the sound seemed to be coming from a room to the left. He walked that way, stepping carefully and looking furtively in all directions. Finally, he pushed the door open to what he discerned was a living room, and froze in horror.

She looked up at him with blood-shot eyes and streams of tears smudging her palor. She sat on a sofa, leaning forward, elbows on her knees and face planted deep in her palms. The baby was across the room from her. Cackling his soft cries, her sobs almost inaudible next to his.

“I thought…. “ He tried to explain. But no other words could be summoned at that moment. He turned around to leave. In a big hurry. But a firm “no!” stopped him in his tracks. He turned again to see she’d stood up and was edging closer to him, the confident gait is back, albeit in small miniature steps. She stops, stare as determined as the next hurricane. The baby is momentarily forgotten. Everything else in the world quiets down…

Breath…. He’s out of breath. The baby is back to his consistent cries. The old lady, that mute old witch, is now shouting obscenities. He opens his eyes to total engulfing darkness. He’s sweating but otherwise all right. Certainly no one is smashing an axe to the nape of his neck for adultery… But the cries of the baby are real. He pushes himself upright in his bed and strains his ears. The cries are real, alright. But they are louder in the dead of the night. The mother in law is half/yelling half/talking in quick successive bursts, instructing her daughter in law what to do to quiet the little bastard. He could also make out the young mother’s worried, sleepy, apologetic replies.

“Oh man, not again”

He falls back on the bed with a thud. This wasn’t the first time he’d lust after other man’s wife in his sleep. And, he knew, won't be the last.

It may not come as a surprise to you; there are more dramatic headlines in the Arabic press than there are in English. (like the one above)

Few years ago, when the intensity of construction in Dubai was not so intense, our office used to contract a freelancing structural engineer. He was an asshole.

One of the projects he’d designed in 2004 is now in its second year after commissioning. And the construction/design faults are starting to emerge at the surface. Slowly and relentlessly. Construction faults are like natural phenomenon, they are going to show up no matter what you do. They are governed by physical laws, and the design/construction’s inability to meet these laws.

So this building has reported sick lately, complaining of cracks through its upper basement ramp—the one which goes down to the underground parking lot. The cracks are relatively huge, 3-4 millimeters in width. The reason, according to our present full-time structural engineer (who is not an asshole) is that the concrete of the ramp wasn’t reinforced enough in the direction that is supposed to resist shrinkage and expansion.

Cracks aren’t uncommon in construction. They vary in width and causation and seriousness. Most visible, hairline cracks you see aren’t serious. A crack has more psychological effect of unsettledness on a human that its actual effect on the building. And since buildings are essentially built to make the resident yuppie assholes feel safe and secure, these cracks has to be dealt with.

The way to fill such a crack, at a floor level in highly abrasive area of traffic, is to use a material called Polysulfide. It fills in nicely, bonds with the cracking concrete, and seals it against rain and weather element. It’s a very nice chemical (chemistry is quite underrated in construction). It’s an adhesive, durable synthetic rubber. It even feels nice to the touch, which brings me to the next subject.

What is it with assholes? I mean, if we were to diagnose their biggest issue, what would it be? Basically, I guess it’d be their being assholes. That is the most salient feature. Now, building on this conclusion, wouldn’t it be nice to plug the asshole? It’d stop being one. Think about it, if an asshole is plugged, it’s not a hole anymore. That solves more than half the problem. And since yours truly is boringly hetero, I thought the easiest way to plug those assholes is by using a synthetic material. And here, ladies and gentlemen, I prescribe the ultimate antidote for assholishness.

I was absent-mindedly flipping through mute TV channels yesterday (something I rarely do) when a text banner at the bottom caught my attention. Abu Dhabi TV was hosting couple of people to talk about and debate….. the possibility of a disaster at the year 2012.

I didn’t stick around long, but long enough to hear a guy (who I later realized is the editor of Science and the World magazine) outlining a doomsday scenario for December 2012, and in quite a ‘clever’ way, too. But let’s examine the 2012 enigma before we come back to this guy.

The infamous movie, which I haven’t seen and don’t plan on seeing, is the instigator of this absurd whirlwind end-of-the-world scare. According to the movie, 2012 is the end of the Mayan calendar (which is not true). Never mind that the Mayan civilization itself ended few hundreds years ago.

However, Hollywood knows, as much as you and I know, that a segment of the movie-going population will not be entirely convinced that a calendar concocted by few native Latinos will indicate the end of this hedonistic world as we know it. There must be a scientific hint of truth to the matter.

Here where it becomes a little more tricky.

It seems that there might indeed be a solar storm at the year 2012, but with a little proviso: a- the sun does experience these storms on an 11 years cycle. b- the projection for the storms varies between 2011 and 2013.

So back to our fancy editor on AD TV: first thing he said is that the last solar storm took place in the 1850s. And that at the time there were no cell phones; but there were telegraph lines. And when accounts were gathered in the aftermath of the storm, it turned out that these telegraph stations were burned (an Arabic word that also means for an electrical equipment to short-circuit.) So he warns against indifference towards the storm; he predicts that the influx of neutrons and other energy conveying particles will hit the earth with a bang. Then the stratosphere will breathe in those particles and expand (!). Next thing you know is all wireless communications around the world are compromised and power generating stations are busted. He describes the repercussions as ‘catastrophic’ for developing nations.

His counterpart, a graceful looking lady at the other side of the debate table, was struggling to stifle her laughter.

And this is from an editor of a science magazine.

But mind you, it’s a science magazine in the Arab world, where more than 85% of the population does not believe evolution is true.

-----

Q: Is there a danger from giant solar storms predicted for 2012?

A: Solar activity has a regular cycle, with peaks approximately every 11 years. Near these activity peaks, solar flares can cause some interruption of satellite communications, although engineers are learning how to build electronics that are protected against most solar storms. But there is no special risk associated with 2012. The next solar maximum will occur in the 2012-2014 time frame and is predicted to be an average solar cycle, no different than previous cycles throughout history.

The National is decent newspaper. Despite my qualms with the line of their political editorials, I still rate them as the best in the UAE.

Today, they ran a cool piece titled ‘My Musical Secret’; you are requested to disclose the kinds of songs on your MP3 player that you strive to keep from the prying eyes and the eavesdropping ears. Notice how most of these songs were number one hits in their time. And yet, you are invariably met with derision should you mention them, or the bands that play them, in public. The sophisticated yuppie assholes are far more refined than this populist ‘shite’. Oh yes sir, they are.

Eventually, it’d stand to logic that there are certain individuals in the population that really listen to and enjoy these songs. Otherwise they wouldn’t sell and make hits, right?

Right.

So, being one that hasn’t been interviewed by The National, I volunteer to string out the list of shame. Minus the sexy photo, of course. Which shall remain sexy but unpublished.

First off let me make few things clear: I only listen to my MP3 player when I’m working out. In the Gym, that is. This has a huge influence on the genre of music and how often it’s played. When I drive, I often listen to the BBC world service, both in Arabic and English. When I’m home, I’m tuned to JazzFM online. When I’m at work I mostly listen to classical music. The rest of the time is dominated by upbeat songs while running or straining under light weight dumb-bells.

Fortunately, my MP3 player has a feature called ‘Most Played Tracks’. So I’ll just copy/paste what’s in there without editing. Here we go.

1- Roc Boys. (by Jay Z)
2- Hit ‘em up. (Tupac, who else?!)
3- Bird of prey. (Fatboy Slim.)
4- Let me ride. (Dr. Dre)
5- Numb Encore. (Linkin Park and Jay Z.)
6- Sex Machine. (James Brown)
7- Rock with you. (Michael Jackson.)
8- Shaft Theme. (Barry White.)
9- Sing it back. (Moloko.)
10- Jump around. (House of pain.)


Go ahead and put up yours. I dare you…